The Lion's Eye Spring 2021 by Cyclion Bonaparte

The Lion’s Eye volume 48 :: spring 2021

fade gianna tyahla

The Lion’s Eye Spring 2021 executive editor issue editor copy editor treasurer secretary publicist faculty advisor

Filip Maziarz Gianna Tyahla Cameron Foster Caroline Geoghegan Cameron Foster Destiny Valerio David Venturo

staff :: lauren farrell, megan finan, catherine hom, and greta soos

“ Keep nurturing your curiosity and creativity and never stop delighting in what you discover ” — Morgan Harper Nichols

contents poetry and prose Filip Maziarz

The First Look

Cameron Foster

That 2020 Feeling

Joely Torres

Being Home

Jayleen Rolon

If Your Lost Someone

Filip Maziarz

Highway as Destination

Heather Santiago

On Clarity

Anisa Lateef

Sleepy’s

Megan Finan

16-17

Catherine Hom

I Understand Katy Perry

Jordan Valiquette

Lemon Girl

Samantha Colditz

22-23

An Apology from a Girl with Curls

Filip Maziarz

Observer in Summer

Ayesha Sultana

Gamble on

Lily Ward

Ping Pong

Ayesha Sultana

28-29

Life is So Perfect

Filip Maziarz

The Funny Thing About Friends

Catherine Hom

The Charli Drink

Anisa Lateef

Wednesday

Joely Torres

Oluwatoyin Salau

Gail Kelly

I Cut My Hair

Anisa Lateef

Green Leather Town

Ariel Steinsaltz Kyle Strouse

An Ode to Words

38-39 41

The Power An Ode to Spgagnum Moss A Chance

Heather Santiago

42-43

Heather Santiago

Make a Wish

Cameron Foster

A Shelf Poem

Anisa Lateef

Beep Voicemail

Heather Santiago

Into Nothing

contents poetry and prose Megan Finan

50-53

Flying

Jordan Valiquette

54-55

Inspired by Taylor Swift

Ayesha Sultana

Endlessly

Jordan Valiquette

In the World of Your TV

Lauren Farrell

In Hopes to Escape Dreaming

Jayleen Rolon

Bless Their Hearts When We Paint the Grass Green

Joely Torres

60-61

Anisa Lateef

Weedy

Ayesha Sultana

Crimson Snow

Joely Torres

A Bottle of Ink

Nicholas Nissen

11 Steps on How to Wrassle a Deer

Lee Smith

66-67

Birls and Goys

Joely Torres

Paterson

Lee Smith

Wasteland Maze

Kyle Strouse

Stopping by Town on an Autumn Evening

Anonymous

The Tree That Could Talk

Ayesha Sultana

Wisdom’s Advice

Gianna Tyahla

The Last Look

“you came into this season not knowing what tomorrow would bring, but you made the brave decision to keep trusting and to keep going, and even on days like this, that means something” — Morgan Harper Nichols 5

contents art and photography Brianna titus

(cover)

Gianna Tyahla

(masthead)

Colorhorse Fade

Heather Santiago

House in the Clouds

Brianna Titus

Colorhorse

Brianna Titus

Durability vs. Fragility

Lilly Ward

Gilbert

Lilly Ward

The Reason for the High Divorce Rate of the Socks in my Drawer

Ji-Yoo Han

Side Bangs

Brianna Titus

Racehorses

Gabrielle Mclean

Sunrise

Matthew Meritonia

College Kids

Ji-Yoo Han

Obstructions

Gabrielle Mclean

Cherry Blossoms

Ji-Yoo Han

Side Glance

Lilly Ward

Maidenchair Fern

Robyn Abrams

Futiuchionna

Lee Smith

Funhouse Mirror

Ayesha Sultana

Crimson Snow

Gianna Tyahla

Bliss Self Portrait

Gabrielle Mclean

(back cover)

Treebark

house in the clouds heather santiago

the first look

a note from the executive editor Whence in time and space I write this, it’s been a toasty day–somewhere between June and May. This virtual semester really went out with a whisper, didn’t it? So it seems to me, at least. Yet, in spite of our collective Springy solitude (or perhaps owing to it), the creative energies of TCNJ students have evidently been flowing, and once again the opportunity to admire the resulting, shimmering fruits of artistic and literary labor is at hand. From wastelands to Wednesdays, from mosses to blossoms, each work in this magazine brings its own kind of charm to light. I believe that, with thanks to our fellow creatives, we have been able to put together a magazine that brings a little special something to the table for everyone. After reading it, I hope you feel like you can say the same. Between the time your eyes read over this “First Look” and the start of next Autumn, I call upon you to gather your thoughts, your feelings, your beliefs, your experiences, and write them to life. You, the writer, are the lifeblood of this magazine, and you, the reader, are its voice. Without you, this student-run publication would cease to be, and so for you–the reader and writer alike–I express my sincerest gratitude. An immense and personal thank you goes out to my Editorial Board members, who have continually committed their best efforts through this most draining virtual semester to provide TCNJ with its (soon to be physically printed!) one and only literary magazine. Likewise, I wholeheartedly thank the General Board members who took the time to attend our meetings and engage with our mission–you are all VERY appreciated. Thus ends my year as Executive Editor. Next time you see me will be on the “The Last Look” page! Isn’t that exciting? Until then: write, write, write! Smiles,

Filip Maziarz Executive Editor

colorhorse brianna titus

cameron foster

that 2020 feeling (Inspired by Tracy K. Smith’s “At Some Point, They’ll Want To Know What It Was Like”) There was something about how it felt. Not just the middle of it--That sudden uncertainty and bated breath, masks and gloves, the whole country, The quickness we had to act and lockdown---but mostly the beginning. The waiting, not knowing what would become. Shiver. Contentedness then nervousness. Then the hesitant reopening of after. Tables and chairs thrown outside like an easy fix. Somehow you keep yourself from going out to eat. You just stay inside. The best was having your family. Not alone. Not abandoned. And finding the love in you, the body, to return.

joely torres

being home

i used to think there was something too heavy within me to allow me to float on water. it is a skill that I had yet to master until I arrived at culebra. from the second my tanned feet kissed the fine, white sand i heard Yemaya call out to me. no brown-green jersey water could have prepared me for the ancestral waters of the motherland. i swam into her and cried from the overwhelming feeling of being home my salty tears joining hers, my body joining hers and Yemaya, eternal mother of all, held me, kissing and cradling me. i let her pour over me and lift me up, offering me to her brother, Obatala, and there i floated and listened and learned all the secrets that the isla del encanto withholds for its descendants. i floated and listened and learned each time Yemaya endowed me with her lessons, each time she anointed me with her body. as i floated, she spoke into my ear and i let her wisdom fill me. years later, i am still waterlogged.

jayleen rolon

if you’ve lost someone You know the phrase. “I’m so sorry” in voices dripping with pity in the same way that the news itself was enveloped in black. People apologize to you, as a way to say that they wish you did not have to go through this. You know they mean it wholeheartedly, you really do, but it changes nothing. It doesn’t bring the sound of their voice, it doesn’t bring their embrace, it doesn’t change the fact that you are living in the world without them. It’s a bandaid on the resection of a heart. I had a friend tell me “that sucks” because he didn’t want to be another “I’m so sorry,” & we bonded over sharing the overbearing weight of grief. To be clear, as you know, that still didn’t change anything, but it did make me feel heard. It seemed as if he could hear the aching of my entire being, & maybe remembered his own, as he said those words. They say “I’m so sorry,” you say “it’s okay” when it’s not; he said “that sucks,” I said “yeah.”

filip maziarz

highway as destination tiny road-killed creature’s fate becomes to be infinitely ground into pavement–– under astral eyes, weathering skies, the rolling roar of human thunder–– and change from flesh to fur to bone; metamorphosing to one, whose swinging, singing, final friend is tailwind at the dust.

heather santiago

on clarity For Clarity As a Writer As a Human My ideas are like skeletons, rickety and disjointed, hollow, with only the outline of their true form. My thoughts are like opaque ghosts passing through. To the eye they appear solid and fully formed, but upon closer examination they are almost nonexistent, blown away easily by the slightest breath, not strong enough to hold up a feather. My feelings are like twigs in a river. They float slowly on by, allowing me to see but not touch. . My understanding is like an ice cube in a warm palm, able to be grasped for a moment before it slips away, leaving behind a cold, wet memory, the remnants of that which was there only a moment ago. I hope that one day my ideas will become pinatas, hard and colorful on the outside and filled to bursting with just as much color and even more flavor on the inside. I hope that my thoughts will be like a bull, thick and real and coming right at you. I hope that my feelings will be like baking a dessert, messy and tangible with many parts that come together to form the perfect cake, one that fills you up with just a slice. And I hope that my understanding will be like a sponge, that I will absorb that which is new and necessary and squeeze out that which is old and invalid, one that can be used to help wipe clean the world and make it shine. I hope for clarity.

durability vs fragility brianna titus

gilbert lilly ward

anisa lateef

sleepy’s craving those velvet dreams about snowboarding on zippers across the cotton candy sky as taylor swift songs submerge the soundscape back when the daydreams spilled into the unconscious so naturally like cranberry juice into fluffy creme carpeting like stars into a navy skyline. Lying supine atop virgin mattresses in your outside-hoodie, black jeans and dad sneakers all you notice are the clumps of gravel pooling between shoulder blades and your back plastered against that comically large plastic price tag. You never understood why sitcoms paint mattress shopping like “a thrilling coming of age” moment. It’s always just four white walls stuffed with stacked squishy rectangles of foam and feathers and fear and frenzy and future inklings of distress and stranger stained duvets. A warehouse full of restless dreamers all thinking the same thought: That a new slab of bedroom rectangle will expel their nightmare-laced whispers because that’s cozier than therapy. Staring into the heights of a bleak warehouse ceiling limbs extended and stretched, you wait for the life to be zapped back into you since you’re already horizontal until the polite mattress man asks you if you’d like to see the matching comforter set.

megan finan

an ode to words words are my love, stringing them together like popcorn and cranberries on a thread until something beautiful is made. but words are inadequate, dear reader, and this pains me to say. is it love if i can clearly see their faults? because words are like butter raindrops, and i am outside in a thunderstorm. i grasp at the sky, trying to catch them all. but they melt in my palms, and all I’m left with are the movie theater streaks of poignant truth. words are inadequate, always only half of life. they cannot encapsulate the raw emotion i have felt, or imagined, or wanted to share with you, dear reader.

still i love them, perhaps because of their faults. i want to make these streaks of butter so brilliant so vibrant they feel whole despite being a melted half. until then all i can offer you is my sweaty, buttery palm in hopes it is enough.

catherine hom

i understand katy perry i understand Katy Perry. as a plastic bag, drifting through the wind, wanting to start again, i know how difficult it is, firsthand. everybody wants a piece of me except for the ones who made me. the birds tear me apart, but they get sick of me too and drop me into the ocean, where turtles think me food. oh, what would it be like? to be a jellyfish, swimming in the ocean blue, stinging anyone who dares to come near. when all is said and done, i sit at the bottom of the sea, waiting for something to come to me.

the reason for the high divorce rate of the socks in my closet lilly ward

jordan valiquette

lemon girl i lie awake more nights than not staring out my window watching her dance behind the glass her soul twirling on my street a trail of stardust on my front lawn in the morning i open my window to her in the fresh air the taste of lemonade that refreshing bitter sweet exactly what you’re craving full of sugar and summer and sour screaming yearning feeling without wanting to lets the flowers speak for her (she has too many thoughts for her tongue to pick just one) i let myself feel the rhythm pulsing in her body i let her wrap her hands around my waist her lips around my neck her teeth around my lips her words don’t stop at my ears or my brain they crawl deeper into me they see my soul sitting lonely on the playground and ask if she wants a friend to listen to her and say “Darling, everything’s gonna be okay.”

side bangs ji-yoo han 21

samantha colditz

an apology from a girl with curls To all the women who have brushed my hair, I am sorry. Do you check under your beds at night? Not for a monster but for something much worse. Crazy. Cuban. Curls. I imagine you do after dealing with me. So this one is for all of you. To the students at cosmetology school. When you took on the job at some kid’s birthday party, Were you expecting someone like me? Multiple girls working on my hair. Finishing long after cake was served. To the woman at the mall. You were just doing your job. Until I came through the door. I heard what you said. “Did they give me her as a punishment?” I hope you don’t brush curly hair anymore. To all the women who tried straightening my hair. You tried your best. And I never saw anything wrong. But now when I look back. I see that you didn’t know how to handle it any other way. So instead you used a flat iron.

To the woman I’m currently seeing. I know how you envy my hair. Comparing it to yours every time I see you. And funny enough, I think that’s why you’re the best stylist I’ve ever had. So keep doing what you’re doing. To my mother. I know it wasn’t easy. But thank you for telling me about Miss Jessie’s Multicultural Curls. And for the years of brushing the knots out. My hair isn’t like yours. And yet you understand it better than anyone else. And finally, to myself. I’m sorry for keeping it long for so many years. And also, for wasting all the hot water while I combed through the curls. But most importantly, For never understanding how blessed I was, To have the hair I do.

racehorses brianna titus

filip maziarz

observer in summer The sun had lowered and the air grown cold– Those few who felt no change remained. A male and female youth sat by the lakeside for a little while, Truthsaying warmth back and forth. After the little while, the girl played a song. The waking crickets sang along. The boy a prance. The same, the fireflies danced. And after a little while longer, all were in the rhythm: Spinning, shaking, shouting, Living around the grass together. The water-lilied lake parted before their joy. As I watched them sink into the liquid night, Their lives fizzled out before my sight. Imbibe in foison For thou lovest poison Had I not warned you Precious soul so brazen Respite sure granted To hedonists so frantic

ayesha sultana

gamble on

Loveless hearts of the arctic Merciless, sins too drastic Heights of despair So drugs you dare Dabble thy soul In Satan’s liquor No succor

Dread of every ego on that fateful day Can’t turn back time Nothing left to say Before the last breath escapes Capture in your heart God’s Eternal Love Be it thy end, and thy start Until then, May death never do you apart

Endless dysphoria Forbidden euphoria Aimless endeavors Guilty pleasures Serenity lost The player’s cost Game over too soon Can’t rewind nor replay

sunrise gabrielle mclean

lily ward

ping pong If it is Bruised, Broken, Slow moving, Do we still call it an impulse? Mine—It waits preserved in a perfected patience Masquerading as an acceptance

Your response An impartial anticipation of my movements You would call it “reassurance” I say it is a dismissal

Yours—I can’t pretend to know what yours is like. You have never said. “It is what it is” You have said it. Or maybe some other version of it. Again. Is it alright then to wait in stillness For it to become all that it is not? You may pretend to be content in winter, but I will wait for spring And I feel the arrival But I fear that it is not a physical presence It has not yet set down its suitcase Isn’t even here yet But I beg—stay And you would think but never say this is foolish of me. What can you produce to cover the gaping expanse of silence between us? Search the archives, Read through old messages Sent by numb fingers And if you’re reading from your script again Please be off book by this time next week This conversation is no more consequential than a game of ping pong I am losing patience with your efforts to end the game You paid no attention to the score To the flicks of my wrist

Life is so perfect But how can that be California’s ablaze NY a haze Life is perfect But my head feels like weights Palms and soles sweaty ice cold As my mistakes unfold Life is so perfect I can’t even think Books piled up My heart starts to sink Life is perfect As I run past the graves in my backyard Thinking that will be me But how can I enter so scarred Would the earth vomit me up Or crush my bones Call me with disdain Glare at me with scorn For the undone deeds I’ve sworn Life is so perfect What a life I’ve made Nothing yet accomplished My debts to God unpaid My life is perfect Nothing but a perfect lie Your life is too No matter how much you deny

ayesha sultana

life is so perfect

Perfection lies in serenity Yet how many of us seek Searching an eternity Our attempts too weak It comes and goes so fret nor fear But when death approaches Make sure perfection is near Then, life will be perfect

college kids matthew mentonis

filip maziarz

the funny thing about friends who am i to you now? who are you to me? have we moved beyond an age of mutual wish to see? months have weathered away your voice, years away your face; times together spent are gone– like sneakers, ties unlaced. i hold no feeling of contempt when you come to me in thought, i just pity the histories– that they were all for nought.

catherine hom

the charli drink curséd charli d’amelio is the cause of my pain. her trendy tiktok moves and good looks helped her rise to fame. alas, a partnership with dunkin’ donuts is to blame. the charli drink was quite the experience, and i will never be the same. my tastebuds disagreed, but it is true that i will never forget her name. for even now, it spins around in my brain.

obstructions ji-yoo han

anisa lateef

wednesday Her apartment building was adjacent to ours behind the Home Depot. I’d watch Rosie and her mom cradle those Nickelodeon orange buckets full of washers and nails back and forth from the back window. Rose, but all her friends called her Rosie. We were separated by zero school bus seats in second grade. One afternoon, Rosie unzipped the front pocket of her electric yellow Pikachu backpack to unveil the tiniest stuffed bear I’d ever seen. The entire torso was barely the size of my seven year old palm with an even smaller milk bottle the size of a jolly rancher. Her mom brought home kid’s meals the night before and she already got the brown bear, so she shoved it into my arms and we retreated to our shared slice of imagination as the bus bounced all the way home. And there was that holiday season when she invited me over to decorate her Christmas tree. Clothing trees with popcorn strings and technicolor orbs was all alien to this Muslim girl, but I’ll never forget that Saturday in December. We dressed the towering evergreen in cherry and glitter orbs with sheens identical to the one they spray onto candy bar wrappers. Then life happened. I mean, life always is happening but this was the kind of life that moved me across town separated by a fistful of streets and train station in between. And seven more years happened before I ran into Rosie at the township’s girls volleyball summer camp. It was a weeklong, but it took me three days to muster up the courage to ask her if she remembered the popcorn, bus rides and tinsel wrapped good-times. I envisioned this grand reunion from the tv shows overflowing with bewilderment and hugs, but it took one five-second stare for her to say she didn’t remember. My elementary best friend didn’t remember how my mom never let me go to McDonalds during the week or order a kid’s meal with an accompanying animal friend inside to promote whatever animated animal movie was cool in the mid 2000s. So life kept happening into high school. I’d see Rose by the mall’s only bubble tea stand outside the Victoria’s Secret with her sophomore friends or a row away in the high school’s gym for the December SATs because our last names are only two first letters away or double tap her prom photos with fresh auburn dyed hair. I guess best friends and wednesdays in volleyball camp are only good for poems twelve years later.

cherry blossoms gabrielle mclean 34

joely torres

oluwatoyin salau “why Toyin’s body don’t embody all the life she wanted” - noname Oluwatoyin means god is worthy of praise in yoruba. one of the languages native to my ancestors of borinken the origin of my abuela’s spirituality we praise obatala, yemaya, oshun in yoruba. i felt your presence in the deja vu i experienced reading your story though our family trees entwine generations on generations back your name already sits comfortably in my mouth and your spirit feels so familiar to me. i can see it in the women i love and hold dear to me i feel like i already know you. like i see myself in you. or maybe it’s your age. or your girlhood. or your ferocity. the strength of your voice, your grit and determination, your drive for equality and your willingness to fight for yourself to the point where it cost you your life god worthy of praise but even in the face of unnecessary death: the premature loss of an empowered teen girl who died in the name of accusing her abuser? god worthy of praise but too proud to offer any explanation any whisper of why a candle so bright had to be extinguished so quickly god we know who did it. we always know who rips the life away from teen girl to teen girl prayers up for our dying daughters. prayers up for our disappearing dissenters. prayers up but never look around for the guilty party even though we know who the culprit is. a men. 35

side glance ji-yoo han

gail kelly

i cut my hair Each curl falling to my feet is a cable tie. I’m not strong enough to snap them, I have to shear them off. I cut my hair and my mom pretends to like it. She tells me I should just get it fixed up by someone that knows what they’re doing. My grandma doesn’t pretend. She reminds me of how much prettier I looked with ringlets framing my face. Suddenly, my hands are tied behind my back. I cut my hair until it is so short it no longer forms curls. I appraise the disaster at my feet, on my shoulders, in the mirror. It’s good to feel ugly it’s good to feel ugly it’s good to feel ugly. I cut my hair, every falling curl is a broken cable tie. I grieve for each one, I mourn the time I lost in the pursuit of pretty. I remind myself that the hair was already dead.

anisa lateef

green leather town I found my disappointment proprietor next door: Disconcerting Gatsby in his unfinished caramel-colored suit having lunch with me himself together under the windmill with that American absence rigid youth and more formless grace beside the cucumber sandwiches. The shape of admiration: simple, rich and pretty like tool boxes full of a dozen suns in my eyes so plainly unmirrored.

ariel steinsaltz

the power

It wasn’t fair, Anya said, sitting on the park bench with her arms around her legs, glancing across the street at the gray, stone building. The man who owned that company was a monster, one who defrauded the public and stole money from the innocent. But he was still alive. He was still alive, and Morgan wasn’t. Morgan, who had spent all her free time volunteering with children in need, or at the animal shelter, or picking up litter from the very park Anya now sat in. There was more litter around, and there always would be now, marks of humanity’s indifference to the world. And one fewer good person to pick it up. With a sigh, she got up and picked a little up herself, tossing it into the trash can. She had never been as good as Morgan was, she knew that. And yet her sister had loved her. Loved her so much that she had driven 400 miles just so Anya wouldn’t spend her birthday alone, so much that she had sold her precious locket, a gift from their grandmother, to help pay Anya’s way into medical school. Now her generosity and selflessness burned inside of Anya like an indictment of all she failed to be. Why was she not kind? Why did she not care for others the way that Morgan did? But that wasn’t even the right question, because she did care. She just didn’t act. The impulse her sister had possessed, the drive to always help others, simply didn’t seem to be present inside of Anya. All she knew was that Morgan deserved to be alive, and Todd Marshall didn’t. “I wish...” she started, then stopped herself. “Don’t stop now,” said a voice, and she whipped her head around. A creature stood there, one made entirely of shadow. “I do love a good wish. What do you desire?”

“I wish I could trade that monster’s life for my sister’s,” she said plainly, her tone seeped in bitterness. She was being stupid, she knew, and such things were impossible. But so were things made all of shadow, and yet she had not even blinked at the sight of it. “You wish for the power to control life and death?” the creature asked. “I suppose?” Anya said. Now her tone was less certain, more afraid. “But that’s ridiculous. To control life and death would be to have the power of a god.”

“No,” said the creature. “It would be to have the power of Death. More powerful than a god, I should think. Do you want this power?” “What are you?” Anya asked. “What is your trick?” “I have no trick. Simply the power you seek.” “You’re... Death?” “In a manner of speaking. Do you want my power?” “You would just hand it over?” “Yes.” The creature smiled. “Then all you must do,” it said, “Is put this on.” It removed a silvery chain from its neck and handed it to Anya, who took it, fingers trembling. “It can’t be this simple.” “But it is.” She placed the chain around her neck, and despite her shaking fingers, managed to fasten the clasp. “Alright then. That’s done.” The creature’s grin changed, to one more devious. Then it opened its mouth, or void, and laughed. “Why are you laughing?” “Because you’ve taken my power. Soon enough you’ll see what a burden it is.” Then the creature blinked away, and Anya frowned. “I... I wish to trade Todd Marshall’s life for my sister Morgan’s,” she said out loud. There was a crack, like the loudest thunder she had ever heard, and the sky split open. Her head split open with it, and she crumpled to the ground, screaming from the agony of it all. “Anya?” said a voice. “Anya, what’s wrong?” When she looked up, the storm had settled, and there was her sister, standing over her, her face full of concern. “Morgan!” “Yes. I’m confused, Anya, last I remembered I was dying.” “It’s all going to be okay now.” “Is it?” Before Anya could reply, the sound of sirens rent the air. An ambulance was headed for the stone building across the street, the building where Todd Marshall currently lay on the floor, gasping his final breaths. She could feel it, could feel the life leaving him. “Yes,” she said firmly, looking at her sister. “Anya.” Morgan wasn’t confused anymore; she was backing away from her sister, her eyes wide like an animal trapped by headlights. “What have you done?”

maidenhair fern lily ward

kyle strouse

an ode to sphagnum moss

Swamps have a bad reputation. Most associate them with quite dastardly things; witches, perhaps, or snakes or eels. And while the latter can be found there every so often, this should not distract from the fact that an Atlantic Cedar Swamp in the sunny light of spring is one of Nature’s most beautiful creations. I have the pleasure of observing one now, situated between a densely packed population of oaks and a vast expanse of brush and shrubbery. All swamps share some common characteristics; slow moving or stagnant water, with an abundance of moss, lichen, ferns and mud. But whereas your normal, everyday bog might boast a collection of bugs and blackgum trees, there’s something about a cedar swamp that makes the viewer pause, breathe, smile and stare. For those not familiar with the cedar, it’s a thin, sparsely branched specimen that shoots straight into the air with a sound and a fury, characterized by grey-white, brittle, twine-like bark and black barrel-shaped cones. Like humans, they have a particular affection for water; and prefer to grow near it as such. The water here, like the soil, is incredibly acidic. It is either slow-moving or stagnant, and easily identifiable due to its crimson-tinted hues, a side-effect of iron and other assorted minerals. It’s not uncommon to find small fish, particularly minnows, enjoying a summer swim in these sleepy streams, and the frogs are as abundant as felines in urban jungles. Sleepy birds sing in the canopies, and sweet-smelling plants blossom in May and early June, carrying their scents on gentle breezes. When the sun does break through the lofty cover, it dances on the dew and dampness in graceful hues, leaving the greens and reds twinkling. It’s hard to believe, staring at all this life, that swamps are built on graveyards. Not human ones, of course, but that of our distant relative sphagnum moss. Sphagnum moss is a marvel of mother nature. They’re short, green creatures, with stout stems and soft leaves, that can contain, dead or alive, up to twenty-six times their weight in water. This incredible skill allows them to act as a sort of swampy sponge, absorbing excess liquid that would otherwise interfere with the natural ecology of these biomes. Viewing the vast mats of soft, flat flowers, one cannot shake the feeling that they are encountering some compact relic of an ancient era lost to humans, when creatures larger and lankier than us roamed the Earth. Completely alien to the human eye; and yet so beautiful. But as I watch these mossy tentacles sway in the breeze, it occurs to me how important it is that these lovely plants die. You see, when sphagnum moss reaches the end of its lifecycle, it is overtaken by the spores of other sphagnum mosses that take its place. The old makes way for the new, and another carpet is installed on the spongy layer of water these organisms call home. As the old moss withers it becomes buried under this new layer of green, and rather quickly finds itself submerged in soggy soil. The light dims, the screen fades to black, and what was once living is now--quickly and unceremoniously--deceased.

I met someone the other day who was scared of death. Seeing people die can have that effect; it’s a painful thing if done without the assistance of painkillers, and reminds us quite frankly of our own mortality. But the man in question--a young one, at that--was mortified of what would happen when the heart stops beating and the neurons stop firing. I knew him quite well. Everyone's had that tingling feeling in the back of their skull at some point; that inescapable dread that one day, near or soon, sunny or cast in shadow, the senses and sensations we take for granted will all slink away like dirty water in a cosmic sink. Existential indeed. It’s hard to comfort someone facing a problem like that. A problem with no known solution. If sphagnum moss was as existentially anxious as humans, I’m afraid it’s likely swamps wouldn’t exist. 12,000 years ago, when the last ice age receded from America’s Eastern Coast and created the New Jersey Pine Barrens, the first sphagnum moss likely lived and died. Imagine the horror of being the first; a strange organism in a strange landscape,

surrounded by strangers and streams of blood-like water. Confined to a body that’s only purpose seems to be absorbing water and spreading spores. Our gripes about living and dying seem rather puny in comparison. As I watch the moss sit on top of the murky water and move lazily against the stream, I can’t help but think about the movement of our genes, each and every day, propelling us forward however slowly towards extending and expanding life. A great universal orchestra where the players are replaced and the instruments swapped and the music ebbs and flows but never, ever, ever ceases its continuity or inherent beauty. Sphagnum moss must die. It simply couldn’t happen any other way. As layers become layered and dead leaves turn to dirt, which over time become layered themselves, there slowly forms beneath all that water and foam a red-velvet cake of dead organic matter that, like sphagnum moss itself, helps keep the water level of swamps in check. We humans like to call this peat moss. Without it, red bogs would turn to blue lakes and cedars to sandy silt. The animals would leave or die, the landscape would fade, and everything I love about this view would perish quickly and quietly, like leaves after the last Autumn chill. Peat moss is so significant, in fact, that it can be argued the most important aspect of sphagnum moss’s lifestyle, besides creating more of itself, is dying. How ironic. The greatest trick the universe ever pulled might be making life’s most significant event the same moment that it simultaneously ceases. What a clever magician. It’s growing late now. The sun dips below the horizon, casting the swamp in an orange-amber hue. Birds twinkle their songs before crickets take up the melody, mixing the swoosh of the stream with the strum of their silky legs. Dusk will follow, as will clouds, hazing all with a gentle mist. Night is inevitable. But as I sit here, staring at all this wildlife, living and breathing and dying and nurturing with no thought of decay, it’s clear that death is just nature’s way of sending us on another path. We know not what lies on it, or whether the way is clear and sure. But surely it goes on. Surely, it goes on.

heather santiago

a chance I want the chance to live. I want the chance to plant red and pink and purple and blue hydrangeas in front of the house I want the chance to have. I want the chance to meet my friends at a bar on a Friday night and laugh until we cry. The chance to wake up on a Sunday and do nothing but sit on my couch in front of a glistening Christmas tree, that I should have taken down a week ago, with a bar of chocolate and a new book that I will spend the entire day reading as it quietly snows outside. The chance to wake up at an ungodly hour, wiping the crust out of my eyes, get dressed and work so hard all day that when I finally crawl into bed, exhausted, I fall asleep within minutes. I want the chance to start learning to play a new song, start painting a new picture, start writing a new story and fail so miserably that I put it away, out of my mind, move on and never ever come back to it. The chance to stand in a line for hours complaining about the wait time and how my feet hurt, until I come to the end of the line and realize that what I was waiting for made it all worth it (or not). I want the chance to hear a new song that will make my heart feel as though it were going to expand, break free of my chest and float away into the sky that I will listen to for the rest of my life, followed by a song that makes me frown and wince and vow never to listen to again (although undoubtedly it will become stuck in my head out of nowhere). I want the chance to be so busy that I go to sleep and wake up and weeks have passed without my noticing. I want the chance to be so bored that each minute feels like an hour. 42

The chance to feel the warmth of a bath as I slip beneath the surface, the cool of the sea as I crash into the waves. I want the chance to order a meal, be served the wrong dish and eat it anyway. To go back another night and this time have the courage to correct the mistake. I want the chance to feel indignance in my chest if my efforts and hard work go unnoticed, the swelling of pride when they do. The chance to feel a thrill as I walk down the aisle, the rush as my child is born, the nostalgia as I notice life moving forward. I want the chance to grit my teeth and get through a day that I will try hard to shut from memory. I want the chance to be in a moment, stop, look around me and know that I will never ever forget it. I want the chance to be happy. I want the chance to be sad. The chance to laugh. The chance to cry. The chance to love and be loved. The chance to be hated. To be proud. To be nervous. To be excited. To be numb. To be skeptical. To be amused. To be heartbroken. To be furious. To be loud and to be quiet. To be successful. To inspire. To create. To give. To feel. I want the chance to live.

Futakuchionna robyn abrama 44

heather santiago

make a wish my eye itches, the lashes poking, begging to be plucked. i let my unconscious take over as my fingers reach up and pick, pick, pick, over and over until the itch fades away. eyelashes fall like soldiers at war. they sit on my fingertips, and when the gush of wind from my lips blows at them like the Big Bad Wolf, they hold on for dear life. unlike the third Little Pig’s house, my eyelashes stand no chance. i refuse to let a single, precious wish slip out of my grasp. with each lash, the chances of my wish coming true increases. but what happens when I have nothing left? no more wishes, my eyes left to fend for themselves against dirt, dust, and lint. what then? i wish for more wishes. i wish my lashes would grow back faster. i wish i had the guts to actually do something about my wishes, instead of just sitting here, mindlessly plucking away, wishing on something so frail and indefinite. i know there’s no guarantee, yet still, i wish.

cameron foster

A Shelf Poem: Courtesy of the Book Titles, Quotes, and Other Potpourri on My Bookshelf “Please, you tried to kill my dreams,” You may have sprung The Trap, But my Fury is Rising. The Lying Game is over so Don’t Call Me Crazy. I am diving Into the Water. I am hitting The Road because You Asked for Perfect, You wanted it Like A Love Story. I’d Give You The Sun And all you brought me was Love & Other Curses. I thought Anything Could Happen. I thought it was just The Music of What Happens. I thought I could just Carry On. I tried balancing on this Bridge of Clay, But this Dark Matter came down hard. All I needed was Inspiration And that gave me a Release. I got out of the Misery, And sped away in The Last Star. I am now On My Own And yet I don’t need a Visitor’s Guide & a list of what to see in an hour. I wage across these Broken Lands, Seeking my Revival. Don’t try to Find Me Because It’s Kind of a Funny Story.

anisa lateef

beep voicemail can you imagine if i confessed my infatuations for you through a poem I got published in the college literary magazine. i’d text you the link to a pdf version because I always send you my writings but this time you’ll scroll through to find this publicly published declaration of my ooey-gooey bubbling butterfly feelings, sweet but more like a clump of melted, summered raisins than a chocolate fountain alas here i am daydreaming about waltzes through the kitchen to “love story” (taylor’s version (obviously)) you smirking that stupid smirk that showcases your dimples on full display as a loaf of french toast bread struggles to rise against the push of gravity we’d be that couple with matching nose rings instead of wedding bands and everytime i’d get irritated you’d go to the dollar store and buy two armfuls of balloons because you can’t be mad at someone holding balloons but if you actually read this far feel free to close the tab or tear this poem out of your book lightly crumple it into an elegant ball of shmush before placing it in the nearest recycling bin. i only ask that you do this gently like placing a glass jar at the bottom of the towering ochre cylinder waiting for an avalanche of fruit containers and empty yogurt cups quietly alone, yet seemingly always surrounded

funhouse mirror lee smith 48

heather santiago

into nothing She sat at the edge of the sand, legs splayed out to the side, one hand laying across her ankles, the other holding her up. Her hair, falling from the loose braid fluttered softly, like yellow linen curtains slowly billowing in the gentle breeze of a summer afternoon. She looked out with hazel eyes across the shimmering water, the seagulls bobbing like corks just beyond the crashing waves. She felt as if she were in a dream, though the smell of salt and the feeling of each individual grain of sand against her skin was as clear and real as the blue sky above her. She felt cocooned in the openness. In that moment, she was at peace, away from those who loved her and those whom she loved, whose pressures, although well meaning, were sometimes too much to bear. She sat away from responsibility and worry and pain and in that moment, that dream place, she became a part of the horizon of sand and water. She wanted to remember this moment forever, to live in it, for as long as she could, to close her eyes and return to this place, this feeling, when the pressure and responsibility and worry all returned. She would feel the gentle stroke of the breeze on her cheek, hear the sound of the waves, and the ever so delicate rustle of sand blown in the wind until, like a dream, it would slip away, moment by moment, piece by piece, into nothing.

megan finan

flying All I see are wine-colored clouds. Red like roses, rosé like peaches, white like fresh snow. I’m barefoot in the hot air balloon, wicker basket leaving grooves on the soles of my feet. I wonder what the clouds feel like. Pillows or feathers or whipped cream. They all sound better than this wicker basket. The sunset colors the clouds, the pilot tells me. I don’t spare a glance at him, simply nodding at the clouds. He was very judgmental about my bare feet even though I assured him I shower daily. Why waste time on such a jerk when I have clouds to yearn over? I wonder what they taste like. Maybe they taste like wine.

I drank wine for the first time when I was ten. My mama let me sip at her glass. Now, every time I drink wine I feel rebellious like I’m still ten-years-old. Wine is logical, but I am pulled toward the bubbly conclusion of champagne. Wine is just too rebellious for something so perfect. Champagne, now that’s special. The elixir of the gods. The pilot says something about how we are three hundred or three thousand or three million feet above the ocean. I ignore him. He’s being stupid again. I can’t even see the ocean up here.

I wonder what it would be like to be a cloud. I’d probably feel as giggly as three hundred flutes of champagne or three thousand rosé roses or three million snowflakes. I wouldn’t have to think about finances or responsibilities or people anymore. I confess, I was never very good at that. Mama always said I never think of the consequences, my head is always in the clouds. I giggle to myself. She doesn’t know how right she is. Is anything funny? the pilot asks. The clouds, I answer,

lifting my bare foot off the painful wicker floor and over the edge of the basket that confines me like a cage, like finances and responsibilities and people. I sit, balancing on the edge of the basket and giggle. This is fun. The pilot gasps like I’m in danger. Silly man just doesn’t understand. He needs to let go a little, take his shoes off, live on the edge. Miss, let me help you down. That is not safe. Please do not jump. You have so much to live for. I giggle again. Such a silly man. Of course I have so much to live for and that is why I jump. 52

still drunk on wine and champagne.

I’m flying.

jordan valiquette

inspired by taylor swift and poems on lovesick pinterest boards i will always look at you in red. seldom have you made me angry, but often have you made me move to the left and right just to see the sunset a little bit differently. with you, i have tried on glasses dozens of pairs at a time, each one a slightly altered prescription. to view the same bed sheets at fifteen different angles is more profound an experience than rolling down that hill in the summer and getting a rash from the rough blades of grass and the heat.

it was a reminder that i was a child, you were a child, we were both children, mature and scared shitless. we were cold fingertips in mittens and layers of blankets and nights of hot panic and tepid dreams.

but you always felt like warm hugs and rainy sunday mornings. i’ve wept so many nights for something that i didn’t understand, though now i accept that i never will. it feels ridiculous to mourn for what you could never know, something that only lightly brushes against your hands and makes the hairs on your neck stand en pointe, a spirit running so quickly through your body and back out before you can even ask its name. it’s holding funerals for part of you that’s not dead yet because you feel its laboring breaths and your head grows lighter while the rest of your body falls to the floorboards with a heavy thud. i thought i saw you walk out of the room, but i later found out that you never left.

i am a cat in the sense that i have died and will die to live just one more time. i died last night by my own wine-drunk lips and woke up with a pounding in my skull. i will continue to live in filth and sadness and nihilism because soon i will die and be reborn into tattoo ink and butterflies and existentialists' wet dreams. i am to life as the chrysalis is to the caterpillar. it will come to me before i take another step.

ayesha sultana

endlessly Over and over again, I’m falling down Over and over again, I’m about to drown The sinning cycle never ends What have I become Over and over again, darkness and I am one Running and running away, from all the pain Wounds raw, tore the bandage off Healed or not, what do I care Feeling so numb and lost In my despair I found love in the One from above I will not lie, the pain remains Though now I have someone to hold Someone to grasp while I pray Bowed my head to the ground God how did I end up this way Never felt this pain First time a huge mistake Second time was the same Burned my soul at the stake Why did I do it all Just stay silent girl Too many mistakes you spoke Too many hearts you broke 56

Now taste the ebony of your soul

Feel the mistakes sink in Shattered their goals Too selfish to give in Now girl run away Try to hide Pain will stay Enjoy the ride Over and over again, I’m falling down Over and over again, I’m about to drown The sinning cycle never ends What have I become Over and over again, darkness and I am one

jordan valiquette

in the world of your tv A woman runs around her house, picking things up as she goes and putting them down again. When she appears to have had enough of this, she calls, “Kids! It’s time to go!” Two children run down the stairs, a boy in a button-down shirt and a girl wearing a sundress. They do not speak, but simply stand by the door. They are, of course, exceptionally white children, and have standard-issue names. A golden retriever bounds out of a nearby room, barking. The woman smiles. “Are you ready to go, too?” She gives the dog a name, something cute. Then a man walks downstairs. “Everything’s packed,” he says with a smile. “Wonderful!” The children still do not speak, because they are very well-behaved children. The family walk outside to a car and all get in, and everything is perfect and they are going to head out on their vacation, when suddenly a volcano erupts nearby. The family screams as lava pours down the street, heading into their driveway after conveniently missing all the other driveways. The car starts to melt, and the family hit the eject button on the car, which sends them all flying through the air with jet packs. The scene goes silent, and a voice says, “We’re prepared for any eventuality!” and then says the brand and make of the car, and then the voice goes away and the family land safely on the roof of their house. “That was awesome!” says the boy, happy to have a line. The girl smiles to hide her disappointment at not getting a line. “Well, good thing we have the warranty,” says the father. “All cars equipped with two-year warranty,” says the voice. ~ “Did a commercial imply that your car would supply you with a jetpack?” asks the man on the screen in a friendly voice. He is wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. “Did you respond to that by driving your car into dangerous situations on purpose, because you wanted to fly away on a jetpack?” The picture shows a hospital room, in which a woman lies in bed wrapped in bandages, nodding. She does not speak, because the man doesn’t really care about her all that much. “Well,” says the man when the screen cuts back to him. “You’re in luck, because if that happened to you or a loved one, you might be entitled to compensation. Call the number on the screen if any of the following have happened to you.” The screen lists several highly unlikely scenarios, and the voice reads them out. Below all of the scenarios is a phone number. “Don’t wait,” says the voice. “Call today.” ~ “Was your car destroyed because you drove it into a dangerous environment in hopes of gaining a jetpack?” asks the woman. A man nearby nods, looking exasperated. “Were you promised a warranty only to learn that the company that promised it to you went out of business?” He nods again. “Were you denied an insurance claim because you drove the car into that situation yourself?” There is a third nod. “Well, have no fear, because better insurance is here!” The man is excited, and jumps up to claim his insurance. A number flashes on the screen below. ~ You kicked the TV. That was silly. Now you have to buy a new one.

lauren farrell

in hopes to escape dreaming Dreaming, I followed the will-o-wisp as one follows his heart And found the portal here; I’m the first to know where. Pride and wonder made me from my own world depart And lust for faerie dust and other treasures rare. Many a man has searched for the coveted land, Not knowing the “where” but still seeking fortunes grand. So I went through, not knowing the toll, without care And met strange creatures, and thought I treated them

How cruel that finding this place was all I’ve wanted: I have my pockets full, for many maps have led To bright gold, diamonds white, topaz blue, rubies Red: the color of the waterfalls, thanks to the Mer-Fish bones in their teeth, cheeks with unnatural flush, And when they sing siren songs, my vision must blur. How pale these Merpeople are! And how bright they blush! Fair, as the Mers’ skin, glowing like the moon they possess, And gold: aura of the will-o-wisps whom I chase. Pale and sullen from the pressure of the deep blue. I curse my selfish desire, all for a waste, But the sea is not blue, not here, it’s red reddest From the excessive hunt for anything to chew. They dine on fish, snakes, the ducklings who too far roam, Then brush pink scales from their hair with a seashell comb, So, distraught, I leave behind this gory lagoon To follow the sounds of the birds above who Coo and squawk and hoo, a cacophony in the sky. I go up the mountain to listen to their song. I ask, Are these wrens or doves, loud cry after cry? But I’m starting to think that my guesses are wrong. They look closer to hawks, falcons, or crows-- oh my! These are not birds of prey but swarms of pegasi! They circle above, like vultures patient and strong And follow me, to my dismay, as I move Coo and squawk and hoo, a cacophony in the sky. I go up the mountain to listen to their song. I ask, Are these wrens or doves, loud cry after cry? But I’m starting to think that my guesses are wrong. They look closer to hawks, falcons, or crows-- oh my! These are not birds of prey but swarms of pegasi! They circle above, like vultures patient and strong And follow me, to my dismay, as I move Treasure, though who cares for it knowing the awful cost? I gather rich horns and scales, but am full of dread, For the longer I remain, the more I am lost. Faerie dust highs are never worth my own life dead. Hunter to hunted, and now grievously haunted.

Yet though I follow, I always fall behind, rush And run and try, but here is the secret that

I shush: you see, the difference in how I thought of The Dreamland and how it really works is drastic. There is something about the human taste they love. I plead to wisps while I watch the creatures’ pageant: Did I not chase you in? Why won’t you chase me out? I thought I found Dreamland but here’s my seed of doubt: For I move in fear that my end will be tragic, And I find out, too late, that whoever said Magic could be weld by humans, that fool cannot say He has met the unicorns, Mer, and pegasi, Has never had Fae covet his bones as he lay, Has never seen horned horses chase the final cry, Has only aimed for control, and still never caught An awful will-o-wisp, which only leads to rot. That fool has no way of understanding, like I, That this place cannot be anything but a Lie, here with us, sing the sirens, please, why won’t you stay? At their mystic waterfalls, surface moongleaming, In a lush dense forest where the unicorns stray, Where Fae can’t lie but I know their words’ true meaning. As they possess teeth sharp but tongues even sharper, Hungry for dinner as night grows ever darker, And so I am left with no other way seeming: I must chase will-o-wisps in hopes to escape Dreaming.

jayleen rolon

bless their hearts The kids are pulled from diapers to desks, because the hours of pouring information into their heads will turn them into the obedient robots we need to change the world. They’re just children, all they know is eat, sleep, mess, repeat, so what difference does it make if they do that here or there? When they’re near, their messes spill onto the Sudoku that pulls our minds away from the bloodshed that lies a page flip away. Besides, knowledge is power. The adults strive for obedience above all, pushing us out of their arms into rows of desks at the first possible moment. We learn to blindly obey, & to memorize but never, ever think. Thinking leads to feelings & feelings lead to questions, which everyone is much too busy to answer, so why bother? Besides, our dollhouses aren’t concrete. All their worries are contained in a weightless bag of papers decorated with whatever smiling face they picked out as they play with the same food that made our hands rough. The questions they bombard us with are ones we never had time to explore once the world got a hold of our minds. One day, as they stare down unchecked bucket lists, they will long for their baby shoes again. Besides, they need a space to grow. Our playgrounds are battlegrounds for the war of tight, battered shoes & hand me down jackets. Whispers of stolen kisses crawl into half zipped bags, only to sneak under the colorful covers at night. Monsters of all shapes & sizes lurk in the sunshine of recess just as they do in the office, but the confusingly tired eyes above us have forgotten the thrill of the dirt, so they scold us for the mess, but all we remember is the muddy hand of our best friend. Besides, our hands hold plenty. All the boys do is roughhouse, they aren’t men who lay their heads down with the pressure of responsibility as their blanket after a long shift of misery. All the girls do is chase after the boys, they aren’t women who juggle mouths to feed with mourning their forfeited dreams. Their imaginations shield them from the darkness we are forced to face daily. Besides, we once had their innocence. We clutch our dump trucks & Barbies tightly before we need to drop them for keys & wallets. The scraped knees from hopscotch remind us that we have all the time in the world, an illusion ruined by the coffee-fueled lives waiting for us. All we want is to savor the magic of believing in the good guys who always beat the bad guys. Besides, our innocence was doomed from the start.

joely torres

when we paint the grass green i keep myself up at night trying to decide which nightmares are the most urgent: if i’d prefer drowning in coastal floods or choking on the fumes from flames that burn through recently rebuilt developments even though i know that i’ll never get the choice. just like your kids will never get the choice to know a world pre-pandemic. when you could hug and kiss strangers without hesitation. where you could watch crowds converge on movie screens without cringing, without wincing because they’re too close together. i’m too close to losing it. hope. i mean my sanity. my mind wonders if it will go before the clean water runs out or if i’ll have to be coherent when corporate tries to outreason rationing it. or starts up schemes to sell us clean bottled air. or a ticket to a planet waiting for us to kill it. is it ludicrous to hope i’m not lucid the day every island becomes new atlantis? when we paint the bone-dry grass green for the aesthetic of yesteryear. when butterflies are lumped in with dodo birds: just species so long extinct they sound fictitious. monarch’s dead while monarchs rule - writing textbooks that detail this lived-in history skimming over war and death, famine and death, plague and death, painting us the heroes and the villains 60

telling the story that armageddon never nuked us, no, it was a clever cunning bitch. a sadist serial killer that got kicks off watching us squirm watching us unknowingly kill ourselves and point fingers at invisible enemies and i mean how do i end this poem when i see no end? how to resolve it when the world’s left us no resolve? when the world was so beat to break the glass ceilings that it never questioned who the shards would rain down on, that it only asks us to be grateful that at least it still rains something that’s not acid or gasoline or blood or bombs but what does it all matter anyway? i’ve never been the rick grimes type to fight my way out of extinction because battles and bunkers are no life, yet we live for the shows that show us every probable cause, every possible out, every possible end and still i keep myself up at night bingeing black mirror type shows fooling myself into thinking they’ll make me better prepared when the bees turn bot, when the machines turn maniac, when capital punishment turns amusement park how amusing is it. when we watch our own mortality play out on the big screen. how 2012 and the day the earth stood still. how 2020 with contagion. how bird box walking dead. how utopian i am legend. how this is the end

anisa lateef

weedy snow and rain heat and sleet every seven days it’s the same ole spiel. mum insists that I gotta ensure that all the weeds are gone around that shaded corner beside the front door, because what else could the neighbors possibly think except that our entire family is unkept and barbaric and odd by the way our weeds rebel by blossoming out the tan earthy blankets? all of her friends’ daughters keep up with shaving down the fields of stubborn shoots in their lawns until only the rosiest petals and sweetest dollops of pollen are photosynthesizing in the spotlight no matter how many thorns stab the chili red blood out their fingertips. mum watches from the kitchen window boiling bubbles of sugar into a sickly sticky pool. I know she wants me to get out the gardening gloves and wax the paths of curly weeds in one go a single sudden tug. why did you let them get so long? that’s natural mum, plants are designed to grow. natural’s not a good reason. it doesn’t even look nice. you mean compared to the other naked lawns, right? those last sounds muffled between beads of salty sweat identical to the ones pruning my cramping hands. when she’s tucked in for the night 62

ayesha sultana

crimson snow

Crimson is often associated with royalty, nobility, and religion, and is said to induce feelings of love and affection. Crimson is also used to symbolize the blood of martyrs and is also strongly associated with humility and atonement. It is the color of love and also the color of pain. Snow, in all its coldness and purity, speaks for itself to the pure and cold hearts alike. The art of God does not discriminate. In its essence, this picture reflects the innermost conflicts of the soul and life, the battle between purity and pain, appreciating thorns, and dancing in the rain. The rose thriving in the snow is a symbol of hope and a reminder that soft things glow most radiantly in harshest environments. -Taken Outside of Brower Student Center, TCNJ 2/22/2021

joely torres

A Bottle of Ink, Claustrophobia, and Tubing on the Delaware River Fear is a bottle of ink Perched on the edge of the shelf, Potential catastrophe within We live with a constant tension, Our minds housing the calculated probability Of how likely it is that The bottle will hit the floor It’s never prominently displayed on the shelf. We forget where it is Or attempt to fool ourselves into forgetting it exists Right now: I should be reminded of it I should be afraid When this current is more powerful than I could ever be My body as powerless as a single fallen twig to the rapids Instead, I fear safety This body, enclosed, folded to fit in a space Where nothing can happen to me. I fear the weariness of the aftermath This fight to escape panic And to outrun fleeting light

Sometimes I feel my hand against the cool, fragile, Yet unyielding surface My body immobilized in the black substance I cannot see through But now I trace the the patterns of fractures with my fingernails The ink becomes diluted, The last of it in separating tendrils Dissolving, To be carried away by the current

nicholas nissen

11 Steps on How to Wrassle a Deer (And How to Live With Yourself Afterwards) 1. Approach with caution. Do not have any fear anywhere near or on your person - to live with

fear is to alert the deer of your presence. 2. Observe the head of the deer. If it is the type with antlers, do not engage. You will only end up hurting both yourself and it. When you wrassle, you don’t want to harm yourself or the deer. 3. Make sure the deer you are attempting to wrassle is alive. This technique does not work on roadkill - you need a living specimen in order to feel their heartbeat. It is essential for the soul melding process to work. 4. Make no sound. Even a stray thought will alert the deer to your presence, do not even blink. To take your eyes off the deer is to lose sight of what you wish to find in wrassling a deer. If there is any foliage around, avoid it. Do not step on twigs or dead leaves. 5. Pray for the souls of both you and the deer, and hope that for one moment, the two of your heartbeats will sync for an infinitesimal moment, allowing you to feel connected to something anything - for once in your life. 6. Grab the deer around the tummy, locking your fingers together in its s mooth fur. Avoid the backs of its legs. A well placed kick can mean the end. 7. Use your weight to drag the deer to the ground, with your limbs that can lock together, you are the superior predator on the ground. Once you are there, the deer will be unable to escape. 8. Use your knees to pin down the back legs of the deer. To do so will mimic the embrace of two lovers... and make you begin to realize how lonely you really are, and how long it has been since you have felt another’s touch. 9. Hold on for deer life. Do not let go. Do not let the bad thoughts get you down. Focus on holding tight - and hope that you don’t hurt yourself or it. It is in this moment that you realize your reason for wanting to wrassle a deer, and how you have stumbled so far down the beaten path in search of something, anything, to feel connected to. 10. If you have gotten this far, congratulations. You have wrassled a deer. But what do you do next? Let the deer go? Kill it? Eat its venison? Or do you contemplate life and its existence, now that you have successfully wrassled a deer? 11. There is a secret, hidden step to wrassling a deer; and that is the final one. It is the one where you need to be okay with the person you are… who you want to be… and who you used to be. If you allow yourself to succumb to temptation, you will bear a mark on your soul for the rest of your days to come. To wrassle a deer means to live with the thought of having done something awful to the deer, leaving both of you stained for the rest of your days, both living and nonliving.

lee smith

birls and goys Enough of the boys-will-be-boys shit and the girls-will-be-girls nonsense. Enough of the faith that blue will keep boys as boys. Enough of the notion that hair length defines girls as girls. The mane does not change from mare to stallion. Let us raise kids to play with monster trucks that have hot pink flames and Ken dolls that wear dresses and vacuum the Barbie Penthouse. Let us celebrate kids who play football in skirts and paint each other’s nails while discussing the latest movie. The one where Princess Charming awakes Sleeping Handsome from a spell that his Fairy God-folk could not reverse. Young minds conform to perform. They pack themselves into a box and like and do what is right or acceptable for boys and girls. Boys, no crying. Girls, sit pretty. No! Let a tear fall from any cheek. Girls should live in a world where they can hold their lip gloss in one hand and a hockey stick in the other. Boys should live in a world where they can match their red nails and silver rings to their newest action figure: G.I. Jane. Children should not be classified by whether their walls were pink or blue before they could even babble their parents’ name. Let us live in a society where gender reveal circuses are nothing but a retired parental excitement gone dry. Let us rise against performative gender norms and dismantle the system that makes gender a classified portion of our narrative. When organizing a clothing store, stop with boys on the left and girls on the right. It should not, could not, would not matter where you shop for pants. Enough of the pretty and precious pink aisles that scream “Girls Toys.” Enough of the pressure that is placed on color; the tug-o-war of pink and blue. Enough of the dedication and desire for there to only be girl and boy. Instead, what if there was a mosaic of colors that dressed the aisles, overwhelming the children with choice and freedom to play with and wear whatever they wanted. What would happen to our world? To our children?

like how dare i assert myself In a space never built for me at the same time that they scoff at you trying to tell me to be proud that I made it out. they don’t know I stay runnin back to you reaching out for my culture y mi gente like an itchy phantom limb: your absence so potent its almost tangible. my city. know that though i left, i am doing this for you. know that i am here for you and that I’m bringing all this back for us. it’s been so long but i’m almost there. i’ll know when i reach you. i’ll hear it. your reggaeton infused siren songs, your signature melody, my favorite hood symphony, always calling me home.

joeley torres

paterson when i get off 19 and hit that stretch of 80 west i see you. the rolling hills of garret mountain, the glittering lights of downtown compactly settled in the valley; from a distance you almost look quaint. my city: a sancocho of culture that it’s neighbors won’t try because they’ve never experienced sabor. my city: a patchwork quilt built with rags and silk that we hand-stitched together our hands know what it means to work. you raised us with that knowledge. you taught us to grind to survive. once running on factories, pumping out paper from silk machines, you raised us to work through the grit. your reputation reminiscent of the river that flows through your veins: grimy. never quite clean enough for them to want to touch you but mysterious enough to always make them wonder. 68

deep in the valley no accent attached you gave me depth. the grit in my voice. the challenging attitude daring authority you built me up a rebel. when i left for college, going away against the odds i wanted to bring you with me. my city. and i did. paterson enters every classroom that i do they call you a “diverse perspective” they don’t know that your voice backs mine even when your dialect stays dripping from my tongue. paterson. you gave me an edge. your people taught me lessons and stories that their textbooks never could: you gave me multifaceted knowledge. gifting me spanglish and slang while they kept tryna tell me to talk right, you made me trilingual. paterson. you shaped me into who I am and they see it.

lee smith

wasteland maze Stuck inside an unsolvable maze haunted by disasters every turn we made. We turn left. California is ablaze and the air lurks in your lungs like a pack of Marlboro but, without the buzz. We turn right. Florida drowns as another hurricane floods the streets, displacing locals from their homes and homes from their lots. We run forward. Beautiful, breathtaking views of mountains and valleys, oceans and forests are choked by skyscrapers, power plants and American Dream Malls; built by men and run by desire.

I challenge myself to turn on my heels and look behind. Before materialism and consumerism and the rest of the ism’s Earth was able to sustain itself. Humans did not fear humanity and our Mother was never threatened by its insatiable inhabitants. Perhaps, if we walk backwards and leave our greed at our feet, we may be able to understand our toxic, materialistic hostility and stop the damage we inflict on our home. We cannot start over with a clean slate as our slate is nearly shattered to pieces, but we can still make the right turns to find the exit to this maze.

We purchase what we crave. Plastic and expensive goods are loved and cherished just until the next best thing is released. Exquisite clothes never fit a trend long enough to live a year in a wardrobe and items on top of items aren’t built to last in a home, but are cursed to last forever in a wasteland. Animals are caught and killed by the greed of chefs and poachers. Food is produced and consumed with mindless and unhealthy attitudes. The knife sits hungry in hand.

kyle strouse

stopping by a town on an autumn evening “why Toyin’s body don’t embody all the life she wanted” - noname Oluwatoyin means god is worthy of praise in yoruba. one of the languages native to my ancestors of borinken the origin of my abuela’s spirituality we praise obatala, yemaya, oshun in yoruba. i felt your presence in the deja vu i experienced reading your story though our family trees entwine generations on generations back your name already sits comfortably in my mouth and your spirit feels so familiar to me. i can see it in the women i love and hold dear to me i feel like i already know you. like i see myself in you. or maybe it’s your age. or your girlhood. or your ferocity. the strength of your voice, your grit and determination, your drive for equality and your willingness to fight for yourself to the point where it cost you your life god worthy of praise but even in the face of unnecessary death: the premature loss of an empowered teen girl who died in the name of accusing her abuser? god worthy of praise but too proud to offer any explanation any whisper of why a candle so bright had to be extinguished so quickly god we know who did it. we always know who rips the life away from teen girl to teen girl prayers up for our dying daughters. prayers up for our disappearing dissenters. prayers up but never look around for the guilty party even though we know who the culprit is. a men. 70

anonymous

the tree that could talk

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

There once was a tree. And although it couldn’t see, It brushed itself off, as easy as can be. This tree was like no other, Standing silently beside its brother, Standing silently beside its mother. Til one day it awoke, And quietly spoke, “Why I can but only croak, Is this some kind of sick joke?” So it spoke to its brother, its mother, and all. Yet no one could see him as anything but just plain tall. So it spoke a bit louder, but no one heard its call. Until a blue little bird, It’s height only about 1/3rd, Came flying, from miles away, for it had heard. This bird did not talk. This bird did not walk. This bird stood still, as still as a stalk. With family by his side, The tree opened wide. Opened his mouth and he tried and he tried. But nothing was said, So the bird flew to its bed, And the tree, with death, was wed.

ayesha sultana

wisdom’s advice Write young scholar The pages are dry The ink of life ever running Give it a try What shall I write Write out your heart Honesty is key With passion do start I don’t have a name Who will want to hear Works without fame I’m no Shakespeare Who was he? During his life appalled Writers will write No matter how hard the fall But words once escaped Never return I’m afraid to begin this stage In hell, I don’t want to burn Time to turn the page Begin anew Let your pen enrage Those who thought they knew At a loss again! What do I write? Novels on hold

Poetry only bites My mind away Someplace of distant dreams What use is ambition With procrastination so keen I’ll do it tomorrow I’ll start it soon The sand keeps pouring At the passing of every moon I see you doing big things I see such things too! But what good is inner sight When I haven’t made it true As of now, it’s in my hands After God’s of course But my sinful hand lays idle My art portrays worse Thought I was born to lead Yet failed my own soul Meager efforts To reverse my role

Poetry only bites Only heart-wrenching gore See what I’ve done? It makes no sense No closure to my words Like a field without a fence My thoughts run wild and free They bend for none It takes a real heart to see I’m not a pretentious one Always been this way Though I want to change Structured like autumn But can’t get summer out of my veins Playing with fire Invoking the plea Of every pro writer To end my pen’s misery

Every night I seek Lost myself out there Somewhere in the shadows I dare not stare Glaring back, nothing scares me more Than self-inflicted scars Like countless stars

bliss self portrait gianna tyahla

the last look

a note from the issue editor At the close of the Spring semester and this magazine, I feel as though I do not have enough words to articulate my gratitude. Conversely, I do have plenty of thoughts reflecting on this challenging year. We have experienced loss, we have struggled, but we have all grown. These are messages that were conveyed in this magazine, and what a unique outlet to do so. This pandemic will soon become history, and we will all look back at how we all prevailed; quite beautifully, I must say. Lessons have certainly been learned that we will carry for a lifetime and pass on. Our ability to connect and share our artistry and stories has given me hope for the future and I also hope it inspires all of you, our readers and students, to continue to express yourselves in your own unique ways. It was my pleasure to make this magazine for all of you, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed! I would like to thank some professors and mentors who have made a tremendous impact on my success: Michael Robertson, Courtney Polidori, Felicia Steele, Simona Wright, and Jo Carney. Thank you. My admiration extends beyond your classroom lessons, as all of your kindness and encouragement for me to be the best student and person has made this year, despite its hardships, profound and worthwhile. I would also like to thank the E-Board and staff members, my friends, who have continually showed up to meetings and submitting. Otherwise, I would not have had a such an amazing magazine to compile. I would like to leave this magazine with a message a beautiful friend of mine told me and would like to share with all of you: “I always talk about the last trees in the Fall that change color. They are the brightest and most beautiful. They happen in their own time, and I think you are happening in your own time.” We all happen in our own time. Keep growing, keep sharing, and keep living to the fullest. The next time I write to you, I will be taking “The First Look,” and I can’t wait to see everything you accomplish by then! Sincerely,

Gianna Tyahla Issue Editor

ABOUT US ::

The Lion’s Eye is published biannually by the students of The College of New Jersey with funding from the Student Finance Board. The magazine provides an outlet for creative expression, publishing student short fiction, poetry, prose, photography, illustrations, graphic art, and more. To learn more about The Lion’s Eye visit our Facebook page, TCNJ Lion’s Eye Literary Magazine. The Lion’s Eye is co-sponsored by the Alpha Epsilon Alpha chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, the National English Honor Society, at The College of New Jersey.

SUBMISSIONS ::

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PRINTER ::

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