Naked and Fallen
Jenna Citrus

Through Process
Emily Plummer

The Annex
Casey Burke

Tearing at Sores
Regis Louis

The Birth of Our Names
Tesneem Madani

Untitled No. 4
Sarah Kronz

Our Condition
Troy Neptune

On the Fundamentals of Art and the Soul
Ayla Maisey

In the Foreground
Aree Rachel Coltharp

Of a Woman
Jackie Vega

Winafret Casto

The Seventeen Seconds of Odette
Rachel Lietzow

Hidden in Sight
Jenna Citrus

Casandra Robledo

The Passage
Liam Trumble

Resentment as a Kind of Relief
Eric Kubacki

Beauty Standards
Sarah Kronz

Over the Kanawha
Claire Shanholtzer

Anne Livingston

Sponsorships & Acknowledgements


For Empty Spaces
Regis Louis

Liam Trumble

Culled from the Flock
Deborah Rocheleau

Searching for Divinity
Madeleine Richey

From Pillars to Dust
Madeleine Richey

As Best I Could Do
Hoda Fakhari

In Your Absence
Emma Croushore

Sarah Kronz

The Shadow of Paris
Anika Maiberger

The Liffey
Kara Wellman

Memories of Home
Audrey Lee

Jackie Vega

The Beauty in Fracturing
Taylor Woosley

Butcher Paper
Casandra Robledo

Human Scavenger
Devin Prasatek

Babel Was a Second Eden
Luke McCusker

The Painting in Gallery 26
Sydney Crago

Sofia Io Celli

Ayla Maisey




The air cannot decide if it is autumn yet,
so she wavers with the wind, only worse.
Numbly aware that she must move
because it is morning,
and the rise and fall of her own chest
will not preclude the sun from rising regardless.

Her bike trembles in the breeze:
arms taut and outstretched,
her whole body sways. Caught halfway
across the bridge, it is impossible to tell
whether dawn follows the river
or if the water rushes toward the sun.
To they are both pulling her, spokes
fixed on either side; she does not know
where to place her faith.

And it is early enough to speculate a god.
She can’t stop looking for a string,
something to keep her afloat
as she leaves one concrete for another.
There is no time here to trust in fate,
so her hands hurry to find the brakes;
she clenches her fingers and stops.

I was born in an intersection like this one,
born at a stoplight, into the crossroads.
Gifted the guide of green, then red light,
and a few golden moments to decide:
to disobey—to dance through traffic
too distant to be a threat.
Blessed, maybe, to cross unscathed.

With birth, we inherit this: the in-between,
as well as two seeing eyes, if we are lucky.
Luckier still, the will to look both ways
and wonder. Luckiest, to point
at long burnt-out stars and wish—
even if god never hung them there at all.


About The Author

Anne Livingston is a sophomore at Grand Valley State University, where she is double majoring in English and Spanish, hoping to fully dedicate her life to words. Although she typically works as a traditional poet, she also engages in poetry slams, winning her most recent competition. She believes in respecting rules, save those times when they are wrong about life or love or when/where to cross the street. This often leaves her heartbroken, jaywalking or both.