Folio 15 by HFU Folio

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Ha..ttie!fi.e!I<I.. by Joe Salvatore Many moons ago the fight began, the battle raged for years -Many men, considered strong, shed many tears. The wizard chants a cry of hope that just men shall not yield, Then cries as the footmen fall, as result of the battlefield. Two brothers together fight, are walking by the sand The youngest has just been hit, the arrow in hand. The oldest curses the foe, his brother's death, goes off to the battlefield . .. The preacher holds a funeral Mass for those who met fate. The dead do not seem to care, the living pray and wait, Âˇ The widows, helpless now, the pain they can't conceal, Moan as the dead come back returning from the battlefield. The unicorns are gone but few, the dragons lost their fire. The risks are high, rewards are few, the soldiers lose desire. The lords persuade their knights and give a sword to wield But retreat as darkness falls across the battlefield ... The castle walls are cold and damp, the west wall has a crack, The dungeon has a prisoner who lies upon the rack-His face is that of beaten man, the pain he tries to shield But screams as ropes are pulled so far from the battlefield ... The kingdom is in anarchy, as the peasants plot andÂˇ scheme. The queen has born an heir, fulfilling royal dreams. The king must go off and fight, the queen's worst fear revealed Yet smiles as her lord rides off in quest of the battlefield ...

THE MEMORY OF MRS. SUSAN CHRISTIANSEN I shall always treasure her memory within the safe of my heart, for she was my mother, not through birth, but through the years of living at a residential school for the blind. And even now, although she is no longer living, the endearing bond we shared, which made us emotionally mother and daughter, is still special to me. Mrs. Christiansen, I am told, was tall and thin, her countenance gaunt, but with features distinctly etched and often characterized as handsome. Her hair was dark brown, short and curly -- deliberately arranged to balance her slightly elongated face. Her eyes were a pale shade of blue, glazed with a kindness that reflected the jovial sparkle of her smile; for she was easily amused and always prepared with a witty re足 sponse to spread her contagious giggles. With words seemingly chosen but spontaneously spoken, her voice was soft, with a high, husky blend. Her fashion of dress was subtle but charming, with muted colored skirts and delicately patterned blouses her most favorable attire. However, it was the jingle of her bracelets, in accompaniment with her spry, tapping steps, that fondly became a signal of identification to all attuned ears. But to me, Mrs. Christiansen's face was a voice that revealed her deepest expressions of emotion: for when she cried, I felt her sorrow; when she laughed, I felt her joy; when she hurt, I felt her pain. But it was when she held me, attempting to replace the sheltering arms of my parents, that I felt the sincerity of her love. Never once did she forget to kiss me goodnight, after slipping me under the covers, "like a letter in an envelope," she would say. The scent of her skin as she bent to kiss my cheek had the lingering fragrance of roses -- dampened roses, like those dap足 pled with dew in the early morning. And as I drifted off to sleep, warmly nestled beneath the blanket of security she bestowed upon me, I could hear the lull of her voice, almost inaudible beneath the piano's hum. She was singing, "Sleep my child and peace attend thee all through the night. Guardian angels God will send thee all through the night." When I awoke in the morning, it was to the sound of her quick, bustling steps and to her cheerful voice, which held a note of punctuality; for Mrs. Christiansen was not only mother to me but also to fourteen other little girls. Her role as housemother depend足 ed faithfully upon an approximated schedule, which left little time for sleepyheads and slowpokes. As Mrs. Christiansen routinely made her way from child to child, it was only natural for her to pull down the bedcovers and tickle our feet, for she insisted that we begin our day with a "sunshine smile." She had the patience of a saint and the strength of a giant. Rarely did she raise her voice above the cries of battle, for a few calmly spoken sentences were all it took for us to willingly surrender. We knew that as kind as she was her words could be laced with punishment. How often she had to comfort and dry the tears of homesick little girls who made her promise repeatedly that "Mommy" and "Daddy" still loved them and, without a doubt, would not forget to come and take them home. But she had to be strong, because Mrs. Christiansen knew that for many of the girls school was their home and she their only source of parental love. She tended to our ailments, molded our behavior, and taught us our schoolwork. But as busy as she was, she seldom passed up the opportunity to join us on the swings, take us for walks, or transport a wagon full of kids. She never forgot a birthday or holiday celebration. As trivial as it may seem, she never forgot to put bubbles in our baths. "Sometimes I feel like the old lady who lives in a shoe," we would hear her mum足 ble from time to time. But we knew what Mrs. Christiansen cherished most of all was each one of her little girls, and we adored her. For where else besides home could we find reassurance against a waiting shoulder; protection within open arms; guidance from an outstretched hand; and love from a devoted heart. Karen Ann Metzner 15

TRUTH CIRCLE

I played your game. That's all it is -a rap game, sweetened with jargon. A gut-level sham, where we'd all sit around and discuss our very acceptable problems. A huddle of smile-stifled pain. He played too. Ben of the cookies and sad smile Who hung himself this morning -Â Whose wordless plea Was never heard In the truth circle. Annemarie Jannotta

KIďż˝GDOl\11* The Kingdom of God envelops the earth. The Kingdom of God is a place of worth. The benevolent Father loves everyone. He assigns you tasks that must be done. Love thy neighbor, help the poor, feed the Hungry---- you can do much more. Teach those in need, do a good deed, Give of yourself and banish greed. But the dearest wish from the heart of God is to especially banish war from the Kingdom of God. ---Daria Driban - "86"

'Originally published in An,erica n Collegiate Poets. Fall Concours, 1984

"Okay, you knowa whata do. Separate the ripe grapes from the sour ones and makea sure not mix them up." "Okay, grandpop." When we were finished carefully selecting the grapes, we gathered the ripe ones and prepared them for the press. 'These grapes are beautiful. We're sure to make a nice barrel of wine out of these, huh, grandpop?" "Maybe, Paschan, justa pay attention to whata you're doing, and we just might luck out." "Right, grandpop." "Okay, poura the grapes into the press and maka sure youa fill it to the top. Then when youa finish, turn the press slow so that youa don'ta miss crushing any of the grapes." After another four of five boxes of grapes, the barrel was filled to the brim. "Finished," I shouted to my grandfather as I looked up at him making room to store the barrel of grape juice for fermentation. "Okay, Paschan, puta the lid of the barrel ona tight so that no air seeps in." "Okay, grandpop." After wheeling the barrel over, we struggled to put it on the shelf. "You okay, grandpop?" "Yeah, yeah, justa be careful." "Ready, one, two, three" -- and up it went. "Alright,just clean upa the cellar. Then we can seea whata grandmama is cooking for Sunday dinner." "Okay, grandpop." "Thanks, Paschan." It was simple moments like those described that made me cherish the memories of my grandfather. Although my grandfather was a jolly person, my mother and her sister and brother also saw a strict side of him. When my mother's family sat at the supper table, they were not allowed to speak -- my grandfather insisted on absolute silence during the meal. My grandfather was also a suspicious and cautious man. He often told members of my family, as well as friends, "Watch people. They are the most difficult animals to understand and trust." I believe he was this way because of his many experiences throughout his life. Most of the things my grandfather did he did for himself, not that he was a selfish man, but a man with an iron will who insisted on being independent of others. The best example of my grandfather's independence was when he was in the hospital after suffering a stroke. Not only did he give the hospital staff a hard time, but went so far as to pull my aunt's hair so hard that it took all of my mother's strength to unlock his hands from her. He was too proud to be helped by anyone -- even his own daughters. It was from complications due to the stroke that ended his life at the age of eighty-five. My grandfather always said, "Ina this world you havta worka hard ana do the best you can." But the quotation my grandfather was best noted for was, "You gotta be your owna doctor. You know your body best." My grandfather was a proud man and often rejoiced over being Italian. He taught himself how to read and write English and stressed the importance of education. He was a curious man who wanted to know everything about the world in which he lived. He was never afraid of anything, except cars. My grandfather never owned a car and never learned how to drive. Therefore, my mother and her brother and sister walked everywhere. My grandfather walked every day of his life; that is why when he died at eighty-five, he looked sixty. Although my grandfather came from a simple background, he lived an interestÂ ing and rewarding life. When he died, I not only lost a grandfather, but a good friend. Why my grandfather seemed to take special in me, I still don't know. Perhaps in me he saw a great deal of himself. 11

white beard, he would have looked like Santa. He loved to entertain people, especially after a few drinks, and once he started singing there was no turning him off. Because of his love for music, when I was young and we would visit my grandpop, he would play some of his opera records for me. He would say to me,"Jachini, listna to the beautiful musica. Music is the language ofa love." Then I asked him one day, "Grandpop, what is your favorite opera?" He looked at me and said, "Ah! What else -- Carmina --Theya named this opera after me." This should give you an idea of what a storyteller my grandfather was. My grandfather took great pride in everything that he did; he was a man to be resÂ pected. One of the things he was proud of was his garden. He planted just about everything in his yard. But the pride of his garden was his fig tree, and the covering of the fig tree was an annual event. My grandfather would begin his day early in the mornÂ ing, gathering the plastic tarps from the shed, which would serve as the tree's jacket for the winter. After finishing this chore, he would attempt to help my grandmother in the kitchen; however, he was eventually thrown out. Thereafter, grandfather would then go outside to greet his "pizans" -- this was what he called his "drinking buddies." They would then cover the tree, which took about two hours. Once finished, we would spend the rest of the day drinking, eating, and having fun. This event usually lasted many hours. My grandfather had a kind heart and enjoyed sharing his bounty. Grandfather's pride and joy was his wine cellar. When it concerned his wine, no one could tell him anything; he was a master of his trade. It was in my grandfather's wine cellar that I learned the art of wine-making. We would first separate the ripe grapes from the -----..._ sour ones. Then, after carefully selecting them, we would turn a hundred pounds into a single gallon of wine. I trnly learned the meaning of the word "patience," for it took at least seven months before we could sample the finished product. My grandfather's wine cellar was like a medieval dungeon, cold in temperature but warm in its surroundings. Wl1en first entering Boland the cellar, you could see his wine press, which was (and still is) part of the foundation of the house. On the far wall were platforms, which were constructed to hold the many barrels of wine my grandfather and I made. A second platform was used for wine that spoiled. It was for this reason that the cellar had to be cool at all times. My grandfather always said, "If the heata goes up, then the wine gosa bad." In the back of the cellar was were my grandfather kept all the wine he bottled. It was in the back of the cellar that his pizans (drinking buddies in Italian) always seemed to end up before they ended their weekly visit. My grandfather was always happy to share his bounty. He also used the back part of the cellar to smoke meat. I can remember many a day smelling the aroma of salami and sausage firing in the cellar. The memories of the Italian-like wine cellar are made vivid as I recall the first time I made wine with my grandfather. 'The grapea truck is outside," my grandfather shouted as we prepared to spend the day making wine. "Do you have the wheelbarrow?" "Yeah, grandpop." "Good, then goa outside and helpa the man unload." After bringing the grapes down to the cellar, my grandfather asked me to prepare the press for the day's work. "Are youa ready, Jachini?" "Yeah, grandpop." 10

THE ITALIAN PILGRIM

James Mayer My grandfather, Carmen Catallo, was a unique person. He was born in Foggio, Italy, which lies in the province of Trio. From his childhood days to his mid-teens, he worked as a farmhand. In 1909 he came to the United States and settled in Pittsburgh with his older brother, Benny. My grandfather often told me about his immigration from Italy to the United States. I shall never forget one conversation I had with him. "Grandpop, how was your trip here, and how did you adapt to the new and strange surroundings?" "It wasnta easy," my grandfather replied. "When Ia first a leava Italia, I felta scared because I did nota know what to expect. I was only a sixteen and I wasa leaving my mother, and I didn't even knowa if I would ever see her again. Remember, Paschan, the wasa the first time Ia leava the little farma town I wasa born and raised for sixteen years. This was the only life I knowa. Now, I'ma gona go ona ship and crossa the ocean for two weeks or more all alone. I was afraid! The onlya thing that makea me feel a better during the trip was thata when it was over I woulda see my brother. Whena the boat docked ana my eyes saw him, the fear went away." At the age of sixteen, he started working in the coal mines. The work was difficult, physically demanding, and dangerous. The first rule he learned as a miner was -- when the rats run for an opening, that's the signal to get out. Due to instinct, the rats sensed the impending danger and, therefore, saved their lives as well as many human lives. For the next five years, he continued to work in the mines. In 1915 he returned to Italy where he was drafted into the Italian forces. During his service in the army, their ship, while sailing on the Mediterranean, was sunk by a German U-boat. He was fortunate, for he was one of fifty-eight survivors. After spending many days at sea, they washed up on the shores of Africa. He remained in Africa for approximately eighteen months, and a great deal of adjustment was necessary. Besides the possibility of a battle, there was litÂ tle food and difficulty "braving the elements" of nature. When he had finished his service, he returned to Italy where he married my grandmother, Amelia De Angelis. With his new bride, he ventured to the United States where he settled once again in Pittsburgh. After working in the mines for a short time, he grew discouraged. F rom friends of his in Chicago, he learned of the availability of jobs in that city. After considerable thought, he decided he would have greater opporÂ tunities in the city than in a small mining town, but after a few successful years, the country was ravaged by the Depression that affected country folk as well as city dwellers. Fortunately, prior to the Depression, he became a skilled window cleaner. It was this job that carried him and his family through the Depression. He lived during the time of Prohibition, bathtub gin, and the reign of famous gangsters such as Al Capone, Babyface Nelson, and American's first public enemy -Â John Dillinger. But my grandfather always said, "a Alla Capone -- he was nota so bad. His use to feeda the hungry people in Chicaga. He use to havea what they calla soupa line. The hungry people woulda go there, geta bowl of soupa and some breada, and their stomach feela better. I use to see the people in a the lines when I would go to and froma my joba. He dida bad things, but he did soma good thingsa, too." Years later, he received a letter from his brother, Benny, in Philadelphia. In the letter Benny suggested that my grandfather move to Philadelphia, so the family could be together, after being separated for so many years. He consented and, arriving in Philadelphia, his first job was at an iron and steel plant. Later, he was employed with the Navy Yard, where he continued working during World War II. It was there that he worked for so many years. As he approached retirement age, he continued to work various jobs. Because he dreaded retirement, he worked to the ripe old age of seventy-eight. His life's experiences caused him to be strict, but they also taught him to love life and to enjoy it to its fullest. He had a nice, round face, a big, round belly, and if he had a

LOM"BARDl

OF STONES AND STONED Wwo travelers stare at Mayan sunbaked walls.

Two figures standstoned: one Indian; one Mandarin. Two people buried in the substance of their flesh.

One in full headdress, with toe-top tomahawk step, Hails Shoshone's shimsham wardance band.

One, that lordly Chinese kinsman's stance;

The new world emperor's ying-yang trance.

"lll!lhich way, Senor? W hich way?" Brar and high beneath those falling wintry skies

An old octagonal schoolhouse talks a.n d lies

Between the riďż˝ud swamps and the arid fhores:. .

Spin-n-n-n-s a hemisphere's goldenJore. ;

"lll!lhich way, Doctor?" An old encyclopedia sounds an astute argument: .

"An Asian mother birthed the New World arc-boutant -Â

They trudged across the great Aleutian span,

Fron1 the Northern Plains south to Yucatan?"

Then crawled into the pages of the book ...

And yet the stones upon the page speak out Like stillness in the long hot cajun night.

"IJIJI h ich way?" 8

CONTENTS

OF STONES AND STONED ...............................................Thomas F. Lombardi THE ITALIAN PILGRIM ..................................................................... James Mayer TRUTH CIRCLE ........................................................................ Annemarie Jannotta DAY'S END ................................................................................. Annemarie Jannotta ANTIQUE SUNLIGHT...................................................................... Colleen Archer KINGDOM ............................................................................................. Daria Driban THE MEMORY OF MRS. SUSAN CHRISTIANSEN............................................Karen Ann Metzner NATURE AWAKENED .......................................................... Annemaiie Jannotta NIGHT THOUGHTS ......................................................... Maureen L. McTaggart EDUARDO .......................................................................................... Cecelia Johnson ECCE VIRGO ............................................................................................. Mark Kehoe THE TREE AND THE PROFESSOR AND THE TEST ............................................................................ Thomas Cordivari BATILEFIELD ......................................................................................... Joe Salvatore SHADOW S IN THE DUMP ......................................................... Angela L. Gillis DARK STRANGER .......................................................................... Angela L. Gillis ARTISTS ....................................................................................................... John Boland Dora Pruna Suzette Driban

TENEOR VOTIS I am bound to give of myself because I have received

Moderator, Editors, and Staff wish to dedicate

Fo//c::, -, 5 to

The memory of

.S/st"er lv1ary Florence., G. .S.F.N.., First Academic Dean of Holy Family College and frequent contributor.

F 0 L I 0

"Â°'t "Y! 15

Whe Folio is a belles-lettres journal of contemporary artistic expression. The magazine encompasses in words and visual graphics the thoughts of the faculty and student body of Holy Family College.

Student-Faculty contributions from other institutions as well as creations from area artists are welcome.

Printed By PRINT 'N COPY CENTERS A division of:

L.I.B. SERVICES, INC.

Folio 15 Staff Editors Thomas Walsh A.nnemarie Jonnotta Daria Driban Staff

Thomas Cordivari James Mayer Angela Gillis Elizabeth Fonseca Roseanna Bodner Walter J. Bell Mae Shotwell Joseph Salvatore Patrick McGuckin Anne Carlisle Special thanks to Dr. Thomas J. McCormick and Mr. Robert Hankis for their expert proofreading. Moderator Dr. Thomas Francis Lon1bardi

Soaring sea gull

Between you and the dusk Just one lonely shriek October weeps

,:ďż˝

cascades of golden leaves to n1.ourn the death of sun1.n1.er

After a rainstorm

A Raggedy Ann doll Smiles at the sun Fragrant honeysuckle

Winds around an ancient tree Helping it to die

A tiny red rosebud Kisses a buttercup with each gentle breeze

A Collection of Hiku Poems By Annemarie Jannotta

By Mark Kehoe

I have entered in a

blond forest of

young hair, and I

gently lay a rose

on the corners of

my eyes; the coolÂ

ness of its petals,

can keep up. It

rests above my

vision like sleep

before a sunrise.

At last I depart

from the blonde

forest of the

young virgin's

hair.

Mc;tureen L. McTaggart 1

ďż˝IG--I-IT TI-IC>UG--I-ITS I hear a faint bark in the night. The radio passes out romantic overtones to lovers throughout the city. The bed lamp flickers each time I raise my head to adjust the pillow. My eyes try to secure themselves shut a hundred times; finally, I succumb to exhaustion. I have only to roll over to make the light go out. 19

marl" ยงtronger I am held a prisoner In the sleepy nighttime of his eyes And in them I find a strange comfort That sings my restless soul to peace. Entranced by the yet undiscovered I lie in wait, My heart in want Of what it knows not, Of what it has known and lost. I find a liberation In the bindings of his embrace, A trap of sweet torture Beyond compare. And when his dew drop lips Brand me with his captive seal There is a searing bondage That sets me free In the arms Of a dark stranger.

Angela L. Gillis

D.AY'S Eďż˝D A soft noise alerted him. The room was paused in gray anticipation of sunrise, and he was able to see his daughter in the gentle light. Satisfied, he lay back deep within his pillow and closed his eyes. This was still the best time of day for him. Dawn and the sight of Laura verified the conquest of another night's anxieties, and now he could relax and listen to the gentle rustling sounds she made as she set out a small medical am10ry on a nearby wooden table. He derived deep comfort from the presence of his daughter. She possessed a quiet competence and seemed so undaunted by his illness that he gained courage from her. She interrupted his thoughts. "O.K., Dad, pill time." He propped himself up and waited while she arranged a backrest of pillows behind him. When he was settled, she sat on the edge of the bed, a jumble of pills cupped in one palm. He took the glassful of water from her other outstretched hand. "Here's Dilaudid, for your pain, and Penicillin to prevent infection," she intoned, while he dutifully dispatched each garish missile to its designated assignment with a hearty swig of water. When he was through, she left the room in search of his robe, and he lay back again and pondered his predicament with growing despair. He was beset with doubt. He had once sought to vanquish his illness with a barrage of medical weaponry, but his body, turning traitor, had relinquished increasingly greater advantages to the enemy. Over the weeks, he had been coerced by pain and weakness to consider the possibility of defeat. He was terrified. He longed to speak to Laura about his fears, but this need he felt for her unnerved him. Need. It was something he had rejected years ago, a sign of weakness. To articulate his fears to her might release other pent-up weaknesses that he would sooner hold in check. Besides, he knew Laura was having pro21

blems at home. The fact that she was coming every day to care for him made him miserable with guilt. He lay there as morning filled the room and breathed a deep heavy sigh. "Oh, my, that sounds ominous," Laura said, referring to the sigh she had entered the room in time to hear. "It is," he answered dully. "Here," she extended his robe, "put this on and I'll help you to the bathroom." She ignored his remark. He was frequently irritable in the morning. She had held his arm as he shuffled slowly to the bathroom. He entered and closed the door. A few minutes later, he emerged, looking refreshed. She helped him to settle into a large, ugly easy chair that occupied a corner of the room. She sat on the edge of the bed facing him. "Now tell me," she said, leaning toward him, smiling. "How do you feel?" "Who's watching the kids?" he inquired, dismissing her question with a wave of his hand and a negative nod. "Dave's home with them," she answered, her smile somewhat diminished. "Why?" "I hate to see you coming here so much," he lied. "You're needed at home." The smile was gone now. She suddenly looked weary. Not this again, she thought. He was constantly harping on her absence from home. "Everything's all right at home, Dad," she assured him for what seemed the thousandth time. "The kids are with their father. They're fine." Her answer seemed to satisfy him. He was quiet for a moment; then he said, "When will they start the pool?" 'They started it yesterday." "Yesterday," he groaned. "You were here yesterday. You wanted to watch them build it. I know you did." He leaned forward, "I remember your telling us you planned to watch every step." He slumped back into the chair. Laura was dismayed to see her father beating himself with his own protests. She attempted a light touch. "It's no big deal, Dad. I can see it when I get home. Last night there was a huge hole dug. It was fun to see what they had done while I was gone. Come on now, tell me how you feel." Placated a bit, he assembled a quick mental assessment of his physical condition and presented it to her. "I feel a little better today, stronger, but that's the thing with this so called recuperation..." He shot her a look wondering if she'd notice the "so-called," then went on. "One day I'm good. The next day I'm so damn weak I can hardly lift my head. I try to eat to get my strength, but it's hard. I'm not hungry? How can I be hungry? I don't do any thing but sit all day." He sighed, then continued, "Doris tries to get me to eat. She makes all these meals that I don't want, then gets mad when I can't eat them. Nothing tastes right, any way. All that medicine has my system loused up." He put his hand to his lips and rubbed them, thinking. Then he looked up at her and asked, 'They won't mess with the peach tree, will they?" "What?" she said, puzzled. 'The pool men. They won't be digging near the tree, will they?" "Oh, the peach tree ... No." "I used to think I'd prune that for you," he mused softly, almost to himself. He saw the startled expression on her face. Careful, he thought to himself, you're going too far. He quickly changed the subject and asked, "How's Dave?" She struggled to keep up with his conversation. She felt disconcerted by the new attitude of despondency she was hearing. "He's fine. Busy as usual. Dad, why did you say--" "I mean Dave and you," he said pointedly. "Oh, that." She rose from the bed and walked back and forth. "We're O.K." "Are you still seeing that counselor?" he probed. "What? Oh, yes. He's helping me." She walked to the window, lifted a corner of the curtain, and peered out.

"Helping you to bed--" She whirled to face him, eyes flashing. "Come on, Dad." It was half warning, half plea. "Not you. I don't mean you'd do anything. But him, what kind of counselor is he? Now he's your f1iend. I never heard of that." ''He likes me," she exclaimed heatedly. He likes Dave, too." "Yeah, and I bet Dave just loves him, too." Laura was furious now. It was a victory of self-control that she didn't turn on her father, reminding him that it was just this jealous attitude that had driven her mother away from him years ago. She stood near the bed, her face in her hands, and struggled for comÂ posure. Finally, she went to the bed and sat clown. She leaned over and took his skinny, gnarled hands in hers. "I don't want to talk about this, Dael. You don't understand, and I don't want to fight with you. Let's change the subject, alright?" He nodded agreement, solemnly, like a child. He was truly repentant. He did not wish to alienate her. However clumsy his approach, he really was concerned about her marriage. He thought of his wife, Doris. Thank God she had gone out today. Emotionally frail, she was completely unable to cope with his illness. Last night had convinced him of that. He had complained to her of pain and her response had been to tell him not to think of it and to watch TV. He looked at his daughter. She had said something to him that he had not heard. "What?" he asked. "I asked you what you're thinking," she smiled. "I was thinking of Doris. She's falling apart." "I know she is," Laura agreed. "This has been hard on her, too. She doesn't know what to do for you." Suddenly frustration and a sense of great futility overwhelmed him. He was tired of "walking on eggs" about his illness. Sick of protecting himself, he dared to say the first thing that came to his mind: "Maybe there's nothing anybody can do." Laura stared at him a long time. Finally she said, "Is that what you really think? 'Cause if it is, maybe we should talk about it." "What's to talk about? Who am I kidding?" He smiled sardonically. He felt a strange sense of exhilaration. "This is no recuperation," he went on softly, as though convincing himself. "All the pain, the weakness, Doris crying in the night. No, there's no recuperation. I'm dying. I should have figured it out." Having arrived at his conclusion, he suddenly seemed inflamed with anger. "Look at me," he shouted. He flung open his robe. "Look at me. Does that look like I'm getting better? I'm a walking skeleton, for Christ sake." Laura stared, stricken. His figure in the awful striped pajamas was pitiful. She averted her eyes. "Yeah, look away," he shouted. 'That's what I do." "What do you want from me?" she pleaded. "The truth!" he demanded. Laura sat mutely, panicked. She did not know what to tell him. He was right. He was dying, but he might have months to live. It would be cruel to rob each remaining day of quality and hope. She tiied frantically to think of something to say. He didn't wait for her reply. He was off again, ranting wildly: "Everyday for weeks, you've been coming down here. I'm dragging you away from your home, your family. I'm not stupid. I know there's problems with you and Dave. You should be home working them out, instead of wasting your time here every day." That was it. She had heard enough. Laura, seized with anger, sprang from the bed

and stood over him: "You want the truth?" she shouted. "O.K., here it is. The truth is you're sick, very sick. The truth is, I don't know how long you have to live. I don't know how long anybody has. The truth is, no matter how long it is, I want to make you comfortable. Why are you too selfish to let me be where I want to be?" "Selfish?" he asked stupidly, dazed by her display of passion. She sat back on the bed across from him. "You keep complaining about my coming down here. The kids are fine. Everything there can wait. I want to be here, with you. All my life, you did for me. You raised us, Dad. I learned from you, from what you did, not just said, that you don't abandon people. But you don't know how to take, or you're too proud or hung-up or something." She leaned in very close to him. "Don't you understand?You're my father and I don't have anything else to give now,just my being here and you're too selfish to accept it." Having said that, she turned and lay face down on the bed, angry at herself for fighting with him, and embarrassed in the same way she had felt as a child when she had had to kiss him. She desperately wished she were somewhere else. He sat in the quiet room absorbed in his thoughts. He thought of death and suffering and grieved the losses his illness had already imposed. He remembered happy times spent in the garden with Laura and wondered if he would see another spring. His eye was caught by a spark.le in a corner of the room where the sun made a torch of a water glass. He watched it for a second, then looked at his daughter. She was so still. He was sure she was sleeping. And she left him that illusion. He had never meant to hurt her, to make her feel rejected. Throughout his ordeal, she had been the one person he could count on. He thought she knew that. Selfish, he mused. To want her to go home and fix things there, selfish? It was all too confusing. He felt extremely and thoroughly exhausted. He knew he would need Laura if he was to cope with the days ahead. He wanted her with him. He would tell her that when she awoke. Annemarie Jannotta

SHADOWS IN THE DUMP Quietly Stand I, Sniffling back tl1e sodden heat Of the bitter tears That bite my throat Whilst Daddy Makes play talk With the black men Who call him "brother." The putrid stench Does its best To quell the burning Fu1y That was raged In my face Only moments before. Now it is gone, And the pretend mask Of smiles Is donned again, Much to the puzzlement or others as well. I am defeated. I am weak. I am too tired to fight Anymore. Quietly Stand I, Overpowered by fake men's laugh ter Filling the incinerator lot. lam Covered By shadows in the dump. By Angela L. Gillis

T homas Cordivari The Tree and the Professor and the Test sun falls gently across the sky river sings to small children on its edge Breeze sucks all my Breath it is the Test The divine test can you stand it? Will you survive? will you make it? I think Not!!

MOON

rises

into ferociously

the

river screams to the frantic aDuLt WoRID breezes Burn the skin of young americanS The test has come of age The sage is buried behind Book The professor finds HIM the Blue and and and and the professor is is is!!! is murdered By hiS oW n br i wa e look out thl ilind6\if and see the tree it is there, and it Beckons every man to not Be a Tree nor a Professor

sKy

Eduardo by Cecelia Johnson

5. "Bebida, madre,"

1. Eduardo, cinco, squatted under a banyan tree. Its great gray trunk and muzzle bows encased him.

he calls and his mother splashes pump water into a rusty cup.

6. Cicadas din in moist, muggy heat; muzzles of guns crack, puffs of smoke rise from the encircling hills.

2. On him haunches. feet flat, hairpin knees, he drew faces in the dirt, the dusty, buggy dirt.

7. Eduardo stands in the dusty dirt, kicks earthy clouds at the great gray hulk

3. No Sesame Street, Spiderman nor Star Wars coloring book; no complete set of multicolor Crayolas has he.

8. ''EI norte." His father whispers to madre at the pump as Eduardo's hands 4. Campesinos don't need books. Can't read, don't want to, wash clean. amigo, concerto! final.

AN1'1QUE SUNLIGHT This light that shines ever so quietly upon me as I travel catches my attention swings my thoughts to past sunlight that once shone on the shoulders of my father and me. With our hands clasped we casually strolled down the street experiencing a wann sun1.n1.er evening. How all humorous this appears to me -that even in the dullest times of winter, the simple sunshine creates again past happy times that not only warm my face but my heart as well. Colleen Archer '88

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