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(pwa-tem) AN ANTHOLOGY OF LITERATURE AND ART AT VCU
An anthology of literature and art
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pwatem (POICTESME) 1. A fictitious French province created by James Branch Cabell that serves as the setting of several of his fantasy novels. 2. Virginia Commonwealth University’s anthology of literature and art.
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Masthead EDITOR IN CHIEF EMILY FURLICH ASSISTANT EDITOR IN CHIEF CAROLINE MEYERS WEB MASTERS MADELINE DE MICHELE SECRETARY MARLON MCK AY ART DIRECTORS AVA BL AKESLEE- CARTER BOBBY MILLER EDITORIAL STAFF CALEB BEVERSTOCK LUKE CAMPBELL SOLEDAD GREEN ROL A HARB K ATE KHARKO NAOMI KLINE K ATIE NOWAK HOWMAN PAGOL A MICHAEL PRICE AMITA RAO ANYA SCZERZENIE ZOË WINSKY
ILLUSTRATORS K ARLY ANDERSEN NICOLE BROOKS K AYLEIGH CONROY MADELINE DE MICHELE ELLIE ERHART GRAY GIBSON ADELE INGEMAN K ATIE NOWAK MICHAEL PRICE DEVANY SOL ANKI NOAH THOMPSON GRAPHIC DESIGNER RYAN RICH STUDENT MEDIA DIRECTOR ALLISON BENNET T DYCHE CREATIVE MEDIA MANAGER MARK JEFFRIES BUSINESS MANAGER JACOB MCFADDEN ASST BUSINESS MANAGERS EMILY FURLICH DREW SALSBURY
The staff at Pwatem would like to give a special thanks to the VCU Student Media Center, the Student Media Commission Board, and Dale Smith. © 2019 Pwatem Literature and Art Journal VCU Student Media Center P.O. Box 842010 Richmond, VA 23284-2010 Everything in this book was created with the blood, sweat, and tears of VCU students and faculty, and funded by student fees. We accept submissions all year round from VCU students only. All styles are welcome. Submit your literature and art to pwatem.submittable.com. To see our online-only content, visit pwatem.com. Send us thoughts, questions, or concerns at pwatem@gmail.com.
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Editor's Note PWATEM GIVES ME PURPOSE. My staff and I strive to produce this journal so that we can represent what VCU undergraduates care about. We want Pwatem to be a publication that VCU students can see and feel themselves in. We would not be able to achieve this mission without our talented artists and writers who demonstrate the passion, creativity, and thoughtfulness that exists at VCU.
Thank you to the hardworking staff at the Student Media Center. Jacob McFadden grounds us in reality and pushes us to think bigger. Allison Bennett Dyche offers us her expertise and thoughtful advice. Mark Jeffries provides us with the creative vision that makes this publication a reality. Jon Carpenter broadcasts on WVCW our calls for submission and “Straight outta Pwatem.� Thank you Drew Salsbury, for answering my endless questions and for modeling what an exemplary editor in chief should be. Thank you to the student media organizations we have collaborated with, especially the co-editors of our sister journal, Amendment, Hallie Chametzky and Emily Henderson. Thank you to Dale Smith for soliciting submissions from English students and for his kind and measured words of encouragement. I am sad to leave Pwatem, but I am proud to contribute to its legacy by presenting the latest installation of our anthology. EMILY FURLICH
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Literature 3 5
8
ON WHAT LIES BENEATH THE SURFACE ANYA SCZERZENIE T WO STEP INTRUCTIONS FOR EXPERIENCING MY OLD BACKYARD RACHEL GRANT I AM YOUR BROTHER MALCOLM RICHARDSON
47
TALLEST PRESIDENT VINCENT MANGANO
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UNTITLED JENNIE PA JEROWSKI
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HAIR SELF- CARE RACHEL CARLSON
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IMPROVISATIONS FOR WATER PRESSURE SAMUEL MULL ANY
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VISITING PAKISTAN IMA AN SHAIKH
57
RAZOR AND RIZZO ENNIS MORRISSEY
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THE WITCH L ARA KOEBKE
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STONE LENSES MA X MOTMANS
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VIRGINIA GEORGIC C. JANE HAGEN
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SONG OF THE SHOEBUILDER NOEL ELIAS
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ACT 1 SCENE 1 CASSIE SHEEDY
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A LIFETIME ROL A HARB
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A WINTER'S NIGHT EL AINA RIDDELL
71
32
UNTITLED DIAMOND MANNING
I WAS TAUGHT THAT WOMEN ARE PRECIOUS IMA AN SHAIKH
75 34
LOVE WORDS FOR LAURA S. DAGMAR GREEN
IN THE LAND OF MY ANCESTORS SAIRA RAMOS
82 37
THE STRONGEST SWING SHE'S KNOWN SO FAR NOEL ELIAS
LIVE LIGHT. SPREAD LIGHT. BE LIGHT. DEL ANEY BURK
84 38
AUTOBIOGRAPHY ALLIE HOBACK
SWEET AND SALT Y JENNIFER LEE
89 40
LADY PARTS ELISE LESAGE
FIRST LESSON SETH WOODIES
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LET TERS FROM THE ARCTIC LINDA HAMRICK
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Art 2 PORTRAITS OF EXTRACTIONS NOEL ELIAS
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URBAN LEGENDS MADELINE DE MICHELLE
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SHE WILL VOTE K ALEIGH MACDONALD
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PEACE BYRON EDGE
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SHADOWED HEAP ASHLEY FIMBEL
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HOLY MACKEREL K AYLEIGH MACDONALD
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ONE ELLEN SHELLY
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STOP MOTION ANIMATION AVA BL AKESLEE- CARTER
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RAT CATCHERS EMMA RASHICH
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ORBIT NICOLE BROOKS
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MOON FISH K ARLY ANDERSEN
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YOUNG PHILOSOPHER ALEXZANE TAYLOR
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MEMORY DRIVE ABIGAIL BANNON
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INTUITIVE PHYSICS JOHN HUGGINS
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STAND X AVIER JONES
THICK SKIN ELL TREESE
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STONE GIANTS WILLIAM WOOD
WOMB MARISA STRAT TON
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UNTITLED SIERRA LEACH
SIDE BY SIDE X AVIER JONES
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I'VE BEEN MOURNING THE LOSS OF WATER LATELY (NALTREXONE O.5 MG) SARAH HUDSON
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THE AGED MOTHER SAMANTHA PANDOLFE
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UNDER THE ARCH ELL TREESE
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VIBRATIONS SETH WOODIES
36 41 42 44 50
VERMONT WILLIAM WOOD
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HE PLAY THE SA X INTO SPEED MODE KYLE GUILFORD
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DISCONNECT ALEXZANE TAYLOR
59
TO THE FINISH ALEXZANE TAYLOR
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AN EFFORTLESS DAY TIME INTO NIGHTIME LOOK L AUREL ALLEMAN
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PORTRAITS OF EXTRACTIONS NOEL ELIAS
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On What Lies Below the Surface ANYA SCZERZENIE
There are things in the sea, Things the life bloats out of, Things that turn into a feast for crabs, With eyes held on stalks, wide and iridescent, Things that fall, and are buried in the sand, Things with xylophone bones and floating entrails, Things that mix the sea with pink soup, With viscera and warm blood, Until the only things left are bones to tell the stories. There are things in the sea, Things in perpetual motion, Things with razor-scales held tight to their bodies, With sharp hooks for teeth, with ice-glob eyes, Things that can smell a pinprick of blood in the water, Things dark, dusky and cold, With barbed-wire bodies and frozen gills, Things with hooks and stings and tines and tentacles. There are things in the sea, Things the life has long gone from, Things green with the algae of another world, Rusted in place, gulped in by gravity, Things that dissolve to shreds in the icy water, Things that remain and turn to ghostly relics, With echoing signs of once-warm blood, Things that were ships and tankers and sailboats and planes. There are things in the sea, Things floating at the margins, Things dumped and left in the name of progress, Corner-of-the-eye mirages of oil slicks, Things that live in colored metal cases, Things rainbow, scratched, disc-fluorescent, With the spent husks of nuclear explosions, Things that were plastic and foam and metal and bone.
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PORTRAITS OF EXTRACTION 1 NOEL ELIAS
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Two Step Instructions for Experiencing My Old Backyard RACHEL GRANT
One From beneath the back porch there isn’t much to do, but look— at the thin fingers of light slicing through the slats in the wood overhead, like a spotlight for dust moats to dance through. Look at the earthworms rolling over in their graves, the slight rows of yellowed grass able to grow, fed off spills from the dog bowl, sprinkled with drops of paint here and there, waiting to be named like constellations. Two Crawl out into the light and you will find a mulberry glade, where any number of trees would happily drop their season’s blossoms on you with a single shake of the trunk. Blackbirds darting in and out of the thrushes, their shiny necks glistening rainbows as the berries fall like endless rain, falling right into the mouths of the birds, before they even hit the ground, before you even catch any in your outstretched hands. This is all now yours.
PORTRAITS OF EXTRACTIONS NOEL ELIAS
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PORTRAITS OF EXTRACTIONS NOEL ELIAS
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THE FOLLOWING IS A SERIES OF THREE POEMS CALLED “I AM YOUR BROTHER”
Consume Her MALCOLM RICHARDSON
Punch me in my face. Put me in my place. Degrade me. Enslave me. Rape my mother and my father too. Make me another one of your lovers you choose to debase after you’ve had your way. Kill my brother alone in his own home undercover of the night and the white of your skin. Take my gold and dip it in the ebony blood of my sisterland until her bones become brittle enough to bend and break. Paint her lips with lies and lust. Her body hangs heavy with strange fruit for you to take. Shake down. Eat the poison you have grown. Shove it down your throat. Feed until you bloat. Masticate. Masturbate. Taste her juices and her flesh too. Bite down on her bruises bursting with purplish pus. Swallow, no—choke down the brownish bits dripping from the noose wriggling around her neck like Medusa. She can’t see nor touch your heart of stone. Coat your reptant tongue with gobs of lust and lies. Guzzle and gulp until you’ve had your fill. Finish your meal. Climb upon your horse. Your fat ass cracks its back. It dies. The animal’s death drives your conscience ill. Our genocide forces no remorse.
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Sestina MALCOLM RICHARDSON
I feel something coming, you know? I don’t know when, I don’t know who will save us. They’ll probably be black though. Something needs to change without delay because now is the time. Doom is drawing near and close. The date and time have been disclosed but I’ve been told that no one knows when exactly that is. We forgot some time ago, probably after we forgot who our African ancestors were. I changed my mind. I know what it means to be black. It is more than simply skin as black as night for life. Your celestial mother holds you close to her bosom full of food and love. She never changes. There is one thing that I’ve always known: nothing surpasses her parental wisdom. Who am I to say who I will be if not myself ? This time I can’t forgive certain barbaric practices. In time I will know the unknown language of true black magic. Secrets unearthed shall show who will survive imminent judgement inching closer. My immortal appetite for carnal knowledge causes belching and silent flatulence. In exchange for peace, my innards coughed up spare change, chicken nuggets, and celibacy. Sometimes the design of a memory is mistaken. I know the Messiah’s return will earn us all a black eye. Intense swelling causes your eye to close up so you don golden spectacles. Go see who
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is at the door, my loving offspring. Anywho, back to work. I agreed to a shift change and slipped and shifted my paradigm. Know that guy with the nocturnal urges? His pastime injured innocent intimacy. Turbulent black waters wave breastfed children to shore. I know you want to learn who I am. I told you, more time. There’s no way to change back into a black robe tightly closed. I feel like you already know. and slipped and shifted my paradigm. Know that guy with the nocturnal urges? His pastime injured innocent intimacy. Turbulent black waters wave breastfed children to shore. I know you want to learn who I am. I told you, more time. There’s no way to change back into a black robe tightly closed. I feel like you already know.
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sing a song of romanticization MALCOLM RICHARDSON
thank you and you’re welcome to the messes of my mind the questions keep on pressing and collecting over time the answer (well, i’m guessing) isn’t hidden in this rhyme the answer might be hidden in the rhythms of our lives the meter keeps repeating now i’m meeting you again the tune must be reminding me of something that I read the melody is pleasing so it’s easy to pretend that these words i’ve never heard of have been burned into my head pwatem 11
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SHE WILL VOTE K AYLEIGH MACDONALD
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Visiting Pakistan, as an American IMA AN SHAIKH
In the streets of Lahore, the ancient city that gave me my bones and my blood, the air is dust, and the people are smoke billowing down busy roads unfearing, their motorbikes crumbling beneath them leaving a trail of dying embers in their wake, and wherever they go color follows them like a dog, like the bruised scrawny dogs that followed my family in the spice market, color follows them, and it saturates the air around their bodies, pungent like the smell of the spices at the market square, pervasive like the white-eyed leer of vendors watching my female cousins shuffle past as the wiry hairs on their upper lips twitch, color follows the people like a hound of hell, and it sets their clothes ablaze with pigment and sequined patterns, and it is so potent that it stains the sky and turns the world yellow, a heady yellow like turmeric, that smolders at the horizon every morning and smudges into saffron powder every evening, and by that time in Lahore, in the ancient city of my father’s father, my uncles have begun to nurse on hookah hoses, the heavy grey clouds of tobacco rolling off their tongues as they play card games on the veranda, and my aunts will bathe alone in the colors of the spice market that followed them home.
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SHADOWED HEAP ASHLEY FIMBEL
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The Witch L ARA KOEBKE
I called it magic, my father called it witchcraft, laughingly, mocking my wand of twigs and muddy feet one summer day. I sat in anger at the kitchen table when the window panes began to rattle. I called upon the frogs and the pollen and the rocks to fall upon the porch step and curse him, make him take back every word. I swore for every worm and every salamander and every pig skeleton to rise up and bite him, taste him to know his flavor and strangle him. I screamed my incantations, revelating for the day that I would smite him— and all fell silent. I sat at the kitchen table, with a plate of scrambled eggs. Elsewhere in the house, I heard my father cough.
ONE ELLEN SHELLY
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Virginia Georgic C. JANE HAGEN
Hügelkultur: mound or hill culture, a method of permaculture gardening in which a raised bed is constructed of forest detritus and logs built into a hill shape to retain moisture and reuse the nutrients from the composting materials contained within. Lay down a thick layer of straw, running east to west to keep out weeds, to keep everything else in. Now roll the logs on top of that bed, stacked high end to end and find twigs to fill each of the spaces left between. Cover with last year’s compost, building vertically, making north and south sides different altogether, embracing and rejecting the sun simultaneously. Plant lavender in those full rays and it will turn the day’s light purple and green; put mint in the shadow left behind and leave it be, waiting to overgrow. At five years it will be time to disassemble, to rebuild; dig down through old roots and find the logs gone, having given everything borrowed back to the soil and cycle. Make a pile of the little that’s left, of the woody roots and scraps that are past their use. Burn this and leave the ashes be. Build your garden here again and wonder What would that feel like—giving each of one’s own cells to the land? How is it going to feel—if it can even be felt the way we feel—to join in with that rhythm? When I find out, that’s how I’d like to do it day by day becoming lavender and mint, becoming honey and soil, becoming less and less whole and disconnected. 18 pwatem
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ILLUSTRATION FOR THIS POEM K ATIE NOWAK
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Act 1 Scene 1 CASSIE SHEEDY
CAST OF CHARACTERS SCISSORS Woman in her late thirties. Her actions are of suspect. SON Non-binary person in their twenties or thirties. They are a graduate student (the degree undisclosed). SECURITY Man in his fifties or older. Security guard and the father of son, though both of these may be disputed. Act 1 Scene 1 LIGHTS UP SCISSORS stands over a wooden table in the center of the stage. A wooden chair is pulled out beside her. In one hand she holds a large pair of scissors, in her other hand she holds a sheet of newsprint. On the table are more cutting tools—a box cutter, rotary blade, a variety of knives and shears. Beside these is a large stack of newsprint, the sheets about tabloid size and the stack as thick as a fist. SCISSORS cuts the newsprint into strips. She does not slide the scissors forward, rather she steps through with each cut. Each strip falls freely, she grabs another sheet, and another… She is consumed by the task. SECURITY enters in full uniform, all but his left shoe. He speaks with confidence. Have you seen my boot?
SECURITY
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SCISSORS
Which?
SECURITY
The left one.
SCISSORS
Oh.
SCISSORS continues with her cuts. SECURITY glances around the stage without leaving his spot. SECURITY It is worn in, in the sole and toe. You can tell when I walk. SCISSORS I should know it when I see it, then. SECURITY Yes. It is very worn. I did it myself, they were given to me new. Still in a box. I put my old shoes inside, as you do. I don’t remember who gave them to me… It has been so long. Which is why it is so worn. Yes! So you have seen it? I believe I may have.
SCISSORS SECURITY SCISSORS
(beat) I will tell you if I see it again. SECURITY Yes, please do that. I should expect you too, but I find comfort that you have said it outright. (pause) May I do anything for you?
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I have nothing I need.
SCISSORS
SECURITY So do I. I have things, things that go with those things. My desk requires my chair, my milk requires my glass. I have all of these things, but I have nothing I need. You don’t have your boot.
SCISSORS
SECURITY Which is the thing I need. My sock requires my boot. SECURITY pauses, realizing a solution. He takes a seat on the chair beside SCISSORS. Bending forward, he unlaces his boot to remove it, then his socks. He places these on the stack of strips. No laces, either. You don’t need them.
SECURITY SCISSORS SECURITY
Isn’t it refreshing? Useless things. (he leans towards SCISSORS, energized) You can’t sell me on anything. I am only pairs. I am an even number. Try, try and sell me something. SCISSORS (with hesitation) But you said that is impossible. SECURITY You may prove me wrong. I dare— SON enters wearing a backpack. SECURITY stands.
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Son! Take those off.
SECURITY SON looks at SECURITY— moves to take off their pants. SECURITY
Your boots! Your socks. Your legs need your pants. I thought so. I do not want to.
SCISSORS SON
(to SECURITY)
SECURITY You will, though. When you’re older. (to SCISSORS) This is my son. I am not your son.
SON
SECURITY Rebellious teen. Look at your size and stature. Your hair color. We are meant to be. I’m sorry, I have a father.
SON SECURITY takes a seat once again and covers his eyes and ears, shouting.
Don’t say it! Don’t say it.
SECURITY SON hops up onto the edge of the table, making a mess of SCISSORS’ paper strips.
It’s his birthday.
SON
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SCISSORS
How old?
SON makes a glance at SECURITY. They look back at SCISSORS and hold up their fingers in numbers, changing them a few times to imply addition. SCISSORS does not look up from the task. When SON is finished, they look back at SECURITY to find he still has his ears and eyes covered and closed. SON
I don’t think he knows.
SCISSORS
Should we tell him?
SON Probably, but I doubt we will have any luck. I tried to tell him the other day but he did not hear. He has bad hearing. (beat) Well, he has never told me he has bad hearing, but one can infer. There is a pause between the two. SECURITY still has his hands over his ears. You could throw a party.
SCISSORS
SON The amount of work that would be… Besides, his birthday is today. I have no supplies, no guests. It would be a disappointing surprise.
SCISSORS
SON I wish you would have suggested it earlier. I could tell him it is a birthday party, but he would never believe me. He probably couldn’t even hear me. (SON groans) This happens every year, and I have known him so many.
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SCISSORS
So he is your father.
SON
No, not quite.
(beat) He is a strange person to know. I can’t say what it is I feel. (beat) He’s such a lonely man. When we are together he can’t be, can’t be lonely, I mean. I pity him, I guess. He has me following him around. (they gesture to SECURITY to prove their point) Here I am, never alone. But he says I never should be, should be alone, I mean. SCISSORS So you are not alone, neither is he. All is well. SON takes a moment to think this all through. I will understand when I am older.
SCISSORS
You sound like him. He would be pleased to know. Help me?
SON
SON SON
SCISSORS puts down the scissors and steps behind SECURITY. She takes hold of both of his hands, gently pulling them away from his ears. SON puts their palm on SECURITY’s forehead and nudges it back to prod his eyes open. Once open, SON hands SECURITY the paper. Realizing his hands are occupied, SON places it on his lap. SECURITY is shocked, afraid. SECURITY What is this? Son? What is this? What is this?
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SCISSORS leaps back in fear at SECURITY’s shouts, dropping his hands and regretting her involvement. She proceeds with caution. SCISSORS
It is for you.
SON
Happy Birthday.
SECURITY
No! It is your birthday, they told me.
SCISSORS
SECURITY I am at peace! Get this thing away, get it out. I do not need it and if I do, I do not know why! Remove it. Destroy it, son. SON pulls the paper from SECURITY’S lap. They walk to the table and use the box cutter to cut the paper into strips. As they do this, SECURITY stands and pushes in the chair, readjusting after his fit. SCISSORS watches SON with interest. She organizes the strips and remaining sheets of paper into a pile, collecting SON’s strips as they fall. I feel so fine. I don’t need a thing. (SECURITY looks to SON, who is still cutting the page.) I’m sorry son, but father knows best! And I have no idea what that thing is. SCISSORS finishes organizing. The table’s center is filled with the stack of paper and strips, topped with SECURITY’s shoe and socks. I am done. With what?
SCISSORS SON
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Finished.
SECURITY (correcting) SCISSORS
Have a happy birthday.
SECURITY
Goodbye.
SON What have you done? What are you doing? SCISSORS quickly exits stage left, leaving SECURITY and SON. When will you be home tonight? Who was that? A friend of yours. No? Yes.
SECURITY SON SECURITY SON SECURITY
(pause—SECURITY motions to the table and pile) You may have it all. Be home by nine. SECURITY exits stage right. SON watches him go, then goes to the table. They sift through the pile taking a long moment with the boot, turning it over, rubbing the sole. They stuff the socks inside and throw the shoe over their shoulder, holding the shoelace.
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While they are doing this, SCISSORS secretly enters stage left. She watches SON. SON puts the rest of the pile into their backpack. SON exits stage right. SCISSORS watches them go. LIGHTS DOWN
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RAT CATCHERS EMMA RASHICH
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A Winter’s Night EL AINA RIDDELL
There is something magical about opening a door and entering a winter’s night. The cold is such a shock that it slaps me in the face. Each inhale feels as if someone is scrubbing my respiratory system clean with steel wool. I like the way it scratches. Each exhale puffs out little clouds of carbon dioxide and I feel cool like a kid smoking a stolen cig, who can blow out the smoke without coughing. I smile to myself, pulling at the chapped skin on my lips and splitting the smile that splits my face. I wander deeper into the nocturnal wonderland, closer towards the city’s nightlights I can feel the worn treads of my sneakers scrape against the frozen cobblestone. I had always been told that it is smart to bundle up but I just want to feel the cold air against my skin. I trudge through the snow, soak my shoes, and make a swamp out of my soul. The night steals the heat from my hands and makes their skin shrivel. But I do not mind sharing. At first glance, the path in front of me is a flatline. But I stumble and trip, heartbeat skips, then pick back up again. Bits and pieces of the world are poking through but all the harshness of the day is softened by navy and black shadows. Maybe the fact that I can’t see is what makes these nights more special to me. I am on the top floor of an empty parking deck. The sky is a jewelry store and the stars are the diamonds. I am the poor woman outside the window, desperately wanting to be let in close enough to admire the beauty but never allowed to touch. The world is a stadium, the sky is the seats, everyone in the audience has their lighters out, and I am on the stage. I can feel thousands of tiny eyes looking down at me. I want to get closer to them, become a part of them, crowd surf. The sky is a sea full of stars and the roads below me are rivers of cars that sparkle, too, but in a more mechanical way.
MOON FISH K ARLY ANDERSEN
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untitled DIAMOND MANNING
your hands are chains i have never wished to break free from. they hold me firmly yet i couldn’t dream of being let go. your fingers glide slowly over every curve of my body and every corner of my mind; fingertips dancing about like pristine ballerinas—as if i could possibly be equated to the brilliance of a stage. your mouth is a garden—beautiful words always blossoming from it, dandelion-soft kisses planted on my soul in places i didn’t know needed love. every vivid aspect of your being elicits fields and fields of tranquility in my own—a calm like summer air. and your heart—a steady “thump, thump, thump” that drowns out my hummingbird beats and redefines my pulse lines. how a heart can be so full of love, i will never know. anatomy says that it should be close to bursting. but then again—thanks to you—so should my own.
MEMORY DRIVE 400 ABIGAIL BANNON
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Love Words for Laura S. DAGMAR GREEN
Eat me, drink me, love me Laura, make much of me! Won’t you come to know me? I want You To show me How you get on So we can take off Go way up high… Laura, did you know that people can fly? Oh, baby (And you are my baby Girl Aren’t you?) I want you to tow me Away from this means Of subsistence. Won’t you Brush this hair away from my head? I’d like to clear the air Out from under my bed. Look me in the eye Don’t avoid me. Love words are a lie Fill this void See Humanoid glee That passes quick From me To you.
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Based on some love That is true Based on some love Quick from me To you Tell me, Laura What could I do When you left at the end of the night Without your shoe? Lady, I’ve been looking All over For you. Can you Tell me This one thing Is it true? Do you do like they say That you do? I’ve been having trouble sleeping, and they told me that you You know what to do.
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the strongest swing she’s known so far NOEL ELIAS
kite flyer is running straddling the rope on her right shoulder when she sees a girl who looks like the one she’s been keeping in the left drawer in her forehead thinking she may know her she waves her hand it was the girl with curls and twists in her smile everyone used to call her curly while they were dancing in mulch kite flyer goes closer to curly but curly’s eyes drag across only to graze kite flyer’s cheek bone heading straight towards the rocky path behind her figure kite flyer remembers the day they rode on ladybugs who were pretending to be horses and drank the grass they had walked on in tea cups she remembers the swing that had perhaps held them both or perhaps it was two swings too close to notice their separation either way their feet were always the same distance from the sky when they flew up and the ground only ever understood their weight together she comes closer she tells her I can feel the winds of our swinging trying to wrap around us both
INTUITIVE PHYSICS JOHN HUGGINS
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Autobiography DAMARA SPARKS
Dermot Kennedy makes me cry and I don’t really know how to be pretty, and that’s okay because I don’t need to be, but it’d be nice to be, sometimes. I found the music today, and usually it’s all I have, and usually I’m okay with that. I met her at that concert with that band, she looked at me during those lyrics, and I think it’d be nice to be pretty, sometimes. Let me tell you about the time I felt so much like a ghost that I started phasing through the floor, and before I knew it, the ground and I were making love. It didn’t last long enough for me to get to the middle of the earth, but I would tell you about it if it did. I don’t know how to make friends. Sometimes I pretend I can fly just to make sure I can’t, and then I get sad because not-flying is like torture, and I want to swallow the sky whole. Sometimes I think I’m running out of words, and then I’m not, I never am, but sometimes it feels real. I could tell you more about the quiet, but that wouldn’t be a story. Just a reminder.
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I’ve been talking to myself in the mornings, as if I need to remember how to form the music under the tongue, behind the teeth. I think I’d like to be pretty, but I think my un-pretty makes me interesting. I told you about the sky, so let me draw a sonnet for the ground, for all the times I’ve laid myself on her just to feel solid again. That’s funny because the guess would be that solidity is the constant state of me, but it’s funny because that’s wrong. I feel too gaseous, maybe too plasmic. I’m too nice for my own good, and I’ve forgiven beyond words, but I will say that my heart is big and soft, and so am I, and I don’t need to be pretty because that will never be the best thing about me. But still, I think it’d be nice to be, maybe even just once.
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Lady Parts ELISE LE SAGE
Her name is Deborah and she is a bitch the other week texted her: Is this Deb from stat? Yeah, who is this? Tony (image attached) sent a picture of my well it was just the idea of her face her chubby pinkish lips curling; nose, crinkled; eyes—oh, god, the eyes— slit more than anything, I mean, the idea of her, more than anything, made me want to and she didn’t text back, the whore, the bitch, bet she knows it’s the worst way she could have reacted. I imagine taking her out to dinner. I imagine taking her from behind. Imagine the noise she would make when God damn Deborah, my heart is wrapped up in your hair I want your eyes in my pocket like marbles I want them in my pocket so I can roll them around the grooves of my hand at parties I want, I want, all I’ve ever wanted was your goddamn attention I’m sulking alone at night, some Shakespeare shit the bastard moon gapes with his bastard moon face, lonely as I am but with a better excuse her teeth are the color of stars no that’s not right of chewing gum wrappers, of florescent light
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last night I dreamt of killing her, but it had a happy ending the dream I mean she sat upright like Dracula, popping from his tomb, she said “I love you like I love music. I love movies I love going to the store” and she prattled on like that, my darling, until I kissed her. They say winners never quit. Her name is Deborah and she’ll know my name soon.
THICK SKIN ELL TREESE
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WOMB MARISA STRAT TON
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Letters from the Arctic LINDA HAMRICK
R., Where are the dogwoods blooming? I suppose your flowers spread south, down the spine of the Shenandoah. My birch trees ache with spring: I want to give to you my lakes— they fill with more water daily, more than the body needs. I want your tongue to drink in the richness, while your petals reach my shore
NEXT PAGE SIDE BY SIDE X AVIER JONES
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tallest president VINCENT MANGANO
let those 193 centimeters steal your breath, let them sew it into his sleeves, an embellishment, a living cufflink. and when he shows you this air that you created, let him call it his own, as you naturally selected him to reach those hard-to-get-to shelves and place all your belongings beside his like trophies in a guest room. once he handed me crumpled paper, yellowing at the edges, it smelled nothing like him but i held it above my lip as if it did, and cried exactly like a child, forgetting how to breathe but not how to wail. let the length of his arms be a blanket, his bending nape a bedpost, and let him knit scarves of your words because the harshest Illinois winter means nothing when your truths are spoken for you.
ILLUSTRATION FOR THIS POEM ADELE INGLEMAN
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untitled JENNIE PA JEROWSKI
skin to skin skin to skin skin to skin i want to be soft as a lover. want to be like water on my lover’s skin i want to love like a queer hold my lover close & ask questions & listen ask what they want tell them what i want let our wants reach out & fumble against each other because our wants are what make us i want to be free & know who i am even as the knowing changes i am still here loving & wanting & trying messy & queer & sure i want my lovers to see me i want my lovers to know me i want to see them i want everyone i love to let me see them & know that i see them & know that i am still here seeing you & loving you i want us to see each other. i want us to see each other & ourselves & what’s in between us i want what’s in between us not to be a mystery. i want us to be able to jump in & look at it
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& say, “here, this is how I feel,” & “here, these are the ways we communicate.” i don’t want it to be magical or ethereal. i want it to be a sandbox we play in together, or an archaeological dig. i want to touch i want to be with you my skin against your skin knowing you seeing you standing with you holding you i think i am done being dreamy for a while. i feel real i feel the weight of my body against the ground i see the people i love & the ways they support me & the ways they hurt me & it is all very, very real. & i think as long as i can see it i can handle it & i can make something of it
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UNTITLED  CHIYO TOKIZAWA
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VERMONT WILLIAM WOOD
HE PLAY THE SA X INTO SPEED MODE KYLE GUILFORD
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hair self-care RACHEL CARLSON
i think about her thinking about her, i think about the summer and the dreams, about waking up and being mad at myself, confused with myself, i did not want to be myself. i think about 10 years long. i think about losing my hair, a strand at a time or a slice at the base, losing my hair one way or another at the hands of one or some others. i think about us doing it together, a day apart, photos of hair on the floor, my hair in a ponytail on the floor, her hair in her hands falling to the floor. i think of her in the air, again and again. i think of getting her tattoo, again and again. i came home and found her hung on my wall. i came home and found her in the kinks in my hair. i think about her curls and my frizz, i used to blow dry my hair, i don’t know if she knows this. i draw the line like they do in books, before her, after her. i think about her thinking about her, why are we texting instead of sexting? i think about the language, the terminology. cutting is too quick. pulling is power. there is no satisfaction in cutting off everything at once. i pull a hair out after the lecture, she talks about how people used to have lockets but instead of family photos, photos of their lover’s eye, she says she wants that.
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i pull a hair out after i talk to her, we talk about shitty teachers and great teachers and birth control and shitty ex-boyfriends. i pull a hair out in my bed, my clothes from the day thrown in the hamper hours ago, i talked to my friends about her hours ago. i have not cut my hair since months ago.
ILLUSTRATION FOR THIS POEM MADELINE DE MICHELE
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Improvisations for water pressure and human body 1 SAMUEL MULL ANY
Take a shower. Water falling off the body becomes percussion2 on the shower floor. A rhythm is created, to which you are already dancing.
1 In tune with the everlasting involuntary movement of things 2 A performance that made music for dinner: The sound of the gong boomed outward, turning away into a high splash of an elongated metal that grew to encompass the seated audience. Turning higher still, the metal ring of sound left the air and continued its life as tingling on the surface of the skin. Hair retreating into the air around the body, synchronous with the developing absence of outward booming. The performer revealed to the audience a latent potential inside objects. The rhythm leaked out of the room into the world like a book—where the reader becomes so involved in an alternate reality that it affects their own. After the performance, I walked home and made pasta. The pans and utensils created a silly encore that played along to the memory of those gongs, and cooking dinner in the salted steam was the halfway point between eating and listening
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ILLUSTRATION FOR THIS POEM NOAH THOMPSON
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DISCONNECT ALEXZANE TAYLOR
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Razor and Rizzo ENNIS MORRISSEY
Hal “Razor” Redstone had not felt small in a long time. He shifted his weight back and forth, if only for something to do. Jackie’s carpet had probably been soft once, but its best days were behind it. His hands shook a little. They weren’t meant to. He played strings, his hands were always steady. Guitarists either played like surgeons or they played with their tongue, his dad always said. His dad was wrong, of course, and didn’t play anything, but bad advice liked to lurk somewhere in the back of Hal’s head for these sorts of moments––standing in Jackie Rizzo’s apartment, watching her read, a little dizzy and a lot nauseous. He was staring at the shoe rack by the door, at the boots he’d kicked off in a hurry. The longer he watched, the more he regretted it. They were big shoes. Hal Redstone was a tall man and Razor Redstone was even taller, tall enough for upright bass, with long limbs and sturdy bones. He wasn’t supposed to believe in feeling unwelcome. He was coming up on five years with Jackie; he knew every inch of the place. The faint red stains on the coffee table were his fault; Jackie would never keep red wine around if not for him. She looked up, finally, and asked, “Were you planning on standing there all night?” as if Hal was acting strange. He was, of course. He knew he was. This was the third time he’d tried to have this conversation and the third time he very desperately did not want to. Jackie Rizzo lived in a shoebox because she thought that roommates were unprofessional for A Goddam Attorney with Health Insurance and a Christmas Bonus. She’d never decorated it because she was a workaholic and Hal hadn’t either because she wouldn’t let him. Jackie Rizzo was impressive. She was stubborn, she had terrible priorities, and she was always just as scary as she needed to be. Usually, she intended it. This time, she did not. She did, however, shrug, return to the tablet balanced on her knees, and make a “come here” gesture with her hand. Hal did not. Hal, because it was probably rude to keep looking at the shoes, looked just to the right of Jackie’s head instead. Her couch was blue. He was there when she bought it. “Yeah, I ...” Razor Redstone was an important local figure. His band played the museum café every Thursday night. Hal Redstone was taking up too much space. The carpet was white and the walls were cream and it was 7 o’clock but the sun hadn’t set yet. He couldn’t find the end of his sentence, so he started again. “Jackie, I messed up. I’m so sorry, I thought it wasn’t a big deal and then I kept thinking about it and the longer I thought about it the worse it was ...” He
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was getting all of this backwards. Jackie’s spine was straight but he couldn’t tell what her face was doing. This did not help because he could usually tell what her face was doing. “I was playing poker with Danny and his drummer friends, and I lost, and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have ...” She interrupted him, damage control face and hard, flat syllables and Hal had been here before, “Are you going to be okay? How much did you lose?” Hal told her no, it was cash only, he’s fine, but he lost her picture and her number to some guy Danny met back in Iowa, he’s so sorry. He never learned how to make these scenes go right, so he knelt on the ground in front of her and just kept talking while she stared. Jackie Rizzo realized, somewhat abruptly, that she’d never seen her boyfriend really scared before. Hal was big and kind and talented, but he was really just a hard worker and a little bit of a pushover, just enough to tolerate her. Danny from his band called them “Razor and Rizzo” because he thought it made them sound like the co-leads of a successful NBC procedural. Jackie thought it sounded more like a ventriloquist act, but she tolerated it anyway because she liked Hal and she liked his friends, even when they were stupid. When they’d all first met, the band had pulled her into a series of unprompted, vaguely threatening conversations that all ended with “and don’t tell Razor about this.” They, now, unfortunately, made perfect sense. She wished, also abruptly, that her apartment didn’t look like a hotel room. She didn’t want this to be an important conversation in a hotel room. Everything Jackie had ever done in a hotel room felt compartmentalized. It usually suited her fine. This, for once, did not. “Hal, I’m not a Pokémon. What did this guy think, he wins a piece of paper off you and I’m along for the ride? It was a weird bet. Some guy wanted a copy of that graduation picture you like too much. You didn’t set off an apocalypse. Just try not to play poker with douchebags.” He looked confused. She took his hand and refused to change her tone. “Never mind, only douchebags play poker. I’d stick to douchebags you actually like, though. Will you make pasta? I can do the salad. Andy from work is still on her gardening kick; she gave us all cucumbers.” Hal was still on the floor. He looked confused. Jackie didn’t like it and refused to acknowledge it, because it was not an acceptable feeling and if she thought too hard about it or whatever it was that convinced him it was reasonable, she would be very angry. She stood up, instead, and walked exactly three feet to her kitchen, “Hal Redstone, you’re a good person, I love you, and you need a therapist. Nothing else is going to happen.” Eventually, he’d probably believe her. Until then, she’d talk about salad.
TO THE FINISH ALEXZANE TAYLOR
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URBAN LEGENDS MADELINE DE MICHELLE
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Stone Lenses MA X MOTMANS
why would I wipe away the fingerprints from my murky lens? through these soft smudges halos grow golden around the homeless hallows warm under the west side highway they hide the details of pulsing poison tree frog colored product promotions but oil obstructs white clouds making gray on city streets producing urine and smoke and through my fingerprints I looked into the black sky in the suburbs one grass smelling night for the two million year old tapestry sprawled out since a piece of rock smashed with love became a hammer
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PEACE BYRON EDGE
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song of the shoebuilder NOEL ELIAS
shoebuilder sits on the cement block between the two year old banana peel and the fig tree always mistaken for a giant the banana peel is beginning to carve itself into the sidewalk it only took it two years it was waiting for shoebuilder shoebuilder asked banana peel this morning can we drink the concrete together? banana peel began carving two years ago fig tree was shoebuilder’s same height then fig tree began growing shoebuilder asked fig tree will you come back down to me? fig tree kept growing the cement block shoebuilder sits on carries one square hole for their shoe another for their footprint the first is called doorman the second stranger shoebuilder always tells me nothing has ever fit me this nicely when I go I would like to be buried beneath concrete have them shape it like a bed have the children jump on it as they pretend they’re not fearful
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HOLY MACKEREL K AYLEIGH MCDONALD
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STAND X AVIER JONES
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STOP MOTION ANIMATION AVA BL AKESLEE- CARTER
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A Lifetime ROL A HARB
Praise warfare. Praise burned tires and airplane drops. Praise the metal beds on escape ships to Cyprus. Praise the American Passport. Praise MREs and resilience. Praise foreign families. Praise modern transportation and the fortunate. Praise BWI Airport. Praise lost bodies. Praise the dense air of the airplane hangars in Abu Dhabi. Praise British colonialism. Praise gas companies and their rich Arab rulers. Praise my father’s patience. Praise missed friendships. Praise little girls. Praise gray buildings and stone floors. Praise sandy beaches and entrance fees. Praise the tan skin and pale bodies. Praise the smell of rose in my grandmother’s closet. Praise the morning crow of the neighbor’s rooster. Praise the mosquitoes, flies, and gnats. Praise the stray cats and dogs and the domestic dogs and cats. Praise the overflowing file boxes, their wills and ripped documents. Praise loud voices and pride. Praise wrinkly hands and muffled voices. Praise the wooden spoon and slap on the mouth. Praise the empty warnings and warm curse words. Praise the blood and body. Praise Saturday phone calls and recipe books. Praise freezers of coffee and nuts. Praise hot kitchens and floury tabletops. Praise open windows. Praise the hair on the carpets and dust on coffee tables. Praise domestic sounds and resting eyes. Praise old blankets and couch cuddles. Praise the family body. Praise appointments to make your mother happy. Praise family clinics and your father’s insurance. Praise big bones. Praise the scale. Praise Breyers ice cream, Sweet Frog, Cold Stone, Baskin Robbins. Praise lactose intolerance. Praise toilet bowls and the back of your throat. Praise blood tests. Praise back and neck pain. Praise a thic body. Praise the immigrant and their skills. Praise the art of the essay. Praise the gradebook. Praise the busy library and coffee stains. Praise old books and new books. Praise old souls and new bodies. Praise the smell of stale weed as I unlock my front door. Praise the never-ending tick of every clock in existence. Praise the resounding click of my closing bedroom door. Praise echoing laughter from up the stairs. Praise dusty floors and clean sheets. Praise their warmth and comfort. Praise the bruised body. 68 pwatem
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ORBIT NICOLE BROOKS
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I Was Taught That Women Are Precious IMA AN SHAIKH
My mother holds my hand as we walk. She carries three decades on her back. Mama, does it ever get heavy? This is a woman’s duty, she says. I feel her arms shake. Mama, do you ever regret it? My family is my life, she says. I see her knees buckle. Mama, can’t you put it down? Your father takes care of me, she says. I hear her spine crack.
YOUNG PHILOSOPHER ALEXZANE TAYLOR
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AN EFFORTLESS DAY TIME TO NIGHTIME LOOK L AUREL ALLEMAN
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STAND X AVIER JONES
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STONE GIANTS WILLIAM WOOD
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in the land of my ancestors SAIRA RAMOS
At my half uncle’s granddaughter’s quinceañera, I realize my identity as a Mexican American woman is fragile at best. Lesly swirls around in her poofy red dress with her bright red stilettos while the banda music pulses and sensory overload overtakes me. It is all so much. Her damas and chambelanes do some sort of synchronized dance while she dances with her father, the crowning moment of every quince. Her father, red faced from the chelas he had been downing at the bar, is crying. My own father rolls his eyes at this intense display of emotion. This quince is a bust. Albuquerque is surrounded by mountains, it looks unreal and gorgeous. The air is dry and full of Spanish. It feels right to be here. The houses look just like the ones in Chihuahua. You can only tell you’re in the US because of the sudden flocks of white people with binoculars and maps ooohing and ahhing at the adobe halls where teens from 4th generation Mexican American families wait for their time to clock out of their shitty souvenir shop job. People look like you and your family. Old men wear tejanas and huge belt buckles. Just another day in the old country. Weeks before, my mother gets an invitation for a quinceañera. It’s no ordinary quince, it’s for the granddaughter of her half-brother. My mother saw them all years ago at her half-sister’s funeral, her half-brother even went to her and my father’s wedding. I’ve never met them so my brother and I roll our eyes when she refers to that side of the family as our “cousins,” as if they’re fully related to us. We never see them! They’re not even related to us, they’re not family! We tell her whenever she gives us a short story about a “cousin.” The whole affair is on Labor Day weekend and my mother racked up some frequent flier miles, so we’re finally going to meet them. Friday night when we land in Albuquerque, the entire place is so bizarre to us. We’ve been to New Mexico before, on countless drives to my dad’s hometown in Mexico, Chihuahua, but we never spent any real time in the area. The airport is gaudy, full of turquoise and Native American imagery. My dad thinks it’s “a nice little airport.” He’s impressed. My brother and I are more amused than anything. Stepping outside the airport, we see how pretty the weird desert city is. My cousin Paty sends my mom a Facebook message while we’re out to dinner—she says we should come over and meet everyone before the big festivity tomorrow. My brother grimaces when my mother tells us we’re going to meet the entire family that night. I feel jet lagged and not into it but at least we’ll get
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some more food out of it. We pull up outside a small one story house. Bad news—there’s a gaggle of small children outside screaming and dancing. Norteño music is blasting from some speakers. There’s men out drinking Bud Lights. A typical big Mexican family party. My dad looks nervous and ducks, despite being in the driver’s seat. An air of anxiety fills the rental car; we don’t do so well with crowds. My dad says to my mom, “they’re your family, you gotta go out first.” She looks uncomfortable. I’ve never seen my own parents reluctant to be adults, they’re like awkward teenagers. As soon as we step out to meet everyone, Spanish is hurled at me like small Molotov cocktails. I stumble and stutter in a language I rarely speak anymore. My tía Paty asks me a question and my brain shuts off. My brother, Arman, whose Spanish is worse than mine has to answer for me. “What the fuck, Saira!” he grumbles when Tía Paty leaves us alone. Everyone is speaking in Spanish, even sibling to sibling conversation is in Spanish. The friends of the quince girl are all blabbering in Spanish. I’ve never seen so many Chicanos speak Spanish willingly. In Mexico, my dad would tell Arman and me not to speak English to each other so we won’t stick out, but we would ignore him. English is what your cool cousins who listen to the Misfits speak, your cousins who wear big hats and pointy shoes speak Spanish. You speak Spanish to your abuelos who have more than 20 grandchildren (Do they even remember you?). Spanish is the old country. We meet my tío Pedro and he can’t even walk anymore. Tío Pedro looks like my abuelito—his voice is soft and he wears coke bottle glasses. He is very confused when my mother says I’m her “hija mayor.” “Isn’t the other one older?” he grumbles, referring to my high school aged younger brother. My cousin from across the room peers at my tattoos, “are those real?” she questions. I nod and she looks very impressed. When we sit in the backyard to eat, there’s a rusted out lowrider and two sad dogs chained to the fence. Random kids play soccer while their dads toss back cans of Bud Light. My half tíos and cousins attempt to get to know my family. They’re amazed at how far away we live and that Washington, D.C., is 30 minutes away from my parents’ house. Everyone’s mostly impressed with how tall my brother and dad are—they’re 5’11" and 6’ respectively. My mom mentions that he’s going to college soon—more oohs and ahhs—is he the first to go to school? “No, my daughter’s in university!” my mom tells them proudly. “Where?” asks my tío Edy. “Virginia Commonwealth University...in Richmond,” I reply. He scratches his head, “never heard of it.” Someone asks what I study. I think about it and with hesitation in my voice tell them, “I’m an English major...I study...uhh
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books.” I wasn’t sure how to explain it in Spanish and their faces scrunched up as soon as I say “Inglés,” so I had to improvise. My tío Edy sucks his teeth in and says, “Ah...that’s boring.” I stay quiet, gnawing on my quesadilla with the world’s spiciest green chile in it. My parents can feel at ease—they feel at home even with super traditional family members. Arman and I, hailing from the Northern Virginia suburbs, feel uncomfortable. There’s so many specific social cues and learned behaviors. If you use a certain grammar tense, it can make your parents look bad. We never hung out with super traditional Mexicans really, only with our dad’s Central American friends and both sides of our family couldn’t exactly fit the bill. The Torres side of the family, my mother’s side, are all awkward and angry to be around each other. Every family function that happened in Houston or Woodbridge would have a divide. The tíos would drink beers and wine, slowly getting angrier with each other. The cousins would scoop Arman and I up so they could show us terrible shows on Adult Swim or force us to listen to their weird music. A generational and cultural divide. It doesn’t help that my mom and her siblings had a tumultuous childhood—there were no family gatherings like a Carmen Garza painting. My tía Mari beat up random neighborhood girls and my tío Tonio went to concerts tripping on acid; they weren’t the happy family stuffing tamales for mami. The Ramos side of the family, all my dad’s 10 brothers and 2 sisters, are mountain people but they moved to the big city when my dad was three. He is the youngest sibling out of 12. He was the weird one who listened to heavy metal and liked reading. He ran away to live in the US when he was a teenager, so he never got to have a close tight knit relationship with his family. He tells us that people in Albuquerque remind him of the people in his hometown. “They all look like they’re from Chihuahua,” he tells my brother and I. He feels at home with their funny accents and the type of food they make. This family was different; they were all so country. At Lesly’s quince, people wore tejanas and pointy boots. The music was tamborazo—very percussion and accordion heavy. Everyone starts galloping around like horses once a certain song plays. I ask my dad if that’s what they’re intentionally doing and he laughs, “That’s Payaso de Rodeo, it used to be really popular in the 90s.” That’s news to me. I watch people distantly related to me stomp around in their boots and let out loud gritos over the yeehaw-esque song. My parents glide off onto the dance floor once a less paisa banda song plays. I’ve never seen them dance before. My mom is laughing and my dad spins her around like they do this all the time. They blend in with the various family members from all over the Southwestern US and Northern Mexico. These are my roots.
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A boy tips his tejana to introduce himself to the quinceañera girl. It’s so old world of him. Lesly’s wearing her screaming red poofy dress with her matching high heels. She’s finally a woman. Her parents keep coming over to squeeze her, looking very emotional. I never had a quinceañera, I thought it would be too weird and formal. Watching the festivities, I’m still not regretful over my choice. If I was a paisa, I’d have a quince with a bright pink dress. My mom and Tía Mari would plan the whole event, gossiping in the kitchen about who to invite and who to keep out. I would practice dancing with my other paisa friends. My hair would be long and flowing, my Spanish immaculate. I’d be the perfect daughter and granddaughter. If my family was more paisa, we’d all have big thumping parties, tíos dancing, cousins laughing with each other. I’d meet a paisa boy at my quince with a big hat and big boots and have lots of paisa babies for my mom to babysit. I’d fit in. It’s easy to get lost in the thrill and comfort of being around a kind warm Mexican family you’re only related to through your sketchy abuelito. I’m lost in the music and smiling faces but when my cousin talks to me in Spanish I sputter and feel out of place. I don’t know what to say to Lesly when we’re done with mass earlier that day. My parents embrace her and mumble something. I give her a tiny wave and a thumbs up, but she’s too distracted to react. I feel like a baby bird pushed out its nest. I definitely was supposed to say something special but the words were never taught to me. I stumble around in my guaraches from Chihuahua—my footwear is more Mexican than me, an inanimate object over a real live person. In Richmond, my otherness shines through. I move through the world like any other person but it doesn’t feel like that sometimes. At my job, I’m the only non-white person there so the owner and various customers have made pointed questions regarding my appearance and background. The question “Where are you from?” from a white person is so loaded. Do I tell them I’m from Northern Virginia or do they mean where my parents are from? I told a customer my parents are from Houston, Texas and she furrowed her brow. I felt like I was hiding away my identity, but that question grows old. People tread lightly when I mention being Mexican or if I have to speak Spanish in front of them. They’re so afraid to offend me. I feel like a giant orb of radiating heat from the Sonoran Desert. They’re fascinated. “Your dad listens to Metallica and is a vegetarian?” or “Your mom loves George Michael?” They’re incredulous. I’ve never seen any human on earth fascinated by a yeehaw country white girl wearing a Tim McGraw shirt or some grimy goth white kid for liking Depeche Mode. I walk into most English classes at school and am usually one of the few
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Latinx people in there. Even in my Latinx literature class where there’s probably 5 of us, it feels weird. The professor is white and the white students make incredible comments. “Maybe Mexicans are misogynist because they’re lower class,” says this one white girl. The comment doesn’t make sense and the professor looks uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable. I’m reading a first-hand account of my culture but the 3rd party comments on it aren’t even profound. The beautiful blue dry sky of Albuquerque reminded me of a home I will never have. It was once my parents’ home but it isn’t mine. Quinces aren’t mine. Hot green chiles aren’t mine. I can’t dance Payaso de Rodeo or any of those banda songs. My Spanish will forever tumble out my mouth and my r’s will deflate as soon as my tongue reaches the roof of my mouth. It’s all okay though. Not fitting in either spectrum is fine too. The unique amalgamation of Western and Mexican culture that defines my family is pretty cool. We’re not better than paisas—I envy and respect them for holding on to a culture that people in el otro lado spit on us for, calling us wetbacks and spics. Lesly’s quince was her introduction to the world as a grown woman. Her quince was also the start of me accepting the in limbo-ness of my existence and half-finished cultural knowledge. Sure, I can’t speak perfect Spanish and I haven’t read all the literary classics my peers have. Maybe if I move to Houston or Los Angeles, life will be easier. I’ll blend in with the other 1st and 2nd generation Mexican Americans with imperfect Spanish and clumsy feet that don’t glide to Los Tucanes de Tijuana.
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UNTITLED SIERRA LEACH
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Live Light. Spread Light. Be Light. DEL ANEY BURK —AF TER LI-YOUNG LEE
I buried my mother beneath her work. Soldering smoke clouds my vision and rainbow glass obscures my view of bruises and life support machines. A woman of kindness and warmth rebuilt cold sharp and cutting. I buried my mother in her hair. Fizzy ginger curls sprouting from her head like her wild burning passion uninhibited by the confines of reality meet the flames at her feet rising up to engulf her like a phoenix emerging from its ashes anew and unbroken. But instead of a bird we receive an urn. I buried my mother in my throat. I swallowed her whole and hid my favorite parts away for everyone to see. Her laughter fills a room and brings memories to my family’s lips. Paint splotch freckles coat my skin having been burned into my arms by the flames that took her from me instead of the sun she had always wanted to touch.
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Matching brown eyes plucked from the waste and locked into my sockets filling two of the many holes she left behind, but my eyes do not have the spark that hers had. She took that with her too.
I'VE BEEN MOURNING THE LOSS OF WATER LATELY (NALTREXONE O.5 MG) SARAH HUDSON
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Sweet and Salty JENNIFER LEE
My mother had dreams of being A big shot secretary. Writing shorthand and poetry. She sang to us Almost alive again: “Sam, Sam, You know where I am. Whenever you need me, Please call.” Her mind has gone to Conspiracy theories, Like the S.S.S.’s plan To snipe her on New Year’s Day. She has lost her songs On the filthy floors of homeless shelters. She loves me, though Hard. Like the fingernails dug into my arm, My neck, When she choked me against the window. Make no mistake I punched her back. I still love her I invite her to my home when the weather is too cold For bench-sleeping. And she washes the dishes, And watches my daughter. They laugh sweetly together and play Annalise splashes in the tub while she bathes her. But she also Screams out in Complaints of the “niggers” Who want her life to end. I hold my tongue and My heart is suspended I think This is as good as it gets.
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“Why don’t you call? I’ll give my all to you, Sam.”
THE AGED MOTHER SAMANTHA PANDOLFE
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FE
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UNDER THE ARCH ELL TREESE
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First Lesson SETH WOODIES
I don’t quite understand it. The pulling on metal strings, clicking on brass buttons. Deep breaths taken to hold long notes that create a harmony in the air. Using the English language, my language, To release sounds that I could only imagine. I tried once. I remember standing in the living room as a small child. Next to the warm fireplace, the smell of fresh pine throughout our home. I was too small to properly hold my father’s saxophone The black neck strap held the weight of the world. The clarity and stern direction in his voice intimidated me, But I was determined to try. The first step: Creating sound. With pursed lips, squinting eyes, and a deep breath, I let out a tiny screech. I was proud of it and so was he. I remember returning his large instrument, which fit his frame like a glove. His fingers moved with the fluidity of a feather floating on wind. Gold shimmers reflecting his saxophone matched golden vibrations in the air. The beautiful sounds he made were like a language I partially understood, but never learned. I wanted so badly to understand. I still do.
VIBRATIONS SETH WOODIES
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Staff Bios EMILY FURLICH is the editor in chief of Pwatem. She is graduating this semester with majors in English and Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies. She looks forward to graduate school and adopting a cat.
ELLIE ERHART has been on staff as an illustrator for Pwatem since fall 2016. When she’s not drawing you can find her staring happily at nearby dogs. Her art can be found online at ellieerhart.com.
C A R O L I N E M E Y E R S is Pwatem’s assistant editor in chief and a junior in the Sculpture department. She has enjoyed color-coding various Pwatem Google Drive folders over the course of the year, and looks forward to similar work in the future.
SOLEDAD GREEN is a member of the Pwatem editorial staff. She will graduate in 2021 with a BA in English. Soledad enjoys writing poetry and fiction in her spare time.
AVA BL AKESLEE- CARTER is a senior in Kinetic Imaging and Art Education. She has been a part of the Pwatem team for three years and an art director for two. She’s always running around, but when she finds the time, she enjoys the company of her friends and a good book. MADELINE DE MICHELE is both webmaster and an illustrator for Pwatem. She is a Communication Arts and Psychology double major who enjoys bookbinding, making paper pulp, and watching The X-Files. BOBBY MILLER is a rising senior in Communication Arts, aiming to graduate in spring 2020 with a certificate in Product Innovation. He’s been an illustrator for Pwatem since fall 2017. He’s currently pursuing a career in graphic design and narrative illustration. MARLON MCK AY is the current secretary of Pwatem. He’s a sophomore and is really getting the hang of this college thing. KARLY ANDERSEN is an illustrator and junior in Communication Arts. She loves her cats very much and is excited for her first year at Pwatem. LUKE CAMPBELL is a member of the Pwatem editorial staff. He is majoring in English and completing minors in Creative Writing and Italian.
ROLA HARB is an editor of Pwatem. Her favorite genre to read, write, and edit is creative nonfiction. After graduating, she hopes to become a part of the literary publishing world. KATIE NOWAK is on the staff of Pwatem for the first time this year. They’re just starting out their time at VCU and still trying to figure out what direction to move in. They’ve enjoyed the chance to work on such a great collaborative process. HOWMAN PAGOL A is a member of Pwatem. He’s happy to be there! AMITA R AO is an editor and frequent event planner for Pwatem. Need her for a gig? Well, she only does literature-themed events. But if you’re trying to party like it’s 1984, she’s your gal! ANYA SCZERZENIE is a sophomore staffer at Pwatem. She is involved in other student media organizations at VCU as well, and is excited by anything involving writing. DEVANY SOLANKI is an illustrator for Pwatem. She is a current freshman in Art Foundations, hoping to pursue a major in Communication Arts. In her spare time, Devany enjoys watching movies and getting lost in record stores. NOAH THOMPSON is a sophomore majoring in Communication Arts. This is his first year as an illustrator for Pwatem. When he’s not making art, Noah enjoys sailing and training show dogs.
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Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro and ITC Franklin Gothic Standard Printed on 80 lb. Starbright Opaque Select Smooth Cover and 80 lb. Starbright Opaque Select Smooth Text by Carter Printing in Richmond, Virginia
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VCU STUDENT MEDIA CENTER vcustudentmedia.com
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