Table of Contents Cover: The Modernization of Starry Night............................................................Ruby Riecken Dedication......................................................................................................Claire Brown 1. I am a Writer.................................................................................................Analí Muciño 2. Where I’m From.....................................................................................Gracie Stansbury 3. Untitled................................................................................................................Oto Wang 4. Untitled............................................................................................................Somtso Mira 5. Colorado Springs - Santa Fe.....................................................................Malachi Miller 5. Taxidermy.......................................................................................................Claire Brown 7. Untitled................................................................................................................Oto Wang 8. The Red List....................................................................................................Cyrus Lewis 9. Haiku...........................................................................................................Various Authors 11. Owl...........................................................................................................Sarah Kaczmarek 12. 13 Ways of Looking at a Mother................................................................Analí Muciño 14. Scene with a Parent.........................................................................................Jessie Prantl 15. Letting Go......................................................................................................Analí Muciño 16. This is Just to Say..........................................................................................Emily Arellano 16. Haiku.........................................................................................................Various Authors 17. Emergency Room Shenanigans...................................................................Claire Brown 18. Untitled...........................................................................................................Somtso Mira 20. 13 Ways of Looking at a Pug...........................................................................Kate Smith 22. Heron...........................................................................................................Isabel Garza 23. Fountain Valley School Poetry Competition 24. English First Place: I Was Born Who I Am, Rising from the East..........Sophie Zhou 25. English Second Place: Spaghetti for Dinner............................................Sarah Holman 26. English Third Place: I Don’t Want to Just Live..........................................Brynn Jensen 27. Bilingual First Place: No Camines De Puntillas - ¡Pisa Fuerte!.............Analí Muciño 29. Bilingual Second Place: Una Conversación Con Mi Mismo...................Claire Brown 33. Bilingual Third Place: Mon Cœr...............................................................Catelyn Storey 34. Untitled................................................................................................................Oto Wang 35. Haiku...........................................................................................................Various Artists 36. Kintsugi........................................................................................................Catelyn Storey 37. Grounding Myself.........................................................................................Analí Muciño 38. Where I Was...............................................................................................Emily Arellano i
40. 41. 41. 42. 43.
Place for a Coming Rain................................................................................Jessie Prantl Soured Loves..................................................................................................Claire Brown Haiku...........................................................................................................Various Artists I Want to Write.............................................................................................Analí Muciño ‘Til Death Do Us Part..........................................................................................Zia Oellig
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Dedication As we sifted through submissions and went through the process of crafting this spring’s Athenaea, I couldn’t help but notice how real, how unapologetic these pieces were. I could see how much time and heart went into every letter typed, every stroke painted, every story told. There was a different kind of bravery in the pages we read. The kind of bravery it takes to present yourself as you are, pure and raw and exposed, and risk being torn to shreds with your own testimony. The kind of bravery it takes to put aside that little editor in your head and allow that pencil to run wild and free. Honesty is a complicated concept, with baggage and sharp edges. Honesty is someone who lovingly tells you that you have spinach in your teeth, but also someone who coats every insult with “I’m just being honest.” And even though we think about honesty in words, we know that actions convey it, too. We have all fallen victim to dishonest actions, like waiting for the friend who never showed up to your birthday party. But dishonesty can also be quiet, especially to ourselves. Dishonesty is also telling everyone that you’re doing perfectly okay or abandoning your love of corny puns to fit in with the kids at the lunch table. And sometimes you live life without knowing what authenticity even feels like until you dare to try it for the first time, when you finally take up that pottery class you’ve been dying to try or let go of a friend who made you feel small or buy that brightly colored shirt. So here’s to honesty - real, cold cut, liberating, heartbreaking honesty. Here’s to spilling your whole self onto the page in graphite and ink and paint and salty tears. Here’s to the gulp in your throat before a hard conversation, to the tremble in your kneecaps as you stand behind the podium, to the drop of relief in your shoulders after a good cry, to the comfortable silence after “I love you.” Here’s to telling others how to pronounce your name correctly and to apologizing when you were wrong. Here’s to screaming out loud in your car at the end of a hard day and to holding that hug for a second longer. Here’s to living true to yourself, even when it gets ugly and painful and unpalatable. And here’s to living authentically during the good times, too, to eating your favorite snacks regularly and telling your friends how much they mean to you and cracking a little smile when you see a squirrel pass by on your daily commute. Here’s to living with vulnerability and authenticity and honesty. -Claire Brown iii
I Am A Writer She is a writer whose creativity follows her wherever she goes. Art, writing, music. It is found in the way her paintbrush flows on canvas or the way she sings in the shower. She is a writer who is captivated by the melodies the earth murmurs in her ear. A writer who could write a song about the stars but not a line about herself. She is a writer who holds the heart of an artist, one who sings and sketches and dreams. She is a writer who paints a picture with consonants and vowels, a writer who can give a melody to a simple paragraph on paper. A writer whose best words come at two in the morning. A writer who is messy and colorful and shy. She is a writer who cares too much about what others think, who gives too much of her heart away and forgets to leave some for herself at the end of the day. She is a writer who drowns herself in words to escape the reality of high school. A writer who is a hopeless romantic, but is too scared to let people in. A writer who procrastinates. She is a writer who is still smart and tough and strong despite embracing the sparkles and bubbles and vibrant colors of life. A writer who spills her heart in her writing like she constantly spills water down her shirt. She is me. I am a writer. -Analí Muciño
one
Where I’m From I am from bruised knees and ten dollar bills for walks to the gas station. From tangled, messy, knotted long hair that my mother cut to avoid hours of brushing I’m from sleepovers and gossiping late at night From my Lalaloopsy and priceless Littlest Pet Shop collections I am from the school uniform skirts and button-ups From mass and daily prayers I am from 1 Corinthians 16:14 And Matthew 5:4 I am from the unholy Catholic school boys And kneeling at the cross begging for their sins I am from the drugstore beauty section Shoplifted mascara, pink glitter face masks, cheap nail polish I am from the only stopped car in the park after the sun has set From the time of day when the streetlights turn on I am from the voices of my coaches, saying, “You are from basketball.” I am from the sweat, the blood, the grit of competing From my father’s silent disappointment and long car drives I am from the childlike innocence Of assuming everyone means well I am from the comfort of disaster And that is what I’ll always be -Gracie Stansbury
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-Oto Wang
three
-Somtso Mira four
Colorado Springs - Santa Fe Why are so many road signs broken? Never the roads less traveled, rarely the roads most used. All the road signs are broken, or covered, or missing a key etter. Faded like bumper stickers from better times, or folded by the wind and accidents that make road trips an adventure without leaving the car. The road signs are broken when the land is too, and this land is broken, cracked, and bruised. -Malachi Miller
Taxidermy Sam’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Why the hell was this red light so long? She must have been sitting there for five minutes now. This was no time for idling around at an intersection. She looked past her left shoulder and through the window, accidentally locking eyes with the man driving next to her. “Shit,” Sam muttered, snapping her head back to the light. “Calm down, Sam.” Ever since that one evening a few weeks ago, she had been jumpy. She had been working late that night, catching up on her patients’ charts and calling insurance representatives, so by the time she shut her laptop and locked the doors to the office, it was already well past six. She walked so briskly across the parking lot towards her car that she almost missed it. But as she neared the car, she saw something laying in the parking lot. She could barely make out an outline through the dark, so she stepped closer. Illuminated under the sickly, yellow light seeping from the streetlamps, a dead racoon lay crumpled on the asphalt. At first Sam thought it was roadkill, but it was positioned wrong. As she leaned in closer, she felt a jolt hit her chest and spread to her stomach. This was not roadkill. five
The racoon was on its back, legs splayed out at odd angles. A single clean cut split its abdomen down the middle and its ribs had been cracked open to reveal the cavity inside. Thin twine snaked through its jaw, pulling the animal’s face into a grotesque smile. And in its eye sockets lay two small, round marbles where its eyes should have been. Sam couldn’t move. Her feet had turned to concrete, trapping her there, staring at the dissected mammal. Bile rumbled up into her throat as she gazed from the crooked paws to the coil of intestine to the cavernous sockets that caved around the bloody marbles. Who the f**k would do this? A horn blared in Sam’s ear, snapping her out of her thoughts. She whipped her head up and saw the light had turned green. “God dammit!” she yelled, flooring the gas. As she rounded the last curve on her way home, every tree’s shadow and every night time dog walker made her do a double take. She felt her hands slide down her steering wheel, slippery with sweat. She just couldn’t shake the image of that raccoon in the parking lot. Sam finally pulled into the driveway of her cozy bungalow and her shoulders sank as she exhaled a breath that she didn’t realize she had been holding onto. Of course you made it home, Sam. Stop being so paranoid and grow up. With her briefcase slung over her shoulder, she headed for the front door. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shape on the front lawn. She froze, her heart jumping into her neck. Come on, Sam, it’s nothing. You’re just anxious. Go inside. But she couldn’t resist turning around and looking, just to get a peace of mind, just to know it really was nothing. The cascade of blonde hair was the first thing she saw of her wife, Lexi, laying in the dewy grass. Then she saw the crooked limbs, the line of blood slicing through her middle. “No. No, no, no, no, no…” she sputtered. Her legs had betrayed her again - she couldn’t do anything but stand there, repulsed but unable to look away. It had happened again. Sam’s teeth chattered and she felt tears pour from her eyes as she stared at Lexi’s body. Her breath hitched when her gaze reached Lexi’s face. The corners of her mouth had been sliced, with string looped through her lips, stretching her mouth into a distorted smile. And her eyes.… six
Sam could hear her pulse in her ears now, and every hair on her body was standing on end. What is happening? What the hell is happening?! And then from behind her, Sam heard the front door click open. -Claire Brown
-Oto Wang
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The Red List aerial scavengers aerial killer houseflies aerial pigeons -Cyrus Lewis
eight
soaring stooped collecting dung plan their strikes
often called a “buzzard” slim-bodied falcons attack aerial pursuit aerial attack
Haiku “I pledge allegiance” turns to pleas one bullet - Caitlyn Storey under the glass suffocating poster child -Kate Smith
blood drips acacia leaves off the chin falling just an orange Grandpa’s funeral -Blake Miller -Jiale Yang
shoots of grass emerge from the fresh mound of dirt cemetery -Claire Brown last dose of red on the ashen lips open casket -Analí Muciño* fingers pried open revealing red, blistered palms dyed by his actions -Jake Timblick *This poem will be published in the summer 2023 edition of Modern Haiku. nine
Haiku lunar new year another reunion with a pair of chopsticks -Max Wu*
worm moon scooping two baby bunnies out of the window well -Claire Brown*
the midnight moon clocking in for her nightly shift -Zia Oellig
interlocked fingers the final piece to my jigsaw puzzle -Emily Arellano a spotlight on her plié moondance -Sarah Kaczmarek
two birds on the crescent moon pareidolia -Kensei Asai
a small fraying string stuck inside the tapestry tries to not stand out -Jake Timblick *These poems will be published in the summer 2023 edition of Modern Haiku ten
-Sarah Kaczmarek eleven
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Mother I. Among twenty flying arguments The one that stood still My mother. II. I am of A father, a mother– The umbilical cord that was cut And the breasts I fed from. III. When i’m sick and lying on the sofa, I do not know which to prefer, The gentleness of being fed soup with a spoon Or the strength of the arms I want to be swallowed by. IV. Pain fills the generations We were born from. Powerful women Crossing it, to and fro. My mother Destined to give life Like those before. V. Drowning in her hazel eyes I swore to become beautiful, To look just like her
twelve
VI. At the scorn of a mother Criticizing an outfit Even the composed daughter Would lose her temper VII. Of the day I am alone, I am terrified. VIII. Oh crying child, Why do you dismiss your mother and her mother before her? Do you not see how they made sacrifices so you could have a better life? Do you not see that this too is your fate? IX. A mother and a daughter Are one. A mother and a daughter and their fears Are one. X. I know my reflection: My mouth, my nose, my shoulders. But I know, too, That my mother is involved In what I know.
thirteen
XI. The house is silent, The mother must be angry. XII. When mother flies from sight It will mark the edge Of kisses before bed. XIII. I have been her daughter all my life. We have loved, And we are going to love. As one we sit On the back porch steps. -Analí Muciño
Scene with a Parent Sitting at the table, Me pulling my hair out and crying, Her telling me it’s okay, To take a deep breath and to calm down. She stands up, Grabbing a piece of paper and pen, And drawing a picture while I’m being sent on a cool-down walk.
fourteen
I return to the table, grabbing a snack And something to drink, Sitting back down, Looking at the paper, Her walking me through it, The math homework sprawled out in front of us. -Jessie Prantl
-Analí Muciño fifteen
This is Just to Say…
I’ve stolen your dog from your backyard Forgive me, he just looked like He wanted to go home with me. -Emily Arellano
This is Just to Say…
I hate ham. Forgive me, I know it’s an unpopular opinion But I’d rather eat my own fingers than ham.
Haiku
-Emily Arellano
stop eating meat to save planet Earth says the avocado - Yicheng Teng
warning signs I pretend not to see the low battery -Zia Oellig pigeons swarming scattered bread crumbs sidewalk rendezvous -Cyrus Lewis
sixteen
Emergency Room Shenanigans Resident: Dr. Johnson, that level 1 just arrived in the trauma bay. Dr. Johnson: Great. Did we get any medical history? Case details? Resident: Patient is a 41 year old caucasian woman presenting with acute lower back pain. CT scan revealed burst fractures, but neuro-intact, luckily. Injury is idiopathic - patient reported a sudden onset of shooting pain with no known connection to an accident or event. Last vitals showed a slightly elevated blood pressure and heart rate, but normal RR and sat level. Neuro exam showed intact motor and sensation of her distal extremities. Patient has no loss of bowel or bladder function. Dr. Johnson: Alright, thank you. I want to talk to her to see if we can find out more about the onset. In the exam room: Dr. Johnson: Hello Ms. Smith. Do you have any idea what could have caused this? What were you doing right before the pain started? Ms. Smith: I honestly have no clue. I was just cleaning dishes, watching my son play with his friends outside. They were all shouting and giggling, and he was jumping around. Oddly enough, I felt a shooting pain in my back right after I watched him stomp something on the ground. Dr. Johnson: Dear God… Ms. Smith: What? Doctor, what is it? Dr. Johnson: Ma’am, I am so sorry to tell you this, but - I think your son stepped on a crack. Ms. Smith: On a what? seventeen
Dr. Johnson: A crack. A crack in the sidewalk. And now your back is, well, broken. Ms. Smith: I don’t think I follow. Dr. Johnson: Heavens, woman, your own son broke your back! Ms. Smith: Oh my god. (starts crying) Dr. Johnson (tearfully): I’m so sorry, Ms. Smith. We’ll do what we can for the fracture, but as for the emotional pain…. I’m afraid that there’s not much we can do. -Claire Brown
-Somtso Mira eighteen
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Pug I. Among fields of fireweed, The only wiggling thing Was the curling tail of the pug. II. I was of three minds, Like a stump On which there are three pugs. III. The pug charged through the thicket. It was consumed in the brush. IV. A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a pug Are God. V. I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes; The pug breathing, Or just barely.
nineteen
VI. Flowers bloom in the summer field With barbaric blades. The shadow of the pug crossed it, to and fro. The passion Traced in its shadow An indecipherable cause. VII. Oh, followers of Allah, Why do you imagine these golden loaves? Do you not see how the pug Bows at the feet Of the power you hold? VIII. I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the pug is involved In what I know, And what I don’t. IX. When the pug rolled out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles. X. At the sight of pugs Lying in the pale sunlight, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply. twenty
XI. She rode over California. In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his mustang For a pug. XII. The river is moving. The pugs must be calling. XIII. It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The pug rolled up. Next to the fireplace. And slept. -Kate Smith
twenty-one
-Isabel Garza twenty-two
Athenaea City-Wide Poetry Contest 2023 Results The contest received some 60 entries from four schools across the city. Ashley Cornelius, the poet laureate of the Pikes Peak Region, judged the poems and decided awards for the top three in English and translation categories. English Winners: 1. Sophie Zhou, Cheyenne Mountain High School - I Was Born Who I Am, Rising from the East 2. Sarah Holman, CSS - Spaghetti for Dinner 3. Brynn Jensen, FVS - I Don’t Want to Just Live Translation Winners: 1. Anali Mucino, FVS - No Camines De Puntillas - ¡Pisa Fuerte! 2. Claire Brown, FVS -Una Conversación con Mi Mismo 3. Caitlin Storey, FVS - Mon Cœur
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English Category 我生来就是我, 从东方崛起- I was born who I am, rising from the East. Hair as black as the night’s air Eyes slanted, long, and dark A nose that’s flat not fair I stand out like a glimmering, yellow spark Proud of my appearance, unique, exquisite, rare A reflection of my background and roots But always am I met with stares and glares As if my looks are something to dispute Pressure is a shadow looming over a mountain high To be the best at everything, no matter the pain And every time I try to reach the sky I fall and fail in society’s absolute disdain The need to fit in with the white But balance a culture so rich and diverse on this earth To reach unbelievable academic height And ignore views of those who can’t see past my birth You’re ASIAN you can’t be fat GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY and take Covid with you No pets? You must’ve EATEN your dog or cat You bat eating. Slant eyed. Piece of bamboo. But we blaze a trail, where we’ve yet to go For we are the essence of the dragon fire With roots that run deep, and hearts that glow That fuels the soul and ignites our desire twenty-four
Rising from the East with grace and might In a world that often sees us as “other” A culture steeped in tradition and light We stand tall, our spirit like no other So we rise and face the world with pride For we are Asian, graceful, wise and true With open hearts and spirits that won’t hide And our light will shine for all light to view -Sophie Zhou, Cheyenne Mountain High School
Spaghetti for Dinner Raw noodles are brittle They snap like my bones They’re small like me, under pressure and alone Watching the boiling water I start to draw parallels To my anger that bubbles And pops and swells I check if the noodles are cooked By throwing them against the wall Like I do to my head when my dopamine stalls As the noodles are eaten My thoughts consume me My doubts flood my brain But all I can do is listen idly
twenty-five
I can’t vocalize my pains So I push them back down Down my throat And to the bottom of my stomach to drown Each bite gets harder to swallow And though I eat more I get thinner Yet despite this, every night I have spaghetti for dinner -Sarah Holman, Colorado Springs School
I Don’t Want to Just Live I want to be alive I want to feel the sun on my cheeks and the soft breeze on my skin, I want to dip my toes in the river to feel my soul flow in perfect synchronization with the water I want to know I am whole; that I am perfectly human. -Brynn Jensen, FVS
twenty-six
Translation Category No Camines De Puntillas - ¡Pisa Fuerte! A la Ana antes de Analí, Al yo antes de ahoraTú eres bella. Eres las montañas en las que te crías. No permitas que te midan. Ponte lo que quieras. Sonríe cuando quieras. Haz las cosas que te hacen feliz. No se escondas detrás máscaras de maquillaje o ropa cara, No necesita accesorios para ser hermoso. Estás aquí por una razón. Abraza quién eres, Abraza en quién vas a ser. Ten confianza. No tengas miedo de hablar. Mete ruido, ocupa espacio. No camines de puntillas- ¡pisa fuerte! Atrévete, pero ten cuidado con tus palabras. Recuerde proteger su corazón, pero no tenga miedo de caerse. No ocultes tus emociones. Abraza tu humanidad y declara tu belleza al mundo. A la chica que yo fui, A la chica que soy ahoraNo necesitas ser perfecto. twenty-seven
Exige respeto. Muerdelos y pícalos si es necesario. Tienes poder. No tengas miedo de mostrarlo. Translation:
Do Not Tiptoe - Stomp! To the Ana before Analí, To the me before nowYou are beautiful. You are the mountains you were raised inDo not let them measure you. Wear what you want. Smile when you want. Do the things that make you happy. Do not hide behind masks of makeup or expensive clothesYou need no accessories to be beautiful. You are here for a reason. Embrace who you are, Embrace who you will become. Have confidence. Don’t be afraid to speak up. Be loud, take up space. Do not tiptoe- stomp! Be bold, but be careful with your words. Remember to protect your heart, but do not be afraid to fall. Do not hide your emotions. Embrace your humanity and declare your beauty to the world. twenty-eight
To the girl I used to be, To the girl I am nowYou do not need to be perfect Demand respect. Bite and sting them if you have to. You have power. Do not be afraid to show it. -Analí Muciño, FVS
Una Conversación con mi Mismo Cálmate. Siéntate en tu silla y cierra tu boca y no seas tan ruidosa, tan dramática. Todos ya creen que eres irritante. Siempre eres demasiada. No interrumpas cada conversación, no grites tanto, no hagas promesas vacías y no seas tan perezosa. No estás haciendo suficiente. Siempre eres demasiada. No tomes tanto espacio con tu energía y tu estómago. Tienes demasiado cuerpo. Nadie te querrá si te quedas gorda y tienes piel fea. Siempre eres demasiada.
twenty-nine
Da menos cuento a cada cosita - eres tan sensible. Siempre eres demasiada. Si, siempre soy demasiada, pero no es la falta que crees. Soy llena de cariño y opiniones, de energía y risa. Soy la chica que salta en charcos y llora durante películas tristes y tiene millones de felicitaciones en su bolsillo. Soy sensible y suave y curiosa y aventurosa y generosa y comprensiva y ruidosa y enorme. Tengo tanto personalidad y energía y amor que siempre lo comparto con todos los que me encuentran. Mi ruido, mi “demasiada”, mi grandeza es exactamente la cosa que ofrezco al mundo - es mi regalo. Entonces, si, siempre soy demasiada. Y nunca la atenuaré.
thirty
Translation:
A Conversation with Myself Calm down. Sit in your seat and shut your mouth and stop being so loud, so dramatic. Everyone already thinks you’re annoying. You’re always too much. Don’t interrupt every single conversation, don’t yell so much, stop making empty promises, and stop being so lazy. You’re not doing enough. You’re always too much. Stop taking up so much space, with your energy and your belly. Your body is too big. You’re too big. No one’s going to want you if you’re fat and have such ugly skin. You’re always too much. Stop caring so much about every single little thing - you’re so sensitive. You’re always too much.
thirty-one
Yes, I am always too much. But not in the way you think I am. I am full of love and opinions, of energy and laughter. I am the girl who jumps in puddles and cries at sad movies and has millions of compliments in her back pocket. I am sensitive and soft and curious and adventurous and generous and understanding and loud and big. I have so much personality and energy and love that it spills over and touches everyone I meet. My loudness, my “too much,” my “extra” is exactly the thing that I offer to the world - it’s my gift. So, yeah, I guess I am too much, and I’ll never turn it down. -Claire Brown, FVS
thirty-two
Mon cœur 1. Mon cœur, je n’ai jamais eu l’intention de te blesser. Mon esprit n’a aucune confiance: les cicatrices sont une dessin de la douleur. Ni mon corps ni mon âme ne peux plus saigner. 2. La nuit, tu ne peux voir que tes rêves. Personne n’existe si brillamment, et les étoiles n’aiment rien, mais, tu dans ton esprit. Translation:
My Heart 1. My heart I never had the intention to hurt you. My heart has no more confidence; the scars are a drawing of the pain. Neither my body nor my soul can bleed anymore. thirty-three
2. In the night, You can see nothing but your dreams Nobody exists as brilliantly, and the stars love nothing, but, you in your mind. -Caitlyn Storey, FVS This conlcudes the section of pieces entered for the Athenaea City-Wide Poetry Contest.
-Oto Wang thirty-four
Haiku
her million followers on instagram body dysmorphia -Emily Arellano * New Year’s Eve fireworks in the Ukrainian sky -Jiale Yang harvest moon yet I count my calories -Claire Brown her smell stays in the air autumn moon -Josh Meriño* seven wonders of the world reaching for my cell phone -Kate Smith*
*These poems will be published in the summer 2023 edition of Modern Haiku thirty-five
Kintsugi I am not well-spoken. I stutter, I mumble, I glitch. My words don’t fall like aureate rain from my lips; They tumble as if pebbles kicked from a cliff. I don’t run through my speeches; I sprint, trip, and land covered in dirt. I am used to the confusion my words bring. I am aware of my inability to prattle on in conversations. Scared to chatter, blather, babble, gab, yak, or jaw, I know how much of a joke I am. Of the jokes people make about me. At the lunch table, I brush it off. At first I try to ignore the mistakes I make, But no one has enough leniency to let go. So, I start to go along with it. Despite the way it cuts me each time, I make myself into the gag, A funny mishap for everyone to remind me of for days after. Now, I am floundering. My words in my brain No longer feel like a held breath released, But a torrent waiting to suffocate me. My mouth contains grandiose failure. If I open, if I vocalize, if I lip, I create catastrophic waves. When before I was confident, Standing my ground, Willing to speak up, thirty-six
I am now silent on the outside. I am shattered on the inside. A lifeless bowl cracked on the ground, The pieces of my opinions that I lost the place to say. My words are the stones that fracture me. I am aware of my immaturity. I am only beginning to learn How to communicate with others. How to warble, how to bark, how to sing. I dream of the day that I learn to not be ashamed of my voice. That I can whisper, speak, shout and take pride in what I have to say. The day where my words stop pummeling me like rocks, And become the liquid gold that seals the cracks in my bowl. -Caitlyn Storey
-Analí Muciño thirty-seven
Where I Was That day, I was making brownies. Walking back and forth between the kitchen and living room, We were watching Jeopardy. I was frustrated because our mixer was nowhere to be found so I was having to mix the batter by hand. I was looking forward to eating the batter from the spatula and and then giving the bowl to my mom and grammy for them to lick the rest of the bowl clean. After putting the brownies in the oven, it was about time for the final jeopardy. As we sat and waited to see who’d win, The chanel switched over to the nightly news, which wasn’t suppossed to be On for the next ten minutes. I usually only watched the news to see What the weather would be like so I Could plan my outfits for that week. I sat there, my attention now turned to my phone. I could hear my mom and Grammy’s throats close and the air still. I looked up to see not what I thought Scared me the most. It wasn’t a Tornado planning on touching the Ground in my backyard, it wasn’t thirty-eight
That our economy finally fell, It wasn’t that global warming finally caught up. I always knew politics brought out the worst in people, but I never would’ve dreamt of this in my worst nightmare. As I watched civilians rush the Stairs with guns, and Donald Trump Being advertised in every direction You see. All you can think of is “How did it get to this?” We watched and couldn’t peel our eyes or muscles. The only thing that shook me out of the trance was the smoke and smell of burnt brownies coming from the kitchen. -Emily Arellano
thirty-nine
Place for a Coming Rain Leaving behind it the future with the sun already and the clouds passing one by one Terrain with deep cracks, that old puzzle is not the one that was planted the tree that bears the fruit it rains on the bodies fallen In the rain, the shadows disappear. touching its roots A puzzle coming apart, becoming the world Silence, No hum. -Jessie Prantl
forty
Soured Loves 1. He didn’t buy me flowers on Valentine’s Day. 2. She didn’t want to be “tied down”. 3. He wasn’t going to business meetings - he was seeing my brother instead. 4. They were best friends with my childhood bully. 5. I wanted to love him, but I just… couldn’t. 6. He came at me with a screwdriver in his hand. 7. They controlled all of the passwords and hated it when I sang. 8. She locked our child in the garage. 9. He snored. 10.She always talked over me. 11. She was embarrassed when we held hands. 12. He wasn’t a good kisser. 13. She never cleaned her side of the bathroom vanity. -Claire Brown
Haiku stiff peaks slice through clouds egg whites -Blake Miller
tsunami swallows everything even memories -Kensei Asai
night without clouds she holds the moonlight gently -Max Wu
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I Want To Write I do not want to speak– I want to write. I want to slice open my soul Like a knife to the stomach, Guts spilling out over paper. I want my words to maim, To kill, To stab those who have not yet realized They themselves are great romantics– Great poets. I want to kill them with my words So they can learn to write themselves back to life. Sometimes my words are the murderer, Sometimes I am the murderer, Sometimes I do not know Which one is holding a gun to my head. I do not know whether it is my words Or my own hand that is so tempted To pull the trigger. That– The knowledge of a feeling So close to death, A screaming that barely keeps you alive– That is life. The moment When you have to write yourself Back into the pages of your life, And you use your favorite color pen. -Analí Muciño
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-Zia Oellig
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Acknowledgements Faculty Sponsor Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair Editors
Claire Brown Will Garza
Athenaea Staff Sofia Bedoya-Correa, Analí Muciño, Delaney Svennson, Rowan Allaben, and Malachi Miller Printed by Colorado Print and Apparel Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.
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