Blue crashes through the ceiling like the rain through leaky thatches, A color gentle enough to hold a glassy soul But forceful enough to take a mood by storm. It did its darndest to make eye contact but I averted that sinewy gaze. I study flaws in my skin. …

You smirk my way when they call their flowering hills mountains. We know better, but shed our silly pretension, seal this knowledge in us. Then, shed pretences and articles of clothing afterwards. We name moments with our fingerprints, etchings on every surface. …

At age 10, I asked for forever when I asked for god. For life past when breath ceased to slither out of wind-up bodies. God made other offerings, But not a name: A praying mantis ever-present at her grave. A childlike reaction to pain. A seasonal routine. Prayers recall you called life with a word. I keep words in my chest, contend names hold life, mix dolls with the dead. Children know to sniff out storms. I trade tinkering for tracking, sense a parent’s sorrow like oncoming rain.

Cheap engraving, she wears it well, Colors a sound into fake gold to match the crank. Flowers and a self-naming word to capture a song and a CGI moment. She misses the controls of another world. She sings to her deskmates to remember her power: My lighter thinks What if we danced together? A flame and a sound Tracking each other across senses. My laptop resents The implication that there are better games elsewhere. Blue light highlights the box best, Reminds her she can make music on her own.

As I walk, I hunt for your well, Not knowing it was looking for me. Take a hard left from home. Crawl toward an ocean that beat me back. I make pilgrimage to the place you hunted once Not knowing you never arrived But feeling your arid absence in my bones when…

I’m convinced Writers stain everything. Scrub Pen marks on my new sweater From crossed arms As he explained, at length, And I forgot the blue that the curve of my palm Dragged up from my Unabomber impersonation. Ask how many checks Off of the social-media-led-list have ink? -Kids? -Financial goals? -Religion? (see: kids) -Coping mechanisms? Apprehensive of the ways we’ve already marked each other.

My conversion to Judaism was structured like a 3-layer cake. Layer 3 included this spiritual biography. Music and death were the hallmarks of religious association for most of my life. My mother grew up with a love of singing in the choir at her Baptist church on the outskirts of…

This poem was originally published in the 2020 collection of works Stories of Achvat Amim. His mother knows The rhythms of a plant none can name. Her tongue sounds off The language her grandfather sang. It’s here, it breathes When we Know it, feel it Then it’s gone A sound wave crashed, A memory undermined, A plotline broken. The tone lingering in my ears resembles wailing grief, Echoing Within the space of a life that should have been Off of the frame of a life that refuses to die.

This monologue was written in 2016 for UCLA V-Day’s original production LIPS, an ever-changing show inspired by The Vagina Monologues that incorporates original pieces by current and former students each year. This is for the warriors who changed my life. There’s this walk I’m sure you’ll recognize. The “I’ve had…