Candle Bars
The size of the bee had the size of him in it
And the size of the bee got on me
The light saw the light
You couldn’t hear the light
You couldn’t hear the teacup
Sweet flowers blooming in the night
Putting the card on the shelf where the birthday was
I want to rhyme differently than you
Mobile head
Flower head
Duck head
Swan head
I want to find treasures
—Marlowe Cloud Amling (3 years)
I am shaped by a moment
that tested my strength
I remember the clear blue color
Of the pool and how
the sun beamed off the water
I constantly think of how my
Tiny hands grabbed her from
A place she should have
Never been.
I remember the weight
Of the water and the
Color of her skin, pale purple.
I remember the pool
And how it held its breath too
I’ll never forget how my
Screaming broke the loudness
Of a big family pool party
And how my mom came
Running toward me.
As I watched a helicopter
Take my baby sister away from me
I realized, heroes don’t wait they act
Even when they’re only 6 years old.
—Emma Benedetto (13 years)
River & Stone
We could use another
bedroom.
Or even a separate
studio.
We could each use more
space.
Fill it with all the stuff
we ever
wanted.
You could have the West
wing and I the
East.
I could write about
myself.
And you could sing
to no
one.
We could meet in the middle
for dinner
forget about art
and plan out another
addition.
We could talk to each
other
not of light
and love
but of tile and
trim.
We could each then go
our separate
ways
to our own big
beds
to quietly
dream
of those times
when we had much,
much,
less.
When we woke, ate,
painted, and
wrote,
all in one
room.
When your scent
became mine.
When my eyes
became your
mirror.
When we held each
other closer
than a river
does
it’s bed of stone.
—Ryan Brennan
Tacit
There is music we cannot hear;
and like the flesh nearest an apple stem,
it is deeply sweet.
Somewhere beneath the skins of seasons sings the moon,
crocus,
fallen leaf;
a brushing of breath against bone.
It is the unheard music we taste;
our throats opening to descending scale,
the falling light.
—Alma L. Strickland
The Page
Alone on the desk,
it casts its own light.
There is no sorrow there
or pleasure yet. It has to wait
for you to decide between the two,
inscribing one or the other
as a way to begin,
or so it lets you believe, anyway.
No, it just lies there
and will still be the same
no matter what words
rest on its body.
There will always be
enough blank space left over,
just as it knew there would be,
but you didn’t because you can’t
tell the difference yet
between telling the truth
or making something up.
Not that it matters
as long as someone like you
believes in it too.
—Robert Harlow
The Quiet Work
Healing doesn’t beg for witness.
It doesn’t parade its progress
like a trophy polished daily.
It is not made for display—
it is made for wholeness.
These days,
recovery is branded,
turned into a narrative
with hashtags,
as if your ache needs applause
to be real.
But true healing is quieter—
it slips in like dawn,
changing things slowly
before you realize
the light has shifted.
It doesn’t need a stage.
It needs stillness.
It needs honesty unshared,
grief unposted,
growth uncaptioned.
It’s the choice to forgive
when no one is watching.
The moment you set a boundary
without broadcasting it.
The day you weep
and don’t explain why.
—Jason Palomino
A Mile in North-South Lake
God damn this water’s cold and all I’m wearing is this slinky Lycra one piece while everyone else has fake seal skin wrapped around their flesh sacks and we’re not made for this cold like a thousand knives not one of us is and I’m meant to swim all the way across? Like, all the way? And back? A mile is what they want from this mess of tendons and muscles and grit and fast too – mapping out the longitude of this dark dank lake water like some goddamned pioneer ripping through crystal in the name of manifest destiny with nothing but shouting lifeguards and neon buoys keeping my sanity in check as the adrenaline starts to build and swell and climb and spindle outward from whateverfuckinggland it is that dopes us up with that beautiful mind eraser—KEEP THE BUOYS TO YOUR LEFT—I’m wading out on pointless stilts into that black liquid as far as I can afford to and playing a hopeless game of chicken with the moment I’ll choose to slice my arms through the placid surface and all at once I’m icy gray and murky and at home in this oblivion—right—I’m swimming I’m swimming swimming swimming as I’ve done a thousand and one miles before this one it’s no different no more treacherous than that mile in the ocean at dusk when the thresher showed me her teeth and I stayed out of respect for her bravery because we’re the dangerous ones crafting things like fake seal skin to wrap up our fragility and penetrate the places we have no business penetrating just like this one—like this lake on this late autumn morning before the sun has crested those ancient mountains and here comes another hit of that sweet nectar from that wild evolutionary pocket in my core and the warmth returns to me now as I move my shocked bones all together in a symphony of buoyancy I feel the heat returning and that precious orb lingers then moves south to my thighs steering the rudders and bulking the wake and it’s happening—it’s taking hold now like a golden dust swirling around my body finding its way in through hidden crevices and Narnian wardrobes and it collects in my arms my hands and finally my feet and toes which I’ve altogether forgotten exist and at once I’m bright and powerful and golden—I’m illuminated and finally I see that I belong here—of course I do—I’m a selkie a mermaid a siren a water-creature and soon my kin will emerge from the depths of this life juice and remind me that it’s time to come home—they’ll engulf me and kiss me and ask “what took you so long?” and they’ll drag me into the ribbons of water-forest waiting below and bury me in a bed of black lake-earth and I want to stay I want to stay so badly I want to seep right into that obsidian water grave but I’m glowing fire and gliding fluid and I’m already looping back – I’m closing in on the end of my pilgrim mile and I never ever ever want to leave but suddenly my legs carry me out on shore without my consent as they are meant to—as they were programmed to—walking the path our ancestors walked so many many many years before and I kiss those ribbons goodbye as I’d kiss a lover on her gentle longing fingertips for the very last time.
My body is a fucking traitor.
Doesn’t it know I belong here?
—Bridget Corso
A Canyon Hawk
stretches its cry across
the sun’s descent—
I echo the longing
as the horizon rises
—Richard L. Matta
Portrait of Wortley Clutterbuck
Every family has one,
that uncle we would care to shun;
he ruins ev’ry holiday,
that horrible antique roué.
He’s from the former century
but sticks around, annoyingly;
progressive trends he all abhors,
he still supports Louis Quatorze;
it isn’t just his politics
but his damn jokes which he inflicts.
His laugh’s atrocious just to hear,
your skin will crawl if he gets near;
I care not to scorn my forebears
but, ladies, watch your derrières;
reluctant to be indiscreet,
I warn you lads, at game he’ll cheat;
and when he pulls out his snuff, it’s
appalling for sophisticates.
Oh no, the corkscrew’s in his hand—
here comes the prattle we can’t stand;
I don’t know what I like the less,
his snobbery or boorishness;
his ideology’s the worst,
he’s to the right of Charles the First;
he calls Republics bagatelle,
’tis pity he slipped by Cromwell.
When puffing up his wig he’ll give
advice as to how we should live;
he’s thinking women shouldn’t vote
while winking at them, that old goat;
when he says youth are all strait-laced,
here comes more jokes, all in bad taste;
he always vents some dreadful thought
such as “The Governess is hot”
and then you could hear a pin drop—
that damned abominable fop!
Colossal is his ignorance,
this fossil makes good people wince;
unfailingly tentiginous,
obscene’s his ev’ry reminisce;
to see him in his country clothes
provokes a man to tweak his nose;
he’d ask for satisfaction, but
that’s one time his pie-hole stays shut.
“Each scoundrel has good qualities,
ev’ry good man, some peccancies”*
but then there are some men so dull,
they bore you clean out of your skull;
you’ll yawn and say it’s getting late
but he’s got lots more to narrate;
the scourge of fam’ly gatherings—
gad save us from his blatherings!
*Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liasons Dangereuses.
—Wortley Clutterbuck
This article appears in July 2025.
