“The city will always pursue you” The wooden porch, the bird feeder in the crabapple tree, the screen door with holes in it, a warped tupperware container filled with cough syrup and cayenne pepper that I, age seven, stir carefully with a wooden spoon. “Are you making potions?” my dad asks as I spritz the
I am my umbilical cord My mother’s sleepless nights My father’s long drives I am the scent in my mother’s wardrobe The high heels I never fit I am the ingrained institutionalized religion Founded on fear. I am the shame and the guilt The vagina I am the black eyeliner I draw around my eyes
My mother never eats toast on a plate, she holds the bread in her long hands and eats over the kitchen sink. I think these are the moments she prefers, looking out to the garden, morning sun dim and blue and made of all the forgiving in the world easier here in morning’s two-part
“The Wait” is a short fiction piece by guest contributor Elena Gagovska, a BA2 student in the HAST program at BCB Christina felt bored waiting in line at the insurance office and tapped her little finger against her chin obsessively. She was there to renew the health insurance for her two-year-old. It wasn’t a complicated
The following poem is an extract from the chapbook metaphors, metonymies, & anthropomorphisms. It is published here with the kind permission of the poet, second-year EPST student Alexandria Sisson, in celebration and anticipation of the season to come.
Just an Expression I wish I could draw: Give form to my thoughts Relinquish all the chaos of my imagination onto a page for another’s to make sense of I wish I could tap that boom bang clang The fount of liquid fireworks inside my head Let drip their colours into paintings or
Muhammad Osman Ali Chaudhry is a third year BA student at BCB. I meet him after a rehearsal in the factory to discuss the play he has written, is directing, and will be acting in. The plot is simple, the dialogue dense. It tells of the love story between two young women whose relationship seems
A poem to the boy who owes my heart some heavy-duty patches, and soon, before it heals all crooked For awhile you were happiness A type I had never tasted before Somehow familiar – like nutmeg and cinnamon, fragrant and warm – But somehow, with laughter words a body and soul Your taste