montage arts journal
2022-2023 issue
2022-2023
Executive Board Editor-in-Chief Assitant Editor Associate Editor Creative Director Secretary Treasurer Membership Director Social Chair
Madeline Blair Victoria Ligas Eman Zwawi Sarah Zhao Maiah Cabral Lily Dokhanchi Tessza Vitalis-Grant Danielle Braun
Editorial Assistants Gianna Conidi Lune Hallam Yasmina Kacila Safia Khan Marilyn MacLaren Aaron Mukhopadhyay Pavel Paunov Isabel Pellum Camryn Reschke Olivia Streitmatter Jinghan Sun Violet Wright
Cover Art: “Super Natural” by Tamar Dallal
Published by the students of the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign ©2023 Montage Arts Journal
Letter from the Editor This is an issue that shows where we came from, who we are, and where we’re going—a collection of meditations on growing up, growing into ourselves, familial and romantic relationships, finding a sense of place and belonging, and above all else, self-love. It is with great admiration that I put forth this year’s issue of Montage Arts Journal, which received an astounding amount of submissions and selections this year across campus from students of all different colleges, majors, backgrounds, and experience levels. I am humbled and honored to share such profound and beautiful work with you, and for all that we received throughout our submission period. I give my biggest thanks to both my fellow editors and our campuswide writers and artists who contributed to this journal, without whom a publication does not exist. I would also like to thank the faculty members of the Department of English, with whom it has been a delight connecting with and learning from, and the staff of the Literatures and Languages Library who collaborated with us to create a wonderful ekphrastic works challenge for a piece in the journal. I would like to thank you as well, dear reader, for your everlasting support of this journal and your interest in student creative work. Montage has a glowing future that you are now a part of! As a graduating senior having majored in creative writing myself, working with Montage has been such a creatively-fulfilling joy, and I’m truly grateful to be leaving behind a wonderful, meaningful mark on this university with the cotninued publication of this journal. Professors and faculty likely know me best as Madeline Udelhofen, but adopting a family-member-with-a-cool-life-story’s surname to become known as Madeline Blair for creative purposes has been a fun (albeit sometimes confusing) part of my “legacy” during my time here, and I’m glad to have had Montage as a part of that journey! I am so excited for what’s to come and forever grateful for all who have made my time with this publication and here at the university something to always cherish. In perpetuity,
Madeline Blair
Contents PIPER PASCARELLA | madam cupid..............................................................
5
ALINA JANKOWIAK | can’t stop loving you.................................................. ALIYAH PHILIP | before she was a mother.....................................................
6 7
AKIRA RITOS | Balete Tree............................................................................ AKIRA RITOS | elegy for shame..................................................................... AKIRA RITOS | Self-Portrait as Batok............................................................
8 9 10
AMELIA BRADY | when i took so much advice.............................................AK 11 AMELIA BRADY | the great show.................................................................. 12 AMELIA BRADY | separation is not an option............................................... 14 CATHERINE ZHAO | Cheese Planet..............................................................
15
ANDREW PROVOST | The Cautionary Tale of Larten S. Quail..................... ANDREW PROVOST | Hope is A Popsicle in Hell.........................................
16 18
GENEVIEVE CHRISTON | The Weight of a Diagnosis.................................. GENEVIEVE CHRISTON | I Also Admit....................................................... GENEVIEVE CHRISTON | Shopping Together...............................................
19 20 21
AVA DELARIMAN | Fourteen........................................................................ AVA DELARIMAN | Bunny............................................................................
22 23
GENESIS JARA | Mudflow..............................................................................
24
JIHO PARK | when rain runs beneath your skin.............................................. Recess(ion) of 2008...................................................................
25 27
KEIRA SULLIVAN | Salt Grasp....................................................................... KEIRA SULLIVAN | Doe Dreary..................................................................... KEIRA SULLIVAN | Eczema Blues..................................................................
28 29 30
TAMAR DALLAL | December Walking.......................................................... TAMAR DALLAL | Letter to My Grandfather................................................
31 32
ELYSIA GOODSON | Photography Collection...............................................
33
DANIEL MENGES | Bedrooms.......................................................................
34
RACHEL PERKINS | Fallout..........................................................................
36
SHRESTA BANGARU | Clementines.............................................................. SHRESTA BANGARU | Mother......................................................................
37 38
ABBY MASUCOL | What Bee Does Not Believe............................................. ABBY MASUCOL | Tiwala............................................................................. ABBY MASUCOL | Grandfather Elegy...........................................................
39 40 41
PERCY MOSER | Sycamore Trees...................................................................
42
JULIA SAN MIGUEL | Scorcher...................................................................... JULIA SAN MIGUEL | Santa Monica.............................................................
43 44
MELISSA HERNANDEZ | Photography Collection.......................................
45
MEGANA ADIGAL | Generational Trauma.................................................... MEGANA ADIGAL | What Glitters is Not Gold............................................ MEGANA ADIGAL | Halebidu......................................................................
46 47 50
MELISSA GUTIERREZ | Ya No Quiere el Pelo Lacio.....................................
51
LEO FLOOD | If Body, Then Body................................................................. LEO FLOOD | reCAPTCHA for Queer Joy....................................................
52 54
Piper Pascarella
madam cupid I am a statue of limestone: my scraps whittled away, shared, indulged; my body curtainedin fabric, rolls of my stomach fat pinching the sheaths of my belly button, ogling through the soakend stone sculpture pierced by my undraped nipples. I am the seams of a textile, each fiber lined by the grooves of a tiger stripe, each dimple sewn by the stabbing of a silver needle. A ball gown, scored by the sheet music of romanticism. I am a skeleton clothed in a ruby dress emerging from the shadows of a stained-glass window. Bathed by a river of wine, blessing a field of blooming evergreen shrubs, I am a canal of rose petals and candlelight. I am love, I am lust, I soar like a dove wearing the wings of a phoenix, my jaw blooming like flower petals, biting with the venom of a black mamba, the Moon and her phases blazing through my ribcage. I am my own domain: the center of the universe, the big bang, each freckle a star that lights up the night sky, each pore a galaxy. I am my own religious belief, my own atheism, a divine sultry energy that brews in femininity. I am witchcraft, I am incantation, a potion fermented to honeycomb and rainwater. A deity with a pointed bow, aimed to pierce directly through the eye of a wretched beholder. I am the river of blood, the split in your iris, your flailing arms and blind grasp on the shaft of my drunken arrow, honey dripping on your tongue that wouldn’t dare to say the word, “vagina.” Jupiter, forgive me for my blinding archery, for my delivery of the darkness in futile vacancy, of the world full of silence I’ve bestowed upon the recipient. But who is he to gaze upon my orbit? When the nature he fears is the only delicacy he craves.
Montage | 5
Alina Jankowiak
can’t stop loving you you’re easier to love when you’re younger, i think running through your kitchen ripping leaves off of your mother’s plant jumping into your father’s arms while he plays his favorite rock songs your hair curled right near your ears, your eyes not able to reach over the surface of your dining room table you’re still the same person, but you grow older you watch your mother’s plant grow longer and longer, year after year, until it wraps around your kitchen twice you listen to your dad’s favorite rock songs alone your hair is longer now, and you’re tall enough to see that the dining room table is covered in a mess of your parent’s belongings you look at the home video compilations that your dad made over ten years ago and pictures that your mom has stored in her room they wouldn’t keep the videos and pictures if they didn’t love you, right? the young girl in the videos and pictures has the same dimples that you see in the mirror every morning i’m still the same person sometimes i don’t think they remember that, though
6 | Montage
before she was a mother
Montage | 7
Akira Ritos
Balete Tree Ancestors, are you still desperate for a drop of memory? Our root rot is festering. Trunks pinched, cushion-like. Folklore carvings half-covered. Smooth. Leaves dusted in resin and black powder. Swollen bark peels steadily under sunlight. History of death follows like a gnat.
8 | Montage
elegy for shame i press my lips into a line. smooth my hands in the curve of my love’s spine, dotting where my mouth has been. marking the places i wish to sleep. in her, on her, whispers sink into our bodies and make wax melt. her lips get rid of the ghost in my teeth. she has asked me again where shall it lay when gone? as if it was welcome in our silk bed for a fine death. i clutch her hands, utter it does not matter, that body will not take you from me and between her thighs i spill the obituary. our laughter tangy. sour. hallowed kisses preparing to attend an awaited funeral reception. we hold hands, unwilling to resurrect the dead.
Montage | 9
Self-Portrait as Batok Tracing my cellulite with Sharpie. Pressing lips to a mirror in hopes I will stick. I’m tired of being tired. One morning, inay pulls up my sleeves. She finds a hand-poked painting of her crying. Says my child is a gangster who will never amount to anything. My wallet says otherwise. I meet a Malay man who can say maganda better than I, who shows off his lobster-scorpion tattoo with pride. My white friend says why can’t your parents be cool like that? Somehow, I would like to think they tried. Itay wanted a Jesus tattoo until I stopped attending church. Inay says my legs look pretty naturally, so I inked a two-headed cow on my leg like every other poet. I am reminded tattoos are permanent, but our traditions are not. The last batok artist of the Philippines lives in the mountains. She is almost unreachable. Barely alive.
10 | Montage
Amelia Brady
when i took so much advice when i took so much advice that it began to swarm around me like so many flies and my insides swelled against my outsides unpleasantly, i decided to walk the avenues until they became streets and the streets until they became roads and highways, and i smelled the sun cream burning off my skin in hot sunshine, mellowing with noontime fennel, heather, dandelion, and my walk became a jog became a run became a sprint, as i chased after passing vehicles and smiled ever-madly with inhalations of always-unknown origins. i, taking in all contents of air, ran and ran and ran and ran and ran! see me, running off my soot and fumes and liking my sweat! and when i kissed the side of one restless byway in short shorts and shorter tempers, i smiled that bittering smile at the passersby, occasionally let withering scorn pass from me by the face of God. and at lakes and rivers, under cover of tree, over a bed of chopped grass— there i passed the fairy threshold, and secreted myself part-by-part into unseen holes, and no one can prove me otherwise
Montage | 11
the great show what great show this time to earn your company, oh man of letters and hair of girls? i gaze like a child up into the trees as you ask me whether they seem bigger or not and assess my state. and i can barely believe you would ever think me capable of remembering this occasion so many months away in this once-it-was-future, but i do, my teacher boy, i do. as i remember that cheese-and-bread dinner together and the two-toned hums— (here: bottom-belly bass notes and shrieking head trebles of sating, sating grub and pin-prick-ly funny coffee mixing, mixing, mixing.) (the two-tone hums were only within me audible, so i do not expect you to remember. i am not altogether open to you for inspection. i have autonomy in internality, in secrets.) oh, and your distaste for certain too-charged words and remember our quiet words in the car and my desperate, quavering, ear-aching, clawing attempts at getting you? ah, the grasping-of-hands at every word! the feeling of cold, cold water electric-shocking me holy as holy, 12 | Montage
as i try, bleating, to collect it in the bowl of my palm and fingers: epistemologies! thank you for teaching me a new word. buzzed-enchanted, how i am, oh wasted holy man, by your secret knowledges and secret names, and i wish i could remember your lessons like i remember your lips.
Montage | 13
separation is not a option separation is not an option as we smile, cutting desperate, neat incisions into our arms and pressing the blood against each other, letting it mingle while our toes tap and our necks ache to writhe around once more like free-est snakes. i might whistle or scream or sing or chatter like a bird during the procedure, see the corners of my mouth cant up painfully at the introduction of a stimulus, and i might picture my own personal image of God. i shudder at the thought of what the other one might be thinking. i cajole and coo and tut tut tut like the ghost host of some dour schoolmarm, and i hope that contempt will save me from frothing hot bubbles of soapy hatred. i grimace like an ape and wriggle in the clean high. the shame i tied up in the back closet and the ice pill scream of face-aching disgust cleans me for now.
14 | Montage
Catherine Zhao
Cheese Planet
Montage | 15
Andrew Provost
The Cautionary Tale of Larten S. Quail I know not of what you speak, Though I sit here, my tongue held within my cheek. This turmoil you hold: has it no end? I see no solution in continuing this folly. Your mind is scrambled and tangled in mortal melancholy. Have you no sense? Do you bed down in a house of cardboard tents? Your sanity is slipping, The flesh you hold, frail and pale. Soon you’ll go the way of the doornail. To what end do these ramblings lead, For love can not be found at the end of refrain, Nor in the prophet of unceasing pain... It’s not worth having. Why bother with the trouble? Why stain yourself when it bubbles? Why... Why do you go on like so? Speaking poorly of Michaelangelo. The fault is no one but your own, Your heart is for you to give and break. So, should we all suffer at the end of your mistake? If the clock stopped ticking, Would it too be the fault of coffee spoons? Or perhaps the fault of the waxing moon? You no longer know. You knew love once, As did we all But it was inevitable to end Like leaves dying in the fall. I knew love once; it was a mistake. Vulnerability warped my mind, So that the pain hurt thrice in kind. I fell as hard as one could into the trap;
16 | Montage
My heart lay, still beating, in my lap. It was taken and prodded In all the right places. Soon I recalled no other faces “Till the end,” she said. Our endings were different, yet Her heart moved on, while mine still wept. Months on end, I’d beg for reprieve, For I tired of my heart being worn on my sleeve. None was found. I no longer look for love, Nor should you. My advice is to move on, too; Nothing will hurt more than to be broken, So avoid the Inferno’s temptations, Find solace in your isolation. Enjoy the toast and tea. And I ask that you please stop speaking of the sea and sky, So I can find peace, by and by.
Montage | 17
Hope is A Popsicle in Hell Hope is A Popsicle in Hell Sticking to My Conscience Coldly Pleasant - but Quick Salvation cannot Be Constant Those with Rain love The Sun And the Ones with faith Love jesus Yet - they only Know water and Wine The Former is the one that Freezes
18 | Montage
Genevieve Christon
The Weight of a Diagnosis It feels heavy to move away from the morning as if the world
sits on a cinder block pressed against my ribcage and people walk over me
burdensome to shower curtainless wishing to sink into the drain
to rehearse a smile half-hearted cheering from the audience inside me
to curse the body the black marmalade in the throat to curse
electric veins like a stripped red wire see the spark in me
burn a fire in need more kindling the people I loved douse me
allow me
the fucking permission for a bipolar body to finally feel something
Montage | 19
I Also Admit I came home to my roommate selling her Adderall from our front door. I watch this the way I was taught, like my mother—nails digging into their soft beds, speaking only through blinks—the amber bottle full, shook for inspection, and the loose pills chattered in their cage. They saw me staring, impolite, and sent me to my room. *** Then I go to work, tired, in blue scrubs and two pairs of gloves. Grab the bottles from the shelf. Count them. Sniff them. Rub the crumby powder down my thigh, because I’m afraid to lick my fingers clean. My red marker is dry as I circle the warning Do not waste. This is what I know: though I fear the drugs we keep locked in a safe, I smile, trained, politely, like a lady, as I hand them to someone else. *** The first time I sold her prescription, it was a favor, for a cut. This is what I do every day, backwards: rip the label, erase someone else’s warning circle, unseal the lid, taste the product in the passenger seat of my customer’s car. She, my roommate, tells me that I did well, the job was done. I go to my bedroom and crawl in my closet. Under pitch darkness, I cradle my knees to my chin, wrap arms around legs, hide from myself. Who the hell am I?
20 | Montage
Shopping Together In the cart is a pound of ground beef to mix with a Velveeta family dinner. This and a green bag of sour cream chips are pushed forward and sideways. Somehow, we’re quiet, tucked between the syrup and dried goods as I sew my fingers through the metal holes, steadying the cart with front wheels that drag across the floor, screaming. Despite the investigative glances from the shoppers who surround us, my roommate wastes no time to hurdle inside, mashing the cold meat under her thigh. This is our tradition: weekly Saturday shopping, swapping who sits and who pushes. Together, we have enough money for two meals. Together, we stuff gummy bears down our bras. I push us to the door, unbothered by the shoppers’ courtesy we’ve broken because we’ll go home together, hungry for nothing.
Montage | 21
Ava Delariman
Fourteen There’s a teddy bear that perches on my pillow. I dress her in ribbons and lace. Salt spray to sea violets, I will bloom, beautifully, from his sting. The bow she was born with held a stain. I bury it under bandaids and baby clothes. She plays in pink satin, now. He callouses my palm and blisters peach-bruised skin. He likes me best in blue. She sleeps, smothered, under the arm that has raised her. Pearl white fur is tangled, tainted. I will forgive him in the morning.
22 | Montage
Bunny I carry him with me in wounds woven into the fabric of my skin. He paints that white bunny skin and bunny bony neck beautiful winter blue. Then his kisses turn quiet and whisper the welcome of spring green blooms. His name (my name) is the raging red that floods the whites of my baby bunny doe-eyes. He tells me he loves his bunny in all her colors. He paints me blue but polishes me pink (he knows I love pink) and binds bunny bones in white. He loves his bunny in all her colors.
Montage | 23
Genesis Jara
Mudflow Leaves leave imprints on concrete, fossilized answers to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Kids turned adults at eighteen, primed to put pay above pleasure. Intern paleontologists told to put bones wrongly back together and say, “Yeah, this is my passion.” Chase a doctorate when you can’t order a daiquiri because my dad won’t look at me until I’ve got my third degree. The triassic cuddle, me and my first dream.
24 | Montage
Jiho Park
when rain runs beneath your skin they don’t talk about how hard it is to choose happiness: when i was young, i ate a watermelon expecting crisp sweetness. instead, i bit a bitter seed. i basked in the summer rain, the brittle beads dripped like iced bingsu in the midday heat. i raised my arms, and stomped, slipped, slid in the mud. my mother sighed when i returned with crusty jeans; my footprints marking the floor as my own. i remember the past like i squint at a line in the horizon, as if it’s this far away thing i can’t touch. it isn’t my (ever)present. i eat up kisses expecting honeysuckles. instead, i bite back uncertainty. how cruel it is to call life, love. i hold my open heart with soiled hands when i prioritize myself last. Montage | 25
to stay still when i should swim, my dreams drown in credit stability. never mind the footprints. i just want to survive. a person is beaten by the rain. but i turn a blind eye, too busy with my outlook calendar in the hopes that i will achieve— the rage under my skin simmers, unworn decisions pile in my laundry basket. i feel drained, the moments that matter dissipate when it should boil over. i’m afraid of this self-agency: it is unmarked territory, like the greater universe we try to colonize to find— so what’s the right way to see rain? they don’t talk about how hard it is to choose happiness.
26 | Montage
Recess(ion) in 2008 Her back was to her playing children. She kept them close behind, faith limp inside her, wishing she could tear down the glass ceiling. She was hurt: her skin bare and her cry soft, like weathered gravel; there was a slug down her throat, glut of trickle down economics. She landed on her knees like no mother should. For a moment, the world was too quiet. The ground beneath her flew into the open air. Banks classed her with checks and balances, but chains are free, so they wound her like paper. The gilded age swung past the little people, depositing their green in dirt. The teller’s bell hushed her hollowed howl. ~ The school bell’s hollowed howl hushed her. The green grass grew over the deposited dirt. Little people glided on swings, imitating paper in the wind, free of chains, of their classroom’s checks and balances. She flew from the ground and into the open air, and the world was quiet for a moment. She landed on her knees like her tired mother: scrapes bleeding, trickling down sluggishly. Her cry started softly, gravel in her throat and bare skin; she was hurt, and the tears fell down like glass. She rose up again, faith close behind her back, limping towards the playing children.
Montage | 27
Keira Sullivan
Salt Grasp I waited for her At the edge of the dock Rotten wood scratching at my thighs Toes just caressing the surface of roiling green I tried to ignore the once stretching shores But I couldn’t forget where the sand had been Her shape appeared from the depths A shadow of a fin here, the dulled shine of a scale there A smile fought onto my features The tears clawed into my eyes She knew my devotion and agony Even before she broke the surface In one motion, one gasp of filthy air She dragged me under, salt-crusted skin gripping smooth I saw her in the scattered fish, the drifting algae Where the pale sky wrapped and shadowed I relished the burn of my lungs, my eyes If I could just give myself over Would blood remove the debris That clung and choked her countless forms? But her grin consumed my vision Her shine took the last of my breath away And when she snaked her leg around mine Holding me close to close the distance I welcomed the air she breathed into my lips The love she poured into my open soul
28 | Montage
Doe Dreary the fluorescent lights flickered, questioning, as we clasped our hands together a death grip a final hold when we go can you tell us we didn’t fuck up their eyes carve into our flesh and our bones snap to the timeline they discover how our cold souls wound up on the slab silent under the humming lights
Montage | 29
Eczema Blues Winter haunted her It ached the whole town Seasons weren’t themselves, just spaces closer to or farther from the freeze Dry snapping of bones and branches under the weight of snow How can you cherish the thaw when its melt is made of the cold?
30 | Montage
Tamar Dallal
December Walking Hurrying toward the pond, I step into golden hour. Sun to my left, moon to my right, about-face. Pause. The pinching coil behind my ribs starts to melt. Vermillion velvet eyelids illuminated, blinding. I hear footsteps in the empty December air and look through rainbow refractions At the stranger scuffing past, meeting my eyes, giving me a small smile. I walk on; I look, I touch, Somehow, the asters are still blooming, violently purple and dying, Grasses gone to seed, feathery prickles on my fingers, curling into themselves. The deer frozen in bronze has nowhere to hide, All her goldenrod faded into the sky, the ground. I pass running water, outpacing frost creeping toward it in the evening shadows, The wind is threatening ice, carving tear tracks down my cheeks. I turn from it; in the distance, the fading light taps against my window, Promising, tempting, beckoning. The hour has ended; Away I hurry, home.
Montage | 31
Letter to My Grandfather Dear Saba, We haven’t met, Not as I am. You may remember a quiet little girl With short hair and gray eyes, Getting off the bus at the corner and walking to your house. You greeted her with a lollipop and a hug, A smile and a snack. That little girl didn’t know what to do with your big, round belly, Leaning over your red fleece quarter-zip for the pre-lollipop hug, Trying not to get her toes stuck under the wheels of the rolling kitchen chair. She did her homework at the table, Watching you write and laugh with your thick hands and thicker accent. She didn’t understand you, most of the time or at all. You loved this quiet American girl, But if only she could tell you that she will go home, To the place where the same desert winds that tumbled past your face Circle back to hers as if they remembered what you felt like; If only she could tell you that she will speak your language, Today, and yesterday, and the day before; If only she could have more time to speak with you Because now it’s too late. You and I haven’t met, But she would want you to meet the love in her life, The one who wished he could have met you And brought tears to her eyes. Saba, It’s too late. Your shy granddaughter who didn’t understand the coughing and hospital visits, The one who broke her purple crayon in the side room of the funeral home and cried, She’s all grown up now. And all she wants is to sit with you at your kitchen table, Listening to your story, Hoping for a fleece-lined hug at the end, Cherishing a new beginning. 32 | Montage
Elysia Goodson
Photography Collection
Montage | 33
Daniel Menges
Bedrooms There is a young son outstretched on his bed, crackling earbuds, The Wall. His gaze pixelated, paralysis produced. All in the name of necessity. The rodent is fevered on the wheel. While the son remains numb, the rodent is on the run. Striding, struggling, contracting, working, working, working. There is no goal, no achievement being sought, just what to do with the upcoming beam. Each day, the rodent becomes stronger, faster and more agile. His spirit is exhausted, but he does not rest. He pleads with himself to stop, outstretch. He never does; the wheel he is on is far better than the one he is not. The father of the son grovels up the stairs. Leather hitting shallow wood bludgeons The Wall. Now, it is the son who runs like hell. In one leap, he swaps bottles, bags, and his Bic, for his bookbag and Bics. 34 | Montage
BOOM! The door opens. The father of the son in the flesh. Cigarette in his right hand, belt in his left. The rodent fakes sleep. When the leather hit wood, he immediately finds the backside of the cage. Opposite of where the father’s discarded, two-day-old Lucky Strikes lay. The mixture of tobacco, tar, hair, and skin, fumigates his home. The father looks at his paralyzed son. They have the same eyes, only the whites of his fear, and black of continuity. Tonight, this son will get a break, the rodent will sleep. The father of the son exits the room. His cigarette is half gone and his Carhartt’s stay unsupported, as they always have. While this son can rest, there are five bedrooms in this house.
Montage | 35
Rachel Perkins
Fallout when the tornado swept through town, i was the house that collapsed. the fallen wooden walls sliced by shards of broken glass, scraps of a portrait that once hung in the room your eyes walked to when your feet step inside. i am now the rubble which coats the soles of your shoes. the ashes you collect, clutch and cry into, lets dirty your socks since i am the cremation of this hallowed home. soon you’ll grab a broom, i will go in the pan and there will be a new house for you to inhabit with a new family portrait, no rubble to clean and nothing to lack
36 | Montage
Shresta Bangaru
Clementines There are a few too many clementines in a crate in the kitchen. I ask you to join me out on the porch as I peel one and place half before you. I’m not sure if you like citrus, But you shouldn’t refuse. My heart is too tender. Sweet scent fills the air around us, And we eat. You, lost in a daze, And I, mesmerized by the fruit’s white strings, Arranged like delicate veins, Like yours. Life imitates fruit, I guess. I’m done first, So I peel another for us to split, And place half in front of you. An invitation for you to taste the same thing as I am, In the same moment, While we soak in the last of the setting sun. The peel lies by our feet, Deep orange like the sky. Silence fills the air. No, not silence. The sound of chewing, punctuated by the chirp of crickets. I think about peeling another, but I stop myself. There are 14 left, Which is another week of evenings spent on the porch like this.
Montage | 37
Mother Hidden somewhere in your smile, In the wrinkles by your lips, Is a silence so still That I struggle to understand. Amidst the waves in your hair Are unspoken regrets that have weaved their way into my braids As if they were my own. A graceful sparkle in your eyes, Much more delicate than mine. You look into my eyes and see the ambition you once had. I look into yours and see the emptiness your dreams left behind. Your hands are dry and cracked with the weight of your burdens, While mine are soft and young, Having yet to pray that our stories are not the same. Memories you made appear in my nightmares with a twinge of hope. Words you have written come to life in an alternate reality within my grasp, Just distant enough to leave me longing for a different fate. But maybe it means something That I draw flowers in the margins of all my pages, Like you did in every notebook of yours. The way I sigh like you when I make a mistake, How I’ve somehow fallen in love with planting basil and tomatoes, Just as you did. That I make chamomile tea in the mornings Like you do before bed. If this is how it must be, Then it is my honor, And my greatest shame, To have become your reflection in the wretched mirror that is time.
38 | Montage
Abby Masucol
What Bee Does Not Believe after Susan Nguyen’s ‘What Suzi Believes’ distance / makes the heart grow / fonder / mother says / to pray / as if God were listening / there is no God / just like / there is no finding / lost things / the mirror / lies / distorts her features / her phone camera / makes the sunset / pretty / enough filters / will make her / pretty / dieting never worked / maybe surgery / if she can afford it / 12-3-30 / burn the fat away / or pray to a god / who never listens / her white boyfriend / says she does not need / to shave / she is already beautiful / but dark shadows are ugly / comparison / is ugly / she finds a clip / behind her childhood bed / pins her hair up / just how mother likes it / her face hides / under wayward strands / worse than dying is believing
Montage | 39
Tiwala trans. Faith Pagmamahal is steaming nilaga stew for dinner. It is sweeping the floors clean when the kids are away at school. It is also spending nine months at sea to send enough money back home. That is what Lolo did in his youth. Before his time away, Lola always told him, bumalik sa akin. It was a promise to return home. For the children. For Lolo and Lola’s devotion to each other. For their marriage under God. Pagsasakit is another word for devotion, but it also means to hurt. Did Lola hurt when Lolo returned one day and his kiss lingered a little less? When one cigarette turned into two, three, before bed every night? When he stared out the kitchen window, twisting his ring over and over on his finger until it almost slipped off? Did she feel her heart break when pangga, her love, once sweet as mango from his lips, turned bitter as ampalaya? Lolo confessed he met some Swedish woman on a previous voyage. Lola said sige, at least you came back to me. She kept sweeping and cooking while he kept leaving. Three years later, the same woman showed Lolo a picture of a mestizo baby. He had Lolo’s nose. Lola could only sigh and say, ibalik mo siya. Bring him home.
40 | Montage
Grandfather Elegy Lolo used to drive me to ballet when I was little. I was all frilly then, him a quiet storm. I imagine my tiny legs hitting against the car seat. An even tinier voice tumbles away from my lips, too big for my body. Lolo looks sideways then forward again. As I squirm, he murmurs a low hum: his recognition of hearing me. I gather his picture in my head through stills: me bundled in a purple coat and mittens, him swathed in a navy blue jacket. He always wore a baseball cap, too. He stooped low to rest his cheeks against mine. In pictures, he never smiled. But his mouth turned upward, crooked to the left, whenever I pulled on the hem of his sleeve. Dad said that Lolo’s youth was spent as a seafarer. He lugged cargo onto ships, then drove cabs around Novaliches. He taught Dad how to drive and my titas to play the piano. I don’t think Lolo ever said “I love you.” But when he laughed, it was a rumbling thunder. He stood with hands behind his back, slouching, an invisible presence in the room. His short, sturdy frame withered near the end like a dying Narra tree. Mom took care of Lolo while I watched his skin turn gray from the doorway. I didn’t hear him pass in the night. Mom still dreams about him, sometimes. All I have left are stories.
Montage | 41
Percy Moser
Sycamore Trees Sycamore’s soaring skyward, Sion set, Entrenched in waves sailing four-ninety seas, Unknown is the blunder of the sea’s net By which sweet figs birth cursed sprigs, beginning new deadly debt. The fruit’s virtues decay to perdition, Life’s will sapped by time, left to be debris. Without her the sprigs are left unchristened, No Christ to mark them, Virgil’s blessed barque numb: new Actaeon, Whose guiltless death mirrors the flowerless, leaving souls coloured noir, Yet the ground sea sails on, and ever higher the sycamores soar.
42 | Montage
Julia San Miguel
Scorcher The humidity looks good on you, you know. Miles of wet cloud stick to your skin, make it bloom. Your hair! I know, I know, your hair. Hate how it sticks out, see how far that gets you. Sweat encumbers, binds. You’ll yank up your sleeves, burning. Let me kiss your temple, little-loved place. Relax. I see your reflection in the pond, I see Aphrodite.
Montage | 43
Santa Monica One day I’ll stand on the Santa Monica beach, and I’ll look out at everything that has yet to be. See how that grand tapestry called life unfolds between the waves, over them, under them, shot straight through ‘em. Hear that symphony now, can you feel that great crescendo? It is coming, and it will be simple and good. All that might be lies out in front of you, a big cat stretching its limbs. It is to this place I return often, to stare into the crystal ball. I will count time as a matter of futures— people unmet, possibilities unlived, connections unmade, yet to be broken or maybe yet to endure. Time is looking forward: you will go to Santa Monica and not look back.
44 | Montage
Melissa Hernandez
Photography Collection
Montage | 45
Megana Adigal
Generational Trauma Remember when the kids were young in the village? Life Was filled with notions of freshly prepared temple Food and bells ringing amid the perfumed smoke floating Up in the sky. A hope that would reach God through Pooja And make the meals plentiful, so they wouldn’t have to Cut the toothpaste tubes open to get every last drop. Dreams are evaporating thoughts & the kids are crying again. Remember when the kids grew up? They got married young, with the flower Garlands and embroidered saris. Got jobs working for white men In foreign countries, so their kids wouldn’t have to sleep all in one room Like they did. Had kids young, paid the price of youth— And the kids of the kids better be perfect, grateful, for their parents’ Blood, sweat, and tears: they stay Indian, date Indian, date straight, Straight-A grades, a good major, good job, good money for retirement. Dreams are evaporating thoughts & the kids are crying again. Remember when the kids learned to lie? To their parents, their children, Themselves. A fulfilling life isn’t necessarily a happy one. They told themselves the dream was that promotion, Successful kids, a good image. But somewhere amid all the smoke and temple gongs, They once were dreaming of a beautiful future. Dreams are evaporating thoughts & the kids are crying again.
46 | Montage
What Glitters is Not Gold In second grade our class was divided into Pilgrims and “Indians” To demonstrate a critical part of American history, A supposed collaboration between People of different backgrounds. Classmates Asked me if my ancestors Ate turkey with the British. How to explain Indian versus American Indian: Both Terrorized by Anglo-Saxons, Pushed into indentured servitude, Had precious resources stolen. India still Reels from the loss of one trillion worth of jewels, gold, and spices. My family is preparing for my sister’s Namakarna. Despite her already being named, the ceremony is sacred In our Hindu tradition. My dodda’s pure gold jewelry Chimes with her steps. Bells and chanting ring through Her stone house, priests and visitors bestowing good blessings On our family. My auntie Usha Bends over and tries to put lipstick on me, saying I’d look like A little doll. My mother says no, I’m too young for makeup. How to make up After a fight: Hugs, verbal apologies, Telling them how much love There is for them. Are fights A product of love? Maybe. I only ever Really fought with family, And we’d always remind each other How much we cared After every tiny scuffle
Montage | 47
Other incidents in elementary school Included making fun Of homemade lunches, Crispy dosas replaced with soggy PB&Js. I’d gag over my food. During the Hinduism unit: Asking if I’d get an arranged marriage As a child, If I bathed in the Ganges, worshiped cows, What caste was I in? Brahmin, perhaps? …Upper-middle class. My dad Is a high-level consultant at a popular IT firm. I pledged myself to not Become a consultant, I’d rather Be an entrepreneur- like my dad When he was my age. I wonder, when I’m older, Will I be working at a large corporation, Sucked away from family, From travel, from my own lifeblood? The cycle continues. How does one get trapped in a cycle Of abuse? Perhaps my ex would know. As children: My dad helped me with homework, His dad beat him. If fights are a product Of love, I never fought with my ex. Not even when He was on top of me, Pinned my arms above my head, And had his way with My body in a cold dorm room. I never said yes, turned my face away. It will be over soon, right? In the history of the universe, My life will be over soon— A blink of a cosmic eye and I will have returned to stardust.
48 | Montage
But before that happens, In the milliseconds of my life, The strong bones of my ancestors Walk proudly in this body. They are gold, like the Crowns sitting in British museums, The detailing on the idols in the temple, And the necklace on my chest. They cannot be melted down By anything less than the inferno of time, Much less the weakness Of another’s greedy will.
Montage | 49
Halebidu Halebidu: “Ruined city.” Karnataka, India. Regal capital of the 11th Century Hoysala Empire. Home to the Hoysaleshwara Temple, known for its intricate carvings depicting Hindu Mythology. Destroyed by the Delhi Sultanate, an opposing Islamic Empire in the 14th century. Little jingles echo off of light footsteps From golden anklets. Laughter resounds in the once royal court, Filled with grandmothers watching young children play in circles. The hot stone Radiates against bare feet as I take the steps one after another. Lush is the only way to describe the dense green garden. Below the swaying coconut and banana trees, Chanting reverberates through the inside of the temple And streams lightly to the outdoors. The soft candlelit darkness of the past within, seeping against the harsh sun outside. A thousand years ago, Devotees carved elephants, women, and gods Onto the sacred walls of Hoysaleshwara. Dancers twirled their feet against the cool stone inside, Watched by Shiva on a lotus flower. Priests and pundits engaged in scholarly debates Under the gentle protection of Nandhi. Six hundred years ago, The arms of Narasimha on the temple walls Were cut off, But not by the demons he fought. The city, ransacked. The dancers took flight In terror, the devotees slaughtered. Out of the bloodshed, A new name was formed: Halebidu. As I touch my forehead against the ground in a prayer, I hear the chatter of modern day, Aunties and uncles taking pictures Of the remains of carvings for WhatsApp, The prayer gongs, tour guides cracking witty jokes. If I am to be born again, let it be in the splendor of Ancient India. 50 | Montage
Melissa Gutierrez
Ya No Quiere el Pelo Lacio She used to dream about being white. White meant beautiful, right? She hated her textured and frizzy curls. She straightened her hair everyday as if she could “fry” away her brownness In order to fit in with the white girls. The mirror became her biggest enemy because she was brown and seen as “rare.” She would look back at her reflection with the most hostile glare. Everywhere she walked, all she saw was white and it wasn’t fair. She felt like a stranger disconnected from her real body, her true self. She despised the way she hated herself; why couldn’t you love yourself? How dare you let someone with a different skin color than you get under your own skin? Don’t let them take your beautiful brownness away. Don’t let them win. You are not territory for them to claim. You now love yourself for who you are with no shame. While you can’t go back and give that little girl a hug or stop the stream of tears, All you can do now is take up the space that’s rightfully yours And no longer live in fear. I no longer dream about being white. Instead, I embrace my brownness and my culture. They can’t make me feel powerless for being brown anymore. I have to repair the wounds from my lack of self-love. I don’t tame my hair anymore to fit beauty standards Created by someone who hates my skin. I now admire my frizzy and obnoxiously big hair. That dream of being white… has died. And the hair? It’s no longer fried.
Montage | 51
52 | Montage
Leo Flood
If Body, Then Body in response to “Tautology” by Ari Banias I could say it was when I dyed the bathroom floor yellow trying to piss standing up, that when I stood staring at the toilet seat, seven and self-conscious, some phallic flame lit in me. Or I could say, once, I tried to cut off my nipples with safety scissors. I could answer, I could not answer, but there is an asking either way. I say I am trans because that’s all I’ve been offered. I don’t believe in summary. Or sewing my kaleidoscope of a body, of a self, into one word. Sometimes I am the paint chipping on the wall, its jagged and delicate peels like queer little oranges. Sometimes I am a ray sliding through a suncatcher, decorating the walls with patches of pink and broken light. Sometimes I am the mosaic of voices in a cafe, their scratchy, continuous tones. Sometimes, I am all of myself and sometimes I am none. All of the time, I am more than the flesh given to me, the explanation that precedes it. Montage | 53
reCAPTCHA for Queer Joy Please select the image of you in the mirror as a child, slicing your hair above the chin, scissors a rebellion you couldn’t name. Please select sour blunts we smoke while you tattoo my ass and we talk about the brother who won’t refer to you the way you’d like him to, me pledging to be your new brother instead. Select your hand sliding in relief over your flat chest held together by nylon, tape, and its faithful illusion, select you being flogged in a thong while your friends yelp sweetly in the living room, select boy dykes fluttering to house music in the local country bar, the sting in your eyes before you wash the makeup you hoped wouldn’t make you feel too girl off in the sink, select our arms crossing in winter when we wear coats made of air and ties we taught ourselves to knot, select the un-maintenance of friendship with other faggots, our laughs when we say the word real loud in public, select the queens on skates, us shy and waving dollar bills from the side of the rink. Please select the velvet futon you let me sleep on when I started using a name my mother wouldn’t say. We didn’t choose to survive this way. Selection is a binary we don’t get to break, but I’ll select image of you if you verify I’m human, too.
54 | Montage
Fe a t u r i n g Wo r k B y Megana Adigal Shresta Bangaru Amelia Brady Genevieve Christon Tamar Dallal Ava Delariman Leo Flood Elysia Goodson Melissa Gutierrez Melissa Hernandez Genesis Jara Abby Masucol
Daniel Menges Julia San Miguel Percy Moser Jiho Park Piper Pascarella Rachel Perkins Aliyah Philip Andrew Provost Akira Ritos Keira Sullivan Catherine Zhao
montageartsjournal.com