Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #03, Poetry

if you want to reach for your dreams

By Evette Davis

I. honeysuckles drip from my scalp. my hair has been falling out. there’s a sweet sting of something insane nested deep in my follicles, there are particles of honey coating my lips. i can’t let go of this anxious reality because it kisses me silent at night when these white walls won’t do sleep justice.

II. when the bluebirds scamper and leave skid marks in the air, you will find me, whitewashed eyes pulling at loose leaf hair and camera shutter eyelids. i am trying to repeat the three to five dreams i was supposed to have last night but must’ve forgotten. i just want to dream. i am tired of the sand in my eyes hauling me back to the ground from the limitless skies. i am tragically awake.

III. it is time to for all residents to arise. welcome to no man’s land, where the bluebird’s wing is crushed and it lays motionless in white.  this is not my bed. i am lying in a casket, and they are pushing me out to sea. this no man’s land is a wasteland called real life, where one hopes to remember their dreams. i feel lifeless in this casket. i clutch my eyes tighter and try to recollect last night’s fantasies. did I have three to five dreams? did i even have one? i hope to drift off holding one, at the very least.

IV. in all of this madness- the broken bluebirds, the honeysuckle hair that is strewn on the ground, the cries of the not quite dead— i aspire to dream. maybe crystallize it, too. this reality is oh so cold, but if i close my eyes tight enough, maybe one day i’ll remember and reach for my handful of dreams.


Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Poetry

Achilles and the Art of War

By Evette Davis

We live in a world where Greatness is the general to You.

Greatness lashes, forbearing at your heel.
The same one that Achilles fell front on, and says,
“As far as you go, I will follow.”

Greatness tells you that he bruises your weak spots only to help you.
To this, I have discovered that Greatness specializes in the Art of War.

He knows that your weaknesses can be conditioned like Pavlov
can craft an armor of callous so thick
that it is Strength.

You are a soldier,
quivering in line.

Only in drills done later do you stand without falter
and know that for as long as you live,
Greatness works in your favor.

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #02, Poetry


By Evette Davis

You guzzle salt…
Hypersaline, you’re a dead sea
of dense dreams…
deconstruct yourself.

Whole worlds collide at setpoint,
it’s you

who knows not of balance,

who has yet to find
that worlds can be held by polarity.

Chaos is just emotion
stripped of gravity.

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

Blue Midwinter’s Breeze on Houses, Not Homes

By Evette Davis

I couldn’t leave because your voice felt like my old home,
The home on the block with the walls that caved.
The ’06 basement flood, a following kitchen fire.

We long since left the old house,                                                                                                                 I forgot it, but when I met you
you uprooted everything I never wanted.
Picked a strand of memory that suffocated my throat in blue.

I never told you about my old home,
Mottled walls, martyr dreams.
Though you remind me a lot of it,
You remind me that
Blue wasn’t the color for me.

I remember a midwinter’s breeze
that grabbed at my spine
back when winter played with the marbury bush.

It nipped at me like your blue hands did,                                                                                            and I promise
you broke me down just like that old house,
with its hypothermic hands, hearts, tears and all.

When I left, Infected walls collapsed like a hurricane                                                                         and they bled seasons of blue,                                                                                                                       a deep blue,                                                                                                                                                       of winter. 

A spilled inkwell lies on a table, and all I see is blue.
All you see is blue.
All there is is blue.  

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

dawn of december’s end (a new beginning)

By Evette Davis

Once you were gone,
I carved your name
into the snow
a thousand times.

Flakes whitewashed it
to the mind of another,
while snow boots would
rewrite mine in its place.

Once you were gone,
I was able to pull myself out
of bed to decorate my new walls
with silver tinsel.

I locked the door,
boarded the windows,
struck the incense.

Smoke carried
peppermint dreams bunched
in cumulus cotton balls
that would tend to my wounds.

Once you were gone,
the tree in my living room thrived
in a singing shade of green
I never knew existed.

There was so much I never knew existed.

I long to add new ornaments.
I want to decorate myself from
head to toe.

I want to learn to breathe
the crisp morning air again,
and I hope you want the same.

You were every frostbitten night,
a cut-throat cold that
I much prefer my mind
and my home without.

Once you were gone,
December ended.


Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry


By Evette Davis

it’s been a long time since Your face was red,
Your cheeks stained with cranberry hues of blush.
We’d conjugate on top of silver sleds,
on Your island covered in snowy slush.

We both know our downfall was never planned.
but Calypso, this time I set Us free.
Our immortality’s not hand in hand.
how the story goes, We weren’t meant to be.

oh how You’d hold me tight in Your frail arms
remembering I crashed here by mistake.
Calypso, yes, Your island is a charm.
but youthful beauty only makes me ache.

Calypso. I’m meant to rise, but on my own.
that’s why Your island’s never been my home.