Spires 2009

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SPIRES 2009M assachusetts College of Liberal Arts Student Art

and Literary M agazine

SPIRES COMMITTEE

Kimberly Capriola

Katelynn Larson

POETRY EDITOR

Tracey Martin

FICTION EDITOR

Ashley Benatar

ART EDITOR

Alex Marshall

SUBMISSIONS EDITOR

Staci Graves

PUBLIC RELATIONS

Kathleen Weglarczyk

EDITOR~ IN ~CHIEF

Brianne Bardusch

ADVISOR

Abbot Curler

SPECIAL THANKS

Ben Jacques, The English/Communications

Department, and everyone who contributed their work



CONTENTS

FICTION

Steven O'Connor 8

Katelynn Larson 15

Christopher Bonasia 29

Martha Ceijas 33

Jennifer Momaney 39

Sarah Maust 46

POETRY

Katheleen Hermance

Thomas Mellone

Jesse Clark

Kathleen Weglarczyk

John Downey

Jason Peabody

Christopher BonasiaKristen Havens

Benjamin Boyd

Ashley Benatar

Martha Ceijas

Teisha Twomey

Elyssa Baker

Nicole PervereTracey Martin

Kimberly Capriola

Halley Eacker

Devin Kibbe

ART

Leanne DixonDevin Kibbe

Ashley Benatar

4,6

11

13

19

20

21

23

24

30

31

32

35

36,37

4143

44

50

52

cover,7, 12, 25~28,42, 5122

back cover,38



Getting Lost in North Adams

The blileaves were chasing me.When they passed me

Like a true adventurer

I Iollowcd them.

Instead of staying in a pack,

They all ran their separate ways.

So instead Ibegan chasing

The houses with the oddest eyes,

The largest wrap-around porches;

The ones that frightened me most.

The hills were steep,

And begged me to take them on.

My legs, holding onto their pride

Began pumping.

As Ipassed the hammock house

And the bird bath house,

Iurned onto the sealed up

Church.

Itopped.

It glared at m e, daring me in .

I (Yl'!! d a r k a n d broken.

Once vib runr colors, now

Moldy and I:tll·gottcn.

Loneliness pinning it down.

Taking one step forward

Itopped.

Iwas lost.

K atheleen H erm ance



How do we end up so empty?

So alone,

Broken and ragefuL

My pulse quickened when I realizedI was looking

At my reflection

In the church's broken window.

Eyes from a cherub

looked back at me.

Broken glass, missing pieces.

Saddened, for us both

I began looking for my way back home.

5



Meeting Mr. Puddlefish

W h e n f . l . r . l i t we met I tan a W a y .

, .Distortedhna,ge ofmyself -'Puddles will do that.

An.ge r s ends me back to Y b U .

'Each-time Ilookaunyself

Within youI; tipple~

The pierures are.more unclear .

Once I even thought T saw

A fish w ithin tho s~w av es

Of yoqrs·

Apart of myself:1

I want to see him again.

But I haven't;

At 't im:es, i t feels,

L i k e I 'm standing en.glass, ,

Thin glass, ready-to fall tht.ough-

That's when I'remember-you. '

A puddle with a 'fish 'Within

That h i d e s from view,

But he's there

AndJknow

So I sm ile.

It h elp s- to knowtharI'mnorThe only one disguised .

T'otcU tho rnlth,l 'VOI\IVI" u l \ d . o r l l r o o , {M y • • l fmor l ,The w j;m 1 look

1 f t y ur rl,pll ll ,

Kaiheleen Hermance



Self-employed in York, England Leanne Dixon

7



Beho ld the Cosmos

Steven O'Connor

My eyes are closed, and by that I mean completely closed. The hazyreddish-grey of the back of my eyelids that looks like a static-shrouded

surgery camera is there no longer. Maybe it's because I'm focusing on

something beyond my eyelids. I can't tell at this point. The only thing I

know for certain is that whatever is outside my mind no longer exists.

The only thing I can see is black, true black, like the night sky if every

star was plucked out of it. I focus, focus on the last one. One star, twin-

kling in the blackness, stares back at me, shifting from blue to green to

white at every possible second.

A few years ago, I would be flying through the cosmos, sailing

amongst the planets, dodging meteors, in awe of the vastness of the uni-

verse around me. But without a reference point from the stars that I

removed from the heavens, there is only the one light, a diamond in a

mausoleum of onyx. This one will be no different.

The star gets brighter as I draw closer to it, but no hotter. I had long

ago removed the heat from my world, sucking it all away as it touched mybody. No warm lover's kiss, no cold killer's knife. Now, it is only light that

remains, light that flickers, shifts, and rearranges itself in every instant of

dille.

t draw closer to it, ever closer, and I can see the light ofthe star as it

fl'uly is. The gases, the solar flares, the sunspots, everyone considered

them to be so important. They were merely a shell, the earthly form. Like

everything else in this universe, it was simply irrelevant, and now there is

only light. Bands of red, blue, green, gold, and white are flickering along

the surface. They are as linear as the strata of the painted cliffs one

minute and as warped as a blizzard of cartwheeling sapphires the next.

Part of me wonders if that was how nature and man conceived their

inspiration, looking at the stars and unknowingly seeing every color of the

heavens. Again, I do not really know. It does not make a lot of difference

at this point.

My hands reach out for the band of red that has just popped awayfrom the rest, and I wrap my fingers around the iridescent cord. It's as

soft as silk with the crimson red of fate, and it instantly curls around my

hands. The stt'unci CI'Il,wlH up Illy arms, and as it moves I'm reminded of a

python cmling ltH w i l y up the n'· · 1 1 . BUi' 110 snake alive made me feel like

8



this. Nothing did.

Tiny pinpricks tickle my arm, each one gently easing in as a thumb-

tack of amber honey. And the red is not alone; I can feel the cool intelli-

gence of blue, the soft subtlety of green, the arrogant pride of purple, and

every emotion that a color can carryall running wild across my body as

they unravel from the star.

They fuse with my skin, cutting painless puncture wounds and spiral

on in, and as I watch I feel it all fall away.As the blue leaves my sight, the

desire for wisdom follows. As the green vanishes, my desire for tranquility

goes with it. Every ounce of light is leaving my sight. No, no it's not leav-

ing my sight. It's leaving me. The sight is me; I am my sight. The world

has left me, and now only I have to leave me.

Like a sweater untangled it zooms by, a corkscrew rainbow pouringinto my body. Every pore fills with light and sucks it away,leaving no

trace of what it was. Soon, there is no color,just white. Bright white light

surrounds me in full.

I open my eyes, my mouth, my ears, my hands, my heart, my soul. I

have given it all away,What I was doesn't mean a thing. I am the light.

The light is me. We are each other, and the universe is us.

I breathe in, and out, in, and out, and it all flows forward. The light

fills me, full to bursting, and I feel it all flow away like blood down a

lancet. My existence,my world, my life,it was all transient, meaningless,

but now I have found meaning. This light, THIS is meaning. The blank

universe upon which we all draw,THA T is meaning. We change our pic-

ture, but beneath the crayons and oil paints, this white, THIS is what is

real.

I stare into it. It stares into me. I ask of it Nirvana, to shed Samsara

and its chains to the world of flesh. And in a silent roar, like a sitar ampli-fied tenfold, it replies...

A raindrop hits my nose. My eyes open, and I see the thatch has a leak

in it, letting the water hit my nose. Specks of dust float around and choke

my throat, an army of grains that march through my teeth like the young

Americans below.Lucky for me, the dust scatters as a drum-like cacopho-

ny rises; rises like the fire that brought it forth from the sea of green.

Whispers hang in the air, looking not to Buddha but to Ho Chi Minhand Saigon for truth. They do not care for the light; the void in their

stomach roars far louder than the void in their mind.

The water is real. The thatch is real. The death is real. The people are

real.

9



It IS real. It isjust as real as the light, the Truth. The only difference is

And of course, I have the real reaction.

".. Son of a BITCH:'

My eyes dose, the gauze wrapping my sight once again as I face the

sun that marks the days.

But the sun does not mind that I ignore it. After all, we do this every

single day.

10



A Graph ic Sh o tThomas Mellone

One perfect, solitary, .45 caliber round pierces the skin on the left side of

your forehead, it crushes through your skull and liquefies your frontal

lobe. It burns its way into your temporal lobe, searing and shocking your

neurons, and finally explodes through your cerebellum in a beautiful mess

of bloody cranium. A thick, pink mist sprays onto a concrete wall and the

portrait of an unknown bystander: the only witness of my glory. Your

brain-dead body descends to the floor in involuntary convulsions whileyour lifeless eyes stare up at your consciousnes~ as it ascends to some

higher state of being. From there, you will look down upon your shattered

skull, and limp body only to find victory.Victory, my friend, for me. And

as my computer generated marine t-bags your computer generated corpse,

we will rejoice.All because I made the choice. To silence your computer

generated voice.

11



12



Just K ee p D iggingJ esse C lark

When the great leaders of the nation wanted to look for gold,they put their picks and spades and shovels in the earth and dug.

They dug and dug all day and all night.

When someone would say, "There's nothing here."

the leaders would respond, "Just keep digging."

They toiled everyday and every night

as life continued to roll on.

Years passed, but all they found was dust and dirt.

'Just keep digging'; the leaders said to keep moral up.

Soon, the leaders dug up all the earth

in that one area of land.

Someone said, "Let's move on, we will dig in the west, or. east,

Germany, Italy, Poland or Afghanistan:'

"No;' said the leaders. "We will stay here and here is where will stay.Keep it up and we will find the gold, we will find it someday:'

They dug and dug, but nothing changed,

dust was all they found.

Whenever someone would say, "There's nothing here:'

the leaders would respond, 'Just keep digging."

But one day, someone stepped up and said,

"What are we doing, digging up dust in the same placer

Let's go somewhere where there will be gold,

no matter what they say.

We have been here all this time and not found one speck.

Let's stop doing this pointless act and move on,

or we will be a wreck.

Let's finally get our pay:'So the people called the leaders senseless and demanded a change.

Something about the way they were running things couldn't stay the

same.

13



"Youcan stay here, but we're moving on!" they shouted to the leaders.

"Keep digging up your dust, but we are going to try something else,

Something new, something smart! Keep your stubborn ways,

but we are going to part!"

So the people left the leaders and the leaders stayed.

They are still there to this very day,

toiling under the sun

chanting "Just keep digging,"over and over again.

Until their battle is won.

14



Return

Katelynn Larson

Jacob stood on the front step of the porch looking at the shaggy lawnwith a sort of curious look on his face. He pressed his lips together, his

intelligent blue eyes trying to find something, and shook his head. Sigh-

ing, he turned to the house, painted white with green trim, and bowed his

head. His lips tightened. His eyes churned. His shoulders tensed.

Wordlessly, he tugged open the green door and was greeted by a house

void of happiness and emotion, cleanliness and precision, glory and luster.

He walked through every room, silent, his finger ttacing a path in thethick coating of dust firmly settled in every crevice of his old home, his

feet stirring long-resting particles and sending them swirling in the air. He

sneezed. Once.

He opened the door to the bedroom, but there was nothing there-he

needed: the bed was bare, the drawers empty, the light bulbs worn out.

Shaking his head, he closed the door, his fingers lingering on the cold of

the rusty knob fora few seconds, his teeth clenched together in an expres-

sion of consternation, his vision blurring."Youaren't here,"he whispered, his voice a harsh sound to the silent

house; "Why aren't you here?"

The pipes creaked above him, the floorboards nestled further into

their places, and the wind rattled the loose windows.

Jacob stood on the front step of the porch, looking at the grossly over-

grown lawn with a sort of despondent look on his face. He pressed hislips together, his intelligent blue eyes dimming slightly,and bowed his

head. He heaved a great sigh and turned to the house, painted white with

green trim, and frowned, his eyes darkening and his shoulders sloping.

Wordlessly, he yanked open the green door and was greeted by a

house full of angst and despair, lost memories and forgotten hopes, unre-

alized dreams and a half-lived life. He walked through every room, silent,

his finger gouging a crevice in the dust up the banister, across the furni-

ture, down the hallways, avoiding the previous trail still evident in thethick layers of time. His feet stirred up long-resting particles and sent

them swirling in the air. He sneezed. Twice.

He opened the door to the bedroom, but there was nothing there he

wanted: the bed was bare, the drawers empty, the light bulbs worn out.

15



Shaking his head, he closed the door, his fingers lingering on the cold of

the rusty knob for a few seconds, his teeth clenched together in anexpres-

sion of exasperation, his vision blurring.

"You aren't here:' he whispered, his voice a harsh sound to the silent

house. "Why aren't you here? You said you'd be here!"The pipes groaned above him, the floorboards whined under his

weight, and the wind screamed against the loose windows.

Jacob stood on the front step of the rickety porch, gazing at the jungle

of a lawn with a sort of resigned look on his face. He pressed his lips

together, his intelligent blue eyes swimming with sadness, and shook his

head. He heaved a great sigh and turned to the house, the white and

green paint beginning to chip and peel. He bowed his head, his lips

pressed together, his eyes lost in thought, his shoulders bent with an

unseen burden.

Wordlessly, he coerced open the green door and was greeted by a

house full of hating and loving, hoping and fearing, dreaming and dread-

ing. He trudged through every room, silent, his hands limp at his side,his

eyes absorbing the thick coating of dust, his feet stirring long resting par-

ticles and sending them swirling in the air. He sneezed. Thrice.He opened the door to the bedroom, but there was nothing there: the

bed was a bed, the drawers were drawers, the light bulbs were light bulbs.

Shaking his head, he closed the door, his fingers lingering on the cold,

rusty knob for a few seconds, his jaw loose in an expression of regret, his

vision blurred.

"You aren't here," he whispered, his voice a soft sound against the bru-

tally silent house. "Why aren't you here? You said you'd be here:'

The pipes above him sighed; the floorboards beneath him resigned.

His hand slipped off the handle and hung loose at his side. His legs weak-

ened beneath him. Tears slipped down the side of his nose, caught in the

contours of his face, and bled into the edge of his mouth. His breath

hitched in his throat. His hands grasped at the door frame for support,

his knees unable to remain steady.

"You said you'd be here;' he whispered, his voice sharp and his tone

ra.gged. "Why aren't you here?" His head slumped forward, his chintouching his chest. "You said you'd be here ... "

He fell to his knees, the stream of tears pouring from his eyes falling

drop by drop onto the hardwood floor, the hiccups in his breath and the

sobs of his heart resounding through the house clear as a bell, the

16



evidence of his pain obvious in the pool of tears resting on the dirty floor.

His breathing normalized. His vision focused. His legs strength-

ened.He stood up, raw, and walked out of the house.

Jacob stood on the front step of the freshly painted porch looking atthe perfectly manicured lawn with a sort of pensive look on his face. He

pressed his lips together, his intelligent blue eyes struggling to ascertain

something, and shook his head. Sighing, he turned to the house, newly

painted gray with black trim, and bowed his head. His countenance was

grim, his eyes void of emotion, and his shoulders pulled back in a terse

pose.

Without a word, he slipped his key into the black door and turned the

lock. He was greeted by a house void of character and emotion, clutterand signs of the living, comfort and family. He walked through, silent, his

hands lodged in the pockets of his jeans. His feet trod the well-worn path

up the stairs to the bedroom. He stood in front of the familiar door, star-

ing at it, gazing at it, marveling at it.

With one hand, he nudged opened the door to the bedroom. It was

empty: no bed, no dresser, no desk, no lamp, no curtains, no dust, no pic-

tures, no books, no anything. Shaking his head, he closed the door, hisfingers lingering on the cold of the lustrous new knob for a few seconds,

his teeth clenched together in an expression of resignation, his vision

blurring.

"Youaren't here!" he said, his voice a cutting sword to the silent house.

"Why aren't you here?"

The pipes above him creaked. The floorboards nestled further into

their places.The wind rattled the loose windows.

"Why aren't you here, Emily?"His voice whipped through the rooms."Where are you?"

He stormed down the hallway,his fists clenched at his side, his eyes

narrowed towards the far window, a bench that used to lay at the foot of

it removed.

"Are you here, Emily? Are you sitting under the window reading a

book or downstairs in the living room playing piano? Are you upstairs in

the attic looking at old pictures of your grandmother or ttying to get Ianto get back to sleep?Where are you?You said you'd be here! Right here!

Where are you?"

He stood still for a moment, waiting. He held his breath and with-

drew his movements. He stared at the window and the tree outsid I

17



its green buds small beads on the branches.

His breath came out in a low hiss, a growl, a venomous peal.

"You aren't here, are your" He spoke softly, each word weighed with

anger and frustration. "You never were. I've wasted ... I've wasted so much

time waiting. Waiting, Emily! You know how much I hate waiting!"

The tree branch tapped against the window.

"This is ridiculous:'

Jacob took a deep breath, dug his hands in his pockets, and looked

around at the familiar hallway: the hallway where he spent so many years,

the hallway where he associated family, the hallway where he turned from

a bright-eyed naive young man into a mature adult. The hallway where he

could still see her.

"Good bye, Emily;' he whispered, his voice tender and soft. "1...I missyou. And ... and r...well, I think you know the rest:'

His eyes lingered by the window for a second longer before he turned

and walked down the hallway. His hand intuitively reached out and gently

brushed against the bedroom door as he passed it. He walked down the

stairs, his vision beginning to blur and his throat beginning to ache. He

pushed through the heavy front door into the brilliant sunlight, got into

his car, and drove away without looking back.

18



Winners Never Quit (Dramatic Escapades of

Intellectual Warfare) Kath leen Weglarczyk

I watch as these intellectualslight their cigarettes,

smoking with heads high as

the cancer wavers haughtily throughout the room.

Bourbon passes through our bodies slowly,

cirrhosis of the liver awaits!

I take another swig of whiskey,

the preconception of our impending doom

terrifies me and

I am finding that everything is ...

per fect , per fect , per fect .

bronzed and sullen boy shyly chuckles,

"Call me Bukowski!"

The crowd retorts with vivacious laughter

as I hold my liquored stomach,

he recites another poem

and I am vomiting pretentiously into the punch bowL

19



That's Nice, John, but It's Not Funny Enough

John D ow ney

I thought I'd slept my last good sleep.

Then:

Narcoleptic double dreams,

The inside of my eyelids tattooed with

Pictures of Michael and1-

Twins, almost-

Stealing dreams from those more liquid than us,

Chewing apples with eyeballs for seeds(and getting the joke),

And seeing myself smash a wood bat over my daughter's head

Thinking that I'm doing her a favor.

Thought I should spend as much time

Awake as I can,

As one minute awake .

Is one minute not spent at my child's bedside

Playing Whac-A-Kid.Thought that consuming the grain at the bottom of the bottle would

chase them away,

And it did,

But then I dreamt of the Sandman sipping Jack Daniels.

Thought that I should resign myself

To a small room

And two glowing magic boxes.

Then:

You told me that I deserve more.

And I believed you.

I sing myself a lullaby now.

You'll hear it someday.

20



Sleep T alk

J ason P eabody

and ican admit myself to a full lifeas a drunken college kid

on the stairs inside of a friend's house

and she can hold me after i tell her

my ailments, then listen to what she was hiding

but already knew

she's not good at hiding things

but i'm a good observer now

and we can finish the night

with my hands parting the hair of a saint

and landing one kiss actual and successful

on the bridge of her forehead

to control the forefront of the storm

but we all want more

and in the truthful moment she connected

and i committed

to let her connect

the hallow plush pillows of our lips together

and icould stumble back to my place late at night

or early in the morning

but 1:30 is good enough for me

and I could hold tight to my cigarette with the same lips

that touched hers when i sleep walk sleep walk

sleep talk myself into going back into my place

just one more drunken time

to end the night of flood gates still held

and stories still not told

and one day iwill break the hinges off those accursed gates

and empty my reliefinto the runoff

tears of purification

roll into the poison air of my room

21



' "

f ,

' "

' , .

~.,(

- .

Th em D evin K ibbe

22



Rosy Retrospection

When I was young, before we moved into

the new house, I would watch my father let

his fresh tomatoes soak in water so

they'd peel for sauce. And as they sat, we'd sit

and always, every time, we'd listen to

acoustics of a scarcely known duet;

and even though tomatoes soak so slow,

they always shine a perfect red when wet.

I don't remember sometimes being bored

and twisting restless, anxious in my seat.

I don't remember that sometimes I used

to hear a straining unmelodic chord

or found-forgotten, hidden and discrete

amongst the perfect red-a soft, brown bruise.

23

Christopher Bonasia



Don't B o th e r M e Now , I'm in M y Happy PlaceK risten H avens

The roses are red, the violets are blue.

The sky is clear and those icecaps won't melt.

Black meets white meets blue meets purple

and the rainbows have never been brighter.

Freedom is as free as a smile from a stranger,

the planet is as green as the leprechaun is lucky.

There is no false witness against thy neighbor because

they are too busy honoring thy father and thy mother,

praising God, Allah, Buddha, or the Brady Bunch.

The morning news isn't a death toll,

More rain falls than tears,

Mother Nature spares those already in time-out,

Father Time waits just a bit longer.

The unicorns dance with the dragons,

the root of all evil stays in the ground,

and everyone lives happily ever after.

24



Another Brick in the Wall: Peace Leanne Dixon

25



26



27



Tower of London, England Leanne Dixon

28



Clif fs

Christopher Bonasia

Margaret was sitting on a rock off to my left, her gaze stoically fixedon the landscape. Out across the ocean, gigantic cliffs rose from the water

and loomed over us; Margaret refused to look away from their silent,

jagged walls. Occasionally, in the hope of catching her in a moment of

sympathy, I would glance in her direction-she was intent on avoiding eye

contact. I would then turn back and look out above the cliffs, trying hard

to focus on the golden light thrown against the clouds. This would last

only seconds before my attention wandered. Then, my gaze would turn

unwillingly to the cliffs before dropping lower and lower towards water

and I would be left staring at the waves. A slight breeze blew through my

blue sweatshirt and I rubbed my hands together to warm them but it did-

n't help.

After we had spent some time sitting-neither of us moving-I heard

voices approaching behind me, speaking in what may have been Polish.

Relieved to have found distraction I turned to look, and saw another cou-

ple coming up the trail. The walk up was considerably steep, and the exer-tion had caused the girl's cheeks to flush with warmth. The man, who car-

ried a red jacket draped over his shoulder, was also strained by the effort.

I couldn't understand what they said to each other but they spoke

quickly-pausing only to laugh-and so neither one was at all focused on

the surroundings. When they reached the top of the trail their attention

was finally pulled away from each other by the cliffs. The girl's eyes

widened and her mouth spread as she let out a foreign exclamation. The

man's reaction was less dramatic, but after a fast glance at his partner's

face he too smiled before resuming his gaze on the sky, cliffs, and ocean.

As they became aware of the wind each slowly slipped their hand into the

other's and, although their gaze remained upon the landscape, they

resumed conversation.

I looked back at the clouds-still golden-and then back at Margaret

-still sitting on her boulder, still staring at the cliffs. Without turning

her head, she lifted her hands and quickly pushed them into her pocketsas the wind blew stronger, never relenting.

29



Herbert

B enjam in B oyd

Today I found a loose thread

on one of my small white socks.

I pulled, and pulled on the thread;

it never broke, and the sock was unmade.

There before me, instead of a pile of yarn,

was a little white sheep.

His name was Herbert, he told me.

And he thanked me very muchfor freeing him from his foot-bound prison.

He chose to live with me, on my desk,

and each day I brought him milk and grass.

Then one day. he told me about his brothers,

and he told me about all his sisters, aunts, mother,

father, uncles, and each and every cousin.

All these other forms trapped in the other socks and more.He begs me to free his kin trapped inside the clothing.

So each night I have been unraveling my socks.

I'll get to my shirts next, then my pants-

the underwear I'll save for last-

and then, during the night,

I'll break into homes and shops stark naked,

followed by a pride of animals, trees, and people,

and unravel all the world's clothes.

3 0



Darning Socks

A shley B ena tar

Sewing up my socks,

Not a particularly pleasant or invigorating activity.

The thread gets shorter as the hole closes up,

But not everything can be fixed with a needle and thread.

If hearts worked that way,life would be so easy.

If I could, I would sew up my heart tight

So nothing could break it.

And if it did break, I could always close it up again

To break the thread between me and you.

31



That Poor, Blue~Eyed Farm B oy

Torrential sheets of rainblur the near horizon;

I open my door to

a rush of tropical humidity, and

the bright, dimpled smile of that

poor, blue-eyed, farm boy

who stands barefoot,

in a puddle of water;

on my front porch.

A lock of blond, water-soaked hair

falls carelessly across his forehead.

His jeans rolled up to his knees,

and his head cockedjust so,

hints at some mysterious danger

lurking behind that expression ofgenteel politeness

he has so carefully

fixed upon his face.

I take this in with

one casual glance, and

hope he has not noticed

how my stomach lurchedin a way,I am certain, has

nothing whatsoever to do with

polite,

civilized,

hunger.

32

M artha C eijas



Snake Medicine

M artha Ceijas

I remember th e m o m en t, and the minutes preceding that moment, andthe seconds immediately following, with such clarity it might have just

happened although it actually occurred over fifty years ago.

It seems odd to me that this little niche in time from my early child-

hood is so indelibly preserved in my memory, while the weeks, days, even

the hours surrounding that moment are totally lost to me. I do remember

the echo of my father's authoritative decree: "You are NEVER to play

over there ... stay in the yard where your mother can see you:'

"But why, Daddy? Why can't I play out there?"

"Because I said so, that's why. You'll do as you're told, young lady."

My father was never big on reason; Rule was his style, and even

though it was most often benevolent Rule, it nevertheless had the unde-

sired effect of tweaking my insatiable curiosity.

Recall now rolls forward in my mind's eye like a short-short feature in

a movie theater, recording in exact detail all the subtle nuances of soundand texture and smell on that hot, summer day when I dared to venture

into a pasture, next to our old farmhouse, where my father had forbidden

me to play. I can still smell the musky sharpness of each blade of tall-grass

falling like soldiers beneath the onslaught of my dancing, bare feet, and

feel the coarseness of my flour-sack dress brushing loosely against my

youthful, gyrating body. I remember the sound of urgency from my

beloved dog, Rex, barking, barking, barking at my heels; and then ... that

sudden, ice-cold stitch, caught deep within my chest, because my heart

stopped when my eyes met snake-eyes for the first time ever.

And there it was, the moment: one, suspended, spring-loaded moment

when time and breath and life-as-l-knew-ir paused for an instance of raw,

nature-to-soul comprehension,

So rapidly was that moment thrust upon me; even more rapidly did it

slither away into the next moment: heart pounding, pupils contracting,

feet taking flight and I felt the currents of displaced air breaking across thebacks of my legs as that Highland Moccasin snake shot like a bullet

through the space I had just occupied in the moment before -before

fright and flight had catapulted me safely into the arms of my broth-

er-in our backyard-a lifetime away from that precious moment:

33



our moment.

Three days later, my parents were away at the Farmer's Market. It was

early morning, shortly after sunrise, and my oldest brother, Peter, was

standing in our front yard. I was on the front steps, headed into the

house, but something made me stop to turn and look at my brother. He

stood absolutely motionless; even his breath, which was barely visible in

the cool morning air, made no movement upon his chest. In a soft voice

that was filled to the brim with authority, he said, "Martha-don't-move.

Call-Augustine. Tell-him-to-bring-you-the-shotgun. Then-l-wanr-you-

to-slowly-pass-the-gun-over-to-me. Now, do exactly what I've told you-

do it-now:' ... and I did; I did everything, exactly the way he told me to.

Augustine stood quietly on the porch, and I held my breath as we

watched Peter raise the sites of that rifle, taking careful aim at somethingin the grass. The crack of that shot rang through my pounding heart as if

the bullet had been intended for me! Time itself seemed to slow down as

I looked up and saw twenty-four inches of snake body flying through the

air, twisting and turning in a complicated dance, as if it were tracing runes

against the cold, cloudless sky, before it landed with a thud at my feet.

I've been told, by people who might know about such things, that I

have snake medicine; although I have no idea what that means. These

same people have told me it is common for a snake to sacrifice itself onceit has "chosen" the one it wishes to imbibe with this "snake medicine:'

Well, I don't know anything about that either, but I can tell you this:

something inside me died that day; and something new was born in its

place,

Ever since, I've had no fear of snakes. Oh, I don't go around looking

for them; and I certainly would never imprison one by calling it a pet.

But there is something serpentine in my nature now, for I have shed my

skin many times. In a constant process of renewal, I have reinvented

myself at fairly consistent intervals throughout my life, and the more inti-

mate I become with the serpentine aspects of my feminine nature, the

more am I self-empowered to continue that life-death-life dance that

started all those many years ago, in a pristine pasture beside our old farm-

house, where my father had forbidden me to play.

It has not escaped my notice that another, long before me, was also

forbidden by her Father to play in a particular part of Paradise, and thatshe, too, received snake medicine as a reward for honoring her intuition,

and for her willingness to risk breaking the rules every now and again.

I like to think our snakes were related.

34



C h ild h o od Knowled ge

T eisha T w om ey

You frighten me because you enjoy puzzles

You can read maps and a compass

I never quite know which way East is

You wake early in the morning to listen to the birds and sometimes you

call back to them

Your comportment is impressive

You are a sage, highbrowed and stoic, enveloped by thick publications and

field guides

Deep work that requires cigarette breaks and bold coffee

And I am here, trying to grasp these secrets

These threads that dissolve as soon as you extend a pauperized limb

Now you are a toddler having a tantrum in.a department store

beating sweaty little fists against the floor

shrieking like the tea kettle you bought me for my birthday last year

And I can relate to this child

That unbridled hunger

The raw affection

The threads of this charade bind me

I am a Marionette poised on a shell

the innards blown out like an easter egg you want to preserve

I play games in my head; the "what ifs?.:' of abandonment

Have you ever played hangman?Three more guesses till the last leg ...

I use to give myfriends the benefit of the doubt

I drew socks and shoes before calling game over

I hated hanging them for not being lucky

What a funny way to kill someone ... piece by piece

The counterbalance of dissection,

Death by assembly

Am I the puzzle at hand?

You frighten me less when you are that toddler

With knuckles too chubby to hang me

35



Pussy

I was sixteen when I saw the cat die,after watching the peaceful turmoil of the waterfall.

I saw it a moment before.

The van did not even pause

I saw it try to divert, tumble,

and then it was there in the dead leaves

on the side of the road.

I screamed and cried like an infant.Helpless to the smell of piss and shit

and fear.

Both hips broken, bleeding from the inside out

Its chest heaving in great gasps of shock

Its rnewling, I could only imagine

for its mother, like I would have.

I wanted to clutch it to my chest

but I knew no nursing would feed it life.

I knew it was going to die.

And I would die with it.

Only to be reborn with a hate,

hate for the van, hate for

the roaring water that kept me at bay

hate for the fact that I would spend

my life with both hips broken

bleeding from the inside out

crying out for my mother to save me from

this adult pain.

36

E lyssa Baker



Bones

There are fingers dancingon my bones.

I peeled the skin away

to pull you closer

inside of me-

was not good enough.

My vertebrae, shiny

s : hard, glow.

In the dark, I am the moon.

There are kisses on

my clavicle and cartilage.

In the night, we are

sewn together

hip to hip.

There are fingers dancingon my bones.

Ribs tickled as I doze,

by the hair on your

arms. You are muscle

glued with sinew to my structure

together-osteophilia.

I breathe slowly

so as not to wake you.

My skeleton is exposed.

My heart is laid bare

naked we lie

hip to hip.

Elyssa Baker

37



38



Girl's Night Out

Jennifer Momaney

Jenny never wanted to go speed dating, it was Sue's idea, but Jennywas too nice to tell her best friend that she thought speed dating was the

stupidest thing to come from modern society. Reluctantly, Jenny agreed to

make a "girl's night" of it.

The first five men were what you might expect to meet when speed

dating. #1 George reeked of Rogaine. #2 Seth was so deep in the closet

that he was dancing with moths. #3 Chad showed her his gift card to 18+

Playland. #4 Norman, a soon to be rock star, explained that even his land-

lord believed in the band, in fact she had believed in him from the day she

brought him home from the hospital. #5 Kyle, showed Jenny pictures of

his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Anna. AllJenny could do was to smile at the pic-

tures of Anna and the kids, and explain that, no she didn't understand

what Anna's note meant either.

Bachelor #6 was named Harold. Harold was dressed in a blue vest, a

green shirt, and a purple tie. Great Jenny thought A noth er Seth.

Harold was standing with his arms wide, just begging for a hug. Jennywalked into his open arms careful to clutch her purse to her chest so he

couldn't sneak a feeL

In polite society after a man hugs a woman, and she proceeds to back

out of the hug, that man does not keep his hand on the small of the

woman's back. Harold never learned this simple rule.

"How are you?" he asked.

Get your hand off m e "Good, your"

'Just great baby"

M ove your hand! "It's nice to meet you, I'm Jenny:'

'Jenny? Really, my first time was with a Joanna, practically the same

name:'

N ot ev en close creep -o, m ove the hand! "I guess" she laughed.

"Don't worry babe, you're cuter than her."

Y our hand-m y back -m ov e-N OW !

"Name's Harold and Angel, I'm here to make you sing:'

Jenny moved to the table and motioned for Harold to join her.

"Tell me about yourself Harold."

"People say I'm a ladies man. Don't get me wrong: I like to have f U I 1 ,

but I'm deep and sh->,"

39



Y ea h su re, Jenny remembered that the other lecher she'd met tonight,

Chad, was turned off by her astrological sign 'Tm a Cancer:'

"Wow, I though you people lost your hair:'

"No, Cancer the crab:'

"Crabs can cause cancer? Holy Fu->!"All Jenny could do was sigh, sure that everyone in ten miles was look-

ing at them.

"Please sir;' the moderator shushed, "We like to keep our dates a pleas-

ant experience for everyone:'

"It won't happen again."Jenny flashed a reassuring smile.

Though it took all her strength Jenny turned back to face Harold, 'Tm

a CPA, how about you?"

"That sounds nasty, that can't be good for your cancer. I had herpes

once:'

Jenny cleared her throat, "What do you do for a livingr"

"I'm a car dealer, right now:' He brushed his thick wavy flaxen locks

like "Fabio:'

Suddenly, Harold's cell phone rang. "Oh,"Harold glanced at the caller

10. "I'm sorry I have to take this:'

"Hello, Mom ... YesI'm there now ... I don't know Mom ... Alright,I'll ask;' Harold dropped the phone 40 degrees so it hungjust below his

chin. Harold looked directly at Jenny and asked her a very important

question.

It's the kind of question that little girls who grow up to be nuns never

hear. It's the kind of question that every woman must hear to say that she

has truly experienced life. It is a question that cannot be answered on a

whim. It was three little words, but somehow it was more than that. Per-

haps that was why Jenny was so unprepared when Harold asked, "AreyouCatholic?"

B ell ring now "No I'm actually Jewish"

"She'sJewish Mom•.. Yes... Mom ... I know Mom, but ... YesMom ..

. but Mom it's not like she killed Christ:'

P lease God let the bell ring now !

40



Treasure Lake

Nico le Pervere

The beach was small, and wet, and dark.We were there, waiting for the train,

but the night came quickly so we pitched a tent.

The hobo's blanket wouldn't hold up,

so I walked to the edge of the icy beach,

and fell into the blue-gel lake.

There was so much life underwater,

but it wasn't alive,it didn't move, or breath, or bite.

Poor Frank was down there.

I pulled him out, sopping like a drowned rat.

The night had passed,

the sun lit up l ike a white asylum room.

I went back for the Polish Pottery,

untouched by a single Polock,

and decorated in the elementary art class.

The friend whom I was fishing.for sat on the bed above me.

The beach was gone, and myjelly lake was draining.

Still blue and wet I found my Pottery, with broken handles,

and gave it to my Polski worshiping friend.

41



View from a Train, Scotland Leanne Dixon

42



A Lost Sacred Place

Tracey Martin

In the dim light of the Salem Public Library you loved meand I you.

Hours would pass through us, just thumbing the pages of Anne Tyler,

Salinger, Nabokov, and Melville.

I used to turn you on by sharing the oldest or most unique

or questionable smelling book with you.

Both hung in each with bated breath for that old timey crack of the

spine-

book in my hand, opened and pages fanned,

your neck carefully craned to inhale it best,

and to slide your eyes up; a bit, to meet mine.

You, handsome dear, are a remarkable lover.

Quietly and finely we threaded the seam that tied us together.

Our minds made tangible to each other by tender hands lips whispers

breasts thighs hair and books. And books.

In the bright light of Barnes &Noble, without you, I peruse the stacks.

Wanting and waiting for you to glide your hand across the dale of my

back,

perhaps, to offer an interesting scent or a New York Times Bestseller that

looks like it truly deserves it.

Why I tore our seam, I just can't say anymore, but, man, the library just

ain't the same.

43



Stitched Under the Rain

She set her song on repeat,Too scared to shuffle,

Till He shot in on His

Winged arrow,

Spicing up her senses,

Tempting her with an electric ease

To erase all timid tendencies,

To let them melt away under His melody.

Igniting her with His

Spontaneous tune,

Singing harmonies guided by His Gibson guitar,

Sacred sounds vibrating off her shelled hollows,

He indulged her taste buds with how

Her tomorrows could play out

If she chanced to choose change,To risk riding sound waves,

Along an invisible tune,

To forget intimidation and fear

Of a colorful chorus that cannot cure,

But savoring the spectra of smiles,

' J ' "st cause you can.

Tomorrow came and

Their rainbow left with new rain,

Shooting bullet-drops from dark barrels of sky,

Storm-stricken and sunlight deprived.

Her loud note in a lullaby

Silenced with slim chance to revive

Her severed spontaneity.

So she waited on mute,

Patience pierced with leaking wounds,

Aching for an echo of her lost tune

Till time weathered proof:

44

Kimberly Capriola



Paralysis didn't suit her,

By accident or by intention,

She had been exposed to

His electric elements,

With no escaping,

She forged onward,

Fast-forwarding,

Pressing for feeling,

Persevering pass pain to gain pace,

Humming old harmonies,

Her only friend in the Forest of Thorns,

A memory reincarnated and reborn,

Taught to live loudly,To mend, free of shame,

Dancing to Her melody,

Stitched under the rain.

45



Telling Vivian: An excerpt from "AcceptingOrchids" Sarah M a ust

Candle light flickers off the cranberry walls of the dining room. AtVivian's insistence I have set the long glass topped table for two even

though it is too large for two people alone. Fiona is out with friends.

"It's a special occasion," Vivian proclaims as she plunks the salad bowl

down between us.

"Ok," I agree, slightly confused as to what makes this a special occa-

sion. New Years is two days from now. I fill my little wooden bowl with

salad.

"Well, it's just that you missed Christmas and your sister's choir

recital, it was her last one before college you know:' My mouth is conve-

niently filled with greens bathed in homemade salad dressing. I chose to

spend Chanukah with Lou's family. I sigh and ask what she made the

salad dressing out of before settling down to my tuna filet and wild rice.

'Just the usual ingredients Frey:'

The same ingredients I used on my salad a few months ago when she

came up to visit Lou and I in our little apartment for Thanksgiving. Wehad taken special care to prepare things the way she liked them. It was the

first turkey Louis and I made together. It turned out splendidly, due to

the culinary secrets passed down to Lou from his Bubbie Suntag who

lives down stairs. Splendidly, except for my rendition of Vivian's sweet

potato casserole. According to the matriarch herself it was far too rich for

her taste and it was in dire need of more nutmeg. Everyone else appeared

to enjoy it.

Both my parents came, along with half of Lou's family. Dad got along

with the Suntag's just fine, while Vivian gave her best approximation of

amiability. My parents were wary of each other, Vivian constantly occupy-

ing the opposite side of the room from Dad. It had been so long since

they had been in the same room for an extended period of time. When

she got too close to him or vice versa, the other would move, like some

kind of wordless, weaponless sparring. Later in the evening, as I served

the pie, we were joined by a few of our friends from school. As more peo-

ple crowded into our apartment, my parents were forced to drop their

primitive sparring due to lack of space.

The only face missing was that of my sister Fern who was on assign-

ment somewhere in Africa photographing zebras for Nationa l Geograph ic

46



I missed Fern. Her presence would have been a big help the next day

when mom informed me before leaving that she felt sick. When I asked

her why she told me it was our food. I was hurt.

I slam the lid shut on that all too recent memory as we finish out per-

fectly prepared tuna. I contemplate the desert that I know is sitting under

the cake bell on the kitchen counter. There is something very appealing

about the sight of cannoli on a glass pedestal. Mom swirls the last sips of

red wine around in her glass, looking positively mellow.

"You've been quiet, are you okr"

"Yes. I am just tired:'

"You certainly look it." She nods, finishing her wine. I decide it's time

to tell her. I am not sure which announcement should come first, the

engagement or the job offer?"I've been thinking that I want to go into journalism and-"

"That's good! Much more prestigious than being a teacher. This choice

will suit you well;' she sets down her glass with a clang. I cringe. "So,

you'll be going back to school for your masters?" she asks emphatically.

"Possibly:' I thought the job offer was going to be the easy pitch.

"Possibly?" She looks skeptical

"I have a job offer at WBUR, you know Boston's NPR station:' I see

the protest forming on her lips and I continue before it can escape from

between them. "They are starting a new program that brings radio into

area classrooms and kids into the studio. It would be such a good match

for me. It would utilize all my skills. My thesis advisor recommended me

for the position, you know, and she does some part time reporting for

them:'

"That's risky:'

"They might be able to send me back to school at B.U, if they think Ineed it. I will find out in my second interview when I get home. And just

think Mom, B.O:' I add hoping the name of a prestigious university might

get her off my back because I have something more life changing to tell

her.

"It's just a giant nonprofit that won't pay well. Besides, that field is so

competitive. Do you know how hard it is to get in and stay in? There are

so many people who think they can do that job:'

"I can do that job:' I retort in confident defiance.

"It's an awfully large gamble at a time like this Frey:' I pick up the plate

I want to throw at her and bring it to the refuge of the kitchen.

47



"Why don't you worry about Fiona? She's the one still in high school,"

I holler over the water running into the sink. It was not supposed to hap-

pen like this.

"Fiona's got a full ride to any Pre-Med program in the country that

she wants. She has most of her freshman year done due to all of thoseA.P. credits ..Ihave no reason to worry about her:'

I clear the table, quietly wishing I could go bury myself in my bed cov-

ers with a book and snuggle up to Louis. We would fall asleep to the

sound of our cat Forte purring near the end of the bed, his black and

white body stretched out luxuriously across our feet.

I re-enter the room with two cups of coffee and the plate of cannoli

Vivian made before I arrived.

"Mom, there is something else I need to tell you. Louis and I are get-

ting married:' I switch her wine glass for a steaming mug of black decaf

coffee. "We have not set a date yet-but he proposed two weeks ago with

his grandmother's ring. It's out getting resized:' I set down my coffee and

remain standing. "It's elegant, a pearl set in a thin silver band:' I pause and

really look at Vivian, her face is a picture of stony disapproval.

"Mom?" Her hand is halfway to her coffee cup but she has stopped

moving. She says nothing.

"Mom?" Her fingers twitch with disgust which she tries to hide by

finally grabbing the handle of her cup. Dad was happy; pleased even when

I told him. Vivian is not going to say anything. I turn and leave the room;

I grab my jacket in the back hall and slip out the door.

Once I am out of the driveway, I run. Rage and disappointment send

me pounding down the empty street. My unzipped jacket flies out behind

me in the December wind like a navy blue pair of wings-lam flying. I

turn left at the end of the street and I'm 14 again running away from theproblems tightly contained in my large lavish house. I can hear the sound

of the bay and the wind rustling in the reeds. I run until the asphalt of

the road crumbles into the sand. I stop and stand on the rock at the

water's edge and watch the waves lap the shoreline. I inhale deeply taking

in the pungent aroma of seaweed and salt water.

After a moment I realize that my legs are shaking and sink down into

a sitting position. I swing my legs over the edge of the rock and dangle my

toes in the direction of the tiny waves. The rock is not a real rock at all.

Rather, it is a large slab of concrete left over from some construction site

back when Fern and I were little. From this rock we skipped stones into

the bay, hunted for hermit crabs, and planned expeditions to far off lands.

48



Was Vivian going to exile me to some far off land in her mind? Would

there be a way to get back in? Did I want to? I pulled my cell phone out

of my pocket and dialed Lou. \

"Heller" He answered.

"She did not say anything when I told her," I said by way of greeting.

"I was wondering when you would call," he sighed, "and what she

would say."

"She said nothing. She yelled about my job, but about us, she said

nothing:' I can hear him rustling papers on the other end of the line and

shooing Forte off of his desk.

"Well maybe ... "

"No, she is actually less angry when she yells. It's worse than when she

doesn't:'"Oh:'

"What are we going to dot I pull me knees up to my chest and rest

my chin on them, "How is this going to workr"

"We're going to have a wedding, of course. We're going to figure it out

Freya:'

I smile at his warm confidence. The salt laden wind gently brushes the

loose hair off the back of my neck, reminding me of his fingers.

"It is going to be ok, Freya:'

49



T o d a y Im a Spaniar d

The sun was an enflamed chunk,tip toeing bit by bit westward.

I sat atop these miniature mountains,

which I climbed like a real woman.

I threw my arms in the air and roared.

Resting at the crest

I lost myself in the billows and hazeof the Mediterranean horizon.

Before he came along,

I didn't know I had this.

But now that he's gone, I know

that I always did;

a quiet, waiting space in the middle of my heart

that only he could fill.

There, we live in a home like his parents'.

We take weekend countryside drives,

have a cat, a dog,

and I wear his shirts to bed.

50

Halley Eacker



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Spires 2009

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