Penumbra 2020 by Greens Farms Academy

Penumbra 2020

Penumbra (pi-num-bruh) ~

A space of partial illumination (as in an eclipse) between the perfect shadow on all sides and the full light1

Merriam Websterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Collegiate Dictionary Tenth Edition

Senior Editors CALLIE MORGAN FLYNN MURTAUGH LAILA PINA ALLISON TELESZ

~ Associate Editors SAMATHA FREEMAN LUCY NELSON

~ Assistant Editor JAFFIR WAJAHAT

~ Staff Members MENNA DELVA LIZA DOWLING NANCY DUER ANDIE DURKIN ALLIE FARBER KAVYA KRISHNAMURTHY ALEX LIND KATHERINE MCNAMARA MAX MORFOOT COMFORT OMOTUNDE PAIGE PARISI JACKSON RASSIAS KATYSHA SOROKIN ANNIKA WHITE

~ Faculty Advisor GAIL GREINER

~ Cover Art JEMMA SIEGEL

Dedication ~

We dedicate this issue of Penumbra to Mr. Kevin Coll. Many of the pieces you are about to read are a result of his dedication, encouragement, and mentorship. He pushes students to speak their truth, and to explore their creative potential through writing. Whether it’s through lively discussion or productive workshops, Mr. Coll celebrates each and every one of his students and their work. His unwavering commitment to helping students improve their writing and find their voices has made GFA a more inviting and connected place, an embodiment of Penumbra’s mission. We’d like to thank Mr. Coll for all of the incredible work he has done with all of us since he began in the Fall of 2018. We are lucky to have him as our teacher, mentor, and English Department Chair.

Table of Contents ~ WRITING

Short Stories 14 Nothing to Hide ~ CAYLA BERNSTEIN 17 Lives Ebbed Away ~ GEORGE SARBINOWSKI 18 Red Rain Boots ~ LUCY NELSON 21 eternal nocturne ~ JORDAN LIU 22 Deer in the Headlights ~ CHARLIE BENSON 25 Beach Bums ~ ALLISON TELESZ 27 Sisters ~ JESSE BOOLBOL 29 Far Too Close ~ JORDAN LIU 30 A Rare Intelligence ~ MARGOT GOLDSMITH 33 Lost Boy ~ CAYLA BERNSTEIN 35 Water Lilies ~ ALLISON TELESZ 37 Peaceful ~ FLYNN MURTAUGH

Poetry 42 Different Ways to Feel ~ ALLIE FARBER 44 Epitome of January ~ NANCY DUER 45 I am From ~ SHANELLE HENRY* 46 I set my pen down on the page ~ KAITLIN REED 48 To the Dane, Hamlet ~ WILLIAM LOPEZ-WORTMAN 49 Car Ride Home ~ JAKE FARBER 50 Sunset Road ~ KEVIN KURYLA 52 To My Dream ~ KAVYA KRISHNAMURTHY 54 From Out My Frosty Windowpane ~ SUE WILCHINSKY* 55 Mockernut Hickory ~ OWEN MINSON 56 Ophelia (after IV.5) ~ ZACH ROTHWELL 58 Winter Solstice, 2001 ~ ANDREW JONES* 60 The Bed on 92nd Street ~ FLYNN MURTAUGH 61 Page ~ ELIZABETH JONES 62 To My Mother Countries... ~ NATILIE MIKHAEEL 63 Velcro ~ SAMANTHA FREEMAN 64 Dear Anonymous ~ ANYA BETTEGOWDA 6

66 Stuck With Everywhere To Go ~ SANSKRITI KUMAR 68 The Street of Sleepy Boats ~ ANNA REYNOLDS 69 Untitled ~ KC LAWLER* 70 Little Waves ~ LANE MURPHY 72 Perfect Practice ~ CLARE FOLEY 73 A Passing Thought ~ ANYA BETTEGOWDA 74 Childhood ~ ALEXANDRA MODZELEWSKI 76 One Day ~ LANE MURPHY 78 Beyond the Sea ~ KAVYA KRISHNAMURTHY 82 IV.6 (1/2) ~ ANNABEL ROTH 83 Reflections, staring back at her ~ OLIVIA MARSHALL 84 It begins with a clean, crisp sheet ~ KOBI AGARD 85 Prayer in my Hoodie ~ NATILIE MIKHAEEL 86 West ~ CHRIS MIRA* 88 Sympathy ~ TESS MCCORMICK 88 Egotism ~ JACK GRILLS 89 Ominous ~ TIM NORTHROP 89 Visible ~ ANNABEL LAWTON

91 Craft Interview with Naomi Shihab Nye ~ KAVYA KRISHNAMURTHY Personal Essays 96 Curls ~ ANNIKA WHITE 97 Laryngitis ~ MARY KESSLER 98 Forever Before ~ JEMMA SIEGEL 100 Hair ~ CALLIE MORGAN 101 Nore and I ~ NORELISA NASCIMIENTO 102 Dragon Flies and the Salt Marsh ~ OWEN MINSON 106 A Salt Marsh Symphony ~ ETHAN LIOR 108 On Sympathy ~ DANIEL JUMP*

*Faculty and Staff 8

Table of Contents ~ ART

12 ALEX LIND 16 HARRIET WELLS 20 SHEALEIGH CROMBIE 24 RYAN BOYLE 28 KATHERINE GABRIELE 32 MADISON GORDON 36 RYAN BOYLE 40 JEMMA SIEGEL 47 GRIFFIN PENNA 53 HARRIET WELLS 59 CAROLINE MCCALL 65 HARRIET WELLS 71 TESS MCCORMICK 77 RYAN BOYLE 81 ANNABEL LAWTON 87 LAILA PINA 90 NAOMI SHIHAB NYE 94 VICKI STUART 99 SHEALEIGH CROMBI 105 ANNABEL LAWTON 116 LUCY NELSON 118 COMFORT OMONTUNDE 120 ELYSE KIMBALL

Art is restoration: the idea is to repair the damages that are inflicted in life, to make something that is fragmented – which is what fear and anxiety do to a person – into something whole. –Louise Bourgeois

Letter from the Editors ~

Penumbra has served as a vital creative outlet at GFA for decades. A space for students and faculty to share their writing and art with a thoughtful audience, it has united and uplifted our community. In this spirit, we have decided not to include any pieces about the ongoing Covid-19 pandemic. Although we acknowledge the impact of the virus on each of us, we want Penumbra to celebrate all of the work that came before this shift in our lives, and for it to remain a refreshing space amidst all the chaos and distress of these last months. As Louise Bourgeois beautifully captured in our epigraph, art has the power to heal the wounds that fear and challenge inflict. In this unprecedented time of anxiety and difficulty, Penumbra seeks to remind us all of the restorative power of art and writing. We hope the work in this book brings you some peace of mind and, in the words of Naomi Shihab Nye, helps your spirit, â&#x20AC;&#x153;gather itself back together again.â&#x20AC;? The Editors

Nothing to Hide ~

CAYLA BERNSTEIN “Shoplifting?” Jessica asks, trailing Olivia while carefully avoiding the cracks in the pavement. Her contacts blur over her hazel eyes as she counts her steps. “That’s your ‘specialty’?” “I just take stuff here and there,” Olivia says, brushing a hand through her golden hair. “Mostly from places where I shop. Everything is just so overpriced and . . . I don’t know. The way I see it, it’s only fair. It’s basically my way of flipping off these obnoxious companies.” “Really?” Jessica swallows hard. “You just . . . take stuff?” She looks away from Olivia and tugs on her coat collar to hide her blushing cheeks. “Yeah. That easy.” Jessica stuffs her hands into her pockets, blanketing them from the cool air. “All right,” she concedes. “Teach me your ways.” ANTHROPOLOGY. Pine walls, vintage frames, earthy tones. Perfumed candles make Jessica’s nose tickle. She smiles politely at an employee. “Happy shopping!” Olivia sings and heads toward a room of mascaras and powders. Jessica walks toward the unmanned jewelry section. She scans the necklaces and eyes a sapphire pendant. She approaches it, hands fiddling, tugs at her earlobe. Across the room, a middle-aged male shopper—gray hair fluffed casually, glasses resting perfectly on his nose—smiles like . . . her father. She hears his voice in her head. “High honors!” he said last week. “I’m so proud of you.” He embraced her. “You know that, right?” Jessica had shrugged. His eyes, still locked on her, waited for more. She gave him the smile he craved. “That’s the spirit. President of your class. Captain of your team. I wish I was as confident and ambitious when I was your age. My friends always check in to hear what new height you’ve achieved.” Jessica stares at the man across the room and thinks of all the times her father, who stays up to help her study for tests, who listens to her drama after his long days at work, who once drove fifteen minutes to pay for a Snickers he’d taken without realizing. “Paid the full $2.30,” he said. Smiled. Shrugged, checking the rear-view mirror to make sure his daughter heard. She feels warm breath on her neck. Olivia, at her shoulder, whispering. “Find anything?” Still searching,” she replies. “Looking for the perfect thing.” The middle-aged man is smiling at her now. She smiles back. Unhooks the sapphire pendant from its stand. Pivots slightly and slips it into her pocket. “Nice choice,” Olivia whispers. Jessica laughs, waves at the kind-faced man, leaves him admiring the rings. 14

Exiting, she holds her breath all the way through the metal detectors, with Olivia strolling behind her. Jessica pushes the door open, the glass cool against her skin. Beyond the store, seagulls perch on the lonely bridge, the crystal river below purring. She breathes in the fresh air. Her heart rate begins to slow. Then she hears alarms blaring. Freezes. Looks to Olivia. Impossibly, her friend is smiling. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Dang, girl, see a ghost?â&#x20AC;? Olivia cocks her head. Jessica looks back to the bridge and watches the birds lift off, wings flapping. As they drift away, the alarms recede. Become the squawking that follows the birds. She can hear the river again. Her left foot is resting atop a crack in the pavement. She leaves it there. Reaches into her pocket for the necklace. Clasps it around her neck, the sapphire pendant heavier than expected. Catching her breath, she admires the graceful birds, smaller now, flying away, disappearing into the blue.

Harriet Wells

Lives Ebbed Away ~

GEORGE SARBINOWSKI He kept glancing back over his shoulder into the inferno from the leather driver’s seat of his old light blue station wagon. For once, no music was on the radio: his nerves were too high. Like a fever dream, except unquestionably real. He couldn’t focus in the moment. The damn car wasn’t even his. But Kate was his responsibility; in his mind, at least, until half an hour ago. And he’d royally screwed that up, hadn’t he. Outside of his tunnel vision, the wildfire ravenously razed the Australian brush. Straight ahead? A dusty red dirt road and the fire that seemed to fly alongside faster than he could keep the car going. He knew he would be seen as a coward. He remembered the old ranger on the seven-seven radio. “Hey sprog, best bug out before the winds pick up and the sun sets. We can’t get in to you after nightfall.” They had fled from the sanctuary in the station wagon. Kate shotgun, him in the driver’s seat. He had insisted on driving. Before the green buildings were out of his view against the velvety black smoke that had consumed the sky, Kate turned to her right and gave him one last silent look. She hopped over the center console, over the flattened passenger seats, and rolled out of the boot. She landed hard on her side, picked herself up, and ran back towards the smoldering buildings, her leather flip flops slapping against the clay, her red tank top covered in dust. He yelled out, but didn’t turn back for her. Or even stop the car. He didn’t know if she expected him to join her. She might’ve been going for the koalas. Why? He had no clue. She couldn’t take them with her. Or even make it far on foot. Kate had always been sentimental about those damned animals. Still, she had to know that there was nothing she could do. He could at least have turned back for her and maybe snapped her out of it. But he didn’t. It was far too late now. 30 minutes at 80 clicks… so 40 kilometers? Too late to turn back. Damn car. Kate was probably dead. Or not. She’d always been the resourceful one. But escaping a bushfire in the middle of a desert on foot? He scoffed, then cursed himself for his thoughts. An hour passed. 80 more kilometers. The sun had gone down, but the outback around him forcefully reincarnated itself with an eerie golden glow. His eyes grew weary from exhaustion, smoke, and remorse. Off in the distance, a smudge on the horizon was drawing closer. In the hazy smoke and darkness, it seemed to fade and reappear. He slammed on the brakes and sat in a stunned silence. Kate stood there in the middle of the road. Her red tank top was slightly charred. She looked up at him through the windshield, her pale blue eyes void behind a pair of broken glasses. She was empty-handed. He realized he had never really known her.

Red Rain Boots ~

LUCY NELSON Her polka dot tights sagged as she stomped around in her red rain boots, skipping ahead in the puddled parking lot yet staying close enough to her grandfather’s side to reach out if necessary. She was almost “this many,” as she reminded him from her car seat, holding out a tiny hand with five fingers flexed. He watched her ladybug backpack bounce ahead toward the two story building, a building plain on the outside but with unfathomable joys within. Two days ago, in between organ accompanied pieces, his friend Bill from church choir told him about a great Children’s Museum. Bill and his wife saw their three grandkids almost every weekend. That night, he called his son on the landline wondering if he could take his granddaughter out for the day. “Grandpa, where are we?” She looked up at him, eyes wide. They had been silent on the car ride over. “It’s uh, a place to play. Like a playground but inside.” “Yesterday, at the playground... in the sandbox... Jamie bit me. She said I couldn’t play because I wasn’t wearing a dress. I have a mark. Want to see it? It’s almost as bad as when I fell in the driveway and had scabs on my legs.” “No, it’s okay. You don’t have to show me.” She held out her left arm anyway, revealing the red outline of a miniature jaw. “Grandpa, you smell like your house.” They were in line to buy tickets now. “Do I?” He was bemused. He and his wife, Faye, had bought their home in ’73 and his son would joke she brought every dust rag and broom with her to heaven. He ignored the mold creeping through the walls and shuffled past the long-since licked clean cat dish. His icebox still had the neighbor’s homemade casseroles, their condolences suspended in freezer burn. “Don’t worry, I like it.” She shoved her nose against the side of his wrinkled pants, taking a dramatic sniff. He took a half step away, caught off guard. “Let’s go play now,” he patted the top of her head. The two of them moved slowly, one with legs too small and the other with legs far too tired. At the top of the last flight, he yanked open the door to reveal a jungle gym, relieved by the squeals of his granddaughter. “I wanna come back all the time!” She hugged his legs and scurried away. He lowered himself onto a bench in the far corner of the room, adjusted the belt high on his waist, and looked on as she bounced on trampolines and crawled across nets, climbing higher and higher but always checking in down below. When her cheeks were rosy and her legs wobbling, the pair ambled back to the car, the girl lagging slightly behind. “Grandpa!” He turned over his shoulder and stopped, alarmed by the pout in her voice. “You stepped on a ladybug.” She looked at him with confusion, kneeling on the 18

ground with the tiny bug resting in her palm. Together in the sea of asphalt, they were so small. The ladybug had flipped on its back, its thin legs twitching in the air and its eyes perpetually angled toward her unwrinkled palm. There is nothing so fragile as a ladybug’s legs, he thought, eyes locked. He remembered the smell of dead ladybugs in the window wells when he used to open up the house for spring. It was an unmistakable scent, the musty traces of a life that never again saw longer days and backlit green leaves. He watched as the bug seemed to shrink in her palm, its underside crusting over. Then, he looked at her and down at the ground. Her pale, striking eyes were void of tears, and yet he could read the dazed melancholy. He couldn’t let her see. “I...I just gave it a headache, that’s all. I promise.” He watched as she collected its tiny legs, miscounted its spots out loud, and then tucked it in the pocket of her jumper. She then limped to the car, cupping the felt pocket and its precious cargo with two hands. They had been on the road for ten minutes before she spoke again. “I got lost in there, you know… on the playground. I couldn’t see you. Once when she was in the threes… my friend got lost at the store.” She continued on and on. “I would have held her hand because daddy says that’s what friends do... they hold your hand when you get lost.” She paused to kick her rain boots off. “Who’s your friend, Grandpa?” He faltered. “People around town.” Minutes passed in blissful silence. “Are you sad?” She leaned forward in her car seat. “Daddy thinks you’re sad.” “Let’s get you home now.” He wasn’t really sad. He had friends. He had family. He just liked to be alone. He knew he should make more of an effort, for their sake, for hers. It was just a hard drive to make. When they pulled into the driveway, he gently lifted her spotted backpack from the passenger’s seat and followed her up to the front door. He waited awkwardly, answered his son’s questions, ran through his lines about weather and yard work, and then insisted he get ahead of the traffic. “Bye, Faye,” he said softly as she disappeared into the house. That night, after he ate his takeout and added his plate to the empty dishwasher, he ventured to the cluttered, moldy basement and retrieved a dusty screen to restore in the open window above the sink. With that, he locked the front door and settled in his quilted armchair to rest.

Shealeigh Crombie

eternal nocturne ~

JORDAN LIU The clock reads 1:37am. The moon is mostly covered by the clouds, but a sliver of moonlight manages to leak into the boy’s bedroom through the half drawn blinds. The silver light tries to catch the boy’s attention, but his eyes stare distantly at the white ceiling above his head. Awake. The gray blankets no longer cover his body; they have been pushed to the side of his bed. A school book is idle at his side, its worn pages face down on the covers. He has headphones on, but it has been long since he gave attention to the music. The track changes and a playful melody can be faintly heard. The boy’s face does not change as soft female vocals trickle into his ears. The bags under his eyes are becoming too heavy to carry. As he closes his eyes, a new landscape appears. A rising sun behind an avenue of cherry blossoms beckons him in. The delicate branches sway gently in the wind as their rosy petals slowly dance towards the earth. The smell of fresh dirt politely fills the air. The cicadas chirp, their wings rubbing against each other hundreds of times a second. Time. The boy’s eyelids twitch and his right hand forms a fist around his bed sheets as he desperately tries to keep this reality alive. His vision goes blurry, he groans, and he sees stars. When it all becomes too hard to bear, his eyes open and he is staring again at the white ceiling above his head. The voice is still whispering in his ear. The boy takes off his headphones. He places them on his nightstand and makes his way to the edge of the bed. His feet can touch the ground, but he lets his legs dangle over the cold hard wooden floor. The boy looks across the room but all he can see is a void of darkness, as the moon longer escapes the clouds. He extends his hand in front of him, reaching into the emptiness, to anyone. The boy brings his hand back from the darkness and looks at his palm. Nothing. He rolls back over. His lips move, but no sound comes out. A head hits the pillow and eyes return to the now shadowy ceiling. The clock reads 1:38am.

Deer in the Headlights ~

CHARLIE BENSON As Curtis looked out the window of his last class, into the wind and cold, he noticed the light flakes of white that were beginning to coat the grass and empty tree branches. It was one of those days where the world seemed to have a somber filter, making everything darker. The voice of Mr. Novak began to slowly disappear as all Curtis could think about was the senior party that he and James were going to. That night, although Curtis felt bad about making James drive, he had agreed that he would be the DD. As they made their way to James’ new sleek gray Audi SQ5, gusts of the winter air filled the boys’ bodies with goosebumps. In the car, the radio was strictly playing rap. Curtis and James were both “21 Savage” enthusiasts and were absolutely bumping “Ghostface Killers.” At red lights, the lyrics screaming out of James’ car turned many displeased heads. When the boys were making the final turn, James decided to give the SQ5 some power and gunned it down the street. With the night swallowing the headlights of his car, it became difficult to see. It wasn’t until the boys were 100 feet away that they saw a mother deer and four younglings. James’ reaction time was not quick enough and he clipped the hind legs of the fawn. Curtis wanted to stop to do what he could to help the deer, but all James was concerned about was getting to the party. “I’ll make sure the car is fine when we get there,” James said cold heartedly. They were off to the party. James parked away from the house so nobody knew he had driven. “Try not to drink too much, Dog. I’m not down with you driving drunk,” Curtis said. “Bro, I’m a good drunk driver. Stop worrying about it,” James replied. The boys went in and Curtis immediately hopped on the pong table. It wasn’t until he won six games that he realized how much time had passed. He had been so involved in the game that he had disregarded James. As he made his way through the drunken teenage crowd screaming the lyrics of “Stacy’s Mom,” he found James with a red Solo cup talking to 2 girls. “What’s in the cup James?” Curtis asked. “You know man, just vodka and cranberry juice. Don’t worry I’m keeping it light,” James said. Throughout the night Curtis continued to play pong. The beers were getting easier and easier to put down. The dancing and drinking clouded all judgments that he previously had. He knew that James had been drinking a never ending cup, and continuously took shots with the girls. Curtis actually ended up joining in on one of the group shots with James. He watched James fill his cup with Smirnoff Vodka, raspberry flavor, and sling it back. 22

At this point it was 11:15 p.m. and the boys needed to get home. The only problem was that James was intoxicated and so was Curtis. No matter what, somebody would be driving drunk. James got into the driver’s seat and turned on the car. No music was played. No words were spoken. The silence made it clear that both of them were scared about what was about to happen. As they made their way home, they passed no cars making James confident and relax a bit. “This shit is light work Bro,” James said as he gave the SQ5 some gas. The boys were two minutes away from the turn onto James’ road. They were passing a part in the road with no street lights and James did not have his brights on. As he tried to turn them on, he veered a bit off the road. Curtis screamed. The car hit something. The boys heard it roll over the front of the car. The windshield was left shattered. They both quickly turned their heads to see a body lying in the snow. There was blood. The body was motionless. Before Curtis could say anything, James floored it, leaving Curtis speechless. They went back to the house and James told Curtis to look the other way and pretend like nothing had happened. It only took 5 minutes before the screaming sirens could be made out in the distance in James’ basement. Before they knew it there was hammering on the door and a scream from James’ mom. As James made the most terrifying walk of his life, he still seemed to do it with confidence.

Ryan Boyle

Beach Bums ~

ALLISON TELESZ The last time I saw you, you were in the passenger seat of my car. Your legs outstretched, your feet doing figure eights on the windshield. You were wearing your favorite jeans cuffed at the bottom because you weren’t ‘like other girls,’ but you totally were. The light wash complimented the 80s aesthetic of your mom’s college sweatshirt. The color fading and the stitching of the letters unraveling. You prided yourself on the fact that the letters outlined just a name. Not your future. That day you stared intently into the Sound. It was low tide and the waves were delicate and gray and glasslike. Your favorite. You sipped your iced coffee loudly and chewed your straw almost shut. Three new empty Splenda packets littered the floor with the others that I had asked you to throw away. You never did and never would. I sat on my phone taking the BuzzFeed quiz that you sent me earlier that day while you nodded your head to the beat of the music playing on the aux. As I waited for the results of the ‘We’ll tell you where you should live based on your choices of food,’ you turned the music not just to a soft hum, like when you wanted to rant about a boy or a girl or your parents, but all the way off. “Taylor, I need to tell you something.” A long pause. “You can’t tell anyone else, not yet at least.” You were sitting up straight staring right at me. I looked at your stomach. You noticed the direction of my glare. “Haha, you’re funny.” You rolled your eyes. “Okay then, what is it?” I asked. “I’m leaving.” You blurted out. “I’m moving across the country in like a couple of days.” “You’re literally kidding. Why? And why now?” “I dunno. It just seems like the right time.” “Um...no it doesn’t. We only have a month left until graduation. Can’t you wait?” “No. I can’t.” “And you’ve thought this all through.” “Yes. I’ve considered it for a while now actually.” Silence blanketed my car and all I kept thinking was how this was straight out of a John Green book. The ones about the quirky teenage boys full of teenage angst that you couldn’t help but fall in love with. There was a reason for all of this but I knew not to pry because you wouldn’t tell me anyway. You weren’t ready. “Please come with me.” You pleaded. “We can share an apartment by the beach and just be beach bums.” You always had these wild ideas, except you actually planned them out and made them happen. “We already are beach bums. Here.” I pointed out. 25

“But we can be beach bums in California. It’ll be better,” you argued. I won’t deny I contemplated it. I thought of this lifeless town and its empty gray beach. I thought of how you were the only burst of color around. I thought of rows of palm trees decorated with lights and the vibrant people we would meet and befriend together. “Sophia, I can’t. You know I can’t.” We spent the next hour arguing. The sleeves of your sweatshirt were wet with tears and you refused to tell me what was really going on or let me drop you off at home. You called an Uber. I picked up my phone from the cup holder next to your watery, half-empty coffee. I unlocked it to see the BuzzFeed tab still open on my phone. My quiz results had finally loaded. Lighting up my screen was a picture of palm trees and the Santa Monica Pier and big letters that read “California.”

Sisters

After Regina Spektor

JESSE BOOLBOL Hey remember that time when you didn’t speak to me for two whole weeks? Your ability to hold a grudge was unparalleled, especially since we lived in the same house. I couldn’t even remember why you were so angry, just that every time you saw me coming near you, you would turn your back on me. You gave me the cold shoulder. Remember when we were playing hide and seek and we accidentally slipped and broke mom’s favorite crystal vase? It was her most valued family heirloom so the amount of screaming we heard that day was ear piercing. No one else would speak to us after that and although we were upset, it didn’t really matter. We didn’t worry about not having anyone else because we were content with just having each other. I miss that. Remember that time I got mad that you stole my favorite red sweater? You were convinced it was yours until you remembered the day that mom had bought it for me. I could tell you were embarrassed, but for some reason I couldn’t let it go. I’m sorry. And that time when we went to visit that orchard; nothing but us and those sweet, crisp apples in that cool fall breeze. We rode the hayride even though we hated sitting on those spiky hay bales. Remember how we barely even noticed because we were too busy laughing at the fact that it had started raining. I remember that laugh. Remember that time when we both pretended that the other didn’t exist? Any time either of us would speak, we would act as if a fly had suddenly invaded our personal space just to begin buzzing around our heads. We would swat the air around us to make the other feel as insignificant as a bug. Oh the time that we wasted. Remember that time we spent the entire day, and I mean the entire day watching those old Disney movies, which we both agree are so much better than the new ones? We made popcorn and brownies and watched until mom said we absolutely could not watch anymore. We turned it off to please her and then continued to watch on the computer. That was the best day. I know you don’t remember that time, but I remember when you hadn’t talked to me for what seemed like forever. You came home one day, wiping the tears from your eyes as you raced up the stairs and slammed the door to your room. It felt like I didn’t have anybody, no one to talk to, no one that I could tell about how awful I felt at school that day. I imagined that you felt just as I did. I remember that I sat outside your locked door for three hours, just hoping you would change your mind and come out to see me. I missed you so much. I thought maybe, just maybe you could tell that I was outside. That you may have felt just a little comforted by my presence. I know I was comforted by yours. Why did you run away? Where did you go? Talk to me.

Katherine Gabriele

Far Too Close ~

JORDAN LIU You and I sat on that asphalt roof, on top of the world, our shoulders touching, my heart racing. Fireworks streaked through the night, blazing the cloudless sky with fiery sparks as droplets of light shimmered against the rippling water. Kids’ voices from down on the docks echoed across the lake along with the boom of the fireworks. From our perch, the yachts docked on the water looked like toys. I imagined my family was somewhere down there and yours probably was too. I saw you move in the corner of my eye and looked down to see your hand enveloping mine. Lacing my fingers around yours, I began to feel my cheeks turning red. Praying that you didn’t notice the sudden rise in temperature and couldn’t hear the pounding against my chest, I mustered up the courage to turn and face you. Waves of dirty blonde hair fell evenly past your left shoulder, softly reflecting the shimmering moonlight. You were wearing that navy Patagonia sweater that everyone in school says is too “white girl” for your olive skin, but you don’t mind. Your eyes were glistening hazelnut orbs; the starlight’s shine was dull in comparison. As more fireworks painted the sky, the coffee freckles on your cheeks and nose became visible. Your tongue darted between the two thin pink ovals of your lips and the butterflies in my stomach started fluttering even faster than before. You leaned your head against my shoulder and must have realized how tense I was because you let out a little laugh and my cheeks only grew hotter. I was terrified. I didn’t want to ruin this moment. Was my hand sweating? Did my breath smell from the Shack burger I ate an hour ago? Did I put too much of my dad’s cologne on? My insecurities started securing themselves as I remembered the Friday night in freshman year when you told me that the “cute guy” in your biology class had finally asked you out. It took all my strength to place a smile on my face and tell you that I was happy for you; you didn’t seem to notice the pain in my eyes. I can still hear the excitement in your voice. It still stings. The grip on my hand loosened and I felt your fingers dancing across the center of my palm. The weight on my shoulder gradually left and I turned to face you again. This time my eyes found yours. With an arm extended, your fingers brushed across my cheek, eventually finding their way to the back of my neck. Your closed eyes and parted lips said help me; I couldn’t help but look away. The residue of the final firework stained the desolate sky, its vibrant colors slowly fading into the night.

A Rare Intelligence After Gina Berriault

MARGOT GOLDSMITH We sat in the lazyboy chairs with our feet kicked up on the brown leather. Our bodies sunk deeper into the cushioning of the chair as we continued to eat our medium sized popcorn drizzled with butter and candy so sugary it gave us both a head rush. The thousands of various colored pixels reflected in our concentrated eyes, enthralled in the storyline presented to us. We were alone in our thoughts with a movie theater packed with people. Neither of us felt guilty about wasting a perfectly sunny day on movies as it was our favorite Sunday activity. This specific time you chose Ralph Breaks the Internet; you had in one hand Vanellope von Schweetz and in the other Ralph himself. As the movie ended I could see your excitement through the slight tremor in your hands and the stutter of your words. Dad had slicked back your hair with large chunk of hair gel to make you look presentable. I loved when he did this because I could see your whole face as the millions of emotions washed over it. Whenever your favorite characters appeared on the screen in front of us, your eyes would spontaneously open larger than I thought was possible and your smile would stretch to sides’ of your cheeks, lifting up your complexion. Your t-shirt was too large causing it to drape down to your knees with the words “wild west” bolded on top from our times in Idaho. I could see how much you enjoyed the cherry flavored slushie we had purchased before the movie as red stained your lips and parts of your shirt. You were always the happiest when we watched movies together. It was as if your imagination allowed you to immerse yourself into the characters’ worlds. Others said you had an unhealthy obsession over movies, but I just thought of it as your electrifying creativity. You had a new found devotion for Moana. You continued to grapple your life-sized Pua stuffed animal through the hot days that started to get more humid and the sun stronger. The hot weather meant our daily morning movie screenings and trips to the beaches. On one of those many mornings, you stumbled into my room. I knew you had a mission to wake me up. Every morning this happened, and at first I would pretend not to hear your uneven breathing and the slight taps on my back. Eventually you dragged my zombie-like body out of my bed and forced me into the day. You wore cotton pajamas plastered with the faces of Moana characters. Your energy at 7:00 am each morning seemed remarkably impossible to me. We crept downstairs as you whispered about the movie, both of us hoping not to wake the parents up. I made us each a piece of the Portuguese toast draped in butter that you loved while you sat on the couch humming into Pua’s ear. Once mom and dad woke up they turned off the television which always resulted in your tears. The way you cried always made me feel so guilty. The huge smile that I loved so much had been replaced by depressed longing. Your eyes focused on the ground while my parents lectured me on “normal” behavior. Their anger only grew as I could never look them in the eyes during these arguments because the tears that now stained your shirt were all I could concentrate on.

That night our parents had arranged for a dinner with friends and families at a fancy restaurant that you and I always hated. I argued our case not to go but knew that I would lose because of the fight that past morning. I always helped you get dressed. After talking sometime about why it was not the best idea for you to bring Pua to dinner, I finally convinced you to take a shower to wash away the sunscreen and sand that coated your body. Your eyes stared into some distant vastness and your mouth formed a defined straight line as I dried your body off with a towel. You never had to tell me you were in pain because I could always see it. It was routine to both us by that point: pants first, then belt buckle, then button down shirt that you always struggled with. I had to do your hair gel that afternoon as mom and dad had to leave for cocktails. I combed your brown hair back which I noticed now had streaks of blonde in it from sun exposure. It made you look tan even if your skin was strikingly pale. After that I went upstairs to get ready to give you that sense of independency I knew you deserved, but never received. At the time I left you, you were fine; still going over the release dates of the next Disney Pixar movies. You never fail to forget a date. I could hear you, as I walked up the stairs, screaming with excitement. Twenty minutes later I came back to you. You were confused about many things in that moment, including the wet puddle that stained your dress pants and the tears that forced themselves down your cheek. The pain that I knew you kept hidden had shown itself through the tension in your face. You always would scrunch your eyes in order to stop the tears while you placed your hands over your mouth in denial. I knew mom and dad would look at you with pity as they always did if they knew, so I told you this was our secret and quickly put on your extra pair which were a darker shade of tan. You kept repeating “I’m sorry” as if it was your fault, but it never was. That was the only moment I saw you break who you were. Once we arrived at the restaurant and sat in the booth that allowed for us to be close, our secret did not seem to matter to you at all. No sense of embarrassment or guilt washed over you. Our family friends could never quite understand you so they always stuck to asking questions about movies or your rare talent with dates. Instead of numbers, you always saw dates on the calendar. Your calendar revolved around the release dates of your favorite movies. I could ask what day of the week my birthday was in four years and you could tell me without hesitation acting as if you completed the most simple of tasks. Eventually I would have to force people to stop because I could see the exhaustion in your eyes and they would always throw me stern looks, but I never cared. That night I realized how strong you really were. People have always stared, but you have never seen it. Before that night, I thought it was ignorance, but you proved me wrong. I saw your expression when I completed our routine for the second time, and it certainly was not filled with self-respect. However, I noticed how strange that expression felt to me. During dinner, as I saw you exchange laughs and smiles with everyone, I realized that the expression seemed so foreign to me because I had never seen it before, and nor would I ever again. What so many struggle with, you didn’t. You knew who you were and never thought of it as a flaw. You grew into a person who understood your type of rare intelligence. The problem has never been with you but with society. In a world with a set definition of intelligence society defined you as an outcast, but you never thought this, which was all that mattered. 31

Madison Gordon

Lost Boy ~

CAYLA BERNSTEIN Pots, pans, ceramics. Salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of pigs. The smell of cinnamon as you walk through the door, a sign greeting you: “Welcome to Ann Marie’s Craftshop” and “Everyone smiles in the same language.” Empty frames hang throughout the shop: only one in the back holds a picture of a family. Ann places a candle, unlit, against the window, and wraps a headband in her French-braided sandy hair. A bell rings -- a boy comes in. He’s 7 years old, at most, on his own. Lost his parents searching for a toilet. Ann comes around the counter, smiles, squats down. The boy’s lips are blue. He’s shivering. His name is Samuel. She reaches out to him, brushes away the dark curls to see his eyes, hazel, browning as they circle inward. She’s seen eyes like these before, the flakes of green. Her hand trembles. “It’s okay… it’s okay,” she whispers. “Let’s go find them.” Over the field and harbor, it has begun to rain. Samuel reaches up, holds Ann’s hand. She shakes at his touch. His rain boots splash in the water. The rain hums. They sing along.

“Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep And doesn’t know where to find them...”

Six years ago. The grass tickled her feet under the shade of a hedge, where it felt cool on her calves. Her son’s head warm on her chest. His brown eyes peaked into hers, smiling, sparkling golden-green. He had her husband’s eyes, her perky nose, her one dimple on his left cheek. They traced the shapes of the clouds, fingers tingling in the air. They sang then, before the fire, before his little fingers slipped away. Before she was left alone. They sang.

“But when she awoke And pulled back her cloak She saw that her sheep had come home.”

“Mammy! Da!” Samuel draws Ann from her daze. She holds his hand tighter. He lets go, runs to the parents: the mother, whose smile sparkles through the rain, and the father, who takes off his glasses to hold his boy. After a few exchanges, Samuel runs back into Ann’s arms. She feels his tiny fingers on her neck. She kisses his forehead, warm against her lips, and clings to his little body. 33

Ann looks around: she’s back in her shop. She drops her coat, leaves it on the floor. She drifts by the clay and pottery, between the shelves, past the counter. With each step, something itches at her skin, tugs at her neck. The air feels thin. To her left, a framed picture: she sees herself -- a child -- lips tinted blue from… cotton candy? Ice cream? It pulls her closer. She’s in her father’s arms, beside her mother, whose beachy hair flows over her shoulders. She had that new-mother glow, that giddy, toothy grin. Like the one the mother wore today, out in the misty field. Her boy, his eyes, soft hands, warm fingers…. Then the faces blur. They’re crying, swirling, melting. She reaches out to them, but her arms are so… heavy. Something rings in her ears. She watches her father dissolve, her mother fade, until only she remains, a blue-lipped girl, floating without arms to hold her, crying, trembling, she falls to her knees, swims in the paint. Red and yellow, it’s all red and yellow. It comes over her body, the shelves, the walls, until she can see nothing else, feel nothing else but the heat against her skin. It burns, and she holds onto it, swimming, swimming in the flame, disappearing into the glow.

Water Lilies After Stuart Dybek

ALLISON TELESZ The girl sitting on the edge of the dock has a pile of freshly picked water lilies in her lap. “Can I have another one?” A girl her age is sitting next to her, skimming the surface of the lake with her toes, disturbing its stillness. Her hair is short and wild with tangled blonde curls that bounce, her cheeks are overrun with freckles, and her green eyes are the same color as the trees reflected on the water. The girl on the dock has soft brown hair and steady brown eyes. She examines the pearlescent blossoms in front of her and gently places a singular flower into the palm of her friend’s outreached hand. She then readjusts her focus, continuing to clean each pale pink petal with her thumb, brushing any speck of dirt out of sight. The girl then twirls a stem between her fingertips letting any remaining droplets of water dance off the flower and onto her legs. The water evaporates under the hot July sun. She inhales the water lily’s sweet summer scent, careful not to ruin its perfect shape. She feels far away and pays no attention to her friend who is tearing the petals of her flower into confetti, throwing the shreds into the water below them, and watching their descent. “It’s so hot today. Do you want to jump in?” her friend asks. “I’m okay,” the girl responds, neglecting to make eye contact as she is captivated with the beauty and the task in front of her. The sound of the plunge into the lake reverberates through the branches of the trees, sending families of birds into flight. The brown-eyed girl is startled by her jean shorts now drenched in water; her pile of her once clean and dry flowers now disjointed and sinking to the bottom of the murky lake. “Oh. Sorry,” the girl in the water says in between spins and somersaults. The girl on the dock removes strands of brown hair from her face and smiles like she is unbothered. She’ll probably always be quiet, hiding behind a forced lop-sided grin, and finding comfort in the worn pages of her journal. Her voice will be concealed within stories of faded pencil marks and coffee rings, in which summers on the lake are all but just a memory.

Ryan Boyle

Peaceful

After Joyce Carol Oates

FLYNN MURTAUGH One misty November dawn in Stems flower shop on Knickerbocker street when the lamps were not yet turned on so the thin transparent light was the only glare seeping past the windows, I was a simple college girl sifting through damp bundles of bouquets in a concrete greenhouse. The work was never that complicated. But sifting through thoughts of errands and “must dos” is made irksome with extra hours of solitary thinking. The heavy day began as I walked back and forth from the display window, grabbing the old ones before placing newer flowers in vases and heading back to the wooden chopping block on the counter. The humidity from that night’s rain had made downtown Brooklyn a cloud of dense fog. I could barely see out of the front windows. The farthest my vision reached was the powdery ceramic pots placed next to the door, which had a sign reading “open,” even though we weren’t. Beside the pots was an endless row of flowers. Pansies, irises, hyacinthia, crocus, tulips, poppies, and countless others made an endless array of colors across the shop. A vivid display in the front did not account for what was beyond the counter. A musty wooden wardrobe stretching to fit the length of the concrete wall made its presence known with its thrifted smell. The oaky dresser, as tall as it was long, had drawers that always interested me. Maybe three hundred. Three hundred musty drawers that could fit everything from a small pea to a large botanical book. Instead it held shovels, soil, a few overgrown succulents, and other gardening supplies and miscellaneous plants that never made it to the display. I was half-heartedly cutting lily stems when a figure moved from beyond the fog. The clump of darkness approached the door and gently pried it open. Stepping inside, a more visible bundle of gray wool welcomed itself into the shop. Timidly unfolding his collar a man made of bed head and a cotton-striped shirt was revealed from under the shadowy disguise. His chocolaty tendrils were long enough to tickle his nape, while also obscuring his vision. His face was rounder, with full cheeks peppered with freckles. He seemed young. Not like a young teenager, or even an older one. More like the type of young that a 24 year old would be. The type who’s parents still tell him he is too young for the world. Lost. Lost was the only possible excuse for wandering into a flower store at dawn in fog and mild drizzle. I had been letting my thoughts bounce from Kurt Vonnegut’s “Welcome to the Monkey House” collection, which I was halfway through, to my shlep to Manhattan for my classes later that day when the sudden appearance of the man reeled me back into reality in an unpleasant way. I was annoyed that my hazy morning had been interrupted by the need to approach and speak to a strange person for whom I didn’t care. I didn’t have enough energy to appear bothered. Instead I held a rather blank 37

face, only looking down at the stems I was cutting. He proceeded to walk towards the left display window, squeaking his black rain boots across the floor. He glanced at each of the flowers as if he was interviewing them. He seemed intent on looking rather than picking. Gliding his body past each of the bouquets on the left, he rearranged himself and headed towards the right wall display. His movements were slow and professional as if this type of looking was his job. Maybe art. Maybe people. Maybe nothing. Coming to a gentle halt at the magnolia, he gingerly plucked a stem from the water bucket. Without a word he turned and started walking towards the other display again. This time he stopped at the primrose. Gathering two stems of the flowers, he moved swiftly to the lily of the valley. Lilies being a smaller flower he took a larger handful of stems and gathered them in the same hand as the magnolia and primrose. A bouquet of flowers started to form. A small but delicate bouquet. I was now watching him intently, guessing at where he might navigate next in the shop. He crossed the shop again, walking all the way to the right hand wall where spools of ribbon stood. Quickly plucking the silver spool from the pack and bringing it over to the counter where I was standing. Placing them both down on the wooden surface he said “good morning.” It was a half whisper half sleepy sort of sound that seemed to fall from his lips without any effort. “Morning,” I half-heartedly said back. I decided against telling him the shop was closed and that I forgot to flip the sign on the door to say so. I slowly took the spool of ribbon and wrapped up the flowers with some transparent wax paper before placing them near the register. “An all white bouquet,” I pointed out. An interesting choice considering most flowers are admired for their color. “It’s peaceful I think,” he replied. Nodding, I agreed in silence. His total was fifteen dollars for which he paid in exact change. Taking the bouquet in his right hand he thanked me and made his way across the room before opening the door and walking into the fog. Walking until the gray coat became a small dot in the murky light. Until it vanished completely. He was a stranger and yet I knew after he left what he would do. He would walk home to his small studio apartment and place his peaceful bouquet in a glass on his table and begin to get ready for the day and the reality of the world after the fog cleared up. I went over to the store front and gathered in my hands bushels of baby’s breath, spider mums, snapdragon, and jasmine. Returning to my spot behind the wooden desk I found a white cup, filled it up with water and put my flowers inside. I placed the cup in an open drawer about halfway up the armoire. The white flowers in stunning contrast to the dark wood. “Peaceful,” I said. And it was. Before the world came knocking later that day, only for a moment, it was peaceful. One misty November dawn in Stems flower shop on Knickerbocker Street when the lamps were not yet turned on so the thin transparent light was the only glare seeping past the windows, I was a simple college girl sifting through damp bundles of bouquets in a concrete greenhouse.

Different Ways to Feel ~

ALLIE FARBER There is a method of knowing, looking through blue orbs, eyelids heavy, body sinking. Trying to see and all that is there is dark and more dark. The commotion, creating a reaction so strong it vibrates through your body. Shaking your core. Manipulating it into twists of tight knots, so many tied, it becomes overwhelming to try and differentiate between them. A physical manifestation. Pain from one, pain from many. There is a method of internalizing, a swirl of thoughts jagged sword of failure threatening to pierce your skin anxietyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hum incessant insecurity plaguing quiet moments a cloud, dense, dark. A hurricane begins. This natural chaos creates a pulsing in the brain everything inside, never slipping through the cracks, compressed within itself.

But, there is yet another method of understanding, living between the barriers of outer and inner life. The center of a tightrope stretched between two extremities. An equilibrium, where rain falls but not for drowning. Response not rooted in vibration, but recognition. Sense of self. The dark tries to swallow you and toss you. Drown you. But, in this state it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ever succeed. Still this existence is far from permanent. Temptation haunts the once clear mind, as your cautious balance on this tightrope weakens. Sometimes, feeling is too much. Slowly, your legs start to shake, the scene below blurs, the winds begin to pick up and the hurricane returns.

Epitome of January ~

NANCY DUER Love is frozen over; A lively stream quiet as rigor mortis. The puzzle pieces that fit Have been lost in the couch cushions With feathersAnd secrets. Under-baked or burnt: “I’ll leave you to your pancakes” Stare into the sobbing windows Full of night, Standing for dinner at the empty kitchen counter. JanuaryLeaves you eating your pan-Cakes alone.

I am from ~

SHANELLE HENRY I am from Brooklyn, pre-gentrified From the concrete jungle and the Iron Horse From Prospect Park, which was “central” for me I am from skellie, hopscotch and double-dutch on the sidewalk From swimming in the spray of an open fire hydrant in the summer I am from “you betta be in this house before the street lights come on” I am from telephone booths on the street and house phones on the wall From telephone numbers that had letters in them I am from Atari, Duck Hunt, Donkey Kong and PacMan I am from Saturday Morning Cartoons, Soul Train and Bruce Lee flicks I am from acid wash jeans and Cabbage Patch Kids From Buster Browns and Bamboo earrings...at least two pair I’m from jerk chicken, rice and peas, plantain and curry goat. I’m from grits and biscuits, sweet potato pie, red kool-aid and fried chicken and waffles I am from Jamaica – ‘Out of Many, One People’ and from the Dominican Republic – 2 of the Caribbean’s largest islands I’m from Geechie and Gullah From Carolinas North and South I am from Rodney King and OJ Simpson From Michael Sandy and Tawaana Brawley From Trayvon Martin and Tamir Rice From Rekia Boyd and Sandra Bland (may they all rest in peace) I’m from Smith College From the first time I ever felt different -- like I didn’t fit in From discovering what it feels like to be told to “go back where you came from” I’m from a history of pain and perseverance From resignation to resistance From Malcolm and Martin From imagining that authentic equity, inclusion and justice for all is possible

I set my pen down on the page ~

KAITLIN REED I set my pen down on the page my fingers down to type And how my mind seems dull with age my thoughts no longer ripe. But suddenly a spark of hope within my mind so gleams I use my striking words to cope And out pour all my dreams. Within a book or folder lie these restless blossoms, so I keep them hidden from the eye and back I dare not go.

Griffin Penna

To the Dane, Hamlet ~

WILLIAM LOPEZ-WORTMAN O this too too sweet prince, May finally rest having removed his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s burden, Anchoring his ship after steering through a sea of troubles. How Elsinoire restrained you to hold thy tongue, Imprisoning your emotions in a cramped chest. No entrance, only a window to a selected few, No freedom to state your judgement, No countenance, no love, No love. No room for fond records of Ophelia, For she could not fathom your feelings. Yes, loneliness became your new and only soul-mate, You two shared your unique hatred to the swindling, fallacious royalty, Who maliciously poured poison in the ear of Denmark, Which drove you and your clean ears to your new lover. But she whispered deathly ideas, Which led you here, in the arms of an Englishman, Who has shouted your tragedy onto many immortal pages. The rest is silence.

Car Ride Home ~

JAKE FARBER Why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you just buy clothes for each house? my mom asked, turning the corner of Gregory and Marvin, rain tapping on the glossed roof as we made our way to my dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house, me in the passenger seat, thinking about the backpacks piled in the trunk, tossed in, clothes at the bottom crushed by the bags on top, which are ready to spill when I open the trunk door at my other life, only twenty minutes away, but infinitely different. Glancing at the raindrops slowly sliding down the side window I answered, I like to keep some things the same.

Sunset Road ~

KEVIN KURYLA I arrive at the circle Flurries of snow begin to make their imprint on the dead grass The shredded American flag flying in the center of the stretch of turf waves halfheartedly in the swirls of wind and brings me back to when the banner was new Friendly voices are lost to the summer night air Trampoline springs creak and groan, carrying me closer to the stars Through the blackness, I discern the familiar shape of my friend who calls, Kevin, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re going to be late Cutting through backyards, we make our way to the circle with the flagpole Street cats morph into the dark We are not worrying about being rebuked as we were during countless manhunt games when we were told to stop but couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t in fear that the rush would end But on this night, everyone converges at the circle

Fire blazes Adults play ping pong with their cups arranged on the table like bowling pins Their laughter mixes with the popping embers of the fire I sit beside The golden shell beginning to form on my marshmallow over the fire shields me from all the woes and worries of the world Time and its seasons refuse to cease I think about this now, as I look up at the very same flagpole I squint to see the flag which is almost hidden by the snowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s graceful dance as it falls to the earth It is slowly and silently tucking her into a white blanket as she prepares to sleep My breath comes out in clouds of vapor Smoke whispers from a nearby chimney I smile at my feet and walk away

To My Dream ~

KAVYA KRISHNAMURTHY Most people Would cup their hands And scoop the sand Examining for a piece of shell Some broken coral To tuck into their pockets Only to be tossed into a hamper With dirty socks And chocolate stained pajamas But I The youngest sister Always the smallest in my class Sometimes the smartest Had other methods To find what was mine. Yes, I’d cup, scoop, examine But I’d flick out all big pieces The corals and the shells Then hold my hand below the water Let it cloud the clarity With sand billowing away from me Like old dreams at dusk I’d do this Until one grain remained. Until you remained Clutching to a shallow crack In the palm I sometimes hold over my heart When it feels heavy.

Harriet Wells

From Out My Frosty Windowpane ~

SUE WILCHINSKY From out my frosty windowpane My thoughts stroll down the snowy lane Where upon icicles hang on tilted weary trees and all my problems seem at last to ease And as the night folds itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wintry cloak My dying fire turns to smoke

Mockernut Hickory ~

OWEN MINSON Four sturdy roots come together, Like the legs of a starfish, As they meet to form the sturdy trunk Of the ancient Mockernut Hickory. The trunk then pushes up with unstoppable force; The road next to it curves around its solid form, Solid concrete bent and cracked Icy wood unwilling to budge. It climbs up towards gray skies, Its bark like choppy ocean waves on a stormy day The brittle cracks, green moss calls homeClimbing up its entire height. Past the firm trunk, The tree splits like a pitchfork, into two branches as they spread apart; they hold little twigs, That on a summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s day would uphold the green canopy covering the skyYet today, they are closer to starved veins drained of life, twisting and spreading below the clouds, empty of color.

Ophelia (after IV.5) ~

ZACH ROTHWELL [weeps.] To the grave did go… [weeps.] At his heels a stone… [weeps.] He never will come again… [weeps.] But why do I weep for him? He was my father, though only by blood and law, for I am told fathers are supposed to love their all children, and yet, even while my brother romped with French whores, he treated me like a servant, with nothing but control and contempt and rage and for what? where has my dutiful servitude brought me? To ruin! [weeps.] No, I do not weep for my father-master, just for the protection he offered, weak as it was, he at least staved off the calumny Hamlet promised me.

Oh Hamlet, my false steward, my Saint Valentine. He is why Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m here, Alone. Dejected. Rejected. Or, he and my father, for men so often meddle in things they know not of, things that would have endedâ&#x20AC;Ś better than this. And now their guiltless Hamlet gives unwedded me my dowry. [weeps] Oh Hamlet, you are not the only one with slings and arrows, with pangs and fardels, but yours possess no shape, no edge, no weight. You were given the world on a golden platter and found it unprofitable; mine is unprofitable, mine are sharp and heavier than any man can lift; they are not some consequence of madness but of a world I cannot overcome. A world that exists beyond my conscience. And so, to a nunnery I must go but mine shall be a river pure as snow.

Winter Solstice, 2001 ~

ANDREW JONES with gratitude to Naomi Shihab Nye you are not afraid of the winter— the thin, watery sunlight and breezes that bare our bones you are not afraid to turn towards night to sound the bottom for an hour— or more— I am not afraid to ask— will you wait with me now— inside for a time our old thoughts drifting once again back beyond the garden beyond the stars

Caroline McCall

The Bed on 92nd Street ~

FLYNN MURTAUGH There is a bed on 92nd street, Where the sheets rest in a bunch near an open window, Where the world lies just out of reach, Where the breeze slips through, Where the sunlight dances in, Even through the shades. There is a bed on 92nd street, Leaning again a sugar white wall, The old bricks seeping through the paint, And maps photograph the world. And yet there is no need to leave. There is a bed on 92nd street, It is where you slept and read, where we talked on the phone for hours passed. It is where spring swept into your skin And light poured into your toffee eyes. It is where I fell in love with you. Again and again. Over and over.

Page ~

ELIZABETH JONES At first glance, it is a sheet of paper, stained with ink. How can something so ordinary be a beautiful story? The black markings turn into words of meaning as their conversation unfolds. Sound dances across the pages under the playerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gaze. Look closely: can you feel its heartbeat?

To My Mother Countries... ~

NATILIE MIKHAEEL “9 dead after gunmen open fire at Coptic church near Cairo” “12 children killed in ‘bloodiest of days’ in northwest Syria” It’s been a while, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I only see you when my TV gossips. I’m sorry every time a new headline arises: It could be them. I’m sorry that I had to wait until 7:15 last night to be blessed with my baby cousin’s naive giggles, because that’s when the power decided to turn back on in Syria. I’m sorry for the dried tears and eulogies of my Coptic brothers and sisters who couldn’t even find solace in prayer. I dread Christmas and Easter more each year. For every life lost, God sheds another tear. I’m sorry that it’s been raining a lot lately. I’m sorry I wear your flags with a little less pride every day. It’s not my fault, I’m sorry. 62

Velcro ~

SAMANTHA FREEMAN They watch water drip Rolling from leaf to leaf The last drip from the storm Hands laced legs intertwined among a million blades of grass She pulls her leg away staring into the puddle, The drop has vanished. Lost below and creates a ripple The silence is too harsh So he rips his hand away as if it is Velcro.

Dear Anonymous ~

ANYA BETTEGOWDA Dear Anonymous, I love you so much that I notice things I notice and I wonder And I marvel as you change As quickly as the lavender fades on your tongues Thoughts flow through your head And as your voice softens and your opinions quiet down I wonder are they contained in your head Does your brilliance no longer float through the air for everyone to see Are you sad Or have you merely evolved faster than the rest of us Leaving clouds in your wake as you move away Is your smile still as bright and present as the sunrise Or has it mellowed, now peaceful and pleasing like a rainy day I wish I could understand you but your existence confounds me I wonder if anyone can Because you are special and you are bright You spend so much time listening to others Does anyone listen to you The way you need I wish I could peer into the inside of your mind Because I have never met someone like you Someone so alike to me but so different Someone who can drive men mad Someone who believes in science but reaches for the stars Someone whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s writing is as beautiful as her I cannot give you much Not understanding Nor perfection But know that I love you From the bottom of my heart 64

Harriet Wells

Stuck With Everywhere to Go ~

SANSKRITI KUMAR do you feel trapped that feeling of suffocation creeping up your spine? is it when you try to form a response and then that girl to your left that can never seem to understand the silences that fill the gaps in between words intrudes upon your words stealing them, sealing your mouth shut with the sickeningly beautiful way she delivers your syllables, shoving those unsaid sounds back into your mouth leaving you to swallow them whole forgetting their existence as they loiter and you try to catch up in the conversation that slips out of your grasp like a child trying to pick up a slab of butter which slides out of their hands no matter how sticky they are is it when you are stuck on that dirty red and beige colored train that could never reach its majestic potential like a dull peacock that lost its brilliant plumage? stuck on those sets of rails that you travel on every day filled with the monotony that comes with the intense rocking motion of the uneven tracks and the passengers inside creeping up your side crowding around you they wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t break eye contact no matter how hard you try to pull away from their gaze following you like a shadow you try to step out of the whirlpool that is trying to suction you into its unforgiving grip 66

is it when you are caught in a lie the depth of your words piercing someone like a sharp blade straight into their heart? once the treacherous words slipped out of your mouth with uncontrollable ease like a wet bar of soap falling out of your hands with no way to pick it back up unlike a wet bar of soap falling out of your hands. you never thought someone would find out after all who wouldn’t believe you? but when she uttered those two words to you confirming that you are the person you want to escape from pulling the guilt from your stomach as if she was reaching into your organs and twisting them around so they became all knotted up you were pushed into a hole deep within the ground with no hands reaching down to help you back up as you tried to claw your way up you feel the dirt slowly filling up around you, above you you were forever stuck in there like a rock embedded underground until someone accidentally trods over it and picks it up you feel this suffocation too don’t you? the chains around your throat the stitches sewn through your lips the blindfold over your eyes but when you look in a mirror you can never see them where did they go? this feeling eventually, it’ll go away right? at least that’s what they all say anyway

The Street of Sleepy Boats ~

ANNA REYNOLDS Skinned knees carried me as I chased my older brother, The bottoms of our feet blackening with each step beating like drums on the warm pavement. For hours, we made our own songs. Worries seemed to pull away from us, drifting like a lost balloon Let go of by the weary hand of a child. Floating into the soft swirls of blues, yellows, and pinks Painting a warm familiar sky. Millions of sound waves began to flood our neighborhood Until her voice beckons us in. As the door closes, I watch as our songs rush out to sea Escaping, they melt softly into the current. The sun reached down to dip its toes in the ocean, And no longer beamed its strong rays. Soon the rhythms we knew sunk to the sandy bottom, And our feet no longer danced around those familiar streets. Its golden body submerges, Illuminating the boats resting upon the old songs we used to make. Bobbing sleepily in the harbor, As the soft hand of the night tucks them in.

Untitled

After Josh Ritter

KC LAWLER All the other men here are stars, You are the northern lights. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll write you into my memoirs Hoping for more goodnights My hero in a comic book Dismantling my firewall Piercing through me with just one look Take my love have it all Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be your witness and you mine No one will play a part The halves of a whole we shine Living two lives one heart

Little Waves ~

LANE MURPHY From where I’m sitting, I can see the little waves grow I can’t reach them but I watch them and hope mercilessly that they grow, but then I remember, they will crash. They’re beautiful as they build and when they reach their peak but as they crest and crash I can’t help thinking that is their only option and even if I could get through the bars on the fence that label me as free and my little waves as otherwise, I couldn’t help them. They’re set up for a crash as soon as they start building under the water, long before anyone notices their inevitable future. My thoughts come in the form of disturbing realizations today. The little waves, trapped and restrained, are feared even by those who have never understood the conditions under which they are held captive. This fear builds through stories. I am free, and nobody has ever outwardly feared me without reason, and only I can give them that reason. My little waves do not have that luxury. At the end of the sunrise, all I can do is watch and listen. Which is fine, I do it all the time.

Tess McCormick

Perfect Practice ~

CLARE FOLEY It seems that it was so long ago, those days when I was excited to jump out of bed at 7am on a weekend to go outside and play street hockey with my brothers in preparation for our hockey games later that day, little bodies running down the hallway still in pajamas, hopping into sneakers and bursting through the mud room door out into the open world. My hands grasped the bright pink hockey stick, stickhandling the tie dye ball back and forth through misshapen, faded orange cones laid out by my older brother. These sessions with him became a ritual every Saturday and Sunday morning. I wanted to get better. From my little bright blue eyes, I looked up to him in every way. He was a hockey state champion, a goal scorer, and could skate circles around me. During our weekly practices I would never get a chance to go anywhere near him and his team because I was so much younger. But on a weekend morning at 8am I was always one step, one move behind him. A push of the puckâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; I follow him like the breeze follows the falling leaves Now, looking out through the nine individual panes in my mudroom door I am no longer eager to jump outside. Once upon a time my driveway held endless opportunities and adventure. Now it simply stands as a barrier between my car and house. Each day I scurry in and out as quickly as I can to escape the cold. I cannot think of the last time I saw my now 21 year old brother standing in our driveway. We no longer fight for the same puck and we drive our cars down different roads. I swear the black pebbles below my feet are harder than they used to be when I would fall and skin my knees. No more pucks so only the breeze runs through the old netâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; It belongs in the garbage now

A Passing Thought ~

ANYA BETTEGOWDA We walk, walk by the water Peering into the mansions that stand tall and proud We walk, and for a brief moment We imagine a life here, peaceful and content But it quickly fades because Hidden in the glances of strangers Is disgust and fear, confusion even They wonder why we are here For we know and they know we do not belong My coffee skin doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t match the crisp cream paint Her dark pooling eyes are too deep for their closed minds to see Our oversized sweatpants look out of place Among the tight fitted outfits of the wealthy But even dressed in our school uniform Hair tied up nicely, nice shoes on Dressed to impress We do not fit it For we are not white

Childhood ~

ALEXANDRA MODZELEWSKI The unknown, gliding through the air like a wandering balloon. She was a dog without a leash, a flower with no roots, moving wherever the breeze took her that day. Her mornings were open books; a new adventure, words across a page, hoping to be discovered. Her mind was an open field, where the lengths of the imagination ran free. Her days were limitless, gliding down the lake, A boat with no destination, no sense of time. No knowledge of schedules or deadlines, her brain so fresh, a new seed in the soil. She absorbed knowledge like a plant absorbing nutrients, constantly poking her head through the soil.

But now her balloon is anchored, a tightly held string, hit by lightning on the cloudy days. Each day is the same closed book, a repetition of routine, constrained to the same pages. Each adventure a permanent part of her past.

One Day ~

LANE MURPHY Once I told everyone that one day, I’d be standing on top of the mound where the sewer secretly lives And I’d look over the grass that my mother complains about I would see the slanted buildings that looked drained of spirit And I would reach down and lift them up I told everyone that one day, I would go back to where I came from a changed person The steps would welcome me as I slept in new sheets And I would wake up early and cleanse the day’s felonies from under my fingernails I’d pledge allegiance to the flag that winks in the sunlight I would share secrets with my old self and with people I thought would remember them They would wrap these secrets up in their own sheets and tuck them under their pillows, being careful not to roll over too fast and break them or leave them tangled up when the sun rose I would carry with me light and a nametag with a pin they would all know my name how it spells out the colors of the sunrise I said one day, when my mother has run out of things to complain about, She will see the grass as I see it (the pieces are not pretty, but they don’t know what they look like all together) And she will know why I lifted the buildings, she will know why I sleep in clean sheets She will look across the mound where I will have once stood And she will smile as she watches me raise the flag, never letting it touch the ground

Ryan Boyle

Beyond the Sea ~

KAVYA KRISHNAMURTHY Sometimes I sit at my granite kitchen counter still sticky with reminiscence of the treat my dad would bring at 10pm from Magnolia Bakery in Grand Central station as a way of saying “Sorry I missed dinner, here’s dessert” “I’ll be home earlier tomorrow” and when the rest of my family looked at him and went upstairs to do homework that I didn’t have because I was 9 I sat with my eyes on my silver spoon digging up dollops of banana pudding with whipped cream as my dad told me stories of living in India as the youngest person in his class when they only made glasses in one size that was too big for his face so kids didn’t like him but they liked boxing so my dad said that his brother was a boxer and those kids wanted to see the gloves so my dad told them “I’ll bring them tomorrow” for two months until he moved to Zambia and didn’t look back. Last night a quiet night I wondered aloud because there was nobody but granite there to hear my thoughts about how I missed the smell that used to tickle my nose 78

speaking unspoken “i love you”s and collecting stories of boxing gloves that now sleep in my memory dormant and sweet like custard. Sometimes I reach out to touch the elementary school accident a tiny pink spot on the ocean, wrapped in blue and white oil paint that holds up a boat, red like the one my dad always wanted but never learned how to sail and painted perched on waves while I stood in the backyard on a Saturday next to him wearing his old shirt so I wouldn’t stain my princess pajamas splatter painting pink and gold drops onto my own white canvas by pulling back the fibers on the brush with my finger and letting the color onto fly the easel onto my face onto my dad’s ocean. I cried about that pink splotch to my mother weeping in her arms repeating that dad would be so mad that he would hate me but he never said anything. He just signed the canvas below the mark I made on his roaring waves that he hung in the pool house I reach out to touch that pink spot on the brushstrokes that plume in every direction mimicking the sea chaotic and unpredictable below the tiny red sailboat who drifts without passenger or crew to guide her.

the big blue that could drag her to the depths where she would wait longer until she was nothing but a decrepit pile of rotting wood with a tattered red cloth choking her the big blue that could swallow her whole pushes her away from the waiting at a lonely harbor moves her towards the horizon so she can finally leave home.

Annabel Lawton

IV.6 (1/2) ~

ANNABEL ROTH [Enter Ophelia next to tree beside a river] To be or not to be, that is the question. And yet ‘tis a question not mine to answer, A choice not mine make. For where my father says to my brother “take each man’s censure, But reserve thy judgment,” he says to me “You do not understand yourself so clearly,” He says to me “I will teach you,” calls me “ baby,” Calls me “Green girl.” Where he says to Laertes, “This above all, to thine own self be true,” He says to me I must act as it behooves His daughter and my honor — honor that is Not even mine, but a reflection on him. Where he advises Laertes, he shames me, Where he commends Laertes, he commands me, Ties me on a leash so I cannot stray From his wishes, his expectations; He builds around me walls — Walls that will fall only upon his ruling, his order. Yet within these walls, I once had a window, A window towards love, towards happiness, towards future A window I was too scared to climb through, A window that was shuttered, never to open again. [Begins to climb tree, continuing to climb as speaks] He is dead and gone, he is dead and gone In this world, I have no choice, No choice of who I want to be, What I want to be, how I want to be. In this world, I have no choice, but one — The choice of if I want to be — [Falls off of branch and into water. Sinks underwater and struggles for a few minutes before breaking the surface, head barely above the water.] There! A field in the distance, endless, untrodden [Points towards the sky and begins to sink back under the water] A field of daffodils I choose [sinks further under the water] Dandelions I choose [sinks even further under the water] Yellow tulips I choose — [submerges under the water]

Reflections, staring back at her ~

OLIVIA MARSHALL Reflections, staring back at her Covered artist display Pressed powder, rosy red, smeared black An illusion array Panic -- black tears-- mini attacks Lungs breathing in --- hairspray Tissue boxes just smashed, empty Just a typical day Masking the truth from everyone Riches-- outcome from shame Impressing to be a loved one Pain built up -- Shattered -- away Sharp, crystalized, diamonds shining Blood Red trickling down Her wrist like a waterfall of --Nightmares-- now melting down. A reflection, spinning at her Splattered artist display Broken -- no longer castaway No-- not an illusion Just her and the beauty-- she portrays.

It begins with a clean, crisp sheet ~

KOBI AGARD It begins with a clean, crisp sheet a blueprint by my side The pencil wants to flow freely but ideas just hide I try to force myself to write my pencil hesitates For now when I know what to say the words won’t come out straight It’s almost like its not to be when one thing’s right one’s wrong But now, my pencil runs freely and meaning comes along And now I’m there, now I’m writing my struggles in the rear But time comes to write a new poem and back comes the old fear I face the process yet again a new sheet stares me down I sit, I try, I fail, I write poetry is a playground

Prayer in my Hoodie ~

NATILIE MIKHAEEL The grainy, gray fedora atop my grandpaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head, and his laugh... no, his raspy cough that lingers within my soul. For the gently stitched, gold embroidered seats left empty at the table where they once were. For the canary yellow parakeet, perched upon my shoulder, who loves to mock me. And the tiny goldfish I have somehow kept alive for the past three years. For the tattered red roof over my head that swathes me with my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s embrace: A delicately wrapped crystal cocoon that never decays. And for the breath that will revive me and decide that I am worthy to see another day.

West ~

CHRIS MIRA The neon lights of Albuquerque promised refuge, But I was chasing the western horizon. Left behind a blue-eyed passion, A few days back on the eastern shore. Stood on the brink of an overlook, Sleepy Flagstaff rousing behind me. 7000 feet below, A nappy, green carpet of pines beckoned me on. Her unanswered phone, Put me back on cruise control. I had a grip on the wheel, Pursuing a dream that wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t die. Sweltering and scorching, Arizona departed my rear-view mirror. Rolling foothills swept me upward, Where thunderheads curtained the peaks above. A vivid moon glittered my windshield. Preview of the blinding spotlight That would introduce me To faceless thousands in a darkened arena. Crested the coastal mountains, Ground the brakes onto a gravel shoulder Embraced the panorama, The rest of the route lay in wait. The surrounding stillness settled within, Fanning the fire that fed the dream. My elusive horizon sprawled before me A blank page â&#x20AC;&#x201C; my next chapter.

Laila Pina

Sympathy, n.

The state of being affected by the suffering or sorrow of another (OED)

TESS MCCORMICK She knew the wooded hills of the neighboring country where many confessed the secret They talked together beneath the open sky while she learnt that he had gone The imperfect sky above, a gray expanse of cloud, a gleam of flickering sunshine The sunshine does not love you Her smile lingered lonely and the sunshine vanished

Egotism, n.

The vice of thinking too much of oneself; self-conceit, boastfulness; also, selfishness (OED)

JACK GRILLS Her consequences, his intimacy would have good fame. The whole wide world took no side and she vanished The man told her that thou is foolish. Her life now, wilt be not comforted. So she departed, remained under a hillock. He kept her heart. 88

Ominous, adj.

Of ill omen, inauspicious (OED)

TIM NORTHROP He gazed after the wavering track of the earth that would start up under his touch Would he not suddenly sink into hideous luxuriance? She could not overcome it Attempting to do so, she thought of those days, when he used to sit in the light of her nuptial smile

Visible, adj.

That may be mentally perceived or observed; clearly or readily evident or perceptible; apparent, manifest, obvious (OED)

ANNABEL LAWTON Scandal, indeed and suspicion straggled along some long vista imparting a red flame amid the bewilderment of a mystery. Thou canst hear prophetic lamentation yet to happen.

After Nathaniel Hawthorne 89

Craft Interview with Naomi Shihab Nye ~

KAVYA KRISHNAMURTHY Interviewer: How does a poem begin for you, I mean how would you even start to write a poem? Naomi Shihab Nye: Usually a poem begins for me with a stacking of phrases or a series of images or a few questions or a quote from someone else’s voice, and I write these things in my notebook often with space in between them so I can go back to them. I can add things or stick things in. I sort of like to build poems from tiny bits of things. Sometimes I’ll start with a whole stanza and then there will just be a big pause and there, I’ll write notes or sometimes just a series of images. Very rarely I would say does a poem just start with an idea, and that’s something that kids are surprised about because a lot of kids think, “oh to just start making something, you have to have a big idea first.” To me, it doesn’t. It starts more with words, images, voices. I: Do you find yourself drawing from other people’s poetry? NSN: Well I don’t find myself drawing from the poetry, but I find myself being very inspired by the format of the poetry, or the tone of it, or what it is doing strategically on the page, the way the words are appearing. I will be very energized or kind of fueled up after reading poems that feel to me very effective, and even if they’re in a style I normally wouldn’t use myself, it makes me want to try the style, and just see how the words emerge. I: So who would you say are your biggest poetic influences? NSN: My biggest poetic influences were William Stafford and W.S. Merwin along with other people I’ve mentioned in different classes, different ones like Lucille Clifton, Jane Hirshfield, but she’s, I think she’s younger than I am, but I’m definitely influenced by her work as I’ve read it over the years, but so many poets in different countries. I’m very fond of a Scottish poet named Robin Robertson, and I loved the very beloved Mary Oliver as so many people did. I loved Jane Kenyon of New Hampshire- just so many different poets. I think all of us should have like at least 25 or 45 favorite poets. There’s no reason just to hold back to one or two, but I definitely did have two favorites: Stafford and Merwin. It’s kind of weird because they’re both men, and I love poetry by women. I also love poems from other countries. I’ve read lots of poets in India, Mexico, the Middle East, Europe, South American. Pablo Neruda of Chile was a very important influence on me, and he kind of encouraged my thinking that it was ok to write about your socks or something very modest and close to home. That was okay. I love the American poets: Carl Sandburg, Langston Hughes, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, just so so many poets. 91

I: Who should I be reading? NSN: I think everyone should be reading William Stafford and W.S. Merwin. I really do, and William Stafford is very easy to read now if you go to Lewis and Clark University to the library, they have a whole entire digital archive of all of his work from his whole life, and I think they even have some of his notebooks up there, and some different drafts of the same poem, but I think William Stafford is one of the most encouraging poets to a young poet. He’s so curious in his poems. The poems are unexpected. They’re short. They use science and history. They’re just worth paying attention to, and I also think they calm us down when we read them. W.S Merwin is so important because of his rich legacy of caring about the earth, and trees, and birds, and just paying better attention wherever we are. Merwin had a very distinctive style of writing, using no punctuation, and I think students can sometimes be enlivened by that because sometimes punctuation can feel a little burdensome, so here’s a poem where the words just keep flowing on, and there are pauses but it’s just the space. So I think you should read them for sure. Also read poets who live around you, like in Connecticut- some of the younger poets. It’s really important and inspiring to read young poets of your region when you’re young. I: How do you think your work has changed during the course of your career? NSN: Well that’s a good question, hard for me to answer, but probably easier for someone else to answer. I’m probably writing about family less than when I was younger, and maybe writing about general, societal , world concerns more. I mean it’s all still in there, and I’m still writing poems about little things that cause me to think of these things. And our work can touch on many different kinds of topics. I always feel sad when I hear someone say, “That’s what I write poems about,” and I think, well you can write poems about anything. Feel free, you could write about all kinds of topics. I remember when I was young, I used to write what I had imagined it felt like to be old, and I think some people might have suggested to me that it was ridiculous because I didn’t have that perspective, asking me why I was even curious about it, and I thought, “but I know old people, my neighborhood is filled with old people, my grandparents are old people, why can’t I be curious about it?” I think it’s okay to write about anything. I: Do you find yourself drawn to certain images, or moods, or settings? NSN: I like calm settings. I like things that make us feel sort of calm and revived at the same time, so even in a poem that’s conflicted or upset about something, I’m often looking for images that might help a spirit, my spirit, feel as if it has the power to gather itself back together again. And my father was a newspaper journalist, so news was always a really big part of our household, keeping up with the news, knowing what was happening in the news. My father would always get upset if a newspaper headline didn’t match the story, like if he felt they didn’t go together well, that would be a big topic of discussion, and I still feel that it’s very important to stay in touch with the news, know the names of who’s being talked about, what’s going on these days in the world. I think there’s probably too much of it for us to keep up with all of it as best we might. I feel guilty when I hear 92

there’s this big revolution, coup, going on in Bolivia, and I think, that I haven’t even been keeping up with it at all, I mean I didn’t even know this was happening there, but I do think we should pay attention to the wider world, and I do think that it’s all connected. I meet many people who say with great pride that they don’t have any relationship to the news at all, and I think well, I don’t know if it’s good to be so proud of that. I think it’s good to take breaks from the news because it gets exhausting, but I think you should have an idea of what’s going on. I: Thank you so much for your time!

Curls

~ ANNIKA WHITE I’m at the hair salon, under a dryer. My mind is asleep–in a place I might be if I weren’t here. I look at Granny, my mom, my aunts, my cousins–so still. I involuntarily move my neck. My head shouldn’t be here, in this oven. The price of beauty. I wonder what I would say if someone came through those doors and asked why we were doing this. I wonder what Granny would say. I wonder if she would explain how she couldn’t get a job with her natural hair, that she didn’t want to burn away her past but that she needed to survive. That’s why Granny and her cubs, and their cubs, come here every week for three hours: to survive the winter. During my childhood my hair and I were stuck somewhere between Kingston, Jamaica and Connecticut, between my black identity and my white one. Everywhere I went, there was something missing. I’ve gone to a primarily white school my entire life. In lower school, I craved to be part of the braiding circles my friends had–sitting back to front, back to front, weaving the silky hair of the girl before them. But when I joined, we formed braid trains–not circles. I sat at the end, braiding hair but never having mine braided. My curls refused to be tied and twisted in ways that didn’t allow them to bounce when I skipped and sway when I turned. So every night I sat in Mom’s room on a stool next to the ironing board that held the straightener. I turned on Disney Channel, excited that I would look like the girls on the TV. As I held back tears, my mom would force my hair into the straightener and pull. My curls would knot up, but the straightener’s clamps prevailed. And every day that my hair was straight, I joined the braiding circles at recess. When middle school came, I no longer had time to straighten my hair every night. But by that point, the nightly straightening had killed my curls. So, I slicked my hair back into high buns. It was the same routine every day until the beginning of my sophomore year, when I began to notice the natural hair movement. Seeing YouTube videos, fashion magazines, and Instagram posts portraying black hair as beautiful was mystifying. I wondered if my hair could look like that. I clicked on a Youtube video: No Heat Challenge. Three minutes in, I pledged to stop straightening my hair for one year. My curls came back. They started at my roots and slipped down my hair. I’d wear ponytails instead of buns, and eventually wore my curls down. They were a spectacle that people wanted to touch and spring, and for the first time in a long time I didn’t hide them. I realized how much I had missed them, bouncing when I skipped and swaying when I turned. No longer tied and twisted by the environment surrounding me, I found pride in the races that I represent and beauty in their fusion. It’s been five years since that day at the salon. My cousins and aunts are there now, but Granny and I sit at home. She in her big, brown armchair that swallows her body and me on the ground between her legs; she plays with my curls and speaks in broken English. She’s remembering Jamaica. How her mom braided her hair into cornrows, how she scratched at them– tried to take them out, how they were too tight. “Mmm don’t you let your mama do that to you, Nika... mmm mmm.” I won’t: the winter has passed. 96

Laryngitis ~

MARY KESSLER Most would consider me odd for finding pleasure in sickness but it’s not the viral, infectious, airborne disease invading me as if I’m some sort of new, undiscovered territory waiting to be explored that I relish with such enthusiasm: it’s the new beginnings. As my body begins to defend itself from the many troops trying to conquer it, testing my immunities one by one, I put up my white flag and let the enemy win. My voice often has the effect of sounding full and numb simultaneously. It’s a song without a melody blasted in a room full of composers, a scentless perfume sprayed on dirty laundry, an ice-cold shower with every droplet turning to ice as it lands upon my skin. Now, I’m certain that after hearing that description of my voice, listening to me speak would cause your eyebrows to tilt downward and the folds of your skin dance rhythmically above your nose to form creases, immediately adding centuries to your age. I don’t blame you. I experience this on a daily basis, and I imagine I will until I’m nothing but a heap of flesh and bones trapped below the surface, alone, with no voice to even worry about. I can remember staying up late at night within the coddling warmth of my cushioned bed -- the moonlight just barely seeping through my blackout shades, and the array of stars individually pasted to my ceiling creating constellations that illuminated my room -- and begging to be sick the next day. I would pray for the joy of a rigid, sandpaper throat so that my voice would sound like I had gargled on gravel and rocks, so that I could sound like I had just walked out of the coal mine that I devoted my entire life to, or even to sound like I had smoked two packs of cigarettes every day from the day I was born. Sickness is my gateway. You suddenly have an excuse for everything you do. Nobody cares that you sound like you’re breathing through the crevices in cement or that you cough like you dumped honey down your trach tube. People don’t even care that you blow your nose as if a fog horn is jammed and won’t stop blowing. Most importantly, nobody will question why you sound like you were trapped in a desert without water for days on end. Words will roll out of my mouth, but rather than sounding like a burst water pipe in the midst of winter, I was able to sound as if I had swallowed thirty saltine crackers whole. I can justify why my voice sounded like it does when I’m sick. Everyone is constantly fighting in their own battles, but sometimes I choose to let the enemy win.

Forever Before

After Tommy Orange ~ JEMMA SIEGEL

Before you were born, you were mystery, a far off, too-hazy to really, truly remember fever dream. You were a handwritten question-mark, an intterobang smudged in inky blackness on an endless expanse of ivory white paper. You were so abstract, far off, like distant stars spinning around the milky way of your mother’s mind. Yet before you were born you were also so concrete, because you were the chalky city sidewalks under your father’s overworked feet. You were the tech boom in Silicon Valley, the trans-coast transformation that brought your family out to Palo Alto. You were the tiny house on Cotton Street, the firetruck red door with the simple gold knocker, the neighborhood cat that you so earnestly nicknamed “Tattoo”. Before you were born, you were the city, the only city. You had the neon electricity coursing through your veins, you were kin with the sharp metal matrix of the world below your apartment. You were a steadfast, sedulous lawyer, but also a starry-eyed, self-starting artist. You were Vogue, Italian runway “alla moda”, you were oodles of heavy beaded designer necklaces strung onto the thin neck of a single model. Before you were born, you were the twinkling lights strung around the perimeter of the central park skating rink, you were ethereal and electrical engineering. You were magical and you were material. Before you were born, you were crisp toasted everything bagels, fresh nova lox. You were the dainty metal shabbat candle set, a gift from your grandmother, that sat so proudly on the stone counter every Friday evening. Before you were born, you were running marathons and triathlons and putting your whole soul into the first SoulCycle. You were harsh hours-long hikes in the Colorado mountains and simple sun-soaked surf lessons on the California coast. Before you were born, you were summers at band camp, you were the midnight radio station based out of Ogdensburg, you were sitting way up at the tippy top border of New York, and if you stretched enough maybe your toes could make it to Canada. You were the frigid winter mornings at boarding school in Dobbs Ferry, day trips out to Long Beach in a rust red Karmann Ghia. Before you were born you were split in two. You were the north star, you were the south pole. You were backwards and belly-up, top of the peak and bottom of the valley. You were absolute and you were perfect and you were alone and still waiting in the inky black ink to be written. A premonition of a premonition. You were what was yet to be, though, you had always been. You were sixteen years ahead of your time, that time from forever before, your time to blow out those golden sparkling candles and make a wish like never before.

Shealeigh Crombie

Hair ~

CALLIE MORGAN Her curly locks bounced up and down as our brothers chased us in the backyard, only stopping momentarily when we reached “home base.” Her flyaways sparkled in the sunshine as we built sandcastles on the beach or climbed ladders on the playground. I remember watching her mother braid it before our dance recitals, the thick pieces intertwining in a beautiful rhythm as she strung it through her fingers. It smelled like chlorine and organic sunscreen and snack bar chicken fingers from the hours on end we spent at the neighborhood pool. It sounded like laughter, bare feet hitting the pavement, the screeching brakes of our Razor scooters as we made our way down the block. She used to complain about how difficult it was to maintain. How it was a beast that took her mother hours and bottles of detangler to tame for school every morning. Her locks had a mind of their own. And they were a mess. But they were her mess -- her beautiful, unique mess. Now they’re suffocated by the straightener five days a week as she flattens them to perfection. Their once chocolate color now a platinum blonde, blending her into the crowd. I hardly even recognized her when I walked in the door. As I watch her make small talk from across the room, I scan her new look. It’s still dark at the roots, but it won’t ever be the same.

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Nore and I ~

NORELISA NASCIMENTO Nore and I walk on a fine line that separates the two hemispheres of ourselves. I’m the northern hemisphere, where Americans call me No-reh-lisa. Nore is the southern hemisphere, and you don’t have to catch a plane to see her. But, if you’re really her amiga and you can roll your R and stress the long E, you’ll see her shine through like the sunrise on the horizon. I’m good with small talk, but she’s extremely chatty. Fire her up with emotion, and she won’t shut up. You can hear it when she’s being petty, scrolling through receipts saying “olha” to make sure you’re paying attention. She reveals herself when she meets a puppy and can’t quite put her wonder into English, so she raises her pitch and speaks in her own language. Others point out dogs don’t understand romance languages, but it’s a language of love in her eyes. I like intellectual conversations, and listening to music on long, silent train rides. She’s the life of the party, making conversation with the conductors and dancing down the hallway. While I try to keep my composure, she mumbles curse words under her breath because, let’s be honest, swearing is the first step to mastering a foreign language. When I struggle to convey a thought, she sits with me in confusion saying filler words because some things have no translation. Tell her a story and she’ll nod along not with “eh eh eh.”, not “uh-huh”. She can’t say no; she says “não.” Together, we code-switch. Flip-flopping from her native language at home to her second language in school. The last thing I want to do is colonize her uncharted tongue and lose her forever. If I’m not careful, I’ll go from bilingual to bye-lingual. She’s the vulnerable one. She brings the warmth of Brazil to the rigid hearts of New England with every embrace. Not everyone welcomes the greeting of cheek kisses or are comfortable with her expressive physical contact. The warmth of her touch reflects the degree of her hospitality she can’t find up North.

101

Dragonflies and the Salt Marsh ~

OWEN MINSON As I sit on top of the wall of the bridge, looking out towards the salt marsh, the small narrow stream beneath my feet appears small and insignificant. The marsh sits five or six feet below the height of the road, a valley between the road and tree line. The onefoot wall of the stone bridge, combined with the bushes and trees that line the side of the road, conceal the hidden lowlands from anyone quickly passing by; they are only visible from the footpath behind the rocky wall -- the end of mankind’s territory. The stream pushes out several yards past the bridge before curving harshly to the right, where it hides out of view. The smooth cordgrass that lines the side of its trail curves back towards the middle of the field, indicating the stream takes the shape of a question mark laid out in front of me, though I have no way to know for certain. The smooth cordgrass, which stands tall along most of the stream, is flattened near the base of the bridge, combed down onto the mud beneath it, though I don’t know why. A white noise engulfs my surroundings, drowning out everything but the occasional whistle of an unidentifiable bird. Surrounding the basin stand tall trees, creating what appears to be a homogeneous pine-green background. The tree line engulfs the field, with the exception of a small gap out in the distance. In this gap, I can see the occasional train pass by, a quick break in the serenity. A runner passes by the bridge behind me; I wonder if he even notices the stream, the grass, the trees, the wildlife, or if his location on the road makes him unaware of the world just beneath his feet. A dragonfly quickly buzzes by, no more than a black speck in the vast valley below. I write down its presence before the bug escapes my memory, as my eyes return to the vast field below, that seems so devoid of life and movement. -- I ease myself over the side of the bridge, gripping its uneven rocks, nearly gliding off their smooth, glossy surface. High above the water, the rocks are surprisingly slippery. I regain my balance, and look around at the new view surrounding me. I reach down and let the current glide the water over my hands; its surprisingly refreshing to me even in mid-fall, and the steady current surprises me at its hidden strength. Looking up at the trees, the green leaves remain, but I now take notice of the occasional orange or red leaf that sticks out, a tiny burst of color and life in the homogeneous background. As the wind cuts through the basin, these are the leaves that gently glide towards the dirt beneath my feet, or land calmly in the stream, where the tide eases them past my new vantage point on the rocks. I listen again and realize what I heard as white noise is actually the beat behind the natural ensemble of the marsh. It’s the result of the wind that cuts through the valley below, brushing the common reeds’ feathered tops against one another. The birds are the soloists; A black capped chickadee picks at a bush to my right for a moment, singing its calls. A native New Englander, it refuses to migrate as the harsh winter approaches; it would rather remain and adapt to the coming changes. Its comfortability and under102

standing of anything and everything the marsh has to offer is a humbling reminder of how little I know about the place it calls home- yet knowing his name alone reminds me of my progress. As I try to peer around the bend, I find I have a better view of the trail of the river that had been hidden from the bridge. From here, I realize that the stream never cuts back towards the center of the field; instead, it hugs the right side of the valley in a straight line, until finally evading my sight when it curves right in the distance. A dragonfly once again touches down by the creek, but it appears different now; the black silhouette is replaced by an emerald green shine as it sends circular ripples through the water remaining at low tide. Its transparent, glass-like wings vibrate as it hovers towards the surface. A sight so common and seemingly insignificant, only days before my eyes would have hardly broken their gaze over the vastness of the salt marsh in front of me, uninterested and unaware of one small bug in one of the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most fascinating ecosystems. Instead, the insect sends my mind rushing back to the hot days of summer, when an old friend explained that dragonflies are symbols for change, transformation, and adaptability across the world. As the first harsh winds of October cut through the salt marsh, piercing through my sweatshirt, I finally see and believe it. -- As I hike up my waders and descend over the side of the bridge, I realize the secrets of the marsh are hidden far deeper than a view from the bridge or a hand in the creek could have ever grasped. With the tide higher than past visits, the stream of water that once trickled beneath the bridge is replaced with a wide-mouthed creek whose current sweeps through the marsh with more speed and power; it overcomes the rocks where my feet nearly slipped out from under me the other day, explaining the glossy layer that almost put me in the water the first time I entered the marsh. Beneath the surface, the smooth cordgrass that previously lay flat, unable to support their own weight, glide back and forth like snakes under the water, waving as their roots fight to keep them planted while the tide tries to pull them out to sea. The high tide completely hides the rocks that were so familiar at low tide; it is necessary to rely on a friend to help me find my footing as we both descend the wall. We grip each other for balance, unsure of where our feet are going to land. Even with our view blocked by the rising water, we know the heart of the creek trails out to the right, so we make our own trail out to the left after finally accepting the creekâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s water under the bridge is higher than our waders can handle. After several minutes hiking through knee deep water, the thrill of adventure wins out, and we find ourselves pushing back towards the heart of the creek. Our feet sink into the mud with each step, pulling up the sludge at the bottom of the creek and mixing it into the tide; the water turns a grayish color, blocking any sight of the earth below us. As we move, the smell of sulfur engulfs us. We scale down the steep sides of the river bank, holding on to one another as we climb down; we have no choice but to feel our way with our feet, searching for the earth with each step; with the tide so high, the wrong step will put us much deeper than the waders can protect us. The pressure of the water push the waders tightly against our skin while simultaneously pushing us downstream; we feel little separation from the push and pull of the tide and the thick mud beneath us. Any distant sights in the marsh are blocked by the reeds stand over our heads on each side of the creek and the dark water swirling around us. From our new vantage point, the water is the heart of the marsh, the source of all of the movement, 103

smells, and life that surrounds us; the vast field that ruled the landscape with a facade of stillness from the view of the bridge suddenly seemed insignificant; all we know is the feel, the smell, the touch of the cold mid-October water, the lifeline of an overlooked ecosystem. And this dragonfly- the one that hovers past us before landing gracefully on a nearby reed- serves as a reminder. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to imagine a better example of adaptability in a salt marsh than a dragonfly. Commonly found near wetlands, dragonflies are born not to the air or the land, but to the water; their eggs are laid several feet under the surface before the baby dragonflies, or nymphs, emerge. The majority of their life is spent underwater breathing through internal gills, hidden- like all salt marsh treasures- away from the human eye. Dragonfly nymphs are actually quite unattractive, looking closer to flattened grasshoppers than the encapsulating mature dragonflies that are considered the pinnacle of beauty in the natural world. After spending several years in this state of development, the shiny torso and distinct set of four transparent wings finally emerge, but only for a short time; only when theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re on the verge of death do you notice the beauty of its flight, the glimmer of its torso, the delight of its eyes. Dragonflies can spend as long as seven years maturing and adapting, only to live as an adult for several weeks before their life comes to an end. As any salt marsh knows, one must adapt to survive. In six hours, the tide will change by over seven feet in height, as the ecosystem it encapsulates is forced to adapt to the new depths of water. In six weeks, with the frigid winter approaching, the marsh will see an extreme change in climate, as the ecosystem that creates the marsh is forced to adapt again to survive. In six years, current rates of global warming and pollution pose yet another change for life in the salt marsh- but hopefully, like the dragonflies that live above and below the salt marsh, the ecosystem will be ready to adapt once more.

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Annabel Lawton

105

A Salt Marsh Symphony ~

ETHAN LIOR The brisk wind strokes my exposed skin, ushering me to sit down in the middle of the performance. The Salt Marsh Sparrow coasts from branch to branch on the bare tree ahead, intermittently chirping as it abruptly changes directions. The buzzing crescendo of the crickets hiding in the nooks of weathered Spartina and the static sound of the breeze rushing through the Phragmites harmonize and build over the tune of the sparrow. Yesterday, Nimbostratus clouds covered the sun, and the symphony was silent, but today, it is emphatic and demanding. In front of me lies the marsh, with the road passing along its perimeter and the Phragmites packed along its border. I step up, displacing the rocks laying at my feet covering the culvert, and head toward the roaring Phragmites along the edge of the marsh. Glistening in the sun, these reeds bow in unison at the instruction of the wind, cyclically rising and falling like waves crashing onto the shore. They lean over and wait for the applause, then raise up towards the sky and linger until further instruction from the conductor. I position myself in the reeds and listen as the clarinet of the marsh plays its piece, transforming the movement of molecules into particular chords. The abrasive texture of the Phragmites rubs against my bare arms as I stand and listen. The chirping of the sparrows and singing of the crickets fade as the dynamics of the reeds oscillate in asymmetrical rhythms. To my left lies a portal into the marsh, an opening in the dense vegetation and free from the grasp of the Phragmites which engulf me. The Phragmites dominate every inch of where I stand and line the border of the marsh, plunging their roots into the ground and shooting up towards the light. Covering all bits of open soil, they surround the marsh and attempt to suffocate everything in sight. As I glance through the portal into the marsh, I see a diverse aura of flora undisturbed by the Phragmites. A mosaic of Cordgrass, Glasswort, and Seaside goldenrod, appearing as a sea of vegetation, freely cover the entire marsh. The alien Phragmites, ironically, have come to define the marsh ecosystem, but are actually an invader, like the vibrant red vines running up the tree trunk of a now unidentifiable specimen. Since first stepping foot near the marsh, I noticed the diverse shades of green, yellow, and orange, but especially the unnatural red radiating off the trunk of this tree. The bottom half of the tree is concealed by the Phragmites at its base, but the top stands exposed. Reaching up to the top of this helpless vegetation, the vine competes to survive. As if overflowing like a glass of water, the vines reach up the trunk until there is no more matter, pouring over the top of the tree. The way in which the corpse of the tree is adorned by the parasitic garments presents a sort of sickening beauty. To the left of this overtaken tree, stands a towering Maple, lifeless and naked. Its bare branches point towards the opening of the marsh, wishing to be part of the articulate symphony. The wind passes around its bleak limbs, failing to craft its unique tune and participate in the performance. 106

Glancing back towards the portal, I decide to step through as my boots sink slowly into the sulfur scented mud which suctions me to the Earth. A new tune rings throughout my ears as I close my eyes, tracing the rhythm and tempo of the next phrase of the piece. I close my eyes and focus on the natural sound, blocking out the ambient noise of the passing cars. The siren of the ambulance racing behind me on I95 is pushed to the back of my mind as I focus on the eloquent composition being performed all around me. Striding carefully through the trampled grass to avoid covert mosquito ditches, I keep my ears focused on the crashing of the waves a few hundred feet away on the beach and the swaying of the Cordgrass, each crafting their sound with precision, but also a sense of unpredictability. Crouching along the rim of one of the mosquito ditches located near the portal into the marsh, I view the white remnants of salt left on the walls of the trench from the previous high tide, allowing me to see into the past. Seemingly lifeless, my eyes spot the tiny tracks of fiddler crabs and one-millimeter wide holes, marking the presence of Ribbed Muscles under the mud. Closing my eyes, I hear the fluctuation in the pitch of the breeze as I lift my head above and then under the walls of the trench. The ditches line the marsh in a parallel fashion, as if it was a WWI battlefield crisscrossed with trenches, but also generate the image of a guitar, with frets shaping and bending the passing wind like a string, crafting a unique tone that contributes to the natural symphony. Following my previous footsteps imprinted into the soft mud, I re-enter the portal and the percussion, followed by the rhythm and lead section pleasure my ears. The Phragmites are still swaying and playing in unison, invading but contributing to the melody. A Killdeer, replacing the forgotten song of the Salt Marsh Sparrow, adds a uniqueness to this symphony as it performs its aria. The tune of the Killdeer transports me back to the beaches of the Outer Banks, casting my line into the open sea with the song of the seagulls all around me. My feet sinking into the soft creamy sand barely holding me up. I crouch back down, as the grass comforts my landing, listening to the harmonic cadence of this one-time symphony. Although this is a moment I wish to cherish when I return, I know it will never be the same. The beauty of originality but the sorrow of losing the symphony as an interval in history.

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On Sympathy Friday Speaker ~

DANIEL JUMP I don’t entirely know what this essay is about. The older I get, the less interest I have in writing down what I think I already know. I did that for a while, in another life, but it doesn’t interest me anymore. The only thing that really motivates me to write now is that gnawing feeling of I don’t know. An image or a word or phrase comes to you, like a question, or like a breeze, and it nudges you in a direction, and you have no idea where you are going to end up if you go that way, but you feel compelled to go. Recently I was watching with my students a documentary about Toni Morrison, a writer whose novel Beloved we have just started reading. This is what Morrison says about what moves her to write: “it’s I don’t know what this means, but I have to find out. I gotta know, I really have to know, and the only way I can know, and own what I know, is to write it, and then let you read it, so we both know.” Some writers decide in advance what point they are going to make and then hunt around for a story that will help then make that point. Morrison’s telling us doing it that way is going about things backwards. I’m going to try to go at it the other way around. I am going to tell a story the meaning of which I am only beginning to understand. If the story is about something, in a word, I think it is about sympathy. But, like I said, I don’t claim to have the meaning entirely figured. My wife and I were married almost six years ago, about a year before I started working at GFA. At that time, we lived in an apartment in the town of Norwalk, just a few miles south of here. Our apartment was on the second story of what had previously been a fire station. The block on which our building sat was called, aptly, Commerce Street. Though there were a few residential buildings on the block, the street was dedicated primarily to its name. Across the street from our apartment were businesses: a company that made ice, another that made neon signs. A little bit farther down and across the railroad tracks that bisected Commerce street was a third, bigger one that made concrete out of gravel that was hauled up the Norwalk river on barges. Because there wasn’t enough parking on the street, it was rare to find a spot in front of our building. I often parked in front of the concrete plant, which meant I had to walk back up the street and cross the tracks again to get home. My wife and I had lived in this apartment about two years when we got married. My wife, whose name is Anna, loves dogs, and as a wedding present I bought her a puppy. (In writing this I have submitted myself to the writer’s discipline. Let the words do the work. Don’t cheat. So I am not going to show you a picture of the dog. Trust me, she is very cute. She is a whippet, which is like a small greyhound, with a long, slender head and 108

body. Her coat is white with large patches of black and tan brindle striping. Whippets are bred for racing, and she is extremely fast when she wants to be, which is rarely; she mostly likes to sleep and to lounge around with her people. She is very quiet, except when she is ecstatically excited or when she dreams. Then, lying on her side, she pedals her paws like she is running and puffs little muffled barks. She’s the kind of creature you would get out of bed for even though you really, really didn’t want to.) But I’m getting ahead of myself. I bought my new wife a whippet puppy, and we named her Tippi, after a glamorous actress in an Alfred Hitchcock movie we had recently watched together. After we brought the puppy home, what used to be two was now three, and the rhythms of life in our apartment had to change accordingly. It didn’t take long to house train Tippi, but when she was young she woke in the middle of the night, once, sometimes twice, needing to go to the bathroom. As our apartment was on the second floor, taking her out was a bit of a chore, especially in the winter. You’d have to put clothes on yourself, a jacket on her, walk her down the stairs, onto the street, and into a fenced off little garden area in the tip of the angle where the train tracks met the street. As someone very jealous of my sleep, this was the new routine I found it hardest to get used to. In the first couple of weeks, it felt like my wife and I more or less shared the getting up in the middle of the night responsibilities. Then I found myself doing it more and more often. Tippi would get up and nose the bells that we had hung on the doorknob. My wife wouldn’t stir. I would get up. This shift wasn’t something we ever talked about. It just happened. But I couldn’t help speculating, with a mixture of self-righteous irritation and curiosity, what it might mean. In the garden on the cold nights of that first winter we had her, waiting for Tippi to do her business, I began to wonder: Why is it that now I am the one doing this all the time? Does Anna think that her time is more valuable than mine? That her sleep is more valuable that mine is? Isn’t this just a bit unfair? Many nights, as I was crawling back into bed, I carried with me the secret bitter pleasure of self-righteousness, that feeling you flatter yourself with when you tell yourself that you are carrying more than your fair share but are not so petty as to complain about it. As the weeks turned into months, a routine took hold. I would take the dog out when she woke up. While Anna slept, I did that work for both of us, wondering self-righteously why it had ended up this way. One of my favorite poets is William Blake, who wrote a lyric called “The Poison Tree”: The first lines are these: I grew angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I grew angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. 109

The speaker buries that unspoken wrath in the ground, and in the spot where he buried it grows a beautiful but poisoned tree. Either I forgot Blake’s advice, or I told myself that this little annoyance didn’t warrant the lofty names of anger or wrath and so didn’t bear speaking on. In any case, I didn’t speak on it. A poison tree of my own sprouted in my brain and would have grown, had it not been for something that happened one morning. In another apartment in the same building lived a couple—Amanda and Cliff—that my wife and I were becoming friends with. Their apartment was bigger than ours, and we often gathered there to cook dinner and hang out. Now it was spring. One Sunday morning after one of those dinners, Anna and I were sitting in our apartment having coffee. She turned to me and said that Amanda had confided to her that she was feeling unsafe in their apartment. They were thinking about finding another place to live. I smiled at this and looked at Anna, expecting her to smile back. Amanda and Cliff came from rather different backgrounds, but both had grown up quite wealthy. If they were feeling unsafe in this neighborhood, I quickly speculated, it’s because they are upper- or upper-middleclass people living in a working-class part of town. With how they were brought up, it makes sense that they would feel some discomfort. With this thought in my mind, I looked over at Anna. She had grown up more like I had, had family and friends who worked jobs of the sort the people on this block worked. Looking over at her I expected her to smile in recognition that we were both having the same thought. Don’t smile, she said; I know how she feels. The conversation that followed stands out in my memory as one of the most important I’ve ever had. Conversation isn’t really the right word for it. Anna talked, and I listened. Occasionally I asked a question. She described, in detail, and with patience, exactly what it was like for her to live on our block. She told me about the night she took Tippi out and two men shouted at her from other side of the street and she started to plan what she would have to do if they began to cross over toward her. She told me how she took her phone with her so she could shine a light into the dark corners of the garden before taking the dog in there. Then she moved back in time. She told me about other times she had been shouted at or menaced by men. She told me about a time when she lived in Cambridge MA, when walking home from work at night she was followed for miles by a man. She told me that when she was in high school, her older friend Amber taught her how make wolverine claws for herself by holding her car keys between her fingers before walking to her car at night. At this point I had known Anna for more than ten years. A few of the stories I recognized; most I think she shared with me for the first time that morning. Even those I had heard before, in that moment, in this new context, it was like hearing them for the first time. Or like I finally had ears to hear them. When she was finished, I felt gratitude and astonishment. Here was someone who had been closer to me and more precious to me than anyone else in my life for more than a decade, someone I would have supposed I knew more deeply than anyone else, and yet I had just discovered that there was something essential about her life, some central truth 110

about what it was like to be her, that I hadn’t even begun to suspect, much less to understand. It leapt vividly to my consciousness that though we shared an apartment and a dog and a life, we did not live in the same world. Yes, we moved through the same physical space. But my world was an unexceptional one, one without risks or dangers, other than maybe slipping on the ice or puncturing my tire on a broken bottle. As I walked through this world, I did so in the trust that nothing could really go wrong, in a sense of security so secure that I didn’t even notice it. Anna’s world was one of palpably felt risks. She walked through this world on alert, strategically, ready to do what she could to avert the dangers that might spring up any moment, never certain she would be able to. I sometimes walked through this world listening to music on headphones. She never did. Returning home in the dark, my keys were in my pocket, placed there without a thought after I locked my car. Hers were in her pocket too, but so were her hands, each key placed carefully between her fingers, held in her fist like claws. For me, the patch of dark street between the cement plant and our apartment was just a dark patch of street. For her it was a threat. She with whom I shared a life I didn’t share a world. As I wrestled with what her stories had revealed to me, I realized that this secret I felt I had just learned was not something unique to her. It wasn’t something I had failed to notice about her as a singular individual, some subtle texture of her character that I had overlooked. No, this was something she shared with others; it was a collective world. For Anna, for Amanda, for Amber, perhaps for most women, maybe all women, it wasn’t a secret at all; it was just an obvious fact of their lives. My mother, my sister, must have known it too. How could something so obvious as what the world is like for them be, for me, a mystery so complete that I didn’t even know to suspect it? Something about the way I was constituted made it impossible even to suspect the existence of this other world. I had known before that being born and raised a boy and man had shaped my life in untold ways, but I hadn’t suspected until then that it made truths obvious to people who weren’t men nearly impossible for me to see. Impossible, that is, until just then, when someone I cared for had made it, imaginatively speaking, real for me, by telling me a story. The only way I can know, and own what I know, is to write it, and then let you read it, so we both know. Did Cliff know, I wondered, or my brother? Did my father? I mean really know? Had they heard stories that told the secret? Did they have ears to hear it? Anna had invited me into her world, allowed me to see things as she saw them, to see that patch of darkness on our street not as I saw it but as she saw it, to walk down our street as she did. And when the story was over, and I stepped back into my own perspective, I realized that I was stepping back not just into my perspective but into my own body. And I realized that I has just experienced for the first time what it might mean not to have a man’s body. I know it seems strange to say, but that is how it felt. Stepping out of her stories back into my body, I was aware of something new: that the sense of security and integrity I felt in my body, my sense of possession of it, the invulnerability I felt in it—I had always assumed everybody felt that way, no matter what kind of body you had. Now 111

I knew otherwise. It was only because I was understood to be, because I passed as, a man, that I felt this security. This aspect of living I so took for granted that I didn’t think of it as a right or a privilege—I didn’t think about it at all—it wasn’t the norm I had taken it for. It was an exception. It was the world I had inherited by virtue of my identity as a man, and yet all my life I had mistaken it for the world. Reflecting on this blindspot in my own life taught me a couple of things about how my identity had been shaping my life in ways I was only beginning to grasp. First, I realized that when interpreting other people’s behavior I gave an outsized explanatory power to class: that was my go-to framework for explaining other people’s actions and feelings, especially when their behavior was puzzling or unexpected. Once I noticed that this was the case I could ask myself why it might be case. And when I asked myself that question, I recognized that class was the aspect of my identity that was most salient to me from an early age; it was the aspect of my identity that I had a language for, that I knew how to talk about. Because for me, the earliest and most primal division of the world was between those who were wealthy and those who were not. I was educated in schools not unlike this one; that I was a poor kid from a poor family was brought home to me every day because I spent half of my life in a place where wealth was the norm. Every birthday party or sleepover or hang out at a friend’s house reconfirmed my sense that this was how the world was divided and reinforced the shame and envy and sense of not belonging that I learned from my parents, from my mother especially, and had internalized at a young age. In my mid-thirties, this history was still at work on me, still shaping me. Had Anna smiled at me in class solidarity, that history would have gone on shaping me, but I would not have noticed. Because she didn’t, and told me what she told me, I was able to begin to recognize that I had this reflex response to think of the world primarily in terms of class. What would otherwise have been habitual and unremarkable behavior now stood out to me as a problem, as something I could notice and think about. Our conversation alerted me to something else important, something about the deviousness with which identity categories can operate. There were good reasons why class was uppermost in my consciousness. But the very fact of its being uppermost made other aspects of my identity invisible and imperceptible to me. Learning early on that the world was divided between the rich and the poor made it harder to see and to think about the aspects of my identity that were shaping my life in equally or perhaps even more primal ways. I knew palpably that I was a poor kid in a rich school; I could think and talk about that. What I couldn’t see as clearly was that I was a white kid, and that my race was part of what granted me access to an institution that I couldn’t afford at the same time that the almost complete racial segregation of the world I inhabited made it impossible for me to think of whiteness as anything but the norm. What I couldn’t see as clearly was that the vision of manhood I had inherited—and its key assumption that what it was like to live in a boy’s body was just what it was like to live in a human body—made it impossible for me to understand that the girls and women I knew lived in a world of vulnerability I couldn’t even imagine. Class’s role in my self-perception was more complicated than I had suspected: it was telling me something true about my place in the world, but its function was also avoidant. If I was thinking about class I didn’t have to think about my race. If I was smil112

ing about class, I didn’t have to recognize my gender. I don’t want to be misunderstood. Class is as critical a shaping force as there is; it is important to understand class if you want to understand yourself and the world. But I realize now from first-hand experience that you can become so transfixed by one aspect of your identity that you are prevented from thinking honestly and truthfully about the others, prevented from understanding the fuller complexity of how history has shaped and is shaping your life. If this conversation had such a big impact on my thinking, you might wonder what effect it had on my life. You might expect that from big insights big effects should result. Indeed, some people will tell you that exercising sympathy of the kind I have testified to just now is the precondition for creating a more democratic society, that to understand all the ways that our society is unequal is a precondition for making it more equal. I think this might be the case, I hope it is, but I’m not sure. Building a more equal society might require sympathy; it will require a lot of other things too, most of them political rather than emotional. My conversation with Anna didn’t set off a revolution, not even in our private lives. We didn’t start looking for a different place to live. The changes were subtler, but they were not nothing. I started noticing things that I hadn’t before, little details that now meant something. A few months after, I remember watching from the window as Anna did a very complicated parallel parking maneuver in order to get a spot close to our door. I started to notice that she was willing to risk a ticket by parking closer to a hydrant than the law allowed in order to stay on our side of the railroad tracks. Before our conversation, I hadn’t noticed this pattern at all. If I had, I wouldn’t have understood the reason. Why didn’t she take the safer option of parking down the street? Now I understood. For her, it wasn’t the safer option. When Tippi nosed the bells in the middle of night, I got up as before. As I stood in the garden waiting for her, I thought about the questions the self-righteous voice within me used to ask. Is it really fair that I should be the one always doing this? In the light of what I now knew, this petty question dissolved as a thing of no substance. I laughed at myself in the spring air. I took Tippi upstairs and crawled back in bed. The self-righteousness in me was quiet, and I fell asleep feeling humbled and undeceived. Not nothing. Much more than nothing. Maybe this is the benefit of sympathy: it uproots your poisoned trees.

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Lucy Nelson 117

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Comfort Omotunde 119

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Elyse Kimball 121

A Note on the Type ~

This yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s typeface for Penumbra is Baskerville, a beautiful and classically-styled font. Baskerville has a detailed and extensive history, originating in Birmingham, England in 1757. The font was designed by John Baskerville and was admired by many, including Pierre Simon Fournier and Giambatta Bodoni, both type designers, as well as Benjamin Franklin. The editors chose Baskerville for its clarity and elegance.1 The text is printed on 100% post-consumer recycled 70 pound Rolland Enviro100 Print Paper.

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Acknowledgments ~

We would like to thank all the writers and artists who submitted their pieces for this issue of Penumbra. Every submission was read blind and chosen solely on its merit. Jemma Siegel provided us with our cover art, and Alex Lind, Jemma, and Vicki Stuart shared their journals for our section dividers. As always, thank you Ms. Waldstein and Mr. Baykal-Rollins. Ms. Moore guided us through InDesign. Mrs. Orefice, Mrs. Furegno, Mrs. Gibb help us with the mailing, and Mrs. Sullivan provided a quiet space for our writers and readers to work. Mr. Jones’s support for us is unwavering. Our printer of 19 years, Furbush-Roberts in Maine is, luckily for us, an “essential business.” They printed the book in the midst of the pandemic. We want to thank Caitlin Roberts, in particular, for her flexibility, kindness, and expertise over the years. The English Department’s dedication to teaching inspires and cultivates creativity and passion for writing. Their hard work and commitment has ensured the prosperity of writing and reading in the future. The passion they feel for literature and writing has now been transferred to the students. The editors and the staff would also like to thank Ms. Greiner for the work she does annually to ensure the continued success of our literary magazine. Her vision takes Penumbra to the next level. Thank you so much to everyone who dedicated their time and helped to make this issue of Penumbra such an amazing one, especially during these difficult times. Stay safe. Stay healthy. Keep making art.

The Editors

Penumbra is a publication of Greens Farms Academy 35 Beachside Avenue Westport, Connecticut 203-256-0717 123