Category: 2023-2024 Submissions

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I don’t think anyone is ever
just one person.
My name is brynn and I am
a messy, noisy compilation.
There used to be a little girl on the playground who would believe anything you told her
even if it was a blatant lie.
and she had warped the black plastic barrier between the mulch and the earth from
orbiting the play structure
feet and thoughts looping.

I don’t think anyone is ever
just one person.
I’ve seen too many bodies that carry
these jumbled, messy thoughts.
There used to be a girl who looked quizzically into the mirror because amidst the torrents of change
she kept being surprised by her face.
And, though she tried to learn, she never carried the as-advertised familiarity
with the back of her hand.
Too many knuckles and dots and colors.

I don’t think anyone is ever
just one person.
In a single choir room there have been
So many selves to know inside and out.
Even I cannot keep track: eleven in a pink dress and a balloon of emotions that tore open
with assigned lunchroom seats.
Twelve and scared of the air, thirteen and questioning everything, fifteen and forgetting half of who I was,
knowing the room sees
all of me at once.

I don’t think anyone is ever
just one person.
My room is still painted with
cotton ball clouds and rolling hills
and there are paper bees hanging from the ceiling of my closet and picture books on my shelves.
under years of notebooks.
And I have been told more than once that that room needs a redoing, but oh am I bad
at letting go of all of myself
to be just one person.

Were I’m From

I’m from dog hair covered carpets
from tv dinners and tinny pringle cans.
I am from a not very big house
with a overcrowded garage
and a closet full of craft supplies.
I am from the tiny little lemon tree
who gave us many sour lemons.
I am from the many squashmallows and buckets of legos,
from mckenzie and youngblood.
I am from sarcasm and yelling
and hazel eyes.
From chicken pot pie and spicy tamales
and from my pink bear i loved so much.
I am from those moments that made me, me.

my coffee

I poured my coffee
And sat
At the table
Kicking my feet
That dangle off the chair
Waiting for the sun
To peak above the horizon
And begin the day
Listening to the tick
Of the grandfather clock
And sat
And kicked my feet
Watching the steam from my coffee
Stop dancing towards to the ceiling
And listening
To the absence of bird calls
Waiting
As my coffee
Grew cold

Hammy the Hamster

We went to the pet store one day
and when I saw her I didn’t know what to say.
We couldn’t help that she was oh-so cute.
We knew what we had to do.
We told the employee to get the paper.
It was either now or later.
My mom signed it so fast, made it slammy.
I said, “I think I’ll name my hamster Hammy.”

Scout from Shadows Thin

A silken darkness sneaking through the town
A tiny, feral scout from shadows thin
A tiny face with ears as sharp as crowns
A crossing of a path that leaves you grim

Will thou ever emerge from past the light
In alleys where you live in dark and cold
A lost pet that has never been shown right
Who’s been left just too broke to trust the gold?

A spy with eyes that pierce through darkest night
And watches the moon stand too far to play
And ev’ry day must be ready to fight
Simply because they see you as a stray

But I see you in an untinted light
No hate because you have unkindly kin
I know that your heart isn’t dark as night
My shady, silken scout from shadows thin

And thus, as we watch each night and day end,
I only hope that you can be my friend.

Sew it goes

You can make things that are light
Or very bright,
That the stitches will hold very tight
Even in the dark of the night

In and out the needle sews
In elegant rows
To make clothes,
That you can wear from head to toes

There is an endless list of things you can do,
You can mend something to make it look new
If you love what is made, you can always make two
Sewing is fun, even for you!

Is This Really It?

It presses, thick and clinging.
With shaking hands, I raise the damp cloth;
Look anywhere but her face.
It comes off easily.
Clean.
And keeps coming.
And coming.

I scrub.
It coats the cloth in strands like putty,
But it hasn’t come off.
I keep scrubbing.

It patters by my feet,
of the same stuff as tears,
But it hasn’t come off yet.
I keep scrubbing.

It slides down the sides of my neck,
Warm and congealed.
But it hasn’t come off yet.
I keep scrubbing
The face in the mirror gleams and grins.
And it still. Hasn’t. Come off.
I keep scrubbing.