Poetry: Luster, By Sarah W

in the cabin bathroom, i watch you smear vaseline across your eyelids.
your wet hair is tucked neatly behind your ears, bleeding slowly
onto the spaghetti-strap tank top you will fight our counselor over.

later, in the darkened hockey rink, your whole face has turned glossy
by the time you ask me to do the dance i used to know.
my vision blurs as i spin-- the only thing left is the shine on your cheekbones
and tracing the line of your upper lip.

you are the first person to call me anything other than my name,
but i know you only do it when you need something from me.

still, in the middle of the night, when i see your fingers
curled over the railing of my bunk bed
and your eyes gleaming as you whisper,
i am glad to have a use, even for a second.

i snap a picture of you,
legs hanging off the picnic table,
with my disposable camera.
the flash leaves you blinking hard, laughing.
i promise that i will send you a copy, later.

i never do. instead,
i find the pictures years later
and run a finger over your laminated face,
glowing under the summer sun.

Charcoal Drawing: Vases, by Lee D

Photography: Flowers, by Sara T

Digital Art: Hostage, by Ignatio S