March Poetry Compilation
The Sunstroke Monthly Poetry Compilation is a collection of poetry submitted by Sunstroke readers and staff members. Take a seat, light a candle, grab a cup of tea, and dive into the intricate words of our community.
Submit to future compilations at hello@sunstrokemagazine.com!
Photograph by Annie Millman, modeled by Sam Leahy
Untitled by Primcess
You’re a lie as bold faced as a woman’s bare ankles in winter.
There is standing room only in my immediate circle of noise.
I only care about the sky when pink bruises purple and casts shadows that lean slow.
After all this time, I am still okay with not knowing where my lines end or how others meet them.
Roots cradle a discarded MoMa bag in front of City Hall.
The night kneels and the wind breathes down my neck.
I am alight.
Sometimes I Practice Being Loud In My Car by Ethan Mackey
Just to be ready. Preparation is everything
these days. The poets say you don’t need
to understand something to know it’s beautiful
and I tend to agree with them. Bees can be happy,
the moon is full, and I am yelling
in the best way possible. It is 3a.m. and
I can’t tell if I’m drunk or high, but I am
with you. Eating burritos, living loudly, with
salsa spilled all over our laps. Laughing,
I have never felt happier.
I Asked My Friends About You, Glad You’re Doing Well (A Conversation) by Shira Friedman-Parks
He told me what you told him I told you, remember I said I’d never told anyone, but I just wish
It began as envy, enveloped by a desire to intervene—yeah, I bribed the laws
you’d tell me next time tell me, okay? It’s okay I just liked it back when it was my little secret, mine
of physics but still I couldn’t crawl my way into your ear—I wanted so badly
and no one else’s, I held it in my hands under the long sleeves, the ones
to Tide away your blood stains, iron out the wrinkles of your brain but my hands couldn’t melt
with the thumb holes, now it’s up in the air but what’s done is
into yours. I know about the neurotransmitters flooding and starving and flooding and starving and
done. It’s fine. It’s fine we’re still friends right? Just know
it’s so hard. It’s so hard to act alive when you don’t think you’re alive and that was the root of my envy.
I’m not angry at you. I know you think everyone hates you but I promise don’t hate you you’re my friend.
Because I was always so bad at fake happy. But all you were was fake happy. I’m not one to preach
When they sent you away I prayed for you I prayed that you wouldn’t become
free will or the meaning of the self because God knows I know nothing I don’t even know
like me I know it’s contagious. Still in the end we both became like each other, still no one needed
God. Ha. We aren’t in the same place and it’s not about competition or compensation
to see me like this. I promise I’m good at handling matters myself I just need more time
or martyrdom but why? Why can’t you admit you
let me handle it myself it’s me it’s mine and I can do it I
have a problem why can’t you admit you’ve been failing to fix it yourself for six years and I don’t want
promise. But I’ve been thinking about it, what he told me you told him and I’m not sure I trust
you to anymore and maybe that’s selfish but it hurts. It hurts when you hurt and when you choose not
who you’re becoming. I tried but you’re different now,
to try not to because I try not to and because I loved you but now
I don’t know you anymore.
I think I hate you.
A Sestina in LA by Emily Spacek
Made afternoons spent out on your apartment terrace
Chain-smoking and passing bottles back and forth.
Five PM neighbors come home from desk jobs they are sure to give up.
So intrudes the descending sun.
No one afternoon is ever the same
But all stand frozen in your unforgiving shutter.
To think I could hide from your pictures.
With film in one hand and drink in other, I walk out on the terrace,
Sit, and examine each photograph with an expression always the same.
I play with the film in my hands, bending it back and forth,
Letting the glare from the sun
Warp each angle until my courage builds up.
You say I cannot give up.
That I am too uptight about plastic pictures.
But I am dizzy and the sun
Burns my skin out on this terrace.
What am I to you is the back and forth.
Familiar words that always taste the same
And my drink has gotten warm all the same.
To give up?
To accept the back and forth?
I hate to picture
Me walking backwards through the door, through time, while you stand as winner on the terrace.
And I hate how pale I look in this late April sun.
And I am weak under her glare. This fucking sun.
This time of day the color of everything is the same
And the heat burns my feet on your terrace.
I give up.
You do not move close but sit still and take your picture.
Me, on your chair, rocking back and forth.
We rock, together now, back and forth.
My face under your face, finally hidden from the sun.
You see, these are the pictures.
The proof that you’ve won just the same.
Gone is what was once left to give up.
It is quiet now and no one can hear what you plot out on this terrace.
Tomorrow I will wake up on top of the same
Yesterday clothes, examining marks left from the sun.
Might I finally accept it now? My place on this terrace.
Honey Jar by Birdy Francis
I remember spoonfuls of honey;
The jar always seemed to be empty.
You told me my hair was made of real gold.
You used to paint my nails purple and tell me I was a fairy.
We would lay under the skylight as you told me about the stars,
“I love you to moon and back and there and back again.”
You always smelled like fresh cookies and pink flowers;
Probably because you loved roses.
Your skin always seemed to be thinner than mine.
I always thought about your slim fingers and poor posture.
My fondest memory was our trip to the park.
I told you about Mason, my first grade crush, and handed you a bouquet of dandelions.
We pulled off the petals one by one,
“He loves me, he loves me not.”
But I remember when it was quiet;
When my fingernails were bare and the only sunlight came from your apartment’s windowsill.
The days when your love for roses first began.
You liked how the colors matched your lipstick.
The days where your posture was delicate,
But your fingers were slim.
I would sit on the big blue bed,
“She loves me, she loves me not.”
You don’t wear your favorite patch anymore.
You no longer enjoy live music or shifting your eyes through flipping pages.
The sun refuses to make eye contact with you anymore.
The dandelions don’t grow near you.
You now smell like cigarettes,
But you still love pink roses.
I’m sitting on my small blue bed,
“She loves me, she loves me not.”
Your posture has worsened,
But your finger are still slim.
I remember spoonfuls of honey;
The jar always seemed to be empty.