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Speaking To The Issue A Letter from Your Editors-in-Chief Dear readers far and wide, Happy Birthday AmLit! This semester, like last semester, we are celebrating 60 years of American University’s official literary undergraduate magazine! A lot of hard work, long nights, and emails sent have gone into the making of the Spring 2025 edition. This letter is intended to thank all of those involved in every step of this process. We should start with Beverly Epstein, the first Editor-in-Chief of the magazine that would become AmLit. She, and all those that came after her, paved the way for the current editors, McKenna and Abby. This edition could not have been made without the contributions of our student artists as well as our faculty author, Mary Switalski. We are always happy to showcase great work! Of course, the magazine and the organization would not exist without our talented, driven, passionate, and beautiful staff. Thanks, dudes. Special thanks to our Event Coordinator Emma DiValentino, our Social Media Coordinator Peyton Dortch, and our Copy and Design teams, who carry the second half of the magazinemaking process on their backs. Thank you to Melissa Scholes Young, Maura Fox, the Student Media Board, and all the organizations we collaborated with this semester. Here’s to many more! There is so much to say and so many people to thank for an excellent 4 years with AmLit. I (McKenna) am so incredibly grateful to have been a part of this organization for my entire college career, and meet so many wicked cool people along the way. To every former EIC 2021-2024, I learned how to do this job from all of you, and you inspired me to go after this position in the first place. To my current partner in crime, Abby–I am so proud of what we have accomplished together. You are a deeply genuine person and a great colleague and friend. I am so excited to see what you bring to AmLit in the future. Shout outs to Emma DiValentino for her continued help and generosity, CanvaPro, Hope Jorgensen, Slack, the study cubes on the first floor of the library, Google Drive, the sheep emoji, and the holy combination of chips and hummus. To those of you who have read my work these past four years, thank you. To Taylor, Morgan, Hope, Julia, Meredith, Mac, and all my other friends–-this is for you. To my family (my most dedicated readers), this is also for you. I know love exists because I am full of it, or whatever. I (Abby) first and foremost have to thank McKenna. McKenna was my Poetry Editor when I was just a baby assistant in my first semester at AmLit, and I could not have imagined we would be coEIC’s together. We have handled every speed bump and celebrated every win side-by-side. It is with great sadness that I move onto this next semester without her, but I know that I will make do with all of the knowledge that she and former EIC Emma DiValentino have so graciously shared with me (which is more than I could ever comprehend). With our graduating seniors leaving, we are entering a new generation of AmLit that I could not be more excited to lead. I owe every former EIC that has put their faith in me an incredibly large thank you. It’ll be worth it, I promise! To my future AmFam, I want to issue a preemptive thank you for everything you will teach me. I find myself as eager to impress y’all as I was in my first semester as an assistant, making sure I didn’t stumble over my words and that I always had something to say. Lastly, thank you Gina and Ryan Tredway! You are now immortalized in AmLit. I hope that is an apt repayment of the last 19 years! You’re welcome! To us, the creative arts are essential to culture. They expose us to voices and perspectives that we may have never heard, lives we may not have seen, and people we may have never known existed. Censorship, oppression, and bigotry have no place in this magazine or in the literary arts community as a whole. Through difficult times, the power of art is to express realities, dreams, hopes and fears freely. Our magazine will continue to fight for artists’ right to do so. Thank you to all those in the AmFam for their support. Without further ado, we present the Spring 2025 Edition of AmLit! Viva AmLit, McKenna Casey and Abby Tredway Editors-in-Chief Spring 2025

P.S. No generative AI was used in the making of this magazine.

Table of Contents Experts recommend grounded techniques, McKenna Casey.............6 Smoke, Jake Peterson.............................................7 A Scene from “Your Reflection in the Snow Covered Hills”, Naomi Skiles.........................................................8-9 discarded, LOWE.................................................10 on the use of prayer as an intermediary, Victoria Fletcher......11 praying mantis does tai chi at the bus stop, Alexia Partouche...12 nothing to celebrate, Emerson Katz..............................13 Golden Hour Granite #1 & #2, Miles Hazo.........................14 goldfish and kisses, Margaret Troast.............................15 Pacific Coast Highway, Naomi Skiles..............................16 Nan and Brian in bed, NYC, Emma DiValentino.....................17 House of Hurricanes, Margaret Troast............................18 cannibal, Tyler Davis...........................................19 Frozen 1, 2, & 3, Elli Anderson..............................20-21 [When I go out walking], Maggie Melnik..........................22 let me grow, Emerson Katz.......................................23 purr, Tyler Davis...............................................24 reticulation, Ella Forysth......................................25 Winter Break, Ava Stern.........................................26 Snowman and his home, Andres Jara...............................27 not a fruit, Maggie Melnik......................................28 a minute longer, Maggie Melnik..................................29 Valley, Emma DiValentino........................................30 Koons 1, Ben Ackman.............................................31 A Letter to a Grocery Store Lobster, Brianna Creegan.........32-33 A Girl Dreams of Trees, Naomi Skiles............................34 A poem for Emma, McKenna Casey..................................35 Persecute me, Jocelyn Quinan....................................36 A Month of Pain and Anger, LOWE.................................37 Spring Blossoms, Jake Peterson..................................38 in bloom, Julia Wirths..........................................39 Superior Shores 1 & 2, Ben Austin...............................40 A Sunbird Moves Amongst the Violets, Silia Dimasi...............41 There is goodness., Lani Khuu...................................42 Assateague Island, Andres Jara..................................43 Sunset over the ridge, Emma DiValentino.........................44 Belief, Stevie D. Rosenfeld.....................................45 To Move into a Pomegranate, Lily Lemme.......................46-47 The Keystone 63 at 5:37pm, Josephine Zucker.....................48 Under the Sedona Sun Series, Noelle Sommerville.................49 Seal Knowledge, McKenna Casey...................................50 California Love, Naomi Skiles...................................51

Sum, Stevie D. Rosenfeld.........................................52 maiden of knight, Monette Change.................................53 Gust of Naivety, Rose Glickstein.................................54 Turn from it, Emma DiValentino...................................55 Untitled 1 & 3, Bennett Lane.....................................56 Nesting, Maggie Melnik...........................................57 the twisted prophecy, Tyler Davis................................58 oblivious crimson, Emerson Katz..................................59 The Raven’s Gaze, Noelle Sommerville.............................60 will rogers’ ranch house, Margaret Troast........................61 silverfooted fest, Monette Chang.................................62 Smudge, Ben Ackman...............................................63 Save Me, Whitney Houston, Lincoln Baldwin........................64 Tomato Tower, Miles Hazo.........................................65 Operation Varsity, Lincoln Baldwin...............................66 Chaos, LOWE......................................................67 Life Cycle, Isabella Sera........................................68 The Deer on Route Four Asks My Funeral Preferences, Aiden McPhillips.69 the blues, redefined, Emerson Katz................................70 Cinematic Frame 6, Elizabeth Hopper..............................71 again?, Emerson Katz.............................................72 The Atrium, PJ Cunningham........................................73 My Grandfather’s Garden, Margaret Troast......................74-75 Cinematic Frame 4, Elizabeth Hopper..............................76 Where Worth Lies (Wild Things), Silia Dimasi.....................77 My Guardian Angel Got a Therapist, Aiden McPhillips...........78-79 Purple Anemones in the Night, Noelle Sommerville.................80 to/for/from lyn hejinian, Tyler Davis............................81 Sprinkles, Zoe McCasland.........................................82 Sunbathing with Friends, Jake Peterson...........................83 Crow’s Feet, Aiden McPhillips.................................84-85 Christmas, Ben Ackman............................................86 Weatherman of Death, Lily Billotti...............................87 Dirt, Emma DiValentino...........................................88 M, Ben Ackman....................................................89 A Clean Horizon, Mary Switalski...............................90-91 Artist’s Bios.................................................92-93 Staff Bios.....................................................94-95 Masthead.........................................................96

niques grounding tech d en mm co re s Expert McKenna Casey teen When I was nine lightning I was struck by e. in me ever sinc and it’s lived sleep, when I try to rk da e th in s, It buzzes on the city bu ir knives, ha my es is it ra bedsheets and d an s ob kn or do ue burn. it shocks me on he and my tong ac h et te my s make ’s Eve; me on New Year t hi g in tn opped. gh My li en the ball dr wh ng li zz si l I was stil ty r I turned twen Five days late , es tenberg figur covered in Lich ears ringing. e news, en I turn on th wh e on to the cicadas oz l en el st li I sm d an d , lay in be g, so I turn it off and my lightnin s ne li e on ph and the tele g in the night. all hisshummin

Smoke Jake Peterson

A Scene from “Your Reflection in the Snow Covered Hills” Naomi Skiles “Where do you think people go when they die?” Fiona asked. “I don’t know about other people,” her father responded. “Well, where do you think you will go when you die?” she asked. “The Wyoming mountains, I hope,” he said. The car had been cramped-with stuff, not people. Fiona and her father sat side-by-side in the front seat. He looked large, as his chair was pushed uncomfortably upright by a stained shag rug rolled up in the back seat, the red hair of his knees tickling the steering wheel’s leather. His belly sat atop the space in between his restless legs, and he grunted whenever he moved to ease the tension on his cramping nerves. Fiona was small for twenty-two, drowning in clouds of blankets and pillows, books stacked underneath her legs, which were reddening on the blacktop of a dashboard unobstructed by the midday sun. “So, you want your ashes spread there?” “I guess,” he said. “Who would spread them?” “Mom.” “Can I be invited?” “Sure,” he had said. “Why not.” The left turn signal ticked. Fiona’s father looked over his left shoulder, squinting to see the road through the reflection of cardboard boxes in the window. The car veered into the next lane. It sped up for a moment and then carried on. “I always hated driving through Wyoming. I associate that state with the taste of turkey and car sickness,” Fiona said. “Yeah, you are not so great with road trips.” “Hey,” she fought back. “I’ve gotten better.” “Now that we listen to the same music, I suppose it’s been okay.” The space between Fiona and her father was filled with a fake breeze that took the old car all its energy to muster. The air smelled of a basement freezer on a hot summer day that held mountains of frozen beef and a packet of artificially vibrant freezer pops, the kind encased in a sharp plastic that cut the corners of little mouths as they sucked out the juice. The stereo played Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide”; chilling echoes of a woman’s voice crept continued...

in between the nooks and crannies of picture frames, cleaning supplies, and secondhand tea sets that were stacked high and lopsided in the trunk of the car. Her father turned the dial to the right and the car dboard had no choice but to absorb the melodies. Fiona’s eyes glossed so she shut them for a moment, turned the dial to the left, and the music softened. “Where do you think I’ll go when I die?” she sat up, emerging from the sea of blankets. “That depends on when you die,” he said. “What does that mean?” “Are you asking about before or after the wedding?” “You would rather me die now?” she said with a sharpened tone, her head jutting to look at her father’s side profile. “No,” he shook his head. “That’s not what I said.” Fiona turned her head so her pillow-flattened hair on the back faced her. With furrowed brows and a clenched jaw, she looked out the window to examine the untrimmed grass lining the highway. Rain had started to fall and water the grasses of Ohio; it was unclear whether the air was polluted with storm clouds or with factory gasses, but the air had thickened and the pattern of water hitting the windshield had quickened. Fiona had kept her head pointed out the window. “Can I ask what you don’t like about her?” “It’s not her that’s the problem,” her dad had said. “Well, what is it then?” “What do you like about her?” “She loves me.” Fiona’s head had snapped to face out the windshield where her father’s stare remained steadfast. “Do you love her?” “Yes,” she exhaled. “I just don’t get why,” he shook his head. “Why do you love mom?” “Because I am supposed to.” “Well, that’s the difference.” An unspoken truth hung in the brief silence between them. The girl’s brows had relaxed, her jaw had unclenched, and she had sunk back into her seat, her blanket pulled up to her chin. “What is?” “I am not supposed to love her and yet I do,” she said. “You don’t understand it because nobody told you that you could.”

discarded LOWE

iary on the use of prayer as an intermed Victoria Fletcher , you exist at the threshold of violence flesh ying deca of e where the fragranc iem and gusts of incense serve as a requ , body your ugh thro pass for those who your temple, of skin the king crac lity their mora s. blood rushing out of newly-opened vein ing your fingertips graze my face, danc my cheeks, along the imperfections and lines of s abie lull the echoes of long-forgotten , rums eard my nst thrashing themselves agai de. insi the on e whol vehemently consuming me quantify my body. i exist on my knees as you gaze down and stone, from your home built of sacraments es full of life the decomposition of once earthly bodi n. now dead and ready to judge me agai understand i hear whispers of hymns i no longer my tongue from e danc and words from ancient texts ber, slum its when your kingdom awakens from gaia’s creation my ancestors eternally worshipping h’s symphony, eart her of hm as you sway to the rhyt i will become. what and was once i a testament to what i find myself not knowing what i want

anymore.

when your motions have as much grace as hits and gun ed rust a from fires a bullet again, out my body, breaking through flesh and y promises of empt leaving a hole for you to fill with gs thin t-no perpetual heaven and hell, swee were we before? what re—— befo and glimpses of what we were red in ash cove s hand with face i reach out to cup your h touc my from back but you pull your body to you and i am tired of never truly getting h. eart the to rned retu before we are both

at the praying mantis does tai chi Alexia Partouche

bus stop

bends softly — cradles humid ped air — reaches out with red tip

— here spines—sedate like a knife is peace — perched on a bench g with bars in the middleprayin me ch tea — y bod own to its — while the N4 takes its time ent mom a h wit e let me mov

ed — last night i dreamt i hik the heartline of my palm — i couldn’t see the end until

i was there.

nothing to celebrate Emerson Katz

14 Golden Hour Granite #2 Miles Hazo

Golden Hour Granite #1 Miles Hazo

goldfish and kisses Margaret Troast Ghosts are dancing in the kitchen to Sinatra And Miller. The house sold in June, yet still The spirits linger. Amazing, how a party can Last forever. To have a hundred Marvelous moments in just one day. Fleeting, Though they always are. Kiss the memories covered in dust, Let go of the weeds and the vines; Of blueberry bushes and an overgrown pond— They will slip through your grasp no matter how tight you hold. They are the sands that seep from your fingers; The memories forgotten on the shelf, left behind Beside expired boxes of candies and crackers To comfort the dead, And keep the spirits company; Laugh with them in the lonely moonlight While you are years away. Let them go, for now. Return another day.

Pacific Coast Highway Naomi Skiles

Nan and Bria n in bed, NY C Emma DiValent ino Nan and Bria n in bed, NY C Nan Goldin (1 983) The sun snea ks in throug h the window It rubs my dr . ess raw, exposing a ni ght not mean t to be worn Through the in the mornin open window, g. characters of his life pass the woman wi us by: th a baby fix ed to her hi the business p pushing a man stepping stroller, into the stre the young wo et without lo man rushing oking, home. I inch toward s them, crav in g He stirs behi a moment more nd me. . I do not turn , but hear the nightstand sl ide open and the click of shut, a lighter, an d his slow in Pulling his hale. body from mi ne, he steps on a corner around the be of mattress d to perch at my feet. We stare out at the lives in front of more suits, us– more dresses, more babies, heels. I wait more for his face to offer reco of someone wa gnition lking below.

House of Hurricanes Margaret Troast Long after the lifeguards leave You and me Stand at the water’s edge The Ocean roars Crashes At our feet. Sometimes It even sounds just like you. Sometimes I wonder if a River will miss the Ocean. A son passes down his father’s name but His daughter channels his temper To brew Tidal Waves and Hurricanes. Sometimes Drowning is just like Breathing. The tide washes over the sands time And time again and I can’t save my Father and He can’t save Me, But stay and stand watch As we wreck beneath the waves.

cannibal Tyler Davis you press your thumb onto my tongue and i think that you must love me. slowly, i introduce slack to my jaw. i know that you want to watch. i feel as the pad traces my gums and teeth catching at the spaces where my smile is incomplete. you do not make eye contact. i taste the salt of your sweat hidden in the edges of your calluses. the winding lines of your fingerprint transfer to the backs of my teeth. this is love, i think, the way that you allow yourself to be consumed by me. you tell me it’s unholy, the way my pupils blow wide at the smell of your skin. yet, when your thumb hooks, pulls me in by my teeth, the taste of salt is replaced by divinity.

Frozen 1 Elli Anderson

Frozen 2 Elli Anderson

Frozen 3 Elli Anderson

[When I go out walking] Maggie Melnik When I go out walking, Rambling, Rummaging, Following something other Than my own judgment, I do not stop. I can not rest. My bones, brittle as sticks, Stick, Click, Clatter over sediment, Mindlessly setting a pace. I can not rest. Dregs draw to sticky streams where I sink Down, Drowned, Down below righteousness. I perform my own baptism And fail– I can not rest.

let me grow Emerson Katz

purr Tyler Davis the hum of the drum machine. all encompassing, heart stopping. all he wants is to ensure you’re clean. this is a poem, mostly about laundry, with a sprinkling of the powers tha t be.

reticulation Ella Forysth swimming toward blind belief, i dug you up from hissing creeks and organs. wrapped around schools of flowers, i asked you to read anemic letters of teethy torture. cartographer’s intuition held and hung you upside down from a necked bottomless pit. your mouth punches grommets into beating lids of reverie. — furnished by silvery subtly rocks a woman to remember toward death streams of morose rhythm and bomb ephemera. this dangling dowry weeps vines of filigree. despite my open wide aversion, i am the doctor’s favorite my subcutaneous live creature loots mundanity from double wrapped arms. retrospective child, your aptitude for soldering is blinding.

Winter Break Ava Stern snow and tingling feet in Tip-toeing atop dustings of ected off the TV, holding the hot tub. Soapy smiles refl ms. Stolen glances at damp towels over sweaty pal . Green light, eyes back stoplights. Red light, glance s peppered with our names on the road. Made-up storie . Rowdy and romantic and our laughs and our snores ned by laughter and hands dinners with set tables rui atop the mahogany table. brushing against each other squinting in the dim light Red wine drunk smiling and might get stuck like this. thinking about how our faces like T-shirts. Digging my Happy Hannukah! I hope you fingertips about to fall car out of the snow freezing ed handwriting, I can’t off. Journal entries with mix pizza but it’s a little quite read it. Make your own ck? Bowling alley dances too small, can we have a sna t my ball went into the to distract you from the fac gutter, oops.

ge-podge fingers and scraps Happy New Year! Kiss me. Mod my heel. Produce aisle of old Vanity Fair stuck to parsley. Raindrops on diner misting makes us want to be not sure which one. windows remind us of a movie, Exchanging chopsticks in Ordering too much, whoops. tous. between sake sips, serendipi g envelopes closed and Happy spring semester! Lickin . Sleepy phone call signrunning out of floral stamps photos not quite loading offs late at night. iMessage oing in my ear. properly. See you soon, ech

Snowman and his home Andres Jara

not a fruit Maggie Melnik

a minute longer Maggie Melnik When summer’s said and done a peach has rotten in my stomach till it has become just a pit. I’ve been lying on my side since July, ribs pressed into the floor; stuck. I’ll open my mouth and throw up an orchard, letting Persephone stay with her mother a minute longer. nk Then it’s winter, and she’ll dri te. pomegranate wine out of spi frozen, waiting And I’ll still be on the floor, for my peach tree to grow.

Valley entino Emma DiVal

tile rth is fer a e e h t , y lle d color In this va skies blee e h t d n a ry with histo trees. ely to the e r f t i t f and gi church etery and m e c e h t s y i here this This valle r known. W e v e e v ’ I e rsection of everyon t the inte a s t s e r d un sacred gro lowest e valley’s h t ct, , s n o s a se arriage pa m a e v a of veiled h peaks ides. d highest willing br reaches an e r o m n w o n never k and I have

Koons 1 Ben Ackman

A Letter to a Grocery Store Lobster Brianna Creegan Dear Larry, I am never happy when I see you. Running into you means my fridge is no longer full and all that remains in my snack cabinet is a handful of crumbs. Now, forced to put on real clothes, get into my little Whoville car, and drive five minutes into a different town, leaving Danbury, and traversing over to the smallest town in Connecticut. It’s really not against you Larry, your home just sucks. I am on a mission at the store, and too many people treat it as a place to catch up with neighbors and friends. Parents can’t keep their kids on a leash, leading to aisle displays falling over and my stress levels rising. Nothing is worse than coming on a weekend, the parking lot is full and I always run into my neighbor Emma who never shuts up. But it’s ok, because, through all that chaos, I get to see you. Walking down the many aisles, I am finally met with the rancid odor of seafood. Beyond the fileted fish and crab cakes, you look back at me, floating around in that little tank of yours. Although my face may look repulsed, I am always ecstatic seeing you. You are my shining light in the darkness. How is it in that tank of yours? Most shoppers only see blue light reflecting off musty water. I know better than thinking you are in a glowing heaven of a home. The workers do not even give you a little home to lay in or rocks to play with. Instead, constantly in solitary confinement, packed in like sardines. Do they ever clean that tank? It looks like a college boy lives there with the fog, the odor, and that mold-like substance growing on the floor. How can someone live in these conditions, surrounded by the glistening floors of the store but stuck in a trash can of a home? It’s like the workers are praying for your downfall, rubbing in the luxury that could have been. I know it’s hard to clean the tank yourself, one must really have the motivation for it and the mobility to wipe down those walls. I don’t have either, but it doesn’t matter that much. Does it? Trust me Larry, I know how you feel. Always feeling like you are in a windowless room, locked out of the world around you. Surrounded by glass that just won’t crack, while you become an animal at the zoo that everyone won’t stop staring at. I bet you want to see the world, swim in the crystal blue waters of the Bahamas, or travel to the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Croatia. I hear it’s lovely there, although I’ve never been, funds are a bit lackluster at the moment. Maybe one day we both can explore the world. Shatter the glass that continued...

entraps us, purchase a one-way ticket to Europe, and never turn back. I am going to be honest with you Larry, I have been worrying about your health lately. The color in your body is leaving you, what once was red is now greenish brown. I hope your loss of color doesn’t mean your personality will leave as well. Perhaps it has already left. The moment the fisherman stripped you away from your loved ones, putting you in the Stop & Shop miles away from your home. Maybe the personality that I believe you radiate isn’t really your actual personality. The lobster who is always there for me at the end of the aisle, giving me a laugh. Perhaps it is just your shell that shines for the public, not the true meat that hides underneath it. The meat that you will soon lose once you leave the store for good. Most people only see my outer skin, which unfortunately is a lot less stronger than yours. Piercing my skin is easy, piercing your shell is probably impossible. But who truly knows? Sometimes it’s better to project a shell to others in order to keep the most important realities to yourself. Well anyway, I hate how much of a paradox you are stuck in at the moment. Unable to see the world around you, but when you finally leave the store death will be near. Do you go to bed at night knowing you will die soon? Us humans deal with mortality salience our whole lives, knowing that someday we will be buried five feet under. You won’t even be buried: your body will be in shambles, cracked and cooked. I hope that horror doesn’t float around in your head. Hopefully, at night, you can close your eyes, knowing the next day is just around the corner. Perhaps you already know you will die and have accepted that fate. But maybe not. Maybe you have been oblivious this whole time, floating around in a place you actually enjoyed. I hope you have been oblivious. I wish I could be about the end of times. Every August, my dad and I sit outside on our patio and watch the Perseid Meteor Shower. Staring up at the stars makes my mind wander to an existential crisis state. My dad points out the big dipper and an occasional planet that peeks out, but I just spiral. What is really out there? Where do we really go when we die? What really is life? I know these are crazy thoughts for a lobster to hear, but they are thoughts I have on a daily basis. Constantly spiraling, but trying to keep my outer shell intact for others. Anyways you might be thinking of these things as well, who knows? Or maybe I just spoiled your fate, instilling fear into your everyday life. Apologies on my front, I didn’t mean to Larry but welcome to the spiraling out club. I must get back home though, I hope you will live a fulfilling life and I’ll see you soon, or maybe not. Sincerely, The person with many questions

A Girl Dreams of Trees Naomi Skiles

A poem for Emma McKenna Casey Nostalgia has made the facts of our friendship endless summer ultraviolet: yellow house, canned peaches, the world hazy through bugeye goggles. I see the big bang, a small green stone changing hands, an offering, a gift from a girl who paid attention to me, of all things. I want to remember it all, even if I’m making it up. Memories are frogs in murky water and I am out here with a net, the way we used to be, but I never had the knack for catch and release. I remember you made me cry. I remember you made me laugh. It was November too, though I don’t like to think about that, the cold days up North at the cabin, when I first felt the cracks. The end is just as ultraviolet as the beginning, just as real as the middle. It’s funny, seeing you now, having not talked in years, how alike we are– I think we would be friends.

Persecute me Jocelyn Quinan Content Warning: Sexual Assault “You weren’t raped.” So don’t bother telling anyone Because if he wasn’t inside of you Tearing your insides out Piece by piece With your humanity stripped and replaced with his cells There’s nothing to be done No one to care I should not have to scream to the sky “God look at the monsters you have created Look what they have done. Birthed us in sin Veiled us in purity And blamed us for the relapse” I should not be on my knees asking “Give my body back to me, for it was not yours to give” I always used to confuse violence and love But it seems I need new clarifications I threw caution to the wind And it danced in the air before Wrapping my body in that cold yellow tape Bloodied and bruised A scene that will never be sterile Fingerprints across my chest and hips My throat and in my hair My lips purple and blue While my friends all wait for me Outside, down the hall And yet I do the walk of shame It’s Shame for letting him in Shame for letting him look Shame for letting him pry Shame for letting him touch and grab and pierce and pinch and bite and hold so forcefully down Shame for thinking that I must throw him a bone So he does not wander from my lips or my clothes So he stops pulling at my sleeves and peering at my skirt Shame that I am a victim Shame that I am an accomplice Shame that I live in a world where What I carry is blame: The burden of being a woman, You are at a man’s disposal If you wish to fight back Or call for defense It is you who will be persecuted to the fullest extent.

A Month of Pain and Anger LOWE

Spring Blossoms Jake Peterson

in bloom Julia Wirths blossoms in fat bulbs engulf my vision leave me wondering why the world is not also colored pink they weigh down their bows so relentlessly, it’s a wonder they smell like nothing at all i forgot the pain in my legs for a pace, left behind the ache in my lungs for a breath to capture such blooms which were more alive than i for all their brevity. when i return to running, i’ve left my head among the branches and my feet among the ferns. magenta coats my tongue i am encased in petal-light silk, ignorant to passing strangers i am invisible too. doesn’t it linger, the breeze like a kiss, doesn’t it make us yearn for more? nothing in this season of our youth lasts forever; we reach immortality only when we grow from the ground we trample. but the Cherry Blossoms will never expire, the Magnolias never wither, until the Horizon tires of swallowing the Sun.

Superior Shores 1 Ben Austin

Superior Sho res 2 Ben Austin

A Sunbird Moves Amongst the Violets Silia Dimasi A sunbird moves amongst the violets in Wadi Qana National Park. It is said that he is the symbol, the emblem of the land once known as Palestine. It is said that he is loved, for he is the master of borders. The sunbird knows he is immortal. No one asked if he wanted privacy. A sunbird moves amongst the violets, the children trail his flight. He brushes branches and flutters feathers, making noise. Making noise. They brush the same branches, stomping on the earth, but they are silent. They are silent. A sunbird moves amongst the violets, floating towards Deir Istiya. He dusts the roofs of the village homes. The children stop in their pursuit. They cannot drift north towards Emmanuel. They are aware, their roofs are the shadow of trees. Their village homes, too far beneath the roots of reserve. The sunbird knows his play is over. No one asked when they’d see him again. Where will these trailing children be when tomorrow ends? The sunbird moves amongst the violets, the ones that entomb this fertile land. If his quiet companions must return from whence they came, let them return with something in hand. Let them return with something in hand. A sunbird moves amongst the violets, landing on an open window. He meets the Mother’s hand. The children watch, marveling at the wonder, but they are silent. They are silent. The sunbird flies towards his audience. He is belabored by the weight of seeds. Seeds that spill from his beak, landing in the children’s hair, filling their pockets, filling their ears. If the sunbird is to never see his friends again, let them blossom into violets. Let them blossom into violets. A sunbird moves amongst the violets in Wadi Qana National Park. It is said that he is loved, for he is the master of borders. He is freedom. Is He Free?

There is goodness. Lani Khuu There is goodness here, At this table. It bubbles up In the bottom of the ceramic mug In my hand. In this tea, that was brewed by a girl I’ve known for years. There is goodness here, Bubbling up and spilling over Like laughter from the spout of our lips. There is goodness here, Like our bright red fingertips, Burned on a cookie tray Grabbed from the oven much too quickly Much too hastily. A hurried excitement– A shared jubilee. There is goodness here– More than I ever realized. It bubbles up and spills over. I want to share it with you forever.

Assateague Island Andres Jara

Sunset Over the Ridge Emma DiValentino

Belief Stevie D. Rosenfeld When I first met you I believed in God because I needed someone to beg. I got on my knees and asked Him for a yes until my throat was hoarse because I thought begging you might be a dealbreaker. When you first laid in my arms I believed in God because I needed someone to thank. I stared at the sky and thanked Him for bringing you to life because I didn’t think you could have come from anything real. When we first fought I believed in God because I needed someone to blame. I screamed and cried at the empty sky from my empty room because I didn’t believe my hate could come from you. When we first made up, and we laid in the grass, and I looked into the sun, leaves in my hair, dirt on my fingers, my head on your shoulder. I blinked at the sun, who blinked back through the trees and thought “Oh yeah, He’s up there.”

To Move into a Pomegranate Lily Lemme 1. When I graduate in the spring, I imagine moving somewhere I have never been before. Perhaps I will rent an apartment in a mid-sized city, on a high floor with lots of sunlight in the afternoons. I’ll buy a painting with abstract fruit shapes, something sophisticated, modern, and adult. On Sundays, I’ll walk to buy an everything bagel with cream cheese at the place on the corner. I’ll read a book outside on a blue bench. I’ll buy fruit at the grocery store, peel it into a yellow bowl, and leave it to sit on the counter overnight. 2. Are you a mountain girl or an ocean girl? somebody once asked me. My answer has always been mountain. 3. On Saturday, my roommate bought a pomegranate and set it on the countertop. For some reason, I expected it to sit there for days: red and gleaming with two sweet potatoes and a green apple that might never be eaten. But by Sunday it was gone, white pith peeled apart and discarded at the top of the trashcan. 4. I tossed a squeezed-out lemon slice on top of the peel, imagining my roommate tapping out the red seeds with a wooden spoon, like a trick I saw on the internet. 5. Months ago, before the wedding of my father’s cousin, I spent the afternoon staring out at the Northern California coast line. The tide was coming in, clear and blue, creeping towards the green and orange brush. I spotted a still heron perched between the grasses. I wanted to stare at him forever, thinking, not of the future, but of the sun on my skin and the way the wind felt through my fingers when I held out my hand. 6. Three years ago, I was a girl in the mountains who had never been in love before. I climbed Chautauqua in the evening and watched the sun set with my mother, our cheeks bathed in pink and flushed from the cold. I remember thinking about how the world had to be so much bigger than the mountains. 7. I go to see Heretic with a friend, a horror film that convinces me of nothing except that I still hate horror films. We clutch hands over the red seats, fingers interwoven, knees curled up to hide the decrepit woman on the screen that we fear will visit continued...

our nightmares. I turn on all the lights in my apartment when I get home, but still dream that someone taps the roots of my teeth with a wooden spoon and they all come falling out like pomegranate seeds. I wake up in a cold sweat and can’t fall back asleep, wondering if one day I’ll be so old that I scare myself when I look in the mirror. 8. Will I regret any part of the life that I am living now? 9. I’m a girl in a city that I might move out of in May. I still have never been in love before and maybe that is something to be ashamed of. Maybe not. Come graduation, I may be bound for home. For the comfort of the mountains and my mother close by to peel my fruit when I get sick. Still, I wonder if there is something I am missing. If I have lost the opportunity to explore the world and fall in love and swim in the ocean and eat pomegranates with strangers, even though I can still do all of those things far away from here. 10. On my lunch break at work, I walk with another intern down the street to get a chicken cobb salad. I can’t help but imagine the rest of my life like this. I cannot decide how to feel about the prospect of finding joy in eating over-priced salads every week from a place with a name that gets garbled in my mouth. The sun is out. I enjoy the salad anyway. 11. Are you a mountain girl or an ocean girl or a pomegranate girl? 12. I imagine going on apartment tours soon, climbing into empty, echoey lofts, and peering out of windows that remind me of the empty souls of pomegranate skin. I picture myself crying on one of these, running my fingers along off-white, textured walls. It’s a morbid thought, but perhaps a realistic one, as I have always been a girl to cry when the world feels too big. I picture my mother too, the way she might tap on the beige walls to hear the echo of my tears, or whatever is the opposite of echo. (Oh). 13. Oh Mountains or Oceans or Pomegranate seeds? City where I am a stranger to everyone or no one? City at all? 14. Or ripe red pomegranate? One cut open, seeds tapped out, white skin sitting empty like windows for the sun to shine through on a slow afternoon, or wherever it is that the future stops coming for a moment that feels like forever?

The Keystone 63 at 5:37PM Josephine Zucker scent hills of As the sun surrenders to the cre undistinguishable trees— I meet my mother again. Keystone 63, On the train to Harrisburg, the I watch this sunset alone. A burden of this age— old enough to live far away, on the train— and young enough to miss my mom des and stories are much like and in it, I find that her attitu my own now. r wool socks in the winter. I eat rice for my dinners, I wea one romance, one literary; I brought with me two novels, purple yarn. I packed a crochet hook and a skein of t felt a journal and pens, but I haven’ e my phone and creative in my cold joy. I hav dented, the water bottle that, though sp. has a nook for my thumb to gra brought enough clothes for a I’m going for a week but I’ve month. I watch the windows despite all of my bags and belongings. edges The Susquehanna’s whisk-ridged sway to the rumble of the train. I want to tell her but tion. she’s waiting for me at the sta I will see her soon, though, not soon enough.

Under the S edona Sun S eries Noelle Somm erville

Seal Knowledge McKenna Casey You know the feeling of a fish between your teeth, the crunch of its light bones and the scent of its blood in the water. You know the rocksway-rock of the current as it takes you to sleep. You can see for miles under the water, in the clear deep blue of the cold ocean, and you can swim just as far. Born a dancer without the need for a floor. There are things in this sea that aren’t anywhere else, and you would know, because you’re one of them. There’s an itch in you somewhere deep that brings you to the surface, makes you pull yourself ashore, claws digging into the rocks, grey fur caking with sand. It builds and builds, that itch, until you scrape yourself raw on the air and the ground, until your skin washes off you like rivulets of water and pools at your feet. And you do have feet, sometimes. You know this body, too, the pinkish skin and fragile fingers, the blunt teeth. You know how to turn this face to the sun and feel its warmth, warmer than the water ever gets. It’s dangerous in this body, but this is something you don’t yet know. You don’t know to keep that puddle of pelt close, to keep your eyes open, to keep awake. You know that men can be loud, the roar of their engines and propellers and flying things——you haven’t learned that they can be quiet. You’ve seen their nets, but you’ve never been in one. I am sorry. You will learn this. I am sorry. I am sorry.

California Love Naomi Skiles

Sum Stevie D. Rosenfeld A ship is the sum of its parts, but each much more so, One piece cannot survive without the other, (Metonymy) (Please don’t let go of my hand) Each part drowns when one breaks down (M.A.D.) (Do not let go of my hand) If you float away I think I’m going to be dashed upon the rocks (Romeo and Juliet) Please do not let go of my hand.

maiden of night Monette Chang she’s a doe with fli ghty feet, the way she comes quickly, soon after her brot her leaves the eart h the winds whisper of her arrival, rustli ng through your hair and limbs she leaves a caress ing chill in her wa ke. her touch is moonli ght, and you are dr unk on it, she is gentle and th ere is no other expl anation to it aside from she is yo urs as you are hers from how she takes your hand and leads the way, you have reason to walk the earth. she is not her moth er; she is the one who chooses to roam the grasses we traverse you run on dirt path s through forested hills, chasing behind her silken fig ure after and after, un til all you see is but a sliver of white and a whole lo t of green. she’s your sanctuar y, your savior, your soul and your sister, righteous in the wa y the willow weaves and strong in the way storms pursue sh ips — a maiden of night, free and just and lo vely.

Gust of Naivety Rose Glickstein I see her playing She was tired Still pumping the little leg s that remain below her The wooden bar crepitates and bellows against the gradient of the dirt ground She stopped swinging when it was not fulfilling to swing alone She forgot the sound of the squeak produced from the saddle Far removed it made her sad Let the little girl swing

Turn from it Emma DiValentino The closet where you hid under blankets, The bunk bed and the nights on the floor, The hole in the wall beside the bed, The one in the hallway too, Your head on your mother’s belly, The coat rack and bench in the hallway, The photo albums in the closet and The empty one that was yours, The concrete-skinned knees, The crack of a baseball bat and your father Sliding between bases, The dog in the kitchen that always barked at walls, The sundress with the green flowers That you never wore again, The Cinderella picnic blanket that was used once, The rows of houses, Sharon and her golden retrievers, Marianne and George, Your head on your mother’s belly Where it’ll never lay again.

Untitled 1 Bennett Lane

Untitled 3 Bennett Lane

Nesting Maggie Melnik Tracey Emin From My bed by become air. The sheets have the ground The bottle on rld Fishbowls my wo to shakiness. And my head in i’ll rise. Maybe tomorrow

here. Nothing is fed empty, Everything is i’ll rise. Maybe tomorrow y nuine hands la . Notes from inge l ey’l be lovely th y da e on e Around, mayb . they’ll love me Maybe one day here. Not today, not Here i rot. me whole. My pillow eats i’ll rise. Maybe tomorrow

the twisted prophecy Tyler Davis pomegranate juice in crevices of my palm. the crack of the shell plays the sweetest song. tongue and teeth stained a dull red makes you wish you were– jeweled rubies lie in the albedo’s embrace– just one little taste. not quite the apple but, betrayal’s still got that peculiar taste. sticking to your teeth. reincarnation’s a bitch. love, modern-day eve

oblivious crimson Emerson Katz

The Raven’s Gaze Noelle Sommerville

will rogers’ ranch house Margaret Troast fire spreads Across the grass Sweeps the Fields sweeps The hills Sweeps the Earth home In soot Rubble Ash Let the smoke rise Ash in your mouth your Ears and eyes know the flame from Birth. Brave New World take us home Let fire burn everywhere but the furnace Let the flood come clean us redeem us let Them watch us burn, throw in a stick and We are headed for the end, so don’t bother Crying save your tears now the bell is rung we’reheadedfortheendwe’reheadedforthe endwe’reheadedfortheendwe’reheadedfor theendwe’reheadedfortheendwe’reheaded fortheendfortheendfortheendfortheendfor we’re headed for a start

silverfooted fest Monette Chang dance with me, under the twilighted sky where grasses are trodden beneath bare feet, and the bonfire’s smoke licks the sky so high, for now is the time where these two worlds meet. for once, cross the fine line drawn between us; kiss me fleetingly like the fireflies’ dance. like your worship will be lasting and just, make me glow like the bugs’ fated romance. to hold you, love, gives me reason to live close but then far, lest you feel my heart ache. fates, i learned, will not easily forgive for i won’t see you once the dawnlight breaks. you wouldn’t know it, but i’ve waited here— to meet you, for all these thousands of years.

Smudge man Ben Ack

Save me, Whitney Houston Lincoln Baldwin Like a majestic mountain; a hill worth dying on, her name echoes in the chambers of my chest. The sweet perfume of rolling fields fills my mind and dances in between the wisps of smog. My father’s fathers whisper divine morality, the founding freedom, fought and found. But why would I ever protect “them?” The Brownshirts and Tankies all the unsavory “-ists.” Do they not lust for National Sodomization? Would they not take my beloved republic and discard it with dry eyes? My nightly dreams are intruded by this passionate hatre d, feelings of a tree bathed in red. The seducing idea of an Iron Fist dangling from a lampp ost foams at my mouth; though every teacher prescribes “Give Peace a Chance.” This unwelcome, burning rage heats my core; pushing the pistons that send me to the center of the rotten bog I adore and idolize. God as my witness, I will serve my Nation. I will beat back fascist bloodlust, and my own.

Tomato Tower Miles Hazo

Operation Vars ity Lincoln Baldwi n Passionate hear ts fall from th e sky, shattering the silent countrys ide with tangles of rope and billowing pa Short boots ap rachutes. pear in tall gr ass, leaving a wake of stomped pulp . The small crea tures of this placid place will know only the return of You; lost and found war. Out of cloudles s blue skies, Your march inte rrupts the fron t of my mind, fighting and fli tting over my th oughts. You dance and carve into my arms, flowers bloom in shell-craters and rivers run I should have with blood. forgotten Your na me last year, I lost that ba but ttle.

Chaos LOWE

Life Cycle Isabella Serra The breeze glosses the trees of the dull, dark wood. Us trees, who know all and see all from the day the fawn was born to the day the doe will die. Ears twitch, daggered teeth snarl, the doe sees the wolf. Fight or flight? What if I told you there was a third, more sinister option, where the doe believes that she can please the wolf without becoming his prey? She doesn’t retreat, she doesn’t fight back, instead she reasons with the wolf. She pleases the wolf, she makes a deal with the wolf, trading her tender tongue for her unlucky life. Then she trades a still mind for a distrustful skull built of glass. When the wolf comes back and demands one of her frail legs, she doesn’t say yes or no, all she can muster is please. The wolf knows that a quiet please is a loud yes. Please means take what is mine when what she wants to say is, please be gentle. He takes what is hers: her legs, her fur, saving her neck for last. Fight or flight? She couldn’t decide, so she chose to freeze. The freeze got her nowhere—spilt crimson blood stains the woods, as my friends and I watch her die. Watching in silence, us trees know truth like God’s whispers, and we watch, knowing that there was nothing that could be done as is the way of predator and prey. The deer bleeds and mourns her life which thump thump thumps away from her. Our roots will eat her frail body and she will be transformed into one of us— Reaching, growing, learning that to know truth is better than to be a naive little deer.

The Deer On Route Four Asks My Funeral Preferences Aiden McPhillips Black eyes staring me down from the other side of two yellow lines Dappled moonlight and spilled oil Antlers or astigmatism Tattoos or tire tracks The flies overstay their welcome, settle and stick Maybe you’ve earned your place on the mantle Left your mark in the gravel You seem the cremation type Rather watch your body crumble and burn Than wait for it to shiver six feet under Wrap you in a biodegradable box and send you off into a world that was never yours Will the picture at my memorial show the slashes and gashes in fresh-ish flesh The bags under worn eyes The blue paths to breathing We don’t have vultures around here Only foxes and gossips At least their teeth are sharp Canines on canines and Canidae My tears are sweet as they pull at the tendons and sinew Snipping fate’s wine dark thread Serrated celebration of life What’s worse than death by a dull knife? Stairway to heaven lit with LEDs

the blues, redefined Emerson Katz

Cinemati c Frame 6 Elizabet h Hopper

again? Emerson Katz

The Atrium PJ Cunningham CONTENT WARNING: Contains messaging relating to current immigration and foreign policies He sat alone, the tannins of the red whose name he couldn’t pronounce holding bitterness in his mouth, but also bringing forth a sense of calmness and collected warmth. The sky above, split into multitudes by the corrugated steel roof, beamed a dull but robust light upon the bones of the hall that held the institution together. There was a cacophony of silence interrupted by the pathetic meekness of fleshdriven voices, echoing from the larynxes of greater men. Scholars, statesmen, and scoundrels held quorum here. Yet, to the indoctrinated ear, distinguishing them was no easy task. There was talk of ideologies, of philosophy. Chatter of this county and that, how New Jersey might swing red. Red. The red wine is dwindling now, but he sits still. Sound from afar rings through one ear, while the “present” echos in the other. Who is louder depends on which ear you choose to believe, which hemisphere of the brain you chose to submit under. What’s power anyway, he thinks to himself? Perhaps it’s simply being in the atrium, when so many are doomed to an existence outside of it. But, a thought gnawed at him from behind. Even those in the atrium must one day leave it. Only the stones remain. Only the skeleton remains. We may see a painting here, but one day, our canvas will be the target of another’s wandering eyes in the atrium. That is the price we pay when we walk in—the failure for us to decide how we look once we walk out to those who walked in after us. “And perhaps things will change in Latin America, the new Secretary of State ***** ***** will likely try to send migrants…” The light from above is no longer illuminating the walls of the atrium with the same enthusiasm as before. The sun has resigned again, as is its right. We can’t tell it what to do. Even if we in the atrium may try—those who do will rue their arrogance. “You might just get into the foreign service… when shit gets bad, they let more people in…” A woman in a light brown mink coat—storied, beleaguered, and past its prime as its wearer—walks by. “Now that’s power,” the statesman-scholar-scoundrel says… the redness of his beanie, only slightly brighter than the wine that is quickly approaching past tense. “You know, they’ll need to change the Constitution if they want statehood. Which, I’m okay with…” The left ear now moves to the smoothly ascending rhythm of bossa nova as it races towards the crescendo. Even in the atrium, when the sun has gone down, light rises. Rebellious. Reverent. Real.

en My Grandfather’s Gard Margaret Troast

s er her fathers azalea ov n ra e sh d il ch a s When Mama wa and she’s forgot. Now He’s gone r ve ne He r. we mo wn with the la e still lives s garden as if someon Hi om fr s ed we e th g pullin here. rry and rose There are more bluebe e. iv ss ma is en rd ga rries His closet. But the bluebe my in ts ir sh e ar e with bushes than ther roses are overridden e th d an s, ar ye in n haven’t grow orns. vines and weeds and th s and my en she and her sister I remember that day wh until the r, worked in the yard ke ta re ca s a’ dp an Gr d father an sat inside with s from the bushes. I ne vi g in pp ri t, se asked, n su at was his bedroom. He th e ac rn fu e th in g Him, meltin and He muttered there? And He grumbled t ou g in do ey th e pained ar what that action alone had gh ou th as es ey s Hi and He closed school and His and I told Him about dy Ju e dg Ju d he tc wa ythm Him. We ainst His chair—the rh ag ed pp ta s nd ha d se wrinkled, callou Him. to a song buried with continued...

Now it’s just her and the vines that stretc h for miles— across generations, li felines—rotting. Stra ng li ng the berries and squeez the bushes and ing the life out of flo wers that were just about to bloom. Endles sly growing. Blood leaks from the wrinkles on Mama’s ha nds, and I think they look a lot like His once had. But stil l she tugs and tugs and claws and cries, alone in His garden, un yielding in her pursuits. Possessed, relentless, wiping sw eat from her brow under the hot, June su n. But it’s just another day, and the sun sets like it did before. Like it will tomorrow. In the moon li ght, the weeds look like any other le af. We drive home, in th e tempered quiet of upstate New York, and I ask her, do you still think of His azaleas? And she says , I don’t think I’ll ev er stop trying to make that up to Him. Out the window, trees and cars rush by. Ever ything, the whole world, is nothin g more than a passing bl ur . Something tugs and claws at my gut, and there’s nothing to hold onto except for her. I say, you can’t get them all. And she says, probably not, but I’ll try anyway.

Cinema ti Elizab c Frame 4 eth Ho pper

Where Worth Lies (Wild Things ) Silia Dimasi Where is the worth of your prisoners? Can their hands fill with gol d or their mouths foam with ink ? I believe you to be a liar. They are just wild things like goose feathers, like tombstones, like powder on dark skin. There is no worth to your pri soners, so I shall pay them no mind. No pardon will be passed. They are just wild things like second-hand bicycles, like plastic bags, like cracks in pavement. You are a liar. Can your hands fill with gol d? Can your mouth foam with ink ? Prisoners, Where is the worth in your captor?

a Therapist My Guardian Angel Got Aiden McPhillips

ships. rid of toxic relation t ge to m hi d se vi ad Who him d find those who loved es Practice self-care an O, what blessed messag . em th r fo d di he at for who he was, not wh 00 an hour. from a man charging $3 $300, I should add, me that he borrowed from ons. have earthly possessi because angels don’t path to greed Because money is the and blood. low obsession of flesh al sh e th is d ee gr d an child of God.) (Only one of us is a word, Borrowed is the wrong eft but need, want, and th coil. al quite tell) tangle only the mort apist or God, I can’t er th e th ’s at th er th y. The Big Man (whe rds I’m allowed to sa wo at wh r fo s le ru of has a lot uring me me on my own couch, po to ws ne e th e ok br l Ange . had left in the fridge a glass of whatever I continued...

While I got the dr egs and ten Hail Ma rys, he’s got a bo I had been saving ttle for an exalted day. Top shelf. (6’2, 6’8 with the wings fully flexed) It’s not you, it’s me he says but four glasses later he’s crying holy te ars I just really do n’t feel like you believe in me and I need that ki nd of support in my life so unless you can fix that I’m going to have to explore other op tions. A breakup and an ex it interview all at once. The next morning I find my bread cabine t empty and a note pinned to my fridge with a magnetic ch ip clip A chicken-scratch list of demands be ca us e he couldn’t call th em commandments: - Take your antide pressants with wine Christ) (the body and bloo d of - Tell your friend s about me, it’s li the gospel) ke you’re ashamed of me (share - Pray (…please) I delete his number and scream every na me in vain.

Purple Anemones in the Night Noelle Sommerville

to/for/from lyn hejinian Tyler Davis The polka dot dress was only knee high so that no one could take a peek. I traded in my ‘gaudy friendship bracelets’ for my mothers too-nice jewelry. Bruised a lot more than my knees. Is vodka an acceptable birthday present when you’re turning eighteen? I put on my act of poise and grace once it’s my turn to walk the stage and I don’t even hear them say my name over the blood rush to my ears and face. My eyes slowly adjust to the consistent camera flash. It’s all eyes on me, I cannot find my car keys. Where the fuck does the train need to be more than me? Flashes turned to fire. Happy everything to me. Fresh slate, not quite clean. You could make an argument both for and against. It’s no magnum opus, but it’ll do for now.

Sprinkles Zoe McCasla nd

th Friends i w g n i h t a b Sun on Jake Peters

Crow’s Feet Aiden McPhillips I imagine my grandmother dying as if I was there before the doctor arrived. I do not have to imagine the crow outside her window, he exists beyond imagination. He would leave anything shiny in a knot in the arm of the Sugar Maple, his resting place just two yards from my grandmother’s. His hoard shone like an answer at dusk. A cycle, round and pure as the pennies he kept. A glint powerful enough to blind. She moved in before I turned five and died before I turned nine, but four years should have been an eternity. But in that not-eternity, she went from a cane to a walker and then a wheelchair, gravity playing favorites. The Earth wanted to keep her close, but so did I. I can’t decide if I wish the crow never flew our way, or if I wish I could cover my wounds with feathers. When I was seven, my parents uncovered the baby monitor that sat in my nursery years before. A baby monitor in a pile of abandoned electronics, wires intertwined like veins and arteries, nerves on end. Years of headphones and chargers forming a pulsing nest. My mom kept that baby monitor by her bed and put its twin in my grandma’s room, hoping it would let her sleep through the night. She’s no follower, but she matched each inhale, every exhale, mirrored the give and the take. We divide and connect. A half-gallon jug of pennies slept by my grandmother’s side like an old dog, peaceful but devoted. If my grandma couldn’t breathe, if she couldn’t feel her feet, she knew she could at least rattle the jug. Have you read the fable of the crow and the pitcher? Sips of water, gasps of air. Jugs and pennies become pitchers and stones, dropping and clinking until the water rises. Let it flow over, let it quench our thirst and wash away our tears. Desperate, or clever, or all of the above. Have you ever needed something so badly it came spilling out of you? Drink up. Drink up while you can. Opening her eyes that morning was a testament to her continued...

strength. Trying to stay alive can look a lot like fighting to stay awake. Yellow nails in memory foam, silver-studded claws. Raspy breaths, a broken metronome. Joints like the bends in the weeping willow, ladders of vine. Smiles and freckles, ivory keys and woven strands. The higher notes linger, even if you haven’t touched the pedals. She will haunt me like a cattle brand. I thank the fire for its scar. They tell me to imagine Sisyphus happy. I tell them to make his hill an ADA-approved ramp. Have you ever seen someone fight while their muscles dissolve? Is that your idea of character development? I hear the birds. It is not their usual song. In this version of reality, I sit on my grandmother’s bed and I hold her hand. It is worn, so worn I can’t quite tell its face, can’t find the year it was pressed, only see the bit of green at the edges. Palm side up, for good luck. We watch the shadows of wings on the wall. I count her turquoise stones. She laughs, and I push the jug out of my way to curl into her side. When she dies, a part of her courses through the water, to the Colorado River and the beaches of Hawaii. It travels with long-haul truckers, ranchers, and stubborn daughters. She lives in butterflies and owls and in my mother. And maybe crows. When the wrinkles around her eyes start to smooth themselves out, I put away her jug of coins. We’ll have to sort them later, maybe give one to her crow. I trade the half-gallon of copper and panicked breaths for the lotion on her nightstand. As I massage her hands, I tell her about the friends I’ve seen at her bird feeder and the stories I’ve been writing. I tell her our hands have the same wrinkles. I almost miss her pulse fading as it becomes my own. I tell her I love her and spend the next 12 years hoping she heard me. I hope there are shiny pennies and smooth stones and clean, cool water.

I hope gravity cannot touch her.

I hope she finds me

by the Sugar Maple at dusk.

Christmas Ben Ackman

Weatherman of Death Lily Billotti The antidepressants were supposed to fix My predilection for empathy But I still see you in technicolor From your mom’s passenger seat All the blue drained out of your sweater In the warm crimson glow of a stoplight Coincidence Or omen Imagine you casually flirting with strangers Anxious indigo eyes Always avoiding contact I revel in the notion That you are just as desperate for connection And as inept As I am At finding it in anyone else I used to wallow In my lack of aptitude for visual art But how lucky am I To make your watercolor bleed With the same alphabet Available to everyone else Our shoulders brush briefly Backs pressed against my bedframe Barely enough friction To register as touch And somehow my cheeks still burn I resolve to embarrass myself Time and again As penance for the sacred ability To feel I hope this sounds like the indie music you love While I turn up top one hundred I won’t pretend to be something I’m not It wouldn’t matter anyway Because I can’t play guitar But somehow I Know how to turn you on

Dirt Emma DiValentino w to breathe They don’t tell you ho . How each beneath mounds of dirt in by loved ones drop of soil shoveled dead. They don’t teaches us how to be veiled threats tell you what’s beyond scure love at the end. and the promise of ob weave threads Rather, I learned to el to my childhood in the Earth that tunn my husband, to the home, to the home of first date, to my ice cream shop of our rch. grandfather’s back po father’s house, to my much as at the haunting is They don’t tell you th the living. a curse on the dead as

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A Clean Horizon Mary Switalski

“A Clean Horizon” was originally published in Third Wednesday in August 2023 as the winner of the George Dila Memorial Flash Fiction Contest. Mary Switalski’s work has appeared in journals including The Moth, The New Guard, Newfound, DigBoston, Monday Night, Bethesda Magazine, Copper Nickel, The Pinch, and elsewhere. The house is between renters. Full keg, empty rooms, renovated kitchen. She’s in a side room pulling the chain of the overhead light–on off on off on off on off— rings on every finger, some of them look important, or at least old and sentimental and what’s the difference really? Satin scarf and overalls. She lets go of the chain—on—and reaches for me. I hold out my hand and she goes for my beer, drinks half, passes it back, whispers “Namaste.” “I don’t have my cards with me,” she says, eyes closed, hand swimming, “but who is Hope? I’m sensing a Hope. Or a Nadia.” “Maybe that’s me,” I say. She says “No” as if she knows me. (I came with my brother. He knows the contractors in the kitchen with the keg. Be nice to my weird little sister he said and I flipped him the bird.) “I can feel everybody who walked in tonight,” she says, “and I needed some peace.” I think I know what she means. In the next room an oily man in cutoffs is swiveling a butterfly knife around his fingers, talking about who he’s going to poke. And Christ can we go one damned night without This. Much. Skynyrd? I reach up and pull the chain–off—”So how do I feel?” I ask her. “Orange gold,” she says, “far away and getting closer, like a sunset.” We cross the dark room to the blushed window. “All these old girls are haunted,” she says, referring to the house, a Queen Anne partitioned for apartments. “Worst thing about the ghosts is how disappointed they are.” I’d been wandering the rooms with my Solo cup, noting the moldings and the watermarks, the marble mantel, the burn marks on the oak floor. She says, “What are we but our stains and our embellishments?” The house is on a hill, the lake a few blocks down. The summer days so long sometimes you wish they would just end already. So you go to a party. You want to touch somebody. I take her hand and read her palm, pulse to heart line. “Here the life-line branches. Maybe that’s your empathy,” I say, “or maybe you’re free to fly.” She says, “You know why people leave? To get out from under these houses, repairs and evictions, baby pictures, empty luggage, bones in the attic. Some drunk punches a hole in the wall and we break it open. I’ve found marbles, skeleton keys, cards, jewelry, pipes, coins, buttonhooks, teeth. [‘Teeth?’] And today, hanging drywall, I found this little hatpin, look! Who was she?” She pulls the pin from her twisted hair, brass filigree engraved with H or N, I can’t tell, but it feels dangerous.

continued...

“Fragments shored up against your ruins?” I say. “What?” I tell her what little I know about the long-dead modern world. “So that’s what they teach you.” “That’s one thing.” She says she’s getting tired of holding hands with all these phantoms. She says “How about a clean horizon?” She’s tapping the pin on the sill. I take it, I encircle her, I twist her hair and thread the pin through. I say, “Everything is connected now – cause, consequence –“ and I press my palm to the light on her face. She covers my hand with her own, tender as wash over sand, and I want to kiss her when… We hear screaming out there. Impacts and gravity. There are bootsteps and a man appears in the doorway in paint-splattered jeans. He’s tall. I can smell him. I see the veins in his paint-splattered arms. Big hands, brace and vise. He says “Babe we gotta go, Vance dropped his knife through his foot and got blood in the new grout.” air.

She says, “I told you they don’t want us here,” her hand sweeping the dusty “Then let’s fucking go.” And then she’s gone with her man and her vestiges. I am wrong about everything I think. It is

still

the modern world.

The sun has sunk below the ornament. An orange gold beam hits me in the legs, pushing my shadow toward the door. I open the window, step through to the porch, see how it anchors the old girl to the hilltop, wraps like an arm around a shoulder. Sungilt clapboards, missing balusters, staircase to the street, coppery light rolling downhill. I follow the light to the lake. The sun goes down burning, a clean horizon. I look at the lake and I think about both oceans, the spin in the solar day. If I am the sunset, I am the sunrise too. My time is coming. When I turn toward home there’s a light in the window of the house on the hill. It goes on off on off on off on off on off.

Artist Bios Aiden McPhillips is hoping you will remember to use your turn signal next time. Alexia Partouche is leaving the function. Goodbye. Andres Jara Romero is a first year Film and Media Arts major. Ben Ackman misread the vibe in his last bio. Ben Austin is around. Bennett Lane is gone fishin’. Brianna Creegan is a sophomore from Connecticut who is currently majoring in Public Relations and History. She loves to crochet, although she never has the attention span to finish her projects. Brianna enjoys finding the time to write creatively within her busy schedule. If you ever want to see her, she is probably at The Bridge listening to music and drinking a large iced latte. Elizabeth Hopper is a multi-disciplinary artist majoring in Graphic Design and Public Relations, with a minor in Music. She has a deep love for the arts, with experience in design, illustration, photography, drawing, painting, and the performing arts. Art Instagram: @e.h.creatively Elli Anderson is a sophomore from Québec majoring in Neuroscience, with a French minor. When not in the lab, she enjoys jigsaw puzzles, ballet, and good book. Emerson Katz is away from the desk. Emma DiValentino is outta here! Thank you AmLit! What a run we’ve had! Josephine Zucker is a storyteller who tries to capture life’s quirks, questions, and quiet moments in verse. Inspired by her friends, family, and the occasional foe, her poetry explores the beauty in the everyday and dramatic-tension of the mundane. She hopes to one day write poems worthy of an AP Literature exam—preferably the kind that confuse students just enough to spark a great class debate. Julia Wirths is suprisingly fluent in English (or so she was told at her part-time job).

Lily Billotti is a senior at American University studying Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies and American Studies. Lily enjoys reading gay comics (Alison Bechdel), and writing gut-wrenching poetry about their exes who they never officially dated. Lily is from New York City, and acts like it. They enjoy light crafting, making jewelry, and expressing disdain for men. If you thought your writing was sad, this up-and-coming author is the person for you.

Lily Lemme is a senior from Denver, Colorado. She drinks way too many chai lattes and does not know how she is graduating already. Lincoln Baldwin is a freshman at AU, majoring in International Relations. This is his first time in AmLit, and he’s grateful for the opportunity. Maggie Melnik is a Literature major that can’t spell. Margaret Troast is plucking out the eyes of her enemies... watch out! <3 McKenna Casey is out of artist bio ideas. Miles Hazo is a CLEG major who loves eating oranges, but hates peeling them. Monette Chang is either sleeping, longing for sleep, or daydreaming (falling asleep). Naomi Skiles is a graduating senior and is worried she won’t find a job that will support her goals of making all her work about lesbianism somehow. Noelle Sommerville is a passionate artist who studies Psychology. She finds her creative outlet through drawing, painting, and photography. PJ Cunningham is senior in SPA’s BA/MA program studying Political Communications. A native of Chicago, Cunningham brings a distinct love of detail, moral ambiguity, and deep-dish pizza to his writing. While this is his first time publishing creative work, it won’t be his last. Rose Glickstein loves poetry because it’s a way for her to get delusional thoughts on paper. She hopes you enjoy making sense of her dreams. Silia Dimasi hopes you learn a stranger’s name today! Stevie D. Rosenfeld is a Journalism major who likes vampire stories more than she likes most people. Tyler Davis is a cult classic poet in the making. Consider yourself lucky to be part of the “Early Days” of their Wikipedia page. Victoria Fletcher longs to be back in Lower Manhattan.

Staff Bios Abby Tredway will find the courage. Alexa Berman will pass your concerns over to the Congressman. Thank you for calling the office and have a nice day! Ani Costa is currently somewhere basking in the sunlight! Arin Burrell has been wandering in the library for what feels like hours now. She doesn’t know what book she is looking for but she is hopeful that she will find it soon. Ava Stern has 100,000 pairs of pajamas. Caroline Jones is currently baking chocolate chip cookies. Dania Reza is probably sleeping with a notebook nearby… for inspiration, obviously. Emma DiValentino is finally retiring to the pasture upstate. Enya McArdle is currently procrastinating. Eowyn Ream wishes she lived in a cabin with way too many books and far too many cats than is socially acceptable. Franky Rodriguez is looking for his missing sock. Grace Ashford is currently digging the artist Laufey and loves to read, write, draw, sing, speak, frolick, and eat blueberries. Grace Hill is concerned that no one else is talking about the recent private acquisition of Duke’s Mayonnaise. Hope Jorgensen can no longer read without copy editing. Please, please save them from the Oxford comma. Lauren Carr is probably outside under a tree or wishing into a body of water.

Lindsey Cisneros is probably aimlessly staring out a window, instead of doing her work. Maggie Melnik is photosynthesizing and hoping for the best. McKenna Casey is forgiving it all as it comes back to her. Mira Liu is probably working on this in the corner of a cafe while listening in on other people’s side conversations. Nadia Liban is from the charming town of Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania. When she is not writing, you can find her binge-watching Glee. Peyton K. Dortch is philosophizing upon the sublime, silence, and black nail polish. Ruth Odin is living an examined life. Stevie D. Rosenfeld did not know she had to write an artist bio and a staff bio. That one’s her bad. Teo Nouve is ready for retirement. Thomas Weaverling is busy trying to curate a vibe. Zachary Austrager is a freshman in the School of Communication writing too much for his own good.

Masthead Editors-in-Chief: Abby Tredway McKenna Casey Creative Directors: Grace Hill Dania Reza Design Assistants: Mira Liu Grace Ashford Art Editors: Lex Berman Francisco Roderiquez Blog Editors: Peyton Dortch Christopher Ramnath Blog Assistants: Zachary Austrager Nadia Liban Copy Editors: Hope Jorgensen Arin Burrell Copy Assistants: Eowyn Ream Caroline Jones

Events Director: Emma DiValentino Events Assistant: Lauren Carr Photography Editors: Maggie Melnik Thomas Weaverling Photography Assistant: Abigail Weidenfeller Poetry Editors: Ruth Odin Teo Nouve Poetry Assistants: Lindsey Cisneros Enya McArdle Prose Editors: Ava Stern Ani Costa Prose Assistant: Stevie D. Rosenfeld Social Media Manager: Peyton Dortch

American Literary Magazine Mary Graydon Center 248 4400 Massachusetts Ave NW Washington, D.C. 20016

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