The Phoenix - 2019

2019

THE PHOENIX - GONZAGA FINE ARTS REVIEW

VOL.XXXIV

THE PHOENIX

Dear Reader, The Phoenix is the result of a year of Gonzaga students’ artistic pursuits, and we think it represents the true spirit of Eye Street. It is an embodiment of Gonzaga culture, where we live, who we are, and what we do.

Here, we all find a place to thrive and pursue our passions both in and outside of the classroom. Gonzaga is a place where students discover who they are, spending countless hours in service, rigorous AP classes, athletics, clubs, and art-studios, shaping themselves as Gonzaga men. This mixing bowl culture manifests itself in many ways, The Phoenix is one of them.

The Phoenix has existed at Gonzaga for over half-a-century, and remains one of Gonzaga’s most treasured traditions. From nostalgic shots of our campus to exciting memories of winning a game, The Phoenix is an artistic reminder of Gonzaga’s undeniable spirit and ongoing history. In the touching poetry, suspenseful short-stories, and pondering photographs, Gonzaga is there, and we see this school in the choices of our artists to put forth their favorite works, small pieces of themselves, whether it be a snapshot of their pets or a poem about a difficult time in their lives.

This magazine is an outlet for our student body, and we have the privilege to be able to share the best of what Gonzaga has to offer.

Page through, there’s bound to be something you’ll like. AMDG. Sincerely, Ethan Tobey Lucas Scheider Galiñanes

THE PHOENIX 2019 - Volume XXXIV EDITORS IN CHIEF Lucas Scheider Galiñanes Ethan Tobey EDITORIAL COMMITTEE Gennaro Cardarelli, Carlos Cruz, Liam Downing, Patrick Fogarty, Michael Kennedy, Josh Knutsen, Michael Krivka, Peter Rizzo, Henry Sullivan MODERATOR Dr. Harry Rissetto

SPECIAL THANKS Ms. Jennifer Carter, Mr. Joe Ross, Mr. Matt Duffy, Mrs. Shelly Farace, Mr. Rick Cannon, Mr. Mike Fiore, Mrs. Helen Free, Mrs. Teresa Jackson, Ms. Mary Kate Kimiecik, Mr. Allan L’Etoile, Ms. Colleen McGrath, Mr. Bill Pierce, Ms. Kylee Piper, Mr. Joe Sampugnaro, Mr. Randy Trivers, Mr. Patrick Welch, Alex Gomez ‘18, Rylan Madison ‘18, Tommy Boyce ‘17, Quinn Aitchison ‘17, Luke Allen ‘16, Holden Madison, ‘16, Chris Hrdy ‘15, Kevon Turner ‘15, Matt Buckley ‘14, Joe Dahut ‘14, Christian Forte ‘14, Matt Druckenbrod ‘13, Dominic Plantamura ‘13, Andrew Richard ‘13, John Morabito ‘12, Aaron Clark ‘12, Daniel Sweet ‘12, Tom Robertson ‘11, Matt Weider ‘10, Johannes Schmidt ‘09, Will Felker ‘08, and all students who submitted art and literature for consideration.

POETRY & FICTION

Lucas Jung 8 Simon John Armstrong 9 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 11 Lucas Jung 12 Hunter Stewart 13 Adam Sanin 14 Peter Ierardi 15 Will Hurley 16 Carson Volanth 17 Hameed Nelson 19 Joseph Weté 20 Lucas Jung 22 Joey Sampugnaro 25 Griffin Belson 26 James Washington 30 Donovan Seher 31 Brian Collins 32 Teddy Feighery 33 Lucas Jung 34 De’Shean Hatton 35 Sam Clukey 36 Hameed Nelson 37 Will Rice 38 Sebastian Tabash 40 Liam Downing 41 Coleman Bunn 42 Hameed Nelson 45 Brian Collins 46 Lucas Jung 47 Hameed Nelson 48 J. Colin Marrapese 49 Lucas Jung 50

Hameed Nelson 51 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 52 Luca Militello 56 Zach Graham 57 Peter Ierardi 58 Benjamin Finley 59 Ian Granthon 60 James Washington 65 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 66 Will Hurley 67 Will Boram 68 Adam Sanin 69 Teddy Feighery 70 Luca Militello 71 JP Mastal 72 Sam Sweeney 73 Lucas Jung 74 De’Shean Hatton 75 Brian Collins 76 JP Mastal 77 Joey Sampugnaro 78 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 79

Cover Art: Ethan Tobey The Last Page: Alex Gomez ‘18 & Rylan Madison ‘18

ART

Luke Elliott 82 Carter Selden 83 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 84 Luke Elliott 85 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 86 Luke Elliott 87 Nick Barnes 88 Josh Pfefferkorn 89 Ryan Luetjen 90 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 91 Justin Duckett 92 Charlie Julian 93 Colin Gallagher 94 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 95 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 96 Tomas Williamson 97 Jack Martino 98 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 99 Dillon Arrigan 100 Ryan Luetjen 101 JT Thompson 102 Jacob Bullock 103 Gennaro Cardarelli 104 Ryan Vigilante 105 Collin Watson 106 William Green 107 Ryan Vigilante 108 Justin Duckett 109 Nick Barnes 110 Tomas Williamson 111 Matthew LesStrang 112 Matthew LesStrang 113 Collin Watson 114 Tomas Williamson 115 Jackson Leggans 116 Luke Garner 117 Peter Rizzo 118 Peter Rizzo 119 Tomas Williamson 120

Tomas Williamson 121 Ryan Vigilante 122 Michael Krivka 123 Carter Selden 124 Dillon Arrigan 125 Hameed Nelson 126 Tomas Williamson 127 Luke Garner 128 Lucas LeClair 129 Jack Martino 130 Luca Militello 131 Thomas Hanley 132 Ryan Luetjen 133 George Clifford 134 Colin Gallagher 135 Hameed Nelson 136 Luca Militello 137 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 138 Gavin McElhennon 139 Nick Barnes 140 Patrick Gunter 141 Ryan Vigilante 142 Josh Pfefferkorn 143 Joseph Tramonte 144 Ryan Luetjen 145 Will Thompson 146 Ryan Vigilante 147 Will Thompson 148 Matthew LesStrang 149 Joseph Tramonte 150 Conor Shaheen 151 Lucas Scheider Galiñanes 152 Liam Melley 153 Matthew Allen 154 Will Thompson 155 Calvin Huisentruit 156 Will Thompson 157 Will Thompson 158 Jack Munz 159

DEDICATION The Phoenix is Gonzaga’s literary and arts review, showcasing the creative pursuits of Gonzaga students. Traditionally, the editors choose to dedicate The Phoenix to individuals in the Gonzaga community. This year, we’d like to dedicate it to Mr. Matthew Duffy and Raymond McGavin ‘17.

Mr. Duffy

Having both had Mr. Duffy during our years at Gonzaga, he has remained a stellar art-teacher. The memories of art basics consist of the simple things, from Mr. Duffy making jokes about his own artwork, once calling his heart sculpture from last year his “promposal” or saying a painting he was doing was “about [his] feelings,” to his blunt yet hyperbolic humor on students missing his “one homework assignment for the whole year” or students’ “36382628 absences.” Mr. Duffy helped us to develop our own artistic passions and continues to inspire us toward new pursuits.

In Memoriam: Raymond McGavin ‘17 We would like to pay particular remembrance to Raymond McGavin ‘17. As a past Editor of The Phoenix, we recall all that he contributed to the Gonzaga community. From his exciting guitar solos to the thoughtful poetry he penned, he left an impact on all those he met. We remember you and you remain in our prayers.

POETRY & PROSE

An Ode to ADD

Lucas Jung

The EXPO marker squeals against the white board giving his blood to unlock mysteries in my mind, yet all I can think is why my right elbow hurts every time I lean on it.

I must’ve leaned too much.

I shift left, contorting my body, mirroring the right’s comfort.

But I was left feeling empty like when I left you, thinking it was the right thing. I write things to escape the pain, maybe I should write what the marker left on the board.

But hold on, what was that song?

The one that echoes in the cracks of my heart.

The one I purged from my memory.

The one we danced to that night where stars looked like fireflies and fireflies looked like stars.

When your arms draped around my neck and your brow pressed against mine and your voice ran steps magnificently.

Your cadence struck staccatos gracefully.

I lost everything in the abyss of your brown eyes glittering like sequins on that dress we gawked at. like the ring in my pocket that never existed. and now my left elbow hurts.

*WINNER OF THE 2018-2019 GONZAGA POETRY PRIZE 8

*WINNER OF THE 2018-2019 GONZAGA POETRY PRIZE

Simon John Armstrong I can’t take this country a villainous state.

Where they get to choose a black person’s fate This place America is a love affair That isn’t fair Where my life is a fare. *Boom* I admit my defeat As my blood spills over the concrete, grass, back of the car, driver’s seat, my own home, in my prison cell, my apartment, and in front of my family.

I don’t even know what I did.

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now that I’m in a casket!

Shooting at me twenty times as if my brain is elastic.

I mean it’s nothing new it’s the same ‘‘ole’’ stuff.

They don’t even think about our families when we’re out of sight.

What about my future kids; will they learn how to fly a kite?

Will they learn about their future and how much it is bright?

As I think about these things in a moment of fear I see the light.

Not death, but the strobe lights blinding me from behind.

The Antagonist 9

*WINNER OF THE 2018-2019 GONZAGA POETRY PRIZE

Ch an ge be r ov em

N

II. I intake a gust of the wind’s pretense subtly baited in anticipation of lacking, Cold seeps under Frigid cracks in window panes hinting at what is to come. stepping out a distanced embrace flowing, unfeeling hands pull down mislayered clothes each one a regret at not having more.

Lucas Scheider Galiñanes

I. Flush paper leaves whisper the soft relaxation of nature hazy lips on eager ears Dripping rays of the harvest moon’s Palpable glow. withering, crooked fingers Crumble into ashes Tumbling, the secluded breeze unfeelingly rubs the flecks awaya darkened eraser.

Beaten blind by the frigid searing of sun, The paper leaves whisked away forever-

10

III. I hold onto the coveted essence’s touch as I step further through the portal of wintry blusters longing in vain to maintain some semblance of the fire-placed Warmth.

IV. I don’t return what your icy hand gave when we met I keep that ignitingly infuriating breeze in my heart’s capacity A tinged love of a breath’s refreshingly cool yesses like goose-bumped water gently ravining, flowing down my senses into an awe inspiring clarity, a blanket white of snow blustered in my own hand’s folds Your eyelashes covered with the dimple of ice-dripped dew One too many footprints muddles into an embrace in the middle of a newly seen forest of pale birch trees.

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White, purity and innocence Like the children of Sandy Hook petrified by the ringing gunshots rather than ringing bells.

Hidden under desks and inside closets when various kids and teachers taste the lead of America.

Like Marjory Stoneman Douglass, when the drills couldn’t prepare them to hurdle over classmate’s corpses.

And the blood runs Red, hardiness and valor Like Heather Heyer who stood for what is right in the face of opposition.

The opposition of a car’s bumper.

Like Emmett Till’s casket Left open so they could see America We all bleed

Half Mast

Oh say, Does that star spangled banner yet wave o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

12

*WINNER OF THE 2018-2019 GONZAGA POETRY PRIZE

Lucas Jung

Blue, perseverance, vigilance, and justice Like Philando Castile, shot Walter Scott, shot Alton Sterling, shot Mike Brown, shot Tamir Rice, shot Stephon Clark, shot Eric Garner Dead The list continues and I cannot breathe.

*WINNER OF THE 2019 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST

When I was -a boy.

I saw black -stars.

Hate black boys’ dreams.

Mine started running jumping ---

Turn dark.

Silence Cold blues -fell on broken feet.

See when I was- a boy.

Fireworks Hunter Stewart

I

See if-you look Like me.

---

I stood tall on my stoop.

Color is --your Name.

See my wicked jump shot is when pen meets paper.

I swear --that’s Exactly --what happens.

But like most 13

*WINNER OF THE 2019 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST

Adam Sanin

White Tile Water falls from the nozzle, like a man made rainstorm Long day I wash my worries away.

Steam, fogs the mirror but cleanses my mind, and my soul. soaping down my failures and washing them down the drain.

White tile never felt so warm, so homey, so safe.

14

In memory of Roy Halladay (1977-2017), Philadelphia Phillies pitcher from 2010-2013.

Atop the 11-inch raised mound, the 6-foot-6, 225 pound beast digs in. Metal cleats rip through the fine dirt like children opening presents on Christmas Day. Righty-righty matchup.

The crowd relentlessly cheers for their stud.

The 93-mph pitch hurled at Ruiz who awaits the sting in his mighty leather, but never caught the ball.

Bat on ball.

Dead silence.

Quiet enough to hear the deep breath of hustle.

108 stitches fly toward first base, just in time.

The umpire signals: out!

No-hitter.

Philadelphia explodes into a sea of red and white pinstripes.

A rare occurrenceRoy smiles.

Peter Ierardi

Elegy to Roy Halladay *WINNER OF THE 2019 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST 15

Will Hurley

Ode to the Jacket that Has Been There Through It All

Through one, two, three, four, four generations you offered your thick fabric as protection.

Your plaid interior exploding outward.

The dirty brown outer-layer fighting off the elements that wish to harm.

Through this and that, you stood the exam of time.

With a passing grade, an A+, you persevered.

During the first, you were untouched by the sin and dirt of the world.

Perfect still in your youth and innocence.

With the second, you matured as an article of clothing .

Still perfect as a child is.

Yet you make mistakes, you get your holes and your scuffs, beaten and torn you still serve your purpose.

With your experience from past events, you learned.

You learned how to protect and comfort your wearer, in all circumstances.

Now with me. your history, your story, lives on.

Through the rain and snow, sleet and hail you shield me.

Much like you did with the first, second, and third.

While you were protecting the third, you represented years of protection. *WINNER OF THE 2019 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST 16

Seven Year Olds & Shotgun Shells Carson Volanth A mere seven years old is remarkably young to possess the fatal power of a 28-gauge shotgun, but my dad felt strongly about it. So, he, my older brother, two older sisters, and I packed into the car and made the long trek across the state of Virginia on our way to The Homestead, a historic resort nested in the rural Appalachian Mountains. Here one can hike, mountain bike, and fly fish, but we weren’t making the eight hour round trip for any of those activities.

My dad brought us down here for one particular reason.

He had always preached that guns were not something you fooled around with, not a source of awe or entertainment, and certainly anything but a toy. He held firearms with the utmost respect and caution. I, on the other hand, was just glad that I could finally showcase my skill and craft sharpened through Nerf gun wars in the basement with my brothers. As we neared the shooting range, this foolhardy confidence dissipated and was replaced with a growing fear for what laid before me.

My imagination let loose thinking about all the mishaps. I could be looking down the sights of the barrel, fire a shot, and look up to find that I had just committed murder, or the gun could mishap and explode in my face, or I could mistakenly hold the shotgun backwards and shoot myself. My young, scattered mind was growing more irrational with each new scenario. I turned to my dad and made a joke that I felt like I was going to accidentally shoot someone. As soon as I finished, my dad shot me a cold, agitated look, and I knew I said something wrong. He snapped at me and repeated loud and clear that guns are a serious matter and not the subject of jokes. I was rattled, and I wished that I never said it, but the message my dad delivered through his intense, echoing words had certainly left an impression on me.

This past summer, I watched as my dad calmly maneuvered through the cars dotted along the Beltway. He was hurrying to get 17

home, as he had spent over an hour and a half bringing me home from a friend’s house. This was during the summer after I had turned sixteen, so I did not have my license, but I held my permit for several months. I watched as he took a quick glance in his mirror, gracefully switched lanes, and accelerated past a slow and bothersome vehicle. Ever since I began driving, my parents shared advice on driving technique, traffic rules, and overall safety in an effort to teach me to be a responsible driver. I analyzed the driving of my parents, making mental notes of their performances and the shared expertise so that I too might drive well and safely.

I switched from examining the driving technique of my dad to imagining that I was the one sitting behind the wheel. My mind quickly wandered to thoughts of outrunning the police going a million miles an hour, zooming past the cars ahead of me and veering in and out of small gaps between the cars. Turning to my dad, I told him of my fantasy of being in a high speed chase and recklessly swerving across the road. As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I chose poorly. I was sure he was going to scold me for childishly not understanding the dangers of driving.

I was scrambling to recover and needed to remove any doubts about my maturity and seriousness. I quickly interjected, “But as a cop, chasing the criminal.� I waited for my dad to indicate whether he thought I held the proper amount of respect for driving. He chuckled and said that he too would enjoy it.

18

I love my brown eyes.

They don’t match the sky in fact they seem bleak most times.

My brown eyes hide their glare.

So if you look into my brown eyes know there’s love behind my stare.

The best thing about my eyes is when the sun shines.

They’ll go from black to honey or even gingerbread.

The light fills my eyes and it’s magic I swear.

There are times I’m down but I’ll smile without a care.

I know my eyes look empty however they have love to share.

eed

N

n w ro

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Ha

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Letter by Gabriel For When Freedom Is More Than An Idea Joseph Weté

When I was born a man, I had already seen centuries.

They told me about you.

I saw Jesus when I heard Jesuit.

I saw golden.

When I grew up three-fifths a man, and they told me I was going to Gonzaga, tears rushed down my cheeks like the rivers my people followed and drank from, and like the rivers their burnt bodies were thrown in.

You see, these were good tears.

After all, it’s a Jesuit school, and education is for...

20

When I grew up three-fifths a man I thought I would be one with God, they told me instead, I would be one with dirt.

I would work in the garden.

I thought about beauty like cherry blossoms, and magnolias, and roses.

Then I realized they thought the flowers were more beautiful than me.

As I survived as three-fifths of a man, these loving, God fearing, men walked by me, looked at the garden, and that’s all.

I knelt my soul in the soil.

My tongue was dryer than the flowers I watered.

My cracked lips smiled wide as if to say, “Help me.”

Would I be so wrong to be that rose?

Red like anger and violence.

Burst my fury to topsoil, push all out of the way, and use their blood to color me bright?

Would I be so wrong to believe, although I’m three-fifths a man, I’m worth more than 35 cents.

Lord forgive me if I’m so wrong to be upset at these children when they break windows and throw God’s work, into the rivers, but if I do not pick these weeds— I won’t receive the same compassion.

Lord forgive me, if I would rather be a rose, than three-fifths of a man who plants them.

21

AS

LUC

e n o eph

Pers

JUNG

After the Abduction of Persephone, a Greek myth He stripped her for himself on his golden chariot.

Majestic oxen tug rusted chains and inhaled clouds of thunder.

Vacant glares tickle the Earth and a chasm opens.

Blisters form upon Demeter’s olive cheeks and frozen rose petals shatter under her heavy wails.

Sweet blood dances in her fingers and writhes on her lips.

“Persephone” The words trickle from her brain and tumble out of her mouth.

White shards crash against her house and rip forgotten memories.

Memories of fruit, that fruit, sweet blood

22

Persephone, simple and fair dons a crimson dress simply fair.

He skips with a basket draped across his arm and rattling within is a lone, crimson temptation surrounded by a glossy, white serpent.

She flinches as he lay the basket down and fondles her face and struts away.

Ceramic scales cut temptation’s hardened skin and coils like a holy noose hugging its prey’s last blaze.

She saves it.

As it lay, cradled in her palms, she is coerced by its flirtatious smile.

It fissures and, like a clam, reveals twelve, ruby pearls that glisten in the dark.

Entranced by its translucent luster, she places the gem on her sour tongue and suppresses it under her blemished spirit.

Sweet blood paces down her chin as she consumes its treasure, savoring every second until the next one breaks.

The echo of shadows chuckle harder, louder, madder when each ruby is lost in Persephone’s ashen flesh.

Wrath rises in her gut and she hurls the abhorrent snare toward the farthest end of the chasm, yet no sound rings in the hollow prison.

A shifting figure, ordained in white, steps a foot out of the shade.

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Upon his porcelain face, dismay crawls like spiders on the spindle of his tears.

Six scarlet marks, scattered across his cape, engulf her hatred in the brightest light.

Persephone wakes in a field of yellow.

The damp earth soaks into her skin, and the imprints of countless nymphs encase her in a cage of failure.

Persimmon tears glaze her forehead when she finds the broken eyes of her mother lost in death’s sea.

Upon her hand, where temptation once lay, four marks were branded, searing away freedom, leaving only the captivity of sweet blood.

24

She’s stood strong for 107 years She’s seen cheers tears and cheers again She’s seen the all time great wins with an all time great drought through the years she has kept a packed crowd naming themself the Fenway Faithful some watch high up in left others from behind the plate we get brought back each year by her game and by the hope that this year is our year She attracts a championship spoiled teen and a doubter who stuck it out through her curse She remembers 85 dry years breaking the hearts of all her lovers She remembers Dave Roberts on the run sparking the greatest comeback that’s ever been done the fresh cut grass and smell of hotdogs Forever Fenway Park

Joey Sampugnaro

Ode to Fenway

25

Coyote Griffin Belson 26

Before the sun rises over the Yerba Buena Ranch, Tom listens to the sounds of coyotes yapping off in the distance. He knows that they are too small a match for the full-grown cattle in the fields, but he’s concerned that they have found a way into the calving barn and are celebrating finding a young or sickly calf whose mother is too tired or nervous to fight them off. He can only hope that his ranch hand, Adrian is already out checking the fences and can chase them off if the coyotes are in the barn.

The Yerba Buena Ranch rolls over 30,000-acres just east of Nogales in the high chaparral of the Sonora desert. The ranch is fed by the Santa Cruz River and is home to Tracy Lake, named after Tom’s sister back home in Chicago. Kino Springs, at the base of the Patagonia mountains, is on the property and Tom regularly has had run-ins with the other ranchers over water access. Without Adrian, and his son, Manuel, who live in the cabin close to the springs, he would not be able to keep his cattle watered or his fields irrigated.

Adrian has been working for Tom for nearly 15 years. When Tom first found him, he was waiting for work with his father, Adrian Sr., near the welding shop in town. Workers assembled near the shop each morning, looking for daily work in this border town.

Each night, they would simply walk back over the border to Nogales, Mexico to be with their families.

The Coyotes have quieted, and the sun has begun to rise over the crest of the mountains. Tom pulls on his boots and hears Adrian and Manuel greeting Tom’s wife Anna and 9-month-old daughter Ellen in the kitchen. The morning is still cool from the rain overnight, and the smell of creosote mixes with the smell of bacon wafting down the hallway as Tom makes his way to the back of the house in the early

morning light.

“Bueno Dios, Adrian!” Tom announces as he walks into the kitchen. Adrian and Manuel return “Good Morning Señor” in unison, and Tom and Adrian begin to discuss the status of the calving barn as Tom picks up Ellen and bounces her on his knee. They discuss the work to be done, checking on the cows and their young calves, cleaning the hay, and checking the washes given the heavy rain that fell overnight. Adrian furrows his brow. “There is something I must talk with you about, Señor.” Tom can see Adrian’s concern, and they both look toward Manuel, now playing with Ellen and her cotton bunny on the kitchen floor. Adrian and Tom walk out the kitchen door to the small garden next to the house.

The desert morning sky is pink and orange clouds stretching in nearly perfect rows across the eastern sky.

“My wife, Julia, is soon to have our baby” Adrian stammers as they move away from the house. “She is weak, she cannot work, and my daughter must stay with her all day.” Tom knows that Julia was due with their fifth child this summer, but it seems too soon.

There must be a problem. He knows that Julia has miscarried at least twice before, and her health must be in danger.

Now that border patrol is so stringent, Adrian and Manuel cannot easily go to see their family like they could when Adrian and Adrian Sr. worked the ranch. They must stay in Arizona for longer periods of time, only having time to visit with their family once or twice a year. Tom knows that Adrian spends his Friday afternoons at the bank in town, sending money to Julia each week so that she and the children, and Manuel’s Abela can live a meager life in Mexico. Tom doesn’t ask too many questions. Adrian Sr had been a loyal employee, and he has never asked to see Adrian’s papers. He produced a social security number, and Tom pays Adrian $10 per hour with a personal check at the end of each month. Tom figures that since Adrian and Manuel live on the ranch, this is a fair wage.

“You must try and bring her here” Tom whispers, though no one but he and Adrian are within earshot. Tom knows that Julia could get emergency care at the hospital in town and he is certain that the medical care she could get here could save her life. But Julia was caught trying to cross the border outside the checkpoint with her three younger daughters a few months ago, so if they are 27

caught again, they could be held in the Santa Cruz detention center.

Already one child has died in the center, so the risks are high.

“You must try,” Tom says again.

Adrian looks wearily at Tom. He also knows the risks. “Si Señor,” he says, looking off to the south. Tom then says “I have a niece in California that is about Julia’s age. I can get her papers, and you could get them to Julia and the girls”. “No, Señor,” Adrian sighs, “I have already hired a coyote. But I must go to meet them in Baja”. Tom knows this word - the Mexicans refer to the human smugglers who bring them over the border as coyotes. “No, Adrian, you cannot risk her life when she is so weak already,” Tom says. But Adrian quickly replies “Señor, we have no choice. There is nothing for her there. Abela cannot keep her safe from the MS”.

Adrian is referring to MS-13, the dangerous Mexican gang that is known for bribing families to keep their access to US funds secure.

“No, Adrian” whimpers Tom. All the money he has paid Adrian over the years has gone to keep the family barely alive. After the payments to MS-13, they must have so little. Tom closes his eyes.

This explains why Adrian is always so desperate for work, and why Julia is so ill. They must be so devastated that they are going to try to escape the gangs that have been tormenting them and destroying their family at any cost.

Yet Tom is at risk just knowing these things about Adrian and his family. The US Border Agents from the Tucson office are good friends to him. They have helped him keep his land safe from the drug traffic that courses through this region. Tom has allowed agents to camp on his property, keeping an eye out for illegal immigrants not looking for work, but who would rather break into his home to steal and harm his family. The local agent, Victor, has been in his house many times and has told stories of local ranchers and business owners who tried to help out an employee only to become victims of MS-13 themselves.

Neither Adrian or Tom have a choice. Tom cannot help Adrian without risking his own family and business. Now that he knows that MS-13 has a hold on them, he has to keep his distance. Adrian cannot risk leaving his family in Mexico any longer. They must try to escape.

28

Tom looks at Adrian. “My friend, you have to do what you have to do.” Si Señor” breathes Adrian. “But Manuel, can he stay”?

Tom looks off into the distance. How will he explain to Victor that Manuel is working for him? Does he have the right papers or ID? If he was a citizen, shouldn’t he be in school? How old is Manuel anyway? How much trouble will Tom be in if Manuel is found?

“Of course, Adrian, he can stay,” says Tom as he squints at the sun.

He will have to deal with the trouble if, and when, it comes.

Adrian walks to the truck Tom gave his father one year when the beef prices were so low that he couldn’t pay Adrian Sr. in cash.

Tom sees that Adrian’s bag is already packed and loaded into the cab. Tom doesn’t ask him where he is going - he would rather not know. “Papa!” yells Manuel from the kitchen door. Manuel runs to the truck, and he and Adrian have a tearful conversation in Spanish. After a few minutes, the truck pulls away, and Manuel comes to stand with Tom in the garden. As the truck pulls off onto the main road, a coyote howls in the distance.

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wrapping my skin for sets of shades the different weather can I find the skinny denim to flow with my sweater,

wool blend peach trench turtle neck the combo consignment wear, highs at the low no look picking fits Rajon Rondo in case the weather gets toasty vans and board shorts, Calvin Klein coat if it’s colder though my stature narrow The top and bottoms in order confident I can solve the puzzle with The linen sheets in my wallet bus stop united stripes Sound blaring, rocket love golden lady golden hours the nearest retail I’d like to go there

My 30

Finest

Passion

James Washington

or even better couple shoes maybe with the patent leather comme de, the hearts are broken and a slight tint redder

Ode to Allen Iverson Donovan Seher The Answer not the question.

Wrongly convicted when you were a kid, drafted number 1 overall.

Rookie of the year, MVP. Three on your back, Sixers across your chest.

Cornrows running down the back of your head. your crossover so fast, you left a trail of broken ankles in your path.

Crossing up Michael Jordan made you a hero stepping over Tyronn Lue made you The Answer. always talking about practice.

31

BRIAN COLLINS

STRANGE It’s funny how the sun falls only to crawl its way above the horizon.

How there are plenty of fish in the sea that even a broken hook can reel in.

How we regret something and think it will change the past.

How we know the ending of a movie but watch its entirety.

32

Fourteen years.

You walked this earth, eating grass even though you were allergic.

Silence.

Never barking but always heard.

You always snored.

All night long.

I used to hate it, but did not realize how I would miss it.

Because now it is gone, and my room is silent.

The strong wood is outfitted by furry, tan leaves.

But you are there.

That tree, above you now serves as a reminder of the dog you were.

Rem

Ted

emb

dy F

erin

eigh

g Hi

ery

m 33

LEGAL MURDER

Lucas Jung

They tell us to get rest but then drain our energy every last drop so we run on fumes and tell us it’s our fault for bad grades and no sleep

we allow this murderer of creativity to take children for 7 hours feeding content just for them to vomit

They tell us it’s a competition our friends are our enemies

then have them spend free time working and participating in extracurriculars and we’re expected to have a social life

They tell us to get A’s the same grade given to judge meat They put us in neat rows raising our hands to speak not in fists conforming to their ideals Each child has a passion based from a certain gift there should be no opposition not from their peers not from their parents not from society not from them and especially not Them 34

How do you expect a fish to climb a tree?

A fish’s capabilities differ vastly from a monkey So when you ask a fish to climb a tree don’t be surprised when it fails

The moments, the laughs, the life lessons learned stepped on my heart, when they ended.

When the bullet pierced your skull.

When you took your last breath, snatched your soul from thousands of lovers.

The social media news, rushed to me.

Your life ended and your name became, a hashtag.

Your lifeless body, laying in your final bed the smile not the same.

The same Zaire I spent two years with.

I love you forever.

Rest in peace.

I’ll see you on the other side.

nH

n o t at

a e h

’S y e D leg

e r i a

Z o t

E

35

The Boxer SAM CLUKEY The last-minute replacement for the fight they had to find Strode up without a single somber thought within his mind.

Just as this challenger made his advance, so grew the tension, The audience watched silently, in building apprehension.

For they knew something that the boy did not, at the beginning: The hopeful young combatant stood a paltry chance at winning.

The referee released the pair, and so the bout began, At that, the underdog put all his faith into his hands.

His opening shots, replete with all his vigor, still fell short.

The champion’s strikes, regrettably, did nothing of the sort.

The motions of those callous arms produced such cruel collisions, Almost instantly, the boy began to lose his vision.

In between the brutal rounds, the breaking child would questionWhat could now compel him to endure the coming lessons?

Each torturous time they knocked him down, his cornerman would cry: “On your feet, ye wayward son!” and thus, he would arise.

Each revival had its price, accordingly assigned, So on the canvas floor, he’d leave a piece of him behind.

Then in the final round, as though he held unrighteous thunder, The champion struck the child so as to tear his jaw asunder.

Despite this final crushing blow, the man maintained his feet, And with the sound of saving bells, his trial was complete.

Though he had survived his greatest struggle now, for good, He left that place with a face that would never again smile like once it could.

The screaming stadium had been the quietude of houses.

The canvas that he fell upon, the restful beds and couches.

This vicious dream, in truth, was but the life this man has guided.

His past lies just behind him now. The future’s undecided.

36

Luc Ha

yo

me

Rebel Turned Florist

f th

ed

eG

Ne

War Paint To Plaid

lso

ard

n

en

Pilot to Poppies Explosions coming from a distance.

She’s runnin to the shore.

Didn’t recognize herself or what was left of her.

Gentle hands covering sores.

Don’t know what she was thinking trying to end a war.

Settled down after service.

Ten years in that storm.

Pilot over those islands, it’s those flowers that kept her warm.

It was January, but the sky looked like July.

Those bombs looked like Marigolds death in the sky.

37

e

Will Ric

d l O y z o The C House There was the creaky wood stairway leading downstairs that groaned with each heavy step.

There was rocking back and forth on the rough woodplanked front porch swing, the rusty chains screeching as we laughed with joy.

There was the chubby legs of toddlers skipping and hopping through the cold, refreshing hose water that streamed out through the spinning octopus’ tentacles.

There was the comforting light green armchair next to the door, wide enough for all of the tired pajama-wearing children to squeeze in and listen to the calming bedtime story.

There was the daily walk with Minnie as I rode down the bumpy, cracked sidewalk on my red tricycle.

There was the vivid image of the storefronts of Gold’s Gym, Pinky’s market, and the creepy doll shop.

There was the sweet smell of Carlson’s doughnuts that flooded through my nose the second the glass door swung open.

There was the wrinkled brown bag that held the precious glazed and sprinkled doughnut holes.

There was hours of fun on the green playset with my sisters under the warmth of the bright sun.

38

There was my worn out blue blankie and teddy bear George wearing his tiny pilled green shamrock sweater.

There was feeding the Ego Alley ducks stale bread after mom picked me up from kindergarten on her bike while I sat lazily on the yellow seat behind her.

There was the mirror, bordered with bright blue paint and a radiant yellow sun, that sturdily hung above my simple wood dresser.

There was raucous and overwhelming Saturdays spent tailgating with friends down the block at the Navy football games.

There was lazy mornings enjoyed by watching “Sid the Science Kid” and cuddling with Chessie while petting her silky golden hair.

There was the exhilarating feeling as I was about to finally beat my older sister in Mario Kart Wii. There was the frantic rushing in the morning before school as everyone scrambled through the house making lunches, finding lost Sperrys, and completing forgotten homework.

There was the picture wall that featured each proud kid’s scribbly artwork from school, every masterpiece created with crayola crayons, markers, glitter, and fingerpaints.

There was my tiny penguin backpack that I proudly rolled into school everyday.

There was Bella, the guinea pig, that I confidently took for walks on a leash over the small pavement hills near the field where mom coached field hockey.

And there was the old wooden dinner table where we shared silly stories and listened to Jack Johnson while the bright sun set over the big tree in the fading backyard.

39

Elegy to My Sido Life is labor when you work three jobs you lived long Work trapped you in quicksand swallowed your grave for 7.50 an hour Your lungs gave out to the buzz of death and the earth oppressed your corpse with heavy pockets of poverty but fortune is foreign when you find joy your presence, missed but your spirit lives within me

40

Sebastian Tabash

Liam Downing

Answers Reveal

Who are we when our family’s courage, fortitude, and grit are questioned?

Who are we when a stain tarnishes our name; will we abandon our identity, or reclaim our reputation?

Who are we when our brothers stumble; will we reject those that have hurt the community and themselves, or will we extend a compassionate hand, offering forgiveness?

Who are we when the path forward is unclear; will we falter in our confusion, or will we let reason and healing steer us to clarity?

Who are we when our identity is misjudged, are we now what others think of us?

Who are we and what will we do?

41

Coleman

Bunn

A Canvas of A Thousand Words

Second guesses, self-doubts, and what-ifs raced through my head. I sat like a crumpled piece of paper in the shotgun of Dad’s car. He could not read my mind, but he could read the expressions that clearly illustrated my emotions. In turn, he replied with his face: a simple smile. He was here to support my endeavors at this summer camp no matter what.

Various lighthearted instructors of the Young Artists of America scattered themselves across the campus of Sandy Spring Friends School to help guide the campers to their dorms. One of them, named Trent, guided Dad and me to my fairly compact dorm. Two wooden beds occupied the right side and numerous cabinets dominated the other. An enormous black binder on the bed grabbed my attention. Oh boy. The script for Parade, which was the musical we were auditioning for, and three different songs for my classes presented themselves before me. One of these songs was in Italian.

ITALIAN?! What did I even agree to?

A skinny teen walked through the door. He wore a black leather jacket with black shoes, a black hat, and a colorful T-shirt. He introduced himself as John in a genial manner. Dad ventured back home after wishing the best once more. John told me this was his second time attending this camp. Perfect. Sitting on my bed in order to elevate myself, I respectfully bombarded him with questions about the camp and the audition process. Auditions were today. As these words registered in my brain, a boat sank in my stomach.

The open field, bathed in sunlight, hosted the icebreakers. In order to fill the hole of isolation swelling inside of me, I introduced myself to the various strangers around me. Ambition and passion 42

supported the smiles on their faces. They were more than happy to acquaint themselves to people of their own kind.

After the icebreakers, we immediately started preparing for the auditions. My twenty-minute crash course of the hour and fifteenminute soundtrack of Parade only reinforced the internal notion that I did not deserve to be here. The instructors divided the mass of teens into groups. I was placed with 18 other artists in a spacious rectangular rehearsal room. The director requested that we pull our hefty black binders out of our backpacks. The brief review of the music, which everyone else seemingly prepared for but me, commenced.

The guys were the first up. We lined up single file in front of the piano. The black binder quivered in my grasp. The eight other male voices filled the entirety of the rehearsal room, and the nine female voices poured their gorgeous sound into the room like milk in an empty class. These must have been the type of people who always got the lead roles in their school productions.

A side comment to a new friend slipped out of my mouth regarding how I barely knew these songs. My body trembled in the thought that the director heard my comment. My eyes darted towards his face in order to confirm this superstition. His expression was fixed with intention, and he flipped to the next page. Realistically, he probably did not hear me, but the other side of my head did not care.

A lengthy and narrow hallway resided next to the theater, and within it I found a bench to call home. My eyes remained locked on the sheets of music. The lyrics of the song I chose to sing circled my mind as I recited them over and over and over again.

I was not going to forget them. I needed to be able to compete against these other performers.

A fellow young artist strolled by me with a countenance of concern. He asked if I was doing all right. My eyebrows relaxed.

My anchored expression thawed. I replied that I was alright. He paused, looked me straight into my soul, smiled, and reassured me that I got this. “Thanks, man.� That act of kindness got my eyes to divert its attention away from the dreaded binder.

Visages of insecurity reflected off of artists’ faces like a maze of 43

mirrors; in turn, my ears were inclined to absorb the banter around me: “Can we go over this dance one more time?” “May you listen to and critique my singing?” “You are probably going to get the main role.” “I’m such a bad dancer.”

Realizing they could probably use a conversation too, I decided to leave the binder aside. It was not necessary to look at that again.

I engaged in discourse with the few but much-needed friends I made. A modest circle of artists became a commerce of origins, passions, stories, fears, dreams. There seemed to be a common conception of how we perceived the world around us, yet we still thought no one could relate. “Group 3,” and instructor called out. I was up.

Only about ten young artists were on stage with me. The directors’ eyes glared down on us like spotlights. The pressure was on. I felt it. It was both a test of ability and durability. I fumbled through the dance while trying to make it appear that I knew the choreography. Once it was my turn to sing, I left my binder behind and marched to center stage; after all, I had already proven that I did not need it. My name and the song I chose to sing made their cue to be proclaimed; the words to this song, however, missed their cue and slipped from my recollection.

Embarrassment boiled in my gut. The Deus Ex Machina of all failures spewed out of my mouth: “Sorry.” I asked if I could start over and use the binder. “Please do.” Ouch.

Of course, some of the auditions went way better for others, but one girl who went before me had a similar experience as mine; although, after she asked to retrieve her binder, she openly exclaimed: “That was SO bad!” I watched her face shrink as she grabbed the binder that beckoned her.

It hurts to have your confidence crumpled in a ball. Even after I witnessed the most spectacular auditions I have ever seen, my radiant amazement did not seem to entirely reflect in their faces. Young artists have to be extremely critical with themselves as their directors are to them because that is simply how they improve; it is easy to forget, however, how to be pleased with yourself. Where they ever good enough? Well, to me, they exceeded enough. If words could not say this, I sure hope my smile did.

44

It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop Sometimes you may go so slowly it seems you’ve stopped All you want to do is disappear But what could stop provide What could stop save The inching drag of a cheetah’s soft purr does not prevent a cheetah’s long stride from pushing the cat along the air in magnificent arcs a golden sea Slow and steady wins no race but slow and steady wins

eed

H

am

n

o els

N

1 # s

iu c fu

n o C

45

In Praise of Erik (2000-2013)

Swings and slides sing as children play he sits to the side wishing to run.

His smile strong but body weak.

Brian Collins

A colorful wall we painted for him

46

the wall I sat for all recesses after.

He fought hard and won but death never let go of his heart.

Lucas Jung

It’s funny how grateful for life I was when I had nothing to live for.

I cackle at despair because what I really am is the culmination of wrongdoings that plague my demons. a stolen lunch, a ruffled collar, verbal hatchets tearing at my throat.

Where are they when I relapse?

Where are you?

I wish I could say Poetry is a drug.

It heals me, mends me, it is euphoric fulfillment and I’m addicted to it.

But in actuality Poetry is a disease and I need it.

Ode to My Disease 47

Eating righteous butterflies kick your feet up relax close your eyes.

The colors of love can make you blind to a dull suite of lies, so be careful of them righteous butterflies.

Let them be a more influential part of me.

I’ll be smiling.

My soul is dying curled up in my room I left it some soup and balloons.

48

Butterflies

Righteous We just need to feel happy getting through the days that hate me.

It’s okay, daisies die.

Take a break for the day.

A righteous butterfly lands between my fingers.

From nature you arrived civilization can’t die with righteous butterflies.

Magnolias and cherry trees can do me fine for now, but a boiling hate makes these walls break.

Don’t look me in my eyes to deny me my righteous butterflies.

HAMEED NELSON

where I’ve lived thousands of lifetimes, only to forget each one when I wake up.

BED

a place where I don’t sleep, but only dream.

where your name circles my thoughts but becomes lost in the paranoia.

where reality is a coma away, and is where I lay sleeping, with my eyes wide shut.

J. Colin Marrapese

where the future hides while I search for personality.

49

e Th IS n te rit W ve d’ ul ho ng

Ju

I do not write of colors for they pigment an intoxicating world hoping to distract artists from the richness in nothing

as

I do not write of the stars for they blemish the perfect night hoping to rob imagination from fervent thinkers

c Lu

I do not write of the sun for it deceives each author with its copper shine hoping to witness its puppets applaud

em Po

I do not write of the moon for it sells its stolen rays to each poet hoping to be the next lyric in a love song

I do not write of the sea for it substitutes the garish struggles in humanity with monstrous storms vast and dull I do not write of the wind for it seduces rich souls with icy kisses hoping to peel the petals off roses I do not write of happiness for it is the absence of pain and nothing more I do not write of love for if I did I would have to write of you

50

Lift your cold hand towards me drag my soul along rough with conviction because I might struggle in defiance against this just treatment.

A small peck of life lives within.

Can I suffer much longer?

Hameed Nelson

Have you lived?

Or will revenge dry my eyes?

Does blood cure the heartaches the thousand natural shocks?

If so, make me brave to death’s double-edged sword.

The Morgue

Bodies in

To the

51

Lucas

g n i n e k a Aw

liñanes

er Ga Scheid

It was in the early morning hours when I woke up-hit by the dribbling rain, ravining through flawed wrinkles in the metal rafting, unable to decide if it wanted to be lukewarm. Regardless of what I wanted, life crawled into me-a steady hand pulling back my eyelids despite my body’s desire: “sleep.”

I clumsily turned, arm heaving leg heaving ached torso, to make sure she was still there. Each second was like rejuvenation, bringing morning into my eyes. Grace met form in thin lines that praised the soft touch of subtlety. Under yellowed sheets we pretended were like the silk like we used to have, she was still asleep, a blessing I silently prayed in thanksgiving for; I remembered, with a sigh of gray relief that she would not have to be awake to see me go. Turned on her side I could not see the lips I’d long longed to ring. Lips filled with remembrance brushed dark mahogany strands that caressed the odd anglings of ears, whispering “I will be back soon” with the kind of love that only comes from having to leave.

Tucking boots that reminisced on the memory of army green into the creases of those who sleep in heat, I slipped on my faded olive cargo jacket and slim jeans, somewhere scratched and discolored but not yet ripped. My backpack, once a shiny leather sort-of thing, fit just enough space for the supplies and stale grain-bar and water bottles I pulled out of the icebox. A long knife strapped my right leg, one with serrations close to the hilt that became a sweeping but worn curve towards the tip. The last thing to finish was the rifle, a gleaming sort-of-thing bound by wood that conformed like a carved tombstone.

52

The door opened with closed-mouth, just as I had hoped to leave. Looking out towards the tangerine plumage of a bruised sun, I began to walk down the path outside of what had been our home for the last months, met by the clucking and chittering of the remaining poultry and unfazed wildlife. It was too early for everything to be up, but early enough to hear the stirrings of life- a flickering oil lamp before turning the knob. Seeing the torn metal fence, I knew from what direction it had last payed a visit-I knew from what direction to head. It was the third time this month-blood strewn across the coops, a painted message, a claim that “it belongs to me.” Any closer and it would have been us.

Breathing deep with the determination that comes with the ominosity of unknown fear, I set off into the green of the forest. Brushing by the brown of crinkled ferns and side-stepping ripples in the ground, I tried to make my way to where I knew it would be. In order to have come so close, it had to live close.

Walking becomes a burden like memory, like eulogies. I’m following a path that’s winding like the twisting motion Wilson used when throwing a grenade. Grenades, the thought encapsulates me like my life, held together by the nonchalance of a sarcastic pin.

Pins like empty diapers, like he never made it. Like Celia and I had a ceremony outside in the dark as I buried him. Grenades and diapers, diametric opposition, I’m taken back to before the blast; had a steady life and I had her faithful smile and I had our innocent one. The night that took him; unavoidable though it seemed, was a blight on my heart. He had been ours, a bassinet by the bed and a cry amidst conversation- a cry in the mountains. When I barely had stubble on my chin, with scars to gain, they put us together. “You two are the patrol, you make sure that the tanks can roll ahead. You will be the first to face the enemy.” “But I”--”Enough! You are one of us, a patriot, a fighter. Anything more is narcissism.” What they really told me was a sardonically laced “young man, you will have the privilege of first death.”

There is a ringing in my ears as my vision is blurred. The fog hazes with the war drum of a banging heart. Leaning next to a tree, hugging support in a shoulder, the river rages—flat on the ground, gritted chin and blood-laced adrenaline and terror. No! don’t do 53

it; you’ll let them know where you are. His arm leans back, clutching a ball called black-death, facing no enemy he can see, he pulls the pin fumbling in inadvertent immaturity, it tumbles and hit too close, a broken pencil, We are met by the fall of hell’s sodden rain, bullets slash my arm red and Wilson is a pulp, a tattoo in my mind and I’m rolling, falling, I’m past the river that traces our land, land I could never tame, a vine snagged my foot after and I’m flat on the ground, gritted chin and blood-laced adrenaline and terror.

Get out! You will fall behind if you don’t leave him. A hand without dexterity pulls me up. I’m looking for Wil, I’m hit with a face-full of angry mist. Where is the bridge, to my left.

I’m walking and the bout is over and I’m tired and gauze covers my cheek where I bit it. The taste of blood is an odd thing. How a quintessential element of death is by color-changed virtue --life. Its organic, its salt is the ocean but I couldn’t find a boat.

Upon crossing, I get this feeling that I’m closer, like the knowledge that someone is watching, I could feel a presence, dark and palpable in the most disconcerting of ways. It dragged hot tears out of my eyes and coughs and wracking pain and he’s gone, my son, he’s been buried and my hands are useless. God, please, please, it was not my time, but was it ever his? Fear hits my stomach, a goopy tree-branch carving my soul, it has to be close. It’s almost like the thought of claw marks, like the thought of being gone are its weapon and all of the sudden I’m face-to-face.

I’m fumbling and running and my pack is ripped off of my shoulders and I’m off on the side of a clearing, feet planted I cock the rifle and fire just like the sergeant told us to, just like I fired into the cloud of blind smoke that we termed the enemy. Each shot fails to ring out, instead gonging like the incomplete toll of a cracked bell. I’m running and I’m heaving and I’m running and I’m falling.

I stopped to register, I stopped to think about what I was doing.

I barely escaped, back bloody like I had rolled off a rusted kitchen grater. “What are you doing son, showing fear like that?” he told to Wil right before the first deployment, the blue-green glow of the hanger swaying with every turbulent bump that the 54

wind could muster to exhale, it would be a parachute jump to the zone. His contacted eyes bulged out as he gulped down apprehension in vain. I was equal in terror of death-we all were, I was just better at hiding it, internalizing it. But then again, internalizing wreaks a mess of your insides, stirs up your stomach like a foul stew, knocking around your soul like a bowling ball, squishing your heart like one of those plushies Celia got for him, he grabbed it grubbilly, waddling over, tripping, no---striding over running over, galloping, his wings spread angelically, I saw his halo before he left us, right after I had wiped away the film of tears at the red it had left us with. What was I doing, running from it, I had let it get the best of me, next time I wouldn’t. There won’t be a next time,“here,” it whispered, it talked it spoke from behind and above but seemed to hover in front of me, hunched and curved and menacing, it had always spoken, but it was only in the tangible pain in which it screamed. Crossing myself, my hand then reached over thigh, I reached out and pulled the long knife and thrust forward, blind but with full vision. It contacted like a riptide, pulling deeper into its putrid existence and extinguishing. It clawed away, my torso blackened and I finally got a glimpse of a face like a skull, it grinned at me, it smiled like it relished the time, but with a cry of defiance it faded in a voice mimicking the squeal of a mouse. The ground ate it, brought it below, leaving behind a raven scaled wing, smoldering on the edges, the ash wailed.

I fell back onto my back, the heaving of my arms and lungs leaving me exhausted. The knife smoldered and glistened a soppy maroon but the color evaporated like boiling water, bubbling as it saw the sun.

55

A cheeseburger is a friend, it has many elements and the friendship never ends.

Two buns With meat on the griddle There are many tons of cheese in the middle.

You make me smile as it sizzles Greasy griddle makes me giggle Juicy barbeque meat never fizzles Can’t wait to place you next to my pickle.

Burger believes in bacon, The tasty tomato a cool summer drink Crunchy lettuce cannot be taken You are best when you are not pink.

Ode to a LUCA MILITELLO

Cheeseburger 56

Od

e to

Zac

Reg

ion

hG

rah

al P

am

ilot

s

You flew at flight school.

You flew your hours.

You flew to reach this moment.

You are hired by the local man, not the global man – your dream.

You do the same job and have the same duty but earn only a leaf on the tree of money.

Yet you labor to tie the world together in a knot of flight.

57

Peter Ierardi As an electric bird nearly grazes the top of the Washington Monument, I find peace.

The bench greets me with a creak as I inhale success, and exhale stress.

The View

The amazing view of D.C. grants me tranquility, or better yet, possibilities.

Endless potential represented by each and every building and standstill traffic on the Memorial Bridge.

Mother Mary speaks words of wisdom from the Basilica, as God guides me f rom the myriad of galaxies above.

The view is more than only a view.

This perspective gives me hope.

The only thing that would make this more perfect is if I could flap my wings and fly my own bird.

58

Benjamin Finley

Fields None more particular than the other, All subject to a place of tranquility, Where the trees communicate Through wind songs They create.

Where family binds, coiled together, All appreciating the beauty this land has to offer. times of rejoice, conflict, resolved.

HOME

A place where the cattle graze, where the hawks glide slicing through the buttery air, and where the retriever runs.

59

n o h t n a an Gr

I

The

an c i r e Am

M A E DR

It all started in a small town called Tijuana. Moises was a Mexican man who was working as a waiter in La Limena, a famous Mexican fast food chain all over the country. He worked minimum wage in Mexico and was barely able to make ends meet. Sometimes he would go without water, or even electricity. Living in the projects off of Tijuana, Moises was never able to see anything outside his circle of work and family. Until one day he was called by his head manager Jaime.

“Moises” said Jaime.

“Yes?” “I have a proposal for you. What do you think about offering your kids and wife a better life out in the states?”

This is is where the story of a man who came from living below the poverty line had the opportunity to live a better life with a thriving future. The Next day Moises pitched the idea to his wife and children saying that they were going to cross the border with a “coyote”, and will live a better life in the states. The children rejoiced and were excited, but later during the night his wife Maria expressed concern. .

“What if they find us” said Maria.

60

“They will not, we will be in the assistance of my boss’s friend who has plenty of money and power” said Moises.

“Still….. We are risking too much and i don’t want to leave abuela back here and be separate from the family” said Maria.

“We can come and visit in the holidays Maria, but for now it’s time that we leave, its getting to dangerous out here and the money is not good anymore. Don’t you want our kids to receive better education?”

“Yes of course I do, but we are not even legal immigrants, we are crossing with a coyote whose being paid under the table” said Maria.

“Do not worry, the risks are high but the outcome is much better, in America we can work less and provide a better life for our children. Is that not what you always wanted, to see your kids grow up to become successful?” said Moises.

As the night passed and dawn arose, Moises felt the pressure within him. He was to go meet a “friend” in the back of an abandoned restaurant to receive his fake identifications and documentations to be able to live illegally in the United States. At six in the morning he got up, brushed his teeth, and walked a mile to the location. In the dark corner of the alley, Moises was able to eye the man from the corner of his sight. The man wore a dark navy blue coat and resembled a mobster by appearance. His long beard, mustache, and hat that covered his face made him look as if he was the leader of a cartel or mob. Approaching him, Moises started taking out the cash, and as soon as he was going to speak…

“Stop, don’t get any closer” said the man.

“What do I do then, I have the money” said Moises.

“Check him” said the man.

As soon as he was going to respond, Moises felt two men touch him and feel his waist and stomach to make sure he was not strapped. They cleared him safe and the man approached Moises.

61

“You know what you’re getting into right?” said the man.

“Yes I do” said Moises.

“Good, where’s the money, I want three hundred plus an additional twenty for my troubles.”

In fear of protesting against the additional twenty, Moises payed and left in a hurry. He had received his fake documents and was in relief when he got home. He took a nap and helped his family pack their bags with only their necessities. It was going to be a long journey and he was nervous. After packing, Moises decided to take one last moment in his old home to say goodbye.

The flashbacks hit him, he was struck with tears of sadness and despair, remembering his sons first birthday in the living room, the memories he made with his wife, and most importantly the amount of friendships he would be leaving behind. Seeing his sadness, his wife came up to him and consoled him.

“It will be ok Moises, we are already halfway into this, there is no backing out now” said Maria.

“I know, but what am I as a man if we lose everything we have due to my gut feeling that this could work” said Moises.

“You are my husband, I trust you and I know we will be happier in the States” said Maria.

“I know, I want to provide a better education for the children and be happier with you in a more stable environment, but in the end this is our home. We are leaving behind more than just our house, but also our friends, family, and memories that we should hold onto forever.”

“Moises, we have been over this, I hate to admit it but you are right, in the end we will be happier” said Maria.

In tears Moises and his family left the house and went to their Abuelas house to say their goodbyes. On the way there Moises and his family passed the local school, community center, bars, and his job. Seeing these sights only brought Moises into more anxiety and depression over leaving his home. Once reaching abuelas house, 62

they said their goodbyes.

“Goodbye mi-hijo, stay safe and strong” said Abuela.

“Si Abuela, we will come and visit soon I promise” said Moises.

On departure from abuela’s house, they headed towards the meeting spot to find the coyote. The Coyote was dressed in all black and had bottles of water and food prepared. He was a strongly built man with a long face and curly hair. He could not look any more gringo than anyone Moises had seen before, but still his family’s lives were in the hands of the coyote.

“How much cash ya got” said the coyote.

“Two thousand for each of us, totaling eight thousand” said Moises.

“Good job, stay safe, stay warm, drink water, and eat when necessary, we have a lot to cover in the next few days if we want to make it alive into the United States. Moises broke over the fact of following a stranger with his family out in the desert was in total despair. He contemplated his decisions and Maria had taken notice.

“Do not worry, we will make it and be happy” said Maria.

“What type of man am I! I just used all of our saving from twenty years to a coyote who claims he can cross our family through the border illegally to provide a better life for us. No, I have failed us, and now this is all my fault” said Moises.

“Moises, we will be fine, I have a good feeling about this coyote, trust me we will make it” said Maria.

Hearing this the Coyote spins around quickly and confronts Moises.

“You don’t trust me!” said the coyote.

“No it’s not that, i just don’t feel safe about leaving all my money with you” said Moises.

63

“Well , how bad you wanna get over the damn border and live a good life unlike the shitty one you was living before!” said the coyote.

“Anything to provide a better life for my family and kids” said Moises.

“Well then, i guess it’s settled” said the Coyote “Let the journey towards a new freedom begin…”

After eight months of trekking, Moises and his family made it to San Diego. They were struck with awe by the new environment and atmosphere. Everyone seemed so perfect and well put.

They walked through central street feeling like outsiders compared to the Americans. Moises and his family wore raggety clothes that were half compressed and torn in pieces. Dirty from head to toe, but now they were ready for the life they had always dreamt of full of opportunity. Crossing the street, Moises sees a poster saying “Looking for hire.”

“You should look into it Moises, maybe you can work there while I find another job. We can save money and buy a house” said Maria.

“I think I will” said Moises smiling.

In the back of his head Moises lost thought over all of his worries, and quickly found optimism in his new life and opportunities that he would have to provide his family a better life.

Translation: Abuela- Grandma Mi-hijo- my son (slang Spanish) Gringo- American person (slang Spanish)

64

ELEGY to my Grandfather James Washington a prophet what he once called me like I could see through time as if I could know what was without knowing years I didn’t see the time we spent together away from each other why didn’t I value the time I barely knew him, but feel him gone

65

Lucas Scheider Galiñanes

The Rusty Moon The rusty moon became my passage of time The gleam of a love so soft so steady kept my heart at rest My last light’s flow is the night’s sway- the moon’s subtle ray My mind is a fragmentation only the pale pulse to keep my tempo like a piano’s lost love The first breath of life was the summer’s stale humidity, an exhale from the chaos like a welcomed burden The last beating of my heart the first thumping of it-the moon covered by the last swath of a fog-ridden tree the last life of a work painted Claire de Lune But Debussy isn’t a playwright for the end of time, or of every day.

My patience is renewed My imagination is a wind blown field sitting atop a sea born marina The garden of rebirth repainted by a glossy bloom of flower crests.

My hand slips out of yours for a last time as my “I love you” is gone into the wind and set off balance by a hint of a tear welling up.

66

Warm breeze, sky tainted with orange, Noises?

None.

Disturbances?

Foreign.

That park bench beaten, broken, destroyed yet, beautiful.

Sitting there, watching the sky, thoughts of the good and the bad, perfection and failure, triumph and defeat, float my mind.

As the sun departs, the world restarts.

A day closes a new one begins.

Birth and death in the same instant.

Whe

re H

Wil

The

eave

l Hu

Eart

n To

rley

h

uche

s 67

SOLES WILL BORAM Attached to me, even when I drug you through the dirt.

Attached to you, as if you were laced.

We took each step together.

With something new marching where you once were.

Heavy hearts, and feet carried your withered soles over ground you used to walk.

Departing with memories in hand.

68

High school, the most judgemental place on Earth, so it is said. people eyeing you as if they were God themself deciding who is worthy of heaven or hell.

This idea so foreign, as if high school was The Final Judgment, Or another lightyear away.

Gonzaga, hardly feels This way.

Gonzaga, Makes me feel grateful, a place where I Can be me.

And you can be you And we’re all quite content.

A

m a d

in n a

S

0 0 1

69

Teddy Feighery An Ode To my Car Keys They hold my freedom, in their plastic hands.

When I grab them, I hear the metal keys box each other.

When it enters it’s home, the jailed beasts are unleashed from inside the confining cage.

Allowing me to go wherever it will take me. such a small item, so easy to misplace, to forget. But I will always have them in my pocket, until the day they die.

70

The Real Futbol LUCA MILITELLO I am the soccer ball getting out of the bag.

I bounce around and look at my surroundings.

First I shower In the cold morning dew, getting ready for the big game.

I skid across fresh green blades roaring up and down the field. it’s game time staring down the field I look, the opponents are ready to battle.

The referee blows his whistle and the game begins.

The two opponents clash Fighting back and forth a tie game almost over.

It’s been a long game, before it ends, shoot and score game over.

I look around and see the real winner is me.

71

First

Sight

I glance to my left my heart thumps rapidly Perspiration begins to trickle down my neck An array of feelings swirl in my head as I see her long dark hair a saunter any man would die for I inhale liquid confidence as I decipher lines that will get me to the promised land She speaks in an erotic melody that sparks my imagination I realize for the first time love has found a home in my heart

JP Mastal 72

Sam Sweeney

The thundering of the deep blue seduces you the urge is impossible to fight but instead of fighting, you embrace it.

Time lost Skin torched Stomach vacant All worth it.

Tranquility

Home away from home A retreat from real life All negative energy evaporates from your body and the void is filled with the smell of salt water.

73

Lucas Jung

The Generation of Poets

After Martín Espada’s “The Republic of Poetry”

74

In the generation of poets, light glimmers on the toes of caverns, and spry fires push against walls, bats nestle in homely wings, and dust shields infant hands while children prance among the spiders.

In the generation of poets, whispers no longer amplify, hollow echoes don’t resound, and steel tongues and copper hearts corrode.

In the generation of poets, ink is gold and no one wants itSave the awakened and hapless.

In the generation of poets, everyone is a child.

The hot summer days, the cold winter nights.

The hot days of anger, and the dagger of depression strike me square in the chest.

De’Shean Hatton

The never-ending falls, and the devil of sadness there to catch me.

The deep thoughts, the nights cried to sleep, made live not worth living.

Never thought a soul could fix me, no tool able to fix brokenness I had until one day, I met the master tool.

He stood 5’5 no more than 125 pounds. but strong enough to snatch the dagger out my chest and replace it with his heart.

Only to turn the dagger of depression to the Halo of happiness.

His famous line to me

ily

“When down bad, close your eyes go to your place of peace make that a mission to stay.“

t e

or

M

n a h

Ja

m

es

t s u

J

m a F

o

r P s

r

cto

u e d

d

a h T

75

Three years separate us, a refraction in the mirror, long lean body smiles with a finger-poked face.

His hazel eyes do kind blinks.

A brother in the dreams of starved families.

BRIAN COLLINS

Blades as feet, blister in sweat spaces in teeth gaps in heart.

Ode 76

To

LUKE

Elegy to Pa JP Mastal Strength, born boxing in the streets pounding slabs of meat with gory knuckles in the streets of south Philly Determination, journeying to College Park playing ball for the Terrapins and witness the ball trickle through the hoop Love, rearing all eleven of his children never being a ghost providing for them with showers of love and care Until his passing to a greater place than ours.

77

England 1942

He remembers the shelters at night, walking the streets making sure nothing could be seen unnoticeable, in fear of Nazis, a father lost in war, a childhood gone, telling the stories he pauses, smiles, laughs, as a young boy he would walk every morning to the factory he seems to remember his stories fondly Grandad grew up in England, 1942

Joey Sampugnaro 78

Luc

as S

GA

che

RG

ide

rG

OY

aliñ

Can you feel the purple sky?

The bell rolls as it takes more from my Ears I stand atop a precocious precipice Battered by the brevity of wind’s fluttering Gasps

LE

ane

s

Below me the city hangs on for dear life A trap for the wicked An inspiration for the illusioned and the Observant I spread my arms out and greet the strife Ridden strings of gray cloud Etched wings are tucked away, worn Deep into stone Frozen in a state of mid-carving As the gusts struggle to undo the ticking Of father’s ever-lasting clock I’m tired of spewing aphorisms I’m steady alone I’m steady being slate Tabula rasa no longer perceived A mason’s used hands sketched my being

79

My eyes are given the gift of sight by The rain As pools of dew scuttle into twin pools My vision is like your troubled tears But when they fall, my own vision slips out Of reach- I’m stuck and you are free Frozen against time As the ice melts And as the sun bores deeper Hear the eternal wail as sirens call to Respond Hear the billowing sail at the helm of a Skyward-faceted cathedral

80

PHOTOGRAPHY & STUDIO ART

Luke Elliott

82

Carter Selden

83

Lucas Scheider GaliĂąanes

84

Luke Elliott

85

Lucas Scheider GaliĂąanes

86

Luke Elliott

87

Nick Barnes

88

Josh Pfefferkorn

89

Ryan Luetjen

90

Lucas Scheider GaliĂąanes

91

Justin Duckett

92

Charlie Julian

93

Colin Gallagher

94

Lucas Scheider GaliĂąanes

95

Lucas Scheider GaliĂąanes

96

Tomas Williamson

97

Jack Martino

98

Lucas Scheider GaliĂąanes

99

Dillon Arrigan

100

Ryan Luetjen

101

JT Thompson

102

Jacob Bullock

103

Gennaro Cardarelli

104

Ryan Vigilante

105

Collin Watson

106

William Greem

107

Ryan Vigilante

108

Justin Duckett

109

Nick Barnes

110

Tomas Williamson

111

Matthew LesStrang

112

Matthew LesStrang

113

Collin Watson

114

Tomas Williamson

115

Jackson Leggans

116

Luke Garner

117

Peter Rizzo

118

Peter Rizzo

119

Tomas Williamson

120

Tomas Williamson

121

Ryan Vigilante

122

Michael Krivka

123

Carter Selden

124

Dillon Arrigan

125

Hameed Nelson

126

Tomas Williamson

127

Luke Garner

128

Lucas LeClair

129

Jack Martino

130

Luca Militello

131

Thomas Hanley

132

Ryan Luetjen

133

George Clifford

134

Colin Gallagher

135

Hameed Nelson

136

Luca Militello

137

Lucas Scheider GaliĂąanes

138

Gavin McElhennon

139

Nick Barnes

140

Patrick Gunther

141

Ryan Vigilante

142

Josh Pfefferkorn

143

Joseph Tramonte

144

Ryan Luetjen

145

Will Thompson

146

Ryan Vigilante

147

Will Thompson

148

Matthew LesStrang

149

Joseph Tramonte

150

Conor Shaheen

151

Lucas Scheider

152

Liam Melley

153

Matthew Allen

154

Will Thompson

155

Calvin Huisentruit

156

Will Thompson

157

Will Thompson

158

Jack Munz

159

Rylan Madison ‘18 - EIC Phoenix 2018

As the Sun Pushes On

- a response to “The Light Fell” by Owen Sheers ‘Oh human life, mysterious’ I heard a woman say— ups and downs, and for someone else, we throw away that which keeps us sane.

And as the sun finds its place in the midday sky, we forget ‘hello’ and remember ‘goodbye’ and repeat our misfortunes from yesterday.

‘Why seek the rush despite the pain?’ another replies, ‘Why leave the tears to run in vain as they wear us down and we embrace the lie?’

For the thrill to do it all again.

Alex Gomez ‘18 - EIC Phoenix 2018

160

2019

THE PHOENIX - GONZAGA FINE ARTS REVIEW

VOL.XXXIV