Cymbals 2020

I’m wearing death in my favorite color
If I were to die reckless and quick,
A carcass resembling my body lay still
on some troubled intersection.
How I would bleed out a cause,
A color names my death a shrine,
How invincible my purpose will become then.
If the slain get a say in this decision,
I would want the roads dressed in neon green.
I want everyone’s attire to be so loud this one time I can’t be.
My tacky hue plastered on every street from Coram to Islip.
And if color really does hold memory,
Then think of what I meant to you in the shade of Easter grass,
Long Island sunrise dancing at a nightclub,
The Northern lights using Facetune,
Emeralds covered in your older sister’s nail polish,
Do not replace me with a breaking story.
I will not take it personally
if “my fight” does not cause a revolution.
My last photo is not a campaign symbol,
Justice is not a substitute for grief.
Love me enough to know that.
Illustration by Anna Baumeister
Goodbye
So this is goodbye;
“Come on now, don’t cry.”
Look up at the sky,
At the stars up so high,
And look into those eyes,
Listen to their sighs.
Notice their refusal to wave goodbye;
Their unmoved gaze from your dull eyes,
A thumb wiping tears as it goes by.
And as time flies,
You wonder why:
Why must they die?
By Kristen Tortora
If anything, remember that
I am every fluorescent sign flickering,
Any glimmering thing in the clearance aisle,
The commuter’s traffic dim and glow,
And, let that be enough.
By Jillian Laper
23