The Thorn
2016 - 2017 A Poetry & Art Publication ― Covenant College Poetry, Prose, & Other Writings Visual Art
Matt Schmincke ...... 5, 8 Greg Van Dyke ...... 4, 27, 41, 79,117 Teresa Harwood ...... 6, 10, 12 Abi Ogle ...... 11, 24, 65, 95, 107 Joseph Klingman ...... 7, 14, 17, 18, 22, 25, 28, 30, 40, 58, 100 Roy Uptain ...... 15, 36, 60, 102, 118 Donnelly Warren ...... 9, 26 Ellie Brown ...... 16 Lily Tic e ...... 21, 33, 34, 81 Michael Fuller ...... 19, 56, 72, 86, 108 Jenny Washburne ...... 37, 38, 42 Joseph Ricketts ...... 20, 23, 29, 47, 85 Jemima Barr ...... 48, 50, 88 Caleb Smith ...... 32, 55, 74, 90 Hannah King ...... 49 Jenny Washburne ...... 51 Richie Hennessey ...... 52 Lydia Holt ...... 67 Cliff Foreman ...... 53, 62 Lily Tice ...... 80, 82, 114 Aubrey Smith ...... 54 Jemima Barr ...... 89 Michael Fuller ...... 57 Elizabeth Sanders ...... 93 David Kraus ...... 59 Elizabeth Sanders ...... 61 Kristie Jaya ...... 64 Lake McGinty ...... 66, 109 Daniel Hollidge ...... 68 Matthias Overos ...... 73, 111, 112, 116 Tim Dixon ...... 75 John Christian Kuehnert ...... 76, 83 Haley Dempsey ...... 78 Annie Deluca ...... 84 Haley Horton ...... 87, 96, 114 Suzannah Guthmann ...... 91, 94 Ann Roberts ...... 92 Hannah Lloyd ...... 98 Will Friesen ...... 101, 105 James Mackes ...... 103 Gracie Woodrow ...... 104 Brad Assaraf ...... 106, 110 Lydia Holt ...... 119 Cynthia Young ...... 120 2 3 early sept. 2016: falling asleep in my dreams Matt Schmincke — There’s nothing more that I can think to do, Accept the things that open with the night. Stuck, I look upon the light of you And strike the closing flame with fright. But yet! We climb, and see each other clear. Inside a cloud of light we open fast. Burning, holy bright as it draws near, Until I turn and see the thing at last. It’s then we fall and wake ourselves with life; With bursting pulse I breathe and see the sun. The morning opens with its glory rife And looks upon the things that we have done. Nothing more can mean as much as this, If not for you–the beauty I would miss.
Frightfully Mortal Greg Van Dyke |Oil Paint on Canvas
4 5 Christmas Breakfast Hindsight Teresa Harwood Joseph Klingman — — The stairs are wrapped with holly and with twine; Some fledgling words I paddle from my room, eyes glued with sleep. Have a habit of falling from the nest Mom’s flipping sausage: “Morning! about time.” Blighted, premature, or otherwise The biscuits are halfway done. Dad hovers To their death— beside the George Foreman grill, watching dew Reincarnating as vultures condense and drip from the glass that covers To pick the meat from my bones the unfrozen hashbrowns. The smell of pine In a later day. branches drift to my nose; boxes of red await the time when our full bellies have dined on biscuits and gravy and hashbrowns too and we gather: a circle of sweatpants on leather couches by the fireplace and I’m the Santa, passing out presents to Mom and Dad, Hannah, Jordan, and Jen. I like this job. I bought almost nothing but am given all and give all away.
6 7 To be close to you The Boy Who Lived Matt Schmincke Donnelly Warren — — the way we walk, I’ve managed to see them once or twice over and out, Twice today I’ve felt them watching me beautiful sun on beautiful earth, Me, the boy who lived and it shifts. Lived for so many years in emptiness holding my head Emptiness filled with stuff I sweat in radiant mirth, Stuffing to soften the cold, hard lie but it’s never too much Lying on my bed, wondering for me or for you, Wandering amidst could-have-beens much if you know how it works. Bins filled with metal tools it doesn’t matter, Tools that took away their chance the things that i think and Chance was they could have lived well the things that i feel. Well, at least they could have lived opening the sun, Lived here with me I laugh with you Me, the boy who lived. and it shifts. But this expansive house is solely mine Mine to hate Hate my parents I do not Not that I’ll ever forgive. Forgive me for living Living the life they never can Can I ever find release? Release the hounds Hounds, let them tear me apart Apart from a couple of genes we were the same Same day, same struggles Struggles that I can not overcome Overcome with grief I wail for the lost Lost, the feeling bites me Me, the boy who lived.
8 9 A Foul November Teresa Harwood — New neighbors moved next door I heard the ruckus four doors away And went over to end the foul Noise but they saw me coming Eyes wide, one told the other, “Fly, fly” With a hop and a leap, they soared And the noise barreled out-- not to stay. But my neighbors now live right here-- In this freezer. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, Maybe, let’s have turkey. Tornadoland Abi Ogle | Photo, Acrylic, Ash, Alabama Clay
10 11 congregations from the tv. Jenny and I could hear them from the road, and we knew The Leather Chair where Grandpa sat. Teresa Harwood — Then there were the days of the hospital. Grandma or Grandpa was hooked up to a The cracked orange leather rocked next to the screen door. It looked like it was network of clear artificial veins; I was scared and wished we could all go back. And straight from the seventies. It was sacred. And whether or not it was said, it was the days went by. Soon, Grandma and Grandpa returned home, and I visited. off-limits; we never sat on it. But there is one picture of us sitting there. I was wearing Jenny’s black and white tutu; she was wearing my pink one. I was smiling; Then I left for camp. When I came back, our parents were in a panic. I remember she wasn’t. someone calling 911, and I remember the paramedics, but I don’t remember it well. It was a blur that led Grandpa to the hospital again. The doctor told us he had The sermons of Oprah and Dr. Phil vibrated through the wooden walls. We could mouth cancer. He wasn’t supposed to live long. By two weeks, his body was buried. hear them by the time we had reached Grandma’s tulip bed, and we knew that the Grandma stayed at our house. The night before the funeral, she was happy; she day was done; Grandma was ready to play. Flies traveled to and from the house was trying on her new clothes. We laughed with her; she was always making us through the holes in the screen door. And when we arrived, we peeked through the laugh. holes, waiting for Grandma to see us. The months rolled on, and Grandma moved back into her house. She had Alzhei- Grandma came with us, playing Teacher on the steps, and Jenny always won. I’m mer’s and paced endlessly. I spent the night every Friday with her. Around midnight, sure I yelled and said it was unfair, but Grandma brought us coke floats in sparkling I could hear the inevitable knock on the wall, “Daddy?” Eventually she was in the blue cups. “Now go show Daddy,” she’d say. She always called Grandpa “Daddy,” den. With a flick of her wrist, the single light from the fan was on. I could see her even though he wasn’t my dad and he wasn’t hers either. That’s just who he was, frazzled white hair that bent toward the light like branches, and she could see the “Daddy,” the ruler of the house, the rocker of the chair. So, we walked to the den green leather chair. It was empty. and showed them off to Grandpa in his orange chair. He smiled his teethless smile. When we were done and ready to go, he looked at us and offered gum. Gum and a quarter. We never said no. That was often the reason we came: to get Grandpa’s gum, and we hugged him and sometimes I kissed the white hairs bent skyward like branches. “Bye now,” he said, his eyes following us from his seat in the orange leather chair.
Over the years, the orange leather crumbled and you could see the yellow peek- ing through. I don’t know who did it, but either my dad or uncle-- maybe even Grandpa, but he was too spendthrifty-- refurbished the orange leather with green. Modernity overcame the chair.
Even though the chair shed its skin like a snake and turned green, Grandpa still sat in it everyday. His blotchy red and brown leather skin complemented the green covering. Dr. Phil and Oprah preached louder and louder, screaming at their
12 13 Wander Joseph Klingman — I am a thin, sapling Palm Pulled, not blown, by Borealis’ pale whispers— He controls all corners, so he says. I listen often and long Til my sinews snap from bending And my fibers grow used to the strain I wasn’t intended to bear.
As there must be a sun I grow towards, I realize how much I am Anchored in sand By my own roots And billowed about By my own fantasies of Walking Home Becoming a canoe and shoving off Roy Uptain | Gaffers Tape on Hardboard For the call of adventure Though the water laps at my feet already.
Brine I drink with pleasure Knowing cleaner exists. Surely loving the former Doesn’t mean hating the latter?
And I laugh as my thoughts die Each frond that falls paling, crackling And I wonder how ever did he intend to keep me How ever does he tend to me When all I do is watch and wander?
14 15 So Might I Be Joseph Klingman — If the world was but a dream passing A thought floating by as I Reclined on a cool rock in the grass Felt the fine fingers of the breath of God over me—
If all the worries of six day cycles Were the wisp of smoke that quickly vanishes Beneath the robins-egg blue Now pressing in like a lover to the earth—
If all my days were fallen into a timeless one Where laughter feels the most natural thing And the most surprising Within a tranquil pause—
The Artist If I had nothing more than this Ellie Brown | Photograph And the thought of you, my love So might I be happy under Heaven For this hour.
16 17 Counter-revolutionary Joseph Klingman — What if I don’t Want to look Down?
Silent, I Scream at the poets’ history. What if I don’t Want a Revolution?
Countless never-named masses Staring and pointing at sinking ships Headscarf Under their feet— Michael Fuller | Photograph What if I am Not Unhappy?
Is a hushed voice of flawed but Realized blessing, precious-kept shards of peace Raised in shaky hands no longer bloody An offering Unrecognized By man?
For man?
18 19 study in orange Lily Tice — she folds me in my slumber, peach fuzz cheeks, pale velvet hair. we drift in orange.
madeleine smells of apricots & cigarettes, the ones that smell like diane (my mother who is not my mother, the mother of the one I used to love).
diane makes me egg salad in October. madeleine kisses my head in October. I fall asleep in warm laps in October.
freckled heads bow together. I am carried to bed, gently laid under pale blue sheets, tucked in candied ginger-down.
are you my mother, apricot-voice? are you my mother, apricot-heart?
softly, I drift.
softly, I fold.
Portrait of a Costa Rican Farmer softly, Joseph Ricketts | Photograph I fade to the apricot fog.
20 21 Resist Joseph Klingman — The fiery cloud-mane Shakes in slow motion From the blue head of an evening lion Yawning with one last red-tongued Breath of warm light.
Who can resist staring into the sun?
Quiet Strength (Fer de Lance Pit Viper) Joseph Ricketts | Photograph
22 23 For We Know in Part... Joseph Klingman — When I was a child I cast you in roselight, Framed life, in love, With you at the core—
I spake as a child I learned To regard you as gemstone In the setting of my days.
Jenna Camilleon Yet when I became a man Abi Ogle | Acrylic Paint on Body I found I was not yet a man Only a husk to be shed All my formers thrown off—
I put away childish things Now. You are no child, love I shall not cherish you As if I were one.
For now we see mirrors Dimly, of each other. Later perhaps We’ll know in full And be more fully known.
24 25 Garden Fairy Donnelly Warren — A small garden sits surrounded The sad scene of suburbia Silence stills swaying branches Swift wind rushes across grass Weaves in between roses Sweeps shivering pansies Whispers over the slow stream The stream that runs throughout this place This small spot of paradise He does not see the garden His gaze focuses on something else On a table, the only sign Of the keepers of the garden He finds the fragile figure of a fairy She is frozen, full of life Funny how her skirt and hair both flow That they think themselves unbounded How her hair has a hidden hue Below Brilliant brown is bold blue Blue that holds the horizon The sky, the sky is in her eyes His eyes slip to her wings Wings that sparkle even in the darkening air And the dark falls across her face The face divided by her nose He knows that this is all he needs. Her needs are fulfilled and she moves Stretches to take away the tension She is relaxed when she looks over Days ago she would have overlooked But today she smiles and his wings flutter. La Belleza Greg Van Dyke | Oil Paint on Canvas
26 27 Ps. 103 Joseph Klingman — I am not gifted with the will of Angels (to obey) I am dust and a wildflower I am thin topsoil and the sprig of color sprouting from it I turn my face to the earth in the heat Shudder in the rain Shiver and die in the cold. I am weak And I fall away in the wind.
Angels rustle the tall grass and shoot off to heaven While I by my roots am anchor-chained To my patch of dirt, Looking up to heaven and wishing One day to grow there. Longing Joseph Ricketts | Photograph
28 29 Watch this puppy’s reaction to a vacuum cleaner Feed [user], THOSE EYES!!! You gorgeous, girl, no you gorgous Joseph Klingman Some people just don’t know when to shut — [user], Some people should just say it to my An i[ntim/mit]ation in p[rose/oetry]. As you will. Secretary of State scandal, corruption in Congress leads to Riots in DC we’ll follow at noon Central Gallop Poll Wake up. Good morning, [name]! Board of comments on results at 5pm… tl:dr Trending Trump says Girl held captive as sex slave for five years tells her story How to iron a hat Check out my new ride! 28in rims, hemi, jet bl… in love Funny cat face Trending #Swiftswiftswiftswiftswiftswift Protesters in Washington call for This weekend, go see Under the Grey Guise of… New app update Omigosh the new #Vengers was EPIIIIC!!! ...waiting. Open, scroll US troops return to Middle East for the last time [user], it’s a scam… it’s all a Why Applesoft is so Big Brother not even funny bro Disney buys X-men franchise FBI leaks info about Republican [user], xoxo hahaha I freakin love deadpool Super cute Monkey goes viral Refugees held in camps while How to solve your problems in a day or two Facebook corporate colonization in Ind…. Scroll How to convert your friends to Kardashian starts war with Join Instagram Iran’s exposed nuclear development, President says Get 10,000 followers on Snapchat She didn’t know, was negligent…. Don’t see posts like this. What to do when followed Third unclaimed terrorist attack on… Scroll How to escape That feeling when your bff suddenly becomes your This Congratulations, you have 1000 Friends! Somehow it’s already morning 2,672,240 likes and counting…. counting… counting… Somehow it doesn’t matter Racist cop killer caught on video LIVES MATTER Phone is at 3% battery life, schick! ...and charging... Presidential envoy to Russia forced to Look at me! I made 13 Points on Boing! Join now for 1 (more) Friend Request pending… 15 Notifications Lacie tagged you in a photo, 14hrs Lacie tagged you in 4 photos, 14hrs ...liked a post that you were tagged in, 12hrs 1:00am, June 30th Hangin with mah boyz at da clubbin hotspots This account is private. Watch this billionaire give half his fortune to an orphan
30 31 gossamer Lily Tice — i. Julian is playing the electric guitar and my eyes are closed. I am leaving my body. My paper mâché skin is being paintscraped— my tissue paper silhouette peeled from my shell. Vaulted upwards and outwards, my gossamer self, like angel-consumed laundry on the line, hovers. My tissue paper body is aloft, blessèd-isabelline, avian. ii. Things I buried in Fairyland, Georgia (when I left my bones): your visage in pink soap—whittled, the white stairwell moth—trampled, my lilliputian ivory sailboat, jay-feather for sail. (and I whispered in the grass; I built a hole and spoke “pearl” into it, then covered it with violet-spiced blossoms) iii. Esplanade de la Défense. My gossamer-tissue wrests in the air currents above the screeching metro, Here, I enter. Untitled The olive skinned girl from the train— Caleb Smith | Photograph A remnant from our orange-colored days— Waits. This time the olive eyes look back. Charles de Gaulle-Étoile.
32 33 But he did find, in heart of heart, The Battle of the Brillig Bath The balm of Gimble near. Lily Tice — My son, he cried, to Gamby, pied. “Wimble and wabe in this brillig bath, Do not be hesitant! Says Gimble, through pearlèd sips of horvath, Engrip the sword of tychlewood, Drink up! Be merry, wold, and rype, ‘Tll turn Fish’s blood to wine! And cleanse in this mimsy, whorly trype. Then Gamboree, enamored bart Gamboree does sink through bath, Took tychlesword in hand-- Eyn closed, he pathe with snicket snack He lunged at Fish, he chuckled blade, Fed sumptuously ripe by faërie type, Then Fish’s blood, curdled-made! They gorge him, all-avite. He squirmed, ‘til dead, that uffish head, And yet, here hiss a smiling fish, That Juble Fish did squee. With claws, with jub, with snatch and snitch, Then Gamby cried: “O hark, it’s died!” He disguise face, wry carapace, Then all Jove’s men were free. And tyles under the bath! O cheers! Oh joy!-- we keep our bath, Lon hiss, it gurgles; then Gimble cries: And I, my beamish boy, ‘My son, give me embrace! Enknight you with a blessèd kiss, Take heed of fish, no need for grace-- And sip of dear horvath! Protect thine roary race. Wimble and wabe in this brillig bath, Enarmored in heart, ‘Vec courage, ‘vec smartt, Says Gimble, through pearlèd sips of horvath, He suits up, like banshee Drink up! Be merry, wold, and rype, With sword in hand, he quickly swam, And cleanse in the mimsy, whorly trype.’ To slay th’abborent khee.
He dives, how uffish!, that Gamboree, Till eyes of fire he meet And Juble Fish, that horrid skype, Did burst with tongues afleet.
I burn! I burn! Gamboree did cry, Ihn eyes aflame with fear,
34 35 The Suburban Jenny Washburne — The sleek new suburban seats eight. I sit in the furthest back left seat, sinking into the soft gray cushion. Josiah and I always sit in the back bench on long car trips, me on the left, him on the right. We put my pillow in the middle as a table and play cards, Crazy 8’s mostly. I keep a pack of cards in the storage space next to me, near the cupholder. Sometimes I lay sideways, and Josiah puts the pillow on my head and we nap, sandwich style. We take turns being on top. Looking up I can see the Suburban’s green glowing dash lights even from the back seat; I amuse myself by reading all the gauges aloud like a newscaster. I don’t know what most of them do, but I am mesmerized by the mini thermostat on the rear view mirror. Its little green light displays the outside temperature as well as the current direction the car is facing. In the middle bench, on the left in front of me, sits Anna. Gideon’s carseat takes up the middle between her and Ellyn. Front seats belong to Mom and Dad, or Dad and Mom, depending on who’s driving. Dad’s driving now, and Mom’s messing with the audio player; it does radio, cassettes and CDs, too. Not long ago I discov- ered that Dad can see everybody in the car by looking in the rearview mirror. His blue eyes glance back at me and Josiah.
I sit in the drivers’ seat of a 2003 Suburban. A string of hay bale twine trails trails around the roof rack, leftover from when we bought our latest Christmas tree. A string of paracord trails around the back bumper, where Josiah secured it to the body after I slid on black ice and rammed a cement barrier. The dash lights tell me the suburban’s traveled almost 250,000 miles, and also that the engine needs to be checked. Except it doesn’t; it always says that. If I move my foot too far to the left I can turn the AC on and off by stepping on the pencil that Dad jerry-rigged under the front mat. I shift my weight and adjust the pillow I always put in the small of my back for long car trips. I’m heading back to my campus apartment, just a few more hours to go. I punch the radio’s scan button a few times. Can’t listen to music Cornored because an audio CD is stuck in the player, and I don’t feel like messing with my Roy Uptain | Gaffers Tape on Hardboard iPod adapter. I glance in the rear-view mirror to check for merging traffic in the six lanes that surround me. Illumined in the orange flicker of streetlights, I see seven soft gray seats behind mine, silent and empty. There’s a faded pack of cards in the storage bin on the left side.
36 37 escape to the woods, and you walk, Walnuts but you walk half as far as you did Jenny Washburne the day you walked seventeen miles to see — green shimmering aspen trees on the other side of the ranch. You kick something on the cement There are no aspens here; but a lot of walnuts. and you bend down and pick up a walnut. It’s small, and green, and thick smelling spicy, just like the walnuts you chucked into the creek aiming for nothing in particular, but they fit into your hand just so.
And when you kick off your shoes and keep walking, you don’t care if people notice. Except him, and you rather hope he does. And when he walks by you, your heart is racing, racing, like it did when the cows were coming and you were waist-high and they were trampling thousand pounds on hooves, but you stood your ground.
Like you stand now, with your “friends” listening, a hundred miles away and the music is playing and it’s loud in your chest, loud like the fuel rumbling in the tractor against your heart when you held up the bottle of water for your dad and he dumped it all over his face because he was so hot.
But it’s cool now, and the leaves are changing along the pathway, paved-way, changing gold like the hay stacked high and silent when you named it a horse, and you’d jump up and ride it.
Gold like your hair when it shines in the sun, when you chased butterflies through the thistles that were taller than you, in the back field in your bare feet, and you stepped on a leaf and it hurt but you didn’t care.
And you don’t care now, when you drop your books,
38 39 The Future Encountered on a Path Joseph Klingman — A future couple passed me today Some steps ahead of me in years and in knowing and in Distance to the front door. I watched from behind Marveling at their closeness to one another. Adam walked with Eve anew and youthful, Sharing life and body space like mild conversation, Surely not perfect, but on their way together. So much I could tell from a distance.
I saw the future couple again sometime later. This time they were the marvellers From the second story window, Huddle Gazing at past haunts from a familiar vantage. Greg Van Dyke | Oil Painting on Paper And I thought There by the grace of God may go I ere long Perhaps soon, I may only have been what I am now Standing there with someone or with God Looking out at what will have changed and remained And the shadow that looks on and writes poems about me Will be nothing like I thought he was at the time.
Or perhaps another path has been set out before me. Either way, time disproves perspectives Even as it encourages new ones.
40 41 woodwork? What if one of the horses is injured? We at least need to find out.” The Explorer Hannah chewed her lip, hesitating. “We needn’t get close,” I said. “Here, Jenny Washburne you stay and I’ll call if you should get help.” — “No, I’ll come.” Together we started down the hill, still watching out for Hannah and I were out feeding the chickens when it happened. One minute we bugs but not running now. The horses had seen us. Their ears swiveled to hear our were throwing the scratch grains out on the ground; the next, we were frozen approach, but they stayed facing the trees. Two of them tossed their heads and staring at each other. Even the chickens looked up. Our farm borders the highway, trotted away from the area, but then they turned around and watched the place so we were used to hearing traffic sounds every now and then. But this was no again. Above the singing cicadas I heard something. ordinary traffic sound. It was loud, like a tree falling, and only lasted a few seconds. My heartbeat started to pick up. “Shh,” I said to Hannah, even though she Hannah and I looked at each other and then towards the road. “What do you s’pose hadn’t said anything. “Do you hear that?” that was?” Hannah asked. Hannah seemed to think that because I was in sixth grade “Is it voices?” Hannah’s eyes were big and blue in her little freckled face. and three years older than she was, I should know the answer to everything. “It must be some of Them, from the road!” She said it quietly, but her tone betrayed “I don’t know,” I said, still peering in that direction. “Maybe a tree fell. Let’s her excitement. Sweat stood out on her forehead and she wiped it on her sleeve in go see.” a quick motion. “Think we ought to?” I nodded and motioned her forward. We crept closer, our brown bare feet “It came from the horse field,” I said. “Maybe the horses are getting into hardly making a sound in the baked grass. We had arrived at the bottom of the hill, trouble. We’d better check.” An Ameraucana hen pecked my toenail and I gen- now. I could see movements between the trees on the bank of the creek. Just a little tly moved her aside with the ball of my foot. “Come on!” Hannah looked a little closer, I thought, just to see what They could be doing. Hannah and I tip-toed from reluctant, but she followed me out of the barnyard. I headed towards the horse tree trunk to tree trunk. Hannah stepped in a pile of horse manure and squeaked; I pasture, but I suspected that the noise hadn’t been caused by the horses. We glared at her and she put her hand over her mouth. Finally we came to a big fallen slipped through the gate and into the hot prickly grass of the pasture. Crickets and log, worn smooth by all the sheep rubbings. Strings of horse-tail hung from the few grasshoppers buzzed all around, and I pulled my long skirt close around my legs pieces of bark that still clung to the surface. We knelt down behind it and I peeked to prevent the bugs from getting up into it. Hannah and I started running, dodging over, risking a look at the cause of all the excitement. manure piles. We dashed up a low hill until finally I stopped to wait for Hannah. I The first thing I noticed was that our fence was broken. Strands of wire lay pinned my bonnet more securely and looked around. in untidy rolls and one of the fence posts was snapped completely off. Between our In front of me the little hill sloped down for an acre to meet the strands of log and the broken fence was a vehicle, angled not quite perpendicular to the road. our fence. Below me, on the other side of the fence, was a paved road, and beyond There were big brown divots in the green ground leading up to the wheels. But that that, green waving fields spread out as far as the eye could see. Despite the noise wasn’t all! Standing next to the car were two young English women, wearing worldly from the traffic on that road, the horses liked to spend time in this part of the pas- clothes. Without taking my eyes away I tapped Hannah and she peeked over the ture. I looked at them and knew that something out of the ordinary had definitely log as well. She gasped. We both ducked behind the log again to hold a whispered happened. All five of the horses were standing off to one side of the strand of trees, consultation. “It is some of Them! What should we do?” Hannah asked. staring in that direction with their ears up. Panting, Hannah came up beside me. “Well, They don’t look like They need help,” I said. “Well?” she asked after a moment. “Why don’t They drive away?” “Let’s go look in the trees,” I said. “I’m sure there’s something in there.” I looked over the log again. They hadn’t moved; They were still standing Hannah grabbed my hand. “We’d better not.” by their car. Maybe They’d broken it. Hannah pulled at my skirt and I ducked back “What if a big tree fell down?” I countered. “The kind Papa can use for his down. “D’you think we should go back to the house?” she said earnestly.
42 43 I shook my head. “Not just yet.” I’d never been so close to one of Them touch it,” I said. “I just want to look in it. I want to know how it works,” I added, before. So much skin! Long skinny legs flashed in the sun, sticking out of clothes almost pleading. “Knowing isn’t a sin!” that looked painted on. Their faces looked painted on, too. “They got chicken legs,” I Hannah absently unpinned her bonnet and then pinned it back. “Why do whispered down to Hannah, and she giggled, stuffing her fist in her mouth so They you want to?” she asked. We both knew she was grasping at excuses. “Anyway, too wouldn’t hear. The chicken girls leaned back against the car, staring at something much knowing is a sin, isn’t it? If it was something we needed to learn, we’d learn it in their hands. “Their phones,” Hannah said knowingly. “They must be calling for in school.” help.” I thought about what it would be like to have a portable telephone. My par- In the remaining two grades I had left at school, I knew there was no hope ents periodically used the Morgan family’s telephone for business or emergencies, of my ever learning what contraptions the English put in their cars to make them go. but they had to walk a quarter mile to get to it. How easy it would be to make a call, “Just because it’s not in school doesn’t mean you can’t have anything to do with it,” right from your apron pocket, instead of having to run to the neighbors’ house. But I countered. “They don’t teach what makes a propane stove work, and we all own what excessive luxury! It would be a sin to own such a thing. propane kitchen stoves, so they can’t be a sin.” “Her clothes are so ugly,” Hannah whispered, interrupting my thoughts. “But do you need to learn it?” Hannah insisted. “Look how she bulges out.” I moved my gaze from the phones to the girls them- “Just looking isn’t learning,” I said. I stepped over the log and started selves, and felt my flesh crawl. The one using the portable phone was skinny, but through the trees to the car. She hurried to keep up. fat in places at the same time, the same way our oldest sister Rebekah was when There it was. It was nearly the size and color of a carriage, but much she was undressing. It wasn’t right to see a girl look like that in the daylight. The sleeker and shinier, and not as tall by any means. I tapped one of the wheels with other girl was poking around inside the car. The front part of it was sticking up like my toe and felt it give like a bicycle tire. Excitement pulsed through me. How many a mutilated beetle shell, and I wondered if the inside looked like a beetle, too. But times had I seen wheels like this go by, and now I got to touch one up close! Han- no, of course not. There was something in there that made the car move on its own. nah was peering through the glass window. She ran her fingers over the bent metal Something completely foreign. Something from Out There. I shook my head to clear above the back left wheel, and pulled out a sliver of wood that had got caught in it. Whatever was inside that car was horribly complicated, not simple and good. the metal somehow. It must have been from our fence post. “Look,” she said. “The “We mustn’t look.” I tore my eyes away from the car and the girls, ducked word “Ford” is here, and the word,” she hesitated with the English pronunciation, back behind the log, and pulled Hannah with me. “We mustn’t look,” I repeated. “‘Explorer’ is printed on this part.” We sat there for a few minutes, just listening. My legs were starting to get stiff. “That’s strange,” I said, but I didn’t bother to look. I hurried straight to the “That sounds right,” said the first girl into the phone. “Here, we’ll just walk front end. Then I simply stared. “Hannah!” I said in a low voice. “Look at the lid! It’s up the road. You’ll see us. Hold on.” She gestured to the other girl and they left the held up by nothing! How do they do it?” I couldn’t believe it. “There must be a trick. car. They stepped over what was left of the fence and started walking up the paved There must be something.” road. In a moment, they were out of our sight. Hannah and I looked at each other, Hannah and I looked for a few minutes, but we couldn’t figure it out. I then I stood up and Hannah stood up after me. My heartbeat seemed louder than leaned my elbows on the edge of the metal and looked down at the inward parts usual; I could feel it in my neck. of the machine, chin in hand. I hated to admit it to Hannah, but I was disappointed. “We should go get Aaron,” Hannah said. “He’ll know what to do.” The inside was complicated all right. It was all black parts. There were belts and “Yes,” I said slowly. “We should go tell everyone. But first, I want to look round knobs and handles, and tubes, and a square box. There were containers inside.” with fluid in them, and little white lines drawn into pictures on almost everything. “Katie!” squeaked Hannah. “No! Cars are a sin!” I had no clue how they could possibly work together to move anything an inch, “Owning a car is a sin,” I corrected her. “Papa has ridden in one, remem- much less hundreds of miles at incredible speeds, as I knew they did. It suddenly ber? It can’t be sinful just to look at it.” Hannah looked unconvinced. “I won’t even seemed strange to me. You’d get inside, and when you got out even a minute later,
44 45 you were miles and miles away. Past a cornfield in a second. Past the cousins’ farm the next. Through the countryside and into town. Past the town. Past the Yoders’ house, where we helped with the barn-raising. Out past another cornfield, and then— across great plains, where no trees grew, where our ancestors had traveled West years and years ago. Yes, and to the mountains, something I’d never seen but I knew that was what big steep piles of land were called. And past the mountains, there was water, sparkling in the sun, waves as far as the eye could see.... Hannah tapped me on the shoulder frantically, snapping me out of my thoughts. “A car is coming!” she exclaimed. “They must be coming back.” I could hear it coming, too, loud and obnoxious. We hurried back to the cover of the trees, and I motioned to Hannah to keep going up the hill. It was time to tell Aaron that the fence was down. But as we ran I glanced over my shoulder at the highway and the waving green fields beyond, and for a second, I saw the sea.
They Remind Us to Look Up Joseph Ricketts | Photograph
46 47 Bird found on my birthday Longing Jemima Barr Hannah King — — dead bird Forgiveness. small, whole, intact, still A word so easily flowing off the tongue behind the art building / in the budding fall Yet stuck in the walls of one’s heart. you can feel the weather It searches the sun caressing / clear cold piercing Creating ruts with the circles it runs Looking for a way out. this bird is so beautiful laying on the sidewalk So much easier said than done. tender body on rough cement; uncomplaining no ant eating out its eyes yet Oh, how the forgiveness in one’s heart all its feathers still ruffle-able Longs to be the forgiveness off one’s tongue. rigor-mortis has not clenched its fist around him fresh death is so beautiful no visible decay but no longer any visible life the day of my birth is the day of his death i am now twenty; now in adulthood he is youth this dead sparrow has left no tracks no sign of what killed him no cloud trail in the sky tracing his flights no impact on the world but I cradle him absently and when I see other birds I will remember him as though I knew him as a friend.
48 49 Short one from winter hike Jemima Barr — On the mountain Looking down The far off trees So bare and brown Distance softens gnarls crude I’d lay my head on that far wood
Untitled Jenny Washburne | Photograph
50 51 Here is Life Now Live Maple and Redbud Trees Richie Hennessey Cliff Foreman — — He breathed on me and said: Over the old tin chicken houses Here is life, now live! behind the cinder block E-Z Pawn So I was sent. on Ringgold Road, As a palm bent in a hurricane wind rooted down in the glass-littered Each digit of downpour industrial waste and dirt, Was enough the glorious trees of American spring Or even more are in bloom. Each golden toe Hastened in pursuit Their twigs and branches And I lost that eternal race lifting blossoms and leaves, I am grateful for it like hands, high in the air-- He breathed on me and said: that smells of fried chicken grease-- Here is life, now live! are as orange and green and purple-- So I did. beneath the layer of road dust-- as their ancestors’ were in Eden.
52 53 Why Do You Call? Aubrey Smith — Why do you call for Time to change for you? To alter battles you have lost or won? Do you expect to be His master new? Upon this earth Time will stand still for none. Though you desire for Him to fix your ills, Truth be that lord bends knee for not one man. And yet you yearn for Time to change His wills, For regulate who wins the wars He can. Perhaps you think because you have lost love That you can force that lord to return it, But that belief has no basis above. Or do you think He keeps His candle lit For you alone? The truth do now you see? For even Time cries, “Why do you call me?”
Self Portrait Caleb Smith | Collage
54 55 four Michael Fuller — I wasn’t looking for them there To find where they had rolled. My pills left unaccounted for-- I wish I had been told
To swallow capsules greedily, Relief from nausea’s hold. Then why my mother standing there With stoop which time had tolled.
I hear her say it’s back again, Malignant and fourfold. Malignant I didn’t wake up fast enough. Embedded in the mold, Michael Fuller | Photograph The thoughts reside in mud and stone. When scattered by wind cold, They say to me the cure is found Beneath the clothes of old.
56 57 Balanced Affliction Worry Joseph Klingman David Kraus — — Two dragons live at my feet. I think of tomorrow, A steamed mirror One is all sharp scales, pomp, caustic breath. In which I only perceive It whips its tail at my legs. A soft silhouette I let it. Sometimes I hate it. Daring me to desecrate it With streak marks. This one I’ve not let go. One would think I have it leashed.
The other is smooth, and thinks as I do. It is beautiful. But it hides from me. It won’t let me watch, so I don’t.
This is the one I prefer. It’s difficult to say what exactly it does.
Neither of them are mine exactly. And still I catch myself Feeding them by habit.
58 59 Row Elizabeth Sanders — you’re the glass that cracked a smile at my endless rowing, for a while I walked the highest mountaintops where eagles fly through peaks of pine and stopped, and go and still row
what is work and love if not the faithful push and pull of wooden oars folding the water inside out and turning the eagle’s wings upside down
in the mirror of constant trudging your shards split my mind’s mire Strange Woman an interruption by the voice of truth and songs of the heavenly choir Roy Uptain | Gaffers Tape on Hardboard sing in the rock-a-bye of the boat that is sinking
and yet, if glass must crack may it crack into a hope to push and pull the oars I row and still row
60 61 Two Academic Parodies 2. Giving Low Grades on a Winter Evening Cliff Foreman Whose test this is, I think I know, — His work is often better, though. 1. A poem written when teaching American Literature and He’ll think my grading is unfair, Composition back to back: To give D-, or below.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I typed away, eyes bleary, My head is fogged, my eyes are blear— On a Comp assignment that was due the day before, I shouldn’t have had that glass of beer— Suddenly there came an email, ringing, from my teacher’s g-mail Between exams and Christmas break, Who always had forgiven my late work before The bleakest weekend of the year. And this message that I dreaded, as I typed, so empty-headed, (Trying to write my tardy essay that was due the day before), I give my fountain pen a shake Peeking at my screen I saw it: on the page, the line before it, To mark another bad mistake. Bore the heading, “Nevermore!” He’ll only throw this in the trash And say his teacher is a flake. Nevermore would my comp teacher, who had always seemed much meeker. Humbly grant my misdemeanor--since his anger had grown keener-- Into my bed, I’d love to creep, And allow my sloppy, tardy,boring essays to be slid beneath his office door. But I have essays two feet deep, Said the email, “Nevermore!” And piles to grade before I sleep; And piles to grade before I sleep.
62 63 The Artist Kristie Jaya — “Do you want the head chopped off and the guts cleaned?” Ami asked. She wiped off the salty fish blood on fingers onto her white shirt. “Yes. Make sure the scales are cleaned too,” The customer said above the indistin- guishable chattering of the market.
She thought about how she hated cleaning the scales. How the scales jump at her. She wore no gloves, and her nails are kept short. She has one nail polish at home. One small, pink bottle bought from Naughty, a small store in the outlet mall. She went there last year with her kakak, sister, before kakak left to find work in the city.
“Faster, please! I’m running on a schedule here,” The Cycle: Measuring Up Nini looked up from her fish. Abi Ogle | Collage She looked back down, getting all the guts out now. Black gunk oozed out of the fish to the ceramic countertop. “Dek, you won’t be selling a lot of fish if you keep daydreaming!” The woman con- tinued. Nini clenched her teeth and made a little sigh. But it’s an art. She said. Inside.
Of course it’s not. She likes art. The crayon drawings she would make on Sundays with the volunteers from the big brown church down the road. The girl who taught her how to draw a vase and flowers is teaching them how to make bracelets from yarn too. The girl had said that everything in life is art. She liked the art on Sundays. But she didn’t like cutting fish.
“You do what you need to do if you still want rice in your mouth,” Ma had said while frying the leftover fish they didn’t sell for the day, oil crackling and spitting, staining the kitchen wall. So Ami bit her lips, mixing the rice in the yellowing 4-pot rice-cook- er.
64 65 Moon and Sun Lake McGinty — The moon and sun, their love forever bound in endless days, Yet forever stays So far apart in heaven’s sky, true happiness being so sly.
‘til at eclipse they meet and find their union seat on wedding bed ‘til dawning dread Of coming sigh, as yet again they say goodbye. Untitled Lydia Holt | Photograph
66 67 It pointed judgment. Dark and light It was not at me – Daniel Hollidge It was at itself. — O black cloud of perishable doom, Then the light started to erupt; O infinite monster of finite depth, It convulsed and burned even brighter. How you terrorize me. It blew into nothing – How you put my soul in angst. The Light was obliterated.
You slither through every obstacle. All that was left were ashes. All objects I throw your way you avert. I felt strange, I despair for I see no hope; I was alone and filthy – I weep for your power is strong. But then you appeared again.
Through the smoke I saw nothing. O you, child of carnage, In hollow tubes there was no light. Who drinks the blood of innocent babes, Drink, to drown my sorrows, sunk me. You danced as if you had nothing to fear. O blackest night I saw you everywhere. For three days, until you had your fill –
But by and by I saw it; As you rested, the ashes started to glow. An imperishable Light. They vibrated like heated atoms, Yet only at a distance They began to coalesce, A beautiful glimmer out of my grasp. They Light reformed into something new.
As it came closer I felt warmth. The Light burned with hatred; Its presence gave me feeling – Though not judgment toward me. But as it came almost within reach, It only needed to finish what It started – I felt a change. Once more It pointed,
The warmth turned into extreme heat. It pointed at you O Gluttonous Swine, I felt wrath radiating from it, O Devil it was you. The fiery pits of hell were all I saw. You were the enemy of the Light. This was my doom, You, the enmity of the world.
I hopelessly wanted to hide. You were not as powerful I pleaded with it. But your power still frightened me. I begged on my all fours like a beast. I cowered away. I did all I could. But the Light gripped my hand.
The Light suddenly moved. I felt a shock wave of a million souls,
68 69 My body began to glow. It will come for me. I grasped the Light’s hand, No matter what lie you put my way, I had been injected with the Light. I will remember.
My whole body burned, Your ending is near My eyes saw everything anew, Oh black hole. As if a bolt of lightning struck my soul. Yours is a cruel justice; I was free and clean. A righteous justice!
Then I saw you! You will burn; Oh the haunting of my past, All your profanities, You had changed, Your lies, deceits, I saw you differently. Filth, malcontent will burn for eternity!
You were not so powerful. My brothers and I I saw you for what you really are, We will rejoice, A strong creature trying to be his creator; While oh beast Making one last attempt to gain power. You are destroyed!
You might have power oh black spirit, But only where given. Ruling me was a gift, The gift now taken.
For I saw something, A cord coming out of you, It was attached to my neck, Sucking my soul out.
At that moment the light left me. But it was still inside me. I now had power over you, I knew two things.
One: you could no longer take my soul; That I must fight, I must fight until the fight is over. And second:
The light will come back.
70 71 When We Are All Gathered In A Rocky Mountain Drum Circle And Want to Meet God Matthias Overos — If the soft cerulean sky, And the craggy mountains high Which reach out to us happily Are seen through a glass darkly,
Then whatever lies beyond Is the work of a seance to see The architects of beauty and truth Tolerance Unreservedly from Heaven’s booth. Michael Fuller | Photograph
72 73 The Seasons Tim Dixon — The earth awakens From its annual slumber Dressed in newborn life
The trees rise above Framing the sky in all their Winding green branches
Hot, bright, and sweaty The sun shines unrelenting Summer in full swing
Basking in the glow Nature relaxes as one For a moment, peace
Green fades to amber Then to a bright crimson red Autumn has arrived
Leaves cover the ground Brown carpet in a gray world Welcomes winter’s chill
Pale, burning, cold Thrashing wind and drifting snow Inhospitable
Ice melts, tempests calm The sun returns to give warmth Blue Trees All begins anew Caleb Smith |Photograph
74 75 and far the greater: Suffering Such As Mine suffering is the consequent John Christian Kuehnert but also the antecedent of death; — it is a catalyst for ethical action, I beheld the vast particulars of a universe hazed in a fog of ignorance the prophet for the blind, Searching the immense domain, my gaze was laid on the soft felt of a secret it is the weeping voice This untold magnificence echoed in the chambers of my soul: the people perished in the wilderness, - their fate a consequence of the incorrigible progress while the Other’s existence persisted “You’re suffering is as mine.” Then I felt the tears of the sufferers – but they were alone. Behold there was life misremembered! Life there, a stream of experiences strung together with thin threads of eroding memories: an expanse of interlocking, ceaselessly circular induction and reduction of realities. Their stories created. Their stories told. And like a penny dropped along a trodden path, their stories lost, buried under the stampede of progress, fallen between the cracks of time.
So evidenced was the despondency of this universe that a deep sorrow enveloped me I was paralyzed in this knowledge and I had become conquered by a realization: What has been is what will be, what has been done is what will be done, there is nothing new under the sun, no remembrance of former things, nor will there be any remembrance of later things yet to be among those who come after.
The course of these events unfolded before me as Dasein And I saw my being become as a planetary nebula. Within this fleeting moment of evanesce I stumbled over a second secret, this one divined
76 77 Greater than Solomon Haley Dempsey — Your rich golden color stands out against a backsplash of green. Too often others observe you as a nuisance, But this my little friend you are not. You are a testament to great grace; A small demonstration of crafted beauty to behold and admire. If only we would take the time to stop and consider your maker and ours, little yellow flower.
Portrait of Duke Greg Van Dyke | Oil Paint on Panel
78 79 kaya/birthmarks Lily Tice — i. she has elk skin. when she runs, her long dark braids hit her back and she smells like leaves. she sleeps in ponderosas, and working on the elk, the darkness spits out supernovas, and we run to a heavy bed, and night!— the star of the show— at night, she shows me constellations. we tell bedtime stories, Alaska stories: ii. “the man with the elk eyes… when he died at sea, they threw him over with flowers, and his wings became the new world.” iii. “this is the wolf, the gods of heaven, and this is your people, coming to destroy mine.” iv. when she dies, she becomes a moth. mimicking her, I press flowers to my own back— Untitled in my next life, they will become wings. Lily Tice | Water Color on Paper
80 81 Alone John Christian Kuehnert — In my highest agony and ache I swore Suffering in the chasm of a blackened sun I know this torment and a thousand more It seems my friend, he knows not one
Meanwhile, the other, in anguish appeals Meanwhile, in quiet, his thought reveals, ‘If only I were not alone to strain If only my friend, he knew my pain’
Untitled Lily Tice | Colored Pencil on Paper
82 83 Coals and Smoke Annie Deluca — My heart beats as the setting sun. Nothing slows it down yet nothing speeds it up. Always the same pace, never changing.
Stop, if you could. Stop beating to veer off the path you have created.
Speed up, if you found a reason to. Beat faster to prove your existence.
Are you even listening, heart? Cause me to feel the pain, the joy. Don’t let me walk in pools of lukewarm water. Show me black and white—coals and smoke. The hot coals of passion, and of desire. The Mountain And the wispy smoke of a lost love. Joseph Ricketts | Photograph
My heart beats as a ticking clock. Always the same pace, never changing. Change pace, dearest heart.
84 85 gray Haley Horton — It’s gray outside again, ashen, pale and then floating o’er the children lay still asleep upon the hay, eyes closed for heaven’s sight while the willow swallowed light, branching out upon its prey, and the wan ashen gray to blacken then the pure of white and fade into the cloud of night. No silver slate or charcoal play, this is but folly gone astray, and its bleak and tragic den, Sleep empathy dead on the pen; Michael Fuller | Photograph this is but mayhem gone astray, and the price that we must pay.
86 87 Still house Jemima Barr — this house is suddenly still like the inside of a cupboard when you pull the pot you need for dinner out of it and then close the cabinet again the freezer hums and a persistent drip falls on the flat roof above it is drizzling silently out there again my stool squeaks when I shift and that is all in the whole house upstairs in each bedroom the comforters wait immobile the shoes hang still in the racks there is no other movement or noise there is no other mover no other noise maker than myself alone
I move in the kitchen the light is on against the early gray of this rainy day I sit easily slouching looking over at the colors in the compost the high stack of washed dishes Lydia leaning precariously high Jemima Barr | Watercolor and Ink balanced in an artform born from reluctance to put away rain zebras down each window and inside all is still all is still home
88 89 The Writer’s Lot Suzannah Guthmann — I’ve always wanted to learn to draw, to embroider, to paint. The wonder of being able to discard this slow voice and just show the world what I mean. This, THIS is an ocean. Look at the foam, look at the colors, this is what I meant. Look at the height of the waves, see how they are translucent, see the sails of the ships through that glassy sheen. It’s tiring, a writer’s lot. It’s like sitting in the Florida sun for hours on end, just sweating. It is like transporting your self back into a 3-year-old body and struggling to make your mother understand your words. It’s the feeling when your sheet is not covering your toes, but you are too tired to rearrange it. Writing is the tool of the inartistic. It is the black and white struggle to explain an illustrated world. What glory it must be to paint, to create, to pour an im- age into the eyes, to simply show a beautiful thing, a sad thing, a frightening thing. To drop pretense and plunge your hands into oily reds, dripping purples, to shake droplets of blue onto pure white canvas. To grab a pen and carve a face into paper, not with similes and metaphors, but with lines, dots, curves. Untitled What luxury it must be to trace your finger and find an image under the Caleb Smith | Photograph clouded mirror. This will never be the writer’s lot. We must find invisible faces, in- visible castles through ink splots and late night reading. We are the only ones who can tell stories at midnight; we are the only souls who can describe the ocean to a blind man. What is the color blue? Can the painter simply tell the man, “It is blue?” No. Blue is the feeling you have when you are feeling particularly sophisticated; blue is the smell of rain. Blue is the ridge of the fingernail; blue is the softness of an eyelid. Perhaps writers have the advantage; we see in the dark.
90 91 Novels (or the depravity of memory) Ann Roberts — I’ve written novels in my head That never will be fully read The perfect notions formed as thought, Abundance draining into drought.
I can’t afford butter and bread From something floating in my head. I must record my new illusion But cannot gather in confusion The pen and paper that I fear Indubitably disappear.
The frenzy sparks the scrambled loss Of magic scenes and killer plots A masterpiece dissolving… dead Reflection I conjured up thinking in bed Elizabeth Sanders | Photograph And haunts my unprepar’ed state When I’m busy or it’s quite late. Oh, visions, drifting in and out, Themes and soliloquys leak out But fade when paper’s brought posthaste A criminal, creative waste.
What can I say at the end of the day? “I’ve written novels in my head” But that won’t get my fam’ly fed.
But I must go on living life So wrought with innovative strife. Inspiration will come again And maybe I’ll be ready then.
I wish I could know what I lack… If it was good, it will come back.
92 93 Moon Unbowed Suzannah Guthmann — The sun rises above the clouds,
The stars do not heed ex lovers prose,
The moon - sigh - is unbowed.
Though city streets seethe and crowd, Cascading rocks and flames it throws, The sun rises above the clouds.
Though the mountains that stands proud Tumbles down to rest in ice and snow, The moon - sigh - is unbowed.
Though life shall break this final vow, And slip beyond the morning glow, The sun rises above the clouds.
Though the nation falls in thunder loud, Smoke rises in the caws of crows, The moon - sigh - is unbowed.
Though I sink under this shroud, The breath in my lungs death froze, The sun rises above the clouds, The moon - sigh - is unbowed. Communing in Grief Abi Ogle |Oil Paint on Paper
94 95 To be death to us all. Blueberry Picking If not eaten by birds Haley Horton Then the berries shall fall. — Partiality, See now It would seem. It’s winter, To berry choose one And the trees have died, So its brother might dream Flowers to splinter And die in the sun. And the seeds to hide.
A solitary, Great torment! That is all. Time too Then two, three and four. Has quickened its pace. Soon the basket tall Earth cries its adieu Is buried to the floor. To the berry tree race.
Young berries, Cherry pink For strawberry mirth To their blue brink, Self-dyed from their birth.
Yet sour! She cried. What impudent child To burst back inside With little compiled.
So wasted Indeed. The blueberry care Grown from the seed And given to share.
If only, Two words
96 97 Soft weary notebook. To Miss Him Stained blue mug. Hannah Lloyd So I close my eyes. — But his sense is in my hoodie too. #1 And I find it impossible to forget, Like the gash below my knuckle, That I am loved. It’s so painful but hardly seen, And always getting in my way.
The heartbeat follows me everywhere And just to move breaks it again, A red crusty seal on my white flesh.
When I’m in the big hall closet The phone call is like a Band-Aid— Never fits, can’t last, and leaves a burn.
I step out to the hallway And pretend that I’m not fragmented, But every memory wears his brand.
So I flash his autograph. I flaunt my scars. Because to live without a scratch, Is to not be loved.
#2 From my clouded pillow, I can see A picture on the shelf, A postcard on the wall, A flower, dried, So I turn my head. Sunny hiking sandals. Snowy beach hat.
98 99 Babylon’s Furnace Mud Joseph Klingman Will Friesen — — And the gods of this earth raised hell It is two thousand and three. I am five, the youngest of four, entrenched in the mud to the surface, as they were ordered from the typhoon that ravages Manila. It’s 2016 and I’m not five and typhoons and whether by men or their demons. enjoyment aren’t as tangible, but they’re on my mind. They’re nice for dwelling on. Before, the mud didn’t hold any strings; I saw it and I jumped in. There were no I turned headlong into crowds of the mindless numb strings because I didn’t understand figurative speech and I’d never done my own risked life and limb to look up laundry. as giants tore at the high places I still enjoy talking about mud and in some ways I’m much filthier than ripped open the low places I was in 2003. But now I do my own laundry and my showers are scheduled so and shared havoc on the earth. there’s no place for mud. Barring the presence of a cute girl, there are six, maybe seven factors that must align if I’m to jump in and I wonder when I’ll stop screaming My heart seized my ribs and through the numbers and give up mud and girls. begged in its cage to scream Becoming a man meant becoming my father; I never imagined a limbo but my voice had fled the coming flood between my first family and the hazy one ahead. I have no one to wipe my snotty of terrorized masses nose and strip me down and push me towards the tub. Mom won’t ever be that to quieter places within me. Mom again and mud won’t ever be quite as muddy because I’ve traded it for crinkly So I watched. novels and women who are friends and all the freedom you could ask for. Three were with me; four stood beside me facing the burning dusk.
And then the flash. And all I knew was whitewashed. Bleached. Scalded. Seared. Blasted from its footing. Sucked in for the aftershock. Pulsed with gamma. Melted to one glowing whole.
And somehow I stood. And the four with me still. And all was quiet.
100 101 Jolt James Mackes — I woke up early when the world was grey to sit with you by the two-laned highway. The clouds sat sleepy, hanging low and still, hiding the silent city by the hill.
The smell of earth, of coffee, and the rain welcomed the some above the foggy plain. Though bashful—first just one pinprick of pink— it pierced straight through the heavy armor’s chink.
Pastels like Easter eggs soon filled the sky. For just one second, you and I locked eyes. I wish that second could have stretched for hours: alone and happy on our own tall tower.
Norsefire A gunshot shattered the holy silence. Roy Uptain | Gaffers Tape on Hardboard The city’s up. Before breakfast, violence. Above the sleepy clouds, sat you and I. How does the pink sun shine while people die?
102 103 My Lord, my Love May 4th Gracie Woodrow Will Friesen — — My Lord, my Love, although my heart’s unfaithful Later, darker, and the Hold me tight. Love me still. Yellow streetlight softer. Running, sliding, no shame My Lord, my Guide, although my feet do wander though I’m hiding. Lead me on. Guide me still.
My Lord, my Rock, although my faith may tremble Keep me strong, Rock me still.
My Lord, my Help, although my life’s in shambles Give me aid, Help me still.
My Lord, my Keep, although my fear increases, Lock me safe. Keep me still.
My Lord, my Prize, although my value’s worthless Make me pure. Prize me still.
104 105 All Things Hold Together because They’re Happy You Have Being Brad Assaraf — Why would the great sun burn on without rest But to shine upon your face? Why would the clouds pass by with puffed-out chests But to, by your sight, be graced?
Why would flowers fling fragrance to sky But to resend your sweet scent? Why do peaches and plums from branches lie, But to be picked by your hand?
Why do birds burst forth with brilliant songs But to offer you a tune? Truly I say the world spins gladly on Drowning in Ink To dance with delight in you. Abi Ogle |Ink on Paper
106 107 Flight of fear Lake McGinty — Let fear be the one who flees and all its enervations show. Cast out upon foreboding seas, that all storm’s honest face I’ll know.
Until night’s deception forgo and hope’s shining luminance see, thy heart’s dull secret come to know, ‘til then in somber night I’ll be.
Malnourished Michael Fuller | Photograph
108 109 Shy Hand RAGTIME BABY Brad Assaraf Matthias Overos — — Oh, if only you were to look at me. Joy Against the broken bells of time Your eyes would, in the sunlight, surely shine, And Which chime to remind us of the crime Speaking your heart’s secrets like prophecy, Peace Of death, there is a bird’s chirp which sings Surrendering your shy hand into mine. Ran Loudly and proudly, softly reminding those Towards Flaming Who listen that Yes today is lovely and Yes Love permeates this air and Yes the Sun Swords shares its stare with all, and the swiftness Of Love, Of Death is matched only by the swiftness Maiming Of Life, who in a constant strife and struggle Themselves For survival, smiles in the face of all, and like a In falling star near-supernova five galaxies Hope Away, so too does life receive its due blow, but Of Things smiles, smiles, knowing what joy and peace Above. Are anxiously awaiting to spring forth from This is the Origin of all. That great explosion in the empty sky.
110 111 Than if to evil our minds returned, The Problem Of Good But sews the wounds of hearts with stitches. Matthias Overos — In abject sadness, remember this: The question of pain makes us brood, That old problem of good remains And wonder weep and wail. The greatest problem to exist. So, since our reason often fails, I focus on the question of good
Why is it we can love, my friend? Why is it we can smile so? It brings me joy simply to know There’s so much I can’t comprehend.
We’re sitting on a rock in space Which twirls and whirls around the sun. To think that all things come from none, That All’s all rests in its right place,
To think that Nothing’s rocks and grass Begat all living breathing souls, Each one fulfilling every role, Sharing their love and stirring laughs,
(I deeply treasure the joy I find When in spring time the birds fly High (and then higher still), until They reach the highest heavens, and
Look! Beneath the sea are millions (if not billions) Of sea-wreathed-laden Maidens of the deep: Fish, who swish Swash and sworsh from hither to thither.)
I find that goodness forms hitches That leave us left with more concerns
112 113 The Blank Essay Haley Horton — It’s 2 am, and the student is exhausted, but the essay is not quite done, so in desperation for some inspiration, he drops his head on the keyboard, landing on the sp
ace bar. No inspiration comes.
Untitled Lily Tice |Ink on Paper
114 115 In Praise of How Attractive I Am Matthias Overos — I can praise the beauty of all peoples, (and indeed all people are beautiful) Yet it is I, my own self, that I cannot see As any passerby might befall; And, therefore, I cannot admire my visage justly. A mirror shows no equity, it is tainted And faded from the dimness of my eyes. Singing-electric-body-life, your worst trick I can see (If I may say without too much dismay) Is hiding my gorgeous self from me.
The Ferryman Greg Van Dyke |Oil Paint on Canvas
116 117 solo Lydia Holt — toes pointed aggressively, I pace head poised royally hair riveted by thirty-two pins eyebrows straining back. fluttering hands drape against hips wrapped in rasping tulle as my mind wanders and wonders over the past four months of concocting movement repetition ad infinitum. four months of being coaxed and cursed in italian and english four months of muscles pulled thin and hot like fine wire four months evaporated to these shallow breaths On The Run the condensation of moments Roy Uptain | Gaffers Tape on Hardboard tangible on my skin in this crucial space of time. “go, go.” seven deliberate small marching steps to the brink of a gleaming board ocean then turn, kneel, tuck, fold. intro notes and fleet heartbeats blend and ascend with the curtain.
118 119 and accept that I’ll never see you in the church pew in front of me I Could Be All Right again. I could be all right Cynthia Young if this is not it, — if I will see all of you again, For Collyn Schmidt, who moved on October 15, 2016 not as haunts visiting me in dreams, But in bodies, brand new The first to go was Grandpa— and resurrected. not mine, but my kids. Still I called him that—a safer name than to call him my father, he could never be that, always staring at my black skin through his white eyes, though he tried hard never to seem so. He was every bit of 93 when his life here was done, asking always about that appointment with Mr. Death, but when he finally heard the knocking on his door, he tried to push it shut.
It’s no use in me crying about Ms. Jeanne. She got what she wanted. If 93 years was her God-given years , she squeezed the life out of each one and invested it in me. When she saw Death looking in the window, she just sang, “Whatever God ordains is right,” and slid the window up, took out the screen, went to bed and waited for Heaven.
Like Jeanne, Collyn stood in for my mother and grandmother except I believed she’d never leave me. She held all the grandchildren my mother, gone too soon, never could, and spoke sweet words of encouragement to my children, like my grandmother, hardened by racism’s pain, never would.
Collyn, if death really comes in threes, then I could unclench my heart’s hold on your life, Let you take your final breath,
120 121 Matt Schmincke Co-Editor in Chief Eliot Kaufmann Co-Editor in Chief Greg Van Dyke Layout Editor Matthias Overos Editor Teresa Harwood Editor Joseph Klingman Panel Member MacKenzie Barham Panel Member
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