Sameeha Saied

I wander aimlessly One summer night, Streetlights behind me, Warming the aegean lace on my back.

Ahead, cedar branches cradle darkness. Porcelain zephyr bites my cheekbones. I stand idle, trapped between frost and ember.

With fisted hands and a misplaced breath, I treat forward.

Five paces ahead, I come to a clearing. Streaks of jasmine sever the pine darkness. To the right, a small cascade Joins with a narrow stream.

Jagged, moss-smothered rocks Escort pellucid water downstream, Placating it until the white filters deep blue. Maroon-painted toes step with haste Across the greensward. The still air vibrates from a susurration. My ebony hair lashes my cheek With the force of my neck.

Against a tree trunk sits an agouti rabbit. Round, hickory eyes level with my own. I cannot tell which are covered in moisture. I tear my irises away.

Stepping cautiously, I cross the clearing, Bending toward the stream. My right hand disappears into the blue, One finger at a time. 38 | Perception

Liquid ice crawls up my arm, Inching closer to the center of my chest. I catch a glimpse of a face in the water.

A round, sienna face, Lawless curls, Sable, almond-shaped eyes, Empty and unforgiving.

Just as the ice licks my heartbeat, I recoil.

The hoot of an owl ricochets off the branches, Its hallow hands slipping up my throat, Pressing in.

My head tilts upward, Eyebrows furrowing. I see a raven swirling overhead, Its onyx feathers reflecting a deep blue. Following its path is a tawny viceroy. Its wings accelerated, they match pace As though they are tethered together.

The sonic hands continue to tighten And I am overcome with horripilation. With a clarion exhale, I dip my foot into the stream.

I lay flat and still, Eyes screwed shut.

The ice circumvallates.

Mark Jankowski

Scuttle Tree

Cade Kaminsky

On New Year’s Eve, I sat on my customary chair On my porch of worn wood with a glass of red wine When out of the dead of night A sign of life, on tawny, motley wings A Horned Owl perched on the gnarled oak that umbrellaed my abode. He glared through my soul with gold eyes of conviction. He did not utter a sound nor a hoot But instead gazed at me like an old friend From a past life, one that was Far better for us both.

“Hello,” I whispered. “I’m happy to see you. It’s been so long.” He just stared at me. Born of the strangest of temptations, I began to sing to the owl A Japanese lullaby my mother used to sing to me The owl still did not respond But instead swooped down, talons out Aimed at my eyes before pulling up and Disappearing into the cavalcade of stars, His percussive wings beating against the wind.

Where my winged friend flew off to In that moment is still a mystery to me-He vanished into a vortex of darkness Going higher and higher with every wingbeat Leaving me hopeless on the Earth and Forbidden from Heaven Which I have come to accept Is my ultimate destiny.

The wonder of the owl’s moonsong Haunted me moments later. Shameful though- it would be a melody

Too ornamental and spiritual to recall Later in my life.

But I wouldn’t have to.

Taking his perch back like a warlord Victorious after veritably vicious crusades, The owl returns and stares at me once again, But his bright yellow eyes Carried something else: a message with a truth As he spread his wings beneath the moon’s shade They seemed to beckon for me to react, To learn something I needed to heed and to repent.

“I understand now,” I called to him. The owl closed his eyes, folded his wings and Dove to the porch railing, talons seeping into the worn wood.

“You ruined it…forever," the owl whispered in my ear Before flying back into the night To be seen nevermore Leaving snow swirls Around my face, and newly formed Scars toughening up around my heart Just as the clock struck midnight

Walking by the Pond

Gina Trejo

She went for a walk. Just something quick enough not to sweat or ache, but long enough to make a dent in her book. She wanted to walk along the lakefront, that blue-green lake expansive enough, to her, to be an ocean. That Tuesday afternoon was to be dedicated to the easy scent of gasoline and slight fish. She wanted to hold the book in front of her face so that the corners of the pages would flap with the wind, so that she could create a physical barrier with words—chaotic peace of nature on one side and chaotic peace of mind on the other. But the water level was too high and the path she would have walked was submerged in a more blue-gray colored water. She opted for a pond behind the museum. Down at the museum, that elusive historical site decorated with Roman women and hissing cats, she saw too much for reading to be peaceful. She saw two adults crouching and pounding their fists on the cement of a parking lot. They said Fuck You and the Gimme More to each other, occasionally taking their movements to one another’s backs or their own heads. She saw an older man taking photos of a heron at the pond. He hid behind a camera, headphones, a hat, sunglasses, and a mask. She wondered if that bird were truly just a piece of wonder for the man’s lens, or if the bird felt his space was being encroached upon by a spy. The bird flew away. Then, at the abandoned steps behind six large women holding up the old doorway, she saw weeds poking through the stones of the ground in a pattern. She wanted to pull each weed separately, but what would those stone women have said? I’m growing those, one would have lamented. I’m glad those are finally gone…an eyesore! another would have retorted. The girl just sat on a step, in the perfect three-foot space free of goose droppings. She opened her book, and read a single line. Before she could read on, she saw four or five men in white tank-tops dancing and laughing underneath the pond’s bridge. One man was on the other side, pushing a couch into the water to see if it would float. She watched him struggle to get a leg up and over a large tree root. He put the couch in. When the man sat on the couch, it floated for about ten seconds. Then sank down, lower and lower till the man had to climb out of the water.

His friends laughed, said he got his daily bath then implored him to come over to their side. The men quieted down, presumably telling stories to pass the day, and she tried to read more. It was no use. The stone women were staring, the weeds were nagging, and the lily pads curled up against themselves when the wind blew eastward. She decided to keep walking. She attempted to go around the pond, but the bustle of traffic going into the city, just next to what seemed to be a slice of a world outside the metropolis, made her uneasy. Vehicles careened toward her on the curved road, the grinding of engines filled her ears. But when the red light hit and no cars came past, the silence of the pond made her want to throw up. She took two steps forward, saw the green light flick back on, and walked back with the hum of the traffic. She greeted more stone women with her eyes. Some of them rested on their right legs, some on their left, but they all had long ringlets flowing down their shoulders. She touched her own hair, thin and limp—it would never be longer than where she had it at her jaw, and she would never be forty feet tall. How easy it must be to walk across a city and find somewhere to read when you are forty feet tall. If you can’t see anything, people might just get out of your way and give you their seats.

Drive

Olga Shydlonok

Went to a better place

Patrick Lee

A bright incandescent glow greets me. I feel my eyes flicker back and forth a rhythmic beat louder than the bass drum scorching triplets. My heart has a similar ferocity ringing a single tone.

“Where am I?” Reality hits briefly, then fleets away like snow bursting in the wind. Life can be short; we have our time to make it great before the final drop hits our eyes and we wander into the unknown.

I remember now… Everything makes sense. I have the munchies, but there’s nothing left in this fridge.

Watching Your Hands

Maya Gelsi

near me: their steep creased cathedral peaks, narrow alleys of holy stone,

cool dense earth and its hard-shelled creatures,

Heat unveils me, strips my face bare of detachment,

Eyes on palms— which seem to encase crystal, the

dream-joints of steady airy evergreen, birds singing

singing in old wood barns, your hands, bone-flashes on dark ocean, dancing close to my hands, and our fingers love each other like flames.

Equal

melina iavarone

A Lesson on Anatomy

Zoya Davis

Your hands, calloused at your fingertips grew softer within your palms Your chest, broad and bold like the moon, with a humble crater in the middle shaped almost exactly like the outline of my head Your arms, a string of veins extending, looping, curving as if they were trying to run away from your blood Your body a fountain of discovery for my parched lips I watch my fingertips trace the crevices over your skin, Over the arch in your back and down the dip in your spine, Across the vast ocean held within the plunge of your collarbones And past the endless blushing horizon of your clavicle To your ribcage, each connecting bone a highway of accelerating comets, You defied the basic principles of physics With every ragged breath you expanded, taking in the universe, taking in me The two were directly proportional, as the world around you lessened so did i I fell apart, not all at once, but gradually, grain by grain , atom by atom Every electron for every proton, You were almost infinite, Your infinity being inversely proportional to my lack of You were the love story I had and wasn’t sure I wanted

Cade Kaminsky

On Bleecker Street, it is Winter’s primal age. But this is not like winters of yesteryear; the ones that

would penetrate my skin and hands and would reveal to me my breath, my essence, in the early light of dawn.

A heavy vapor dissipates and joins the cacophony of other plumes of cigarette smoke born of

Brick and mortar townhouse fire escapes; joined in some art-deco matrimony to create a

valley of ubiquity blanketed by familiarity where it’s truly a funny thing

to accept and cope with the fact that the only inheritance is unremarkability

and the sanctity of knowing we are not alone in this valley of trapped memories

It fills our hearts on this cold Bleecker Street as we sit and wait for the sun to rise again

Be Still

Olga Shydlonok

Julia Cleo Fisher

Loss feels like we’re leaving Austria and the empty seat next to me aches. Mentally, physically, dry-heaving against the swaying of the train. The ligaments holding me together tugged apart from all that I have worked for—bare and crushed. Grüß Gott. Vielen Dank. I can’t read, won’t read the email in front of me that I cannot understand. Haven’t I waited long enough to leave you? Anxiety in every train station switch. Barred from Switzerland, delayed because of a suicide a splattered body across the steel that leaves us huddled in the Nacht—four hours late, four months too early, sure, ja, the bombs dog can search my bag and paw through my underwear— take some for the road along with your M4. so many „angenehme Reise”s fuck you. Edelweiß tattooing across my Gehirn and shaky Schlaf studded, shredded Seele. Ich vermisse dich. The Newark attendant greets in English and I forget my own name.

Yasmin Nayrouz

Broken English Broken dreams A heart of hope A heart of love;

Journeys you would never believe— For an education, Finding an occupation, To be out of harm’s way.

Bye to the motherland, Hello, America! I expected Miss Liberty’s torch To blaze with warmth, Instead, eyes burned with hate.

I did nothing wrong. Haven’t you heard all the songs? The land of opportunity, Yet I’m under constant scrutiny.

Where can a shattered soul go? If the land of dreams says no— If the land of the free jails them.

Where can a father with empty pockets go? If a drone hits his home, And a statistic he becomes.

Where can a daughter go? Who fears the streets at night And journeys in hope of a light.

They do not beg to leave home But ask to be welcomed.

The world belongs to no one The world belongs to everyone.

Make room.