first friday night on earth

by Michelle Morgan ‘24

try not to think about how quiet it

will be when the cicadas go 

back underground in the

winter. 

how lonely.

how cold. 

melt into the puddle of beer on

the frat house parking lot,

cry

miller lite 

into the one star visible through all the 

clouds. 

lay down, look up, crooked

back, sail away, no 

direction, no time, no place

but now and

hard asphalt against spinal column. 

smile a smile that is so

real it cracks open your

head like an egg. 

inside is a tiny wet crying 

bird,

terrified yet alive, feeling for the

first time that it has wings, 

that it can finally

fly.

last thursday night on mars

by Michelle Morgan ‘24

to live in eternal dusk.

the firefly windows glow empty yellow,

the waxing moon shines too bright, 

the fractalline silhouettes of so many tree branches

beckon home, 

home towards an infinite sky, 

the last dusty-pink whisper of sunset 

resting its head on the bosom of an ancient mountain,

the cold air begs me to stay. 

solstice

by Michelle Morgan ‘24

never felt closer to earth than 

dill pickle chips and a dozen tiny bugs 

crawling all over my legs. 

a frog croak in the irrigation weeds, 

a dragonfly blown by the wind, 

the chemtrails in the bright blue sky 

look like shooting stars in daytime.

make a wish.