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Cellar Door Staff Members
Emma Nichols Editor-in-Chief
I would like to make a motion: Bring back the serial novel. Put each installment on the back of cereal boxes. (I know you think Wheaties “keeps ‘em full, keeps ‘em focused”, but studies show, kids who read be smarter.) Aisles in grocery stores would be littered, less intelligent cardboard boxes cast aside in our haste to learn. Trafﬁc jams may ensue on delivery days, but I think that’s a small price to pay to ﬁnd out what happens next. See, you’ve already memorized the nutrition facts, the recipes, and you could do that maze with your eyes closed, while reciting the effects of Cheerios on your cholesterol and your heart. But when was the last time your eyes moved with ferocity to reach the period, the next chapter? The last time you looked up from a page to realize you’d lost track of time? When was the last time you read a book? Emma Nichols
Jenny Curtis Art Editor
James Warren English Editor/ Public Relations
Wake up feeling drunk Though I haven’t been drinking What’s the word for this?
Yeah, He’s Back Home
Talked again today. He asked if I played that game. Told him I dabbled.
Dana Heimann 77
Where Did the Sun Go
Flowers tick Geiger scales but last Wilt in Spring and Fall in bloom Answers change, but ours clay to cast Wet in day, blood of the moon. Where did the Sun go? Our bodies turned to stalk and bast Nihilism is woe— In Human clan Caressed alone by Sadist Hands Our bodies turned to stalk and bast Roots soil-less grip rock Nomad wanderers—ﬂock forgot Our bodies turned to stalk and bast Answers change, but ours clay to cast. Where did the Sun go? We ask in silence, but we already know.
Kim Marra 76 1
My hands are the kind of hands you can’t forget even though they’re kind of small and tend to get lost in the translation of foreign, sweaty palms of not-so-signiﬁcant others. My ﬁngers are double-jointed from time and circumstance, comfortably-cramped after unprotected snowball ﬁghts and carpal-tunnel Gameboy nights and they dish out as much damage as they’ve been dealt. My palms, they kill people – if by ‘kill’ I mean ‘remove every remote possibility of life from’ and by ‘people’ I mean ‘ﬂowers’. I’ve pointed at cacti and watched them bleed chlorophyll; I’ve made lucky bamboo feel lucky to leave this world – the alternative being tended to by a girl whose thumbs are not green by any standards. I’m thankful that involuntary plant-slaughter is still legal in these parts. Whether organic or mechanic my hands automatically break shit down; for the love of all that is technological please keep your cell phones, beepers, laptops, iPods, Blackberrys, blueberries, toaster oven-microscoping, wafﬂe-making, photo-taking beings with electromagnetic pulses and battery-powered heartbeats far out of my reach because I assure you, my tentative grip is the equivalent of a death wish. These hands, they’ve destroyed more than they’ll ever create. These hands, they only dare to trace the ghost of you because they’re so used to dismantling everything they touch. But maybe I could trace what’s etched upon your face in Braille; if I were blind I’d read you with my ﬁngertips. You’d be a poem that doesn’t rhyme, and the most beautiful syllables would make up your jaw line and so I’m almost inclined to gouge my eyes out
Jenny Curtis 2 75
just for an excuse to try to understand you with these hands. And then I remember that our friendship is more fragile than plant stalks or Playstations which makes me feel like fumbling around life wearing oven mitts, only hugging you through bubble wrap in an attempt to preserve something as precious as how we currently are. My hands open car doors and birthday gifts and glass containers of curry; they change light bulbs and diapers and ﬁve-dollar bills into singles; they draw pretty pictures and blood from noses and attention and attention and I’d mention all the other things these hands can do but it doesn’t matter when all they were designed for is hesitantly loving you. Irene Burrows
Red collides with yellow The lunch bell rings The ﬂowers bloom
The girls pick them and pin them through their buttonholes. The boys yank them and stick stems between their teeth. On rainy days, the girls and the boys are herded into the same shallow gymnasium for twenty-ﬁve minutes they forget the ﬂowers bloom and bloom again. 74 3 and close, Kristyn Drosselmeier
Feet sink deep into chocolate pudding soil, Mother Earth rises best between stubborn toes. “It’s quicksand!” he yells. “No, just dirt,” she insists. Curious eyes shift up toward skyscraping pine trees, Hundreds of years stare down at them, Drowning out the “Get off my property, kids!” He carves his name in the soil, quicksand, dirt, whatever (I think we’re the ﬁrst ones here). Caroyln Candela
Wooden drawers Swing Open and closed; You sift Through layers of ﬂannel Deciding what to wear; Layers upon layers unbutton, Revealing rusted guitar strings From your rock star father, Who disappeared twenty years ago; Your hands unfold withering white pages stained with watercolor ﬂowers, Your mother’s attempt to recreate the world’s beauty; “These are my roots,” you say, Closing the drawer, Looking north, To the green mountains that created you. Carolyn Candela 4 73
The Autumn raindrops come in droves. They crash on yellowed leafy skin, And each drop, frightened, crying out... We go outside to drink it in. Our feet soon smeared with greenish moss: “Where should we go?” But neither knows The cool gray rains fall faster still. We’ve gasping worms between our toes.
Remember the time you cried for nothing? It was— Wait Were you thinking something heavy? Cracked, soft face I see in Mirror Lake; backward letters, clever people makers. I’m sure it was an accidi— Storm and storm day and day wind and wind, Beat and beat.
Kim Marra 72 5
“Well, I just don’t see what the problem is,” she whined, “I use these coupons here all the time!” “No you don’t, ma’am, not when I’m working at least,” Brian, the front end manager, replied coolly. His arms were crossed and his mouth was forming a crooked smile. He had had this conversation many times before, and this certainly would not be the last. “I don’t know what you’re not understanding. These are Stop and Shop coupons, and you’re in Shop Rite right now, it’s really simple.” The woman was ﬂushed now. She was shaking a bit. “I’m sick of your bullshit, mister, go get me a Goddamn manager.” “Gladly,” he said with a chuckle. That was all I heard of the exchange as I passed by the customer service counter on my way to the time clock to punch out for my ﬁfteen. I pushed the buttons mechanically (23783628547) and went outside to take my place on my usual wooden bench outside of the store. I sat there for about ﬁve minutes, just admiring the view. It’s surprising how beauty can coexist with a hideous slab of pavement. The parking lot is signiﬁcantly more elevated at Monroe Shop Rite than any other place of business in town, allowing one to see the surrounding hills quite clearly, without other buildings obscuring the view. There is one hill in particular that I have always admired, to the left of the parking lot. This hill is covered, for the most part, with bright green oaks, but in the center of this hill is a small grouping of trees, which I ﬁnd truly fascinating. This grouping consists of a circle of blue-green pines with a single red maple in the middle. Gazing upon this scene, I thought to myself, my God, we live in one of the most relentlessly beautiful parts of the world, and no one really notices. As this thought entered my head a police cruiser parked right in front of my bench, blocking my vision. The ofﬁcer swiftly exited the vehicle and ran into the store through the out door. I suspected that the ofﬁcer was called to calm down the woman with the coupons. This happens about once every two months. I sat there for a few moments more and three kids, a boy and two girls, probably all about ﬁfteen, sat on the bench next to 6 71
Proud of it Only Chant
Slapstick chapstick gimme a kiss, wrap it in happenings glitter and bliss. Butter me up. Butter me down. Toast me on high and watch me drown. Ready Sweaty mumble and grope, build me a pill and ﬁll it with hope. Swallow it fast. Chase it with wine. Promise with your eyes that you’ll be ﬁne. Maybe baby you’ll crumble and rust, burn it up churn it up turn to dust. Fire in your belly. Fire in your brain. It’ll ﬁzzle out with a little bit of rain.
Where Poetry Hides
Under your ﬁrst cup of coffee, between the ribbons of steam tickling your nose. Hopping between the freckles scarcely sprinkled across your arm, sliding down the goatee you’ve been growing for weeks, peeking behind your mother as she assures you she’s crying happy tears. Riding shotgun in your brother’s beat up mustang before he tells you to move to the back. Wherever it is you left your car keys. To your left, No, your other left. Katherine Speller
my own. Both girls were deathly thin, but pretty, despite the heavy bags under their eyes. The boy was raggedy, sweaty, and pimply. The boy inspected the police cruiser to ensure that it was empty. He then reached into a small drawstring backpack and pulled out some small bags with blue pills inside. “All right,” he said to the girls, shakily, “it’s ﬁfteen a roll.” His glance switched over to me and for a moment an air of uncertainty consumed him. “Hey,” he addressed me, “you cool?” “Yeah,” I answered, “I’m cool.” He continued with his business. The girls bought three each. No hesitation in trading daddy’s money for euphoria. They were no amateurs, took two each immediately. All three got up and headed toward town. About ﬁve minutes later the police ofﬁcer came out of the store, wiping sweat from his brow. He walked to his car and looked at me. “I don’t know how you deal with those coupon clippers, man.” “Yeah,” I said, “they can be pretty shitty.”
Oliver Kammerman 70 7
She steps carefully onto old wooden ﬂoor beams, whose rough edges are worn down slick, nearly slippery. Years of feet rubbing splinters smooth as stone, it is quiet and her sandal taps ﬁll the room. She watches carefully as tender arthritic hands wipe the shelves clean, slowly. The soft rhythmic sound of erasing time with each touch, the collection of crumbling wet dust at the end of every plank. It’s been a while. An ancient refrigeration system shudders to life, keeping three calves missed suppers from spoiling. Eagerly they wait, for human consumption, white and shiny new like baby teeth. She stands in front of pounds of ground grain. Lifts a sack of white ﬂour an inch, Lets it drop with muted thud And a cloud of powder. She coughs and opens a cooler, Grabs the ﬁrm shape of a bottle ﬁlled with something sweet. Removed from its controlled climate it begins to sweat. Like everything else A quick exchange of paper, buttons with the numbers rubbed off pressed deliberately. A brief glance up at rheumy eyes and she is gone, swinging open the greasy squeak-less door hinge. Steps again into the buzzing, blurry, sun soaked day. Jenny Curtis 8 69
every single time i walk by a squirrel, he ﬂees in terror -in a bush, in a tree. and i wonder: is this just the way of the world? or am i really as savage as he makes me out to be?
I am secure. I wrap myself in green leaf blankets, surrounded with branches; I tangle limbs into limbs, twisting vines through my hair, intertwined in every sense. I let the rough smoothness of bark massage out my knots, arch my back into the trunk. Shed years like rings, shrink back into a child. Dangling, draped over branches, I smell the earth, can taste the rain. I concern myself only with the conversations I pick up between the worlds; the trees have their own language. I listen as the trees trade leaf dialogues with birds, speak in tree branch tongues with the insects, and overhear the roots introducing themselves to worms. Cradled in the in-between of the worlds, I give up on walking and instead consider the opportunities of tree house living. If I lived in trees, I would sleep coiled around branches, use mosses for pillows, whisper conﬁde my secrets to the wind, swear it to secrecy. I would jungle gym play my way around the branches, up to the top. I would hover in the awkward silences of passersby, and giggle at the pranks played by squirrels. I could fall into the graceful gymnastic step that jungle cats have; I could stalk dewdrops and hide in the shelter of leaf canopies. I wrap my arms around a trunk littered with tattoos of years passed, share memories and tell stories, look from another, taller, point of view. If I lived in trees, I would stay a child forever. Kelly Prendergast
I Should Have Known this Wet Earth Couldn't Hold You
I am the sea ﬂoor and you once grew from me. I watched you sway with the waves washing over your smooth greenness.
petriﬁed about remembering this new Aunt Char, instead of the old one who took me to a magic show and out to lunch that day. Yet somehow I knew, no matter how hard it was for me to see her, I had to consider what she was going through. This was, after all, not about me. Visiting Aunt Char that day was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I didn’t really know what kind of condition she’d be in, or what to expect. Seeing her there was more difﬁcult than I ever could have imagined. What comforted me was sitting down beside her bed, and having her pull me into the tightest, best hug to date. Tara Molloy
I kept you grounded and I didn't ask if it was fair– all that went on above me, because I loved you and I thought you were beautiful. But I felt every tug, every ounce of that ocean rushing through you– pushing and pulling, weakening my hold. One day a storm came and you didn't even notice when he took you away from me, washing you to the rocks where you dried and hardened in the sun. Nothing moves anymore in this quiet cool darkness. I lie ﬂat and still, Trying to forget the feeling of your roots running through my skin.
Emma Lynch 68 9
In My Dreams I’m Canadian
Mostly you’re the boy behind the checkout counter. If not that then the face grinning aimlessly up at me from the box of Life cereal. Twice you slid out of the bag of milk (I always buy milk in bags in my dreams). And just once you spelled out the winning letters on my scratch-off card. Always, always in the grocery store.
Christopher Partridge 10 67
“C’mon, we’re going out!” Aunt Char exclaimed enthusiastically after showing up at my house one random Saturday morning. I groggily dressed myself and got into her car. After picking up my younger cousin Keith, we headed up to the Rhinebeck Performing Arts Center. “Right through here,” she guided us, smiling and saying hello to everyone we passed in the lobby. Inside the theatre was a small stage, where a magician was setting up his show. He pulled rabbits out of hats, made coins disappear- and amazing as all of this was to me and Keith, I couldn’t help but notice how Aunt Char was watching us much more than she was watching the magic happening right before our eyes. “So why did you take us out today, Aunt Char?” I later asked, thoughtfully dipping my French toast into a pool of syrup at Blondie’s. “Well, sometimes it’s important for an aunt to spoil her niece,” she explained, pulling me into one of her famously tight hugs. “And nephew too, of course,” she added, grabbing Keith as well. Aunt Char always showed up- not every week, but sporadically throughout my childhood. Even if it had been awhile since I had last seen her, I always knew she was there. When Aunt Char got sick with cancer a few years ago, I had to remember the importance of showing up. As she got worse, I was scared to visit her. I didn’t want to remember her as sick, but as robust and healthy. I wanted to remember her ﬁery red hair that matched her personality. What I feared most was learning she was too weak to give her signature hugs, the ones that engulfed you, that wrapped themselves around you: the hugs that made you forget what was scary about the world. One cold November night, about a month before she passed away, my parents were going to visit her. “You want to come, Tara? Aunt Char’s been asking for you,” my mom asked softly. I had selﬁshly and guiltily avoided seeing her. I was
Winter, Again, Without You
Before I met you, I had only dated white Anglo-Saxon Protestant males. Mi Novia, you couldn’t roll your R’s. When you tried, they stuttered and stopped between your teeth.
Someone wrote on a gazebo “Fomo ’10.” The epiphany and the anti-epiphany. This echo has gone not as the moon, Which you can touch, But as the moon’s dream. And the very best you can do is touch the thing that bore it. Fomo was envious of nothing, While it existed that once. It is a name known only to itself. It is why nature is frantic in its slowness, Because to exist continually is to exist in consecutive ‘onces,’ Fomo after Fomo. Fomo is someone’s unaffordable love for you, and the alternative universe they could give it to you in. I don’t know Fomo. I don’t know the sand of the Paciﬁc, Or the fantastical colors of swoops in its stores. I am not Fomo’s dream, And almost certainly I have never sipped the nectar of your oasis well Through puffs of golden chariot smoke. I have never known you well enough to call one of your hairs A stray. And yet, we share Fomo like Evey Hammond’s rolled up rose petal.
When you brought me to your apartment, your mother made me platanos, I called them bananas by accident. You explained the difference, and in a bodega I began to understand the different shades of brown. I stared at your skin, the color of ripe tropical fruit. My nose was pink in the cold. It’s cold again now, but it isn’t the same season, and I don’t eat platanos without you.
To love a patch of grass is to love the whole ﬁeld. Fomo is certainly the brother or sister I never had. And as Fomo was to me, here to you I am this poem. And you are someone apostrophe 10. Fomo apostrophe human. Apostrophe member of the love brigade that constantly seeks for itself. And a blade of grass that could would grow over the whole ﬁeld. Grafﬁti on every bench. But All I can tell you, Fomo, Having never known you, I am certain I love you Inﬁnitely Like I love who drew that monkey. And me, you, steve, cuddleﬁsh2010 and the monkey drawer are all in this gazebo. We have different beds in the same home. And most of all though I can never touch them, I wish you dreams that are the reﬂections of galaxy, And though I will never know you, I wish you the sweetest whispers On the bright side of the moon.
The Jump I like those boys with big shoulders and big Words that ﬁll my ears with lies and dreams. I love the lack of truth that makes it simple, Easy to grab tight and rush into the night. So c’mon boy, there really isn’t a lot of Truth spinning, leg twisting to be done. Faults make the best foot holds when You need to climb up to the top. Cause tell me, even if you can’t, How else will I be able to fall?
Ashlee Rose 12 65
But baby, That’s being human. You’re gliding on hope, And it’s the same hope of the amoeba, And it’s why I have threaded myself Into the fabric of the tee shirt you push Against your face, And it’s why God is always home For people who step feet on bricks of doorsteps. I would build myself a ﬁre of faith on those bricks, If I could have them with God’s shoe dirt, And it’s why craziness, Baby, Is looking for the diction of a God, That doesn’t exist, But if he did, Would have words to explain everything. And if I ever wasn’t there for you, If I won’t be, It’d be because I’d have gotten Unnecessarily sane. Chris Milea Ingredients for Indifference Jenny Curtis
INGREDIENTS: WATER, CORN STARCH, ABSENT MINDEDNESS, SALT, CONFUSION, WHEAT (FLOUR, GLUTEN), LOSS, ETHANOL, EMPTYNESS, MONOSODIUM GLUTEMATE, RESISTANCE, AVOIDANCE, SODIUM NITRATE, DESPERATION, LYSERGIC DIETHYLAMIDE, VAGUENESS, METHYLENEDIOXYMETHAMPETAMINE, HYDROGEN, OXYGEN, TETRAHYDROCANNIBINOL, THOUGHTS. *Does contain Whey.
((Pardon Me While I Scream))
the brain spits to the mouth open wide to the ceiling rebounds to the room which spins and falls to the shattered dreams below where the soul reaches out to the jagged edges of the heart to the cobwebs of the mind where the poisonous spiders blind us to the ashes of our lives where spontaneous combustion is a norm
Because I would be unable to embrace you With a straight jacket on, We can’t get too crazy. But baby, The art of being human is insanity. There are times you say things to me on the phone I get so small; I could ﬁt inside a cricket. And I could be in a belly outside my window, laughing at myself. Chris Partridge And others, I can be King Kong, And pull you to the top of that stupid city, That stupid city that hasn’t gotten any taller Since they dreamed of shooting a monkey off of its peak. And I’ve been that tall, I’m not manic, Just, my size ﬂuctuates. So I buy shirts that, Obviously, I cannot wear the next day. It is like Dressing a sand castle. You’ve always been the prettiest ocean, Showing me how aesthetically pleasing Of a shipwreck I can be. I am grittily aware, Of all the tragedies, And you call me crazy With my hands duct-taped to the wheel, Cause you never understood How I could steer when there’s nothing in any direction 14 63
A Line Back to You
We live without consequences Another chance for us to go up in ﬂames Your heart lays engulfed, By sparks from the sun.
We were standing on a dirt mound in my back yard throwing rocks into the pool of scum beyond my house’s property line. Ofﬁcially, this was called Mill Pond, but what sat behind the boundaries of my lawn could hardly be classiﬁed as a pond. Having never seen a swamp in our lives, we decided to call it The Swamp. We were ﬁve. I can’t remember why there was a giant dirt mound at the edge of our yard, but it kept Anthony and me entertained for weeks. We’d stand on top of it like giant ants on a giant ant hill wearing dirty t-shirts and juice stained overalls, just throwing rocks into the green water and watching them make ripples in the algae. Anthony’s skin was the same shade of blonde as his hair, and his mouth was raspberry ice pop red even when he didn’t eat one. I was in love with Anthony, and appropriately treated him like just a friend. I believe he was in love with me too, because he treated me the same. We did what we thought people in love were supposed to do—ignore each other in school, then get mad when we talked to members of the opposite sex, come home and lay on the ﬂoor and kiss behind ﬁling cabinets in my living room. And we threw rocks. I clearly heard the frantic cry of a very nervous ﬁve-yearold boy urging me to get out of the way of a rock. I watched the trajectory of said rock from his hand to above my right eye. What I did not do was piece together this data to conclude that I had just been hit above the eye by a rock. In fact, I felt conﬁdent that Anthony was just being a sissy, and that I was walking away unscathed. Only after he gingerly touched my arm and led me off the dirt to the grass, big blue eyes wet with guilt, did I ask if I was bleeding (and even then, only to humor him). He squeaked out a yes and it ﬁnally occurred to me that something was wrong when I blinked blood out of my eyes and pushed my ﬁngers against my forehead and pulled them back dripping. The rest comes in ﬂashes. My dad screamed at Anthony to get off our lawn. My mom cried on the way to the hospital, and I held her hand and told her everything would be okay. I wondered if they could see my skull. I asked for a mirror but they wouldn’t let me look at one. This con62 15
ﬁrmed my suspicions. Anthony lived across the street, but that was before the time I could cross streets alone. He was a boy, and I guess the agreement between our parents was that, as such, he was far less likely to be hit by a car, so mostly he came to my house. He spent so much time there that he called my mom his aunt (never-mind the implications of falling in love with your pretend cousin), and some days, he brought her ﬂowers from her own garden. He was quite the gentleman. After the hospital, when I sat on my couch rubbing the thick string weaving in and out of my forehead, tracing all nine of my stitches when my mom wasn’t looking, he brought me ﬂowers, too. A shaky ﬁst full of pansies, dirty roots and all. I still let Anthony over my house after seeing him look bashful for the ﬁrst time, anxiously holding out those ﬂowers to me in apology. In my ﬁve years of life experience, I hadn’t yet learned how to hold a grudge. We were too young and too tough to say we liked each other, but I remember moments like that and think that if he hadn’t moved away before high school, eventually we would have admitted it. Maybe after drunk teenage sex and a tearful pregnancy test in the bathroom, or something romantic like that. As I said, he was a gentleman. Frankie Romano
Little boys in orange berets, stampeding the cracked asphalt street shaking under their Halloween enthusiasm. Spotted brown pumpkin masks in all shapes of an emotional rainbow an autumn opera in itself dark green jackets, logo shouting "Hallo-Lution" In Black and candy red.
Lucky himthey didn't catch the war veterans eyebrow-raise of amusement before they pulled Molotov pumpkin cocktails from an arsenal of treats and blow out the window of the Easter bunny exhibit.
The Weight of My Grandma’s Love
My grandma bakes for me Cookies and brownies Chocolate chip mufﬁns Cakes and Easter pies. She knows that soon enough I’ll be too heavy to ever leave her.
Kate Brady 60 17
FOMA God created the earth, and he looked upon it in his cosmic loneliness and mud as man got to sit and wonder, “Why, why, why?” So Bokonon made up lies and made this sad world a par-a-dise. It was nice, nice, very nice... FOMA Utopia: The hand that stocks the drug stores rules the world.
All of the True Things That I Am About to Tell You Are Shameless Lies
Bokonon says, “Let us start our Republic with a chain of drug stores, a chain of grocery stores, a chain of gas chambers, and a national game. After that we can write our constitution.” History! Read it and weep! Around and around and around we spin, With feet of lead and wings of tin Nice, nice, very nice So many different people In the same device FOMA “Where’s my good old gang done gone?”
“Your gang’s done gone away.”
A sleeping drunkard Up in Central Park, And a lion-hunter In the jungle dark And a Chinese dentist, And a British Queen All ﬁt together In the same machine
Nice, nice, very nice; Nice, nice, very nice; Nice, nice, very nice...
Kate Brady 18 59
This is How to Beat Multiple Myeloma
Put your bones inside my body; I will keep you growing. Sunday pale blue breakfast in your kitchen mourns with me. Sip your tea, sit with me, tell me where you’re going. If after the search for corporeal you, no promising outcome is showing, allow me at least to be your trustee and put your bones inside my body; I will keep you growing. Then I can learn to love a child in your spirit knowing to mind the details of desire always gently, gracefully. Sip your tea, sit with me, tell me where you’re going. Daughters you left behind pace the creaky carpet slowing only at porcelain Catholic idols gazing with uncertainty. Put your bones inside my body; I will keep you growing.
An Unﬁnished Letter to Half of Myself, Lost in Arizona
It hits me in the fruit aisle next to the coconuts We met ﬁve years ago when you forgot kindergarten safety rules and took a ride from my father and I to school, we only had one class together and we could barely remember each others names But my smile was convincing and the walk was long, and now you’re gone. It took ﬁve and a half years for us to come to the conclusion that we are identically distinct personalities and that our happenstance was simply coincidence But we would have been different people completely, and you’re ﬁne with that staring down the camera lens 7 hours before we part, possibly indeﬁnitely. Do you remember? We wanted to see what coconut milk really tasted like, your father recommending we break the skulls open with screwdrivers, and you proceeded to pound at it with your bare hands, and I tried to make tables into coconut can openers. You almost broke your knuckle, and mine bounced up and hit me in the eye. We disagreed on music and muses, women and cuisine, 58 19
If God exists it’s true that there is milk and honey ﬂowing somewhere far above this family, but it’s something I don’t see. So sip your tea, sit with me, tell me where you’re going. Tonight I plucked a petal from the rose by your grave knowing that it otherwise would wilt, so I pressed it lastingly. Put your bones inside my body; I will keep you growing. Sip your tea and remember me, wherever it is you’re going. Kelly McCann
and the temperature at which the soul actually burns; neither of us goes to church anymore. We discuss philosophy in libraries next to the bibles and under the quiet signs, we skipped stones across frozen lakes like they were hovercrafts, got lost so quickly it would take us centuries to get found but we knew constellations You looked like Hugh Heffner in your prom suit; did I ever tell you that The Scrollwork black blazer and the 1980’s disco fever-red vampire dress shirt completely put you out as most overtly classy, as if you were the bad guy in a B-rated movie, but you didn’t mind. I envied you as you stared proudly at your girlfriend, who holds you higher than her hands can reach, she shelved your scrapbooks with the sun. You didn’t like poetry and I didn’t care for Katanas or the newest tablet out for the PC. I was into loud music and pyrotechnics, you were into architecture and everything 3D. You told me I was too easy going, but we know we’re both deep thinkers when we stop procrastinating. There are things we forgot to leave unopened, Justin. James Warren
“I shall no more to sea, to sea. Here shall I die ashore-” Caliban, will you forever stalk Ariel across the land? Attempting to crush her between the palms of your hands Shall bring you no good. Will you ever stand Against the harrowing shoreline and ever present sand? It is their will you must break; Do not be afraid to take What you have been denied. Stand Your ground, claim your land in their forsaken wake. Once was hot shall one day be cold; What has been taught can only now be told. That which has stood upright soon will fall But, if you will see it, beauty shall ever hold. The shutters no longer rapt with thunder; No longer shall you walk broken, asunder Amongst fools. Their knaveries and blunders Have long since kept you under The waves hilted with jewels.
Vinny Carnevale 20 57
She asks him to move over. “To the left. No wait, your other left.” He dutifully shifts his feet, scufﬁng those over-loved tennis shoes across the ﬂoor. His knuckles are whiter as he grips the wooden shelving unit. “Maybe it was ﬁne the way it was…” There’s a drawl to her voice. The lack of interest makes the grueling act of shifting her heavy ancient furniture around slightly less rewarding--only slightly. “And tattoo ‘bitch’ on my forehead, while we‘re at it…” “What?” “Nothing.” Silence. He shifts left. She adjusts her own position on the bed, folding her knees under her chin. Both wait. He’d always wait for her to start the conversation, preferring to stand idle, hands in his lap, until she had something to say. The start would always be her call. His cracked nail becomes far more fascinating than it should be, his eyes host an uneven focus as he slowly pulls at the tip, tearing it away from the center of his thumb. Her silhouette is forever in his periphery. The blurred ﬁgure shifts left, steadies itself, and lurches backwards before it can stand up. “I - I should probably start that reading…” “Oh?” He suppresses the disappointment. It’s good to have practice. “I‘ll see you tomorrow?” A curt nod, a half hazard wave and he’s gone. Slipping out the door, he’s watching his shoes the entire way home. Behind the door, she wonders why she can’t hold his attention. Kathryn Speller
the peach tree
1 free will is only possible when singularity is achieved, and only if it’s true, true singularity. easy enough? perhaps, but thanks to god or science, (whichever suits you best) humans are made with a conscience. if you are able to deteriorate your conscience, then living in this world will be a breeze. if you are content with anything or indifferent to most things, then life will be pie. 2 you want a peach tree your love, your soul mate, your perfect match hates peaches.
she does not support your decision to buy the peach tree, in fact despises the sheer thought of it. you love peaches, they’re your favorite fruit. by having a peach tree, you would be cutting down on your peach-purchasing expenses. you are somewhat skilled in agriculture, to grow and take care of this tree would be simple. you want it -- no question about that. but you don’t. a stupid peach tree isn’t worth upsetting your lover. so you choose to not get it done. so you end up making the decision you wanted. but what did you really want? 3 i love loving you more than i love loving me
Jenny Curtis 22 55
A Recurring Reverie
I believe in the importance of daydreaming I believe that rain boots can be worn at any time I believe in sword ﬁghts with icicles I believe in whimsical T- shirts I believe that with a comfortable sweatshirt, a pair of headphones, and a bag of Cheetos I can escape to almost anywhere I believe that love can and does exist at any age And that opposites attracts I believe that once we stop planning our lives and who we are We begin to really be and live who we are I believe in tea and television I believe that practice makes better… not perfect I believe that the common denominators for the world are pizza, free hugs, and don’t stop believing by Journey I believe in childhood extending for a lifetime I believe in George Watsky and Shihan I believe that the answer to everything is 42 I believe in reading the fortune and giving the cookie to someone else I believe in dreams and all that they can tell me I believe in an inspirational thought at 2 am that forces me to get up and write it down Even though it would probably be easier to just keep post-its by my bed… getting up is part of the process I believe that all people are crazy And that we have more control then we think we do I believe in juggling and the saxophone I believe in attempting before assuming But mostly I believe that nobody really knows what they are doing most of the time. Julianna Zuckerman
The day you walked in, You were like bittersweet honey. Wine is now my best friend. The taste nourishes my lips, Like yours once did. This glass is mine, All mine. How could it possibly be stolen? It’s in my grasp. Caressed by my charcoal stained ﬁngertips. The black residue won’t wear off. The gold glimmer shines in your eyes. Autumn has been recognized. The Sun doesn’t ask the Earth for favors. Or does it? Welcome kind stranger, For I have nothing to hide. You are the sweetest escape. Color to my book, Your mere presence lights a candle, Warm my heart like you always do. Sit by the ﬁre, And tell me a story. Remind the sky that it is blue. Tell the ﬂowers they matter too. Comfort a mad girl. Take a sip of my soul. All that is lost is now dead. Take my hand, and we’ll bring it to life again.
Sweeps down on you in slow motion, but feels like a Mac tuck being dropped from orbit God Delivers. Punched me in the temple knocked in all the stained glass. We fought out the door where he purged across the pavement wiped his mouth on the lambskin and coughed up a commandment. We sat under the street lamps he cried, drunkenly weeping about snowstorms at sea, I felt like the emptiest of human shells, How does one hold and comfort a man they can’t believe in, who, through spit bubbles and vomit asks forgiveness for killing his son. I asked which, I thought we were all God’s children. As he left, he offered to take me back, let me start over again said I was the only one who never asked him why, or when. There are bigger things than the beginning and the end. He grinned like the golden gates, slipped the butt of a dead lawyer’s Camel Gold between his blood crusted lips and said that I got it. I should have played more baseball, learned the cello. Stopped shaking my father’s hands and just hugged him Should have called Maurice three minutes before the crash Would have made one trip to hell of a difference Told me I should speak as loud as I think, Speak Louder I told my philosophy teacher that I got into a bar ﬁght with God once and lost, woke up the next morning in a hospital with an empty bible and a sharpie, with the words “write big and leave no line spacing” in the table of contents. But wouldn’t give away the rest of my story, he would still keep some things secret from me.
Ashlee Rose 24 53
My philosophy teacher gave me an F when I told her that God exists, but doesn’t have much of a conscience and rambles a lot, drinks even more. I told her about the time I got into a bar ﬁght with God at Last call, after his shift as a paramedic. Orders enough Shirley Temples and Bloody Marys to open a brothel. When he pretends to be a paramedic, and not the Beginning, He says he sometimes gets lost between the car and the accident, tends to sewer grate underneath the bodies. And when you’re that far gone, ambulances are more like chapels, He does heroin with the blood sample needles, just to taste mortality. He ﬁnishes the Marlboro of those who almost made it, swears the lips of cadavers taste like rubber and ambrosia. He complains about the elasticity of humans, how we were engineered harder, for more drops. Less talking. His chair tilts at impossible angles, cradles the holy water and gin like a pistol, orders another round of shots, reloads like prepping for a crusade. He wanted a dog, but already knows what a Sheppard would look like on a cruciﬁx. Mumbles that I grew up too quickly, that he tried to clip me like all the other tall ones in his garden Johnny, Alex, Maurice, clipped them like weeds. I look into the limbo of my shot glass and imagine rusted graves in the rum droplets. I swing The glass coats his face Shatters. The shards cut through skin like mosses through water. He falls like any other paragon. I found out the hard wayGod only throws knockout punches.
The slim white moon appears to sink. Entwined and lain like silverware One wakes and tightens their embrace With ﬁngers lost in tousled hair; Time crawling by, but caught in place: Two clocks were ticking [out of sync]. Pete Viola
Jenny Curtis 52 25
It was when the water in the pot came to a boil that Eileen Gardenﬁeld heard that familiar ringing throughout the house, and a smile spread across her face. She hummed lightly, stirred the pot slightly and stopped, reached for the TV remote on the countertop to pause her favorite Soap Opera. “Just a minute!” she called, hoping she was loud enough to be heard at the front door. The window was open, so she was fairly sure that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Across the kitchen in two steps, she opened the refrigerator door. Her hand paused momentarily over the cold-cut drawer as she remembered for the shortest of moments the hundreds of ham sandwiches and smiles she sent her children to school with. Her hand moved downward, further, to grab the Parmesan cheese. Shutting the door, she slipped across the kitchen with her head in the clouds and stepped into the hallway, no longer noticing the small decorations and simple picture frames with various shots of members of the family. Black frames on a white wall: moments in time captured and rescued. It was easy to capture a memory. Finally she got into the living room and didn’t notice any of the decoration she’d poured just that little bit into. She passively loved and took for granted each detail: the comfortable armchair with a tall lamp for reading, the old china cabinet on one wall and, across from it, two picture frames above a loveseat – copies of famous paintings, placed purposely not in line, creating a dissonant space that was interesting to look at – the large ﬂat screen television she’d at ﬁrst been dismayed had been bought, but had led to her children spending more time in the living room rather than the basement. As a result this brought them slightly nearer. She didn’t mind it after that. That was when they really were children though, not young adults like they all were blossoming into. She hadn’t heard word from David, who was visiting today, in almost a year. He was her eldest. There was no ﬁght, nothing as dramatic as that, simply the loss of time that so often happens in someone of his age. Part of her was upset with him, but she couldn’t be mad when she was so excited to see one of her children. She paused again, in front of the mirror that made up the 26 51
Wintry wastelands Excite the small child who is ready To make his mark in the snow– First carves angels, then builds snowmen To tell the tales of his day Yet is naïve and unaware– Flurries descend and life persists as The boy explores and climbs And soon desires a place to rest. Glacial reﬂections increase In frequency, in hue. He presses on Through the snow, up the hill. Stopping, he sees The endless frozen seas; The snow covers him The marks he made vanish. Brian Garritano
Time is not on my side. Each tick of the clock, Is a constant reminder, Of what I must do. The hands of that digniﬁed clock Strangle my freedom. Speed up, slow down. The numbers disappear on my clock. Time is not on my side.
closet door, to double check for the fourth time that she was wearing the earrings he had bought her. She quickly opened the front door. “Oh David! Oh, it’s so good to see you!” She sighed and invited him in. “You’re just in time, follow me! Dinner’s almost ready, so you can take a seat right in the dining room, and I’ll set the table. No no no, not a word! We’ll save it for dinner when I can really pay attention!” She hurried away before he could get a word in edgewise, bustling into the kitchen and checking the sauce again. She’d made Ravioli for the occasion, his favorite meal. She was glad it was one that didn’t require the usage of knives. Taking the lid off the sauce-pot, she let the aroma ﬁll the kitchen and took in a deep breath. Slowly in, slowly out, and she sighed again, more hoarse this time. She opened the wooden stained cabinets and took out two plain white ceramic plates. “Your father won’t be home until later, you know him, never takes a day off work!” she explained, “He’ll be at the ofﬁce another hour or two, but he’ll be home soon.” She took the two plates and set them on the table, sparing only a momentary smile for David as she hurriedly swept back into the kitchen. Opening another cabinet, she took out napkins, folded them and placed them on the counter. From there she swiveled to a lower drawer, and pulled out forks and knives, shuddering slightly, and set the table for two. “Not much has really changed, I don’t think, while you’ve been busy. I expect it’s you that will have all the stories! Any girls we should know about?” She went on without pausing, not giving him time to answer. “I expect none you’ll want to share, anyways. That was always something you embarrassed easily about.” She remembered the time she had caught him halfway through having sex with a girlfriend when he was seventeen. Hilarious. He and the girl had both screamed and hastily tried to cover themselves up, but she had merely doubled over laughing at how ridiculous it was. She had no delusions about him at that age, and in between gasping breaths, she tried to tell him to be safe, resulting in her gasping out only the word “condom” in between spasms of laughter, almost falling over and completely ruining the mood for the two young ones. Always the womanizer, this one, not like the 50 27
other three. Memories good and bad ﬂoated in and out of her mind, more often bad for him but funny for her. Her laughter wasn’t the typical reaction of a mother, but she had always felt a sense of humor was the best way to get through something she had no control over. At that thought, she laughed again a little more loudly. Back in the kitchen, she grabbed a bottle of wine, and asked “What would you like to drink?” Again not waiting for an answer, she knowingly grabbed a bottle of orange soda from the fridge, pausing reﬂexively over the cold-cut drawer. Brown paper bags with sandwiches, cookies, and juice boxes. Everything ﬁlled with memories. Walking back towards the dining room, a particularly strong scent of tomato sauce almost knocked her over with memories. How could she calmly get through this meal when she was being so sentimental? She heard another slight ring and ignored it. She thought for a moment, and put down the bottle of wine. Opening the fridge again, pausing again, laughing again, she grabbed a bottle of diet soda for herself. Eileen had heard that it wasn’t really that good for you, but she had lost a lot of weight in the past few years and allowed herself at least a small treat once in awhile. A small sob choked her. Eileen stewed over the ravioli momentarily, then reached for a cabinet and ﬁlled a bowl with some sauce, and another with the ravioli, concentrating on the small tasks at hand. She let out another short laugh. Her eyes began to mist and she took the two bowls out, laughing at herself. “Look how silly I am, a sentimental old fool, don’t mind me.” She stopped and sat down, her heart pounding through her chest. She heard some sort of noise, and felt it swirling all around her and the dining room table. The sun had begun to set, casting the room aglow with ﬁre, and she felt the heat of her own head press down upon her. Her husband wouldn’t be coming home this evening, she knew. She looked at the sauce in the bowl, blood red, and felt a crashing all about her. She heard, or felt, the rumble of thunder. Suddenly a strangled cry escaped her lips. Across the table, there was no reaction. Eileen could taste blood and feel the tears in her eyes, and thought for a ﬂeeting moment that she might pass out. The room was 28 49
Sonnet for the Leper
Leaves rest in peace and golden lights reﬂection, Some say they die in fall, Familiar architecture rises tall; I see beauty in the repetition. Cracked Earth and asphalt’s dissection, On road to new Damascus, I am Saul But, blinded I am not, nor given divinity’s call— White barricades, yellow tape, detention. Anathema, I walk for privacy in public Dancing along the line, just outside— Pariah, peace is impossible to the heretic I see myself as the heron, his doleful stride Separated among the rest, I return, this is my rhetoric— Searching for separation, a cryptic divide. Colin Williams
spinning, and everything was cast beneath the red shadow of the setting sun. The meal didn’t need knives of memory, but she had overlooked a key sensory detail and felt that she might vomit. The pleading look in his eyes on the bathroom ﬂoor when she walked in, a puddle the same color as the tomato sauce touching her highheeled shoes. The shoes would be ruined, she thought ﬂeetingly. Why did she think something so trivial, so shameful? A scream, a momentary ﬂash in time she hadn’t wanted to capture, but one she did save, more strongly than the plain photographs in the hall. It was oh so easy, too easy, to capture a memory and immortalize it in one’s own mind. Why a pleading look? What was he asking her to do? She slammed her ﬁst upon the table, rattling the plates and cups. More choking sobs threatened to suffocate her, and she put a toothin hand to her mouth. Events always led to another, formed a chain, and that led to her husband. Still no reaction on the other side of the table. She sat at a table set for two. One setting for her, and, across from her, one for her memories. Tears ﬂed her through crevasses in her cheeks, lines of grief that those who didn’t know what happened called wrinkles of age. Memories of the eighteen-year-old son that had left them all of his own volition. Oh, she hated knives, but she couldn’t stop the swelling tides regardless. Memories she would try to burn for years. Brian Garritano
Emma Lynch 48 29
You, you and those beautiful eyes your perfect white teeth and those pretty little lies fed to me on a silver spoon that I licked clean no remnants ever remained of your soul treating me to inferiority in your checkerboard, hopscotch games of who knows what better of those late night cram sessions, the taste of stale dining hall food of laying in bed with me until you realize you’re just living a life of ease you retaliate against the hand that held your head falling asleep last night in those deep brown sheets you realize no longer can you sit back along for the ride, grabbing the reins, you drive every little sense of my pain deeper into my complexes, to the pit of my core you just let it slip and slide past your mind, disregarding my imperfect little life. Haley Bloom 30 47
In our swarming populations we automate ourselves. Hard to monitor, we sometimes pity a vacant cashier before disappearing over dinner. We have areas we deem for passing through, held like cork ﬁlled dummies; we whip around vast echoing vaults of human and metal. Anomalies occur, rare but undisrupted. As what should be a blur passes by dormant brains burst into odd formations of electricity and even as the two strangers rotate past each other they experience an intense stillness where an inﬁnite diagonal of windows can be peered through. One after the other A lifetime together In actuality, only seconds. In actuality, two coal black locomotives barreling through the darkness of a frozen tundra, in opposite directions, with emptiness on either side, faces sticking against the glass. Chris Milea
football’s on what a night haze eyed guys stirring round a tube -- lights school nights are stresses in disguise what a joke to worry about any particular thing what a stress to worry about -time for class time to read time to meet what about time to dream?
the clouds cried today as they usually do dull mondays sky less days topped with inky red night dark cherry chocolate lighting up the sky football’s on ﬁeld goal to win it eight seconds left and when he kicks it through i will anticipate the surprise
I’ll sit with a shotgun resting between my bony knees, and I’ll shine it four times a day and take aim at the neighbors, their pets, lawn decorations and the FedEx man, if he dares to approach; I’ll be the best shot in Westchester county. I’ll watch episodes of Law and Order in Syndication and I’ll yell at Jared from Comcast for not ﬁxing my Goddamn cable. I’ll arrive at the market promptly on Wednesdays and receive my discount with a grimace because my hip bones are deteriorating. I’ll yell at those kids for having no respect and my peers for Lacking the spirit of revolution. I won’t explain why I want to be alone when I want to be alone, I’ll simply do it. I’ll embarrass my grandkids in public, but spoil them rotten. I’ll blow out sixty-six candles and fall asleep in my rocker, tilting myself forwards and backwards to a steady rhythm. Katherine Speller
Frankie Romano 32 45
Kettle on an Electric Stove
Do you remember how you used to boil? S l o w Creeping like fall. You were shy about it. Stubborn. You tried to stay cool, but the steady heat kindled in your toes, erupted through your throat. Sweat and steam and a soft screech, a distant train whistle. Then, tea and television. Simmering silence in ﬂuorescent dark.
1. look at gay porn 2. read Lolita 3. don’t do homework or sleep 4. regret everything 5. feel lonely 6. be an asshole who never learns anything from doing terrible things to people 7. ride bike 8. eat rice 9. send letters 10. feel sorry for myself but never say sorry to anyone else 11. expand collection of Disney/Nickelodeon watches 12. wear socks next time
A Very Interesting Tea Party Begins
"You may have just been poisoned," Her sticky sweet lips curve. A teacup is pressed ﬁrmly back into its saucer, perfectly matched ceramic circles and a faint click. Gives way to silence save the constant tick ...tock ...tick "Now talk." He spills. Jenny Curtis
What To Do When You Can’t Write A Good Poem
Write a bad one, Hide it in the folds of your skin– Places even lovers aren’t allowed to touch.
The Nostril Pleaser
Fill it with your inadequacies, And everything you’ve ever feared. Welcome horrible metaphors (Old friends on your doorstep you meant to forget). Refuse to stop. Gather your metaphors around you, Tell them it’s a poetry reading. Serve them coffee and make them snap As you trip over the only things you thought Could save you. When they’ve all awkwardly disappeared Accept that you could not have done any better, Eat ice cream to create more folds For the only poetry you’ll ever write. Wallow in bed and wonder Who to blame for the missing words. Fall asleep and dream of them Hiding just behind that door. Next morning take a shower; Clean out the folds of your skin, Watch the words slither down the drain. Attempt to write a good poem.
I have only one purpose. I exist to be scratched and sniffed. I see each person’s expression of excitement when they hear what type of sticker I am. First they scratch me thoroughly and don’t even think of the pain I go through. They don’t realize what it means to be scratched multiple times a day. Sometimes an idiot won’t even smell me after one scratch, But instead of blaming their own incompetent noses, They just continue scratching – those fools. Then I am lifted past the smile And thrusted towards their willing nostrils. I am then inhaled and returned to the table. After which they make some sort of statement about my smell. Then a conversation is born and I am forgotten Until the next willing set of nostrils come my way. I only fear the day when I am lifted and nothing is smelled. The day when it is realized that my smell has run out. The day when I am all sniffed out. I prey that instead I will be lost amongst clutter before that day arrives. My chance of survival is much higher if I am lost while my smell is in its prime. When I grow old I will look back on my life. I will observe the scratches on my surface And the lack of odor that comes from them. And I will know that although my purpose is no more, I created happiness for nostrils all across the land. Julianna Zuckerman
The sun on my side of the world makes love in heartbeats She moves slow And burns hot. My sun crashes down on her ocean lover [the moon hasn’t found out yet] She tears ﬁngernail ray scratches into the waves, Clawing until the sea puckers up towards her. She blows kisses like heat waves, Sends tornado-wind messengers with hugs And smiles with teeth like lightning. To the sailors that dare interrupt herShe Storms out of the room, Leaving behind a mess of violence, The sky hurls itself down, The ocean writhes with the angst of a lost lover. Jenny Curtis The ocean on my side of the world is ruled by the sun [not her glow-in-the-dark counterpart] Kelly Prendergast
A Mohonk Day
At Midnight, bone and moonlight gleam as one. By dawn some peach fuzz greets the rising sun. Midmorning sees some growth as budding leeks. Come Noon the beard is near its fulsome peak. Midafternoon, virescence fades away. With Twilight Auburn blooms and hints Decay
Calloused hands cling to a gray boulder Suspended 200 feet. Catskill wind whirls through your toes, Dances up your shorts. Yellow spray paint sketches the safe trail In symbols no longer readable, and you don’t care. Feet still dangling, muscles clenching, legs swaying, Eyes wincing, Looking down at the dark, cool crevasses, Caves that gravity has constructed with time. Your mind ﬂickers while you think, Still suspended, Of that time you climbed the Alps; Gazed at the sunken Swiss landscape: Tiny towns caught in folds between rolling hills, Miniature tourists gliding down silken slopes. Who lies under this pile of rocks here, In the Middle of Nowhere, New York? The stubborn? The weak? The bold? Carolyn Candela
I Write Better Poems In My Head Than I Do On Paper
Dedicated to Jason Weiss Head poems are better than paper poemsI get these great poetic ideas And want to crystallize them all. But trying to catch a poem is like Needing to hold on to an entire river, That, like a broken sparrow, tries To ﬂy from a cage or a nest And ends up somewhere in between. This broken bird, this river, it Blossoms in its cage, in my skull, Then tries to get away from me; A lily ﬂoating downstream while I, poet, frantically try to build A dam to hold my cluttered thoughts And scattered images and this Never ending sentence that has Already ﬂown and swam away.
The Poetry She Kept
Two days after the funeral he found her poems. He sat on the cold duvet and drank lukewarm decaf coffee (he couldn’t sleep anymore) while reading the only words he never heard. She had written about the backyard garden, about the sun on the mailman’s head, and their neighbor’s teenage daughter who snuck out on Tuesday nights to meet her boyfriend (he was twenty-three and too old for her). He stayed up till morning and read her poems about her sisters-in-law’s newborn twins and the way the medicine made her want to throw up and cry at the same time. Three days after the funeral he ﬁnished reading every poem she kept behind the box of tampons in her closet (he was looking for her birth certiﬁcate). When he was done, he emptied the rest of the coffee pot down the drain and put the poems back in the closet. He laid back down on the cold duvet and wept for the poems he didn’t ﬁnd.
No one saw the noontime sweeping (maids came in wintertime) of my ocean harbor. I was always sorry, stopped and dirty; fevered spring blood. My, my Emily, emily— Arielle Kellman 40 37
I. walked past a mirror that i had thought i hated reﬂecting a hedge II. of luscious pink blooms bitter wind chill proving that i had missed them. III. happiness is found when beauty is discovered in something ugly.
Ashlee Rose Pete Viola 38 39