The Gallery Fall 2017

THE GALLERY FALL 2017

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Volume 32, Issue 1 Fall 2017

Editors Co-Editors-In-Chief Heather Lawrence Dominic DeAngio Copy Editors Maxwell Cloe Robert Metaxatos Art Editors Kathryn Hogan Emma Russell Poetry Editor Olivia Vande Woude Prose Editor Julia Wicks

Staff Editors Torrence Banks Bullock Befriending Bard Aida Campos Mallory Cox Charlotte DeForest Noah Dowe William Elliott Soleil Ephraim

Emily Jaggers GuruBandaa Khalsa Lindsay Meyers Catherine Norwood Lindsay Pugh Eva-Mariam Ssekibenga Kelly Shea Katie Wright

Cover Art

Columbian Dancer

See the complete work on page 19

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Contents

The Galactic Fair The Echo Rabbits Bulldozer Ammunition Mannasquan Inlet (wa)tcher Before the Evening Prayer at Bethlehem Farms, WV Legacy Pastoral for a Drowned Man To Mourn You Properly MurciÊlagos Sunrise Crinoline Minute Amadeus In Wait Valentine’s Day Finches You Should Know Print Job #115,812 Just an Old Car Long Story Short I Am Your Leaky Faucet

Poetry 4 6 7 8 9 10 18

Abby Newell Shannon Nevadomski Heather Lawrence Shannon Nevadomski James Burns Julia Wicks Jake Leonard

31 32 34-35 36 37 38 39 40 42-43 44

Dominic DeAngio James Cole Hunter Blackwell Jessie Urgo Jessica Molz Abby Graham Shannon Nevadomski GuruBandaa Khalsa Renata Botelho James Burns

Prose 12-13 15-16 30-31 40 46-47

Jakob Cordes Jessica Molz Patrick Beyrer Dominic DeAngio Rachel Savage

Art Aisha Magnolia Eros Looking Glass Colombian Dancer Smoke and Retribution Polyhymnia, Muse of Sacred Poetry Raining Men Selkot Rest in a Vibrant World Rhapsody of Prescriptions Intertwined Both/And Terpischore, Muse of Dance The Morning Routine Scale Sarah

5 11 14 17 19 20 21 22 23 24-25 26 27 28 29 33 41 45

Rachel Savage Kristie Turkal Rachel Savage Noah Dowe Lindsey Wilkin Amy Nelson Hannah London Kaitlyn Hudenburg Noah Dowe Catherine Wilhelm Bullock Befriending Bard Kaitlyn Hudenburg Jessie Urgo Hannah London Jakob Cordes Kaitlyn Hudenburg Kathryn Hogan

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Fall 2017 Poetry Staff Favorite

The Galactic Fair Let’s go to the carnival! The one on Mars, not Neptune The Neptunians are cold blooded, their fingers icicles With skin tinted blue, like the surface of their planet And Mars is beautiful in spring! The chalky air! Red twilight!

Dandelions would bloom here if they could, tall as giants My backup butler owns a crater timeshare with an atmospheric view of a supermassive black hole He curses the neighbors that dump trash into his crater They’re probably Neptunians! Martians recycle We can buy corn dogs breaded with fruit loops Hop on the Ferris wheel or stop by the petting zoo I hear there’s a cyclops who wears bifocals And a wooly mammoth with braces and dental insurance Wait, aren’t you allergic to extinct creatures?

Why don’t we plan pin-the-tail-on-the-politician instead?

Or let carnies guess our most recent surgery cost Or shoot ray guns into pinholes To win a hypoallergenic unicorn with rainbow hooves The rainforest race prizes this year are to die for First place is a prepaid vacation to one of Saturn’s rings Second is a freshly retrieved pulmonary valve from a hog Let’s bet an appendix on the balding baboon Pray he gallops faster than a caffeinated saber-toothed tiger And dodges bullets like Neptunians dodge income taxes I’ll save us a spot by the gallows and bedazzled guillotine With a picnic basket weighed down with bones So we won’t drift off during intermission The circus freaks will lead out the masked volunteers Whose juicy internal organs are ripe for plucking When the show finally starts, we’ll be ready to use bendy straws for sipping iced wine that’s the same blood orange as those severed heads that’ll roll of center stage and if we’re lucky plop into our extended baseball glove — Abby Newell

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Rachel Savage

Aisha

Photography

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The Echo My grandmother lives in a townhouse on the corner of North Lehigh Street.

Beneath her low lights and incessant prayer, incense is always burning.

My father says it smells like Sunday mass.

To me, it smells like a funeral.

Her home is buried deep in a Polish neighborhood like the rosary buried in her palm.

When I think of her, I think of the sign of the cross and a chorus of Lithuanian Hail Mary’s.

She says she found God in a small-town chapel, outstretched in the back of a pew.

He wore a smile crooked as a crucifix, and a felt cap red as a punctured wrist.

Three months later, she wore a veil to meet him at the end of the aisle.

I found God in a streetlamp illuminating the corner of North Lehigh Street, raindrops outlined in the sky like a shattered flashbulb, water suspended in the twilight above my head.

My grandmother beckoned me from her front porch.

When I replied I heard God’s voice in the echo.

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— Shannon Nevadomski

Rabbits I used to watch the rabbits in the backyard during summer vacation.

I decided they weren’t real animals made of flesh, blood, and bone but clockwork.

Furred automatons with sharp iron joints and blown glass eyes who belonged to the man on the moon.

I’d watch them sit still and unblinking in the grass, the air sacs in their wired frames pistoning up and down until click their heads would jerk, their legs would go up, their spines bent like plastic accordion straws, and they ran away like a distant lunar hand had wound up their keys.

— Heather Lawrence

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Bulldozer Ammunition A fireman deadbolts a hissing door of embers to his forehead.

“I’ve seen enough. I am extinguished.”

He remembers a matchbook melting between lifelines on a child’s palm.

His helmet submits its resignation letter and waits silently by the iron pole.

Last winter, a moth in the attic spoke with Hemingway’s tongue and rosewater breath: “The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”

The only thing I remember is her heartbeat.

The sound of a giant tiptoeing across her sternum.

Specks of dust sashay under a window’s spotlight like caterpillar paratroopers avoiding their cocoons.

“We’ve spent too long as flies on the wall.”

No one held their hands so they forgot how to walk.

In my sleep, I met an hourglass with a stomach full of desert.

I asked him if he wanted to see the crooked scars stapled to my skull and he said “Your soul has been through the ringer.

You don’t need to bare it to everyone.”

That night, I hung up my boxing gloves and nursed my broken ribs.

The only way home is through it.

I tore mine to its roots and watered the dirt with my spit.

Bulldozers are army tanks, only angrier.

I once looked one in the bloodshot eyes and it cocked its gun.

— Shannon Nevadomski

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Mannasquan Inlet Line cast over tarnished rails, I count each rotation of the reel, Jerking after every three.

Silhouette of a man Waist deep in the glimmer glass, Fly fishing against the fresca sunset.

Seaweed drip-dries on the railing Fidgets in wind of Fish-smell and salt.

Men with dotted faces Take turns casting. Private Boats churn the water.

A cover band plays at a bar Across the inlet. Siding tape wraps Rebuilt homes.

Notes slosh in waves on concrete A fisherman tells me Their set has never changed. — James Burns

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(wa)tcher I’ve seen you shitfaced, Curls frizzy, voice fried, ordering a hoagie like it’ll get your drunker since I know how much you like that, we all do.

I’ve seen you horny, Drifting from shoulder to shoulder Inhabiting the space between the one night stands, Mapping it out with your hands.

You’ve seen me at work.

Or have you?

I’m not sure if you’ve seen me at all.

One time you said my name, or tried: “Thanks, John!”

Morning coffee, squinting at my nametag.

Josh. My name is Josh.

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— Julia Wicks

Kristie Turkal

Magnolia

Etching

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You Should Know

by Jakob Cordes

You should know,

When I recall Gargatha it isn’t in pictures. I don’t remember, at first, the old white farmhouse or the soy fields or even the slate blue of the Atlantic. These come second. First, always, is the sound of the island. It’s a composite spectrum, not just the crashing waves, but a whole range, from the shrill call of seagulls to the low howl of the stiff ocean breeze. All of it blends together.

If you had been there you would know, you could – just try once more, won’t you? Put yourself there, at the edge of the water, toes dug halfway in the sand.

It was March, remember, March and the water still too cold for swimming. So, I stood at the edge of the water and waited, and watched the tide slide away. If you had been there, we could have gone back together, and maybe I could have cried on your shoulder.

I recall the long drive to the convenience store, through corn corridors and over crumbling asphalt until, at last, a small town passes. I made the trip three times, Jay in the passenger seat, of course, because I never trusted them to drive. It was late, the second time, and around every corner the high-beams cut clear to the next.

I’ve never enjoyed fries as much as I did then, even if they were trashy gas station food. We laughed at nothing the whole way back.

The first time I touched the island, I was picked up by my grandfather and swung over the edge of our little Carolina skiff, then dropped in the soft leeward sand. I remember surf-fishing and long afternoons spent combing the shell banks for sea glass, worn smooth by the force of the waves. You’ve seen them, I think, the blue and brown shards all gathered up in vases, and the rare whole bottles we prized so much. I know you didn’t understand, but I don’t – no, I never blamed you.

I’ll say this: even when my grandfather’s heart was going, towards the end, he planted for every season. Winter cabbage, spring leeks, summer tomatoes, and in the fall the kind of corn you usually find in Jersey, all planted in neat rows. Weeding with him was always my least favorite part, which is terrible, but that’s how it is. That weekend I enjoyed it for the first time, because Jay was there, and the sun was low and you weren’t.

Where did you say you’d gone? Not that it matters. You know Jay, they wouldn’t have done it on a whim.

It wasn’t anything intended, there was no thought, no plan. It was simply this: an empty house, a spring thunderstorm, and a long drive home.

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I remember the last time I saw the island. It was after the storm had passed, and the wind and the surge tide had re-shaped the island’s back end so that the channel, which used to run ‘till mid-island, silted up a hundred yards in. We beached the skiff early and walked along the inland shore, past an old fisherman’s house on stilts. In the dunes, well past the tide mark, an old sign read “Danger: Shoals”. The sand bore pockmarks where rain had fallen, and under the overcast sky it stayed pleasantly damp. We could hear the surf crashing not a dozen yards away.

“

It was simply this: an empty house, a spring thunderstorm, and a long drive home.

”

After we crossed to the ocean side we stood at the edge of the water for a while, but then Jay got cold so we walked instead. It was too early for retirees and vacationers, so the beach curved away uninterrupted. By the time we turned around and reached the original spot I had picked up two pieces of blue glass and a halfdozen shiny toenail shells, and jay had a piece of blue glass, the label part, stamped ‘milk of magnesia’, and the spiral skeleton of a conch. We wrapped them all up together in the spare towel, and then decided to swim despite the cold water.

People used to build houses on the island, to be closer to the sea they depended on. The people left eventually, had to leave to give the birds a place to breed, and their houses up on stilts were left to fall into the sea. Most of them were, anyway. Jay found a bit of the remainder hidden under the cloudy water – a leftover foundation that opened a small gash on their left calf. We shivered the whole way back, Jay clutching a bloodied towel and the glass and shells lying, forgotten, on the island.

Just try once more to put yourself there, in the passenger seat heading down 13, dead silent. But you weren’t there, and you wouldn’t and that, I think, is why I’m saying goodbye. G

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Rachel Savage

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Eros

Photography

Print Job #115,812

by Jessica Molz

HP DeskJet 500C 2114A booted up on the crisp fall morning processed as October 27th, 1995 and whirred with industrious pleasure: a new print job had just slid into its inbox and prepared for collation. It was from Dale from Accounting. HP DeskJet loved Dale from Accounting.

Neat lines of data zipped into HP DeskJet’s circuit board through a thick cable from its coworker, the 1989 A-model Macintosh word processor who lived on the nearby desk. HP DeskJet buzzed happily as it began interpreting the abstract bytes into the precise movements of its printhead. The data blueprint called for a graphical vector rendering of the company logo in the upper-right-hand corner. Tricky, but nothing HP DeskJet could not handle. HP DeskJet issued a loud boop to reassure Dale that it was on the job.

“

HP DeskJet loved to print.

That was all it was built to do.

”

Dale from Accounting was a very satisfying person for whom to print documents.

Dale stocked HP DeskJet’s paper tray every other week, and kept its off-beige molded plastic casing clean and dust-free. Whenever HP DeskJet’s ink cartridges became clogged, Dale always cleaned them out with a wet cotton swab.

Perhaps because he was so well cared for, HP DeskJet thought it was a good, reliable printer. It had printed 115,851 separate documents over the course of its 4 years, 7 months, 16 days, 12 minutes, and 46 seconds of product life. It had only ever been taken to IT once, when its motor had snagged on June 4th, 1993 – and that had been the fault of the new Marketing intern, who entered in faulty data.

At the time of its manufacture on August 16th, 1991, HP DeskJet had boasted the highest CPS rate of any competitively priced business-personal desktop printer on the market – 240 characters per second. This was a record surpassed by HP DeskJet’s daughter model, the 550C, but of course, HP Deskjet lived in the back corner of the Sales department just past the trash bins, and remained happily ignorant of this fact.

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HP DeskJet’s piezoelectric inkjet matrix fired Process Black ink onto precisely determined spots on each plain sheet. This process caused HP DeskJet to emit a loud, involuntary CH KSS CH KSS CH KSS WONGWONGWONG GRRRRRT WONGWONGWONG, which was a little embarrassing. HP DeskJet flashed his green “Now Printing…” light to calm Dale, but it thought it had little to worry about. HP DeskJet was nearing the completion of a 115,852nd job, and this made it happy. HP DeskJet loved to print. That was all it was built to do.

WONGWONGWONG CH KSS – KRRRRRUNNNCHHHHH. A grating, mechanical snarl sounded from HP DeskJet’s electric stepper motor, and then it was silent. A red “Error” light blinked on in place of the “Now Printing” light.

HP DeskJet’s core processing unit suddenly felt very fuzzy and confused.

It tried to return the error, which failed. It tried to spin the stepper motor again, but it was jammed. To HP DeskJet’s great shame and surprise, its kind friend Dale frowned and slapped HP DeskJet on its top. It had failed him.

A single drop of Process Black ink leaked out from HP DeskJet’s plastic underbelly and splashed onto the desk like a tear. HP DeskJet had thought Dale from Accounting loved it, too. G

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Noah Dowe

Looking Glass

Photography

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Before the Evening Prayer at Bethlehem Farms, WV Shadows slide over the landscape and my rocking chair, dice up the cabin’s wrap-around porch.

This morning, I dug up sawdust soaked with last week’s rain and human manure for the garden and dwarf orchard.

A kid teaches his friends how to throw a punch, overlooks the graves of old Catholic Workers.

Dorothy Day, who died in 1980, once tilled the pasture.

Now it’s the uncalloused hands of high schoolers who pluck the garden’s weeds.

Four years ago, I was one of them.

Now I’m a chaperone working off court-ordered service.

No one knows I’m a drunkard.

Tomorrow, I’ll hear the shouts for 9-1-1 when a boy begins convulsing on the linoleum floor.

We’ll stop playing cards. Billy, the youth minister, will bow his head, call us to prayer, and ramble about God’s loving presence.

He will end with an Our Father.

Upstairs, another chaperone will describe his backyard pool, the differences between himself and his twin, and beg the boy to keep his eyes open.

I’ll worry he’s dead, suggest we take a walk outside.

The sun slips behind the Appalachian ridgeline.

Mountains darken.

A full moon hangs over dinner and the evening prayer.

The stars—hundreds more than when I’m at home— have not started their slide across the sky.

I have not yet thought of sleep.

—Jake Leonard

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Fall 2017 Art Staff Favorite

Lindsey Wilkin

Columbian Dancer

Photography

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Amy Nelson

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Smoke and Retribution

Oil Stain and Oil Pastel

Hannah London

Polyhymnia, Muse of Sacred Poetry

Mixed Media

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Kaitlyn Hudenburg

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Raining Men

Pen and Watercolor

Noah Dowe

Selkot

Photography

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Catherine Wilhelm

24

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Rest in a Vibrant World

Photography

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Bullock Befriending Bard

Rhapsody of Prescriptions

Digital Collage

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Kaitlyn Hudenburg

Intertwined

Pen and Watercolor

Jessie Urgo

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Both/And

Photography

Hannah London

Terpischore, Muse of Dance

Mixed Media

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Just an Old Car

by Patrick Beyrer

I SERVED, it read, in big black stencil letters. There was a rough shape of Vietnam outlined in dark olive green immediately below. Adjacent was a second sticker, a long block strip of colors. Blue, red, yellow, white—the colors even seemed organized in a military fashion. But a spray of brown dirt plastered the right side of the trunk, and it covered some of the blocks and I couldn’t see what was written beneath it. The car was a 1975 Cadillac Seville, a beautiful old timer that looked like something my Grandpa would circle in a magazine.

But this car’s sheen was weaker, its wheel wells rusty, and windows smudged. The gleaming royal blue I pictured in its mint condition was no comparison to the pallid grey surface that remained. The silver hubcaps had corroded into a thick brick color. It seemed like there was a permanent coat of light dust over the car, that no matter how hard you tried to scrub it away, it would always be there.

“

No matter how hard you tried to scrub it away, it would always be there.

”

The door was strangely heavy, and I had to plant my feet and grab my arm while pulling it open. The dusty door slowly opened with a cacophonous shriek.

I shuddered at the metallic sound and readjusted my ski jacket—the biting February air was doing me no favors. I ran my hands up my khakis to rid them of the oil grease, leaving a dark streak near the left pocket.

My eyes wandered to the disheveled interior. Each camel leather seat was torn up badly, leaving puddles of white cotton flakes over the dashboard. In the backseat there was an assortment of trash—emptied paper bags that reeked of rotted meat, cracked CD covers, a Walkman without batteries, and a few dusty fire protocol manuals.

I pawed my way across the dashboard towards the scratched-up glove box, which sprang open loosely when I grabbed the hatch. Among the dust, trash, and discarded items inside, there was a picture frame, with a photo of a young man and woman. But the frame was clean, the picture perfect. The pair heartily smiled back at me.

There they were dressed to the nines, with a sleek white tux for him and an elegant evening gown for her. With their faces pressed together, there was this shimmer in their eyes, a twinkle, that gave the photo a soft glow I can’t explain. I spotted a piece of paper wedged in the frame, and gingerly picked it up. Scribbled across in impeccable cursive was this: Julia’s Birthday, 1977. For some reason, I could not help but smile.

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A hand jerked my shoulder.

“What the fuck are you doin’ snooping around my car?” the voice snarled.

I turned around to find a wrinkled forehead, harrowed eyebrows and a clenched jaw inches from my face. His eyes were full of fire, as if he was woken up in the middle of the night by a burglar in his home.

“Uh…I’m sorry sir,” I returned back to him. “I saw your car on the side of the highway, and I couldn’t help but admire it.”

“Enough bullshit. Get out of my car.”

Quick as lighting, I contorted my way out of the passenger seat and slithered out of the other door. The old man forcefully treaded over to me on the passenger side, narrowing in on his prey. His chest was obtruded, putting so much force on his jacket buttons that it looked like they would snap if he stretched out any more. Over his right breast pocket, there was a bald eagle atop a stark green shield, contrasting the brown matted leather landscape it rested on. He took an authoritative inhale as if he was going to give me the business, but then the fire in his eyes subsided. He took a long sigh and his chest receded. The clenched jaw relaxed.

Staring into my young, foolish eyes, he said:

“Hey, kid, what are you doing all the way out here on your own anyway?”G

Legacy The woman was old and only took deep breaths Her loose skin was like a brown paper bag Her faded eyes like exit ramps But her hands were resolute.

They guided dull scissors across a glossy advertisement The nursing home’s harsh lights shining on the page A young woman modeling for a Fourth of July sale Flashing sparklers and a smile Handling the clipping like a hundred-dollar bill She gently slipped it into a bulging leather scrapbook To join her granddaughter’s other shimmering photographs The countless smiles reflected back on the old woman’s face.

— Dominic DeAngio

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Pastoral for a Drowned Man Out of the endless murk I see the blood of life that strangled me My feet glide backwards against the Silt, that feeds me, that makes up the sheets of my Bed, where I sleep, where I keep my eyes wide Closed, against the pressure, that tugs the strings of my Lungs, like a puppet, drifting absently on my flailing Joints, made of wood, glued together with the Bile, dripping freely, all while I float tethered to that Anchor, the truck engine, wasting into the abandoned Wilds, the algae beds, where nothing good can Stay All dredged by the end of it (not that you can tell) because everything gets lost every once in a while so there are only reflections from the surface or murmurs from the bottom And I am in between I am in between So let me apologize ahead of time in case our paths should ever cross it’s not so lonely here not so lonely here Momma should have stopped me from gambling so much cause now it’s all run clean now it’s all run clean Debts a funny thing when you think how it can be settled so easily with one final gasp — James Cole

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Jakob Cordes

The Morning Routine

Photography

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To Mourn You Properly Be still, don’t ask questions; it’s not the time (nor will it ever be) even as your name slate dries from dark spotted gray and all the tissues are collected.

George Blackwell— I’ll learn to read it without looking at the slate without the orange flowers marking your space of earth.

Dates aren’t important— memories fade, but the essence doesn’t.

On your death bed you said, “At least when I go, I’ll go full. Never let them take you without a good last meal.”

I only got that quote years after as I sat on the floor of the apartment watching Dad comb through your obituary.

I’m a fool for not crying. But you weren’t gone; Dad was wrong as he pounded his chest with a finger pointed toward the sky, with I love you’s falling like prayers over his lips.

The crow came around and inspected the truck, chest out, and proud; Chowanza had the lights flicker signally that you knew the day had been long, but long days are okay.

You are right there.

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I didn’t cry at your funeral a decade ago. The sadness hadn’t sat on my bones and seeped into my skin to properly mourn you. You didn’t leave, your physical body just couldn’t hold your massiveness anymore, couldn’t hold in the joy, laughs, the tiredness, the pigs’ feet you adored, the birthdays, the swollen ankles, the snores, the diet mountain dew that filled up your body to where it had to burst to let you out, to be free.

You never left. Not if I can still feel you in my bones.

— Hunter Blackwell

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Murciélagos Among the pines, el búho grita por su amor, la musaraña excava su madriguera, y la mofeta camina con su bottom swaying.

Los murciélagos ciegos oyen a cada uno: cada cuervo que ríe, la lombriz en la tierra, las ranas silbando en el crepúsculo lento.

They hear the heron volando sobre el lago, el helecho unfurling sus frondas delicadas, el colibrí soñando de cáliz, pétalos, estambres, de anteras llenas de polen, de campanitas.

Oyen al mockingbird cantando en la noche, the aguja cayendo, el araña construyendo sus telarañas con thread after thread.

Están escuchando cada piedra, cada liquen, cada semilla sembrada y empezando a crecer.

— Jessie Urgo

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Sunrise At night, the still Mojave breathes a sigh of heat released: a brilliant umber dusk tucked low beneath the craggy eastern peaks and sun-choked earth spread thin and flat against an endless, hanging universe. Fit snug between the dirt and sky, a town sleeps well: A single road enclosed by muggy night.

And then— a cry, a woman’s, splits the dark.

Her visage starred with sweat, she welcomes to this bounded earth another body, wet and screaming. Mother soothes the hatchling child with songs of who she soon will grow to be: a Koyangwuti eidolon, clay soul stretched tight like canvas over desert dawn.

— Jessica Molz

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Crinoline Minute the crinoline in the corner blinks twice at the mascara spinning on the vanity slowly leaking blood house cats pirouette down hallways of marble and steel ripping their claws out as to not interfere with their work breasts don’t last forever they say two years max three if you deflate them every night before you sleep there’s a lily in the dining room who pierced her tongue with a cufflink she once wore a crinoline too you know

her sister works at a diner from four to close no scrambled eggs here she’ll say it’s over easy or nothing sausage on the side but the crinoline is too close to the fireplace and the cats don’t know how to love while the lily stopped being beautiful when her sister melted into the frying pan a spark punches the crinoline upside the face and a tampon cannonballs towards the toilet drowning in bliss

— Abby Graham

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Amadeus Cathedral doors open like a jaw.

I follow the voice of bells— bronze tongues reciting wordless prayers.

I enter the house of God as an apparition, translucent beneath clerestory light.

Above me, a stained-glass Moses cradles his ten commandments.

Below me, the carpet is red as his sea.

Like the Israelites, I walk to the other side, running my fingers along the wood of warped pews.

I stop before the altar, white tablecloth stained with wine.

The golden chalice of sacrifice rests upon the crimson splotch.

It looks lonely after being touched by so many lips.

It stands like the steeple outside, where a man jumped to his death.

They found his note on the back of some scripture.

If I end my own life with God beside me, who was the one betrayed?

I drink from the chalice. — Shannon Nevadomski

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Long Story Short She had a soft smile and a voice like footprints in the snow.

He had watermark eyes and a face like gravel.

They stuck together like Velcro, then broke apart as loudly.

— Dominic DeAngio

In Wait Here I sit in wait Like a worm on a hook as bait But unlike the worm I cannot discern Between my seat and the bottom of the lake

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— GuruBandaa Khalsa

Kaitlyn Hudenburg

Scale

Pen and Watercolor

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Valentine’s Day In ink, I asked myself, “For what do I write So often of love, when I know so little Of it?” I thought love was lent to you By him, the tall boy who first holds your hand, or By her with caramel hair, Who stands with you on a street corner and leans in Because she has never kissed another girl.

I thought love was from movie ticket stubs, Pastries he bought you, Shared cigarettes, drinks, Half-whispered conversations.

Look back a mere three years and find the girl at a distance, A face as gray As Winter just before Spring, Claw marks on her arms where fear has been, On the thighs she hated so, on the tender stomach, On the shins just because she could reach them, Two slashes at the neck, one across her right breast, and one Digging at her heart.

Find the girl who cut herself Off from her emotions, so on the silent car rides To Dominion Hospital she wouldn’t hear Her father’s almost-screams On that February day, she wasn’t The only person Afraid.

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I thought love was to buy and sell, But as time will tell us all Love is only ever given.

I know. I know love.

Love is crawling in traffic twice a week To therapy sessions not covered by our insurance, Paying bills I never knew existed, “Good night” and “Did you take your medicine?” and Asking “How was your day?”, Even though every day, it was the same “fine”, or “Good”, not more, just a distant answer from a distant girl Who would rather watch the rain than talk to her parents.

I know love, because when I was recovering from The violent hopelessness of certainty that I could never Survive the rest of high school, My brother didn’t see me as a shattered china doll, No longer sweet or pleasant, but hollow. No, He saw me.

I know love like I know tomorrow, Knowing nothing But that it will come, From friends who let your tears spill But not your secrets, From family, as it has these years; I know healing and scars fading, Strength when innocence is gone, That dawn and happiness Can bring color to cheeks.

I know love like I know my own breathing, The rises and falls Through which I live and will give All that I know.

— Renata Botelho

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Finches

Sun smudged the tile in Pop-pop’s home And illuminated wax on his indoor plants.

Painted wooden birds perched around his house.

He carved them with the hands that held rifles In the marines.

I pranced through his house Asking about each figurine.

Who is the grayish white bird with speckled wings?

What is that little brown one?

It’s a chickadee, he said The other is a house wren It builds nests in the birdhouses out back My favorite was the one painted vibrant yellow with a black cap and white stripes on its wings.

That’s the American Goldfinch, he said Our state bird.

At lunch Grammy gave me a book on the birds of New Jersey.

The cover was orange and the binding broken Each page was a new bird and a Map of where they could be found.

Some were up North in the mountains, others lived here by the coast.

Early mornings I would stare out Pop-pop’s back window At a birdfeeder posted feet from the glass Identifying each bird who passed.

One morning the goldfinch landed on the peg.

He wrestled black seed from the feeder Cocking his head, bead eyes alive.

A cloud dredged across the sun, Darkening the finch’s breast. It flew off And I saw myself in the pane, blinked, and felt afraid.

— James Burns

44

The Gallery

Katheryn Hogan

Sara

Charcaol

The Gallery 45

Fall 2017 Prose Staff Favorite

I Am Your Leaky Faucet

by Rachel Savage

I am your leaky faucet.

You know the one, I’m sure. Maybe I sat gleaming in the kitchen of your shitty first apartment; maybe I’m in your post-modern, “no honey, coral is SUCH a masculine color” bathroom right this very second. I’m certain that we’re well acquainted. I’d even go as far as to say that you’ve probably…man-handled me, a little. Jostled me. Twisted me. Dinged me with the nearest blunt object in a fit of rage borne of what was only so recently just mild irritation. Maybe you’ve even gone a step further. Perhaps you’ve spent a Saturday (yup, an ENTIRE Saturday) tearing me apart. Yes, I bet you descended into the depths of the basement or garage or wherever it is you keep the spoils of countless Home Depot hauls and made a whole thing of it. “Today is the day,” you thought as you reached so confidently into my glistening chromium insides with that rusty screwdriver clutched in your fist.

And we had a good time, didn’t we? You fooled around with my pipes all afternoon.

Tightened my handles. Cleaned out my drain…God, I’ll never forget the way you cleaned out my drain. Mm. For a few days after that, I didn’t leak, remember? And for those few days, we were closer than ever. You stood at the door to listen to the sound of sweet, melodious nothing coming out of me. You ran my water just to turn it off, staring up my nozzle to affirm that your pride was truly justified. And you slept exceptionally well thinking of every echoing “drip,” and “drop,” and even the occasional “plop” you’d never have to hear again.

But that’s not how it ended, did it? No, something horrible happened. “…plop!”

I can only imagine how your eyes must’ve burst open. Or were you not asleep? Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe you didn’t even hear that first unsolicited drop plummet to bottom of my sink. Maybe you just sensed it. You ran in, skipping irritation and flying right into rage, jostling and twisting and dinging with blind fury. I broke your heart that day, didn’t I?

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For it was that day that you, the home-improvement connoisseur, you, Mr. No-wedo-not-need-a-plumber, were defeated by a fucking faucet. For it was that day that you realized I wasn’t fixable. Sure, I could be replaced, but I, this faucet, your faucet, would never stop leaking. It was that day that you conceived of a new and uncomfortable question: “Are some things just meant to be broken?”

“ ” And we had a good time, didn’t we?

You fooled around with my pipes all afternoon. Tightened my handles.

Cleaned out my drain…

I am your leaky faucet.

But I am also more than that.

I am your chipped coffee mug, the one you begrudgingly pull from the cabinet when your dishwasher isn’t finished running. I am the ripped chord-knit sweater in the corner of your closet, the one you’ve only kept this long because of some vague sentimental attachment. I am the lopsided leg on the Ikea chair you once swore would tie the whole room together. I am the blinds that won’t open, the door that jams, the bulb that flickers, the floorboard that squeaks, the “2” button on the remote that sticks every damn time, no matter how much you yell. I am every factory recall. I am every defect. I am every nuisance and eye-roll and exasperated, “why is there always something to fix?!” I am everything you’ve thrown out, everything you’ve deemed useless, every detail you’ve expunged from your memory in an attempt to forget the hideous consequences of human error. I am the broken things that were meant to be broken. I am the…wait…do you hear that..? “…drip.”

You should really fix that faucet. G

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Contributors’ Bullock Befriending Bard- “Bodies of high density, the beauty of which I could not bear.”

Patrick Beyrer is a freshman at William & Mary from Long Island, NY. He enjoys writing creative nonfiction and realistic fiction the most, often focusing on people not generally written about in American culture. In his free time he enjoys baseball, playing guitar, and walking around the Sunken Gardens.

Renata Botelho started writing poetry in the eighth grade (hopefully she’s improved since then) and considers it her primary form of creative expression. A dream of hers is to someday see a collection of her poems on a shelf at Barnes & Noble.

Kaitlyn Hudenburg’s work explores the relationship between individuality and the connectivity shared by people across the globe. She is intrigued by how people’s identities and values are shaped in a growing superficial world.

GuruBandaa Khalsa is someone who feels as if they cannot determine what position they are in: the hunter or hunted. They are confused, whether it be about a student about to take a test, someone led on by a partner, or literally a worm on a hook as bait.

Jake Leonard can lick his nose. He is a senior who studies psychology and English, and enjoys splashing around the pool with Club Water Polo and hugging trees with SEAC. Hannah London says one of her greatest sources of inspiration has been Greek mythology. She’s recently enjoyed portraying the Greek muses with a favorite movement—Art Nouveau— to create works that she finds to be bold and graceful.

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Notes Jessica Molz is a senior at the College majoring in English and minoring in Creative Writing. She is originally from Moorestown, NJ. Shannon Nevadomski is a second-year psychology major with a minor in linguistics. I am involved with Alma Mater Production’s Homebrew Committee, Tri Delta Wellness Committee, and the Greeks for Respect, Inclusion & Diversity Initiative. In my free time, if I’m not writing, I enjoy searching for pups to pet in CW! Rachel Savage- This piece was borne of frustration and doubt; such are the times when we are forced to acknowledge the broken parts of ourselves, not in the hope that they may be fixed, but in the truth that they may never be. And that is okay.

Jessie Urgo loves getting to know people and hearing their stories, and she loves to tell stories as well. When she’s not napping or procrastinating, she’s writing in the middle of the night.

Julia Wicks is a junior at William & Mary. She would like to dedicate this poem to Wawa and its tireless employees.

Catherine Wilhelm- This picture was taken in Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia.

Everything in that small village was so brightly colored, and she was shocked especially by how everything felt so vibrant, yet peaceful. To her, this picture embodies that with the contrasting colors of the blue and red rowboats and bright blue water, and its tranquility; the boats are not in use at the moment and are just floating with the tide along with the seagull in the background.

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Editors’ Note Dear Reader,

Another semester has come and gone and we have loved every minute of it. From the ever-enjoyable submissions we received to our goofy end-of-meeting YouTube videos, this fall has truly been one for the books (for The Gallery, to be precise). While we mourned our senior staff members lost to spring graduation, we have also welcomed our new crop of eager young freshmen to the magazine.

This semester has been fueled by spirited debates and new voices in addition to the insight of our returning members. The mixture of old and new perspectives was especially helpful when discussing the diverse array of poetry, prose, and artwork we received this fall.

The Gallery believes that art is the key to communication. Communication of ideas, emotions, and memories. As a college community, we sometimes feel isolated from the rest of the world - and indeed one another. At The Gallery, however, we see cultural concerns reflected in the submissions we recieve each week. Within these pages you’ll find love, religion, politics, and the artists of our college trying to wrap their heads around the dynamic times we live in.

With that said, we sincerely hope you enjoy the creative efforts the Tribe has to offer. We thoroughly appreciate the hard work of our staff as well as everyone who submitted this semester. As we head into our final semester, we look forward to working on one last issue of The Gallery before passing the torch off to the next generation.

-Dominic DeAngio and Heather Lawrence

Co-Editors-in-Chief

Colophon

The Gallery Volume 32 Issue 1 was produced by the student staff at the College of William & Mary and published by Western Newspaper Publishing Co. in Indianapolis, Indiana. Submissions are accepted anonymously through a staff vote. The magazine was designed using Adobe Indesign CS5 and Adobe Photoshop CS5. The magazine’s 52, 6x9 pages are set in Garamond. The cover font and the titles of all the pieces are “Derivia”.

The Spring 2012 issue of The Gallery was a CSPA Gold Medalist with All-Columbian honors in content.

Check out the Gallery online www.wmpeople.wm.edu/site/page/gallery www.facebook.com/wmgallery

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submit to:

gallery@email.wm.edu