volume 6
issue one
fall 20 / spring 21
volume 6
issue one
fall 20 / spring 21
editorial board Sarah Sachar ‘21 Editor-in-Chief Chris Chandra ‘22 Managing Editor Tomás Reuning '21 Copy Editor Anika Potluri '22 Layout Editor Sarah Lorgan-Khanyile '21 Events Coordinator Greta Gooding '22 Communications Director Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon Faculty Advisor Ishion Hutchinson Faculty Advisor M. Francesca Lojacono '24, I Have My Ways Cover and Theme Artist
general staff Madison Albano '22 Beck Kerdman '24 Carley Kukk '23 Sage Lee '22 M. Francesca Lojacono '24 Erika Zi Yan Yip '24
Table of Contents 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38
self-portrait as a beam of light Water-Light seventy degrees in november grandfather renaissance above the sea (Nikon, 35mm) To Rainer Maria Rilke SIX DARKER MONTHS According to retrospective futures mark making sept 9 triangulation Autumn Equinox Star-Body Arboris Offshore Ocean Speak Like Bad Amoeba Boy and the Sax-Rider The Farmer Slow Untitled (Stain) algae on water may bush-hogged field navigator Daisy Buchanan Misses the Funeral Push and Pull lessons on breathing Disappearing Act 从 is h ma el "universal"
Letter from the Editors In scattered times, in times of loss, in this time of separation, in the strange time of the past year, poetry has provided and will continue to provide a site in which we can gather across the page, can touch each other from within the space of isolation. While many of us turn to poetry in times of crisis – visits to poetry.org are up by thirty percent – it also offers us a way to think through the complexity of the current moment. In the US, as we begin to remove our masks, to see our loved ones in-person again, we cannot forget that globally, the pandemic is far from over as challenges in vaccine access loom. And we will not forget the 3.4 million lives lost, and the fact that, despite the months of protests and countless diversity and inclusion committees, people of color continue to be disproportionately affected by COVID-19 and have reduced access to vaccines. We must find a way to balance the joy in coming back together with a sustained commitment to engage with the issues in the world around us. Poetry offers us tools to re-enter the world after and within this difficult year. Kathleen Ossip, writing about the radical potential of poetry, suggests that poems: Invite or even demand that readers lean in and become active participants in the joyful task of making meaning, another reason why reading or writing poetry is a political action. Once you get that intimate with language, just like when you get intimate with a person, you realize how endlessly complex meaning is and how endlessly supple language is. To break us out of the mentality of separation imposed by COVID-19, poetry teaches us how to get intimate to the world again, to think beyond our own experience, and to closely read the world in order to remain aware and dedicated to the labor of combating injustice. We feel so grateful for everyone who has remained connected with Marginalia – our contributors, our readers, our artists – thank you for continuing to devote your energy to poetry, for giving us your incredible work, and inspiring us with your thought during this trying time. A large thank you is also in order for our dedicated editorial board members – Chris Chandra, Greta Gooding, Sarah Lorgan-Khanyile, and Anika Potluri – for working to pull this issue together and helping keep Marg’s community alive. We would also like to extend our gratitude to former e-board members – Peter Szilagyi, Shaloni Pinto, Katha Sikka, Yongyu Chen, and Rachel Whalen – for their continued friendship and support. Without you, there would be no Marginalia. Yours Truly, Sarah Sachar & Tomás Reuning
self-portrait as a beam of light Sage Lee ‘22
like my father’s oversized, crinkle-beige windbreaker. i have stolen it from him. the hood rolls up and tucks into a velcro collar for when the wind is softer, i suppose, and needs less breaking. the sleeves have velcro, too — sometimes i will tighten them around my fingers until my palms are concave, thumbs tucked under, like a toddler’s sign language for, more, more, more! like the electric blanket my mom bought two of from costco, years ago, which was a good thing because hey, you can take one up to college, it’s really cold there, it snows, even. it is floral and garish and has three settings, low med high , but i only use high because my feet are always freezing cold and our heat doesn’t work? it makes a lot of sounds, but it doesn’t actually heat up. tch. i hate this apartment. it’s so old. and dirty. i vacuum every day. me too. god, i feel so, never mind. okay. take a shot, here. it’s vodka. god , i feel so hol low on the electric blanket barely warms my legs because i am always freezing cold and our heat doesn’t work and my father’s windbreaker breaks my heart because i miss him because i do not produce enough heat within my own body to keep my own limbs warm and sitting down makes them tingle with years’ worth of disuse and god, i am atheist, my parents raised me as a skeptic so i believe in no god but what if she is listening, watching me pretend she does not exist and her feelings are hurt? i am sorry. i have waited for so long.
9
Water-Light Sage Lee ‘22
A mouthful of water weighs no more than a fistful of window-light, even without the rivulets of dust specks seeping, streaming between my fingers, settling within the ridges of my whorls. A sip, two tentative sips of cold water in the mornings help me swallow a pill. It tastes of plastic. It burns of empty-stomach ache, of wanting to be light: the sunlight that slants across my glass of water and gleams, the orange street-light that sneaks between thrifted blackout curtains; the digital light, blue like the water bodies in my dreams, that blinks so loudly at me. Insistent. How much does a mouthful of water weigh? No less than a tablespoon of vinegared mother-light, placed under the tongue, swallowed with pinched eyebrows, tooth achingly cold; ice-light. Even then, when she boils water for barley tea, I am light-drinker; light-philic.
10
seventy degrees in november Sage Lee ‘22
he says he is not joking but we all pretend he is because it is easy. it is easy to pretend like he is okay and we are okay and we are all okay, easier to pretend than to unhinge our eyes and dislocate our sore jaws and swallow the ocean (we cannot spill a single drop). it is so, so easy to take a sip of brine and politely decline the rest. (i already know what this tastes like, no thank you, maybe next time.) can your fingernails bear the weight of your soft, trembling body as you scale that brick wall? can that brick wall, crumbling mortar and shattering stones, bear your desperation to get over? or maybe you aren’t so desperate, after all. maybe your sneakers are half a size too large but it’s okay because you like the extra wiggle room. that’s okay. there can be no wiggle room between layered bricks and saltwater fish, blindly swimming to find home.
11
grandfather renaissance above the sea (Nikon, 35mm) Julianna Teoh '21
In the red luster of the darkroom, you are bathed alive, rising to shame Botticelli in the grain, reflected in the fixer on my face; my cheeks leapt seventy odd years to be reborn, to wash the black and white from my skin — ocean for developer, sterile American cotton. I house behind my lenses red shadows and it is here where your armchair rests, a reminder to adjust the exposure, eat slowly, crease crisp, grow hope in a petri dish of bone ash and blood. Narrowed aperture, natural light, focus slung between index and thumb. Through artificial eye we share this blackened body, fit for kowtow and panchroma. Holding a roll of negatives up to the sun, ghosts find body.
12
To Rainer Maria Rilke Julianna Teoh '21
You have no country but childhood, and a chosen one besides. I have no childhood and a country who refuses my claim. In my hand my name births itself a body, the only one I have ever truly called my own. These Latin letters hold me the way the earth cradles the roots of a tree it thinks dear, and somewhere in the curlicue of “ah” it reminds me of this. The land which I want to call mine refuses us, and the land it sends me to is a stranger’s unmade bed, still warm in a foreign shape. There is no Old World waiting for me (and believe me, I have searched). The finest cruelty of my country is that it did not decide to unwant me until I was old enough to know the meaning of it. In defiance I am more American than ever, tied to the stars and stripes as to the thorns of a fruitless blackberry bush, and sometimes the faintness of each rare bite is where the sweetness lies. See me now, the invasive seed whose waist grew through the mesh of this nation to be cinched (embraced — throttled) by the thing that raised it up. My parents gave me a name the way they gave me a wool coat to tuck over things first fallen to frostbite and critical glances; the price was the mismatching of father, mother, and child (an assortment!) on my birth certificate, if that is any indication of what pound of flesh sorted the gift. For one so dear, only the most lavish of funerals is allowed. I have hung it carefully on cedarwood shoulders, pockets stuffed with star anise and cloves, in the safest corner of my closet. In the garden of the dead, everything is sweet. The anonymity of my flesh is further completed. In the proper circles, surrounded by the proper tongues and layers and chaleur, I wear the entirety of myself without sinking.
13
SIX DARKER MONTHS Alyssa Sandefer '21
of seven a.m. scattered thinking about the energy stor(i)ed in bodies how i know what time it is only from whether or not i have watered my plants yet these days green bodies reach for the air to pluck photons so carbon can hold hands with carbon and be sugar bonds the unhollow body light-sweetened my mouth is a clock not a lattice i bite down on hours and years instead of crystal eat the future by mistake and spit it back out bitterly un-stitched together like my body my language rarely kinetics so much as it floats and like ice leaves more room for ghosts than water meanwhile time arches its back like a cat wakes up stretching when the puddle of sunlight has shifted and gone —
14
According to retrospective futures Stephanie Tom '22
In ten years, we’re supposed to have achieved self-flight, as predicted by optimistic prophets of the past. They dreamed that we would have harnessed wings for ourselves by now, that we would have mapped out the sky. Today the sky was blue all over. The day I was born, the sky had been still. The moon was waning, turning away from us. I grew up under the shadow of a body curling into itself, of a face that could not stand to be reflected. We were supposed to have achieved the height of our evolution by now. We were supposed to be beautiful by now. If this should be the future, I wish that yesterday would have lasted longer than it did.
15
M. Francesca Lojacono '24
mark making sept 9
16
[[[three] six] ninety-six] how do you bear it, Noni? what are you waiting for? Aldo translates what he can of your dreams and memories; offerings: chestnuts, dandelions prayers, yes, insults, no. these he holds in the irregularity of his right atrium –
Emma Badini '20
triangulation
17
/ hip / nose / spine / how can bones be so stubborn? your Brother Eddie’s question from beyond – one hundred and four years of unpredictable (a)(de)scent \ / \ /
IV.
brain knocks around testa dura. again – spirit box voicemail and grating breath: this is your brother. clunky cannot tumble ti amo smooth like the elusive wash of gray felt headlights dusk reversing trans(fixation)(figuration) petrified organ: dross! left atrium stutters gibberish –
My
Autumn Equinox Tomás Reuning '21
Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos. – Pablo Neruda The leaves catch fire as the frost creeps in, Bright blazes awe-watched, all watch fingered-limbs bleeding green give way to sanguine mannequins, give way to charred molt. Told – How beautiful it is to watch things die, to learn to love the burning leaves the way I once loved the cherry trees blooming in spring. I let the cold seep into my fingernails, crust my nailbeds, make stiff my frenzied fingers, Wait. Will my bones into kindling. Pray for ignition. Self-immolation. Set myself on fire for you to think me beautiful.
18
Star-Body Tomás Reuning '21
Split galaxy-body bleeds – leaks stardust on tile floors, leaves little galaxies at my feet, cracked constellations stranded – I move inside it – This body wrong-body, blue serpent in pink skin too-small, writhe against it, Branch grows. Tree-body reaches for a too-far sky, sighs against stretched skin, a canopy of me’s. Skin-welder fuses split-body, melts iron skin into scars – builds me a body. Built-body, I can hold the Universe inside of you. Star-body. Wholebody. My body.
19
Arboris Tomás Reuning '21
The Universe inhales. Holds its breath. Wind moves through fronded bronchioles, Makes dendritic trees reach for bluest eaves, makes one from many. Golden threads thrum above in a night sky seized by light, As Aquarii greets Cancri, the Water Bearer fills the vessel, lets spill the water of the Universe. Drink. I am branch and sinew coated in flesh, waxed in skin, finished in sweat, held up by trunked bones and blood-sweet, sap in capillary roots, synapse-snapped currents. Inhale. Hold my breath. Exhale.
20
Offshore Anika Potluri '22
As the ocean burns, the last, orange dregs of day are left to slim white herons bobbing for oil
21
Ocean Speak Madison Albano '22
Inspired by René Depestre’s “Caidos en el campo de la claridad”
Crucifix of ship-mast, the hull coaxes roars of waves into one language, one right-left rock of wood carving into water. Depestre writes a poem for miners in Nigeria. Men in English suits. Remington shots peeling Igbo strikers from the mines, the smoke, su mecha inflamada perfore los labios de sus hijos. Centuries dissolving onto lips. He writes in Cuba. La literatura es una aventura de transformar la realidad americana. He writes in Havana, in thick palm forests matted down by centuries of brick and concrete. Columbus in blue-gray broadcloth, pen-laden arms cradling yellow paper. Islands assigned words of “Hispaniola,” & muchas montañas y cimas christened in saint names cubiertas en flores. Columbus maps the crests of green forests and the curves of brown bodies.
The Atlantic is a factory-line of letters & language. Ars poetica & arks of unfamiliar words pouring onto shores.
I write in America. My Connecticut ancestors peel apart Pequot land like husks from corn. America entertained by the point of a sword. My school choir sings this land is my land & plays dead during the 1812 Overture. Pentagons of disorderly desks. Ships sunk between the folds of a textbook. Remington shots peeling Igbo strikers from the mines. The gunsmoke an island of oil. A mouth. Shorelines spoken over. Landlocked Americans pen essays on ocean sounds & philosophize foreign trauma & win scholarships & write with water on our mouths And Depestre writes in the small peaks of the Atlantic de transformar la realidad americana. is a poem enough to stretch letters long like tongue-tips touching teeth on the letter T can a poem buoy in oceans can a poem undo can a poem undo an ocean can a poem undo a poem in the speak of the sea the sea a language the waves words the words waves 22
Like Bad Madison Albano '22
Yell at me, like bad poetry. Hopscotch on ice-laminate sidewalks. Where boots pound salt. Where car tires kick snow into cigarette clouds and icicle-fanged branches bark with breezes. Where car drivers yell at me, like bad poetry. Catcall, caterwaul me into a pond on paper. Bad poetry spilled over vellum. Where monks hid in smoke-temples and built Devil Bibles. Where The Devil is a Woman, or a matchstick is the heel of a stiletto. Where the earth is flint. Where Monks hotbox. Yell at me like bad poetry, says the monk to the other monk. Early incarnation of fratboy dialectics. Distorted history. The café’s ill-named milkshakes: Malcolm X, small cherry-chocolate vocative. Where we order bad poetry with fries. Where vinyl coated tables recount history in crumbs: artefact of burger bun, fossilized french fry. Where I say Yell at me, like bad poetry. Where every word is a coming out story, climbing from a cave-mouth. Where the uvula is a stalagmite, no, stalactite, and the alphabet is dripping in sweat. Yell at me, like bad poetry, I say to the table. I say we inherit language from our mothers. A lifetime of word debt. Hotboxed in mouth caves. First word ars poetica. Friends, dreamkeepers, peacemakers. Yell at me, like bad poetry says the soldier in my sleep. Slumber party, guerrilla war, a pillow encampment collecting cigarette breath. Beneath blankets I trade bad poetry for a pillow-thrust to the gut. When I fake-die, my fake-poetry dies too. Friends, dream-keepers, peacemakers in between wars, in between great poetry-killing machines. Yell at me, like paperless poet-soldiers, slain. Like illiterate poets. Like hieroglyphic poets. Like oral poets. Like digital poets in digitalless futures. Bad poetry, fake-death. Bad poetry buried in the heart of a still-warm now-silent poet. Where poetry lives like a hotboxed monk in our diaphragms, like snow-crunched lungs beneath tires of air.
23
Amoeba Boy and the Sax-Rider Regi Lassiter '21
I heard the strangest music running to catch the train uptown. Two guys: One could barely tame his sax Eyes wide like he was terrified of how it might buck next. Other, throwing his fists against a traffic barrel kicking and slamming for that hearty Earth tone. 16 seconds, As the doors refused sound, A sampling that made me think As the car slid into its starting blocks, Maybe we’d dug too deep I watched the wrangler, and finally, the core sang his job being the quarter the way catacombs chant rests, confused requiems. reining in bombastic sound, and Amoeba boy: little man, big drum. So that’s what we’d been searching for. Well, he knew groovy and he knew hoppin’. Put the words of generations in motion Until bodies blurred and were blown away like newspaper in the wind or they crawled back into walls to find a new spot to go off in.
24
The Farmer Emily Park '23
I bring carrots, turnips, and tidings of joy. My eyes crook up at the corners, two bright blue moons to beckon customers to look up, to look out, to drop anchors on the banks of a roiling ocean of others, and drop dollars from banks deep as oceans. So you come. You wait in line for my dirt-fruit, shuffling your Birkenstocks, mincing your steps. But I have so long forgotten the language of youth and of love that my moons wax worried, widening to watch the suggestive brows, the glossy hair, the prancing steps that nearly pitch you into my neat pyramid of root vegetables. So I rise. Broad-backed, and take two new potatoes — sun-loved and dirt-kissed –– in my strong brown hands and smile once more at you. He grunts. You grin. I translate: Two pounds of sweet potatoes, for my sweet. We used words in my day, nourishing words with deep roots, sun-loved, dirt-kissed words, that grew from the grunts –– the unloved seeds –– that now suffice for hope.
25
Slow Lynn Hong '23
It began as a numbness a grey, glassy cold before the winter set in, bones slowly glowing translucent. Then, giving in to walls, coffee cups the edges of napkins and conversations. I move slow; glass swimming through the pale blue light, creeping inward. Last evening at seven sixty one it was found unresponsive. Halt. It trails, over spent seams of books I once knew The Tempest by heart “This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine” is a glass menagerie of giraffes and rabbits. A monkey conductor leading his little glass band playing the Eurythmics perched on such stuff as dreams are made on. I kneel, curling brow to throat shoulders to elbows ribs rooting into themselves reaching six moons under the loamy heart of the darkling earth, to wait for a wingbeat of breath.
26
Untitled (Stain) Sarah Sachar '21
while talking to my grandmother i look at my nails. naked & far from hers they trace the table’s grain remembering polish, marks pink & violet cover her steering wheel. over the phone we rush to my kitchen, forget the teal couch & murders on tape. i’m telling her about the orientation of salad forks & my irreverent legs, the abandoned vase filled with askew letters. once on a happy night we got drunk & talked about death. the table covered in coffee stains. in the mirror i’m probably twelve & she’s applying lip gloss. we fight again over perfection. again she says it’s aspirational. i move toward the stain. i don’t even wear my wedding band to the doctors these days she tells me. i don’t laugh. my upturned lips don’t get stuck. that night my face burns from the eye shadow i never applied. that night she doesn’t misread anything. she knits herself in jewel tones the grayness of devotion. elbows locked in dust-sweetened backdrops. together. the dust background swallows me sweater & all.
the one button holding me hand holding hand holding me holding surface holding seventeen different lilac pantone palettes holding the last bunch of hydrangeas dunked in salt holding the last three versions of me she wanted holding the crystal vases doused in mauve foundation holding it all behind the high cashmere neckline holding a future sight bare wristed i will hold myself for you here i will hold myself with my shoulders back faded with my clean knuckles
on a cliff i wear the floor. the quiet divinity of squares. the infectious door of unimagined hyacinths. my mother never comes into me. my mother never leaves. my father’s loudness rings like a sheep in the water basin. milk hands. milk face. i am throwing out a holy burn of imperfection i never knew. once i wrote a code to stain my hands with noise & we were lovers & your love of pinstripes pushes me into the basin its dark liquid the untouched pomegranate punch at the last dinner party on the last slow drive out of maryland & i am reading your letter to x & describing this kitchen table where i darken my hands with your last words where the green rimmed saucer breaks under the pleasure of not speaking of not seeing of never having written in the first place.
27
algae on water Jackson Chapin '24
28
may Jackson Chapin '24 29
bush-hogged field Jackson Chapin '24
30
navigator Jackson Chapin '24
31
Daisy Buchanan Misses the Funeral Elisha Chen '21
Her laughter floats like a shadow flitting at the bottom of the pool. She drags her feet into the parlor, turns a cheek over her shoulder. She prefers stolen glances at reflections in champagne glasses. She bats her eyes, and I let her smile and pretend there is an understanding: we all have chests that beat us senseless. I learned how to tuck the smell of a girl’s shirt in my lungs before turning away, but I’ve never had red stain my fur coat, or had a fur coat, or cried for a man who spoke like moonlight breaking on the waves, so it’s different. The hill we die on is no hill at all but convex mirrors against a curved road. I confess to cowardice, but hold the guilt — gilded cages give a lovely shade of gold to hold in our eyes. I imagine her greatest sin is being a bad mother. She is too much a metal cage with teeth made to smile. She is shutters and flashes, and when she holds her daughter for a moment, light glints off all the crystal and she turns.
32
Push and Pull Elisha Chen '21
I watch how moonlight caresses window curtains, listen to my sister talk about how devotion opens her, leaves small crescents in her back. Her eyes escape me –- they reflect the light of a different lamp, a different bed, a different girl who sleeps miles away. Weathered rocks toss against my tongue; sand fills gaps in my fists. My lungs can fit the ebb, but not the flow. I can’t promise to know how to drown. I like walking with you, holding your hand. There will always be girls with crinkled eyes, but once, you ran to hug me, and I almost surrendered my pride over the planets, like gravity had lost its tide. What I mean to say is — I promise I know how to give in.
33
lessons on breathing Catherine Li '20
breathe in sesame oil, my grandma’s wontons and my mother’s wontons, and my silence and linseed oil, breathe in that cistern of a soul, the glass jar that sits on the kitchen shelf, next to all the other vaporized slivers fermenting. breathe in the way paint clings to brushes, the way I cling onto the person I haven’t become. breathe in a garden dipped in honey, where my roots are stretched enough in the soil so I have time to take more than just one breath. breathe in a lover’s breath and suffocating or breathe in new roots, which creep down your throat, and tether to your soul, so that now you must breathe more, but breathe in at the mirror so as to make yourself small, thinking you must also breathe in to take up more space, and then breathing into a jar to rest on this shelf.
34
Disappearing Act Mia Bell '21
Now I know how magicians do their tricks — tuck everything away and pray my secrets don’t come tumbling out my sleeves like so many cards. I am like a one-woman disappearing act, know how to fold truths into the tumbling fabric of my rhinestone dress so they’re hidden from your preying eyes. Fire is hungrier than everything but its appetite is nothing like yours. My feeble prayers won’t slake your soul — I know how it devours, I’m tumbling through the trap door. Everything is red behind the drape and I don’t want to go out there today. Please don’t saw me in half, I pray. My words are thinning to nothing, they’re tumbling through wisps of air, melting like snowflakes, they’re
35
从 Kristi Lim '21
all alien variegations of being-energies in me is a sign of cancer, crabwalking shorelines borderlines linelines 阴 -阳 woman in a 男 i know is no 女 in this man whose Wasted Ejaculated Fertility or your unlistening
Millions Multitudes Personhoods mid-erection dumb-excitement:
not gratification, potentiation, no, po, thin sure my possible to
impossible
untouching me preconception
s sp
lit to find in formal form gender cancer as
-
sobbing the death of transcendence atop him
only to laugh at his mother’s passing:
- growth. ----从：means "from", but compositionally is two people (人） 男：”nan”, man 女 : “nu”, woman 阴阳 : yin-yang
36
is h ma el Kristi Lim '21
neurosis is spiritual dissonance – realized suddenly the last intimacy I saw that laugh
so distract myself with assembling dismantling the tent stall us in stasis I am ram
replacements scattered stars
whirling I warm in time for our parting. threaten and threaten departure,
intending retaliating didn’t look up when you left all years breathe deeply the sweater you heat me clench your leaving with my lungs
next year, breadcrumbs.
bookstore purpled hat, you tentatively kissed me goodbye: nervous distracted by no one spying. regret distraction. last year, yeast.
the angel of God is here to rewrite the tragedy with the ram, but
axe pounding pounding killing nothing wounding something begging to hear -was am not ready to learn anyone new.
37
"universal" Kristi Lim '21
≠
peasant revolution
THE o
LOGIC
לוג'קה
vs. socialite revolution
logic leech a body politic we as citizens feel the need to safeguard our colonizer heritage
b o y
38
BOY COTT WE funda mentally ex clu sion ary revi sion
c o t
OF no man is an is land no logic is a man logic wants exotic bodies to mis read
逻辑
CAPITAL
קפיטליסט 资本
UNIVERSAL arson: bush that burns unconsumed. vandalism: dew-damp trees browning leaves heat concentric rootward. autumnal or eternal: meet the fire.
and flare violence wine soft brie. socialist bruised cushion aesthetic. zoom revolution burning practiced anger. did you remember to cry today. did you parch your heart flint do you care the heart smoking, or are you just watching for ashes?
agree ment is not profit able t witter wants the social ist revo lution
IS
milk strangers acid self rennet theory hang to dry no
meet yours to it let crackle drip wax curdle skin dream entwined. intimately dairy. z
Contributors Sage Lee '22 Julianna Teoh '21 Alyssa Sandefer '21 Stephanie Tom '22 Emma Badini '20 Tomás Reuning '21 Anika Potluri '22 Madison Albano '22 Regi Lassiter '21 Emily Park '23 Lynn Hong '23 Sarah Sachar '21 Elisha Chen '21 Catherine Li '20 Mia Bell '21 Kristi Lim '21
Acknowledgments Marginalia would like to extend special thanks to the following people: Ishion Hutchinson, for his continued support as our faculty advisor, Jackson Chapin and M. Francesca Lojacono, for sharing your beautiful artwork; Alex Champagne, for her design eye & help pulling this issue together; Cornell Printing Services, for their patience and time publishing of all our issues; Rachel Whalen, whose poetic wisdom will never leave us; and every poet who submitted, for allowing us the honor of reading your work.
Marginalia is an independent publication and is not affiliated with any other publication, on or off Cornell's campus. It is funded by the SAFC . Any and all views expressed in these poems are of the poets themselves, and do not necessarily reflect the view of the Editorial board, the magazine iteself, or Cornell University.