by John A. Birt
Eleven quarters, a dime, and a nickel
leaves you both bothered and worried
as delinquent teens attempt to surf
on the train cars instead of the sea.

by John A. Birt
Eleven quarters, a dime, and a nickel
leaves you both bothered and worried
as delinquent teens attempt to surf
on the train cars instead of the sea.

By Nafiz Imtiaz Emu
only you held on
to the truth of the road,
survived the gravel’s bite,
the pressing weight
of every step

by Andrew Lynch
I want to melt
into the pot with the spoon
that you stir until
I’m brought to a boil

by Karlo Krstulovic
As with many kings, the only thing left to do is take the crown and break it apart a million times.

“Libertad,” watercolor and silicone on
illustration board, 2024.

By Kayla Texidor
Puerto Ricans can’t be goth, you see, and they can’t be sad.
We must know all the bochinche and spread it like they think we spread our legs.

by Laura Tobón
Let me go, for I need a transfusion of love, and among your apples, it is too costly. My pennies are not enough to pay for it.

by Ryan Tenesaca
It was said when one receives an egg, it would attach itself to its owner: not in the way a pet attaches itself to its master, rather how a leech attaches itself to a body.

“Nature’s Frame,” acrylic on paper, 2025.

by N.I.P
My daughter, my daughter, why do you resent me?
I was just a child,
Starving, fighting to survive,
A girl forced into womanhood

by Annalee Hardison
The news of this is like getting hit in the chest with an invisible sledgehammer, forcing all the air out of my lungs as the pain overwhelms me with its singular devastating blow to my heart.

“Sara Millery (Lady Spring)” by Natasha Muriel

by Asia-Marie Charles
Jean was a smart girl, such a smart girl. But in a time like this, in a place like this, the smartest thing you could do is not be too big about it.

by John A. Birt
The mudslide travels
from cheek to cheek.
Forehead to chin.
An unnatural disaster.

by Kayla Rene Texidor
I was desperate to feel nothing, and you were yearning to feel something

“Agriculture,” 2024.

by Rafael Cevallos
I’m too slow,
Too slow even for the bike lane.
The battery-powered mopeds,
The bikes, the scooters,
They all tear ahead of me

by Karlo Krstulovic
Heavy footfalls pound against a wooden staircase,
drums of war echoing against the walls.

by Natalie Edmond
Couldn’t tell my body wasn’t ready
Didn’t ask if I was okay
Only wanted to consume me quickly

by Jessicah Erondu
As soon as I opened the front door, a wave of noise and smells hit me. Before I even had a chance to process anything, I heard, “Good, you’re home! I need your help in the kitchen. Now!” I sighed.

by Michael Florent
Chauncy was obsessed with Delilah’s full-of-life personality. She reminded him of a time when everything was still new and fun, before he had decided to forsake romance for his responsibilities.

By Casey Garcia
“That’s why I think you’re perfect,” Ian said. “Because you show your true self—even when it’s raw. Just like the moon, I get to watch you go through every phase.”

By Andrea Aguilar
The cloud covered the sun once more, the rage inside me staying with the clouds, where only I exist.

by Alessandra Ventura
I wish I could believe
I am more than the labels
that the ghosts of my past
have branded onto my skin.

By YUI
I had wandered down the alley before, but tonight felt different. I could feel it; something hanging in the air, something not quite right

by Jeffrey Olivares
My Parents always told me
Nosotros solo hablamos español en la casa
But in the busy city of New York
English is what connects me to others

by Alexandra Garcia, Amelia Stepnowski, Athos Argue, and Mykola Honcharov

by Giselle Galindo
The last thing I will tell you is good luck, Mary. Because you’re going to need it so damn much.

by Arben Alovic
I wasn’t around for goodbye.
Quiet days on black sand beaches,
As you gasped,
For the air that wouldn’t fill your lungs.

by Neissa Jacques
You were the villain in my life, yet in my stories, you are still my light
I hold you in ink, a memory I hope to expand.

by Khadija Santana
I confess that I fold my solemnity
That my anguish regresses
In fear that the warm palm will soon sting
Cold, bitter, frozen lakes spring amongst my veins
Interview by Mahdi Tanim
The act of rewriting memories, holding on through ink, shows she hasn’t fully let go.
Interview by Mahdi Tanim
The call ends suddenly because his papa wants nothing to do with him; Leonid is nothing to him but a child he has.
Interview by Kiera Dennis-Espinal
Our city is beautiful, and people come from all over the world to enjoy it, but there are also people living here every day, working hard, carrying quiet stories that rarely get attention.
Interview by Andrea Aguilar
One of the challenges I faced when writing this poem would be getting out of that unsettling headspace after tapping into the memory of that experience.
by Kiera Dennis-Espinal
Our city is beautiful, and people come from all over the world to enjoy it, but there are also people living here every day, working hard, carrying quiet stories that rarely get attention.
by Isadore Diaz
Writing the line that you asked me about, “please stay a little longer” was the hardest part to write.
Interview by Kyle McGlyn
It felt natural to personify the $2.75 as a young woman who was coming to a sense of her self-worth, especially in a dense city.