Whole Tree 2013

Abington Friends School Literary Magazine 2013

 Editors Sarah Nourie ‘13 Zazie Ray-Trapido ‘13

Staff Kelly Boyd ‘14 Sasha Rieders ‘14 Lucy Silbaugh ‘16 Maria Lebedev ‘14 Jessica Chromiak ‘14 Lily Segal ‘14 Danny Rothberg ‘16 Lev Greenstein ‘16 David Naitove ‘16 Leela Breitman ‘13 Monica Guest ‘14 Terez Sanogo ‘13 Melissa Spiro ‘13 Desirae Moten ‘13 Matt Fleisher ‘14

Faculty Advisor Mary Lynn Ellis

Special Thanks Susan Esslinger Vin Manta

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Table of Contents



Cover Art............................................................Maddie McCarren 4. Floating .................................................................. Terez Sanogo

Art .................................................................. Amara Malik 5. Thunder Country Child ......................................... Mini Racker

Photo .................................................................. Vin Manta 6. Morning ................................................................ Monica Guest 7. Crimson .............................................................. Hannah Kaplan 8. Table ............................................................... Cassandra Fiorino Hip-Hop ................................................................. Sudan Green 9. Baby Blues .......................................................... Emma Moreno

Photo ..................................................... Zazie Ray-Trapido 10. Art .............................................................................. Ken Chen 11. The Neighbors ................................................... Lucy Silbaugh 19. My Sister’s Hair ................................................ Emma Moreno

Art .................................................................. Emma Bisbee 20. I Can’t Grasp Them .......................................... Desirae Moten

Photo .................................................................. Vin Manta 22. I Stop Somewhere ................................................ Rachel Adler 23. Untitled .................................................................... Tom Gurin

Photo ........................................................... Rebecca Fisher 24. Early Autumn ............................................ Benjamin Hollinger

Art..........................................................................Yuxiu Lin 25. Between .............................................................. Sasha Rieders

Photo .......................................................... Rebecca Fisher 26. Moonviewing II.........................................................Tom Gurin Art..........................................................................Ken Chen

27. In Tribeca .................................................... Zazie Ray-Trapido

Art ................................................................... Sean Hyland 28. Damian ................................................................ Sarah Nourie 30. Art ........................................................................... Allison Carl 31. A Poet’s Truth ................................................. Rachel Chmelko 32. The Highway Blues .............................................. Mini Racker 33. Photo ........................................................... Zazie Ray-Trapido 34. Jar ........................................................................ Amara Malik 2

Photo .............................................................. Sudan Green 35. Dilemma ................................................................. Xiaote Zhu 36. Sweaters ...................................................... Cassandra Fiorino

Art ................................................................ Hailey Russell 37. Art ............................................... Allison Carl, Leela Breitman 38. Fish for a Moment ........................................... Silva Libohova 39. The Spirit ............................................................ Terez Sanogo 40. Veggie Larvae ......................................................... Sophia Got

Art .......................................................... Hannah Schorsch 42. Note for Future Readers ......................................... Eli Russell 43. Report Card Comments ............ Tom Gurin, Rachel Chmelko 44. How My Dad Tells Time ...................................... Omar Ayala Art ......................................................................... Echo Gu

45. Xiaote and I ............................................................ Xiaote Zhu

Art ........................................................................ Yang Cao 46. Those Left Behind ........................................... Reggie Kramer 48. Art .......................................................................... Allison Carl 49. Mona Lisa II ..................................................... Michael Lindy 50. My Grandfather’s Chair .................................. Emma Moreno 54. Art ..............................................................................Ken Chen 55. Definitions....................................Sean Hyland, Raquel Kahn, Alex Woods, Monica Guest 56. Wanderlust .......................................................... Rachel Adler

Photo .................................................... Zazie Ray-Trapido 58. Spring............................................................................Rita Wei

 Ken Chen ‘13 3

Floating

after Jim Harrison’s “Poet Warning”

I think of him sometimes.

Not often.

Only when the moonlight glints off the lime stone like sparkles of sun on the blanket of salt and water and water for days.

For days, I could go and see nothing but water.

 Terez Sanogo ‘13

First place, DeSales University Poetry Contest

 Amara Malik ‘16 4

 Vin Manta ‘13 Thunder Country Child His eyes just graze the bottom of the pane; raindrops on the window’s glass catch the golden streetlights so that the night outside seems to be filled with the thousands of stars of a clear evening sky. Though, quickly, they’re washed away.

As the water hits the sill outside, splaying out in every direction temporary flowers form, and, breakable, shatter.

The thunder, like cannons, like being right underneath a fifty yard flag as the wind gusts through it and it billows, tears through the foundations of the room, until the floors beneath his feet shake.

And the noise carries from one hundred acres east, indefinitely west.

 Mini Racker ‘14 5

Morning

“Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me, if I could not now and always send the sun-rise out of me.� Walt Whitman

I appreciate the idea, as always, pure light wrapped in spools inside the heart lining the acid-filled stomach, seeping from the pores like wisps of smoke, light as sudden and indifferent as any, simply drifting sprinkling childish glitter on the stiffened shoulders of many.

But when do you take the time to capture that, to form it into something bright, something solid like the sun?

I enjoy the glimmer, the suspension the air can settle into it gives a feeling a reminder to cling to.

But often so very often when the sun rises in all its bestowed glory obtrusive and timely— 6

I huddle inside myself eyes shut wearily unprepared for the day to come and I am selfishly, always, sleeping.

Surely, surely, the morning will kill me.

 Monica Guest ‘14

Crimson Damp dark ground covered in them Turning brown Crimson petals fighting Fighting to stay crimson All they want is to return home To float back up to their lively crimson rose The rose that let them go They fell like blood drops Like crimson tears They cried themselves Sobs heard by no one As they spiraled to the bitter earth Cut off Dying together Ignoring one another Crying crimson Until they have lost that too

 Hannah Kaplan ‘16 7

Table I am a table.

I have a leg for my mother and for my father.

And one for each brother.

All to hold me up.

My top is smooth and round and hard.

You can only see my nicks if you lay your cheek down on the wood and line your eyes up with the horizon created there.

My knots and stories are hidden beneath veneer.

And ever since my mouth was sanded shut then stained and coated and polished, everything I have to say is just furniture.

13Cassandra Fiorino ‘14 Hip-Hop Live through the— Beat, You live vicariously through the 16’s and—

Witty metaphors.

You only stay up to these instrumentals,

So the support for your family never fails.

You love this music—

She loves you back.

Life will never be the same—

Without her, and the lines of freedom.

Lines that will slowly—

Bring you Closer,

And Closer— To the top.

13Sudan Green ‘13 8

Baby Blues Open those eyes baby.

Let me into that world of yours All hidden and kept lidded.

Sweep me away to those blue cornfield planes And dance with me beneath the moon.

Rub away the sleep keeping you down And look around you to The ladder that reaches for the sky And climb Let your gaze fill with stars And your pupils cloud with sleep.

Allow your lashes to be weighed down With wishes and whispers of riches.

Pluck that round white disk from the sky and take a bite Let the warm juice drip down your chin the kind that tastes like summertime.

 Emma Moreno ‘13

 Photo by Zazie Ray-Trapido ‘13 9 9

 Ken Chen ‘13

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The Neighbors

Her lima beans growing clammier by the second, Natalie Suttle tilted her precious golden head and asked the question she always asked when there were vegetables on her plate that she didn’t feel like eating: “Mama, how come you never let me play with Henry Douglass?”

Hillary Suttle approached the matter, as usual, with delicate deliberation—the same deliberation she used, for example, when selecting a shade of rose-petal soap to match her bathroom towels. “Henry is much older than you are. I don’t think you’d want to play the same things.”

A short, scratchy laugh erupted from the end of the table.

“What your mother means to say, Nat,” Gilbert Suttle interjected, swiping at his mouth with one fist and crushing his napkin in the other, “is that she thinks Mr. and Mrs. Douglass are --”

“No, Gilbert.” She turned her head towards him, eyes gleaming.

“No, I don’t mean to say anything like that. ”

“You don’t?” His fingers, uncurling, allowed the napkin to fall to the table like a mangled white star. “Then what about the things you said on the telephone to Deborah Lewis?”

“Gilbert...” She sighed. “Please don’t make me out to be a villain.”

“I’m not! I agree with you, Hillary, I do! I just think we owe it to our daughter to be honest with her. She needs to be aware of the kinds of nutcases that are out there -- ”

“She’s seven years old. It’s too soon to -- you don’t know anything about the development of children.”

“But I know you. And I know you’re going to keep on shielding her until she’s twenty-seven years old.”

Hillary sighed again and turned to Natalie, who was mashing her lima beans contentedly with the back of her spoon. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go upstairs to bed.”

Gilbert closed his eyes and let his head knock to the back of the chair. He listened to their shoes thudding up the stairs, and Hillary’s hand whispering on the rail. Then for a few moments it was as though a piece of fine indigo silk had been spread over the whole house, hushing everything but the clock drumming and water warbling in the pipes.

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He heaved himself up on a meaty palm and trudged into the kitchen. A stack of breakfast dishes sat on the counter, waiting to be washed. He scowled and turned on the water. While he waited for it to heat, Gilbert peered through the window towards the Douglasses’.

Old gray snow shimmered on the grass between the two houses. It was a clear night, and quiet. The moon stenciled flat black shadows across the ground, but Gilbert didn’t notice them. He waved a dish under the faucet, eyes still fixed on the neighbors’ house. Blindly, he reached for the next plate.

It slipped through his fingers and crashed to the floor. Gilbert glanced at the plate, smashed in three clean shards on the cool pink tile. Then he looked back up to the window. He could have sworn the creepy neighbor kid had been staring back at him. That’s what had startled him, and made him drop the plate. But the kid was gone.

Hillary appeared in the doorway, all energy gone from her eyes.

Her gaze fell slowly to the broken china, and for a moment it seemed as though she was going to cry.

“Oh, Gilbert...”

“I didn’t mean to break it!” He hated it when she used that voice on him, the barbed-wire tone hidden in the folds of a teacherly sigh.

“I know you didn’t, but it’s a set of six and now...” She cupped her head in her hand, as if it was all too much, the lima beans and the neighbors and everything, as if this broken plate had been the very last straw.

“Can’t you glue it back together or something?”

Her voice tightened with irritation. “No. We don’t have the right kind of glue.”

“Well, maybe you should get it.”

“Why don’t you get it?” Hands on her hips, her arms looked like china handles.

“Because I’ve got to go to work, damn it! You’re sitting around here all day: can’t you get some glue then?”

Fiery blush spread up into her cheeks, normally as pale as porcelain. “Sitting around? When do you think everything gets done? The laundry, the rugs? How about all the dishes? When do you think they get washed?”

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“I don’t know when they get washed, because I came into the kitchen and they were in a gargantuan heap by the sink -- ”

“Gargantuan! Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not exaggerating! Anyway, the point is that I wash--”

They both heard a whiny cry ring from upstairs.

“Great,” spat Hillary. “You woke Natalie up. Just when I got her to sleep. Marvelous.” She stalked out of the kitchen.

“You baby her, Hillary!” Gilbert called after her back. “I bet even the Douglasses’ son can put himself to bed!”

“Oh, shut up!”

Outside, snow began to fall silently, but neither of them noticed.



Henry loved snow. He loved it in the morning, a thin layer glazing each knuckle and spire on the saplings outside his bedroom window. He loved it at nighttime, when cars rounded the corner and their wheels sprayed slush all over the road. And he loved the snow like this, at dusk, when the wind came through and pulled it off the trees in big breaths of white fog.

“Aren’t you going to finish your dinner, Henry?”

He picked up his fork. “Sorry, Mom.” Most eleven-year-olds didn’t get so excited every time it snowed, he knew. “Just looking out...”

Valerie Douglass sighed. “The heating bills really are adding up this year.” Nudging her husband’s shoulder, she added, “I think next winter we’re finally going to have to dig those storm windows out.”

Every year, Valerie and Frank Douglass vowed that this would be the last time they used plastic sheets and duct tape instead of real glass storm windows. The sheets could get ripped by thrashing branches, and they both dreaded the annual occasion when Gilbert Suttle would shuffle awkwardly to their door and say, “I just finished putting up our storm windows. My wife thought maybe you’d like some help with yours?”

All three members of the Douglass family knew that this speech had a very simple translation: “My wife thinks your plastic sheets are an eyesore. Also, please mow your lawn.” And so Valerie or Frank would say, “Thanks very much, but we’ll be all right,” and watch as Mr. Suttle walked away looking somewhat relieved.

Still, when the next November came, Henry knew his parents 13

would display identical sheepish smiles as they crouched outside the kitchen windows, pulling the panels taut and sticking them to the sills.

“Hey, Val, is this Lizzy’s?”

A voice halted Henry’s musing. Frank was holding up a stuffed rabbit with chewed-on ears and matted pink fur.

Valerie glanced over. “Oh, shoot. She got picked up at 1 today for a school visit. Looks like they forgot Bunny.”

Frank looked down at the toy in his lap. He extended a finger as if he were going to smooth the rabbit’s whiskers, but then he seemed to think better of it. It had been awhile since Valery began her daycare business, but the world of crusty stuffed animals and clamoring toddlers was still foreign to Frank.

“So, uh, another one leaving for Kindergarten, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Frank patted her hand. “Is it sad to see them leave?”

“I’m getting used to it.” Valerie exhaled. “Mostly just concerned about the money...another kid gone isn’t going to help our situation.”

Henry muted the T.V., which was buzzing at low volume as usual. “Our situation?” he asked. “What’s our situation?”

Frank and Valerie were both silent, and worry pressed on Henry’s ribs like frigid January air. He yearned for the soft mumbling of the television, and wished he hadn’t shut it off.

He looked from his mother to his father. “We’re going to be okay, right? I mean, don’t we have money saved up?”

Frank rubbed his eyebrow. “Some money, yes. But this house sure eats up a lot...” He inclined his head in the direction of the neighbors’ house. “The Goldbergs, the Lewises, the Suttles -- they all can afford it, and have enough left over for that Lawn Service Team they’d like to see us hire. But we just don’t have that kind of money.”

“What do you mean, ‘that kind of money’?”

“Well --”

Valerie gave Frank a look that Henry couldn’t make out.

“Frankie, don’t you think...maybe we shouldn’t...?”

Frank stopped talking and Valerie sat forward. “Don’t worry, Henry. We definitely are going to be okay.” She reached out and pinched his earlobe -- a motherly gesture of endearment, although Henry didn’t really understand why. He pulled away. “All you need 14

to worry about is eating your dinner so your muscles can grow. Dad and I still have hope that you’ll grow up to be a body builder, you know.”

Henry laughed uncertainly. He speared a chicken strip with his fork and turned it over, revealing little white freezer crystals clinging to the bottom like barnacles. It was Frank’s dinner night, and in his hurry to make it back to the T.V. before the commercial break ended, he’d pulled the plastic trays out of the microwave too soon. Henry squirted some more ketchup on, although he doubted it would help much.

Still chuckling, Valerie reached for the remote and un-muted the television. The Douglasses pretty much always ate dinner in front of the T.V. After a long day with the kids, Valerie usually just wanted to sprawl on the sighing sofa cushions and let the eerie blue light wash over her. Henry and Frank were happy to comply.

The Discovery Channel was doing a series on insects, and tonight’s installment included a swarm of green Luna Moths huddled in the light of a bare bulb.

“Moths are beautiful,” remarked Valerie. Henry thought she was probably just trying to make conversation.

Frank nodded. “They are, in a understated way.”

“It’s strange,” Valerie said, resting her cheek on her fist, “how everyone loves butterflies, but people are actually kind of disgusted by moths. Why is that, I wonder? I mean, they’re, like, cousins, right?”

“I’ll tell you why, Val,” Frank responded. “It’s because butterflies are orange, and moths are brown. That’s all it takes for most people.”

“Well, I think moths are beautiful.”

Frank put his arm around Valerie, his wooly sweater sleeve causing her hair to prickle with static. Henry blushed and looked away, but he felt a little better.

“Did you hear that?” She gestured to the screen. “Moths use the stars to point them where they’re going. The stars, and sometimes the moon. Isn’t that magnificent? Living life with your compass traced forever in the sky. I think that’s even cooler than orange wings.”

On the screen, a few of the moths had settled on the light, their delicate wings beating slowly. “The Luna Moth is one of the largest in North America,” a silky voice announced. “Adult wingspan may range 15

up to four and a half inches.”

“I wish I was a moth,” Valerie said.

Frank chortled. “Val, enough already! You’re a crazy moth woman!”

“Frank!” She raised her voice with fake aggravation, swatting playfully at his head. “Admit it. Admit that you wish you were a moth.”

“Ouch, quit it! Fine!” Frank resigned, a smile creeping up behind his mouth. “I wish I was a moth.” They both laughed.

Henry regarded his parents. “You guys are weird.”

Weird. It was Henry himself who had said it, and only teasingly, but the taunting word was too familiar. He swallowed, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth.

“Watch out, young man. If you keep up the attitude, you might be forced to see us kiss.”

Henry gagged appropriately, and then turned his focus to the window, hoping for something that would distract him from the “weird weird weird” wheeling through his head. Through the sleet, he could see the Suttles’ kitchen window -- a rectangle of orange that gleamed like an ember in the smeary charcoal night. Henry found his eyes being tugged into the little gold world, to the checked dish towel and the blue glass vase and the clean, wide countertops. Mr. Suttle was standing in front of the sink, washing dishes. He turned his head towards the window, and for a moment his eyes connected with Henry’s. Great, Henry thought. Now he thinks I’m a total creeper. He quickly turned back to his parents.

“Still snowing,” he reported.

Frank shoved himself off the couch and peered through the glass. “That’s some pretty half-hearted snow. Looks like it would rather be rain.”

“I like it,” Henry said firmly, happy that the conversation had returned to something as perfectly prosaic as weather.

“I do, too,” said Valerie as she turned to face the window. “We can’t always have perfect snowy wonderlands. Maybe the neighbors can, but people like us can’t.”

Frank guffawed affectionately. “What do you mean? Their house is two meters away. You mean you think the snow looks different from over there?”

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“I mean I like this half-hearted snow. It’s symbolic.”

He shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

“Of course I am -- that’s why you married me!” She paused, still looking at the snow. “But listen, Henry, I’m going to give you a grain of my wisdom.”

Henry balanced his half-finished dinner on the coffee table. He smiled. “Okay, go ahead.”

She cleared her throat loudly. “In every neighborhood, there are some perfect families, and then there are some families that are pretty, um, imperfect. When I was growing up, we were a perfect family. I hated it.” Valerie laughed. “To this day, I think it’s why Grandma can be so hard to deal with.”

She paused. “Anyway, in our neighborhood, the Suttles are a pretty perfect family, and...”

And we are a weird family, Henry thought. A family of moths.

He rubbed his palm on a bookshelf next to him, watching the dust rise and swirl back down again, almost like the falling snow outside. He turned to his mother. “How does it happen, though? I mean, how does it become so official which families are which?” He paused, wondering if he should go on. “And what if everybody got it wrong?”

Valerie looked like she might want to pinch his ear again, but instead she just shrugged. “I don’t know, Henry. I guess most people don’t really stop to check.”

“You know what? Enough of this.” Frank leaped from the floor, the grubby yellow carpet groaning as he did. “You two are even more sad than this rain-snow.” He kept smiling, but he held his neck a little straighter, and Henry could tell he was going to say something serious.

“Good family, bad family, what does it matter? I think we’re fine. And hey, you know what we should do?” His eyes sparked with excitement.

“We should make snow angels!”

“Aha!” Valerie gloated, raising a finger. “You agree it’s snow!”

“I said sleet angels.”

“Admit it, Frank, you said snow angels.” Henry stood up, coaxing the zipper on his sweatshirt until it flew up to his neck.

“Well, I meant sleet angels.” Valerie laughed as Frank tugged her up from the couch. “Let’s go!”

Henry pulled open the front door and a gust of chilly air 17

crawled in under his collar.

The air had gotten colder and the new snow -- for now it really was snow -- had begun to stick, settling softly on the old gray slush in narrow streams of pure white. Like tears, Henry thought. Tears that wash everything clean.



“You aren’t actually crying, are you?”

Hillary blew her nose noisily. Her fingers sank to her lap, and the tissue floated lightly downwards, joining the wreath of white that had bloomed on the carpet around her chair.

“It was a plate, Hillary. A plate.”

She turned her back to him. Every time she breathed, a small silver mushroom billowed on the windowpane.

Behind her, Gilbert stormed across the floorboards to his dresser, yanking his tie off with an angry jerk. After a few moments, he stomped over again. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

For a moment she was tempted to go on in this state of haughty silence as his fury augmented steadily, possibly to the point of an explosion. Instead, however, without breaking her gaze from the window, she asked, “What are the neighbors doing in our yard?”

He moved to the window and squinted out onto the lawn.

Three dark figures were tumbling clumsily in the snowy grass. It looked like they were laughing. “I have no idea. Something sketchy, knowing them.”

“Mmm.”

The heavy storm windows were closed for the season, but she thought she could hear their laughter darting across the snow.

“What?”

Hillary blinked. “Sketchy? Oh, yes, definitely.”

The wind quaked in the treetops. “Come on, Hillary. Think about it.” He reached above her head and tugged the blinds down. “We may have our broken saucers now and then, but at least we’re not the neighbors.”

“That’s right,” she said decisively, and her voice snagged on nothing. “At least we’re not the neighbors.”

Lucy Silbaugh ‘16



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 Emma Bisbee ‘16 My Sister’s Hair When she came out she had a head of hair thicker than mine, and I was three when she was born. She made small cooing noises and loud screams, and all through the din her hair grew on. As she slept in her clean white crib it grew silently. And as her curls came in with her first new painful tooth, it came loudly. Her hair arrived in bountiful bales with her first summer, all sticky and sweltering black madness. And her second winter it shivered beneath her woven woolly hats, hoping for the summer it loved. It grew in fuzzy and frizzy, and when she tried to brush it dry, it made a dusty desert storm of itself, a nest of implacable insanity. It screeched into its double digits with each morning’s brushing. And it slunk into its teens, gold at the end from too much chlorine, and not a lot of love. Now it flows, grows, spirals down her back, abused by words of hatred. It is the most beautiful hair in the whole weary world, but she will not know for years to come. For now she straightens it and weaves it and buns it and hides it. Till one day it will outgrow her insecurity, and she will notice it.

 Emma Moreno ‘13

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I Can’t Grasp Them

after “De Español y de India Produce Mestiso”

by Juan Rodriguez Juárez

The space unseen To hold this tired family together That’s where I exist Reaching out, but no one turns to me Same as the eyes never turn to the Mother She’s full of love Stands there impatiently, waiting for her spotlight moment Eyes filled with nothingBut the blank of what is in front of her I can’t save her The boy The one called a servant Young and full of life not lived Struggling to not look away To not erupt with all that stacks inside I try to plant a gentle touch on him A touch he’d never feel Baby You’re so young Looking away from it all Your innocence in a shattered photo Torn because the passion of love does not exist Therefore I’m ready To rip the hand off your head But I’m too far missing

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And then you Chalked And thenwhite you covered in red I can’t bewhite against you in red Chalked covered I can’t look at you be against you to understand you can just go IYou lookneed at you You need to understand you can just go Leave them because it seems your nature is not for a family I’m here thinking I could helpyour nature is not Leave them because it seems But I’m unseen for a family Nothere heard I’m thinking I could help Useless for you all.

But I’m unseen Not heard Desirae Moten ‘13 Unless for you all Desirae Moten ‘13





Photo

by Vin Manta  Photo

by Vincent Manta ‘13 ’13 19 21 21

I Stop Somewhere

“I stop somewhere, waiting for you.”

Walt Whitman And if I seem to loiter in these places and leave the scent of me above the rafters and stay a while to wait around the porch and contemplate the faded wooden boards do not worry: I have only stopped a moment.

It is human nature to stand vigil around past moments of vast importance where the plot twisted once violently beneath your feet. I linger in homage and breathe deep the wafting air that remains, waiting for you.

 Rachel Adler ‘14

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Skull I was hearing the drone of my train Humming with the passengers and endless rail— Digging down through my aching kettle Drums--came to a screeching halt behind my pupils—unsettled.

They swarm through a leak In my skull, leaving a hollow feel In my shoulders and half of my heart.

Far from the platform I halt once more—filling it with dark.

 Tom Gurin ‘14

 Rebecca Fisher ‘13 23

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Moonviewing II I. The moon peers through onto four friends rejoicing on the sill.

All that stands between them and the light are a few brushstrokes, Theirs and the sky’s to share.

Basking in each other’s shades, the black’s pupil Forgives the night in alizarin and Languid lavender.

II. For a small window of time I could see the moon Before it passed out of view; The small hole in my wall used to report To me the message of this break from the night: The light that cracks through the black sky.

My broken wall used to show me the flowers that Linger in the lost darkness, crave to be Caressed by their creators: the hole in the wall.

 Tom Gurin ‘14

 Ken Chen ‘13 26

 Sean Hyland ‘14 In Tribeca In Tribecca, the streets form more than just a grid. When I was little I biked down to the pier with my dad, peddling my wheels fast. The light would catch the texture of the Hudson, the blue river like a white silvery sheet. I felt the bounce of the rubbery pavement under me. Flat, smooth, staying in my lane as well as I could, for balance was something I would learn over time. I came to know the mile markers, the docks, the giant rustic orbs that were placed on the path for decoration. I came to know the pier as home. There was something so enveloping about it that I felt I was wrapped in the scene completely. I knew the smell of the river in the early spring, I knew the sound of the bikes running over the path, I knew the feeling of the hot metal railings under my fingers. I knew what it was on a glistening day in July or mid September, to ride onto a pier, to float on a lulling, silvery body of water.

 Zazie Ray-Trapido ‘13 27

Damian

When I was younger, I used to pour my Cheerios right on the table and pick each one up with the tip of my tongue. My momma hated this. She saw it as my way of defying her rule, intentionally ignoring the bowl and spoon set out for me. I think they just tasted better that way. It wasn’t long before Damian, my little brother, began to do the same. From the time he was a baby, sitting in his highchair, he would study my technique and precision. Before long, Damian followed my every move— just as he’d been told. My momma had also told me when Damian was born to make sure to take care of him. She said, “Franklin, don’t take your eye off this one. I’m trusting you here, do you hear me?” I was four at the time, and I wrinkled my nose as I looked at the pink, smelly blob that was my new brother.

With Damian now in the family, that made five of us.

Manny, Caleb, Ronny, me, and Damian. Somehow Damian came out different from the rest of us. Each one of us had dark skin like peanut butter, sturdy little bodies, and wild dark, thick hair, but Damian came out with white, white skin, the kind that needed SPF 50 on hot summer days. Damian came out with big blue eyes that would widen if you scared him, rage into the wild ocean if he was upset, and melt into soft lakes when he comforted me.

As my brothers and I rode the streets of our neighborhood on bikes with old squeaky wheels, shirtless and screaming as we played chicken and scared the little girls playing hopscotch, my youngest brother chased after us, yelling for us to wait up, only to find that these words were an unsaid trigger for all of us to push harder on the pedals and yell at the top of our lungs, so we couldn’t hear his tired pleas.

We all hated Damian a bit for the way my momma loved him. She counted the stars with Damian, stroked the soft dark hair of Damian, and made sure he was always, always safe. My momma and Damian had a “special” relationship, as my father called it.

There was supposed to be a girl that came along with Damian, but the day he was born, we packed up the pink boo28

ties and baby dolls. My brothers and I found my momma crying in the bathroom the day she came home from the hospital.

When we asked her why, she just kept crying. I knew, though.

“I bet she woulda had long pretty hair like you, Momma,” I said, touching her dark, tangled hair. She cried harder. Manny slapped me in the back. Hard. The kind of slap that leaves a red mark on your back till the next morning.

What you have to understand about my momma is that she was fearless. And when I say fearless, I mean she wasn’t afraid of anything but everything was afraid of her. Our house sits on the banks of Bar Harbor and every Saturday in the summer we walk out onto the beach and play in the sand for hours.

My momma would stand right up to where the water was and, I swear, that water was terrified of her. She had her hands on her hips, her black hair flowing behind her, and the sun kissing right up against her dark shoulders. That water would come right up to her, but just before hitting the tippies of her toes, it would recoil back into waves. Perhaps it was afraid of her laugh, booming over the sea, or of her firm voice telling us not to go out too far, or of the way she and my father would kiss shamelessly on the shore, parents visiting our beach rushing their children past them.

That night, however, from my bedroom window, I watched her stand up against that shoreline holding my baby brother in her arms. The water washed over her ankles and though I knew it would be freezing, she didn’t cry out the way my brothers and I did. She didn’t make a sound.

She went out there every year on Damian’s birthday. It would be late after cake and presents. Since I was the closest to Damian’s age, we shared bunk beds in my room and each year on his birthday, and only on his birthday, I let Damian crawl into the lower bunk with me, his head resting on my shoulder. And after he fell asleep, I would watch the water roll over my momma’s ankles, and even from afar, I could see her strong shoulders quaking as she cried silently for my baby sister.

It was when Damian turned five that he first broke free from my influence. He didn’t crawl into bed with me that eve29

ning. Instead, he stayed up late on his bunk to watch my mother go out onto the beach, and instead of staying with me, my brother crawled out of our window and climbed down to the sand. I watched him walk over to her and take her hand. I could tell my mother didn’t say anything or tell him to go away, because if she had, he’d be running back as fast as he could because we always took orders from my momma. Instead, she held tight to his hand and let the water flood over their feet for hours, and I knew the two of them were sinking together in the sand.

 Sarah Nourie ‘13

 Allison Carl ‘13 30

A Poet’s Truth

after Emerson’s “The Poet” Truths lie in the unseen layers of the air, tingeing it Sweet and ripe for those who are hungry for light.

I know I am; I look to the invisibility before me For guidance, for a beacon.

It amazes me how intangibility can be felt.

But only for myself do I search for truth in Atmospheres. To enlighten humankind Is far, far, away from my mind; the shine of the beacon I want to illuminate me.

Selfish, crazy, not a poet am I. Poets treat truths as bubbles— glistening, transient, They are messages from above.

Closed minds will pop fragile surfaces, but Ignored is just as good as broken.

An open mind honors and preserves this slippery wisdom.

A poet holds, runs, and releases bubbles in streets, In the form of criss-crossed words on paper— The perspective is theirs to share. Beauty is Revealed by attaching objects with its name.

A poet is a gate to God, they name the nameless for divinity.

I look for myself, poets look for you, But we both live on integral integrity, we integrate it Into days false and mundane. Am I a poet? I try, Hard. But surely I can say, I am as aware of truths As I am of myself. I want to leave you wondering what is Important.

 Rachel Chmelko ‘14 31

The Highway Blues Sets of red lights speed away from him, passing On the left, They become more and more Spaced apart, distant, until he’s alone on the road Except for the comet lights rushing On the other side of the concrete barrier, Metal bars rising from it.

Pulling off to a rest stop, Because he’s tired, and because he Yearns for an ice cream drumstick, He wonders if rest stops are designed just for truck drivers’ Temporary hearts Burdened and built on a scaffold Of things to carry between such successive Plazas, each a new home.

Everyone has someplace to go home to.

Or at least a cozy hotel for business trips Or at least a young wife waiting in a silk bathrobe Back in the inevitable motel room.

But he’s not everyone.

He turns the dial through the local radio-channels, Hears the late-night men laughing at lines That wouldn’t even be funny at noon.

On another he absorbs The country music that can’t match the dark sky That makes his eyes glisten, he can’t say for what.

 Mini Racker ‘14 32

 Zazie Ray-Trapido ‘13 33 33

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Dilemma What I wish the most— to meet someone who hears my music who knows my melody from the very first note, and his heart pulses, along with the beats, thrilling with trills and soothed by ritar-

dandos.

From every forte, every piano, he reaches my innermost space of pain and joy and doubt and hope.

Then he trembles at every crescendo, awaiting the outburst or a sudden shift which surprises everyone but him.

What I fear the most— to meet someone who hears my music.

For someday, he will carry it away, leaving me with a broken string piercing me... without a sound.

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 Xiaote Zhu ‘13

Sweaters When death arrives for me be he a fly or a gentleman in a carriage, I can only hope that in the house I built for myself, there are no beds un-slept in and every drawer is full of sweaters

 Cassandra Fiorino ‘14

 Art by Hailey Russell ‘15 36

 Allison Carl ‘13

 Leela Breitman ‘13 34 37

Fish for a Moment

after Cleopatra Mathis

You fish for it, the tiny tail of a moment.

The tiny speck of sunlight just strong enough to break through the dark hole known as your soul.

It’s just one moment.

One moment that could change the rest of your life so simply.

With just one worm even, hanging from the fishing reel known as your hand.

They say that life is tough.

Happy.

Meaningful.

Even meaningless, really.

But what they don’t say is that life is full of moments, moments you fish for, moments you dive for, moments you even run for—or from.

But it’s these moments that define it, those moments that explain why the sky is blue, why the grass is green, why you and I even exist in the world.

It’s simple, really.

Life is a moment, a moment that is fished for, reeled in, cooked to perfection to enjoy in the warm pouches of our stomach or a moment that is fished for, and released back into the world, 38

for someone else to fish and capture in a place where it really belongs.

 Silva Libohova ‘13 The Spirit

after Prince Twins Seven-Seven’s “The Spirit of His Reincarnation Brothers and Sisters”

Born Olaniyi Osuntoki of the seven sets of twins his mother bore and lost, he rose like the elevated son of many figures depressed and embossed in bas-relief on flesh of a tree, under pink, yellow, sky blue blood of plants in Ogidi or Ibadan.

He recognized in a square of thick cotton, the brothers and sisters who existed in him, the central oblong spirit that contains what can not be seen. Before others could see the long-necked, winding bodies of twins twirling and beating on drums keeping rhythm for their live vessel who strum an elongated lute, striped with the orange of sunset, he recognized them. He made them visible in the forms of flat figures, washed in pale colors, and dancing.

He held the dried pulp of what emerged green from the earth and in it saw the spirits he and the textile held. Behind the celebration of life in death rise flat reeds of pale green from the sunset-orange earth. Their wide teardrop leaves would bounce and flutter in songs, in steps, and in waves of the Spirit of His Reincarnation Brothers and Sisters.

 Terez Sonogo ‘13 39

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Note to Future Readers For once, just once: read my lines.

Forget about reading between them.

Don’t try to get into my head.

And don’t let me get into yours.

Do not confuse me with a poem about the fragiltiy of life or the harsh reality of love or the beauty of freedom or an allegory for the horrors of war.

I’m none of those.

Don’t waterski on my surface.

I forbid holding this poem up to a light.

Mice are prohibited.

Don’t even think of experiencing me like a maze.

No historical context.

No hidden metaphors.

No modern parallels.

No fancy language or interesting formatting decisions.

No, sir.

This is merely a simple poem.

Clear?

 Eli Russell ‘16

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Report Card Comments Dear student,

This quarter I have been impressed by your increasing ability to prosper. Great job! In much the same way the Sirens enraptured the fascination of great Odysseus, the volume of your voice has become increasingly clamorous, causing your peers to plug their ears with beeswax to keep from throwing themselves at you. This was evinced by your reading of the poem Springtime, which truly provoked the blooming flowers.

In the final quarter you have some room to grow in the area of extraditing your writing process--evaporating everything unnecessary, getting through the thinking aloud and heading straight for the heart of your argument as a toothpick jabs through the slightly stale rye bread of a party sandwich straight through the lettuce and not stopping until it reaches either roast beef or turkey; of course, the toothpick would normally keep going through to the other slice of bread because otherwise the sandwich would not be fundamentally sound for the long journey from plate to mouth. Unlike Odysseus who tended to be predeposed to surviving any condition, your writing should never stray from the either roast beef or turkey, just as Odysseus never strayed from his journey home except once or twice with that witch Circe who, I should note, was a tad submersive, so I guess it’s not a perfect anomaly.

Keep up the good work!

 Tom Gurin ‘14

Winter papers on hurricane poetry a flurry of class participation.

Your voice is full of music.

 Rachael Chmelko ‘14 43

How My Dad Tells Time

By Africa’s sun pouring down on his back It’s time for prayer Thank you, Allah Cultured Cycles created a contorted conception of time The Adhan is his call to prayer, but Never is it time to call his son, The son with his same name Four letters, But not love Same blood But different tastebuds Islam on his tongue Pork on mine Different time zones Omar Ayala ‘13

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 Echo Gu ‘15 44

 Yang Cao ‘15 Xiaote and I You sit at the edge of a garden, back to the blossoming lily of early summer, facing a cold, grey wall on which you can see every single granule of concrete, smaller than the tear you just shed, but somehow more palpable than the agony haunting your heart. So you snatch a cluster of grass, grip it in your fist, along with the bitterness of the soil and the sourness of this world. You bang the wall – beat it, smash it, crush it. You want to knock it down into pieces, hoping, no, craving that they would shower over your body, penetrate through your skin, into your vein, rush with your blood to reach your heart and then cover it, harden it and petrify it. Yet, your heart pumps your blood; your blood flows out; the wall is intact, as the scarlet roses grow.

 Xiaote Zhu ‘13 45

Those Left Behind I. Those Left Behind

II. 22 Young Men

O, sweet girl of My heart and brain.

O, to you who Brings light to my dark days.

To you who comforts me When the man punches A hole through a draft card And you who consoles me When my number is called.

O, this is to you, This Ode of gratitude.

O, sweet girl, You have gone and run away, Finding your sweet fancies taken By a subpar trumpeteer From California with dreams Of striking gold.

O, sweet girl, I would give to you all The jewlery in the world That could be made From the steel Of a rifle butt If Colonel MacDowell Would put me in a cellar Underneath Fort Devon And if I thought that Would win you back.

The young men went to war To do their country service in a foreign land 21 young men never came back And 22 mothers cried at 22 funerals.

III. The Survivor The young man sat on the porch Of a small house In a small industial mill town 22 miles west of Boston.

He wore a medal pinned Over his heart.

He won it for doing Something bad.

Surviving To his 22nd birthday And becoming a man.

His eyes were wide, unfocused, Pupils threatening to drift Into the air and float Away.

(Who could blame them?)

He stared into the street.

He longed to return to The place where he felt like himself.

Fort Deven, in MA. The cliffs of Normandy.

His mind was still there.

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Home, and told his mother He sat on his porch.

And sister he loved them.

He didn’t know what to do.

He went into his bathroom, He wanted to fight.

And brushed his teeth And reHe only knew how to fight. moved his clothes He wanted his girl back.

He wished his girl hadn’t gone. And stepped in to the shower. He let He wanted to fight. the cold water wash over him He didn’t know what to do.

And then he stepped out So he took up boxing And looked into the mirror in rhythm with his fists.

And saw his own And he saw the punching Bags cloaked in the uniforms Body cloaked in the uniforms Of the enemy.

Of the enemy. The leather He hated what he saw.

Bags contorting into the twisted And he took from his closet Faces of the deranged enemy.

A small wooden box and And he pummeled them with Removed the Walther 22 Such force and such anger That he had taken from the And such manic violence Dead body of an enemy soldier That the owner of the gym He had killed, Entered him into a fight.

Throttled with his own hands, And he saw the opponent’s And added one more body Body cloaked in the uniforms To the enemy’s death count.

Of the enemy. So he beat And there was a funeral, And he beat and he punched Complete with a 22 gun salute And he punched and his oppoAnd a gravestone that said nent “Born in 1922, died in 1944.

Fell to the ground and He was 22 years old.”

He continued punching, He was the 22nd member of his So furious was his hatred and troupe to die.

The training he But not the last.

Had received at Fort Never the last.

Deven. The opponent Pressed charges and Reggie Kramer ‘14 He spent 22 nights in National Scholastic Art and Writing Jail. Then he went Award Gold Key

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Mona Lisa II They call her A sister To that European smile A sequel An inheritor But I do not see Any mystery Or hidden knowledge In those eyes Only the patience Of an endless golden sky Stretching without limit Or direction Only the endurance Of a mountain peak Against the roots of plants And the growth of man Only the solemn silence Of a lonely white flower Or a few Frozen figures On a small Red box

 Michael Lindy ‘14

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My Grandfather’s Chair

My grandfather’s evergreen chair smelled like cigarettes and shoe polish. It had horsehair upholstery and carved mahogany legs, but one was too short so unless your feet firmly touched the floor you were sure to rock back and forth in an endless cycle of tottering helplessness. It was a wingback chair, taller by far than any chair I’d ever seen. Those long spindly legs balanced on tiptoe, struggling to hold up a weight that far surpassed their own. There were tiny embroidered boats on that chair that seemed to mock the way it would rock. That chair was a prison for misbehaving children. If you stepped on the cat’s tail, or broke a vase, or scared your little brother, or watched a PG-13 movie, you had to sit in that chair. That memory permeates every bit of my childhood because every other summer I was left at my grandparents’ house with my cousins, and I would have to face that chair as the hot Alabama air made my grandfather’s scent cling to my overalls and haunt me all day, his memory looking on sternly as I furrowed my brow.

Here was the usual process: I would misbehave, I would try to sneak away, I would get caught and full-named— “Elizabeth Alexandra Catherine Deneuve!”—I would get a whump on my seat, then be forced to sit in that seat and think about my sins. My grandmother was fun most of the time, always had something sweet in the oven, always ready to play a game of baseball or spin a story about her childhood that would leave us roaring, but she did not put up with misbehavior. She would sit me in that chair, away from the fun, where my back end would throb and my feet would dangle and my mouth would be dry and salty from crying—not apologetically of course, but a self pitying cry for getting caught—and my arms would hurt ‘cause the armrests were too high.

Then there was Danny, my little brother. He would stand, hidden by the long velvet brocade drapes, and watch me suffer. Daniel Joseph Peter Deneuve. I think his christening was the only time I ever heard him full-named. I remember wonder50

ing what a baby had done to get in trouble with the priest, but when I asked, my mom said that I was being ridiculous, though she never told me why. Danny would just stand behind his curtain and mock my pain, and it was always his fault. He would bait me, or tell on me, or trick me, or blame me, and I would get whumped and sat down. I never told on him though. I didn’t wanna be a tattle-tale like him. I was way more mature than that.

But I still hated that chair. And at the end of those long summers, when we would be packed into the minivan, I would wave goodbye to my grandmother, and wish with all my might that I would never have to sit in that rickety prison again.

One summer I broke that chair. I was nine years old.

Our whole family was at my grandparents’ house for a Fourth of July picnic. My aunt Cynthia was pregnant, again, and I was playing baseball with her three oldest boys while Danny was catching crickets with her youngest, all of us kids in the field off the side of my grandparents’ house, while the adults talked about taxes and air-conditioning bills on the back porch.

Aunt Cynthia looked like an ostrich that day—all big and round on top with these long skinny legs— and honestly I kept sneaking glances at her wondering if the baby was just gonna fall out or something. I kept wanting Uncle Jim to put on a baseball glove, you know, in case he needed to catch the baby or something. He said that was an odd idea.

Cynthia’s oldest, James Jr., was a whopping 14 years old that summer, and he thought he knew everything. So when J.J. threw the ball, I hit it out of the park. Man, that was a good turn, but since there were only four of us, we were more just practicing, and the air felt like we were wading through my mom’s cream of mushroom soup, so none of us wanted to go get the ball. Danny and Zack, however, were already farther into the field—around where I had hit the ball—so of course I yelled to Danny to toss the ball back to us. He didn’t want to, so I teased him, telling him none of us believed he could even throw a ball that far.

Pouting like the crybaby he was, Danny got the ball and stomped toward me. Then, just as he got within throwing dis51

tance, he lobbed that ball right over my head and through the window of my grandmother’s kitchen. For a second we all stood frozen, but my grandmother had heard the crash and came running from the back deck—where the party was—and man was she furious! She ran over and gave my wrist a strong yank and began to drag me inside, me even though Danny was standing there looking guilty as a puppy that had eaten his owner’s shoes.

As I was dragged passed J.J. he whispered, “Throw a fit, it works for babies, adults don’t want the trouble of a fit.” And I trusted him, he was 14, he knew everything.

My grandmother sat down on the back steps in front of everyone, put me over her knee, and gave me the whumping of a lifetime. I was in tears before she was half done, shame and pain flowing down my cheeks in matching rivulets. Then she tugged me up and began leading me to the chair. That was too much. I was still holding that hot aluminum bat, and I was so hot, and I was so angry at the unjustness of it all, I began to wail. Just as we got to the chair, in one final protest, I threw the bat. I wanted to make a fuss, throw a fit like J.J. had told me to do, but instead, that bat broke the uneven leg.

I was so shocked I forgot to cry. The chair stood for a second, held up by a favorable July breeze, and then, just as it rocked back into place, it toppled over. My nemesis and punisher toppled over. Now that the gates were open, I rushed over and yanked apart the curtain to reveal a cowering Danny. I grabbed his sticky baby-fist and basically tossed him at my grandmother.

He was so scared he immediately started babbling about how it was all his fault, and he threw the ball, and he was really, really, really sorry. But my grandmother had not moved. She stood there looking at my grandfather’s chair and then she did the strangest thing I have ever seen her do.

She cried. My butt-whumping, baseball-playing, piebaking, coffee-drinking, early-rising grandmother just sat there on the floor and cried. She reached out and caressed every inch of that rough green chair. She tickled the scruffy arms andsmoothed the sagging seat, and softly she brushed the three scuffed legs before picking up the fourth and gently kissing the broken end. She kept whispering “goodbye.” I couldn’t see who 52

she was talking to, but as she cried and whispered, my grandmother seemed to curl into a ball by that hideous green chair, shrinking smaller and smaller, till she almost seemed to disappear.

I was terrified. Forget my aching bum, forget the shattered window, forget the malicious curtain, I wrapped a protective arm around Danny’s chest and pulled him out of there as quick as my feet would carry me. Walking out onto the back porch, through a crowd of hushed and confused relatives, I picked my way past the table of overheated food, the ice-tub of beer, my Uncle Peter’s ugly motorcycle that my grandmother disapproved of, and finally found my way around the side of the house to the field next to the kitchen window. J.J., Sam, and Andrew were still playing ball. I watched as J.J missed the first two pitches, then hit a bad foul on his last shot. Andrew wiped the sweat from his forehead on the sweaty sleeve of his sweaty shirt, making damp streaks stand out against the bright blue fabric. Sam spit on the ground cause that’s what the pros do, and at ten years old he desperately wanted to be taken seriously.

With my arm still wrapped around Danny’s chest I slowly walked across the field to James, Jr. When he saw me, he smiled. He kept that stupid smile on his face till I was uncomfortably close to his skinny chest. Only then did I release Danny, who scampered off to play with Zack. And then, looking back at that smug smile on J.J.’s face, I slugged him.

I hit him so hard in the stomach he fell over. He had told me to be a baby and throw a fit, he had told me and I had believed him! I told myself that it was his fault, or Danny’s fault, but deep in my mind I knew that it was mine: I killed the chair, my grandmother was crying because of me. As J.J. lay there in the dirt I began to cry again. I had broken the chair. And then the broken chair had broken my grandmother.

As I listened to James Jr. regain his breath, the sound of his sputtering mixed with the sound of the ambulance that came for my Aunt Cynthia, which mixed with the sound of my Dad full-naming me from the back porch. It was a really hot day, the kind of day that makes the words “I’m sorry” stick to the back of your throat and stop your breathing, the kind of day when you 6 53

break two things at once, the kind of day when a baby is born and they named him William Franklin Isaac Deneuve, after my grandfather, which is stupid, cause that kid will never have to sit in my grandfather’s chair.

 Emma Moreno ‘13

 Ken Chen ‘14 7 5 54

Definitions Punctilious.

Like a tree in the fall, it is focused on separating itself from even the smallest leaf. It is the wind brushing the backs of every rock, root, and blade of grass in an open field. It grinds its teeth when a note is sung a little too sharp.

Sean Hyland ‘14

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Cynical.

It is the raised eyebrows, furrowed forehead, and a slightly cocked head. It’s when everything is bound to go wrong because things don’t ever just go right. It’s when the nice person always has an ulterior motive. It’s probably going to rain today even though the forecast is sunny. Even if it is sunny, it’ll probably be too hot.

Raquel Kahn ‘14 Solemn.

Eyes closed and a church bell resounding. Like some anonymous, munificent figure whom the world knew and loved has just passed away. You’re hurt even though you didn’t know them well.

Alex Woods ‘14 Contemplative.

Like a tree of questions planted in your head, growing bigger and bigger until it demands to be trimmed, watered, and appreciated. Like actively, intentionally turning summer into autumn, and watching the colors change. Like planting a new tree immediately, as many red, brown, and yellow questions have floated to the ground, answered. Like raking these away quickly to ensure these new considerations have their space. Like tending, doting, and patriotizing these thoughts as they sprout. Like hurting your neck as you watch it grow taller. Like working to reach the next autumn, yet feeling the cold close in. You put your head down and experience the crippling winter, as your brain finally rests.

Like the seasons changing once more.

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 Monica Guest ‘14

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Wanderlust

after Jackson Pollock’s #1 (later renamed Lavender Mist)

I. In a country this big you can find one of anything these past few weeks I’ve been looking: a broken bottle an empty lidless sideways trashcan a stray cat a bent umbrella that still works well enough if you don’t mind a little drip a neon sign with its noble glow on the sunburned face of a sprezzaturing cyclist anachronistic, paraphrasing Alexander renaming each city dropped along those dusty Midwest highways.

II. I went to the Grand Canyon and found one of nothing: three lost hats sixteen layers of red rock a dozen blond European backpackers crowding around two six-feet Swiss thirty-five percent chance of heavy rain turning to mist III. And that’s how you get closer and closer and fill your eyes with lavender light and, on the off chance of incredible luck, find one of anything.

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IV. Eventually, you give up trying to name these things spontaneous as they are and you start unloading them along those dusty Midwest highways with their scores of Alexandrias and start to cry at movies or let gravity take its course to move you safely through the lavender mist with slick tarmac slides toward five miles, two miles, one mile from the nearest exit.

You tap the steering wheel, amused, and turn your car onto the ramp.

V. There will be long days to come to bring order to chaos long days to come for correction or creation long days to come to bathe on beaches in lavender mist.

But for now you learn to cross your legs and sit like a lady you learn to steal candy and cook rice you learn to weather pages with tea bags and microwaves and eventually to deal with sadness.

VI. If only you had been struck with wanderlust then you could have moved on but this is love, darling, and you’re not escaping no matter how many Alexandrias you conquer.

 Rachel Adler ‘14  Photo by Zazie Ray-Trapido 57 57

Spring

They said the willow beside the stream Is like a beauty’s hair The chrysanthemums on the grass Are falling stars in the daylight Melting in the breeze Sounding like a reverie Rivers awakened by spring Running with blooming flowers Rush to their mother, the harbor But what is waiting is the grave The sun hangs in the horizon Sunset separating the globe into two The orange afterglow says “Goodnight” to the world

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 Rita Wei ‘15

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