Saxifrage 45 by Saxifrage

Saxifrage

Volume 45

2019

Saxifrage

Saxifrage 45

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 Iowan Oldstyle and Bodini 72 Oldstyle, and printed by Consolidated Press. Cover Art by Jaclyn Kissler.

Foreword Let us wait inside

abalone shells and scrape out stories from our time sitting

in classrooms, our monasteries, filled with shadows— from our time driving, snaking through tree stumps, where we trap and kill the elegant moths waiting for light and darkness. Sleepless, we wish for whales, we sort our shoes,

we mourn the dead rats, our silent rebukes thick as gravy, we’re tangled

like pasta — our leftovers floating like dead bugs on the ash-colored river. Our voices turn us into fish

that bite eyelids and weave into our robes. We trust in things:

our nail clippings, the poisonous peaches

fighting with wrists cuffed in barbed wire and fire— the smell of black gold. Moss grows

out of our portraits stained with thick puddles of huckleberries, the smell

like boiling stew, we love unconditionally, we take wing with the waxwings. Saxifrage is our flower that splits the spine, the red cobblestone

where history creeps through, editors toil, and our little worlds collide into one.

Contents Nick Templeton Portrait Painted in Huckleberry Juice ��1 Bresemann Forest ��2 Madison Shewman I Wonder ��3 Rebekah Oglesby In the Car, on the Way to Paradise ��6 Rachel Sandell What Do You say? ��7 Jeanna Britt Trust ��8 Megan Daugherty Self-Portrait in Eden ��9 Creation of This Island ��10 Cheyenne Hart Bright, Boisterous Birds ��11 Korea at Sunset ��12 Gabriel Fried The Dying Moth ��13 Olivia Gray Driving Until Morning ��14 Jaclyn Kissler Night Wish ��15 Koi-Koi ��16 Kiyomi Kishaba 1. Fire ��17 2. Barbed Wire Snake ��18 Camilla Sumner Rats ��19 Hannah Park Dirt ��22 Robert Hasselbald Voice ��23 Gillian Dockins Poison Peach ��24 Sixteen ��25

Bua Berg Unconditional Love ��27 Ava Cozzetto The Changing Season ��28 Jenna Muller Bird in Snow ��30 Point Defiance Orcas ��31 Hannah Peterson The Other and the Wilds ��33 Katie McGregor Metora Monasteries 1 ��37 Metora Monasteries 2 ��38 Gunnar Johnson Mess ��39 Tara Gee My World ��40 Taylor Maruno I Know My Name Means Beautiful ��41 Nail Clippings ��42 Natalia Giovengo Migraine, ��43 This Master of Mine ��44 Alice Nguyen On Queuing ��45 Nadine Nabass Gold ��47 Andrew Riecke Wire Cuff ��48 Emma Loest A Fork and Anxiety ��49 Margaret Matthews Leftovers ��50 Ashley Corr Grave Wax ��51 Must ��53 Bryant Bartlett Self Portrait ��54 Erik Carlsen Preparedness ��55 Beam ��56

Portrait Painted in Huckleberry Juice Nick Templeton

She told me her very first memory takes place on the floor of her childhood home, digging in the earth with a rusty spoon. I picture it in grainy gray sepia tone, the only sounds the rolling click of one frame into the next and the Idaho prairie wind

whipping against the tent flaps. Now, a wooden spoon in her weathered hand, she stirs frozen huckleberries in a pot on the stovetop. They melt into a thick purple puddle, sacrificing their form to the low heat and the stirring, staining the spoon bowl with juice. Her kitchen is a catalogue of clutter, old pickle jars crammed full with spatulas and whisks, Saran-wrapped crescent rolls on the counter. I think of everything she has lost: her biological mother to heart failure at the age of six, her second son, her permanent teeth. She once threw her car keys in the garbage can, spent two days digging through rubbish, but never found them. Her glasses, she thinks, are in the basement, with the deep chest freezer, the sacks of Montana wheat, and the abandoned bedroom covered in dust. It is all down there somewhere, buried with stacks of Leviâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worn through at the knees, dried tulip bulbs, an oval-framed portrait of Abraham Lincoln. They are down there in the dark rooms: the fading Polaroids, the tiny childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sweater, newspapers, old letters, cobwebs.

Bresemann Forest Nick Templeton

I leave my bike by the backside fence line, cold frame bolted to a sapling cedar, my steel lock wrapped around the thin trunk like a capital U, constricting. Although the sun has clawed its way through cloud cover, the woods are damp and drafty, night-dark where the towering Douglas firs divide sunbeams into shade patches and dusty shafts of light. Here, I ford a rolling sea of sword ferns and cedars, walking in pockets of sprawling moss and ivy. I have been warned not to find beauty in English ivy, told that this plant is invasive, creeping around the bases of trees like fingers around a throat, crumbling giants to their knees from thirst. But conflict breathes through the place: it is the grown men scattered like chess pieces in the clearing, live-action role players with wife beaters and padded shields; it is the bearded vagrant bathing in the creekwater, splashing palmfuls into his sun-kissed face and hair, his pant legs rolled to where the shin bone meets the kneecap, blue-gray backpack left dry on a mossy rock; it is the three boys and their broken bottles, setting fire to pine needles on the bank; it is the spider webs laid across the pathway that catch tenderly on my upper lip and, in my hurry, are ripped from their anchors like strands of hair. Now, it starts to rain. The tattoo of raindrops on the ground grows from a whisper. Now, the creek runs fuller, louder, loudest at the little dam, where the water churns and froths over the concrete lip like milk poured from a glass. The warriors, using shields as umbrellas, retreat to their cars, the homeless man to his tent shelter in the forestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heart, and each leaf of the ivy vine turns its face to the sky, crying: thirsty, thirsty, thirsty. 2

I Wonder

Madison Shewman I’ve always wondered about you, Tre. I don’t quite remember when we met—memories of my elementary school years tend to blur together. But I know I must have known you in sixth grade, because we were in Mr. Thompson’s class together. I have vague memories of you from outside of class. I remember you would get on the bus at the stop just after mine. Before it lurched to a stop in front of your neighborhood, the bus would be toasty and relatively peaceful—a little oasis of being tucked up in a seat with gray leather hide was scarred with initials of students past. We would pass the treacherous, icy corner. The wheels would spin on the black ice. We’d get a jolt of adrenaline, but then the heat blasting through the vents at seven in the morning would lull us back to a sleepy daze. Then you and your older brother and the other kids from your stop would stomp up the stairs and flood the bus. And then the riot would start. You would heckle each other, spouting vile curse words you learned from God knows where, laughing and guffawing and carrying on for a good ten-fifteen minutes before the bus rolled down John’s Road and into the school parking lot. I have vague memories of you always presenting yourself as a tough guy, Tre. A scrappy little black kid with a wide smile that rolled your lips back over your gums to flash your bright white teeth. I think you were trying to emulate your older brother, at least a little bit. I remember I heard a rumor that you stayed with your grandparents, that your mom and dad weren’t in the picture. I could never quite wrap my head around that—my parents have been happily married for years, and my grandparents live thousands of miles away. You had this aura of hostility about you, Tre. Like you wanted to be a lion but were trapped in a terrier’s body. You acted tough, talked tough. And for the longest time that’s what I thought you were—a loud, obnoxious, wannabe tough guy. Someone I didn’t particularly want to look at in the eye, much less hang around. But then came the day in sixth grade when we read Where the Red Fern Grows as a class. Each of us had a battered copy and we followed along to an audiobook recording. 3

It must have been mid-winter when we finished that book. It was morning, but it was still pitch black out. The only light came from the orange glow of the streetlights refracting off the snow. The classroom was full of shadows, gray on black on gray-tinged orange. The only sound came from the audiobook recording, the man’s melodic voice dispassionately relaying how the dogs died, and the muffled sobs of thirty sixth-graders grieving their loss. My eyes were scratchy and warm when we filed over to the corner to turn in our books. Somewhere in the midst of it all, I looked up and met your gaze. Your dark brown eyes were red-rimmed; your voice was rougher than normal when you asked me, “Did you cry?” Something hot rose up in me, prickling my face. “No,” I said, and hurried to turn in my book and retreat to the safety of my desk. That is my first clear memory of you, Tre, and the shame of lying to you has followed me ever since. I lost track of you after sixth grade. I don’t even know if we went to the same middle school. We might have, but I know our houses were at the boundary lines of three different zones. Even if we did go to the same middle school, we were in different classes. I took all honors, and I never saw you in the halls. I know we went to different high schools. I don’t know how you ended up at East (did your grandparents move and take you with them?). But I got into the Highly Gifted program (HG for short, because I always felt self-conscious and embarrassed when I had to say the full name aloud) at West, so that’s where I went. I saw you again at a city-wide basketball tournament in sophomore year. I was on West High’s JV team, and we were trying to find our court so our game could start. The wooden floors of the gym gleamed under the orange-yellow lights, and each side of my vision was walled in by the dark mesh nets that hung from the ceiling to separate the courts. I was moving on autopilot, not really paying attention to my surroundings. In the back of my mind, I absently registered a herd of boys in sky blue and scarlet red jerseys saunter onto the court. They were loud and proud to be there, obviously psyching themselves up for their game. I intended to just keep going and not pay them any attention, but then a figure in blue and red drew close enough to pique my peripheral vision. I looked up. And there you were. You must have been a couple 4

inches taller than me, and the years had been good to you. You filled out your frame better. You looked like you had shed the terrier for the lion. You were grinning, wide and bright. Genuine. Pleased. You said something like, “Hey, Madison, how’s it going? It’s been a while.” For some reason I was surprised you remembered my name. I had no trouble remembering yours, of course, because to me you had always stood out. It had been four years since I had last seen you. I smiled back, pleased that you looked so content, and we talked for a minute. Then my team was disappearing out the door, and I had to follow them. I said goodbye to you and wished you luck on your game. You said the same and jogged off to shoot hoops. I left the room with a pleasant buzz under my skin. I haven’t seen you since then, but I wonder about you from time to time. Wherever you are, Tre, I hope you’re doing well. And I’m sorry I lied to you.

In the Car, on the Way to Paradise Rebekah Oglesby

Along the curve of the road we pass a turn off— I swam there once: the water was full bodied and Christ was there, because Christ is always there with my parents. He was swimming in the smoky water, snaking through the tree stumps while I was submerged, tripping on the flattest of stones. But Easter has come and gone and even saplings can grow submerged in water. Christ is risen— He is risen indeed: He has gone up with the campfire smoke of nomads and worshipers of evergreens. He has ascended with the final flying embers of my joint’s ashy end. He has risen with the cursing of a generation plagued with more trauma than it can bear, we render stillness by destroying our bodies, and where there is Jesus, there will always be stones. And where there is Jesus, I will always forget how to swim.

What Do You Say? Rachel Sandell

Brother, what does it mean to you? A winding clock, a chickenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cluck. She smells like boiling stew. Another day gone by, a musty study full of old things. He is deceptiveâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;so look him right in the eye. What have they made for us? What can we make of it? Brother, what did she mean to you? A trilling laugh, a broken pot. Here she lies, buried in the backyard. Brother, the sun sets, and what are we to do? Days of diligence, a red sunset. Well, what does it mean to you? Brother, I was hoping you would say.

Trust

Jeanna Britt

Self-Portrait in Eden Megan Daugherty

I sidle through the islands of produce, my eyes seduced by the pink Cripps, their skins pink, greens sprouting from the core, extending from the stem. My hand hovers above the stem until my fingers snake down the ripe flesh, coiling around the base. I snatch the fruit and place it in the crevice of my elbow, sauntering past isles of instant potatoes and canned peas, the apple pressing closer to my ribs. I slide out of the store, slipping by spying faces. I stand beside the impassable street, pluck the apple from its concealed spot, and place its body to my expanded mouth. I eat everything but the seeds. I toss the seeds to the pigeons that consume the cyanide leftovers. They stumble over their stingfeet I seize them in my hands.

Creation of This Island Megan Daugherty

My grandmother would always insist on feeding the ravens that visited our neighborhood, our neighborhood on this island. I saw her opening the sliding door to the deck and stepping out in her rain boots; she sings to them like she sang to me [at night, sitting on the edge of my bed, a prayer: “Armor of protection, to you He gives. Don’t be afraid for the Lord lives.” Her stiff fingers held my hand on top of my flannel sheets], just as she held the egg. She always cries whenever she wishes goodnight. She drags her hands across her eyebrows, eyes, her tears fall upwards, past the popcorn ceiling, fossil filled attic, moss roof, and into the sky. They are anointed as they form into the clouds that cast themselves over all of the houses, pour back to the street, fill the drains, sink into the sea. This is why the sea is salty. This is why it rains every night. I saw her reach into the fridge to grab the stale fetuses, place them in a bowl of water, one by one, they float like dead bugs on a summer lake. “Heaven’s sake, they’re old.” I saw a raven sitting on the telephone wires, head cocked to one side, beak open wide, shouting, I had never seen anything so heinous. “If He provides then so shall I.” She goes outside with an egg in her palm and places it on the ground. When she comes back inside, the raven flies down and places the brown orb in its scissor-like beak. She told me to watch the parent in its stance. I saw a tear in her eye. [This is how my grandmother held my hands, her arms buried under years of herself, she told me “He’s always going to be there for you, even when no one else can.”] I floated. She couldn’t pull me back down, so instead she punched a hole in my chest with her beak and drank my yolk. I had no tears; no tears fell to heaven. Goodnight was goodbye. She fed them every single night. 10

Bright, Boisterous Birds Cheyenne Hart

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d much rather sing with the sprightly swift swallows Wander out with the warbling wrens Declaim then doze off with the dear darling doves And then prance with the preening peahens. If I could just glide with the gorgeous garganey Flit about with the fearless firecrest Survive and surf gales with the strong-willed storm kestrels Take wing with the waxwings, head west.

Korea at Sunset Cheyenne Hart

The Dying Moth Gabriel Fried

She closed the book, put it on the table, and finally walked through the door. Saturna had been dreading this moment for some time. Maybe for the fact that it was actually happening. After two long years, it was finally over. That fool of a boy had stopped messing around, set aside his emotions, and realized the need to get on with the task. Consequently, she was no longer needed. The silk hanbok Saturna wore seemingly glowed in the darkened ambiance of her home. The hems fluttered like minty green, satin wings. She navigated Escherian hallways, climbed up vertical stair cases, and strode across ceilings like a phantom. This labyrinth is her home.Was her home? Well, maybe prison was a better word for it. Her own thread would run out by the end of the hour. “Rhea… Dione.” She cooed. From the shadows, Saturna’s faithful friends toddled up beside her. Soulless poppets, but undeniably faithful to the end. She gently handed the patchwork familiars the cocoon charm and they scurried off down the hall. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she returned to the office. She had forgotten it could do that after some three thousand years of stasis. The room was cluttered. Empty sake bottles littering the floors, cigarette ashes piled cleanly in the bowl. A vase of pansies (wilted) in the corner. And of course, her loom at the back. Its delicately woven thread, crimson red. A sharp contrast to the pale mint Saturna preferred. Catching a whiff of drunken regrets, her nose wrinkled. Perhaps her poppets could banish that stench of alcohol once she left. Their problem though, not hers. Sliding into her leather chair, she withdrew parchment. Quill in hand, the Fateweaver had rehearsed this introduction several times in her head, but now was the only time that mattered. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed midnight. Swallowing her fear, Saturna began writing… “Dearest Fredrick…” Dearest Fredrick. Gods. Sneering at her word choice, Saturna cursed the fool. Her letter wasn’t because she cared, this was strictly business. “This will be the last time you hear from me.” 13

Driving Until Morning Olivia Gray

Darkness is a throat and we are a speeding metal capsule being swallowed by the road in long, smooth gulps. At the passenger side I notice pale wings fluttering by my rain-splattered window. A moth propels itself against the glass making small rhythmic thumps. Oh little friend, although you don’t belong here you too will be swallowed because we are inside the same capsule. “Aren’t you going to let that moth out?” my lover asks from the driver’s side. But instead I say to you, little friend, quit fighting and enjoy the ride. I could open the window for you, let the night air suck you out to be eaten by the stars instead. I know how you like the light. Trust me, the light will come. The sun will rise, will warm your fuzzy aching body and gloriously burn your moth retinas. You will be digested by the dark and given a new day, just wait a few hours like the rest of us. Finally I answer my lover, “I’ll wait until morning.”

Night Wish Jaclyn Kissler

Koi-Koi

Jaclyn Kissler

1. Fire

Kiyomi Kishaba

My grandma’s voice resonates against injustice, Her brave testimonies Resonate through my childhood, Sparks jumping into cracks of my identity. Images of Heart Mountain, Wyoming; My grandma and her family Imprisoned by their own government In a Japanese internment camp, Choked by barbed wire fences And devoured by dust thicker Than 12,000 bodies crammed into tarpaper barracks, Sharp nails flaring from their thin, drafty walls. My grandma’s laugh kindles contagious delight, Head thrown back in all-consuming glee, Eyes shut, Like innocence protects her still. She refuses to be confined By the looming shadow of that dusty mountain. Stolen years invigorate vocal cords In bursts of stories. Fantastic tales flicker about, Smiles interrupting with interlaced anecdotes, Sisters, brothers, and cousins share boisterous laughter, Unapologetic in our deafening joy. My grandma’s song rings clear overhead, A compelling soprano raised high, Flying freely above harmonies As though she never knew a prison. Family reunions woven and blurred, Packed kitchens filled with chaotic cooking While bodies swarm around a piano, A chorus of voices intertwined as one. 17

This little light of mine, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m gonna let it shine; Hearts ignite in blazing flames, And our fire roars across generations.

2. Barbed Wire Snake She lost her youth that day, No, not lost; it was twisted and torn, Like a barbed wire snake hunting its prey. Tossed from her home and taken away, â&#x20AC;&#x153;A family of dirty Japsâ&#x20AC;?, neighbors warned. She lost her youth that day. A train crammed and covered in deathly decay Delivered families to prisons with no sense of forlorn, Like a barbed wire snake hunting its prey. In a third of a horse barrack they stayed, Dirt floors and walls decorated with nails like thorns; She lost her youth that day. She helped her mother, in earnest, who began to crochet, Hooking and weaving with no time to mourn, Like a barbed wire snake hunting its prey. Three years later, at a camp hospital, she prayed; A free life for her baby sister just born. She lost her youth that day To a barbed wire snake hunting its prey.

Rats

Camilla Sumner A pungent mass of plastic and rotten food sits on the side of a road. Unidentified liquids ooze from the pile onto the densely packed Cambodian street. On this trash mountain perches a gargantuan rat. He has dark fur, a sharp snout peppered with whiskers, and devious eyes. His long scraggly teeth are orange. He does not cower in the shadows of an alleyway waiting for moonlight to show his face; he does not fear people and the traps they set. He is large, confident, and will confront whatever or whoever gets in his way, unfazed by the presence of a human. He will do what he wants, when he wants, day or night. Her name is Princess Bella Sophia. She has fur the color of hot cocoa with a soft, cream colored belly. Her nose, ears, and paws are cherry blossom pink. She is picked from a tangled mess of her siblings in Petco by a very excited ten-year-old girl. Her new home is a white and blue metal cage lined with cedar chips and equipped with rags for her to build a nest. Fresh food and water are always present, and once a week, she is gently picked up out of her cage, wrapped in a tattered cloth and placed into a smaller cage while one of her two ten-year-old owners cleans her home.

He scavenges through the trash mountain, ravenously munching on moldy rice and mango peels, fighting off smaller rats and gnawing on large cockroaches that accidentally wandered into the ratâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s territory. His kind fills the streets. They live in the perfect environment with food and few threats. The lack of danger from exterminators and 19

rat poison has made him stupid. His belly bulges from the vast amount of food and he is brave enough to spend time out in the open. She is shared by the two girls through a joint-custody agreement. Every other Saturday, the ten-year-old girls trade Princess Bella Sophia. Since one of the two owners always has to wait two weeks to see her again, her new pet sparkle never wears off. She lives a life of leisure, eating carrots and trampling over miniature furniture in a doll house. Sometimes, one of her little owners plucks her out of her clean white cage and places her in the front pocket of a purple hoodie to walk around the house. One morning, during the humansâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; commute, he saunters out into the street. He has no fear of the motorbikes and cars. Crunch. His head is mashed in by the wheel of a motorbike. His body flattens like a fur rug against the pavement. His beady eyes pop out of his now shattered skull. His organs ooze from his torso. His killer is more bothered by the blood and guts that now cover his wheels than the life he just ended. His corpse remains in the road, continually being run over by vehicles and stepped over by squeamish pedestrians. The body lies there until it has been completely eaten by maggots.

As the little girls grow up, Princess Bella Sophia grows old. She begins to slow down as tumors suck her energy and eventually snatch her ability to move her back legs. A phone call is made in the morning. She is found dead. Tears are shed. A funeral is planned. That evening, the two little 20

owners dig a small hole and carefully place the body of their beloved friend in a shoe box. More tears are shed as each girl says her final goodbye to their pet. Flowers are placed on the shoe box before being covered with dirt. Little hands place rocks in the shape of a B on the recently covered grave to mark the final resting place of Princess Bella Sofia.

Dirt

Hannah Park

Voice

Robert Hasselbald Is any sacrament as deep as the sound of our own voice, received as chalice from heavenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s storehouse? Silence always the wound hardest to staunch, longest to heal. The only medicine, sound, speech, first one voice then a second finally a chorus. Is any choice as deep as the work of lifting every voice out of the well bucket after bucket to fill the dry bed of a forgotten river? In this we all turn fish ride the same current. In this we leave our other selves behind, become a prodigal choir.

Poison Peach Gillian Dockins

We drove the twenty minutes to the U-Pick farms on Sauvie Island in midsummer to fill green buckets to the brim with fruit. I had direct orders: Do not eat the peaches until we get home. But I was hungry. Rows of thick trees hid my small body from my mother’s and brother’s. They picked and laughed, and I sunk my teeth into the flesh of the fruit, sticky juice running down my front. Insatiable, I ate four, five, six whole peaches. As we drove back home with heavy buckets, I whined. My face was aflame, itching madly from the prickly peach fuzz. My stomach ached. My hands, unbearably sticky. Discomfort. Shame. My mom told me that I’ve always had round hips, even as a young girl. It frightened me, she said. She feared how men might see my curves, if they would touch me, hurt me in their desire to have me. When I first started texting boys in high school, they’d send suggestive messages.What would you do if I were there right now? Shy invitations to sext. I was a creative writer, even then. I’d

gently take your hands and put them under my shirt, against my stomach. I’d tap out in T9, I’d slowly tug your hands down, under the waistband of my jeans. The guys I talked to were never so articulate. In response: Though the flesh of peaches are tender and sweet, the stone pits at the center of the fruit contain potentially lethal levels of cyanide. The small seeds within the hard shell must be avoided. But not to worry—accidental poisoning is rare. One must ingest the seeds inside roughly ten peach pits to reach fatal levels. That is to say, you really have to try to kill yourself with a peach. While playing Super Smash Bros. with my brother and his friends, I picked Peach as my character to battle with. She was the only obviously feminine player on the screen—my champion. I hopped up and down, avoiding bolts of lightning from Pikachu, dodging Kirby’s powerful inhalation. You have to fight back, the boys demanded as they antagonized my pink princess. Most games, I’d rather throw myself off the edge of the arena—my body floating toward the bottom of the screen, disappearing— killing myself before I could be killed.

Sixteen

Gillian Dockins Our rivals were unprepared. A boy in a suit, shoulder pads too big for him like a junior varsity running back. He stuttered at the podium and Annie smirked, bloodless. After the debate, we looked on as he wiped tears away, standing shaky in the atrium of our school. Brick and virtue, a citadel for city daughters: St. Andrews. At 2:58pm, I got on the bus—the 44 or 56. Sticky, humid. Stained velvet seats, blue and yellow. I would sit squashed between students, old women with huge handbags on their laps, and businessmen. All had their heads down, eyes closed. It was standing room only, so a man with gray drawstring sweatpants once stood right over me and rubbed his swollen bulge. It was something to laugh shhhh about with Annie in Latin the next day. On the bus window, I drew my initials over and over again. Letters bleeding, dripping down, moisture pooling where the glass met the rubber. The road braided into the foothills of my wooded neighborhood. I unfocused my eyes on the drive, southwest Portland blurring into an amorphous gray, like the dark smear a bad eraser leaves on the page. My stop, beside the park where Justine and Kyla found a body the year before. Up the hill from the pharmacy where I bought candy with my spare change, past the bar that wouldn’t take fake IDs, all the way home. Before my parents got back from work, a few deep breaths of clove cigarette, tugging out the tension, like a brush through tangled hair. Texts to Bridget, Kyla, Annie. Maybe an episode of Malcolm in the Middle. After my parents went to sleep, my back bent and my shoulders rolled forward. Neck curled over my laptop humming an augmented chord. Hours like this, even until the earliest blackbird began the dawn chorus. My bed, the same small cedar wood frame I’d used since I moved from the womb, cradle, crib—ignored. I wanted to be a femme fatale, all dark circles under my eyes and bad habits. Geometry homework never done. Professions of love plugged into graphing calculators as we cold-shouldered the whiteboard, EXPO marker hearts drawn on the back of Annie’s hand. My lips 25

left a stain on Annieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s white collar, collarbone, pink lips. Our love like missing an important lectureâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;I was desperate to keep up, but each hand hold, arm touch, cryptic text, was more befuddling than the last. Four blocks west, a red bookstore big as a warehouse. After school, Annie and I lay on the concrete floor. The photography section upstairs. A book of photos of train-hoppers, black and white. Paperback of open-heart surgery. Blue jays, flamingos, blackbirds. A book of photos of girls from Tanzania. Mock trial practice began in an hour, but we had so much time. The gray outside, the condensation on the windows, two small droplets racing down toward the frame.

Unconditional Love Bua Berg

The Changing Season Ava Cozzetto

Although it was almost midnight, the mild September air held onto summer. Still, after seeing a theatre production in Richmond, I was glad for my sweater when I exited the tube station and headed left on Bowes Road. When I first arrived in London two weeks prior and I was still trying to remember the way from the tube station to my homestay, the neighborhood free house was a faithful landmark. The Arnos Arms stood like a lighthouse: it illuminated the correct corner to turn on and steered me around it. There were two black Labrador retrievers, one gray and slow and the other, sleek and sprightly, who took walks to Arnos Park with their owners. The labs were like the Arnos Arms. Whenever I saw them walking, I knew that I was close to my homestay. Their consistent presence and my growing familiarity with them showed me that London was home, at least for a little while. But that night after the theater there were no happy dogs walking by. In fact, as I walked by the Arnos Arms, the center table closest to the front door was the only one occupied. Two men who looked to be about thirty years old sat across from each other. Cigarette smoke, the aroma of yeasty beer, and amiable banter clung to the air around them. They looked so at ease that it seemed like they had been there forever and could stay a lifetime more. The next morning, it seemed they had. About twelve hours after I walked by the two men, I passed the Arnos Arms again, this time on my way to class. With what looked to be the same pints of yellow beer that left the same water rings on the same table, the two men still sat facing each other. Only the cloud of cigarette smoke was gone. But something about the men was missing too. They appeared to have lived another thirty years in a single night. Two men around the age of sixty sat, sipped their beers, and laughed in an engulfing sphere of companionship. I passed the men, thinking that there was a great possibility that no other living being witnessed their seemingly magical transformation. Then again, maybe all of London knew the sensation: how quickly things are changed into something else, revised yet familiar. In London, things can change overnight. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen 28

how they stack buildings on top of buildings. Like the black labs, the old walks alongside the old. History creeps out of the cobblestones. So maybe Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not the only person who went to bed seeing something and awoke to see that thing changed.

Bird in Snow Jenna Muller

Point Defiance Orcas Jenna Muller

The Other and the Wilds Hannah Peterson

Inspired by Mary Oliver’s poem, Wild Geese

2004 I pad through the “kitchen,” my feet making muted sounds on the dirt floor. This seemingly-eclectic collection would be mistaken for a trash heap, were it staged by the side of a road in Washington, but here in San Ramon, Nicaragua, the corrugated steel roof protecting an open-air, coal-fed stove is indicative of a middle-class establishment. Centrally located among the buildings and dorms making up the mission’s headquarters, the kitchen sits in various stages of use; sometimes stoked and smoking, and sometimes rain taps cold metal. Animals occupy the courtyard as well: dogs for security—a new puppy named Colita: “Little Tail”— some goats; two or three chickens tied to the stove. Someone is clever: an extra toy-chicken from a donation box is tied to the stove along with the live birds. On the street-side of the headquarters, stray dogs roam the streets. Their mangy fur ridden with bugs and scratches, scabs and dirt. Some of the younger kids at the clinic attempt to make friends, but older kids and parents shoo and kick the mutts away. Health reasons, mostly. Too many vectors of illness plague them already, there’s no need to add “threatened dog attack” to the unmanageable list. Overlooked kid-and-dog pairs bond a bit more until a savage, well-aimed kick shatters that bond on both ends. Why can’t eight-year-old, scrubbed-up me take care of the dog? Because the humans are the priority. In a world in which missionaries bring enough antibiotics for one remedy, the human should have it. The dogs are as good as dead, should be, or should never have been in the first place. One day, the chickens disappear from the courtyard. The next day it’s chicken for dinner. 2007 Dad, the river, and I laugh as we mock the parting words of my fifth-grade principal—just hours before, but worlds away: “Have a safe summer!” We face a new adventure every year. New curves and paths 32

were carved with the strength of melted blizzards at the turning of the season; fallen giants that once spanned the greatest channels vanquished and washed away, like so much smoke on the wind. Porous volcanic river rocks shift, their rounded edges and soft colors invisible beneath the chocolate milk surface. Their restless discourse adds to the thrilling chorus of flowing elements. We meander up and down the thunderous riverscape under the heedless gaze of the forested hillside. Wind rips at and tangles my loose hair; cold pins of liquid-glacier turn my legs pink as a sunset reflects off the mountain. Crossing the ash-colored White River, we at first cling to, and then crawl across, toppled trees; test, and then cautiously wade through the swift currents. One hand grasps my newest special stick, the other is wrapped in Dad’s stronger grip; together we are embraced by the whole. Hours pass, and darkness falls over our candid quest for the ethereal, foreboding, mysterious evergreens of the far shore. In the opposite direction, a seductive amber glow draws us back, protecting the innocent for another night. The river rumbles on as we bed down under gentle boughs and unseeing stars. 2015 Jacob and Drew awoke to deer around the campsite. River fifty feet to one side, cars two hundred in the opposite direction, cans of bear spray rallied in the center of our circle of sleeping bags. Someone had spit toothpaste in the vicinity of our sandy spot, drawing in some midnight visitors. I wake to Jacob’s urgent whisper: “Is it a bear? Where’s the bear spray?” “Here,” I say. I push it toward him and go back to sleep. My residual dream-state logic has me convinced: zombie bear, and zombies aren’t real, so the bear isn’t real. Headlamps and the next morning’s tracks reveal regular deer. No need for the canisters. Twelve hours later, 9000 feet up the mountain, it’s not a zombie. Our eager, inexperienced brains decided to charge into a cloud so thick, the only certain direction was up. Sight unreliable, only the discomfort of walking up versus down provides a semblance of direction. The shale clatters back into place after every step; karns blend into the clouds. Sight is useless, but sound works: rocks tumble thirty or so feet to our right. The mountain is shrugging. Again, sounds of shifting rocks reach our ears, and 33

again. Zombie bear again… bears don’t climb mountains. It’s a quarter of an hour before the only detectable movement on the peak comes from us. It wouldn’t be until the next week, when I go back for a better conversation with the peak, and see six different bears at the 9000-10,000 foot line that I understand. We may have brushed within twenty feet of as many bears, and wouldn’t have seen any of them. 2017 20-year-old me, wearing three-year-old Nikes, trotting up the familiar trail in Glacier National Park. Third year in a row, starting up this trailhead in early June. This time, thoughts whir as the trees blur by: how long will it take? How fast can I do this? My head hardly registers the dark form that appeared on the trail twenty feet ahead before my feet make a heel-to-toe aboutface. Am I supposed to do that? Is this the back-away-slowly type? What kind of bear chases you? Back tingling, how does my body know? Those shoulders, curved powerfully around a shaggy, lowered head. Should I run yet? If she started chasing me right when I turned around… would I hear her? Those great padded feet, left in front of right at the moment we encountered the other—I the intruder; one of the first of too many two-legged animals to pace these dirt veins through her woods after her winter of peace. Scanning trees as I pass—evaluating escape routes—my two legs begin a trot. No sounds from behind, but I run anyway. Run down to the fork, begin up the other trail. Could I have made it to the pass that afternoon? That universe of possibility does not overlap with a universe in which she inhabits that trail.

That bear wins. She wins. There’s no contest.

Off the other fork, 26 of the 31 switchbacks later, another form blocks the trail. This one is white, but my racing mind jumps to bear before landing on mountain goat. His glassy eyes convey more annoyance than any other animal has ever possessed: I just got here, stupid. No, you go around. Not this time. My claps and yells move his shaggy butt off the trail, and he grudgingly lumbers off into the thin alpine snaggles. Snowpack does turn me around three switch-backs from the top. As I turn once again, another white form registers. He has been following me, and instead of meandering off in annoyance, he charges. Nope of a different kind. 34

“Hey, hey, the fuck, no!” and he swerves off the trail to let me pass. Good. Could I have grabbed its horns? Thrown him to the side? Those shiny black daggers atop the sturdy rock-hard shoulders—made to balance on slippery glacier-carved mountain-sides. The bear can turn me around, but this guy was just lazy. I’m lazy with entitlement, amusement, but resentful that my prior plans were foiled. Not this time, circles my brain all the way back down. 2017 “Just throw rocks at it,” Tressa says. The Chelan-Wenatchee Wilderness Ranger is past concern over bears. “It’s a common mistake the visitors make.” She reaches for another rock. “What’s that?” “You need to aim and hit the bear. They’re sturdy, and they’re too near the village…There we go.” The sauntering, cinnamon-colored form turns its back to the old mining town from which our trail crew operates. She will be back, of course. She’s

been here since before we were, and she’ll be here after.

2017 I’m five hours into the solo, out-and-back expedition into the Glacier Peak Wilderness. “What if she gets mauled by a bear?” Grandma had asked Dad. “But what if she doesn’t go at all? What if she always hangs back because of ‘what if’?” No bears though: Boy Scouts, a multi-generational family, a buddy pair, some horse poop, horseflies, all spread over 18 miles of trail. Another hour passes, Image Lake’s cool waters reflect the smoky outline of Glacier Peak, and it’s time to turn around. What if I didn’t do a 180. What if I turned off the trail, down Miners Ridge and the meadows of wildflowers, down a thousand feet into the river valley at the base of Glacier Peak.What if. My feet are a steady thump along the trail, this vein of dirt, this string cast in the ocean that is the Cascade Mountain Range. I know this trail—string—to be attached on either end, and if I follow it I’ll inevitably reach that end. But I could let go—step left or right, and keep going—and I would lose that string in the tossing sea of trees and hills. It would be no different to the trees and the hills. The trees would not care. The mountains would not care. Image Lake and the damn flies would not care. I could turn in any direction and walk, just as I am walking in this direc35

tion now. Besides the choice, every step, to stay on the trail, there are no other choices to make. No demands, consequences to consider except the aching of my feet and the depletion of water. No one to consult, no opinions to balance or feelings to spare; just a vein to follow or not. Finally, with no more noise to shield my consciousness from the wildâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the otherâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;I exhale into the vast expanse. I accept the embrace. I stop repenting. 18 miles, six hours from anyone, finally united with everything.

Meteora Monasteries 1 Katie McGregor

Meteora Monasteries 2 Katie McGregor

Mess

Gunnar Johnson You stand in the garage amid the piles of shoes and boxes of tools whose purpose has been long forgotten. There’s no order in here. He always leaves this room angry at the mess. You understand because you are sometimes disturbed by a messy room as well. There’s no room to think, you think. And so, you think he thinks the same. You begin by sorting the shoes, placing pairs with other pairs and making a separate pile for shoes without partners. Mom’s shoes, brother’s shoes, sisters’ shoes. No reason for so many shoes. You notice how even you have more shoes than you need to own. Too many shoes, that’s the problem. You place the pairs on the racks, side by side, person by person. You turn next to the random assortment of tools and instruments piled all around. You pull everything out into the open, to the center of the garage. Then, everything goes back on counters and shelves, in storage lockers and on hooks. But this time, there is order. This time, the garage is a free and open space. Now, you wait for him to come home and see what you’ve done. The door opens, and he steps into the garage. He’s come home from his new minimum wage job. His eyes never meet yours. You tell him you’ve cleaned the garage. His grumbling suddenly forms ten intelligible words. Yeah… the rest of the house is

still a mess.

My World Tara Gee

I Know My Name Means Beautiful Taylor Maruno

I know my name means beautiful What I don’t know is what it means to those whose mouths molded it in the first place— resilient feet leapt across oceans, fleeing suffocating skies to fill choking lungs with sweat breathed in fields of sugarcane, sugar only sweet on tongues of men with ivory canes, blond hair hiding beneath top hats casting shadows empty over bent backs. The sounds of your home drowned in the charcoal sea— po po’s bitter melon soup diluted by the turbulent whitewash of waves, extinguished flames of red dragons quiet the roars of imperial lions, family frozen in a picture frame traded paper kites for starry nights, sugar for solidarity, so you could build a new home for me.

Mei Bow How can these syllables slide off my tongue— we no longer sip the same water my mouth never savored words like you I think I like the taste of white sugar bitter melon soup down my throat but all I taste is the bitter. I know beauty is sweet— yet my name is sugar-free.

Nail Clippings Taylor Maruno

My nails weren’t even that long but I got out the clipper anyway— the length was already bothering me, a sharp corner on my thumb snagging the mesh lining of my jacket every time I reached into a pocket— so I cut it off. This piece of pointer nail grew when I heard my uncle had died through a text from my mom three thousand miles away at his funeral— I didn’t cry as it fell into the trash because he was old and lived his life. I watch the shards drop—that stained edge I used to scrape some hardened who-knows-what off the stove, when neither its maker nor the Trader Joe’s dishrag could bear addressing it— falling away into the bag like nothing. The sliver from my pinky was the piece that skimmed the skin on your hand, accidentally—when our eyes met, yellow notes of poetry, whale song and warm nights, and lust fell from my irises— I trim it off and let it fall— because I was too afraid to let you hear. One finger left and I leave no white— cut it down to the stub. As the tender pink peeks out and shrivels at the world, I wonder how long I can last— before clipping it all away again. 42

Migraine,

Natalia Giovengo you made me a pulse, a heartbeat I want to crush between two fingers. were I Medusa I’d turn you to stone, but my head might fall then crack me open, pull out my blood vessels let them breathe. I wish I were blind but still you’d hold a torch to my eye and burn, burn, burst like fireworks. everything is shadows and shapes behind my eyelids, but this pain— well I know your mold. hold my hands, at least a press upon my palm, or a cradle for my head. but instead, you knock against my skull. if you knock again, rattle the swollen beast in its cage, it may not wake the next time you ring.

This Master of Mine Natalia Giovengo

I am a body, stuffed to the brim with your demons. They play like gods inside my skin, stretching at my seams, picking their teeth with my bones. So go ahead. Lay me flat on your sacrificial table. Split my spine till I forget to stand or to try. Burn the flesh of my lips before they can pray, or part. Treat me like meat with no insides, worn and worn by the grind, take my mind in your palm and work it like yarn. Suffocate my desires one at a time, and slice my legs at the knees, so I cannot bow at your altar but lie like a corpse at your feet.

On Queuing Alice Nguyen

to Free Food 4 Everyone store, at Rouge Street… Who built this long line? Ma’am, you look pretty, mirror won’t tell a lie, could you move a bit? Sir, your leather gloves feel soft, but please get your hands off my skirt! Queue! Queue! Queue! It will never go away! What life could be, a closed-loop or open-ended queue? Day is night, and night is day, seasons laugh at us, sing their merry song— Blue Queue! Blue Queue! Blue Queue! They come in then depart. Yet, only us keep hanging around, wanting to be served but why? Earth must be flat, the line is lean and longer. Wait, Ma’am, Sir, why do our footsteps recede? Blimey! High-priority customers arrive, bump us to low-priority. What are we now? Good ol’ Seven Dwarfs! Queue! Queue! Queue! It will never go away! We, stare at the sign “FREE FOOD FOR ALL” misery here without the leaders’ promises: bright future where everything is free, free, free whereas it is spelled money tree. Ma’am, why hush me! How our silent rebuke here as thick as gravy. A fitting punishment for our naïveté?

Queue! Queue! Queue! 45

Why won’t it go away! How long will we get stuck— For it is Late Come, First Served! Loud the song plays rend the air, “Be patient in a moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow” Tick tock goes the clock, yet our stomach is late. But first, one must not forget the proper etiquette of queuing: be still and wait—

Gold

Nadine Nabass midday sun melts like silk in thin canyon crevices squint between the folds of your

kufiyah

protect yourself from the sand, military presence hides in desert hills destruction in the desert a warm breeze brings home the faint smell of democracy, the smell of black gold

Wire Cuff

Andrew Riecke

A Fork and Anxiety Emma Loest

I ate my spaghetti with a fork and anxiety. Each passing thought had no clearer destination than the twisted mess of pasta on my plate,

and even that starchy disaster served a greater purpose

than the paltry excuses for ideas writhing in my head.

I poked a meatball; I stabbed it with one tine of my fork, hoping for some kind of satisfaction or release.

But instead I found myself musing over the off-balance ball as it hung slightly left of the forkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s center,

somehow managing to hold its own on this warped and scanty pedestal with more poise and dignity than I could possibly muster.

I hate this meatball and all its well-bound perfection. So I bite it, chew it, swallow it. No more meatball mocking me.

Just the mess of pasta on my plate.

Leftovers

Margaret Matthews

Grave Wax Ashley Corr

When I died, a living wish for a grave of rainwater and algae came to be. That char of life gifted my bones with the weight to carry what I was deep down into the water. Skin softening and crinkling against myself, I sank toward the bottom of the lake. It only took three seconds for my tissue to loosen, bacteria disassembling threads and white fats declumping. For having no heartbeat, the moment—the purge—was exhilarating— only the growingly pervasive blue of the basin dampening it. Shadows and my skin blackened. The witless patch of seaweed stroking my wrist was witness to the beauty—the release of chemical majesty—the dissolved palace of thought; I floated, down and down. A fish took a bite from my eyelid— it tasted like tulip petals and eraser buds, pepper sweat and fiddle rosin. Nothing that a fish could taste. All these fragments of a life that daydreamt of the mayfly that bounced off the rippling, bubbling lake where my body slowly unspun. 51

I got caught under a broken rowboat and slowly began to excrete a coat of grey wax holding my soapy frame together a little longer. Longer than it took for the flake of eyelid to build fat in the fishâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s silver belly. Longer than I actually mattered at all. So I plead to the laws of time: unweave me, let my matter swim.

Must

Ashley Corr It’s glorious isn’t it? Stealing branches of lilac from trees in the midst of night. My grandfather always said things taste better stolen. The plastered teenagers who wiggle down the road on their bicycles know this better than I do, their tongues tossed in smuggled vodka and navy air. I sit on my bed watching them, my cold fingers bunching up the yogurt-white sheets. The grey curtains around me hang with a musty lustre, the window glued shut. An ikiryō is a living ghost; it can leave your body at night and haunt the world while you sleep. But I think mine would simply hide in libraries and cry at their vastness. When I sleep, I still hear the plinking quiver of the cavernous rock that protrudes from a tide pool, its slick urgency scraping rust from the folds of my brain and tattering my chest. Ocean waves lie to you: their waters don’t travel towards shore until they break. I must tell this to the old woman in my unit at St. Peter’s hospital. We would blather on, buzzing like wind -up toys released by expectant fingers. We do nothing compared to everyone else. We’ve been inside for so long I can’t even tell you how lavender smells. 53

Self Portrait Bryant Bartlett

Preparedness Erik Carlsen

My grandfather used to eat four garlic pills a day To keep the flies away. They do not like the smell, And they do not like the taste of my grandfather. My grandfather liked to eat the pills and be left alone By the flies more than he liked to wear the mask Or be chased by the dogs that lived in the alley. My grandfather loathed birds and loved Fruit trees. He would place a tarp over the ripening Apple tree in the backyard. In the heat you could smell The spoiling fruit and in the trees, you could see The crows cleaning themselves. He would laugh At them and do as they did. My grandfather would smoke in the dark on the porch And snuff out his pipe as a moth would come to bask In the glow. He would light a candle and trap them in wax. My grandfather emphasized preparedness. Do you know Where the whet stone is? Do you know where the flint is kept? Have you seen the diving knife and its sheath? It is important That we all know where these essential items are kept. Nothing Can be done without them. The matches. The insecticide. The Bolts of screen door material leaning against the shed. The Apple seeds and the eagle feathers. Do you know where The whet stone is kept? Do you know where the whet stone Is kept?

Beam

Erik Carlsen It must be a woman who daily hangs the sun, And who tells the men that their dogs roll In the spot where the deer was born, And who grows the moss around the fallen branch With the robinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nest inside it, And who gave abalone shells to scrape meat From the inside of ribs.

Biographies Bryant Bartlett

Bryant is currently seeking his second BFA here at PLU and will then go on to seek his Masters. Prior to landing here, Bryant followed a winding road that saw him spend 8 years in the U.S. Air Force and 2.5 years at Amazon before deciding to pursue his passion in art. He spends his leisure time playing with his 3 kids, drawing, and playing with his dog. Bryant is expected to graduate in 2021.

Bua Berg

Duangporn Berg prefers for everyone to call her “Bua.” It’s her nickname, and it’s easier for most people to pronounce. Bua is originally from Thailand. Since she was a young child she knew she wanted to be an artist. Now she is pursuing her dream.

Jeanna Britt

Jeanna Britt found herself exploring art when her kids were very young. In quiet moments she found herself drawn to the playfulness and possibilities of what could be. Art brought life and excitement into the stress and encouraged her to dream. Pursuing that dream, she will graduate this spring.

Erik Carlsen

Erik Carlsen is a PLU senior finishing up his Poetry Capstone. These poems are dedicated to Nox, Duke, and O.

Ava Cozzetto

Ava Cozzetto has dreams of writing lucratively and luxuriously after she graduates but would settle for being a ice cream taste tester. Since her time at Luteland is almost done, she would like thank no. 2 pencils, Tic Tacs, and, most importantly, her mom.

Megan Daugherty

Megan is an environmental studies and English writing major (emphasis in poetry?). She’s a big teaser, she took me halfway there.

Gabe Fried

Gabe Fried is a twenty-two year old Nursing Student with a fascination for fantasy and game design. Using traditional board and card games as inspiration, he usually fabricates and runs tabletop role-playing games as his creative medium. He would like to thank his incredible players, his supportive parents, and Hiro.

Tara Gee

Tara Gee is originally from Upstate New York, but moved to Washington state after serving in the US Army for 5 years. She gets inspiration from her family, especially her two children, and works in mixed media with a focus on realism drawing and ceramics.

Olivia Gray

Olivia Gray is a senior majoring in English and minoring in Norwegian. Contrary to the speaker in her poem, Olivia has an irrational fear of moths and would actually be terrified if one was in the car with her. Maybe one day they will be friends.

Cheyenne Hart

Linguist, writer, artist, and global traveler Cheyenne Hart has always had an undying passion for exploring the world around her. Starting in her early childhood, she has been adventuring all over the world learning new languages, studying new cultures, and experimenting with new mediums and styles of creative expression.

Robert Hasselblad

Robert Hasselblad, a 1972 PLU alum, began writing poetry as an undergrad, and credits the late Professor Rick Jones for introducing him to the art form. Robert lives in Tacoma, and is a long-time member of Puget Sound Poetry Connection. His poetry has appeared in multiple journals and anthologies.

Gunnar Johnson

Gunnar Johnson is a junior completing his Classics degree here at PLU. He is also studying English and Theatre. Between the three, he sees plenty of creative opportunity for poetry and other art to grow. He is grateful and honored to share one of his poems here in this esteemed publication.

Jaclyn Kissler

Jaclyn is a tired ghost that exists on the fringes of reality and occasionally the Pacific Northwest. A student by day, an artist by night, and forhire cryptid by the in-between spaces of day and night.

Taylor Maruno

Taylor Maruno is a junior from Honolulu, Hawaiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;i. Her bio couldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been longer, but The Big Bang Theory was on.

Margaret Matthews

Margaret Matthews is a 6 foot tall squirrel. She sporadically jumps about with energy, selectively seeks out the company of other woodland creatures, loves climbing trees, and truly enjoys collecting shiny things and burying them in her closet. Her art classes keep her sane and keep her feet on the ground.

Katie McGregor

Katie McGregor is a second-year student double majoring in Studio Art and Communication. She spends her time drawing, painting, and taking photos, often combining these things with her love the outdoors.

Jenna Muller

Jenna Muller is a self-taught photographer from Moraga, California. She specializes in wildlife and sport photography, and has a sincere passion for the wonder and serenity of our world. You can find her on Instagram at jenna.muller.photography.

Nadine Nabass

Featured locally and internationally, Nadine defines her bilingual poetry and performances as genre-interrupting. In a haunting synthesis of Arabic and English, her work has been published in The Creative Colloquy’s online journal and has won the Darcher Poetry Award for her publications in Pierce College’s SLAM.

Alice Nguyen

Alice Nguyen’s majoring in English Writing, with a minor in Printing & Publishing Arts. She’s a pessimist who dreams of being an idealist but doesn’t want to read a sad ending story. Which is to say, she’s not confused about who she is, but about how she sees the world.

Rebekah Oglesby

Rebekah’s art is focused on songwriting, poetry, and lyric non-fiction. Rebekah feels honored to have her time at PLU marked with the inclusion of her art in Saxifrage! She thanks this year’s editors, her family, and friends for their belief in her art; she feels lucky to have them!

Hannah Park

Hannah “HP” Park, a book hoarder who is trying out more than words on paper, but paint poured on canvas. It is messy. It is fun. It is the true Hplovecraftco.

Hannah Peterson

She is one of two Hannah Peterson’s from western Montana at PLU; she spent her four years rowing in circles with the rowing team and running in circles in Army ROTC. After graduation, she’s headed to Georgia for more training where she will spend any extra time searching for the Georgian-equivalent of mountains.

Andrew Riecke

Andrew Riecke is a 22 year-old Music Education major that runs his own small jewelry business, RellikDesigns. You can find it on Facebook under Rellik Designs, and on Instagram @rellik.designs. This piece was his culminating project from his high school jewelry class.

Rachel Sandell

Rachel Sandell is an English and Music double major with a concentration in Publishing and Printing Arts. When she isn’t penning poems and prose, Rachel can be spotted in a blanket wrap with her nose stuck in a book, composing her own instrumental music, or devouring any chocolate she sees.

Madison Shewman

Madison has been following her writerly dreams for more than a decade, and plans to keep following them for many decades to come. She enjoys traveling, hiking, tea, and the color orange. In her opinion, there is no such thing as “too much orange,” so long as it’s not neon.

Camilla Sumner

Camilla Sumner is a sophomore who is majoring in English and Hispanic Studies. She enjoys writing creative nonfiction about various life experiences ranging from a joint custody agreement over a pet rat to a Christmas in Cambodia with 22 Mormon missionaries.

Nick Templeton

Nick Templeton is a junior at PLU, majoring in English Writing and Hispanic Studies. He has been known as both a sun child and a pluviophile, depending on the day.

Ashley Corr (Editor)

Ashley is finishing up her studies in English Literature and Poetry Writing. Lately she has found herself hoisted up by the marvelous literature in her life—literally—her bed is falling apart and she is being held up by precariously stacked books. She’s not sure what kind of devious metaphor is responsible.

Gillian Dockins (Editor)

Gillian is a Music and English Writing double major, with a concentration in creative nonfiction. When she isn’t writing a braided essay or singing an Italian aria, Gillian is training to become a master sommelier.

Natalia Giovengo (Editor)

Natalia is a junior working on an English major with an emphasis in Fiction Writing, as well as minors in Anthropology and Women’s and Gender Studies. She loves dogs, pizza, and reading by the fire.

Kiyomi Kishaba (Editor)

Kiyomi Kishaba is a sophomore with a double major in English Writing and Communication and minors in Hispanic Studies and Theatre. She is a member of the swim team and a writer for the Mast newspaper. Her two poems are inspired by and dedicated to her grandma.

Emma Loest (Editor)

Emma is a senior working toward finishing an English Literature major and minors in Publishing and Printing Arts, French, and Women’s and Gender Studies. After graduation, Emma hopes to adopt a dog.

Thank You... To the Pacific Lutheran University English Department and the Communications Department for their continued investment in the printing and publication of student writing and visual art. To those who joined us at our reading parties, for their valuable input on submissions. To our advisor, Wendy Call, for her support, encouragement, and proofreading. To Nathalie op de Beeck, who helped proofread this edition. To our fearless submitters, whose work we had the pleasure of reviewing. We are amazed by the talent we have at PLU.