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they say blood boils to practice immolation; at the threshold into constellation after manual separation; I mean the street that divides ground and the sky, so that looking up is for me and down for you; at the corner, we traded roles and you taught me breathing exercises. by Raith Jennings '26 $750.00

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Trees 17 by Jennifer Brou $800.00

so I descended into her arms and she spake: you will weep late into the night, longing for permissive release; you will grow with regret, believing that it is mine, etched into every crevice you wished to have been still; you will learn to resent and then to coerce, to know of my mistakes; you will rehearse my path, half his, when the words left my mouth; she recited: and you fell further down as I sang of sunshine you heard nothing; nothing that lingered after the rising sun – I know the bridge that holds you, permits you to sink; so I sank beyond her grasp, and the bird cried out: in the depths of the morning, see within me navigation; my shadow casts upon your body as withdrawal from the waves; you are no longer welcome; it flew distant and now alone with bitter grief. by Raith Jennings ’26

$750.00