Chanter Literary and Arts Magazine —Spring 2018 by Chanter Literary Magazine

Chanter Literary Magazine

Spring 2018

(noun): one who sings, or, the part of the bagpipe that plays a melody

Spring 2018 Macalester College Literary Magazine St. Paul, MN chanter@macalester.edu

Chanter would like to thank the following: All the amazing writers and artists who submitted their work Matt Burgess Jan Beebe The Mac Weekly The wonderful developers of InDesign at Adobe Dunn Bros apple fritters

Cover art: minnehaha falls (film photography), Tessa Djiko

Editor-in-Chief: Zeena Yasmine Fuleihan Literary Editor: Claire Grace Associate Literary Editor: Miriam Moore-Keish Art Editor: Elizabeth Loetscher Associate Art Editor: Ema Erikson Submission Manager: Shine Chin Associate Submission Manager: Maya Crowl-Kinney Publications Liaison: Julia Joy

Staff:

Maria Bodansky Conor Broderick Asher de Forest Michael Khuth Benjamin LeBlanc Brooke Leonard Willie McDonagh Noah Mondschein Shania Russell Sophia Schlesinger Hannah Staats

Writing •

Editor’s Note 7 Zeena Yasmine Fuleihan Living Forward 8 Sophia Schlesinger West I Ninety 9 Miles Keys McKay My Father’s Child Watches a Room Burn 10 Claire Grace 啊祖 A-Tsóo (Great-Grandmother) 11 Albert Lee Quota 14 Laura Berglund Limbo 15 Katie Woodhouse Found 16 Isabel Taylor Minnesota Bossa Nova 17 Bethany Catlin gravity well 18 Anonymous Symptoms 20 Lily Sadowsky Childhood home 22 Maddie Coy-Bjork Happy Birthday 23 Rosie Cobb August 24 Katie Woodhouse Red Lights in the Dark 25 Brian Fox Shoulder 27 Cole Chang Common Reed Frog 29 A. Cotter Adrianne 46 Parker Grubb Heartbeats 47 Sierra Sater Carrie Fisher Drowning 48 Asher de Forest Cold Feet 50 Rosie Cobb My Oma says it is sacrilege to drink wine cold 51 Miriam Moore-Keish Value Meals 52 Matt Hagen Falling 54 Conor Broderick Grounded 55 Julia Carpenter For those whose asianness does not belong to them 57 Michael Khuth

Please Don’t Give Birth (a translation) 58 Lily Sadowsky The unforgiven 60 Jeongyeob Hong Some Strange Departure 61 Claire Grace YOU 62 Noah Mondschein Open Heart Surgery 65 Sophia Schlesinger Rest In Peace 66 Sierra Sater

Art • Voyelles 30 Ema Erikson Creator 31 Parker Grubb Diana, Actaeon 32 Lily Freemond Untitled 33 Naomi Klaila Entre Yerbas I, Entre Yerbas II 34 Lorna Sherwood Caballero ania 35 Emerald Thole Self Portrait 36 Ruby Elliott Zuckerman My New Baby Boy 37 Ema Erikson saturday mourning 38 Lidija Namike the rose 39 Lidija Namike Toilet Things 40 Sophia Hill Rearrangement 41 Marissa Mohammed Hierophany 42 Lily Freemond Manute Bol 43 Ruby Elliott Zuckerman cubed 44 Emerald Thole watering hole 45 Tessa Djiko

Editor’s Note After the release of our anthology, Sixty Years of Chanter, last Fall, I received countless notes of thanks and encouragement from Chanter alumni, ranging from one of the founding Editors of Chanter, Larry Teien ’58 to the more recent former Editor, Karintha Lowe ’16. Many of the alumni reflected on their cherished time spent with Chanter, how they formed life-long friendships and values. Every one of them mentioned the pride they felt upon receiving the anthology, and gratitude for the students who continue to make Chanter such a special group and publication in the Macalester community. As I approach the release of my final Chanter issue before my graduation, I find myself reluctant to leave this vibrant community. Chanter has truly been my favorite part of my four years at Macalester. Not only did discussing submissions every week give me the creative rigor that I take with me in my classes, professional work, and personal endeavors, but the charm and dedication of the students fostered an atmosphere of collaboration, mutual support, and consistent intrigue in parsing out through literature and art just what it means to be a part of the world that was invaluable to my growth as a student. I believe that our strong history plays no small part in creating and maintaining this space. Thanks to the efforts of Macalester students since 1957, Chanter lives on as an entity whose creative curiosity inspires us current students to maintain. I am honored to present Chanter’s Spring 2018 issue and to have been a part of this wonderful organization. The work that Macalester students produce is continually phenomenal—what follows in these pages is only a tiny portion of that magnificence. There is no doubt in my mind that this perseverance in creating art and reflecting on humanity, identity, and our place in the ever-horrifying world around us will never cease here in the Chanter community. Zeena Yasmine Fuleihan Editor-in-Chief

Living Forward Sophia Schlesinger Sputch, my brother christens you, tightroping the border between languages, the mouth is cautious, reluctant to board planes, reluctant to know the gentle give of the -nge sound, reluctant to let the g melt away into his lower lip like that. Crossing. Where each word must be paid for you were an ungraceful vessel for love. παίρνε μόνο τι χρειάζεσαι Take only what you need, the quiet violence of an empty basketball court, the small animal my mother hid in her coat pocket on the plane, a kitchen sponge; your ordinary flesh, still bleeding the smell of empty houses, αστυνομικοί στην πόρτα - police στην πόρτα - αστυνομικοί at the πόρτα - αστυνομικοί στην door θεέ μου, are they here again ΑΧΑΡΟΣ GRACELESS my brother buried a country in your lungs, no amount of soap and water and squeezing could ever rid you of it; στην διάβαση where each word must be paid for you clung to every broken syllable, like the lilacs that still bruise his eyes, or the ache in the arch of leaving feet, or the instinct to make a home out of everything.

West I Ninety Miles Keys McKay The guts of a thousand possum And deer Raccoon Dog Unspool to form the midden ways That leap over cranberry bog and river bluffs Against the perpendicular grain of silent geese lines The suspended punctuation to pink Trout bellied patient clouds That lie in their insistent solidity And give way to the brake eyed night Rapidly retreating forward

My Father’s Child Watches a Room Burn Claire Grace I think I should never have been allowed to be more than a child. I am nine when my mother grips the wrist of my father’s young lover in her own frail hand and they both scream. My father is watching through fists. I am upstairs, backed into a closet, holding a matchstick between my eyes. I touch fire to tip to article after article of clothing, and the closet lights up with all the orange and glow of the sun. My fingers follow the burn. Maybe fire does not scream but it drowns out my mother and the young lover of whom she cannot let go. She examines her body like mine when I am sick, pushes a hand to her forehead to feel for heat, opens her throat like a sink. I should never have been allowed to be more than a child, my father’s child. I crave a mother who mirrors me. I wonder if I will ever scream like this. I am nine and my father and his young lover leave without ever noticing orange and glow from a young girl’s bedroom window. My mother retreats upstairs to pour water in my sanctuary. She sits on her knees that night in a young daughter’s blackened closet and scoops ash and scraps of fabric from the floor with her frail hands and never does tell me no. Remember that we are still animals, she warns, Remember there are so many ways to burn.

啊祖 A-Tsóo (Great-Grandmother) Albert Lee I remember my A-Tsóo serving me three cup chicken for lunch. It meant: “I love you.” I remember my A-Tsóo telling me 「啊威啊、你要记住、如果你没有做错什么事、你没有什么事好怕的。」“Al, you need to remember, if you haven’t done anything wrong, then you have nothing to be scared of.” I remember wondering why my A-Tsóo’s feet were smaller than my 6-year-old hands. I remember my A-Tsóo telling me that I should never marry a dark-skinned man because it was bad for my fate. I remember my A-Tsóo telling me that I’m too fat and that I should exercise more. I remember my A-Tsóo telling me that I’m too skinny and that I should eat more. I remember my father kowtowing on the wet doorstep, exclaiming 「我现在是人了、请你让我进来。」 I am human now, please let me in. I remember my A-Tsóo serving me Taiwanese braised pork belly over fresh jasmine rice. It meant: “I’m really proud of you.” I remember wanting to be wanted (by someone besides my A-Tsóo). I remember sitting on my A-Tsóo’s lap and asking her why her feet were smaller than my hands. 「因为以前啊、要是你没有小脚、没有人会要你。」“Because back in the day, if you didn’t have small feet, no man would want you.” I remember realizing that my body will never be perfect and as long as it doesn’t significantly impact my health or sex life, then all is good. Thanks A-Tsóo. I remember telling a white girl, as a joke, “Aiya, you so damn skinny, you should eat some more of this cake.” Turns out it doesn’t sound very cute or funny in English. Thanks A-Tsóo. I remember my A-Tsóo rushing outside to give my cousins umbrellas because 「没有人会要一个黑漆漆的女孩子。」Nobody wants a dark-skinned girl. I remember my cousin telling my A-Tsóo that she wanted to start wearing booty shorts. My A-Tsóo said 「呀、你没有什么屁股、你穿这么短的短裤倒地有什么用呢。」 “Hey! Why are you going to wear booty shorts when you have no booty, huh?” A-Tsóo is a savage. I remember my A-Tsóo sending my aunt outside to give my father a huge plate of oily fried rice with pineapple chunks and shredded snake meat. It meant: 11

“Fuck you, asshole.” I remember sitting down for dinner with my family, when my A-Tsóo suddenly brought out a gigantic plate of cold leftovers for my 29-year-old, unmarried cousin, Anna. 「呀、剩饭给剩女吃哦。」 “Leftover food for the leftover woman.” Anna felt really pressed. I remember how my A-Tsóo wouldn’t know which language to speak so she would speak all of them: “Em có khôe không a? 你食飽未? 隷属にアイスまだ还有, 你应该ちょっと多ăn 一點點.” How are you? Did you eat yet? There’s still some ice-cream in the refrigerator, you should eat a little more of it. I remember coming out to my dad. He threw glass mugs at the wall and kept telling me that 「我养你这么久、我是不是把你养错呐、你这样的禽兽以后根本不会有任何成就。」 “I raised you for all these fucking years, did I end up raising you wrong? A fucking monster like you will never amount to anything.” My A-Tsóo after figuring out what all the commotion was about, calmly told him 「啊天啊、啊威是你儿子、他永远会是你的儿子、因为这样、不管任何事情、你毅然要爱他。」 “Greg, Albert is your son; he will forever be your son, and because of this, no matter what happens, you need to love him, without hesitation.” My dad complained for a bit, telling her that I would probably end up being someone else’s 妓男 fucktoi, but A-Tsóo had no time for his bullshit and told him 「啊天啊、你在我面前说这些话对不对呢、如果你还要继续这样、你可以离开这个家、你千万不要回来、啊威不需要你这条冷血无情的畜生、从今天开始我是他的父亲。」 “Greg, should you be spouting this bullshit in front of me? If you want to keep being like this, then you can leave, and don’t you dare come back. Albert doesn’t need a cold-blooded, heartless monster like you; starting today, I will be his father.” I remember, after coming out, my A-Tsóo reminding me that I still shouldn’t marry a dark-skinned guy. I remember learning that my A-Tsóo went back to get a PhD in Japanese Literature from 東大 Tokyo University after raising seven children. I remember the porcelain jar on my nightstand somehow never ran out of 大白兔奶糖 white rabbit candy. I remember how happy my A-Tsóo was when Anna finally settled down with a nice, Taiwanese-American surgeon from San Francisco. I remember my A-Tsóo pouring heavy cream and condensed milk into a pitcher of lavender milk tea for me. It meant: “I know your father is being a bitch, but always remember that you are loved.” I remember telling my A-Tsóo that I passed the placement test for Third Year Japanese during freshman orientation. She replied with a 「你为什么上不了四年级的日文呢。」 Why can’t you take Fourth Year Japanese? I remember my A-Tsóo’s vermillion bamboo umbrella with golden dragons 12

embroidered throughout. She never left the house without that umbrella. I remember my A-Tsóo piously praying to the Buddha statues that Anna be blessed with a healthy baby boy. I remember my A-Tsóo preparing me a large hearty bowl of Taiwanese beef noodle soup the day before I left. It meant: “I’ll miss you a lot.” I remember learning about foot binding in my seventh-grade social studies class. In a panic, I called my A-Tsóo right after class. When she picked up, I immediately asked if she had her feet bound. 「嗯、」 “M-hm,” she murmured. Before I could say anything else, she let out a deep sigh and followed up with a 「宝贝、这是很久很久以前的事情、你问这些问题没有什么用、你有没有收到我几天前送给你的糖果吗。」 “Look, dear, this is something that happened a long, long time ago. Asking these questions is totally pointless. Now, did you get the candy that I mailed you a couple days ago?” I thanked her for the candy, she told me that I was her 最亲爱的宝贝 most precious treasure ever, and I went on with my day at soccer practice. I remember my aunty receiving a gallon of bleach and a booklet of handwritten instructions on how to make skin bleaching lotion for her 39th birthday. I remember looking for a yo-yo in the basement when I stumbled upon an old photo of a beautiful Chinese woman holding the hand of a dashing AfricanAmerican soldier. I asked my A-Tsóo who the people were in the picture, to which she replied 「太久了、我不记得」 “It’s been too long, I don’t remember.” I tried looking for the picture again last winter, but I never managed to find it. I remember talking to my cousin Alice about how good it feels when a guy is eating your ass out while gripping your buttcheeks with his hands, but then he stops for half a second to breathe hot air on your hole. My A-Tsóo suddenly interjected with a “Yeah, it feel really good,” in English. Alice and I are still shook. I remember my A-Tsóo telling me that I could, maybe, if he was one of the more decent dark-skinned ones, date him for a little bit, but nothing more. I remember pushing my A-Tsóo on her wheelchair through the wet market 街市 at 4:30am on a Sunday so that she could shame the produce vendors into giving her free stuff. I remember my A-Tsóo refusing to come with me to the airport. She said it was because 「哎呀、我一百零六岁了、今天我背非常痛啦。」 “Aiya, I’m 106 years old, my back really hurts today.” My A-Tsóo only ever has back pain when I’m going to the airport. I remember TSA opening my suitcase to inspect three unexpected bento boxes stuffed with homemade いちご大福 strawberry mochi. They meant: “I love you. Forever and always. Please come back soon.” 13

Quota Laura Berglund Twenty four grams Twenty four grams Don’t want more grams Twenty four grams sugar Want more Packet pour Molasses Bypass us You ask us What for

Limbo Katie Woodhouse The craggy breaths, the shuffled steps: she’s had time to ease into this state, slip slow below its syrupy bath. Now it hangs soft like a worn, tired t-shirt. There’s no bitterness here, or none she’ll show––if those salt-hot visitors should creep, they’ve agreed to meet someplace dark, and latch the doors tight. Someone else might confront the whole business with tight-knuckled fists raised, but hers is a different sort of resolve. The laundry’s folded, now, so she opens a kitchen window, ushering in spring’s daffodil sigh. If there really is a time for everything: now, she thinks, is right enough to sit, and breathe, and wait for the sweeping thing to come.

Found Isabel Taylor In this first portrait, limelight catches on the silver embroidery at the Father’s elbows, flashing diplomacy or espionage, always leadership. Words like president and prodigy swarm around him, blinking on and off like fireflies. This is a portait of a nuclear reactor: artificially bright. I pause here to fold up this portait and to put it in my pocket. When revisionist librarian kleptomania whispers dirty longing through the keyhole to my brain, I will know with what to feed it. Let us look at him again. This is his signature. In other circumstances it might be comforting, but this image has dirty hands. This portrait frowns; and suddenly, the great face is full of holes. I am becoming aware of a tall cold thing standing behind me. That sound we are hearing begins like the air leaking out of a balloon. It’s almost funny. Enjoy it while you can. Next comes the screaming. Like Dorian Gray–– like a dread Guggenheim–– like a cyclone of portraits cascading into Hell–– may he burn––no, may his icons burn for this. I shall remember him--but in ash, in the dust of his temples, up in smoke for the crimes he has committed, for the lies he has told. Some monsters can only burn. This portrait is a correct one. Beneath the words, there is rot. I cannot take this image in my hand, in my heart. It stings. It sings the blue assonance misery through every hall of his gallery until its absent drumbeat thunders down the walls. This is a portrait of the Liberty Bell cracked from side to side. Not all portaits are done in paint. And I am uncomfortably reminded that in the end my own father requested cremation. This is only a portrait. If we cry, he does not see it. If it is only my body that is gone, my father said, I will find my way back to you. But if it’s only my body that is left, then let me go and this portrait is so old that the words are fading from it. This monster has been dead for two hundred years and every day for two hundred years, the specter of its memory has been patiently arriving to its trial. This portrait has eyes that will follow you through this life and into the next. This portrait hangs above us like a pen or a sword. Let us look at him again. This portrait is the last. The eldest? Let him be silent so he cannot contradict himself. Let him be still so that his knees cannot tremble. Let him be majestic and terrible, almost Byronic against the storm. Hold onto this image for a moment. Before he falls. 16

Minnesota Bossa Nova Bethany Catlin Rounded snow drips evenly from sky to ground with velocitudinal focus like in Charlie Brown, dreaming up an outside against warm indoor browns beaming insideness to an afternoon well-suited for being in love. Last summer I looked for dark familiar chords, for contrast: carpeted corners in cold against headaching heat—but I do love the beach. To my core. I’d go next week. But exotic sands mean have always meant being alone. Over cream and coffee over snow over cold the beat I’m wanting is not here: Brazilian summer, gold! While I was gone I wanted to come home, or hear its sound but now the usual music feels worn, unlovable. Outside, an unsweatered man smokes Marlboros in snow and he looks good to me. Offbeat, up against downing flow he blows from down here, grayness against the coming down and I know I will wish after the happening outside some hotter tomorrow. This hour I spend still, unmoved by settling outdoor ideal when I thought so movingly, thoroughly of this, there and then. I may have failed to commit to this minute, but dream seasons have it easy because they don’t have to be real.

gravity well Anonymous Houston, it’s damn cold up here on Mimas. where we hear the rust sing and sit to watch the dust swing down to cling round rings of tholin kings. God-sent, beautiful things. where we see blue skies through brown eyes, white lies through white cries, and shit, i’m comfy, but i guess i thought it’d feel more like flying. but it’s slow going like slow rowing and each day we row further, voice lower, deep murmur. purples and blacks that pop–– grandstand along the dark bands we children of high demands breed grand plans and failure. i’m going to shore now, Houston . . . Houston? it’s that special kind-of cold, y’know? that week-old black snow cold, y’know? everything’s just clutter so, i dunno i’m just not sure a sweater will cut it up here on Mimas. you bring what you have and have at what you can if you can stand to stand up 18

and plan to land up someday, somewhere new again. it all made sense once, warm and hollow turned hard to swallow, harder to follow because all you can really do is look up, tell yourself the sky is beautiful, and kind, and warm beyond measure.

Symptoms Lily Sadowsky I only vomit in Beth’s presence, but correlation does not imply causation. When toothbrushes lodged into eye sockets. When dirty toys were mistaken for turds at the bottom of a tub. On dishes, freshly-clean and waiting to be unloaded. Later, Beth would become Max, and Max would tell me that “Bohemian Rhapsody” was about Freddie’s AIDS. Life is a symptom of death, like vomit or inappropriate touches. I’m dizzy so the Red Cross tells me to chew Flintstones. My first funeral. A single fabricated memory of watching Grandma cook while Uncle Mike reclined in Grandpa’s barcalounger. Glass jars, then glass doors and loud thumps and digging. Friday night book club was my monkey-time with Dad, the thumps coming from old vinyl over speakers not birds knocking on death’s doors. I named all the carcasses in the eagle’s cage at Big Bear Zoo. Dead Chick #1, Dead Chick #2, Dead Chick #3 like I didn’t chew Flintstones or read Singer or listen to Morrissey or remember that my family died in the gas chambers. Handfuls of roly-polies. Growing up under trundle bed kisses, over karate kick nosebleeds. I learned how to kiss on my best friend. I kept a lizard’s tail on my dresser. I learned how to punch on my best friend. My sister screamed, but correlation does not imply causation. Welcome thedarkmonstersundermybedbugscootiespedophilespain, but I won’t shower. Handfuls of roly-polies. Ants stuck between my teeth. Kindergarten lips clouded with dust mites, we probably sneezed into each others’ mouths. My family died in the gas chambers. Mom let me shower with her. My second funeral. A single fading memory of Uncle Mike singing the Mickey Mouse Club theme. I couldn’t fall asleep unless both switches for the hallway light were down. Off is down and on is up but up is dead and dead is off. His daughter flipped the switch, but correlation does not imply causation. I thought funerals were competitions. I wanted to win, so I cried more than my cousins. The Prohibition House’s secrets hidden behind a bookshelf. Teetotalers came before the Department of Homeland Security came before ICE came before the LAPD. The basement fills with an old exercise machine and cigar smoke and hockey gear and a barcalounger in front of that goddamned TV. I was good at Aggravating Him, but correlation does not imply causation. I was good at checkers too. The internet began with basement chess competitions and ended in No Contest. We can’t get rid 20

of that goddamned TV. We had guns for breakfast, guns with lox on Dad’s bagel, in his nose. He asked for my password. The passport has my address on it. I don’t recognize my cousin—he isn’t my cousin. He asked for my password. Dropbox makes me shiver still. Child pornography hiding like alcohol behind a bookshelf. A pedophile taught me how to tie my shoes. My third funeral. I didn’t go. Growing up under timeless bruises, over asphalt schoolyards. Mom was late to pick me up. I didn’t cry. I didn’t tell her, but correlation does not imply causation. I should have told her. I should have told him to chew Flintstones. Handfuls of Flintstones. No pink today—I don’t even like pink—because my cousin—he isn’t my cousin—picks me up from school in a car I can’t remember, takes us to Hard Times pizza after my brother’s baseball game. He taught me how to tie my shoes. I taught the entire fifth grade the lyrics to “Jailhouse Rock” and “Bohemian Rhapsody.” King and Queen. That year, we got an Adult Education. Freddie must have skipped fifth grade. My brother picks me up from school in a 1991 Honda Accord station-wagon and we max out at 50 on the freeway and the windows are open and the sunroof is open and loud thumps coming from old cassettes over speakers. Before auto reverse flip-flop stole our 1981 Hall & Oates. Max became The Twins, and The Twins sent Hard Times pizza over to our house to ask my brother to prom. Before guns were the most important meal of the day, before we ate guns for every meal every day, before parole and that goddamned TV and “Don’t you remember this car?” No, but correlation does not imply causation. My fourth funeral. I didn’t know Uncle David, except that he and Dad shared a dad and a mom with a last name Dad can’t remember and Dad didn’t even cry and she was dead to her family even though she lived while they died in the gas chambers and I couldn’t stop crying. I know funerals aren’t competitions, but I would have won. No Contest. My fifth funeral. Max told me that “Bohemian Rhapsody” was about Beth’s Parkinson’s. I vomited, but correlation does not imply causation. Life is a symptom of death, like vomit or dizziness or shaking or inappropriate touches. The Prohibition House fills with incessant ringing. Hello? The caller hiding behind heavy breaths like alcohol or child pornography behind a bookshelf. Hello? Lily, shaking voice Lily, heavy breaths I never meant to shaking voice abandon heavy breaths you. I never stopped shaking voice thinking of heavy breaths you. I never stopped shaking voice loving heavy breaths you. Who is this? Heavy breaths. Hello? Shaking voice It’s Beth. 21

Childhood home Maddie Coy-Bjork Newspapers pile up and spill out over the edges of boxes that are designed for them but do not hold them they shrug up next to the bookshelf that has been packed like a tin of sardines the playpen that used to fit a whole child is avalanching stuffed animals next to the frayed couch that smells like ammonia and febreeze the carpet is patterned with soft pink roses but no one could tell If you send me a card I will read it and throw it away

Happy Birthday Rosie Cobb I want to know the moment she-and-i got mixed up in your belly, sometime After you vowed you’d never marry, sometime before you lied And told him you could be happy baking rhubarb pies. She says I was twenty-four minutes late, slipped out with no time for Ice chips or deep breathing. As if I only waited nine months and Twenty-four minutes. As if she-and-i never laced ourselves together in your Dark, hoping. I must have been asleep when She grabbed that tadpole Squirming toward us and swallowed it whole. She forgot about me until her belly woke and I was Clawing, twisting, drawing blood that soaked through her blue jeans Onto speckled linoleum. She thought She could starve me, Shrink me, heave me from the dark, so I crawled deeper into slippery pulp Until She dissolved she-and-i with two bottles of Tylenol. But jesus saves–told her love is patient love is kind and She found a man to love so She wouldn’t have to love herself. She shouldn’t Have loved me, but the one beside me wouldn’t wait. I shouted Stop! The air was too cold for his lungs. But he wouldn’t listen And they burst as he drowned, begging to be let back in. So She let me out to fill her empty arms and pretended Surprise when She saw your eyes and gap teeth and double-jointed Thumbs. She couldn’t forget you so She learned to forget me and I Learned to keep my eyes down, Hide my teeth, Not tell how I can twist my thumb To touch my arm. I need you to tell me about that moment Because I think if I hadn’t dozed off she-and-i would have Nothing to forget.

August Katie Woodhouse It’s dusk-dipped August and your bare feet tap-tap against the gravel curve of the driveway. When I was your age, a swing still dangled from those billowed branches, there, and the backyard blueberries were fatter, purple-pulpy––remember?–– when voices lifted on lavender breezes and your white-whiskered labrador didn’t hunker down between us quite so breathless, drooly, black eyes glazed. This evening’s air is sticky, sour, stagnant––it’s star-flecked August and tonight I’ll sleep with an open window, and keep trying to smell the lavender.

Red Lights in the Dark Brian Fox I set my course for Orion. He hung east, above the horizon and the highway was a straight shot to him. I’d blown out of Minot at midnight. The motel was too quiet, and the lodger next door too loud. Shouting about this and that, something about a woman and a man. I could hear the beer cans crush beneath him every so often. Just not a great scene. It didn’t take long to get out where there ain’t no lights. No cars followed, and none came my way. The only flashes were those dull red lights that sit on top of radio towers and flash all night and day. The only thing around there tall enough to need something like that. That and wind turbines. You’d be driving down the road and you’d get to the one rise that signals the end of any sort of landscape on the North Dakota prairie and all the sudden below you is black past your headlights and the faint yellow of the highway signs and the lane flashers until a hundred little flecks of red suddenly flash and then all’s black again. It was lucky I took the loneliest highway, sparse enough during the day and dead quiet at night. I kept slowing down to take in those strange sights. Largest collection of vintage cars, sapphire museum, Pompey’s Pillar, anything to keep me off the road, even though all I wanted to do was stomp the gas pedal and break the speedometer as I burned a streak east, but I kept stopping. I’d argue with myself. Try to ignore the billboards and just focus on the road, but the billboards and points of interest signs would win every time. The antique stores were a special weakness. I’d be passing through some small, quiet, broken down town, and some dusty shack looking ready to collapse in on itself would appear and I’d find myself in the parking lot. I’d head inside and see dusty old porcelain figurines and piles of old paperback books no one really wants and scratched up wooden furniture and old trucker caps and a box of pocket knives and old half rusted tools and all manner of dubious antiques. I’d stare and wander, getting long looks from the 25

owner before I’d slip out the door and back on the road. I wasn’t going to have that problem tonight. Tonight it was just the dark, the night, the road, and me. Sometimes I’d slow down, take it slow enough that I could roll down all the windows and feel the cold night air blast in without it being deafening. I’d feel the bite and sit in it until I was shivering and I’d shut the car up again and go go go again. I drive faster than I should. It’s worked for me so far, but it’s dumb this late this dark, but the road’s straight except when it isn’t, but I slow down well enough. I even drive fast when the tears burn in my eyes. Extra fast. Maybe if I drive faster they’ll slip out the sides like raindrops do on the car, make little streaks on the side windows and little streaks on my temples. Maybe if I run away east things will always be the same back west, not quite same but close enough to same. I’ll change but things back there won’t. I can run just like I did before. I’m the one who changes. I’m the one who gets out of the stasis, out of the rhythm, out of the sense of normalcy that shouldn’t be normal but it is and everyone else is okay with it but I’m not. Sure things were always getting worse but as long as I’m not there things can only get so bad things can only get so bad. So bad. Things change, get bad, but only so bad. If you don’t look, things can only get so bad. Things only change when you see them changed. People change but only when you experience it. Only when you see it. If I can’t see them they can’t see me. If I can’t see them change they can’t change me. Things won’t change. The road doesn’t change. The highway is quiet and lonely and I’m the only one on it just me and the stars and Orion and I’m going to Orion because the stars never change. Orion always has been and Orion always will be. The road is dark and never changes direction just onward and it always has been and it always will be. It always has been and it always will be. They always have been and they always will be until I turn back.

Shoulder Cole Chang Driving home in August I felt the distance between my brother and I pulled over to the side of the highway just outside Kent, wondering if I was just unlucky or learning. The road the same grey ochre and overused. Breeze. I reached into the glove box and thumbed a small black binder. Its contents held nothing my father hadn’t told me. I pulled away the registration card. I placed it between my left thumb and a NYS License. Past Brookville I realized I was twenty. When I handed the cop my identification my brother was twenty one. The cop was bald. I could see the reflection of light next to his ear. 70 in a 50. I hadn’t noticed a car drive by since I pulled over. I saw a holster. I saw a 27

gun. I was with my brother the first time my bag got searched. He waited on the other side of the turnstile. We never talked about it though. It was quiet outside. I was driving home. I hadn’t been home in a while. But, I was in Ohio, it was the sixteenth of August. I was twenty. My brother was twenty one.

Common Reed Frog A. Cotter When I left the pond I didn’t think about how I couldn’t return, about how now I float on a leaf atop water. About how leaving meant learning that I can drown. Meant kicking to swim, lungs, breathing in my skin in a different way than before, water too much of a good thing. There’s a word for that: excess. Did my gills know the moment that they became lungs, the exact second water could betray them? They say you gain perspective on home when you leave it. How I look down at the pond now, breathe in, watch the air fill my belly, how I fill myself with nothing. How I can sing a song of myself, how I can croak. And how maybe today I’d rather go by Sal than Sally. And maybe tomorrow I’ll be a bull frog. Tell myself that I know how to be my own friend, that I know abandoning my name is the same as claiming a new one.

Voyelles screenprint Ema Erikson

Creator digital scan on a flatbed scanner Parker Grubb

Diana, Actaeon oil on wood panel Lily Freemond

Untitled pen and ink Naomi Klaila

Entre Yerbas I, Entre Yerbas II monotype prints Lorna Sherwood Caballero

ania graphite with digital color Emerald Thole

Self Portrait charcoal, white paint, and ink on paper Ruby Elliott Zuckerman

My New Baby Boy ballpoint pen on paper Ema Erikson

saturday mourning photography Lidija Namike

the rose photography Lidija Namike

Toilet Things ink Sophia Hill

Rearrangement charcoal Marissa Mohammed

Hierophany acrylic on cardboard Lily Freemond

Manute Bol embroidery thread on canvas Ruby Elliott Zuckerman

cubed graphite with digital color Emerald Thole 44

watering hole film photography Tessa Djiko 45

Adrianne Parker Grubb Mark the map beneath her skin; arthritic knobs and roping veins My bird of paradise Old lipstick smells like childhood, cherry on her teeth, my cheek Paper in my hands, thin and sharp Folds too easy at the creases I would carry her like a child, if her eyes were not so heavy See myself reflected there, wide and pale Blood gathers beneath cloth, flowering new bruises Smell of rain and talc Gold birds on the wall watch our eyes, Small, still blue mirrored She folds neatly into bed, Unclips her hair I watch it fall Too many eyes on the wall Peel back covers, peel back skin Look at the spots, new growth Dissect her, refold her, watch for roses Or a kiss on the cheek Map progress and prognosis Defect in her heart, Two aneurysms A pancreas metastasized Sew her together one last time, gold thread And feathers; Pretty bird.

Heartbeats Sierra Sater Momo. Momo. Momo. I kiss a sunrise smile Momo. Momo. Momo. I kiss a nose as large as my lips I kiss a brow connected and strong Momo. Momo. Momo. I kiss a forehead ridged and broad El Capitán I’ll take you there someday Momo. Momo. Momo. I kiss a cheek half soft skin half bedraggled beard A perfect balance I can never leave I link our necks And burrow into an expanse of shoulders Momo. Momo. Momo. I breathe in the spice of your spine And drag my nose up to your hairline And my fingers find the tight-muscled knots holding up my favorite thoughts Momo. Momo. Momo. I dreamt of you last night You were here instead of a pillow Your teeth were grinding instead of wall pipes clicking It wasn’t just your perfume Sitting on a desk. We drove in your car My hands kept you from changing gears Too fast on the highway I kissed your shoulder and held on tight One sleep. Eight hours. Five months. Momo. Momo. Momo. I’m almost there. 47

Carrie Fisher Drowning Asher de Forest (After Donald Barthelme’s “Robert Kennedy Saved From Drowning”) C. on the Phone with a Fan She is undeniably sharp, both -witted and -edged. On talk shows, fans call in and ask her questions. She answers quickly (“Yeah,” “Mm, I don’t know”), then inserts a long “aaand” before clarifying or quipping or both. When listening to a caller who brings up the history with drugs and the stints in rehab, she smirks at the camera. The caller, from Beverly Hills, California, says he has struggled with addiction too, and suddenly the smirk is replaced with a kind, knowing smile. She tells him she is still chasing her favorite sensations. “One of the side effects of Percodan is euphoria.” She explains, “And I thought that was a side effect I could easily live with.” She cracks a few more jokes before her smile gets slightly smaller. “I’m not euphoric now. But I’m not dead either. Aaand…” She is smirking again. C. in Her Study She cannot stick with one project for very long. She has been known to lock herself in her study for a day with at least three – perhaps one script to memorize, another to doctor, and a manuscript for a memoir. With an egg timer on her desk and a mini-fridge full of Cokes by her side, she spends an hour on each until she comes back around to the first and starts the process over. To stay comfortable, she wears pajama pants and sneakers, usually paired with an oversized knit wool sweater. Described by Her Mother, Debbie Reynolds “I couldn’t be prouder of her. We’ve been through so much together, and I feel strongly that we learn from each other every day. Do I think the books are a little crude? Of course! But she’s just speaking to her generation, you know. You can get away with so much more nowadays, in novels, especially in pictures. Of course, I think fondly of the pictures I grew up shooting, but times change, and no one is more in tune with her time than Carrie. So funny, so beautiful. And she’s a singer like me! Few people know that, but she really does take after me in that way too. She’s so shy about it, but what a voice!” A Drug Trip An airplane in space. Paintings of the greats drift past the windows through the stars. There’s Judy Garland. There’s John Belushi. C. sits in a window seat. In the seat beside her, a French bulldog in a metal bikini sits with his tongue hanging out. He looks up at her and says something she will not remember later. Attitude Toward Work “Work is working best for me right now. I feel like a Hollywood cliché when I say this, but I’ve tried the drugs, I’ve tried the sex. And I’m not done! God. But they don’t leave you feeling all that great when you are 48

done. I feel on top of things when I’m working, and I still feel good when I’m finished. That’s the best part. You get something out of it beyond a momentary high. With drugs, if the high lasts longer than a moment, you’ll be dead or in rehab soon enough. And it’s all so, um, graphic. Drugs, sex, marriage. Ha ha. Marriage. I tried that drug too. Work’s the thing. I just have to keep working. And I get some… control over when and where I work now, so I still get time with my daughter and my brother and mom. Work and family. God, I must sound like such a loser. No, but I am grateful.” In the Margins of Her Daughter’s NYU Admissions Essay Draft, She— “On the nose. Too much? Let’s talk” “there their” “Punch up the joke here. Break up the sentence (‘I told him not to/ But he did’) so the punchline is clear” “Billie, this is overall really strong. So funny, I cried too. Vary sentences more” C. on Set Friends say she has become far less angry over the years. In the past, she got in fights with directors, then arrived to set the next day apologetic and bouncy. Heart-shaped chocolate boxes and bouquets of flowers would inevitably show up in trailers and dressing rooms. “Oh, I don’t know if I would say angry. I was probably depressed. And then I’d be manic. I was more sad than angry, though. I don’t see why I get labelled as difficult and angry, while all the guys are only difficult if they’re a ‘difficult genius’ or, I don’t know, an ‘angry auteur.’ I’m mentally ill for God’s sake! I do what I can.” Harrison Ford steps out of his trailer and walks over to C. He gives her a bear hug. Together, they start to sway. “Was I difficult back in the day?” “I’m afraid to answer that question.” He winks at her. “Fuck off.” She pulls him closer as their dance continues. C. Drowning In December, 2016, she collapses on a plane, spends four days unconscious in a hospital in Los Angeles, and dies in that same hospital just after Christmas. News outlets begin reporting that she once requested her obituaries state she drowned in moonlight, strangled by her own bra. Six months later, the world learns she had, in fact, died with drugs in her system. She also suffered from sleep apnea and a heart condition, both of which likely contributed to her cardiac arrest. Or, she is shot into space. Creeping ice obscures her features, already rendered pale by moonlight and stars. Her force is strong, but not as strong as that damn bra, wrapping itself around her body like a hand twisting the cap off a bottle of pills. She opens her eyes, looking straight into the moon’s blinding glow. At long last, euphoria.

Cold Feet Rosie Cobb We shared our first lie under The stripes and spots that once Swaddled me from dragons and witches. Polka dots just covered our ankles Tangled in this bed-for-one traded For the 30 rack I bought from a seedy Lemonade stand (I lied to him too and Got a bargain for a wink and a fib). You whine When I run icy toes through Your spiny leg hairs so I promise to stop. But you didn’t see me grin When you squirmed Gremlin lit by streetlight bouncing through The twisted blinds of our dollhouse.

My Oma says it is sacrilege to drink wine cold Miriam Moore-Keish My Oma wears clothes that fall like fitted sheets on a laundry line and hang off her like waterfalls like her voice falls in rivers when she says “I’m a tenor” but really she doesn’t have enough joy to beat gravity and her voice digs into earth like my toes while I watch her rake leaves at our American home. The leaves don’t fall in Germany. Only Omas fall. My Oma’s husband fell out of love and they fell together like origami, folded but with peeling petals to see pollinated wounds and flesh inside. She drinks gluehwein heated on the stove. I imagine it steamstains the air bloody and I picture what would happen if Jesus could turn saltwater to wine, how it would stain the tablecloth when she cries while we sing the blessing.

Value Meals Matt Hagen When I was 3 years old I couldn’t be contained, my birthday filled the air of the McDonald’s PlayPlace, friends blurred in all their movement, happy meals the ballpit, unsanitized for weeks but why should we care, for crying out loud it was a ballpit Children who eat fast food three times a week are more likely to develop asthma. A mother is driving her daughter to college, boxes in the trunk, stores of tears in the wings, a single “I’m so proud of you” and a hug too long, but for now they are having Dilly Bars under a Dairy Queen umbrella like they used to Teens who eat fast food on a weekly basis test lower on math and reading. BA DA BA BA BA I’M LOVIN’ IT A group of teenagers drive their parents cars to Sonic after the big game, a cloud of classmates cooler than they, neon faces like stage lights, gladiators in the social coliseum for an eternity, hungry to live another day or month or year The risk of dying from heart disease increased 75% for those who eat fast food four times a week. We always went to Florida for vacation as kids, visiting friends and escaping winter, memories of Checkers cling close from other trips, mingling with siblings in rental car back seats, sharing large orders of fries and shakes, returning to the condo as thunderstorms roll in, our favorite, familiar adventures KFC––WE FIX SUNDAY DINNER SEVEN NIGHTS A WEEK

A divorcée finds himself at Waffle House for the third time that week, unable to feed himself, no one ever expected him to cook, sobriety holding on by a thread, the waitress keeps pouring his coffee, as he hears the words “someone who can provide for me” a hundred times per bite, drowning his thoughts Consumers of fast food are 51% more likely to develop depression. A history teacher takes his seat in the front of the bus, behind him a thundercloud of games and gossip, counting down the hours, no headphones allowed, only “positive relationships,” grasping with two hands the large Dunkin’ Donuts cup, its steam whispering peace. A nurse drags herself to the Cinnabon across the street, passing doctors arriving in ties, dissolved by the night watch, guarding sleeping little ones... she earned this trophy, the children are safe Last summer I moved my brother home from Florida with my vacation time. We cleaned every inch of his apartment. He was recovering from another psychotic break, bipolar, ungrateful days of driving, few words spoken, until one stop he offered to pay for my food at a 7-Eleven. “You didn’t have to do any of this,” he said as we returned to the U-Haul, sipping our Slurpees from crazy straws and carrying bags of Doritos. That was worth everything.

Falling Conor Broderick The suburbs are only wild in the small death that comes before winter. When October breathes down each tree’s neck, spreading cold fire across lined boulevards, families of four and white picket fences gear for a fight. Blowing, chopping, raking, sweeping the chaos of leaves spiralling ever downward out of sight & out of mind. This is foreign, this pervasive clawing entropy poured into the inverted bonfire of a canopy. Tree Lined Streets were a selling point but this red is too like blood, those leaves too like pamphlets rustling down a reminder of what nature is: out of control. The stillness of winter has yet to arrive in its stolid white & statue gray predictability. For a moment too short for recollection between summer green and the coming pale torpor everything bursts aflame; red-orange fragments & pumpkin rinds permeate, spread the smell of earth before it rots fighting for just a moment more before they crash down and settle.

Grounded Julia Carpenter The stoplight is stuck on red at the intersection. Cleveland and John Beers Road in Stevensville, Michigan. Pick a day, pick a year–– It’s the only stoplight in town until 10 p.m. when it stops changing and starts blinking red in a pattern of wings fluttering, but injured and stuck on the ground. The ground on the corner is tan and sandy colored, but hard like worn hands and calluses from gripping shovels, a firm handshake – but not too tight, not No sir or Hello Ma’am, but Hey Joe to your math teacher or How’s your daughter, Debbie to the Meijer cashier – The ground is warm by the Walgreen’s, kitty-corner to the stoplight, warm because it’s familiar and rough like sandpaper, the carpenter, the plumber – it is sharp soy beans in the growing season. The ground is a cracked pot shattered and glued back together, a china doll punched in the face. All around me houses grow out of the cracked sidewalk like weeds, and the people try to grow with them, a foot here, a pinky there, sticking out of the pavement hoping to hook on to a shoe walking by. Others are half-formed, part of a nose and one ear, still deciding whether they want to be uprooted. The ground is aged. Handfuls of soil hold histories of people bursting––gently––from seeds planted by what came before. An agriculture of generations plotting decisions a hundred years from now, the future written by roots running deep. When I was seven my teacher hated when I made wishes on dandelions and spread the seeds everywhere. 55

The ground is for running in the middle of the road, balancing on two yellow lines for miles and grabbing the grape vines on your way by, or maybe they’re grabbing you, screaming at you to slow down and sometimes when I run through the fields, rows and rows of beans and berries––my feet come away stained with grapes and smelling like wine. My ankles bleed, the blood a whispered reminder not to run too fast, to remember the ground can be dangerous. Now I never run without looking down. There is no sky that I can see, no clouds with faces or constellations or lightning storms just a ground with so many movements. But the ground is also circular, like the world––maybe–– every conversation ends how it began the word Goodbye lost a long time ago, a swallowed footstep in the sand and every time I take a step, I am one step closer to ending where I began. The light turns green and I cross the street. The light turns red and I stop to wait. Red light, green light. The stoplight is stuck on red at the intersection. Cleveland and John Beers Road in Stevensville, Michigan.

For those whose asianness does not belong to them Michael Khuth to them I am paper lantern year of dragon china stars orange robes knelt before red incense a shaven scalp broken chopsticks twin to any eyes finger stretched eyes too small your eyes are too small you’re all so small knee how wait you’re vietnamese right wait where are you from really I can’t see you in that yellow english doesn’t choke your tongue like it should to those I call my own I am son of America griever of a dying tongue a lit match burnt roots fire fire metal fire will never understand how orange robes knelt before they fired or how bombs fell like stars wished for eyes to never see how skin tears like paper choke on red broken bodies covered red broken families so many red getting small too small so small but still left for America and had sons and daughters filled with languages we do not call home do you understand me? of course not, your mother only raised you to burn your tongue white.

Please Don’t Give Birth Lily Sadowsky (originally by Abdullah al Ryami; translated from the Arabic) The day I was born, no one expected the breast that nursed me, a jar of amnesia, spilt by invaders. I throw myself onto my shadow saving it from the oncoming train. I turn to face the spears, as if I were the shield my ancestors carried. I stroll about summits, barefoot on the beach. The mountains are my seas and the caves are my seashells, my days. Now every tree hides a fence beneath its bark. I touch it and become an intruder, trespassing on the land of others. And when I sit on a rock, it sprouts wings and flies away. Where am I going? Where do I stumble?

I’m hanging here like a braid splitting my lover’s back. Where do I go when God’s name is on minarets, behind me like a whip on the croup of a horse? *** The day I was born, no one expected the river that carried me gaping like eternity, buried deep beneath ground. I cross it without wings. Like water, if I evaporate, I fly. If I fall from a towering height and shatter, I am pure. Whenever I caress the land, its belly swells. This time, please don’t give birth to an Omani who asks me how many years this century has lasted, who invites me to celebrate, to drink obedience from a cup, while above me, a balloon, like an exclamation point, punctuates the sky.

The unforgiven Jeongyeob Hong And so the man stumbled away into another series of indiscretions… His tongue slithered, and voice lingered in people’s ears. Love, faith, and respect were shattered as he passed them. He donated five million Monopoly dollars to the poor. And he took a bath in front of the corpse died of thirst. He lubricated end of blind men’s canes. He brought black kids to a plantation, making them to pick cotton and paying them with whipped cream. He grilled a humongous steak for his vegetarian Hindu friend, pork to Muslims, and used the wooden cross as a kindling in front of the Christian. He drinks victims’ tears. The man yet again stumbled homeward, thinking, how he acts is his true self. Now that he is embodying his true self. He is not to be blamed for anything. The man’s mother tongue is lying. He has dual degree in swearing and cursing. He has citizenship in the nation of ignorance. His SSN is his bank balance. When he stands in front of a house, he is surrounded by horde of people chanting his name. They have followed the path beaten by him. The man commands the house to welcome him. The man marches, Becoming the house owner of the White House.

Some Strange Departure Claire Grace This morning you are leaving. My eyes still burn with sleep. I am sitting on concrete steps outside a red brick house of which there once were postcards. This one is a snapshot captured through smoke. A packet of Marlboro Lights lay broken and stepped on beneath us. One still burns. You press the toe of your Oxford into the body of an already dying yellowjacket beneath you. When I wince you pick the thing up by its wings and toss it at my feet. I am gripping my dress in my fists. It falls when I stand. The house behind me is now miles behind, and you are miles gone. My dress is see-through when I pull the skirt up to my face and between cross-stitches this neighborhood feels more real. Broken up into pieces I can manage. I imagine the rest of the world looks like this too. I imagine you seeing it just like this.

YOU Noah Mondschein It is the dead of winter and your father has gone missing. He has been gone two months to the day. There is no note. There are no clues. There are no signs of any kind of struggle. He is just gone. No one else seems to care. Your mother tells you not to worry. You are not responsible for him. You tell her that you are capable of being worried without feeling responsible, emotions are a complex thing after all. She tells you she doesn’t think you need to do anything about it. Your brother insists that he is probably fine. We will see him again when he’s ready. You disagree. You will go into the forest to look for your father. Seven hours later, you are resting, leaning on a tree when the spider approaches you. At least, you think it’s a spider. If you were to describe it physically you would say it’s nothing but a jet black ball with 8 sticklike legs sprouting off of it. It seems to have no eyes or any orifices and looks more like a doodle than a living thing. Then it speaks to you. Hello traveller, it says. Not wanting to be rude, you say, hello, and extend a hand. The spider puts one long leg in your hand and you shake. You look tired and thirsty, it says. I am, you reply. Come with us, it says. And suddenly there are more of them. They all beckon at you with their, long, thin legs. Come, come, they say, do not dally. Come, come, they repeat, it is time. And now there are more of them behind you. Gently pushing you forward and whispering. Come, come. From above, you look to be being floating through a thick black mass as the numerous spiders guide you through tree and grass. Come, come. You think you should be worried, panicked even, but you aren’t. Come, come. You feel at home surrounded by the large, soft mass of not-quite spiders. We are here, they say. Gently placing you down. You look up, and see that you are underneath a tree. The most massive tree you have ever seen. Countless branches break off ending in beautiful green leaves. Not a single leaf has been lost to the harsh winter, and yet, even you, with zero arborist experience, can recognize that this tree is no evergreen. Each leaf is glistening with dew, with odd drops dripping down and pattering on your face now and then. You open your mouth, letting some of the wet in. Instantly, your thirst leaves you and your head clears. This scene is impossibly perfect, you think to yourself. You 62

feel a great unease come over you. Where are we, you ask. You are precisely where you need to be, they say. That isn’t helpful, you tell them. One must always help themselves, they respond. You sigh, what’s going on here? You have a question, they say, we know, we know, we know you have a question. I don’t know what you’re talking about, you say, It’s burning the back of your throat. Hurry, hurry, hurry, before you’re set ablaze. What. Are. You. Here. For. Speak it! Speak! Speak! Speak! Before you are reduced to cinders. There is not much time! As they speak you begin to feel warm. Hot words flood your throat, forcing their way up. I am looking for my father, have you seen him, you ask. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. That is a question. Not the question. I don’t have time for this bullshit, you say, beginning to stand up. As you do so, the spiders rush you, clinging to your arms and legs, pinning you to the ground. Ask the question, they say, climbing into your ears, clinging to your face, some whispering, some screaming. The question! The question! Ask it! Ask it! Ask it! Your eyes begin to tear up. I told you my question, you yell. I already asked it! Ask it! Ask it! Ask it! They boom. There are more now, all over the tree, coating the leaves, flooding the ground around your body. A sea of breathing black. Where is my father, you ask. You can barely get the words out, your chest weighed down by a mass of these creatures. Are you sure that is your question, they ask. Yes, you say, do you know where my father is? For just a moment, after you ask your question, they are all still and silent. There is no breeze, no sound of any kind. The very air seems stagnant. Your unease grows. Yes, yes, they say. He’s here, he’s here. Let us show you. Show you. Show you. Show you, they all murmur. They are still no longer. All of them, the ones on the ground, the ones on the trees, they start to move toward you. So indistinguishable are their shapes that it seems to be some leviathan shadow rising and surging you. And then they are over you. Coating you and overwhelming your senses. They are in your ears, whispering. 63

Your eyes, shuddering. Your nose, twisting. Eventually, their innumerable legs find your mouth. And they pry it open. Then it really begins. Slowly, at first, they begin to force their way into your mouth. You can feel their legs, now revealed to be hard and pointed, scratching the insides of your cheeks. You taste fresh iron and something else. Something familiar. Dawn. The spiders taste the same as the soap your father would use to wash your mouth out with each time you cursed. Dawn. They do not stop in your mouth. Their legs find purchase in your throat, descending into your stomach. One by one they go. Then they rush. The masses draw back and then surge down your maw. You feel as if you are hooked up to some sort of pump. You want to scream. You need to scream, but you can’t. There is no room for any air to escape. It feels never ending. This mass of creatures filling you never seems to stop. An hour passes, and you think you couldn’t possibly fit any more in your gullet, you are in too much pain, too distended, yet more still come. Until it slows, no longer an endless river, now a meandering creek, until it eventually becomes just a trickle of the last few spiders stuffing themselves deep down inside of you. It is done. It is done. Done. Done. Done. You hear them whispering from inside of you. You reach a hand to touch your mountainous stomach. You can feel them writhing inside of you. It hurts, but at the same time it’s utter bliss. You aren’t thirsty. You aren’t hungry. You aren’t lost. You are utterly and completely sated. You feel them shift inside of you. It’s too much. Your skin has been stretched taught. And then. Boom. It was too much. You have consumed too much. You have exploded. You do not find your father. You do not return from the forest.

Open Heart Surgery Sophia Schlesinger The small bird that flew from your mouth on the day we finally buried the summer made a noise that sounded to me like aman a word I have never seen in person before. Though I thought I heard it once; my mother was weeping in the night when no one could hear her but the cicadas. Back home, aman is what got left over–– a shape left behind after all the guns had been buried the sound the wind makes when it blows through stone that used to be a home a performance given by women and when they sing their faces all look like my mother’s; the men step outside to smoke. After you, I pushed my grandmother’s shaking hand into the surface of my skin with ink and needle so that I would not forget to make space in my heart for things other than ghosts.

Rest In Peace Sierra Sater I was walking towards the death of others already beneath my feet when I felt a friend brush over me, in camaraderie we did meet She whistled ‘round round stones and sighed through each blade of grass and turned to me to reach out, slipped her hand in mine, and she promised the world would not burn With each step I pushed the world farther behind me until swallowed in dirt, past the roots of each tree Now I stand in the darkness, the dimness, unlit, Yet glowing with something that doesn’t quite fit.

Chanter Literary Magazine

Spring 2018