The Anthologist
the anthologist The Anthologist is a literary and arts magazine that has served in preserving and inspiring Rutgers’ creativity for nearly a century, publishing high-quality art and writing. For copyright terms and more information visit: THEANTHO.COM RUSA Allocations Board, paid for by student fees.
Send us your art or writing to: ANTHO.RUTGERS@GMAIL.COM
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index
FA L L 2 0 1 5 . ISSUE 82.
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Tiffany X. Lu S TA F F O F F I C E R S ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Ana Valens
SENIOR EDITOR
Daniel C. Anzolini
MANAGING EDITOR
Jen Comerford
PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR
Matt Taylor
ART DIRECTOR
PJ Rosa
COPY EDITORS
Doron Darnov Jasminy Martinez Jennifer Lee
EDITORS
Dylan Vetter Daniel Levin Peter Yoon Alex Arbeitel Abigail Lyon Hernan Ramos
ADVISOR
Belinda Mckeon
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contents
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11 — Delfina Picchio
bugging 12 — Daniel Levin
when you birth a body from a mirror, and it looks nothing like you 16 — Jen Comerford
the life of form 17 — Hernan Ramos
my soul is full of white boys 19 — Doron Darnov
hazel/ forest 21 — Alex Arbeitel
playground fortune teller 23 — Tiffany X. Lu
portrait of a girl 4
Fall 2015 24 — PJ Rosa
daily intermission 25 — Justin Chang
twelve scenes of Seoul
32 — Jonathan Steven Chuang
perseids meteor shower 33 — anonymous
immigrants 35 — gHyp:See
dementia 36 — Nicholas Perrone
untitled 37 — Maggie Woodruff
trespassers 9/29 41 — Dylan Vetter
ogre
42 — Jasmeet Bawa
the lost the missing persons reports that year 5
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letter from the editor-in-chief I feel that a large part of the editing process, especially as a student, is the inevitable self-doubt that hovers behind every decision. Can you ever be sure that you’re reading a piece as the author intended? Do intentions outweigh the reader’s interpretation? How do you demarcate poetry and prose; literature and art; art and reality? Between form and content, which ultimately grants legitimacy? And who gets to decide that? As evidenced by our occasionally heated discussions, these aren’t simple questions by any means. But maybe it doesn’t matter—sometimes a piece just connects with you, inexplicably, even if you don’t fully understand it yet. Sometimes you have to chase it, pick the words apart, or rattle them around your mouth. The beauty of the process is often in this struggle for meaning between author and audience. Issue 82 of The Anthologist likewise comes from a place of uncertainty and great love. In this anthology, made possible by the tireless consideration of our editors, our authors grapple with questions of identity, inequality, and what it means to be alive. We hope you enjoy this issue as much as we enjoyed curating it and are similarly inspired by the many voices that come together within it. Warm regards,
Tiffany X. Lu Editor-in-Chief
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Delfina Picchio
bugging Dead bug lies half crushed under the laundry basket five days next to your beard trimmings and toenail clippings. Dead bug was just crawling around two hours ago as I sat down on the toilet seat—I let him go. One hundred and twenty minutes later dead bug is dead. No one went to the bathroom. Natural causes gets us all.
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Daniel Levin
when you birth a body from a mirror, and it looks nothing like you my mother sits beside me on my bed tells me not to look so scared but i do not know how to tell her that i don’t have the words to say that i’ve been scared for too long to know what it’s like to feel otherwise so instead we sit in silence and i know that she’s scared too— she just can’t find the words to tell me i tell her she doesn’t have to say anything at all mom, i know that they took your culture spit it out and called it white that they digested it and forgot the difference between you and their last meal you see i know it’s all the same to them you say i’m a disappointment but what you mean is that there’s so much of you that is now me and i want to tell you that i understand why you shiver every time you’re reminded that this fag is your child that they took the words away from us to explain my body decided to call it ‘man’ instead i do not know how to tell you that there
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are nuances to this beard and this deep voice that our languages took from us that i know you’re only sitting here because i failed you as a man and a woman but what i mean to tell you is that i never wanted to be either anyway i want to tell you how sometimes this body feels less like home, more like asylum how masculinity has always taken refuge in places it’s never belonged how its violence always manifests at the back of my throat and can never be coughed up or spit out you see it’s this nameless feeling of being sick that we don’t yet have words for so instead we call it gender we repurpose its inflection revise our politic of meaning make it sound less like harm more like hope we make the pain feel more like forgiveness more like home please make this body feel more like home my daily alarm is an apology to myself because i know that there’s so much queer in this body and i’m reminded that i’ll never do it justice so instead i compromise my politics and hope that every time i fuck a new boy he’ll never know the kinds of vulnerabilities i want to share with him the secrets i keep from myself
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i want to let him hold my hand and have him say he understands why i feel so safe every time i hold him closely to my chest that i hope he’ll say he loves me enough times to fill the empty spaces i made from throwing so much of myself out i love you i love you i love you i want to tell him how it keeps repeating in the back of my head and every time, i hear it translate to the times he tells me he does not understand what i am and that when he says he loves me he only loves the boy he wishes i were mom, i don’t believe you when you say you love me because love doesn’t take form as words it’s a constant performance that we’ve yet to articulate so when i pick up a woman’s shirt or pants you say nothing and yet you’ve said enough he never knows how to make it sound quite like you when i hug you as tightly as i can and let the empty spaces in our bodies make sense of each other and find those holes to push our traumas through hoping that even for this short moment we can remember what it was like before they told us that we’ll never reflect onto each other that we’ll never be the same i want to hug you every time you worry how i’ll die let you know that i won’t die from queer but instead from gay let you know how i’ll die because i wanted to read my own eulogy at my funeral and call it a rebirth let you know that i apologize to myself everyday and call it as much a prayer as yours when you
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ask God to keep me safe before you go to sleep 1.) i’m sorry for holding my pillow too closely every time a boy told me he loved me 2.) i’m sorry that i never pretended that pillow was you 3.) i’m sorry for every time you’ve had to inhale “man,” breathe out “failure”—for every time that breath never made it out, for every time you choked breathing in, for every time you held your breath; i want to ask you how you breathe a body into repetition how a person can birth trauma in the form of person and call it a son 4.) i’m sorry for the skirts you wish you could wear, for the times ‘masculine’ fit too loosely, too uncomfortably—for the times you choose pants instead and call it safety for short you see sometimes we mask how ugly we feel by making others feel just as lonely we tell them how their bodies aren’t fixed into position enough to fashion out an anomaly but how can i tell someone that there aren’t enough layers of clothes to make this body feel less unfamiliar you see there’s this moment where i wish i could wear enough layers to hide all of this man and house this body in shelter— there’s this moment where i wish i didn’t have to wear any layers at all mom, when you ask what i think of marriage and children and my future i tell you that it means nothing if i can’t feel safe with them you see i never wanted to own someone and call them my own i never wanted to have a child and let them carry the burden of all my trauma
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Jen Comerford
the life of form
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Hernan Ramos
my soul is full of white boys The first boy I ever loved was post-grunge band, Fuel’s lead singer. His apathetic, dirty blonde hair, his rusty voice scraping my ears— I wanted him to rot my brain. His legs so long and thin, little bit of happy trail in the “In My Hands” video. His blue eyes like the sky, no— his blue eyes like the ocean, no— his blue eyes like the spine of my copy of Letters to a Young Poet. This is a love poem to you, Brett Scallions. But I attempted to hide the gay away, store it in some metaphorical queer case, give the key to God. My parents too Christian to love me, otherwise. But the first time I fell in love with Scott Weiland’s pale, flat, sickly stomach was when I saw the music video for Slither. Underground, flashlight on the camera, slithering shirtless on my computer screen, I felt guilty watching the video over and over but those tight bright silver pants slay me— I wanted to trace his tattoos until my fingers rubbed off the ink. This is a love poem to you Scott Weiland I guess this is a love poem to thin rock vocalists I loved Marilyn Manson in his milky contact lens I loved Pete Wentz in his guyliner (so 2005) I loved Tim McIlrath and his different colored eyes I would do anything to have skinny white boys objectify me
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The first time I saw Mike I saw his blue eyes framed by his brown sugary hair and beard not Aryan enough for my fantasies but I let him smoke with me anyway The party kept going while we settled down in the quiet dark of a closed door My first time with a man I cried Somehow, I could’ve sworn I heard my mother crying, felt my father’s disappointment leaking from the ceiling Mike, you didn’t ask me what’s wrong you only asked if you could hold me while the fearful tears came down You told me you understood my shivering and my silence, told me you’ve been here before and that this moment was not going to pass but I was the one passing through it That night, I called my mother and told her to pray for me. I still believed in God back then. My mother asked why and I said because I am lost Mike, this is a love poem to you and I’m sorry that it got so sad at the end When I stare at these men, I still feel my parents tugging at the back of my brain. I am still trying to chip away at my metaphorical queer case because I’m sick of staring at these tumblers. This keyhole like tunnel vision and I am trying my best to dig myself out Mike, I hope wherever you are, your kindness still rains love on everyone you meet and still, sometimes I hope you think of me.
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Doron Darnov
hazel/ forest When I saw you for the first time there were snowflakes nestled in your long, charcoal hair. I remember how some got caught in the lashes above your hazel autumn eyes, as your whispered words drew me closer. In the silence of that hazy winter night, my toes whitened while the gathering snow buried my brand new canvas shoes and your worn-out leather boots; but the warmth of your voice made me understand, for the first time in my life, why people get married. But winter faded, and so did you. You melted from her hair, and left her voice cold and hoarse. You lived in her touch and the way it raised the hair on my neck, but you died when her eyes 19
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just looked brown. I couldn’t understand why anyone would ever choose to get married. We broke up soon after that. When I saw you for the second time there were raindrops trickling down your long, auburn hair. I remember how some got caught in the lashes above your vernal forest eyes as your lilting words drew me closer. In the murmur of that dewy summer night, my toes wrinkled while the cascading rain soaked through my worn-out canvas shoes and your brand new leather boots; but the warmth of your voice made me understand, for the second time in my life, why people get married.
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Alex Arbeitel
playground fortune teller our grandfathers started dying at the same time, phone lines crossed with numbers i thumbed text messages to my mother every night for three weeks asking what was new, but breaking news can’t be transmitted via wire only lies transpire with character caps no taps of letters could deliver what i wanted i’m haunted by premonitions of what i already know: you’re going to be on a school trip in mexico a week after it snows in new jersey, get the call at three on a thursday: you’ll swear this date was made months ago everything is wrong time wrong place settings where is the fine china we can’t have guests in this mess of a condition thank god my hair covers my face so i can look death in the eye—my my my friend googled bodies and sent me jpegs so i would get used to the view, but no preparation can brace you for the salt-crusted teeth and the leap from knowing to knew. i wonder if ten years from now i’ll remember you in this month (i can already feel you slipping from its seams) you seem so fine because you say you are i’ll learn how to say that too; i watched a documentary today about five boys living in the west off of nothing a modern great depression i want to mention the way they take care of their parents and still have time to give interviews to camera crews; this was the first movie in years that i’ve watched without crying, and they give pills to prevent the anxiety of dying but nothing to those noting the changes from one sunday to the next; i press myself within the confines of the week so that i don’t have to speak to what’s left of him, 21
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the thin skin stretched over weathered cheeks my mother asks me if he finally looks his age i just want to be nine years old: you and me on plastic swing sets whispering death threats to heaven not accountable for what we pray i don’t want god to think he has the final say i want him to be scared i’ll jump.
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Tiffany X. Lu
portrait of a girl 23
PJ Rosa
daily intermission
Fall 2015
Justin Chang
twelve scenes of Seoul I. I saw that there was a clear shot from the Namsan tower1, and seeing the opportunity before me, atop the electrical city, sparked another flash and I could view back to the photo and contemplate in the sound second what happened across that moment. II. On the jihachal2 above, the concrete supports accrue dormant rust—creeping brown scars— over the Hangang and jostling back and forth rushing by the Hyundais on the parallel lane. He sat alone alongside the company of indifferent passengers. III. She stared off into her phone messaging someone, as her friend sat next to her messaging someone.
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observation tower subway
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IV. Down the bright alleys of Jamsil in the live night, another generation jumps thru pubs existing off soju3 again, jumbled telephone wires intersect into tangled chaos, invisible except for the reflecting shine off the black cords, warm windows generate the setting of the scene—Koreans for late night maekjus4 and udon ramen, the shade of underground nightclubs dimmed with UV laser lights sleazy tall guy, scruff on his chin, in the bucket hat with the stained cigarette slipping off his lips says he’s offering maanwon5 whores up the second floor with a single amber light lighting up the concrete steps the BB gun target game through the window with each ping ping ping shot by each shooter, a mix of K-pop and sporadic white noise—trite scratches of conversation blah blahing to static the pungent air of vendors filtering spicy tteokbokki6 who then stared at homogenous women in symmetry—copying all fashionable fads in regionalized Vogue and Ceci and walk past fourth floor internet cafes, deviants sitting stimulating at burning burning computer screens with faded pixel stains booting up starcraft, attached to the façades of these concrete five to six story floors were the linear, bulb-backlit signs promoting velvet pool rooms, karaoke bars, attached by two steel beams on the side to extrude out claustrophobic eleven story clothing malls lined up linearly sporting anomalous fashion of bart simpson patterns and snoopy the beagle cramped with the piling of thrift store vintage t-shirts in burlap sacks and bootleg handbags and pirated DVDs cancerous, wrinkled men, wearing white tennis hats, sitting on green plastic chairs so abundantly found smoking their dunhills ditching and stepping on them in torn chestnut loafers, pilling up with the rest of the smudged flyers for pork shops and finished butts wasting away, all in the confined traversing backstreets and alleyways with all their one stop shops, like puzzling labyrinths and rocky unpaved streets complete with cracking potholes and infinite rumbling of the air conditioner high up, its metallic discharge drip dripping onto the damp road.
liquor beer 5 equivalent to ten USD 6 fried rice cake 3 4
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V. In a modern museum two photos adjacent another, frame in clear glass against a whitewashed wall. In one, the men and their wives stand before the sitting grandparents and children; all wearing the Hanbok. The next is the same positioned photo unchanged with the exception of time7 and absent: four husbands a boy with light black hair and a mother. VI. On the corner of any street you’ll see the printed ads, of promotional celebrities standing with their counterpart models, stickered against the glass pane of a 7eleven with other messages reminding them that there’s dambae8 and coca-cola and Lotte9 shit here too beside the lotto tickets. And with its blackened floors dirty from the grime of footsteps; aisles with shelves reaching the ceilings collect dust on potato peelers and various plastic chopsticks sitting there since the store’s opening. Her shift was beginning to end and she was still young to be wearing the uniform.
1953 cigarettes 9 chaebol 7 8
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VII. The Korean keyboard player, with the bald head, plays the chords on the grand piano and pounds the keys vigorously like they were bleeding over the worn white and black keys; to the drummer who, naturally multitasks to the snap of the drop cymbal and hitting triplets on the snare and the upright bass plucks each baritone string deep surrounding the brick room underneath the bar in its sonorous vibration. In conscious jazz, these are the rules. VIII. 400 years when the peasant walked into Gyeongbokgung10 under the guise of a rice farmer and Sejong11 was still huddled in his chamber writing up Hangeul; he glorified in the basking sun and of hibiscus courtyards and the magnificent stature of the palace—temples surrounded by stone wall and the lavish reflecting pools that surfaced the prosperous image of royalty. The farmer’s home the spot of a relatively successful starbucks12 and tourists clamoring in the now arid courtyard, not a tree for shade, asking the guide when the tour’s about to end. It was just too hot13! IX. I didn’t need to be here, but she had insistently told me to come because she wanted to recreate a scene that she had seen from some tv drama. We were out by the Namsan, nothing more than a place where dipshit main royal palace of Joseon Dynasty Joseon Dynasty king 12 coffee chain originating from Seattle 13 August 14, 2015. I was in Myong-dong. 105 degrees. 10 11
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tourists bought a cable car ticket just for a view. She bought a padlock on the way and she had Sharpied our names around a scribbled heart. She checked the railings for an empty spot; there were none she could find so slipping it on a decorative tree branch, she threw the key that locked our heart from the platform and pressed against me, holding my hand. I didn’t know why I had felt so indifferent. X. Her father addicted to work and mother bullied for her success, stringent days in classrooms which you so despised. I asked you what you enjoy and you couldn’t answer me. Only yes or no, either/or and I prayed for your opinion say something that you acknowledge. You are not Antoine Doinel14 but just as unheard. XI. From the lifeless flat I could see the pollution sunset15 fall16. XII. Where are you now, as grandfather night eats away? q.v. Truffaut The 400 Blows That invariable moment from the sub balcony of the 27th floor in concrete middle to high class five room apartment housing near Gangnam where, overlooking the Hangang and northern Seoul, the smog of the city reacts to the sunlight deriving from the sun 92.96 million miles close, twinkling in the carbonic air, the blinking red and green signal lights spotted from the barely visible Namsan mountain in the deep ochre haze with the glaze of sunlight hitting the other apartment complexes blinding—and it was a spot for every sundown that I witnessed over the course of the good month. 16 7:18 PM 14 15
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Padlocked away in this cage of a two room apartment, bedroom-kitchen bathroom in Hoegi17 shuttered away at the loss of your house, crying because you couldn’t recognize my face after all these years and what a man I transformed to and the lonely existence you face when I inevitably depart. Is this like the crowded roofs of boxcars—huddled in UN blankets with the burnished ground shelled, the dying grass polished with snow and infantry lifelessly rolling past in tanks escaping the 38th parallel over the horizon of this empty country18. You told me that the stone bodies, faceless in the streets meant nothing near the end and that the crumbles of brick and concrete powder covered them anyway. when hal-abeoji19 left in the September of that year20—when he taught me hatu a month before— the only lasting memory I can recall of him— voice and face forgotten ad infinitum. How lonesome you must be there alone sleeping in your stone bed and watching the news every minute—for what is left to do? your son and daughters whose new phones are always off—but could that also be your fault? and when we walked one last time you couldn’t even go off too far because the walk would only hurt your back to the station and i wouldn’t let that happen to you and i shed a few tears embracing you one last time with no guarantee, being that grandfather night may swoop you away until our next arrival, and i walked down the cobble brick alleys of hoegi and staring back you waved and i waved district in Seoul 1951 19 grandfather 20 2005 17 18
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back multiple times and i turned a corner and you went back in, and i walked back to see if you were still at the top of the street and you weren’t, you probably walked back in your tiny complex and that was the final glimpse. and I sat in the jihachal thinking only about the day and I think but still, I stop somewhere, waiting for you.21
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q.v. W.W.
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Jonathan Steven Chuang
perseids meteor shower
Fall 2015
anonymous
immigrants The vampires, the demons, the ghosts They thought to leave one night, afraid of people No more able to tolerate the burnings and the curses The lies made about them The homes shut against them, the hunger and the illness So they came here; by ship, by rail, by flight They came with blood streaked faces, worn shoes, diseased eyes and clutching fingers They came from homesteads and sewer cities and quaint blocks and deserted fields With red eyes, black eyes, white eyes, blinking in a row Dead and solemn and pregnant and fearing They settled in car parks, alleyways, abandoned graves In cities and suburbs, in small towns and overgrown farms They found occupations in diners and pool halls and factories and mines As gravediggers, as grave shift workers They did not mind the work, nor even the culture But they could never forget their kind, the ones who hadn’t left Their children hiding in black wood forests, Their siblings in the basements of forgotten castles, underneath churches and synagogues Their mothers and fathers, poorly shielded by rotting coffins, ruins Molding crypts, ivy pierced mausoleums, their own immortality They thought of friends, hunted down, trapped by superstition, By their own fears of daylight or change They sent money to those that had remained, For safe passage, or to rebury the twice dead. They waited for news that seldom came They waited Waited They haunted bars while they waited—joined with the blurred souls of 33
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insomniacs, The hopeless artists, the alcoholics, the dispossessed all around They stared at colorful boxes mounted to walls, decorating shelves, tracking the information about them, to see what was different, what was true Meanwhile, they had families, died permanently, lost themselves, found other lives like theirs, hid, grew tired They wondered whether it was time to go back To go home again; was it safe now? Was anywhere ever safe? They waited They waited for years But nothing came.
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gHyp:See
dementia When the first brave bell breaks through— the ice entrapping my heart shatters suddenly the bough breaks the cradle falls the Belle of the Ball vindicated. When the unlovable finds unconditional solace, the petals falling in the glass case capture criticism for the love of a monster the Beast within the Saga begins unsubstantiated. When the sun rises— When the moon sets— When a child laughs— And grandfather forgets: to open his blinds again; when grandfather opens his blinds, again. When grandfather’s blinds won’t open— Again.
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Nicholas Perrone
untitled
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Maggie Woodruff
trespassers 9/29 I am 12 years old. My dad picks me up from swim practice my hair drips chlorine and my skin is chilled leather I am staring out the window not looking at Dad who is not looking at me his words usually big sound small. The bulky chlorinated quiet is suffocating me see dad’s best friend Scott committed suicide at the age of 45 I don’t know what to picture so I stare out the window and try to figure out how to say sorry. I am 10 Sitting on a hard wood stool, Scott slides an omelet onto my plate. With a handsome smile and a dishtowel on his shoulder he is laughing with my parents about how he hates the texture of oranges but likes the flavor ok I am looking up at him. I can picture this— I am looking up at him. In a plastic chair at 15 Ms. Bressman is telling us about Erdos a Hungarian mathematician so famous they keep track of the degrees of collaborative separation you are from him. Ms Bressman is an Erdos numbah 5. She says, “you can be an Erdos numbah 6 if you like” like that, I am connected. 17. 37
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I am about to graduate high school Dad knows a student— another senior like me— who chooses his own death as he waits for a train to crush him. Dad is proud they don’t hide his depression… so what. Is Eamonn a lesson Is he the kid everyone adores too late Is this what Mom means when she says some people are just hard wired to deconstruct what is the point someone please answer he’s still dead. Dad is a Scott number one I am a Scott number one Dad is an Eamonn number two and by Erdos number logic I am an Eamonn number three. What is the sum of these numbers? What type of grief sits at the other end of that equal sign? I am struggling not to choke on all the oxygen the dead leave for me. NJ Transit on Eamonn’s suicide: “the trespasser entered the tracks by climbing an embankment, walking across one track and positioning himself in front of the ongoing train. He made no attempt to remove himself from the path.” No, NJ Transit, Eamonn did make an attempt to remove himself. He made several. He took himself out of school and started getting tutored at home. He spent time with his family. He saw a counselor. He played with his dog. He did try to get out of the way, he just couldn’t. And his name was Eamonn, not “trespasser.” 18. Leaves are crunching under foot when I receive a concussion to the head I have a headache the next morning 38
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I still have a headache three months later it is hard to be motivated with a headache it is hard to breathe with a headache it is hard to be happy with a headache it is hard to read with a headache and man, I love to read. Snow falls, aches Snow clears and I am depressed. Fuck, it is still hard to read, it is still hard to breathe. I turn 19. I still have a headache I am beginning to realize my depression might be more than a head injury maybe my anxiety isn’t normal maybe my need to step right left right left isn’t just a quirk maybe I should take a closer look at my family tree. Happy birthday to me. I am 19 and they are saying Robin Williams has chosen to pass over, is now free— how dare they. I am 16 I am sobbing over my chicken pot pie telling my mom that my best friend wants to commit suicide I am 19 my sister, 14, has been crying over her cereal her best friend is thinking about suicide. 19 years old and I am wondering when we all got so fucking sad I am aching to figure out how to say sorry. I am sitting in a booth at a family diner my mom sits across from me stealing a bite of my pancakes I am finally asking mom for a picture of Scott—I get one. Scott is at an open house for a high rise building, complimentary orange mimosa in hand 39
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Scott is not following the group to the next room, Scott is staring at his mimosa he is sprinting towards a window hopping over the balcony of the 23rd floor Scott is flying Scott is falling Scott is crying Scott is dying See Scott land. See Scott splatter. See Scott make a fucking mess on the sidewalk. I still do not know what Scott was feeling did he know he would snarl traffic for hours? I am 20 years old. I am reading a poem I am still here the headaches are mostly gone and I still wonder how heavy a Scott number two and an Eamonn number four might be— I have found that when I hit my pain it has a purpose. When I look next at the scars on my friend’s wrist I will fiercely whisper— I am so glad I am not your number I know this: You are not a trespasser here You can breathe with me.
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Dylan Vetter
ogre
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Jasmeet Bawa
they lost the missing persons reports that year I haven’t felt too present in my presence lately just kind of hazy, sleepy, slipping in phatic language trying to keep the distance between us indifferent enough so when you knock on my door and offer the quiet of parentheses I brace for harsh brackets because lately, parentheses, well, they feel too soft for me— hands too, they can’t hold, press or undress me. The dirt under fingernails beckons burials and I choke on the shards of moon lighting your face through window blinds kneel and recite brackish prayers that your hands will not corrode on contact, that your caress will feel like petals, not marble: cold, white, barely— I untether in the white gold of winter sunlight, miss the buds that sprout from my aorta. I want rose water charging its current through me past the brine collecting—what color is necrosis of the mind? The highways in my brain wilt and you hold them: grab hold of my veins, a bundle of wires, yanking— I find myself sickening and hard. Above the sink I pull out hair tug on this skin I wear, oversized and too tight try to pull out an ingrown soul, or is it just missing—
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