Young Writers Society

26

Review of an Evening Concert
Location: Conveniently local! I walked out my back door
and there it was.

Atmosphere of the venue: Breezy & refreshing.
It wasn’t crowded at all

Refreshments: Delightful! Fresh-picked raspberries,
and someone even brought me an iced drink.

Performance: The maestro had a beautiful,
glossy tailcoat. The starling’s unique song blended
with the cries of the magpies. The rustle of leaves
and the wind through the grass was a constant wonder.
The percussive beats of a distant woodpecker
kept time admirably.

Overall: A full five stars.
I think I’ll attend again tomorrow night.

27

A Review of the Moon as Seen from the Window in the Silence of 3 AM in April

10/10 – No notes.

28
In an Orchard I Don't Remember

In an orchard I don’t remember, achingly up
in a tree, you grasp an apple shakily, and
I feel fingerprints on my throat—turn your hand
tenderly, twist off the apple blossom, let it flutter.

Shortly, my arteries will run into rough woodgrain.
Slide your teeth vitally, disruptively across my surface
and I’ll shudder diagonally as if beset by snow—
Hold my pulse against your jaw, feel it slow.

An apple holds the shape of your throat—
Your throat holds the shape of your mouth—
Your mouth holds the shape of my heart—
My heart holds the shape of an apple.

Your legs dangle haphazardly, the tree holds us
sinkingly—the scent of your eyes is a candle’s
warmth color. I’m turning towards you
like I’m a moon that circles you secretly.

I will break in your hands and be masterfully
better for it. Your bones hold me emergently—
I trust you disgracefully. Only the ground could
catch me as surely, but I’m not dead yet.

29
Rook

I’m hiccupping as I write this poem.
Yesterday I stayed up past 6 am.
I’ve crushed yew berries in my hand
and slid their pointed seeds between my fingers.
A few years ago I decided my name was Rook
because I like birds, and to a lesser extent, crime,
but everyone just assumes that I really love chess.

I will tell you to love yourself and I
will share my extra scones with anyone around:
please take them, they are gingerbread
with lemon icing, but I added too much water
to the icing so it’s kind of subtle and has mostly
soaked into the bottom of the scone because it pooled
on the parchment paper after dripping off.

When I look in the mirror I see angels
that are so bright I can’t fix my hair.
They have bleeding chests and wings
like harp strings and they’re metaphors
but sometimes I can feel them anyway.
I’ve hung a thousand windows on my wall
and every day wish I could dive through them
into a world of technicolor acrylic. Listen to my
buzz of dragonflies and the scent of industrial-grade glue,
I wish you could see me; I wish I could see you.

30
Star Moss

I have gone out to gather star moss
don’t tell me you hate the smell
of dirt on my fingers I found this moss
for you it is soft you are soft i am
green inside there are stars
in the moss don’t tell me
about the stars in the sky
like you were there when they flamed
to life this moss was born from a star
and its face is covered in stars
it lives on a rock we live on a rock
feed it water and sunlight
or starlight if you must
take care of it don’t swallow it
or it’ll grow in your belly and spill
stars from your mouth
like a river or a dragon or shattered
jars why won’t you take this moss
I am handing it to you
stars in my hand
stars
in my shaking hand

31
Index

(spoiled for language)

32
Breakfast

It’s like a diary entry. It tells you about a person.
There are people who wake up just to drink something bitter,
like black coffee, unsweetened tea, or orange juice,
like they want to shock themselves awake or punish
the little sleepy beast inside that begs for five more minutes.
They will never admit this.

My sleepy beast is like a clumsy child and I love it.
When it’s piloting me in the morning, it wants nothing more
than to crawl back under the warm, soft safety of the covers.
It prizes a few more minutes of sleep higher than anything else.
It is adorable to me, despite its inconveniences, so I make a devious plan
to coax it into evolving into a more wakeful, logical state.
The promise of a tasty breakfast. Something yummy and warm.
Something comfortable and easy enough
that the beast can make it on autopilot.

Bagels. A toasted bagel with cream cheese and cold milk.
Unlike cereal, oatmeal, eggs, or a dozen other breakfasts,
I never get sick of it. It whispers to me, “Come, eat of the grain
of the field. Delight in the fresh milk and the soft spread of
cream cheese. Isn’t it familiar? Isn’t it sweet and lovely?
Doesn’t it fill up a bagel-sized hole in your belly?
Aren’t you ready now to start the day?”

33
End

Here I write my little poems
as the sun drains from the room
once more. The end of the day,
the end of the month, the end
of an era, are as quiet as each other.
You hardly notice as the sun shifts
until, all too suddenly, you realize
it's dark, May, and you are no longer
the same.