The Kingston Road House

9/5/22 5:17 pm

May sits on my back patio, Resting and rocking in my wooden chair. The thick, sweet, smell

Of cut grass and honey suckle Hangs low in the air.

Summer

Drags herself through the lawn, Past the garden beds, And up the back porch steps Kissing my memories hazy

The air

Is dense and comfortable

So all the creatures of our hidden acre Slip into love making.

Gill and I spend most days out back, it’s better out there.

Scavenging the thorny compost pile for sweet potato roots. Twisting off basil and rosemary stems for bird bath potions, And climbing the twisted crepe myrtle limbs, Perched in conversation about How the beanstalks stretched, or Who woke the sun up each morning.

But summer has come and gone again, And now it is fall That lays her cool hair Atop the trees of our yard.

Gill and I take notice as our father Brushes smooth and plaits bedtime braids for us On the front porch.

In the crisp fall evening

Through the light of lit cigarettes The once lush kingdom we both ruled Has dwindled.

Still, the yellow corn grows tall. Still, the cicadas sing to the wind. Still, the Bradford Pear grows. And oh how it watches over.

This fall, I am a freshman in college. But my steady split Bradford Pear, Cracked in two and wrapped trunk wise with steel, Bears the same fruit it always has.

In our haven of change Some things

Like pears and people Still remain untouched

Jude Williams

Class of 2026

Poem for the End of November from Poems for the Cold

When everyone wishes for December, I will remember you. For you are my first hot chocolate, My new winter coat, And the gray gloomy clouds, That narrate my drive back to school. The leaves are dead, And the lights are glittery. We all feel in-between, Like real life is strangely paused. It is a time of reflection On how we’re supposed to feel, And how we actually do. I think they write the sad Christmas songs This time of year.

Welcome Back

I feel the wind ripple my shirt. Each wave of fabric whispers “hello” or “missed you” or “it’s been too long” and I close my eyes giving in to the greetings, accepting the warmth, just briefly before dealing with this. This harrowing dilemma.

The car ’s red lights haunt Jonny’s face as he speaks in hushed tones. I can’t forget all of our shared childhood joy, but his words still pull the heavy cord in my abdomen until my lungs can only gasp. Gasp out in need of reassurance or air, I’m not sure.

I’m only sure that Jonny is home and I am home and so is this corpse in Jonny’s trunk.

Jordan Fong Class of 2024

Study of an Avocado Seed and Sweet Potato

Jan Gary Graphite

Class of 2023

Invasive Species

My hands roam my body through its peaks and troughs and over its mountains and valleys. As I stare at my reflection in a puddle on the side of a dirt road, my tears ripple the water

If my legs were redwoods, I could stand tall.

If my arms were roots, I would be strong enough to hold up the world.

If my skin was moss, I could be sensitive and soft.

If my stomach was a knot where life stems, I could be intricate and powerful.

If my feet were leaves, I could be confident and delicate.

When I look at my reflection in the puddle, I do not see redwoods, but redgum trees. The parts that make up me do not belong here.

Two Becomes One

When raindrops fell for over a week, it was an angel weeping in heaven above.

The pattern on the pavement paired nicely with the pins and needles tic-tac-toed across my skin.

Though I reached out my hand to her, she never lifted me, leaving the stains cascading down my cheeks.

She lent me her sorrows and sang me her chorus of laments. It was beautiful, really.

Her pain was mine to share, I understood her cries and blows of woe.

How this burning wound had not yet subdued, I know not. Jealousy or reminiscence, she dared not say

She made herself at home inside my cage rotting beneath the shell of mangled roots and tired bones

Her pent-up poison flooded my consciousness. A dirty trick that destroyed the best parts of me.

Had the thunder not clouded my eyes, I could have seen the halo hanging in her hand; gold stained crimson.

My hair slithers from my scalp in clumps. Red lines snake around my eyeballs.

She’s crawling inside my skin cupping my shaking heart; her slender hands steady.

The copper taste against my swollen tongue mimics the waterlogged earth against the steamy air.

And as I light this match I’ll pray we both burn tonight.

Self Portrait at Touchstone Wildlife Museum Haughton, LA

It’s hard to remember not to coo at the babies, the soft swirls of the raccoon kits’ fur, the little white teeth lining the lion cub’s levered-open yawn. I do not like dead things, but pains have been taken to ensure that when I look into these creatures’ flat eyes, I can imagine them alive. More than the usual salt and formaldehyde— some wear sunglasses. Others, like the doe hanging limp in the crooked sneer of the cross-eyed hyena, exclaim in little paper-and-wire speech bubbles, yelp why-I-oughta! with a vehemence that doesn’t match their bored expressions.

It’s tempting to label the old woman behind the counter a part of the collection, but that’s rude and inaccurate besides. The taxidermist is deaf as a diaphonized adder, sure, and misses our nervous laughs as we move through the exhibits. Her glinting eyes, though, could never be traded for clouded resin. She catches some negligible gesture, interprets it as interest in the zebras, and urges us to step over the barrier into their papier-mâché savanna. She questions why we hesitate to run our fingers down the stiff bristles of their stripes, why we won’t sit astride their backs and test the strength of their wooden spines. The kids love this, she says. When they come on their field trips, I can’t get ‘em out of here. She takes three pictures before she lets us climb out, each one blurry with the shaking of her hands.

At the museum’s back, a steep blue staircase climbs a tight blue hallway to a humid second story. When I step off the landing, I have half had my fill of corpses. I expect another unicorn head, maybe, another dead horse beaten into a bad joke, but instead I see THE RAPTURE in crooked, peeling letters, paintings of empty bodies piloting crashed cars, manifestos and bible verses and a strange, paranoid arithmetic papering the walls — and I find that I am not surprised. Clarity comes, so obvious it hits like a bolt to the heart or a pickup to my wide-eyed stare, and this whole bizarre place falls to logic before me. I do not like dead things, but I know well this mad desire to stuff and mount the end of any small world.

Beaux

Emma Foster

Watercolor

Class of 2025

Sacral Practice

His sterling silver crucifix dangles in perpendicular fraud, welded, fused, affixed, man-made. His cross is godless, no Greek Artemis. His god is a deistic evolutionary and must find pleasure in virgins defiled.

My body burns like an aromatic sacrifice.

“Two Waters Please”

Anna Jane Storms

Watercolor and Ink

Class of 2023

Transmigration of The Soul

Having the same dream for a week straight is a blessing for the broken.

A blueprint for the rebirth of the soul. Dreams about the monstrous woman with seven faces and a voice exactly like mine, just trying to break out of the fire consuming the cave.

Longing for the water of the sea to release her from captivity.

How can I become new when the seven-headed beast within is holding me back?

So I embark on a journey to the sea and I stand beneath the sky Feeling the cleanliness of the water pierce my skin, as I pray to the rising son.

Praying for my soul to become pure, and for the lightest parts of myself to override the dark. Just hoping for the envious, greedy, selfish, jealous, big-headed, arrogant, and cynical parts of myself to drown in the sea,

And reincarnate into an honest and pure version of myself.

Because I am the underdog. Giving off black and white light, with a spiritual earth mother and a serpent both on my side,

Trying to see which side will take over

Class of 2026

Are You Uncomfortable Yet?

I have metal in my body from head to toe I’m a literal cyborg. Damn, you could probably beat me at arm-wrestling, huh? You mean I finally get to bust my ass on purpose for once?? She’s not jaywalking, she’s jaywheeling. Wheelies: giving new meaning to “throwing it back.” I always wondered what it would be like to have sex in a wheelchair. You’ve heard of scooter-ankle?

NYOOOOOOOM! Wheelchair-shin is Oh shit, she tryna run me over! worse. Two Truths and a Lie: I’ve had cancer twice, All the things that make us special are the things that make us strong I’ve toured around Spain for two weeks, and I have a black belt Imagine all the roleplay we could do since your legs don’t work in taekwondo. I’m warning you now, I will set off the What if

I said I

wanted to pull you off that wheelchair and rail you? metal detectors. I’m all 3 kinds of unstable: mentally, emotionally, I wanna hook you up to a RC motor and drive you around like Mario Kart and physically.

Taking the Highway to Hell since there’s only a Stairway to Heaven.

Emily Clarke Class of 2023

Within You and Without You

A.R. Rossomando

Colored Pencil

Class of 2024 34

Despair

The feeling of your fingers gripping, Molding an object as You try to relax your hand against the wet clay.

You could feel your hands moving as your mind races With feelings somersaulting in desperation to Cling to this object— Unfazed and perfect in stillness.

The thick grey clay sticks to your hands as You shakily try to regain control.

An object once fixated, Blurs as it becomes further Out of reach.

Diane Battaglia Class of 2022

1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back Theo Soliz Oil Pastel Class of 2025

Lunch sometimes i forget i used to be hungry. there are tougher pills to swallow. i take them in stride— call them symptoms— with a glass of orange juice for comfort. two benadryl are all that sit in my stomach when you ask me about my day. i still have to hold them back. my brain thinks i’m choking. i default to oatmeal. four shakes of cinnamon and uncounted spoons piled with sugar. just enough to make me feel sick. one bowl can make it through the whole day. i down a couple spoonfuls when i’m supposed to be hungry— you call it a symptom. sometimes i think everything is a symptom of being yours. i gain you as i lose a dress size. my brain thinks i’m choking.

Z aviera Brown Class of 2026

Daughter won’t you listen?!

My body starts to decay from cleaning up the messes you make.

I brought you into this world, you should be grateful. After everything I’ve done ….

I’ve clothed, fed and protected you, but you still find a way to be hateful!

What did I do to deserve this?!

I give you instructions to survive, to be perfect, and you refuse to listen.

“Stop biting your nails! Don’t you want a male?”

“Boys don’t like girls with short nails and dark tales.”

“Eat this, not that.”

“Eat too much and you’ll be a cow. Eat too little and you’ll be a twig.”

“Don’t you know you’ll never get a man behaving like this?”

Why aren’t you listening to me?!

I just want a daughter who can listen in one ear and not have it go out the other. Is that too much to ask?

I gave you one goddamned task!

“Listen to me and you’ll survive, you’ll be perfect.”

My body starts to decay from cleaning up the messes you make.

Akiyah Canada Class of 2026

Parents

It’s too hot.

As your rays of light and heat crash onto the Earth, I find myself sweating, panting, and wanting shade and a nice breeze.

You’re overbearing. The way you can make a simple walk feel so strenuous And the way you can make every metal object too hot to touch.

I think to myself, You must be finding pleasure in burning my skin, casting a harsh glare into my eyes, And melting the ice cream that I’ve longed for all afternoon

Yes, perhaps it is time for you to go.

I celebrate the abscission of the trees around me. The ground patterned with a lovely array of red and orange. The chattering of the squirrels as they collect their haul.

But in an instant, it strikes me. The sudden chill of a wind far too strong to be a gentle breeze. It is a harsh reminder of the bitter moments that are to come.

With the dry air and the naked trees, I stand facing the desolate land. No movement or life in sight.

As I shiver in place, As goosebumps riddle my skin, As my fingers freeze to the point of desensitization, I look up to find you.

But of course, you’ve left, and now I understand.

You’ve made me sweat, pant, and seek shade, but you did it for me. You did it to protect me from the snow. You did it to reflect beautiful colors onto my eyes. You did it to birth every critter from ant to whale.

Forgive me. Come back and restore my world.