Sierra Elman is a high school writer based in California. She is the former Youth Poet Laureate of Burlingame-Hillsborough and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards among others. She is also the co-founder and editor-in-chief of Marmalade Lit. Her work has appeared in the Blue Marble Review and the Eunoia Review. When she isn’t writing, she can be found playing Gracie Abrams on the guitar or trying to get her nine-year-old dog to come when called.

Poem

Last Tuesday I said I would do anything for you

Black velvet on a Macy’s mannequin.
You touched her white neck, kissed her white lips.
Your hands between her white bones: all talcum powder
and baking soda on your fingertips. When you
weren’t looking, I folded her knees and lay her down.

Black coffin, red lacquer, trunk of my car.
I drove her to the beach. I made her a picnic on a
checkered blanket. I put her white palms on my
hips and we danced until my feet were tired
from the singe of the sand. When I
wasn’t looking, you scattered her ashes in my hair.

We split a cherry soda and watched the moon,
wore her black velvet over our white shoulders.

Copyright © 2025 by Sierra Elman. Used with permission of the author.

Ollie Ballard is the 2025-2026 Burlingame-Hillsborough Youth Poet Laureate.

Artist Statement

I started reading when I was very young. I remember being curled up in my room after preschool – door shut, curtains drawn – tiny hands flipping tiny pages as I sounded out words, teaching myself how the letters wove together to form something wonderful and wild. I found solace in stories – a certain calm that emanated from the grand worlds that sprung up around me. I fell in love with words then, and I am in love with words now. My love for words turns writing into something intimate – a process that often feels to me like tearing open my chest to show the world my beating heart. It is painful in the sense that vulnerability has never been my strong suit. I am a very private person – with everyone in my life. Writing is my outlet, my escape. The page is my place to hide when I have feelings or thoughts or grand ideas that I cannot yet fathom sharing with the rest of the world. So they stay in my world, in my words, and I share them on my terms. Words are my safe house, my tree fort tucked deep in the forest and my hidden room behind a secret door. When I started writing, I wrote for myself. But I have learned that to share your writing is not only to be vulnerable but also to be brave. It is handing someone a raw piece of yourself and asking them to hear it, judge it, and carry it with them. Having someone read something I’ve written is an intimate thing—one I have had to learn to be comfortable with.

My creative writing journey began with prose fiction and lots of brainstorming – of worlds, of characters, and of plots – all written in my notebooks strewn about my house. Most recently, I have focused my writing primarily on poetry. When writing poetry, I love the ability to play with the regular conventions of writing and grammar, to decide where to break the line and where to use certain words. In essence, poetry allows me to worship the words I love and give each and every word the attention I feel it deserves. The freedom poetry provides – the ability to ignore conventions of grammar and form – allows a certain freedom of expression that I have learned to covet in the quiet moments when it is just me and my words. In a strange way, this honesty with myself has allowed me to attain a certain level of confidence in my ability to properly express myself and, to an extent, I have become more comfortable being vulnerable whilst communicating with others.

My poetry tends to combine personal elements with broader observations about the world around me. Two of my writing samples that I am submitting with my application demonstrate my approach to poetry. “Conversations at the dinner table” may be my favorite thing I have ever written. The poem touches on several topics through the lens of dinner foods – salt to talk about ever-changing relationships with siblings or friends, or avocado to focus on the U.S. immigration crisis. The poem came to me one night as my mind was swirling with ideas and questions as it often does, and it struck me how dinnertime, at least for my family, is a time for us to break down every aspect of our daily lives. The conversations range from “How was your day?” to deep moral and political discussions about the happenings in the world.

“Conversations with blackness” is a poem that I needed to write. My dad is black. Both of his parents are black. This, in turn, makes me black. However, I am pretty light-skinned, and my identity has constantly been questioned by people around me. Having to prove myself to other black people feels isolating and frustrating, and having non-black people question my identity just gets plain annoying.

“Conversations with blackness” came from a place of finality: I wanted to say – to myself and to the world – I am black and no one can take that away from me. Language is how we as a species communicate, and in this time of division and uncertainty, communication – between people from different backgrounds, people with different opinions, and people with different identities – is more important than ever. Poetry, I find, is a perfect medium through which conversation can be started; the poetic form allows for a direct message to be conveyed while simultaneously encouraging diverse interpretations.

Poems

CONVERSATIONS WITH BLACKNESS

I know I am too light
I can see it in the confusion and disgust on people’s
                    faces
when I make a comment about blackness because
to them, I cannot possibly be a part of:
                    blackness.

But I am a part of the backseat when the car door
                    opens:
and someone mistakes my dad for their Uber because
America has told us that his dark face
means that he cannot simply be a man.
A man waiting to pick his son up from the airport
or a man waiting for his wife to check out of a nice
                    hotel.
America has told us that we can be anything — except
                    people —
and even though we are people now
there are roots buried so deep it would take a time
                    machine to unravel them,
so we are still fighting to be people;

I am a part of the lectures my dad gives during
                    dinner-time conversations:
warning my brother and I not to walk around at night
                    with our hoods up
reminding us, again, when we get our driver’s licenses
                    to keep our hands on the wheel in case we were
                    ever pulled over:
“yes, officer,” “no, officer,” he told us to say;

I am a part of my great uncle’s story:
when he was one of the first two black people to go to
                    Kenyon College
in Ohio where my dad dropped me off for two weeks
and told me to be wary that people might be more
                    ignorant than I was used to because people
                    were more ignorant than he was used to.
He told me to define myself because other people
                    would try to define me;

so I define myself as a part of blackness
because how can I not be a part of blackness
if blackness is a part of me?

CONVERSATIONS AT THE DINNER TABLE

Can you;
pass the broccoli;
broccoli;
is a
flower;
our
flowers;
in the backyard;
have been blooming;
so we strangled;
their stems;
and sliced;
their necks;
plucked;
their thorns;
and stripped;
their defenses;
put them;
on the table;
there;
next to;
the broccoli;

Pass the salt;
to your brother;
he’s leaving for college;
in two months;
he’ll
fly away;
like an osprey;
that you used to watch;
in tahoe;
on summer days;
loss is;
a universal key;
on every piano;
he played;
with two
fingers;
and one hand;
when you tried;
to teach him;
he might never learn;
and now;
he’ll be gone;
like so many things;
and you won’t get;
to pass him;
the salt;

The chicken;
came out great;
cooked to perfection;
we slaughtered;
the mother;
and swallowed;
the children;
Mom;
did you schedule;
that dentist’s appointment;
for me;
at nine a.m;
there’s rosemary;
stuck;
in my tooth;
i think;
it’s from;
the chicken;

How are;
the potatoes;
they’re better;
than the ones i had;
today at school;

school;
was okay;
but in my head;
i was having;
nightmares;
all day;
so i don’t remember;
much;
i think life;
consists;
of waking up;
and forgetting;
that the world;
will end someday;
because it doesn’t matter;
in your lifetime;
until it does;
and time runs out;
the sunset dies;
school;
doesn’t teach you;
how to live;
only how to exist;
you have to;
wrestle living;
from the spaces;
between;
the lessons;
they teach;
but lunch;
was
fine;
i sat;
with my friends;
and we had;
potatoes;

Can you hand me;
the avocado;
smuggled across borders;
scratching at;
barbed wire;
and iron posts;
and desert sands;
like a cat;
that wants;
to be fed;
after being starved;
for days;
i’m so glad;
it’s dinner;
i’ve been;
starving;
pour me water;
my mouth;
is like;
a desert;
endless hills;
of sand;
and pass me;
that napkin;
i spilled;
the avocado;

You can have;
dessert if;
you eat;
the earth;
and devour;
mother nature;
and consume;
every heartbeat;
you can have;

chocolate;
wrested from the hands;
of the people;
who grew it;
underpaid;
and under;
loved i love;
chocolate;
but chocolate;
is melted blood;
a cycle of;
harvested souls;
i can taste;
the sweat;
and the tears;
too bitter;
for dessert;

BERRY SEEDS

misery tastes like
fresh summer berries
                    and a shell of existence,
insides carved out by prejudice,
intestines spelling names
like a registry of who can
                    and who cannot,
an arbitrary
                    hierarchy of
                              incapability to account for
difference human nature

Copyright © 2025 by Ollie Ballard. Used with permission of the author.

Andrada Tomisinet is a senior in high school and is currently serving as the 2024-25 South San Francisco Youth Poet-in-Residence. As a Romanian-American, Andrada uses poetry to explore her heritage, emotions, and memories of summers in Romania. In her poetry collection In Between Sunsets, she combines writing with visual art to share her culture and personal insights with others. Andrada is excited to continue fostering community and creativity at her future readings.

Watch Andrada read her poem.