Montage Spring 2021 Journal by Montage at Quinnipiac University

Skeletons in the Garden M O N TA G E

Literary & Arts Journal Volume 40 2021

About Us

Montage is the student-run literary and arts journal at Quinnipiac University, located in Hamden, Connecticut. Our purpose is to celebrate the students who create art in any and every form. We promote the growth of writers and artists on campus and provide an outlet for those who wish to share their work. We seek art that pushes boundaries, is unique, and is inspiring in the face of adversity.

Submissions

Submissions to Montage are free and open to all Quinnipiac University undergraduate students enrolled at the time of the journal’s publication. Submissions were accepted in the categories of poetry, prose, visual arts, and photography. All submissions were reviewed blindly by the Montage content panel.

Colophon

The fonts used throughout this publication are Westsac and Franklin Gothic. Three hundred and fifty copies of this journal were printed by Tyco Print and Promo during April 2021 in New Haven, Connecticut.

The Staff Editor-in-Chief

Joelle Gray

Assistant Editor

Tamara Anderson

Journal Design

Joelle Gray Victoria Lorenz

Cover Design

Victoria Lorenz

Advisors Executive Board Content Panel

Austin Davoren, Campus Life Ken Cormier, English Rebecca Gatz, Public Relations Glenna Gobeil, Secretary Katherine Iorio, Treasurer Tamara Anderson Stephanie Felix Rebecca Gatz Glenna Gobeil Joelle Gray Katherine Iorio Victoria Lorenz

A Letter from the Editor My Dearest Readers, It’s hard not to be speechless here. This last year has not gotten easier, even though people all over the world wished it would. We never could have imagined we’d be here today, but we are, and there’s no going back. This pandemic has stopped a lot of things in its tracks—especially morale. Our small but mighty team of women working on this journal has continued to push the boundaries of what everyone expected was possible. Now, this spring, we are fighting similar battles to the ones we fought this time last year. I thought that having a year under my belt already would make this easier, but being the first one to do this specific job in unprecedented times is more difficult than anyone can ever tell you. Even through all of this, though, I can’t sit here and complain to you, because I love what I do, even when it’s scary. This is my second time writing you guys a letter. I can’t tell the same anecdote about my therapist or talk to you about the beginning of the pandemic again. I’ll argue that the second time around this letter is even harder. Instead of rehashing all the same things over and over again, I’ll tell you about some of the things I’ve learned this year. First and foremost, Montage gave me a purpose. In a time where many chose the easy way out, I’ve worked hard every single week to make us stronger. Instead of focusing on loss and sadness, I put my energy into Montage. I learned a lot about poetry this year when I was nominated for and won a spot on the Connecticut Student Poetry Circuit. Five of us read (virtually) at colleges all over the state. Sharing my work with people has been so gratifying. I owe so much to Gabby Colangelo, Marielena Cartagena, Phil Michel, and Mia Yanosy. 6

Though we’ve never met in person, they have helped shape me and my love for poetry. I’ve had so much fun. Perhaps my biggest lesson this year was to chase after what I love and leave behind what I don’t. My life has changed in many ways, and I am a stronger, smarter, happier, more beautiful person than I was before. Support is important, but I learned to trust my instincts and run with it. Montage has been a constant for me. My team has trusted me every step of the way. None of this would have been possible without my Montage family. This book is for Rosie, Nina, and Sam, who made me who I am. It’s for Austin and Tamara, who believe in what I could be. It’s for everyone I’ve met along the way, and for the people I never met. It’s for everyone who has ever been part of Montage. Knowing that this is the 40th journal is so surreal to me. This has been going on for almost twice my lifetime. Montage has lived almost twice as many lifetimes as me—and it will live longer than me. With all hope, someday someone will write the letter from the editor for the 50th edition, and the 75th, and the 100th. I will leave what I have here for the future with all the optimism in the world. To the badass women who saw my vision—Tamara, Kate, Rebecca, Glenna, Victoria, and Stephanie—I see you. I have always seen you. Thank you for taking this journey with me. Next year is Tamara’s time to shine. She will fearlessly lead Montage into the future with poise and grace, and I hope I taught her well. Last year, I sat here and I asked you to be brave, and you were. With this book in your hands, please don’t dispare. Sometime it feels like we’re at rock bottom, but that just means there’s nowhere to go but up. Welcome to the ramblings of Quinnipiac students, and while you read them, just know you’re not alone. We’re in this together, until it’s over.

Yours Always,

Joelle Gray 7

Foreword

Contents

17 Montage: A Faculty Perspective Dr. Ken Cormier, Dr. Timothy Dansdill,

Dr. Valerie Smith, & Dr. Patricia Comitini

I. Confessions of the Mind, Body, & Soul

25 Untitled

No Direction

Brantley Boyda // Poetry

Backyard Blues

Paige Pezzella // Poetry

Ding Dong Ditch

Stephanie Felix // Poetry

Natalie Miranda // Art

Second Grade Shenanigans

Vivian Quinlan // Prose

Kinsey 3 to 5

Tyler Villano-Maron // Poetry

First Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

But, Anger (2 a.m.)

Tim Powers // Poetry

Take Your Time

Tamara Anderson // Poetry

staring contest

Tess Adams // Prose

First Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

39 Skiptracing

42 Devotion

Glenna Gobeil // Photography

The Sun’s Goodbye

Paige Pezzella // Poetry

Pavlov’s People

Kaitlyn Bendick // Poetry

Alessandra Varon // Poetry

II. Empty Hallways 47 Adam & Eve Isabella Caria // Art 48 How to Fulfill the “Going Abroad” Dream and Come Back Broken-Hearted Josephine Buckley // Prose

Third Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

I Offer Lies

Brian Ataka // Poetry

Ode to the Pink Lace Thong I found in your bed

Victoria Franklin // Poetry

The Stranger

Alessandra Varon // Poetry

59 Sober

How To Break Up With Your Mother

Brantley Boyda // Prose

Emma Gallagher // Poetry

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

62 Obscurus

It’s Past My Bedtime

Gabriel Purpura // Poetry

Emma Bender // Photography

Lights Out

Tess Adams // Poetry

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

III. Voices I Hear At Night

Boca Raton in November

Emily DePaola // Prose

Second Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

76 Ghosts

Haley Bonin // Poetry

I Remember

Tim Powers // Poetry

Third Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

Messages for the Lost

Kylie Ray // Prose

Goodbye Mrs. Wiorka

Glenna Gobeil // Photography

86 Variation on “Variation on a Theme by Elizabeth Bishop” by John Murillo

Anna Ciacciarella // Poetry

A burning Trail

Natalie Miranda // Poetry

My Father’s Ghost

Joelle Gray // Poetry

Connecticut Student Poetry Circuit Winner

90 Cracks

Tim Powers // Prose

Julie Rivera // Poetry

98 Grief

100

Lights Up

Joelle Gray // Photography

Pain is Lineal, Trauma is in Your Bones

Cora Fuhrmann // Poetry

Third Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

IV. The Eye of the Hurricane

104

106

107

When I Saw the Flag on Capitol Hill

Gabriel Purpura // Poetry

The Trees

Madeline Morabito // Poetry

I Have No Choice but To Finish My Coffee

Brian Ataka // Poetry

108

110

When I Think of the Pandemic While Watching

Anna Ciacciarella // Poetry

Dicks & Such

Tyler Villano-Maron // Poetry

First Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

112 Untitled

Natalie Miranda // Art

113 How to Study Abroad When the Borders Are Closed

Jessica Peterson // Prose

117 American

118

Tim Powers // Poetry

A Year in Review

Gabriel Purpura // Poetry

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

119

120 Condemnation

121

Sunset Hustle

Tamara Anderson // Photography

Brian Ziegelhofer // Poetry

a play in three acts

Erin Mullane // Poetry

Second Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

122 When I Think of The Capitol While Closing My Eyes

Emily DiSalvo // Poetry

V. Metamorphosis

126 I’m Good, How About You? Maily Tran // Poetry

128

130

131 Paradox

132 Michael

Creation Myth

Brantley Boyda // Prose

shots of joy

Rebecca Gatz // Poetry

Haley Druckenmiller // Art

Kaitlyn Bendick // Prose

Honorable Mention, Wilder Fiction Prize

137

138

140 Salem

144

145

Paradise of Life—Brazil

Natalie Miranda // Poetry

When I Think of Life While Riding the Subway

Julie Rivera // Poetry

Marianna Rappa // Prose

Fine Line

Joelle Gray // Photography

Moving Forward

Ashley Amarante // Poetry

149 Award 151 Who

Summaries

We Are

159 Acknowledgements

Montage: A Faculty Perspective As Montage approaches its fortieth anniversary at Quinnipiac University, we should all take a moment to reflect on the student editors, poets, authors, designers, and visual artists whose energy and creativity have made it all possible. Perusing the archive of back issues will give you some idea of the creative spirit at QU, but when it comes to Montage, this is only the tip of the iceberg. While the journal’s annual publication party been a mainstay of spring-semester celebrations on campus, the staff of Montage have also worked passionately over the years to provide and sustain a more wide-ranging hub for writers and artists on campus. They have run poetry workshops, hosted student readings and open mics, led field trips, and produced beautifully designed zines. While Montage events and activities have been a staple for poets and writers on campus, they have also always attracted songwriters, photographers, filmmakers, performance artists, and more. Over the past ten years, the Creative Writing Program has facilitated opportunities for editors and contributors to attend the annual AWP Conference, where they network with publishers, meet like-minded editors, and attend readings by internationally acclaimed authors and poets. Such contexts can help us see that Montage is part of a larger eco-system of literary and artistic endeavors that reaches far beyond the boundaries of a single college campus. By fostering student creativity year after year, Montage has enriched the Quinnipiac community in ways that are impossible to quantify. Here’s to the next forty years (and more) of Montage’s enduring commitment to language and the arts!

— Dr. Ken Cormier, Montage Faculty Advisor (2011-present) 17

I welcome the opportunity to reflect on my time as an advisor

to Montage. Those were rich and raucous years of creative excitement and experiment. With my co-advisor, Professor Val Smith, we worked with some especially motivated students who wanted to open the publication into more of a “coffee table” style publication—with full color art pieces interspersed with poems and short prose. We had the budget back then, and from there we pushed Montage not only as a QU publication, but went rather public with the launch of the Montage “I Heart!” Literary Festival that attracted hundreds of students and faculty in a space long since converted into the Student Center. That venture enabled me to work closely with Professor Emeriti Gloria Graves Holmes and we invited performance poets from New York, New Haven, and Hartford for Spoken Word Contests. Yes, Montage was the impetus and center for much creative energy indeed. As for my dear, departed friend and colleague Mark Johnston (2008), I remember him dropping by my office one day in 2006 (before his illness took hold) to drop off his foundational issues of Montage. I have long since handed over this archive, and those of my time as advisor, to Professor Kenneth Cormier. Any student or Montage editor interested in this wonderful publication’s 40 year history will be delighted to peruse these ARTefacts! In my nearly 20 years at QU, I look back on my work on Montage as not so much a “service” to our students, our department, the college, or to the university—and beyond—but as a celebratory initiation--a new vision of creative community.

— Dr. Timothy Dansdill, Montage Faculty Co-Advisor (2006-10)

Mark Evan Johnston worked with a handful of literary-

minded students to found Montage in 1981. Mark was a powerful poet himself, publishing over 250 poems, including a collection entitled Out Into the End of Time. Mark’s world and his heart were expansive and generous, and without his enthusiasm and dedication Montage would probably not exist. It was a pleasure and a privilege to jointly take over advising Montage, with Timothy Dansdill, in 2006, along with co-editors Christina McKitish and 18

Alaina Cuglietto. To all the editors we worked with over the years (you know who you are but space is limited), along with all the talented writers, artists, staff, and visionaries, I personally thank you for ensuring the creative vision endures at Quinnipiac University.

— Dr. Valerie Smith, Montage Faculty Co-Advisor (2006-2010)

As an eager new faculty member at Quinnipiac, one of my

students Kristie Sobek, asked if I could help revive Montage, which at that time in 2000 had not been published for at least a couple of years. I was not the official advisor at the time, but I wanted to help foster a creative community among our majors and this was a project that excited them. So, since I had a publishing background, I worked with Kristie and her CoEditor-in-Chief Lynsey Eakin, on creating what would become Montage’s signature look: glossy cover art designed by a student. We also changed the content of the magazine. Not only would Montage accept poetry, but for the first time, it accepted a wider range of all kinds of creative work from students throughout the university: short narratives, photographs and line drawings. With this new vision, Montage truly became a creative arts magazine for the students by the students. Kristie and Lynsey should be credited with providing Montage its first steady budget as a student organization, funded at the time through QU’s SGA. It was not an easy sell as I remember. A creative arts magazine— who would read that? Apparently many, many students, faculty and administrators. These editors also gave the magazine an organizational structure, and Montage even procured an actual office (it was a little closet in the Chronicle’s old office in Tator Hall). The vision, budget and office all enabled Montage to publish a yearly edition and become a regular presence on campus that QU could be proud of. Since 2001, it has published continuously.

— Dr. Patricia Comitini, Montage Faculty Advisor (2001-05)

I. Confessions of the Mind, Body, & Soul

No Direction Brantley Boyda

After Jericho Brown

I will not think about it, I will not let my mind linger like my pen does on the page, with no direction, and I will not compare myself to the pen with no direction, as my mother and father do that enough for me. I will not be a compass with a broken arrow spinning and spinning like a dizzying tilt-a-whirl. My doubts will eat me alive long before I am to die of starvation or a lack of money at this rate, so I will not allow my mind to linger as I chose to not think about the future at this point in time, for I have bigger worries to deal with right now.

Backyard Blues Paige Pezzella

What is it about a backyard? Childhood manifests in a backyard, smelling of lilacs and the leaves, Swaying so tenderly in the summer breeze. Why, I was anyone I wanted to be, A dashing hero, or a wizard sent to retrieve some magical stone in quest-like fashion. That specific spot in the sky, it calls me persistently, What could it possibly want, except wish my future well. I lay on the grass, looking up at that spot in the sky, It looks different from this angle, though I think I’d prefer it. The foliage continues to wrap me in a warm hug, Tender green paired with striking blue, hints of orange as autumn peeks through. Though I wish I were as I was before, My worries whisked away with the wind. I reach out as if to grasp the sky, hoping that just maybe, If I grab it tightly enough, I can hold on to that innocent joy. Be a pirate, commanding a ship where anxiety disappears in the waves. Though if I cannot be a pirate, I at least hope that my future will feel like this specific spot in the backyard sky.

Ding Dong Ditch Stephanie Felix

I want to visit Ding Dong, Texas Say a quick Ding Dong See a cow Tip my cowboy hat Then leave Ding Dong Ditch Yeehaw

Untitled

Natalie Miranda

Second Grade Shenanigans Vivian Quinlan

6:00 AM - Ms. Hansen It can be said that most people like Mondays for the clean slate or sense of promise it provides, but Nora Hansen is not one of them. Then again, perhaps most people don’t have to deal with an army of twenty-two rowdy second graders either. Nora is a recent college graduate and this will be her fourth year teaching at the prestigious school known as Maple Row Elementary. Although she loves her job more than anything, it certainly has made her question her own sanity on more than one occasion. “BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!” Nora leaps out of her bed, tossing her covers and slamming the noisy little box resting on her bedside table. She scans every inch of her closet until she eventually settles on a rose colored sweater with a pair of black dress pants. Nora’s style was all of two things: simple and comfortable. As she looks at herself in the mirror, she notices her tall and slender figure. This, of course, is met with her beautiful brunette locks and chocolate brown eyes. Nora covers her sleep deprivation with a few strokes of concealer and ties her hair into a high ponytail with one swift motion. She always has a habit of pacing around the room as if she’s in a hurry to get somewhere. There’s an anxious nature about her and she often worries about the smallest of things. Nora pours a hot cup of coffee into her travel mug and gently closes her apartment door, holding car keys in one hand and a tote filled with lesson plans in another. She begins her usual morning drive and prays for light traffic. 7:00 AM - Logan Miller “Logan ... Logan ... Logan ... LOGAN MILLER!” His mother raises her voice up the stairs in a desperate attempt to wake up the lazy boy. “Ugh I’m awake ...” he says with little effort, slowly drifting back to sleep. 26

“I don’t hear anything! C’mon you’ll be late for school and if you miss the bus this morning, there’s no one who can drive you,” she says, knocking on his door now. “Oh well ... isn’t that a shame!” he replies in the most sarcastic tone he could muster. “It is a shame ... it’s a shame that you’ll get your video games taken away if I get one more call from the principal this week,” she explains. Logan realizes that this time, his mom means business and it would be in his best interest to listen to her. However, he rarely listens to much of anything. Some like to call Logan “the class troublemaker.” He likes to call himself “the strongest kid at Maple Row Elementary.” Most of the students and faculty were terrified of this three foot five monster and he took every chance he got to uphold his reputation. But, there was another side to Logan Miller … one that he never let anyone see. It’s been almost two years since his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer which inevitably took a toll on his behavior. He was angry at the world for hurting his mom and he wasn’t sure how else to express it besides acting out. “The class troublemaker” isn’t sensitive. “The class troublemaker” isn’t supposed to show his feelings. I need to be tough,” he thought. His father left them when Logan was a baby, causing him to have no male figure to look up to. His mother loved him, but didn’t show it often. Logan doesn’t remember a time where she complimented his drawings or wrote letters in his lunch box. Most nights, he would stare at the glow-inthe-dark stickers on his ceiling desperately wishing to swap lives with his classmates. 8:30 AM - Morning Meeting Ms. Hansen huddles her second graders together for their daily morning meeting. Usually, this is a time where the principal reads birthdays through the loud speaker while Ms. Hansen 27

records which students raised their hands for cold lunch or hot lunch. For the kids, cold lunch means that your choices are either a rock solid bagel with lumpy cream cheese or a slice of ham stuck between two pieces of soggy Wonder bread. At Maple Row, hot lunch is the all-around better option as its French toast sticks and mini frozen pizzas are somewhat edible. Rumor has it that on last year’s hamburger and hot dog day, one kid was walking and accidentally tripped on his shoelaces. This sent his food tray flying across the room ... hot dog and all. The kid watched as his hot dog bounced against the floor of the cafeteria. Ever since then, it’s been a recurring myth that the hot dogs bounce and oftentimes you would see students tossing their hot dogs and putting this myth to the test. Logan Miller is typically the leader of the pack since he encourages food fights almost every week. Logan is eight years old, but his calculated actions and menacing glances said otherwise. During Ms. Hansen’s morning meetings, the students’ would turn their attention to him as he showed up thirty minutes late everyday and today was no exception. Ms. Hansen, being the people pleaser that she is, excused it each time. She had a lot on her mind between student loans, car payments, and other adult responsibilities. Perhaps there was a part of her that sympathized with Logan because she recalls a time when her eight-year-old self didn’t have many friends either. This was partially attributed to her braces, glasses, and the fact that she was overweight. Ms. Hansen knew how cruel other kids could be. She gave Logan four or five chances when the average person might have given him one or two. Logan stomps into the classroom and throws his heavy backpack to the ground. He sits at his desk with his legs spread apart, fiddling with his fingers and shifting his weight towards his chair which wobbles back and forth. Logan’s bright auburn hair grazes the top of his shoulders while a sea of freckles surrounds his pale face. His pink gums stick out, revealing several of his teeth that are missing. He has a history of telling classmates that he pulled out a few teeth all on his own. How he did it? No one knew. Some say that Logan did the infamous trick where he tied dental floss around his tooth and slammed the door. Others say that he was driving his father’s motorcycle on a cliff and had 28

smashed his teeth on some rocks. Perhaps he wanted the tooth fairy to come so he could find an extra five dollars under his pillow. Despite what others thought, Logan was a smart kid with decent grades. However, it was easier for him to act like he wasn’t. 10:30 AM - Ben Driscoll Ms. Hansen continues teaching her lesson and draws on the whiteboard in a desperate attempt to steer the attention away from Logan although he loves it. She notices that he’s wearing a plain t-shirt and cargo shorts, both of which were much too big for him and covered in wrinkles. When she smiles, two faint dimples appear on her cheeks as she tried her best to create a welcoming environment for her second graders, despite Logan’s frequent efforts to ruin it. Thus, Ms. Hansen attributes his overwhelming need for attention to being an only child. “Okay class! We’re going to look at this picture of a butterfly’s wings! Can anyone tell me what symmetry means?” she asks eagerly, as if she doesn’t already know the answer. “Symmetry means the same on both sides!” Ben responds. “Yes, good job! Did all of my friends hear that? Ben says that symmetry means the same on both sides!” she repeats, just in case her second graders didn’t hear her the first time. Although Ben is a smart kid, he tends to engage with the wrong crowd and often makes poor decisions resulting in detention. Ms. Hansen likes to think of Ben and Logan as temporary friends. Ben is a short and stout kid with green eyes and hair as black as charcoal. Ben often pairs his backwards baseball cap with blue jeans and an oversized sports jersey. Although he’s friends with Logan, it’s only until one of them punches the other too hard or says something that the other didn’t like. Their relationship resembled that of Tom, the cat, and Jerry, the mouse. These boys are a handful on their own, but it’s far worse when they devise schemes together. 29

12:30 PM - Suzy May For Ms. Hansen, specials are a time for her to break free from her second graders for all of forty-five minutes. Their love of music class almost exceeds their love of watching the Magic School Bus. The music teacher, Mr. Williamson, is a middle-aged man whose skills range anywhere from playing the drums to singing in a rock band on the weekends. His stubble ages him by a few years and his body resembles that of a number two pencil: lanky. Mr. Williamson’s voice is soft and smooth, but it could turn frightening relatively quick when having to reprimand Logan’s behavior. “Hi friends! How are you today?” he asks. “Good,” the class replies eagerly in unison. “So for today’s class, I’m going to teach you how to play an instrument called the ukulele! Can you all say ‘ukulele’?” he says. “U-KU-LE-LE,” the kids shout back to him. Mr. Williamson distributes eleven ukuleles between the twenty-two second graders, each sharing their little instrument with a partner. They team up with another person and the only two remaining are Logan and Suzy May. In Ms. Hansen’s class, Suzy May is known as the crybaby. Everyone at Maple Row thinks the name suits her as she sucks her thumb and cries for her mommy at eight years old. Suzy May’s curly blonde hair is often separated into two pigtails and her big blue eyes are usually clouded in a stream of tears. Her wardrobe consisted of pink outfits and sparkly sneakers with straps made of Velcro. Logan immediately snatches the ukulele from Mr. Williamson’s hands. “I’m going first!” he tells Suzy, not opening his response up for discussion. Suzy May slowly watches as Logan plucks the four-stringed instrument with carelessness. She waits patiently for her turn to 30

arrive, but his selfish nature and inability to share seems to take over. Logan prances around the room, tossing the ukulele as if it’s a soccer ball. Mr. Williamson is too preoccupied with helping the other students to recognize what’s going on. “Okay Logan! Your time’s up,” Suzy declares. “But that’s not fair! I only had two minutes,” Logan whines. “No, you didn’t! Can I have a turn now? If you’re not going to hand it over, I’m going to tell Mr. Williamson on you!” she fights back. Logan Miller is used to getting his own way, but Suzy May was not going to give in. Their hands fly in different directions with both kids attempting to gain possession of the coveted ukulele. “Logan and Suzy ... that’s enough! Now please drop the ukulele!” Mr. Williamson declares. He begins counting down “5...4...3...2 ...” “Well if I can’t have the ukulele, no one can!” Before anyone could stop the second grader, he sprints to the other side of the classroom and launches the instrument out the window. Logan Miller turns around to assess everyone’s reactions. Some are confused about what just happened and others stare in complete disbelief. Logan’s smirk is prominent on his face as an audience watches him maintain his reputation for breaking the rules. Mr. Williamson, on the other hand, looks as though he’d just seen a ghost. Tears invade their way into the music teacher’s eyes and his lips begin to quiver as if the now broken ukulele was one of his children. Ms. Hansen steps foot in the entryway of the music room. “Hi class - I’m here! I hope you were all respectful to Mr. -” she stopped mid-sentence after taking in what appeared to be a crime scene with all evidence pointing to Logan.

Kinsey 3 to 5

Tyler Villano-Maron First Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

This is a call to arms To all you cats out there Who like dicks and pussy. Bi struggle is actual, it is Looking at people, And going, What if I’m actually Gay and I lied To myself for years? And then, looking, A week or month or year later, Looking at other people, And going What if I’m actually Straight and I lied To myself again? Then the other part, That’s the part where You’re a second-class Citizen in LGBT circles Cuz you’re half-straight (their words) Cuz you look Straight-passing (their words), Cuz you’ll leave for the straight partner (their words); Discrimination is recycled. Don’t let them realize Biphobia into existence. Ride your bi-cycles like Daddy didn’t teach you, Like the phases They aren’t, 32

Like the experiment This isn’t; There is no Either-or And there is no But which one are you actually attracted to? Because bi means two And bi means both; no one Else gets to label Who you like— Not straight folk, Not gay folk, Or other folk, Just you.

But, Anger (2 a.m.) Tim Powers

It’s two a.m. and rest is far from my mind, drifting from my grasp on a flight in the snowy winds outside. I feel trapped behind my anger. A type of anger that blanketed me overnight, but is not as easily shoveled as snow. I remember what it used to be like, Thumping heartbeats, flushed faces, headphones blasting, Justice at my side. But now I get up out of bed and scream into silence, wondering at what point did it all go wrong; wondering at what point did I go wrong. Maybe it was the grief or I just fucked up, but now I’m just frozen and powerless to move myself out of the flurry of fury. I sometimes see a glimmer of the world that once was, but then I get pulled back by truth. How do I move on from something that still affects me; something that still cuts deep. I miss the people I once knew, who fought for their lives but could only go so far. I want to reach to a conclusion of caliber one day, maybe everything will be alright. But my anger still reigns, moving me in circles and only so much can be done at two a.m.

Take Your Time Tamara Anderson

I know what you do when you close your door. You come in from school and say that you’re fine. I sip the tea from my cup and watch you— You say I look weird and tell me to stop. I want to know what goes on in your life, But it’s hard when you push me to the side. I’ll try to keep my ears plugged and mouth closed, As I sit and feel the pain that you have. Just know that it hurts me to hear you cry, But I’ll sit here and wait, so take your time.

staring contest Tess Adams

First Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

i sit with my ass against the hard porcelain enameled steel, my chin resting in the curve between my knees, my knees pulled closely against my chest, my arms hugging them in, having a staring contest with the metal face plate, whose stuck up nose keeps the water from draining out of the tub. i feel sorry for this face who must always stare straight ahead, unconsentingly taking in our naked bodies, never being able to shut its eyes. one screw is slanted, so it’s eye slits point in different directions. i should be grateful for it’s turned up nose that keeps me in hot water. still, i’m sure it’s judging me and my unwarranted hangover. one of my favorite things about this tub is that it’s small. shallow. yet, it’s not a shower. most tubs like this are also showers, which then have curtains and all sorts of gunk in the drain. but not this tub. it’s a strange feature for a front bathroom. something you might only find in an unrenovated mid–century home. like the architect was simply bored of ordinary half baths and decided to insert his own spin. or maybe he had special goggles that allowed him to see into the future. maybe he looked through the lenses and saw babies and children being massaged by their mothers in the shallow waters, babies who became small children––children who believed that this bathtub was their soapy playground. maybe he saw adult women, boiling their bodies in the heat of the tub, looking for an escape from the rest of the house by shutting themselves inside a small part of it. maybe he saw me now, wondering how many more times i might sit here. i sat here once as a little girl, with my cousin, covered in bubbles, surrounded by floating figurines, creating worlds. for hours we created worlds, until our fingers pruned and baby skin became wrinkly. then, bathtime was an activity, a preoccupation, a function. now, it is the exact opposite. it is telling time to stop, or at the very least slow down. in here, i am inactive, unpreoccupied, nonfunctioning. when my mother brings her home, i will be caretaker. i will be active and concerned and useful. grandmother is breaking into pieces and we must scotch tape them back together, for the meantime. 36

so i sip my coffee, so that i may be useful, and not disappointing. last night at dinner, i sat at the big kids’ table. it was a seat i had earned suddenly, without asking for. i guess being 22 does that. i listened to these “adults” talk over one another, each with their own opinion on the best way to “handle things,” but as though i were very far away, observing with some sort of telescope for the ears. i was not spying; i had been invited. and i had added several extra shots of tequila to the margarita mix. never put a college student in charge of making the drinks. without the energy to chime in, to keep up with the conversation as it was happening, i sat there, listening, sort of, thinking––this is really how people talk. over one another. with no intention of reaching a solution. call me dr. fucking phil. i’m profound. this morning, however, i sit sober, in the tub, with my coffee, my body wishing I’d make water my drink of choice. i’ve made baths a habit. almost once a day. i shower too, don’t get me wrong; but there’s something about a bath––at night, in the morning, middle of the day. it’s a pause. it’s a space––no––a world that belongs to me for 30 minutes. i soak in the silence. outside, i am lonely; in the bath, i am embraced. i am held. i get why the women in my family have historically hid in this room. there’s a lot to look at. with my newfound adult knowledge, or maybe my impending eviction, i see it with new eyes, new scrutiny; i have new questions. i try seeing it through my mother’s eyes: she hid in here once. or twice. i see the toilet where her brother held her head down to find out how long she could hold her breath. i see the door she slammed to keep him out. i see the sink over which she funneled liquor into plastic bottles as a teenager. i see the counter she used to get ready for dates with men who weren’t my father. i try seeing it through my eyes too: i see the toilet that i sat on, eating betty crocker cake mix out of the box. i see the sink i washed my own blood down, pulling bits of glass out of my forearms after i’d crashed my bike in the street out front. i see the tiny lock that needs a very special key–– one i’d steal, locking myself in or out for fun. the mirror where i 37

did my makeup for holiday parties when i became only a visitor. the cabinets where i built a collection of half–used skin-care products. the linoleum floor that i lay on some days, wondering if death might be a preferable alternative to life. the floors are ugly and don’t match the wall paper, which is peeling now. still, i struggle to see the room for what it is. part of me still wants to believe it’s charming. maybe it is. the huge green and tan flowers on the walls have always struck me as being under water...or maybe floating? maybe that derived from my feeling like i was under water. what’s that psychological––rorschach test? the one where they can tell if you’re crazy by what you see in a bunch of images? maybe i was like that. i don’t think so though. it’s more of a mood you can feel than one you can see. maybe my schizophrenic cousin would disagree. 5:45 am, my fancypants 11 pro reads. it’s 8:45 am in New York. back home, my stepfather is already at work. he has taken the dog for a walk, fed him. he is not here with us. he is not calm in a crisis. he would like to be here. but that would only make matters worse. so i am here. in this house that helped raise me. waiting for my mother to bring her mother home from the hospital. my mother’s mother who was also my mother at times, especially when my mother became exhausted of bearing the work meant for two parents, not just one. i am taking a pause. when i get out, i will be ready to face the day. to ask and answer questions. to take care of my mother as we watch her mother face death. she hasn’t been facing it so far––my mom’s mom, my grandmother. she needs to believe she will get better. this is what gives her dignity, though she can no longer stand on her own. i don’t blame her. i prefer death when it’s sudden. my father, my grandfather, paternal grandmother, sister’s girlfriend, my childhood friend. or when it doesn’t exist to you at all––like my other grandparents, who all died before I was born. breathe. in. hold. exhale. turn the nose of the face plate down.

Skiptracing Glenna Gobeil

The Sun’s Goodbye Paige Pezzella

Sometimes I enjoy to be alone. When the day holds promise, the Sun encourages my dreams I confide in her warmth to hope at grasping fleeting childhood Yes, the daytime is bright, and golden in opportunity and feeling— Yet I can’t help but feel a sense of longing. A longing for what? Being alone now is nice I am free; free of thought, expression, desire, and life But what is that, creeping up so ominously, so quickly The Sun starts to depart, though she promised me she would stay. Oh not now, the feeling, the feeling so cruel— The feeling of alone; ruins happiness once again A day, struck by nighttime, the clouds swirling in a starless sky Why did being alone ever sound as if it were right? I need not be alone forever, the Sun had told me such was true But where is she now, her soft yellow rays appear so far away and lost. “She will return sooner than you know”, the blue Moon said (I doubt her truth, for she is the reason why I feel such as I do) I curse the Moon, her audacity to glow in so lonely a night. “I will not be here forever”, her silky words soothe my head She suggests that I close my eyes, for the Sun will be waiting when I open them again. As I’m awoken by a light so different from the Moon’s cold stare, I smile at my friend, joyous at the sight of her being there. Sometimes I enjoy to be alone.

Pavlov’s People Kaitlyn Bendick

All we have learned is Pavlovian. We don’t remember what we know, Only what we’ve been taught. We know how to breath, to swallow, to cry; How to squeeze our mother’s finger In a chubby hand for the first time. We are taught to force air through wavering Vocal cords to form a language, or two, or ten. To chew with our mouths closed And pluck a bright red ball from off of the ground. Yet all we have learned is Pavlovian. Taught through praises and compliments That we know are something to be strived for Because our brains know to release dopamine At the sight of a smile or sound of a laugh. We are taught through sweet foods That we know taste delicious and are worth it Because our cells know to convert The glucose they contain into enough energy to survive Another day back when we still hunted and gathered. All we have learned is Pavlovian As the more we are praised The more dopamine we produce Until we don’t even need to hear the praise Or taste the sweet to feel that rush of happiness. We learn through A grades And hearing a teacher tell us ‘good work’ That the ink we bleed from fountain pens forms words That sound a certain way in a certain order Are good. Until we no longer need a teacher To congratulate us for spilling red, or blue, or black on paper. What we know is that which our bodies know, Yet all we have learned is Pavlovian. 41

Devotion

Alessandra Varon Artificial emotion expressed with bated breath, stiff shoulders, fixed eyes, hoping no change would be detected. He didn’t want to damage me– he knew I looked at him like a star on Earth (a blemished star in need of work, but one that shone bright no less)– so he continued the farce, letting me believe he’d match my efforts, that he’d act with thoughtfulness and grace. Hectic as our time had been, he knew I’d stay, no matter how much he inundated me with suitcases of despair, because when he was supportive, jocular, present... nothing could be better; we were two kids who grew to become lovers in what seemed like a matter of minutes, eyes locked northward, following the opal in the sky that guided us home, to one another, or to the precipice on which we now stood, one ready to fall for the other, who was too scared to quell that to which he could not devote himself any longer. He strapped me in for the ride on the rollercoaster of his inconsistency, hoping the bell would toll, Sonorous and clear, Telling me what he could not: He was void of devotion. Under the layers he had built around himself, the one I loved had dissipated. Vivacious boy you have become a winded, bitter husk, fading away like the ringing of a xylophone’s keys as the mallets strike the feeble final note. I was yours, and you let me soar toward your shining light, pulling me in with an electric connection, only to zap me, the butterfly dupped by the temptation best suited for the moth. 42

II. Empty Hallways

Adam & Eve Isabella Caria

How to Fulfill the “Going Abroad” Dream and Come Back Broken-Hearted Josephine Buckley

Third Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

Start by hopping on a plane and embarking upon your lifelong dream to go to Ireland for a semester, and laugh when your cousins say, “Are you going to marry a farmer?” You’re more of a city mouse anyway. Notice that all the Irish boys wear skinny jeans, which you find a little peculiar, but admit to yourself that the long-on-top and short-on-the-sides hairstyle somehow looks good on just about every lad that that walks past you. Allow yourself to feel really cultured when you start to think of the guys as “lads” now. Make eye contact with the lads at the bar but don’t dance with them or let them buy you more than one pint of Guinness once they find out you’re an American; you don’t want to give them any false hope. Since you have barely any homework, spend some time on Tinder just because everyone else is. Pass the time, don’t let yourself get too hopeful. Meet up with a few strange lads, go ahead and give them some false hope, because maybe it could be exciting to get a free dinner and go for a spin around town with someone new. Wait up until bedtime for some stranger on a dating app to get off work (as a barman of course), so he can take you to the McDonalds drive-through. Don’t even try to hand him a 2 Euro coin for your snac-size McFlurry, you know that he can do better than a drive-through date anyway. You sit in the parking lot to talk and can barely see what he looks like, it’s pitch dark outside by now and can just barely make out that he has long dark hair and a bump on his nose the same way that you do. You allow him to let him tell you how he knows more about America than you do. Think this could actually be true, since he knows the exact amount of money we spend on our military budget, and you do not. ha Be a little intimidated with the way he likes to talk about guns, but know you have nothing to worry about since they’re banned in Ireland anyway. On the way back to town, let him drive fast on the highway and think to yourself how dangerous this could be, that you could get in an accident and die. Somehow, you don’t care though. You feel exhilarated and content with everything in your life right now. 48

You’re not going to be too hopeful by now, but the way that he lights up a cigarette just looks a bit enticing. Again, don’t let yourself get too excited, you’ve only got three more months left in the country anyways. When he asks to come upstairs to see your apartment once he has drove you back, say that he would wake up your roommates, and be just about to put your hand on the car door to get out before he exclaims a desperate “wait” and he grabs you for a kiss goodbye. Start laughing when you’re attempting to figure out if you should stick your tongue down his throat because you’re far too nervous and inexperienced in this kind of stuff to know how to act. Tell him you want to go to a museum for the next date, and he says that he’ll pick you up at half past five. Then find yourself waiting in your room for him to get to your apartment for about 45 minutes after you’ve already put on the itchiest pair of tights you own, because he’s “not very good at time management”. Be sure to make it known that you know more about the art in that museum than he does, and try to make just enough eye contact with him where you still come across as mysterious. When you go for coffee afterwards don’t offer to pay again,; you don’t mind gender roles in this case and neither does he. Let him up to see the apartment that night just to show him around. Don’t forget to tell him not to get too excited. After the third date, after you’ve played some video games at the arcade and had some pizza and a few pints, then the two of you decide to spend some more time upstairs in your apartment again. Don’t mind telling him whether or not to get too excited. Notice how skinny he looks, vulnerable with his fair skin compared to his dark black hair. Notice his large, full lips. Compared to most Irish boys it would be rare to find a kisser as good as him you think while he gets on top of you. You know it probably doesn’t mean as much to him as it does to you, but you continue to let him be on top of you because you can’t stand being a virgin any longer, and by this point you feel as though he’s earned it enough. Try not to seem too upset when he doesn’t spend the night in the apartment, but still ask “can I have a kiss goodnight?” before he leaves you alone in bed. When you go to ask the “what are we” question after a few more dates, cover up your long face with a laugh when he 49

hesitates too long for comfort before he says. “Acquaintances… that go on lots of dates together”. Tell your friends about him, how he’s from the most beautiful rolling hills of Ireland and what fancy places he takes you for dinner. Brag about how he never lets you pay and maybe slip in that he’s great in bed too. Stay up until 3am when he goes out on a Saturday night because you know he’ll be calling as you’re asleep to see if he can spend the night. You know it probably isn’t worth it to lose sleep over him, but you hasn’t seen him in a couple days, so you think what the hell. Have some patience with his drunken antics and laugh as you watch him roll around your floor attempting to eat a slice of pizza at the same time. Even though he looks like a total idiot, you can’t stop laughing until your stomach hurts. Help him get off the floor and give him a kiss goodnight as you tuck him in like a baby under your sheets. When your father comes to visit you feel obligated to ask him if he would like to meet your dad, but a small part of you feels relieved when he says “maybe not”. Don’t be too surprised either; it’s only been about two months, and you’ll be packing up to leave in less than a month. Don’t protest when you finally ask if he would come to visit the states sometime and all he musters up is “that’s far.” But again don’t protest when he introduces you to all his friends, or takes you to see the rolling hills of his backyard, when he shows off his favorite horse, “Two-toned.” When you get to meet all three of his little jumpy dogs, smile even though you realize you might never get the chance to see them again. Don’t be annoyed with him, just live in the moment when you wave to his mother through the car window. Take it for what it is. When you go out for pints later that night and after about the third bar he finally gets the courage to ask “can I come to New York,” say yes of course. This is the moment that you’ve been waiting for, that fairytale ending that you prayed for. But for some reason it doesn’t seem as magical as you thought it would. Then ask him why he didn’t meet your father. Enjoy the satisfaction of realizing he’s been feeling the same way, and that you knew it, even though he sometimes didn’t show it. But then ask him enough questions to bring him back to reality. The next morning 50

you both agree that it was nothing more than a drunken thought to try long-distance. The next morning, ask him if he’s sure that he doesn’t want to give it a try. Hold him in your bed for the last hour before you leave to get on the bus, and hold back your tears the whole time. When the bus arrives and you leave to go back to New York, give him the strongest squeeze and a kiss like you’ll never get to see your first love again.

I Offer Lies Brian Ataka

My mother tells me I should call more, As if to put to bed the ocean of a past between us. Ocean where boats of hope were fated to flood, And ships of dreams were doomed, just doomed. As if to put to sleep my memories, To call and say, hello, I love you, and what’s new? Like cold nights on empty benches don’t haunt me, As if hunger and silence are not synonymous with home. To call and pretend, to love you, make amends and eschew Nonsense. Forgive the changing couches, and forget— Life in duffle bag, life all in one hand. She wishes upon the stars that comforted me, Nonsense— Forgiveness and fade of forgetting But I call, knowing every word is fabricated, and I call Providing her with a bit of morphine for the mind, Knowing that her fate was worse than mine. But I call, despite my best judgement, I call And the cuts anew, the pain renewed, and the torture— Is knowing I will look for her in the arms of my lovers, In life for the aura of my missing mother.

Ode to the Pink Lace Thong I found in your bed Victoria Franklin

There it was Perched on your bed post Staring at me Almost giggling at me Taunting me to ask Yet I know it’s not mine I hate the color pink But it seems You believe it is mine How silly Of me to think That you were Better than the rest And your attempt To restore peace By throwing it out Has the opposite effect It fills me with rage And causes me to storm out But it is not the thong That I am mad at I want to thank the thong For it has saved me From another disastrous mess That one might try to call love And when I finally meet Your owner I do not get angry But I thank her Because her pink lace thong Slapped me in the face When I needed it the most.

The Stranger

Alessandra Varon

After Jericho Brown

Fatigue always overstays its welcome, Despite it I never sleep soundly. Sound sleep has been a stranger for quite some time, Replaced by never-ending nightmares. These days the nightmares never seem to end, Some hinged on violence, some on stress, others death.

The world is stressful— full of violence and death, On account of gender, race, and God.

If our gender, race, and Gods divide us, How could a virus ever unite us? We cannot even unite against illness, Our eyes are peeled open and we’re forced to watch. We’re forced to watch as something new drains us all, Inflicting a fatigue that may never leave

How to Break Up with Your Mother Brantley Boyda

“So, you stopped dyeing your hair?” That is the first thing you say to your mother in years. Her eyes widen. You can see the discomfort in them. “No,” she replies. Her hand plays with the headband that had been revealing her silver roots. Squint and pretend to see the dye job. “Oh, I’m sorry. This place has bad lighting, I guess.” Offer her a smile and ignore the urge to tell her about the salon your step-mom goes to. “I’m going to order a coffee.” You stand up to go towards the counter. Clare already has a to-go cup in front of her, lipstick stains the top of it. It is not rude to leave to get a drink when she already has one. “Here, let me—” Your mother slides a piece of paper across the table. You stare at Alexander Hamilton’s eyes for a moment before looking up at your mother’s. “Take it, Skylar. Please.” She implores. You feel off-kilter. In the past it had been Clare asking you for money, but never offering or paying you back. Stare for another moment so she knows just how out of character she looks to you right now. Now oblige. Grab the cash from her hand and ignore the coldness of her skin. You think about how she has always had cold hands, even when you were a child and wanted a hug. Clare had always brushed you off, claiming she was cold. It seems like that is still the same. The line is not long, although you wish it were. While waiting, you try to smooth out Alexander’s face on the edge of the nearby display. He needs to look picture-perfect. That’s something that Clare’s mother used to say to you. You can smell the gagging-inducing perfume by memory as your grandmother’s voice rings in your ear: “You need to look picture-perfect, dear”. You suppress a shudder at the memory. When it is your turn to pay, you’re almost sad to see Alexander go. The cashier doesn’t spare a second glance at the effort you made on the ten-dollar founding father’s portrait, but at least you get a steaming cup of coffee in return. “What did you get?” Clare asks as you sit back down. 55

“A latte.” Take a sip. Ignore the burn quickly forming on your tongue. Wave off Clare’s worry. “I’m fine. It was just too hot.” “You shouldn’t have drunk it so fast.” Clare says. Her tone is haughty. Your fingers bend the plastic of your cup at her words. Don’t roll your eyes, don’t engage—the last time you engaged, it ended badly. Instead nod along. Change the topic. “How is your family?” If Clare notices the choice of your wording, she does not say anything. “They are good. How are your father and Kim doing?” “Dad’s been working a lot. And Mo—um, Kim is good, too. She got a new job recently.” Pause. Hold your breath. Gauge Clare’s reaction. Did she notice your slip-up? Your mother’s eyes grow misty. “You don’t call her Kim anymore? You call her mom now?” Look guilty. Feel shame for betraying Clare. Her eyes are full of tears now. They fall in huge drops onto the table. Clare had always been a loud crier, she attracts attention every time she does this in public. This time is no different. Her sobbing wrecks the harmony of the coffee shop. Now everyone is looking at you. See what you have caused. Resist the urge to run and hide. Act on autopilot. Clare is your responsibility after all. You caused this mess. You need to fix it. Now, before it gets any worse. Make the tears go away. Open your mouth. Apologize. Say the words. “I am sorry”—three words—it’s simple. But you find it isn’t. Ask yourself: why are you apologizing? Why is Clare your responsibility? That thought is the key to taking back control of your body. Instead, stay silent. Close your mouth and wait. Sit back and cross your arms. You look like the bad person to the strangers for causing the older woman to bawl like a child. Look nonchalant. Pretend not to care. Enjoy the rest of your coffee. The tantrum will stop soon enough. You’ve lost count over the years of the amount of tantrums Clare has caused. When Clare stops crying, tell her the truth. Keep your voice steady. “Yes. I call Kim ‘Mom’ now.” Ignore the puffiness of Clare’s cheeks as she asks. “Since when?” 56

Play with the hem of your shirt. Try to think of the easiest way to let Clare down gently. You think about your high school boyfriend and how that break-up went. There had been a lot less tears. It had been mutual because you were both going off to different colleges. Matt is still your friend on Facebook. You don’t think this break-up will go the same way. Stick to the truth. “A while.” There is a burning sensation in the back of your throat. It hurts to swallow. You can feel your own tears coming now. Clare repeats herself. “Since when?” Most strangers have lost interest in you now except for one little boy in the far corner. Glare at him until he tucks himself into his own mother’s side. Pay no attention to your brief jealousy of the boy. “Skylar, answer me.” Turn back to Clare. Notice the anger in her eyes. Frown at her. Wonder if she still thinks of herself as the victim. You can see the cycle from your childhood play itself out again if you choose to indulge her. You will have to act as the grown-up again if you do— playing the parent when you should be playing the child. You feel angry at those memories. The urge to leave returns again. Stand up so you are looking down at her. “My mom stepped up and filled the void you left. That’s all you really need to know. And honestly, that’s the only real reason I agreed to meet with you—to tell you that your services as a mom are no longer needed!” Your voice is loud by the time you finish speaking. Releasing the anger feels good. “You came here to rub your new mom in my face?” Clare’s eyebrows furrow together. Her voice rises. “What kind of person does that?” Fake an inquisitive expression. “Oh, I don’t know… the kind of person whose mother abandoned them?” Clare puts her hand over her heart with a loud gasp. “I never did that!” People are looking again. You see two employees whispering and pointing at you from behind the lunch counter; they look like they’re enjoying the drama. The tears feel more eminent now. Your hands are shaking too. Now is a good time to leave. Leave before Clare sees the effect she can have on you. 57

Repeat your therapist’s words: Clare has no control over you. “Good-bye, Clare.” “Wha—wait, Skylar!” There’s a scraping sound and loud shoes sound against the wooden floor as Clare comes around the table. She towers over you now in her six-inch wedges. Her brown eyes stare down at you. Refuse to feel small. Clench your hands so she won’t see them shaking. Take the time to really look at her. The Clare that you knew as a child is absent now. You map the age lines on her forehead and the droopiness of her skin. The crow’s feet and smile lines she once had have faded. But it is the look in her eyes stands out to you the most. The look in her eyes is something foreign. Like the countries she used to visit when you were a child—when you had dreamed of growing up to be just like Clare, traveling the world with such passion for exploring. To be free without any burden holding you back. But now, you can see the fire that Clare once held in her irises is gone. In between the harsh criticisms and frequent absents you remember a brilliant and shining woman—one who had loved her job above all else. Now she looks like a pearl who lost its luster: dull and faded. Let the anger from before fade away. Feel sympathy for Clare now. Something terrible must have happened to make her change so much in the years you’ve been apart. Don’t allow yourself to wonder if the reason was you. Don’t allow yourself to feel guilty. Clare seems to know that you are not going to say anything else. Instead she asks, “You call me by my first name now?” Your throat still hurts from choking back tears. Just nod. A small tear rolls down Clare’s cheek. You don’t know what to say. Stay silent. The shop is too warm now. Head towards the door. The cool air will make you feel better. Walk quickly out the door. Tell yourself to not look back. Don’t think about Clare’s expression. Ignore the guilt blossoming in your chest. Tell yourself that you did the right thing. Drive away as quickly as possible until you find a safe place to pull over to finally let your own tears fall. When you get home, your dad and mom ask you how it went. Give them a hug. 58

Sober

Emma Gallagher

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

I hope I’m not too harsh by saying, I hate when my mother cries. I never cry -- I learned not to, From the house I grew up in. I smiled and was polite when, I knew she was drunk. I held my breath as she drove, me to a friend’s house with a thermos. I laughed at her jokes when, she pretended she didn’t have a problem. I watched her drink until, her teeth turned purple. She cried when she got a DUI, but said that it was normal. I couldn’t call her past 8pm, because I knew she would be slurring. I’m told alcoholism is an illness, but I think there’s always a choice. I blame her for a lot of what’s wrong with me but that’s something she refuses to recognize. And even though she has apologized, and is sober I can’t stand the fact, That she is better, And expects me to forget. So yes, I hate when my mother, cries because she doesn’t deserve to, I do.

It’s Past My Bedtime Gabriel Purpura

now at 2 in the morning and I am devoid of real thought. I think over the day and night I just had— I went for a run as the sun was waking and saw the cold earth covered in mounds of white, the day was bright reflecting off the ice-capped park benches, boulders, garages, and lawns, but there was an absence to the whole thing. People were gone, some forever, the vehicles stained with salt marks; driveways iced over, some still not cleared at all. The streets were empty, the only sound foot after foot echoing out into the void matched only by the shallowness of breath that only years of habitual smoking can lead to. I saw the trees dead and cold, coated in ice. Except those few evergreens living and cold like me. I’d gone too far— I nearly missed class, Where I heard stories of others dealing with the coldness of the world and it made me feel cold that I had no stories to relate back to the world. I didn’t lose anything. My life had gotten no better and no worse since the pandemic started. I don’t know anyone who died, I don’t even know anyone who had it, but just because you haven’t seen something doesn’t mean it isn’t real. People talk about life after the pandemic, hell some people are living life after the pandemic in other countries, in distant lands, across cold oceans— I saw both of my brothers today, one 17, nearly a man himself, and the other only 3, still a far cry away from true childhood. My father asked, as he always does, when I will be having one, like it is something you go to the store and buy. The truth is I don’t think about fatherhood, how can I when its nearly 2:15 and I’m still nursing a bottle of whisky, alone, in a nearly empty house filled with the ghosts of childhood— 60

The ghosts I fear that I will recreate in my own kid’s childhood. How can I even think about that, at nearly 25, recovering from a breakup that left me shattered, cold, unemployed, still in school, chasing a meaningless piece of paper, venturing forward with a cracked compass and map painted on the back of a coffee napkin? The idea of being someone else’s dad terrifies me, if I am lost that kid is lost too— I realize I didn’t do much today. The truth is I don’t do much most days. My life is not complex. All I’m left with at 3 in the morning is the sobering reminder I am alone, and because of the choices I made. Pushing people away, breaking up with girlfriends, losing close ones to the coldness of the world, and one thing that haunts me is the idea that someday I will be a dad, and someday my children will be cold too.

Obscurus

Emma Bender

Lights Out Tess Adams

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

“She wants it,” I hear him say. Somewhere far away, there is a skeleton of a conversation being had. I am draped, like a curtain, across his chest. I am folded onto his neck. I am lifted up, up, up. His mouth is warm. His lips are soft, a warm, wet pillow pressed against my face. Behind the shades, the sun is warm and bright. I am my own company. I think about my parents and how they are far away. I am far away, sliding back, back. The shades are growing heavy and the sun is going down. Lights out. “Does that feel good?” Boy’s voice in my right ear and pressure 63

outside jeans. His hand. The other under shirt. Nerves twitching under skin. Echoes voice in head escape this cave Imovey lip sto sayser no. buttismouthson my lips anthushade drawn over my eyes. Dream, instead. Lighsout “Hey,” voice forward calls it boy’s voice it’s “Hey,” says. Cradle me neck head rock back forth. “Hey, look at me,” him. Look. shades are up, see those 2 brown eyes stare blacks browns and whites reds and head my head is held. Taking care of my. I am a child the lap his lap power, more power, no power. I don’t I can’t rest. Let me 64

back to dreaming No, no not satisfied not satisfied I have looked into his eyes. Not satisfied I triedto for mords move slips m oovtongand I hang onisnecklika sloth ande mekesisway down dwn li g ts

III. Voices I Hear at Night

Boca Raton in November Emily DePaola

Second Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

When I walk into the kitchen of my childhood home my mother is already sitting and waiting at the table. She gifts me with a quick glance, as if she is checking it’s me, and then her gaze goes back to the grooves of the wood before her. She seems shocked to see me walking in. In front of what used to be my seat at the table is a bowl, a box of cereal, a gallon of milk, and a hot cup of coffee in the mug I received as a souvenir at my senior prom. I eat my breakfast and sip the coffee in between bites. I expect her to say something, but I don’t know why. I’m certainly not going to be the first to speak. I’ve been in this house for 18 hours and exactly zero words have been spoken. Honestly, I’m happy to eat in the silence. I don’t want to make small talk with my mother about the fact that I haven’t seen her in almost a year and the about reason I’ve finally come home. Adamantly blaming the woman who raised you for everything wrong in your life at her birthday party (in front of your entire extended family) isn’t really a breakfast discussion. She stops staring at the table—eventually the groove you’re following in the wood comes to an end—and instead she just watches me eat and drink. Nothing is stranger than eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes in your childhood home as your mother stares silently at you. After I’m done eating, I stand up and carry my coffee back into the aggressively pink and overly decorated bedroom of my past. From the kitchen I can hear her rinse out the bowl and put it into the dishwasher. Next, as I anticipate, I hear the fridge open and close and then the sound of her closing the cereal box. Sometimes you can’t break habits, even when everything around you is broken. My suitcase is half open on the floor next to my closet, packed full of sweaters, jeans, t-shirt, and flip flops. At my parents’ house in New York, and Philadelphia where I’ve been living for the past few months, it’s freezing in November. It’s currently 82 degrees in Boca Raton. So, I was forced to pack an all-inclusive suitcase for this nightmare of a… I almost just called it a vacation. I think I’ll call it the Terrible Trip. 69

She’s waiting for me in the kitchen when I come out the second time, but this time she’s standing at the front door, leaning against her own suitcase. I wonder what she packed. She didn’t have to pack sweaters, hers sit in the creaky drawers of her dresser, next to the empty drawers in the dresser next to hers. When I speak for the first time, my voice sounds foreign to me. It seems as though my adult voice isn’t meant to be in this house. That the air it’s resonating through and the walls my soundwaves are bouncing against don’t understand the maturity in my tone. They would only recognize my childhood cries or my teenage rants. “Are you ready?” I’m the first to speak and I willingly accept the defeat. She just nods her head and turns out the door. As she always taught me: If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. When I arrived the night before, it was too dark out for me to see the disarray that the house had arrived at. There are leaves everywhere, weeds growing in between the cracks of the sidewalk and one of the gutters is dangling for dear life off the side of the house. It looks like no one has cared for it in weeks, maybe months. I can say with certainty that it’s been 7 weeks and.4 days since anyone has done anything for the yard or the house. I figured she would hire someone, not just let the house go to shit. We’re taking my car to the airport to park in the long-term parking, but Mom goes straight for the driver’s seat. Figures. I’ve been driving for a decade now, but she still thinks I’m going to hit the car in front of me when they hit their brakes. It takes a lot of time to change what your parents think of you. I’m not entirely sure it’s ever possible. I don’t think I’m ever going to find out. She’s driving too slow for my liking, but to critique her would require speaking to her and there’s only so many battles you can fight at 7 o’clock in the morning. Instead, I stare at the streets that I used to look at every day. I still remember them perfectly, could walk them blindfolded, but I don’t think they know me anymore. I’m not the same person that I was as the last time they saw me. Nothing in this place would recognize me anymore. The fact that my home now feels like a neighborhood in which I don’t belong depresses me more than it probably should. 70

Instead, I look at Mom. Her hair needs a dye—her grey roots are the better part of her short hair at this point. Her eyes sag against her cheekbones and her mouth looks as if it’s never known how to smile. Her nose looks nice. I’ve always been jealous of her nose, it’s the perfect shape. The veins on her hands are bulging. Her hands are bare and decrepit. She’s never looked so old before. Between the streets not recognizing me and my aging mother I’m resigned to stare at the dashboard from the passenger seat of my own car. __________________ The first time she speaks to me, we’re on the plane. Managing to make it through airport security, boarding, and finding our seats on the 747 with only my mumbled “Take out your boarding pass” and “Put your phone in the bucket too.”. We moved silently through the majority of the airport as a cohesive unit. “I want to take a car straight there. I don’t want to put it off longer than we have to” she states firmly, not giving me much room to argue. I don’t want to argue with her though. I agree. “Okay. I have the address that the cop on the phone gave me. You want to carry our suitcases around though? We could just drop them quick at the hotel first” I offer, starting the first actual conversation we’ve had in months. “No. Let’s just do it.” And that’s the end of the conversation. __________________ For all intents and purposes, Boca Raton seems alarmingly normal. Nothing about the airport, the people, or the fact that it’s 80 degrees in November makes me want to uproot my life and move here. The appeal just isn’t there. As we crawl into the back of a cab at the airport and take off, I stare at the streets and they stare right back at me. The unfamiliarity is mutual. I wonder if they recognize me a little though. They knew my father for 7 weeks and 1 day. Do they see him in my face? The way I walk? How I tilt my head to the left when contemplating a problem? No, they wouldn’t recognize me. Because the man these streets knew for those weeks was not the man I knew. He wouldn’t 71

leave his wife of 32 years, the house in which he raised me, his job, and his life behind to go through his midlife crisis with a bartender named Lily, who’s only two years older than me, in Boca Raton. __________________ I started to notice a rift between them when I came home for Thanksgiving break my freshman year of undergrad. They didn’t come out and say to me directly “Honey, our marriage is falling apart,” but I knew them both well enough to know that something had changed. The biggest sign to me was that the couch cushions on the living room couch had lost some of their volume. My dad had been sleeping on the couch. And his toothbrush and toothpaste were out of their ensuite and in the bathroom downstairs. I hated it. I hated them. Instead of talking to me like adults they had me playing detective in my own home. I didn’t understand how something could’ve happened between when I left in August to when I came home in Thanksgiving for them to act as if they didn’t live together anymore. It couldn’t have been my father’s fault. He worked a lot and sometimes he yelled at the TV during games of Jeopardy and during World War II movies, but he was the kindest man I’d known. He worked a lot to send me to school and to summer camps every year. He taught me how to ride a bike and jump start a car and how to use a can opener. All the furniture in my overly pink childhood bedroom he built for me. With my help of course. Though when I think of it, I was five and the only real contributions I made were knocking over the screws and handing him the hammer. My mother is an angel. How could she break apart the marriage? She never raised her voice at me, and she tucked me in with a kiss goodnight every single night. She drove me from school, to practice, to home, to more practices constantly. It’s hard to remember my mom sitting down ever when I was younger. She’s the kind of person that doesn’t kill the bug on the wall, but gently places it back outside to live happily. It didn’t make sense that these two people could abandon their dedication to each other and their marriage in just a few months. By the end of that Thanksgiving break I realized. They 72

weren’t dedicated to each other. They were dedicated to me. When I remember them both fondly, I never remember them fondly together. My mother never kissed him goodnight and he never built her anything she wanted. By removing me from the equation for a few months I had removed the one thing they had in common. They didn’t have to act like they loved each other for my sake because I wasn’t there anymore. This infuriated me because their inability to work things out made me feel guilty. They kept it together for four more years—probably so I would have a nice home to come home to for the holidays. But eight months after my graduation my dad took off with Lily. That left my mother to be the sole object of my rage at her birthday party. __________________ I’ve never been to a morgue before. The only dead bodies I’ve seen are my grandparents—all embalmed and in cushiony mahogany caskets. This is different. When we get there, suitcases dragging behind us and making an excessive amount of noise in the reception area of the coldest building I’ve ever been in, a woman with glasses and no makeup on besides bright blue eyeshadow asks us our business. I don’t know why, but I was half expecting Lily to be here. I guess that ultimately defeats the purpose of why we had to come. Getting a phone call that your father died in a city 1,200 miles away from driving under the influence and slamming is his car into a tree going 75 is a shock. Getting a call two days later that no one has claimed his body is enraging. You would think that the bitch would have the decency to come claim his body. Technically, Mom and Dad are still married, he ran off before divorce papers could be drafted. I figured he’d run off with the tramp to Paris or that he was living in the English countryside, but to get the call that he’s been living in Boca Raton was confusing. Why couldn’t he tell me where he was going? Was he so unhappy with his life that he couldn’t tell his only child where 73

he was going in case she needed him? Anyway, technically since they were still married, she’s next of kin. She claims the body. She didn’t want to tell them over the phone to instead try to locate Lily and have her do it, so she booked two plane tickets and texted me to drive from my apartment in Philadelphia to New York. __________________ He looks different. Not just because he’s dead and a lot paler than I remember, just slightly older than the last time I saw him. Just like Mom, he aged in the gap of time in which I never came home. But while his aging has now been halted by time, Mom will continue to grow older, alone, and she’ll continue to struggle with why he felt he could treat her so horribly. It’s ironic that after abandoning her, she is now in charge of what to do with his body and the funeral. Do we hold a wake back in New York? How do you tell your friends and families to come mourn a man that you know ran off almost two months ago and died off on a bender? I half expect her to tell the man to just throw his body into the ocean or cremate him and scatter his ashes in a landfill. Mom is crying but I’m not. Instead, I can’t breathe. My lungs can’t seem to inflate. The air in the room is so cold every breath in feels like I’m pouring ice down my throat and into my lungs. The only thing I can think of is that he looks uncomfortable on the metal table. He was always so meticulous with the arrangement of his pillows in order for him to fall asleep in bed and now he has no pillows. My mom walks out of the room with her silent tears and I mumble a quiet “Bye daddy” before leaving him behind as well. After we fill out a preposterous number of forms, we wheel our suitcases back out and walk up to the Uber that I ordered while we were inside. She shocks me by speaking. “I’m sorry I made you come,” she says with a calm tone. “I just didn’t want to do it alone. I could’ve though. It’s not like we would’ve gotten into an argument, he’s dead. I was scared she would be there.” “I thought so too. She’s probably off in another city with another guy. This was just a blip on her radar” I remind her. The 74

gravity of my words shocks me. She ruined our lives, and his, and she will probably forget he existed soon. “You’re right. But I kind of wanted to bitch slap her” she says in a hush whisper, probably so the diver won’t hear her and judge her. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom say “bitch” before. “Me too” I smile at her. “But I think it’s bad taste to smack someone in a morgue.” “Probably” she says through a smile. She takes my hand in hers and rests it in her lap.

Ghosts

Haley Bonin I feel cold throughout my whole body. The pain I feel is too much to bear. I can’t handle this pain anymore. Your ghost is still here, it sits where you sat. I see your ghost sitting in your old seat. I’m reminded of all the laughs we shared. Your laugh haunts me, I can hear it now. Time is a taunting thing, it moves too fast. I couldn’t keep up with the time passing by. Memories are worse than time, they are forever. I’ll be left with these memories forever. I miss you now more than ever before. I’ve never needed you with me more than now. I feel the cold throughout my whole body.

I Remember Tim Powers

Third Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

I remember the fog on that evening you were taken away. I remember how the ambulance lights pierced their way through it. I remember how you couldn’t walk, like you simply forgot. I remember the lies I told you in an effort to comfort you, “It’s going to be ok; you’ll get your strength back.” I remember the first hospital visit, when you seemed in good spirits. I remember the days of sitting outside, talking on the phone with you. I remember the eagerness in your voice. I remember realizing, weeks later, that your end was near. I remember the second-to-last hospital visit, you still managed a smile on your face when you saw me. I remember the last visit most of all, you couldn’t say anything, and neither could I. I remember feeling exhausted, as if I were the one in pain. I remember the last time I saw you for good, in the funeral home under a white sheet. I remember just being there. But I don’t remember a feeling. I remember not wanting to hold your hand, knowing that I would remember the feeling of your cold skin forever. I remember saying goodbye and just walking out the door. I remember, days later, walking through your now empty home, the only sound left was the buzz of the air conditioner. It seems these days all I do is remember.

Messages For The Lost Kylie Ray

10:45pm December 2nd, 2020— From Celesta Hey Henry, It’s Celesta. Sorry I’m calling so late. I tried to call earlier but I heard your voice on the voicemail message and I just couldn’t. So… I didn’t. I gained a bit of confidence from then to now and I’m ready to talk. It’s been really hard for me to come to terms with your passing. I… I didn’t really want to call this number because I know you aren’t going to pick up and I don’t really want to give myself any false hope, but some people said it was a good idea so I’m here. Yeah… I just wanted to fill you in on things that are happening in my life and in the world that you won’t not know about. So yeah… that’s pretty much all I have the courage to say right now. I’ll call back later, okay? Love you! 4pm December 4th, 2020— From Celesta Hey Henry, It’s me again. Celesta. But... you would have known that wouldn’t you. I’m sorry, it’s been just one of those days, you know. It’s been a bit hard to get out of this apartment since the lockdown had begun. Actually, cases started to get a tad better for a little bit before they started tanking again. I could lose my job again because of this. Being a musician is already hard enough as it is but this is making it impossible. Remind me again why I decided to become a musician instead of doing anything that had to do with finance! I was a finance major in college, but you somehow convinced me to try and become a musician. “You love music don’t you? So why aren’t you doing it?” That’s what you told me every single time I would bring up music or even touch an instrument. You said other things to try and convince me to take up music again too, but that is the one sentence that is burned into my brain. It was so annoying at times… but I knew you were doing it because you wanted to see me happy. I am happy. And I know you can’t see it but, I smile every time I touch an instrument. I never did that when I picked up a finance book, but who would? I get to play my instruments in front of hundreds of people almost every night, well not at the moment, but still… I remember your face when I told you I got my first gig at this old 78

bar in town. I knew it wasn’t going to pay much but I didn’t care. Your face lit up like a Christmas tree when I told you and you went around calling everyone you knew to brag about your musician girlfriend. Which didn’t hold much weight at the time... How did I get from talking about the threat of losing my job for the second time to talking about how I even got into this career in the first place? I’m rambling again, aren’t I? Sorry, I’m rambling in a call, that you’ll definitely never hear, on my couch to distract myself. I always seem to find a way to ramble about something no matter what platform I’m using. I remember you said that was one of the things you loved about me. You said it was my way getting all my thoughts out in the open. My way of organizing my thoughts and to share my most creative idea to anyone who would listen. Also, You never liked the silence much anyway. I should probably go. This message is already super long and I don’t want to be cut off. I’ll call you again soon, okay? Love you! 6:22pm December 8th, 2020— From Celesta Hi again. I adopted a cat today. I remember how much you loved cats but could never have one because you were severely allergic to them. My… family thought this would be a good idea… to adopt a cat. They said it would help me cope with… your death and all. Cats are calm and one could give me the love and affection I “need” right now and I could give that right back. I went to the local shelter here in town and adopted an old tuxedo. He’s 8 years old and had apparently been there for about 2-3 years. He looked so sad so I took him home. I named him Elton John cause that’s my favorite musician… I thought about naming him after you but I think that would be too much for me. I’m trying to find him right now. He’s kind of hiding from me right now but I know we’ll get along soon enough. We both just need time to get used to our new normal. It’s too quiet in this house without you here. I don’t like it. 3:59pm December 10th, 2020— From Celesta Hey Henry. I bought myself a piano today. Impulsive decision I know. I have no idea where I’m going to put it in this tiny apartment, but I’ll find space. It should be here in about 2 79

weeks. When I saw it, I just couldn’t pass it up. For some reason it reminded me of you. You never played piano. I think the only time you had ever put your hands on one was when I sat you down at your parents house once around 2 years ago. I tried to teach you,“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” You got so frustrated at this one song because you couldn’t remember the right keys to play. You were always one key off. Funny memory for me that I just wanted to share. I’ll call later, okay? Love you. 8:10pm December 12th, 2020—From Celesta Okay, so I just got out of the shower and found little Mr. Elton John sitting in the cabinet that has his cat food, ripping holes into bags to eat! His food is in the cabinet above the fridge! I don’t know how he got up there. I knew he could jump up onto the counter but I didn’t think he could jump all the way up to the top of the fridge, let alone open the cabinet with his little cat paws! He won’t let go of the bag no matter how much I try to tug him away from it. Oh my god, he’s dragging the bag of food out of the cabinet. This is a two hand job. I’ll call you later okay. “No Elton, let go of the bag!” I have to go... Love you. 11:15am December 13th, 2020— From Celesta Hey Henry, how are you? Sorry for the crazy message I felt last night. Mr. John just loves his food. I’ve been calling him Mr. John now. He’s starting to warm up to me. He’s actually sitting next to me right now while I do some Christmas shopping. This year is going to be especially hard because you’re not here with me. I know Christmas wasn’t really your holiday but you still had some Christmas spirit in you. I remember last Christmas you tried to surprise me by making Christmas cookies. I was surprised when I came home.. to a house full of smoke. Apparently you forgot to set a timer and just figured you would take them out of the oven around the time they were ready. Well, you had just taken your medication for your… cancer and that combined with the treatments you had done just a few days before made you really tired. You left the cookies in the oven for longer than they should 80

have been in there. I don’t know how the smoke didn’t wake you up, but you did sleep like a log so I’ll let that one slide. You were so upset when I ran frantically into the apartment, opening up every window so the smoke alarm wouldn’t go off. You just wanted to do something nice for me because we didn’t know how many more Christmas we would have left together. We ended up making cookies together once all the smoke cleared. Thank you for trying to... make a good thing come out of a bad situation. I know the last 2 years have been hard for us, this year especially after losing you in October but… we always tried. I wish we had known sooner then maybe you would be sitting here with me looking for a christmas present. I… think I should go. My voice is getting shaky and I feel like if I keep talking I’m going to start crying. Oh, Mr. John just snuggled into me. I guess he can tell I’m upset. Thank you boy. I’m going to go now, but I’ll talk to you soon. I promise. Love you... 4am December 14th, 2020— From Celesta I’m sorry… I’m calling so early in the morning Henry but I… had a dream I needed to talk about. It wasn’t a bad dream, like the ones I’ve been having recently. It was a memory of when we first met. You needed help on an essay for one of your classes when you were a junior in college and I, a senior. I think it was for a programming class? Why were you writing an essay in a programming class anyway? Sorry, back to the point. You needed help with an essay, so you came to the writing center of our school and got assigned to me. We sat for hours editing and revising that essay because it was so bad. I don’t think we went more than 2 sentences without finding some mistake. You said you didn’t really want to come but one of your friends read your paper and literally pushed you into the writing center herself. You thought it was good and that annoyed me so much for some reason. I already wasn’t in the best mood when you got assigned to me but for some reason you saying this ticked me off. I didn’t know if you were joking or if you were completely serious because you would have failed if you handed in that essay. I guess you could sense that because I was a bit annoyed because you pulled your computer away, told me we could revisit 81

this because it wasn’t due for another week, and then asked me how I was doing. I was admittedly confused at first and just said I was fine but you pressed me for more information. You had this mischievous glint in your eye as you leaned forward and put your head in the palms of your hand like a little kid would. I knew you weren’t going to leave me alone until I said more. For the first time that day, I smiled just a tiny bit. I don’t really remember what I told you about that particular day but I do remember we got on the topic of music and that’s when the flood gates opened. I rambled on and one about my love for music, the delicate sounds of a violin, the soothing tone of a saxophone, the powerful crescendo a symphony can make, my love for piano and guitar. I told you I wish I could play music everyday. You asked me why I wasn’t a music major then if I loved music so much. Finance was boring to you. I asked you why you were a Biology major if you couldn’t write your essay right. You gave me this big, goofy smile and I felt my heart skip a beat. I couldn’t help but smile right back. After that day, you would find any reason you could to come to the writing center and you would always ask for me. You smiled at me for the first time at that table. You held my hand for the first time at that table. You asked me out on our first date at that table. This memory is probably much different in reality but that’s what my brain dreamed up tonight. I know it’s not that sad but I can’t stop crying. I miss you so much. I wish we had found out about your cancer earlier. I wish we could have afforded more options that could have saved your life. I wish we got a second opinion even though I know it wouldn’t change a thing. We could see something was wrong with you for months but we just ignored it because people get sick sometimes. Yeah people do… but deep down we both knew it was something more. If we’d just listened to that small part of our brains, maybe we could have caught it early. Maybe we couldn’t have gotten that call saying you needed to get to the doctors office immediately. Maybe you wouldn’t have been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Maybe you would have had more time to live. YOU SHOULD HAVE HAD MORE TIME TO LIVE! There are so many things I wish we had the chance to do. I know when I speak about our relationship as if it was perfect and it was by no means perfect especially towards the end. We 82

fought constantly about money. When the pandemic hit, it didn’t help our situation. The moment we needed time away from each other, we became trapped in the same apartment for the next 7 months. From March to October… 7 months. You’ve been dead for 2 months now. I regret the things I said to you back then when we fought. I can’t take them back but I’ll apologize for them for the rest of my life. I miss you Henry… I wish I could have you back… Why you? 9:33pm December 19th, 2020— From Celesta Um… Hi Henry. Sorry I didn’t call for the last couple of days. I just couldn’t listen to your voice for 15 seconds before leaving a message without bawling my eyes out. I’ve been talking to Mr. John a lot lately. I don’t want it to be silent. I saw your family today… they miss you. They set up your stocking this year because they couldn’t leave it in the basement. I… have to go. I’m going to start crying again and I really don’t want to do that on the phone. I miss you… 7:54pm December 21st, 2020— From Celesta You know I just realized why you hated the silence so much before you died. I heard, when a person is dying all their senses start to go away. Their sight, touch, smell, taste all disappears but their hearing is the last to go. So to fill the silence, I’ll make any noise I can. My piano came in today. I haven’t stopped playing since it was set up and I won’t stop playing it till the day I die. I’m playing for you. Can you hear it? 11:45pm December 24th, 2020— From Celesta It’s almost Christmas. Are you getting ready for it up there? 5:55am December 25th, 2020—From Celesta Merry Christmas Henry… My parents came over for a bit to spend a bit of time with me. I don’t really want to be alone right now. They gave me this photo of us from when I graduated college. It’s really nice… They also got me a new guitar which is great, I can play it along with the piano… I don’t really know if 83

you can hear it but it makes me feel better thinking that you can. Henry… I know we didn’t say this much before you died but I just wanted to say... Message box Full __________________ Celesta held the phone in her hand frozen in place. She called again and again but always got the same message. Tears swelled in her eyes as she heard the message box refuse to let her leave another message. Her legs trembled as she dropped to the floor sobbing the hardest she has ever since Henry had died. “I love you…”

Goodbye Mrs. Wiorka Glenna Gobeil

Variation on “Variation on a Theme by Elizabeth Bishop” by John Murillo Anna Ciacciarella

start with loss. lose everything. then lose it all again. lose your options when you make a choice. find another option, then lose sleep toying with it. learn to lose as if you have nothing left to give. learn that you have nothing left to give. learn it by looking in her eyes and trying to tell her the truth. lose your truth in trying to make her happy. you need to learn to leave others. to learn that leaving for a year or two is not the same as Never Coming Back. lose and lose again your mind as you try to justify your choice. measure your own frustration against a mother’s pain. kiss her cheek so she believes you when you say, I am not leaving you forever. lose the garden. lose the dinner table. lose your belief in prayer. open your eyes. watch: the last of winter at your feet, departing temporarily. watch: the blue jays in the pine, our favorite creatures to watch and giggle about. the song of the birds are a prayer that i never want to lose. learn that this isn’t a goodbye for either of you; hug her and try not to break. lose and lose again, but only when she is not looking. lean out of your open window, watch: the blooms are opening now, losing their petalled winter coat. the window is a mirror and you are blooming and learning that loss is the only thing keeping you from Spring.

A burning Trail Natalie Miranda

It’s quiet. It feels calm but also scary. I want to tell you but I don’t know how. I am lost in the dark and can’t find an entry, my heartbeat racing is the only sound. I love you-but I don’t want you in my life Because you could never give me what I need And even if you say, “I love you” that’s a lie; I don’t believe in things I cannot see You asked me once what I have to offerWhich would be my undying love for you; Which remains safely tucked away forever And as the years pass, passion fades in hue You can’t keep leading me down a burning trail To a forbidden love that has always failed

My Father’s Ghost Joelle Gray

Connecticut Student Poetry Circuit Winner

Someday I hope to meet my father’s ghost. I want him to tell me the stories he never got to finish and I want him to wrap me up in his arms so tight my feet lift off from the ground. He could tell me stories of things I can’t even imagine— about all the things that are beyond this plane of existence that I can’t even begin to fathom yet, or about my mom’s mom who I never knew, or about anything at all. I’ll tell him about the things that I’ve done, too, about the friends of mine he never got to meet, and about how school is going. I’ll ask him how Alex Trebek and Ruth Bader Ginsburg are doing, and I’ll ask him to tell them I said hi. I want to sit around my grandmother’s kitchen table all together with our family, earthly and not, and tell him stories of everything I’ve done since he’s been gone. We won’t talk about the nights I stay awake until dawn crying to him. We won’t talk about all our fights or all the things I should have said sorry for. I won’t tell him that I replay his old voicemails just to hear him say my name, or that I regret that the last time we hugged was after our biggest fight. He already knows those things. Instead, I’ll tell him about the love of my life, who is just like him in all the best ways, who I know he sent to me, but I’ll tell him about anyway. Eventually, I’ll tell him about my babies, hopefully all daughters, even though I know he’ll send me sons. 88

I’ll tell him how happy I was that the last thing I told him was “I love you,” and that the last thing he said back was “I love you too.” I’ll tell him how long I’ve been waiting for this moment. So, someday, when I meet my father’s ghost, I will stare into his stunning blue eyes and he will smile at me. We won’t have to say anything at all, but I will say it all anyway, and he will tell me, as he always has, “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Cracks

Tim Powers You were making dinner when you first get the call; the call that every spouse dreaded and whished would never come ringing. But alas, for some, that ring is inevitable. You were just checking on the lamb chops in the oven when the phone first started to ring. Your husband, Mark, loves lamb chops and you love them because Mark does. You knew Mark was going to have a tough day at the office that day with his worst client, Mrs. Castillo. So, you thought you would surprise him. Even though you didn’t really have the time for it, with your newborn son, Jack and your 5-year-old daughter, Cathy. It was a miracle food ended up on the table at all. But you still managed to do everything perfectly without showing too many cracks. You’ve always hated having to show your cracks. “Hello, is this Mary Weizmann?”, the voice on the other end of the phone asked. “This is she. Who am I speaking to?” “My name is Jackie and I work at Plainview Hospital. Ma’am, your husband has been in a car accident. Could please come down to the Hospital?” “Yes, yes, of course,” you managed to say. “I just need to find someone to watch the kids.” You hung up the phone and you were stone cold, but nevertheless you dove into the necessary action as perfectly as possible. You quietly turned off the stove, leaving the lamb chops to burn in the remnants of the heat. You grabbed all the essentials: your jacket, you phone, your wallet and purse. You ran back downstairs and called your sister. “Hey Alex, it’s me. Mark got into a car accident. I have to head down to the hospital but I need you to watch the kids,” you blurted out, surprising yourself that you didn’t stutter. “I’ll be right over in five minutes,” she said. You had everything you needed, but you didn’t know what to do while waiting for Alex. You couldn’t just do nothing. You realize the kids still needed to eat. You rushed over to the freezer and took out the sleeve of Perdue chicken nuggets and placed a bunch on the plate. You looked over into the next room and saw 90

Cathy and Jack playing with their rainbow blocks. They stacked the red one on top of the blue one and so on, building up little worlds only for it to come crashing down moments later. Jack always gets frustrated at the blocks and throws one. You walked over and brought them close to you, expertly hiding your fear for their father. “Mommy’s going to need you two to be good, okay? I have somewhere to go, but Aunt Alex is going to come over and watch you, okay?” “Aunt Alex!!!,” Cathy screamed. Jack waved his little arms in excitement. “Do you promise you’ll be good for Aunt Alex?” “I promise mommy,” Cathy said sweetly. “I love you,” you whispered to them. You hug both of them close as you hear Alex’s car pull up. You rush outside and jump into your car. “There are chicken nuggets in the microwave for the kids,” you scream at Alex before driving away. To distract yourself from your racing thoughts, you put on the radio. Alicia Key’s “Fallin’” comes on. This was the song that played when you and Mark first kissed. “Well, this sure doesn’t help,” you thought to yourself. __________________ You met Mark on a blind date. You didn’t want to go, but your sister convinced you. She helped pick out this cute pink dress for you from the store around the corner. It was simple but adorable, casual but dressed up enough in case he took you somewhere with a dress code. If this date wasn’t going to be any fun, at least you were going to look good. Your sister told you that you are meeting him at a place called Verona Ristorante. “Italian!!!,” you whined with disappointment. “I’m going to make such a mess of myself. All that sauce is going to get all over me.” “You’ll be fine. Just take small forkfuls of food. Also, he’s going to be wearing a white button-up shirt.” You were nervous as hell and of course you arrived at the restaurant before him. To pass the time until his arrival, you 91

enjoyed the sounds of the cover band playing a few feet away from your table. “Punctuality is obviously not one of his strong suits,” you thought to yourself. When he did finally arrive, he was a little all over the place. His dark hair was all ruffled, his white button-up shirt had a few sweat stains soaking through, and his shoelaces were untied. Nevertheless, you still found him good-looking. He was tall, probably about 6’1” and he had a 5 o’clock shadow. You loved that. And honestly, the ruffled hair look worked for him. “I’m so sorry, I’m late. I really am. My boss made me stay later dealing with this awful client, Mrs. Castillo. You see, she bought this house and put a fence in. But the fence was placed partly on the neighbor’s property. And now she’s refusing to have it moved and the neighbors are suing. Honestly, I would sue her too. God, she is awful. I’m sorry, that was a mouthful. Wait, you’re Mary, right?” You nodded your head. “I’m Mark, nice to meet you” He stretched out his hand to shake yours. You obliged, slightly annoyed that he was late and didn’t stop talking. “I’m Mary, nice to meet you,” you said politely. “You look very pretty tonight, Mary,” he blushed. So did you. The waiter came by and you both ordered a glass of white wine. You ordered stuffed portabello mushroom ravioli, because you think you can control the chance of sauce splatter with that dish. He ordered spaghetti and meatballs. “A simple man,” you accidently said out loud, blushing once again. “Yeah, probably, but I like what I like,” he defended himself. The food arrived rather quickly. Your dish had a decent amount of sauce but you thought you could gain control of it if you cut the ravioli into smaller bites and moved very slowly. Mark dove right into his dish, twirling a few strings of spaghetti around a fork and placing it into his mouth carefully, without any splatter. “Where did you learn to eat spaghetti so neatly?” you asked. “I guess I never truly learned and I’m just winging it,” he responded. You both chuckled. “So, what is it you do?” he politely asked. 92

“I’m a social worker. I go to people’s houses after there have been reports of child abuse. It’s often very difficult work...” Just as you were finishing your sentence, Mark splashed a bunch of sauce across his white shirt. “Ah shit, so much for being careful,” he grunted. “This must be the worst date you’ve ever had. First, I’m late, then I’m boring and now I’m spilling food all over myself.” “No, no, it’s perfectly fine. Here let me fix you up.” You got up out of your chair, went over and crouched down to him. You splashed some water on a napkin and began dabbing his chest. However, the giant red stain didn’t come out. “It’s alright, I think it’s done for. Thank you for trying, really. I’m such a mess tonight,” he smirked. “It’s no problem, really. I was terrified I was going to do the same tonight,” you responded. “I guess we can be messes together,” he said sweetly. You laughed. The band started to sing a cover of Alicia Key’s “Fallin’.” Still crouching next to him you began to stare at him as the music played. He was smiling and you started to feel all tingly inside and before you know it, he leaned down to kiss you. And you kissed him back. “I guess the night isn’t all bad,” he managed to stutter out, red lipstick across his lips. You later found out that he didn’t want to go on the blind date either. But you were both glad you did. Cause even though it was an awkward mess, you found someone who was going to be a mess with you; someone who wouldn’t let you be all over the place by yourself. And despite how much you feel like you need to hide behind a curtain of perfection, you don’t have to worry about accidently letting it down when he’s around. He makes you feel safe in case you let your cracks slip into sight. But still, you will always keep your cracks hidden, because you wouldn’t feel perfect if you did. _______________ You arrived at the hospital, surprised you made it in one piece. You didn’t focus on the road once during the drive. You managed to find a parking spot despite the array of cars laid out 93

across the concrete lot. You walked into the building and went up to the front desk. A short, stocky lady wearing a blue uniform sat at the desk. “Hi, I’m here to see my husband, Mark Weizmann. I got a call saying he’s been in an accident,” you perfectly say. “Ok, I’ll call up and let them know you’re here,” she said coldly, at least that’s how you took it. You had a seat in the set of blue chairs laid out across the room. They were uncomfortable and cold. There was a mirror on the wall to your right. You looked disheveled. Your hair was ruffled and your shirt had sweat stains. You tried to fix your hair as best as possible, but nothing was going to save it now. A tall man with blonde hair and a white coat came out to see you. “Mrs. Weizmann, Hi, I’m Dr. Madden.” “Hi, I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you but...” “Of course,” he nodded, “Your husband came into the emergency room in very bad shape. He was driving across an intersection on his way home from work an eighteen wheeler truck hit him on the driver’s side. He came in with numerous broken ribs, a skull fracture, internal bleeding in the stomach and his left kidney was punctured...” “How he is doing now,” you interrupted. “Due to the skull fracture, he suffered significant brain damage and swelling which has left him in a likely permanent vegetative state. I’m sorry ma’am but there is little chance he will ever regain consciousness.” The rest of the conversation with the doctor trailed off into sounds of the hospital as you tried to process what you’ve been told. You cannot image your life without Mark. You were trying to. But there was nothing. Your mind remained empty, except for thoughts of him. “Can I see him?” “Yes, of course. Right this way.” The doctor brought you to Mark’s room. There is reflective metal all around you, from the tables to the walls. It was very silvery and cold; colder than the blue chairs in the waiting room. Your husband was just lying there in the bed, surrounded by different colored wires and covered in layers of bandage and gauze. You could hardly recognize him. 94

“I’ll let you have a moment,” the doctor said. The doctor walked out of the room and you went over to your husband. You grabbed his hand and held it close. His hair was ruffled; his hair was always ruffled. You placed your hands against his cheeks, and despite how pale he looked, he was still warm. You think of all your moments together and how they have accumulated to this. Your cracks were starting to shine through; you started to cry. You thought about the last argument you both had and how you should have let him win. It was over so something stupid as taking out the garbage. God, why did you have to be such a bitch. You thought about all the times when you wanted to be alone, so you shut him out. All you wanted was a minute to recharge but those moments could have been more memories with him. You thought about all the moments you could have had together but didn’t. You thought about your kids. How were you supposed to raise them alone? He was supposed to be there during it all. He was supposed to be there when Cathy got her first boyfriend. He was supposed to be there when Jack needed to learn how to shave. He was supposed to fucking help. How were you ever going to be able to do that without him? You were sobbing at this point. You cradled his head in your arms—his damaged, empty head. You didn’t want to ever let go. Your cracks are visible now. They have grown big and wide and there is no way to cover them up. After a few more moments went by, the doctor came back in to discuss Mark’s further care. Your eyes were swollen. You tried you best to avert eye contact, but that did little to stop anyone from noticing. “Mark has little chance of recovery. This may be blunt, but there is not much point of keeping him on life support,” the doctor said sternly. You took a few moments before you answered. You breathed in and out, trying to ground yourself. What were you supposed to do? You soon realized that by keeping him alive, you are not only prolonging your pain, but Mark’s too. Since there was little chance of recovery, you decided to end his care and remove Mark from the machines. It was probably the toughest decision you ever had to make; a decision that you and your children will never recover from. 95

“Then, I guess we should pull him off,” you quietly stated. After filling out all the legal documents required before removing Mark from life support, you returned to holding his hand. You sat next to him the entire time, never removing your hand from his. You feel the warmth you once embraced every night before going to bed. You cried, realizing you will never feel it again. After the plug was pulled, it only took 32 minutes before Mark officially died. It felt like an eternity, but really it wasn’t when you compared it to all the time you’re going to spend without him. _________________ After your husband dies, you realize you need to get rid of his things. You can’t keep them here and not move on. It will be like losing him all over again but you have to do it. If you don’t, it would be like living in a never-ending memory and you can’t allow your kids to go through that. Mark is now the past. You call your sister for support in completing these acts. She has been really good to you since Mark died. She makes dinner and takes care of the kids. Sometimes, you forget to take out the garbage so she’s been making sure to come and clean around the house. The perfect home you once knew has now been turned into a messy, unorganized affair. You hear the turn of the lock of the front door and a bright light comes through. It’s Alex. “Hey, Mary. How are you doing?” “Eh, I don’t know. Let’s just get this done.” You get a garbage bag from the kitchen closet. Every shelf is littered with unnecessary Tupperware and plastic bags. Everyone has brought you and the kids so much food since Mark died that you’ve become a collector of plastic containers. You rummage through the bottom shelf pushing past a sauce stained bowl to get the large black garbage bags. You and Alex walk upstairs to the bedroom and open up the closet. You stare at the piles of clothes that used to belong to Mark. How are you supposed to get rid of his t-shirts from Target? He was so excited when he got them because they were on sale. He always loved a good bargain. You hold one of them up to your face. It feels soft, warm even, and it still smells like him. 96

“Come on, sis, give me that,” Alex says sympathetically but forcefully. You hand the shirt over to her and she tosses it into the bag; the first execution of the day is now complete. The next few victims were his shoes, which smell absolutely awful. You’re glad to get rid of those. “Damn, this man could never clean his shoes,” you thought to yourself. You chuckle. After his shoes were the suits that he wore to work every day. He had a collection of four, one in gray, another in black and two more in navy blue. However, only three hung here in the closet as the fourth is buried with Mark. He always looked good in them; they fit him so perfectly it was like they were made for him. But he really just found them on the racks at Kohl’s. Alex grabs them all by the armful and shoves them into the garbage bag. “Oh my god,” you gasp. You stare at the back of the closet, in particular, the white button-up shirt hanging from one of the hooks sticking out of the back wall. It’s the white button-up shirt from your first date. The one with the sauce stain that wouldn’t come out. “I didn’t know he kept it,” you say. “I’m not getting rid of this one. I can’t. It’s from our first date. He spilled sauce all over himself and it was an absolute mess.” You fall down against the closet floor and Alex bends down, putting her arms around you. You grab the shirt and hold it close. You then look up and see that the shirt was hiding a giant crack in the wall. You run your fingers against it. “Don’t worry we can get that fixed,” Alex says earnestly. “No, leave it,” you say. “There’s no fixing that.”

Grief

Julie Rivera “Take your time and grieve. It’s different for everyone,” but, hurry up, life is moving on now. Nothing is going to stop on account of my grieving. But I was told to take my time. I’m not ready to let go. Hurry up life is moving on now. How can life just move on without you here? I was told to take my time. I’m still not ready to let go. If everyone else can, why can’t I? Can life just move on without you here? Maybe for them it can but not for me. But, if everyone else can why can’t I? The grief inside me must be different. Maybe for them it can but not for me. Nothing is going to stop on account of my grieving. But the grief inside me is just different. Take your time and grieve. It’s different for everyone.

Lights Up Joelle Gray

Pain is Lineal, Trauma is in Your Bones Cora Fuhrmann

Third Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

i don’t remember or yet i choose to forget locked away in little neat drawers tucked away for a small price a monthly rent that’s due trauma is in your bones my jaw aches from words said joints carrying an unspoken load fingers shaking from holding on throbbing jolts of lightning a ghost interlaced with my nervous system i jump, i flinch, i invert eyes growing foggy distancing a ghost sits next to me; hip to hip pain is lineal you watched her close that door not looking back a dinner chair moved to storage living down the street but gone i think you were Thirteen i watched you hide from the world you put your life on pause as life started to grow inside a bed was your solace no words were spoken about it funny, i was thirteen too healing is a long process covered in scar tissue sewed up wrong she recommends cutting in again moving through sinew and veins putting them back like the last puzzle piece

100

healing is a funny thought maybe for fact it could go wrong opening the dam or maybe for the fact it could go right and i’ll lose sight of the person i was

IV. The Eye of the Hurricane

When I Saw the Flag on Capitol Hill Gabriel Purpura

I was all alone in my apartment, my friend called and told me the news, I didn’t believe it; how could I? But the TV displayed red, white, and blue, not our red, white, and blue, no, this meant something far different, the red meant blood, our blood, their blood on our very own soil, spilled, the soil we stand on now that we tried to protect, protect what we thought we stood for, their white, the white they thought were white lies, that they thought were small, but were huge and irreconcilable, still written in their history books, read by their children and that blue, that blue of incivility, so cold, so unforgiving, the blue of people who still say that it was still all about state’s rights nearly 200 years later. Everything I did in my life, everything I sacrificed, was nullified that day, tarnished, it was a slap in the face, no worse than a Nazi flag, or Taliban flag, or an Isis flag. My sacrifice was wasted that day, my friends that died, our sacrifice to defend against terrorists both foreign and domestic was spat in the face that day, it meant nothing in one day, one action, one cruel action that forgets slavery, forgets genocide, forgets we are still starving, how we still struggle, how we still kill immigrants in the desert, how we are still in the desert, twenty years later we are still in the desert. And I think about that, the killing, and the dying, it prevents me from ever truly living. I wonder when we will learn to learn. Learn from our mistakes, to not hate, to never forget who we actually are. 104

To Make America Great Again would be for America to have been great in the first place, for us to rewrite our very own history, would be to forget who we are. We are a nation of liars, of cheats, of oligarchs. We are horrible, awful liars, we killed Native Americans, which is why my tribe will never be recognized. Ever. They are dead. We enslaved Black Americans for centuries in the land of the free, the land that claimed to be home to the brave. that wasn’t bravery, it was cowardice. We are a land of lies, a lying people, we are the land that thinks, no, that believes that we can change thousands of years of history because England’s sins are still our sins. I hate our past. But I still choose to believe in the future. For us to work to that future, we need to talk. Talk about our past, openly, we need discussion. We have a lot of work to do.

105

The Trees

Madeline Morabito My eyes shut closed. Then open. Then closed again. And open. How long had I just been asleep? Seconds? Minutes? The quiet hum of music From the speakers and the smell of my dads Cologne overwhelms my drowsy senses As the car zoomed aimlessly through the black night. The whir of streetlights blended into my Subconscious, but all that I can focus ons The twisted, menacing trees lining the streets. Im sure they got more menacing the farther They ventured off the road into the woods. They almost seem to yell at me in soft whispers. Not words, but that feeling of paranoia You get like while watching a horror movie. Who knows what lives beyond the menacing trees. My eyes closed shut again, I didn’t try to fight it. I only awoke as I felt the turn that was ingrained in my body. Finally, home, safe and sound.

106

I Have No Choice but To Finish My Coffee Brian Ataka

I mean I paid for it, and I wouldn’t want to waste it, I was raised better; to see the value, to appreciate the hard work And especially never to waste even the worst cups of coffee Cups filled with sludge, sometimes empty, but the only cups we know And still, I feel cheated, tricked, somehow bamboozled But still have to finish my coffee Something like my education, I wonder if Everyone’s sips go down as rough as mine I mean…I must ask “Are you sure this is macchiato?” And obviously they are sure Obviously, they know what they are doing The five-dollar cups don’t sell for no reason, And the buyer’s line seems to last for many seasons, At least I’m not alone to fight through the taste. I lived by the motto Development Before Results Words that are forever tattooed in my soul Words that always make me wonder Are those house priced cups even worth it? I mean my stove top can do better. Is it the convenience? Possibly because everyone else is doing it? Do I get what I pay for? or is the coffee I drink just A Sugary beverage concocted to hit my cocaine receptors? “It’s the thing to do Brian I promise” I sat down with a man who had seen the other side, Who had ventured in the land of caffeinated splendor. He told I could never compare, and labored on the flavors their pallets could paint Informed me of things only seen by “beautiful” minds Reminded me the cards I had would not suffice, “Catch 22 my friend that’s your price” I think of still all while I finish my coffee. 107

When I Think of the Pandemic While Watching Anna Ciacciarella

the snowstorm, my hands cold & chapped, far from the warmth of my childhood home, scarred from the rocks of Arizona, & already appearing aged, though my observations are fed by insecurity, not truth—appearing lonely even when i’ve found someone to hold them; i think of the hospital, gasp & confront the fright lingering, even in the company of empty halls. the numbers have numbed & normalized— a violent thing it is to forget that numbers were once and are still people, but every day i am guilty as everyone else. the snow outside—cold, raging, feels more familiar to me, as if i am looking in a mirror, drained of my rosy complexion & staring at a muted version of the woman who just last year cut her hair and cried of newfound joy. this is how renewal used to sound: the wind humming against the heat of the growing season as i sat, the scissors snipping through the trauma i forced myself to denounce as trauma, because it wasn’t that serious, as the inches of brunette fell to the floor, i’d bring my hands up to feel what used to be there, like looking for the soil during a snowstorm. the earth is covered in a blanket of silence, & you can hear the echo if you close your eyes but it is mangled & disrupted by 108

the plow trucks and their angry engines as they clean up Nature’s mess, in a nation where we pile bodies up & refuse to confront the fright that has dissipated to the point where business as usual & parties are more precious than someone’s actual existence on this earth. still staring out the window, i curl my fingers around the strands of my hair that have not been cut in a year’s time & wonder why the snow easily keeps us in but death & it’s overstayed welcome & the trembling fear of an unknown virus is meaningless to this cold & chapped nation.

109

Dicks & Such

Tyler Villano-Maron Everything’s been said, But if I found a listing To live inside of a vagina, No sooner could I sign the lease. I accent her walls a nice floral pattern, taking care to fortify my abode— Smarter than two Little Pigs, I build my house with JELL-O, so When fingers sneak their way in Or a fat cock barrels deep My house doesn’t quake, My furniture undisturbed— My home only wobbles With the waves, Wave after wave After wave— I take note of everything Coming And going, A bird watcher of sorts, And one day I notice Our most frequent customer Ditched his rubber— While my ingenious architecture Endures all his battering And all her convulsions, Before my television program Finishes, he finishes, he demolishes My JELL-O house, collapsed Under the weight of his batter— Nearly drowning, I shudder, O, Impending repair bills! Regrettably I must also admit, Beyond all intrusions, For a small load Of days each month I share her frustration, Enduring bouts of Awful, fetid hurricanes, 110

Weather we both hate, always Drenching my white linens, My nice white linens, The ones hanging On my clothesline, And taking a tip From her, I start Dressing dark. I endure it all, however, To be one with my landlady, Together growing old, as one Spends all their best years Aging with their home.

111

Untitled

Natalie Miranda

112

How to Study Abroad When the Borders are Closed Jessica Peterson

You dreamed about traveling the world as a child. Maybe even studying abroad as a teen or college student. This once in a life time experience can become a dream come true. It could change you for the better, make you more culturally aware and fill you with knowledge you didn’t know you needed. Studying abroad around Europe and sharing it with your fellow students or with your roommates and best friends can be a very rare opportunity. When meeting locals in Spain you’re sharing the knowledge of their language. Practicing your Spanish is one thing you can prepare for. “Sunday’s scaries”, will disappear studying abroad. Every Sunday you will enjoy a new type of Spanish wine in a new cultural atmosphere, instead of having to cram for useless memorized exams in Hamden, Connecticut. This dream is so pure it becomes your safe space, your happy place to look forward to. You are so happy and content you’re in disbelief that you have arrived; you made it on your dream trip! Two months into your trip you think it’s too good to be true and you question why and how are you’re this lucky. Well, if you thought it was a literal dream your wakeup call was from Covid-19 and it is now a reoccurring nightmare. This is how you will study abroad in a global pandemic. It is March 14th, 2020 at 4:45AM in the morning in Sevilla, Spain. Flashing lights are circling you with screaming girls saying, “Wake up, wake up! Trump is closing the U.S. boarders tomorrow, we have to go!! Get up, wake up!” The only thought in your head is that you have midterms this week, you all can’t just leave. You soon realize you’re not making it to Paris that next weekend and you are losing the booking expenses with it. Decisions and flights are being figured out in minutes. Some students left that night, without saying any goodbyes. It was only 11:45PM in New York during this chaos. Students and their European phone plans were now going through the roof with all the international calls from their parents. You feel like you’re frozen in time while everyone around you make impulsive anxiety ridden decisions in seconds. You feel frozen in shock. You are spiraling in your thoughts, putting yourself in a deeper depression that all the money you worked so hard for and saved up from summer’s past are now 113

going toward Covid caused sky rocketing prices. Like for Holiday Inn Hotels, insane costs for transportation and flights back to the U.S. On the fun side, you have to take every type of transportation means to escape back home. The hardest and most gut retching part is the goodbyes with your host parents. They are basically out of a job now and do not have their second “niños” (kids) to take care of anymore. Trying to explain to them in Spanish you might never see them again, absolutely kills a part of your heart that you will never get back. On sharing this with your host mother after a beautiful homemade paella dinner, she immediately starts crying while she continues to clean the table and give each student their dessert. Being the amazing host parents they are, they promised us that we would always have a home in Sevilla, Spain if we ever made it back. The next morning, your parents weren’t calling because one had the stomach bug and the other was stuck at work. You realize you are truly on your own. First, you have to stop spiraling and crying; then you have to make a plan to get back home. You decide to take your time with some friends, really push things to the last minute and walk around the city one last time. The city that filled your heart with warmth and comfort is turned into an uncomfortable ghost town overnight. Before Covid arrived, Sevilla glowed with flamingo dancers and the smells of pastry shops as horse carriages and electric scooters flew past you in a magical way. There is no step by step preparation needed for studying abroad during a pandemic. In fact, being a unorganized last minute person would actually prepare you the most for learning about the coronavirus in Spain. You even push your luck by trying to spontaneously skydive in Spain that Saturday before you leave with your friends. Obviously, last minute they cancelled all reservations due to the pandemic. In fact, you find out that it was a blessing in disguise because later that day it’s announced that Spain’s boarders were closing Sunday night! The only problem is that it’s Saturday morning and you were planning on leaving Spain on Monday because you all thought, “It’s just a little virus, no rush, let’s just enjoy our last weekend!” So, you and your friends find a communal bus service to cross the border into Lisbon, Portugal so that can catch a flight home on Monday. You 114

run back to your “residencia” (home) to pack your life away for the adventure home. Having very minimum luggage space left due to you buying a whole new European wardrobe unknowing that you had a day to pack and weigh your bags is not enjoyable to say the least. They have to be preciously weighed or else you would have to pay a $250 in extra luggage fee. It is completely absurd watching the prices of flights from Portugal to Newark airport increase at the rate of $100 or euros per minute. Just when you really think you finally have everything under control, you realize you are very wrong. The local bus service that you were going to take is cancelled at 2AM due to Covid reasons. Now this is where it gets tricky so stay focused. Somehow you have to figure out how to find a car service with availability to get you and your 4 friends at 2AM for a car service reservation for noon later on that day. You and some friends are now going across the border to Portugal with some random guy driving a van service and to take you to the Holiday Inn Hotel for the night because there are no available flights for Sunday. As you’re leaving, your host parents wish you a safe trip home as our house mother cries saying how “fuerte” (strong) we were. The irony is that just a weekend earlier; we were traveling to Lisbon, Portugal on an excursion exploring and traveling. You were sad to leave Portugal; well you’re back now and stuck in a Holiday Inn Hotel suite waiting for your flight home. The only views you can see from your room are of the busy highway from your window suite. At least you are consoled with ordering room service for “pastel de nata”, a delicious famous pastry in Portugal. You wake up super early, grabbed some fruit to go and caught an uber to the airport! You arrive at the airport and you see a line so long outside it looked like the lines for black Friday shoppers before midnight. You look at your friends and they look back at you in shock. What else can happen? The airport was only letting small increments of people in at a time. Finally, you and your friends are on your 8 hour flight back home! You fill out the Covid questions on the plane and you are good to go. You reflect on your time abroad paragliding through the Swiss Alps in Switzerland, seeing the Camp Nou Fútbol Stadium in Barcelona which is now the best moment of your life and you appreciate every little part of your journey: the good, the bad, and the ugly. 115

You did it! You are on USA soil and the air at home smelled like freedom. All you have to do now is to get through temperature checks and security. Until, security asks you if you have any food in your bag from abroad. You look and completely forgot you took an apple and orange from the Holiday Inn Hotel that you stayed at. You tell the lady that you do have food, and that they never confiscated it in Portugal, so you thought you were fine. She looks at you as if you are carrying weapons and whispers into her phone. You turn around and security men come over and ask you to please come with them. You ask where, and without my friends? They take you to an isolation room for questioning that terrifies you. You stay confident because they try to treat you as an ignorant young woman. Also, they lose your passport for 10 minutes and accuse you of losing it when in fact they did. After that exhausting period, you’re released, but have completely lost your friends. So you get your luggage and exit hoping to reunite with your friends. It is a traumatizing experience you could say, but it is an historical experience like no other. As you walk through the airport terminal, you see your parents and your friend’s parents and start crying with joy. You hug your mom and are never letting go.

116

American Tim Powers

What was the first thought of the Bald Eagle when he learned he was the symbol of America? I imagine he was proud to learn of his coronation, after all, he could fly as high as 10,000 feet. He had never before paid much attention to the bizarre creatures that appeared from the horizon, thinking they were too loud and too dull, but they had to have some judgement to choose him. I picture he toured his kingdom, searching for the beauty and grace it was said to possess. As he soared over the nation, observant, he quickly found little to marvel at. Instead of grandeur, he found destruction. Instead of strength, he found aggression. He not only saw his nation for what it was, but he saw himself too, a warmonger. He would wonder, was he actually strong, or was he just aggressive enough to appear so? It is one thing to be aggressive, but it is another to be a symbol of it too. Maybe shame washed over him like rain, rotting his vigor and decaying his valor. Perhaps he continued to drift the skies, hoping for a different story, but not expecting one. Because cruelty is a thing of nature, and maybe that’s all he was destined for. 117

A Year in Review Gabriel Purpura

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

What about January 1st, 2020, the start of a new year? What about Australia still set ablaze? What about Britain leaving the European Union? What about an Iranian general assassinated? The fuse nearly hit the powder keg. What about an impeachment trial for gross misuse of military power? What about a producer taking advantage of women? What about an unchecked looming death? Not spread by hugs, kisses, and being with ones you love. Or how about the violation of Black American’s rights? How easy was to kill a black man and deprive life in Kenosha, Wisconsin. What about a crash of the stock market? What about the president saying the everything is “going to be okay.”? What about a dictator who could have died but didn’t? Because you can never really kill evil. What about the fact they admitted alien life is real? What about a bible upside down? After all we are a Christian nation. At least dead confederates were torn down. What about the lover of a dead rapist getting arrested? I wonder if she too will die in prison. What about an explosion in Beirut? Did we forget about 241 dead Marines? What about Rittenhouse’s applause from cops after shooting a black man? What about the last beacon of hope, a light dying, and the court dulled forever? But at least her replacement has good Christian values. What about the president getting COVID-19? I thought the virus wasn’t real. But at least the Dodgers won the World Series. What about election day? We will finally see an end to this presidency. Or maybe we should have a recount? What about another white man standing ready to take the office? One that is really not the man we need. What about or national attention span that allows us to forget all this? What about the fact that 2021 won’t change a fucking thing?

118

Sunset Hustle Tamara Anderson

119

Condemnation Brian Ziegelhofer

The world is scapegoated for your own uncertainty Condemn them all to conceal what is candor You are the complication You are what you take in, and what you project You are the sum of your actions, and each one in isolation You are responsible for your unjust reactions to unjust actions You are the entire problem for adding to the existing one(s) The game was never rigged against you, ignore the other pieces Ignore the missing page from the manual Ignore the replacement that confused you further Ignore the dice that keep trying to move you backwards Ignore the spectators who want to tell you how to play Ignore them all The game was never rigged against you Despite all the negative, at least you were given a board to play on So ignore all the nonexistent dysfunction, you have no reason to feel You have no reason to feel targeted You have no reason to feel alone You have no reason to feel cursed Because at least you were given a board to play on Do not focus on the fact that you are playing alone Do not focus on the fact that you have fragments of the game Do not focus on those who have it better Stop You have it better Stop You were given a board Do not focus Stop Shut up And play the game!

120

a play in three acts Erin Mullane

Second Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

i. i trip and stumble over feet in a line, the stage lights warm my spine through my skin. gripped by hands and supported by arms, i am thrown into the air with ease like a rag doll. with eyes closed i soar, my hair billows out in every direction. for a moment it seems as though i’ve mastered the art of levitation, and the roll of film plays the universe in slow motion. knowing better, i brace for impact. ii. i crash into the sea without an island in sight. the water, in all of its emerald glory, laps at my face, licking my lips and begging to be let in. golden eels swim just below the surface, brushing against my exposed skin. wondering what it would be like to breathe underwater, the ocean goes topsey turvey. now facedown, i inhale deeply. my eyes droop shut as the jellyfish dance below me, lit up like flashlights. iii. i awake in a meadow, the lilac sky churns pink and orange clouds in spirals as the flowers whisper and reassure that i have finally come home. i settle into the grass and let my body sink into the dirt like memory-foam. the wind is warm and sounds like music, the bees don’t have stingers and the butterflies are not scared to land. i am in eternity, yet it passes like seconds.

121

When I Think of The Capitol While Closing My Eyes Emily DiSalvo

in my mind it’s creased pants and my shaking hand grasping my I.D. like it’s my great grandmother’s locket or a good luck charm that transports me to tiny gold elevators and floors like an untouched ice rink — almost white but smooth—too smooth for my scuffed black shoes and my earmarked notebooks full of scratches of pencil and shards of hope. in my mind it’s reverent silence so severe I forget to blink in fear of missing a moment of significance or the chance for me to see a face I only ever saw on T.V., and to ask a question that’s more exciting to ask than it is to answer — for I was just a girl in a place meant for giants, just a human in a place meant for history. in my mind they never took it, they never stole those impeccable white floors and stained wood tables of consequence, they never rode those creaky gold elevators up to the rooms that took my breath away. they never carried signs of hate in the halls I loved, they never made young girls like me hide under tables with gas masks over their faces in fear they would die in the place they loved before seeing the great experiment 122

come to fruition — shot before they had a chance to write a story about the downfall of the place to which I revered like heaven and yet in my mind the place was pure until they muddied the floors as white as their skin and I was hundreds of miles away watching the white marble of grandeur get stolen as if it was ever grand at all, as if any place so white was ever perfect, as if we weren’t already governing in halls of hate, a place that lets white people break windows, but leaves Black people to stand outside and in my mind I am ashamed to have loved it.

123

V. Metamorphosis

I’m good, how about you? Maily Tran

Life is amazing. I embrace the new day with open arms when my alarm blares at 6:26 in the morning, its tireless tune a relaxing reminder to awaken. I am bursting with energy as I sit at the kitchen table crunching on my frozen waffles, relishing a meal that was crafted by the best in the culinary field. When I step out the door, I smile as the raw, cold droplets of water envelop my body. From this moment, my journey can split into multiple paths. But wherever I go, I hear the unpopular question of the day. “How are you?” Our minds have to enter a deep moment of concentration before we respond, “I’m good, how about you?” Yes! This response perfectly encapsulates all of my current thoughts, experiences, and emotions. I have everything together in my life. I am not stressed. I am not anxious. I am not afraid. I feel like I am in control. I am not sad. I am not angry. I am not lonely. I am not disappointed. I feel happy. I am not jealous. I am not guilty. I am not envious. I am not ashamed. I feel worthy. I am not hurt. I am not embarrassed. I am not confused. I am not uncomfortable. I feel loved. 126

I am not annoyed. I am not discouraged. I am not frustrated. I am not empty. I feel satisfied. Then, we go about our daily lives… Every decision is deliberate, every interaction is genuine, every day is cherished. We grow. We push our boundaries. We are honest to ourselves and to others. We appreciate what we have, what we have been given, and what we have earned. We seek happiness and stability within ourselves. When I enter the same door I exited, I ask time to stand still for you and me. Since time is my friend, I could say time is selfish. It is vain. It is stubborn. But, its existence is as permanent as change. I smile as the light and the darkness envelop my body. My regrets supporting my back, my fears caressing my thoughts, the unknown propelling me forward. It is easy to be overwhelmed by the quietness of life, allowing yourself to drift in its limited possibilities, feeling like a leaf lying in liquid cement, stuck as it hardens and fills the cracks of your soul. It is harder to ignore your connections to the ground and to above. It is most difficult of all to ignore that incessant voice inside asking, “How are you?” How will you respond?

127

Creation Myth Brantley Boyda

In the beginning, there was peace. Among animals, there were no predators and prey; there was only harmony. All animals got along because they were all herbivores; no animal ate another animal’s flesh. One day, a wolf lay looking up at the sky and dreamed of what the clouds must taste like. He was tired of eating plants. They were as bitter as ash, even when he tried to add something sweet like honey on top. The wolf wanted to try a new cuisine so he began dreaming of eating the clouds. At that moment, a sheep wandered by. The wool on its back was white and puffy, like a thousand dandelion seeds clinging to its back. To the wolf it was a cloud coming down to the ground just for him to eat; his mouth began to drool at the sight it. Did this cloud taste sweet or sour or spicy? He had to find out. The wolf’s sharp teeth sunk into the sheep’s thick pelt, blandness hitting his tongue like a sharp slap. His daydream was shattered and the wolf unhooked his teeth as the sheep turned to him in anger. The wolf sheepishly explained how he had only wanted to eat something other than plants. The sheep was sympathetic and gave the wolf his wool coat, so the wolf could at least feel like a cloud – even if he could never taste one. Back home the wolf pranced around and bragged about how he had tasted a cloud, using his new fluffy coat as proof. The other wolves got jealous. They wanted to know what a cloud tasted like too. Using the first wolf’s description, they set off to find their own clouds to devour. When they came back their muzzles were red and each carried their own white coat upon their back. They complimented the first wolf on his finding. Clouds definitely tasted better than plants so the wolves decided they would be eating just clouds from then on.

128

Unfulfilled with the same taste every day, other animals eventually began to try new foods too. After the wolves, cats were next to try meat, followed closely by some birds and lizards. Some animals decided to stick to a diet of plants like the deer, horses, and gazelles because they disliked the idea of touching bones and blood. There were even some birds and mammals who decided they wanted to eat plants and flesh. This are how the roles of predators and prey came to be, all because one wolf wanted to taste a cloud.

129

shots of joy Rebecca Gatz

auntie amy and eagle watching sara ranting about harry potter making my mom laugh dad saying i’m smart talking to harls about marvel my dog cuddling me passion in all of its forms the sunrise from the top of a mountain knowing that this too shall pass

130

Paradox

Haley Druckenmiller

131

Michael

Kaitlyn Bendick

Honorable Mention, Wilder Fiction Prize

Michael is a poor bastard, a trust fund baby, an only child. His spine has only ever had the strength to hold up that cosmetically intelligent brain of his, and as he sobs in front of you on the other side of the bar, it no longer seems to have the strength to do that. You wonder if he’s been in your bar before, after all, you see a lot of business men peering at you through the polished beer glasses in your hands, their fingernails chipping away at the wax on the counter, their vomit weaving its way into the hard wood flooring and leaving stains that you’re thankful the dimmed lights don’t make obvious. Michael is a hollow husk of those men. He’s an empty shell with blond hair styled in all directions from his distressed fingers running through it too many times. His neat suit and church shoes are spattered with brown water sent from beneath the wheels of taxi cabs. His parents just cut him off, this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. You pour him another shot upon request, he’s been wasted since number two. His lip quivers as he dials his phone for the ninth time since first sitting down nearly ten hours ago at three in the afternoon. You know he’s calling his grandma, his grandpa, aunt, uncle, cousin, second cousin, just hoping that someone would offer him a hand out. Rent is due in five days and the great business opportunity that is supposed to pull him out of his slump is just another pyramid scheme and his family is sick of dealing with it. Your dad would call Michael a sissy. Your mom would call him a man child. He would take offence to that and compare it to being called the n-word, then go on a rant about how immigrants are the reason his business is failing. No one picks up the phone. You watch him listen to the full message with tears in his eyes. He redials the phone and you hope that no one picks up. Michael has never dealt in customer service. He couldn’t do what you do day in and day out. He couldn’t paint on a fake smile while cleaning up other 132

people’s messes all day long. He can’t even tie his tie without a YouTube tutorial. You watch his hands shake as the message plays out again. The bar isn’t too loud, it being the wee hours of a Thursday morning at this point, but you still can’t quite make out the messaging machine over the drawl of the regular alcoholics and this guy’s shuddered breathing. He listens to the whole thing again, doesn’t leave a message and delicately places the device down on the counter before him. His eyes have a thousand-yard stare. They’re bloodshot, either from balling all afternoon or from whatever drugs he’s managed to slip himself while you weren’t looking. You didn’t see him take anything per say, but that hasn’t stopped idiots in nicer suits than his from overdosing in that same seat before. You don’t know that much about drugs, after all it’s not like you need to go destroying your life with an addiction. It could be weed; it could be heroine for all you know. You go to refill his shot glass but he shakes his head and places his hand over the rim. You shrug and start moving back towards one of the regulars at the other end of the bar. “Did you know?” His voice is a mumble, just loud enough to grab your attention. “That they don’t tell military people things right away?” “Sorry?” “Like,” he hiccups. “If someone dies while a military guy is out on a mission, they don’t tell him until after he’s done. They don’t pull him out for the funeral or even let you send them a card. They just… wait until they’re done.” You look him up and down. Scrawny, asthmatic, pathetic. Michael is a lot of things but military material isn’t one of them. “Okay?” He rubs his hands over his head making his hair spike in a whole new set of directions. “My brother… he’s been on tour for almost two years and he doesn’t even know she was missing,” You glance back at the regular, the guy is passed out and drooling on the bar, you lost your chance to scam him into one last drink. Although, there is still an hour until closing, maybe he’ll wake up and order something before you have to kick him out for the night. 133

Michael is crying again. He blows his nose into a napkin as he pulls his phone out again and holds it up to his ear. You look around the bar, it’s now vacant except for the two men sitting at either end. Anyone else was already on their way out. You could start cleaning, clock out early, but you’re not that tired and you get paid by the hour along with the tips. “She your girlfriend?” “Huh?” “Or your military brother’s girlfriend? The one that’s missing.” “Oh... no. She was our sister.” He takes the phone away from his face. Tears are still streaming down his cheeks. His breathing is raspy. He breaks out of his hypnotic stare just long enough to look you in the eye. “Will you listen with me?” His eyes are as dull as clouds on a rainy day. You nod. He presses play and sets down his phone. He’s not calling anyone, it’s a message from two summers ago. “Hey!” The voice is feminine, young, cheerful. “It’s Carter but you know that because you’re not an idiot who doesn’t have my number saved.” You glance down at the phone screen. He does not have her number saved. “I just wanted to let you know that I found a great gag gift for Allen for when he gets back. It’s a little army soldier action figure that looks exactly like him and I’m gonna draw a mustache on it. Let me know if you want me to put your name on it too. I know we’ve got a bit of time until he’s back from deployment but this was too good to pass up. Anyway, I know you just started at your law firm and all but would you mind hurrying up and becoming a partner or whatever it is so I can come and live with you?” She chuckles, it’s a light sound, like it’s made of feathers. “I love Uncle Rocky and all but… well you know how intense he can be. Anyway, call me back when you get the chance. Love you! Bye!” Michael rubs a hand from his mouth to the top of his head. “Allen uh… he hates it when people think he’s army. He used to go on about how hard he worked to become a Marine and, well…” He trails off, grabbing his shot glass only to pause as it appears in his line of vision, empty. It’s refilled before he even has the chance to look at you. He raises the glass in your direction and downs the shot, choking momentarily as it goes. “He gets home in two days. Allen, I mean.” Michael shakes his head as thought trying to rattle the screws loose. There are more 134

tears coming now. “They just gave up the search a few weeks ago. It’s been over a year they never told him she went missing.” His voice is breaking, “I’m gonna have to tell him.” You reach across the bar and take his hand in yours. He squeezes it back so tightly. His hand is shaking. “How old was she?” You’re not sure why you ask but you do. “She’d uh… she’d be sixteen now.” He takes a breath. “You got any siblings?” You shake your head no. “I’ve got a little cousin though, great kid. I’d do anything for him.” Derick is a little shit but you know that isn’t what Michael needs to hear right now. You stay in that same position until it’s ten minutes until closing. He’s the one to take the deep breath and remove his hand from around yours. His eyes are red and his face is stained with tears but they’re not fresh anymore. Michael picks up his winter coat from where it had fallen over one of the ten-year-old stains in the floor that you haven’t been able to remove and wraps it around himself. He takes out his wallet and places a few bills on the counter before heading towards the front door with some form of sobriety in his steps. You start counting the bills. “Michael! This is too much.” He turns around looking a bit confused. You hold up the cash, it’s almost triple what he owed. A smile forms on his lips, it’s the first one you’ve seen from him all night. It’s small, and defeated, yet very warm compared to the snow that was just starting to fall outside. “Ben, actually.” His voice is soft. His smile fades just a bit. “Keep it, I’ve got some extra savings to burn through now anyway. Not that Carter would have needed it, a head like hers could get her a scholarship anywhere.” He pauses, smile now gone. He’s back to that thousand-yard stare. “Our mom… she used to say that Allen and I were smart but she… Carter was gonna redefine that word one day.” He shook his head and placed one foot out of the door before looking back at you. “Thank you… For not judging.” Ben nods to you and you nod back. He steps out into the cold, but hesitates before turning back to you. “Hey, what’s your name?” You blink. People don’t usually care enough to ask. “Erica.” He gives you another small smile. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Erica.” He lets the door close behind him, his church 135

shoes leave a trail in the dusting of snow that’s actually managing to stick to the sidewalk. You watch him go. He doesn’t look back. You go over to the other side of the bar and nudge the regular awake. “Come on, it’s time to go home.” He snorts and jolts back, his eyes unfocused as he squints in your general direction. “Wass dat abou’?” He burps and wobbles a bit on the barstool. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to settle on the area of somewhere around your face. “Oh! Is ou!” He reaches out a hand, you take his sleeve between two fingers and guide his hand back towards the bar counter. “I’m gonna call you a cab, you need to be ready when it gets here.” He snorts, drool from his nap gleaming against his cheek. “When id ou ge so soft?”

136

Paradise of Life—Brazil Natalie Miranda

I stood barefoot with my feet against the hot sand And watched the happy waves crash beneath my toes. The roars of the waves grew louder as I was drawn to them, I thought what a natural beauty. I let my body be taken by the ocean, my soul was free like the wind without worry or care. And as I floated, I let the water guide me. It got rid of all that was rotting inside meA good riddance. I swam back to the shore And walked to the red mountains of clay, Where I scrubbed the clay all over my skin. It left my skin soft and light like a feather, and It glistened like the waves in the sunlight. I went back to the spot where my family was, they took photos of those moments I could never forget. I was living the paradise of lifeThe happiest I could ever be.

137

When I Think of Life While Riding the Subway Julie Rivera

How does this one subway line bring us all to our destination, but yet were all going to different places? I board the train and place my bag beside me, To ensure no one will sit next me. Two earbuds in to avoid any unwanted conversation. Praying that maybe this one time people will get the message. Stop by stop, I watch as more people board. A woman with a large green bag takes the seat across from me. What could she possibly be carrying? There is no possible way she could need everything in that bag. She looks so puzzled and confused almost as if she is in a daze. She must be going through something; I should stop staring. It’s probably making her uncomfortable. But I can’t help but notice the tears streaming down her face. I remember it’s not my place to see if she’s ok and focus my attention the other way. Three more stops to go. Ding dong, the doors closed and were off to the next stop. I look to my right and notice the man in the tattered, stained uP clothes. In the midst of Winter I wonder if this is his way to stay warm. What happens in someone’s life for them to end up in this position? He props up a sign and places a small cup next to him. “Homeless veteran in need of help.” Any assumption I made was wrong. How could someone who fought for our country be fighting to stay warm now? Ding Dong, one more stop to go. Not a seat available as a pregnant woman with a baby enters the car. Someone’s got to get up. Wow, everyone is just going to watch this woman struggle. Let me gather my things, she needs to take this seat. A quiet thank you and subtle smile. Why wouldn’t everyone give up this seat for her? I guess in New York people just ignore this type of thing. My stop is next. Quietly I say excuse me, excuse me and try to make my way to the door. I forgot about the veteran with the sign and I have to go back. 138

All I can think is, “ all of these people are gonna be so annoyed.” I ponder on the thought of just exiting the train. No I have to go back, who knows when someone will help him. As I make my way toward him I wonder how we are all here, Each living different lives but all in the same place. I drop five dollars into his cup and I’m met with a big smile. How has his life come to this? How did we all end up on this train?

139

Salem

Marianna Rappa I found a lot of things disturbing, including the world that we lived in. I never expected anything to come out of this long-distance relationship that I was currently in. The moment I had put on my big jean jacket and doc martins on and stepped out into the cold, holding a duffel bag and my car keys, I knew there was no going back. I threw the green worn out duffel bag in the backseat of my dark blue Ford truck and watched the snow fall for the trees near my house. The old wooden house was a couple of feet from the paved driveway. The scent of pine and cigarettes lingered on my pale skin. I started up the truck and began the long drive to Salem to see my girlfriend, Haley. It was a four- hour drive from where I lived in the mountains. The snow was falling faster now, and I had to get moving before the blizzard hit the mountain area where I lived, far away from society. I lit a cigarette and watched as the snow became thick and downright annoying. I typically would put my cigarette out by throwing it out of the window of my truck, but this time I took a bigger drag then usual and put it out onto the dashboard of the front of my truck. My palms began to sweat as I put both of my hands both back on the wheel, gripping tightly at both ends. I was nervous about how fast the snow was falling. I was only ten minutes into my drive, and I could already feel my heart beating rapidly. I tried to calm myself down with a stick of mint gum. I hated the flavor, but the chewing was enough to bring my anxiety back down and allow me to drive with ease again, god forbid I crash my truck for the fourth time this year. My depression had gone down with the help of some strong medication and a few cigarettes. But I still feared that my anxiety and over-thinking would get the worst of me and get me killed. I had to slow down the truck, so I could continue driving down the icy road. I was about an hour into my drive now and I could already feel myself getting super tired. My forest eyes began to close, and I feel asleep on the wheel. The truck slide sideways, causing me to jerk my eyes open. I couldn’t stop the car from sliding. With a loud bang, my truck slammed directly into an oak tree on the side 140

of the icy road. My face made direct contact with the airbag on the wheel along with the glass shards breaking off the windshield. Before I could process the situation, I passed out again. Feeling only my body being pulled out of the truck along with my things. I woke up in a windowless bedroom, in a bed with white sheets and blankets. The room was painted a dark gray, yet my eyes still were adjusting to the room. My head was covered with bandages. I remembered nothing except the impact from the crash. I tried to sit up but ended up laying back down again, due to the extreme moment of pain I was in. I could barely move. I looked around the room again, there was no sign of belongings. I was utterly terrified and praying whoever had saved me wasn’t insane. I heard a knock on the door of the bedroom. “May I come in?” the voice sounded sweet, almost like honey. I felt a little better, hoping whoever saved me was a woman instead of a man, due to my father hitting me as a child for liking girls. “Yeah.” I yelled back before the door opened slowly. I was right. The person who entered was an old woman, small in size. She had gray hair in a bun, wearing a sweater and long pants. But instead of a jacket, she wore an apron with butterflies all around the fabric, almost as if they were flying in different directions with many colors and patterns. She held a wooden tray in her hand. I smelled the strong scent of tomato soup and grilled cheese, which were two of my favorite comfort foods. I licked my lips, thanking the universe that I was going to be alright. She placed the tray in front of me and handed me some Advil. “My name is Anne. I am the keeper of this lovely household.” She smiled at me before sitting on the side of my bed. I nodded my head and looked at her. I couldn’t say my name, I was too weak. “Do you need some help sitting up sweetie?” Her voice was softer this time. I could only nod my head as she helped me sit up to enjoy the soup and the grilled cheese. She spoon fed me, like a child eating in a booster seat. I was able to pick up half of the grilled cheese and dip it into the tomato soup. I savored the tomato soup 141

entering my mouth with the taste of the grilled cheese. Enjoying as the two flavors danced in my mouth. When I finished, she took the tray away from me and put it on the bedside table. “What happened after the crash?” I coughed loudly, while trying to mask the extreme amount of pain that I was currently in. “I was driving down the road, just like you sweetie. I saw your truck on the side of the road. I was with my neighbor for next door. His name was Adam and he has helped me with shoveling my driveway for the past few years or so. I had no signal, so all I could do was get him to drag you out of the truck and help you into the back seat of my car. I did call a tow truck so your truck could get fixed, once we returned to my house and he helped you into bed. It should be ready in a couple of days, sweetie.” The old woman adjusted my blankets and handed me my duffel and my jacket. “I figured you’d need these. Also, there is Wi-Fi in the house. It’s the first Wi-Fi that is available, and the password is catmom. No spaces or capitals.” I could only nod my head and smile at how kind this old women was being towards me. My phone was completely dead, and I had no energy left in my entire body to plug it in. For now, I could only lay back in the extremely comfy twin bed and close my eyes for a bit. I was awoken by the sounds of voices and movement in my bed. I opened my eyes and was shocked to see my girlfriend, Haley, looking directly at me. Her brown eyes were red with tears and her scarlet hair was messy. She was adjusting the bandages on my forehead and playing with my long dirty blond hair. She wore a black sweater with the words “Witch Bitch” written in huge letters along with the darkest skinny jeans. Her nails were long and bright red, I could feel them slowly exploring the skin on my forearms. “You look like shit.” Haley was smiling and crying at the same time. It was her way of saying I’m glad you’re okay, but I’m worried about you babe. I could only pull her into a hug. She smelled like cigarettes and strong whiskey. I became a little worried and pulled Haley closer into my body, stroking her scarlet hair gently without hurting my body. 142

“Hayles, are you smoking and drinking again?” I sighed, hoping her answer was a logical explanation for her shitty actions. Haley sighed loudly. “I had a cigarette on the way here and a little bit of whiskey to calm my nerves. I know you’ve been wanting me to quit smoking and drinking but it’s been so difficult for me. I was so worried about you, when you didn’t answer your phone. Luckily, you had your location on, so I drove all the way from Massachusetts to your small town. The old woman who answered the door told me you were here. She said you got into a terrible car accident and then I saw you..” I silenced her with a kiss, and she cuddled deep into my chest. I ignored the pain that was going through my entire body and watched Haley slowly fall asleep. I sighed again, knowing that I’d still be in pain for a couple of days before I could go home. I looked at the door to the bedroom, and saw the old woman standing there, watching us both closely. She smiled before slowly closing the door shut. I closed my eyes as well, letting sleep come upon me again. We woke up a few hours later to the sound of the bedroom door opening, Anne greeted us with a simple smile and some hot chocolate and chocolate-chip cookies. Anne bought the tray on the bedside table and sat down in the chair next to us. “How can I thank you for saving my life?” I said with a light smile. “No thanks is necessary, my dear. I am just glad to have the company is all.” Anne smiled before handing us the hot chocolate. Hayley and I both took large gulps before putting both cups down. We pulled Anne into a big thank you hug for everything she has done for us.

143

Fine Line Joelle Gray

144

Moving Forward Ashley Amarante

I am claiming back my life There is no more room in my mind that I will allow to be infested by hate There is no more time left to be consumed by this heavy weight I am strong I had to be to remind myself of the words to my own song I am living proof of living through He is weak, preying on my own defeat But now he is free to go and let me carry on alone He has lost his hold and will never re-enter this threshold I have learned That he was never a part of me as he claimed to be That my good comes from the best parts of me Please know That you are better off alone than with someone else infesting your home That it’s okay to fight for yourself and to send him straight to hell

145

148

Award Summaries Donald Hall Poetry Prize Each year, Quinnipiac University’s College of Arts and Sciences sponsors a student poetry contest in honor of Donald Hall, former US Poet Laureate and native of Hamden, Connecticut. A committee of Quinnipiac faculty selects the best student poetry and awards cash prizes to the first, second, and thirdplace winners. Prizewinners read from their work at an annual celebration of student creativity in the spring semester, and the first place winner is automatically published in the Montage Literary & Arts Journal. First Place: Tyler Villano-Maron Second Place: Erin Mullane wThird Place: Cora Fuhrmann & Tim Powers Honorable Mention: Tess Adams, Gabriel Purpura, & Emma Gallagher

Wilder Fiction Prize Each year, Quinnipiac University’s College of Arts and Sciences sponsors a student fiction contest in honor of Thornton Wilder, Pulitzer-Prize-winning novelist and playwright, and longtime resident of Hamden, Connecticut. A committee of Quinnipiac faculty selects the best pieces of short fiction by a student and awards cash prizes to the first, second, and third-place winners. Prizewinners read from their work at an annual celebration of student creativity in the spring semester, and the first place winner is automatically published in the Montage Literary & Arts Journal.

First Place: Tess Adams Second Place: Emily DePaola Third Place: Josephine Buckley Honorable Mention: Kaitlyn Bendick & Elizabeth Mazany 149

Connecticut Student Poetry Circuit The Connecticut Poetry Circuit was established in 1968 to continue the work of the New England Poetry Circuit, which was founded in 1964 by the Academy of American Poets and Holly Stevens, daughter of the acclaimed poet and Hartford insurance executive Wallace Stevens. The work of the Circuit is guided by a panel of poets: Randall Horton, Vivian Shipley, Clare Rossini, John Stanizzi and Kate Rushin. The Circuit is directed by James Gentile who is an English professor at Manchester Community College, the Circuit’s permanent home. Each year, the panel judges a state-wide contest of college student poets. Five student poets are selected each year and tour in the spring at colleges throughout the state. Montage’s Editor-in-Chief, Joelle Gray, was selected as one of the five Connecticut student poets this year. As part of the tour, she conducted five poetry readings with her fellow poets.

150

Who We Are Tess Adams is a graduating senior of Quinnipiac University with

majors in English and theater. She is the 2021 recipient of the Wilder Fiction Prize, which she also received Honorable Mention for in 2018, and an honorable mention recip. for the 2021 Donald Hall Poetry Prize. She was the 2020 runner up for The Missouri Review’s Miller Audio Contest in the comedy section. Tess hopes to pursue a career in the performing arts following graduation and to continue writing.

Ashley Amarante likes to write poetry for fun with no formal

education in writing. She finds it meaningful to find inspiration in her everyday life and draw from the experiences of those around her.

Tamara Anderson is a sophomore English major in the MAT (4+1)

program. She has always loved to write, but realized she truly fell in love with it after taking a creative writing class in her junior year of high school. Though she still enjoys writing essays and other academic writings, creative writing will always be her favorite, and she will continue to write until she is unable to.

Brian Ataka is a Kenyan born artist who enjoys learning about the beauties of the world. He is an economics major, a lover of nature, and an avid explorer.

Emma Bender is a graduate of the Educational Center for the

Arts. There she studied digital photography, film photography, painting, drawing, printmaking, sculpture, and film under New Haven area artists. Her favorite mediums to work in are photography, film, and printmaking. Currently, she is studying at Quinnipiac University. There she is majoring in nursing and minoring in theater studies.

Kaitlyn Bendick should probably be studying for biochemistry.

Kaitlyn Bendick does NOT want to be studying for biochemistry. This is the result of that predicament.

151

Haley Bonin is a legal studies major with an English minor. She

has loved creative writing and poetry since she was in middle school and always used it as an outlet to be creative and express her emotions. Though poetry and creative writing won’t be a part of her daily life when she graduates, she hopes to keep writing in her free time throughout the future.

Brantley Boyda currently lives on Pluto with her spider plant

named Mider. Her past accomplishments include winning the WAC “Truth” contest in 2020 and finishing five 5k’s in 2021. She will be graduating in 2021 with a BA in Sociology and an honorary minor in Art because of all the extra art classes she has taken while at QU.

Josephine Buckley is a senior international business major

with a passion for writing. She placed third in the Wilder Fiction competition after her first creative writing class. She hopes to go to law school after graduating this semester where she will take her writing skills to the legal field.

Isabella Caria is a freshman film major from Brooklyn, NYC.

She has been acting for almost 10 years and has been the lead female role in every high school play she has been in. Not only does Isabella love theater and acting, but she also loves art. She is not as experienced in art as she is in acting, but she loves to express her creative self through artwork. Aside from art and acting, Isabella is very passionate about fashion. She grew up in the fashion industry and interned at Tory Burch HQ in Manhattan. Fashion plays a huge part in Isabella’s life, and the way she expresses herself. Fashion also inspires some aspects of her artwork.

Anna Ciacciarella (she/her/hers) is a senior English and

environmental studies double major with minors in political science and sociology. Anna currently serves as President of Students for Environmental Action. In her free time, Anna loves to garden and write poetry. Anna will be graduating from QU in May and she will continue her studies of agriculture and sustainability at University of Michigan.

Emily DePaola is an English major who enjoys reading, reading, and more reading. Her short story “Boca Raton in November” recently came in second in the Wilder Fiction Prize. She graduates in May and will be attending law school in the fall. 152

Emily DiSalvo is a third-year journalism student at Quinnipiac

who writes poetry as a fun way to escape the objectivity and rigidity of reporting. She will attend Quinnipiac next year in pursuit of her master’s in journalism and hopes to go to law school after that to advocate for human rights and the environment. Emily has published hundreds of articles, but this will be her first published poem, which she is very excited about.

Haley Druckenmiller is a first year student in the Athletic

Training program. She has only taken Art History and an art based FYS course at Quinnipiac University. While she has a great passion for her major and activities pertaining to it, art has always been a big interest. Haley has taken plenty of art courses in high school and in earlier years. She plans on keeping up the hobby along with staying focused and passionate for Athletic Training.

Stephanie Felix is a burnt-out senior who likes being Joelle’s

roommate and buying tiny mystery packs from Five Below. She loves cats, all forms of potato, and Spotify playlists with very specific themes. She graduates in May and is eagerly awaiting the hibernation she will enter once she’s done with formal education (which will be followed by a summer of learning how to drive and navigate finding a real adult job).

Cora Fuhrmann is a Biology and Secondary Education Major.

Somehow, they ended placing in the Donald Hall Poetry Prize in 2021 having never taken a singular creative writing or poetry class. They would like to thank Lana Del Rey, Rafael Casal, and their mother for inspiring their work.

Emma Gallagher is a sophomore English Major in the MAT

program. She enjoys every type of writing there is but has a specific affinity for poetry, largely because of the classes she has taken here at Quinnipiac University with Professor Jason Koo. She placed in the Donald Hall poetry prize competition in 2021 and has every intention to keep writing poetry well beyond her years at Quinnipiac. She is graduating in 2023 and hopes to one day become an English teacher with the goal of spreading her passion for English and creative writing onto each one of her students.

Glenna Gobeil is a second-year advertising student. This is her

second year participating in Montage. She likes taking photos in her free time. 153

Joelle Gray is a senior advertising major who loves many things:

cats, dogs, babies, New Hampshire, therapy, poetry, Montage, and perhaps most of all, the sheer prospect of graduating soon. From her unexpected Donald Hall Poetry Prize win in 2020 to her even-more-unexpected Connecticut Student Poetry Circuit win in 2021, she has grown to explore the world through poetry. Oh, she also loves her family and her friends, who were all mad that they didn’t get a shout-out the last two years.

Victoria Lorenz is a second year student in Quinnipiac

University’s 3+1 program. She is pursuing a bachelors in graphic and interactive design (2022) and a masters in interactive media and communications (2023). She hopes to get internships that will expose her to the world of design and help her choose a career path after graduation. She loves art, nature, reading, and journaling and is excited for the end of the semester when she will have more time to indulge in all of these activities.

Madeline Morabito is a sophomore nursing major at Quinnipiac, who discovered her love of poetry accidentally. Through a writing elective at Quinnipiac University with Professor Koo, her introduction to poetry has allowed her to find a new and unexpected joy for writing.

Erin Mullane is a second year history major at Quinnipiac

University. She has always been an avid reader and writer, and is proud that she placed in the 2021 Donald Hall Poetry Prize. While she is unsure where life will take her after graduation, she plans to continue writing and creating as much as she can.

Paige Pezzella is a freshman English major who has been creating stories ever since she could write. There are many embarrassing pieces of writing tucked away on the family computer, but now her writing is something she is proud to present beyond the comfort of her documents folder and the ears of her parents.

Tim Powers is currently overthinking everything he has ever

done, as he always does. He’s also currently a junior English major and journalism and media studies minor at Quinnipiac University. He has found a passion for writing very depressing poetry and he has recently placed in the Donald Hall Poetry Prize.

154

Gabriel Purpura is a junior English major at Quinnipiac

University. Afterward, he hopes to pursue a legal career. His biggest influences are Anthony Swofford, Ernest Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Vivian Quinlan is a junior with a love of creative writing and

strong passion for teaching. She has taken three creative writing classes and enjoys using poetry as an outlet for self-expression. Vivian has spent the last two years acquiring the confidence and skills that she will need to effectively teach her future students by majoring in Interdisciplinary Studies and Elementary Education through the five year Bachelor’s and Master’s degree program at Quinnipiac University.

Marianna Rappa is a senior journalism major with a passion for creativity. She hopes to spread positivity and awareness about LGBTQ students and what they face. Graduating in less than a month, she’s both nervous and excited for the future.

Kylie Ray is a English major in the creative writing track. She

loves writing and it takes up much of her time. She is always thinking of new ideas to scribble down in the plethora of notebooks she has scattered around her room. She recently transferred to Quinnipiac in the Fall of 2020 and is currently loving everything this school has to offer.

Julie Rivera is a third year student at Quinnipiac University,

majoring in criminal justice and minoring in English. She discovered her love for poetry in Professor Koo’s intro to poetry class at the start of the fall semester and along the way embraced the strength and power poetry holds. Facing a major dealing with very finite context, she continues to use poetry as an inlet into her creative world free of limitations.

Maily Tran is a senior health science major, and people have

been telling her, “You’re almost done!” She replies, “No, not really, I have three more years left!” because she is pursuing a doctorate in physical therapy at QU. Maily is a firm believer that there is always something new to learn about people and about ourselves. She enjoys interactions where there is learning, free-flowing laughter, and sometimes, even tears. If some good food or nature is present, that is even better! She sees poetry as another way to express, learn, and connect with other fellow humans. 155

Alessandra Varon is a film, television, and media arts major in the

BFA program with a minor in theater studies. She’s been writing poetry for over a decade now and is thrilled to have upgraded from the notes app to a published journal. She wants all the Emos out there to know that they too can turn their sad musings into something with range and accreditation.

Tyler Villano-Maron got kicked out of New York City, binge

drank, found help, went back to school, and then won the Donald Hall Poetry Prize for his gay poems. He is an ex-designer, casual photographer, and modern lover. His future plans are finding Japan and reclaiming the “F” word. Your support for student press is appreciated.

Brian Ziegelhofer is a 3+1 MBA student at Quinnipiac University

with a “secret” passion for poetry. You can find many of his pieces on Instagram @weareunspokentruth, including several published pieces. This is his third time being featured in a Montage collection. He hopes to continue to use his voice to help others on their journey to find their own.

156

157

Acknowledgements Thank you, Victoria Lorenz, for designing the cover art for this year’s journal. You took on the challenge and created something truly breathtaking. You will always do amazing things. Thank you, Dr. Jason Koo and Dr. Ken Cormier, for sharing your talents with us at Montage. Without your support, this journal would be almost empty. We appreciate everything you do to spread the message of Montage out across the Quinnipiac community and into your classrooms. Thank you, Austin Davoren, for doing everything you could to lift Montage this year. We are beyond sad that this was your first and last year with us, but we love you and are so grateful for all you have done to make us better. Thank you, Tamara Anderson, Rebecca Gatz, Glenna Gobeil, and Kate Iorio, for your unwavering dedication to Montage throughout the craziness that has been the pandemic. What a remarkable group of women. Thank you, TYCO, for making this Montage publication a physical, tangible object that can be shared with the world. You make our dreams into reality, and for that, we could never thank you enough. Thank you, Montage members, for making us a community. Although this year we were small in number, we were not, by any means, small in force. This will be remembered as the year we persevered when no one thought we would. Thank you, reader, for picking up this book. You are why we write. Without you, we are nothing. Continue to support the arts wherever you might find yourself. Never stop reading. Never stop growing. Never stop learning. We love you.

159

Montage

Vol. 40

2021