A night-skinned boy who wears his smile on his palms and reaches for the sun on a flag that will never love him.A boy whose father wraps the sleeveof moonlight over his son’s body and praysthat his son is too weak to die.

The Half-Eaten Boy

A boy whose father stitches his mother’ssoftness to his cheeks and calls him daughter because a lie is not a lie when God covers his ears with gunfire. He cannot see a cherry blossom bloom but can feel its death, a haiku stolen from the tombstones in his mouth.

from a poem by Kain Kibodeaux—BA English

READ THE FULL POEMillustrated by Nancy Vu—BFA Art

Maybe the sun, then, is only a stage light.Maybe it doesn’t set, just sits, untilthe furious curtain falls and the light burns out, thorny clouds choking day into night.Outside, kids in blue uniforms leave schoolAnd parade San Ramón Square Park.A boy straddles the fountain, piningFor the girl on a bench reading her Bible.

Jacob Wrestling the Angel

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from a poem by Jared Jones—BA English

illustrated by Nancy Vu—BFA Art

My mother’s hands carve halos of steamfrom stuck-grease skillets, crest seafoamfrom off-brand dish soap and a hard turn of her wrist. Each bead catches a piece of sun and fillsviolently with colors -- which is my favorite?All of them. Even the gristle-brown runoffwith flecks of iron and pig-ash.Even the gold reflecting on her now broken hands.

My Mother’s Hands

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from a poem by Caleb Howard—BA English

illustrated by Nancy Vu—BFA Art

You Can Have the TV

And all of the images that left you blockedfrom me. You can have all the shows that turned youinto the reality of what is and what could’ve been.Take the monitor and the speakersbecause they drowned you out from me each nightI tried to tell you something wrong.And none of this compels you. I was a friend, never your wife.

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from a poem by Makatelyn Shepherd—BA English

illustrated by Nancy Vu—BFA Art

The Eyes Tell Stories

I wish photographs could speak, softly, as if reciting old lullabies to a fitful infant, or focused, without interruptions like silent prayers. On one of my hands I can count all of the photos I have of my father, printed and displayed in rooms where people say, “you look just like him.”

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from a poem by Shamia Taylor—BA English

illustrated by Nancy Vu—BFA Art

Dash of red for the hermit crab peeping over the lopsided shelf. A loop, then zig-zags watching the pâtéman stirs soursop in the wobble of his truck. Brush all colored, with every shade of rainbow.Soak in saltwater, the blue kind,filtering beer caps trap in seaweed and moss. Dry with my Cancryn skirt,I begin paving the road to Crown Mountain.

Carribean Art Class

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from a poem by Kiandra Christopher—BS Mass Comm

illustrated by Nancy Vu—BFA Art

Salt Fish On Easter Morning

I drag the salt fish up Nadar hill, pleading for fungi and ducana to cling as his sides.But rotten lies from appetizers, place him under the scalper.Blessed with Corona oil,Caribbean islands gather in lines,awaiting another plate on Easter morning.

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from a poem by Kiandra Christopher—BS Mass Comm

illustrated by Nancy Vu—BFA Art

What the Army TaughtWe were babies with runny noses, stinkingof goose feathers and sweat. We had to be taught how to speak, climb, squeeze, shit,How to eat raw coffee grounds to stay awake. They taught us how to breathe in gas chambers with the air burning around usTo taste the salty snot and tears and flap our arms like birds.

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from a poem by Juli Olson—BA English

illustrated by Nancy Vu—BFA Art