POETRY

Mrs. Digestive

by Guinevere McCusker

When my stomach growls in a crowded room,
I throw my arms around my belly,
And suck in.
After years of trial and error,
I’ve found the perfect way to silence my desires.

Because I remember sitting in elementary classrooms,
I was the meekest one there.
They didn’t know I was a shark in the water.
That I have a voice that could fill a stadium,
Without needing a microphone.
For they never asked,
And I wouldn’t answer.

I didn’t care to learn the guitar as a kid,
Or tune my voice.
I’d play anyway,
I sing nonexistent notes and call it a cover.

I hate feeling hungry,
There’s not a hidden metaphor there.
I just am.
When my stomach growls–
I feel my muscles shrinking,
and my bones breaking.
I feel my heart pounding,
And my stamina shouting: I no longer work!
My body loves to taunt me;
I’m otherwise stupid.

So,
Thank you for screaming at me,
Mrs. Digestive system.
I need to be reminded that it’s okay to be greedy.
I will give in to the intonation of your wrath,
If it means I can smile another day.

Behind the Diner 

by Jaelynn Wiley

I sit on the curb,
hands buried deep in my pockets,
watching the smoke drift around
like ghosts that forgot where they belong,
soft, aimless shapes whispering against my ankles,
curling around the streetlight
as if they’re trying to remember
what being alive felt like.

This place is thick with quiet and burgers,
with stories that are half-eaten and abandoned,
the kind that no one bothers to finish.

The air feels peaceful
in that sad, pitiful way where nothing is fixed
but nothing is fighting anymore either.

Everything unwanted is still clinging to life
a wrapper, a soggy fry,
a heart that hasn’t stopped yearning for their love.
It beats with the hotheadedness of a stray,
still circling the block of old promises,
sniffing out the warmth of a memory
that went cold long ago.

It hopes that someone might turn back,
call its name,
and take it back,
before the night takes its toll.

A mist rises from a vent,
blending with the smell of old coffee,
like the city letting out a deep, exhausted sigh
after carrying too many lives on its back.

Something rattles against the ground
probably a lid, maybe the wind,
or maybe the last protest
from something that refuses to settle.

The alley smells of frozen fries,
oil painting the road in rainbow colors,
small accidental illusions
in a place that rarely sees beauty.
A cat slips between two garbage cans,
eyes catching the streetlight, sparkling like gold.

A rat runs through a rain puddle,
the water splashes under its weight.
Moths accumulate toward the light,
their wings fluttering softly, their lives ending slowly and quietly.
The cat searches through the trash, calm, tolerant.

As if it knows this is all there is,
the noises, the smells,
the brief warmth of midnight air.

And for a moment,
beneath it all,
beneath the trash and the steam,
and the sad, lingering smells,
it feels like even the fractured things,
wrappers, ghosts, moths,
the restless, thoughtless heart,
are trying to find beauty again

Stepping Out of the House

by Ben Carson

Here I sit
Frozen in the house
But the door
Is rattling,
Open for me
And it’s storming outside—
The scent of petrichor put
Wild thoughts in my mind

Water leaks into
The wallpaper of the house
Murmuring to me,
There’s something more

I never wanted
To journey the storm
But I saw others go out
And return with blooming souls;
They had found their springtime
And here I am, still frozen in the house.

I had seen more than just spring
I saw the unwatered seeds of
Those who could not find their rain
The idea of dead seeds alone
The wild thoughts weren’t a mistake
The blunder I made was assuming
I couldn’t water myself

And the seed I held
So close to my heart
Has been arid
Starved
So I step out into the rain
Because the house scares me
More

Supper For My First Love

by Ben Carson

Your small-town eyes
Pierce like a ghoul, scruffy raccoon
You tell me,

“We are industry,
We are assembled
To create one.”

You’re telling me of Russian art
movements,
Constructivism
I’ll listen real close to your words
Tell me about the revolutionist’s geometry

We’ll pretend we aren’t as useless as
The hometowns we left for the city we
thought would remove our folk-shackles

even when
youpuncturedmychestlike a sharpscalene
withallyour
fair inequality
I will take it
Because I am your mirror
Looking back at you over the line of reflection
As much as it hurts to admit.

My eyes are still wringing out the circles and squares
Still picking up after you,
chloral hydrate

Go run off into that dark, scruffy raccoon
staticky cold unending biting
deafening lonely dark

I’ll pretend I never saw those glowing eyes in that dark
I’ll find my hometown

City was too much
Chest tightens when I feel you there
And out bleed all the shapes again

I know what you did, scruffy raccoon
You threw me in the ruthless steam engine
Processed into the epoch of your art

So you could eat the remains
Because in the end, every animal needs
Something to gnaw on

you chose mirror shards
scruffy
raccoon

The Noise

by Emma Brown

I brought you into this world to know you,
and bring you from the whispers of maybe to my bare chest,
your first breath ripping through your lungs, and the scream:
the finest music.

“I hope it was worth it,”
You say, shattered glass in your words,
all the tempestuous glory of the sea in your eyes,
You say you didn’t ask for this,
this life and me
“I never asked to be brought into a world of pain,”
and,
“I never asked to be born,”

Would it hurt you to be grateful, I wish I could spit back,
wishing to tear my graying hair from my head,
but I brought you here to love you,
I brought you here, and it was the right decision.

It scares me,
that you shriek at me now,
my own daughter,
screaming at the throat of the world,
you deface my most selfless act.

I lost my beauty, traded my time, innocence, and certainty away
I open my arms to the pain of creation,
and I welcomed to the world the best thing about my existence, forever,

A warm yowling babe,
once nestled into my chest,
who never stopped screaming,
most ardently alive,

who disguises me, until I am no longer her Mother,
hates me, until the fire is only blackened embers

Selfing 

by Guinevere McCusker

Blankets swallow me whole,
Holding me tightly without question,
And without a breath.

My hair cascades across the pillows,
Cradling my head as if knows me,
While lacking a brain.

Because my chest is filled with longing,
And my heart is empty,
(I fed its nutrients to the plants and the flowers)
My body is confused.
It misunderstands what I want.
I am tired–
It’s time for bed.
I sigh into my pillow.
I wish it wasn’t empty,
I wish it wouldn’t be empty even when I’m not in it.

I kiss myself on the cheek,
I listen to my breathing as though foreign;
I can’t cry:
That would be pathetic.

Because I am a love filled being,
Everyone knows it,
My smile isn’t blood-filled,
so I must be fine.
My typewriter is bloodied,
Though.
From all of the letters I’m waiting to send.
All of the thoughts and loving memories I can’t wait to propose to the keyboard.
Lilac scented envelopes will hold my deepest desires,
Desires that I already have.
I must wait,
I must wait for the cradle,
And the laughter filled dinners,
And the giggling children.
I must wait for you to have me.
I can’t wait to be had.

The sun is blinding.
I don’t mind it.
Waking up only brings me closer to meeting you.

There’s One Piece of Art at the Museum

by Jeri Eisbrenner

And she waits, with expert,
patience,
while I pee the moment we get there.

She trails
thoughtfully
to look at each submission,
tucking her hair behind her ear
to get a better look.

I notice the way she moves- carefully,
As though observing art were like
holding a newborn.

She whispers those observations to me as
we walk.
Tells me the colors in my favorite piece are
Divine.

“Thank you
For sharing this with Me.”

–

I’ve been told my whole life
not to touch the art,
but there is no barricade or glass;
so I’m assuming they won’t mind if
I steal a kiss
or two,
if she’d let me.

I’m Religious

by Jeri Eisbrenner

which is to say: I worship the sun on my skin. I relish the bell-like laughter of my dearest friends.
I whisper prayers to streams, both those familiar and not. I send blessings to those I pass in the
street, lay hands on every stray cat, and wash the feet of sticky children. I hear god in blues
rhythm.
I’m religious, which is to say: Life is a blessing, and by god, I’m blessed.

Fragments of Te Quiro

by Seymar Matias McMillan

Te quiero.
Something I don’t say. Something I don’t type.
Eres lindo…
Something I think.
Hide.
I’ll never say it unless you say something to me.
Siempre he dicho que me hace falta algo.
Nunca he sabido lo que es.
Quizás es levantarme temprano y ver tu cara or tu mensaje.
La primera cosa que veo que me hace sonreír como una niña estúpida.
Es lo que me hace escribir como una niña tonta
You make me nervous. But I like you.
It’s not fair

Author Bios

Guinevere McCusker is major is English, although her current hometown is Winterset, IA. She grew up in Leander, Texas—a decently sized town a little outside of Austin Texas. Her hobbies include  weight lifting, writing, painting/drawing, and she’s also really interested in fashion! 

Serymar Matias McMillan grew up in Cabo Rojo, Puerto Rico, but their family lives in Mitchell, South Dakota. She is a double major in History and Psychology. She is a member of the Culver Center UGA, works for Admissions, is a TRIO ambassador, is involved in ACEs, and was recently elected president of Latinos Unidos. Her hobbies include reading, obviously writing, and spending time with their roommates (and her roommate’s cat). 

Jeri Eisbrenner is a junior at Simpson College, pursuing a double major in Social Justice Studies and Sociology. They merge these two studies in their work, aiming to reflect daily life and contemporary issues. Jeri often draws inspiration from the injustices faced by different minority groups, exploring themes surrounding the LGBTQ+ community, activism, and identity. For this year’s publication, they focused on more relevant themes to their day-to-day life, including perceptions of religion and interpersonal relationships.  

Jaelynn Wiley is a junior at Simpson College, majoring in English Education. Her hometown is Wapello, Iowa. Fun facts about her are that she is in the Delta Chapter of Delta Delta Delta, and currently holds the Vice President of Community Relations officer position. She wrote this poem as a reminder to always appreciate the “unattractive” things in life. Everything around us is an experience in itself; take time to admire it. 

Benito Carson (Ben) is a sophomore at Simpson College with a focus in Education Studies and English. They got the opportunity to start creating poetry and short prose when they entered the creative writing classes offered on campus. Ben likes to read, but also likes to create works of graphic art as well. Their favorite thing to do on campus is go for walks, especially near Buxton Park or the trail close to campus. 

Emma Brown is a Freshman at Simpson College, double majoring in English and Psychology. She hails from the distant lands of Indianola, Iowa. Emma enjoys botany and the arts. All of the arts.