Issuu

The

Oneota Review 2022

Cover Image Superior Morning, Anthony Hamer

The Oneota Review Spring 2022, Vol. 50

Editor Kira Dobberman

Assistant Editor Catherine Vitt

Editorial Board Amy Webb

Mia Irving

Hallie Johnson

Romany Mugoodwin

Hannah Clarkin

Serenity Figueroa

Katie “Kit” Gorton

Faculty Advisor Lise Kildegaard

Published for Luther College by the Luther College Document Center

Contents Top Bunk Katie Bevers .................................................................................................. 1 What Makes the Fox so Devilish? Madeline Perreard .................................................. 2 Parasitic Lovers Katie “Kit” Gorton ................................................................................ 3 Cover of Dreams and Untitled Cover Art Annie Thoma ............................................... 4 All the Lost Things Kitri Lindberg .................................................................................. 5 Sandvika, 1895 Hallie Tunnicliff Johnson ....................................................................... 6 Painting of Sandvika, 1895 Hallie Tunnicliff Johnson .................................................... 8 Lost in Exile T.D. ........................................................................................................... 9 Apathetic James Nysse ............................................................................................... 10 Waving Hello Anthony Hamer ...................................................................................... 11 Meditation on Gratitude for an Orange Sam Nelson.................................................. 12 Root River Josie LaVoi ................................................................................................ 13 Forest Monarch Laura “Elms” Elmquist ....................................................................... 14 Moss Lydia Wilkie ......................................................................................................... 15 Excerpt from Drought Kira Dobberman ...................................................................... 16 Queer Capes Erin Keller and Megan Stevenson .......................................................... 18 The Linguistics of Love Lydia Wilkie .......................................................................... 19 Perpetual Motion James Nysse ................................................................................... 20 Caught Katie “Kit” Gorton ............................................................................................. 21 Been With You Abbe Lacey ......................................................................................... 22 Laughing Pair Hans Harelimana Hirwa ........................................................................ 24 Blue. Rory Wisgerhof.................................................................................................... 25 Care: A Pro Trans?gression in Three Parts Katie “Kit” Gorton .................................. 26 Forgiveness Francisco Nsabimana.............................................................................. 28 Living Without You Mia Irving ..................................................................................... 29 Hope for the Real World Lydia Wilkie ......................................................................... 30 Decorah Summer Hallie Johnson ................................................................................ 32 Garden Song Josie LaVoi ............................................................................................ 33 Life Outside Err Thandeka Ruvimbo Chaka (edited by Michael Musa) ........................ 34 The First Time I Tried to Forget You Kitri Lindberg .................................................... 35 Come Morning Catherine Vitt ...................................................................................... 36 Bone-Shaped Tag Kitri Lindberg .................................................................................. 38 Laundromat Hans Harelimana Hirwa ........................................................................... 39 Freedom and Fish Sauce Anonymous ........................................................................ 40 Sonoran Saguaro Anthony Hamer............................................................................... 42 The Violin Anthony Hamer ........................................................................................... 43 Procrastination Thomas Woodford.............................................................................. 44

TOP BUNK Katie Bevers

I have memorized the four corners of a bedroom that I will not call it mine because a history of bodies has occupied the same space that I lay. The crevice above the top bunk. Each handwritten note that litters the wall Polaroids snapped of only an instant Every memory that is to be salvaged from our time in Oregon Thumb tack holes will leave our legacy and hopefully our ghosts will too Apartments, gardens, tents, bunkbeds, hammocks, ponds, canoes, and couches have hosted the moments that I will desperately hold onto. I will not let the packing of suitcases or boxes, or backpacks get in the way of the time that is left The shelves that have begun to empty The plane tickets that have been bought The phone calls that waited all summer and semester to be had Five months’ worth of things we thought would never reach us The love that will haunt our minds, bodies, and souls.

WHAT MAKES THE FOX SO DEVILISH? Madeline Perreard “In early Christian and medieval thought the fox was considered to be a demonic animal…because of its slyness and cunning it characterizes both the ruler who does not fear god and a cunning person in general” Hans-Jörg Uther, Asian Folklore Studies

What makes the fox so devilish? Its coat an ode to fire When did heat become so hellish and Summer herself a liar? Where are these ideas born? Of flames wicked and waters calm Of women wild and awful Dancing in Lucifer’s palm Below the cloak of midnight Us fearless creatures meet A fuchsia fever churning beneath our smiling cheeks The mother bear groans as twigs snap under calloused feet Hell on Earth sent by the fox masterfully out of reach Has the oak tree always been wise? And the willow a tragedy forever? When there are no more human eyes Will evil finally surrender?

PARASITIC LOVERS Katie “Kit” Gorton

My neck aches, and my mother’s tugs pain My scalp, as I sit on the floor below her. Even though I sit in subtle agony, She has only been brushing for thirty minutes, And we cannot quit until they are gone. The comb breaks the hold of the eggs on my hair, Tearing every last parasite from its source of life. My heat was their hearth, My blood, their meal, But they did not feast on blood alone. You two were found joined together. Two lovers becoming one Reaching for each other’s embrace As the world around you was covered With a canopy of chemicals. How many children did you lose? And when you drank my blood, what did you gain? What love poem did you steal from my head? Which romantic subplot have you taken? And will I ever be able to love with the passion Stolen and used By two lice?

UNTITLED Annie Thoma

COVER OF “DREAMS” Annie Thoma and the Flightless Birds

ALL THE LOST THINGS Kitri Lindberg

I blamed myself for your mistakes i am starving, i am clamoring, i am on my knees– for the nape of your neck, and the curls that ride there like weeds, for the scent of that space beneath your chin and the stubble that grinds against my cheek, for the flush that creeps against your cheekbones and the sweat that congregates on your hairline, i am devout for the callus-uncallous diversion of your fingertips, the intricate quilt of the plaque on your teeth and the sweet red fruit of your gums, i am a nun for the temple of your furrowed brows, i am a beggar at the cottage gate of your parted lips, i am, i am, i am a fragrant weed at the bridge between your earlobe and your ear, a small lost child found on the black debris floating on your warm iris– i am smattering for the hammering of your heart, for the wet words of your mouth, for your mouth, for your mouth, for your mouth– i am all the gone things, all the past things, all the rainy things, i am– lying in the backseat of my car alone, listening to the thunder above the roof.

SANDVIKA, 1895 Hallie Tunnicliff Johnson

A red house, a white house, a bridge, and every surface of the dead and sleeping earth are cloaked in austere white. The air is still, not a single tree branch or leaf or stalk of dry grass bends or shows any sign that it ever breathed warm air, that its conception was anything but snow and stillness. The river is frozen, no sound of wind or water. I can see my breath. It’s greyblue, and if I were to reach out to tap it with my fingertip, it would shatter into a thousand slivers of ice. I used to try and remember the features of your face without looking at your photos, as if that would prove something. A laundry list of what you are: Round glasses, curly hair. White hair, no hair at all, tawny brown hair, blue eyes. I know for a fact that you have blue eyes, but I can’t seem to recall if they were tinted with grey or pale green. Briefly I see your hands, the cracks in them, your thick ridged fingernails. I can picture plaid button-downs, white button-downs, black shoes. Never t-shirts. I still remember your nose because it looks like mine-- straight, proud. Too masculine for my face, I think, but I appreciate it more when I remember it was once yours. I think there must be more to you than this. Surely you smelled of a certain lilac hand soap or your aftershave, perhaps car oil or laundry detergent, things I no longer remember. I remember being ten years old and walking by the big river, where the current had pushed out thick reams of river ice. The ice was strong enough to hold my weight, but if you stomped on the edge it would fold in on itself, splintering perfect fragments like an impossibly thin sheet of glass. It made the sound of stars shattering, I had thought. I’d never seen anything like it, I still haven’t, I still can’t name or define the phenomenon, and the words I came up with were never specific enough to produce answers from a google search. I had to try to decipher it on my own, what had made it fragment this way; 6

perhaps liquid water rushed through the cracks in the solid ice, maybe it melted and was frozen again and melted and froze, the layers forming gradually over months and weeks of biting wind followed by warmer days that melted ice. Then it would freeze again. The air here is lifeless. No one skates on the frozen stream or ambles across the snow covered bridge. If they did, their footprints would mar the white silk blanket of snow, and I’d resent them for it. I don’t dare to move my own feet. This world is as real as any, as cold as any of the winters I’ve seen, but I’m sure if I moved, the illusion would shatter. I choose to watch the sky, to look for birds, for movement in the blue evergreens on the hill, for smoke to rise and feather from the chimney of the white house. There are no birds and nothing moves. I wonder if everything else is as afraid to move as I am. My breath is still frozen in front of me. The ice crystals push into the sand when my boot crashes down on them. My boot is rubber at the bottom, and pink vinyl fabric clutches my ankles, a hand of scraping plasticy fabric. All ten-year-old girls wore boots like this. They weren’t particularly warm but they would keep feet dry, and a few layers of wool socks would make up for the lack of insulation. I don’t wonder about you as much as I did before, and when I do it's always somehow selfish, in connection to myself. Would you think I’m funny? Would you like the sound of my voice, think I talked too much or too little? Would you try to notice yourself in me the way I still try to notice myself in you? I don’t think of your features anymore unless it's in conjunction with mine. My sleepy eyes, purple around the nose bridge after too many waking hours and not looking out the window enough to stretch them, staring at a screen or little words on a page. Sunken and blue, with a yellow ring around the pupil. I don’t think your eyes had yellow around the pupil. All I remember is how yours were set, deep in your skull. When you were young, your eyes looked ancient because of this. I only remember this from the pictures. I tap the cloud of breath with my finger tip, and it shatters into a hundred thousand fragments of ice and disappears. 7

SANDVIKA, 1895: A Study of the Painting by Claude Monet Hallie Tunnicliff Johnson

LOST IN EXILE T.D. Mom, Iam intrigued by how much different Vietnamese is from English. Like, the way we say thiêu thân, or, self-incinerate but they say mayfly Mom, little do I know if it was the fly of May or might it fly away? Escape - as they do Suicidal - as we are ever since the wars. And Mom, Iwonder why Americans can’t smoke ‘til they’re 21. In Việt Nam, I did smoke when I was 18 maybe my father started when he was barely 18. But Mom, don’t pity themfor four years of nicotine shortage because they could drive away escape even just for an hour, when they’re 16 while we stay intoxicated, with nicotine.

Mom, I’m lost in exile tha hương I am forgetting my mother tongue and my skin is turning white. Mom, I’m scaredA Việt senior I know has her hair turned blonde. She speaks English like a native speaker yet she babbles Việt like a child. Listen, MomI don’t want to be like her having a white name civilized but I am becoming her, Mom letting them call me whatever they want capitalized I’m losing my melatonin I’m losing my tongue . . . MomShould I dampen my tongue with nicotine? To speak Việt again? MomShould I incinerate my skin grill it, paint it? To be Việt again? 9

APATHETIC James Nysse The embalmers then removed the organs of the abdomen and chest. . . They left only the heart in place, believing it to be the center of a person’s being and intelligence. Smithsonian - on Egyptian Mummies

And when I removed the dusted lid of the sarcophagus, I saw my own face, my own body.

I walked some endless miles away from my desert carrying my body on my back.

I was scaled and grotesque. My face - silenced and armored by torpid rags.

In a bubbling spring I dropped my black and shriveled heart, where sparks gathered to embrace it.

I found my heart in a jar near the back wall, black and shriveled.

I felt the earth crack and groan as my heart began to pulse and bleed.

Who had removed it?

I watched myself pull the rags from my eyes and mouth and took a long - new - breath.

Why was it removed?

WAVING HELLO Anthony Hamer

MEDITATION ON GRATITUDE FOR AN ORANGE Sam Nelson

The skin is tough and cannot be opened with my hands. I search my desk for a pen or a knife– to rip, to tear, to peel away the flamboyant rhinoceros hide of this glowing orb of energy. My knife undoes a hidden seam to reveal sticky beads of juice, and I touch them with my tongue to test their sweetness. “I've had better.” I say to an orange that has scaled mountains and crossed deserts to sit in my ungrateful hand.

ROOT RIVER Josie LaVoi

The long body of the canoe slides through the water, a gentle brush dipped in paint. I steer downriver sitting in back, avoiding rocks, muscling through rapids. My paddle firm, the boat bends to my will, shooting into smooth water. I breathe and throw my head back, staring at the bluffs, into the fluttering of green leaves.

FOREST MONARCH Laura “Elms” Elmsquist

A heavy cloak of moss, ferns, and brush is draped over the shoulders of the ruler of the forest They have been chosen. Fallen leaves and fragrant earth spread a carpet beneath their feet Trees bow as they pass, trembling in awe A hush falls over everything, a reverent stillness As the monarch becomes at once separate and inseparable from the life which flourishes here even in the cold Their eyes hold the water of the lakes Their limbs are branches brushing against the sky Tree bark and lichen will grow on their skin, flowers spring from their pores Their veins will take root in the ground The forest will claim their whole being, And they will diminish to nothing as they become everything.

MOSS Lydia Wilkie

EXCERPT FROM DROUGHT Kira Dobberman

The princesses sleep all day, and at night while the world dreams they wake to a recurring nightmare. The room is dark. Not the dark of night, where the moon casts shadows and the stars glow in the sky, and perhaps a firefly blinks its staccato signal to others of its kind. No, this is the darkness of the underground. If you see a gleam in the distance, you’re mistaken. Trusting your sight will not help you here. What of the other senses? They all tell you the same thing—this is a world of water. Warm water just covers your toes as you stand on a smooth floor, free of silt or debris. Polished stone, perhaps, or some kind of treated wood to withstand the water. There is no current, nor is there a breeze to move the surface of the water. Somewhere in the distance a steam burbles merrily, while all around you is the musical plink of single drops of water hitting a still pool. Occasionally a drop might hit a solid surface—plick—or land heavily, two or three drops falling at once—plonk. The smell of petrichor fills the air, the lifeblood of the earth, the smell of rain or melting snow. If you breathe through your mouth you can almost taste the air, dense and cool and moist. A blackbird warbles, liquid music in its own right. At its signal, the darkness is broken as a ring of floating candles flare up at once. The candles surround a dance floor covered in water so clear as to be invisible. To the outside of the dance floor, the water deepens. More candles are perched on lily pads while their white and pale pink blossoms slowly open, performing their own dance in the flickering candlelight. Moving away from the dance floor, the candles become less dense, though the flowers carpet the water until they are swallowed by shadows. You do not see a stream; it must be very far away, since the water is perfectly still here. On one side of the dance floor is an elevated platform with a single wall behind it. Yet more candles are held away from the wall in elegantly wrought sconces in the shape of lilies; in the center of the wall is a large dragonfly, lit from within. Behind these candles, water cascades smoothly down the wall before flowing out over the platform and streaming over the edges. Two large cages hold pairs of red-winged blackbirds at the front corners, closest to the dance floor. Where are the princesses? They should be here by now. 16

On the platform, twelve elegantly dressed men sit in thrones. The oldest sits in the middle, the back of his throne taller than the others to better display intricate carvings of koi, with reeds along the edges. For anyone who doesn’t know him, the oldest prince would look to be perfectly at ease, but there is a tightness around his storm-gray eyes that betrays his impatience. The youngest two, on the far left and far right, shift uneasily, tugging at embroidered jacket cuffs and shuffling their feet. The one on the left switches from shuffling to tapping, causing the water on the platform to splash and sending ripples stretching lazily out across the dance floor. As one, the other princes turn to glare at him, but he is spared punishment as the blackbirds warble another announcement. A swan boat glides lazily across the water, a lantern held in its carved beak as it emerged from the darkness. Though there is no evident means of propulsion, the boat nudges its way through the lilies until it docks at the right side of the platform. The princesses have arrived. The princes rise to help their dance partners out of the boat, all smiles and formal greetings. The oldest moves forward first, extending a soft, clean hand to the oldest princess. She glares at him but takes it, her hand dry and cracked. The papery thin soles of her dancing slippers scratch against the wooden boards of the boat, and as she steps into the water on the platform, a swirl of grit and dust is carried away with the pure, clean water.

QUEER CAPES Erin Keller and Megan Stevenson

THE LINGUISTICS OF LOVE Lydia Wilkie

PERPETUAL MOTION James Nysse

Here, I have laid for you and endless sustenance for the journey ahead. A filled-up flowing font that never dries, inviting pause, purpose, and rest. I scribbled a song to keep you going, and asked my words to play it. For you I made my stanzas strong. Lean on them if you need to, for time cannot corrode their ceaseless standing. How powerful these words are, that can outlast their maker. 20

CAUGHT Katie “Kit” Gorton

“It looks like the Dreamworks moon. The one the guy sits in,” you say. We had stopped our walking for a moment as I had looked up. It was one of the smallest yet closest crescents I’d ever seen, like an orange rind resting in the sky. “How does it not hit the moon?” “What?” You ask. “If his hook sweeps away the clouds, how does his hook not get stuck on the back of the moon?” You stand there, puzzled. “He’s fly fishing.” You laugh a bit and say, “To be honest I don’t know much about fly fishing.” “Well when you fly fish your pole flies around, and you’re letting your line out. That’s how you cast it out so far. How does it not get caught on the back of the moon?” You laugh, and the ease makes me laugh too. And then I remember what happened. “I can’t believe how unrealistic it is!” You say, as we start to go our separate ways. And I realize that was something you could have loved me for someday. It could be something you love me for now, regardless. It’s something he would’ve loved. He would’ve grabbed my head laughing, held our foreheads together, and kissed me, Whispering “I love you” all the while What if that had been us? And as I walk away, I apologize, I did not mean to fall in love

BEEN WITH YOU Abbe Lacey

Sitting at the kitchen table together. The aroma of maple syrup, Lingered in the air. Held tightly in her delicate, Blue veined hands. A cup of black coffee; Craving to be tasted. Slowly rising from the cup, warm steam. “Grandma, your love with Grandpa?” I asked. Like the cup of coffee in her hand That question burned her Already sorrowful heart No response to me But her mind was racing around Dreams And memories A dream; Hawaii A once planned place to travel together; Away from all, this cold weather. Coffee; the way he liked it, black. Although she didn’t prefer hers that way She liked that he did 22

He wasn’t supposed to be gone this soon And all she dearly wanted was him back. Her dream and memory became intertwined Like the yarn in her newly crocheted scarf It was as if he was running back down to earth Footprints in the sand On that beach in Hawaii To hold her like he did the night they first met. The maple syrup and coffee Tickled her nose again Calling her back into our reality After a long sip, her gaze came back to mine. “Our love was Warm and Full”

LAUGHING PAIR Hans Harelimana Hirwa

BLUE. Rory Wisgerhof

Why is blue your favorite color? “What we love, we mention.” “Then I must love you because I mention you all the time.” ―Marie-Helene Bertino

I don't like red, I offer. But what I don't say, is that blue is the color of my best friends eyes That when she smiles they sparkle like stardust And it's the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen. Blue is the color of my mother’s favorite coffee mug My father’s softest sweatshirt My brother's starched neckerchief, knotted with gold. Blue is the walls of my childhood bedroom The paint that stains my desk The polish on my nails, somehow always chipped. Blue is the color of the lakes, rivers, oceans A compilation of every body of water I have ever swam in Laughed in, cried in, drowned in. My past, present, and future All shrouded in a blue haze When I die, the dust I return to will be the color of stars. I just don't really like red.

CARE: A PRO TRANS?GRESSION IN THREE PARTS Katie “Kit” Gorton

December Love, I— No Care. Care, I hope you take something from your time with me. I hope I have an effect on you. That I am not something you speak about jokingly, like some of your past cares because I am Not something to be ashamed of. I hope I believe that. Care, you convinced me to care and now that I care, you want me to stop. No, you don’t. You want me to still care You don’t want me to suffer, but you want me to fast, to take your fill and avoid the expectation of needing to care. — I hope that that’s a lie, Care. And I hope I do not fall for it.

Care, I would be so good for you. I would be everything I need for you. Care, in my dreams I come back and you’re waiting. You touch my hand softly and you say you take it all back, that You are the person I deserve. Care, I hope I do not fall for it. I hope I do not fall. I hope I can care more. That I cannot care. Care, I will need so much care, But I beg of you, please, Do not tempt me. I do not want to fall.

January

February

Care,

New Message

I don’t know if we truly would have been happy, but I can see it.

To: Care

I involuntarily imagine it. I hear a song and my head creates nonexistent memories of the Moments when I inevitably fall. Care, I wish I could go back.

From one poet to another, the snow is wonderful right now

You’ve had a long day, and it’s a cold, windy night. We can’t hear it though. We are slow dancing in your lamp lit room, My arm around your waist, Your hand in mine. I dip you and scatter quick, excited and honest kisses on your cheeks and chin. You laugh and it is Lightning and Ease, Care. And we both pull in a little closer.

FORGIVENESS Francisco Nsabimana

Boiled poison, with its dried essence Waving melodies Of killed strangers A heart that suffers in the thickened Hands of a ranger A move marked by the hairy Anger of a cheetah, long Adventures of a smocked error. Forgiveness, a tea that knows no kettle A stamp that goes freely with no signature Forgiveness, a stinking liquid that is Forcibly let out of the bottle to Soothe the wound of a heart, of a soul A cat let out of a bag and sent into The jackals of rats. Forgiveness, a ray, a say, that Shines a way in a reddened day Forgive me when I killed and distorted your Emotions When I hacked your chance and Pressed Ammonia in your nostrils And shifted your lingering and exhumed branched oxygen... I hereby pledge to never do it again.

LIVING WITHOUT YOU Mia Irving

Sputtering as water sprayed my face, my feet stumbled and adapted to the accelerating speed. We were on a little motorboat on one of Minnesota’s multiple lakes, passing by lines of trees and small beaches. Midge was theremanning the circular wheel while humming an unfamiliar tune. He was in his swim trunks and a cool white T-shirt, a pyramid of rolled towels by his feet. I looked down at my own outfit, a patterned hospital gown dangling around my knees like a dress. It was as thin as paper, the warm summer’s breeze sweeping through the fabric as I pulled the string tighter around my waist. “It was beautiful, Cael. Aw man, you should have seen it.” The sky swirled in front of us, the comforting pattern of oranges and pinks crawling to the ends of my vision. We were the only people on the water, murky blue and violet waves crashing and swaying our boat. “I met so many new people I wouldn’t have imagined. I embarked on a real adventure.” “But it wasn’t beautiful,” I whispered. “You left me. You know sometimes I wonder if you-” “Think at all,” he finished, his knuckles gripping the steering wheel. “I know, OK? I know. But it was a life worth living, Cael.” He turned now, my eyes ripping from a patch of the boat that I’d been focusing on, trying to comprehend his words. He regarded me gently, his face softened with pity. “Even if it meant living without you.”

HOPE FOR THE REAL WORLD Lydia Wilkie

So I’m washing our clothes in the pollen soaked lake, solid with algae bloom and dotted with contorted fish all wretched and white, bellies up to the sun. I’ve become the unwilling solo audience to a chorus of mosquitoes, heavy with my blood, who sing in a pitch that will linger in my ears well past sleep. I’m counting the moles on my arms and stomach, passing the time as quickly as it comes, sure that I feel the earth turning now. The inflated scab on my knee has fully fallen off and leaves a hairless spot of bright pink flesh. Must be what my heart looks like when I let you see it, all amateur and virgin-like. So I’m hanging our clothes in the cedar and watching the white caps a mile away. The threat of a slow death that the open water alludes does illicit the same amount of fear in me as desire. I’m facing the wet blue beast while I swim to the island, in search of the real world-it must exist outside papa’s tulip patch and mama’s soft freckled arms. So I’m peeling mangled tiger tails from the grill of a suburban woman’s bumper

and cursing the human race. I’m watching an ant crawl the circumference of the same rock for twenty minutes and somehow feeling smaller. I’m hoping hard that the mutilated world is just a fever dream, but every morning brings with it a haze around the sun, deeper scars in the earth, and this dreadful feeling of impermanence. Pollenated waves at my feet swallow up the beached fish carcasses and I’m certain now that hope is just an empty word people use as a coping mechanism. So I’m never owning a car and I’m letting my heart out, free and pulsing pink back into the real world where mama found it. I’m thinking of the existence of that scabby, pastel thing, still beating in its ribbed jail cell for no reward other than the feeling of falling in love and hope for the mutilated world.

DECORAH SUMMER Hallie Tunnicliff Johnson

GARDEN SONG Josie LaVoi

I want to grow flowers. Huge flowers! The kind that would win prizes at the county fair. Peonies so large and bulbous, delicate petals curved like the downy wing of a baby bird, and Cherry-Red Tulips deep enough for drinking soup. Zinnias as big as grandma’s dog and Chrysanthemums as big as grandma. Lily of the Valley, like swinging church bells, and Gardenia, Delphinium, Hydrangea, and Marigold. Alstroemeria, Amaranthus, Begonia, Firethorn, Goldenrod, Honeysuckle, Hyacinth, and Morning Glory.

But no weeds! No no no weeds! Just beautiful Baby’s Breath twisted through the hallways of my home and the soft brush of Forget-Me-Nots— don’t you ever forget— against my cheek. I could grow huge beautiful flowers that would blind my neighbors with their soft glow in freckled morning light, sharp shards of soft Pink Petunia and Snapdragon spearing toward the clouds. I would cry one tear into the hollow center of a Crocus, the huge hollow center of the Crocus, and watch it grow taller.

LIFE OUTSIDE ERR Thandeka Ruvimbo Chaka, edited by Michael Musa

No one knew what it meant to be them. And there was always a feeling they couldn't shake. The feeling of a need to constantly prove that they were more than their struggle and pain. While it was true that her tribe had bonded over shared traumatic experiences, 'othered' perspectives overlooked their triumphs as they were solely victims in their eyes. Even though outsider opinions were never 'truly' defining for them, it was draining to constantly be on the defense of their collective and individual character. And this cyclic 'trial and defense' episode helped them recognize that they now existed within an environment that nurtured them so much as it drained them. So shame was inevitable for her people but it was magnified for her. While it is believed that people thrive in competitive environments, it was crippling to her kind of people. It led to secrecy and plotting within her tribe, far less collaboration, and sickly twisted approaches to attaining success. At the grip of competition, the purity of her people was snuffed out like a weakly flame. Meanwhile, shame nucleated her personality by extension. And she became ashamed of her achievements or lack thereof compared to her tribe. She became hyper-critical about herself even when she did not have much agency over certain circumstances. Unlike people within her tribe, her seemingly odd nature of avoiding the spotlight also made her a victim of hurtful words from people that perceived it as apathetic. Henceforth, she felt alone and isolated though she existed within a tribe that was also vibrant and cheerful -- from an outside perspective. The loneliness that consumed her coupled with stifling shame plunged her into a depressive episode. And in that state, surrounded by people and yet alone, she felt lost and worthless. But it was only a matter of time before she realized the bliss that existed outside err and the fear thereof. Recognizing that it was okay to feel shame but not okay to wallow in it. That it was okay to relinquish the spotlight but not okay to be devoured by the shadows. That it was okay to prioritize communal collaboration but not okay to sacrifice your sanity for it. More precisely, it was liberating to understand the humanity in these precepts and it gave her the tools she needed to blossom and let go so that she could fly away from the toxicity her tribal environment bred. And not accept the bare minimum just on the account of the company. To create a life outside err that was uncompromising and conscientious 34

THE FIRST TIME I TRIED TO FORGET YOU Kitri Lindberg

every time i let a boy read my poems something bad happens: here's to a reliably bad omen. how do i distract myself from listening to your laugh, every sound scratching an itch in my chest or the wide, fast grin that stretches the muscles which have been so tight, for so long. because you move and i move, like a shadow, enamored by the way you come into view and out– and the way my heart runs to greet you. excuse me if i’m being cheeky, it’s only because looking at you makes art look wholly uninteresting and i’d rather dissect every gap in your teeth than remember to breathe. if i forget, it's because you make me relearn what it means to exist and every second with you feels like a thousand.

COME MORNING Catherine Vitt

And things’ll be okay come morning, but right now it’s all a little too harsh. Fall’s leftover leaves swirl on by, passing me and my friend, the dead prairie, who smiles the old weary smile, remembering his laugh— full of honey bees and itchy yellow flow’rs. I’m through a quiet hallway, and mom’s sayin that you can see the dust on the floorboards if you tilt your head just right and saying your name full just isn’t quite mine anymore. Do you think my smile is young, Oh sweet strong friend? Or do the wheels of the junker trucks that pass us by remind you that we’ve been driving together a long time? I’m on my bike, the rusty blue that you know so well And she says to slow down when the rain rolls around because you’ve gotta feel its sweetness. The man tomorrow said beer’s sweet Guess he never had the five-cent lolly on the turning stand in the corner store. Who knows what’s more for him?

This morning, I heard you playing your cheap harmonica out my window. That streetlight’s flickering, wincing cause it’s all just a little too harsh. harsh-sweet-quiet-old, passing us by. And come morning the filament’ll snap in tomorrow’s sun, bouncing off spokes of squeaky blue bike wheels, flying past my friend’s returned honey bees.

BONE-SHAPED TAG Kitri Lindberg

The last time I sat In the little screened porch Seated between a fresh-water ocean And a home which is not my home I held the body Earlier, I swept up the braunschweiger, the sugar paste and the baby food It was encased in a yellow embryonic sac A balloon that popped for only me. “Congratulations”, here's some festivity, Your best friend is dying. I used to fall asleep to the lapping Of waves, in time with the breathing-The dragon breath of an animal in your bed. I would push him against the wall-To make space for my feet-And now i can stand on him, On the bloody rust rocks marking his grave. You never realize, do you know How real and living a body can seem Just minutes after the heart has stopped You can hold it, tightly If you close your eyes you can pretend Your heaving sobs are their breaths Your shaking form Is the rising and falling of their chest. So you pull back, just to check But when your eyes open, They do not conspire to lie Like your treacherous heart. 38

LAUNDROMAT Hans Harelimana Hirwa

FREEDOM AND FISH SAUCE Anonymous

Every afternoon at 4 p.m Thủy goes to the back of her house in Minneapolis suburbs, longing for her motherland that she left behind just a year ago. The sun shines its purple shade on the little woman in tears. She is sick right now, fever then chills. Never before has Thủy imagined she would resemble the type of women that all her life has been so much against: the melancholy one that often depicts in folk songs. Thủy always proclaims that she is the embodiment of the brave, intelligent, sophisticated woman of the changing time, capable of doing everything her male friends can, and even better. Against her parents’ wishes and the norms of Confucian and Taoist values, she applied to engineering school, passed the entrance exam, got accepted, and graduated with high honors. Thủy was an engineer serving the South Vietnamese government until it collapsed. She and her American husband managed to escape the country through relationships and helicopters two days just before the Communist liberators came to Sài Gòn capital with the pure excitement of reuniting the two countries under one party care. She hardly saw her parents the last time. Although her family and herself are Buddhists, Thủy stopped going to temples years ago. She did not want to be associated with what rumors have of the monks that support Communism, a heated topic that really became the barbeque of Buddhist monks’ bodies. The reality of the time was, what the Buddhists say, impermanence in the wildest sense. U.S. dollars and weapons show the tremendous powers of forcing the proud descendants of the Trưng Sisters to lay down as snack bar girls. Unlike the social ethicists of her time that oppose these relationships, Thủy truly appreciates these women. They are indeed brave, just unfortunate. They do not beg for money, they work to gain money. Of course these women did not have a chance to go to French schools or engineering school that Thủy did, she considers them to be more noble than herself. These women know how to not only survive but also feed their families through those relationships that society condemns to be intrinsically evil. The Trưng Sisters should be proud of them instead. To Thủy, this war is incomprehensible but maybe morally justified. Thủy just want peace and stability, so that she can carry out her projects of building bridges and roads for the countryside and the poor instead of building weapons. She knows she is selfish when she marries an American doctor, again, not 40

according to her parents’ wishes. She truly loves her husband. He is a kind man, serving one of the last charity hospitals at the end of the war. She loves her husband not because of his money or status, as their salaries are quite the same, but because of his love for her, and fish sauce. Thủy does not want to have the stigmas of marrying an American man because of his privileges and resources that could change her life, but at the same time, she has no other choices. The humane society that claims to be superior to the northern brother is still too strict. No place for her talents to truly blossom. Thủy truly wants to find a way to ascend out of what she thinks the mud of war fanatic society. Now, in the cold Minnesota city, Thủy’s desires were fulfilled. She is taking classes that would transfer her degree to U.S. practice. She and her husband bought a lovely house. However, something is still missing. She misses the warmth of the tropical land. She misses the strictness but full of loving care of her parents. She misses the place where she grew up, and learned how to love and live as a Vietnamese woman. The consequences of the war follow Thủy to every corner of her dream no matter how she suppresses them. Helicopters are falling into the sea on their way of escaping, human bodies are raped, killed, and fell down into the dark sea, army officers and their families fell one by one on the dusty ground of re-education camp. These news from the media and the true survivors threaten her. Thủy feels shame and guilty. She could have brought her parents if she acted fast enough, if she could skillfully manipulate to take the seats of another family, but no more seats on the helicopter, no more seats. Now she prays to Quán Thế Âm Bồ Tát, may the thousand-hand Bodhisattva alleviate her parents’ sufferings, if they are still alive. Thủy makes a commitment to stay as a vegan if the Bodhisattva could save her parents and keep them safe until she finishes the paperwork for their refugee status. But it is difficult to stay pure, to stay vegan, to stay compassionate towards all sentient beings, especially those that take lives through wars. Suddenly, through the ethereal incense offerings and the statute of the Bodhisattva, the idea of just one drop of fish sauce can alleviate all her agony. In fever, Thủy calls her husband, asking him to get her some fish sauce. Fish sauce! Fish sauce! How blasphemous! Just one burning brownish fish sauce drop full of the sensation of the sea, of the tears of the nation, of the sweats of prisoners, and of human blood that shed for war can help her with this suffering of being denied by her homeland. Fish sauce, the gorgeously strong smell condiment that Thủy lost when she gains her freedom. Where to find fish sauce, now that all has changed? 41

SONORAN SAGUARO Anthony Hamer

THE VIOLIN Anthony Hamer

My life is like Playing the violin. You pick it up, the chin rest Familiar against your jaw. You do your best to tune the strings, And then begin to play. You play your best, try to perform As beautifully as possible, keep the tension Out of your hands, wrists, arms, shoulders, Your entire body. The fingers of your left hand will stumble. Sometimes the right arm will tense up. The bow will bounce on the string, Or end up crossing the fingerboard, Or bump up against the bridge. But you continue on Without dwelling on the mistakes, And try to provide some beauty For yourself and for others.

procrastination thomas woodford

done, or just not yet begun? as for my essay, its got none when will i start my paper? maybe later why? because i am a pro a pro at procrastination you ask if im under way and the answer is no way but i dont worry im not in a hurry if you really want to know why i am so slow why i procrastinate isnt it just a little late? some people think its wrong for some it makes them strong theres no problem being late i actually think its great i might start or i might break apart if it sounds like im quitting maybe im just kidding