The Lion's Eye Fall 2020 by Cyclion Bonaparte

The Lionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eye volume 47 :: fall 2020

a new day gianna tyahla

The Lion’s Eye

Fall 2020 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, cameron foster, caroline geoghan, catherine hom, filip maziarz, jess mirkin, gianna tyahla, and destiny valerio

“ the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

contents poetry and prose filip maziarz

The First Look

natasha ishaq

My Midsummer Night’s Dream

jess mirkin

Do You Think of Me?

stephanie sonbati

Atoms

catherine hom

Sunflower

jessica shek

16-20

James

lauren farrell

22-23

Butterfly Eulogy

liya davidov

Pure Manure

filip maziarz

Storm Wolf/ Dream in Monochrome

stephanie sonbati

Then I’m Dead

filip maziarz

Last Summer Night

anisa lateef

Florida’s Freshest!

anisa lateef

Deanna

anisa lateef

Usman

anisa lateef

Zoha

ayesha sultana

Earnest Regrets

caroline geoghegan

Red

megan finan alexia

42-45

Sugar High

guzman jayleen

Silence Vs The Syndicate

rolon alexia

Hide and Seek

guzman caroline

People Over Profit

geophegan Ambar

After Prom

grullon stephanie

Individual Person of Color

sonbati gail kelly

Walk the Street

Life Goes Quick When it Goes in Cycles

madeline talbot 4

I Am So Tired

contents poetry and prose gail kelly

Good Girl Medley

madeline talbot

Girl Glacier

lily gilston

56-57

Soul Story

madeline talbot

Le Coeur De Ballet

caroline geoghegan

Walt Whitman

madeline talbot

At 16

gail kelly

Kol Nidre

ambar grullon

62-63

Kymopoleia

cameron foster

64-65

Come Home

madeleine talbot

We Already Know How This Will End

anisa lateef

Dear Future Historians and Story Seekers

gianna tyahla

The Last Look

“ painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” — leonardo da vinci

contents art and photography gianna tyahla

(cover)

gianna tyahla

(masthead)

A New Day

margaret varrelmann

Wild Bird

margaret varrelmann

Reach For the Sky

Lillian Ward

Perfect Storm in a Cup to Go

Destiny Valerio

Organish

Gianna Tyahla

Luce del Sole e Bella Gina

Elisabeth Osetiavage

Primary Color Self-Portrait

gabrielle mclean

A Day in Manhattan

Gina Bianco

Endless

Lillian Ward

Typewriter

Elisabeth Osetiavage

Marcus

Destiny Valerio

Mocha Swirl Curls

Gianna Tyahla

He Gave Her Grace

Amanda Maroun

Boston 2018

Lillian Ward

For Rent

Lillian Ward

Don’t Ruﬄe My Feathers

gabrielle mclean

Times Square

Brianna Titus

Gaze

margaret varrelmann

Rhododendron

ayesha sultana

Stony Seas

gabrielle mclean

Reflections of Lake Carnegie

Elisabeth Osetiavage

Greyson With Binoculars

Ayesha Sultana

La Donna Sola

(back cover)

Serenity’s Shores

wild bird margaret varrelmann

the first look

a note from the executive editor

Dear Readers, 2020’s been quite the year, hasn’t it? I feel most fortunate that we’ve been able to push through all of the barriers along the way and bring you this wonderful collection of TCNJ talent. It is always a joy to experience student work when making this literary magazine, and doubly so to share it with you, the reader. If you’re experiencing this issue through our website, thank you for choosing to do so. If you’re in the future reading a physical copy, thanks for picking it up. Whatever the means, we are most grateful for your choice to engage with our publication and the fruits of student creativity found within. We have gotten some truly fantastic submissions over the course of this semester: I hope you like them as much as we do! A most sincere thank you to those who have submitted their work. Without you, this magazine could never have been realized. I would also like to thank our Executive Board members–Destiny, Cameron, Gianna, and Caroline–for pushing through our virtual meetings and working towards the creation of this issue. A special thanks to former Issue Editor Jessica Shek for her guidance on the making of this magazine, and to every member who took the time to join our meetings. A special thanks as well to every member who took the time out of their Wednesdays to join our meetings–your commitment is valued and appreciated.

The future is always uncertain, but I have hope for the return to the regular, physical publication of this magazine, soon. For now, though, we’re getting by as the circumstances allow, like everybody else. Stick around! I look forward to seeing where this next year takes us. Sincerely,

Filip Maziarz Executive Editor

reach for the sky margaret varrelmann

natasha ishaq

my midsummer night’s dream: reborn in modern times through the eyes of a dreamer To Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream was a comedy about irrational, yet prevailing, love. Let us take Shakespeare’s words and see them anew—through a fresh lens open to interpretation. My midsummer night’s dream is not a comedic tale of love and ignorance, but rather a yearning... a passion... a dream. To set the scene in a play that can, perhaps, one day be our reality: The curtain opens and a fire with a golden hue roars to life. A circle of trees with leaves and flowers that glimmer in the twinkling illumination of fairy lights that are hung across the trees in a fashion that makes it feel like Christmas. We sit side by side on logs that form a ring around the fire. As the owls hoot and the crickets sing their unusual tune, the wildness cries, while our fears subside, for our laughter, blended with contentment, fills the night air. We roast marshmallows in the fire as the stars in the sky keep watch over us while they continue to ignite the dark. Time passes, as it must, and as the sounds of nature grow louder in harmony, we now lie on our backs on the grass, gazing up at the world above, so elegantly and perfectly resembling Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Our eyes follow the patterns made in the sky and linger on the shooting star that falls to earth ever so often. So many hidden truths and secrets are hidden amongst the stars and as you gaze into a darkened horizon that shines brighter than ever, your mind becomes one with the night. You feel the gentle, warm breezes of summer rush through your veins. You hear the chatter and whispers of those who surround you, but you set yourself free in solace solitude. When morning comes, we will climb to the top of the highest hill and watch night turn to day as the dawn falls upon us. We will watch the world turn to gold and wake up. We will stand there mesmerized, captivated by the sight of a miracle being born. And in our hearts we will find peace and in our spirits we will be free. This is my midsummer night’s dream. 10

lillian ward

perfect storm in a cup to go

jess mirkin

do you think of me? Remember before the falling out how you held my hands so sweetly? Your words sweet as honeysuckle, and your lips even sweeter We were inseparable, thunder and lightning. You told me you loved me, and I love you But we stand as strangers to each other Almost as if the memories we have made were merely a dream. Do you still think of me when you listen to our favorite artist? Do you still think of me when you’re drawing in your sketchbook? Do you still think of me when you pass by my neighbourhood? Because I still think of you, Maybe this is just complicated, or maybe I’m making it this way But what I mean to say is that I miss you, And I’m sorry.

stephanie sonbati

atoms wonder what would happen if I were to rIp apart atom by atom and re a r a n g e . Would i be happy then?

orangish destiny valerio 13

ůŸŦŨ ŧŨů ŶŲůŨ Ũ ťŨůůŤ ŪŬűŤ gianna tyahla

catherine hom

sunflower sometimes i look at that sunflower, rays of light just barely touching it, sitting there all peacefully without a care in the world, untouched by dirty reality, and a sudden, primal urge runs through me. the bright yellow burns through my dim eyes, and i want to rip, shred, tear it apart so it knows what itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like. and i almost do it, my foot just mere inches away from stomping its face into oblivion. but then i also see it and think, i want to take care of it--give it plenty of water and sunshine, plant some roses and tulips, so itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not as lonely. so it knows what love feels like. but then, the clouds turn gray, and the thunder starts to rumble. chaotic winds blow, causing the sunflower to bend, twist, and twirl. what once was proud and tall becomes a shriveled up lump, soaked from the rain. itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s okay though, since those droplet tears will help it grow stronger, right?

jessica shek

james Lost in the masses of lines and numbers, James sat at her desk. Her face dull from working all night. The screen glowed over her clacking hands, reflecting its messages across her half-open eyes. Her unfinished dinner sat beside her keyboard, slowly preparing to decompose. Finally sending the files over to her boss at 3am, she fell straight into bed and threw the sheets over herself, hoping to dive deep into dreams. Half an hour later, her eyes were still wandering. The coo of the radiator. The murmur of the fridge. Louder with each second spent listening. When you can’t sleep you try to let your thoughts wash over you, have the tide bring you out. Celebrity tweets and commercials and the leftover tunes of songs. Dark trains of thought are stopped and redirected. Images bubble up and fade away. Feeling the weight of your body in the dark, unseen, unshaped. Strange questions come to you. The morning’s coffee gurgled in her stomach. By now, a few months out of school, work just felt like an endless assignment, no summer break. Lucky she got it nonetheless. Life was already beginning, and it started with a user complaint that was gonna take a week to debug. Air in the office felt stale, old, and the hellos and goodbyes always felt eaten up by that static. She drove home. Seeing Ben’s car there in her parking spot, she forgot about the night. She opened her door, and there he was, hand on hip, comfortably sifting through her fridge. James called out, “There’s something called breaking and entering.” She threw her satchel on the couch and slumped next to it. “There’s also something called hospitality.” He said, ripping open a string cheese stick. “So, how was your day honey?” “Fine. How was yours.” She said, eyes closed as she leaned back against the couch cushions. “What did you do?” He persisted with supposed interest. “Eat. Sleep. Work.” “Right, well I had a horrible day…” James nodded and listened to his stream of updates. She makes dumb comments. He says they’re dumb. They laugh and sometimes drink Jack Daniels. Until next time. Tonight he had another club he wanted to try, having decided a few weeks ago that they were people who would do such things. This is

Transplanting the college party energy for something more mature, he’d said. They’d been to a few now, each time somewhat embarrassing, somewhat successful. Her resistance was futile, no matter how much she actually wanted to go. “That club is so gay.” “Exactly.” He said, “Maybe some girl will…” making obscene gestures with his hands. “BEN.” She said, quickly shutting her eyes and opening them with offended brows and pursed lips. “What? I was gonna say, you know... invite you back to her place, sophisticated conversation over coffee, of course.” Her face softened and she rolled her eyes. “Yeah.” Her brow was hardened, determined. His eyes were passive, always asking. Some more updates. His ex had messaged him, again. Rude, yet enticing, yet still “offensible.” Ben’s word for people who like to cause problems. His last boyfriend had been another dick, unsurprisingly, but she always had to act surprised, defending and undefending his decisions, the safety blanket to his good and his bad, and tonight was just another tabula rasa he was convincing her to accompany. Leaning over the sink in the bathroom, getting ready to go out. Makeup was such a strange object. The alien weapons, the dust and liquid. Never her strong suit. She tried not to squint as Ben turned the applicator in his hand, finger steady as he brushed each lash black. “I look like a clown.” “Shut up. You’re gorgeous.” “Always.” He added. He packed up his materials, and closed the door. “Leaving in ten!” Hearing his footsteps recede into the living room, she pulled her t-shirt off to change, looked at herself in full confidentiality. She rubbed her skin, poked her cheeks, looked down into her pores. Staring at her reflection, that constant opponent. The loudness of her. The flip of her hair had such power, such fearful power. Such implication. Her legs toned, looking all smooth and pure, the way her brow curved into a feminine arc, a feminine chin, her lips dulled to modesty curved and bounced and opened and closed. And opened. Looking down, her chest enveloped her body, took it over, she thought, no matter what size it had turned out to be it would have always enveloped her— Yet, gazing in the mirror, she could never decide if she recognized herself or not. She never could shake that feeling that she was wearing her own body. Looking harder, as if looking for other shapes in her vision, as if she could. What was it that was underneath all of these things? Still, she continued dressing. Pulled a bra over her body, wore a nice cocktail dress, a flirtatious blue costume.

Sitting shotgun in Ben’s car on the way there, she watched him drive. The talk about the club, about his new shirt, and the annoying client that hassled him over the phone that morning, had all run dry and the two of them sat unconsciously, watching the passage of night lamps and lights and lines. Facing her window, her eyes traveled elsewhere. Following behind her thoughts. Set aside, next to his friendship, the image of it, was another image. Irrelevant perhaps. But there was scarcely time to analyze the circumstances of these thoughts before or after they began. His supple cheeks, curving into his mouth, soft, he was so soft. The lines of his body turned and bowed into the round of his bottom. And his shorts seemed to be traveling upward, in the perpetual act of revealing his stout and smooth legs, the expanse of skin that was in love with being held. She imagined tugging off his boxers. A firm grasp over his shoulders. Moving. Oh, moving. But when she came to, she again knew that her breasts had no agency in a place like that. They were these unthought objects. Liable. There was no place for them. Stupidly, she turned her eyes back to the road, to the murmurs of people maneuvering in and out of bars and restaurants. Still, the wondering was there. And her eyes always lingered back.

A few years ago, at a GSA club meeting fall freshman semester at college, James wanted to disappear. Ben dragged her here, promising free food and pens. Neither had been provided, and now, watching all the people mingle and chatter amongst themselves in the dormitory lounge, she was regretting it all. Her legs felt more frozen with each movement spent trying to act natural. After the icebreakers, she followed Ben into a conversation with some other people, a guy with boxy glasses and a redheaded girl wearing a Mamas and the Papas tee. “I’m loving this shirt, Aliyah.” said Ben, in his flowery voice. “Thanks!” she chirped. “It’s one of my favorite bands.” He nudged James’ arm, “What a coincidence! James likes them too.” Aliyah smiled a little, waiting for her to speak. She had these bangs that were cut short, edgy and European. “Yeah,” James sputtered. “I know. Err—, I mean, I found some of their records at the store on Cranbury last week. The one right next to Quimby’s. ” Too many words, not enough words, she scolded herself. No matter how much practice you have talking is always a bizarre animal in the mouth, rolling and turning on the tongue. “Nice! I haven’t been there yet, but I was going to head into town this weekend with Cameron...” Aliyah said trailing off as if to invite an offer from us. Ben, with that winking wingman smirk, said, “I’m sure James and I could give you guys a tour. She grew up like 10 minutes away from here.” James blushed. Sweat dampened her shirt sleeves. The conversation from then on was blurry, exhaustive. Whose parents were worse, social justice news. Fake and real laughs, and that young hope of finding good friends. The event was over, it was getting late, and now, they were in Ben’s room, high off of all the talking. Sitting on his rug, now they were coming out to each other, inevitably. “Me and Cameron are both bi. But we’re just friends.” Aliyah said, assuring us. “Sure… ‘just friends.’” Ben said sarcastically. “Ewww!” Cameron said, pushing Aliyah away. Then, she pushed him back so hard, he rolled over to the door. We all laughed.

“Not for me, man. Gay all way,” Ben said sweeping his hand like some kind of pride rocket. James was about to make a joke about it when Aliyah’s eyes led her attention. “Are you..?” Aliyah said. James knew she hadn’t meant it like that, but the words felt rude, with everyone looking at her, eyes turning more coarse by the second. “Err, no. Well…” The who, the what. James was silent, this dumb silent that truly said nothing. Her voice was caught in her throat, stopped in the air. Everyone was very sympathetic, brushed it off, and continued on, and Ben even joked about it lots of times afterwards with his self conscious caring, his awful sweetness, but in all the years that came after, he never asked.

In the club, James was already talking to a beautiful girl at the bar. Practice and experience. She wasn’t a college freshman anymore, eventually learned to tame words, tame her body, or pretend to. More often though, it was the girl she was with that would carry the conversation. “I know, and isn’t it crazy that we pretend we don’t do shit like that? Like we’re so angelic for what we do. Noble. Let me tell you, we aren’t.” “Interesting,” James was genuinely interested. “I guess, I never thought that pharmacists were self-reflective human beings.” The girl laughed, her tongue rolled in her mouth and she bit her lip. Skilled enough to let herself be playful. “You’re lucky I’m a little buzzed right now.” The yellow strap of her top fell lazily to the side of her shoulder. And her mouth curved in a way that stirred, touched, caressed the embarrassment bubbling up just beneath James’ skin. And in that moment, you have a good kind of speechlessness in your throat. The kind that makes you want to say something stupidly sexy back, like “Let’s see what happens when you’re actually buzzed,” but she didn’t, and she kind of sat there on the stool. Looking at her and smiling. James avoided him for part of the night. The bass from the dancefloor pulsed in the walls, underneath the tables, above the air and the sea of bodies and breath and talk. Sometimes they danced together, but tonight he was down there on the floor probably dancing with someone else. And as she talked to this girl, the girl at the bar, she hoped her thoughts would trail her words this time. “How was that for you?” “College. What a curious game.” “Where did you end up afterwards?” The conversation, focusing on this conversation was an allegiance, a loyalty to herself that would not be swayed. All the wondering about where he was, what he was doing, with whom, how, it was that other image again. The image of their bodies together in ways that were indescribable, and altogether unreal, embarrassingly unreal. She was trying out this thing called pretending Ben doesn’t exist, pretending he (his ass, his lips, his skin, that one time when he was lying on the floor looking for his keys) doesn’t exist, a Ben-less world where she could love and like without questions, as if the thought of him had to undermine the other part of her she loved so much, as if there was no grayness, even though there was this grayness there, but even then, the fear of uncertainty was so much less than the fear of being something other that she always assumed she was. “Hello?” It was the girl. “Sorry,” James apologized for zoning out, so many apologies running through her head. “Where did you go just now?” The girl smiled, eyes smiling even still. How she desperately tried to hide in the comfort of the girl’s eyes.

Later that night, while the beautiful girl was in the restroom, Ben was at the edge of the dancefloor, dancing with another man, their bodies pulsing with the drum of music in and around. Sipping her beer, feeling the condensation perspire from her glass, she allowed herself glances in his direction. The movement of his body. The imagined movement of her body. His receiving, her giving. And suddenly, again, a frantic attack of nervous worst case scenarios: Behind the back entrance of the club, sitting on the curb trying to tell him, her best friend, all that she felt. “This is just how we work, okay? Why-why are you making things weird?” Ben would say. “But it’s not just that. It’s not even you. Maybe it never was. It’s— complicated, I guess. I don’t know.” He’d sigh, frustrated and confused and wishing he hadn’t led with those words. “I’m not like that. You know I’m not like that.” “I’m,” James would almost plead, “...sorry. This is… it’s hard. It’s hard to say the words.” Or. “Maybe you’re straight.” Immediately, James would say. “No, I don’t think so.” He’d eye her. “I know what you’re saying, but that doesn’t sound like me. I mean, come on.” She’d say, pursing her lips. “You know me. This isn’t… I’ve never… I don’t…” She’d struggle to find the words, resorting to something familiar. “I like girls.” This was true, substantially, instinctively true. “Yeah, but what else? Like, maybe you’re bi, or something.” He’d say, shrugging off that statement like it was nothing. “But, I dunno man, I don’t know how your shit works, only you do.” “It’s not just liking people. I don’t like you.” “You just said you did.” “But it’s different. Is it? I don’t know. I like your legs. I like your hair, I like your body.” The disgust that would be rising on his face. But she’d keep going. “I wish I had them. I wish I could love them.” Wrong. All the wrong words. “But even then, even then that’s not it. I feel like…” The talking would fall through her hands, the animal dazed and confused and uttering all that would come out. “I feel like I have this image of myself, a different one, one that isn’t what people see when they look at me.” He’d be unsure what to say. “But everyone feels like that.” “Do they really?” There was no confession behind the club, on the curb. There was no naked embarrassment, no confusion, no desperate want of understanding, of saying. The two of them drove home having had the same time they always do, his excited slurred gossip of the night’s events, incapable of sitting still in the passenger seat as she drove his car back to her apartment, the unlocking of the door, the clink of keys, him half asleep on the couch defending himself as only minimally drunk, and, after tucking him in and leaving a glass of water by the coffee table, she lingered there for a moment, standing over him for what seemed like long time as he slept quietly and breathed quietly underneath the covers.

primary color self-portrait elisabeth osetiavage

lauren farrell

butterfly eulogy It was on a rainy July day that Hop, my butterfly, died. It was a sad affair. His body was stiff, antennae tall, wings straight, straight up, pointing to the sky. When he emerged from his chrysalis, his right wing remained lodged inside. He dragged it behind him like a corpse, stumbling all the while. I spent an hour trying to remove the chrysalis from his delicate body with a moistened cotton swab. When at last he was no longer entwined, his freed wing was vibrant but its colors smeared, a twisty tie-dye of orange and black instead of symmetrical spots and stripes. It was twisted, unable to be lifted. The process of rebirth that is so freeing to most of his species left him crippled. I had raised him with four other caterpillars, all of whom now energetically beat against the edges of the mesh habitat, ready to leave, flashes of eager, desperate orange. But although Hop fluttered, he fluttered uselessly. The left wing brought him half-up in the air, but the right was too heavy, too wrinkly, and he spasmed sideways in clockwise circles. Bringing the habitat to the front yard to let the others go was the only outside he ever knew. My kitchen smelled like rotten oranges: sweet until you’ve been sitting in their midst for too long. I would let him out to crawl across our kitchen table and dance his clockwise dances. I don’t think he ever realized he couldn’t fly. Along he’d hop, all the energy in the world, across my sketchbook, across my summer reading, across the napkin where I cut the oranges for him. He tiptoed quickly across the table, and more than once I caught him before he fell over the edge. I would let him out to crawl across our kitchen table and dance his clockwise dances. I don’t think he ever realized he couldn’t fly. Along he’d hop, all the energy in the world, across my sketchbook, across my summer reading, across the napkin where I cut the oranges for him. He tiptoed quickly across the table, and more than once I caught him before he fell over the edge.

With guilt now, I remember my pride, and whispering, “It’s just us.” I raised butterflies every year, and I rarely saw them again after I let them go. For once, I wouldn’t miss it, I would see how he lived. He showed me his life and I showed him mine. I drew him in colored pencil and played Coldplay for him and read to him: passages from The House on Mango Street, ones about Esperanza wanting to be free. At dinnertime, I put his habitat on the fifth chair my family of four didn’t use and listened to them jokingly converse with him and tell me again I was too attached. I scooped him up in my hands. He crawled slower these days, and no longer attempted to reach the table’s edge. I held him close to my face and watched the twitching of his eye, brown and light. I wonder what he saw. I wonder how much he understood. When he died, the smell of oranges was overpowering. I decided I would dig him a hole under the tree where I had let the other butterflies go, and surrounded it with the rotten oranges and wilted daisies so that even the squirrels and robins would attend the funeral and feast in his memory. In his life, he had no one but me. My mom watched me from the window. I dried my face from the rain and pretended I was not weeping over my guilt, this pathetic insignificant little bug that brought me so much joy. She said, “You gave him the best life possible.” The best life possible. I often wonder. I wonder if there’s a heaven for butterflies, where his blackened eyes behold an endless sky beyond the depthless edge of my kitchen table, and despite not knowing what’s out there, despite not ever processing that he isn’t able to fly, he jumps-In my mind’s eye, I see him with the oranges and daisies, smelling sweet from beginning to rot, his wings straight, straight up, pointing to the sky he never got to meet.

liya davidov

pure manure Ever notice that New York City plumbing smell? The almost suffocating taste of polluted water steaming out of every crevice beneath the pavement? Maybe you’ve taken a stroll on a nice summer’s day with your head up towards the sun, soaking in every last drop of its blistering heat before the autumn leaves lead you to another heatless winters. You breathe in the cooling breeze, the flailing flowers, the freshly cut grass, and just as you take your next breath, your nostrils are offended to smell the intoxicating smell of dog crap all over the pavement. How dare you treat your nostrils with such distaste! If you want the good bad-smelling stuff I can hook you up. Don’t take your nostrils to just any dog crapping sidewalk or geese shit infested parks. Book a flight to Israel and make your way to any of the 270 kibbutzim. Just imagine visiting the home of the saltiest sea, the western-est wall, and who could forget about the year round goldenest tan? I can already see myself on Tel Aviv beach with a hard cover book in my hand. I remove my sandals, carrying them by two fingers in the same hand carrying the book, and I approach the fine-grained orange sand. My toes crunch its surface as I find the ideal lounging spot. Now take my place. Now its you on that beach. But you know what I would do next? After the numerous hours of crisping up my skin, sipping on a freshly fruited smoothie, and finally making it passed the climax of the most godforsaken story ever written, I’d find my way to a kibbutz. No matter the time of day, you can always count on their manure. Yes, yes indeed. I’ve brought you to the heartland of smells. From the simple farm living to the close knit community, humans are not the only animals partaking in such social interactions—or else the manure smell would be truly terrifying. Thankfully, as I already mentioned, there are cohabitants. The spotted milk producing usuals meandering around their built stables are the most common cohabitants in the kibbutz. Depending on which kibbutz you visit, there may also be the grown up ponies and even four legged hams. In any case, I can assure you there are massive piles of prickly hay. Surrounding said prickly piles and few stables is the smell I promised you. Piles and piles—and if I haven’t mentioned it yet there are piles—of cow droppings. It might not be as easily spotted with the eye, but the smell is overwhelming. Some would argue that the few casual breezes that waft the horrid smell towards our faces is even worse than when there is no breeze at all. I’d like to counter that with humidity. Imagine how burnt you feel under the three digit degree sky and its sticky, steamy atmosphere. Now imagine that same toasty feeling on every single ounce of manure. As the heat rises within those fecal molecules they rise into the air and diffuse amongst it, invading every single regular humid molecule. Soon enough, it doesn’t matter if you’re standing next to the feces, in a car heading out of the kibbutz, or are sitting on that non first class ticket next to a sweaty 45 year old who’s anxious about flying for the first time—the smell is forever imprinted. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, this smell will not be forgotten. In fact, I dare you to head back to New York and its sewage air molecules. I bet that you wouldn’t even be able to distinguish that rat infested, water polluted atmosphere from that of your sanitary, polished home. Your nostrils will never forgive you for such an experience, and thus you cannot expect them to rid you of such a memory. But look at the bright side: now New York is more appealing to visit. 24

a day in manhattan gabrielle mclean 25

filip maziarz

storm wolf cloudy jaw baring its contempt down at me while i walk around, treading the path of drowning light... sinking sound. bloodied fur, scarlet claws, dripping wetly and heavily from sky above to the grass where i stand and feel each once-living drop sink into my hair and stain the earth its polar color. i take my shoes off. i seek shelter beneath cricket-rich foliage until the injured beast finds retreat from me just as the sun recedes filip maziarz

dream in monochrome ocean is black; i, the sky, its reflection. silver sea foam from folding waves form a greyscale spectrum born of light and lightlessness. the sky is i, and i am night; downwards is forwards, waves before me, beneath me. a steel hull of men breaches my horizon: slow, sleepy, sleepless; moving grey through silver on moving black, camouflaged lifelessly against the sea.

endless gina bianco

typewriter lillian ward

stephanie sonbati

then i’m dead A

29, 2019

I slipped on the wet grass, But instead of falling back on my ass, I started catapulting forward, And I saw what I was heading toward. I can see it all happening: My heartline flattening As the edge of the pool catches my head, I get a concussion, drown, and then I’m dead.

filip maziarz

last summer night air blended with woodsmoke and the smell of sausage smoked; mixed with guitar-y stringy twang and stale, reverberating voice from that box in bag on back of mine. my legs push me forwards and autumn’s cool fingers push me back— resolute to brush my face and softly navigate my hair— before they yield and let me pass. around here no green has gone away. what goes and what stays from this sun to the next though now remains still, still remains to be seen.

anisa lateef

florida’s freshest! The cherries were painted a plum purple, stop signs were a shade of lavender and July boiled corn were stained a slimy green. Summer became a world speckled with indigo tints without any consent or calculated control. Days slowly engulfed themselves in blue blurs, like a misty hurricane pushpinned to a map, but I stopped noticing the changes after a few weeks. My irises are exhausted. The cerulean’s been seeping through all three layers of skin into my subconscious like a leaky fountain pen. Bleeding and bleeding deep into the skyscraper stashes of serotonin. My ophthalmologist prescribed me a pair of “Florida’s Citrus” glasses. She says they’re engineered to combat the navy layer of film that’s been pressing over my pupils these past few months. The new glasses are double the size of my old ones, they’re lined with streaks of orange across the lenses meant to target the barricades of blue. She says my neural pathways need to rewire reality into a perception of a brighter one than what’s out there. The problem with plastering orange on top of the excess blue is the fact that the summation produces an overlapped line of murky, muddy debris. Now my skies are creamed coffee and cups of water are swigs of diluted penny juice. New holistic-science and power of manifestation aside, all this has given me is a migraine and a larger angle to droop my head at. Brown over blue I guess.

Marcus elisabeth osetiavage

anisa lateef

deanna The Majestic created the honeycomb, then her moonstone soul spirited with a voice mellifluous as the honey before her to serenade the notes of life glossed in a sweet, sugary film Every evening she gives the marble bathtub dial a slow spin before an eruption of turquoise dew and blue topaz droplets flood the gold spackled tub She watches her reflection shimmer & bounce off the pool of aquamarine jewels filling the tub as the light glimmers off the emerald encrusted ceiling and sapphire speckled bathroom floor decorated in a mermaid mosaic: engulfed in a cerulean beaded sea where the amethyst fish dance in a crystal cove erupting with sucrose stalagmites and spiced stalactites What else can explain that ruby rejuvenation that pearl light beaming behind her heart amber irises, diamond dusted mascara opal spotted smile capturing a palmful of stars at a time oh and how her hair is a tossle of topaz chains? That power in her step with such timeless confidence The presence of a cool peppermint wind That copper carpe diem dossier That silver strength because she is a treasure map draped in a New Yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eve slip dress A sparkling serendipity.

Mocha swirl curls destiny valerio

anisa lateef

usman A jersey staple like the Ocean City boardwalk covered in powdered sugar & tank tops He’s the goofy smiley rock there for his people through the sandy hurricanes and tuesday morning sunrises He’s got you through the cowabunga moments and wipeout ones when you land on your head instead of your feet at too full a throttle while he puddle jumps between trips to the italian ice truck to excitedly report that his Vans are actually waterproof in case anyone was wondering He makes you believe in that undeniable good in the universe that’s easy to lose that promise rings, pizza socks, sunscreen and a good haircut are more than enough to keep a guy happy, that testosterone isn’t responsible for toxic side effects because he’s a tootsie roll soul wrapped in warm bonfire smoke If you’re lucky, you’ll have an Ocean City boardwalk just a driving distance away brimming with sun wave surfing ferris wheels seagulls - sand long hair in the wind airbrushed tattoos of anchors deep fried oily happiness - oreos -pizza thrill-spin-soar-shake-soak-rides along the beach lemonade - fudge - pretzels - soft serve cones - taffy powdered sugar and zeppole dust dominating the salty-sweet air hot dogs - corn dogs - popcorn - kettle corn - cotton candy spirals.

anisa lateef

zoha The stream of life pulses through her veins with the force of full-moon waves as she lays atop a sea of budding roses like a crimson starfish hammocking along the Atlantic vibrations Her sunflower eyes glow with that saffron sparkle Her sweet caramel skin stained with golden shimmer mimic cosmic moles extracted from the milky ways themselves scattered across her langerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lines like constellations Her spirit is a gallery of reds Hand woven baskets cradling cherries and candy apples Acres of strawberry fields and chili powders Terracotta pots brimming with carnations and sunset spirals Ruby like the lipstick secure in your pleather holster instructed to be applied generously as ammunition against all the odds but in her hands, the touch of sisterly soul transports you to that safe space that Catalina island full of hair combing, braiding and twisting into entangled spirals channeling the vigor of a melaninated Marilyn Monroe As the cycle of inhales blend into exhales the blood behind her fingers continue to strum the chordae tendineae heartstrings like a harpist crescendo Ladybug jackets Pomegranate seeds Lychee shells Martian space debris a force of vibrant grace apple pie sweetness genuine guidance and boundless courage because she is the red balloon you want to chase through one noir scene to the next bouncing and spinning between staircases of clouds and rugs of tangled roots.

she ssh he g he ga gave av vee h him iim mg grace ra r a ac cee c gi g gianna ia an n na n a ttyahla ya y a hl h lla a

he gave her grace gianna tyahla

ayesha sultana

earnest regrets Last song I said Dear heart, pour no more For thy words while sweet Sins you did adore As your words spilled truth Honeyed as can be At times intended But mostly unintentionally Advice you gave to the soul so dear Yet if fire their heart chooses That’s your biggest fear Yet hope never loses When God is so near

Tearlessly I cry Cheerfully painful Restless ease Symphonies of love My taste buds tease Appease the soul Set it free With love from above Walk earth gracefully

Walked my desires straight to the door I dared not enter For Hell is a gore Said goodbye, front and center Shamelessly repeated sins of afore

If pleasure you seek through revelry and more Remind thy greedy soul Daily death knocks its door

Dear soul since when have you become So wildly brazen So carelessly you run A risky maiden

If on earth you claim void and miseries you feel Then comfort thy heart in knowing heaven is real Wherein you shall find He at last Handsomely waiting, eternally, sorrows have passed

How many times will you solemnly swear “God this time I’m done, believe me! I’m through!” But meddle you do with the heart’s affair “God I’ve done it again! I’m coming back to you!” Yet go on sinning like you have no care Amongst all these fortuitous lies One truth remains That my heart does try My efforts, not in vain

boston 2018 amanda maroun

caroline geoghegan

red Bulged from the dirt My siren blaring crimson Warped and distorted Blazing spire screaming Sleeping in the underbrush Sides heaving as I stumble Stomach carved out like a smile I stay Sanguine and desperate Ripped my heart out tossed it to your open arms Let the cherry weep between your fingers Locked to your backside As you stare straight forward Only color to my name RED Like Embers on the altar Like Needles through my tongue Like Leeches at my throat Like A slap to the face Like A slip of the knife Like A punctured lung Like Us together, bundled up At the ends of hallways RED LIKE

for rent lillian ward

ambar grullon

good girl medley Bad Girl, Mean Girl, Manic Pixie Dream Girl— Think of all the ways they have changed your life. But why chase these swine when you’ve got this pearl? It’s the Good Girl medley, sweet, let’s just jive! There’s Betty Cooper, junior detective: She’s pure honey with a sickly sweet sting. Or Rory Gilmore, writer selective Whose ego transcends consequence and sin. Try Nancy Wheeler instead; this hotshot Will trade suburbia for aliens. Topanga, straight-A student, had a thought: She’ll trade Yale for her lovestruck cranium. I guess Good Girls aren’t good at being good, But can you blame them? They’re misunderstood.

ambar grullon

i look really pretty when i cry Like nothing gets me wetter than being told I take up space Tell me that my third helping of bread pudding will knead my thighs, Or that my butt will swell as I inhale a midnight dinner. My eyelashes will coil with tears and I’ll wonder why I wear mascara When sadness is a woman’s natural lash curler. Maybe I’ll ask you to hurt me and you’ll whisper about my codependency, Tug on the paper clips holding my boundaries together and watch How my body trembles. I’ll run to the nearest bathroom, Kick open a stall and drape myself across the toilet. You know what it’s like to be a woman with needs— You get so overwhelmed, you have to take care of it yourself. I’ll cross my legs and hide the rippling cellulite, Stare at the ceiling and let the tears trickle down my neck. The wayward tears across my breasts will glisten under the shoddy lighting Because everything about me looks best when I’m in distress. I will be heaving, huffing, hoping that when you chase after me, You won’t ask if I’m okay. You’ll just watch me and know for sure: That I’m a pretty girl sad enough to fuck. 41

megan finan

sugar high Butterscotch candies. They were my least favorite in the bowl of hard candies kept on the receptionist’s counter. But usually, they were all that were left. They stuck to my teeth when I foolishly tried to chew, but I smiled at the receptionist and told her the candy was good. She didn’t call me sweetie or honey like all the other children. She knew my name like all the nurses. My grandfather, still weak from his blood transfusion, would tell me butterscotch was his favorite and the sticky candy in my mouth would instantly become better. He could always do that, make things better.

Tootsie rolls. The counter with the glass jar was too tall for me, so I’d stand on my tippy-toes and try to grab a cherry red. I’d do it quietly, afraid I was stealing even though Olivia, my mom’s favorite pharmacist, always offered one to me in between smacks of her bubble gum. I’d get bored with my mom and Olivia talking incessantly the way adults do about things like knee surgeries and infections and death so I’d wander the aisles of the old pharmacy that smelled like fresh-cut wood. The lollipop would stick out of my mouth, cherry flavor cloying like cough syrup, as I browsed the feminine hygiene products and sorted through the candy, looking for any mistakes, any lone Snickers in the Kit-Kat box.

Vanilla wafers. They were like Oreos but oval and pure vanilla, and they were a constant at my grandparents’ house, always in a cabinet above the breakfast bar. I’d stand on a rickety stool to reach them, then sit on the counter and pry open the cookie to reveal the vanilla filling. I’d scrape it out until baby teeth prints were left like tire tracks in fresh snow. My grandfather bought them for me because he knew I loved them, but it still felt like stealing as I sat alone in the kitchen knowing he couldn’t help me reach them if he wanted to. Fruit punch Snapple. When my grandfather had the needle in his arm, he’d sneak a ten-dollar bill into my mom’s hand and tell her to buy me a little something. My mom would protest, saying we can buy our own lunch, Dad, but it was futile. You could not argue with the man when it came to his granddaughter. So with our lunch, my mom and I would split a fruit punch Snapple in styrofoam cups. Sometimes I’d notice how cold the lunchroom felt, like everyone at the surrounding tables was holding their breath for some reason. But then my mom would read the fun fact on the back of the Snapple lid and I’d drink my Kool-Aid and all would be well again.

Peppermint patties. The gift shop smelled different than the rest of the hospital. The rest was like disinfectant, suffocating like uncapped Sharpies in a classroom. The gift shop smelled musty like my grandparents’ house. Maybe it was the carpet. The rest of the hospital had white tiles that shone like mirrors and provided the perfect game of hopscotch. There were always teddy bears in the gift shop, and I’d stare into their little souls through their black button eyes as my mom bought the peppermint patties for me. The metal wrappings would match the tiled floors, and I’d suck the chocolate coating off the toothpaste filling as we walked the hall of mirrors. Grape fruit snacks. They were kept on the bottom cabinet in my kitchen. I could reach them at all times but I would eat them in moderation. Usually, they were breakfast as the sun rose in my mom’s speeding car as we rushed to the hospital. Candy for breakfast was such a special treat.

Marble cake. This was sold in plastic wrap in a flower shop right off the highway. In the car, I’d pick out the chocolate cake carefully and smush the vanilla cake back into the plastic. When the chocolate was gone, I’d eat the vanilla cake so cruelly destroyed by a little girl who only thought of the present. It was never as good as the chocolate, but it made the car ride go faster. We’d pull into the cemetery, put the flowers into a moss-green cone, and stick the cone into the dirt right by my grandfather’s grave. It looked like a strawberry ice cream cone because I’d always pick pink flowers my favorite because death deserved a little pink. There was a gazebo right by his grave and it looked like a Greek temple and functioned like a playground for me as my mom mourned. I was still high on sugar.

alexia guzman

silence vs the syndicate i. i did not tell you about the peaches, the woodsmoke, or the clear dew on the lawn the next morning. i did not tell you about the feeling of flesh on flesh overshadowed by guilt. the desire that made a home in my gut and begged to be felt. i tried to tell you in subtle ways. the books on my shelf, the tape on my mouth and the silence when you said it is evil to lie with my kind. the blood is on my hands.

ii. we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t talk anymore because my ways of being weighed too heavily on the church pew.

iii. born again i have been sanctified. made holy. baptized by late nights, leg hair and tequila. blessed by women in bathrooms and backrooms. i do not have to tell you: i will never endure another white room, straight lines, and being rather than Becoming. 46

jayleen rolon

hide and seek Peeking through the delicate leaves of a bush, watching my unsuspecting target’s hair tousle in the wind, I feel invincible. The way her beautiful chocolate brown eyes glisten in the golden light of the setting sun is a picture I could stare at for hours. Her hand tightly grasped in his, her smile makes my world brighter. She doesn’t see me, but I’m here, with a clear view of her. She would lose her mind if she knew I was here, memorizing the way her arms sway in perfect synchronicity with her feet. She’d banish me far, far away at the top of her lungs. She’d beg for him to chase me away because she doesn’t belong to me. She’s in denial that I’m her lifelong companion. Little does she know, my hiding spot is no secret. I’m in her mind, in the way it races trying to feign disgust during the family marathons of Glee. I’m in her heart, in the flutter it makes when the pretty girl in her math class smiles at her. I’m in her soul, in the way it aches to be free to love.

alexia guzman

people over profit my disabled body knows highs and lows. my disabled body knows how a 13th birthday party turns into a diagnosis and a few weeks spent in an ICU, in a hospital waiting room, an eternity on the line with insurance companies fighting for my right to survive. my disabled body knows what it’s like to wait in a social services office, for the numbers to drop, for my name to be called, for the endless test results. my disabled body knows its worth, even while CEOs in board rooms decide i am expendable, that spending a few extra thousand dollars a month is feasible. they pretend that poverty is a choice, a character flaw, a wrong move and not a predetermined decision made by a system that believes lives are disposable.

caroline geoghegan

after prom I let my face sag: Racoon rings round my eyes Dahlias stain my cheeks Mascara like rivers of sludge drip from their watery vestiges unafraid spilling out into my bathroom mirror. Loneliness curls inside of me bites my sternum and cackles As I drive little needles to my porcelain and watch myself crack, little chips burrowing into the drainpipe of my sink I grind my soles into the linoleum and scrub away the paint I lie clear as day and unrelenting Still there are simpler things I think, for at least I am glittery and I am tarnished and I am glad I am home the words curdle inside my stomach heavy and empty and I think about hummingbirds that starve binging themselves on stevia.

donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ruffle my feathers lillian ward

ambar grullon

individual person of color I sort through the skins hanging in my closet. I am running late for a meeting with White People and so I must put on the right skin. I’ve got a skin for every occasion— Articulate Ambar is my LBD. When I put her on, I am applauded for being well-versed. The skin highlights my slow-paced cadence, the lofty lilt of my tone. I am not wearing White Man With Good Ideas, but this skin is a good knockoff ! Sometimes, I still get mistaken for Articulate Amber, Who was also commended like Articulate Ambar with less gusto. So I decided to retire that skin. It’s folded and tucked in a dusty shoebox. Usually, I sift through the rack for an appropriate skin, Like English Major or Repressed Catholic or Virginal Daughter. But today, I do not have time to change. I roll Leader over the skin I am wearing, pull on the arms like gloves, Pin the neck, and blink into the attached eyeballs. The world looks ready to commodify. The meeting is fine, For Janet is wearing a vintage White Woman skin and came prepared with an agenda. She spends much time soothing Doug, who designated himself as the meeting’s man with a plan and is coincidentally wearing his White Man skin. Jake and Curt, clad in White Hipster and White Gay respectively, chime in from time to time. And maybe something is different because when I speak, Their skins crinkle into concerned smiles. Is this Leader skin not completely on? Perhaps the face is transparent again? And then Curt kindly reminds me: I’m so sorry to bother you, but you’ve got your Individual Person of Color skin on. Would you mind taking it off ? And I respond, Oh, I wouldn’t mind at all!

stephanie sonbati

walk the street there are bushes and trees and the typical person keeps company. the asphalt is new and the morning skies are blue and the typical person has a strong soul in their shoe. look at the squirrels and listen to the birds the typical person might exchange a few words with the friends walking along that join the herd. walk the street listen to the rhythm you make with your feet and how it adjusts as more people leave. watch as the leaves start to fall and branches become bare wave at the neighbors that begin to stare and hum to the tune of the stinging air. walk the street nights are cold and dark the difference from autumn to winter is stark, and my soulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worn down the skin of my heels that are turning to bark walk the street soak in the wind and rain think about the past and try to ignore the pain walk the street there is bramble and tumbleweed. and I could use the company.

Does this road ever end?

gail kelly

life goes quick when it goes in cycles On monday I missed the sunset because night falls too quickly. I almost compared it to you, To the moon chasing the sun, To us never reaching one other. I almost compared it to you, But our solar system is only coincidental and The sun doesn’t really set and Night doesn’t fall and Celestial bodies don’t chase one another. The truth is on Monday I climbed up a hill Hoping to see the sunset from a better vantage point, but I guess I got too greedy, I guess I thought I could grab something Out of my reach and By the time I reached the top of the hill Night had already fallen. On the walk home I contemplated All the moldy berries I’ve thrown out, All the cold coffee splashed down the kitchen sink, All the typicality, the irony Of me, missing all beauty completely. I almost compared it to you.

times square gabrielle mclean

madeline talbot

i am so tired This is my brain on sabbatical. sab•bat•i•cal /s ’bad k( )l/ Someone (me) has paid brain (mine) to leave. Brain took the money. Brain packed up. Brain booked flight. Brain gone. But Brain just ran. Brain said HA! You thought! No work done on this trip. Brain wishes it was tripping, but Brain (me) knows better than that. Brain just really needs a break sometimes, you know? You know sometimes Brain just gets really tired cause life is really tiring sometimes and everyone expects a lot from Brain, like, all the time, but Brain doesn’t always have that much to give you know? So Brain took the money you gave it. Brain packed up and Brain found the soonest flight and Brain up and left. Brain gone. Bye, Bye, Brainy! With 3 new musical numbers in the never-before-seen revised show! They go La-dee-da-da! Ba-da-boo! La-dee-da-da! Away Brain flew!

gail kelly

good girl medley 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.

madeline talbot

girl glacier drips fresh flesh that freezes in the frigid frost numbness nips at my naked nerves my frozen fasciculus i wish to desecrate my fresh flesh i will glaciate my glans and if frostbite fails set fire to the flowerbeds florets flare under the flame roast me to my roots

lily gilston

soul story 3333 3 weeks have come and gone and my soul had wit ered away, a season in shadow. Days spent wandering, looking but not seeing. It was as if my soul had isolated herself, she was at the entrance to the cave but with one foot in, one foot out. She felt heavy. She had purple under her eyes. She was tired. So, for 3 weeks, inside the cave she sat. Alone, closed-in. Creativity called to her – “we could make something beautiful today, take this crumb, eat it, use your energy, go wild!” Love called to her — “you are adored, for you are Soul! There is no one else like you.” Intuition called to her — “listen to your inner voice, it will guide you home.” The three were met with forlorn, heavy silence. Soul needed to be a recluse. She thought and thought alone in the cave. Day, night, 3 weeks over. The first drops of a storm seeped into the cave and Soul remembered what it was like to feel summer rain on bare feet. A smile creeped onto her lips. She did not dare leave the cave yet inched closer to the archway. A malevolent rain ensued. A tempest shook the walls of the cave. Thunder and lightning sent Soul back into the deepest ark where the stalagmites close in. The taste of summer’s freedom grew better on her tongue. “Nothing will move me away,” Soul said, “the world isn’t safe for me anymore. I’ll live and die alone here.” Thunder roared with wordless agreement. Nights passed and the storms outside did not cease. The heavens’ fists pounded the plains, the seas, and the cave. The world was cold and grim, a starless sky. Soul grew accustomed to her environment – shivered herself to sleep, wept as the eye of the storm paused the 56

rains. She wore the darkness like a heavy cloak; it choked her, kept her throat dry and raw, yet she never dared to take it off in fear of what relieving herself of its weight would do. Cobwebs entangled her curls. Her ribs echoed and rattled like the walls of the cave. Outside the cave, Soul could not see that her dearest friends were calling for her, Creativity, Love, and Intuition. They knew she was out there, just out of reach. Every morning, her friends would gather in the meadow, bring breakfast and wildflowers, and say, “Soul, we love you. We miss you. We know you’re hurting. We are here when you are ready to return.” Soul cried silently. She thought of 3 weeks’ worth of wildflower bouquets wilting, dying, and blowing away with the western wind. She, too, felt she was withering away. In the early morning hours after the darkest day, when the fog still hung low, Soul did not hear her friends. “They forgot about me,” she thought, “I was never of importance.” But she was wrong, and deep down she knew it. Soul faded back to sleep. Rather than be awakened by her friends’ plea to leave the cave, Soul’s slumber was penetrated by the most glimmering, golden sunrise she had ever seen. The yellow arch of the sun was just making its ascent over the misty hills in the distance, gently kissing the sweetgrass.

Waves of goldenrod and birdsong trickled into the cave, illuminating the craggy walls that Soul had made a shelter. She shook off the gossamer of the dreamworld and was awestruck by the beauty before her. The trees were embraced with warmth. The breeze was the sweetest song. The creek sparkled a new day’s glimmer. Everything outside was alive. And no one was there to see, except for Soul. For the first time since she entered the cave, Soul felt the warmth, a million kisses on her cheeks from the rays. Birds sang her graces. Soul’s eyes could not take in everything fast enough. Without knowing, Soul was just steps from outside the cave. She looked behind her, the cave that was her nest for weeks no longer was inviting. Her corner dissolved in shadow and she shed her heavy cloak. From a distance she could hear Creativity, Love, and Intuition rejoice. She could not go back. It was only forward from here.

madeline talbot

le coeur de ballet

Blood blackens rose satin Silk chains bind breaking bones in blush casing Skeletons scrape through suffocating flesh I do not eat what you serve We break bread over empty plates We rip until our pieces are as small as yours You speak in tongues We carve out ours I do not speak at all I stare through enamel eyes Madness races through the woods with a freely flowing mane She is most loved when she is dead She is most loved when she is killed She is most loved when she kills herself You pin our shoulder blades to the cross we bear You tape knives to the backs of our knees I want to slice your thighs oﬀ with a knife you whisper to me behind closed doors and I wish you would We worship at your ravaged feet We rip until our pieces are as small as yours

gaze brianna titus

caroline geoghegan

walt whitman

For all he knows I enjoy fizzing out words bubbly and irreverent as I ask Walt Whitman just how I collide with this earth Because right now I am detached Right now I am steaming Right now I am diffusing into this tepid night Right now I am perched on my windowsill purging this gelatinous body to the midnight sky Glaring into the eyes of the building next to me Gripping the gaps in the bricks underneath so I do not spill into my neighbors’ rooms. Walt Whitman says this is supposed to be a moment of spiritual revelation But all I am is nauseous, panting, begging for this to stop And Walt Whitman says my eyes are buried deep within every mind little shards to squish and shatter or choke to warp away the flesh dust under my fingernails Walt Whitman says this is the process of the poet to seethe scrape against the concrete scream until my teeth lie scattered on the pavement and don’t you want to scramble in someone’s stomach? Walt Whitman is a fucking liar so I expect no roses because as my brains billow into the clouds I cry out and

no one dares to answer

madeline talbot

at 16 “What is flirtatiousness but an argument that life must go on and on and on?” -Kurt Vonnegut

At sixteen, the nylon of my two- piece clung to my frame but never dug into my fresh young skin. Under a canopy of pine, under the glow of a sparking empyrean, the heels of your palms gently pressed into the small of my back, at the point where the base of my spine descended into the angular arch of my backside. The hook from your thumbs to your index fingers curled up and around my waist, so the tips of your fingers gripped the protruding mounds of my hip bones like climbers cling to the sharp edges protruding from the mountain’s face. The milky white can of warm, untouched beer hung idly in my hand as the weight of your desire propelled us towards the edge of the crowd that brimmed with vitality, towards the edge of the woods, a line of trees that coursed with the same dynamism as the mass of teenagers we were leaving behind. 60

You walked so closely behind me that the furthest point of my backside occasionally grazed the line between your swim trunks’ waistband and the taut skin of your lower torso. At sixteen, I did not know that the imprint of your gentle grasp on my skin would become the map that I follow in my enduring chase for voraciousness in life.

gail kelly

kol nidre You don’t fast this year. Instead you picture your huddled ancestors before you fall asleep

this year, you never do. So your sins are set and stained in a closed book. And you don’t listen

and you shudder. You give them the same authoritative nose that your grandmother gave all of her descendents,

to the Kol Nidre, but all your cousins still share the bump on your nose. It’s kind of like an ancient prayer.

even the bump that protrudes a quarter of the way down, like it was handcrafted by something that knew she would need glasses. Some of your grandmother’s ashes are scattered in Berlin even though her sister swore she would never even think of the country that exiled her, and instead of fasting, you think about how she never spoke german after she fled, all of her childhood memories so blood stained now she had to denounce the language she remembered them in. Your mother atones for not getting the bump smoothed out when she was 18 and getting surgery anyway. Yom Kippur is the most solemn day and instead of fasting you’re grateful that her nose survived where your ancestors didn’t, that you and your sister

would have inherited it even if she went through with the nose job. You don’t fast

ambar grullon

kymopoleia Perhaps she should be grateful for her husband’s touch— Not all Pantheon daughters had such fortune. The Hundred-Handed One drizzled honey On her skin, a treat for their wedding night. Ten hands traced constellations upon her back. He called her his star, For she was a prize for his wartime victory. It was tradition to marry Pantheon daughters off to celebrate victory. The Hundred-Handed One had hurled one hundred boulders with his so-called gentle touch. Rather than receive payment in drachma or the essence of a star, He was gifted something better than his ancestral fortune— Daughter of the Sea God, goddess of the turbulent waves and stormy nights: Kymopoleia, whose name swirled on the tongue like honey. The Olympian cupbearers served nectar, ambrosia, and honey To commemorate both wedding and victory. Poseidon raised his goblet toward the newlyweds, his eyes gleaming against the navy night, And professed, “Wartime brides are like drachmas. May they be worthy of their hero’s touch.” Her mother sniffed and whispered in her ear, “Do not resist. Let Tyche bestow upon you her favorable fortune.” When the Hundred-Handed One had shifted a single hand between her legs, she looked away and stared at the stars. As the Hundred-Handed One clasped thirty hands around her neck, she saw stars. She could not summon storms if she tried; the hands, the honey— Her godly senses were overwhelmed and though she tried to love her new fortune, The Hundred-Handed One grunted over her silence, “This is victory, this is victory.” Not even the wily Zephyr could slip her from his handsy touch. Maybe her marriage would always be like this: reparations, under the guise of this lovers’ night. The sun chariot painted lavender clouds over the night. She lay beside the Hundred-Handed One, wishing upon the cloaked stars, Itching to change anything—the weather, yes, conjure rain to kiss her rooftop’s touch, Study the droplets running down the window like honey. So, the Hundred-Handed One thought their union was victory? She would show him just what she was: a feared fortune.

Carefully peeling his hands off her waist, appreciating his deep slumber as her good fortune, She knelt on the marble floor and prayed to Hypnos for one eternal night. With a tremble in her bottom lip, she willed the ocean to crash through their window: victory. She sat at the foot of their bed, watching him startle awake as his eyes became stars In the darkening room. She curled toward his chest like liquid honey, Crushing his clavicle as his one hundred hands slowly unfurled with an empty touch. Victory may be temporary, but all Pantheon daughters knew what lasted forever was fortune. The Hundred-Handed Oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s touch became a ghost of the night. Kymopoleia closed his starry eyes and sucked her fingers for the remnants of honey.

R margaret varrelmann

cameron foster

come home The call comes to Wake up to Let loose to Shed skin to Accept sin to Inhale, exhale to Step one to Step two to Come home. Come home, young one, come home to Mom. She misses you and wants you to Come home to your childhood bedroom and to Your favorite blankie, your old comic books, and to Come home to your favorite hot meal and to Your old desk covered in dinosaurs and poems, and to Come home to the much-needed warmth, hearth and to Just come home. Come home, weary traveler, come home to Friends past. They miss you and want you to Come home to tell them of your travels and your trials and to Your sipping tipsy nights, your laughter lasting through the night, and to Come home to your camaraderie and to Your inner circle bent but never broken, and to Come home to the much-needed presence of others, their voices and to Just come home. Come home, old, experienced one, come home to Everyone. We miss you and want you to Come home to see your face again and to Your surprise, your peace of mind, and to Come home to your completeness and to Your rest, free to rest at last, and to Just come home. The call comes to Lie down to 64

Close eyes to Breathe in to Breathe out to Step three to Step four to Let go to Come home.

stony seas ayesha sultana

madeline talbot

we already know how this will end the car sits in park engine hushed in the darkened parking garage in the late hours of the night and as I sit facing you from across the center console I reach my hand towards yours and finally, finally, they touch and suddenly I am thinking about puzzles / those puzzles that are thousands and thousands of pieces / and before you even try to figure out the bigger picture in front of you you have one single piece in your hand / and you have to find that piece that fits with the piece that you have in your hand / this one right here, and then finally, finally / you think you’ve found that piece and so you lay them on the table and try to fit them together / but something just doesn’t quite fit / but you want it to fit so badly so you push and smush and jiggle and wriggle those two pieces until the friction causes their cardboard edges to bend and fray but you could’ve sworn this was the right piece how could it not be? / they have to fit don’t they? don’t they? / so you move on to find another piece / but in the back of your mind you wonder if maybe that was the right piece after all? / but now you’ve thrown that piece back into the pile and you know you can’t go back to it and you know that even if you did you would only push until they snapped and as the car sits in park with the engine hushed, in the darkened parking garage, in the late hours of the night, and as we finally, finally, reach our hands towards one another I know now we will push and push until our cardboard edges bend and fray and then we will push and push some more 66

Reflections of Lake Carnegie gabrielle mclean

anisa lateef

dear future historians and story seekers, I imagine you reading this on one of those swipey hologram databases synced in a shamrock synthetic polymer ring I could’ve only ever dreamed of twiddling around my finger. in front of you is a copy of what was once a modified bundle of tree pulp and spiraled metal. as you decipher my midnight anecdotes laced in cursive like hieroglyphics, I hope you won’t cringe too hard at my stories, especially the entries during a particularly shmushed series of dumpster fires. after existing through what feels like an ever continuous cycle of stink bombs launched by a barricade of trigger-happy middle fingers, I only ask that you don’t judge me for what I chose to fill the ironically college-ruled lines with. the journals are daydreams of a boy. a boy I met before last March, 2020. a boy who could care less that I exist because why should he. why would he. the written relics of my innermost recollections are exponential like an unsolved differential equation where I can’t control any variable, not even how often he rents out real estate in my head and then sublets it to himself because there’s no one else to interfere. the daydreams. they’re toxic and positive, just like him. positively toxic. poison through his optimism like an energy vampire disguised as an arm around the shoulder. but i can’t stop thinking about the hugs from behind, a pair of lips to let laugh and smile because of me, a heart to lay my head against. he tiptoes through my aortic valve everytime i finish praying for a clear heart and empty mind. it’s not explainable, but his image is a distorted pawn playing the fantasies of my temporary forever until another chess piece, maybe a knight, swoops by to take its role in a superhero cape or henley shirt. so don’t act so surprised at the number of entries as I attempt to comprehend this. I know this isn’t a considerable amount of evidence of a mutual longing, but let me be a little excited over an-almost-nothing. I wonder the ratio of how much he’s popped in my head versus me in his, how skewed it’d be in my colossal favor, because, because, because I hydrolyzed way too much ATP over the thought of him. let me have this, this little bit of hope, this probably-not-but-maybe. the maybes tether me to the good parts of the day. you might’ve been searching for some sort of historically accurate depiction of the time of wasps the size of hawks and paranoia that spread like a pandemic for whatever research project you’ve been instructed to submit. I assure you, young reader, that in this journal you’ll find a lot of pages mind-doodling a blueprint for a world she wished existed outside her window. oh if only this college degree could guide her towards engineering a ladder to the rooftop level of reality.

Greyson With Binoculars elisabeth osekavage

the last look a note from the issue editor Dear Reader, 2020 has been a year for the books! From facing the challenges of abruptly going online amidst a global pandemic and learning to manage time in a radically different way, this magazine should show you how resilient our student body truly is! In a year filled with uncertainty, one thing is certain: we will continue to grow and inspire one another despite difficult times, and I am so thankful to have the privilege of piecing together every single submission. We have now told a beautiful story, together, through TCNJ’s talented writers, artists, and photographers. Last Fall, I was struggling to find my place at TCNJ as a transfer student, and Diane Steinberg suggested that I should check out The Lion’s Eye. I became a member of the staff and I submitted a piece of my artwork as well as two photographs. Much to my surprise, during the release party, I saw my art featured on the front cover and my photography on the back. Needless to say, I was speechless. My artwork is also featured on the front cover of this edition, anonymously elected, like every semester. I feel so blessed to share my passion! A huge thanks to everyone’s constant support in following my dreams and The Lion’s Eye for giving me a home!

I was not expecting to be Issue Editor, but when I was elected for the position, I was ecstatic! This has challenged me to learn InDesign, and I would like to thank Sigma Tau Delta for funding my access to this program. A special thanks to Felicia Steele for always helping me, especially with contacting the necessary people, and Jessica Shek for showing me InDesign’s main functions. Also, Cameron, Filip, Destiny, and Caroline, my fellow board members, I am so thankful to have the opportunity to work with you all! I hope you all are as proud of this issue as I am, and I cannot wait to tell another story in the Spring!

Best wishes,

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 :: Although the deadline for our next issue has not yet been decided, submissions are currently being accepted. Please send all submissions via e-mail to tcnjlionseye@gmail.com.

PRINTER :: Bill’s Printing Service - 2829 South Broad Street - Trenton, NJ - 08610

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