may-fly by Eris Sker

Illustration by Bella Aldrete and Watson Frank

trigger warning: brief mentions of violence

this poem speaks of vessels
meaning i count ships on the sea by their absence
and enumerate bee flight.
there are errors, of course, and i annotate recklessly -
my first mistake will be assuming this is a poem, not a memory.
count the rest.

say: i feel like a stranger here. i want my own words. i want the street to turn into loneliness which is a
flood which is the maxim that wild horses will not speak to you / say: i fought a river and married your
urn; say: lace curtains swaying, roof-bound. the bed creaks under our weight / say: i am in love and
therefore mistranslated / say: my little darling, entrust your pleasures to the winds.

this poem speaks of knives
which are self-portraits of wounds, waxing crane claws.
and i am not the mainspring of its narrative, nor a soft goodbye
convincing you this is holy ground. i do not disseminate hagiography,
except if you’re the saint
and i salvation.
my second mistake is claiming the poem loves me back
which it cannot while i am in it.
count the number of times i am in it.

say: i surprise the ocean with honesty, open mouth sinking, tongue still tangled / say: i find your name
imprinted on stinging cells of passing jellies; say: wrap around me / say: the wrath of possession which is
our truth which is forcing your spit down my throat and calling it history / say: i burn on a heart-shaped
pyre.

i am not willing to be malleable, to fill the kitchen with delight
and delicacy. i love you only through mutual laceration.
i make another mistake.
can you conceive of me?

notes:

the line 'my little darling, entrust your pleasures to the winds' is from kristina milnor's translation of CIL
4.5296, a female homoerotic love poem from ancient rome surviving scratched into the plaster wall of an
entrance hallway in pompeii's ninth region

the line 'mutual laceration' is drawn from georges bataille's work guilty

eris sker (she/they) is a junior at columbia college studying comparative literature & society and anthropology. they like moon jellies. you can find them on their personal Instagram and their poetry Instagram.

Mother Tongue by Eleanor Lin

Illustration by Richard Kam

Yesterday you asked me
where had I
hidden away your
blue dress,

the one I had
borrowed, so to speak
and you sounded so angry.

What could I answer?
We ceased to fit
long ago,

too busy were we with
the work of
erasing.

No stains now, just
the faintest whiff
of fled memory

fabric
bleached to blinding
seamless

(but for you not something
slipped on and off so
easily)

while me I yearn for
a homespun shift
of dreams;

since my tongue, too unskilled
makes a game of
coaxing back into
continuity
snapped threads

and
makes a mockery
of your toil

with its crude
attempts at
reclamation

Eleanor Lin (she/her/hers) is a second-year student in Columbia College studying computer science and linguistics. She can be found on Instagram as @elemlin and on FaceBook as @eleamlin. You can find her other work at linktr.ee/elealin.

Hunger by Stevie File

Illustration by Watson Frank

Content warning for self harm.

The stairs looked dead
Beat. Had Mama’s frame, off white
Washed over and over — I held on
Her rings like rain. I was young then.
I didn’t know where tears came from
Or scars, or bellies — but on the stairs I knew
I saw Papa’s eyes, fireflies trampled on
Too much. I was alive then. I was six, hurled
My limbs like a snowball, I hit my Papa’s face.
My Mama got red in her face. I had my first kiss
Next to the radiator, my preyed pulp
Evidence: the sheep steeped, bleeding,
Fur thawed out on the wolf’s white lips.

It is midnight. I forgot my pills.
I’m next to a man so bright, my soul burns.
I don’t want to move. I pray our words were holy.
You’re mine. You’re mine. Too much. I hurl
My limbs off like rings, slipping through our sweat —
I’m too young for this. I throw on sheep clothing,
Running. Like I was running away from home,
Beat. The stairs look me dead in the eyes.
I can’t outrun my blood. They know
I’m here to live again. They know
I’m starving for winter — Wolf! Wolf!

Stevie File (he/him/his) is a queer writer and performer from York, Pennsylvania. He is currently a first-year student at Columbia College, aspiring to double major in theatre and creative writing. You can follow him on Instagram @stevierfile.

Note to P.T. Barnum by Crystal Foretia

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2021 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Rawan Hayat

content warnings for strong language and death

Inspired by Beauty Examined (1993), Kerry James Marshall

Since you tore my flesh piece by piece,
Can you put me back together?
Mesh backbone to my dignity
And hands to my modesty
After you’ve stripped me bare
And opened my cunt for the whole
World to see,
After I'm already dead,
After you've already killed me,
After you picked and prodded at
My voluptuous ass, unaging skin,
Plump lips and everything else you found
Savage to your naked eyes.
Eyes that saw my village as a chess board
Carved in the shape of savannah
And treated my brethren like pawns.
You, dear white knight
Should die.

Crystal Foretia (she/her/hers) is a junior in Columbia College studying Political Science and History. Born and raised just outside of D.C., Crystal is the daughter of Cameroonian immigrants. You can find her chapbook Notes from an Estranged Daughter, a collage of anecdotes and contemplations on Black history, in Quarto Magazine. You can also find links to all her published poetry via her Linktree: https://linktr.ee/cforetia

The Summer Punisher Came Out by Skye Levine

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2021 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Rawan Hayat

it felt like we were always working doubles
money always felt tight but we splurged
on Saturdays at the bead store
and hotboxed my car after almost every shift.

June went by fast
and the 21st passed without acknowledgment.
Something only has power over you if you let it
and I deemed my silence a reclamation.

I was doing my affirmations every morning
groundings every night
to say something out loud is to jinx it
so I jinxed my progress every day

as prescribed. I started hearing rats in the walls
in July, for the first time
in a while, scurrying through the scaffolding
squeaking so loud I couldn’t sleep.

Even though you didn’t hear them
you bought me Punisher on vinyl for the noise
and 3 grams to help me sleep.

I listened to Moon Song until the needle dulled.
You said it “hit too hard”
but you didn’t mean stop, you meant

It resonated with the part of us we can’t articulate
or won’t articulate, steadfast
in a silent reclamation
of our bodies, of our minds.

A rat died in the walls in August.
The rot was overpowering, putrid like his stomach breath
hot on my cheeks all over again, I tethered myself to my navel
and all over again, I shelled out $75 for the exterminator
who couldn’t bring herself to charge me full price
when there was nothing for her to kill.

Sometimes when I wake up I think I’m back there again—
The ghosts of his hands moving down my body
stealing myself from me
feel so real. But I remind myself:

they are my hands
they belong to me
this time around.

Skye Levine (she/her) is a second-year at Barnard, prospectively majoring in English and Sociology. She is from Austin, Texas, and is currently based in New York City. She loves hiking, live music, drawing, and drinking (too much) coffee. You can find her on Instagram (@skyelevine).

Middle Eastern Eyebrows by Lida

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2021 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Mita Sharma

Every time you sink in thought you pull
your thick eyebrows together and that makes a frown.

Aunt says it isn’t good for a girl to frown.
Men can do it, but girls look sour.

But you’re not sour. You’re thirteen. Happy
when alone with your daydreams.

You put adhesive tape between your brows.
Now you can think and not be sour.

Lida (BC'23 she/her/hers) is a Psychology and Education major from Houston, Texas. Writing poetry is a way for her to connect with Iranian culture and explore new creative boundaries.

The Daughter Argument by Skye Levine

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2021 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Rawan Hayat

Content warning for eating disorders

My daughter dances behind my eyelids when I dream.
I see her hair, dark like mine. Her profile, the familiar bump in her nose.
Her footsteps bounce off the grey walls of my apartment
on the nights I catch myself alone. Like my mother

That summer she couldn’t get out of bed
I’ve let the dishes pile up around the sink.
I play piano on hard surfaces— I hear Vivaldi’s “Spring”

as vividly as my daughter’s voice. I smell her fevers—
mild like honey milk. Under my breath,
I tell the grey space about Redwood fairy rings
and pretend I’m lulling my little girl to sleep.
I haven’t felt clean since California but when I think of her I feel untouched.

I can picture myself teaching her to paint.
Her little fingers wrapped around the gold-tipped brush
my grandmother gave me in high school.
I’ll ask her to paint what she hears when she listens to Mazzy Star.

Sometimes she looks too much like me.
She has a mole on her temple that she taps when she’s scared.
I don’t want her to know my history—

I push her from my brain when she tells me she's hungry.
Her wails reverberate around my skull, demanding food I won’t give.
After mealtimes, kneeling over the toilet,
She cries as we choke on my hand.

When I can’t sleep she lays beside me.
I stroke her hair and rhyme our breaths.
Stuck to my heels like a shadow, she learns my nightly practice of self-beration
And I hear the cruelty in her voice when she joins in.

I can picture her in San Francisco, eating peaches by the bay.
The blue water and pink houses marvel her; the sweetness of the fruit lights up her
eyes.

I want her to savor it—to swallow it and keep it down, but then I see her back in
Texas,
standing small as I stood in my childhood home.
Lit up grey by the refrigerator light, she looks up at me with hollow green eyes
and asks me why her body doesn’t feel like home anymore.

Skye Levine (she/her) is a second-year at Barnard, prospectively majoring in English and Sociology. She is from Austin, Texas, and is currently based in New York City. She loves hiking, live music, drawing, and drinking (too much) coffee. You can find her on Instagram (@skyelevine)

untitled aubade by Cassidy Gabriel

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2021 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Mita Sharma

sit with me awhile on the sun
palm this light, pick it up between two fingers
slip this fire between your lips; now
lick this gold, distilled, in your mouth
roll it over your tongue and
crush it between your teeth
chew it in your way-back molars—

i am asking you to
swallow the sun with me.

hold it, endless, in your stomach.
pour it from there; you, a carafe of sweet and forgiving and bleeding sun. i will
take a sip
tilt back my chin,
exalt as it rises in my eyes

Cassidy Gabriel is from Flemington, New Jersey. She can usually be found outdoors. In light of her quickly-approaching graduation, she is relearning how to introduce herself without immediate mention of her class year (senior), school (Columbia College), and what she studies (Political Theory, Computer Science, and Gender Studies). And yet!

Flashbulb by Joan Tate

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2021 Spring Print Edition. 2021 poetry winner, selected by Yolanda Wisher.

Illustration by Mita Sharma

donec virenti canities abest / morosa.
-Horace Ode 1.9

...the green is still there”
and it is the beginning of summer. there are lightbugsthat have followed me
from further south and sleep under my cuticle.
the porch smells like pine or what i think pine smells like coming from a can.
my father gets a beer for himself and, like a pastor, says he cannot wait for me to
turn 21,
i bubble

behind my eyelids and smile. i can hear a truck come by
and smell the exhaust but do not see it. only sound. i get the flashback
to a bad decision sneaking out in queer rebellion. i almost got murdered
or worse this past winter across the street in the garden
after worse happened this past winter
already. and i was back

with my feet on the grain and my father sitting
like there is a rock dangling from his collar and he sips his beer
and asks me to explain how it feels and after two hours or so,
when i have stopped counting the flicker of fireflies after a dozen or so and my
heart slows
and i can rub my fingers against the glass tablepane again. my eyes wander
to the smoothness of the knuckles on my hand and the treeline shifting

when he gets up and puts his two fingers
on my shoulder and pats again and again
to let me know there is love or at least less darkness
and concrete is not what cells are made of
but regret and power.

and some starfire peaks from behind the moon and flickers
and the screendoor clicks. i'm alone
counting again as they disappear in my clear night
just when it starts to rain.

Joan Tate (CC '22) is a trans poet studying Creative Writing Poetry and Classical Latin. After spending her childhood moving around Virginia as a 5th generation preacher’s kid and finding her roots in Appalachia, Joan has since become enamored with the living and transient quality of the New York school poets such as Alice Notley, Eileen Myles, and Frank O’Hara and attempts to find in her poetry beauty that is tied to being in your own skin. When she’s not reviewing the swings in Riverside Park or drafting questions for ghosts, she acts as a copy-editor for Ratrock and programs Experimental Music shows for WKCR-FM.

Columbarium by Thomas Mar Wee

After Henry Green

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2021 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Mita Sharma

I.
noun.
From the Latin, columba
meaning “dove”
In Chinese, naguta
“a pagoda-of-bones”

this dovecote
with its | lattice-work of shelves |
pockmarked by urns
one recalls:
the dome of the Pantheon
Borges and his infinite library

in its sheltering arms
porous, permeating, perforated
like skin under a microscope
or a chestnut
its dark, brawny husk
guarding the tender flesh

there’s a word in Chinese
yiwu (遺物): “leftover"
something discarded & remaindered
which we
embalm with associations
maunder with meanings

these few, worthless things
the deceased
have forgotten
left behind:
[too worn shoes,
a dozen, burnished coins
a pair of cracked
spectacles]

if I have anything like Religion
it might be
Etymology

for I enjoy nothing more
than the opening up of words
dismantling
their little boxes

and, like a well
peering down

into them.

II.
In this
budding grove I sit
on a mossy, lover’s bench
under an aged sycamore

on some decomposing, Irish estate
amid cornflowers
my presence disrupts
a tendentious stillness

With one careless movement
I startle them
their cries echo
from so many
small places

suddenly,
a gust of wind lifts
the ground swells
a shroud of white,
rippling, brilliant
momentarily blots the sun

Thomas Mar Wee (they/them) is a writer, poet, and editor based in New York and a senior studying English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University. A writer of poetry, fiction, and mixed-media work, their work seeks to explore liminality in literary forms and the ambiguities they inhabit as a mixed-race, genderqueer person. They are currently at work on a short story collection and a novel.

Andalusia, 2009 by Kaylee Jeong

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2021 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Mita Sharma

A documentary about Spain on the TV, my mother is dreaming of a life to end her own, and though she has never said so, for the last seven years it has all been my fault. I got my money’s worth with you, she said, staring at pink and red hills. I believed for the longest time that in Spain the sun was always in the middle of setting. I believed for even longer that all TV was about Spain. Except for the ads, which I liked, but made my mother cross, saying We use blood, hair, saliva samples to determine your body’s own most efficient methods of loss. We got him seven hundred thousand dollars--I’ll tell you how, right after this. But there was never a right after this, only more Spain, more laxative tea, more Spain. My mother’s perfect life on commercial break forever, my perfect life standing next to it, too afraid of starting a fight on accident. But it’s thinking of science programs. It’s thinking of Mars. It’s thinking of being next-door neighbors with the planetarium, spending all day looking up, only going home for three square meals. Someday I will write no journals, only grocery lists. I wiIl live on that hill everyone keeps dying on. My mother has loved Spain as long as I have been holding my breath. It has been so long and so long.

Orange by Leif Wood

Illustration by Dora O’Neill

Gather all your tears up and place them on your fridge with a magnet.
Humanness is captured in shrines

As too the lines
Near my eyes or my belly.

I become urns
And scorn the libraries burnt

By the chrysanthemums outside
That grow up their sides.

Icarus flowers whose design’s
Are too mouthy and unknown to

Ever be worth it.
The mirror lacks flowers, just lines dismissed,

Or perhaps kissed!
Or perhaps the mirror is ocean; sky.

Leif Wood is a sophomore at Columbia College studying English and Philosophy. He is a big fan of words and trees.

To The Woman Who Sat at Table 21 by Leif Wood

Illustration by Zain Murdock

I

she ordered scallops
and said:
“This is what
the lower class

is trying to
tell us, there
is dignity and
satisfaction in work,

I took my
own garbage out
the other day,
and I was like

wow.”

II

I am a paper mâché smile
Glued to unnamed hands that
Curl out from the holes in a polo.

But this is how I appear in my dreams:
Wearing everything with sequins,
Preaching the gospel to traffic lights.

I would have called this poem Stardust
If it was about me or a pigeon,
Which is self-explanatory.

And I will always count the blemishes
On my face to immortalize them.
I am Hecate out back under the stars

Listening to the bottles breaking
In the trash bag hurled onto the gravel.
How alone I can be and how joyful.

Leif Wood (he/him) is a sophomore at Columbia College studying English and Philosophy. He is a big fan of words and trees. You can find him on Instagram @leif_wood.

Reaching Detention Camp #59 by Lida

Illustration by Zain Murdock

Dear Soraya,

Love, are you okay? Do they you? I’m so worried you know. There’s lightning
across the sky all night, lighting up our by the . But no rain. Anyways,
you know at the store, they brought already. I pitted sour all
day, the tablecloth gave us went with their juice. Promise I’ll save you jars
of preserves for your return. some figs too. You know I haven’t
opened a since they you.
Till then, please eat well. By the way. The neighbors got an apology and
a few thousand dollars. They calculate based on and
and age. The worth of a ,of a human . hands shook as she
opened . She took it out front and ripped it. Had to calm her
before she went back in. Sorry. Didn’t mean to you. I hope I don’t
make you me....Why did you me to remarry? I told
and he couldn’t stomach it. I would never you know. I read some Gellhorn
like you recommended. The Ground. The wife sends letters to her
like I do. You know honestly I don’t read now. I’ve the books. All of
them. Can’t stomach their . All those
spines lined up on my shelf. How you would stand there, smelling the pages. them.
They all say the same story. None tell ours. Anyways, I couldn’t , so I’m
sitting by the window watching it streak. Gets sometimes, so I write you letters
I don’t send. I don’t mean to cause alarm. I only want the ones you open to
like a hill of poppies. God... I’m thinking I must look like something lit up
like this! Wish you could see it. Singing that you loved, remember, the line that
went “ ”? I’m holding the just for you.

Yours,

Lida (BC'23 she/her/hers) is a Psychology and Education major from Houston, Texas. Writing poetry is a way for her to connect with Iranian culture and explore new creative boundaries. This piece is inspired by Arab prison writing.

Let's Unpack That by Julia Luna

Illustration by Bella Aldrete

why i am like cling wrap.
why am i like cling wrap?
cling wrap. why?
well im sticky and not.
(all at the same time)
i hang on to things too easily.
i protect readily.
but most often
i get too caught up in myself.
myself. why?
(good question)
with nothing to cling to cling-
wrap wraps itself around itself.
(you know what i mean right)
and then really the hardest thing to get cling wrap-
to uncling to-
is
...drum roll...
itself.
(yep)
so thats why.
why i am like clingy-cling wrap
tangled up in my own
transparency or lack thereof.
...do i say it do i don’t...
...do i think that do i don’t...
why am i transparent and not?
why, i am transparent and not!
transparent and not.
(all at the same time)
at the same time. why?
cause im complex.
(oooh)
yep.
as complex as clingy-cling
wrap wrapped-up around itself.
who knew cling wrap had so many facets?
so many faces.
i see my face in the many facets of cling wrap.
why?
(good question)

Julia Luna (she/her) is a first-year at Columbia College, and she is majoring in Creative Writing and Human Rights. You can find her listening to the Beatles strolling down college walk with a black coffee in hand. Find her on Instagram @julia.n.luna.

a pine this time by Anne Overton

Illustration by Gisela Levy

on all fours, i crawl
into the forest
to shiver asleep on pine needles

when light shines me awake
i spread my hands wide:
the moss that creeps
up my fingernails
is soft on my cheeks;
my eyelids warm
under the sun
as lichen blooms on my brow

i know my wounds are still
dripping sticky with sap
here is where i come to lick them—
become a fir
maybe a pine this time

the deer do not freeze,
but step wide eyed through sunlit paths
and lay to rest, as i do.

Anne Overton (BC '23; she/her/hers) is a Psychology & English major from California and Hawaii. She enjoys the water, meditation, and her pet rabbit. You can find her on Instagram @a.nneloverton.

California Sizzled by Arianna Menzelos

Illustration by Gisela Levy

Found poem from “California sizzled with three straight months of record heat and raging fires” Los Angeles Times

I.

California shattered records in August, September, and October.

the highest in nearly a century

31 people have died in the blazes.

Martian-red skies,

layers of

a plume of

pronounced exclamation.

Gusty winds carried residue from

wildfire scars.

fleeing to

ferocious Death–

the highest on Earth in nearly a century

Spewed smoke

skyrocketed to new heights.

It is expected to become more commonplace,

the sizzling.

Certainly–

To speak in finite terms,

Some don’t know how much more they can take.

swaths of bone-dry fuel for hungry flames.

The months-long sauna

push some to rethink their future.

We are all in some form of therapy.

moving makes me very sad.

My 6-year-old needs me to hold her.

II.

a persistent ridge of

scant cloud cover

up and down the Coast

more than 1,000 miles

large enough to be seen from space

forceful enough to reach all the way to Europe.

the height of

an earlier spring

our vegetation starts to grow.

Arianna (she/her) is a senior at Columbia College. She grew up outside of Los Angeles and plans to work in climate policy after graduation. She loves orange juice and going on slow runs. You can find her on Facebook.

song of the harpy by Anne Overton

Illustration by Zain Murdock

i suck something soft
from between the bones
of a dead baby cow, i am
a woman with huge incisors
and i am alone under
the hair that sprouts from my scalp

they have a name for women
whose arms drag
on the ground when they walk
whose claws stretch
above treetops when they dream

women like me,
who are ravenous
see blood, eat blood, drip blood
who were raised by vultures and the bones
that jab into the soft under ribs

my knees are scabby and warm
in front of this fire i built—
i hear a howl across the canyon—
i gnash my teeth and smile.

Anne Overton (BC '23; she/her/hers) is a Psychology & English major from California and Hawaii. She enjoys the water, meditation, and her pet rabbit. You can find her on Instagram and Facebook.

Ablution/Étalée by Sophie Levy

Illustration by Rawan Hayat

Ablution  (טבילה)

What does this say about us:
that last night I dreamt of lakes that moved like rivers
and endless watered beds of dark smooth rocks
and you interviewing me about thirst and psychology
in the shower
with a notepad in your hand?

What does it mean for us:
that I am mad at your name today
because some iteration of you had the
gall to tell me hypothetically in the night
“i don’t think i can come to the city next month” ?

In the morning:
I sit in the bathroom,
looking at my feet on the tiles
achy, annoyed,
more afraid than before because
in sleep I learned what it feels like
for you to stand on them
and speak to me under hot water.

In the evening:
I’ve remembered
how short five weeks is.
Five weeks ago
is when I was last in your city, you know.
Five weeks ago I stood on the roof
of a building filled with young
women and pipes and
looked out at the white blocks of light and grime,
listened as you spoke to me about
boundaries and tractates and immersions
until I felt soaked through to my spine

And now:
Five weeks until I see you
Thirty-five sunrises,
thirty-five sleeps,
seventy prayers--
each one testing me
to dry myself off.

Étalée

Each night when I
lay to sleep my body 
unfurls on the bed like your 
wrist pushing into dough, as if 
your hand larger than life were spreading 
me like a fresh sheet outstretching my corners 
and creases so I become like the white paper wrapped 
around the hot bread you buy for dinner, crinkling as 
you open it fold by fold for its bare surface to look 
up at the ceiling and, later in the night, to stay 
exposed while you eat and while you sleep 
remaining there just in case it could get
to feel your hand coming back to 
smooth it out on the counter
for breakfast once more

Sophie Levy is a senior at Barnard majoring in Art History / Visual Arts and Jewish Studies. She is the founder of Zaman Collective, an online platform dedicated to Middle-Eastern Jewish arts and writing, and is Literary and Arts Editor at the Current, Columbia’s journal of Jewish culture and affairs. She loves pumpernickel bagels, Iranian disco music, and her dog. You can find her on Instagram, Facebook, and her personal website.

Lakeside by Marie Papazian

Illustration by Bella Aldrete

We sit on an outdoor bench. Acidic light corrodes sky chips;
Cloud slabs, hazel bulbous rain. It’s nice here. The lake-
A giant microscope - inching cerulean. Pink foliage. Grass,
Rimming glass edges, is a mixed drink salted.

Sickly, the sun sets. Our eyes, up top, swivel down
to the local horizon. Fish eyed: Past planets,
A punctured moon, treetops, trunks, and sparked weeds.
The wind, a eulogy, slips across an orbit’s edge.

In night, frogs -concealed in pallid dark- are swollen
Like soap. Below, pudgy goldfish splash, displacing
Starlit drops. Our memory of the sun
Has faded. I don’t think we have much to say. For the lake, coated
With algae, like a magnified, rotten grape, has already bruised.

Marie Papazian (she/her/hers) is a Barnard English major, creative writing concentration, and east asian studies minor. She’s passionate about poetry and songwriting. You can find her on Facebook.