With You \\ Nikki Mumaw
Staff Co-Editors: Stephanie Kniss Chris Murray Faculty Advisor: Kirsten Beachy
The Phoenix Literary and Visual Arts Journal Eastern Mennonite University Volume 65 \\ 2021-22
Enjoy.
Contents Front cover
feat. Brinton Domangue, Paper Rose
Inside front cover
Nikki Mumaw, With You
3 Justin Poole, Charles Bridge at Night 4 Asha Beck, The Earth on Our Backs Lily Gusler, Earth Embodied 5 Asha Beck, The Earth on Our Backs 6 Lesly Garcia, Death Lesly Garcia, Muerte
7 Brinton Domangue, Cold, Wet, and Hungry Evelyn Shenk, Tired 8 Aja Luan, A Look Inside 9 Becca Boone, Butterfly Kisses 10 Grace Harder, Pai Canyon 11 Hannah Landis, Sorry 14 Molly Piwonka, Spreading Awareness 15 NgocHà Pham, Stillness Paige Hurley, The Perfect Breakdown 16 Evelyn Shenk, Oh, Paul 18 Grace Harder, Carp in Sunbeams Chris Murray, Melting Snow 19 Molly Piwonka, Lace Mystery Molly Piwonka, Strikingly Green and Gold 20 Tahj’ae Coleman, Card Declined 21 Sara Baylor, Venture 22 Hannah Beck, Ode to Trash Truck Asha Beck, Klines Dairy Bar, Downtown Harrisonburg, 2021 23 Lindsey White, Buttermilk 24
Aaron Moyer, The Farm’s Garden
25 Brinton Domangue, Paper Rose 26 NgocHà Pham, Peace 27
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Cindy Resendiz, Waves
Charles Bridge at Night \\ Justin Poole
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Earth Embodied
The Earth on Our Backs \\ Asha Beck
Lily Gusler
There is no constant self here This body wears other people’s experiences, their memories and opinions as its own. It sees only what it is shown; a fine friend of examination. It yearnsto feel and to be felt to experience the earth as she experiences me. Maybe there is some sense of self dwelling within that ache, that relentless longing. Maybe it hides in the shade, waiting for the sun to go down and for darkness to coat the streets in her burdensome blanket. I wish to experience this life as a tree, At mercy of my mother and her wind, the lumberjack the termite
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The Earth on Our Backs \\ Asha Beck
Or maybe as a snake, constantly perceiving everything except itself. In some ways I am the tree, letting life happen to me, letting go of branches when they become too heavy. And some ways I am the snake, shedding tears and blood naturally as though they are my skin. I strive to let goof the body its ties, its monotony; everything it puts on to wear some sense of self. I am not a constant self, but that’s just existence.
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Muerte Lesly Garcia
Muerte Noun. The art of leaving because I’m tired. The ability to breathe and exist without living, without feeling, without dying. The effort of existing for them, not for me. The necessity of breathing even though I don’t want to. The permanent knowledge of sorrow without a taste of happiness. The capacity to smile to hide my misery. The state of being me.
Death
Lesly Garcia Death Sustantivo. El arte de irme porque estoy cansada. La habilidad de respirar y existir sin vivir, sin sentir, sin morir. El esfuerzo de existir por ellos y no por mi. La necesidad de respirar aunque no quiera. El conocimiento permanente del dolor sin saborear la felicidad. La capacidad de sonreír para ocultar mi miseria. El ser yo.
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Cold, Wet, and Hungry\\ Brinton Domangue
Tired
Evelyn Shenk the moon has been tired of shining bright through the night now clouds will save her
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A Look Inside Aja Luan
There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold The cave of wonders. My grandpa’s garage was full of so many trinkets and toys. I would go explore as much as I could in the now nasty place. The wilds of my imagination were fueled by each new discovery. For me, it was a place of too many stories to grasp. He picked up so much waste from the side of the road, he was a collector. He had old bikes, old books and even old televisions. If no one wanted it, he did. Nothing ever went to waste. “Oh the girls are gonna need that.” he’d say. We never did. But we never left his mind when he would pick things up. We never could grasp his love for us until he was gone. At the funeral, we all shared stories about him. About the garage and all the things it’s seen. And all the things he gave us. And all the things he set aside for us. Looking back, it’s easy to see how he loved us through his things. His love was the garage. All of us, his trinkets. There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west And my spirit is crying for leaving I am a free spirit. Fighting my whole life to become untethered from everything. The world is mocking me from my stagnant place. I know. I am fighting. I am so close Let me out. I don’t want these people to keep me here. Let me dance in the breeze and sway with the trees. Let me be by the sea. Let me be free. I am trying, I have broken out from the place I was before. I can taste the salty air. It beckons me toward it. The ocean, my salvation. A place as restless as my spirit and as wild as my mind. The only place that has ever felt like home. My watery tears remember your waves, the dirt under my feet remembers your sand, and my frozen clumpy hair remembers the salty air. It is right there. I have almost unlocked my bindings. To be free is to be tied to nowhere yet everywhere. Where no one needs me to be responsible for them. Where I can run for miles, safe by the sea. My home. And she’s buying a stairway to heaven What makes a good deed? Acts of service, a gentle smile someone’s way, giving a poor person some excess cash. Why even do those things? People do love to feel good about themselves. They long to bathe in gratification. There’s so much evil in this world. Even if it’s out of greed, aren’t good deeds worth doing? Maybe. Maybe a good deed sprung forth by greed is inherently good. Sometimes the world needs a ‘pick me up’. What inspires people to act? Religion is my best guess. It seems to motivate both the most horrific atrocities and the grandest acts of compassion. It’s too complicated. Is there even a possibility of having a true selfless deed? No, people always gain something from even the most random acts of kindness. Even the happy hormones are a gain; there’s no way anyone could act from the goodness of their heart. Even so. We still try. It is not a matter of what is truly good or selfless or kind. What we need is to believe people can still have human tenderness. It is so greedy, but so necessary. People need good deeds to believe.
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Inspired by “Stairway to Heaven” By Led Zeppelin
Butterfly Kisses \\ Becca Boone
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Pai Canyon \\ Grace Harder
Sorry
Hannah Landis ₀₀
At the time, I never apologized for hiding in the kitchen cupboards or climbing on the table, markers clutched in grubby fists. I was 3, what did I know of the error of my actions? I don’t remember misbehaving, but when my parents later told me (on various occasions) of my impropriety, “sorry!” was my faithful response. I’ve been told I apologize too much; I’ve apologized for apologizing too much. It’s a malformed character trait I can’t shake, a grotesque, affirmation-seeking shadow. ₀₁ When I meet new people, I usually give into the temptation to excuse my thoughtful ramblings instead of piercing my lip with my own teeth trying to keep “sorry” in. I think so many compelling thoughts and they bubble up inside like fizzing soda, a champagne bottle that will pop the cork clean off. It’s not that I have little self control, but that I see a kaleidoscopic world that I’m dying to share, and though I know as soon as I take the lens off my eye to hand you the tube, it will shift, I’m desperate to try to help you see it, too. But you never asked to see it. I’m sorry I tried to show you. I’m sorry I tried. I am sorry. ₀₂ I do penance for sins I have not committed. I am the judge, the plaintiff, the defendant, all at once. I apologize for my lack of melanin in my skin and my ancestors’ mistakes, and for every mistake still being made. I apologize for the figures in my bank account and in my mother’s and father’s and for everything I have because of them. I apologize because I have two X chromosomes and I take up space. I am sorry for apologizing and making it all about me. And I’m sorry that I’m sorry, but I’m not (sorry). ₀₃ I have so much to do so much with, and I cannot do enough with it if I am atoning for everything I did not earn. ₀₄ I ask forgiveness for what I can’t apologize for. I carry guilt for every flimsy plastic spoon, every straw I threw in the trash but never saw in the ocean. I watched Just Mercy mourning every innocent individual I had not been able to keep from the chair; I clanged the metal cup for their stolen life. I wish I could erase that backhanded compliment from your mom that made you cry. I can’t. (I’m sorry.)
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₀₅ I rarely say “sorry” to myself. Last night, as the clock ticked towards 12 hours of scrambled work, my body staged a coup. My eyes told me, “sleep now.” My head shrieked “stop focusing” while my back chanted in a threatening drum beat, “Stop. Working. Stop. Working.” I devoured 16 pages of a textbook with little sardine words in tight columns and did not apologize to my tired body or bleary mind. I was not sorry. ₀₆ Yesterday at dinner, my friends and I talked at length about recycling regrets by saying “thank you” rather than “I’m sorry.” Five of us sat around the low table, picking food out of styrofoam and thinking of every misdeed we apologize for. I remembered how I was the last one out the door and thanked them for their patience and for forgiving my tardiness. I transformed my guilt into gratitude. We practiced the process for a while, taking turns thanking others for pardoning sins when we previously would have repented. I then bent my knee under that low table and kicked John’s sneakers and thanked him for the opportunity. ₀₇ The doorways have received more apologies than they deserve, but no thanks. The trash cans, too. I excuse myself for opening the door for a stranger, but have I ever thanked them for waiting on the other side? Standing at the elevator doors, I excuse away my presence when there is someone on the other side – excuse that I stand in their path, excuse that I want to be where they are. Excuse me, I dance to the left, to the right, and we are still in each other’s way. I’m sorry for this awkward choreography, and the fact that I have two left feet. As the doors close, I squeeze myself tighter into the space I apologized for taking up and I do not thank my partner for dancing. I slip terms into the formula and watch the metaphorical calculator spin to spit out the result: IF [apologizing] THEN [thank instead]. // INPUT: [I’m sorry.] … =>Thank // sorry. OUTPUT: [Thank you.] … ERROR. ₀₈ There are apologies I cannot substitute with “thank you.” They do not fit in the formula. When we convert atonement into appreciation, it doesn’t apply to injustice or the backhanded compliment that made you cry. I’ve found some universal truths you only discover by failing to find.
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₀₉ Too often, I ask forgiveness for my passions. I do not thank myself for what I can give -- why appreciate what sparkles when you can apologize for the glare? I will even buy you sunglasses. Standing with a newly-known stranger, my sentences spill out like waterfalls but my volume trickles off when I realize you aren’t listening (or worse, you listen without caring.) My words are buried and they cannot be covered fast enough for me. I’m sorry when I take too long to learn when my unwilling audience might actually desire to listen, or instead when I share too quickly. Champagne is messy, it can either be contained or everywhere. I will fetch the rag; I will mop it up. I’m sorry if it stains like red wine. I do not thank you for the opportunity to spill on your shoes. I try to unlearn my instincts. I try to recycle, as I practiced with my friends. It is easier to apologize. I apologize. I am still sorry. ₁₀ (I ask myself for forgiveness because I apologized.)
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Spreading Awareness \\ Molly Piwonka
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The Perfect Breakdown
Stillness \\ NgocHà Pham
Paige Hurley
I got to see a Tennessee thunderstorm. I got to see the sky sob while smiling for an hour a breakdown and then the sky pieces itself back together dries its weary eyes and it is as if the moment of weakness the crumbling of the clouds and its guttural sobs It is as if it never happened but we all know it did. There is a kind of beauty In every Tennessee thunderstorm.
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Oh, Paul Evelyn Shenk
I took my brain into the shop today, The new receptionist was nice enough. She had crooked teeth and when she smiled I thought she might need braces. She asked me if I had ever come in before. I laughed out loud. Yes, out loud. Well, you know I go in weekly now. It’s almost getting bad enough I think I might need to go in twice a week. Maybe then she will remember me. The waiting room was different than normal. The peeling wallpaper wasn’t as bad, I think they tried to glue it back on over the weekend. No, I didn’t get my usual quack. This ones name tag said: “Paul, loves his familys dog Charlie”. Of course, he had to be a dog person, He even asked me how I was doing. I think I said fine, But to be honest I barely remember. When they opened me up this time It felt different. I always forget what it’s like To lie there with my forehead gaping While dog lover Paul tries to make light conversation. What was he expecting? It’s not like I can talk without my brain. I mean you know me, I barely form sentences regularly. Paul said my brain was worse than normal. It took him an extra 15 minutes to find it And then another 10 to catch it. He wasn’t as good as Cathy, He fixed it right there in front of me. I think it might have been the time crunch. You know, Cathy, she usually does me I think she’s on vacation, maybe Fiji.
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It was concerning to watch him shave off even more from the sides. I mean that thing is already the size of a pea! Then he shot it all up with some weird liquid Yeah, he worked quick, Patching and sewing, Must look like Frankenstein in there But he said I needed it. He said, “When the students come in its always bad But I’m impressed by the state of yours”. I almost snapped back But forgot what I was going to say. I remember it now, I’ll not bother, it’s too late anyway. When he put it back in it went smoothly. I guess he did a good job. But boy is this headache a killer, I always think I’ll get used to it. Paul said it should subside in the next few days. Oh Paul, It never does. I mean, when your drowning in expectations The migraine never ends. So, I made my next appointment. Three days from now, Well, Paul said I should come in more often. More is better I guess When it comes to temporary fixes. Typical.
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Carp in Sunbeams \\ Grace Harder
Melting Snow \\ Chris Murray
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Lace Mystery \\ Molly Piwonka
Strikingly Green and Gold \\ Molly Piwonka
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Card Declined Tahj’ae Coleman
Your purchase Of a loving family A nice home A happy life And a flourishing relationship Has been declined Due to insufficient funds This now leaves you with our more… Adorable option A lower-class house An unloving father An insecure mother Both includes You lacking Self-confidence and feeling unworthy of love And for that, we will throw in A toxic relationship With a narcissist Would you like to pay for this More affordable option with cash or a card?
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Venture \\ Sara Baylor
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Ode to Trash Truck Hannah Beck
Deep within my slumber, I hear a rumble and know that wakefulness is near. The sounds, seemingly endless echo in my ears. It is not because of the morning sun that I am burning. It is not with passion that I am burning. It is with rage. Rage for my loss, a tragedy of what could be, and what will never be again.
Klines Dairy Bar, Downtown Harrisonburg, 2021 \\ Asha Beck
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Buttermilk Lindsey White
Slugging & sloshing Of buttermilk Encircled by A gaggle of tree huggers Chattering & conversation Of unjust food systems Enclosed by paintings Of fruits & veggies Consumed by hope For a world reimagined And the grief of suffocation By capitalism’s greed & exploitation A vision of progress Rather than stangnancy On a Monday morning 10:10 Juggling jars of buttermilk With radical plans for change
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The Farm’s Garden Aaron Moyer
When I think about our old garden, I imagine the Garden of Eden. There were green peppers appearing in every corner, tomatoes growing into the sky, and watermelons as big as James’s Giant Peach! I suppose I may be too ambitious. The dedication to our garden, however, could never be described with too much ambition. Keeping the garden beautiful was mainly my mother and father’s abode, but I too contributed to the glory by hauling the old enamel bucket of compost full of eggshells, rotten banana peels, and half-eaten apple cores to feed the hungry roots. I am at peace with my small contribution as the compost-deliverer, even if my parents are not. Our meals benefited from the garden’s gift of a few cobs of sweet corn, french fry slices from the fresh-pulled potatoes, and misshapen carrots that would make us all chuckle. After filling my body with homegrown nutrients, I would often spend hours in the explorable forest that overlooked our house. Phtmph, phtmph, “ouch!”, phtmph. The treacherous walk to the forest was heavily guarded by thorns and thistles: a plant I’ve repeatedly asked God to banish from the natural world. I would usually sneak past with minimal snags in my shorts and find my way to the bank. The bank-- often raided by squirrels and birds -- was a hollow section of a maple tree that held refuge to my concept of value: acorns! I can’t recall what I would buy with my acorns, but I know that they were important to me. I checked on my savings account regularly, and when I filled it to the brim, I walked to my castle. Back then, I called the castle my “fort”. This three-foot-high, Jackson Pollock-esque explosion of sticks, logs, and green twigs was a place of refuge when my teacher, also known as “Mom”, made me read and write all day. There I would sit... stomach full of corn and fresh garden picks, counting and recounting the balance in my bank. The idea of a real bank account never touched my soul. My attention span would eventually simmer to a mist and I would finagle past the thistles and briars again, push down the electric fence with the sole of my rubber boot, and run down the hill to the orchard’s entrance. The orchard was ordinary: green leaves, gnats gnatting around, an occasional chicken or two competing for the same rotten apple. But when I tiptoed beneath the leaves and the dangling of the glowing peaches, I was no longer in an ordinary world. I was in a new universe where the crunch of the sugar-filled red apples could have been heard from the North Pole. The splash of the juicy, shining peaches could have filled an empty river. The crack of my teeth as I accidentally bit an evil cherry pit would send shivers down my dentists’ spine. And the explosion of the plum juice turned my white shirt completely purple. With a chaotic -- yet beautiful -- combination of colorful juices all over my face, I would continue to find the best fruit from each tree and delicately place everything into my stretched out, stained shirt. The Garden of Eden, the bank, and the hidden universe under the orchard are only specks of sand in my ocean of a home at the farm. I wish I could tell the world more about my life, but as Wendel Berry states in his novel, Jayber Crow, “telling a story is like reaching into a granary full of wheat and drawing out a handful. There is always more to tell than can be told” (p. 29). Someday I will take care of my own garden, or I will build a treehouse in the woods for my children, or I will plant fruit trees that will develop into a universe of juiciness. Until this day arrives, I will delight in the imagination of the old farm
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Paper Rose \\ Brinton Domangue
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Peace \\ NgocHà Pham
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Waves
Cindy Resendiz
Your presence was like the waves of the ocean, Crashing in and pulling out. Your words were a harsh reminder of my troubled past, But oddly soothing as life goes on. Your communion blood burns as I drink it, Cleansing my sinful mouth. Most times, when I cry for help, I hear nothing in return; As if I’m speaking to a wall. Lord, why don’t you answer my wails? I’m like a mute screaming for help in the burning building that is my life. Like someone looking for water in an enormous dessert. My heart pounds in its cage begging for an escape. I look for you in the flowers, the trees, and the animals; But still I can’t find you. Lord, help me from this torment. Free me from this heavy feeling that pulls at my heart; Give me the strength to pursue my dreams; To create a life with my daughter and give her everything she needs. Let my life be filled with the light of your presence. Listen to my words of praise as I ask for forgiveness. Your presence is like the waves of the ocean, Crashing in and washing away my sins.
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Contributors Sara Baylor is a Counseling Graduate Student. Asha Landes Beck is a Digital Media & Communications major with a Spanish minor. She loves art and detests writing bios. Hannah Landes Beck is a psychology major and a sleep enthusiast. She can easily be befriended by pronouncing hammock the correct way. Becca Boone is a junior Marketing, Business Admin, and Photography triple major. Some things that I enjoy include softball, anything outdoors, and spending time with my family. Tahj’ae Coleman is from Willingboro, New Jersey, and a graduating senior obtaining a degree in psychology. I always had a love for poetry; it’s a way to express myself without speaking. To explore emotions and experiences that I have had. The ability to view life through someone else’s eyes. Which is a very beautiful thing. Brint Domangue is lab coordinator and part-time instructor in the Science Center. He believes science and art is the best combo! Lesly Garcia is a senior majoring in Psychology and Writing Studies from Richmond, Virginia.. I enjoy writing because I believe that I’m better at expressing myself in this form rather than speaking. Lily Gusler is an undeclared first-year student who enjoys reading and spending time outdoors. Grace Harder is a third-year environmental science major and unabashed lover of trees and freshly baked homemade bread. She is NOT afraid of holding creepy crawlies. And you can quote her on that. Paige Hurley is a history and political science major from Tennessee working toward spreading truth no matter how difficult it may be in a graceful, poetic manner. She spent the last semester in Washington, DC with the WCSC program. She graduates this May. Hannah Landis is a Spanish and Writing double major with too many hobbies. In a conversation, she would LOVE to see pictures of your pets, discuss deep questions, or be offered a plant cutting. Aja Laun is a nursing major and a soccer player. But on the side I am a professional ant fighter. Oh, and I like to write just a little. Aaron Moyer is a sophomore biology major who plans to become a Physician Assistant. Aaron enjoys finding good deals at Gift and Thrift and loves to eat at Thai Cafe with his friends. Nikki Mumaw is a senior nursing major. Being creative is my work of art. Nursing is my work of heart. Both things are passions of mine. All I want in this life is to leave a lasting impression in the world around me.
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Chris Murray is a third-year student majoring in writing and art. She loves listening to music and pursuing a large number of incredibly short-lived hobbies. NgocHà T. Pham earned a BA in nursing and psychology from Loyola Marymount University, CA. She graduates in May 2022 with an MA in counseling and practices a mindfulness approach to counseling. She appreciates long walks with nature and learning languages and cultures. Molly Piwonka is an aspiring art teacher with a sprinkle of quirk and spunk. I’m a dreamer and hopeful realist, who loves watching and participating in positive change. Who knows I might become the next Ms. Frizzle! Justin Poole is the Theater Program Director at EMU. He spends a lot of time working on artistic projects of all kinds and traipsing around the world looking for more adventures and inspiration. Cindy Resendiz is a first year student at Eastern Mennonite University and is studying for a business major. She likes to write, create art, and play soccer and hopes to become an accountant one day. Evelyn Shenk - “Good god man.” Lindsey White is a self-taught poet created by shameless daydreaming during class.
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The Phoenix
