Sound Bites, Rin Alford

ABOUT OUR COLUMN

Sound Bites is a poetry column intended to be read, heard, and tasted. It is finger food, messy and hands-on, compacting all the sweetest bits of a writer into a few small moments. The column will accept student writing submissions in the form of poetry or short prose for every issue from any and all majors, ages, and backgrounds.

Submissions can be emailed directly to Poetry Editor Geneva Webber at gwebberinsider@gmail.com. Parameters for submissions are as follows:

• Please attach a Word (.docx) document of your piece(s) with a maximum of 750 words
• Include a short but personal bio about yourself with a maximum of 200 words
• Specify your preferred name and pronouns
• If you submit multiple pieces, give them a group title of your choosing (i.e. “Three Poems by Lindsey Kutz”)
• Be prepared for follow-up questions 🙂

ABOUT OUR AUTHOR

Rin Alford (they/them)

This issue, our author is Rin Alford: a Creative and Professional Writing major with a Psychology minor. They’ve worked with other writing students to publish two chapbooks, and worked on advertisement for UPG’s own pendulum. They are a senior at UPG.

Rin writes about grief and love, as well as traveling between states and those they find along the way. Their experiences through life have inspired them to share moments that would otherwise be deemed small and insignificant, as a way to encourage others to learn the importance of those moments in their own lives.

I See You in the Lunch Line

But your head turns,

and I realize it can’t be,

because you had a beard,

and he doesn’t.

I see you again as I walk

to a class we were meant to share,

my breath gets caught in my throat,

but it isn’t you.

I see you at the store

when I go to buy chocolate,

and I see you

in a heart-shaped valentine’s box.

I see you in a pint of beer.

I see you in my back seat,

in the pink shoebox

filled with trading cards.

I see you in my room,

sitting on the carpet,

eating Taco Bell

and smoking your pen.

I see you now,

in class, one of those seats

is supposed to be yours,

should have been.

Your name is still on the roster,

even days after your death,

the teacher calls your name,

then scratches a pen, marking you absent.

Changing Colors

Forest green turns to

barf yellow,

as I think too much

to the point I feel sick.

So quickly my words for you

become soured and curdled.

As I become scared,

hesitant,

to reach out to you.

But it’s not because of you,

it’s not your fault.

It’s the chemicals in my brain,

the ones that turn thoughts

acidic.

Readings of Poems: