School of the Art Institute of Chicago | C ollected 2015 T ectonics //

School of the Art Institute of Chicago | Collected 2015
Tectonics //
To Begin \\
Every year the graduating class at the School of the Art Institute's MFA Writing
Program produces a literary journal. Each edition seeks to capture the spirit,
and display the vast variety, of work done by students during their time at SAIC.
The class of 2015 is pleased to present our Edition of Collected, themed
"tectonics." We feel this theme reflects the shifting, eruptive, and all-around
dynamic nature of our work. The MFAW class of 2015 demonstrates work that
diverges, making room for a vast expanse; converges, aspiring to greater heights;
and, transforms what the reader perceives through the written word. The following
pages are filled with poetry, prose, visuals, and pieces that transcend (and
challenge) traditional writing genres.
The 2015 Edition could not have been possible without our classmates, who
generously contributed their vibrant work. A round of applause to Veronica
Corzo-Duchardt of Winterbureau for taking our theme to a sublime visual level.
We would also like to thank all of the instructors, department assistants, friends,
and loved ones who encourage our artistic endeavors.
The MFA in Writing at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was established
in 1996 to present students with the widest possible spectrum of aesthetic and
formal choices. SAIC brings together writers of poetry and prose, as well as
artists in performance, film, video, visual communication design, printmedia,
and painting. Students may focus their studies on one or more particular genre
but are also free to meld diverse literary and visual disciplines into new forms of
artistic expression. For more information, please see www.saic.edu/mfaw or call
800-232-7242.
Collected 2015 is a publication of the Master of Fine Arts in Writing Program
at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
Authors retain copyright of all works in this publication.
Design: Winterbureau
The Collected Editorial Team:
Suman Chhabra, Kurt Heinrich, Maggie Hellwig, Kate Morris, Kirsten M.E. Thomas,
& Adam Webster.
08
Jette Meets the Sour Powder Junkies (excerpt from Kid Noir),
Suzanne Gold
12
What Happened to One-eyed Clyde (excerpt from Kid Noir),
Suzanne Gold
14
The Thing about Barney, Adam Webster
15
ICU, Roell Schmidt
16
Evidence, Katy Jo Smith
17
Sunset Building, Suzanne Gold
18
Artist of Emulsification, Katie Wall
20
Deep Breath, Caitlin Farella
22
Untitled, Taylor Estape
23
Untitled, Veronica Precious Bohanan
25
State the Problem Clearly, Hannah Keene
26
Untitled, Sarah Youngsoul Kim
Table of Contents \\
__Diverge__
//Transform\\
__Converge\\
64
Untitled, Maggie Hellwig
32
Inventory, Katy Jo Smith
65
the grove, Sarah Youngsoul Kim
33
Shaking Fits, Hannah Keene
69
Demons Off, Suman Chhabra
34
Belles Preries, Maggie Hellwig
74
Untitled, Taylor Estape
36
Aesthetic: 278, 202, and 95, Danielle Susi
75
Shallows, Elizabeth Bertch
39
Divination (excerpt from a novel), Kurt Heinrich
76
Acquired/Liminal, Elizabeth Bertch
43
6:24, Morgan Pappas
77
Garden, Guardian, Katy Jo Smith
47
Smack-dab, Adam Webster
79
Business Cards, Adam Webster
50
Untitled Images, Valerie Wernet
80
Edward Snowden Responds, Adam Webster
53
Sce-tay, Maggie Hellwig
81
The Rip Cord, Carson Parish
56
Seeds, Katie Wall
83
The Admiral and the Octopus, Kirsten M.E. Thomas
58
Millay, Carson Parish
87
Replication as Transmutation, Katie Wall
89
Fortunes Wrapped Around a Wounded Nest, Hannah Keene
Jette Meets the Sour Powder Junkies (excerpt from Kid Noir),
Suzanne Gold
What Happened to One-eyed Clyde (excerpt from Kid Noir),
Suzanne Gold
The Thing about Barney, Adam Webster
ICU, Roell Schmidt
Evidence, Katy Jo Smith
Sunset Building, Suzanne Gold
Artist of Emulsification, Katie Wall
Deep Breath, Caitlin Farella
Untitled, Taylor Estape
Untitled, Veronica Precious Bohanan
State the Problem Clearly, Hannah Keene
Untitled, Sarah Youngsoul Kim
08
12
14
15
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20
22
23
25
26
_ _ Diverge_ _
Jette Meets the Sour Powder Junkies
__SUZANNE GOLD__
Marina and Jette strolled along the sidewalk opening peanut chews and eating them.
They let the wrappers float to the ground and get taken by breezes. Wherever, they
said / whatever, they said.
They skipped down the steps to the path alongside the river at the edge of town. They
were heading for the under-bridge. Marina’s brother had asked them to meet him
there. 4 o’clock.
It was early. They sat down at the edge. No embankment or railing or anything. They
sat just dangling their feet above the water.
Why do you like these anyway? I mean they’re okay—
They’re more than okay, okay? They’re just the perfect candy. Peanuts, caramel, chocolate. What more d’you want.
I guess I’m more—
Salty, yeah. Jette unwrapped a chew for Marina and smiled.
get them free in bulk. I eat them. It doesn’t have to be a thing.
I get it. We
Jette was especially good at guessing. Her dad worked at the Plant. They always got
these huge sample bins of the good stuff, free. Anytime a new flavor came out; new
box, new look, new brand.
Mainly for this reason Jette started the snackhour trade biz. She always had coins
in her pockets these days. It was cool though because she let Marina have snacks for
free. They weren’t business partners, but Jette had a sweet spot and Marina was it.
Jette always had opinions about stuff, and that was okay. She’d spout off on the
inferiority of cake to pie, sour cherries to sour watermelon, the price of gum. Marina
agreed generally. She was trying to be a critical thinker. She just wasn’t getting good at
it.
Maybe she wasn’t doing it right.
Time to go. Jette stood up and brushed off the bottom of her pants. She was
wearing a tank like Marina’s brother wears, her hair cut in jagged edges at her shoulders. Marina knew Jette’s mom let her cut her own hair. Marina was super jealous.
Marina’s mom would never let her cut her own hair, not after that one time. It
took Morgan Jorgensen’s hair two years to grow back evenly. __SUZANNE GOLD__
Okay / cool.
They started pointing out wrappers floating in the water, just beneath the surface,
water bloated the colors, the words, trying to guess what they were from far away.
Marina’s brother Carl caught wind of the business and asked them to meet him at the
under-bridge this afternoon. Marina wondered what it was all about.
Sometimes Marina felt like such a little girl.
8
Wait what’s that one? Doritos? No, wait,
It’s gotta be Cool Ranch.
Nah—Tropic-Tropicana?! That was tricky. I
never get them.
What about that one?
Bugles? Naw, that’s Doritos for sure.
They walked in the welcome sun of early spring toward the bridge at Fort Street. They
spotted a group of kids sitting in the shadow of the bridge up along the concrete side
of the riverwalk. Marina’s brother walked toward them.
I don’t think so. I’m going Keebler something.
Hey Carl—
Peanut butter crackers?
Jeez! How can you tell?
Yo Jette stream!
Keebler it sho is! er peanut chew.
Jette snapped the air and whooped. She opened anoth-
Carl always called Jette Jette stream. It made Jette roll her eyes. It made Marina’s
stomach tangle up. What’s up, Carla. Jette rejoined, her heart not really in it.
9
walking away.
Alright,
Carl was shouting after her.
Til Thursday. But after Thursday, no deal.
Alright Nerd-o, lay it on her. Carl folded his arms, let his cronies do the talking.
Jette waved her hand indicating she had heard. Marina ran to catch up with her,
glancing back at the Big Kid Junk crew, shaking her head.
Here goes. Another kid jumped down from the concrete his pockets rattling
with everyflavor nerd you can imagine. I dunno, Jette. You’ve got a good thing going at snackhour. Think of all the disappointed kids, prices’ll go up, you’ll have to deal with those bozos.
Jette, you’ve got a sweet little business going at snackhour that right? You sell advanced plant samples for cold cash?
I said I’d think about it, Mar. Didn’t say I wanted to talk it out.
Jette shrugged and nodded.
Well, we want in. Join our conglomerate and we’ll help each other out.
What you mean, want in?
Well, we’re sweet, see. You got salty. It’s a natural match, made in heaven.
The
kid opened his arms wide.
I mean, what? You’re operating in the little leagues
over there, little lady! You wanna join the Big Kids, expand that outfit of yours, hack
off the heads of some bigger fish?
Okay, Marina slowed down when they reached the stairs, fell out of
pace. See you around, then.
She turned and hopped up the steps back to street level
back home.
Hey! Wait, Mar.
Jette called up after her. I’m sorry! __SUZANNE GOLD__
__SUZANNE GOLD__
Whatever ladies. Listen. Here’s the proposition. Carl was walking them toward the
crowd of junkies sitting along the wall, Carl’s crew. Marina recognized one of them
as Rufeo, the Big Kid who dealt in Sour Powder at the second bridge down near the
Cineplex.
But she was giddy gone.
Each one of Carl’s cronies nodded, one slurped the juice from a blue gusher and spat
the shell on the ground, they could just do that, these kids. Carl and his
coaxing associate Nerd-o ran the conglomerate, bringing Rufeo, the sour powder
Big Kid into the mix. They also had Raffi, champion lunchswap afficionado (really
upped the trade game at lunch time when his mom started buying dunkaroos in third
grade—man’s a legend); Kiki, the lolligaggin’ bully from grade seven, the gusher lush;
and a few others Marina didn’t recognize.
—these kids were deep in the junk.
Jette was pulling at the back of her neck, she was squinting which meant thinking.
I’ll hafta think about it, boys.
She said.
I’ll think about it. Gimme til Thursday? I’ll be back with a decision. She kicked up some dirt and spun around
10
11
What Happened to One-eyed Clyde
__SUZANNE GOLD__
One-eyed Clyde was the prize of the Jefferson Elementary School theater program.
He played pirates and monsters, villains of all kinds. He had a great booming presence
that the theater teacher Mr. Kooks loved, and he generally scared off all of his fellow
students.
Every day after school, One-eyed Clyde would sneak up to the light booth—called the
Cage—at the back of the theater he knew so well, kick up his feet on the lightboard
and enjoy a well-earned Wayco’s peanut butter cup.
It was Wednesday, so, cups in hand, stashing the week’s supply jammed into his
overstuffed locker on the second floor, Clyde took the back way to the balcony of the
Martin Theater, sliding along the back rows to the door of the cage.
Just as he was about to step into the tiny, musty-smelling room, a hand – a big hand,
a high school hand – slammed the door in his face, and several big kids rounded the
corner of the cage. The hand, the big hand, shoving him into a velvet-covered metal
seat.
You Clyde? The voice of the big hand was one sliding into baritone, sliding but not
yet hitting the bottom of the bari barrel, still getting there. His face was in silhouette
against the harsh ceiling lights of the theater, big hand still pressed against his chest.
Charlie, grab ‘em.
You get these from Ace? The Junk-
Clyde nodded again. He was sweating now and the eye-patch he wore over his weaker
eye slid a little.
Well let me let you in on a little secret, little freak. With that last f a whiz of spittle
came curving toward Clyde, landing on his nose with an unpleasant sting.
You’re not gonna be buying from Ace again. You got that? You’ll be buying from us. With that, and a jerk of the big hand guy’s head, another kid – this one round with a
sheet of grease-shined black hair falling across half his face – dumped an entire backpack of Wayco’s Peanut Butter Cups on Clyde’s lap, where they scattered to the floor
several rows down.
The Grease kid grabbed Clyde by the front of his shirt, bringing his greasy face closer
and closer to Clyde’s til his beaky nose touched his very own with a greasy, slimy
swipe.
Next time we see you, freak. You’ll pay up.
He glanced around him at the piles of Wayco’s cups scattered around them on the
seats and the floor. And clean up.
__SUZANNE GOLD__
His supplier was the candyhead Ace Crayton, who hung out with the sour powder
junkies, and specialized in chocolate treats. They’d meet by the water fountain on the
third floor every Wednesday for Clyde’s kicks.
but stare. The Hand spoke again.
ie crew?
One-eyed Clyde was too shocked to slide down the bannister out front, as was his
usual carefree want, walking alone through the parking lot home. He sat there, feeling
flattened. Counting Waycos and whimpering wondering how he could come up with
the cash to pay for all these cups. He put his face in his hands and cried a little kid cry.
Another hand, this time the hand of one of the cronies reached down and snatched
Clyde’s afternoonly collection of Wayco’s cups out of his fisted palm. This kid was visible: short dark hair, dark dirty t-shirt, shiny, spotted, bad teeth that tore at the plastic
wrapping of his beloved cups, tearing the package in two, spitting out the ripped part
and gnashing into one of the cups so fresh so new and perfect Clyde could hear the
dry sound of the creamy peanut butter separating. Clyde whimpered.
The big hand stood up, his face caught the light. Clyde gasped. He was the greasiest kid Clyde’d ever seen. With the lights on him, Clyde could barely make out the
features of his face. Just bland and terrifying blue eyes, a large, beak-like nose, and a
longish horse-like face. He was all shaved moles and adams apple. Clyde couldn’t help
12
13
The Thing about Barney
__BY ADAM WEBSTER__
“Well son, looks like you have once again hitched your horse to the wrong fucking
wagon.” Barney was sure he had no idea what his father was talking about. So sure,
that he decided to question it anyway. And he did not settle for taking his father’s
advice metaphorically; he went out, purchased a horse, procured a wagon to which he
hitched said horse, and waited it out. He was willing to spend whatever length of time
it took to discover the effects.
I C U
__ROELL SCHMIDT__
We were standing around her bed. I held my mother’s hand and my brother’s; my
brother, my father’s; my father, my mother’s. We stood in that circle and felt guilty
for the past. She hadn’t wanted to be resuscitated. But it is hard to stand firm against
a mob and a crash cart and someone else’s certainty. And we stood in that circle and
felt guilty for the future. When there would be no adrenaline or clarity of the crowd
to take the decision out of our hands. We told her that we loved her. We told her
that it was okay. I let go to smooth back her hair. And then she opened her eyes.
Nearsighted she looked up at me. I do not think she was aware she was receiving
help to breathe, that her glasses had already been brought back to the house. She just
reached up her hand to my cheek. I told her everything was fine. She was okay. She
was going to be okay. Two months later the code blue sounded again but this time
the certainty was hers.
There are nights when sleep is not welcome. When dreams are not desired. When
sadness is swaddled to keep it safe. Only for me to unwrap and breathe in and nuzzle
and pet and squeeze too hard and make it cry. Sleep unswaddles. And every morning
I need to change my pillowcase.
Except the one morning. I wake up. I dreamed of my mother. She was standing
next to my bed. She held my hand. I looked up nearsightedly. I didn’t think to grab
my glasses off the nightstand. She touched my cheek. She told me I was going to
be okay. I was okay. Everything was fine. And I awake peaceful. And I turn to my
husband but before I speak he asks, when did you get back in bed? Why did you stand
over the bed so long? Did you sleep at all? Were you okay? Are you okay?
14
15
Evidence
__KATY JO SMITH__
KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN : a matchbox.
D.D. BEAN & SONS : wherein the sons are the exception to the rule about matches
and children.
CLOSE COVER * STRIKE GENTLY : Close the door and strike children if they
attempt to leave their room. To be done with care, yet firmly enough to elicit a spark
of pain. Reminder: this is a punishment.
WOODEN MATCHES : The sons are red-heads. Thin, flimsy in their covers, they wait
to be struck. When fear burns, it doesn’t go out. Closed eyelids show the echoes of
fire-colored cries into the night.
In the event that one of the red-head sons is killed—head scraped against rough
ground—nothing will be left behind.
16
Sunset Building
__SUZANNE GOLD__
untitled
__KATIE WALL__
18
19
Deep Breath
__CAITLIN FARELLA__
20
comforting arms. Deep breath. Repeat.
There has to be a way around this dream. It rises in me for the ninth, sixteenth,
twentieth time. I play cat and mouse with it, letting it circle the back of my mind, but,
then, I never win this game. My cousin drowned in the Gulf of Mexico while scuba
diving. I think of him while I am under the rock and the struggle leaves me. My Aunt’s
ashes were spread over Long Island Sound. I swim straight out, far away from shore.
The bottom of the ocean drops away. The lifeguard whistles me back. I hesitate and
then turn back. Deep breath. Repeat.
The recent time. Incountable. I am underwater. This is how I swim. Not at
the surface where the air can still claim me but down. In a pool, I am the blob at the
bottom, kicking about. In the ocean I am unseen. There is no peace in drowning but
there is peace underwater. I take a precious gasp of air with me and test my limits.
Forty seconds, fifty, one minute. Pathetic. Again. I fist my hand into my bathing suit.
One minute and twenty-three seconds. I shot to the surface. The air burns me on the
way in. Deep breath.
__CAITLIN FARELLA__
A game my sister and I played. Hold yourself underwater, grip the concrete edges
with shaky joints. Wait until your lungs boil and your blood wails in your ears. Then
surface. Deep breath. Repeat.
The third time. I’m twelve, question mark. A fever takes me down and holds
me. My grandmother filters in and out of the room carrying medicine and food. Her
searing lips touch my forehead. She departs and arrives, ebbs and flows. My limbs
swell with heat and bloat. The room has no solid edges. I lose the stream of thoughts
and then sleep. I remember the dream that comes up to greet me. I swim, I fail to
surface, thrash. I open my eyes and my grandmother wipes the broken fever from my
brow. Deep breath. Repeat.
On the first day of my scuba certification class the teachers says a quarter of
us will fail. To breathe underwater is to defy logic. One breath and I waver, two and I
have to close my eyes, on the third I imagine a bubble encasing me and the air fills me
and leaves me. I adjust my ventilator and lick at the tang of chlorine. I go to join my
instructor. The person after me fails. She hovers in the water for a minute and then
she hyperventilates. I watch her legs kick about until she leaves. After class I approach
her. What happened? She tells me that it felt like she was invading on a world she
didn’t belong. You don’t, I say. Not any longer. Deep breath. Repeat.
The fifth time. Not this again. How old am I? Younger. I am always younger,
never a child. Is there fear? Not until my hands hit rock instead of air. Then fear cups
a hand around my heart and squeezes. There is no strength in my arms but I kick
uselessly about anyway. When I find space to surface I take the air in gulps. The dream
leaves me or I awaken. Deep breath. Repeat.
I stay in the pool until my finger pads wrinkle. I stay in the ocean until my
family is packing up. I stay under the warm spit of rain a minute too long and it turns
into a downpour, drenching me. I was on Long Beach Island the night a north eastern
flooded the streets. I was eighteen months old. My mother carried me through waist
high water to safety. She says I did not cry. I’ve seen a green sea turtle swim through
water with serene grace and watched blubbery seals retreat into rough surf. When I
was a kid my grandmother took me from the pool, wrapped me in a blanket, and held
me in her lap. You were a fish in your other life. You had fins, and scales, and great big
eyes. Do you miss your gills, little guppy? Deep breath. Repeat.
This first time. Is there a first time? Is this not rather a memory? One I can
no longer grasp while awake. A whale can hold its breath for ninety minutes. Their
lungs collapse like paper when they dive. Each breath they take is a conscious effort.
They can drown. The first time I am tangled in water or in sheets. The object blocking
my struggle to the surface is a rock, plastic, or tarp. I am screaming with my mouth
closed. I awaken or I fight my way to the surface. Fear encases me. I stumble into
21
Untitled
Untitled
__TAYLOR ESTAPE__
__VERONICA PRECIOUS BOHANAN__
regular : being she...
1. activism:
having pound protest pavement on stilettos all day charmaine strolls the valley
resting her weight on a red umbrella. with rehearsed skintight apple bottoms and a
matching internal megaphone she chants her birthright to survive. she passes a
church ministry van handing out clean syringes and recruiting depo-provera subjects.
a fresh-face listens to seasoned volunteers sounding sweet about depo. charmaine
strolls pass and whispers in the girl’s ear: “a side effect—it makes you bat shit crazy.”
she reaches in her bag past condoms and gels to hand fresh-face a sex workers union
brochure. charmaine continues down the strip passing sista. not to be reduced to
being homeless sista rocks back and forth with half her mind righteously spilled on
a piece of piss-stained cardboard: “in a recession will fuck you for pennies.” charmaine drops a fifty-dollar bill in the offering plate propped against the cardboard sign.
she spots one of her regulars crossing the street without delay she whistles for
him inhales a centering thought confirms her position and starts her night.
2. elder living:
sunday morning pearl doesn’t bother fixodenting her teeth before sitting focused
at the breakfast nook. she designs a sudoku puzzle on the back of an overdue hospital
bill. vern looks over her shoulder as the coffee nearly misses his mouth. she barks
in a near whisper: “if you don’t get from behin’ me, you betta.” he grunts a piece
of a smile cleans his bifocals and sits down to read the week’s red eye newspapers
monday thru saturday. pearl looks up from her puzzle: “don’t throw them papers
away, i can use’em to clean the mirrors.”
3. (un)planned parent(hood):
for faye wattleton*
under early morning fog cement blocks press into the rib cages of reproductive
rights. arms fold across tender breasts of twenty-one-year-old baby faces in the line
forming thirty minutes prior to the doors opening. in the front of the line a daddy
paces back and forth, but she can’t take his morning sickness anymore. with her right
hand she touches her belly and with her left she grabs his hand and pulls him close.
positioned firmly on a busy street 61st and ashland. no grass in site. the sun shines
brightest on this side of the street. tanisha passes by a health center everyday on her
way to work but for some reason monday morning access touches her the most.
*faye wattleton is the first african-american and youngest president ever elected to planned parenthood (1978 - 1992).
23
State the Problem Clearly
__HANNAH KEENE__
__VERONICA PRECIOUS BOHANAN__
4. he’s too cute to have ashy elbows:
so of course latanya offers a fellow evening el commuter some shea butter, mixed
with coconut flesh and a hint of live lavender. daquan accepts: “damn baby am I supposed to eat this, or rub it on me?” latanya blushes.
5. chicago’s polar vortex, 2014:
in the awakened stillness of the wee hours kenya wide-eyed spoons with faheem.
tender q-tip touch earlobes converse. goose bumps welcomed. black-cherry-blossoms fall and burst. burgundy hearts. shades of pumpkin and yellowish. green odds
and ends. storm-windows pulled down and gawk evenly distributed. from a frosted
picture frame terracotta window kenya & faheem deposit this moment in a mother’s
full pouch—a family of possum they watch traipsing down the blustery street. electric heater. oven door open with a pot of water on the rack. petroleum jelly and wool
socks snuggle feet. limbs mix-n-match.
6. face scrub:
humming: “you don’t know my story...you don’t know the day he set me free...”*
barehanded exfoliate prep rolling oats into honey & melted shea butter. trinity
stands at the bathroom porcelain sink under 120v lights in front of a rubenesque
picture framed mirror admiring how much she looks like her mama. the details of
perfectly full lips regally pronounced khosian nose slightly slanted eye slits. she
adds reikki’d rose water and a prayer into the mixture and carefully transfers it into a
tinted mason jar with a rose quartz at the bottom. sealing the jar tight, she places it
in the alchemist medicine cabinet. her daughter makayla enters the bathroom and
gently stretches her arms around trinity’s waist. trinity hugs her tight while looking at
the she of herself: “morning love...”
*”Life and Favor” by John P. Kee and New Life
7. respite:
neandra comes by some money
tax return and an ongoing affair with scratch-off
tickets paid off. suddenly her paycheck is an afterthought. that which she’d neurotically been dependent upon is now without delight
mere chump change as if
this little (lot) money she’s come into will last forever. pierre marvels at his womon
her temporary freedom to pay (buy) without bartering not having to be the clichéd:
robbing peter (petra) to pay paul (paulette).
24
i have this problem with patterns.
the grocery store checkered floor.
the bathroom woodgrain door frame.
patterns in people’s skinmarked by years of injury.
rising, pass of time, overlapping
laid to wake between wading legs.
see: tuft wings on small sparrows
a caught grasp recognition:
a rising on the water
this black earth-- a moon rising backwards.
those black and white tiles touch
transparent, those sparrows
a nervous shaking in their tiny bundles.
a migration hemmed in the wind.
mercury is in retrograde and i can’t stop touching the grooves
in this tile. in this skin. in this pillow case.
those sparrows bring it in.
an edge between their breast pockets
sharp enough to carve
a direction in
those patterns in flight. in floors. in speaking.
this rising–
soft soaked morning: laid north to north west
in this bed– corners tight in keeping
wake to draw water, sparrow
wait to draw water til
its injury comes in, bends at the knees and kisses your feet.
25
Untitled
__SARAH YOUNGSOUL KIM__
1.
this obdurate skin
wading
in water :
unable to absorb
(because learning to float feels perilous) & i cannot find the edges
the expanse is unutterable , stretching against curving heavens
think of resting here,
against this vast the smell of salt in water
mingling between green
it is confusing
bc it does not belong in this wooded place
disparate ,
it
leaves me reeling
face pressed against bark
fingers clutched in dirt
trying
to understand
how relief, fear can come at once
(
__SARAH YOUNGSOUL KIM__
there has always been a longing in me
(to exist different)
2.
this body feels dangerous ,
malleable surface
these roughened contours ,
unchartered & unnamed :
this is about
our body
(geographic)
this opening
26
)
this is about fear
27
__SARAH YOUNGSOUL KIM__
3.
28
the way time can dry grooves deepening in bark felt still in how we pull water into bones
reverse gravity ( up )
further into our bodies morphing into the shapes we
think they should fill
/solidifying/ the way water does in lowered
temperatures – slow – because it takes time to understand how to flex beneath our surfaces the intricacies (the learning of instincts)
it’s not easy sometimes the absorption of light can feel congested ,
this natural process
stymied by the way we’ve been told our trunks curve best
i’ve seen the
way the barks are bowing over the cutting streams like fingers covering a wound
i know because i’ve floated in before my limbs knew how to
move in fluid
29
Inventory, Katy Jo Smith
Shaking Fits, Hannah Keene
Belles Preries, Maggie Hellwig
Aesthetic: 278, 202, and 95, Danielle Susi
Divination (excerpt from a novel), Kurt Heinrich
6:24, Morgan Pappas
Smack-dab, Adam Webster
Untitled Images, Valerie Wernet
Sce-tay, Maggie Hellwig
Seeds, Katie Wall
Millay, Carson Parish
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__Converge \\
An Inventory
Shaking Fits
__KATY JO SMITH\\
—after the Roger Brown Collection
One is for the heartbeat,
and two is for the eyes.
Three is for the windows hung with closed blinds.
Four hide and seek inside;
five places for our bones,
and six is the number of toy churches in a row.
There are seven thorns in my head—
on the portraits too—
What’s the number that’s assigned to you?
There were eight pretty ladies,
now nine of them are dolls.
And ten are the hours left until night falls.
One crying sister,
two young boys,
three shelves of broken vintage toys.
Four poison flowers on
five climbing vines,
and six is why we’ll never go outside.
Seven skulls are singing—
and the portraits too—
What’s the number looking back at you?
Eight reptiles are sleeping
in nine garden beds,
and ten out of ten will say it’s all in our heads.
32
__HANNAH KEENE\\
sparrow- with your blackened heavy foot
lift wing tips north to ground
a rough direction of home– underside
this your weak knees.
as if cutting deep enough would bleed it all the way down.
cup under palmed hands
a passer
a rising
a nod to the ruins in our mouths
this winter, the one will teach me a lesson in humility.
this sparrow, is your nesting year.
a nothingness empty of all these twigs
a red branched cooling in your shade
with little bits in mimicry of soil eaters.
all black, it goes round
wishing for an overpass.
shortcuts to those kneelingwaste, face first in the ground.
bit made of silk, sparrowyour wire frame tied behind my teeth
cut deep this black earth
in kept kneeling
injury will find you. keep you. teach you.
your shaking fits- this red dawn spring will drown you.
the seated moon in its nested ground well, all black, ill fitting and leaving.
33
Belles Preries
__MAGGIE HELLWIG\\
one french man came to this land in winter, trod over puddles and fallen thistles.
dried milkweed pricked his fingers. he wrote back to his king,
“there is nothing to see. it is dead; nothing but sorrowful land for miles.”
he neglected to see:
on a grey day the land is a weeping woman,
her eyes swollen with tears,
her will lays flat on the ground.
“the land is a terror. i am lost.”
he failed to notice the color:
on a bright day the land stands as a goddess,
she holds a man in gold palms,
she hides him from the rest of the world.
__MAGGIE HELLWIG\\
a second french man came to this land in summer. he dove into the sea of green and
yellow stalks. for a mile he swam, but never found its shore. he stood enveloped in
vegetation. to his king, he wrote:
a third french man came to this land in autumn. he stood before the land with new
eyes: trembling, electric. he wrote.
“the ground has risen to meet the sky.”
he saw the land,
her soft curve and in her frailty,
millennia of storage and life.
he called her belles preries. he called her beautiful meadows with scattered trees. he
called her the prairie.
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35
Aesthetic 278
__DANIELLE SUSI\\
So few of us can be anonymous. The eyes untying ad infinitum. We’ll speak at semipublic gatherings. The invention of alibis becomes an art. Victim. Victim. Victim. We
had to drop the word “blame” from our speech.
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Aesthetic 202
__DANIELLE SUSI\\
Few decisions have the chance to be well made, but we know the right shoes to run in.
We know which seams to stretch, which coat to let consume us.
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Aesthetic 95
__DANIELLE SUSI\\
Take comfort in an abundance of natural desires. They may drive us blindly or satisfy
us on demand. We’ll always be one degree away from perfection.
38
Divination
__KURT HEINRICH\\
This funeral is a small—and rainy—affair in comparison to the previous four.
Feels like we’ve been going to a service every two months. Don’t know why I let my
mom talk me into going every time, either. There’s no food, no open bar, just a bunch
of super-serious Oracles chanting over a bonfire in the middle of nowhere. Maybe I
show up each time because I think I might learn something. Which I have, just not
the stuff I want to know. For instance, knowing that the Oraculum owns almost everything downtown including the park so they can close it off whenever they like, and
how in these modern times they can’t light the body on fire in the woods so they have
the body cremated beforehand are fun nuggets of trivia, but it’s not exactly relevant
to my everyday life.
My mother and I stand on a small hill, apart from and overlooking the proceeding.
The woods are silent save for the muttering of the attendees and the lamentations
of the presiding Oracle—a stern woman with a long mess of frizzy red hair. The rain
has let up, and now comes down in a mist. There’s a scent of heady pine and cigarette
smoke in the air. I guess being long-lived means not having to care about lung cancer.
We’re a hearty bunch, us Oracles. Not quite immortal, but not as susceptible to mortal failings. One of the few things my mother has told me about my heritage.
About two dozen people gather around the pile of bonfire wood. They’re all
dressed in black and dark blues and purples and grays. There are a few I recognize: the
redhead, a few from previous funerals. It’s not surprising I don’t know anyone. My
mother and I aren’t exactly well-loved in our own community. “Exiled” is such an ugly
word, but there’s a reason we’re not standing with everyone else.
“So who was this one, again?” I ask, flipping my hood down and brushing the hair
off of my face. We both tried our best to dress for the occasion, with varying results.
Mom’s faded black velvet blazer and sequined navy blue slacks don’t really scream
“mourning.” But then again, I tend to look that way all the time. The only thing I’ve
got on that isn’t black is my crimson eyeshadow.
“Serena Juno,” my mom replies as she wipes her sniffling nose with the back of her
hand. “She was a production assistant. For a time we ran in the same circles, went to
the same parties.”
Ah, and there it is. The Hollywood connection. From what I’ve gleaned from my
mom’s ramblings, with the Gods gone and their ties to them severed, the Oracles took
to relying on their innate prophetic talents. Mom loved her life as a celebrity psychic
more than anything. And I’m including myself in that statement.
“Hoping to see some celebrity pals of yours?” I scuff my boots into the squishy
earth.
“We are at a funeral, Claude,” she says, completely focused on the rites. “And stop
getting mud everywhere.”
39
__KURT HEINRICH\\
hands start shaking. I shove them in my pockets. Such a tiny amount shouldn’t be
enough to cross anyone over, but I can’t help but feel panicky when the redhead Oracle lights a match and tosses it on the bonfire.
It lights instantly and violently, a blaze of white-blue brilliance. The rush of heat
and the sweet smell of Lene cooking soothes me. I close my eyes, let it in, let it comfort me. I exhale, long and satisfied.
I open my eyes and everyone’s staring at me.
“Uhm, hi everyone...” I attempt levity, but it strangles in my throat. I take a few
slow steps backwards. The funeral-goers look upon me like I’m an exotic bird. Or a
deadly one. “You probably don’t know me, but I’m Claude—”
“Oh, we know you,” the redhead Oracle steps forward. Her hair looks volcanic with
the flames behind her. She’s older than I thought, some light wrinkles on her face. I’m
guessing she’s the eldest. “You and your mother have been snooping on our ceremonies, Claudette.”
I glance over to the hill and my mom is gone. Great.
“We turn a blind eye to your spying.” She walks closer. “But I’m not necessarily
inclined to let you keep doing so.”
I step closer. “You want to arrest me? I’d like to see you try.”
She stands a head taller, smells like wet milk and honey and smoke.
My hands tremble. I plunge them into my jacket pockets. Hope no one notices.
“Honestly, you two.” Julian’s mom, Helena, pushes through the circle of bodies
that’s formed around us. I don’t know what she does for the Oraculum exactly, but
I always had the impression it was fairly important. She took me and my mother in
after we were shunned. As far as I know, that’s not just something that happens.
“Cassie, why don’t you go back to your ceremony. I’ll handle this.” Helena barely
looks at her as she stands in front of me, hands on her hips. Unreadable expression.
Her long blue duster looks nearly black with rain. Hair pulled up inside of a widebrimmed, jaunty hat. “And Claude…”
Helena lunges at me, I can’t get my arms up in time. I’m enveloped in a crushing
embrace. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Uhm, hi, Helena,” I almost pull away, but she smells like home. Underneath
the normal Oracle scent, an aroma of cinnamon and burnt sugar and marzipan. Of
nights when my mother would disappear for weeks on end. Sleeping in Julian’s room,
wrapped in soft, ample blankets. “Good to see you, too.”
The energy of the crowd has changed. The other Oracles look on with wide eyes,
hands covering their mouths, mumbling to one another. But as I look around, do I see
some of the Oracles hiding smiles?
“Claudette,” Cassie whirls on me. “I don’t care who you’re friends with, you’ve
__KURT HEINRICH\\
40
“Gee, sorry, mom,” I give the ground one last strong kick. “So, tell me again why
we don’t just go down there and give our condolences?”
“You know why—”
“I mean, if she was your friend, I’m sure they won’t mind...”
“Claudette.”
I know I’ve hit a nerve when she unleashes the full name. Normally, I’d see how far
I could take it, but considering the circumstances, I obey.
She’s right, too. I do know why we’re the outsiders; it’s all because of me. More or
less. One of the few things my mom has actually told me about the Oracles, is that
they’re sticklers for rules. Like having an illegitimate child when you’re a practicing
money-grubbing psychic is a big no-no. So in a way, I have her to thank for my lessthan-stellar attitude toward everything Delphic in nature.
From our spot on the muddy knoll, we watch as the crowd forms into a sloppy
circle. Next they’ll present the urn with Serena’s ashes and sing Kumbaya.
“Doesn’t this bother you at all?”
“People get old, Claude. It’s sad, but eventual.”
“And how old was Serena?”
“She was about my age, I suppose.”
“Well, you look fine to me.”
“It’s complicated, Claude—”
“It’s always complicated, mom,” I start down the hill. “I’m gonna go say ‘hi.’”
“Claudette!” She whispers harshly behind me as she grabs for my arm, but I shrug
her off and find a place in the circle. No one seems to notice me; they’re all focused on
the redhead standing in front of the pyre. It’s more beautiful up close, an organized
bunch of branches, flowers, laurel leafs, fine thread holding everything in place. I
glance back and see my mother stuck in her spot on the hill, arms crossed. I smile and
turn back to the ritual.
The presiding Oracle holds aloft the urn—a simple white clay piece with fine designs carved into it—and gently pours the ashes over the kindling, as everyone chants
in hushed tones. She passes the urn over to another Oracle, who in turn exchanges it
for a small bottle of swirling green-purple mercury. Ethylene—or, Lene, as it’s more
commonly known. The substance the Oracles used back in the day to connect with the
old gods. A little will make you feel all loosey-goosey. Used to be, a lot could connect
you to the world the gods once inhabited. Some call the other side the penumbra, the
subconscious, the spirit world, dreamscape. Most of us call it the Divine. I don’t know
why anyone calls it that. Maybe someone said it one time and it just stuck. It couldn’t
be more of a misnomer.
The Oracle uncorks the bottle of Lene and flicks the contents onto the pyre. My
41
6:24
__KURT HEINRICH\\
__MORGAN PAPPAS\\
violated several of our laws—”
“I invited her, Cassie,” Helena lies, turns toward Cassie, but still holds onto my
arm. “Just think of her as my plus-one.”
“Yeah,” I try move toward Cassie, but Helena holds me back. “And your laws are
ancient and asinine.”
The crowd gasps, but I hear more sniggers than anything.
“Claude, dear, I think it might be best if you left. Soon.” Helena says, squeezing my
arm.
“Sure, yeah.” I take a few steps back.
“And send Priscilla my love. Tell her we should do lunch sometime.”
“I will.”
Up the hill and back out onto the street, and mom’s car is gone. Typical. When the
going gets tough, mom checks out. Looks like it’s the train for me.
(VAN BUREN ST.)
I was lying in (TRASHCAN) my bed last night.
Staring.
-at a ceiling full of stars. When it suddenly hit me:
(DOG ON A LEASH)
I just have to let you
know,
how I
feel.
We live together (FLYER) (FLYER)
in a(STENCIL ART) photograph of time.
And I (SKYLINE) look into your eyes,
and the seas (CAR) (CAR) (CAR)
open up to me. (MAN WALKING)
(LIBRARY)
And I tell you I love you,
and I always will.(TREE)
And I know,
you can’t tell me.
(SUSHI PLACE)
(STARBUCKS)(HAIR SALON)
I know. that you can’t tell me. (YOU)
(YOU) (YOU)(TAXI)
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And I feel your fists
(SKY) (BUILDING) (BUILDING)
(BUILDING) It’s out of love-(SKY)
so I’m
(DON’T WALK SIGNAL)
and I know(DOORMAN) it’s out of love
and I feel the
whip- (PLANTER)
and I know it’s
out of love
(TWO MEN SMOKING CIGARETTES) (STROLLER)
(TRAIN)
(GALLERY) (YOU)
And I feel your burning eyes OH-
burning holes (TEEN GIRLS
WEARING BACKPACKS)
Straight. (COUPLE
WALKING)
Through.
My heart.
(YOU)
44
out of love.
(YOU) (YOU) (YOU) (YOU) (YOU) (YOU) (YOU)
(YOU) (YOU) (YOU) (YOU) (YOU) (YOU) (YOU)
(YOU) (YOU) (YOU)
-And I accept
-(COLUMBIA COLLEGE ART GALLERY)and I collect
-upon my body(YOU)
(YOU)(YOU)
-The memories of your devotion.
And I accept(TOURIST BUS), and I collect,
upon my body
the memories of your devotion.(PUDDLE)(SIREN)
And I feel your fists
and I know it’s out of love
and I feel the whip,
and I know it’s out of love, (8TH ST.)
It’s
__MORGAN PAPPAS\\
__MORGAN PAPPAS\\
So I’m left to pick up:
the hints,
the little symbols,
of your devotion (YOU)
left to pick up
(HARRISON AVE.)
(PUDDLE)
the hints,
the little symbols,
of your devotion. (YOU)
and I feel your burning eyes.
Burning holesStraight. Through. My heart. (CAR) (CAR) (SNOW)
(PUDDLE)
(BEST WESTERN)It’s out of love.
It’s out (DUNKIN DONUTS) of love.
give me a little love give me a little
a fistful of(NAIL SALON)(BASKIN ROBBINS) love
give me a little fistful(ROOSEVELT ST.) of love you
give me a little fist, a little fistful of love fist fist fist
fist fistful of love give me a little bit give me a little
fistful of love give me give me oh give me a little a
little to little get a little give a little bit oh baby give
me a fistful of love
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Smack-dab
__ADAM WEBSTER\\
__MORGAN PAPPAS\\
(WALK SIGNAL)I was lying in my bed last night.
Staring.
-at a ceiling full of stars. When it suddenly hit me:
I just have to let you
know,
how I
feel.
(TRADER JOES PARKING LOT)(YOU)
( text in italics: lyrics from Antony and The Johnsons, “Fistful of Love”)
46
Smack-dab. That’s how Pete would characterize it at work later that day.
How he had presented the news to Marie, when he had sauntered back into the
house was: “Bad news. There’s a bird in the middle of the porch.”
“What do you mean? Is he -- ?”
Nodding, he led her out, cautiously, to show her. Solemnity was key, he remembered thinking. Later.
“I didn’t want you to step on him,” he explained.
“Well, I wouldn’t have stepped on him. He’s not really in the middle.”
“Close enough.”
Marie surveyed the porch and the bird: “A little to the left, maybe?”
Yes, even faced with a dying bird in the middle, thereabouts, of their porch, they
were about to get into the semantics of it all. Pete preferred to think of the metaphor:
Standing on their stoop. Just watching it die.
They stepped onto the porch and let the screen door swing shut behind them.
Pete approached the finch and nudged it with his boot. Just to make sure that the
chest’s movement was breathing and not wind. It was. Breathing. Not wind.
Marie protested. “No, don’t –”
Pete protested her protest.
“I’m just –” he motioned for her to keep quiet, that he had this under control.
He nudged it again, jimmying his bootsole under the finch’s breast setting it upright,
upon which, it fluttered, sputtered, and fell on its side again, legs akimbo. If a bird’s
legs can be akimbo.
“Ohhh. What should we do?” Marie asked.
“Hmmm.” Pete tried to think deeper than that, but nothing was coming. “Hmmmmmm.” There, that was deeper. Or at least longer, more contemplative.
“What should we do?” Marie asked again.
“I don’t think we should get a shovel,” he said.
“What?”
“A shovel. I thought about it, and I don’t think we should. To put him out of his
misery. I mean, what if that’s not what he needs?”
“Right. Yeah. No.”
“Yeah, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that anyway.”
So, after a few more Hmmms, Pete suggested a shoebox, recalling hazily some
memory from childhood in which he and his brother had resuscitated a bird with
a broken wing that they found in the backyard by putting him in a box lined with a
towel – one their mother had approved, merely saying “Don’t take one of the good
ones” – and putting the box in the garage for safe-keeping. And when his father came
home, how all four had gone out to the garage to check in on the bird, who by then
47
__ADAM WEBSTER\\
“Could you?” she said, relieved.
He scurried a few paces ahead, stopped at the curbcut, stood on his tiptoes,
and craned his neck. And then lowered himself and turned back to her. He nodded.
Remembering the solemnity.
She slumped. Shuffled up to him. And then they walked up the drive, and to
the steps of the stoop, each surveying the lifeless body, in the exact same place and
position as they had left it. Still fully intact, still with no blood anywhere. But now,
pristine and still.
Unlocking the door, Marie turned to Pete. “Would you –” Thinking she had said
what she needed to say, she let the almost-question hang in the air.
Pete beckoned a further query with a blank stare.
“—be the one—”
“to – ?”
“Yes.”
“To?” Pete lengthened the ‘o’ to draw the final portion of the query from her.
“Take care of it?”
“Of course.”
Pete went into the kitchen, grabbed a plastic bag from the recycling, and then
another for safe measure. He stuffed one inside the other, grabbed the handles and
shook them to inflate. The billowing reminded him of playing “mushroom/jellyfish”
with the parachute in third-grade gym, or folding sheets with Marie in their first
apartment on Halsted.
As he shuffled past her, slumped at the dining room table, they each imagined
how exactly it had died. With its eyes open, beak agape. And there they were. Smackdab in the middle of it all.
__ADAM WEBSTER\\
48
was chirping and eager, and happy, and, in his memory, thankful. And how they had
all climbed the steps of the old deck – the one that they had replaced a few summers
earlier, together, as a family, each with a hammer, side by side, and, oh, there was
lemonade, and father winked at mother as Pete and his brother pounded in the final
nails – and once at the top of the stairs, how they had released the bird back into the
wild, with a real sense of accomplishment.
“But what if it recovers?” Marie asked.
“Then it’s safe in a box in the garage,” Pete said.
“But then it can’t get out. Wouldn’t we just be trapping it, smothering it?”
Pete’s mind drifted back to the metaphor, but he hadn’t the heart, or was it the
wherewithal, to bring it up.
“Well, we should leave it be. And if it recovers, it can fly away.”
“And if not?”
“It’ll die, like it would anyway.”
“But I don’t want a creature to get him,” Marie said.
“I think it’s either a shoebox or we leave him.”
“I don’t think a shoebox is a good idea.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine on the porch – no worse off,” Pete said.
Silence and agreeable nods. And then, off to catch the bus. With heavy headshakes and deeper breaths than normal. In case someone was watching. Had seen.
But they had done what they could. They had discussed it. They had reasoned. They
had concluded. A solid decision had been reached.
Marie spent her lunch break on the Internet, researching. Pete had spent it relaying how the damn thing was smack-dab in the middle of the porch, and how it had
been horrible to be so helpless. To the bird, he said. To Marie, he thought.
“Turns out,” she said, when they met at the train station to head home, “shoebox
was the way to go. But only for three or four hours. And then you’re supposed to
check on them.”
“Ah.”
“But we were gone the whole day, so, we don’t really know, in this case, if that
was the way to go. We couldn’t check in after four hours.”
“Exactly,” Pete assured her. “I wonder if he’s still there,” he said.
“I hope not.”
Why Pete did not stop himself from saying, “Well if he isn’t then we won’t really
know if that means he recovered or if a creature got him,” he didn’t know. But he
didn’t. Stop himself. From saying that.
As they rounded the corner onto their street, Pete asked Marie if she wanted him
to walk ahead, and see if the bird was still there.
49
Untitled
__VALERIE WERNET\\
50
Untitled
__VALERIE WERNET\\
51
Untitled
__VALERIE WERNET\\
52
Sce-tay
__MAGGIE HELLWIG\\
53
__MAGGIE HELLWIG\\
the air would have to be dry, cracking the skin.
the wind would have to be strong, spreading the fire.
the soil would be parched; no moisture would sink in, no rainfall penetrate.
they considered moving east, but tales of strange new men had reached their ears.
they considered chopping, but knew it would not stop trees from multiplying.
they chose to harness the land with fire.
several women lost their smooth complexion, and occasionally their life, to setting the
land afire. nonetheless, it was an honor.
native american women found a routine. they sent one woman to set a brush fire to
the field:
long after the practice had been abandoned,
long after the strange new men came,
long after the tribes dwindled and hid,
there were rumors of women setting the land alight.
settlers swore they saw a lady holding a burning bundle of sticks:
her face highlighted by the flame.
her frame slight enough to be a shadow or an animal.
the native americans, they call fire sce-tay. this also is their word for prairie.
__MAGGIE HELLWIG\\
54
a chore of native american women was to set fire to this land. the trees sprouted up as
they tried to farm, growing in small clusters.
“our crops cannot grow in forests,” they said.
55
Seeds
__KATIE WALL\\
Millay
__BY CARSON PARISH\\
He had committed a crime once. Much like me.
58
__CARSON PARISH\\
I thought him naturally born amid literary pages, somewhere between page
eighty-seven of Woolf’s “Orlando” and page one hundred and sixty-four of Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.” I watched him nearly every day from a small café across the
street: the honest bookseller struggling to keep his business afloat in a notably harsh
stretch of urban winter. One day, I resolved to make my entrance, and I stepped inside
toward the end of his shop hours. I told him I had an extremely rare volume of Edna
St. Vincent Millay works (which was true) and that I’d bring it to him if it were above
freezing outside, however the snow and wind chill made me fear for the book’s fragile
exterior. I asked if he’d like to see it after work; he politely responded, “Sure.”
Under a small cap enclosing tufts of curly black hair, he referenced our slight
frames by making an uncomfortable joke that we must’ve looked like two bundles
of twigs walking down the street. (I presumed) people asked him if he was anorexic,
much as they asked me. The difference being that while he (presumably) said, “Oh no,
of course not,” and meant it, I always replied, “Oh no, not anymore,” even though I’ve
never been anorexic and ate voraciously. My joints cracked as I walked, and he made a
comment. I told him that when I was younger, playing hide and seek was impossible
because I could always be heard sneaking into a suitcase, a pantry, or an icebox.
My apartment, a final bastion of ornate decor and creaking woodwork in a neighborhood of newly renovated condos, was a lamp-lit amber cocoon of literary classics. I
prepared him some tea and we both sat facing each other by the radiator, cross-legged
on a bearskin rug, shivering in heavy woolen sweaters. His eyes shifted nervously
about the room, fending off questions about the book-lined walls, clearly wondering
if the rare first editions were genuine. I broke his concentration by pretending I’d just
remembered something, grabbed the Millay book and presented it to him. He fawned
over it for a moment, switching his gaze from me to the book in a cycle of faux
disbelief. We continued talking as he flipped through the pages and our conversation
strayed farther and farther from literature and deeper and deeper into our personal
lives (albeit with my nudging).
He hesitated and said, “Sometimes I strap a splayed-open book onto my face to
sleep, my nose buried in the binding, in hopes that my dreams will be composed of
fragments of poetry and prose that have woven themselves together into an unimaginable narrative.” He paused. “I… I can’t believe I just told you that.”
“It’s okay,” I offered, “sometimes if I know myself to be alone, I’ll paint my whole
body - every inch - and listen to Stravinsky while smoking mentholated cigarettes.”
He laughed, not one of hostility but one of disbelief and he said, “Really?”
I nodded. “Would you like to see?”
Twenty minutes after retreating to my room, I returned to find him reading
Millay and sipping his tea like a posh schoolboy. I had covered myself head to toe
in silver, even my tuft of brown hair had been dusted to shimmering gray, and I
presented myself to him naked, every knob and bone on my wiry frame protruding
from beneath my skin stretched tight like a dissonant drum. I stood before him for a
few moments, not concealing the fact that his gaze upon me was arousing me. There,
standing above his small pile of cross-legged limbs, was a fulfillment of my fantasies
in itself, and I’m sure the unfettered desire in my eyes contributed to his look of
slow-crawling fear.
Finally, I inquired in a low voice, “What are your thoughts?”
“You are aware of course, that I am not interested in men, correct?”
“Gender is quite arbitrary, don’t you agree?”
“You’re very beautiful, but I should probably be on my way.”
“Could you wait for one moment?” He stopped reaching for his coat and returned
his gaze to my shoulder, not meeting my eyes. “I would like for you to admire me.”
He cleared his throat. “I am admiring you.”
“Yes, but I would like you to admire me as you would a great work of art, as a
Brueghel or a poem by St. Vincent Millay.” I extended my hand to him and after a
hesitative moment he took it, his moist skin in my metallic palm.
“How do you mean?”
I focused my eyes upon his, climbing into him through a viaduct in his irises. I
whispered, “I want you to worship me.”
Softly, “But I do not worship you.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
“I do not wish to kiss you.”
“What if you laid on the floor, and I put on Stravinsky and splayed open the
Millay book and pressed it to your face?”
He gave a slight gasp and I could feel something growing between us as he whispered, more quietly than before, “Okay.”
I cleared some literature off the bearskin and suggested he lie down. He obeyed,
flat on his back in the center of the rug, his entire body trembling. As he lay in wait,
watching my movements from across the room, I set the needle down on a recording
of “Feu d’artifice” and waited for the crackling to settle and for the erratic piccolo to
bleed from the speakers.
I picked up the book and asked, “Is there a specific poem you’d like to smell?”
“Daphne,” he replied. I turned to page seventy-six.
“Are you ready?”
He nodded and I straddled him, squatted down just over his chest, my whole
59
__CARSON PARISH\\
body a great orb of sickly silver atop his quivering frame. I clutched the edges of the
book firmly and pressed it into the center of his face, his head rising off the rug to
meet it in mid-air. He let out a massive gasp as he pushed his face deeper and deeper
into the binding, turning his cheeks inside the musty pages. Its paper closed in upon
his features until the binding disintegrated and he began to gag on its contents, tiny
bits of text puffing out of his mouth and twirling in the air. Bits of paper and ancient
glue poured from his mouth, and small fragments of paper were strewn across the
bearskin, little half-moons of Millay’s words like “terrible fishes seize my flesh” and
“so subtly the fume of life designed.”
60
Afterwards, he wiped his mouth and retreated to the washroom to clean his face.
When he returned, he draped his coat over his shoulders and said (very matterof-factly), “Thank you for your time.” He spent a full thirty seconds staring at me,
rather distantly, as I met his gaze in between drags of a cigarette.
Untitled, Maggie Hellwig
the grove, Sarah Youngsoul Kim
Demons Off, Suman Chhabra
Untitled, Taylor Estape
Shallows, Elizabeth Bertch
Acquired/Liminal, Elizabeth Bertch
Garden, Guardian, Katy Jo Smith
Business Cards, Adam Webster
Edward Snowden Responds, Adam Webster
The Rip Cord, Carson Parish
The Admiral and the Octopus, Kirsten M.E. Thomas
Replication as Transmutation, Katie Wall
Fortunes Wrapped Around a Wounded Nest, Hannah Keene
64
65
69
74
75
76
77
79
80
81
83
87
89
// Transform\\
Untitled
the grove
//MAGGIE HELLWIG\\
//SARAH YOUNGSOUL KIM\\
1.
it starts not in the earth
but above
nestled between this
how to describe the texture of inhabited space
(brittle to press but malleable under extreme pressure)
is it skin sun-bleached & peeling
sometimes i become confused & when the light filters
through
my palm presses against this bark
no, chest
(are we the same)
time has taught me the difference between this & that
but this is a story about burrowing
(a rearranging of membranes then the organs underneath)
2.
there has always been a desire in me
(to be other than myself)
to investigate what shape lives beneath
can we map the same thing different ways :
the outline of the foot after it lifts
windblown detritus
but still
you are repulsive
(because you do not belong in this
)
65
transformation happens gradually
a slow crawling of the hands across wintered grounds
rise & fall of fingertips steady
here
& look
(here, too)
3.
like an old body resting against an old tree
sink against muddy ground
your spine :
curved like the coast against an ocean
how do you keep from following marked trajectory
how it appears :
salt resin on dry skin
on strands of hair, binding in
clumps
mapped across the surfaces of our earth: a house, a
shore
then sea
travel in tight circles
bc sometimes in spaces
fear
& water can be vast
it happens regardless
all encompassing, this
gravitation
a body (yours/mine) stretching stillwithout port or
anchor
the drifting incremental
aren’t you tired
a slow letting go
your trunk reclining & the way your head lolls to the
side
says you are
blood can harden with the cold in rings (concentric)
it’s a sprawling transposition traveling from the
centerout
sometimes you can but lean & let it happen :
a stretching of the legs across open space,
northwest
a hand reaching
grasping out , water
66
4.
//SARAH YOUNGSOUL KIM\\
//SARAH YOUNGSOUL KIM\\
because the earth rotates this way (a swirling
navigation)
& the sound of nothing is the wind whipping hair,
face
unraveling long after
speechless
5.
so can we turn back (for momentary relief)
like this
(i like a place of pliable solids)
the strange shapes we can take :
how we move across these landscapes show us
67
Demons Off
//SARAH YOUNGSOUL KIM\\
//SUMAN CHHABRA\\
how to expand
curved
& a little broken into our different shapes
(a process of elimination)
It was well past midnight and no one went to bed. Finally, my aunts decided that I, at
least, needed to get some sleep. I slept in a trundle bed, the bookshelf above me filled
with Hindu comic books. A poster of a green alien glowed through the night, said we
are not alone.
is there an opening
to burrow into
but this is not a story about changing from this to that (i
think)
but rather
a chronicling
of how the skin stretches sometimes
(without much force at all)
In the morning, I congratulated myself in the bathroom mirror. I will get ready for my
parents’ funeral. I will not believe this is a dream.
-6.
how to be many things at once
(a road that is a path that is a snow covered patch that is nothing
but shrubs growing where they choose (i walked it) /
a body
with bristles, dark and overgrown, feet delving in the earth,
lungs expanding with rhythm because they don’t know how to
not)
& to understand how sometimes it is not about choosing after all
Endnotes:
sometimes in the spaces, there is fear is taken from Kapil Rider, Bhanu. The Vertical
Interrogation of Strangers. Berkeley, California: Kelsey St. Press, 2001. Print.
68
I sat at the kitchen table watching my family eat muffins from the heaping condolence
baskets. I was not forced to eat before leaving for the funeral home, but to drink many
cups of water. That is what we do in our family when someone cries, we shout, “Get
them water!”
I’ve stopped wearing red clothing. The sacrifice is not great. I didn’t wear much before.
I made an exception and wore a red dress on my first date with J. I was excited, overconfident, sure that nothing would happen to me that day. That the potential of blood
spilling, mingling with the red fabric, would not occur that day.
When J. went to the home store to buy himself a new shower curtain liner, I asked
him to buy me a towel. He brought me a lovely fuzzy one. The towel was red. Not a
candy red or a red verging on orange or pink. It was brick red. I used it today, unable
to throw out a perfectly good towel.
Red is only delightful when I see a cardinal in a tree outside the window. I have a
memory of photographing cardinals with Dad. We may have done this. I don’t remember the camera’s weight around my neck or Dad showing me the ways to steady a
frame, but there were red birds against the bare snow branches. Dad is the cardinal I
see outside the window. How do I believe this? He’s gone, soul gone, reincarnated and
not in cardinal form, I’ve decided. But still, Dad is the cardinal. Dad is the cardinal and
Mom is the bluebird I see outside the window. Only once did they appear together.
-As children, we are taught that life is maya, a dream. All waking life is equivalent to
our dream state. Yet, as we grow, it is difficult to continue to accept maya. What happens in our lives is important, it carries weight, it causes joy and distress, and there
69
are many implications that will affect you. Yes, yes, we get it. Life’s a dream. Don’t
take it too seriously. But who doesn’t?
Now, to comfort me, they say it’s all maya. Their death is maya. How they were killed
is maya. They keep telling me it’s a delusion, it’s not real. Careful now, because I’m
already inclined to hope that way. They’re dead but it’s maya. It’s real but not really.
There is a copper snake on my ring finger. It draws too much attention. People compliment and touch it and I wonder if they think I am making a statement. Really, how
can I tell them that when one meditates, performs a certain level of sadhana, the body
needs to be stabilized?
Your ring finger contains all the karma of your lives lived and lives yet to be lived. By
wearing metal on this finger you keep yourself in your body when meditating. No easy
escape.
In dreams, Dad sits in lotus, eyes closed, and tells me that when I’m ready, he’ll teach
me. The sky is as grainy and golden as the sand of the riverbank he sits upon. In waking, I still ask him, ask everyone I can think to ask: how do you know it’s meditation?
In the dreams, I stay silent until waking to another version of life.
-Ek tha raja
Ek thi rani
Dono mar gaye
Katham kahani
--
-We drove to the airport at night. The departures curb was lit in a warm glow. I turned,
waved goodbye to my family through the sliding glass doors. I walked into the airport
with Mom and Dad silently beside me, taking Dad’s hand as we approached the front
of the security line. I could barely make out my own voice, without meeting their gaze,
painfully I begged
The murderers sat in a row in a trolley. The four men wore khakis and white button
down shirts and navy sweater vests. They could have been part of a barbershop
quartet. A few of them even smiled. Their smiles were not the smiles of murderers. I
thought this image would soothe me, a transmitted message from their jail cells that
they were sorry and couldn’t we go for a ride together through the open air. Enough.
//SUMAN CHHABRA\\
//SUMAN CHHABRA\\
--
I asked that question most of all. How did he know it was meditation not hallucination?
Maybe I tell you I smiled at them. It’s difficult not to smile back.
come with me.
--When I sit now to meditate, or rise after sitting and want to talk to Dad about the
experience, it is the most I miss him. I should have asked him many questions: how
to file taxes, the health benefits of castor oil, how to build a fire, but none of these
matters want answers more than meditation. And I asked him about it all the time.
What it felt like, how he started, what does the mild focus between one’s eyebrows
do? What are these layers of bodies within us? What happens in the spine? What
did he see in meditation, what did he experience and how did he know it was not
hallucination?
70
I check under my snake ring in the morning. If my skin is my own color, I deem that
I am okay. If my skin is green, it is a sign that I’m not well. The green is body’s way
of hinting, look closely at me. Something is amuck in here. Or, is the green simply a
result of wearing heavy pajamas and sweating through the night? The chemical combination of salt and copper.
This morning I ask J. if he can see the green. He says he doesn’t see anything. I rub my
skin with soap, rub under the running water expecting green dye to fall into the sink.
The green dissipates, but where?
71
--
--
Now, I fight with Dad far more often than when he was alive. He doesn’t want to sit
down to eat lunch with me. He wants to leave for work. He’s dressed in a showy threepiece suit. Who is this dad? I shout at him that there isn’t anywhere to go. He insists,
insists, he needs to go take care of work. I ask him, “Where have you been this whole
time if you’re not dead?”
If one waves one’s hands over the deities and draws said hands over one’s forehead
three times, you have done what you can for insurance in this life. You have performed aarti without knowing the words. It’s for your protection to do what is told of
you when the directions are thousands of years old. They still apply, not in the daily
decisions one must make, but to the essentials, such as learning when to say hello
demon, goodbye demon.
There is a sound when meditation enters the body. The drip of chemicals from one’s
crown down one’s spine. You panic, realize it’s unstoppable. The wave you have tried
to coax each day now plunging through your organs, between cells.
-I cover her body in flower petals and vermillion and water from the Ganges. Now, this.
Unable to feed Mom the uncooked rice the priest gave me. In her coffin, her lips are
slightly parted but solid. I drop a grain of rice, hoping it will land in the tiny opening
of her mouth. It bounces off her teeth onto her body. I drop a handful of rice but the
grains miss her mouth and slide down her cheek into the coffin’s lining. My aunt gets
up from the pew, helps me pull Mom’s mouth apart.
A mortal will reach the ground in the presence of a demon. Reach the ground how you
may, demon approaches how it will. What next? Loving is no different than haunting.
Your purpose is directed and subsumes all else. You participate in the action thoroughly forgetting you are even doing it.
Sitting with demons may feel a bit meditative. Their presence spurring anxiety,
questions, the need to know or run. Sitting with demons is meditation hallucination.
And how do you know-- meditation? Or hallucination? Demons may clarify that
matter for you quickly, or next moon, or repeatedly, or in that language you know you
don’t know well, or three times, or by digging into your teeth’s fortress. Demons will
answer.
//SUMAN CHHABRA\\
//SUMAN CHHABRA\\
--
When demons smile at you, you must look upon these demons and say, “That is
enough. That is enough.”
-My mother had a Princess Diana haircut. Hers jet-black, of course.
-Over and over again, I realize that I must be the one to tell them. I have to find Mom
and Dad and tell them that they are dead. Or, tell them that they will die today. Each
time I wonder, don’t they know? They have to know. But I need to tell them, comfort
them, somehow prepare them.
-The last photo of the three of us: Dad and I squatting down on either side of Mom.
Our heads in a row, hovering over birthday cake.
72
73
Untitled
Shallows
//TAYLOR ESTAPE\\
//ELIZABETH BERTCH\\
cliff fall to
a more misadventured state
multitude of
insects that are more bug than
beetle, creeps,
a miniature topiary is still casting
shadows
hapless –
claw or meager
the cave painting made
with this paw,
that halting minnow sheen
capillary as automaton
a surprise is sound based, localized
in drawn out architectures
75
Acquired/Liminal
Garden, Guardian
//ELIZABETH BERTCH\\
are innocent dragon spines –
clothe bound ridged, lacking
a head space
but far off trees that are
bluer than most, spruce,
dragon tree is bowed
with scoliosis and if
she is quiet, the taps
with bird heads sing her
night songs, a reminder
of flushed wings taken
down in more fire –
that bird space hides,
deep basement stairs
crackly, like
landscapes drifting – drift
dragons, spruce
heads with overdrawn eyes
sleepy from
all the songs in the sink
//KATY JO SMITH\\
In the evening she waters
the dirt under stem and stalk.
I watch, crouching in iris leaves
and am passed over, again.
She walks the well-tamed garden,
past roots I tried to unearth.
This is her magical un-earth
where puddled rain waters
shine bright on curved garden
paths. Most nights I stalk:
bush, bed, branch and back again.
I patrol, after the gardener leaves.
On days of heavy hanging leaves,
my companion, digging, will unearth
small slimy things. She jumps, again.
Just an earthworm, and so she waters
its home. A snake slides and stalks,
she fears, in the beds of her garden.
Early morning she starts to garden
as coolness stirs the tree leaves.
I’m asleep while the sun stalks
across the sky. At dusk, I’ll unearth
myself, then lap up birdbath waters.
And watch over her again,
and tomorrow again. And again
I’ll uncover the roots by the garden
fence. Can’t she recall how waters
dotted her cheeks like dew? She leaves
a berth around the iris; to unearth
is to dig up the past. Sadly, I stalk.
I’m a poor excuse for a specter, stalking
and crying out to my mother, friend again,
again. I wish she’d look, unearth,
76
77
Business Cards
//ADAM WEBSTER\\
speak to what’s buried in garden
soil. At peace her voice leaves
me, words drunk in like waters.
//KATY JO SMITH\\
Soft-pawed I stalk through the garden
again. She sees no stripe, no tail—only leaves.
Unearthly, I guard her while she waters.
78
Edward Snowden Responds
//ADAM WEBSTER\\
The Rip Cord
//CARSON PARISH\\
This is the second time this month I’ve snuck out of hospice to go for a drive “to
clear my head” only to be lured in by the FM radio schmaltzing Coltrane, Mingus, and
Bird, looping through the black swamp’s sleepiest streets and ending up here – at The
Rip Cord.
My mother doesn’t know that I’m here, she doesn’t know about Rip Cords and
I hope she never does, but an older man across the bar is looking at me like I’ve got
something to hide and maybe I do but not from him so why do I feel my skin burning
from a pair of eyes underneath that well-worn Mud Hens cap?
The first time I loped away from an ailing relative’s side was two weeks ago when
in my absence my mother lost her father, and now we’re back at hospice for my mother’s brother and I’m there to provide some kind of stability but I don’t even know
what stability means and you can only handle so much lethargic waiting, waiting,
waiting before you require a release, right?
So out I went and here I am and the lights are red and the televisions tuned to
“fist” but that man’s coming over and closer and soon he’s saying things to me like “so
where do you live and why are you here?” and I answer, “I’m from Chicago, back here
for family” and he’s saying, “okay yes but why are you here?”
And I realized that I wasn’t there, that my head was still out with Coltrane in the
sleepy streets but he didn’t seem to mind as he slid two dollars across the counter and
out came another whiskey ginger that I didn’t drink as I asked him, “and where do you
live?” and he said, “next to the oil refinery, but you wouldn’t be interested in that,”
and I said, “no, no, I’m fascinated by that, in fact I’m intoxicated by that, more than
I’ve been fascinated or intoxicated by anything in months” and he said, “the refinery’s
tungsten lights burn all night long and I’ve never been able to sleep even once in the
twelve years I’ve lived there so I lie awake every night with my eyes closed as the lights
tan my innards” and I stuttered, “J-Jesus, that sounds like the prettiest thing I’ve
heard in years” and he said again, “yes, but you wouldn’t be interested.”
So I thought about this and said, “okay, well what do you think I’d be interested
in?” and he said, “a room at the Diplomat? It’s a bathhouse on the north side of town.
It’s wood-paneled. All of it is wood. The walls. The showers. The faucets” and I curtly
replied, “no.”
But he persisted with, “well, how about the Ambassador Motor Hotel?” and
I, “yeah, I’ve seen that place” and he, “rooms are $17.50 a night and it comes with
free cable according to the unlit neon sign on the corner” and I said, “but isn’t it out
of business?” and he, “no I’ve seen a light or two in one of the windows before; it’s
walking distance from here you know” and I realized I had seen someone in one of the
windows once, just a shadowy figure looking down onto the street like a ghost, and I
asked him what the rooms looked like and he said, “like dried glue that’s still wet” and
81
The Admiral and the Octopus
//CARSON PARISH\\
//KIRSTEN M.E. THOMAS\\
suddenly this Teena Marie song “Square Biz” came on and I interjected with, “speaking of hotels and death!” and jumped up and I asked him to dance but he didn’t want
to, he wasn’t into disco or something stupid like that but I whispered in his ear, “I
want to see how tan your innards are” and I danced like a drunken fool in front of him
though I was completely sober and he approached me slowly like a gazelle stalking
its prey before he extended his arm up to the riveted beam in the mirrored ceiling
above us and I began to realize that he was serious, that I could do it right there, and
everyone else had started watching but I went ahead and did it anyway and I buried
my nose into his armpit and my whole face began to disappear between the trusses of
his tendons and I could see the tungsten flames down in the summit of his stomach
so I climbed down the ribcage like a golem and there was this blurry miniature of The
Rip Cord on the roof of his liver, so I took a sip from the whiskey ginger at the bar
and whispered in his ear, “I want to leave, to go very, very far away, but I’m scared of
what you’re capable of,” and he, “that sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” and “have we met
before?” and I, “yes, yes, many, many times.”
The admiral lives in the old house across from the park – we always have been afraid
of that house – maybe because we could sense his presence before he arrived.
The first thing he did was announce that he was preparing to do battle with an ancient
octopus. We all know battles don’t exist, but we are too afraid to tell him.
The admiral practices for battle three times a week by firing a cannon into the park.
So far he has defeated a squirrel, a street lamp, and a child. We wanted to see what he
would defeat next, but we weren’t allowed to watch anymore.
Jealous that the admiral had a foe, we decided that we should steal the octopus as our
own foe. We know that battles do not exist, so the octopus will be a fine opponent.
We finally gathered enough courage to enter the admiral’s house to ask him about
the octopus, but he greeted us with his cannon. We will have to survive on what we
imagine instead of fact.
We found a book about octopi and learned they feast on fingers, so we all went down
to the water and placed our fingers in. We waited for hours, but we left with all our
wrinkled fingers. Maybe octopi are imaginary.
We couldn’t catch an octopus, so we brought all the jellyfish we could find to the
admiral’s house. We didn’t think jellyfish were that different from an octopus, but
we learned that we were wrong after the admiral squashed all the jellyfish under his
boots.
82
83
We built a robot octopus, in hopes of pleasing the admiral. But when we placed it in
the water, it darted off. We now know octopi are fast.
If octopi are not real, then we must become the octopus. One of the few things we
know for sure is that octopi have 8 legs, but there are only 7 of us now.
We needed to figure out other ways the octopi travel. We overheard someone saying
that they fly, but we think it is more likely that they drop straight from the clouds.
When we went to find the octopus, we had to look everywhere. After all, octopi are
masters at camouflage. So we checked every tree, bench, rock, and duck. We found no
octopi. They are trickier than we thought.
We watched the sky for the octopus, but only saw clouds. In the clouds we imagined
what the octopus would look like.
The admiral has been in a bad mood as of late. We think it might be because he has
made no progress in his campaign against the octopus. We tried to tell him that we
were trying to help, but he attacked us. Maybe he had us confused with the octopus.
Avoiding the admiral, we decided to gather military intelligence on our own. We
dressed up as strangers and interviewed the townspeople. The only thing they told us
is that there is no such thing as battles.
When we reconstructed our comrade from the pieces that remained after the cannon
shot, we tried folding ourselves into an octopus, but we just looked like a tree with
one branch. We will have to find another way.
//KIRSTEN THOMAS\\
//KIRSTEN THOMAS\\
We asked the admiral if we could go looking for the octopus. He told us to be careful
because octopi are friends with giant squids which are 7 times bigger than us. There
were more than 7 of us, so we were sure we could win.
If he is going to attack us – maybe we are the octopus.
We made an octopus out of rubber and marched it around town. We tried to get people to stand against the admiral – after all they must be getting tired of the cannon.
However, the people didn’t want to leave their houses. It looked like we would be
alone in our confrontation.
We watched the shadows that danced across the street and buildings for signs of the
octopus until we fainted from exhaustion.
We tried to sneak past the admiral’s house, but he caught us and fired his cannon. We
quickly scattered and hid. When we all gathered later, it became clear that one of us
had fallen to the admiral’s cannon fire.
84
In order to practice killing like the octopus, we rang strangers’ doorbells and strangled
those who answered. Not many people answered, but we think that we have practiced
enough to take on the admiral.
85
Replication as Transmutation
//KATIE WALL\\
We collected skinned knees and waved them above our head. This will be our battle
flag as we march towards the admiral.
//KIRSTEN M.E. THOMAS\\
We marched to the admiral’s house under our flag. He must have seen us coming
because when we rang the doorbell we got no response. We will have to wait for the
battle.
86
After ringing the admiral’s doorbell for three days, he opened the door. We immediately demanded that he battle with us. Not knowing what that entails, we all stood
still and stared at each other.
DNA has no religious affiliations
so it starts no wars
DNA with a black hole in the center
of each and every molecule
unwound
replicated
rewound
for the eternal life it was promised
the soul changes from solid to gas
and back from gas to solid
sublimation allows
civilization to unfold
i wouldn’t say evolve
evolution takes too long
social memes moving
everything
subjugated to constant
unraveling
DNA hums a little song to itself
as it replicates
(slight deviations)
confident in its transubstantiation
and ancient formulae
the formatting almost always
perfectly aligns
the little bits of chaos
held in place
through R.E.M.
keep the screen moving
so that the story appears
as one continuous whole
really, it is a series of blinks
holding reality intact
the empty space
overpowers
every sound
the silence
the void
the dark matter
87
Fortunes Wrapped Around a Wounded Nest
//KATIE WALL\\
//HANNAH KEENE\\
88
keeps the universe expanding
does the DNA know this?
of wars? of poverty?
of genocide?
does the little DNA
understand the importance of its job?
is it self aware?
is there consciousness there?
(subterranean buried in the 6 full feet of one strand)
does each strand of DNA hum a different song?
science doesn’t want to hear
the DNA tell its story
it only wants to understand the replication
science leaves the transubstantiation
to no one
philosophy is out of fashion
it is countercultural to ask why
the machine takes advantage
of the blinking
those fractions of moments
when the eye is closed
can’t see the machine
changing costumes and
rewriting history
(mid-screen)
sneaky bastard
the DNA presses on
unraveling
and replicating
and re-raveling
on an endless typewriter
living breathing
becoming growing
an eyelash
so that when the eye blinks
debris from the air
stays out
can’t get in
to be breech born in bloodwood
a thicket of it comes backword–
in this pale lit mooring, its hull is built
on the ricket legs of a three-post calf.
bathe in milk thistle, distilled thrush
your spring is whittling in between
a scald and scold: the revelation of the blind.
this rushed decomposition burnt before
this feather in its fleeing, that tiny bundle.
it no longer shakes in its fury.
you are told, sweet passer, that this is the threshhold.
this is the year of the primal course.
and you in the dawn of the terrestrial birth, born backword.
wait behind, waitless in your wading, a heavy weight of soaking
atop heaving bubble: it is ready. listen.
listen.
that empty room
it is a body.
it is a body that has a door.
that door, it opens to face a door to face a door to face.
a rising moon. half crested in the breast. rest yourself there, little sparrow.
rise when the earth cold black comes to thawing.
89
Biographies \\
Elizabeth Bertch bakes pies, writes poems. Her work includes text, movement,
and image hybrids. She is originally
from Iowa.
veronica. writer. artist. clinical art therapist. healer. cultural worker. unsilenced.
creative. wordsmith. innovator. God’s
child. precious. blessed. grateful. collagist.
photographer. vocalist. teacher. womanist. daughter. granddaughter. author.
visionary. bohanan. playwright. director. creator of
new tropes of womanness. unapologetically Black & womon. www.veronicabohanan.com
Suman Chhabra is a Michigan native.
Her work examines life as non-linear.
She considers wandering of value, especially if in one’s mind.
Taylor Estape received her BFA in Creative Writing at the Jack Kerouac School
of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University. She hopes you’re feeling pretty
good today.
Caitlin Farella was born in New Jersey,
the only state where the new is optional.
Before coming to SAIC she studied
Marine Biology and helped rescue
marine mammals. In 2012, she received
the Joseph Courtier Award for fiction.
Her beloved cat, Winter, is her toughest
critic.
Suzanne Gold is an interdisciplinary
scholar, artist and writer living in Chicago, IL. She is also co-founder of HAIR
CLUB, a collaborative, research-based
initiative operating out of The School of
the Art Institute of Chicago around the
multivalent subject of Hair in our wider
culture. Penchant for pooches, well-behaved plants, and pickling. //www.suzanne-gold.com//
Morgan Pappas is from the northwest
and thinks this is important (eye roll).
Her work oscillates between being
too conceptual (relies heavily on deep
Wikipedia research) and that time when
someone looks at you sadly and says,
“That’s nice you talk so much about pop
culture?” “Love me,” she says! “Hire me
as your personal assistant! I’m going
back to beauty school!”
Kurt Heinrich is a writer, artist, cat
enthusiast, mythology nerd, recent
MFAW graduate, occasional vegetarian,
frequent comic convention (C2E2 &
NYCC) employee, amateur adventurer,
and all-around pop culture addict. In
addition to all that, he hopes to one day
please your face-eyes with his novel(s)
of mythic abandon.
Carson Parish is a professional cinephile
living in Chicago. He works in the 16mm
film archive for the School of the Art
Institute and projects for film festivals
across the Midwest, among them
Cleveland and Milwaukee. He shares
an unparalleled affinity for the Rust Belt.
Resume available upon request.
Before weaseling her way into a Master’s Program, Maggie Hellwig wrote
book reviews for Chicagoist, taught
writing to adults with developmental
disabilities, walked dogs, and wrote
serial comedy for a small (now extinct)
LGBT theatre company in Andersonville.
She hopes you enjoy all of her weird
writings and ramblings.
Hannah Keene lives as an indigo
bunting. Her work is an unfurling of
anti-memoir, an alchemical reaction
between myth, landscape, and trauma. Originally from New York, Sarah Youngsoul Kim moved to Chicago to attend
the Art Institute of Chicago in 2013. She
primarily works in the modes of poetry,
essay, and short prose, investigating the
politics and nuances of identity through
language.
Roell Schmidt has journeyed through
the MFAW program at a long, slow and
measured pace and heads out into the
world armed with these truths: a writer
is someone who writes, and all we
can do is try what works and try what
doesn’t work.
The daughter of a painter and a musician, Katy Jo Smith credits her interest
in writing to a creative upbringing. Her
poetry and prose seek to examine the
relationships between art and audience, animals and humans, reality and
dreams, content and form
Danielle Susi is the author of the
chapbook The Month in Which We Are
Born (Dancing Girl Press, 2015). Her
writing has appeared or is forthcoming
in Knee-Jerk Magazine, Hobart, The
Rumpus, Lines+Stars, DIALOGIST, and
Midway Journal, among many others.
Newcity has named her among the Top
5 Emerging Chicago Poets.
We are told Kirsten Marie Elizabeth
Thomas exists, but we cannot prove that
this is true.
Katie Wall is a trans-media, multi-dimensional, omnidirectional, visual, sound
artist. She is influenced by: quantum
physics, Leonardo da Vinci, indigenous
star myths, and her husband’s biological
brain. She is into iced coffee and juicing
to emulate the eternal balance between
good and evil. Her favorite flower is the
star lily.
Adam Webster is a playwright and
poet whose work has been performed
internationally, as well as in Los Angeles,
New York, Chicago, and Portland,
Oregon. His work has appeared in
anthologies by Pearson Press, Pacific
Review, and in the online literary
journal pioneertown. He founded
and runs the side project, a theatre
in Chicago (www.thesideproject.net).
Valerie Wernet is a poet from Portland,
Oregon. Her work has been published
in Small Po[r]tions Journal. She finds
useful: recordings of rain.