Anne

My poem was published in Literary Orphans! 'Anne' is inspired by Josh Schlachter's lovely poem 'An Open Letter to Anne Frank', which was a leading poem in Issue 2 of Moledro Magazine. In my old school, Anne Frank's diary was a piece of required reading. However, it would constantly be mocked at by students reluctant to study the coursework, hence prompting me to write this poem months later.

you poured, regurgitated your tangled

thoughts while bombs infused the chilly air, quelling

romantic urges and wishing people could

read your mind. a survivor made sure your

powerful words did not die like your soul, that

the pages did not crumble to dust and fire did

not cradle your dreams.

decades later. gem-studded glasses with

weed in back pockets, images of celebrities

tucked away like golden leaves. your words, a

hopeful paean, feel their bare skin and pendulous

parts, while they sneer at you and wish your diary

had never been treasured. you are a girl. but now,

you are an assignment, not a fractured smile bound

into a legacy. in posterity, they laugh at your

desires, at the shard of pain, a yellow star in the

prejudiced skies. adults with gray lorgnettes and

a longing for solitude pace by, giggles are stuffed into

ripened pages, smirks are masked by a paltry

attempt at respect. your legacy, sullied by the

apathy of people who associate your name with

boredom. your soul, a menorah of faith in goodness,

is not the silvered memory it was born to be. your voice,

a shofar of youthful power, is not the sought out vocalization

it should have been. your words have become a classroom

monotony, people slinking other people’s answers

onto their tongues. better to remain forgotten and

protected, than snickered at by students who don’t know

the feeling of cherishing each day, grateful that you’ve survived

Election

shock, fear, uproar on the streets
as people confront the dismal future that awaits.

people with dark skin, different beliefs, histories
that burst with light and color and beauty - terror.

my mind in a whirl, unable to articulate precise
thoughts about the man that will lead my country

for the next four years. confusion.

Zlata

innocent, a drop of water in an
ocean of tar.      ensnared, vulnerable in
fear yet powerful on parchment, ink flooding
the crevices, molecules of darkness slithering
across a page, bringing light to an era

of misery. write what scares you, goes the
old motif.

write what makes your curls stand, what makes
your eyes dilate and freckles tremble. easy for
them to say when their greatest dread isn't
being crushed under mountains of cement
and hurt, praying
that someone will find them and bring them
back to life.

innocence swirls, a drift of chocolate in
a cup of coffee. at least you are remembered
in your youth, not as a spirit that never had
the chance to

exist.