1

Contents1 clare odegard, artwork2 rachel hogan, poetry2 rachel knox, photography4 anna rayburn, poetry4 anna rayburn, artwork6 celeste bremen, poetry7 allison mc.naughton, photography8 kelsiefiss,artwork8 angelica desimio, short story10 anna blanck, artwork11 hillary johnson, poetry11 eileen mc.sorley, photography12 hannah longstreet, poetry13 rachel knox, artwork14 kaitlin devine, ceramics14 angelica desimio, ceramics14 maegen kelly, ceramics14 anna white, ceramics15 sarah moran, poetry16 sydney deatherage, poetry17 emily strickland, photography17 megan bryde, photography17 kayla hogan, photography18 michaela knittel, artwork18 anna blanck, poetry20 kate needham, poetry20 clare odegard, photography21 nicoletwaddle,fibers22 maura porter, poetry22 amanda sloan, artwork23 micah wilkins, photgraphy23 celeste bremen, poetry24 megan bryde, poetry24 anna rayburn, photography26 sydney deatherage, short story27 sydney deatherage, photography28 lucy edmonds, photography29 ellen gude, madeline luecke, poetry30 michaela knittel, photography30 maura porter, poetry31 louisa blevins, poetry31 anna blanck, artwork32 amy wendland, photography32 katarina waller, poetry33 emmastanfield,artwork33 micah wilkins, poetry34 elizabeth wilson, poetry34 anna rayburn, artwork36 eva copeland, poetry

36 amy wendland, photography37 katie schmitt, poetry37 clare odegard, artwork38 clare odegard, artwork38 sarah moran, poetry40 michaela knittel, photography40 kelsey rodriguez, artwork41 amanda sloan, artwork42 hannah longstreet, poetry42 kelsey rodriguez, artwork42 lucy edmonds, photography43 elise pavicic, photography43 eva copeland, poetry44 maura porter, poetry46 molly fox, artwork46 eva copeland, poetry47 meganporterfield,poetry47 michaela knittel, photography48 anna blanck, artwork

1

2

Because

You won’t go. You shouldn’t go.

You can’t go.Because I won’t let you go.

Because we shook hands.And I squeezed real tight.

Because we bought a 2-for-1 ticket.And it’s still in my back pocket.

Because my dry, cracked hands are holding the clasp open.And it took a long time to get that clasp open.

But I got it.But it doesn’t matter.

Because the necklace hangs off of the nail in our bedroom now.Weeping. Weeping. Weeeeeeeeeping.

And your side of the bed gets cold.But my feet don’t stray.

And I decorated downstairs for the holidays.And it looks real nice.

To me.Because it was our time.

And now it’s my time.And now I spend my time

ALONE.But I thought we had a deal.

And I reach for your hand.But it’s dusty bones.

And my pinky is stuck in a promise-like formation.But only disappointments cling on.

Because.Because you.

Because you left. kayla hogan, 2010

2

3

rachel k

nox, 201

0

3

4

This Is My Headache

At the crack of dawnWith the buzzing of my clockI try to blink, my heart sinksThe day starts with a depressing shock

When I’m at my lockerLoading my backpack for the dayBooks in hand I try to standBut fall back anyway

My backpack’s really heavyThis is ridiculousMy back hurts and there isn’t roomFor these stupid massive books

Don’t you smile at meWhile I’m struggling up the stairsSome day some time I’ll tumble downDoesn’t anyone care?

It’s not easy being greenespecially at schoolThey make you double spaceWasting paper’s almost a rule

My schedule is messed upThis semester really stinksI have no electivesNo time to relax and not think

Why is this teacher yelling?Can he even hear his own voice?Why am I even in this class?This was not my choice

They say it’s practice for collegeThey’re weighing down my brainThe days of lots of easy pointsare slowly trickling away

I have so much homeworkSo much to study and have readI stretch and yawn and wish I couldJust stop and go to bed

anna rayburn, ’11

4

5

anna rayburn, ’11

5

6

I sit at my computer, pounding on my keyboard Like a classical composer Coaxing music from a piano,Proofreading my paper for grammatical errors (Is it who or whom?)As I work, the sounds of a harmonica, a berimbau,and a woman singing words I don’t understand

floatdown

from my

speakers

to my ears.

She draws out her words as though she has all the time in the world

her voice is

clearsmoothrhythmic

The language is full of

soft sounds like sand tossed about in the wind

and long vowels like great, gaping chasms between each syllable

I can feel the percussionthe clapping the deep drum beatsinside my ribcage bouncing off my lungs andback into the air around mew

My mind is a revolving whirlpool of orange blue greenpurple

tambourine panthers

iridescent birds Yoruban chats of Ashé! Ashé!

Music6

7

celeste bremen, 2010

alyson m

cnaghten

, ’11

But then the music slowly

fades

away

until all is silence

Except for the clickity-clack, clickity-clack ofmyfingersonthekeyboard.

7

8

Crunch.

Crackle.

Crackle.Crunch.

My grandmother, Mama Clem, sits in the front passenger’s seat. She and my grandfather, whom we call Papa, always turn towards my sister and me with authentic happi-ness on their faces just at the sight of us. Papa and Mama Clem ask us how our day has been in Spanish. I shrug off their inquiries and half-heartedly answer in English, “Okay.”

Hundreds of sneaker-clad children exit the elementary school, trampling over red and or-ange leaves on the sidewalks. This particular fall day becomes more distinct with each recollection as I see the 3rd grader in me running out of the school doors too. Rushing towards the curb where my mother typically picks me up, I search for her 1989 burgundy Volvo. My older sister Olivia joins me as we discover our mother is not wait-ing: she must be working late… again. Moments later, Olivia and I realize mom called our grand-parents; I feel my cheeks blushing red as a small white car pulls around the corner. Embarrassed, my sister and I climb into my grandparent’s sta-tion wagon. While my friends were being picked up by parents in sleek SUVs, I duck my head and turn away before anyone saw my face in the car.

kelsie fiss, 2010

9

Returning to their home in the Westside, my 9 year-old self took note of many Mexican and Latino residents walking around the neighborhood stopping to chat happily with friends. After pulling up from the alley into the driveway, Olivia and I unhappily drag our backpacks into the house to begin homework. While my sister gets down tobusinessonfifthgrademathematics,I dawdle. I can hear my grandmother scolding me how loving relatives do, “Apúrate y acabarlo para comer” while stirring a skillet on the stove. Hurry upandfinishyourhomeworkinordertoeat,shefirmlystates.Papahowever,was always gentler: “Puedo ayudarte hijita.” Even with my grandfather’s of-fer to help, I would continue to pout. “No! I need Mom’s help for homework.”

My little tantrum earned me a “timeout” in a corner of the dining room for ten minutes after dinner. Growing tired of standing still, I wander around the room as my sister and Mama. Clem wash the dishes. Peering up at picture frames on the TV set and china cabi-nets, my fingers retrace the crocheted pat-terns on the colorful doilies my grandmother made. Different men and women with car-amel-colored skin look back at me with con-centrated expressions from their black and whitefacades.Lookingintothefirstframe,alittle girl about my age in a white dress stood next to two little boys riding horses on a dirt road. The next image showed the portraits of a young woman and an older woman sharing the same almond-shaped eyes and squashed nose. My own eyes are startled at the next photo: I wonder if I am looking in a mirror. I findmymostrecentyearbookpicturestaringbackatme;mywavyhairinpigtails,myflatand rooked nose leads me to a goofy smile.

Five minutes later, my grandmother calls me back to the kitchen. “Ya estás libre mi hija. Vete estu-diar.” Tenderness overcomes the look of distress on Mama Clems’s face while telling me I am free from confinementandtocontinuestudying.Idecidetosit down at the kitchen table: brandishing a #2 pen-cil over my third grade assignments, I write down the responses I am sure about. For the unanswered questions, I look to my grandparents, my family, my friends and my teachers. The solutions do ex-ist;itishowIfindthemthatmakethedifference.

Lost in my reveries, I no-tice an unexpected hand on my shoulder; I feel guilty gazing up at Papa catching me away from my place of punishment. But in-stead of reprimanding my lack of patience, he guides me back to the photo of children on the road. With a smile in his voice, he says, “Esta es tu abuelita y ellos son tus tíos en México.” Looking back at my grandmother and great-uncles in the yellowed picture, I feel genuinely embarrassed and then humbled after remembering my selfish attitude from earlier.

angelica desimio

, 2010

10

anna blanck 2010

11

eileen mcsorley 2011

The sun beats downwarming our skinour breaths in sync

we lay

fingers interlockedgrass beneath us

we look up

and watchtime slows downfor us

Frozen In Time

hillary jo

hnson 2010

11

12

What’s a Woman Without Beauty?Oh rose, oh rose,

so crumpled and dry, your stem has gone crooked

and your petals have died.

And they cut off your thorns

and now you are small.You cannot protect yourself at all.

You are like a woman, broken, and frail.A middle-eastern midwife

under her veil.She sings woefully as her beauty departs,

Leaving her thornless and missing half of her heart.

So I propose not to cut a rose,

But instead give a girl a bush.

No woman wants to be reminded that

without her thorns,She’d be unprotected and missed.hannah longstreet, 2011

12

13

rachel knox, 2010

13

14

angelica desimio, 2010

megan kelly, 2010

anna white, 2011

katelyn devine, 2010

ceramics by (clockwise):

15

Slipping Through the Eternal BlueInspired by a photograph of a shark

caught in a fishing net

Slipping through eternal bluePowerful fins strike the watery deepSharp Jaws wide, sharp eyes true

With sudden swiftness drewThe net of coarse rope, steepSlipping through eternal blue

Though the fight is fierce, nets pursueCaught in this wicked trap, blood

begins to seepSharp jaws wide, sharp eyes true

Massive ships glided above, never knewOf the tragedy below in the swirling keep

Slipping through eternal blue

Arms out in sacrafice undueDying by cords that tighten and creep

Sharp jaws wide, sharp eyes true

Cut short the creature that flew

In deeper dkies, its life readying for that final leap

Slipping through the eternal blue

Sharp jaws wide, sharp eyes true

- sarah moran, 2011

16

Thanksgiving morning was lonely.So I rummaged through a box

foundaGoldenCrucifixput it on my neck

and went for a Walk

At the White Church atop the hillthe side door was locked

so I perched on the carved stone benchand gazed upon a statue in the Garden

Leaves, Bugs, Rocks became miraculous

But then the damned bells started ringingso I noticed the white structure was dingy

and the statue donated by some broadmy ass was freezing and my phone went off

and the neighbors wondered what I was doing

Every Time I Feel Holy

sydney deatherage, ’10

16

17

emily strickland, ’11

Warm

Your S

oul

Warm your soul

And give it cookies

Feed it chai tea and daisies

Sing your favorite meoldies

Blossom into grace

Andfull

confidenc

e

Steal the heavy love from

The day you were born

Swallow the grief and pride

Of each life

Commit the act of growth

Improvise if you can

You will not hide here

So kiss the ground

megan

bryde,

’10

kayla hogan, ’10

18

The separation

Enforced by the isolated seats

And their respective seat belts.

But smiles can’t be contained-

And so they play across our faces Likeyourfingersacrossmypalm

Givemebutterflies.

anna blanck, 2010

michaela knittel, 2011

Separation18

1919

20

21

22

Darling, Wherever You Go.

An oh so fragile paper boat floats down a stream.

Gently bobbing as inquisitive fish come-go come-go.

He dips in his feet and s l o w l y wades closer.

Slowly oh so s l o w l y (scared it’ll somehow disappear.)

He delicately gives it a push.

A pause (clenched stomach. Please, don’t sink.)

It catches the current.

Soft sigh of relief.

He watches it until it disappears around the bend.

Smiling, he turns back to the shore.

It’s the simplest of things that carry on.

DoN’t Let It Go To YoUr HeAd.

The stoic face of a boy soldier.Jubilant at the conquering of deathYet weary at the very thought of lifeWings of tissue paper soaked in water colorHe woke up from the deepest slumberRose to fireworks in the skyAn aching familiarity of ink stained hands Liquid courage and sewn up at the mouth companionsThe garish light burnsSweat pouring down hollowed cheeksEarly to rise, earlier to fallHe just wants someone to know

With all his heart.He just wants someone to know.

maura porter, 2011

maura porter, 2011

amanda sloan, 2013

22

23My BeSt Friend

There he is, grinning happily at me through the screen door, Pink tongue hanging out of his mouth,Soft brown eyes twice their normal size,The hair on top of his head tousled, sticking up in at least ten different directions.He’s waited all day for me to come home, Like he does every day.

As I open the screen door, he wiggles his blue-sweater-clad body,The tip of his tail arcing behind him from one ear And then to the other as he wags it furiously.I shrug my vertebrae-crushing backpack from my shoulders, Narrowly missing my 24 pound friend,Who, like some sort of omnipresent force, Seems to be everywhere around me all at once.

I grab some salt-and-vinegar potato chips (our favorite) from the cabinet, and,With a whirlwind of black fur at my feet,Head into the den, plop down on the soft, red couch, and turn on the TV.Reuben leaps up beside me and stretches himself out on the tops of the couch cushions, Squashingthemintoshapelesslumpsofstuffingandcloth.Iaimlesslyflipthroughthechannels,Blursofcolorflashingacrossthescreen,But it doesn’t really matter what we watch.

I’m just glad that I’m home, and so is Reuben.

celeste bremen, 2010

micah wilkins, 2010

24

Oh dear, I could never speakIn front of a cloudI mean a crowd.My work, I mean my wordsAre mumbled, and jumbledI can’t pronounce my Constants, I mean my consonantsMy thoughts are not competingI mean complete. . .And there goes the wordsMumbling and JumblingTumbling and dippingOut of a plate, I mean out of placeThrough the rhymes and liesOf lied, I mean life

I mean complete.

megan bryde,

’10

24

25

anna rayburn, ’11

25

26

Most people have two eyes. I, however, have three eyes. I pride myself on my three eyes. My eyes are my most provocative features, my most useful tools, the mediums through which I discover the story of others and they discover my own. Thefirsttwoareshapedlikealmonds,andinsidethesealmondsswimmywarm,hazel-green irises which fade to yellow in the sun. My third eye is my camera, usually sporting its 35-150 mm lens, auto and manual focus, solid black.

This summer I took my third eye with me to India where I trekked around and visited family friends who were working at several hospitals in Delhi. The night before I left, I stuffed all my gear into my rust-colored backpack to rest idle on my carpet. Everything except my third eye, which I lovingly spread across my bed with the rest of my camera equipment, double-checking to make sure I had each of my lens, pods, batteries, and memory cards for my great photojournalism adven-ture. That night I dreamed of the National Geographic-esque photos I would pro-duce: photos of naked babies, slum children roaming wild, people eating dirt, cow worship.

Then I actually had to confront the poverty of India. As I rode with my friends from the New Delhi airport to their home, we zig-zagged through the dusty shacks lining the dirt roads, past rags of people sleeping off the side of the street, stop-ping at a light where a dirty woman in a red sari with a coughing baby on her hip tapped on our car window. My eyes were wide as I realized these were people--not photographstobetakenfortheNationalGeographic.Iknewwithinthesefirstthirty minutes in India that I wouldn’t be able to take out my beloved third eye the next day--the day that was supposed to be the inception of my great photojournal-ism adventure.

A few days into my trip I was alone in the back seat of a rusty, three-wheeled rickshaw on a hot and dusty street in Delhi when I had an epiphany. I spotted tiny brown heads bobbing between cars, making their way toward me while I was stopped at a light. A girl with dirty, knotted hair appeared at my knee, gently pet-ting it, and gazing at me with enormous, sad eyes. Something motivated me not to smile emptily with pity and wave her away, which had been my response the firstfewdaystothepoverty--aresponsethatstillleftmefeelingguilty.Thistimewas different. I held the girl’s gaze with my almond-eyes, and I looked at her, or into her rather. I let my eyes show how I recognized her need. I let my eyes show her respect and dignity. I spontaneously tousled her hair and tickled her, and she smiled and giggled with surprise and wriggled in my hands, and when the girl looked up into me again with her enormous brown eyes, her eyes weren’t sad any-more. They were surprised, taken aback, pleased that she hadn’t been ignored or treated like a problem, but a little girl, a person.

26

27

As a result of this interaction, I suddenly had an answer to the ethi-cal conundrum that had frozen my photojournalism appetite. My almond-eyes had only been seeing the plight of India, not the eyes of India. And in that moment my almond-eyes saw a little girl who was simply craving to be a little girl. It was such a simple human interaction, and yet it was an interaction that released my third eye, my camera, from its prison. I picked up my camera, slowly brought the view-findertomyeyewithoutbreakingthegirl’s gaze, and looked through my third eye at the girl. She grinned hesitantly, herfacefillingtheframeandhertod-dler brother, slightly out of focus, gazing up from beneath. Her eyes illuminated the photograph, brimming with gleeful surprise and confusion at this unique moment that had just occurred. My third eyecapturedwhatmyalmond-eyesfi-nally saw. I unwrapped my third eye from around my neck and turned the camera around so the girl could see her beautiful picture. She looked down at the camera and up into my almond-eyes again quickly, delight lighting up her face. She stepped back and we waved gently at one another, our eyes speaking understanding as our words could not, as the rickshaw growled and began speeding away.

sydney deatherege, 2010

27

2828

29

lucy edmonds, 2012

29

30

I was born to a mother fast asleep and a father in a coma. The mistaken child of a trauma patient and a little girl. Cesarean born and anti-climatic.The white knuckled mosquito sister of an insurance salesmen.Graceless cotton draped tick.All bruised skin and swollen features.Forgettable and intrusive.They tell me I inherited my aunt’s flair for the dramatic and obessive tendencies,As well as my unlce’s nervous hands and overly loud laugh.

One day my mother held me up to her heart and warned me:“If we didn;t have bad luck we wouldn’t have any luck at all.”My father simply hung his head and continued to hate his life.My brother forced a smile and asked if I wanted to take a walk. Three steps to every one of his.He sighed“You’re just not what we expected, that’s all.”I nodded my head, trying to convey that I understood.Locking the door, I slipped beneath the water.

Be Safe. Be Careful. Be Home by Armageddon.

maura porter, ’11

michaela knittel, ’11

30

31

In the heart of town,

only once did we meet.

You were talking with friends mutual

down the cold ridden street.

They laughed,

saying I was different.

Onlytofindouthatyouwere,too.

They never learned that, in this world

some march to a different song.

They didn’t wonder, like you and I,

Why do we live in a world that teaches differnt is wrong?

differences

louisa blevins, ’10

anna blanck, ’10

31

32

They lovingly cover the white, empty space,Creating new worlds

In which we are free to explore.

Some hold lands of princesses and fairy tales,Others hold places where dreams don’t come true.They allzow you to revisit the past

And explore places already explored.

They twirl around and around in your head,Seeping into every empty space,

Whispering through your mind like a breeze through a field.They make the tears flow freely,

The joy spread thoroughly,

The anger lick around you like flames.

They wander into unknown places,

And journey through perilous times.

They cause wars to start and end,

Lend a helping hand to those in need of it,

And comfort those who cannot be comforted.They make you search and search

To find that one right combination of them

That makes you feel, makes you think.

They inspire everyone from great leaders to children,Allow you to be someone else for a time,

And speak volumes in the quietest of moments.They cannot be taken back, cannot be forgotten.They make you react, make you express yourself,Show who you are.

And yet, they feel nothing themselves.

They feel no emotion, know no inspiration,Know of no lands far away.

They know not of what they teach you

Or of how they make you feel upon seeing them.They, in truth, know nothing,

But still hold the knowledge of everything.They cannot ever die

But they never really live.

They simply

Exist.

Words

katarina waller 2012

amy wendland 2011

32

33

Talk at me I don’t stop you to tell you that I’ve already heard this before.

You continue.

I nod.

I realize how distant we are from each other,

and I wonder if you’ve ever actually listened

to me before.

You probably haven’t.

I wonder if I mean anything to you.

I probably don’t. I’m glad that you’re smiling,

but I think it’s ignorance, not happiness.

You don’t trust me but you expect me to trust you.

I wonder if you’ve ever had a real conversation.

What are you thinking about when you’re pretending to listen to me?

I repeat myself too often when I’m with you.

micah wilkins 2010

emma stanfield 2013

33

34

I sport a green headband and athletic attire; I feel naked without a watch. I

faint at the sight of blood and watch out for deer-- one once ran into my car. I keep

my alarm clock out of reach and wear a winter glove when I straighten my hair-- the

straightener gets too hot. Some may say I’m picky, repetitive or opinionated, but all I

really know is that this is me.

I like to eat life one careful bite at a time. I never eat anything without double-- and

sometimes triple-- checking to make sure there are no specs of dirt on my strawberries

or hairs in my sandwich. “Yep, see that there? That’s a bug. I’m not eating that.” I eat

the bran and crunch out of the Raisin Bran crunch, leaving a box of unpleasant little

raisins for an unsuspecting family member. I slip my dog, “Molly,” my broccoli and

get scolded when she too spits it out. I’m a tomato when I’m embarrassed and I

can’t stand when people chew with their mouths open.

I live a life of repeated quotes and phrases: “oh my goodness,” “isn’t

that interesting?” and “Mom, please no more pictures.” I can’t help it; it’s a

habit, I’m sorry, they just come out. I’m famous for the word “definitely,”

and can frequently be heard saying, “May I please interview you for my

story?” I truly believe “the vision of a champion is someone who is bent

over, drenched in sweat, at the point of exhaustion when no one

else is looking,” by Anson Dorrance and try to live by Albert

Eistein’s quote: “try not to become a [wo]man of success, but

rather to become a [wo]man of value.”

I enjoy giving my two cents, even when it’s not asked

for. I help my brother with his trig, pick arguments for

the sake of arguing and will tell you like it is (well,

maybe a slightly softer version of it). I often

serve as the communal guidance counselor,

helping others with matters such as course

selection, color selection, “Does this

look right?” and “What should I do?”

I don’t know if the advice I give is

good advice, but I do my best and

give it anyway.

I see the bacteria particles

when my dad sneezes, think

driving is therapeutic, read every

word-- even the copyright page and

fall asleep to yoga music. I do my best writing

in the wee hours, pick up the cones after practice and get

goosebumps when I see an act of kindness. I do many things, strange

and plain alike, but this is who I am and what makes me, me.

elizabeth wilson, 2010

This is me

34

35

anna rayburn, 2011

35

36

Always one head taller than me

One grade smarter than me.

She can read books with chapters

And no one but she packs her lunches.

She’s lost six teeth and has the money to prove it.

She plays down the street with big kids who

don’t use training wheels,

And she sleeps over at her friends’ houses.

She’s as brave as daddy

She won’t cry out at lightning,

Shiver in the dark,

Run, squealing, from spiders and garden snakes.

And why she finds the time

And patience to sit by me at lunch,

Laugh at my dumb jokes,

Applaud at my violin recitals,

And push me on the swing, way high in the sky,

I’ll never know why.

Maybe it’s enough

To herThat I am her sister.

To my older sister

eva copeland, ’10

amy wendland, ’11

36

37Yes, I am a Dreamer

Yeah, I’m a dreamer,I dream of so many things.But do you know what separates all you other dreamers from me?You all actually work to achieve your dreams, youdream about the future and what you want to become.Well, I’m different.I can never follow my dream,Allmydreamsinvolvefantasy...fictionI dream of myself in places and situations that are no possible.I dream of being magical and beingbeautiful when I am really normal.I dream myself in a way that lookscompletely different than me.I have straight, raven black hair, whiteporcelain skin. My eyes are of the deepest brown and my body was madeby Aphrodite herself.But you know what, I’m not.I have brown black hair that is too curlyfor its own good. My skin is freckly andI really don’t think you can call itgorgeous. My eyes are simply brownand I am husky, between fat and skinny.I am not beautiful.Mydreams,theyarefilledwithadventure. Fighting evil and the horriddarkness, being the great heroine whosaves the day. The one who has truefriends and a man who loves her with all his heart.But you know what? I am a dreamer, of course y dreams are like that. I barelyhave a friend who I am always with. I never had a crush, a boyfriend, or beenon a date.I am a dreamer, a girl who wishes to be everything she is not in a world that canonly exist in my fantasy.

katie schmitt, ’10

clare odegard, ’11

37

38

clare odegard, 2011

38

39

The Stolen Garden

Cool water rushing from ancient lands,Tumbling down with graceful majesty,

The peaceful crashing a longing replyTo the siren call of the Medusa Cascade

In the heavens, alight with newborn stars.

Solemn-faced fish glide and twirlLike jewels beneath the falls,

Stolen from the King’s own Garden,Mere mementos of Paradise lost,Spirited away on wings unseen.

Soft periwinkle blue blooms unfurl

Lit by mysterious luminance,Glowing faintly like the rare blue moon,

Exhaling a heady aroma that caressesThe senses with wicked delight.

Perhaps most prefer their flowers perfect and aligned.

Neat in their rows, defined by their color,Held captive by misguided minds

Who dare not let life ease its own wayDown the mystic path.

But I wish for nothing more than to seeThose green tendrils, those ruby stars, those pink delicacies

Flourish and become overgrown, lush;Creating arches and doorways and living walls

Under which I pass, wary of the forest’s presence.

I wander in the rustling stillness of the Garden,Watched by a lonely God and the trees

Whose long centuries see our lives so briefAs a whispering wave that descends quickly from the rocks.

These ancients let us breathe in stolen glory for a while,

Knowing in their aged wisdom that too soon we will passBack into the earth, rejoining the dust of fallen stars,

Ever barred from re-entering the Garden.

The Garden, theirs alone in which to revel,A heaven we’re forbidden to know for all eternity.

sarah moran, 2011

39

40

kelsey rodriguez, 2012

40

41

michaela knittel, 2011

amanda sloan, 2013

41

42

lucy edmonds, 20

12

hannah longstreet, 2011

CarelessSupposedly my name was called,But I didn’t really hear it.Supposedly it was repeated,But I sort of ignored it.Supposedly I got into trouble,But I didn’t really care.Supposedly I was called into the office, But I couldn’t really tell. Supposedly my parents were called,

But I didn’t really mind.Supposedly they yelled at me,But I’m sort of used to it.I’m sort of, kind of, maybe careless,But supposedly I’m happy that way.

kelsey

rodri

guez,

2012

43

Hello, it’s me again

Oh, it is so easy (too easy, in fact),As there are ten times ten thousand ways to do it.The bottle of ink is next to your hand, on the desk,

And will go down in three, smooth gulps.You can plug your nose if you

Fear the chemical taste.The strike-anywhere matches are even nearer.Go ahead, light one. The bed andYou will go up in flames within seconds.

On the floor, by the closet, is an outlet.The screws are still loose.Remove the protective plate and slide a finger,Or the end of the flathead screwdriver on the floor,Into one of the tiny, vertical slits.

In the top left drawer of the dresserIs the ibuprofen,And there are at least 15 pills left over.It would be painless,Like dreaming your way into an eternity of peace,Without the sadness of having to wake up.

And then, there are the sheets,And the window.You’re only a short drop and aSudden stop

From the end.

Out in the hallway is the bathroomAnd the bathtub.Fill it to the brim and go for a float,Face-down,Or drop in the hair dryer.

In the kitchen is where the knives are stored.You could do it slowly,Allowing your life fluid to seep from the insides of your wristsOr the fleshy interior of your thighs.

Or you could do it right:Plunge the cold steel straight and deep throughYour fluttering heart.

In the freezer is the half-empty bottle of citrus-infused vodka.You can down itAlong with the three beers Tom left in the fridgeAnd the unopened bottle of Merlot on the counter.

But to really get it done,To make absolutely sure,Drive over to Saint Luke’s, that institutionThat delivered you so mercilessly from pregnancy.Climb to the newly built roof,And then spread your tired arms and fly,Just for a moment,Before the street below rushes upTo split your body completely open And turn you inside-outAnd leave you emptied of that conditionCalled life.

With

SuicideCon

versat

ions

eva copeland, 2010

elise pavicic, 2011

43

4444

45

Maura Porter, 2010

45

46

When you have lived a long time alone...When you have lived a long time alone it doesn’t matter if you don’t forget birthdays,

anniversaries, Sarah Elmore’s maiden name, or your own for that matter, since are made to distinguish. And no one is there to distinguish yourself from. You bathe naked in the

living room, sing out of tune, cook pasta Bolognese three nights in a row, and eat the leftover sauce cold in the morning on blueberry bagelw. In the bathtub, which you have moved to the living room where it sits in front of the television, you sink your toy boats

with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet. When you have lived a long time alone you plant thousands of white peonies in the garden (or whichever flower you prefer), then sunbathe naked in the remaining grass, without a care or thought of modesty. You sing replies to the robin’s mating calls and chatter with

the sparrows and meditate silently with the sage rabbits. When you have lived a long time alone your only intelligent conversations are with dead authors that only say what they wrote in the book in your hands. The warmest embrace you remember came from the hot water as you stood, alone, in the shower, unaware if it

was your tears you felt on your breasts or the water. And the wave of nausea didn’t come from fever but from that moment from when you were standing in the basement washing

the laundry and you pulled out a striped T-shirt that wasn’t yours.

molly fox, ’10

eva copeland, ’10

46

47

michaela knittel, ’11

Tangled, intertwined

This World is full of connections

A glistening silver web,Delicate and fine

Snapping like a twig,Breaking like a bone

I really don’t feel home.

Home is where the heart is,

The place where you

are loved

Friends and family gather,

To gaze at stars above

But something’s off.

The knots are loosened on these well worn ties

The blindfold is pulled from my eyes

I see this place in a diff

erent light

And it doesn’t look quite right.

Back to Back

Two-faced, two-tonedOne I love and one I don’t.

I feel so mixed up, so confused

Longing for a walk in someone else’s shoes.

megan porterfield, ’11

47

48