Table of Contents May
Facing Reality, Sylvia Spits a Eulogy
March Hoping Reaching Holding Grabbing Seeing
December Winter Wonderland Moving, Still Roadtrip HOROSCOPE Two Cent Friends Looking Over Boston
January
Blinding Lights Auburn Hair and Elephants When The Burning Bush Spoke
April
The Beginning This Spring is Full of Sorrow 3 Merpeople Drive-Thru Confessional Miss Ginny’s Death Book
June
Olivia’s Mirror Dear Heifer Calf Claustrophobia The Water is Wide Polaroid
July Baja Blast Tomato
August
Paradox of Memories Como Amor A Mourning Dove’s Song Pedazos Del Sol 2 Friends, Sitting on a Couch, 0 Feet Apart Because There’s No Plague
September
What’s On Your Mind? Pain, Happiness, and Everything In Between Light Blue and Green Pools Unknowingly Sea Shell Study
October
Color and 3D Shape Exploration
November
On the Road with Grandpa Buzz Arsonal, Artichoke, Ballot, Casino and Pistachio, Quarantine Sweet Dreams Energy Healing Nana Old Books El Camino Freedo
December Lilac Reign 2020 Smile
January
African Violet Ode to Worms Roots Only Love Goes On Thank You
facing reality elisabeth wulf photography 11 x 8.5 in
05/2018
05/2018 Facing Reality Elisabeth Wulf Photography 11 x 8.5 in
This was a photo from my final portfolio for my black and white photography class at St. Kate’s, a class that I enjoyed. My Facing Reality project has significance for me because it was one of the first times where I have experimented with mixed media — my goal was to make the photographs tangible and put a personal spin on them. I shot the photos, incorporated a collage-esque strategy in cutting pieces of the photo out and taping them in mixed places. Then, I edited them as black and white.
Sylvia Spits a Eulogy Kathryn Ward
Sylvia fucks, but still I find method to her madness. She calculates the crazy, makes archives of the sadness. She marks, on a red calendar, nine lives to repossess. Sylvia sleeps, and whispers, and dreams of sticky pearls. Even drowned in dirt and ash— she’s such a pretty girl. I drink her up like liquor as she lets her breath unfurl. Dying is an art, and Sylvia is Munch, if not Monet. Does she terrify herself? Does she lie? Does she pray?
Does she follow in the foofsteps of Woolf, or Hemingway? Sylvia mouths her lilac dreams— dark romances and crimes. Moths flee out her open mouth which spews sweet flowering vines, and I think she follows nothing but the predecessing rhyme. The method to her madness is synonymous to grief, like catacombs are organized, but offer no relief. So, Lazarus of listlessness, we follow the motif. Still I sort the method, still, in disbelief.
03/2019 Holding (above), Grabbing (below)
Alyssa Hahn Digital Photograph 12 x 17 in
TITLE
Artist Name Medium Dimensions
Hoping (above), REaching (below)
Alyssa Hahn Digital photography 12 x 17 in
03/2019
Alyssa Hahn Digital Photography 12 x 17 in
03/2019
Seeing
Artist Name Medium Dimensions 12/2019
Leena Sebastin Photography
TITLE
Winter Wonderland
DD/MM
moving, still Elisabeth Wulf They say good things come to those who Wait, the light is green, yet I am at a standstill. My weary muscles waste their energy on the pedal that won’t budge. Ahead of me, I see red. Tell me, what is said about greater things?
Road Trip Leena Sebastin Photography
12/2019
HOROSCOPE
Melody Kosbab
ARIES
LEO
SAGITTARIUS
(March 21 - April 19) -
(July 23 - August 22) -
(November 22 - December 21) -
As we go into the new year, Aries,
Oh, so you need a cute date idea for
Laughter is NOT the best medicine.
focus on fresh starts. Keep your
this month? Bro, try peeling and
For the love of god, just go see a doctor
chin up and put one foot in front
orange and sharing it slice by slice with about that rash. It is spreading and we’re
of the other. This month, Aries,
that special someone.
worried about you.
TAURUS
VIRGO
CAPRICORN
(April 20 - May 20) -
(August 23 - September 22) -
(December 22 - January 19) -
This month is going to be pretty
This month, break free and loosen
Be sure to be financially careful
boring for you, so take the time to
up. Dance like one one is watching, this month, Capricorn. You know
pick up some hobbies. Try : avoiding
because they probably aren’t. Revel
you’re not made of money, right?
difficult conversations or perhaps
in that exciting energy. It’ll be cool,
You’ve made up of water, spite, and a
spoon carving to fill that empty void
you’ll get some moon power of
handful of Orbeez. None of which is
in your schedule.
something, idk.
legally recognized U.S. currency.
don’t look back. No, literally, please don’t look behind you.
GEMINI
LIBRA
AQUARIUS
(May 21 - June 20) -
(September 23 - October 22) -
(January 20 - February 18)-
Concept: It is storming outside and it’s
Babe, just share that good song you’ve
When Japanese American singer-song-
the late fall. There is thunder and lighting been listening to on your Insta story.
writer Mitski said, “It’s like I’m sending
but we can’t feel the cold. We sit side by
I promise no one finds it annoying.
messages in bottles, but I’m very picky
side under a quilt watching cartoons
Besides, it’s your story anyway and your
and stubborn and selfish in that I only
together sipping our hot chocolate. It is
friends are following you because they
want the right person to receive it. I
safe and wonderful in here.
love you and want to see what you enjoy!
want to connect, but I also want to be
I’m serious, just do it!
left alone,” she was talking about you this month, Aquarius.
CANCER
SCORPIO
PISCES
(June 21 - July 22) -
(October 23 - November 21) -
(February 19 - March 20) -
As you step into this month, it is best
It is okay that you are changing and evolving.
I really don’t have anything to say to ya’ll.
to do so on the right foot. In order to
Every phase of you is welcome here. The
Just go watch Tyler the Creator edits on
achieve this it is important to support
soup phase, the phase where you left all of
Youtube or whatever you do. I believe in
your arches. I would recommend in-
your friends and family to become a fairy
you though so, ugh… figure it out babe.
vesting in a pair of sensible high support
queen, the cowboy phase, all of it. Every part
Crocs.
of you is welcome here.
Looking over Boston
Leena Sebastin Photography
01/2020
Sydney ockenga watercolor 4.5 x 7 in
01/2020
two cent friends
Blinding Lights
Leena Sebastin Photography
01/2020
Auburn Hair and Elephants Lianna Brown I used to make Valentines for every kid in my class during elementary school. That was the rule; you had to make a card for every kid if you were going to pass them out. Every year, at the beginning of February, I would plan out what kind of Valentines I was going to make (rocket ships that said out of this world, hearts with googly eyes, etc.) and then I would spend the next two weeks meticulously making anywhere from 20 to 40 individual cards. As a matter of pride, I refused to get the store bought. What were cards that I got my parents to get worth from me? I had no part in their creation or purchase. I wanted to make something that would actually mean something. The little cards I made needed to be the best. -In fourth grade a girl named Maddie sat in front of me. She had auburn hair, was a good head and shoulders taller then me and, in all honesty, was pretty mean. A sort of Regina George-lite. She would have been the kind of girl to tease a very awkward and bookish girl like me, but since I was the only girl that sat close to her I got a pass. We would work together if there was ever any partner work and even though she would never play with me during recess, she would smile and wave.
Back then, that was enough. To have the prettiest girl in class smile at me. Her eyes would glitter a warm brown and would flutter in my chest. She wouldn’t do that for other girls of my social standing. It felt like I was… special. She would pass notes to me during class. Not really about anything. I think she just wanted to feel rebellious. Maddie would hold her hand out behind her with a note folded in it and I would quickly reach for it. Sometimes our fingers would brush. I would feel a kind of fluttering and rush that wasn’t just from the rebellion of passing notes in class. -I had no idea what to make for my Valentines that year. It felt more important. It wasn’t just about making the best possible Valentine; I needed to be impressive. I couldn’t quite place why (even if the reason is quite obvious now). I was just stuck in loops. I would start to plan something, make little sketches in notebooks and scribble them out over and over, fold paper into hearts and tear them up. Nothing felt like it could be good enough. -At some point Maddie mentioned that elephants were her favorite animal. I don’t remember
when or why she said it, but I remember taking this thread of information and holding onto it like a precious gem. Her liking elephants wasn’t a secret, but it felt like one. I learned as much as I could about elephants, I read books and watched BBC Earth clips (elephants have funerals, they use their trunks as hands, and they have excellent memories.) I didn’t know what to do with myself. I made her an elephant from a craft kit I got for Hanukkah. The kit was supposed to be for a dalmatian, but I just wanted to give her something. But because I was 10 and not using the kit correctly it didn’t turn out quite right. I ended up being too embarrassed to give it to her. -Eventually, I decided to make heart shaped elephants that said “I can’t forget you” since elephants never forget. I refused to let my mom use the fancy machine she had to cut out hearts; instead I cut them all out by hand. 30 pink and purple hearts that I glued other paper parts to until I had 30 pink and purple elephants. I taped Dove chocolates to the back of each one. I carried my box of elephants with pride on Valentine’s Day. And if one of them had two chocolates taped to the back, then no one needed to know. The best thing about elementary Valentine’s Day is that you could give everyone a Valentine. So I could slip a Valentine into the mailbox of a cute girl and it wouldn’t matter. And this isn’t
unique to me. I know that tons of other queer kids felt a lot of freedom behind the mask of making a Valentine for every single kid. -I changed schools the next year. Never saw Maddie again. I remember daydreaming about her still going to class with me, sitting next to her in class and maybe finally playing during recess. Something a bit more than the yearning I had been living with. She probably doesn’t remember me. After all I was just a girl she sat next to for a year. But, like an elephant I’ll never forget her.
When the burning bush spoke Emily Robinson I am who I am Need it have said I am the blood that oozed from the springs when the river curdled with the corpses of choking fish Need it have said I am the locusts that swarmed the arid earth and crawled on blistered skin Need it have said
I am the darkness that coated Egypt’s eyes like a thick, inescapable smog In the story the angel of death drifts down from the clouds and slides soundlessly through the sleeping city But what if the angel crawled on hands and knees and the children’s eyes widened in alarm their bodies convulsing as another’s god smothered them Did any of them have time to ask why before their bodies grew cold and stiff Perhaps the angel laughed in reply I am who I am
Artist Name Medium 04/2020 Dimensions
Alyssa Hahn Digital Photograph 9 x 14 in
TITLE
The Beginning
DD/MM
This spring is full of sorrow Emily Robinson April 2020, Minnesota The birds and mosses and bees return to solitude’s feast While we worry on for tomorrow The ground softens without the tempering of treading feet But our heart’s harden against creation’s microscopic beast This spring is full of sorrow The sky cracks under the sun’s threatening heat And winter meets her final surcease Yet we worry on for tomorrow
The forest’s realm forges on in drumbeat While man’s daily missions have all but ceased This spring is full of sorrow The air bubbles with the lamb’s first bleat And fields overflow with this season’s fleece While we worry on for tomorrow A fawn fearlessly crosses an empty street Our retreat has afforded this new life a fleeting peace But our spring is full of sorrow So we worry on for tomorrow
04/2020 3 merpeople blue j edwards digital 2000 x 2000 px
Right after getting laid off in March, I accepted a commission to design 10 species of merpeople for a board game. Having some sort of job was really reassuring because I’m an out of state student and was struggling with insecure housing throughout the first several months of the pandemic.
Drive-thru Confessional Emily Robinson
Holy Spirit Catholic Church, Randolph Ave St. Paul, MN April 2020 Last Fall’s leftover leaves swirl Through the Spring’s somber air Pausing for a single moment In a barren parking lot Between an ethereal church And a jilted apartment building. A priest stands alone in the lot The remains of his hair graying Spectacles situated at the tip of his nose Waiting.
An entanglement of blaze orange Traffic cones form a maze in which He stands, vestments billowing, Those same leaves now churning About his feet. The sign out front reads: 4 PM DRIVE-THRU CONFESSIONALS
GET GOOD WITH GOD
Down the street The line for the coffee shop drive-thru overflows into incoming traffic. Yet this hallowed drive is Empty.
Conceivably, the people’s reason is this: When a pandemic ensues at the hands of God The sheep deserve a latte And the shepherd deserves No apologies.
Miss Ginny’s Death Book
Debbie Hager Mixed Media 10.75 x 9.5 in
04/2020
About this collage: In William Least-Heat-Moon’s travel memoir, “Blue Highways,” he visits the town of Nameless, TN where he meets Thurmond and Virginia Walls, the owners of a now shuttered general store. Thurmond is proud to share “Miss Ginny’s death book,” twenty years of local deaths preserved in scrapbook form by Virginia, who listened to hospital reports on the radio each day. As we sat at home in 2020, inundated with skyrocketing case counts and morbid statistics, I found it oddly comforting and beautiful that there might be someone out there like Miss Ginny, forgoing the numbers and recording the humanity of it all.
Artist Name Medium 06/2020 Dimensions
sia von weiss Photography 9.25 x 6.5 in
TITLE
Olivia’s Mirror
DD/MM
Dear Heifer Calf Emily Robinson A calf ought to come front-first, like a diver leaping into a new world. You, rather, were twisted and cowering, fearful of crashing to the Earth or choking on strange air. The farmer rose before dawn at your mother’s endless bellowing. She mooed, long and slow, hesitant at his presence, steam billowing from her nostrils against the cool of the closing night. She was afraid — but only briefly. Your mother remembered how the farmer had sauntered into the pasture each morning, marking, with pad and pencil, the days until your arrival. She remembered how he had fought with bottle and wit against her own childish bucking, determined to teach her to nurse. He had scowled and called her dumb, but his face softened when she latched to his finger. Your mother remembered how the farmer had wept at the sight of her sister’s dead calf and cursed the coyotes. He didn’t sleep for three nights.
Her instinctual fear subsided, and she gave in to his murmuring assurances. “It’s okay, boss, you’ll be alright, boss, we’ll get her outta there, boss.” The farmer rolled up his sleeves and labored his way into your two hundred and eighty-three day old home. In viscous womb water he found your nostrils, not yet breathing earth’s air. With his heels dug into the thick spring mud, the farmer pulled you from your mother. He cradled you like an infant, wiped your eyes of embryonic nectar, and let slip a tear of his own. The sun crested the horizon. The farmer took out a pad and pencil. And he gave you a name.
06/2020 Claustrophobia Blue J edwards Digital 5600 x 3500 px
The first time I went grocery shopping with a mask on, I learned a very fun fact about myself which is that I am actually extremely claustrophobic. It was an educational experience.
The Water is Wide
Kirsten Albrecht Riehle acrylic on masonite 8 x 12 in
Polaroid
Bergen Christoffer Eibs It’s probably that 80s nostalgia That has caught up to us lately. It’s probably getting That instant satisfaction At the press of a button, At the sound Of the electronic whirring noise. A wonderful photograph, A memory, A memento, Is pushed out and falls Into your hand. It takes a minute to develop. But then the magic happens. The picture comes into view:
Polaroid First the flames of the candles
Bergen Christoffer Eibs As bright as the sun. Next the sweet and gooey Chocolate frosting of the cake. And lastly the golden smile Spreading across your kid’s face. There to stay forever. How could someone Not want to treasure Something like this?
Baja Blast Blue j Edwards digital 1600 x 1250 px
07/2020
I didn’t go outside all summer it was pretty sick. And by sick I mean sad.
—To the Baby Tomato, too slow— —The hot hot heat of the night dilates—
Tomato
—Where am I, Duality— —Nystagmus—
Kathryn Ward
This parallel that is not quite exact— The seeds come out in the sink— A fruit is a fruit is a fruit is a fruit— I worry that it is actually a cataract— The skin peels off in the sink— What did the Daddy Tomato say—
—This paramour that is not quite inane —A baby takes a bath in the sink —A vegetable is a vegetable —I worry that it is actually a catastrophe —Afterwards we wash out the sink —Catch up; a cruel calamity; ketchup —In the hot hot heat of the night is fate
In the hot hot heat of the night we ate— —What am I to Duality Where is my Duality—
—Nystagmus
Nystagmus— —This parable that is not quite enamel— —My eyes come out in the sink— —A root is a root is a root is a root— —I worry that it is actually a catacomb— —My skin is bleeding pink—
Tomato
—To the Baby Tomato, too slow— —The hot hot heat of the night dilates— —Where am I, Duality—
Kathryn Ward —Nystagmus— This parallel that is not quite exact— The seeds come out in the sink— A fruit is a fruit is a fruit is a fruit— I worry that it is actually a cataract— The skin peels off in the sink— What did the Daddy Tomato say— In the hot hot heat of the night we ate— Where is my Duality—
—This paramour that is not quite inane —A baby takes a bath in the sink —A vegetable is a vegetable —I worry that it is actually a catastrophe —Afterwards we wash out the sink —Catch up; a cruel calamity; ketchup —In the hot hot heat of the night is fate —What am I to Duality
Nystagmus—
—Nystagmus —This parable that is not quite enamel— —My eyes come out in the sink— —A root is a root is a root is a root— —I worry that it is actually a catacomb— —My skin is bleeding pink—
08/2020
Paradox of Memories
Elisabeth Wulf Photography 8.5 x 11 in
08/2021 Como amar
Solveigh Johnson mixed media 16 x 12 in
This piece draws on something that Frida Kahlo wrote to her husband, Diego Rivera. The poem spoke to me and I created this from its message.
A Mourning Dove’s Song Grace Anne Ludvik
“I want to fall in love,” you said As I held you on the couch “But there is this thing inside my head That’s filling me with doubt I want to know the eagerness Of an uneasy stomach I long to feel that delicate bliss That exists in your smile.” “I want to fall in love.” you said But that left me feeling uneasy Because how do I know if its your feelings that led You to even want to see me Maybe you really do want to fall in love But maybe that isn’t with me that Conveniently
It just so happens That I am here and all alone. But what is it that I want? I think we desire the same I wish to feel a connection That burns like a candle’s flame I want to fall in love So profoundly that it hurts The kind that leaves your belly In fits and turns and jerks I crave the intentional touch Of your hand against my back I crave to know the words to say To end your panic attacks I long to feel the warmth Of a shoulder against my cheek And to be the other person That makes someone complete.
That makes somone complete. But I cannot be that for you If you really do not know I cannot let you sit and stare While my heart is so exposed. So, if you really do care And want to fall in love Know the kindness and patience Of the song of a mourning dove. It is through a broken heart That only truly one can heal It is through giving this to God That true love is finally revealed.
Pedazos del sol Solveigh Johnson Acrylic paint pouring 10 x 8 in
08/2020
DD/MM TITLE
Artist Name Medium Dimensions
08/2020
2 friends, sitting on a couch, 0 feet apart because there’s no plague Blue J Edwards Digital 919 x 1380 px
I lived alone for the first five months of the pandemic and the level at which I missed sticking my cold toes under someone’s thigh was indescribable. I had to start wearing socks indoors.
What’s on your mind Caroline Baier water-based marker 7 x 10 in
09/2020
A summer of careless acts pivots, replaced with alienated feelings dragging me into their spirals of seasonal sadness.
09/2020 Pain, Happiness, and Everything In Between Solveigh Johnson Acrylic 10 x 8 in
09/2020
Light blue and green pools
Josina Grantier Ceramic and glass 8 x 8 in
Unknowingly
Grace Anne Ludvik It is when it doesn’t rain That I feel the most vulnerable With my black umbrella on the hook by the door I walk through fields of blooming daffodils And wonder if the ground Will be able to continue to nourish them With so much plastic in the world But unknowing of this The soft wisps of cloud dance in the sky.
09/2020
Sea shell study Carolina Lopez acrylic 22 x 14.5 in
Carolina Lopez Chipboard, origami paper 6.25 x 10.50 in
10/2020
Color and 3d shape exploration
11/2020 On the Road with Grandpa Buzz Sydney Ockenga Gouache 11 x 15 in
11/2020 On the road with grandpa buzz
Sydney Ockenga Gouache 11 x 15 in
arsonal, artichoke, ballot, casino and pistachio, quarantine Katherine Wagner The ways she said “winter in Minnesota for 18 years” and then it paused: The word quarantine comes from the 40 days ships were anchored offshore. A 14th and 15th century Venition deposition designated during the black plague, a castaway parade-and quarantine became a verb. A narrative both to do and to be, and I
love these kinds of words.
So before all of this, I was observant. Subservient to any rational terms on the restriction of movement, cordon sanitaire-
we will leave this with new languages I swear. Practice augmented from concepts of society that can’t be built at sea, ones that require intimacy, an intimate, see, I can’t figure out what that’s called and I
worry lately
I didnt stock up on these— other Venetion words, and nouns used as a verb and I
am
worry, lately
caught in the throat at being a poet and a castaway. There are things we forgot how to talk about. Being stuck at sea or in another country, not seeing anyone and not being seen concepts congregate until suddenly I swore at 14 I knew how Calypso felt. Except, like, in my house, with T.V., and a postal service and gods that didn’t play with me and now at 20 I swear I know how her island felt.
Desperate to leave. When they left they chopped every cherry tree down and when they left, it was for 40 days and when they left they took her spoken words with them. Wrote them in scrolls and I scroll through dialects, the ways we mistook language. deposition defined as ‘process of giving evidence’ and she has proof I can’t speak truth. Only metaphors and I miss you mores. She said, “we’re living in the hollows.” I thought she meant the spaces between the mountains and trees, but we have both learned hallow is a saint or holy being.
over this time,
over this time,
the one that happens out of our distance, / between the last time she called you your name the ways we can hold spring hostage / of what true friendships do and tether the sproutings to zoom, / how do you call for something without the name? someone unwrapped every fire hydrant. Did you know that? Winter in Minnesota for 18 years and before this is the first time I’ve noticed plastic wrap around red.
There are words I have not heard spoken in a year. And while I am desperate to hear them again, a personna on reopening requires knowing there is a lot we will not listen to. Sacrifice alluded to but not exhumedso now we’re living in the hollows, and proofreading girlhood, and all public spaces are fire departments.
And every space has public hallows, and all girls are reading, and a department from living and public spaces are proof and hoods are on fire, and theres low proof in reading and girls public spaces are departments. So now, we’re living in the hollows, trying not to say,
I’d love you better.
And I could make a poem out of this if you let me
Autumn Nuss Gouache on paper 6 x 7 in
11/2020
Sweet Dreams
11/2020
Energy Healing DD/MM
Kirsten Albrecht Riehle acrylic on masonite 8 x 1 2 in
Blue J Edwards Digital 1921 x 1921 px
11/2020
Nana
This is a portrait of my nana, who passed away during lockdown. Because of the pandemic, I wasn’t able to visit her before she died, and a service for family is on hold until we’re all vaccinated and can travel and gather safely. We’re hundreds of miles apart but I’m thankful for the ways in which we can support each other even at a distance. The background is one of the hundreds of quilts she made for everyone in my family.
Old Books
Bergen Christoffer Eibs The wooden shelf is full of old books. Their different colors And shapes and sizes are mesmerizing. I pull out one that’s particularly Old and decrepit. Its dark leaf green cover Protects the yellowing pages. Opening the cover Makes the book creak and crack. The old glue, That holds the pages together, Crackles ever so softly.
Holding the book up to my nose, I sniff its wonderful scent. Old print and vanilla, And even hints of almonds and grass. It smells like an adventure, A world, A dream, Waiting to be read.
Freedo
Josina Grantier Ceramic 12 x 6 in
11/2020
Carolina lopez Acrylic 22 x 30 in
11/2020
El Camino
lilac reign
Sydney Ockenga Gouche 11 x 15 in
12/2020
2020 Smile
Kirsten Albrecht Riehle Acrylic on Masonite 6 x 6 in
Michelle Dolan Graphite on fabriano paper 7.5 x 11 in
01/2021
AfricaN violet
This piece was created for an assignment in the Art of Biology class this past January.
Ode to Worms Kathryn Ward A worm has no magic, only dirt, only endlessness, only the smell of wet concrete. A worm cannot do tricks, knows no spells, and, when cut in half, will only grow himself again. Then there will be two hims. This is natural. O sightlessness. O how do you eat. O dirt.
A worm, on a sidewalk, may resemble a Band-Aid discarded by some small thumb, picked slowly from an elbow or a knee, forgotten and wet in the rain, padded cotton, bulbous and swollen with water and what comes off shoes. But upon further inspection it is not a Band-Aid, and the padded cotton is actually a thick neck, and there is no brown blood dried anywhere. There is only a worm. How many eons have worms existed? What if God is a worm? Do worms have knowledge?
O, Worm, you sliver, you reminder, you infinite eater, you do not need time, nor God, nor knowledge to exist. What do you need besides Earth and death, leaves, minerals, forgotten food, not frost, not the sun, rain, rain, puddles, water, lakes, rivers, streams, mud, and rain. And if I cut you in half, and then cut your half in half, and then cut its halves in halves, and so on and so on and so on, then who would you be? Then who would I be? I will pray for worms. I will move worms if I see them on the streets in case Jesus comes again as a worm.
And also because I would hate to be crushed. I would hate to be cut in half and have to grow a whole new self. It would break my heart to writhe, to be watched by a clumsy and heavy-footed child, to expose insides that are not red and gel around no bones. O, worm. O, worms. Teach me to be.
TITLE
Artist Name Medium Dimensions
DD/MM 01/2021
Roots
Blue j edwards Digital 2800 x 3600 px
01/2021
Only Love Goes on
Solveigh Johnson Mixed Media 20 x 16 in
01/2021 Pinecone
Blue j edwards graphite and ink on paper 10 x 8 in
DD/MM
I lost my grandfather right at the end of 2020. He was my favorite person of all time. He died of COVID-19, so I wasn’t able to say goodbye in person or hold his hand as he passed. We used to hold hands every time I saw him. I made this piece to honor him, but also in hopes to communicate to others that while our bodies may leave this earth, the love that we shared transcends this thing we call life. I hope it provides comfort to all of those who didn’t get to hold the hands of their loved ones as they passed this past year.
Thank You
Shelia Benick Thank you for that gentle touch on the back of my hand, soft like a pink-streaked sunset. The caresses before yours were like a shard of dinner plate. Thank you for that look in the car, that one like an empty mansion. You were never naive, as much as my sighing breaths wished you were. Thank you for saying I could sleep. Those purple crescent moons stamped under my eyes were never pretty anyways. Thank you for listening to the crackles of my voice. You never liked poetry but you always left a place in your heart for mine. Thank you for loving me in a way I can understand. I spent so long painting fake windows so people would think they could see inside, but you gently pried those shutters apart.
Thank you for stroking my wrist when I said I was hungry. The last time I tried to tell someone, it ended with blood inside my cheek. Thank you for sleeping in my bed. Your voice was the gentle thrum of blood through our fragile gray veins. Thank you for telling me I look like Truth, dripping in my bathtub. Those candles made burning myself look so enticing, but you made my charred fingertips seem marmoreal and smooth. Thank you. You deserve a thousand apologies but thank you.
A very special thank you goes out to our contributors at Shapco Printing, your continued care and commitment is immensly appreciated. To the 2021 Ariston Staff, thank you for your dedication and enthusiasium to continue the legacy of St. Kate’s as a liberal arts college.