MUSE 2021 by Boston University Academy

BOSTON UNIVERSITY ACADEMY

MUSE

2021

MUSE

2021

Editors and Sponsors of The MUSE Lead Editor

Art Contributors

Saoirse Killion ’21

Tracy He ’24 Claire Hsu ’23 Saoirse Killion ’21 Sitarah Lakhani ’22 Michelle Lisak ’21 William Liu ’23 Alvin Lu ’23 Maya Magavi ’21 Charlie Minney ’22 Jovanah Noelsaint ’24 Kasia Perks ’21 Jenny Wang ’21

Editorial Team Dorothy Brown ’22 Julia Dickinson ’22 Cole Fitzgibbons ’21 Sally Jamrog ’23

Members Mell Aguiar ’22 Kaeleen Chen ’23 Aparna Deokar ’24 Aster Gamarnik ’23 Caden Krauter ’23 Sarafina Madden ’22 Richa Mishra ’24 Tatum Mueller ’23 Audrey Xiao ’23 Dustin Zhang ’22

Faculty Advisor

Front Cover Art Saoirse Killion ’21

Back Cover Art Tracy He ’24

Printer Jay Arthur, ProPrint

Dr. Lauren Proll

Special Thanks Mr. Christos Kolovos Ms. Lainey Chippero

Typesetting and layout by Julie Gallagher, whom we thank, once again, and again, and again.

Table of Contents 1

Déjà Vu, Sally Jamrog ’23

二泉映月, William Liu ’23

In the Dark Age, Saoirse Killion ’21

5 Confirmation, Saoirse Killion ’21 6

Silver Heart, Julia Dickinson ’22

The Sea, Julia Dickinson ’22

Theory of Aestheticism, Aster Gamarnik ’23

The Revenge of Grendel’s Mother, Kaeleen Chen ’23

Study of Anais, Tracy He ’24

Moon Girl, Sarafina Madden ’22

13 Tapestry, Saoirse Killion ’21 14 Untitled, Audrey Lin ’22 15

Surrealist Snail, Kasia Perks ’21

The Timekeeper, Sally Jamrog ’23

Halfway to Shangri-La, Audrey Xiao ’23

Figure Study, Kasia Perks ’21

Figure Study, Michelle Lisak ’21

Birthday Paisley, Saoirse Killion ’21

Persephone Returns, Saoirse Killion ’21

Let Down Your Load, Atlas, Cole FitzGibbons ’21

Grab My Hand, Jenny Wang ’21

No Departure, Kenzie Urbano ’21

26 Red, Kaeleen Chen ’23

Still Life with Teapot, Sitarah Lakhani ’22

Pumpkins Can’t Have Barnacles, Julia Dickinson ’22

Contour Line Natural Form, Jovanah Noelsaint ’24

Surrealist Drawing, Charlie Minney ’22

A Dream, Saoirse Killion ’21

Season Seamstress, Saoirse Killion ’21

Self Portrait, Claire Hsu ’23

Figure Study, Saoirse Killion ’21

Sophomore Sonnets, Alexander Jin ’23, Rishi Roy ’23, Alvin Lu ’23, Kate Dickinson ’23, Ali Holman ’23, Kaeleen Chen ’23, Arya Manda ’23, Susanna Boberg ’23, Nick Reason ‘23

Speckled Black Looking Glass, Emmanuel Smirnakis ’23

Fishbowl Head, Maya Magavi ’21

Eternal Oak, Liam Kirwin ’22

Haunted House, Dorothy Brown ’22

Bubble Tea Sestina, Tatum Mueller ’23

Self Portrait, Alvin Lu ’23

Editors’ Note Dear Readers: We are proud to present the 2021 edition of The Muse, BUA’s annual literary magazine. It is such an honor to share with you this collection of incredible poetry and prose by BUA’s student body, and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I and the editorial team enjoyed every workshop, every conversation, and every hour spent proofreading (many thanks to the grammar man himself, Cole). This year has been difficult for all, and I hope The Muse is a source of some much needed joy and inspiration. I would like to thank all of you who attended LitMag’s weekly workshops, as well as everyone who contributed the poems and fiction pieces that are the heart of this book. Thank you, too, to the visual artists whose work beautifully accompanies this year’s writing selections. Along with the contributors, I also offer my gratitude to those who helped us students make this magazine possible—Dr. Proll, for her guidance and leadership as our faculty advisor, Ms. Chippero for her invaluable work concerning student art, and Julie Gallagher, our typesetter, for yet another amazing job. We value your hard work and admire your dedication to us young editors and artists. On a personal note, I want to thank Dr. Gordon Harvey, a BUA icon and 11th grade English instructor retiring at the end of this academic year, who is well known for his challenging, yet gentle teaching style, wit, and kindness. As well as my junior year American Literature teacher, Dr. Harvey was also my senior thesis advisor; all the poems you will see by me in this edition of The Muse are portions of a poetic sequence that would not exist without Dr. Harvey’s mentorship. I could always count on him for helpful edits, advice about creative writing, reading recommendations, and a good conversation. Thank you, Dr. Harvey, for everything you have done for me and for BUA. I have been a part of LitMag ever since my first day of ninth grade. I am now a senior and head editor of the magazine, and nothing could make me happier. Nothing could make me feel what I feel when I workshop a poem, or hear a brilliant new voice, or read my poetry aloud to the group. I love to share my writing, and be entrusted with someone’s writing, as much as I love to create. I love to hear others’ processes and voices; I can step, v

for a moment, into the landscapes of their minds. Finding a community wherein all love literature and all are willing to learn and critique has been a joy—it came to me in the form of this literary magazine. Writing doesn’t always need to be shared, but the impact you can have and the things you learn about storytelling, grammar, and your own soul are all worth so very much. I hope, with all my heart, that you enjoy this year’s Muse.

Saoirse ’21

Sally Jamrog ’23

Déjà Vu I had been seeing them my entire life: looking up from a dog-eared page, picking up pen from paper, and rolling up leaves to tuck them into faded glass. They glimmered in the corners of my eyes and in the crevasses of my mind. I could feel their playful spirits. As soon as I noticed them, it was as if they had never appeared at all. They never stayed long, only to make me aware of their presence and to disappear again. An elaborate jest designed to keep me guessing and bereft of answers. The day was beginning to turn into night when I saw them for the last time, the somber tones of the moonlight hours leaking, like ink from a spilled inkpot, into the pages of the much-loved book called Sunset. The moon wished the sun well and took the nighttime shift, illuminating the pages in front of me with celestial shine. My unspilled inkpot was to be refilled as soon as I had polished the anatomy of the dry leaves and dragonflies in front of me. The lines adorning the dragonfly’s wings were still to be perfected and had secrets still to be tapped. It was then that one of the pranksters visited. At first, it was just a glimmer in the sky, another star among millions, and then it transformed before my eyes. Soft wings enveloped a figure in between, glowing ever so slightly with astro-luminescence. Its fake eyes seemed to watch me. I could see it was a moth now, as its wings rested flat against my windowpane, and its antennae were feather-like and curious. I wondered whether it would notice the mothoid shapes hung with pins behind me in glass cases. My heart twinged with guilt. The shape, for it was only a silhouette in the candlelight, floated through my open window and landed on the top of a spare quill as my heart leaped. Gently, so as not to disturb the unearthly moth, I nudged my magnifying glass over the insect. I began to draw it, fake eyes and all, hoping and wishing it would not fly away until the last stroke of my quill had captured its essence. Before my pen was sated, the moth fluttered away. Its wings still glistened in the starlight as it traced a path out the window, making eddies swirl in the rising mist. I watched until its wingbeats became as subtle as the wind. The quill in my hand dripped black ink-drool. I reviewed my work, just an ink sketch, still unfinished. Lighting a few more candles to fill the darkness, I began to paint, hoping my memory would be enough to recreate the creature on canvas. I was to learn later in my life that the species of moth I had so delicately captured was extinct.

I think back on the memory now, and it seems impossible that the glowing, vivid creature I could just about touch in my mind’s eye has been reduced to the dusty canvas on the wall of the museum’s entomology section. After a long day at the museum, people look at my piece as just another work of art they’ll have to interpret. They didn’t see how it crawled up my quill, so fragile! It could have landed on any other pen in the world and it chose mine. “What do the wings of this butterfly symbolize?” they think to themselves. (Butterfly!) They take my poor moth apart and force their ideas upon it. It pains me to see my moth out in the open, to see people perusing its feathery wings like a week-old magazine, without the context or care to empathize with the creature. Do they know it doesn’t exist anymore? Is it more beautiful now that it doesn’t live or breathe?

William Liu ’23

二泉映月

Saoirse Killion ’21

In the Dark Age Before the scholar came back, with his laurel crown atop marble curls, before the saint laid his hands in heaven’s blessing upon the loam, and before the romantic nailed women to tree trunks, there was Her. Her smile was merciless. Her glance was arresting. She let wildflowers creep like ivy up her sleeves and cup her cheeks as no lover ever could. She speaks and her voice is real.

Saoirse Killion ’21

Confirmation I once had freedom—it drizzled sweet— butterfly sugar upon my tongue. Shoulder deep in grass, I bled sylvan streams, smelt the breaking of bark and her orange bug pheromones. I watered flower buds on the forest floor, carnations for friendship, windflowers for protection, and a lily for love. My lily-mother was God. “But thorns stain a beauty, that’s why I love the Lily,” the romantic whispered. “Femininity and Flora,” the scholar’s dissertation. “Restoration of innocence after death,” said He, and the saint. Your innocence is something to be controlled. When I wove lilies through my curls on Easter mass, everyone loved me, as one loves a vase of tea flowers. He approved of this decoration. But during confirmation, when I pledged forever to be His, I could not think of His word. I thought of Hers and my shameful tears fell blush pink— girlish, stupid, weak. As pink deepened to red, the eye blood trickled river-dark down my soul. What if you’re losing it? Sweet control, you birthed a monster: vengeful woman.

Julia Dickinson ’22

Silver Heart The rains of sorrow Wallop endlessly On my silver heart. The cacophony of the water Drowns out the world. The rains wreck my heart, Silver sobbing and squalling, Cascading into agony. My optimistic umbrellas Fail against the rains, Blown away, useless. All I have left is my silver heart. Bracing against the waves Pummeling me, She stands strong. Will this ever end? Only Poseidon knows. But if the storm clears, If the rains of sorrow, pain, grief, and fear Ever stop destroying my silver heart, With the pieces I have left, I will mend My weathered, broken heart. It may be patchwork, But those ragged bits Will immortalize the rains.

Julia Dickinson ’22

The Sea Salted glaze lilts over the dust of the past As foam floats across the ever-changing abyss. From jade to steel to stone, It changes with the emotions Of our fluctuating divinities. It lives in both youth and age, Breathing in and out, out and in. Its depths house millions of little creatures, Finding refuge in their predecessors’ ashes. Undulating and surging, Lapping and crashing, The silky waters of the sea Send ships sailing above histories.

Aster Gamarnik ’23

Theory of Aestheticism Glass beads patter on the window of my train. A whisper of fog escapes my lips. I let my worn body slouch in its seat, my head perching on my shoulder. Crystal balls, containing an ocean, meander to the foggy window. Blurs of green and grey, like a movie reel on double speed, whirr past. The desolate car, sparsely furnished with people, remains frozen like the lakes outside. Time does not exist on this train. Their empty eyes, with blank faces, stare at the flickering screens that spew empty messages. I rummage through my brown satchel and pull out a tarnished, leatherbound journal. Unlocking it, I strain to catch the loose pages trying to sail away from the contraption, their naive eagerness not ready for the world of rejection. My fingers reach for a pen. It slips out of my coat. Click. I search among a library of thoughts for the words to express my quirky psyche. Thick black ink traces the words my mind sets on the page: “Oscar Wilde’s theory of aestheticism: the concept that one should surround oneself with things one finds pleasing to the eye. This helps them better understand who they are and what they like, express themselves, and simply be happy. This is what I live by. This is why my room is an art gallery, with a clutter of plants and thrifted things. This is why I dress eccentrically and watch the little kids stare at my eyeliner. This is what my friends admire and my mother will never understand.” I feel a shiver trickle down my spine, a gentle breeze ruffles my impulsively cut hair. “Even now I can feel his presence, and I know that he is proud.” A gentle warmth spreads from my shoulder to my heart.

Kaeleen Chen ’23

The Revenge of Grendel’s Mother Deep in the mere and down in the dark, The news of disaster had reached the dam. Her son had been slain by the hero who sailed. The child-killer was Beowulf, who boasted he’d beaten Her glorious boy, Grendel the great. She let out a cry for the love she had lost. Her blessed son, the boy whom she raised, Had been slaughtered by savage men called the Geats. Her pain would not pause without a promise of revenge. Kindled in rage, she rose on a rampage From the grisly lake on the desolate grass-hill. Hungry for blood, she headed to Heorot, Spurred by rancor to kill for retribution. As she harrowed the hall, they woke in horror. They did not like the sight of the she-demon there. She seized the stolen hand of her son, Along with a man, and made off for the moor. The blood-price had been paid. All would have been peaceful. But Hrothgar was hurt and had wished her harm. He lamented the loss of his friend and companion. Then brave Beowulf, his life-shield burnished, Stood and decreed the death of the demon. They walked across the windswept wasteland, a tiresome trek that lasted weeks, to the haunted mere where the mother mourned. A gruesome sight then greeted the group. The flesh of the friend of Hrothgar was fed on. Now, the edge of the earth-wall held only his head. The mother had mauled him with all of her madness, But nothing could soothe the sadness in her soul. She sulked in the depths, sobbing in sorrow. Clutched to her chest was the hand of her child.

The hero proclaimed his purpose here: To defeat her or die. He dove to the depths Of the horrible swamp which no soul had seen. He swung his sword, that shining blade, Ready to destroy the life of the dam. But she was saved; the sword had failed. The dam snatched a knife to gut the Geat. The blow should have taken Beowulf’s blood-breath. But he avoided the attack and blocked the blow, Snagging a sword to slice through her sinews. As her head hit the ground, the Geat was glorious. The valiant hero had vanquished the dam. He had liberated the world from the dangers which lurked. So the Geat now sailed home, with glory and gold. The mother was left at the bottom of the mere. Her revenge had failed. Her life was lost. Just like her son, she was sent to hell.

Tracy He ’24

Study of Anais

Sarafina Madden ’22

Moon Girl There is a girl who lives on the moon. She’s weightless, and giggly, and her mellifluous voice pours like sweet honey drizzled in milk. Legend says, at birth, a fairy stitched the silk petals of a crimson rose onto her cheeks. She glides along the craters, encompassed by a mist of lambent light. Two blue butterflies rest within the caverns underneath her forehead, their wings closing for slumber, and expanding at dawn. Her mind is untouched by the influence of another. Her world is an ethereal bliss. She lives alone, but alone is all she has ever been. She does not long for romance or friendship. She feels satisfied. I lean against my window and gaze up at the serenity and the stillness of the night sky. Sometimes I swear I can see moon girl dancing, leaping. And for a moment I become her when my butterflies nestle into their caverns and fold their wings.

Saoirse Killion ’21

Tapestry Come loving evening with her carmine kisses, my sanity splits in two. I imagine, for that is all I do here, little rusted sewing scissors, unlucky blades pointed like the lone magpie’s beak, nibbling away one pretty curl at a time. They chew through the ancient tapestry, ravenous for my stories spotted with blushed strawberries and laced with charcoal ash. Each thread pulled, a loved memory mutilated. Obsession holds the scissors. Mistress of moonrise, sweetheart of sunset, something of or in myself. I see her in every mirror.

Audrey Lin ’22

Untitled Endless days keep going by, My tiny goals in hand. No way to reach my prize From a broken stand. Hope was the tiny sunlit ray, Broken by the night. Naught but one can be saved Try as though you might. Looming as a giant would, Your passions or your fears Switch between “can” and “should” And nothing will be clear.

Kasia Perks ’21

Surrealist Snail

Sally Jamrog ’23

The Timekeeper The ticking was incessant. My grandfather had always liked it that way. He seemed to find a certain comfort in the rhythm. He had always been a schedule-driven man, not a fan of spontaneity, so I figured his clocks provided a reliable certainty, something that would always stay the same. His house was special, as a house with that many clocks is bound to be. The very walls seemed to be made of them, those constant counters, and seemed to sag as though time itself were too heavy a burden to bear. Where he ran out of room on the walls, you could find them behind doors, in closets, or even inside kitchen cabinets. Cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, musical clocks, no two alike, each with a distinct chime upon the hour. Every day after school I would walk to his house. “You must never be late,” my mother would remind me each morning. “Your grandfather expects you at 3:15 exactly.” And every day I arrived on time, ringing the doorbell at 3:15, and he would smile and greet me with that sparkle in his eye, the one that made me love him more tenderly than ever. “Hello, Elizabeth, it’s lovely to see you!” he would say. Or sometimes, “It’s such a wonderful day outside!” We always had the same schedule. He would take me inside, we would sit down at the kitchen table, and he would listen to the stories I might have to tell about my day. I would munch my milk and cookies (always two ginger snaps and a glass of milk three-quarters full), the fabric of the cushion imprinting itself into my skin, and he would respond, “What a wonderful school you go to!” or sometimes, “How about that!” He would always tell the same story about an old pocket watch he used to have, back in his shop-owning days, to which I would respond, “Grandpa, you’ve told me that one before,” and he would say, “Oops! I guess I’m older than I used to be!” At his workbench, I would raptly gaze over his shoulder to watch him tinker with a broken piece, hands and faces ticking all around us. It would amaze me how fast his nimble fingers fiddled and played with the parts of a gadget until, miraculously, it would be fixed. His old fingers still repaired with a clear purpose. Today he was hunched over what appeared to be an antique cuckoo, its ancient filigree intertwined like laced fingers over 16

its yellowed face. It was one of the big ones that usually hung beside the many tools he kept cleaned and ready to use. I was sitting in the chair he normally pulled out for me (always in the same place) with the wellloved wingback, and was swinging my legs in my usual manner. I was particularly interested in today’s patient, whose twittering songbird popped out at irregular times, giving a discordant call: out of tune and out of time. I had let my legs swing a little slower than my regular speed. He turned to me frowning and said, “Elizabeth, would you swing your legs a little faster, please?” I adjusted their pace and his eyes sparkled again. “That’s better. Thank you.” On this particular visit, it was just nearing the end of our time together. I would stay until 4:30 when my mother would ring the doorbell, and he would let us go with the usual tip of his hat and old-timey farewell. “I guess it’s time to let you go!” he said cheerily at 4:29 as I watched a clock’s minute hand click into place. Its delicate hands, though chipped and warped, still rightly timed the day. We stood up and pushed in our chairs, making our way to his entryway, where a weathered grandfather clock stared down at me, its pendulum swinging low and evenly. I expected the doorbell to ring in a matter of seconds, never early, never late, but always and exactly on time. Today it didn’t come. 4:31 passed and it still didn’t come. She’d never been late before. The beats of the clocks began to pound in my ears as I felt the silence swell around me. The tocks and the ticks grew oddly out of whack as I felt my grandfather’s hand grow heavier on my shoulder. “Grandpa?” I asked. I touched his hand and recoiled. Its coldness shocked me. In my surprise, I’d flinched, and he toppled over sideways as if he were made of stone. I cried out, rushing to his side and shaking his arms frantically, crying and calling his name. I could feel faces watching me, hands counting my every move, as the beats of my chest mingled with the din of the room. 4:32 passed, then 4:33 and 4:34 until at 4:35 I heard the doorbell ring and jumped to my feet. I wrenched the door wide and took my mother’s hand. My cheeks grew even wetter as I frantically explained to 17

her what had happened, showing her the body of my grandfather growing cold, his eyes dull, their twinkle gone. She squeezed my shoulders gently, meeting my eyes with a smile. “Don’t worry dear, he just needs to be wound,” she said. I watched as she pulled a little gold key out of her pocket. Crouching down beside him, she seemed to insert and twist the key around three times and then pocketed it again. I swear I heard the ticking grow a little louder as that spark returned to my grandfather’s eyes. “Hello, Elizabeth! It’s lovely to see you!”

Audrey Xiao ’23

Halfway to Shangri-La Am I dancing, resting beneath the ethereal world of imagination as he hums the dulcet golden melody of a sweet love song? The translucent moon accompanies us, tiptoeing across the ocean of our view. Serenity and enlightenment permeate my senses. His gentle fingertips caress my cheek, lulling me into Eden. His soft whispers resonate in swells of harmony, stealing me tenderly and sending me into euphoria. Floral lights encompass us with soothing bouquets as they ever so delicately blossom in halos. A rasp in his throat like the snake deceives me and plunges me into Paradiso. Am I falling, ever shifting from my ideation relinquishing the essence of his persona, lost in my own questioning and doubt, pretending a fairytale that never was real? Never. Am I dreaming? Does my utopia exist in reality as a worthy romance like Dante and Beatrice’s, guiding each other through the harshest torments of hell? Or is it led by cynical images of desire and fantasy, an image filled with fraud and imagination, the stew that boils in my mind as I lie unconscious, Alone, Angelic and Asleep? The fog clears lethargically, and as I feel it open, I am invited to the comfort of those dusty rosemary walls and the heavy woolen blanket. I can finally see. 19

Kasia Perks ’21

Figure Study

Michelle Lisak ’21

Figure Study

Saoirse Killion ’21

Birthday Paisley He thought I was pretty as a flower. Sweet care lingered in the air burnt with pink wax candles and his breath. We got lost walking home from the museum, wandered through the ancient fens, through the willow-women with their wet, long locks. Our fingers intertwined like vines of morning glory. In some dimension, he’s still there, telling me I look like something out of a ’70s L.L. Bean catalog, fingers winding through the tapestry of my curls, drawing paisley patterns onto my threaded shoulder blades. Earlier that evening, as we stood in front of a Monet, he compared me to the painting with his eyes. Parts of me, when closely observed, I agree, don’t quite make sense. But when he stepped back, he must have noticed that I was no match for nature.

Saoirse Killion ’21

Persephone Returns My ghost has been living in these sheets. I smell her pink makeup, dusted like powdered sugar over the pillow cakes. The blue blankets— I must be imagining this— are warm with summer radiance, sunscreen skin, rushed kisses and moonrise glitter, an embrace tucked between the willow-women of the fens. My old smell before I went away. The bookcase: my little ceramic bowl of candy earrings, crystal rosaries, fountain pens drooling blue wine, everything stolen from me. Just to look at them is sweet sacrilege! Fairy dust melts on my tongue and I sparkle in the dark. I was a happy girl once. I wore pink corduroy pinafores with brown mary-janes and picked clovers on my way to school. Two months ago I wore lemon muslin, wove anthurium petals through my curls to impress him. Now I wear sweatpants all day, and watch the last flowers freeze to death in the autumn shade, alone. I twitch, feeling spring might wait in vain. My knuckles glow like ghosts in their pink and red cadavers. Each glance around my bedroom, my girlhood, each sad smile, each cup of weak tea they hand me, forces plummy bile up my throat. This sugar burns! I’m so sick I throw up dinner, and fall asleep in my pastel grave. I can’t believe I deserve any of it. Too much home and too much love. 22

Cole FitzGibbons ’21

Let Down Your Load, Atlas Should the sky fall down tomorrow, how would you fare? Some would gawk and some would disbelieve their own eyes. I’m sure the scientist would be baffled and the preacher see every pew filled. Some might even go mad; that could be you, of course. To see your ordered world overcome, I wouldn’t be surprised if you lost it. But I wouldn’t be perturbed. In fact, I’d rest easier if all the sureness in the world were swept away. I’m playing with my brother right now. I look at him move, look at him laugh, and I think he’ll be here by my side forever. Should he be taken from me tomorrow, the sky would fall down on my world. The fear strikes me all the time; I can’t forget how he fell in my aunt’s pool when I was too small to get him out, how the blue was halted just above my head by an attentive cousin. And what can you and I really do about our loved ones dying or our heroes faltering? Under brave faces, we all tacitly share in hopelessness. We ignore the skies careening down all the time to cope. But when the tragedy is too close, we try to explain it away: she’d had health problems, it was his time, it was meant to be this way; or he had his demons, you never really know what someone’s about, these things happen, etc. Though these clichés are adequate in public, they do not satisfy in private. With every misfortune, the grieving beg for the sense of it, and rote words of sympathy are betrayed by eyes which similarly wonder. And I’m not excluded: I know conjuring up these half-answerable questions will only serve to deepen a wound. If only I could tear down my instinct to explain! We augment grief with questions about the tragedy’s necessity or source, like the cupbearer to a drunk king. For even if we find an answer, it’s always cold and clinical. The pain is exacerbated, not allayed. So while the sky grins at me, its blueness just a product of atmospheric composition and its clouds just evaporated water, I curse and rage at it. Let it crash onto me, green and black and yellow with flaming clouds, and destroy all the explanations of the world! It would tell me everything I know is as tangible and permanent as sunlight; I could fully embrace that there is no reason in the world. Maybe then the questions would cease and the pain would feel a little easier to bear.

Jenny Wang ’21

Grab My Hand

Kenzie Urbano ’21

No Departure I sit by the tracks and await a train that does not stop for me, and it passes. A sullen disposition, mosquito-bitten ankles, and a fluttered stomach. S**t. I forgot bug spray. I listen to the tide of my exhausted digestion for a while, exhaling from chapped lips with the sticky remains of what once was rose lip gloss. After eating the fourth of four cookies, I proclaim, “I am poetic. Why not indulge?” Even if it leads to indigestion. I try to digest this world of mine; but it weighs heavy within me, as if the apple, laden with lead, laid me leaden and just a bit queasy, a bit beyond comfortable. Apple and pear. Tomato tomato. I burp; there is nothing to do but await its passing and as the train stirs my hair and scares my skeeters, I hear my heart squeal the tune of the old wheels, rusted and tired of bearing the weight of the world, or at least, of the greater Boston populous. My nutritionist says I’m underweight. We share a moment before it must fulfill its duties, and I remain seated, waiting for the train that stops for other reasons than me.

Kaeleen Chen ’23

Red Red is the color of blood. It’s also the color of love, the color of warmth and soft tenderness. Red comes in hues, the colors dark and warm, intense and inviting. It’s a gentle and harsh color, beautiful and ugly, dainty, and carefree. Soft, blooming, creeping, red seeps into the world, furious yet lighthearted. Red is life. It’s warm and soft, gentle and lovely. Red is the color of crisp apples, spring tulips, and the soft petals of lotuses. It’s the color of a soft kiss on the forehead, the gentle petal of a rose, a beautiful sunset seen from lawn chairs, warm afternoons, autumn leaves floating down from treetops. It’s the days that Mama and I spent, curled up on the couch, laughing. It’s the color of the good-luck talisman she draped over my shoulders. The color of the tight fabric of the dress, the one with the gold patterns that I hated so much, yet wore because it made little crinkles appear around her eyes as she smiled. Red is the sweet smell of flowers. It’s the warm aroma of cloves and cinnamon. It’s the taste of sugary fruit against my tongue. Red is the color of the roses she brought home, the color of a blush appearing on my cheeks as she told me how beautiful I was. Red is fiery, burning with passion and intensity. It’s bright, loud and shouting, eye-catching. Red is energy. It’s excitement. Red is the color of the beginning of life. Red is the color of love, beautiful and fierce. It’s the fervent love of a mother for her daughter. Red is the color of the sticky cherry flavored candy that Mama always brought home from the grocery store, the one that stained my lips and fingers, covering every surface in the house with a sticky goop. Mama hated it when I made a mess, but she still bought it for me. Red is the bottle of chili oil on the dinner table, the one that was too spicy for me to eat and made my mouth burn whenever I tried, but Mama always loved. It’s the color of the lipsticks she put on. It’s the color of the sour tang of grapefruit against my tongue, the bursting taste of strawberries in my mouth. Red is the sharp smell of a permanent marker. It’s a warm fire crackling, the sparks fizzling out on the bricks. Red is the color of birth. It’s how Mama always told me she loved me.

But no matter how beautiful red seems to be, it’s dark too. Dark and harsh: that’s how I describe red now. Horrifying, a color that makes my gut wrench and my heart pound, makes me go weak at the knees, bile rising in my throat. It’s not lovely, it’s not soft. It’s terrifying. So, so terrifying. Red is the color of caution, the color of danger and warning. It’s the color of stop signs, of red lights. Red is the color of pain. It’s the color of my blood, scarlet against the blue of my jeans as I come home crying, my knees and elbows scraped and skinned. Red is the flushed look of anger as her brows furrow as she cleans my cuts, not saying a word, her lips pressed together. Who did this? She asks afterward, her tone quiet yet furious as I refuse to say anything. Who was it? Red is the color of the ambulance as it waits in front of the door. It’s the color of police sirens, of brake lights on the highway. It’s the color of fire, flames licking up the side of the metal, the sharp smell of gasoline as my eyes water. Red is the sharp sense of terror, the knowledge that everything has gone wrong. It’s pain from my broken ankle, it’s the glow bathing the car in light, the color of the dark blood seeping over my hands, warm and sticky. Red is the last color I ever saw on Mama as the brake lights came on and the tires squealed on the pavement, the car swerving off the highway, all the while still illuminated in red, the color of pain. Red is the color of burning anger. The color of desperation and pain. The color that seeps into my nightmares and twists my dreams in agony. Red is my reflection as I stare at myself, seeing the angry color of my face, my lower lip trembling as tears fill my eyes. It’s the color of my face as I clench my fists, trying to stop the emotions from spilling over. My fault, my fault. I should have saved her. Red is my eyes, puffy and swollen from crying and crying and crying. It’s the blood on my hands as I sit in the Emergency Room, watching the flashing red light, while I wait for the fatal news. Red is death. Red is the finality of everything. Blood, scarlet leaking across the floor. It’s the soft color of pink tissue, of flesh, of ugly gaping wounds torn by silver metal. It’s the blood crusted beneath my fingernails, the stains that never seem to leave my skin, no matter how many times I scrub until the skin turns bright pink. Red is the iron tang of blood, the sharp smell of vomit as it hits the back of my throat. It’s the color of the roses laid across her stone grave. Red is the color of everything, the color of me.

Sitarah Lakhani ’22

Still Life with Teapot

Julia Dickinson ’22

Pumpkins Can’t Have Barnacles Each morning, I envision myself Eating breakfast in a lake house. Savoring a plate of waffles With strawberries and whipped cream, I sit at a wooden table On a porch overlooking a picture-perfect lake. The water is undisturbed by boats and motors. Lush green trees– Hemlocks, maples, pines– Line the shore. I take a sip of my chamomile tea, Steaming in a ceramic mug. But it’s not real. I take a swig of my travel mug of coffee As I pass a delivery truck. I drive past cars doing three-point turns On pockmarked asphalt. I tap the steering wheel, Frustrated by the red lights ahead And the angry drivers Honking their horns. I know the sky is blue, and grass is green. I know that snails don’t read, and snakes don’t run. I know that chrysanthemums can’t grow on rocks, And pumpkins can’t have barnacles. But what if the sky were red with yellow polka dots? What if snails could read you a bedtime story? What if barnacles could find a home on top of pumpkins? I want to live in the fog, The blur between what’s real and what’s not, A misty jumble of toasters and whales With tickling pinks and lived-in tomorrows. The fog wafts off my lake As I eat my breakfast of waffles With strawberries and whipped cream; It locks me in a daze, Alleviating my anxieties. I am finally content In a world of dissatisfaction.

Jovanah Noelsaint ’24

Contour Line Natural Form

Charlie Minney ’22

Surrealist Drawing

Saoirse Killion ’21

A Dream She holds me close this evening. “It’s ok . . . oh, honey . . .everything will be ok, chérie.” Darling, feminine. When she speaks romance, rosemallows melt on her river-plum hair. She buttons her chemise up to her jaw, and listens to the Jesus and Mary Chain. We walk downstairs together. We pour over words and bookmark pages with charcoal sticks and pink blotting paper, sharing a coffee in the cafeteria. I imagine we are somewhere else instead, where the yellow daisies soften in the oil lamp of moonrise, where the lilies are simply lilies. She sits across from me, in her blouse of cream silk. She has a sharp chrysanthemum mouth, quiet and loud, quiet and proud of her skill, pollinating words with her poetry, fertile and true. How long will it be until we are both okay? She tells me I am the most important entity in my life.

Saoirse Killion ’21

Season Seamstress I was wandering through the dusk green valley of my birth, the romantic gardens of girlhood, dotted with tea roses dripping moon milk. Then summer came, with soft sunshowers and vanilla kisses. I walked to the forest clearing, where the burning grass is hell for the garden toads and ladybugs. I sat there with him, my mouth sweet and numb. In autumn, construction began: acid stained concrete blocks, brown brick, small windows that let in gray light. He left my hands empty when the world dried up. I ate my pomegranates and died a little. Now I see myself in the mirror. I’m almost grateful for the thought of her, waiting outside for me, waiting for a coffee to share and more French vocabulary to shape with her lips. But I have to be alone right now. I have something to work with. My pearl earring becomes a tapestry needle, my dyed hair a thread. I take back the magpie scissors and sit down to sew.

Claire Hsu ’23

Self Portrait

Saoirse Killion ’21

Figure Study

Alexander Jin ’23

Sophomore Sonnet In time you will have found another mind With whom to share the passions of the heart, And my embrace, for which your breast once pined, Will then have lost its adolescent art. If only Love could sunder mortal bonds As Cupid swept Apollo with his bow! Yet we live not with gods in Heaven’s ponds, But in an earthly hell a world below. Then focus not on what we cannot change, But rather on the moment right at hand. Our eyes still have desires to exchange, And youthful love still flowers in our land. But yet, alas, if time would cease to fly, This kindled fervor could outlast the sky.

Rishi Roy ’23

Sophomore Sonnet When I soon leave this world of men so foul, Will there be then no better time to smile? After my death, no men will frown or scowl, For I’ll be past the glares of ones so vile. When I lie mixed with earth under the ground, Through verse my spirit always shall live on. My spirit shall live through my words, unbound, And free will it be though my form is gone. In me you see a flame that brightly glows, But ash will stay where it once fiercely lay. Yet like the smoke, my spirit flies and grows, It spreads about and fills the air with gray. Your worth in life is what is left in death; Your spirit lives past worlds and your last breath.

Alvin Lu ’23

Sophomore Sonnet He who stays even to your darkest day, And in the face of danger does not leave, Nor ever would betray you in his way, Is a dear, honest friend I do believe. Though Eros oft reveals deceitful deeds, Know a true friendship is forever pure; Tis never tainted by lust or green weeds Of envy and shall even pain endure. The vines that climb most high adapt well and Though fate and nature’s forces do impede, With time and woe, bond’s strength grows to stand Together and see light in times of need. To have such good companions as I’ve said Is much more lucky than to have been wed.

Kate Dickinson ’23

Sophomore Sonnet The tears of God do rain down from the sky And splash upon these mortal heads of ours. Quite like my love for you it dearly lies On every mile of the Earth and Mars. But you, the moon, are far too far to reach, For I, the sea, cannot move from the ground, But you can move me to and from the beach And watch me as the world turns round and round. We meet in the shade of the willow tree; The world is not prepared to see our love, The love that intertwines us, you and me, A love quite like the nest and mourning dove. One day death will descend upon your soul But I won’t weep; your fam’ly I’ll console.

Ali Holman ’23

Sophomore Sonnet Throughout life’s many loves and countless joys, There is an ever present spectre near. It stoppeth not for laughs or children’s toys; ‘Tis indiscriminate—it does not care. No matter where you run or where you hide, Its essence permeates through every pore, And by its ruthless law you must abide, Departing from the isle of life’s green shore. But lo, take heart, it shall not rule your mind. Do everything your heart and soul implore. For once you make your peace, you’ll surely find No longer shall you hear it at your door. Begone death! You shall not be welcome here. Until my eyes grow dark, dare not come near!

Kaeleen Chen ’23

Sophomore Sonnet I swore I would not love, for it brings pain. But then to me, you were so kind and true. You kindled ash of my heart into flame, A burning fire of sweet love for you. For when my world was jet black as the night, With lonely shadows stretching long and far, You came and brought a silver moon of light, And with your love, you lit my sky with stars. Then long ago, you told me you would stay And keep me company throughout the years. But just as rainstorms washed chalk art away, Your love for me began to disappear. Still, now I long for you with all my heart; Because without your love, I fall apart.

Arya Manda ’23

Sophomore Sonnet Just as relieving summer breezes do, She drifts in, visage of Troy’s Helen. And As honey to a fly attracts, so too Are my eyes frozen to the devil’s hand. When I look into her resplendent eyes, A ceaseless war between love and deceit Inside the mirrors of her soul there lies. Incautious am I not to see defeat. As children follow ice cream trucks, the hate Too follows winter as it comes back. How Improper are all things about her fate! Around this falsehood centered is life now. Her beauty captured my soul, her love real Thought my mind. So true does cruel blind love feel.

Susanna Boberg ’23

Sophomore Sonnet Before, I used to be a youthful fawn Who gazed upon the world with pure sweet eyes. And trusted wholly, though I was withdrawn, But who would out of me force fearful cries? A man reached out; I took his hand with trust. He offered berries, shelter, love and care. I never thought he’d leave me ‘lone and cursed, But in truth worthy men are far too rare. So then that varlet shot me in my back. My dappled hide, now like a blood-stained cloak, Sank to the ground still stunned from his attack, And to this heartless world I then awoke. Though now I must leave my dark past behind, My trust in men remains fore’er confined.

Nick Reason ‘23

Sophomore Sonnet I pray and pray that she is not a dream. My love’s eyes twinkle like a glist’ning bay, And ever strong my love for her shall be. Dark times may come for us but I shall stay. Her love for me fades like an unkept fire. Sullies her love for me another doest. I thought her love for me would never tire, But like a weathered metal it doth rust. To live in fiction where love all came true Would be the greatest gift that could be given. But now I am too low and far too blue. Alas! From true love am I forbidden. Forever I will be my lonesome own, Abandoned through this dark cold world I roam.

Emmanuel Smirnakis ’23

Speckled Black Looking Glass The glowing full moon hung still, frozen far above in the starry night sky. A shimmering white trail snaked through the dark, rippling surface of the sea. Gazing into the heavens, my mind was filled with countless sparkling dots that shone in the empty backdrop. The exposed soles of my feet stood upon the cool, smooth pebbles of the shore. A summer breeze blew softly through the air. It rustled my hair lightly and caressed my bare skin. Cold waters of the sea slid fluidly between my toes, then effortlessly receded over the pebbled beach to be swallowed by the rhythmic surge. I waded farther in, my feet sinking into the fine grain of the shallow seabed. I broke through A flowing volume enveloped my body Suspended in nothingness Pure black in every direction, just me alone. I moved through the chilling emptiness, a soft current flowing through my body. For a few moments, I merely drifted in space. I was gradually lifted upward as if by magnet, the mild pressure of the sea on my body lessening. A southern summer breeze met my wet face and gently blew through my drenched hair as beads of salty water rolled down my cheeks. I floated, immersed in an abstract tapestry of melting silver intermixed with dark ink. My arms cut through the shallow The silhouette of an impending sharp rock jutting out from the depths loomed before me, illuminated by the moon’s ethereal aura. Risen from beneath Isolated in lonesome, powerful solitude A figure Dark waterfall of rolling hair Cascading down her round shoulders. An excited giggle rang through the silent night air. She leaped from the edge, falling. Swallowed by the speckled black sea.

Maya Magavi ’21

Fishbowl Head

Liam Kirwin ’22

Eternal Oak There rises one amidst the changing time: The oak survives atop a hill alone; The wind among the branches soon will chime The change of season fleeing winter’s moan. And with the weather came the men in blue, Who rested weary on the brown-gold floor; They brandished arms for times and hopes anew. Eternal oak! Stand firm throughout the gore. This tree whose branches reach aloft with grace Begins to make the change from grey to green; The men in red approach, the rebels brace For death. Begin the change from what had been! With dark comes light; with night again comes dawn; When hope is gained, then hope again is gone.

Dorothy Brown ’22

Haunted House I am empty now, but my memory stretches back to the years when this was not so, when footsteps ran across my tiles and floorboards, and human voices echoed in the spaces of my hallways. I think back to those times whenever the wind slips through my shuttered windows and cold rain seeps in through leaks in my shingled roof, and despite the long absence of residents, an old instinct, which has been a part of me since I first came to be as my foundation was laid, pains me every time I fail to protect the old bedrooms and fireplaces. I have lost track of the number of winters since my residents fled, but it has been long enough for cobwebs and dust to gather and cling to every surface, though even the spiders know that this is not a place they wish to stay in for long. It has been long enough for my roof to sag and the neat corners of my walls to shift in ways only I can feel, so that each storm makes them uneasy. It has not been long enough for me to forget the family, and the night when they left . . . I do not believe I will ever forget that. All lay in stillness throughout these years, but then, one chill night when I was lost in soft and infinite broodings that had occupied me countless nights, I felt the tremble of a footstep just outside the front door, and then, the warmth of a human hand wrapped around the doorknob, pushing the unwilling hinges back with a shrieking sound of protest. Then two pairs of footfalls came and stood on the stone tiles of the front hall. It had been ages, but I could still remember how to understand them, how to read the language that humans speak with every shift in the soles of their feet, which only the ground beneath them will understand. Even before they began to walk, I sensed their fear, their awe, their courage, as they took in the chandelier cloaked in spiderwebs, the elegant staircase with a broken wooden railing. Why are you here, little ones? After all this time, why disturb me? My whole attention was focused on their slow progress as they cautiously walked through the empty chambers, two sets of steps, echoing through the halls. So familiar to me, and so terrible. Why are you here? You must know. . . . They began to gain confidence as they walked, no longer starting at each creak of my floorboards, but beginning to speak in soft voices. As if they were mine, as if they were the old family, back again to live and laugh and spread light and warmth through my walls. 46

No, no, no, little ones. I cannot allow it . . . it can never be. . . . They reached the basement. It had begun here. Did they know that? My door swung shut behind them; at once their fear was back, and I felt one frantically trying at a doorknob that I would not allow to turn. Do you feel trapped? Do you feel fear now, little ones? In the darkness of the windowless basement there was the faint echo of a terrible, rough voice, which I had never let die away. And then, the first cry of terror. The door flung open and the two visitors ran, feet pounding on the floor. Now you know how suddenly my passages are a nightmare . . . how it feels to be pursued. . . . I remembered so well the other pair of footsteps, one heavy, boots almost splintering the floorboards with the rage that fueled them, and the other light, slippered feet, flying across the rooms and hallways with a frantic terror I had never known. The visitors felt that terror, as my floors trembled with the sound of footsteps again. In their fright, they could not find where they had entered and did not know of another exit. Yes, yes, I cannot give you an escape, little ones. I could not give an escape. . . . Up the stairs, through dusty hallways, until they paused, unsure of where the pursuing footsteps had gone. This was a moment I remembered well . . . the warmth of a frail, trembling person pressed against the wall, shivering as cold sweat rubbed off against the wallpaper, gasping for breath, yet trying not to breath, each muscle charged with terror, yet somehow gripped by the wild hope that you would not be found if you stayed pressed against that wall . . . not hearing the soft tread of approaching boots over the beating of a terrified heart. Just as before, the faint and sudden cry of a floorboard gave the brief moment needed to run as a sharp, cold object buried itself in my wall where my human’s head had just rested. And then those twin footsteps continued. Did the visitors know they were running with a third? Did they hear the fleeing footsteps that mirrored their own? Or was the fourth pair the only one they could hear as it chased them to the top of the spiraling staircase? I could feel their relief at seeing the front hall, the exit just a set of stairs away. There is no relief here anymore. Not with me, little ones. Each of their steps down the staircase seemed to slow time, and then to turn it back through the countless lonely winters until there was nothing between me and the first pair of steps descending, one catching up to the other, the one in front skipping half the steps until, at last, I felt one slippered foot slip, 47

and the sudden weight of a terrified human collapsed onto the railing. It was a human I had protected for so long. One who had been warmed by my fireplaces, slept and grown in my rooms, and now, as she fell, I failed to protect her. My wooden railing, which I had always thought sturdy, gave way, and I felt the pain of its breaking throughout every board and stone that I had. Then, there was the one final scream that shook each and every window and thrilled me with a terror I had thought belonged only to humans, ringing through the air until I felt a soft, sickening thud on the tiles and a warm liquid seeping into the floor. The visitors, all those years distant, froze when they heard the scream, felt it run through them as I had felt it for all these years, and I felt the horrible realization dawn upon them as they looked at that splintered railing and knew where they were. You should not have come to a place such as this, little ones. There is still blood beneath my floors that will never disappear. There are scars that I will never forget; I am no longer a place where life may be at peace, not when that scream still haunts me. A final footstep landed on the stair directly behind them, and they both started. And one of them lost balance, foot slipping treacherously as they fell through the darkness where I once could have caught them. But the railing was broken, and I did not have even the chance to prevent the final fall, only to stop it short and feel the second visitor flee as I once more knew the familiar fading warmth of blood slipping between the cracks in the tiles.

Tatum Mueller ’23

Bubble Tea Sestina I skip into Kung Fu Tea while my brother reclines in the idling car. My order waits on the counter, one black and one green tea. Suddenly aware that I’m not wearing a mask, I rush out, but the toe of my boot catches a crack in the sidewalk. One plastic cup slips from its brown paper sleeve. I watch my six dollars hit the cement with a wet thud. My heart thuds. I see my brother grimace through the window of our car. Milky water drenches my sleeve. Glistening black pearls, ice cubes, and creamy white tea explode through the orange lid onto the sidewalk. My cheeks burn red, exposed without a mask. People stare, unconsciously fingering their masks. The heavy heels of my boots thud against the sidewalk. I duck to avoid judgemental looks, fumbling with the door of the car. My brother plucks the remaining drink from my hand, relieved that his tea mostly avoided the white flecks that fly from my sleeve. Goosebumps show through my wet sleeve. I put on a cheerful, careless mask while I jealously watch my brother drink his tea. A Cleveland Circle train rolls by with its familiar clicks and thuds. My brother maneuvers out of the parking space to a chorus of honking cars. The car tilts left as he jumps the curb onto the sidewalk. As we leave, I avoid looking at my mess on the sidewalk. My nylon armrest absorbs some of the liquid from my soaked sleeve, the rest dripping onto the carpeted floor of the car, which is littered with plastic bags and old face masks. I hear faint thuds as my brother’s straw seeks out the bubbles from the bottom of his tea. Finally he extracts the last chewy gem from the tea. Our Toyota minivan trundles along next to the sidewalk near the reservoir. Boston College students thud past as they jog around the water, wiping sweaty brows with polyester sleeves. I squirm in my sticky seat, uncomfortable in the overheated car. The scene replays in my head. I hear the thud when my tea, after falling to a soundtrack of talking people and moving cars, hits the sidewalk. Perhaps we’ll try again tomorrow, with clean sleeves and extra face masks.

Alvin Lu ’23

Self Portrait