a year (and a half) in boys

a year (and a half) in boys

Nina Chabanon



break a pound of questions

by flesh

while I forget


a fool named Columbus

tries to conquer

a love island already full


who else saw that roof?

drank that beer?

liked that moon?


I can’t tell

if we’re friends or

if your music is ironic


you came in my bathroom

twice and I never

let you back in


ugly god, a tight joint

hey you reached nina

sorry I missed your call


just another

ken doll

in my attic


does wine taste the same

and does your mother

still talk about me?


it was me or her

and then me

and her then nothing


somebody else’s high school crush

put on a red condom

and got me high


you were too big for me

in more ways

than one


I’m still not sure

if you were a boy

or a mirror


there’s something

about your bed in particular

at 4 a.m.


a pantomime

of a romantic comedy

we don’t care


I feel bad that my picture’s

plastered on your mind



I heard you’re engaged now

and I think about her mouth

on your tattoos


a leather jacket

couldn’t keep you warm

in my winter


eyes caught

at the bend of the bar

I almost wish I remembered your name


a soft lottery boy

every time we talk

it’s like you’re walking me home


“everything is embarrassing” – sky ferreira


you brought Vermont charm

to a knife fight

I sent you home in pieces


another boy another pantomime

except this time

he cares


you don’t know what love is

and I’m not the one

to teach you


twenty three boys on my shelf

I pick one up and look for a minute

then I set him back down

Sarah and Marie and I Take a Road Trip to New Orleans

Sarah and Marie and I Take a Road Trip to New Orleans

 Caroline Grace Steudle


My mother is right,

This is a bad idea, and the tornado watch that

Covers Louisiana like the shadows cast by stormclouds

Is more than just the violent downpour

That will batter us as we dash through knee-deep puddles

Down cobblestone streets.


I know we’ll never get that far;

I drive, white-knuckled,

And the car is nudged back and forth

By rain and wind that comes from everywhere at once,

Over this causeway that spans a hundred miles, I swear


And Marie and Sarah can joke because they can’t drive,

They playfully wonder if we’d be safer

Jumping into the choppy waves and trying to swim for it, or

Staying up here, in the car,


Either way, only to be blown away

And discovered weeks later washed up on some shore in Alabama,

Bodies nibbled by alligators,

Bloated with rainwater and seawater and the tears of our mothers,

Who lament that they ever let us go on this trip

That they knew and told us was a bad idea.