Maya Carlson

Maya Carlson was adopted from South Korea and grew up in Hainesport, New Jersey. In the summer of 2015, she attended a writing program at Smith College and earned her B.A. in Writing at Ithaca College (2017 – 2021). While at Ithaca, Maya served as the Senior Fiction Editor for Stillwater Magazine (2019 – 2021), Creative nonfiction Section Editor for ZoetIC (2020 – 2021), and Health & Fitness Editor for Distinct. Since graduating, she has helped over 600 students with their college application essays.

POV: After Hearing that Roe v. Wade was Overturned

Let me get this straight:

I can send my body off to war

dodge a few bullets

come home with scars

I can cover my body with black

ink or cut marks

but there’s no law preventing me from

jumping from

the highest tops and

I can drink myself into my grave

with no laws to prevent the way I behave

I can puff some nicotine and

wear my skinny jeans but

I can’t wear any miniskirts or

sexy revealing shirts cause

it means that I am

open for business

but my legs aren’t open and

no one gave you permission.

The dad who hugged his

little girl too tight—

the years flew by and she

cried every night wishing

she could be free from the

oppression of the system—

the one forcing her to

support a life that

she cannot.

We’re told that it’s preventable with

a condom or some knowledge

tell that to the girl with the

full ride to college who

went out to drinks with a

couple of her girlfriends and

some random guy had followed her and

shoved her down and forced it.

Restrictive laws are not the answer.

To politicians we are just a number.

So we suffer and wait and

contemplate

why we are the ones

that are to

blame.

Untitled

We lie in a field of white rain lilies—

their petals brushing against our hair,

grass tickling our skin.

The sun descends its starless staircase,

cloaking our bodies in an amber glaze.

I glide my head into the nook of your neck

and slide my fingers between yours, sewing us together.

You turn and plant a soft kiss on my cheek,

lips lingering too long. I turn

my head, release my hand,

and feel the cool summer breeze

slide against my skin.

I have to go

you say as you stand

severing the stitches

between us.

Come with me

you plead, arm outstretched.

I pluck a petal

and place it in your hand,

folding your fingers

around it.

Maybe next time