Athenaea Fall 2019

FALL

2019

A T H E N A E A

ATHENAEA Fall 2019

Table of Contents Cover........................................................................................................................Charlotte Kline iii. Dedication..............................................................................................................Elisa Liu 1. Koi.........................................................................................................Claire Rosenberger 2. Untitled.........................................................................................................Chase Wallace 3. An Astronaut’s Last Love Letter..............................................................Amaya Thomas 4. The Last Moment......................................................................................................Jack Li 5. Under the Sea........................................................................................................Annie He 6. It’s Ok..................................................................................................................Sage Keller 8. Math Class..............................................................................................................Elisa Liu 9. Midnight Mosquito......................................................................................Francis Zhou 10. Untitled.............................................................................................................Kiya Cockrell 12. the ink that flowed.........................................................................................Kellyn Pattee 13. Cielo Azucarado (Candied Heaven)......................................................Kim Macdonald 14. Self Serve..................................................................................................Lucia Heminway 16. How to Save Money......................................................................................Kiya Cockrell 17. The Woman in the Shadow......................................................................Kim Macdonald 18. Skyscraper’s Fault..........................................................................................Francis Zhou 20. Untitled.......................................................................................................................Jack Li 21. Untitled................................................................................................................Ann Chen 22. Personal Essay.........................................................................................Makena Likewise 24. Red, White, and Blue....................................................................................Kiya Cockrell 25. Untitled........................................................................................................Charlotte Kline 26. A Guide to Loving Yourself........................................................................Lisbet Jackson 30. Acknowledgements

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Dedication Thank you all for supporting the Athenaea. All of the poems that were submitted represent diverse inspirations. Each syllable builds a warm shelter, which protects from hesitation and concern. Sometimes, a poem narrates a poignant love story; sometimes, a desire; sometimes, a loss. Yet, there are things for us to dig into and explore. We often look to the sky, wondering about its color and depth. As young people, we tacitly understand our curiosity but also groan about lacking creativity. I dedicate this Athenaea to poems that have not yet been written. Imagination is a powerful though illusory tool. The moon is out, and you are not the only one staring at it. -Elisa Liu

iii

-Claire Rosenberger one

Untitled The mind desires to speak aloud But is strangled by the head The mouth wants to give the mind a chance But is afraid of what can be said The tongue wants to give form to the thoughts And the people want to be led But when the mind speaks and the mouth sounds it out The world wills them to be silent and dead

-Chase Wallace

-Annie He two

An Astronaut’s Last Love Letter (Or, An Imagined Letter From my Granddad, After the Divorce) Dear Beryl, 238,900 miles away from earth, space sounds like the aftermath of the last pen stroke on the divorce papers. There is nothing that could accurately describe the phenomenon that is occurring, so the stars and the planets just say nothing. The day I left, there was no gravity in our home. Our words floated weightless in the space between us and neither one of us was willing to remove our helmet and risk our last breath just to hear what was being said. I tell the story of the night we said our vows to our grandchildren all the time. I stuttered my way through every sentence except for I love you. I am just as sure now as I was then, but it seems unrequited. The rich, crimson hues of the sunset we danced beneath on our wedding day happen every 45 minutes at the space station. That’s 16 times a day my memory haunts me in this silence. I saved all my sorrow until I left, but tears do not fall in space. They cloud the window of my helmet, and I’m trapped behind a soggy glass of regret. On days like this, all I can do is hope the loose space litter and broken asteroids aren’t attracted by my gravitational pull. But a small part of me believes that I deserve a fate no worse than being struck by meteorites. If I could, I would urge my body to become a black hole of sorts, attracting the darkest matter, hoping that my own mass becomes too large and I collapse on myself before I get close enough to absorb your light. I tell our grandchildren that for 45 years you were the theoretical idea of a reverse black hole. You spewed light in every direction and never asked to be repaid. I’ve been told the earth’s rotation is gradually slowing down. Eventually, everything will stop; the tides, the wind, the worry. Life will not survive, and we will return to the earth as particles of dust. By some small chance, you and I might find ourselves floating 62 miles upward, past the safety of the battered ozone layer into a strange reality, stranded in the unknown. But that is only wishful thinking. The lack of gravity means pens do not work in space, so it’s doubtful that these words will reach you. So, 238,900 miles above earth I am floating in silence, thinking of all the things I might say if I ever land. Love, Richard

-Amaya Thomas three

The Last Moment 2 hours before the race starts Restroom is my best friend Under the pressure You can do nothing but watch Can’t even breath I want to use the restroom For 2 more hours 1 hour before the race starts I take off my hoodie Under the pressure You can do nothing but cheer for your teammates Blue blue sky I hope I am running now Or run tomorrow 30 minutes before the race starts I start warming up Under the pressure You can do nothing but prepare Worry about my legs Intensity brings me negative feelings Let me use the restroom again 10 minutes before the race starts We all stand on the line

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Under the pressure You can do nothing but hear others’ heartbeats My head is empty Doing final joggings, slapping my sides Wait wait wait‌ The gun shoots! People sprint! Cheers surround us! Who cares strategy? Win or lose Success or failure Just run! Give whatever we have To cross country runners

-Jack Li

- Annie He five

It’s Ok The room is dark, with a low hanging eeriness to it. Your old, stained mattress lies in the right hand corner, ripped blankets draped over the sides. A single cherry oak desk sits next to it, in need of nails and a hammer. Books like The Catcher in the Rye and The Lord of the Flies line the desk, pages folded over and read so many times that they have turned a musty yellow color. You like these books. Odd. Intense. They make you feel that maybe your life isn’t as crazy as you think. In a cup, a single pencil sits whittled down with a rusty knife. Your record plays on repeat in the background. It was given to you as a gift from your neighbor, the one who sits and watches you every time you leave the house. She thinks you’re lonely, in need of some companionship. It’s dusty and cheaply made. She bought it at some used store, but it’s all you have. The cat died a while ago. You are notoriously known for dining on small mammals; therefore, a lot of people think you ate him, but, don’t worry, he only died from boredom. It went outside more than you do, preferring the light rather than this dark, spooky room. But you don’t mind the eeriness. You like the loneliness and cracked ceiling. You can hear the mice playing in the walls. You can’t go to sleep without it. The clock reads 10:23 a.m. 37 minutes until 11:00. 37 minutes until you have to walk up those creaky steps and out the door. 37 minutes until you have to be blinded by the sun, and 37 minutes until you have to see her staring at you through the window across the street. Sitting on your bed, anxiety fills your stomach. Air settles into your lungs, heavy, almost too heavy. You run your hands over your face in anguish, the feeling of your scar against your palm. Your mouth drips with drool, falling onto the ground. The cold floor swells through your feet. You never liked wearing shoes no more than you liked going outside. You enjoy feeling the ground, it calms you. The damp ground on the basement is calming; you revel in the feeling the ground brings, yet you can’t go outside. It’s the same feeling, but you can’t walk up those stairs, open the door, and step outside. Reading the clock again, it says 10:47. Damn, time flies. You’re still sitting on your bed. Your left eye twitches perpetually as you fidget with your fingers. Last time it took 10 minutes to walk from the basement, up the stairs, and out the door, so you drag yourself up off the bed and head for the stairs.

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The stairs creak slowly as you make your way to the top. There’s no railing, hasn’t been one for years. You have to lean against the wall, paint peeling off as you do. You start to hyperventilate. You aren’t worried though, this is a usual thing. The mice follow you through the walls; they have become accustomed to this weekly routine and ache for it. They like the commotion. A large breath of air releases from your lungs. You stand at the top, triumphantly, but this quickly fades as you catch glimpse of the door. The big door. The big, ancient, wooden door. It stands in front of you, staring over you like a giant. “Hey.” “It’s ok.” The mice have stopped moving; they can’t go any farther. Through your window you can see the girl looking onto your porch, waiting for you. You’ve never talked to her, but she amuses you. She stares intently at you each time you walk out the door. Sometimes, you see her writing things down in a journal, almost like she’s recording every move you make. There’s no clock up here, but you suspect it’s about 5 till 11. The walk from the stairs to the door is short, but to you it seems like eternity. You reach the door, but you stop with your hand on the doorknob. It’s cold and glossy, rarely touched. You never open the door until you see the car pull up and she gets out. Sweat forms on your forehead and your back. Seconds pass and the car pulls up. The sweat has now soaked through your shirt, but you don’t notice. You open the door with a sigh, feeling the sun cascade down on your skin, and you step onto the porch.

-Sage Keller

seven

Math class Messy paperwork all over Occupy my mind piece by piece I do not remember the domain of cot

-Elisa Liu

-Ezra Potts

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Midnight Mosquito frenzy tiny beastie restless midnight mosquito tearing night apart dear mosquito never flee but loony me need no accompany have to sleep messed up body under chaos quilt itchy bites cover painful will mosquito growling devil provoking have no more strength to fight back again please dear mosquito leave me alone for just a little while stop torturing my stinking flesh covered rotten heart I promise to sacrifice you all my red tomorrow but right now your oblation needs a good night sleep somehow have to wake up later before the first rays of the morning shine please wait just till my farewell to her thank you my mosquito I still can’t fall asleep but not your fault after all where are you I can’t hear you anymore please don’t go my only companion in this endless night

-Francis Zhou

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Untitled I don’t like being in busy places, and most people believe that it is because of the large crowds, but the buildings are what terrify me. They don’t have to be small, or rare. It’s places of my daily routine that kill me, that I’m afraid I’ll be killed in. Nightmares keep me up about the alarms that seem to sound because we’re now in lockdown as the “lone wolf ” stalks whatever prey to feed the mental illness he supposedly has, military type style weapon in hand And I start crying because I never got to say goodbye and here I am praying to a god I never thought I would with clenched, sweaty hands, praying that my end is not from a man pitied by media to be justified to be cared for I’ll never be recognized for who I am but for how I died and how young I was this nightmare continues through shaky breaths of me trying to fix the ringing in my ears from the sound of the gunshots firing rapidly and getting closer, this was my worst fear of murder because at least with a knife it’s personal at least with a knife they needed reason instead of easy access because people couldn’t stand to have their precious guns taken away from them no,take away the babies who are the future, instead because all lives matter was really just because You couldn’t stand to hear anyone ask for equality these nightmares contain details of the AK-47 that ends me and others, I’d hate to be murdered this way, because it’s not even my own I don’t get to die on my own my family doesn’t get to grieve on their own but, instead, I am grouped in with a large crowd, nauseated stomachs because we all believe we’re about to die, and it’ll all be for nothing for the next pitiful soul to stick their arm out as arms falls effortlessly into their hands ten

easier access than healthcare easier access than welfare easier access than therapy easier access than the allergy medicine locked in a glass case in the Walgreens on the corner easier access than the candy at the movie theatre where you’re afraid someone will shoot you easier access than education or medication it’s easier to kill and rather than let the families heal I’ll watch another magazine fill up with bullets and there’s no coverage in the magazines because it happens so often and so many happen at one time there’s never a reason to specify or clarify there’s a clear understanding that we hold the words of white men from the 1700’s to be more than law and we hold them close to our chests So we send our kids to school with bullet proof vests and use the most valuable and working method through this trauma called “thoughts and prayers”

-Kiya Cockrell

eleven

the ink that flowed she had too many words for just her wrists so she covered her entire body from her ankles to her hips until the ink was drained from her veins

-Kellyn Pattee

-Lucy Vigneri

twelve

Cielo Azucarado Dulce néctar gotea de tus labios Las moras manchan tus dedos celestiales Eres un dulce ángel caído en la tierra Candied Heaven Sweet nectar drips from your lips Blackberries stain your heavenly fingers You are a sweet angel fallen on Earth

-Kim Macdonald

-Francis Zhou thirteen

Self Serve There is something immensely unsatisfying about having your food served for you. Sickness has never prevented me from picking my own food in the past, which makes me think that this illness is more closely related to the plague than the regular cold. It began last week, a stomach virus reaching cruise ship caliber. Kids were dropping like flies, and the health center could not handle the number of people checking themselves in. What was their solution? Large jugs of Pedialyte. If you don’t know what Pedialyte is, it is like salty cough medicine with a touch of fruit, something that makes you feel more sick if you are forced to drink it. As if the Pedialyte wasn’t bad enough, we received a “Dining Hall changes” email stating that until this sickness was gone, we would no longer have the luxury of picking which piece of pizza looked the most appetizing or the number of cantaloupe slices for that morning. Now, I know that about every public school in America has this system of simply telling people how much food they desire, but at our boarding school, picking our own food was something everyone seemed passionate about. I feel a guilt for the dining hall staff every time I ask them for something that usually wouldn’t cause me any trouble. They are stuck asking each student what they want, and how much they want and I am sure that they despise this system just as much as we do. The other day, I heard someone apologize to the man filling up individual water cups, genuinely sorry for the inconvenience the norovirus was causing him. I have been questioning how long this will continue, wondering when I will be able to apply the right amount of butter to my blueberry bagel, or when I can put the milk in my Lucky Charms so that my hearts, stars, and rainbows aren’t drowning in my 2%. If the school was looking for a way to anger the student body, it succeeded. I have never witnessed such an intense need to self serve, I’ve heard things like “I’m going to get a parents' note saying I’m allowed to self-serve” and “I’m gonna kill all the sick kids on campus so there is no one left.” Some might assume that the students here are over dramatic, but there is something different about having to eat three meals a day on campus and not being able to choose which scoop of eggs lands on your plate.

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Many are saying that instead of eating in the dining hall they will eat food in their rooms; unfortunately, I only have Peanut M&M’s and Baked by Melissa cupcakes, which don’t seem to fulfill the healthy and regular diet the nurse told me to follow. In the near future, I hope to be able to have an excessive amount of tater tots on a perfectly breakable plate.

-Annabelle Filler

-Lucia Heminway fifteen

How to Save Money Don’t go Downtown. Ever. Don’t live there or drive there or park there and, especially, don’t eat there. Find a hole and live in it for 1400 dollars a month and cry but save the tears for drinking water later. If you think you’re hungry, you are probably just bored. Steal a couple of bites from your friends every once in a while and treat them as if they are free samples. Appearance doesn’t really matter given the fact that there will always be someone in the world who hasn’t seen your outfit, so wear it three or four times.

-Kiya Cockrell

- Claire Schell sixteen

The Woman in the Shadow An Analysis of “Blue Nude,” by Pablo Picasso The ebony locks of a middle-aged woman bathe in the shadows of the waning moonlight, as the light particles from a warm bulb dance towards the indigo veins that peer through her milky skin. Her head, supported by her forearm, sits heavily atop her alabaster knee. Pure acrimony possesses her body. She is stranded with no means to untangle her knotted appendages. Her oil limbs rest somberly against the vast ocean of canvas. Moonlight leaks through the window, tattooing invasive shadows across the woman’s composition. Ancient creases in the dried paint reflect the dark chaos that encompasses the woman’s figure. Her body faces toward the only source of light, for she is hopeless, but not yet forgotten.

-Kim Macdonald

seventeen

Skyscraper’s Fault skyscraper high sparkless night and city lights wind behind slipped me forward ahead of my mind dropping down still far from reaching the ground loudly whispering wind beside reddish lanterns and cyan wines the city stuffing worth no lingering took away everything expect for sufferings wind straight in front slapping me for fun should have chosen a lower one what could be worse? what could be worse! fall’s too long someone anybody help me please

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skyscraper tall during such a long fall jumper regrets. -Francis Zhou

-Lucy Vigneri nineteen

Untitled Sun rises from the west Fades to the east People growing younger and younger Back to mothers’ bellies Butterflies fly back, become worms Sleeping in their safety chrysalis Winter turns to fall, autumn turns to summer Spring is always the last season And I gradually Fall in love with you...

-Jack Li

twenty

-Kellyn Pattee

Untitled After midnight in the hall, darkness spreads through every corner. Burdened branches, flickering shadows, enjoy their presence under the faint streetlights. Extravagant chairs and carpets, immerse in the tenderness of the moonlight. Colorful patterns, velvet cushions, stationary in the cover of dust. The clock makes ticking sounds, records the memories of the past time. The hour hand and the minute hand contribute subtle movements to the silent world.

-Ann Chen

twenty-one

Personal Essay I reached for the remote, using Spongebob to drown out the toneless beep of the heart-rate monitor. As I turned up the volume, mischievous giggles bubbled up from behind me. I spun around with outstretched hands, plunging ten writhing fingers into my victim. Squeals of laughter bounced off the walls, off myself, off the little girl in front of me, and off a handful of crayons glued to the bedsheets with pancake syrup; it gathered in a cheery crescendo, throwing up the curtains and opening the window until morning light poured into the room. We were back in a preschool classroom at recess, the chatter of toddlers and scolding teachers almost audible from beyond a thick glass door stenciled with the word “Isolation.” Then an extraneous jerk to the right ripped an IV needle from the girl’s forearm. Frightened sobbing replaced laughter and a tableside contraption buzzed frantically. Two nurses robotically entered the room and motioned me out the door. For a brief second I glanced back through the glass; the room’s dismal sterility had returned, the curtains drawn up in a somber arrangement. The girl’s face wasn’t contorted by fear, however; instead, it was cold and blank – the face of despondency, of utter defeat. Over the next few weeks, I returned to the hospital for my regular shift. On a particular Sunday, I worked up the courage to pass by the Pediatric Intensive Care block, walking down a hygienic corridor until I arrived at a familiar unit. I peered through the heavy glass door. The room was dark and empty, and somehow I knew it had been for a long time. I told myself I was glad she had been discharged and almost made myself believe it too. Yet inside I was crushed. Common practice prohibits the discussion of medical conditions with anyone other than certified care-providers; thus, the girl’s ailments were kept from me. But I came to my own conclusions from direct observations – it wasn’t difficult to notice the speech impediment, the disconnect with reality, the learning disabilities, or the sickness that had sent her to intensive care. Physically, she was quarantined for eight hours a day, resigned to cartoon reruns and thrice-used coloring books. Mentally and socially, however, she fared much worse. Over a cafeteria breakfast of scrambled egg whites and microwaved sausage links, her mother explained to me how friends had never been part of her daughter’s experience, how a tormenting group of third graders pushed the family to transfer their daughter to a Special Needs school.

twenty-two

No one knew how it felt to be that girl – how acutely unique and desperately lonely her experience was. No one took the time to see through her eyes or to share her thoughts. No one cared. And so, once I completed my rounds in the other care blocks, it was my duty to seek out unit 6129 with arms full of fingerpaint and hotwheels and stuffed animals. Speech was difficult, so we sat under the technicolor flicker of Cartoon Network and rolled Playdough snakes until dull purples and reds stained our palms. In that room, there was no age gap, no mental disconnect, no face masks or latex gloves or even any illness. We shared in human experience, carefree and innocent and sweet. I returned to that room every Sunday morning. Some days I toted stacks of Disney movies; other times it was construction paper and crayons. I tried to crave connection as much as that girl because, although life provided nothing for her, she was happy when we laughed at lopsided stick figures standing atop disproportionate blades of grass. Simply willing – willing to be part of another human being’s experience – inspired a unique, infatuating joy. We were undeniably different people, but in those moments of smeared face paint, our giggles were the same.

-Makena Likewise

twenty-three

Red, White, and Blue I am supposed to believe in America The red white and blue that’s painted on our flag The same colors of the police cars that pull us over The colors that kill in the name of Freedom, like the ability to cry and plead for my brother back It was a long night Red, white and blue Red like the color of my brother’s shirt he wore when they handcuffed him White like the police officer who took him Blue like the night sky I looked up to, hoping for some light to come through Red like the flashing lights that were too bright but I still looked because I had to White like stripes of the flag Blue like the shirt of the officer who screamed until he was blue, too, Red like my eyes from crying White like the dim lights outside Blue like the striped painted vehicle I ran to Red like my cheeks White like the salt from the tears Mom cried Blue like the irises of the officer Blue, Red, White, Red White Red White, White, Blue, Red, White, Red, White

-Kiya Cockrell

twenty-four

-Charlotte Kline twenty-five

A Guide To Loving Yourself Take out your eyes, And place them in the paintbrush filled Mason jar on the bookshelf. Wear mine instead. Slip brown irises in for blue, And stand in front of the bathroom mirror Maybe then you’ll see yourself the way I see you. Study the ancient manuscript that is your smile, The way the parchment creases over your cheekbones, Cursive letters folding into your laugh lines. Follow my eyes reading every archaic word and Loving the way the ink smudges mottle your lips. Leave your ears in a shoebox under the bed And wear mine instead. Clip them in, pearl earrings of cartilage, And let a new rhythm beat against the drum. Shout all the things you hate about yourself And listen to the silence as my ears deny your self-disgust. Whisper, “I’m beautiful,” and let it linger in the air Like dandelion seeds or the scent of lemon soap. My ears will let you listen to that truth, ‘til it sinks down beneath the loam of the inner ear And into the root ball of your brain.

twenty-six

Don’t take out your heart. Leave it in the brine of your soul, And let it rattle around like marbles on a porcelain plate. I won’t give you mine; My breath is leaning too heavily on its golden frame. Instead, take the leaves that grow in my arteries, And dry them to make tea. Serve it to your heart with honey and lemon till the beating grows sleepy. Let your heart rest, and rattle, and breathe bubbles into your soul, Till it’s fizzing inside your chest. This is how love feels. Drink in the citrus tang of contentment, And take your ears out of the box under the bed. Fill them with truths and soft cotton tissues To block out the thumbtacks you prick yourself with, Saying, I’m not enough. Pull your eyes from the Mason jar, And rinse them in rainwater before re-attaching them to your occipital nerves. Remember the curves of the manuscript creases And the smudges of ink running into your teeth. Fill up your senses with carbonated affection, And know what it tastes like to love yourself.

-Lisbet Jackson

twenty-seven

Acknowledgements Faculty Sponsor Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair Editors

Lisbet Jackson Elisa Liu

Athenaea Staff Beatrice Mellsop, Ann Chen, Claire Brown, Emma Weber, Harriet Zhu, Francis Zhou, Lucia Heminway, Ryan Jiang, Quinn Lander, Mason Burdette, Caroline Chinn, Jack Li, and Annabelle Brown Printed by Colorado Print and Apparel Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.

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