Phoebe G. Lifton / Global College


Standing on ancient stones,
she spits bubbles into
an easy Greek breeze.

Her sticky pointer jabbing
recklessly into the air.
How quickly those precious
bubbles pop.

She’s not a sloppy concoction.
Her moon bright eyes
moon dark hair

She monsoons her adoring father,
screaming until
they meet in his arms.
Pats pancake hands
on sprouted white hair
and off black shirt collar

Mona, you’re aging slower than your father.
He’s an open fleshy human,
he will die and
it is him she will eclipse.


Adam Goldberg / Spring 2009 / Emerson College

Driving home at 3 or 4 the stadium is bright in front of me
And 1930’s steam rises from the manhole cover
Because it’s gotten colder
Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten younger
But I realize
(with a laugh perhaps)
That you laid your head on me tonight
Instead of your feet
I guess that’s something
I find it hard to write
When I’m in
Or maybe it’s because I said
To myself
That I’d never write a single goddamn word
About you
And then you kissed me
And I thought
Things changed
Because it's those little things you can hold on to
And that was all I really needed
I thought
Just a little bit
Just a little
Of something
But I’m still driving home late
Trying to find my way
Onto the fucking highway
And even if I laugh
To myself
I have to remember
That even if you stopped
Resting your feet on me
I'll always be
Your doormat


Sarah Mitchem / Summer 2006 / Virginia Tech

At the harbor a little
fishing boat is tied
to the pier.
The rough water and chopping at it.
I want to get in.
Not to lose myself in its rocking motion,
just desiring to write in the boat
and not worry about slipping away.

But I would end up noticing
where the paint is chipped,
what lay at the bottom of the boards,
the colors chosen.
All so that I could transcribe it
faithfully in my journal.
Recording small accuracies and
promising to remember them.
Reciting what’s around me to
avoid what’s in me.

Always in this body
but that I don’t know myself,
don’t let my heart rule.
I’m always brought back
to segments of myself.
The way my motions
make people record me.
The Greek men reeling me in by my wrists
so that I struggle to slip onto side streets.
To dissolve there, and dissolve here.

I did not get in the boat.
I do not write how salted wood feels.
I did what I do with you.
I imagine the boat.
I record the habits I would perform.
I fail to reconcile.