By Tristan Arteel
I know when the blades fall
they will not land on my neck.
The people next to me will kneel first
blood pooling around their legs.
I will watch as the love I have given
is ripped away by hands that do not understand
the beauty of what they remove.
Like weeds they will take away the misunderstood
and the unwanted
until their garden has lost its light.
I am cursed with a desirable color
fitting the garden as long as I am silent.
By Ethan Voorhees
Floodlights drain
and rubber-soles incense the theater
actor’s ankles trace way to the stage
curtain undrawn
Praying Mantis hook-fingers tap-drag my shoulder
and Squirrel cheekbones lean in
He whispers, have you seen this one before
It’s impolite to talk during a eulogy. Other ones; similar, never the same
His tongue distends his cheeks, this one’s special—the audience gets involved
I wrote the first act
Ten officiants claim front-row seats
An empty auditorium
packed with by for nosebleeds
[THE FOUR SEASONS by VIVALDI plays]
The curtain drew,
birthing a trisected stage,
populated by three buildings of paper mâché clay bricks:
one—marked a quill;
two—marked a tape measure;
three—marked a brush.
Performers in berry blue skin suits filed one neat column.
Factory belt traced into rooms:
quills and brushes and brushes and quills,
performers emerging cloaked
in overcast gowns
and umbrella caps
[SUMMER HEATS UP]
He whispers, when does the audience get involved
It’s impolite to talk during a eulogy. They’re already getting involved
I bend over the nosebleed’s railing, a besuited man flagged down the conductor. The music man moved, orchestra pit groaning. He leaned. A frown carved his cheeks. A nod. The officiants were sculpted: a man in burgundy squished his lips against the median of his hand and shook his head; another hugged themselves and rocked back and forth, massaging their triceps; a third began to quietly sob.
He asks, what’s wrong with them
They’re mourning—even grieving
The arts?
I laugh
[THE MELODY SNOWS IN]
Legato Adagio. The blueberries glanced around before marching once more. A quill—a string orchestra screech; a brush—a wind ensemble wail. A percussionist scaled the stage, directing the blueberries along. One performer reached for a brush, and the percussionist played snare on the back of cloaked hands. A third—then a fourth—then a fifth.
The officiant of the officiants rose and screamed, God, will anyone put a stop to this?
Another: It’s heresy!
Ten shot their hands up and cheered in unison.
The percussionist retrieved the bass drum’s mallet and swung and crumbled maroon paint pock-marked paper bricks to the floor and again striking down another building before tossing the orphaned mallet.
The ten CHEERED. They LEAPT from their seats; rejuvenated. Fruitformers were DIRECTED into the third, final building.
Officiants patted one another on the back. Look at the turnover, one whispered. Our best applicant cycle yet, one mouthed. They build bridges, one grinned. Nine others stirred, they build bridges, they build bridges, yes they do, yes they do, the finest bridges.
lines thinned
and the curtain drew
ten synchronous swimmers bounced
seal hands smacked
their leader turned to me and stared
bloodshot eyes
a glowing gummy smile
and a nosebleed
he shook his fists
and he screamed
encore.
By Adriana Herrera
Lab Rat
Fur as white and pure as snow, I wonder where your feelings go.
Do you venture to your wheel? Do you find your home surreal?
Is there pain under your skin? Is there fear from deep within?
Every day the same, pokes and prods to remain tame.
Beeps, clicks, smells galore. Only a subject, nothing more.
A tiny cage to house your sorrow, scared and waiting til tomorrow.
Grow dormant and fall, there are many like you to heed the call.
In your heaven there is grass, emerald blankets to love, alas
for now you are a number, a digit on paper for us to discover.
Staghorn Sumac
Red supergiant,
sitting on a single branch.
Stars of ruby red,
soft to the touch, sweet in taste.
A galaxy, in my hand.
Lemur
I wish I were a Lemur.
Although small, they hold it all.
Take me for a fool, a dreamer.
They are not expected to adhere to demeanor.
They aren’t called sweetie or baby-doll.
I wish I were a lemur.
With fur, my clothes would be no misdemeanor.
There would be no worries about a cat-call.
Take me for a fool, a dreamer.
For a lemur, respect is what surrounds her,
she is not seen as weak or small.
I wish I were a lemur.
She is matriarch, hunter, and teacher.
For her, strength does not break protocol.
Take me for a fool, a dreamer.
But I wish I were her.
With power no one can stall.
Take me for a fool, a dreamer.
I wish I were a Lemur.
https://2026.bailysbeads.org/nature-and-the-environment-poems/
By Abby Mccullough
I am a fan of the pregnant pause.
A loaded quiet that demands time
bulging through the ears to be born again as words
A moment after shocking news
a pin drops.
Delicious.
The calm in the morning
before the birds wake up,
before the sun eats the dew on the window.
Pitch black quiet
the type when you peek over the top of a well
into the unknown.
The power goes out
and so does the sound.
The buzzing of LEDs and computers.
The silent pressure walking under a bridge.
The weight of the sound sitting
right on the other side.
by Abby Mccullough
(TW: Child Abuse)
With each strike, he shook
Starting in his ankles,
wracking his abdomen,
whipping his head.
I went there a lot as a kid.
Sonya was friends with my mom,
she also regularly beat her kids.
With a belt.
I crouched in the stark white doorway to that room once.
A little mattress and smears of fluid on the walls.
There was never a reason.
I only remember the belt.
The sounds erupting from his body.
Animalistic grunts as
the belt sliced his flesh,
the pain got worse, he said, never numb.
The day I watched, he saw me,
his eyes pleaded with me as I looked on in horror.
She never slowed down.
His tears finally streamed, holding back as long as possible.
The whipping turned wet
and loud.
I crawled away.