By: Jess Martini An orange isn’t a lemon by some other name; it’s a seed bearing flesh passed from hand to hand across conquests. Still sweet, its juice is acidic and cleansing; its oil dilates the nostrils, uplifts the face, and brightens the heart. The orange tree is the gem of the garden, the beauty of its fruit depicted as early as the Song Dynasty. The bright orb’s birth in literature is older still, named by Qu Yuan in an ode: “the orange (桔) came and settled here.” Cam

By: Sıla Mertöz “Zephyr,” is the name I would give to my lover, As I, standing before you, am the pianist and he, Is my tailor, the dress he made is on me. Adjusting my dress his hands will hover Over my legs like a gentle breeze, He can look up to me and breathe Out, as he finishes the dress for his lover. You see and hear both of our art and only call me An artist, I do not think this is fair, since He cuts through the fabric just for me, like no other. As you can see, in y

By: Hillary Phan You think I don’t know But I can see it in your eyes When you look at me, When you smile, All I see is teeth I am bared Before you Even when I have barr- Icaded my door against you You look at me now Like i am your least favorite Cup of tea Gone cold. Fluorescent lights overhead, I was a child in a grocery store And dad, I think you have lost me Hillary Phan is a Vietnamese-American poet and high school senior in Scottsdale, Arizona. She has been featured as

By: Leslie Young Hissing rocks play Nerves like silk or poison Pulled back on themselves By breaking rage of old days. Such a cold, cold mother Whose kiss sucks away foundations, Whose earnest breath can kill. The ocean Is my home, my own, my owed rest, Love to gulls feet, agony To mine. Cold stabs, penetrates. As I go deeper my womb cramps: Promises are broken, words erased. The sky lends its color to her skin. Chameleon, We bend, find sand dollar skeletons, carapace Of crab

By: Megan Cartwright Cinematic: the casket. Slow-motion slide. Static flock of black umbrellas, patter-pitter of soil on the coffin top. The shock, a stomach’s pneumatic drop. Time is tissue-thin. Obituaries are fictions; in grief, truth is a prison. Megan Cartwright is an Australian poet and Literature teacher. Her writing has featured in Contemporary Verse 2, Island Magazine and Verandah Literary and Art Journal, among others.