Bossier Magazine Issue 14 by Bossier Magazine

My Mother’s Tarot by Lauren Hogg 5

THE DUMPLINGS

COVER ART BY ALINA VASQUEZ

C O NT R I B U TO RS

Sarah Lin Bilquisu Abdullah Saeed Samra Alison Karki Valeria Canovi Meredith Monnich Anna Holk Evalyn Lee Ella Kohler Lailah Mozaffar Ava MacDonald Kathleen Felli Sonia Fan Derin Savasan Sophia Monsalvo Sydney Hudson Lauren Santoro Francesca Donovan Angelena Bougiamas Christina Gomes Diane Li Cynthia Ng Théa Jacquand Isabella Pamias Brigid O’Connor Casey Landbecker Elizabeth Short Mansi Peters Claire Kovac Camille Kelly Rosemary Newman Rachel Parks Alexandra Lalli Gaby Ahl Claire Tsui Fiona Naughton Serena Barish Isabel Corvington Blake Bertero Gwenyth Prince Lia Gilleran Isabela Fernanda Gomez Lauren Hogg

M I N I - Z I N E T E AM Leila Pagel Jasmine Criqui Madelyn Kausch Ariana Ng

THE B -T E AM

Executive Editor - Bilquisu Abdullah Creative Director - Serena Barish Senior Layout Director - Ava MacDonald Managing Editor - Angelena Bougiamas Outreach Director - Fiona Naughton Head of Marketing - Théa Jacquand Merch & Finance Director - Susan Rodgers IDEA Director - Sara Amar Mini-Zine Director - Leila Pagel Digital Platform Directors - Isabela Gomez & Kathleen Felli

T HE B- T E AM

L AYOUT RES CREATORS

Jr. Layout Director: Sydney Hudson Jasmine Criqui Francesca Donovan Sophie Liu Sarah Lin Ariana Ng Valeria Canovi Madhura Shembekar Camille Kelly Mai Wheeler Lailah Mozaffar Francesca Hales Alison Karki Luisa Rego Margot Langman Isabella Sicilian Gaby Ahl Blake Bertero Casey Landecker Julia Rasmussen Brigid O’Connor Eve Elias Stowell Diane Li Larissa Johnson Sophia Monsalvo Evalyn Lee Maggie Sansone WRITE R S Bahar Hassantash Christina Gomes Kalyn Ouk EDITORS Caroline Palermo Cosima von Baumbach Lauren Repella Isabel Corvington Shay Pratt Gwen Prince Delaney Don Annika Bjork Max Patillo Eva Andersen Meredith Monnich Victoria Cheng Ariana Hameed Priscilla Kim Saeed Samra Logan Castellanos Claire Kovac Paige Gilbert Laura Kopec Anouk Hirano Sonia Fan Nola Millet Mansi Peters Dolce Coury Lauren Santoro Nina Silas Rachel Parks Amelie Graham Emma Albro OUT R E A C H Flora Xia Kate Unrath Isabelle Amster Clarissa Acosta Amy Wang Hayley Young Claire Tsui Charis Suh Charlotte Siohan Allie Dornfeld Carmen Phillips M ARKET ING Zahra Saboorzadeh Emily Kalyvas Talia Karaahmet Madelyn Kausch Molly Meehan Ayushi Das Daisy Marquez Lauren Frank Elizabeth Esteves Alaena Hunt Jocelynn Singsiri Annabelle Rogers Yevheniia Kolomoiets Mara Goldstein Alexandra Lalli DIGITAL PLATFORM Robin McFarland Marina Gallozi Anna Holk F INANCE Cynthia Ng Alana Cenaj Kelsey Perriello

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S names listed are page layout designers — artists are credited on their respective pages

2 Contributors 3 Table of Contents 4 Editors’ Letters & Resources 5 Playlist 6-7 Blake Bertero 8-9 Eve Elias 10-11 Maggie Sansone

12-13 Lailah Mozaffar 14-15 Jules Rasmussen u n 16-17 Sydney Hudson 18-19 Francesca Donovan p 20-21 Jasmine Criqui 22-23 Jasmine Criqui 24-25 Ava MacDonald v 26-27 Ava MacDonald 28-29 Camille Kelly

n 30-31 Luisa Rego

32-33 Serena Barish 34-35 Mai Wheeler 36-37 Mai Wheeler 38-39 Blake Bertero 40-41 Jasmine C. & Valeria C. 42-43 Sophie Liu 44-45 Evalyn Lee

46-47 Sophia Monsalvo n 48-49 Serena Barish 50-51 Isabella Sicilian 52-53 Ava MacDonald 54-55 Serena Barish 56-57 Francesca Hales l 58-59 Ariana Ng 60-61 Ava MacDonald 62-63 Ariana Ng

C O N T E N T WA R N I N G S

Sexual Harm................................................n Eating Disorders...........................................l References to Homophobia ..................................v Self-Image.................................................p Self-Harm..................................................u

The opinions expressed in Bossier Magazine do not necessarily represent the views of Georgetown University unless specifically stated. All content is submitted freely by individuals and may not express the views of the Bossier Magazine staff.

our backs are tired our backs are tired. they hold up our necks that hold up our heads that hold up our scarves and curls and thoughts and eyes.

they see the scars of your pasts materialize on our backs. they hear the whispers of your ancestor their words linger and sting and fester. they breathe in the hate you omit and try to negate ever materializing on our backs.

from holding up dresses and cleaning up messes. dresses that hide the size of our thighs and messes that leave our wetness dry. it’s why we wear platform docs or converse high tops. to emulate your power so that maybe we look taller and give our backs a break from all the history we’ve had to make.

your ancestors told you to use our backs in absence of the integrity you lack and now you linger and sting and fester and force us to use our backs

Bilquisu Abdullah

eyes that see and ears that hear and noses that breathe.

our backs are tired.

in absence of your love and your masks of hate

as your bridges as your roads as your bowls as your wisdom.

tell me. are you sharp? as the thorns you dart into my back? can you hold your past? like you raised your mast when you uprooted our backs that laid for years on solid ground? our backs are tired of holding your guilt. our backs are tired of your words you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for us. our backs are tired of what you claim. claim your own. claim your truth. claim your guilt. so that maybe one day what you have made us carry on our backs will scab over, fade, and carry simply what we built.

our backs are tired

Blake Bertero

49 7

Grandma’s House

Odes to my grandma (as I call her, Aama), my mom, and South Asian motherhood.

by: Alison Karki

My Aama sings in an empty house. Look how her hymns have opened all the doors to the mansion of her love! She dances in the dark crevasses of dawn— in her kitchen to the echoes of God— where the only light she can see is her husband’s funeral pyre. As his body disintegrates into the fragments of smoke and ash, she tattoos her eulogy on her ribcage and spills her elegies on the dining table. The particles of his remains ascend into the atmosphere, soon holding hands with the other clouds in the night sky. Aama keeps dancing.

Vermont Lemons

By: Meredith Monnich It is summer in Waitsfield, Vermont, and my hair soaks in fresh lemon juice. Yesterday, my mom picked up an old wicker couch from a yard sale, and now I sit on the faded blue and green cushion, my chin tilted toward the sun.

I feel the heat beating down on my scalp, the citric acid slowly lightening my damp hair to its August color. We are here for two weeks, the last two of the entire summer, and my bare feet dangle from the edge of the fraying wicker. I watch as my mother wraps her knit cardigan around her torso. She cups her “Dog Lover” mug, sipping bitter coffee as she, too, tilts her chin toward the sun.

She looks beautiful with her eyes sealed shut, her soft sweater a thin layer of protection against the threats of motherhood. In twelve days, her first child will load the back of our minivan with his new bed sheets, laundry bag, desk-lamp.

He will smile softly at his mother’s tears, pretending not to shrink as she weeps. But for now, my mother opens her eyes and takes another sip of unsweetened coffee. Vermont is the type of place where nature holds an overwhelming presence; where time seems forgiving and kind; where the smell of tart lemons is all it takes to forget about the heartbreak that is change, the grief that is movement.

10 Photography by Bilquisu Abdullah

Do Dreams Make Us Do Dreams Make Wiser? Us Wiser? By By:Evalyn EvalynLee Lee The down thethe roof Therain raintrickled trickled down roof my lungs And And filledfilled my lungs My heartbeat My heartbeatslow slowand andfarfar away My limbs began to sink My limbs began to sink Inhaling mouthfuls Inhaling mouthfuls of the sea I seep gutters I seep into into the the gutters Trying to Trying toconvince convincemyself myself don’tlike likethis this feeling feeling I Idon’t for you in dreams my dreams I lookI look for you in my

Because even canned expire Because evenmemories canned memories So stay nearSo stay near Ason weour floatbacks on our backs As we float

To shore

art by by Claire Claire Tsui Art Tsui 11

还没认识我

now that i am dead adorn my grave with your tears tie up loose change – i’ve known you long enough. our wounds heal in my wake now that i’ve killed you

written, photographed, and designed by lailah mozaffar

Eulogy for the Strong Friend by Kathleen Felli.

Dearly Beloved, Dearly Beloved, We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of a daughter, sister, and mother, our Strong Friend.

Strong Friend was raised on the principles of never breaking down and being available for everyone. Her presence was heroic; whether it was breakups, losses of loved ones, or fights with my mom, she was always there to pick me up, piece by piece. Her death has revealed to me my worst nightmare. How will I grieve her without her?

I saw Strong Friend cry, but I never saw her hurt. She’d clean herself up so well, wiping the mascara from the sides of her eyes, giving her best laugh. When she said that she would be okay, I never questioned it. She would be okay the next day.

While she was alive, I used to be so annoyed by the way that all pain passed for her. I was suspicious of her grace – normal people didn’t act like that! She was blessed in a way that no one else was. I don’t know how Strong Friend died. I didn’t think she could, quite honestly. Her back was never supposed to break. Her heart could never be ripped out. And yet, I stand over her right now and can’t see past the gaping, bloody hole that once held her life, her compassion, and her strength. Strong Friend was my mother and yet we were the same age. The flowers that sit on top of her chest are the only ones she ever received. She was neglected by me in the same way that I neglected my actual mother – in the same way that she neglected herself.

I wonder if she is at peace. Let us bow our heads right now and pray that she is.

art by Lia Gilleran.

Why Study Menetics (and not Genetics) by Derin Savasan

The feminine values are the fountain of bliss. Know the masculine, keep to the feminine. —Lao-Tzu I am genuinely interested in the question of why women should take over. Yes, it has been my big question since I was fifteen. Call it the uninformed hunch of a teenager or going with the spirit of the times. But obviously, I am not alone in this. Even Obama seems to agree with me. Though hardly anybody cares about an ex-president’s ideas, I was happy to hear him say that if women took over, like, tomorrow, the future of the world would be much brighter. I couldn’t agree more. I am not a sexist. Not a feminist either. I am only concerned with the kind of life my kids will live in the next hundred years. Science of longevity promises them an average lifespan of a century. Compared to an olive tree, it is not very impressive, but long enough to make me very, very anxious for their future. I am a woman. I hope I will be a mother in my thirties(?), and the livelihood of my offspring will count for more than anything else. I wish men had the same impulse too. I am not an expert on the question of what is wrong with men —yet. But give me a few years at Georgetown, and I promise you, I will become one. I think spheres of life would immediately improve if women, or to be more precise “the feminine” sense and sensibility took over politics, business, education, urbanism, and ecology. It seems that practically all life will be positively influenced. Businesses, for instance, are run by the blind ideology of profit maximization. Men love to maximize things. “Big” and “strong” are the best in their eyes. When our feminine side or “the mother in us” takes over, businesses will not kill Mother Nature, encourage child labor, or try to sell stuff that we know is not good for our kids. Maximum profit will be out, and the notion of “enough profit” and the contribution to the livelihood of the community will be the guiding values. Another example is education. Today, education is mostly taken care of by women, but the governing ideology is a masculine one. Schools are military camps training minds to become technocrats in the profit- maximization monasteries called “companies.” When women take over and rewrite the curriculum, the new value-based education will be based on nurturing nature and our life-giving instincts. You may ask: How about the arts and sciences? I would say art is probably the only field where the masculine side and sex of our nature are at work for the better. Male artists have dared to go against the current and into the unknown for great art, and I do not feel that this is simply a matter of masculinity in rebellious action.

girl power

th futu e r fem e is ale

As for science, I have mixed views. Much of science is driven by the adventurous curiosity of our masculine side. Marie Curie knew her research would kill her, but she did not give up her science. This is a typical male blind obsession. Or take Galileo, for instance, who did not give up his ideas even though he knew the Vatican would kill him. But my problem with science is beyond this personal bravery. Unfortunately, some of the scientific output is either at the service of warfare institutionally or indirectly consumed by it. Einstein should have never forgiven himself for writing that letter to Roosevelt. He knew it was possible to blow up an atom and implied that the president should do it to end a war. How about the weapons that start one? It is almost a truism that our masculine side has always been responsible for all the killing in history: the killing of children, women, Mother Nature. (See, even our language favors the feminine. Ever heard of Father Nature?) The climate crisis is probably the top issue where everything wrong with men has become crystal clear lately. Men love to conquer endlessly. Exploit nature endlessly. Make and sell stuff endlessly. There is no limit to their blind appetite for more. Men hit the wall with their senseless and infinite want of things once again, just like how Genghis Khan’s soldiers once plundered the biggest chunk of earth and turned human sisters of Mother Earth into their sex objects. (It is a rumor of genetics —or Menetics?— that almost 1 in 200 men living today are descendants of Genghis Khan and his soldiers. Such was the scale of aggression mostly towards women of this earth.) As they take over slowly but surely, like they recently did in Norway, women of the earth will instinctively know how to respect nature and still make use of it, as they do with their own mother’s milk. How am I so sure of all this? Well, I am not. That is why I think everyone should study Menetics. Only then will we be able to test and verify my intuitive view of all things wrong with men. I am hopeful that this massive feminization of life will happen with the support of the right kind of men —men who listen to the women in them.

Notes on a Living Requiem Sydney Hudson What are you now? Terraced farmland, a river delta sprawling, footprints in the snow? No. I won’t let you be anything romantic. You are reminder of how I was too weak yet thought I was too strong, What was I? A failed atlas dropping the weight of the world and watching the blood of billions drip on that bright yellow carpet. The reason they stepped away. I’m too much, after all. Can you blame them? But you. You are the back turned away from concerned faces and questions. We both know they’d be indifferent without the knowledge of your existence. You are a hidden shame buried under bright blue hydrangeas, forever squirming alongside earthworms. All five of their hearts beat in sympathy for me when they see You are what I have to think of when I hear your name, no longer that innocent story of childhood wonder. 16

You, like me, are sick. Disabled. Always in my sight, always demanding attention. Do I want you to remain by my side? Yes, I’m weak. Don’t leave or I’ll have to trace your steps with a knife in hand. But, really, I can’t Because then the girl who inhales deeply, as if to brace herself before asking me about you will instead sigh intensely, averting her eyes as I gesture and you’re there once more. Because then I’ll have to drop a bomb and watch its nonlinear fall to the ground. I’ll have to hear deafening silence before anything and everything is consumed. Because then you’ll sit under the literature buried into each gyrus, taunting what I thought was the end. Because then I’ll have to relive that phone call whose sound was warped with tears and anger, and that hand a few months later wrapped around me so tightly it hurt almost as bad as you did. Although that pain was from love. I have to remember that love. Even though you have to stay too.

by C

Girls’ Night!

ina t s ri

mes o G we paint our nails red and scream at the sky pretty blood-red nails, pretty blood-red thoughts but this is not war: this is life

tomorrow we will smile at strangers we will blush in rose tomorrow, we will be good girls tonight–carnage the wreckage of our lives strewn amongst the stars our cracked edges no less healed by being sharpened drunk on wine and freedom we dance and rail against the world the headiness of hysteria– girlhood in its purest form

tomorrow we will go quietly back into our fetters we will demure to authority we will be who we’re supposed to be

but tonight is girls’ night in the darkness, we don’t have to pretend we couldn’t fill bathtubs with the blood on our tongues we couldn’t stain the world with the grit of our teeth

Photography by Ava MacDonald

Photography by Jasmine Criqui

Skin by Cynthia Ng

I’ve always taken pride in not having many body image issues But I’ve always been ashamed of the skin that drapes over my frame My eczema-prone skin A patchwork of sorts Of sleepless nights and urges to itch I wish I never, ever had Of feeling like what I put out there just doesn’t feel right

My skin melted away As he told me to come over and, with a sour look Pointed “Why does it look so bad?” Words and fingers that traced my skin And pierced it Comments I read in my voice Even when he’s half a world away Sometimes, at my worst moments I’d see his pain in my shadow As my skin morphed and changed As what my skin draped over did too

I tear up, thinking they wouldn’t love me The way that I needed back then But I realize that the love is something only I could give myself That his skin and what it contains is flawed too And under the bright California sun The ink from my tears dries up Leaving patterns on my skin And she… She sees my skin and asks gently, if she could just see Not judge, not comment on… but just See My flakes melt back into my skin Like drops of birds, birds massaging into the sky Migrating from one place to another as the sun sets Hanging onto memories and everything else that could be And will be

Aphrodite by Isabella Pamias

Aphrodite, you have overcome me. I got up at five in the morning, although I’m not sure now; I don’t remember well. It could have been at four or six, but never after seven. A girl should never have the luxury of getting ready after that hour. Wash yourself, comb your hair, pick yourself up, paint yourself, change yourself, transform yourself. I sat down to eat at six in the afternoon... although I don’t know now, I don’t remember. It could have been at five or seven, but never after eight. A girl should never indulge in eating after that time. I left home at eight at night, although I don’t know now, I don’t remember. It could have been at seven or nine, but never after ten. A girl should never have the luxury of going out after that time. Aphrodite, you have overcome me, or at least, I think so. What was I going to do? I don’t know. I don’t know. I, carried away by your putridity. Your body, as a martyr, is an excuse for her sacrifice. I don’t want to hear your voice anymore. Nostalgia and melancholy are our great enemies. You miss the innocence, the sincerity; you long to return. But you already lost them, I assure you. They are no longer yours; look for them, but they will not be there. Look for them, but they are not part of you. You settled for the superficial; that’s you. Your blood will be the same, but your skin will not. Impenetrable you were, touched, hurt, and enemy of your own melancholy. You fear that once you find a reason, it will be too late. You fear being forgotten, that your conformity to please others will be what erases you. You know well what you are no longer because you lost everything. It’s not you anymore, Aphrodite. Because you prefer to wander in immortality, drowning your sorrows, because you lost yourself. You are chained to what you are. That is what you are. You are a museum of everything you seek to forget, carrying portraits of the memories you seek to have. I, who fear growing up, and you, who long for it. Take my sin and walk through the cemetery of names that never heard you, that you could not save. Because there is something religious about existing as you exist, it is a reeducated sob begging to be believed, because you care so much that you become sick. You are a church, but you stay at the threshold, and in the constant judgment that you live, you will ask them why they allowed your compliance. But when you face the rest of Olympus, they will answer you in echoes, “Because you let it happen, you allowed it.” You settled.

But no matter how hard I try and no matter how much I think I can, there are things beyond my control. There are things beyond your control, Aphrodite. But nothing matters because you are beautiful. You are beautiful, Aphrodite. You don’t go out after ten at night, you don’t eat after eight, and you get ready before seven in the morning. And who are you? The martyr? And what will happen when they forget you? When you are the only one who remembers it? When your love stops working? When they realize that you don’t really exist? That it was all an act? That your compliance due to wanting to be loved? But nothing matters because you are beautiful, you are beautiful, Aphrodite. You don’t go out after ten at night, you don’t eat after eight, and you get ready before seven in the morning. And who am I?

Aphrodite, there is no audience to perform for, there is no approval or admiration to achieve, there is no role worth playing, there is no one to find, to convince, to please. You are alone, Aphrodite. Why does it have to be so beautiful? Feel it, scream it, and cry to me. Cry me a stream with your tears. Dewdrop on myrtle. Your veins unravel with the weight of the sorrows of the lives you could have lived. Feel it. Shout it. Draw me a portrait of what you could have been with your lipstick. Devour yourself, Aphrodite, and devour me. Eat me piece by piece, and I will eat you. Piece by piece, break my bones to feel your pain. Mark me, and I will put on the lipstick of our blood. I was born from foam to heal your sorrows and mine. Kill me. Kill me because I know how to live; kill me how you wanted to die; kill me. I am the abyss itself; I am the foam from which you were born. I carry the dagger of my mother’s sorrows and the mirror that will never see itself. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry because I lived it. I’m sorry because I lived you. You collect yourself; you dream; I was born from your tears and you from mine; I tasted your blood, and it tastes like mine. Because when I sit in my nakedness and count the stretch marks that appear on my skin, I will take it as a symbol that I lived you. For every complaint, for every punishment you receive, sign me by the name of the life you never had, mark me, and I will see it. When my skin stretches for fear of growing and the fear of living becomes evident, may it serve as a reminder of what you never had. For every mark of the sun that appears on my body, for the number that changes on the weight, for the white hair that will paint my head, for the blood that I will let fall, for the tears of so much convincing, and no matter how hard it is for me to admit it, I admit, I beg of you, I conformed. When my corpse rots, flowers of my conformity will be reborn, and I will gladly admit to you that I conformed. Aphrodite, you who wander through the abyss, forgive yourself. I forgive you, forgive

Art by Jasmine Criqui

ar t by ca se y lan db ec ke r

Unnamed and Undamaged by Mansi Peters

What I saw was a lost boy with beautiful dark eyes. But, I was wrong. Most people aren’t lost, they are hidden. When I saw him through the window of Carl’s office, I thought I was dreaming. A kid, who couldn’t have been much older than eleven, was outside this beaten up albeit popular bar. Carl’s sentiment was similar to my own when he went outside to greet the boy, who was looking up at the flickering lights on the sign that read Jenn’s Bar. “Jeez,” I heard Carl say. He didn’t know how to verbalize it, but I knew what he was thinking. There just shouldn’t have been a kid at 11 o’clock at night in a town that ran on alcohol and the occasional crime. Completely at a loss for how exactly he was meant to proceed, Carl asked the boy his name. When an eruption of wails followed the question, Carl quickly calmed the kid down and assured the boy that he didn’t need to tell him his name. And as quickly as the tears came, they went. I saw Carl smile uneasily and brush his hands through his hair. It was late, it was cold, and to him, a random child was synonymous with a mysterious force, unknown and dangerous. But, he would soon find out that he really was just a little boy. That is, with bruises on his body and a sparkle of sadness in his eyes. It became a silent but understood agreement that Carl couldn’t tell the boy he was welcome at the bar, but if it were to be so that “a little weasel”, as he put it, came shuffling inside and went into the office, the weasel might just get away with it. And so it came to be that night after night, just after 10 pm, I would see the boy wait for the crosswalk signal to permit him to shuffle on over. Some days he was happy, others sad and bleeding, but most days, he was just tired. Those were the days that led him to me in the first place. I’m tucked into the corner of the windowsill of Carl’s office and most of the time, I look out the window to see the small Wisconsin town that Carl brought me to all those years ago when I was a clean, fluffy, packaged new thing. I’m all torn up now, my seams unruly on the paws and my snout dirty from decades of dust, but the day the little boy decided to crawl up onto Carl’s futon to reach me for the first time, I felt new again. Or at least he treated me like I was. He would curl up with me and show me views I hadn’t seen in so long. Carl didn’t understand this attachment to me. One night, he questioned why the boy didn’t want another stuffed animal. A new one. “Why a damaged old thing, buddy?” After Carl got a shy shrug as an answer, he kissed the boy’s head and headed back into the bustling Friday night crowd. The boy turned to me, looked right into my eyes, and whispered, “I don’t think you’re damaged.” 26

We did everything together. He dressed up. He dressed me up. He wore bows in his hair. He put Carl’s binder clips on my ears. He put lipstick on his perfect little lips and I would watch him. Once, I heard him scrummaging through Carl’s drawer. Without a good line of sight, I patiently waited to hear what exactly it was that he was doing. After what felt like an eternity of random sounds, I heard him squeal. I heard him squeal for the first time since Carl’s girlfriend gifted him her favorite lipgloss. He ran in front of me and pointed excitedly at his ear lobes, which were pressed between small magnets on either side. They looked like“Earrings! Look, Harry! Earrings!” He gave me that name, Harry. Carl had always called me Teddy, but the kid had a mind of his own and if he named me Harry, I’d be Harry. I liked that name and I didn’t mind that it was different from the one I was used to because what did it matter? I don’t know his name, and yet, he’s my best friend and I know more about him than anyone in the world. He told me all his secrets. How he felt about his classmate. His boy classmate. How his parents felt about that. Sometimes he’d speak to me through tears, other times with an indifferent tone. But, when he would hug me and find comfort in the warmth I didn’t know I still had, I would whisper back. “I don’t think you’re damaged.” I hope he heard it. I hope he heard me.

5 29

Carrion

by anonymous

art by Ava MacDonald

I’m always one second away from telling you that I want to kill you. I don’t know if I do, but the words make sense. You’re reminiscent of other men before you. You have so much agency. You victimize me. You would rape me, I think, given the chance, given no consequences, no need for “self-control.” Fuck you. Fucking porn-brained asshole.

o s wh l r i ng g i t a in om d n ff o o ing t t Ge

Grateful others did the grooming for you because you’re too squeamish to do it yourself. You think you can keep your hands clean and enjoy the fruits of their manipulation. Fuck you.

. 30

God, I hate you. I’ll see you next Friday.

n now k e hav

er role. h t o no

There’s still blood on me, and it will get on your hands. I hate you, and I hate men like you. Too weak to kill but still yearning for the sweet flesh. You’re no better than any of them—you’re a fucking scavenger. A hawk pecking at what remains of an animal that would’ve never fallen victim to you at their peak.

Earthrise

(you from my eyes) by Rachel Parks

I have held you in my arms, given you warmth in the winter, rained on you, soft, cool, sweet in the summer. You drown in my deepness, mist kisses your nose, sand crumbles beneath your toes. Salt sends eyelashes fluttering, you shed a tear for me, for me, only for me. But for you, my fruits have never been sweeter, my rivers flow upstream; the coldest parts of me burn too hot to freeze. Is it of me that you dream? I give, you take; you give enough to take again, to rip out the deepest parts of me, burn them before my eyes, and call this your enterprise.

My colors bleed green to red to gold. A leaf in late fall, I tremble. It’s no wonder that your houses fall, and your bridges burn, too. Life is change, and isn’t it love that changes us two? I have lived too much, Loved too much. Like the brightest star, I will run out. I hope I shatter, scatter sparkling stardust you will always see, no matter how far you run. Earthrise my seas, my skies. I thought it would be enough. You and I alone, delicate, soft, slow, inevitable. 55 years and you still can’t see, there’s no one for you but me. 31

b byy GGaa bbyy AAhh ll

I grew tall in an evergreen sanctuary, in a cathedral of pines. Birdsong was my church bell and crickets I grew in an evergreen sanctuary, in a my cathedral were my bugle call.tall The scent of magnolias perfumed days, of pines. Birdsong was my church bell and crickets lacing with thescent scentofofmagnolias sweet saccharin, were my my memories bugle call. The perfumedand my days, thelacing syrupmy of memories honeysuckles lingered languidly on my tongue. with the scent of sweet saccharin, and Copperheads in the lingered thicket beneath the syrup ofslithered honeysuckles languidlyme, on my tongue. rustling strands slithered of emerald grassthicket that were laden Copperheads in the beneath me,with dewey tears, that of were bordered bythat leaves of laden three. with rustling strands emerald grass were We died and were revived, shedding pieces of dewey tears, that were bordered by leaves of three. ourselves andand gaining new ones, and somewhere We died were revived, shedding pieces of in ourselves the cyclical revival my feeble and gaining new ones,limbs and somewhere became little sturdier, in the acyclical revival my my bark feeblebecame limbs a became little stronger. a little sturdier, my bark became a little stronger. I wonder, then, when my spine began to curve. The whispered axioms from books with golden binding quixotic from The women who guarded I wonder, then, when myand spine began chides to curve. whispered axiomsthe from letters and the rhythmic repetition of furtive comments––murmured behind books with golden binding and quixotic chides from women who guarded thewalls of letters fingers,andprefaced by surveilling glances, overheard from rows of behind school walls the rhythmic repetition of furtive comments––murmured busof seats––accumulated I ran furious laps around the school fingers, prefaced byas surveilling glances, overheard from gymnasium, rows of school pleading my feet to poundaswithin tyrannical borders of the despotic bus seats––accumulated I ran the furious laps around thetrack. schoolMy gymnasium, pleading my feet to into poundanwithin the tyrannical borders proportions, of the track.taller My than despotic trifecta gathered itself impenetrable pile of exorbitant 299 trifecta gathered itself into an impenetrable pile of exorbitant proportions, taller than 299 Park Avenue, a haystack in which no needle could be found, a mountain that had never Park Avenue, not a haystack in which no needle could panting, be found,with a mountain that had been a molehill, to me, never. It was as I stood clammy hands on never by been a that molehill, not burgundy, to me, never. as I stood panting, withlooming clammyover hands kneecaps blushed withItthewasshadow of that mountain my on Fiona kneecapsthat thatyou blushed with the shadow of that mountain looming over my ponytail, asked burgundy, me a question. ponytail, that you asked me a question. Even the most uncertain of oneiromancies would have revealed that the answer was yes. Naughton most uncertain oneiromancies have revealed that the yes. NoEven wasthe a foreign word toof me, a feature would that would unlock when the answer clock was struck No was a foreign wordbirthday, to me, athough featureI that unlocka when the clock twelve on my thirteenth had would long been lost boy, frozenstruck in twelve on my thirteenth birthday, though I had long been a lost boy, childhood, incapable of escaping the pitfalls of my preteenage cage. I had a frozen peculiar in childhood,thatincapable the pitfalls my my preteenage conviction one day,ofNoescaping would bleed scarlett ofacross pristine cage. mind. I had a peculiar conviction that one day, No would bleed scarlett across my pristine mind. Until I had to ring out my underwear beneath a stream of ice-cold water, Until I had to ring out my underwear beneath a stream of ice-cold water, I had no claim to this forbidden ruby of womanhood. I had no claim to this forbidden ruby of womanhood. Because of course I would let you gather my leaves. We could make crowns and play Because course and I would let you gather mymy leaves. We could make crowns small and play king of oftheof forest, you could swing from branches, your rope leaving king the forest, and you could swing from my branches, your rope leaving small divots on tender flesh, me never not aware of the weight of your body. And when divots on tender flesh, me never not aware of the weight of your body. And when you youarearetired, tired,you youcancansleep sleepin inmymyshade, shade,andandonly onlywhen whenI Iexamine examinemymyreflection reflection in inthethelow lowlamplight lamplightof ofthetheevening eveningwill willI Inotice noticemymyscorched scorchedskin skinflaking. flaking. I Iletletyou youcarve carveyour yourname nameinto intome. me.I Igave gaveyou youmymyapples applesunprompted, unprompted, in inbushes and in bales. I shook myself down to ensure bushes and in bales. I shook myself down to ensurethat thatyou youhad had every last one, plucking them with hollow thuds, willing myself every last one, plucking them with hollow thuds, willing myselfto toforget forget thethepinch, unable to erase the dull pain or the stubborn crimson mark pinch, unable to erase the dull pain or the stubborn crimson markof of mymyextraction. extraction.I Iwould wouldcutcutoffoffmymybranches branchesif ifyou youasked askedmemeto.to.I Iwould wouldletletyou youselect selectthethesharpest sharpestof ofallallthethe axes and hack into me, splintering my spirit. I would do anything if it meant that you could be axes and hack into me, splintering my spirit. I would do anything if it meant that you could bewarm, warm,even evenif if I Iwas the kindling, even if I went up in flames. My embers would fade quietly. was the kindling, even if I went up in flames. My embers would fade quietly. You Youdodonotnotunderstand understandthat thatI Iwould wouldtake takeupupthetheaxaxmyself myselfif ifyou youconfessed, confessed,in inconfidence, confidence,that thatyou youwished wishedto to seeseethetheworld. world.AAsingle singlebreath breathabout aboutthetheSistine SistineChapel ChapelandandI Iwould wouldsplit splitmyself myselfin intwo, two,scooping scoopingoutoutmymy substance, substance,yanking yankingthethestrings stringsthat thatconnected connectedmymysoul soulto tomyself. myself.I Iwould wouldempty emptyoceans oceansforforyou youwith witha ahomehomemade madewooden woodenspoon. spoon.I Iwould wouldtear teardown downmountains mountainswith withmymydilapidated, dilapidated,sun-poisoned sun-poisonedpalms. palms. I Iwould wouldpromise promiseyou youEden. Eden. wasin inthisthispromise, promise,in inthethesurreptitious surreptitiousshimmy shimmyof ofthethesnake, snake,in inthetheblazing blazingglory gloryof ofa adewey dewey It Itwas morningin inthethemonth monthof ofMay, May,in inthethebarefoot barefootteenage teenagegirl girlstomping stompingthrough througha apoison-ivy poison-ivy morning 33 forest,that thatthetheblood bloodrushed rushedin.in.With Withevery everypiece pieceof ofmemeobliterated obliteratedandandnothing nothingleftleftto togive, give, forest, sorrystump stumpstood stooddefiantly. defiantly.AnAnoldoldstump stumpis isgood goodforforsitting sittingandandresting. resting.I Iwill willsitsitdown down mymysorry rest.And AndI Iwill willbebehappy. happy.Clinging Clingingto tomyself, myself,nursing nursingmymyhushed hushedembers embersback backto tolife, life,I Iwill willbebehappy. happy. andandrest.

The The Giving Giving Tree Tree

by Fiona Naughton

pump(kin) by Bilquisu Abdullah

autumn reminds me of you. i think of leaves falling, in sync with me, we’re both so in love with you they twirl down, brush through the air. i do too… i spin for you… your pretty little leaf. i turn red when you’re around: gushing and giddy i turn warm shaded around you fall isn’t cold in your arms. i think of your breath and the wind, how they layered me.

Saeed Samra

i think of the rain, how soft you made it– just for me. i think of all the happy things i thought we did together. i was falling for you, and then i fell down: creeping up to the foot i was unaware you put down. i wish the leaves didn’t die when winter came. i wish i could have stayed yours crush crinkle crumble crush crush cute candy cannot can crinkle candor confused crazy crazy crumble cascade chaos crying crying crush crinkle crumble crush

48 38

crush

crush walking running further quieter

keep keeping kept away.

the field behind my eye

there’s a field of eyelashes behind my eye right between the ball and the socket one singular strand after another that have slithered their way into the pocket between the ball and its socket. now eternally trapped to itch my brain they’re stuck with the words left uncommunicated, the silence that follows an “i miss you…” they sway to motion of tears that have never left sometimes i want to cry and nothing comes out. just a crease between my brows. and the slight motion of the field of eyelashes brushing the backside of my eye 49 39

S D R A SH by Valeria Canovi

The glass broke, shards shattered on the floor It hurts as I keep walking over to my heart’s door I really tried to give you my everything But I know myself and there starts my spiraling I need to get out of here I need a way out of my mind I wanted you near But you were okay with not having me And I wished I could forget you so easily I keep walking straight, over every broken piece Hoping that maybe my thoughts will cease I’m up I’m down I feel too much And now I’m numb My body touches another shard and fuck if the rain hurts more than the sun Pain spreads as more wounds open I still feel like broken glass I know I have a problem here, reminder from every tear Is it my fault? Maybe I can fix me with glue But with my best friend, did I lose me too? It’s my responsibility I knew it Now I can place myself in a lower rank than you I can hate myself more than how much I hate how you made me feel Because I was too much, and too much for you to heal And all I cared about was you Even if my emotions were and still are out of control You still lost someone that loved you, and loved you as a whole Anxiety gives me a reassuring hug Her and overthinking take care of my broken heart

I need to stop my thoughts And of those I have lots But it’s over now and the wine pours I’m no longer yours Your words grasp to my mind They play their dirty game Leaving no winners behind Trying to avoid the glass splinters Trying to avoid feeling more 7 years old me still seeks for her father’s approval My mother’s voice echoes that we’re all alone in the end A tear reflects on my sister’s cheek Why do we fake the picture-perfect family tree How? Why did my mind make me so weak? Pity for myself overcomes I know I need someone to liberate me from my own prison I’ve never been so lost But I don’t think you’re the true reason In fact, I wish I could blame it all on you But I know that I’m the one that decided to hide behind my dark clouds Because I didn’t think I deserved the sun And for my heart, this was no fun I knew you were not the one Your doubts and lacks made sure to remind me before it all began So I accepted your thunderstorms Shaking me like lightening to the core

And yes, maybe I did and do need more And the only alternative is to now shine even brighter than before

So I start to give myself time I’m trying to learn step by step As the shards slowly become less I start smiling again No need for rhymes when I’m not entangled in my own chains With fewer thoughts in my head I can finally listen to myself Slow music is now calm instead of sad And hey, I finally bought myself flowers This time I can actually smell their perfume And even alone I can fill the room I realize I’m not as heartless as you painted me to be I just needed myself to have trust in me I am grateful I had you You taught me so much about myself That my feeling too much Means I love with all my heart And I might be the villain in your story But I hope we both will never forget the smiles and the laughs Like memories now in the past I’m learning how to look inside I’m a work in progress and that needs time And as I built my small garden with flowers and plants, hoping one day I’ll be able to show you My heart and mind become friends, there will be a corner with the memory of you as view So many tears So many scars The broken glass has less shards I look up, there’s my moon She gives me the strength that I used to want from you I’m smiling, is this the right part? I’m trying, is it supposed to be this hard? The glass did break, shards were shattered on the floor But now they don’t hurt as much anymore Because we all eat lies when our hearts are hungry - Penelope Douglas

many nights i’ve lain awake wishing skin was metal were the eyelashes that fluttered on my fingertips filled with something less human optic sensors perceiving my reality if there’s an error, might i be debugged? if i’m broken, could i be snapped back together? fingernails wouldn’t grow if they were made of iron would that mean i lose all of my texture? scars would be solder seams, memory of liquid metal instead of wounds that light my nerves on fire it would be easier to pretend if i were aluminum instead of autonomic my heart would beat perfectly in time and i couldn’t cry for fear of rust smothering the alloys over cheekbones maybe i’d have fewer reasons to cry if i were programmed i could shrug off the burden of consciousness with no reason to live in the in-between a circuit could live my existence better than i can

roboticism

anna holk

We are dried flowers in mismatched vases lined up along the mantel. On the left, a tall, blue glassy vase with winding curves, shoulder to shoulder with the empty Chardonnay bottle, its body detailed with delicate seashells. Beside it, the bottle with the “Love You Bunches” label, on which we signed our names in Sharpie and drew little, looping hearts. Years ago, we haphazardly planted the seeds of our younger selves in plots side by side, choosing roommates based on still, empty photos and the idea of a name. Now, she cuts pieces of tape and I stick rainbow streamers to the door frame for her twenty-first birthday party. And, last week, we shed our big-girl summer job slacks and blouses, sliding our feet into flip-flops to trek to the community pool, organizing ourselves in a line along its concrete edge and letting our legs hang carelessly in the water. Oh, when did those seeds we planted sprout, and can we stay here? Here, where she carefully presses another book into the bookshelf that holds the paperbacks we flipped through in our childhood bedrooms, miles apart in lives far behind us, our flea market book stoppers, the glittering pink chalices from T.J. Maxx she victoriously spotted as though she’d won a scavenger hunt. Here, where we sit and speak our minds on the bat-

tered gray couch we inherited from the last tenants, complete with its forever-slouching cushions and woefully visible strips of velcro. In this home, where we stuck pink, blue, yellow, green sticky-notes on the wall, our bucket list, and where there are still too many on the “to be completed” side. And, also, where we cried laughing at her winedrunk stand-up comedy routine, attempted to out-maneuver mice in the kitchen, spoke soft and serious after she had to let him go. Here, where we danced with passionate, incorrect hip circles to Just Dance Youtube videos because we didn’t have a Wii and where we welcomed each other’s families inside with makeshift charcuterie boards and incomplete glassware sets (a free Stella Artois cup from that bar, a yellow mug she received for her birthday). Here, where we were girls together,1 where we were women together, where we learned what it meant to feel seen. These floorboards and these years have been borrowed and, one day, we will pack our vases into boxes. But I will tell my sister, my daughter, really anyone who asks, about how, on the mantel, I was a dried flower in a misfit vase next to you and how that made all the difference. Ella Kohler 1. Inspired by Toni Morrison’s quote “We was girls together” from Sula (1973)

Artwork by Bilquisu Abdullah

artwork by Ava MacDonald

44 44

Synaptic Pruning by Sonia Fan u are like a thunderstorm, electricity washed by rain strike me until the rot is burnt and i stand back in leathering bark, paralyzed by aftershock i’m coiled around green leaves and tiny twigs buzzing and i know why we survive even when dormant, u sizzle like addiction i sink into my mattress trapped in the grooves of your giant palms my own are open in supplication did u know my lifeline is broken? now i’m running so fast i’m flying smell enchanted forest and my stomach drops ginger chews and i’m cold in a velvet room, heart pounding distract me with waves until the sea stills a tsunami and you’re riding it i let u consume acres and acres of me i’m swallowed like a city and my dead leave no history, just bad digestion and when i realize i’m dissolving, i can’t stop crying there is so much i thought i could keep but i can’t i would hate u if i could u burn off the tip of my tongue and make words lose meaning my eyes are closed and vibrating like an orchestra now the violin is weeping and i am scared cut me up and leave me searching for gaps an interlude muted, still playing

artwork by Blake Bertero

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Ode to My Sun Angelena Bougiamas

I wonder if the sun knows that it has an audience when it drags golden paints across its dull blue canvas, that its goodbye painting in the sky is why office-goers, defeated by the day’s work and the rows of traffic in front of them, squint their eyes behind their dashboards or why anonymous pedestrians, hurrying past each other on their crowded city streets, glance up and beyond the glaring metal boxes that engulf them or why the uniformed school girls, walking home on a late afternoon in December, delay their salacious gossip to pull out their lithium-powered devices of infinite possibilities. Maybe the artists of the world deserve more credit for teaching us to pause when we move too fast to see its beauty. I think the sun deserves more credit. The sun, the original artist, the source of all life, deserves more credit. How could I orient my being if the sun, in its commanding and reliable nature, did not rise in the east and set in the west. How could I experience my being if its rays did not guide me through every part of it, even what I try to hide. How could I love my being if its warmth wrapping over my shoulders and around my waist did not show me how. I forever want to lay in the humid embrace of a young summer’s grassy fields as my beloved sun stalls at the cusp of its departure. When the sky’s blue softens to dusk and I can feel the irises of my eyes gently failing me, it’s at this moment that I am reminded to never take my sun or any of its creations for granted.

The sun teaches me that I love things the most when they’re about to leave me and gives me a second chance at dawn.

photo credit, Isabella Sicilian

Speak Up! Diane Li

the race of two doves théa jacquand

two doves racing towards the sun, under the blistering heat of the spinning gas, one always trying to catch up with the other, wondering what it doesn’t have that the other has. why is the first dove first, why did it win in the first place? is it more alluring, and the other beautifully cursed? they always push each other to take up more space. does the first have more kindness in its heart, more grace and glimmer in its solemn eyes? the latter came in later, ended up just playing a part, but all it wants is peace in the face of subtle lies. both are hurt, trying to mend their tears, and one keeps running, for its own secure sake, both are hurt, living in two different spheres, while the other is lucky to catch a break.

same traits, same beauty, same way of life, almost same story, with minor changes that kill. both were stabbed by some searing sharp knife, both are left with nothing but a lonely, terminal ill.

its feathers cling to its body that keeps going up, pining to still shine in tandem with the world, but it knows the other hurts, both out of luck, hating each other for both being tricked and twirled.

what did it have, that let it feel the passion, get the care that the other yearned so dearly for, the latter got only momentary, secret vindication, and now its heart is tired and soft wings are sore.

and the tormentor too, the vicious sun weeps, searches for answers and a right moral path. it can’t make up its mind about which to keep when darkness seeps, but in the process, turned the nest into a gorgeous bloodbath.

the two doves, they didn’t kill each other, they tried their best to be friends, to love. but both will always try to hide and smother the charm of its counterpart, the other dove. my dove will never know what she did to be left in the dust, she can sit here and decipher all the possible reasons and causes. but her story, emotions and sad stories are left to rust, while her heart closes up and she’s now terrified to take pauses. my dove wonders why she lost, why she’s a placeholder now, she wonders why her feathers are off-white and heart not kept. but thats not the point, there is no real winner in the face of the omnipotent sun, and yet she can’t stop the creeping burn, for lack of tears that were not wept. photography and art by ava macdonald

by Brigid O’Connor

THE CREATIONISTS AND US by Elizabeth Short

Pastel scarves fly and rainbow windows flash in the sun. Ants walk one by one in a line on the table. It’s freezing but our socks run over the snow frozen on your sidewalk. We’re musicians, actresses, pioneer girls, and princesses; Anne of Green Gables, Lucy Pevensie, and every variation of Hayley Mills.

We have film cameras and broken trampolines, Makeshift tree houses and bonfires. We watch movies in your garage attic and sitcoms in your basement.

We speed in tubes down icy hills and dance circles around maypoles. Your mom cycles through her diets And the jobs come and go And you keep crossing state lines. You read every book and write new songs, and I write papers and take standardized tests. Debts grow and dreams shrink.

I take my perfect version of you to where I can pretend I’m smart and special and independent, Where I can tell your stories and the punchlines write themselves. I grasp the myth that there was something beautiful or sacred about that time

When I thought the chaos was fun, Before structure started to matter And we wasted our money And you had your education and I had mine.

Reality shatters and I can’t understand it. Deadlines pass and the space between us keeps growing. Adults talk to aliens and children work on farms. Your people question my values and grow medicinal herbs and run down the side of a mountain. I drive away and leave you stuck there.

Scripture says your duty is to care and it comes easy. You fall into selflessness and give yourself to us. We happily take our own beautiful pieces of you.

I take the colors and the memories, The imaginary boyfriends in your closet, The blue and yellow houses, the unswept floors, and the portraits of Jesus.

You’re the reason I can feel and create and play and laugh. Now I get to go to the concerts and they get to read my words. Our lives become an old country song; We’re red dirt girls in a red dirt town. I’m scared I’m losing you and there’s too much space.

I am stargazing for a future That is no longer wide open sky

Beneath the bright blaze There is an emptiness within

Oh give me a great big ball of sun Because I miss my violin

All the necessary nebulas Are missing from this place

I am a voyager, lost But I do not know what it would mean to be found

I have forgotten the melody of myself But still I search for its sound

A blue marble spinning through black and white I drift onward, toward the light.

By Claire Kovac

There is beauty in these stars too But I am afraid of what it will replace

VO YAGE R

I have lost the music But I cannot even cry

collages by francesca hales

hallowed hollowness i can feel you creeping up behind me breathing hot air on the back of my neck like an old man who thinks i look just like his high school sweetheart taking up residence in the dark circles under my eyes you know me well and i pretend you’re someone new but you’re the familiar burn in my morning coffee we both know i’m no martyr and yet i lay down my life at your altar night after night i can’t stave you off but god do i pretend well every night is opening night of the show i put on for the reflection in the mirror the curtain falls my false pretenses with it you’re the hallowed hollowness you sharpen and slice me to pieces inside but god do i love it i bleed and wither until you’re all that’s left just before i’m gone i feel wisps of shame sting my skin and their dull needles stitch me back together but not well enough never well enough because somehow i wake up and choose you again i am no Prometheus; i perpetually bring you upon myself you will feed on me for the rest of my days

august I’m hoping To the hum of a car engine Waiting My heartbeat coursing with gasoline I drive my dad’s high school pickup The engine’s pulse moves in a thick with rust Stuck into itself The way I find myself in august Sitting here

I am an open wound And yet still I can drive you home My vision blurs Damp The gravel road I suppose I’m Crying or simply Disappearing Diffusing into the air beside You

You like it

You don’t need to

My car Because it’s the color of a coke-can Same as my lip stick stains You rush to wipe from your cheeks

see me

by Alexandra Lalli

It could be blush or blood And at this point I don’t want to know (Are you In love Afraid Or both?) I guess that makes it exciting How you can chase me down in A shot In the dark My chest bleeds warm With what I think is Everything I’ll ever feel And there’s peace in believing that For even a moment It’s always, only that You leave as quickly as it took For me to need you Your body ripped from Mine, an open wound

Nor Kiss me Again With your eyes closed I wonder who you’re looking at As you strip my scent off your teeth You Go home To your girl Sip her sweetness like Gentle lemon tea Don’t worry I won’t stay to watch I’m not that fucking desperate But I’ll be there As you Swallow down The last taste on your tongue Don’t let her feel it Feel that? I’m burning down your throat

Love in the Time of Cybernetica by Claire Tsui Act I: She Who is Milk-White

Swathed in silks and linens stands an ivory maiden. She is struck in a pose of effortless grace, her lips pressed shut and her gaze lowered in gentle demurity. Before her stands her sculptor, Pygmalion. Scorning the lustful women of his realm, Pygmalion sought to create one hewn to his tastes, whose eyes could see no other and thus belong to no other. He traces the cut of her cheek with a half-curled hand, his eyes roaming over her exquisitely carved face in raptured silence. He marvels at the pearlescent beauty of his work—as pale and otherworldly as the moon. And like the moon, the maiden remains stonily out of Pygmalion’s reach. She is cold and stiff, her ivory flesh unyielding to his touch; lovely as she may be, she is not his to hold. Driven to obsession by his inability to have her, Pygmalion finally beseeches none other than the goddess of love herself. To turn men into stone is the power of Medusa, but to turn stone into woman is Aphrodite’s. She listens to his plea and casts a verdict, her voice spiraling down from the vaulted ceilings of the temple. It curls like wisps of smoke and savor into Pygmalion’s ears. “Return and embrace your statue. See it become a maiden in your hands.” Pygmalion rushes back to the pavilion in frenzied haste. Throwing himself upon the statue, he gathers it into his arms and seals its ivory lips with a kiss. When he draws back, he sees lips flushed red with life-blood and a maiden of flesh and bone. Her skin is still pale like moonlight. Galatea, he thinks. She who is milkwhite. He watches, entranced, as she raises her dark eyes with the shyness of a newborn fawn. Her first glimpse of the world sees Pygmalion and the sun crowned behind his head. Beheld by her wide, innocent eyes—filled with nothing but him and the heavens 60 above—Pygmalion knew he could love no other.

Act II: Ex Machina

The desire to artificially create another being, one that is bent to our will, is rooted in narcissism, a hubristic hunger to play god and build in our own image.

We enter the epoch of the postmodern Pygmalion. Instead of smooth expanses of ivory, his lovers possess lithe, flexible torsos supported by metal frames, chrome limbs wrapped in synthetic collagen—sleek and shiny, like a boy’s novel plaything. The introduction of artificially intelligent beings to the public naturally gives rise to questions about the extent of their humanity. Whether it is possible to connect with and befriend them—whether it is possible to love and be loved by them. Those who claim the superiority of the gynoid over the human woman cite its hypothetical ability to be the perfect lover. Programmed to our physical and emotional needs, the gynoid adjusts like a custom thermostat to suit our taste. It analyzes our behavior and adapts accordingly to our hot and cold with cybernetic intelligence. The gynoid would be devoted to its express purpose of fulfilling us sexually and romantically, utterly compliant with no burdensome needs of its own. They are, in all senses, born to love us. But it is only the Pygmalion man who fancies this notion of artificial lovers: one who sees the myth of Pygmalion as a love story—who covets the glamorous ideal of a woman more than an actual one. He dreams of a woman tailored to his preferences, whose sole aspiration is to please; what he fantasizes is not love, but ownership. Pygmalion’s beloved, pearly maiden was merely an effigy to this fantasy, a perfectly posed image of beauty with no humanizing grace of her own. Yet herein laid her appeal to Pygmalion, for what he loved was not a woman but an unattainable ideal of femininity. Pygmalion scorned the women of Propoetides for their carnal nature; he desired a woman who was erotic only in appearance, pure and chaste and sexless to all but him, and Galatea was the masterpiece that could only ever belong to him. Pygmalion sought to grant her flesh and blood but not autonomy, for that was to give her independent will, and to give her independent will was to bestow her the freedom to exist beyond his dominion. Love is, admittedly, the most primitive form of ownership we know and feel. But to the Pygmalion man, love becomes nothing short of domination. The artificial lover represents a vehicle of submission over which he exercises his lust for control, an infallible means to program absolute devotion in his partner. It strips love of consent and the fundamental basis that love is a spiritual connection and exchange between autonomous beings, imperfect but freely given. The postmodern Pygmalion believes it is possible to treat this automated servitude as a proxy for human partnership. That this perverse exploitation is an acceptable, if not superior, form of love—as though the chimeric contract between man and machine will not construct a twisted, dystopian ideal of what a lover ought to be. Pygmalion set out on a quest to create a more perfect kind of love; his legacy and its implications, however, could not be anything less monstrous. 61

Who am I to complain? by Serena Barish

It’s funny (I don’t know why but it is) I expect others to do very little for me I almost cried at how nice it was that someone watched a movie I suggested “Of course, didn’t you say it was a favorite?” And I’m so tired of being Everyone’s friend who’s doing fine And I’m so good at dodging questions So no one ever knows Oh it’s no big deal, Remind me again, what did you do yesterday? Tell me what you love Tell me who you are Oh nevermind me yesterday, well, I sat there, crying and shaking and numb And I long to tell someone Just to know someone knows But each time I part my lips All that comes out Is “no how are you?” And apologies for breathing Formatted In expectations that no one cares, they don’t want to watch my dumb little movie I’ll let you walk over me Too afraid to admit how it hurts I’ll let you walk over me I’ll grind myself into dirt

And no one will know how I cried So no one will ask Someone told me once how articulate I am And I never would have believed how much it stuck with me He was so right Because I can piece together The most beautiful way to make you feel so seen You don’t even realize I am fading The most beautiful way to avoid admitting I need someone to just ask me Just ask me once Not to swallow my tears Because I am drowning in their puddle And when I try to scream out For some reason I don’t hear “Please someone save me” And instead it sounds like “Oh I’m fine and you?” I am not fine I am lying God I’m such actor, tell such a good lie I play the part of the dirt When I know I’m the sky.

gravity gravity well well by by lia lia gilleran gilleran