Morning Glory, Volume 45

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A Letter to the Reader Our life journeys exist within a common spectrum. The highs, the lows, the joys and sorrows unite us in one expedition through the human condition. The 2016 edition of our magazine explores this scope of emotions. We reflect on what it means to be human and how we can grow as a community by sharing new perspectives and viewpoints.

Morning Glory showcases the diversity and unique beauty found at California Lutheran University through creative work that is both thought–provoking and inspiring. By doing so, we seek to find our places in the colorful collage of life.

Founded in 1971 by Dr. Jack Ledbetter, the Morning Glory has always sought to display the best literature, art, and music Cal Lutheran has to offer. We hope you enjoy and feel compelled to engage in this issue, and that you enjoy your own journey within its pages.

Warmly, The Morning Glory Staff

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Table of Contents Literary Pieces

From the Desk of the Ex-Wife Karina DaSilva.........................................................................................7 Portrait of a Military Hero Patricia Dickson.........................................................................................8 The All-Star Christopher Hanna...................................................................................11 Fidelidad Karina DaSilva.......................................................................................12 Confessions of a Senior English Major Hannah Andrews.....................................................................................14 Advice I Wish I’d Gotten Delaney Rodriguez...................................................................................16 Winter Marsh J.T. Ledbetter............................................................................................18 The Vista Megan Freiberg........................................................................................20 Encounter Sean Miller..............................................................................................23 Captive to the Past Tori Dahl................................................................................................24 Debt to Bees Lauren Goss.............................................................................................25 This is Just to Say Megan Freiberg........................................................................................29 Take the 118 to the 5 Mackenzie Paul.......................................................................................30 San Gabriel: Eroded Kellie Warren...........................................................................................35

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Voice into Silence Patricia Dickson......................................................................................36 I’ve Never Seen a Corpse Martha Romero.......................................................................................36 I Have Two of Them Hannah Andrews....................................................................................38 The Deadliner Marsha Markman...................................................................................41 A Kindergarten Test Marsha Markman...................................................................................42 The Harvest Devynn Belter..........................................................................................45 The Empty Space Kayla Johnson..........................................................................................47 The Shabti Kellie Warren...........................................................................................48 Closet Space Kirsten Hagen.........................................................................................52 One Josiah Canto............................................................................................54 No More Jessica Rinehart.......................................................................................55 Maybe Monday Morning Mackenzie Paul.......................................................................................56 Driver’s Haiku Carrie Montoya.......................................................................................59 The Rose against the Snow J.T. Ledbetter...........................................................................................61

Artifact from Teaching

Kathleen Rowley......................................................................................62

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Table of Contents Visual Pieces

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Morgan le Fay Karina DaSilva..........................................................................................6 Ramose Christina Espegren......................................................................................8 Dancing with Fire Christopher Hanna...................................................................................10 Fiesta JR Glasoe..................................................................................................13 Girl Tape Brianna Mercier........................................................................................15 Bailey Ventures Annette Sousa............................................................................................17 Paradise Livia Bowman..........................................................................................19 Thinking Blue Brady Mickelson........................................................................................21 Eye for an Eye Morgan Press............................................................................................23 Community Jeanne Wines-Reed....................................................................................25 The Gold Jeanne Wines-Reed....................................................................................26 In Theory Elsie Moore...............................................................................................28 Spiral Christa Youngern.......................................................................................31 Besides Ourselves Evan Denworth........................................................................................32 Ramatoa Christina Espegren....................................................................................34

Spine Madeline Nelson.......................................................................................37 Morro Bay Kids Scott Stevens.............................................................................................38 Color Fun Kimberlee Jensen.......................................................................................40 Going Nuclear Brianna Mercier.......................................................................................43 Landing Crane Livia Bowman.........................................................................................44 In Monet’s Kitchen Roman Valenzuela....................................................................................46 Layers in Passing Elsie Moore...............................................................................................49 Joshua Tree Stars

Justin Langstaff........................................................................................50 Arches of Belief

Roman Valenzuela....................................................................................51

Butterflies Nikki Snook............................................................................................53 Inle Lake

Kimberlee Jensen.......................................................................................54 Black Bat Flower

Madeline Nelson.......................................................................................57 All the Frills

Christopher Hanna...................................................................................59 Roses of Salzberg

Evan Denworth.......................................................................................60 Cockroach

Kellie Warren............................................................................................63

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Morgan le Fay, Karina DaSilva, Digital Art

From the Desk of the Ex–Wife

Karina DaSilva

In the fall, leafs crumble and crumple into dead red pools and decay into bloody browns, dirt beneath our feet and still we witness death reap, we call it beautiful, we love it.

We love it so much, we celebrate it every October.

There is a hope that all things come to an end.

And they do. In the winter, bark stands naked and cold, rough, undecorated, uncolored, unrated, uncovered, absolutely bare, branches become gnarled and cracked and we begin to see monsters stretch out of those leafless lifeless limbs that tap against our windows, and we shake, and we shiver, but we sing, and we celebrate.

We wait for spring. We don’t ask trees to stay a lovely green while the winds of winter whip through their bare bones.

We wait, and we watch, while trees save their blossoms for spring.

So please tell me—why must I stay young when I am old, why must I panic when the color leaves my cheeks, and paint blushes where there are none?

Why must I cover the fading red of my hair, and pretend that fall has not come? Leafs fade, leafs fall, and Fall comes, Fall always comes and yet we are told to long for an eternal Spring. Winter is coming (as it always comes), and our bark will chip, and our branches will twist and gnarl with lines that come from age— trees grow old. But as their bark peels and their leaves wither, we wonder at their wisdom.

We don’t paint red leaves green. We don’t staple flowers onto dying branches.

So why should I? Why should I paint my lips a thick swollen red, why pluck the leaves off my branches, and leave only the brightest of blossoms, why strip the weathered bark off my limbs and leave nothing but the soft and painful parts of me?

My advice to you: shave the hair off your head.

Be the man–baby you are.

I’m busy raining red leaves, and living.

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Portrait of a Military Hero Patricia Dickson

He sits on the park bench he’s learned to call home one he shares willingly with pigeons who perch there and squirrels who scurry beneath eager as he is to chomp a morsel of potato from the French-fries-large-size purchased by a passing stranger from the golden-arched McDonalds just outside Washington Park.

His overcoat is frayed and threads hang over his wrist a sleeve much too short for his long thin arm cold from the weather and the thinness of the coat after years of being worn by its original owner given to Goodwill with two buttons missing and a hole in the right pocket which had held car keys and a right–hand glove.

He has no car keys no glove and no right hand.

The Yankee baseball cap that sits too high upon his large head is stained from inside out.

The bill is also blotched and bent from years of tugging it on or pulling it off as weather warranted.

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His single pair of shoes is his wardrobe’s best bargain brand new when he found them in the dumpster in the alley behind Gillie’s Shoe Store— a perfect fit for his size ten except that both shoes are for the right foot yet gradually he is shaping one to fit his left.

He thought perhaps they had been on display and through some mix–up ended up where they never should have: in the dumpster.

Nevertheless, he was grateful to have found them because his last pair of shoes were the boots he bought from the surplus store before he lost his fourth job since being discharged.

They were all but falling off his feet. A good soul shared some duct tape which provided another few months of wear.

When his left foot feels strange in the right-footed shoe he grins and wonders who might be out there in the world with two left shoes feeling as much a misfit as he does.

Ramose, Christina Espegren, Photography

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Dancing with Fire, Christopher Hanna, Photography

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The All-Star Christopher Hanna

Just you watch my electric mind crackle and spread like wildfire on the plains of pure creative thought.

Just you watch my swagger sweep up like Adele at the Grammys, like Rambo through the forest, like hurricanes through the Atlantic, flow coolly through, leaving no man standing in my wake.

Just you watch my airborne diction drop similes and syllables like it’s World War X. Just you watch my masterful hands move villain-sly undercover, steal from the vault of your mind, deal out prestige like a blackjack in Vegas, keep your eyes on these Aces, son.

Just you watch my hotwire heartbeat jump at the defib limelight, pulse with a resonating boom, flash to your eyes like a light bulb, paparazzi posse with their cameras shoot at me like I’m wanted, famous and infamous.

Just you watch my ego balloon, headliner rock-star sensational blowout.

Just you watch my timeless chivalry sweep the ladies off their feet like James Dean Will Smith Ryan Gosling don’t got nothing on these moves, go whisper pickup lines while I turn on the charm of the century and bask in my lionhearted prime.

Just you watch my cool eyes kill with good looks across the room, sniped down the scope like bang bang bangarang right through the nervous system, don’t stop me, just watch me reenact your favorite revolution.

Just you watch my firework life pop like the grand finale of July I declare my independence from the boring mediocrity, a prodigy of a prodigy of a humble-minded saint, I burn my legacy like tracks Back to my Future, forever I’m New York City glowing.

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Fidelidad Karina DaSilva

I watch her

cracked leather hands dig deep in distilled earth

soft from water long gone her voice softer still ‘fiel es el Señor’

faithful is the lord

she tells me as she bends

her hunched back over Creation smiling through aches grandmother

who sends praises up

as she digs deeper down for unforgotten roots Mija,

we fought for this

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Fiesta, JR Glasoe, Digital Watercolor

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Confessions of a Senior English Major Hannah Andrews

I confess— I think The Grapes Of Wrath Is a way to punish high schoolers And should really be titled The Wrath of Teachers . . . even though I’m an English major I confess— I think Beowulf Is a really intriguing story, with monsters And Germanic heroism mixed with Christian morals But it should be cut by like 2,000 lines . . . even though I’m an English major I confess— I think Jane Eyre Really needs to get her act together and Decide if she wants to be independent or not, She shouldn’t just change her mind after a whole novel and get married . . . even though I’m an English major I confess— I think The Awakening Barely kept me or anyone else awake And I don’t still wonder why she walked into the ocean, Or if she even knew how to swim . . . even though I’m an English major I confess— I think The Canterbury Tales Must have been funny To someone living in the 14th century But for me, it was a terrible time translating Middle English . . . even though I’m an English major I confess— I think Moby Dick Was really really really tedious Sure the allusions and symbolism were there, But I never needed to know that much about whaling . . . even though I’m an English major

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I promise— There are a lot of novels, poems and plays That I do like And don’t worry, Shakespeare is included in that list But I do have to confess, I have “spark-noted” many of them . . . even though I’m an English major

Girl Tape, Brianna Mercier, Pastel

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Advice I Wish I’d Gotten (Although I Probably Wouldn’t Have Listened)

Delaney Rodriguez Make noise when you walk through the halls or don’t, and allow yourself to be quiet as an assassin or the best damn thief in a cheesy crime novel.

Steal boys’ hearts, or girls’, or maybe neither.

Go on adventures and meet people.

Keep them at arm’s length or let every stranger into your heart.

Darling, only you know what you can take.

You know your limits, so set them and don’t let the world overtake you.

If you want to be hard, then push everyone away because people are scary.

Or you could let them hurt you to allow yourself to build up the callouses you need to survive.

But maybe you want to be soft, and that’s okay too.

Maybe you don’t want limits; just enjoy the world, and take each hit in stride.

I would say not to go out looking for pain, that’s the one piece of advice I hope you follow, but know that it will come and you are strong.

My momma always said that marigolds are impossible to kill, this must be true because that woman kills every flower she touches.

You can be a marigold, my dear.

Be soft to the touch, beautiful, bright and resilient.

You don’t have to be stone to be invincible.

Oh how I’ve learned that lesson.

Be open to the world and make of it what you will.

Love others, but never more than you love yourself, not even me, my dear.

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Bailey Ventures, Annette Sousa, Photography

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It is okay to let yourself be hurt, that is how you build up strength, but, please, also let yourself be taken care of.

When someone offers you a helping hand, at least consider accepting it.

You will break hearts, know how much it hurts, and please do it gently.

Be kind.

Be funny.

Be sad.

Just allow yourself to feel.

Life will knock you down, and thinking about how much more you have to live can get exhausting.

So take a nap, maybe for six hours sometimes, but, please, always get back up.

You can be hard, but don’t let the hardness of the world ruin you, and don’t let your own define you.

Don’t look for love, trust me, it will come.

Sometimes it will come when you don’t want it, or when you want it, but can’t have it.

Sometimes it will all come at once and it will feel like a burden.

It’s okay to hide from it, but it’s better to let yourself feel it.

Don’t let it define you, but let it add to you.

Oh, and my sweet, hatred will come too.

You will see it in the form of jealousy or anger, sometimes you will even see it in what looks like love.

Do not let yourself be overtaken, you are stronger than anyone else’s emotions.

People will ask much of you, learn to say no, but know how to say yes too.

Live your life for yourself, because you are the only you there is, and you are beautiful.

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Winter Marsh J.T. Ledbetter

The marsh is silver when the moon rises, you said, and stepped quickly over the stones to the island. The stones are magical, and rare flowers bloom there, you said, so I watched you raise your skirts and skip across, becoming a darker shadow among the winter trees.

I wish I could tell you how I waited for you to come lightly back over the shimmering marsh, too quick for water lapping at your shoes, and how I dreaded the sound of the island’s trees groaning under their press of ice behind you as you came flying over the water with flowers in your hair, bending to touch the moon dancing on the water. I wish I could tell you I cried for you—and how magical it was, and how beautiful.

Paradise, Livia Bowman, Ceramic

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The Vista

Megan Freiberg “The mountains are calling and I must go.” JM 5:47 am: Have you ever listened to the earth breathe? The steady inhale as it fills its lungs— pulling, pulling. Each breath intentional, as if it were its last. And then the release. Sending the sediment running along beside the dancing leaves as tired branches wheeze and groan in complacent protest.

The sky is dark as I leave this morning. The sun barely beginning to trace the crests of the eastern mountains—glowing and illuminating its edges. Sixteen–hundred lumens lead my pilgrimage. The eye of a lighthouse winding its way around the mountain. A pack of iridescent eyes glitter among the tree trunks. My old engine knocks its way up the canyon, as if it were asking for Mother Nature’s permission. And safe passage. An old canteen rolls behind me at every jackknifed turn creating a watery percussion.

There is music in everything.

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” JM 6:09 am: The sun’s outline has grown into an arc, peeking over the mountain’s shoulder. It is watching me.

The road narrows as it begins to descend. A welcomed claustrophobia. The weathered brakes squeal in fear. My hand brushes the surface of the dashboard. A comforting gesture.

Tree trunks grow at an angle—clinging onto the slopes. Refusing to sever contact. Refusing defeat. I marvel at their strength. If only we were all able to cling to life this way.

I notice a mass of water. Still and lifeless. Deep in the mountain, it remains untouched by the sun’s growing warmth above us. The onyx surface absorbs the treetops, making them its own.

We do not belong to ourselves alone.

“Handle a book as a bee does a flower, extract its sweetness but do not damage it.” JM 6:31 am: The sun has nearly summited the peaks as I reach the Devil’s trail. A path we all follow from birth.

As I lift my pack from the back seat, I notice that it seems heavier than usual. I open the old, tattered pages of My First Summer in the Sierra, running my fingers over the inscription on the title page: “Words to live by.” Sliding the paperback into a zipper–pocket, I leave the flashlight and camera behind.

I won’t be needing either.

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Thinking Blue, Brady Mickelson, Photography “Another glorious day, the air as delicious to the lungs as nectar to the tongue.” JM 6:35 am: The scent of redwoods fill my lungs as the driver’s door yawns itself open. I breathe it in heavily. Inviting the aroma to saturate every part of me—to blend with the marrow of my bones.

Beneath my feet the gravel crunches and shifts as I make my way to the trailhead. Well– worn boots welcome the familiar path.

There is a break in the trees that opens to a valley of aspens situated among their brothers and cousins. Slants of light beam across the shadowed ground and its padding of currants, elderberries, thistles and smartweed—empty and bare of their summer fruit.

With the exception of mile markers, one could believe that theirs were the first human feet to navigate this stretch of earth.

As if my soul were the end of a magnet, I feel a pull growing stronger with each stride. The force unavoidable. Irresistible.

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“We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us.” JM 6:42 am: The sun’s face is beaming now as it fights its way through the branches, invading them with its warmth.

A mourning dove sings its lament before whistling into flight.

The forest is awake. And it is welcoming my presence.

The grip begins to tighten.

“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.” JM 7:08 am: I have reached the summit of my destination. The mountain’s massive tears roar and spray as they fall from its cheek to the basin one hundred and one feet below.

An alpine chipmunk takes interest. Pausing in our quests, we share a moment in time. Our minds connected at our primal centers. Frozen in time, I wonder at the complex simplicity of life. Nearby branches rustle and the connection is severed. The alpine’s sleek, striped coat disappears into the protective arms of a redwood tree.

I am alone.

“Going to the woods is going home.” JM 8:15 am: After the summit is the descent.

If I had my camera I would use it now. The sun has finally met with the spray of the falls, mesmerizing me with the color spectrum. Flaunting its irreplicable beauty.

The magnetism is inescapable.

I’ve been on this edge for years and have never fallen. I’ve resisted the earth’s pull—its constant attempt to draw me back. Back into itself.

I see now. It’s all a matter of trust. One must fall in order to be caught.

“This time it is real—all must die, and where could mountaineer find a more glorious death!” John Muir

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Encounter Sean Miller

Muscles stiffen under its coarse brown hair Unseen waves trapped beneath elastic skin Black pools of the unknown stare unflinchingly The Wild appraises us, My companion and I are frozen by its gaze as if It had snakes for antlers and a long forgotten power.

An unnoticed eternity later, the spell is broken Thundering hooves bound through the brush Gone from our vision but echoing into our minds A quick glance down the rawhide leash My eyes meet the almond orbs of my friend And she turns her head back toward the fading echo of drums Are these deep reverberations the call of the Wild?

Eye for an Eye, Morgan Press, Photography

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Captive to the Past Tori Dahl

I’ve been afraid.

Daunted by the future Afraid of the journey Unable to look ahead For fear of losing the past The future petrifies me I stand still Unwilling to decide To take action Leading to a different me I am stifled by my fear Held captive by my mind Anxious about unknowns and What may be.

I don’t know how To put one foot In front of the other In order to slowly Ease myself into a future That might be better Than the now.

So afraid I am to close The book on the last chapter That I forget We cannot live or grow Or love in the past.

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Community, Jeanne Wines–Reed, Photography

Debt to Bees Lauren Goss

I am the woman bending on a busy sidewalk to scoop up the sweet pests, the one pulling her car over on the 101 freeway to help one off of the windshield wiper and into some nearby bushes. I am the first to pry them from the shirts of panicked friends with my bare fingers.

People share uneasy glances over my head. I do it still.

My father was there when this all started. He saw what happened and so holds me accountable for my sins, knows my obligation. Twelve years later we laugh about what happened, because laughing helps when none of it matters or all of it does.

It was August in Southern California. This means that the air wasn’t moving, only buzzing drowsily in the heat. Shadows were small and rigid on the ground, only wavering in the places where heat rose from the cement as if called by a snake charmer. There were no clouds in the sky. No relief. In August here eyes squint even behind sunglasses and sweat is an undefeated opponent. But I was ten years old and the heat could not suppress the scattered energy of a child or distract from it. My father and I were on the driveway, leaving to go somewhere, I

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The Gold, Jeanne Wines–Reed, Photography don’t remember where. A slow, small shadow moved across the pavement by my feet and my attention was consumed. I bent forward to investigate, using every hinge in my body to get closer.

We have all seen the struggling insect. The belly-up beetle, the fevered moth in the stick of a web, the housefly who can only buzz enough to toss itself half-heartedly at a window it does not see with any of its eyes. This was the dying bee. Moving slowly and aimlessly across the blistering pavement, moving his legs deliberately like an unpracticed toddler. He was fuzzy and more black than yellow. He was not like the smiling blue-wing bees I colored on flowers and it felt strange, strange like seeing the moon in mid-afternoon, except this was a wrong I could right: give any ten-year-old girl the opportunity for power and she will take it.

In the space between the neighbor’s driveway and our own, the underground access to our homes’ electricity was tangled in the unsupervised growth of golden poppies. My father and I had planted them because they require more effort to get rid of than they do to maintain, and even weed-like flowers are better looking than cement. A beige-brick wall squatted around the poppies, only high enough to scrape shins on during Tag games and to cast unremitting shade on one half of the flowers. The poppies were lopsided and unkempt and bloomed every year.

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I snapped a leaf from a Lily of the Nile flower across the yard at its base, lean and long and canoe-shaped. I pushed the bee into the green canoe with my finger and sailed him through the air to the poppies. One last flight.

I did good. I chose the shady poppies, petals open to sun that would never warm them, so even if the bee had not died by morning he would not suffer death by roasting. I chose a cluster of corner flowers still sagging, somehow, under drops of sprinkler water and pushed him right to the center. I made the most comfortable death the old could ask from any child.

As I stood to admire my work, my father commending my good will over my shoulder, the bee began to buzz. He fidgeted violently. His defunct wings turned him in pulsating circles, his legs writhed and pushed his body to the edge “. . . I learned how much of a poppy petal that could not support him. it hurt to be god. ” His fall was broken halfway down by the webwork of a messy widow, who risked daylight for a juicy filet handed to her via petal platter and human god. She was blasted from her brickfissure home as if propelled by gunpowder and turned the bee as one might turn 42, quickly and without much thought. Her limbs worked skillfully, artfully even, a practiced machine, until it was over and the struggle-buzzing ceased. She finished her work and hung, suspended in her thread. Resting. I thought for a moment I should kill her.

In the passing seconds I learned how much it hurt to be god. I didn’t have the guts to kill her for making me a murderer. The widow turned and moved back through her web, maneuvered around sticky clumps and debris to her place in the brick fissure. Food had come to her. Her god was merciful—or a 10-year-old girl, or not a god at all, just nature. She would survive the next few days. The bee would not.

He was so small in his sticky, grey cocoon, still and paused in the air, making his transformation from honey-maker to meat. I was so big, casting my human shadow—but so small, trying to reconcile responsibility and fate, trying to learn if there was a difference.

I tossed the canoe leaf into the poppies. The air was still and still droning with the sound of the earth reclaiming its carbon again and again and again, different bees and different widows.

Turning canoe leaves into fertilizer for new weapons. In a world that occupies such a pale speck of space, but occupies space, none of this matters—or all of it does.

We left to go somewhere, I don’t now remember where.

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In Theory, Elsie Moore, Photography

This Is Just To Say (William Carlos Williams Parody)

Megan Freiberg

I was outside my head when it happened The symphonic percussion of bodies intertwined and imprinted onto one another— tête–à–tête— until they were removed It was exciting All that to say I’m sorry I crashed your car I was outside my head when it happened

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Take the 118 to the 5 Mackenzie Paul

I watched the world go by that car window. My world. The softly rolling hills that

protected the ocean from the winding freeways. The rays of sunlight that were as bright as Fanta is sweet. The city of Hollywood, flashing past us in all its iconic glory. It killed me to admit it because it was never supposed to be my world. It was supposed to be temporary. I was never supposed to miss it.

Yet there I was, in the passenger seat of Geoffry’s old Civic (which in and of itself

was a place I’d never planned to be) right on that edge of missing Southern California.

“So . . . are you going to miss me?” he finally asked

“So . . . are you going to miss me?”

without taking his eyes off of the road. Maybe if we were just driving to the movie theatre or In

and Out or something. Man, why couldn’t we be driving to In and Out now?

“I’ll miss In and Out,” I gave the easy answer with a weak smile.

“Oh Mellie,” he said. I rolled my eyes, I’d always hated when he called me Mellie! It

was one syllable off from Melanie! Why couldn’t he just say my whole name? “I could

mail it to you,” he offered. His smile didn’t reach his eyes; they were glued to the road, dead serious.

“No really, that’s a thing that people do. You ask for the ingredients separately and

then wrap them in plastic and put it all on dry ice—stop giving me that look,” he said

without taking his eyes off the road. “When my sister went to college in West Virginia, my mom did that all the time.”

“Yeah right!” I said, laughing a

nervous, weaker than usual laugh.

The laughter faded and we were left

“I didn’t think I could do it.

And maybe I didn’t have to.”

in the same silence we’d been in a minute ago. I stared out the window but didn’t see anything.

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Spiral, Christa Youngern, Photography

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As usual, he was the one to break the silence.

“Does that mean you’ll come back?” he blurted. “You know, to eat In and Out?” “Maybe . . . I mean, they have burgers in New York.”

“Better burgers?” he scoffed.

“Maybe . . . ” I said, even though I knew for a fact that they had better burgers. It

was New York! They had better everything. Thus, I was moving there.

But I didn’t say any of that at all, because I was too busy thinking about how I’d be

missing him and clearly did not actually care about burgers right at that second. The

idea of admitting to missing him just made my stomach hurt. I didn’t think I could do it. And maybe I didn’t have to.

Beside Ourselves, Evan Denworth, Photography

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Did he realize that we weren’t really talking about burgers? Should I tell him . . . ?

He had to have seen the metaphor! He was so smart.

And he sounded so sad! Nobody gets that sad when they’re legitimately talking

about eating burgers. Even In and Out burgers.

We were getting close to Burbank and the Bob Hope Airport, about to switch from

the 118 to the 5. It was a tricky exit, but I’d conned Geoffry into taking me to the airport plenty of times over the years. He knew what he was doing.

He totally knew what he was doing.

I knew that he knew what he was doing.

So it took me a minute to even realize that

he’d missed the exit.

“Oh no,” he said. A little too calmly.

“I knew that he knew what he was doing.”

“What . . . ? Oh my God! You missed it!”

“I know I just got distracted and— ”

“Geoffry! How the hell did you miss it! You haven’t missed that exit since freshman

year!”

“I know! I just got distracted.”

“Got distracted?” I said. What the hell? Geoffry didn’t get distracted! Geoffry made

“But smiled by accident for just a second.”

fun of me for getting distracted.

“What are you talking about? You

could drive this in your sleep! How could you have gotten so distracted that—”

“Maybe I don’t want to take you to the airport just yet, okay?”

“Well, I have a flight to catch and—”

“We both know you’re early for it. Let’s go to In and Out. Now I’m craving it thanks

to you,” he said. I looked at him while he said it: he kept his eyes on the road, but

smiled by accident for just a second. Luckily I was paying enough attention to catch it.

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Ramatoa, Christina Espegren, Photography

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San Gabriel: Eroded Kellie Warren

Like turning to face the mountains To find them swallowed whole, Melted down to crusting Earth core Behind my blinded back; Only sky and blank-page horizon remain, Aching in Absence Of. The easier journey For world-weary feet And weakened heart.

Catastrophe’s lining is more granite than silver.

Still, I think to myself, Even at the end of days, Final meteor hurtling forward, 24 hours out To wipe the slate dry and clean, Someone would breathe a sigh of relief, Glad not to rise in the morning for work, Glad to rise no more.

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Voice into Silence* Patricia Dickson

Poetry is most about the spaces left between words and at the end of lines Where those who read poetry hear their own voices as they contemplate all that was not said and all that might have been Like in the emptied spaces left by loved ones now departed in which we contemplate all that was not said and all that might have been. *The adventure of voice into silence and silence into voice: this is the privilege and burden of the poet.” John O’Donohue, “The Music of Beauty” in Divine Beauty: The Invisible Embrace. Bantam Press, Great Britain 2003

I’ve Never Seen a Corpse Martha Romero

I’d never seen a corpse as fresh as my brother’s the faint stench of feces lingering in the air seared itself into my brain.

Still staring, I ordered my father back to his room as if shielding a child from horror.

Parents should not have to endure the futility of trying to breathe life into their dead young.

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Spine, Madeline Nelson, Pencil Drawing

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I Have Two of Them Hannah Andrews

I hear his typical toe tapping, echoing through the eye–of–a–needle hallway. The continuous sound of his “going out” shoes—faded, grey, torn up, and muddy Vans— smacking the tile will never drown out the haunting mantra swirling in my head: “I’ve gotta cover them up.”

I know he will soon burst in, the door will make its usual craaaack, like a tree split by an axe, and he’ll tell me that I’m beautiful but a little bit crazy and should definitely hurry up. I remain lost in what feels like a black hole—my crammed closet.

It probably wouldn’t hurt to ransack my closet—just one more time . . . The mound of rejected shirts next to my bed grows to Mount Whitney size. Right now, even my softest cotton t–shirts feel like sandpaper. I can’t stand a single one.

Dramatically flopping down onto the bed—my impromptu fainting couch, I crack open my barely used journal, and wonder if maybe I can write poetry better than I can pick out shirts.

Morro Bay Kids, Scott Stevens, Photography

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My Arms Tank tops, halters, strapless even cap sleeves, all seem like they’re out to get me.

I have two of them, fully functioning and healthy— for this, I should definitely be grateful.

Stubby, thick, large sort of chunky they really truly are disgusting.

I have two of them, both strong and muscular they’ve allowed me to do many different things.

Jackets, long sleeves, wetsuits all too tight I always try them on, and feel like I’m busting seams.

I have two of them, they helped me play collegiate water polo and box for fun they even hug my loves.

I hate them, though I know I shouldn’t.

He opens the door gingerly, as if a hungry lioness is waiting on the other side, and asks the dreaded question— “are you ready yet?”

“Not quite ready,” of course (but let’s be honest, will I ever be?). Lying atop a mound of clothes in a bra and jeans writing a random poem, I throw on my security blanket—my baggy white cotton knit sweater—the usual choice. As we walk hand in hand to the party I wonder—maybe next time I’ll wear a tank top.

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Color Fun, Kimberlee Jensen, Watercolor

The Deadliner Marsha Markman

Writing is a messy, recursive process I tell my class.

Begin your essay today with the introduction the end even the muddle in the middle.

I’m a deadliner, my student says a last-minute-figure-it-out writer who earns A’s on all of his last-minute-figure-it-out essays.

He struggles across campus on forearm crutches shoes scuffed from dragging along pavement a tragic metaphor for procrastination born of atomic testing reborn on a sprawling campus.

Dedicated despite limitations determined because of limitations life’s hurdles and debris strewn liberally across his path.

In my class, he is the teacher whose thirst to learn is a lesson on resolve on life’s journey through stones jagged and smooth like the writing process, he tells me his way.

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A Kindergarten Test Marsha Markman

I cup my hands over my ears smother the siren’s wail that rips through the classroom screams through the streets.

Come, come, she says holding my hand hurrying down our darkened hallway no windows no doors to the outside.

Line up quickly, teacher says her voice muffled behind my hands.

Baby Larry asleep in his carriage Ma at her sewing machine I on my blanket on the bare wood floor my Lucy doll tight in my arms.

She checks each amber disk marks an “X” in her notebook beside my name, my I.D. number Marsha Carow 40–3095–9NYC Then single file we go out of the classroom down the hallway onto the street.

I skip and hop to keep pace with teacher from lane to lane house to house to our door where Ma is waiting calling to me.

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Soon a whistle blows.

All clear! our Block Warden shouts.

It was just a test, Ma tells me holding me close as she scans the silent skies in long–ago Brighton Beach New York 1942.

Going Nuclear, Brianna Mercier, Reduction

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Landing Crane, Livia Bowman, Scratchboard Print

The Harvest Devynn Belter

There is only one Where once were many A field of thousands extended past the horizon The sun beamed brightly across all the land and would shine even into the dark depths of soil reaching the skins of a closely cuddling family who were never told the inevitable end Never spoken, always known the unknown approaching end Loved ones huddled, hiding from the silence Then, Ripped from the roots of their homes They were separated and thrown on a rusty, squeaking, cold floor pushed them along through a strange mechanical world Occasionally sprayed on all sides by frigid liquids but always being hurried along Followed and led by their friends none of whom would admit to being as fearful and clueless as the rest Then dropped into a tight, sweaty bag with ten other quietly screaming strangers The only exit closes Day is indistinguishable, time undetermined because it is only ever night Suddenly a light bursts through the broken exit shining bright and blinding all yet something can finally be seen—hope for only a second it would last because then, quickly, darkness again comes— Now only nine remain Panic at first strikes some while others dream of another open sunrise every once in a while it happens again One by one they all go Slowly into the bright light Until there remains but one Only one lonely potato.

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In Monet’s Kitchen, Roman Valenzuela, Photography

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The Empty Space

Inspired by Juan Filipe Herrera’s The Glue Under

Kayla Johnson The empty space crept in between houses and estates, and abandoned me and disturbed my restless soul.

I want to crowd this perfect empty space with all vocabulary and all frustrations.

I must adhere to the empty space dwellers so I speak, fragmented and severed.

See and

hear

a soft voice a fainted light

It

made me weary.

I left

no you kicked me out!

I cry for you and for me.

We separated for eternity.

A house on a grand hill fenced me out I AM FORGOTTEN and alone by separation and fences and this

empty space is suffocating.

I’m b r o k e n I am left—nameless This is not an elegy in a graveyard.

This is not a lyric of my soul.

This is how you left me with an abundance of empty space—no place for a home.

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The Shabti Kellie Warren

“Is it true they ripped his brain out through his nose?”

They huddled around the glass coffin, neon vultures in coordinated baggy turquoise t-shirts that hung off their shoulders like plumage, pressing their beaks against the panels and smudging sticky fingerprints across the surface. The most diligent ones with the beadiest eyes scribbled notes on their worksheets; the rowdier ones with the gaping mouths and howling animal throats shoved their way closer to the front, cawing and squawking in delight, in disgust, in braggart bravery or indifference, camera phones snapping away like hungry jaws.

“He’s ugly.” “Looks like you, man.” “Shut up!! Mrs. Kim, he called me ugly!! Mrs. Kim!” The tour guide raised her voice above the cacophony, reciting her memorized facts in the sort of steady tone that only years of pushing patience to its very boundaries could perfect.

Standing tall over the school children, she “She seemed tailor-made spoke clearly and slowly in her textbook for the civilized confines voice, her prestigious college degree etched between the lines that had only just begun of a museum.” to carve themselves faintly into her face. It was hard, impossible even, to picture her now, so crisp and laundered and restrained, out in the jungles or deserts of the world on some grand expedition. She seemed tailor-made for the civilized confines of a museum.

Here, she explained, was Exhibit #15B, star of the Ancient Egyptian Hall—an unknown man of noble birth whose rotten bandages sat preserved beneath an airtight seal, waiting indefinitely to decay. Beside him in a series of curio cabinets that sprawled across the room from east to west, his riches were a source of passing fascination. Here were the jewels of his pectoral necklace and bracelets, there were the weapons, the statues, the coins of polished bronze, and here was the gold and glistening “None of the cartoons precious stone that once crowned the walls of showed the blood.” his tomb. They’d broken it open in the 1900s.

She’d visited three years ago, it gave her a twinge of pleasure to recall. She’d walked along the paved concrete paths between metal railings on a guided tour not unlike this one. He’d been a fine discovery, an unusually fine specimen, she said, and, she added in an afterthought, probably a respected warrior and hero. A spear to the

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ribs had been the cause of death, at least they suspected as much. It was hard to tell sometimes in these old corpses.

Her manicured hand (she’d never seen the dirt of the field beneath those pale pink nails) gestured to the swords that hung in execution behind the plexiglass. Just beneath them, resting smugly, an educational plaque adorned with gold-colored lettering featured a succession of morbid but simplified cartoons. The Process of Mummification, it said. How Is a Mummy Made? There were the Egyptians, angular and turned to one side in their usual two-dimensional way, but a fair bit brighter than their historical counterparts. Their neon yellows and oranges rivaled the childrens’ t-shirts. There the flat Layers in Passing, Elsie Moore, Photography men worked in their unnatural hues on some unfortunate pharaoh, crushing his brain to bits, pouring sawdust and sand into his empty shell of a skull, dragging out his innards one by one and storing them away in curious animal-headed jars. A baboon for the lungs, a falcon for the intestines, a jackal for the stomach, a human for the liver. None of the cartoons showed the blood. One of the little

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Joshua Tree Stars, Justin Langstaff, Photography

vultures, a girl in glasses and sneakers so new they still squeaked when she walked, scanned the thin black pillars of the plaque’s barcode with her iPhone and watched as the cartoons gained spirits and sprung to life, acting out the drawings on her tiny LCD screen. A new addition to the museum, that barcode. The bandaged royal had once believed in the magic of hieroglyphs, drawings of scorpions and priests coming to life on the walls of tombs—perhaps he was right all along.

The air conditioning blew like the roaming desert winds through the hall. The scent of fresh cleaning chemicals stung the marble tiles. Across the room, a mural stretched toward the ceiling, the glories of an empire painted there in vibrant reds and greens and golds, pictures of pyramids in all their grandeur, of proud armies and brave soldiers, of chariots and rivers and forgotten goddesses and wild, untamed lands, all staring in quiet recognition at the centerpiece of the room, the man encased in his bell jar.

His eye sockets were wide under the fluorescent lights; his fingers were nothing but bone. Had the floor turned to sand and risen up to meet him, he could have been mistaken for Ozymandias.

The tour guide glanced at her watch—nearly time for the next school group.

The textbook in her mind snapped back to the opening page, waiting to be read aloud once more, twice more, indefinitely. With her ponytail swinging sleek and neatly behind her, she led her little flock of birds from the hall, the clack of her heels echoing all the way.

“Well,” she said, adjusting a button on her blue blazer, “I hope you’ve

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Arches of Belief, Roman Valenzuela, Photography all had fun on our adventure today!” The children hardly “. . . he could have heard—the gift shop was beckoning to them, an oasis in been mistaken for the Sahara. They hunched forward, eyes narrowed, beaks open, waiting to tear into their treasures, wallets stuffed Ozymandias.” full of their parents’ ten and twenty dollar bills. “Any last questions before I set you free?” Stretching tall to be seen from the back, the girl in glasses and squeaky sneakers raised a hand.

“What was that mummy’s name?”

The tour guide shook her head. “We actually don’t know. Scientists have some guesses, but there are very few historical records, so it’s impossible to be sure.” She grinned widely, every tooth bared. “And did you know? The ancient Egyptians believed a person died twice—once when his soul left his body, and once when his name was spoken for the last time.”

In the hall, Exhibit #15B slept on, his skin stretched so thin across his skull that even the air conditioning could have torn it to shreds.

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Closet Space Kirsten Hagen

At first, when my toes would recoil from your icy side of the bed it was a comfort. You warned me you wouldn’t stick around forever. Since my milk and my life also have expiration dates, I took solace in the fact that we would never spoil. I should have said from the start I never anticipated making room for you. With my closet so small and your ego so dense I assumed you wouldn’t want to make your ghosts play nicely with mine.

The others always “forgot” something—to let me know it was really over. Old sweaters and shirts dangle teasingly like little reminders.

They categorize my daily lament over a macchiato and a semi– stranger’s socks tucked into my boots. You always deny me this, refusing to leave something behind that might hint at closure.

Once I work up the courage to clean out my closet, skeleton by skeleton, you wander back in so stealthily I almost don’t notice. Your energy engulfs the newly hollowed spaces, all at once over– and underwhelming me. But then you go, again, leaving my closet as empty as you found it. And I can’t decide: should I hug the darkness closer or step out into the light?

I’d never say it out loud, but I love the way you wear on me.

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Butterflies, Nikki Snook, Digital Art

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Inle lake, Kimberlee Jensen, Watercolor

One

Josiah Canto

last word

last laugh last dream Two

more moments hearts alive

minutes we give Ears

cry for your voice search for wisdom Hands waving goodbye

Grasping for air Eyes

yearn for truth and close

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The day I proclaimed, “I like you.”

Only to be offered a gummy bear In return.

No thoughts Or feelings discussed.

No More

I white it all out.

The day I thought, “I shouldn’t do this.

Mom wouldn’t approve.”

And all my friends gave me pity looks For carrying out that thought.

Jessica Rinehart

I white it all out, Until there is nothing left.

On a day filled with mistakes, I came upon a small bottle.

It offered me its help, While warning me, “Proceed with caution, Or you may find yourself no more.”

Now, white is all I see.

Everything I despised Gone.

No other thought was given, I accepted graciously And began to erase.

I erased the parts I didn’t like of me— Of my past— Of my words— Of my thoughts— The day I lied to my parents, The day I got caught, The feeling of crushing guilt, Disappointment clouding their stares, Not looking into their eyes.

I white it all out.

In its place, delight, In the blankness, White as an empty piece of paper.

No one could stop me.

No one could see— Nor know— What I had to hide.

I white it all out.

Erasing the past.

Letting me start anew.

No more miseries, Heartbreak, troubles, Or sorrows.

Everything is gone, White blankness takes its place, And I am no more.

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Maybe Monday Morning Mackenzie Paul

It was Monday morning . . . or it was a Wednesday morning that felt like a Monday. I honestly have no idea. Maybe it was a Thursday. You know what? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it was morning, and as a definite night owl mornings were when all my dreams, goals, and life choices got dragged out into the blinding sunlight to explain themselves. My eyes glazed over and I silently prayed I’d be awake enough to stand up when we got to my stop.

I took in a deep breath of musty, sweaty subway air, trying to remember why this city was worth the fact that I was on my way to possibly the worst job on the island of Manhattan. Okay, it wasn’t the worst job; it was Urban Outfitters and I didn’t hate my coworkers and sometimes I actually enjoyed folding flannels. But, at 7 a.m. on a maybe Monday morning I despised my coworkers and the thought of touching another piece of flannel made me want to throw all the ironic coffee mugs in the store against its unfinished wood shelves.

The city had a heartbeat. And I could feel it right now pulsing through the subway car as it took off for the next stop; trying to pump life back into me, trying its best to revive me.

Light flickered through the windows of the subway as the car fell into a stop. The doors pulsed open and a steady stream of people flowed in. With a cute guy in it. I realized immediately that the seat next to me was empty, and half my brain was praying that he’d sit in it. The cool, optimistic part of my brain that said things like, What if that guy is your soulmate! The other half was praying that he wouldn’t. That I wouldn’t have the opportunity to make a complete fool of myself before I even got to Urban Outfitters.

Unfortunately and fortunately, he sat in that seat.

Instead of—I don’t know—looking at my phone like a normal person, I panicked and picked up the paper on the floor in front of me. And started reading it.

I regretted that decision instantly. The edges of the pages were sticking to my fingers and there was a stain—either coffee or very old blood right in the middle of an article about a squirrel that had— “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I repeated, sounding like a parrot.

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Black Bat Flower, Madeline Nelson, Drawing

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“Free newspaper, score!” he laughed and it took me a full thirty seconds to realize that he was trying to make a joke. I could only muster a really lame laugh.

“Well, you know, living in this city’s expensive,” I said.

“Yet somehow worth it,” he smiled. I liked his smile. I didn’t quite see it for all it is on that maybe Monday morning with sleep still clouding my vision, but looking back I like it. “I’m Charlie,” he said.

This is the part where you say your name, I had to consciously think. Give him a fake one; he’s a stranger. It was a dumb thought—but in the moment it crept in there and camped out, it seemed perfectly logical.

“Katherine,” I smiled.

“Now why would you give me a fake name, Lucy?”

What? How the hell does he know? He must be a stalker!

“Have you been stalking me?” I blurted.

“No . . . you’re wearing a name tag,” he said, laughing. We were a dozen words into this conversation and I’d already terrified him. Fantastic. I looked down and sure enough, there it was. My name tag. Looking back up at me and laughing with its ironic typewriter font.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said. “I’d be freaked if some rando on the subway knew my name too.”

“You’re not like a rando . . . I mean, I don’t know you, but I mean . . . ” “I’m a stranger.”

“You are,” I said. “But so am I, to you.”

“Right,” he said. I looked up and learned the fun way that he had brown eyes.

“We could, um, change that,” I said. I could feel my cheeks burning up while an actual afternoon-quality smile formed on my face and my heart began to pound, pulsing with every changing traffic light and every opening and closing subway door in the entire city of New York.

And just like that a Monday morning became a Friday night.

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Driver’s Haiku Carrie Montoya

Dog in the front seat— Ear fur fluttering like a Ballerina’s skirt

L.A. skyline smog: A portmanteau of smiling Dreams and groggy days

Three dark power lines Silhouetted in the night: Prometheus’ dream

Near the passing cars A rubber spiral lies still: Someone’s shredded day.

All the Frills, Christopher Hanna, Photography

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Roses of Salzberg, Evan Denworth, Photography

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The Rose against the Snow J.T. Ledbetter

the rose lay against the snow like a bleeding heart the masked surgeon laid on the white cloth before ripping off his gloves after all it was winter and long since flowers should have died leaving burnt stalks to be chewed by coyotes hearts once beating with happiness or broken against the unattainable bleed on after pumping their last thinner red onto the latex hands but no one can mourn for long the coyote his mouse the doctor his whiskey except the lovers except the lovers who bleed on with no palliative save a feeble yearning for rose petals in a dry season petals we like to say held on by faith or ambition until winter comes and throws them on the snow red life against white death love without love and we bend touching them gently like a lover silent like the white–sheeted doctor leaning over the still beating heart in the white room the machines silenced a spurt of escaping air

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Artifact from Teaching Kathleen Rowley

Eulises handed me a piece of his thumbnail today. He’d grown it for months, in an attempt to make a weapon out of his thumb. Just his thumb. The nail was in a tic-tac container, plain mint white ones.

It wasn’t the whole nail, but the top half inch that had to go before he went on an important interview. Bruce (his nail) was starting to invade his handshake in a way that felt less like self-defense and more like the creepy brush of a stranger in a packed elevator. I never wanted to be trapped on an elevator with Bruce.

The nail coffin was hung on a string around Eulises’ neck. Someone else would have been more surprised by this. I knew Eulises had a cricket in his pocket, in an empty gum container, for days before we held its funeral (business casual, open casket, no prayers). I knew because I was the officiant and helped him choose the non-religious service, not out of my own preference (solidly Lutheran) but instead because we didn’t have much, or really any, time with the living cricket to really understand its wishes. We imagined it wished to be alive and then, wasn’t. It didn’t have a gravestone, but we used a pencil that the government teacher taped tiny American flags to that said America, F Yeah. Eulises had that in his pocket, too.

Before he handed it to me, he opened the container and sniffed it. He gave it to me, I think, because I asked for it, asked for it in the same way that parents ask for clean rooms or that a student asks for an open window because someone farted. I asked because common decency pointed out the problem and because I couldn’t bear the alternative: Bruce slowly becoming more intimate with the outside world. Somehow, the message was lost. I now had a human giving me gifts that cats usually save for the third date—once living things that are now a “I stared at the gift, little more horrifying in decay. I stared at the hanging in his hands” gift, hanging in his hands. As we talked, the nail clacked in the box too large for the half-moon of fiber or protein or whatever nails are made of. It sounded like a deep silence interrupted by a scurrying insect on a wall or floor that you can’t see, but you can hear; that you know is nearby.

I wondered if he’d let me bury it.

The same fascination with adolescent quirks that introduced me to Bruce and burying gum box crickets brought my colleague out of his classroom. He is the kind of guy who makes

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Cockroach, Kellie Warren, Photography America, F Yeah flags. He not only accepted a chance to sniff what was Bruce’s cox comb, but also tried on the necklace. Of course he did.

Their eyes leveled on me. What had been a simple exchange and counseling referral (Cause: collecting dead tissues in various forms), had shifted. Was I in? Could I hang? Did my love transcend the milky bile in the back of my throat that reminded me of last week, watching Eulises sniff Bruce while the triumphant dagger end of nail was still attached? I wavered.

I realized the string was really dental floss and wondered if it was used. It wasn’t. I still wondered.

The weight of a three month old nail fragment wasn’t nearly as troubling as the knowledge that it had slid across my face as I pulled it down onto my neck. The strange poetic justice of self-defense meant I never asked Eulises to change himself again. Bruce, at least, provided that protection until Eulises graduated. Now the history teacher uses Bruce as an example of the term artifact, pointing to where it hangs from the cinnamon dental floss in the front of his room.

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Credits Editor–in–Chief Kirsten Hagen

Selection Committee Livia Bowman Karina DaSilva Emily Engler Megan Freiberg Kirsten Hagen Christopher Hanna Kayla Johnson Jill Kane Hallie Maxwell Kirsten Nestor Athanasia Platis Jessica Rhinehart Sofi St. John Henry Studebaker Victoria VanDusen Kellie Warren Lindsey Weed

Cover, Inside Covers, Layout Christopher Hanna

Assistant Editor Kellie Warren

Art Director

Christopher Hanna

Sound Director

Lauren Hesterman

Faculty Advisor Dr. Joan Wines

Charles Utts Custom Printing Oxnard, CA

We would like to thank all of Morning Glory’s contributors as well as those who support our work.

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Tracklist 1. Stop and Stare – Aubren Elaine 2. Best of Me – Natalie Kalamdaryan 3. I’m Not This – Tanner Schmiedl 4. Thrive – Devin Milligan 5. Escape Reality (feat. Aubren Elaine) – No Suits 6. DLE Yaman – Noon30 Jazz 7. He Is Proud – Jeff Baker 8. Mad World Remix – RebelKane (Gary Jules) 9. Goodbye My Dear – Natalie Kalamdaryan 10.Waves – Tanner Schmiedl 11. Home – The Ladyfingers

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California Lutheran University 60 West Olsen Road Thousand Oaks, CA, 91360