by Kayla Blau
When my grandparents arrived in Chicago
Penniless but pale
My grandfather’s hands stroked piano keys to forget how he had gotten here
Traded Stars of David for a U.S. Navy badge
Refugee turned toy soldier
Continue reading South End Stew: On Becoming White
by K.D. Senior
Those who meet must part,
so they treasured every meeting,
because passionate love is short,
and happiness fleeting.
The war of attrition ends
with nothing left on either side.
nostalgia turns a bitter heart to stone,
whenever they look behind…
Continue reading South End Stew: Tears
by Leija Farr
Dust is dead skin cells
Bobbing against wood into a godless
corner where the sun is never soft.
No grandmother to explain
cobwebs,
draping over cabinets.
Continue reading South End Stew: Dust
Continue reading South End Stew: For The Boys Looking For Sugar
by Topaz
Music is my Albatross,
Pulling on my neck, dragging down my soul.
Through the orange yellows of Dante’s inferno.
To the steel blue fires, the true gates of hell.
Continue reading South End Stew: Samuel Taylor’s Cool Ranch Stanzas
by Kelsey Hamlin
When it was all over and I said,
“I realized college doesn’t usually happen for people like me,”
Your face tensed
and you asked what I meant.
by K.D. Senior
Dreams don’t come true,
that’s what they are for…
But why not take a gamble,
even if we aren’t sure?
Hopeless hopes, and chances with traps,
Joining lips as sky turns to twilight,
down by the shore.
by Marcus Harrison Green
I remember…
The might of hellos in dirty laboratories
Majestic words unlocked by reluctant caffeine highs
Assembling puzzle pieces of a dream
A disbelief in rising stars
Feathers sheared to mimic Michelangelo
An unkissed face lit by the sun’s mercy
Songs belted with a whole heart
Trails sought by two and found by one
A mother’s anguish for a child’s touch
The silence of untold truths unmistakable from lies
Honesty turned in too late to be given full credit
Cowardice of the heart, and tardy defenselessness
Too many untrusted tomorrows
The cleansing flame of goodbye
This is the third in a series of three pieces. The first can be read here. The second can be read here.
by Kelsey Hamlin
But, god damn it, as if we don’t uproot those mother fuckers right back.
I don’t know if the seeds will ever stop whispering. I don’t know if there will ever be a time when the whispers constantly fall on deaf ears to the point where there’s no whispers at all. I don’t know if they’ll ever stop growing.
This is the second in a series of three pieces. The first can be read here.
by Kelsey Hamlin
It shows in the way she comes out from the bedroom, shirtless, gripping the sides of her hips, pulling her skin from her sides with fists full of flesh, asking of her daughter, “how do I get rid of this?”
