Thoughts

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Thoughts

I thought the wicked wind would make you remember the warmth we shared.

I thought the dead leaves would remind you of what happened to us.

I know summer does not last forever.

But with you,

It felt like it could have defeated autumn. 

I thought, oh I thought, how wrong was I?

I thought your heart would ache with each step you took to walk away. 

I thought you would try to make our final embrace last longer. 

The thoughts of you fetter my mind.

I wish you took all of you.

If only you did, silence wouldn't be so loud.

The thoughts of you wrap around me like a jacket.

I burned all of it, but the ashes remained, and I never felt more cold.

I thought you would try to follow your heart and not your brain.

I thought the moment someone touched your hand, you would rush back into my arms.

I lost the sound of your voice;

I thought you would have cared. 

But I guess I didn’t know you after all.

Syed Taha Ahmed is a writer based in Toronto, Canada. They have been mainly writing poems and short stories since the first year of college, after losing someone that year. Syed is currently studying Psychology and minoring in English. When Syed is not writing, he likes consuming all forms of media. If he is not reading books, he watches movies or looks at art. Syed believes that you can get inspired from anywhere. But he considers meeting new people as the best way to be inspired. Syed has been published in his college magazines. His Instagram https://www.instagram.com/taha_ahmed.28

What You Look Forward To

Photographer - Tobi Brun

What You Look Forward To

Do you smell that?
A charred scent that fills my nose
and draws water from my eyes.

The smoke clogs my lungs,
forcing me to grasp at whatever
air I can find.

Soot hammers my taste buds,
leaving a burnt sensation lingering
in my mouth.

My skin bubbles against my bones
as the heat rages through my body
from cinders that were once trees.

The screams of people fleeing drown out
the blaring sirens of a dozen firetrucks
and the crackle of dancing flames.

A clear accident, planned by those
who deny allegations, who hid their pollutants,
who turn away from the damage they have caused.

A planet killed and for what?
The push for innovation and change
lead only to death and destruction.

Do you smell the smoke? Taste the ash?
Hear the screams? Feel the flames? See the end?
This is the future you have to look forward to.

Magdalena Broderick is a 2024 Bridgewater College graduate. She spends her free time reading, writing poetry, and spending time with her horses. She enjoys exploring the idea of how the passage of time affects individuals, society, and the planet in her poetry.

‘It's Funny What People Will Say & Do to Relate to One Another’, ‘The Separation’, & ‘A Sky of Bombs’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

It's Funny What People Will Say & Do to Relate to One Another

Her purple-hued legs, as long as my fingers
& the tubes that ran throughout her body
were as thick as her pine-needle arms.

When you explain to people
your baby is in the NICU, they never know what to say.
Prattle about a baby they once knew
who survived or read about
in a Facebook post. They preach phrases like normal,
you’d never know, even graduated early, or
only had a hole in their heart to make you feel relieved.
Jostle, how lucky you are & how thankful
you should feel. Your baby will be fine, & these moments
will pass when you can’t hold her, feed her, bathe her,
touch her petal-thick skin that you once grew.

Curious people ask if her eyesight
will be okay & I wonder if oxygen
lines will snake through her nose forever.
Or pry if she will always be so tiny - can she catch up?
All I can think of is that because she was born
so young, she hadn’t learned the reflex of suckling
& swallowing. No matter how many breastfeeding articles I read,
it would never matter as a toothpick-sized orange
feeding tube winds through her nose for nearly 45 days.

It’s funny what people will say &
do to relate to one another.

When in the dark of night, while everyone rests
& IVs streak both of your arms, you cry
with no sound, so nurses or your husband don’t hear
because you should be thankful you survived.
She survived.
But your body feels empty
& your arms pine to hold her
foot-long body next to yours in rough
patterned hospital sheets.

Instead, in the quiet beeps of hospital rooms
you grieve the dreams you had
for your pregnancy, birth, & the beginning

days of her life.
Grief’s like heavy weights
tied to your feet as you learn to walk again,
shuffle one foot after another
to the NICU in the morning light.

The Separation

Before they pulled her wet-slicked being
from my numbed body, they prepped us
we may not hear her cry.

Minutes before, her heart rate dived
to a faint tap & her 3lb body
had stopped moving.

No matter if I had changed position,
sipped chilled water, or however deep
they dug the ultrasound wand into me;

her life-filled body had become lifeless.

As my body rocked back &
forth like a swing in the wind, they carved
through 7 layers of my body.

I shivered from the coldness of metal tools
slicing thick tissue & the nurse to my right
gabbled everything they were doing, reasons why, & I couldn’t hear a thing.

Only thoughts of how
my 7-month-old baby that had grown a part of me
may not scream, cry, feel, or be alive.

My husband rested his hand on my hairnet
& soon we heard little bleats, a wet lamb
dropped in a pasture left to survive.

In a moment, we became two entities
left to laugh, wail, & feel the world’s aches
separate.

a sky of bombs

i can’t help but think
how things would be different if she
came under sky-cascade of bombs
on the gaza strip,
explosions like the uncurling of broken bones
snap in the sky. images of starved babies,
four in one hospital crib
in darkness without electricity & running water.
their misshapen heads, ribs raised
through bodies like the flat
& sharp keys of a piano.

women, like Walaa, their bodies
inside out to give birth on the bitter,
cracked earth between refugee tents with only
her uncle’s wavering flashlight &
vibrations of bombs ricochet. no medical care
& a baby’s limp purple body between her legs
waiting to be starved.

Whitnee Coy has an MFA in Creative Writing from Eastern Kentucky University's Bluegrass Writers Studio, and has taught creative writing throughout the past 13 years at various programs and colleges/universities including at Oglala Lakota College, a tribal college on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. She have two chapbooks of poetry published "Kintsukuroi" (Finishing Line Press) and "Cicurate" (SD State Poetry Society) and has been published in various literary journals such as "Pasque Petals", "Poem Memoir Story PMS", "Jelly Bucket", and "Havik: The Las Positas College Journal of Arts and Literature".

‘Convivium’, ‘Hylas’, & ‘Antinous’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Convivium

Hearing the golden youth play the lyre
I - blushing, joyful - turned to see you
then here with me
but now...

Hylas

You slipped into wretched waters
Led to a bloodied fate by nymphs
deadly, leaving me lonesome,
o forever tender.
By moonlight I, widower, mourn my love
hearing unwillingly those murmurs and sighs
rising from the hellish black depths
very soul aching.

Antinous

The garden flourished with bright birdsong and fragrant herbs
together we laughed and played here.
But the brilliant hour fled
now you sleep, eternally
silenced by the river.

Lee Lanzillotta is a writer originally from Virginia. He is currently based in Rome, where he studies Classics. His writing has been featured in Melissa, Vox Latina, the Gay and Lesbian Review, and Remus. You can find him on Instagram @leelanzillotta.

‘Midnight Voyage’, ‘Method Metamorphosis’, ‘Natural Selection’, ‘Release the Doves’ & ‘No Flash Photography’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Midnight Voyage

Head upon my cotton pillow,
bones sinking into my mattress,
I suddenly plunge through my bed,
descending into an infinite abyss,
engulfed by foreign air.
This new oxygen suspends all pain,
so i wear a smile throughout my descent.
Until, in the blink of an eye,
I collide with an ancient, cryptic ship.
Unflinchingly, I gaze up—
to find a pirate with transcendental eyes,
leading me to the fiercely familiar plank,
bearing a tall tale hook for a hand.
He gestures for me to jump,
unafraid, I tread down the creaky plank,
until I reach the end, in awe.
For it’s not water beneath me,
but the limitless midnight sky.
Glancing back to smile at the pirate,
he appears different now,
because that pirate is me.

Together, we grin like the Cheshire Cat,
mimicking the waning crescent moon below.
I mouth the words “thank you,”
while my other half waves goodbye.
Bracing for what’s to come, I step off,
first one foot, then the other,
and before I realize,
I’m swimming in the cosmos,
colliding with the constellations.

Method Metamorphosis

I was born into this world
with one singular purpose;
to perform.
My mother once told me
if I truly wished to, I could change.
But somewhere along the way,
I gave up and forgot
what it means to truly, be alive.
With each subtle movement
I ensnare the ever-cathartic crowd,
as my own life’s crafting slowly slips away.
Until I met her—
the one who effortlessly
broke down my defenses.
Now with a child, something shifts.
In her eyes, I discover a sacred sanctuary;
she becomes my anchorage

where my scripted performances dissolve,
yet I remain cherished.
Fast forward to that scorching August day;
my child, my best friend,
suddenly turns three.
She prances around, playing dress-up,
clad in her tulle wedding dress,
decorated with a pillowcase veil.
Reenacting princess tales,
she runs to me, exclaiming,
“I want to be an actress!”
I now understand my mother’s wisdom,
but I brace myself as I say;
“if you truly wish to, you can.”
“if you change your mind, you also can.”
For the first time,
I breathe in freedom’s taste,
embracing the concept of rebirth,

eternally grateful for my mother’s pivotal words.

Natural Selection

Survival of the fittest—
I stand at the starting line,
No weapons in hand,
Only shaking bones to bear.
When the siren sounds,
My rivals break out running,
Yet I remain still in the mud,
Embracing the end I see coming.

Release the Doves

In many moments,
Life grew scarier than death.
Years of silent torture
Irreversibly stole pieces of me,
Robbed my brightest days,
And seized my innocence too young.
I only want peace
To escape my poisonous brain.
So, if one day I pass
And it is said that my death is not fair,
Do not shed tears,
For it was my life that was not.
And in death's embrace,
I might finally be free.

No Flash Photography

Cynical was the girl,
Who never knew security.
Timid and reluctant, she roamed,
With a wretched heart that grew cold.
Living in a carcass made of glass,
It was so easy to see inside of her.
Weak was the girl,
Who then watched her heart bleed out on display,
Analyzed as if she belonged in a museum.
So, she learned to con the crooks and culprits,
And made a living off her own priceless melodrama.
Wickedly clever was the cynic from the museum.

Nicole Stewart, 21, is an actor and writer based in Southern California. With a background in theater and a love for storytelling, Nicole is also dedicated in the world of poetry to explore different routes of creative expression. She has sharpened her craft through various life experiences and is now channeling that experience into creating her debut poetry book, which dives into themes of contemplation, resilience, and the complexities of human emotions. She hopes to offer readers a glimpse into her world of imagination and emotional layers.