The Laureate (21st Edition), 2023

THE LAUREATE

Editorial Board

WESTERN MICHIGAN UNIVERSITY

Editor in Chief: Bella Loe Proulx

Assistant Editors: Rachael Hogan and Valeria Cusumano

LEE HONORS COLLEGE

Faculty Editor: Becky Cooper

Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Townsend

Dean: Dr. Irma López

Assistant Dean: Anthony Helms

THE DESIGN CENTER, GWEN FROSTIC SCHOOL OF ART

Art Director: Paul Sizer

Design: Audrey Dobbs, Teal Szymchack, Ava Curran

The editors wish to thank Western Michigan University’s Carl and Winifred Lee Honors College.

Mission Statement

The mission of the Carl and Winifred Lee Honors College is to provide an exceptional undergraduate experience for high achieving students, to inspire in our graduates a thirst for the lifelong pursuit of creative inquiry and discovery, to provide our students with the skill and passion to address critical challenges, and to foster personal responsibility informed by a global perspective.

The Laureate’s mission is to provide undergraduate students at Western Michigan University a medium through which to publish their works of fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and other creative works. The Laureate strives to be a professional and engaging journal that appeals to all.

Letter From the Editor

I would never call myself an author or an artist. A student who writes, perhaps, or a hobbyist, but never an author or an artist. I truly hope that the students included in this journal might bravely consider their own accomplishments, and allow themselves to bear those titles of author and artist. Included in this edition of The Laureate are some of the most brilliant pieces of student work that I have ever had the chance to see. These artists were gracious and patient throughout the editing and revision process, and I hope that they can be as proud of themselves as I am for their achievement.

This edition of The Laureate is brutally personal and human. The artists wear their hearts on their sleeves and aren’t afraid to speak about themselves, their lives, or their passions. They inspired me to truly take up my role as editor-in-chief and to show my heart through the journal too. Every single person who worked on this journal has left a part of themselves with it. I hope to now be able to share these small pieces of myself while I thank those who left theirs first.

First, to God. I wouldn’t be anywhere without your constant provision in my life. I’m not afraid to say that I love you. Thank you for this opportunity to show my fellow students the gifts that you’ve given me.

Second, to my wonderful mentor and captain of this ship, Becky Cooper. You are wise and patient. You made every step of this process an easy one. You are so encouraging. You’ve challenged me to grow and you’ve helped me to be decisive. Thank you for trusting me with this job. Likewise—to our incredible editorial eye, Jennifer Townsend—thank you for your decisive nature and quick wit. You are an integral part of this process and team. Thank you for helping me coordinate creative events and for being my touchpoint for all things administrative. Thank you for continuing to be a mentor to me.

Thank you to the Lee Honors College for supporting student creativity, for Dean Irma López and Assistant Dean Anthony Helms for their excitement for the project, and for allowing us to so consistently use the honors college for events and meetings.

I’d also like to thank my amazing assistant editors and social-media runners, Val Cusumano and Rachael Hogan. I’m so glad that I got to know you both, and I have really appreciated your input and help during the toughest parts of this process. I hope you continue to pursue your own creative goals and return to editorial work again! You both have the knack for it.

My last “thank you” goes to the wonderful students and faculty of the design team: to Paul Sizer for being willing to jump through so many hoops with us and for his direction of the project and the team—and to the artists themselves, Ava Curran, Audrey Dobbs, and Teal Szymchack. Thank you all for your creativity and for coming up with such visually striking ideas. The Laureate would not be the same without you.

Finally, to the readers of this journal, I hope you allow yourself to go on the journey that the artists included have presented you with. I hope you allow yourself to connect with each and every one of them—to see their heart and appreciate their talent. They are all incredible individuals. I, for one, cannot wait to see where they go next.

BELLA LOE PROULX Editor-in-Chief

The heart of The Laureate Journal lies in the students who submit their work. Sometimes, the journal receives a smattering of works with no throughline, but sometimes, the story writes itself.

The 21th Edition of The Laureate is one that delves into trauma, depression, anxiety, and grief— but ultimately overcomes these trials and shines in healing and hope. The structure of the journal places the heavier things at the beginning, to take the reader on the journey that the students themselves provided. As the journal progresses, we begin to see more and more light and healing. More freeing of thought and mind, and more peace at the end of darkness.

There are many pieces showcased in this edition that contain difficult subject matter, but I truly hope that you don’t skip over them, and choose to take the journey that our Broncos have laid out for us. It is one of forward momentum and hope through our losses.

If you find yourself in a similar situation to some of the heavier pieces, please don’t be afraid to reach out to loved ones or professionals. Know that you are loved deeply— and that you are strong enough to weather the storm.

We hope you enjoy the incredible works of these students, and thank you for your support.

BELLA LOE PROULX Editor-in-Chief

Angie Bissonnette

Ryder Dietz

Angie Bissonnette

Angie Bissonnette

Ryder Dietz

Madeline Roberts

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Josiah Zuiderveen

Lydia Cowan

Emma Hampel

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Angie Bissonnette

Angie Bissonnette

June Pearson

Lydia Cowan

June Pearson

Nora Pluth

Madeline Roberts

Kostandi Stephenson

Kostandi Stephenson

Lauren Williams

Madeline Roberts

Nora Pluth

Amaya Gipson

Amaya Gipson

Lauren Williams

Josiah Zuiderveen

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Madeline Roberts

Grace Cieslikowski

Deep Water Devotion (transgender sailor evocations)

Sunday, May 2, 1999

A Needle Through the Eye of an Apostate: Baptism (un)faithful Humanity

Submission 2 Magazine

Instructions to The Coroner

Submission 5

What’s Taken, What’s Given, and What I Choose to Remember

Emma Hampel

Shelby Vaughn

Ryder Dietz

Rian Johnson

Lydia Cowan

Shelby Vaughn

Madeline Roberts

Rian Johnson

Lucas Harbaugh

Mira Marino

Josiah Zuiderveen

Nora Pluth

Nora Pluth

Josiah Zuiderveen

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Nora Pluth

Madalyn L. Rockwell

Lucas Harbaugh

Lucas Harbaugh

Lucas Harbaugh

Jenna Staszak

Lauren Williams

Emma Hampel

Emma Hampel

Josiah Zuiderveen

Kostandi Stephenson

Lauren Williams

Mira Marino

Nora Pluth

Mira Marino

Crossroads

Note to Self

FTM

Venus’ Arms

a bubble bath

The Oppression of Depression

Submission 4

The Stages of Emily Doe

The Meadow

Flower Picture

Burning Trees

Highway at Night

Before Sunrise

Chasing the Heart of Music

Astigmatism

Yellow Yarn

Becoming Consumption

Salt Flat

Scribble Out

Philadelphia Alley

The Wind

the moral code of horoscopes

Memory

The Artist

Dreamy Rivers Flowing Under Bridges

A Lady’s Broken Heart

spoonful of sugar

Flower Print

Flowers for the Living

Lilac

ANGIE BISSONNETTE

To be in Morning

To the passerby the day has just begun, morning is fingertips pushed forward in a deep stretch For me the sun refuses to rise, mourning is feet cemented in yesterday

Morning is a generous pour of cold brew caressed by ice, held together in two glass jars

Mourning is a barren mug passed around to a select few, each throat drier than the last While strangers drink deeply from crystal, each telling heightened tales of their own thirst

As though we’re the same

Morning brings golden rays of a new day, a callous gift

Unwrapped, it fills my eyes with salt-stained tears

Trudging along a well-worn path

Mourning is to be deafened by the echoing in your ears

Morning is to be grateful for the ash in your lungs

Each sunrise a cruel lie as it warms your side of our bed

My bed

My fingers reaching out on our olive-green duvet

My duvet

Our life written in the past tense

My life reflected in a cracked mirror

Good morning

From an ad on the radio, a greeting from my neighbor, a text from my sister

The first voice I hear is your absence

Good morning

It echoes back at me

In mourning my memory rots my days, pulling me deeper into the loose dirt

Another morning passes yet I remain rooted in place

The radio spits out music, only you liked hearing the news at 8

Worn out stories turn to awkward silence to chit chat to nothing at all

Black skirts to blue jeans Smiles to stone-faced

To be stuck in

Mourning

RYDER

DIETZ

Companion

It was 5th or 6th grade when we first met, Those years, half a lifetime ago. I tried to ignore you

Playing with Legos—destroying, sorting, then building And for a brief moment It worked.

Why did you fill my head with thoughts?

Thoughts of futures, both possible and not.

Inevitably, by the end of each, friends or I would grab your hand. These thoughts plagued by darkness, But I never gave them much heed, For I always believed them to be ordinary.

I’ve never blamed you for all that you’ve taken. Two dogs, a fish, and a guinea pig. My former classmates, members of my family, More of which seem to take your hand with every passing year, Since winter break when I was 14. When my grandmother and a classmate felt your grip.

Thank you for the only thing you’ve ever given me. The ability to love Life and you.

In summer, the song of birds and cicadas

Paired with the dance of maggots and flies. In autumn, the aroma of apples and pumpkins With the feel of mushrooms and dead leaves. In winter, the green pines and red fires

Stark against the white snow and gray skies. In spring, filled with cool rain and colorful flowers

Covering the rotting logs and spreading fungi.

For a decade you’ve kept me company.

In my loneliest moments, I’ve found you there, Silent, unwavering, calm.

I know for the coming years, you’ll follow me. Until the day comes when I can grab your hand And follow you home.

17

We sit silently on the bus

Sleep gathered in the corner of my eye

I slowly scribble answers on a worksheet against the vinyl seat

The soft hum of music slips out of your earbuds

As your fingers trace the title of your latest library discovery

Your homework is safely nestled away in a bright green folder

You always come prepared for class

Sharpened pencils peek out of the top pouch of your bag

A lunchbox laden with stickers anchors your notebooks in place

Hidden in the front pocket of your blue backpack

Thoughts and prayers are folded gently

Shielded in the hollow comfort of a faded hand-me-down

Inside your bag you marked your name with sharpie, dotted the i and crossed the t

A dog tag for the modern age

Lunchtime then lockdown, the countdown begins

It’s time for hide and seek

5. Take shelter under an old desk, your last line of defense

4. A bowed head embraces your knees, fingers locked clasping the nape of your neck

3. The pounding of your heartbeat

2. The inhale of a shaky breath

1. Ready or not here I come

We sit waiting

For the push of a locked door

The crack of steel piercing through the air

A blanket of our friends’ bloody bodies to carpet the floor

We sit waiting

For a familiar voice to say it’s over through a muffled intercom

For the crisp ringing of the bell and our teacher’s reprimands, the bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do he repeats For the next class to begin, for this day to end, for the cycle to continue We sit waiting

I sit silently on the bus

Today no one said I’m sorry for your loss I pull your stained backpack closer to my chest You tried to come prepared

ANGIE BISSONNETTE

Hide and Seek

ANGIE BISSONNETTE

Our Kingdom

Pink and purple beads sing as they bump together with my every step

Charm bracelets vie for attention as my wrists follow my words

Cheap clip-ons over your pierced ears, so we can match Pink for you, Purple for me

Memory clings like clammy hands on monkey bars

Desperate to hold on a little longer

I place a silver rhinestone crown on your head

A coronation for the queen

This was before

Before your deep brown curls fell away

Replaced by scarves of luscious greens and royal blues

Armor of color to beat back the inevitable

You are going to war, while I watch from the battlements

Advisors in white robes speak in riddles

The king paces from room to room

A Countess brings a burnt casserole to the castle

I gather my council, call in confident markers and clever colored pencils to plan my counterattack

Gripping a rose-colored crayon, I sketch on a smile

A shield of fiction protruding from my lips

Cross out my eyes to hide the droop in your eyelids

The slowness in your step

Plaster on a pleasant disposition, keep your eyes closed and a smile at the ready

This is how a princess helps

This is how a princess fights

But your battle was that of a queen

Your body the battleground

Once you lost, all colors retreated

Leaving a pale white flag blowing in a pitch-black sky

You lay to rest in a little black box

Dressed in a layer of dirt deep underground

My closet consumes my princess past

Packed away in a little black box

A coffin for our colorful kingdom

RYDER DIETZ Puppet Master

Soil loosened up as Jake poured water onto it. He had kept track of the weather to make sure he could dig a deep enough hole. The night the weights dropped in his apartment there had been raging storms followed by two days of dreary rain followed by three sunny days. A bit of water at night was all it took to create the perfect digging conditions. Dark clouds covered the stars and moon and served as a reminder for how little time he had. Five days ago the storm had wound strings around him. The weather tried to be his master and Jake only obeyed out of necessity. The strings had been pulled into tight knots, though slack remained. If he could dig his holes and get out of the forest, he would be free of his so-called puppet master. Every string would be severed.

He emptied an entire can of Febreeze between the two weights he brought out with him, currently hidden beneath bushes. Jake pulled the smaller but heavier weight out of hiding. It was the same way his father had done whenever they played hide and seek. He set the weight next to the hole. It could wait to enter because Jake had to inspect the hole first. Leaping down, the smooth walls blurred for a second. Six feet deep.

This hole was the first of its kind. It wasn’t like the holes from his childhood, made with his sister on the beach. Buckets of sand were used to craft the biggest sandcastle. His sister might still go to the beach but he wouldn’t know, they hadn’t talked in years. The hole wasn’t like the one he sat in during middle school to watch the stars with his father. Jake had kept the constellations in the back of his head but the city’s light blocked out nearly every star. He wondered if his father still stared at the sky. Holes that weren’t even like the ones he dug in high school to hide from all the bullies. It didn’t matter what the holes were made of, blankets, dirt, or straw. They formed a shield. It proved to be worthless against their words. Nothing like the hole Jake made with his boyfriend, curled up to be away from the world while his favorite band played in the background. Music was loved, memorized, then lost. The strings burned his fingers when he tried to fill the quiet. The holes Jake dug as a young adult were secrets. The first one buried the worst mistake he ever made. Accidents didn’t make for good enough excuses. He knew there’d be more of these holes to come, commanded by the brewing storm above.

Climbing out of the hole, the first weight sat waiting for Jake. He wrapped both hands around the straps to slowly lower him into the hole. No sound came when Jake let go. Laid to rest beneath the petals of his boyfriend’s favorite cherry tree. Dirt and flowers would act as his blanket for eternity. Only a trunk to be a marker.

With the hole now erased, Jake repeated the process. A rotting log was fine enough for the second weight. He found no need to check the depth of the second hole. Crooked and crumbling, much like the apartment he currently called home. A far cry from his old, country-side home, perfect as the first hole he dug. He tossed the weight in. Jake covered it in whatever rot was lying around—evidence of struggle now deleted by mushrooms and dead leaves.

Light filled the forest as lightning struck a tree and left nothing but a blackened trunk. Jake then noticed the charred x that spread away from the roots. Drops of rain began to fall as the slack of the strings vanished. For a moment, Jake struggled against the taught strings and tried to ignore his puppet master. Rain came down in torrents and gave him his next command. He gave in as the strings started pulling him back to the brightly lit metropolis. There was one more thing to bury tonight.

MADELINE ROBERTS Submission 1

MADALYN L. ROCKWELL

Queendom

The first lord’s woman was made out of paint, She never spoke and never ate.

The second lord’s woman was made out of sand

She would crumble at the suggestion of his mighty hand.

The third lord never took a woman but a man.

The three lords gathered to flaunt their objects of love to the land.

The first lord brought forth his lady feign, and they danced until it started to rain. Then he hung her on the wall, by her throat, and went about his day.

The second lord didn’t bring his lady sand

Her wrist was not to hold but to grab she was prone to slipping his grasp she will escape whenever she can.

The third lord brought nothing more than a stubborn dream, clutching rosary beads like they could save him from anything.

MADALYN L. ROCKWELL

Untitled

I’m not the biggest fan of viewings. I know they’re supposed to provide closure, and I’m sure for some they do. I don’t want my last memory of you to be your body. I don’t want it to be you dead, in a casket, shrouded by flowers and tears. I’d much rather them stay as they are, even unfinished. I’m fine with “we need to call again sometime” if it means I get to hold on to your laughing over the phone. I’m fine with it being an “I need to drop this off at her house sometime” if it means I get to remember you leaving your jacket at my place. I’d rather you be sometime than never and if I don’t see you dead, you can stay sometime forever.

JOSIAH ZUIDERVEEN

After Two Men In Love

Jericho Brown

27

Holding the same feelings

but making different choices. Still our two hearts long and mourn for the same losses, same desires,

Same understanding of the pain these roads are made of.

Traveling across the distance these paths have put no distance between our feelings. We are still perfectly understood.

To feel this connection, Is BLISS

Is AGONY

Is letting your soul sigh with relief at his siren’s song While chains forged by your own beliefs Remind you there will be no happy ending. Quenching and staining in a single breath.

Sharp and sweet. Should not be [ ]

Wish to be [ ]

Knowing this longing cannot be fixed.

I see you. Don’t go without seeing me Please. Stop.

LYDIA COWAN

The Woman in Me is Tired

The woman in me is tired.

The past girl in me is tired

The future mother in me is tired

My mother

My grandmother

Her mother

Her grandmother

A generation of the drained

Our delicate bones weak From shouldering the world

The woman in me is tired. The stretch marks

The catcalls

The pay gap

The silenced voice

Having little power

To change it all

The woman in me is tired. For my future daughter

For her future daughter

I want to protect them

From a world of:

“Boys will be boys”

The woman in me is tired. But I’ll keep going on

Because the world

Will exhaust a woman to death

Before they see a man yawn.

Watching Mom

EVENT: unfortunate.

RSVP: not needed.

WHERE: streets. parks. bars. alleys. hotels. stores. schools. churches. homes.

WHEN: dark when it’s night out. morning when it’s light out.

DRESSCODE: no makeup, no skirts, covered chest, covered shoulders, covered knees.

REGISTRY: tasers, seatbelt cutters, pepper spray, whistles (available in pink).

MADALYN L. ROCKWELL

Not An Invitation

“Sara, will you marry me?” The question hung in the air waiting for the correct reply, the penthouse apartment surrounded with his expectations and my doubts. My life was built around answering Ethan’s questions correctly. “Are you seeing anyone?” “Can I have your number?” “Are you a virgin?” “Do you like that?” “Do you love me?” Say yes, say no, say what he wants to hear.

With each answer I lost another piece of myself, my body an unwilling shrine of devotion to him. Every morning I enfolded myself in the scent of Chanel No. 5 mixed with the mango shampoo he picked out for me. My expensive pastel clothes, minimal makeup, and long blonde curls that I straightened every morning were all dictated by him. Every choice deliberately made so I could be perfect. I opened my mouth to answer, and his words poured out.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” I replied.

As soon as I said it a knot began tightening in my stomach, my heart sped up and I could feel tears building. I bit my tongue to force my emotions in place and was greeted with an unsettling taste of iron. Blood began to pool from behind my teeth, pushing against my cheeks and rising to the roof of my mouth. Pursing my lips together, I tried to keep it contained and hoped that the droplets that escaped were mistaken for lipstick.

I felt the blood thickening. Racing to the bathroom, I opened my mouth, hoping to discard the mess that was bubbling up. The arrival of something smooth and sharp stood out amidst the liquid drowning me. Reaching inside I discovered my front tooth had been uprooted. As I stood staring at it, more teeth started to spill out. One after another, my hands frantically tried to push them back in place, but they slipped through my fingertips until handfuls of them fell to the floor. A crisp clinking sound as each one connected with the porcelain tiles. I tried to scream but the blood silenced the noise. A desperate gurgling sound was all that I could muster as tears ran down my face. My heart pounded faster and faster, the beat drumming underneath my skin, dislodging it from my chest and rising past my lungs. Slowly inching its way up my throat, each pulse vibrating through me, stealing my breath and pushing more blood forward. My fingers clawed at my neck as I gasped for air that would not come, until I felt a thick round weight land on my tongue. I quickly spit it onto the ground and watched in horror as my severed heart continued to beat.

How long had I been in the bathroom—seconds, hours, years—I don’t know. The pounding of my heart, the clatter of fallen teeth, and my gasps for air

were all I could hear, all I could see. Just then, a knocking on the door began, growing louder and louder, matching the sound of my heart, pulsating on the floor. The mess, the mess in his house, the mess I had made. My body began to shake as I imagined his anger at discovering the scene.

Grabbing his monogrammed towel perfectly placed on the middle rack, I fell to my knees to hide what I had done. My hands trembled as I washed away the blood on the floor. I threw my discarded teeth in a plastic bag and hid them in the back of a bottom drawer. Yanking handfuls of toilet paper off the roll I frantically wrapped up my beating heart and threw it in the trash can, a dull clanking sound rang out when it hit the bottom. My head jerked back to the door as the knocking grew louder; my breath grew more ragged. I chucked the stained towel on top of the bloody mess and closed the lid. I hastily sprayed Chanel No. 5 into the air to mask the scent. My eyes darted around the spotless bathroom; it was beyond reproach. I opened the door to find Ethan waiting for me. His short dark hair perfectly in place, off-white trousers paired with a crisp tan button down. The sleeves meticulously rolled up to showcase his arms. He looked like a dream.

“Are you alright?” he said. Breathing carefully, I shook my head yes.

“Where’s your smile, pretty girl?” A question he asked me every time my perfect facade started to slip. Keeping my lips pursed tight, I forced a coy smile. He smiled back, showcasing his perfect pearly white teeth, “Good, you’re prettier when you smile.” He slid a diamond band around my finger. I stood before him silent and smiling, as blood continued to secretly fill my throat.

But a steady beat kept creeping out though the bathroom door, muffled but undeniable. My eyes darted back, willing the sound to stop, willing it to continue. Ethan forced his way inside, throwing off the lid and revealing the mess I’d tried to hide. Slowly I stepped back inside. My legs following my eyes, perfume filled my nostrils as I stood before my discarded heart and stared.

Suddenly my body acted without thought—I pushed Ethan aside and bent down on one knee. Gently, my hands reached down and picked it up, watching it beat as its blood ran down my arm. I turned it over in my hands, only to be reminded of the ring still on my finger. I slid it off and watched haphazardly as the diamond steeped in blood fell to the bottom of the bin. Slowly, I stood back up and walked out the door. An absentminded smile reached my lips as my eyes stayed glued to the beating in my hand.

A Bloody Proposal

I don’t know how long it’s been since Noah dumped my body into the Atlantic Ocean. I never heard his speedboat flying across the waves. I didn’t see the stars that guided him on his covert mission. I didn’t feel his hands when he lifted me up and hoisted my body overboard, and I didn’t hear his sigh of relief as I vanished from view. But I do know everything changed once I hit the water. I’ve seen the sun rise and set, felt my fingers prune, my skin wither and pale, my wrinkles become more defined. The waves beat my body against the rocks, slowly scraping away my skin and draining the blood that had settled in my feet, legs, and hands until there was nothing left. The ocean threw me against coral reefs and seashells leaving imprints and scars all along my body. Until I completely belonged to the sea.

But once my old body had been discarded, I became something new. A great tail consumed the lower half of my body. Obsidian and blood-red scales enveloped it, spare the solely-black bottom fin. My fingers webbed together; my skin grew translucent, an echo of the moonlight. My eyes became dark grey, and my teeth sharpened to points. My pitch-black hair was in constant motion, dancing along with the current. The biggest change was my voice. I heard the shift in my mind before I ever opened my mouth. A warm melody coursed through my empty veins, providing a new lifeforce I could cling to. A tingle in my fingertips, an exhale of breath, the ease of floating and the force of crashing waves all in one song, one melody that poured out of my lungs.

So, I sang, over and over again to surround myself in its warm embrace. But while I sang, I couldn’t help but think of Noah, of our two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan and the warmth of waking up in his arms. The goldfish he gave me on my birthday and the tightness in his shoulders when I laughed too loud. But most of all I remember that last night. The slight panic in his hazel eyes when I pulled out the stranger’s earring I found in our bed. The moment of silence right before he called me crazy. His screams were so indignant that I wondered if he was telling the truth even while I gripped the proof he was lying. Every night I thought of Noah and every night I sang my song.

One evening I heard the low humming of his boat vibrating through the current. His scent of sandalwood and mint mixed with the crisp air, and I knew he had come back to me. That the song had brought him, that I had brought him. I began to sing as I waited for him to come closer. Noah stopped the boat once he reached me, silencing the engine. My song accompanied by the rhythm of the waves filled the air.

“Swim with me,” I said softly, as I began to move away from his boat. His eyes were locked on mine, and I watched him jump into the sea. Following my voice deeper into the open water. He swam slowly, burdened by the weight of his clothes. The silence following the music was jarring and confusion began to spread on his face.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy to see me?” I asked.

“What? What’s going on—who are you?” Noah said.

“Don’t you remember me? Don’t you recognize me?” I said softly, a thin layer of sweetness barely covering the venom in my voice. He stared at me.

“A-AAlina?” His eyes widened in horror.

As we spoke, I began urging the waves into a whisper of a whirlpool. The water began to rise and swirl around his feet keeping him in place.

“What? What’s happening, Alina? What are you doing?”

“Don’t be so sensitive. Aren’t you happy to see me? After everything you could at least say hello.”

“What is this? What are you doing? Stop! Somebody help me!” His voice sounded raw as the water forced its way into his mouth. He spat it back out only to have it pour back in a moment later. His legs kicked frantically to keep his head above water while his arms flailed wildly as panic overcame him. The waves grew stronger and pulled him further and further from his boat. A dull smile spread across my face while the spark of a memory consumed me. His smooth hands on my throat, the leather on his watch shoved against my cheek as he squeezed tighter, crushing the breath from my lungs. His knees dug into my sides as I squirmed. My voice betrayed me as I begged him to stop.

“Stop! I’m sorry, please Noah!” I begged.

“Are you calling me a liar? You think I’m an idiot? Just a lying idiot, is that what you think I am?” Noah screamed.

“No! You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I know you’d never hurt me. I know you would never cheat. It’s my earing. I must have forgotten, I’m sorry!”

“Why are you making me do this? You’re crazy! I deserve better! I deserve better than this, better than you! After everything how could you do this to me!”

I wasted my final breath on an apology to him. That was a lifetime ago. Now water surrounds his throat by my command, and I circle him with a small flick of my fins while his arms and legs lash out like a trapped animal.

“You’re so dramatic, I forgot how emotional you get,” I said coolly, as I repeated the words he always said to me.

“Alina, I don’t deserve this, I’m a good man. I loved you! I love you! Stop it! Make it stop!”

“You’re acting crazy, can you calm down?” I said with a smirk. I liked the warmth of his words on my tongue as I stole his lies and poured them into the air,

twisting them with his panic. It felt good to be on the other side of it.

“You wouldn’t hurt me—you can’t hurt me! You love me! Alina... Alina! I’m sorry! Okay? I’m sorry! It was an accident; I didn’t mean to!” Noah screamed.

The louder he became, the less I listened. The less I said, the more he screamed. I loved it. I swam closer until my lips were an inch away from his and I could taste his fear. It was sharp and bitter, but I wanted more. I opened my mouth and began to sing again; I felt his body exhale and go limp. I felt his heart slow. His muscles relax. He felt safe, he felt loved… a smile crept onto my face as I lunged forward. My webbed fingers gripped his arms, finally plunging him deep into the water. The shock in his eyes was beautiful as he desperately tried to hold his breath. He was squirming under my hold, but I was stronger now and grasped him tighter. I wanted him to look in my eyes and see the air he had stolen from my lungs, I wanted to watch him as I stole it back, to feel his panic as he realized he was going to die, that he was going to die because of what he did to me. My face was inches from his as I watched him begin to run out of breath, his body shaking as water began to seep into his mouth and down his throat. But I didn’t want him to just lose consciousness, to fall asleep, to feel the warmth and disappear into the blanket of the sea. No, for the first time in his life he was going to do something for me. We were going to do what I wanted. He was my gift to the ocean as I had been his, and the ocean demanded blood—or maybe I did. I yanked one of his arms into my mouth. I took a deep bite until I could taste the iron mixing with the salt water. I dragged Noah back up to the surface for one last gasp of air—there was no reason to make this quick.

I watched his blood float around the cool crisp water, moving along with the waves calling to different sea creatures, letting them know there’s food to be had. When they finish his bones, he will sink onto the seabed to be separated and scattered on the ocean floor for little creatures to take what they want. To be consumed, used and eradicated until he disappears completely.

I used to be afraid, wanting to belong, desperate for a family, to find my place in the world. I was desperate enough to pretend that a nice apartment, a 25-cent goldfish and Noah were my home, but now I have found my real home. The memory of him tasted like chalk in my mouth. Dry and foreign and yet the memory of the taste remained. The tides embraced me in the dark, a harsh cold that protected me, that brought me new life, a second chance at a new voice. As Noah disappeared into the darkness that voice began to grow louder, this time with a hunger. The sound that had replaced my beating heart throbbed loudly inside me, drumming out a rhythm, creating a new melody in my gut. The pounding of that call, the taste of salt and iron lingering on my lips consumed me.

As the sun began to rise it winked at me, specks of light shining on the ocean’s surface, like an old friend who carries my secrets from a past life. With morning came another boat. I felt the humming of its engine before I saw it and smelled the sweat and sunscreen of the two men aboard. The warm caress of my song began to wrap its way around me, tempting me forward. Noah wasn’t the end; he was just a taste, and I was starving. My eyes locked on the boat.

I opened my mouth and began to sing.

Deep Water Devotion (transgender sailor evocations)

I am my own object of scorn, and your servants see this, Lady Sea. So as I sailed seeking your counsel, the sharks found me repulsive, and the sirens turned away.

Now, surrounded by your presence, I ask that I may find comfort: either in your wisdom or your watery judgment.

I’ve sailed far from safe harbors in hopes that you’d show me something true. May I see my future, my lady?

May I find something worthy of enduring misfortune and woe?

I leave my fate to the whims of your water in hopes that you’d teach me who I am. When Seasoned Sailors speak of The Ocean, their voices tremble and their sea legs shake.

I’m not afraid of your dangers, my lady.

To live as I do now is fate worse than death

Your allure charms me.

On land, my facade of a face would fool mortal men, but it is false and you know this. My reflection inside you shows more than I can say, more than anyone may ever see.

I’ve got the makings of a Seaman: The tenor voice, the barrel chest.

But I want something else, your essence calls to me in ways they’ve never heard.

Their songs speak of besting you and undoing a mermaid’s garments. Their bravado fills their hearts as their lungs fill with water.

I do not join in these shanties but instead, drink of your water, bathe in it, cursing them for their insolence.

They care not for your water, they are as salty as brine. But I suppose you’ve punished them for that.

Your edict plagues their journeys with raging rapids and tidal waves, Your embrace fills their lungs and causes their speech to cease.

Their eyes are full of fear at the mention of your name, Your ferocity is well acquainted with them.

But your stillness my darling, your stark beauty, your expanse is unknown to them, but it is known to me.

Make me in your image Lady Sea, let me know beauty as clear as water, With real value wells below and wells within.

Let my isolation be not in vain, that I’d be true to myself, be truly myself, right down to the vein.

Let me inflict pleasure and pain like your rough cragged bergs of ice And the gentle lapping of your evening tides.

LYDIA COWAN

Sunday, May 2, 1999

The Sunday of the ceremony

The rigid pew Against my back

The lily-white taffeta and chiffon dress Mother made me wear

Pastor Aaron read: Hebrews 13:4 About giving yourself To God

I had Nothing left to give.

Pastor Aaron Called the little girls To the pulpit

Nausea gripped my stomach As I walked forward

Wrapped up like a pearly present One he would unwrap

Like he did every Sunday

His liver spotted hands pressed silver Into my palm

I slipped the purity ring onto my thumb The only finger that would fit I feel the engraving:

“I am my beloved’s”

I remember thinking: I am no one’s.

JUNE PIERSON

A Needle Through the Eye of an Apostate: Baptism

Everyone is staring at the back of the house, standing up from the pews and looking towards the pool. It is a used saltwater fish tank, water opaque and glass smudged. All the churchgoers have on their Sunday best—darned suits with visible creases and dresses with old tags still attached. Everyone is faced towards the baptism pool, ready for its murky waters to cleanse someone’s soul.

The Bishops move into the aisles, searching for someone. A vessel. A volunteer. Everyone is ready and willing to be picked like an apple from a tree. But there is one boy who is not standing. He has his eyes closed. The boy sits next to the dignified Mr. Pyle, a boisterous man who is the spirit of the church. He is not the Pastor, but he is a preacher for his family and community. The boy’s eyes are closed to shut out everyone’s thoughts, especially Mr. Pyle’s.

Mr. Pyle shakes his son awake. For a moment the boy jolts in alarm, his eyes wide, scared and at attention. Mr. Pyle bores into his son, before pointing at the baptism pool. The boy obliges and begins walking, wanting desperately to not meet the judgemental gaze of the house. His shoes are untied. They detest the boy for this. Apples rotten before they fall.

The baptism will do him good.

The Bishops stand at the corners of the baptism pool like tall spires surrounding the tank. The boy, dressed in white now, stood pretending to sleep, standing on a stepladder near the pool. The Pastor stands and speaks, words trailing away and fizzling out like flies to a bug zapper. He closes the book and taps the boy’s shoulder. The boy turns to run and is pulled under, grip of the Bishops, hot and tight. He falls and disappears in the water. The water is calm, but the boy is thrashing. They are trying to drown him. He can’t get any air. He is still. Moments pass.

The Bishops’ sleeves are wet.

Eventually, the Bishops pull and raise him up. For the first time in all the House’s Sunday services, Mr. Pyle’s son is awake. It is a miracle. Rejoice.

He stares out into the crowd, Mr. Hartfield meets his eyes.

Mr. Hartfield is ecstatic. For ten years, the boy was claimed by sloth, but no longer. The boy’s eyes are full and awake. Mr. Hartfield breaks eye contact.

But it isn’t Mr. Hartfield the boy is looking at. The boy sees someone separate from the crowd and separate from himself—he sees Us. We keep looking at the boy. The boy’s face is locked in an expression of alarm and his eyes are wide. The overhead lights reflecting in his pupils crash into the iris like discordant cymbals. He sees the truth and through bathing with God knows who he is, who she’ll be. There is no difference between his tears and holy water. He stares at us, seeing us for the first time. He is exhausted. He breaks eye contact and chooses sleep. The bishops have to catch him before he falls back into the water. Rejoice.

(This is an excerpt from a longer piece.)

NORA PLUTH

I. The Church

You belong here! They said But not that part

A promise they did not mean Because who are we if not liars?

This sanctuary is for everyone

The ones who know The ones who don’t Caught in the in between

You belong here! They said But not that part

The part they say in omission That maybe My Vocation isn’t a husband But marriage nonetheless

Forgive me Father for I have sinned

After I am clean

Pending penance I run to the Father Back to the altar

If You have given everything

How could I not give You this one thing?

Or is it something You gave me?

Come as I am.

Just as I am.

II. The Community

You’re accepted here! They said But not that part.

That part that governs my heart Informs my decisions

Thought I was ill informed That I survived unscathed

I lived it

I sought refuge with you From the place I find refuge

I am accepted here But only if I fit the mold

And where I am promised community I am met with emptiness Jokes meant innocently found guilty in my heart

Who was I to think I’d find acceptance here? To think the flag actually meant progress.

My complaints are met with reminders Like I don’t know them oh so well

In Animal Farm I learned We are all equal

But some are more equal than others.

III. the aftermath

the heart of it is simple the issue is plain more than the homophobia that precedes every joke that seeps into every conversation more than intolerance more than expecting me to be the same as every queer person you’ve ever met

maybe to escape the boxes they built we built cages instead.

at the heart of it is humans. too dependent on our own pleasure we forget about everyone else’s too focused on our own comfort we neglect the comfort of others

it’s not blame i find although it’s tempting in my selfish ways

and i’m not just peaceful but not just mad

it’s humanity. your own and mine. it’s not God who told me i don’t belong

it’s not the promise of progress that told me i’m not accepted its humanity.

2

MADELINE ROBERTS Submission

Magazine Mouth

You wet your lips before you lie A habit I once found charming

So easy to read, a children’s magazine Nothing you could keep hidden

Now I wish you were a novel Written beyond my comprehension

As you kiss me with a Freshly moistened smile

KOSTANDI STEPHENSON

Pest(icide)

This bastard buzzes, bitches

Boisterous beating of wings

Bounce off battered walls

Bruising my brain

Clammy cupped hands, Catch creepy creature

Its chassis cramped and caged

Like a king in check

I press together perspiring palms

A practically imperceptive squish

The putrid noise is paused

Perfect, peaceful placidness

At last, lacking life

I take a long look

At little limp legs

A lifeless liquid lump

At once I see now still

Its wings are iridescent

Even under these fluorescents

Shattered stained glass in the sun

nowhere to go but home took a right turn for the wrong reasons and left my dignity in the dust

expensed gas and common sense for a short-lived sojourn into the past i wonder if the light glowing in the window is still yours

it’s not my place to know anymore, but i’m outside your door, soliciting an end to my tortuously torturous ignorance

apple pie moonshine told my eye to find you, sold a bourbon-lacquered lie that you are still the bullseye to which my steadfast heart will fly

when the saccharine whiskey finish diminishes in its cloying toying with my frozen-amber ambiguous logic, i turn the car around, swallow the burn of yearning in my throat and return to the regularly-scheduled brain sound of my abyssal wallowing (so profound is my grief that it reaches down to subaqueous levels of effete fealty)

the obligation to remember that you exist is the worst hangover there is

NORA PLUTH The Gray

I live in the gray

The space of not knowing Floating in the in between

I think in gray

My thoughts a contradiction

The peaceful confusion

I rest in gray

In the ambiguity of life And the peace of today

I grieve in gray

Where tears leave trenches I am reminded Of how much I loved

I love in gray

Never giving everything Afraid of losing it all

I laugh in gray

In the joy of this moment And the knowledge of it

I find in gray

Who are we if not gray? Who are we if not broken but whole?

I am the gray

Nothing at all

And everything I want to be

Soft-Spoken

I hide my words behind a pair of lips

Zipped because no one is listening

So quiet, that others think that I’m whispering

I’m a warm afternoon blowing in the wind

Their seeds planting yellow weeds that won’t stop growing

I’m soft-spoken

Not too loud or too quiet

The sound of low thunder at night when it’s drizzling

I’m soft-spoken

I speak like the wind when no one hears it

Then sound like lightning when others least expect it

I’m soft-spoken

And there’s nothing wrong with this Just means that in the end, I’m more mysterious

Silence to you, is peace to me

Your lack of words gives me energy

This fast-paced world is often blinding

Reminding of how silence can set you free

An internal relief

From the ones who speak

For their words are too noisy

The quick mumbles of tongue and cheek

Replaced with a gentle heartbeat

And thoughts to keep me company

Silence to you, is peace to me

Carefully observing

And quietly listening

A mindful break from our loud reality

AMAYA GIPSON

Silence

down on every knee begging to be your only need the harder i fall, the higher you rise and you’re towering twenty feet, i’m grave-deep despondency set the blame to rest on me, my fist held the shovel in a death-grip, my albatross to bear and bury beneath a flame-fractured cross closed coffin of our relationship, mahogany cacophony of togetherness interred into dirt that doesn’t care who won (you) who lost (me)

i hosted a funeral every day for seven months in hopes that you would show your face, send a condolence card or a thoughtful bouquet, attend the rites i conducted every night in the aurifying glow of spotify

the worshipful candles crowded about your then well-tended altar dwindled in number as the dog days of summer howled to life, flicker of their icy-blue flames wavering in the face of light-stifling canine cries

you never came and so i left you behind and nearly died trying

JOSIAH ZUIDERVEEN Instructions to the Coroner

After all of life’s grand adventures are finished Burn my body on a pyre like Vikings of old My soul has journeyed on to brighter things

Don’t take me to a cemetery. Too cold and monumental.

Gather the dust and place me

Here…..

Among high grasses and trees. Spread my coal-tempered ashes to ride wind-worn hills. Put some of me in a water bottle, Ride with me one last time.

There…

Where I went to rest my bike amidst the coolness, Under the bridge where water rushes through this magic cove Is where my powdered-carcass can ride the stream

Let me watch over that place still And I will cause the wind to gently ruffle your hair

Blowing away cares and fears

Then walk

Among the dunes and rocky waters

I shall call to friends I ran ahead of My soul shall sway with song singing

“Come, spend time in this magic cove, And walk this windy sun-grass, Or sit on the gnarled, broken trunk

Listening to the swirling waters under the trees. Where the wind caresses your tear-stained cheeks

Let this wind hold you in your sorrow

Till you are ready to rejoin life’s adventure without me.”

MADALYN L. ROCKWELL Grove(l)

I wanted to tell them all

How beautiful you looked

With the moss tangled in your golden hair

With the bees brushing past your cheeks

How soft it was to lay against your chest

With all your ribs shattered

Like laying on pebbles under soft cover of snow

Your skin just so unblemished

With its rubbed rashes the size of Honeycrisp apples

An orchard across your back and legs and arms

And the pool of bile leaking about your waist

Perfection could never be a place

Betrothed to you, its person

Betrothed to you

I could only wish I might rot with you

And our teeth like pebbles

Might scatter near your rusted spear

It could never be

You are with me in every word that dies on my lips

I could never forget

The cold of your kiss

I am your graveyard

MADELINE ROBERTS Submission 5

59

I’m writing this to let you know I’ve reached baseline

The place I always talked about visiting

On those cold winter nights when the wind blew so hard against the window, I thought it would shatter

You asked me once how I would get there

Given my heart was empty and my luggage was full But I didn’t have an answer

So, I ran.

As fast and as far as my legs would go and when they gave out, I crawled. The past was hard to carry but I kept it with me until I collapsed. It was in that moment

While I lay, face down in the dirt

When I had no way of moving forward

That I could finally rest in the present

I thought of sweet tulips, of stars, and then I thought of you. Terrible, awful, uncomfortable you who spit venom at me like a snake

See this is where I left you

In a memory so far away that I cannot recall

How your eyes looked or the shape of your face

This is where I left you

On the floor of your kitchen

Re-reading this trying to figure out

Exactly what you did to hurt me

This is where I left you

Alone.

Just as alone as you made me feel

On those days when I hated myself

This is where I left you.

Not physically, I’d already done that but, mentally

‘Cause I had forgotten all the things I wanted you to do

And all the things that you did not want to do back

Then I realized that the weight I had been carrying for minutes, hours, days, months, for years was not something I needed.

And I wept

Like a widow who has decided to move not on, but forward. To leave the place now too small for her growth.

For my growth.

So, I let go.

Of the pain, of the promises, of the hate, of the doubt, of the memories, of who I used to be and suddenly,

I could breathe

I could stretch

I could crawl

I could sit

I could stand

I could run

I could fly

GRACE CIESLIKOWSKI

What’s Taken, What’s Given, and What I Choose to Remember

SHELBY

VAUGHN

Note to self

Just to let you know self love isn’t selfish

It isn’t rebellious

Self love isn’t narcissism

Or a defense mechanism

Self love isn’t abstract expressionism or some kind of uncertain fanaticism

Self love isn’t negligence to the people of your element

Or what some people would call “arrogant”

Self love is a cross section to the direction you need to be in connection with

And although we may have imperfections it’s okay because it is a reflection of who you are, human

Self love… is loving the authentic you

Such fondness for yourself can be interpreted in different ways

For me it might be dancing in the mirror unapologetically

For you it might be wearing something that makes you feel (fearless, gallant)

You see Self love, is personal

It’s a journey that you and only you can take with yourself

And on the way you might run into bumps called insecurity and hopelessness down the road

And maybe even potholes titled depression and loneliness

And yet it is an experience.

A voyage to better days

An awakening of confidence you haven’t quite unlocked yet

But I promise,

When you get to the end of your destination you will find that

The love has always been there, you just needed time to see it

Self love is

Self love is like a flower in the rain

Or a needle in a haystack

Sometimes it’s hard to find at first

But once found it’s rewarding to see

The thing about self love is, once you obtain it, just a small piece of it. It grows forever in your heart.

Once you start healing those aching wounds of neglect, misery, and rejection, you will soon bloom into the human you’ve once always wanted to be.

Self love is loving yourself

Loving your body and soul and spirit

And hey, maybe even your hair

Self love is ultimately the best love.

Self love is, well… I´ll leave that up to you

RYDER DIETZ FTM

Her smiles were long extinct Before he came. She was made of years of trials While he was made of an instant. Before him, Everyone knew of her. From her white bleached tipped hair To her silent voice. Before him, She had a role in choir And a place in a lane. After him, She was assigned to history. Her friends quickly turned into his. Her teachers now taught him. Only her family could not see him.

She tried to be an ocean, To drown him, who had taken her place.

Her skills had been copied by him, To which he added more. Both competitive swimmers, Only he was a lifeguard. Though he may have briefly sunk Inches ‘neath the surface, He soon reached the beach Of the puddle she became.

He turned to her and knew, Only one of them could be. First, went her name. Broken and mangled, Its bones were made into his. Second, her hair was shorn, Made to match his. Third, he unwove her clothes To make his own. He bound her chest and stained her hands, Marred her skin and stole her voice, As he did not yet have his own. Lastly, he let his hands and feet turn to claws, His teeth sharpened into fangs. Tearing apart what lay before him, Letting what remains melt into him. He walks away from the scene, Not a trace of guilt in his heart. He puffs out his chest at what he did, For it was his right.

RIAN JOHNSON Venus’s Arms

Psalm 139:14

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderfully Made…

He made me out of Parian Marble in the likeness of myself when I emerged from the foam of the sea. My creator captured my likeness from the details he gleaned from my stories. The way my hips melted with the curve of my waist…The way my breasts sat up perfectly on my chest…The way the marble was able to mimic my perfect porcelain skin…and even then the sculpture pales in comparison to the impossible depth of my beauty. Alexandros of Antioch molded his idea of feminine perfection into a 6 foot 8 inch tall statue that, in his mind, was the ideal standard for divine feminine beauty…in his mind, I was his Venus.

He, along with most men, decided what would be the epitome of beauty for all women to strive for and really saw no issue in making the standard for a body and gender he was not born in…my question is…when he made his creation without human error did he forget that humans have error?...Did it slip his mind that the standard of perfection was ever changing and not something he alone could determine…Better yet…did he discover the same peculiar irony that the world has discovered when not even the goddess of beauty can reach the standard of beauty forged by man…And that when I was found on the Island of Melos, I too fell short… quite literally, actually, for when I was found I had no arms…and the world would grow to love me because of it.

I’d like to think of human self esteem as a soft, malleable piece of clay. Something natural that can be easily manipulated when in the hands of man. There are so many outcomes for this piece of clay and each outcome is different—as the artists of this material vary. The misconception about self esteem is that everyone expects their piece of clay and its finished product to reach perfection. The original lie.

Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder but beauty can never equate to perfection considering everyone beholds beauty differently. I learned that when my body hit the ground…the hard way. One may be superficially and objectively beautiful on the outside—to you, but this may not be what that person believes or what they have heard about themselves. So what happens to that piece of clay that believes they are lesser than the other pieces of clay they compare themselves too?

In my journey around the Sun, I can unequivocally say that a constant battle in my life is having to accept the fact that there would never be a box I would be able to fit in. Many have said that standing out becomes me—

In my mind I’ve wondered if I ever had a choice.

(This is an excerpt from a longer piece.)

LYDIA COWAN a bubble bath

small popping against your skin the water now clear the drip drip drip of the faucet ice cold

against your toes

you see your body in the water a light blue tint of flesh

you see your:

stretch marks

scars

freckles

cellulite rolls

greasy hair

wrinkles

body hair

bruises

pimples and unpainted nails all cocooned in the lukewarm water you don’t hate what you see you don’t love it

you accept it.

you emerge from the cocoon the diamond rivulets running down your flushed skin

you unplug the drain a tornado of water released in the pipes the drip drip drip silenced.

you pick up the now empty plastic bottle from its place on the shelf the label worn from over-usage

the soapy liquid for sensitive skin has finally run out

you aren’t happy you aren’t sad you accept it.

because you can take a bath without bubbles now.

69

I just don’t understand I’ve never understood.

How your friends don’t notice that you’re feeling down and depressed Just wanting to feel something more than hopelessness.

How your family won’t even be there for you when you open up to them. When it feels like more of an interrogation than a discussion of feelings, my feelings

Mental illness doesn’t discriminate.

I am a young black woman that suffers from depression, but we don’t speak about that one... Society tries to sweep it under the rug. And when I talk—no when we talk about it, we’re considered weak Angry.

We’re told to shut up and suck it up.

Like we’re supposed to be able to suppress our feelings away, conceal them from the public, and never speak about them again. Or when we speak about it people think that we are lying, overreacting, and dramatic.

Like we don’t get depressed like there’s no way black girls can be depressed. I am tired of feeling this way.

I’m tired of waking up screaming and crying because it feels like this thing called life is beating me

This thing called life is eating me away. And we often don’t have a place to go.

A place to let emotions free.

And I just wanna be heard.

I want to be a great wife and a good mother

A good sister to my big brother

And I want to be a strong black woman too.

SHELBY VAUGHN

The Oppression Of Depression

RIAN JOHNSON

The Stages of Emily Doe

Acknowledgments

In order to tell this story properly, I must acknowledge those involved–All those who thread my pain together in the blanket that kept me hidden, to those who poked holes in the blanket’s thick wool to let the light hit my face. Some faces I still remember, and others will be burned in my hippocampus until my body meets the ground. It’s important to note that without those people who made me experience what hell feels like, I would not be who I am…but it is because of the people that made me see the possibility of heaven that I am still here.

“The Land of the Free” doesn’t function without bondage.

I would first like to acknowledge the state of Kentucky. A place that was never meant for colored kids with big dreams and big hair. I would like to acknowledge your ignorance in choosing to live as a confederate state long after The Civil War. You overlooked that Jim Crow died and continued to quietly push black people into too-small enclaves out of ear shot—where our screams overlap one another like the bodies in slave ships. Within these enclaves we have learned how to protect each other but your southern pride is built on being a threat to the enclaves you created. You had a hand in my abuse by making the playing field uneven 400 years ago for my ancestors, brothers, sisters, me, and all of our descendants. Without you, I wouldn’t have gone through all that I did…I wouldn’t have learned how bad systemic hate could affect me and therefore I would have never found my passion in life. Thank you for choosing to be ignorant so that I could gain knowledge. I would also like to acknowledge the systems in place that made it possible for sexual abuse to thrive in the same environment children grew up in. I remember you the most in moments when I reflect on conversations where girls were always made to be more responsible than the boys that would end up hurting them. You taught us to keep our hands, thoughts, minds, bodies, and pain to ourselves…if we were the owners of vaginas. You taught us that boys can be boys…that the code of conduct for how they played with toys was the same as how they were allowed to play with girls. Reckless, wild, and with no boundaries, you gave them permission to never grow up or think of others and how their actions could affect people and you let them sit in playtime on and off the football field while we were forced to grow up…because

they are boys. Because of you I have the hands of several boys tattooed into my skin and in my brain and for that I can never thank you enough.

While all of this was happening, my father gave me the nickname “diamond.” He wanted me to know how a woman, how I, should be treated. It is because of what you put me through and what you made acceptable that I will never forget how a diamond is made, priced, and valued.

Thank you to all of my female classmates who may have suffered the same fate as I and still hide in the night of silence. I want to acknowledge your presence on this earth, for you, too, live. I write for us all. Thank you to the teachers that ignored and overlooked this abuse and all of the perpetrators who perpetuated it. You made survivors. All of you made the pain visceral, but there are beings who made it disappear.

I would like to acknowledge my parents. The two people who made me out of love and have never shown me anything less. Now while you may not have had all the tools to save me from a world with no rules, you loved me enough to guide me while I was temporarily blind. There will never be a love to replace what I have in you. Dad, watching you love Mom in a way that comes as a sacrifice to yourself everyday has made me see that I should never lower myself to chase after the cracks on the sidewalk when I could run with my head held high on streets made of gold. Mom, you are a warrior with armor no one but you can fit. And you still have room to love me in a way that can heal the sick. To my sisters, we have grown up feeling one another’s pain as if we shared the same body. We share the same thoughts and burdens. While I may have felt alone, I was never by myself. There is no greater gift than having siblings who are your best friends.

I want to acknowledge the strong Black and Filipino women on my father’s side. You taught me what it’s like to be bulletproof and still vulnerable. I have learned of the power of duality through watching you. That power now lives in me.

To my Therapist, you encouraged me to speak, and without you this story would have died with me. You are my hero.

To my Alexa, you are an inspiration to me, and to this world. You have inspired me to speak on behalf of the girls who life broke…but you have had a hand in putting me back together. You made this story a broken masterpiece. I will forever be grateful to you.

To my Joel, who loved me before I was aware that love had a definition that applied to me, you gave me a reason to find healing and in you I have found freedom. Thank you for showing me that love should never have a price tag. You are loved by me forever.

To my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, you deserve all of the acknowledgments. You made this journey for me when you crafted me in my mother’s womb, and you knew it would come to this moment when it was time to share the journey with others. I used to believe there was a moment in time when you chose to not look at me, in writing this I have been able to feel you in every single moment oxygen fills my lungs. May your will be done with this piece and may the systems that failed me learn from The Pharaoh Ramses.

Let my people go.

(This is an excerpt from a longer piece.)

LUCAS HARBAUGH The Meadow

The man stood looking from his window. It was a wide view from his 6th floor apartment. It showed an out of place, hilly little area, with scattered trees and overgrown wild grass. The kind of place perfect for a picnic with a thick blanket he often thought, only if it weren’t for his apartment complex built directly in front of it. An old brick building with small rooms. The building was originally used for the making of textiles, but with a few added walls it was converted. His room was a little sliver of space, about five feet wide on each side of his door and only about 13 back. A place someone might refer to as a hole in the wall; a dingy, slightly decrepit hole for that matter. The floor didn’t join properly in spots, leaving thick ridges where pieces came together roughly. Often, he would catch one of his toes on these misjoinings which slashed and bruised them. Richard came to always wear shoes in his apartment because of this, only taking them off when getting into bed by dangling his feet off the edge and reaching down to forcefully pull them off. He’d then leave them neatly next to each other.

The walls of his apartment were covered in a thin white plaster, with most parts having given way to show the faded, reddish-brown bricks behind. In places where the plaster wasn’t completely gone it was cracked or chipped, with little bits of dust falling from the walls every time a knock was made against them.

While some might call this place rustic or industrially charming, he did not feel the same. He felt as though this place was a cold, cluttered, and out of order mess. That it stood only because brick never falls, and the poor must be assigned to a place that some property manager would call “rustic.”

That rustic label he hated. It had driven up the price of rent, as it’s a word that hipster kids couldn’t help but marvel at. The idea of living in such an apartment, stationed comfortably outside the city but not far, so crime could not be heard in the night and overpriced coffee could be enjoyed on the streets during the day. All with the added, and most important benefit, of being able to tell their friends they were a part of it, the city life. The man grew annoyed with the whole concept. Though he wasn’t much more than a kid himself, 23, but convinced he was wise beyond his years. The type that had no need for frivolous endeavors, or pointless interests.

He carried himself poorly. He slumped his shoulders and hung his head when he walked. His dark hair contrasted with his pale skin, and covered part of his forehead on one side going down to his eyebrow, where it then crossed sharply up to the other side of his head. He was a stockily built man, not obese but on the cusp, leaving wrinkles in his shirt where his body had settled into. He often spent time trying to iron these out with his hands after standing up, embarrassed of their representative impressions. Dark, half-moon rings rested under his eyes at all times of the day. These rings were caused by his unsound sleep; at night he was constantly circled by anxious and angry thoughts like vultures picking away at his mind. Pulling his brain from his skull and throwing the pieces where he couldn’t find them.

He turned from the window and looked into his sunlit apartment. Seeing his bed in the corner he thought of lying in it. Spending the day staring into his pillows, folded over blankets and under them, as he often did. An appealing thought but his mind was too overwhelmed at this moment to assign himself to that position.

“It’s too quiet in here,” he muttered to himself. Silence felt like an inescapable void to him. Silence brought those circling thoughts which he would rather avoid. Often, he filled the emptiness with music to drown out his panic, music which would throw him into fantasies of grandeur. Fantasies where he would be a world champion boxer, coming back from the jaws of defeat during a fight he was supposed to lose. Or a man who lives in the forest and speaks to animals, having dinner with them in giant trees, and loved by all. He would drift away, far from the cracked walls of his apartment, giving him a sense of freedom for the minutes or moments these fantasies would last. He cherished these moments and grew angry when he could not conjure them. They provided him with a company he rarely had.

He rarely left his apartment and despite his hatred for it, he told himself it had everything he needed. A small bathroom opposite his bed, with stand-alone shower and toilet stuffed against an always chilled plaster wall. This wall was one of the few in the house that had no exposed brick, while still being laced with jagged cracks throughout. When he sat on the toilet, he always envied this wall. How the stale covering remained unbreeched by the course brick beneath. The only thing in this apartment he admired was that wall.

Next to the bed was his kitchen, hosting an electric oven with a stove top that took forever to heat up. Two small cutting areas stood on both sides of it. Next to the right-most cutting area was a sink, and next to that a black refrigerator, barren of anything on its magnetic surface. Dusty wood cabinets encircled the area, on bottom and top, holding various boxes of sugary food or quick, ready to make meals. Other than this the room was empty; it had no room for much else. Opposite the kitchen was a long barren wall, which was the most destroyed inside the space. He hesitated to put anything against it, as it constantly expelled powdery plaster

at any rumble or step, creating a thick dust on the floor conjoined with it. Every time he brushed the wall it covered him in its ceramic residue, which clung tightly to his clothes. Once, Richard tried to clean the powder off the wall but in the process knocked more plaster onto the floor which cracked and turned into dust upon hitting the ground, filling the air. The wall ended up being in a worse state than before he attempted to clear it off, affirming his belief that things are better left as they are.

He spent most days making food then quickly cleaning after, so that everything was back in its designated place. Pots above the stove, boxes broken down and into the trash, and pans stacked neatly in the compartment beneath the oven. It wasn’t the sight of the pans being out that drove him mad, but the thought of their areas being filled with nothing. Empty cabinets, sitting without purpose.

The man, while staring into his apartment, decided against his bed and against making a mess in the kitchen only to put him in the throes of cleaning. Thinking of possibilities, and the angst associated with the number of them, he decided to do nothing. He decided today to sit sternly on the floor.

Many times, he tried to embrace the silence, figure out why he could not handle it. But these attempts never lasted long, he always convinced himself there was something pressing to do, or to learn that was bigger than himself. The man believed he was one insight away from freedom, and often looked for this insight in an endless stream of videos. Videos he couldn’t recall hours after viewing them.

Looking to the floor he found an area where he could fit his plump body without being on top of a mis-joined section. Decidedly close to the window, but with his back turned away from it, peering into his room toward the door and his bed. He sat only slightly out of range of the thick dusty shore of plaster on the ground next to his battered wall, trying to ignore its persistent presence.

“I’m sitting here, ok. Now what,” he thought in a plea for stimulation.

He felt the warm sun from the window behind his neck. “80 degrees and sunny,” he had seen on his phone this morning, acknowledging that it was going to be beautiful. Now he felt the heat taunt him. He turned to feel it on his face, and slightly pressed his hand to the window. Feeling its invigorating projection of heat, he put his face to it as well. The heat on his cheek from the glass provided the sort of stimulation he sought. It was a relief from the view of his white-walled, asylum-like apartment.

He then realized how he may look from the outside and darted his eyes down. Quickly he peeled his face off the heated glass, looking to see if anyone may have been watching him, laughing at him.

No one was there, just the empty, hilly field. Sun danced off the rolling hills, making the tops glimmer a golden color. From his perch he could see some of the finer details of this meadow. He noted how the thin grass with wild dandelions and other wildflowers he could not name seemed perfectly placed throughout.

“So out of place for being on the outskirts of the city,” he thought. “And no one down there, no one enjoying the day. Is everyone in the world so busy?”

“The world we live in takes no pleasure in the finer parts of life. Everyone would complain if someone set about building something in it, but no one cares about it before. It sits empty, day after day, despite its rare beauty inside this constructed mess. This city doesn’t deserve such a place. If I had someone to share that meadow with, I’d be in it every day.” This last thought in his pondering made him pause. He rarely thought of his loneliness, always convincing himself of otherwise, but the unprompted thought had caught him. A rare truth slipped through his defensive mind.

He placed his forehead back onto the warm glass, closing his eyes as he pressed into it. His body felt heavy, and his arms settled firmly on the ledge of the window, unmoving. The warmth of the glass no longer felt like a pleasure, but a reminder of what he had said. It was a reminder of the outside, a reminder of that meadow, of how perfect it looked. How dancing around it, arm in arm with someone would feel, and of laying his head on the thick grass, his cheek feeling its feathered embrace. Warmth not from a window but from the earth that the window was built to show. And on the opposite side of his face the un-barriered sun, baking his other cheek.

He immediately peeled his face from the glass and slammed it sternly back against it. Bruising his brow and sending large pieces of plaster from the fractured wall spattering across the floor. The fallen plaster reached all the way to the other side of the short room with pieces catching in the mis-joined floor and others shattered their way over it.

The wall was now left unmistakably different, but to Richard more of the same. It was all broken and battered anyway. Again, he felt more of the deep sorrow as he looked out the window. Impulsively he took his hand and smashed it onto the wall to his left, breaking it more, and sending more pieces of plaster in a rapid tumble down. And again, he smashed his hand, this time slightly cutting it on a sharp piece of plaster. The cut was not deep, only enough to draw a little blood.

The man, maddened more now by the slow trickle from his hand, slammed it once again even harder into the fractured wall, creating a spider web-like indent from where his palm had landed. When he pulled it away pieces of plaster stuck to his hand and others fell to the floor. A thick coat of white now covered much of the floor of the apartment where he sat, and a chalky red covered his hand. He felt a steady stream of blood run down his arm as the cut opened wider from his pounding, falling steadily off his elbow. He allowed it to pool onto the ground but carefully pulled his body away from the steady stream so it would not stain his clothes.

He turned from the sight of his bloody arm and turned back to the window. He pushed his face back against the glass, and once again looked down toward the meadow. He looked at the meadow’s green pastures, rolling hills and tall, uncut wild grass. He thought of the blood he had just seen run down his arm; the steady, deep red stream. Thinking of how consistent it was, how it was the same color from the first drop to the last. But he thought of the meadow, and all the color it encompassed. Green, hazel, tan and brown. Blue from the great big sky. How it all combined to make a full picture, but how his red blood created one solid state as well. But his blood was no picture to him. One was a state of being, separate, but whole, natural in its most true state and came together in harmony. His creation felt whole, but in a bland, tasteless way.

A thought came to him.

He switched his mind from the pooled blood to the view out the window. And with wide eyes he stared out into the meadow. Tears streamed same as his blood did only moments ago, which had now slowed to a trickle. Richard wiped his eyes as the tears perverted his view and peeled himself off the jagged ground. Walking to the door he paid no attention to the splintered floor. His feet found their way instinctively over its cracks, leaving prints on the dust-covered surface as he stepped. When he reached the doorknob, he turned to look back into the still apartment. Dust covered the floor, chips of plaster hung from the battered wall waiting to fall, and a small pool of blood sat stagnant in the corner. The big window beamed sun all over the scene and in it, he saw his reflection. A big smile was spread across his face, and wet patches shone under his eyes. Through his reflection he saw the meadow, and his smile grew. Richard turned and went through the door, leaving it unlocked behind him.

MIRA MARINO “Flower Picture”

Burning Trees

The trees are Burning! First one in the distance. Then a few more, Leaves turning Yellow orange and red. This cacophony of color every fall. As I walk down this path, they seem alive Moving like a woman with her arms raised Branches raised, to the sun, a dance of fire. The trees are choosing to burn. Now. Here Her leaves turn bright, and the scientist in me says Her leaves are colored because they are dying, suffocating. Somehow, I cannot find sorrow in the knowledge. They fulfill their purpose And in doing so die honored

Glorious colors Red and Green

Like apples, consumed to give life to feeling, the fire-dance.

As I Walk further, Seeing more trees. I am surprised that trees can move so much. Branches raised in dance, exposed. No more hiding, No more throwing shade. Show their heart by all its exposed crevasses. Patterned branches telling twisted, merging stories of personal significance. Their innermost forms known by the world. The trees Are screaming silently. Happy, wild, and raucous. Leaves suffocating, using what little is left What could never last forever and reveling in colors

Mixing hue, and all the different ways to scream the singing of feeling. These moving, shouting, dances are too much for me to take in.

So I sit and stare

At leaves on the ground. Passion spent, some still bright but the rest uniform and brown. Renewal found.

Be more like the trees. Show emotion through your colored leaves Do not let them rot on your branches Whatever was inside, come out, In color vibrant and free. These trees whose leaves have already left still say more. They do not end in fire. They reveal through their expression of emotion their inner working And find a community of trees dancing with the breeze These things can burn but once, only once be felt. And while they were kept green for a time, the time comes when all must be lit up and experienced. Burning in this moment. And so should you with your sorrow-joy-anger filling you to the brim. Learn from the trees. Choose a time with friends or alone To express. Laugh a dance, scream a song, sway in silent remembrance, just feel. Let your leaves burn. Revel in the burning. And learn to live again.

Highway at Night

The roll of rubber slides over pavement. Glimpses of advertisements flicker past the travelers. Stars flint above in a constant reminder of time. Pin pricks grow with time and hurry past without a backwards glance. And suddenly the destination seems so very far away.

Before Sunrise

Silence.

Warmth bounces against Night’s cold door. The air pulses as a heart. Before light breaks into streaks of soul, time freezes. As before the first note of music, so the world holds its breath.

JOSIAH ZUIDERVEEN

Chasing the Heart of Music

Timing! Tick, tick, tick

You are watched

Tempo! Tempo! Tempo!

Keep the tempo!

You are observed and studied.

The pace! tick, tick, tick, keep the pace!

Not too fast not too slow

The voices of instructors crowd your mind

Adjust the metronome, Don’t play during that quarter rest

Breath here, but never there

you are studied and judged

Here a tad fast there a little behind

Don’t wipe the sweat from your brows and focus

Tick, tick, tick, tick

The note must fit

The lines must align with

Tick tick tick

You tell yourself “Forget the eyes, You aren’t really being watched“

Tick, tick, tick,

One-E-And-a-Click, Click

Just focus on the ticks and the beats

And how from the impersonal ticks emerges a melody

You have heard this melody many times as you have practiced

As you adhere to the tick tick tick

But now the melody is showing its true nature

A beautiful swelling of emotion that expands in glorious majesty

Tick tick tick

Tri-po-lit tri-po-lit quick

How beautiful, how alluring, as high notes sway

And rhythms combine

Telling thought and ideas

Things that mere words always labor to express

The joy and the sorrow and the pain that loves, The happy dance and the frozen trance

All of it here and more.

Your understanding of the world brims.

You hear the music as its composer meant for it to be heard

You see into his soul, As music bridges time and space

You let passion consume you and pour yourself into it

To grow its grandeur

But this perfect music recoils from you.

Shattered, It now somehow sounds

Tainted, small, hollow and mocking.

And you realize the music is less

Because you forget to follow the tick, tick, tick!

You have lost control of the pace

You stopped adhering to all the rules.

All the regulation of the song

The hard things you must bind yourself to summon the true melody.

So once again you focus

Tick, tick, tick

Notes in the right place in the right amount of time

Legato here, staccato there.

No matter how beautiful it is, pianissimo!

Tick, tick, tick, tick

Not too long, not too short

No breath here, mezzo fort’

The world of tick tick tick is joined with

The Composer’s burning inspiration.

And with tempo kept, I open the bridge of notes

That glorious depth of meaning.

Breathing myself into the melody,

The Heart of the Song rebounding, My lungs raising his soul.

As long high notes call

91

The Composer’s response, music breaking walls of time

As it skates across the bridge and back, dancing: Tick Pip-Pickity Tick

Pipity Tickity-Pip Pick

Here two souls meet

To teach a dance in words of sound

Beautiful and sad.

I give my breath, Lungs on fire

Holding two worlds together ignited Here we hold… and weep for the joy of it.

In burning bliss, we persist

This burning bridge of bliss

Burn…….

Tick………

Burn……..

Tick……..

Burn……

Then it stops,

The page has ended.

No more burning, no more written.

All that is left of you joining the music

Is memory.

ClapClap! Clap! ClaC!

This tempo but not your tempo jars you

The observers!

You remember them now.

And you no longer dread that you were watched

By those whose all-seeing gaze looks on your failures and successes.

They who saw, Who learned,

Who will understand the joy:

Becoming one with the heart of music.

Dedicated to Mr. Piersma and Mr. Morrison

L. ROCKWELL

Astigmatism

When I see lights I see stars I see dots I see double I see streaks

I see light trails

I see light years

A parking lot

A galaxy

A city street

A cosmic scene

Your halo splintering in front of me

MADALYN

Yellow Yarn

Stand on the right walk on the left

Not spoken but known by the riders

The tunnel wind staggers me as I coast down

And we wait

The platforms firm beneath my feet too firm to break

People sit waiting for their iron horse to take them away to their lives and out of this place

Hands in pockets twitch from a distant low rumble

low like a growl just forming in the back of the throat

Hands move uncontrollably

The ground begins to shake

Body pulsing to the beat of tearing tracks

The bass of a hip hop song sifts through the air

The ground shakes harder this time

Head thrown back like a plastic bag in the wind

AND THEN

It rumbles like thunder in front of me

Like 10000 drums beating

Like the stomps of a marching band bigger than the world

Crushed by noise and sound

Pounding

Pounding

Like rain clawing the roof of the car

The platform is too firm to break

Yet it shakes violently beneath my feet

Light cascades into the terminal

Too bright

Can’t see

Warning lights flashing

Stay back

Brakes squealing

Wind rushes through my tight ponytail pulled back by force

It’s impossible to escape

Scraping metal fills the domed room

Faces fly past me melted by speed

Hold on Hold on They

rush toward the heaving hunk

as it slows its endless journey

Slowly people now fill the souls’ cavern

It slows

Crawling

Slides to a steaming tired halt

Feel it breathing like it’s alive shuddering with power

Doors fly open

1 2 3

and they run

No glance back

No smile just rush

Quickly on

Quickly off

They sweep through up and out

Step back doors closing

Snap

1 2 3

they shut

contents locked in

It lurches like a faulty ride

hands too clean to touch the sordid metal

People’s faces charge past and desperate visitors race toward it halting as slips by

They fade from view

Light and light and blackness sweeps over the windows like a hand snuffing out candles

Standing room only

Jostled by them as they cry out

Boom. Boom. Boom. The tracks slide under the caravan of metal

Loud air rushes by them

Louder than a tornado

Can’t hear it

But louder than hurricane waves

But louder than howling blizzard winds

crushing them

Can almost feel it through the locked doors

And slow.

They stand rushing to the doors can’t go further

And stop.

1 2 3

doors open.

Sweeping terror seizes the car can’t breath for need of air

Two seats stretch open

Sit they urge Sat. Looking.

It crawls forward

It teeters forward

It walks forward

It runs forward

It flies forward

Them.

Noses stuck in books

Heads turned in conversation

Eyes glued to bright screens

Eyes move across the car

Outside seat

Riding alone but next to someone

And she sits needles in hand and Yellow yarn

At her side

She knits a hat.

Ba boom ba Boom ba Boom

Breaks creek metal scrapes hands grab

MADALYN L. ROCKWELL

Becoming Consumption

Gnawing on the aluminum sides of the Domino’s truck, the blue scrapes onto my teeth

My hands beat in metallic dents

Break into dents

Crumple like a can

Sweet relief of Nestle streaming down my legs

Pepsi naval fleet Veteran

I gave up my lower ribs to hold Cheezits in my hands, ingrain the orange salty sand into the side of my face

Speckling like acne Or stars

Back on the asphalt, legs spread, breathing in Sprite as it flows up my nose, it smells like home

Burning

Rupturing with carbonation

Mixing with blood

Shirley Temple

Sodium Benzoate

Calcium Sorbate

If i was never alive i can never be dead

Embalm me from the inside

Wrap my naked body in plastic

Brand me

Bury me on a shelf

10% off

Only for members

LUCAS HARBAUGH

Salt Flat

Ash burn

A hole in the denim

Fray strands get draggged in the dust

Tang of grit sep ting te h, ara eet

Tongue like a bulldog

Swallow the sp.it

99 LUCAS HARBAUGH

Scribble Out

Crazy and ma-nigh-yick

Basqui at, Rode-o dog.

Street kid, Ride the stall ions before the world.

Draw, paint- no skill Young black at, war h-all, knew and used.

LUCAS HARBAUGH

Philadelphia Alley

“You never draw water from the depths of this well.”

“What water? What well?”

“Who is asking?”

Silence.

“What silence?”

- Franz Kafka

In the dark

Echoes tapping against the foreboding, black walls

against the cement; maroon fans across the water

Then swirls and dances down a spiral staircase into the depths of the puddle

The last fleck vanishes with a flare against the roof of the steady, unlit pool.

Shadows kiss, then separate and are gone.

I could just sit here, on the bus With my heavy head on the icy, hard window And forget the world. Leave this place. I could just allow the wind to seep into my body; Teasing and picking at my skin

Until it cracks and breaks open, And all the evil pieces of me will fly Out the window, And into the air. They will become trapped and snatched, by the helpful arms of nearby evergreens. They will steal the pieces of me and lock them away where they could never catch me. And the rest of me, Would soar. Until the wind runs out of breath, And the pieces of me Fall to the ground Like leaves.

JENNA STASZAK

The wind

the moral code of horoscopes

the moon’s ethereal beauty reduced to a pixelated misrepresentation, an amorphous splotch against a navy-blue backdrop.

its misguided worshippers elevate their phones high in a doomed attempt to deify, failing to recognize the footsteps of their ancestors who also propped up gods in the sky.

we loyally chart the course of celestial bodies, not out of respect, but self-interest:

which of my sins could i prosecute the stars for? what responsibilities can i saddle the planets with rather than cast the stone of accountability at my own reflection?

which mistake looms large enough to blame upon the milky way?

horoscopes have become a weekly court summons issued to the universe: money-hungry stargazers with a surface-level understanding of space and the movements of its inhabitants act as judge, jury, and executioner.

“you overslept? no need for regret, saturn was spurned by mars.”

“you committed vehicular manslaughter? don’t sweat it, mercury’s center of gravity was offset.”

heavenly bodies must bear the brunt of the punishment for our crimes; weighed down by guilt, how do these empyrean things remain aloft in the sky?

soft, the cosmos rain our own pain upon us, hands stained with blood we shed in their names, reaching low just to reach us.

in compensation, we capture blurry pictures to send to friends that couldn’t care less. “such a lovely sunset,” we sigh,

unsympathetic to the sentiment that not only will our planet die, but we are its assassin, hundred-handed with fifty heads, a greek myth risen from the dead to take life.

goodnight moon.

adieu to the sun and its many hues. farewell stars, bid goodbye to mars for me.

even when we kill the sky, we cannot concern ourselves to administer the message in person.

where will we look to for answers when there is no horizon left to implore?

Memory

How great is it to have a memory?

This song is your bedroom, And this smell, That one day in June, And this feeling is like another place, From another time I can’t quite name, But I know was made of friends, and a breeze, And the falling of leaves in a foreign state. And when I am old I may live so full that I will see everything. A kaleidoscope of all my days.

Even without my asking, I have been granted the weight Of your hand, the hum of the fan in that old attic space. So many secrets I would not have known to keep, Were it solely up to me.

Like the snow when it was five feet deep, And how we leapt through it as though we were deer With springs in our giddy feet.

And the sound of gravel

On a warm summer day when you’d pull in the driveway, And you’d come home to me with something sweet You had tucked away.

You would pull it from your pocket

And proudly present it for my tiny hands to inspect. And all those wrappers we would carefully collect. How important that I never ever forget.

EMMA HAMPEL

The Artist

There is a place, small where the river runs under a bridge Where I dream, and see throughout time

A glimpse of future deeds, A place where dreams shape themselves and are given life. This small place where all around you life is busy with the passing of cars, and people doing busy things

Here……

A hidden nook in the world. To rest, reflect, and think big thoughts

Quiet and clean, where Michael’s and my bikes rest

By the bench and we stare at the flowing water, Shaded by leaf-rich trees and ever-swaying reeds

Not quite quiet, but never loud. Where the noise

Of cars transforms to a dull hum.

Pervasive and low like large dragonflies.

Calm, and wonderful.

We rest here, having reached the far point of our wanderings, And we talk sometimes.

But mostly watch the flow of serenity. Then, when our breath comes easy, Bike up the trail to see the dam. Marvel at the rush of water.

Then we pedal up the hills and ride

Through the only stoplight intersection in the center of town

Back to familiar backyards of Temple Street. Back into the fray of living, Back to the heavy weight of growing up

But back, that water calls to me still, and that calm, That flowing restful place beckons:

I will be here when you need me again.

Dreamy Rivers Flowing Under Bridges

KOSTANDI STEPHENSON

A Lady’s Broken Heart

A heart past broken, still unhealed Laid still within a lady’s breast

With promise planted yet no yield And ache and hunger without rest

As sorrow stained her fairest face

And dark and shadow stole her breath

A valiant soldier armed with grace

Did come to save her from cold death

T’was honor brandished by his sword

A softer heart and mind renew

Delivered him her love’s award

A noble prize, triumphed and true

His lips at last did mend her heart

While wedded neath the silver stars

She finally found her missing part Lo, beauty with no tears nor scars

you fit into me, a spoon nestled into another spoon because we are the same, me and you

my slopes echo your curves and your arcs mirror my contours, each nook and cranny doubled in perfunctory reproduction

we make-believe at spoons mechanically cuddled, paint the perfect picture of an orderly silverware drawer, with everything in its right place and your warmth at my back, domestic

sharpness found in the offending knives pressing in on all sides, but you are only softness, a smooth silver half-moon

condensation blushes across the metal surface, heat of breath leaving an efflorescent impression

spoons because this utensil is synonymous with comfort, a vehicle for childhood’s refreshing treat: ice cream sweating cold sweetness into an iridescent plastic bowl

delivery instrument for sickness’s consistent companion: chicken noodle soup still-steaming, saffron broth’s distinct mildness as predictable a bedside attendant as a mother, compassionate

transportation conveyance for foods intended to be eaten post-dentist: dumpling-pats of pudding in chocolate or vanilla, abstract geometry of technicolored jello; green-brown muddle and lumps of apple sauce, opalescent whip of yogurt rendered in elegant pastels

spoons because i dream of a nondescript sunday morning: you, me, and a bowl of lucky charms, arms brushing as we argue about ducks or something and the marshmallows are soaked just so in milk made a faded pink; most importantly, you are close enough to touch a luxury i promise i will never grow weary of even when your presence is a given rather than a gift

spoons because you are the table at which i sit come day’s end, supportive, a place to lay my head when i can’t stand to make it to the bed

and you are the tea that warms me, soul and body, implement of alternative medicine; i practice aromatherapy through the constant inhalation of your sun-warmed, laundry-fresh scent

three teeny tea scoops constitute a table and sixteen of these little ladles add up to a cup, but one you is all that my happiness’s list of ingredients calls for; an easily-memorized measurement for the mesmerizing contentment that you whip up simply, no oven necessary for you to make me melt— all it takes is the glow of your gaze, heartfelt so much more than a spoonful of sugar for your sweetness knows no depths, vast compassion incapable of being measured in mere ounces but you stir it so effortlessly into this recipe of you and me

spoons simply because i reach for you and you are there: an entire nightmare of a kitchen cabinet could be dedicated to the faulty tableware of my past, but i don’t care about that everyone always denies having a favorite spoon, but what’s the use?

for me, it’s always been you

Print”

NORA

PLUTH

Flowers for the Living

Fresh white flowers

Cut clean from the back garden

Lilies, orchids, roses

I was six when my grandma died

My tears a crude imitation of my brother’s Not understanding but praying Or looking at her somehow more perfect face Even in death a beauty.

We desire to bloom from death

Bring flowers to funerals. Wait for spring during winter

Bouquets to salvage a floundering romance

We are orchids and roses, lilies and irises to those we never knew Flowers for the dead

In memoriam of the people we can’t remember

Always an afterthought

Always a reaction

Always a memory

But I bring flowers for the living Flowers in anticipation Flowers for the future

Instead of blooming from the ruins of death

We bloom into precious life

Hopeful life

I bring flowers for the living not in fear of death

But in the vibrancy of creation

And the gesture of friendship

I react to life the way others react to death

With sadness and shock

And with joy, with gratitude

Flowers not in spite of death

But because of life

MIRA MARINO