Plainsong 2019

plainsong Volume 33

Š 2019, plainsong, Vol. 33 Department of English, University of Jamestown, Jamestown, North Dakota; copyright reverts to authors, artists, and photographers on publication, and any reprinting or reproduction may be exercised only with their permission.

Plainsong, a non-profit journal funded by the University of Jamestown, published by the University Department of English, includes the work of students, faculty, staff, and alumni of the University of Jamestown, besides occasional interviews from professional writers.

Editorial Board Department of English Mark Brown, Ph.D., Chair Sean Flory, Ph.D. David Godfrey, Ph.D. Larry Woiwode, Writer in Residence, Editor

Student Editor Meaghan Cronin

Layout & Cover Design Donna Schmitz

Cover Photo Game Focus Brita Fagerlund

Plainsong Prizewinning Photograph

Printing & Binding Two Rivers Press, Jamestown

Table of Contents Welcome to the Show, Alex Delzer…………………………….………………………………….………..6 Plant Life, Alex Delzer…………………………….……………….……..……………….……………………7 Photograph, Clematis, Wesley Kemp……………..………….….……………………………………….8 Titles, Mindy Le……………..……..………..……………………………………………………..……..……..9 Photograph, Image, Martha Scheaffer……………………………………………………………………11 First Snowfall, Stephanie Jorritsma…………………………………………………….….….…………11 Biological Children vs.Adopted Children, Carmen DeVries………..……………………………12 Winter, Stephanie Jorritsma......…………...………..…………………………………………………….14 Painting, Blue Neurons, Brita Fagerlund………………………………………………………………..14 Of Haggard Seeming, Mark Brown……………………………………………………………………….14 Beast of Beauty, Allison Galbreath ………………………………………………………………………..15 I Don’t Know, Emma Cook..………………………………………………………………………………….18 Dreams, Carrie Noel…..………………………………………………………………………………………..20 Echoes and Hands, Carrie Noel……………………………………………………………………………..21 Disenchanted Youth, Aurora Bear.......……………………………………………………………………22 Painting, Night Sky, Brita Fagerlund………………………………………………………………….….27 The Role of Women in the Battle of the Little Bighorn, Sierra Talmadge.…………….……28 Battle for the Soul of the Sioux, Isaiah Lang, Louise Erdrich Nonfiction Prize….........30 Lego©, Nicholas Schaff; & To the Girl Writing Love Letters, Allison Galbreath….…….34 Rubber Snakes, Nicholas Schaff…………………………………………………………………………….35 Blue Pill, Purple Pill, Sarah Porter, Larry Woiwode Fiction Prize…………………..……….36 A Desperate Poet, Matthew Nies…………………………………..………………………………………..39 41 Lies in State, Matthew Nies………………………………………………………………………………..41 Photograph, Learning, Loving, and Living in a Lifeless Landscape, Madeleine Stiles...42 A Series of Poems, Meaghan Cronin, Thomas McGrath Poetry Prize.………………….….43 Photograph, Autumn Road, Maggie Erickson………………………………………………………..…45 In Defense of 3OH!3, Aurora Bear…………………………………………………………………………..46 Photograph, Bumblebees, Maggie Erickson………………………………………………………………49

WELCOME Welcome to the show We’ll try to make you smile before you go Welcome to the show We'll try to make you smile Someone’s at the door can you hear the knock There’re no timeouts in life check the clock This is spoken word and we’re starting to talk If you were safe in a cage would you break the lock?

It seems everybody watches when you're in the spot You have to take your bow or take your shot But if you move too fast you could miss a lot It’s a 3-2 count Will you take the walk?

Or swing for fences?

Lately I'm feeling restless So welcome to the show I thought you all should know It’s time to take a census Of these thoughts in my head Sort through the dead And build up defenses Because I'm done wasting my time And I'm sick of cleaning messes From mistakes that I've made Scarecrow, if I only had a brain I— I could've missed a lot of pain But flowers come only with rain And I hope to be active on the radio Not radioactive, without the halo Of half-life, we were made for more The Show’s just begun, better stay for more If you stay till the end then you'll see me soar I went dickens in the game, but there’s a lot that I missed God flipped the script, I'm calling it an Oliver Twist I learned that I should lift my eyes instead of shaking my fist If this is His will, I hope I pay attention to this.

—Alex Delzer

PLANT LIFE The more I think the less I know, the more I see that I can grow inside the welcomed window's light I see what's left is left all right.

I listen to the angel’s song a voice that says please sing along; no note will sound, I simply can't for I am a mere potted plant.

Despair is not my friend today, I take her voice, give mine away so I can sing among the clouds and let the sound through earth resound. —Alex Delzer

Clematis, Wesley Kemp

TITLES Student. Daughter. Girlfriend. Teammate. These are few of the many titles I have, each with its own expectations. Molière’s Tartuffe provides roles with standards that cannot be met. I can relate to the handful of characters, discovering a little piece of myself in each; there were some good qualities in some and some notso-much. As the play unfolded, I subconsciously predicted how the characters would turn out, based on their status, but was disappointed to find how wrong every prediction of mine was. Of even more importance, I realized I didn’t like anyone making predictions about me in the real world.

My title as a student doesn’t benefit me when it comes to my father. He is a first-generation Vietnamese and expects me to be a lot like Damis, the hotheaded son of Orgon. He strongly believes in the stereotype that students, especially in college, are impulsive and reckless. Although I agree with him to an extent, it saddens me how he categorizes me as a student in a negative manner. I wish he understood, instead, the stress and pressure of being a student. I wish he recognized me for my efforts in figuring out who I am and my hard work, instead of being a young ignorant student. I admit I am irritable, ignorant, and have received the hotheaded gene from my mother, also a first-generation Vietnamese, much like Orgon has. However, I find it difficult to handle the ugly truth coming from someone whose opinions I greatly value.

Most daughters are expected to be ladylike and submissive, according to my mother’s critical culture values, but it’s difficult. In an American society of women’s encouragement, how can I meet her expectations when others expect differently from me? How can I choose between the two cultures that exist since my childhood?

As she explains it, she wants me to be like Mariane, the sweet daughter of Orgon. She expects me to be oh-so-obedient, just as she was in the olden days. Even though I am similar to her in many ways, I am different in even more ways. It hurts when she tries to change me, because I interpret it as her being ashamed of who I am. I am happy when I see her proud, and maybe it’s the dopamine that encourages me to keep trying to exceed her expectations, but I get burned out. I’ve tried doing both, meeting the expectations from two different cultures. I feel like a car stuck in snow and, believe me, I know that more than anyone, getting my California car stuck every other day, it seems, in North Dakota sub-zero weather. I feel there’s only so much I can do before I dig myself deeper and with every effort of shoveling the snow, I grow colder.

Being in a relationship is wonderful. With the right person, it can warm one after shoveling snow. However, I am not a relationship expert. I am new to this concept and I experience the rough slumps like any other. I learned a new level of loyalty like the character Valère, Mariane’s loyal fiancé. Valère is romantic and I hope to develop to that level one day. That title has frequently put me in the position where I wish I didn’t have that title. He shines. He has taken me under the spotlight with him, but I am a mere shadow of his. My title as his girlfriend is so much more significant. There is no Mindy without the mention of him, Zach, yet Zach alone can continue to exist. With all our friends aware of this title, I feel they’re afraid to have a conversation with me, anyway without him present. I feel as if everything I’ve done, he’s done it better. I envy how naturally skillful he is, his talent, his charisma. Day by day, I feel he takes away any one thing I’m good at or that singles me out, though I know that’s not his intent.

The common theme here that I find consistent is recognition. Each title hides an expectation that I wish wasn’t there. I’ve encountered so much categorizing it’s making me question my sanity. Every day I start losing happiness and motivation little by little, because all I hear is what I’m doing wrong rather than words of encouragement and recognition. There is so much negativity lately that I’ve started to become negative. I wish everyone recognized me as who I am, especially those I care most about. Even with an emotionally close relationship, it’s never easy to express myself under the weight of all my titles. A daughter can’t be disrespectful, a student has to respect the system and professors, and a girlfriend must be respectable. There’s always going to be some type of barrier or condition.

The many characters in Tartuffe have their flaws. Whether it is Orgon with his blind side, or Tartuffe as a hypocrite, there is always a part of me that’s found within each, even in the smallest of ways. In this world of prejudgment, though I hate to bring it upon myself, I am a hypocrite. It’s only natural for me to make predictions and judge too quickly, based on titles. Sooner or later I will have to grasp the reality that is the cold ugly truth: I need to get unstuck from the snow.

—Mindy Le

Work Cited Molière. Tartuffe. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter vol. 2. Edited by Martin Puchner. Norton, 2013, pp. 14-68.

3rd ed.,

Image, Martha Scheaffer

FIRST SNOWFALL There is something curious about the snow.

Childlike eyes widen with delight, The cynic grumbles and tightens his coat, Furry animals scurry among the ever-falling flakes Hurrying home with nuts and obscure treasures, But the snow steadily falls.

Heaven’s gift in winter’s hollow void Transforms a dying, brown, and shrubby world Into one perfect and innocent and vividly alive.

—Stephanie Jorritsma

BIOLOGICAL CHILDREN VS. ADOPTED CHILDREN

The question of whether you should adopt children or have your own has been one that most American families have faced for years. Although many families would love to have children who resemble themselves, that is not always an option, especially for women who are hampered by internal health difficulties. The adoption process is made up of complex steps and guidelines that couples must meet, but it can be done.

Children have different ways of thinking than adults. They seem to be more curious and to ask questions that most of the time adults do not have the answers to.

I was an adopted child, so I am speaking from firsthand experience when I say that I asked my parents questions about my adoption that made them feel bad or that they didn’t want me to think about. In my situation, I was a black child, they were white parents, and my birth mother, Keisha, was a stripper. I hate using that word but that is what she told my parents she was. She was sixteen when she had her first child, whom she was planning give up for adoption, but then changed her mind at the last second.

I was Keisha’s second child. As soon as her pregnancy test came back positive, she knew she was going to give me up for adoption. She did not have the money to take care of my older sister, let alone another child. Keisha had gotten pregnant with me so her boyfriend at the time would not leave her. He was frustrated with her occupation, and she could tell they were drifting their separate ways and thought if she got pregnant with his child and could prove it, he would stay.

My father, about whom I know nothing, was disgraced by her actions and told her he was not going to help take care of this baby. He left her. To this day, I know nothing about him, and when I looked at my birth certificate his side of the

information was blank. After she gave me up for adoption, Keisha’s careless actions led her to have three children after me. Those she kept.

As you can see, I have many questions I could ask about her and my family.

Some of the questions I asked my adopted family after I started to understand were, “Why was I the only one that she gave up? Did I do something wrong? Can I meet them? Do you know where my dad is? You are not my real parents. Why am I here?

Can I go back?” Most of these questions that I asked my family hurt their feelings; it seemed to them that since my mother was not my birthmother, I was not grateful, but that was not it at all. I simply did not understand why my birthmother would have more children after me and not keep me. In my adopted mom’s case, she could not have children due to a medical condition. To them, I was a blessing, because not only could they not have children, but they had other adoptions fall through.

Biological children do not have to go through these disruptions. They know exactly where they came from, and that they are loved beyond belief. In some adoption cases or even foster homes, kids feel neglected and don’t connect with their parents. That causes problems with the family and sometimes ends with a biological child feeling neglected because the adopted ones receive more attention.

In conclusion, I feel that families need to do one or the other about neglect.

Either the adopted child feels less loved when she or he comes to envy the biological child, or the biological child feels less cared for because of the adopted child needing extra attention. Adopted children are better off with a group of adopted children or as an only child. Biological children do better in an environment of all being related.

Perhaps someday it won’t have to be like that.

—Carmen DeVries

Winter Pale ghosts of living trees Frame a field blanketed with snow As delicate flakes fall like petals from the sky.

Brita Fagerlund, Blue Neurons

OF HAGGARD SEEMING Through brittle keys, snow steadily (like sand subsiding) hisses the season’s measure and the late hour’s: the fullness of time.

—Mark Brown

BEAST OF BEAUTY Dearest Brother Aldrich,

16 May 1838

Brother, I write to you from the ports of South America, heart heavy as my men prepare for the journey home. It is to their great disappointment that we return with nothing more than Emerson’s journal of unusual insects rather than the great discovery we expected. I try to keep up the men’s spirits—I was hired to lead them, and lead them I shall, my good name will not be tarnished in their, or anyone’s, eyes— but I cannot put on airs with you, brother. No, it was the transcendent bestial beauty of a kind I could not have imagined that compels me to set down this hurried correspondence.

As you know, my exploration team was small, composed of four, besides myself—all intelligent fellows under my command. What we lacked in brute numbers, we made up for in strength and wisdom. A local villager was our guide. His name ties the tongue, impossible to pronounce, so he went by J. He led the group through the thick rain forest, machete-hacking through brush, over difficult terrain. I followed J closely, keeping an eye on him and the topographer’s map. Many a man had gone missing on similar expeditions, and I was not one to be easily led astray. We had heard claims of beasts that could enchant and devour a man whole, and were not the first to hope to discover them. Yet part of me doubted the stories as mere myths and suspected a nearby village of butchering the exploration teams.

I was not hired for this expedition because of doubt, though. No, brother, I would not back down because of what I felt were mere suspicions. Besides, if it came down to an ambush, I would be able to protect my men. Our benefactor, Mr. Wellington, counted on me for that. I must admit with embarrassment that I was hired not under conventional services, as I told our father. I met Mr. Wellington by happenstance. On a return from North Africa, we ended up in a storm so terrible our captain was too inexperienced to handle the task, so I stepped up and took the helm

and guided us through to safety. Mr. Wellington noted how I took charge—“a true man of commanding figure,� in his words. It was on that occasion that he asked me to lead the expedition, and I promised not to let him down.

Our topographer, Walter, a nervous fellow, fresh out of university, had spent most of his time surveying farmland, but was recruited for the expedition due to family ties with Mr. Wellington. Intelligent, a romantic if I ever saw one, he startled in fear at the snap of every twig. I made sure I remained close at his side, to prevent any thoughtless act. Behind us the doctor and the zoologist kept up their trek, both experts in their fields, thirsting for adventure. The bright-eyed zoologist, Emerson, stopped every few miles to inspect a new flower or animal, sketching the discovery before it vanished. Gerhard, our doctor, was forced to drag him along, lest they fall too far behind. Gerhard is frank, speaks to the point, is both brute and scholar, well tested in his field. He used to serve as army medic. I thank God for having him on my team. If not for him, I would have been dragged in every direction in attempts to keep my team alive long enough to find what I was sent to discover. If we succeeded in finding the beasts, and survived, we would be renowned in the scientific community as historic explorers of the unknown.

J raised a hand, halting our group deep in the forest. I looked at him, suspicious, but stepped to his side. My first duty was discovery, my second to protect my men. If we were to be ambushed, I wished to give the doctor enough time to grab the other two and run. But J merely pushed leaves aside, revealing a clearing around a crystalline lake, its waters clear enough that I could see to the bottom and believe it to be only be a finger touch away.

My breath stilled. Around the lake a coven of beings rested, lounging naked in the afternoon sun. They were bipeds, vaguely humanoid in their structure, but uncannily short in stature, shorter than any man on my team. They were slender in the waist, but otherwise voluptuous. The sight of them was intoxicating as whiskey. At first glance, they appeared to be frail as the petals of a summer rose, but roses have thorns, and these creatures were no different.

One glance at their five-finger hands showed long nails more like claws, painted a variety of colors. Following their hourglass figures, from long, delicate legs up past the curve of their breasts, I found myself pulled to the allure of their faces.

They were nearly hairless, except for long locks framing their faces. Oh, those faces! I nearly weep at the thought, even now. I was captivated by their siren song, but the longer I examined them, the more I realized the horror I beheld. Sharp angles defined their features. High cheekbones guided my gaze to their eyes. Thick, black eyelashes veiled their stare. It would be easy to believe they painted their faces, seeing the prominence of their eyes, rosiness of their cheeks, their full lips. They were ravishing, but with each detail I saw the pieces did not fit. Their demure attitude gave way to an abrasive, nearly hysterical state that surrounded them.

My hackles rose. As I was about to turn and call off the search, one of the beasts noticed my stare, zeroing in on me, and looked me straight in the eyes. It inspected me as a possible threat, baring its teeth, a near smile. I expected the beast would be the threat.

I jerked back, letting the leaves fall over the overgrown foliage around the clearing. I ushered my men away, knowing their curiosity would doom them if they saw what I had. I am afraid I lied to them, told them I saw nothing—that our guide must have misunderstood what we were looking for, that we should cut our losses and return home. I did not wish to return to that place. I know if I encountered the beasts again, I would fall under their spell.

So you see, brother, I had no choice. To go on would have been certain death.

No one must know of these beasts of beauty. I weep at the thought of such creatures prowling free in our nether lands. I will be home soon, though, brother. You will have to catch me up on the affairs of the family estate, and of your wife. Mother informed me of the news, a child, Aldrich—and a girl no less. Ha! I am sure life will be quite busy now for the two of you—but my men are finishing loading the ship, and we will soon set sail.

Your affectionate brother, Henry

—Allison Galbreath

I DON’T KNOW I don't know the exact definition of a vagabond, and no dictionary is near me to look it up. I associate a vagabond with a wanderer. A vagabond has no solid home, no real direction, is bound to nothing. Renée is a vagabond even though it's arguable that she has a home in her friends, a place where she has her bed and clothes and a kitchen, a dog, a maid, and a job. Yet, she is a vagabond because she doesn't seem to have a home in herself, and that is something I understand.

There are parts of ourselves that we cannot talk ourselves out of being— unchangeable constants in our personality. I am introverted, as unchangeable as my eye color. Other parts of ourselves are malleable—what we're going to be and what we want to be and who the person in between those times is supposed to be. The question of identity jumps around from point A to point B depending on the time of the day, the level of stress, the amount of sleep we've gotten, and the positioning of our favorite chair. There are parts of myself that aren't settled yet.

I don't know where I'm going after I graduate. I waited for the moment of enlightenment, the light shining down on the perfect career, but no such moment has arrived. I don't know who I'm meant to be. All I've ever wanted to do was write. I want to go back to the time in high school when I had the freedom to stay up until 4:00 a.m. writing. That is the career I pick for myself. Does anyone read what I write? I don't know. I don't care. I didn’t start writing to show the world. I started writing because it had to happen, like the sun rising or a change of season. Writing was as natural to me as breathing. I can't write for a career, and so the crisis of who I am ensues. I need some element to keep me afloat, and I don't know what that's supposed to be. Maybe it's because I've spoiled myself with the notion that nothing else could be as satisfying to me as this and I shouldn't settle until I've found something equal.

This, this keyboard clicking under my fingertips like a piano, making music.

This, these unrestrained thoughts—words on the page. Clearly communicating what I mean and what I feel without fear or reprehension. Maybe I'll erase this entire essay, or this paragraph, or a few words. But they existed, even for a second, and that was what I needed. How do I make the rest of my life feel as clear as these moments alone with words? Does my identity exist past the page?

Renée—or Colette—somewhere in the past in Paris, understands the predicament I'm in. A writer who isn't writing is a terrible creature to be, and I'm afraid to face that possible reality: a bottled-up body of emotions, the pressure of unsaid words. And it makes one terribly lonely. I have walked home to a cold apartment, to a pet that gives me Fossette's "black and white" look (Colette 6). I have learned that my loneliness has nothing to do with who I'm with, or how many people are around me. My loneliness—as I suspect with Renée's—is two-fold, being alone with a stranger, and the terrifying realization that you are the stranger that you're alone with. I can be lonely anywhere, with anyone, especially when I'm with my thoughts. And that loneliness is exacerbated when I'm far away from any kind of writing utensil. I can't say why, I don't understand what it is about writing that is so comfortable.

I am at home when I write.

Am I writing? Or am I a self-prescribing? I don't know, it's a bit of both if I had my say. This entire essay could be titled, "I don't know," and now that I've written it here, I think that sounds right. I live in fear that I will become more and more like Renée. I'm already halfway there. I fear that a day will come when the words will stop as hers did, for whatever reason. Pride or fear or the horrible writer’s block that comes when you dwell on pain, something that will staunch the flow of words. And what will I be when I’m not a writer? Who the hell am I? I hope that one of these days I can say, "I'm a writer," and I won't feel embarrassed to say that this is the most concrete part of my personality. The rest of my identity is in flux, and I'm afraid that on the way to finding out who I'm meant to be, I'll lose the one characteristic about myself I've always known.

Renée and I, we are uncertain creatures. We pretend that we are logical and calculating, that we know human nature. And maybe we do, but we don't know ourselves. As I reread this, considering editing or erasing the entire essay, I had to ask myself, Why? I have yet to talk to any of my friends who are any more certain of who they are going to be than I am. Yet we shy from it, and act as if we alone are sufferers of uncertainty. Why are we embarrassed to admit that we all are human

and we all have to find a way to exist? Again, I repeat my new mantra, I don't know. I do know that pieces of myself are becoming clearer, and I owe the moments of clarity to words. I could go back and edit this entire outpour, but I'll leave it as is.

Admittedly incoherent, but honest. The beauty of literature is the way it makes us feel, and I don't think I'll do the injustice of trying to hide what Colette made—or helped me—feel.

—Emma Cook

Work Cited Colette. The Vagabond. Translated by Stanley Appelbaum. Dover Publications, 2010.

Print.

DREAMS Dreams are days we deign to see Feelings fragmented from fables and lies Thoughts and times we’ve thrown behind Mysteries marked, meant for hearts Restless, writhing for peaceful resign When dreams are dampened by the dark.

—Carrie Noel

ECHOES

I spoke with my mother, but she was not there.

Her whispers were echoes of etchings Carved deep in my heart where she Has stored up all of her blessings.

Some were insignificant— Cute little comments, Unnecessary narrations and songs, Without a touch of lament.

Some were nurturing acts unasked for— Teas and ingredients To recipes slaved—love so she May receive love’s radiance.

Whispers spoke the voice my mother Who sang to me nightly.

I spoke too, a mere façade A me I wasn’t, rightly, But who was a part of myself.

For every whisper spoke Of my love for her and my longing To return unprovoked Where she and I belonged.

HANDS Passing time, ripped away, Stripped by motley hands of grey, Speaking words in unison— Whispers soft with lost intent Carried by all words unsaid— Barricaded, burdened tread Which means nothing in these hands That strip away all that stands In meaningful regret.

—Carrie Noel

DISENCHANTED YOUTH By all accounts, he was a pretty normal kid from rural North Dakota. He had a pickup truck that he’d been driving since he was fourteen years old. He wore ratty baseball caps and wasn’t against chew. He’d played football in high school (that flavor of rural was close enough to a big city, in his case Dickinson, to play football for a big school) and had been good enough for a scholarship to a college that really, really wanted to be a football school.

But even though he knew that everyone around him was feeling that same listless feeling of nothing really mattering at all, for some reason, he felt like he was feeling it way more acutely. Than any of them. He’d thought that he’d find meaning in college but he didn’t, he found only a football team of people who couldn’t play football and a bench full of red-shirted freshman who were likely to get five years of shitty football squeezed out of them instead of four. He thought he’d figure out what he wanted to major in, but didn’t, and he dropped out after a semester.

There was no point in paying for it if he didn’t care about it.

He was from oil field country, and if he wasn’t going to give a shit anyway, he might as well get paid for it.

He was a classic-rock flavor of rural, no country (though at bonfires in midfall, with beer and a worn-out high school hoodie the only thing keeping him warm, he was OK with it), so it was Van Halen he turned down when he slowed, trying to figure out what kind of animal that was, dead on the side of the road. It was a gravel road, not one that was used all that often, though his high school—it was about five hundred—had co-op’d with Dickinson for football, so the roads around it, if they didn’t head to the highway that went to Dickinson, were all gravel and used pretty much only by farmers. It was a little weird to see dead things on the gravel roads, at least as big as this, as unused as this road.

He put the pickup in park and hopped out, letting the engine shake and hum behind him. Whatever it was, it was covered with a tarp, which made it weirder. He could imagine something crawling to the edge of the road and dying, or even an

escaped cow that some driver in a monster semi or something had hit and left.

But the tarp made it weird.

He closed his eyes for a second and then pulled off the tarp.

It was a person. He’d kind of figured it would be a person. With that sort of presentation? Nobody threw a tarp over a dog they killed. But it was oil country, and oil country meant prostitutes, and prostitutes, apparently, meant North-Dakotaflavored-Robert-Hanson.

Okay, he didn’t know she was a prostitute. But the body looked (and smelled) pretty fresh, like last night flavor fresh, and she was dressed like she was ready to get down, and it was Wednesday. That was the whole reason he was on this road—that it was Wednesday. He didn’t work Wednesdays, so he could afford to drive around back roads and try to feel something.

And okay, he was feeling something now. Mostly a thought that he was probably going to puke his guts out, but it was something.

“Shit,” he said. The Van Halen trailing out of his speakers changed to Motley Crue. It wasn’t “Girls,” thank the Lord (another thing he’d tried and failed to care about), but the noise was wrong, the pickup rumbling behind him was wrong, so he stumbled back and reached through the window and shut off the pickup with trembling fingers. He stayed beside it for a while, his hands still clutching the keys a little too tight, as his mind raced, trying to figure out what to tell him to do.

God, he was feeling something now.

Police. Police were a good idea.

He fumbled with his phone, swiped past the Facebook messages and Instagram likes (he was funny, the fact that he didn’t give a shit made him funny, and that made people find him and add him on Facebook even two years after meeting them, and then they thought they could message him and he’d remember who they were), and remembered that you didn’t even have to unlock the phone to emergency number.

But as he was jabbing at the emergency call button, the prostitute sat up.

He dropped the phone. It landed in the grass, which was nice, he guessed, no screen cracks. But she’d sat up, and she was still sitting up, looking around like she had no clue where she was, absolutely zero, and he took a step back. His heart had jumped up to beat in his throat and he wondered for a second if he was going to die.

Okay, maybe he did care about one thing, and that one thing was not dying.

Was this some kind of weird sex trafficking thing? He’d be safe, right, he thought he would—if a guy got sex trafficked it was usually a little kid, middle school, oldest, and he was twenty-one and six four and lean, but not skinny like you knew you could take him. Not what you’d think when you thought “Sex-trafficking victim.” And North Dakota here was flat. If there was anyone lurking to nab him with chloroform or something like that, he’d see them coming four or five miles off.

And there was no one.

“Are you okay?” he asked. The wind picked up and he shivered a little; it was September, the kind of month that could hit eighty or forty, right now sitting at about fifty-five. Warm enough to leave the hoodie at home and cold enough to regret it.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t move any more, either. Just stayed there, sitting, staring straight at him. She didn’t even blink. He really wished she’d blink or something.

It was like she wasn’t quite dead, and had sat up, and now it was time to die.

He didn’t want to be there anymore. He would really rather be anywhere else; three years deep in college, playing football for a losing team, tens of thousands of dollars in debt, whatever. He jerked the door of his pickup open and hopped in and as he was fumbling with the keys at the ignition she was in the cab next to him.

He yelled, jerking to the side so violently he nearly fell out the damn window.

She was still sitting and staring, stinking up the cab of his pickup instead of the side of the gravel road. “How—“ When he opened his mouth, though, the air was thick with a stench he gagged on, so he kept his mouth shut.

Yeah, no, this chick was definitely dead.

“Where are you going?” she asked. Her voice echoed around the cab in a way it shouldn’t have.

He swallowed and tried to take breaths as shallow as he could muster and didn’t answer. He got out and took a few steps away from his pickup.

On the ground. On the side of the road. She was on the side of the road again.

He glanced through the window and there was nothing. She was lying down again, the tarp covering her—like the whole thing had never happened. None of it.

He took the couple of steps to his pickup and got back in.

Immediately, the smell was back and so was she. “Where are you going?” she asked.

He got out.

She was back on the road.

He closed his eyes and dug around in his pockets for a stick of gum or something. If he was going to drive with this bitch sitting next to him, he’d need something. He found a pack of spearmint and shoved three pieces in his mouth, leaving the little silver wrappers on the ground like confetti. He got back into his pickup.

“Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer her. He didn’t even look at her. He put his keys in the ignition and fired up the engine and backed up to turn and drive home. If she was going to be in his car someone else would see her, too. He wasn’t going to go through this shit alone if he could help it.

“What’s that on your head?” she asked. He hoped she wouldn’t touch it and she didn’t, she didn’t need to, because he knew what she was talking about. He had a spot of white hair, above his left temple. And a little in that eyebrow, too. It had been there since he’d grown the hair. Genetic.

“Where are you going?”

She only spoke in questions, or something; kept repeating the two over and over until he crossed the town limits and then she was quiet and the noise was gone and when he glanced over she was gone, too. She left a bracelet. One of those rubber ones that were popular when he was in elementary school. It identified the college he’d gone to for a semester and dropped out.

Maybe it was time to go back to school. Maybe he wouldn’t find purpose there, either, but maybe he’d find fewer dead bodies that hung out in the cab of his pickup for fifteen miles.

—Aurora Bear

Night Sky, Brita Fagerlund

THE ROLE OF WOMEN IN THE BATTLE OF THE LITTLE BIGHORN When reading about most historical events, there is an abundance of information about what every male was doing at the time. There are merely brief snippets on the female side. When reading Black Elk Speaks, I found this to be the case. There is nothing wrong with that. It merely made me curious about what women at the time were doing and thinking about the happenings around them. It’s clear that the Sioux men respected the women of their tribe, and knew that for the tribe to be happy and to prosper they must respect one another. During combat, most women stayed back to support the men from afar, but after doing a little research I found that a couple of women wanted to actively fight for their home, and did so courageously.

Black Elk speaks about the important role that women play in the Oglala Sioux society. He explains the setup for one of his dances and the relevance of each symbol. He says, “The woman is the life of the flowering tree, but the man must feed and care for it” (Neihardt 130). He says that women are necessary for life, peace, healing, and unity. Although there is some gender differentiation in Sioux society, a mutual respect reigns among the people and what they do for one another. There are few mentions of what the tribal women were doing during a battle; Black Elk describes how “the women on the hill . . . were all singing and making the tremolo to cheer the men”(70). Other than this, subtle mentions in every battle suggest that the reason male warriors fight so hard is for the safety of the women and children. The men know they must protect the women; the welfare of their society depends on it.

Knowing that the tribe’s women had such an impact from the sidelines of battle made me question whether any women were ever warriors who fought alongside men. In Black Elk Speaks, as they are preparing to fight the Battle of the Little Bighorn, Black Elk says, “I saw a pretty young woman among a band of

warriors” (69). In my research I found a couple of accounts of women who took part in combat.

One who participated in the Rubbing out of Long Hair was a Cheyenne by the name of Buffalo Calf Road. Calf’s claim to fame was she knew how to use a gun, and had good aim with it. Prior to fighting in the Battle of the Little Big Horn, she took part in the Battle of the Rosebud. There, she saved her brother, Agonito, from the U.S. Cavalry. She saw that he was surrounded by soldiers and stuck in a gully. She pulled him out of the gully and back to safety. Her actions inspired other warriors and helped them win the battle. After that, the Indians renamed the conflict to “The Battle Where the Girl Saved Her Brother.” Buffalo Calf Woman continued to fight for her people. She fought in the battle of the Little Bighorn, and again showed her bravery and willingness to put her life on the line. It is said that she rode into battle with her husband, Black Coyote, and during the battle fought among her brothers and even saved a young warrior who lost his horse. It is surprising that in the Sioux Indian society a young woman would have the courage to do what young Buffalo Calf Road did. She fought hard and inspired others.

Another woman who fought in The Battle of the Little Bighorn was a Hunkpapa Lakota who went by the name of Moving Robe Woman. When she heard that her brother had been slain by General Custer and his army, Moving Robe Woman ran from the yard work she was doing and joined the fight. Moving Robe Woman speaks of that day in an interview: “I ran to a nearby thicket and got my black horse. I painted my face with crimson and braided my black hair. I was mourning. I was a woman, but I was not afraid” (Williams). Legend has it that she killed a colored man, Isaiah Dorman, who was married to a Lakota woman but fought against his wife’s people. Moving Robe Woman stayed humble after her gallant fight; she told her interviewer, “I have not boasted of my conquests” (Williams). Meaning she did what she had to do to mourn the loss of her brother and help her people. She was not looking for validation from others but wanted only to avenge the death of her brother.

In American Indian society, the tradition for a woman was to find cover and helped protect others from the front line of battle when the men went off to fight.

Most women kept this tradition and did what was customary. There was an understanding that in order for their society to prosper, the men must protect the women and children. Although this was the tradition, a couple of women who decided to do what they thought was right at the time—physically fight for their people, in the hope that they could save them from the Wasichus and avenge the death of another. Buffalo Calf Road and Moving Robe Woman are brave women who decided take a stand. Their legacies and fighting spirits will live on forever.

—Sierra Talmadge

Works Cited Agonito, Rosemary, et al. “Buffalo Calf Road, Heroic Cheyenne Warrior Woman.” Amazing Women In History, 23 May 2014, www.amazingwomeninhistory.com/buffalo-calf-roadcheyenne-warrior-woman/ Allard, LaDonna Brave Bull. “Mary Crawler, Moving Robe Woman.” Little Big Man, www.american-tribes.com/Lakota/BIO/MaryCrawler.htm.

Neihardt, John G. Black Elk Speaks. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014.

Williams, Anna. “Woman or Warrior: The Story of Moving Robe Woman.”

Annawilliams.web.unc.edu, 2 Sept.2014,annawilliams.web.unc.edu/2014/09/02/womanor-warrior-the-story-of-moving-robe-woman/ Women's History Matters. “A Young Mother at the Rosebud and Little Bighorn Battles.”

Women's History Matters, Montana Historical Society, 17 June 2014, montanawomenshistory.org/a-young-mother-at-the-rosebud-and-little-bighorn-battles/

BATTLE FOR THE SOUL OF THE SIOUX

History is often taught through a secular lens. Stories that were lived in the supernatural are told in the natural. The Battle of the Little Big Horn is no exception. It can be described using only historical fact and physical descriptions. It was fought by the U.S.A against the Sioux and their allies. The battle was a victory for the Sioux and involved the killing of the iconic General Custer. However, that would be to miss half the story. The Indians involved in the conflict were fighting a battle in both the physical as well as the spiritual realm.

The Black Hills were a holy site. Spirit healers used their powers and rituals to aid the Indian warriors. The Battle of the Little Big Horn concluded Black Elk's prophecy. Not only was the battle itself steeped in mysticism and the supernatural, but the results of the battle had a profound spiritual impact that affects the Sioux people to this day. One need only venture into the desolate hills of the miles-long battlefield, marked with tombs in groups and separate scatterings, to feel the souls of the people who fell and the nations that fell with them. The Battle of the Little Big Horn deserves to be understood in its proper Indian religious context.

Ritual, an essential aspect of religion, played a role in the battle. Before the fight, a sun dance was performed. The sun dance was chosen as the appropriate ritual because it was June, the month when the sun is highest (Neihardt 56). A sacred tree was found by one of the medicine men. Pregnant women, male warriors, and virgin women danced around it. Afterward the tree was taken back to the center of the village. The warriors took turns striking the tree. Whichever warrior hit the tree first would not be able to be killed in battle. The ritual ended when scouts returned and warned the village that the U.S. soldiers were approaching. The communal nature of the sun dance aided the Sioux in battle. This desire to align

oneself with nature or be at peace before going to war shows the Indian’s desire to not neglect the spiritual, even in the direst of circumstances. Rituals were always held in high importance.

Religion is the only discipline to concern itself with the sacred. The idea of sacred protection is referenced by many accounts of the battle in Black Elk Speaks.

Some warriors in the Battle of the Little Big Horn had a special blessing that protected them from harm. Probably the best example of this was Crazy Horse: “They could not kill him in battle” (89). Crazy Horse was the Achilles of the Oglala Sioux. He was a devastatingly powerful warrior. It was only by tricking him that the American military was able to kill him. The Shyela warrior told of by Iron Hawk was also described as sacred and thus immune to harm (75). The first warrior to strike the sacred tree during the sun dance could not be killed because he was sacred. This sacred shield was as real to the Sioux as a physical shield. Sacredness should be evaluated when interpreting battles, such as the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

Religion establishes metaphysical ideas. The Sioux belief about the nature of reality changed drastically after the battle. It was their last major success before being subjected. A man named Wovoka mixed Indian and Western religion. His religion took hold because it gave hope to the defeated Sioux. This new religion taught that a day would come when the Great Spirit would remove the foreigners from America and restore the land. At that time, all Indian ancestors would rise, and paradise would be established (148). This new religion’s central practice was the ghost dance. The followers would perform a dance that was believed to help bring about the end of the world. Wovoka also gave his followers shirts that reportedly made them impervious to bullets. Wovoka’s religion existed prior to the battle, but it wasn’t adopted by the Sioux until after their fall. The metaphysics of Sioux religion changed forever after their subjugation that proceeded the battle.

Faith is another feature that is inherently religious. Black Elk had a prophecy that he would save his people from the invading white men. The history of his visions came to its culmination at the battle. The Battle of the Little Big Horn was

the moment of truth for Black Elk’s vision, a moment that got away. How so? After getting sick as a child, he saw a vision. In this vision he was granted power by a host of spirits forever transforming him into a spiritually attuned man. In his vision he was burdened with the responsibility of saving his people. He was entrusted with a sacred duty—a sacred duty it appears he failed at. He went through many phases of belief and doubt. After the Battle of the Little Big Horn the situation appeared grim, but he still held out hope. The conflict between hope and doubt is a fundamental of faith. The battle was a test of Black Elk’s faith.

The Battle of Little Big Horn was the conclusion of a great spiritual or cosmic battle. Many religious elements were deeply intertwined within it, and it marked the end of the Sioux people. It was the Sioux Armageddon. The battle can be dehumanized and secularized into nothing more than another instance of a U.S. invasion into Indian land. This is one view of history. However, history is ultimately “his” “story.” In this case, the “he” is Black Elk, and the story is Black Elk Speaks. It is essential to take Indian perspectives seriously. The ancient Jews have their history accepted in its supernatural context. Why should the Sioux be any different?

The people native to the Americas deserve to have their stories told through their worldview and not reinterpreted by westerners.

—Isaiah Lang

Work Cited Neihardt, John G. Black Elk Speaks. University of Nebraska, 1932. Print.

Butterfly on Flower, Wesley Kemp

LEGO® Unpackage little bricks in store, Their shades and shapes beyond compare, Presuming predilection for A certain knobbed, elongate square.

As we assemble, create realms From piles of plastic lying there, Some worlds we find we can give names And others cannot name, nor dare.

—Nicholas Schaff

TO THE GIRL WRITING LOVE LETTERS In the lull of the day, Against the droning of the dull, I sit next to a girl Who spends the class Writing letters of love.

She writes her letters To a boy who served her coffee, To a girl who she met on the bus, To strangers who shared a brief smile, To a world only passing by.

Ink staining lined notebooks, Never the same name, Never the same lover, But not a lover in the sense of lust, But of a heart that beats too fast, too hard.

She scribbles scarce sentences to sisters, Proposes palaces of paragraphs to past relatives.

So I learned when I caught a teardrop As it landed on her signature, Barely catching the pen as it said, “I’ll see you in heaven, Grandpa.”

At first, I thought it was stupid, Silly, and childish, Throwing away love like loose pennies To be pocketed by passersby.

How do you wear your heart on your sleeve?

Doesn’t she know it is fragile?

It will break?

She wrote with virtue and vigor.

As if she believed that if she didn’t say, “I love you,”

No one would.

At first, I thought it was dumb, But now I know it is brave.

She wrote to more than merely people.

She wrote to places and things, To the moonlight and sunshine, To raindrops and snowfall.

I couldn’t have imagined A love letter to midnight Taco Bell.

Every day, the paragraphs piled, A mausoleum to her passion, To a world moving in passing, To every piece of her soul ever given.

In those letters sewn by thread That held her heart together.

And I realized for every part given, Another thousand was gained, Until she had an abundance of love No singular vessel could contain.

Her love roared, spilling over.

I think a few drops landed on me.

So, I write today, To say “I love you, And…” What was that about Taco Bell?

—Allison Galbreath

RUBBER SNAKES Twisting, twining, wending, winding, wrapping, Roping, creeping, curving, bending, breaking— The writhing rubber snakes are sleek and tight And hide small yellow bursts of flashing light, And though the sparks burn bright and strong, They fade too quickly, and night is long.

“A mess,” some say, “a tangle. Walk away.”

They’re right, but I look past the mess today, Sift through the tangle, find a way. Though gone, The sparks return, reborn, when lights switch on.

—Nicholas Schaff

BLUE PILL, PURPLE PILL It was a small, blue pill. It was supposed to make her feel better, so she took it every day, but it didn’t help. Another was supposed to make her feel better, so she took a small, white pill every day, too, and it helped a little, for an hour or two at a time. Then the white pill stopped working and the blue pill seemed to make living more difficult, so she tried a new pill. She took that pill every day because it was supposed to make her feel better, and when that one didn’t work, she tried another and another. Now, because it’s supposed to make her feel better, she takes a halfpink, half-red capsule every day, but it isn’t helping either.

She’s tired all the time, sleeping ten, fifteen, eighteen hours a day. She doesn’t feel like eating, so she doesn’t eat. She doesn’t feel like showering, so she doesn’t. She doesn’t feel like putting on socks or leaving her home or talking to her friends. She doesn’t. Her doctor is worried, her friends are worried, her mom is worried, and she is worried. She’s worried she’ll never feel better, she’s worried she won’t be able to keep pushing through and carrying on, and she’s worried she’ll stop trying. She’s worried she’s already stopped and that’s a worse worry.

There are clothes all across the floor from when she last dressed, days ago, the kitchen sink is piled with dishes from the time she ate two weeks ago, make-up brushes are strewn across the counter and hair dye spilled in the sink and the blow dryer still plugged in from the day she last tried to feel pretty, though she can’t remember when that was. At least her bed is made, untouched in the last month, since she started sleeping in front of the television because she felt more lost and alone than ever, after she had realized she needed help and finally saw a doctor and got a little pill that was supposed to solve everything but didn’t.

It hurt when the blue pill didn’t help because she hoped it would relieve the pain she’s always carried—sometimes plainly on her shoulders and other times skipping rope in the back of her mind. It hurt when the white pill stopped helping because she hoped its small improvement could lead to larger ones, to happiness and ease, and it hurt when the others didn’t help either, but it didn’t hurt as much because she didn’t hope as much. Now, one pink-red pill every day and no improvement, so she hardly even cares.

 Her day begins around noon, when she can finally drag herself off the couch she sleeps on day and night, where she’s comforted by the voices and glow of television. She takes her capsule with little interest or expectation. She pulls on a sweater she finds on the floor and a pair of jeans that look clean—once tight and fitted, now baggy and sagging from weight loss. Before she can succumb to the urges to go back to sleep and avoid the world again—like yesterday and every day—she uses the last memories of hope she’s clung to and gets in her car. She drives around the corner, down the street, past the green light at the intersection that seems not to say “go” as much as “keep going,” and arrives at the clinic.

The nurse shows her to the doctor’s room—as if she doesn’t know where it is, as if she hasn’t been here every few weeks for months now. The appointment begins differently from others she’s had, however; today, the doctor asks a new set of questions: “Difficulty sustaining attention: would you say this describes you never, rarely, sometimes, or often?”

Always, she thinks; but says, “Sometimes.”

“Difficulty completing tasks?”

Always, but she says “Sometimes.”

“Distracted by thoughts or sounds?”

“Trouble meeting deadlines?”

“Difficulty beginning lengthy tasks?”

Always, always, always, but she continues to say “Sometimes,” because she doesn’t want this to appear to be the answer; she doesn’t want to be hurt when it proves that it’s not. Even more, she doesn’t want the anxiety and the depression she has treated for months and months, with blue and white and pink-red pills that have only made her feel worse—she doesn’t want this to be easily explained and resolved. Because if the way she has felt for as long as she can remember can be so easily explained and resolved, why hasn’t it happened sooner? Why has she had to suffer so long? Why hasn’t anyone, including herself, ever suspected she has ADHD as this doctor does now?

It’s only fair, then, that she assumes she doesn’t have the disorder, that the answer is still out there or doesn’t exist, and that she is never going to feel better.

This is what she believes. It’s what she believes until she takes the small, purple pill.

It’s a small, purple pill that’s supposed to make her feel better, so she takes it every day, and it helps. Now she can get dressed and make dinner and do her laundry and call her mom. There are still dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor, but she’ll clean that up soon, because she can, because she didn’t need a blue pill. She needed a purple one. Sometimes she wishes she had known sooner, wishes she had felt this way before, but she’s okay with that because she knows now and she’s happy now, because she takes a small, purple pill every day, the one that’s supposed to make her feel better, and it helps.

—Sarah Porter

Stabled, Alyssa Schrull

A Desperate Poet To reel you in As an angler his catch— Clear string spooling to a click-click As I bob among the waves, My pen as a rod, bending as I work it with my hands, The cold sea deep and blue and full— I must bait well.

But as I survey the jetsam of poems past rejected, Words still readable in the surf, I realize they won’t snare and hold your interest— “Next submission!—“ I can hear the words.

I reel in my hook And look at it, regretting it’s clean silver gloss.

I cast once more, Remembering the storm of passionate inspiration And the events that have shipwrecked me— When breakers rose above my ship While at the helm I cursed Calypso And wrote my magnum opus (I thought)— Just to catch you, dear reader.

Before that fateful day, I’d baited many hooks with Open heart poems that beat in black and white.

I cast my line for The New Yorker, for reviews (so many reviews) And anywhere that offered pay and prestige—a real life fish tale, That poetry could pay— But my lures danced free, Except for occasional jerks— Sudden, violent jerks— At which I would pull hard, let loose, pull hard, To be met with a chilling moan, Like a growl through the water, And the ultimate slackening of my line.

I should have suspected something at those times; But in fixed focus trance, I thought nothing of it And didn’t notice a dark shape swimming around my ship.

I was fixated on catching fish— Whoppers of readings, awards, money, acclaim— So much that I overlooked flattening sails and calming waters As I drifted into a gyre Where even if I shouted no one could hear—

An endless blue desert of sun, clouds and ocean.

My Pequod halted slowly in the glass sea, Her decks weighed down by my weight and stacked poems Arranged in passages permitting my navigation Aft to port, bow to stern.

You can’t eat enough paper To weather scorching days Or drink enough ink To drown sorrows on brilliant, starry nights, Though I tried.

Yet in my demise, I still let out line, Holding onto a faith That persevering in quantity of work Would yield vindicating approval.

I remember being awakened, Rod and reel in my salted hands, By a siren groan Arising from the cool deep of the ocean— The creature I’d long prodded with a sonnet here, a ballad there, My dull hooks taken then turned away— Could it be the lurking monster whose voice floated to me Through the waves?

Till then I’d floated helpless but secure; I lifted my feet onto the deck and put away my tackle and gear.

That night, a terrific gale rose out of the tropical surf And gathered on her haunches toward me— How could I avoid it?

Neptune drove her hard, Flashing steeds towering to the sky and rumbling violently As dark clouds approached.

Giant waves dashed against my boat while biting rain drove down; I could see only by the flashes of lightning And trembled at each crash.

Then a great crash thundered through The hull—timbers shivered, main mast quaked— I heard an angry roar—the monster’s cry!

I could barely see in the chaos, while my papers flew everywhere; I was beginning to sink.

And as I sank I saw my follower— Had he sunk my ship?— A great white whale!

I woke clinging to the flotsam on which I float now, My rod and reel in hand and soaked papers tucked against my chest.

The sun is merciless and my parched lips hurt.

I see the white whale far off swimming, keeping his distance, But getting nearer, nearer, Each turn nearer, Like some fiendish cat courting its prey.

I yell at him and God, my voice cracking, And I would cry but I have no tears.

Down again, to pass the time— I loose my hook.

My poetry floats around me as a haunt Of hope remembered, of sailing with the wind on the open sea.

I’m filled with perhaps a last desire: To set down what’s transpired.

With my rod I furiously set down on my dried out scripts What you read now— All till now.

This is not my magnum opus but is my last opus; The whale is very close and closing.

I’ll float this off to sea and slip in to meet my fate.

Dear reader, as you read, know I have met my whale.

41 Lies in State Set stately— Midst massive rising stone and the weight of a nation Grieving, A dynasty Broken— A great man’s casket rests on a replica catafalque used for Lincoln.

Triumphs and tragedies Are passed for this Soldier-leader over whose Body soldiers sternly stand In ceremonial Uniform and uniformity While we shuffle by in muffled silence, our shoes the only sound.

Tentacles Of legacy Stretch Back through the years as roots feeding still their present and Future work.

—Matthew Nies

Learning, living, and loving in a lifeless locale, Madeleine Stiles

Prizewinning Five-Poem Series, Meaghan Cronin ODE TO MY HEART O heart. you are shaped like the earth. made of hands, clumps of dirt, you house life inside you, you make a life out of me.

O heart. you give the fears shelter. you push them cold through me, and you pump warm joy, and you freeze all the rivers, heart, you know the weather.

O heart. you beat irregular. you are timed and afraid, you restless child, you drummer in the night, you hum in the day.

O heart.

I sleep in your cradle.

I sleep at your grave.

RECOGNITION Air-space. The sweet quiet of a line across the country, still alive—a tin can echo past the window sill.

Recall the space we know belongs to us, the dark, the air.

The dark is blessĂŠd heavy here, the air remembers where we lived. It sees us where we are, the slow September swell we talk to life. And yet, bodies

protect themselves so well.

These long-strained muscles hold the heart well-hemmed within its pen.

Forget the rest—I see you now.

I am learning you again.

SAFER If I stand still enough, I start to hope I'll make myself an empty space—once girl, now gone. I'll be no threat, no haunting rope or loaded gun. I want to live unfurled and light, a soft and hurtless thing, no sledge to wield against the world. I paint myself in plumes—but even feathers have their edges.

The blades are always pointing out. I shelve these weapons, do my best to hold them safe— along the handle, blades away from me, to face the floor and no one else. I wish myself away. I chafe, I swarm like bees.

I'd rather turn to rust—disintegrate and fall to earth. If I am small enough, I will be soft.

TRANSMISSION God, grant me substance, mass,

a state of grace— a sturdy solace.

Hem me in, some guide, a gesture

mold me a maze, of gentle trust;

a home, a healing— I'll paint the stairs

I'll roost in holy knots. with petals, blooms,

a growing spring a helpful knock

of Gaia's grain, in a hollow head.

SPOOL There’s silver string inside my head—oh keep me smooth and cold. Please etch your groove, leave deep snow tracks in my young wake—some proof I knew just where to go, and when, and how. Pass through these tracks again, once I forget. Trespass upon myself, reflected in unpolished glass— oh keep me soft and blurred. The lines won’t know you’ve left them out (and hurt can’t follow if you don't remember what you were before).

Undo yourself, leave nothing unexplored, then spin yourself again into the world.

Autumn Road, Maggie Erickson

IN DEFENSE OF 3OH!3 Picture this: the year is 2009, you’re in middle school, and every song on the ‘hits’ radio station is ultra-auto-tuned-ultra-dance-ultra-sexual. Taylor Swift is starting to make her shift from country to pop, and “You Belong With Me” is being played on both stations. P!nk and Lady Gaga rule the airwaves, and a fairly unknown songwriter with a dollar sign in her name breaks into the scene with her own party anthems. On the masculine side of the equation, you have Jason Derulo, Taio Cruz, and a kid from Canada singing sweet, high-pitched songs about being in love. And, of course, the crunk-core-electro-yelling duo from Colorado, Sean Foreman and Nathanial Motte of 3OH!3.

There isn’t quite a song that exemplifies my adolescent years like “Don’t Trust Me.” It’s the song that broke the duo into the mainstream; they recorded a self-titled album as independents (this album goes for about a hundred dollars on Amazon, so it’s one that I do not own), but their real mainstream success came with their first studio-recorded album WANT. Featuring scandalous lyrics and heavy beats and singers who couldn’t really sing but tried their hardest to have a good time, songs like “Don’t Trust Me” and “Starstrukk” were immediate hits, “Don’t Trust Me” making it to number seven on the Billboard Hot 100.i This is the song with the now-iconic line “Tell your boyfriend, if he says he’s got beef, that I’m a vegetarian and I’m not f***** scared of him.”ii Recently, as I’ve been freaking out about growing older, I’ve found myself going back to music that was popular when I was younger.

3OH!3 was never my favorite band. I liked them, but my heart was always with The All-American Rejects (who also had their major hit, “Gives You Hell” in around 2009). But as I’ve been looking back at these songs that were popular when I was in middle school, 3OH!3 stuck out to me. I listened exclusively to their songs for a couple of days and proceeded to purchase most of their discography—everything but that original, heinously overpriced album—at Amazon; 2009’s WANT, 2011’s Streets of Gold, 2013’s OMENS, and, in a twist that surprised me, 2016’s Night Sports. I didn’t know that they’d come out with a new album, but when I started listening to the singles on it, I realized I’d heard them, probably when I was doing dishes in the back of the Dairy Queen during my month of working there. The pop station was always playing, and I definitely heard “Mad at You” at some point.

I’ve been trying to figure out why I’ve been loving this band so much. I ripped the nostalgia factor off (or, at least, I tried to—there’s still something awesome about listening to “Don’t Trust Me”) and tried to listen again. I looked into the band members themselves (and learned that Sean Foreman was an English major at the University of Colorado Boulderiii--which of course made me feel a weird sort of kinship). I listened to the lyrics and found a weird amount of true crime references, especially on OMENS: the names Jeffrey Dahmer in “You’re Going to Love This” and Casey Anthony in “Two Girlfriends.” I like true crime. This only proved to pull me deeper.

And then I listened to “Coloradosunrise” and any hope of pulling myself out of it was gone. The thing about “Coloradosunrise” is that it’s actually a good song.

There’s no nostalgia filter; it’s not a single, even though it is the last song on WANT. There’s yelling and there’s some rapping, but it’s raw. And, in a weird twist from the guys who brought you the lyric “Do the Hellen Keller, and talk with your hips,”iv it’s sweet. Maybe it’s just the contrast and maybe it’s an extremely low bar, but using the word “dear” in “Coloradosunrise” is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. And while there’s auto-tune as in all of their songs—if there’s one thing the late-2000s were unapologetic about, it was the auto-tune; everyone used it and everything was fine— and while their voices aren’t actually all that good, I don’t like this song only because I can tell they’re having fun with it. Because that’s what it is with most of their music.

They’re having fun with it. I’m sure they’re both smart guys; both of them have bachelor’s degrees (as I said, Sean Foreman has an English degree, and Nathanial Motte has a degree in a whole mess of biology things, and was even accepted into med school shortly before they got bigv), and I can hear some solid metrics in a lot of their music, so that English degree is evidently going to work, but “Coloradosunrise” has emotion in it.

There’s something about the lines, “I'm a shade too pale for handsome and have habits I can't shake / But if you try to take that from me, well I'll never be the same / Trainwreck that I am / And I am what I am what I am / What I am a trainwreck that I am / And I am what I am what I am / What I am a trainwreck.”vi The first two lines, while repeated, aren’t really part of the chorus, but it’s the part that always gets me. It’s repetitive, sure, but from guys who normally have such boastful lyrics—“You’re Gonna Love This,” “Touchin’ On My,” and even their most

recent songs like “Freak Your Mind,” and “Hear Me Now,” just to name a few—it hits.

It’s not their only song that’s not so boastful, but it’s definitely the best one, and while there is a little bit of romance talk, it’s definitely not as sexual as their other songs. I love almost all of their songs because just about all of them are fun to listen to, and their lyrics can be clever sometimes (Come on, you’ve got to love the vegetarian line.

Come on.), even if it’s clear they do not understand the concept of OCD (what does “OCD for that p****”vii mean, Sean? What does it mean?), but “Coloradosunrise” is legitimately a song that I would consider one of my favorites.

Is 3OH!3 good music? I don’t know. Even when I try to strip away the nostalgia from my enjoyment, I don’t think I make it all the way. But it’s fun music, and it’s music that does encapsulate the feeling of the music in 2009. And they got to record a couple of songs with Kesha when she was still Ke$ha, and I was listening to them while I was writing this, so I’m going to go out on a limb and say that even if you have some fond memories of nice legs and Daisy dukesviii, you’ll be surprised by how much they hold up. And their newest music, while there’s a lot less yelling than previous albums, isn’t bad. I’m a big fan of “Mad At You.” And man, there is nothing like popping WANT into my car CD slot.

—Aurora Bear

i

3OH!3 Billboard Chart History (https://www.billboard.com/music/3oh3).

“Don’t Trust Me” lyrics (https://genius.com/3oh-3-dont-trust-me-lyrics) iii https://www.colorado.edu/english/2018/03/27/sean-foreman-ba-2007 iv “Don’t Trust Me” again. v Please take this time to imagine the guy who sings most of the dirty choruses being your doctor. I’ll wait. vi https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/3oh3/coloradosunrise.html vii “Mad At You” viii That one’s actually “Starstrukk”—there was a remix with Katy Perry done, alongside the album version. ii

Bumblebees, Maggie Erickson

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