The George Washington University’s Student-Run Art & Literary Magazine EDITOR-IN-CHIEF MANAGING EDITOR & HEAD OF MEDIA LAYOUT EDITOR COMMUNICATIONS REPRESENTATIVEZINEEDITORSTAFFEDITORSCONTRIBUTORS STAFF Jordan Hutchinson Jessica Bride Tiffany Cornely Elena CalistaAnnaliseAbrigailSydneyChristinaIndiaJillianCamilaSneehaBridgetPiconPerryBoseDominguez-ImbertMackuseMoorePietlerSchmidtWilliamsNassaniRagland
spring 2021 Volume 44 sydney walsh Holding on to You
1/2 Table of Contents Visual Art reagen heth arielle bader sydney jordanmorgansydneyariellesydneywalshdinhbadersydneydinhwalshrichmeierhadleychittumhutchinsonkimberlykanchanirenehamariellebaderreaganhethariellebadersydneydinhanastasiagoddardhadleychittumsydneywalsh 52504643403733322927262318161311732 UnderGalaxythe Sea Sweet Grandfather’sJuice Story A Cloudy Day Indian River Fisherman StillRiverbendinBrooklyn 1/10 A Late Summer Afternoon in Houston August Arboretum MistingFlyDeer at the Botanical Gardens PastelWeary Blurs Grey Heron New Horizons The Pain of Incarceration Sunrise Gulls Cover Art hadley chittum Florida Cowboy
sarah godlin sydney schmidt carsyn fessenden 35194 On OregonBodiesWhite Oaks St. Paul’s Parish Prose jon watson india sydneydaniellemoorechanschmidtsneehaboseelenapiconalexandralavinindiamoore gianna boothman duyck madison gordon tiffany cornely calista ragland gianna boothman anastasiaalexandrasneehaduyckboselavinindiamooresneehabosegoddardalexandralavinindiamooresneehabosewillowhasson 5149474544413938343028252422171514129861 SomeReflectionFreefallSunForm of Home Waiting PressingFreshArsDreamland,BlessedSuspendedSouthernHourCompartmentsGamesofGraceTreesSuburbiaPoeticaFacedFreshmanFlowerswiththe Destroyer of Worlds TheIphigeniaSummerFingertips2010EyesofaDying Man Talcott Mountain How to Survive a Pandemic Where the Hypochondriac Begs for Absolution What Do the Crows Find Today Poetry
1 | Capitol Letters john watson Sun I want to take you back to the mountains where we raced the sunset. you told me that was the best day of your life, I didn’t realize how true that was. we drove for hours, the empty roads buzzed with life because I was with you. when we reached the summit, I swear whatever god that exists held the sun up for a few minutes more, just for you. it wrapped us in sheets of gold and soft blue and blazing orange. it braided itself into your hair and seeped into my jacket. we never felt more safe. that was my last sun-drenched memory of you. I hope the sun will set like that for us again someday.
hethreagan Galaxy 2 | Capitol Letters
arielle bader Under the Sea 3 | Capitol Letters
There is no joy in floating atop an opaque and semi-stagnant pool of water with six feet of mud, human feces and who knows what else, resting at the bottom, calling, hiding fish-bitten human torsos and sunken poles.
A speedboat, a houseboat, a dinghy?
“I can’t live too far from the ocean.”
I have named this fear Triton’s Revenge, and if barnacles grow both on the hulls of ships and on the chins of whales, they will grow on anything.
4 | Capitol Letters
sarah godlin On Bodies
The earthworm packaging dock couple are peeved at their older and younger son’s constant arguing over how to best repair the jet skis, but they put on friendly faces when someone comes in for fuel and sunscreen. Can I lean out, tilting the boat a little, as I scoop an empty Coors can outta ‘the drink’ with a ball cap? Can I say ‘drink’ now, instead of water? Can I pay four dollars for ice? I can, but don’t want to.
No joy in waiting in the parking lot hose facility line to spray the freshwater clam babies out of this boat valve and that. They’ll hide anywhere. A lake is God’s loogie. Let it feed trees.
A lake then.
A real estate agent mouths it silently, in synchrony, on the other end of the phone. He adds a small line to the tally on his desk calendar’s leather pad. It’s a personal joke. Alone I would just as soon forget about the briney, vista sucking blue mass constantly to my left or right. It is A) good for is helping folks without an internal compass tell which direction they are driving, B) hiding the sun on summer days, if you’re into that sort of thing, and C) sneaking up on people to drown them.These are all the items. The swirly depths team with the spores of barnacles vying to get into the female crevices of cold water swimmers and GROW.
If a Snickers bar happens to float by, wait a minute and it’s gone. It’s on a log ride, cutting this way and that, dodging other logs and braving rapids, out to eventually add to the bottom of ‘the drink’ as a canapé for a torso, or else on to the unvarying blue panoramic line, to filter through barnacle spores before they decide on a fleshy place to attach and grow.
There are almost zero sharks here, and almost zero Kid Rock is being blasted from boat speakers. I can’t say none, I’m too sleepy to count. The mountains have blocked the wind and I’ll be taking a nap in this foldy chair.
5 | Capitol Letters
A river though, is where one can see one’s own feet. A good one, anyway. My pee floats away from me and ever mixes, becoming nothing. Becoming other water. I spill a tube of Ritz in the coarse sand, and the grains are big enough to be brushed away.
From up so high they were pale as burial shrouds Frightened, stunned they made barely a sound
Lit up above the green on which she’d soon lie
Schoolgirl plaid floats like frisbee Pattern cartwheeled ’cross the sky “Brown Girl Soaring” would read the marquee
To the peers and toys far below She looked like Superman’s new kryptonite Stained by sun, emitting such glow Schoolgirl flew as if it was her birthright
Taken by the sharpness with which she offset the clouds
So far from earth the thought of falling didn’t even occur
Schoolgirl could care less if she ever reached the ground
6 | Capitol Letters
Up and up she went until all beneath was a blur
india moore Freefall
sydney walsh Sweet Juice 7 | Capitol Letters
8 | Capitol Letters
danielle chan Reflection She Colorwhispered,camefrom life’s origins, yet How she criedWhen I drew red from her blood, How she gaspedWhen I wet skies with her tears, How she weptWhen I carved sculptures from her skin, I was confused, Since I only followed her secrets from before, Blood-stained hands with a tear trickling, “I’m sorry, mother, I had to.”
sydney schmidt some form of home
moments after school—home—empty parking lots—home—dirty subway cars—home—we say— home—it’s a pretty word, I like to say it—home—I’m from California, and I like the way their eyes light up with what is that like? so I smile, find myself talking about eucalyptus and Stinson Beach and the late June fog— How far is L.A.?
I sit in poorly lit dorm rooms talking in wecirclestalkabout the lives we used to inlivestolen
THE NUT TREE 9 | Capitol Letters
Not where I lived, I say, but my mother’s from Southern California, that was her—home— except she was a teenager in Vacaville and I think about that every time we pass through, because I was a teenager in—home— Oakland but a child—home—in suburban wasteland, and a toddler somewhere-in-between. I always look at her when we drive past
10 | Capitol Letters and think to ask which she belongs to—home— or—home—? and should I belong to—home— home— or—home—? But instead I say Didn’t that used to be orchards? She nods. Now it's a mall. But how different is it? home—I say I miss the trees, and maybe I do, or maybe it's just become the feeling I expect them to expect me to becausehavethere’s a girl from Georgia and another from Rochester and two from Missouri, and they all speak of—home— but—home—is just a girl to me in the same way Heaven is a word for when I hear her voice. She sits in her room in California, fifteen minutes from my house—home— and she’s all I miss about—home—life from before. I’ve waited a lifetime for her home—and now I’ll have to wait more because she isn’t coming—home
sydney dinh Grandfather’s Story 11 | Capitol Letters 5/13/2021 Copy of 631BEF43-3E29-4209-AA64-699E96C968E3.jpeg https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1oFBHsGYQ17fcP0DCpjHSSyc9GhUXDunb
As wedding singers open to the floor, you sweep away, hysteric god of war.
sneeha bose Waiting Games
You finish wiping dampened fingerprints, a quiet swish against the fabric leavesthat perfect centerpiece by bowls of mints discreet like sleights of hand distracts from thieves.
The venue hosts receptions nightly yet tonight the band departs from set routine, a change in key, an added step well met till curtain call, the stage is made obscene. You flick at names around the seating charts adorning ivy patterned, polished plaques, while groupies pull out vital organs - hearts on cuffs and links, delivered wrapped in flax.
12 | Capitol Letters
13 | Capitol Letters arielle bader A Cloudy Day
I felt lookinginspiredoutthe airplane window watching the patches of land slide into frame; so fascinated at how each shade of square sat on the ground below. Little Rock resemblecompartmentsArkansas,ofland,thatofanabstract painting. Cubism, signed by the Mississippi River. A work of art, with no frame but my window’s.
elena picon Compartments
14 | Capitol Letters
15 | Capitol Letters
alexandra lavin Hour of Grace
I’m tired of sleeping too soundly, Sick of chlorine chicken and coral couches. Idleness is patience if you wait long enough, If it comes soon enough, and soon enough
I’ll drive home in empty defeat, Dull eyes stuck on the highway lines.
I said I would go up north to write, But all I can do is sit, and wait, And wait for the hour of grace.
I’ll return to the too-tired trenches With yawn at the end of a trailed off sentence.
It’s cold in Connecticut, and late at night, I’ll look out at the dark, comatose sky And wait for the hour of grace.
16 | Capitol Letters sydney dinh Indian River Fisherman 5/13/2021 Copy of 2D6B6D43-63A6-4C4E-B102-A7C3EEE39806.jpeg https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1oFBHsGYQ17fcP0DCpjHSSyc9GhUXDunb 1/2
What has happened here we can never upend
india moore Southern Trees
See the ghosts of brown bodies as they suspend Hear horse hooves and white noise obscure their cry
Waiting for God’s answer to descend
Those twisting live oaks
Stretching their limbs to the kaleidoscope sky
Watch how meticulous their branches do bend Rooted in a history they will never transcend How many fruits have they witnessed die?
Home it appears is where my heart must distend Those twisting live oaks
How do I escape what I cannot untie?
17 | Capitol Letters
Those twisting live oaks sprawl without end
Curving soft through warm Charleston wind
Hunched o’er vast marshland with gentlest sigh
18 | Capitol Letters sydney walsh Riverbend
“Do you know where Oregon white oaks are from?” he asked, blue eyes narrowed at me. He was nine years old and omniscient.
The sun is what I remember. It had danced its way through the gaps in the leaves of the branches that stretched out above the river. In warm beams it was streaming through to light up the scene of other kids splashing in the water as we sat side-by-side on the branch of an Oregon white oak, shivering slightly in its shade. I know it was an Oregon white oak because he told me.
I hoped he would ask me something else, anything else, but he didn’t. Just once, I wanted to get the answer right, because I did know things. I knew the names of all our mom’s favorite authors, and I knew how to spot five different constellations in the sky. I knew that we were at the river because our parents were fighting loud enough for the whole camp to hear. I knew something was wrong. Part of me wanted to ask him why our parents were fighting, but I also didn’t really want to know, and was happy pretending he had just taken me to the river to quiz me on Oregon white oaks if that’s what he wanted. So instead, I asked, “Where’s British Columbia?” “You know where it is,” he said. He wasn’t looking at me anymore—his eyes were trained on some thing across the river, narrowed and calculating. “No I don’t.”
We’re picking out her coffin when I remember that summer. The funeral director is saying something about the pros and cons of mahogany versus walnut, but this man has yet to see our pockets, so my brother grimaces and says we’ll go with pine.
I glance at him then, to see if he’s remembered what I have, only his jaw is set and his mouth is thin in a frown. I almost stop the whole thing at the sight of that, almost grab him by the hand and pull him out of the funeral parlor. But I don’t think I’ve ever held hands with my brother, so instead mine stay where they are, balled in fists inside our mom’s old jean jacket.
“Oregon?” I asked slowly. I thought it must be a trick question, because the answer was in the name, and he never asked me things I could answer. He nodded, “Yeah. Well, the Pacific Northwest. They go from southern California all the way to British Columbia.”“Oh,”Isaid.
19 | Capitol Letters sydney schmidt Oregon White Oaks
“Mom loves you too,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Funeral parlors give me the creeps.”
“Sorry, we’ll go outside,” my brother says, hopping down from the coffin and making his way toward the door. I have no choice but to follow. “We’ll only be a moment.” Outside in the late autumn glow, he glares at me. “I just wanted to get this over with.”
“Fine,” he says. “Tired of being pregnant.” “There’s ways around that.”
“You“Why?”can’t smoke in any building.”
“Dunno,” I said, kicking at the water to make it splash up our legs. “Maybe I did.”
We stayed on the branch in silence after that, making little waves in the water with our toes. I thought about jumping in, but I was wearing one of his shirts that day because all mine were miraculously dirty, so I didn’t want to get it wet in case I never got to wear it again. I stole glances at him and didn’t think he meant for me to see how his mouth had gone into a thin line, his brow furrowed and jaw set. Eventually, he said, “I think we could go back now.” So we did.
“Did“Oh.”you really not know that?”
And now I watch him as he negotiates with the funeral director, regarding each of the coffins with his usual stoicism. I want to ask him whether he remembers the feeling of dipping our toes in the river, watching other kids laugh. I want to ask whether he knows how much safer I felt sitting quietly beside him, rather than at that campsite with our parents. But he’s climbing into a coffin to test out the size, his mouth drawn in concentration, so I say nothing at all. Instead, I light a cigarette. “Um,” the funeral director says, looking up from the coffin he and my brother are so thoroughly assessing. “You can’t smoke in here.”
“Didn’t stop you from getting into a coffin,” I say. When he doesn’t respond, I add, “How’s Sylvie?”
20 | Capitol Letters “Then guess.” “Why can’t you just tell me!” “Shh!” he said, glaring at me, but only for a second. “It’s in Canada.”
“Mom,”“Who?”
I say. “Who else?” “Oh,” he pauses. There’s a warm breeze today, and it ruffles the boyish wisps of his hair. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”
21 | Capitol Letters
“Please tell me,” I beg him. “I need inspiration for the eulogy.” He snorts, snatching the cigarette from my fingers. “Twenty years of disagreements not enough for you?” The smoke shapes his words as it passes through his teeth. I bite my lip but don’t respond.
“Oh my god,” I laugh. “What did you say?”
I’m thinking of what our mom used to say, about us needing to be best friends. “One day I won’t be around, and it’ll only be you two.”
“Wha—no, I didn’t say anything bad,” he insists. “I just mean I don’t want to think about all that right now. I want to pick a coffin and get out of here.”
“We should go back in now,” he says, and I nod.
I always nodded at that because I wasn’t sure what else to do. I couldn’t explain to her at six that we were two people whose only common trait was that we were both her children, just like I couldn’t explain to her at twenty-one that I was never going to be like him, with some quick-witted spouse to bring around at holidays, not because I was making any kind of one-woman stand against marriage, but because I couldn’t bring myself to commit to a feeling I’d never have.
“Are you done yet?” he asks, nodding to the cigarette. I shake my head. “What’s the last thing you said to her?”
Two almond curves so Suspenddistinct-me in time and pausemy breathmy heartmy movementsmy mind
Steal the words from my mouth
And s t r e w their forgotten letters at my frozen feet.
22 | Capitol Letters gianna boothman duyck Suspended
Once I am released Breath flies in, Starved lungs awaken my mind gone dead. up The alphabet kicks -in stumbling recovery stepsbefore my vision to recollect, And piece together once again.
23 | Capitol Lettersrichmeiermorgan 1/10BrooklyninStill
24 | Capitol Letters madison gordon Blessed Mama always did call me blessed as she leaned over still bathwater combing through my dampened hair she’d sigh with a smile when I walked through the door tattooed with scratches and stains from the day she called me beautiful one fourth grade afternoon when I stopped wanting to be me she taught me how to get lost on mapless drives out west and how to find myself along the way. Tonight, she unpacks my clothes as I settle into my new home and when she leaves the bitter silence calls me blessed.
25 | Capitol Letters
tiffany cornely Dreamland, Suburbia
I’ll learn about the waitress’s kids and all the juicy coworker gossip.
I want to sweat like hell sitting in the screened in porch with a cold towel around my neck, like the neighbors down the block.
I can pretend to have an old soul. I want to walk at midnight so the crickets can serenade me, the heat absorbed by the asphalt rising up my calves, and the stoop lights flickering hello. I want to drive somewhere for a long vacation. I’ll see my town disappearing in the rearview mirror, and I’ll already be homesick.
I want to live in a town where the sun sets cherry red, candy coating all the rooftops. The fingertips of cities barely brushing the outskirts. I want to shop at a grocery store with a bell that chimes for every opened door, where I won’t have to test the grapes because I’ll know they’re always fresh. I want to be a regular so I can have my coffee just right, my eggs scrambled--but not too dry.
26 | Capitol Letters hadley chittum A Late AfternoonSummerinHouston
27 | Capitol Letters jordan hutchinson August Arboretum
I feverishly collect notes before they disintegrate
The fig tree in my grandmother’s backyard coughs up leaves which the wind creates into complex maps across the dying fall grass
The leaves and dead rose petals blow around my grandfather’s backyard mix with dusty airstream silver and cactus spines
So that other people might say on some gay occasion in summer that “I was always a natural dancer”
28 | Capitol Letters calista ragland Ars Poetica
I pull out my pen to record the leaves left like x’s on a pirate treasure map
When I forget who I am, I pull out my pen and search in these x’s, gathering leaves like gold and press them between my eyelashes
Like confusing dance instructions, a teacher in the dark with a flashlight compels my body to jitterbug like a ghost
I take a box of pastina from the kitchen dig a hole in the backyard and pour the tiny stars into the dry dirt and cover the hole
29 | Capitol Letters kimberly kanchan Deer
Unfamiliar with the hoots and howls that will greet you the next time you step foot in this brownstone full of insatiable men after a bright night of kissing your favorite dress-donning plus-one in a narrow hallway.
Unfamiliar with the characteristic, transient rush Of a new pair of eager hands finding their way to your hips and your chest as you dance, an act of greeting and parting ways.
IntoxicatingDepleting nature of party girl nightlife.
30 | Capitol Letters
You are the newest model. You have arrived, fresh out of the box. Untouched, unscathed Stocking the bottom shelf at a darty, lined up with the other skinny-legged fresh faced freshman
Half past 3, a rum and coke in your hand from a tall bearded man Who has already conquered the anguish of your pre-med weed out the weaklings course load. Here you are, ready for the taking, Excitable and naive, unfamiliar with the greedy
Eyes aglow with the wonder of finding yourself in a bar
gianna boothman duyck Fresh Faced Freshman
31 | Capitol Letters
Unfamiliar with practiced-persistent-fingers That disappear as quickly as they come From countless silky strings of lace That find their way to the buttons on your jeans, And rip the bow off your day of the week panties in haste mid-first Unfamiliarkiss.with the lingering ache left
By a Sunday morning spent holding your friend to your chest Shirt soaked with tears, Hours after a random from tinder decides on her behalf what is and is not his to touch.
And unfamiliar with the leering stares Of lascivious strangers who have seen all but your insides pop up in a “fucked once” groupchat The morning after your first blackout. Standing at the bar, here you are Ready for the taking Without an inkling of understanding just what “taking” is.
32 | Capitol Letters hamirene Fly 5/13/2021 https://mail.google.com/mail/u/4/?tab=om#search/ham/FMfcgxwLswJQFtQnClMMjBlkNrJPJjfh?projector=1&messagePartId=0.3D6460B2B-F4FD-4742-BCA2-87287CE4F280.jpg 1/1
33 | Capitol Letters arielle bader Misting at the Botanical Gardens
34 | Capitol Letters sneeha bose pressing flowers with the destroyer of worlds oppenheimer said “i am become death, the destroyer of worlds,” and my father looked over my shoulder to tell me who the words belonged to first. between dharma and divinity, i used to laugh at the thought of religion but now i understand oppenheimer and arjuna as they mourn what they have created, or rather what was irreversibly ruined and what is out of their hands because some days faith is my only anchor. i am trying to learn how to dry flowers because plants are my mother’s greatest love before me but i have never been able to keep anything alive, my soil sucked dry with drought because i forget until i don’t and there’s a flood struggling to get under the cracks on the earth. but even when it comes to drying blooms until petals chip and shatter at the slightest wrong bend, i need to hydrate them first. i swim in the vase with the cut stems, a trinity of creation, preservation, and destruction approaching to churn the nectar of immortality until a hand slips and it becomes a poison (even the gods are not without their flaws). an irony follows: destruction consumed the sea of poison to save the world. i am all three as i look for life in the aftermath of nuclear fallout, pressing flowers.
The oak door groaned in response to my push, and I made it about halfway off the stoop before I realized that I hadn’t been inside a church since I was eleven years old. To me, religion held no answers worth pursuing, and I often felt like if there was a God, they were a cruel being that didn’t deserve any sort of rev erence. My father died when I was young and left me with a broken mother and a distant sister, so I felt no allegiance to this Father who was called upon in moments of great pain. Why, God? Why? I had an ex-boyfriend tell me that “God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers,” and I couldn’t help but laugh in his face.
I took strolls around D.C. to distract myself from my situation. In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to be a young woman walking around an unfamiliar city past midnight, but I clutched my pepper spray in my left hand and my keys in my right and walked with no destination in mind. It was comforting to see everything empty, void of all the businessmen that usually managed the sidewalks. I never left my room without my headphones, and if I closed my eyes and breathed quietly enough, I felt the streams of music go through each ear and meet in the middle, wrapping around my brain to strangle out any lingering thoughts.
carsyn fessenden St. Paul’s Parish
35 | Capitol Letters
I had five roommates my freshman year, which allowed me to explore the terrifying reality of being lonely, and yet never alone. Every slow afternoon was punctuated by a flurry of activity when we were re leased from classes, only to be cut short when our respective clubs began their meetings. The rare moments when I found myself alone in my room felt suffocating, like I was making a mistake by being there, like everyone else had better places to be and more interesting things to do. Of course, no one did. We were eighteen and trying to remember how to make friends.
I would often find myself at a chapel a few blocks away that had to be the ugliest church in the entire district. Years ago, some trendy architectural movement had swept the nation, and a fanatic decided that he had to praise the Good Lord in a brutal religious bastardization of Newark Airport. I sat on the steps listen ing to my music and tried not to cry, although I wasn’t quite sure why I felt tears pricking the back of my eyes. Usually I didn’t feel much of anything at all, but the cool April breeze seemed to herald a different kind of night. The streetlights felt a little too bright, the bus was running a little too often, and the trees were a little too close to the ground. The city closed around me, and the empty church beckoned to me as the only escape.
Something they don’t tell you about college is the overwhelming loneliness that sets in after about a month.
36 | Capitol Letters
These friends used to surround me, poster children of the Catholic Church donning their cross neck laces and demure cardigans as they begged for salvation from an unknown divinity. The collection plate would be passed to me, the metal warm from the other patrons who held it a moment before. My family made a show of our generosity each time, proving to our venerable neighbors that we were the most pious of all the churchgoers. Did you see, Pastor Chris? The Jaymes family could only offer $4 today. We coughed up $10. That night in April, the church felt different. I stepped forward, unsure if I was welcome in the cavern ous chapel. The stained glass muddled any chance of light coming through, leaving only the shadows to play tricks on my brain. It was all sharp angles, guilt, and unjustifiable death. Every gust of wind brought demons circling my head and every creak in the floorboards spoke of my judgment day.
At the end of the room, a man was hoisted up high with his arms out like a scarecrow and his head hung low. Blood dripped down his forehead from his thorny crown and every muscle in his body seemed to tremble, moments away from giving up. I could almost see his head slowly rise and look at me, revealing a face with no traces of regret. Only a quiet resolve and acceptance of his crucifixion. He appeared faded, exhausted, covered in a thin layer of dust. Tears seemed to flow from his eyes, glinting in the dim light and clinging to his pallid cheeks. He pleaded for the only comfort I could offer: some company. The first pew became my home for the next hour and a half, and with my music long forgotten, I reveled in the quiet blackness. I would have fallen asleep there had it not been for a siren wailing a distant madrigal: the sinless son of God must die in sadness.For as long as I sat in the church, I never experienced some great spiritual awakening. I can’t say I even thought about religion. It was simple, really. In the darkness, I found a friend.
The air in the chapel hung heavy with the prayers of a congregation long gone. I stared up the aisle towards the altar, which was draped in an ornate purple and gold fabric. The scene was reminiscent of the church I attended at home, although it was the smell that mainly brought me back. I closed my eyes and breathed in the stale aroma of the lacquered wood that surrounded me. Pews that offered straight backs and no room for slouching were flanked by candle sticks that reached towards the heavens. Bibles and hymnals sat shoulder to shoulder, whispering scripture and unresolved chords back and forth. Their pages were thin, and for a moment, I was my younger self leafing through them and pretending to find the same meaning as my friends.
hethreagan Weary 37 | Capitol Letters 5/13/2021 Weary https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1V4cg7KP7OJySfurM4dbb8BZShOvq4IOa 1/1
With the sharpest edge of teeth. Tear off a layer, reveal what’s beneath.
It’s cruel to cut your own claws. Prepare your meal with belligerence, Eat it raw.
alexandra lavin Fingertips
38 | Capitol Letters
Are fifteen layers of skin, Fifteen layers of laid over wallpaper In an ancient house, faded and thin. Spastic symptoms of a nervous condition
Compulsion scratches until red, And pulls at each hanging piece of thread
Pluck fruit from barren trees and Plunge the earth with ambition.
39 | Capitol Letters india moore
Summer 2010 i am nine years old and i am afraid of my body and so sure of myself heart forward, guilt riddled it is the peak of summer and my best friend’s hair is blonder than it was last fall and her eyes have shifted from blue to green and back again she puts her lily white arm next to mine and wishes aloud to be tan like me wishes aloud to be dark like me our elbows are scabbed our fingertips timid half moons of sweat paint our matching shirts yellow and she does not ask before she grabs my wrist to compare “i burn in the heat” she explains pink mouth wide as she slurps raspberry icee i stare at her sweet face and freckles until i’ve stared too long and then i look ahead at the heat waves that roll like mountains and i wish for it all to melt away “race you home” but it is not a race because we hold hands the whole time bright blue and sticky with raspberry we run until i forget what hurts
arielle bader Pastel Blurs
40 | Capitol Letters
clutches at her motherher last respite, clytemnestra who will her mother be without her? her mother has been her mother since iphigenia was brought into this world but clytemnestra has been more than a mother or a wife, more than mycenae an existence that iphigenia in naivete never asked after
41 | Capitol Letters sneeha bose iphigenia iphigeniai.
bleeds and agamemnon looks away here’s another tale of fathers who do not see their daughter’s pain this ignorance is not born of cruelty she knows if there were a way he would shoulder this burden for her like he shouldered that girl child she was (him: atlas; she: the world) but there are things, her mother warns, that men aren’t meant to see so when she is given to death agamemnon looks away iphigeniaii.
i am your cult of one did you know when you walked to the altar, prepared for slaughter that there’d be another a millennia later on the verge of womanhood, stuck in eternal childhood who’d see you altered? i see you, iphigenia, and your sorrow as deep as the sea your father will sail as he chooses war over love and over you and i transform you, so you don’t do it for love but because you cannot imagine yourself having any other purpose but being born to die better than any hero, iphigenia, you chose your end
42 | Capitol Letters iphigenia is only a fraction of her mother’s life (and clytemnestra cries because she will never be a fraction of hers) iphigenia,iii.
43 | Capitol Letters sydney dinh Grey Heron 5/13/2021 IMG-3188.JPG https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1oFBHsGYQ17fcP0DCpjHSSyc9GhUXDunb 1/2
44 | Capitol Letters anastasia goddard The Eyes of a Dying Man
have you looked into the eyes of a dying man? his glassypiercingstarethrough the broken mirrors of a world so fractured and torn. the final breaths ripping through the decay of a shattered body rancid odors of countless memories greedily devoured by worms never to see light again. those simple pleasures lost as the mind that holds their fragile existence crumbles to the dusty grip of a lethargic demise. a cold wind pinches the flesh too scared to let go yet too weary to remain frozen in the recollections of what could have been but are no longer.
I have looked into the eyes of a dying man. his voice so hollowcoarseand cavernous the gritty powder of abandoned cobwebs when a bright beam filters in. when the final beat drums and the symphony crescendos to turn back time will you gaze into the eyes of a dying man or look into the eyes of one long gone.
45 | Capitol Letters
Let the untied shoelace represent your childhood. Let the moldy tiles represent your idleness. Let the bare mattress represent Your dependence, resignation, sexual anxiety. Let the ocean represent Boundless freedom, Or boundless grief, Depending on the weather that day. They say an old man climbed Talcott Mountain, After weeks of restless sleep. When he got to the top he fell to his knees, And bellowed out to the empty sky
Let the open highway represent some kind of hope. Puff out a platitude and let it hover in the air, Glorious in the light, forgotten by friday. You are on your way to Talcott Mountain, Keep your eyes on the horizon. You’ll miss it if you look away.
alexandra lavin Talcott Mountain
All the questions that kept him awake. They say that the sky knelt down beside him And whispered each answer into his ear. Yes, Talcott Mountain, that’s where it happened. The old man and his beautiful sleep.
goddardanastasia
HorizonsNew
46 | Capitol Letters
You’ll redownload Instagram
You’ll be bored and you’ll be home full time for the first time since you were fourteen and it will drive you up the wall, but in a town where there are more dollar stores than people you’re well acquainted with boredom
india moore How to Survive a Pandemic
You’ll delete Instagram
You won’t know what’s happening
You’ll watch “Dance Moms”, smiling blissfully as Abby Lee Miller screams at twelve year olds to point their toes and save their tears for their pillows
47 | Capitol Letters
Well, you’ll know what’s happening, you’ll know what the news is telling you is happening but you’ve never seen death before, you’ve never seen contagion before No one will know how or when it ends and, if you’re one of the lucky ones, sometimes it will feel like everything is standing still and nothing has changed
You’ll make banana bread so often that you’ll worry you’ll start to hate banana bread but then you realize it’s banana bread and you could never hate banana bread
You will still have school, sorry
You will worry and call your friends and wonder when you’ll see them again
You’ll ride with her to the grocery store and sit in the car just to have something to do You’ll hope you won’t die and you’ll know you won’t die but that’s not the real issue
You’ll think about your oldest sister in Manhattan; the bigger cities have it worse You’ll imagine the sirens she must hear day in and day out You’ll remind your mom, because she always forgets, to put her mask on before she goes to the grocery store
You’re not that good at strumming but you’re a C major superstar You’ll think back to when it was worlds away You’ll think back to when it was continents away You’ll think back to when it was states away You’ll think back to riding the New York City subway with your sisters a month before it shut Youdownwere on the way to drink chai, arms full of thrifted clothes from Buffalo Exchange “What should we do tomorrow?” you’d asked You’ll wait for the answer.
48 | Capitol Letters
The fear is getting someone else sick, someone who might not be able to recover You’ll buy a ukulele and learn “Let it Be” and “Riptide”
In the shower, I run hands over the pebbling flesh of my stomach and breasts, thinking that this time will be it, I’ll feel a lump, hard and undeniable. If I’m lucky enough - diligent enough - I won’t be too late.
When I step out to the clouded room, another inspection. I stare at the constellation of moles on my arms just in case they’ve grown since I was here yesterday. I poke at a faint bruise on my leg, almost enjoying the sting. Perhaps that’s how a slow, hemorrhagic death begins. I keep waiting for this body to betray me, but here, between hot, swirling steam, and cold, unfeeling marble, my mind already does.
In the bathroom mirror, I grimace. The cold sore on my lip pulls tight at the motion. Dried crust cracks open, blood beading in bursts. As I strip, I imagine I have masses of similar sores, lining my intestines, my lungs, and I swear I feel an ache. My heart skips a beata symptom, or a product of a never-quieting mind?
49 | Capitol Letters sneeha bose Where the Hypochondriac Begs for Absolution
50 | Capitol Letters hadley chittum The Pain of Incarceration
“We reject modernity” they cry, Bullet eyes strike the world. They put their slogan on Sometimestheyt-shirts—sellout.the crows choose one of their own. They peck out all his little sometimesIridescentfeathers,untilnightfall,it’safatalchoice.
I wish to leave the crows Behind. Leave the circle Of following those behind me, But my wings are tied back. A cord of wind with a cord of steel. And they’re always there. Under forward.UrgingmeusTo find more shadows In shapes of wings that never fly.
The next day, the crows decide that they were perhaps too cruel. They find the one who pecked first (Or who was second—the specifics don’t matter) And they prescribe the same end to him.
willow hassan What Do the Crows Find Today Wings tied back, But the crows still follow everywhere. I turn around— Still Inkyunderfoot.printswith no end.
51 | Capitol Letters
52 | Capitol Letters
sydney walsh Sunrise Gulls
Sneeha Bose is an American Studies major at GWU from New York City. When she isn’t writing or contemplating mythology, you can find her taking long walks to various libraries and bookstores, or obsessing over mango lassi.
Tiffany Cornely is a senior at GW who has been a part of Capitol Letters since her first semester and is very sad to say goodbye. Her quarantine hobbies have been rollerskating, reading, and learning how to play chess. She will continue her literary journey in Phoenix, Arizona as an ELA teacher in the fall.
Danielle Chan is a student and journalist at GWUOHS. She loves creative writing, novels and poetry of all genres, eating incessant amounts of ramen, and fueling her obsession for movies.
Arielle Bader is a senior photojournalism major from Tampa, Florida. She often produces work about the effects of climate change on communities and collaborates with environmental activists.
Sydney Dinh is a junior at GWUOHS and lives in Delaware. She is interested in creating photographs that can tell their own story by connecting with her subjects, strangers or not.
contributor biographies
Carsyn Fessenden is a second-year student in the Elliott School of International Affairs studying international affairs with a concentration in international environmental studies and a minor in public policy. She grew up in Chester, New Jersey and enjoys reading, playing on the GW Club Field Hockey Team, and listening to live music. This is her first piece to be published.
Nastia Goddard, a junior at GWUOHS, aspires to be a clown in some Parisian circus in the future, or to be a cast member on Saturday Night Live and Kate McKinnon’s best friend.
Gianna Boothman Duyck is a junior in the Honors program studying psychology, creative writing, and marketing. When she is not writing, she enjoys baking, painting, and crafting new Spotify playlists.
Hadley Chittum is an artist and documentary photographer from the Appalachian mountains of Southwest, Virginia, currently living and making work in Washington, DC.
Sarah Godlin is a GWU CPS master of publishing student from Northern California who specializes in book layout and design. When she is not designing books, she is swimming in the Trinity River.
Madison Gordon is a graduating senior from Goochland, VA. Her passion for the living world has inspired her to study biology throughout her time at GW, but she discovered her love for creative writing during quarantine.
Sydney Walsh is a photojournalism major from south Florida who loves her cats, the ocean and good food.
John Watson is a junior studying archaeology who loves trying new things, the Sims, and pointing out dogs on the street.
Sydney Schmidt is a freshman from California studying international affairs and journalism. When she’s not writing, she can be found daydreaming about having a pet cat or making overly specific playlists about fictional characters.
Jordan Hutchinson is a senior in the GW English Department studying creative writing, English, French, and psychology. She has been a member of Capitol Letters for four years, and goes on to pursue a career in online and print publishing.
Laney Picon is a third-year student studying IA and contemporary cultures at the Elliott School. She enjoys learning new languages and putting peanut butter on her pancakes.
Morgan Richmeier is a senior interior architecture student who loves Dracula, Anaïs Nin, and most other weirdos.
India Moore is a rising junior studying psychology and public health. She is an earth sign, a ceramicist, a reader, a crocheter, and a huge proponent of melodrama. She was born in Georgia and calls North Carolina home.
Alexandra Lavin is a graduating senior from McLean, Virginia. She is an aspiring screenwriter, an amateur painter, and an extremely loyal Frank’s RedHot customer (nothing else compares).
Kimberly Kanchan is a sophomore at GWUOHS from California. She loves playing tennis and the violin.
Reagan Heth is a first-time student at GWUOHS and is completing her junior year. She’s a Philly girl at heart, but currently lives in the beautiful NC mountains with her parents, brother, and three lovable dogs.
Irene Ham is a freshman at GWUOHS. She has several hobbies but her favorite would have to be editing.
Willow Hasson is a junior at GW from southern New Jersey majoring in political science with minors in international affairs and journalism. She is pre-law and loves writing creative fiction and poetry.
Calista Izzi-Ragland (they/them) is a senior from Philadelphia and Collegeville, PA majoring in theatre and English. They are an artist who loves telling stories through poetry, theatre, and dance.
You may submit five literary works and five pieces of arwork each academic year.
submit Capitol Letters is an annual publication and is open to all members of The George Washington University community. Undergraduate and graduate students, GWU Online High School students, faculty, alumni, and staff are encouraged to submit their poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and art. For more information or to submit, please contact: gwcapitolletters@gmail.com
