Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine Volume 47 by NinerMedia

Editor’s Note “Let’s Reconnect.” This is a phrase that sounds so preposterous to our ears, especially when we have access to everything at our fingertips. Through technology, we are able to communicate with people thousands of miles away, listen to music from different countries, and explore cultures all over the world. Everything can be done in an instant with one connection. As a small student-run magazine that prints 3,500 copies a year, Sanskrit may not be seen as the most technologically advanced publication, but that’s not what we are about. We are interested in human interaction. We want to make connections in this world, which is why we are challenging you – and even ourselves – to reconnect with yourself and others through this issue. Find something in this magazine that energizes your soul. It could be from the raw emotion of a poem, the way the prose of a short story lingers in your mind, or the artist’s composition that you can’t take your eyes off of. Whatever it may be, find it, hold onto it, and never let it go.

We hope you enjoy.

Leah Chapman

Table of Contents 4 5 8 8 9 10 10 11 11 12 14 15 16 16 17 18 19 19 20 21 26 27 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 36 36

Lion by Caroline Kerrigan Last Chance by Deborah S. Prespare The Library by Mark Belair Snow by Mark Belair Duckface and Ula Babysit by Anthony Lopez Galaxy by Alaina Chapman Untitled by Alaina Chapman For Franz Wright by Mike James Jessica Dismorr: Lost (1885-1935) by Carol Hamilton Sordid Truth by Brittany Davis Flower Girl by Dan Nguyen Radios and 10¢ Movies by Carol Hamilton All Creatures Small by Sean Lause Tuesday Afternoon by Roger Soffer Atonement by Danny Lizano Bear by Caroline Kerrigan Dark Wood by Jim Kerbaugh Bearings by Jim Kerbaugh The Red Queen by Victoria Byers Crush by Caroline Bruckner Power by LaDara Mckinnon Abraham’s Second by Nicole Jean Turner Friend From Antiquity by Linda Baldanzi One Way Love by Claire Scott Sacred by Danny Lizano Gold Rings by Alaina Chapman Shellac by Claire Scott Blue Collar Twister by Sonnet Mondal Vagabond by Cindy Bonilla Highway 99 by Steve Haskin Windows by Claire Scott My Butterfly Barbie Doll by Claire Scott

37 38 39 40 41 42 46 47 48 49 49 50 51 52 54 55 56 56 57 58 59 60 60 61 61 62 66 67 68 68 69 70 72 73

Window Seat by Sarah Kinney My Wife’s Kitchen Cupboard by David Sapp An Obsession That Won’t Last Until Next Summer by Alan Katz The White Rabbit by Victoria Byers The Past Lies Before Us by Claire Scott A Sense of Falling by Hananah Zaheer Nala by Sarah Kinney Reliquary by David Sapp Alone at Versailles by Jessica Wingert Heart by Meghan Clemm Spine by Meghan Clemm Wake Me Not by Sarah Kinney Upon Return to Dry California from Green New York by Donna L. Emerson In Denial of Infidelity by Brittany Davis One World by Alaina Chapman The Stigma of Being in Close Proximity by Brittany Davis At The York County Dump by Mike James Answer by Jessica Wingert Bird Man by Anthony Lopez Barbie Doll Anatomy by Gwendolyn Stryer Death of a Star by Brittany Davis Slow Hello by Jayne Dinh Untitled by Heather Lampkins Unfurl by Linda Baldanzi The Serpent’s Reproach by Lynn Hoggard Guilt by Lauren Price Duckface and Ula by Anthony Lopez The Electric Chicken by Sean Lause We Are No More Gentle by Michael Mark She Suffers from His Poetry by Michael Mark Crow Queen by Caroline Kerrigan Woman, or more specifically, She by Brittany Davis The Wave (Ephraxis on Renoir’s ‘The Wave’ 1879) by Dr. Meryle McQueen Appendix

last Chance Deborah S. Prespare

Caroline Kerrigan Lion oil on canvas

SANSKRIT

Bag stowed in the overhead storage bin. To-go coffee cup in hand. Kilt spread over lap. If he could say no to Scott, he wouldn’t have been in this skirt, going to his wedding. She was going to be there, his ex-wife, Agnes, a close friend of Scott’s too. They all had gone to the same college, were part of the same circle of friends. Agnes. He remembered how she’d looked that first day at school, how she was dressed in jeans, a pale blue button-down shirt, a pair of buffed penny loafers. She was the only one of them who looked at all confident, like she knew what she was doing, in the cafeteria lines, picking out a table by the picture window. If it hadn’t been for Scott, who pointed her out and said she lived in their dorm, he wouldn’t have had the guts to go over to her. Even the smile she gave them when they approached her was one of pure confidence, as if she knew her table would be full within minutes. And it did fill up. First Scott and he sat. Then others from their dorm joined too.

It’d been five years since their divorce, seventeen years since their wedding, eighteen years since they left school. And through the years, she was always confident, even when she spied mothers with their children, an experience in life she couldn’t deliver (“What’s meant to be will be,” she always said). Never did she hesitate. Never did she have any qualms. Even when she left him. He sipped his coffee. He’d skipped the rehearsal dinner last night, gave some excuse about a client meeting that couldn’t be missed. He caught an early train to New York City this morning. Trains were better than planes. Fewer delays. Fewer security headaches. Today, he’d have plenty of time (the wedding wasn’t until four) to get from the train station to his hotel and then to the church. If he could slip out unnoticed, he was going to bail on the reception. Seeing her with her new boyfriend – fiancé, he corrected himself – at the church was going to be plenty. Not feeling well, client meeting – the excuses

were already tumbling in his head. Leaning back, he watched the other passengers pick out their seats and struggle with their luggage. A young woman, a mix of some kind, black and Asian, he thought, slid into the seat across the aisle from him. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she set her leather postal bag on the seat next to her. She flipped back its flap and pulled out a paperback. Crossing one leg over the other, she opened the book and read, her foot, the one dangling over her knee, bobbing. As he watched her small, moccasin-encased foot bounce, he couldn’t help tracing up her denim-covered leg, then up her arm where the sleeve of her pink frontruffled shirt was rolled, to her shoulder where her black hair folded thickly, to her profile—sharp chin, round cheeks, broad forehead. The parts separate, nothing amazing, but together making for an attractive woman – a young woman. A lot younger. She glanced at him, her eyes falling to the kilt.

VOLUME 47

Embarrassed, he looked out his window. Why did I wear the stupid thing? Because he was being efficient, he reminded himself. On the off chance the train was late, he wouldn’t have to rush to get ready. If he had to, he could haul his stuff to the church, skip the hotel check-in altogether. Like Scott, he didn’t like the idea of coming in the day of. He was punctual, typically, always left himself plenty of breathing room, but the alternative this weekend, chancing more run-ins with her – He couldn’t think about her. He looked at the girl again, reading her book, bouncing her leg. “The kilt,” he said. “It looks ridiculous, right?” She shrugged. “I’m going to a wedding. In New York. The groomsmen have to wear kilts.” Giving him a polite smile, she turned the page. With her eyes back on her book, he stole a moment to adjust his sporran, the leather pouch that substituted for pockets, a piece the salesman at the kilt shop had educated him on, like all the other pieces of the ensemble. The salesman, a Scotsman, took the outfit seriously. In addition to the sporran, there was the plaid, the piece of fabric that draped over the shoulder; the brooch that held the plaid in place; the belt; and a thick-shanked pin “for the outer apron only,” the salesman had sternly instructed. When the salesman, with his thick accent, asked him if he were going regimental, it took him a moment to understand what he was asking. He shook his head. Briefs were

SANSKRIT

definitely going under the kilt, he’d told the salesman, who raised an eyebrow, as if to say he knew he wasn’t man enough to be Scottish. Not man enough to keep a marriage together either. “Are you going to New York?” he blurted. The girl said no without looking up from her book. She wanted to be left alone. That was clear. Squeezing his thighs, trying to focus on the coarse scratch of the kilt’s material against his skin, he took a deep breath. Why did

“Sticky moisture pooled where the kilt hugged his lower back. He sucked down another breath. Get a grip!” he agree to the wedding, to be in the wedding party? Why was it that not until he sat down in the train, not until it pulled away from the station that the severity of him not wanting to see Agnes hit him? The train. It was stuffy, too warm. He’d never been claustrophobic, but now, sweating, he turned in his seat, claiming more of the empty space next to him, eyeing the exits on either end of the narrow railcar. Sticky moisture pooled where the kilt hugged his lower back. He sucked down another breath. Get a grip! Closing his eyes, he concentrated

on the vibrations under his feet, the mechanical whirring and grumblings of the train. If he only had a date, he thought, slowly opening his eyes and glancing at the girl’s moving foot, someone to talk to, to keep him company on the trip, to distract him at the wedding, to maybe even make Agnes a little jealous. Okay, a lot jealous. This trip wouldn’t have been so bad then. He should have tried harder to get someone to go with him. He’d asked Darla, another lawyer at his firm, to be his date strictly as friends, but she shook her head. “Weddings,” she said, “are dangerous places for ‘just friends’.” He asked the secretary of one of the other partners. He knew better than to ask his own; he didn’t want to send the wrong message. And, well, his secretary wasn’t really jealousy material. But this secretary, Jill, was pretty, and fun to be around with the way she threw back her head when she gave her infectious laugh. Jill was flattered, she told him, laughing, when he’d asked, but she was in a relationship, and even though they’d be going as friends, she wasn’t sure how her girlfriend would take it. There was no one else to ask. He knew no one outside of work anymore. Panic scorched his chest. “Is that a good book?” The girl took a sharp breath. “Yes.” “What’s it about?” The girl didn’t respond. She glanced out her window, where a cemetery, grave markers of varying size, raced by. “When I was a kid,” he said, “I used to play in the cemetery in our town.”

She looked at him, and he blushed. “No one picked on me,” he said, even though she’d turned back to her book. “They were too scared to once I passed through the cemetery gates. There was just quiet.” An ignored confession. Embarrassment scalded his cheeks, his neck. His thighs, his crotch itched from sweat, but he didn’t dare scratch himself. He didn’t dare move. After several minutes, probably thinking he, the middle-aged fool, was done blabbering, the girl started bouncing her foot again. Watching her foot, he remembered Agnes’s feet, how she got a pedicure every month, her toes always dressed in purple. She loved purple, the deeper the better. Like the color of the sky just before the sun plunged into darkness. When she began to drift from him, when everything he did seemed to push her farther from him, he was plunged into darkness too. When she left, he fell right back into being that boy who’d hidden between headstones by creating, through his work, a cacophony of praise and accolades as dense as the silence that had consoled him in the cemetery. “BWI,” the train conductor announced. “Thurgood Marshall Airport is next.” The girl checked her phone. Agnes. Him showing up alone – what would she think? That she was right to leave? That no one could tolerate being with him? Why did I agree to go? Stupid. He really should have tried harder to find someone, anyone, to help him through the weekend.

The train stopped. People got off. Not as many people got on. “That book,” he said to the girl. “It must be really good.” She didn’t acknowledge him. He swiped at the sweat above his lip. A distraction, any distraction – that’s all he needed. “Hey,” he said. “You want to go to New York with me?” Stunned by his question– did I just say that? – he gripped his knees. What’s wrong with me! Biting her lip, she stared at her book. “Sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m joking around. I’m not trying to come on to you or anything. See, I’m just –” She put her book in her bag. Shut up! “Sorry,” he repeated. Avoiding eye contact with him, she stepped into the aisle. Then, out of nowhere, he heard himself say to her, “Last chance.” Not looking at him, she straightened her shoulders and moved to the next train car. Rubbing away the sweat that had broken over the dam of his eyebrows, that stung his eyes, he got up, the kilt heavy against his legs, and went to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with the nosy passengers nearby. He slid the door in place, locked it, and stood, fighting to catch his breath, trying to ignore the pungent scent of dried urine and the floral perfume of cheap hand soap. I’ve lost it. He splashed his face with water. I can’t do this. I can’t see her. Water dripped down his chin, spread across the front of his white shirt. So hot. He

unbuttoned his shirt collar. He thought about getting off at the next stop. What would it be? Baltimore? Wilmington? He could get off, get a ticket back to DC. He could avoid the wedding altogether. Don’t be stupid. I can’t do that to Scott. There was no choice. He had to go. Panicking about the wedding, mortified by his interactions with the girl – asking her to New York, last chance – his breathing became more rapid. Too hot. He reached under his kilt, then hesitated. Oh, who cares! He yanked down his briefs and stepped out of them. Wadding them up, shoving them in the garbage, he grabbed the edge of the sink to balance himself as the train rocked through a corner. Steadying himself, he became aware of how he was hanging now beneath the heavy fabric. No restriction. Completely free. A draft, cooling and relieving, wafted between his legs. He exhaled. His body swaying in time with the train, he took another breath. Breathing was easier now. His shoulders relaxed. Another rocky corner. Bracing himself, feeling himself swing, he couldn’t help it – he laughed – at his worry and anxiety, at himself. Still laughing, he thought about the salesman who’d helped him with this kilt, about how surprised he’d be to learn that he was man enough for this after all.

VOLUME 47

The Library Rain on the slate roof renders this dry library drier yet, its smell of old glue and paper dust distancing us from the rain-lashed world, a fragrance born of generations

yet cogent texts that shelter us – long after we leave – with propositions reeking of reason; umbrellas in the rain. - Mark Belair

of moldy

Snow

Snow drapes the old battlefield like a flag of surrender, the clearing’s hard history yielding, as it has for more than a century, to the softest of nature,

Anthony Lopez

Duckface and Ula Babysit digital

the land’s cold present free of the fiery grievances that have long since moved on to new and bigger arenas, this venerable tract now resting beneath snow icing – as if in remembrance of the grief that lies beyond all grievances – to a tight embrace. - Mark Belair

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

For Franz Wright For Franz Wright d. 5-14-2015

say a blessing as he ate the words you had left

if you carried words in a tin cup some sparrow would come along think they were bread crumbs

until your body hurt so you wished it was no longer yours until your heart, quite naturally blossomed into wings

you’d stand in place

- Mike James

Alaina Chapman Galaxy Photolithography

Jessica Dismorr:

Lost (1885-1935)*

Like the ancient walls in Assisi, frescoed scenes peeling, she is already disappearing here. She one of the British Fauvists in Paris, I look for carnivals of color but see just rusts, grays and brown. Even the walls are disintegrating, all, all leaving us except the weight of the chair’s back. She hanged herself at 54, as her friends foretold. One pale finger, elongated, reaches out to the other hand,

makes the kind of contact God and Adam achieve in the Sistine Chapel. Though her cheeks are plump, her full lips appear to have given up forever any effort to speak. The gray eyes rise to the ceiling, looking for nothing. *NPT6393 National Portrait Gallery, London - Carol Hamilton

Alaina Chapman 10

SANSKRIT

Untitled oil on canvas

VOLUME 47

Sordid Truth There is blessing in infidelity I keep telling myself stuffing his pillow in my mouth listening to considerations of discretion so his roommate won’t hear my moans. My soul shifts left justified off the page’s margins when I am with him backspacing his lies bolding our interstellar vibes. I am constantly trying to make space to justice our actions. By the end of the day I am spent tired of peeling off the day’s layers of expected and pretty fighting an emotional breakdown preparing for the discussion the assignment that is due soon the one on the other, othered woman Bertha, not Jane the one on romance and passion and betrayal and lies. And I think of how I am the othered, other woman with him I do bad in the best ways thinking how I am pushed farther apart from the good girl you found in me

SANSKRIT

after your mother gave into dying, cancer after that woman broke your heart, again, cheating. With you, I am most importantly first his last but I question why can’t I exist as both? The incessant screams of a car horn startles me out of sleep and I think of how I did not heed your warnings. You, sensing youth and rebellion in me constantly giving disclosures that reveal human behavior of love and loss warning me reminding me: I’m a good man don’t mess this up I love you to death. And I thinking of how he and his beautiful wife will sit on the couch together discussing their beautiful life together with our lies squeezed in between them. I turn on my windshield wipers

taking the sun’s audacity to shine while drizzling rain as an offense noticing glistening specks of glass diamond dust dirt are stamped onto my window and I must smear them away in defense. This is military psychology wanting peace of mind with a war vet wanting everything with him or nothing at all standing on our hearts forgetting they are landmines questioning why didn’t I leave with feet shifting anxiously on the ground I couldn’t feel anything I wanted the blast just to feel anything. I am running 15-30 minutes behind, again wishing to deactivate life hearing the beating of your heart a ticking time bomb telling me to snip the trick wires telling me to cut blue to save us I cut red.

are suffering from the shared experience of me. I gave you both up because you two were the brownie cake soil constantly sifting, slipping through the sieves of my fingers too tender and fertile for me to hold and for that I am sorry. I am sorry I am not soothing enough to take away the hurt that truth is now lodged in between my heart and my throat and I must remember to swallow. - Brittany Davis

I am always thinking of you and my dog JoJo and how the majestic black things in my life

VOLUME 47

Radios and 10¢ Movies With one ear pressed against the silken nubs of the cloth stretched over a speaker and two eyes taking in again and again the flickery truths of Hollywood, I dodged the sound effect man’s cascade of stuff from an overfull closet and his bullets, too, died a thousand heroic deaths and kissed hundreds of handsome men and still had to dry the dishes. But I shone on my surroundings with borrowed glitter and glamour and broke a thousand hearts without even trying. The world was never simple, even then. Big, hairy jungle tarantulas crept up my prairie-dried sheets at night, SS men kicked in the front door, and I pulled my baby brother’s crib close as protection from the evil-breathed darkness of the closet. Imagination is a costly gift once paid for on the installment plan, and once in a while, a huge, past-due notice comes to shake off the subtle balancing between worlds one learns with practice. Yet those borrowed costumes were as form-fitting as the home-sewn dresses my mother made, and sometimes, I still come out all high kick and swagger. - Carol Hamilton

Dan Nguyen Flower Girl

graphite on illustration board 14

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

All creatures small What is my boy doing? He appears to be dancing, leaping like Pinocchio from a terrible truth.

Tuesday Afternoon We no longer wonder why we’re here, though the mystery’s deeper than ever. Let the seeds rot or grow in this field, they must do both, and we can still breathe deeply on this spring afternoon.

Now I see. He is daring a private quest, not to step on a single ant as he makes his way to school.

Shall I get my clarinet from the car? Shall I resurrect Mozart? Or is it enough that my chilled hand slowly reach for yours?

The ants scatter like anxious punctuation as he hops from innocence to innocence, his heart a clean slate. Now he is lifting worms with a stick to place them gently in the grass where they lie like wide grins. He wags a finger, chides their careless scrawls. Birds watch with hungry eyes, flapping their wings at his betrayal. Scared sacred, the worms cling to the earth like holy shrines. Past the school, traffic vibrates, hums and buzzes like notorious insects, his cause hopeless but undeterred.

You seem as blown clean as the faint smell of grass, moving high in air at last empty of premonition. And the bright water in front of us, shimmering. How gentle your hair, as soon as I stop listening to anything else, as soon as my black shoes, a fragment, are resting by the trunk of the oak like defunct street cars, riders long forgotten, long dead, in their own fields. Wasn’t there thunder? Wasn’t there rain? Didn’t we sit, forlornly, only there, in the locked car, the storm over our heads? So much unsaid that should remain unsaid. So much unsaid that should have been said.

He is as sane as sunlight, pure as the intent of stars. His war to set the world aright shames me in my peace. - Sean Lause

Danny Lizano Atonement

canvas print

But the water spoke, gray and heavy, and we were like two ships’ passengers, last in the luggage depot, refusing, in the darkness, to claim what we had packed. - Roger Soffer

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Dark Wood Much wished-for, After summer’s furnace-heat, Garish, squinting light. A few leaves on the path to rustle through – Winter still a long way off, Though on its way. All the elements are here, But subtly wrong. The yellow canopy Exudes a sickly charm; Underfoot, the path is thick And spongy from the damp; The air is cool, But still and heavy, Carrying distant hints Of things burning. Cartographer or traveler at fault? I’m sure the way was clearly marked. Querulous, but more embarrassed, I call, “Okay, I’m lost. It’s getting dark. Now what?”

Bearings

- Jim Kerbaugh

In youth, at south-southwest – open-windowed Sauna with Baptists and tarantulas – The north, with cinematic snow, Glittered, beckoning: A clean severity of gray In which the solitary could exult. But after decades’ huddled sanctuary, February’s marrow-chill, Tight-lipped, empty vista Or banks of plowed gray snow, The loss of expectation, And stark experience of self,

Caroline Kerrigan Bear

watercolor and ink

One leans, inclining even further south (Tarantulas sans Baptists seem okay), Toward raucous-colored riot-life Of sweat and writhing dance, The urgent, beaded carnival Of samba-feathered Amazons. - Jim Kerbaugh

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Crush Caroline Bruckner

Victoria Byers

The wind breathed in the leaves and the sun glittered in your eyes and I said it. The earth sang its ancient song and my heart sang with it and I said it. A car drove past and a woman walked by and a child wailed like mad and I saw a cloud the shape of God above your head and I said it. The city turned sweet and I had the taste of blood in my mouth and I felt beautiful and I said it. I had never said it loudly, not even when I was alone in front of the mirror in the bathroom. The words had poured out of a mysterious and dark part of myself like fireflies coming out of shadows. What had felt sacred and joyful inside the dreamy night of me turned out to sound small and trivial out in the bright open. The problem with telling a person is this: immediately you will have the truth sit in your lap. Stare you in the face. Slap your shoulder regretfully. I had probably known – who was I to be loved by someone like him? And still, the glances across empty wine

bottles? The touches as if by mistake right at the top of my hips. The way he had thrown his head back at my poor attempts at guessing the right answer on Trivial Pursuit. Xavier. The crooked nose and slanted smile. The slightly tired look on his face that suddenly sparkled with mirth and that loud, almost girlish giggle. He was an artist and a musician and the most wonderful creature I had ever had the pleasure of stumbling upon. There had been a party. There had been temporary blackouts brought on by various substances; there had been some accidental dancing, and then there had been me crashing on the couch, someone’s dirty shoe pressed against my chin. The next morning, while feeling the very best part of me had been lost in the toilet the night before, I fell over this lifeless body on the floor. “Ouch! Those were my nuts!” came the wail as I hit the carpet and all its goodies.

“I am so sorry!” I rubbed my eyes. The world a sickening blur, my eyes met his, and that was it. Have you heard that thing about the two violins? If you play one string on one violin, the violin next to it will vibrate the same string? God was playing on Xavier and as soon as I was close to him, I started vibrating with him. I was used to being one of life’s standers-by, but with Xavier I felt as if I was finally stepping into the center of the pulsating universe. I was nothing but a common sales girl folding one T-shirt after the other, over and over again, while teenagers with perfectly skinny little bodies in scuba shorts ripped them open again just to toss them aside one second later. I was trying hard to not scream. I was trying hard to not let into myself the mind-numbing pop, the frustrated crowds, the senseless merrygo-round of it. Working in a store was something my successful brother felt beneath someone associated with him. Once he came into the store with a

The Red Queen

wet plate collodian and digital photographs 20

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

girlfriend. Seeing me there he did that thing with the eyes, when you pretend not to have noticed someone. We never talked about it. When he spoke it always meant giving me an idea about how to move up in the world. “Linnea, you should talk about getting a job in the head office,” or, “At your age I was already junior manager; you need to be more goal oriented or you’ll never get anywhere. Why don’t you open your own shop?” With Xavier, money and status and being perfect had no value, only poetry and music and being able to genuinely speak from the heart. I had friends, many of them. I had friends who, like me, didn’t quite know how to live this life. Friends who desperately tried to fit in, who posted sun-drenched selfies of themselves looking gorgeous on Facebook while their insides were weeping with loneliness. Friends who starved themselves half to death in order to be able to approve of themselves. Friends who thought they were better than others because they wore the right brand of skinny jeans, the smallest size. I knew a girl who went into a depression because she lost her handbag. It had cost her several months’ salary, she had waited weeks for the thing to arrive, she had placed her whole self-worth in that piece of leather, and when it got stolen, she had a panic attack that lasted for hours. I tried so hard to not be like these girls, but I was letting the same set of rules govern my life. I refused to post beautified photos of myself on Facebook, instead telling everyone

SANSKRIT

how silly I found it. In fact, I just didn’t feel good-looking enough; I feared people would laugh at me. I heard them whisper to each other, “Oh my god, look at Linnea, she really should lose a pound or two.” And then. Xavier. I rolled out of that sofa, with the clear notion of having to vomit, when I fell face forward and straight onto the love of my life. “Coffee.” “Coffee?” “Buying me a coffee is the least you can do after destroying my possibility of having children.” Still drunk and with the pattern of a Converse sole on my cheek, I went for a coffee with the most beautiful man in the world. Heading down the stairs he did not walk before me or after me but right next to me. Our arms touched and the sensation stirred me and grounded me equally. I had not known him more than five minutes, but when the hairs of his arm tickled mine, I could have turned around and kissed him. Sitting opposite of him in a dingy cafe booth, I felt happier than I had ever felt, for no apparent reason whatsoever but the simple fact that I was there with him. Looking into his eyes was like staring into something mad and instinctive. I had to turn away. I could not hold the force of it, the possibilities of it, the intimacy of it. No. Looking at him meant not to see him, but to have him see me. Embarrassed, I tried to say something clever or at least interesting, but all that came out of my mouth was a giddy giggle. When other people look at you, they usually see the faults of

you, the shoes that don’t fit perfectly with your jacket or the nose that should be a bit straighter or less pronounced or the freaky ear that is much larger than the other. Xavier narrowed his eyes and he didn’t look at my freaky ear; he looked straight into my very being. How I wished in that moment that I was someone great. An artist dressing in Japanese kimonos. A musician singing, strange and lonesome. A writer telling the raw truth about humanity. I desperately wanted him to know that I was all of these things; I just hadn’t gotten around to actually becoming any of them at this point in time. “I just work at H&M,” I said, my voice high-pitched, without even having been asked. “Let’s go to your favorite place in the city,” he answered. = A church bell rang out as we climbed the high old wall. It was six in the morning on a Sunday in Vienna. The clouds lay thick and heavy over the city, like a lid on a pot. “Maybe not the most cheerful place,” I whispered, suddenly regretting bringing him here. “But interesting,” he said, taking a deep breath, looking out over the old graves. “It’s remarkable. One doesn’t have a clue from the outside at all.” He started singing, just like that, wandering between the dead, placing his hands on the overturned gravestones. And as if having been pulled toward it, he stopped by one to read the name carefully. “Linnea Sara Weissmann. 1920 to 1940.” He didn’t look up. “Oh,

beautiful Linnea,” he sang. He sang about the tragedy of life and he made me understand all of the things I had never been able to put words on before. It was clear then that I had never been in love. I had had boyfriends. I had thought I loved them even. The air got stuck in my chest as I realized what being in love actually felt like. Every little thing got me laughing. A funny T-shirt in the shop. A cute dog on the street. People kissing in corners. I was so full of laughter, anyone could bring it out. I felt like embracing every skeletal teenager who came into the store, like saying something kind to beggars passing on the street, like shouting a big thank you to the world for the weightless rapture that I had been given. Xavier came into the shop and instead of nodding hello and leaving in embarrassment, he stayed, helping me fold T-shirts and to try on dresses, anything to make me roll my eyes toward the sky. I watched my own body in the mirror and I forgave it any imperfection. How could I hold anything against this sacred vessel that carried me close to him? This vessel that let me sense him, the stuff he was made of ? I got carried away by the dream of my own happiness. I danced and I talked, and when no one was listening, I even raised my voice and sang. = We met in parks for slow strolls. We took the bus to the last station up on the hill and picnicked at sunset looking out over the boiling city. We played cards at night, in my tiny studio flat, until the candles burned down and the first rays of the sun made the birds chirp outside

the window. = The wind breathed in the leaves and the sun glittered in your eyes and I said it. I love you. = The earth sang its ancient song and my heart sang with it and I said it. I love you, Xavier. A car drove past and a woman walked by and a child wailed like mad and I saw a cloud the shape of God above your head and I said it. I

“He sang about the

tragedy of life and he made me understand

all of the things I had never been able to put words on before.”

love you more than anything. = His gaze was set on the horizon as he spoke. “We hardly know each other.” Had I been photographed at that moment, I would not have been visible in the print. It was true we had only met just a few weeks before. It was true I didn’t know his parents or exactly where he had come from. I didn’t know what party he would vote for or what schools he had been to. But I knew him. I had a felt sense for everything that could possibly matter; I knew the core of starlight he had been made of. And Xavier knew me, the real me, the

nameless, exuberating, wild rhythm of me. “Yes, you are right,” I coughed, feeling life drip out of me like blood from an open wound. How could one regain dignity in a situation like this? I performed my duties. I folded my T-shirts and I picked up blouses from the floor. I looked at what the other girls were eating at lunchtime and I copied them. I would become the skinniest girl ever. I would show the world. I even posted photos of myself on Facebook, chin up, lips pouting, overhead angle. I went to all the places we had ever been to, desperate to see him. I spent hours on Google trying to find out more about who he was, where he’d been, who he knew. I slept with my phone under my ear should he against all odds send me a message in the middle of the night. I cursed myself for my incredible stupidity. Had I not spoken he would still be calling me, inviting me for a midnight picnic in the park. Had I not spoken he would still be coming into the store to try on dresses and fold clothes. Had I not spoken he would still be looking into my eyes and setting my world on fire. I cursed the wind and the stars and all clouds the shape of God. Three weeks later I saw him with another woman. She was tall and pale and had hair that danced around her face like flames of fire. He touched her hip and she laughed and he made her spin around in a playful pirouette. He was the great puppeteer and she the beautiful puppet. He saw me and did that thing with his eyes when you pretend not to have noticed. She was ridiculous and I knew

VOLUME 47

then I had been also. I was used to being nothing. The torture was to have known being something, something wonderful even, and being reduced to nothing again. Had one tasted the enchantment of being with Xavier, how was one supposed to live without its exhilaration? I hated myself. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and I hated it with all my might. When a heart breaks a person loses all orientation in life. The golden inner compass drops its arrows and instead of showing the way, the arrows become weapons. Gravity was too much for me. I had no strength to keep myself upright, no purpose to break the spell of the earth. Standing there in the middle of pink strapless bras and see-through haltertops, I knew death by love was possible. I could not, I did not want to, live without Xavier. Some people are born in the center, or close to it. The rest of us gravitate toward them like flies to a bright lightbulb in the dark of night. What happens then, when we find the light, and it is then cruelly snatched away from us? I composed myself. I accepted my fate. I knew I could will my heart to stop. I knew I could, and had to, relieve myself of this torture. I regarded my act unselfish, reasonable even. I knew exactly where I’d do it, of course. The graveyard which had the stone with my name on it. I’d lay down and watch the great lime tree, the sheer volume of its leafy crown. I’d gaze up at the intricate pattern on light and shadow, let it lull

SANSKRIT

me to sleep. To the long sleep. Linnea Sara Weissmann, 1995– 2015. Oh, beautiful Linnea. = There is something to be said for a near-death experience. It does have the advantage of putting one’s life into perspective. The perspective I got as my head smacked against the unforgiving asphalt was instant and marvelous. I saw with my entire being, as if I had eyes everywhere. I saw through the space between particles, and I saw swirling lights and I saw my heart and I saw it had been torn to pieces and there was a part missing. = The first thing my brother said as he showed up next to my bed in the hospital was, “I had to leave a very important meeting.” “I am sorry,” I said. “Jumping out into the street like that, not very clever,” he continued, sighing and loosening his bright, stripy tie. “Don’t you have eyes in your head? The dude on the bike said you came from nowhere.” “I wish it had killed me,” I said. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Linn!” he wailed and sat down. “That’s too pathetic even for you.” “No one loves me,” I whispered. “No one loves me either, but I’ve never seen that as an excuse for risking my own and other people’s lives because of it.” He clicked his teeth angrily. I started crying. He buried his face in his hands and sighed, then took my hand and patted it awkwardly. I steeled myself and gazed out the window.

“Listen,” he said then, voice raw with emotion, “W hoever took it, go get it back.” “Get it back?” “Get it back.” I had to look at him, at this man beside me, to see if it was really my brother. And he in turn looked at me, straight in the eyes. After a moment of thought, as if deciding something vital, he started unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled the fabric back like curtains in a theatre, and there, painted on his skin, was a tattoo of a glowing, radiant heart. It was not an anatomical drawing, but a flaming heart of passion, with delicate feathered wings growing out of its sides. There were beams of light shining out from behind so that the heart seemed to float in front of his chest. The sight was breathtaking, a thing of real beauty. “We’ve all got our hearts stolen, Linn; the trick is to get it back again.” I stared at him, at this person who had never, not once, uttered a word about love for as long as I could remember. “And when you get it back, you make it your own. You make your heart your own, and you make your life your own. There is nothing more important than that, little sister.” = As the sun came down, I dressed in the Japanese kimono I had sewn with a vintage fabric found on eBay. The fabric had yellow roses and exquisite butterflies on a deep purple background. I chose a bright red lipstick to go with it, and pulled my hair up in a bun at the nape of my neck. I stood in front of

the mirror for a moment, and thought how nice I looked, how much more like me it felt to wear the cascade of cool silk than the tight jeans and T-shirts I usually dressed in. With careful hands I placed the silver jewelry box that had been my mother’s into a bag. I looked around the room and relished the sight. I had made pillowcases and curtains and even a rug out of vintage fabric found online. The sewing machine stood gleaming on the kitchen table. Xavier was waiting for me under the light of a lamppost. There were yellow roses tumbling around it, I realized with feverish delight, trailing the hem of my kimono. His raven hair fell over his eyes when he turned to greet me. He looked exhausted and beautiful, as always. “Hello, you.” His eyebrows arched in surprise, taking in my dress. “I’ve missed you.” He took a step closer and put his hand, lightly, on my hip. For one moment I was stunned like a rabbit in the headlights, stunned by the gravity of him, of how much I wanted his touch, his eyes to rest in mine, his wry smile to loosen the knot in my stomach. “I’ve got us a bottle; let’s sit down by the pond and fill the ducks in on the newest fashion gossip.” I held the silver box out toward him, my movements chunky with nerves. His smile disappeared then, seeing the color drain from my face. = The wind breathed in the leaves and the moon glittered in your eyes and I said it. The earth sang its ancient song

and my heart sang with it and I said it. A bird flew past and a woman walked by and a dog barked like mad and I saw a cloud the shape of God above your head and I said it. The city turned dark and I had the taste of blood in my mouth and I felt beautiful and I said it. “I have come to take my heart back,” I said. = I danced all the way home. The heart-puppet I had sewn out of the kimono leftovers hung over my chest, fragrant with the scent of roses and jasmine and earth. He had been gracious enough to understand, to open the lid of the silver jewelry box and hand me my handmade heart back. He had looked strangely deflated afterward, asking me if he could at least walk me home. I resisted, placing a hand over my chest, keeping my heart in its right place. “Good-bye, Xavier,” I whispered. I walked away and I did not turn. I felt condensed into a single point in the universe. All parts of me were finally collected; it was an extraordinary feeling, this having a center inside of myself. I had to stop just to enjoy the sensation of it, to allow with my entire being to belong to myself only. I had been a sick and wounded animal, always hungry, always scared. Now I was a great lion, or falcon, prepared for the unexpected, on friendly terms with the world. “I love you, Linnea,” I said then.

VOLUME 47

Abraham’s Second I found the roses you gave me tucked away in a book molded shut and dusted over on the top shelf, back corner. Into a dish chipped with age I crumpled the rose petals imagining potpourri from my fists it rained, and the crystal sparkled with every ping the shriveled stems made. Some carnation with the saturation faded, some wild natured with thorns cut serrated, their final resting place appeared marbled beautifully arranged and plated, camouflaged by the pain of your memory the scent pathetic and degraded.

I found the roses you gave me tucked away in a book, I melted a matchstick and dropped it in to the pile of your jaded remains. Your words bellow like signals in the smoke drifting up at me with bits of ashes, my fingers danced like a kite in the wind absorbing singes from your misguided lashes. I found the roses you gave me tucked away in a book. I set fire to their crippled bodies the way you had tried with my soul. - Nicole Jean Turner

Friend From Antiquit y Her mother’s coaxing fingers spin fine threads, Weave fine cloths, shape wet clay on a potter’s wheel. All loaded on ancient trade ships, sails hoisted, Setting sail for silk seas.

Ladara Mckinnon Power

sulfer, copper, brass

Greek gods visit me in a city From tenement row houses with windows on inside walls Early each morning girls burst outside to play.

Mediterranean sky – Bronze bells pealing. Together we run with the wind as quick as thought. Her flute – a hollowed bone – lilts as I play piano.

SANSKRIT

A welcome waits for me As I wait to grasp outstretched hands

My friend is illiterate, yet writes musical notes on cloth.

I resist as my mother pushes me out the door. Rather play With an ancient friend under the blue, lambent

Neighborhood girls laugh: She’s dead, dummy.

Surrounded by large stonewalls – Ox carts and chariots pass my windows. No one ever noticed the light shining within me, A child on fire unwrapping death.

*Alice Kober is the inspiration for this poem. - Linda Baldanzi

VOLUME 47

love

one way

I told her I wasn’t Going today Or any day Any more The drive Too long The highway Relentless Mesmerizing Mind numbing White dashes Whipping past And why do I get Sundays A day of PJs Diet coke Cookies and Reruns

The place too dreary, dismal Disheartening Corridors with dirty carpets Rooms with curling paint Caliginous lights Fake roses in cracked vases Comatose old women In bed for weeks, months Parked in wheelchairs In front of sitcoms Heads lolling, listing, leaning Plastic trays of uneaten lunches Inedible dinners Sun downing at dusk Agitated, aggressive

Anyway I said Mother doesn’t recognize me Her mind is slipping its moorings Blue eyes vacant, spittle dribbling Flaccid neck ringed with wrinkles Rumpled housecoat stained with Catsup, mustard, salad dressing Muttering about men in closets Money stolen Rings missing Lost in world with no return address I sense disapproval At the other end of the line My sister’s day is Saturday She always goes I see my mother cooking casseroles Washing clothes in an old bathtub Humming Burl Ives Lollipop Tree Little White Duck Us kids barely noticing how Her presence soothes the day I slip into jeans And a tee shirt Grab my purse Head for the car Keys clattering To the tune of One Way Love - Claire Scott

Danny Lizano Sacred digital photo

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

shellac Last Saturday She emptied her bookcase Unpainted knotty pine Discovered on the street years ago Dragged home Dog-eared copies of Kenyon and Kooser Marked up copies of Hirschfield and Haas Spiral notebooks of poems Since she was seven Written in wobbly cursive books forming her future She boxed the books and Took them to Good Will She tossed the notebooks in the Recycling no time for poetry he says Marc at Home Depot says shellac Before painting so blemishes Don’t bleed through She rubs the bookcase varnishing Knot and stains her voice sealed in shellac She paints it the dark of a raven’s beak No sign of the old bookcase Filled with poetry he will be pleased

She runs her hand across the smooth surface She fills shelves with textbooks Nettler’s Atlas of Human Anatomy Lippincott’s Biochemistry Stedman’s Medical Dictionary The face of her future Her sleeves wet from sweat Is it? sweat? her soul flutters She looks at the unfamiliar bookcase Filled with unfamiliar books She hears poets’ voices soaring above the plainsong of her life votive and pleading The tenor sings louder tarsals, metatarsals, phalanges fibula, tibia, femur The soprano fades her soul shellacked and folded in her wings will he love me now She hears a raven’s raucous cry - Claire Scott

Alaina Chapman Gold Rings silk screen

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Blue-Collar

Twister

Sweat tries to swim upwards through the hairs of a labourer building the statue of the herald but fails and falls in the soil sucked up by heat, Vanishes as a struggling animal in quicksand; Dreams drain and entity turns into fossils as slippers walk over it. His weapons are a chisel and spade; He lifts them to protest but vacuum wailing in the curves of his muscles make them fall again on the mummified ground; just to dig, dig the ground for the Herald’s statue must stand firm or his existence will be buried under its falling weight... Toils will evaporate with the smile of the moon The dawn will hear sounds againsounds of iron striking against rocks. The air waits to weave those sounds and strike a twister with them – Tall enough for the world to see bold enough to step over mountains Clear enough to show the waving hands begging a day out of slavery. - Sonnet Mondal

Cindy Bonilla Vagabond

archival inkjet print

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Highway 99 I

III

VII

The sky rises above the road, tranquil as the curve of the earth. Far ahead, cars disappear, the way a ship seems to sink into the horizon. The stars struggle to survive, but the sky remains tranquil and still as a mirror. The lines of the highway, let’s say Highway 99, are as pure as a repeated note and rhythmic in their endless beat. They curve when the roads curves, disappear at the horizon that never comes, recede as life itself collapses darkness into stars, whose voice becomes a choir, whose crescendo is infinite, yet waning, diminishing like hope or light or a road, but long and seeming to last forever, like Highway 99.

By and by your beloved brings up the past: the last town’s motel, the diner down beneath the overpass. “Where are we going?” she whispers, but her voice is imagined, only this turnpike is real, the semis rumbling past the guardrails, the white hypnotic lines, hypnotic as a chant, a repeated mantra, “Go & Go & Go.” Never return. Never look back. Regret is for the angels that hover above the gas pumps, the credit card placed upon the countertop. The odometer clicks the miles and once the fabled talisman, country singer, sings the sutra of faded love, love lost long ago, music beneath the invisible stars that hang unseen in the pale blue, sunless dome of sky, like the sand of the Mississippi, dream dust sprinkled over the unplowed fields stretching on and on and on.

Out of nowhere suddenly you’re sliding along the shoulder, the tires wailing in a little scream. You’ve slept as the car speeds up into the eighties, but now you grip the wheel and guide the car down a gravel road appearing out of nowhere and somewhere there is a band of angels that moan out a weeper with pedal-steel. Pedal releases, you coast to a stop as the gravel dances around in the wheel-wells. Another bar, red-lit like all the others, has risen from the fields, surrounded by pick-up trucks and motorcycles. Fireflies zip the sky like tracer bullets. Red lights flash in a code that says, “walk away,” “drive on past,” “do not enter.” You enter into another world, timeless, yet ticking like a bomb. Everyone turns and turns away. The angel band bends blue notes and the only word you remember is “Whiskey” A waitress whose lips flash with the signs asks, “What’ll it be?”

Waking up in the backseat of a car parked beneath a bridge crossing a slow moving, amber-colored river. Not remembering how or why…until a heron flashes by and the long day’s journey of endless white lines, semis shaking, tires whining the curves. Sweat gripped palms slide the steering wheel, nervous glances in the rearview mirror anticipating the flashing red lights, the “Please, step out of the car.” Eyes follow the heron’s flight, forget speed’s easy breezes, forget all except the cool, clear water, the pebbled bottom, smooth-stoned shore line. Embrace the earth’s blue curve and remember before this highway there were long silent days that beckoned back to a city five hundred miles behind. Never to return. Only this, now, a river, a half-full tank of gas, the urge to hurry on beyond the next hill or curve or bridge but Highway 99 is gone forever. There is nothing left except this river and the heron’s blue flight rising above it.

II And what could last forever except the sound of her remembered voice? Incessant beat of breathless waving bye and bye like a country western song heard through the static of the radio of the car you’re driving far too fast down this endless highway. And when the car slows to a stop before some red-neon lit bar, lights flash cerise like cops, cicadas fill the empty beating air, heat lightening crashes silently in the slow-motioncar-wrecked sky between two waning hills, evaporating like whiskey from a broken bottle, who would hear you cry as you stumble backwards over the guardrail, down the embankment, where you find yourself lying bloodied among the broken bottles, discarded rip-rap, dreaming still of the repeated silver warning of her remembered voice beating bye and bye and bye?

SANSKRIT

IV On and on the miles, rapacious in their lapping of the lines separating the lanes. Greed on every billboard broadcasting death and dreams. Each town unique yet interchangeable. Enter a diner on Broadway, exit onto Main. Each theater shows the same movie. The odometer clicks become the soundtrack. The radio is set to static. Hands grip the wheel although there is no need to turn. Straight-away, flat as the cornfields, dark as the grip of the night, calm as the silence between the stations. Trucks moaning as you pass too fast. An escape, an angry hour of too much memory. Too many sad songs to forget about the way she whispered before regret tightened its knot like a necklace. Are these tears or sweat or rain that seem to appear on the dashboard out of nowhere?

VI - Steve Haskin What will be is written on this final menu. What has been is a trail of broken bottles and highway signs saying, “Nowhere. Nowhere.” Repetition of white lines become the chorus of the country song the angels sing. There is an empty glass before you on the bar. You leave a five and slip back out the door. The gravel road leads back to the impossible highway that leads back to the enigma of the horizon. At last real rain is gently falling. Has the long drought been broken? The car’s hood is still warm, the seat familiar to your back. To drive another day, another hundred miles. Yet, she is in the back seat smiling, “Return and return.” You turn north on 99, grip the wheel and smile into the rearview mirror. All is past, yet there she is. You just want to close your eyes. VOLUME 47

Windows Each night my Father checked the windows Before he went to bed All sixteen of them Even though the windows hadn’t been Opened in years, painted shut in various Shades of white Even when his hands shook, his slippered steps faltered His eyes clouds of cataracts He went from window to window Checking Was he hoping to find an unlocked window To justify his nightly routine or was he Wanting to deny the Certainty of a future Where windows would be Shut forever - Claire Scott

My Butterfly Barbie Doll A gown gold frothed gossamer gauze wings of watered silk hair swept up in a crystal tiara coral lipstick shimmering earrings spangled shoes we have tea of apple dew in porcelain cups rose petal cake with hazelnuts

we tell tales of elves and sprites fairies and gnomes then off she rides on her pink unicorn flying through silvering stars downstairs bottles smash shards splinter slash slice serrated screams jagged sobs

doors slam tires shriek stark silence I ride the unicorn far into stars’ splendor far from apartment 1C on Shaker Street trailing gossamer threads through the night skies my tiara gleaming - Claire Scott

Sarah Kinney Window Seat watercolor

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Obsession That Won’t Last Until Next Summer

my wife’s kitchen cupboard My wife’s kitchen cupboard is filled with an avalanche; when opened, the olive oil, black pepper, expired coupons, stray recipes thunder, crashing from the precipice; the paprika can’t take it anymore, inches to the edge. Don’t do it! A wilderness of exotic spices, once traversing the Silk Road, languish in the back, reminiscing over the flavor of a single, ancient meal. I’ve learned to warily reach only for the cinnamon and garlic salt, perched precariously on the ledge. My wife’s nightstand drawer, gorged, when opened, explodes – jolted babies cry, windows rattle, a nostalgic booby-trap – let fly a detonation of diaries, school pictures (wistful TNT ignites her silly tears), grade cards, drawings, tooth fairy evidence, ten-year-old grocery lists,

SANSKRIT

a receipt for our wedding flowers, lessons on apostrophes, prepositions, Shakespeare, and a book we opened once or twice called Keep It Simple Sex (other titles feature car repair and effective parenting). My wife’s closet door keeps a typhoon at bay; when opened, a deluge of shoes, skirts, excessively flowered blouses, ratty, oversized sweaters too hot for menopause, a torrent of T-shirts, archived according to sentiment, and bras, a wondrous, tangled cyclone of bras, soft sculptor’s molds of warm, woman bosom. My drawers are dull, nearly empty, calm as the eye of the storm; only the essential echoes hollow, rattling around when opened.

A yellow sunflower, Fla-Fla, an index finger from above, Fla-Fla, the way of pulling out the beautiful things, cutting off their supply. The way you scratch an itch until it bleeds, it keeps on itching. The way of doing the opposite of what you say you want. Ask the plucked flower smiling, Ye-Wo, Ye-Wo. Ye-Wo, Fla-Fla, its yellow grin wide it has already died. - Alan Katz

- David Sapp

VOLUME 47

The Past Lies Before Us stretching horizonless siren songs lure us to recite the past like an ancient sutra tangled weeds of greats and great-greats clutch our ankles grasp with sticky fingers generations collapse on each other indistinguishable as identical twins or cloned sheep confusing whose past is whose no easy declensions mark boundaries between decades shaky hands reach (again) for the bottle of scotch pills (again) rattle in plastic vials hidden in pockets purses uppers downers pink blue white an occasional syringe tucked inside a wool overcoat a bomber jacket a hoodie shipwrecked on the shoals of the past that has become

our future a son vows to never and yet his hand flies his belt loosens a frenzy of fury gorges his muscles and his son swears never until his own son screams fuck you a lamp is thrown and the boy is bleeding vowing to never a woman years for touch oh, anyone anyone then darning needle bicycle spoke speeding to the ER her daughter in a slinky dress and slurred words now in a back alley paying to be undone coat hangers grasp tangled weeds of nightmares with bloody fingers The past lies before us gravity’s fist too strong to refuse you warned us Isaac Newton but we couldn’t hear our heads in the noose of the past - Claire Scott

Victoria Byers

The White Rabbit wet plate collodian and digital photographs 40

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

A Sense of F al i l g n Hananah Zaheer

It was near the end of October that his life ended. Suddenly, completely, on a sharp, crisply focused fall day, as he sat across from his wife by the window at Bereket’s, the corner sandwich shop, it was over. He was fifty-one. Of course, he had not planned for it to end this way. Nothing that happened during the evening had been his intention. Though later, he would look back and see that all the workings of things that would lead up to this moment had already been in place, and that he, more than anything else, had set the plot in motion. He had not seen it then, but Dana had been in place too, standing by the window of her apartment, waiting, in her red dress. When his wife pointed him to a table in the shop, he walked obediently toward it, but found himself glancing upward at the building across. The windows stared at him. He counted. Seven up, three across. The shutter was open, the light from inside Dana’s apartment faint, the golden cherub bedside lamp, perhaps.

SANSKRIT

He removed his jacket and draped it on the back of his chair, arranging it out of habit, laying the sleeves across each other on the seat as if it were a dead man’s chest. The white curtains in Dana’s window fluttered, and for a moment he thought he saw a glimpse of red, some movement, and paused, his hand clutching the back of the chair. In that long moment of wait – it could not have been longer than a few seconds at most, although later he would think that his gaze had skipped back to the table in front of him too quickly, far too quickly – he found himself thinking something extraordinary, something quite unlike himself. It struck him that Dana was up there, somewhere behind that window, contained, and that all people were separated from one another in the same way, enclosed inside their heads with only a small window to look out of, that ocular doorway, that small thing with which to see the world. And if the light shifted, if that window was damaged or closed, everything would be lost, gone

from sight, almost as if it no longer existed. And yet, nothing really would change, would it? Each one of them would still be in the same space as they always had been, isolated, like sitting inside a coffin, waiting for it to be over. He felt a tremor run through his arm and settle somewhere above his belly and sank into his seat with a quickness that he hoped did not seem undignified. His wife placed a couple of plates between them, rolls of shiny foil on which he could see the grease marks of the hands that made them, streaks that made it appear as if the sandwich had escaped the hands that made it. “Anyway, it’s a condition,” she was saying, resuming the conversation they had been having on the short walk over. “Can be serious.” She, who had recently decided to occupy her time by volunteering at the Bellevue visitors’ desk, now spent a lot of her time looking up symptoms of what she called his potential infirmities. The smallest dizzy spell, the slightest

shift in his blood pressure, had her running to her computer. He found this disconcerting, annoying even, but he was determined to maintain his renewed commitment to her and so accepted her diagnoses with a smile. “Although…” She struggled out of the folds of her coat before throwing it over the back of her chair. “It’s called hysterical blindness.” She laughed, a little too loud. “How serious can it be?” She cast a smug look around the sparsely populated room, a look that said, now how many of you know that? She had a way of doing that, that lean of the shoulders as if in conspiratorial agreement with an unseen higher authority, a wink wink, nod nod that left her feeling superior to everyone sitting around her. Years of being a housewife, a member of social committees and charities, had left her with a sense of superiority that he could not battle. “Isn’t it hysterical?” She swayed forward in her chair and held out her hand to him, a question or a demand, he could not tell, when he did not answer. He looked at her hand. Her laughter was vibrating in her palm; he could see it move. Next, he knew she would probably rattle off a list of websites that she had used to diagnose the lightheadedness that came and went recently, connecting them to some rash, some bump. And then she would probably take out her phone and show him pictures she had found on the Internet, forcing him into an ugly intimacy of skin and disease. “Hysterical,” he agreed and accepted the hand. She let it rest against his palm, and he sat there, thinking that someone else who saw them like this might think they

were in love, older, sweeter version of themselves. He considered the feel of her skin against his, so very different from Dana’s. So very different, so very empty, he thought. That was the best way he could think to describe it: it was empty. Nothing. As if they almost weren’t touching. As if this touch was inconsequential. As if there weren’t the twenty-four years between them. As if all the hours between them that they had spent years accumulating love and heartache and life had vanished in the last few months. Gone. Like they were nothing. And yet, as he looked down at

“He looked at her hand. Her laughter was vibrating in her palm; he could see it move.” the lines along her wrist, he recognized it. She was familiar. The soft skin with the surprisingly rougher palm. Familiar. He recognized his own familiarity too. The cut on her thumb that had healed a little like a sideways embryo at the bottom of a toilet. She was familiar. He liked familiar. He raised her palm to his lips and kissed it before placing her hand on the table between them. She leaned back and smiled, a confused sort of smile. He lifted his glasses, a new handicap, off his nose. Holding the bottom of the frame inside his mouth, he felt his breath fog up the lens. From across the table, he heard an intake of breath and a deep, slow release. “I read about it on the Internet. When I was looking up your symptoms.”

He rubbed the glasses against his chest. “There is nothing wrong with me, Selma,” he said and replaced the glasses on his nose. She was sharper. In focus. They looked at each other for a second, and he had the distinct feeling of watching someone from across a distance, of being watched, and not being able to see their face quite clearly, not being able to decipher if the set of their shoulders meant sadness or loneliness or contentment. “I am fine.” He glanced out the window again and rubbed his hands together. The sandwich shop was chilly and smelled of meat and oil and, inexplicably, lavender. He felt uneasy. It was too bright. Or not bright enough. He could not tell. Behind the counter, a clock hung above the metal window to the back kitchen amidst skinned carcasses of baby chickens, sacks of flesh awaiting the orders of the men and women who rotated in and out through the doors. The spit in the back turned slowly too, the slabs of tightly packed chicken in perpetual attempt to escape until they were either singed or sliced off with a blade, beads of oil sweating down the sides. He pulled at the collar of his neck. His armpits felt damp. He looked for a waiter to bring him water. Someone behind the counter turned on some music, and a loud, insistent lament he recognized the feel of filled the air. Maybe something Persian. Or Arabic. Or Turkish. He didn’t understand the language, didn’t have time to know or learn new words or new things. He felt too old, too distracted, too tired. But lament – that he understood. He was able to picture himself, VOLUME 47

sitting at the table, the expression on his face a settled weariness, a quizzical wonderment at having made it this far in life, on the other side of things, of Dana. He hardly recognized himself anymore. Selma was still watching him. Under her gaze he felt like the meat, being rotated, sweating, softening, losing all his edges. He lifted a napkin to his brow and wiped. This was a familiar gesture, indeed one that he or anyone else for that matter would have performed a million times without thinking, but as he did it now, as his hand moved across his forehead, he thought it odd that his own touch felt as empty as Selma’s had earlier. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked suddenly, as if roused violently from a dream, her sandwich clutched between her two hands, the insides spilling over, the lettuce, the meat, the juice of something dripping down the side. He nodded and extended the napkin to her, pointing at the thin line of weak white liquid that was now touching the edge of her sleeve. When she did not move to take it, he wiped his brow again. The air was too thick to breathe, he felt, and empty. Heavy with emptiness. Pregnant with emptiness. Dripping with it, suffocating with the nothing that always floated between people, and was between them now, that thing which grew with each gesture that lacked consequence, laden under the meaning that had to be imbued in the absence of anything else. The poison of pretense. He found himself amazed at having understood that moment, a thing he could never have done before. Before. A cold wind hit him as someone opened and closed the front door, and he shivered. He was off balance, like 44

SANSKRIT

someone had walked by and tipped him too close to an edge. Selma snapped a finger in front of his eyes. “Hello? You okay?” He had a sudden and inexplicable urge to extend his leg under the table, to touch hers, a gesture probably more intimate than they had shared in a while. But there was a wall there, that wall of empty. Having discovered it once, he quite liked that idea and began to imagine the space between them as a vast space, a hole, surrounded by walls. This made him feel better because a hole he could fill. Or attempt to fill. This much he could do. He reached

“Under her gaze he felt like meat, being rotated, sweating, softening, losing all his edges.” out toward her and found her leg. She looked at him with something in her eyes. A question? She did not need to be filled, more likely. Did not need him, actually. As if he had walked in the door covered in the smell of embalming fluids, smelling of death, and held her. He apologized and withdrew. He did not know what had possessed him anyway. Touch her leg and then what? What would he do? Walk back to the apartment, separate at the entrance, him to his newspaper in bed, her to the living room and her television? He could hardly remember the days when he had tumbled in through the door, holding her waist, eager to reach inside her, alive with feeling. He took a bite of his sandwich. She

looked at her watch. There was nowhere to go, he knew, just to the resonant noise of the Travel Channel, which she had left on in the living room. He was able to picture his expression as he looked at her. Twenty years ago, when they had met, he could have never imagined himself now. Graying, sagging, the defeated bend of his shoulders upon which sat his face, a heavy, tired face, with eyes that were amused, bemused, something, constantly. Despite the years, despite the two-bedroom apartment that had sat empty since their only child, a girl, had drowned on vacation in Hawaii. Despite the job that had started to feel as automatic as popping his regimen of pills each night. One for the heart, one for the blood pressure, one for general health, and, for the last few months, one so Dana would not think of him an old man losing his virility. The sky was dark outside, and he felt that sitting inside this café, caught in its ugly yellow lights and the sad music, this was exactly where he should be. He was aware that somewhere up there, in her world, Dana was probably pulling out dinner. She loved to cook. No, they had loved to cook. He glanced up again, but the window was dark, as if a little rectangular eye had closed. He felt a tug of hurt, as if the darkness had been directed at him, as if it was she, and not him, who had shouted at him, said that he could not have a child with her, that it wasn’t a possibility, had retreated into her little coffin of a world. And yet, as he had stood with her over the toilet bowl a month ago, staring at the red clot at the bottom, the shape of something, a life, he had considered the possibility, the smallest of thoughts, of a shared

space, something. He had almost told Selma that night, had sat next to her in the living room, had felt tears on his cheek. And she had looked at him and just shook her head and that had been it. He had no idea what it was that she had said no to, what it was that she had understood, but he understood the no, understood in it the request, the fear, the command. It was all the things that he felt, all the things that made him feel old and done. And so he stayed. “I can see it. You are feeling it again.” Selma had leaned back into her chair and was staring at him. He swallowed and felt his heart slide inside his chest, a pinball, against his lungs, his stomach. “You miss these things, they become bigger. Worse.” Selma was picking at the skin on the side of her nail, exposing red. A wave of nausea hit him. The room swayed. He rubbed his fingers across his forehead, pinching the skin above his nose, trying to steady the sloshing around inside his brain. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing.” “What’s nothing?” she was asking. “It’s nothing.” He kept saying it, to himself at first, then louder, so Selma could hear it, and then louder still until the few people in the restaurant were looking at them. He meant it too, and believed it, and wanted to believe it, because it really was nothing. Everything was nothing. And yet, part of him recognized that what she was saying was the truth. Out of nothing came something. Like Dana. Out of nothing, she had become a thing he had trouble breathing without. And then out of nothing, there was that life she kept weaving, that pulling of him inside her little world. For a little while.

And then again out of nothing, that new thing, inside her. A flash of something went off inside his head. And he slammed his hands on the table, screamed, tried to scream, but it came out of him like the garbled noises of a wounded animal, the snarling spit of desperation trying to hold on to breath. Selma was saying something else now, yelling over him. The other people too, their faces shiny with grease, the music, with the woman just crying, crying, crying. They were looking at him, and he stood against the window and saw the horror in their faces. He felt angry all of a sudden, and old and tired and done. He needed to breathe. The cold air hit outside him like a whip inside his lungs, and his eyes stung. The street swam, the undulating serpentine waves of asphalt hot and sharp. There was no one to lean on, nothing near him, and he held his arms out, waiting for his feet to stop trying to catapult him onto the road on which, somewhere in the middle, a red spot lay unnaturally still despite the waves. He stumbled toward the red, pushing aside bodies that seemed to want to gather around him. “It’s nothing,” he yelled at the woman covering her face with her hands and saying, Ohmygod, ohmygod. “It’s nothing” to the couple who held on to each other like one of them was about to fall. And then, he saw her. A beautiful splash of red. Legs bent, on her side, almost as if she was sleeping, as if she had turned to her side to speak to him, to tell him something she had just remembered. Almost as if she wasn’t dead. The street undulated again, and he found himself falling too, and sinking,

until the warm concrete was against his cheek the same way it was against hers. There was noise, a crashing like ocean waves, and people yelling, asking for something, help. And the air was thick; droplets of blood and water hung above him, fell out of the sky onto him. He could smell it: the oil, the blood, the water, the air. And her, her, her. He could smell her, knew that if he leaned in and smelled her behind the ears that she would smell like jasmines. “What are you doing?” someone yelled. “Get off…” There were others too, in a wave, moving forward and back as if they were children at a funeral, eager to see, not being able to contain themselves. He could see the fear in their faces, and disgust. All those eyes, looking at him, all those little worlds disturbed. They saw themselves, he knew. He looked at all their faces. This, he thought, was what it looked like when someone saw the end. And there, behind them, on the side of the road, her sandwich in her hand, was Selma. Selma with disapproval all over her face. Selma with the anger. Selma with the clues, the diagnoses. She was crying. The sandwich was still in her hand, the juices dripping behind like a trail, like she had left a trail for someone to follow her. Like it was a fairy tale. The idea struck him as funny, and he turned to look in Dana’s eyes. And he laughed, softly, then louder and louder, until he was hysterical with laughter, and tears fell from his eyes onto the pavement. He turned then and looked into Dana’s gleaming face, eye to eye, two windows together, two worlds as close as they could be.

VOLUME 47

reliquary A thousand years from now, a few pilgrims escape the sun, trudging down the dark, cool nave of an inconsequential abbey, around the ambulatory, over the crypt of some obscure bishop, the vivid colors of stained glass reflecting on stone, arched walls – and come upon a tiny chapel tucked away in a dim niche. There will be our reliquary, a forgotten, curious, little box covered in tarnished, beaten silver, precious stones clouded like cataracts, perhaps a solitary ruby, and our images, icons arranged in delicate cloisonné. The tourists mistakenly believe it holds dry, dusty bones, an eminent saint; one gawker awkwardly genuflects before the big toe of Mary Magdalene. Unopened for a century or two, they’d be surprised as there is merely the relic of our fleeting days, our romance, our children, our feeble triumphs, our fears, our laughter. There is no tunic or splinter of the cross, only a flower, a small marvel, its blossom as succulent and fragrant as the day it bloomed. - David Sapp

Sarah Kinney Nala

oil on linen 46

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Alone at Versailles I step through the delectably vast doorway into a gilded sea of adornment. Tiered chandeliers float on the ceiling like a bloom of giant crystal jellyfish. Every surface glints with gold trim, shunning the soggy brightness that shoves through the cavernous windows. On the opposite wall, dozens of mirrored panels display the architecture of emptiness within another room identical to this one and peopled with the reflections of dozens of chubby gleaming cherubim and half-robed women dressed in gold who embrace candelabras in their sculpted arms and implore the baby angels to please stop giggling, and I stand among them in that other room, watching and listening and trying to decide whether to giggle with the angels or to plead for peace and a bit of quiet when one of the chandeliers falls in a shattering din of a thousand splintering glass prisms. The frolicking cherubs freeze and the women fall silent a the room swells with unusual tranquility. Replaced by glass shards, awakened dust motes rise up from the parquet, and a golden woman sneezes once, and then again and again and again and then the other women’s mouths twitch upward and the baby angels throw back their heads and erupt into laughter, chortles and snorts spouting like water from their tiny mouths, and then I look to my left and catch myself watching me from the other room, alone in a hall of mirrors and angels and glass jellyfish. - Jessica Wingert

Meghan Clemm

watercolor and chalk pastel

Heart

SANSKRIT

Spine

VOLUME 47

Upon Return to

Dry California

Green New York

from

Autumn air smells of sage and dry grass. I hope they will not burn. Crepe myrtle trees line our streets with triangle clumps pointing skyward. Lacy pink, white, purple, along walkways. Out early. Some look faded and tired, others pert and bursting. Pink ladies lean in a line through fencework, saying, “It’s time for school!” Their stems resemble rhubarb. By mid-September they will heave over, toward the bent grasses, their pink will brown, stems will fall. Yarrow almost matches the dried pasture grass, making us lean forward to see its swirls. They grow near the sheep, who are the same color as their pasture, soft wool bunches eating rough strips of weeds, all of us dry, yet relieved to be out of summer’s boiling-the-skin hot. We watch musky apples fall from Gravenstein trees, pears nest beside them near old roses whose liquor stands in late-afternoon breezes. Oh, slim harvest, once bountiful branches, sheep wool, touch us so we can bear to linger where there is so little green. - Donna L. Emerson

Sarah Kinney Wake Me Not

oil on canvas

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Denial ofInfidelity Let’s pretend

our relationships are cocktails shaken, stirred, on the rocks because we are both on the brink of break-ups.

I believed you when you told me she is your roommate girlfriend wife because the terms are so much more disposable and words are so much more fluid than her being a permanent fixture in your life.

She is the ornament you left dangling outside of truth like a cliff note.

Let’s pretend I leave your house at 3 am because your love has limits a curfew that never exists past waking hours.

My soul rusts copper penny brown when I’m no longer with you.

Let’s pretend I love him like you love her like you pledge allegiance to me when I press my body against yours lip to lip like grilled cheese to bread breast to breast like a filet of chicken seared to pan

SANSKRIT

crouching chest to heartbeat exposed nipple pressed to bent knee (Wait, why do you have such small nipples?) tongue to tongue like sour milk to taste buds to seal the smell of your touch into my sheets.

My limbs detach from my body when we are apart.

Let’s pretend they become our severed secrets we soak in your mason jars, place in basement, bottom drawers, trusting they won’t be exposed. Let’s pretend

you are not the bitter capsule that’s too hard to swallow because you are too hard to swallow And I cannot say your name because I want you gurgles inside of my throat like sea foam, salt water, acid.

I love you

So I pretend your name is Jouska the hypothetical conversation I compulsively play out in my head and every time my boyfriend stutters to death I know that I am in lust with you. - Brittany Davis

VOLUME 47

The

Stigma of Being in CLOSE PROXIMITY I am mocked by you as being Desperate. Needy. Stingy. Clingy. Close. But I cannot help that thoughts of you trigger biological elements of truth of discomfort of locked fingers caging us in emotions wrapped tighter than skin to bone. It is not that I am desperate. It is the glimmer of hope circling the horned rims of your glasses and lining the curves of two crescent moons resting in the pupils I see and get lost in. It is not that I am not needy. It is the linger of our meeting fingers, the charge in our palms fear sparked by red and white blood cells congealing like magnets enticing us with the hidden potential of a touch that if entwined a second longer locks the cradle we, for only the moment, coddle our emotions in.

Alaina Chapman One World

oil on canvas

SANSKRIT

It is not that I am stingy. It is the increasing rhythm of our heartbeats a race our pulses start stop meet truce then rewind and play back - Brittany Davis

VOLUME 47

At The

York County Dump seagulls blown inland from last year’s hurricane rest on bulldozers, scan the sky live off things other than fish half-a-day’s drive from the coast they might as well be crows among paint cans, truck seats ancient, rusty water heaters nature adapts so much more quickly than us no expectations, not nearly the wants - Mike James

answer I study her hands strong nails unpainted, evenly filed as she places the soft square over the red scrape on my arm, thumbs gliding outward from the center, pointer fingers pulling out the plastic undersides. callouses gentle like a cat’s paw She sweeps her fingertips across her handiwork with a quiet “there.” knuckles like a small mountain range

I glance up and find her eyes focused on the bandage yet blurred by distant contemplation. I venture toward her frozen face, “Is it going to be fine, Mama?” scent of eucalyptus and mint She blinks once and draws in a deep breath as she lifts her head. “Oh,” she exhales, offering me an incomplete smile, “I’m as fine as a French villa in springtime.” - Jessica Wingert

Anthony Lopez Bird Man

digital

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Barbie Doll Anatomy Two choices lie at the bottom Of my emptied Spider-Man backpack The Air-Heads 3-D glasses Won out of a cereal box, or The Barbie Doll I got from I can’t even remember where My hand falters “Hurry up, it’s show-and-tell day” The teacher yells The class sits on the precipice Anxious to see I realize my mistake the second I pull from behind my back The Barbie Doll I’ve held dear The imps roar with their laughter Even ones as young as this know “Boys don’t play with Barbie Dolls” The wrongful humility stings In desperation I play the only card I have I pass off my strange desire as a joke I tell them the Barbie Doll is my sister’s She is barely five months old now I grab the 3-D glasses and their blurred reality Helps obscure misunderstood tears I remember that day as vividly As the pain of my broken arm one year later I remember being laughed at for weeks I remember years after of random reminders

Death of a Star

A girl named Brandy, I think, never forgot I desperately tried to forget, repress, and Lock it away Sitting at this desk I realize The significance of that day I found the old Barbie Doll Under a box of nostalgia As I held it, that day came back The memory restored I AM THE BARBIE DOLL But I didn’t ask for this I ripped its head off and drowned it In brandy, not the girl, the drink I drowned myself in it too I hoped it would change. It did not I cut open the Barbie Doll next Blank plastic to be molded I follow suit upon myself I’m numb now… Cut open and drowned All I know is this I like playing with Barbie Dolls and “Boys don’t play with Barbie Dolls” - Gwendolyn Stryer

She told me expansion is death nothing dies unless it grows that we grow ultimately to die and that she was dying But I didn’t believe her I didn’t believe this super-red giant colossal mash up of rouge-red blood cells could expire Until she stretched herself farther apart wide open to show a core as bright as an atomic bomb She smiled at me before swallowing herself and all that surrounded her whole She smeared her mouth across her face beaming as if to tuck my memory away in the creases of her lips Her smile pressed celestial glitter onto my skin Her death

SANSKRIT

exploded cosmic mysteries into my mind God is sun God is sun like sun-kissed arms reaching for my torso gravity pulling me close to comfort like the sun pulling the moon close for a kiss a solar-eclipse

God is sun like clouds it longs to touch like cotton but is not delicate (or cool) enough to hold

God is sun like silk ruined by fingerprints smudged onto the things I am not delicate enough to hold

Her death exploded cosmic secrets into my soul My skin is the secret of touching God and I am tan by the light of her love - Brittany Davis

VOLUME 47

Unfurl Deciphering for repeating patterns

She makes no claims. Puts it aside. All she wants is to solve the labyrinth.

Finally a small lead – along with the excitement A physical pulsing

If there are seeds ready to crow, she does not Pursue the delight in them.

Does her hand gravitate to her thigh?

What belongs and what is promised she Contains in the keep.

An expression of lust Embraces embers of long ago

Snow To ash.

Arms of a holy mother, Wings of a dragonfly

If it is possible to avoid the rush and tease Of spring, she does.

Floating on the bay In the darkness.

Never any gossip. No one remembers hearing.

- Linda Baldanzi

Years of trials and errors in clay

Jayne Dinh Slow Hello

photography

Serpent’s Reproach

THE

Heather Lampkins Untitled ink pen

SANSKRIT

I was slowly wrapping my way up her leg as she sat in her living room watching TV, when the woman screamed, halting me in mid-coil, then jerked her leg away, dropping me hard on the wooden floor. When her husband ran in, I slithered under the couch, and when they pulled the couch away, I curled in a corner to avoid the claw-like arm of a yardstick they used to drag me out.

Dumped like waste from a plastic bag into the pond, I am sorry ever to have thought of joining her, sorry to have offered my curling caresses. Don’t humans want oneness with nature? What happened to the sun-drunk days when reptile and woman could mutually beguile? I came to draw her home. Now she’s rejected me. I’ll bide my time until she walks my way, and then I’ll open the wide triangle of my head and take her with a hard kiss from my mouth. - Lynn Hoggard

VOLUME 47

Guilt

Lauren Price

Hollowness; it didn’t simply set into his soul, but it burrowed into him, shoving out all other feelings as it took root. The men working in front of him slid the flag along the coffin, smoothing out the creases, moving in practiced unison. He knew they were aware of his staring, but he couldn’t find the effort to look away, his eyes glued to the dark wooden surface. It merely served as a barrier that shielded him from the destroyed body of his comrade, but as it was covered with the stars and stripes, he could feel the tightness forming in his chest, his breaths becoming thin. With a nod, the men finished laying out the flag, and stepped out of view, leaving him alone in the hangar. Dozens of other coffins lined the large room, awaiting shipment state side, but this was the only one that mattered to him. This was the only one he had failed. One Week Prior: It was midday, but the light was foggy at best, a dust cloud not only rising behind the Humvee but in every direction surrounding it. The heat that should have been displaced by the air 62

SANSKRIT

conditioning was sweltering, soaking them and their gear in an uncomfortable sweat. They were third in the long line of vehicles, six Humvees in all, moving as fast as possible through the narrow streets of the small city. Speed though, was difficult when there were not only human obstacles, but inanimate ones as well: trash lining corners, and the road itself, which was little more than dirt. There were not any cars in their path, the few that existed being used for tasks now considered part of the terrorist threat. The few people they saw kept their eyes downcast, not attracting attention to themselves or acknowledging the military presence that had only grown in the recent decade. They were not the threat, he instinctively knew that, his eyes watching the many windows that could potentially house the real dangers. “Five minutes out,” the driver said without looking at any of them. He kept his attention instead on the Humvee in front, a careful distance maintained between each vehicle. He would only be in charge of their arrival, not their safety when they stepped out for the

mission. They would be on their own from there. Generally, the cabin was filled with boisterous laughter and infantile jokes only meant to take their minds off the mission, but today it was silent. Not even the soldier on the gun made a sound, the machinery emitting a lone noise as he moved it to check their surroundings. The Rangers were stoically quiet, stares directed at nothing that truly mattered. Several times, they had already checked their weapons, trying in vain to think of anything but what was coming. Sergeant Madison found himself stuck between staying alert and trying to wipe his mind of all thoughts. The alertness won though, his training keeping him from really calming down. There would be no sense of serenity until the mission was over. Outside the bulletproof vehicle, the buildings opened up to a main road, actual pavement, not dirt, lining their path forward. The convoy didn’t slow its pace, speeding instead towards their destination: a string of buildings straight ahead. Madison leaned away

from the thick glass of the window, his fingers clenching tightly onto his gun, his lifeline. His eyes locked onto the building right in the middle, already steeling himself for breaching it. From the gun port above them, there was a low whistle that issued overhead, the sound sending chills down his spine. He wasn’t ready. Not this time. “RPG! We’ve got an RPG in the air!” the gunman yelled. As soon as he had shouted, the gun reverberated, sending vibrations through the armor of the vehicle. Brass casings dropped to the floor, ringing on impact. The convoy line broke apart, the careful distance lost instantaneously. Through the mayhem, he couldn’t follow the path of the RPG; it seemed only to have disappeared even though that was impossible. He was alleviated of guessing when an explosion came from the front of the convoy, the lead Humvee going airborne, its rear end facing the sky for that brief second before it flipped and came to a crashing halt. The vehicle in front of them hit the brakes, its back tires burning rubber, the smoke nearly clouding the scene ahead. “Shit,” their driver yelled as he hit the brakes as well, their vehicle skidding to a stop a mere foot from the Humvee in front of them. It was like a domino effect, tires screeching as the entire convoy came to a dead stop. The Humvee that had been hit was now out of sight, the smoke from the tires enshrouded by the smoke that rolled off the burning vehicle. There were not any screams, the men inside most likely dead already. Gunfire from the gunmen atop the vehicles was the only movement that came from the line, no one stepping out, fear setting in.

“All men, set up a perimeter around the convoy,” their commanding officer bellowed through the radio, snapping the three of them to attention. Madison gripped his weapon, taking a deep breath before he swung open the armored door, pointing his weapon in the direction of the threat. All along the rooftop of the buildings that lined the road were men, dark silhouettes at that distance, but definitely men. “And what are we supposed to do if they have another RPG?” Jeffreys shouted from the other side, kneeling down and tucking himself behind the Humvee, as

“The incredulity in his voice almost made Madison laugh, if not for the sound of rifles shooting that came after it.” small a target as he could get. “Shoot at it?” The incredulity in his voice almost made Madison laugh, if not for the sound of rifles shooting that came after it. Madison pulled himself over to that side of the vehicle, using it for cover, Daniels joining them from where he had been in the passenger seat. The driver, he saw was still in his seat, had a bullet embedded in his chest. “Damn,” he muttered, sliding back down into cover. “Any hope for backup?” He had to shout for them to hear him over the machine gun, which didn’t even make a pause now. It had just become their only real line of defense. Daniels was slow to respond, his expression making it seem like he hadn’t even heard. “None right now! There’s

supposed to be radio silence,” he let out a curse as he shot up towards the building. “Whole lot of good this is doing.” Jeffreys smiled at that, lifting his rifle in mock salute, the small scope on it glinting in the smoky light. “Should have gotten this beauty. I can see all their grinning faces,” the smile disappeared as he set the scope near his eye. “I don’t see any more RPGs at least. If we’re lucky it will stay that way.” Madison wanted to do more than simply make an effort, but he was making guess shots, targeting the enemy as best he could. A few went down, but with every wasted shot he knew he would run out of mags soon. Taking a deep breath, he sank back behind the Humvee, digging in his pockets for mags. His hand only came out with two. “Shit.” He shoved one back into his pocket, placing the other into the gun, locking it in. This needed to end, was all he could think. “Guys, I’ve only got a mag left,” Daniels shouted to his right. Jeffreys turned away from the enemy and looked at his own supply, shaking his head. “Same over here. Still no news from command?” Daniels shook his head. “I’ll try,” he replied, but not with confidence. He set down his gun, and grasped the radio. When he got through, he gave a thumbs-up, though there wasn’t a smile to accompany it. They had only started talking, but there was already frustration clearly painted on Daniels’ face, his words clipped with anger. Most of the words themselves were lost to him amidst the gunfire and shots from the other Rangers nearby, but the intent was clear. “We need backup! We are pinned down by enemy VOLUME 47

fire.” Command must have given him the wrong answer, Daniels’ face twisting up in fury. “No. We need backup now! We are running low on ammunition and barely holding our ground.” There was a nod, Daniels moving around the side of the Humvee to look at the other convoy vehicles. “We have five possible K.I.A.s. I can’t see any other casualties.” He nodded again, pressing his hand to one of his ears, trying to hear better. “Got it. Yes, sir.” He put the radio back up, his expression still grim. “Any news?” “They are pulling a team together, but it’s going to be a while before they can get here.” He picked his gun back up, turning the safety off. “How long?” “ETA twenty minutes. Maybe more.” Jeffreys’s knuckles turned white as he tightened his hold on his rifle. “That’s just great.” Madison didn’t comment, opting instead to watch as Jeffreys took out his pent up frustration on the threat. He turned around, scoping out another enemy, and pulled the trigger, the emotion slowing his reactions considerably. Several shots came back their way, Jeffreys ducking down in time before they hit the vehicle. The sound of bullets hitting the armor and then flying off did not help their nerves. Madison could feel his guts churning as if he were going to hurl, his insides in complete turmoil. His hold on his rifle was loose, the weapon nearly dangling from his fingers as he attempted to control the fear that was clutching onto him. Slowly, his surroundings started to blur, the sound of the gunfire becoming a dull echo in his eardrums. “Shit,” Jeffreys screeched beside 64

SANSKRIT

him, his rifle dropping in the dirt. He clutched wildly at his left leg, his pale hands turning red as the blood seeped out. His comrade’s voice ripped him out of the void, his eyes snapping to Jeffreys almost immediately. Madison kneeled down next to him, pulling out a bandage and pressing it down on the wound, Jeffreys letting out a sharp hiss of pain as the cloth hit the wound. “Daniels!” The blood welled up where his hand held the cloth, the warm liquid coming up much too quickly. He hardly even noticed when their other comrade sat down next to them, searching the line of vehicles for the single medic that had come. “Madison, we need to get him to the medic. Do

“The incredulity in his voice almost made Madison laugh, if not for the sound of rifles shooting that came after it.” you think we can lift him?” It took a long moment for him to respond, the blood making logic hard to come by. Hesitantly, he nodded, moving his weapon aside and grabbing onto one of Jeffreys’s arms. Daniels took the other. With his eyes on Madison, he counted. “One. Two. Three. Lift.” They pulled up Jeffreys, a moan escaping the injured soldier’s lips as they threw his arms over their shoulders. “Chris, we need you to help us here. Can you use your other leg?” He bit his lip, trying to suck in the apparent pain, but he nodded, using his other leg to stand. “How far is the medic? This hurts like hell, guys.” It was hard enough seeing the blood, but the

pain in Chris’s voice only made it worse, the two quickening their strides. Neither soldier responded, neither knowing where exactly the medic was. Using the Humvees, they gradually made their way along the convoy line, dodging the bullets meant for their squad members. Jeffreys held up his end as well as he could, but slowly it was becoming obvious that he was losing energy, his one good leg sagging until it eventually was dragged behind him with his other. They were at the fifth Humvee when the rest of his body seemed to lose all strength, Madison having to clutch harshly onto his hand to keep him aloft, Daniels grunting on the other side. “Chris, you need to hold on, buddy. I see the medic. Come on, Chris.” He pulled a little on Chris’s arm, but there wasn’t a response. “Chris,” Madison lifted his head a little under the arm, and looked at Jeffreys, whose head now lolled forward, face downward. His breath hitched for that moment, even as they spotted the medic. The medic came towards them from the last Humvee, helping them to lay Jeffreys out on the ground, not saying anything as he went to check the pulse. It was almost awkward having to watch the man work, Daniels and Madison standing over him impatiently. “I think he passed out as we passed that last Humvee. He just stopped responding,” Madison offered tentatively. Still, the other man said nothing, his hand going to the leg, lifting the fabric off the wound, the large bullet hole making the two men turn away with a grimace. With a shake of his head, he finally looked up at the two, his eyes already saying what they didn’t want or need to hear. “I’m sorry, guys.” He bit his lip,

the next words finalizing what they all already knew. “He’s dead.” The medic motioned to another soldier, who came over with a stretcher and pulled the motionless body onto it. Daniels and Madison helplessly watched as it was tucked into the back of the Humvee; the trunk lid slammed down behind it. A hand found its way onto Madison’s shoulder, the medic giving him a look of sympathy. “I am sorry –” he stopped his sentiments, his head turning in the direction of the gunfire, or where it had been. Now it was all silent, even their gunmen pausing the firing of the machine guns. Madison risked a glance over the hood of the Humvee, but found himself staring at the empty rooftops of the buildings, the enemy gone entirely. “Where did they go?” he whispered, though now they could all hear him, even being partially deaf. It was the sound of a loud thumping from the sky that made them all stare above, black specks approaching their location from the northeastern skyline. Backup had finally arrived, but they had come too late; Madison found it difficult to feel any relief in the sight. Cheers broke out amongst the Rangers, everyone watching with wide smiles as the Black Hawks touched down before them, the blades still whipping a strong wind into their faces. Several soldiers jumped out and met them on the tarmac, their guns still at the ready, regardless of the enemy’s retreat. “How about we get you guys back to base?” He was Delta force, his weapon not standard military issue, and his hair unkempt, curled by the wind. The soldier gave them a large smile, more for reassurance than a show of genuine pleasure, before he motioned to the stagnant convoy line

with a frown. “How many wounded and dead?” Staff Sergeant Bailey stepped up from the mass of Rangers, giving the man a firm shake, “Most of the wounded can wait till’ we get back to base. We’ve got six dead though. Can your birds handle that many?” The man nodded, “They’ll have to. That group shooting at you won’t stay in the shadows for long.” He didn’t wait for the Staff Sergeant’s response, turning to give orders to his men instead, setting the effort to board the helicopters into motion. To ensure that the bodies safely made it back to base they were divided among the helicopters, Daniels and Madison staying with Jeffreys’s body. It was heart wrenching, the sight of the fallen soldier being lifted by stretcher into the black hawk and then strapped to the floor, the gunner waiting silently for them to board. Sitting without anything to do was worse, his thoughts finally able to surface as he gazed down at his hands, still stained red with Chris’s dried blood. Most of it had crusted and begun to fall off, but the color remained vibrant, keeping him from being able to accept the loss. It didn’t help that the blood’s owner was laid out right in front of him. His thoughts ran straight to what more he could have done, what he should’ve done, the ‘what if ’s’ drowning out the facts of reality. No one told him otherwise, or even said anything to him when they landed, unfamiliar soldiers simply taking the body and hauling it to the hangar that sat further down the airstrip. He didn’t follow. His courage hadn’t gotten that far yet. His mind couldn’t take the sight of his failure yet. Guilt was all his grief knew. VOLUME 47

The Electric Chicken Roadside stop, hovering in the Smokies, gas, magazines, candy, and a menagerie of the captured – waterless aquariums a-shiver with demented green lights, a snake unwinding a tale, roach farm, a tarantula trying to climb the invisible, falls back like a cureless wound, legs swirling, a clutch of mice staring at that snake like a tiny pink apocalypse, a drain circled with tiny mouths, an air of smothered angels. And one chicken in a glass booth, watching wide-eyed as my mother drops dime after dime into its thankless home. “Look! She dances!” she joys at my Old Man, who shakes his head with all the woes of time and tells her the truth: The chicken wire beneath the bird is electrified. My mother transforms. Her face molds a fist of pain and her tears are knives. She seems to grow with each step as she confronts the owner, who squats before a tiny B&W TV, has a face like a thumb or a bottled fetus. He merely shrugs and says: “It’s Ma Business.”

Sweet Jesus, now she’s overturning all the tables, freeing all the exhibits – snakes, mice, roaches, and birds, birds, birds! Now she’s after that electric chicken, clawing at the lock and sobbing. The chicken nods quick encouragement like a death row inmate at Sing-Sing in a grade B gangster flick. Here comes the owner! I know he’s going to gut us all and stuff us into separate exhibits to entertain the Pilgrims of Boredom. “Don’t mess with Ma Business!” he growls around his cigar. But my mother has somehow busted that lock, and the whole family – Mother, Father, Son and Holy Chicken – go tumbling out the door to our car. The owner follows with a wide waddle, shaking his fist and calling “Ma Business!” The snake behind him imitates a question mark. My mother clutches her prize, her fingers quivering with all the world’s violations. - Sean Lause

Anthony Lopez 66

SANSKRIT

Duckface and Ula digital

VOLUME 47

We Are No More Gentle If we poets had an army at our disposal we’d direct it to use any means necessary to get people to listen to our poetry. They’d be marched away from their sitcoms, ballgames and knitting circles into vast convention centers, and tied to their seats, lined up in standing-room-only sections. Now, we are seen as free-minded, unevenly shaven, hemp bag-toting recyclers who pin homey fliers on community bulletin boards to spread the word,

we’d trade those meek ways for the rat-a-tat-tat iambic pentameter of automatic weaponry. At headquarters, we’d sit back in bean bag chairs, under our tie-dyed flag, heady from government grade incense, and marvel at how much more effective this is than handwritten invitations to “Gather for a wondrous evening of verse.” If we had tanks and AK47s and a propaganda machine leaking the imminent threat of WMDs we’d Shock and Awe everyone into respectfully paying attention to our words of real truth, which will change the world, undoubtedly, for the better. - Michael Mark

but in a click

She Suffers From His Poetry She suffers from his poetry Not the words but how many, every one inscribed on her face, from showing interest for so long. In the mirror, she can see the effects.

So when she buys the $150 vanishing cream she figures he owes her as much. For the years of looking up from her books, her shows, their children, to hear his latest. Her untold joke is she suffers

more for his art than he does, making her the greater artist. But the smile lines this creates will never see a drop of cream. She knows the stuff doesn’t work anyway. - Michael Mark

Caroline Kerrigan Crow Queen digital

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

Woman, or more specifically, She I once read: pussy is poetry, woman is art If true, then she, she is music like the metronome balancing between lyric and note. She is terribly beautiful and frightening, like a full moon suspended in a licorice sky constantly imploring death.

She is a paradox: vanity in its austere simplicity.

She is acrid, yet edible: There is toffee embedded in her skin and bits of cocoa lining her irises. Honey droplets gather in her sweat. She tastes like strawberries when she spits green tea, when she cries pineapples, when she cums, coffee bitter, black and strong when she lies.

to her hidden disclosure: “Don’t pick me up if you can’t finish the rest of my pages.”

She loves past capacity. Always past capacity with a heart so full it burst. Now, it’s just empty. I read: pussy is poetry woman is art but she, she is aberrant, for abnormal is too simple a word. again. It is not that I am clingy. It is the way our tongues twist into knots when we bicker muffling

the vibration between our vocal chords that reverberate the same-sung song of being nothing more than friends.

It is not that I am afraid to be alone. It is the fear of splitting atoms when we kiss not knowing if energy will linger or disperse the embarrassment of dependence. We are biological elements of truth and it is human to want, desperate to need, needy to receive, stingy to feel, clingy to be, close but misery wants company that is not love.

And I, I am like Pluto trying to pull you the sun closer, gravity trying to pull me, closer to the abyss. Any you, you are like lint, resting unbothered on my DNA, collecting and gaining speed, snowballing fast, a comet in orbit leaving or circling back towards me. - Brittany Davis

Beauty is just a cover page

SANSKRIT

VOLUME 47

The Wave

(Ephraxis on Renoir’s ‘The Wave’ 1879) Hand me that kaleidoscope, Pierre. How can I see what you see, pink foam and devil’s own Green pitched in with the obvious hue? I’m asking because I’m asking, because I squint and tip My head and look outside and whether the sky is sun or surly all I see across the ocean is blue. I’ve got my brushes and my clover palette in one shaking hand, and my eyes on the function And the form. Come hell or high noon I’m set on sketching this scene, salt water smeared Across your delicate canvas, southwest wind. Cobalt and indigo, white and gray to emerald and Rose, the edges split like hydra as the composition settles into its final self. Sit, and stay awhile Before you sail away, and tell me now: eyes wide shut, was it ever the weather or the wave? - Dr. Meryle McQueen

ix nd

SANSKRIT

Staff Biographies

Art Jurors Jane Dalton is an Assistant Professor of

Sierra Beeler content editor

Leah Chapman

Sarah Eberly

editor-in-chief

associate editor

Leah Chapman is graduating UNC Charlotte this spring with a BA in English, a concentration in Creative Writing, and a minor in Film Studies. As an aspiring screenwriter, she hopes to become a writer on a television show where she can incorporate her belief that everything should include at least one musical number. These past three years at Sanskrit has been incredible, but she’s excited to see what the future holds.

Sarah Eberly is both an English and Geography major at UNC Charlotte. One day she aspires to be an urban planner and to inspire people to reconnect and interact with their communities. She was most accurately described by one of her friends as a person with “long legs and places to be.” She is thankful to the experience Sanskrit has given her this year, and cannot see where her journey will take her next year.

Sarah Kinney

Tierra Holmes

lead designer

content editor

Sarah Kinney is a transfer student at UNC Charlotte working towards her BFA in Illustration, while simultaneously juggling poor social skills, a passion for animated things, and bad bed head. She hopes to get a job in some sort of illustrative work, whether it will be concept art, magazine

Tierra Holmes is a sophomore studying Art History and History at UNCC. When she isn’t chained to her computer working on research projects, she enjoys marathoning Korean dramas and spending money she doesn’t have. After graduation, she hopes to curate a museum or galley and possibly guest-star on Mysteries at the Museum.

Linnea Stoops designer, spring semester Linnea Stoops is a senior at UNC Charlotte pursuing a BFA in graphic design and a minor in Art History. She dreams of being able to securely work as a freelancer so that she has the freedom to work and travel wherever she pleases. When she isn’t busy working to make this dream a reality, Linnea can be found baking and eating sweets or attempting to counter her sugary splurges by pursuing personal fitness goals.

Alina “Lenny” Fortunato content editor Alina “Lenny” Fortunato is a sophomore at UNCC pursing an English major with a minor in Linguistics. Between writing essays, reading for classes, and trying to stay afloat in a sea of work, she likes to watch Grey’s Anatomy and cry, keep her Tumblr blog updated, sew, and teach herself Korean. She is always hooked up to Spotify, probably talks way too much, and has way too many Pinterest boards.

Sierra Beeler is a freshman English major at UNC Charlotte. An aspiring screenwriter, she hopes to one day entertain the masses with a book series turned television show she hopes will “put J.K Rowling to shame.” When not working on one of her many uncompleted projects Sierra enjoys watching Hulu and crying over fictional characters.

Misty Seul Lee designer, fall semester Misty Seul Lee is a recent graduate of UNCC with a BFA in Graphic Design. She lived half of her life in South Korea and the other half in America. She is always open and ready to work hard with others to get the job done. In the future, she hopes to work in the field where she can learn and spread her creativity. Other than designing, she enjoys traveling and experiencing the world.

Shua Vang promotions Shua Vang is a senior at UNC Charlotte working towards a double major with a BFA in Graphic Design and B.S.B.A. in Marketing, and also a minor in Art History. After she graduates, her goal is to move to one of the big cities (either Los Angeles or Chicago), while obtaining her passion in web design, and eventually becoming a Creative Director for a design agency. In the future, she wishes to open her very own coffee shop and travel to the many countries within Europe.

Art Education at the University of North Carolina-Charlotte where she teaches art education and studio art courses. She earned her Ph.D. in Expressive Arts and a M.F.A. in Textile Design and Weaving. She is the co-author of The Compassionate Classroom: Lessons that Nurture Empathy and Wisdom. Her research interests include teacher renewal, contemplative pedagogy, and social-emotional learning in classrooms using the arts. A textile artist, Jane’s work has been exhibited throughout the United States and can be found in private and corporate collections.

Kristin Rothrock

is a lecturer in Foundations at UNC Charlotte. She teaches drawing and design classes as well as Book Arts and Papermaking. Rothrock studied printmaking in undergrad at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, NY. She received her MFA in Graphic Arts while at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.

Jamie Franki

coordinates the Illustration program and serves as Associate Chair of the Department of Art + Art History at UNC Charlotte. Jamie maintains a studio practice in concept illustration, numismatic design and relief sculpture. He is currently a designer in the United States Mint’s Artistic Infusion Program. In 2008, Franki designed the Order of IKKOS Medal, the United States Olympic Committee’s perpetual honor society award for Team USA coaches.

Literature Jurors Bryn Chancellor teaches creative writing at University of

North Carolina at Charlotte. Her story collection, When Are You Coming Home?, won the Prairie Schooner Book Prize. A graduate of Vanderbilt University’s M.F.A. program, she has been awarded the Poets & Writers Maureen Egen Writer’s Exchange Award and literary fellowships from the Alabama and Arizona art councils.

Dr. Sarah Minslow is a lecturer in the English and Global,

International, and Area Studies Departments. She teaches children's literature and courses related to human rights issues, including Child Soldiers and Conflict and Refugees in Literature and Film. Dr. Minslow's research focuses on how texts intended for young audiences influences attitudes towards "Otherness" and human rights education. She also works at Johnson C. Smith University as a Research Associate and Faculty Research Manager. Her favorite poems are "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop and "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.

Lance Phillips has published four books of poetry (Corpus Socius, Cur Aliquid Vidi, These Indicium Tales and Mimer) with Ahsahta Press. His poetry has appeared in New American Writing, TYPO, Fence, Verse, Colorado Review and many other print and online journals. He attended the University of North Carolina at Charlotte and the Iowa Writers' Workshop.

Contributors Literature Biographies Alan Katz’s poetry has recently appeared in Burningwood and in Tupelo’s 30/30 Project. He has studied with Jeffrey Levine and Miranda Field and writes at the Brooklyn Writers Space, a collective in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. He currently lives with his wife and two children in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. Following a successful career as a technology executive, he now runs his own consulting practice and continues to pursue a poetry career.

she worked for the federal government in Washington, D.C. and pursued, on a part-time basis, her Master of Arts in Writing at Johns Hopkins University, which she completed in May 2006.

Donna Emerson is a recently retired college instructor, licensed clinical social worker, photographer, and writer of poetry and prose. She has been widely published. Donna’s work has received numerous prizes and awards including honorable mention in the 2015 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award, nominations for the Pushcart Prize (2013) and Best of the Net (2012).

Brittany Davis is a recent UNC Charlotte graduate with a B.A. Gwendolyn Stryer was born in San Francisco, California, but in English (minors in Journalism and Communication). The Philadelphia native moved up and down the east cost before settling in Charlotte at the age of twelve. She is passionate about writing and enjoys creating raw, descriptive, complex works. She aspires to become wealthy off of her words. If that fails, she’ll become a college professor.

raised in Wake Forest, North Carolina. At age seven her family divorced and she ended up living entirely with one parent by age fourteen. Her hardships of her family life and being transgender have been the inspiration for much of her poetry. When she isn’t writing, she is doing parkour, breakdancing, or playing DnD with her friends.

Carol Hamilton is a former elementary school teacher in Originally from Pakistan, Hananah Zaheer lived in North Connecticut, Indiana and Oklahoma, the last twelve years in a school for gifted children. She taught in the English departments of a community college and on the graduate faculty at The University of Central Oklahoma. She has been a translator at a clinic for women and children for 20 years. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma and has been nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize. Her most recent book is SUCH DEATHS.

Carolina before moving to Dubai. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Maryland and was awarded a fellowship at the Virginia Center for Creative Arts (VCCA). She is currently a college professor. She’s taught at American University of Sharjah, American University of Dubai, and Montgomery College.

Stockholm, Sweden. A short film she wrote, “The Confession,” was nominated for an Academy Award in 2011. Her picture book Moritz was published by the clothing company H&M within their UNICEF “All for Children” Initiative. Caroline enjoys writing about desperate people in times of great change.

poetry. She is currently interning with the English Department at Principia and planning her future as a resident MFA student. Jessica is an avid list-maker, jigsaw-puzzler, Paul Newman fan, and, most recently, lover of mirrors, both literal and figurative.

Jessica Wingert graduated this past spring from Principia Caroline Bruckner is a screenwriter and short story writer from College in Elsah, IL with a BA in Creative Writing with a focus on

A native of Oklahoma, Jim Kerbaugh received his Ph.D. from Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has been nominated the University of North Texas in 1984. Since 1987 he has taught

twice for the Pushcart Prize (2013 and 2014). Her first book Medieval Literature and Creative Writing at Illinois College. of poetry, Waiting to be Called, was recently published by IF SF Publishing. Claire is a psychotherapist and finds psychotherapy and Lauren Price is a junior at the University of North Carolina at poetry are a stimulating combination, as each feeds the other. Charlotte studying Marketing with a minor in English. She started writing in high school and enjoys writing stories that are focused David Sapp is a writer, artist and professor living along the on emotion. One day she hopes to publish one of her pieces and southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. His poems have become an author, but until then will be on a path to learn and appeared widely in a number of venues across the United States, create as much as possible. in Canada and the United Kingdom. His publications also include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home Linda Baldanzi has a MFA in Poetry and Poetry Translation. and Two Buddha, and his novel Flying Over Erie. She teaches poetry workshops at the Fort Lee Public Library. Her poems are from a chapbook she is writing on the life of Alice Growing up, Deborah Prespare lived in South Korea, Saudi Kober, a professor at Brooklyn College, who devoted her life to the Arabia, and Kenya due to her father’s Foreign Service career. She deciphering of Linear B, the earliest known Greek language. This majored in Economics and Philosophy during her undergraduate was before computers. studies at Cornell College in Mount Vernon, Iowa. After graduating,

Translator and poet Lynn Hoggard has published five books and hundreds of articles, poems, and reviews. Her translation of Nelida by Marie d’Agoult won the 2003 Soeurette Diehl Fraser Award for Best Translation given by the Texas Institute of Letters. Her most recent book is Motherland, Stories and Poems from Louisiana (Lamar University Press, May 2014).

Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals,

Sean Lause teaches courses in Shakespeare, Literature and the Hero, and Medical Ethics at Rhodes State College in Lima, Ohio. His favorite poets are Sylvia Plath, Rimbaud and The Ramones.

Sonnet Mondal is the founder of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review. He has authored eight books of poetry. Sonnet is currently one of the featured writers at International Writing Program at The University of IOWA-Silk Routes Project. Sonnet was listed in Forbes top 100 Celebrities Edition in 2014, and the CultureTrip website listed him among the Top Five Literary Entrepreneurs of Indian English Poetry. (Website www.sonnetmondal.com)

including Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, and the Harvard Review. His most recent collection is Breathing Room (Aldrich Press, 2015). Preview collections include Night Watch (Finishing Line Press, 2013); While We’re Waiting (Aldrich Press, 2013); and Walk With Me (Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, Steve Haskin has been writing poems since early in life when 2012). He has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. For more he began playing guitar and writing songs. He studied poetry with Fran Ringgold at the University of Tulsa where he received his information, please visit www.markbelair.com. Bachelor’s degree in 1980. He moved to the Twin Cities in 1980 Meryl McQueen is a Sydney-based poet/novelist/composer/ and taught at Minneapolis Community and Technical College for linguist with roots in South Africa, Italy and the U.S. Her poetry twenty-seven years. He received an MFA in writing from Hamline has been published in almost two dozen literary journals including University. He lives in Austin, Texas. Crack the Spine, Ginosko, Phoebe, RiverSedge, Sugar House Review, and the Set Free Anthology. Her work reflects themes of geographical alienation, the modern crisis of empathy vs. individualism, and a strong current of environmental stewardship as humanity lurches Alaina Chapman is an art major concentrating in art education into the 21st century. at UNC Charlotte. She enjoys exploring a variety of concepts Michael Mark is a hospice volunteer and long distance walker. and mediums with her work. She uses her art as an outlet for her He writes to crack open something to see what’s inside it and emotions and a way to discover and express herself. She hopes to what’s inside himself. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming one day inspire students to explore and produce works of their in Gargoyle Magazine, Lost Coast Review, Rattle, Ray’s Road Review, own. Sanskrit, Spillway, Tar River Poetry, Sugar House Review, and other nice places. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Anthony Lopez is a cartoonist and illustrator. He loves drawing characters and making up adventure stories. His dream to create michaeljmark.com. an animated series based on his characters Duckface and Ula. He Mike James lives and works in Chapel Hill, NC. The most recent enjoys to drum and beatbox in his free time. of his seven poetry collections are Elegy in Reverse (Aldrich Press, 2014) and Past Due Notices: Poems 1991-2011 (Main Street Rag, Caroline Kerrigan is currently a student at UNCC working crazy 2012). A new collection, The Year We Let The House Fall Down, will hard to complete her BFA in Illustration. She enjoys ice cream, be published later this year by Aldrich Press. Currently, he serves as donuts, as well as art. an associate editor for The Kentucky Review. Cindy Bonilla moved to North Carolina in 2000, and since has

Art Biographies

Nicole Jean Turner is an artist of many mediums living in the fallen in love with the country air and its southern hospitality. In Greater Boston area, supporting her love for poetry and art through website building and freelance writing. Turner graduated with her master’s degree in Writing at 21 years old and expects to pay off her student loans by age 87. More at NicoleJeanTurner.com.

Roger Soffer has written, and sometimes produced, miniseries and feature films for networks and studios, and is currently doing three bilingual animated features for China. His poetry has been Pushcart Prize-nominated and is featured or forthcoming in many journals, and appears in a new anthology, Beyond The Lyric Moment.

the summer of 2008, Cindy was inspired to pick up a camera and capture everyday moments, everyday people from sunrise to sunset. December of 2013, Cindy received her B.F.A in Photography, at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Since her graduation, she has been freelancing as a photographer assistant and a photo editor. Her photographs have consisted of the figure in experimental means and self portraiture. Cindy’s photographs open the opportunity for the exploration of our own world that holds our passions, desires and fears. Dan Nguyen is an Illustration student at UNCC, slowly climbing

Thank You his way out of obscurity. He can be the best or the worst artist growing up in Okinawa, Japan, Hawaii, and North Carolina. She depending on the state of his ego. In his free time he likes to continues to explore the combination of geometric forms, organic forms, textures, and the artistic process. In the future LaDara wants procrastinate. to obtain a MFA in Sculpture and collaborate with other artists. Danny Lizano is a senior at UNCC, and will be graduating in December 2015 with a BFA in Graphic Design. He also has an Meghan Clemm was born and raised in a small New Jersey Town, interest in photography and enjoys creating narratives, which are where she developed a passion for fine art. She is currently a junior at UNC Charlotte pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in both integrated in his photographic and design work. Painting and Illustration. Inspired by memories and observations Heather Lampkins is a multi-media illustrator from Charlotte, of everyday surroundings, Meghan’s work depicts these elements North Carolina who has staked her claim at UNCC. She utilizes in abstract, dramatic compositions. This young artist is eager to the figure in her work and incorporates the absurd and bizarre into experiment with different media and concepts, making each piece her subject matter. a process of discovery. Jayne Dinh is a student doubling majoring in Japanese and Art with a Digital Media concentration at University at North Carolina at Charlotte. Born and raised in Mint Hill, North Carolina, they are an aspiring animator and storyboard artist. As a hobby they enjoy going outside to take pictures of bugs. Big or small Jayne will capture that bug, not in a net, but with their camera! LaDara Mckinnon is currently attending UNC Charlotte pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts with minors in Psychology and Women and Gender studies. She has earned two Associate Degrees in Art and Education. LaDara enjoys working with all materials such as watercolor, metal, and Indian ink. She is inspired by her experiences

Sarah Kinney [see staff bio page] Victoria Byers is a senior pursuing a Bachelors of Fine Arts in Photography, a minor in Art History, and a second major in Spanish. She has experience in commercial, documentary, and fine art photography. Her current bodies of work range from a series documenting Hispanic immigrants living in small-town North Carolina, Fantasy narratives that combine both fibers and installation practices with digital photography, and experimental and innovative alternative photography practices using Ware’s Cyanotype and Wet Plate Collodion.

Contributors: Thank you for choosing us to showcase your amazing work. Without you, this book would not be possible. Wayne Maikranz: Thank you for all of the work you put in to support us, and the helpful advice you have given us along the way. Mark Haire: Thank you for your patience in answering our constant stream of questions and for always having such a positive attitude. Megan Van Emmerik: Thank you always having your door open and offering us your design expertise. Kelly Merges: Thank you for your help with circulation and for encouraging us to showcase Sanskrit to the world. Art and Literature Jury: Thank you for dedicating your time to help us pick the very best work to feature in Sanskrit. Laurie Cuddy: Thank you for being a wonderful Business Manager and an important part of Student Niner Media. Graphic Impressions: Thank you for taking our idea and turning it into a reality. Without your team, there would be no printed version of the magazine. Jeff Allio: Thank you for being patient with us while we worked out all the kinks for this year’s issue. Your dedication to Sanskrit is much appreciated. Student Union Art Gallery: Thank you for coordinating with us to display this year’s artwork and creating an amazing exhibit. Janitors of the Student Union: Thank you for always keeping the office clean and pristine. Students of UNC Charlotte, SAFC, and Readers: Thank you for all of your support and interest in our work. We hope you enjoyed this issue! Family, Friends, and Loved Ones: Thank you for being there to support our hard work and encouraging us to follow our passions. We love you! To all of our incredible and dedicated staff members and volunteers, thank you! We have all worked very hard to put forth another beautifully made publication of Sanskrit. We have come a long way from our initial literature read-throughs and our calls for submissions. We should all be proud. Congratulations on an awesome job well done!

Colophon Copyright 2016 Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine and the Student Media Board of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form electronic, mechanic, photocoping, recording or otherwise, without the permission of the copy holder. Graphic Impressions, Charlotte, NC 3500 copies for Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine were printed on 80# Endurance Book with 100# Linen Cover. This magazine contains 80w pages, with a trim size of 8.5”x11”. Typography Garamond, Gudea, Orange Kid, Alex Brush, Fake Receipt, Grutch Shaded, , Costura, Henr yMorganHand, League Script Thin, Copystruct, Lilliput Steps, Primer Apples, Science Fair Light, Science Fair Italic, Capture It, , Cuomotype, Radioland, HVD Bodedo, Scratch My Back, Sailww

Rechtman

Tangerine

Appropriated iMac computers Adobe Creative Suite 6.0 pixelartmaker.com Microsoft Office Credits Cover Design: Sarah Kinney Type setting: Sarah Kinney and Linnea Stoops Page Illustration: Sarah Kinney Layout: Sarah Kinney and Linnea Stoops Copy Edit: Leah Chapman, Lenny Fortunato, Tierra Holmes, Sierra Beeler Submission Guidelines Please visit sanskritmagazine.com to view past issues, access submission forms, or view general requirements.