Poetry
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The Snow, Slant Ghazal for Winter of 2085
image curtesy of The MET Museum Archives
by Linette Marie Allen
The snow, a canvas for branch-sprawl, brittle lines—
a quaking aria breaks them, shivering their bridal lines.
The year grows its teeth, gnashing at our stooped gardens,
gesturing the leaves we swore could defy bridal lines.
Newsprint burns in the hearth, its stories curling to ash,
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Ode to the Overpriced Burrito
photo by Alex Farber
by Luis Lopez-Maldonado
On a chilly spring morning,
chile still clinging to my lips,
I bit into you—warm, heavy, half-hearted—
a freckled tortilla wrapped in betrayal
and $8.79 worth of disappointment.
Where is your abuela, your sazón,
your carne that falls apart like old love letters?
Even your papas taste tired today,
like they miss the days when gas
was under three dollars
and classrooms were still full:
Another Friday… Another row of empty desks. -
A Review of Tony Koji Wallin-Sato’s Poetry collection “Okaerinasai”
by LIT Managing and Poetry Editor, Richard Berwind
The cover of Tony Koji Wallin-Sato’s Okaerinasai depicts a black and white photo of an isolated farm recolored in an off-white ivory and surrounded by the encroaching black limbs of a tree. The square photo sits in a matte white frame with a larger blue border: a piece of art hung up on the wall of a gallery, or perhaps a home. The rest of the collection takes a reader on a journey of the singular, a journey of the collective, and the intricate relationship between both as Wallin-Sato asks us what even constitutes a home through the opening definition of his title.
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I CANNOT USE THE WORD MOON
art by Richard Hanus
by Penelope Ioannou
in this poem out of
respect for the phase
I am going through. I’ve
always wanted a New
England summer with
the weeds and the man
who is by no means
extraordinary grilling
bland burgers on the bbq.The humidity would be
sufficient and I would
be formidable because I eat
lobsters and think the stupid
corgi is adorable and
use this man for his boat
or his body or his
stainless steel pan. -
Verb To Be
photo by Yasser Alaa Mobarak
by Sisary Poemape-Heredia
authored in June
to dance attuned,
after the sun is down.
where the glow is not but a breeze
caressing a nightgown’s scars
under
in town.
un pueblo is a constellation hidden light years beyond
a mansion at the top of a hill,
even if no kings
—especially if no kings—
are throned to be
between the ages of seven and seventeen.
i am king
and at seven needed a hymn
of Andean musing
and love cruising
warmisitay infused, -
Gloucester Dock
photo by Allison Guan
by Maureen Mancini Amaturo
This New England morning wears a grey shawl.
Traffic, lights, store fronts, and footsteps recede with the tide.
A shy sun finds gulls laughing, cackling, and circling pewter views.
Water slaps piers and boat bottoms.
Dories waltz.
Rusted chains hang like necklaces around rigging and pilings
Pitted metal anchors lean heavy.
Faded circles bearing ship names no longer save lives.
Ropes, thick and strong, twined and defined like teen-aged braids
enwreathe coiled hoses, nozzles down,
