Lumen 2017 by MERCYHURST UNIVERSITY

Lumen The creative arts journal of Mercyhurst University.

2017

Contents

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Blue | Megan Pacileo

33 Twinge | Sarah Mignogna

American Boogeyman | Kevin Roche

34 Lady-Likeness | Alicia Rogers

Double Dunker | Mallory McClelland

35 Icarus | Elijah Kurtiss

Edward Morris was a Good Man | Dave J. Suscheck Jr.

36 Goodbye Persephone | Alyssa Kuczka

Little Prince | Yeshey Tsogyal

37 A Typical Day for a Customer Service Agent |

A Rose for Emily | Brianna VanGiesen

10 The Skin Skeleton | Michael Mongera 11

Freezing | Brittany Talley

12 Sugarloaf Mountain, Maine | Stephanie Waldo 13

How to Cheat for the First Time | Sara Hood

14 Christmas Poem | Shelby Maberry 15

Forgotten Kids | Naomi Greenstein

22 Sisters: a Kaleidoscope | Megan Pacileo

23 At Least I Tried | Abigail Stevens

52 Nothing | Tereza Pintur

24 Counting Sheep | Hannah Kozich

53 Snapshot Memories | Katheryn Yowmes

25 Confectionery | Rosemarie Molé

54 Trees or Candles? | Ryan Danaher

26 Behind the Uniform | Miranda Wall

55 Divided | Casey Bleuel

27 Surreal Self-Portrait | Tim Weisgerber

56 The Stirring | Jeanette Fournier

28 Be You | H’ian Hale

57 Again, We Rise | Eleanor Hein

29 300 Word Car Crash | Heather Swede

58 The Burned Bridge | Hannah Kozich

30 Just Breathe | Jake Tarasovich

59 Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel |

Sprites | Eva Kocienewski

32 A Wall | William Fistek

Slow Dive (Dreamscape) | Michael Mongera

Jeanette Marie Fournier 59 My Brother Muhammad | Elise Lashinsky

editorial EDITORS IN CHIEF: Naomi Greenstein Megan Pacileo EDITORS: Carlena Bressanelli Elijah Curtiss

71 Ophelia | Abby Stevens

Abigail Harrington

72 Hijra Honeymoon | James Wallace

Sara Hood

73 Rain | Heather Swede

Kathleen Kiszka

74 Secret Shadows | Maria Dombrowski 76 Behind the Mask | Kiana Harris 77 A Letter to my Daughter | Deja Santiago 78 Human Contact | Alicia Rogers

Benjamin Kolbrich Alyssa Kuczka Jacob Leach Catherine Messina Michael Mongera

79 Shift Change. | Kevin Roche

Tereza Pintur

80 Fragment | Jacob Leach

Abigail Stevens

82 The Unintentional Witch | Heather Swede

Brianna VanGiesen

83 Dances for Strings | Choreography: Celina Schroer

designers

84 Forward, Blind | Libby Goldberg 85 Songs from Chautauqua | Mariana Mathewson 86 Machines Not Monsters | Eleanor Hein 87 Velveteen Habit | Michael Mongera

Jeff Annunziata Kelsey Mader Sabiha Mahmud Sumi

88 Homesickness | Nicholas Nasibyan

advisors Dr. Gregory Brown | Editorial Dr. Marnie Sullivan | Editorial Jodi Staniunas Hopper, MFA | Design

Blue Megan Pacileo On my nightstand sits a bottle holding little blue pills that are supposed to hold back the crazy chaotic contusions that pound in my brain. I take one each morning with a big glass of water but they still are hard to swallow, an acrid burn down my throat and a bitter taste in my mouth. This is the price I pay for safety. My insides turning blue and my brain icing over because it’s not okay to feel those crazy chaotic contusions pounding away at my cranium that make me wish for quiet, even though the quiet is something I’ve come to fear. So, I’ll take one little blue pill each morning with a big glass of water and feel it slide down my throat and choke my thoughts into submission. But they aren’t thoughts anymore since those “happy pills” take away any and all meaning and leave behind vaporous billowing clouds of blue that smother what semblance of self I think I have and I remember how it was before all this started. But my parents sleep easier for it knowing I’ll drink down that smothering blue each morning with a big glass of water to help take away the acrid taste.

American Boogeyman Kevin Roche I know what I look like. I know what I look like and I understand The straight, white American boogeyman I look like the man who murdered Philandro Castile I look like the man with the whip in the field I look like the man that denied your mother’s loan I look like the man that followed you home I look like the man who lit the burning cross I look like the man, your suit and tie boss I look like the man with long knives on Kristalnacht I look like him, but I swear that I’m not What would convince you, to not be afraid What could be done, what could be said Would I tell you that when I first heard Aretha Franklin’s soul I cried? Or how I was among the anonymous that mourned when young Trayvon died? Or that the first woman I loved had skin far darker than mine and how I had to conceal from my grandfather my race-traitor crime? Could I show you my busted knuckles or my bloody school clothes that I earned for my suspiciously Jewish, and now broken nose? You’d never see how many vandal swastikas I’ve erased or the friends that I’ve lost because I don’t share their hate. I refuse to live in fear of my fellow man and yet; I feel your reluctance to shake my hand I know what I look like and I understand, another straight white American boogeyman.

Double Dunker Mallory McClelland Have you ever had two tubs of ice cream? And you didn’t know which to choose? You don’t need both, but you just can’t help yourself so you eat both. You double dunk. First the chocolate, and then the French vanilla you might even add some whipped cream. You double dunk and only think about yourself, not about who else ate the ice cream, or wants to eat the ice cream. And it was really good too, until the next day, and a week later at the beach when everyone knows you double dunked But they have no proof and you have 2 tubs of guilt.

Edward Morris was a Good Man Dave J. Suscheck Jr. Edward Morris was a good man. So says the epitaph on his grey granite marker. The funeral, which had just concluded, was sparsely attended. The pastor spoke of Edward Morris as if he had personally known him, which he hadn’t. Edward’s fifty-two years were summed up with poignant, life affirming remarks. Everyone in attendance would agree that Edward Morris was a gentle soul, generally well-liked, and unremarkable in every respect. The day that Edward Morris died was unexceptional in its repetition. He started each morning of his adult life with a breakfast of one fried egg, two pieces of wheat toast, one multivitamin, and a half glass of orange juice. It took him exactly fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds to consume it. He always washed his dishes after his breakfast, carefully placing them in their appropriate spots in the cupboard. He left for work promptly on the hour, taking the same path to work regardless of weather or traffic. He was content. Each day was almost exactly the same; he found the pattern comforting and purposeful. He knew who he was and what he needed to do each day. His days off were trials in purpose. His work consisted of entering data for computer algorithms that tracked what people bought from online websites. Most people found this work maddening, but not Edward Morris. The routine made him whole. He was friendly with all his coworkers. He was polite and reserved, and kept to himself. On his final day, nothing was out of the ordinary. He was oblivious to the fact his life was speeding towards its conclusion. He took lunch precisely at noon, carrying his bagged bologna sandwich on rye and single apple to the linoleum-lined lunchroom on the east side of the floor from where Edward Morris’s cubicle was located. While he ate he read from a tattered and well-thumbed copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls, never failing to find hidden wonders upon each reading. He returned to his desk an hour from starting his lunch to finish out his day. The clock struck five, precisely the moment that Edward Morris turned off his computer, gathered his things, and joined the crowd pouring out of the building. His commute home was the reverse of the trip to work, except on this last day he took a detour that led him through the park. It was a whim he was not accustomed to, but the urge to see something different drove him on this different path. He found an empty bench that faced the quickly setting sun; it’s mirror image glinted off a small man made pond. Two ducks drifted side by side on the still surface in elongated figure eights. While he watched the sun dip below the horizon and felt the evening chill creep into his skin, he heard frantic voices and scuffling coming from over his right shoulder.

Edward Morris was a Good Man excerpt continues on mercyhurst.edu/lumen/excerpts

Little Prince

Yeshey Tsogya

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lsrlto y , ssential ith is that one can what is the to see rightly, what is s essential iiiessential itone e invisible to to the the eye.it is eye.it is with the only with eye.it is onlythat with heart that the heart one can see that rightly, what see is essential rcan geye.it hi s twith lb y , heart that only invisible to what the eye.it is essential only with the invisible to heart that the is one can see only rightly, what the heart the is essential that one can invisible to see rightly, the eye.it is what only with the essential heart that invisible to one can see the eye.it is rightly, what only with the is essential is heart that one invisible to can see the eye.it rightly, what one heart can see only with the is essential is heart that invisible to the one can see eye.it isrightly, only rightly, what with the heart is essential is that one can inviit isrightly, only see with the heart what that one can essential is see invisible to the what is eye.it is only rwith i g hthe t l is y ,with essential the heart invisible to that one can see the eye.it is rightly, what only with the essential is heart that one invisible to the can see eye.it is only with rightly, what is the heart that one essential can see rightly, invisible to the what essential eye.it is only invisible to the with heart eye.it is only with that one can the heart that one see ,the what is can see rightly, essential what is essential is ent invisible to the invisible to the eye.it is only eye.it is only with with the heart the heart that one that one can can see rightly, see rightly, what is essential is what is invisible to the heart essential eye.it is only with invisible to the the heart that one eye.it is only can see rightly, what with the heart is essential that one can invisible to the eye.it see rightly, is only with the heart what is that one can see essential what is invisible to the essential is invisible eye.it is only to the eye.it is only t h rightly, with the heart with the heart that that one can one can see rightly, see rightly, what is essential is what is invisible to the eye.it essential is only with invisible to the heart that one can eye.it is only see rightly, what with the heart essential is that one can invisible to the see rightly, eye.it is only with what is the heart that one essential can see rightly, invisible to the what is essential is eye.it is only invisible to the with the heart eye.it is only with that one can the heart that one see rightly, can see rightly, what is what essential essential is invisible to the invisible to the eye.it is only with eye.it is only the heart that with the heart one can see that one can rightly, what is see rightly, essential what is invisible to the essential eye.it is only invisible to the with the heart eye.it is only that one can see with the heart rightly, what is that one can essential see rightly, invisible to the what is eye.it is only essential with the heart invisible to the that one can eye.it is only see rightly, with the heart what is that one can essential see rightly, invisible to the what is eye.it is only essential with the heart invisible to the that one can eye.it is only see rightly, with the heart what is that one can essential see rightly, invisible to what is the eye.it essential only with the invisible to the heart that eye.it is only can see with the heart rightly, what that one can see is essential rightly, what is invisible essential to the eye.it invisible to the is only eye.it is only the heart with the heart that one that one can see can see rightly, what is rwhat ican g hh twith w t h e one essential invisible to the e s e n ily ais,l, eye.it is only is invisible with the heart to the that one can eye.it see rightly, only with what ist the heart essential that one invisible to see the rswhat ito g ttla th ieh is with the essential hthat e ahonly ran iinvisible s one can the rightly, eye.it is w o n y i eye.it w iih tlaryis h svis thtoc e e t,a r one t n isee n srighte iabls-llh what s eis. i t only estie esenthat te is a iiy n vis b e to tl-l can see is w i t h t h e rightly, what heart c athat osn e invisible to is the ihats essential en is only r g he tly, the heart that with one see snis-- eye.it can see rightly, with tial with ith ht h ea athe rtt Athe the heart that one invisirightly, what theart h tt,- o n e o n e c a n s e lrightysa h ato iw s is see essential is e tbleh tois e can s e tial invisitble h e ieye.it s o nih lis y w ie ttn h to the eye.it e e ah tt-, c th h a o n c a n e ie g lrs ya sa e ne w h h is onlyone with the oeye.it n lthe y invisible th h asrrtto o n e c a n s e rightly, what essenitial ny vih ican that canheart see with tble h e e e .ris iiy, tt- right is only w t h e h e a t h a l y , one s e rightly, with the rightl h e a r t with the h e a r t that one rcan ise gshae tsee lrny, what is e tial invisible heartrightly, that one that one to the eye.it o lthe yt-t, what with h that see rcan g hattone llris y, ith h enh whatcan is can see that one see rcan ii g yis what iessential s, ie s s invisible to the eye.it is only with essential is invisible rightly, ith see the heart that one see rcan gih he ttithat llthe y with the heart one can e -l rs ii g y what is to thethe eye.it is only the heart s,, s iessential n b ly e to eye.it is only the that one ti ei n as see rcan iv g hsheart twith lthe with heart that only that one with heart that one can see rightly, what is e s s e n t i a l is invisible to the eye.it is with one can see rightly, can see the heart that one can see ith rrightly, i geye.it h heart t with lone yto n what is, ivisiessential the see heart that see what invisible the only can see rightly, the that one can rightly, one can rightly, isrightly, essential is with what is b l e essential invisible to the eye.it only with the heart that one can see rightly, with the heart that one can what is essential is the invisible the see rightly, what is t essential invisible to the eye.it only with the heart that see o ith heart invisible to the eye.it is toheart only one can rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it only with the heart that one can see teh y e with the heart that eye.it is only with the one can rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it only with the heart that one can see with the heart that heart that with one one that one can see one can rightly, what is essential invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, ith eio the heart that can see can see rightly, with the the rightly, what is essential invisible to the eye.it is only heart can rightly, with the that one see with the rightly, heart heart that one what is t tis. i essential invisible to the eye.it is only heart that one can see rightly, with heart that one can that can e can see rightly, ethe rs tthe lis y, what essential is bihg l ehe o tiinvissee one rightly, what is essential is istheinvisible to essential is eye.it is what invisible to only with that the the eye.it is heart with one the heart r iwith gcan h t lsee y , only one hat can see h e tahthe ra tt that rwi gih tt l y, i s thear h eh essential tohnaett is invisible can to the eye.it is s e e only with the ri

i n v i s i se teoyteh. ietisnlywith ths s-

invisible to the eye.it is only with the hehat is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, ith the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with ly, what the heart that one can see rightly, with the heart that one can ne can see rightly, what see rightly, what ine can see is essential is rightly, what is invisible to the essential is eye.it is only with invisible to the hehat is essential the eye.it is is invisible to the eye.it only with t h e hehat i s esn e see s can rightly, what is atis essne essential is invisible to the eye.it only withis see rightly, what can is the hehat isiseye.it essential invisible the is only essential is invisible to with the to heart thatthe one can see rightly, heart i t he that one canithsee rightly, what iseye.it essential is with invisible h te haone r t the eye.it is onlly, what to thethat only the that heart oneis can seeone rightly, can see i ne can see rightly, with the heart that rightly, see rightly, what ine can can seeis what is what is essential is invisible to rightly, what essential invisible to theisis eye.it is only essential is the eye.it is only with the with the to hehat essential is invisible the eye.it is invisible to the hehat is essential is invisible with the ith heart onethat canonly see rightly, thethat heart one eye.it is only with to the eye.it can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only the heart that one with thewith heart onethat can see rightly, thethat heart can see rightly, with can seewhat rightly, what ine invisible can one see rightly, essential the heart that one can see to the eye.it isis only withisthe hehat rightly, what is essential is is essential is invisible to the eye.it is invisible to the eye.it is only with the only with the heart that one can see n e heart that one can see rightly, with the rightly, ith the heart that one can can see heart that one can see rightly, what see rightly, what is essential is r i g h t l y, is essential is invisible to the eye.it is invisible to the eye.it is only with the what is only with the heart that one can see ne can see heart that one can see rightly, with essenrightly, ith the heart that one can see rightly, what is the heart that one can see t i a l rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it essential is rightly, what ne can see i s is only with heart see what rightly,is invisible to rightly, what is i with the heartthe that onethat can one see can rightly, essential is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart the eye.it i n - that one can see rightly, with the heart that one can see is onl rightly, what is essential invisible to the eye.it is heart only eye.it with the heart thatrightly, oneis can see rightly, ithis the can see what essential invisible to one therightly, eye.it iswith onlythe with theisheart thatcan one can a et i t h that heart that one see what is essential isheart invisible to the cano n ith ee the heart seerightly, eye.it is only with the that one rightly, can seecan rightly, with the heart that the heart that that one can see rightly, what one cansee essential invisible tothe theis rightly, what isis see rightly; what is one eye.it isisthat only withcan essential heart one ninvisibleto se itial n -to visib l essential is invisible to t h e eye.it see rightly, ith iwhat s the eye.it o n l y w i h t h e h e a r t hs a te one ecan rs is g h te lwith y, is the heart e n - yis, that one can is wonly tial is see rightly, invisible what is to essent ial eye.it only eye.with the heart that the heart that one see rcan i essential g eye.it h tthe lis what it thhe the essential is invisible to the is invisible only with the to to to heart that tois one can see rightly, what to to is is inviit is only to with the heart that one can to see rightly, to what is to essential is invisible to the can see rightly; what is to eye.it is only tto with the heart oto that one can see to rightly, what is essential is tto h one invisible to the oto eye.it is only with the heart that one to can see rightly, tto what essential otto is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential isisto invisible to the eye.ible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what essential is invisible to the eye.with the is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that can see rightly, what is essential is invisible eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what the eye.it only with theone heart one can ne can see rightly, what othonly see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the with heye.it heart that one can see rightly; ee a t e is h a tr that n is essential is invisible to the ca what is ith the heart that one can see rightly, eye.it eye.it what is essential is invisible to the ne t ith he can see rightly, what is

rightly, what is ess ee rightly, what is essne ess can see rightly, what is ris ee rightly, what is essne can whatis esssee rightly, what seneeisrightly, tial i what essne can r i g h t see l y, what ess is

s invisie tothe- itnovti shi ee eye.it ei s yn ley .wi i tt h isnlyw ht i t thss sr i genecane

can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is inviit is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.ible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heartth the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.ible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with t h e hear tth t h e hear

rightly, what isonly essential is eye.it invisible to with the r i s isheart theone r i with gcan h t that lsee y, essne can h ethat athe rot w h a t see sential i heart heart that one can what is rightly, essne can can see rightly, ith the ne see rightly, what is essential is that one can see see invisible to the eye.it is only with the rightly, what is essential is hehat is essential is invisible to the lrighty is, invisible to the eye.it is only what eye.it is only with the with the heart that one can see iessential s what heaightly, invisible tois rightly, with the heart that one the eye.it onlyhehat with is essne can can see rightly, what is the isis see rigightly, essential what essential is invisible to the eye.it invisible the essne canis eye.it is toheart only see rightly, is only with the heart that one with the that one can can see rightly, with the heart rightly, ith see the what is heart that one that one can see rightly, what is see rightly, whatcan is essential is invisible to essne can

h t l can y, is see rightly, whatrisi gessne what is ess

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iianlls-e visttiybh e e .o ieth is only tw h e ihatone r et that can see rightly, ith the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to with the eye.it is only the heart that one can see rightly, with the heart that one can see rightly, is essential is invisible to thethe eye.it iswhat only with hehat is essential isisinvisible to the eye.it onlyto with the hal is invisible the eye.it is only with heart thatthat oneithcanthe see rightly, the heart rone i g hcan tisl y see , what sees a et ot hnsee that one can see rightly, what is can essential isthe invisible to the l eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with heart that one can see rightly, what isonly essential is inviit is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the 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the eye.it is only with the heart that one o can see rightly, what is essential is tb h invisible to the eye.it is only with the ye heart that one can see rightly, what il e tis essential is invisible to the eye.it is i.e s only with can see hiayrtttehs,cotheart rightly, is essential is inviit is only the heart that one can see what is essential is invisible to the eye.it only with the heart twith h e that one can see rightly, what essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the with the heart that one rightly, what is h e a essential is invisible to the eye.ible eye.it is only with the heart can see rightly, what is isthe invisible to the eye.it is only with heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is hh tt,invisible to the eye.it is only with n e the heart that one can see a n what is essential is invisible to e Post' BackpackPost' ttan h Backpackeye.it iseye.it only with the lrighty heart te to only with a the heart can see iw s rightly, what is essential is e sa invisible to eye.it is only with s e that one can see tial essential is invisito isrightly, only with the heart that one can see tble e rightly, what is essential is o n e e ye .to iis tt invisible the is only is one can see w tn h essential is h to is only ris with the heart that one can see th h rightly, what is essential is o na invisible the eye.it is only c a n the one can s e see rightly, is essential rightly, is invisible to the eye.it is only see c what with heart that one can e se sionly ea what is essential inviit is only with the heart itial vih s ie that one can see rightly, what to is essential isis invisible to the tble e eye.it is only with the heart eye.it is one can see rightly, o n llrn yt-what is essential iscan invisible tthe h to thethe eye.it only with the tw heart that one see h e aie rightly, what is essential is r i g h t y , o that one invisible to the eye.it is only with that one can rcan in g tsee y, see what is what is essential is to the e s sh eye.ible to the eye.it is only tial heart that one can invisible rightly, what is to invisible to the eye.it is eye.it is only with the heart nh lthe y that one can see rightly, with what is essential h e awith t, invisible to the eye.it is that only with the heart that see one can see rightly, what rcan ig tone lrny is essential is invisible to what is the Post' BackpackPost' Backpackeye.it is only ithat s with the heart te to invisible eye.it is only with the what is heart that one can see eye.it is rightly, what is essential only is invisible to the eye.it the only with the heart that one can see rightly, can see what is essential ressential i g hheart tone ly invisible to eye.it is what is only with the heart that essential one can see rightly, iinvisible s,, what essential the eye.it is to the only with the heart that eye.it is one can see rightly, only with is essential the invisible to the eye.it is that with the heart can see that one can see rwhat i g hheart tone ly rightly, what is is essential is invisible essential to the eye.it is only s to iinvisible s, with the heart that one can see rightly, to the what is essential is eye.it is invisible to the eye.it only with is only with the heart the that can see that rightly, can see essential is inviit is rwhat i g hheart tone ly only with the heart is one can see iinessential visib le essential what is iinvisible s, is invisible to the eye.it iswith only to the with the heart that eye.it is one can see rightly, only with what is essential is the invisible to the that one eye.it only can see the heart that one rwhat i g hheart twith ly can see rightly, to the is what is essential essential is invisible to the iinvisible s, eye.it only with the heart that one to the can see rightly, eye.it is what is essential only is invisible to the eye.ible to the that one eye.it is only with can see the heart that eye. t rwhat i g hheart twith ly one can see is rightly, what essential essential iinvisible s, invisible to the eye.it is only to the with the heart eye.it is that one can only see rightly, the what that one essential isis is ivisible can see invisible to the rwhat i g hheart twith ly eye.it is is with the heart essential that one can iinvisible s, see rightly, what to the essential is eye.it is invisible to only the Post' the B ac k to the eye.it that P oeye.it s tonly can see k p athat cthe k -'- is ressential i g ihheart twith ly eye.it is only is with heart te to ito s, the is nv sheart itone b e only with the the eye.it is one can see only rightly, what only with the is essential that invisible can see to the eye.it scan e e what rwhat i g ih l ly only with is the heart essential that one i s, can see nv s itone b e rwhat i g h t l y , to the is eye.it is e s s e n t i a l the heart only with is invisible the heart to the that eye.it is can see only with r i g h l ly the heart is that one essential can ito s, rwhat ig ha tlthe lis y nv sheart itone b e is the essential thatrightly one,with canright-what eye.it iinvisible s, see only with the to that one eye.it can see o rwhat i giih l ly with the is h e rsee essential tc hn s, naa nv sheart iwith b lis e a n the s e eye.it rightly, only w h tety the the iessenthat one can see tial is rwhat i g ih tiwith lthe y invisiis ble essential teye.it h ese ito s, heart that nv sheart b lis e io s eye.it w iy, tln l y ; ito only th h e the e a ry that one can see h a th ressential g ih tiwith lthe y o n eto is c a s e one can see ito s, righ nii v sheart b lis e tw ln h eye.it a only ie the ss that one s can see n --te rwhat g ih tiwith lthe y tia is liv r i g h t l y , essential ito s, ni v sheart b lis e twha is-what s eye.it is -ies only b the le that one can see tn with the r g h ttwith lsee what is essential is invisible e s to the eye.it only the that one can heart that one can see rightly, r i g hheart l yy ,

i ials i i a sl i ials

aeye.it is only

with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is inviit is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.ible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the Post' BackpackPost' Backpackeye.it is only with the heart te to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is inviit is only with the heart that one can see rightly, w

h at invisible is eye.it essential is to the is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential invisible to the eye.it is only the heart that one can see rwhat i g hheye.it twith ly e to teye.ible e, the is with the h eg h aonly rlto t that can see rwhat tione y, is e sy she e n tial is n v s ie-t iible te is w ionly t.to th hn e eh a rih t to e c a n sright ea e yw ,h as te is sn sena l-tiivisiible tte o ey e iih st. o n ly is essential is invisibl

essential is invisible the eye.it is toheart only with the that one can see rightly, the heart thatwith one can see rightly, what is isessential isonly invisible to the eye.it with the to theheart thatisone can see rightly, the heart that eye.itone can with see rightly, what is essential is invisible the eye.it only with thetoheart that oneiscan see rightly, the heart one can see ith rightly, what is that essential is invisible to the eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it only with the heart that one can see rightly, with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.it is only the heart that one see rightly, ith the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential invisible to eye.it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, with the heart that one see what ist, essential invisible the eye.it only the heart that can see rwith ihtgoe h tcan la the a rto h a n c a n swith e right lone yyie w h st, e

eye.it is only with the heart that one can the what heart that see one rightly, can seewith rightly, is essential is with invisible to the eye.it is only the heart that one see rightly, with the can heart that can see rightly, whatone is essential isisinvisible to the eye.it only one with the heart that can see rith the that one can see rightly, ie heart ss what

eeye.it e rightly,

ÂŠYESHEY TSOGYAL

A Rose for Emily Brianna VanGiesen

(Inspired by “A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner)

Angels in colored church windows, sort of Tragic and serene – tell the story of A lonely woman with iron gray hair Who was once a delicate southern belle A dirty, white house with scrolled balconies Stands alone in the ashes of this town Full of cracked leather furniture and dust It smells of nothing but mold and decay The gray-haired woman is dressed all in black With a gold chain descending to her waist “Arsenic,” she says, “I don’t care what kind” The druggist wraps it up without question There had been a man, a tall, dark Yankee Gossiping women said they’d been married Without warning, he disappeared one day Into that house filled with dust and shadows Then the gray-haired woman fell ill and died Downstairs, tucked in a heavy walnut bed Next to the corpse of that tall, dark Yankee Stuck in the attitude of an embrace For decades, she slept next to him like that Wrapped up in his rotting dusty nightshirt She knew he couldn’t leave if he was dead And she was so sick of being alone

The Skin Skeleton Michael Mongera The nightclub seemed like a colosseum of licentious appetite against its brick exterior. The walls were saturated with red neon, lavender drapes, and the black space between each torso. The hunters inside prey upon a new carcass to flesh out upon their bedframes, and now seek to hypnotize their prey. Drinks in hand and magazine physiques readied, the watering hole is refreshed with cherry vodka. Sweat crystallizes with spray tans and enough makeup to create a mural for the wall outside. Spotlights of blue circled shapes coat and glimmer the crowd. With muscles contracting and pulsating rhythm, the animals arc their backs in mercy as the primal hunter nips the targets ear. How could a crowd, so beautiful, so hungry, and concupiscent lose their focus? It would take a presence not of their species, but one of mystery, that which I call, The Skin Skeleton. A humanoid of ink and flesh seemed as if he was hovering through the crowd of beasts. His skin was a canvas of bones, tendons, and insects. The tattoos covered every crevice of his body. The oscillating strobe light colors of red, purple, and white were enough to create an inhuman glow of his ink that read as a neon scripture of disdain. Flashing lights made it look as if Satan had materialized to discipline every underage calf for intruding in the cage. The crowd divided as if plague was festering. You couldn’t tell if the figure was scowling, frowning, or afraid, as the ink blocked most of its facial indicators of emotion. The Skin Skeleton walked past an oblivious dancing couple. A bleached blonde hare, with a netted top had flung her unconditioned locks upon a cologne drenched, spiky haired snake to attract her mate. Her immediate shock upon first glance at the Skin Skeleton had caused her to drop her roofied drink and collapse into her pack of friends. The snake had darted up to the second floor of the rave kingdom to skin the fur of another innocent rabbit. The animals all resembled a herd in headlights as the Skin Skeleton simply walked onto the floor. It wore camo styled pants with a bullwhip connected to the chain of his belt. An exotic dancer saw the figure approaching her nest. The flamingo who had plucked all her feathers gathered them up and flew the coop, and shuffled through the crowd. The pigeons that would usually lunge for her flesh were too distracted by the Skin Skeleton. For that one night, the flamingo could retire for the night without being groped. The music shut down and the room went pitch black. Suddenly, white lights started oscillating and techno music had sped up to the speed of a roadrunner. The Skin Skeleton had found his way to the flamingo’s perch and cracked the whip like lightning. The anatomy painting was looking up to the second floor as if searching for God’s answer. Up on the second floor was a falcon and a swan. The pearl white feathers of the swan were dirtied by the spit and bites of the falcon. The swan was caught in time, teetering between sleep and hell’s prance as he was too exhausted to move. The predatory falcon had zeroed in on his kill. Gasping in the swan’s ear as if death was singing him a lullaby. A lullaby to crucify the swan’s innocence.

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Freezing Brittany Talley You knew not who I am You knew not who I wanted to be You barely knew, rather you perceived You deemed, you proclaimed, you selfish villain When I strayed, you moved to slay Eyes wild, not with kindness or even compassion but malice How dare I challenge you You are always right Why waste time on frivolous words when you already know You always know In fact, why bother speaking at all Don’t interrupt, you are always talking The end is just a pause For your next bout of wisdom It would be unwise And highly considered unadvised To be seen or heard If I intended to survive My pain Your barely concealed disdain All for what Your shallow manipulative game The stakes are high Don’t look back Don’t get caught Don’t be fooled A guest, a ghost in your own home Welcome to The Cold House Misery revels here.

Sugarloaf Mountain, Maine Stephanie Waldo His whispers were cliffhangers scaling the rocky landscape. My breath caught â&#x20AC;&#x201C; that view forgotten as laundry and thoughts mixed in dirt. Above the jagged treeline the wild geraniums kissed their elevated roots as our heightened bodies caressed the summit. Each year, I hike the snowcat trail up Earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sharp cheekbone. How the granite indented our skin leaving abrasions from switching sides. How the pines smelled of sap sticking to bark, slowly slipping away. How the view catches my eye and I breathe deeply.

How to Cheat for the First Time Sara Hood Sit across the table from your wife. Eat silently. She made you a tenderloin steak, mash potatoes, and green beans. You hate green beans, but you say nothing. Continue to eat the steak that is medium-rare. You prefer your steak well-done, but again you say nothing. Your wife looks up from her plate and asks, “How is it?” Tell her, “It’s fine.” She frowns, but also says nothing, and takes a sip of Merlot. Reach for your own glass and take a gulp. It burns down your throat. Tomorrow you wake up in your king sized bed. You didn’t sleep well. The mattress is too soft, and you prefer a firmer bed, but you wanted your wife to be happy. You can’t remember the last time you had a good night’s sleep. Sit up and look over at your wife. She’s still asleep, and she’s wearing black and white flannel pajamas. Watch as she breathes loudly and wraps the comforter tightly around herself. Stand up to go to the bathroom. You see her smile once you are no longer by her side. You frown annoyed, and leave the room. It is cold out. Wear a wool sweater under your coat. The sweater was a gift from your wife. It itches uncomfortably, but it was the only warm clothing you could find. You get to work and see your good friend Kyle. He’s single and is excited to tell you about his night. Sit at your desk, which is bare except for a laptop and a pencil holder. Kyle stands next to it and tells you about this hot twenty-five year old he fucked last night. Kyle makes rude gestures as he describes her, “Her boobs were fucking huge, and hear this, you won’t believe it, but she had a tattoo on her ass that says ‘open for business’! Is that a slut for you or what?” Laugh at his crude remarks. You know Kyle is an asshole, but the two of you have been friends since college. You two have been through a lot together, and you are accustomed to his offensive jargon. It’s just Kyle being Kyle. Kyle stops his ranting and asks, “So how was your weekend?”

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Christmas Poem Shelby Maberry And I remember that one Christmas we had Three weeks early We exchanged gifts before parting Unwrapped because we couldn’t afford it Three weeks early because we had to save For rent and for family gifts But smiling rosy, toothy smiles because we were happy Despite a budgeted holiday We still had cinnamon hot chocolate And played our favorite carols on an outdated radio in the corner Singing very off-key with perfect choirs Singing perfect dissonance and vowels as round as Saint Nick Bogoroditse by Rachmaninoff, Abendlied by Rheinberger Then Hark! The Herald Angels Sing and O Holy Night Feeling blurry-eyed from the beauty of it all Sucking candy canes white and pointy Not really finding a love To share a kiss with under the mistletoe Or make love to on Christmas Eve Or sip champagne with on New Year’s But we didn’t think about it then Because we were happy Circled around a pile of measly gifts, a bowl of chocolates, empty mugs lined with white foam and peppermint bits Warm from the musty air blown around the room from the crappy heater Only able to heat up the living room And steamed eggnog we splurged on And wool mittens our mothers still insisted we wear Watching snow drift like feathers from a gray sky Piling on the ground and ruining our boots And making us laugh when it made us slip Because even though we were broke And tired And so incredibly strained by life We still found humor in everything When embers of youth were still in our veins And glowing our cheeks against the frost and gnawing air

Forgotten Kids Naomi Greenstein The meth head mom and her four screaming kids that live across the hall are playing in the parking lot again. There are no toys, so they run after each other, past parked cars and my own dirt-streaked window. Their clothes are dirty and torn in places, like under the armpit and near the collars of their faded, second-hand t-shirts. They scream and run and play until it’s dark, when they finally trudge back into their nicotine-scented apartment on bare feet blackened by the pavement. I’ve never cared much for people of the “kid variety,” but these kids get to me for some reason. Just last week, as I sat on my yellow bed quilt, one of them, a little boy with blue eyes like marbles, stopped in front of my window to look at me. For a solid minute, we locked eyes, and my insides melted more every second until he finally smiled at me and ran away, and I wept over my laptop screen.

Red Flowers Sophia Cordeiro red flowers peeling down the wall like quiet rust the bricks have lost their luster through these years and now this ghost shall crumble all to dust the morning opens with warm and cautious trust cold dew that coats the dirt and dying leaves red flowers peeling down the wall like quiet rust the streaming light, through every corner thrust long sleeping souls are stirred to slowly wake and now this ghost shall crumble all to dust like regal bird with feathers now all fussed unchanging stones are overturned in silent haste red flowers peeling down the wall like quiet rust there is a calling through the air that says, â&#x20AC;&#x153;We must!â&#x20AC;? the forceful call of things that cannot stay and now this ghost shall crumble all to dust unnoticed day to day, or month to month this sinking mammoth slowly shall be sunk red flowers peeling down the wall like quiet rust, and now this ghost shall crumble all to dust

The Person in the Elevator Emily Rossi I am standing in a vast place. That is the only word I can use: place. For, how I got here I do not know. Surely I could not have walked here all the way from home. Home is where I was merely seconds ago. The only sign of life is a building bookended by flat, unoccupied land. Dry, dead land. It stands against a blue sky. When I say blue, I do not mean the happy kind. It is dull and foreboding. The building I see is a simple, one-story building. There are few windows. I try with great exertion to peer inside the world contained by the walls, as if waiting for a face to appear and scare me. An anxious, sickly feeling spreads through me, beginning in my stomach and churning all around my body until it reaches my head. It is as if my body recognizes this pace, but I am somehow disconnected from the now. I can tell that this is not a place I want to go to. “Hello.” An oddly cheery voice sings off to my right. I turn and cringe slightly at her smile. I do not reply, but simply scrutinize her. She is wearing a flowing white gown, this kind being the ‘happy’ kind, though, it still displeases me somehow. Her hair is a rich brown, natural. Her smile is one that would be contagious if I were the type of person prone to such things. I am not. If one were to look upon my face they would see no residual wrinkles from smiles or laughter, only the indent on my right middle finger from the two contracts I had just signed. And perhaps dark spots beneath my eyes, I have never been prone to sleep. “Are you going to come in?” She remains happy and my irritation only increases. I want to walk away and forget this place and yet, I feel that is not possible. “I am afraid to.” It is not the answer I was expecting to say, but she does not act surprised by my answer. “Don’t worry, everyone is, but it is never quite as bad as you think it will be.” She holds out her hand to guide me, but I refuse it, uncomfortable. This does not faze her elation either and I get the urge to shake the pleasure right off her perfect face.

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The Magician In Me Cole Prots

Ripped Jeans Sara Hood Clothing provides: comfort, warmth, and protectionâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; yet these holes with frayed edges brings cold and vulnerability fashioning anxiety. The lack of thread leaves only the needle pricking the exposed skin, ridding the fabric, and spreading the wound.

Beasts from Before Jacob Leach At the great and powerful bay, people come from afar to stay. To see images from that voiceless man, who speaks through the flames in shades of cyan. The shining sun begins to wane, like an ancient man with a cane. He speaks through the fluttering flame, with images of beasts not tame. Salt flies in that heat from the shaman’s withered hand, proclaiming the past of this broken land. The vicious things appear and fly, for all to see before their eyes. They admire the beasts from a long lost time, for they’re only humans covered in grime. The beasts had wings, long necks and tails, that could spit flames and had hardened scales. Children look up with widened eyes, stretching their bodies, trying to rise, wanting to see their land from the sky. ‘Specially to feel what it’s like to fly.

I Know Where You Slept Last Night Michael Mongera You were intimate with the stars, but your bed became cold cold as the dew of the dusk grass you tried to match the concrete cracked and cold, too tough to talk your problems are simple my love with loneliness, you don’t speak and the head games only fester there is no conclusion in darkness the darkness of the night and its sky you have the moon but it can’t hold your hand the bus stop is not a picnic table the bus ride only takes you farther farther from your home away from the warmth of your bed your friend is lonely in the top bunk your family in the living room has an empty seat don’t you miss yourself and your value of intimacy? Intimacy, a stress ball for another man please retire to your shelter and sleep in your bed with me. Not next to me.

Sisters: a Kaleidoscope Megan Pacileo he first time I met you, a little blip on the screen. Nothing more than a little black and white T squiggle. They were all happy, but me, aged three, I didn’t understand. Didn’t know the blurred image would expand and grow to become a person all her own. We didn’t know you were a she, that first day, a family of four, soon to be a family of five. e are three. A trio. Two blonde, one brown. Laying on the upstairs, landing, our hair a mixture W of colors and patterns on the carpet. Our feet in different rooms, but our heads and hands nearly touch in the middle. Laughter filling the silence of the night. Who knows who started it, or what was funny, but there was love. Now, our feet are all pointed different directions: one already settled in D.C, one pointing to Japan, and one still deciding her path. Yet, we are still three. A trio. Unbreakable, even when separate. We both agree you’re very good at being young, my dear. A perfect specimen of teenager. And yet wanting to be grown-up. We give advice, that you’ll ignore, because we’ve been there. You think we don’t understand, the paths you’re trying to take, because we’ve all taken our own. But we’ve been in your place, stood where you’re standing, and looked at the vastness of life before us, as you look into your future now in its infinity. ballerina, you’ve always been. Full of grace. We watched you from the wings as you took the stage A that final year. Watched as the stage lit you up. We had never seen anything more beautiful. I’m not sure which one of us cried – probably both – but we remember being proud. The kind of pride that fills your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Because you were beautiful, and watching you dance, filled us with light. his morning we talked over coffee, me dressed in my grown-up clothes, you in your purple T bathrobe. We spoke of nothing and everything. The babble of early morning. These are my favorite moments. The moments where nothing is really happening, and there is stillness all around. I know soon we’ll be separated, our feet planted in different worlds, so these moments I cherish. The moments I watch you when you think I’m not looking. I ’d tell you, if you’d listen, all the things I think you need to hear. I worry. But, we’re separate people. Both Geminis, but not twins. I am not you, and you are not me. I’d tell you to find your own way, forge your own path, and all those other clichés. For while they are overused, they also ring with truth. You have a life ahead of you that is all your own.

At Least I Tried Abigail Stevens A musician of broken bones tickling ivories while the nervous system plays countermelody. Staccato bursts of red in your vision. You cradle the knife in your abdomen like just another fractured rib. You are the instrument and He runs the bow over your snapped strings, Taps rhythms on taut skin, puts his lips to the mouthpiece and returns, tasting like blood. But still expects you to sing an aria, voice lilac and indigo fluting over the nightscape. And damn, are you sick of being a songbird. Morning comes, you, brushing your teeth with a cigarette, sometime in the night, bruises blossomed over your face. People notice - whisper, snicker, look at you like a posterdog for the ASPCA so on the way home from work, you stop by his house – the one with the slanted roof and arches too gaudy to be beautiful – and leave him a note: “Dear God, I would like to try forgiveness now.”

Counting Sheep Hannah Kozich I heard you should count sheep to fall asleep, but how can I sleep when I can’t escape the feeling of drowning – drowning in my thoughts and regrets? Going over and over the littlest things that I did. I try to count, one hundred, ninety-nine – but the sheep shouts at me about the words I never said – ninety-eight, ninety-seven – and wished that I did – ninety-six, ninety-five – but I can’t go back – ninetyfour, ninety-three – only to sleep – ninety-two, ninety-one, ninety…

Confectionery Rosemarie MolĂŠ

Behind the Uniform Miranda Wall It was Saturday, the seventeenth of October at 10:32 a.m. Every car pulled over in front of them. Rick was giving orders from the officer’s seat of the fire truck. “We’re gonna need suction, the AED, RAD... just grab everything. Kristen, you get the clipboard.” She nodded. “Easy enough,” she thought. She “grabbed the clipboard” every time they went to a scene. The crew got out of the truck faster than she had ever seen. They stretched the blue, non-latex gloves over their strong hands and rushed into the nursing home. Kristen ran after the rest of the crew, all made up of men. When they reached the correct room, Kristen was ordered to the nurses’ station to take information. She just about finished writing down a woman’s name, birthday, and some medical history when Rick leaned out of the doorway and said, “Kristen, we need you in here.” She turned around and moved down the hallway to the door, looking in to get directions. Rick asked her to confirm that she knew cardiopulmonary resuscitation. She paused for half of a second and nodded, handing the clipboard to Rob, an older member of the company. She went into the room; Jake was to the right of the bed giving compressions to the elderly woman. David was to the left of the woman’s head pumping the bag-valve mask against her face. “Are you ready? Hard and fast. I’ll count down from three, and I want you to jump in on ‘one’. If your arms get tired, say the word and we’ll switch. Three . . . Two . . One . . “

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Surreal Self-Portrait Tim Weisgerber

Be You H’ian Hale Be You Why do you do this? If a human was meant to swim, God would have given him gills. Instead you persist on being what you’re not. You choose to be like me. Why do you do this? If a human was meant to fly, God would have given him wings. Instead you persist on being what you’re not, You choose to be like me. Why do you do this? Do you envy the fish? Are you jealous of the birds in the air? Do you ask, God, why am I not like the fish of the water? Why can’t I fly like the birds? Be thankful For your words are powerful. Let your songs fill the earth.

300 Word Car Crash Heather Swede Things seemed to slow down when we hit that patch of black ice. One minute you were telling me a stupid joke, something you had read on a popsicle stick about a cactus, and the next the world was spinning. You screamed at me to hit the brakes, and I slammed my foot into the pedal, but the car didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop spinning. I yanked the wheel to avoid hitting a tree, and thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when the car went over the bridge. For what seemed like minutes, we were avoiding gravity and flying. You looked at me with wide eyes filled with fear, your hand reaching for mine. I looked to my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel and willed them to reach toward you, but they were glued down by fear. Bones locked into place. I felt your hand clasp my shoulder bringing my attention back to you. Your big eyes now had tears in them, your mouth still parted in a scream, one hand still clinging to your seatbelt. I heard our screams mix into a horror-filled melody. Felt myself float from my seat, these seats that you loved so much because they had the built-in warmers. We rose up toward the sunroof, the cover open because you wanted to watch the snow fall. Our seatbelts were the only things holding us back from going through that window and into the snow covered sky. Your hair rose up above your head, and I watched as the strands started to fall back into your face, slowly one by one. Then I felt myself hit the seat again. Felt as we stopped flying and started to fall. Eyes round with fear, mouth opened in scream, hands holding on tight. We crashed into the frozen ground. That was when you died.

Just Breathe Jake Tarasovich Inhale your breath of life and begin to think about all the times good and bad. Exhale my problems that push me to the brink. If life is a ship that will never sink, just let me watch from beyond the lily pad as I inhale your breath of life and begin to think. Breaking through the green with the shade of purplish pink, pondering life as a young lad. I exhale my problems that pushed me to this brink. Roaming these shores with a slow slink now living a life of a nomad inhaling this life as I still think. It isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t written in stone, but only ink I hope to discover this sacred triad as I exhale my sins that pushed me to the brink. Perhaps we are just here to eat and drink, and this life is nothing but a fad. But I will just inhale your breath of life and think, as I exhale my problems that pushed me over the brink.

Sprites Eva Kocienewski

A Wall William Fistek

Exploding through the wall, but not actually moving ...screaming a feeling that this is not who I want to be. insanity seems to take over as I reach for you. A hole in the wall that isn’t actually there. Again my mind is feeling like everything is exploding.

into feeling.

This feeling is… I can’t stop; it won’t stop. Leave me alone, I cry. Hopeless, helpless, distant-Distant and away,

Something doesn’t work; Every decision hurts. It can’t be just me. A head A space blank is always there. I keep drifting in and out-an unhealthy cycle.

ache,

Twinge Sarah Mignogna My head is splitting, sitting, wilting little silly smiling. Smiles, the crazed gaptoothed seething teething wonderful thing. Wring, sing. Such a jolly fling. Sting, swinge; such a life held close: the most with your boast. Cry child make a sigh, a sign or a no wait! take me spinning foolish girl. Twirl me in these spiraling sparkles falling from the sky falling from my eyes crawling from these wrists; mommy, darling baby innocent cheekbones and the misplaced freckle. Muscles, stuffles. Scuttles and stained tile. You foul thing on holy soil, coil and bent. Coy and sent. A whisper or a whimper the face knows no difference. Face lace grace pace. The wandering wonder wait and state. Bent and curved the spine crawls out of its skin. Win, crawling from some unloved thing. Splitting witting silly little thing, ebbed from its spring; akin to a strain or some rain – maybe all of this is too sane. Wane, feign. Wolfbane and curved bone. Stone, etched and carved. Hacked to shape a form; a form, a splitting splintering crevice drops. Drops down down into such a question of what? Who’s who and where’s which way? Who are these people and how do I find the water? Splitting singing songbirds silly silly in my head – little birdies atop my fingers lost between my ears. Ears, sears. Silly silly girl you cannot see! Blinded by this noise! Ringing singing splitting song, carry along forlorn more than this petty search in the dark – yet I cannot see these walls speak.

Lady-Likeness Alicia Rogers I trace over the familiar crack in the wall again, marveling at the way it branches off from the corner. It reminds me of something--something from the outside world. Something I’d seen back then, back when I went outside. But what was it? No matter. I glance down at my hands, frowning at a thick dirt obscuring my nails. Mother wouldn’t be pleased to see this. I slide from my mattress onto the cold concrete below, forgetting to mind my skirt. Oh dear! That wasn’t lady-like. Sorry, mother. I’ll try to do better. But what was I doing when I stood up in the first place? Oh yes. The dirt. My nails. Must stay looking pretty. And besides, with all this dirt, I can’t see my pretty flowers. Mother said always act like you have an audience, and ladies do not have dirty nails. Wash it away, wash it away. Wash away the dirt again. Scrub scrub scrub scrub. Scrub it off. Scrub away the ugly. There! I can see the lily permanently etched onto my hand. Good thing I didn’t lose that. Can’t be the perfect lady Mother always wanted without it. And I remember that odd little non-girl. Don’t want to be her again. When I trace over the lily, I feel a strange yearning coming from it, and I can tell it wants to hear the story of that little girl again. It likes that story, likes hearing about how the little creature fit into the world. I’ve told this story a number of times, so I pick up my allotted bottles of paint, my one solace in this sterile prison, and go to work on my project as I begin. “A mother’s voice: She was sent home again for fighting. Why can’t she be like other little girls? She’s your daughter too. Buy her some ‘girl’ games. All she ever plays is those silly fighting, adventure games, and they’re no good for her. How will she learn to be a lady from those? And those books she reads! Not a single one with a girl protagonist! And she’s been drawing her dinosaur pictures again. Shouldn’t she draw-- oh, I don’t know-- kittens or bunnies or princesses? No, I bought her the dress like you said, but she refuses to wear it. Prefers those dirty shorts that show off her scabby legs. Sneakers too, never anything else. And today, she told me she wants short hair! She wants to cut it all off! No one will know she’s even a girl at this rate!”

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Icarus Elijah Kurtiss And thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the difference between Icarus and me He was given golden wings and I a bed sheet Not that it matters after all we both tried to reach the sun

Goodbye Persephone Alyssa Kuczka She was unusually quiet that day Her mint green eyes glazed in the distance brushing aside her rose gold hair I kissed her forehead and laid back The dark silken sheets of my chamber were the calm waves of the ocean in the night right before a storm She rested on top on my chest and swam her fingers through My long abyssal hair every breath she released she sunk into me As if trying to become an immovable weight I knew the time was passing I knew she could not stay The metal chariot was ready we rode, speaking as if it were another day There was no moon but the soft glow of stars made the melting ice glisten Our hug was brief, gentle it made the release easier as I rolled away I recalled our last few days dancing, drinking, loving I could still taste her lips and feel her heat How long would it take for my body to grow cold again My journey reached home as I lay in my chambers memories of her danced within me as imagery turned to dreams I woke the next morning cold Her taste gone, she was gone Just another day in hell

A Typical Day for a Customer Service Agent Alicia Rogers The rabbit munches grass as death draws near. The trees and brush reveal a form-- a beast. It’s got its eyes on rabbit meat-- a feast and rabbit’s frozen, petrified with fear and feels the heavy weight of beastly leer and feels the sharp-toothed jaw of hungry beast. Death’s calming touch has soothed the pain, at least. The winner of this struggle, now made clear. “My room has not been cleaned yet. What the hell?” “I’ll send someone to clean it right now, sir.” “I will not pay to stay in this hotel!” “For that, you’ll have to talk to my manager.” “He’ll give this stay for free, your job as well!” Now all that’s left is bits of rabbit fur.

A Thousand Needles Elise Lashinsky I see a thousand needles, nestled on your tongue, ready to refute the lies that were told as truth, but your worry wipes the wit, that’s wobbling on your lips far away, from that impending cliff because once a word jumps from his mother’s mouth, there’s no telling whether he’ll fly free or fall flat. A thousand nestled needles can’t mend your broken voice or hem the list of things you never got to say. They can’t sew your self-esteem back into your soul or darn your daunted dreams that were stolen long ago. They can’t stitch closed the holes those heathens put in you or suture shut your ever screaming wounds. There are a thousand things that I should have said to those wretched bullies who always taunted you, but I kept my words close and I didn’t try to mend your thousand throbbing wounds. But now it’s time that I give my words to you, so you can repair the scars that line your heart. You have a thousand needles, but not an ounce of thread. But when you put this thread I give to you through the needle’s waiting eye, you’ll finally see yourself as more than a beaten, boxed-in mime. You have a thousand things to say, but you’re afraid to close your hurts because you want to remember all those wicked words that made you, you. But how could you forget, the thousand nestled needles that they taught you how to thread or the thousand things you someday will have said? Show them that the words you never got to say are well worth the wait, Through a thousand threaded needles, flying off your tongue.

To Write Heather Swede To is horizontal and vertical strikes sitting next to a small globe. To write is to put pen to paper fingers to keyboard. To write an is to take the first letter of the alphabet and squish it with the 14th. To write an essay is to look at fact and record it next to opinion. To write an essay for a professor is to focus on details and edits. To write an essay for you because you were lazy is to put in minimal effort. To write an essay for someone else is to be pissed and uncaring. To write an essay requires time which I do not have because of you. To write an assignment for another person is frustrating. To write is supposed to be a comfortable and fluid action, to do it for you makes writing painful.

Daedalus Flies Home Sophia Cordeiro Watching an angel fall from the sky. Horror-stricken, and no safe harbor to land with weary wings. Prodigal son, poor boy, pushed higher, higher. Fell like lead, felt ocean and Earth open up to greet him. And now this tearing, this lonely tormenting. Grief, and no ground to give strength to shaking knees. The ocean beckons, opens its arms, says â&#x20AC;&#x153;sink.â&#x20AC;? It sings healing hymns with a salty tongue and tires him, tries him. It is too hard to stay in the air as body and mind sink with his son. He falters, longs for dirt to dig into with angry fists. For grass to rip at, give his gutting pain to. He screams, spats hate into the ocean and stares out over the setting sun. Suspended between his two enemies, he is paralyzed. Wretched wings pumping air he no longer wants. He hears them creak and moan and hopes that they will break before he reaches home, his decision made for him.

Shell Alyssa Kuczka The part you see while itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s alive is only half the story. The rigid edges keep everything inside tight to hold it together. It seems so tiny but no one could get through the pale beige barrier it had surrounded itself with. Only once it had died could it be unhinged and the other half shown; the inside a stark comparison with its glossy and bright surface. The purple-blue bruising brushed along the inside makes one wonder about the struggles it had in life. Now what it is, functions only for a single purpose, a memory.

Dragon Queen Abigail Stevens Mother rakes her fingers over my scalp and says, “You have such beautiful hair, my dear.” The smoky coils spiraling the column of my throat swallowed. She says, “Darling, you should smile more.” When she speaks, her breath smells like fraudulence. “I do.” Mine smells like brimstone. “Good,” she replies, “You look much better when you do.” And ‘thank you’ clunks to the floor, to the same rhythm and rhyme of footsteps against September pavement. The night I ran with the bright-eyed boy through the sleepy neighborhood, circling the city blocks like Thoreau’s Icarian birds, he said that together the world could be ours.

Dragon Queen excerpt continues on mercyhurst.edu/lumen/excerpts

It’s Carlena Bressanelli It’s the broken glass, the chipped tea cup, the one beautiful mistake in a painting that only you notice, it’s the smell of a put out cigarette still lingering in the air, it’s the friend you start to have feelings for, it’s the key found in an abandoned building, it’s the scratch on a car, it’s the scar on a body, it’s the wound of an animal, and finally, it’s someone holding a lighter ready to burn the place down. All of these things we notice or at least most of them and we don’t question it, we just let it go on or it’s too late. The once chipped tea cup is now in ruins, the friend you have feelings for is taken, and the scratch on the car turns into a dent. The beautiful mistake becomes a found flaw, the abandoned building is torn down, and the broken glass becomes a mess of its own. The scar multiples into more, the wound turns into decay and the smell of the cigarette creates a tumor. The once flicking lighter sets off growing flames.

Guilty Ignorance Casey Bleuel We tighten the blindfold over our eyes, stuff cotton deep into our ears. Freeze our hearts so as not to feel, dry our eyes to prevent the tears.

We tend to treat these people as lifeless, cold, and distant. Disguised as faceless numbers rendering them insignificant.

We train our brains to think in numbers. 100 million homeless. 65.3 million refugees. 17.8 million orphans. But do we ever think about their humanity while in our comfy beds we slumber?

While impossible to know 7 billion stories, and remember 7 billion namesâ&#x20AC;Ś We owe it to our brothers and sisters to sympathize with their pain.

We carry heavy shields of wood and stone and steel. Protect ourselves from their stories denying what is. Separated by thousands of miles of rolling, boiling seas. Comforted by solid walls and certain futures dehumanizing the statistics we read. Do we ever stop to think About orphan number 98,143? She kneels by her bed every night small hands clasped with a heavy heart. She fiercely prays with tears in her eyes for a mother to protect her from the dark. Do we ever sit and wonder about refugee number 145,639? His flimsy boat lurches back and forth in the furious, pounding waves. He holds his daughter tight against his chest and tells her to be brave. Do we ever try to understand Homeless man number 26,748,229? He sleeps on concrete and glass but refuses to open his hands. He works odd jobs and lives off the land a single cent he will never demand.

Tales Within an Inch Jacob Leach What tales can be told in the eyes of man? For we all have words to say about ourselves and the past, from events close or from around the world they span. What can be said about their past if they ran? Was it hardships that befell them, or were they outcasts? What tales can be told in the eyes of man? Maybe he’s better off as he rides in his Sedan, or in his ship to which he adjusts the mast. How far around the globe has this man spanned? What spots have they tread after leaving pale and returning tan? Is it a place they’ve dreamt to go and finally have at last? What tales can be told in the eyes of man? In this child’s mind he imagines, in a time in which his life just began, seeing himself as a knight who’s strong and steadfast. To where will this boy’s imagination span? The times may be tough as man or as easy as a child playing kick the can, but how fun we will see it was as it went by fast! What tales can be told in the eyes of man, from events close or from around the world they span!

Drift Elijah Curtiss I am a nomad I am a vagrant I am loner and a drifter And everything else I pass through othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; lives Never touching Always watching Observing Always wanting A hearth A home A family and friends Fairytales with a happy end But for me, no I am banned from the warmth Castaway Leper Unclean Unfit To live in such luxury So I roam I explore And I found you Abandoned on the roadside Lost and Confused A fellow traveler Used and abused And now we walk Side by side Still alone In a way But with matching stride

Snow on the Moon Sarah Mignogna Lost in a crisp stark sharpness, a bliss mixed in an unknowing of profound insight – Snow falls from stars on a cosmos scape, fixed when ice spins as glitter in blackened night. A dreamer’s dream finds this somewhere unseen: tinsel dancing with winds on lunar lands, twinkling sands with a metallic sheen. Within a snow in bloom, the mind expands. Reflecting in irony of numbness, one can’t see, or breathe, even feel searing freezer burn on suffocating tight skin. Purple frozen crisping tissue, a mess of muscle and bone, soon disappearing into an ash with new glittering kin.

I read Megan Pacileo that not all who wander are lost and that moss always grows on the north side of the rock. Pointing the way for lost souls. I left home in the early morning, feet leading my way out the door. And I followed where they lead. To the sea, the mountain. Smell the air, kiss the earth. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be home soon. The sun above me, the earth below me. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you worry about me. A green hand guides my feet. A beacon, a homecoming, to wayward travelers. Ireland. Deep in the woods - where the path is still un-walked by human feet. The stalwart stone sits pointing the way; maybe I want to stay lost.

The Gravedigger’s Reflection Kevin Roche Lo how the mighty have fallen; for what great lengths have been dreamt, from darkness to life and back to the absence of which wrought such small light into the skulls of those sleeping. Die Eigengrau of eternal slumber surely yields its never ending veil hiding the bounty of realms beyond. Die Sonne sheint für immer. and yet; for this too night must come calling with its drowning hand. Die Nacht geht immer. but not always; for daylight’s piercing lance cannot be denied. perhaps they stand in balance locked together treading upon the knife’s edge, neither yielding or attacking. Forever on balance. Für immer sheint. Für immer verstekt.

Tired Eyes Cat Messina I keep imagining your eyes, broken, tired, beautiful looking at me like a yesterday, over with, done for, gone. I see those eyes hovering over me at night watching me toss and turn in bed, meeting mine when I give up and stare at the ceiling instead. I looked into those eyes once, when you were smiling. They were twinkling like the stars you know I love. They made me feel safe and sound. I lied to those eyes once. I whispered that I loved you, knowing that I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mean it, yet still thrived at the way they lit up. I saw the tears pooling in those eyes, but I never saw them fall. They stayed unshed, watching mine trek down my cheeks. I watched those eyes roll at my dramatics, silently asking me to stop. Making me shrink back into myself and let you, let me walk away. Now, I display to those eyes, my selfish-colored heart, my broken-etched soul my guilt-covered love. And allow them to ruin me.

Slow Dive (Dreamscape) Michael Mongera The abrasions of wind collect as medals upon his skin. Open sores still breathing, and pleading for sustenance. The grey clouds above match the fog of his peripheral. The vision of the muddled lake ahead, grey as the sky. He dips his toe into the petri body of twigs and leaves. His mouth dry, carving wheezing sighs as music. Bending weak knees and raising scarred wings and with just one leap a Bethlehem of mercy upon the other side emerges. He surfaces to a bright world, color and flora in abundance. The grass as green as lime, sharp in shape but soft as silk. The sky painted an orange and threaded like pink gossamer. Bushes of annuals adorn glass furniture in the distance. The man walks towards the transparent throne falling to his knees to the seat of the reflective chair. Rain begins to fall, glistening the sun and mirrors. Heat from his anger condensates upon the glass The rain disguises his tears and grey saturated sweat. The soil washes away to expose the crystallized salt. His clothes and hair dampened, a Shawshank blessing. He has reached his Babylon, his future, his relief.

Nothing Tereza Pintur Waking up to frigid air seems so haunting. Strip the guilt off your lifeless body. The sun is here lingering upon your drained head. It begs of you to open your eyes. Everyone and everything knows youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re there. Lying still under the covers but not asleep. You are awake but not alive. You havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been in a long time.

Snapshot Memories Katheryn Yomes

Snapshot Memories graphic novel excerpt continues on www.mercyhurst.edu/lumen

Trees or Candles? Ryan Danaher The candlelight shakes in the wind Shakes like the leaves on the trees in fall Covering the room in reds, oranges and yellows Just like the candle. Warmth and colors covering the ground The trees burn with the color of a candle. Are candles tree-scented? or are trees candle scented? The wick burns low More color covers the ground Is it a race? The trees run out of leaves The candle runs out of wick The light fades And the seasons change Vibrant colors give way to darkness Warmth gives way to the cold and winter.

Divided Casey Bleuel We are divided. Stretched on the rack until we are separated, limbs popping and muscles tearing from the strain of dislocation a condemnation of those who do not share our beliefs. Desperate for homogeneity, we try to melt silver, bronze, copper, and gold not caring that they have different melting points or that they shine bright in their own right. Defying chemical law, our opposites do not attract. Love or hate. Black or white. Yes or no. Wrong or right. Our country, once a beautiful mosaic in Jimmy Carter’s eyes… different colors, different shapes held together by the glue of freedom… is cracking, the lines that separate us growing deeper more divisive and with one quick blow we will shatter. It seems as though compromise is a fantasy. A mythical land without borders, teeming with colorful butterflies, that is light-years away.

The Stirring Jeanette Fournier A stirring The softest A strangeness It oft has A faint beat So delicate A slow heat So well it fit Oh stirring Kills me so All softness Just for show Sweet breath Sweet awake The sweetest death The sweetest take

Again, We Rise Eleanor Hein You may write yourself in history with your hateful, twisted lies, and tear apart the path we tread, but from the cracks, we’ll rise. Does our independence upset you? Do our freedoms bring you gloom? While your heart pumps with oil wells, our hearts beat to the sunlight’s tune. And just like the sun will rise, and as the moon guides the tides, with certainty of tomorrow high, still, we will rise.

On “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou

Up from bouts of your victim blaming, We rise. We are as the ocean, living and wide, pushing your poisons aside with the tide, leaving behind your polluted fear, We rise. We bear the water that is left clean and clear, We rise. Bearing in mind all that Angelou gave, the dream of the poor and the hope of the slave, We rise We rise We rise.

You may wish to see us broken, we look down and hide our eyes, which swell, like waves, with tears, then, like tsunamis, we rise. If Maya Angelou had the strength to put hate like yours to shame, then prepare for what is coming, for we’ve got gold mines in our brains. You may shoot us down with hatred, you may cut us with your lies, you may kill us with you your politics, but still, like air, we’ll rise. Does our determination scare you? Does it come as a surprise that the day you try to rape us, we’ll hide knives between our thighs? Out of rants of your racist shaming, We rise.

The Burned Bridge Hannah Kozich It takes so much to please anyone. We’re a sky as lightning strikes through. Torn apart, we only continue to tear deeper, arguing over politics, religion, and Starbucks’ holiday cup. Continuing to argue over immigrants, wars, and Internet hackers. Why continue to tear when we need to build? Build a wall, why a wall? Why not a bridge between brothers and sisters? We can only work when we work together. So forget what CNN says and if the Starbucks’ cup is green or red. Focus on what is important because before you know it, we’ll be back at the civil war only we’ll be fighting the brothers and sisters on the other side of the burned bridge.

Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel Jeanette Marie Fournier Elizabeth Klucher, soprano | Nathan Hess, piano Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel is a translation of a poem by Sappho, the Greek poet. This song was written for soprano Elizabeth Klucher, who graduates this spring. Lizzie is a coloratura soprano, so I wanted to write something that would show off her high notes. As a performer, Lizzie is capable of extreme intensity, and I knew I also wanted a highly emotional, dramatic text that would allow her to show off her voice and dramatic abilities this way. Another thing important to me for this song was setting it to a poem written from a woman’s perspective by a female poet; needless to say, I had a lot of trouble finding a text that fit all of these requirements. I love the poet Sappho, and after reading through some of her poems, I found “Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel,” and I could immediately hear the melody and Lizzie’s voice singing the words of the poems. I also saw the opportunity of dramatic high notes on the exclamations. The antiquity of the poem inspired me to create an empty, dissonant atmosphere that I saw as a very light lilac color.

POEM Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry; Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But oh, who ever felt as I!

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My Brother Muhammad Elise Lashinsky When we were eight-years-old Your parents died and you came into my life Mom took you in, warmly in her arms, The last reminder of her dead best friend. But you were so different, not like me— Muslim American. I couldn’t understand why you had to be a part of my life. You weren’t like us and you never would be. I wanted you and your strange ways to go back from where they came. I said, “This kid is not American, no matter what he claims.” Because the America I knew, didn’t look like you I remember that first day, heading off to school Third graders weren’t so fond of you; Neither were the teachers who thought you looked like the jihadists on the news. I was no different, I thought the same of you We were all so confused Wounds of 9/11 fresh America was bleeding Putting up its walls Guard up, sensibility down We were hurting But two wrongs are never right The things we said were far too cruel Little terrorist That Muslim boy Go back to your mosque Read the Bible not the Qur’an Your savior is corrupt Ours, of course, is not Mom sat me down When she saw that I was just as cruel As all the other kids at my school She told me “He is your brother, You must treat him as such He believes in different things But that does not make him bad He wants much of the same as us But has a different way of getting what he wants.”

My Brother Muhammad cont.

She explained what it really meant To be a Muslim in America How there was prejudice And that it wasn’t right Then she pulled you by her side Explaining that your heart was kind I felt a shame fill my little heart I had been cruel to my brother With only goodness in his eyes From that day on You were my truest friend But that is not the end Because as we grew older Your hurts didn’t stop Suspicious eyes, Thinking the same things Terrorist Traitor Un-American Sketchy Scary Cruel But you were none of those things They had it so wrong The terror The fear The distrust were only ever in their minds because when it came to you, Muhammad, you only were kind People misunderstood They jumped to conclusions They saw destruction And assumed it was you My brother Muhammad, The sweetest of souls, You didn’t share our beliefs But you were a gift to our family, Warding away our bigotry Our gift from God or Allah, Whoever he may be

Panoply Ben Kolbrich I will not allow you to touch my quick for I’ve got walls a mile high and a meter thick. My armor does not gleam from innate worth but I have found a way to polish the depths of Earth. Plated shields the color midnight they gleam to find their form again I would not ever dream. No other cover would serve my purpose they’ve all got gaps and holes in their purchase. But I know deflection isn’t the right way to peace and so I harden my blank bones, turn my face to the light. My muscles are ceramic slabs that have no give these accusations I now know will never cease. Feed more fuel to my industrious heart, burning hard and bright your hate will pass around me as grains to a sieve.

Customs Megan Pacileo It was customary in those days to wrap the white cloth around your head, just as it was forbidden to look into mirrors, or to look upon the face of another. So, every morning she woke, wrapped the white cloth around her head to hide her face, and went about her day. She walked down the quiet, tree-lined street, her purse gripped tightly in her hand. She was headed towards the quiet coffee shop on the quiet corner across the way. She walked in, sat, placed her purse on the seat next to her, and primly folded her hands in her lap. Back rim-rod straight, she waited. The waitress came and asked if she wanted anything. Thanks, but she was okay, was her reply. And still she waited. It was customary in those days to be assigned to another, the person it was decided you would marry. And so, she waited for him to walk through the door, this man she was someday going to be married to. She glanced at the door, every time it opened with a cheerful twinkle, then quickly back down at her lap. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to seem too eager. But he never walked through the door. Eventually, the waitress came back, and she ordered a coffee, thank you very much. She sipped it thoughtfully, eyes glued to the door. She set her cup down, folded her hands in her lap, and thought. Suddenly, the door opened with a cheerful twinkle, and in he walked. Tall, with a black suit and tie on his lanky frame. She waved, then embarrassed, placed her hand back in her lap. He walked over, sat, ordered a coffee, thank you very much, and looked at her. It was customary in those days to get married the day after you met the person you were assigned to. The following day, they met at the local courthouse, on a quiet stretch of street, and let the ceremony happen. Slipping the rings onto each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fingers, it was made official; they were husband and wife. It was customary in those days to move into the house owned by the male in each designated partnership. She slowly packed up the final few things in her house. Outside in the car, her new husband waited to take her to his house, their house, where they would begin their life together. She folded her last few pieces of clothes, setting them carefully into her suitcase. She grabbed it tightly, and headed out the front door. She shut the door behind her, heard the lock click, and knew she would never be returning to that house.

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To My Dear Parents from the Other Side of the World Hui Li Dear parents, Do you know I miss you so bad? I cry in my dreams when I dream about you, I miss you every time I touch my hair, because it is you who gave me it, I think of you in the holidays we should have spent together, You are always in my heart. Dear parents, Do you know I love you so much? I want to share all my novel experiences I got here, I would like to show you the attractive places I traveled around, I can’t wait to share the delicious foods I ate with you, You are always my love. Dear parents, Do you know I want to talk with you so much? I desire to chat with you when I feel lonely, I long to confide my anxiety and worries every time I’m in trouble, I just want to fly to be around you when I get hurt. You are always my listeners. Dear parents, Are you aware that I also need personal room? I would like to share my love experience with you, but am afraid of hearing dissent from you, I prefer to open my heart to share everything with you, I believe it only takes a little time for both of us to make a confession, so I can tell you my little secrets. You’re always the ones I trust. Dear parents, Do you feel that I pray for you everyday? I’m so far from you that I cannot reach, I believe God will protect both you and me if we tie together by hearts, I hope we can understand each other so we will not feel so lonely, You’re always close to me.

Two Shades of Red Choreography: Victoria Morris Music: The Troubles by U2; Moonlight Sonata by Ludwig van Beethoven Dancers: Lucas De Marines & Rachel Rhodanz

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A Nickle for My Thoughts Elise Lashinsky I see something in the sky. But what is that thing with feathers? Because it sure isn’t hope It’s the raven, that flies low Reminding me that I’m not free I’m locked away, in a brain. The captured raven burst through the broken bars That once locked him in, but he shouldn’t be unleashed Because the raven lives to chain the free. He doesn’t care if his ideas tear the world apart. As long as no one can soar as high as he. The wretched raven can fly, But my wings have been clipped And I’m hidden away Like I’m worthless Like I mean nothing at all Like I’m an angel who only lives to fall I wasn’t born to be saved I was born to save All those souls, Who gave up hope long ago, But will I be successful? I don’t think so. I was born in a wasteland, a yellowing wood Where wistful words have no worth, Birds are locked into coil cages, And I hear them singing a somber song, All across America and far beyond. They sing the only bars that can ever set them free, A melodious summon to the landlocked ocean And to the endless sky, That’s crying, calling just to be released from the same force that strangles me. A drowning man sings to a sanguine sea, Screaming, shouting, please let me free! As the waves helplessly shiver, under the cold hearted sun, Unable to liberate the man from their salty grip, Or quench the thirst of a thousand dreams deferred. I try to reason with the raven, who wants to destroy All on earth that’s good. I doubt he’ll listen, but it sure can’t hurt to try:

A Nickle for My Thoughts cont.

Tread softly oh raven, but I know that you won’t Because you are the one who drowned that man and his soaring dreams. You, not the soothing sea. It’s you who willed the waves to terrorize the ocean It’s you who caged those people, who were singing to the sky You locked them in their cages by making them believe That life is better spent on land— not in sky or sea You’re the storm that follows the quiet The sound of thunder, filling the peaceful land You’re the evil that I fight against, the warden Who throws me aside into solitary confinement where alone I can abide, never threatening your evil reign The wretched raven calls the sailors into the heart of his wicked storm as I try to warn them of his lure, Sly and convincing, so confident and sure: Oh captain, my captain please dock your ship Before the wretched raven calls it in, Darkening the clear blue sky, Trapping your ship in a boundless storm, Making your every thought forlorn. Please, Never let yourself sing his melancholy song. I know how tempting a raven’s call can be Many a times he’s tried to lure me from the voice in my own head, Trying to make me sing his sinister song. I didn’t sing for him, but am I better off? I can only hope because while I sing my own song, No one wants to hear. They ignore me And scorn me. It drives me mad how they Discount me! Like I’m nothing, nothing at all. I too sing, but amid all these voices, I feel so alone. And it isn’t just the raven who singles me out Now, dear reader, I am speaking to you Because people should be free. I want that too But you like to keep me in a cage, Just a fantasy of a whirling brain. But I can’t save you when I’m locked in a cage. I’m worth more. Soon you will see. How many ways do you love me? Let me count. No ways. You can’t love a thing like me I’m just a wretched beast, born in a wasteland,

A Nickle for My Thoughts cont.

In a yellowing wood where a million paths diverged I chose the path that I thought would lead to good. But you still don’t love me. I carry your heart But you still don’t feel me, Breathing into your soul, Guiding you on which way to go. I sing my song so loud But you refuse to hear me. If you’d listen, we’d both be free But you don’t let me see the light of day Because for some reason you fear me. I’m not here to hurt you It may seem that I am, Because I tear your world apart So that you can build it anew And someday feel full. I can feed your insatiable hunger If you give me a chance to sing my song If you give me an ear, I’ll give you the key To the cage that keeps you locked away from your feelings that must be freed. You told me I’m not worth the nickel I cost But don’t try to compare me to a summer’s day Because I’m not beautiful in that way. I’m rowdy, I am raw, I am past, I am present I am the world on a page, but you insult me, Not exalt me. I sing, hoping you will hear. But I am a poem, proud and profound, Proclaiming the punctured truth of

my imperfect world, but you don’t care Still, I won’t stop singing my song, urging you - the world - to sing along. Whether you see my value or not, I am worth something. Because I may not have perfect rhythm or rhyme Or do anything you say I should

But I am feeling and expression. I am a scream and a song, That rings through a world That has been singing so long. I am dreams dreamt, long ago That still live on even though their inventors are gone. I grow into a beautiful tune And am a special thing that fills the mind When comfort isn’t easy to find, And the weight of the truth Is a million tons I am everything that a poem should be So, why can’t you love me? Why can’t you accept me?

I don’t know why I try To get you to love me

When I’m just a few words, Sprawled on a page.

So, I’ll sing, but don’t blame me If you don’t listen.

Reader, reader, You bastard,

I’m through.

Mots (Trends) #2 Anh Tran

The Voices Karen Scheffer The chilly air lapped over my face like an ocean wave crashing onto the shore as I stared out of my window into the inky darkness. Mind overwhelmed, I had to remind myself to breathe; Breathe in . . . Breathe out . . . Breathe in . . . Below me, tiny lights beamed from tiny cars, the sounds of their horns and mufflers echoing between the buildings. I closed my eyes and one by one the sounds of the city streets faded into ether. For a moment, there was peace. At first it was just a whisper; small and faint and far away. I squeezed my eyes as tight as I could muster, and gripped the windowsill with white knuckled strength. They had found me. The voices grew louder, their malevolent tones spewing out venom; “You’re ugly . . .” “You’re fat . . .” “You’re worthless . . .” The words snapped at me like feral dogs, pushing me closer to the window, the stiff breeze crystalizing my tears. “You’re stupid . . .” “You’re a mistake . . .” “You’re unlovable . . .” I cried out for someone to help me, for someone to care, for someone to be there… But there was no one there. No encouraging word, no affirmations, no outstretched arms. Breathe in . . . Breathe out . . . Breathe in . . . A shadow loomed over me, dark as the night, cold as snow. A shiver ran up my spine and my grip began to loosen. “You’re a failure . . .” “You’re pathetic . . .” “You’re alone . . .” A sob escaped my lips as I opened my eyes to peer once again at the dark night. A lone star shone through the smog, and in that moment, there was silence. I closed my eyes once again, and heard one last whisper . . . “Jump.”

Ophelia Abby Stevens Her skin leaves splinters in my skin. Comet-tail hair, flesh like a nexus of galaxies. With my teeth, I slice her open from sternum to pelvis, and darkness and air spills from the hole in her abdomen. Oh, sacrifice. Oh, hollow ravage. What is left when we are both torn asunder? I breathe, like a sob, muffled. Time and time again, I crawl back inside myself, yet am unable to fill the space. I am a wolf trying to devour the sky. Gravity. Not breaking, bending and bending and bend-- I breathe her in: frangipani and dying stars. The space between two shoulder blades, home not to feathers, but the moon. I fall on my back without impact. I breathe, but I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe. The space between us shrinks and expands like pierced lungs. Fishhooks in my chest, the lines snap, and suddenly reeling and reeling away. As if through memory. Charcoal eyes meet the sky and I--

Hijra Honeymoon James Wallace At first it was the faces in the street. They would look at her and her mother then look away, faces strangely resolving to peer ahead as they would walk past. Other times they would never look at all, but she knew they were examining her in their peripherals. Ayesha had noticed them ever since she became conscious of her place in society. Then the nativist sentiments grew. “Go back to the sand, towelhead!” became all too common. For much of her life, Ayesha felt she belonged in society. She used to. She was born in the UK. English was her best language and she spoke nearly the same as a million other girls in London. Her parents had come to England from Pakistan, and her mother never wore the hijab. Ayesha was always faithful, but before she had never seen the other British girls as others. It started after she bumped into the old man. It was something inside herself, an internal dialogue, which ironically enough was in English. She had been walking down the sidewalk while checking Twitter on her phone and fell backwards, looking up at his fat solid figure. He glared down at her through his little black pupils surrounded by deathly piss-yellow whites. As she worked to make sense out of what was happening, he muttered something undecipherable. She managed to discern his toothless mouth, uttering what look like “sand monkey.” A week later she was cat-called by some college boys in a convertible. And during her lunchbreak a week later, she couldn’t help but listen to two of her coworkers bragging about the numerous guys they’d shagged from Tinder. When one of the two girls told Ayesha to get one, she replied that she took her religion seriously, to which one of the girls replied, “Ah, Islam’s no fun.” After that and another cat-calling the next week, Ayesha started wearing the hijab. She became more and more disillusioned with Britain. The jeers grew, and then the weight of the silent indirect stares and the awkwardly constructed fake polite avoidance made it a burden to leave the house. Soon she abandoned the hijab for a burqa. Her religion became her refuge. How could she reconcile her beliefs with the world around her? She did what any other girl her age would do—she checked the Internet. That’s where she found her hero, her prince charming. He promised to help her achieve Allah’s will and take control of her destiny. So she opted for the hijra.

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Rain Heather Swede Just some droplets in Maine Hitting you with their icy cold Showing you the beauty of rain They soak into your veins The skin looking pruney and old Just some droplets in Maine They land in your hair Making it shimmer like gold Showing you the beauty of rain On your neck rests a chain Slowly it starts to mold Just some droplets in Maine Seeping into the fields of grain Replenishing the bundle you sold Showing you the beauty of rain Washing away your pain You look up and behold Just some droplets in Maine Showing you the beauty of rain

Secret Shadows Maria Dombrowski The window latches, The ship sails into a speck on the horizon And I’m all alone again. Only the stars as my companions. Within the light of my mother, the moon, I rest my head. I don’t mind it though, For I am free! I can crow out my battle cry And play tag with the birds of the air... Besides, she told me she should always Remember. But, I know how quickly grownups forget. Tomorrow will bring a new adventure With hooks, and codfish, and more. But I could never Forget today for I had someone to fight for. You know, I think she’s very clever! Even perhaps as clever as me! No circle of Indians sent such a flush to my cheeks, Or light to a pixie’s wings. I ponder my thoughts and try to ignore Some things inside me that I’m not quite sure. They say when you’re all grown up, You know all about life and the world. But that would leave me with nothing left to explore. Up among the trees with the sight of a silver sea I would never give up this view For here I know how small I am.

Secret Shadows cont.

“Tick tock” goes that stupid old clock Chasing everyone but me. I laugh in its face when it comes my way for it means simply Nothing! They say that clocks have a mind of their own And they move as fast as the wind of a wildfire. Yet I dance with my flaming hair among its embers untouched. Sadly, every time I leave I fear I grow a little older. For once bead room curtains flutter in the night The excitement is dead and gone and left to only memory. Why, Can’t she leave like all the rest and take her shadow with her? For now water laps upon the shore, And I wish I could forget. I will not turn my back on childhood, just as every person has done before. I am the one who will not age For I have too much light inside. Although my flute plays a lonely song, It leaves my memories to craft A heart that knows how to love. An example to all, Yet known by few. I am youth, I am joy, I am freedom!

Behind the Mask Kiana Harris It wasn’t like Izzy to take something that wasn’t hers. Yet when she left Gabriel earlier, she couldn’t help herself. When he’d gone to sleep off the migraine he’d gotten from fighting, he’d left his mask on the faded cover of his piano. Because of the scar that ran from his temple to nearly his jawline, he wore the mask to cover it. In the short time she’d known him, he’d rarely taken it off. He’d said he only removed it for three things: to sleep, wash or dry his face, or fight. Or if his scar was bothering him. Each time Izzy had tried to remove his mask while they’d been together, he’d grab her wrist and say “Don’t.” She knew when she’d taken it, it was a horrid idea. She knew it was wrong. Yet, she didn’t regret it. She wanted to understand Gabriel, and she knew one way to do that was through his mask. She wanted to see the world through his eyes. What it felt like to hide his face from the world. Izzy curled her feet beneath her and leaned back against the wall. She set the mask in her lap and ran her fingers over the smooth white ceramic. She couldn’t help marveling at the design. It was a half-mask, created to fit against the left side of Gabriel’s face. There was no string or ribbon to hold it in place. It was molded perfectly to stay in place. She gazed softly at the mask and traced the edges of the eye, the line of the half-nose, the curve below Gabriel’s cheekbone, next to his mouth, and the point where there mask ended that would meet his jawline. Over the small fracture forming down the center. Izzy turned the mask over and brushed her fingertips against the inside. She twisted toward the window and held the mask to her own face. The ceramic was loose and cool against her cheek; if she tried to keep it there the way Gabriel did, it would fall. She wondered if the mask soothed Gabriel’s scar. Or did it aggravate it? Izzy stared at her reflection and smiled to herself at how the mask gave a mysterious air to her appearance.

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A Letter to my Daughter Deja Santiago “Negríta,” mi hija, sí te amo. Though you are nothing but una sueño, You are beautiful. Skin, el color del dulce de leche, Mixed with the raw color of slaves, of man. You are beautiful. Your hair, full of curls, a tragic mixture Of slaves, indigenous, and slave masters. One of many beautiful little girls, Skin dark brown, black, and proud. Embrace your curls. Embrace your skin, it holds the history Of human beings adorned in chains. You Are beautiful. You are the rain forests In Puerto Rico. Tú eres el sol, That shines down and gives meaning to all life. You are the peanut butter stew he loves, The product of our love. Of how our two Bodies fit together so perfectly. The combination of the oppressed. Never be ashamed of your roots, and how They tell the story of the oceans, your Palms a map of the world, your skin a color People try to recreate with products, ¡Tesoro, tú eres magnífica! You are born from the blood of Kings and Queens, And your beautiful skin will glow with pride, For it is us who truly have privilege.

Human Contact Alicia Rogers It’s just another mask for me to wear. This self I show the world from day to day-Remove it. Find the real me, if you dare. I feel the heavy presence of your stare. Why is that? Do you have something to say? It’s not to me, but to the mask I wear. You want to see me honest, feelings bare? I’m afraid my numbing mask is in the way. I only take it off for those who dare. My mask is pretty sturdy: it won’t tear. It doesn’t mind much if you leave or stay This empty, soulless mask for me to wear. The true self lurks inside, deep in her lair My mask is there to cover any fray Move it to find the real me, if you dare. This mask is heavy, handle it with care. If lost, I may begin to fade away no longer stuck behind the mask I wear but broken by the souls who didn’t dare.

Shift Change. Kevin Roche Summer dies a beautiful death with dignity and grace the trees disrobe grey rain clouds come in from the west to mourn, their tears fill the gutters and rain spouts. The northern winds come and scream elegies for the dying season. “Persephone must you leave me so soon? Will your lover be jealous if you stayed awhile more?” yet she’s already leaving, halfway out of the door. So what is there to do except to sit and watch the funeral, and to wear a strip of black above my elbow. Shall I drink deeply of amber whiskey at the/ in the/ when I/ wake? I’ll wait. Winter is stillborn, a child of a corpse. three months is ninety days and too many hours to wait and see the sun. I will wait. I will wait because I know she will come. She will return because that is the way that things have always worked around here. It seems like a slow murder but, it is really a shift change; A rotation of the time clock. Everyone has to punch out and rest.

Fragment Jacob Leach What is that taste? It reminds me of the color Red Or something else, something just as familiar. It reminds me of the past, a taste from before. Or does it? My head screams, I grip it as if it were my mother’s hand, when I crossed the street at the tender age of… Three, three memories come to mind. Distant ones maybe even nonexistent, but ones that had to have happened, just had to have happened. How I wish I were wrong. Red, that’s what I see. And Iron that’s what I taste. Those memories came connected with the feeling on my tongue, filling my mouth as if they were s’mores from when I was, or when I wasn’t, Ten. When I sat around the campfire with my…

They came as a package, the three memories. They came as if they were Bullets. Yes, a barrage of ammunition that could, or did, take my life. That’s the first one. I felt that Iron taste dripping down my mouth and the sound of people charging ahead, some on horseback. The second was Quick. No time to react. Only the split second of feeling that Axe being lodged into my skull, the momentary taste of iron, and the sight of trees surrounding me. The first two felt Distant. As if they were years apart. Maybe decades. But the last one felt Recent. As if it were just yesterday.

Fragment cont.

I saw a bank teller and a gun in my hand. My throat felt dry, as if I had been yelling for hours. Then the feeling of a fist, or something, what was it, against the back of my head. I bounced off the floor, breaking my nose, then turned back around, to have the rest of my face Broken. More iron filled my mouth, suffocating me. Now I sit at the dinner table for breakfast with my grandmother, whom I thought was dead years ago. I thrash about feeling the pain, as if it were a sledgehammer coming down upon my head, and my teeth coming down on my cheek. Iron dribbles down my lips as broken plates litter the ground. Blood, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what it is. What is that taste? It reminds me of the color Red...

The Unintentional Witch Heather Swede Tormented tears, brought on by the coming torture, burned through the bodice, that bent around her baffled body. Mesmerized by the malicious mirror: reflecting her mortal sin. Fearing the future, that approached fast. Knowing that night was near: negating her truth. The town had been turning from her for many wayward weeks: walking away from her works. Whispers working their way around: A Witch! They wondered. Sorcery! They shushed their sons. All because she had healed the bakerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s boy: a broken little being. He had been sick for several seasons: suffering with strangled screams that echoed in everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ears; elicited emotion in their eyes. Then she had saved his suffering soul, and soothed the screeching, with meager medical means she had mended his mortal soul when the dutiful doctors, who had drugged and drained the boy, had failed the faithful family who had forgiven them. A rap at the door; she could hear them as they rejoiced. There was no fleeing her funeral: the price to bring them peace. Her freedom was forgotten; she felt the flames that would scorch her skin, as she held the door handle: a hollowness settled in her heart.

Dances for Strings Choreography: Celina Schroer Music: 21 Hungarian Dances; No. 1 in G minor by Johannes Brahms; Violin Concerto No. 2 in B minor, Op. 7, “La campanella”L III.Rondo by Niccolo Paganini Dancers: Haylie Kromer with Megan Carnuche, Sarah Taylor and Ashley Miltich, Nicole Retzlaff, Hayleigh Schmidt, Lucie Shultz

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Forward, Blind Libby Goldberg The dog was smiling now, its lips pulled back to show glistening black gums and saliva-slick teeth. “I don’t know what it is you want,” it said, and its words were furred over with a growl. “That’s why you need to tell me.” I watched it carefully from the corner of my eye. You weren’t supposed to show dogs that you were afraid, even if they already knew. The dog merely stared back at me, red tongue panting, its ears perked up. Its tail wagged low and dusted dried leaves across the bricks. Its eyes were snapped with honey gold. The shrill whistle of the train cracked across the noonday air, and the sound jolted my heart. I dropped the papers and the wind snatched them across the tracks, and the train was rumbling through before I could even think about going after them. My throat tightened. “The only thing that matters is what you want,” the dog said. “I want to leave.” My voice wavered, and I felt sure it was lost in the squealing and the steaming of the train. But almost immediately, the metal thing stopped—still, silent. Steam billowed around both of us like ghostly sheets. The door of the train was before me. I stared at my faint reflection in the glass, and wondered how it had come to this. The dog padded around me to board the train. “Well? There’s nothing here for you now.” My hand brushed the doorframe, and then drew back on its own. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth?” “There is no truth. There is only the choice.” The dog sat back on its haunches. “You leave, or you don’t. You reach, or you turn.” “You live,” I said, as a memory bubbled in my mind, “or you die.” “Well, it’s certainly not that morbid.” Its teeth were yellow. “Choose.” Choose. I looked behind me, at the vacant sky and the cracked, sun-bleached dirt. Against the horizon, the black spot of the house wavered in the heat. Flies circled me like buzzards. “I want to leave,” I said again, and turned back to the train. The dog’s golden eyes held no answers. I reached for the railing.

Songs from Chautauqua Mariana Mathewson “Songs from Chautauqua,” is a collection of my original poetry set to music. Each poem contains elements of nature unique to the Northwestern Pennsylvania/Southwestern New York region. “A Summer’s Rain” was written the summer my grandfather was dying of cancer, inspired by a rainstorm I watched from his porch that comforted me in my grief. The second and third songs, “Daisies” and “Frozen Pond in Spring,” were inspired by feelings longing, distance, and the uncertainty of life and love. A walk from my house in Mayville to the lake shore inspired the final song, “Pastel Sunset.” I used quartal and quintal harmonies along with the Lydian mode and major pentatonic scales to evoke a sense of breadth, calm, and tranquility.

A Summer’s Rain

Frozen Pond in Spring

The rain—it falls in gentle drops, Like tears from clouds above It falls so soft and quietly, Letting each droplet drip and plop… Singing as they plummet to the ground. As I reflect on rainstorms past… A reminder of tender young love; A forewarning of a silent passing. And yet, I sit and close my eyes— The sound is what I love the most, And the smell that floats up off the grass— My arms are covered in goose bumps… Just one soul amongst a trillion dripping drops.

If he only knew— The one I’ve known forever The one whose image is Reflected on a frozen pond in spring Melting in the beaming sunlight His eyes are dark and deep And I’ve drowned myself. But, it seems That as long as I love him I will be alone.

Daisies

Pastel Sunset

Someday, I’ll pick you a daisy When we’re taking a walk at sunset On a warm June night. Even though daisies have a way of Disappointing me. They’re only out for such a small glimpse of time— When they do decide to make their appearance, It’s like they’ll stay forever— dotting the fields near and far with white and yellow. And then, after I’ve picked so many and arranged them in mason jar bouquets, They all just die off. And each summer, they always return, playfully mocking my happiness. But as the years lumber on, I get this creeping sensation That one summer, the daisies will come back Without you.

I made my way to the lake’s shore; The quiet placid bliss Of a pastel sunset: Lavender sky and gentle rosy pink clouds Reflect against the baby blue blanket Laid out—so smooth and soft. My days and nights seem to slip away— Nothing else matters here, Except the birds Gliding gently over the surface Just a few weeks before the lake lights with excitement, but In this single, silent moment, The silver moon ahead shines bright, Bringing on the twilight.

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Machines Not Monsters Eleanor Hein Xander knew that technology would end the world. He’d been saying as much since he had been a young boy. He was what many might call a prodigy. At the age of four, he had already been recognized by the international chess-playing community. He was also an unsung hero. “It’s just a game,” his own mother had said to him once after his proudest win. She was proud, of course, for what mother wouldn’t like to see her own son happy and successful in his endeavors. But she also considered herself a reasonable person, and all reasonable people know that games don’t buy groceries. “But chess players can make good money!” young Xander had protested, extending his arm out to hold a handmade bubblegum card of Garry Kasparov in his mother’s immediate line of sight. She dismissed him with a smile of pity and a quiet “Okay, honey,” before returning to slicing onions. He began to cry, then, because how could she not understand? Their lives were so miserable and lonely in that small house. He only wanted to do something about it. His mother began to cry, too, but it was probably because of the onions. It wasn’t until he was twelve that Xander understood. With no one in his hometown left willing to play chess with him – it had become less and less fun for his opponents over the years – he had found enjoyment in practicing his methods on the computer. That was when he began to lose. Xander’s mother had raised her son carefully to have all the qualities that she found most valuable, among which were patience, kindness, and sportsmanship. He was no sore loser. The first time he lost, he took it with grace. He had a bad method that round. He would not use it again. However, after losing thrice more in the following hour, he began to revert back to older methods that had always served him well. They served him well no longer. He lost again. And again. And again and again and again.

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Velveteen Habit Michael Mongera The sheets of his bed are white. The streets he walks are concrete. his cigarette lips of spite As he’s still light on his feet His cross clutched tight, “hold me” Rock music blasting “fight me” His sultry strut, “look at me” His piercing soft glare, “love me” As if fate had intervened the strange suitor had locked eyes to feed his delinquency and purity to demise The mix of cologne and sweat two lovers, caressing skin A rubber torn, wide eyed threat his shallow gasps paper thin The grace of beige hides braided But the urgency to survive Not the suitor clutching flesh But artless youth set to die All bark and no bite, weak rebel gone into the night, running The suitor confused, baffled His approach not so cunning Run little velveteen run Like retracting skin as it’s burnt Soon you and your bed will be one Clutching dreams of who you aren’t

Homesickness Nicholas Nasibyan Homesickness (2016) is an art song based off of the text of an anonymous Armenian poem rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell, and published in 1917 in a collection of English translations of Armenian poetry. The decision to write this piece came after Nicholas Nasibyan’s 2016 summer trip to Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh, where he reconnected with his relatives, his Armenian culture, and the land of his ancestors.

POEM I was a quince-bush growing on a rock, A rocky cliff that rose above the dell; They have uprooted and transplanted me Unto a stranger’s orchard, there to dwell; And in this orchard they have watered me With sugar-water, that full sweetly flows. O brothers, bear me back to my own soil, And water me with water of the snows!’

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