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write in the middle The Archer School for Girls Middle School Literary Magazine

2012-2013


Editorial Staff Emma  Halfon Tiffany  Istrin Audrey  Koh Gabriela  Lu Catherine  Oriel Dominique  White Isabelle  Wilson Saskia  Wong-­‐Smith Faculty  Advisor Amanda  Freiler


Table of  Contents Cover  Photo...................................................................................................................................................................Alyssa  Slagerman Untitled.................................................................................................................................................................................Catherine  Oriel Drawing..............................................................................................................................................................Jocelyn  Garcia-­‐Euyoque The  Reality  of  Chess...............................................................................................................................................................Sophia  Fink Untitled..................................................................................................................................................................................Nicole  Scruggs Perfection....................................................................................................................................................................................Rachel  Pike Diving  into  the  Ocean  on  a  New  Night................................................................................................................................Lola  Wolf Photo.................................................................................................................................................................................Chloe  Holberman The  Key.....................................................................................................................................................................................India  Halsted Mystery................................................................................................................................................................................Marlena  Lerner The  Water  Droplets  and  I.................................................................................................................................................Tiffany  Istrin Photo.......................................................................................................................................................................................Mari  Goldberg Untitled..............................................................................................................................................................................Hulya  Sehidoglu Eyes.........................................................................................................................................................................................Nicole  Scruggs Dandelion........................................................................................................................................................................Meghan  Marshall The  Rose............................................................................................................................................................................Summer  de  Vera Photo.......................................................................................................................................................................................Mari  Goldberg A  Single  Balloon................................................................................................................................................................Hannah  Martin The  Mirror................................................................................................................................................................Cameron  Thompson Wind  Was  My  Mother’s  Name...........................................................................................................................................Audrey  Koh A  Plane....................................................................................................................................................................................Eden  Burakoff Photo............................................................................................................................................................................................Halle  Jacobs Her  Words  Were  the  First  Storm.......................................................................................................................Bre’Anna  Chatman Untitled.....................................................................................................................................................................................Aviva  Intveld Drawing..............................................................................................................................................................................Zoë  Webb-­‐Mack My  Sight  of  the  Widow’s  Family..............................................................................................................................Kelsey  Mumford Eternal  Love.......................................................................................................................................................................Marlena  Lerner Untitled............................................................................................................................................................Maren  Richter-­‐O’Sullivan Autumn’s  Soldiers..................................................................................................................................................Gemma  Brand-­‐Wolf Photo.......................................................................................................................................................................................Leyla  Namazie Slaughter  House.........................................................................................................................................................................Ruby  Krull Fear  Is  A  Foggy  Night................................................................................................................................................Eloise  Rollins-­‐Fife Dust  and  the  Wooden  Toy...................................................................................................................................................Audrey  Koh


Untitled At four  in  the  morning I  decided  to  stop  mourning So  I  opened  the  back  door To  walk  into  the  garden They  shouted  at  me  “you  are  what  you  eat!” I  wanted  to  be  beautiful One  by  one I  picked  up  a  Jlower And  put  it  in  my  mouth Catherine  Oriel  ’18 Middle  School  Poet  Laureate


Jocelyn Garcia-­‐Euyoque  ’18 Drawing


The Reality  of  Chess Chess, You  start  with  sixteen  of  your  strongest  players, but  at  the  end  you  are  down  to  one. The  one. The  king. The  ruler  that  is  noble  but  does  so  little. Nothing. The  one  you  cannot  kill,  not  capture,  not  take. The  one  that  can  lose  nothing but  the  game  he  set  up.

Chess, The board  game  of  life, with  the  small  unuseful  pawns to  the  queen  that  can  still  be  brought  down. The  strategy  of  life. Of  war... Of  power... The  game  where  the  winner  takes  it  all. The  game  where  any  others  are  forgotten  quickly. Chess,

Chess, The game  where  you  sacriJice  your  pawns, trade  your  knights  and  keep  your  queen. The  game  that  only  one  will  win. One  will  lose. You  can  even  feel  open  to  sacriJice  pieces you  don’t  need. They  are  just  pieces  in  your  game. Your  game  of  life.

The question. The  question  we  don’t  ask  ourselves  is what  the  game  is  about. The  game  to  take  the  king. So  often  do  we  Jind  ourselves  going  after  the  weak, the  helpless  or  the  brave. We  can  often  Jind  ourselves  capturing  them before  the  king. The  bad  king  can  never  die. Because  he  stays  on  the  chess  board  forever. The  king  you  cannot  take,  and  even  if  he  makes the  wrong  move,  cannot  capture. The  king  that  is  defeated  when  totally  trapped.


The king  that  only  gives  up  when everyone  has  left, everyone  has  died. The  king  is  only  forgotten  when  they  wipe the  chess  board  clean  to  start  the  next  game.      CHECK  MATE CHESS Sophia  Fink  ’19


Untitled A sonnet,  what  is  this? A  poem  different  from  all  the  rest? Must  it  be  of  bliss? Or  can  it  be  a  quest? Can  it  be  all  dark? Full  of  mystery  and  queer, Or  should  it  be  of  spark-­‐-­‐ A  romance  blooming  near. Maybe  they  have  to  be Of  sadness  or  of  sorrow. Yet  now  I  really  see That  there’s  not  one  answer,  no. A  sonnet  is  your  life  story So  tell  it  with  all  your  glory. Nicole  Scruggs  ’17


Perfection Why must  we  be  perfect? Perfection  perforates  our  every  thought. It  whispers  stories  of  life  as  a  reject And  lies  about  what  you  are  and  what  you  are  not. We  jump  through  burning  rings And  climb  mountains  that  touch  the  sky. We  plaster  our  faces  with  countless  things Just  to  look  pleasing  to  the  stranger’s  eye. Although  we  strive  for  this  impossible  goal, Some  manage  to  look  through  the  cloud. They  manage  to  jump  over  the  inevitable  hole And  steer  away  from  the  blind  crowd. Does  really  matter  if  they  aren’t  spotless? At  least  they  can  say  they  aren’t  thoughtless. Rachel  Pike  ’17


Diving into  the  Ocean  on  a  New  Night Starlight  shone  ripply  through  the  smooth  waters. Night  has  come,  the  moonlight  totters. A  small  silver  Jish  passes  by  my  view. The  ocean  cools,  the  night  is  new. Secrets  of  the  waters  come  out  to  dance, Putting  me  into  a  deep,  deep  trance. As  I  drift  to  the  sand,  compressed  in  blue, I  stick  to  the  powdery  substance  like  glue. What  I’ve  experienced,  some  haven’t  a  clue. The  Earth  is  old,  the  night  is  new. Lola  Wolf    ’19


Chloe Hoberman  ’17 Photo


The Key The  key  to  life  is  all  I  see, Shining  on  her  neck, In  front  of  me. It’s  gold  and  rusty, In  the  shape  of  a  heart, The  whole  is  dusty,  where  it  starts. I  stare  and  wonder  where  it’s  from, How  something  unattainable  to  me, Is  so  useless  for  some. I  long  for  it  as  badly  as  my  heart  lets  me, I  can’t  see  where  I  am  anymore, All  I  know  is  where  this  girl  has  left  me. The  key  is  mine, But  not  yet, I  have  to  steal  it  before  we’ve  met. But  he  couldn’t  stop  staring  at  the  key, For  it  is  all,  his  senses, And  his  future  life  of  glee. India  Halsted  ’17


Mystery A mystery’s  a  question  never  answered That  slides  about  in  soundless  ways A  mystery’s  a  secret Hidden  in  an  endless  maze A  mystery’s  a  riddle In  which  no  one  seems  to  solve A  mystery’s  a  puzzle That  can  almost  never  be  resolved A  mystery’s  an  enigma Something  cryptic  and  something  sly A  mystery’s  bizarre That  can’t  be  answered  on  Jirst  try Why  does  this  mystery  lie  so  deeply So  far  down  inside  of  me Oh  how  I  wish  to  Jind  the  key That  holds  the  answer  to  my  mystery Marlena  Lerner  ’18


The Water  Droplets  and  I Sometimes  I  wondered  about  the  water  droplets   I  wondered  if  they  felt  as  insigniJicant  as  I  did In  comparison  to  the  never  ending  expanses  of   space  and  time The  billions  of  stars  and  unknown  far  off  planets   We  were  nothing   Sometimes  I  wondered  if  they  tried  to  speak  to  me   Or  what  they  would  say  if  they  could   As  I  listened  to  their  pattering  as  they  hit  my  skin   or  the  tub   Or  the  ground  I  walked  on Sometimes  they  sounded  tired  to  me   Or  sad Or  like  they  longed  for  something  they  could  never   reach   Like  they  needed  to  speak  to  me   I  wondered  if  they  felt  sad As  they  departed  from  my  skin   As  the  forces  of  gravity  harshly  yanked  them  away Or  if  they  too  weeped  as  they  were  taken  from  me Or  oppressed  as  they  sank  down  the  drain   Into  the  oceans  or  lakes  with  out  any  say  but  their   pattering I  wondered  if  their  pattering  were  softly   murmured  goodbyes  

As they  were  forced  onto  and  into  positions  they   didn’t  ask  for Part  of  it  was  I Part  of  it  was  the  moons  doing   Part  of  it  was  the  clouds  or  the  stars   Or  of  what  is   I  had  trapped  them  at  their  freest  in  the  tiny  tubes   and  vessels  of  me   In  the  walls  of  my  lungs   And  small  castles  that  were  my  cells  and  very  being And  I  hadn’t  stopped  to  listen  to  them  as  they  sank   up  into  my  nostrils   As  did  the  drain   I  wondered  how  they  felt  when  the  moon  grasped   them  roughly  by  the  throat   And  pulled  them  in  as  our  waves How  they  felt  when  the  clouds  had  rejected  them   and  let  them  go   How  they  felt  when  the  sun  burned  them  up  to  be   placed  in  our  lungs   And  how  they  felt  as  they  were  born  from  the   shoots  and  sprouts  of  a  tree   Or  Jlower  if  they  were  lucky  enough  to  be  as   signiJicant   And  if  they  felt  benevolent,  torn  or  bitter  or  even   unappreciated  


Either way  I  felt  they  knew  what  it  was  like  to  be   me Like  they  had  found  a  single  moment  of  solace  on   my  skin   And  if  within  their  faces  and  the  highlights  of  their   own  skin If  they  were  trying  to  smile  softly  at  me And  lastly  I  wondered  if  they  felt  as  trapped  as  me As  they  slipped  away Or  as  they  conformed  to  the  walls  of  their  cages   Whether  that  be  my  lungs,  or  yours,  or  a  Jlower’s   Or  maybe  the  face  of  a  glacier  or  ice  cube   Maybe  even  the  endings  and  coastlines  of  the   oceans   Or  the  dome  that  is  this  earth   I  wondered  if  as  big  as  their  own  cages  were   If  they  would  like  to  run  away  like  me And  if  they  knew  they  could  never  truly  leave Much  like  I Because  when  I  was  younger  I  had  believed   That  the  land  was  like  a  scab  sticking  to  the  face  of   the  water And  if  you  were  to  scrape  it  off All  you  would  Jind  was  water And  the  only  reason  why  our  planet  is  as  round  as   it  is   Was  because  the  black  that  is  our  space  was  like   ink  or  oil   That  could  never  meld  with  the  sky  or  sea  

And the  two  would  always  remain  sad   For  they  were  destined  to  only  kiss  each  other   softly   Much  like  the  water  droplets  and  I* Tiffany  Istrin  ’17

*The grammatical  error  is  an  intentional  stylistic   choice.


Mari Goldberg  ’17 Photo


Untitled One cup  of  tea, It  is  for  you  or  me. My  stomach  is  calling  for  food, but  there  is  nothing  I  can  do. Hunger  is  slowly  taking  away  my  soul.

As this  dark  place  around  me  is  slowly  going, Everything  will  be  gone, gone,  and  no  one  will  even  remember  us. We  will  be  empty  as  a  sky  without  clouds.

Can you  smell  the  sweet  honey  of  the  bees while  you  pass  around  the  tea? My  hands  feel  as  warm  as  the  sun, holding  the  little  cup  of  tea.

But we  will  always  know  that  if  you  have  hope, and  pray  and  cope, that  we  can  survive. And  now  you  have  heard  my  story  so  remember: We  are  the  people  who  can  survive on  one  cup  of  tea.

I take  a  sip  of  the  warm  herb  tea. As  it  rushes  into  my  mouth, I  remember  now  what  it  was  like  to  have  food. There  was  no  gloom. I  pass  it  around. Dark  clouds  now  cover  my  head as  despair  shouts  at  me. What  can  I  do but  wait  for  my  turn  to  come?

Hulya Sehidoglu  ’19


Eyes Eyes. A whirling,  chalky  blizzard A  frigid  chunk  of  ice A  silky  feather  of  the  raven A  frost  kissed  window A  slushy  sky  of  snow.   Eyes. A  crackling  blaze  of  Jire A  striking,  crispy  crunch A  dewy  drip  of  molasses A  dusk  blanket  of  smoke A  warm  apple  Jlurry.   Eyes. A  swirled,  creamy  sky A  sweet,  honey-­‐melon  tune A  Jluffy  sea  of  green A  smiling  bed  of  lilac A  frothy  brook  of  foam.  

Eyes. A beam  of  dripping  gold A  salty,  citrus  maze A  sticky  trail  of  vanilla A  slathered,  coconut  glaze A  tangy,  turquoise  splash.   Eyes. Nicole  Scruggs  ’17


Dandelion There she  sits, Resting  so  daintily  in  solitude. Her  pretty  polite  petals  linger. She  waits. She  waits  for  you, longs  to  listen. Listen  to  hear  your  secrets, your  hopes, your  dreams, yearns  for  your  whisper to  send  her  away and  make  those  hopes come  true. Meghan  Marshall  ’17


The Rose I  pick  the  petal   For  all  the  times  you  deceived  me For  all  the  times  you’ve  lied I  pick  the  petal   Never  forgetting  the  times  you  abused  me Thinking,  “Why  did  I  ever  try?” I  pick  the  petal Remembering  when  you  had  a  heart And  gave  me  kisses  under  our  wedding  arch I  pick  the  petal   Now  knowing  who  you  really  are Nothing  but  a  stem  is  left In  the  hand  that  you  used  to  hold The  thorns  piercing  me  like  you  did   Your  heart  now  very  cold Summer  de  Vera  ’18


Mari Goldberg  ’17 Photo


A Single  Balloon A  single  balloon  is  entitled  to  wait. It  is  waiting  on  a  weight Like  a  slave  waiting  for  freedom. The  weight  is  limiting  its  chance  to  dance  around  the  sky. The  balloon  dreams  of  whirling  around  the  cotton-­‐like  clouds. The  balloon  waits,  and  waits,  and  waits. As  the  balloon  starts  to  deJlate,  the  hope  is  also  starting  to  Jlatten, But  hours,  minutes,  seconds  couldn’t  stop  his  dreams. As  time  goes  by  the  weight  gets  lighter,  and  lighter,  and  lighter And  the  weight  snaps  from  the  string. The  balloon  slowly  Jloats  higher,  and  higher,  and  higher. The  balloon  twirled  and  swayed  all  day  long. Until  the  balloon  noticed  it  was  all  a  dream. Hannah  Martin  ’17


The Mirror The  shining  metallic  glass Folded  up  in  a  purse Or  mounted  on  the  bathroom  wall. We  gaze  at  the  perfection  of  ourselves, Our  hair,  nose,  eyes,  and  teeth. We  Jlash  a  smile  of  conJidence  as  we  continue  our  day, Or  we  notice  all  of  our  Jlaws. The  Jly  away  strand  of  hair,  the  cornJlakes  in  our  teeth, The  big,  red  zits  on  our  forehead. We  try  to  cover  up  as  we  continue  our  day In  embarrassment. A  mirror. We  all  look. What  side  are  you? Cameron  Thompson  ’18


Wind Was  My  Mother’s  Name Wind  was  my  mother’s  name Her  full  name  was  Whispering  Wooshing  Wind Naturally  she  hated  it So  she  shortened  it  to  just Wind I  couldn’t  see  her   But  it  didn’t  matter I  never  questioned  why   I  couldn’t  see  her Because  I  knew She  would  never  tell  me But  she  made  up   For  her  invisibility With  many  wonderful  things She  lifted  me  up On  her  shoulders Crowned  me  the  queen  of  all Spun  me  around  in  circles Her  laugh  sounded  like   The  Liberty  Bell Flew  me  through  the  air Set  me  free  in  the  sky Let  me  dart  through  the  clouds Until  one  day  she  suddenly  disappeared Where  did  you  go  when  I  needed  you  most I  realized  the  next  day

A windstorm  killed  everyone  in  my  neighborhood Except  me   Why? Tears  running  down  my  face I  screamed  at  her Shouted  the  things  I  knew  would  most  pain  her You  are  nothing Useless Now  I  know  why  you’re  invisible Because  everyone  hates  you Then  all  stood  still I  never  knew  silence  could Be  so  deafening   Until  that  day Ever  since   Wind  stopped  coming   I  thought  I  could   Hear  her Weeping  gently I  regret  that  day I  denied  that Wind  was  my  mother’s  name Audrey  Koh  ’17


A Plane A  plane  is  Jlying, swirling, as  high  as  the  sky. It  crashes,  gets  back  up  and  goes  on  again  forever... It’s  loved, it’s  called  stupid, and  bumped  into  any  sort  of  object  you  can  name. But  it  keeps  on  Jlying. Batteries  are  changed. It  brings  smiles  all  around. It  gets  a  scratch  or  two. But  it  keeps  on  Jlying. It’s  left  on  the  porch, watching  cars  speed  the  streets, and  it  has  been  forgotten. It  can  probably  Jly  if  it  tried.

It’s moved  to  the  attic, collecting  a  million  dust  particles. It’s  unknown  where  it  has  been. A  huff  and  a  puff  every  day  or  so. The  same  thick  air  Jills  its  nose. Its  wings  are  weak  as  feathers. Flying  days  are  over. Eden  Burakoff  ’18


Halle Jacobs  ’17 Photo


Her Words  Were  the  First  Storm Her  words  were  a  cool  wind  that  escaped  her  mouth. They  were  impending  and  cautious  with  every  word,  like  rain  before  a  thunderstorm. It  was  all  she  said,  but  her  voice  dawned  on  me  . It  seemed  like  she  was  worried  more  than  ever  about  something, Or  maybe  it  was  just  the  way  she  spoke. But  she  was  a  glass  that  was  too  close  to  shattering. Her  words  were  ice. They  were  sickles  of  frozen  water  that  deviated  from  the  cave  that  created  them With  eyes  as  cold  as  winter,  she  spoke. Frozen. Isolated. She  was  a  glacier  slowly  melting  in  the  middle  of  the  Arctic. Her  words  were  a  dreary  rain  that  danced  on  your  window  pane. She  was  a  solemn  song. She  was  not  Jirm  but  not  at  all  loose-­‐-­‐a  lifeless  portrait  maybe. She  was  sinking  slowly, Steadily,  leisurely. Titanic. Her  words  were  a  Jlood. They  trickled  out  of  her  mouth  hastily.   Her  body  shook  crazily,  like  a  robust  earthquake. Her  head  swirled  like  a  tornado  that  had  the  power  of  a  thousand  cities. This  is  the  Jirst  storm. Her  words  were  the  Jirst  storm. Bre’Anna  Chatman  ’17


Untitled Spring-­‐-­‐ Come back. How  long  it’s  been. The  cold  winter  has  taken  you   Crushed  you     Destroyed  you. I  thought  I  would  never  see  you  again. But  then  you  come-­‐-­‐ In  a  burst  of  bright  daisies  and  butterJlies Making  the  air  smell  like  honey, While  I  sing   Melodies  in  the  air.     A  smile  lit  on  my  face.       The  sun  beaming  down  on  me. And  I  wonder, Why  do  you  go  away? What  makes  you  leave?   Disappear?     Die  out? I  missed  you. While  other  children  played  in  the  snow, I  stopped  myself. I  didn’t  go  out  and  play  with  them. I  couldn’t.    I  wouldn’t. I  would  start  for  the  door,  my  head  full  of  ideas,  and  then  I  would  remember.

Aviva Intveld  ’19


Zoë Webb-­‐Mack  ’18 Drawing


My Sight  of  the  Widow’s  Family when  i  look  out  my  bedroom  window and  look  down, i  see  a  poor  widow suffering  on  the  ground. her  two  little  children wait  for  a  long  while, ‘cause  just  to  get  some  water they  have  to  walk  about  Jive  miles. if  they  want  some  bread, they  come  to  my  door. but  if  i  say  no, they  just  ask  for  more. i  feel  like  a  bad  person when  i  ignore  the  poor, especially  when  i’ve  just walked  out  of  a  store. when  i  back  away  from  my  window and  sit  on  my  bead, i  just  think  to  myself “i’m  just  glad  i  get  to  have  bread.”

Kelsey Mumford  ’19


Eternal Love Sometimes  love  lives Sometimes  love  lies But  when  love’s  true It  never  dies Day  by  day Year  by  year Side  by  side Laughs  and  tears And  when  one’s  beloved  begins  to  fade Their  passion  never  goes  away The  soulmate  never  leaves  her  side Until  the  day  his  soulmate  dies Marlena  Lerner  ’18


Untitled I. Wind danced Across  the  Jields Through  the  grasses Wush,  Wush Seeping  through  the  cracks Of  the  farmhouse Small And  alone Whistle,  Whistle Brushing  the  face Of  a  child At  rest Woo,  Woo Bringing  moisture A  dense,  wet  fog Again Again Again

Every Night Every Morn Wind plays In  the  grass Wush,  Wush At  the  foot  of  death Seeping  through  the  cracks Of  a  casket Whistle,  Whistle Brushing  a  face The  small  face Of  the  person  it  killed


II. Wind dances Across  the  Jields Through  the  wheat The  ripe,  ripe  wheat Wush,  Wush Over  the  back Of  a  Jigure Bent  over  in  toil Seeping  through  the  cracks Of  the  farmhouse Small And  alone Whistle,  Whistle Creeping  over  the  small  chair No  longer  Jilled Brushing  the  plate Still  at  the  table Empty

Before it  slips  under  the  door It  sees  that  Jigure Kissing  the  place Where  that  little  hand  lay Maren  Richter-­‐O’Sullivan  ’18


Autumn’s Soldiers Leaves  fall  like  colorful  skydivers Soldiers  in  yellow,  red,  and  orange Soldiers  with  broken  limbs  and  broken  hearts Litter  the  sodden  earth,  martyrs  for  the  seasons Damp  with  the  tears  of  the  storm,  scattered  with  the  screams  of  the  wind Still  and  lonely,  quiet  and  empty Quick  lives  that  end  in  triumph The  light  of  the  sun  reaches  through  leaning  branches To  touch  its  children,  to  touch  brave  soldiers Gemma  Brand-­‐Wolf  ’18


Leyla Namazie  ’17 Photo


Slaughter House It’s  hard  to  change  what’s  already  begun Although  sad  to  say  what’s  done  is  done Their  voice  is  unspoken  in  our  ear No  sign  of  emotion,  not  even  a  tear It’s  hard  to  picture  what  really  goes  on Born  in  a  second  and  already  gone Day  and  night  they  have  no  fear No  sign  of  emotion,  not  even  a  tear There  is  no  saying  if  it  will  end Our  plan  to  help  we  often  suspend Before  we  know  it  they  will  disappear With  no  sign  of  emotion,  not  even  a  tear Ruby  Krull  ’18


Fear Is  A  Foggy  Night Fear  is  a  foggy  winter  night That  blinds  both  weak  and  strong. When  there  is  no  sound  made There  is  still  noise  heard, And  minutes  seem  extra  long. It  engulfs  you  in  its  velvet  air With  the  strength  of  Hercules. It  clutches  you  in  its  silky  grasp And  simply  echoes  your  pitiful  pleas. Although  there  is  an  ending  near, You  can’t  see  any  light. You  wait  and  shout,  but  the  path  won’t  clear. fear  is  a  foggy  night. Eloise  Rollins-­‐Fife  ’17


Dust and  the  Wooden  Toy A  dream  crushed   Is  a  little  bird   With  a  broken  leg Who  didn’t  listen  to  Mama Trying  to  run  from  Death Tender  and  fragile Tears  running  down   The  little  bird’s  face The  Grim  Reaper  stands  tall Grins  his  toothless  smirk  that  reeks  of  death Mama Over  the  little  bird He  raises  his  gleaming  scythe Sparkling  of  blood  and  despair Don’t  run  too  far  now And  the  bird  shuts  its  eyes Knowing  it  can’t  do  anything It  watches  its  life  spiral  away Into  darkness Tries  hopelessly I’m  sorry One  last  time To  stand  on  its  weak  leg That’s  when   She  came   And  tried  to  mend

Its brokenness But  it  could  only  lay  there Like  an  abandoned  wooden  toy Living  among  dust It  was  too  broken   Now  son,  that’s  too  far  Audrey  Koh  ’17

Write in the Middle  

2012-2013 The Archer School for Girls

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