The Gallery Fall 2022

the Gallery

G allery the

Editors

Editors-in-Chief Jenna Massey Malvika Shrimali

Art Editor Miranda Yañez

Poetry Editors Shawna Alston Paige Foltz

Prose Editor Jack Gillespie

Digitization Editor Juliana Santry

Publicity Editor Jenna Massey

Thank you to our incredible team for a wonderful semester.

Special thanks to Lulu Griffin for her patience and tech support.

Cover Art Tree of Life

Charlotte Daum seethefullworkonpage45

The Fall of Subway Cars Moon-Shaped Cloud Lightwaves

Mulafossur Sheep The Coyote The Rabbit my limbic system is a forest, and i am merely a vessel Marsh Scene i hope you say my name in your sleep Did you know that blood congeals like egg yolks? Self Portrait

The Pomegranate For She Had Eyes and Chose Me Final Touches Colors Flowers Williamsburg Farmers Market I want to grow old with you Beach House I was in a stream Ponte Vecchio in Firenze bliss (words written in graphite gray) The Moon over Red Hill, Haleakala Pretty Place (SC) A Black Poem i thought i won Hazy Afternoon The Cycle of Reciprocity trenches Corner Stone Embers of a Midnight Sky If Jack Kerouac Witnessed the Invention of Fire Everybody Wants a Piece of Me Smoking Kills Ode to the Frat Flu Crested Divinity A Princess and a River Dragon Ode to Lavender Sprigs Microwave Baked Potato When Leaves Fall Lunch

All Signs Point to Her Body Sadness Tree of Life Wet Flower Petals on the Windshield By the Lake Not Even A Feather Flutters Down Forget-me-not The City by the Bay Goa Ode to Verbosity Vintage Bookstore October Contributor’s Notes Editors’ Note

4 5 5 6 7 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19-20 21 22 23 24-25 25 26 27 27 28 29 29 30 31 32-33 34 35 36-37 28 39 40 41 42 42 43 44 45 46-48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 58-59 60

Crystal Wang Mateus Krauss Dutra Jessica Lain Miranda Yañez Will Florentino Jenna Massey Emma Henry Faith Ronquest Malvika Shrimali Ash Pyle

Isabel Schreur Malvika Shrimali Ella Nguyen Charlotte Daum Nevaeh Galluccio Kiley Pryor Danielle Seay Greyson Fisher Charlotte Daum Daniella Marx Isabel Schreur Paige Foltz Will Florentino Alisa Yang Shawna Alston Eli Weissenboeck Seth Novak Nevaeh Galluccio Paige Foltz Seth Novak Arianna Stewart Jack Gillespie

The Fall of Subway Cars

Baba lumbers like a subway car — His shoulders like stones, His head reaching up, up, up — To rival skyscrapers

Baba is larger than reality I saw cranes make their home on his hands — And roads run across their lines

I saw Baba as a bulldozer and I as the little one trailing behind — I imagine him clearing it for me, The world is a carved path.

I imagined Baba as a giant of Rome With oak trees for arms and I, Sitting on his shoulders — Staring down as the forest fell ‘way

But I saw Rome crumble To skeletal husks of pantheons — And even skyscrapers shatter To litter glass on unpaved roads.

Now, Baba is but a remnant of mankind Babe lumbers like a subway car — Unbalanced in his age, His feet pulling along so, so, so — tired.

I watch reality swallow Baba with a cry, And it’s me in the cranes On his hands — Pulling him along the roads

Moon-shaped Cloud

After the rain, a moon-shaped cloud hangs halfway up the horizon.

The balcony is surrounded by puddles that reflect a patchwork sky. The rain has passed but I have stayed here.

Raindrops still drop from the eaves, falling freely through the wind.

— Mateus Dutra

Lightwaves

Red tipped tree leaves Orange haired girl stays Yellow specks in his eyes connect her to earth

Green sprouts in her garden promise marigolds in the spring

Blues saturated the city before he arrived but now Indigo clouds accent every sunset Violet rays accessorize every sunrise

— Jess Lain

Miranda Yañez Múlafossur Sheep Photography

The Coyote

To whom is the Rock, fog-damp and marble skinned on its belly from the old storms, only a rock? And what of the wave oozing like black foam from the cliff’s crusted pores, bleeding over the mussels–wouldn’t you, too, desperately shovel froth by the handful into your glass jar, collecting enough language to call it by name?

A coyote stands staring seaward on the black road wrapped by cars who spend their lives far inland dissolving moments on their tongues. But she baptizes the rock without a missal, does not mourn the ocean’s return to itself.

Fur molded wind-flat like a carved wing, reticent eyes blinking back signs of the harvest, Burning, burning.

— Will Florentino

The Rabbit

How there was no blood. How the neck had split as if asked to neat and jewel-pink the body in the gutter confettied with chokecherries. How it must have sounded the roar of machinery the tire growls like no animal it had known before. Gentle thing. Sentenced to death by no fault but its own smallness.

— Jenna Massey

the slow openings of western pines engulfed in flames; stimulated and raging. indistinguishable from silent moss –unrelenting and imperceptible life within. the Sun sets over east coast mountains, but light still exists beneath minerals sliding from rock faces. minds as seasons; patterns dispersed over time, permeating through dirt. for birches yellow in the cold, and fiery maples shed in the freeze. joy-adjacent, or the hard grip of rage; I am scattered like leaves in frost. crumbling, knotted like garden bed roots; coming, going, racing within waves and touched by an ultimate stillness.

— Emma Henry

my limbic system is a forest, and i am merely a vessel

Faith Ronquest Marsh Scene Acrylic on Canvas

the words leave me lonely; summer-burnt beetles crawling on my skin, metallic wasted to a crisp. forget that beetles have been around for 270 million years. what mountains they conquered all end here. with me. fill the valleys with bedrock, starve the lizards. poetry melts off my skin in an egregious showcase of my survival, and i can’t spin art out of chitin anymore. i wonder if you can still make dead beetles dance. come autumn i am stripped naked and nearly surrendered to the fungi. december is the year of shell-strewn funerals and a flat tongue.

— Malvika Shrimali

i hope you say my name in your sleep

A morning routine; Sticky eyes and stiff joints, The cracking of bones like The sound of bacon in a pan, Greasy and sluggish.

A morning routine; Flies in the corner, A reminder of last night’s dinner, Of the pots yet to be cleaned, Crusted and stale.

A morning routine; Broken white shells and the Dull scrape of a knife, Against ripe flesh or fruit, Plump and dripping and sweet.

A morning routine; Strawberry jam and burnt toast, Dry crunch washed down with juice. I hope you didn’t already Brush your teeth.

A morning routine; Just like every other day. It might be, perhaps, a bit unsavory, Human and real. Please, enjoy your breakfast.

— Ash Pyle

Did you know that blood congeals like egg yolks?

Isabel Schreur Self Portrait Painting

The Pomegranate

born in the orange grove, sick of the oranges and their sticky sweetness but still i wait with my hand outstretched. all i know is trembling palms– this isn’t the type of fate that is deserved. i forget what it means to feel like acid flesh, stick your hands to mine after you toss me aside like the peel, wasting so much time and so many sighs

mother makes me feel awful and father can’t even tell i want anar

give it to me! the whole damn thing, pour red arils like lovely currency that stains with every spend, write love into skin. consider yourself a violent godsend pouring money into a poor man’s mouth–so heavy so sweet, pull me down into a divine hell! with red drapes ripped into your mythic name, train me in tongues meant only for you. nothing hurts as good as when metal stings in cut cheeks i swear i can make flowers bloom with my blood/chew the meat off every last coin to keep the rage from coming up, i’ll swallow thorns with red stained lips, break the anar in two, i’ll sink my broken teeth in. (call it art) i can’t stop let me stop you let me show you my tongue. dripping red with anar. nobody else. just me and you. i love you. i’m sorry i exist.

—

Malvika

Shrimali Anar translates to pomegranate in Hindi

For She Had Eyes and Chose Me

To relive the worst is tragic fate— tragedians become versed in fate.

Ira Aldridge took Covent Garden, the first of Black men to play his fate.

Drawn astray from her debauched husband, the beast with two backs darkened their fate.

Her wedding under Venetian night, this bride strides uncoerced to her fate.

His scarf of white cream and red berries dropped in an outburst of fear for fate.

A trapped animal will sing before you slay it—unrehearsed songs of fate.

Thespian students argue among themselves, cursed to misinterpret fate.

—

Ella Nguyen inspired by The Tragedy of Othello by William Shakespeare

Charlotte Daum

It was a scarlet wound, raw and bleeding as your lips grazed mine gasping for more; euphoric in its pain.

It was a burnt sunset, splattered across the sky as if Van Gogh himself had dabbed his brush in each crevice of the horizon down on your knees; offering me nothing less than an eternity.

It was the light beaming through stained glass windows, the smile on my face directed to you and only you vows and kisses; a promise of what more was to come.

It was growing envy, a brewing suspicion fermenting in your distrust hours lost and redacted; my body’s impression on the sheets ironing with every minute.

It was finely pressed into each tear drying into your pores, staining the innocence of idealization clouds of mourning what was so swiftly replaced; words left unsaid on the front steps.

It was the bruising of your ego, of your heart forever wondering when the cracks came; doubtful of the fragmented shards repair.

— Nevaeh Galluccio

Flowers

I live for the gift of a cheap bouquet A collection of peonies and baby’s breath, From the clearance bin of a florist’s shop Sunflowers and carnations from a farm market stall

I live for the handpicked wildflowers That you stumbled upon on your way back to me A daisy and a buttercup, an english rose That you took from your grandmother’s back garden

I live for the discounted flowers You bought me the day after valentine’s The red tulips you thought I’d like Without knowing the meaning of their color

And I live for the dried sprig of lavender That hangs where you placed it On the shelf above my bed In hopes I would sleep better and dream of you.

— Kiley Pryor

Danielle Seay Williamsburg Digital Farmer’s Market

Not in a weird way like the high school couples who cuphold like cupid at long baseball games. But like those friends who sit and wave from neighboring porches. Old in the comfort of normality, it’s okay to grow old with me, kind of way. To an age where ‘like’ isn’t every third word and children fill the role of pets and pets fill the role of plants and plants are forgotten outside as lawns roll steadily downhill because we forgot to pay the guy

I want to grow old with you in that way reserved for childhood friends who somehow didn’t stagnate or separate. Who formed a connection found a brother outside of blood. We attribute so many names to it: Comradery, brotherhood, friendship But there’s only one true name for it: Love.

Here’s the point in the poem where I devolve into the mild manners of the mind, and let the brain filter away the sappy, dripping, emotion that so sticks you to this sentence. But I’m not going to do that here.

I want to grow old with you

Love hurts, losing that connection between you, hurts like a bridge collapsing into the river, sometimes loud, a cacophony of curse words, but other times it merely slips into the mist, a simple goodnight and it’s gone.

At first you might not recognize it, but then that feeling as if a pilum has been shoved straight past your ribcage emerges. That empty hollow earth emotion. Sometimes you’ve got to fall a few times, to realize gravity is there.

There is a certain fallible fear that comes with the longingness to love. That fear of disappearing, into love, into loss. And loss sucks. And losing you would suck. And there’s no other word for it.

But I want you. And there’s no non cliche way to say this, no original take spirited away from the masses, no titanic rose scene with sketched stretched arms, but you captured me. Captured in that captivated type of way, where the body is free but the mind is not. Where my subconscious swells forth a great wave, of, ofSomething. Something I attribute to love, be it wrong or right I am.

I love you. And I’m okay with that. I want to grow old with my love for you.

— Greyson Fisher

Beach House

Charlotte Daum Oil on Canvas

I Was In A Stream

Swimming the hotel Pyramida, I dive, seeking an old dream in the Kura’s depths.

Those endless days flowed, When I ate cheaply, when co-pays and aches were neglected, in favor of fresh kisi, that soul loose in countless clay jars.

Damp cellar walls, covered by sawdust spores, assure all: this wine is good, this cellar is good, and that upstream the Kura is reborn, soon proving itself in this good Kakhetian.

Always, when I dare backwards, a daira drums in my ears, dreaming. It stops only when I breach.

— Daniella Marx

Isabel Schreur Ponte Vecchio Painting in Firenze

bliss (words written in graphite gray)

i am in a comfortable love with a world cast in cool hues, a world of grays and blues, of tragedy and tranquility in periwinkle rain. of contentment–abstract like that indescribable color perfectly blended between a fading evening and a murmuring dusk. of baby blue soft joy, smeared with blush. of a muted purple anger thats always boiling under the surface, inaudible even by inner voices. of slate-shaded indecisiveness, neon blue shock, cyan creativity…

i find it hard to write about yellows or oranges.

their beauty is one i could never capture in thoughts on pages. every now and then, i catch a glimpse. and it’s all zig zag spice and a sort of outspoken introspection and i am speechless as its witness and wordless when i reach a line waiting to be written.

there is so much of this world i cannot see. how helpless it is to know ill always be half-blind. that there are other indescribable landscapes i will never exist for, souls like hot water i’ll never get to hold my hands under, poems i’ll never write and love i’ll never feel. they say it would be too much–too overwhelming–that ignorance is bliss. but i’d rather eat the apple and explode with red and yellow than be trapped in my world of blue and gray.

— Paige Foltz

The Moon Over Red Hill, Haleakala

Amid all of these brackish and joyless quests, we may never hum the clouds’ unkempt rhythm–which tumbles, head-first, over hillsides to nurse this patient land. My eyes’ red light walks ahead. I clod over basalt fields who can still speak the old devastation: a tongue soaked in soot. She says I don’t have to be good, but I will for my life. Here, alone is a floating whim; When photographed, basalt erodes into myth. The goats gird their horns uphill in reverence. What coat will my voice don as it treads slowly down the palm frond-lined mountainside to be born? Half-cities crumble away beneath my feet. When I am asked, I will carry all I can.

— Will Florentino

Place (SC) Photography

Alisa Yang Pretty

A Black Poem

within these four walls lives an effervescent love one so bright and fizzy it blows holes in inconsistency

where two or three are gathered together there is a chicken-fry smell and key hooks we are at home and in love

my mama sings songs of good gospel and my grammy washes wishbone bowls of salvation we loooooooooove and because of that our hearts are scarred but held and kissed and caressed

— Shawna Alston

I Thought I Won

Since the passing of my papa I am no longer daddy’s girl, Each embrace with my mother has grown more desperate, Longing for another instant, Grieving what is to come, She visited me for my twentieth birthday, She held me when she said goodbye, I told her ‘I love you’, She said ‘I love you more’, I thought I won when I said ‘I love you most’, And then she kissed my hair and smiled, ‘I loved you first’ And after she departed to return back home, It dawned upon me, I will love her last.

— Eli Weissenboeck

Hazy Afternoon Photography

Seth Novak

The Cycle of Reciprocity

There’s something so empowering about baring yourself to another.

A strength, a pride that laces itself through your trembling fingers and caresses your gasping cheek with admiration and desire, The thinnest layer of your dewing skin now impermeable to doubt or selfishness.

It is you and them; It is only them and only you.

But just as quickly as the skin tightens, it sheds. For empowerment that stems from the use of your body, spirit, and soul is corrosive: You were only a vessel for their own sick pleasure, were you not?

Lust is not baselessly considered one of the seven deadly sins after allBecause no wall of self-respect or love can be patiently disassembled in a twenty-minute message exchange.

It takes a trebuchet and most often the carnage of your little worth left to continuously please someone, Despite your choir of shame and guilt croaking out dissonant pleas to reconcile your craving for hollow bursts of false validation.

— Nevaeh Galluccio

trenches

I dig trenches in my lips to hide in when my mind is overwhelmed; when the trenches overflow with blood

I sit, I sink, legs crossed, eyes closed, holding my breath, wondering if I’ll ever breathe air that isn’t metallic.

Did you know that the lips are the most sensitive part of the body but also the quickest to heal.

— Paige Foltz

Seth Novak Corner Stone Photography

Midnight Sky

Arianna Stewart Photography Embers of a

If Jack Kerouac Witnessed the Invention of Fire

I was just comin’ in from diggin’ the scene over at Jericho where they got these wild berries the size of dodo bird eggs that just make you wanna jump and yell “yahoo!” when you taste ‘em. Jericho, good ‘ol Jerry Town those gone Canaanites sure know how to live you can’t get kicks anywhere like you can in Jericho. Well anyways I’m ridin’ back from Jericho on my sorry jalopy lookin’ like goddamn Fred Flintstone When I’m walloped with an earful from this great beat character with the most ragged loincloth you’ve ever seen, all torn and dirtblackened Goin’ on about this magic he just performed. And I’ve seen a lot of fellows like this one in my day and most of ‘em are absolutely mad and don’t know up from down and half the time they’re all cracked up off this new opium stuff But somethin’ about this cat was different. Maybe it was that sincere look he had in those sad eyes of his the eyes of a saint just beggin’ to show you the way Or it could’ve been the way he couldn’t sit still the machine of his body whirrin’ at a thousand miles an hour tryin’ to keep up with the machine of his mind Or a million other things maybe I was just feelin’ generous on account of those grand Jericho berries in my belly

To this day I couldn’t tell you But I decided to hear him out. Now this madman was too hot to even speak right So I grab him by the shoulders tellin’ him to cool down and whatnot And he does.

In fact, the absolute maniac quits speakin’ altogether and I’m about to ask him what the hell he’s on about When he walks over to this pile of sticks all piled up together, I thought maybe he was tryin’ to build somethin’ And he grabs one of ‘em and starts spinnin’ it as fast as he can between his two dirty hands. Let me tell you, this cat started cookin’ with that stick like nothin’ I’ve ever seen before      I thought he was fixin’ to hurt himself But he keeps on sayin’ “trust me, trust me” and I’ve no reason not to So I do trust him.

And by God, this fellow was not lyin’ Before long these bits of light start jumpin’ up everywhere lookin’ like fragments of the sun that fell down to earth and are tryin’ their damnedest to get back Then all of a sudden the sticks erupt in this great mass of heat and light And the cat jumps back, looks with sheer wonder at his creation      then turns to me all lit up with a beatific grin across his face. I wanted to cry. I was so amazed by this beautiful madman’s trick and so happy that he got to share it with somebody that somebody finally listened to him and that it happened to be me.

Most of the time these beat characters are on about nothin’ But every once in a while when they’re on about somethin’ It’s somethin’ you’ll never forget.

— Jack Gillespie

Everybody Wants a Piece of Me

Content Warning: blood/gore

Sold the other day on Craigslist my skin-toned, leather socks—they’re ethically-sourced, it’s in great condition and from my own supply. Someone left a beaming review? I’ve been endorsed! Well, of course I’ll make more, sweep skin off the floor sewing flimsy flakes together, tying taut deceased cells, retrieving their souls from indoor graves buried in sneaker soles. It’s not an easy craft all the time. Blood, sweat, tears— bodily build up, my art demands, sustainable clothing is expensive costs me money, costs me time. These affairs are hard to talk of—to make socks inoffensive my successful secret: my trade will trick you.

My successful secret: my trade will trick you, fallen a foot from the floor, my picked, plucked feathers flutter down, lain askew and I tug, I tear, a skin scouring addict tweezers turn callouses into canyons rip the bandaid off? I’ll savor the skin pull from the base, watch the blood billow in warm red spills into my pores, fills prints butterfly bandages garnish the pads of my feet that hurt to hobble on gather up my pulsating pieces with hands, knit my DNA into ankle-length hosiery. Well-worn condition— I don’t offer try ons. A high demand? Here’s the skin off my back too.

— Angela Borkowski

Smoking Kills

Paint Markers

Samantha Viniard

Ode to the Frat Flu

You fringy lover, heart twister throat choker, hand sweller you flirtatious fuck.

I feel your fingers inside me like a hot balloon rising until my throat boils and eyes water.

At night you share my room a one night stand who stayed too long you refuse to step out the door.

Everytime I speak in class I think of you, like a broken record who wedged itself between my tonsils and hugged till I swallowed.

You carnivorous, hungry, consuming, sexual divinity that dines on my cells, oh you monster that eats me up inside, oh you.

In the morning I wish you gone but you play, and tease, and spin, but you’re always here.

You leave me with a cough like a hickey, or a bracelet you give all the boys when you throw off the sheets.

Oh frat flu, oh be mine. Oh fraternal brother baked in the midnight sweat basement, split among drinks, pick me as your one.

And you have, and you did, for my cough for my throat, for my hands for my eyes. You were mine.

But this morning, this morning you cheated, like a doomed dancer you spun too far and now my roommate wakes up with a cough.

A hickey on his neck! How dare you! You flirtatious fuck, you frat flu how I long for you.

— Greyson Fisher

Arianna Stewart Crested Divinity Colored Pencil

Danielle Seay A Princess and Watercolor a River Dragon

Ode to Lavender Sprigs

I look back at yesterday— With shards of rose— glass Tinted a pretty red

And purple hues paint tomorrow In kaleidoscope vases, lavender— I remember— Smelling like gentle summer Sun, breeze, and warmth; To a soothing balm

I’ve found roses to be virulent— Rivulets That drip with malice, And smudge like lipstain In a smile—

So I turn to tomorrows of lavender— Sprigs— And gentle springs, Of slow sleep without wake Adrift in soft silken skies

And forget yesterdays That draped in liquid mercury

—Crystal Wang

You always had such thin skin, like paper Beaten and bruised, The world’s filth All stuck to you You need my help Again, you call Without words Dull eyes silent, and Pleading “Lift me up, brush away all the dirt and the stains”

Of your past lives, lived Forgotten corpse, buried under A hallowed Earth. Haunting, and hoping That I might find you again Someday I do. I Baptize you in waves that when they come, Soften your skin. Your surface glows Translucent

An amber gleam Appearing only when, like this, I hold you Basking in the sun’s warm rays You don’t expect it None the wiser, how easy You fold against these knife-like pricks

My devil’s trident Thrust with passion, Without mercy, against your side Again you cry but do not Bleed You never have, for me Your body shivers Wet and cold. Skin pierced and broken, but Never fear Before long, I’ll make you warm with life again It is I who shall decide what happens to you Clothed in crystal And liquid gold A sacrifice

For me, only Burn with rage. Betrayal felt when, I hold you in unguarded hands Lie on my altar, Anointing oil

Despite your will, you soak it in Greedy, i wait Watch eager blade Part tender, silkened flesh So welcoming So delicate

— Suzanna Wright

Microwave Baked Potato

When Leaves Fall

Leaves shifting in this ever present breeze lighter undersides, untouched by their sun all they hear is their own chatter, leaf brushing against leaf the birds, the bugs, me, all fall on deaf ears I wish they’d listen to me let me stay a little longer, let me finish my story

If a leaf falls, will it begin to listen? touching this Earth, the same as me once you fall we are the same thank you for waving, at least while you’re up there

lunch

why does poetry break into lines? is it for bite size thoughts to eat with a fork? a too big spoon? I’d prefer to eat with my hands, if it’s the same to you. I have fistfuls to digest.

— Seth Novak

— Mariel Webb

Grace Cohen

Body Sadness

My body’s lighting up that red flame. And a thick smoke wraps around my brain, Now no one is safe. You said something to me, Just then, And I gave you silence, And your voice echoes and fades. I’m a cold wall, Glimmering like steelbody sadness.

My brain is pulsing with signals from Below, where that endless cycle of Preparing and preparing, Anticipates life, But always ends in blood. I am not privy to its machinations, I am indifferent to its aims, but It squeezes me and Rocks me, so that maybe, one day, I’ll give in and make A little clonebody sadness.

My head flutters with solitude, Just as incapable of thought As my legs are of lifting Me from this throne, Where I gaze at a kingdom of Mistakes and regrets. Like a true king, I am withdrawn From the objects of my shame, But I reel all the samebody sadness. Whenever my organs may relent, I’ll feel strange and foolish. But all of this sorrow Feels so just and plain that, It must have been stored Somewhere deep down, And my body just let it out.

— Lena Smith

of Life

Gouache, Oil Pastel, Pen on Paper Tree

Charlotte Daum

Wet Flower Petals on the Windshield

by Maddie Hitchcock

When I got in my car this morning there were wet flower petals on the windshield. (I turn the key in the ignition, feeling the familiar vibrations as Gertrude sputters once, twice, three times before grumbling to a start).

I turn on the windshield wipers and sweep the blossoms from my vision. (Emily says Gertrude is an ugly name for a car).

The smattering of baby pink florals and dew drops and late mist is now confined into uniform columns, solitary on each edge of my sight. (But my car is ugly).

Which is to say, my morning began framed by torn flesh, and petal pulp. Which is to say, I began my morning resentful. (Emily says Gertrude is like a bad joke, like something my sister would say).

I’m driving now. Moments have passed. I’m longing for my bed and to rub my bare feet against my soft sheets. I want to soothe my soles with the cotton and maybe my cheeks too. Maybe I’ll swish my face back and forth against my pillow for a few moments.

I want comfort - I think of the petals and am angry again. There is no comfort in this car. (I don’t want to go to work).

So logically, like most reasonably melancholy people, I take comfort in longing. (More moments pass in which I resent Gertrude for moving and entertain similar sentiments) and why me? And why opening shift and why do I have to work with Stuart? And I’ll smell like curdled milk and my hands will be constantly wet and pruned and burned and why can’t people just make their own fucking coffee? God damn it!

“Damn it all,” I think, but I know I’m indulging now. I know I’m making things harder than they have to be, but oh! How I wish my hands weren’t touching this wheel and my foot wasn’t pushing on the gas! The agony! (I’m retreating back to that strange awareness one sometimes stays when they resent their own movement, pulling that screen of dejection and dissociation down firm and swift, in steadfast refusal to accept my circumstance).

I’m thinking about touching my sheets again, the texture, the motion, so sacred to me! Sacred. That’s a funny word. And I’m thinking of the petals again, how the sunlight filtered through the freckled windshield, like polka dots, like ladybug wings, and the dress my grandma wore once when I was too young to remember when, or if we were really gardening out back, or if such a fabric ever truly draped her bony legs at all.

(Gertrude is all hard stops and fast starts and I know I should be more careful with such an old car) but I’m thinking of ladybugs and the backyard and my bug collecting days.

Of digging for worms and feeling their wet squirming bodies slip between my small fingers, still chilled by the earth. You had to move quick, scraping a layer of mud away and grabbing the ends of them before they disappeared back into the earth. I’m scooping sloppy clods of mud into a plastic tub. Adding sticks, and leaves and table scraps for food and as many worms as I can find. And I know my mom will be mad my clothes are all messed up, but she won’t be surprised, and that I’ll have to leave my bugs outside. Someone honks. (I’m running late and already halfway there) but my music is off. It is not too quiet, its just that it’s just my rule. So I’m skipping through music to find something just right and thinking about how it rained that night. My worm home flooded, the tub filled with water and all my worms drowned.

The music starts to sound foreign to my ears. Each note splits into thousands, it feels like echoes or like that thing that happens when mirrors face each other and form a dozen different reflections. (There’s a school bus on the corner) (and I can’t remember, do you have to stop for a school bus on a corner?) and I skip the song. I skip the next one. The noise swells in my head and I wonder do I even like this song? Well, it wouldn’t be on my playlist otherwise, but did I add it to my playlist too fast? Maybe I should establish a minimum of three listens before I add any song to a playlist. Maybe that would work or maybe I should abandon playlists altogether (and I guess my brain is too full to realize the little stop sign is still a stop sign).

Theres a gaggle of kids crossing the street. I start to turn as they reach the other side but I stop. Because the bus is still there. (Emily says drive predictably or you’ll get in an accident). But (Gertrude hesitates, jumps forward and stops again) and I know I’m too far in the middle of the street, and I know the rule is commit to your mistakes, so I keep moving and as I’m turning, I’m watching the bus driver. She’s flapping her arms at me up and down and up and down in frantic anger and the whole time I’m watching. Her eyes are so full and I know mine are painted blank and clueless (but I don’t stop again). Theres still kids climbing down the bus steps and I know I didn’t check for them. I’m thinking of their school bags walloping against their backs as they bounce down the sidewalk, and I’m crying because what if they’re rushing to their yards to find roly-polys? What if they collect them in those plastic pencil boxes they use at school? I’m thinking about curled bodies rolling back and forth on tiny sticky hands. Or about waiting (you didn’t have to wait too long) for them to unfurl and to feel that familiar tickle of their feet as they forge through the tall grasses of arm hair. There are so many of them and they’re easy to catch because when they see you they just turn into tiny peas. It was so easy to fill a box, but you do kinda feel a little bad when you have to start stacking them up. Did they wonder where they were or why there was so many of them in one place as they crawled all over one another?

(roly-polys were my favorite). I wonder how I’ve gone so long without recalling something so sacred? (but I’m determined now to focus. I know everything will be ok, I just have to think before I do anything).

I’m stopped at a red light. I’m thinking to make sure before I turn because that’s the rule now, but I guess I’m thinking too long and that’s wrong too, because someone honks (I jump).

And I’m crying because I don’t get any better at driving, no matter how long I drive, and because of those kids and roly-polys and if maybe they’ll flip one over and notice its belly isn’t brown like the others. If they’ll pry it open, little fingertips not much bigger than the body held still between them, to see the tiny ovals that squirm in its swollen, yellowy-brown abdomen. If their perplexity will draw them toward a stick, just small enough and sharp enough to puncture, and watch tiny white duplicates stream from the incision.

(They’re roly-polys! Not pill bugs!)

(I’m not focused, but I’m almost there now, and I’m a hopeless driver anyway) and I’m greedy for my last moments that are mine and I need to know, if they knew somewhere in the back of their budding minds what would happen and did it anyway? I need to know if they were disgusted by themselves afterward, and if they did it again anyway.

“You’re late,” my boss says as I tie up my apron, my nose wrinkled from its stench of sweat and old milk. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like she has anyone to replace me with anyway. “Bad driving day,” I say and wash my hands with the faucet on full blast to drown out her response. I’m thinking of my hands, mourning how the water running over them will prune them and thin the skin, how the steamed milk will burn them and they won’t be dry again for the next six hours.

By The Lake

By the lake a blue heron watches the familiar family roaming about an old tree carved with heart-shaped notches and the names of lovers once devout.

By the lake a blue heron hears their laughter echoing across the way while they share stories on a pier that is weak from years of great decay.

By the lake a blue heron hides underneath the shade of a tree his temporary home before the rising tides but a good place, for now, to see.

By the lake a blue heron studies each flower in their grandma’s garden brilliant colors and perfect ease, awe-striking without pardon.

By the lake a blue heron dreams of the flowers and the family in hopes that day was what it seemed and that they live on forever happily.

— Ellie Ferrell

A flash of silvery black and a flutter of wings I spin and whirl Searching for rhyme or reason

My fingers catching the light Please don’t take them–My wrists are bare, my collar bones stark Beady onyx eyes Trailing my knuckles and Stilling my hand Metal and meaning

A story I weave from the blacksmith’s hammer

She asks and she takes Even after she knows The raven is drawn To only the shiniest things So I let her take my bracelets and Necklaces and Chains

But please leave my rings

Once bare and plain She won’t come back Once she’s taken my memories and Stained my skin she’ll Spread her silvery wings and Leave

— Ash Pyle

Not Even A Feather Flutters Down

Forget-me-not

Dream weeper Side sleeper Searching for meaning in every little detail You come up empty handed, out of breath every time

Seam ripper Skin picker Copycat inspiration from friends who showed you their hearts on paper in carefully curated unspontaneous script More poetic than anything you could ever create or feel utterly unrelatable unfounded unreal

Instead you have this Notes app proof that you do have feelings Too self conscious to take yourself seriously Too aware of the risk of sharing or caring at all

Instead you have this Hacking up your heart in an unfriendly dorm room Waiting for someone to take what’s offered before you choke The waiting is hard and getting harder Someday you won’t be an imposition —

Maggie Tone

The City by The Bay

I woke up in a house with no right angles, its Edwardian frame capsizing, sinking into the haze above. Creased curtains parted, a formidable fog froths from gutters, & misty tributaries tumble over dimly lit street lights to link elbows on the vertical road. These seraphic bodies peruse down Manchester St., wafting past the cable car zip-lining off the edge of the Earth, these ghostly figures waltzing over pieces of broken glass; breathy wisps congregating under the overpass— making muggy the homeless man’s camping tent. Downstairs I hear a frail knock, a nebulous mitt motions me out the door, and a cascade of watery tendrils usher me down the steps; denser clouds drag the wrinkled landscape to the bay. The fading streetlight bleaches the world, & no longer do I see the spine of the bucking red bridge that cars hurriedly commute across— that trek that leads to uncertain heavenly places. Temperature rises and soon, so does the mist; the vaporous bodies wavering before waltzing in reverse— past the sleepy store clerk sweeping up bits of shattered bottles; breathy wisps quit loitering under the overpass, billowing past the cable car that returned from where the world ends— covered in dew, but safe now that it’s on the horizontal. I watch these angelic beings unlink elbows, their foggy figures rolling against gravity, their absence bringing back the bustle to the gray city center. Car horns blare, but I stay here—a place with only vertical spaces.

— Angela Borkowski

Goa

Tess Willett

Photography

Ode to Verbosity

I’ve always been jealous of poets, jealous of their aestheticized role within art: the surveyors and documentarians of all that is beautiful, and all else that is life. they capture short moments in time like photographers, never too exposed and never filtered, though, they do know the value of restraint.

why must I fragment myself, sever my thoughts and abstractions, to be known?

there is no fanfare for the diarists, the lengthy and long winded, those who pour their hearts onto their pages, with no regard for length or convention, only feeling, soiling them with tears and shoving them beneath their beds. brave enough to be vulnerable, knowing they will never be rewarded.

— Sydney Shoulders

Vintage Bookshelf

Danielle Seay Digital Art

October

This time last year, the harvest trundled up beside us and said, How bright your lantern is, how soft your cheeks. I think I’ll stay a while. Two cousins, a sister, and a cat tucked neatly in his apple basket like kindling for the cold months.

Once more, it’s nice out. First in a while. no schools here, no churches, no gods, no gauze. Overhead, a swirling murder of clouds like hands in a river, reaching.

Just like that. Like fresh apples, sweet and fleeting, across the wide, gray firmament.

— Will Florentino

Contributors’

Alisa Yang is a sophomore at W&M who loves nature, traveling, and many different types of Art.

Arianna Stewart is a junior at the College of William and Mary pursuing a self-design Creative Writing & Production major, with a minor in Innovation & Entrepreneurship. She has been creating art since elementary school and she produces two weekly comics in The Flat Hat newspaper, Fuzzy and Bits & Pieces.

Charlotte Daum is a sophomore studying English and Marketing. Her work is an exploration of color and spirit — she seeks to visually represent her poetic world of people and place.

Danielle Seay is in the class of 2025, doubling majoring in Art & Art History and English. She loves to draw animals, nature, and books in her free time. More of her art can be found on Instagram @danyellysdoodles.

Eli Weissenboeck ‘24 is on the pre-veterinary track. She loves creating art and writing in her free time. Eli dedicates this piece to her mother, Sebla.

Ella Jo Nguyen had only dabbled in poetry until they took the formal poetry workshop in the fall. Their poem was written for the ghazal unit in that class, which was their favorite form!

Ellie Ferrell: I am Ellie Ferrell, a Junior at the College. Since I was a kid, writing has always been my “path of least resistance”. I have a particular interest in poetry and memoir and am excited to continue writing and creating new pieces in the future!

Emma Henry is a sophomore from Wallingford, PA majoring in History & Environmental Studies. She has found that poetry is a wonderful outlet to combine her love for nature and her love for storytelling!

Faith Ronquest is a Junior Studio Art and History double major that finds joy in depicting natural scenes that are connected to her memories.

Grace Cohen: I am a sophomore at William and Mary with a strong passion for the arts. I generally paint fantastical scenes that distort reality. I enjoy working with bold colors and fine details (see if you can find all 7 little white butterflies).

Greyson Fisher is a rabbit hole. A freshman at W&M, he specializes in long fiction and poetry while maintaining a grasp on reality. He’s a part of a variety of clubs, including both swim team and IRC. His late uncle once told his dad, “never let this kid stop telling stories” and to this day Greyson hasn’t. He writes for himself and hopes everyone enjoys!

Jenna Massey is a junior who is proud to serve as co-Editor-in-Chief of The Gallery. Like Ada Limón, she is “a weeper from a long line of weepers.”

Kiley Pryor is a member of the class of 2026.

Madeline Hitchcock lived the first many years of her life in her head, never having taken much of a liking to reality. Now she attempts to confine fantasy to her writing and hopes to share a bit of escape with you.

Maggie Tone is a junior majoring in government. She’s not quite sure what she’s doing here but hopes you liked her Notes-app poetry.

Mariel Webb is a senior studying Biology in the hopes of becoming a zookeeper. As an autistic person, they can often struggle with finding the right words to convey her thoughts in a “typical” way. Poetry gives her an opportunity to use words in a way that makes sense to them.

Malvika Shrimali is something of a marvel and co-Editor-in-Chief of The Gallery.

Nevaeh Galluccio: I’m Nevaeh Galluccio, a freshman, and I write about my feelings and life experiences. I’m so excited to be featured in this issue among all of these other talented artists!

Paige Foltz has still not danced in the rain :/

Shawna Alston is still pulling words from clouds and kissing them gently. This semester, though, has taught her a lot.

Sydney Shoulders is a freshman double majoring in English and some other humanity. No one is quite sure which one yet.

Tess Willett: My name is Tess Willett, and I am currently a sophomore here at William and Mary. We sat in dense traffic for five hours the day that I took this. After looking over this bridge for so long, I decided to take a photo. I wanted to capture the comfort of the fog that accompanies the monsoons in Goa, India.

Editors’ Note

Dear Reader,

We are honored to present you with the Fall 2022 issue of The Gallery! This semester has flown by all too quickly, and we are so grateful to the contributors who found the time to share their eloquent writing and skillful artwork with our magazine. The Gallery—past, present, and future—would not be possible without you all.

Both of us joined The Gallery during the beginning of the pandemic. It was incredible to watch the organization flourish under the leadership of our previous Editor-in-Chief, Julia Gibson, in spite of the challenges presented by the virus.

This semester has been defined by incredible membership growth, and it makes our hearts so full to spread Gallery joy with so many more creative people! It reminds us that art is not merely a hobby, but a part of our identity. We cannot wait to see how the magazine and community continue to thrive throughout our tenure.

Something extraordinary happens when people come together with a common passion, and Thursday nights in Tucker are truly magical. We hope you have enjoyed this issue of The Gallery, and we encourage your submissions in the spring!

— Malvika Shrimali and Jenna Massey Co-Editors-in-Chief, The Gallery

Colophon

The Gallery Volume 37 Issue 1 was produced by the student staff at the College of William & Mary and published by Carter Printing Co. in Richmond, Virginia. Submissions are accepted anonymously through a staff vote. The magazine was designed using Adobe Indesign CC and Adobe Photoshop CC. The magazine’s 60, 6x9 pages are set in Garamond. The titles of all the pieces are Derivia. The text on the cover is set in Garamond.

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