QT Collective Who We R:
QTCollective is a zine created for artists, writers, and creatives of marginalized identities to practice taking up space. This is a work of both resistance and love.
QT Collective Editors Hello, my loves! This edition’s theme is “Memory.” Memories feel like dreams sometimes. It makes me question my own reality often enough that I have a hard time distinguishing the two after dreaming. I don’t have the best memory. I tend to forget my own birthday. I tend to forget where I am or who I am after an awful nightmare. But! I can remember every part of your astrological chart after seeing it only once. And I can remember the face of every person I’ve ever cherished. Well, I hope this edition remains in everyone’s memory even after some time. With Love, Gia
Hello fellow readers, newcomers and creative artists, As one of the editors for the 9th edition of QT Collective, we are happy to present the theme of memory. Memory, for me, is a fleeting moment that eventually dies, but is reborn as immortal. Memories are our selfreflections and our new beginnings. What does your memory reveal about you? Enjoy the issue! Thanks for supporting and loving QT Collective! With love, James Mamuad Hello qties! In this edition we’re focusing on the topic of memory. Memory can bring a lot with it (the good, the bad and the inbetween) It’s nice to look back sometimes, but I know that i cannot dwell too much on the past. Sometimes if I look back for too long it’s the same sensation as saying a word so many times that it looses its meaning. Much L♡VE Erica
In this issue Lemon slushie Ellie Nash
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Meditation on change and empty nesting 2 Ellie Nash
And when the stars have aligned Ellie Nash
3
There are some songs you can only 4 sing with your sister Carolann Dyson
In a blockbuster
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A poem from June 29th
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Familias Separadas
7
April 20th 2016
8
Eli Kerry
James Mamuad
Maria del Rocio Ortiz Chavarria
Abigail Lahnert
\\in this issue\\
January 9th 2017
9-10
Abigail Lahnert
to:QTPOC
11
A letter from you
12
Remember // forget
13
Gia Dacayanan
James Mamuad
Till Kallem
It all fades to shapes and colors Matt Jensen
14
In case my memories go missing
15-16
Good old days
17-18
Ruby Ruggles
19-20
Nastja Nykaza
Ash M.V.A.
Alex Lloyd
//in this issue//
It’s Tuesday again 21-22 Reilly Resnick
The worst photograph
23-24
Temporary
25-26
Anonymous
Alex Wallace
Lifetime Reminders 27-28 Maribel Carrazco Padilla
Buried the hatchet?
29
Letter from an unmarked grave
30
Erica Meier
Gia Dacayanan
lemon slushie Ellie Nash slipping, slowly sliding away from yesterday this summer ice relentlessly losing my grip, slowing, stopping. hot summer sweat melts, molds, mixes with bed sheets and jeans gluing together the waxy weeks. white windowless daydream whipped cream wild starry milky ways milky days wiped clean regretting, forgetting, resetting cold cans, warm hands gently lifting lightly resting falling asleep.
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meditation on change Ellie Nash i think about change, and i think about you. ash will always fall from burning incense. my house will always be my house, until it is something else, and i will have a different house. i will change bedrooms like hermit crabs will change their shells. i will always be myself, until i am too tight to fit into my body, and i will have a different self to be. things will always change, and i will always think about you, and i will always watch incense burn and turn to ash, and i will always change.
empty, nesting when dragonflies grow wings they are no longer able to survive in the water in which they were born. blank cloud faces melt into porcelain blue skies of the pond i’ve outgrown shadows of street lights overlapping on hands dapple my thoughts as newly molted wings.
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and when the stars have aligned. Ellie Nash.
maybe, after one more “someday” after our lumbering planet turns, slowly, on its heel once more after this cosmic vessel lurches around the sun once more it will bring me back to you
or maybe, it’ll take another lifetime and we’ll peek out of soil and raise our faces to the sun, petals intertwined. maybe, if i press your voice between delicate tissues into a husk, a whisper and paste it into my scrapbook i will never have to wait and i could put your translucent memory on my wounds when i bleed and i could put you under my pillow so i could taste your sweet words on my tongue in my dreams.
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There Are Some Songs You Can Only Sing w/ Your Sister Carolann Dyson At full volume in a car ride that could be your entire life never getting anywhere but not stopping either You cry the whole way screaming lyrics so loud you feel sick full of conviction or something warmer like convection Too warm roll down the windows, breathe, look outside & watch bodies superimposed rose tinted and smiling You want to laugh nostalgia feels so much like nausea after binging on peach rings licking your fingers after each bite Artificial & Cloying but you’re on some kind of high
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Eli Kerry
in a blockbuster
my favorite anime (i have a favorite anime) is Memories (1995). Memories (1995): a dvd i found in a blockbuster which was probably in retrospect already going under. a played-out fantasy: curled up on a couch past midnight (not sober) watching Memories (1995) with someone new. i have a lot of nostalgia about this image. (i have only tried this once: he didn’t even like it.)
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James Mamuad
a poem from June 29, 2015 at 2:11pm two flowers evergreen and ivory touched once but blissfully.
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Familias
Separadas
Tus lágrimas, tu riza, y tus palabras me recuerda que la vida de un inmigrante está llena de esfuerzos, de despedidas, y de memorias. La memoria de tu país, de tu familia, y de tu vida pasada te empuja para seguir adelante. Ahora entiendo porque siempre me cuentas tus historias de México. Las historias que te hicieron la mujer que eres hoy, y la mamá que eres hoy. Esas memorias te llenan de tristeza, pero al mismo tiempo felicidad. Esas memorias dejan que tu familia todavía esté presente en nuestra vida. Me has contado que algún día vas a regresar a tu ciudad con tu mamá para morir allá. Cuando ese día llegue, yo también tendré que contar las memorias de nuestro amor que también me van a llenar de tristeza y felicidad. Maria del Rocio Ortiz Chavarra
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April 20 2016
Abigail Lahnert
Version 1: This is where you need to call your mother We are out by the birdbath. I am drinking ginger beer, which is my mother’s favorite. My brother-in-law makes it from scratch and gives it to her; she gives it to her ailing sister. She gives it to me, when I come home; she gives it to her dinner guests, to her book club, to her coworkers. My brother in law swears over a hot vat of it—or at least that’s how I imagine it, even though I am not actually sure how it is made. You have never met my mother. You don’t know that there are no birds in the birdbath. Version 2: This is where my mother calls me I am at the stove cracking eggs wearing forest green. The trees outside bend towards me. The egg turns white and solid. You like maple syrup on your eggs, and I like cumin. You can eat eggs off my mother’s kitchen floor it is so clean. Unalarmed, I put off washing the dishes and instead slide back the screen door to let the heat in for a moment. You could eat eggs off my stomach if they aren’t too hot or greasy. I wouldn’t mind the yolk running down my side.
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January 9 2017 Abigail Lahnert
I would give her the earrings out of my ears if she asked for them. She is not an ungenerous woman, she mixes three kinds of beans on the stove. I am not an ungenerous woman, I do not pour out good water in the streets. I would give her the papermaker, and the paper he makes. I would give her the sound recorder, and the sound it records. memories morph just as hips thicken and thin as soup thickens or thins It hangs in the balance in between is and is not. bread is or is not eaten. broth is or is not added. I saw her as a fine coat on a coatrack. Later, I saw her as the coatrack itself, Now, I see her as a vibration with a resonance. I say “My mother isn’t dead and my mother’s mother isn’t dead” and she lets me let go of the saying.
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She says “I don’t have patience for people who are mean to their parents� and I wrap the saying in muslin and put it in a wooden box. This season, the tension between is and is not weighs in my palm like a crystal ball. In it, I see how I will see her: taking off the coat, hanging it on the coatrack, and entering the party. The happening is depends on an infinite is not. is is not I, I, I, I,
keeper of good water. keep it good but never drink. the heron, grooming her growing wings. the heron, groom and groom and groom.
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to: qtpoc Gia Dacayanan
i think a lot about how much and how often my friendships with Black and brown queer people have saved me. i find it really frustrating and sad that we have to move so much to survive--so much of it depends on the way we move and look and speak and listen. part of it all (movement) at one point felt like choice. it’s frightening to know that many of us have to come and go in each other’s lives, and that this will always seem to be the case for the displaced, the indigenous, and the stolen. at least, for now. i remember everyone that’s ever arrived and made homes with me. i hope that they remember me, too.
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A Letter From You (I)
James Mamuad
Dear James, It’s been forever, hasn’t it A talk too short, right Days have passed after another, ugh If you receive this letter, Take some time to read, To open I hope you opened it I want to say some things Many, many unsaid past things “Friend, what do you see in me Why me and Why us You are my friend You were my friend I don’t how to feel I don’t even know you You, you, You” These were the past me I avoided you, friend We avoided each other I honestly wanted to see you Your face, But didn’t Is this how we feel I will never know how you feel, friend But I know how I feel Afraid and scared of you You are what I fear A living fear I don’t want to be scared of you I don’t want to live in fear I want you to make me feel brave I want to touch your feelings If you and I are true Then we are true. Sincerely, . . . (James Mamuad)
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remember // forget Till Kalem
I am trying to remember … how it feels to touch … skin how to share … skin on skin like once … I remember … she said … and I am trying … to remember … her … touch, her … smile how it feels … to remember … to have skin … on skin … to share someone else’s … center … but now I am trying to be the center … of calm … calm enough to forget … I am living … forget … so i don’t have to … remember … her … touch, her … smile … how it feels to be … calmed … to forget … the softness … of my own … skin alone … remembering how it felt … to be alive … I am trying … to forget … that touch … forget … that absence of … her ... touch … I am trying … to forget … how it feels to be alone.
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Matt Jensen
in case my memories go missing -- a list of lists i’ve kept and keep: piano pieces i learned to play/wanted to learn places i love in chicago messages i would write on ppls fb walls if i ever did the “truth is” game ppl played several years ago ideas for writing music/song lyrics things i was looking forward to about starting school at willamette to convince myself it would be ok A+ things about willamette when I first started school here to remind myself it would be ok things i think are beautiful about my grandparents’ relationship dreams (as in, while i sleep) reasons to (and not to) transfer from willamette drunk love letters to friends “epiphanies” types of sleep birthday gift ideas 17 reasons i was anxious for my 19th birthday good outfits from 2015 fun date ideas, but with one particular person potential facebook statuses potential tweets potential instagram captions 3 seperate lists of books to read ideas for a screenplay to write music to listen to movies to watch movies for genevieve to watch
Nastja Nykaza
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good metaphors goals 4 life in general things i should’ve told jacob! party themes ideas for art my favorite books, movies, music words that start with the letter B words that start with the letter H the days i’ve cried the days i’ve bled (as in, my period) everything i’ve ever done to my hair everytime i get a headache everytime i’ve predicted something very specific very accurately everyone i’ve ever kissed, including this key: - more than kiss + more than once / not sober ~ not consensual everything i did on the weekends since september 2017 good nicknames i’ve heard my google searches that are formatted as questions things to do before I never live in salem/oregon again coralyn once told me that the word nostalgia sounds like someone trying and failing to say my name. there’s something really powerful about coincidence that might not be intentional but is impactful.
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“GOOD OLD DAYS” Ash M.V.A. I am sorry that we fought. I am sorry that we keep fighting. Both tired souls projecting our anger and depression on one another. But I guess it’s true, hurt people hurt people. It’s frustrating really, as much as I try to connect with you, Somehow we end up screaming at each other and someone crying. I wish we could go back to the good old days… When I was “Mommy’s Angel” and clung onto you so tight Everyone joked/worried I was your favorite, if only they could see us now I could tell you anything, fear and anxiety would not seep its way into our every conversation Where our cuddles provided comfort, not a physical reminder of our joint sadness What happened to us?? Bitter and annoyed. Clipped words to prevent a dam breaking. Yet, mentally prepared for an impetuous argument. Ate and Dad should not have to add “mediators” to their family roles.
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Hmm… It’s funny actually, they always say how similar we are. I am your fiery, passionate, strong-headed minime. Do akin behaviors always lead to such intense clashes? I am terrified of losing you. You probably feel the same way. You think I hate you, but that’s far from the truth. I love you. More than words can say. More than you are aware. If any one of us goes, I want us to remember that. Not all of the fighting and grief. I want us to remember my childhood before I was scarred with a deep depression. Not the distress in my head, nor the pit in my stomach just writing this. I want us to remember the good old days.
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Ruby Ruggles Alex Lloyd “How can I help you?” I can see my campus from my psychiatric hospital window room 21b which makes my mind race at unmanageable speeds, like an everlasting ozone layer. god raising his hand, god raising his voice. Saying “you’ll get what you want, you’ll get what you deserve.” I can lie in bed for like approximately six hours and affect the lives of the people I love. “State your name” I told my mom I’ve been praying. What I mean is I’ve been thinking about my grandma’s hands as she washes dishes, no cooks lumpia, no hits my mother, no he thinks I speak Spanish, no I will not pray thrice daily as prescribed by my doctor I will not make my bed twice daily but there is something vaguely digestive about my room. My roommates breathing tube is rhythmic, my internal thoughts feel like public property. “State your date of birth” She said that she said that god is infinity and with our first breath we breathe in our souls. So with my last dying breath I will store my soul in a transistor radio, or the bellies of planes in cotton ball clouds. “Are you in danger to yourself or others?” I have my mother’s eyes which means I see both of our traumas. But to be sure, I am not my mother’s trauma, I am a crow who looks at me and raises a hand, raises his voice and yells WHAT happens to loneliness and WHAT HAPPENS TO LONELINESS does it ripen or deepen in the manner of cheese and wine? 19
“State your diagnosis” Why are you so tense, mom, are you here? Eyes, crescent moons, God, California, really? Isn’t this where, yes, my soul! Holy the supernatural extra brilliance -- is not this where? “State your date of birth” What happens to forgiveness? Does it fall apart with a halflife of 48 hours? We must age along with the forgiveness we give, and why not? And yet, better yet, where do we store forgiveness, if not in our palms? Is it in “this place” or “the place?” “Have you ever been an inpatient before?” I have crescent moons in my palms and I don’t like them anymore, stop bothering me. I wonder if death is second to loneliness, or if the only difference is that forgiveness is an idea we carry along with us. And then forget. And forget. Proust is reading at my funeral and he says Forgetting -- an unhuman capacity that begs too much of us. I can’t find a reason to forget if it’s always going to be followed by death. “State your reason for being here” “This place” is “The place” -- embodiment of the mind, chromatic numbers for limbs. I won’t forget you, Paul no Chris no Cozy no, whats his name, I forgot his name, I won’t forget his name, the one reading the phone book. Top Gun is playing at my funeral, oh by the grace of god, mercy, mercy! God is a military general and he’s marching at my funeral and his shoes go tap, tap, tap, 1. 1, 1, ........................... ............................................................ ........... 20
It’s Tuesday Again
Reilly Resnick
In December, you were a scarf around my neck, the wind’s bite pulling you tighter, its teeth sinking in. You left marks. In my skin. Teeth, again. I let you, I gave you the feather and ink and you wrote things in me. Things, words, numbers, your signature. I didn’t look in the mirror just in case the marks were too bad or ugly. For weeks, I did not look at myself. But I showed them off, your marks. I hoped people would ask me what had happened to my skin So I could shout to them, so I could rip my chords screaming A WONDER WITH SMALL EARS AND BIG SCARS KISSED ME IN A DARK ROOM AND I COULDN’T SEE I COULD NOT SEE IT WAS DARK BLACK INK THAT WAS KISSING MY CHEST MY HANDS LIPS NECK THE DARKBLACKINK RAN OVER ME LIKE A CART OF CHERRIES AND HIS WARMTH RAN THROUGH ME LIKE AN OLYMPIAN OR A SERPENT WITH LEGS AND I SPAT IT OUT INTO HIS MOUTH SO HE COULD FILL ME UP AGAIN. OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN. No one asked. I didn’t tell anyone, not even My Mother. Then I couldn’t see for a month. I could not see for one month. I had misplaced my eyes. I had lost them in that room, the darkest room I have ever built a home in. Bruises formed on my shins from running into things. My knuckles bled and scabbed and bled again. 21
I had started punching walls, doors, windows to feel my way through the world. One day, My Mother begged me to see, to call a doctor, You are too bad or ugly to keep going, baby, she thought. I told her I couldn’t dial the numbers, I’d been rubbing my eye sockets and my fists had been swallowed by the flesh where my eyes used to be. It was too difficult to hold a phone or cry. She stopped asking and sniffled because She had lost me. I drank too much. It was all I could keep down. I dreamt of wine, every night. I still do. You came to me in these dreams, dressed in nothing but stains from the wine we drank. You wore no other color or expression, you wore no teeth. You convinced me that I had chosen to leave my eyes in The Room in return for buckets and buckets of cheap wine and fruit flies to go with the wine and fly swatters to go with the flies. So I was convinced. I am convinced, I thought in my dreams. We danced, slept. We didn’t touch each other. We didn’t touch the ground. Your eyes stayed open, I felt them. You weren’t there. You were never really there.
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The
Worst
Photograph anonymous
i STOP I CAN’T!!! i clamp my legs shut tight and he reels back that gazelle neck. away from that awful thing. i’m shaking. we can stop. i don’t want to. what do i want to do, i want to fold my flesh in half around my big ugly goat’s head cavity and the loose flesh on my body and my disgusting fucking cow tits, so i say, can i please give you head instead. who says no to that? i do it in child’s pose, bobbing my stupid blonde head like a piece of machinery ii you know, you’re probably not really a girl. i’m not gonna lie it gave me a real funny feeling when i heard it the first time in seventh grade. like when you start to trip over your own feet but don’t fall, a big cold rush, big hot calm. god if only i weren’t a girl it would be normal, me watching maddie krabb’s lips moved when she talked. god if only i were a boy it would be just fine for me to want to know what her cute soft belly looked like, and no one would call me an ugly dYYYYYYYYYYY********E for wearing cargo shorts every day and not knowing my cup size. that night i jammed my hand in my pajama pants and said BOY BOY BOY BOY BOY!!! iii you have great tits. you have great tits. you have great tits. i love your fucking tits. your tits are amazing. your breasts are amazing. wow, your boobs. your tits are amazing. cover those up, you’re only 13. god your tits are so amazing. your titties are literally perfect. god your boobs are so fucking hot. wow i wish i had your tits. wow i wish i could cum on your tits. hey how old are you? damn i like that. wow i love your fucking tits. you’ve got a cute figure. these are amazing. you have great tits iv it turns out being butch in high school makes you a charity case. what did it feel like when my best friend slept shirtless in bed with me. what did it feel like not knowing what she was thinking but was she thinking about that i was gay and was she worried that i wanted to touch her or did she want me to want to touch her but i never would. what did it feel like getting invited to parties so i could make out with some popular football kid’s girlfriend on the ping-
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pong table. what did it feel like sneaking out of my house to go to pride parades and beg the city: see me, see me please. what did it feel like going to the sex shop every friday with my fake ID and looking at the three hundred dollar leather strap-on harnesses and the big obelisks of orchid silicon and thinking, maybe if. what did it feel like watching her and him and her and him and her and him and her and him and what did that feel like? i no longer remember v signs your child is gay signs your daughter is gay is my daughter gay? ten signs your daughter is a lesbian how to ask your kid if gay homosexuality in children homosexuality in high school girls what should i do if my child is gay is my child gay is my child gay is my child gay vi i see two girls kissing in an empty room and i leave the party crying. i feel stupid and ugly, i feel so stupid and so ugly when the sweet drunk girl i met that night runs out wobbling on wedgy ankle boots and sticks her vape pen in my mouth like a big dumb pacifier and tells me i’m doing my best. what does she know about my best. i get a big silver smudge on my cheek from her eyeshadow. inside the house the couch is still writhing with hot bodies and warm lighting and i’m out here, crying, making a goddamn idiot fucking fool of myself on the street with this girl whose name is Shelly or something who is suddenly maybe the best person i have ever known. i’m shaking. i always shake when i’ve felt a door close hard. clinical pride. i go for a walk. i pace around the elementary school until three people have called me wondering where i am, then i walk back to the party and stand in the open air garage, done talking for the night. he says i’m so cool, i’m so cool at parties. i blow cigarette smoke right in his face, cause i’m so cool at parties. one of the kissing girls is holding hands with her boyfriend, they’re laughing, her cherry red high heels are in her hand, and he’s wrestling her skinny drunk fists into his big jacket, and i realize i’m no longer shaking.
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Temporary (A Poem) Alex Wallace Pain isn’t temporary. Not for me Pain is my natural state This isn’t to be emo or anything, it just isn’t temporary But that phrase wasn’t meant for me. Pain is temporary, I tell myself. When I was little I busted open my eyebrow Being a dumb fucking kid, running around the house I didn’t know better back then. Pain isn’t temporary. When I talk about it People gawk and ask me, “How can you live with the pain?! If I was disabled I’d kill myself!” Grow up. Pain is temporary, they say. Because health is Not feeling anything “bad” Not feeling anything, if you can help it, because Vulnerability is undesirable. Pain isn’t temporary. If it was 25
You can bet I’d be One of those women who runs a health and fitness blog Assuming everyone feels pain the same way. Pain is temporary. I hurt more sometimes Now, I listen to my body I check up and make sure I’m not hurting myself Others see me rest and call me lazy. Pain isn’t temporary. It can’t be If it is, I am too And while I can accept that I’m gonna die some day I’d rather take care of myself. Pain is temporary. Just like us It is natural, necessary It is how we know that we are alive and kicking Otherwise we’d be comatose. I’d rather be temporary and in pain Than eternal and unfeeling.
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Lifetime Reminders Maribel Carrazco Padilla It’s crazy how one thing can remind you of a person and the moment in time you discovered this thing through them. Then, no matter how hard you try, whenever you see/hear/touch that thing, you’re instantly taken back to the moment a thing became a lifetime reminder of a person. Here’s to all of the things that will forever remind me of the people that have come into, left, and are still present in my life: Luisa- stained glass Jacky- dancing Lucero- horses Carmen- hot cheetos Elena- hair straightener Luis- math Cesar- homemade ice cream Victor- rolly backpacks David- Linkin Park Salma- “Just give me a reason” by P!nk ft. Nate Russe Khalwa- french fries Jay- stargazing Gio- Pandora Emma Blue & Jesse- “I will follow you into the dark” by Death Cab for Cutie
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Jenny- make-up Fern- being “vegan” Rumer- squirrels Celine- hedgehogs Paul- Kat Williams Victoria- frogs Beilynda- baby wipes Taty- seasonal allergies Malorie- Chip&Joe Crystelle- lighters Tiffany- farts Camille- whales Marissa- astrology Rayvon- Reese’s peanut butter cups Yasmin- Starbucks Erica- gummy candy Brian- clogged shower drains Michael- messed up hair Chas- rose quartz Gia- in depth astrology Maria- Salem Karla- “fuckit!” People come and go, but they leave a piece of themselves with you and take a piece of you with them. I hope.
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Erica
Letter From an Unmarked Grave Gia Dacayanan When you unravel my secret From the street named after your grandmother I hope you do not ask if you were born Only to be swallowed whole Beloved, My carcass knows all the secrets of my neighbors Whose golden threads have been stolen By bastards that knew nothing but conquest until They stepped on the sacred stones we shared. Beloved, We chanted you to existence To collect our bones and reconfigure What they left of us to rot under a rock Beloved, I hope you do not ask if you were born to be loved Beloved, If you do ever ask Do not forget that we wish for you to be here Do not forget that we wish for you to stay Above all, do not forget that the earth’s core answered our chants And spun you to perfection. Author’s note: This piece is dedicated to students of color who have questioned their right to exist. You are, and always will be, loved and needed. 30
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Contact Info
Gia Dacayanan gdacayanan@willamette.edu
James Mamuad jymamuad@willamette.edu
Erica Meier
efmeier@willamette.edu