tongues in the corners of the evening

by Michelle Morgan ‘24

the hydra-head zero grows back on the hour.

the neighbor ends her speaker-phone call and

i am free from her captive audience. ignoring

the siren night, thumping and wailing, it is quiet

enough for the springs bruising my back not to hurt.

it’s in these lamplit peaceful witching hours

when the rain comes home carefully, slips in

unnoticed, exhausted, a long wednesday

night spent forgiving park grass of bilious sins;

it whispers itself gently between parted lips and

settles heavy to sleep in the back of my throat.

i wake up in the morning feeling ill.

Waking Up in War

by Tori Johnsson ‘23


This war has sat in the backs of our heads
for years like a thousand gallons of mud
squelching through broken fingers.
Possibility is a mirror signaling
in ghostly flashes, twisted
by the wind teasing an empty window.
I dream of rushing through marble halls,
pulling curtains over each
perfect face of twilight.
I wake up warm, reconstituting from mire;
your face swims out of the dawn
and sharpens, scar to scar.
I catch your knuckles like a rare bird
and you spread your hand,
shaking, over my ragged breathing.
The day is here,
and we are going to die at the beginning of it.
The light is in your eyes and nowhere else.