Session Three Anthology

MENTOR: Chen Chen


Reference Interview

I hear the hump
at the end of your
splintered semantic
I know your want
The marbles spill out
your circle, roll around
I arrange the ducks
into an interrogative
and give you the taw
You knuckle down
The only words that matter
are the next ones


Evelyn N. Alfred.jpg

Evelyn N. Alfred is an information professional, poet, social media content curator, and prose reader at Linden Avenue Literary Journal. Her writing can be found at Public Pool, The Offing, and upcoming in the [SOFT] anthology by MIEL. She’s originally from Fresno, but currently lives in Mitchellville with her wife.

The Fay

I loved the fay for their wings
of sugar and their skirts of petal.
For the instruments, crafted
from pinecone and silk
of the spider, with which they made
the music of each afternoon.
Beneath the glamour
they laughed, married
honestly. They lived without the lament
of the parent, they were raised
with mirth by evergreen and evergreen.
The lantern oil was undying.
And once, I tried to lift the spell
by making the garden in the shoebox.
I offered my leftover crusts
and my mortal milk. A hand mirror
as a lake. The small, unbeautiful flowers
that my mother did not teach me to nourish.
They did exist for me. I created them—fantasies
of felicity that remained

Heaven Fay.JPG

Heaven Fay is a twenty-year-old poetess residing in Texas. She writes poetry to understand life, and to survive it. The poem, she believes, is a house that she builds around a happening. She hopes you will find yourself in one of her houses someday. Her debut collection, Lyra and the Thrush: A Ballet in Poems, was self-published in December 2017. She is currently studying Creative Writing at university and hopes to continue on to an MFA in Poetry. She wants to live by the sea, to teach craft, and always to write, to write, to write.


ghazal, untitled

The day after he raped me, he said it’s too bad
most people don’t know how to be

close with all that love. There is something to be said about holding
myself close, with no hands, with no risk of being

blamed for falling into the wrong hands,
made out to seem as if I wanted this to be

they say
you don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to be

I have to say, that’s just not true: sometimes
I do have to be alone, even if I don’t want to be.

One day once, when
I grew up, a truck driver was what I wanted to be:

constant adjustment, hyper spatial awareness,
always gone somewhere, some place I’d rather be.

I inconvenience the world for a gamble’s sake.
Doesn’t every heart deserve a place to wail? To Be?

Most days, I am someone I very much do not wish to be.
What a relief, to find a bridge I managed not to burn.

Mine is best left in the hands of navigation. So, these days,
I drive a cab for the people of Miami, but mostly for me.

My own Little Road Dog, Little Beast, Little Wandering Bard
You belong somewhere you feel free to be.

Cecily Schuler