“why can’t I say what I feel for—? if we were closer
we would lavender, or even after we could knuckle
bones raw—”
by Meha Semwal
“How
last summer, a storm drove me porous River thinned
What to do with all this inner?”
by Lindsey Hutchison
“… but
Bug and I, we know: sometimes, you need
someone else to not mind with.”
by Julia Goodman
“Ruin me in blue,
paint me in skins baked raw
and glass found broken.”
by Claire Friedman
“One lunar year, circling Euclid, I lit
a taper and slipped singed lines
under my tongue. Felt the thin lick of idea eclipsed
by its own urge. Flawed axiom: grasp. Flawed
axiom: rigor.”
by Lindsey Hutchison
“Shiver tip, paint me a portrait
for loss, for the color orange
the summer I was sixteen,
and for held hands
like your mother’s china.”
by Claire Friedman
Text by Emma Aylor; photography by Nolan Boomer
“When you walk out of the tiny, raisin-shriveled airport, the sunlight will brand you: brilliant, pulsating, yellow. Taxis crawl around the tropical island in abundance, like industrious ants, carrying crumbs or tourists double their weight. The ocean is everywhere. The blue, the green, the spray, the kiss.”
by Meha Semwal
“How after a certain age
thrill is no accident of vasculature”
by Lindsey Hutchison
by Jose Gallego
