I look at you and you look at me.

You look at me and I look back at you.

We’ve been at it for hours, this looking and blinking,

blinking and


“How,” you ask.

“No,” I say.

Then we drop it; never to talk again, not the two of us, the…the…

Whatever it was. We never named it.

We never put a label on the box.

What was it? No one knows.

It was better that way.


It’s warm.

It’s a trash heap.

It’s home.

The center is a house of afterthoughts built with bricks of memories —

They’re good for you, those bricks of memory cold-pressed like your green juice

Forever cycling between pictures of faces and places, new thoughts get plastered to a dome that kisses the clouds

Sweet grass crumbles under your feet – green soldiers scattered about brown footprints for their fallen comrades

It smells like a library but with no book in sight, paradise is no longer fiction

Fiction is a figment of the imagination and there is no fiction here.

When you look at the sky, the stars look back and wave before they die; you are the last face they see

Do they resent this las moment stolen by you and your trash heap of memories?

Where do you run for cover when facing the wrath of angry stars mourning for a fallen constellation?

Do stars pray? Where does a star worship the ground it walks on?

Where does a star seek spiritual security in the temple of its own construction

A trash heap of thoughts and memories is where I go – no windows or walls yet a home just the same

A roof over a head and a door for safe passage —

How do stars find safe passage?


I have not slept in days

Days run from me on marathon dreams against asphalt scented headboards

If I move a fraction to the left, you can feel the curvature of my spine etched into these iron bars,

If I move a mile to the right, you can see these iron bars welded to my spine

I stand up every so often to straighten out curves in unwanted places –

Maybe this is why I don’t sleep.

In my dreams there is a girl with a face that looks like mine with a body that looks like hers

In my dreams I know damn well it’s oil and water and no science experiments could make that body mine

Maybe that’s why I don’t sleep, so I’m not disappointed in what I wake up to

I don’t sleep because you’ll never see me swim (not just because I can’t, but because I won’t fit the attire)

Maybe I don’t sleep because you won’t see me grace a magazine cover because I don’t fit the qualifications

But me people tell me I do:

“You look fine”

“What’re you talking about”

“You look great”

Well thank-you; that’s sweet

But I don’t remember your mouth syncing with what my eyes are seeing

Maybe that’s why I don’t sleep

Or maybe it’s because I nap all day

Or because I make impulsive purchases at 2 am because I crave hot chips

Or my phone is blowing up and I’m waiting.

Maybe I don’t sleep because I’m sticking it to the man – the patriarchy and the government, both have to go

But either way – I have not slept in days

Days run from me on marathon dreams against asphalt scented headboards

I can neither move to the left nor jump to the right


I have not slept in days.

Peach Pit

Little peaches hang from crooked finger branches, heavy with sweat and iron

Daisies trampled under feet caked with present and presents past, watch as

Snowflake cherubs sprint across wallpaper stripped skies like

Summertime bullets in clapboard neighborhoods.

Ring true the bounce and spring from apple blossoms smoked and smothered

By ashes reigning from pulpits gently battered

Cherry Red Raspberry Blue

There is a popsicle stain on the pants I bought to take to college

That is what I get for being impatient.

Had I worn different pants; had I not eaten the popsicle,

But I fall in love every time I open my freezer door –

colored corn syrup

clear food dye

100% not juice

I often think that popsicle flavors are calls to children’s imaginations and stabs to the adult psyche

Red is not a flavor, but a color

And yet to me, it tastes like strawberries or cherries

But I know strawberry and cherry are just code for red 40

I love it when the flavor is unrecognizable: “blue”

Blue tastes like blue raspberry

Blue raspberry is not a fruit

Then blue berry it must be, but if it were – blue berry – I would know.

It would taste nothing like blue raspberry

Get the Coffee, Get It Not

I am an intern. Yes, I am the person who traditionally does nothing but take coffee orders and get yelled at when the fancy printer that automatically staples important documents that I’m supposed to file, runs out of staples. Yet, that’s not me at all, considering this internship is remote ie virtual and I’m two days in and I haven’t been yelled at once.

Adolphus Press is a fairly (very) new micro-press and literary journal that I am so lucky to be a part of. My official title is Social Media and Editorial Intern. I seem to have snagged a dream internship before moving in to my dorm room for my very first year of college. It is no secret that my dream, other than being published, is to work in the publishing industry helping other people get published, and this is the stepping stone I so desperately need if I want to make that dream a reality.

Will it be a lot of work? Yes, quite possibly. Will I be able to stay afloat despite all the other things that I have to do as a first-college student? I sure hope so! But I will, because I’m not going to let myself fall behind in any way, shape, or form because that’s not who I am as a person. I don’t fall behind; I push through. And if I can’t handle this internship, then I can’t handle becoming a full-time writer and publisher in the future, and that is not an option.

I, Sabrina Spence, am currently living out my dream. Never have I been more excited and never have I been more motivated to do what it is that will bring me fulfillment. This is what people call “meaningful work.” I am a college student and I am an intern and I am a writer. This is the intersection of all three.

Moth Queen

I do not know what attracts me to

flames I know will burn me.

I do not know why I make the choices I do,

but they are made.

Searching for these reasons is like searching for a piece of the puzzle

that was never included

I do not know who told me my decisions mattered,

but I do care

I do not know where I would be if I didn’t


I do know that burns heal

I do know that paths can be taken and new ones forged

Whether we find what we’re looking for or not, we need to know we tried

I do know.