Poems

by Estée Arts

These things don't happen in daylight
Or when you're watching 
They're shy
Or perhaps too respectable 
They lurk, prowl and sigh 
Playing with children 
Then drinking bourbon.

Maths

by Chloë James

I pad through bars
of yellow light and dark,
softly up and up
the iron escape,
four floors to a lead-
lined window in heavy door
where I count three brass numbers
that equal your space,
a spatial equation without variables
over the finger-smudged knob.
A slide of light clicks under the frame:
you’re home.

Cool Drink in a Hot Tub

by Aaron Robert Allen

Jazz-man with the
Crazy hands,
Play that trumpet loud.
Jazz-man with the
Crazy hands,
Bigtwentiessmile
Grinnin’allthewhile,
Play that trumpet loud.
Jazz-man with the
Crazy hands
Play that trumpet loud!
So loud,
Aintnochoicebut
Beingglad.

Piano-man with the
Slender hands,
Stroke that baby smooth.
Piano-man with the
Slender hands,
Fingerslikefleas
Jumpin’ivorykeys,
Stroke that baby smooth.
Piano-man with the
Slender hands,
Stroke that baby smooth!
So smooth,
Tipyouadolla’whenI
Findtha’groove.

Bass-man with the
Chubby hands,
Pluck that momma deep.
Bass-man with the
Chubby hands,
Turnedupcollar
Andatipdownhat,
Pluck that momma deep.
Bass-man with the
Chubby hands
Pluck that momma deep!
So deep,
Thebeatleavesamarkon
Thesolesofmyfeet.

Eleven Years Ago September

by Ashley Christensen

Age ten, in our front yard after the storm,
tree roots grasped the cotton sky.
Brother stood at the edge of the swollen hole,
213 trees fell in our city that day,
we touched the defeated friend
lying useless in wet grass.
Small sister watched through the screen door.
Mother was working,
father still working
straight through the storm.
As dust settled into the corners of our earth,
three kids made dinner
and swept the remnants from the porch.

Two weeks later
mother brought home a sister
in daffodil.
We went on.
The four of us.
Minus the tree.

Tell Me about India

by Annette C. Boehm

fair and dirty as birds
poured out by their monsoon
& out of the stairs came
a man with four legs:
half a man short of two
or now less than a man
as he stumbled toward
to make us rent a room
we tiptoedly fled
the street of sleep
                          -ing bodies

Letter of Apology

by Aaron Robert Allen

Forgive me.
All these white crosses,
Over a hundred now since I left Montana.
Each one of them standing in whitewash,
A mark of the end of a life.

Over a hundred now on the roadside since Montana,
White crosses, white carnations,
Sometimes roses,
Sometimes two or three in a line.

Near Pocatello
the Cross of Christ
Huge, oily wood, stained
In the middle of the road.

My Lord lived outside of Pocatello,
Arms outstretched upon his Cross,
His Palms towards me,
His dark pleading eyes,
The crown of blood and roses.

Over a hundred now since I left Montana,
And the crimson one twenty miles from Pocatello,
As I was driving south, and felt it hit,
And watched the fallen savior in the rear view mirror,
And kept on driving.

All these white crosses on the roadside
Covered with carnations
All these,
The crimson Cross of Christ,
These splinters in my face and hands
A mark of the end of a life.

It was my fault.
I am driving back towards Pocatello to raise him up again.
I have with me some carnations and some roses.
After that, I’m coming home.

My Father-In-Law from the Shores of Lake Powell

by Nathan Robison

I see my father-in-law,
that old atheist,
by the top of his head—
the tip of the iceberg.

that old atheist—
on his sunrise swim among
the tip of icebergs
masquerading as Lake Powell rocks.

On his sunrise swim. Among
the dangers of the reservoir
masquerading as Lake Powell rocks:
eight-foot suckers and Anasazi bones.

The dangers of the reservoir
maroon me, a god-fearing man.
Eight-foot suckers and Anasazi bones
haunting my dreams of land.

Maroon me, a god-fearing man
some place I can see the bottom of,
haunting my dreams of land
with images of shade no more.

By the top of his head
he enters the deep with a dive.
From the red Powell bergs
I see my father-in-law.

Maybe

by S. Elizabeth Thompson

this will be the last
time I see you—here
with the long strands
of grass twisting
around my ankles

a quieter kind of love song—
the run of a spider up
and down the length of my arm
my fingers hovering to catch it
and crush it in one
careful move.

The Honeybee’s Epic

by Penelope Richards

Fat, striped honeybees
bounce along through the garden
in the summer light.
One—bonk—flew into a stem
Then—buzz—went flying again.

Penelope Richards is a senior at Brigham Young University. She loves reading, writing, and painting. Originally from Houston, she has always loved a sunny day at the beach. But she is learning to appreciate Utah’s long, snowy winters as well.