CONTENTS 2 3 5,6 7 9 12 15 16 17 Cover Image Editors Editorial Staff
Samuel Walker Allison Epstein Walter Purple Thom Arnold Justin Anderson Katie Klaric Rachel Daniels Giancarlo Buonomo Julia Hickey Samantha Olson
Dancing -unborn museUntitled, Stevens Among the Nightingales out of love New Bowls Sounds in, Views Liquid Capricious Concord Virgon Wednesday Untitled
Paige Lester, Nick Nuechterlein Nick Anastasia,Giancarlo Buonomo, Emily Caris, Julia Hickey, Erica Crane, Helen Keusch, Emma Kruse, Tammy Lakkis, Emily Paull, Katie Rokakis, Nisreen Salka, Michelle Torby Giancarlo Buonomo, Julia Hickey, Emma Kruse, Tammy Lakkis, Nisreen Salka, Nick Anastasia
fortnightlitpress.wordpress.com Brought to you by the Undergraduate English Association
Dancing Samuel Walker
He sees himself locked in dance With Weary Uncle can’t keep time for the heart is Irregular. Sweet Honey, may the world hurtle Ever towards your burning star. Sweet honey, Shimmering dancing like bonetree in November Alive with blackbirds. Honey, honey, call them doctors & Pronto cause he’s locked inside an off beat, Bad mother’s milk & Weary Uncle can’t Stop the strut to dam the flood. To hospital silence & biblical noise they dance. Two by two, him with you Swaying up the hillside while The water turns the bad earth blue.
-unborn museAllison Epstein
Please, do not say that I inspire you. If I, this quaint, cowlicked catastrophe am all you have, please cash your chips in now. Unless you caught the desperate lumbering tenacity defying fate and lots which is almost all I have to my name. Besides my classified recipe for biscotti, saving me from wallowing in anonymity, for what it’s worth. Artisan carbs aren’t much by way of an appropriate raison d’être, I know. I bake, I walk, I am, despite it all. Stunning, surprising, inexplicable. Please, call it this, or call it what you will. But do not say that I inspire you. You’ll dance outdoors and laugh too loud until the buzz of your alarm swallows the sound. and you will plot vast whipped-cream snowball fights and eat whole rolls of unbaked cookie dough while rain beats pitter-patter on your roof that does not leak, unlike my sodden straw. And you will be, will bake, will burn, will love. Do not tell me that I inspire you. You’ll use the top of my worn, crownless head as a stepstool to reach the highest shelf
where all the jeans my size lie in wait. you’ll relish their sleek liquid fit on your Helen hips, and fail to not snort when you laugh. You’ll breathe ambrosia, drink too much caffeine. You’ll buy yourself some snakeskin leather pants that shimmy ‘round your ass when Monday dawns and damn the date, you’ll still be fabulous. You’ll write love songs on napkins that you’ll fold into paper airplanes and send them out abroad without a passport or a return address. You’ll scribble over blank pages of books that propped up uneven coffee table legs beneath green-tinted bottles of red wine that ebbed and flowed with phases of the moon. I’ll sit and drink l’chaim to your grace and watch the moon grow smaller every day and you and I will learn in phases too Just what it means to have an unborn muse.
Untitled Walter Purple
Generosity began To simmer in the cooking pan Before it brought into a boil And doused the stove in cooking oil. The oil that simmered on the stove Hardened into different love Than when the pan was brought to cool It recomposed its looking pool.
Stevens Among the Nightingales Walter Purple
The largest lover, sitting at his desk, And loving in his lungs the air he breathes, And larger than himself, and less than largeness Proper, anoints the particles he sees With words that will array them in the breath That, loving in his lungs, descries the breeze. The breath is what his love consists of, large, And larger even, for the words he sees.
out of love Thom Arnold
Huddled over my computer in my room half-unpacked, I feel a disconnect in my shoulders as if a dumbbell lay squarely on my spine. I carry only worries, things tacked to the brow like social policy, starving children, and student loan payments, things nailed in, but never held. Though the fridge is the only noise I hear voices; incessantly musical, taunting, sad, and sometimes screaming. My head is a black hole and its gravitational pull is a cacophony while without my apartment the world sings through trees and wolverines and car horns. Consider the sunrise over the ocean and all its shattered mirrors; you begin to understand the world within: a space empty and full of everything save the disconnect in my shoulders connected only by her arms pressing the world without in
through perfect gravity to silence and fire and boundless energy. Pressing the world in with vice grip twig arms and tears that spring at my lips’ level. Huddled over my computer in my room that isn’t ours, there’s a detachment in my shoulders and so I punch the air with my fists and though it looks like an exercise I’m trying to beat down the distance.
New Bowls Justin Anderson
I have seven bananas because there are seven days in a week. Monday morning, banana. Tuesday morning, banana. Wednesday morning, banana. Thursday morning, banana. Friday morning, banana. Saturday morning, banana. This morning, banana. Tomorrow morning . . . I don’t know. That’s why I’m putting back these seven bananas. It’s not that I’m sick of them, I’m not. Obviously I should be having more of a balanced breakfast than a cup of coffee and a banana dipped in strawberry jam. Especially for someone at my age. Bananas are probably the culprit for my poor health, but that’s beside the point. I’m not going to violate health code or anything for putting these back on the rack, am I? Stores get touchy about that sort of thing, you know? That’s why I don’t work in food service. Too much hand-washing, hair-netting, apron-donning, plastic-gloving, germ-cognizance. The closest connection I have to this store is those betta fish up front. You know, the colorful little fish sitting in the stacked little containers. I breed them. I’ve been a betta fish breeder for twenty-three years now. Started as soon as my son could make his own lunch. Since bettas have gotten quite popular over the past decade, I’ve managed to make a decent living for quite some time. Aren’t too many of us around, you know? People don’t always realize that bettas are actually Siamese fighting fish. ‘Betta’ just comes from the genus name. Most stores like this sell Betta Splendens. They spar a lot, as they’ve been bred to over the centuries. It complicates the breeding process a bit. I always have to keep them separate. Females have to be relocated after the nuptial embrace or an aggressive male will kill her as she tries to eat the eggs. Seen it way too many times. I must say, it’s quite gruesome. Most people don’t realize that nature about them. That’s why they have to be contained. I keep very close tabs on them, especially the bubble nests. The males maintain them until the larvae absorb the yolk sacs. The fry leave the nest soon after. This is where I have to be very vigilant, especially for Piscinoodinium. Probably kills 90% of bettas in captivity. I have to check the filters, make sure nothing harmful enters the tank. They have to be kept on a strict diet too, so they’re used to the pellets people feed them. Ground up bloodworms, brine shrimp, mosquito larvae . . . People don’t know this, but it’s important. People don’t know the bettas’ real colors either. It wasn’t until becoming pieces of décor that they’ve been selectively bred to have the color-
ful scales. In the wild they used to be a drab brown or gray. But that wouldn’t look too pretty in a vase, would it? Now I know boys aren’t too particular when it comes to color, but I brought a betta to my son the other day. He’s living in an apartment now down in Phoenix. All the way in Arizona, can you believe it? Figured I’d give him a house-warming gift. Put a real nice plant in there, along with the largest and bluest CrownTail I’d grown. Got a nifty bowl, a new design our company was trying out, with lots of aquamarine marbles along the bottom. You should’ve seen it. I trimmed the plant just right, keeping the roots curled at an angle the fish could easily reach, considering they have upturned mouths and such. Anyway, my boy, Junior, put it on the dining table. It’s the same one he had in my basement. There are still burn marks on the legs, but it’s still in generally good condition. It’s the only thing he had left after the fire. It’s sentimental, you know? It’s the same table I used when I lived down there. Once my father moved out, I kept the one he left in the kitchen. It had a nice bowl in the center where I put my bananas. It’s hard, letting him go. Had him all to myself for thirty-one years. Homeschooled him, cooked his meals, taught him how to drive . . . I love my son. His mother didn’t. She wanted to send him to daycare. Wouldn’t raise him herself because she didn’t care. The world was tough. Didn’t want him to get consumed, you know? All those other kids had germs. And Junior was small, the bigger kids would pick on him, you know? He had red hair and none of the other kids had red hair. I was afraid they’d bully him. But he’s bald for now. The flames got to his hair, but the burns weren’t bad. He’ll be ok, I think. He’s no fry. Not anymore. I told him I wouldn’t light any more candles. The glass stand broke when I left for work. I hadn’t meant to slam the door that hard, but sometimes the boy just gets to me, you know? We got in a little tussle, you see, and he broke the bowl on the kitchen table. He could get real mean sometimes. I didn’t blame him for it though. I got mean too. It was hard to live together. Even when we were on separate floors. Now we’re eighteen hundred miles apart. I can’t just see him when I want. If you have a son, you’d know what I mean. It’s like those betta fish up front. They’re just stacked there, right where I can watch them. Twenty-seven right now, counted them as I walked in. Next week there may only be sixteen. I won’t know what happened to the others. It would worry me. Maybe I wouldn’t care so much if I hadn’t put them in the little bowls in the first place, you know? If I came back next week and all the bananas were gone, I wouldn’t be worried. There’s a chance I wouldn’t even notice, considering I’m not buying bananas anymore.
So do you like mangoes? Iâ€™ve got a new table in my apartment. A new bowl too. Iâ€™m looking for something to fill it with.
Sounds in, Views Liquid (To view liquid as lightly as possible) Katie Klaric Every time I cut open an orange, I keep thinking there must have been light inside when it was shut. (And whoâ€”what shut it?) I keep thinking an orange was closed by the bud, not opened by the bud.
At the same time, there is no proof (anywhere)
there was light inside (ever, any). Before it was shut, I could not open it. I keep thinking I cannot contain light, insert light, eat light an orange held It either weeps or shines
must have light
from its bud from all along its edible skin.
I segment an orange weeping citrus wetting my palms are I keep thinking lightly drenched in liquid the color of (as far as I recall) the sun The sun gives It certainly contains light all the light I know I cannot hold it contains. in my cusping palms. Moon wants to be an orange â€”shuts light at the samt time the sun buds.
At the same time I keep thinking â€” There is no proof there is no light
in skin segments threshold palms I keep thinking all I see is light and it reflects Autumn It is the color of October.
Celebrate for both my sisters born this roundly orange month. O for October, O for orange, circular light. I am like light, you too. O the world is full of us.
Capricious Concord Rachel Daniels
Cold sky leaked in through frosted panes, Gently pouring its glow into the empty chamber. A crow moaned inharmoniously, Severing the soft hush of the atmosphereâ€™s breath. Her uncovered toes flirted with the shingled edge, Shimmering strands dancing about her face. Dark eyes watched from within the willow, Whose pale jade limbs flickered nervously in the wind. The air begged for companions as a distant clock sounded, Persuading two dissimilar creatures to take flight. Leafy fingers flittered in discreet protest; Crumbs of asphalt littered the earth below. Black feathered sails floated along the cloudy current, Hovering high above a fragile and broken doll.
Virgon Giancarlo Buonomo
Yesterday I ate a slice of bread from Zingerman’s in Kerrytown I ate it in my room without the crust That has been my only taste Would you say that I have eaten there? Last month I drove to the beach I placed my feet in her cold foam I felt them pulse and swell That has been my only taste Would you say that I have swum there ? Last year I flew to La Ville d’Amour I stayed in Charles de Gaulle for an hour I sipped a coffee and read Le Monde That has been my only taste Would you say that I have been there? Yes and No will be the same There is only one first time and I must say of mine It’s gone
Wednesday Julia Hickey
On Wednesday I melted into the grass and let a spider crawl up and down my leg, which I think means I am growing as a person. A tiny, jumpy one—the spider— not a real creeper; more flashy acrobat than artist of the trapeze, master of suspending sensation. You said it wasn’t so brave, really, to tolerate the image of a fear unfelt. I brushed you off along with the spider and moved to swing, my legs pumping spacious air in the first breath of summer. Floating, almost liberated from the necessity of touch. To be so bold and weightless always, without the assistance of swing-sets to lessen the sternness of gravity.