Kentucky Kernel: March 24, 2022

LITERARY EDITION SPRING 2022 kentuckykernel

Thursday, March 24, 2022

Thursday, March 24, 2022

Table of contents: 2... Robbery 101 3... Whirlpool 4.... Burning Bridge; Where I Was Haunted 5... healthcare thoughts during a global pandemic; When You're Everything 6... STFU 7... I am starting to think I do not like men; How to Get Smoke Out of Your Eyes

8... Gooseberry Pie 10... big char 11... Jade 12... Say Her Name 13... I Am Pregnant 14... For Things Unseen; What's Next?

15... Lovers On the cover: Katie by Abigail Purcell, junior digital media design and ISC major

Robbery 101 I look up from my magazine and see a robber standing in front of me who doesn’t look like one, since his hair is sticking up in all directions and his shirt is on inside out. But he does have a gun.

I stare at him while he holds the gun and shuffles his feet across the floor. He mutters something about where he can find some money. Laughing, I say that’s not how robbers are supposed to talk to the people they’re robbing, which causes him to blink and ask what I would say when robbing a gas station at 7 A.M. on a Monday.

I slam my hands on the counter and yell ferociously that he needs to give me all the money he has, with a few expletives thrown in. This startles the robber, causing him to drop the gun. I point at it and tell him that’s a rookie mistake, because someone could grab his gun and use it on him instead. He turns red and mutters angrily to himself as he picks it up.

2 | kentucky kernel

In this special issue of the Kentucky Kernel, we feature bodies of literary and artistic work from students here at the University of Kentucky. To read full literary pieces and view other works, visit kykernel.com or scan the provided QR codes.

By Ava Weece, sophomore English major, fiction

He asks how I know so much about robbing places. I tell him I’ve seen several movies like any normal person, which he responds to by saying he doesn’t really enjoy movies. Choosing to ignore that horrendous statement, I ask him why he’s robbing a gas station when there are banks a few miles away. He looks at his feet and mumbles for a second before speaking up louder and saying that there’s a roof over his head and free food in prison.

I ask the robber why he doesn’t go to a shelter instead. He responds that prison has a schedule with outdoor time. This leads to me making a joke that being homeless allows plenty of time outside, which causes him to turn red again, so I clear my throat and go silent.

He shakes the gun and says he needs the money now, nodding forcefully on the last word. I hand him some from the cash register, along with a pack of cinnamon

gum. He pushes away the gum but I tell him it will look tough if he’s arrested while chewing gum. Smiling, he pockets everything and stands for a second before staring down at the counter and saying thank you.

He turns to leave and I yell that he needs to fire the gun. His eyes go wide, looking at me like I just spoke German, and I explain that he has to shoot the lights out or something glass so people will know he was a daring robber instead of a wimp. He contemplates this before raising the gun and shooting at the refrigerator in the back.

Sodas explode and glass goes flying all over the floor.

He looks back at me and runs out the door. I finish reading my magazine as alarms blare and soda runs between the shelves. I count to 20 in my head before calling the police, because I figure any first-time robber would want a cool getaway story before they get caught.

Whirlpool The elder ambled along the beach, hobbling over to each shell he came upon. The cane progressed in sync with his body and clicked with every step he took. He observed the hoary waves as they crashed beside him and gave a smile. The man took in the scent of salty sea spray through his nose. The seagulls above him cawed and crashed to the ground beside him; he began to chuckle at their shenanigans. Nature appeared to be in peace around him; however, that was until the waves began to crash upon his dress shoes. “Shit,” he muttered, jolting with his good hip out of the way. He limped onto the sand and jostled the water off each of his shoes. He shook his wrinkled head and pushed his glasses upon the bridge of his nose. The old man peered above him to witness the audience of darkened clouds that joined to watch him as they murmured in the distance. “I thought it was supposed to be a clear day today,” he groaned aloud. He shuddered, pulled his navy coat around him, and quickened his pace.

“David…” His pace halted, his head whirled around, and mouth laid agape as he peered unto the blackened sea.

His breath hitched and his face sour, “Yes? Who is that?” He croaked as he looked side to side with his hand above his eyes to shield them from the mere light that poked through the clouds. “How do you know my name?” The waves seemed deathly silent now, not even a crash to be heard. “I swear, I must be losing my mind,” He shuddered and began to walk again.

He began to draw his attention to the animals he admired just before they flew to his right, away from the sea, startled, and others confined themselves below the sand. “David, it’s time.”

His pace ceased again, and in return, his face turned a mixture of pale as the sand and as deathly green as the sea. He slowly turned to his left to see the waves receding and rolling into a mossy obsidian whirlpool. He turned his feet around and hobbled to peer into the dark depths of the sea’s whirlpool. He swallowed as he heard the cries of the restless sea within the whirlpool endlessly calling his name. “David!” Jolting him out of his thoughts, a voice bellowed from inland. David swiftly shifted his attention to his right.

Beyond the grass and along the dunes, a frail, elderly woman

Thursday, March 24, 2022

By Grace Hedrick, sophomore English and political science major, fiction

waved her right arm with tears in her eyes. Her left arm gripped tightly onto the cane that resided in her hand. “Look at me, please, David. It’s not looking good; I can’t lose you out there!”

Her swollen knees attempted to allow her to walk, unfortunately, they gave way and she crashed to the sand. As he attempted to make out the figure with his weakened eyes, he widened his mouth in awe. “Ira, is that you?” She shook her head, full of smokey curls, rapidly in return. “Yes David! Come here please, quickly, it’s coming!” He pivoted to face the swirling waves as they heightened each second that he faltered. “I’m coming Ira! Just stay there,” He stumbled, pressing his weight on the cane each step, and groaned. Click…Click…Click. He peered behind him, as the dark blue arm of the sea extended closer to him, barely grazing his navy button up jacket. His face grew sour as his limp became more severe. “Ira, I’m hurting, I don’t know if I can make it dear,” His face fell as sweat beads littered his forehead. “Honey please!” She bawled, but the waves ascended too swiftly for the man. He stopped midway and inhaled; he looked to the sand beneath him, brow furrowed. The man turned to face the sable wall of water that leered back at him.

There wasn’t any warning, there wasn’t any time, and there sure wasn’t any escaping his fate. The old man dropped his cane, lifted his arms to each side of him as if he were one of the seagulls that once littered the sky, and sighed. The man’s face relaxed for the first time in decades. The dreadful arm plucked his meek body from the sand. He slowly descended into the endless whirlpool, feeling the warmth of the restless waters around him.

Above the dark sea, all was tranquil again. The whirlpool dissipated and not a wave appeared for miles. The wildlife that permeated the beach once arrived again as if nothing had happened. Ira’s tears fell for hours as she looked at the serene sea that now sat in front of her. She shook her head as her tears fell upon the snow-white sand. “I’ll be with you again someday David. The waves will be here for me too. I’ll live amongst the tides with you,” Her aging hands covered her face. “I don’t know when, but I will be subject to them too, my love, and when they do, I’ll be unafraid, just as you were.” she whispered, limping away from the mystifying beach. spring 2022 | 3

Thursday, March 24, 2022

Burning Bridge

By Isabelle Pethtell, senior digital media design major

Where I Was

Haunted

By Avery Hollar, junior communcation major, poetry

4 | kentucky kernel

My home, my safe haven Where I went to rest where I found my peace, You took that from me like so many other things.

My bed is no longer my bed, it's your trap My room is no longer my escape, it's your hideaway The walls scream your name, And the stains on the carpet hold your touch.

The sheets burn my skin as I still feel you ingulf me.

You took more than my home, you took my voice, my freedom, my confidence.

But that's what you wanted, wasn't it?

You live everywhere I go, I now realize it's not my bedroom that holds onto you, It's me Your memory floats in my mind like a nightmare But I've finally woken up.

My past is haunted, but my future It's alive

Thursday, March 24, 2022

Poetry by Megan Jones

healthcare thoughts during a global pandemic hold hands with death stare it in the face live comfortably in its presence but let it put you in your place it’s so much worse for him to watch what he became struggling for breath, up and down his delicate frame another number amongst thousands and he passed away you wore that mask, but still he didn’t stay and they don’t understand people just don’t care they nod their heads, sure but they’re blissfully unaware I’ve tried my best, sitting in front of this screen trying to comprehend it all the things that I’ve seen but how can you process? when it’s still happening to you a (collective) trauma, that somehow you’ll just have to pull through. make it make sense

When You’re Everything parents seal their hopes and dreams into the flesh of your skin the marrow of your bones are them made and crushed into all they couldn’t be. and it’ll take you years to see how it’s hidden behind their eyes the cogs turning and trying to figure out how to further you in the race they’ve been running of life they can hardly catch their breath and they’ve been beaten to death but honestly?

I don’t mind. the pressure is laid on thick and it’s fine I’ll take the baton they passed towards me in a fight against the mutual enemy because anything less is just a disservice to this blessed legacy. spring 2022 | 5

Thursday, March 24, 2022

STFU

By Sasha Fierce, senior art studio major 6 | kentucky kernel

Thursday, March 24, 2022

I am starting to think I do not like men.

By Brooklyn Plotner, junior English major, poetry

The light trudges through clouds through blinds, burning my eyes.

I do not like your body against mine, I like the thought of skin and bone.

Bitter cool boils water and drowns me— my mother sees me as a flower, I want to be meat.

And the girl I want calls herself another name that I do not know. The name tastes like cotton — my teeth ache from the fluff.

How to Get Smoke Out of Your Eyes

By Brooklyn Plotner

Over a week of making love every day (or something close to it) you fall asleep in my arms, twitching like a rabbit.

I want to burn a fire with you, where we burn too bright fade too fast, the lack of oxygen not for want of trying.

I grab the charcoal in my chest, hoping you follow my lead.

Black stains my hands, you insist it’s not there.

When smoke gets in our eyes, I whisper I hate rabbits and you look at me like I bit your neck twitching to death. spring 2022 | 7

Thursday, March 24, 2022

Gooseberry Pie The day of the wedding was exceptionally pleasant. A clear sky promised a forbidding of rain and prompted a soothing backdrop for the soft rustling of the Magnolia. Its blooms dripped over Ms. Meade’s yard with lush delicacy. She stood beneath them and observed her garden, “Mhmm, I can’t be having these rats ruinin' my garden,” she thought to herself. “Something’s gonna have to be done about this mess they’ve made.”

“Good Morning Ms. Meade!” a cheery voice called from across the lane. Ms. Meade raised a hand from her hip to adjust her straw hat.

Mrs. Walker waved from behind her white picket fence, a fresh newspaper delivered by Mr. White in hand.

“Your Magnolia looks marvelous this mornin.”

The ladies admired the flowering tree, “Lovely breeze isn’t it?” Ms. Meade responded.

Mrs. Walker exhumed a sigh in agreement. “Perfect weather for a weddin' don’t you think?” she added, “Not a cloud in the sky!”

Both women raised their heads to observe the clear blue atmosphere.“Yes, it sure is,” Ms. Meade concluded.

A reception was to be held after the service in a field beneath the church.

Ms. Meade had taken note of a large tent being raised the afternoon prior.

It was a bustle of activity. Walking home from the market, she stopped and spoke to John Baker, father of the 8 | kentucky kernel

By Joseph Cox, sophomore interiors major, fiction

groom.

"Now over here,” he pointed with both hands, “now that’s where the cake is gonna be set up. Sissy’s aunt Lucille has gone and made this big ole beautiful cake, you see, it’s plum three cakes tall.”

Ms. Meade stood clutching her bags, envisioning the party. “Now, I don’t know much about makin' cakes,” John admitted. “But, I do know about eatin' em, and if it’s a half as good as it looks, well we’re in for a good party, let me tell you that much.”

“That sounds lovely, Mr. Baker!”

Ms. Meade added.

“And over here,” he continued, “We’re settin' up a dancin' area. You ever get into that, Ms. Meade?” he asked with a smile.

“Now you know better than that,” she retorted with a reddened face.

“Let’s not forget this is still a Christian wedding. Somewhat.”

John Baker laughed and motioned towards a man unloading some chairs.

“And Edgar here has offered to fry up his fish for the reception. Says he and his boys was out on the river all day last Friday. Says we’ll be eatin' good.”

Edgar Collins’ sons followed after him.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Ms. Meade agreed, regaining hold on her bags, “Mr. Collins always does a very fine job with his catchings.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” John added. “And I sure hope we’ll be lucky enough to be seein' one of those spe-

cial pies?” He asked with a grin and raised eyebrows.

“Now,” she prompted, “are one of my little old pies really necessary amongst all these others-” Catching the bait, he interrupted, “Now Ms. Meade, you know fine well you’ve got the best pie recipe in the holler!” Now she was feigning embarrassment, “It wouldn’t be a party without one!”

For every church potluck Ms. Meade always provided a fresh Gooseberry Pie. “Well if you insist.” With a slight blush she opened her bags to let John see inside. “Don’t you worry, I've got all the ingredients right here.” John admired the fresh gooseberries and wafted their aura with his hand.

“You got a rat problem Ms. Meade?” Packaged separately, was also a small box of rat poison.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Baker," she answered with a grimace. “They’ve been tearin' up my garden. It’s too beautiful to let it sour like that.”

“Mhmm,” he agreed. “My wife sure does love that Magnolia.”

It shaded Ms. Meade as she and Mrs. Walker spoke from their respective yards. “How’s your pie coming along?” Mrs. Walker asked.

“Oh, I’m just now about to start!”

Ms. Meade admitted. “I’ve got a rat problem I’m tryin' to figure out how to deal with.”

Mrs. Walker was already wearing her apron. “Well I’ve been peelin'

Thursday, March 24, 2022

Read the full story here

potatoes all mornin'." Her hand rested on her back and the newspaper shielded her eyes. “Ernie’s already asked about taste testin' three times!”

The women laughed at Mr. Walker’s expense. “There’s a reason men oughta stay out of the kitchen!” Ms. Meade joked back.

Back in her kitchen, Ms. Meade gathered the ingredients she had brought home the evening before.

She had never been to a wedding like the one she was about to attend. She was well acquainted with both the families, and remembered when both Jimmy and Sissy were born.

The problem, for Ms. Meade however, was that she also remembered when Jimmy and Sissy’s baby was born too, 11 months prior to the wedding date.

The little girl was the first thing Ms. Meade noticed that afternoon at the service.

“Hush now, Lucy,” said Cindy Baker as the child began to whine.

The congregation chuckled and awed as the mother of the bride bounced her illegitimate grandchild. Sissy and Jimmy stood in front of the church and admired their spitting-image daughter.

“She takes after her mother.” Pastor Brown observed. The crowd hooped and hollered with laughter, remembering how unruly Sissy sometimes was as a child herself.

And she truly did take after her mother, Ms. Meade thought to her-

self. Lucy had Sissy’s long blond curls down to her shoulders, but jet blue eyes just like Jimmy. At the reception the two cut the cake with the child on Sissy’s hip.

“I never thought I’d see anything like it.” Ms. Meade confessed to Mr. White as they watched from their seat.

“Well you know,” he considered between bites of Edgar’s fried fish, “Momma had three of us by the time she was Sissy’s age.”

“And I know she also had a proper husband too.” Ms. Meade argued, scraping her plate.

“But look how happy they are,” Mr. White chuckled. The guests clapped as Lucy joined Sissy and Jimmy for their first dance. Approaching her parents, Lucy tugged on Sissy’s white gown until Jimmy lifted the child up on his shoulders.

“No one could tell me they aren’t a beautiful family!” Mr. White finished the last of his fish. “Now I’m gettin' a piece of that Gooseberry Pie before it’s all gone.”

“You better hurry then,” Ms. Meade joked with him. “We don’t want a repeat of last time!” Remembering the church’s Easter brunch, Mr. White hastened for the dessert line. But Ms. Meade knew there was enough for everyone.

“Open wide, Lucy!” John Baker could be heard saying as he shared his slice. “This is your first taste of Ms. Meade’s famous Gooseberry Pie!” The rest disappeared quickly.

“I don’t know how you do it, Ms. Meade.” Edgar Collins told her in passing.

“You’re just gonna have to give me this recipe!” Mrs. Walker pleaded.

“Ernie gets so impatient havin' to wait till an event or holiday just for a slice of this pie.”

“Ms. Meade, this really is somethin' special,” said Pastor Brown.

“Are you sure you don’t want any, Ms. Meade? You put the work in, I think you’ve earned yourself a slice.” said Mr. White, offering her his plate.

“No thank you Mr. White,” she declined. “I’m absolutely stuffed from Lucille’s marvelous cake. Mr. Baker was right, it sure was beautiful.”

Soon afterwards, Ms. Meade wished the couple the best and headed home. They thanked her again for the wonderful pie and appreciated her support in their new life together.

“Why don’t you let me walk you home, Ms. Meade?” asked Mr. White.

“No, that isn’t necessary Mr. White,” she assured. “It sure is a fine evening tonight, I think I can manage.

You enjoy the party.” With a smile she patted his shoulder in thanks and departed.

The sun was beginning to set by then, and its fleeting rays shined the ripe leaves of her proud Magnolia.

Ms. Meade admired its beauty as she strolled along to her cottage on the outskirts of town. “Not to worry,” she soothed, “your beauty will be preserved.” spring 2022 |9

Thursday, March 24, 2022

big char

By Isabelle Pethtel, senior digital media design major

10 | kentucky kernel

Jade

When I was a child, I used to ask my parents why we left the Fragrant Harbor. For the longest time, I didn’t know its actual name because my parents refused to call it anything else.

Mama said whatever the world called it would take on a different meaning soon, so they had to call it what it truly was or it would lose its spirit altogether.

Mama wouldn’t tell me anything else about it until I called it by its “proper” name. I used to forget every time, but eventually, it felt wrong to call it anything else. We weren’t the only ones.

All the families who had come to Porto Alegre with us called the Fragrant Harbor our collective home, and since no one else called it that, it was like we were a people of our own coming from a place no one knew, at least, not like we did.

I used to refuse to call it by what she wanted me to call it, but every time I gave in. Once I called it by its proper name, she would tell me what little she could. I knew she didn’t tell me everything because she told me she didn’t. She knew there were things I was not ready to know, but she said she had traveled too far to deceive people out of comfort — especially her own daughter. She would not be si-

Thursday, March 24, 2022

By Charlie Tran, junior finance major, fiction

lenced, not even by herself. Still, she didn’t tell me much. She told me I had been before just months before The Agreement, which she referred to as “heaven’s personal mandate for us to leave before things got worse.” She told me about how all of our family and close neighbors got on the ships together and the last time she took in the smell of the harbor.

After that, she always trailed off into memories about the vast ocean and scattered anecdotes about stops along the way, but by then I had gotten all I wanted.

After she finished, I always went and asked Baba, but he didn’t like talking about it. He typically said it was something I shouldn’t worry about because it was in the past. When I was about ten, he told me something different.

“We left the Fragrant Harbor because a wise mentor of mine told me that we could not prosper there and that we should leave for a land far away — ‘Beautiful Country’ — and there we would be blessed with ‘prosperity and posterity.’ The way he talked about Beautiful Country, you would have thought he was talking about heaven. I wasn’t sure I believed him at first, but when I heard about The Agreement, I heard God telling me that

he was right.” Then he smiled. “I was fortunate that your mother heard God saying the same thing, and that she was willing to let our beautiful daughter never see our home again.”

“Is this the Beautiful Country, Baba?”

He smiled again. “It’s not the Beautiful Country he was talking about… but it is close. Maybe we can go there one day.” I didn’t know what the Beautiful Country would be like, but my imagination exploded with the possibilities, and I knew I would see it one day.

When I was seventeen, God told Baba it was time to leave Brazil for the Beautiful Country.

The night before we left, I went down to the beach with my two closest friends. We spent the night crying, celebrating, singing, dancing, yelling, chanting, and whatever else we felt we had to do so I never lost the spirit of Brazil when I left. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see them again, but I hoped one day they would follow me to the Beautiful Country.

Before going back home and appreciating my last night in my own bed, I said my individual goodbyes to them. I said goodbye to María first. She was the closest thing I had to a sister. Her parents were next-door neighbors to mine back in the Fragrant Harbor, and she was born just a month after me. I always pretended we were twins, and I never cared when we got in trouble together because it was more fun

that way. When we were ten, we both got suspended from grade school for causing trouble on the playground. We had just studied some war I’ve forgotten about since and organized a pretend war in place of any other game.

María was in charge of one side, and I was in charge of the other, but we secretly worked together to make it more entertaining and more dramatic. Our classmates loved it. I’m not sure how she ran things on her side, but I always repeated some nonsense that I had read that the Monkey King had said. My parents said I wasn’t old enough to read that book, but the cover was so compelling it felt wrong not to. Our playground war wasn’t actually violent, but the potential for violence deeply concerned the teacher. She shut it down fast and asked all the students who started it. No one said, but someone did slip up and tell her that the war was between “Brazil and China,” and she decided it must have been the two Chinese girls in her class who started it.

She was right, of course, but she never had sufficient evidence to make such an accusation. As she laid down our sentence, she told us, “I expected more out of you two.”

Read the full story here

fall 2021 | 11

Say Her Name

12 | kentucky kernel

By Abigail Purcell, junior digital media design and ISC major

Thursday, March 24, 2022

I AM

PREGNANT

I am pregnant.

That is the story.

The rest is the detail.

The first time Dumebi hit me was the day I announced my pregnancy to him.

After five misty years of casting out my net, I caught a baby. Those five years, while I drank goat milk from source and ate human poop, Dumebi hosted his friends in our house and drank wine and laughed and watched Champions frigging league. My pastor would always tell me, “Chinelo, obi gị dere du,” but she was talking to the crawling ants. How could I relax when my father’s coarse voice traversed weekly through sound waves, reminding me that I would never stand well in my home unless I had a son? Years later, he would say, “Even if it is a baby girl, we will manage.” My mother’s calls always started with “Any news yet?” as if I am CNN. Then there was Dumebi’s mother, with her big head and thin body like a standing fan, who said my ovaries were so light they could live in a floating barbule. In those five years, I scraped my knees, crawling up the rocky mountain of Awhum monastery, praying the Stations of the Cross. These are a few of my least favourite things about that monastery, apart from the spelling of the name. For Jerusalem’s sake, the least a monastery of Christ could do was to spell their name truthfully. Awhum is the English spelling of Ọhụm, and, like every other name the British found impossible to spell properly, Awhum stuck and stayed with those who could spell it properly long after those

Thursday, March 24, 2022

By Kasimma, teaching assistant in the Department of English, fiction

who could not spell it properly had any say about the proper spelling of the name.

After Ọhụm failed me, I gobbled prayer houses like a guzzler. That was how I ended up eating shit. The pastor said that the smell of the poop would make my children uncomfortable, forcing them out. I had stopped going to the hospitals because while the doctors’ confident lips declared us healthy, their troubled eyes flashed on Dumebi. Then when I finally took in, Dumebi slapped me hard.

“Who is responsible for the pregnancy?”

“What! Dumebi! Who else?”

Another slap. My eyes became blurry.

His oily forehead shone under the light and the middle of his head looked like an oasis.

“I am asking you for the last time, you bloody whore. Who the fuck got you pregnant?”

His eyes seemed shaded with veils of pain. The veins of his neck plastered on his skin, looking like cracked land diagnosed with drought. Maybe it was my silence that made him shrink. His fingers and his toes curled in as he took two steps away from me. He fell to the ground and wrapped his arms around his body. His legs bonded and his bended knees touched his chest. He lay like that, shaking, crying Justin Timberlake a river. Then he jumped up, rushed to me, held my neck, and slammed me to the ground. While his palms worked hard to stay together around my neck till death did them part, his eyes punched mine.

Those eyes were not the eyes of the man I fell in love with. The man, in a glorious dark blue suit, who rushed to help me up when I fell in the mall after my koi-koi shoes succumbed to overuse. Dumebi kept looking into my eyes, and while I struggled for air, it dawnusked on me that he would never again see me with the eye.

My nose stopped functioning. I opened my mouth to take in air, but my tongue seemed to block everywhere. I pulled out my tongue to make way for oxygen. And when I stopped seeing the eyes of this monster, I felt a gush of air. Oxygen tasted like sweet red wine. Dumebi slapped me a third time. The bells were still jingling all the way in my ears when I heard his car screech out. My eyes leaked salty liquid. Dumebi had been the only man I’d known since we got married. I squeezed my eyes shut as I remembered the only time I gave the grass of the toothless goat to the sheep. The haves and the have-nots are hungry, but they hunger for different things. So that when the sheep’s eyes licked up my body in one quick scoop, while he welcomed me, I knew he was hungry. When he opened his brown eyes after praying, my bouncing, pulsating, juicy breasts welcomed him from the spiritual realm. I kept my eyes on Mr. Pastor, daring him to refuse. His Adam apple ran up and down the stairs. I imagined his penis rising to the occasion. He flung his Bible, grabbed my breasts, and pulled me across the table.

A thirsty man would rush to a running tap. It is common sense! fall 2021 | 13

Thursday, March 24, 2022

For Things

Unseen

By Rayleigh Deaton, junior communication and political science major, poetry

Longing is a sensation well known.

I spend time Dreaming, wishing Yearning For things I don’t even understand.

“Be content,” they say, As if contentment comes naturally To the Dreamer.

Why be content with the Way things Are? We can be So much More.

"I will do great things," we say, Sitting, doing nothing.

Being "content," Our contentedness a comfortable Disguise For complacency.

I am not content. I want Adventure, And adventure is not passive.

I want love, And love, while patient, is Expectant In its patience.

14 | kentucky kernel

What's Next?

By Abigail Purcell, junior digital media design and ISC major

lovers

Thursday, March 24, 2022

By Isabelle Pethtel senior digital media design major

fall 2021 | 15

Thursday, March 24, 2022

classifieds FOR RENT Great campus area properties for rent for August 2022. (859) 619-3232. kmartin.lex@gmail.com www.myuk4rent.com

every day. every hour. kykernel.com

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Do you have an eye for graphic design? Want to gain valuable experience in the worlds of journalism and design? Want to get PAID for your work? Find out more information about becoming a designer for the Kentucky Kernel and apply by contacing ryan.craig@uky.edu!

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