Copyrights remain with the artists and authors The responsibility for the content in this publication remains with the artists and authors The content does not reflect the opinions of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council (AHSC) or the University Students‘ Council (USC)
Symposium and Semicolon are the official publications of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council at Western University, published bi-annually. To view previous editions or for more information about our publications, please contact us at the AHSC Council Office in room 2135 at University College. Publications can also be viewed virtually at issuu.com/ahscpubs.
Semicolon is the academic journal for the AHSC. It accepts outstanding A-level submissions written in any Arts and Humanities undergraduate course
Vice President Publications: Chahat Ghuman
Associate Vice President Publications : Kaylee Jade Dunn
Creative Managing Editor: Tanya Matviyi
Layout Editor: Zoe Port
Cover Designer: Emma Hardy
Copy Editors: Alyssa Abou Naoum, Nicole Hennigar, Asher Gris
Academic Managing Editor: Karen Wen
Alumni Relations Commissioner: Jenna Greenspoon
Dearest Reader,
The past few months of this semester have been marked by a flurry of activity at Pubs. From team meetings to editing submissions, reviewing covers and layouts, and coordinating stickers, it has been a whirlwind of effort at AHSC Publications
Our team has worked diligently to bring you this semester's editions of Semicolon and Symposium. We are thrilled to finally present these copies for your enjoyment!
The talented students of the Arts & Humanities faculty dedicate considerable time and effort to crafting a wide range of creative and academic works throughout the year. At AHSC Pubs, our mission is to provide these students with the opportunity to share their exceptional work with a wider audience
The copies you hold in your hands represent the second editions of our twelfth issue-twelve issues filled with poetry, essays, artwork, and much more. These pages not only showcase the work of Arts & Humanities students but also reflect the contributions of the faculty. We could not be more proud of everything we have accomplished as a team.
The compilation of works before you is a testament to the dedication of this year's team. I would like to extend my sincere thanks to my exceptional team for their tireless efforts in bringing these publications to life. A special thank you to Karen and Tanya, our managing editors; to our copy editors, Alyssa Abou Naoum, Nicole Hennigar, and Asher Gris; to our talented cover and layout designers, Emma Hardy and Zoe Port; to Jenna, our Alumni Relations Commissioner; and, of course, to Jade, our associate vice president, whose support has been invaluable
Lots of love,
The Walk Home to Styx by Emily Kings and Soot by Yuan (Fiona) Gao.
Self Portrait as a Mantis by Emily Kings and Such Were the Hours After by Afrah Fatima.
Dear Diary by Afrah Fatima, Stone That Remembers by Kiersten Eileen Fay and Aurora Borealis Spring by Claire Huizenga.
Self-Portrait by Stephanie Davey, A Modern Phantom by Iris Zhao and Our Ruby Slippers by Alyssa Naoum.
Ontario Summer by Claire Huizenga and A Place to Know by Reeghan Denommee.
An Ode to Benzene by Afrah Fatima and Plea (October 20) by Emily Taborek.
Dearest Thinker by Shay.
Creators Hands by Amelia and A Star’s Last Light by Kiersten Eileen Fay.
Her Temple by Madyson Cooper and The Pink Mountains of Lake Louise by Nicolle Schumacher.
Porridge by Kaisa Frolander and Radiance by Alexis Grace Agas.
Resonance by Jay Gardner.
The Star a Thousand Footsteps Away by Gurleen Rangi.
Phenomena by Jose Gonzalez.
America by Isabelle Fox and The Final Dish: Live from the Grand Arena by Kiersten Eileen Fay.
THE WALK HOME TO STYX BY EMILY KINGS (SHE/HER)
Up the mountain hill I walk beside you Blessed on the forehead by white kisses. Standing still in the monotonous hue
In Quebec the Shenzhen Wanderer muses. The textbooks we learned are not telling truths. They say snowflakes are similar to catkins. Nonetheless, my dear companion, I view Them as a giant handful of salt that spins! As a Xi’an native used to snow I lack the fancy to answer. But how her curiosity glows, Warms me up and makes me ponder.
Now, with serious study, I proudly claim They are scales of wings, soot from white flames.
Written by Yuan (Fiona) Gao, she/her
DAZZLING, LOUD THE CATHEDRAL BELL RINGS, TAINTED THROUGH THE GLASS THE LIGHT SHINES, THE SACRED ALTAR LIES ABANDONED, THE MORNING YET LIES UNTOUCHED BY THE HORRORS OF THE BYGONE NIGHT. LONG HAD THE WARS WAGED ON, SORROWFUL WERE THE YEARS, BUT THIS HOUSE OF BLISS STANDS. PROUDLY MARKING ITS GROUND, I WEEP BENEATH THE RISING SUN, FOR HOW CURSED AM I TO BE THE SOLE SOUL INHABITING THIS HALL. THOUGH I LIVE THE STILL DARKNESS REIGNS, THE LIVES OF ANY IN ITS REINS. WHAT JOY IS IT TO LIVE IN A WORLD WHERE WONDER IS LOST TO TIME? WHERE DEVILS SIT IN THRONES? WHERE KINGDOMS HAVE FALLEN AND EMPIRES HAVE VANISHED? WHAT LIFE COULD ONE LIVE IN A WORLD THAT SHUTS AND SHUNS THE BEAUTY OUT OF LIVING? THE CATHEDRAL BELLS WILL YET SOON RING, FOR THE RISING SUN NOW BEHOLDS THE WORLD AND THE DARK DAYS WILL COME TO AN END. BUT I’LL WEEP, FOR MY TEARS WATER THE GRAVES OF THE ANGELS THAT FELL. BLOSSOMS WILL RISE FROM THEM, COLOURING THE OUTSIDE GRAY, AND MY TEARS WILL WASH AWAY THE SINS OF THOSE GONE ASTRAY.
Written by Afrah Fatima (she/her)
Dear Diary,
My dearest, dearest Diary, How are you today?
Better than I, I pray.
The world is dark shrouded in gray. The monster that stares does not seem scary, but the people are. In metal tins they carry a world to dissect and bury in waiting rooms, between lulls.
Dear Diary, I hope you are safe. The monster that once scared, now looks with eyes sacred. It doesn’t tear me apart, nor hamper my departure. The monster, dear Diary, is safer than hospital rooms filled with sounds of desperation and desire. The monster, dear Diary, loves me back dearly.
It must . For it visits me, not a visitation is missed. It appears only and only for my eyes to see! The monster doesn’t live in the well in the deep like I used to think.
A pleasant home it has, between glass and silver!
Oh, dear Diary! How fortunate it is a home where none can aimlessly tread, and call upon for dread!
Oh, dear Diary, I wish you could meet the monster that I see! It is a shame you are but paper and ink.
Written by Afrah Fatima (she/her)
You crouch low, fingers tracing the ribs of the earth, the cold breath of stone exhaling against your skin.
Purple hearts pulse beneath the dust, veins of amethyst winding like old secrets, waiting for hands that know how to listen.
They say it takes a million years for light to settle in stone, for quartz to dream itself royal. Yet here you are, prying history loose with a rusted pick, mining the slow patience of mountains.
Hold it to the sun watch how it sings, how its edges bloom in violet fire.
How strange, to unearth something older than memory and call it yours.
Written by Kiersten Eileen Fay
I want a wheat-coloured morning With my cloudy eyes. Glass balls bounce off, Shadows splash my toes.
I’m a true modern phantom: Restless, fearful, almost unveiled, Young enough to carry my own graveyard.
My grandma, whom I never met, is sitting in the shade near the seaside. My violin case, The old calluses on my childhood fingers, My never frightened heart, How happy it was.
A perfectly round happiness. Effortless bliss.
Now if I want that happiness again, My poem must fall scalding onto this paper. But God,
I’m too far away from human. Can I return to that misty morning again?
Written by Iris Zhao (she/her)
The shine of the slippers are like my old light-up sneakers
a ruby red glow as Dorothy ignites her way home glass encages the artifacts while hands feel the prison walls treasure is sacred but once half forgotten flung onto kitchen floors absent in their presence
words that were once my birthright are scribbles to me now
the hand feels familiar as I greet a stranger
the slippers shine the girl longs for home the book will be looked at but never read we are the same me and this baby in his bed
Alyssa Naoum (she/her)
A place to see and a place to know
Taken away so long ago
Our hearts are broken, our minds are muddled
Children lost and our tongue is muffled
We Walk and walk into the night
And try to escape our white-washed life
The darkness lifts and we are seen
Wishing lives were just a bad dream
A place to see and a place to know
Taken away so long ago
Our hearts are broken, our minds are muddled
Children lost and our tongue is muffled
The tap runs brown, and water is boiled
Our medicines grow in land that is soiled
Alcohols clean and drinks are flowing
An escape from trauma and religious knowing
A place to see and a place to know
Taken away so long ago
Our hearts are broke, our minds are muddled
Children lost and our tongue is muffled
Trying to connect but all seems lost
We were “educated” but at what cost
An identity waiting to be discovered
If only all our traditions were recovered
Our land to see and our land to know
Stolen away so long ago
Our culture destroyed; our knowledge erased
Children murdered and our tongue replaced
Written by Reeghan Denommee
Oh! Benzene thou art glorious! With pi orbitals that surround Cyclic with reactivity lost.
Oh, Benzene thou double with noble virtuous bonds. Thy virtue is greater than those hasty alkenes! whose stability is in question always!
This aromaticity of thine paired electrons odd raises thy ranks beyond those with localized electrons. Thou dost not heed to chemicals that come across our destined orbits.
Thy fidelity entrances me!
Oh! Benzene! Benzene! Pair thy orbitals with me, make me a romantic too!
Written by Afrah Fatima (she/her)
For what purpose was I made?
For what reason, hallowed Father, did you breathe life into dust?
Wherefore did you donate my brother’s rib and fashion him a sister?
I who heckled and annoyed him all throughout our childhood, Only to cling to him in adulthood as the closeness of our youth slips away?
Male and female, you created us inside my mother’s womb,
An unexpected twosome to round out a flourishing family of eight:
Three sainted boys and three spirited girls, One pious misfit who can’t follow her family in their noble abandonment of your holy name
Oh three-personed God, you’ve battered my heart,
Every night torn apart by far-sighted speculations, Terrified of which path might not lead to salvation
Never releasing thoughts of whether or not said paradise might actually exist, And never dismissing the ever-present urge
To go down every path to damnation and Hell,
To embrace everything from the dragon to Bel, To know your commands just to flout them well,
So I can prostrate myself in misery, in the depths of my shame, The gluttony of guilt dripping like honey from my eyes
The best feeling: undeserved shame, pious agony, A venerable alternative for those too cowardly to take a razor to soft flesh
Instead we partake in the flesh of another
As a reward for rending skin from bone
Inside the confessional,
Raking hot embers through the tender folds of my brain, Finding pride in confidence, lust in chaste desire,
Sloth in relaxation, wrath in passing ire,
Gluttony in satiation, envy in every lingering eye
And greed in my very existence in this consumerist life
And so here I stay, I sit and I weigh Whether to betrothe myself to the world and its abhorrent ecstasies, Or to be wed to the carnal, gluttonous pleasure of not deserving your love
As if Icarus had flown to heights simply to relish the fall.
WrittenbyEmilyTaborek
Dearest Thinker,
You are not real
Yes, the above statement is quite alarming; it is an uncomfortable feeling to think that you (yes, you) are not inherently real.
I do not mean to say that this is all a simulation and one day we will wake up and “escape the matrix.” I’ve also never cared for the idea of a master puppeteer in the sky controlling each and every life form below it (though that belief system seems to be the popular one) I think life itself is a very real thing, but you we are not.
You and I exist only because we want to believe that we do. To communicate, or perhaps in order to uphold sanity, we must create ourselves. To be clearer, “the self” that we identify as, the “you” or the “I” in question, are merely concepts that everyone has unanimously decided to grant objective legitimacy to
Our roots lie within humanism and humanistic thought. We other ourselves from the rest of the animal world, because (as far as we know) we are the only ones who possess the power to conceptualize what it means to be me well, not me specifically but you get the point. Though we have no objective reason, we tend to think highly of ourselves simply because we have a sense of cognitive awareness We have “purpose” so of course we are superior
Yet, somewhere along the lines, though all humans share the same genetic structure, it wasn’t enough to have “self”appointed power over other life forms. Some of us still needed more. To them, there was “I” and then there was “you”; with a lowercase “y,” because you didn’t possess any civility. To be melanated, to be disabled, or to love another human who shares the same sex as you, was to be less than. Not because of any viable reason, but because the great “I” said so
The very concept that breathed life into what it means to survive as our kind, is the one that seeks to destroy us simultaneously. Most of us are not even conscious of it. The rest don’t want to be. It’s hard, given the limit that is our language, to fathom the possibility of life without identity.
Life without you, me, or us, seems scary because it is all we’ve ever known; from the moment we looked in the mirror and convinced ourselves it reflected us Yet, not once did anyone ever think that maybe we do not look at the mirror, but rather through it.
If we really are as smart as we claim to be, then the need for the “I” would be nonexistent. We cannot escape it, we can only accept that we are confined by identity; we are confined by our desire to not only be, but to be something someone.
So I (he said ironically) reiterate you are not real You are not a “parent,” nor are you a “sibling.” You are not a “friend,” a “partner,” or an “enemy.” As a species, we are ever changing. It makes no sense to apply labels, they keep us constrained. They render us immobile. Funny enough, we pride ourselves on our rationality, yet the concept of the “I” stands to be one of our most irrational inventions.
Now I wrote this not to be a pompous asshole with a superiority complex, but because I like to stir the pot. As you can see, I am no better. For I too, cannot escape the need to selfidentify. Though I reject our binary way of thinking, the very fact that I use pronouns in the first place reinforces the cage of our delusional lifestyle. Awareness means nothing when we are trapped by our own limitations.
This very subject keeps me up at night, until I inevitably ignore it because my biology requires me to rest Not a single one of our kind can live in a state of uncertainty for too long, myself included.
Anyway, I should probably go and contribute to society now, because that is what we do. For reasons only important to the agreed upon lies we tell ourselves. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.
Sincerely,
(Just kidding)
Written by Shay (he/they)
You do not see it die. Its light, obedient, travels the lon crossing centuries to rest in your u Tonight, you watch the sky split int dipping your hand into a past that d
Somewhere, it burned itself empty, folded into silence, a mouth of dust But here, it still gleams, undressing the dark with its slow co
Tell me, how many ghosts have you mi How many times have you whispered to believing its warmth belonged to you
Written by Kiersten Eileen Fay
Written by Madyson Cooper
She puts one leg on either side of my hips
Her weight holding me down as
Blood drips
From her mouth to mine
Falling onto my bared teeth
Metallic and warm
Her life seeping into me
Flooding through my mouth
And down my throat
As she carves up my insides
Blood spurts up my throat
Her blood mixing with mine
Soaking deeper and deeper and deeper into my flesh
My body as her temple
Where she can take refuge
In bone and sinew and muscle
Even as she scoops out
Me to
Make room for her
She crawls into the hollowness
Her head perfectly underneath my sternum
Just below my throat
Her shoulders stretching from rib to rib
As she curls into me
Like I was crafted
For every curve
Of her body
The Pink Mountains of Lake Louise.
That summer in Lake Louise Working night shifts in a hostel, Looking up to shady figures through dead eyes, Night was tripled by the shade of the forest and The stars were not brave enough to sneak through the clouds.
I told secrets out loud to myself to hear a voice, Knowing the worms have no mouths to speak The things I told to any other soul. I ran in the shadows around the street, Away from glossy eyes and needy questions.
I drew myself in darkness; The daylight was a one-way track, Another day closer to inevitable life.
I wanted to be young and wild a few months more, Begging for a few more minutes,
A promise to wake again.
Tentatively, the rosy fingers of Dawn Touched the rugged wilderness at its most unreachable. Dawn after dawn, I would sit on the balcony and watch Or walk the path witnessing the new world That showed itself to me alone.
The pink mountains of Lake Louise rose with the sun, Night after senseless night.
High enough to humble; Soft enough to be a gift.
WrittenbyNicolleSchumacher(she/her)
Written by Kaisa Frolander (she/her)
My teeth were soft. Everything hurt, everything hurts. There was only porridge those wet clumps of earthy cement that allowed for those teeth to stay in place. In innocence, in curiosity, the world is, for now, a gentle place where imagination is free to drive the conscience, and the worst possible outcome to any adventure is a scrape on the knee. You did not know me then, but I knew you. I knew you well: every sandcastle, every mud pie, with every tumble, every mud track on my mother’s floor. I knew you well, but you did not know me
My teeth had grown. Replaced, a brand new slate, where articulation and maturity could permeate my words with purpose. There was porridge beside my books, the coffee cup neglected on the kitchen table. Now, was it half full or half empty? You had met me once, maybe twice. I remembered you with distaste, from that splatter on my car gosh, it will soon need another wash.
My teeth are gone. Everything hurts, everything hurts. There is the porridge eating up the spoon staring me down as if it knows it is the most violent of things I will face on this day. That mellowed heart of mine is getting colder, that face of mine, everyday is growing gooier. Daily, I hear your voice, scratchy if a little soft you seem to enjoy calling my name like a mother calls her child home from play
Her’s is a radiance even the sun fails to emulate. She seeps through your skin similar to her celestial sisters. But where their orbits diverge, her brilliance burrows into your bones. It burdens your blood, singes your soul. She lights a fire in her glass house. Not the kind that reduces to an abstinent ash, but a fire that makes a house a hearth and a heart a home. A heat that nourishes nothing but the body. A flame that signifies a silly celebration. The flicker that satisfies insatiable addiction. But in her blinding show of burning brilliance, she is incineration. A star does not live like us. They live for us, forever away. So while she is a fire that creates no embers, it is only a matter of time before she is dust that nobody remembers.
Written by Alexis Grace Agas
Written by JAY GARDNER (SHE/THEY)
An AHSC Studios Production
I woke up to a ringing in my bones. It refuses to dissipate, invading my marrow, reverberating in an electric hum from head to toe. A quick twist of my neck silences the vibrations through my rigid limbs, allowing me to fall to my feet. My arms and legs feel phantom pins, injecting fear into my blood, thick terror thrumming through my veins like syrup with every pulse of my still beating heart. I don’t remember falling asleep. I tried so hard to stay awake, but it didn’t work. They wouldn't let me stay awake, no matter how hard I fought. Pulling all-nighters isn’t easy anymore, especially under such a suspicious surveyance, but sleeping is no longer an option. I wish I had enjoyed sleeping when I still could.
“Wakefulness is awful yet assured.”
The memory whisps through my head as I stare into myself. My eyes aren’t red enough, I slept too long. I’m at my best when I’m overtaken by exhaustion.
No.
No.
No.
This won’t do.
Exhaustion is the only way I can see. They remain hidden from energized eyes. They stay quiet and quick, enough to blend into the noise. This is the only way I can see them, and if I see them, I can hide.
The rectangle in the sky looms brighter today, it’s pulsing and rapidly unblinking, its light flickering in and out of existence. On. Off. Back. Gone.
The flares leave imprints scorched onto my eyelids, the impression visible no matter how often I blink, trying to will away the reminder that it is there. It watches without eyes, a mechanical heartbeat thrumming through the sky, shielded by the ribcage of towering trees offering a semblance of cover from its wordless judgements.
It is watching, refusing to let me forget that I am never free of another's gaze. Seeing them is only the first step. I can try to avoid them, but it is impossible to fully escape. There is always one judging. Not all judge the same way. Some are kind, some are cruel to be kind, and others are simply cruel. There is no way to tell if they will be cruel or kind until they set their sights on me; intent to inspect what they see as anomalies, when the only anomalies are them
Swathed in white cloths, fabric snapping like warning shots before the firing squad, they drift in and out, signalling an impending inquisition. They do not hover long, they don’t need to in order to watch, remaining a pale blur as they bustle about. I cannot tell if they are ghosts or gods, here to haunt or hunt. Hunting is arousing, a game of wits. It is often better than the haunt, for the hunt makes its intentions clear, and it is never kind. The haunt is also a game, but it has no rules. It is up to them to set the standard, to decide whether it will be a kindness or cruelty that invades my day. The only way to hold onto the kindness is to always watch them.
To watch them watching me, waiting for me to falter.
Their judgements are made on fleeting whims, so I must watch them to know what they want. If it hides me, if it keeps me safe, I will become whoever they want me to be. They will make me deform to their desires, choking on their bottled beliefs, their malevolent misinterpretations of what is real. So, I play along. I will be who they want me to be. I will pretend to believe the meddlesome myths that are preached to the powerless, able to see but unable to react.
Compliance may be a cage, but it is also currency.
My name, whatever it once was, is no longer my own. Names no longer hold meaning, for their meanings were stolen the day we came under scrutiny. The day the ringing started. The day I felt a gaze so calculating it flayed through my outer layers, exposing me.
I was one of the lucky ones. The day after the rectangle rose as a warning, many disappeared. If I close my eyes, I can still see the imprints from the flares it released the day it arrived, taunting me as they took the others. The others are no longer here in body, only in voice. I heard voices calling a name for a long time, pleading for the name to join them, to come back.
The voices don’t call me anymore. The name is no longer mine.
Maybe it never was.
One day I must have slipped, maybe the day that I was released from my confines momentarily; long enough to find solace in soft down blankets temporarily shielding me from my surroundings and convincing me to drift into the land of dreams. I must have revealed in my well rested haze that the voices no longer register in my mind as words, only sounds. Perhaps I once knew them, before the syllables broke and twisted into a buzzing, fractured sound. Once my inability to understand them was evident, they switched to shuddering the walls, shaking the sky, trying to grasp my attention. It is an attempt to distract me from my post as a guard to my sanity, a guard to the truth that they wish to sterilize from my mind. The uncontaminated air threatens to overtake my senses every time they sense a hint of delay, believing hesitation to be my acquiescence.
Even if the name was still audible, I don’t know how a name could come back from here. The others are the ones that were ripped away, a metamorphosis of delightful horror. The others are not gone, they have simply become them.
A name is still called, piercing through the artificial static filling the air. I don’t recognize the name that is called. Maybe I should, but I don’t. The only thing I recognize now is the burning of my body and the ringing of my bones as they come closer, begging for me to join, to come back.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t. I rub my wrists, scarlet rings biting a vice around my sallow skin, never releasing their pressure for a moment of reprieve for the interrupted blood flow in the fearfilled veins. No matter how bright the rectangle shines, the only thing darker is my demeanor, never my skin, because while it may mimic the sun, it can never offer a perfect replication of its soothing warmth or tingling burn. Try as it might, this light is cold, forever threatening with its harsh illumination.
The exhaustion and I consume each other, the scarlet hue of my eyes and wrists persisting as long as I do. The ringing and burning cradle my bones in comfort, because it means that I can see what the others cannot. I am an echo of myself, bones and spirit humming with a visceral emptiness. My skin sags under the weight of invisible hands, poking and prodding, assuring that the phantom pinpricks never leave. I’m dragged further away from wakefulness, yet I can see the truth.
But the truth can see me, too. Unlike me, the truth never sleeps.
Written by Gurleen Rangi (she/her)
In my homeland, the sun hangs humbly in the sky.
Dense fog at dusk and dawn cloud the sun’s vibrance, dimming her light, And the sun appears to me as a small red orb,
As though solidifying her place in the sky is a daily struggle—
A labour of love offered to the residents under her care. She lights up the sugarcane fields regardless, Reflecting off the five rivers that wind and snake through her land, Breathing life into every creature and plant that wakes up to her mornings.
The sun of my homeland is not necessarily pretty, and in that sense she resembles her people: Callused feet, missing teeth, kind wrinkles, Nothing glorious, oftentimes tired and weary. But, like their sun, they are resistant.
Western sunsets have always captivated me. Glorious streaks of colour and hues, They demand observation and accept nothing less than my whole attention. I have seen cotton candy skies on my way home from school, The familiar colour flushed my skin pink and dyed the concrete roads orange. These sunsets brag of the vibrant tones of the life granted to me, The goodness of existence and nostalgic waves of my childhood, But it is hard to stare at the Western sun for long;
I can only look and glance away quickly before the brilliance leaves a throbbing strain in the back of my eyes, and a lasting red burn when I close my eyelids.
The ancient sun in my homeland seems to know me well, as if we have a history. I can stare as long as I please, and she, ever consistent through millenia, does not falter or waver. It feels as though she stares back at me.
I can feel her age, her experience, and maybe her weariness too.
She, with a grating, scratchy voice, tells me of all that she has witnessed,
Aware that I will not listen for long, she hinges on to every minute.
She tells me of all who have been born and died on her soil, The bloodshed and injustice that weigh heavy on her soul.
She scorns me like a mother, asks me why I have been away for so long. I know she wants to say she misses me,
But that sort of straight-forwardedness is not common in the words of her people.
Instead, she tells me she can tell I haven’t been eating enough, That I look thinner, and weaker, and various other insults that veil her loving intent.
Because words are too heavy in her language, they are not thrown around carelessly. Weighed down by their sincerity, they always stop at the throat and never make it further. I know this because I, too, have never been able to say I love you in her language.
Her light peeks over my shoulder
And asks me why this poem was written in a language she cannot read.
I bargain with her, but she is unmoving and will not forgive me for abandoning her. I cry to her that I have tried to learn her lines and swirls and dots, But the distance has made it difficult, the language that my ancestors wrote their laws and love letters in does not come naturally to me anymore.
If she is not the same sun a few thousand footsteps away, then how can she expect me to be
The same daughter?
Then again, our discourse is utterly fruitless, for I talk to her In a tongue she does not understand.
We reach compromise—
She tells me in a harsh but loving manner,
(In her language they are often one and the same)
That if I could not succeed in living two lives, I should at least try to die two deaths.
My flesh can feed the soil under the Western sun,
While my ashes fly free in her air.
She was not the sun I was born under, but she claims she knew me first.
She knew me when the mustard fields first sprouted yellow flowers, When the mango trees first offered their sweet fruits,
When the rivers carved out their place in her land,
And so, she wants fair custody.
She asks for one more condition
As she retires below the horizon,
That I must have two
Last words before I die:
One in the sentimental, emboldening language that I write poetry with and
One in her tongue, which harbours, in the space between ੳ and ਅ, the deepest part of my soul.
She offers to hold my hand as I stumble and stutter, falter and err, in the language of my people.
Time, Love, and Life I invite you three to sit at my bedside and listen, if you will, To the silent wind that makes stars dance desolate and cold, it is chilled by the Sun. A phenomenon without sense that I have named and at night speaks the stars’ will. So place your hand on my heart, beautiful Love, and translate each heartbeat she provokes.
Take a dip within my soul, dear Life, here reigns Truth beyond the aching pains of Sorrow’s endless strifes, And if you ever found the Present honest, Time, I plead from you that you may spread a single one of your golden grains over my skin, And I swear to you, on my blood and sweat, that my bones will pay your fine.
The stars shine radiantly to display my vision, so before the Moon arrives to steal their light, Let me tell you of Beauty and her daughter, Who has robbed me from Death’s embrace, Phenomena.
She makes each breath to last I no longer have to wait suffocated, strangled at the hands of a mangled past For redemption, for forgiveness I am given life by words I had spoken and thought dead, crushed beneath the growing weight
Of blind prayers and mute regrets she’s a phenomenon, make no mistake.
It’s the heat that expands all throughout my skin, melted sunlight dripping from my fingertips that slips away from my embrace, and yet A single hand’s grip is enough to calm my breath, to pace my heart and choke my bones in faith That the gods’ strength could not shake this shrine built in the name of a muse such as herself. But I admit, that I come to hug my spirit in disbelief when she finds rest in my arms’ embrace Because it is in her sleep that I get to dream.
She’s a phenomenon, dear guests, and I know she has come at Love’s behest. Sorrow, Joy, Happiness, and Sadness have bowed before her only one remains unchecked by her ruthless test. Oh but you could not deceive me, sweet Death, I know it has been at your request that Love has sent this angel Riding on the Sun’s tears to warn me of her dangers. Life always acted strangely, but she was never a stranger, no instead, she became the very unnamable nature That I could never describe, despite every word I could ever write.
And it is this that scares me so: that Fear itself has gripped my hand with motivating manner ready to go And join you in Beauty’s everlasting grace, That I am ready to stop running from Truth’s light, chasing a running track of ink, Leading from Dawn to Dusk into eternal night. Perhaps that I am ready to die in you and give flight to this beautiful soul of ours that fell from the skies. A black bird with broken wings and sunken eyes that gets up in every life, and even Heaven she defies.
WrittenbyJoseGonzalez(he/him)
AmericabyIsabelleFox(she/her)
The Final Dish: Live from the Grand Arena
Lena: “Welcome back, food lovers, to another thrilling episode of ‘The Final Dish’! I’m Lena, here with my co-host Max, and we are live from the 12th Annual MasterChef Deluxe competition. Max, the energy in this room is absolutely electric.”
Max: “Oh, no doubt, Lena. The ovens are roaring, the bone broth is thickening, and the aroma of fresh seared flesh is hanging in the air like a warm embrace. If you’re listening at home, trust me—you wish you were here.”
Lena: “Absolutely. And let’s talk about the stars of the night: our contestants and, of course, their ingredients. First up, we have Chef Anton, who is working with a beautiful, well-marbled Elijah Patterson.”
Max: “Fantastic choice. Elijah came in at a prime 27 years old, lean but with just the right amount of fat distribution. You can already see how Anton is rendering it down, coaxing out that natural richness. He’s starting with a dry sear, locking in the juices before finishing it low and slow.”
Lena: “Exactly, Max. And I have to say, I love how he’s respecting Elijah’s natural flavor. No heavy marinades—just a simple garlic and rosemary rub to let the quality shine through.”
Max: “That’s what separates a good chef from a great one, Lena. Knowing when to step back and let the ingredient speak for itself.”
Lena: “Speaking of bold choices, Chef Mariana is tackling something truly daring tonight—she’s working with Allison Moore, a retired ballet dancer.”
Max: “Oh, now that is exciting. Dancers tend to be incredibly lean, which can be tricky—too much heat and you risk toughness, too little and you won’t break down the muscle fibers properly. But Mariana is going the sous vide route, keeping it at a controlled temperature before finishing it with a beautiful honey-lavender glaze.”
Lena: “Brilliant. And you know that’s going to pair beautifully with the roasted femur bone broth she’s got going on the side. The judges are already murmuring about the scent.”
Max: “And they should be. But let’s not forget about Chef Luis, who is working with a truly classic cut tonight: Thomas Baker, age 52.”
Lena: “Aged like a fine wine. That’s the thing about working with someone past their forties—you’re getting layers of complexity in the meat. Luis is embracing that depth with a slow-braise, incorporating the natural collagen for that fall-apart tenderness.”
Max: “He’s also doing something really special: using Thomas’s own marrow to enrich the sauce. That’s just next-level respect for the ingredient.”
Lena: “That’s what I love about this competition, Max. It’s not just about cooking—it’s about storytelling. About honoring the ingredient and bringing out its full potential.”
Max: “And speaking of honoring the ingredient, Chef Marina is taking a more rustic approach with her selection: Samuel Lee, a 19-year-old college student.”
Lena: “Very fresh, very tender—Marina is leaning into that with a delicate preparation. She’s opted for a tartare, keeping the flavor raw, untouched, just enhanced with a little citrus and capers.”
Max: “A bold choice! You have to really trust your sourcing to serve something that fresh and unaltered.”
Lena: “And Marina does—she hand-selected Samuel herself, ensuring peak quality. There’s a respect in that, a kind of artistry that you just don’t see every day.”
Max: “That’s what makes this competition so exciting. Each chef isn’t just cooking—they’re elevating. Transforming. Taking these incredible ingredients and pushing them to their absolute limit.”
Lena: “Exactly. We are just minutes away from final plating, and you can feel the tension. The butchers have cleaned their stations, the reductions are thickening, and the last garnishes are being placed with surgical precision.”
Max: “The judges are sharpening their knives, the lights are dimming— it all comes down to this. Who will take home the grand prize? Who will create a dish that is truly unforgettable?”
Lena: “Stay tuned, food lovers. It’s almost time to taste the future.”
Max: “And trust us—you’re going to want a bite.”
END OF TRANSMISSION.
Written by Kiersten Eileen Fay
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