volume 44 :: spring 2019
a day at the fair meagan mcdowell
The Lion’s Eye Spring 2019 executive editor issue editor copy editor treasurer secretary publicist faculty advisor
Alyssa Doyle Lily Firth Dara Kushnir Kelly Vena Jamie Csimbok Kevyn Teape David Venturo
staff :: Filip Maziarz, Jessica Shek, Ine’a Smith, Emma Richter, KnarMarashian
“ poetry is a way of taking life by the throat. ” — robert frost
contents poetry and prose alyssa doyle
8
claire tuohy
10-11
The First Look An (Angry) English Major
corinne petersen
12
Doorway
jessica shek
15
Drive.
emily zybyszynski
15
Earworm
kelly vena
16
Insurance Card
anisa lateef
18
Still
destiny valerio
19
The Scarlet Monokeros
kelly vena
20
Laborer’s Sock
filip maziarz
20
Like Poem
corinne petersen
22
When Grief Makes Me Laugh
jessica shek
23
You There
jamie csimbok
24
Maroon Jacket
destiny valerio
26-28
Jenga
jamie csimbok
30-31
Representation
emily zybyszynski
33
Erasure of “The More Loving One”
anisa lateef
34
Ridgefield Park
filip maziarz
35
The Air Cuts at my Lungs as I Race to Find You
4
emily zybyszynski
36
To Almost
filip maziarz
37
Swell
mia ingui
38
An Apostrophe to my Anxiety
kendel stiles-schatz
40
Hundreds
anisa lateef
43
Missing Monet
mia ingui
44
Keep Me With You
ine’a smith
47
Nothing
kendel stiles-schatz
48
Peaches
contents poetry and prose anisa lateef
49
Savasana
alley franke
50
Silhouettes
kendel stiles-schatz
50
To Forgive
jessica shek
52
Untitled
lily firth
54
The Last Look
“ poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed” — percy shelley
5
contents art and photography megan scherer
6
(cover)
Rebirth A Day at the Fair
meagan mcdowell
(masthead)
meagan mcdowell
7
Melted Sunrise
megan scherer
9
Struck
alexander reinhard
13
Confidence
maggie paragian
14
E.T., Phone Charge
dara kushnir
17
Rosedale Park
dara kushnir
21
Tombolo
maggie paragian
25
Don’t Believe the Hype
alexander reinhard
29
Distracting View
alexander reinhard
32
Yellow Stone
megan scherer
36
Blurry
alexander reinhard
39
Lonely Light
meagan mcdowell
41
Rock Dreams
dara kushnir
42
Good Evening
dara kushnir
46
Black and White
megan scherer
51
Rebirth
dara kushnir
53
Over the Lighthouse Wall
dara kushnir
(back cover)
Over the Lighthouse Wall
melted sunrise meagan mcdowell
7
the first look
Dear Readers,
a note from the executive editor
I’m sitting in the Lib as I write this letter to you all, and I’m having a really hard time comprehending that this is my last semester with The Lion’s Eye. I’ve grown so much from the general member I was freshman year to the Executive Editor I am now, and I’m so grateful for my experience with such an incredible organization. Although I’m going to miss this magazine, I’m ready to pass the torch onto the new Executive Board. Of course, The Lion’s Eye wouldn’t be what it is without all of you, who wait for the magazine to be released each semester and continually read it as the semesters progress. I’d also like to give a huge shout out to the writers, artists, and photographers who continue to submit to the magazine every semester. TCNJ is a college filled with such incredibly talented individuals, and I’m so thankful that I’ve gotten the chance to know some of you, even if only through your words and artwork. I give you all credit for pushing through that writer’s block that we all experience, for continuing to capture and edit those photos until you find the right angle, and for mastering every stroke with a paintbrush or colored pencil. As artists, I think we all know that the creative life can be excruciating and frustrating sometimes, but I think we can also agree that it is 110% percent worth it. To my wonderful Executive Board: our Issue Editor, Lily Firth, our Copy Editor, Dara Kushnir, our Treasurer, Kelly Vena, our Secretary, Jamie Csimbok, and our Publicist, Kevyn Teape. thank you for all you do. You’ve all enriched my life, and I’m so glad that I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know you over the past few years. Keep being phenomenal! To my fellow seniors who are graduating this year, I wish you all the best, and I sincerely hope we can all keep in touch. To those of you not graduating, I hope you continue to be part of The Lion’s Eye, and I look forward to hearing about how The Lion’s Eye grows under your leadership. Finally, I present you with The Lion’s Eye’s Spring 2019 Issue. I hope you enjoy every page, and I have one request: pass the magazine on to your friends, family, coworkers, etc. so that they can peruse artistic creations from our TCNJ Community. Most of all, I hope you’ll continue reading this magazine for years to come. Best,
Alyssa Doyle Alyssa Doyle Executive Editor 8
struck megan scherer
9
claire tuohy
an (angry) english major Hey! It’s me! I’m just Taking my time Writing Line By Line Not worrying about due dates Not worrying about grades Ha Ha Just going with the flow (I’m actually very stressed ya know I haven’t slept in days Thinking of hundreds of plans and ways To finish those four essays On time.) And here I am On RhymeZone. Just staring at my Phone (Thinking about my college loan. How I won’t pay it off “I’m an English major” and they scoff My laugh becomes a cough: It hurts.) The engineers have it harder, right? I type my poem, they build a satellite
10
(Ok sure, I’m no playwright But Without me Without us Where are your books? Your plays? The feelings you long to convey? Where is the joy, the love, the strife? Without words, how can you tell the story of life?) Ha Ha But what do I know I’m just me An English major Taking my time Line By Line Not worrying about due dates Not worrying about grades (Because you won’t let me)
11
corinne petersen
doorway
after William Eggleston’s photo, “Untitled 26956” What a miracle is a day-- as we blot out each other’s footprints, rushing in and out of the door, wrapped in the ghosts of those before us. Our thresholds don’t quite touch --the kitchen, the porch-- but the rising steam of dinner and the wistful evening air still have a conversation through the window. The tiles of each hour are cemented in rows, then examined from a distance over supper. Colors, and shades of colors-- they inflate today’s balloon until it sinks.
12
confidence alexander reinhard
13
e.t., phone charge maggie paragian
14
jessica shek
drive.
man car, black car, car drive, drive light, drive wheel, hand wheel, hand mouth, hand hand, hand mother, mother love, her love, love her, man her, man love, love stay, stay here, stay home, him stay, safe stay, hope stay, stay him, his eyes, him hide, eyes hide, eyes lost, him lose, lost him, her look, him run, her love, love door, love door, love door, door car, car door, black car, drive car, drive drive, Drive.
emily zbyszynski
earworm Bold of you to assume this is a poem and not something entirely different that crept into my ear in the middle of the night. That’s all words are before they breach into this world: sinuous and clandestine and not at all what they mean until they’re here out in the open. God, I wish I had a drink at least to keep my head from splitting and my voice from cracking, but fuck that, I’m strung out on the bitters alone. Instead, I’ll sit here, watch the text rot, and shudder when the unused ink wells up and dribbles down my neck.
15
kelly vena
insurance card Though it’s only a piece of plastic, My Insurance Card weighs me down in the health services lobby. I’m waiting, rigid as a 2x4 plank, for my prescription to be ready. I hear My Name called, but it seems distant in my ears. The thoughts in my heard are louder, screaming and cursing myself for getting sick. I consider a flu shot as I go to the desk. The Policy Number is read to confirm my identity and my prescription. The receptionist reads the price, and my rigidity is eased by how low it is—too low. “Your Insurance Type must be really good!” the receptionist tells me. She meant it as a compliment, but the 2x4-like rigidness returns, a fierce tension in my body that even the strongest nails and finest hammers wouldn’t be able to penetrate. I do my best to smile as I pay my fee, but the receptionist becomes a new target for the screaming voices in my head. “What is she saying? Does she mean anything by that?” They demand. The Insurance Logo winking at me in the office’s harsh lighting is the only reply we get.
16
rosedale park dara kushnir
17
anisa lateef
still Zeynab’s hands fall into my palm with the force of a wounded deer. Her rosy cheeks drizzle with tears as my fingers stroke through her curls, like wind caressing frosty bristles of a dandelion. She tells me about the girl in her class with the sparkliest green bean eyes— the girl who trotted up to her patch of sidewalk scribbles, pointed to a nearby pile of dirt, and then at Zeynab’s arm. Dirty Brown! Dirty Brown! Brown like dirt! Then, Zeynab started to think about how no one photographs the pile of dirt beside the sunflower, below the meadow, beneath the swamp because nothing beautiful is Brown: None of the names on her beloved ticket stubs, book shelves, and movie screens are Brown. Brown might as well be the twin sister to Invisible, she confesses. Zeynab complains about the boringness in Brown but she’s never noticed how the tones of untouched earth— a swirling spectrum of blossoms, buds, and willow shade— spread across her skin like honey on bread, and how her eyes are pots of hot chocolate— warm pools of melted milky cocoa beans, steaming, waiting to warm you up hours after the first crisp snowfall. I rub the back of her hand with my thumb her skin smooth like a tulip petal, and talk about the clouds, how during the day, they glide and watch as all forms of budding life lay their homes atop the tan terrain— seeds grow roots, animals foster families, and people settle stories. So at night, the clouds dream of one day waking up to fluff radiating the color of coffee and coconut shells. They pray of finally being sought out as nature’s shelter. The clouds are jealous of the treasure sewn in our skin so why Zeynab, should we copy them and cry?
18
destiny valerio
the scarlet monokeros She stands like a goddess of pristine light on a winter hill looking down on you, eyes echoing the last virtue of man. Then she elegantly gallops towards you as if she’s stepping on falling snow while the wind starts to tangle her wild main. All as she neighs a scenic song of woe. Yet, you still quiver and sob in pure fear as her golden horn pierces through your chest. Scarlet drips down her spear tainting the snow leaving new war stains on her silver coat. Her dark eyes reflect your frozen pupils. Her whimpers of agony shake the woods. She realizes revenge heals no virtue.
19
kelly vena
laborer’s sock Pop was worn every day, like a habit on a nun, a sign of dedication to his work as a plumber. He didn’t always want to get up and work, but his wife, his one true match, had to keep the little ones safe and warm. When he got home after, he’d fold his hands together and pray— pray for less hardships, pray for more work— becoming holey-er and holey-er every day.
filip maziarz
like poem face to face, and heart to heart; i really don’t know where to start... she’s forest bloom and firefly; the beaming gaze of autumn sky— the way she laughs, the way she breathes, her quiet touch, the falling leaves... away she plucks at her guitar and dreams of time amid the stars; i swear no way to better lie than with her blondes against my side. the life i want and what i see are one—the same: a song for me.
20
tombolo dara kushnir
21
“Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful, and the end of mirth is sadness.” -Proverbs 14:13 Empty, empty, empty, the spotlight says it all Ha, ha, ha, the laughs roll out like tears that start to fall. Makeup’s painted, hair is combed, black-rimmed glasses on my nose, I am ready for the night-- dark curtain lifts: it’s my daylight. I mask my grief to hide the pain; I smile so I don’t break again; I spin the world, find the cracks-- I want to cry, but choose to laugh. Who would have thought my life would be their source of joy, my hidden plea; but away from stages, still I find dark thoughts that creep across my mind. My rest is in my suffering (a secret I must keep, for if I did reveal it, the world would laugh at me-how ironic, don’t you think, since that has been my goal?) for all my life’s a stream of jokes about things I can’t control. Now I write, now I smile, now I wait a little while-- now my heart is beating fast-- this show, and this show, and this, too, shall pass-Who have I become in grief? Is it really me the audience seeks? Have I become the one I play? Who will I be at the close of day? Awake, I must dance with the world --if only I could sleep-- but since I can’t, I try on masks, and laugh until I weep. 22
corinne petersen
when grief makes me laugh
public class You There { public static void main(String[ ] args) {
if (time ==! enough) {
When my mind is occupied with the tiring world tiring me, I will find you in my mind, say hello, tell you how I am, reassure you that I am here. I will send you telepathic messages, here is one.
System.out.println (“I miss you.”);
} else if (distance > we can handle) {
Through the power of technology, we will watch shows and movies together, laying down besides pillows, I will hold hands with your blanket and wear your shirt. You will see me through the camera and even though I can’t see you seeing me, I will know. On some special occasion, I will drive many hours to come see you. Dawn to dusk, pretending like I’ve been here all along, continuing everything for a number of minutes until I leave again.
System.out.println (“I wish you were here.”);
} else if (internet =! working) {
My phone will burn warm on my ear, lying on my cheek, in my shoulder, I will talk to you when I am doing laundry, eating, pretending to sleep in the darkness of my room. In your voice will be your body, your face, I cannot see it but I can construct it, I will live on a construction of you. What you did today, how you woke up, what clothes you are wearing, what you think about the way that your mother looked at you tonight. Sometimes, I mis-imagine you when you are upset, I don’t know how to help, how you feel, I want to reach through the wire and wrap myself around you as you feel. I will fall asleep at four am talking to you.
} else {
}
if (we love each other) { everything == alright;
jessica shek
you there
23
jamie csimbok
maroon jacket He was the one in the maroon jacket; he was the one leaving bruises in his wake, pushing the seemingly innocent to the floor. He was the devil behind heaven’s eyes waiting to strike with a sharp tongue that bore sarcasm’s spit. Behind the red tint was a spirit of gold and white. Behind the maroon jacket was an old friend wearing a ghost of a smile, holding a kind heart to those deemed worthy enough to see it unearthed. I was not one of the worthy ones. I was the one who only saw the dirt. The maroon jacket was my Kryptonite. He knocked me down hoping I would not find the strength to stand back up, Sometimes I didn’t. The darkness of the room would gather its tendrils and scratch at the thing beating in my chest as he continued to throw me round and round until my skin, pale as the moon’s light, was the color of his dark eyes. There was love within those eyes as he hesitantly pet the farm cat’s head, and held the excited dog of an unknown breed in his lap, all while they were shedding on that jacket. But I can’t forget the punches to my gut. The maroon jacket suffocated me, but I didn’t try to escape. The furnace inside his coal caked heart is having a meltdown and I am in the blast zone. When we go up in flames my search for this tattered fabric will continue. Although I know it shouldn’t. When this happens, grant me my final wish: Let me hear remorse for making me your bullseye When you were my anchor.
24
don’t believe the hype maggie paragian 25
destiny valerio
jenga I know I love you yet my minds on edge I think I accidently Connecting you and me together Or perhaps I’ve blocked us too panicked to that slim alder wood Because If I do lose
My independence
all my
c o l u m s
removed the pillar
slide out
I might
what if my heart starts relying on your touch like morning chai tea Warm Smooth k Honeyed c My stubbornness i e My stress are these t or do they n h o keep me c x i c 26
My Conscientiousness
My ambition
If I p l
un
g e from this
I want to do it all But without
the w a r m t h you made My loneliness
lose
of my bed
l
t
e
o
w
e
r
will you catch me a
v
i
n
g
on the right side
because I’m not sure Iam r
e a d y t o b e a o e l n w i t h but most important I would all the bricks of memories that built you so high in my mind and it will come crum bl ing d o w n
y
o
u
27
and there will be nothing left lost memories shattered dreams and broken dirt I want to love but if I pull out any more p from this structure i that I’ve been h e c o e s l d i n g since I was eight, I’m a fr aid I will comp letely c o l l a p se
28
but an empty space filled with
distracting view alexander reinhard
29
jamie csimbok
representation A hammer A tool used to drive in nails. A brick A block of clay used in buildings. A hose An object used to put out fires. A rope An object meant to hold things together. A hand A part of the body meant to hold objects and shake other hands. Skin The tissue which forms the outer layer of a person or animal. Migration The act or instance of moving from one place to another. Hope A belief that something will happen.
30
A hammer. A tool used to bruise, break, and crack. A brick. A block of clay used to break the windows of buildings. A hose. An object used to extinguish the flames of progress. A rope. An object used to hang or suspend. A hand. A part of the body used to salute and applaud this discrimination. Skin. The outer layer of tissue by which we are judged. Migration. The act or instance of moving from one place of death and racism to another. Hope. The belief that there will be progress, and the future will not resemble the past.
31
yellow stone alexander reinhard 32
emily zbyszynski
erasure of w.h. auden’s “the more loving one” Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That , for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be? Let the more loving one be me. Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn. I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time.
33
anisa lateef
ridgefield park Every cousin crams into any seat, and a few make up their own, just so that they can ride in the “cool kids” car also known as Grandma’s cherry Subaru driven by one of the college twins down 3 lanes and a street blasting a milkshake of Fifth Harmony & Kanye out the windows while the rest cruise in Auntie’s blue raspberry minivan for the cupholder space to cradle the takeout styrofoam trays for everyone back home at Grandma’s brick Bed & Breakfast. The newest generation always races to fill every available vehicle and tag along for a ride to the Dairy Queen below the big red barn plastered with the same menu from when our parents splurged on banana splits after school. The college twin studying business and my little sister order the cotton candy flavor, except he gets 2 adult scoops that vaguely resemble mystical hills in his giant palms and tiny car keys while she wipes rainbow sprinkles off her Hello Kitty top. He was the first of our generation to get a job and make money so we make him pay at the next open window.
34
filip maziarz
the air cuts at my lungs as i race to find you dark wind dark, dark wind terrible black wind, darkest wind to have ever blown. why listen to a wind like that? why would he ever do such a thing? to open up to such a blight... horrible, odious wind: i hear the way you drag your lows; your accursed, twisted hands snuffing out his fragile light; writhing candle, agony’s dance. i tended to him as i could. my meager frame– i stood too far; let him flicker out and die.
35
emily zbyszynski
to almost
To that which is precariously beautiful: The unforgiving grasp of ivy; the cactus and his bloom, The belladonna, who is more subtle about her sting. The all-consuming kudzu. To that which cuts deeper than any knife: A careless word, a guarded glance; A hand, outstretched and unmet. The promises forgotten. And to you, my dear, a final thought: To that which is unfinished.
blurry megan scherer 36
filip maziarz
swell burned eyes, monitor; my flooded body—what? it’s a minute to midnight, january eighth; it’s been one day since the new year. clock-death, upwardly the dead, like sea-jellies; undersea avalanche. the basking archives, sun-simmered memory grinning at to remind me that i remember— what? desktop ocean, i gaze to the sea, another world behind the screen. so what if it’s all i know anymore: this world i’ve never seen? before me, monitor, hangs over me memory; breathing ideology, the future is beyond me. january ninth, hour one’s half— bodies flooded from the storm drains. hundreds eyes of the street-lit stream: the monitor staring back— what?
37
mia ingui
an apostrophe to my anxiety you followed me home again. you must’ve scared away my shadow as we glided through the parking lot and now, you are here. slipping into my sheets with me. an unwelcome guest. i look over and i whisper “i was hoping, anxiety, that you would sleep in your own bed tonight.” and though i asked you gently you start to grip and to bite down on my fingertips and you get a good hold on my throat because suddenly, i’m sipping air through a straw and gasping for an explanation and worrying about what will happen when i wake up tomorrow. what if it is just me and you playing together all afternoon, i start to think. what if no one else comes by to build sandcastles with me, and you, my anxiety, will be sitting with me all afternoon long, and i hate, i hate that i must call you mine, like you are family or friend or illness. what if no one will care about me once you’re gone. what if letting you go means losing the only thing that has ever stayed with me. i sit up out of bed and i gasp for breath and i count to ten and i count again to ten and i get to three before i feel air again and i get to five before the clouds fogging my vision slowly roll off into the horizon. anxiety, you have taken so much from me. robbed me clean of my possessions, turned my time into rotten fruit, held me hostage in my own home. but you are not welcome here. and i want to make that very clear. 38
lonely light alexander reinhard
39
kendel stiles-schatz
hundreds I don’t know how to write a love poem. Well, maybe you’ve never been in love. I say, I’ve been in love with a hundred different people, a hundred different times. Like when he full-body grins, eyes quarter-filled with mischief banging his head to the worst song you can ever play on a road trip, or when she told me her ringer is always on high because if I ever needed a ride home she’s a rock that never sinks – Okay but did you ever want to fuck them? They ask. Is that love? I say. Usually like right and left they go hand in hand. I say, okay. But when I first fucked he told me he loved my oversized sweaters, like I was drowning in the stitches, he said he is the hook and I am lost, but I told him I am meant for open waters, and then I turned around. That’s kind of fucked up, they say. Did he ever hurt you? I say, I’ve been hurt from a hundred different people, a hundred different times. Sometimes when I walk on the street I hear clicking fingers behind my back, but when I turn it’s just my own clacking heels again. Sometimes my chest caves in on itself and I’m weighted by things I should have said and things they shouldn’t have said. Sometimes I am pain and torment and uncertainty and walking on a tightrope in fear that I’ll fall and in fear that I’ll make it – That, they say, is love.
40
rock dreams meagan mcdowell
41
good evening dara kushnir
42
anisa lateef
missing monet The closest girls like me get to anything boyfriend-related are the stacks of baggy blue jeans sharing a shelf at Target beside last season’s denim. Other girls flirt with the boyfriends they are not supposed to have, twirling their tippy-toes around sunburnt volcanoes, and yet, here you are sitting across me in what you insist is your plainest dress shirt — aquamarine as a cross section of a Maldivian pool— staring into my dirty pupils amidst the bustling, buzzing, shuffling coffee house banter. Your voice is saying how you can never be sure what color your eyes are: sometimes they’re green, but once in a while, a cerulean blue pours in like a spring from some back alley and whisks both pupils into a bright grey. Your eyes marble like a cool-tone masterpiece, like a Monet scrap lost in transit off the coast of a parisian highway, a missing piece for someone’s museum eyes to get lost in, and here you are talking to me behind your oaky glasses, to me, with my boring, brown, eyes that never change.
43
mia ingui
keep me with you it was dark and i was cold. air biting the tip of my nose and moonlight drenching your sugar-coated eyes, i stood on my front concrete step and waited for you to kiss me. i was patient all night, the patience dripping from my fingertips as minutes melted away. but each time you grazed my hands, they lit up, they danced and they begged for you to come back. dinner went well. you were asking me about what music i like while i was thinking about what hid behind your lips gums and tongue, what the weather was like in the peak of your chest, took a moment to guess what it’d feel like underneath you, probably something like stargazing or counting sheep or the flood of the sun after a confetti rain. it was warm there where you lived. i wanted to fold myself up, lay in the curve of your spoon and deliciously find my way to your mouth as you ate your mint chip scoop.
44
in the chill of the night, i stood on my front step and waited for you to kiss me. (my last good kiss bit me till i bled so i was hopeful for something less cynical this time) i felt one hand land on my jaw, the other hand drift to my hair, spinning it in a beautiful hurricane and after that, the feeling of anything else was too far away for me to reach. in my eyes was black outer space and on my lips lay an entire galaxy, stars and suns and all the wonder between. keep me in your universe, your orbit, i told him. whisk me away to jupiter, anywhere that’s warm just keep me with you.
45
black and white dara kushnir 46
ine’a smith
nothing (inspired by james valvis’ “something”) The moment you get the phone call about your child dying, You hardly hear anything else. Something about a drive-by on 10th street. The kids he was with were selling something, Or wearing something that marked them as targets. Something about your son not being directly involved And something about being collateral damage. The caller said something about 5 gunshots in the chest, Or something around that. Something about arriving to the scene some minutes too late to save him. Something about his friends fleeing the scene and leaving him to die. The caller said I should come to the hospital to Claim something or sign something. But I really heard nothing. Nothing about him missing his graduation Or anything. Nothing about the loads of money we spent On private school or anything. Nothing about an empty room on the second floor of our home. Nothing about what to tell his younger sister. Nothing about funeral plans replacing birthday plans. Nothing about his dreams of being a professor, Or a lawyer, or something. I only heard that my son was now breathless, A corpse, a statistic, and nothing else.
47
kendel stiles-schatz
peaches Were you brave? she asks. Not like feet planted at home, cleared throat, and spoke– But like tabby orange, too bright go unrecognized, balancing precariously on barbed wire, while the wolves below spit and claw– Did you flinch? she asks. They’ve got tongues made of butcher knives, and you’d rather take a fist to your face than a knife in your back but tragedy loves betrayal and betrayal loves a good story– Did you learn? she asks. Not to crawl back to the battleground, give them the gun and kneel, you say I’m sorry but they hear shoot me, who needs enemies when you carve your own gravestone– Did you fucking learn? How to rip your nails from your fingers, break each bone in your knuckles, to haul yourself forward– How to brace forward in a minefield, with bitten raw ankles, bleeding toes, and still walk straight– How to stand straight, not through the steel in your spine but steel in your mind– How to mind the difference among rotten peaches from fresh before maggots carve your tongue– How to carve the word sorry out of your mouth, replace it with fuck you– She begs, Did you learnthe difference between love and cruelty? I say, maybe one day.
48
anisa lateef
savasana Whoooooooooo? Whooooooo? Does my body make its own music like the wandering bee bouncing from petal to petal, pollen pie to pollen pie, to swipe a taste of nature’s custard? Whoooooooooo? Whooooooo? Are my lungs frozen from nights crying with wolves howling below lonely luna? Whoooooooo? Whooooo? Do my wings flutter like a dove packing her worries in marble luggage below snow feathers? Or like a mariposa wing laced in bleeding colors off a spectrum of cherry to cerulean? Or will they simply sink into my shoulders from the boulders kneeling and numbing down my spine? Whoooooooo? Whooo? Are my horns sharp enough to puncture the lightest of lavender blooms? If so, I hope I’ll have silky fingers to caress the mess of my destruction. Then, I’ll cry myself into a pool of iridescence below the moon drops beside the roses.
49
alley franke
silhouettes
the roads are hushed so we can blanket them and press the soles of our shoes into their yellow lines
how strange, how beautifully plastic these towns stand on winter nights deserted distant points of light glow like candles against the clouds orion’s belt holds us together (hold my hand in your coat pocket) roads bend in triangles; orange coats the inside of our eyelids as we trace each other’s silhouettes in the dark
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kendel stiles-schatz
to forgive Of walls of dull grey and muted black, She dips her toothbrush in marigold yellow; Poppy orange; Begonia pink; Hibiscus red. She dreams of June’s strength after January left; and how she bloomed; and grew; and forgave; to make grass fair enough for bare feet to sprint; and wind soft enough for bluebirds to soar; and planted butterfly bushes for butterflies; and bees; and wasps; it didn’t matter to her - she was alive; and she whispered to the trees of forget-me-nots; and may I forget me not. She created life. And created life. And created life. She dips her fingers in orchid blue; Basil green; Bellflower purple; Magnolia white. By all means it isn’t healing But from trampled leaves brown; Broken stem grey; Burnt petal black; It certainly is progress.
rebirth megan scherer
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jessica shek
untitled I don’t want to call this anything, titles are skin you wear and become and become and become and the second I slap a tag on you you’ll be gone faster than I can say love into your ear faster than I can cradle you heavy in my bed faster than I can memorize your features, the look on your face when I show up, that look without a name. Listen, descriptors are weighted like GPAs, they bring their pals, Chaos and Worry, and they bring their shit with them, even their shit brings their shit with them, it’s a whole party. Inconsiderate bastards-- Let’s do away with them, make our own language, a code, a secret one without nouns, it’ll work, we’ll make do. But Worry, worry precipitates nouns, precipitates chaos, precipitates worry, precipitates the me that has the riot shield, the lead vest, the space suit, of course, it’s necessary. You know, it’s like how Hot Hands, once you open them, get super warm and toasty, and then they die, and you know its the air that kills them. Yes, I’m trying to live in an airless world without gaseous forces but now I can’t breathe. You are my CPAP, but maybe, the pictures have already been taken, and we will grow into them whether we like it or not. At any rate, I can’t wait to see you tonight.
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over the lighthouse wall dara kushnir
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the last look
Dear Reader,
a note from the issue editor
Hello and thank you for picking up the latest edition of The Lion’s Eye! It is absolutely surreal that I am here writing this message to you all as a graduating senior, when I remember so clearly being a timid freshman at the Lion’s Eye meetings not so long ago. The Lion’s Eye helped me grow tremendously as a person; I remember the beginning of my junior year when Kelly Vena, the Treasurer and also one of my close friends, approached me asking if I wanted to be Issue Editor. At first I was skeptical: they wanted me to put together the whole magazine? It felt like a lot of work, a lot of responsibility and I felt like I was not qualified for the task. Thankfully, Kelly was convincing, and here I am writing to you for the fourth time as Issue Editor. The Lion’s Eye has helped me grow confidence in my voice and opinions, helped me understand and appreciate true talent at the college, and helped me feel confident in my capabilities and skills as an editor. I would not have been able to put together the magazine without the help of the amazing Lion’s Eye executive board. I want to thank Kelly for always bringing my laughter when I was stressed and helping me feel good about my work, and I want to thank Alyssa Doyle, our executive editor, for always being there to help with my thousands of questions and handling me with the utmost patience at all times. As always, I want to thank our amazing staff for making the meetings fun but productive, and making me feel apart of something larger than myself. And thank you, reader, for keeping this magazine alive.
Best wishes,
Lily Firth Lily Firth, Issue Editor
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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.