
On my wrist
is a bracelet
Of the deepest shade of red
Fluid and straight
It stains my skin
And cuts deep into my flesh
Handcrafted with loneliness
And embellished with hate
It glimmers in the darkness
And is masked in the day
A gift
Sent from the boy
Who made my sheets reek
Of black love ...
On Your Wrist
TBD
On my wrist
is a bracelet
Of the deepest shade of red
Fluid and straight
It stains my skin
And cuts deep into my flesh
Handcrafted with loneliness
And embellished with hate
It glimmers in the darkness
And is masked in the day
A gift
Sent from the boy
Who made my sheets reek
Of black love ...
On Your Wrist
TBD
TITLE
NAME
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The Contents of a cabinet
Renee Ferguson
Someone I love so much keeps me up at night. With the banging of cupboards and drawers and the opening and closing of the fridge, with quiet footsteps on carpeted stairs and the sharp squeak of the third stair from the bottom floor. I heard her last Thursday and then I slept out on Saturday but she’s fumbled down the stairs every night this week, too petrified to turn on a light. ..
The Contents of a cabinet
Renee Ferguson
Someone I love so much keeps me up at night. With the banging of cupboards and drawers and the opening and closing of the fridge, with quiet footsteps on carpeted stairs and the sharp squeak of the third stair from the bottom floor. I heard her last Thursday and then I slept out on Saturday but she’s fumbled down the stairs every night this week, too petrified to turn on a light. ..
Grey Bird
A.W. Lion-Cleaver
The grey bird beckons me to join him
Follow me! he says
Follow me!
A nest sprinkled with
Crumbles of ash
Built upon marlboro sticks
and poisonous leaves
Follow me!
Feathers grey, turn grey, turning grey
Feathers with knotted ends
Dipped in black
Feathers rough, turn rough, turning rough
Follow me!
Grey Bird
A.W. Lion-Cleaver
The grey bird beckons me to join him
Follow me! he says
Follow me!
A nest sprinkled with
Crumbles of ash
Built upon marlboro sticks
and poisonous leaves
Follow me!
Feathers grey, turn grey, turning grey
Feathers with knotted ends
Dipped in black
Feathers rough, turn rough, turning rough
Follow me!




Eva Baldauf '23

Kaitlin Gasner '23

Simone Carr '25

Carter West '24

Chloe Thiessen '23


Chloe Thiessen '23

Anna Palfy '23

Patricia DePalma '23
sunset super 2425 irving st, san francisco, ca 94122 - Yoga Weng '24
today i walked with my mom to the grocery store two blocks from my sister’s chinese school that used to
be mine and took pictures of the water stained tile like i was one of those white girls on social media who
do photoshoots in this supermarket, voyeurs to an identity they’ve constructed through aesthetic inspo
pinterest boards of the snack aisle filtered pink and white, pretty and seeping a kind of ill-fittingly into my
skin like the grease that sits atop hot pot cooling, speaking back your face in fragments rippled through
and then, there i mopped up the corpse of my childhood self, already six weeks dead because i’d been too
busy last week and also the week before and before i knew it six weeks had passed—or maybe six years,
not too sure— and i’d shed the body who hated that filthy water stained tile and the supply closet that
spilled out of the wall in the dairy aisle and the product boxes stacked into the sky in the space above 2.29
ngo om (rice paddy herb) with the words product of the usa circled on the tag, because in the kitchen
appliances section the ceramic soup spoons are kept in cut up shopping baskets red like beginning, still
rough around the edges and some six winters ago i was dragged through these halls in a shopping cart, the
kind that eats a quarter when you steal it and spits it back out when returned, though it does forget
sometimes, and in that time i’d complained in a drum drowned out by the rolling of wheels against the
tiles in heavy vibrations, disjointed and boneless like the beef shabu shabu swelling out of styrofoam for
9.99, and i never want to come back, i’d thought to myself, and yet here i am, six weeks or six years later,
trying to choose between five different brands of tomato-flavored hot pot soup base while my mom
scrutinizes the list of ingredients the way she looks at me sometimes when i’ve done something she
doesn’t like and somehow i know i’ll be here next week, and the week after, to lift the grocery bags into
the car, three on one arm, the remains of my childhood self tidied into a bucket and embalmed in the back
of that supply closet in the dairy aisle, dead.

Paloma Rincon '23
Jeffrey Huang '23

Katherine Salz '24 (excerpt)
You, my young innocent child
Oblivious to the wild
Felt the pressures of acceptance
And as a being of repentance
Stopped the world from spinning,
But in the chaos of forgiving
You chose to accept the end…
I knew you never fit
Just as the rest of us did
And yet still, I could not seem to yield
The picture of us freely frolicking in the fields
Falling into a dark dismal abyss,
I went blind
Unable to find the stability of my mind

Samara Lehman '26