By Molly Oberstein-Allen

The crack in the windshield of my father’s gold Camry
used to be just a scratch no one noticed,
but somehow, like milkweed creeping up
among the tulips in my mother’s garden
it grew into a scar that slices the horizon
in two above Metcalf Avenue

The Willow Tree

By Mathew Morefield

I sit under the willow tree
waiting for the approaching storm.
And it comes with a
gust of wind.
I sit under the willow tree
Watching the storm
Destroy everything it can.
It blows over the trees
And breaks the base of
Our house.


By Justine Greig

I have not changed at all.
It is not true that
I have changed for the better from experience.
It is genuine when I say that
I have not tried to apologize for my past wrongdoings.
I am false when I claim that
I learned from myself and others.