Saxifrage 44 by Saxifrage

Saxifrage

Volume 44

2018

Saxifrage 44

Saxifrage

Pacific Lutheran University Tacoma, Washington

Foreword On these pages, you will find: A trampoline, an orange, an owl pellet,

Saxifrage Volume 44

a saltshaker from a diner, a lifetime of broken Saxifrage is Pacific Lutheran Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s annual literary and arts journal. All submissions were judged anonymously by the editors and student volunteers. Saxifrage was created in Adobe InDesign CC 2018, set in Baskerville and Adobe Garamond Pro, and printed by Consolidated Press. Cover Art by Jesse Kenduck.

clocks, confused lightning bugs, a lost memory, a ring within a shell, a boss

face down at a dusty table, the larynx and pharynx, a seasick guinea pig, weird little dots and marks,

superhero spandex, fractals of sunshine, a face of aging yellow sheets, four editors around one computer, salt and gall, my flower that splits the rock,

Saxifrage.

Table of Contents Poetry Clayton Regehr Hylebos ..................................................................................... 1 Obligation ................................................................................. 2 Ashley Corr Owl Pellet ................................................................................. 6 Hello Mushroom ...................................................................... 7 Anna Crosby Beach ...................................................................................... 14 Zoo ......................................................................................... 16 Nicholas Templeton Clean-Up Crew ....................................................................... 17 Ode to Spokane’s Bridges ........................................................ 18 Melane Gunderson The Orange at My Altar .......................................................... 22 Cole Somerville Selling to Peter Pan .................................................................. 24 Laminated Mask ...................................................................... 25

Madison Shewman Seeds ....................................................................................... 70 Hilary Vo Pitiful ...................................................................................... 80 My Dancing Body ................................................................... 81

Prose Hannah Park Sappy Apartment ....................................................................... 8 Malena Showalter Re-Mind ................................................................................... 9 Benjamin Seligman Killing Time ............................................................................ 20 Marcos Giossi Tragedy and Infinity: Prose on Exteriority ............................... 31 Gillian Dockins The Surest Proof of God .......................................................... 66 Madison Shewman Dear Airplane .......................................................................... 68

Rachel Sandell Paper Mâché ............................................................................ 30

Hilary Vo Moved ..................................................................................... 72

Megan Daugherty The Ones I Remember ............................................................ 39

Visual Art

Erik Carlson My God .................................................................................. 61 Neighbor Is Up Early .............................................................. 62 Letter 2 ................................................................................... 63 Gillian Dockins Kaddish ................................................................................... 65 Miya Beckman A Fish Out of Water ................................................................ 67

Cordell Pickens Home ...................................................................................... 42 Matt Perea Wanaka Tree ............................................................................ 43 Peter Olshner Mandala III ............................................................................. 44 Kait Dawson Concussion ............................................................................. 45

Jesse Kenduck Mount Rainier ........................................................................ 46 Antarctica ................................................................................ 47 Sophia Jenkinson Untitled ................................................................................... 48 Hannah Park Migration III ........................................................................... 49 Rizelle Rosales Brooks ..................................................................................... 50 Shay O’ Day Saddlebag ................................................................................ 51 Jaclyn Kissler Kintsugi .................................................................................. 52 Marcos Giossi The Way We Would Speak, and All That We Wouldn’t Say ...... 53 Megan Daugherty Untitled .................................................................................. 54

Q&A With Kaveh Akbar ............................................ 56 Biographies ........................................................................... 84

Hylebos hands white as stones she gripped the mallet with some sort of malice striking dinner because all over again she found evidence tobacco chew stowed away in his dresser and I searched for the mother who tolerates a husband his trespasses and I searched her face the slight protrusion her chin and the ideas truth and love and anger stirred in the solvents of my head she said nothing the mallet dropped her hands still hard like the bedding of the Hylebos Creek pounded the chicken forgive forgive forgiveâ&#x20AC;&#x192;

Clayton Regehr

Obligation

Only three years before my grandfather died, my parents purchased a trampoline.

catch his fall—a toilet rather, patient enough to cradle his head one moment. I only imagine that his pack of cigarettes landed among urine

This one had it all: a sky-blue jump mat covering ninety American-made

stains. He lay there motionless, cold. That’s all, I imagine. That’s all I imagine.

pre-galvanized eight-and-one-half-inch springs, a black surface that baked in the sun and

III.

fluttered in the wind, and a net, thank God, to keep us from shattering our skulls. My grandparents had one too: unfriendly, different, topped with insects and pine needles. Its metal skeleton creaked through windy nights. I think it’s funny, I picture that trampoline before those who possessed it. It’s because I did not know my grandparents well. II. I didn’t know my grandparents. Well, I knew them, but with the kind of knowing that’s only in pictures and phone calls. It may have been the same with love that way too— a matter of obligation— the Greek word storge, perhaps, (family love). My grandfather collapsed in a public restroom. His trampoline, of course, was not there to 2

I imagine that small Calgary home, in the cold where my grandparents lived, was where he would have wanted to die. The property was unfenced. The house could have been gray, or yellow, but it was definitely one story high, filled with cigarette smoke from ceiling to basement floor. I’m sure he felt warm amidst the smoke. Does it feel the same inside the lungs as out? A gentle embrace of breathlessness. My sisters and I were obligated to play elsewhere (how could we?) while the grown-ups handled the details of the service and the cremation. IV. I learned from a website that cremation is the process in which remains are burned to ash, leaving what some call cremains to either be buried, kept in an urn, or scattered. I wonder how his skull burned. How the heat gathered up the shattered bone and brought it into new form, afterlife. 3

Sorry, no one’s ever spoken with me about any of this. I was timid before. I cried because my mom and dad cried. But now, imagine it: rapid electrical pulses to the heart, arrested, a lumbering descent to porcelain, eager, waiting there in obligation. V. My sisters and I waited there upon the red-mat trampoline which framed our idleness. We didn’t talk. Call us lucky—we were too young to have anything to say about death. It was funeral day, and later at a local church with restrooms called washrooms we would sing: I lay in dust life’s glory dead, And from the ground there blossoms red. I’m sure that the blossoms of red on the restroom—or washroom, sorry—floor blended with the yellow stains to make a nice holy orange. Perhaps the way smoke disburses into air. Perhaps not. VI. Perhaps now that we are older—workers, academics—we adopt, as if obligated, other matters into this idea of not speaking. Included might be the use of clichés from our aunt, who we love: He’s in a better place now, 4

Sweetie. Singing, too: Then he’ll call me some day to my home far away. Strangers, old and Canadian, in pews with red upholstery, with a mission to honor a man who I was—or maybe still am—supposed to, with the deepest part of myself, love. The echoes of grief wrapped in verse fell like flakes of dandruff on burdened shoulders. VII. He did not fall like flakes of dandruff upon elderly shoulders. My sisters and I learned a game called Crack the Egg. One person, designated the egg, would sit, legs folded, in the center of the trampoline as the others would jump and land forcefully into surface, hoping to break the egg’s posture—a game most certainly not suitable for a netless trampoline in Calgary. So we sat upon it and thought about wanting to go home, running fingers through the mess of pine needles just three days after my grandfather died.

Clayton Regehr

Owl Pellet She and I see it on a rainy day, in the forest behind the track. The thing sits squarely, oval, brown and gnarly, isolated on the empty bleachers. I thought it was just a poo. Left there; quiet. But a flare from her mossy eyes tells me it is more. Our ruddy, cold hands find sticks and we pick,

Hello mushroom, My eyes behold your delicate stature— your stem thick in the dirt, you rise and reach for the sky, a child of the earth. You curtsy in the rain your skirt a pleated harp—my finger gently strums. A fabric damp yet dry, a song strong but fine. But tell me, little mushroom, that seeks to sprinkle spores, why is it that my hand that strums upon your little skirt—

lovingly, through the dilapidated mound of bird beaks and rat teeth, splintered spines and penny skulls—

We unprick the bones from the matted folds, as though they were tiny white pins, reticulated like the freckles on her nose.

kick you to the ground, I smash you in the dirt. I loved you little mush room, lying in the mud.

I feel hungry, like the owl was, and I coo, as we dabble on and on with the ball of swaddled corpses.

it lacerates your limbs. I peel apart your folds, I rip into your flesh. I

Ashley Corr

And she hears me, even when my voice is like feathers.

Ashley Corr

Sappy Apartment

A night with clear skies was uncomfortable after a week of rain;

before the door, the aroma settling on my skin. The door becoming the barrier from the outside discomfort to the comfort of home. The first step led to a familiar suppression of annoyance when recognizing the room and the clothes all over the floor. Another pet peeve unnoticeable because of the work I do, yet recognizing the laundry and the long night ahead. Cleaning that was undone and recognizing that I will be leaving it for him. Breathing in counted measures before picking up the dishes, lighting a candle, and recycling his beer cans. Can’t help but to recognize the mess. Soothing myself from the manly scent of “sex on the beach” (my description of any guy scent). The candle lighting the room plus the exhaustion led to sitting on the bed, to lying on the bed, to napping. Shutting down from exhaustion, and consumed into a nightmare, yet the familiar comfort of a sinking bed wakes me. Sam crawling next to me. The smell of his skin comforting the fears from the nap and creating peace. Home as a pain until home is actually at home. Stirring in bed, turning my head to the bookshelf to glimpse the books that I can recognize from my past. Picking and choosing books in my head that are processing on the reading list for the next couple of months. In bed, the ease of memories settling from anxious pieces to full memories. The peace clearing each piece. Recognizing happiness, the room opens my voice, and a broken wall representing the way my heart fell as fast as Humpty Dumpty. Juxtaposing the wall and heart, separating like the door from discomfort to comfort. Tears of salt was not a portrayal of the colloquial word “salty.” The excessive number of salty tears letting go in order to finally accept happiness. With the last memory of Sam revealing his joy in a touching past. Our home becomes more than a home, but a comfortable setting for our aroma to consume each other. Hannah Park

Re-Mind

I remember it was always quiet in that place. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

I remember a little boy named Vinny. I remember he wore a onesie with padded feet and he always had a binky in his mouth or a sippy cup in one hand while he tottered around, talking to people in a too-loud voice. I remember he had wispy blond curls and a smile that made my heart crack; it was so warm, my chest tightened at the sight. His joy-filled eyes scrunched up into his little baby face, and I remember I preferred to look at them over most other things. I remember his mom had curly black hair that fell down her back in long straggles. I remember she always looked a little worse for wear. Now I realize that she may have been a recovering addict. I remember a girl who was a year older than me. She had shoulder-length, straight blonde hair and she wore too much makeup for a 6th grader—bright blue eyes swimming in a sea of murky ink. Her pale face set in stark contrast to the runny, black eyeliner that she applied with childlike precision. Her name was Hope. I remember sitting with Hope in the top of my bunk bed—in the small, square room I shared with my two sisters, my brother, and my mom. I remember she was sitting to my left, a laptop lying lazily across her legs. I remember she was on some type of chat room. I remember them typing words like “come” and “eat you out” and some equally hard-to-decipher phrases for a ten year old to decode. I remember that I knew what she was doing was supposed to be a secret. I remember I knew that she was too young to be saying what she was saying, and I remember that I knew that she didn’t know who the person was that she was talking to. But I remember that as she typed she giggled to me, and the innocent, confiding sound reverberated in my anxious ears—and I giggled back, because I realized that 9

was what I was supposed to do. I remember taking a bath. I remember starting the faucet and sinking down into the warm water. I remember it was healing, comforting. I wanted to lie there for hours. A safe place. I remember a knock at the door. I remember I quickly sat up, brought my knees to my chest and feebly said, yes? It was Karen, the woman who stayed in the room next door. I remember she was loud and overbearing and at times said too much, shared too much. Overstepped her bounds. I remember she said that her name was on the schedule and that it was her time to take a bath. I remember not realizing that there was a sign-up sheet. I remember I was embarrassed, floundering, didn’t know what to say. Aware that she was talking through the door to me when I was naked. I remember my sacred space had been invaded. I squeaked out “I’m sorry, I didn’t know” as I pulled the plug on the drain. I remember I didn’t want to face her. I clambered out of the tub, got dressed, and tip-toed back to the room. My older sister Madi says that she remembers: “The ladies who worked there were so nice and loved us.” “It was always quiet.” “Everyone there was respectful.” “They did group dinner on Wednesday nights.” As a 23-year-old now making her way in the world, she tends to paint things in a much brighter light than how anyone else remembers them. She likes to pretend everything was better than it was, ignores things that don’t fit into her happy little sphere. Anything else? I prompted her. “Hmm. There were bunk beds. And one time someone threw the laptop and it fell.” 10

Really? “Yeah. Don’t remember?” She asked me. I hadn’t remembered. But she had reminded me of something I had forgotten. A faint glimmer that feels distant and sort of like I made it up. Like when you’re slowly waking from a dream and can’t find the tail-end of fiction and reality. But it becomes more concrete the more I think of it. Someone throwing the laptop across the bunk beds. Falling. My brother Max is more grounded, and probably a little cynical for a 22 year old. He says that he remembers: “The women at the desk being rude.” “It smelled like a hospital.” “It wasn’t a very exciting place.” That he “had the high score on the pinball game on the computer.” I remember wondering when my dad would find us there and make us come home with him. I remember hoping that he wouldn’t; that he wouldn’t show up, clad in his dark work boots and wispy, thinning ponytail. I remember realizing that it didn’t matter, because the women at the desk controlled the locks. It didn’t matter because they didn’t allow men in this place. I asked my mom what she remembered. She told me: “They had a family dinner every Friday night when one of the facilitator/counselors cooked dinner for the clients and their children. I remember my favorite facilitator cooked lamb stew on one Friday. It was delicious! She said the secret to getting the muttony, “gamey” taste out of sheep meat is to soak the meat in coffee for several hours overnight. Remember that?”

I didn’t. “The ladies there put together Easter baskets and Easter goodies for the kids at the shelter; we were there during Easter.” I hadn’t remembered that. A reference point. A reminder. Now I do. “When you guys were sleeping at night, I worked on legal paperwork that your Dad and his attorney kept throwing at me, knowing I didn’t have an attorney to help.” I hadn’t remembered that. But she reminded me, and now I do. I remember that it was hard to sleep with the light on. I remember the sound of fingers sifting through papers. I remember words like “affidavit.” I remember asking what those words meant and I remember her telling me and the meaning floating Right over my head, words Scraping the top of my skull as they passed. Today, I am twenty. Twice as old as I was then. And I asked my mom: What exactly was the paperwork about? And how come he couldn’t force us to leave the shelter? “The paperwork was him trying to prove I was crazy and that he didn’t abuse Madi. He said that Madi, you, Max and Mystery lied about what happened to Madi that caused us to go to the shelter and me to get the restraining order against your dad.

him pay child support. They accused me of Parental Alienation Syndrome... it was a horrible time.” She told me. And I didn’t remember, because I didn’t know. I asked her: Did any of us testify? “Not in court. You and Madi were interviewed by a court-appo- inted child custody investigator. He believed you and Madi. So the judge gave custody of Madi to me, but he said none of you three were hurt, so you had to go with your dad.” I remember that day, when my dad “won” the court battle. I remember being herded into the attorney’s dark limo. I remember he played some sort of victory music on the stereo. Some sort of pomp and circumstance that felt completely at odds with what I was feeling. Like a wake wandering into a circus and not being able to find its way out. I remember driving away from my mom and my sister. I remember it felt evil. I remember the pain running down my face, paving a trail with salt and water, while my father and his attorney smiled and celebrated. I remember seeing their faces as I looked forward towards the rear view mirror. Their wide smiles morphing their faces into something different. Their banter and laughter hanging in the air, mixing with the swelling of the music as my eyes welled, turned pink, and the words stuck in my throat.

Malena Showalter

Then Grandma hired your dad’s divorce attorney to make the restraining order go away. Their strategy was to bring up my mental health history, and anti-depressant usage, claiming I was coaching you guys to lie so I could get custody of you and make 12

Beach Sometimes we walk along the crowded beach, admiring the garden of white shells. The constant stream of wind tosses my hair into a mess of unruly, blonde waves. We walk, hand in hand, watching the sunset elegantly dance across the deep blue. Wistful, I see stars in your giant blue eyes. The commotion of the busy beach a symphony of silence. The sunset glows against your smile, teeth white as the shells abandoned by the rescinding teal waves. Your fingers warm and idle in my hair.

My ego cracks like the thin, fragile shells of eggs at breakfast. You walk away. Waves. I am left staring at the ocean, blue and vast. I watch the gulls chase the sunset, ants on a blanket. The wind salts my hair, coats my skin. I am swallowed by the beach. Oh, your eyes sparkled blue in the sunset. We walked on shells, brittle as my hair. Only a moment, a wave from the beach.

Anna Crosby

For a moment, your luxurious hair is snow and you are wiser. Your pale blue eyes transmit electricity like waves to my now worn heart. We walk this same beach where you proposed long ago with a shell: in it, a ring, glowing like the sunset. Oh, how I want to live in the sunset; to nuzzle my face in the wisps of hair of our newborn child, to boil pasta shells by moonlight, to peel away silky blue fabric and capture the sand from the beach in our hair, and to swim against the waves. Now we watch as a ghost of the sea waves to us, and retreats into the sunset. Can we sail too? Escape the endless beach? Your fingers disentangle from my hair. My lips, now salt, remind me I am blue. Again, we crunch on the graveyard of shells. 14

Zoo I am five. My cheeks sting from the frosty air as diamonds gently fall from the sky. Mom taps her foot. Impatient, but contained. I hear the protest of metal: finally. Momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s warm fingers envelop mine as we pass through the iron ribs. Mom leads me to an underground room filled with four giant windows. Blue light bounces from every wall, reflecting our view. I test out the acoustics, my childish voice echoing and my breath steaming. Mom waits. Suddenly a giant creature swims into view. I am struck with awe by the way its white fur flutters, like blades of grass in a gentle breeze, as it brushes against the windows. Amazed, I press myself against the glass in an attempt to see it more clearly. I marveled at its powerful paws churning through the water, claws extended only to grasp nothing, and squealed with excitement as the creature slowly turned its head towards mine, its slate colored eyes focusing on me, the child pressed against the window, watching.

Clean-up Crew Most days, the mill is a centrifuge of sweat and sound. Hammers, saws, and hands pound pine trees into dust. Robins tread like astronauts, like actors in a silent film, searching through shavings for past and future homes. Maple logs jam in the debarker, the smoke smell of chaos and pancakes with syrup. Sawdust snows drift and settle in eyelids, under nails, down the back and nape of the neck. Wood chips wedge in the sock lines of soiled boots. But on Saturdays, the quiet is palpable, and all I can smell is dough rising, the unbaked bread my grandmother formed into bricks wafting out of the oven in my head. I breathe the euphoria of laboring alone, chasing daydreams into order. I am startled by the bristled whisper of my broom scratching under the low moan of the yard waste belt. Red fir sweeps into piles like mountains of flour at sundown as I toil beneath a maze of catwalks, a tangled nest of handrails. Somewhere up there, my boss is face down at a dusty table, sawing away at logs in a small room lined with fuse boxes and breaker switches. He dreams of the girl who lost her arms last fall in the chip log transfer. I let him be. And once the weekendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s piles are neatly shoveled, carried away on conveyor belts like another year of life, I steal to the log yard, hide in the tool shed, and write poetry. Birds sing from sapling limbs, growing in spite of it all.

Anna Crosby Nicholas Templeton

Ode to Spokane’s Bridges O vessels connecting places, erasers of nature’s divides, arteries of a railroad town. First bridges of rickety wood, tightropes over churning rapids, bridges collapsed and then rebuilt.

The last bridge before the highway. The first bridge back over the falls. The starting line. The finish line

Nicholas Templeton

O rhythm of balance and truss, trestles for hundred-ton train cars, foot bridges suspended by wire. Bridge seen from my father’s shoulders, the water racing by below, the tickle of mist on my cheeks. Overpass on school-day mornings, short bridge on the church-side river. Bridge to learn, bridge to worship, bridge to places we loved and hated. O diversity of structure, gothic arches and steel girders. Launch points for buoyant basketballs, shopping carts, car trash, and bodies. Suicide bridge and sunrise bridge. Bridge of ribs crammed full with bird’s nests, bridge of asphalt, concrete, and place. Flat roof over blue-tarp cities. Bridge on my last weekend in town, sending spit streams over the side, the river an ocean of clocks. 18

Killing Time

The sledge hammer glistened in the flourescent lighting, held cocked and ready behind its wielder’s head. Then, as if it could hardly bear to be held still for more than a moment’s pause, it lunged forward in a determined arc. Directly in its path was a cheap clock, still ticking as though it were unaware of the blunt impact that sought an end to the rhythmic voice of time. There was a loud, resounding crash. Jagged glass and plastic bits danced on the ground in a clatter before coming to a rest. The clock had nothing more to say.

The hammer’s unrelenting impact was starkly juxtaposed with its owner, who just so happened to be a harmless old woman. Her old bones shook with the force of the impact, her wrinkled skin reverberated before hanging tightly on its skinny frame, and her feet—though steady and firm in stance—wobbled as though the weight of the hammer might cause them to buckle at the earliest inconvenience. Despite her frailties, her eyes glowed with a stoic calmness as she paused to admire her handiwork. There was no trace of smile nor scowl nor frown on the thin line etched on her face. Her name was Early Day, and she was a decade shy of a century. Once Early was satisfied with the clock’s demise, she turned to the side, hammer still in hand, to face the pile of clocks that she had accumulated over the years. They were of every shape and size, from wall to alarm to wristwatch. Were they turned on, the ticking would be deafening. With the patience and meticulous care that only age can afford, Early selected another clock: a small wristwatch. With hands that moved in a way that only experience could provide, she wound up its delicate springs. The ticking filled the room again, but it was a different voice. More timid than the last, it was more a gentle reminder of the passage of time than an irritating announcement. Still, just the same, the hammer beckoned. Early allowed the ticking to fill her old ears for a moment, like a treasured song, before destroying in a flash of brutality. 20

On and on and on again Early went with her ritual, as the hours died and died and died again. Each clock she shattered wore 12 hours on its face. Though it was meant for a full day, each clock nonetheless only represented a scant dozen. Each blow of the sledge cracked a day in half, splitting it down the middle as though it too was shattered under the weight of Early’s stoic eye. Early couldn’t remember the first clock she had destroyed in her life, the first day she had been shook down to broken shards. Was it in grade school, when the children mocked her for her name? The words and their sting were forgotten, but a book thrown in anger left an image untarnished by failing memory. Tick, tick, tick, smash. Was it when her first crush, a face long since buried in an ocean of forgotten faces, abandoned the seeds of young love? How fragile the jeweled wristwatch he gave her was. Tick, tick, tick, smash. Was it the pain of her first child? Early recalled throwing a lamp at a wallclock upon being told how to breathe through the contractions. Tick, tick, tick, smash. Maybe it was when that same child didn’t grow up at all. Hadn’t she thrown a desk clock in a fit of grief then? Tick, tick, tick, smash. It could have been her husband’s funeral. On that day, she felt split in half like no other day before it. Tick, tick, tick, smash. The truth of the matter was, there was a lifetime of broken clocks. For every bad day, there was a hammer that broke Early down into little glass bits in the carpet. And now that she stood in a room at the end of a long, long life, all Early had was a hammer, a pile of clocks, and time to kill.

Benjamin Seligman

the orange at my altar the orange at my altar tells me that if i pop emergen-c like it’s oxysomething-or-other, then maybe it will push the weathervane and the rooster won’t crow at dawn. much to my dismay, roosters and oranges don’t get along very well, and when my pocket blares, the rooster wins. i prefer oranges. roosters are ugly; have you seen a rooster lately?

this is not what i meant by “zest for life.” you’re cuddling with crusty cruelty. what time is it? you’re still here? marinating in moldy sheets. climb that mountain all you want; you’ll never reach the top. you know what, you’re right. this isn’t my life. this isn’t me. get the fuck up. now. no, now.

then again, oranges aren’t too pretty either. the orange at my altar is the orange equivalent of a kraft single: highly processed, and more a piece of plastic than anything else. it turns even my back into a question mark. i don’t dare share my doubts because as the saying goes, citrus is bliss.

now. now.

the orange sits perched atop a pile of battery-rammed eyelids and dirty underwear. the almighty conquerer, the orange at my altar loves to preach its victorious battle cry. i’m a believer. a homeopathic wet dream. nature is the solution, not the problem. sip the kool-aid from my mandarin cup and sink deeper. i kneel at the mountain of unmentionables and let it invigorate me with fallacy. if it were any more phallus-y it would’ve fucked me by now, but the orange at my altar isn’t like that. its harsh glow burns my retinas, but it burns so good.

now?

Melanie Gunderson

blinding blue screens keep me constantly trampling the smell of stale farts and spoonfuls of peanut butter. the orange at my altar is sweet and sour chicken. it lingers in the takeout boxes that pile up from… when was it again? last week? last month? i really should… pull the covers up. my toes are cold.

Selling to Peter Pan In this one morning the dirt Appears bright in the sunlight. An hour or so and that will change, The grey of dusk will descend again And the sweating bodies of fishermen Packed in an old canary Will cool and dry and retreat into the slim boats Tied along the pilings. It is low tide and the flats stretch across. In the present orange light, the water can only Reflect in flecks. Orange streams run through the dry grey river. A windburnt man sits atop an oil bucket And melds epoxy in his hands, Balls it up and pushes it onto a hull. His arm quivers slightly then releases, Showing five small fingerprints, pressed into the mold. Beige and green mixed together to form grey Unmixed parts streak the mashed ball And grey stains his tanned hands.

Cole Somerville

Laminated Mask A horror that isn’t faceless To see their hands, out from winter, Bleak gravel studs their wounds And mars the tissue, down with wet. A horror that’s not faceless Sings each child to sleep and wakes Each day to see dust upon their eyes. Instead of milk, flows brandy. A horror that’s left faceless Stings with the sip of season And creaks in waves upon each door, The floor is still wet from the night before. A horror that’s unfaced left Sand upon the threshold, bits of shell Cracked in the hinges, as the cold Flooded in, the warm left in skin. A horror that I’ve faced left Room only for another, the inn Is cold and the milk left to curdle. To burn the skin, would be helpful. Abhor that I’ve faced and left Crumbs upon the counter, sweep Them in a pan and save them for cakes. Burn the bottom and they crumble. Abort; that we’ve erased. The burnt bottom’s too stuck to Be cleaned, toss the pan instead, Then watch from where you land

A board that’s left effaced, You hold onto blood in your stomach The milk curdles and the burn reaches Your underwear. Brace for it to cool. I would like to place my teeth Upon the spot between your spine And bite the glass and swallow the blue Ink that flowed as wine. Create a day Aboard upon my face and rest, Watch the water wash the ink And skin clean from rocks. “Will They stick?” I don’t think they’re burnt. Abreast abroad chest to face The ingrown hairs full of pus Will drain. The chunks we see Flush down in rain. Drop. Rain Drop to our five scabbed knees. Kiss the blisters we form for each other The steps out the door still shine Red, as we paint with lungs the other. What better way obscured to construe Ourselves in rhyme, the air is filled With dew and the bodies sunk with Tea. The leaves steeped then plucked. Effaced; that bored breast Sinks and simmers as we count our rest. Ten seconds have passed, now twelve, Then a quarter. Eating’s ceased till summer. Erased that borned our beast 26

Our hearts filled with air as they Dried and cracked. The pan that flew Bleated from the steps and crossed Along the bed framed room And hooved our heads, bored our eyes, Cloved our navels as we sat still, cauterized To ask. “M* L*** I* R** I*****.” A lip sees each hand that brushes Past your eye and hovers o’er heat. Forget. Forget. Forget what I cannot And pretend each night was fraught Not with howling but with sirens Fluted down the channel and across; They’ll lock in hands as we struggle for Candles to stop soft ears from whet. A faceless horror faced And suckled. From your breast we bit To the air blown through your heart. Flout this pan and pipe inner eye “My loaf is rye is’nit?” The broad Ill flask, “Please’ll me hair’s more dry Wine?” It’s full. The air is gone. No more air. “At’s good, I sleep with our herring.” An oaken bore chest rests upon the deck. The contents wet and hinges barnacled. If only there were mud and sediment Left outside, should the chest not rot. The insides dry. With the top left open And cancer in the contents, there are worms And salt and gall. Birds rest atop the lid 27

And shit inside. I see from my perch Needles Faces stare from the depth content With death. The soaked boards save From the air we blow. “Take our contents, Suck from us not us from you.” Pleased with ourselves we rest in a noodle shop Crumbling into cakes upon the table. The server and the cashier Stop by and take our orders.

And we eat the decorated broth. Soaked pan, sits in the sink and bubbles. We sit across from each other, over the chest. The liquid quivers and shakes and smiles. Then we push our nostrils beneath the skin.

Cole Somerville

This face I’ve unerased Stares across from me and adds Chili paste to broth. The table Creaks and groans and bowls over Board we shift upon Leaks water through, the chicken wire Coast is no longer painted blue. Those songs we heard across the alley Sigh as whispers from the shore. Seven wooden chests, beat against the breast Line fuel. Bread pan faces stare through slats Ashore and watch their cargo flee. A shore fleeing, watched by snails. The chicken wire can only hold back So much sediment, instead it holds rafts That swim out from the eroding shore Left bobbing and diving in moments On the wire they hang. Our board is sealed White linoleum. Our bowls rest and steam 28

Paper Mâché Stale water, flour in clumps form a sticky paste mold a mask and arms and chest down to hollow waist.

“La liberté ne consiste pas à se nier, mais à se faire pardonner son être par l’altérité même d’autrui.” —Emmanuel Levinas

Paper layers in my skin, I break these brittle bones. Whispering winds tear these limbs that have withstood sticks and stones.

I am eating spring rolls I bought at a take-out restaurant near my office, dipping into a peanut sauce that I’m careful not to spill on my Givenchy suit. For some reason, the flavor of Thai basil, cilantro and shrimp is muted. The further I progress into my meal, the less I can taste. I convince myself it’s probably nothing. I’m sitting at a mesh picnic table that is coated in green plastic. My co-worker Cameron, beside me, has taken his blazer off, revealing subtle sweat stains under the arms of his Armani shirt. His hair faintly gleams, freshly cut, and the smell of his cologne mingles with the smell of our food. Around us, birds chirp sporadically. The trees in the park are swollen with leaves, obscuring the office buildings behind them. The grass below us is ankle-high and vibrant. In the nearby playground, children are screaming with joy. I turn to see our friend Richard approaching us with a smirk across his face, lunch in one hand, newspaper in the other. He falls clumsily next to Cameron on the bench and laughs. “Look what I found while buying my smokes. We’ve really done it this time, guys.” He lays the paper across the mesh picnic table. The sunlight reflects off the bleached page, causing us all to squint. The title of the article, in bold serif print, reads, The Most Evil Industries and Their Corporations. “What a bunch of liberal horse shit. Fake news,” says Cameron. Richard chuckles through his satisfied grin. I scan down the list and spot our company’s name between ConAgra Foods and Enron. “I’d like to see those socialist cucks survive one week without natural gas. Maybe they’d understand our salaries,” Cameron continues. “So ungrateful,” I add. “Fucking ideologues. How do they not recognize the work we do for them?” I push a bite of shrimp around my mouth with my tongue, examining it for any potential flavor. When I bring my coffee to my lips,

I lay me out and let me dry, thin joints stiff with glue. For hours on end, let me begin to carve my form for you. And as the cracks in my skin snap, my body bends and drags, the paper skeleton sweeps away; caught on jagged snags. I feel this face upon my skull of aging yellow sheets; I don’t recognize my own eyes sunk deep in my cracking face. The more I try to solidify my shaky stance, the more I buckle; I tumble in the dark, shred by shred; I stumble. I peel myself apart. Paper layers in my skin; I unravel shards of air bereft of breath; when I look upon myself there is nothing left. Rachel Sandell 30

Tragedy and Infinity: Prose on Exteriority

It starts at lunchtime. I feel as if something is receding from me.

I can barely smell the rich aroma. I wipe the edge of my mouth with a paper napkin. Two figs remain in my workbag. My wife, Sophie, bought them from the farmers market. Cameron suctions his snot into his mouth and launches it onto the newspaper article. “Gross!” Richard cries as he shoves the mucus-news mixture onto the grass. By this point, I can’t taste my figs at all. All that is left in my mouth is a slimy, pulpy texture. I think about Cameron’s snot. I tactfully spit the fruit into a napkin. “I guess it’s time to head back to the office,” says Cameron. Our lunch break had ended ten minutes ago, according to my Rolex. We stand, and Cameron stretches his arms. I’m unsure of what to do with my half-eaten fig, so I toss it onto the newspaper Richard left behind. Then, we move toward our building. “What do you think of the new hire at the front desk?” Richard asks me. “She seems friendly, but—” “No ass,” interrupts Cameron. “Exactly.” ——— “Ugh!” I slam my palm into the side of the printer. Only four of my info sheets for tomorrow’s client meeting have printed. I open the top and find a thick backlog of jammed pages. Reaching in, I rip out some chunks of paper, but I can’t get it all out. My fingertips are black with wet toner. I sigh. The printer lets out incessant, earsplitting beeps. I step away from the useless machine, wandering over to Mercy’s cubicle. She is focused on her typing, makeup caked around her cowlike eyes. I knock on the carpeted surface of her cubicle wall to get her attention. “Oh, hi,” Her layers of neck fat swivel when she turns her head, “Did you see the email I sent you?” “The printer is really jammed. I can’t get it working again,” I say. “Yeah, that happened last month too.” She glances back at her 32

screen. “I can fix it for you. Could you give me a few minutes to finish this?” “I’d prefer if you dealt with it now.” “I’m really in the middle of something,” she explains. “You’re the only one I know who can fix it.” “I only need a few minutes,” she repeats, “It’s just not my job to fix it.” “Do you want to keep the job you do have?” I retort. She opens her mouth to speak, then pauses. “Alright,” she says quietly, “I’ll do it now. No big deal.” Her chair groans with relief as she stands. The printer is still beeping as she feels around the track, except now it’s quieter and less annoying. Mercy gets toner on her stubby fingers, under her glossy nails. She hits a button, which finally silences the printer, then she asks me something. “What did you say?” I ask. She repeats herself. “I can’t hear you. C’mon, speak up.” “How many sheets were you printing?” she asks. With difficulty, she gets on her knees to open the bottom compartment. She speaks again. “What?” “I’m going to fill the paper,” she repeats, looking peeved. “Ah. Thanks.” She waddles away. My info sheets are printing again, this time smoothly. I realize the clunking of the printer sounds muffled. It abruptly stops, and the screen displays the word EMPTY. I scratch my head. I remember the toner on my fingers, and now probably my scalp. Mercy waddles back from the stockroom with a package of paper. Her words are inaudible again. It starts to worry me. “I’m going to head home. I’m cutting out early,” I tell her. She looks up at me, perplexed. When she asks me why, it sounds like she’s exhaling. “I don’t feel well,” I explain. Even my own voice sounds slightly 33

distant now. She says something else, but I’ve already started walking away. ——— I tap my inky fingers against the steering wheel of my BMW, eyes fixed on the red light of the intersection. I have my cellphone in the other hand. The receptionist of my health clinic tells me in an Indian accent that I can schedule an appointment for two days from now. I press the phone against my ear to hear his hushed voice. When he asks me what the appointment is for, I tell him that I’m having trouble smelling, tasting and hearing. “You sound frantic,” he points out, “You’re probably just getting congested. Maybe a virus. You have nothing to worry about.” “I’m not worried,” I lie, although his words are comforting. I drive out of the city, onto a coastal road, and roll down my windows to let in the ocean air. The atmosphere above me is cloudless and soaked in blue. It’s surprisingly dusky outside, even though it’s only mid-afternoon. Every once in a while, I snap my fingers near my ears to check if I can still hear. I feel like I’m wearing earplugs that I can’t remove. My house is on a private road, walking distance to the beach. The driveway is slanted upward and leads to a four-car garage under a sunroom with expansive bay windows. The house was built three decades ago, but has great structural integrity and a sleek, sweeping design. Sophie and I have renovated the bathrooms and kitchens since our move-in. I pull into the garage and step out of the car. Sophie’s Lincoln is here, meaning she must be home. I close my car door, but hear nothing when it shuts. I bring my hand up to my ear and snap. Silence. I can feel my finger sting as it smacks against the base of my thumb. I don’t even register a muffled tap. For a moment I feel like throwing up from nervousness. I lean against the BMW until I 34

control my breathing. Then, I stumble through the dark garage, the sound of my footsteps missing. I search for the doorknob and slip inside the stairway that leads into the house. The rattle of my key, the clunk of the door, the drag of my shoes on the mat—every familiar sound has been extracted from my world. Being deaf is much more disorienting than I imagined. I walk up the dimly lit stairs, and open the door to the lounge. I tread past the fireplace and into the dining room soundlessly, as if my life were a vintage film. A bowl of black figs rests on the linen tablecloth. I attempt to turn the lights on, but the switches are already flipped. Confused, I look up at the chandelier. The tiny golden bulbs are struggling to emit enough light to satisfy the room. Suddenly it occurs to me that my vision itself might be dimming. I grip my neck in sudden dread. I breathe deep, air tickling my throat, and pull my eyelids shut. For a fleeting moment, I don’t notice anything. Then, I feel it spreading through me. I can only describe it as a profound absence. A vacuum. An infinity. Once I realize it’s there, I can’t ignore it. I open my eyes and it’s still present, gently engulfing me. Immediately, I rush up another set of stairs. I call out Sophie’s name in panic, but I can’t hear where it goes. The objects around me—walls, paintings, body—become hard to distinguish. They start sliding together as a dark mass. I stumble on the steps and grasp for balance, my sweaty palm gliding along the railing. I reach the top of the staircase and I fight to hold my view of the hallway. “Sophie!” I feel myself yell. I’m struggling through my thick vision, clinging to every sliver of focused resolution. I hurry into the bedroom. Brief images drop into my view before they are swept into vast nothing. The Turkish rug. Sophie’s clothes in a heap. The bedframe. The endless white sheet. A man in our bed. His arms gesturing toward me, his mouth moving. 35

Thick eyebrows furrowed, and black curls jutting from his exposed chest. Then, the man slips out of focus, and Sophie slips in. As her figure expands, I brush against ephemeral details. Pinpricks of light flash off her lacy nightgown. Her thousands of brunette hairs swim silently, back and forth, before melting into a curtain. Her shoulder, a peach. Tears drip from her chin. Her red lips shape forceful syllables. “Who is he?” I ask her soundlessly. I can’t hear her answer, but I already know too much. “Who is he? WHO IS HE?” My throat feels hot and gritty from screaming. A hand abruptly strikes my face and I stumble backwards. All I see is a fading blur of meaningless colors. My temple throbs, shooting sparks. Two hands shove me backwards, and I stagger into a hard surface. I can no longer tell where in the room I am. Invisible forces grip my blazer from the flickering shadows that remain in my vision. I reach out my hand, and my fingertips graze along the smooth silk of Sophie’s gown. I feel the complex texture of lace, and then, I touch Sophie’s blushed skin one last time. Nails rip across my useless eyes. The sensation in my face begins to dampen, my limbs numb and tingling. “Don’t let it take me!” I cry blindly. I lash around, desperate to awaken my body. An arm swiftly hooks me around the neck and rips me away from Sophie, aggressively contorting me around. I feel a bedpost pierce into my abdomen, yet the pain is distant. Warm fluid spills from my gut onto my hands, the sensation on each of my fingertips gently departing. My last connection to the world releases its grip. I drop into the throat of nothing. Electric synapses shoot out of me and trail off. I’m sending signals to limbs that can’t report back. I command my body in a frenzy— scouring for a smell, a sound, any miniscule sensation. I am suspended in emptiness. My world formless and void, like darkness on the face of the deep. 36

——— Hours, maybe days, have gone by. I have no way of telling how much time has passed. My thoughts expand and mingle with the limitless nothing around me. They sprout and spread without my control. I have no point of reference to where they come or go. My thoughts accumulate around me. They swell up from nowhere, pleading for care, accountability. I’m profoundly alone, yet outnumbered and overpowered. In this overwhelming passivity, I find myself wondering how I ever justified my existence at all. How did I assert my being with my aims and undertakings? When I built my world, was it an act of creation or destruction? In the darkness, my memories become all that is real, more tangible than anything I’ve owned. Again, I am a child. I am a child forever. Squatting above a single slab of sidewalk, my shadow a total eclipse. An anthill protrudes like a cyst out of a crack in the concrete, and I am spitting into the entrance. I watch the ants struggle fruitlessly against my viscid enzymes. My mom approaches me from her garden and asks what I am doing. When she sees the anthill she repeats her question, softer this time, with tears in her eyes. Again, Sophie and I are getting married. We are getting married forever. The smell of the ocean at night surrounds us. Waves shatter like glass against the nearby rocky shore—splinters of water crashing together like the clapping hands of our loved ones. Candle flames hover atop round tables in the crowd as we give our vows to each other. Her dress is a valley of white lilies, and her lips are soft like young flower petals. Again, I am in the atmosphere, soaked in blue. I am in the atmosphere forever. I hear the hum of helicopter blades through my headset. The pilot tells my client and me that we’ve arrived at our pipeline project. From above, the pipeline looks like a crack in the Earth’s surface. I point out a colony of specks to my client. The protesters prevent us from landing. My memories get pulled apart by nothing or pushed apart by 37

something. Either way, it makes no difference. The memories separate uniformly, without objection. They dissolve in nothingness like food in a stomach, turning dreamlike as they soften. My sense of self unravels into a galaxy of images, emotions and symbols. A galaxy of fragments churn, shimmer. Control revolves around freedom. I once let go of a balloon and found it months later, limply hanging in a pine tree. Fragments of accomplishment revolve around failure, like musty bottles hidden behind a garage. Texture releases from shape. Her braided hair is a layer deeper, shifting beneath the surface of language releasing from object. Puddles open ground to sky, a doorknob compresses skin into fragments of distance. Bitter cells embrace bone and vein, whisper exteriority away, release distance from change. Delicate fissures of energy rupture consciousness. Light disseminates into departure from structure, familiarity of an echoing an echoing an echo of face. A hollow resonance ho ll ow res on an ce unites

Marcos Giossi 38

Mirrored walls on three sides of red carpet. This is the first, and it’s never been current. Waves of wind under the grass, I had never seen confused lightning bugs that flew against the current. In the middle, there were belts and spoons. No more mom, but an amplified electric current. “Show me your hands!” was a brick wall. The burning limbs from mother’s current. Not to say I had a retreat, from paved climax and cheez-it poker, I followed the lit current. After this came the night I discovered keen objects, the satisfying fashion I follow that is still current. Stripped to skin and exposed hamburger meat. Oiled to serve the purpose of fighting the current. From 1 a.m. to 5 a.m., ginger-ale services on thin blue sheets, wrinkles following the current. Sent to an island from Delaware corn. The salmon were unaware of this order. Was it the fault of the current?

in entropy,

The Ones I Remember

stillness

Again, I went to metallic, smog sky. Are you able to find the view that craves the selfsame current?

Now, I wouldn’t know that sanity meant dishonesty in grassroots campaigns; you have to twist what’s current. Along the coast by the jetty, I found myself a church. A prehistoric beast, eyes that watch through the current. 39

Short in occasion, much longer in thoughts: A memory I can follow, a wish against the current. A crowd holding a pineapple, a shrine to Dave. Three tubes in your boot. Following the current to a stance all the same, worshiping an art form. A part of me will always be lost in the current.

Megan Daugherty

Visual Art

Wanaka Tree Matt Perea

home Cordell Pickens 42

Concussion Kait Dawson Mandala II Peter Olshner

Mount Rainier Jesse Kenduck

Antarctica Jesse Kenduck

Migration III Hannah Park

Untitled Sophia Jenkinson 48

Saddlebag Shay Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Day

Brooks Rizelle Rosales

The Way We Would Speak, and All That We Wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Say Marcos Giossi

Kintsugi Jaclyn Kissler

Untitled Megan Daugherty 54

Q&A with Visiting Writer Kaveh Akbar Kaveh Akbar is the founder and editor of the poetry interview website Divedapper, the author of the chapbook Portrait of the Alcoholic and author of Calling a Wolf a Wolf, published by Alice James Books in the United States and published by Penguin Books in the UK. Akbar received his Master of Fine Arts in Poetry from Butler University and his Ph.D. in Creative Writing from Florida State University. He is a visiting professor of the MFA program at Purdue University in Indiana. Akbar was awarded the Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation in September 2016. Below is a transcription of a PLU-sponsored Q&A event with Akbar on April 5th, 2018, as part of the Visiting Writer Series.

QUESTION: One of the things that interested me most in your work was the shape of your poetry. There’s so much variation in the way that you shape all your different poems—at one point the words are literally falling down the page. When do you know what the shape of your stanzas and the shape of your poems are going to be? KA: The shape of the poem on the page is really important to me. In writing the poems in Calling a Wolf a Wolf, something that felt exciting to discover was the way that the unpunctuated line could give you a lot of control over momentum, centripetal force, and inertia. With an unpunctuated line, you can make language move fast, and when language is moving fast, we’re wired to feel a sense of urgency, we’re wired to feel a sense of stakes. And also a kind of sonic supersaturation. A lot of the poems work that way. If you’re writing in unpunctuated lines, one way to bolster the clarity of those lines, and to make sure that people are reading those lines in ways that make literal sense, is to move the language around the page and alter stops, instead of having visual demarcations of punctuation on the page. The poet Heather Christle talks about going back to the punctuated line after writing a book of unpunctuated poetry. She said that when she was putting periods and commas on the page—when she first started seeing those again—she wanted to take a vacuum cleaner 56

and just put it on her paper and suck up all the weird little dots and marks. It’s an interesting thing. So much of the way that the poems are shaped has to do with me trying to mediate, control, and help a little bit with the clarity of the reading, both in terms of the denotative semantic clarity and the sonic clarity. I want the sonic landscape of the poem to have a certain shape. And I think that the way a poem is laid out on the page can help a lot with that. You discover a lot of things when writing unpunctuated lines. If you put a modifier at the end of a sentence, you realize that without punctuation, that modifier will always be able to amend the end of the first sentence or amend the beginning of the second sentence, which is not something that I realized until I started writing the unpunctuated line. So if I said, “Sally runs to her home quickly she takes a shower,” the word “quickly” can describe the speed at which Sally runs to her home, but it can also describe how quickly she then hops into the shower. Without punctuation, it’s amorphous, and not in a productive or interesting way. There are little interesting quirks about the English language that you have to resolve in the unpunctuated line that you don’t realize until you start writing this way. And the visual presentation of the poems has to do with assisting this kind of clarity. QUESTION: Have you ever considered writing in other genres? I know you’re a poet, so what about poetry is it? KA: I have written in other genres, but it always feels a little bit like I’m translating—translating from what I want to be writing into the language of another genre. When I write poetry, it feels like exploration. It feels like excavation. It feels like the recovery of textures that I had forgotten or discarded. Oftentimes when I am writing in prose, it feels a bit more like asserting. It feels a bit more like I’m beginning from a place of certainty, which tends to be less interesting for me. It’s still useful—for instance, if I want to write a lecture to give to my students or if I want to write an essay about a particular experience. But 57

the way that even associative essays tend to move denotatively instead of connotatively....it feels much more steerable to me. It feels much less like exploration. I was just in London two weeks ago at the BBC with Carolyn Bird, an incredible poet who had a new book out last year. She made this beautiful comparison about how she envisions the poem as a bubble, like a soccer-ball-size bubble that the poet holds their hands around. And you can’t grab the bubble and take it, because then the bubble will pop. It’ll break everything, it’ll destroy the poem. But you can put your hands around the bubble and move your hands really gently to bend the air around the bubble to move it in different directions. That felt illuminating for me. I think that is as good of an articulation of that phenomenon as I’ve ever heard. The essential quality of the poem is the gap between the skin of your hand and the membrane of that bubble. The skill of the poet is the skill of modulating that gap and modulating the movement of your hands. And trusting yourself to get really close to the bubble or far from the bubble and still trusting the bubble’s motion. This gets at the heart of “why poetry?” for me. Matthew Zapruder has a book called Why Poetry? that might answer your question more fully. I agree with most of the things that he says in there, too. The essential quality of the poem is that it begins in a place of uncertainty for me. And I know that this can be true for other genres as well. But it is often the case that when I want to write about something that I am more convicted about, it tends to happen in other genres. QUESTION: Do you ever experience “writer’s block,” and if you do, how do you deal with it? KA: I have a kind of frustrating answer, which is to say that I don’t really believe in writer’s block. I have a novelist friend who says, “You know what I do when I have writer’s block? I open the mailbox and I look at my mortgage statement and I’m like, ‘Oh shit!’” But to be a little 58

bit more gracious and compassionate about it…. I think when people are talking about writer’s block, what they are actually experiencing is the friction between their nature of being observant poets, and their received wisdom that everyone is supposed to be writing every day. You are told you have to write eight hours a day or you’re not a real writer. But I don’t think that most writing is sitting in a chair putting pages in a notebook. I think that most writing is being attuned to language and being permeable to the entrance of interesting language, and noticing the world. What we’re always trying to do as poets is to defamiliarize the world around us and to defamiliarize the world within us. The famous Victor Shklovsky, the old Russian defamiliarist, said, “Make the stone stony.” This is the great defamiliarist credo! Which is to say, when you encounter a million trillion stones every day, how do you return to the stone the essence of its stoniness? How do you return to the tree the essence of its treeness? All of life on planet Earth is here because plants on Earth can photosynthesize light from a star 93,000,000 miles away and turn it into glucose. And that glucose becomes all of the matter that you’ve ever eaten or interacted with or spoken to. Everything has resulted from that. That is profoundly strange, right? But we walk past plants every day, and how often do you consider that? So, the job of artists is to say, “It is weird that we live, and it is weird that we die, and nobody has ever been able to come back and tell us what happens. And it is weird that we fall in love knowing that one of us is inevitably going to die before the other.” And we do it anyways, even when the best-case scenario is that you just end up watching the person that you love most on Earth die in front of you. We put stuff that we grow in dirt into our mouths, and then poop it—I mean, it’s profoundly strange that we do all of these things! This is to say that even when you’re not writing, even when you’re not sitting in front of a legal pad furiously scratching away pages, you can still be engaged with the world around you. You can still be wondering, you can still be curious. You can still be reading. You can still be 59

experiencing episodic moments. We’ve all had the experience when we’re in the throes of a project that we’re excited about, when all of language is coming into us first through the filter of its poetic utility, right? Like when your beloved is really mad at you, so they call you a name and in the heat of their anger, they misspeak, and you’re like, “Hmm, that’s poetry.” And then they notice your noticing, and they get even madder, but anyway….that is also writing. Most of writing doesn’t look like this, you know? [holds up his book] I think that dealing with writer’s block has a lot to do with just being kind to yourself and being at peace with the process—the process of being attuned so that when that inspiration comes you’re ready for it and you’ve primed your vessels.

My God god wears a helmet and dress shoes god is presentable at casual lunches and makes others feel inadequate but not in a threatening way simply in a way that forces them to commend him and gives them something of a standard to achieve the next time he invites them out to eat god has a pocket square with his favorite commandment on it god does not own a petticoat or any tight-fitting pants god does not wear ankle socks nor does he use a handkerchief god excuses himself before and after he belches god takes his own name in vain to lighten the mood god likes quiet music it does not matter the genre god sleeps in a hammock on warm nights god does not make warm nights he waits for them god exhibits self-control when presented with hors d’oeuvres Erik Carlsen

Neighbor is up early

Letter 2

I can hear him Drop the lid to his Shaving cream And it bounces Three times on The tile floor Be Here Now He and I are a sad collective And I imagine We would get along

I once scoured for white rocks And mistook their name for Agape

Erik Carlsen

Her father said nobody kidnapped her because She was already crying

There is a bar where women get pregnant Across the channel from the dock There is a tree where dogs go and lie down Because the roots gather water And they can lap up the water While they are in the shade She ran out of gas on the highway And hitchhiked home

She didn’t know what running out of gas was So she cried Eating a raw carrot is ok A line of butterflies on your windowsill is a good omen A row of owls or just one is a bad omen They brush shark’s teeth with regular toothbrushes Things are scary when they don’t have whites in their eyes I could have said Sincerely but I would have to mean it Once I accidentally took a salt shaker from a diner And when I walked back in to return it I walked out 62

With the pepper I bathed your mother when she couldn’t And even when she just didn’t Want to I used a soft cloth And a bucket of soapy water That we used to use to wash the car But before I brought it to her I would rinse the purpose out of it I put out a cigarette on myself In the movie theater And screamed Then laughed That’s how you know there is a lot of pain A bouquet of it Growing roots in the vase you placed it in You even rotate it by the window Giving each blossom even sunlight Changing the water every so often Watching it extend its life As the cellophane compacts In the garbage can Pressing the petals between your fingers Waiting for it to thank you

Erik Carlsen

Kaddish We sang the same prayer as every Friday. That night, you forgot the words. “Eloheinu melech ha’olam,” I sang for you. As you raised the Kiddush cup, your hand trembled. Purple droplets rained down on the white tablecloth. I hurried to find a napkin for you. My uncle and mother whispered across the table, matching creases in their foreheads as they determined what to do for you. The sixth stroke destroyed your mind, the left side of your face. Eleven years of hospice care, now it was nearly over—your children’s devoted care for you. In the Catholic hospital, you made your last joke. Addressing the man on the cross; “If I get out of here alive, I swear to God, I’ll convert for you.” It was the end of May. I found lavender in the hospital garden— pods of tiny purple petals arranged on pale green stalks. I made a bedside bouquet for you. “Flowers are not for the dying,” my uncle said. He offered no alternative. He stood in the corner, in shadow, trying his best to do what was right for you. Natural light glinted off the scissors my mother held. Locks of white from your temple fell to the pillow. On the last day, my mother cut your hair for you. Jews believe that after you’re gone, there is nothing left for you. The week after your death, my cousin gave birth. A wailing bundle— Joy. She was named for you. Gillian Dockins

The Surest Proof of God

The lungs suck in air, expanding the cavity of the thorax, equalizing

air pressure within the ribbed chamber. Then, pushed by the diaphragm and abdominal muscles in exhalation, carefully controlled air pressure builds behind the glottis, until BOOM! WHAM! sound is born, bursting past the glottis and up through the larynx and pharynx, the vocal folds allowing air to pass in the space between one wave and the next, oscillating open to close four hundred, eight hundred, fourteen hundred times per second, responding to the high velocity of air escaping past the glottis. We are singing now, controlling the intake and outtake of air precisely, knowing just how many times our vocal folds need to meet to sound the C above middle C (523.25 times per second), the auditoriums of our mouths and nasal passages ringing with the note, C5 ricocheting and amplifying and harmonizing with itself, the harmonic series of sound an exponential ladder up and up and up in octaves and fifths and thirds until our ears stop recognizing pitch altogether, until we run out of air. And all this is happening—the precision of pitch, the equalization of pressure in the thorax, the abdominal muscles and diaphragm flexed and controlled in contraction—in the shower! In the car! On Broadway! And I’m wondering if this isn’t the most magical thing, that we can sing, that music is in us without us even having to think about it, without us even really trying, like we are the instruments and someone, something else is the player, that this may be the surest proof of God I’ve known, standing shoulder to shoulder with another body, another instrument, sounding the same sure note, our pitch deviating from the mean at exactly the same rate, our heartbeats aligned in rhythm, our very selves in tune.

A Fish Out of Water Summer cut grass glistens under the heat, Father figure stands in the background, Brother watches from the house, safe and sound, Today is the day she will fly. Crystal blue skies anticipate, An eight year old has never flown before, The plastic pool is her domain, Water splashes around her in excitement. A colorful bathing suit clings to the girl, Replacing superhero spandex, goggles Should have been worn, but she enjoyed The risk of water sneaking behind eyelids. A bright smile cracked along her lips, Ready for adventure, her motto, Her legs practiced the leap of ballerinas, Repetition is key for flight. “Hey Dad, watch what I can do!” She sprang out of water, leaving youth behind, Gravity became a harsh monster, Crashing into dirt, a strained wrist swelled.

Miya Beckman

Gillian Dockins

Dear Airplane

When you’re trapped on an island with nothing but your severely

seasick pet guinea pig Francis and a coconut named Willow for company, it doesn’t take long for you to realize that rescue would be really appreciated. As soon as possible. I’m talking to you, airplane flying overhead. Can’t you see the giant SOS I assembled out of sticks and set aflame? How are you possibly missing this giant cloud of smoke that’s billowing up and probably messing with your radar gadgets? Although, now that I think of it, maybe you’re not real. I’ve been here for more than three weeks. And I’ve seen a hell of a lot in that time. There have been thunderstorms that flicker with green lightning. World War II-era planes and other things that look distinctly not of this world have threaded through the swollen clouds, flashing like needles in haystacks and disappearing just as quickly. Sometimes I wake up at night to the eerie wail of a woman singing. I throw off my blanket of scratchy palm leaves and grab my coconut and we race to the shore. There’s usually a barge floating off in the distance, a hulking metal mass that vanishes into mist mere minutes after it appears. I swear to you, and my trusty coconut Willow can back me up on this, but we’ve even seen a pirate ship sail by a time or two. So maybe you’re not real, airplane flying overhead. Maybe you don’t see my smoke, maybe you ignore my cry for help because you’re still living out your own endless loop. If that’s the case, I wish you well. It’s been twenty-three days since I last had a shower, but I’ve come to accept the perpetual itch of sand in my hair. Honestly, human stink isn’t that bad after you get used to it. Thus far, I’ve been surviving off of shellfish and some of Willow’s friends. Without a doubt, though, cuisine-wise, the greatest thing I’ve come to discover since being marooned on this island is that charred and blackened guinea pig makes for a delicious dinner. (Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault Francis 68

wandered off in the middle of one of those lightning storms. You know what they say, right? Waste not, want not.) When surviving all alone on an island where your only company is ghost ships and coconuts, you gotta be practical about things. While we’re on the subject, I gotta go check on the SOS fire. I’ll get back to you later, airplane flying overhead. Just in case, if you just so happen to not be stuck in a time-loop and could send help stat, that would be much appreciated. Thanks!

Madison Shewman

Seeds Famine to plentiful freedom Liberty crooned: Give me your huddled masses yearning to breathe— Boat meets land, scrawny boy-child meets verbal volley of bitter truth: You’re here for life Get out of my way, you ape Fast forward train clacking on tracks Slab of cement, scrawled name over rotting, deflated bones Maple leaf to stars and stripes Hello Miss, just a day trip? Anything to declare? No Yes Lies Seeds in the bag Crunch Seeds in the heart Thump-kshhhhh Rewind Railroad ties curving up like ribcage to sky Silver sparks as the hammer falls quiet, silent riot, deep dank diphtheria death

Liberty—

Envelop us in your bosom Vomit us out, ground down and broken fertilizing fodder Scatter our blood, sow our seed Across dust, dirt, diphtheria devastation

One day we’ll grow

greater

than you condescended to believe Heritage has proven apes are resourceful, human

Madison Shewman

Seeds sown over wife and children Lonely trek west, divest of whispers you ape Seeds rattling through customs Welcome to the States, miss Did you enjoy your trip? Home sweet home to the land of freedom, hmm? 70

Moved

“I leave you alone for five minutes!” the mother shouted. Olivia

turned away from the bottom shelf she was straightening with wideeyes that frantically looked between her enraged mother and the cans of whole kernel sweet corn. “Mom, please, I’m almost done,” she said and she looks to make sure each of the four rows are perfectly straight. She continued to turn each of the labels so the yellow box on the front was exactly aligned with the next when her mom dragged her away. “Mom, no, please, I was only doing the corn! Please, I’m almost done!” Having straightened all the cans in the cupboard at home, Olivia adored the opportunity to come with her mother to their local Fred Meyer’s. While her mother pushed the metal shopping cart down the grains aisle, Olivia would sneak away to pursue her romance with the canned goods section. Something about the feeling of the ridged tops and paper labels being exactly aligned made her heart happy. Her mother stared at her with pointed eyes, “What is wrong with you?” *** Twenty-one years later, Olivia is twenty-seven. She wakes up in her stark white bedroom, with the queen bed facing the door, like her mother taught her, so you can see if someone’s trying to get in. She imagines her mother standing at her door in her sari, the mole on her chin staring at her. She lives alone in a single apartment in the Chinatown-International District of Seattle. With its tea shops, dim-sum restaurants and cherry blossom trees, the diversity felt like home to Olivia, but the transition from the neat, suburban homes of University Place where she grew up put her on edge for the first few months. That is, until she finally got her apartment just the way she wanted it and it became her safe space away from, yet within, the city. Olivia walks to her bathroom to get ready. She is subtly beautiful. Her deep olive skin isn’t quite as dark as her mother’s because her dad is half-white, and it looks especially pale in the months before 72

summer. She doesn’t wear much makeup, just a quick comb-through of her dark eyebrows, some tweezing if necessary, eyeliner, mascara and lip balm. She used to cake on foundation as a teenager before she realized that the annoying red bumps she was trying to cover were there because she wasn’t letting her pores breathe. Her mother often expresses how much uglier Olivia is when she cuts her hair, so she keeps it waist-length, despite the extra maintenance of not only washing it, but cleaning up after it. After the twenty brush-strokes of her hair, Olivia is ready for the next step in her daily morning routine. She goes into the living room, and a feather traces her spine. Something is off. She scans the tall ebony bookshelf and slowly walks toward it. Her eye catches the navy curtains that cover the large window and she pulls them back as her breathing quickens. Nothing. She turns back to the bookshelf and pauses. Shrugging it off for the moment, she walks to the white board that is the centerpiece of the living room’s side wall. Olivia tried keeping the whiteboard in her room, but she found herself adding miniscule tasks to it instead of sleeping. Every night before she goes to bed, Olivia prepares the next day’s meals, sets out tomorrow’s outfit, showers, and writes her checklist of before work to-do, daily leisure activity before dinner, and before bed to-do. Friday, March 4, 2016 • Wake up • Clear phone notifications • Change • Brush teeth, do makeup, brush hair • Open curtains • Grab breakfast and lunch from fridge • Check time • Leave for work After she grabs her food, she looks at the black analog clock that hangs over the bookshelf. She chose the simple design specifically for her apartment, but she did not anticipate that the ticking would keep her up several nights in a row. After complaining about it to her 73

mother, she brought it to a clockmaker a few blocks away that her mom recommended. Something still feels off. “I swear, the second shelf…” Olivia says aloud. She walks toward the spacious five shelves and examines the second one. “What is this gray book doing in the blue section of the bookshelf?” It’s not like her to be so careless about putting her books back, but she does remembering skimming the hardcover copy of The Value of Design a few days ago, and she has been preoccupied with work recently. You are fine, just one thing out of order, everything will be back to normal, she confirms to herself. With the book back in place, she takes a last glance around the apartment before grabbing her keys from the steel organizer.

wanted her own daughter to get married at eighteen. When will I be a grandma? After she wipes her hands, she looks down at the clear, electronic scale and decides to step on it, just to check. While pulling it out, she accidentally knocks over her daughter’s purple razor, lined up with all her other bath products on the edge of the tub. Shit. Where was this? She places it back at the end of the row. Returning to the living room, she chuckles at her daughter’s bookshelf, color-coordinated, of course. She pulls out The Value of Design, but the clock catches her eye. Shit. It’s already 4:30 PM! Her daughter will be home soon and she doesn’t want her to know she’s here. She puts the book back on the shelf without a thought before dashing off.

***

Olivia’s proclivity for perfection makes her a good fit at Clean Power, where her immaculate desk holds nothing but the MacBook on which she does her programming and a white framed photo of her and her mom. The numbers she inputs, the command sequences and the computer grammar enthrall Olivia. She makes pleasant small-talk with her co-workers and they respect her privacy while she works. She knows some people find her bare desk, the constant rearranging of the communal office supplies, and the fact that she cleans the kitchen during her lunch break odd. She hears them whispering around her while she works, but they never directly criticize her. She has never been one for socializing, her idea of a good time is rearranging her already immaculate closet. “Hey there, love,” says one of her notoriously flirty male co-workers. “Hey, Josh,” Olivia replies, hoping the conversation doesn’t go on. She hates the idea of being with a man. Or a woman. When she thinks of relationships, she thinks of all the extra things and messes she would have to deal with and those thoughts alone made her start nervously cracking her joints. She starts with her knuckles, then toes, and ends with her neck if she is anxious enough to make it that far. By the time Olivia gets through her left hand, she and Josh both watch the curly-haired, energetic Tatiana walk past, and thankfully

“Livy, how do you survive without your own kitchen?” Olivia’s mom said to herself as she entered her daughter’s apartment. She rarely stopped by without letting Olivia know, but she was visiting the Thursday spice market down the street and didn’t want to use a public restroom. Olivia would be fine with it, even though she wasn’t home. After Olivia moved to Seattle, the duplex that their small family stayed in felt hollow, even if it was just an hour’s drive away from her only child. But she wanted to respect Olivia’s request of living alone. It was about time and after all, Olivia could certainly afford it with her salary. So the compromise was following suit and moving to Seattle, but in the Ballard neighborhood because “that’s where all the cool old people live,” as her daughter put it. In Olivia’s apartment, her mother tsks and tsks. “You crazy girl, haven’t changed a bit.” She lets herself into the bathroom. Spotless, she thinks. She doesn’t touch anything, knowing her daughter would notice. But she’s glad that the apartment will be clean for the date that she is setting up for Olivia. Vishnu is a nice, Indian man that works for his dad’s law firm, perfect for Olivia because they’re both successful and quiet. She thinks he looks clean enough. Twenty-seven years old and not married, what would her grandma think? Of course, her grandma would be disappointed: she 74

***

Josh manages to make an excuse to follow her. Olivia relaxes back into the black rolling chair and resumes her work until her shift ends at 5:00 PM. *** The same routine Monday through Friday, and she loves it. After setting tomorrow’s outfit on the garment rack in her bedroom, she selects the shoes she wants to go with it next to the shoe rack by the door. She goes to take her shower but the same eerie feeling she had this morning returns. “What is going on here?” she says out loud. She organizes her bathroom products by use. Shampoo, conditioner, floss, toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, body wash. Did I leave the razor at the end of the row? Unsettled, she moves slowly through the house, checking to see that everything else is still in order. Everything looks fine, but she jumps out of her skin when her phone vibrates on the bathroom counter. After catching her breath, she sees “Mom” on the screen and lets it ring again before answering. “Hello? No, Mom, I am not seeing anyone yet.” “No, Mom, I don’t want to see Vishnu again, I know he’s a nice guy, but he smelled like tobacco and it made me nauseous.” “No, Mom, I like being alone.” “Yes, we can get dinner this weekend, I’m free tomorrow if you are.” “Okay, I’ll see you soon. Love you. Bye.” Finally ready for her shower, Olivia thinks about the misplaced razor while the warm water runs down her body. Am I getting enough sleep? Am I going crazy? Should I take a break from work? Maybe I should make more friends. Then I would have someone to call when I am freaking out like this. She skips shaving. *** At home, Olivia was fine. Her parents appreciated the orderliness. But then Olivia went away for college. The first month was hell. Her roommate tried to understand, but she was sick of Olivia touching 76

her stuff. She called her a freak and they had many conversations with the resident advisor before they finally let her have a single room. It still didn’t help that the communal spaces were always so messy. The hallway bulletin board with its uneven notes, the sloppily hung decorations of the residents, the living space that was in constant use. She stayed up hours after her homework was finished, cracking her joints, waiting for the gases to return to the synovial fluid and rearranging the communal couches while they slowly did. She refused to leave her dorm room for weeks. Her mother was finally called, and she went home after fall semester. She took online classes in her safe space, and it helped, a lot. Olivia needs a safe space. *** March 5, 2016 • Wake up • Clear phone notifications • Brush teeth and hair, do makeup, change. • Open curtains • Make tea • Eat breakfast • Check time • Go to the gym “No. No, I swear I put my running shoes right there!” Where are they?!” “No. What is happening?” “No.” Olivia turns into a tornado. Moving through the small apartment she takes all the books off the ebony bookshelf. She takes the clock off the wall. She flips over the small, glass coffee-table, knocking over the magazines. The whiteboard goes too. Then the curtains. She slides down the hall into her bedroom, ripping off the navy-blue comforter from her freshly made bed. She knocks over her garment rack, before she starts wildly clawing at the clothes and hangers in her closet. All the while, quietly whispering no. *** 77

When Olivia didn’t return her mom’s 12 text messages, or 7 phone calls, her mom arrived at the apartment, where she found Olivia frantically scrubbing the white walls with a Mr. Clean sponge. The living room was scattered with books and magazines, a toppled ottoman and the black leather couch stripped of cushions, but there was Olivia, scrubbing away. “What is wrong with you?” her mom scolds. “Mom, please, I’m almost done!” Olivia says without looking away from her scrubbing. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Olivia finally turns to look at her mother. As their eyes meet, a salty warmth runs down Olivia’s face. Her mother reaches out to wrap the petite woman in her arms. “Livy, it’s okay. You will be okay.” “Mom, what’s wrong with me?” “I didn’t mean that, nothing’s wrong with you. You are my pyaari beti, you deserve to find someone who will love you and take care of you when this happens.” “I don’t want to find someone, Mom. I can take care of myself. I want to be alone.”

She felt regret making Livy cry, and wrapped her arms around the small girl, scooping her up. “My beti, it’s okay, how can I help you?” she said as her daughter nuzzled closer. Even though she didn’t understand why her daughter did these things, she never wanted to make her feel bad about doing them. “Can we go home?” the girl replied, “I want to be alone.”

Hilary Vo

*** “I leave you alone for five minutes!” the mother shouted at Olivia. She watched her small child turn wide-eyed and goes to pull her away from this strange task. “Mom, please, I’m almost done,” Olivia said as she continued what she was doing. Her mom pulled her up by the armpits and turned her so they face each other. “Mom, no, please, I was only doing the corn! Please, I’m almost done!” she said. Her mother stared at her with pointed eyes, “What is wrong with you?” Olivia’s face flushed as a salty warmth slowly slid down her cheeks. She didn’t have an answer. She was only six. “Livy, stop. Now. Not here.” Olivia’s mom snapped, looking down at the warm auburn eyes that her daughter got from her father. 78

pitiful cherries come in pairs until human desire rips them apart spits out the pits this pit that is growing in my throat is the refusal to cry as this dense metal chair envelops me pulls me under my own aching refuses to let me leave— makes me feel like everyone is staring but not the way you stared. love is sharing cherries: still attached to each other by the thin membrane between two stems. love is not wanting to rip apart the beautiful things that fall from trees and frolic through groves love is not layers of secrets poured over shared meals love is not the malicious game of who’s who that you pulled me into. I thought I could love you but you’re not even worth the cherry pits from my mouth.

Hilary Vo

my dancing body swaying my hips so wide that you must move aside. right hand raised to meet the moon, I can twirl myself. fractals of sunshine ooze from my pores. I am the pale shade of brown of the sand you wish you could walk on when the sun comes out. dancing dreams away, this dance is not an invitation to colonize another being. my dancing body, born out of Mom’s delicacies— she did not cross two bodies of water to have her daughter’s dance determine unwanted attention of drunk men. Mom, your daughter is an artist. your daughter loves to slant and slay, swish her hips, but just because these hips swish— this dance is not authorization for the man with the blue jeans and plaid flannel’s hands to grab at my skin. for some pelvis to grind toward mine. my dancing body means moments without worry, pulsing with the crowd, 81

crescendos of movements to the music. music that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t listen to catcalls and the boy with the neon green flipflops and cargo shorts or the guy standing next to him asking me if I want to dance with his friend. yes. I heard you. my eyes close for a reasonâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;you are standing in front of my reflection and when the sun shines you should get in the shade. this dancing body is mine.

Hilary Vo

Biographies Hannah Park Hannah “HP” Park was born and raised in Tacoma, WA. Continuing to grow as a writer, she developed enough gut to juxtapose identity and adversity to produce work for the community that would empathize with a side of creativity that each individual could have.

Erik Carlsen Erik Carlsen is a junior majoring in English and is always grateful to be read, especially in Saxifrage. He would also like to extend his sincerest thanks to O for the constant inspiration.

Peter Olschner Peter Olschner is a student at Pacific Lutheran University. He loves his friends, exercise, the sun, and all things artistic. He would like to thank the editors of Saxifrage for including him in their publication.

Melanie Gunderson Melanie is a junior Hispanic & Global Studies major and Theatre minor from Seattle Suburbia, WA. After years of click clacking away in the wee hours of the night, this is the first time her musings have come to light. Enjoy! Or not! Do you, live your life, be merry, etc. etc.

Rachel Sandell Rachel Sandell is a Creative Writing and Music major in her junior year. She loves adventures in far-away places—even if they only exist on paper. Rachel has been writing for as long as she can remember and is inspired by how music and rhythm impact and build on stories.

Madison Shewman Hailing from Alaska, Madison Shewman enjoys spending time outdoors. She loves the sun and her two dogs, Bou and Max. On rainy days (or most days, to be honest), she enjoys drinking mint tea and writing. Her goal is to publish a novel within the next five years.

Shay O’Day Inspired by a childhood of running wild in the San Juan Islands, Shay has and will always call the PNW her home. To her, nothing feels as good as wet sands, misty madronas, and that fresh salt air hugging her bones.

Kait Dawson Kait Dawson is a junior majoring in Studio Arts with a graphic design concentration. Her biggest passions are traveling, scrapbooking, and photography. She plans to attend graduate school in Europe to pursue a masters in graphic design and fashion. You can follow her Instagram @kaitpineapple to see more.

Clayton Reghr Clayton is grateful to be here, wherever here is. He has the best friends in the world, believes that this is the year that the Mariners will win it all, and would like to thank you for reading.

Miya Beckman Miya is an English major at Pacific Lutheran University. She loves to write poetry, and has been since she was 12 years old. Besides being a student she likes to read books and work at a second hand fashion store.

Nick Templeton Nick Templeton is a sophomore English Writing and Hispanic Studies double major with a minor in Publishing and Printing Arts. His hometown is Spokane, Washington.

Malena Showalter Malena discovered her drive to write through the first Creative Writing classes that she took at PLU. Though the craft is fairly new to her, writing makes her excited about life. It has been a way for her to learn more about herself and to connect to the world around her.

Megan Orion Daugherty Megan is an Environmental Studies and English writing major. She’s a big teaser; she took me halfway there.

Jaclyn Kissler

Anna Crosby

Jaclyn is a tired ghost that exists on the fringes of reality and also sometimes the Pacific Northwest. A student by day, an artist by night, and a for-hire cryptid by the in-between spaces of day and night. Remember to “be the cryptid you wish to see in the woods.”

Anna is a Nursing major with a minor in Psychology. She enjoys writing poetry, playing with her dog, and exploring the outdoors in her spare time. Some of her favorite activities include hiking, kayaking, swimming, singing, and snow skiing.

Rizelle Rosales

Jesse Kenduck

Rizelle Rosales is a writer, illustrator, musician and editor studying Communication and Sociology at PLU. This is her second piece published in Saxifrage. This year’s piece “Brooks” was a digital collaboration with Portland-based artist Sierra Parsons.

Jesse Kenduck is a senior English major at PLU. She is interested is many different kinds of art, from dark room photography to collage and dance, and is excited to be able to share her work with her peers in this edition of Saxifrage.

Matt Perea

Hilary Vo

Matt Perea is a sophomore majoring in Kinesiology with a passion for photography. Matt has been taking photos seriously since December 2016 and instantly fell in love. His featured image was taken during his study abroad trip to New Zealand in January of 2018. See more on Instagram @Matt_Perea_Photography.

Hilary Vo is from Tacoma, WA. She is a daughter, friend, sister, activist, organizer, leader, poet, writer, learner, teacher, and lover. She writes poetry to express her many identities, especially the ones that are not a part of the dominant narrative, in an effort to make all voices heard.

Sophia Jenkinson Sophia Jenkinson is a first-year student at PLU, studying art and chemistry. She works primarily in oils, and enjoys incorporating mythology and folklore into her art.

Cole Somerville Cole Somerville was born July 26th, 1996 in Seattle, Washington, to two probably fertile parents.

Ben Seligman Benjamin Seligman is a writer and first-time submitter to Saxifrage, and a junior at Pacific Lutheran. Prior to this, Ben was raised by wolves in the forests of Central Washington, spending his days howling at the moon, chasing squirrels, and learning English.

Cordell Pickens Cordell Pickens is currently a sophomore studying Studio Art and Communications. Growing up as a child, he did not talk very much. He still doesn’t.

Ashley Corr (Editor) Ashley is a junior, an English major, a French minor and a level 12 druid. Her passions include listening to whistling buoys, bonding with cats, and eating cold Chinese food at midnight.

Emma Loest (Editor) Emma is a junior with an English Literature major and minors in French and Publishing and Printing Arts. She is currently enjoying watching the budding leaves of spring.

Gillian Dockins (Editor) In her third year, Gillian studies Writing, Music, and Philosophy. She is passionate about blues dancing, vegetables, and decently priced wine.

Marcos Giossi (Editor)

Thank You... To Professor Wendy Call, our Saxifrage faculty advisor, for her guidance and high expectations. To our reading party attendees, for their help in determining which selections to include in the year’s issue. To visiting writer, Kaveh Akbar, for sharing his wisdom with the PLU community. To Student Media, the Communications department and the English department, for their continued support of student publications.

When he was in preschool, Marcos started The Frog, Bug, and Lizard Club. The credo of this club was to locate frogs, bugs, and lizards for observing. These days, you might find him reading stacks of library books, running in the golf course, guzzling coffee in Morken, or playing in the dirt.

To English Department Professors Rick Barot, Wendy Call, Nathalie op de Beeck, and Nancy Simpson-Younger for proofreading this issue.

Wendy Call (Faculty Advisor)

To our brave submitters to this year’s Saxifrage issue. The selections you provided us were diverse and impressive. Thank you for making our decisions difficult.

Wendy Call teaches writing at PLU and serves as faculty advisor for Saxifrage. She lives in a book-filled old house in Southeast Seattle, within walking distance of life’s essentials: a farmer’s market, library, brewpub, good view of Mount Tahoma, and the city’s last old-growth forest.