Bottled Message

The red shred of linen cuts

Mountains into halves and

Dyes the sand crimson black,

Burning holes into copper chests.

Brackish wind, no, waves.

 

Tides can’t decide. They

Run away only to come back.

Dry water shimmery reflects

Bulging eyes, singed black.

Roasting jellyfishes. Die.

 

The air tight, sand collapse.

Suffocating reds don’t do

Bottled messages, leaving

Crumbling bones, their

Tongueless cries.

 

Anny Fang

 

Anny Fang is a sophomore majoring in Psychology, English, and Women’s Studies. Contrary to her appearance, she likes to pursue hobbies that can only be categorized as extreme. This usually means that you may either see her chewing some book in an obscure coffee shop or bungee-jumping in a third-world country.

How Things End

Three black crows hop

in the deep snowy field

behind the library

 

The snow

glows orange

 

You sit in your car

engine killed

waiting for something

 

Nothing falls

from the cloudless night

*

There’s a point where you come to realize that this is exactly what you wanted to

happen

 

Why you start hiding things under your bed

neatly in bags

labeled and dated

 

Snipping out pictures of faces from magazines

for the simple way they feel between your fingers

how in dropping them

they resemble falling leaves

*

Your father sleeping upright on the couch

Your father screaming at you for not taking the dog out

Your father keeping the dog’s leash in his car for years after her death

 

Your father dying

*

The items pile up

all humming beneath you

shaking the mattress

asking you to listen

*

He isn’t dead

He’s just stopped

speaking to you

*

Someone taps on the car window

a school friend

asking for a ride

 

Asking too many questions

thinking you know

about something

 

how things end or are supposed to—

 

You’re not breathing but you should

 

You’re not listening because your ears

are packed with snow

*

Your collection

requires more stringent organization

so you begin sorting according to taste

tonguing each face

and placing them in tupperware

to keep out air

*

The white noise of winter

your friend in the passenger seat

fogging up the windows

with her living body

her kinetic body full of blood

 

A crow lands amongst the others

something in his beak

They fight for it

Splash of red

against the snow

 

Zoe Etkin

 

Zoe Etkin is an MFA student at CalArts. She identifies as a poet but is also interested in hybrid forms. Etkin is a recent recipient of the Beutner Award for Excellence in the Arts. Hailing from Memphis, Etkin is interested in the South, but having lived in New Mexico and California, she infuses the West into her aesthetic.

Final Moments

My hands feel sweaty

As I gently lift you off my lap

Your gray tail curves against my arm

And I feel as though you’re holding on

Not because you’re afraid to fall

But because you’re afraid to keep holding on

 

Fragile bones of starvation can be felt

Amongst the ungroomed, greasy hair

You hide away in my arms as I move on

Closer and closer towards the door

With the bell that lightly chimes

“Appointment with death”

 

Sounds of youthful chirps and barks

Surround us as I hold you closer

Remember when you were that small?

So playful and curious with the world

Always getting into trouble

But were always forgiven

 

The time when you escaped

Through a broken screen

Or when you would sneak a drink

From my glass on the floor

The countless missing hair ties

I gave up looking for

 

Yet you managed to win me over

With your crisp, lime green eyes

Your feminine dainty paws

That small heart shaped nose

Whiskers as white as snow

And of course, your signature meow

 

I will miss your calming, loud purr

Seeing your “shark fin” tail as I lay in bed

Hearing you scamper up the stairs

Petting your silky fur, rubbing your alert ears

And even finding the “present” of

A mouse at my feet

 

A woman calls out your name

And you look up with recognition

I pretend to not notice that these moments

Are our last together

As I kiss the top of your head

I whisper my goodbyes under my breath

And walk towards the guiding light

 

Nicolle Devoto

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