GRACE MICHIENZI

 is a third year Psychology student with a minor in Counseling and a
Certificate of Creative Writing, graduating in Spring 2020. She is from the Southern
Adirondacks, one of her favorite places in the world, and she’s been writing poetry and fiction for as long as she can remember. She loves Emily Dickinson, Ocean Vuong,
Gertrude Stein, and

many other poets.

Ecclesiates 1:9


did the colors of the apartment buildings
ever resemble the rolling corroding hills
like the gray of my car is the image of a
blackened thundered sky

to walk amongst the clouds
on the wing of a plane
is to walk down the road in a blizzard
suspended in a pocket of white
seasons layer upon each other
ice on dirt on flower on mud
time folding into itself

palms on palms tongue in cheek ash beneath boot
while we walk the dog and have these small conversations
and when the glint on the car window is the same as the ocean’s glare
i know there is nothing new under the sun

​​Jeffrey


who do I speak to
in the void
when I am reminded of
your Absence
the space between
the second hands on the clock
so empty and small
we forget they are even there
they know your suffering
as I do


sometimes women in literature
are birds in cages
and I find myself seeing
cardinals
red pressed against zigzag twigs
and another blue sky
I find myself finding metaphors
in the similarities
the patterns the living create with the
dead
I find myself laughing to no one
but the memories


there is a mirror at kim’s house
reflects the chalkboard you wrote on
the day before
that day
white words preserved all this time later
a tomb in the kitchen
a remembrance out of chalk
I see you in me
my reflection
in my eyes and my nose and my hair
and the tomb behind me
everywhere
everywhere

fridays in october are the days
where I am so aware of me being
here and you being
there
having no map to get home
no mouth to find words
I find myself speeding on highways
just to feel the slam of the brakes
avoiding roads you once drove
wondering if you cruised at fifty
to keep yourself safe for me


this emotion
wild and useless
a teenager by now
wanders around inside my chest
finds itself in every room
and every dream
and every sentence
in the end I suppose
I speak to myself

NAME Magazine UNIVERSITY AT BUFFALO 2020