Rigby

Becca Dunkle

Your ghost resides in each crevice of my home— and in the spaces between my fingertips you managed to slip through. Each floorboard is a reminder of where your feet have walked, each bed, a reminder of where you’ve laid. What a tumultuous predicament I find myself in— forced to spend my days staring towards the corner of a room, imagining your shadow upon the wall. These walls once encased your beautiful soul, and, in a way, you are now eternally bound to them. I sit writing this poem, wishing I didn’t have to— foolishly hoping to open my eyes to a world where you are still present. I know that each moment I spend thinking of you is hopeless, but not wasted, as nothing done in your honour could ever be a waste. I will love you in perpetuity— in a never-ending cycle where I barbarously attempt to replace the love you bestowed upon me. I would’ve done anything for you, anything at all. And now you reside in an urn beside my bed.

Now, if I look out upon the horizon— I know that’s where you are. Somewhere far from here, somewhere where all the light you brought into this world will shimmer in your glorious eyes. Somewhere pure, and good, where suffering is a word only imagined. Where you will be surrounded by every good thing you ever loved, and one day I will meet you there. One day, we will dance together in Death’s great hall, hand in hand, as we were for the best years of my life. He will arrange for us a grand feast, where all will cheer for the completion of our souls. The Sun will rise in your honour, and the Moon will set to show that this darkness has ended. You were the brightest part of my life. Oh how I refuse to believe that you’re gone. All I can do now is yearn for the day where you will stand before me once again.

Reach

by MEERAH

Paint, conté and willow charcoal sticks on paper

“Reach” depicts the idea of the body and nature becoming one. Spending more time in nature helped broaden my horizons and calm me down. Sometimes you have to detach yourself from all the noise and direct your energy toward nature’s experiences.

Your Mother And I Have The Same Hands

Greg Orrē

for how many more days will your hand fit in my palm? i ask a lot of questions now i never thought before. my hand covers your entire head. my hand isn’t even that big. did you know your mother and i have the same hands? you can hold on whenever you need. you can reach out and i will be there.

when my hands are wrinkled and cold varicose and virescent then eventually a memory read this poem to hold my hand. touch the words to feel my fingerprints. the warmth radiating from your body into my left arm lines this page.

you grin.

in some far away land we walk into the sunset.

our hands in the air shiny and full of gold.