The Lion’s Eye VOLUME 41:: FALL 2017 volume 41:: FALL 2017
untitled
Jolie Shave
The Lion’s Eye Fall 2017 executive editor issue editor copy editor treasurer secretary faculty advisor
Kelly Noll Lily Firth Alyssa Doyle Kelly Vena Dara Kushnir Frank Hannold
staff :: Samantha Colditz, Georgia Cyriax, Silas Jones, Esha Patel, Jessica Radigan, Kayla Rivas, Jessica Shek, Ryan Soldati
“Only the very weak-minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry” — cassandra clare, clockwork angel
contents poetry and prose
4
kelly noll
8
The First Look
gillian louise omotoso
10
Body-Veiled Secret
samantha colditz
11
A Commonn Encounter
gian torrano-jacobs
12
A Lady Lights a Cigarette
kendel stiles-schatz
12
A Longing for Shallow Waters
corinne peterson
13
A Season
destiny valerio
15
Beautiful Women
catherine higgins
15
How are you Feeling
georgia cyriax
16
Untitled
alaina mchugh
17
If I Had No Choice
kendel stiles-schatz
18-19
How to Fall in Love
catherine higgins
20-21
I Hope You’re Happy
georgia cyriax
22
How the Fuck do I Write a Poem
abigail wooldridge
25
Les Filles Dans le Miroir
kendel stiles-schatz
27
Let us Die like Women
georgia cyriax
28
Fortune Cookies
corinne peterson
29
Lullaby
nicole zamlout
30
Of Concrete Deserts and Young Love
heather santiago
32
My Parents’ Bed
gwen peralta
33
My Will
corinne peterson
34
Paper Kiss
zachary bishop
34
The Sunshine on our Shoulders
ine’a smith
35
The Master
ambar grullon
38-39
Requiem
catherine higgins
40-42
The Porcelain Teeth of the Devil
kiira jeffers
43
Editorial Content (Black out poem)
georgia cyriax
44
Starving Artist
contents poetry and prose Jessica Rech
45
The Trumpet Player
Abigail Wooldridge
46
To a Friend Who Steals Literary Magazines
48-49
What’s Wrong with that? (Good Question)
Heather Santiago lily firth
50
The Last Look
new horizons
Emily Lo
5
contents art and photography ryan soldati jolie shave
(cover)
Spread
(masthead)
Untitled
emily lo
5
New Horizons
grace gottschling
7
Morning Light
stephanie sonbati
9
Yellow Flowers
grace gottschling
13
August Runs
meagan scherer
14
Untitled
jolie shave
23
Untitled
meagan scherer
24
Untitled
jolie shave
26
Untitled
emily lo
29
New Moon
esha patel
31
Montmorency Falls
emily lo
36
Trapped
jessica rech
37
Untitled
meagan scherer
47
Water Sunset
ryan soldati
51
Spread
stephanie sonbati
(back cover)
Yellow Flowers
“There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.” — p.g. wodehouse
6
morning light Grace Gottschling
7
the first look
a note from the executive editor Dear Readers, Hello! The holiday season is generally considered a time for gratitude, and this year I’d like to let you know how grateful I am for the vibrant creative community here at TCNJ. This magazine is composed entirely of TCNJ student submissions, the review process is carried out entirely by TCNJ students, and our executive staff are all TCNJ students. From artists to poets, from critics to storytellers, the Lion’s Eye truly is a celebration of TCNJ’s creative community. I’m honored and humbled to be a part of it. When I was a timid little freshman, I barely spoke at Lion’s Eye meetings, even though I attended every week as a general staff member. It took me weeks before I finally submitted a poem, not because the atmosphere was intimidating, but because I wasn’t confident enough in my work. I never could have imagined that, four years later, I would be the Executive Editor, standing in front of everyone to facilitate the submission review discussions. The Lion’s Eye family is about building TCNJ students’ confidence, providing them with new opportunities, and amplifying their creative voices. It takes a lot of hard work to make this magazine possible each semester, but it’s extremely rewarding. I’d like to thank the rest of the Lion’s Eye executive staff for their dedication this semester: our Issue Editor, Lily Firth; our Copyeditor, Alyssa Doyle; our Treasurer, Kelly Vena; our Secretary, Dara Kushnir; and our Publicist, Destiny Valerio. Thank you to our general staff, whether you made it to every meeting or just a few, because without your voices we would not be able to review our submissions. I’d also like to thank you, dear reader, for supporting TCNJ’s creative community by picking up this edition of the Lion’s Eye. I hope that when you read it, you understand why we work so hard to produce an issue each semester. I hope it inspires you to participate in our community and join our Lion’s Eye family. Best,
Kelly Noll Executive Editor
8
yellow flowers Stephanie Sonbati 9
Gillian Louise Omotoso
body-veiled secret Body-veiled secret I know you hold the key I’ll make myself sleepless For your inner beauty A city of rejects Who seek “serenity” Body-veiled spirit The world sinks at its feet Body-veiled secret A setting so absurd I’ll write it, he’ll speak it In hopes for your good word Body-veiled secret A mind forgets its truth Body-veiled spirit Money maintains its youth. And is this for me? What is it I see? This serenity Would it be so free to flee? This goal that exceeds All I could ever be. (body-veiled secret. are these changes so futile? flesh fits Truth. “Nascent.”) 10
Samantha Colditz
a common encounter A word. A move. My true nature is unleashed. What does it take for you to know that I’m different? Was it the way I take the words into my mouth and spit them out wrong? Or was it how my movements make you uncomfortable? This is new territory for you. A question. A response. Your true nature is revealed. I’m impressed with the amount of “grace” you put into your words. “What’s wrong with you?” Ignorant, but by now I’ve met a hundred others who are just like you. I try not to show my annoyance, and go through the answer that I’ve practiced for years now. A pause. A look. What now? I wonder which type you are. You’ll try to nod and end it there as if this will kill the uneasiness you left me with. But will you drown me in pity like I’m a hurt child? Or will I become frightening to you as my condition becomes a disease in your head? A memory. A pattern. It never ends. You do not stand out from the crowd of others who are just like you. Instead you all become a whole; a representation of my greatest foe. I’ve encountered you many times but it still hurts. “What is wrong with you?” I see we’ve met again.
11
Gian Torrano-Jacobs
a lady lights a cigarette a lady lights a cigarette glowing red cherry lips, puffing without regret a cigarette, burning smoking, grey breathing choking and tap tap the falling ashes it is over with a definitive flick — a lady lights a cigarette she can see her spirit dancing in the smoke
Kendel Stiles-Schatz
a longing for shallow waters I need to stop thinking in poetry, Or my mind will rot inside of me, And my lips will hue a shade of blue, If I utter rhymes to the morning dew. I have to stop thinking in poetry, Or my brain will need a lobotomy, And my lips might spout a world of shouts, God forbid I rhyme to the summer’s droughts. I must stop thinking in poetry, Or my heart will ache everlastingly, And my fingers will dream like a songbird screams, If I ponder rhymes for the sunlight’s beams. And I need to stop thinking in poetry, Or I’ll never cease writing internally, And I’ll see something small, a rhyme for the falls, When I’d yearn to feel simply nothing at all.
12
Corinne Peterson
a season
Leaves, be the memory of this moment, and please do not destroy it with your sadness. Instead, if it’s black and white like ashes, then dip it in the palette of Fall’s madness.
august runs Grace Gottschling
But please do not destroy it with your sadness-for if your browning edges soak your soul, then dip them in the palette of Fall’s madness and savor how each color makes you whole. And if your browning edges soak your soul, then lift them to the last rays of the sun, and savor how each color makes you whole before they melt away and day is done. Then lift them to the last rays of the sun; paint the sky, and frame our silhouettes-before they melt away and day is done, a photo keeps what autumn soon forgets. Paint the sky, and frame our silhouettes --against the light they’re black and white like ashes-well photos keep what autumn soon forgets; so leaves, please be the memory of this moment.
13
untitled Meagan Scherer
14
Destiny Valerio
beautiful women
Dylan drew me close. His moonshade eyes shined as brightly as the stars. “I don’t feel like a woman,” I muttered miserably, looking down at my dress covered in grass. Men shouldn’t wear dresses. His hot breath reached my ear, “You are as much as a woman to me as I am as much as a man to you.” Dylan’s lips embraced mine.
Catherine Higgins
how are you feeling I used to love the way the sun came in through the windshield and scorched holes through my denim, and yet, my brain won’t let me remember the inferno, only the third degree burns.
15
Georgia Cyriax
untitled Everyone knows where to dot the is and coross the ts and I accidentally cross ls all the time and my paretheses look like cs and if Im a poet who cant write what can I do. and like do you write an integral top down or bottom up and does it matter how you get there as long as you get there (the real journey is the friends we make along the way or something like that) or should we bully the bottom ups and what if calculus is just for the weak anyway,, and is poetry for the strong? bc ik some pusssy ass limp arm poets but also I feel like Dwayne the rock hojnson would write beautiful haikus, and also doesn’t wordsworth seem like he’d be fucking ripped like tf? also like do i even want to be a poet? all th e poets I know are poor or emo or like really really good and hardworking and im already poor and emo so idk if i could fit good and hardworking into that tinder bio. ew nvm. also speaking words is scary and so is homelessness and poetry seems to lead to both at least a little bit, like i know it’s not like “o you’ll for sure be working at mcdonalds” but i do already know how to make a mean soft serve (thanks eick) so im sure id at least kind of succeed. succ(eed). idk where this is going but the future is spooky and sometimes i just want to cuddle my cat and hide under the blankets buut he doesn’t like going under the blankets and im not sure if he even really likes me but anyway good night im off to walk into a lake
16
Alaina McHugh
if i had no choice I already carry a life of my own. You want to fill me, but I already overflow with enough strength for two and too much for you – conscious, cautious thought that you wish to pour out to make room for yourself to breathe. You would hang me to dry, drain out my core, drape me over the door and air me out before you replace mine with yours to fill the gap you carved out. I would watch from outside that worn, battered shell, the false image you would sign and claim as your own masterpiece. You would watch my shield weaken in the wind, rigid roots withering away before you take me down and lay me out in front of you. You would swallow that cracked, hollow shell, that vessel you call yours, and set yourself free, imprison me, convinced I would surrender willingly, let you blind me so I can’t see the desire to consume me. You say you only want to complete me, but I never approached empty.
17
Kendel Stiles-Schatz
how to fall in love
You’re 100 degrees standing on dry grass. After starting a fire you’re smoke in the air complaining about your asthma - why are the flowers all dead? - you’re destruction. You built a cage with makeup brushes and a hair straighter, drowned the prison with tanning spray, and you shackled your legs to ankle weights before diving in. You’re a conflict with a manicure, your very own home-wrecker, goal-fucker, jail-keeper. Icarus at least wanted to leave, built wings from the heavens, and you can’t pry dead eyes from the mirrors you hang like nooses on the walls. How do you fall in love with someone you’ve never loved? you ask. When I look at you I’m embarrassed. You’re a beached whale - never made for water, swam to the shore but panicked when people fled. See, they don’t like looking at something so pale and fat, you say. Silence sits on the noose like dead weight. Sneering at the face that dares mirror your own, you ask, How am I supposed to love you? I. Shut the fuck up. You are an SUV going 80mph on the highway and in the distance there is a parked car. You’re a car crash, a collision, Newton’s forth law, a force of resentment and anger. You’ve been here before. Let hatred take the wheel, wrath is your guide, and the next stop is you. II. You are the brake. Your disgust and shame are driving, gravestone on gas, and yourecognize the license, you’ve hit this car before. It’s got scratches from when you grew too fast, stretch marks shattering legs like lightning bolts, puberty was none too kind with you. The first tire burst when Sam called you thunder thighs. You remember the window cracking after Abby said your eyes reminded her of sewage, and it shattered when you looked in the mirror and your eyes reminded you of sewage. And now, now, you’re driving the car; you’re coming back for round 88. Hit the fucking brakes. III. You wish you could apologize to other driver. Hug her. Tell her you’re ready to plant sunflowers in her hair, not melt the cellulite in her legs. No more burning flesh blackening her lungs, you refuse to be the cancer. Tell her you won’t be the next car, you’ll be the repair, with soft hands you’ll plant rosemary through the stitching of the seats, vines through windows, you’ll be a garden built up from ruins, clawed from the fire, her protection. Tell her when you’re done, when cars arrive, bad intentions spewing from exhaust, they’ll slow, sigh at her strength, admire her beauty – no, her confidence – they’ll move on. And the ones who mean her harm? After all your healing, the cars who won’t stop going 90 miles, aiming for the front lights, the bumper, red target on the driver’s side, what then? You wish you could swear to the other driver, carve the promise in your ribcage because you’re sure of it now, Honey, they can’t even touch you.
18
IV. Get in the car. Remember how it feels to sit here without hatred forcing you to puncture nails in the leather, your very own crucifixion orchestrated by you. Remember how it feels to look at the dashboard without screaming words sharper than butcher knifes shredding your lips, slashing the frame, the blood always yours. Get in the car. Sit right here and remember you’ve been in this warzone for 20 years and the battle is over, you’re signing the treaty, repairing the damage. And the car will sigh, she’ll sigh, I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. Plant a flower in the broken cup holder every time you find yourself smiling at the side mirror. Remember it takes guts to be as loving as you. Repeat the process until the windows are bullet proof. V. Never stray from yourself – if you find hatred slithering between the pedals, find your lungs screaming at the rear mirror, claustrophobia is alive and he hates you, pushing doors at your elbows, locking you in, your foot one step from the battleground – stop. This isn’t the cage you built, don’t you dare think otherwise. Never stray from yourself. And I promise you with time this will all come naturally. I promise you years later you’ll be here, dancing in your car, using the water bottle as a microphone. The cage you built was left by a stop sign in Arizona. The mirrors that hung like nooses now rest like trophies. And now, now, there are flowers everywhere, the windows are rolled down. The neighbors are sitting outside and they’re watching you. Because you fell in love with yourself years ago and they are watching you fall in love again with being alive.
19
Catherine Higgins
i hope you’re happy
I hope you’ll be happy in your little town house with the golden autumn leaves encrusted on your roof and your bright crimson swing-set where one day you’ll let your gray-eyed children roam and play May your trees’ eyes gaze through your windows and peak at the pancakes you cook each Sunday morning topped with auburn maple syrup But I only ever wanted what was best for you I only wanted what was best for you Right now, I hope you’re happy with the late nights the cat fights and the bright lights from the alcoholic frights that wake you in the middle of those nights And sometimes I wonder, Are you really as happy as I hope you are? The moss that covers your trees will spread like a romanticized disease onto your pond whose whispers pierced into your same gray colored eyes
Year after year the marigolds around that pond decide to bloom but when they do, do you think of me the way I think of you mid-June? How you craved longing and talking and prying and needing and crying but you still wanted so much more From me, From him
20
You wanted a little house with the crusted leaves and algae covered pond And a happy husband who looks at you the same way he plays the guitar with passion and admiration and to him, you ooze beauty out of every single pore that lies on your soft pale skin You wanted what was best for you I only ever wanted what was best for you too
21
Georgia Cyriax
how the fuck do i write a poem
how the fuck do I write a poem?
maybe start by personifying the moon? the moon loves the sun and it breaks my heart. how about a little action? the sun and the moon eloped past the stars, but they left me behind on earth. can the audience tell that I’m just making this shit up? the earth is a fine friend but she doesn’t get me. she just keeps asking why it’s dark all the time. and I don’t know what to tell her maybe throw in a polysyndeton? I just tell her to be quiet and that we can make our own light and that she has a molten core after all and that should keep her warm and that I knew the moon was making eyes at the sun and I should have said something and I should have stopped her and now she’s gone and now I’m sitting on this shitty polluted fucking planet ok, that’s cool. now we need a strong finish whatever that means in the end, though, i love the earth. and this is not the answer I wanted. and this is not the answer she wanted. and this especially is not the answer either of us would have expected. we dreamt of symbiotic self destruction, or maybe a parliamentary decision to run straight into the sun (earth can do this, she’s a talented runner), but instead we hold hands in the cold winter and I knit her mittens and she sews me pants and maybe that’s love and maybe this dumb ass poem got away from me but I finished and that counts for something.
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untitled Jolie Shave
23
untitled Meagan Scherer
24
Abigail Wooldridge
les filles dans le miroir Inside each sleeper is another sleeper who dreams backwards. This is the first song we learn in le club feminin. We meet in basements & suck on skinny lamb bones, we laugh! With ribs of rosemary we beg for the devouring. Render that which is night’s unto night, unto a sister or soldier, depending on a spare slant of moonslice so fragrant delicate, delicate, I speak a language dug out of a First Girl’s marrow. I swallow my secret name happily. Lovely thrum! O wonder, & dark sea twixt sacred & scared. Last night someone poured $3 white wine over my upturned face “bless your soul, your soul, your closed eyes.”
25
untitled Jolie Shave
26
Kendel Stiles-Schatz
let us die like women
If we must die – let us not die like mice. Trapped between the snarling dogs, teeth sharpened, eyes enticed. While our backs are covered, we cower like fear, And the watching dogs all drool and leer. If we must die – let us die with pride. Strangle the waves, tide by tide, and as Maya said: still we’ll rise! And with our death, the dogs’ demise. If we must die – let us finally rest. With wicked eyes, snarl unkempt, haunches stretched, and ribcage bruised, Even though we’ll die, we will not lose. If we must die – let us die like women. Like women, pocketknives stashed in the holes of our linen. And if we must die – let us kill the pack. Like women, not mice, we are armed to attack. And if we must die - pressed to the wall, imprisoned by dogs, Like women, We fight back. (Inspired by If We Must Die, by Claude McKay)
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Georgia Cyriax
fortune cookies If I could, I would pop out my eyes, pickle them, the way you like, blindly fermenting for years, then plop them on a platter. Presentation is key! I’d build a billion pyramids for a years tuition, cut off my ears because you hate my piercings, eat an anchovy marinated in mustard, fuck a czar (I’d marry him too, so the neighbors don’t talk), read through an astrophysics textbook, learn uncertainty principle (whatever the fuck that is), and arm wrestle a Portugese Man of War. My friends say we’re stuck in a stalemate, that this isn’t the Stone Age. Or Stonewall. Or the first stone cast at the first sinner, and a new place doesn’t really cost that much. Maybe I can move in with a meat pie maker and a murderous barber? Or couch surf for a bit? Maybe my answer lies in a fortune cookie, stolen from some other sap who hates their life and wants to fucking die, and decided to get Chinese because that’s what you do, and now they’re overthinking fortunes in general, putting decades of thought into “good things will come.”
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new moon Emily Lo
Corinne Peterson
lullaby
If you sleep the night upon a star you’ll never wander far-for if you do, you’ll come right back to where the mornings are. And if by chance you slip away and cannot see the moon, the stars will take you by the hand and bring you to your room. 29
Nicole Zamlout
of concrete deserts and young love I saw you in a parking lot. You were leaning against the wall of the CVS, just staring at the clouds, watching the world go by. The asphalt was scorching under my feet as I came over to you. Your smile was fuller than that noon day sun, and I understood why you hid. So then she wouldn’t be jealous. You were always considerate like that. I remember all the stupid things we’d say to each other. Like how we would fight off a thousand snails to get each other back. Or how we would face down the worst bad breath in order to see the other smile. We were a couple of weirdos, but when we made love it was everything any author could hope for. It was ink stained fingers, tracing the blurry outlines of each other until they became clear again. It was holding each other until the Sun melted us because she never forgot her jealousy. It was smiling so wide that our lips cried in protest at the abuse, only for them to fall on ears too full of each other’s heartbeats to care or listen. It was the kind of young love that is never supposed to last. And it didn’t. It ended in a blaze of glory, your hand leaving mine as your family drove away. You cried out as your car turned the curb how we would find each other again, across fields of garbage and landmines. How we would fight the smell and fear for another kiss. I think you said that because you knew this would be your last sight of me, and you wanted me to be smiling. So then when you thought of me, you could convince yourself that I’m better off without you. I’m not, if you’re wondering. Because you took my heart with you when you left. And I would cross every concrete desert, just to tell you that you can keep it.
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montmorency falls Esha Patel 31
Heather Santiago
my parents’ bed
My parents' bed was high above the ground. It was big and grand and it used to be adorned with two little emblems of gold. My parents' bed was the tallest bed in my house. It had 4 clawed feet and 4 poles that rose up around it, like soldiers standing to attention, watching, guarding. When we were little we used to climb on them and get yelled at. My parents' bed was a comfy place, one that they shared with us. On cold winter nights the four of us would all squish ourselves in together and watch a movie, a feeling of comfort, happiness and warmth surrounding me until I felt my eyelids become heavy and my head would nod as I would try to stay awake. My parents' bed was a place of solace from a thunderstorm or a bad dream. I would climb in, up high in the air and far away from anything lurking in the dark below. In the morning I would jump back down from my island of safety, all thoughts of storms and monsters gone. My parents’ bed was ever the same as the years passed. Middle school, high school plodded along, ending suddenly, right under my nose. That summer the bed was there and then suddenly I am removed from it, sent to a place with a new bed. This bed is much higher than any other bed I have ever seen. For practical reasons maybe, like storage and space. My parents' bed is there as I visit home, just as comfy and safe. Except now it doesn't seem so tall. My parents' bed is closer to the ground. Over long breaks we still watch movies together, except now we barely fit, and in the warmth and comfort and happiness, I feel other heads nodding and see other eyes drooping long before mine. My parents' bed is a safe place, but I can only be there sometimes, and the island far away from the ground, protecting me from monsters and storms, has lowered ever so slightly. Though it may feel closer to the ground now, my parents’ bed is still the tallest one in my house. It is still there standing the test of life and there will always be times when I come home when I want to feel like a child, safe and warm and happy in My parents' bed.
32
Gwen Peralta
my will
Put me in the hands of a coroner, where they will be as shaken as I was when they realize there is not enough left of me to go around. They’ll find I’d choked on every boulder I’d thrown into the pond and every ingenuous tear that had leaked from me when silence cradled me to bed. They’ll find crooked teeth within the hollows of my chest and stolen bones from those who craved the rest of me. And when they cut open my intestines they are bound to find words I was forced to swallow. Tell the few awaiting answers that it wasn’t their faults. Leave them roses with thorns so they understand they’ll continue to shed the blood that the trees, the sun, and the sky beg to see fall. Tell them I did not die fighting a terrible war; rather I let Torment’s sweeter sister destroy me. Tell them I said not to bother in avenging such a heavy soul. There are better things.
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Corinne Peterson
paper kiss Once I gave you a paper kiss and you unfurled it like a blooming rose. It crinkled between your fingers but you held it up to the light and it was as pure as a wet petal. You couldn’t give it back, though you tried; if you folded it again, the wrinkles would turn the white sheet grey as reused wrapping paper. So you tucked it into your heart and it blossomed there and glowed, and it stayed with you forever, the way only love notes can.
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Zachary Bishop
the sunshine on our shoudlers Autumn leaves spiral down to touch cool dew, A canvas to receive her strokes of yellow And smears of blood orange. For her brooks babble dictionary volumes, Words dissolving in steady streams. She runs her fingers through and through, Curling and whirling in interstices of weed and prairie grass. Combing to find long-lost memories in lost time, Her weeping resounding. She shows her true colors: a white sudden flash, Bleeding yellow into orange as red dances with black. Familiarity fading, her children Find the comfort of their homes addressed, As the crickets sing to the music of her last breath.
Ine’A Smith
the master She moaned the words in the sentences, making love to each paragraph. She caressed the thin pages as she fantasized. She threw herself into the books submissively, letting it take over her body. He whipped her with his similes, tied her up with his metaphors, spanked her with his imagery. She loved the aggressiveness. She allowed the author to explore her mind as she explored his body of art. He led her to the climax and she followed eagerly, on all fours.
35
trapped Emily Lo
36
untitled Jessica Rech
37
Ambar Grullon
requiem
If Saturdays were for sinning, then Sundays were reserved for regret. I woke up with a splitting headache, Advil clutched in my palm. The room smelled vaguely of cigarettes and my computer was still running. I rolled to my side, groaning as last night’s mischief settled. Red hair. Seu Jorge. And the half-hoped sighs of a closed door. My mother peeked her head through the door, cheeks glowing from an early morning run, and warned, “Grace! It’s 9:30 and the CCD teacher can’t be late for mass. Get up!” She hummed as she walked away. “Ergh,” I mumbled into my pillow. Sundays were also reserved for cooking up bullshit and serving it as class. “You are the salt of the earth and the light of the world,” the sermon began. Those words microphone feedback and all - echoed off the stained glass windows before reaching my ears. “What more can you ask from God?” The ten o’clock Mass was also known as the Children’s Mass, or as I liked to think of them, the guilty ones. The majority of students in the Religious Education Program only attended mass until they received their Sacraments and could boast their Christianity with a mere certificate. Not that I was any less guilty; I only taught to receive volunteer credit. The priest continued babbling at the pulpit, his fingers twitching at every acclamation of God. The altar servers whispered amongst themselves, while the congregation nodded like clockwork. I peeked at my students: not a single child listening. Perfect. It really was a shame that they didn’t see themselves as half-angel, half-God. They could entertain notions of divinity, treat communion as ambrosia and call themselves holy. They deserved a teacher who believed in them, not a deserter. Since that thought depressed me, and I was already a sinner, I snuck my phone out of my purse. Only one text message. From Vitória: Lying to yourself is a sin. “Shit,” I hissed, meeting the curious gaze of an eight-year-old. I could almost hear the music again, crooning as Vitória’s hand met mine. She moved closer. There was no priest, no homily to praise or communion to choke on. She was real and I believed in her. But then the night came and there was no use pretending. “Vitória, where are you going?” I asked. She stopped and looked behind her shoulders. Red hair parted, revealing a pursed mouth. “I can’t be here knowing that I’m only with half of you.” I couldn’t bear it. “And what’s that half?” “The denial.” What more could she want from me? Didn’t she know that I was already straining from the weight? I never meant for this to become a cross, but love and fear intersected perfectly. 38
As the congregation stood to profess faith to beings they’d never seen, I stood and mouthed what I knew to be true: 1. People are far more certain about their uncertainty than they are about God. 2. The more you know about yourself, the less you will believe in your own divinity. 3. Sins never truly leave, so why bother suppressing them? When I think about my fear of God, I think about the hesitancy of putting pen to paper. Of never knowing how to break a hug. Of confessing to a priest, who’ll forever judge me for it. Every step, every move I make—what can I barter for Eternal Salvation? What must I give up? “Vitória?” We laid on the grass, ants crawling up our legs. “Hmm?” Her hands weaved through my hair. “Do you believe in God?” It was a question I tasted for days, twisting the bitter flavors on my tongue. Vitória paused her ministrations. I hastily explained, “I’m not attacking you, really. I’m just curious.” It was true. She attended Mass every Sunday, sometimes assisted me with teaching. Was she like me? “You make me believe in God. Isn’t that enough?” She smiled and my heart was breaking.
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Catherine Higgins
the porcelain teeth of the devil A permanent ghoul remains in the darkness of my trailing shadow Filling his lungs with each breath I take and still I am left gasping for air While his chest swells greater than skin plucked by a bee sting Some nights I lay awake in the discomfort of my room Perspiring palms pressed together Praying that I will not ache through another sleepless slumber Toes wrenching the edge of my bed frame and the chattering of teeth Echo in the halls of the Heights. Why can I not free myself from this feeling of endless and uninterrupted surveillance? He hunts for prey to feast on Yet I am lost as to why he has not ripped the meat from my bones leaving me a heap of pulsating flesh. When I close my eyes, He remains with me Tangling himself between my sheets, Cackling as he attempts to slither his way inside My throat
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Choking and barely able to keep my strength, I continuously resist his persistence But in fact, It was not quite as innocent as the latter But rather Intrusive, Forceful, Violating. Has the devil ever made love to your insides? Has he made you scream beyond your bedroom walls? He plods his way back to me in the recesses of my drunken visions of Torture and ecstasy I train myself to forget the past night for it can only bring good fortune to the future I lock my doors, Shut my windows, Chain my thoughts to the film behind my eyelids Yet I find myself awakened to the squeaking of springs A wide-toothed grin cast upon my walls floral wallpaper dripping from the corners of the ceiling, They puddle on the floor by the morning. It is wet, and once again I am left barren and shaking. I know that his intentions are sour and I can’t help but squirm at his aching gaze. His veined and clawed hand rests along my raw and convulsing inner thighs. He presses his fingers to a black and foul mouth and hushes me until I am swallowed whole. 41
Asleep I am once more and take comfort in his cradled arms He rocks me back and forth like a babe, A child in his arms, I began to fall for his brooding and omnipotent essence He loves me and I love him sometimes, Sometimes When he sneaks into my chamber and fingers through my books, He’ll read to me and whisper lavender scented lullabies like the ones I used to hear seated on father’s knee. He combs my hair and lulls me to bed and I cease to forget what he is capable of. I have chosen to remember the nights when he’d coddled me. The nights when he told me that a creature like him survives off of nectar like mine I remind him that cruel and devilish beasts don’t get dessert without supper and I am tired of him skipping meal after meal I am an oasis run dry and here I lie again in my barren and arid sheets 2 Waiting for Heathcliff to bring rainfall to my desert once more And still I long for him to come back to me, Empty and as hollow of an owl’s first nest when he is not near. He loves me, and I’ll love him always, For when I lie in my grave I will know he’s awake with me in the shadows beneath the earth.
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Kiira Jeffers
editorial content (black out poem)
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Georgia Cyriax
starving artist You’re not a real artist until you’ve sacrificed. Any sacrifice, between the sizes of a small child and a large lamb, will do, but don’t bring in a small rodent or something, thinking you can just be an artist and pull that weak ass shit in here. You need to give life and limb for the craft. You liked your arm? Too bad, you paint better without it. You need to die for your work. Yes, you need to literally die. A chronic illness or freak accident is a perfectly fine way to go, but make sure you die young and tragically, otherwise you’re basically dying for nothing. Had a happy childhood? Well, that just won’t do. Invent an alcoholic distant relative, at the very least. Somebody had to have bullied you at least once. I’ll bully you right now. Your shirt is ugly. Go write a poem about it. Wow, your parents loved you? I’m so sorry, but you can’t do shit with that.
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Jessica Rech
the trumpet player No one predicted that the kid would be good, that the music that came from his horn would be anything other than a handful of jumbled notes and harsh sounds; everyone wondered, where could this kid have possibly learned how to play in a town like this, as they lifted themselves onto barstools and leaned against walls, eyes glancing towards the small stage at the back, expecting another headache, another reason for a drink, but instead getting jazz that swept through the bar, melodies that outshined everything around him, even as the drummer tapped against his base pedal, and the saxophonist danced to a beat that harmonized with heartbeats, even as, outside, the street was blanketed in a sheet of smog, and on the ground the dogs were less hungry than the people but surrounded by more fleas, and from the next street over a screech echoed down alleyways as someone slammed on their brakes and glass chimed as it shattered against pavement, even as everyone crowded into the bar to forget with a sip of a drink, they forgot, instead, with music; for it was the kid who blew life into the cold brass of his trumpet and it was for the kid that everyone clapped.
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Abigail Wooldridge
to a friend who steals literary magazines How (in the ever living fuck) should I know a love poem? The Da Vinci at the National Gallery or the night I cut the limes so perfectly? I’m a waitress, not a sculptor, & I don’t do much: brood over cereal. Drink all the gin. Burn all the toast. Pretend I know what I’m saying. Your questions are soft kicking pressures. Half like someone putting their hands over mine on the steering wheel & half like someone kissing my closed eyes when they think I am asleep. I think I have made you the shape of my strangeness, something easy to touch, or to push off the bed. But you do not always know what I am feeling & it breaks me up how you want me to be so unexpected, moon over some melancholy Japanese animation or maybe lap up the light pollution over Vegas. I am only living lonely. I take the curve of your smile slowly, I do not dare for more, see, involvement, like right on red, is a form of divination & we will do it all without looking both ways, without prayers. Without love poems. 46
water sunset Meagan Scherer
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Heather Santiago
whats wrong with that? (good question)
What's wrong with that? (Part 1) You walk along the curb with a friend, balancing, One foot in front of the other, your arms stretched out like the airplane you used to be when you were younger. From the forest to your right you hear the cacophony of summer birds. There are light twitters and loud shrieks, Alarm sounds and soft melodies. Trailing behind your friend, you keep your head turned down, focused carefully on your balancing act, when all of a suddenThe top of your head collides with their shoulders like a battering ram and you both fall off into the street. Why did you stop? you ask your friend indignantly. They point to the forest. I was looking at all the trash! they say. You turn to look. In a tree near the outside of the forest, hanging from a bough high up, is a plastic bag. You know the kind. THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANKThe bag jostles around a bit and through the gaps in the handles you see a family of possums curled up at the bottom. You glance to the right, at the base of another tree. An empty soda can lies in the grass, the tiny hole in the top gaping and black like a mouth. The can rolls a bit and you see the smallest turtle - ever so cautiously- poke his head out. You look to the small stream, bubbling and flowing among the trees. And floating past you, a conveyor belt of garbage. A doe comes up and dips her head, drinking from the water and eating a spare French fry floating past, Before your friend comes to stand at your side, scaring her away. Isn't it horrible? they say. But you don't think it's horrible at all. The possums have a hammock to take a nap in and the turtle has shade and another home and the deer has a snack with her drink! What's wrong with that? Your friend turns to look at you, Their head cocked to the side. Their eyes are shining as if they see you in a whole new light.
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Good Question (Part 2) You're walking on the curb, This time all alone. You balance once again, arms stretched out like a butterfly's wings. You're passing the same patch of forest, about to break your record When all of a suddenA bicycle whizzes past, causing you to fall over into the grass. You look up from your prone position upon the ground. You see the plastic bag hanging from the bough. But now, there is one less row of Thank Yous and the bottom hangs ragged like the ends of a ghost. The possum family fell through plastic, down to the forest floor. You drop your gaze to the green grass and see the soda can. The lining of that gaping mouth is glinting red. You see the turtle, upside down and Dead. He cut his soft belly, exposed to the sharp black hole as he was leaving his “shade�. You don't look to the stream, you just pick yourself up and start running. You return with a trash bag and your friend. As you clean the forest, the words appear in your head: What's wrong with that? Good Question.
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the last look
Dear Reader,
a note from the issue editor
Hi and thank you so much for picking up this edition of the Lion’s Eye! It’s so special that TCNJ students came together all those years ago and started this literary magazine that still continues today, even after 41 issues. This magazine truly is engaging, and the ideal place to showcase all of the hidden talents of the students at this school, whether it be poetry, prose, art, or photography - without it, we would never get to appreciate the creative minds that are everywhere here at the College. When my good friend and treasurer of the magazine, Kelly Vena, asked me if I wanted to be the issue editor, I just shrugged and said sure, not really thinking much about the position. I had no idea the pleasant surprise I was in for, because from the first meeting I knew I made the right decision. It was a great experience sitting in Bliss Hall every Wednesday and getting to be a part of the machine that puts this magazine together. The people were so fun to work with, and the vibe in the room was very welcoming - I never felt like I had to hinder my opinions and my input, even though I was a brand new memeber to the team. I have to admit I was nervous to be the issue editor once I found out what it entailed - putting together the whole magazine! And during finals! I felt overwhelmed, like I couldn’t do it, but once again, TCNJ proved to have the best students (I promise I’m not biased!), and the Lion’s Eye Family encouraged me that I could push my limits and do it. I would love to thank Kelly Vena, who kept me sane by texting me with support as I was trying to cram all of the editing into one day. I would also love to thank Kelly Noll, our executive editor, for being super patient with me and letting me bombard her with one hundred questions throughout the editing process, because apparently I just learned that I’m not very good with technology. And of course, I would love to thank you, our readers, for keeping this magazine alive and supporting your fellow peers in their creative endeavors.
Best,
Lily Firth Issue Editor 50
spread Ryan Soldati 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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Please kindly pass this magazine on or recycle it.