CONTENTS

Rachel Fentin, Sue Li

Heather Bicknell, Joe Biglin, Kaitlin Filip, Julia Hickey, Helen Keusch, Paige Lester, Nick Nuechterlein, Katie Rokakis, Michael Spaeth

Editors

Editorial Staff

Allison EpsteinElissa ZimmerEliana FenyesMargaret HitchEliana FenyesPaul KittiMargaret Hitch

There’s a Squatch in These Woodsshe speaksPoisonCity GutsThe taste of salt, 1942storm cloudsWatchtower

Layout Committee Julia Hickey, Paige Lester, Nick Nuechterlein

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There’s a Squatch in These WoodsAllison Epstein

a sudden sunsetas the windowblindzzzzzzzzziiiiiiips erasing the sun in one fell swoop.no natural light neededthanks to my eerie Blair Witch Project night vision,a faint greenish halo surrounding the black box on the deskthat hums and beeps and whistles and speaks and screamsas isit silent and stallsteadfastly.

they call this the discovery channelthough i have to wonderwhen will I use the discovery of how to hunt bigfootor under what circumstances is it acceptable to eat roachesorandorifbutwheni don’t knowmy head hurtsplenty of mysteries left

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i guess.

it’s midnight and it’s midday andi sit here on the couchfeeling its overstuffed cushions push backagainst my thighstrying to propel me upwardget up, get up, get upyou’re crushing methough i don’t listen because i never listenand because my watch has stopped so i have all day left stilland i don’t take advice from furnitureanywayon principle.

i look away from the dancing, glimmering screenfilaments of light trapped on my retinasand flung up on the ceiling in the shapes of constellationsursa majorcassiopeiaursa minorsagittariusursa grillesperseuscancerorionorion’s beltorion’s calvin klein three-piece suitorion’s hermès scarfprojected onto my planetarium,the convex dome flattened,squashed by a cosmic foot

and he tells me that there’s a squatch in these woods

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and i sit and watch and wonderhow he can possibly knowand what’s left in the fridgeand when my paper is going to get writtenand if ursa major and perseus mated, would you get a sasquatch constellationand what the greeks would have named itandorifbutwhenmaybeyesnoyes

discovery

better drink my own piss

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she speaksElissa Zimmer

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from Clouds, Aristophanes

PoisonEliana Fenyes

IYou kiss melike you are suffocatingand I am air

You drink me downtil you taste my skullmy crossed bones /I am declareda venerable poison

I watch you clingbetween my legs like some desperate fishon a terrible hook /blood on your lips / my legs thrash /we are caught in some current,some bitter wind we cannot speakonly move

II it is strange to feel so open empty like a deserted hive bees buzzed away , blown by

my legs are wind ,

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they crackle like salt over sea waves ,you are a sound ,the whisper betweencracks .

my eyes are wetlike pebbles in lakesyour eyesare black like yew trees

my fists are yellowlike daisieswe spout through spring poolswe are what some peopleimagine to be the taste of marigolds.

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City GutsMargaret Hitch

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The taste of salt, 1942Eliana Fenyes

After Elie Wiesel

He died alive in a boxcar.He told me he often dreamt of a woman with red hairwho sat in the sun with her back to him.Her hair melted and the red ribbons floated in wind until she was bald like a man.

He told me he would sew buttons to keep his mind. Buttons fell from his shirt like teeth from his bunkmates;he would finger the black buds, suck the thread, sew.

He told me he was a pillar of salt,and rats would lick his empty bonesand eye sockets. He showed me pictures of his friends,men with splintered limbspiled like wood, like fallen trees.

Sometimes I am afraid of shutting my eyes.I see my grandfather’s hollow skull.I see my heart in the teeth of the devil’s wife.I see skeletons walking on skeleton feet. My blood pumps behind barbed wire

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and sometimes I cannot sleep and it feels like winter

but I am a poet,and always inventing dreams.

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storm cloudsPaul Kitti

From this balcony, bored and lonely,To the lovers blinded below me:Your sweaty hands have shown me –Your couple clasped hands have shown me –That dependence – love – is onlyKilling your circulationAnd dressing your conversationIn lies that hum so lowly:This love is your salvation.

Alone, I put my coat on,Hearing every note wrong(because if it sounds right, it ain’t),As lovers chirp and birds yawn,I wrote this, another slow song,To those lovers at my gate:“It’s bright and blue but black all over –close your eyes, you’ll see it better;what sounds like song is really thunder –cover your ears, you’ll hear it better;how love decides, I often wonder,who’s right for who is even dumberthan deciding on our own.”

From this window, warm and lonely,The heavens part to show me

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A storm that’s slowly filling up the frame;I see the lovers lose connectionAnd split in opposite directions,Screaming, seeking shelter from the rain.

From my bedroom, safe and prideful,But, in honesty, so mindfulOf this longing slowly growing deep within:To blindly pull my soul outAnd stand beneath a storm cloudAnd feel one drop of rain upon my skin.

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