Collected Poems of February

Jaylan Ramos | @jaylllan


And out of all the angels, you were my favorite

There's purity in the words that slip from your mouth. Even if they sit next to the lies

Your face was immaculately made, though your wings clipped and eyes weary

But you burned like the sun and I willfully would’ve gone blind watching you every day

Laughter like chimes

Touch was heaven sent

Mind was otherworldly

I fell into the longest daze with you

I never knew daydreaming like this

Every morning hopeful, every night a warm comfortable haze

But apparently, angels can break hearts too.

Through every tear, I still saw your halo

I still felt the comfort of your presence

You still glowed as if you fell from the skies that day

You were my favorite

You were my favorite

And you are still my favorite...

Delhi, New York

Caja Leshinger | @cajalesh

I keep this day sealed away in a glass jar, like the kind you catch fireflies in as a kid in midsummer The heat is just the same, the light a bit dimmer There were clouds on my legs and I crushed raspberries in my hands, felt the earth’s pulse, was dizzied by the undulating grass Anything bad is made up, make-believe, that’s what we told ourselves, with our toes in hot sticky mud It was primal, green, effortless, like playtime when you’re young We squeezed berries (are they poisonous?) between our fingers, bare backs as canvases and the juices as paint The fruit is sweeter when it’s picked with dirty fingers The sun balanced itself low in the sky, and I wondered who would catch it when it fell

a love letter to applesauce

Julieth Lara | @juliethlaraa

My dear,

lick your lips


luscious, and sweet.

It smells like the fields,

of emerald leafs

and mother’s defeat.

Wrap your hands around mine, let’s say our lullaby.

You taste of apples,

chunks of insides diced


but never twice.

You held her whole

and kept her cold

when a mother’s graze

was tainted

and unfazed.

You watched her grow,

devour your insides

like the fields of berries

you once called home.

No spoon to be felt,

no help to be given.

She licked you clean

with patches of

rough strawberry grass

and lined roots.

Oh you deserve the world, of emerald glass

and waxed linen sheets

—of the cities they carry you to —of aisle number two

—of the glare she gives you.

Apples to apples,

leaves to leaves,

you let her feel full

on a stomach

of loneliness

at age two.

She cleaned you whole

—no diced livers or

molten gold to be seen.

She no longer eats your insides and licks you clean.

For she grew old

and so did you,

but oh

lick your lips

and stay put,

my dear.