Quilt recognizes that we are writing, working, and publishing on traditional Anishinaabe and Haudenosaunee territory. We acknowledge the privilege it is to be on this stolen land, and to draw inspiration and comfort from its existence. As a literary publication, we have the ability to uplift Indigenous voices and stories, and we aim to do so in a way that creates a safe and empowering space for all. As Quilt continues to grow, we strive to implement reconciliation and amplify Indigenous voices wherever and whenever possible.
masthead
Editors in Chief
Audra Crago and Madeleine Vigneron
Managing Editors
Katerina Bovos and Corey Martin
Design
HeadofDesign
Natalie Stevenson
DesignCoordinator
Catherine Parke
Illustrators
Anna Acosta
Audra Crago
Maeve Hannon
Kaiya Mongrain
Ty Popelas
Ava Salas
Anna Sum
Designers
Anna Acosta
Sara Choe
Sara Cosman
Maeve Hannon
Kaiya Mongrain
Siobhan Mudrik
Eve Raine
Tori Payne
Ava Salas
Copy Editing
HeadofCopyEditing
Gwendolen Hickey
Copy Editors
Chiara Di Lorenzo-Graham
Emily Gilbert
Caitlin Gowdy
GraduateStudentAdvisor
Patrick Cunningham
Pearl Thacker
Logan Martin
Raquel Weinstein
Editorial Board
SeniorAcademicEditor
Eleanor Daley
SeniorAcademicEditor
Anna Wodzicki
SeniorPoetryEditor
Grace Maidment
SeniorProseEditor
Bee Peitsch
Grad Student Advisors
Samuel Edmondson
Lauren MacKenzie
Annalynn Plopp
Lauren Waters
Outreach
HeadofOutreach
Emily Gilbert
Photographer
Ty Popelas
Events
HeadofEvents
Anna Sum
Board Members
Tamara Carnevale
Madeleine Chiappetta
Victoria Chung
Chiara Di LorenzoGraham
Gwendolen Hickey
Lauren Hisey
Miranda Jensen
Ava Joa
Paige Johnson
Leah Pleasants
Hazel Robertson
Ella Smith
Nicole Strati
Alexia Troost
Clare Wu
Victoria Zeppieri
Outreach Coordinators
Olivia Marsden
Emma McGeown
Victoria Zeppieri
Events Coordinators
Paige Johnson
Siobhan Mudrik
Eve Raine
Alexia Troost
Editors’ Editors’
Quilt was founded in 2020 to weave together the academic Quilt was founded in 2020 to weave together the academic and creative writing Queen’s undergraduate students have to and creative writing Queen’s undergraduate students have to offer. In the process, we have woven together a community of offer. In the process, we have woven together a community of brilliant creative minds from various years, disciplines, brilliant creative minds from various years, disciplines, backgrounds, and artistic perspectives. Now in our fifth year of backgrounds, and artistic perspectives. Now in our fifth year of publication, Quilt is a living body, and each of us is a filament publication, Quilt is a living body, and each of us is a filament in its internal systems: we are each a pumping artery, a firing in its internal systems: we are each a pumping artery, a firing synapse, a contracting muscle underneath Quilt’s skin. And synapse, a contracting muscle underneath Quilt’s skin. And you, dear reader, are the sustenance keeping this body alive. you, dear reader, are the sustenance keeping this body alive. Without your love and support, we would not be able to Without your love and support, we would not be able to continue making space for our work to breathe. continue making space for our work to breathe.
The fact that the Quilt community is so woven together inevitably results in many of our team submitting work to the inevitably results in many of our team submitting work to the volume. So although you may see many familiar — and even volume. So although you may see many familiar — and even repeated — names in this zine, rest assured that our repeated — names in this zine, rest assured that our anonymized submission and editorial process guarantees that anonymized submission and editorial process guarantees that we publish the very best work that we receive. Many of our we publish the very best work that we receive. Many of our team — including the two of us — have had pieces rejected team — including the two of us — have had pieces rejected from Quilt, but that doesn’t stop our team from continuing to from Quilt, but that doesn’t stop our team from continuing to submit, nor should it stop you. submit, nor should it stop you.
The fact that the Quilt community is so woven together
Note Note
Amidst these pages you will find: An uncomfortable swelling
Amidst these pages you will find: An uncomfortable swelling under your skin. The absence where a body should be. Flesh under your skin. The absence where a body should be. Flesh that sings a creation story. What it takes to keep a body alive. that sings a creation story. What it takes to keep a body alive. Coming back different, but coming back right. A fluid, Coming back different, but coming back right. A fluid, consuming embrace. The ground beneath your palms. Each consuming embrace. The ground beneath your palms. Each piece invites a new perspective on the body: from outside and piece invites a new perspective on the body: from outside and inside, in absence and in presence, in context and alone. inside, in absence and in presence, in context and alone.
We are so excited to share this body of work with you. Climb We are so excited to share this body of work with you. Climb inside and make yourself at home. inside and make yourself at home.
How might you imagine the Body? Perhaps in its physical manifestation, with flesh and bones and blood, something material existing in space. Or maybe the space itself is embodied: a homeland with a heartbeat of its own.
The current interest in Body Studies, including literature of the body, stems from the poststructuralist movement of the 1970s (Hillman and Maude). This movement centred the body as a site through which we might understand knowledge, power, identity, and control. In contrast, contemporary approaches to the body “tend to display an eclectic theoretical pluralism” (Hillman and Maude). The body, in all its theoretical forms, persists implicitly, and allows for a more holistic framework for body studies. As such, diverse thematic explorations of embodiment enhance a pluralistic approach to the body that spans time periods and genres alike.
At its core, literature of the body appears to search for a concrete explanation for the abstract experience of embodiment. Hillman and Maude, paraphrasing Maude Ellman, assert that “writing can forcefully return us to the body, or, perhaps better, return the body to us” (Hillman and Maude). From birth and death and rebirth again, to places embodied and all that is corporeal, Quilt Mini: The Body both returns us to our bodies and returns our bodies to us in myriad ways.
Quilt is eternally grateful for the generous support of the Queen’s Department of English, Dr. Heather Evans, and our brilliant team of student volunteers. And to you, dear reader, may you find heart in these pages as we have.
– Eleanor Daley, Senior Academic Editor
Hillman, David, and Ulrika Maude. "Introduction." The Cambridge Companion to the Body in Literature, edited by David Hillman, and Ulrika Maude. Cambridge University Press, 2015. ProQuest, https://proxy.queensu.ca/login?url=https://www.proquest. com/books/introduction/docview/2137999699/se-2.
host host
by Corey Martin
Once the transmission is confirmed, it has to be monitored. They say it’s for Once the transmission is confirmed, it has to be monitored. They say it’s for your own protection, but you’re skeptical about whether you’re the priority. Is it your own protection, but you’re skeptical about whether you’re the priority. Is it likely for the life of the host to take precedence? Sometimes you swear you can likely for the life of the host to take precedence? Sometimes you swear you can feel it feel it writhing inside you, trying to push its way out through your intestines, writhing inside you, trying to push its way out through your intestines, through your skin, but you don’t tell anyone. You worry that it has already through your skin, but you don’t tell anyone. You worry that it has already started to impair your thoughts. You haven’t been thinking as clearly as the started to impair your thoughts. You haven’t been thinking as clearly as the weeks have gone on, and you know you can’t blame it on sleepless nights weeks have gone on, and you know you can’t blame it on sleepless nights anymore. anymore.
That isn’t to say you haven’t been That isn’t to say you haven’t been losing sleep. You can’t tell whether losing sleep. You can’t tell whether it’s from the pain or the terror, but it’s from the pain or the terror, but you don’t know when you last slept you don’t know when you last slept through the night. You wake up to through the night. You wake up to scream, and you wake up to cry, and scream, and you wake up to cry, and the difference between the two the difference between the two doesn’t seem to matter anymore. doesn’t seem to matter anymore. You’re short of breath just getting out You’re short of breath just getting out of bed, and you’re certain now that of bed, and you’re certain now that you can feel it shifting within you, you can feel it shifting within you, sending jolts of pain up your torso sending jolts of pain up your torso every time it moves. every time it moves.
It’s the blood that upsets you the most. You’ve never done well with the sight of it, It’s the blood that upsets you the most. You’ve never done well with the sight of it, and now it’s everywhere. and now it’s everywhere. It’s as if even the contents of your veins know what is It’s as if even the contents of your veins know what is coming and are trying to get out of dodge as soon as possible. You bleed from coming and are trying to get out of dodge as soon as possible. You bleed from your nose, from your gums, from your groin. Your veins protrude from your skin your nose, from your gums, from your groin. Your veins protrude from your skin and seem ready to burst, and dark red lines arc their way across your chest and and seem ready to burst, and dark red lines arc their way across your chest and your swollen stomach. your swollen stomach.
Finally, the months of torture come nearly to a close. The end of
Finally, the months of torture come nearly to a close. The end of it all begins with pain, right at your core. it all begins with pain, right at your core. Your body is finally in Your body is finally in agreement with the screaming of your mind to get rid of the agreement with the screaming of your mind to get rid of the thing that has invaded your body. It starts subtly, so subtle thing that has invaded your body. It starts subtly, so subtle you’re not sure it’s happening, but as it gets deeper and sharper you’re not sure it’s happening, but as it gets deeper and sharper and faster, you know it’s coming, and you brace yourself as well and faster, you know it’s coming, and you brace yourself as well as you can. An awful tightness moves across your body in as you can. An awful tightness moves across your body in waves, beginning in your back and rippling into your stomach. waves, beginning in your back and rippling into your stomach.
You could almost swear to feeling
You could almost swear to feeling someone someone take a knife to your chest, take a knife to your chest, to feeling it rake to feeling it rake down to your pelvis, and every time it ends, down to your pelvis, and every time it ends, it begins again, just as quickly. The ever- it begins again, just as quickly. The everpresent nausea heightens and overcomes present nausea heightens and overcomes you, emptying thick bile and half-digested you, emptying thick bile and half-digested food onto the floor in front of you. The food onto the floor in front of you. The waves of pain come faster and stay longer, waves of pain come faster and stay longer, and you begin to shake with the intensity of and you begin to shake with the intensity of them. You feel the pressure continue to them. You feel the pressure continue to build, and you are filled more than ever build, and you are filled more than ever with a need to get this thing, this parasite, with a need to get this thing, this parasite, out of you. It takes more energy than you out of you. It takes more energy than you have to expel it from you, but as you have to expel it from you, but as you continue, your body takes over, and you continue, your body takes over, and you lose control. lose control.
You hear yourself scream, you feel your skin burn and
You hear yourself scream, you feel your skin burn and tear, and you feel all of this for what seems like days tear, and you feel all of this for what seems like days before it’s over. It emerges covered in your blood, and as it before it’s over. It emerges covered in your blood, and as it screeches and wails and cries out for a new host to latch screeches and wails and cries out for a new host to latch onto and feed off of, you thank god that host will not be onto and feed off of, you thank god that host will not be you. you.
illustrated by
Kaiya Mongrain
And so we go back:
Back to where ancient spruce stand sentinel over the place where you were born. Where all that’s left is a horseshoe and a brick in a muddy field, quietly making their way back to dust.
This is my inheritance you say, an arm sweeping wide to gesture at the hollowed-out clearing. A riot of vines and greenery and sickening pastoral tranquility where a house once stood.
And now all that’s left of you is a horseshoe and a brick in this muddy field.
Wind rips at my lungs, and the rush of silence claws at my ears. The mud sucks at my borrowed brown boots, anchoring me in place. A type of homecoming.
The suction is strong so I stumble a bit as I walk toward you. How were they able to rip you away? Did they uproot you so violently that your little boots were torn from your little feet?
How long did they stay there?
small proof that you existed.
And the distance stretching between us is wider than the 20 paces it would take to reach you.
There is something immovable between us, and I would stumble over the sounds needed to name it, so we circle each other. Endlessly.
Nie rozumiesz, you say.
Two tiny sentries standing watch, But can’t you see me?
I’m holding the horseshoe in one hand and the brick in the other and I feel the rusty flakes of metal cutting into my palm and the brick’s thick dust is collecting under my nails and I’m allowing the mud to pull my feet in one direction and my legs to pull them in another, and the land does remember. I promise.
Can’t you hear it?
I’m letting it whisper in my ears until they bleed. And maybe I can build a boat from those spruce trees and sail across the gaping chasm filling with my blood to reach those distant shores, and, there I’ll find chamomile growing in the shade, and I’ll grab greedy fistfuls of it, juice leaking through my fingers and onto the soft, black soil. Hands stinging, I will call upon the horse whose shoe this was, and I’ll stumble onto it’s shadowy back, and we’ll ride down Lysa Gora, down to the stone stream, can’t you feel it?
And maybe there I can build a bridge from this single brick. Crush it up into so many pieces and lay them, painstakingly, one next to another, until I can run into your arms over a path of red dust, feet stained red.
All I want is to put my hand on your arm. Hand on arm.
An anchor? A bridge? A homecoming? Proof? A damn holding back dust? The word is in me, it clogs my foreign throat. I feel it cling to my trachea in thick, sticky strands, and it makes a funny sound when I breathe.
In the distance, a train whistle sounds, warning of its approach.
And so the memory fills your veins. Distends them. Pushes at your skin and snakes through your body; stark and blue and unspeakable.
You flinch. And so you go back.
Under Your Fingernails
by Maeve Hannon
You sit across from me on the couch, a variety of lamps yellowing the dark room, your fingernails tapping against your knee. The silence is filled with my heartbeat pressing against my neck, my wrists, my fingers. The blood gets caught in my muscles. You watch me, awaiting a reply.
“Yeah, I’m okay with takeout,” I say.
“Okay, great, I’ll call,” you say. You never talk about him anymore. You stand and walk to your kitchen. You walk around in circles that I easily follow. Circles that are drawn in the air as you lap the same path. The tiles that were covered so quickly in blood only mere weeks ago. The tiles that witnessed what I didn’t. I never asked how you felt. If you heard his last words. I never asked if you missed him. He left in an open display of defiance. Against who, you would ask. I never had an answer. Your fingernails would distract me as they tap against your arm, scratching, flowering blood up into your skin. The room is separated in two by a large island. Your voice carries through it as you look over at me with concentration. I smile at the way your eyebrows are furrowed. The slight gap between your lips. Your hair, messy from pushing it out of your face one too many times. The glasses only few people see you with. I wish you wore them more, but you insist on your contacts.
There are too many lamps scattered around for the room to be this dim. I don’t know if you know how many there are, if you’ve ever considered removing a few. They offer scarce light and clutter the area around the couch. I don’t know if you've considered moving. If you feel obligated to stay in this small apartment, one of two bedrooms unoccupied. Never allowing the second to be used. Not even for boxes.
“Soda?” you say.
“Sure,” I say.
the damp evening
Your voice interrupts the room’s loosely-held silence. Cars drive on unnoticed as you take my roads and fill the gaps that your voice leaves— apartment so full of silence. It’s always priority. I’ve never seen the something else. Nothing will fill the room quite like the stained tiles. I don’t know how much bleach we used. The tiles still have a brown tint that disappears under the artificial lights, only visible
when the curtains are pulled apart.
He confused you. You never told me any of this, but I want to pretend to know you. There was a silence between you and him. There was a gap in your relationship. Family, maybe. Sharing a space, living together, but still never seeing the other often enough.
I remember when you told me about how you sat on the boulevard as a kid and watched cars drive by faster than the limit. How you couldn’t understand the hurry. The signs with children on them wouldn't change their speed. How he would bring you sandwiches when you were out for too long. Peanut butter and banana on whole wheat bread.
You look over at me after hanging up the phone. A small smile pulls your cheeks up. Your teeth make an appearance in the room. They have small bits of yellow layered on. Smoke makes a good veil for joy. You never plan on stopping. You enjoy the way it mutes, lessens, your smile. You push up your glasses.
You’re never going to get rid of the lamps.
MARTIN, L.—Died publicly on March 9, MARTIN, L.—Died publicly on March 9, 2021, in the same way a caterpillar must die 2021, in the same way a caterpillar must die to become a moth. to become a moth.
MARTIN, L.—Died quietly on July 16, 2020. MARTIN, L.—Died quietly on July 16, 2020. All of her organs began to dissolve, with All of her organs began to dissolve, with only the important ones remaining. For only the important ones remaining. For instance, the letter P. She will be buried instance, the letter P. She will be buried gradually, in a hard shell encased in silk, gradually, in a hard shell encased in silk, and grieved by the version of her charged and grieved by the version of her charged with spinning her grave. with spinning her grave.
MARTIN, L.—Died legally on June 8, 2021. MARTIN, L.—Died legally on June 8, 2021. She is survived by older self Corey. Former She is survived by older self Corey. Former daughter of James and Pamela. Complete daughter of James and Pamela. Complete stranger to her father’s ghost. Reincarnated stranger to her father’s ghost. Reincarnated as an eighteen-year-old newborn baby with a as an eighteen-year-old newborn baby with a brand-new birth certificate. She will be brand-new birth certificate. She will be fondly remembered by her report cards, fondly remembered by her report cards, Webkinz account, open cocoon, childhood Webkinz account, open cocoon, childhood awards, uncorrected mail and particularly uncorrected mail and particularly forgetful family members. She won’t be forgetful family members. She won’t be missed by any of her friends. Visitation will missed by any of her friends. Visitation will not take place, as the body refuses to be not take place, as the body refuses to be seen under a name that is dead. The funeral seen under a name that is dead. The funeral service will be held daily. service will be held daily. Joy to follow. Joy to follow.
Afterword
"Everywhere will be my graveyard. I’ll have lived and died as that which is more than the sum of my body parts. What will matter isn’t how many days I endured in the battleground of linear time, but what every fibre of me aspired to—something more than the gift of mortality, more than the rusty category of the individual who had meaning spewing from his ears, something only fully and fleetingly realized in the hands and mouths and chests of those whom I encountered as a ghostly mark on the page.”
From "Please Keep Loving: Reflections on Unlivability" in A History of my Brief Body by
Billy-Ray Belcourt (Driftpile Cree Nation)
Work Cited
Belcourt, Billy-Ray. "Please Keep Loving: Reflections on Unlivability." A History of My Brief Body. Penguin, 2020.
