Chanter Literary and Arts Magazine

Spring 2020

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

Spring 2020 Macalester College Literary and Arts Magazine St. Paul, MN chanter@macalester.edu chantermagazine.com

Chanter would like to thank the following: All the incredible writers and artists who submitted their work Matt Burgess The Macalester English & Art Departments President Brian Rosenberg for his ongoing support Brad Leone Tech King Aron’s neat new website Zoom countdown timer The Quiet Room

Editor-in-Chief: Ema Erikson Literary Editor: Maya Crowl-Kinney Associate Literary Editor: Teddy Holt Art Editor: Maria Bodansky Submission Managers: Asher de Forest Associate Submissions Managers: Alice Asch, Lily Duquette Public Relations Coordinator: Aron Smith-Donovan

Staff: Cynthia Aguilar Audrey Bentch Cole Galando Josh Groven Sydney Jones Mary Liebers Xochitl Quiroz Ella Rehman Tobie Schecter Kira Schukar Irene Schulte Hannah Staats Libby Sykes Estelle Timar-Wilcox Jonah Wexler

Writing

Editor’s Note 7 Ema Erikson Resolution 8 Asher de Forest the sword in the stone reappears one day 9 Rachel Warshaw Doctor’s Orders 10 Liam Ummel Hye Jin’s Notebook 11 Shine Chin The Various Senses of Contemporary Experience 14 Teddy Holt Harbor 15 Ella Deutchman Andromeda 16 Lanae Caldwell The Missing Uncle 17 Josh Groven Eight Reflections on a Body 19 Jonathan Hauser Messier Objects 20 Lanae Caldwell a waltz through gethsemane 21 Krysta Limin dein lieb ist magnetik 37 Aron Smith-Donovan Postage Pome 38 Liam Ummel Interview with Unnamed Former Security Officer 39 Shine Chin Stage Fright 41 Marc Mutka pageant 42 Rachel Warshaw Cyborgs 43 Lauren Weber dreaming in tagolog 45 Krysta Limin Raspberries 48 Kira Schukar Blood Sucker Armistice 50 Josh Groven Before the Hurricane 51 Faith Isham

Art

Having a Glass in Venice 24 Carmen Quintos Shirt 25 Lidija Namike Teosinte 26 Jennings Mergenthal Glasses, Jacket, Painting 27 Carmen Quintos Highlights 28 Libby Sykes Farm Field 29 Brooke Sapper Cosmic Owl 30 Lisa Besnier Coats in Spring 31 Lidija Namike Untitled 32 Sophia Vischer Field of Hyacinth 33 Rebecca Grossi Thanks for the Acne you Forehead-Kissing Asshole 34 Ema Erikson Alegría 35 Gabriel Berman Bait 36 Rebecca Grossi

Cover art: Anxiety (watercolor and marker), Carla Mavares

Editor’s Note When I received the news that Macalester College would be shutting down for the latter half of the 2020 spring semester, I believed that for the first time in over 60 years Chanter would not be publishing a spring issue. It seemed impossible; I was both overwhelmed by the logistics of publishing and terrified to ask people to submit work at a time when so much else seemed infinitely more pressing. I called my fellow board members expecting to be the bearer of bad news: no school, no Chanter, sorry-better-luck-next-time. However, the moment we all started talking, I realized something obvious but pretty profound: it’s not all about me. Every semester Chanter involves so many people, from our staff, to the dozens of writers and artists who share their work with us. Who was I to throw away all of their time and effort just because I was scared? So it was decided: for the first time ever Chanter would be edited remotely and published digitally. Changing every step of our process to accommodate these new demands has been frustrating, exhausting, funny, and eye-opening. Being Editorin-Chief of Chanter this semester has taught me that just because I don’t know how to do something doesn’t mean it can’t be done. Right now we all are being asked to do things we might once have thought were impossible. We are being asked to make radical alterations to the carefully-crafted visions we had for our lives. Those adjustments force you to reprioritize. I have realized that I can live with graduating without walking across a stage and shaking President Brian Rosenberg’s hand. I can’t live with graduating without having helped to release one final issue of Chanter. Thank you to every artist and writer who has had the courage to keep creating in a time where nothing is certain. Thank you to the Chanter staff and editorial board for giving me a reason to step up this semester, and for working so hard with me through every step of this process. I love you guys. The Chanter we publish this semester may not look like any issue that has come before it, but I could not be more happy to have helped bring it to the world. Ema Erikson Editor-in-Chief, 2019-2020 7

Resolution Asher de Forest I am trying to unlearn my disdain for all the free verse collegiate poets with no real regard for stanza or line, length or break, or breath, no rhythm, no rules. I am trying to learn to be like these poets, or their poems. I’ll give up rhyme, loosen up on reason. I am trying to learn to just be, but I am so full with love, and the falling. I spent last month, last year, last decade falling into love, and this is the decade I will unlearn disdain and fall into myself again, whoever he may be this new decade. I’ll fall into him like it’s my first time.

the sword in the stone reappears one day

Rachel Warshaw

Three little girls playing in the woods found it. should we? should we try? The shortest tried first, pulling with her little hands, bitten nails scrabbling at the scabbard. It budged, shrieking stone against metal. should we? should we try again? The middle one put her back into it, tugging like getting gum out of hair, and it squeaked a few steps further out. should we? should we try at all? The tallest flipped her hair back, black cascading over shoulder, down back, and suddenly she’s a knight, retrieving her sword from the corpse of a slain foe. Blood streaks the hilt, their hands, inch-thick/knee-deep, and then it is gone like lakes wash girls clean, turn them into ladies, into gifts to bestow. should we? They slice at destiny, cut it down, until they have carved a place that can hold them. Will hold them. Is allowed to hold them. The sun scratches through the trees, pushing away leaves to wreathe the three girls in light. They share the sword, playing at a fight, round and round the glen. There is peace in the passing of the blade, from small hand to small hand, and the memory of dragons thrums in trailing airplanes above.

Doctor’s Orders Liam Ummel On February sixth, I began to experience a sudden bout of sickness and so, bundled, boarded a bus in search of the cure. The snow outside looped and whipped sideways, bouncing off the gray, worn windows of bus and office building alike. Behind me, a young boy invoked one of my favorite colloquialisms: for real, he pleaded, drawing a line in the sand of some jest. His pals only howled and knee-slapped. I exited, only to then enter an Ethiopian restaurant. I ordered lager and lamb. Lamb, barring warm eel, is my favorite meat. Eating lamb, for whatever reason, makes me feel like an ogre. I hoped, in my selection, to terrify the little legions of invaders inside me, bombard them with boiling, peppery cubes of meat, slung down in shawls of injera. As for the lager? The menu described it as very special. And I am impressionable. Now, there are those who will, citing histamines, tell you that drinking beer while sick is a bad call. But the brown bottle was heavy. The glass was thick and durable. And the neck, adorned with a golden waterfall, perspired and welcomed my grasp. It was also cheap and appeared to be what other smiling patrons were drinking. So tell me, how could Meta: The Pride of Ethiopia, imported by Global Ocean & Air Cargo Services Corp., 3992 Vero Road, Suite 1, Baltimore, MD, bring me anything but muted, fuzzy joy?

Hye Jin’s Notebook Shine Chin Table of Contents Project Title

Page #

Evaluating the Pros and Cons of taking Dinosaurs instead of Biochemistry 1 Finding the best methods to approach a cute Geology major 3 Discussing the ethics of asking for help on a project you do not need help with 5 Café Mac: Acceptable place to build potential romantic relations or just gross? 10 Researching common date spots around the Twin Cities in October 13 Literature review on the relationship between two people experiencing intense experiences (such as haunted houses) together and their likelihood of dating 17 Interviews: Best practices for asking someone on a date 18 Investigating the efficacy of having a first date at a Halloween-themed amusement park 22 Meta-analysis of puzzle room reviews on the scariness of the experience 24 Date: October 19th, 2019 Title of experiment: Investigating the efficacy of having a first date at a Halloween-themed amusement park Hypotheses: The thrill rides and haunted mazes will increase heart rates, which may be interpreted as due to each other’s presence, resulting in the participants falling in love. Background: Jung Hye Jin has been interested in an anonymous “Kim” in her Dinosaurs class. They have had lunch together at Café Mac several times while helping each other with a family tree project. Jung asked Kim on an evening date to Program Board’s free trip to ValleyScare on October 19th. Kim accepted the proposal with surprise and excitement.

Experimental Design: This experiment will be conducted using a within subjects repeated measures design. Kim’s base interest in Jung will be measured during the bus ride to the park based on the quality of the conversation. There will be two treatments: a thrill ride and a haunted maze, during which Jung will observe their ability to hold an interesting conversation and level of intimacy after sharing thrilling incidents. Success of the overall date will be determined by whether a second date is established. Data/Observations: Bus ride — Kim asked Jung a total of seven questions ranging from follow-up on previous interactions (e.g. “Any updates on your sister’s trip to Korea?”) to the evening (e.g. “What rides are you excited for?”). Kim frequently smiled during Jung’s replies and occasionally chuckled when Jung attempted to give amusing answers (e.g. “My sister got a giant tattoo on her forearm and expected our mom to not notice”). Jung estimates that Kim smiled or laughed 0.2 times per minute. Thrill ride — An unexpected incident occurred while the in line for the rollercoaster: a car was stuck mid-ride. This created an unexpected increase in wait time and injected stress into the situation as it became unclear whether the ride would reopen. While Kim initially seemed ready to abandon the line (i.e. “Other people are leaving the line, maybe we should too”), after seeing the disappointment in Jung’s face, quickly revised his statement (i.e. “If more people leave, we’ll be closer to the front for when they reopen!”). While thinking of ways to pass time, Jung and Kim found a common interest in mysteries and shared each other’s favorite minute mysteries. After thirty minutes, the ride reopened, and an hour later, Jung and Kim made it to the front of the line. While Jung noted feeling closer to Kim after the ride, it was uncertain that the closeness was due to the ride itself.

Haunted maze — While in line, Kim seemed visibly nervous and was less talkative for reasons initially unknown. This introduced tension into the pair’s interactions, which Jung felt were more stilted than at the rollercoaster. The haunted maze line was much shorter, and Kim seemed less and less enthused as they neared the entrance of the maze. Early into the attraction, Jung noticed Kim’s fidgeting hands and offered her own steady one. After beginning to hold hands, Jung felt an increase in both of their heart rates. Kim held Jung’s hand tightly as Kim tried to stifle his screams. Jung noted how pleasant the warmth and pressure of his grip felt.Final Assessment – Jung asked Kim on a second date as they rode the bus back to campus. Kim agreed under the condition that they don’t go to a haunted attraction. Jung felt elated that he accepted her proposition. Data Analysis: Although it is inconclusive if the pair had fallen in love by the end of the night, Jung certainly enjoyed her time with Kim. Overall, Kim retained a strong interest in Jung before and after the date, and a quick look at the observations shows that Kim is attentive to Jung’s wants and is adept at passing time. The haunted maze treatment indicates that Kim does not enjoy being scared, while Jung enjoys physical intimacy. In conclusion, while an increase in heart rate was noticed, it was a lesser contributing factor to establishing a second date. In fact, the location added unnecessary tension into the budding relationship. Therefore, it is difficult to state that Halloween-themed amusement parks are an effective first date location. Future directions: - A second date is on the table and should be conducted at a location where both parties can be intellectually engaged while being at ease. - Request to hold hands earlier on to create a standard for casual physical touch.

The Various Senses of Contemporary Experience Teddy Holt I barricaded my body with wood taken from upended marshwalks, then had to learn what feeling felt like. The time scale was geologic, star-nosed moles and whales and various ungulates evolving like cells regenerating on a carjacker’s burned-off fingerprints. Now I feel wondrous sensations like honey ringed on my hand from the bottle blackberries in the palm syrup spilling from an apple I bite. And this is not even to begin speaking to

the body—

I met it and learned crushed velvet, hopscotch, carrot cake: other things than pain. I walk in the marsh now, and I hear the crakes calling.

I feel my way into their vibration. I cackle back. 14

Harbor Ella Deutchman Thank you for being a place where what cannot be seen is harbored but also exhaled, let loose into sparkling navy currents. It’s too much sometimes, all the water sky-colored, alight then all of a sudden vast almost black. Thank you for not shoving your hands into your pockets especially when the winter is in them. It’s something to hold another’s hand, another to give yours up throw them up let them sway, let them say what you hold in scrunched shoulders and a held-in belly, what a droopy head, clenched arms, thought they could master. Let them say what the hydrangeas will say in a few months, what your mother would say if she could hug you and see your eyes. It’s okay to skip down the hallway, to throw your head back laughing, to say what you love. It’s okay to wish you felt more or less or different and it’s okay to feel enough, too. You are enough without the thing you long for, without the things you make yourself shorter for to long for them more. Because one day or another you’ll realize you were so busy thrashing, trying to turn the inky water lighter, brighter. That you failed to see the texture of the dusky waters, didn’t see the stars prickling it, but still you thought you were the moon.

Andromeda, Lanae Caldwel The night was a wound you Could heal from So says the day scrubbing at scars Left behind by the celestial infection See How it howls It’s losing itself Now The pink is seeping through Cotton cloud Bandages And everything aches Because the night like any good story Leaves scars you cannot heal from Try as you might the wine glass shatters against the wall And how bright does that sunset seem spilled across the carpet An unwanted stain on the hospital bill and the guests don’t realize just how slowly lacerations close dripping starlight sparking a flood against jagged rocks and the even sharper words that bore Cetus, the behemoth set free from the endless deep what you forget is that no matter how perfect your wounds close they leave scars they leave stars You forget all wounds become galaxies.

The Missing Uncle Josh Groven His smile still seems similar To yours, guarded by toothy walls His thin frame is gold, the print black And white, like the film had just come Back from a funeral, a ghost Lurking somewhere in the veins of This bloodline, one I know through vows His name condemned to whispers, I Remember once, from the next room I heard you say something at the Dinner table about a Noose, and A Note, and a student who didn’t Say anything and a Rope, in The back of a Car, and the next Day, how everything seemed to fold And peel backwards, even now, his Phantom still rests in your sketches And he hangs there, at the edge of Each painting, last month, you found one From college, knife in the foreground A bottle in the back with a Sharp green leaf, splitting the canvas Like a border between pain and Coping, we’ve never even met But I hear his laugh somewhere in Between you and your brother’s, I Know he would wear the same sweaters He could wipe the frown off your brow But no, you borrowed his burden Refusing to lie at his grave That gold frame, wrapped ‘round your ankles 17

The film spliced beneath your skin, he Crawls into your children, into Me, once we’d both seen our mothers Cry, I’m yearning for some reason To know him, maybe just to know You, a little better, because In some other world, he’s a bridge Between your father’s Scotch and Your mother’s checkbook, where you learned To lose other people’s money I just hope, that he sleeps in peace And that soon enough, so can you

Eight Reflections on a Body Jonathan Hauser Dust off your elbows and knees and tend to the paper that rests between world and bone. The droplets that hugged his hair, the way the shirt stuck to his skin, my dry hair, my dry shirt. In pencil we marked two growth spurts— manufactured and natural. The results were the same. Which part of the photo do you hate? You liked to peek through my skin, and you still do, which I mind more now than I did then. If my fingers ever feel abnormal, I will know that I am incurably damaged. In the backyard, I took off my shirt for them, and I swear they smirked. I took off my shirt for you, and you placed your lips against mine. Paint your face after a few drinks, and you will feel more yourself than ever before.

Messier Objects Lanae Caldwell Things like my heart Need time Until they’re willing to be found Other bodies Other constellations Are out there And it’s frustrating—I know— How it feels to— Find only debris When what you seek is in your line of sight And refuses to be still But Perseus, In your quest Did you not see what is around you Spiraling planets Nebulous forms Shifting now See how every star runs This is how the world moves Chasing after what it cannot possibly have And your sword has no impact there No metal lasts No heart beats so Steadfast We all burn out Look up Look out To the galactic sea This is probably not what you wanted to hear But words are messy And words cannot touch what refuses to be found That’s alright There are countless wonders.

a waltz through gethsemane Krysta Limin you found Rizal alive in the garden of gethsemane, waiting for the first rays of sunlight over gethsemane. He met you at the gate, his smile as charming as religion, you are too lovely to be in this garden of gethsemane! but oh! how living you are! it has been so long since i danced. darling, won’t you humor me for a waltz through gethsemane? those old enemies shoot me each night before the sun rises, so i have spent my martyrdom dying in gethsemane. and there was such a charm to Him, such a sadness in His eyes! you took His hand and danced into the heart of gethsemane. ash and chaos were strewn around the grass, guns and grave markers, flags and swords, causes done and redone, fought for and lost. the katipunan knelt in prayer or exhaustion, quiet as apostles begging for grace, an end to gethsemane. the flags were burning, flames curling the stars, eating the stripes destroying the white of surrender, warming gethsemane.

the moon was hanging high when you reached the center, the bullets cracked the glass of midnight, shattered the stars over gethsemane aguinaldo stood in the midst, lips bloody and teeth sunk in to the fruit of Luna’s heart, hands stained red from losing eden. Rizal led you from the thick of battle, toward the violins, toward the land of life, as the bullets ripped through Gethsemane. they tore at the music’s soft cloth, beat against the rhythm rousing those praying and sleeping there in Gethsemane

the katipunan woke with hearts weary and guns in hand ready to fight until the last, until victory over Gethsemane

the spanish are coming oh, darling, darling, the spanish have come for me. he twirled you both toward the gate of Gethsemane 22

must you die? you wondered can’t you live this night? and he pulled you closer, tight enough to bruise, to shield you from Gethsemane. the spirit is willing, He murmured, quiet, but the flesh is weak. do not tempt me, anak, to live and leave Gethsemane. the violins died. with tears dark and stained by blood, Rizal fell to His knees, bowed at your feet, at the gates of Gethsemane ask Maria, mother of grace, ask her for me please. beg her to pray for us martyrs now and at the hour of our deaths, and— rizal wept.

Having a Glass in Venice acrylic on canvas Carmen Quintos

Shirt clothing design Lidija Namike

Teosinte visual art Jennings Mergenthal

Glasses, Jacket, Painting acrylic on canvas Carmen Quintos

Highlights sharpie, pen, and colored pencil Libby Sykes

Farm Fields embroidery floss on cotton Brooke Sapper

Cosmic Owl ink and graphite on paper Lisa Besnier

Coats in Spring 35mm photo Lidija Namike

Untitled pen and ink on paper Sophia Vischer

Field of Hyacinth earthenware plate with majolica glaze Rebecca Grossi

Thanks for the Acne You Forehead-Kissing Asshole digital Ema Erikson

Alegría watercolor Gabriel Berman

Bait ink on paper Rebecca Grossi

dein lieb ist magnetik Aron Smith-Donovan

Postage Pome Liam Ummel (For CADO) Forgive me, for I slack off with letters. Letter-sending gets buried, like a bone, by the mangiest, cock-eyed dog, not worth a dirt-soiled sawbuck: me. You’d be proud to know it’s springtime and the socks all lie moldy in the corners; the button-ups all streaked with jism; my hat charged with the most honorable duty of tea-dreg mop. I haven’t showered since you left town and contracted gangrene, maybe, in Grinnell… Sometime soon I’ll pass a Ginkgo bloom and consider the letter you sent, about the berries, which reek like shit. And maybe, someday, write a pome that is honest, like you.

Interview with Unnamed Former Security Officer Shine Chin I’ve always told everyone that if I could boil down the essence of conscious intelligence, it would be just a head and hands. How could a species claim to be intelligent if they didn’t have heads and hands to demonstrate their ability to emote, craft, and communicate? That’s why, when I found out what they had discovered at Area 51 (my workplace), I was distraught. How could I continue my duty of securing and containing the research materials knowing what, or rather who, I was keeping from the world? It was my first day after my promotion to an inner research facility guard position when I saw them. Their height was the length from the tip of my finger to my elbow. In human terms, they looked like two arms attached at the elbow, only instead of an elbow, they had a head. When they saw me, a new face, they got up on their “hands” and waved their pinky fingers at me. After my initial shock, I realized that I was now face-to-face with creatures I had only dreamed of. I was not surprised that the creatures that managed space travel were those that had refined their physical body for intelligence. The “Handsome People,” as they had dubbed themselves in English, were incredibly personable. When I asked the researchers why the Handsome People were being held captive, they replied that they were simply being “vetted” and that we did not know enough about them and their intentions to let interact with the general public. That was a hard pill to swallow. I think the last straw was the tea. I love tea, and I would talk to the Handsome People about how I liked to brew my black tea with just a hint of jasmine. Too much jasmine overpowered the flavor of the black tea, but too little negated its addition to the tea at all. Similarly, overboiling the tea leaves made the whole brew unpleasantly bitter. At this point, the Handsome People had gotten more freedom in 39

the lab. The research lab started to look more like a specialized living quarter. One day I came into work and they had brewed me the best pot of black jasmine tea I had ever tasted. The first sip of their final product brought me to tears, and I realized that I couldn’t just watch them keep these peaceful and intelligent beings captive. I hid these Handsome People in my house, and we leaked their existence to the media so that they could start advocating to take back bodily autonomy from the lab. I knew that with their emotional story and rousing speech, they would grip the public’s heart and gain overwhelming sympathy for their cause. Since then, the “Handsome People Organization” has grown into a fully functional non-profit organization advocating for the rights of extraterrestrials. Since that first break out from Area 51, I have been one of their greatest human allies. I take great pride being the person to suggest making dolls in their image. I hoped that if children got to play with dolls that looked like Handsome People, over generations, their image will become normalized. With their nimble and fast hands and excellent management skills, mass production of my original handicraft took less than two months to achieve. It’s amazing what just a head and two hands can do.

Stage Fright Marc Mutka Yes, a fantastic plan you have there my friend! But the end! The END! If you’ll indulge my hunch please! Have you ever spared a thought for THE END? Has the if! Or the but! Never crossed That marvelous mind of yours? What should you do? Have you no contingencies in place? To guard against this whole stupid endeavor BLOWING UP IN YOUR FACE?! Allow me to illuminate you, as I am prone to do, about all of the many ways You impersonate a creature of quality! *Ahem* (Excuse me!) Your plan calls for charisma and a strong-voiced speech But what if those lovely lips of yours lose the lines? Your voice? It could crack! Then the audience will laugh and It will be YOU who they attack! “What else could go wrong?” I see the thoughts swirling about your head now! And it’s that type of terrifying thinking That I’m here to promote. Now, if you’ll just allow, I have prepared a list! And I think you will LOVE everything that I wrote!

pageant Rachel Warshaw The boys of St. Boniface are putting on a play. Headmaster strikes the set with a heavy wooden cane, and demands magic. I want to feel the rush of the waters and the wind pulling at my clothes, I want to be afraid that I’ll be washed away. Headmaster shakes his romantic thoughts out of his head, masters his emotions and sweeps off the stage. The boys of St. Boniface are wrecking a ship. Plywood, tragic, flexible, becomes the prow, boys howl as the sea, the twins cling to each other, the student body rocking around, breaking hearts on the shore. What country, friends, is this? The unfamiliar coast of boys playing at love, the tides of boys’ school intimacy fracture into strange shards as youth folds into the hardbone corset, containing confusion: Oh, god, conceal me what I am. The boys of St. Boniface are fooling themselves. Couched in poetry, confessions are made that never could be said off-stage: boy, thou hast said (in the dark dormitory, a secret uttered is almost a dream) a thousand times thou shouldst never love woman like to me. Headmaster chuckles, but the boys have never been more serious. This is not the kind of magic he wanted, it is too dangerous to be allowed. Strike the set, snaps through the marriage the boys of St. Boniface are acting out. That’s all one, the play is done! Headmaster musters strength to shout. The boys don’t listen, cast off to sea, adrift in all the possibilities they can put on, drawing the curtain on truth to play, to play on. Oh, god, play on. 42

Cyborgs Lauren Weber “What’s on your face?” my mother asked. I had just walked into the kitchen, where she was halving brussel sprouts and throwing them on a sheet pan as if they were dice. I raised my fingers to my cheek and felt small bumps. My skin, like cottage cheese. “What were you doing?” “Nothing.” I ran to the bathroom down the hall, turned on the light, and leaned close to the mirror. I made a loud thinking noise, so my mother would hear, and then yelled: “Weird! I don’t know what it is!” “I’m sure it will go away!” she yelled back, in between thumps of brussel sprouts. I was okay with hiding things from my mother, telling a lie every now and then. I thought it would make our relationship a little more like how people said it should be. Earlier that day, some boys at school were talking about their stomachs, about wanting “six-packs.” I had only heard my father talk about “six-packs” before, whenever we went to the grocery store to prepare for a big family gathering. Things like Christmas or Thanksgiving. “Get a six-pack of non-alcoholic for Jay,” my father would say. Jay was my uncle. He had a heart condition that prevented him from doing the things my parents did to fill most of their time: drinking alcohol, driving cars, getting angry on a whim. I couldn’t approach the boys who were talking about six-packs. We were in the lunchroom, a place with firmly drawn lines. I was sitting with Amy, my best friend ever since we started sharing clothes three years ago. I didn’t like her much, but she told me we had to be friends because I had worn her plaid dress all that time ago. It was too short for me now, but sometimes I wore it over jeans. A “tunic,” as my mother called it. When Amy sees me wear it, even now, it makes her smile with her teeth, lips pulling up above the pink metal of her braces. I’m a girl, too; that’s why I couldn’t ask the boys what they meant. I was afraid asking would bring shame upon the entire female species, all because of my own not-knowing of the difference between a six-pack in the fridge and in a stomach. It would make the boys laugh at my own expense, as they exchange cold looks with one another, eyebrows raised as if to ask, “Can you believe this girl?” So I got home and went upstairs to my father’s work computer. Sometimes he calls it a “home office space,” which is a lot of words trying to mean “computer.” I entered “six-pack stomach” into the search bar, typing quietly with one finger at

a time so my mother wouldn’t call up to me. She always wants to know what I’m doing on the Internet. I read articles about bodies and muscles and then watched videos where people told me how to get a six-pack for myself. They all had very white teeth. I wondered if they were real—real teeth or real people. Amy told me about cyborgs—at least once a week, she had nightmares about them taking over our school. One woman in a sports bra and leggings, with the channel name “sportsgurrrl” and over five hundred thousand subscribers, told me to begin laying on the ground, face-down. I had to suck my stomach in so it rose off the ground and then press every other part of my body down. It looked easy, almost like sleeping. I cleared the search history and went to my room. With my face pressed against my brown shag carpet, I remembered what sportsgurrrl had said. “This is about training your body, your mind, and feeling hot as fuck this summer.” I stayed there for five minutes. When I got up, I looked in the mirror and poked at my stomach. It looked the same. I didn’t feel much different, just a little sleepy from laying still for a while. I wondered why the boys wanted six-packs so badly. What would they do if they ever got one? Were you allowed to wear a shirt if you had a six-pack, or did you constantly have to prove it to all who walked past? Why did I want what the boys wanted, anyways? In a couple hours, the carpet imprints faded from my face. I went to my room right after dinner and did my six-pack exercise again, wondering if I was doing something wrong, if that was why my stomach didn’t look how the cyborgs said it would. I stood in front of the mirror and lifted my brown-blonde hair into a ponytail, turning my face from side to side. I dropped it back down, letting it hang limp. I crawled into bed and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning. I wanted to wear Amy’s plaid tunic, to see her smile when I showed up in it. But it wasn’t in my drawer or my closet; I couldn’t find it. I called into my parents’ room. “Mom, where’s my long plaid shirt?” She peeked in my door. “Oh honey, I gave it away. It was getting too small.” I made a loud groaning noise, the kind I’d heard my teenage sister make when my parents told her she needed to bring the boy who was driving her around into the house, to meet them, before she could go out. I collapsed back on my bed with no lack of drama. “My life!” I told my mom as I stared at the ceiling. “It changes every moment!”

dreaming in tagalog Krysta Limin the sun sets, welcoming the scent of greasy pizza and fresh rice clear city air and smoky market breezes feel of concrete roads and dry, rocky dirt beneath my feet. mosaics of memories; an exquisite corpse of culture in my dreams dreams of a Mestiza a fil-Am child of the Philippines and Her many lovers child of the philippines and her many rapists where stray dogs yap yap yap in Ilocano where ` sewer rats barter in Visayan where people welcome each other in Tagalog 45

where tourists foreigners aliens give themselves away in english the words flood the crowd. sharp edge of consonants, the bounce bounce bounce of vowels repeating a feedback loop of a’s to create too many syl lables at once the breeze sings, song of my Fathers— lullabies my heart might once have known, melodies my blood has long forgotten— heirlooms that only made it to my sleep. excuse me, excuse me. the breeze quiets. i don’t understand hindi, um, hindi, um, na-ka-kaint-in-di Tagalog, please repeat that in English? the dream frowns, the breeze sighing an english sigh 46

(for my benefit) the titas purse their lips; whisper to each other: Kawawa naman! such a shame! ang babaeng katulad niya a girl like her shouldn’t di na kailangan pa ng subtitle para ng need subtitles for her own mga pangarap dreams. ` the dream slips away the sun rises

Raspberries Kira Schukar I am scrubbing the counter when the bowl screams and the raspberries drop to the floor they make an indifferent sigh a sigh that caves in I cradle them like children infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive1 pre-washed bubbles designed to bleed but it wasn’t a disaster2 a mess is never a disaster I will take them to the compost pile then to the dirt 3 what a girl I was then what a body to be swept into a dustpan and forgotten this house has no smell and Lysol makes me dizzy but how else to clean deep red splatter from the tile I think I saw one hide herself under the oven she has clothed herself in that inedible dust 4 the soul selects her own society and she has made herself untouchable my palms leave prints on the tile that I will leave there I could leave her as a symbol of my indifference towards dirt my rebellion against Lysol and washcloths but what is the use of rebellion if I am the only one who sees it and all I will leave behind is dirt once I found written

1 2 3 4 5

one’s words have a fullness and violence5

Sylvia Plath, “Fever 103°” Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art” Adrienne Rich, “Seven Skins” Emily Dickinson, [303] Gertrude Stein, “A Transatlantic Interview” 48

meaning poems are the rot that coalesces into dirt and there are galaxies of women there doing penance for impetuousness6 dirt that sticks under my fingernails stains the soles of my feet unwashable armies of dirt-soldier-raspberries dirt-soldier-women this white kitchen floor my powerful breast stroke was a declaration of war7 dirt that I will breathe into my lungs and use to hurl my scream my scream that stains

6 7

Adrienne Rich, “Planetarium” Audre Lorde, “A Question of Climate” 49

marching across

Blood Sucker Armistice Josh Groven ’Tis the greatest pacifism To hold, the minute body, of a timeless being, wings and all Transparent, tranquil creature, proboscis protruding, feeding Beneath my skin, to the fluids, bleeding Holding its structure, with the weakest of all your strengths just to release in the flash, of a beat, of its wing To free, yet a simple being Searching, for an evening ration, as we all do, when the moon is high, and the fire low, and our blood thirst, continues, to grow

Before the Hurricane Faith Isham You stripped the root of a sassafras tree for me, ground the wooden skin and strained it with water we collected from the cool rocky bed of an unnamed stream. I boiled the backwoods tea above the blue flames of my tin can stove, and watched the faint residue of root beer seep for a few minutes while the first pinpricks of rain chimed on the metal shelter roof. We sipped it together before the winds undressed the Rhododendrons and pulled our paths apart.

Chanter Literary and Arts Magazine

Spring 2020