HauteThe Arts & Literary Magazine of MetropolitanDish State University

Volume XVIII - Issue I

Haute Dish

Managing Editor Haute Dish is a publication of Metropolitan State Gina Torres University and is supported by funds from student activity fees. Design/Layout All copyrights are retained by individual artists Susan Yakoub and authors. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is strictly prohibited. Faculty Advisor Suzanne Nielsen For more information: Visit our website at hautedish.metrostate.edu or Editorial Review Board email us at [email protected] Gina Torres Art editor Lucy Duroche Poetry editor, proofreader Hawo Jama Prose editor Katie Levine Art editor Caroline Lubke Art editor Susan Yakoub Art editor Emilie Peck Art editor Felicia Tripodi Proofreader

About the Cover Portraiture Jazmin Castaneda

3 Editor’s Letter

Welcome to the Fall 2020 issue of Haute Dish - The Arts and Literature Magazine of Metropolitan State University. I hope you enjoy this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it together!

We know that 2020 has been an interesting year, but I am thankful to have a family like Haute Dish. The support and hard work of every member have been essential for this organization to move forward while staying healthy and safe.

If your work is in this issue, congratulations! You’ve been selected from a group of very talented contributors. Thanks to the students whose submissions were received, volunteer editors, the faculty advisor, and YOU who read our magazine regularly for making Haute Dish a successful production. This issue would haven’t been possible without any of you.

For future editions, we would like to continue to represent the diversity that exists within our organization. I’d like to encourage students, staff, and alumni of Metropolitan State University to submit multilingual or cultural work. Diversity is what drives our mission.

Finally, please don’t forget to share this issue with family and friends. Now grab a cup of hot cocoa, sit back, and enjoy!

Gina Torres Managing Editor 4 Contents

Haute Dish Staff 3 Editor’s Letter 4 Contents 5 Erick Suchy - Perseverance 6 Sarah Schenck - Wander 7 Arien Mormul - A Movement of Love 8 Sarah Schenck - Tremors 9 Mikala Schanz - Figure 10 Brenda Marcos - The Little Girl 11 YaTonya Branch - In The Mirror 12 Jazmin Castañeda - Portraiture 13 Arien Mormul - Come Along with Me 14 Jillian Van Hefty - Hourglass 15 Leanna Suarez - HERS 16 Gina Torres - Fantasy Blue 17 Louise Reed - Someone 18 Zach Murphy - This Place is No Longer Anyone’s Business 19 Dominique - Self Portrait 20 Elizabeth Wadsworth Ellis - Fido, Fifi, and Unconditional Love 21 Elizabeth Wadsworth Ellis - Was a Preacher’s Son 23 Katherine Pemberton - Cloud 26 Louise Reed - Carry Your Weight – Excerpt from Conversations with an Idiot 27 Tessa Schmitz - To Rosie 30 Walker James - Four Admittances for Alex 34 Contributors 35

5 Perseverance Erick Suchy

6 Wander Sarah Schenck

Wander through the night Feel the cool air on your skin Goosebumps confirm life

7 A Movement of Love Arien Mormul

I want something more. I want something To bring us back to unity. more than this. What you’re going through we’ve all been I want my words to start a movement. there. I don’t want to waste away a talent that In some way, in some form, don’t tell me everybody else saw. you haven’t heard all of this before. I don’t want to do nothing. I want you to be heard. I want to be heard. Produce nothing, when I could make I want you to be understood. I want to be something that means everything. understood. I want to produce fruits that explode in I want to start a movement. That brings us your ears, back to life. of tasteful sounds that drip and linger ever I want us all to finally to be able to breathe so sweetly. with ease. Words you won’t forget. Words you can’t I want us all to remember who we are. forget. What we are. Why we are here. Words you’ll always remember every time I want us all to move in love. you hear a faint smell of it. The movement of love is what I want to I don’t want to speak just for me but for all start. of you. I don’t want to just be heard; I want to be I want to start a movement. understood. Where the earth quakes with people who Since so many of us are forgotten and so let the walls of hate crumble. many of us are unable to be heard. Then the seeping lava of love can consume us all. I want something more. Don’t we all want To bring us back together to who and something more? what and why we really are. I want to start a movement that quakes Here and now. the people on this earth. Here right now, let’s start a movement of That breaks the plates beneath the crust love that separates us. 8 Tremors Sarah Schenck

Tremor Shake Convulse

Tremor Awake No pulse

Tremor Revive Scream

Tremor Alive A dream

9 Figure Mikala Schanz

10 The Little Girl Brenda Marcos the little girl the little girl that sits in the corner the little girl with her knees drawn to her the little girl with her head buried in her knees the little girl lost with no one to love her (not even herself) the little girl looks up with tears in her eyes when she hears someone walking toward her the woman reaches down with her hands held out take my hand little girl the little girl looks to see who this woman is the little girl has hope In her eyes because she sees it is her older self saying “please take my hand I can now love you! we can love each other!”

11 In the Mirror YaTonya Branch

In The Mirror and it’s something you love to do. Beautiful you are & beautiful That’s one reason you should you’ll be. Admire that reflection of you. Always keep that head up, You are Strong! and appreciate and love You are Beautiful! That reflection you see. You are Amazing! Beauty you bring out You are Unique! Beauty must be within That’s why you love hard You too, are someone special. with family and friends. Yes, so special you’d have to Sure, you’ve had challenges care. Life is not at all easy, You are loving & truly different, Bumps & bruises you’ll take One of a kind. to strengthen you & your faith. So be true to you! You let go & let God. Believe in you! Allowing Him to heal you Gon’ right ahead from the pain & hurt. Be You! Uniquely You! Look how far He’s brought you. Don’t be ashamed! So, keep smiling Chile! Look at you & love what you Yours is always so bright see. Always willing to bring a Face you, BEAUTIFUL YOU! smile to someone’s face. YES! Be proud of that reflection. Keep on encouraging You’ve come a long way, Yes, especially You. accomplished much. Keep motivating & inspiring YES, LOVE HER! others, In the mirror that they can make it too. It’s a gift that you have, 12 Portraiture Jazmin Castaneda

13 Come Along with Me Arien Mormul

14 Hourglass Jillian Van Hefty

On the shore of Lake Superior, my sons sift through tons of rocks, trillions of specks of granite and eons’ worth of pebbles to find juuuuuust the right one. Except for small variances in color, they all look virtually the same to me: black, white, mauve, salmon-colored, fifty shades of grey (maybe even a thousand shades of grey).

I don’t know what they’re searching for. They may find specialness in its shape — a heart, piece of pizza or the state of Oklahoma. Perhaps uniqueness resides in its layers, pockmarks, or the miraculous way it sparkles even as the light dims. Maybe they’re intrigued by the impalpable fragrance — dead fish, stale dampness, or moldy driftwood. Most likely their quest is founded purely on the hope and joy of finding a treasure that has been overlooked and trampled upon decade after decade by other adventur- ous boys like themselves.

As the sun begins to set and we depart the sand, their pockets are plump with tangible proof that for today, anyway, life is rich, and they found what they were looking for. My heart is heavy knowing that although childhood is magical, the loveliest of absolutely everything, these moments of beauty won’t last forever — unlike the stones.

15 HERS Leanna Suarez

Five fingers, five toes silky soft skin curly black hair with a blue bow

Still can’t believe She is mine and I am hers

Asleep against my chest each of us breathing, drinking in our scent discovering each other again

And in the stillness of this hospital room I can finally rest, the easy part is done

For tonight I can revel in her weight the miracle she is

16 Fantasy Blue Gina Torres

17 Someone Louise Reed

Sharing your life with Sharing your life with someone isn’t just someone is the feeling about the never ending love. of butterflies in your stomach when he holds you. Sharing your life with someone is the late night Sharing your life with talks, the ones someone is also that leaves you breathless. the screaming matches, the misunderstandings, Sharing your life with the heartbreak. someone is the shoulder bumps with each other Sharing your life with in the kitchen. someone is ecstasy, but also agony. Sharing your life with someone is being left speechless after each kiss.

18 This Place is No Longer Anyone’s Business Zach Murphy

Morton and Rosa slow-danced in the street as the shoe repair shop that they owned for 31 years went up into flames.

“This probably isn’t the best idea,” said Rosa.

“Nothing is ever the best idea,” answered Morton. “But let’s keep dancing.”

19 Self Portrait Dominique

20 Fido, Fifi, and Unconditional Love Elizabeth Wadsworth Ellis

“Don’t feed the feral barn cats!” we were scolded. kids’ knew who the culprit really was. “They need to stay hungry to be mousers.” I was raised on a dairy farm. “Don’t anthropomorphize! Picture this: “Old McDonald’s Fat Cat Farm” Animals act on instinct,” I was lectured, i.e., survival where big belly cats in lounging chairs are served is innate. I was told only humans were capable of by mice in dinner jackets. original thought and free will, but as an adult I was told I was pitied for living alone. I shouldn’t live When my kids were growing up we had alone, I should have a companion animal. Why not companion animals in the house. Pets (gerbils, fool yourself that these animals love you when no parakeet, fish, kittens, dogs) were supposed to be one else will. Is it love when you’re still the food good learning tools. My grandson once told me, source, when they’re still slave to your schedule “Mom and Dad like to clean up dog poop.” One and your impulses. night I overheard my daughter in bed crying. “I want a puppy.” We would visit the rescue kennels On the farm animals was a working part- on weekends, choose, and then name: Greedy ner who earned their keep, their room and board, Grey, Muffin Pamela, Dulcita, Paquinia and Frisky. paid for their own funerals. Dogs and cats became There were several failures along the way. I re- friends in urban life, became companion animals member “Shadow” and “Abby” were my responsi- capable of unconditional love when they move bility, my friends in the front seat but that daugh- indoors. I knew a man who kept his hunting dog in ter who wanted a puppy would complain of dog an outdoor kennel all year. She was a tool. So were hair and cat pee in her shoe. When the one of our our yard dogs. cats Greedy Grey was hit by a car my sons and I bawled. My daughter dead-panned, “Get a shove.” Speaking of don’t feed the cats when I got home from kindergarten one day I tried to share Shadow and Abby the table scraps (bones included) in Ginger dog dish near the front step outside. She bit me in I know women without a man in their life the cheek. The scar is still there. The policy in my have a companion animal in their home. I was told I upbringing was to put down dogs that bite, but us should have one too, but I resist this giving 21 up on fellow human beings. I believe American we rug kind of guy; however, when a neighborhood dog anthropomorphize companion animals for their un- attacked Monte’s roommate he came to the rescue. conditional love. Witness jeweled collars, grooming salons, little jackets, Science Diet. When women are I read somewhere that some dogs lean as fed up with miscreant men they transfer their affec- a way of expressing affection. My dog leaned into tion from men toward their companion animals, my side when I cried as a child who could not tie her shoes. Dogs run, scamper, and dodge to hedge their Abby, my English Springer Spaniel, was like bets in open spaces. When dogs meet they wag their me. All she ever wanted was affection, not to get tails to show who’s boss. “Contact induces great left behind, and to lay down beside me. All she ever peace and calm in the animal; expressing affection needed was food. They claim the way to a man is and eagerness to nuzzle and cuddle.” [Schoen] through his stomach, but they’re not alone. Animals are the same. When Abby died of a tumor I bawled. I received a greeting card with deepest sympathy in In Edward Koren’s cartoon a dog is asked, Do the loss of your companion with a handwritten note, you promise to love, honor, and in particular obey? “I know she meant a lot to you and your family.” To sit, stay, heel and roll over? I knew a man who said when he returned from his military service his When I worked in an animal shelter the rule dog growled at him. Another man told me, “The dog was don’t date the inmates. did all the work,” guarding the perimeter during his tour of duty in Viet Nam. After a man fed a female Rottweiler she refused to leave his car [Washington “Loyalty is the desire to be with the loved one, Post.] Somebody said of Bill Clinton, “That’s a hard to be where one belongs, a veterinarian [A. Schoen] dog to keep on the porch.” When Clinton took his wrote. In my bedroom with my husband my English dog Buddy in to be neutered a cartoon showed the springer spaniel continually barked coitus interrup- nurse come out to where they sat together and asks, tus, but R.A.Thompson wrote, “Somebody said that “O.K., who’s next?” when you make love the dogs don’t bark.” I once witnessed a third dog bark at 2 dogs locked in coitus. Dogs don’t lie about where they’ve been last night; but then dogs don’t talk. When my daughter’s Jack Russell Terrier crawled into my lap dog I told her, “He likes me.” “Don’t kid yourself,” she told me. “He’s seeking *&*&*& warmth.” Small people can use the calm “Monte” our Golden Retriever was lumbering, soft-shoe calm 22 Was a Preacher’s Son Elizabeth Wadsworth Ellis

When the foundation is established the scaffolding sport coat and shot his cuffs. Watched him shave can be taken away.” --Alan McGlashan, b. 1898. the whiskers that poke me at night.... Rubbed his toes. These were my verbs. When I answered his Men are like fence posts. We lean on the midnight booty call he lay down for 45 minutes of sturdy ones. You’d recognize this one, the calm sleep, muttering, twitching a foot or an arm. Stuck workhorse, the load-bearing wall. He’d shovel, haul still as stone in mud, I would not jostle him. His and install; attend meetings, dig, and plant, garden; legs cramped and his back ached. Sciatica pain repair, bend, plan and build. He gives rides, time, startled him awake. (He pops Ibuprofen the way energy, presence, strength or muscle when others other people pop M&Ms.) I snugged my body up plead, and when the naughty copier misbehaves behind his, this favorite of friend’s body, suitcase he rights the wrongs. These were his verbs. His to his soul that he granted. He was my chocolate preacher-father’s said, “If you’re thirsty don’t go to chip cookie. the well so often.” When I saw his brother I knew the rules: Back in the day a couple would purchase Don’t ask. Don’t tell. monogrammed linen embroidered His n’ Hers to display their fealty. We did not have these proper “Just don’t leave any marks,” he said. Arms nouns. We had verbs. “One can give me nothing wrapped around me he slept like boulders, tapped whatever, but yourself,” James Baldwin wrote. I do. out. When the alarm clock blew I brought hot tea, I did. Washed his clothes washed his back, sorted the cup wobbling in his hands. his mail, drove his car when he asked. Vacuumed his carpets, pulled his weeds, watered his house- He wasn’t so much obedient to clocks. plants, ironed his pants, sewed a button back on Clocks are on a fixed income; however, his atten- his coat, cut his frayed cuffs and mended his torn tion veered toward the important. Clock keep tick- pocket when I didn’t even mend my own. On my ing. The meter was always running. I cursed clocks, knees on the carpet at the foot of his bed. pinched each grain hard as it passed through the hour glass. Time was a delicacy I licked --honey off I watched him dress while he put on his a spoon. 23 “Tell me a story,” and he would say this woman in my driveway. cast a charm, gave him peace. Peace was the word he used because unwanted stress came to him in A man in a dream once said, “So, you’re the the rest of life. “Call you later,” he would say. Later Night Thief.” “Whore!” a bedraggled man on the turned into weeks. I never knew when he would street shouted at me. be back or even if he would. When we walked across the parking lot he Affection unharnessed torrents the way told me not to hook my left hand in the crook of falls over the dam at the hydroelectric plant. his arm, He said that when some people see other Thread his silver sewing needle through me, twine people together they tell people I saw So-and-So his thighs in mine. Science credits cuddle to oxyto- together. cin and the morphine-like calm to endorphins. My Pheromone Cowboy atop his mustang looped me Intimacy so long ago there might be dust in his lasso lashed with chemical secretions. I was bunnies down there. The vagina is a tight-fitting Lewinsky to his Clinton. sheath that embraces the penis. When we asked men what intimacy means they usually said sex; We were verbs, a sentence incomplete, chil- women never said that, a research professor re- dren hiding in the closet from the house fire, his ported. hot LZ, a burning birthday candle without a cake, RPMs in sync, (“It feels so good!” “It do. Donut”) I wished he would take me for a walk puppies rolling and tumbling, treachery to the around the lake or out to eat at a restaurant. This woman he was supposed to be verbing with. was not a game, I was neither ruttish nor estrus. I was poaching. My last man practiced his militancy A new relationship --like a pregnancy-- on the bar stools; this man practiced his activism you don’t announce it ‘til you’re sure it’s gonna’ in board rooms. There is something solitary and take. Affairs are easy to tumble in than out of. The unknowable about each human life, Peter Hessler tumble is pleasurable. “I know we can’t be lovers wrote. There were no nouns I could give him. This someday,” he said as if I were a coupon with an man had more than one job, more than four vehi- expiration date when I was a cruet waiting to be cles, more than one woman, more than one project filled. at a time. How many pair many pair shoes? Twen- ty-seven? He was a condo I time-shared, I was a “You deserve better. Booty call. That’s disgusting.” waste of his time. “A plurality of affections is not Sharing “works better not having your nose so bad if there is enough to go around,” Freya Stark rubbed in it.” –Robert B. Parker. He wouldn’t park wrote. I knew his breathing in repose, rooted in 24 rooted in the arch of his groin, what I didn’t know two words. “No mas.” resembled a mound of spilt pick-up-sticks. He was silk touching my cotton, never harsh never Fishermen mend their tangled nets. They a poke with a sharp knife. My OFC (Orbito Front do not throw them away.--Blue Highway. When Cortex) assessed and analyzed outside my con- I was a little girl and the grown-ups went fishing scious awareness and drew me to him. My NAcc they put the fish they caught on a stringer. When (Nucleus Accumbens) generated neurons of ardor. the fish were too small, or the stringer too full, The ground hugs the shovel, “Dig me!” The leaves they threw the fish back. Throw me back. shout, “Rake me!” Once, when he told me he would be away for a while, I said, “Oh, where?” and he said, “You don’t need to know everything.” When he was going out of town on the open road a tum- bler fell in place. He could become road kill that day any day every day. “Who would not be devoted knowing he were to be beheaded next day,” Freya Stark wrote. He scrapes me off his full plate, a late guest to his program, This is Your Life. I buried my face in the lining of his coat, rooted for his fra- grance, his pheromones. Who has not known faint- ness at the sight of a lover’s hand? Barry Lopez wrote. I pressed my ear to his chest to listen to his heart. (No holidays, weekends, coffee breaks for Cardiac? And if I stopped paying attention would his heart stop? Just to show off? Just to piss me off?)

The lies and deception are the culprits that destroy.—Ossie Davis.

From his corner stool in the boxing ring in New Orleans, on 11/25/80, Roberto Duran said, “No mas.” On a different day I slipped a note under the windshield wiper of his vehicle parked in front of her house addressed to him signed by me with 25 Cloud Katherine Pemberton

26 Carry Your Weight - Excerpt from Conversations with an Idiot Louise Reed

My day is literally the same as it is every The only person who I can actually toler- day: I wake up, get yelled at by Catherine for taking ate at my work is Evie. Her accent isn’t as thick or too long in the bathroom, then I get my drink from incredibly annoying as my other coworkers. She’s the fridge and drive in my little car to my job. My around my age, but as tall as a twelve-year-old. car is probably the saddest thing anyone has ever seen. I bought it used—very used—when I first got “Dan,” Catherine brought me back to reality. my license after moving to London. I’ve bumped “I asked you how your day was.” it into things, stationary objects, not pedestrians or animals or anything. The interior is perpetually I nodded. “Right, right. Well, normal I guess. I got sticky because I’ve spilled energy drinks in every to work late again. No one was there as normal. possible crevice. Then there is the smell. It’s not a We probably had one customer. So Evie and I took bad smell, just pungent, like someone sprayed five R-rated movies and put them into the cases of PG years-worth of cheap cologne in there. movies. Pretty typical day, I guess.”

I work with probably the most terrifying Catherine giggled. “Dan, that’s so mean!” people out there, in one of the most terrifying places out there. Granted, this is a part time job I took another swig of my energy drink, while I write my book, not my life-long career “And funny.” objective. Most of the employees have criminal re- cords, mostly petty theft or minor drug possession “It’s really not.” charges, so I’m the only one with a clean record. “C’mon, Cath. Imagine, a family putting in “Aye, Dan. Wast goin on mate?” This one guy the movie hoping to watch some movie about a Elliot would say as he walked up to me, his pants talking pig and then they put it in and—boom! They sagging, but he never makes eye contact with me. figure out it’s some slasher movie and the kids get He just kind of eyes me up, like he’s deciding if it scared for life.” would be worth his time to mug me. “I think traumatizing children qualifies as “Fine,” I’d respond quietly and let out a ner- mean,” she said. vous sort of chuckle, trying my best to act casual and hoping he wouldn’t shank me during lunch “What else am I supposed to do?” break.

27 “My job entails literally staring at a cash energy drink onto the table. “What-where? New register for hours on end. That’s actually my job York?” The last part came out with more of a judg- title: GUY WHO STARES AT CASH REGISTER. I mental tone than I had intended. “You’re leaving get paid seven pounds an hour to look at a screen. me here. All alone.” What else am I supposed to do?” “Seriously, Dan? This position is at one of “If you finished at university, you would the greatest firms in the world. It’s a once in a life- have a better job,” she replied, trying not to make time experience! You can’t just be happy for me?” eye contact with me. “You can’t leave me here all alone.” I repeat- Catherine stood up banging her hands against ed as if she didn’t hear me the last time I said it. the table. “I did, but I’m sick of supporting you after seven years. In high school you told me you “You’re just mad because there won’t be anyone wanted to be an author and it seemed exciting, here to carry you anymore!” she yelled. but ever since you quit university you have gotten nowhere.” “It’s not like that at all,” I ran my hands through my hair. Silence filled the room while the two of us sat there eating and avoiding eye contact. If you “Really, Dan? Really?” she asked rhetori- can just get through this awkward dinner between cally. “All you are is a lazy procrastinator who has you two, Danny, you can have as much ice cream to be carried around because all you care about as you want, I told myself. I realize that bribing is yourself and you have no interest in bettering myself with ice cream is silly because I’m an adult, yourself.” not a three-year-old. I can get ice cream whenever I want. But sometimes being in the presence of “It’s not like that at all,” I ran my hands Catherine makes me feel childish. through my hair.

After the gut-wrenching silence Catherine looked “Really, Dan? Really?” she asked rhetorically. at me and took in a breath of fresh air, preparing herself for whatever she wanted to say. “All you are is a lazy procrastinator who has to be carried around because all you care about “Dan. I got a job offer.” is yourself and you have no interest in bettering yourself.” I was relieved and confused as to why she was so nervous about that news. “That’s great, Her words cut through my skin and plunged Cather!” I exclaimed. deep into the depths of my heart. I imagine this is what Elliot’s knife feels like when he shanks you, “But there’s a tiny problem.” She took an- but worse. other breath. “It’s in New York.” “You said, and I quote, I choked a little and spit out the remaining 28 ‘Danny, I will always be there for you and support you so you can reach your goal,’” I mim- icked Catherine’s voice in a high pitched tone.

“And I will support you—or was willing to— but for someone who calls himself a writer, you watch way more Netflix than you do actual writing, and you haven’t published anything.”

“Life...you know...just got in the way,” I ar- gued.

“See that’s your problem,” Catherine point- ed at me. “You can only blame your problems on the world for so long.” Tears started to build up in her eyes. She walked to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. I was left alone standing in the kitchen regretting everything.

29 To Rosie Tessa Schmitz

Hello, my Little Bean, myself to eat the entire silky, sprinkled strawberry cake alone on the kitchen floor after you’d finally Do you feel different today? Do you feel older? collapsed in your bed. When I asked you as much, you paused, tugged your ears, scratched your nose, and said, “I still This year my goal was to merely get feel little,” and raced away, your nightgown flail- through the day without tears from either of us. ing up and down along with you. But as I watched At 4:30 in the morning I tiptoed into your room you trumpet over our tiny living room, knocking and hovered over your bed. Your blankets were over blocks and opening books only to run away sprawled out onto the floor, your body displayed from them, your maturity exposed itself. Your rich like an X along the mattress, your head smooshed espresso brown hair has grown down to the mid- into your tattered unicorn pillow. Don’t you dare dle of your back, your legs and arms have thinned, cry, damn it, you can’t cry before she’s even awake. but your belly and cheeks are still balloons of I bit my lip and rubbed your back, brushing your beautiful baby fat, and your smile is toothy and hair down it through my fingers. proud. Today you are four, no longer my Little Bean. Four years of watching this hair cascade longer and longer down your nimble body. Four I wasn’t sure how to make today special years of tucking you under all of your covers only or how to make it any different than your third to have them all on the floor by morning. Four birthday. Not that your third birthday was elabo- years of sliding into your room to catch these last rate or memorable for you; much of the day was moments of your blissful sleep. Do you ever know spent in tears over the wrong kind of birthday that I’m here? Can you feel my lips grace your head cake. Strawberry cake was not good enough for as I whisper my love? turning three, you said, because mama had it when she turned old last month, you said. You weren’t “Rosie,” I sang and sang in a jovial, morning bird wrong. I did turn old, and we did have strawberry melody. Your head tossed back and forth into cake. The cake was supposed to be Funfetti, you the pillow before turning towards me. Two al- said. The online grocery delivery did not list an op- mond eyes sparkled back at me as you smiled and tion for Funfetti, only the measly strawberry. You stretched into an upward dog position. I tickled screamed and screamed that you hated the online your toes and whispered,“Do you know what today grocery delivery. You screamed that you hated not is?” going to the store to find the Funfetti yourself. You screamed that you hated it here in our tiny apart- In an instant you shifted onto your feet, ment. That evening, between ugly sobs and pitiful jumping up and down on your squishy little bed. monologues of matronly failures, I took it upon 30 “I’m four! I’m four!” You screamed and leapt into nies and assistants skirting the bodegas and shops my arms. I could’ve held you just like that, your to retrieve essentials, you could leap and play heavy breath hot on my neck, your legs wrapped hopscotch and be a four-year-old on her birthday. around my stomach, all day. But the sun would rise Boundaries did not exist at this hour. New York soon, and so would the rest of New York. was ours, and the invisible force that kept us iso- lated, that kept us confined to our 650 square feet As I zipped up your rain jacket and crunched your apartment, disintegrated. feet into your boots, you babbled away about all of the things we were going to do at the park. We This was all you knew. New York, to you, had to climb up the big rocks, you said. We had to was asleep whenever you stepped into it. The city visit the penguins in the zoo, you said. Everthing, operated as a playground before the sun was high you said, nodded along while the pit in my stomach above the skyscrapers. Our neighborhood coiled churned with a fervent ticking clock. Manhattan into their apartments, making the streets and our would be awake before we could do everything, side of Central Park yours. It only exploded hours everything. later when you stood behind our lengthy window that faced the park, essential workers pouring out Bean, let me tell you, it is nearly impossible to rush of the cabs and buildings, ambulances and police a toddler out the door on their birthday. Like I said, forces jolting past like meteors, the action just you had to open up all your books, prance across missing us. Everyone was equipped with identical the room, and hop over imaginative puddles be- masks and gloves, like we’re all being the same fore we could leave. At 5:15, you seemed to have thing for Halloween, you said. And this is how completed your routine. We chanted our glove and you knew the city. This is how you knew the world. mask song, you remember it, I’m sure. Mask on. Behind our window on the third floor of Prewitt Germs out. Hands wrapped. Virus zapped. It was Commons on West 90th. horrid, I know. But I had to somehow get you to wear them. With our equipment secured, we flew “Can we get croissants?” down the hall, to the elevator, to the main entrance where Ellis stood behind his plexi-glass station. Sadie’s Snacks parked on our block’s cor- ner, the very edge of it always visible through your Happy birthday, Ms. Rosie.” Ellis bowed to bedroom window. On occasion I’d allow myself to you, and you went up to the glass and placed your sneak down to Sadie’s, telling myself these were hand to meet his. He oo’ed and ahh’ed as you ex- essential and making sure you were watching me plained everything, everything that we were going all the while, and grab pastries. The croissants, al- to do before New York woke up. “You better get ways wrapped in tedious layers of sanitary plastics to it,” He said, and pressed the button to open the and World Health Organization precautions, were doors. your favorite. Underneath the outer annoyances, the croissant gleamed, golden and delicate, falling West 90th St rested until the sun rose, the apart with the slightest tug. Together, we’d eat thin residents settled in their time without the anxiety layers of it piece by piece, basking in its buttery, of reaching other people. Without the cabs, the flaky abundance. bustling medical and healthcare workers, the nan- 31 After I purchased three croissants (we can pretty the hill with boulders etched into it, a checker- please split the last, you said), we skipped hand in board to hobble across. I ran to catch up to you, hand to the park. The sun was perching itself high- and together we scaled the hill, the sky turning to er above, a lugubrious magnet taunting us back to a rusty orange. When we reached a rock that you our apartment. We wouldn’t be able to do every- claimed as ours, we plopped down and I unraveled thing, everything. And, my Little Bean, it drives the croissants. I lowered our masks and removed daggers into my heart to say this, but I do not know our gloves, spritzing our dry hands with sanitizer, when we will ever have time to do everything, and we nibbled away. My stomach lurched again as everything. I do not know when the city will be lim- the buttery bliss of sitting and eating your favor- itless again. I do not know when the isolation and ite treat on a rock in Central Park with you, my detention will diminish. I do not know when you’ll Little Bean, had to end. But you tore the croissant see the world I saw when I was four years old. apart like a pianist tickling the keys, stringing each piece along like a beautiful note sweeping into the When I let go of your hand to run down the next. You graced one bite at a time, relishing in the dark pavement shadowed by the park’s omnipo- gooey bread. Birds chirped all around us, and you tent trees, my mind played the rest of the day. A mimicked them in a serene, harmonious tone. You Zoom party with your best friends, Rori, Kara, Lex- wormed onto your back, holding your croissant ington, Sam, even Eddie would join, his mom said. close to your heart, examining the sky above. It Your best friends you’ve never hugged, never cre- was burning into a light yellow, a facade of caution. ated a handshake with, never had in the apartment New York would be awake so soon. for a tea party. A birthday song while you blow out the candles of a chocolate birthday cake, Grandma You have to go. Just tell her. You have to and Grandpa cheering through FaceTime. Class go home now. But I couldn’t. Instead, I joined you, with Ms. Rafael, who’s allowed all of the students lying down beside you, our heads together. You to have a virtual dance hour with music of your sang to the birds and caressed your croissant, and choice. Bean, do you remember creating this play- the world dissolved around us. My goal of getting list? You wanted everyone to hear the electricity through the day without any tears crumbled. Tears of Tame Impala and the groove of Nina Simone. stained my eyes, wading on skin before trickling Your words. Not mine. After that, you’d call Dad down to the rock below us. My four-year-old. My and he would cry. He would pretend not to cry, Little Bean. This, right here, was everything, every- though, and his voice would rise five octaves. He thing. would lower his mask for one moment so that you could see his smile, the same toothy, proud smile With Love, you radiate. “I’ll see you soon,” he’d say. And when Mom you’d grin right back and tell him, “It’s okay, Daddy. You’re saving the world,” he’d lose it. Barbaric wails escaping him, the camera quickly falling to his feet. And then we’d say we love you, we love you, we love you, and we’d hang up.

“The rocks!” You squealed and pointed ahead to 32 Four Admittances for Alex Walker James

1. I had not thought of you in two years 3. I imagined kissing you once or twice.

Then you appeared in my Dell computer screen, I thought then it was an aberration. Everything blue ghost with a tail, circling my iris for the next becomes about me and my body and my tongue month each time I crossed the street and saw your when I look back through the door’s peephole, to shadow leaning on lamp-posts – the ones by the the past, the long hallway rented by a landlord who Mississippi, off the 3rd Ave Bridge, that look like doesn’t print our names on the mailboxes. I feel like movie sets. Each bike without its wheels, the use- I’m taking advantage of your wisp, so let’s describe less metal frame still chained to a stop sign – I won- three things. 1) your pale, skeletal wrists were dered if that is the price of admittance, if Charon quick with the coffee machine like blue fire. 2) your checks under your tongue for black rubber. If I voice was how I imagine grass sounds. 3) your lips stare hard enough at the Mississippi, I swear I see were so vivid, like postcards from your genealogy; his crooked shape in a rowboat, dull orange lantern I wanted to be that bold, too. swinging in the fog. 4. I don’t think I will miss you, but the thought of 2. Nobody has ever told me they didn’t want to be your skull frightens me. friends in as graceful a way as you did. I imagined it splitting apart into six pieces, wob- It was the bracken-sound of brooms against con- bling inside your skin like a bloody bag. I imagined crete, the angled floor of St. Anthony Main movie it snapping like a firecracker under the semi- theaters, all the popcorn and bottles rolling down truck’s enormous wheels. I don’t want to think of to the bottom edge of the screen. We made mini- you in this way, to ruin the statue of you, but this mum wage, and I liked how echoes bloomed in the is the result. I remember watching you cycle off in canopy dark, as if light was too much of a wall for the middle of a bad winter, wrapped head to toe our small voices to penetrate. We were wearing like an embalming, a bright circle shining in the black polos and name tags. It always surprised me middle of your forehead. I locked the doors of the that someone cared enough to print my name on movie theater and saw your halo glowing down the a little plaque. You told me our memories make bridge, reflecting off the icy river. “Alex was always sense, that what we remember makes sense when so safe,” everyone said, their arms linked at the we consider who we become, and that we could protest, neon green vests flashing against the gray not remember anything else even if we tried. matter of Minneapolis. I stayed at home and saw it on the Star Tribune’s website. They gathered for you, Alex. They gathered and sang.

33 Contributors

Tessa Schmitz is a Creative Writing Major and She was a finalist in the 2020 Erma Bombeck’s Ethnic Studies Minor. She’s got a head full of Humorist-in-Residence competition and also the dreams, most centered around writing fiction Erma Bombeck 2018 essay competition. and creating film. After graduation, Tessa hopes to be a published author of short stories, Arien Mormul likes to do free lancing children’s books, or screenplays - all of which photography ever since she had taken a course have stories that give platforms to otherwise within highschool. However, her artistic ability overlooked social issues in popular media. Above doesn’t stop there. Arien has been writing everything, Tessa strives to show her daughter for 12 years and has created more than 300 that women can and will do whatever their writing works consisting mostly of poetry along dreams compel them to do. with some short stories. It is Arien’s dream to become a writer one day and be able to touch Zach Murphy is a 2012 graduate of Metro the lives of others through understanding. It is State’s Screenwriting program. His stories have her goal to heal people with her words. appeared in Peculiars Magazine, Ellipsis Zine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, WINK, and the Wayne Sarah Schenck is a Junior at Metro State Literary Review. He lives with his wonderful wife University in MN. She is currently pursuing Kelly and loves cats and movies. a Bachelor of Science degree for Accounting. Sarah has been writing poetry for over 25 years. Living as a first-year student, Louise Patricia Reed, is a writer of rom-coms, eater of pizza and Leanna Suarez has been writing stories for cat enthusiast. When she isn’t shoving her head almost her entire life, ever since she first read in a book, she spends her time advocating for Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women and wanted LGBT and Women’s rights. You will most likely to be just like Jo March. After taking the time find her scouting for the tastiest latte at some of to raise her kids she has gone back to school to her favorite coffee shops or curled up with her earn a Bachelor’s degree in English. She has a cat. daughter about to graduate high school and a son finishing his freshman year, and two Boston Elizabeth Wadsworth Ellis is a library kid-- Terriers that keep her busy and full of story not a barstool girl—who studies in order to ideas. understand and to write as well as the writers she respects.

Jillian Van Hefty is a writer and stay-at-home mama from small town Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Eat, Darling, Eat, The Minnesota Women’s Press, and Prometheus Dreaming. 34 YaTonya Branch is a student at Metro State Amy Sands. I wanted to challenge myself to who is pursuing her BA in Creative Writing with learn about the various digital tools available a minor in Screenwriting. YaTonya has always to artists. For this assignment, we were to use been passionate about writing since childhood. Photoshop to created a self portrait using layers She enjoys writing Poetry, Fiction, Inspirational and textures. In my self-portrait, I took two & Motivational pieces. She is a Mother of five photos and cropped them, putting them side by and in her free time she enjoys writing, bowling, side: one of me and then one of my shadow. I cooking, laughing and hanging out with the cut out the shadow and placed a photo of my kiddos. dad and I when I was little. I also have overlaid a photo of my mom’s hands playing the piano Brenda Marcos: I am working with my inner in the bottom right hand corner. Lastly, I took a child healing for the sexual abuse I suffer from marked up page from my beloved Shakespeare my biological dad for age 9 to 17. This is how book and faded that over all of the other I always saw my little girl, in the corner hiding photos. This project showcased my home, my and feeling like it was her fault for the things parents, and my literary passions: all of which her dad did to her. I was laying in bed and I saw had a part in shaping who I am. here there crying!!! I walk over to her, at that moment when she took my hand I new it was Gina Torres is currently pursuing a degree not her fault and I love her and there was no in Computer Science at Metro State. She is more HATE. passionate about technology, innovation, art, and nature. Her home country is Colombia, a Mikala Schanz: Much of my work encompasses place with the best coffee in the world and nature and landscapes as well as animals and home of many Nobel prices in Literature. Gina people. Throughout my daily interactions with is the current Managing Editor of Haute Dish, the world I am often presented a mental image an incredible magazine that has allowed her to that I then sketch back into existence on paper. interact with the American Culture and grow Although these kinds of themes are most professionally as a Digital Media Communicator. comfortable to me, it’s the challenges associated that provide me with the most meaningful type My name is Erik Suchy. I am a student pursuing of finished work. As I believe art is supposed a bachelor’s degree in creative writing at to, I often make these themes slightly less Metropolitan State University in St. Paul, realistic and a little more abstract. My hope Minnesota. My aim in life is to live as a novelist for the audience is their ability to relate to the in the horror genre. However, I am also trying artwork—visualize themselves within in—and to branch into other areas such as thriller and its realistic attributes. While I often only think dark fantasy. I have currently begun writing a of the way my art makes me feel, I can only manuscript entitled “Breeding Ground,” which hope my audience feels their own different, but I hope to complete by next summer. Following personal attachment to it as well. this, I plan to have the final, edited work ready for publication within the next year and a half. Dominique Hlavac: I’m an English major here I look forward to crafting the kind of stories I at Metropolitan State and the design editor for would like horror lovers to read best. The Metropolitan Student Newspaper. I took the new Introduction to Digital Arts (ARTS 203) class this semester taught by Professor 35 Haute Dish is published two times a year, spring and fall semesters, and is dedicated to showcasing the literary and artistic talents of students, staff, faculty, and alumni of Metropolitan State University.

Categories include Poetry, Fiction, Creative Nonfiction, Memoir/Personal Essay, Visual Art (Photography, Illustration, Focus on Metro), and Digital Storytelling.

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