Spring 2015 Edition

1 | Wooden Teeth

fall 2015

The George Washington University’s Student Art & Literary Magazine

staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF CO-EDITOR CORE EDITORS

STAFF EDITORS

sarah fannon mel piskai sophie corless lauren danielowski jason freedberg tara kosowski daniela mora savovic lily stern carmen collins colin foster lily kauffman

submit Wooden Teeth is published twice each year and is open to all members of The George Washington University community. Undergraduate and graduate students, faculty, alumni, and staff are encouraged to submit their poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and art.

All submissions should be typed with your name, piece title, and email address. You may submit three literary works and three pieces of artwork each semester.

Please send submissions and questions to: Wooden Teeth gwwoodenteeth@gmail.com

fall 2015 Volume 38

table of contents poetry maggie koons jason bentley michelle ritota eric denbin hakim walker mel piskai kayla williams lily stern elliot greiner mel piskai thomas fratkin maggie koons robyn di giacinto naomi naik robyn di giacinto sarah fannon kenny hoffman tara kosowski

cover art: michelle ritota Haunted

3 5 7 8 10 12 13 14 18 19 21 22 23 27 30 31 33 38

I Sing the Body Anorexic Cliff Jumping Sisters Opal Wheelchair Accessible Growing Vertebrae Metallic Aftertaste In the Kitchen Haiku #17 Through the Seasons I Walk at a bar, to a priest: Love Letter from the Sky to the Ocean don't despair love; it isn't dark yet Mother Tongue Trigger Tongue crybaby Happy Hour Body, Reclaimed

prose jason bentley sarah fannon kenny hoffman kseniya melnik

7 16 25 35

Cliff Jumping Last Bit of Sun Schlub Spark

6 11 15 20 26 29 32 34 37

Marijke, the Stranger Lioness Tempest: Dream Revision Day Dreamer Abstract Anatomy Perspective Brooklyn Bridge Blueprint One Last View & Seek

art maeve mccool amishi desai maeve mccool michelle ritota amishi desai michelle ritota amishi desai maeve mccool mel piskai

maggie koons I Sing the Body Anorexic “Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body?

For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.”

-Walt Whitman, “Leaves of Grass”

While they were treating me I got so mad that I swallowed some well-meaning therapist’s shit-eating grin whole and had to pay damages I sang for the church choir and played guitar I was no goddamn good but they liked me Because I was a girl, pretty, thin, wore all black no matter the occasion, The anti-bride, Pretty pissed off even though I hardly had the energy They said that was the adrenaline and my body eating its own flesh, must be why I smelled like third-degree burns Pretty pissed off…My roommate Patricia says That men are cold and women are sad but she is wrong Because I am a bruiser, barbed fury, burnt meat on bloody crusts But when I was in this church choir I was seventeen and some fucking twenty-five-year-old metal guitarist who always played crunchy solos during “On Eagle’s Wings” told me

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That age is nothing but a number, sweetheart, But I was tired, tired, tired, so I turned him down Because I was starving and loopy with no muscles to hit him with If the time came But The point is Had I not corrupted myself then, If I was not bleeding out my personality, filtering it so that it was digestible, draining all the bold out of me, If I was not dying because I was afraid of breakfast, I would have slept with him, with that horrible acne-ridden Jesus-freak twenty-five-year-old metal guitarist, And that would have been even worse than what I did Which was starve my period right out of my Body electric And even if it ruined me I still don’t regret it, Walt, I have tried.

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jason bentley Cliff Jumping It was in those days where we climbed higher than we should have because we were afraid to climb down.

And you’d look down and think this was it, all the while knowing it really wasn’t and what would they think if you decided not to, so just jump instead. You’d fall and fall and fall and close your eyes because you couldn’t breathe, and then you really couldn’t breathe, and then everything was fine so you lie and say it was amazing and go up the next time even higher.

We’d do drugs because we were bored and liked feeling that certain way, and you’d shiver even though it wasn’t cold because that certain feeling trickled down your spine. Deep inhale, and don’t you dare cough, hold it in, hazy hazy, and you can push it out your eyes. Feel it in your gums and lick the smooth white behind your teeth, and that inaudible ringing screams in your eardrums, and the vibrations thick and moist harden and drop on your eyelids forcing them shut, but my god what a beautiful darkness you had never seen before in your life.

I could be that way, be anything, but as I fall into the back of the couch, we would laugh and talk bad about that one guy, but he deserved it and probably did the same to us. But we really didn’t care and that gave us power over everyone because they had nothing, have nothing to threaten us with, no medium to express their will and agitate our cause for we had none. So we did and we acted because we wanted to and learned what we did through sullen and clouded and bloodshot eyes intent on finding the next moment. It was always in front of us, so we’d try to reach out and grab it with unkempt fingernails and bruised palms from slapping the pavement too hard on the way down, with little rocks and pebbles embedded in our soft flesh. So instead we’d cannibalize our intuition and sell its broken face to some other addict with a dream beyond ours.

But we were happy, happy with singed thumbs and singed pointers, happy with half empty bottles of Visine drops and half eaten sub sandwiches, happy with one missing shoe and holes in our socks, happy with a dark room with light conversation, and happy to let go of holding on- just to fade and fade away.

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maeve mccool Marijke, the Stranger

michelle ritota Sisters

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Two little girls sat under the sun.

One a lobster with wavy blonde hair and big blue eyes that pierced into you like waves do a beach at high tide.

One a hamburger bun with big brown eyes and short brown hair.

She looked like a boy, but she wasn't, I swear.

Talking so quickly no one could hear a word she said, but the other managed to repeat it word for word, like a little hummingbird.

They dug their pearly white teeth into sweet red tomatoes, spitting the seeds to the ground, hoping they would soon sprout a language that was spoken with the flick of the hand or a simple look with the eyes , and they'd laugh like it was the last laugh of their lives.

They had a handshake that simply involved rolling your hands and fingers into one another.

It made no sense but it seemed cool at the time (not really) but either way it was fine.

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eric denbin Opal I look at an empty page and A transparent nothing lies before me.

Mind to pen, I try to write, But every word feels wrong, Painfully wrong, Like a lie.

Ghosts on the page, Intangible to my fraudulent mind, Fleeting spirits between the lines.

They’re uninspired by my soul’s dying fire, Ashes at the heart.

Words like long exposed shooting stars, Subdued by clouded heavens, Darkness exploring ever broadening darkness, An opal expanse.

My greatest endeavor is my most haunting affliction.

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hakim walker Wheelchair Accessible (For Rachelle Friedman) We used to ask each other “If you had only one wish, what would you wish for?”

You would wish for the ability to fly And I would wish for you to realize that you already could Our priorities have changed slightly since the accident But if you ask me now And if I had only one wish I would wish…to be your wheelchair Not just because I want to touch your ass…all the time…

But to remind you, every day, that you don’t need me Nearly as much as I need you I am wheelchair accessible So come to me, and I’ll take you higher While throwing bad wheelchair jokes at you We’ll be like “Lady and the Ramp” See, laughter sounds the same from any height But I know sometimes it sounds like God is laughing at you And sometimes There’s nothing funny at all

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There are buildings who don’t take kindly to your kind I know how much you hate the stairs There are people Everywhere With nothing better to do with their eyes I know how much you hate the stares But if I were your wheelchair I would run over them!

Leave tire tracks in their backs And no license plate to trace I’ve got a parking spot with your name on it And you have a nice set of…wheels Twenty-two’s With chrome coating Rims spinning Suped-up with hydraulics You don’t need legs to have a bounce in your step We’ll cruise down I-95 in the summertime Doing well over nine We are speed demons!

And the top is always down The wind is in your hair like a crown Like it’s supposed to be there

And if I were your wheelchair I would dress myself up To look like the throne that it is My queen!

You do not wait on elevators Elevators wait on you!

They hold their doors open in anticipation And the buttons light up at your touch Everything lights up at your touch But to be your wheelchair!

To be attached to your hip To be the little guy Upon whose shoulders sits a giant who can see far farther than me To be like Atlas Entrusted with the task of carrying the heavens for all time If I were your wheelchair I would thank you Every hour For the nobility of mobility For the joy of feeling alive for one more day For the gift of purpose And for the comfort in knowing Absolutely That neither of us is going anywhere without the other Wooden Teeth | 10

11 | Wooden Teeth amishi desai Lioness

mel piskai Growing Vertebrae The feeling of falling out of love Moves Glacially slow, and cold You wish you could put down All these boulders You’ve somehow come to hold You are miles from the mountain And poets sometimes forget That there is beauty in the valleys You are creating a map With ridges as your timeline You’ve always thought the Intrinsic circles in trees were magic That you’ve mistaken the creases Of land behind you as damaged And not a backbone Growing vertebrae Growing subtle Growing pains Growing away Going away And you are miles from the mountain But here, you have never seen so many flowers

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kayla williams Metallic Smokes, stubs it on her thigh. Thinks: “A Suicide Note to My Body.”

Breathes, not deeply.

Pieces of herstained hoodie, ripped pants, socks, underwear, locketsplash.

Her legs thrash in murk. Her eyes, still open, stinging towards the sun.

Her right hand is grabbed from behind and below.

Glimmering aquamarine,

serpents

await the princess.

Primped, pampered,

she is porcelain in a chartreuse gown; ready for the ball.

Her date arrives on a noble steed, in purple velvet.

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Poseidon’s brother hands her a goblet of liquid gold and escorts her into the void.

lily stern Aftertaste My breath smells like summer, like overripe watermelon and chlorine pools, and you’re on the tip of my tongue.

I want to get you out, to roll you to the back of my mouth to see what you taste like, what you feel like.

Whether it’s like being wrapped in a rough towel under the porch while sun showers pound overhead, or if it’s like messy hands from using chalk before the pavement dries.

Whether you taste like pumpkin or I can savor the sweetness of Washington cherries.

Did your tongue run over leftover pieces of me stuck in between your teeth?

My nail polish chips and I focus on late nights around beach flames and what it smells like to wake up late in the morning.

But then the leaves turn from limes to lemons, and I have to smack my lips together to get a tiny hint of what watermelon lips taste like in the summer.

Did you rub it all over your lips?

Did you feel the cooling chill of mint like I did?

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15 | Wooden Teeth maeve mccool Tempest: Dream Revision

sarah fannon Last Bit of Sun Bagelboy got a new haircut and I don’t like it because now you can see all of his face and he’s got a kind of big forehead, but I know I will like it once I get used to it. He used to have hair that he shook to keep out of his eyes and I’m sure his mother didn’t like that. All mothers make their sons get haircuts and I always hate the haircuts until I don’t, including my own.

It’s Sunday and the bagel shop has reduced hours so I made sure to come at five o’clock to get my dozen bagels. I look across at the ocean to where the sun is bobbing over the horizon. The news has been talking for weeks about how the sun might flicker out like an old light bulb, but most people have let the news become white noise. There have been so many claims about the end of the world already.

I watch Bagelboy slather cream cheese on a chocolate chip bagel and when he gets some on his thumb he licks it when he thinks no one is watching. I wonder how often people catch me in private moments. Maybe there’s someone who watches me watch Bagelboy. I look around, but all the people are rushing by or caught up in their own lives.

As I start to think about what it would be like to have a life worth being caught up in, a siren blares and the world seems to halt as a voice booms out of a loudspeaker and tells us that sun is going to die after all. I hear a scream in the distance and one woman drops her grocery bag so that two apples roll out onto the boardwalk.

Bagelboy throws off his apron and runs a hand through what hair he has left. It is five-thirty and his shift only lasts another half an hour because that’s when the shop closes. I wonder if he’s debating going home and then I realize I’ve never thought about his family before. I see him at least once a week when I come to pick up bagels and I always order one extra bagel to eat on the bench outside and sometimes I watch him work.

And yet I’ve never imagined his home life and I find that alarming in a way. He is more than my fascination, but I’ve never allowed him to be.

I can tell by the look on his face the moment he makes his decision. He comes out from behind the counter and tells the young couple in the shop something. I imagine he is sending them away so he can leave. The couple wanders out and Bagelboy closes the door behind them, turning the OPEN sign so that it reads CLOSED.

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But then five minutes pass and Bagelboy isn’t leaving the shop. He is just sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. And I find that odd, but then remember that I haven’t gotten up to go home either.

I’ve accepted that the world is going to end tonight, but the scariest part is that the sky is a quiet blue and the sun is sleepy and the ocean isn’t raging and a seagull is examining the dropped apples and it is like the world hasn’t accepted its demise. That kind of serenity is scarier than chaos.

Time passes and the sun dunks into the water and then it is night. It’s like a ghost town. With other natural disasters you might have people fighting for the last cans of soup in the grocery stores, or looters, or people going out with a bang by streaking through the city or screaming drunken profanities or simply laying out to watch the stars. But besides Bagelboy tucked away in his shop, I am alone on this boardwalk and I imagine everyone else is at home. Maybe some families are eating a late dinner and laughing at their dog’s antics like it is any other Sunday. Maybe some family is watching their favorite movie and has assigned each other parts because they know the lines by heart. Some families might be crying and saying last words. Other families might be calling their loved ones, dragging them home by a telephone cord.

I think about how for all I know, we are living in that limbo of time that it takes for light to travel and for us to realize the sun is already gone. The crescent moon will go out too like a neon sign because it won’t have earthshine to fuel it. And then we will all freeze. I think about everyone turning to ice figurines like the ice sculpture from mom’s second wedding. The ballerina was missing a foot and it melted in my hand while the bridesmaids fussed about wondering what had happened to it.

I look over to the shop again and see that Bagelboy still hasn’t left. It looks like he’s praying. This is the part where I’m supposed to run to him and do something stupid, but that’s not what I want to do. He’s having his own end of the world moment and I have no business or desire to interrupt that. If I were to, our dynamic would change. Just because the sun goes out doesn’t mean I have to live my life differently than I always have.

I take a bagel out of my bag and tear off pieces to throw to the seagulls, who screech and crowd around them. I look up to the moon, waiting for it to fade into the dark. I feel a cool chill against my arm and hope that it’s just the wind.

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elliot greiner In the Kitchen In the morning she sips her tea and eats her toast, commenting on the weather, the cat, the blackberries on the backyard bush.

She talks until her observations dry, and the words shrink into the air between us; until she is left to trace the semicircles the table grains make, on and on against stillness I consider the feel of silence, the buzz it makes deep inside the ear; this kitchen, it’s color drained by overbearing sun; this cup, worn and scarred from its time in the washer.

I consider the whiteness of a nervous smile, and her voice, worn from its time speaking in circles

I consider the order imposing itself within our morning, calculating the formulas of right and wrong, bringing attention to the pale ball of tea on her mug’s rim, the one she gulps back as she picks her nail polish; the surrender of her voice silent under the kettle’s hiss.

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mel piskai Haiku #17 And they are zephyrs Slipping fingers up my dress.

I cross my ankles.

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michelle ritota Day Dreamer

thomas fratkin Through the Seasons I Walk Each step I take begins the same, One foot in front of another.

I leave a wooden cottage in the summer, Following a meandering path I hear Distant cries resounding fear.

Quickening my pace I follow the noise and Enter a rich forest with red and oranges leaves, Crisp beneath my feet as I tread with pace.

My hands before me begin to trace A distant figure in the dark, With fingers grasping an elm tree’s bark, Opens his mouth and lets out a sound that Vibrates through my ears, I blow on my hands as snow begins to fall While the elusive figure far away stands tall, His footsteps are aligned like dominoes on a surface And I proceed with dread as I question my purpose, Why continue to walk down a meandering path To pursue a person I do not know.

The sun emerges and the snow begins to melt To awaken once more the life I had felt Before I ever began my long burdensome journey.

Now lies before me a wooden cottage with a chimney Whose door is wide open awaiting my company.

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maggie koons at a bar, to a priest: i used to go

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robyn di giacinto Love Letter from the Sky to the Ocean There are times when I feel like it’s been eons, Love-Billions of years since your tidal sphere diverged from my celestial one, your Father ripping apart the shards of hydrogen and oxygen, the “we” becoming “you” and “I” to make room for the Earth.

I should’ve guessed that He would forget your Mother-that He wouldn’t care that creating the sea would destroy the heart of the cosmos that birthed it, sometimes I feel like He did it on purpose, your Father…

He was always Jealous that way.

I feel like it’s been eons, Love, since the first night I watched you from above.

You were so young, but so powerful even then, your waves and sea foam gurgling lapping over and frolicking with prehistoric landmasses yet siltless and barren.

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I feel like it’s been eons, Love, since I watched you mate with organic matter and birth your first children out of your sea salt womb, the single-celled organisms whose lives you sustained, I never got to tell you, Love, how good of a mother you were.

I feel like it’s been eons, Love, since your children first set foot on the land and you started your toxic relationship with Man, who was always dumping waste to wash up on your once-pristine shorelines for their own selfish ends, Building dams to pen up your boundless vitality-I wish I could’ve been there to tell you that you were better than someone else’s landfill.

I feel like I’ve been eons, Love, looking down on you and watching you change, only barely kissing the crests of your waves where the heavens meet the sea…. looking down and wondering… if you were looking up, and thinking of me too.

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kenny hoffman Schlub My father was never more than a regular ol’ schlub to me. There’s only one picture of us together, and it’s him, looking away, PBR in one hand, my wrist in the other, and me, frightened, eyes like a glass doll’s. His hair was greasy then, and it’s greasy now, and even though he was thinner, his gut still poked out from beneath his grubby white tee, stained, like always. I was eight, and I didn’t know it then, but I’d eventually inherit my father’s paunch, and not, I hope, his lust for loserdom. He says I’ll get the gas station when he’s gone, and Brandon’ll get the house, which is fine by me since the house isn’t worth shit, though neither is the station, given both its geographical and financial position in the wilderness. God knows the last time my dad made a profit beyond what he spends on groceries and at Grover’s, where the booze is cheap and the girls are contagions. Sure, the guy took care of us, and we never got hit or anything, but it’s not like my father’s some warm sitcom dad-type, dispensing wisdom to resolve our frequent calamities. He’s a wet noodle, and I see no reason for exalted prose.

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amishi desai Abstract Anatomy

naomi naik don't despair love; it isn't dark yet enter, I said, come in and sit down.

I thought your presence would be transitory, a quick chat and a goodbye, but you’re still on my couch.

I sat on a cliff and thought that maybe the world was smaller than I thought it was you were still on the couch I dangled my legs over the side and felt my moccasin slip over my heel it caught on my toes and they kept it in place I toyed with the idea of letting it drop and sink into the water but then I would be left with only one shoe and I’m no Cinderella, so I didn’t I told you I was happy: I lied. my floor is solid it’s scuffed and dirty and a bit shabby but it’s solid I hope you enjoy that, having solid ground beneath your feet (you’re welcome) last week we went to a dance class it was supposed to be solo, but they overbooked so it was you and me and two others, two people we didn’t know, in a room and they couldn’t tango or salsa or merengue and they stepped on each other’s toes you have grace and I have rhythm so we did just fine but my toes felt lonely and it wasn’t for lack of company

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before we met I used to come to this cliff and sit and think about jumping off I don’t do that anymore instead I contemplate you pushing me because I asked you to once, I pushed you off the couch you had shoved your socked feet in my face and I pushed you the bowl of popcorn in your lap tumbled with you and you landed in a heap of limbs on the floor the movie kept playing, I think— it might have, it might not, nobody was watching, nobody can tell the first thing I thought was: now I’ll have to make more popcorn the last thing I thought was: if I sit here and don’t move maybe the universe won’t notice I’m okay I used to write letters and leave them on your doorstep you knew it was me, don’t pretend (silly, don’t you know I can see right through you?) they were long and they were beautiful and you never read them you burned them in a fire and I wanted you to (you didn’t know I wanted you to or else you wouldn’t have done it) you burned them and ate the ashes and now my words are your blood and I’m not sure that this is what was supposed to happen but let’s do it, let’s kill fate let’s stab her with a golden knife, cut her threads and slice out her tongue or, this: I’m on a couch. you’re on a cliff. the water’s deep and it’s a long way down and I’d jump with you if you’d let me.

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michelle ritota Perspective

robyn di giacinto Mother Tongue Trigger Tongue My great-grandmother Elsie had fallen down the stairs A few weeks past-So when her water broke, she knew that something was wrong.

Her husband had immigrated to Milwaukee A few years past-So when he went door to door calling for a doctor, Neighbors answered prayers for mercy with Gospels of slammed doors and go back to your country.

Her petrified fingers clawed trails of sweat into the walls of the apartment on 3rd Street, Fingers that would never touch again but casket and earth.

but my sister tells me he always said that Mother Tongue is best forgotten.

English, not German.

Teach your daughters to forget Tongue and Trigger So your daughters' daughters forget the wounds.

My aunt moved to Arizona A few decades past-She answers Prayers for mercy with Gospels of barbed wire fences and border patrols, Says them 'spics and AAY-rabs just ought to learn English.

Tongue triggers thought: How quickly we forget.

Mother Tongue died with Mother Elsie, Leaving a language of fear in its place.

Mother Tongue turned Trigger Tongue Tongue Trigger, Triggering Mother death.

My grandfather Herman had died a few years past, Wooden Teeth | 30

sarah fannon crybaby silly girl, don’t you know you’re not allowed to be all ocean? just calm down and craft a ship in a bottle. pour yourself inside to let the wooden ship float. when the bottle is full, set it on your mantel and start over, make a new one­. never mind the splinters in your hands.

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amishi desai Brooklyn Bridge Blueprint

kenny hoffman Happy Hour Let's go to Kilkenny's, Rathskeller's, or Molly McGuire's. Not Johnny Napkins.

Chili's, Applebee's, Hell, T.G.I. Fridays, but please not Johnny Napkins.

A belligerent dwarf with a wooden eye and the aging hooker with a wooden leg swap stories, spit, and something else on the beer-stained floor of Johnny Napkins.

She walks like a bearded rainbow on a stage of RU letdown degrees— tonight's the night of Page and Petty and sad dads at Johnny Napkins.

A lonely comedian in search of wits drinks funny juice through a straw; gets his ass thrown out by (after showing it to) the bouncer at Johnny Napkins.

Old Fashioned? Nuh-uh. Manhattan? Martini? Nu-uh. Just a Coke. Is Pepsi okay? That's fine.

Looks like we're out. You're kidding. Nope. [incredulous stare]. Welcome to Johnny Napkins.

Mr. Bleck blows chunks on rose bouquets at the phone pole’s base where his one son Tad shattered his windshield and skull in a wreck outside of Johnny Napkins.

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maeve mccool One Last View

kseniya melnik Spark (2015-2016 Writer in Residence)

Ever since dying a year ago, I’ve been scheming my way back to life. Not because my new realm bored me.

There was no shortage of fascinating people here willing, in fact, insisting on telling me their old stories over and over until my ears burned. But because my little sister Violet, who was still alive, needed my help.

She needed my help with her unruly hair. Incidentally, her hair was what killed me. Or rather, it was an errant spark of electricity from the faultily-wired socket when I turned on the hairdryer to style her hair for a school play.

She needed my help with our parents and with Excel spreadsheets. With handling mean girls and mean boys and nice girls, too. She needed my help with implementing her plan to save the world and with choosing the perfect dress for the Homecoming dance. She was going with Jake, of whom I disapproved.

For a while, I set my hopes on the spark to jolt me back into Violet’s world.

Even though I was afraid, I climbed back into my killer socket. The vibrations inside of it were pleasant, like someone tickling you. But I only caused the circuits to break in the house. Violet was too busy stalking Jake on Facebook to even notice.

I caught four lightenings during a thunderstorm, then spent a week inside NASA’s cold fusion reactor. I raged around our house, almost setting my old room on fire. The room Violet had not entered since my death.

Nothing.

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Meanwhile, I couldn’t bear listening yet again to Napoleon’s account of his victory at Austerlitz. Jeez, we get it already.

Then, one day, I met Nino. He was not capital-G great, like Peter the Great or Alexander. He was just a regular guy from sixteenth century Italy who had drowned. Something about him made my charred nerves tingle, but he also enveloped me in watery coolness so sweetly. With him, I took the first deep breath since my death.

It’s then that Violet finally reached me, and made me feel alive and also ashamed for doubting her. I cried and cried, setting off sparks around me, until Nino’s hair—which was always a little damp—stood on ends.

Nino and I floated on a mandarin slice in the fruit punch at the Homecoming dance. Violet’s thoughts— which, all along, had just needed a better conductor—flowed to me through the charged atmosphere of the school cafeteria. She danced with Jake, but I beat in her heart, always.

Nino put his arm around me, and chills ran down my spine. I didn’t know what would happen next.

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mel piskai & seek 37 | Wooden Teeth

tara kosowski Body Reclaimed This must be what healing feels like.

I can trace the contours of my legs and they feel like mine again – these slowly curving slopes and all its graceful edges – that make up the continent of me.

This must be healing.

I wear a cotton dress with pink polka dots.

It sways as I move my hips, And I know this body is mine, reclaimed.

It is sacred and vast and tough, And no foreign hands can steal that from me.

This is healing.

It’s been a year, and I still have nightmares.

But I when I wake up to the salt of my tears, I lick them all up and devour my pain.

This healing,

It is a garden growing deep within me,

and it is wild and messy and beautiful.

It is the darkest ivy and whitest oleander

That climb the staircase of my ribs

And tangle within my chestnut hair

And I am a queen with a crown of poison.

Healing

Is late nights listening to my own breath

As I place my palm to my chest

And feel my heart echo its holy song,

Fierce and bright and dangerous.

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contributorbiographies jason bentley is an underwhelming individual and pen name. eric denbin is a freshman from Philadelphia, PA. He loves GW and copping out. amishi desai is a senior psychology major from Raleigh, NC. She enjoys hot chocolate by the fireplace and doodling instead of schoolwork. robyn di giacinto is a junior studying political science and english from milwaukee, wisconsin. In her free time, she enjoys spoken word poetry, baking, and starting and not finishing tv series on netflix. sarah fannon is a junior who romanticizes the hell out of rain, and no one can stop her. thomas fratkin is a junior from Boulder, Colorado. Despite double majoring in finance and economics, he has no interest in making lots of money. elliot greiner is a junior from Texas who wants to remind you of the importance of annual flu shots. kenny hoffman is a senior from new jersey, but please don't hold that against him. maggie koons is not as pretty as she thinks she is. tara kosowski is a sophomore from Philadelphia. She can usually be found in the art building with a book in hand and charcoal inevitably smudged across her face.

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contributorbiographies kseniya melnik's debut book is the linked story collection Snow in May, which was short-listed for the International Dylan Thomas Prize and long-listed for the Frank O'Connor International Short Story Award. Originally from Russia, she is the 2015-2016 Jenny McKean Moore Writer-in-Washington at The George Washington University and is at work on a novel. maeve mccool is a fine art and art history major at the corcoran, who (when she's not doing something related to art) spends her time telling people that her home state, delaware, does in fact exist. naomi naik is a junior majoring in biology and english. She loves playing soccer badly, white chocolate and aziz ansari. mel piskai is a sophomore from west chester, pennsylvania. She is great at telling dad jokes, and doesn't trust atoms because they make up everything. michelle ritota is a freshman from bergen county, new jersey. She is an artist, a writer, and exercise-enthusiast.

In her free time, she enjoys turning people into poetry. lily stern is a sophomore from connecticut who has mastered the art of being gluten free and once heard a joke about amnesia but forgets how it goes. hakim walker is a graduate student in mathematics from brooklyn, new york. If and when he grows up, he wants to become a college professor, mostly so that he never has to leave school. kayla williams is a junior studying sociology. She likes cooking potatoes, and frivolously buys poetry collections.

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