CAITLIN ROACH
The Molt
We are five
months into a game
neither of us know
how to play.
Author: Staff
CAITLIN ROACH
JEREMIAH FOSTER
Uphill Writing
An afternoon run up the false summit
of every promising idea,
MELANIE TAFEJIAN
Salt
Great pyramids of salt, line
the shore, coarse mounds
I’d like to climb, fly
down in a red sled.
ESTHER LIN
Season of Cherries
Sweeter, nearly cloying as you and I
eat and eat until the bag folds over.
JULEEN EUN SUN JOHNSON
Out of the Last Frontier
Out of swollen bellies and wild wind waves.
They feed the feathered beast.
They feed monsoon storm strumming out of the Gulf of Alaska.
CARLIE HOFFMAN
The Recursive
Not even the water, churning forever
in the river’s holiest mouth
would envy me.
PATRICK MILIAN
The Music Theories
You feel most fully
when you’re fleeing
KATIE CONDON
Called Back
At dusk, the snow is determined as ever.
CHRISTOPHER DEWEESE
Poem for Lichen
I quiver among the weeds.
ANA GUADALUPE
A Rat
translated by Ananda Lima
when it pierces my skin
I tremble without panic