CONTENTS

Paige Lester, Nick Nuechterlein

Nick Anastasia,Giancarlo Buonomo, Emily Caris, Julia Hickey, Erica Crane, Helen Keusch, Emma Kruse, Tammy Lakkis, Emily Paull, Katie Rokakis, Nisreen Salka, Michelle Torby

Editors

Editorial Staff

Dancing-unborn muse-Untitled, Stevens Among the Nightingalesout of loveNew BowlsSounds in, Views LiquidCapricious ConcordVirgonWednesdayUntitled

Layout Committee Giancarlo Buonomo, Julia Hickey, Emma Kruse, Tammy Lakkis, Nisreen Salka, Nick Anastasia

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Cover Image

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Samuel WalkerAllison EpsteinWalter PurpleThom ArnoldJustin AndersonKatie KlaricRachel DanielsGiancarlo BuonomoJulia HickeySamantha Olson

DancingSamuel Walker

He sees himself locked in danceWith Weary Uncle can’t keep time for the heart isIrregular. Sweet Honey, may the world hurtleEver towards your burning star. Sweet honey,Shimmering dancing like bonetree in NovemberAlive with blackbirds.Honey, honey, call them doctors &Pronto cause he’s locked inside an off beat,Bad mother’s milk & Weary Uncle can’tStop the strut to dam the flood.To hospital silence & biblical noise they dance.Two by two, him with youSwaying up the hillside whileThe water turns the bad earth blue.

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-unborn muse-Allison Epstein

Please, do not say that I inspire you.If I, this quaint, cowlicked catastropheam all you have, please cash your chips in now.Unless you caught the desperate lumberingtenacity defying fate and lotswhich is almost all I have to my name.Besides my classified recipe forbiscotti, saving me from wallowingin anonymity, for what it’s worth.Artisan carbs aren’t much by way of anappropriate raison d’être, I know.I bake, I walk, I am, despite it all.Stunning, surprising, inexplicable.Please, call it this, or call it what you will.But do not say that I inspire you.

You’ll dance outdoors and laugh too loud untilthe buzz of your alarm swallows the sound.and you will plot vast whipped-cream snowball fightsand eat whole rolls of unbaked cookie doughwhile rain beats pitter-patter on your roofthat does not leak, unlike my sodden straw.And you will be, will bake, will burn, will love.Do not tell me that I inspire you.You’ll use the top of my worn, crownless headas a stepstool to reach the highest shelf

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where all the jeans my size lie in wait.you’ll relish their sleek liquid fit on yourHelen hips, and fail to not snort when you laugh.You’ll breathe ambrosia, drink too much caffeine.

You’ll buy yourself some snakeskin leather pantsthat shimmy ‘round your ass when Monday dawnsand damn the date, you’ll still be fabulous.You’ll write love songs on napkins that you’ll foldinto paper airplanes and send them out abroadwithout a passport or a return address.You’ll scribble over blank pages of booksthat propped up uneven coffee table legsbeneath green-tinted bottles of red winethat ebbed and flowed with phases of the moon.I’ll sit and drink l’chaim to your graceand watch the moon grow smaller every dayand you and I will learn in phases tooJust what it means to have an unborn muse.

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Untitled Walter Purple

Generosity beganTo simmer in the cooking panBefore it brought into a boilAnd doused the stove in cooking oil.

The oil that simmered on the stoveHardened into different loveThan when the pan was brought to coolIt recomposed its looking pool.

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Stevens Among the NightingalesWalter Purple

The largest lover, sitting at his desk,And loving in his lungs the air he breathes,

And larger than himself, and less than largenessProper, anoints the particles he sees

With words that will array them in the breathThat, loving in his lungs, descries the breeze.

The breath is what his love consists of, large,And larger even, for the words he sees.

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out of loveThom Arnold

Huddled over my computer in my room half-unpacked,I feel a disconnect in my shoulders as if a dumbbelllay squarely on my spine. I carry only worries,things tacked to the brow like social policy,starving children, and student loan payments,things nailed in, but never held.

Though the fridge is the only noiseI hear voices; incessantly musical,taunting, sad, and sometimes screaming.My head is a black holeand its gravitational pullis a cacophonywhile without my apartmentthe world sings through treesand wolverines and car horns.

Consider the sunrise over the oceanand all its shattered mirrors;you begin to understand

the world within:a space empty and full of everythingsave the disconnect in my shouldersconnected only by her armspressing the world without in

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through perfect gravity to silenceand fire and boundless energy.Pressing the world inwith vice grip twig armsand tears that spring at my lips’ level.

Huddled over my computerin my room that isn’t ours,there’s a detachment in my shouldersand so I punch the air with my fistsand though it looks like an exerciseI’m trying to beat down the distance.

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New BowlsJustin Anderson

I have seven bananas because there are seven days in a week. Monday morning, banana. Tuesday morning, banana. Wednesday morning, banana. Thursday morning, banana. Friday morning, banana. Saturday morning, banana. This morning, banana. Tomorrow morning . . . I don’t know. That’s why I’m putting back these seven bananas. It’s not that I’m sick of them, I’m not. Obviously I should be hav-ing more of a balanced breakfast than a cup of coffee and a banana dipped in strawberry jam. Espe-cially for someone at my age. Bananas are probably the culprit for my poor health, but that’s beside the point. I’m not going to violate health code or anything for putting these back on the rack, am I? Stores get touchy about that sort of thing, you know? That’s why I don’t work in food service. Too much hand-washing, hair-netting, apron-donning, plastic-gloving, germ-cognizance. The closest con-nection I have to this store is those betta fish up front. You know, the colorful little fish sitting in the stacked little containers. I breed them. I’ve been a betta fish breeder for twenty-three years now. Started as soon as my son could make his own lunch. Since bettas have gotten quite popular over the past de-cade, I’ve managed to make a decent living for quite some time. Aren’t too many of us around, you know? People don’t always realize that bettas are actually Siamese fighting fish. ‘Betta’ just comes from the genus name. Most stores like this sell Betta Splendens. They spar a lot, as they’ve been bred to over the centuries. It complicates the breeding process a bit. I always have to keep them separate. Females have to be relocated after the nuptial embrace or an aggressive male will kill her as she tries to eat the eggs. Seen it way too many times. I must say, it’s quite gruesome. Most people don’t realize that nature about them. That’s why they have to be contained. I keep very close tabs on them, especially the bubble nests. The males maintain them until the larvae absorb the yolk sacs. The fry leave the nest soon after. This is where I have to be very vigilant, especially for Piscinoodinium. Probably kills 90% of bettas in captivity. I have to check the filters, make sure nothing harmful enters the tank. They have to be kept on a strict diet too, so they’re used to the pellets people feed them. Ground up bloodworms, brine shrimp, mosquito larvae . . . People don’t know this, but it’s important. People don’t know the bettas’ real col-ors either. It wasn’t until becoming pieces of décor that they’ve been selectively bred to have the color-

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ful scales. In the wild they used to be a drab brown or gray. But that wouldn’t look too pretty in a vase, would it?

Now I know boys aren’t too particular when it comes to color, but I brought a betta to my son the other day. He’s living in an apartment now down in Phoenix. All the way in Arizona, can you believe it? Figured I’d give him a house-warming gift. Put a real nice plant in there, along with the largest and bluest CrownTail I’d grown. Got a nifty bowl, a new design our company was trying out, with lots of aquamarine marbles along the bottom. You should’ve seen it. I trimmed the plant just right, keeping the roots curled at an angle the fish could easily reach, considering they have upturned mouths and such. Anyway, my boy, Junior, put it on the dining table. It’s the same one he had in my basement. There are still burn marks on the legs, but it’s still in generally good condition. It’s the only thing he had left after the fire. It’s sentimental, you know? It’s the same table I used when I lived down there. Once my father moved out, I kept the one he left in the kitchen. It had a nice bowl in the center where I put my banan-as.

It’s hard, letting him go. Had him all to myself for thirty-one years. Homeschooled him, cooked his meals, taught him how to drive . . . I love my son. His mother didn’t. She wanted to send him to day-care. Wouldn’t raise him herself because she didn’t care. The world was tough. Didn’t want him to get consumed, you know? All those other kids had germs. And Junior was small, the bigger kids would pick on him, you know? He had red hair and none of the other kids had red hair. I was afraid they’d bully him. But he’s bald for now. The flames got to his hair, but the burns weren’t bad. He’ll be ok, I think. He’s no fry. Not anymore. I told him I wouldn’t light any more candles. The glass stand broke when I left for work. I hadn’t meant to slam the door that hard, but sometimes the boy just gets to me, you know? We got in a little tussle, you see, and he broke the bowl on the kitchen table. He could get real mean sometimes. I didn’t blame him for it though. I got mean too. It was hard to live together. Even when we were on separate floors. Now we’re eighteen hundred miles apart.

I can’t just see him when I want. If you have a son, you’d know what I mean. It’s like those betta fish up front. They’re just stacked there, right where I can watch them. Twenty-seven right now, counted them as I walked in. Next week there may only be sixteen. I won’t know what happened to the oth-ers. It would worry me. Maybe I wouldn’t care so much if I hadn’t put them in the little bowls in the first place, you know? If I came back next week and all the bananas were gone, I wouldn’t be worried. There’s a chance I wouldn’t even notice, considering I’m not buying bananas anymore.

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So do you like mangoes? I’ve got a new table in my apartment. A new bowl too. I’m looking for something to fill it with.

Sounds in, Views Liquid(To view liquid as lightly as possible)Katie Klaric

Every time I cut open an orange,I keep thinking

there must have been light inside when it was shut. (And who—what shut it?)

I keep thinking an orange At the same time,was closed by the bud, there is no proof (anywhere)not opened by the bud. there was light inside (ever, any).

Before it was shut,I could not open it.

I keep thinking

I cannot contain light,insert light, eat light an orange must have held light

It either weeps or shines from its bud from all along its edible skin.

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I segmentan orangeweeping citrus wetting my palms are I keep thinking lightly drenched

in liquid the color of

(as far as I recall) the sun

The sun gives It certainly contains lightall the light I know I cannot holdit contains. in my cusping palms.

Moon wants to be an orange

—shuts lightat the samt time At the same timethe sun buds. I keep thinking — There is no proof there is no light

in skinsegmentsthresholdpalms I keepthinking

all I see is light

and it reflects AutumnIt is the color of October.

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Celebrate for both my sistersborn this roundly orange month.

O for October, O for orange, circular light.

I am like light,you too.

O the worldis full ofus.

Capricious ConcordRachel Daniels

Cold sky leaked in through frosted panes, Gently pouring its glow into the empty chamber. A crow moaned inharmoniously, Severing the soft hush of the atmosphere’s breath. Her uncovered toes flirted with the shingled edge, Shimmering strands dancing about her face. Dark eyes watched from within the willow, Whose pale jade limbs flickered nervously in the wind. The air begged for companions as a distant clock sounded, Persuading two dissimilar creatures to take flight. Leafy fingers flittered in discreet protest; Crumbs of asphalt littered the earth below. Black feathered sails floated along the cloudy current, Hovering high above a fragile and broken doll.

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VirgonGiancarlo Buonomo

Yesterday I ate a slice of breadfrom Zingerman’s in KerrytownI ate it in my room without the crustThat has been my only tasteWould you say that I have eaten there?

Last month I drove to the beachI placed my feet in her cold foamI felt them pulse and swellThat has been my only tasteWould you say that I have swum there ?

Last year I flew to La Ville d’AmourI stayed in Charles de Gaulle for an hourI sipped a coffee and read Le MondeThat has been my only tasteWould you say that I have been there?

Yes and No will be the same

There is only one first timeand I must say of mineIt’s gone

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WednesdayJulia Hickey

On Wednesday I melted into the grassand let a spider crawlup and down my leg,which I think meansI am growing as a person.

A tiny, jumpy one—the spider—not a real creeper;more flashy acrobat thanartist of the trapeze,master of suspending sensation.

You said it wasn’t so brave, really,to tolerate the image of a fear unfelt.I brushed you off along with the spiderand moved to swing,my legs pumping spacious airin the first breath of summer.

Floating, almostliberated from the necessity of touch.

To be so bold and weightless always,without the assistance of swing-setsto lessen the sternness of gravity.

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