Blanket Sea

Arts & Literary Magazine

Category: Poetry (page 1 of 6)

“Nothing and Everything, All At Once” by Wanda Deglane

There was a time before I was engulfed,
but I can no longer remember it. Before the gray,
dense cloud ate me whole and killed the sun
with its bare, murky fists. Some days, I lie on
the pitted ground, pulling my legs up to my chest.
It’s easier to find air to breathe that way, to not
suffocate and succumb. Other days, I feel a little braver
and I walk, aimlessly, through the fog that smells of
burning gasoline and dying too young. I call out,
Hello? Is anywhere there? as loud as my scorched lungs
will allow, and now and then I hear a muffled yell,
too far away to make out, or a hand forces its way
out of the gloom, reaching for me, but then disappears.
Most days, there is nothing but crushing silence.
There was a time when I could see the world around me,
feel the sun that cradled and gave me my freckles,
see it all in vibrant colors. Now I see life in splintered,
muted pieces through the fog, passing quick in front of me
before fading out of view. There is my mother, crying in her room,
trying to grasp my cold hands while I stare at her, numb
and already perished. Here is a teacher, speaking in front of
a classroom, but his words come out garbled and obscure,
more strange sounds than lecture. There is my therapist,
trying to meet my eyes while I sink deeper and deeper into her couch
and say nothing for a whole hour. And there is my room, the mess it is,
clothes spewed all over the floor and the furniture collecting dust,
while I lie on my bed and will myself to move. Here is my father,
trapping me in a stern, stiff gaze as he tries to disentangle
the word depressed from the word lazy, from ungrateful. He cannot.
There are my friends, ignoring my frantic text messages. There is
my screaming, my breaking, my hot and cold, my shaking hands
and too-pounding pulse that feels like the start of a heart attack.
There is my nightmares, my sleepless nights, my lifeless days.
There is the future, my hopes, crumbling beneath my feet
where I can no longer see them. Here is my mind, starting
to collapse. Here is everything becoming insurmountable, impossible.
Here is everything I once loved, losing its luster. Here is feeling
in waves, feeling too much, and then not feeling at all.
Here is nothing. Here is a voice, much too far away, calling,
Where are you? We miss you so.

Come back to me.



Wanda Deglane is a night-blooming desert flower from Arizona. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and attends Arizona State University, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in psychology and family & human development. Her poetry has been published or forthcoming from Rust + Moth, Glass Poetry, L’Ephemere Review, and Former Cactus, among other lovely places. Wanda self published her first poetry book, Rainlily, in 2018.


(This poem first appeared in Deracine Magazine.)

“Tuesday Disallowed” by Ruth Lehrer

I’d like to leave this nailbiter of a day
the spasms, the meanness, the tension
of that dark coast looming
I’d like to clock the amps of power cruel
and then
flip the switch to opera
blast out the termites
clean up the frequencies
and then
go to quiet
a snake graveyard
a turtle concert
a blue water map of letters
A rabbit castle
built on glass.



Ruth Lehrer is a writer and sign language interpreter living in western Massachusetts. Her writing has been published in journals such as Lilith and Jubilat. Her poetry chapbook, TIGER LAUGHS WHEN YOU PUSH, is published by Headmistress Press. Her debut young adult novel, BEING FISHKILL, is available from Candlewick Press.

“Twenty-Five” by Caitlin Thomson

If the pain that visits my body every day had a name
perhaps it would be easier to talk about it to others,

including the doctor, who nods sympathetically
and draws dogs on his prescription pad to entertain my daughter –

the under two crowd loves a good dog. I will see him again
for years, every once in a while, but the pain visits daily,

it does not ask to be fit into my busy schedule
it finds a way, and I in turn have found a way to smile

with a punch in my gut. To eat food and make conversation
while my stomach, contracts in and out as if I am preparing

to give birth. I have cleaned my house and walked through
The Louvre with a paring knife in my bowels. What to do with this?

The doctor doesn’t say that nothing can be done with words
but with years of inaction, of tests, each as unhelpful as the next.



Caitlin Thomson has an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies and literary journals including: The Adroit Journal, Rust + Moth, Barrow Street Journal, and The Pittsburgh Poetry Review.  You can learn more about her writing at

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