Marginalia Vol 1 No 2 by Marginalia

MARGINALIA VOL. 1 NO. 2

SPRING 2016

C o r n e l l â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s U n d e r g r a d u a t e P o e t r y R e v i e w

Marginalia. Spring 2016

Vo l u m e 1 | N o . 2

Editorial Board Vo l u m e 1 | N o . 2

Alejandra Alvarez Editor-in-Chief

Mary Jarvis Chief of Staff

Sarah Lazarich Managing Editor

Emily Foster Secretary

Amy Wood Layout Editor

Ishion Hutchinson Faculty Advisor

J. Gabriel Gonzalez Editor-in-Chief in absentia

Cover Art Tina He Polygon, photograph

Madeleine Galvin Rachel Whalen Jagravi Dave Stephen Meisel Madeline Day Siobhan Brandman

General Staff Spring 2016

table of

Contents. iii

L e t t e r f r o m t h e E d i t o r. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v i From Ar t ma king Uncondit iona l.............................................2 2 colliding trains of thought.................................................3 h e r e’s t h e m o u n t a i n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Tr e s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Meadowlark, Rose...............................................................6 Reality Is..........................................................................7 strands of it.......................................................................8 L a s t E n t r y i n t h e C a p t a i n’ s L o g o f t h e ‘ S S R e v e r s e B a t h t u b ,’ R e c o v e r e d f r o m t h e Wr e c k a g e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0 Summer Solutes.................................................................11 In the Era of E xploding.......................................................12 Benglish..........................................................................13 I W i l l Te a c h M y s e l f t o B l e e d P r o p e r l y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 4 Fish and Chips..................................................................15

twin earth........................................................................16 Sunday Brunch..................................................................18 This Is Not a Love Poem.....................................................19 On Sustenance...................................................................21 W h a t I L e a r n e d F r o m T h e Wo r l d â&#x20AC;&#x2122; s Wo r s t O r a n g e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2 20-something....................................................................24 Acknowledgements.............................................................28

Letter

from the

Editor

D e a r r e a d e r, I spent a very long time attempting to put into words what M a r g i n a l i a m e a n s t o m e f o r t h e p u r p o s e s o f t h i s l e t t e r. It s f i r s t draft looked completely different, “too much like an essay” a s m y d e a r f r i e n d a n d t h i s p u b l i c a t i o n ’s C h i e f o f S t a f f , M a r y, t o l d m e . It l a c k e d e m o t i o n , w a s t o o m e c h a n i c a l , too distanced from the poems this issue contains and the people behind them. I was so intimidated by the prospect of writing something that would introduce and unify the poems you will read in this issue; I did not believe there was any way I could do them justice with what I said. This is when I realized Marginalia has become something much greater than I ever anticipated it would. It has brought people f rom all over campus together beneath the same roof, where their creative identities may be nourished and encouraged t o g r o w. It h a s e v o l v e d f r o m a s u m m e r t i m e i d e a i n t o a n a c t u a l , p h y s i c a l e m b o d i m e n t o f a n e n t i r e g r o u p ’s f e e l i n g s , experiences, hopes, and obser vations. It began as a means by which friends who adore poetry could get together and read, write, and talk about it some more and is now a full-fledged c h r o n i c l e d r a w i n g o n p e r s p e c t i v e s b e y o n d i t s f o u n d e r s ’. T h e c o l laborative nature of Marginalia, to me, is one of its most stunning aspects. Everything from its aesthetic to its content would not be possible were it not for the beautiful minds who have had the courage to emerge from the libraries and greener y of Corn e l l ’s c a m p u s a n d t h i n k t h e i r l i v e s i n t o p o e m s f o r o u r p u b l i c a tion. Marginalia has allowed for me to keep the things I love close to me: my friends on the editorial board, who have taught me how to be proud of my words and of the experiences they seek to articulate; the opportunity to meet new people drawn to the poetic c r a f t a n d t a l k w i t h t h e m , h o w e v e r b r i e f l y, a b o u t t h e i n f l u e n c e poetry has had on their lives; and poetry itself. I thought I had lost it there, for awhile, but it came back to me sometime a few years back and I am not letting it go anytime soon. We a l l h a v e s o m u c h t o s a y — i n p i c k i n g u p t h i s i s s u e , y o u h a v e joined Marginalia in lending a listening ear to the enjambed, rhyming, yelling/whispering, walking or running, cascading, e n d u r i n g v o i c e s o f o u r s t u d e n t b o d y. It w a s n o t i n t i m i d a t i o n I f e l t a t t h e s t a r t o f t h i s l e t t e r s o m u c h a s i t w a s a w e . Aw e a t t h e symphony we have created. Thank you for hearing us out, Alejandra Alvarez

From Ar tmaking, Unconditional Naima Kazmi ‘17

Perhaps she tumbled from doorframe to ground, fabric and limbs crumpled on hexagonal tiles— perhaps landed leaf-like—the crunch of a moment snatched in spite of time enough to loosen fingertips from wood, dust and cobweb, crucifix figure of the gone-moment s e a l e d i n g e l a t i n s i l v e r. I n r e s p o n s e t o a n u n t i t l e d p h o t o g r a p h b y F r a n c e s c a Wo o d m a n .

2 colliding trains of thought Jonny Collazo â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

2 colliding trains of thought compressed the overheating damsel in distress a burning question a lost preposition, an eternal w h a t â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s - t h e - w o r d . it pulsed as leaves turned to mud the way they do when shoes succumb to habit and get stuck in their stubborn ways. w i n t e r, a f t e r t h e b u r g u n d y f i r e of fall that extended sweet for too long now puts to rest most statements of intent save for those timeless on the outskirts of institutions â&#x20AC;&#x201D;description of a dream: t h e r e w a s a n a r m c h a i r. there was one beneath the star as well as one coming to me in the mail f r o m s o m e o n l i n e c e l l a r. And dust settled for a few eyelashes

h e r e’s t h e m o u n t a i n Jonny Collazo ‘17

h e r e ’s t h e m o u n t a i n a n d t h e r e ’s t h e m o l e h i l l a n d h e r e ’s w h e r e t h e a b s e n t w i n t e r left no one yearning and everyone half-bored expecting spring a n d t h e r e ’s t h e e l e m e n t a r y s c h o o l n e a r an old barn in which unspeakable things were done t w e n t y y e a r s a g o — i n s o m e l e s s e r d e m o n ’s n a m e — colored the town red in anger and shame this is the bus station where the children learn to leave town after learning how to buy cigarettes and please a teacher who settled for less than originally planned—but a dream o v e r t h e r e ’s w h e r e p e o p l e p u r c h a s e , n o l o n g e r perusing but buying and sometimes under duress haunted by absence and miscarriages and foregone opportunities and faceless mannequins still smiling in decoration sometimes sequins glint in halogen lighting or catch sun bouncing off prescription sunglasses a ray twice altered but still missing something essential

Tr e s

J. Gabr iel G onzalez ‘17 “Switch back to Spanish p l e a s e — I d o n’ t h a v e the words for this part” Her eyes still moved in French, her thin dark lips translating as words grazed her teeth— In the language of the statues o f Ja c o b o, B e n i t o, a n d S a l v a d o r, w e l a m e n t e d m y a g i n g U n c l e ’s s i n s . In the shadows of Soviet ghosts crumbling under the weight of their uneasy assimilation we stood on the corner of the three worlds and drank white rum, marveling at the improbable geometry o f o u r c h a n c e e n c o u n t e r, p r e s s e d a g a i n s t the stony edge of the American Empire. La Habana, Januar y 2016

Meadowlark, Rose Sylvia Onorato ‘19

T h e m e a d o w l a r k ’s s o n g u s e d t o b e c l i c h é , b u t o n l y y e s t e r d a y I met a girl on my way who confused a rose with a gerber daisy—crazy! And the word lens, that used to be part of a living eye, n o t t h e c o l d c a m e r a ’s m o u t h w h i c h greedily gobbles a singing lark only to upchuck its image after the bird is dead.

Reality Is

Rachel Whalen ‘19 her realization that she cannot sip the moon through a straw even if she tried it would taste like sorrow because it has seen the people who live in a different world the people who pity it because it is alone the people who love it despite the distance i t s m o u t h i s o p e n i n a f r o z e n “ i l o v e y o u , t o o” but the people only ever see a frozen scream so of course it has put holes in its head but it has never died poor thing, she thinks p o o r, p o o r t h i n g

strands of it Andy Kim ‘16 I. She got on the bus, one stop after mine, closer to Bundang than Suwon. She wore seafoam shorts, and a teal hat made of plastic. She wore a blue handbag from a cold white cast around her arm. She was a caricature of my mother—wide eyed, and thin lipped. She wore a bandaid on her chin, often saying V. At any p oint in my life, things could have gone different and I would have been another example: in Seoul, sitting i n t h e c a r, I s a i d t h a t o n e h u n d r e d a n d f i f t y w o u l d n ’ t b e s o b a d . “ C h r i s t ,” s h e r e p l i e d . “One fifty? ” She tested the number i n h e r m o u t h . “ N o w t h a t ’s a f i r s t ,” s h e a d m i t t e d . S h e ’d o n l y e v e r planned for a clean eighty o r n i n e t y , a n d I s a i d , “ M i d d l e a g e d .” She laughed – softly at first, but then l o u d l y, w i t h o n e h a n d o v e r h e r m o u t h , and the other on our steering wheel. The dashboard emitted a light (blue, I think, an almost transparent blue) dripping

I V. D u r i n g o u r f i r s t y e a r, t h e r e w a s a n i g h t w h e n we just sat in my dorm and talked. I had taken a handle of vodka from the office and walked with it across campus, tucked beneath my coat. T h r e e y e a r s l a t e r, s h e t o l d m e t h a t s h e w o u l d h a v e s l e p t w i t h m e t h a t n i g h t . We l a u g h e d . B u t I d i d n’ t f e e l a t h i n g a t t h e n e w s – m u c h l i k e a “ h e l l o ,” o r “ g o o d d a y .” I t s l i p p e d a g a i n s t m y c h e s t a n d s l i d t o t h e f l o o r, l e a v i n g a t r a i l o f i n k , s o strange, I thought, what she must have known was i t : a “ g o o d b y e .” a n d I said

L a s t E n t r y i n t h e C a p t a i n’s L o g o f t h e ‘ S S R e v e r s e B a t h t u b ,’ R e c o v e r e d f r o m t h e Wr e c k a g e Chris Skawski ‘18

I h a v e b e e n b e c a l m e d f o r a m o n t h n o w. When I made preparations to depart I did not tell them the boat was all I could afford, but they regarded me with pity nonetheless. Perhaps they were right. Most people own islands. They seem nice as I drift past. The beauty of an archipelago is that everything is so close t o g e t h e r. S o m e p e o p l e b u i l d s e a w a l l s . They keep their edges well defined. I chuckle when I see them broken, and then I feel bad and offer to help. I am refused. What do people with boats know about islands anyway? Others put their energy into docks. This I do not understand, but I do not begrudge myself a free port, and so I will spend a shore l e a v e w i t h n e w c o m p a n y. I h a v e t a k e n t o watching the tops for flags. None of us use the same code. It has contributed to my gambling addiction. I roll dice by myself when there are no islands in sight. I bet rations. I detest the other people who own boats. I do not know what this says about me. It does give me something to say to the people on islands. Jeremy says it is selfpreservation, but Jeremy has been dead for months and I have stopped listening when he speaks. I am stuck now trying to rename t he b o at. The ‘SS Knot AFrayed’ no longer makes me smile. It was the most successful in the ports I visited, but they are far behind me. Whales continue to terrify me. I have thought of how large my rescue party would be, but none has yet come and I do not have the means to send for one a n y w a y. I c a n n o t t a k e a n o t h e r d a y o f gull s ong. At nig ht I count the stars. I tried to add one of my own but the flare gun was waterlogged.

Summer Solutes Amira Samiy â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Languid green refractions target all things beneath the surface. On shore, solace is where it is obfuscatedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;in shade. Wherein, transported from sticky heat to lavender, cicadas, and olive trees. Old sneakers commandeer vagrant sunrays, fueling the comatose survivor. But he is not alone: her dissatisfied side glances swell under sealed pressure and nature unwittingly activates fermentation. Salt jars, stale cookies, rotten peaches and balsamic vinegar all dissolve and precipitate as her condensed brow weighs down his fragile spine.

In the Era of Exploding Ay m a n It a n i ‘ 1 6

PHOBOS was thinking: A m a r a u d e r, t h i s g r a v i t y, a c u r s e t h a t s c r a p e s t h e s u r f a c e – and you, keeper and king, to roll in your red skin – is it as lovely on your body as it seems to me in glimpses? In this time we only know revolutions and resistance – p u l l m e s t r o n g e r, f o r I ’v e s u m m o n e d a l l my s t r u c t u r e – how fierce your face in motion; how tidal in alignment – do you see, my love? What good is separation when w e o n l y k n o w e a c h o t h e r ? Te l l m e c a n y o u f i n d i n v a s t n e s s the antidote to misery? I know it in this rubble of mine, t h e r e l i e s a d o r m a n t p o w e r, a n d f o r y o u a ny t h i n g but loss, and for me, destruction and desire – s o I’m a w h i r l i n g fo o l p e r h ap s . B ut I s w e ar you face me with a sign of life, or I find it i n t h e b u r d e n o f y o u r b e a u t y, a n d t h e s o l i t u d e of my crumbling silhouette. MARS was thinking: Tw i r l i n g , t u r b u l e n t , t o b e a l o n e i s t o b e t w i c e y o u r s e l f – inside the thirsty fire is no place for warmth – y o u r b o d y ’s s h r a p n e l g r a z e m e i n t h e i r v e c t o r s – there is no one here to bind the anxious pieces – to hold your rock is to divide electrons. For I am neither ruler nor knight, but a small match to your dark, and so our loving revolutions claimed the outlines of your flesh. Marks on your sides rip for ward in clutched romances. Perhaps we hurt like humans, in stretched singularities. How cruel o u r c o n s t r u c t s a r e t o d e s t r o y. C a n y o u i m a g i n e other universes void of discord, aligned and wide, with light in every atom, and form to every yearning? leave me in this certain divide, your side a final breath from mine, your fragmentation soundless. And PHOBOS says: Restore my grooves with your goodbye. And MARS replies: F i n d s t i l l n e s s i n t h e w a t e r.

Benglish

Pritha Bhattacharyya ‘16 e v e r y d a y, i n c u t - o u t , h o l l o w e d o u t , c a v e d - i n window gestures, where window people look – see me hide, see me run, catch my drift. where – de-ve-lop-ment means grated, iron-clad enclosures like paan leaves, staining teeth with watery blood it could be pani, b u t I d o n’ t s p e a k i n s u c h : resolute sentences, overly confident erections of officebuildings chokingcitybanks, eco-no-my corrupting my foresight, my intuition. the epi-tome of the matter is that window people s e r v e t o t e l l t a l e s w i t h f i n a l i t y, a g a m e w o n w i t h o u t effort. their bio-logy, ideo-logy, theo-logy, akin to unintended bubbles into milk glasses and ink droplets on sweater sleeves. they mis-coat their ancestors in educated tongs: Be change you want to see Be the change you see Be and see the change ask us to do bett-er, clatter their voices as they’ve always known; without finesse, w i t h o u t t h e l e d g e o f k n o w i n g b e t t e r.

I W i l l Te a c h M y s e l f t o B l e e d P r o p e r l y Stephen Meisel â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

I w i l l t e a c h m y s e l f t o b l e e d p r o p e r l y. I w i l l i n s t r u c t m y veins to align with yours. I will adjust my cuts and wounds so that they match your shape. I will note the rate, the pattern, a n d t h e i n t e n s i t y. I w i l l m o l d m y s k i n t o p e r f e c t t h e t e c h n i q u e . I will swallow the right pills. I will utilize the correct instruments. I w i l l v i s i t a m a s t e r, w h o w i l l e d u c a t e m e o n t h e p r o p er form. I will dress in gold robes and repeat his mantras. I will fast and pray for his guidance. I will divide my arteries in acc o r d a n c e w i t h h i s t e a c h i n g . I w i l l f o r g e t m y f a m i l y. I w i l l s h a v e my head. I w i l l w a l k , o n e d a y, a l o n g t h e h i g h w a y. I w i l l n o t i c e the input and output of cars. I will take wisdom into account. I w i l l w r i t e y o u p o e m s . I w i l l r e p r o d u c e y o u r b l o o d f l o w. I w i l l watch the kitchen sink for advice on design. I will emulate the stones of Moses. I will fight the urge to devolve into spurts. I will never whisper the wrong words, in fear of altering the direction. I will inscribe a map of canals on the flesh of my waistline as a reminder of my goal. I will minimize my sleep. I will stratify my pain. I will cry only at the right moments. I will cut my index fingers off to restore my balance. I will study the consistency of tree sap. I will mirror the Roman fountains. I will s u b s c r i b e t o a l i q u i d p h i l o s o p h y. I will grow old. I will watch the sun go down. I will translate the ancient texts in hope of finding salvation. I will move to a shack in the woods and take my meals in silence. I w i l l w r i t e y o u r n a m e w i t h a p r i c k e d f i n g e r, w h o s e d r i p s h a v e f i nally apprehended the true course after much practice. I w i l l e n t e r t a i n v i s i t s f r o m a l o c a l b o y. I w i l l s h a v e h i s head. I will cut his fingernails. I will instruct him on the proper methods of bleeding.

Fish and Chips Nuha Fariha â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

They opened the fish shop on the corner o f f o f Te n t h a n d M a r k e t n e a r t h e p i e r surrounded by broken chain-link fences that came with broken chain-smoking punks i n p a t e n t b l a c k l e a t h e r a n d b l a c k Va n s . In the morning, he battered the fish, smothered the white flesh with grease, slathered layers of blood sauces on top slammed them into a bed of stale crumbs. T h e l i f e l e s s e y e s s t a r e d b l a n k l y. She skinned the potatoes, tossing aside brown peels and cutting into white skin with a rusted serrated silver knife and drowned them in a vat of bubbling oil until flesh turned golden. The two came together lying side by side in a red basket as their oils seeped slowly and saturated the grey wax paper under the auspicious smog of Camels and the dull beats of the latest dive band.

twin earth

Jagravi Dave â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17 I awoke with feet frozen and you and I were halfsubmerged in a womb-like lake from whose depths I see still the mountains and the rain plastering running rivulets on your face. On a twin earth I am the same and my name for something that is yours is the same but the something is not the something is different. The motion of words is the rhythm of our bodies in this swamp in this murk is cacophonous and punctuated and I know in the mirror y ou c an s e e m e Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m pre t e n d i n g if I turn away if I do not see you then my face remains hidden. Yo u s e a r c h f o r m e a n i n g i n t h i s : is it a delicate falling apart or a wretched agony at the end who knows? I tease. I psychopathically question I probe I provoke who am I still half-submerged in this lake on a twin earth whose water is not really water whose mountains rise too high whose body turns to a different kind of ice when reflected or touched?

Yo u w a n t a b u i l d u p a c l i m a x a satisfaction a wholeness. But the truth: my face is numb and yours will be soon you exist only in mind for there is no proof otherwise. I am on a twin earth and who knows where you are.

Sunday Brunch Mar y Jar vis ‘16

Yo u a s k “ S i r a r e y o u s a t i s f i e d ? ” and you expect a curt response in the affirmative, however he is not. Tires on pavement whine in the silence, porcelain mugs clatter in the back a n d y o u a s k a g a i n , “S i r, a r e y o u s a t i s f i e d ? ” Silly Goose, he thinks. Silly Goose that eats its own shit and calls it a meal. Fork in hand, hoarse, he says “ D e a r b o y, I h a v e t a s t e d s a t i s f a c t i o n a n d — “ It trails. S o m e t h i n g ’s c a u g h t i n h i s t h r o a t stuck on the tip of his tongue. Yo u s m i l e . P u t a h a n d o n h i s d i s h . F l y s o u t h f o r t h e w i n t e r. D u m b B i r d , h e’ l l t h i n k . Dumb Bird never knows. N e v e r k n o w s w h a t ’s g o o d f o r h i m .

This Is Not a L ove Poem Sana Gupta ‘17 I. I lost myself to the calling of closure, steeped myself in the promise of romance till I was throwing up stars: white-gold. Yo u l e f t t h i s , t h i s k i n d o f s o f t n e s s t o m y s o u l dampened only by the blood of rogue red roses. II. Ha i r p i l e d h i g h , s p i r i t s o a r i n g f u r t h e r, I used to sleep with the shadows of your words. Us e d t o t a s t e r u s t w h e n y ou k i s s e d m e , blood pooling up my thoughts, s t a i n i n g m y s h e e t s l o s t w i t h t h e s t e n c h o f u n c e r t a i n m a s c u l i n i t y. Yo u t r i e d s e a r c h i n g m e t h e n , f o r y o u r l i m e g r e e n s o r r o w s , found it and thought of draining me sated— III. Stated: Satan sometimes tied my hair in pigtails, used to push me back to swing set childhoods where I was reaching up up up to the balloon blooming past me i n t o t h e c l e a n b l u e o f a b r a m b l e f i l l e d s k y. I V.

The sound of your sniffs still fills up my head loses me in counting rhymes— one line, two lines t h r e e l i n e s , f o u r : p l e a s e o p e n t h e d o o r.

V. S o m e o n e o n c e t o l d m e t h a t d e a t h w a s t h e w r i t e r ’s e a s y w a y o u t ; s e e m s t o b e e v e r y o n e ’s o n l y w a y o u t . Kill your past; burn your bridges; stab your s e l v e s u n t i l y o u e m e r g e m a t t e d n e w. T h e r e ’s n o t h i n g r o m a n t i c a b o u t d y i n g . VI. Yo u s c a t t e r e d p i l l s a r o u n d y o u , till crushed, they resembled colored pieces o f a b r o k e n t o y . Yo u l o v e d r e d , p a i n t e d m y l i p s in shades of popped cherries till bleeding, y o u d e c i d e d y o u ’d p r e f e r t o s e e t h e w o r l d i n white and gold instead. Leaked glitter all around so that jumping in, you could pretend it was all just glass, reflections of recollections— half wistful, half crazed. VII. I’ve stopped counting faces. Stopped counting the minutes to curtain call. Started chasing feelings, and sometimes you come back to me, as a headache disguised in the string of every silver balloon. I skip every second step then, walk in staccato rhythms so that n o t h i n g r e m i n d s o f p o e t r y, o f l o v e p o e m s , o f t h e two-paged rambling explanations and thousand pieces of pity you left me with.

On Sustenance

S a r a h L a z a r i c h â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s â&#x20AC;&#x2DC; 1 6 your body needs meat Cooked rare, the way that I like it. Bloody on the inside, almost cold. Eyelashes casting long shadows on your cheeks scarred hands deliberately arranging a small meal on a white plate. how do you still look so thin Did you imagine my body going soft in its contentedness? Did you think that you would satiate me? I a m s t i l l h u n g r y, I swear to god I could still swallow you whole.

W h a t I L e a r n e d f r o m t h e Wo r l d ’ s Wo r s t O r a n g e J a n e Ve c c a ‘ 1 7

The desk an operating table, I peeled the most unyielding fruit as it fought every tug and b l e d a l l o v e r, s w e a t i n g u n d e r a fluorescent lamp. Eating an orange never felt so violent. Wo u l d s h e s c r e a m i f s h e c o u l d ? O r w o u l d s h e s w a l l o w instead swallow it down, down past the stomach i n t o s o m e t h i n g d e e p e r, a p l a c e u n k n o w a b l e unloveable unreachable? Its edges undulate, lapping at organs, wrapping around her spine, threatening to snap it. T h e o r a n g e w a s n’ t e v e n s w e e t . E a c h s o u r and sad piece felt of slime as I choked more on regret than taste. Its scent made acrid, every sense inverted into something perverse. What had she become? A cowering mass, hiding from a f i n g e r i n h e r m e n t a l s k y, d o d g i n g s h a m e . It i s n o t G o d ’s s m i t i n g h a n d b u t h e r o w n , pointing inward, digging in flesh for sport. Her skin too yielding as it slides right off in ribbons without protest. Her fruit ripe and ready for this d o p p e l g ä n g e r. Bitter and unpleasant like medicine, in the end transformative, it was by her end she bestowed this gift, through which this forbidden fruit tried to save me. Did it come from Eve herself ?

I can feel her growing within, hardening my own flesh i n t o s o m e t h i n g s a f e r, s o m e t h i n g my own, making my own blood sour so I too may choke the cannibal who tries to eat me.

20-something

Lauren Stuzin ‘16 My preferred unit of time is weeks, like, 172 weeks ago this photo was taken of you. How long have I been running on the treadmill of Netflix? A r e u t h e r e T i d e ? I t ’s m e , D a d ’s 1 9 9 7 C h a m p i o n s w e a t p a n t s . My daily life is tainted with guilt b e c a u s e I d o n o t l i k e t o u c h i n g o t h e r p e o p l e ’s p e t s as much as you are supposed to. (Stop dressing your dogs up for Halloween). To n i g h t I w i l l g o t o s l e e p e a r l y . To m o r r o w I w i l l f u n c t i o n e f f i c i e n t l y . I will not even have to drink coffee; it stains your teeth. “ B u t i t i s E m m a ’s b i r t h d a y .” Ye s , y o u a r e r i g h t , s o i n t h e m o r n i n g I s h r u g a n d s a y “ h a d t o” o v e r a twinkling strip of bacon. I should not eat bacon, b e c a u s e i t i s n o t h e a l t h y. Listening to music with the windows rolled down is not a hobby and dancing drunk i s n o t a n i d e n t i t y. The self is constructed by things like— shit, I j u s t f o u n d a h a i r t h a t e x i s t s u n s e t t l i n g l y b e t w e e n b l o n d e a n d g r a y. I am confused, I still enjoy Spongebob, b o w e l m o v e m e n t s a r e f u n n y. A short black and white film slowed to half the pace of real time starring me cutting a finger nail too short. I s n’ t i t s t r a n g e h o w m y p a r e n t s n o l o n g e r l o o k i n m y r o o m ? T h e y s h o u l d n’ t w o r r y — i t r e f l e c t s n o n e o f t h e maturity or wisdom I have gained. Do not hold your pee in on the way to the first day of a job.

There is a current of gravity flowing through a beam: one side is attached to my skull, the other to the blazing center of the earth. I a m m i n t y w i t h u n c e r t a i n t y. To d a y i s a s i n g l e f i r e w o r k o n t h e e v e o f m y l i f e .

Contributors Spring 2016 Amira Samiy Andy Kim Ay m a n It a n i Chris Skawski J. Gabr iel G onzalez Jagravi Dave J a n e Ve c c a Jonny Collazo Mar y Jar vis Naima Kazmi Nuha Fariha Lauren Stuzin Pritha Bhattacharyya Rachel Whalen

Sana Gupta Sarah Lazarich Stephen Meisel Sylvia Onorato

Acknowledgements Marginalia would like to extend special thanks to the following people: Our general staff, for being indispensable in the poem s e l e c t i o n p r o c e s s a n d a l l - a r o u n d l o v e l y, t a l e n t e d p e o p l e .

A m y Wo o d , f o r h e r k e e n , c r e a t i v e e y e a n d u n w a v e r i n g dedication to the publication.

Corrine Bruno and Cornell Literary Society, for helping us spread the word about submissions and being so supportive of t h e c r e a t i v e w r i t i n g c o m m u n i t y.

Cornell Printing Services, for their patience and timely publishing of our first and current issue.

Tina He , for he r b e aut i f u l c ove r ar t subm iss i on .

And to every poet who submitted, for allowing us the honor to read your work.

Marginalia is an independent publication and is not affiliated w i t h a n y o t h e r p u b l i c a t i o n , o n o r o f f C o r n e l l â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s c a m p u s . I t i s f u n d e d by the SAFC. Any and all views expressed in these poems are of the poets themselves, and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Editorial Board, the magaz ine itself, or Cor nell University.