The Chronicle | Fall 2019

The Chronicle

Disclaimer: The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this issue of The Chronicle belong solely to the individual artists and writers. It is noted, these ideas are not affiliated with The Chronicle nor Clemson University.

The Chronicle

Disclaimer: The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this issue of The Chronicle belong solely to the individual artists and writers. It is noted, these ideas are not affiliated with The Chronicle nor Clemson University.

Table of Contents Chronicle Staff ........................................................... 1 Letter From the Editor ............................................. 2 Balance In All Things ................................................. 3

I See You .................................................................... 37 Conscience Conquest .............................................. 39 We Weren’t Born to Fight ...................................... 40

Give Credence ............................................................. 4 Praise Be to the Woman ............................................ 5 Body ............................................................................. 7 Epiphany ..................................................................... 8 Harpy ........................................................................... 9 The Goddess of Beauty (Standards) ..................... 10 The Mask We Wear ................................................... 11 Monster ...................................................................... 13 Agony ......................................................................... 14 The Storm .................................................................. 15 Oh! How the Flag Twitched .................................... 17 Dreamscape ............................................................... 18 Angles ......................................................................... 19 I’ve Seen It All .......................................................... 20 Here Lies the Flower Girl ........................................ 21 Sift It Real Good ...................................................... 23 Laundry Day ............................................................ 24 Title IX: A Student’s Perspective .......................... 25 Frida Kahlo ............................................................... 26 Constellation ............................................................. 27 Synthesis ................................................................... 29 Didn’t Your Mother Ever Tell You to Stay Out of the Garden? ..................................................................... 30 Fluffy .......................................................................... 31 For Sarah ................................................................... 33 Dolores ....................................................................... 35

Serenity ...................................................................... 41 Know Me ................................................................... 42 Imagining Myself as a Poet From a History Book Published in 1822 That Will Be Used in Schools Until the End of Time .............................................. 43 Portrait of Santiago Ramón y Cajal ....................... 46 Lonely on the Plane ................................................. 47 The Future Freaks Me Out .................................... 48 If I Slam With This Poem ....................................... 49 Rushmore .................................................................. 52 Marionette ................................................................. 53 Untitled ...................................................................... 54 Going Home .............................................................. 55 No Access ................................................................. 56 Weiss Lake #2 .......................................................... 57 A Good Boy ............................................................... 59 Riggers ...................................................................... 60 Lavender Painted ..................................................... 61 Death as a Catfish .................................................... 62 The Reason Why ...................................................... 63 My Brain Feels Foggy .............................................. 66

Gossamer .................................................................. 36

Broken/Bound .......................................................... 67 Legend 2 .................................................................... 68 All Things Hidden .................................................... 69 Tomorrow .................................................................. 71 The Woods ................................................................ 72 Free My Soul ............................................................ 73

Table of Contents Chronicle Staff ........................................................... 1 Letter From the Editor ............................................. 2 Balance In All Things ................................................. 3

I See You .................................................................... 37 Conscience Conquest .............................................. 39 We Weren’t Born to Fight ...................................... 40

Give Credence ............................................................. 4 Praise Be to the Woman ............................................ 5 Body ............................................................................. 7 Epiphany ..................................................................... 8 Harpy ........................................................................... 9 The Goddess of Beauty (Standards) ..................... 10 The Mask We Wear ................................................... 11 Monster ...................................................................... 13 Agony ......................................................................... 14 The Storm .................................................................. 15 Oh! How the Flag Twitched .................................... 17 Dreamscape ............................................................... 18 Angles ......................................................................... 19 I’ve Seen It All .......................................................... 20 Here Lies the Flower Girl ........................................ 21 Sift It Real Good ...................................................... 23 Laundry Day ............................................................ 24 Title IX: A Student’s Perspective .......................... 25 Frida Kahlo ............................................................... 26 Constellation ............................................................. 27 Synthesis ................................................................... 29 Didn’t Your Mother Ever Tell You to Stay Out of the Garden? ..................................................................... 30 Fluffy .......................................................................... 31 For Sarah ................................................................... 33 Dolores ....................................................................... 35

Serenity ...................................................................... 41 Know Me ................................................................... 42 Imagining Myself as a Poet From a History Book Published in 1822 That Will Be Used in Schools Until the End of Time .............................................. 43 Portrait of Santiago Ramón y Cajal ....................... 46 Lonely on the Plane ................................................. 47 The Future Freaks Me Out .................................... 48 If I Slam With This Poem ....................................... 49 Rushmore .................................................................. 52 Marionette ................................................................. 53 Untitled ...................................................................... 54 Going Home .............................................................. 55 No Access ................................................................. 56 Weiss Lake #2 .......................................................... 57 A Good Boy ............................................................... 59 Riggers ...................................................................... 60 Lavender Painted ..................................................... 61 Death as a Catfish .................................................... 62 The Reason Why ...................................................... 63 My Brain Feels Foggy .............................................. 66

Gossamer .................................................................. 36

Broken/Bound .......................................................... 67 Legend 2 .................................................................... 68 All Things Hidden .................................................... 69 Tomorrow .................................................................. 71 The Woods ................................................................ 72 Free My Soul ............................................................ 73

Chronicle Staff Senior Staff Madison Wakefield - Editor-in-Chief Joseph Whipple - Layout Editor Mary Thomas McCutchen - Literary Editor Hannah Rivers - Art Editor Xavier Charlot - Managing Editor Abigail Johnson - Copy Editor Nick Bauer - Promotions & Social Media Manager Colby Cofield - Promotions & Social Media Manager Sydney Lykins - Webmaster

General Staff Lori Able Nicole Ammerall Erik Antonio Kelly Evans Audrey Hill Katherine Kaczmarski

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Honor Kerley Matthew Maiorelle Caroline Morales Hannah Skinner Davis White

From the editor Dear Reader,

As my staff brainstormed potential themes for our Fall 2019 magazine, there was lighthearted banter and excitement behind evoking spooky for the autumn season and juxtaposing this with a brighter spring magazine. Because that idea resonated so well with us, The Chronicle staff embarked on creating this magazine with the aesthetic intent of Southern Gothic in mind. Elements taken from Southern Gothic genre contributed to the actualization of the theme; key words such as the grotesque, decay, and discrimination helped visualize the path we were trying to follow. As The Chronicle progressed and approached deadlines, I began to reflect on the relativity of Southern Gothic within our community. Southern Gothic is defined by the presence of an overall angst-ridden sense of alienation. This varies from traditional British gothic because our horrific society replaces threats of the supernatural. In Clemson, you can witness fresh expansion and development throughout campus but this growth goes in hand with the condemned buildings and the decay that flourishes in corners.

The reputation of Clemson is victorious and mighty, though the harrowing past of slavery and oppression pervades our historic members and cannot be forgotten. In current day, I continue to see prejudice. People fall victim to harm because of their identity, the public cowers in fear over fatal events that can change their life instantaneously.

To my surprise, our playfully dark theme reveals a harsh truth of the reality we live in.

With this edition of The Chronicle, I urge you to look deeper into life, take blatant ideas and discover the profound meaning. Never leave a stone unturned. When you educate yourself on injustices observed around you, is when you can pursue righteousness and make a difference.

As always, thank you for your support, which allows us to make our difference.

Madison Wakefield

Madison Wakefield Editor-in-Chief

2

Chronicle Staff Senior Staff Madison Wakefield - Editor-in-Chief Joseph Whipple - Layout Editor Mary Thomas McCutchen - Literary Editor Hannah Rivers - Art Editor Xavier Charlot - Managing Editor Abigail Johnson - Copy Editor Nick Bauer - Promotions & Social Media Manager Colby Cofield - Promotions & Social Media Manager Sydney Lykins - Webmaster

General Staff Lori Able Nicole Ammerall Erik Antonio Kelly Evans Audrey Hill Katherine Kaczmarski

1

Honor Kerley Matthew Maiorelle Caroline Morales Hannah Skinner Davis White

From the editor Dear Reader,

As my staff brainstormed potential themes for our Fall 2019 magazine, there was lighthearted banter and excitement behind evoking spooky for the autumn season and juxtaposing this with a brighter spring magazine. Because that idea resonated so well with us, The Chronicle staff embarked on creating this magazine with the aesthetic intent of Southern Gothic in mind. Elements taken from Southern Gothic genre contributed to the actualization of the theme; key words such as the grotesque, decay, and discrimination helped visualize the path we were trying to follow. As The Chronicle progressed and approached deadlines, I began to reflect on the relativity of Southern Gothic within our community. Southern Gothic is defined by the presence of an overall angst-ridden sense of alienation. This varies from traditional British gothic because our horrific society replaces threats of the supernatural. In Clemson, you can witness fresh expansion and development throughout campus but this growth goes in hand with the condemned buildings and the decay that flourishes in corners.

The reputation of Clemson is victorious and mighty, though the harrowing past of slavery and oppression pervades our historic members and cannot be forgotten. In current day, I continue to see prejudice. People fall victim to harm because of their identity, the public cowers in fear over fatal events that can change their life instantaneously.

To my surprise, our playfully dark theme reveals a harsh truth of the reality we live in.

With this edition of The Chronicle, I urge you to look deeper into life, take blatant ideas and discover the profound meaning. Never leave a stone unturned. When you educate yourself on injustices observed around you, is when you can pursue righteousness and make a difference.

As always, thank you for your support, which allows us to make our difference.

Madison Wakefield

Madison Wakefield Editor-in-Chief

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Balance in All Things, from the To Fill the Void Series

Give Credence Keith Phelps

Nicole Stoudemire

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Balance in All Things, from the To Fill the Void Series

Give Credence Keith Phelps

Nicole Stoudemire

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Praise Be to the Woman Tyrus Earls Praise be, to the woman... for she, is made, of magic.....

To be woman, is to roughly make 80 cents per every man’s dollar It is to know that 4 out of every 5 victims of human trafficking are girls And according to the National Sexual Violence Resource Center, 91% Of victims of rape and sexual assault are females But yet we meeeeenn, still expect for you to carry our child for 9 looonngg months With Your ankles being swelled at month 5 Dealing with cramps Needing a back and foot massage While making us pancakes, hash browns, bacon and sausage But here we are getting mad at you for wanting a simple text back just to know if we’re safe or not To be woman, is having to pray, to not be prey..

Like ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of misogyny I will fear no man touching, for thou pepper spray art with me And if that be not enough strength in her magic, to be woman, is to get cat called by men the same way cancer cat calls her breast..... And isn’t that the definition of Gentrification? - For something else to find home in what is already living?

5

So this one, this one, this one, this one right here goes out to you... mama....

How the doctor said the mammogram detected something unusual this time, and I swear there was a lump in my throat the same size as the lump in your breast; I just couldn’t bear to swallow the truth When you told me the news, I sent my smile to go apply for the job of letting you know that everything’s going to be alright, but it never got called back for a job interview So I looked at my faith the same way that a wildfire looks at California, because I pictured me being 3 years old and I see Grandma Ruby not making it...

I pictured, me being 8 years old and I see Grandma Evie not making it...

I pictured, me being 12 years old and Cousin Pam not making it And this is how Cancer thinks it’s been to enough funerals to be considered called family Thinking how it can be invited to our family cookouts only bringing napkins to wipe away our tears - the hospital is not a Line Dance!

So my mother she prayed.... to not be prey To not let cancer find a home in what she is already living Like ye though I walk through valley of the shadow of surgery I will fear no doubt because I have two sons who needs me Oh Praise be to the woman! For she, my mother is made of magic.

Because to this day, my mom, she is still.... Cancer Free. ...

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Praise Be to the Woman Tyrus Earls Praise be, to the woman... for she, is made, of magic.....

To be woman, is to roughly make 80 cents per every man’s dollar It is to know that 4 out of every 5 victims of human trafficking are girls And according to the National Sexual Violence Resource Center, 91% Of victims of rape and sexual assault are females But yet we meeeeenn, still expect for you to carry our child for 9 looonngg months With Your ankles being swelled at month 5 Dealing with cramps Needing a back and foot massage While making us pancakes, hash browns, bacon and sausage But here we are getting mad at you for wanting a simple text back just to know if we’re safe or not To be woman, is having to pray, to not be prey..

Like ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of misogyny I will fear no man touching, for thou pepper spray art with me And if that be not enough strength in her magic, to be woman, is to get cat called by men the same way cancer cat calls her breast..... And isn’t that the definition of Gentrification? - For something else to find home in what is already living?

5

So this one, this one, this one, this one right here goes out to you... mama....

How the doctor said the mammogram detected something unusual this time, and I swear there was a lump in my throat the same size as the lump in your breast; I just couldn’t bear to swallow the truth When you told me the news, I sent my smile to go apply for the job of letting you know that everything’s going to be alright, but it never got called back for a job interview So I looked at my faith the same way that a wildfire looks at California, because I pictured me being 3 years old and I see Grandma Ruby not making it...

I pictured, me being 8 years old and I see Grandma Evie not making it...

I pictured, me being 12 years old and Cousin Pam not making it And this is how Cancer thinks it’s been to enough funerals to be considered called family Thinking how it can be invited to our family cookouts only bringing napkins to wipe away our tears - the hospital is not a Line Dance!

So my mother she prayed.... to not be prey To not let cancer find a home in what she is already living Like ye though I walk through valley of the shadow of surgery I will fear no doubt because I have two sons who needs me Oh Praise be to the woman! For she, my mother is made of magic.

Because to this day, my mom, she is still.... Cancer Free. ...

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Epiphany Katherine Kaczmarski You ran before the storm to join me, Threw your arms open, slammed your eyes shut Inky hair blown back in the gale, Purple heat lit the horizon and illuminated our pining faces Two beautiful fools dancing in the warm rain, Trembling at the taste of the terrifying truth.

Body 7

Maya Britton

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Epiphany Katherine Kaczmarski You ran before the storm to join me, Threw your arms open, slammed your eyes shut Inky hair blown back in the gale, Purple heat lit the horizon and illuminated our pining faces Two beautiful fools dancing in the warm rain, Trembling at the taste of the terrifying truth.

Body 7

Maya Britton

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Harpy Katherine Kaczmarski Fading, flickering fragments of a female sewn together, but her stitches come undone, so she snips off her asymetries with a pair of silver scissors, blunt from use and the thin blood seeps from her brain, snakes down her legs, escapes into her bathwater, and she thinks the tired tendrils look like lilting lily pads struggling to the surface

The Goddess of Beauty (Standards) H. Rivers

then dying, dissipating to the dark depths.

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Harpy Katherine Kaczmarski Fading, flickering fragments of a female sewn together, but her stitches come undone, so she snips off her asymetries with a pair of silver scissors, blunt from use and the thin blood seeps from her brain, snakes down her legs, escapes into her bathwater, and she thinks the tired tendrils look like lilting lily pads struggling to the surface

The Goddess of Beauty (Standards) H. Rivers

then dying, dissipating to the dark depths.

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The Mask We Wear Ronald Weber

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The Mask We Wear Ronald Weber

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Monster Katherine Kaczmarski Surprising as it is, Sometimes I feel nothing.

Nothing, I assure myself, Hushing the hissing serpent Laying on the floor of my stomach.

Sometimes when it sleeps I feel worms in my arms Stinging as they pierce my veins, And slither under my skin.

I contort my face with guilt’s grimaceI wonder what made you flee from me.

Agony H. Rivers

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Monster Katherine Kaczmarski Surprising as it is, Sometimes I feel nothing.

Nothing, I assure myself, Hushing the hissing serpent Laying on the floor of my stomach.

Sometimes when it sleeps I feel worms in my arms Stinging as they pierce my veins, And slither under my skin.

I contort my face with guilt’s grimaceI wonder what made you flee from me.

Agony H. Rivers

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III.

The Storm

lightning strikes. close to home. the dog whimpers. even you jump a little.

Isaac Washington

that was close, you say. yeah, it was.

I. not all loves die like dwarf stars, in a vicious surge of heat and energy, destroying bits of the universe in their wake. some die slow and quiet, a rotting red rose, destroying only themselves.

II. i remember a white hot streak of lightning, veiny blue arms against a jet-black backdrop, wicked sharp tentacles, crackling, buzzing. the dog kept whining. he hates thunderstorms, you explain (as if i hadn’t known)

most dogs do, i reply. yeah. most of our conversations go like this now you say your piece, and i say mine but the pieces do not fit together. we’re an impossible puzzle.

15

the power’s out or i’d put on a movie. anything to distract from what’s going on out there, and worse, what’s going on in here. but the closest thing we have to cinema is the gentle, arrhythmic pitter patter of the rain on the roof, and that dog’s incessant whining.

IV. i want to scream at you. i want you to scream at me. i want to bicker and fight. i want to be lightning and wind, hectic and deafening, howling through windows, breaking down doors, shattering glass, knocking over trees, lighting up the sky and making dogs whine. i want to be loud and bright and impossible to deny. i want to be close. but we are not a thunderstorm. we are the day after, silent and broken, resting in the rain soaked grass and broken branches, looking for words that aren’t there, words we used to know.

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III.

The Storm

lightning strikes. close to home. the dog whimpers. even you jump a little.

Isaac Washington

that was close, you say. yeah, it was.

I. not all loves die like dwarf stars, in a vicious surge of heat and energy, destroying bits of the universe in their wake. some die slow and quiet, a rotting red rose, destroying only themselves.

II. i remember a white hot streak of lightning, veiny blue arms against a jet-black backdrop, wicked sharp tentacles, crackling, buzzing. the dog kept whining. he hates thunderstorms, you explain (as if i hadn’t known)

most dogs do, i reply. yeah. most of our conversations go like this now you say your piece, and i say mine but the pieces do not fit together. we’re an impossible puzzle.

15

the power’s out or i’d put on a movie. anything to distract from what’s going on out there, and worse, what’s going on in here. but the closest thing we have to cinema is the gentle, arrhythmic pitter patter of the rain on the roof, and that dog’s incessant whining.

IV. i want to scream at you. i want you to scream at me. i want to bicker and fight. i want to be lightning and wind, hectic and deafening, howling through windows, breaking down doors, shattering glass, knocking over trees, lighting up the sky and making dogs whine. i want to be loud and bright and impossible to deny. i want to be close. but we are not a thunderstorm. we are the day after, silent and broken, resting in the rain soaked grass and broken branches, looking for words that aren’t there, words we used to know.

16

Dreamscape Melina Wallace I’m afraid to lose my senses, Not because I’m afraid to lose reality, But because I couldn’t bear the death of…

Dreams.

Often in these daze-like states, There are: fields of wild flowers that giggle at the brush of my fingertips, Swarms of bees too busy to notice, but kind enough to avoid me, Songs of birds that fill my mind till I, myself, begin to fly, Masses of pollen, scattered across petals like a galaxy, And that turn my back into a canvas of yellow stars and constellations.

Which as I fly, I realize, I have yet to name my favorite one.

Oh! How the Flag Twitched 17

Seth Moore

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Dreamscape Melina Wallace I’m afraid to lose my senses, Not because I’m afraid to lose reality, But because I couldn’t bear the death of…

Dreams.

Often in these daze-like states, There are: fields of wild flowers that giggle at the brush of my fingertips, Swarms of bees too busy to notice, but kind enough to avoid me, Songs of birds that fill my mind till I, myself, begin to fly, Masses of pollen, scattered across petals like a galaxy, And that turn my back into a canvas of yellow stars and constellations.

Which as I fly, I realize, I have yet to name my favorite one.

Oh! How the Flag Twitched 17

Seth Moore

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Angles Andy Gasparini Do you remember how I use to trace the angles of your face with my fingertips in the silverness of the moonlight?

Just in case I ever had to shape it from memory with a gun to my head, or the thought of never holding it between my hands again.

I can still feel the hollowness of your cheekbones, and the bridge of your nose, and the arc of your cupid’s bow, on the pad of my thumb.

The silver has turned to gold, and the morning has long since dawned.

But I still recall every freckle, every inch.

I’ve Seen It All 19

Brenna Cummiskey

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Angles Andy Gasparini Do you remember how I use to trace the angles of your face with my fingertips in the silverness of the moonlight?

Just in case I ever had to shape it from memory with a gun to my head, or the thought of never holding it between my hands again.

I can still feel the hollowness of your cheekbones, and the bridge of your nose, and the arc of your cupid’s bow, on the pad of my thumb.

The silver has turned to gold, and the morning has long since dawned.

But I still recall every freckle, every inch.

I’ve Seen It All 19

Brenna Cummiskey

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Here Lies the Flower Girl Natalie Merrithew

i stand there, planted in soil, the dim yellow

the bees surround my face, of my petals lips partly pursed

falling to meet my ankles, like the sunflower,

i rid the others of the toxins

my yellow dress flows

i blow

pathetically pollinated kisses

my toes gripping the dirt i could be in any

garden on earth

but i am here

leaning against

the headstone,

suffocating in

we are rooted in in the wind the smell of my rotting petals

and i wish to uproot myself

i am both the flowers

long enough to dance in it on the grave and the girl inside it.

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Here Lies the Flower Girl Natalie Merrithew

i stand there, planted in soil, the dim yellow

the bees surround my face, of my petals lips partly pursed

falling to meet my ankles, like the sunflower,

i rid the others of the toxins

my yellow dress flows

i blow

pathetically pollinated kisses

my toes gripping the dirt i could be in any

garden on earth

but i am here

leaning against

the headstone,

suffocating in

we are rooted in in the wind the smell of my rotting petals

and i wish to uproot myself

i am both the flowers

long enough to dance in it on the grave and the girl inside it.

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Laundry Day Madison Wakefield My lazy days have been corrupted by busy ones.

As I’m finding my reflections in the midst of Tidal wave washers and silver throne dryers.

In this God forsaken laundromat that doesn’t have an ATM. So I run to Ingles only to contemplate A bag of grapes to purchase for the cash back option at checkout, Which included an extra dollar surcharge, Which I thought was ridiculous.

But I shook hands with the devil who exchanged quarters for my bill.

So now I’m sitting in this laundry hell, Stuffing over contemplated, overly priced grapes in my mouth With 7 minutes left in my cycle.

And I’m thinking, This is very different from 7 minutes in heaven.

And I’m thinking, I’d much rather be in bed with a shitty rom-com.

Sift It Real Good

But maybe, just maybe, this is one right now.

As my overalls collide with my socks, Blouses are tugged and underwear falls.

These moments in heaven can’t hide behind glass, As our bodies weave and flow in rhythmic time.

Until the final waves crash and seclude And the credits roll.

What a show that would be.

Sydney Lykins

23

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Laundry Day Madison Wakefield My lazy days have been corrupted by busy ones.

As I’m finding my reflections in the midst of Tidal wave washers and silver throne dryers.

In this God forsaken laundromat that doesn’t have an ATM. So I run to Ingles only to contemplate A bag of grapes to purchase for the cash back option at checkout, Which included an extra dollar surcharge, Which I thought was ridiculous.

But I shook hands with the devil who exchanged quarters for my bill.

So now I’m sitting in this laundry hell, Stuffing over contemplated, overly priced grapes in my mouth With 7 minutes left in my cycle.

And I’m thinking, This is very different from 7 minutes in heaven.

And I’m thinking, I’d much rather be in bed with a shitty rom-com.

Sift It Real Good

But maybe, just maybe, this is one right now.

As my overalls collide with my socks, Blouses are tugged and underwear falls.

These moments in heaven can’t hide behind glass, As our bodies weave and flow in rhythmic time.

Until the final waves crash and seclude And the credits roll.

What a show that would be.

Sydney Lykins

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Title IX: A Student’s Perspective Kaitlyn Dowden If I told you how you betrayed me, Would you believe me?

Would you look at my pain, Now as fresh as when I first came to you?

Would you look at it with the same gentle eyes?

Even after you threw me to the wolf.

Would you still claim yourself a shepard?

You call yourself a shepard Because only a few sheep have been dragged to the den.

Because the others still provide golden fleece.

How do you sleep?

Do you sleep knowing I don’t?

Do you sleep knowing I can’t?

Do you sleep knowing you are just as bad as the wolf?

A knife on your crook.

I guess shepards do raise sheep for the slaughter.

Frida Kahlo Maya Britton

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Title IX: A Student’s Perspective Kaitlyn Dowden If I told you how you betrayed me, Would you believe me?

Would you look at my pain, Now as fresh as when I first came to you?

Would you look at it with the same gentle eyes?

Even after you threw me to the wolf.

Would you still claim yourself a shepard?

You call yourself a shepard Because only a few sheep have been dragged to the den.

Because the others still provide golden fleece.

How do you sleep?

Do you sleep knowing I don’t?

Do you sleep knowing I can’t?

Do you sleep knowing you are just as bad as the wolf?

A knife on your crook.

I guess shepards do raise sheep for the slaughter.

Frida Kahlo Maya Britton

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Constellation Melina Wallace My mind is nothing short of a galaxy that a child can’t read, As I gaze around searching for the best answers, It’s easy to drag my fingers across the milky way and get lost…

“So, tell me a little bit about yourself, who is Jackie?”

He asked.

Eyes bolting from mine, to my tense shoulders, to my crossed legs.

I realize, meeting his gaze, that he is just as nervous as me.

And then I ask, “Who is Todd?”

I find myself lazily floating about in the shimmering abyss.

Where do I want to go?

Maybe a right, then two lefts, and U-turn?

No. That’s too easy.

Maybe going straight for a while, then turning left followed by a right?

No. That’s too complicated.

I don’t know, who is Jackie? I don’t know.

Eventually I become exhausted, how about a glistening sea of memories?

Maybe. Maybe I’ll figure out…

Blinking twice, I look up.

Eyes bolting to his, to his tense shoulders, to his crossed legs.

His mind is nothing short of black hole I’ll never get to explore.

That’s how my mind must look to him. Suddenly, I toss him a telescope.

“Jackie is a someone who I don’t fully know, but from as far as I can see, She’s dazzling.”

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Constellation Melina Wallace My mind is nothing short of a galaxy that a child can’t read, As I gaze around searching for the best answers, It’s easy to drag my fingers across the milky way and get lost…

“So, tell me a little bit about yourself, who is Jackie?”

He asked.

Eyes bolting from mine, to my tense shoulders, to my crossed legs.

I realize, meeting his gaze, that he is just as nervous as me.

And then I ask, “Who is Todd?”

I find myself lazily floating about in the shimmering abyss.

Where do I want to go?

Maybe a right, then two lefts, and U-turn?

No. That’s too easy.

Maybe going straight for a while, then turning left followed by a right?

No. That’s too complicated.

I don’t know, who is Jackie? I don’t know.

Eventually I become exhausted, how about a glistening sea of memories?

Maybe. Maybe I’ll figure out…

Blinking twice, I look up.

Eyes bolting to his, to his tense shoulders, to his crossed legs.

His mind is nothing short of black hole I’ll never get to explore.

That’s how my mind must look to him. Suddenly, I toss him a telescope.

“Jackie is a someone who I don’t fully know, but from as far as I can see, She’s dazzling.”

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Didn’t Your Mother Ever Tell You to Stay Out of the Garden?

Mary Thomas McCutchen Flowers decide again to grow from my psyche, But you gather them before they’ve mended.

After The heavy rain Pushed down And bruised Their blue blooms, And before the Little brown lines From nails Piercing through Their petals have Healed.

Synthesis Katie Carey

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Didn’t Your Mother Ever Tell You to Stay Out of the Garden?

Mary Thomas McCutchen Flowers decide again to grow from my psyche, But you gather them before they’ve mended.

After The heavy rain Pushed down And bruised Their blue blooms, And before the Little brown lines From nails Piercing through Their petals have Healed.

Synthesis Katie Carey

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Fluffy Natalie Mann

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Fluffy Natalie Mann

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For Sarah Keith Phelps She has tenebrism visions Of herself and where her feet lead She is stoic compromise Mammoth ivory nestled In the dark of permafrost Always down, down, down, To the root of everything Soil is her body to breathe Serviceberry trees her composure Her summer thoughts Commission the laughing fruits Each one a ripe And brimming world And her trees remain As naked sculptures Regal in themes of renewal When her winter thoughts Are skin to bone Her world a system Of aching roads Leading only to loss and reflection

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She speaks to migration She is the whooping cranes In the skies of others Alighting to become Belly full on foreign poetry Before departing to find What will find her She has marred me The life she created Dances round and round Behind my skull My desire is that our lives Will keep intersecting Interwoven like white cedar roots On worn trails As her creation is What life should be The work of sweating your soul The solemn process Of kissing and scarring earth The pursuit of sharing The life of others With wide eyed others

34

For Sarah Keith Phelps She has tenebrism visions Of herself and where her feet lead She is stoic compromise Mammoth ivory nestled In the dark of permafrost Always down, down, down, To the root of everything Soil is her body to breathe Serviceberry trees her composure Her summer thoughts Commission the laughing fruits Each one a ripe And brimming world And her trees remain As naked sculptures Regal in themes of renewal When her winter thoughts Are skin to bone Her world a system Of aching roads Leading only to loss and reflection

33

She speaks to migration She is the whooping cranes In the skies of others Alighting to become Belly full on foreign poetry Before departing to find What will find her She has marred me The life she created Dances round and round Behind my skull My desire is that our lives Will keep intersecting Interwoven like white cedar roots On worn trails As her creation is What life should be The work of sweating your soul The solemn process Of kissing and scarring earth The pursuit of sharing The life of others With wide eyed others

34

Gossamer Ashlyn Bishop Now is not the time,

our time.

You left, and I wanted you still.

I have lost count of the days

searching for you,

over and over and over again.

My mind exhausts itself,

a symphony of echoes.

I am no longer assembled,

one piece— all.

You split the world, and my heart cracked,

torn open.

A hole in my chest

too heavy to carry.

Dolores Maya Britton

I become ghost, and you turned me cold.

Silence, like a closed envelope.

How do I shake this?

That to you,

I meant nothing.

35

36

Gossamer Ashlyn Bishop Now is not the time,

our time.

You left, and I wanted you still.

I have lost count of the days

searching for you,

over and over and over again.

My mind exhausts itself,

a symphony of echoes.

I am no longer assembled,

one piece— all.

You split the world, and my heart cracked,

torn open.

A hole in my chest

too heavy to carry.

Dolores Maya Britton

I become ghost, and you turned me cold.

Silence, like a closed envelope.

How do I shake this?

That to you,

I meant nothing.

35

36

I See You Lori Able She’s a snapdragon in the exposition of summer— pink at its core but fading into sunset orange and yellow at its tips.

An ombre essence more complex than a single unit of color— more complex than a single thought or regret.

Understated, some may say.

Their length and their nature swaying in the balmy winds of June— anomalies to its floral brethren— placed in a vase as a filler in the arrangement.

But I see you.

I see you in all of your many blooms, how you stand the test of time— still upright and holding tightly to the petals you always manage to maintain as your counterparts hang wilted and stripped bare.

37

I see your vibrant nature, the stable foundation of a masterpiece so artfully crafted by a keen eye who knew the roses— the orchids— the carnations— would fall short in the absence of your peculiar entity.

Seemingly quiet and reserved— stoic in your moments of silence but oh so beautifully aware.

Supporting your tribe in the essence of a sky turning to night.

A promise that when everything has been set on fire in that golden glow of chaos you feel within your being, we can be made a mosaic— we can be made right.

I see you standing tall— wavering freely and ever so slightly in your own dissonant rhythm.

Strength in your stalk and tender in your blooms— blazing in my eye, holding me captive in your scattered pursuits.

I see you when no one else does love— I see you.

38

I See You Lori Able She’s a snapdragon in the exposition of summer— pink at its core but fading into sunset orange and yellow at its tips.

An ombre essence more complex than a single unit of color— more complex than a single thought or regret.

Understated, some may say.

Their length and their nature swaying in the balmy winds of June— anomalies to its floral brethren— placed in a vase as a filler in the arrangement.

But I see you.

I see you in all of your many blooms, how you stand the test of time— still upright and holding tightly to the petals you always manage to maintain as your counterparts hang wilted and stripped bare.

37

I see your vibrant nature, the stable foundation of a masterpiece so artfully crafted by a keen eye who knew the roses— the orchids— the carnations— would fall short in the absence of your peculiar entity.

Seemingly quiet and reserved— stoic in your moments of silence but oh so beautifully aware.

Supporting your tribe in the essence of a sky turning to night.

A promise that when everything has been set on fire in that golden glow of chaos you feel within your being, we can be made a mosaic— we can be made right.

I see you standing tall— wavering freely and ever so slightly in your own dissonant rhythm.

Strength in your stalk and tender in your blooms— blazing in my eye, holding me captive in your scattered pursuits.

I see you when no one else does love— I see you.

38

Conscience Conquest

But now I can’t forget This memory I have tried to repress Because I was forced to accept That this way was just easier

Mollie F Maglich Cold eyes Cold eyes stare into mine No longer warm, no longer kind Callous hands Dry and cold under my hemline No longer moving with thoughtful direction

Ravaged with rage by a right you were never entitled to Demand, lust, compulsion, conquest And a 3 letter word to clear your conscience

Absent of passion, absent of connection Whiskey breath Shoots shivers down my neck And whispers in contempt As you nibble at my breast You took my consent out of context Because when you pushed me down and ripped my dress I saw you attempt To distinguish lust from convenience Because the truth is No always means no But yes doesn’t always mean yes Because when you open the door and claim the check It makes it harder for me to express That I just don’t want to have sex Out of fear it will upset And you will resent my continual discontent

39

We Weren’t Born to Fight Brenna Cummiskey

40

Conscience Conquest

But now I can’t forget This memory I have tried to repress Because I was forced to accept That this way was just easier

Mollie F Maglich Cold eyes Cold eyes stare into mine No longer warm, no longer kind Callous hands Dry and cold under my hemline No longer moving with thoughtful direction

Ravaged with rage by a right you were never entitled to Demand, lust, compulsion, conquest And a 3 letter word to clear your conscience

Absent of passion, absent of connection Whiskey breath Shoots shivers down my neck And whispers in contempt As you nibble at my breast You took my consent out of context Because when you pushed me down and ripped my dress I saw you attempt To distinguish lust from convenience Because the truth is No always means no But yes doesn’t always mean yes Because when you open the door and claim the check It makes it harder for me to express That I just don’t want to have sex Out of fear it will upset And you will resent my continual discontent

39

We Weren’t Born to Fight Brenna Cummiskey

40

Know Me Lori Able I wish you knew me now, or at least wanted to know me.

I think I’ve changed— but maybe at the root of everything I’m still the same.

I drink hot tea now and like going for long walks.

I now know what you meant when you said long winters up north are depressing, and I use more vegetables in my cooking like you once suggested.

But I’m still paranoid when a boy tells me I’m pretty.

I read too much into things, and I cry when I can’t separate the traumatized voice in my head from the truth.

I still miss you every day and I wish I could do it all over again.

Because the me who drinks tea and takes walks and knows winter wants nothing more than to have five more minutes like the summer we first met.

When my fragments had not yet cut you, and you in earnest tones would whisper “I love you” as I fell asleep.

When loving me didn’t hurt and missing you didn’t matter and you never stop wanting to know me.

Serenity 41

Sydney Lykins

42

Know Me Lori Able I wish you knew me now, or at least wanted to know me.

I think I’ve changed— but maybe at the root of everything I’m still the same.

I drink hot tea now and like going for long walks.

I now know what you meant when you said long winters up north are depressing, and I use more vegetables in my cooking like you once suggested.

But I’m still paranoid when a boy tells me I’m pretty.

I read too much into things, and I cry when I can’t separate the traumatized voice in my head from the truth.

I still miss you every day and I wish I could do it all over again.

Because the me who drinks tea and takes walks and knows winter wants nothing more than to have five more minutes like the summer we first met.

When my fragments had not yet cut you, and you in earnest tones would whisper “I love you” as I fell asleep.

When loving me didn’t hurt and missing you didn’t matter and you never stop wanting to know me.

Serenity 41

Sydney Lykins

42

Imagining Myself as a Poet From a History Book Published in 1822 That Will Be Used in Schools Until the End of Time Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), Ozymandias (1818) Natalie Merrithew These are lines from a poem I haven’t written, a love song about someone I haven’t met yet but surely will soon.

An ode to someone I could never recognize in a crowd, but at the same time, has a face I could never forget.

But enough of the nevers, lets focus on the always: like how I am always present, always absent, always feeling like there is something missing. Words to be spoken, lines to be written, but I can never get them to slip past my tongue and onto paper. I often forget how cathartic it is to spill my soul, but it feels like it will overflow soon.

All the words will hit me like crashing waves in due time.

Maybe in the right place, with the right person. But never here, never

43

now. Never in this body, in this life, through these eyes. Never this mind, or these thoughts, or these feelings, but always this soul. Through space, through time my soul remains the same, my destiny remains written.

Thousands of faces surround me, once the faces of the past – which I will soon also become, but no matter how long it takes my skin to harden, no one can deny how hard it is to forget exactly how soft my gaze feels. They won’t be able to forget.

They will feel my touch linger on their shoulder. Decades will go by and I will have never left them – not entirely. I’m putting thoughts to words, pen to paper. Soon, bits and pieces of my soul will bleed like ink, stains that always remain. These are still lines from a poem I haven’t written, but maybe they will be reading this in 200 years’ time.

Maybe I will still be here, still transcending time, my words still floating around in their heads, impossible to forget.

The face of my lover is still unclear, my words still unwritten,

44

Imagining Myself as a Poet From a History Book Published in 1822 That Will Be Used in Schools Until the End of Time Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), Ozymandias (1818) Natalie Merrithew These are lines from a poem I haven’t written, a love song about someone I haven’t met yet but surely will soon.

An ode to someone I could never recognize in a crowd, but at the same time, has a face I could never forget.

But enough of the nevers, lets focus on the always: like how I am always present, always absent, always feeling like there is something missing. Words to be spoken, lines to be written, but I can never get them to slip past my tongue and onto paper. I often forget how cathartic it is to spill my soul, but it feels like it will overflow soon.

All the words will hit me like crashing waves in due time.

Maybe in the right place, with the right person. But never here, never

43

now. Never in this body, in this life, through these eyes. Never this mind, or these thoughts, or these feelings, but always this soul. Through space, through time my soul remains the same, my destiny remains written.

Thousands of faces surround me, once the faces of the past – which I will soon also become, but no matter how long it takes my skin to harden, no one can deny how hard it is to forget exactly how soft my gaze feels. They won’t be able to forget.

They will feel my touch linger on their shoulder. Decades will go by and I will have never left them – not entirely. I’m putting thoughts to words, pen to paper. Soon, bits and pieces of my soul will bleed like ink, stains that always remain. These are still lines from a poem I haven’t written, but maybe they will be reading this in 200 years’ time.

Maybe I will still be here, still transcending time, my words still floating around in their heads, impossible to forget.

The face of my lover is still unclear, my words still unwritten,

44

but if there’s one thing I am certain of, it’s that their soul could never be a stranger to mine. Like a beacon of light, they will always shine into the harbor of my soul, and the ship that holds my heart will reach them someday soon.

As the traveler found Ozymandias, my lover will find me soon.

With “shattered visage, frown, wrinkled lip,” they will see me through the passage of time.

They will see my soul through the damage and they will spend the infinite passage of always loving me and teaching me things I could never even begin to forget.

Lessons on being present, being absent, and how never is just as impossible as always, yet they will never cease to always be written.

Maybe my always will come to an end soon, maybe my words will never be written and time will allow them to forget, but I could never.

Portrait of Santiago Ramón y Cajal Nicholas L’Amoreaux

45

46

but if there’s one thing I am certain of, it’s that their soul could never be a stranger to mine. Like a beacon of light, they will always shine into the harbor of my soul, and the ship that holds my heart will reach them someday soon.

As the traveler found Ozymandias, my lover will find me soon.

With “shattered visage, frown, wrinkled lip,” they will see me through the passage of time.

They will see my soul through the damage and they will spend the infinite passage of always loving me and teaching me things I could never even begin to forget.

Lessons on being present, being absent, and how never is just as impossible as always, yet they will never cease to always be written.

Maybe my always will come to an end soon, maybe my words will never be written and time will allow them to forget, but I could never.

Portrait of Santiago Ramón y Cajal Nicholas L’Amoreaux

45

46

The Future Freaks Me Out Mary Thomas McCutchen I’m on fire And I feel my second skin Melt unto the earth, Cower around my feet, Creating crumbling castles of char, Coins slide down smooth granite, In line with vibrations that Wrench me, Nails hammer into soil, Extending, Hot like a burn, Stretching a 5 finger grasp around my calf, Moths cover my eyes, Whispering Memento Mori, Guide me through nine, For souls must fuel an inferno, And I always yearn for what I fear.

Lonely on the Plane Keith Phelps

47

48

The Future Freaks Me Out Mary Thomas McCutchen I’m on fire And I feel my second skin Melt unto the earth, Cower around my feet, Creating crumbling castles of char, Coins slide down smooth granite, In line with vibrations that Wrench me, Nails hammer into soil, Extending, Hot like a burn, Stretching a 5 finger grasp around my calf, Moths cover my eyes, Whispering Memento Mori, Guide me through nine, For souls must fuel an inferno, And I always yearn for what I fear.

Lonely on the Plane Keith Phelps

47

48

If I Slam With This Poem Tyrus Earls Slam poetry is a competition invented by a “I dare not say his name” Poet ....

A Battle Royale if you will A verbal Armageddon where poets come and bear truth in front of 5 judges And Yes..

The judges, judge and vote Scores of 0 through 10 0 being the lowest and 10 being the highest And out of those 5 scores, and this right here is the interesting thing....

Out of those 5 scores, the lowest and the highest are completely dropped, and the remaining 3 are combined to see if you’re worthy enough ... And it’s just funny to me how History.. Can pull up a chair to our Spades’ table and sip on our Kool-aid - like we didn’t set representation back to back And here it comes again with a new trick Like if you slam with this poem, we’ll make it easier for you... By taking away the lowest and highest score so your voice will only be worth 3/5ths anyway So I might as well make this poem about black.

About how there’s a 80% chance this poem will be on Nigga time and receive a time penalty But isn’t it a blessing nowadays to receive time, than a grave?

If I slam with this poem, I think I’ll use alliteration like for example: Black boys be buried by bullets Poor powerless parents plead, PAUSE... Police Prevail Nagging niggers now need no noose Lavishing lookalikes loot She said she sobs seeing souls snatched so soon If I slam with this poem, this poem will know all about sorrow....

But Sean Bell, I guarantee you this poem will be married by the end of tomorrow

49

This poem will not be white So A’yanna, go ahead and close your eyes baby girl, because this poem will be able to sleep at night This poem will be black Matter of fact This poem will beat the back of the pack of Newports If I slam with this poem, This poem will wear a hoodie And eat skittles while drinking an Arizona Ice Tea If I slam with this poem, uuhhmmm yea sure, I may get a couple 7s.- I know booooo right?

Maybe a few 8s,- still booooo right? or 9s like, 9mm If I slam with this poem, receive a 9mm score, I will get a total of 27 Which Is To Say That this poem will be older than Trayvon Martin....

This poem, will be older than Mike Brown..

This poem will be older than Rekia Boyd Two Tamir Rice’s If I slam with this poem, I will talk about how they murdeeeerredd them.

But I can’t blame them.

Because isn’t that what the cops are trained to do?

To fire their weapons at shooting targets that are the same color as us You know, other than being black, the one thing that shooting targets and black people have in common when they’re getting shot at, is that the police, didn’t see their hands up If I slam with this poem, I will talk about how the police still got away with it anyway How the Corrupt Justice System were just the cops PAL You Know - Paid Administrative Leave

50

If I Slam With This Poem Tyrus Earls Slam poetry is a competition invented by a “I dare not say his name” Poet ....

A Battle Royale if you will A verbal Armageddon where poets come and bear truth in front of 5 judges And Yes..

The judges, judge and vote Scores of 0 through 10 0 being the lowest and 10 being the highest And out of those 5 scores, and this right here is the interesting thing....

Out of those 5 scores, the lowest and the highest are completely dropped, and the remaining 3 are combined to see if you’re worthy enough ... And it’s just funny to me how History.. Can pull up a chair to our Spades’ table and sip on our Kool-aid - like we didn’t set representation back to back And here it comes again with a new trick Like if you slam with this poem, we’ll make it easier for you... By taking away the lowest and highest score so your voice will only be worth 3/5ths anyway So I might as well make this poem about black.

About how there’s a 80% chance this poem will be on Nigga time and receive a time penalty But isn’t it a blessing nowadays to receive time, than a grave?

If I slam with this poem, I think I’ll use alliteration like for example: Black boys be buried by bullets Poor powerless parents plead, PAUSE... Police Prevail Nagging niggers now need no noose Lavishing lookalikes loot She said she sobs seeing souls snatched so soon If I slam with this poem, this poem will know all about sorrow....

But Sean Bell, I guarantee you this poem will be married by the end of tomorrow

49

This poem will not be white So A’yanna, go ahead and close your eyes baby girl, because this poem will be able to sleep at night This poem will be black Matter of fact This poem will beat the back of the pack of Newports If I slam with this poem, This poem will wear a hoodie And eat skittles while drinking an Arizona Ice Tea If I slam with this poem, uuhhmmm yea sure, I may get a couple 7s.- I know booooo right?

Maybe a few 8s,- still booooo right? or 9s like, 9mm If I slam with this poem, receive a 9mm score, I will get a total of 27 Which Is To Say That this poem will be older than Trayvon Martin....

This poem, will be older than Mike Brown..

This poem will be older than Rekia Boyd Two Tamir Rice’s If I slam with this poem, I will talk about how they murdeeeerredd them.

But I can’t blame them.

Because isn’t that what the cops are trained to do?

To fire their weapons at shooting targets that are the same color as us You know, other than being black, the one thing that shooting targets and black people have in common when they’re getting shot at, is that the police, didn’t see their hands up If I slam with this poem, I will talk about how the police still got away with it anyway How the Corrupt Justice System were just the cops PAL You Know - Paid Administrative Leave

50

If I slam with this poem, I will say that Death, is just another way Of God Prodigal Sonning us Back To Him; And It doesn’t matter how you get home - Rather it be a Noose...

Rather it be a bullet.

Rather it be a chokehold Just as long as you get home, and I must ask, Is That why Heaven’s Black At Night.......

Is That, Why Heaven’s Black At Night..

Because God Told His Children (points to skin) they need to come home before the streetlight comes on.

If I slam with this poem, I will tell you that I speak to Jesus, Every Single Day! And I asked Him, do we really have to die like this And He said to me, it’s ok my son..

I know exactly what your skin is going through Because you see I too, was unarmed Just for one man to die, just so they can still say “All Lives” matter .

If I slam with this poem, I will not filter my tongue.

This poem will not have manners I will not Button This Poetry Up For You Because I’m Writing about Now! Now! White Privilege still exists Now! Racism still exists Now! my Brothers and Sisters are still Dying But Now is the time to tell them that even if you kill us, you can’t actually kill us Black, was here Before God Even Spoke So what do we look like Losing....... to you?

Rushmore Maya Britton

51

52

If I slam with this poem, I will say that Death, is just another way Of God Prodigal Sonning us Back To Him; And It doesn’t matter how you get home - Rather it be a Noose...

Rather it be a bullet.

Rather it be a chokehold Just as long as you get home, and I must ask, Is That why Heaven’s Black At Night.......

Is That, Why Heaven’s Black At Night..

Because God Told His Children (points to skin) they need to come home before the streetlight comes on.

If I slam with this poem, I will tell you that I speak to Jesus, Every Single Day! And I asked Him, do we really have to die like this And He said to me, it’s ok my son..

I know exactly what your skin is going through Because you see I too, was unarmed Just for one man to die, just so they can still say “All Lives” matter .

If I slam with this poem, I will not filter my tongue.

This poem will not have manners I will not Button This Poetry Up For You Because I’m Writing about Now! Now! White Privilege still exists Now! Racism still exists Now! my Brothers and Sisters are still Dying But Now is the time to tell them that even if you kill us, you can’t actually kill us Black, was here Before God Even Spoke So what do we look like Losing....... to you?

Rushmore Maya Britton

51

52

Marionette Maggie Herring I admitted to you I was god over a cup of coffee.

I know it’s not right, I said.

But you see, this world is made of string, not glass. And it seems to me

I’m tethered to every other

being. Here,

feel my hands.

They’ve blistered over bare now, but they still clutch your warmth as tightly as they do your pain.

Like the spasms you can’t release from and the bedsheets you can’t uncling from,

I can still feel you.

Your skin’s discomfort, your body’s tension, the nervousness between your breaths.

Your patience is not just running thin, it’s running wild through our hearts, tearing down the stalks we’ve grown for years.

I’ve planted this ground

and painted your smile

more times than

I can count.

Perhaps God sewed my hands into these strings so I could only feel your weight below.

I’m just a puppeteer. I know that now, I said.

But I’ll hold you high and play pretend

until the paint fades,

and the thread breaks,

and our anchored hearts

meet the wooden stage.

53

Untitled Mackenzie Adams

54

Marionette Maggie Herring I admitted to you I was god over a cup of coffee.

I know it’s not right, I said.

But you see, this world is made of string, not glass. And it seems to me

I’m tethered to every other

being. Here,

feel my hands.

They’ve blistered over bare now, but they still clutch your warmth as tightly as they do your pain.

Like the spasms you can’t release from and the bedsheets you can’t uncling from,

I can still feel you.

Your skin’s discomfort, your body’s tension, the nervousness between your breaths.

Your patience is not just running thin, it’s running wild through our hearts, tearing down the stalks we’ve grown for years.

I’ve planted this ground

and painted your smile

more times than

I can count.

Perhaps God sewed my hands into these strings so I could only feel your weight below.

I’m just a puppeteer. I know that now, I said.

But I’ll hold you high and play pretend

until the paint fades,

and the thread breaks,

and our anchored hearts

meet the wooden stage.

53

Untitled Mackenzie Adams

54

Going Home Brenden Wright The road careened back and forth Up the mountainside, so sharp I wasn’t sure if we were gonna Make it after all. You were There, in a way, but even then You weren’t. I know I made Promises, but it’s hard this Late at night, when the Trees surround us on both Sides like our own 21 gun Salute, ready to shoot at the Moon when the other hat drops.

There’s a different kind of Dark when you’re driving Alone On this mountain, a dark Nothing would dare hide in.

Our only sanctuary is lit by The headlights and glow from the Radio that lost signal half a Mile back. It’s hard to imagine this is The world people can live in.

You would be talking if you could, Keeping me focused on you, not on My own thoughts. I know you would, And that’s supposed to be enough, Which means on rare occasions it Actually is. I look to you in the

55

Passengers seat, where you Are or Are not.

Where your silence, for once, says nothing.

I really want— well, I guess it doesn’t matter, Not anymore. I made you a promise, And that will see me though tonight.

No Access Andrea Garland

56

Going Home Brenden Wright The road careened back and forth Up the mountainside, so sharp I wasn’t sure if we were gonna Make it after all. You were There, in a way, but even then You weren’t. I know I made Promises, but it’s hard this Late at night, when the Trees surround us on both Sides like our own 21 gun Salute, ready to shoot at the Moon when the other hat drops.

There’s a different kind of Dark when you’re driving Alone On this mountain, a dark Nothing would dare hide in.

Our only sanctuary is lit by The headlights and glow from the Radio that lost signal half a Mile back. It’s hard to imagine this is The world people can live in.

You would be talking if you could, Keeping me focused on you, not on My own thoughts. I know you would, And that’s supposed to be enough, Which means on rare occasions it Actually is. I look to you in the

55

Passengers seat, where you Are or Are not.

Where your silence, for once, says nothing.

I really want— well, I guess it doesn’t matter, Not anymore. I made you a promise, And that will see me though tonight.

No Access Andrea Garland

56

Weiss Lake #2 Andy Gasparini You remind me of lightning bugs and honeysuckles, of long car rides with the windows down and stacks of CDs, of the smell of gasoline in the lake water that I normally hate but find oddly soothing under the choppy waves.

A wildness that was contained.

My head crashed first into the water’s glassy surface as I slid off the tube, burning my skin on the nylon.

In the brief moment when I’m unsure which way is up and which way is down, I think it’ll last forever-

57

the days I spent hiding from the sun under the shade of a wasp-infested dock, the hours swimming in craters and sitting under waterfalls, the time wasted mixing drinks I was too young for but wished I wasn’t.

You remind me of an upbringing I rushed through.

Both of us matured probably too quickly partially out of survival, partially out of desire.

But I hope you’re still willing to put your feet in the water and watch the boats pass by next to me.

58

Weiss Lake #2 Andy Gasparini You remind me of lightning bugs and honeysuckles, of long car rides with the windows down and stacks of CDs, of the smell of gasoline in the lake water that I normally hate but find oddly soothing under the choppy waves.

A wildness that was contained.

My head crashed first into the water’s glassy surface as I slid off the tube, burning my skin on the nylon.

In the brief moment when I’m unsure which way is up and which way is down, I think it’ll last forever-

57

the days I spent hiding from the sun under the shade of a wasp-infested dock, the hours swimming in craters and sitting under waterfalls, the time wasted mixing drinks I was too young for but wished I wasn’t.

You remind me of an upbringing I rushed through.

Both of us matured probably too quickly partially out of survival, partially out of desire.

But I hope you’re still willing to put your feet in the water and watch the boats pass by next to me.

58

59

A Good Boy

Riggers

Nicole Stoudemire

Kevin Keeney

60

59

A Good Boy

Riggers

Nicole Stoudemire

Kevin Keeney

60

Lavender Painted Hannah Skinner Lavender painted the theme of my adolescence As I held hands with the painting of my father Not making eye contact.

Feeling a smile fade as I hear the faint yells.

But he wasn’t the monster under my bed She was.

She held my arms and threw the ancient vase of our love And painted purple bruises.

Death as a Catfish 61

Keith Phelps

62

Lavender Painted Hannah Skinner Lavender painted the theme of my adolescence As I held hands with the painting of my father Not making eye contact.

Feeling a smile fade as I hear the faint yells.

But he wasn’t the monster under my bed She was.

She held my arms and threw the ancient vase of our love And painted purple bruises.

Death as a Catfish 61

Keith Phelps

62

The Reason Why Tyrus Earls And when I asked, My mom said, she could see her father in you...

Not the father he turned into when the cancer tumored him Christian But the circa 1980 one.

Where dirt roads became graffitied with the heels of those who couldn’t afford bobos Molasses became lunch Creek water was the only beverage And June bugs could easily turn into kites in the spring My mom said.... that she could see her father, in you And no, not the father he turned into when the cancer tumored him Christian But the circa 1980 one....

The one, who fell victim to alcoholism And it would soon unbury the seasons in its bones - and play spades And he would undoubtfully renig with vodka.

And vodka, would talk across the table, something about a message being in the bottle and he would listen to it.

And it would tell him that his children too, have bones And he too have hands that extends like poplar branches You see we, we aallll, we all have secrets...

And yours was glass bottled transparent the way you fix your hands to love, the wrong way..

The same way the sun rears beneath the dawn and chokes the black out of her beautiful

63

But I, I wasn’t afraid of you like my mother was Because she saw her father, in you.....

And I only saw, I only saw my Dad..

My dad, was a garden of secrets who loved to bloom on skin So why not woman be soil.

Why not him be rose.

Why not rose have thorns Why not thorns curl into fist which is to say you will hurt..

And bleed, yet Ain’t I still beautiful?

And he stayed beautiful, to me.

Until the day my mother saw her father in you and that’s when her soil began to harden Found, a “not again” in her spine where resilience grew ripe in her teeth ready for war.

Ready to unearth the roots, you may NOT bruise here anymore!

And he stayed beautiful, to me.

Until the day he left, and did not come back.

The day you left, you took your shadow with you, just, another way for closure to undress its body into my bed That this time, my prayer will not tailgate your missing For now I know, it is the reason my mother’s skin will bear witness to yet another sunrise But ode to the times I’ve missed you.

Ode, to the two decades of missed birthdays and read, but not replied to, messages.

Ode to the first day of class Ode to the bicycle Ode to the first made basket Ode to prom Ode to graduation

64

The Reason Why Tyrus Earls And when I asked, My mom said, she could see her father in you...

Not the father he turned into when the cancer tumored him Christian But the circa 1980 one.

Where dirt roads became graffitied with the heels of those who couldn’t afford bobos Molasses became lunch Creek water was the only beverage And June bugs could easily turn into kites in the spring My mom said.... that she could see her father, in you And no, not the father he turned into when the cancer tumored him Christian But the circa 1980 one....

The one, who fell victim to alcoholism And it would soon unbury the seasons in its bones - and play spades And he would undoubtfully renig with vodka.

And vodka, would talk across the table, something about a message being in the bottle and he would listen to it.

And it would tell him that his children too, have bones And he too have hands that extends like poplar branches You see we, we aallll, we all have secrets...

And yours was glass bottled transparent the way you fix your hands to love, the wrong way..

The same way the sun rears beneath the dawn and chokes the black out of her beautiful

63

But I, I wasn’t afraid of you like my mother was Because she saw her father, in you.....

And I only saw, I only saw my Dad..

My dad, was a garden of secrets who loved to bloom on skin So why not woman be soil.

Why not him be rose.

Why not rose have thorns Why not thorns curl into fist which is to say you will hurt..

And bleed, yet Ain’t I still beautiful?

And he stayed beautiful, to me.

Until the day my mother saw her father in you and that’s when her soil began to harden Found, a “not again” in her spine where resilience grew ripe in her teeth ready for war.

Ready to unearth the roots, you may NOT bruise here anymore!

And he stayed beautiful, to me.

Until the day he left, and did not come back.

The day you left, you took your shadow with you, just, another way for closure to undress its body into my bed That this time, my prayer will not tailgate your missing For now I know, it is the reason my mother’s skin will bear witness to yet another sunrise But ode to the times I’ve missed you.

Ode, to the two decades of missed birthdays and read, but not replied to, messages.

Ode to the first day of class Ode to the bicycle Ode to the first made basket Ode to prom Ode to graduation

64

Ode to the stars, the shooting ones..

Where I wished.

And where my zodiac sign tried to convince yours to not “Li-bra” But I guess yours wasn’t too Scorpio of a Scorpion to get over here And now since everything seems backwards to me, I’m starting to do things backwards like for example: I leave the house first, and then I come back and tell my mother “I’m home” Instead of saying you’re home first, and then leaving..

And I was confused at first on why you never came back to me Dad, Because even when I did these things backwards, “Dad” spelled backwards is still Dad! But I get it now..

No, no, no, no, no, I do I do, I get it now...

The reason you’re out of my life.

You figured...

That there’s no need to “love me to death” since America is already killing black sons And what is a father, if not to make sure his child stays alive when black feels like an abyss and, an obituary - and this is what you have done.

And somewhere... There’s a parade of single mothers, and there she is, the one who’ve birthed me.....

Alive..

65

My Brain Feels Foggy Sydney Lykins

66

Ode to the stars, the shooting ones..

Where I wished.

And where my zodiac sign tried to convince yours to not “Li-bra” But I guess yours wasn’t too Scorpio of a Scorpion to get over here And now since everything seems backwards to me, I’m starting to do things backwards like for example: I leave the house first, and then I come back and tell my mother “I’m home” Instead of saying you’re home first, and then leaving..

And I was confused at first on why you never came back to me Dad, Because even when I did these things backwards, “Dad” spelled backwards is still Dad! But I get it now..

No, no, no, no, no, I do I do, I get it now...

The reason you’re out of my life.

You figured...

That there’s no need to “love me to death” since America is already killing black sons And what is a father, if not to make sure his child stays alive when black feels like an abyss and, an obituary - and this is what you have done.

And somewhere... There’s a parade of single mothers, and there she is, the one who’ve birthed me.....

Alive..

65

My Brain Feels Foggy Sydney Lykins

66

Broken/Bound 67

Andrea Garland

Legend 2 Andrea Garland

68

Broken/Bound 67

Andrea Garland

Legend 2 Andrea Garland

68

All Things Hidden Burn Zone 1, Chattahoochee National Forest September 6, 2019 Carson Colenbaugh OOOOEEEE That vegetable-tanned leather smells like the sweat of hairy foresters, men of the saw and the axe and the muddy elbow Open the windows, squeeze your knees in the backseat - we have miles to ramble up and over, traveling back into the playground of my youthful vibrancy, undulating ripples of bark and flat stones

So that is where we must be!

Cantering up hillsides into the arms of an aging star, Your fiery beard flaring in wrinkles of light

I don’t care what you say, I didn’t come from no fish!

Airing out the truck on asphalt logging roads You always come up beneath sapling leaves and little hanging flowers I’ll never really taste

I remember once I was lost in the bogs up north Stranded, still looking for answers in the positioning of the sun and even then You remained silent and glowing All things hidden under vines and the fungal shrouds of gradual decomposition

Who knows what rotting logs or stipules You tuck Your graceful essence under insides flowing like underground creekwater, soda fountains effervescent across wet moss and watercress Always there for us to find if we take the time to forage in the dirt

69

Riverside’s sandy in these mosquito-bite hills, dark brown, gritty like hazelnut yellow-poplars measure twenty centimeters across with calipers big as my head and sometimes you can see the fruit looks like tulips, aggregated samaras and the leaves, someone said look like t-shirts on petiolate hangers in the closet of Eden

In these quarried labyrinths of stone and fallen giants there is only wind and hollow echoes, sharp breaths if you stop to look down among the sprouting herbs and pebbles

Maybe that’s where You sneak off to draw in your pastel notebooks the marvelous flowers You breathe into being beneath kudzu where no one is willing to peek

YEAH-EEE! Echoing into those silverbell gorges like the burlap sermon of a pioneer prophet who the children of the foothills still pray to at their bedside Take a moment and hear Your voice, scratchy, and smooth like mulberry leaves Just depends which way you rub the hand, whichever way the wind blows when there’s no one but You to sing me the shrieking sounds of heaven

70

All Things Hidden Burn Zone 1, Chattahoochee National Forest September 6, 2019 Carson Colenbaugh OOOOEEEE That vegetable-tanned leather smells like the sweat of hairy foresters, men of the saw and the axe and the muddy elbow Open the windows, squeeze your knees in the backseat - we have miles to ramble up and over, traveling back into the playground of my youthful vibrancy, undulating ripples of bark and flat stones

So that is where we must be!

Cantering up hillsides into the arms of an aging star, Your fiery beard flaring in wrinkles of light

I don’t care what you say, I didn’t come from no fish!

Airing out the truck on asphalt logging roads You always come up beneath sapling leaves and little hanging flowers I’ll never really taste

I remember once I was lost in the bogs up north Stranded, still looking for answers in the positioning of the sun and even then You remained silent and glowing All things hidden under vines and the fungal shrouds of gradual decomposition

Who knows what rotting logs or stipules You tuck Your graceful essence under insides flowing like underground creekwater, soda fountains effervescent across wet moss and watercress Always there for us to find if we take the time to forage in the dirt

69

Riverside’s sandy in these mosquito-bite hills, dark brown, gritty like hazelnut yellow-poplars measure twenty centimeters across with calipers big as my head and sometimes you can see the fruit looks like tulips, aggregated samaras and the leaves, someone said look like t-shirts on petiolate hangers in the closet of Eden

In these quarried labyrinths of stone and fallen giants there is only wind and hollow echoes, sharp breaths if you stop to look down among the sprouting herbs and pebbles

Maybe that’s where You sneak off to draw in your pastel notebooks the marvelous flowers You breathe into being beneath kudzu where no one is willing to peek

YEAH-EEE! Echoing into those silverbell gorges like the burlap sermon of a pioneer prophet who the children of the foothills still pray to at their bedside Take a moment and hear Your voice, scratchy, and smooth like mulberry leaves Just depends which way you rub the hand, whichever way the wind blows when there’s no one but You to sing me the shrieking sounds of heaven

70

Tomorrow Caroline Morales I have no bravery left for tonight No mantras or tumblr quotes or quirky aesthetics Can even begin to help keep my head above the waves Or force oxygen into my tear-constricted limbs Tonight “keeping my head up� is a cosmic joke And all the wisdom of the enneagram falls short Because what good is my type when I am struggling To brush my teeth or wash my hair Tomorrow I will wake up and maybe even try Using mascara to build my brave face but that Is tomorrow- not tonight

The Woods, from the To Fill the Void Series 71

Nicole Stoudemire

72

Tomorrow Caroline Morales I have no bravery left for tonight No mantras or tumblr quotes or quirky aesthetics Can even begin to help keep my head above the waves Or force oxygen into my tear-constricted limbs Tonight “keeping my head up� is a cosmic joke And all the wisdom of the enneagram falls short Because what good is my type when I am struggling To brush my teeth or wash my hair Tomorrow I will wake up and maybe even try Using mascara to build my brave face but that Is tomorrow- not tonight

The Woods, from the To Fill the Void Series 71

Nicole Stoudemire

72

Audio Work

Free My Soul Sarah Adams

73

Use the QR code above to access and listen to the song.

Audio Work

Free My Soul Sarah Adams

73

Use the QR code above to access and listen to the song.