Author: Rebecca Zaritsky

Rebecca Zaritsky is a high school student from New Jersey. She attends a magnet high school, where she specializes in the study of medical science and technology, and hopes to become a psychiatrist. She is the daughter of USSR immigrants, and in her free time, Rebecca loves to run, write, and do competitive mathematics. 


you are king
of packages, of delivery,
of humble,
of winged feet:
you never linger.

we touched,
years ago, and i have
not forgotten
your power, and how it
emanated from
your shy smile. 

i remember wondering
how something so small
so simple– the same grin   
all boys wore, to no
or little effect–
could alight a flame
in my fingertips
and toes. 

before you left
to a land
you spoke of 
with unshed wonder
(not faded since 
the beginning of time),
we shared a glass
of dionysus’s wine
and you even 
spoke of him 
with fondness.

you said you had
to go, and 
i listened.
i did. i let you go.

but i miss you,
and i don’t need
anything delivered here–
i have all of the magic
i will ever need
in my memories.

my laurel is one
of hissing tongues
and stony smiles,
yet books have been
written about the
color of my eyes.

they are like 
the ocean, 
poseidon told me,
many years ago.
he said,
you are beautiful
like the water.

the snakes i held
in my pockets
liked his sailor’s palms,
and when he
held my hand,
i could feel a
seahorse dancing
in my iris.

one night,
i looked into his eyes
and saw sculpture
in his place.

he used to feed
the snakes 
inside my head,
but the rocks here 
give no nourishment
like the seawater on
his fingertips,

and so now 
the snakes are out, 
foraging for flesh– 
i do not know
what they will do next
and I am scared.