by Eve Jensen, Haddonfield Memorial High School


my eyes are brown

not brown like dirt

but brown like the rich soil outside of my childhood home, which knows the grooves of my

palms no matter how much they expand over the years

not brown like mud

but brown like the soles of my feet after running through the woods in the torrents, pitch black

but for when the lightning throws everything into a stark white, like the world is taking a 

polaroid of us

not brown like chocolate

but brown like the little blocks my grandmother helps me break, her hands over mine, and drop

into a pot with cream and sugar and vanilla extract that smells better than it tastes until it is

baked into something

not brown like wood

but brown like the strong oak desk which is large and old and covered in stains from coffee mugs

and candles and sunshine, first my father’s and now mine


Second Prize winner of the 2019 Walt Whitman Poetry Contest