Hopes of the Collective Aidan

Sibley ’23

It started with the stillborns

Contorted by some growth

As fibrodysplasia, yet muscle to fungus

Living, blinding, oblivious to this parasite

The generation which followed lived with clouded eyes Faint roots branching under the iris

Alas, with senses not dulled, they worked and strived And lived amongst the internet Its reach, its touch, a fungus

The minds of humanity, interconnected A transformation of mycelium

Michael Lockwood ’23

Angel of the holy heavens

Cleanse me of my sinful offenses

My time is near

Yet my woes are still here

Oh Celestial one, ’dorned in garments and robes

Spare me from the fiery abode

Warm hands arise from below

And drag me down without so much as a throe

A beautiful black with an aroma of coal

They caress my face and take my soul there is a strange sort of compulsion every time that I pass a mirror. I cried about it once, in the shower, clutching my left rib cage to myself, then shut off the water and tried to dry and dress myself, eyes shut, stumbling around in the blackness, thinking this is heaven— dark and naked. the hands come to take the sailor away slowly. they swim up like tiny fishes, careful not to wake him from his drink-induced stupor. the fish, though used to the job, still marvel at how peaceful sleeping boys are, & they are boys, for how little they know of what’s coming, placed on the ship with the others. in his dream he is remembering the smell of ginseng, his mother’s arms: Child, don’t you ever leave this place on a ship— you’ll lose your sense of home to the waves. she is wrong. when he looks back, it’ll always be the shanghaiing that reminds him of home, like he can only come to terms with himself by counting what was lost to the myriad fish— at least two generations to realize it all. when he wakes, there will be time for fear, & suffering, & vagrancy. but now there are only dreams, & warm breath, & something very gentle.