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Poems published in the December 2020 Issue

This month, each contribution I received was more ethereal than the last. If the naked trees and sparse, dirty snowbanks outside don’t give you chills, these poems will. Their words melt like ice in the mouth and warm like a cup of chamomile tea.

Introduction and Illustrations by

Mayan Godmaire, Creative Writing Editor

My Gift

By Chaily Bitton


It seems foolish to keep

the same name when I am

called seven others.

My grandfather’s name

was many others, too.

But mostly, he went by


My mother

three days into labor

and two days after her

Birthday looked upon me

and said:

My gift.

A “chai” just for me.

An utterance of two

Hebrew words

and I was set

for what is seeming to be

a lifetime

of a head tilt

to the side.

A stuttering

of an open mouth and

a whisper of hesitation


Ka, Cha, Sha.


Color’s story

By Kiddo



They have stories.

They have personalities.

Green, for example, is the wonderful love story

between a happy sun and a free ocean.

Together, they gave life to grass.

Grass, so small and yet so bi

Grass, that searches water to survive and wind to feel free.

Together, they gave life to trees:

our lungs.

Or at least that’s what a kid told me.

He told me: “That’s green’s story”.

Maybe he’s wrong, and maybe he’s not.

But what I do know is that, that kid understood something very important.

He understood that seeing life in colors is seeing life itself.


abraham’s silence

By Cyrielle Ouedraogo


the son lay stretched out on bright rock

skin taut atop crumbling bones

as besides him the father wept

and sharpened blade against grey stone

under his back slick oxen blood

below fingertips reddened mud

a heavy hand descends upon

his pleading lips. a reddened sun

around him feathers fallen all,

his tongue ashen soon fed to grief,

and narrowed eyes made wide to see

the gleam of silver quick and brief

the time is come, and sobs the child

dew pooling on quivering cheeks

a silent plea to father’s palm

the sun scorching his muffled psalm

but not a quiver in his eye

father holds faith and wields the blade

but not a quiver in his cheek

or time enough to dare to speak


ursa minor

By Gabrielle Pilon


Flickers of light speckled

Across the dark ocean above,

Its waves

Enveloping the Earth in a

Blanket with too many

Holes. Letting the cold in.

Within its depths, I see you

Shining brightly,

I can spot you

From miles away

From my quiet field,

The tickling green grass

Confusing my senses

As I gaze up at the maze

Of lighthouses,

Trying to guide my hazelnut eyes.


I am focused. On you

As you dance, among

Countless other lanterns

Each perfectly placed

Among the rest,

As they hang so low,

I reach my hand out.

Stretching my fingers

That have always been too


Grabbing onto nothing

My hand slipping through,

Grasping at the cold air,

I feel.



Like a boat,

Lost. At sea.

But I believe that, you

Will one day guide me,


To the sky



By Anonymous



the snake

it sang

some words of love

and i

was a fool

and believed them


(I love you)

Jeanne Hope


a hovering cloud shaped like a shoe over you,

through the sand in my eyes, I see through to you.

little pears dipped and dropped in warm champagne,

the yellow and gold splatter a faint tattoo on you.

a car crash in the tall trees, its color drains of blue,

two legs crushed, flesh, it feels like a déjà-vu for you.

the red corkscrew on the couch, shrimp and cashew,

do you remember when I got the stomach flu, with you?

the ladybugs crying blood in June on the Japanese yew,

I swam through the typhoon and the bullshit, anew for you.

the mother and father in the kitchen, your world of view,

an interview over fondue as I listen to blink-182 with you.

you call me honeydew, and Jeanne disappears, a preview

of the next twenty-two years. I will never bid adieu, to you.


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