Maya Guerriero - 27, 28

The sun bounces and reflects off the lake. It shimmers and shines like glitter. I can see everythin$ from here: Mom, Thomas, Dad, the lake, the tips of the mountains that cradle this lake in the tops of them, the shrub{ike trees that dot the side of the hillsides. I can see everything. Everything but the field of flowers and butterflies.

I know what is behind me, to the right of me and to the left, but when I look ahead, a wall stops me from knowing what is there. It's a clear, dark navy blue wall, like the sky. Air is technically see through. But in the day I can't see through the sky into space. It's the same way with this dark wall. From the other side of the wall, I know I look like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff. Everything is filled in behind me, to the left and right. But in front of me, there is nothing but the drop.

This is the highest point I have ever been on the mountain, but it is not the summit. I know the summit is ahead. But I cannot see it. How can I know it is ahead if I cannot see it? Mom says we have to go back. We have to make it to the car before it is dark out. I guess I will never see the world from that summit. From the summit, I must look like a fish in a fish tank. There is a limit to where those fish can swim. They are blocked by a clear wall from the rest of the world.

As we turned away, the sky bled into a semi-soft dark pink. It's a little darker than pink that they assign us little girls who have not yet decided we want to be girls,

glp*h,tlu.

By Jakob Jenks

The ivory drops pawed the ground as I snuck to the concrete sidewalks he lived on. It couldn't be called a home, but a place under a gutter where the snow would not fall. He held his sign of browned bird's bones and bucket that mirrored the ivory drops. I lay next to him, reaching into my heart and offering a 2 dollar leaf to grow from his tiny metal garden. Inside the bucket, plants bloomed, growing from the dents and folds of metal where the light hit especially strong. I would wait, I did not want to disturb what little rest he got. After some time his eyes opened, rotatin$ in their sockets to match mine. I wondered aloud what took him away from his family and the numbered green grass so many $rew in their gardens. Without judgement, he replied: His blood relatives, he said, were not able to grow flowers, so they had gone out into falling ivory and diamond. Others gave what they grew, but his blood eventually drained, making the 20 given stay whole, no longer divided among crimson bodies. My brain itched, his story connecting with another in my head. We left the past, and he looked to the growing weeds, thanking me. I threw the sentiment back and my arms forward. We met, and the night was brighter than usual, ivory taking no light for its own, reflecting compassion back on those who gave it. I sobbed into his ivory dusted body, from regret, fear, or the horribly kind light that reflected off the snow on his body. My regret, for a moment took precedence over my blood, my skin draining to ivory. I can't do this, it's not right. He didn't deserve his circumstance, livin$ only through the light of others. My hands stayed, feeling the regret of a hungry animal. I remembered who he reminded me of, the boundless compassion only a child could have. He was much like my son, or what he would be later in life. My instinct took over my compassion, the ivory in my skin replaced by the crimson ichor of my family. My hands stayed, but my fingers moved, plucking the last of his numbered weeds from his waists pockets. After all, he is only one man. I am not one man, and I cannot live for myself. I turned with a certain finality, tossing back the phrase he gave me one last time before striding from the dulling snow, which stole the dead grass, mud, and leaves it was given. He turned one last time to look back to me, eyes looking through me, with sorrow and sympathy, as if he knew all too well what I had done. My heart danced with drums, organs, and flutes, dancing to a joyously sick song. I did it, whether I wanted to or not. Ivory would never shine from

my body, its blood was too reddened to be hidden ever again. As I moved to my home I could call a home, I discovered something in myself. Something in me broke with a snap of finality. My heart once moving to the rhythm of the moment's song, chained itself down, quieting completely forever. I entered my garden, my blood sprinting and hopping down the stairs and reclining in the armchair to greet me back to my home. The blood still inside me rushed out, no longer restrained by the beating of my heart. I now had the numbered leaves, freeing me to love and be loved. More importantly, I now had the stomach to succeed. I moved to my plants, pulling the dandelions and roses from the rich compost filled with the failures of others. I threw the bouquet of vivid, green flowers created for the month's meals into the surging blood. I dug through the soil, not caring how much dirt I wrested away or drove under my fingernails. I lay the weeds into the crying soil, and waited for the fruits of my labor, sure to spring forth after the ivory boiled away.

Lucy Jordan -

l.

,ga/r"b a*7nf 4ofl,z*

by Octavia Ikard A boy as dark as my father, with a nose like my father, and the lips of my father Asked me if my hair was real Cause black girls like me, With two black parents With full lips and full noses Can't grow long hair

I sat there unmoving, flowers growing large in my lungs until I felt the soft petals in my mouth The thorny stems in my throat Generational hurt moved through me, pain from black women who were hated and beaten down in this country only to return home and be hated and beaten by their own men

I thought I was used to being ugly in America After all a black woman's home must be made of strong and alone and strong and alone Yet I sat there, hair nappy and scratchy like fresh cotton Weak and surrounded My pride bruised like dropped fruit at the grocery store

BRAINWASH BRAINWASH BRAINWASH america whispers to black boys at night Hate full lips, Hate nappy hair, Hate dark skin, Hate me, Hate Black women, Hate

But as i stared at this boy as dark as my father, with a nose like my father, and the lips of my father America had once again Ieft me speechless