by Anika Ramlo (’17The Swan

The Swan

He’s standing in front of his car with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the passenger door. Until that moment, he was not handsome. Something changed. I walk down my driveway to meet him, tuck a piece of my hair behind my left ear, and smile up at him with my eyes. I’m good at being what he thinks I am. He opens the door for me, and I sit down in the passenger seat. He looks at me before he starts the car, and I meet his gaze. I look at him in a way that forces him to smile and look down. That’s when I made up my mind. When he looked down, overwhelmed by the look in my eyes. We drove to an overlook in the valley and sat there, talking like nervous friends. And toward the end of the night, when I was tired of not saying what we mean, I asked him, “So when are you going to kiss me?” He kissed me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about this one time that my nanny yelled at me. She was mad because I had asked her to draw me a picture of a boat, but then the drawing started to look like a swan, so I shouted at her to change it. I shouted pretty loud, I guess. And so she picked me up and took me to my room and layed me down in my bed and yelled really close to my ears to show me what it feels like to be screamed at. I just remember how loud it was. I don’t know what you’re supposed to think about when a boy kisses you, but I don’t think it’s that. I tried to get my nanny out of my head, but that was proving difficult, so instead I stopped kissing him. I asked him to drive me home and when he asked me to meet his friends, I told him I was sorry. I really was sorry.

Anika Ramlo (’17)

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Boyish

His charm is what pulls you in at first glance Boyish is what most people would call him

Faint pink blush Perpetually dusting his cheeks Like sugar gently sprinkled

Wide innocent dark brown eyes Hair the color of Santa Monica beach sand Messy like the essays of Virginia Woolf he poured over every night and Left strewn over his desk

Yet today he was no longer a boy to me

Today I saw Sunken cheekbones Dark circles the color of Spoiled grapes

He tilted his head and the sunlight hardened his features

Carved heart-shaped face Nose that plunged down like an anchor Jaw tightened, stony expression His bright eyes burned holes in the ground as he pondered

A porcelain doll sculpted with a butter knife an artist’s masterpiece

I uttered his name and he turned to look at me

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Rays of light spill over him Softening his sharp facial features Lips turning up in a Gentle radiant smile The harshness in his eyes dissipating

I’d say he’s good looking

Audrey Koh (’17)

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Untitled Meghan Marshall (’17)

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Icicles

Cool shards dive nose first a moan trapped behind parted lips

A boy crumbles like an over baked cookie knees slap the frozen concrete cracking like brittle saplings body twisted out, legs misshapen tangled

He lies there salt tickling his face eye wide. one open. one close a longing gaze a clouded stare

Emma Halfon (’17)

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I Used to Believe in Angels

One shaking step and then another

as we spin and twist as the world grows darker.

I used to believe in magic I used to believe in skin coated angels.

One broken glass and then another

as we dance and smoke as the world grows hotter.

I used to believe in the realness of your eyes I used to believe in angels.

And Costco windows shine blindingly with color

Wheels screech and turn And money dances like butterflies

I used to believe in angels.

One shaking step over broken glass with bloody feet and forgotten kisses

We look but we do not see. We smoke but we do not breathe. We drink but we do not understand

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That butterflies can grow tangled in your hair That crows can steal a corner of your eye That dust can gather under the soles of your feet

One shaking step and then another

as the world begins to explode.

I woke up 5 minutes late this morning

And all of my shoelaces were gone.

Livia Blum (’19)

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The Weight of First Responses

when I chose, finally, to let the blood flow from my tongue into the open palms of a friend she closed them like rosary laden fists and turned away. it could have been to pray or to tuck these crimson words within the folds of a braid, for women who learn to keep quiet.

yet all i know for certain is the cold whip of her shrinking spine, telling me to forget the sandpaper cuts of unwelcome hands, and me left here once again as the separated soul.

Sara Seaman (’16)

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Petunia’s Head Ava-Rose Beech (’16)

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Red Blotches

When I was seventeen, my mother came home one day with an itchy leg. The back of her knee was speckled with a few red dots. Probably mosquitoes we guessed.

The following day she woke up with both legs covered in bumps. “She’ll be fine,” I thought as I left her at home and walked to the school bus.

A few days later, the red welts infested the rest of her body sparing nothing but her face. I diverted my eyes from her swollen hands and tuned out her constant complaints.

She lived in her own personal hell for those first few weeks and to her, we all lived in her hell. To her, her pain had transferred deeply into us. She kept saying “I’m sorry for putting you through this, Jen,” but I just smiled politely and went to school thinking about my work, my survival, and my own hell, one rot with work rather than with the burning of her red blotches. She continued her motherly routine for me - made me oatmeal, said good morning, cooked me dinner, said goodnight. So to me, through these continued manifestations of existence, she seemed fine enough. But, had I stopped to look into her eyes, to ask if she needed my help, to ask how she felt, I would have seen the welts growing within her. I was watching her burn in my peripheral vision, but I figured she’d be okay.

Then one morning I saw her fire. I slept in too late to walk to the bus, so I asked her to drive me a few minutes before it was time to leave as I usually did when I needed a ride. My request set her off. She yelled that she was in her pajamas, that the other parents couldn’t see her this way. She ran through the house as though it too was on fire collecting all her valuable possessions. I walked to the car, and she jumped in with panic plastered on her face. The ignition roared. She slid into reverse and hit the gas lurching

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my chest forward. She frantically shifted into gear, and we barreled out of my neighborhood. Over potholes we bounced, accelerating more than necessary. Then she turned into the driveway beside the bus stop from the alley side where the other parents wait. Another student’s mom turned into the driveway from the street at the same time. Our cars were nose to nose. I watched the mother in the other car happily waving hello, ignorant to the pressure growing in our car. We were at the bus stop. I could have gotten out and waited for the bus to arrive, but my mom pushed on.

She shoved her car between the friendly mother and another car in the two car wide driveway. At this point, I interjected. “MOM STOP! You’re going to hit them. CALM DOWN! The bus isn’t even here yet. MOM!” The other mother surprised by my mother’s determination pulled her car over as much as possible to accommodate my mother’s crazed maneuver while still maintaining her friendly smiling. My mom made it through and turned out of the driveway next to the curb. “That was incredibly inconsiderate, Mom.” I kept my eyes fixed forward when we stopped on the side of the road annoyed with her uncharacteristic aggressive driving. Then I heard a jagged deep breath beside me. I looked over and watched as the pressure in the car released exploding with her sobs filling me with a surge of regret. I paused my mind blank unsure how to handle the situation. I scrambled an apology together qualified by, “You were scaring me.’’

More ragged breaths followed by a tearful wail. I had seen my mother cry before but never like this. The red blotches seemed to have spread to her face as she held her breath in hopes of stopping.

“I’m really sorry, Mom. It’s just--”

“I shouldn’t have done that to that poor mom,” she inhaled. “I’m just

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on so many drugs right now,” she managed to gasp out in reference to the prednisone she was on to reduce the swelling. “I do so much for you, and I love you, but you never appreciate me,” she bellowed. “This thing is taking over my life. I haven’t exercised in weeks.” She continues to cry, and the bus rolled up behind us. “I just want to go home,” she wails. “I just want to be home,” she says softer.

My face melted and my stomach turned. “I’m a terrible daughter. I’m a terrible daughter. I’m a terrible daughter.” I repeated it to myself a hundred times over. Why did I let her burn?

“I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I know I don’t thank you enough, but I really do appreciate everything you do, and I love you so much.”

“I know, I know. It’s just hard sometimes,” she sniffled. “You should go to the bus.”

I got out of the car and hurried to the bus, my mind reeling uncomfortably with the ending to our conversation. It was as though the glass wall separating our lives had shattered, and all the shards were falling back on me. There were no more empty seats on the bus, but I found a spot next to a classmate. I took out my phone to draft an apology text, maybe that was just building a new wall, but soon my cheeks were wet and my face was red as I unsuccessfully held back tears and her red blotches spread to me.

Reanna Wauer (’16)

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Abyss

On hot summer nights, my mother drags me by the arm And takes me with her to stargaze. She breathes a slow breath, Turns her fragile head to the sky, And the shell of our world dissipates.

She is swept up from the ground, Flying through thick clouds of stars, Tiptoeing around edges of black holes. Silence, luminousness, color.

She chases comets, And paints galaxies on the everlasting black canvas, For in this moment time is trivial.

When she lands among the empty black space in solitude, She fights to stay, But the binding blue planet stretches its arms and pulls her back.

My mother’s desire To see the impenetrable world Is insatiable.

“Now it’s your turn!” she exclaims. However hard I try, I see nothing

Cameron Thompson (’18) Poet Laureate Runner Up

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To The Lighthouse India Halsted (’17)

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Para Mí

te pasé un pincel y pinturas y te dije que me pintaras le puesta de sol cuando terminaste miré arriba Pero el cielo entero estaba negro y blanco

tú estabas radiando azúl, roja, anaranjada, rosada y no hubo más color para mí .

Translation

i handed you a paintbrush and paints and i told you to paint me the sunset when you were done i looked up but the entire sky was black and white

you were radiating blue, red, orange, pink and there was no more color for me.

Cat Oriel (’18) Foreign Language Poet Laureate Runner-Up

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When I Was A Child

when i was a child i did not go to church.

i never sat on wooden pews; i never got paper cuts on the leaves of the leather bound bibles.

Instead of red wine i sipped grape juice out of paper cups;

i ate vanilla wafers instead of the eucharist.

but i would pretend

to pray to god, sometimes,

my fingers interlaced

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in a little church steeple

(i did not want to be blasphemous)

‘dear god, please give me a sign.’

i’m still waiting for my answer.

Karinne Robbins (’16)

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Into the Deep End Gemma Brand-Wolf (’18)

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En Un Mundo Negro

En un mundo de negro Sentados y inmovilizados Hasta que vieron una luz creada de fuego Llego y desapareció simultáneamente Y sus ojos lo siguieron Y sus ojos se cerraron Les dio un dolor Ver el unico color Descolorarse

Translation:

In a pitch black world Sitting and imobilized Until they saw a light made of fire It came and it left all at once And their eyes followed And their eyes closed And they felt the pain Watching the only color Fade

Gaby Lu (’18) Foreign Language Poet Laureate

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The Stars Came Out

There was once a girl. She had dark eyes and light hair and her mind was a sky. Her body was a mountain range. Inside her grew a deep forest, pine trees pricking the skyline of her consciousness. The forest spanned miles, dark and overgrown in some places, brush fire dry in others. It had begun as a single sapling, a seed of doubt that marred the bright expanse of clear blue sky. Now it covered miles, a tangled habitat for emotional creatures of all shapes and sizes. The seasons swept through the forest in shades of green, leaves melting off the trees in cycles. Day and night came and went in the indistinguishable grey of dawn and dusk. The forest grew towards the sky, each dark trunk shattering the increasingly stormy firmament, clouds like memories drifting across what was no longer blue. But those thick, dark clouds never emptied, never wept their sorrowful tears to the forest floor. And the mite-infested trees continued to splinter the sky, their source of life untraceable. Predatory creatures outnumbered prey and food became scarce. Clearings in the dense woods grew uncommon; claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm. Dark howls perforated the natural din of the forest. Color bled out of the greenery, still growing steadily towards that barely surviving strip of illuminated atmosphere. True night slowly seeped the grey out of the sky, darkening the microcosm like ink in water, an all-encompassing night. The darkness was a living, breathing entity, more than the absence of light. It seemed eternal, never-ending, stretching into the even darker expanse of something unknown. The girl lived in the deepest night, the world so dark there were no shadows, the moonless sky blending seamlessly with the dark forest. And then the stars came out.

Gemma Brand-Wolf (’18)

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Maraschino Cherries

You know how I passed you the other day in the hallway? And how I rounded the corner dancing to the song that was playing in my head? Well, the song was from 1980, and I really like it, but it’s subtly sexist and very heteronormative. So sometimes when I listen to it I feel guilty because I don’t know what you’d say. I really don’t know. And then my hair starts to argue with my shoes and my ears debate my watch and my toenails are sharing a mild discourse with the buttons on my sweater. And you probably don’t even know the song, but the film projector in the corner of my cerebellum is already whirring and the exhaust is stirring up the dust on the black paint floor and the dust in front glitters in the light but it’s so dusty in the theatre and the maroon cushions’ stare is [Searches for the word of appropriate intensity, gives up.]

[Earnestly] This is in no way romantic. When I saw you, I was really just a little embarrassed that I was singing the song I was singing when I rounded the corner and you caught me off guard, so I looked down. And before I looked down I remembered how we lied with the ends of our hair touching and our eyes to the stars and if I closed my eyes I could hear you breathe the cold Oregon air. Then we were both fully aware that there was too much time, so I didn’t look up until we passed, and then I shifted my gaze to someone’s locker. And on their name label was a little cherry sticker. And you know I have some cherry print pajamas. But real cherries don’t have perfect white circles in the upper right corner. They’re dark red with bruises and yellow patches. Some people like maraschino cherries. Wwwell I don’t know if people really like them, but well... [resigned] well. But did you know that they make blue cherries? [Delighted] They’re the color of the crayons in my desk drawer. [The sadness of maraschino cherries hits her.] But they look fake. And they remind me that even red maraschino cherries are dyed. [Dramatically sad] And then I remember how the cherries from Oregon were bleached in calcium

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chloride, and the other day someone told me how maraschino cherries are flavored with almond. And so things that are cherry flavor are really almond flavor. And how can you say that something is cherry flavor if it’s really almond flavor?

I don’t shave my legs but [Changes mind about conjunction.] and and [Introspective, said to self, as if unaware she is saying it.] I can’t get out the words. [An earnest attempt, a true struggle.] I’m Vvuvv...

[She stares vacantly at a fixed point for a short while. Then “Dodge VegOMatic” begins to play softly.]

I don’t like this song. [Pained, tears are welling in her eyes, but she tries very hard to suppress this.] I hate its stupid album cover because I can’t tell if it’s a painting or a photograph or a pastel, and it hurts my brain at seven o’clock in the morning. [Recovering] So when I get a maraschino cherry in my shirley temple, I’ll eat it, and I might gag a little thinking about how it tastes like the medicine I took 35 and a half days ago when I had a cold, but then I’ll be okay.

Zoë Webb-Mack (’17)

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Untitled

Stella Gage (’17)

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