It happens in screenshots
Next is the reaching
Stretch until you can’t reach anymore
Awaiting the sound you have always listened for
Then you hear it
And you jump
As far as you possibly can
And straighten out-
You are in the air for seconds
But you have enough time to think,
What happens when I hit the water?
Then it happens before you decide on an answer
Then it’s silent-
The only thing you have
Is the air in your lungs,
Your arms stretched above you,
And the bubbles of course.
And you know that when you break the surface
The air is your only ally.
Calli Hilvitz is a senior at Peak to Peak Charter School where she is currently working on poetry in her Literature and Composition Class.
Art by Audrey Carver.
The mock-orange tree
looks pale as the flattened scar,
the heath upon which the heathen
The bough’s extent
graces the cropped and furrowed sky
of cloud and celestial smiles.
as the wail
clips pigeon wings overhead.
The winter breath a
silent re v
Top orange flame
a hanging amber drop
like the slaked mind
drunk on hyacinth
a jaw with whiskers, the honeysuckle.
A sweeter smell against curlequed
the pale stretch of glossed-over belly:
the woman, barren.
Autumnal flesh never tasting spring
but always chased by winter-
-Skoll, a raking claw
to dispose of the blossom
which knew no scent
but citrus and hunger,
He stands beside her,
greying hair and
hands against her pelvis,
she looks to sea in the growing dark.
Her eyes a selkie’s greenish hue
and knuckles white
What spoken spell beneath her branches
could propose the blood
and not the name,
this woman with no heir.
No bosom full and glowing, pressed
upon by the tasseled heads
of fog and bitter smells
from the locusts upon mock orange petals,
fallen without aid of air to glide.
Her paling, nakedness exposed-
the cold ripped her
and took whatever happened,
-in a night above the sea,
Her branches trailing into dark,
her squarish chin
as she grows bent by the winter wind
that bites her heels.
He calls her back,
hands soaked in blood and
She has already withered.
He leaves a mock-orange leaf to seed.
By: Hannah Malik
Army crawling is hard enough.
We army crawled through the old basement’s crawl space.
Don’t touch the pipes! Jostling them is hazardous.
We liked to use words like ‘jostling’ and ‘hazardous’.
They’re the house’s gas lines. We don’t want anything exploding.
Then we got to our destination,
where the floor dropped and distanced us from the pipes.
We had a weird little club.
It was hippie meets sci-fi,
kind of like that show “Avatar”.
A lot like “Avatar”.
I was sky and you were fire.
Then we switched.
Lizzie didn’t get an element.
She was just an annoying little sister,
but she army crawled with us anyway.
[box]Erin Breen is an Interdisciplinary Arts Major at the Idyllwild Arts Academy. Her poems, "I hated being little" and "Army Crawling is Hard Enough," were short-listed in the Parallax Non-Major Writing Contest.[/box]