FALL 2019

the veg literary magazine fall 2019

T H E V E G LITERARY MAGAZINE fall 2019

vol. 17 no. 1

The Veg Literary Magazine is funded by the Arts Undergraduate Society (AUS) of McGill University. The content of this publication does not necessarily represent the views of the AUS or McGill University. veg.magazine@gmail.com facebook.com/thevegmagazine printing by

Friends, Introductions to this little publication are traditionally associative, mimetic of the weird gestures of the poetry and prose we publish each semester. How old is The Veg? Why is it called The Veg? We can’t say exactly; that knowledge has been misplaced, those jokes are someone else’s.

At the Veg we are all readers foremost, reading and re-reading for good or for ill. To paraphrase and abuse the lines of the late John Ashbery, it can all seem a note in the margins of our technological society, always having to be rescued. Is forgetting the whole thing the only solution?

Perusing prosody, we editors were looking for writing that struck metaphoric through-lines amid the vast data of the day. All the pieces which appear in this issue move so differently from another, dredge such variety from the muck of living. What is poetry good for if not this? There is the plot, the rules of the game, and then there is the other the stuff beneath: “…the loose / Meaning, untidy and simple like a threshing floor.”

I don’t know what to do with all this. It’s all very embarrassing, I’m very embarrassed by what I’ve written. In this, the final issue of our magazine in this strange decade, I invite the reader to get uncomfy.

Sean and The Veg

contents river tyne, england, 2019

leo stillinger

cover

ljubljana, may 2019

ian kaye

to be eroded

dylan rekers

5

last swim of the

rachel lyons

6

ari

aaron kingon

7

shellfish

georgia maxwell

8

jess’s place

julia paquette

9

drifts

sarah krier

10

blasé

sarah krier

11

atlanchane

alan suárez

12

daisy

oona albertson

13

maybe a stork?, 2019

rosalind sweeney-

14

inside cover

season

McCabe for basho

rachel lyons

15

false alarm

lisa vlasova

16

tempelhofer feld,

rosalind sweeney-

17

May 2019

mcCabe

lady in blue

shay rutkowski

18

leo sun

shay rutkowski

19

a hermeneutics of

ryan grewal

20

suspicion

last day of summer

sam cox

21

/service/

julia paquette

22

minuet

t.g. simon

23

track changes 2

hannah kirijian

24

falls

aaron kingon

25

matter out of place

georgia maxwell

26

of geese down south

j.h. lee

29

java beach pup

oona albertson

30

to my sister,

rachel lyons

31

cast straight

loretta st. laurent

32

trans-canada

aaron kingon

33

petri dish

georgia maxwell

34

keys

julia paquette

35

what does it matter

rachel lyons

36

with daisy

virginia

editors: Julie Demet Adam Eldred Jason Gales Sophie Garnett Emily Hoppe Maia Klee Lulu Lebowitz Louis Sanger Sean Sokolov

dylan rekers

to be eroded

5

last swim of the season Natalie, with brown hair, swam toward me; cold water below my toes and warm at the sun-filled surface.

We floated together, almost silent. (over the mountains in the morning a clear sky a sharp stroke) She said, I am afraid of winter.

At the shore, ankle deep, a woman stared at the sharp, blue body. (arching from bank to bank a wide brow, thick and green) She would not go in gracefully–– tilted, emerging like a goose.

Anyway, we howled loudly, me and Natalie.

6

rachel lyons

ari

aaron kingon

7

Shellfish They left the table in tatters: The skeletal remains of fish on a platter; lay belly-up, surrendered, Thick bloody streaks of sauce Sprawled out in strange positions; Thumbed down into the white table cloth, Claw marks where the shrimp had tried to crawl away, only to be bitten at the bottom: immobile And I, having partook only in the salad Decided to leave the scene as it was.

georgia maxwell 8

julia paquette

jess’s place 9

drifts

10

sarah krier

blasĂŠ blasĂŠ

sarah krier sarah krier 11

sarah krier

atlanchane

para Catalina La mira nadar sobre la piel del agua. Ella se deja mecer por la marea con el pecho al sol. Da vuelta sobre su cuerpo y se hunde hacia lo oscuro de la gruta. Él se arroja a nadar, se sumerge. Al fondo te agitas como buscando alimento entre las algas. Desciendo y en plena apnea me tomas con mano ardiente.

Me muestras cómo hablar con los ojos. Hablamos sólo con mirarnos. El sol desciende y llena de cristales el agua. Penetra la luz sobre tu cuerpo mínimo y le arranca destellos a las escamas de tu cola. Descanso en tus muslos verdes.

Recuerdo el lenguaje humano y emerjo a la superficie.

Se halla solo, mirando la poza desde lo alto del acantilado. No se reconoce luego del extravío de la tarde anterior, cuando una voz lo arrastró a las piedras junto a la gruta. Primero un canto. Una voz anfibia. Una risa con forma de cristales reventando en el aire. Entonces la miró nadar sobre la piel del agua: verde y brillante bajo el sol la cola con escamas. Descendí y al fondo de la poza gozabas. Habías destazado un pez y de tu boca colgaban sus entrañas, hilos de sangre suspendidos en la superficie acuosa. Me llamaste con tu lenguaje de miradas. Nacimos cada segundo. “¿De dónde viene toda esta humedad?” quise preguntar.

Cabalgo tu cuerpo dejándome arrastrar por innúmeras corrientes. Se escuchan murmullos gelatinosos saliendo de mi boca que quiere hablar. Me recomiendas seguir con nuestro lenguaje de pliegues y azotes y estrujones. Mi terquedad me hace tragar agua y me precipito a la superficie. Se le mira atolondrado en el seno prieto del agua. Flotando busca una respuesta, casi ahogado. El sangriento ser lo toma de un tobillo y vuelve a sumergirlo. Y aquí me hallo de nuevo, encontrando en la punta de tus escamas el objeto de mi deseo.

12

alan suárez

oona albertson

daisy

13

maybe a stork?, 2019

rosalind sweeneymcCabe 14

for basho The record of the pigeon that stood on the rail is wind-swept–– the space between two clouds.

There is a border to the desert but I do not know it.

And you do not know it either.

rachel lyons 15

false alarm I sit behind and watch the crescent that glows between the hair and neck of a woman unknown. it was born from light of the screen, and shaped by the silky strands that have deadened out of the seat, I let loose my umbrella in a moonless dark gaping for warmth from streetlights. on such nights frogs appear on the asphalt.

I thrill at amphibian suburbs, with soft bodies still, yet so roundly alive but this night, though I looked far, wide and between, there were only lewdly distended worms with no eyes to be seen. and twigs, of wet lacquered shine; and the pinecones that had distance seemed like frogs

16

lisa vlasova

rosalind sweeneymcCabe

tempelhofer feld, may 2019

17

lady in blue

shay rutkowski 18

shay rutkowski

leo sun 19

a hermeneutics of suspicion How do you talk on the subway on a first date?

The Leninists were putting on a drag show at Jacques downtown.

Do we look at each other, a quarter turn?

Or stay facing the late commuter, dozing under an ad for dick pills.

Your drink was small and the bartender was loud.

Am I loud? Do you think?

Face me, I want to knock knees.

A woman beside me at the bar choked on her drink.

I don’t think you are asking the same questions.

20

ryan grewal

last day of summer with daisy

sam cox

21

/service/

julia paquette 22

minuet Play for a while, I grow weary of niceties; A supine book, Dog-eared and fluttering, Longing on the couch.

t.g. simon 23

hannah kirijian 24

falls

aaron kingon 25

matter out of place The day started with shit. Bubbling, gurgling, water logged shit. It spat up from the throne, pungent and runny. It speckled the seat and smacked the wall in quick patterns like a muddy tidal wave. Somehow, it climbed up the shaft of the plunger and got under my nails; stained my fingers like cigarettes.

The water that plopped in from above was comparatively clear. That is until the ripples stopped and it swirled into the mess, became the same colour.

Maybe that was a sign, but it’s hard to say. I always seem to jump the gun on these things. Sometimes, I don’t do something because I think it’s a sign and later think to myself shit that wasn’t a sign and now I’m out 30 bucks.

Once, an hour before I was supposed to see a movie with my friend, my TV broke. I had tried to move it to my kitchen so I could watch it while I did the dishes, but when I plugged it in there was a huge spark like someone had set off a flare. So naturally, I took that as an omen, a sign. I figured my Aunt was warning me that something bad would happen at the theatre. Maybe it would flood, or I’d get murdered. That time I listened. Then I was out the price of two tickets and down a friend.

Another time I met this guy at a bar on Valentine’s day, so I figured that my Aunt was telling me we were supposed to get married. But then I got chlamydia. That’s what I get for following signs.

Of course the thought still bubbled up as shit ran up my arms and splashed into my nose: Is this a sign? But you can’t live your life according to signs. At least I can’t. Maybe if you know a dead person who gives you better signs you can.

English wasn’t my aunt’s first language though, and she hated it. She said it all sounded like gurgles. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe all the signs just got lost in translation.

I didn’t take the shit as a sign; even when a tiny little bit flew up into my mouth.

I brushed my teeth right away. That I took as a sign of free-will; a sign that 26

signs are bullshit. So that afternoon, I pulled my light wash jeans up over my waist, pinched my belt until I could barely breath, tried on three types of earrings, brushed mascara but passed on the eyeliner, and stuck a beer into the pocket of my rain jacket.

“Such a chill girl” a friend chided from my bed, which she was lying on in her outside clothes, might I add.

“Shut up.”

We trudged out into the rain. Her, in bicycle shorts and long socks, looking much better than I. The drops padded the tops of our hoods, speckled the bottom of our legs. Even though the party was next store (not strictly a party: a pre-party), our shoes, our pants, our shorts and our shoulders were already impressively sullied by the rain.

It was the usual regalia once inside: hugging guys you ignore on the street; being introduced to girls you’ve met once a month for the past four years; finding a nice wall and murmuring only to each other.

The room where we had all congregated was tiny, and at the front wall there was a large TV showing some tennis game. We grew layer, by layer, into semi-circles surrounding the screen. Eventually we grew so big that the outer layer was crushed against the wall; making it swell, covering it in watery juice. Of course, we got stuck on the outer layer: the one dried up with a film.

The faces I came to see kept getting lost in the various folds. It seemed as though the stench had suddenly turned them off of me, now they didn’t want to be anywhere near. I bored them, I shouldn’t actually have come. The outer layer itself wasn’t even good enough! They wanted me off the cutting board, belly up on the linoleum floor.

But still I went on. I’m not really sure why. Once we were out of the layers, back into the rain, I thought maybe the stench would wash off. I still felt it, airless inside of my raincoat; but the cold had stopped my eyes from watering.

27

I even made it to the field. I made it to the bleachers. I smiled and I watched the game with everyone else. My smile cut from underneath my plastic hood just like everyone else. The more I smiled the more I got along. My smile was so wide you could see each and every one of my teeth, you could see the top of my tongue. My smile was so wide rain was getting inside my mouth; sputtering and rolling around the backs of my teeth, sloshing my tonsils; speckling and popping, lodging itself into the cracks.

My smile was so wide that every once and a while a fat drop would smack the roof of my mouth and plop slowly down my throat.

georgia maxwell 28

of geese down south I like the idea Of running into a battalion of Geese in a Mexican winter Grazing (as I assume they might), near the cacti Sand in their wicked, webbed feet.

And I wonder Despite toothed tongues, Despite squawks and squabbles Despite me and my troubles Would they be happy to see me?

j.h. lee 29

java beach pup

30

oona albertson

to my sister, virginia Wasn’t there a place at grandpa’s beach, a bank or a bridge, that only lasted a few days before diving under the water again, as though our visit to the beach was expected, as if it had risen above the lake to meet our bare feet?

Isn’t it strange that only a few years ago we flew to East Africa and spent a long time waiting behind our binoculars expecting a kind of approach? You were surprised how the beasts did not care about you. I was surprised how they had been granted names and attached to tags.

Wasn’t it hard to bear, the waking up inside, while outside everything was going on? And our mother took a book to the poolside and washed her feet in chlorine. And only a step away, a wild boar cooled off in chlorine.

We were dangerously close to losing the distraction of home.

I was attracted to the canyon and the feeling of getting bigger and smaller, infinitely large and infinitely miniscule, at the same time.

I was attached to the idea of expanding my dreamscape. If you could see the world from the back of a Saharan animal just once in your life, then you could live there forever when death comes and the long dream begins.

For similar reasons I like to look at your face for extended periods of time.

We constantly forget names, of places, people, and things...

And yet our aunt named her little puppy after one of the lions, and isn’t he blind and deaf and always waiting to be touched?

31

rachel lyons

cast straight I took his gun.

He wants it back.

I’m slingin’ it now-I’m off the rack.

(I am not a rack.

I own no rack.

Just guns, thx-They want them back.)

But it’s mine, now-I laugh. I shoot all: Men, Cats, Dogs, Cows.

I own them, see The trigger--pulled, So soft to my touch.

The metal-- strong and hard, Yields to my manicure.

I am the Master.

I am the Mistrasster.

Bang!

I got one.

Bang! Bang!

Two-score I saw it in my head.

I flicked a nail, red-Be mine now, in good nature; Thus armed I know no accusations I took his gun I take his shots no more.

*Slings sawed-off over narrow shoulders; turns- walks out the door* 32

loretta st. laurent

trans-canada

aaron kingon

33

petri dish And I have a theory That a very long time ago, My god and your god got together Took out their date planners And tried to find a time for our two flimsy bodies to overlap.

“Well I don’t know” they both muttered “Industrialism doesn’t really work for me” “The Thirties isn’t any better” — “The Renaissance is also tough” “Well how about another?”

Finally, they came upon a time not so grand So they sighed, shut the pages and said: “Maybe this just isn’t for the best” But our warm glows, Called out from our dish in distress, “We’ll take it!” “We’ll take it!”

And they must have heard us, I guess

georgia maxwell 34

julia paquette

keys

35

what does it matter if iron rot spoils my appetite and blood corrupts my vision?

I saw a shadow on my bed and feared, has Eve’s curse come to disrupt?

Ham’s sin, too, thickens my lungs with oil, and some past violence hangs like an icicle above me, promising nothing.

I pray for an end to this elongated cycle, this labor of scrubbing out blood, so that I may get out of bed, so that I may be clean enough, agile enough to meet the hot stare of your white, stony eyes with precision.

How can I suffer like a carpenter when my hands reek of detergent?

And what does it matter if, as I am pulling at a door that will not budge, I curse and sing girlish complaints?

If I embark once it’s warmer?

I have killed several bugs in my lifetime.

I have set some free, too.

rachel lyons 36