A Bad Translation by Hilda Friday

Talking to you, I feel like I’m speaking through Google Translate
as if I’ve taken every emotion I have
carefully conjugated, checked for time and gender
and still they spill out, wrong and awkward
mirroring what I mean to say but harsh or bored or desperate
I speak to you and it’s like looking through the fog
eyes narrowed, brows drawn, and I just can’t tell if
you’re coming closer or drawing away
and I’ll say something idiotic and backpedal immediately
or only realize weeks later like
oh god no that’s not what I thought bite translates to in French
please, I’m sorry for every time you felt like I used the wrong second person pronoun
for you
I never wanted to keep you at arm’s length
But even though we’re both speaking English and I was composed with this language
At some point I forgot the word trust.

Quand je te dis, je me sens que je parle avec Google Translate
comme toutes mes émotions doivent conjugue pour le temps et genre
et puis c’est incorrect, mal, étrange
Comme quoi j’essaye dire mais s’ennuie ou méchant ou désespères.
Je te dis comme je regarde à travers le brouillard
Mes yeux resserré, mes sourcils en bas et je ne sais pas si
tu m’approche ou quitte.
et je vais dis quelque chose stupide et répare immédiatement
ou me rendre compte de quel point seulement dans les semaines prochains comme
oh mon dieu ça n’est pas quoi je pense bite signifie en française
et je suis désolé pour toutes des fois quand j’ai utilisé le deuxième personne pronom incorrect
Avec vous
Avec tu
je n’ai eu pas l’intention de tu rejeter
mais j’ai oublié le mot pour croire

Open in Google Translate

When I say to you, I feel that I speak with Google Translate
as all my emotions must conjugate for time and kind
and then it's wrong, bad, strange
Like what I'm trying to say but bored or mean or desperate.
I tell you how I look through the fog
My eyes tightened, my eyebrows down and
I do not know if you approach me or leave.
and I will say something stupid and repair immediately
or realize just how much in the coming weeks as
oh my god that's not what i think dick means in french
and I'm sorry for all of them when I used the second person incorrect pronoun
With you
With you
I did not intend to reject you
but I forgot the word to believe

i'll be back by Meara Maccabee

my grandfather shoveled rocks.
well, first he unlocked locks which was a damn good job for a seventh grade dropout
but he had to leave that job.
my dad had stolen a police car and my grandfather was having none of that,
so they moved to another city with not enough locks to unlock
but with plenty of gravel to be shoveled so he shoveled rocks.
in a tin can.
120 degrees, eight hours a day,
counted down the minutes ‘til home,
and then counted down the minutes ‘til work.

my grandfather had only known my dad for a couple of years by then
but he was his father. so he shoveled rocks. for my dad. for me
to be here?

i’m wondering what my grandfather would think about his granddaughter feeling ashamed
that her grandfather never knew what the inside of a high school looked like,
feeling ashamed that his son, her father never knew what the inside of a college looked like.
i’m wondering what my grandfather would think about all his work
shoveling rocks ending up at a place like this,
at a place built by people like him but not for
people like him.

i wonder if he would mind that i go to a school with more children from families of
steel mill owners than steel mill workers.
i don’t think my grandfather would have liked that.
yeah, it’s an ignorant sentiment.
yeah, it’s pretty closed-minded.
but my grandfather shoveled rocks.
in a tin can.
120 degrees, eight hours a day.
until he died.
so i think he’s deserved to be as closed-minded as he likes about
the families who got rich on his work.

i just hopes he understands why i need to be here.
because i can’t shovel rocks.
i’m not strong enough
to shovel rocks
in a tin can,

120 degrees, eight hours a day.
until i die.
so grandpa, i gotta play their game for a while.
but don’t worry: I’ll be back.

1:42 am by Dajee Provitt

Canada goose might as well be called Canada noose

or maybe nuisance or is that supposed to be me

and all of my extended family


Here we are choked up and set aside

although our GPAs were just as high,

it's subtle and institutionalized,

not at all, but in some, you can see it in their eyes


The Dartmouth Review should have a session in which they review themselves, because

here. this place. I wanted, fought, pleaded and prayed to be accepted in,

has left me feeling unwelcome and segregated

by the gender gap that surrounds me in a poorly insulated room

that I must resume calling home because my home is so far away


It is not as though nothing here is just and right

It is just that the standard of living seems to be at an inaccessible height


The granite still runs deep in my bones and my brains, but sometimes I am afraid

Today cannot change yesterday, but hopefully one day today can change tomorrow and

tomorrow will be a better day.


i miss you by Charlene Browne

I wish I could talk to you.



I miss your hugs.


When it’s cold at night I miss your warmth.


When I’m sick I miss knowing that someone cares.

When I don’t feel like talking and have all smiles on my face I miss you seeing through my cracks and knowing exactly what’s wrong

Then knowing where to find the plaster.


I am lonely without you, 

I am…confused without you,

I am terrified of moving on

Without you.


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is no longer available. Contact your phone service provider for assistance.




To Know by Nicole Sellew

To be helpless, suspended in amniotic fluid—

Stagnant, reeking of a body that is not yours.


Worried that you will never feel it again, at the same time 

Knowing that you will, that you need to. The only

Question: will it always be you? On him,

With him, answering questions 

Feeling bare skin slide across bare skin, friction is a funny thing

Because it doesn’t seem to exist sometimes. 


Helplessness, trapped

Connected—in both ways

Mind and body, you have never known either

Until you have known both.

princes of the dark by Fatima Kuyateh

where i live, the nighttime belongs to men

or those who want to be

submit your soul to the grit and the violence. it's effortless.

so easy

too easy

easier than what awaits you back home

the day is cruel but the night has compassion -

the moon seduces you with the promise of glittering spoil

you just have to go out and take it like a warrior

like an ancient greek-ghetto warrior

these royal red rags demand nothing less than hubris

you own this color

or does it own you?

these men stand here

ready to give you a flowery beating

watch the Blood spill like roses

bright, bright Blood flowing from

the things they break

to break free from brokenness