Letting

Fatima Naveed, 12

I feel like this last page should be something memorable. not whatever this is.

Poetry is bleeding

This is red ink.

I am no longer an artist

This is the blood from the death of a poet

The whetstone does nothing more than dull its weapons, a soft-edged blade. Cough collects in throat; I know I’m not dead yet. Comb through the surface and rub rough wrinkles flat in ravenous ravines. I am not dead yet. blood unknown. This breath insists on not letting ordinary live alone.

“Out of reach ” by Jasmine Morkeh, 11, Mixed Media