Spring 2020 Edition

1 | Wooden Teeth

spring 2020

The George Washington University’s Student-Run Art & Literary Magazine

staf EDITORS-IN-CHIEF kendall geisel MANAGING EDITOR HEAD OF MEDIA STAFF EDITORS

STAFF MEMBERS

sophie rickless jordan hutchinson jessica bride allyson bonhaus gabrielle centurione ethan goldblatt brooke pellegrini bridget perry tiffany cornely camila dominguez-imbert willow hasson sara iagnemma winnie lokule annalise nassani josh rosen alyson williams

a note from our editors-in-chief This edition of Capitol Letters is particularly near and dear to our hearts. For one thing, we are graduating seniors, and thus this is the last edition we will be able to help create. It has been an honor to serve as your Editorsin-Chief these past two years, and we will deeply miss everyone in the Capitol Letters community.

Additionally, as everyone is well-aware, the circumstances of the coronavirus prevented us from meeting in person from mid-March onwards. Many of us were forced to leave GW and Washington, D.C. However, working on this edition has given us purpose and hope. It has provided a way for us to stay connected, and to continue to engage with the remarkable creativity of our community—a community that is now larger than ever, thanks to exceptional contributions from GW's Online High School students.

Thank you to everyone who has submitted, edited, and continues to consume Capitol Letters. We are very grateful to have been a part of your lives. Stay safe.

—Sophie and Kendall

spring 2020 Volume 43

tiffany cornely Tartafie

table of contents prose carolyn capelouto sarah godlin annalise nassani guy ginsberg

8 12 20 34

banana nut muffins Orange People One Last Day Carmine

art sydney walsh venkat pamarthy arianna patel tiffany cornely catrine paguio matt eich matt eich camille desanto camille desanto matt eich vivienne wood venkat pamarthy gryffin penn tizes matt eich sydney walsh camille desanto

4 7 10 14 19 22 28 31 33 36 39 41 42 46 49 50

We Were Once There Berry Untitled Hatta Naltaqi Thaniya Allucinazioni Melissa Embracing Madelyn Twirling Flowers Broken Butterflies Robin in the Pasture Frank the Snake Mask Wily Decay Untitled Sunday Morning Don at His Kitchen Table

cover art Ocean Baptism, Captiva, Florida. 2019. matt eich

poetry sara iagnemma stephanie gemmell james conley-lincoln loren booda james conley-lincoln laney picon james conley-lincoln winnie lokule noah westfall bridget perry maria ellers

3 5 6 9 11 15 16 17 18 21 23

winnie lokule stephanie gemmell bridget perry loren booda jessica bride noah westfall tiffany cornely

24 25 26 27 29 30 32

yasmin underwood

37

bridget perry noah westfall bridget perry abe merker

38 40 43 44

mikre-ab abera hiba sohail bridget perry gianna duyck

45 47 48 51

Diction Falters an aigéan (the ocean) The Anxious Traveler's Fate Welcome Dawn Sanctuary mother knows best La Nena Bonica Ambivalence How to Draw a Circle The Attic For my daughter (and for myself )...

The Parts of Me that Matter Pilgrimage what's up?

Goddess of the Dawn Julia Chopsticks what they don’t tell you on your eighteenth birthday The Throbbing Wish Wrote Soulful Goosebumps Face Folding Paper Blinds 11 months (or, please don’t

look at me)...

Black Keys The Night is You Timid Shrieks Lionhearted

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sara iagnemma Diction Falters Diction falters. This is true despite the best that I can do.

A word’s too short, a book too long and every sentence comes out wrong There’s no excuse, no obfuscation Just me and my imagination.

Oh—and my anger, and my pride, And everything I keep inside (—wait, is that dumb? it rhymes so well with lines like these I just can’t tell—) Want more rhymes with ‘obfuscation’?

Perhaps I’ll start with my frustration Not with the pen, or keyboard key (and this is where focus leaves me) But with the others of this craft The ones who made me cry and laugh.

The ones whose names I held abreast (literally, clutched to my chest) on par with kings, with gods on high with earth below, with midnight sky

3 | Capitol Letters

But, here now, to be let down by those same names I lent renown.

Perhaps you understand my ire, my something-something-something fire.

My fury at the facts of life, my fury at a story’s strife: The disrespect of writers when, without ideas, they grab a pen, Or, the apathy that kills a story’s twists, its life, its thrills fated to never end, or (maybe worse) trade hands, while others trade a purse.

I could bemoan this all damn nightIt does not change the copyright.

The only thing that I can do is say: “I will not be like you.”

The only thing that I can do is write my own thing, something new.

The issue there, of course, being I hate the words that I’m seeing.

Why? ‘Diction falters’. Did you forget?

From what I think, to what I get, there lies discontinuity— A line of silver I can’t see.

I do my best, as we all do (Ah yes, this tactic isn’t new.)

But this frustration, watch it grow.

Despite my drive, I surely know that months can pass with no progress.

Ideas don’t always manifest.

So, instead, I write dumb poetry …An ode to my hypocrisy.

sydney walsh We Were Once There

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stephanie gemmell an aigéan (the ocean) I was born among a sea of stagnant waves where the appalachian mountains rise from bluegreen earth and queen anne’s lace graces the hillsides like sea foam I long to return to a place my body has never been to stand on lush and jagged land to breathe the damp weight of salty sea air and feel the soft gray fog like silk against my face

I long to hear words I don’t know in a language I don’t speak to see if somehow my soul knows it— corr an bhiolair, contae mhuineacháin, éire— how can a place so distant be so vital to my being?

nature’s essence breathes and fills our lungs where life ebbs and flows across the horizon traced by streams and divided by train tracks

the mountaintops glow with honey-soaked halos as the sun slowly sinks into their sea and silence reigns over the dawn of night

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james conley-lincoln The Anxious Traveler's Fate

With this much time, shouldn’t I have done more?

I fear the answer’s yes, and yet I can’t be sure.

It’s true, there were so many things I’d hoped to see.

I’d planned to leave with a fully packed memory, But from my ration of moments, so few are left.

How am I to spend a currency as valuable as time?

I never seem to have the right amount of time.

Alone, in bed, I couldn’t have imagined needing more And yet here I am, lamenting how little is left.

The steady ticking of the clock is the only thing that’s sure.

I search for gaps within my memory Which should be filled with sights I have yet to see.

Well then, I’ll spare a thought inside my memory For the famous sites that too soon I left And the ones I never visited, which number many more.

But the humble spots that I did see And the friends who shared my time Are no reason to lament, of that I am now sure.

I could not do it all, that much is for sure.

And if I find some gaps within my memory At least I’ll know that I enjoyed my time.

Accepting I’ll have left With plenty still to see I fear the end no more.

I can’t forecast my memory.

But spending time to see the joy within simplicity Allowed me to be sure, I have no need left for more.

But how am I to find these gaps, impossible to see?

They’ll only be revealed with time When this journey’s but a memory.

I live the anxious traveler’s fate, wanting to see more Yet with no choice but to accept, only incompleteness is sure.

I won’t know what I have missed ‘till after I have left.

And yet, remains the opportunity of the days that I have left.

If the next moment is all my eyes can see And one step ahead, the only footing sure Perhaps familiar joys are the safest use of time A sip, a laugh, a parting touch, attempting nothing more.

The simple, well-known pleasures preserve the best in memory.

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venkat sai akash pamarthy Berry 7 | Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth

carolyn capelouto banana nut muffins My mother always told me you have to laugh into the oven when you put something in to bake.

It’s good luck, she says.

So we’d laugh, big fake laughs, ha ha ha, the hot air blowing into our faces before we shut the oven door.

She also taught me that recipes might as well be suggestions and that if we had somehow lost our 1/3 cup measure just use the 1/4 cup and add a little extra. And that the oven didn’t need to be preheated, it’ll get too hot that way. The temperature of the oven didn’t matter anyways, it’s either on low or high. No point in setting a timer, just stick a fork in there and see if it comes out Dry. In my own apartment, alone late one night, I bake banana nut muffins. I use the right measuring cups and even the electric mixture and preheat the oven before I start. I scrape all the batter out of the bowl using a rubber spatula. I set a timer.

But I forgot to laugh into the oven and the muffins came out dry and bland.

WoodenLetters Teeth | 8 Capitol

loren booda Welcome Dawn Your honored modesty ‘tis topped by just success Your strongest drink is tea And your sari, summer dress.

When I see you smiling I quickly bow my head You’re not so much beguiling But friendly here instead.

I see your kind goodwill Grow to giant mountain To God a prized foothill Our seas, His flowing fountain.

Your firm grip guides my graphic heart– Dawn, now I’ll shout again May life for you be classic art Whose works burst from my pen.

Our considered saying: Recognize the other, My glorious Indian praying With her blessed Yankee brother.

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arianna patel Untitled

Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth | 10

james conley-lincoln Sanctuary Inside the glass doors, life becomes slow.

A coffee’s-worth of respite costs only one-seventy-five: It gives me time to find the seeds I want to sow.

My body left to rest, my mind can let thoughts flow Outside, a thousand cars rush their daily drive Inside the glass doors, life becomes slow.

Soft jazz floats in the air as patrons come and go; The comfortable calm lets delicate feelings thrive.

It gives me space to find the seeds I want to sow.

Relaxed, leaning on old wood, I’m warmed by contented spirit's glow.

I play welcoming host as new ideas arrive: Inside the glass doors, life becomes slow.

Beneath the familiar lights, I find within the man I hoped to know, And climb with him to heights for which I didn’t know I strive.

It gives me strength to find the seeds I want to sow.

In the precious seconds spared, my roots began to grow.

Under her nurturing auspices, the soul feels its most alive.

Inside the glass doors, life becomes slow.

It gives me time to find the seeds I want to sow.

11 | Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth

sarah godlin Orange People Kate wasn’t allowed to cut her hair. She wasn’t even allowed to take it out of the long, gelled braid that tamed it’s length every day. Only her mother could pull the little rubber band from the paintbrush-like end each night before Kate got in her evening bath. I witnessed this once, and in my mind’s eye it happened every night, after the cap full of Mr. Bubbles went in, but before the bath reached its zenith just below the overflow drain. Even with a house full of ten year olds from her class, ones Kate and I didn’t really even know or hang out with, her evening routine was the same. We stood around uncomfortably and waited to see her hair shaken out to its full length, slightly wavy from the braid and stiff where the gel was. Most girls, I assumed, RSVPd just to see that mile long braid come out, and make Kate look like a girl.

Her house was the kind of big log cabin that came in a kit, and it was beautiful in my opinion, but I had heard my mother complain about its wrongness. “Ranch Style” was the usual design among the scattered homes in the long swath of citrus fields that butted up against the foothills north of town. The cabin was out of place. Orange People, those who grew and picked, and lived among the citrus groves, were demure and not interested in disrupting the orchard landscape with something as intrusive as a two story log cabin. Kate’s unseemly log cabin dwarfed the 4th year navels that it sat among, like Kate dwarfed the rest of the 5th grade girls.

She sat in the bathtub in a dark blue bathing suit, embarrassed by her stardom in the bathroom show. The ends of her impressive mane spread out around her body, wiggling like freed snakes amongst the bubbles in the water. The dry crown laid now in a way that made her look like someone I didn't know, with the gelled top crisply moving together, askew from their original location. Her face remained blank. I was jealous beyond words of her hair and her attention, and the fact that these girls who weren’t really her friends at school, nor mine, all loved her in this moment while she sat in the water with that mile of hair I’d never seen free. The girls gathered around her oohing and ahhing while her mother scooped bath water from the tub with a large summer cup, the pleated plastic kind that we had at home too, and poured it delicately over her head. Her mother, the engineer of the sleepover, ignored Kate’s audience. She was stern and scary to me, and she never smiled, but her strange dedication to Kate’s hair seemed like a physical thing, and I wished it for myself. It was the star of the show she was putting on, titled, My Daughter is One of You Girl Type Girls and So Feminine to Boot. Even at my young age I recognized it as a bizarre display. One of the girls took her own hair out in the mirror and brushed it with her fingers. Uncomfortably, I backed out and away. I went upstairs to look for another bathroom, always a good escape.

WoodenLetters Teeth | 12 Capitol

Kate’s older sister had a boy’s name, but unlike Kate, was utterly girl... Woman, almost. Her upstairs room was trimmed with rosebud paper around the log walls and the comforter she was on was a jarring neon pink. The brightness through the slice of open doorway had shocked me and made me forget about my search for an unneeded toilet. How did people get things like that comforter? In Fresno maybe? The good stuff was from far away Fresno. Her hair was bobbed under her ears and it made me feel a niggling sense of injustice for Kate, who didn’t care about hair or comforters, or rosebuds. She was propped up on her stomach, while her feet were crossing and uncrossing themselves in the air, her head tilted against a see-through phone.

“No, I like, thought so too........................You didn’t tell me that!..........Shut up, he didn’t................................................That is like, so gross....Whatever, Mine’s worse. My dad caught her rubbing on the table edge. She had a Playboy.......I don’t even know! Maybe she found it in the orchard? I swear I am never touching that table again.....”

I remember the conscious decision not to think about this again as I backed away for the second time during that sleepover.

The couches I’d just had upholstered were still stiff, and I was scared of staining them with Saturday foods, so my wife and I were lazing around the livingroom floor. A women’s college basketball game filled the air with comfortable sport noises while I browsed through my phone. Then I heard her name. A tan woman with a short haircut was on the TV talking about defense and a senior point guard that had been injured. She had on a white visor and an open and sturdy stance when the camera pulled back. It was Kate, whose eyes were the same. She said something about her team, and I nudged my wife who knew about basketball and sports things,and I said, “That was my best friend in elementary.”

She said, “The one with the braid?”

And I said, “Yeah. Look at that. She’s practically famous. I wonder if her mom’s mad she cut her hair.”

She had unhidden herself and left the Orange People. You can not be both yourself and an Orange Person when you are like we were. Are. I felt a vague sadness for my former self. Kate and I could have done it with less shrapnel embedded in our soft bodies and minds if we had known more about each other, maybe. We could have used each other the way growers use long orchard stakes to prop up the branches drooping with maturing citrus, supporting their heavy loads.

But we did it alone, escaping the underpinnings of the Orange People and their thoughts about girls like us.

13 | Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth

tiffany cornely Hatta Naltaqi Thaniya

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laney picon mother knows best in lusk, wyoming lies Mother Featherlegs. her grave is weathered: a 3,500 pound pink granite slab on the bottom of the roadside america website. she was a wild west prostitute with ruffled pantalettes that made her look like a feather-legged chicken in the wind. i think about her often. a roadhouse ma’am killed by dangerous dick davis in a robbery. i think about her last moments, how one must reflect on struggle, success, loss, love, abuse, absolution, as they trickle onto the floorboards of the whorehouse. i think about the overgrown weeds lurking around her tombstone, an iron fence compartmentalizes her space on the indifferent landscape. i wonder who she was.

15 | Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth

james conley-lincoln La Nena Bonica Author’s note: La Nena Bonica is a Catalan translation of the Spanish phrase “La Niña Bonita,” meaning “The pretty little girl.” It was a phrase commonly used to refer to the Spanish Second Republic of the 1930s, representing the beauty, innocence, and hope that came with the Spanish turn to democracy; by the end of the decade, however, the Republic had lost the Spanish Civil War and fallen to the dictatorship of Francisco Franco. Each stanza has nine lines, representing the nine stripes of the Catalan flag.

The city smiles upon his awestruck face.

The new arrival saunters through her streets He hopes to court her just like all the rest, But if the lion can’t corral this prize What chance is there that this young sportsman could?

He searches, looking for a helping hint And so, she grants one, ever kind to guests.

Like those who’ve come before, he follows close.

She dances just ahead, beyond his grasp.

He reaches out his hand, inviting her She takes it, lets him have a spin, but soon She drifts away, returning out of reach This last potential suitor left again To wonder, wander, waiting for a chance To try his luck once more; perhaps this time He might impress her, or prevail with charm But soon he knows, a maiden to him, she Has known the world and watched it come and go.

The hunt has failed, the sportsman left alone.

Without a partner, night feels cold and dark.

His mind laments his failed ambition still, But then, he must arise and stand again.

He greets the sun and feels his muscles thaw.

He walks the streets, and lets his nose enjoy The scents he missed while chasing that mirage.

Reborn, at peace, he finds himself calm. Now, The city smiles upon its newest child.

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winnie lokule Ambivalence The very first time you speak with him, you remember Sudan; All the memories of banter in Arabic Juba threaded into conversation, He talks with class, with conviction, with that confidence history awarded him, Your voices wrap into one another Flowing whispers, similar experiences, One in America Later that night, the graves quake under your smile Your ancestors weighing in on adolescent emotions The fourth time is a party, The Music is louder than Southern tears, Your bodies are close together His humour erases a lifetime of ignorance and bitterness,

Some nights, you think about the humiliation your people faced because of his, Remember your skin houses a being detested by those like him But you also remember how delicately he held your hand, in public, in front of his grandmother The shine in his eyes when you talked about Malakal, or Aweil or Yei You imagine how beautiful your children would be, From North and South, tenderness with the absence of politics When you leave him, You weep, your eyes refuse to sleep But reality drags you farther South, On lovely days, you picture his laughter next to yours, Your rogue heart still beats out of pocket when your memory plays his voice You want to forget him, But he sends Sudanese playlists every year on your birthday And tickets to Omdurman every New Year’s Eve.

By the end of the year, your sass is his own, You come from a culture of nomads, But your heart happily stays with him, You are terrified, But how can you convince her to leave a body she feels she belongs to?

You begin to wonder if this is how Khartoum felt when the Dinka deserted her, Would she ever forgive her heart, and remove the curse of suffering?

You promise yourself you’d never have to forgive, His love is radiant, and adventurous It’s hard not to laugh and sing and dance in the grace of its energy, You can’t hate your heart for finding rhythm, 17 | Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth

noah westfall How to Draw a Circle When learning to dance I’m always calculating the optimal angular momentum for a rotation meticulously counting the beat in my head rock step triple step, triple step rock step trying to draw a flawless circle in the turning geometry into choreography we trace a Venn diagram of palms overlapping yet I do not know if this profile belongs in the center Frustrated when the computation does not add up, or my compass leg slips.

It’s a scribbled mess on paper. I stepped on your toe, went left instead of right, forgot the next move, a tangled four on the floor soles slide into the edges of a spirograph, free-form arc intersecting arc we sketch patterns on the wood floor stamp spirals with footwork fractals of rhythm, shape and angle filled with smudges and miscounts missteps and trip ups I thought I could never create a perfect ring but the diameter between us is shrinking arms curve into circumference, radius to radius, swinging into a circle or a flat tire?

WoodenLetters Teeth | 18 Capitol

catrine paguio Allucinazioni 19 | Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth

annalise nassani One Last Day We didn’t realize our grandfather kept treasure in his storage trunk up in that attic. Somedays, we served glitter rose tea in the china set with the chipped handles atop that black trunk. Grandma let us borrow some of her long floral nightgowns, so that we could be proper ladies enjoying our afternoon tea with the Easter rabbit decorations. When we grew bored of tea, Janey became the Capitan of the great black trunk ship and I, the scurvy dog pirate, would jump off onto the spare mattress pretending to swim away from the Christmas stocking sharks. Our parents worried that we would break the trunk from all that horsing around on it. Grandpa just winked at us and told them there was no purpose it could serve better than as our stage.

As Janey and I grew up and started having kids of our own, we visited the black trunk less and less as time went by. Grandpa too found it harder and harder to lift himself up the stairs and watch us land lubbers swab the deck for him. Eventually, living in that big house got too much for him and they were forced to move to an assisted living home. Janey and I promised to clean out the attic for them as we felt partly responsible for the things left up there ourselves.

The attic stairs creaked as we walked up to the familiar smell of must and cardboard boxes. Dust particles floated through the air as we slowly began to disturb the surrounding piles of clothes and holiday decorations. Janey spotted it first. The familiar glint of a metallic corner peeking out behind a pile of books. She called me over and together we moved the wall of books to find a forest of lamps ranging in sizes from the slender modern floor lamp to the green tiffany desk lamp. Each one surrounding the black trunk like a legion of soldiers reporting to their commanding officer. Two of grandma’s nightgowns lay on the floor reminding us of the small bodies that once sat there. The closer we got to it the smaller it became until what once came up to our chest now stood up to our knees. Janey ran a hand across its worn surface and smiled as she passed over all the bums and glitter imprinted on the beat up trunk. For the first time, we unlatched its lock with a small click. Inside, the trunk was stuffed with thousands of photos. Polaroid after polaroid of fairies, pirates, and princesses dressed in long floral night gowns and gripping foam swords. Each one was lovingly dated at the bottom in grandfather’s handwriting. That day we never got around to cleaning the attic, we just drank our glitter peach tea with grandpa by the old black trunk.

WoodenLetters Teeth | 20 Capitol

bridget perry The Attic Flowers growing in her hidden nursery, apples picked off a tree and swiped onto a canvas, a ram’s head floating in the clouded mountains.

Dipping into the palette, vibrant blues, yellows, greens, reds, forming a two-dimensional object, revealing an ignored version of reality.

Maybe she’ll blend lavender with rose to create one petal, and the next, and the next, until one of her flowers flourishes off the canvas.

Or maybe she’ll build a skyscraper that lacks a foundation, lit windows, a defined peak so the eye will continue tracing the page. Back in the attic, there’s an apple or an animal or a tree becoming too surreal to be real.

21 | Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth

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matt eich Melissa Embracing Madelyn, Luray, Virginia. 2019.

maria ellers For my daughter (and for myself):

so that she may know If a thing should exist called love, Then I have been blessed to have felt it many times.

Between warm lips and calloused palms, In the late hours entrenched in Lilac fields of soft caresses, like lashes along cheekbone Warmed with the color of dawn What it is to be in the inexplicable presence of another, when something innately familiar is still unfamiliar And as familiarity grows, so too does the warmth, the caress, the blush The sensation, like threads of nerves softly ignited Swirling like the patterns drawn on porcelain skin with the pad of a fingertip And yet, though different, their Love is the same.

A harbor—arms outstretched— Wanting, waiting; For when dawn turns to night with embraces that warm with a stead-fast, persistent glow And though soft, it is fierce, A promise more powerful than even the darkest shadows of loneliness Of wreaths of Iris and Hydrangea and Fern pressed between hands and hearts A design etched into the bone, wrapped in the tendrils of sinew, no swirling patterns on skin could match Oh, Perhaps— perhaps, not the same: Perhaps, more— or perhaps ...enough; 23 | Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth

winnie lokule The Parts of Me that Matter It had been the cracking No one introduced Beauty to me, when He came, I ran to Him and He cradled me and uplifted me with His glacial hands, I’m sure He had never met someone as innocent as me, so, He gave me doors and windows to places I have never known, His arms loved me until we became one that was August, and since then, my days have not been without light even December, with its false pretense of divinity could not halt the fire that walked through the labyrinth of my veins, I played white and black keys for those who could listen, practiced my posture and shocked those who could see, I was Olivia Pope without Fitz, sweeping through the streets of DC like evergreen trees in the winter that abandoned me, He watched me every night— but I was never lonely, when my eyes are closed, Beauty was a band aid on my skin and my legs are spread like my Bible used to be, He watched every man ask for one more night, watched when the empty smell of each lover slid down my shower drain when I found genuine feeling in the wine that sored my head The Thursday I met the love of my heart, Beauty became small and sick, He smelled of maggots, sunflowers, and deceit when I left Him, a woman emerged behind the cracks of the sculpture in my mirror, I smiled and my love saw beauty in every piece of my skin, In every artery in my heart.

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stephanie gemmell Pilgrimage I take a train away from where I live toward a true and different home we emerge from tunnels into sun and the basilica rises into view (I wonder if my soul gets enough light)

birds sing because song is their language and writing in public feels like praying I wander through the stations of the cross and recognize them as unfamiliar (yet I always return to these places)

walking a mile uphill in the heat I realize I wore these sandals in assisi (I could wear them to become a franciscan) imagination is hopeful memory now— I don’t need to have an epiphany today

I wonder who I am, a twenty-year-old girl who meets herself at monasteries— no wonder I need to justify my being— (yet this is a false need, it has been done) I am learning to believe life is right

I sit in front of mary with my feet tingling and take in the sky—clear, perfect aquamarine (I dream of how the infinite is near) a butterfly makes her path between beauty through leaves and limbs of trees outstretched in praise

I follow myself into the grotto: (go where it is silent and hear) gather the breath of the girl who envied priests admit that at last you want to be who you are and seek the one who makes the journey alone

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bridget perry what's up?

Feel like a stranger on Saturdays, waking up at 11, walking alone, re-listening to the same songs.

But I don’t want to know, I promise.

I don’t want to know what you’re doing, how many times you wake up at night, what you’re reading, listening to, writing about, who you dedicate your time to now.

I’d rather keep tabs on my friend’s quest for a weekend hookup or visit Erin’s 3-month-old cat. I’d rather listen to someone else’s music, hear about home on the west coast. Can’t keep catching glimpses of your small jabs, stolen opinions, weak attempts to crack me. Trying to break the fresh, week-long silence. Can’t talk about the waves of dramatic wails, think in fragments, linger any longer.

I’ll only check once a month, just to make sure you’re okay.

I don’t care though, I promise.

Capitol Letters | 26

loren booda Goddess of the Dawn I heard a song so sad tonight Recalling heartfelt sorrow In dreams I wish you feel alright And wake anew tomorrow.

Dawn, you’ve earned the best of love Gave poor a cause to live I trust that godly care above Rains tears so all forgive.

Think back upon our better breaks Both clasping fond together You have what our courage takes To last this stormy weather.

Hear the dirge of fleeting gloom Harmonized by song of hope God loves Dawnlight, Eden’s bloom May we, becalmed by bliss, elope.

If ever you have need to cry Sit snug right next to me We’ll both take wing, to Heaven fly And find felicity.

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matt eich Twirling Flowers, Charlottesville, Virginia. 2019.

Capitol Letters | 28

jessica bride Julia My little sister announced at dinner that, yes, she is fat, and, like a tree cracked down by her lightning, she bent to her toes and exposed her stomach’s rings.

I flinch when she thunders into a room.

One school night, she modeled her first bra for me, but asked if I could see her straps.

The thick fog she carried made her invisible— a woman.

She’s ten years old and steals my razor.

She shaves in silence, no louder than the sighs of a storm’s clouds when the wind ushers her towards home, and hairs barely darker than my sister’s skin beneath her freckles stick in clumps to her skin.

From the bathroom floor, she pulls on her tie dye robe— a woman.

I didn’t know until she asked what cream I use.

A neighbor once told me that male-named storms are a greater risk, but it’s always been those named after girls which bear higher death counts.

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noah westfall Chopsticks I tried to teach you how to eat with twigs as you lift broth to lips with fractured utensil you struggled to find your grip in branches noodles plopping into your bowl. raindrops kiss your cheek and the sliver of light filtered through your beam sticks in me like a splinter. will you lower your spear? as we stake out a dwelling, plant a tree house of sticks whose walls are the thorny fragments we tease out of the other. strands fold into a nest left vacant I think about the shards of you tucked beneath my skin a sealed envelope I will never get to open I see how the ivy below scrounges grasping at roots, scales palisades borrows a foundation and the termites that burrow through bark, bore tunnels, build a home in you uninvited the splinter of a splinter

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camille desanto Broken Butterflies 31 | Capitol Letters

tiffany cornely what they don’t tell you on your eighteenth birthday

[and what you learn by your nineteenth] I. you will find yourself: -in a strange bed -in an awkward silence -on the shower floor -on the last pack

II. YOUR FLESH WILL BURN AT THE TOUCH OF A MAN. A MAN EVEN UNLIKE HIM. AND YOU WILL DESTROY HIS VISIT EVERY TIME. III. so they ask: why didn’t you tell anyone? but if the murder wasn’t bloody would you still scream?

IV. do not let them steal precious space in your mind like how they took morsels of your sacred body. you are more than communion at sunday mass.

V. and by your nineteenth, all you hear is the unforgiving static. all you have is your unhallowed self. now, finally, you are grown.

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camille desanto Robin in the Pasture 33 | Capitol Letters

guy ginsberg Carmine Evangeline is an old bitch who just says things. One of those people who is always spouting off, getting words twisted and then doubling back; jumbling things. She doesn’t lie, at least never on purpose, but still she just talks. People who just talk without thinking are the worst kind of liars because you can’t even blame them. No motive. She tells me we’re young. That old bitch is lying. I’m old.

My son and his skinny wife put me in this home nine years ago. Here is where I eat good pudding and do my water training. And sometimes rest. I’ve been here for nine years, watching people ditch their parents at the door, watching poor old shmucks eat pudding and do water training until they pick lint. I think maybe fifty have passed since I’ve been here, but I’m sure I’m underestimating. I don’t even notice anymore. The nurses say I’m well adjusted. The truth is I’m just ready to join them, but I haven’t got deep enough pockets.

Today is Sunday and I’m going home. I hope the ride won’t be complicated but the drivers here are all reckless. It’s all the cigarettes they do on breaks. Why drivers are allowed to smoke cigarettes before driving helpless old ladies around town is something I will never understand. And on a Sunday no less. I’m in the car now and it smells like of course, Phillip Morris the gentile. If I fake a coughing fit maybe I’ll get someone fired, but then it might become real and I’ll die. Better not take the chance.

I’m not a psychotic like most women my age. I’m also not a liar or a yup. I care about a lot things, most of them dead, like good music on rare vinyl and my husband. I’m not a sentimental but I am for sentiment, not like the kids today. I can take an ironic story, but the kids live so ironically, and I don’t envy the lifestyle. I also don’t believe they have a future, but I hope they do.

Today the road to home looks different than it once did, but I’m not the type to act surprised by common change. I do like the way the storm clouds are coming together over the San Fernando; we need the rain. Evangeline that old hog is in the van too, probably going to the nail salon or the perfume shop or both. She’s up at the front badgering the driver, flirting and thinking she’s being cute. What business an 86 year old woman has being cute I don’t know. Luckily I think it’s making him drive better. God bless that poor bitch.

I’m excited to see home. I haven’t been excited in years, and it’s exciting to feel excited, even when it’s over a little thing like seeing home. I haven’t been back since I left and my son sold the place. It’s a three bedroom with white banisters, a red Spanish tiled roof, and a garden to make your heart sing. There are a certain number of plants in that garden that don’t respond to just anyone, and I’m sure they’re all dead even if the new tenants pay a gardener.

I haven’t met the tenants. I don’t know them and I don’t much care to know them. As far as I’m concerned they’re just in the way and should mind their business. The home was and still is the best thing I’ve ever had, and I say that a home is yours until all of you is gone and all that’s new is all that’s left. I seem to recall a golden retriever named Carmine buried a foot deep in the ground a yard left of the maple tree, and I’m sure the “new tenants” haven’t got a clue. So who’s house is it?

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Either way it’s just about the only place I could ever picture myself picking lint. To think my son expected me to die on someone else’s property – fitting he says he loves his mother. Like I said: the kids, they live ironically. They say it’s a Christian country, but I’m no yup. If the Germans had it their way I’d be mulch for Polish worms, but I had it my way. Coming to America didn’t feel like a homecoming, it felt like a due sacrifice, one I was happy to make. I’ve spent my entire life searching for the right rock to die on. Now I’m here.

The outside looks the same, except they definitely didn’t get a gardener for my plants. It’s actually better that way, at least they didn’t try to change things. Better to let them die. The doorbell is the same, but they didn’t get a new Mezuzah, and there’s still a rectangle of lighter paint where it used to be. This is still God’s house, someone should let them know. A fat woman opens the door for me and I tell her Hi I am Shoshana I Lived Here From Nineteen Fifty Seven to Nineteen Ninety Three Can I Come In and she says Sure. I go into the living room and the first thing I see is a television set in the corner where I used the do my knitting, and I know it’s not my house. But Carmine.

She asks me many silly questions, most of which start with Where or When, like I’m supposed to testify or something. I answer all her questions but come on, I know she lives here but let’s have some respect for old ladies. The kitchen horrifies me and I know I shouldn’t have even gone in there. Who leaves bread in the drawer below the toaster? If I hear another person tell me they’re practical I’m going to live longer just to spite them. Practical people keep the bread in the freezer where it stays. You keep it in a drawer and it goes stale. Who cares if it’s an extra foot from the toaster? People are masochists.

The bedroom scares me too, not because it’s different, but because it’s exactly the same. They didn’t even move the bed.

I ask the fat woman if they got a new mattress for it. She says yes, but I sit on it and I know she’s a liar. A masochist liar who lets any stranger sit on her bed. I mean my bed. Her sheets.

So the bathroom is why I’m here. I tell her I left something in their and she tells me Wow it’s been Nine Years and I still Remember where I Left Something, and at My Age. I mutter something unholy under my breath, remember there’s no Mezuzah, then say it louder. Two points for the gentile. Somebody opens the front door so she goes to check it, leaving me in her bathroom, which is good. In the table under the sink there is a drawer with a bad hinge that doesn’t let it close all the way, or at least that’s what I made my son tell the realtor when he sold it. But I lied and said the table was a period piece from Poland from my father’s house before the war, and we added a clause in the contract that said the new tenant couldn’t move or fix it. It’s a good enough table, so it stood.

Anyway in the back where the hinge is supposed to lock in I tied a little plastic baggy with a key in it, which is why I’m here. I get the key and use it to lock the bathroom door from the inside. Now, I wait.

The woman knocks and tries opening the door. Hows It Going In There she says and I don’t bother responding. I draw the bath. Her husband who I guess just arrived bangs on the door and says he’s calling police. I put in a pair of earplugs I got from reception and undress. I dip into the bath once the water is hot enough and high. It’s just how I remember it, which is good. I try to relax but I can still hear the banging, so I dunk my head under the water and hold it there. With the water still running hot and my head just under the tap I finally feel relaxed. I hold my breath and just stay there. They say old ladies need other people for everything, but they haven’t met the Poles.

I have a nice thought about Evangeline, that old bitch, telling rumors about me later today. Maybe she’ll accidentally say something true.

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matt eich Frank the Snake, Portsmouth, Ohio. 2019.

yasmin underwood The Throbbing Wish Wrote Soulful Goosebumps Lips teeth quill Dipped in the ink of pearlescent Dream

Day

Musings.

Carve ridges

and grooves

Breathe

shallow

Tender, me love.

Tender me, love.

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Tender, love me.

raised

and ragged.

bridget perry Face Colors written in mismatched shades— orange in red, blue in green, pink in grey.

Pink peers through, laughs only after I push back. The one who never said goodbye or hello.

An all or nothing approach, like spending all your time with one person, or all alone.

Denying who, how you want it to be— It’s red, green, grey for now.

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vivienne wood Mask

noah westfall Folding Paper shoulders slump into pew, contorted during the sermon I fold my bulletin diagonally tear along seams make square with scripture press lines, layer fibers bend paper over paper creases overlap, head bowed hands raised, fingers interlocking out of crumples mountains become valleys, untuck wrinkled wings, breathe life into ballooning body neck cranes seeing God in between folds

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venkat sai akash pamarthy Wily 41 | Capitol Letters

gryffin penn tizes Decay

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bridget perry Blinds Yesterday my blinds watched us for hours, watched your mouth form into a small circle instead of a dropped jaw. Watched you jab your thumbs into your eyes and take off your glasses so they wouldn’t fog up.

They’d been closed all day, all month, whenever you came over. And they’d been waiting to open, curl up into themselves, stop hiding someone who would eventually cry on my floor and refuse to leave.

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abe merker 11 months (or, please don’t look at me (or, i miss you and i don’t know if i should))

it’s just this— an empty shop and a ticking cat clock on the wall, eyes wagging second-edition copies of David Copperfield infested with book lice; two copies for $400 each. the man tells me it’s because decay costs extra. a clamor of boots on the old wood floors of the bar and that sickly smell of tequila, hard bodies with bad social skills kissing acquaintances with tongue to quell the waves of loneliness that crash into them if they go home alone. bad poetry. maple lattes and wandering around the supermarket, and more bad poetry, and another maple latte, and wondering why. missing diners, i mean good diners, with brassy waitresses who have red nails and call everyone ‘hon,’ giving people free haircuts—making something beautiful and knowing my hands did that. i like their smiles after. satisfied. two egos, satiated. planning the future because you need a plan, and re-planning the future because you need a plan, and re-planning the future because you need a plan, wondering why, but angrier. making pasta dinners because i still want to show people i love them when i can’t say it; i can’t say much of anything these days. wondering why, but sadder. climbing mountains and still feeling so small. following rivers and streams through the trees until my feet are red and raw. it’s all so beautiful wondering why until i understand i’ll never know why. distracting myself by writing shitty stories i don’t finish and kissing people i don’t care about and not doing my work, and it all leaves me embarrassed and ashamed but i swear it’s fine, that it helps. being kind, but distant, a wide smile across a wider gap of space between me and everyone else. i don’t really shake hands. trying not to get hurt this way; inadvertently hurting others; retreat; repeat. watching the same five movies over and over because i like knowing what happens. drinking a lot. not drinking at all. convincing myself i’m okay with uncertainty until i actually am. anxiously waiting to be certain that i’m okay with uncertainty. trying to filter myself, and not knowing how. suitcases that are only emptied when they need to be refilled. dirty socks and dusty shoes and aching legs. open tabs for bus tickets that i never actually buy. i think if i just rest i can run away. whiskey and lemons smell so good when you’re tired, better than peach soju and fake leather and unwashed hair. stumbling down u street alone, wondering where i’m gonna go until i remember i have a home, sort of, kind of, even if it doesn’t feel like it. i tell myself never again, and this is the first promise i manage to keep all year. i’m filled with longing and embarrassment and terror and loneliness, but at least i’m full. it’s just this— covering my face with my hands when i laugh.

WoodenLetters Teeth | 44 covering my face with my hands when i cry.

Capitol

mikre-ab abera Black Keys i’m hoping that your naïveté matches my own. i’m hoping it matches the black settee that we will sit upon when we talk. the one that is next to the coffee table in our small apartment. maybe some flowers on the windowsill, where we grow basil, rosemary, & dill? maybe the table is atop a faded red carpet and you’re sitting really close into me. maybe you’re drinking your favorite tea from that white mug— having made your way evenly through the variety pack of Twining I got you from the Mom’s Organic that’s a few blocks down the street maybe your hair is cut. maybe the window is open and the day is beautiful and the wind tries to carry the noise of the city into this little alcove of a home. maybe you smile and the noise just quiets. maybe your pants are olive green and a little dirtied like the walls. but maybe I’m afraid that your naïveté matches my own. i fear it’s blind to the mixed messages and imbalances. i fear that it is too quick to read the accidental finger-tip strokes. i fear it doesn’t see the settee doesn’t fit us both. i fear it doesn’t see that I like coffee and you like tea and that you are like coffee and that I’m like tea. i fear it only sees the shared stroke of the keys and not that they are black most of all, i fear that you are not naïve at all.

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matt eich Untitled, Bramwell, West Virginia. 2019.

hiba sohail The Night is You everything that the moon touches becomes beautiful. moondust. moonflower. moonlight. moonshine. moondust—the fine particles of soil on the moon a bit of dust from the sky so far away, like you a crescent of hope. to be buried in the extraterrestrial. moonflower—the flowers that rise with the dusk and fade as the dawn shines a sweet, white petal closes as the sun comes up, like our love a hopeless hushed feeling. to be running backwards into time. moonlight—the light of the very thing that controls our oceans a pale sliver of illuminance treads lightly, like my journey a twilight backdrop sharing radiance. to adorn the future with new. moonshine—the illicit liquor a heady sensation, like how drunk we were on the footsteps a secret so beautiful. to feel the thrill is to chase. the night is in all of us.

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bridget perry Timid Shrieks “You just have to take a second and think, What am I trying to say?”

—My mom I was probably eleven.

Crack the content first what am I supposed to say, use that second to arrange thoughts.

Unless one snags, unravels another (hide that with conviction).

How am I supposed to say it.

Baudelaire told me, “The study of beauty is a duel in which the artist shrieks with terror before being overcome.”

So I won’t forget the flat pinks and greys and blues— “vivid” words that guarantee compliments.

Those light strokes, timid swipes, never enough to strike “terror,” but who, what can anymore.

The person next to me, you, maybe the ten-year-old self that didn’t organize.

Why does beauty drift, fall, swarm everywhere but here, the page, wherever I am.

My mom’s stolen second leaves time to shriek with disappointment.

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sydney walsh Sunday Morning

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camille desanto Don at His Kitchen Table Capitol WoodenLetters Teeth | 50

gianna duyck Lionhearted

I want to be someone who sinks their teeth into the world and blazes a trail in their wake.

Someone Who will fight tooth and nail to get somewhere and be something, To breathe life into their cloud kissing dreams.

I want to be someone Who digs their heels in when a breeze of inequity and hate hits their snout, Tenaciously demanding justice with their booming voice, To chase away the singeing air with a tsunami that demands—respect and attention.

I want to be someone Who will challenge the odds and go after what is right with audacity and a fiery vengeance— Even when those perched on their shoulders and in their ears— whisper icy, faithless, galless calls to turn and run.

I want to be someone Who is in search of their own closeted ignorances Welcoming the daunting unknown of culture shock saturated experiences into their schema.

I want to be someone Who can wear the icy wrath spat at them by the frigid underbelly of life— Who can fall on their ass in the wreckage of something they worked to attain, and expected never to lose, Covered in battle wounds— And tilt their head back to laugh in the face of the devil— Who will Pull themselves up by the bootstraps— And start again,— From nothing.

I want to be someone Who strikes like a warrior, Takes a hit like a boxer, And has the strength to accept their pain and keep moving— Under the heat of the sun with blood and sweat on their brow and dirt, on their hands.

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And I want to be someone Who can stare despicable evils in the face, Brave arrows in their heart, And Still Safekeep—their own sweet softness— Only to be shown to those most worthy.

contributor biographies Mikre-ab Abera is a resident of DC and an Ethiopian expat. When he's not asleep, you can find him at your local coffee shop or the closest climbing gym, where he incessantly tries, and fails, to ascend a wall.

Loren Booda is an alumnus of GWU, Class of 1983. Loren trusts for you all love and safety (and the good grades which eluded him). Stay away from wreckreational drugs.

Jessica Bride is a sophomore studying psychology and criminal justice from Charleston, SC. She's happiest when she's making mac and cheese late at night with her friends.

Carolyn Capelouto is an Atlanta native and public health major with a passion for love stories, fancy beers, and ABBA dance parties.

James Conley-Lincoln ‘21 is a political science student minoring in history and Spanish; he wrote his poetry collection, Vestige of Catalunya, while studying abroad in Barcelona in the fall of 2019.

Tiffany Cornely is a rising senior at GW and you can find her playing Animal Crossing at all hours of the day Camille DeSanto is a photojournalism major minoring in entrepreneurship, creativity and innovation. She enjoys baking bread when quarantined, and going on roadtrips when not quarantined.

Matt Eich is an Assistant Professor of Photojournalism at Corcoran School of the Arts and Design who creates photographic essays related to memory, family, community, and the American condition.

Maria Ellers is a graduating senior from Long Island, NY. When she's not writing, you can find her in the kitchen, procrastibaking and perfecting her chocolate chip cookie recipe.

Stephanie Gemmell is a junior from Pennsylvania majoring in religion. She’s incredibly grateful for her ADPS siblings, and she’d like to thank her friends for putting up with her prematurely becoming an absentminded professor.

Guy Ginsberg is an Israeli-born writer from Los Angeles, California. He plans to retire early and often.

Sarah Godlin is a grad student in the MPS Publishing program. She lives in a California redwood forest with her wife and daughters and assorted plants and animals.

Sara Iagnemma is a freshman journalism student hailing from Pittsburgh. She takes enjoyment in her plants, indie games, and music.

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Winnie Lokule is a second-year student from East Africa. Yes, the entire region! She is majoring in organizational sciences and English. More importantly, she adores giraffes, but only from afar, as with many things, except for the fashion and the hospitality business, of course.

Abe Merker is a junior from Virginia majoring in history and minoring in creative writing. She loves museums, has encyclopedic knowledge of Twilight, and prefers eating kiwis with the skin.

Annalise Nassani is a junior with a creative writing major and music minor. She travels often and, if you ask her where she’s been, she’ll probably forget to name one.

Venkat Sai Akash Pamarthy’s search for answers to equality and humanity motivates him to work in a manner that conveys respect, dignity and recognition. His photographs are part of a multimedia project "In or Out" that explores the struggles of two homeless men in Washington, D.C. Learn more at www.akashphotography.com.

Bridget Perry is a sophomore from Nashville, TN. In her free time, she plays Super Mario Odyssey and Super Smash Bros., spends time with her cats, and researches weird music facts.

Laney Picon is a sophomore studying international affairs. She loves empanadas, the beach, and her cat, Birdy.

Hiba Sohail is a rising junior from New York City studying political communication and women's, gender, and sexuality studies.

Her experiences within culture, language, and a post-colonial world have significantly shaped her sense of self and how she perceives her surroundings.

Gryffin Penn Tizes is a student and journalist at GWUOHS. He enjoys playing guitar, digital arts, photography, and watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Yasmin Underwood is an English twenty-something who spent the past year at GWU entertaining Americans with her Britishisms. When she’s not purposefully ignoring a blank page, you can usually find her lurking in bookshops, drinking lukewarm herbal tea, and relating the joys of a disgustingly early morning.

Sydney Walsh is a sophomore photojournalism major from West Palm Beach, Florida. Her work explores how memory, history, and place define personal identities. Find more of her work here: sydneywalshphoto.com or @sydneywalshphoto on Instagram.

Noah Westfall is originally from Denver, Colorado. He has a bachelor's degree in philosophy and is currently a first-year MPH student at the GW School of Public Health.

Vivienne Wood is a 12-year-old in 8th grade at GWUOHS. She is a very competitive equestrian, but likes to spend her extra time drawing.

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submit Capitol

Letters is an annual publication 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.

For more information or to submit, please contact: gwcapitolletters@gmail.com You may submit five literary works and five pieces of arwork each semester.

Note: Capitol Letters is formerly known as Wooden Teeth.

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