Spawning Pool—Poetry 2024

Spawning Pool

Poetry Chapbook

Spring 2024

Shippensburg University

Spawning Pool is a literary arts chapbook published at Shippensburg University by a small and dedicated team of undergraduate students. It is composed of pieces submitted by undergraduate students of the university.

Spawning Pool accepts rolling submissions throughout the year, and we publish our chapbook every spring semester. SpawningPool is a publication of The Reflector, which also accepts submissions year-round, and is compiled each fall semester.

Contact us: Submissions and inquires: reflect@ship.edu

Spawning Pool Poetry Chapbook, Spring 2024

Text set in EB Garamond

Printed by Shippensburg University

Layout by Maggie McGuire and Rena Charles

Cover by Maggie McGuire

Poetry Editors

Maggie McGuire

Rena Charles

Poetry Committee Members

Cornell Piper Kull

Emily Velez

Hannah

Letter from the Editors

Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up this year’s edition of the Poetry Spawning Pool. The theme is Love Letters, and we asked poets to submit poems about who, what, and how they love. The poets in this collection profess their love for the tiniest of things, the smallest of moments, and the most unlikely of places. In an age where our attention is in constant demand, please remember to make time for the people and things you love, no matter how small. Again, thank you for reading…because of you, this love has somewhere to live.

Maggie McGuire and Rena Charles

No Name 2

Table of Contents

Griffyn Imes

Sweet Anonymous

Ode to Mango Dustin Daihl

Veggie Delight Piper Kull

Pizza Ode Tymere Harris

Small Regular David Kennedy

Even a Pear Feared Something Abigail Alonso

Ode to His Hands Tomi May

Written By: Ashley Toms

The Intimacy of Lying in Your Bed Ashley Toms

SOMETHING OTHER

Jean Stinchfield

OUR PLACE IN FLORIPA Jean Stinchfield

Swallowtails

Love is Kinda Shit

GUTS

Voluntarily Solitary

Madi Shively

Jenny Russell

Kellin Brownewell

Kacey Sollenberger

Re: Objet Petit A Margaret DeStephano

Something of a Prayer Cora Patterson

Remember to write a Cora Patterson carpe diem for addy

Words about my Cora Patterson

messy mind

In Conversation…

Pierce Romey

His Love Pierce Romey

Think Beauty

Pierce Romey

My Hope B.R.

A Silent Love

Where You Can Find Love

Pamela Jade

Pamela Jade

Suddenly, Last Night Caylynn Felton

My Mother’s Mother Caylynn Felton

In The Kitchen Hannah Cornell

Fall in the Eyes of Someone Missing Old Times Reyna Charleston

Dogma Ruby Tilder

For professor Edwards Ruby Tilder

Mine AnnaShae Mason

Ode to My Ratties

I love you to the moon

Striped Scarves

Hailee Rauch

Hailee Rauch

Abigail Alonso

The Red Scarf Jake Smith

Thrift Store

Lea Holler

Be Mine Charles Herrick

You are killing me and you are keeping me alive. That’s love.

-Mahmoud Darwish

No Name 2

let yourself be tender

people are going to use you

let them use you for love

Griffyn Imes

The taste on my lips is so sweet

From this special delectable treat

What is it, young miss?

Your dear boyfriend’s kiss?

No! Red velvet cake for me to eat!

Ode to Mango

Mango… High in the tree she grows

Mango… Too high for me I suppose

In all of her colors: orange, gold, green and red

Let it go, fade away instead

Mango… Safe in her leathery skin

Mango… I never knew how to begin

But one thing in common as I sink my teeth

We both hide the sunlight underneath

Mango…

Mango…

Can't hear no sour talking

She was always sweet to me

When I grow tired of walking

I'll lay to sleep beneath a mango tree

Mango… I know it's supposed to be strange

Mango… But don't you grow or change

Miles of mystic, lead to the pit inside

Easier still to swallow than my pride

Mango…

By now you ought to already know…

Dustin Daihl

Veggie Delight

Every time I have veggie delight I think of my mother when she was my age

Or maybe a little older, maybe a little younger

But I think of my mother

And if she was in her room huddled over a paper If she was sitting in the back of lecture halls clutching veggie delight, tiny white rice, sweet tea

Every time I think of my mother when she was my age

I think about how I’m feeling now

How I can feel time escaping

And did my mother ever feel too young, too silly, not enough for her age

And was my mother ever scared?

Because when I think of my mother when she was my age She was so much older and so perfect

When I eat veggie delight, when I shove scalding broccoli Into my crooked teeth

I wonder if in the back of that same lecture hall

My mother ever yelled “Ouch!” Piper Kull

Pizza Ode

Can’t get enough of the large pie

Cut up in slices

With cheese that melts like ice in the sun

A huge bite what makes all the pain go away

Like an ibuprofen when I have a headache

A whole box which fills me up like adding fuel to a tank on E

Oh Pizza how much I love you!

There’s crust, sauce, cheese, and sausages

everything that just taste so great

Pizza for me

Pizza for you

Sometimes I wish to take pizza on a date

The love I have is amazing

Not too much can compare

I can always count on you to show up

On my worst days you’re here

Oh Pizza how much I adore you

As the day ends and the sun sets at sea

Me and pizza watch it go

I’m as happy as I’ll always be ?

Tymere Harris

Small Regular

Dunkin’, free me

From this crypt.

Help me write My java script.

Warming spire, Base so round, Keep my spirit On the ground.

David Kennedy

Even a Pear Feared Something

It has never been trumpets,

But the sound of a dying crane over the sea,

The screeching halt of a train wheel,

A beam of light in the sky twirling with sound—

Extra-terrestrial echoes through the night air.

And I am more afraid of god than before.

With soft round cheeks who had i to fear

But me with the dark circles for sockets,

Through my eyes swim minnows ,

Around like a Ferris wheel.

And at the height I see a purple veil for a sun,

Where fish dive with wings to the ocean,

And the waves become equip with golden swords.

A picket fence already made its way between my ribs

The day I held her heart in my hand,

And squeezed blood to my veins.

Abigail Alonso

Ode to His Hands

I press my lips against them

gently

trying to mend his wounds

I rub my fingers

over his jagged nails

he did not care to cut neatly

His calloused palms

he picks at

trying to smooth the rough patches

Hands made for feeling made for holding

Strong hands lift heavy bags carry heavy weight

Hard hands

softening in my grip becoming delicate like a baby bird

I didn’t always believe in loving hands believe in loving

Until his I simply saw fingers thumbs fists hate His hands have the power to hurt

heal my deepest scars with their gentle touches with their patience with their slow moves with their asking before exploring more

His hands

I wish to know as well as my own Hands

I wish to watch grow old

and their skin become paper thin wrinkly spotted

These hands

holding all my love

Tomi May

Written By:

We have a connection, I like to think. One made with love and friendship, and paper and ink.

I like to imagine that he’s sitting at his desk. It’s made of dark oak with bright golden accents. He’s hunched over on himself, with a sharpened pencil in his hand. His fingers are cramping with all the pain he can stand.

His hair is shaggy, falling heavily on his face. His eyes are shadowed in concentration as he creates his landscape.

His lip is bitten between both sets of his pearly white teeth. They’re red and swollen from being chewed like raw meat.

A book lays in front of him, with blank pages and notes. He keeps writing with fire and inventing new quotes.

This story he writes seems familiar to me. Like something I’ve seen or maybe something I’ve dreamed.

With every word he writes my future changes true. From what once was a thought to something brand new.

He gets lost in the words, pages and pages flipping past, creating a life so impeccable and incredibly vast. But, oops.

He makes a mistake.

And I accidentally end up doing something fake. But then, he erases his sentence. He swipes away the debris and revels in penitence. And then, just like that, I rewind in my steps and take everything back. With every new sentence, I do something else. With every new paragraph, another sheet quells.

With every new chapter, I grow in age.

Until he finally ends up on the very last page. He sits on this page for a very good while.

Trying to find the right fit, find the right style.

How could he ever make a decision about something so wild? How could he ever say goodbye to the story of his child? He struggles this time. The words simply won’t flow. They’re stuck in his mind and don’t want to let go.

How should he end a masterpiece like this? He doesn't know but finally he finds something that fits.

“This is one of many.” he thinks to himself, as he finally writes the last page, and sits the book on his shelf.

On this shelf, there are books of plenty. Each are different in complexion and none are empty.

And on the spine, I can see my author’s name. It says “Written by God,” and all the others say the same.

Ashley Toms

The Intimacy of Lying in Your Bed

How did we end up here?

It’s been years since we last talked yet here you are laying in your bed before me.

I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel guilty.

I wasn’t there for you, the last we spoke we were making fun of a mutual friend’s bra that we found in your closet.

And now it’s been three years. Since we’ve last spoken. The only thing I can really remember about you is what a whisp of you looked like when we passed each other in the halls.

Why am I here, standing above you? Why am I the one to stare at you, your eyes closed, in an infinite bliss. For what you thought was only a dream thousands of miles away.

I am not worthy. I am not decent. I am not close enough, nor have ever been, to see you the way you are now.

In a way, this is the most intimate we have ever been. What once had been a joke, now becomes a reality, and I can’t help but bathe in it. In the truth of indifference.

I should feel something right? I should feel chilled to the bone. Or reminiscent. I should feel attachment. I should feel something. But I’m dazed. This isn’t real.

What do you feel?

Here you are, lying in your bed before me, and you look beautiful. But you shouldn’t. Your lips so pink from a lipstick you’ve never heard of. Your cheeks so bright from a blush you only ever made fun of. And a dark grey suit. Tie hung loosely by your neck.

You’re supposed to look beautiful. But I can’t help but feel you look like a completely different person. Like the person you never wanted to be.

I hope you’re feeling safe. And I hope you are feeling loved. Because you are.

I wish it was different.

I wish we had remained the same. But it’s all different now.

And we won’t ever be able to remain friends after this.

Because you’re dead. And the bed you are lying in is about to be closed and tossed into a depression in the ground.

Ashley Toms

SOMETHING OTHER

it’s the intention of the first bite

the tender bits that fall off the bone the spit you spat to the ground the sick slick of your sclera when you blow out your pupils

it’s the wet, the congealed blood sucking at the soles of your shoes peel the yellow fat and swallow, hard

to be hungrier than you are that’s the nature of-

Women have always known how to dimple their thighs

Under the fingers of-

Men have always known how to dimple the earth but you, you are calcified you are sterile, perverted your bone protrudes

your wound opens and you’re still chewing on that first bite

Jean Stinchfield

OUR PLACE IN FLORIPA

We keep the windows open to let the cat in, to let the sun in

The mattress is hard, but I can’t feel it when I sleep, my nose in her hair

Listening to the sharp cries of skinny dogs and the slap

Of fat raindrops flinging themselves off our balcony

We eat ourselves sick and leave work for later,

While the construction outside chews at the concrete

My hand fits perfectly behind her ear, cradling the glass of her skull

And when we walk, fingers sliding together like the tangling of kelp,

No one is watching us, and everyone stares

At the café, my American tongue is thick and wide and clumsy around “Tudo bem”

But she smiles and covers my hand with hers like I’m fluent

And she’s the funniest person I know

Cobblestone streets and holding hands in dark taxis, watching for our driver’s eyes

Peering at us in the rearview mirror

Waiting for the cyclone to strangle us while the sky spreads her blue wings

A young boy kicking a ratty ball up the steepest hill

The dry skin on his knees and the chain link of his limbs

Sipping Refrigerante de Guarana on the balcony

Eavesdropping on our neighbors like I can understand them

Her whispered translations against the shell of my ear

The construction still hungry, still biting

Ash sizzles when it lands in green water

And leaves white snow in my lap

Birds I’ve never seen before land on red clay rooftops

And fly higher than I’ve ever noticed

We still have work to do-

But the bones of our feet rest together

I think I must be closer to the moon here.

Jean Stinchfield

Swallowtails

I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real

I think about it and I don’t know what to make of it

The flecks of honey in the brown iris of your eyes

The way I preferred to wrap my arm around yours than holding hands

Feeling my palm resting on your bicep

Sitting side by side in sandy beach chairs while we spot swallowtail butterflies

Flying and floating together, intertwined

I tell you it’s a sign we’ll last forever

You laugh and say something else

How the streetlights flashed past your face

while we laughed the night we drove home from that concert

I should have looked to you

I should have paid attention

Half asleep kisses, sliding into bed at 3am

Giggling before slipping out of consciousness

Sitting in my red dress alone at your kitchen table

Your father and sister watch a movie

while you trade whispers with your mother in the other room

I should have paid more attention

Crickets and fireflies chirp and glow outside

I’m staring at you kneeling with a diamond in front of me

Why didn’t I pay more attention?

I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real

When I collapsed into your lap on the bathroom floor

And you were too repulsed to hold me

How you protested when I refused to try on her skin

When I couldn’t breathe for three long minutes

And you never even reached for the phone

The sting when you pause for effect

And the burn when you mimic my voice I am in your palm

And I am suffocating

But I love you the most I need to prove to you that I love you the most

I’ve witnessed your cruelty, In harsh, harrowing fluorescent lighting but I decide I will still love you the most

Because we cannot stand to be with each other

And you are crushing me

But at least you will not let me go

Is it real or not real?

I could have stopped it, I could have changed how you treated me

Real or not real?

It’s my fault

Real or not real?

I’ve found I can live with it if you never loved me

But did you ever believe in me?

I don’t love you anymore

(real)

Madi Shively

Love is Kinda Shit

Long, sleepless nights.

Ongoing fights.

Vain intervention.

Endless indiscretion

Into bleak patterns, Shaken: a Kaleidoscope

Inverted,

Never becoming whole.

Dancing whispers of Ash and whiskey, Sealed, stamped, and

Halted In time, Tossing forevermore.

Jenny Russell

GUTS

I stayed with you until I hated your guts

I wanted to smear them on the wall and

Eat the small fragments of your heart as they rained down

Down on the floor

Pretending to be someone else until

I couldn’t bear the thought of me anymore

Standing over myself with a knife in one hand

And your heart in the other

Holding my breath until I count to three

A little trick I learned to survive you

It was so easy for me to be your hero

And apparently even easier for you to be my villain

Kellin Brownewell

Voluntarily Solitary

If I never leave my house again, I might be the happiest person alive.

The prayer plant in the corner unfurls in the yellow saffron sunrise and I awaken only at midday when the neighbor mows his lawn.

I leave my comforter ruffled up over the bed because I have no one to please and I spend the day writing poetry at my sunlit mahogany desk.

Maybe I will waste away here, but at least I am happy.

Kacey Sollenberger

Re: Objet Petit A

in my psychoanalysis class, we call our loves our Object A’s. my professor once described this by saying that we are all donuts looking for a special someone who just might possibly somehow match with us in terms of lack. as in, we’d overlap. as in, we’d fit into each other. kind of. but instead of calling you a donut hole, I think I’ll stick with Object A, because you are so much more than some cutesy snack analogy. but also because I think if I even think I think your real name, I’m afraid I’ll hear your voice again. or god forbid I might remember the smell of your bed, the sketch of your hair on my skin or

in psychoanalysis they also like to discuss something called the Event. my professor said it like this: the Event is about reciprocity, the Event is when we, both of us, every person in the moment, get to be both the subject and the object at once. transcend. the Event is evidence of our existence extending beyond conscious, egoic things. sometimes. some might call love synthetic. liminal. maybe total. I’ve never asked your thoughts on this. I’m afraid you won’t want to hear it. I miss how your dog burrowed between us at dawn because she saw a squirrel and come on, mom! look mom! look! I don’t want to remember it. when I think of our Event, I don’t want to know what I know, what you know that I know but we both decided to get out of the bed. I can’t remember what happened next. I don’t. standing out in the dewy fall dawn, watching your dog, I’d like to take just one more minute. one more

cigarette. you came out to us with the chipped blue mugs of black coffee and the steam curled around your face like some prismatic halo while I lurked behind a curtain of carcinogens. I can’t remember what happened next. one of us asked the other a question while the dog pawed at a tree in search of her friend. I can’t remember who said what or when but I do remember the irreality of knowing we’d left the bed. in the cold, socks damp, lips cracked and my professor asked us what love meant and in those marked up desks there was a shift as we sat next to each other avoiding eye contact, wondering what the hell kind of answer could make any sense.

Margaret DeStephano

something of a prayer

would you dim the lights and join me in the quiet, please?

i’ve been waiting for a while to collapse into your presence

i’m tired. you can see it in my eyes and in the corners of my mouth

you can hear it in my voice and in the words that don’t come out

i’ve learned to wander, to let my body lead the way with little hesitation as the path fades day by day

so would you stop me? take my hand and walk me home?

let me unravel in your arms and lay down these ever-tightening bones.

Cora Patterson

remember to write a carpe diem for addy

I wrote myself a note

A reminder to write a carpe diem poem for you

Because I wanted to give you an excuse to let go of logic and reasoning, And just be with me

Now I’m thinking that maybe I’m writing a carpe diem poem for myself

Because you are you, and you don’t need any convincing I, however, am the one living a lie

The words “everything about you is so beautiful” stay behind my lips every day

Hasn’t anyone ever told me that tonight, we die?

Cora Patterson

words about my messy mind

you make me want to move the boxes to the garage

hunt around in the basement for a vacuum

spackle and repaint the dented walls into a calming hue of green

i will build us a bed and hang fairy lights in all the dark corners

i think there was once a window in this room, and i will find it again i will hang artwork of our memories all over the walls and fill bookshelves with our letters and poems, beside a desk to write more

Cora Patterson

In Conversation with Cameron Conroy’s Introspective Deconstruction in Space and Ruth Ozeki’s A Tale for the Time Being

Beyond the shoreline past what the eyes can see lay the scars of origin.

Beyond our view of time, you know your body exists past your mental bliss.

Beyond your thoughts is an enigmatic trip where you can never quite tell just how you’ll trip.

Beyond the scales live the eyes of time,

the hands never truly exist. It’s the eyes that we use to guide our lives.

Beyond time are the moments we never use in our lives the stories and the passing moments of their glories.

Beyond the way you look at your life know that worth is actually your story.

Pierce Romey

His love

Found Poem: From Helena Maria Viramontes’

Under The Feet Of Jesus

The Holy Spirit came in the form of tongues of fire to show His love… Engulfing his skin up to his chin, his mouth, his nose, bubbled air. The sea had receded without him.

Pierce Romey

Think Beauty

Found Poem: From Joshua Whitehead’s Jonny Appleseed

When I think of masculinity, I think of femininity

Everything’s finished in beauty

I think you’re beautiful for a boy who lets himself feel

Who the hell gonna love me now,

…I’m sorry I never got to show you how I transform

It’ll kill you, you know, if you love it too dearly

And that’s the truth.

Pierce Romey

My Hope

My hope is a monarch butterfly in the stars, fluttering fast, feeling far away.

A dandelion breathing in like a wildfire, drinking up dark dirt.

A cup of lemonade left on the kitchen counter, a little warm, but still welcoming.

A sleeping cat in the summer sun, lazy but full of life.

B.R.

A Silent Love

I can hear the lips of air, between two reluctant bodies, the clouds cracking above them, their folding and fumbling of hands, the leaves choking before leaping, the slow snowfall of a passing season, the stars, the moon, the sun, the sky, the familiarity of an empty street, emptier early mornings –the merciful return of butterflies, their wings, flowers blooming in spring, soft strokes of paintbrushes,

koi fish beneath shallow water, while she sinks in the deep, the slow steady unraveling of a snake, the flames of candles lining cathedrals, the corners of libraries lined with literature, eyes following pages left to right, dreams following the falling of eyes, deep deep sleep, beams of light breaking into homes, another early morning –open another French love story, worn in spine of a book, mimes breaking out of boxes, the moment of a hug, a lot shorter than one likes to admit

that they remember, I can hear it all, pushing its way into my ear canal, building up at the membrane, silence is what you learn –if it is what you love.

Pamela Jade

Where You Can Find Love

I start by telling of a women’s hands, plated in silver stary ring, which could cup the orotund of heavenly angels sighs, but prefer to cup a venti cold brew, and gesture in a conversation with strange people. light seeker in the dark, firefly fingertips, finds it,

cupping moths in hand

to set them free –I envy them and wish, I was them and that they were me.

To be a winged God’s creature with no concept of what can and cannot be, rather than hands that bare concept of all sorts of war, and instead practice of great love

that does not expect to be seen but to just be.

Pamela Jade

Suddenly, Last Night

Stay by my side

Till the evening stars-

Disperse to morning doves.

We can kiss away the drunken fun, Or run away to Mars.

You’ll hold my hair tonight,

But I know-

I’ll never see you in the light.

The empty wine bottles

Will turn to vases-

For flower stems trimmed so thin.

I will wake up

To the doves

Hurting my head

And you will no longer Be in my bed.

The flowers will wilt

In the bottom shelf bottle

And I will wonder

Where you have be Caylynn Felton

My Mother’s Mother

Did you know that you are born with all the eggs you will ever have? So I was inside my mom, while she was in her mom? Yes. My mom was carried by my great grandmotherand I carried by mother’s mother- and my mother’s mother carried by my great great grandmother. So when does it really end? Is this why I feel the weight of the world. I carry the mind the sadness the hate the love the betrayal of every woman before me. I feel my mother’s pain radiate through my bones like a chill. She was a girl once ya know. One with dreams and hobbies, and lots of friends. I wish I could hold that little girl. Write her a letter and tell her it will all work out. Maybe even tell her to never meet my father. I’m willing to give my life for her young life. I carry my mother’s sadness on my shoulder like an old damn dog

that won’t fucking die. I try to nurture it, teach it tricks and give it treats. It always bites my hand though. Damn dog. So, my great grandmother, was carried by my great great great grandmother. I wonder what her sadness was. A man, a woman- From her mom or not? But maybe I got my brains from her. And possibly her humor. When does it really end? I wonder if she would have liked me, and sent me a birthday card each year? I wonder if all the women cried like I did after my first heartbreak? I wish I could hold them all. Tell them their blood flows through me. I am them and I am happy. I wonder if they can feel it, their coffin stretching a little, the dirt not feeling so thick. I am my mother’s mother. In some world. Because when does it really end? If I was my mother’s mother, I would never stop going higher on the swings, and never once think twice about ice cream for dinner. I miss my mother’s mother; she gave the sadness

to us all. I feel her agony in my heart. I inherited her sadness, not her glowing blue eyes. My mother’s mother was cruel. A maneater. Always home never there. She gave it to my mom, which made her pass it to me. I can’t cure it, or fix it- she’s gone. They are all gone, the roots of this sadness- but the flowers keep blooming. They carried us all, we all are them- the sadness never dies. I don’t want to die sad, or worse- give it away. I am a future mother’s mother, and so is my daughter and hers. The roots will never budge- unless we become our mother’s mother, because the dog won’t stop biting.

Caylynn Felton

In the Kitchen

An ekphrastic poem inspired by Liza Lou’s “Kitchen”

I am the woman like most you know, whose fingers itch at dirty dishes and dust bunnies and carpet stains even when the mess is not my own.

The kitchen beckons like a home all chrome and countertop, sink and stove, bleach and baking soda both get the blood out well enough.

I wonder about this generational trauma knowledge, the instinct of mothers before me that haunts my bones and the windy spaces between my thighs

gusting like the sounds of a vacuum cleaner against hardwood floor.

I wonder about the magnet that pulls toddlers to my hip and sewing needles into my hands, and pots and pans to the stove always on and waiting.

Waiting for me until my daughter stirs the spoon, brings it to her lips, and blows

before passing the bite away.

Waiting for me until I am nothing but dust on the kitchen floor.

Hannah Cornell

Fall in The Eyes of Someone Missing Old Times

A crisp, smoke comes out of your mouth because of the cold, And not because of the cigarette in your right hand, That you pass to me while holding my other hand Type of autumn day.

Fall- Sweatshirt weather, with the fur boots and a vest, Coffee dates that warm the soul like going back to your mom’s

House for the first time in a while, always warm, with cookies,

And the hugs that are wrapped around your whole body and you wonder why you ever left.

Reyna Charleston

DOGMA

My father made a box from clay in college and now it is my shrine

Filled with findings off the ground

Bits and pieces claimed as mine

Pressed pennies, lonely earrings, buttons, beads, a blade

An agnostic spiritual oxymoron, not jaded, but set in jade

A dogma, doctrine, far from canine, self-betry, self-serpentine

My dogma is inarguable, unbreakable, insecure yet unshakable

Therapized and medicated, yet somehow inescapable

Self hatred spits from the front teeth

my tongue has grazed since I was nine

And the milkteeth sit in a lipstick case

Worshipped within that clay box shrine.

I am older than the heroine of every story I have ever loved

My hair is longer than it’s ever been

My bed is bigger than it ever was

My nose never used to be aquiline

It’s more pronounced than it was originally

Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel

My baby photos don’t look like me

And when I search my nose shape

The search bar prompts “rhinoplasty”

As if different means “must be fixed”

And fixed means plastic surgery

Will my daughter look like me?

Will I hate her if she does?

Will I follow the dogma to the end,

Will will become was?

Self cult cult classic cul de sac

Looping never end

And all abbreviations only cut it at the stem

EDMR, OCD, SSRI, ASD,

Where is the intersection

Between religion and pathology?

Self hatred and monotony?

It’s horrible but what if

What if

This is how it has to be?

My dogma all consuming

Then what will be left of me?

Ruby Tilder

-for professor edwards

There is something about playdates at friends houses that turn into friends apartments that still somehow smell like the past; finding quarters littered on hot ground, the constant sick feeling that is only intensified by air so thick it’s no longer a gas, you can no longer suck it in. Your intelligence is annoying, ‘you feel guilty for writing because it’s time you could be studying or sleeping or cleaning or doing something real, productive, never mind the humanities, never mind the ancient greeks who knew that one is not fully human without creativity, without inspiration, do you know what inspiration means? In spiration, to be filled with the spirit. Not to think or do, but to be possessed by the spirit of whatever you are about to create. The fact that creation for creation’s sake sparks guilt is terrible, unthinkable. But even knowing it is terrible,

unthinkable sparks a whole new guilt– And suddenly you feel guilty for feeling guilty and what use is that to anyone?

Monetize

your hobbies

Knit faster so you can sell those socks–i made the ones i have on, i love these socks, what if i could make some money making more of them?

Draw on commission,

Create for others Not for you

Yes there’s passion to your project but it is not a passion project,

It is not a labor of love

But a labor lost

The ancient greeks would be disappointed in us

Ruby Tilder

Mine

Starting to feel light again

It's refreshing to be seen

Knowing that you love me

I now see things differently

Everything is moving fast

Although I don't mind the pace

I'd run to you

Enjoying the chase

AnnaShae Mason

Ode to My Ratties

I have three rats and everything about them is so little. Little hands, little toes, little ears, little bellies, little noses. But everything about them is so big. Big stretches and yawns when they wake up from a nap, big squeaks when they wrestle and one is losing, big sneezes when they get a little too close to the window, big hops when they acquire freedom outside the cage,

big hearts when they press themselves against the bars to reach me.

As I write this there are six big boba eyes staring at me.

Eyes heavy with sleep, they fight to keep their vigil over me. It’s at moments like these where something so little makes me feel so big.

Hailee Rauch

I love you to the moon

and back ten thousand times, a hundred million times, infinity times.

I’d run laps around the world as many times as you wanted me to just to be near you.

I’d dive into the deepest depths of the ocean if you asked me to just to catch a glimpse of you. If you were an emotion, you’d be happiness.

You’d be joy and love and all that’s good in the world. You are my sun and I am staring at you, no sunglasses.

I don’t care if I go blind from your light if it meant I was able to see you

one last time. You have my whole heart. Everyday, I choose to wake up and live for you. And you choose to love me to the moon and back infinity times.

Hailee Rauch

Striped Scarves

I cannot wait for winter

When my scarf collection is in full bloom

Coats and sweaters bundled

Knitted knots against my stomach

And the world knows not of my skin

But of my mind

Where around I paint kalopsias

Of kittens and seeds and pink lace

Bows undulating in tornadoes.

I cannot wait for winter.

Abigail Alonso

The Red Scarf

All I ever wanted was a scarf, to keep me warm in the cold, to be there when I get a stuffy nose, to wrap around me when I get the chills, but the scarf gets hung up on small issues, it does want to see me until the following season, to show itself when it feels needed, to get lost, to be confused, only to be distressed at the things I felt, and only come back when it feels necessary.

Jake Smith

Thrift Store

Racks and racks

unorganized stacks of junk and funk smells the screech and scratch the clack and click of hangers stained and maimed shirts

dirt on jeans

old ladies looking at me mean won't pay more than five bucks anymore than that the price sucks

Lea Holler

Be Mine

Of all the stars in the sky

Yours is the brightest, so divine

My love, please be mine

Those eyes, what a lovely hue

When you look at me, there is nothing I won’t do

My love, please be mine

When you hold me, I feel so safe

If I could, I would never escape

My love, please be mine

So please say yes

Please be mine

My love, will you be my valentine?

Charles Herrick

Acknowledgments

We would first like to thank everyone who submitted work to us. You truly are the heartbeat that keeps creativity alive on campus.

Secondly, we want to thank our poetry committee for all their help, and of course our lovely E-Board, who guide and empower us every day.

Another special thanks to Kim Hess, Creative Services Manager, for all her help with producing this publication in print.

Finally, we also want to thank Nicole Santalucia, the advisor of The Reflector, and the other faculty, especially those in the English Department, who continually advocate for the arts in their lives and on our campus.

About the 2024 Poetry Editors

Maggie McGuire: Maggie is a senior English major who loves: cooking every recipe she can find, watching X-Files, and green cowboy boots.

Rena Charles: Rena is a senior English major who loves: the color pink, kayaking, and flowers.

Thanks for reading! We love you J