Food for Thought | Fall 2025

o t e e hT r Feosur c n Ou Food for thFallou2025ght

The human Soul weighs Three to Four Ounces - Don DeLillo, Americana

Cover Design and Graphic Art by Yan Luo

Dear Reader, Let me teach you something about food. It fuels our minds, our spirits, and of course, our stomachs. It has been with us since the dawn of civilization, but more importantly, it has been with us since the dawn of literature. Centuries ago, long before the creation of Three to Four Ounces, before the first novel or the first poem, one of the earliest writing systems was conceived in ancient Sumer. Around 3500 B.C.E., cuneiform, a Mesopotamian script, emerged because humans needed a way to manage the discovery of agriculture, developing language to list grain, track surpluses, and document trade. In other words, our earliest stories were not just written in clay; they were written in food, which makes literature one of humanity’s first shared meals.

It was because of this that when one of my fellow editors (thank you, Blythe) suggested “Food for Thought” as our next theme, I knew she was right. As history reminds us, there is nothing more artistic or more essential to creativity than food. Still, even knowing how intertwined food and language are, I found myself hungry for something more.

I wanted a more satisfying reason why the words “Food for Thought” felt so true to me and to the legacy of our publication. This past August, I spent hours researching, combing through old editions of our magazine, and looking to our past literary icons. It was not until I found an old copy of Americana by Don DeLillo, the novel that lends us our name, that I finally understood.

On the cover of this well-worn edition was an image of a classic American diner, complete with checkered floors, plush leather seats, and a glass pastry display. In this beautiful novel, meant to dissect the American cultural landscape, DeLillo chose a diner to show how our identities have risen from a mixture of consumerism, community, and nostalgia. DeLillo understood how food connects to humanity and to humanity’s art. In a moment of societal contemplation, he once said: “This is where we wait together, regardless of our age, our carts stocked with brightly colored goods. A slowly moving line, satisfying, giving us time to glance at the tabloids in the racks. Everything we need that is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks.”

I hope that here in our literary tabloid, we have created an atmosphere worth stepping into, a diner that even Don DeLillo would deem worthy of dining in. As this is my final edition with Three to Four Ounces, I want to thank all who inspired me. I am forever grateful to my family and friends, my editorial team, and of course the food that brought me here. Thank you to carne asada tacos, my favorite turkey sandwich from Forest Greens, my grandpa’s gallopinto, and of course, the ice cream machine in the Pit. So please savor each page of this edition as you have savored your favorite meals. Settle into your seat, enjoy the company, and let this issue nourish you. Without further ado, feast yourselves on the best thing since sliced bread: Three to Four Ounces Fall 2025, “Food for Thought.”

Sincerely, Bella Santos, Chief Editor

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Executive Board Chief Editor Bella Santos

Managing Editors Aderinola Adepoju & Caroline Bates Graphic Designers Yan Luo & Tate Vaccaro Poetry Editors Carolyn Malman, Sally Pendergrass, & Isabella romine Prose Editors Taylor Nisbet, Olivia Sullivan, & Emily Meinert Art Editors Caroline Gottsman & Ava LeBeau Photography Editors Miriam Fabrycky & Julia Smith Social Media Managers Catherine Burges, Brooks Nuckols, & Clara Davis Treasurer Madeleine Bunnell

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Table of Contents 5. Dear Reader by Sincere Fielder 38. Don’t Chuck by Blair Newsome 6. Food Truck by Christopher J. DiLorenzo 39. Cena sul Canale´ by Blair Newsome* 7. Super Butter Girl by Sophia Fionda 40. Enteric by Yilin Tan 9. Lobsters & Lemons by Gaits Buntin 41. A Last Address by Megan Zanni 9. Salmon Patties by Blair Newsome 43. Bright Red Berries by Lauren 10. Sundays by Aderinola Adepoju** Carpenter 11. After the Market by Lauren 44. Made of Many by Alicia Maginn Carpenter 45. The Garden by Blair Newsome 11. Watermelon by Annelise Gray 46. The Barred Owl by Margaret Williams 12. Pear by Taylor Nisbet** 47. Marinated in Amritsar by Avikar 13. 3 to 4 Centimeters Apart by Sincere Khakh Fielder 47. Cotton Candy in Tangerang by Evan 15. Mourning Meal by Lucas Betancourt Harris 16. Leftovers by Blythe Kingston Green 48. Late Night Bites in Penang by Evan 17. Incessance by Dominic Amato Harris 18. Unbaked by Tien KN 48. Clocking out in Itaewon by Evan 19. Fruit of the Vine by Tate Vaccaro** Harris 20. Tell Me When by The Magnolia Team 49. A Certain Degree of Popularity by Elizabeth Unger 21. Soul Food by Zali Lawrence* 50. Blackberries by Christopher J. DiLorenzo 22. Even Soul Food Spoils by Zali 51. Just a Piece of Gum by Priya Leela Lawrence 23. starve myself by Alexis Orlando Dean*** Mendiratta 53. Magic Bottles by Nina Clayton 24. Wild Essence by Wangwang Ma 54. 5 Star Chinese Restaurant by Yilin Tan 25. Blessed Be by C.E. McCaskill 55. Hate Mail from an Old Disgruntled 26. A Spoonful of Reflection by Young Person by Blythe Kingston Green Roksanna Keyvan*** 29. Starving by Christopher J. DiLorenzo* 56. Food Collage by Various Artists 30. The Revolution ‘Bout to be Televised by 57. Pit Observations by Emily Meinert** 58. Lunch at Bryant Park by Carolyn Camden Clem Malman** 31. Yesterday by Olivia Pinder*** 59. Lady Grey by Blair Newsome 32. Light Snack by Audrey Aiken 60. Midnight Mission by Jordan Resnick 33. Last Meals by Thomas Raiford* 35. Live from Tokyo by Thomas Rigamonti 61. Ars Poetica Out of Desperation by Camden Clem 36. Smoke Break by Jack Perez 62. Aftertaste by Clara Davis** 37. Potion of Providence by Lucas Betancourt

*Category Winners

**Executive Board Piece

***Content Warning

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Dear Reader Sincere Fielder

When you read these, are you accompanied with snacks?

I’ve always wondered what other readers go-to snack is.

Mine is Trollis.

The ones with purple, pink, and blue.

“Very Berry”, I’m eating them right now.

How about you?

Do you choose to not eat because you fear your hands may be stained? Did you just check to see if you had Cheeto stains on your finger chips- tips* Dang it, I’m hungry now too.

For actual food though.

Though I should be eating, I’m glued to my writing so that I can be in the books you choose to read.

My thoughts read me over and over.

And my anti overthinking sergeant that delegates those rampant thoughts, is what allows my writing to get to you.

But you have them too, don’t you?

You’re tasked to: Read, ponder, flip Read, ponder, flip Read, ponder, flip– you get the gist.

Well, I hope you do.

But don’t forget you need nutrients too!

Treat yourself to some fast food or a good hibachi place!

In fact, did you know that red is used in fast food restaurants because it is a “powerful” color that stimulates the senses, increases heart rate, and prompts a sense of urgency and appetite?

Yes, it’s true.

So after all of your hard work, please eat.

I care about you.

Sincerely, Sincere. A restless writer.

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Food Truck

Christopher J. DiLorenzo

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Super Butter Girl Sophia Fionda Flavored butter at my grandparents’ house. A yellow spray bottle of butter. Cardboard pancakes. Radio chatter. A kiss on my cheek. My eyes remain closed. My grandfather lifts me from my carseat and carries me inside. Creaking floorboards. Ticking clock. I am wrapped in the warm blanket of the sunrise.

Who Am I? Fancy butter at the restaurant. French butter, whipped. Bread crust and crayons on the white table cloth. Jazz. Celebrity cigarette smoke.

Moonlit hopscotch. A familiar street corner. I am running across gum-splattered pavement, struggling to find my father in the crowd.

Who Am I? Fluffy butter in the mixing bowl. Butter on the baking tray, too. I lick the spatula, steal a chocolate chip. Sugar-coated lips. Pleading puppy eyes. Open window, cool breeze. My mother’s laughter ripples like the brown-water bay. We are slow dancing in the kitchen. I am spinning. I am soft and sweet, like the butter. I am blurring; everything blurs.

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I want to spin until my long skirt envelops the butter, my mother, and the kitchen whole, gently tucking the memory somewhere safe and secure.

Who Am I? Looky here, folks! A Super Butter Girl! The first of her kind. Don’t get too close now–she melts easily. Here, reach your hand out. Slowly now, just like that. Good. Yes, she sees you. Hey, she sees you! She Sees You! Do you see me?

Do you know what I Am? I Am a Super Butter Girl, made of all of the butter that has come before me. I mold myself like clay. I am learning, evolving, reminiscing, regretting. I pinch my sticky, gooey arm to remind myself that I Am the Real Thing.

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Lobsters Lemons Gaits Buntin

Salmon Patties Blair Newsome

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&

Sundays

Aderinola Adepoju

Every Sunday, I woke not by choice, but to the reverberations of Yoruba praise music rattling through my bedroom walls and to the firm knocks from my brother, who had been tasked with making sure I was fully up. The harsh awakening was only the first irritation of the morning, soon followed by the uncomfortable sheen of sweat on my skin after my mother had, without fail, added yet another blanket over me while I slept, despite my constant reminders that I ran hot at night.

I’d quickly ready myself for the morning and slip into one of the itchy, brightly colored Nigerian dresses supposedly tailored by “professionals.” I’d zip my sister up, and then she’d zip me, and I would hold my breath, praying her sharp nails wouldn’t nip my back this time. By 8:45, we’d be out the door for church—a service that was always meant to end at eleven, yet somehow we never left before one.

But what defined the day, and made every inconvenience worth it, was the meal waiting on the kitchen island at 8:00 a.m.

Sundays were for the hefty dishes smothered in spices so strong they made me sneeze if I leaned too close. They were for eggs fried in oily, red stew and scooped from a ceramic bowl; for a large plate stacked with small, cylindrical cuts of boiled yam; for a long platter holding two fish, seasoned with Maggi and buried under more stew; and for the bowl holding two or three boiled eggs, untouched by everyone except my father and brother. And always, set in front of the picky eater’s spot—my younger sister—sat the inevitable plastic bowl of dry Cheerios, out of place among the white ceramics on the table.

Sundays were for the frantic attempts of my siblings and me to serve ourselves before the third slop of red stew on the table sent my mother into full control mode.

They were for my father’s proclamation of “only water with your breakfast,” even as he quietly defied his own rule and guzzled three tall glasses of juice. They were for the laughter and groans as we navigated the crowded table, elbows bumping, reaching over steaming bowls, and the subtle negotiations over who got the last piece of yam. Sundays were for claiming our portions, tasting everything at once, and somehow, despite the chaos, feeling like the table itself was what made the morning sacred.

And when the last bite was eaten and the plates and bowls piled in the sink, all my morning irritations felt trivial—because Sundays were for the morning meals.

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After the Market

Lauren Carpenter

Peach-juice on your chin pits heavy in your pocket the scent of her touch still sweet in your hair.

You tell yourself you will not go back— and already you are listening for the bells.

Watermelon Annelise Gray

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Pear

Taylor Nisbet

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3

to 4 Centimeters Apart

Sincere Fielder

How do you tell another writer that you love them?

You don’t.

You write about them for a lifetime.

You sheet yourself with egg wash that glosses the wall you’ve made of crust.

You make your heroines possess their intrinsic qualities and uniqueness.

You write poems about their essence and weave it into your pieces– like a pastry cooker baking off the feel of tenderness not instructions.

You craft poems about their least desired qualities and show them their many uses.

Like garlic and onions that insert itself into almost everything we consume.

Because that’s the message.

Those qualities are undeniably fundamental.

Lemon juice, almond extract, a pinch of salt– And YOU. You are the sweetness that my mind, heart, and soul consumes with not a care in the world.

So no, you don’t tell another writer you love them.

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Instead...

You paint them to be breathtakingly beautiful–not perfect, because there is no painting perfection.

So you may attempt to bake it.

You paint them with intentionality, coarse sugar, and a red that carries an aroma of strawberry and vanilla extract.

So when your time is up– they, and everyone else, Will see that it was painfully obvious you were in love.

And I wrote this as she was sitting 3 to 4 centimeters away from me.

So I changed the timer ringer that was made for the cherry pie to come out the oven to church bells.

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Mourning Meal Lucas Betancourt

In the morning, you’d taste of honey that you steeped in your tea.

Your lips coated with sugar wherefrom love would rush like a river.

At lunchtime, you’d pluck herbs and carrots so fresh your taste had a hint of dirt.

My teeth would rake around to rip out your weeds and in their place I’d plant passion’s fertile seeds.

Then at dusk, we’d stuff ourselves full, taste of steak and wine, let gluttony rule.

We’d sink into bed slow and heavy dreaming of delights any would envy.

But now you don’t taste of anything at all.

Now you only smell of flowers withering in the fall.

Now you’re as dry as the earth that’s swallowed you whole.

Now you’re as heavy as the stone that carries your name.

Now my heart is left tasteless and dull, and I am left hungry and lame.

Leftovers

Blythe Kingston Green 16

To whom it may concern,

Incessance Dominic Amato

You are my infinite condition. Across time, regardless of place, and without concern for my desires, you creep into all of my moments, waking or otherwise. You give me the grace to think before I speak and at other times, bleed into my eyes with “what if’s.” You force visions onto me, desires I crave but am deprived of. You re responsible for regret and hope. I should know it to be you playing tricks on me, but as I stare into the darkness, “what if.”

I love and hate you, but you are inescapable, for we are entangled. At times, I know not if you are me or I am you; I know not if you are to be listened to or ignored. But one thing I do know: whenever I try to silence you, it’s as if I stoke the coal oven fueling your untouchable engine. I wish you were there before I danced with that girl, to tell me how I’d feel when it didn’t work out. I wish you were there to remind me of how far we’ve come in moments when I fall short. I wish we could have rehearsed that conversation that ended before I could find solace. I wish to know you, to understand you, to get it right with your powerful ability to advise and analyze through veiled foresight.

But you remain hidden, after all it is you that informs that which I do, from silence. You only echo from your throne of hindsight, a condition I find unfair. I’ve tried to explain it to others. I tell them there are two men on a sofa, watching the most mundane, epic, and emotional film ever viewed.

One man is in control, but when it matters most the other man has a say too, the general and his informant, commanding a nervous system to act.

I’ve described it as a warzone: a tumultuous and distorted array of scenarios, in conversation with one another, yet often at odds; ideas and possibilities in conflict with a depth that should not (perhaps cannot) be explored. No one understands, and I guess I don’t either. I want to scream at you to show yourself, to give me the ending of the story, because I think you know. No, I know you know, and you know I know, it’s why you don’t let me sleep at nights, a punishment for knowing more than I am capable of articulating.

What a pity.

You are my thoughts, and wherever you come from, and whatever angst you bring, I wish you to be mine forever.

Dreaming, Suffering, Wishing, wide awake but unconscious, Your Withering Vessel

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Unbaked Tien KN

Slowly–that is all I whisper, his mouth dusted still with flour.

He presses and folds me, clumsy-handed, leaning forward till his body blots out the roof above. ...And yet I crave that shadow.

I thirst for more water, for the shaping hands that press me (not the hard rolling pin).

“Go on, More... again...–a sigh within, yet no sound leaves me.

I am only the dough.

He, the baker who does not know how to make me become softer; before me, his hands were innocent— Naive, yet bold enough to reach for me at last.

“Knead me with passion” I wish— wishing to hear a murmuring that “I will not stop making..., No, loving you And no other lump of dough Would I ever knead”.

Yes, I need more water and him. Continue struggling to work me softer, patiently— but not toward bread.

What he longs for late at night.

Why? ...The oven is not yet meant to burn.

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Fruit of the Vine Tate Vaccaro

From the soil comes this fruit perfumed with poison.

How suddenly one drop stains my lips, how suddenly the unruliness of the world spills from our hands.

Fill my glass and I’ll look not for your face, but for the river that runs red in my dreams.

I’ll be there, dripping with sunlight, demanding to be transformed.

Tell TheMeMagnolia WhenTeam 19

´

Soul Food

Zali Lawrence

I want you to pour into me like sugar momma’s gravy Explore all the hips and dips of this relationship The same way you eat a neckbone I want to love you, slow-roasted cooking in a crockpot all day Kiss me at the breath of a baby’s back rib For I will give my last to you at the taste of your sweet lips Your tongue carves out the flavors of my sweet potato pie Put me on the highest of levels so I can fuel your soul with the flavors of love Seasoned into the heart, and I become one with your mind Your words drip down my legs like fine wine And baby, you are so divine Hold me a secret like your grandmother’s family recipe Lock me away into a bottle and never let the wrong one get a hold of me Let the chocolate drip from my mouth as I pour my heart out to you Wait for me impatiently like kids at the dinner table waiting on Thanksgiving day Thank the lord for this super you have been yearning for Touch my soul like the hot stove grandma told you to leave alone Lock your eyes in the sight of my macaroni baked into your lungs For you have finally found your glory Wrap me up in foil and take me home Lay me down and eat me up And remember that this has become a different kind of love Dress me up in all types of dressings Cleanse my soul like you would do chicken

I will be the soul food you waited months for And you will be the food to my soul that I have prayed for

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Even Soul Food Spoils Spoils Zali Lawrence Trapped in the essence of an imaginary beauty, and I I have fallen victim to the pain I placed upon myself Pour into me No, actually pour me slow Spoon me like sugar momma’s gravy Then burn me at the bottom of the pot if you must And then comes the craving The spirit of her beauty latches onto your soul I’m sorry Honey dripped down my spine, and I really could’ve made you mine But your tongue carved out the favors of my sweet potato pie And now the sweetness burns my throat It’s complicated Your love touched my soul and swept me right off the platter I scooped myself back up and placed myself back where I was Glared in your eyes, warning you to stop I thought you were the type of man that didn’t like his food touching Daring me to be the perfect platter crafted just for you I guess you’ve already laid me down and ate me up And still that wasn’t enough

I'm spoiled rotten Mold built up on the surface of my skin Heartbreak formed in the shape of stuffed peppers Spicy and daring Savory and sharp What once filled you like neck bone now cuts at the bone A feast turned feral in your mouth Normally, I like my rolls buttered But baby, I’m tired Like leftovers reheated too many times Or maybe the crockpot got left on too long Once I poured into you like sugar momma’s gravy Or maybe I gave my last to you at the last of your lips But now I’m burnt Stuck at the bottom of the pot You continue to swallow me even though the taste is bitter Even as it poisons you

And still you come back starving Scraping the pan for what’s left of me Because spoiled sweetness still coats your tongue Even Poison Drips Sweet When It's I’m intoxicated, tears dripped down your face like red Me wine Maybe I was soul food Tell me . . . was it longing you swallowed Slow-roasted cooking in a crockpot all day Or just belonging you mistook for a meal?

But even soul food spoils If you leave it out for long enough

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starve myself Alexis Orlando Dean

i’ll deny my needs over and over again smoke another cigarette drink another cup of coffee until i see my ribs in the mirror and the dark circles under my eyes cover my face i always had high cheekbones now they’re all i can see i never deserved to live so i’ll waste away alienate all my friends i’ll die young and alone burns covering my fingers i don’t deserve music or poetry that blessed food of love why should i delude my heart when it too withers away no i deserve the pain it’s all ive ever deserved

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i can feel my teeth rotting and i again i say i deserve this what need have i for them when the coffee and cigarettes the discordant noises and incomplete poems never left me anything to chew sometimes i pray that some angel will come and raise me from my debased state but no relief comes for me she will not hear my prayers for my throat is dry and cracked and my singsong voice has lost its sweetness so i will consign myself to the fate i made a collection of bones where once stood a woman

´

Wild Essence WAngwang ma

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Blessed Be C.E. McCaskill

Blessed be this meal of spoiled meat forgive the holes, I know there’s less to eat But martyred, hollowed, cavities in skin A skewered dish, say how holy free of sin For the sake of good, or maybe god Slice slowly / gently / make pieces of fraud For unseeing eyes have limited view The way to be known? Cut off half of you Hundreds of acres of salivating mouth Patrons of wealth all sons of the south Out of place? No. You have a duty to serve A plate, a dish, just another hors d’oeuvre The campus of rain, cold bite of the storm Come closer, lost lamb, the oven is warm I promise, come here, draw next to the heat Pray over us all: blessed be this meal of spoiled meat

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A Spoonful of Reflection A spoonful of reflection.

They reflect, spoons empty, mouths open– too many mouths to feed.

Not enough grain to fill them.

Not since the land went infertile.

Not since the weather shifted.

Not since the water rose and drowned the crops.

When did the tides get this high?

Not since the waste seeped into the soil.

Not since plastic and radiation lodged in the flesh of fish.

Not since our people forgot our own practices of sustenance.

Not since our ancestors’ memory vanished– amnesia or cultural shame?

Not since junk food became cheaper than food.

Not since bodies, riddled with toxins, began to ache with cancer. Obesity.

Our bodies.

The neighbors of today say, that’s just how things are.

The neighbors of the past would ask why we have forgotten our ways.

Roksanna Keyvan ´

But we aren’t as alone as you think.

A doctor calls our town a “cluster” for research–their yearly studies pay well.

A sociologist calls it symbolic violence–fight back.

An anthropologist has been here three years–he’ll leave soon, the ethnography is done.

A politician calls us a discontent of globalization, his Congress nods in solidarity. They vote.

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[ ...we disrupt the following for a public broadcast from the state of... would like to issue a formal apology...for state for the military interventions...in the early twentieth century...a sincere apology...causing irreparable harm...damage to agriculture...in solidarity... ] Somewhere, men in suits shake hands. Our people watch from the TV, empty spoons in hand.

A corporation swears it had our best interest at heart–they give us hats and post the picture.

An environmentalist protests for the land and sea, reposting us on facebook.

A lawyer told us ‘there’s money to be made!’...That was three years ago, the case is still in court.

Long ago, an imperialist called us ‘savage’, tried to civilize.

A friend–may we find one–offers more than a promise of security.

Even a spoon speaks louder than apologies for our empty mouths.

A nut of comprehension.

Monoculture.

Miles of corn–the way of the future, they said.

Our forests slain, our fields divided.

All to increase profits.

That’s what they said. What NAFTA said.

We didn’t expect them to sell us their corn cheaper.

We didn’t expect our farms to collapse.

We didn’t expect our sisters and daughters to leave home to feed the family.

We didn’t expect to have to move.

Why not return to our old ways?

That’s not the way of the future, they said.

That’s not the way of America.

What’s not to comprehend?

Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations– way more efficient than a few cattle or porkers on the range.

Cover your nose when you visit; the smell travels into the next town.

A few complaints, but nothing the lawyers couldn’t settle.

Who won?

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Oh, we most certainly did–we made sure of it.

There’s money to be made–even if it makes your eyes water.

But hey, there’s good pork on the plate.

Ha–we’re the best in the state!

What’s not to comprehend about that?

Pesticides.

Something’s in the crops–I can taste it.

Not sure what they’re spraying on this corn.

My wife is sick.

No, she didn’t have cancer before.

No, we don’t have a history of illness.

No, it’s not radiation from somewhere else.

´

What don’t you understand? We need help.

Healthcare. Welfare.

What do you mean you’re just the EPA? Just the CDC? Isn’t that your job? What are my taxes paying for? This isn’t just in our food.

This is in our blood.

It’s killing us.

What’s not to comprehend about that–you nut.

McDonald’s again.

What? The fries are good.

Yeah, it’s the third time I’ve had it this week.

At least I’m eating. Better than nothing at all.

It’s not like there’s other options around here.

Food Dessert?

No, I’m not interested.

Oh–what was that...?

Food desert?

Haha, is that a joke?

Oh. No, I’m not really sure I comprehend.

But hey–since you’re such a big fan of wordplay, that’s certainly

Food for thought.

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Starving

Christopher J. DiLorenzo 29

The Revolution‘Bout to be Televised ´

Camden Clem

These days I feel the metaphor of having current events shoved down my throat a bit too literally, my jaw sore and my stomach uneasy with news bites of wildfires and displaced children. Computer keys stick in my teeth like the grief of not having done all that you could do.

But I cannot bear to look away. Apathy a privilege that I will not take on.

When force fed all of the pain and suffering of humankind through the font of an iphone, I will hold the names of those we’ve lost in my mouth with a tenderness that feels like rebellion.

Editor’s Note: Title taken from Kendrick Lamar’s Super Bowl Halftime Show

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Yesterday Yesterday is a fleeting word, but it’s a feeling I carry often.

Olivia Pinder

2017...

If I close my eyes, I can still picture being in the kitchen with my family, burgers grilling, chicken frying, pie baking, the heat of the food causing sweat to drip down my face and arms My oh my, how I miss yesterday.

Bright summer days, where you could play all day until the streetlights came on But my rule was different, play until your momma called you in.

So I stayed inside, stuck in a place I didn’t know I’d long for all my life: the sounds of laughter, stories of the good old days.

Of yesterday.

Back when kids played without worrying if it was their last game Back when the only identifying a mother had to do was deciding what she’d cook tomorrow.

In my mind, I was always reaching ahead, but I didn’t know, today.. No tomorrow could hurt so much.

I lost two of my big brothers that year.

They weren’t home when the sun went down, when the streetlights came on

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Taken by guns before their time.

The world stopped, but the streetlights kept shining, like nothing had happened And I kept asking myself, Why them?

Why now?

Why didn’t they come home?

If I close my eyes, I can still picture being in the kitchen with my family, noses blowing, condolences whispered, the coldness of emptiness in my chest causing tears to drip down my face My oh my, how I miss yesterday.

Bright summer days, when you could play all day until the streetlights came on But those days are gone, and I am stuck, stuck in a place I will regret for life, surrounded by the sounds of crying, and voices reaching for yesterday yesterday.

Light Snack Audrey Aiken

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Last Meals Thomas Raiford

The day we sat and watched the world end was a nice one. We had a picnic.

We hadn’t talked in a while. We hadn’t felt the need to. But, the weather was lovely, so I called you. You were excited on the phone, more excited than I expected. It was strange hearing your voice again. It seemed so far and so close. I was scared. Not because of the sirens or the screams. I was scared to see you again.

You asked where, and I told you the beach. It seemed fitting to watch the world end on the beach. There’s something so poetic about it. Behind you, the chaos of it all unfolded. Buildings crowded each other, cars stood still and screamed, and people ran, like ants fleeing a flooding hill. Before you, the sea stretched beyond your view. There’s a similar chaos of the waves crashing against each other, rising and falling with the tide, but it’s made quiet by its scope. To you, it’s rhythmic, relaxing, and real. To me, its visceral, vexing, and vast.

I knew it was you coming by the sound. You walk as if you’re floating, as if the world you carry weighs no more than a feather. I trudge. I thud. I drag my feet, and I ache and groan. But I heard you, amidst it all. You were wearing a yellow dress that day.

It was beautiful; it made the beach and the ocean seem dull by comparison. I don’t quite remember what I wore, probably a wrinkled T-Shirt and some shorts with a drawstring.

I’m sure it felt inadequate. You sat down and greeted me. You had a basket with you, the kind you see in picture books. You asked me if I had brought the drinks. I hadn’t. You teased me. I laughed.

We heard a dull boom in the distance, and it seemed as good a time as any to start.

You took out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the kind we used to make. They were cut in half, split down the middle to make 2 triangles, one for you, one for me. I bit into it, and you handed me an apple. It seemed absurd, to worry about my fruits and veggies now, but I looked at you and there were tears in your eyes. The humor died in my throat.

We sat there for a while, listening to the waves. My mind raced to say something, everything, and nothing. It all seemed to matter now, what we said to each other. And it didn’t before? It seemed unfair. The waves kept coming, like a metronome counting down a performance.

“What would you have for your last meal?” you croaked, your voice raw, a small smile on your face.

33

I looked back at you, baffled, but your smile urged me to respond. Forcing a pompous British accent, I told you: “I suppose I would have the Beef Wellington.”

You chortled. “Do you even know what Beef Wellington is?” you asked.

“How dare you!” I laughed, my voice rising to a falsetto. “I’ll have you know, I–” A second boom sounded on the horizon. This time, we could see the cloud farther up the coast. The wind picked up and the waves grew louder. But I still heard your laughter.

“I think I’d have PB&J’s with you,” you added, picking up your half, “with strawberry jelly, of course, and an apple, lest we see the doctor.” I toasted my sandwich to that.

I wanted to ask you how you’d been, but it seemed a waste of a question. It seemed like something you say to fill the silence on an elevator ride. I didn’t need to fill anything. I just needed to be here.

“Where would you even get an apple?” I asked.

“Well, I’d probably have it,” you told me.

“But if you didn’t?”

“Well, I guess have to buy it!”

“So you spend your final hours at Walmart?”

“More like Whole Foods.”

“I suppose that’s better. Though you probably should’ve just had an apple to begin with.”

“I DID!” you laughed. There were tears in your eyes, but they were different. I tried to read you, but I couldn’t. I was never very good at it. You noticed and you told me you were happy. I believed you.

A third boom thundered and the air warmed. We laid back and looked up at the sky.

“I don’t suppose we ever would have been satisfied,” you told me. “It never would’ve been perfect. People never are.” I stayed silent. You continued, “And yet, I’m grateful for it all. There was more we could’ve said, should’ve said, didn’t say. But I’m grateful for it all.”

And we laid there. We didn’t hear the fourth boom or any waves. We just laid there.

34

LiveThomasFrom Toyko Rigamonti

Smoke Break Jack Perez

If there was one thing Tom hated more than anything in the world, it was the smell of smoke. Not the taste, mind you. No, he savored the smokey, woody flavor that transformed a piece of beef or pork into a delightful experience. He relished in the mesquite flavor of the small pack of Slim Jims he was devouring like it was his last meal. His enjoyment was solely dampened by the smell of smoke emitting from the teenage cashier nervously smoking a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He really despised that acrid and pungent smell. The reason why wasn’t a mystery to him; his grandfather had smoked at least five packs a day, seven days a week. His childhood home always smelled like a southern smokehouse, the air heavy and dense in its charcoal fragrance as his adolescent lungs struggled to adjust. He always lied to his friends about the smell that would linger on his shirt, claiming it came from the incense his grandfather would light, like he was a hippie. He was uncertain why he lied about something so mundane. After all, back then smoking wasn’t nearly as taboo. But in Tom’s mind he must have thought that lighting incense was more dignified. Perhaps his lie let him forget about his grandfather’s snarling voice, poisoned from smoke inhalation and his own malicious personality, telling him how weak and pathetic he was and how he should take a cigarette to “grow some hair on that fat chest of yours”.

He wonders how his grandfather would react if he could see the skinny teenager next to him, shakingly holding a cigarette up to his mouth, practically daring his body to calm down from the day's stress during his mandatory 10 minute break.

The neon lights above mixed with the crisp, warm burn of the nicotine made his chapped lips and acne all the more apparent. One couldn’t help but take pity on his appearance, ravaged by the harsh hand of adolescence. Tom hoped, no, prayed that he never looked like that when he was in high school. But looking at the poor kid and smelling the smoke brought a flood of questions to the forefront of his mind. Would his grandfather think that this bundle of nerves constitutes a real man? Did he ever think of Tom as a real man? It didn’t really matter; his grandfather had been dead for almost two decades now, and Tom rarely thought of him. But he was in a particularly pensive mood tonight, and perhaps that was the reason he found himself at a gas station on a cold winter night instead of in bed with his wife of 23 years.

He figured he would implement his tried-and-true tactic of grabbing some Slim Jims at the station and wait for his wife to calm down. He had gotten into an argument with her earlier about his hobby of collecting model trains. He would be the first to admit that it was more of an obsession than a hobby, but he had mellowed out over the years and had bought fewer and fewer trains in favor of saving up for his kids.

36

But with the kids in college, he figured he’d splurge on a Bachmann Dash 8-40CW. Big price tag, yes, but an even bigger mistake when his wife found out. On the surface, it was a fight about money, but Tom had a sneaking suspicion his wife’s anger was stemming from something deeper. He had stormed out when she called him childish, not even caring that technically he was proving her right. The whole money problem wasn’t really bothering him; he made enough to compensate for his spending, but he was more annoyed at the fact that a woman he had known, had loved, for more than two decades still didn’t seem to understand him. He recognized, on a logical level, that to say such a thing was a fallacy. After all, could he say that he appreciates her in her entirety? He wished that he could say yes, but the truth was most likely the opposite. Maybe that's the ultimate burden of individuality, to have a complete understanding of self that cannot be conveyed in any shape or form to others.

Tom shook his head, emerging from his haze. Philosophy wasn’t his strong suit, and it sure wasn’t going to solve his problem. Action was the only remedy. He was going to get in his car, drive home, march right through the door, and go to bed. The fight would most likely linger the next morning but be quickly forgotten or forgiven by midday. That’s how it always went. As Tom got into his car he silently wished that it would always be this way. The cozy routine of love and fighting, of late nights sorting his head right, living life with its ups and downs. However, he could do without the smell of smoke lingering on his jacket. If there was one thing Tom hated more than anything in the world, it was the smell of smoke...

37

Potion of Providence Lucas Betancourt

Smoke slithering up from goldbrown liquid exhaling warm breath, waves of steam crash together, dissipating into whistles of air.

Inhale its fumes, breathe in breath colored with hints of honey; the warm wind of a lover’s whisper soothes shivering skin on a frosty night.

The cup sits as a hearth in hands, melting the icy stiffness of bones.

Fingers trace paper cup skin, massaging, embracing warm cardboard.

It’s the song an old man sings, humming an old folk tune with a sandpaper voice and a rust-stringed guitar.

Don't Chuck Blair Newsome

The touch of tea is tender, inviting sip after sip, kiss after kiss.

A bittersweet brew, earthy roughness dancing with honey’s sweet dew.

Sipping silky sunlight, coloring lips, teeth, and tongue, gold pastes itself onto plaque, like the stains that scar the sun.

38

Cena Sul Canale ´

Blair Newsome

39

Enteric Yilin Tan

My world is enteric.

The table before me, choked with titles, trophies, treasures.

My plate heaped beyond abundance, the curse of a glutton.

My desire is to gorge myself on glory, to indulge myself in my own vanity.

In the pursuit of greatness, I struck upon indigestion.

My words are a bolus, stuck in my throat, halfway-digested, unable to be expelled— Dysphagia.

For fear of asphyxiation, I use them less and less and less.

I hunger, and I thirst.

What is there for me to consume?

No less than a miracle would ease my appetite.

What I need is a land flowing with milk and honey to coat my words, to soothe my aching throat; water from a rock and quail from heaven providence unexpected and undeserved; two fish and five loaves multiplying again and again as they’re passed into my hands; communion wine and unleavened bread, a promise kept that I might live; a wine-soaked sponge on a reed, blood turned to living water— It is finished Stone table, split in half My glory in pieces, his body broken Famished, now full Starving, now satiated I can breathe. I can speak.

And then when I am fed and satisfied, will his words become mine?

40

A Last Address Megan Zanni

Heart in my throat, I sit among the tomes. The last time I sat here, I was carefully balancing math equations. Now, I carefully balance silence with commotion. It’s not as easy a comparison as I would’ve thought.

Again, the last time I was here, my preference would definitely have been silence. I’d always liked the quiet of the library and found it difficult to concentrate on my thoughts when someone near me was chatting. But right now, I think a little distraction from my thoughts would probably help.

Or maybe not. Every sound, even that of my own heartbeat, is a constant reminder of why those terrifying thoughts are there in the first place.

The sound of footsteps on the floor above me makes me shrink ever further into the shadows. At least they’re not on this floor. But then a thought (one of the terrifying ones) grabs me, and I realize the danger may be nearby, yet silent and thus undetectable by me: a worst-case scenario. I wonder if it’s better to hear footsteps, horrifying as they are, in order to delude myself into thinking I know what’s coming. It’s either that or the overwhelming silence, where the equally horrifying knowledge that I really have no control over what’s coming is as apparent as the lack of noise. Realizing there’s no right answer, I let my mind wander to other ultimately meaningless (but less scary) topics.

Despite being in the library many times, I’ve never been in this nook before. I’m tucked under a desk in a tiny room, really more of a closet, along the back wall of the seventh floor. There is no door. These rooms/closets were originally meant for students to have a more private place to study, though in my current situation the limitations of that privacy are painfully clear.

Surrounding my cave are stacks and stacks of books, the only company I hope to have. The title of one catches my eye: Trouble in Eden: A Comparison of the British and Swedish Economies. Doesn’t sound particularly interesting to me, though I’d give almost anything now to have the time to read it. I’m not sure how Eden connects to the British and Swedish economies, but I suppose that explanation is hidden somewhere in the dusty pages.

I wonder about Eden. I wonder what life would be like if Adam and Eve hadn’t eaten that fruit. They left paradise because they couldn’t trust a God good enough to love them without knowing what was good and bad for themselves. I suppose we all have doubts, but now everyone else has had to live in a world which has clearly fallen. Maybe sometimes we should have a little more trust. Maybe then we’d have a better world.

41

But I’m afraid this world, fallen as it is, offers me no future. I wonder if there’s a paradise waiting for me, and I think back to all of the sermons I’d listened to but never really heard. I’d always thought I’d have time to dwell on such spiritual mysteries “later,” but it looks like I’m running out of “laters.” In that moment, I decide to believe. I believe because the existence of an all-powerful being who loves me and offers me a peaceful eternity after this life is so much better than the alternative.

A scream tears my mind out of Eden and back to this (fallen) world. I think it came from the first floor. I try not to think about who it came from, and of course I do anyway. Maybe it was one of my friends. The voice didn’t sound familiar, but I’d never heard any of my friends’ death wails before. I try to assign the horrible fate to an anonymous stranger, but I can’t. Suddenly, there are no anonymous strangers. All of the people who had seemed to be a part of the background take center stage. For the first time, the people I’d only ever glanced at had names, and interests, and friends, and families, and I realize that they had those things all along. I wish I’d taken the time to learn about them before.

A moment of quiet in my mind makes me aware of the noise in my ears.

It’s louder, more constant than before, and it sounds like the library itself is alive with the dead. One sound cuts through the whispers: a door, opening somewhere to my right. I know better than to hope for a friend.

I hear a shuffling coming closer slowly, almost leisurely. Death is taking its time. Maybe it’s here by chance, maybe it’s looking for me. Maybe it’s already found me. Either way, it’s coming, and there is no escaping it.

I find I’m not as upset by that as I should be. Maybe it’s because I already knew it was coming. Maybe I always knew it was coming.

The only witness to my end will be a book on systems that mean nothing and a place that could mean everything. I think back to my newfound faith, and as I have nothing left, I cling to it with everything I once had. I wish I’d gotten to know it better, like the people I’d never learned about, but I’m glad I know it now.

I hear one final noise.

I look up at the figure standing before me. I don’t think it’s human, but maybe it was once. Either way, something about it is definitely familiar, like something out of a horror movie. Or a nightmare. I see eyes, but no soul. Just pain. And hunger. An emptiness that consumes. Maybe it was never human after all. Then-

42

Bright Red Berries Lauren Carpenter

You know not to eat the Bright Red Berries.

They are poisonous.

They hang lazily, plump, soft, that dazzling color.

They are all you can see, as if the sun is shining a spotlight on them.

They cry out to you, begging you to swallow just one.

They are glittering, drawing you closer.

They promise you bliss.

Their thin skin breaking between your teeth, But they are poisonous. sweetness coating your mouth, juice dribbling down your chin, Just one, they are so refreshing, so delectable, so heavenly, two, you cannot stop popping them into your mouth, three one after the other, Bright Red Berries and another, won’t hurt you, right? and another, They burst in your mouth, everything you thought they’d be, Until you are turned inside out.

Just a body, burning, sweet and satisfying quivering on the forest floor.

Just four Aching, five, with what you let those six, Bright thirteen, Red twenty-nine, Berries fifty-four do to you. won’t kill you, right?

Made of Many Alicia Maginn

43

The Garden Blair Newsome

45

The Barred Owl Margaret Williams

The barred owl watches patiently from the branch of his oak tree.

The land that stretches before his great eyes belongs to him. He calls out through the forest. A call that might sound to human ears like a low howl of someone asking, “Who cooks for you?” The sun had begun to set some time ago, the nocturnal creatures beginning to stir, and the barred owl keeps watch over it all. Down below, on the forest floor, a teenager sits on a fallen tree trunk. She watches him intently, her body relaxed but her eyes firmly fixed on the owl above.

The girl did not bring the apple into the woods with the intent to owl watch. She was looking for a moment of blessed solitude to have a snack and stumbled upon the creature. The owl’s wings are dappled as if with sunlight, its yellow beak poking out of soft feathers. The apple becomes a tether in her hands, drawing her to the earth beneath her feet. She cannot rise up to the owl or even move to finish her apple without making a noise that might scare away the beautiful bird of prey. She is transfixed by the eyes that look beyond her own; it feels like a gift in this moment alone together.

Naturally, this is spoiled by the shouts of the lifeguards returning from the lake. They howl with raucous laughter, and the barred owl, feathers ruffled, takes flight. Its wings flap, deathly silent, swooping deeper into the forest. The girl sighs, takes a loud bite out of her apple, then stands.

She wipes the juice from her mouth and chin, deftly moving through the trees back towards the noises of camp, carefully avoiding the path of the boys crashing and pushing their way through the foliage. She mutters a curse, tripping over a small stick, finding herself back in the throes of camp life.

46

Marinated in Amritsar Avikar Khakh

Cotton Candy in Tangerang Evan Harris

47

Late Night Bites in Penang Evan Harris

Clocking out in Itaewon Evan Harris

48

A Certain Degree of Popularity

Elizabeth Unger

The kitchen is spacious, modern, fully-functioning, and almost always vacant. The fixtures, once vibrant, are forlorn. The countertop slumps. The table doesn’t have gum on its underside, though it sometimes wonders if gum would mark an improvement.

A table must achieve a certain degree of popularity to be covered in gum. The chairs used to sag, but when they realized no one noticed their sulking, they sprang back into prime condition. Of course, nobody notices them now either. The fridge is mostly empty, save for glass tupperware containers, slabs of raw meat, and a suspicious red smudge. A cracked window constitutes the room’s only line of defense against the pungent odor of raw chicken and the fumes emanating from the yellow mold in the sink.

Ryan likes the kitchen because he can cook. The large countertops and vacuous fridge give him plenty of space to prepare his meals and store his food. In return, Ryan makes sure the fridge is always sated with chicken breast, salmon, and raw beef. He also feeds it kiwis and cucumbers. Fruits and vegetables are imperative to the diet of the well-adjusted refrigerator. Sometimes Ryan is absent from the kitchen, but his presence is still felt. See the pressure cooker about to boil over? See the three chicken breasts resting side by side in the sink? That was Ryan. Don’t worry, he won’t leave his food out forever – just long enough for its rotting smell to saturate the room. Does Ryan realize that the odors spewed by his cuisine prevent other people from using the kitchen? Perhaps, but Ryan is territorial. While society has taught him that marking his ground like a dog would be quite improper, it does not frown upon the culinary arts. In fact, society informs Ryan that men who cook are highly valued, especially by middle-aged housewives. If the pungent smell of flaccid meat marks Ryan’s territory in a somewhat – if not entirely – socially acceptable manner, Ryan is satisfied. Perhaps it will even help him with the ladies.

Celia likes the room because it is empty. The table can clearly fit at least six people, and the cabinets are plentiful enough to host the food of thirty. Aside from Ryan, Celia is the room’s only visitor. When she presides over the room, she suffocates the table with bags of tea, packs of popcorn, notebooks, pens, pencils, hair ties, erasers, and a mug shaped like an elephant. Not even an inch of tabletop can see the sun. Celia is territorial too. Why would Celia hold court in a haven for stenches, smells, and odors? Well, perhaps Celia enjoys the fragrance of thawing beef. Perhaps she is one of those insufferable people who always sees the world through rose-colored glasses and enjoys making a molehill out of a mountain. Or perhaps she has no better place to go.

Ryan tolerates Celia. She is quiet. She doesn’t ask too many questions. And she doesn’t complain about the stench of rotten meat.

One day, Celia brings a pack of gum with her. The table shudders, concerned for its exposed underbelly. After pulverizing the gum between her teeth and leaching its sweet flavor, Celia spits the gum into the trash can. The table sighs in relief and reevaluates the merits of popularity.

49

Blackberries Christopher J. DiLorenzo

Just a Piece of Gum Priya Leela Mendiratta

Brand new, refreshing, and sweet, exciting even, especially when pulled out from a friend’s bag in school, Sometimes spearmint, sometimes peppermint, its flavor is ever changing, but a few things remain true about the purpose it serves.

It is to be carefully unwrapped just before it is enjoyed, and chewed until the rectangular shape it once resembled is smashed into a colorless wad, and it is devoid of all its flavor.

Then, once it has become boring, and has offered everything it once had to give, it is condemned to be tossed aside, Neatly spit into the wrapper from which it came by those who attempt to behave in a more polite fashion, Or, if it is so unlucky, it is spit into the garbage, Or, perhaps the most dreadful of all, if it is most unlucky it is disrespectfully flung from a pair of wet lips shiny with saliva and onto a rough, gray, filthy sidewalk.

There, it unwillingly grips the crevices of the concrete, either remaining invisible to those passing by, or provoking reactions characterized by repulsion if seen at all.

It had once been looked at with excitement, something desired the second it had been pulled from its pack, and it often thinks about how many eyes had once lit up around it as they excitedly waited to be granted the piece, But, it was well aware that it had now been deemed worthless, that its value had been drained, and it had accepted that it would never again be wanted.

It thought it was destined to harden onto the disgusting cement forever alone, and that its journey had just about concluded.

However, its complex story had far from reached its end, and the period of suffering was hardly over for the poor piece of gum...

It would soon be met with the sole of a shoe whose owner would never seem to be quite able to shake it, Naïve as can be, it would be thrilled to be pulled up from the concrete, so it would cling to the rising rubber sole and bask in the beauty of its temporary freedom from the miserable sidewalk.

Unfortunately though, it would only feel this intoxicating bliss for a split second before the shoe would cruelly push it back into the ground, breaking its spirit at an exponential rate and in a cyclic nature with each ruthless stomp it took.

And so the gum continued to be lifted and crushed until it had but barely anything left within itself, staying stuck somehow even when it longed to be scraped off.

51

It could even hear the shoe’s owner complain incessantly about its presence, his venomous voice expressing a burning hatred for how the gum had clung to him, how its unconditional loyalty was terrifying to him, disgusting even... and yet he refused to remove it from the ridges of the rubber soles upon which he’d pressed the gum ever so firmly, leaving it feeling perpetually wanted yet unwanted and continuously drowning in his disrespect.

And so, this is the tragically overlooked, never-ending story of a terribly unlucky piece of chewing gum.

It hates what its life has come to, more than anything, but it is simultaneously incapable of picturing a world where there is no shoe to fill its days with the highs and lows off of which it thrives.

I feel tremendous sorrow for this piece of chewing gum, as I understand its horrific reality all too well, and in fact...

I share it.

I myself have a shoe, And this shoe, my shoe, has made me into that powerless, miserable piece of chewing gum whose plight I’ve just described, So now I live my life, devoid of my spark, the hope that once coursed through my veins nowhere to be seen, and eternally trapped in the vicious cycle of pain by the addictive toxicity that binds the shoe to me and me to the shoe more tightly than a tube of super glue.

And so, as for my shoe, I don’t think I’ll ever find it in my heart to forgive you for turning me into your piece of chewing gum, because I could have been, and was so much more before you defined me the equivalent of something so pathetic.

But, even so, keep crushing my heart, keep flattening my soul, And keep treating me as though I am an object that can only provide you with temporary pleasure...

You might as well, because...after all, In your eyes, I have not the light, heat, or completeness about which Peter Gabriel beautifully sings in my parent’s wedding song, In your eyes, and perhaps now even in my own, I’m just a piece of gum...aren’t I?

52

As a child, I had a doll with an on-off switch.

When I switched it on, she would cry– a harsh, infinite loop of sound– and I, the dutiful mother, would jump to her aid. We lived together, in a hand-me-down playhouse.

Magic Bottles

Within those fabric walls, I could make dinner on a plastic stove, heat her bottles in a plastic microwave, wash her little dresses in a plastic machine.

After rocking her to sleep in a plastic crib, I could wash her dishes in a plastic sink.

Within those fabric walls, I could close the curtains, velcro-shut the door, and raise something besides myself.

Within those fabric walls, I could cook myself plates of plastic peas, slice plastic apples for a mid-day snack, and eat as many plastic cookies as I pleased, without reciting that sugar is a carcinogen carcinogens give you cancer cancer makes you die After each plastic meal, the doll would begin to cry, plastic sobs as I heat her bottle– the one in the doll’s kit from Walmart, the one with the cat-print bib, that my father said we couldn’t afford, that he scrimped and saved for, that I found under the tree on Christmas morn.

Within those plastic walls, I could feed her real disappearing orange juice and ignore the guilt that took root in my chest.

Years later, at a yard sale, my mother would sell the house, the doll, the things she deemed me too old for. Years later, I would only mother myself.

53

Nina Clayton

5

Star Chinese Restaurant Yilin Tan

No! It’s not poignant if it’s not raw and real But the food is handed down to me at the and sensual. right time, We try, fumbling through our parents’ Me at the end of the table looking over the stories in the dark to arrive at our own adults’ shoulders, brand of exoticism.

Imposter syndrome from my lack of We spit on each other’s writing: knowledge, Dirt cheap, Stuffing myself with goodness I can hardLazy attempts at authenticity, ly name and took no part in cooking.

Lacking genuine quality, With half-hearted efforts to use pinyin I want to see China with my own eyes but and Chinese characters.

Are you sprinkling them in like a garnish What I want from China is no different from the plunderers of the Old Summer to prove the quality of your craft?

Palace in 1860.

Like some 5-star imitation Chinese I take and I consume and I imbibe. restaurant?

Do they make you cringe upon rereading? I desperately yank at the treasures that Can you even read what you’re writing? appeal to me– Or did you have to Google Translate your The sparkling waters and mountains, the grand, modern cities, the delicious, unfaown language? miliar cuisine.

Are you ashamed?

I see everything China wants me to see as Who told you to be ashamed? a tourist And nothing that my motherland – is she Stop! my mother? – wants me to see as her child.

Can’t you see that I’m trying so hard to meet the requirements, to satisfy my own I am only a visitor through the looking glass, enjoying the upside down world that identity?

I think is mine.

Open the door for me, please!

I crave something to pass onto my chilNo matter that all I know of China are dren, holidays: mooncakes for 中秋节, zongzi for 端 But all of the poems my mother imparts 午节, glutinous rice balls for 元宵节, are left in the dust. dumplings and a whole fish for 春 It is counterfeit to capitalize off of my lived and half-lived experiences, and yet I 节— do it every time; Do I know when they are?

Yet I do it now.

54

Hate Mail From an Old Disgruntled Young Person It was seven in the morning so let me set the scene I had woken from a stressful night My spirit feeling mean I had bickered with the sunshine I bickered with the glass I even bickered with my man And told him we won’t last I traipsed along the sidewalk Of that old mother so dear I knew it was a bagel That would give me my daily cheer A bagel smiles back at you Even when you frown A bagel can not help it Robed in toasted brown So I hopped along that sidewalk A bagel on my mind When to my surprise, to my shock The pit, I could not dine I was frankly affronted My spirit filled with grief I always ate at 8 o-clock I withered like a leaf

55

Blythe Kingston Green

I had to look the whole thing up Could the hours really change I really may beat someone up It all was very strange So here I sit bagel in hand Feeling kind of pissed This bagel is not my usual brand It simply just exists I hate its bacon I hate its cheese I hate its toasted top I hate its bun I hate its run But eating it I will not stop So here I sit eating this bagel My spirit kind of glum I write this poem That el show ‘em Their hours are just dumb

Editorial Staff

Alli Ysaguirre

Sophia Cuttita

Sophia Cuttita 56

Wednesday, October 1st, 11:05 AM ~ The Pit

Pit Observations Emily Meinert

Harvest Table staff prepare to take photographs of their Black tabletop covered with three different kinds of specialty pizza: Goat cheese, figs, balsamic dressing, arugula, cauliflower crust And the cheese melts right onto the serving plate when the first slice is pulled.

Every booth is occupied: Many have only one student, or one on each side, Most with laptops out or headphones on.

A boy has cleaned his plate, save for a very large piece of broccoli.

A girl is bent over her phone, orange rice still on the plate in front of her.

The Stress Less Pantry door remains shut and locked.

A boy eats a chocolate chip cookie while walking to his seat; He sets his phone faceup on the table before putting his bag down.

A Pit staff member fumbles in her pockets for her key to open the Stress Less Pantry door, Walks away in dismay as if she has lost it, finds the key, opens the door, Disappears inside.

The boy who was eating the cookie has nothing on the table in front of him but A mechanical pencil and his face-up phone.

There are open booths now And many students are leaving Or have moved onto dessert Or their tablemate has left, and they look at their phone.

57

Lunch at BryantCarolynPark Malman

I’m sitting in Bryant park in front of the New York public library I’ve been coming here almost every single day for lunch.

I sit here in the northwest corner looking over at the lions They frame the entrance to the library as the iconic symbols of knowledge and strength marking New York as a center of culture.

My great aunt used to paint those lions I grew up with them in a painting in our downstairs bathroom My mom took us on a journey here when I was young to see them...

Saying, “can you guess why we’re here?”

My mom was so excited to show us.

I didn’t appreciate it at the time but my great aunt was at the cusp of everything in New York She was an artist, a socialite in the 1930s, capturing the essence of New York in every cover she drew for the iconic New Yorker magazine.

It’s been a dream of mine to have one hung up in my apartment one day. I never knew her.

My dad barely did too. But it’s those strange almost random connections that make us think about our place in all this. Those small things stick into the fabric of our being.

New York has always been a part of me. I grew up with stories of my grandma’s fourth story walk up in Gramercy or my mom’s office on 54th and Madison in the 80s. My best friend’s parents showed us around Greenwich Village where they shared their first apartment together.

I moved into a tiny apartment in the East Village this summer for my internship. I could not have imagined the magic I would feel in this part of the city. Long histories of poetic performances and artist gatherings in St. Mark’s church. The energy pulsated with the emotion of Patti Smith’s poetics and Lenny Kaye on guitar. It felt like I was held up by artists before me so that I could be a part of their legacy.

It really is like love. I’ve imagined what my life with this city would be like before I even knew it. A young girl imagining a relationship that would reshape her whole world. We shared a starcrossed summer together. Ran down streets in the West village in the rain, laughed over shared dinners, and dreamed about our future while looking out over the skyline.

You can see why I started crying when my mom told me that my great aunt studied at the school a block from my apartment. My first New York City apartment. I stared at her in shock. Here? On 3rd avenue and 9th street? She walked these streets on the way to class?

She dreamed? She thought deeply about the world and how to show her perception in a way that made sense to so many people? It was all by some crazy set of happenstances that I’m here at this exact moment.

58

Lady Grey

Blair Newsome

59

Midnight Mission

In the dead of night, we crept Only the trees swaying in the wind, The creaks of the floorboards, Faint chirps of crickets outside.

Jordan Resnick

We couldn’t see one foot ahead But we moved Through the thick darkness Slowly, certainly After only one thing.

In a minute, our eyes would adjust Then we’d be able to see it A crucial mission A singular goal.

But we were experts We had crossed this same path Countless times before.

I slinked around each corner Edging ahead Look left, then right Quietly, I open the drawer Spoons.

She’s next to me now, the cupboard swings open Peanut butter.

Ears straining, I startle A stir downstairs, we’re running out of time We need a miracle, we need a twist Expertly, Grandma turns the lid We did it.

Silent laughter shared in the dark We dig in.

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Ars Poetica Out of Desperation What if the best is already behind me?

Camden Clem

I am terrified that Percy Shelley was right.

That poetry is something you can lose.

At night I turn the feeling over in my mind like a thumb-worn penny and imagine a blockage behind my teeth, rising in my throat and swelling my tongue with a silence that begs to question why I ever thought I’d have this forever?

One time, on the third of five passes down the road of our dead end town, my best friend admitted that he wished he could go back to before he knew how to write a good song. Before We had to be good. When unpolished desperation fell out of our mouths onto the page and the coals sitting in our stomachs burned us up inside instead of sitting ulcerous and useless.

Things are supposed to get harder before they get easier right?

Then why am i longing for fourteen again? Why do I dream a blank page and wake up wishing I knew latin.

Wishing I knew how to fish. Wishing I knew how to get myself out of this.

Knowing the only way out is through writing. Praying my eyes run dry before my pen runs out of ink.

Aftertaste Clara Davis

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