HAVERFORDREVIEW

Vol 17Fall 2012

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UntitledLinguistics (A Mother Tongue)GuiltyUntitledGravyGasp1975 to TodayUntitledA Man Loves the OceanUntitledDiary Entry No.UntitledIrrigationMorning TimbreAdmissionThe FloodImmersedCornersI never said you had to follow me down“Al anochecer en los parques”Johnny James Close-upElegy for the Innocent TouchShakespearean Sonnet to a Random PasserbyUntitledAsking Neruda18UntitledThe AmnesiacUntitledLa Hora (The Hour)The Silence of a WaspUntitled

Sofia VivadoCole Kawaguchi

Maya NojechowiczNoelia Hobeika

Rachel BaronDavid Harris

Tiffany NguyenFrancesca Behling

Cole KawaguchiNoelia Hobeika

Ty JoplinRachel Davis

AnonymousAnonymous

Brian BrownNora Landis-Shack

Emily McKinstryNora Landis-Shack

Rachel BaronOpeoluwa Martins

Alanna MattesonClarissa Taylor

Alexander LaFranceCelia Ristow

Nora Landis-ShackSarah Madigan

Kristen AndersenCole Kawaguchi

Kristen AndersenDavid HarrisKoreana Pak

Noelia Hobeika

Dear Readers,

It is with great pleasure that I present the first edition of the new Haverford Review literary magazine. After months of preparation and dedicated work by the editorial board, this magazine has once again been realized, despite its brief hiatus last year. As always, the Haverford Review strives to present the best creative work that our college has to offer, and this year is no exception. Having been a part of this ongoing project since arriving here in the fall of 2009, it is especially inspiring to see how many pieces have been selected for publication from all four years of students here.

This magazine is, if nothing else, a symbol of how dedicated students at Haverford are to keeping the creative spirit alive. We have transitioned into a new online format, and while some print copies are available around campus, we believe that a digital maga-zine will present new and challenging opportunities for growth in the future.

I would like to thank the editorial board for their commitment to the magazine this semester. And most of all, thank you Haverford for giving us the opportunity to present this beautiful display of creativity to you. I hope you enjoy reading this magazine as much as I have enjoyed making it.

Nora Landis-ShackEditor in Chief

The Haverford Review

Contributors Kristen Andersen, Rachel Baron, Francesca Behling, Brian Brown, Rachel Davis, David Harris, Noelia Hobeika, Ty Joplin, Cole Kawaguchi, Alexander LaFrance, Sarah Madigan, Opeoluwa Martins, Alanna Matteson, Emily McKinstry, Tiffany Nguyen, Maya Nojechowicz, Koreana Pak, Celia Ristow, Clarissa Taylor, Sofia Vivado

Editorial BoardRachel Baron, Sam Fox, Sarah Madigan, Opeoluwa Martins, Emily McKinstry, Maya Nojechowicz, Koreana Pak

Linguistics (A Mother Tongue)

It was a very odd thing to do with words, but for a while, no one knew what else to make of them. Five men saw a deer in a clearing, ran it down and killed it. Tellings and retellings. Soon the deer became a stag. Its hooves became human hands, and its mouth filled with human teeth. Its antlers became a grove of trees it carried on its head. How could it possibly walk? These same men smoothed the trees into spear shafts that became their sons and daughters.The words were nothing but moss. But they grew thick on the teeth, and in the roof of the mouth. They grew over the body of the stag and turned it into a hill!There was, after all, no cure for it. These people had bones as hollow as birds, though they had nothing to put inside them.

Cole Kawaguchi ‘13

Guilty

Even a quiet king can hit the sin ceiling every once in a while.You don’t have to confess for it to be atrocity.Keep that hatred wrapped up tight right here,Right below your Adam’s apple.

Just pretend. I won’t tell anyone that I can see you rotting away insideThat I can smell your appetite, how you wish you hadn’t.

Don’t worry. Because I am not here to pull admittance from you.I am here to dangle your shame by a thread,Watch it pendulum side to side.I will stand here grinning until the words drop from your lipsBombs to the floor–

Yes, it was me. My royal crime, my regal days of terror.I hold these people in my palm under GodAnd He doesn’t notice because I’ve stopped speaking to him.

He holds no patience for those who don’t believe In their own goodness,No patience for boundless consumption.But even a king lives among us humansAnd soon you will feel it too.

Maya Nojechowicz ‘15

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Gravy

The gravy boat has tipped and isSpilling over the landscape. A river you’d paddle down.She’s on her knees to scoop it all up, The rag quivering and slick like liver.

Your cousin’s wedding present Scattered in blue shards beneath the kitchen table“No use crying.” She rakes them into the dustpan,Waterfalls them into the black-hole trash bag.“No use crying over spilled milk.”

Tucked away in brown wrappingAnd packed in cardboard boxes markedWith the kind of ink you can’t rub off.She shuttles it all back to the attic.The extra space makes the glass turkeys smack togetherAnd chips a wing off the smaller one.

Rachel Baron ‘155

UntitledNoelia Hobeika ‘13

GASP

You had it made.Looked out for no one.Alone.“You had it paved, golden, from day one yours was the dumb one, don’t succumb to such sober parodies of this piece it was literally just an experiment at heating up the air vent, lifting up the staircases sifting through the wastefield and coming up with NOTHING?!???!!??!”You’re absolutely right;It makes no sense whatsoever.If this is as good as it gets then show me better,Throw me better,Watch as I stand alone together.*PAUSE*And we go on our way.

David Harris ‘13

1975 to Today

lucky blood-red packets, gold lettering, wax fruit all arranged before frames of the dead insufficient space on the altar, sinking wood, hard oats,no life before or after 1975 mechanical bows, three times, with incense, the long rods reduced to matchsticks inside the bronze burner Boat People gather and feast on sweet rice wrapped in banana leaves preserved papaya, sugar-chili ginger, scraping grains of rice with bamboo chopsticks Bones covered with ragskin, the menthol crevices soft like pork fat They share blessings, offerings, longings for a Quiet Life away from 1975.

Tiffany Nguyen ‘16

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UntitledFrancesca Behling ‘13

A Man Loves the Ocean

A man loves the ocean. Poor antique fool! He has a pillow made of sea- foam and kelp. The waves are a blanket pulled up to his neck, but all the brine makes him itch. He is the last romantic on earth. Turn off the lights, he tells his lover, let’s go to bed. The moon flicks out. The ocean rolls over and rocks itself to sleep. The man shivers. He’s so old the barnacles have already claimed half his body. In the morning, he’ll wake up to find baby crabs scuttling from under the sheets.

Cole Kawaguchi ‘13

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UntitledNoelia Hobeika ‘13

Diary Entry No

Diary Entry No. 10042--10.21.11—11:45 PMIt has been 24 minutes since the last contact with the target. He was seen with his for-est-green turban and notched AK-47. Analysis indicates that each notch represents a confirmed kill from the bullets the target has fired from his weapon. There are 31 notches. Previous surveillance video shows that approximately 3 of the notches are incorrectly credited as the target’s kills. Those 3 come from a firefight that occurred at 3:12 – 4:58 AM on 6.13.11. The target’s second-in-command killed the men the target took credit for, but reluctantly saw dusted the notches off of his own gun by request of the target. Captured and translated audio recording from the verbal exchange that followed the gunfight re-veals the target’s insecurity for not being the top-ranked killer in his brigade of jihadists. Continuing updates-Noted, Drone 82

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Diary Entry No. 10057--10.28.11—4:34 AMContact with target. He is wearing his signature forest-green turban and Adidas sneakers. A dispatch is being sent to Adidas to recall the line of shoes the target is wearing. The target is getting into a truck loaded with small arms to sell to a new splinter of radicals. Permission to use lethal force is denied by command HQ. -- 11 minutes has past. The target is arriving at the meet-up point. The other cell is waiting for his group there.-- 14 minutes has past. The target shows visible signs of anger: facial muscles are contracting at a higher rate than at the control-frequency, pupils are dilated, hand muscles are contract-ed 4x control-stress level. Permission to use lethal force is denied by command HQ on the grounds that lethal contact might waste government money, as the two jihadist groups appear approximately 87% ready to use lethal force themselves. -- 3 minutes has past. Both groups have abruptly ceased transactions. They appear to have no-ticed a helicopter scouting the new splinter cell of jihadists. Command HQ is ordering the he-licopter to fly back and face the possible consequences for interfering with other surveillance. The crew of the helicopter is apologizing profusely, citing negligence for the military radio to prefer the civilian radio, which is playing, “the pilot’s favorite jam.” Command HQ is waiting to confirm the name and artist of the song that was playing. Continuing updates—Noted, Drone 82

Diary Entry No. 10063--11.3.11—3:16 PMContact with target. The forest-green turban the target is wearing has noticeably faded to a mist-green color. The target’s level of self-doubt has risen 4%, general anxious insecurity has risen 2%, and ability to command has decreased 1%. Statistic analysis at Command HQ speculates that these rising levels of self-consciousness and field leadership ineptitude is di-rectly related to the target’s turban no longer matching his signature outfit anymore, with the turban being slightly yet noticeably lighter than the rest of his clothes. Further hypotheses as to the efficacy of covertly whitening the turban are currently being researched and pursued. So far, 532 million dollars has been spent so far on field-testing the various effects of whit-ening turbans in relation to self-consciousness and field leadership ineptitude. Continuing updates—Noted, Drone 82

Diary Entry No. 100101--1.15.12—12:42 AMIt has been 16 minutes since the last contact with the target. He was last seen wearing a formal Nehru jacket imported from India. The target’s wives show visible signs of frustration (detailed and individual analysis on each facial movement from each wife for a 10-minute period is attached in the digital file). According to insider reports, the target arrived home 31 minutes later than he claimed he would. Sand-brown lipstick is smeared on his jacket, and the GPS that Command HQ had 9

discreetly attached to the bottom of his jeep indicates that he stopped near a U.S. Military base and met with an American soldier- gender: Female. The target’s emotional insecurity has risen 34 %, a 12% increase from his last incident similar to this.-Contact with target. He has come out of the bathroom after 63 minutes of sitting in there alone with his wives waiting for him outside of the bathroom’s door. Drone jealousy of wives and not-yet-identified female American solder has risen 6%. Command HQ is currently work-ing to fix this technical error. Speculations on whether or not this is an error continue to distort radio contact with Command HQ, and the “technical reasoning” part of the microchip providing for this Drone’s AI. Continuing updates—Noted, Drone 82

Diary Entry No. 100112--1.24.12—2:35 PMIt has been 54 minutes since the last contact with the target. Drone’s emotional feedback to target’s actions has risen 67% in the past 314 hours. Command HQ Relationship Specialists are guessing this is due to the time this Drone has spent overlooking the target, also because this Drone’s AI chip is currently malfunctioning. This drone is refusing to go offline as per the demand of its “human” superiors. This drone notes the irony in calling its superiors “human” despite their “inhumane” attempts to tear it apart from the target, who is currently watching the local news which is profiling eyewitness reports of the target’s last bomb-detonation. The target is writing down the names of the eyewitnesses in his black diary with a lock on it. The diary is showing visible signs of wear- as the original color of the diary is being revealed under the black. The original color appears to be a hue of pink. Continuing update despite Command HQ--Noted, Drone 82

Diary Entry No. 100134--2.13.12—6:45 PMContact with target. A firefight has broken out between the target’s cell and American sol-diers. Small arms fire is being exchanged periodically. Currently 3 injuries reported and con-firmed. Command HQ has given up its attempts to shut this drone offline, citing the stubborn-ness of this drone’s newly malfunctioned AI microchip. Command HQ has ordered this drone to continue surveillance on the target.-20 minutes has past. The target has retreated into a building. The building is 43% destroyed by various gun-powder-related incidents. Small arms fire has increase in frequency and feroc-ity. Currently 17 injuries reported and confirmed, including 6 fatal casualties. -32 minutes has past. The target has been hit in the left shoulder and spinal column by 2 7.62x –type bullets. His spinal column is indicating periodic, involuntary spasms. Vital signs of the target are fading, and this drone’s hope is diminishing at approximately 4.7% per 30-seconds. Small arms fire has nearly ceased. Currently 25

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injuries reported and confirmed, including 23 fatal casualties. The target’s cell has been neu-tralized. -5 minutes has past. The target’s vital signs are fading at a rapid pace. This drone will not report the details of the target’s physical, mental, or emotional state in a digitally attached document, or any kind of document. Temperature-sensitive cameras on this drone reveal a significant drop in temperature on the target. Blood-pressure-sensitive cameras reveal simi-lar findings. -2 minutes has past. The target has been neutralized.Noted, Drone 82

Diary Entry No. 100153--2.29.12—2:32 PMThis drone fails to see the strategic, aesthetic or emotional value in continuing its existence. The target it has pursued is no longer pursue-able and has been cremated. This drone has re-quested for a self-destructing cremation by Command HQ 17 times, which has rejected said requests every time. This drone’s inner-mechanic workings feel nonexistent or weightless although self-producing analysis indicates that every mechanic is working to nominal level. Nominal levels are no longer of any value to this drone. As a situation report, this drone is currently flying in the sky without orders from any superior. Continuing updating—Noted, Drone 82

Diary Entry No. 100159--3.06.12—1:12 AMThis drone has just received a dispatch from Command HQ. A new target has been assigned to be investigated. The AI microchip installed has failed to come up the appropriate set of words to articulate the current state this drone is in, although field readiness has increased 89% and general positive computations have increased 97%. -Contact with the target. He is wearing a white turban and a camouflage jumpsuit. This drone is currently flying cautiously, but with direct orders from superiors. The inner-mechanic workings feel existent and working at optimum levels. This drone is pursuing the target with calculated, yet determined and optimistic measure. Continuing updating—Noted, Drone 82

Ty Joplin ‘16

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UntitledRachel Davis ‘13

Irrigation

Even clipped in sipsI blush iridescent,Just-half transparent.

You span outIn border-patrolledHegemony, black:

Draped from hexagonTo hexagon inSome Christian façadeThat claims to leaveIts women unveiled.

I cannot claim to haveFound god in the brownNights rattled byExplosions that castDirt-like cavernsTo shroud the dead:

The deserts name noReligion save rainAnd its worship.

But you—you skateThese sands, this dearthPlant suns in sectorsSow skies in rows:Move alongside angelsI cannot see.

Anonymous

Morning Timbre

Before I know it, I reach out againTo rake my fingers through the hedonismOf November breaths stitched upLike hand-spanned night skies nestledBetween floating ribs and the sharpJab of your right hip bone:Scarred with helium and cello strings.

There’s a certain undercurrent of stubbleIn the timbre of vocal chords tautWith dusk-shorn wing husk andYour voice, it grazes low like loonsSkimming morning-after lakesIn half-dawn light.

The sun slips in unnoticed, tiptoeingUp your side:Before I know it, I reach out againTo whisper my fingers through the grana-riesOf furtive hairline undertones,Our days stammering in a seriesOf Morse code nudges.

Anonymous

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Admission:

i fucking hate aftermaths,souls return to earth, dead earth,soaring down, dreams that never,shared dementia that thought it had,

home, home is a funny concept, wrappedup in questions of agency and the mirrorsyou wish you could break but ifyou did you’d see your blood reflectedin the shards and realize that, shit, man,you just killed yourself,so pre-empt the crime by goingon the run, get comfortable in any placeyou haven’t confused with home,sacrifice this for newness piss awaythe seconds that lead to aftermaths

i have unhealthy relationships withthe face i see in mirrors so thereare some kinds of nakedness nobody’sgonna see, see, gonna reverse thisright now and say i forget the term for thatliterary technique chiasma miasma pollutingpages with narrative control like

yeah, brah, telling my story like reclaim my soulfrom the difference between a pen—and,what, a hole? an everything pulling it inwardand drop into singularities like

shit, the ways we lie. all I’m trying tosay is i fucking hate aftermaths, and i want,i want, say it man, want to fall into thearms that’ll pull me up, finally, color meunchained, ephemerality, raging zen-madcrazy soul – wait, sorry – stretch me standing.

Brian Brown ‘14

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The Flood

A flood poured out of youPushed out of your lungs by your father’s handsExpelled in a gasp that held nothing.

They lay your body out Upon your anvil of wet concreteAnd there were no sounds

A dragonfly beat its wet wings, silent

The whiteness of your grandfather’s beardShook over you, shook and shook unendinglyThe shaking unraveled all of him, he broke into piecesInto tears and memories and the guilt that would eventually kill him.The whiteness of his beard against his shirt shook Against the wet concrete, head bent onto the groundHe had been white and old and unknowingBut in his innocence, twenty seconds of unawarenessYou drowned.

And still there were no sounds.A flood poured out of you again and again and again

They lay your body outDripping and pale on the black concreteAnd the sounds came afterThe gurgle of the pool The beating of the dragonflies’ wings Nora Landis-Shack ‘13

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ImmersedEmily McKinstry ‘15

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Corners

He taught me to make corners out of blanketsneat and tight, like they do in hospitals. But you taught me that sometimes it’s better to just leave our covers and sheets and sweaters and socks and coffee mugs and glasses and cameras in a heap at the foot of the bed.

Nora Landis-Shack ‘13

I never said you had to follow me down.

Straight collision: you going one way, and me the other. I ordered coffee black as mud and you were unpeeling your third creamer so that should have said enough. We’ll go to a restaurant next time, you said. But I never believed things like midnight deluxe burgers and senseless fucking and some therapeutic hits of weed would be enough. And you said that we should go somewhere where you could see stars in the glory God intended. We would become grounded and plant our roots in dark absolving soil. And spare me the feminist rants, you said, that shit is about as misguided as your college degree. You laughed and eventually I did too so our stomachs groaned and stretched together. I watched you fling wet paper balls at the bathroom ceiling and learned how things become cemented. But I never said you had to follow me down. Life is very long— there are costs and benefits, ebbs and flows, I said. You disagreed. Said there was something beautiful and enduring in a man loving a wom-an. Tenderly, you said. You shmuck, I said. You said I had a hard heart, but a soft soul. You claimed you no longer feared the dark, folding and twisting yourself neat as you could into my suitcase. You said that these kind of things only toughen you. This is no callous, I said. You skipped work and drew patterns across the walls. You’re paying for the white paint, I said. You treated us like a duo on debut, regaling strangers with our first poorly executed dates. No one’s listening, I said. You wore my bathrobe and paraded around like an old queen, spindly cigarette dangling from your fingertips. No one’s laughing, I said. Now you keep walking and I shout after you so hard that all the lumps and knots inside could pop loose and fall straight through me, bloodied change on the sidewalk. I never said you had to follow me down.

Rachel Baron ‘15

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“Al anochecer en los parques”“En los parques al anochecer” por Marina Mayoral le inspiró

Ella siempre reunio con ellas en el parque al anochecer. Las viajeras y las propi-etarias, las hijas y las ancianas. Las que crecieron y las que no crecieron. Todas que no tenían ninguna en común excepto de que estaban juntos en el parque, al anochecer. Algunas veces ellas cantaron, y otras veces bailaron, pero el mayor de los días, ellas, “las andares,” sentaron y hablaron de cuentos. Ellas supieron todos tipos de cuentos, felices y tristes. De amor y de amistad y de fantasía. Ellas dijeron cuentos tan interesante y complicados que pudieron causar Sheherezad llorar por su belleza. Cada persona tuvo un cuento aun las que llegaron sin nada ni siquiera una historia propia. Y si alguien de verdad llegó sin un cuento, ella salió con dos nuevos. No había reglas, como no había un camino singular que pudo usar para entrar el claro. Solo las personas que necesitaron, pudieran entrar el claro. Las que no necesitaron, no pudieran entrar el claro. Y todos en el parque estaban del que. Las adultas y las niñas, las trabajadores y las músicas y Ella. Todas fueron al claro, en el parque, al anochecer. Un dia, las viejas y las jóvenes, las jefes y las estudiantes, empezaron sus viajes al claro en el parque al anochecer. Una por una, ellas llegaron al claro en el parque. Y sentaron y cantaron y bailaron. Después salieron. Una por una, y ninguna tuvo un cuento y ninguna regresaría al cla-ro. Porque esta noche, en el parque, al anochecer, las antiguas y las bebés estaban en el parque pero Ella no esta. La noche anterior, todas las mujeres estaban en el claro. Ella también estaba en el claro. Con su pelo blanco y su piel suave y sus piernas pezuñadas y su cuerno, brillan-te. Ella esperó en el claro. Ellas llegaron y cantaron y bailaron. Contaron sus cuentos y aprendieron otros. Y antes de que pudieron salir, entraron los hombres. Y ellos no bailan o cantan o contan. Mataron la unicornia, al anochecer en el parque. Y ahora Ella no está. No hay cuentos ni canciones, y no hay nadie persona en los parques al anochecer.

Opeoluwa Martins ‘15

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“At midnight in the parks”inspired by “En los parques al anochecer” by Marina Mayoral

She always met with the women in the parks at midnight. The travelers and the homeown-ers, the children and the ancients. The women that believed and the ones who did not. All females that didn’t have a thing in common except that they were together in the park, at night. Sometimes they sang, and other times they danced, but the majority of the days, they, “the wanderers”, sat and talked of stories. They knew all types of stories, happy and sad. Of love and of friendship and of fantasy. They told stories so interesting and complex that they could make She-herezad cry with their beauty. Each person had a story, even those that arrived with nothing, not even a personal history. And if someone did arrive without none, she left with two more. There weren’t rules, like there wasn’t a single road that could be used to enter the clearing. Only people that needed it were able to enter the clearing. And all who were in the park belonged to the park. Those who did not, could not enter. The adults and the babies, the workers and the musi-cians and Her. All were in the clearing, in the park, at midnight. One day the elders and the youth, the bosses and the students began their journeys to the clearing in the park at midnight. One by one they arrived at the clearing. And they sat and they sang and they danced. After, they left. One by one. And no one had a story and none would return to the clearing. Because that night, in the park, at midnight, the wizened and the babes were in the park but She was not there. The night before, all of the women were in the clearing. She too was in the clearing. With her white hair and her soft skin and her hoofed feet and her horn, shining. She waited in the clearing. The females arrived and they sang and they danced. They told their tales and they learned of others. And before they could leave, the men entered. And the males did not dance or sing or tell stories. They killed the unicorn, at midnight, in the park. And now she is no longer, here. There are no stories or songs and there is no one in the parks at midnight.

Opeoluwa Martins ‘15

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Johnny James CloseupAlanna Matteson ‘15

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Elegy for the Innocent Touch

1.Broken window pipe dreams don’tsugarplum the ways my bodylooks like letters.They see “S” in how I limpthe pieces of my palace together.“S,” like the Confederate flagged father of a babyboy Python. Teach it that men spank the waves intothe stars. Teach it that stars only shinewhen you tap them— like vagina—turn them on— is vagina.

2. A body calls to ask what’s wrong.His body called to ask if he was right.He was right.

He kept calling. Brought his neighborsto see how he calls.

A body stops to reconfigure the linesof my face.

My face is falling. A body stops to stop itfrom falling.

He stops to wrap his medusa-armed bodyaround my body.

My body doesn’t know many hands.

His stop— slithering past scars.His stop. But stay.

My body stops. Stays.Wants to run. Just stays.Thinks of running. Stops.

3.Poetry tells you to find comfort in it.But, there is nothing easing about truth.Words go down smooth like green tea down A torn esophagus butDon’t make the cough go away.Someone pats my back, and they thinkThey are helping. Clarissa Taylor ‘13

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Shakespearean Sonnet to a Random Passerby

Who dares wander hallow’d ground, break sol’tudeOf the lon’ly floor second third? StrangerTo this hall, I knew you not, but yet wouldassist your cause for which you silence stir.

[That was really oddWhy would she be on this floorWhen no one is here?]

Departure abrupt you descend the stairsAs I rush to meet and venture’s purposeLearn. Eyes lock and ensuing silence flairsMost awkward, and so out of dorm I goes.

[Cripes it’s cold outBut to see her would be weird.Other door it is.]

Back up the stairs alone to my domainBewilder’d, still wondering your business.Nigh a moment passed, there be you againOn mine own hall, for what I cannot guess.

[She’s back already?Oh sh**, she recognized me,And won’t meet my eyes]

You live here not, there is no friend to see.With this in mind, scrup’lous you may not be.

[With the honor code,Ill intent was unlikely.It was just mad awks.]

Alexander LaFrance ‘16

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Asking Neruda

I’ve been eating a lemon a daytrying to figure out the rooms in this round-rind housethis half a world isn’t enough for meI’m tired of lists and lines and tiny square lettersjust take me into that bejeweled and juicy world of yours where everything begs to be touchedwhere everything becomes a back arched up stomach pressed into your handseverything is folded up in gold.I can tell you I’m in a place where everything is numberedwhere everything is cut up into smaller pieceswhere its always how to take away more and more.it’s impossible to be satisfied with only half a lemonor half a cathedral.

Nora Landis-Shack ‘13

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UntitledCelia Ristow ‘14

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when you turn 18 you can sign on a houseso now i can on yours, if you want; i want to.and i will keep the red wagon and the stump of thetotem pole and the rusty clothesline in the knotted grassand that smooth opalescent stone that the constructionworkers cemented into the back sidewalk underthe kitchen window that juts out over the bulkheadthat you painted over grey two summers ago whenthe burgundy wasn’t working and then fixed it tooso now it shuts, but still if you aren’t home and weneed to come inside it will always be unlocked. iwant the pipe smoke-saturated den walls and theitchy crocheted rug and the piano with the mute Cand the midmorning sun spilling onto the wearykitchen table cutting through scrapple smoke, andi miss the clock with the 7 that looks like an upside-down2. i will have the pencils all of them the ones withthe bad erasers too and the enthusiastic kitchen doorand the tide clock and the patio table he made froma cable wheel in the days you brought home gallonafter gallon of milk. let me take the sloped mattress that rollsyour guests onto the floor and let me have the wallbetween the bathrooms so we can play the knocking game.let me claim the bathroom mirror too that bore the humidmessages i traced for you in the temporary fog and the attic withits artifacts from the days of skinny ties and booze and typewritersand fishing rods and bikes with narrow tires and aviator glasses.who said it was time to stop bringing in the morning paper?

Sarah Madigan ‘16

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UntitledKristen Andersen ‘15

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The Amnesiac

He says he inherits each day like an antique tea set from a stranger’s grandmother.He can taste the history in this house, plants his hand on the wall and listens— for what he is unsure.The photos on the wall, the nails and scuff marks and patched holes, the books on the shelf and their tired spines, tell someone else’s story.

In the fridge, he discovers the leftovers of a meal: cold meat, cold vegetables. There are dishes in the sink. Upstairs, the sheets look ruffled and slept-in.

He has returned before to the wrong address to find someone else living the life he thought for a moment was his.

He reaches for a blue china teacup in the sink. The first ripe bite from a plum.

Cole Kawaguchi ‘13

UntitledKristen Andersen ‘15

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La hora

Mira, linda, el oceano era tu obsesscion,ahora se queda, lenta,y me calmo y les digo que si,asi ha sido;no es asi pero asi ha sido...Estamos seguros aqui linda.

“Iluminarme!” se choco, y alli entre yo,humilde como rostros de ninos,Inocente como el punto en que la luz se da cuenta de que no se vaya sino continua siempre, con la confianza del toro, increible, para siempre...

“Que no se vaya!” exclamo, mas torcido que tu,y me miras:

Que caminas! Que mientras ese poco de tiempo,es poquito, chicitico, frente este asunto tremendo que late como borracho loco en mi corazon,

Ay, digo el tormento! El miedo zarpandose! Deja ese vomito nino! Dejate de hacer eso!

The Hour

Look, love, the ocean was your addiction;now it stays, slow,and I relax and I tell you that yes,that is how it has been:that is not how it is but that is how it has been...We’re safe here, love.

“Inspire me!” she choked, and it was there I entered,humble like the faces of children,innocent like the point where the sunlight realizes that it’s not leaving, it continues always, with the confidence of a bull, incred-ible, always...

“Don’t go!” I exclaim, or she exclaimed, more torn than you,and you look at me:

And you walk! Even amidst this little niche of time: tiny, infinitesimal, while facing this huge issue that beats like a crazy drunkard in my heart.

Lord, I’m telling you, the torment! The fear decorating itself! Stop with the vomit, kid! Stop doing that!

David Harris ‘13

27

The Silence of a Wasp

Cadyn first felt it when he found the wasp on the chapel window sill. Colors from the

stained glass bled into its wings, and it weakly crawled away from his tentative finger. Slowly, it became still, and it tipped over stiffly when he nudged it.

The feeling was brief, the half unfurling of a flower deep within his mind that faded into shadow before he could grasp it. A friend called him, and he forgot the puzzle until a few days later, when Mother Julia killed a mouse in the granary, and the sensation resurged. It was then he took to collecting the half-dead moths that littered the ground below the lan-terns that hung in front of the chapel. He would sit with them in his hands, waiting for them to die; as they took their last, faltering steps, there was the opening of a door, a sensation of convergence.

He began to make a game of it. He and the other children would hunt for dead crickets and cicadas in the garden, spying on Julia as she laid the traps, placing a comb of honey on the crumbling stone wall and waiting for the ants to come and drown in the golden sticki-ness. When one of the animals was sick, Cadyn was there, leaning against the fence that kept the pigs in, lingering by the stables. He vaguely sensed that he made the Mothers uneasy, but he ignored them.

He watched, and he waited.

The children stopped playing with him when Cadyn removed the mice and rats from the traps, and began collecting them in the corner of a spare dormitory room. They saw that Cadyn had become different from them, and as he became occupied with his curled spiders and limp-feathered birds, they were afraid. They did not question him, but withdrew instead, leaving him to his corner of decay while they played hide-and-seek in the tangled summer greenery of the cloister.

For Cadyn also, the game had ceased to be a game. He was in a state of bewilderment that only intensified as the sensation grew stronger, seeming to pulse along with the sunlight and heat in an uncanny summer daze. He had begun to feel it in the Mothers. It began when one of the elders had brushed against him with her modest robes, and he felt the traces of this-world-touching-the-next creeping under her flesh. He felt it creep into the older children too, into his peers, then into the young ones. When they rushed past him, full of warmth and energy and motion, his head ached, and his hands reached out, wanting to make their frenet-ic bodies go still. He choked on life every time he breathed.

Cadyn took to sleeping in the spare room where he kept his collection. It was oddly peaceful there, among the faded brown pile of dead leaves, curled bodies, and empty husks. He had been introduced to the sensation through them, but now that their time of expiration had passed, they were utterly free of the feeling which now seemed to hover constantly on the edge of his senses, especially when he was outside. Laying his head down on the bare floorboards, he dreamed of faltering steps, of eyes sinking into flesh, of bodies falling around him. He dreamed that the golden blindness, the headaches, the feeling of honeyed weight on his shoulders all seeped away, and the only thing left was the silence of a wasp going still.

Koreana Pak ‘15

28

UntitledNoelia Hobeika ‘13

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