Brianna Levy

While rejection and vulnerability can be hard for most people, writer Brianna Levy tackles these subjects head-on in her poems.

In high school Levy would always be direct about her feelings with her crushes and although these feelings weren’t always reciprocated, she never developed a fear of rejection.

“I don’t know where I got the confidence from, but I would ask people out so often, like that’s not common for a woman,” she said, “I want to do it just to be different. Then I would be vulnerable with people all the time.”

In her poem “Brittle Borosilicate,” she explores this vulnerability by comparing herself to borosilicate glass, the clear hard plastic material that electric kettles are made of, saying “there is no hiding in the clear body of a kettle.” She contributes her sense of humor, easygoing nature, and willingness as powerful aspects of her personality which allow her to be vulnerable with other people.

Levy’s writing also tackles issues of sexism: in her poem “To Those of Us Who Deny,” she compares women who don’t critically think about the patriarchy to hens. She was inspired to write this piece after having a conversation with her mom and sister where she was complaining about a man objectifying her. She expected them to be empathetic to her experience but, instead, they told her that she thinks about society too much and it isn’t a real problem.

“We live in society! What are you not getting at?” She said.

In another one of her poems called, “Solo woman versus the Thief,” she writes, “it’s not about wanting her to be free. It’s about recognizing that the problem in society isn’t women wanting to soar: it’s thieves not understanding their humanity.” Levy finds women that do activities like traveling, hiking, and running without the help of anyone else admirable. While sharing this excitement with her parents they cut her off and told her it was stupid for a woman to be doing these potentially dangerous things alone.

She recalls asking her parents if she could bike through Central Park and them saying no, fearing for her safety.

“Yeah but, I’m the bad guy if I say I wish I wasn’t a woman, like come on,” she said.

The Bronx native became serious about writing at the beginning of 2021. She was on the phone with a close friend who has a fondness for writing and he suggested that they write something. Although Levy wasn’t particularly proud of what she wrote, she woke up the next morning and started writing the poem “Platonic Admirer,” about a friend she had feelings for in the past. She was proud of this work.

“I was like, ‘holy crap, I can write.’ So I have been writing nonstop since.”

For Levy writing starts with a metaphor or an idea in her head where the wordplay sounds satisfying to her. Her poem “Platonic Admirer” started with the phrase, “baronet drowned with the responsibility.” She never knows what will become before or after the phrase, but she ends up flushing it out.

Levy hopes to one day mentor people in their creativity. She hopes her poems resonate with people who don’t see their perspective in literary art and society at large.

Berries

Brianna Levy

In all of my years thinking that I was practicing for love I never knew that something unrequited could be so delectable. I almost hate myself for it, For being a boisterous child shoving wild berries down her throat Even though she knows she is allergic. Even though she knows this will end, not in sharp pains Or admirable anaphylactic shock, But in a slow, lethargic stalemate, One where she can no longer eat her beloved wild berries Even though they are her favorite. She will only be able to lie on the rugged forest ground, Throat scratchy from the journey down, Tongue swollen while uttering sweet nothings about the sweetest of nothings, And face taut in a smile, both regret and satisfaction braided into her teeth.

These round berries resemble that of a Venn diagram, One where self-loathing and self-pleasure lie starkly in one spot, inseparable from these cursed Ericaceae. These round, dark blue spheres, The object of my appetite, my affection, Favor the grandiose entrance of a station connected to expansive tracks. One where trains come every hour, on the hour, with the ability to carry passengers to farther forests, Where they say there are better berries, But I hesitate to step forward and board one. For I have tried other berries before, but none of them have been as painfully pleasurable as the ones I eat now.

None of them have left me wanting to endure harm for their flavor. None of them have been this addicting and exciting, eliciting such volatile responses from me, high and low.

Despite being allergic, Despite these berries not wanting me to eat them, And despite my desire for the fruit being unrequited, my body and mind rejecting it the more and more I eat,

I’m afraid I don’t know how to stop eating them. And I’m afraid I don’t know how to stop wanting to eat them, either. I know I will stop eventually, but I’m not sure if that’ll be a decision of my own doing.

One day, this slow, lethargic stalemate will just be too much to bear. The flavor will no longer resemble that of our earlier endeavors, And then I will probably still force a couple more down my throat before boarding a train,

Moving on to farther forests, where they say there are better berries, Ones that are mostly pleasure and little pain, And healthy, instead of addicting, with extraordinary taste. And do I believe I deserve these berries? More or less, But, truth be told, I don’t know if they exist.

Brittle Borosilicate

Brianna Levy

I wish I was a human

Instead of a clear kettle

Sturdy, synthetic, see-through material

Replace human features

And everyone can see when I am brewing

Everyone can place their bags in me

And watch while it steeps and colors me whole

Everyone can see what brews-es me

And how loud I yell in return

There is no hiding in a clear kettle of a body

Everyone can see the debris that bubbles

And the fire I attempt to ignore

Everyone can see that I am a clear kettle

Instead of a human being

Self-defeating Desire

Brianna Levy

I imagine your victories And envision you content I wouldn’t dare to dream of these things Because I intend to adore you with intent

For I would never be as lazy As to let my hidden mind handle you You may have a seat at the table of my thoughts If you are okay with letting me pursue

I adore the way your name feels in my mouth How its rosey tinge colors the air when I speak I envy the reality where we are together right now How in another dimension you know your presence makes me weak

But I accept where we are

And I love our relationship as it is platonic Because my care comes from wanting you happy regardless of me That is what makes my desire so ironic

So I will continue to imagine your victories And envision you entirely content I wouldn’t dare to disturb these visions if they do not involve me Because true care for you is my intent

Solo woman versus the Thief

Brianna Levy

When I hear about solo women travelers, And solo women hikers, And bikers, and racers, and bakers, and doers, I am filled with immeasurable glee. And I want them to do what they do even more And document it for a current me. One who intends on rectifying her recent descent into fear And wishes to return to when she did not see her gender as a mere Condition in need of rectifying.

And it’s not about me wanting her to be stupid, As my parents seem to think. For what is stupid about wanting to curate a culture of safety rather than one of strife, stifled, and stratified?

I can’t think of anything sillier than how we’ve always viewed these things. Of how a woman who chooses to live, everywhere and at any time, is stupid when her wish is stolen

When the person who stole goes untouched by such labels. As if stealing is more acceptable than being stolen from.

It’s not about wanting her to be stupid, It’s about wanting her to be free.

It’s about recognizing that the problem in society isn’t women wanting to soar: It’s thieves trying to steal their agency.

It’s thieves not understanding their humanity. It’s the way they view us as clay, insidiously. The way that encouraged competition slices us like wire cutters, And carving tools, chip, scrape, and prod until we are deemed “perfect:” unrecognizable, shaped, and quiet.

It’s how fiery shame burns skin like a kiln And we’re taught to accept this through my religion, media, film. I wish for the same rights as the hand that carves my fate. I feign acceptance of the present, as if it is not what I hate, And hope that the change continues to accumulate To the point where the solo woman no longer knows the name of the thief.