by Michael Chilcote ’12

by Sarah Moore ’11

by Sujin Lim ’12

by Guilherme Ferraz ’14

by Samantha Oh ’14

by Andrew Samuels ’14

by Sujin Lim ’12

by Tyler Bradford ’14

by Danika Siewicz

The plump pundit laughs with teeth of
green jello, confiscated from fat fingers
of an ocean saint. Small sprays
of fear, enticing as Lorelei’s lullaby
to a deaf-mute porcupine. Before
the gift of lettuce: the empty cage
of a man’s rattling heart, the purple
paws of an empty dinosaur costume, torn
from the needy child winter forgot.

I am Boca Raton. See—my palms
like candied yams, a small Thanksgiving.
My words are hieroglyphs painted
as a coquette’s face, a talisman
held close to the chest. Share
your splintered wooden soul, I hunger like
the prowling: lean-flanked, alone,
rheumy, fleshy, all mutton and eyes.

He laughs over his clipboard, gums
diseased as quashed revolution, screaming—
the tune of mermaids harpooned.