Spring 2024 Mosaic

www.maristmosaic.wordpress.com

maristmosaic@gmail.com

3399 North Road

Poughkeepsie, NY 12601

Cover Design by Abigail Koesterich, Marisa Brown, Anita Cazorla

Interior Layout by Christina Brown and Angelina Ruiz

Cover Image: Duck Feeding, Hannah Gnibus, 2024

Opinions expressed in Mosaic do not necessarily reflect the views held by Mosaic staff, students, faculty, or the administration of Marist College.

© Mosaic 2024

Mosaic Editorial Board

Editor-In-Chief

Riley Mazzocco

Assistant Editor-In-Chief

Abby Castonguay

Art Editor

Sydney Sailer

Poetry Editor

Evelyn Milburn

Fiction Editor

Lauren Lagasse

Nonfiction Editor

Charlotte Del Vecchio

Design Editors

Christina Brown, Angelina Ruiz

Cover Design Committee

Abigail Koesterich, Marisa Brown, Anita Cazorla

Social Media Committee

Kirsten Mattern, Paige Graff, Margaret Batta, William Haydon

Event Planner

Alex Buscemi

Mosaic Advisors

Mr. Robert Lynch and Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons

A Letter From The Editor

The Mosaic Editorial Board is proud to publish the Spring 2024 Mosaic: a literary and arts magazine highlighting the incredible work of Marist College students.

All Mosaic submissions went through a rigorous blind peer-review process in which student section editors evaluated submissions for publication.

For the second semester in a row, this was our most competitive selection process since our relaunch in 2021. I would like to thank all students who submitted their work to the Mosaic, and encourage each of you to submit again next year! Your creativity, hard work, and talent is what makes this magazine successful.

The Mosaic Editorial Board would like to thank the Student Government Association for the time and effort they put into chartering our publication. We would also like to sincerely thank Mr. Robert Lynch for his unwavering support and dedication towards the Mosaic. Thank you to Alex Podmaniczky and the entire Digital Publications Center for helping us print the magazine. Thank you to Dean Martin Shaffer, Dean Jacqueline Reich, Chair Joshua Kotzin, and the entire English and Arts departments for helping us find the accomplished students that are featured in this edition of the Mosaic.

I would personally like to thank Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons for all that she does for the Mosaic. She always has a smile on her face and a helpful solution to every problem. Her guidance is the reason Mosaic is a successful organization. I could not have done this without her!

Thank you to Lauren Lagasse, the previous Mosaic Editor-in-Chief, for believing in me. Thank you to Abby Castonguay, who will take over as Editor-in-Chief when my tenure ends. Your dedication, kindness, and willingness to help out never fails to blow me away. I know I am leaving Mosaic in great hands!

I would like to thank the Editorial Board for all of their hard work this semester; this publication exists because of their passion, commitment, and love for what they do. They were an incredible team to work with. It has been an honor serving as your Editor-in-Chief, I know you are all going to do amazing things in the future!

And finally, thank you for reading this semester’s edition of the Mosaic! This magazine would not be what it is without the support and readership of the students, and we hope you enjoy this semester’s edition of the Mosaic.

Sincerely,

Riley Mazzocco

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Duck Feeding

Welcome Home to My Heart

Superpowers

Expectations

Hippo

Jester

An Ode to San Fransisco

***My Mother’s Daughter

Last Supper

My God’s Got a Nasty Quickdraw

self portrait

The Red Farmhouse

The Deep End

The True New Yorkers

The Rat and the Raccoon

Will There Ever Be a World Without Sound?

Unrequited

>3

Bowling Alleys

Freshman Zine

***I loved you like a ritual.

Magnetism

maybe in florence

Canal Grande, Venezia

San Marcos Basillica, Venezia

A Train to I Hope So (Subway Surfing)

Car Frozen in Time

Santuario

Spring Ride, on 35 mm

Romeo sheets (II)

If I were to kiss you I would drown

Bones and Flesh

Do You See Me?

Processing

***Framed Memories

Hannah Gnibus

Gabby Ganoe

Bella Loiacono

Rebecca D’Ambrosio

Marisa Brown

Bridget McGuire

Alexa Gallery

Caitlin Blencowe

Kim Rosner

Liberty Harmon

Grace M. Hallinan

August Boland

Emma Bradford Dennehy

Christina Brown

Bella Kaloz

Emma Stuber

Ruby McMahon

Annabelle Kailan

Kim Rosner

Alexa Gallery

Isabel Padilla

Abigail Agostin

Jennifer Cabrera

Mary Longueil

Mary Longueil

Kyle Broner

Nicole Prycel

Alyssa Borelli

Matthew C. Pater

Anonymous

Carly Andrew

Liberty Harmon

Bella Kaloz

Ava Kaloz

Grace M. Hallinan

Anonymous

***= Content may contain themes of abuse, grief, death, suicide, war, mental illness, and body image.

My Grandfather’s Persimmons

Sincerely, The Dreamer

God Forbid You Are A Hopeless Romantic

Symphony of Color

Even Though I Want To

Watter Arrowhead

Sunday Morning

Untitled Collage

***How to be a Disco Superstar

Shattered

goodnight

Sunrise Home

The Muse

Drawing of an Animal Skull

***Attack

A Sestina For Asteroid 2001, FO32

Snowfall

***Most Likely To Untitled

Long Lost Self

Saint James the Less

Pegasus

Necropolis

Cloud Study

If Patience is a Virtue, by God, All Of Us

Are Saints

Window Portrait

Clerihew Collection

ID Saluti

and even less now

I’ll always remember you

Waking Up From a Midday Nap

The Rosary in my Hotel Room

Subdued

Goodnight Denny’s

Mockingjay

Sometimes Blue

how to apologize to the Earth

Christina Brown

Francesca DeRosa

Carol Segura

Claudia Skretkowicz

Anonymous

Kaitlin James

Kiki Wiehe

Jennifer Cabrera

Kendall Pastreich

Alexa Gallery

Kaitlin James

Anonymous

Emma Denihan

Margaret Batta

Erin Donnelly

Anonymous

Gabby Ganoe

Bella Loiacono

Juliann Bianco

Lucy Baldino

Georgia Pendas

August Boland

Ava McCann

Francesca DeRosa

Eva Bonanno

Kyle Broner

Jennifer Cabrera

August Boland

Sarah Gurskis

Christina Brown

Ryann Anderson

M. Wood

Hannah Gnibus

Kendall Pastreich

Bella Loiacono

Isabella Libreros

Erin Donnelly

Ashley Laub

Emersen Tolman

for our hummingbird garden

A Mother’s Child

the only thing I like about hiking

My Soul’s Bloom

Tricks of the Ear

Dimensional

W E I R D

Skinny High-Waisted Denim Jeans sheets (II)

***boys will be boys

Eve

***disorderED

The Red Ribbon

Solace

A Waltz With Death

Selene

Apple Orchard

The Glass Palace, Madrid

Steampunk

Four Walls and No Clock

Ice Breaker

Goodbye English Department one month in your 20s

Growth

Marigold

Shame

Listen to Me

Happy Place

Mother

Broken

I’m glad I exist

They Can’t Recognize Real Art

Kaitlin James

Cira Shaw

M. Wood

Yahenia Ortiz-Benitez

Cira Shaw

Ava Kaloz

Ava Kaloz

Ashley Laub

Carly Andrew

Liliana Rosa

Cira Shaw

Vanessa Hasbrouck

Abigail Roughgarden

Jillian Blaszko

Brianna Valerio

Emma Skolozdra

Emma Stuber

Mary Longueil

Kendall Pastreich

Gabriella Amleto

Korey Weiss

Gabriella Amleto

Kat Bilbija

Lucy Baldino

Anonymous

Grace M. Hallinan

Taormina Amelio

Emma Denihan

E’mme Armstrong

Carly Andrew

Liv Myers

Cassandra Arencibia

The Winners

Welcome Home to My Heart

Gabby Ganoe ’26 First Place, Poetry

Please forgive the mess. Brush aside the cobwebs with the tips of your toes, follow me through my footprints in the dust. Please forgive the squeaks in the floorboards, and the cold air that creeps in from the windows. I can forgive that you will want to run your fingers along the cracks in the wall, but please forgive me when I try to stop you. These are all the things I thought I’d hide from you, yet here they are cupped in my bleeding hands; but offered out to you. Accept them. Take my hands here in the dark, please forgive the way they are trembling, and let me lead you in circles until we are dizzy. This is a monument to everything I have tried to leave behind. To let rot. To let sit in the pocket of my chest and only beat when I tell it. Please forgive that it is beating now. We are not used to having a rhythm, a march song, a way to keep time, but I am grateful to hear anything besides the silence. Please forgive the silence. Please forgive my silence. It’s all that I have allowed to echo here for the months I have sat criss-crossed on the floor, learning how to relove myself. That’s something they never taught us in school; the art of caressing your own cheek, kissing your own lips, pulling pain out of your own throat like a magician’s handkerchief. This is my magic trick. Please forgive me; My cheek is sore, my throat is raw, and my lips are red with the indulgence of self-loving. And that’s why I have invited you here; here, into the bones of my heart, or better yet, the blueprints of what has gone unfinished. Let me take your coat, drop your bags on the floor. I will help you unpack. Please forgive that I am leaning on you slightly. Please forgive that I can’t do this alone.

Superpowers

Bella Loiacono ’ 27 First Place, Fiction

You asked me what superpower I’d pick if I could because we’d run out of things to talk about, and I told you I’d pick immortality so I could see the day you died. But you just laughed and rested your hand on the console of your stupid beat up Camry like you wanted to drive it into the telephone pole. I get tunnel vision when I’m with you and it makes me wish I didn’t know how to read or write so I could just sit on the shower floor and feel nothing.

That conversation ended too early and not the way you wanted, so you tried again. You asked me what I’d be if I could be anything other than human, and I told you I wanted to be a monster so I could crash through your hometown and break every building you’ve ever been in into a million pieces. That time, you didn’t even respond. You just stared out the sunroof like you wanted to be one of the stars that looms over my sleepless nights. You are haunting me, I am haunting you.

But it’s true. It’s very, very painfully true. I want to live until my skin curls up into itself in grotesque, unnatural ways. I want to live until I can’t see or hear and I’m miserable just so I can stand in the mud at your grave and know you can never speak to me again.

It’s true. I want to be a monster. I want to feel my bones emerge to the surface, stretched under my skin in a way I haven’t felt since I was sixteen. I want to become something that will make you feel fear. You make me feel disgusting. You make me feel like a monster. You make me feel like I’m going to die in three years because if I don’t I’ll have to stay here and speak to you.

Neither conversation went the way you wanted to. You sigh as you put the car in drive without a single glance my way, and just like that, I am invisible. I am nothing to you. I’m not the girl you love or care about or feel anything for. I am insufferable, I am an enigma, a duplication of myself in ways that could never make sense to you or anyone.

I roll the window down and stick my head out, offering the rest of my air to the night. I am stupid and unreal in awful ways, and I wish for the tide to take me away into the darkness, and for your car to crash and burn, and for us to die together in a hideous, abnormal way. We are angry and inseparable and disgusting and I hate every second of you, of me, of us. And it scares me because my mother always taught me to keep myself safe over anyone else, and you are dangerous. But you are a part of me in a way I will never understand, and to keep you safe is to keep myself safe.

So I let the silence overtake me, and I shut up about the superpowers and the monsters and the haunting you. I am childish, and you are bothered by that. I am angry, and you wish I wouldn’t be.

We run out of things to talk about once again, and the anger has reduced to tears. I am messy, but you wish I was clean.

Expectations

Rebecca D’Ambrosio ’24 First Place, Nonfiction

His leg is pressing against mine under the table and he says something about seeing a movie. We only ate for forty minutes and I haven’t been on many dates but that seems like too short a time so I find myself agreeing even though I hate horror movies and even though the way his leg keeps pressing against mine is uncomfortable. But he says something about my pretty eyes and the movie doesn’t seem so bad.

He asks for the check and takes out his card.

“Can we split it?”

“No, it’s fine”

Something inside me soars. I’ve never had a guy pay for me before. It seems like some sort of test has been passed. I know the boy doesn’t have to pay. I know that. But something inside me loves that it’s happening – that my date is paying for ME.

But I don’t want to be that girl so I ask

“Can I at least leave the tip”

“No, it’s fine.”

He’s sure. He’s sure. He’s sure. He wants to pay for me.

“Are you sure?” I ask because I have to. Because I don’t want to be that girl.

“Yeah, you’ll just pay for your movie ticket because I get mine for free.”

The bubble pops and I know the smile on my face has fallen. But he’s still smiling and his leg won’t stop pressing against mine underneath the table. It’s because he gets free movie tickets for himself. He’s driving us across the bridge to the AMC at the mall because that’s where he gets free movie tickets. It wasn’t because it was something he wanted to do it was because he gets free movie tickets. We get in his car and I leave mine at the diner. Something in me scrunches up at the knowledge that he’s my only

way out now – my car left abandoned at the 24-hour diner.

He drives and I don’t recognize any of the music he plays. There’s a Pokemon plush hanging from around the rearview mirror, Gengar, I think. A little purple guy who looks quite angry, and I just keep looking at it swinging there while we drive over the Tappanzee Bridge.

At the movie theater, I buy my ticket and he tells me which seat to pick. I tell him I need to use the restroom because something in me needs a minute. I stare at myself in the mirror and fix my hair and look at myself for a bit. I don’t know who this girl is and I can’t recognize the look behind her eyes. With a final deep breath, I step outside the bathroom. I can’t see him. I look around the corner, check by the men’s room, look at the theater doors – he wouldn’t have gone in already right?

I wait, unsure of what to do. After an embarrassing amount of time to be loitering outside the women’s restroom, I text him

where are you lol

I don’t want to seem needy and I tack on the lol to seem breezy, chill, silly even – like look at this girl who can’t even find where her date went in the movie theater. He responds,

Getting snacks

I didn’t even think about concessions. About the endless cliches of our hands touching when we both reach for popcorn, or a blue slushy with two straws to share. Something in me soars again. When I reach him at the concession stand he’s tapping his card and paying for a large popcorn, a free upgrade from small because of his AMC membership, and he’s handed a large ICEE cup, again a perk. He grabs the giant popcorn, and I can see the butter glistening on the top. We make our way over to the slushy machines and he struggles to fill up his cup with the popcorn in hand. I offer to hold it and he lets me while he fills up his cup with blue raspberry, some spilling over the side while I laugh. He grabs a napkin and tries to wipe away the blue slush. Lid on the slightly sticky cup, he picks it up and then goes to grab the popcorn back too.

He leads us into the theater and to our seats. They’re those big ones, with the recliners built in. He sits down and I next to him. It’s only once I’m sitting, attempting to learn which button makes what recline that I realize he’s placed the popcorn on the seat next to him, the slushy in the opposite cupholder as well. He puts his arm around me

instantly, pulling me into him in a way that’s awkward with the large armrest between the seats. His other arm goes to his opposite side, grabbing a handful of buttery popcorn that he shoves in his mouth with his head leaning against mine.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The shame creeps in. I wait for him to offer some to me. Maybe it’s just because we just sat down.

But no.

I sit through the hour and a half of a shitty horror movie I never wanted to see while he crunches in my ear and slurps a slushy. His buttery lips touch my forehead and his blue raspberry fingers run through my hair. And all I can think is how he deliberately put the popcorn on the other side.

By the end of the movie, he’s only eaten half of the popcorn. He doesn’t even pick up the bucket to throw it out – just leaves it there for the workers coming in to clean to deal with. He grabs my hand as we walk out of the mall and all the way to his car.

He drives us back over the bridge, back to the 24-hour diner and all I can think about is that half empty popcorn bucket.

When he pulls into the parking lot I go to unlock the door and he grabs me from across the middle console and kisses me.

It tastes like popcorn.

Something in me shatters.

First Place, Art

Hippo

Marisa Brown ’27

Jester

Bridget McGuire ’26

Second Place, Poetry

Rebel Court:

The young people who sought to fight an impossible king

They were dirty peacocks who bared claws and ate horses

The jester poked and prodded at the king for their sake

So the rebels allowed the jester into their court

The figurehead of their impossible victory!

Rebel Court fell as firm control took over and inspired the next generations to bring it to all people.

Business Court:

The proud men rich in characters who kissed babies and money bags

They bled oil and wine when they walked too quickly

The jester cracked open tubs of molasses and pretended to have a chimp back

So the businessmen let the jester entertain the common folk

The happiness in such hardship from dedication!

Business Court fell as business fell to a halt and so did the people and land they’d wanted.

Warriors’ Court:

The world called for aid and the world’s aid was met

Rolled up jean jackets and metal birds in the sky

The jester teased enemies and warriors with reminders of what they’d left at home

So the warriors let the jester jump about their gray camps

The ease from a long forgotten place in their hearts!

Warrior court fell when there were no longer enemies to fight as power fell in their lap.

Elders Court:

You could live to be old and watch the family grow

Music and electric magic swooped through the air in waves

The jester could sit behind their moving windows or invisibly pass through ears

So the Elders clapped and cheered as the jester provided their fun

The fun and joy they hadn’t had, but now their children would!

Elders Court fell when they were forced to loosen their grip on understanding the world

Childrens Court:

Everything exists and once and everyone must know each other

You may meet the world in a day and know nothing about it but dictate it

The jester could be in anything but tried to bounce between their ears

They were confused.

How dare the jester mock them?

Joke about them?

What did the jester even intend?

How dare the jester mock what was right!

The jester meets an impossible fate.

An Ode to San Francisco

Alexa Gallery ’27

Second Place, Fiction

I hate New York. The lights aren’t kind and all the birds have forgotten how to sing. The noise I used to wear like a fine necklace has tarnished and tightened, choking me in its downfall. I’m constantly off balance. I walk the sidewalks like a tightrope walker, careful, so careful, as not to fall. I hate the smell and the stores and the cars and the traffic. I eat pins and needles for lunch and eggshells for dinner. Everyone dances a combination I was never taught. Their surefooted, elegantly dressed feet sweep me into the undertow. I’m lost in the mess, overtaken by throngs of people who lead their lives with an assuredness I’ve never possessed. New York fits me like clothes three times hand-me-downed. I mourn the city I used to know, the one full of little girls whose greatest joy was waking up and greatest sorrow was going to sleep.

Cold drove me out of Chicago. LA is dead and I don’t think Seattle’s far behind. Denver is pretentious and Austin is abysmal. I was chased out of Atlanta. I collect cities like charms on a bracelet. I try them on like pairs of shoes. I leave a long line of them behind, jilted like ex-lovers. I sample things without really knowing them and discard them before dinner gets cold. I ask questions but don’t stick around long enough to hear the answer. I dream of a place where things make sense. A city far enough out of my reach that I can’t discard it. A city that can tell me who I am. San Francisco looms like Mount Olympus in my mind. Everything will be different if I can just get there. I’m drawn to it and I don’t know why. I don’t even know anything about her.

I rode the cable cars and saw the Palace of Fine Arts. I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and posed next to a Redwood. I know what the salt air tastes like coming off the bay. It’s not enough. I want to know every inch of her. I only know her as the hordes of tourists do, stomping through her ancestral lands, littering at the foot of the red-barked gods. I want to sink into the cracks in the sidewalk and dissolve into the air. I want the Pacific

in my bloodstream and sea lions in my backyard. I call the city and hope she answers. It’s mythical, a gleaming red tower rising above a shroud of mist. Its fingers reach out to brush the ocean and its toes sink into the bay. It’s a tomb and a palace. It’s an oracle, holding everything I seek within its winding streets and gingerbread houses. If cities could give prophecies people would be knocking down the gates. But I know this city is speaking a language meant just for me, if only I could decipher it. It’s a world I long to be a part of. A world where things make sense.

I pack my bags and grab my things. I bubble-wrap my failures and stuff my liquids into a Ziploc. New York fades into oblivion and I’m hopeful. I step into the San Francisco International Airport, drop my bag, rush to the front, open the doors and tread into the wispy air. I don’t feel anything. I search for the deities and the gods. I hunt for the lore I was promised, the prison and escapes, triumphs and losses, violence and peace. I overturn trash cans, climb telephone poles, and look behind wallpaper. I’m left with nothing. Turns out a city is just brick and mortar, not some prophetical, mythic creature. Add it to the list. Another dead place, another fallen land. Another one for the books, a broken charm on a rusted bracelet, a discarded pair of shoes. I look at the flight list. A 9 AM to Detroit, 10 to Portland, 11 to Miami. I pick one at random. I’m tired. My feet are blistered and my wrist aches. I’ve tried on so many versions of myself I lost count.

I tally my losses in New York. I collect my postcards, the Golden Gate Bridge towering over a jutted rock, Sea Lions Lounging on a Pier, cable cars ricocheting across bustling streets, Redwood’s lording over it all. Greetings from Los Angeles, Bonjour from Paris, Aloha from Hawaii. I rip them up, tossing each jagged piece to a gray, songless bird. I don’t know anything about San Francisco. I can’t forgive her because she wasn’t what I needed her to be. I needed her to tell me who I was. To whisper in my ear the secrets hidden in my pores. I feel betrayed by a city I never even took the chance to know. I take out my phone and cancel my flight to Miami. I won’t find what I’m looking for there.

My Mother’s Daughter

Caitlin

Blencowe ’24 Second Place, Nonfiction

I’ve been told I take after my mother. It is my father who often says this, never a compliment. I get a C in biology. My mother tells me I don’t try hard enough; she asks God what she did to deserve a child like me. I tell my mother that if I have failed it is because she has failed me. Our worst argument yet. My mother tells me if she is so awful then maybe she should just kill herself. I don’t disagree. I tell my mother she is the reason I am depressed, that my second attempt was her fault. I was 16 sitting in the backyard with scissors in my hands, ankles and wrists exposed as the wind carries my cries away, the birds the only witness to my crime. I come to my senses. I tell my mother I am a bad daughter; I plead for her forgiveness. My mother tells me I am not worth the trouble she has been through with me. She was 46, healing in the hospital, her baby in a separate ward, fighting to breathe. I tell her she should have gotten an abortion then. I forget all the miscarriages that happened before me. My mother begins to cry at the dinner table. She has only cried in front of me once before. I tell her I am sorry; I didn’t mean it. She has mastered the silent treatment. I tell myself I will hold a grudge and stay angry. I never do. I cry in my bed; I am an awful daughter. My mother gets her voice back, apologizes to me for being a bad mom. I tell her she isn’t. I cry more, and she hugs me. She kisses the wounds she has opened, and I let her. I don’t bother telling her they will open soon again, that our next argument will seep into them like salt, the pain returning in tenfold. I am my mother’s daughter. We will be cruel to one another for the rest of our lives.

Last Supper

Kim Rosner ’25 Second Place, Art

My God’s Got a Nasty Quickdraw Liberty Harmon ’26 Third Place, Poetry

My God looks like Clint Eastwood, Tilted hat covering His face and Spurs clicking as He walks. He acts as sheriff, most of the time, And I as robber, looter, thief. This space between the pews is Sun and tumbleweeds, Long overdrawn shadows Stretching, grasping, praying. Water, wine, whiskey, all the same. Saloon doors swinging behind me, I stand between these pews, Prepared to draw.

I’m used to kneeling, to begging. To going unanswered. My stance is shaky, His assured. The world stretches, created in seven days, And I, tempted in less than forty. Before I know it, I’m prostrating or dying, one or the other.

A nasty, nasty quickdraw, Like being struck down by lightning. So I’m laying out, between the pews, Bleeding out of a bullet hole And aching.

self portrait

Grace M. Hallinan ’24

Third Place, Art

The Red Farmhouse

August Boland ’24

Third Place, Fiction

Sipos Bela died, as he had every night in his dreams for the past month. It always came on the same—he would dream of his best friend playing the villain in a film, or of a world tree lit by the sun, or of navigating a hellish train station—before the dream shifted, and he found himself falling. He fell for infinity it felt, eternally propelled towards the world, never getting any closer, until everything sped up, like a reel played too fast. As he fell, he would get a glimpse of a red barn and a farmhouse by a river seared into his mind every time, before awakening as he hit the ground.

Sipos awoke with a parched throat, his eyes opening with a gasp for air. He groaned as he took a drink of ice water. Dying the same way every night was beginning to bore Sipos, and worse, it was only fifteen minutes before his alarm. Refusing to give into somnolence, he arose and went off to the offices of The Fortune Teller. It was a strange name for a newspaper, to be sure, especially one as reputable as The Teller. Yet it was a name.

His days blended together in a blur in the bleak midwinter, this far north in the rainforests on the west coast. He died by night at the red farmhouse and by day covered the arts and sciences for The Teller. He visited a gallery, interviewed a sculptor, sketched a statue, went home, went to bed, saw the red farmhouse, died, awoke, and did it all over again.

He had been dying in his dreams for a month, the red farmhouse burned eternally into his dream-retinae, before everything changed. The Long was opening a new special exhibition on painters of the Yun River school, and The Teller was sending Sipos to view the gallery and write an article on it. Sipos entered the building, marching beneath the crouching sculpture of the museum’s titular dragon as he had a thousand times, and made his way to the gallery.

The exhibition was trite, to say the least—surprisingly so for The Long. It was expanses of rolling hills and the Yun River stretching into eternity. Sipos sighed and shook his head, and his eyes danced from one painting, to the next, to the next—

And froze.

His eyes froze on the painting of a red farmhouse.

The painting was the same as the vision of his dream. Every detail was the same, from the cracked paint on the farmhouse door to the darkened wood of the fence that ran alongside it. He raced over to the painting and read its plaque: Arasibo, 15,322. It was over four hundred years old. It was impossible. Sipos had heard stories of dreams and witchcraft. But the werewolves and witches of the past were no more—therianthropes and oneiromancers they were called, examined and scientifically quantified and integrated into society, like any other part of the world. Sipos must have seen a photograph of it somewhere in the past, or seen a copy of it at another exhibition or some such. That was surely it.

And yet he still dreamed he died by that farmhouse. He continued to dream of it, and soon was seeing it sleeping and waking. In his free time he visited The Long and stared at the painting for hours on end. He became a familiar face at the gallery, so enamored with the

painting that the docents stopped paying him heed. The painting consumed him as he memorized every key detail of it, every brushstroke.

One night, Sipos was staying at The Long late, as was his wont, when he awoke from a nap. He looked around the museum. The new electrical lights were still humming away, though not a single docent was in sight. He had dozed off, evidently. Awaking from dying no longer bothered him. Sipos was acclimated to the farmhouse now, and did not even start when he saw the object of his nightmares looming in front of him when he woke up.

Sipos Bela stretched and looked around, and went to check his pocket watch, but it was nowhere to be found. He spared a last glance at the painting and turned to leave the gallery, for the windows were darkened and the sun was setting later as summer dawned, before he noticed the other paintings in the gallery.

They were all the same painting of the red farmhouse.

Sipos strolled over to one, then jogged over to another, then sprinted to another. Every painting was the red farmhouse. He went to the next gallery where he found the same, and in the next one, and in the next one. As he made his way to the main entrance, he found only that every work of art was replaced with that painting of the red farmhouse, and there still was not a single docent in sight.

Although he had calmed himself as he walked along, he began to panic as he realized how similar every gallery looked. It felt wrong to see Iwakan totems, Mangese wall scrolls and sculptures of the New Long School replaced with the red farmhouse. Sipos broke into a run as he dashed madly to the museum exit, ran beneath the statue of the dragon (replaced with, of course,the red farmhouse painting) and landed in the street—

—where he was staring directly at the red farmhouse.

Sipos looked around for The Long, but he was all alone on a field of wheat, the Yun River gurgling by, the red farmhouse towering above him. It shone with the strength of the sun and dazzled him like a sparkling gem. And from it there was no escape.

Sipos did not know how long he stood before the farmhouse as it confronted him squarely, monopolizing his vision. Yet in time the door to the farmhouse opened, and a man stepped out. It was an Orowokan man, black of skin and tall of height, clad in the clothing of an islander from colonial times. His eyes widened when he saw Sipos, and he took a hasty step forward, before slowly approaching him.

He opened his mouth and said something, then something else, and finally, “Now can you under stand me?” Sipos nodded. The man sighed in relief. “Good. I have not had a visitor in some time. It takes a while for people to seek me out.”

Sipos opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “Would you like to come in?” said the Orowokan. “I have not had anyone to talk to in a very long time. I am sure we have much to Discuss.”

Sipos Bela opened his mouth again, closed it, and said nothing. He wanted nothing more than to find his way back to his sleeping body in The Long and go about his night. But the man’s eyes were so lonely, and the place was so desolate. And so, Sipos nodded, and he and the man entered the red farmhouse for some coffee and sweetcakes.

The Deep End

Emma Bradford Dennehy ’25 Third Place, Nonfiction

Here I am, standing in the middle of Marienplatz, alone. I don’t know the language and my phone doesn’t have any internet. There are people milling about, all around me, speaking in German, a language I will only start to learn after I go back home. But, right now, I don’t understand a single thing. So, how will I be able to navigate today on my own? I thought it would be easy, and maybe it will be, but what if it isn’t? I had grabbed a map before I left the apartment. A map cluttered in order to look pleasing, a map I cannot read. I had circled what I assumed was the general area of the apartment before I left, shoving the cluttered map into my pocket, not yet knowing that I would not be removing it again. The cold December air stings my face and my ungloved hands, but my body begins to warm as I walk. Snow caps the beautiful buildings of the city, the cathedral is surrounded by Christmas markets, warm twinkling lights adorning every small structure selling warm mulled wine and handmade ornaments. A large Christmas tree, decorated and glowing, stands tall in front of the rich cathedral. As I wander the streets of Marienplatz I think about what my mother would say. She agreed to me going to a foreign country because she trusted Chris, but he’s back at the apartment, asleep. What would she say if she knew I was alone without the ability to communicate in any form?

I can hear her yelling at me from the shore months prior, a mother of her adult child warning her, telling her, not to swim any further. This angered me. I’m an adult for god’s sake, I will determine how far is too far. So, I ignore her persistent screams where the sand meets the sea. April, my best friend for the past decade and a half, looks at me, concern riddling her big blue eyes, wondering if we should swim closer to shore so we don’t risk getting into more trouble than my mother’s voice already conveys. My face grows hot in the cool ocean water as her screams become more frequent, more insistent. I dunk my head under the water for a moment, a brief moment. My mother is blissfully unaware that Chris has invited me to go to Germany with him that winter, right before Christmas. If I am unable to swim in the deep end, then how will I ever travel to another country?

My mother has liked Chris since the beginning. She trusts my opinion when it comes to men because I’ve always been picky, probably pickier than I need to be. Chris has always done the things a gentleman is supposed to, but my mother’s favorite: bringing me soup when I was sick. This is a moment she brings up often, a moment that she says made her realize that this one wasn’t going anywhere. I had grown scared of being in a relationship after going on a couple of dates with him. I had suggested that we try being friends, fully anticipating it would fizzle out, but desperately hoping it wouldn’t. About a month after I had friend-zoned him, a month of talking every single day, I told him I was sick and he insisted on bringing me soup. He insisted on driving the hour and a half it took to get from his house to mine, just to bring me soup. When I told my mother he was doing this, she knew – I knew too, this wasn’t the end for us, that it was far, far from it.

It wasn’t until I turned thirteen that I started to yearn for the experience of independence, an experience that, at the time, I didn’t know how many years it would take for me to achieve. I would walk ahead of both of my parents whenever we were in public, trying to experience the world on my own as much as I could. I remember when, at fifteen, she allowed my brother and me to walk down Main Street alone to get bagels, but we could not go any further. That was such a liberating experience at the time, I felt like an adult even though I was nowhere near it. I emerge from the water, greeted by my mother’s continued persistence, except now it is for me to get out of the water. My frustration deepens, and my worry about Germany grows. She

will never allow this, I’ve never even been on an airplane, but to go to a foreign country without her? In my dreams. I decide to concede, swimming back to shore. We spend the rest of the day there on the beach, the simmering silent anger growing with every minute that passes as April and I burn under the hot sun, the course sand rubbing into my pink thighs. I’m angry with myself, for conceding under the heat of my mother. I’m embarrassed that April had to be witness to this babying. My mother and I only speak in small, short words for the rest of the day. That evening, April and I sat on the small full bed that we shared in the little girl’s room, a room we made our own in this house that did not belong to us. It was clear this room belonged to a little girl who was obsessed with Harry Styles, with a signed record sitting on the bookshelf, and an acoustic guitar decorating the wall above the bed. We sit, discussing and venting about the events that took place earlier that day. She listens and understands me as I talk about my feelings of being too sheltered, too protected, too held back. I hear my mother yell for me from the kitchen, I give April a look that says “here we go.”

My mother and father are sitting on the patio in the backyard, I take a deep breath just as I open the creaky screen door, stepping onto the finished porch with bare feet. The air is warm with a slight breeze that cools my hot cheeks. The two of them sit there, my mother watching me with her arms crossed as I sit down across from her, my father waiting to play moderator sitting comfortably. My Dad is usually the moderator, and he’s already a therapist so it’s only natural. The worst is when he comes home after a long day of therapy, helping client after client, and there’s an arguement in the kitchen, where instead of a break he has to sit and make sure everyone gets heard.

I can’t recall the argument, I remember that it was one that was emotionally charged, but not one that was loud like the others. I allowed myself to tell her how I felt overprotected and unallowed to grow, afraid to ask for what I wanted, and she listened. At that moment I knew I should bring up Germany. There was no yelling and she was listening to me, if I didn’t mention it now, I never would,

“Chris invited me to Germany.” I blurt out, deciding that overthinking would only hold me back.

There’s silence, longer than a moment, my skin starts to prickle with sweat as my mother’s wide eyes bore into me. My father waits for my mother to say something, both of us waiting for her to say no and for the brawl to truly begin.

“When?” She finally asks me, breaking the silence. “Uh,” I know when I’d be going, but I wasn’t prepared for this response, I was expecting a loud and final ‘NO’, but that’s not what I get so I push myself forward, “December, we’d be getting back a few days before Christmas,” I say with false confidence spun into my voice.

“Do you know the exact days you’d be gone? You’d have to be back in time for Christmas. How would this be paid for? Your Dad and I cannot foot the bill on this, you know that.” She anxiously asks me each question before I can respond, this I’m used to as I make a mental note of each question.

After answering each question; ‘five days’, ‘I promise we’ll be back before Christmas’, ‘Chris is covering everything’ – I tell her how scared I was to ask about going, how I thought that she would absolutely say no.

My mom explains to me that there’s no real reason for me not to go, she trusts Chris, so the only thing that may hold me back is if the rates of COVID dramatically rise at that time. It makes me wonder if she would’ve been this willing if it were anyone else, or just me on my own. But the rates didn’t rise, and now Chris is sick and asleep in the apartment, and I’m standing in Marienplatz, alone.

The True New Yorkers

Christina Brown ’27

The Rat and the Raccoon

Bella Kaloz ’24

An unremarkable night A casual existence

Who would’ve thought Would lead to such persistence

The rat saw a figure “A raccoon?” They thought He was fuzzy, distracted And had scars, like he fought

The rat had them, too Similar shapes and indents They approached him, carefully With curious intents

The rat spoke swiftly And baffled his mind

Both thinking, “It’s hard finding love With scars of our kind”

As push leads to shove

And they talk all night

They approached sunrise With hopeful delight

The raccoon realizes now

In the welcoming sun

That love does exist

And the hurting is done

Mere miles apart

For so many years

The universe kept separate

So they’d have no fears

To be ready for this When battles come to an end

They wanted the same thing

Now they don’t have to pretend

Unrequited Ruby McMahon ’27

I wish the words “I Love you” were light and airy. That they held no meaning, unless, of course, you wished for there to be. I wish I could say them to you over and over again, so elementary in my pronunciation of each and every sound. Once you heard what each letter sounded like from my lips, I would piece it together for you, spelling out L-O-V-E in my mock-singing Michael Bublé voice. We’d laugh, you and I, at the concept of Love, my deep voice, and how you need not sing it back since you could never sing to begin with. Can you see it? That world. Where Love is simple, you are Sweetness, and I am the eyes lucky enough to behold it.

You and I both know, of course, that we do not live in such a world. Our world is one of blocked airways, trapped by the load of Love. You see, the pressure, the weight, the pure humidity of Love is far too great for my tongue to support and for my teeth to chew on. It might hit you, Love, should I manage to hoist it out of my lips, like a brick. If it hits you, your view you once had of me might blacken like the blossoming bruise around your eye. You might think that I, your trusted Friend, was oh-so careless to throw an object as big as Love at you. With your shiner, your nose bloodied, and your fingers jittery, you may be too weak to lift Love back, to restore it into my mouth from where it came. What was there before, between you and me, may be destroyed. You may never heal, and I may never live down my evil-doing.

I never meant to do you any harm, I promise. My moment of weakness — should I succumb to Love’s biting grip — was never supposed to hurt. In fact, I had only wished to be the one to heal you. I

want to be within you, swimming alongside your organs in your fluorescent Red Sea, observing your dreads and your desires. I want to see what pains you, what rots from inside, like a cavity in a molar, if you let me. You are safe with me, my Love, and I will cure you of all that ails you. I would dredge the pits of your stomach to the tips of your nerve endings, should you ask. I will seek that which aches, and I’ll read to it quiet children’s books until it sleepily waddles back to the darkness from which it came. I promise myself not to cause your heart to sore and tighten with detestation at the sound of my name. I will stick by you, with my medical-grade nylon gloves for when you need it most. You can count on it.

So, if (and when) I hurl Love at you, I hope you are not afraid. My years of experience with the stinging pang of Love will assure you, and my grandmother’s needlework will do just fine for stitches on any cuts that are too deep. And soon, I hope, you will forgive me for the pain I have caused you. I hope your eyesight comes back to the way it was pre-bruising, and that the outline of my figure is restored to rose-color. I hope you took your Advil and drank your herbal tea, like your doctor insisted, so that your quieted laugh comes back as boisterous as ever. I hope that Love hit you, only hard enough to give you slight amnesia, making you forget the damage that was done. I hope, no matter how sharply I am choking on the Love that is lodged in my throat, inching closer to my uvula, that I have grown to handle it, well enough to protect it from your noticing. I hope that my stifling, that I am surely doing with all my might, keeps you disillusioned enough to think nothing of my irregular breathing and the fullness in my cheeks. Despite the grinding of my teeth and the bleeding of my gums that swallowing back Love causes me, I hope that your fondness for me returns, even if it is not the fondness I desire.

Annabelle Kailan ’26

I love poetically

I will tell you how your eyes belong with the stars in the sky

I will tell you how your laugh is like a deep breath after being underwater

I will tell you that the way your hand fits in mine makes me feel

Like I can hold the beauty of sunsets between my palms

I will tell you that in the moment I witness you merely existing

I feel myself becoming infinite

I will tell you that I love you without ever saying those three words

It has always been my demise

But one day, it will light someone’s soul

And I’m starting to believe that that will always be enough.

Bowling Alleys

Freshman Zine

Alexa Gallery ’27

Kim Rosner ’25

I loved you like a ritual.

Isabel Padilla ’27

You promised me an ascension, A seat at the table, the privilege of washing your feet, Of kissing the ground you walked upon. You promised me the gift of worship, And the pain of labor.

In exchange, you wrote your every whim upon my skin, And it was fulfilled. Should you so much as have asked, I would have brought you anything, I was all but a devotee who had everything to give, And only you to lose.

I felt pride at the bright words you engraved on my skin, Of the dizzying affection you injected into my veins,

But though the letters of our arrangement were easy to read on young flesh, You told me to hide them away, You dressed me in layers of false promises, Under the guise of mentorship and love.

Ever the curious child, I asked why. You told me it was wrong to question, You accused me of not trusting you.

And when I asked again, You told me they wouldn’t understand, That if anyone aside from you so much as glimpsed at what lay underneath cloth and lies, They would get the wrong idea.

So my worship to you was to remain private, Or else it was not to remain at all.

Perhaps it was the serotonin in my blood, Or those long and pointed glances you threw my way,

But I was not ready to give you up. I feared my heart could not beat without your compliments, That my body would go numb if not for your touches.

Without you, the world would grow dull once more. And the fire you set ablaze in my heart would widdle down to a fizzled-out ember.

So our worship continued. I used my voice to sing your praises, My body as your canvas, And my mind became molded by your hand, shifting based on soft words.

Each new whim you spoke aloud needed to be engraved, And my body being so small, ran out of space.

You wanted more than I could give, So you made me promise a body that would grow. A body that you could shape.

Somedays, your worship made me starve Both for food and for love,

You made me work for the fire that kept me alive, To be reignited.

Somedays, it burned far too bright, Burning my skin in a spectacle you pretended not to enjoy when others were around.

But when the audience was gone,

And it was just me and you, I could see your eyes alight with hunger. You would speak every thought that came to mind, And encourage me to do the same.

For as long as our bodies were covered by long velvet curtains, And I was kept under oath to not speak what you said aloud,

Our prayers could continue. ...

Time has passed.

But my devotion has not waned from you, Instead, it’s grown stronger, Angrier.

The flame in my chest flickers, and it hurts.

I realize the promises you had made, Though you intended to fulfill them, Were for yourself. I would’ve enjoyed it because that is what you taught me to enjoy.

My body was not a canvas, but a tool. One you carved open with the steel of my own voice. A blade you molded clay hands of mine around, And now there is a hole that can not be filled by anything other than you. Even still, I love you.

And should you so much as ask me, I will give you a right to my body and mind once more. I will allow you to whisper words into my ears, And cut wishes into my skin.

Should you ask me, I will allow you once more to hurt me. I will allow you to draw blood, And comb through bone.

Should you tell me, I will like it. Like you said back then. Your wishes are still my prayers, And your wants my needs.

“You like control’, you had said, So I’ll let you control me.

“You enjoy pain,” you told me, So I’ll let you inflict as much as you want.

Should your generosity allow it, I’ll let you dig through me.

Even if I no longer recognize this face that watches me in the mirror, I will let you rummage through whatever you have turned me into. Whoever I’ve become.

Should you ask it of me,

I will let you drink this blood of mine you infected through purification, Drink it like a ritual. Savor the taste.

I apologize If I no longer taste of sweet youth and your divinity. I hope I am still good enough to drink.

Should you so much as think of it, I will let you tear through the body you wanted to ravage for so long, I will plead for you to slice through the veins that pump your promises into my skin, And pierce the heart that yearns for you, Who’s final beats will be in your name.

Should you still want more, I will allow you to kill me. To take from an empty vessel that has nothing left to give, And only you to lose.

Take from me like a ritual,

Like it is my purpose. Like you love me.

Tell me how lucky I am, tell me to enjoy it. Tell me what enjoyment is.

Use this body of mine until you tire of it. Make me call out your name, Not in pleasure or pain, But in power. Draw it from my lips like a ritual.

My love for you has always been one, Afternoons painting my face in a floor-length foggy mirror became prayerlike, And your words echoing in my voice became a confession.

I loved you like a ritual,

I worshiped you like a God, You betrayed me like a man.

Magnetism

Abigail Agostin ’25

maybe in florence

Jennifer Cabrera ’26

the restaurant next to my apartment plays jazz so in the morning i put on my mascara to trumpets and saxophones

i stumble over foreign words ordering coffee stirring in too much sugar and sipping on frothy cream at my attempt of a slow morning

i trip over cobblestone on my way to class.

more than once.

i pull out paper to take hand notes

because it makes me feel like i’m in middle school again

where school is exciting and new i learn of kings and ancient art and hand kneading pasta dough and crushing garlic.

i learn of religion and breathing and balance and forgotten texts.

i learn of language and culture and the words of my ancestors.

i learn just for the sake of knowledge.

i walk home past a band of old men playing “bare necessities” and stop myself to listen. i want to stop and listen so much more.

i hang my clothes to dry socks sheets lace stockings

dangle from every surface until the apartment turns into a linen library and smells of lavender laundry

i cook dinner; cutting onions, mixing sizzling spices, breading chicken and slicing bread. i feel so old.

i tape ticket stubs and postcards and scraps of brochures to my wall with my roommate. i want to take care of my space fill the floor to ceiling with everything i love

i fall asleep with the city to drunk students stumbling home singing and the moon melting through the cracked window. you can see the mountains from my room.

to gently undo the knot in my gut and pick at the lump in my throat

till the heaviness has been lifted and the light returns like a flower bud poking from the snow. that something to drag me out of the pit of the past to soothe the unbearable passage of time that keeps me mourning realities i no longer live

to show me that life did not end because i still exist without the people i thought made me.

my head spins with transfer applications and acceptance lettersan uncertain future that snakes around my neck and tightens around hope’s airways. i apply to stay here until i graduate.

maybe an ocean is wide enough to separate me from the grief.

but time here seems to linger, forgiving and gentle like a sweet perfume and maybe little by little, with each jazz note, sugared coffee, cobblestone, pen scribble, foreign word, street song, clothespin, onion slice, postcard, and moonlit sleep, i’ll get it back.

Canal Grande, Venezia

Mary Longueil ’26

San Marcos Basilica, Venezia

Mary Longueil ’26

A Train to I Hope So (Subway Surfing)

Kyle Broner ’24

Blink in and out of sight. Pray for safe passage. A train full of Are we almost there?

A train full of I hope so, but I don’t think so.

If all the love I have to give should get sucked under the wheel, keep the casket open at the funeral.

I want to say goodbye face-to-face to the cruel and gentle Want that dressed my sorrow up in glitter and told me “this is how it’s supposed to hurt.”

A red mist heartache in a dark oak box; a pulp of a dream smeared on white velvet; unrecognizable, and irreconcilable with what the world has in store for me.

I’ll kiss that trouble tenderly and shut the lid forever because nobody should get to close that door but me.

A train of See you in the next life; A train to I hope so, idling at a quiet station somewhere between New Hamburg and Grand Central. A fog settles over the Hudson.

The whole world is one big gray tunnel that never ends. My future is getting off here, and I don’t follow him. We’re not there yet, but I hope we will be someday.

I hope so, I hope so, I so hope so, and as I do so, something familiar thrums in my chest: the blazing thing that died screaming against cold locomotive steel, reborn. Terrified of what’s inside, I swallow down hard, but this beast is empowered by an unyielding, inflammatory hope. Phoenix feelings, fire spilling out of my mouth. I can’t stop it from coming out. Fuzzy, buzzed, blurring boundaries between you and me, a tipsy dragon man spilling every infernal secret I’ve been swallowing down for months.

I hope, and I hope, and I can’t stop. I wish I could, but then, what would be left?

So, it’s never really “goodbye” with me, is it?

Just trains of See you in the next life and I hope so and

Actually maybe we don’t need to wait that long don’t get off at this station come with me

it doesn’t have to be this way please—

The things I don’t say; the places I don’t go; the people I could be (with) if I just let you go.

Eyeballing laptop screens reflected in the windows— “plan your future!” mirrored in the glass, because apparently I’m not the only one who can’t go from point A to B without dwelling on points C, D, and so on.

Still, I’ve learned a lot living in transit.

I’ve learned not to let myself be derailed by sorrow. I’ve learned every stretch of darkness is a tunnel to tomorrow.

I’ve seen when the fog dissipates, the whole wide world does gleam. Maybe someday, I will step off hand-in-hand with a sunbeam.

Car Frozen in Time

Nicole Prycel ’26

Santuario

Alyssa Borelli ’24

I’m not a particularly religious person. I don’t support a lot of the church’s idiotic rules that are based loosely on vague Bible verses. But I still believe in God in desperate times as most conflicted Catholics do. Only at our loneliest do we ask for someone to look out for us.

I was feeling that type of loneliness the last month of my abroad experience in Florence. It was close to Christmas, and the city was decked from head to toe in decorations. Giant, fluorescent white snowflakes hung from buildings, and blue and yellow sparkling lights lined the alleys like stars. As beautiful as the lights were, I longed for real New England snowflakes and the Connecticut hills that reached up to a real sky full of stars. I missed sitting by a fire in my childhood home and the sight of my mom lining every flat surface with an army of Christmas gnomes. My desire for European excitement was wavering, and I ached for the mundaneness of my home. My seasonal depression led me back to God. There are over a hundred churches in Florence, but I went to the only one I knew well: the Duomo. I walked by the massive cathedral on my way home from class, when the freezing December wind kept pushing me towards the entrance.

Alright, alright, God. I thought to myself. I’ll go. It wasn’t the first time I had been inside the Duomo, but it was the first time I saw it without a swarm of tourists gawking at the artwork. I glanced up at the ceiling of angels and devils.

When I was ten, I had cringed at the painting of Satan chomping off the head of some poor soul. The image used to haunt me even after returning to America. Looking at it as an adult, I felt numb to Satan. When you meet devils in person you begin to lose fear over painted ceilings.

I wandered towards the candles lit for fallen loved ones. I lit one in every church for my grandfather, as if the tiny flame would keep him alive. Nearing the candles, I felt their warmth. It felt like I was putting my head on someone’s chest. That’s why they used candles I guess. Love is warm.

I finally sat in one of the hard, wooden pews. I seemed to be the only American attending the six o’clock mass. Most likely because the priest spoke the mass Italian. I was able to follow along, recalling the times I’d been to church when I was young. While everyone else murmured the prayers in Italian, I murmured their English counterpart. Even though I only picked up a few words he said, the priest’s soft tone gave me comfort. The giant marble walls and dome above me gave me a feeling of safety. No one could touch me here, and my hurt could wait outside for an hour. This great historical landmark became my simple sanctuary.

A young man noticed me wipe tears off my cheeks. I tried to ignore him, burying my face in my jacket. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to live in the Duomo and never step outside in the cold again.

I wanted to disappear in the warmth around me.

Spring Ride, on 35 mm

Matthew C. Pater ’25

Romeo Anonymous ’27

Do you think it’s a coincidence that youth and love go hand in hand? Or is it simply naivete and inexperience that breeds that innocent type of love? I know you don’t know the answer, but I ask anyway because I love to hear you talk of love.

I imagine a past with you through the fog of picket fences, parting maple branches and blue painted shutters. Skipping down paved paths across the roots of aging spirits, arm in arm to protect ourselves from falling head over heels. Staring in awe at the maiden snow from the warmth of the library, adorned with bells of holly. Smelling the roses in my neighbors garden, marveling at their beauty despite not knowing their names. There’s still that sweetness of childhood in your eyes, so it’s easy to pretend you were there for mine.

And it’s this sweetness that haunts me; How have you remained so kind after all these Earthly years? How have you escaped the helplessness that grabbed me all those years ago? Your beauty manifests in a way I deemed not possible in the past. Your face holds no darkness, only the sweet pastels the Cliffs at Pourville and other ramblings of Monet. You speak of things with a gossamer tone, so light and gentle, that I wonder how you don’t suffocate under the weight of this life.

Your existence paints my life with rays of gold, piercing

me through the heart with the tragedy of it all. I can never truly love you, for you are as far as the sun hanging above the Earth. Night falls and I lament how parting is such sweet sorrow. I’d chase any candle’s flame to feel a warmth akin to your own.

My agony ends as the crown of your head paints the sky in rosy shades of broken hearts, and a new pain dawns in my mind. You rise and recognize my cracking, porcelain face, but cannot bring it in your heart to love. Because I am a human and you are an angel. Because I am a woman and you are a man. Because we are two who can never exist in love. And I love you, I really do, but I know our shared fate. I know a dagger will be my end if I am so selfish to love you, and even worse. Poison would rip the spirit from your figure, and I could never forgive myself for robbing this world of your light.

So let it die, let this misguided affection burn in the memories of false childhood and warped smiles. I’ll bury my heart beside the riverbed and hope it’s never found. In ten year’s time it’ll sprout a bushel of forget-me-nots, flowers you can pick for when you wed your chosen bride. Flowers stamped with the words of my love, for I was too young and foolish to realize it never could have died.

sheets (III)

Carly Andrew ’24

If I were to kiss you I would drown

Liberty Harmon ’26

I watch you dive, elegance of a seaborn creature, Through night air and into the warmth of the pool. Watch you writhe, quick and lean, through chlorine, Something of pure myth. It is late enough for the cicadas to be out, Magnetic thrumming and full moon rising. Your head emerges and you flick your hair back, Laughing, almost singing, something magic. I trace a droplet sliding down your nose, down your cheek, Understand why sailors would crash their ships. We meet eyes and I draw breath in, quick. Look up and meet the moon, relief, Odysseus touching land again. I remember when you brushed my hair aside, Took my necklace off with ease. And I, neck bare at the guillotine, Breathing deeply, water closing above me. Tug at my leg, back in the pool, Something shifts down by my feet. You, floating, big eyes looking up, Sharp smile and keen glint.

“Come back in, I wanna try something.” Flushed.

“Okay.”

And then we are under the water, bubbling electric blue, And I am watching you, naive, instead of the surface.

Bones and Flesh

Bella Kaloz ’24

They say we just don’t mesh

We’re all just bones and flesh

Cells dividing as we’re colliding

So inviting and hypnotizing

Energies drowning and surrounding

Thick, hot, blood pounding

Grasping, grabbing, gasping

Divine lust and love contrasting

Pour into me and see

Pleasure for an eternity

Until the composed decompose

Reveal, flow, overexpose

Bodies thriving, so refreshed

We’re all just bones and flesh

Bleeding and encasing

Needing and embracing

Do You See Me? Ava Kaloz ’25 Processing Grace M.

Hallinan ’24

Framed Memories Anonymous ’24

“I have to see you graduate after all don’t I?”

That was one of the last things you said to me before you died. I had never known such pain, as death was something I had never experienced before. Something I thought I would never have to experience, but of course that was naive of me. And so you got sick. And I was supposed to go to college for the first time.

“This is the best thing you can do right now,” my mom told me. But how could I focus on such a thing when I didn’t know what was happening, or when the next time I would be able to see you was. If ever again. However, the year went on and things were not getting better. When spring semester came, I kept asking about you everyday, but I never got a definitive answer. You were all the way in Florida after all, it was not like there was a quick drive home I could take to go and see you. Everything was a mystery to me and all I wanted to do was see you or hear your voice again. It was not fair being in the dark. I started to regret the times before when I didn’t prioritize being with you because I was too scared. But if you were to ask me why, I wouldn’t have an answer. So when I finally got over this fear, there was not enough time to be with you. And so I started to get mad. With the world and with myself.

“Can I please talk with Mammy?” I asked my grandmother almost everyday. “No baby, she’s resting right now, maybe later.” Was it already too late? Were they saving me the grief so I could get through school? I couldn’t live with this unknown. And so, for one of the first times in my life I prayed. I am not the religious type, but some nights, sometimes during the day even, I would pray to someone out there to keep you safe. I know it was selfish of me but I needed you to be OK. So, despite the pain and fear, I kept going for you. And continued to pray that you would get better.

The day it actually happened replays in my mind often. When I think about it, the sun seemed to shine just a bit brighter, the wind blew maybe a bit harder. I like to think it was your last chance to say goodbye. When I actually found out, I was doing homework at night with my friend when my mother texted me. And deep down, as soon as I saw her messages, I knew it was something I didn’t want anyone to admit. But my mother insisted she call.

“Mammy passed away last night,” she said.

The aftermath is too painful to write. So now, Mammy, this is for you. I am a senior now about to graduate. You sit on my desk from a time and place where you were young and happy. A framed memory of a different time. And even though you are not here with me. I hope you are proud. I think every time I can’t do it, I go back to what you said over the phone to me three years ago. And although you might not see it you will be right there with me in that picture frame when I walk across the stage. Maybe that too will only become just a framed memory, but for now I like to think about what will be when that time comes. So thank you Mammy, for all the memories.

My Grandfather’s Persimmons

Christina Brown ’27

Sincerely, The Dreamer

Francesca DeRosa ’27

Dear Ignorance Is Bliss,

You were wrong.

To close your eyes when your heart is beating to the rhythm of doubt is undoubtedly the worst thing you could do to yourself.

Why should I betray myself and turn a blind eye to your antics? Why must I be the one who tirelessly tries? What about you? What have you ever done for me? Actions speak louder than words, that is what they say.

The constant wondering.

The scars my fingernails burdened my palms with.

The fear that is not knowing.

The gnashing of my teeth as I look at my phone.

The desire to know the truth.

The tightening of my lips as I hold in the words when you open your mouth.

All of these actions–they certainly tell a story, don’t they?

But no, you want to close my eyes, shut my mouth, and listen to you, and for what? What have you ever brought into my life that wasn’t empty, superficial, half-assed, or resented? I’m not going to pretend I don’t know anymore. I’m not going to lie to myself and say that you are good for me.

The anger and regret that is letting go will be worth it if I do not have to feel this pain anymore–

In fact, Ignorance Is Not Bliss–

Ignorance is everything we try so hard to destroy.

Open your eyes to the truth. See what has yet to be seen. Speak what has yet to be heard. Be the one who does rather than who doesn’t. Take action. Be the action in your own life. That is what I wish to do.

I wish to rise, hold the stars, and be everything you think I cannot be.

I want to learn and know about the hard aspects of life that you, Ignorance, try to hide. How can I move forward in life if you refuse to let me go?

You frustrated me to no end.

You want me to dangle over the cliff of blind naivety with one hand grasping the ledge and the other holding onto you but I will save you. I will not pull you up. You’re

the one who’s holding me down from being all that I’ve dreamed to be. Without you, I can climb the mountains that I’ve always wanted to. Having you in my life has brought me anything but bliss. So I’m letting go and you will fall.

Soon, everyone will realize that it’s better to know what is happening in our world than to hide from it. And sure, sometimes Ignorance Is Bliss but Ignorance is not forever. Ignorance cannot be forever. I am moving forward and I will do great things. So do whatever the hell you want because your words do not affect me. My heart will not break for you anymore.

It’s you, not me. I’m not the problem and I have never been the problem. I simply wanted a love you could not provide, I wanted shelter and you gave me a prison, and that’s the truth.

“The truth hurts.” They say.

“The truth will set you free.” They say.

Yes, it really does.

I hope you find all the happiness that you think you deserve because my eyes are wide open and they are not closing anytime soon.

And in case you haven’t realized...we’re over.

Sincerely,

THEBETRAYED, THEFRUSTRATED, THEBROKENHEARTED, THE DREAMER

God Forbid You Are A Hopeless Romantic

Carol Segura ’27

Do you romanticize your life, honey?

Can I imagine that you might romanticize the way you see life when it goes tragically wrong?

Can I imagine that you might romanticize the color of the world into something vivid and picturesque-like?

Can I imagine that you might romanticize the way the Earth treats you like she lives and breathes the way you do?

Are you a hopeless romantic, honey?

Do you wish for the life of the lovebirds in the movies, with their honey-sweet love and their endless devotion?

Do you wish for a brave knight and a happily ever after?

Do you wish for handwritten love letters, poems, and love songs about your unparalleled view of the world?

Do you have a journal, honey?

Are you one of those girls that spends her day writing away in her room, curled up in bed?

Are you one of those girls who has a journal with all her hidden sorrows locked away in those poor, sadly pages?

Are you one of those girls who lets go of all her emotions in long, doleful paragraphs?

What color is your journal, honey?

Is it weathered by the flood of tears that have drowned every night since you write in it?

Is it torn like your aching heart from feeling unloved year after year of your life? Is it damaged like your relationship with love and it’s irritating taunts, jeers, and name-calling?

Tell me, honey, do you feel loved?

Do you feel like your heart aches to burst into flames from all the love left to give?

Do you feel like no one can love you the way you love the never-ending sky and its bright, lustrous stars?

Do you feel like you aren’t enough to be loved because no one has ever shown you the kind of love you give to the world?

Tell me, honey, do you know I understand you?

Claudia Skretkowicz ’26

Symphony of Color

Even Though I Want To Anonymous ’26

“Do you think you’ll ever forget me?”

He looked to the blue sky and thought of the water. He remembered sinking into the water, expecting that to be all he would know, just blue, and then he felt arms pulling him up, up, up. He remembered looking at her with eyes full of adoration, knowing from that moment on that she would be someone important.

He remembered looking up to her. Physically looking up, for she always seemed to be growing taller and taller as he stayed at a height he was never happy with.

He remembered looking up to her as she seemed to be better than him at everything he ever wanted to do, and she wasn’t afraid to tell him so. He remembered that he lost motivation for so many things he used to love, for those words chipped at passion after passion until they shattered under her cruel words.

He remembered when he would go to her house and watch her face for a minute twitch of a reaction just so he would know how to feel at that minute, at that second.

He remembered the scent of wet leaves around their feet as they played games on the blacktop and hoping she would just laugh, just once. That maybe, if he was lucky, she would smile.

He remembered the shaggy feel of her rug when he was sitting on her living room floor, encouraged to read something aloud that he didn’t want to. He remembered how much she made him regret doing it.

He remembered birthday after birthday going into the filing cabinet in his brain that made him dread the coming of spring, for that day was never meant to go well for him if she didn’t want it to.

He remembered entrusting her with his heart, just to have her look down upon it.

He remembered entrusting her with his heart, just to have her snatch it out of his hands and dig her painted nails into it.

He remembered how after he gives his heart to new people, he can almost feel her behind him. He remembered how cold that makes him feel, for how can he be so trusting and still fear that people will misuse the love and care he cannot help but hand away?

He remembered how after every genuine kind word, he wonders if he’ll see her judgmental eyes in their gaze. He remembered how even if he doesn’t see it, he wonders if he’s just missing it.

He looked back to her and smiled, remembering that that’s all she really wanted to see from him. He can’t remember if he’s allowed to let it falter.

“No. No, I don’t think I will.”

Watter Arrowhead

Kaitlin James ’27

Kubrick

Margaret Batta ’27

Eyes wide shut, prodding in the dark like unconsented hands. Unflinching brow shadowed, like the blood in my lungs as I wrench out a scream piercing as the rusted copper blunders stuck in my calloused soles.

I know behind those irises, blooming and begetting, I will find the mind of a man— perched on the cusp between greatness and ruin. Gold in a way Frost can’t deny. Transcendent in his beauty as the brushes of violets beneath my window, sheltering the spring peepers from the glare of tragic love.

And though he is pretty, forged of the broken shards of a god undone, he remains he. A rococo powderpuff with a guillotine kept dull. Porcelain tarnished with cigarette stains, held as a sinner’s gaze on plaid holy skirts.

With those eyes that burn, that scream, for a name forever heard, forever said, again and again and again.

As if to beg, “Look on my Works, ye Mighty and despair!” As if to dream for a woman made of wool, her beating heart aghast as it is engraved with his name.

Ashes fog my cupid’s bow as I tumble through the ridges of his glare, uncertain in my learnings of how to be a belladonna. Yet undying in my beatings of how to be an actress.

King of kings, may I bow? King of kings, may I stare? King of kings, may I be the sack of untamed flour, the woman you abuse, through unclouded tears and selfish hands? And when my soul puffs through the air as biting fragments of a body past death, will you remember your reflection

strung in the stars overhead as the hunter you are? As the killer I recognize?

Eyelids sheathed in unflinching confidence. A sweat stained silhouette of that man in the dark: drenched in my devotion yet stained with his being: Hands stronger, features darker, words sharper than I could ever dream.

In his pupils, malevolence lies in wait— patient as the monster growing old beneath the bed.

Blood becomes blush as I remember I can see, too: my love, my killer of a man, with his stare.

Like the jagged rocks of a straining shore. And I, his obedient servant: a mange-ridden dog fetching the sticks and stones for its own grave.

Sunday Morning Kiki Wiehe ’26

Picking glitter out of her hair

Staring down the hallway that is the mirror in front of her

Pressing Q-tips to the inner corners of her eyes

With just enough restraint to not watch them sink into her sockets

Catching her metabolized sadness

Absorbing it whole

Then she’ll sit on the window sill

She thinks of when she was driving

An insect hanging on to the edge of the windshield

As the car revs onto the highway

She’ll watch from her peripheral

As it begs to be let in

To be held onto

She floors it

She’ll thinks of this as she sits

Gazing at the world outside her window

As the trees sway, she is

Begging to be let out

To be let in

Untitled Collage

Jennifer Cabrera ’26

How to be a Disco Superstar

Kendall Pastreich ’25

Drink yourself into a stupor

Dive your car into the ice, sink deep. Let the cold swallow your alcohol filled mind.

Stumble your way ‘home’

Lose everything

Gain amnesia

Meet the lieutenant. His hands are behind his back. He looks you up and down. Throw up at the smell of the body, the stench of death. Look into the eyes of the dead man.

Stumble your way ‘home’

Lose everything

Shoot the body down

Find the bullet past the jeers of the local kids

Stick your hand deep, deep into it. Into its mouth, through its skull. Remove the bullet, covered in gore

High five the lieutenant. The kids call you a fag. You laugh it off, completing the Aces High.

Stumble your way ‘home’

Lose everything

Talk with the union

Talk with the company

Sing some karaoke. The smallest church. The song pulses through you. This is your moment. Embrace it.

Play some pinball. Be the pinball master. Embrace it. Become it. Earn crumbs of information

Stumble your way ‘home’

Lose everything

Kneel in a church

Regain memories

Cry at a payphone. Hear her voice. You don’t understand why it’s important. But it is. Punch it. Punch it again. And again. Your hand bleeds. It dribbles with the rain. Trickling down.

Feel your friend’s hand on your shoulder. His grip is firm. He barely whispers to you. An apology.

Sit by the swings

Stumble your way ‘home’ Lose everything.

Shattered Alexa Gallery ’27

goodnight

Kaitlin James ’27

Sunrise

Anonymous ’25

Sitting criss-cross on the cold tile floor, I watch soft light creep in through a crack in the thick beige curtains. Kyra is seated across from me, her shoulder-length brown hair shimmering with purple and green tinsel that glows against her black band tee. We look at each other with manic grins, filled with the kind of delirious exhilaration you can only feel when you haven’t slept in over 20 hours and the sun is already coming up again. To my right, Brady bounces a foam ball repeatedly against the back wall while Fred sleeps soundly a few feet away, his face smushed into a pillow. I feel a heady sensation as my entire body tingles, but it isn’t because of the sleep deprivation—at least, not entirely. There’s something euphoric about staying up well past the time any sane person should be awake. It’s 5:30 AM on our last day of class, but for some reason, I know this tiny freshman dorm room is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I hear the door click open and then slam shut with a resounding thud. Loik strides into the room, his 6’8” frame quickly crossing the short distance. He greets us with fist bumps and high-fives. Loik is one of those people who seems to know everyone, but for some reason he chooses to spend most nights (or mornings) here with us. Fred lets out a loud snore, and we all laugh. I look around at my friends, an idea springing to my mind.

“We should go watch the sunrise!” I exclaim. Kyra, always the first to go along with any wild idea, nods enthusiastically. With only a little encouragement, Brady and Loik agree to join us. I march toward the door, but Brady’s voice stops me.

“Aren’t you going to be cold?” I look down at my Grand Canyon t-shirt and black sweatpants. It’s early May, but the Poughkeepsie weather has yet to hit temperatures above 60 degrees. Without another word, he disappears into the closet and reappears with a gray zip-up. He holds it out to me, and I stare up at him. His

warm brown eyes remind me of melted chocolate. I blush and tug on the sweatshirt gratefully. It’s far too large, but it’s warm and smells pleasantly of cologne.

As we step out of the dorm, the cool morning air feels good against my flushed cheeks. The sky is the soft pink of cotton candy, filling the morning with an otherworldly aura. Kyra and I hurry around the side of the building, Brady and Loik trailing slightly behind. As we round the corner, I can see the sun beginning to peak above the horizon. The sliver of golden light glows brightly, and I blink in surprise. Pinks, oranges, and yellows begin to emerge, as if a tub of rainbow sherbet has been spilled across the sky. I stare up in wonder. In the light of the new day, I feel the promise of endless possibilities.

On either side of me, my friends are equally entranced by the sky’s awakening. We stand in silence, but none of us feels the need to fill it. The quiet wraps around me like a blanket, and I’m overwhelmed with a rush of gratitude for my friend Lilly, Kyra’s roommate. The day she brought me along to Fred and Brady’s room three weeks ago, she unknowingly altered the course of my college experience. Though I’m a late addition to the group, they make me feel like I’ve been there all along. My happiness glows inside of me, as if the sunlight before me is now coursing through my veins. I let out a giggle, and Kyra turns to give me an impish grin.

“Let’s go for a walk!” she suggests, and I nod eagerly. We link arms and skip forward, following the trail of gray concrete sidewalk as if it’s a yellow brick road leading us to a magical city. The campus is unusually quiet at this hour; everyone who has been cramming for finals is still fast asleep. The birds begin to chirp in cheerful bursts, and despite the slight throbbing in my head from my lack of sleep, I am intoxicated with joy.

The four of us circle back toward a small hill across from the dorm building. Filing into a line, we begin to scale the hill. I wobble slightly as I climb; months of constant use have worn the soles of my dirty white sneakers smooth. As the top of the hill grows narrow, I put one foot in front of the other and hold out my arms as if I’m walking on a tightrope. Once we cross the top and venture down the other side, I turn to face the hill we’ve just climbed. It looks taller from this angle.

Brady ambles into a patch of tiny purple flowers growing on the side of the hill. He bends down to pick one up, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe it’s for me. Thoughts of late-night conversations and teasing remarks circle my mind, but my head is too foggy to think properly. I wander away from my friends and back toward the sidewalk.

“What’s she staring at?” I’m vaguely aware that my friends have followed and are now hovering just a few feet behind me, but I’m too distracted to pay them much mind. I stand in front of a small tree. I’ve passed this tree dozens of times on my walk to class, but I’ve never noticed the knothole in it until today. A rational thought tugs at the back of my mind, questioning why on earth I am staring so intensely at a tree, but I ignore it. I turn around to look at my three friends and grin widely at them, my hands tucked in the pockets of the too-large gray zip-up.

“Oh god, she’s lost it. We need to get her to bed,” Brady says. He’s shaking his head, but I see a soft smile on his face. I find myself hoping the warmth in his eyes is real and not a figment of my sleep-deprived imagination. Kyra and Loik look at me with amusement written across their faces. Even in my delirium, I can tell they’re slightly concerned about me, but there’s no judgment in their eyes. They like me exactly as I am, even the incoherent version that only emerges when I’ve reached the point of near collapse.

New friends, silly stories, loopy laughter. The giddiness of a new crush. Every joke funnier than it should be in our wild haze of exhaustion. Saying things we would have never dared to say. Imagining futures we’d only dreamed of. High on all the possibilities. Drunk on life.

Home Emma Denihan ’24

The Muse

Margaret Batta ’27

Brooches perched expectantly in eyes, housed in those with blind intelligence of the solemn Earth. Ever-present planet; breathing, moaning in color. Yet silent in its blearing sensuality.

Born a fossil, cursed with charm, I shall die a chiseled gem. bound to serve beauty until Midas melts from all that are holy, and I am set free from such shackles of pleasure.

I lay; unmoving, unfeeling, shattered on the hardwood floor. My hands, so gossamer and chaste, have been dirtied in my foolishness. Stained with the ink and ashes of unread love letters and smoldering thoughts.

Ides of March comes and goes, and I remain, vestal above all.

Breathing in toxins, the pungent pollen of being, of which my lungs remain dumb.

I choke on the absence and ignorance, and I beg. I beg and beg and beg. Sun, ever-warm and holy, scorns from the stars; set in her life-giving ways of company in flesh.

“Who would refuse the pleasure of being and breathing and living on, immortal and unalone?”

In her golden wisdom, she fails to see I was born dead. Not of mind, but of body.

My lover is cursed to love a worm, parasitic in nature and mind, masquerading as a woman. I pose, slouched, as a Young Woman in White; guilty of all I cannot provide, tired of the words that forge my liberation.

I could ask: would you love me? If I were the raucous winds, born of the sea and the dead. crooning through the trees, gliding through your fingers, yet never touched? Never had?

I say: Barnett Newman died in 1970, of a common cold of the heart. He can rest easy in his coffin, comforted by the roller markers of chipping house paint, unawake to witness a desperate cry for help, for repair.

Slice me open now. Now that I can be broken. Now that I understand: the tragedy that is my body; the restlessness in my soul; and the absurdity of this thing, this performance of love.

Fifty feet of blood, leading to an abstract of what I used to be: Unmixed and unmingled. Organized, prudish, belligerent and all over you. Absent, yet suffocating

with my words and breath and being.

You’re not a violent man, But who’s afraid of red, yellow, and blue? When it consumes their heart, gorging on corneas of the cloudy and damned. Moaning in color. Yet silent in its blearing existence.

Erin Donnelly ’26

Drawing of Animal Skull

Attack Anonymous ’27

Playing Russian roulette with an empty revolver

The light of the sun makes my fears feel like vows

To quell such a bane has cost more than these dollars

You’re children of God, so you all will judge now

My eyes are myopically fixed on today

And what every cue possibly could connote

Tons won’t carry a candle to how much it weighs

It’s compressed to my chest, and it’s choking my throat

Exhaustion; my personage, it aches to uphold

I can feel the detachment of all of my bones

Depletion; my skin, it begins to itch

I can feel all my joints as they knot and they twist

Agitation; my body, it’s been set aflame

I see no solace, I feel such shame

Agitation; my vision, it’s redder than blood

The world is not here, it is me and the flood

When my claws of sacrilege break through my skin

And my fangs have left venomous rings of rage

Then I’ll lap what I’ve spilled and renew all my sin

And I’ll scratch off and make up my outdated face

A Sestina For Asteroid 2001, FO32

Gabby Ganoe ’26

You are hurtling through life, too fast for anyone to chase you. What put you in motion, flicked you from your bird perch in space, sending you closer than anything has been before? Where is your home meant to be? And why are you trying so quickly to outrun it? This is not where you should land. With vision clouded by embers encircling you like stars, and gravity tight against your chest, it can’t have been easy to chart the sky.

Like a toe line through dirt, I imagine you dug yourself in traces across the sky. I am hoping someone waved to you; that they remembered to look for you in the night, search you out amongst the stars, see you spinning in cosmic dust and years-old light, holding yourself close together because you’re afraid one day you’ll let go; accidentally or not. I let go; of myself, of everything keeping me tethered. Rather, I am still letting go, I have been for too long now. And I don’t think I realize how hard it will be to pull myself together again, to find the pieces of me scattered across the sky, petals of my soul that I set to flight like butterflies because I could not bear to give them away. Where do you hide all the parts you have shed? Or, maybe you hold them close? Hoping they melt back into your body like darkness sinking behind stars?

I have lost the ability to connect the dots of myself, to create constellations out of the stars of my skin; I am in a constant state of un-becoming. No part of me feels like it’s anywhere close to the end of my fingertips, like when I was little and would try to touch the sky. I can’t bring myself to reach further. Not even for you. There’s a limit to how far a car can drive when there’s not

anything in the tank. When did you realize there was notthing left of you? That everything you clung to slipped away to the stars, was burned away in your orbit, only the feeling of emptiness on fire to remind you they were even there at all. When will I realize? When will there be nothing else to let go of? Sometimes I avoid looking at the sky so I’m not reminded of distance. Of how something can be so far, but look so close.

I know this is not the art of changing. This is playing with matches too close to home, this is my whirlwind descent to Earth with no clue where I will land.

This is me crashing a hole in the sky. And I’m hoping I can shatter it to pieces, like little stars of the infinite. I hope I can find what I’m meant to be in the celestial rubble left by you.

Tonight, I looked deep into the sky, wishing I could stretch out my hand and hold it close. A part of me wants to think I am like you, but I know I am not. Because despite everything, you did not hit us, and I am still on my starry-eyed collision course,

my skin alight with flames and the parts

Snowfall

Bella Loiacono ’27

Most Likely To Juliann Bianco ’ 25

Most likely to get married first

The mounds of paperwork haven’t been moved in over a week. No matter how many times she goes back, there’s always one signature missing, one form of ID not on her, some officer who’s out sick.

It started well, for the most part. He came on a little strong, which she supposes should have been a sign. He was always proud of the fact that he asked her out four times before she finally said yes, only because it seemed easier. He was proud that he wore her down, annoyed her into going to the movies with him, teased her into going to Lake George with his parents, pushed her into going to the prom with him, threatened her into moving in with him, sweet-talked her into staying with him after he came home with lipstick on his collar, and battered her into staying with him when the sweet-talking no longer worked.

She is Persephone.

She is a love story and a hostage situation, depending on who you ask. All who knew her then said the same thing, she was beautiful, sweet, dumb, naive, beautiful. Half of her peers shake their heads and feel sorry for her, and say that they knew all along what was bound to happen. That they could see it in his eyes, that he’d drag her down, and in hers, since she was too busy always looking at the flowers. The other half cover their mouths in shock, and say no, it can’t be true, they were always going to end up together! They used her relationship at seventeen as a beacon of hope, a sign that they’d find love too. They needed an example of someone who had worked out, to prove it was possible, to prove that they could do it too. We were all seventeen, we hadn’t seen any love besides our parents, and who wants to be like them at that age? We knew absolutely everything, even how to choose a husband. How could she have known not to? Who discouraged her? Who taught her what it should have looked like?

She only wished now that restraining orders were easier to get. Most likely to be president

There are several colorful sharpies lying in the garbage can, quickly replaced in their pretty jar on the desk by new ones. They are replaced often, but she never runs out before she has a backup. She would never do anything without a plan, and no one would ever do any-

thing without her. She is writing in her calendar, like she always is.

It’s been a joke since we were in middle school. You would never catch her dead without that thing. She plans not just for her own life, but for her four siblings, her dozen friends, her countless acquintances, and her parents. They joke about what they would do without her, although everyone knows that she is too kind, too inexhaustible to ever let them find out the answer. Nothing. They would do nothing without her.

She has her little brother’s baseball practice times outlined in orange. She reminds her mother to pick him up at four.

She has her little sister’s dance competition highlighted in green. She reminds her father to buy more hairspray on his way home.

She walks to her own debate practices without any reminders.

She was born to be the extra parent. She was born to get everyone’s lives together for them, even when they don’t ask for it. As a little girl, she was organized, gentle, and nurturing. She cleaned up her toys at playtime, and her friends’ as well, if they couldn’t get it together in time to avoid being scolded by the teacher. She finished her classwork quickly so that she could offer guidance to the others before it was due. The teachers always said her reading level was three years ahead. They would congratulate her briefly, and then teach their other students, since she obviously didn’t need it. It made sense to her. It was the same way at home - she was good enough that her parents didn’t have to parent her. She let them save their energy for the children that needed it. By the time she was ten, she was babysitting regularly. Parents around town had her watch children barely a year younger than her. She acted with enough maturity that people forgot her age. The town once again joked about what they would do without her. Nothing. They would do nothing. She helped them when she had the time, and eventually, she helped them even when she didn’t. She grew to have excellent time management, everyone said.

When it came time to plan the prom, graduation, and everything that came with it, everyone glanced at her sideways. She looked straight ahead, she always knew it would be her job. She has had a twitch in her eye since third grade. She begins writing down dates, times, payments to collect, paperwork to drop off. Her sharpie is nearly out of ink again.

She is Athena.

She was born fully armored, ready to take on the world. She knew that she would never need nurturing, need teaching, need caring for. She was born busy. Her gray eyes never show annoyance. She accepts every responsibility quietly, and tackles it quickly. Her parents didn’t bother filling out the financial aid forms for her college applications. They knew she would have it covered already. She did.

No one worried about her future. It would be wildly successful without any interven-

tion, they all said. She may as well have been principal of their high school, for all she did for them. Yes, she would do just fine. As she graduated, teachers would half-jokingly ask her to stay for one more year. She was just such a useful student. The prom turned out well with her planning. A few of the girls forgot to give her the money to pay for the catering service. She never reminded them. She packs her own bags for college. There are no tears as she sets up her dorm. She was always going to do it alone. Her parents smile and take pictures of her, diligently caring for herself as always. She sets up her own mattress, and her roommate’s too. When weekends come, her friends ask her what they will do to entertain themselves. She responds with a fully-fleshed out plan, some new movie to see, a mall to visit, a hike to go on. If they complain, she modifies the plan. Everyone always ends up happy if she is left in charge. She doesn’t give a second thought about planning their spring break for them. Who else would do it? Her parents call her often now that she has moved out, asking what they should get for her younger siblings’ birthday gifts. She’s been wrapping them so long, they’ve forgotten how to. She answers quickly, always knowing. If she worries that they can’t figure it out, she goes home for a weekend and sorts out her house. When she comes back to the dorms, her friends lament how boring their weekends were without her. Everyone knows what they would do without her. Nothing. They would do nothing without her.

Untitled Lucy Baldino ’25

Long Lost Self

Georgia Pendas ’27

Saint James the Less

August Boland ’ 24

“Less” or “Lesser” or “Younger”

He is called.

James the Minor, James, the Son of Alphaeus. No one ever remembers That he is also James, the Brother of Jesus

Αδελφοί. Adelphoí. Same-born. Cousin.

James grew up with God And went to God’s birthday parties And played games with God And died for God by being stoned.

Does James ever get jealous?

Jealous for

Being the cousin of the literal God Who knew him and followed him

All his life

But only remembered as James The Less?

No. James is a Saint And Saints feel no jealousy or envy or Evil desires. They are in heaven And James is with his cousin.

On Christmas Day in Heaven Do James and Joses

And Judas Thaddeus

And Simon and the women

Whom Mark and Matthew do not name— Do they celebrate their cousin’s birthday? Will they, this year, celebrate 2,028 years?

Perhaps it matters not that he is Less

Or that Judas shares his name with his God’s, his cousin’s Betrayer, or that the women’s names are lost to history For they are in heaven, with their cousin, their God, their friend.

Pegasus Ava McCann ’25

Necropolis

Francesca DeRosa ’ 27

I thought you were an angel

Until you dragged me down Into the smoke of the night

To the city of the dead

And I lost myself in the thought of you

Phantoms in an eternal rest

Held hands high in surrender

Mouths drawn weary with words no one will remember

Destined for undying sleep

I reach for the sun and the you grin, my sins will never be undone

You drag me down into the pitch darkness of the night

To sink so low when they think you’re resting in the sky

My hands smooth the damp dirt that shrouds what remains

Regretful hearts beat

My life complete

“Take me back home”

“I wish to see their faces”

“Take me to see my beloved.”

“I miss them so.”

“Does anybody truly know how hard it is to say goodbye?”

The city of stars blinks but no one blinks back

I thought you were an angel

But now I see

Devil in disguise, oh how you ruined me

For I am too far gone to be saved

For this is Necropolis

For this is where they rest

For better or for worse

No matter what they say

We are all simply phantoms

Who rot away.

Cloud Study

Eva Bonanno ’26

If Patience is a Virtue, by God,

All Of Us Are Saints

Kyle Broner ’ 24

I broke my promise to Halley’s Comet, because Time asked me to dance with her again. I’m so damn high on getting used to it. I’ll ride this out till the beginning meets the end.

I used to think folding the year over like paper and skipping from one end to the other would spare me the pain of another sad Summer. But recently I’ve realized, it isn’t the seasons that make a man cry. At least, not in a vacuum.

So what(!) if maybe when it’s over I’ll be left shaking on the dance floor, alone, my body wracked with a hollowed out hope, abandoned by Time, duped and doped. At least I’ll be shaking with music to play out the night. That’s what the dance floor was made for, right?

I’ve spent my whole life living in this limbo space halfway between who I was and who I wanted to be. But recently I’ve realized that’s just the nature of being alive, so what’s really the purpose of fighting back?

I am not a victim of circumstance; I embrace its chaos in my veins.

I’m tired of crying about things that are out of my hands. I’ll gladly take Time up on that dance, even if She’ll leave me shaking.

That’s what the dance floor was made for.

I’ll walk a burning tightrope to the end. I’ll stick my head in the shifting sands and wait out the end. I’ll go outside on a beautiful day even though I know it’ll soon go away, because everything has to end, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it there. I will bask in the Summer air and breathe something sweeter than smoke, just to watch it slip away for me to do it all again.

If Time should try and steal a kiss at the end of the night, I’ll urge her lips aside, and kindly whisper a boundary into the air between us:

“I’m sorry, I don’t love like that, honey. It’s not in my DNA.

I enjoyed our dance; I’d gladly do it again, but I just don’t love that way.”

I will leave Her hanging. She will leave me shaking. We’ll make it to the end, and we’ll do it all again.

Halley’s Comet should know best some cycles are worth repeating. The duality of dark and light, always pushing and receding.

The day will come. The day will go, wrapped in chains, and dragged below. Tomorrow feels so far away, so let’s live for ourselves today. Though some nights seem to never end, the day will always come again.

Window Portrait

Jennifer Cabrera ’26

Clerihew Collection

August Boland ’24

e.e. cummings had several shortcomings for before he became commonplace he wrote poems with uppercase

Adrienne Rich Spat in the face of Gingrich. She did much better than your teen: She was first published at fourteen.

Maya Angelou Shook up the status quo. The reason her poems vary? While writing, she drank sherry.

Anne Carson

Was no small-town parson. Before in poetry she got her start She worked in the world of graphic art

Lin-Manuel Miranda Writes famed American propaganda, And though now one of the high ranked musicians— Once wrote campaign jingles for politicians.

The author of this poem: Good rhymes he’s stolen.

Though you may think he writes them authentically He uses RhymeZone energetically.

ID

Sarah Gurskis ’26

“Do you ever just have an identity crisis as to whether or not you’re Asian?” “Kinda.”

A glimpse into a mirror is all I can manage. Reflecting into a reflection causes my mind to shatter–is that considered bad luck?

I would say that I’ve had a major stroke of luck. Girls like me were abandoned by those who were supposed to be considered our blood–not just our blood, our lifeline.

My life line was cut, but not my will. The memory of the orphanage lies in yellowing pictures, with rows of cots and wooden boards blanketed with once-vibrant colors and patterns, weathered by the photo’s dust.

Saying that I remember anything would be a lie, but the lingering feeling of identity has been a hole in my heart. The wooden boards in my heart are blanketed by the American culture around me. But sometimes, in the dead of night as I tuck my arms under the sheets, my hands reach out and brush the shelter just enough to show the rotting of those boards and the rusting of the cot. My eyes flutter shut, and the blanket collapses back into place.

I scramble for the nails to fix the aging cot, polish to smooth the boards, but nothing fits. The literature of Asian immigrants that I’ve consumed was like fitting a rectangle into a square, and media depicting Asians in a western culture felt two sizes too big. The only person that fits the square is my cousin.

Her blanket is laced with pandas, peregrine falcons, and cats. The animals surround the motherland with bleeding hearts, orchids, and chrysanthemums weaving in and out of the soft fabric. It’s tattered as well, with a few more threads than mine holding a beautiful design intact. I look in awe, its designs so personalized and maintained. Then I look at mine; red and dusty, with frayed edges that flutter at the slightest nudge.

We lay on these blankets like we imagine we had in that aging photograph, staring at the endless sky, stagnant.

“Who am I?”

I was nobody. My mother of nature made me nobody. No purpose. No connection.

No name.

The rosebed had thorns that the blanket shielded me from. I sit up, ignoring the pricks on my back as I keep my head to the sky, gratefully gasping for air as I reach for anything from home.

Something touches my palm, grabbing me by the hand as I get to my feet. My mother, my father. My real mother and father. They take the blanket from my shoulder, and pull me into a hug.

Saluti

Christina Brown ’27

and

even less now

Ryann Anderson ’26

and when You plunge Your thumb into my mouth, are You fishing for the fountain of youth? beyond Your surgical scars and powdered nose, i smell the stench of desire a desire born of Your nostalgia, fractured through the kaleidoscope of my touch.

“I knew nothing at your age”, silencing my smile, Your gaze financing the commodity of age - an ever depreciating asset. You think me tragic as you devour me, pity me through the ravage. but, when you look into My eyes and find your long extinguished light, the blue of My iris peering into the supernovas of your past, do you feel uneasy as your seconds seep out of you? is your will brittle? does your future ring out in monotony? tell Me. are you finally full? or did I leave you empty?

I’ll always remember you M. Wood ’25

Waking Up From a Midday Nap Hannah Gnibus ’24

The Rosary in my Hotel Room

Kendall Pastreich ’25

If you asked me why I bought it

The rosary in my hotel room I would shrug

I wouldn’t have an answer; I couldn’t tell you why it’s there

The rosary in my hotel room

Besides the fact that I spent 9 euro

It sits in its plastic casing

The rosary in my hotel room waiting for sacrilegious hands to hold it

It remains in my mind

The rosary in my hotel room haunting, dancing in the back of my thoughts

I was both called to and shunned from it

The rosary in my hotel room

Called to be part of something bigger, discarded when I wasn’t in their image

Unable to move it from its resting place upon my bed

The rosary in my hotel room

I’m cast aside, sparing glances in hopes I’ll understand

Maybe I do know why I bought it

The rosary in my hotel room

A sense of self, longing to tie the knot on this part of my life

It sits next to me

The rosary in my room

Accepted, opened, and welcomed

Subdued

Bella Loiacono ’27

Goodnight Denny’s

Isabella Libreros ’24

In a booth at Goodnight Denny’s, she sits, Neon lights flicker, casting shadows, bit by bit. Drunk Jenga, Moscow mule in hand, she takes a sip, As conversations buzz and laughter flips. Her friends paired up, cozy and tight, But for her, loneliness is the one embracing her light. The Moscow mule, a coppery embrace, Kicking in, taking her to a distant space. She scans the room, searching for a trace, Of someone who might fill the empty space. Neon lights dance, painting her in hues, As she overhears laughter, romantic cues. Clinking glasses, a symphony of boos, But in her heart, solitude ensues. The night continues to unfold, and it hits her.

She realizes she’s a solitary clan. No hand to hold, no part of a man, Just the Moscow mule and a cold hollow next to her.

The conversations echo in her mind, Love stories and fake scenarios of every kind of people and moments, she craves to find. But they’re an illusion. Not real.

Her world consists of a solo script she desperately wants to rip.

Mockingjay Erin Donnelly ’26

Sometimes Blue Ashley Laub ’27

how to apologize to the Earth

Emersen Tolman ’27

take your shoes off. this is sacred ground. listen with your feet to the ancient song. feel how it echoes through your body. swallow your pride, bitter as it is. words are not an apology. only your body can say this. press your hand to the red clay. feel the pulse. let the lake muddy your hair. nod to the blue heron, the willow tree. press your hand to the cool earth. nourish the seedlings. you can’t grow a garden with clean hands. as much as this shivers your spine, remember that the spiders were here first. they crawled along the wooded floor long before you crawled on the wooden floor. breathe in the sounds of the river: seagulls chattering, trees whispering, water drumming on the rocks. press your hand to the wet shore. the sand has a story to tell. it survived millennia of tumbling through the water before you were ever born. the river was here first. take your shoes off. the water’s cold, but stay present. listen. before you speak, try singing along. you’ve forgotten this song, but the Earth has not.

for our hummingbird garden

Kaitlin James ’27

A Mother’s Child

Cira Shaw ’26

Sometimes I long to kiss her cheek, to grasp Mother Nature’s hand and to let her breathe. For her breath shakes the trees and silences the sod. Her breath soothes the sun that simmers slickly on my skin. I do not believe in a god but I do believe in a mother, to have nursed this world from her breasts. Her femininity flourishes in the freely flowing grass that tickles my legs as I dance to her lazed lullabies. The blue jay’s blissful blues and the cricket’s chattering cries crystalize the harmonies of her song. Tenderness was first taught in the softness of her dawn and the kisses in her clouds. My mother strokes my hair the same way an oak shadows, faintly fated. In her poppies and petunias, in her daisies and dahlias, I see her. I see my mother. I see myself. And I succumb, leaving my print in the field, I am her creation,

the ground swallows me, she is embracing me. I succumb, with a crown of ivy tucked in my hair, to all that I am, and all that I will be, and all that I will be able to shower in love, the way she showers me in rain, in a world where she has made everything.

the only thing I like about hiking M. Wood ’25

My Soul’s Bloom

Yahenia Ortiz-Benitez ’ 27

At the tail of the cottage rested an empty pond

Not a single soul floated near

Throwing pebbles into the body of water

My only companion had been solitary

I could only hope it would leave me soon

Spring and Summer came

But still no existence at hand

With each pebble I threw

A wish to never be alone made its way

Fall and Winter

Nothing new

Seasons changed

And loneliness hugged me closer

Then the birds sung and warmth wrapped around the cottage

My longing had come true

In the pond laid

Lilies and Crataegus

Gladiolus and Poppy

My heart grew kind and i kissed the earth

For giving me back the gift of liveliness

Dedicated to my May Mother and My August Sisters

Tricks of the Ear

Cira Shaw ’26

i hear a cawing within the waves within the humming static, parting the sand where it gave

i wonder if it’s in the attic waiting for someone to find, if warm breath makes it panic

i feel sure its eyes are light and kind so why do the moons cower, when they too hear its haunting chime

in quiet secrets of the hour i pinch tight where i sense it, but lose before i can scour

the way a yell echoes in a pit my temples swallow its cry, is this my own deficit

perhaps give my breath a brush to try to capture it in strokes, the way its long wings soar by

but what is it i still plead and croak what silent waltz do i hear, as if the world is bespoke

nothing everything something it leers my throat rumbles to call out it may be the world or just my ears.

Dimensional

Ava Kaloz ’25

W E I R D

Ava Kaloz ’25

Skinny High-Waisted Denim Jeans

Ashley Laub ’ 27

boyfriend jeans. mom jeans. Flare cut. jeggings. straight cut. wide-legged. Skinny. all different jeans for all different types. so one day i could look in the mirror and like what i see. all jeans are made equal, and yet one is more equal than the others. Skinny jeans were never my favorite and yet they filled my drawers to an alarming amount as if the quantity of Skinny could negate the quantity of pounds.

Denim. sky. baby. navy. all different colors and all between in an attempt to compliment all of the different colors of people i see. the colors collected to create a gradient of a beautiful cast but when i look there is predominantly one color of blue jean a Denim to contrast the sameness that has forced itself into me and everyone i see.

and I think if we all see color so differently That my denim looks different from yours yet we still tried to look the same. mid-rise, High-rise, low-rise. a question of how much you want to cover and how much you want to hide. the fabric wraps to your body in an attempt to conceal the words you want to say but can’t the only variable that changes, some are more afraid and some aren’t i see jeans from pubic bone to waist line. and mine of course, all wrap at the top of my stomach odd how on paper my hand writes fluid yet in life my tongue is silent. since the only constant is change as my body fluctuates my Skinny High-Waisted Denim Jeans try to cover up the art my body is trying to paint. sizes range

from 12 to 20 to 14 to 18 so sick of the paradox my selection of un-fit Skinny jeans had assigned me i put on Sky Blue Mid-Rise Wide-Leg Jeans I look in the mirror and finally I like what I see. odd how once I accepted my body my clothes changed to compliment my new self-esteem.

wide leg, mom jean, flare jean, straight jean and more the jeans fill my drawers each one for a different feeling to convey the parts of me I had begun to adore. at the bottom of the drawer, is a pair of skinny high-waisted denim jeans well worn-in but no longer worn in this case, more is never less.

sheets (II) Carly Andrew ’24

boys will be boys

Liliana Rosa ’27

i should’ve been more prepared! wearing black shorts on fourth of july? where’s the fun? the only fun there are the buttons! no, scratch that!

i should’ve been more prepared! what weird button placement, on the sides... they should’ve been placed on the front! no, scratch that!

i should’ve been more prepared! instead of shorts, i could’ve worn my sweatpants, the comfortable black ones, with the really long strings! no, scratch that!

i should’ve been more prepared! gluing my clothing down altogether would keep away prying fingers! no, scratch that. there’s a three word exception no amount of preparation could prevent. boys will be boys

Eve Cira Shaw ‘26

when eve first bit the apple how quick the world was to turn to point fingers at her selfishness and build a stake for her to burn.

so now i run fingers through my hair and jump to check my phone god forbid a single speck is out of place god forbid i am not a stranger’s clone.

i read strictly esteemed books the world watches me turn pages i’ll nurse paper cuts through cheer until released from these cages.

i daydream about that day when eve partook in that fruit the day we continue to live and continue to lose.

i wonder if maybe the suds didn’t burn her tongue but instead what if they began to strum out a song. and maybe that melody beheld the secrets of the world how it’s impossible to win because we’ll always be girls.

disorderED Vanessa Hasbrouck ’25

The Red Ribbon

Abigail Roughgarden ‘25

The red ribbon is tied around my neck, choking me and holding me hostage, I’ve tried many times to cut it off, I used scissors, I used pliers, I used my mother’s sharp kitchen knife, though I cut myself instead of the ribbon.

The red ribbon hunts my nights. It creeps into my dreams, to show me my most desired fantasy. I awake every morning wishing it was real, but the ribbon stains my neck red with lies.

The red ribbon holds me underwater, until the water fills my lungs, and I’m gasping for breath. The air is escaping my body now, faster than I can catch it. I’m suffocating.

The red ribbon, I tied it on myself, all those years ago, when it promised me a Garden of Eden. The ribbon tricked me, it whispered to me about eternal life. Temping me to tie it tighter, with each knot tighter than the last.

The red ribbon mocks me, and laughs at my sorrows. It thinks it’s funny when I cry after the lights go out. I want to search for something greater, But the ribbon knows I won’t ever find it. The red ribbon likes that I’m alone, it wants me all to itself.

The red ribbon, I want it gone. But I have a feeling it’s here to stay. One day I will cut it off, but that is not today.

Solace Jillian Blaszko ’26

A Waltz With Death

Brianna Valerio ‘27

I step inside the ballroom, donning a ball gown and Cinderella heels.

The Reaper walks in, scanning the floor until his eyes fall on me.

He approaches and asks, “Care to slip away?” I agree. We maunder to the floor and gracefully shuffle as I inquire him about our ideals.

His fingers graze my wrists, asking how it feels.

My breath hitched. My eyes widened. Is this the burden we carry?

Violins saunter as The Repear slides a hand behind my neck, my throat wary.

Fortissimo! Presto! I lose my footing, stumbling with a hand on his chest cavity. What an ordeal!

The trumpets bellow as I apologize.

His pace softened, his gaze romantic, his eyes persuading. “Do not worry now.”

The crowd bore holes, a heavy feeling. My eyes about to capsize.

His movement envelops me as we sway, my dress swindling as my curls fall around.

He brushed the strands off my temple, settling them behind my ear at the moonrise.

“You shall feel no pain with me, darling,” he whispers as I take the final bow.

Selene Emma Skolozdra ‘27

the moon is my matriarch, the loveliest maternal muse in the universe. her aura tames the tides as it eases my mind. the soft glow of her reflection reflecting in mine. every feminine entity, she nurtures. she is always with us, tells each of our stories. In tune with her cycle, we are mighty, alike, like her.

each time I look up at the night sky, she shines. I know she shines for each of us, but I swear her light looks out for me, her silvery tone kisses my forehead & lets me know I will be okay.

& in my dark, in my night she is my armor. silver, shining, unbreakable.

Apple Orchard

Emma Stuber ’26

The Glass Palace, Madrid

Mary Longueil ’26

Steampunk

Kendall Pastreich ’25

Steampunk (noun)1

(stēm-,paŋk)

Science fiction dealing with 19th-century societies dominated by historical or imagined steam-powered technology2

Examples of steampunk in Sentences

Some would say she loves steampunk, with all the gears she puts on everything.

Abney Park is a very famous steampunk band, having been active for over twenty years!

This fictional world has a very steampunk setting, inspired by the Victorian Era and its way of dress and life.

The band playing tonight was a genre mash-up of steampunk and metal.3 There is a steampunk convention this weekend. I heard many artists will be going.

1 Steamworld Heist is your first introduction to the genre. Robot pirates fighting their way through space. You hear the synthesizer and the guitar as the main theme plays. You gaze upon the main character, discovering identity. The game escapes your mind, and life continues on.

2 Steam-powered technology. The words echo in your mind, repeating on loop. You search the word Steampunk several times every day. The people in their Victorian-era garb, their eyes never leave you. Their goggles are decorated with spikes and magnifying glasses. Corsets and metal arms, belts holding glass vials and tools. Your heart pounds—you continue searching through the images. Petticoats and suit jackets, gears and clocks. You aspire to be like them, dressed in vintage fashion, top hats with cream blouses and black breeches.

3 Music. Gruff voices singing about kerosene. The instruments clash. Gears grind. Engines whirr. Hear them scream, hear them sing. Be transported onto the pirate ship they sing about, be transported to the factory, to the harsh historical life. Search for other artists. See the performance act of people pretending to be machines, and feel seen. Discover more. Soft piano music. Embrace your malfunctions, be wired wrong. Love yourself for being this way.

Room by room

I sit among the timeless noise

Four Walls and No Clock

Gabriella Amleto ’ 24

Disjointed and tangled it knots instead of ravels and furls

tripping over its own feet with paws bigger than can be handled unsteady and slow it unbalances tipping this teetering that less of time and more of —less

As within white walls where time stumbles and falls but slowly drifts People whom have no convergence

but become each other’s crossroads sit

Stuck in graying time —lessness Withering among the vine and expanding roots

The Time-Less grows and shrinks as ideas lengthen and extend en masse

Until Time is grasped by the scruff by Naturalness and slowly dragged away (leaving gourges in our wake)

So everything can run forward on

Ice Breaker

Korey Weiss ’24

Goodbye English Department

Gabriella Amleto ’ 24

Wrenched from comfort

By Time’s force

A Soul can only make pre-emptive goodbyes

To know things will pass beyond but never return to was Shoved at a crossroads

To pick a new wayward path

Some merely wish to sit among tile and marble with identical hollows minds are formed and trained with literature and energetic contemplation accompanied by strange snippets of conversation

And perhaps beg of powers above For it all to last a little longer

Before such wondrous places Can only be reclaimed in disjointed dreams

one month in your 20s

Kat Bilbija ’24

Write dozens of poem fragments you hope no one will ever see even though you always prepare to share them anyway. Dance with your best friends like you’ve never moved your feet before to music you only remember you love every Saturday from 10pm3am.

Attempt to notice the difference between period pain and heartache one picks apart your body bit by bit, the other can be eased with advil.

Constantly scroll through TikTok videos about moving on and no contact as if the app is unsure whether to make you feel better or worse. Read all the books people recommend for these early years feeling them tug at your heart with both hands; one tender, one warlike.

Cycle through big emotions like you cycle through spotify playlists loving yourself to SZA, hating yourself to boygenius, both to Billie. Try new atmospheric alcohol corners every Friday with friends draining money and overloading photos like it’s all a game.

Reread old journal entries and stare at blank pages ready to be filled needing to let it all out but fearing you’ll later cringe at anything you come up with.

Prepare perfectly effortless outfits in greens browns maroons and blues presenting to the world that you’re okay even though you’ve lost your

purple.

Lay glued to your floor thinking only of sobbing, throwing up, and sleeping after hours of doubling over in laughter, twirling in the sun, and thinking life is beautiful.

Dance with boys and dream of girls and stare into your mirror perceiving every flaw that someone one day will pick out and adore.

Romanticize every detail and fill yourself up with others because it’s human to indulge and love before we abstain and leave.

Growth

Lucy Baldino ’25

Marigold Anonymous ‘27

Initially, I had no interest knowing about her. She seemed shy and scared of the world. Her friends constantly outshone her, so she befriended the shadows.

Who would have thought she was the one I would spend hours thinking about?

I found out she was a writer. Quite a good one at that, too. She writes like the world is running out of time And the only thing saving her from her inevitable Death was a pen and paper.

I fell in love with her writing. Her words.

It drove me insane knowing that such a writer was out there and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how her creations made me feel.

I thought it was pure admiration. But I had stumbled over written words and found myself in a pit Miles down from floor level.

I found myself doing some thinking. And then some more. I dubbed her Marigold. Like the small vibrant flower. It’s funny, really.

I figured she would find out about the whole name. She hasn’t.

But maybe she will know now. Afterall, she is probably reading this right now. These words are for her. For she is the muse I needed and have looked for.

My Marigold:

You have caught my eye in such short notice. No warning. No caution. I’m not complaining, I don’t really mind.

I have stumbled upon your growing empire and Found comfort in the many things you can’t say out loud. I am intrigued by your presence and your smile, And if you would let me, I would love to know everything about you. Let me into your room;

Let me see the posters on your wall, your CDs

And the small figurines you keep on your desk.

Let me see what brings you comfort on a cold night, And what books make you want to escape reality.

Please forgive me for being improper, love, But can I be your muse?

Can you write about my eyes and my hair

And make it seem like they matter to this shattered world?

Can you write about my drunken lips, and my bitten nails?

The taunting bags under my eyes?

The scars on my body that the world will not see?

Can you immortalize me in your notebook, darling?

She can wrap the world in a sheet, so wrap me in your arms

And immortalize me, darling.

Care about me.

Obsess over me.

Consume every detail of my face.

Just take me, and all the stupid words I write.

From writer to writer, you would understand, right?

Shame

M. Hallinan ’24

Grace

Listen to Me

Taormina Amelio ’ 27

Always look both ways before crossing the street; you can eat those little purple flowers that grow by the fence; strawberry juice doesn’t come out of clothes; draw grass with hundreds of vertical lines instead of that one fluid zigzag, it looks more realistic that way; why do you only have one friend?

You should branch out; make your bed before you sleep in it; your middle name is Alessandra; practice writing it: A l e s s a n d r a; have some homemade chocolate chip bread; it had zucchini in it all along; but I don’t like zucchini; you shouldn’t be so selfish; your brother looks up to you.

Don’t mix the lights and darks unless the spin speed is low, then you can throw them in together; don’t turn on your heat above seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit; don’t turn on your heat at all, we can start a fire; crisscross the logs so there’s oxygen to breathe; Mommy and Daddy aren’t going to be living in the same house anymore.

Do you like this place? You live here now; when you do the dishes, be careful of Mommy’s fruit loop glasses, they’re very special; don’t microwave honey because it kills all the nutrients; raw cookie dough is bad for you, but we eat it anyway; why do you only have one friend? You should really branch out more; don’t take those melatonin gummies unless you’re actually having trouble sleeping, I don’t care how good they taste; to be a runner you have to be skinny; women with cellulite are unattractive; “ayudo” is “help” in Italian; dab cold water on fresh stains, you don’t want to rub it in; why don’t you have a boyfriend?

No guys talk to you in school? no, Dad; any girls then? You’re always late, it’s a bad habit; the bank will take away your money; why is all your money in a drawer? You should really put that in the bank; the double yellow lines mean you can’t cross them; don’t talk to people online; don’t eat whipped cream out of the can; but that’s the best way to eat it; take Lucy for a walk; your brother looks up to you.

You’re my favorite human; I love my girl man! Don’t make the same mistakes that I did; if I could do it over again, I’d do two years of community college before I went anywhere else;

some people aren’t who I thought they were; you just have to do what you do best and stay positive; everything happens for a reason; but how can you know that? I just know.

Happy Place

Emma Denihan ’24

E’mme Armstrong ’ 25

“then again, i’m not your mother...”

you’re right, you’re not. and yet i still do all that you ask of me; you treat me like your own. you shame me like a mother, too. but, you’re right- you always are. you’re not my mother, you’re just my sister.

Broken Carly Andrew ’24

They Can’t Recognize Real Art

Cassandra Arencibia ’ 24

that is the lie we tell ourselves smoking cigarettes in the freezing cold, our single layers starching with ice. it is better than what we fear is true. perhaps we are a bit too weird, or not weird enough. not intelligent enough, about as clever as unpolished shoes, cracked leather boots that have never seen balm, hung up wet and left to dry. you are exposed heart surgery and I am a clunky MRI scan, not especially pleasant, you fixing and me knowing. I’m convinced I’ll die with seven children, one of them will find my work, and he’ll decide to publish it in his name. I suspect you’ll quit all together, situate yourself in an office, smell your checks when they come in the mail, use them to buy all sorts of useless things. you’d be smarter to do that.

I’ll just keep saying They Can’t Recognize Real Art