Issue I Poetry


Barbara La Marr Shatters a Wine Glass

Then blames the dish towel
Whose horse pattern zapped her back

To the night Peter whisked her
Away to an alter in Mexico,

Let hooves beating desert ground
Be the only sound before I do.

Still born words, really. You see,
Two days before the wedding,

Barb entered room 304, dress in hand,
To find Peter dead on the motel floor.

How once something is clear,
It can’t return to its crib of unknowing.

As in: I want to erase
The day in the Applebee’s parking lot

When mom said,
Not all of a marriage is love.

Meaning: I want to forget
The hours dad stared out the window,

Waiting for a savior to call him out
Of town, so he could leave

Again / For the last time / For now

Some Things Not Even an Air Pump Can Fix

In Remembrance of The Dancing Plague, 1518

A toilet paper ad says Love is Sacrifice
So I host a garage sale with all of my belongings,
Sixty percent off. Now I’m out of pajamas

& no less alone. Felix, you say kids shouldn’t know
The buzz of thoughts in an empty room,
But aren’t we kids? On Instagram, your wall shows off

A new shade of yellow, which makes me think
The plague wasn’t about dancing
But hoping for something hopeless.

Rest, wheat, laughter that forgets its briefcase
Of guilt. Yesterday, I made you a Spotify playlist
Four times, none of them good enough.

When I finished one, another song would pop up,
Reminding me nothing is full. Not the basketball
Across the street, not the girl rolling it back to you.


Camryn Hambrick is a senior creative writer at the Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities in Greenville, South Carolina. She has received a Scholastic Gold Medal for Humor, a Scholastic American Voices Medal, and has work published in The Interlochen Review. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with her family and her new dog, Bob Ross.

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