Pillars of Salt
Spring 2016
Editors Sara Seaman Tracey Thompson Staff Isabel Adler Haley Cohen Emma Halfon Chloe Hoberman Lina Jegeus Ali Kiley Audrey Koh Anika Ramlo Karinne Robbins Nicolle Rojas-Castro Evan Statt Reanna Wauer Faculty Advisor Brian Wogensen
Pillars of Salt Literary Magazine The Archer School for Girls Spring 2015-2016
Untitled India Halsted (’17)
Table of Contents Falling by Meghan Marshall (’17).................................................cover Untitled by India Halsted (’17)...........................................................2 Echolalia by Tracey Thompson (’16)....................................................4 Vanquish by Nicolle Rojas-Castro (’17)...............................................5 Middle of the Moonlight by Evan Statt (’16).........................................7 Soft Glass by Olivia Loaiza (’16)..........................................................8 The Swan by Anika Ramlo (’17).........................................................9 Boyish by Audrey Koh (’17)..............................................................11 Untitled by Meghan Marshall (’17)...................................................12 Icicles by Emma Halfon (’17)............................................................13 I Used to Believe in Angels by Livia Blum (’19)...................................14 The Weight of First Responses by Sara Seaman (’16).............................16 Petunia’s Head by Ava-Rose Beech (’16).............................................17 Red Blotches by Reanna Wauer (’16)..................................................18 Abyss by Cameron Thompson (’18)...................................................21 To the Lighthouse by India Halsted (’17)............................................22 Para Mí by Cat Oriel (’18).................................................................23 When I Was a Child by Karinne Robbins (’16)...................................24 Into the Deep End by Gemma Brand-Wolf (’18).................................26 En Un Mundo de Negro by Gaby Lu (’18)..........................................28 The Stars Came Out by Gemma Brand-Wolf (’18)..............................29 Maraschino Cherries by Zoë Webb-Mack (’17)...................................30 Untitled by Stella Gage (’17).............................................................32 Austen by The Jane Austen Society.....................................................33 The Night I Killed the Neighbor’s Cat by Ali Kiley (’16).......................34 This is Fate: A Tinder odyssey by Lina Jegeus and Isabel Adler (’17)......35 Shame by Cairo Dwek (’16)..............................................................36 The Teal Shirt by Chloe Hoberman (’17)...........................................37 Petunia by Ava-Rose Beech (’16).......................................................38 Work of Art by Talia Natoli (’17).......................................................39 Tattoo by Shana Chin (’17)...............................................................40 Internal Tattoos by Haley Cohen (’16)...............................................41 Untitled by Meghan Marshall (’17)...................................................42 Circumstance by Isabel Adler (’17).....................................................43 Thicker Than Blood by Sara...............................................................44 Recovery by Cairo Dwek (’16)...........................................................45 Inside the Bus Station by Lina Jegeus (’17)..........................................46 Here Lies Midas by Pillars of Salt Staff...............................................47 Evening by Ingrid Sant (’17).............................................................48
Echolalia you’ll hear the echolalia bubbles gurgling from a baby’s mouth calming coos of a mother permeate the air bubbles gurgling from a baby’s mouth harmonic wheezes from grandmother’s lungs permeate the air tracing the turning of the mobile harmonic wheezes from grandmother’s lungs groans from a wooden chair in the sleepy nursery tracing the turning of the mobile in a room made soft by the afternoon sunlight groans from a wooden chair in the sleepy nursery crying out for a mother’s company in a room made soft by the afternoon sunlight you’ll hear the echolalia Tracey Thompson (’16)
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Vanquish The amber rays seek, luring me to their secret. Their sweet golden touch makes my fingertips glisten like the sun. Then all of a sudden, their mark escapes from my hands, and their glimmer trails off into the midnight blue. They extend past the deep purple shadows and swirl through the black branches of naked trees. The wind whistles in my ears racing, chasing. The limbs of the trees snatch my dress, keeping me away from the light. They’re too far. I cannot keep up, and I fall in defeat, crushing the rustling leaves. Nicolle Rojas-Castro (’17)
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Middle of the Moonlight In the middle of the moonlight You’re a traveler In the sun’s eye You’re a follower A constant rebel of the day And hero of the night Taunting your head with music Ocean sounds And pretty things Hair, hands, stars The beat of drums and pianos And electric guitars Tango in the night Yoga in the day Waltzing all the time In the jungle rain The infinity Of roads and seas Back to the heart And the thump And all the world falls in love with you In yellow Or in dark blue To the sun 6 Pillars of Salt
To the midnight sky In the middle of the moonlight You speak And the world is alight in you
Evan Statt (’16)
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Soft Glass Olivia Loaiza (’16) 8 Pillars of Salt
The Swan He’s standing in front of his car with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the passenger door. Until that moment, he was not handsome. Something changed. I walk down my driveway to meet him, tuck a piece of my hair behind my left ear, and smile up at him with my eyes. I’m good at being what he thinks I am. He opens the door for me, and I sit down in the passenger seat. He looks at me before he starts the car, and I meet his gaze. I look at him in a way that forces him to smile and look down. That’s when I made up my mind. When he looked down, overwhelmed by the look in my eyes. We drove to an overlook in the valley and sat there, talking like nervous friends. And toward the end of the night, when I was tired of not saying what we mean, I asked him, “So when are you going to kiss me?” He kissed me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about this one time that my nanny yelled at me. She was mad because I had asked her to draw me a picture of a boat, but then the drawing started to look like a swan, so I shouted at her to change it. I shouted pretty loud, I guess. And so she picked me up and took me to my room and layed me down in my bed and yelled really close to my ears to show me what it feels like to be screamed at. I just remember how loud it was. I don’t know what you’re supposed to think about when a boy kisses you, but I don’t think it’s that. I tried to get my nanny out of my head, but that was proving difficult, so instead I stopped kissing him. I asked him to drive me home and when he asked me to meet his friends, I told him I was sorry. I really was sorry. Anika Ramlo (’17) Pillars of Salt 9
Boyish His charm is what pulls you in at first glance Boyish is what most people would call him Faint pink blush Perpetually dusting his cheeks Like sugar gently sprinkled Wide innocent dark brown eyes Hair the color of Santa Monica beach sand Messy like the essays of Virginia Woolf he poured over every night and Left strewn over his desk Yet today he was no longer a boy to me Today I saw Sunken cheekbones Dark circles the color of Spoiled grapes He tilted his head and the sunlight hardened his features Carved heart-shaped face Nose that plunged down like an anchor Jaw tightened, stony expression His bright eyes burned holes in the ground as he pondered A porcelain doll sculpted with a butter knife an artist’s masterpiece I uttered his name and he turned to look at me 10 Pillars of Salt
Rays of light spill over him Softening his sharp facial features Lips turning up in a Gentle radiant smile The harshness in his eyes dissipating I’d say he’s good looking Audrey Koh (’17)
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Untitled Meghan Marshall (’17) 12 Pillars of Salt
Icicles Cool shards dive nose first a moan trapped behind parted lips A boy crumbles like an over baked cookie knees slap the frozen concrete cracking like brittle saplings body twisted out, legs misshapen tangled He lies there salt tickling his face eye wide. one open. one close a longing gaze a clouded stare Emma Halfon (’17)
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I Used to Believe in Angels One shaking step and then another as we spin and twist as the world grows darker. I used to believe in magic I used to believe in skin coated angels. One broken glass and then another as we dance and smoke as the world grows hotter. I used to believe in the realness of your eyes I used to believe in angels. And Costco windows shine blindingly with color Wheels screech and turn And money dances like butterflies I used to believe in angels. One shaking step over broken glass with bloody feet and forgotten kisses We look but we do not see. We smoke but we do not breathe. We drink but we do not understand 14 Pillars of Salt
That butterflies can grow tangled in your hair That crows can steal a corner of your eye That dust can gather under the soles of your feet One shaking step and then another as the world begins to explode. I woke up 5 minutes late this morning And all of my shoelaces were gone. Livia Blum (’19)
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The Weight of First Responses when I chose, finally, to let the blood flow from my tongue into the open palms of a friend she closed them like rosary laden fists and turned away. it could have been to pray or to tuck these crimson words within the folds of a braid, for women who learn to keep quiet. yet all i know for certain is the cold whip of her shrinking spine, telling me to forget the sandpaper cuts of unwelcome hands, and me left here once again as the separated soul. Sara Seaman (’16)
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Petunia’s Head Ava-Rose Beech (’16) Pillars of Salt 17
Red Blotches When I was seventeen, my mother came home one day with an itchy leg. The back of her knee was speckled with a few red dots. Probably mosquitoes we guessed. The following day she woke up with both legs covered in bumps. “She’ll be fine,” I thought as I left her at home and walked to the school bus. A few days later, the red welts infested the rest of her body sparing nothing but her face. I diverted my eyes from her swollen hands and tuned out her constant complaints. She lived in her own personal hell for those first few weeks and to her, we all lived in her hell. To her, her pain had transferred deeply into us. She kept saying “I’m sorry for putting you through this, Jen,” but I just smiled politely and went to school thinking about my work, my survival, and my own hell, one rot with work rather than with the burning of her red blotches. She continued her motherly routine for me - made me oatmeal, said good morning, cooked me dinner, said goodnight. So to me, through these continued manifestations of existence, she seemed fine enough. But, had I stopped to look into her eyes, to ask if she needed my help, to ask how she felt, I would have seen the welts growing within her. I was watching her burn in my peripheral vision, but I figured she’d be okay. Then one morning I saw her fire. I slept in too late to walk to the bus, so I asked her to drive me a few minutes before it was time to leave as I usually did when I needed a ride. My request set her off. She yelled that she was in her pajamas, that the other parents couldn’t see her this way. She ran through the house as though it too was on fire collecting all her valuable possessions. I walked to the car, and she jumped in with panic plastered on her face. The ignition roared. She slid into reverse and hit the gas lurching 18 Pillars of Salt
my chest forward. She frantically shifted into gear, and we barreled out of my neighborhood. Over potholes we bounced, accelerating more than necessary. Then she turned into the driveway beside the bus stop from the alley side where the other parents wait. Another student’s mom turned into the driveway from the street at the same time. Our cars were nose to nose. I watched the mother in the other car happily waving hello, ignorant to the pressure growing in our car. We were at the bus stop. I could have gotten out and waited for the bus to arrive, but my mom pushed on. She shoved her car between the friendly mother and another car in the two car wide driveway. At this point, I interjected. “MOM STOP! You’re going to hit them. CALM DOWN! The bus isn’t even here yet. MOM!” The other mother surprised by my mother’s determination pulled her car over as much as possible to accommodate my mother’s crazed maneuver while still maintaining her friendly smiling. My mom made it through and turned out of the driveway next to the curb. “That was incredibly inconsiderate, Mom.” I kept my eyes fixed forward when we stopped on the side of the road annoyed with her uncharacteristic aggressive driving. Then I heard a jagged deep breath beside me. I looked over and watched as the pressure in the car released exploding with her sobs filling me with a surge of regret. I paused my mind blank unsure how to handle the situation. I scrambled an apology together qualified by, “You were scaring me.’’ More ragged breaths followed by a tearful wail. I had seen my mother cry before but never like this. The red blotches seemed to have spread to her face as she held her breath in hopes of stopping.
“I’m really sorry, Mom. It’s just--”
“I shouldn’t have done that to that poor mom,” she inhaled. “I’m just Pillars of Salt 19
on so many drugs right now,” she managed to gasp out in reference to the prednisone she was on to reduce the swelling. “I do so much for you, and I love you, but you never appreciate me,” she bellowed. “This thing is taking over my life. I haven’t exercised in weeks.” She continues to cry, and the bus rolled up behind us. “I just want to go home,” she wails. “I just want to be home,” she says softer. My face melted and my stomach turned. “I’m a terrible daughter. I’m a terrible daughter. I’m a terrible daughter.” I repeated it to myself a hundred times over. Why did I let her burn? “I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I know I don’t thank you enough, but I really do appreciate everything you do, and I love you so much.” “I know, I know. It’s just hard sometimes,” she sniffled. “You should go to the bus.” I got out of the car and hurried to the bus, my mind reeling uncomfortably with the ending to our conversation. It was as though the glass wall separating our lives had shattered, and all the shards were falling back on me. There were no more empty seats on the bus, but I found a spot next to a classmate. I took out my phone to draft an apology text, maybe that was just building a new wall, but soon my cheeks were wet and my face was red as I unsuccessfully held back tears and her red blotches spread to me. Reanna Wauer (’16)
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Abyss On hot summer nights, my mother drags me by the arm And takes me with her to stargaze. She breathes a slow breath, Turns her fragile head to the sky, And the shell of our world dissipates. She is swept up from the ground, Flying through thick clouds of stars, Tiptoeing around edges of black holes. Silence, luminousness, color. She chases comets, And paints galaxies on the everlasting black canvas, For in this moment time is trivial. When she lands among the empty black space in solitude, She fights to stay, But the binding blue planet stretches its arms and pulls her back. My mother’s desire To see the impenetrable world Is insatiable. “Now it’s your turn!” she exclaims. However hard I try, I see nothing Cameron Thompson (’18) Poet Laureate Runner Up Pillars of Salt 21
To The Lighthouse India Halsted (’17) 22 Pillars of Salt
Para Mí te pasé un pincel y pinturas y te dije que me pintaras le puesta de sol cuando terminaste miré arriba Pero el cielo entero estaba negro y blanco tú estabas radiando azúl, roja, anaranjada, rosada y no hubo más color para mí . Translation i handed you a paintbrush and paints and i told you to paint me the sunset when you were done i looked up but the entire sky was black and white you were radiating blue, red, orange, pink and there was no more color for me. Cat Oriel (’18) Foreign Language Poet Laureate Runner-Up
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When I Was A Child when i was a child i did not go to church. i never sat on wooden pews; i never got paper cuts on the leaves of the leather bound bibles. Instead of red wine i sipped grape juice out of paper cups; i ate vanilla wafers instead of the eucharist. but i would pretend to pray to god, sometimes, my fingers interlaced 24 Pillars of Salt
in a little church steeple (i did not want to be blasphemous) ‘dear god, please give me a sign.’ i’m still waiting for my answer. Karinne Robbins (’16)
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Into the Deep End Gemma Brand-Wolf (’18) 26 Pillars of Salt
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En Un Mundo Negro En un mundo de negro Sentados y inmovilizados Hasta que vieron una luz creada de fuego Llego y desapareció simultáneamente Y sus ojos lo siguieron Y sus ojos se cerraron Les dio un dolor Ver el unico color Descolorarse Translation: In a pitch black world Sitting and imobilized Until they saw a light made of fire It came and it left all at once And their eyes followed And their eyes closed And they felt the pain Watching the only color Fade Gaby Lu (’18) Foreign Language Poet Laureate
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The Stars Came Out There was once a girl. She had dark eyes and light hair and her mind was a sky. Her body was a mountain range. Inside her grew a deep forest, pine trees pricking the skyline of her consciousness. The forest spanned miles, dark and overgrown in some places, brush fire dry in others. It had begun as a single sapling, a seed of doubt that marred the bright expanse of clear blue sky. Now it covered miles, a tangled habitat for emotional creatures of all shapes and sizes. The seasons swept through the forest in shades of green, leaves melting off the trees in cycles. Day and night came and went in the indistinguishable grey of dawn and dusk. The forest grew towards the sky, each dark trunk shattering the increasingly stormy firmament, clouds like memories drifting across what was no longer blue. But those thick, dark clouds never emptied, never wept their sorrowful tears to the forest floor. And the mite-infested trees continued to splinter the sky, their source of life untraceable. Predatory creatures outnumbered prey and food became scarce. Clearings in the dense woods grew uncommon; claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm. Dark howls perforated the natural din of the forest. Color bled out of the greenery, still growing steadily towards that barely surviving strip of illuminated atmosphere. True night slowly seeped the grey out of the sky, darkening the microcosm like ink in water, an all-encompassing night. The darkness was a living, breathing entity, more than the absence of light. It seemed eternal, never-ending, stretching into the even darker expanse of something unknown. The girl lived in the deepest night, the world so dark there were no shadows, the moonless sky blending seamlessly with the dark forest. And then the stars came out. Gemma Brand-Wolf (’18)
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Maraschino Cherries You know how I passed you the other day in the hallway? And how I rounded the corner dancing to the song that was playing in my head? Well, the song was from 1980, and I really like it, but it’s subtly sexist and very heteronormative. So sometimes when I listen to it I feel guilty because I don’t know what you’d say. I really don’t know. And then my hair starts to argue with my shoes and my ears debate my watch and my toenails are sharing a mild discourse with the buttons on my sweater. And you probably don’t even know the song, but the film projector in the corner of my cerebellum is already whirring and the exhaust is stirring up the dust on the black paint floor and the dust in front glitters in the light but it’s so dusty in the theatre and the maroon cushions’ stare is [Searches for the word of appropriate intensity, gives up.] [ Earnestly] This is in no way romantic. When I saw you, I was really just a little embarrassed that I was singing the song I was singing when I rounded the corner and you caught me off guard, so I looked down. And before I looked down I remembered how we lied with the ends of our hair touching and our eyes to the stars and if I closed my eyes I could hear you breathe the cold Oregon air. Then we were both fully aware that there was too much time, so I didn’t look up until we passed, and then I shifted my gaze to someone’s locker. And on their name label was a little cherry sticker. And you know I have some cherry print pajamas. But real cherries don’t have perfect white circles in the upper right corner. They’re dark red with bruises and yellow patches. Some people like maraschino cherries. Wwwell I don’t know if people really like them, butwell... [resigned] well. But did you know that they make blue cherries? [Delighted] They’re the color of the crayons in my desk drawer. [The sadness of maraschino cherries hits her.] But they look fake. And they remind me that even red maraschino cherries are dyed. [Dramatically sad] And then I remember how the cherries from Oregon were bleached in calcium 30 Pillars of Salt
chloride, and the other day someone told me how maraschino cherries are flavored with almond. And so things that are cherry flavor are really almond flavor. And how can you say that something is cherry flavor if it’s really almond flavor? I don’t shave my legs but [Changes mind about conjunction.] and and [Introspective, said to self, as if unaware she is saying it.] I can’t get out the words. [An earnest attempt, a true struggle.] I’m Vvuvv... [She stares vacantly at a fixed point for a short while. Then “Dodge VegOMatic” begins to play softly.] I don’t like this song. [Pained, tears are welling in her eyes, but she tries very hard to suppress this.] I hate its stupid album cover because I can’t tell if it’s a painting or a photograph or a pastel, and it hurts my brain at seven o’clock in the morning. [Recovering] So when I get a maraschino cherry in my shirley temple, I’ll eat it, and I might gag a little thinking about how it tastes like the medicine I took 35 and a half days ago when I had a cold, but then I’ll be okay. Zoë Webb-Mack (’17)
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Untitled Stella Gage (’17) 32 Pillars of Salt
Austen Coquettish pride is suspicious of Darcy’s bible Collins whispers “propose Darcy” Prejudice clergy fans coquettish Darcy; suspicious, suspicious whispers in coffee whispers are… coquettish, Collins whispers prejudiced whispers; clergy is coquettish Proposed pride are a prejudiced read and whispers and books and Darcy Jane Austen Society
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The Night I Killed the Neighbor’s Cat Nevermind my car in the late autumn night, curiosity killed him first. That bastard was always sneaking out and squeezing through my fence, stomping on my azaleas and keeping me up at night. I’d repeatedly told Meredith to keep her Bobo on her own property, but somehow he always seemed to trespass in my yard, which, I reminded her, is a misdemeanor in the state of California. And countless nights I ran out banging frying pans to silence the shrieks from all the wild sex he shared with Mrs. Butterworth from across the street. For some reason they found solace together under my new car. Some nights, upon running outside, I found the sounds weren’t them at all, but instead the Sycamore tree rubbing the side of my house. And then, I’d look up to see him smirking at me through Meredith’s kitchen window. His bites and scratches scar my legs, even though in front of Meredith, he’d be cordial, of course. He’d even fake a purr, masking his satanic behavior. Although it wasn’t intended, I can admit the slight satisfaction felt when I hit that bump and heard a familiar shriek. I knew if I wasn’t the death of him, he’d be the death of me. Ali Kiley (’16)
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This is Fate: A Tinder Odyssey Strange first question What? I just swallowed a flaming sword while singing opera It was bliss For a minute it was nice talking to you Thanks mami I’m from Wisconsin Care to enlighten me? You look very European I really don’t know what pictures you’re seeing I’m not sure, for a minute, it was bliss Not sure if that’s something I should have admitted to A beautiful horse It slowly comes to learn your scent To get away with murder To tame Take your furry hands and scratch their cheeks A flaming sword Worthless girls You have a toddler Squidward, I have eyebrows like that Ate something I was allergic to So verbose Haha grandma Sex sex sexy sex I made some kid pee once Lina Jegeus (’17) and Isabel Adler (’17) Pillars of Salt 35
Shame Cairo Dwek (’16) 36 Pillars of Salt
The Teal Shirt My favorite shirt is teal. My least favorite word is teal, but I never think about that when I’m wearing my shirt, which should prove to you how much I like it. I’m wearing this shirt now and it has buttons that go up. They also go down. I know how many numbers of buttons are on all of my other button shirts, but I don’t know how many my teal shirt has. I do know my teal shirt has buttons -- lots of them. Brown buttons, like tree bark. The criss cross stitching in the middle is a color I cannot identify. This has never happened to me before. I try to invent new colors all of the time, letters too, but I think they all exist already. A lot of the time people ask me, “where did you buy this lovely green shirt.” It makes me angry when strangers call it green. It is teal. I tell them it is the color teal and not green. And I tell them I do not know where I bought it, and I am sorry I cannot help them. I walk away, and I feel bad becuase I have the best shirt ever, and they do not. And that makes me sad. Sometimes I am afraid to go outside because I fear someone might count the buttons on my teal shirt and tell me how many there are. Chloe Hoberman (’17)
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Petunia Ava-Rose Beech (’16) 38 Pillars of Salt
Work of Art I am a work of art. They put me on a stage and open me up, pulling back my ribs to reveal a beautiful, moist rainbow. It’s a strange feeling, the fingers of air brushing against the inside and outside of your lungs; a shallow, empty feeling each time I inhale as if the oxygen itself were trying to escape me. There’s a zipper that runs from the tip of my chin to my pelvic bone as if my skin were some large fur coat I could shed every summer. I’m drugged, so all I see are blurred silhouettes. I find it funny when those figures turn away from me–they can’t accept that they contain these same multitudes. I’m the one that’s bared for all the world, I want to scream after them as they walk away. Maybe that’s just it, multitudes–this infiniteness. They don’t like that we look the same inside the only difference being I have a zipper to keep my guts in. The plastic skin that wraps around their mismatched organs and molds to their printed bones runs like silk against their fingers while mine is freckled with pinpricks. Perhaps I scare them. Perhaps they turn away because I have not a single artificial cell to create my body, yet I am beautiful. I am what they wish to be yet hate, so I am displayed. They say, look how beautiful she is, as they whisper curses behind their hands. So they open me up like an exhibit in a museum and they stare at every inch of me they hate, every inch of me they fear, every inch of me they desire, and every piece they wish was theirs. Yes, I am infinite, I am beautiful; I am a work of art. Talia Natoli (’17)
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Tattoo Shana Chin (’17) 40 Pillars of Salt
Internal Tattoos Blank pages bask in their invisible glory. Blank pages bare all and hide nothing. Blank pages embrace the concept of an empty void. A blank page just is and is thus weirdly admirable. It exists for the sole purpose of being stripped away from its identity. That’s fascinating to me… I wish I were a blank page. Instead, the ink from scribbling furiously seep into my veins and slowly descends into my core. Dense, tainted, tar-like ink. It attacks with such a menacing vengeance, you would think I did something to deserve it. In order to stay sane, I must tell myself I don’t deserve internal tattoos…From the moment we are born, we are confined to a small room, with a noose hanging loosely around our necks, and an interrogative light shining brightly in our eyes. We are forced to roll the dice of life. If we refuse to roll, the noose will tighten. If we roll a four instead of a six , and then havoc ensues, can we really say our punishments are warranted? If I told you my secrets, I would tarnish any blank space left on my body. The tainted ink insidiously spreads, but I still have some untouched skin. I yearn to remain an empty void, but I know that’s impossible. Every time I breathe, or cry, or internalize the mini tragedies that surround me, I add blemishes to a space bursting with possibility and potential. I’m a page covered in words that mean everything to me and nothing to you. There are life stories that remain embedded deep within the crevasses of my human psyche, and they are bound to be sought eventually. Should I just let them be found? I am tarnishing a blank space right now, but I’m too much of a coward to keep going. I’m too much of a coward to retrieve my life stories and project them onto a blank page. I will stop before I say too much. Haley Cohen (’16)
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Untitled Meghan Marshall (’17) 42 Pillars of Salt
Circumstance blood rushes through me; I can hear it behind eardrums and feel it raging under parchment thin skin of my neck, vibrating up until it washes body in scorching intensity. it pulls at my fists muscles contract; dermis becoming strings of a marionette. tightening, tensing until bones quake, cartilage pleads for release. but maybe it is worse to become limp. flowing with nothing but hopelessness that crushes nasal passages pushes on bladder; sinks diaphragm down, down; and then recedes. Isabel Adler (’17)
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Thicker Than Blood I am not a fish and he is not a bear but is there a difference when it comes to keeping a door shut I am not sheltered like a citadel guarded by light I heel, hushed under the callused thumb where words were spoken through teeth, I cannot sigh with palliative mind I will recoil when you look at me, because I toil as he looks at me, recollecting the spit falling from his tongue I am not like you my mind was not built to believe your intentions lie in letting me love myself past the bathroom door, strung beneath the chair, I promise, when I stay it means more than that. Sara Seaman (’16) 44 Pillars of Salt
Recovery Cairo Dwek (’16) Pillars of Salt 45
Inside the Bus Station the radio is crooning a Nina Simone song and I can’t help but close my eyes, if only for a moment. The girl behind the counter is dressed in cornflower blue, and I can hear the streetcar rumbling up the street. I wonder what you’d do if you were here with me, in this bus station with Nina putting a spell on me and the fan buzzing in my ear. I wonder if you’d sit next to me or walk out the door, past the fan and the girl and the rumbling streetcar. I wonder if I’d walk after you or wait too long and you’d disappear again. I hear the bus rumble to a stop outside. Everyone’s up and the spell is broken. I open my eyes and stand as well. I have to see you, you know. There’s something I’ve been needing to tell you, but I’m not sure what it is. Lina Jegeus (’17) Poet Laureate
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Here Lies Midas Midas never tells the truth. He tells me he has gold, He tells me he has wealth Gilded tongue, gilded age He tells me his uncle wears a toupee He tells me he wants to build a wall The gold drips off the world around him Dripping from his finger tips and Forming thick pools Searing through his daughter’s veins, Stifling, choking But his lies tell good stories so I let him fib on After all, I want to be entertained Pillars of Salt Staff
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Evening Ingrid Sant (’17) 48 Pillars of Salt
