by Emily Yin
Your orphaned eyes do not befit a queen
of noble birth. Ungrateful wretch, always begging
when wrought torques hang
about your paltry neck. Let them unmake
your Danish heart. Remember, you want for nothing
except a home. Your daddy renounced you
for a fragile peace. And so it goes, an armistice
profaned: your son and husband dead within the month.
You stateless woman, you shadow
apart from man. Daughter of the conquering
and mother of the conquered. Hildeburh,
your shuddering shoulders and muzzled mouth
bring you too close to animal—Hildeburh, don’t go
with the Danes across the ocean. It is time to unmoor.
by Grace Meyer
Neon: visor, vest, jacket when it’s cold, gloves, a safety whistle
My mom used to be a crossing guard.
Neon: dress, heels, I should have brought a jacket, big earrings, no safety whistle
It started the moment he whistled at me.
She wanted to be a policewoman.
Instead she would hold a sign: neon red hexagon
Always Red: Stop.
That night No, Stop, Please: Go!
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
Emily Yin lives in the small town of Acton, MA. Her work has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and is forthcoming in The Riveter Review and The Eunoia Review, among others.
Grace Meyer is a junior at Brookline High School in Brookline, Massachusetts. She has a deep love for poetry, but also enjoys photography, running, volunteering, and pondering human existence.
Margo Marie McManus is a high school junior. She lives in South Carolina with her amazing parents, two fat cats, and an abundance of quirky outfits.
Artwork by Madge Maril (stay tuned for more Madge!)