Art & Scope Spring 2021

ART & SCOPE SPRING 2021

A Virtual Meeting with Art & Scope

Screenshot taken during online semester using Microsoft Teams Pictured from top left to bottom: Hannah Lonergan, Jillian Segina, Kristen Papitto, Nicole Tudor, Abigail Hubbard, Arianna Goggin, Christine Lowe, Sonia Espinosa.

Spring 2021 Members Managing Editor Arianna Goggin

Public Relations

Hannah Lonergan

Jillian Segina

Secretary

Alice Brennan Abigail Hubbard Sonia Espinosa

Treasurer & Layout Editor

Club Advisor

Other Members

Editor in Cheif

Kristen Papitto

Carla Dadulla

Copy Editors

Kathy Spizhoff

Christine Lowe Nicole Tudor

Contents 7

Untitled by Jacqueline Iandolo

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Moon’s Affair by Alice Brennan

9

Wise Aloe by Kristen Papitto

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Greetings from the Void by Joseph Suhovsky

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Projected Lies by Christopher Kennedy

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Quiet Boat by Carla Dadulla

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Untitled by Jacqueline Iandolo

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Slump by Hannah Lonergan

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Untitled by Jacqueline Iandolo

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Untitled by Linh Do

Distorted Garden by Christopher Kennedy

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Untitled by Trey Lambrecht

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I Walked Along the Stream of Consciousness by Hannah Lonergan

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Sidewalk Puddles by Kristen Papitto

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One Ride by Kristen Papitto

21

Welcome to the Pizza Party by Kristen Papitto

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Still Life I by Danielle D’elia

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A Lovely Poem About Avoiding the Truth by Arianna Goggin

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Fossilized Fictions in the Martyr Museum by Hannah Lonergan

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Untitled by Linh Do

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26

Obscurity by Elizabeth Macak

Meet Me at Dawn by Carla Dadulla

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Wavy Chill by Carla Dadulla

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Love by Alice Brennan

My Hand by Danielle D’elia

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Untitled by Trey Lambrecht

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[Feeling] In-between by Hannah Lonergan

31

Over, Under, and In-between by Kristen Papitto

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Dual State Pen Part I by Christopher Kennedy

Dual State Pen Part II by Christopher Kennedy

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What’s Your Rising? by Carla Dadulla

34

The End by Joseph Suhovsky

35

Django Unchained Movie Poster by Joseph Suhovsky

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Untitled by Linh Do

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Coyote Songs by Elizabeth Macak

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12.14.19 by Elizabeth Macak

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Untitled by Linh Do

40-43 Old Farm Tales by Ashton Ritter 44

Space and Growth by Kelsey Etienne

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Dancing Trees Elizabeth Macak

4

46

Tomorrow’s Yesterday by Kristen Papitto

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Untitled Linh Do

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Light Flare by Carla Dadulla

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In the Morning by Hannah Lonergan

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Framed by Joseph Suhovsky

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American Sentiment by Elizabeth Macak

Miles and Miles by Megan Francoeur

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Purples, Petals, Pears by Kristen Papitto

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Appreciation by Kelsey Etienne

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Back Porch Confessionals by Arianna Goggin

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Untitled by Linh Do

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Open Your Eyes by Lauryn Webb

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Can’t See Cracked Skin if You’re Blind by Hannah Lonergan

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Another Distant February by Arianna Goggin

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Different by Joseph Suhovsky

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It Happens for Days on End by Hannah Lonergan

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I’m Melting by Lauryn Webb

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Untitled by Linh Do

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Old Photographs by Elizabeth Macak

5

Sonnet XXIX When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

6

Untitled

Jaqueline Iandolo

7

Moon’s Affair I slide my hand into his at night flesh on flesh beating heart on silence.

Wondering how the stars pirouette within the sky’s arms while supernovas explode the color between life and death dropping iridescent stardust among the galaxies’ children all while the moon observes smile spreading on her illuminated face so the world can see.

He hates the night he is a day person liking things the way they were presented out in the open visible to the eye untouched by the sun’s lips spreading her warmth to those who open their hearts.

But I am the night hidden planets in my veins craters in my limbs stars leaving my mouth.

My true self only comes out when the sun closes her eyes and the moon opens her arms.

My true self she grasps the moon’s hand dancing and dancing and dancing and screaming and leaping and stopping every planet from its rotational axis to watch our performance of a lifetime.

But he falls asleep before that.

The sun only shows him my small frame my painted lips my bleeding smile.

8

He sees the pen in my hand but he never looks further past my swooping letters into my radiating head down to my dying heart.

So I put my hand in his hoping that he’ll hold me back when I wake.

For I am in love with love but love does not love me.

Alice Brennan

Wise Aloe

Kristen Papitto 9

Greetings from the Void Joseph Suhovsky

10

Projected Lies If I believed that these words are everything Then why can’t I manifest anything I’m fostering, Purposely writing in cryptic tales and far off the ball Yet demanding pleas of help that just appear to be nonsensical.

To others It’s like a Lion without a voice, or a golden road with more than one choice; Putting it more abstract, it’s a piston of life But this time it’s dysfunctional and better as a knife Yet in layman’s terms I’m just repeating the same daunting acts Still wishing I was the one for the razorbacks. wanting answers to a mystery that haunts my core.

Ever unknowing if I was just blind or never an option like an eyesoar.

Which it is? I’m left with an unconscious mind Maybe I’m a liar stuck in his youth Maybe I’m just afraid of the truth

Christopher Kennedy

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Quiet Boat

Carla Dadulla

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Untitled

Jacqueline Iandolo

13

Slump It’s Been Months Like This

Been in a funk, trudging through the milky waves of subtly It helps to buy new clothes, loathing layers, lifting myself up hoping for Something to make me feel like I’m wearing my old skin.

Slipped scissors between my hair, removing features of myself To replace eyebrows, nails, fingers, and toes longing to Take a shower again And again.

Started running, stopped running, started, stopped, , , , , And tried

listening to new music And cried,

emphasizing desire to reside alone in my place.

Lit a candle with well-intentioned flames Fading against the self-care that was preached Spent half a book, Confronted my age, Coughed up courage.

Wrote letters still longing to be sent, Bought a rug, New tires, New sheets, lamp, Shower again.

Found love, lost passion.

Fought for nothing, narrating losing wars –

There is no room for bargaining.

Zero sum, Still stabbed, stuck in a slump.

14

Hannah Lonergin

Untitled

Jacqueline Iandolo

15

Untitled Linh Do

Distorted Garden

A white palace holds an extensive garden With roaming path leading in, yet no exit like a pen Each path laid out in a hex; With distinct arches different from the next.

Except no path goes to the same place, Like a maze with infinite space.

Every new turn leads somewhere different from the last But looking behind does not reveal the past.

Rather more paths whether new or old Still this journey persists, even if the end was already foretold.

Traversing through in a systematic way Peeking down every crossroad in hopes of a new day.

Each old road gets more and more complex, While new ones stay the same unlike you’d expect This dwells on seemingly forever, Now worrying you look to finish this endeavor.

The more you think of it, the longer it persists And following the contrary it starts to untwist Fully unwound you awaken in Reality, Unknown if what just happened was real in actuality Looking around it’s still hard to tell what exist Struggling in a disassociated world even if you resist

Christopher Kennedy

16

Untitled

Trey Lambrecht

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I Walked Along the Stream of Consciousness I put my foot down.

And put it down again And again And by the time my mind caught up with my feet I was already down the hill.

Looking up at the sky I found a shade of the darkest blue And I wondered why I’d always thought the night sky was Black.

It’s not black, that’s a lie And stars do not twinkle, they’re on fucking fire.

Snow was falling from the sky Like it always had.

It isn’t even cold to the touch because when your body is already cold Do you even feel a difference?

The white stuck in piles Gathered in my hair, in my eyelashes, in the creases of my folded arms You would think that as I walked it would fall to the ground, But the cold clung to me.

There’s only so far to go.

I could’ve walked down the sidewalk, onto mainstreet, off of mainstreet, out of town, into a new town, out of the state, into another state, into the atlantic ocean and out of consciousness.

But what would be the point of that?

So I put my foot down.

And put it down again And again And I ended up on the top of the hill.

I looked up at the darkest blue and the orbs of fire And I thought about continuance The continuance of all things under the same sky as me And I honestly don’t know how to end this Because an ending would ruin the very point: This was a stream of consciousness.

It will continue because my thoughts continued and my thoughts continue And continue and Continue and even if I die Another 20something year old woman walking down the same hill one night Will have the same thoughts, feel the same things, be a vessel to the same gathered snow.

And she will put her foot down.

And she will put it down again

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And again And again.

And I ended up on the top of the hill.

I looked up at the darkest blue and the orbs of fire And I thought about continuance The continuance of all things under the same sky as me And I honestly don’t know how to end this Because an ending would ruin the very point: This was a stream of consciousness.

It will continue because my thoughts continued and my thoughts continue And continue and Continue and even if I die Another 20something year old woman walking down the same hill one night Will have the same thoughts, feel the same things, be a vessel to the same gathered snow.

And she will put her foot down.

And she will put it down again And again And again.

Arianna Goggin

Sidewalk Puddles Kristen Papitto

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One Ride

Kristen Papitto

20

Welcome to the Pizza Party Kristen Papitto

21

Still Life I

Danielle D’elia

A Lovely Poem About Avoiding the Truth I think you left it in the oven for too long The truth is a bit too dry for my liking.

Notes of Sunday Summer charcoal and an old whiskey barrel Found at the bottom of a lake With a dead old man inside it. He was 92 Looking for the truth just like you.

My friend love of my life person I met 60 seconds ago I get it I do.

You want the truth the truth will set you free.

You will be as fulfilled as anyone with a sense of awareness I’d like to keep my head in the clouds for as long as I can.

String about ocean metaphors for poems about men that don’t love me,

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Plan businesses I will never venture, Possibly could be.

But I do not agree, You see pretty please do understand, Sit atop mount Kilimanjaro in a leopard print fur coat in HOT, Pink heels sipping chilled white wine my fat bald butler served me.

Be the first 5 foot 2 average looking bitch to pose for Vogue, Piss on a canvas hang it up in a museum become an artist, You get the point.

I don’t want to get acquainted with the truth.

She will sit across from me at my dining room table and remind me “You aren’t too special, my dear Nothing very original You are what you eat And your diet goes from starvation to consuming a feast.

You’re scared of living in a world where you’re actually quite privileged, But you don’t have the passion to pursue anything too deep, shallow Baby My Darling, You’re a cute little sheep” The truth will resemble a Debra or Cathleen or Karen from Academic Advisement, Asking me what I would like to do with my life, And listing out course numbers, Suggesting I study abroad, Reminding me I will soon graduate from the 16 years I spent In the New York public education system, Just doin time filling in bubbles reading along as Plato sucks Socrates’ philosophical dick again.

You can have your truth Sip it slowly, but don’t mind the smell a little like bleach Maybe leave a drop for me to sip on the beach.

I might really need it someday.

I’ll call for it from my little stone cottage on a purple cloud in the sky It’s not heaven or hell, I’m just up high Warning this might be completely made up.

For now?

Well what should I do for the time being?

Sit down and write a poem about avoiding the truth I suppose It’s better than simply fleeing.

Arianna Goggin

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Fossilized Fictions in the Martyr Museum My cuticles are bold statements Pinched under the door frame between rooms Puncturing the walls and letting them cave in My legs are drowned with incomplete tally marks, Counting ragged tree bark of a person My body is slung, bowed over the mantle Dashed along, decorative designs Layered with permanence Embedded into the framework My eyes plunge within myself, Cycling through the pupil of my planet’s core The physical history stretches along my temples, Bulging from my worn muscles Yes, wait.

It holds itself within my lineage, My mileage, my simmering damage.

My own destruction is self-pitying, Self-retrograding, Part self-loathing and part self-doubt, Inherently self-spawning the cruel patterns That turn nature into immutable structures, To bury and dig up again in the name of preserving life that has been devoured.

Hannah Lonergan

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Untitled Linh Do

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Obscurity I have the kind of day I love Before my workday even begins, So the bustle is but a bump in the road Between two starlit hours, A brief deviation from delight, A delight itself, washed in the waves Of what’s been filling me Moonlight and tree-secrets and God-secrets, Expectation.

Few know what is to be found In living like you want to be awake.

While the world’s still under its blanket, I have time to get all my weeping done Before joy comes in like the tide, Rosy, cool, bright and victorious.

Then the heart dances; On occasion the body follows suit.

Then nobody sees the giddy madness That I must shake out, breathe out, Write about, Until it’s been tempered into Something more suitable to a sleepy world.

I have the kind of life I love, Like a lake on which the daylight hours And all this illusion float, And it’s filled with stars.

Elizabeth Macak

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Meet Me at Dawn Carla Dadulla

Wavy Chill

Carla Dadulla

27

Love It’s the warm nights alone when the fireflies eat the sun away and the grass blades actually cut as the men cry Budweiser tears and the women hold their hands in the dark.

I think the moon is hiding behind the clouds.

Passion doesn’t drink with me anymore and it’s nights like these where I miss her.

Nights where my pen could suffocate and where the silence is filled with paint strokes and where the lovers grab each other as sleep smokes a cigarette on the front steps blowing out puffs of disappointment.

Alice Brennan

My Hand

Danielle D’elia

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Untitled

Trey Lambrecht

29

[Feeling] In-Between [I sometimes] Stray from human acknowledgement, memories.

Engulfed in devaluation and dismemberments, forgetting how things begin.

Stab holes through leaves and the ground.

Stare up at the first moment – and the false end.

Is this genuine or is it fading because I don’t have another path?

I bore myself; Climb; Reach; Fall over; And begin to roll.

[He rolls better than anyone else.] Instinctual action or mimicking to seem natural?

[I wait until] The time fell an hour because then there is a chance to say them again: [Where do I put my arms, my hands? Where do they rest; When might I rest?]

Please continue [our] steps, follow paths less traveled Holding dear to tracks, soundtracks, and cliché tropes.

Lead us to the future not yet born.

Does this space [Do I] resemble feeble emotions? Is this [am I] cold? Is this [am I] blank? Is this [am I] held over intent?

Relentless, reluctant thoughts fill this void.

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Embrace every moment, and [pause], consume until vision fades into checkpoints to follow?

But when it is already done, there is nothing left to consume.

Chant, recite, preach these words, but where do they fall when their sentiments are lost?

[Breathe.]

[I did not reach for your hand because I have no ability to hold.]

[I grasp and let my finger linger but is it wrong?]

Are [these] moments of silence too long? [Cross country personal best maybe.]

Take a minute off. Take off for a second.

Put in a good word [for me]? Find time to pick this up [from me]?

Leave no trace.

I looked up at the trees and saw [faces] spaces to let each other grow in unity.

When nothing makes sense, you are the final thing [I see].

Hannah Lonergan

Over, Under, and In-between Kristen Papitto

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Dual State Pen Part I For once I put my heart on the line For someone like me that happens once in a lifetime Quickly it was shot down and left on its own Slamming back shots hoping it would give me a backbone I was never a part of your plan, that’s fine But tell me before I uncork another bottle of wine.

Now I lay crippled and desperate to not be alone Twice I reach out, barely able to use my phone The first message went straight over my head Reliantly I try again with hopes to not repeat the past Now shot twice in the heart, wish it happened with real lead Forever I’ll live as creepy fuck in your past This was years ago, sadly not much has changed I still feel lonely and redanged.

Even though I’m afraid to say your name I just wish you had felt the same Christopher Kennedy

Dual State Pen Part II I was afraid this tundra was a curse from the start But I’ll lie to myself and take another hit from this cart Followed by too many drinks, as I can’t sleep on my own Unknowing if you ever wanna see me on your phone Yet the night you let me spill out filled my heart You barely talked but it still helped when I fell apart.

Everyday we spoke after that was a different tone; Still I love your company, like a peach scone I get my mess isn’t something you had to bare And I’m sorry if this was what caused the rift But all it did was make you feel like a ghost without care Slowly leaving me in your past, all I can do is drift.

That was a couple years ago, i hate what’s changed Losing you made me feel alone and deranged Even though I’m afraid to say your name Thanks for being there when i was untame

Christopher Kennedy

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What’s Your Rising?

Carla Dadulla

33

The End

Joseph Suhovsky

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Django Unchained Movie Poster

Joseph Suhovsky

35

Untitled Linh Do

36

Coyote Songs Under the overwhelming, balanced, still Dome of speckled heavens, I listened to the symphony Of the coyotes’ song in the night, One voice long and low and bold, Followed by tenors, Then wild, intoxicated shrieks of delight.

They are singing in a mourning tone An ode to the purest joy on earth.

I want to be as alive as that.

I want to cry from my bones like that.

I want my voice and my song to be as wild, As natural, as sincere and stirring, as that.

I want to howl and scream and sing in the dark too.

Elizabeth Macak

37

12.4.19 I am captured in an image, One only a moving picture If it’s blowing in the wind Like the answer to some question Flitting in and out of shades of vanity.

Pixels and memories Picture it, perfect, Frozen in time, The image I set up and captured To post on the front page Of the daily news Nothing’s new And the sun fades everything under it, And the overloaded press burns Like a branding iron: I am this, to this I belong.

I belong to an image.

Be still.

I can’t move.

I’m captured in an image, Dying to keep its colors fresh, Dying to get out and Into the sunshine So I can fade away like Something natural.

Keep straining my eyes Dissecting, decoding Messages delivered by the mediator Impersonator To build something in my mind To wear like cake makeup According to these templates.

All those perfect pictures Teach you twisted madness, Leave you malnourished.

Get me out from behind white paint Identity isn’t brushed on, we’re not Like opaque painted porcelain Get some sunshine, Stained glass girl.

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Elizabeth Macak

Untitled Linh Do

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Old Farm Tales Mooooooooo!

“I’m comin’!” Cecilia assured halfway through Mallory’s cry of hunger. She grabbed the two splintering strings which kept the hay in a loose bale. After hauling the bale over the side of Mallory’s pen, she pulled the parallel strings away from each other while shaking the bale. “Sometimes you act as if I haven’t fed you for a week,” she commented as Mallory munched loudly on her breakfast once it hit the ground. Cecilia hung the strings on a nail sticking out of a support beam, and then returned to Mallory and gently stroked her thin, wiry hair. “I could never starve you. You’re too good to me.”

She paused as she pondered the wretched truth. Her hand slowed to a stop near Mallory’s shoulder. “Heck, you’re the only one who’s good to me,” she admitted quietly. Her comment received feedback from the rooster perched upon the steps behind her. Cecilia laughed lightly. “My bad, how could I forget you Byron?

You’re good to me too. A little sassy sometimes, though.”

She made her way to the rooster feed, grabbed a handful, and formed a small pyramid in front of Byron.

Sunlight peered in through the cracks of the old barn walls bringing light to the dust which softly danced in the air. The rustle of barn kittens playing in the hay on the top floor and the distance cluck of hens brought a comforting life to the barn. A soft smile rested on Cecilia’s lips as she took in the sounds of the barn and watched Byron peck up seeds.

Without warning, a horrid memory invaded her mind.

Byron and the surrounding barn were replaced with a bitterly familiar living room. Her mother’s black, Dior boots which stood by her face were connected to a thin outline that towered over the young teen’s bruised body. Her mother’s icy blue eyes almost glowed in the dim lighting as they glared into Cecilia’s tear-filled eyes. “Get up and finish the damn house, you’re fine,” the mother said, growling between clenched teeth.

Cecilia’s body was shaken by silent cries as she buried her face into the now damp carpet. A metallic, cigarette smoke scent burned the inside of her nose, but she kept her face hidden. Her mother’s orders blurred as they reached her ears.

Mallory hollered and Cecilia snapped out of her memory with a gasp. She stood there frozen as her racing heart tried to relax. Once the effects of the sudden flashback began to wear off, Cecilia released a relieved sigh and walked over to her beloved cow. Her arms wrapped around Mallory’s thick neck. “Thanks Malmal,” she said before placing a kiss on Mallory’s jaw. “Gosh, I don’t want to know what would happen if you weren’t here,” she whispered softly as she leaned her head against Mallory.

Four days later Cecilia entered the barn floor carrying a bag of chicken feed over her shoulder. The bag only weighed fifty pounds, but she felt she was bearing twice her weight. She let out a huff of utter exhaustion

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as she plopped the bag down next to the wooden stairs, her arms finally giving out “Sometimes I wonder if I should be social, then I buy some feed and remember why I avoid people,” she told Byron who stood on a post of Mallory’s pen. In response, Byron tilted his head, flew down off the post and, step-by-step, walked over to the new feed bag.

“Great talk,” Cecilia remarked sarcastically before turning her attention to Mallory who hadn’t moved from her spot in a bed of semi-fresh hay.

“Hey Malmal, you tired?” Cecilia asked as she walked over and leaned against the cow pen. Mallory slowly stood and made her way to Cecilia’s outstretched hand. Cecilia ran her hand from Mallory’s forehead down to her snout, her tired eye’s meeting Mallory’s big, round, dull eyes.

“You look just as worn out as me,” Cecilia commented, “What have you been doing all day?” She asked with a small laugh. “I can tell you my day didn’t go well either.” She let out an annoyed sigh before telling her story.

“At the store, there was this group of older high schoolers. Guess what they were talking about? ‘The crazy girl who talks with animals more than people.’” She said, mocking the teenagers . “I mean I was right there and they called me ‘freak’ and ‘insane’. They glanced in my direction and just kept talking. Who does that?

Then they wonder why I choose you guys over people,” she said disgusted before scoffing. “Maybe when people learn to have hearts, then I’ll start talking to them.”

Her eyes met Mallory’s again and a small smile tugged at her lips as their eyes stayed locked. “Kind of funny, isn’t it? We don’t even speak the same way, or have the same functions, or the same body parts, yet I have a stronger bond with you than anyone of my own species. Now how is that?” She asked and Mallory let out a heavy breath through her nose, seemingly in response. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. The strongest bonds reach far beyond looks and capability.”

Three days passed. Evening light tinted by grey clouds seeped through the cracks in the quiet barn. The only sounds filling the empty space were the scampering of mice feet or the quick adjusting of a resting bird.

Even then, the sounds were so rare it felt as if the animals were hesitant to move. The stillness was shattered only by a blood curdling shriek after Cecilia entered the scene. The noise pulled Byron and an old barn cat out of their sluggish states as the crows hiding in the beams above flew away in a panic to seek new shelter.

Cecilia took no note of this for her eyes were fixed on Mallory. After subconsciously jumping the pen, she rushed over and dropped to her knees beside her friend who laid flat on her side in a bed of her breakfast, her breathing so faint it was almost unnoticeable. “Mallory!

Mallory get up!” Cecilia demanded.

She slid her hands as far under Mallory as she could and attempted to help her to her hooves, failing miserably. She tried again however, lifting up until her arms burned even though Mallory hadn’t moved an inch off

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the ground. “Come on Malmal. At least sit up. Please.” She begged. She lifted Mallory’s heavy head in hopes her body would follow, but her friend’s head stayed limp in her arms.

Cecilia fell on her knees again, letting Mallory’s head rest in her lap. “Mallory please,” Cecilia whispered, her voice cracking. As she looked down at her friend, she noticed the eye she looked into was sunken and turning a milky color.

“Mallory. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to get better. You just need...you need to eat. Here,” Cecilia quickly grabbed a handful of hay from beside her and held it in front of Mallory’s snout. “Eat it Mallory,” she demanded as she shook it, but the only response was a heavy breath through the nose. “Mallory! Eat!” She snapped as if the hay held the power of complete healing, but Mallory gave the same response. “No, you’re going to get better, sit up!

Please Mallory... I just need you to sit up. Please,” she begged, her pleas drenched in defeat. A tear landed on the side of Mallory’s face which signaled Mallory to close her eyes and press the bridge of her nose against Cecilia’s abdomen, assuring her everything would be okay as her breathing slowed even more.

Cecilia drew in a shaky breath and gave a vacant nod. “You’re right,” she said, her voice heavy and her eyes dulled. “It’s all going to be okay.” She began to stroke the side of Mallory’s face and neck. “You’re just going to take a little nap,” she stated with empty reassurance. “Just a little nap...” she repeated with a whisper as she raised her head and scanned the barn floor, her eyes landing on the supply crate. “I’m going to take a nap with you. Just a short little nap.” **** A young boy relaxingly rocked back and forth on the porch swing, holding a glass with a few remaining drops of sweet tea. A soft smile rested on his lips as he watched the stars win over the sky from the sun which had retreated behind the top of the hill. The full moon cast a white light over the land of fields and hills. Crickets filled the cool air, singing their nighttime song with a few peepers joining the chorus. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the swing, taking in the music and scents of the night. His peacefulness only disrupted as the front door creaked open and light flooded onto the porch. “Son, you better come in,” His father suggested, a worried undertone in his voice. His sixteenyear-old son opened his eyes with a confused look before raising his head to look at his father.

“The sun just set. It’s still pretty early,” he noted. The father glanced up at the old abandoned farm which sat at the top of the hill before meeting his son’s gaze.

“I know, but I think it’s best if you come in.”

The father’s warning came too late, however. A gunshot pieced the air and the night fell silent in comparison.

The son straightened up, looking towards the top of the hill where it seemed the source was. “What was that?” He asked, his curiosity now peaked.

“Oh, it was nothin’. Someone prob’ly caught a ‘coon red handed,” the father joked lightly.

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“It came from the barn up there.”

The father sighed in response. “Son, it’s really nothin’. Just some ol’ farm tale.” The father admitted and waved his hand as if pushing it to the side.

“Old farm tale? About what?” The son asked, now on the edge of his seat. The father hesitated before walking to the rocking chair on the other side of the doorway.

“Well ‘bout twelve years ago that ol’ barn was a crime scene,” The old man started, slowly lowering himself into the rocking chair. “Mother struck ‘er daughter in the head and killed ‘er. Police found out ‘bout eight days later and arrested her,” He looked over at the distant barn. “The cow the daughter was known ta talk to was found dead. Say she died from depression n’ dehydration ‘cuz the mother didn’t feed o’ water ‘er,” He paused once more as he turned his gaze back to his son. “Folks say the girl haunts the barn. Sayin’ she just keeps livin’ the same eight days over again with ‘er cow dyin’. Killin’ herself each time from depression but she ain’t able ta escape the cycle cuz she ain’t aware she’s dead. No one’s seen ‘er ghost, but that gunshot sounds every now n’ then” The boy paled and turned his face towards the old barn. Instead of an interesting silhouette it now placed an eerie blanket over the landscape. A long silence gripped the porch where the two sat.

“How come I never heard it before?” The boy asked once he could hear the crickets again, but they were quieter now. At least to him.

“Well,” the father paused for a moment. His gaze resting on the barn before slowly traveling to the porch beneath his feet. “They say only those who know sufferin’ can hear it” The boy wasn’t sure how long he had stayed out on the porch after that. His incident from earlier in the week repeatedly playing in his head. Over and over and over again. Once he dragged himself to his bed he didn’t sleep. All night he stared at the ceiling, the same three things rushing through his head.

The incident, the girl, the gunshot. Incident, girl, gunshot. Incident, girl, gunshot.

Once the morning sunlight peeked through his thin grey curtains and the rooster announced that a day of work was ready to begin, the boy heard the most horrifying sound he had ever heard while living on their little goat farm. The sound made his blood turn to ice, seemingly freezing in place and sending a shiver down his spine. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he listened to a long, drawn out cry: Mooooooooo!

Ashton Ritter

43

Space and Growth Kelsey Etienne

44

Dancing Trees The trees wave their fingers Dancing to the mystic sounds Brought to them on the wings of the wind, Dancing for joy, Dancing for the colors of the sunshine.

I sit here with them hoping If these gusts run their rhythms Long enough through my hair The music might reach my ears the same; I’ll sit here for as long as I can Hoping for the music, Chasing the tune in the trees, Chasing joy, Chasing the colors of the sunshine

Elizabeth Macak

45

Tomorrow’s Yesterday I am barefoot again like the seven-year-old I was running through the yard sending mud pies and blades of grass through the pockets of my toes up until the time I stepped on a bee and decided to wear shoes.

Until I had been sent home from school I had forgotten what it was like for time to feel so frozen and so much less essential.

I used this new and unknown time I had to find the awareness I had forgotten about.

I watched the seasons move forward on a weekly basis.

Life blossomed to death and into another new life.

I’d learned bundles of yellow forcythias mark that Spring’s floorplan has arrived “Yes,” agrees hycinths and daffodils As a week passes the tulips and lilies emerge effortlessly while the pink magnolia takes its time carrying birds, squirrels, and rabbits.

Current berries and peonies greet me until they sway to the floor and until roses shoot to the sky with gracious dominance.

When the roses slowly lessen in number, hydrangeas create a color pallet that makes one forget the rest of the flowers ever said “Goodnight,” vanishing to the soil, “Until another year.”

Black eyed susan’s remember to come back every year and to bring friends like tomatoes that take their time to ripen just right.

I now wait for the sunflowers that look down to me like an elder to a child, reminding me to reflect.

I feel like the butterflies.

They pass, and land, and stay for a while.

46

I feel like the dragonflies.

They parade, and gather, and dance above a pool of waterthat holds the burning red of sunset wondering what comes of tomorrow.

And I do wonder what comes of tomorrow, but I remember that I am not there yet.

Kristen Papitto

Untitled Linh Do

47

Light Flare

Carla Dadulla 48

In the Morning The soft, brushing light Ripples through darkness Piercing The window into thousands of inconceivable Glass shards Bellowing, hanging in the air I watch The lucid flakes dance just Like the hummingbirds do By the lake Diving into divine Blessed for your blues and beckoning For your call My day of reckoning Has come Sipping up skin with my finger Running lengths on your back And I wish the sun wouldn’t Rise So frozen over, We’d explode silently Become intertwined with the Trees that watched and the Walls that hushed when The day was Late Crumbled into The echoes of the universe Blended into One

My heart has found its eternity

Hannah Lonergan

49

Framed

Joseph Suhovsky

50

American Sentiment I have that sentiment for America and Wide or crowded and rusty, rough Places honest about our imperfection, And the people who live there With deep, copper-colored souls, It all refraining from affectation.

I get that gritty love for gray urban avenues Wide or crowded and so strictly Human, Places honest about our imperfection And the people who live there Free and unseen, mourning souls, The cut-and-dry fight for consequence And the joy of walking fast through Polluted, grandiose, and ubiquitous noise.

Elizabeth Macak

Miles and Miles Megan Francoeur

51

Purples, Petals, Pears Kristen Papitto

52

Appreciation

Kelsey Etienne

53

Back Porch Confessional Yes, there are things I’d like to say to you.

They float around my mind, Lines and metaphors I could string together For a shitty little Thursday afternoon poem.

But when I’m near you-Faced with the full effect of you Staring into the sun, but willing to burn out my eyes, I swallow my words and chase them down with Whatever we’re pouring.

Because if I say these things, I’ll give you a bigger piece of me than ever intended.

Tell me, love, what would you do with it?

Would you return it?

Breathe it in?

Set fire to it? Make love to it? Smash it to pieces?

That choice is up to you, I can choose to speak the words, but I can’t choose how you’ll receive them.

So there’s nothing to do.

Nothing but put my head on your shoulder, Shut up.

Watch the stars.

Arianna Goggin

54

Untitled Linh Do

55

Open Your Eyes Lauryn Webb

56

Can’t See Cracked Skin if You’re Blind It’s been a year since I’ve gone blind, I see figures with no faces Blurred out, obscure and obstructed thoughts replace People and names that I used to retain in head space Just like those notes etched on to the back of my hand Used to write, paint, draw like the back of my jaw That clicked and created Something I had never seen before Because being able to see was more than just Fitted features of our skin but detailed Disjointed, disillusioned, disempowered visions that would run rust But were still from nothing but untamed and untortured trust; Cruel and beautiful Weed makes me paranoid, And psychedelics don’t secrete those well-bred secrets, I stop searching for reasons to why I am lost and blind Stretched out in the middle of the frozen gust Set ahead - bracing the face of fear I can only hear a breath Excuses become reasons to evacuate from eternal suffering, Holding me by the tusk just out of reach from enlightenment, Telling me to either burn everything I’ve done or let it sink into cement So, I can never be haunted by the pains of sight Curses and courage bleed from the same bone Because I am unsure of how badly I actually want it Patterns of pursed lips, eyes without purpose, Even ears slitted down, A nose becomes a noose that shoots down and wounds My already bent neck Hunched over, keeping my joints warm Bracing for the moment when these lost years rush back to me

Hannah Lonergan

57

Another Distant February There are bloodstains on a sidewalk I no longer choose to walk.

I’m the only one who sees them.

The oxidized pattern matches the soles of a pair of black high heels.

I owned and wore them in another distant February.

I still hear the sound they made when I ran down the sidewalk in them.

I’m the only one who hears it.

If you follow the sidewalk I no longer walk, At the end you’ll find a girl who is too young To have been kneeling on bruised knees for so long, But she can’t get up.

Go ahead and try to wrap your arms around her fragile frame Tell her, “It is too cold for you out here, you’re shaking in this little black dress.”

“I have a brand new February here for you, it’ll warm you up and make you whole.”

She will look right through you and she will not budge.

I’m sorry she looks so real, I apologize for bringing you back here with me.

Don’t shed tears.

I promise you, She’s just another bloodstain on the sidewalk.

And I know you want to save her, But if you try and pick her up, she’ll just slip through your fingers.

You can’t see the bloodstains, You don’t know the sound of running in black high heels And I do.

I do.

I do.

But neither you or I will succeed in getting her to leave her endless February.

You know where to find her now, So you can try if you’d like.

But what sits in front of us, unable to leave Is the reason I no longer walk this sidewalk.

Arianna Goggin

58

Different

Joseph Suhovsky

59

It Happens for Days on End Sliced into quarters, Diamonds and nickels.

My body is severed, severe dehydration, Lack of ambitious

Direction.

On Mondays I wake up with One piece of myself aware, Search for air, but my lungs haven’t Been chosen today.

Awarded for lack of response, My eyes may flicker because my lids Smile upright On Tuesdays I am not whole.

Marble memories from Wednesday Do not cross over to Thursday, Remembrances remain boxed up until Friday.

But now I can walk, my words begin To form today.

Pathways obstructed I am wandering but yet,

Staggering onward individually

Saturday bleeds into Sunday Pupils dilated into pockets to be recovered When I may be a whole Person again.

on the day.

next

week

Yet, every day I Wake up to find, a new part of me Has gone blind.

Hannah Lonergan

60

I’m Melting Lauryn Webb

61

Untitled Linh Do

Old Photographs What happened to you, little wild child?

When was your freedom exchanged for chains?

When were the flowers that grew in your heart Cut down, and for whom?

Where has your innocence gone, your trust, your affection?

And your laughter – why does it come so seldomly, Which once sang freely?

Where is the wonder in your eyes, The bright glow of sunshine on your skin?

Why do you not move and run and play?

What happened to your dreams?

What happened to your wild, child?

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Your freedom is bound in the chains of independence.

Your heart, not barren, grows a garden still, But one of thorns and weeds, untended.

Your innocence was broken with the trust you put in men.

These days affection and love endanger you.

Your laughter and song have been choked by tears.

Your wonder at the world has been lost in the world, Its coldness took your sunshine away.

You move your body still, but in discipline, Your supple skin is gaunt, for you’ve forgotten how to play.

Your dreams gave way to plans...

You can’t quite remember them.

Your wildness, child, grew sick and meek.

But it is not yet dead, though gasping.

Your embers are still hot, and can be breathed upon.

There are ways to break those chains.

There are seeds deep down in the part of your heart Too deep to be killed by the frost.

If you water them, you will again bloom.

You can learn to trust again, through affection dared.

You can get back into the boat of laughter And sing a song over that ocean of tears that drowned you.

The sun will shine on you again, like summer coming, Open your eyes, and you can again see a wonderful world.

You can move, run, play, if you fill your body again, With sunshine and flowers and joy.

You can close your ears when the world says make plans And dig up your dreams, and live in them, For you were wiser back then, when they called you.

Your dreams were your calling before you buried them.

Dear child, you can grow wild again... ...just love.

Elizabeth Macak

63

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65

ART & SCOPE Spring 2020 Magazine Layout

by Kristen Papitto

Cover Art

Front: ”Love Seat” and back: “Morph Phone”

by Carla Dadulla Follow us on Instagram @artandscope