www.maristmosaic.wordpress.com
maristmosaic@gmail.com
3399 North Road
Poughkeepsie, NY 12601
Cover Design by Kaitlyn Dugan, Abigail Koesterich, and Ethan Joyal
Interior Layout by Amanda Nessel
Cover Image: Untitled by Annabel Banks
Opinions expressed in Mosaic do not necessarily reflect the views
held by Mosaic staff, students, faculty, or the administration of
Marist College.
©
Mosaic 2022







Mosaic
Editorial Board
Editor-In-Chief
Amanda Roberts
Assistant Editor-In-Chief
Lauren Lagasse
Art Editor
Lillian
J
andrisevits
Fiction Editor
Kevin Pakrad
Nonfiction Editor
Julianna Buchmann
Poetry Editor
Hor Eid
Design Editor
Amanda Nessel
Cover Design Committee
Kaitlyn Dugan
,
Abigail Koesterich, and Ethan Joyal
Social Media Committee
Charlotte Del Vecchio, Blair Nackley, Kirsten Mattern, and Mackenzie Zeytoonjian
Event Planning Committee
Nicole Formisano, William Haydon, and Noelle Swift
Mosaic
Advisors
Mr. Robert Lynch and Dr. Moira Fitzgibbons








4
A Letter From The Editor
The Mosaic Editorial Board is proud to publish the spring 2022 edition of Mosaic: a
student-run literary and arts magazine highlighting the talented work of Marist College
students.
Mosaic submissions went through a rigorous blind peer review process in which student
section editors evaluated submissions for publication and ranking of 1st
,
2nd, and 3rd
place in the categories of art, fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. For many of our editors, this
publication is the first time they are seeing students' names associated with their work.
The Editorial Board and I would like to extend our sincerest gratitude to Bob Lynch for
continuing to inspire and support Mosaic
.
We would also like to thank Dr. Moira Fitz-
gibbons for her enthusiasm
,
support
,
and guidance throughout the publication process.
Additionally
,
we would like to thank Michele Williams for her support of the Mosaic
magazine and Editorial Board.
Thank you to Alex Podmaniczky for helping us print Mosaic. Thank you to Dean James
Snyder, Dean Martin Shaffer
,
Dr. Carolyn Matheus
,
Professor Ed Smith, Professor Jeff
Bass, Dr. Eileen Curley, and the entire English and Art departments for helping us find
the accomplished students that are featured in this seme
s
ter's edition of Mosaic.
And thank you to all of the students who submitted to Mosaic! The submissions we
received this semester were exceptional and the pieces selected reflect a compilation of
the most creative and ambitious work entered.
I would personally like to thank the entire Editorial Board for their dedication and pas
-
sion for Mosaic. This magazine is a product of all of your hard work and I am so glad to
have had the opportunity to work on this with all of you.
It has been my pleasure to serve as the Editor-In-Chief of Mosaic over the past three se-
mesters. I am incredibly honored to have held this position and to have had the opportu-
nity to bring back such an important and valuable tradition. I look forward to seeing the
Mosaic continue to flourish and serve as an important organization on campus in future
semesters
.
Finally, thank you to you, the reader, for opening this book and experiencing the incred-
ible work that Marist students have to offer. We hope you enjoy the spring 2022 edition
of Mosaic.
Sincerely,
Amanda Roberts
Mosaic Editor-In-Chief










TABLE OF CONTENTS
Untitled
Annabel Banks
Cover
Junk Drawer
Nina Bisco
8
In Pieces
Casey Brown
9
The Wakeful Creature Of 2am
Mackenzie Zeytoonjian
10
Four Walls
Sereen El Jamal
12
December 29th
Alyssa Borelli
14
Committed
Kat Bilbija
16
Qui
e
t Thoughts
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
17
John Burrough
'
s Cabin
Sophia DelVecchio
18
A Sonnet by Someone Who Tries
Alyssa Borelli
19
Mere Glimpses
Karina Brea
20
Fog on the Bridge
Claudia Molina
21
Blue and Red
Charlotte D. Del Vecchio
22
The God
s,
the Ghosts, the Living
Juliann Bianco
24
Self Portrait
Kaitlyn Dugan
25
s
pring break
Kaylee Miller
26
Mug
s
Shannon Connolly
29
Ode to Purple
Lauren Anderson
30
Ledge Light
Amanda Nessel
31
Heat Stroke
Anonymous
32
The Compromise of a Loss
Emma Shaw
33
Someone I Once Knew
Julianna Buchmann
34
White Roses III
Ashleigh Barham
35
Exhibition
Lorah Murphy
36
***
Body Language
Kaylin Moss
37
mine:
Emme Armstrong
38
Gilded Age
Megan Byrnes
39
Life Skills
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
40
Beauty
Katie Sailer
44
"
Thi
s
is my poem"
Anonymous
45
Untitled
Kat Caravaggio
46
***
=
Content may contain themes of abuse, grief, death, suicide, war, mental
illness, and body image.
5













Does Anybody Know? (Or Care?)
Gabriella Amleto
47
Sensation and Perception
Karina
Brea
48
Connection
Kaitlyn Dugan
52
Hourglass
Miranda Santiago
53
I love you.
Ashley Marcinek
54
Two Years Later
Brooke Millard
56
They Call It Rock
Bottom
Greta Stuckey
57
***Memories
August Boland
58
There's Us
Allie Steingold
62
A Moribund World
August Boland
63
Untitled
Heather
Brody
64
Betrayal
Santaliz Guale-Hilario
65
The Forgotten Rules of the One Night Stand
Saoirse Maguire
66
Villanelle For Us
,
On the Train
Lily Jandrisevits
67
***Lonely
Lauren Anderson
68
Ode to Poughkeepsie
Hannah Gnibus
70
Longing for Spring
Olivia Myers
71
Listless
Rebecca D'Ambrosio
72
Lethargic
Mackenzie Zeytoonjian
73
Cacti Don't Have Feelings
Jeremy
Skeele
74
Untitled
Annabel Banks
77
Unrequited
Rebecca D'Ambrosio
78
Flying Sonnet
Kevin Pakrad
79
Do you ever mourn our memories?
Olyvia
R
.
Young
80
In a Cafe
Kaitlyn Dugan
81
Sometimes
HM
82
Bird
of Paradise
Christina Levi
83
About love
,
pain. Strained relationships.
Madelyn Kemler
84
How much is a little girl worth?
Kirsten Mattern
85
Looking at My Window in the Gartland Commons in Poughkeepsie, NY Gabriela Maria Cunha
86
An Ode to Sacrifice
Britney Carino-Muniz
87
Transformation
Ashleigh Barham
89
Wednesday's Child
D'Avion Middleton
90
The Drive Thru at the End of the Universe
Kevin Pakrad
91
6






Identity
Kaitlyn Dugan
92
Wise Owl
M;iranda Santiago
93
Childhood Suadade
Emma Shaw
94
Prickly
Christina Levi
95
The End.
Julia Panas
96
***
Cornelia Counts
Ashley Marcinek
98
A New Love
Lorah Murphy
100
Longing
Madelyn Cyr
101
Haze
Megan Byrnes
102
***
Without Her
Laratee VanNieuwenhuyze
103
Endings
Kayla Parkes
105
Untitled
Kat Caravaggio
105
the seasons don't change, we do
Troy Lyden
106
Mom Genes
D'Avion Middleton
107
Luckey Platt// Rainbows
Nina Bisco
108
Envious
Madelyn Cyr
109
If We Could Do It Over
Vanessa Hasbrouk
110
Tr
i
angle
William Casa
111
Reliquary
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
112
Four Melodies
Brooke Millard
113
Exalted
Megan Byrnes
115
Wet Wall Paint
Cassandra Arencibia
116
Trapped
Alyssa Borelli
118
Gota de Lluvia
Claudia Molina
119
Good Song
s
and How They Make Me Feel
Sydney Currier
120
Reflection
Claudia Molina
121
Violet
Casey Brown
122
7





8
Junk Drawer
Nina Bisco '24
Third Place, Art






In Pieces
Casey Brown '22
I tore the photographs
Just to tape them back
To remember how you looked at me.
I was your light, so when I went dim,
You could no longer see.
You kidnapped the stars from the sky
And lit them up for us each night.
Carried them like a flashlight
For each step of mine.
But my shadow was too much for you to bear.
And I loved the stars, but I just wanted you there.
There are little parts of me I feel I owe to you,
Like the doodles on the notes you drew.
I now draw them, too
But in a way that's much more blue.
So take a piece of my heart and keep it forever,
I'll keep the rest for someone more tender.
I'll bite my tongue until it bleeds,
You'll see me in your dreams.
9






10
The Wakeful Creature Of 2am
Mackenzie Zeytoonjian '25
Tension clamps under the
clusters of blankets that tightly
wraparound my imprisoned body,
frozen into place by a deep slumber.
Myhead peeks out of my soft co-
coon as a wakeful creature brushes
her tailpast my nose, wiggling my
toes in discomfort. A sensation
of cold air exposes my feet out of
their cave, into the open area that
surrounds me-- my bedroom. I feel
compression fall down onto my
stomach as tiny claws clamp onto
me, crawling across my organs and
forcing me to roll over releasing
tension against my body. My aching
back seeps into the covers as I feel
my mind sink asleep, back into the
dreams that my mind had created
for me
.
There are only small frag-
ments in each day where I can al-
most immediately stop life's duties
of acknowledging my reality. When
I sleep, I can hide away from my
grief, worries, and anxiety, tucking
them away. Little blades of sharp
teeth nibble on my toes, awakening
me from the deep hibernation. Just
a little longer I plead, yearning to
slip away again, drifting away from
life, just momentarily. Quickly my
toes suck back into my cocoon an
hide away from the little
monster devouring away at my
flesh. The kitten squirms her way
beneath my covers, searching for
my toes to nibble away at. I shriv-
el up and begin digging through
my bed, searching for my phone
to check the hour. My eyes weigh
heavy as my lids peel away, open-
ing my eyes to the burning kiss o
a phone screen pressing against
minuscule pupils
.
It's two fucking thirty, on
again this menace of a kitten has
woken me up, with no surprise I
stop and think to myself- the p
baby, must be hungry.
My precious kitten flashe
her eyes up at mine as she sees th
she has yet again accomplished h
desire to wake me up. Sunny spri
up to my crinkled-up face with
merriment and begins to serenade
me. Her melody vibrates through-
out her tender skin, purring into
ears, releasing tension throughout
my head. Somehow, even before
the sun is able to rise, reaching th
soft layers of my skin and putting
warmth into my soul, I feel Sunn






ence curl my cheeks, peacefully
pres
.
forming a sllllle ac~oss my face. My
heart feels tense with the thought
f knowing such a small crea-
o
.
1
t re needs my presence to s1mp y
u
k .
survive. Her morning awa enmgs
give me comfort, ~ven if all
I
want
to do is slip away mto my dreams
and hide from reality. I cautiously
lift my tense shoulders, muscles
pulled tight, wrapped in the barbed
wires hoisting up shards of stones
that fall around me. Even when the
wires tear my skin, carving wounds
into my back and spine,
I
heave my
body from the soft cushion to slow-
ly curl my weakened spine and sit
up. I swing my legs plantingthem
onto my rug, onto my mission of
feeding my little monster.
Sunny pounces to the
ground and her melody begins to
grow louder as her tail sways back
and forth. I lead the way to exit my
cozy room, crisping the door open,
and Sunny sprints out. Her little
toes caress the ground beneath her,
down the carpeted floor onto the
wooden staircase. She stops and
turns-- her rounded emerald eyes
gaze back at me to follow. Her soft
nos
ki
e sses me as she tramples by
at full speed down our mountain
of stairs to the kitchen. As I follow
her journey, a tin can falls into my
hands from the kitchen counter,
opening itself up to a pungent smell
of kitten food. The aroma lures
Sunny's mind as her wide
eyes stare at her 2 am supper, yelp-
ing out a meow.
I
lower my body to
pour out Sunny's slimy chicken
platter and without hesitancy, she
chomps away at her food. My ex-
hausted fingers cover the can with
tin foil, placing it into the brisk cold
fridge.
I
begin to trudge my way
back upstairs, in hopes of uninter-
rupted slumber.
I
lose sight of the
journey back to my comforting
room, releasing the entanglement
of wire and stones which pulled
me down, floating up onto my bed,
and sliding under the warm ocean
of blankets. I tuck my toes into my
silk cocoon. My journey for my
precious little kitten has finished
and
I
wilt away fast asleep, from my
reality once more.
11





12
Tearing down walls
Breaking down barriers
You are who you are
Stop trying to change that
But glass can break
And I can bend
My heart might shatter
But my mind does fend
Tearing down walls
Breaking down barriers
Four Walls
Sereen El Jamal '24
You've built these walls around me
Made of fire and failure
I fell down twice
Picked myself up thrice
And grew through the fire
To find within the failure
The pride between the cracks
In the pavement of my anger
Don't you dare underestimate me
And confine me to four walls
I am a Muslim Woman.
I am an Arab Woman.
I am a Palestinian Woman.
I am an American Woman.
I am a Woman.
I am wise beyond my years.







Filled with fire from within
Built from a desire to burn down the walls
That you
'
ve built around me
You cannot confine me
I tore down your walls
And broke down your barriers
I
am who
I
am
Your confinement will never change that
I
am a Muslim Woman.
I am an Arab Woman.
I
am a Palestinian Woman.
I
am an American Woman.
lama Woman.
You made me me feel
As if I was my own enemy
But tearing down your walls?
That is my therapy.
lam.
13







14
December 29th
Alyssa Borelli '24
I wish it had snowed. I think
a few white snowflakes may have
brought a smile to my face even
as we said goodbye. Or maybe the
cold could've numbed the ache in
my heart. But sadly, on that De-
cember night there was only dry
pavement in that Chili's parking
lot, and the heat from your car
illuminated the pain inside my
chest.
I knew it was coming. I knew
it from the moment you stopped
saying "I love you" back to me.
In that parking lot, I asked you
if we were breaking up. You
nodded your head. I sobbed and
you said nothing. I wish I hadn't
apologized for crying. All I ever
did was apologize until it became
a song on the radio you'd grown
sick of.
It was our ten-month anni-
versary, and for the first time in
our relationship we finally spoke
to each other. Told each other
how we felt. We talked about my
mistakes, the distance I felt from
you. When it was over, neither of
us knew what to do. You drove
me home and let me choose th
music. I played "No Tears Left
Cry" by Ariana Grande. God,
I think I was funny. I explained
the irony of the song, but I'm
pretty sure you got it by starin
at the tears streaking across m
strained smile.
We finally arrived at my
house. I shut the car door and
stared at the duck statues on m
driveway. There were three of
them, a perfect family of duck
Did you know that I wanted to
build a family with you? Neve
once did I think I'd be jealous
statues.
I trudged down my sidew
but then I heard your voice ec
behind me.
"Thank you for the best t
months of my life," you called
out across the cold night. Your
voice broke then
.
And suddenl
I realized I wasn't alone in my
grief
.
You just had the gift of
holding in your emotions. No,
a gift. A curse. All I ever wan
was to see you, to know how
Y,
truly felt. I finally saw you at









----------------
moment.
And what did I reply with?
"I'm sorry.
"
I wish I bit through my
tongue instead of saying those
words again.
To think we talked for hours
that night, but even now, there
is so much more I wish I could
say to you. I want to ask you how
you're doing. I want to know if
we could still try to be in each
other's lives, because I lost not
only a love, but a friend. It's like
you passed away, and I've been
mourning you ever since.
I hate that I still think of you.
It's been eight months now, how
ridiculous is that? That I still hear
you in every song and still only
have you to write about. God, I
hate it.
I don't understand those who
think
young love isn't real. When
you long for someone's touch,
when you would give anything to
hear their laugh ... that's real no
matter how old you are. But now
that my first love is over, I don't
know what to do. Sometimes, I'm
afraid you'll be the only person
to ever love me. Sometimes I'm
terrified th t I'
.
'
.
a
rn
too msecure to
be
10
another relationship and that
you Were the only one who could
tolerate me.
How ... how idiotic of a
thought is that? To think that you
were just tolerating me when you
offered to drive me anywhere,
or to get me a blanket whenever
I was cold? Or when you spent
hours listening to me rant about
music, or when you counted
shooting stars with me? I know
you loved me.
You called me "love." You'd
say "hey love," "I miss you love."
And because I cope with humor
when you said "goodbye love" to
me after we broke up in that car,
I said, "You can't call me that
anymore," and then proceeded to
laugh. And I wish I hadn't done
that.
So many wishes. Wishing to
have never made those mistakes
with you, wishing I had contained
my emotions, wishing for snow.
But I can't allow myself to regret
anything anymore. In order to go
on I can't. And I would break up
with you a million more times and
reenact this lonely scene in my
head again and again, if it meant
I got to keep the memories you
gave me. Because I don't regret
you, and I hope you don't regret
me.
Goodbye love.
15





16
Committed
Kat Bilbija '24
Accepting finite growth; a venus graduation took flight
Nostalgic bruised lips and skin
A sore wish to revise and rewrite
Prolonged desire granted to another; original turned away
Silently tattooed with second place
Lost in a fever of disarray
Telephone wire completely cut; unwritten closure from the bedpost
A wall built in dull expressions
Completely shut off by your ghost
Truth silenced behind smiles; every weekend a new game
Burning red didn't erase vivid green
In the bright christmas themed flames
Finally understanding dizziness; invisible emotions start to gleam
Disconnected without attachment
Too good to be true now really a dream
Closer look at our charlatan tale; dumbstruck with what flew by
Used by surface level heart and care
Young convenience in shallow eyes
Burning myself a new lens; now guided by soaring esteem
Emotional embrace deepen pink roots
I am now my own space and stars between
Personal journeys on public pages; not for your pride but mine
Taking back control of my worth
With every rhyme, with every starry line














>
Quiet Tho~ghts
Michaela Ellison-Davidson '23
sit
outside my bedroom door and I
am
filled with an unnamable happiness,
::;ething that makes me think I won't ever need anything else.
A d we aren't
speaking,
but it isn't a misconstrued
silence,
it's a natural
silence-
li:e
small children
who play without words.
I
think
of
you
now
.
You've cut your hair
.
And
for
a
moment I'm
suspended
between reaching for
you
and
staying
very
still.
Don't
ruin the quiet, I think, just sit here and listen to the nothingness of love.
And
when I miss you
it
isn't because you are far away,
it's
because I'm reminded of you
in
small
obscure things:
a
pre-raphaelite painting, a striped sweater, the chipped paint of a car.
If
I ever lost
you
I would never be able to look at the color blue again
because your hair was once that color.
And I
am at
a loss for words-
These
sentimental
things just too
sacred
to be explained.
It's why we cannot share them.
t~d
on
_
ce
shared
they are meaningless: a poem, a sketchbook, a
story.
t
is as if I
am
exposing the raw wounds of myself.
But
these things- they are supposed to be indescribable.
And
yet I don't find myself loving you
any
less.
And
yet I don
'
t mind if you know.
~:haps there
'
s
a metaphor in all of this, but it is pointless.
no good
at speeches
so I'll just
sit
here in the quiet.
17




18
John Burrough's Cabin
Sophia DelVecchio '25





A Sonnet by Someone Who Tries
Alyssa Borelli- '24
Consider this permission to let go.
To calm your mind and surrender the fight.
You ignore your hurt but deep down you know
you deserve better than crying at night.
Wanting to be wanted is n9t a sin.
Love may be impossible to find now,
but soon a new someone may walk right in.
If
not look in the mirror and see how
beautifully broken and strong you are.
Love yourself before that love is returned.
Admire your flaws and kiss every scar.
To be wanted, you must learn to be earned.
This is permission to release judgment.
One day you will understand what I meant.
19











20
Mere Glimpses
Karina Brea '23
Payless Dance Shoes
1/24/21
If there was ever downtime while my
siblings and I were picking out shoes, I
headed straight to the dance section at the
beginning of the first aisle, the children's
aisle. The boxes were all pink, and there
were pink, white, and black ballet slippers.
I loved them, and would always try them
on. I remember asking Santa for a pair
when I was about 5, and I LOVED them.
I also had to get a pair for the Wizard of
Oz in the fourth grade, and I would wear
them on the way home from rehearsal and
around the house. When I was about 9, I
found a pair of tap shoes in my size and
finally tried them on after years of curiosi-
ty. I tied the black ribbon around my white
socks, and stood up. My tank top, shorts,
and tap shoes. Mom was checking out
,
so I quickly walked off of the carpet onto
the hard floor. The first click they made,
I looked up and smiled
.
I stood there
,
softly clicking my toes and heels to hear
the noises. I had them on for less than a
minute, but I'll never forget beaming the
entire time.
Accidental Eye Contact
10/23/21
I think sometimes accidental eye contact is
quite nice
,
especially when
it's with a friend. When you're sitting on a
train, cafe, classroom, everyone's adapting
to the ambiance. When you make eye
contact and maintain it, your brain waves
begin to sync. When our minds wander and
find another set of eyes, often the othe
minds are wandering as well. I hate
almost embarrassing to make eye con
as people always shy away from it
after
it's natural and calm, we still get fluste
and look away. I feel like it's a
moment
you share with anyone, stranger or
frie
Eye contact, smiles, body language is
universal, no matter what language yo
speak
.
Even age. They're delicate,
h
connections. They
'
re all understood.
think it's beautiful!
Camp on a Friday
11/12/21
I finished my headcount." ... 21, 22, 2
Okay girls, let's go!"
Their little waddles come to life and
wet feet make their crocs and flip flop
squish and squeak
.
The pool gate rattl
behind me as it closes, the next group
already jumping, splashing, disrupting
water. Any given day of the week, the
was chaos. Too loud, too crowded, too
sunny. But as we made our way out of
pool, a cool, fresh Friday afternoon
us with a generous shade. Through
the
playground, other groups who had bra
the pool basked in the joy of the swin
the shelter of the playhouse, the rush
o
slide. Counselors combing back little
into beautiful braids adorned with
rain
ties, clips, sparkly butterflies. The so
of laughter, shrieks, sequels, present
distant. Mellowed out from another
W
of being a camp counselor.





Fog on the Bridge
Claudia Molina
'
23
21











22
Blue and Red
Charlotte D
.
Del Vecchio '25
Second Place, Nonfiction
From the time I was young,
I heard the story of how my parents
met. I have watched love stories and
read books; they all say the same
two things: fall in love with your
best friend and love will happen
when you stop looking for it. My
parents worked together. They grew
closer over coffee breaks and office
gossip. Long-day dreams of what
their futures held, and loose laugh-
ter hungered them for more time
together. I have looked for that type
of love in everyone I meet. Innocent
laughs and late-night chats, you lay
in your bed as I lay in mine and say
whatever I can to get you to keep
talking to me because I love the
sound of your laughter even if it is
only in my mind. Delirium found in
dependence. First call from home,
just so I could see your face. Laying
your head on my shoulder as the
train brought us closer. You were
warm against my neck as I rested
my head on yours. Moving in the
same direction, the momentum fed
the dream I had always held in my
heart. Moving fast, I tried to resist
the overwhelming urge to give in to
you. Tempting fate by tying knots in
my mind as I held you through
night. Heavy honeymoon reme
bered as I heave. Trying to tea
myself how to breathe.
An afternoon embrace
a new smell arising. A new sc
unfamiliar to the one I had bee
accustomed to. Faded from the
clothing I was gifted along wi
memories of stealing kisses in
elevator as I felt your smile be
them. A new fragrance remini
of fragility and a small face.
odor which flooded my mind
the ominous observation that I
never smelled this before on y
You are smothered in it. It stic
to your skin as I lay next to yo
forced to keep breathing in
and
the alien aroma. Every nerve
·
body on its hind legs, at attenti
ready for battle as my stomach
bubbles up through my esoph
My heart erupts and my eyes I
with its lava. I question every
versation, each encounter.
Curi
who to blame for my convulsi
where I might have compro
·
my competence. No time for
it
true, but the comfort is gone
same. Discussion ran dry as
Ill






















II"
d and flooded after every in-
welle
s
.
Sometimes they refused to
t
racuon.
e
.
ti"l I had left your presence,
wait
un
heeks and a broken heart.
burnt
c
'flte
only person I wa~ted to pour
rny
heart out to,_ pushmg and prod-
di
the knife himself. Why are you
ng
·
I
. d
· g? The only time recogmze
crym
•
.
the
voice
I used to f~el safe bem~
wrapped in. Frustratrnn fidgeted m
every
nerve; your frown wavered as
1
told
you You're nicer now.
Sitting in the middle of the
road
waiting for the light to turn
green,
I thought you sat in the pas-
senger seat.
I thought we agreed on
the
music to play and the windows
being down as we cruised through
our
lives.
I looked away from you
for a
moment and you were gone.
Staring
back at the red, something
catches the corner of my eye. Head
on
collision
seen
from moments
away.
No time to scream or struggle.
No words to change your mind or
~Ive
your problems. Just enough
time
to see what is about to happen
and
accept it with a clenched jaw
and
stiff neck. I looked in your eyes
as I
let the crash take me. Flying
through the air with a pit in my
::aa~
and a rock in my gut. Rever-
loo~:ns
still
shake my core. You
away
.
Now what is left of
rnerem ·
.
sid
ams
10
a crushed car on the
e of the
d
.
.
roa
,
watchmg you dnve
away, seemingly untouched. Shat-
tered glass lies around me reflecting
scenes
I
will never be able to return
to, poking my exposed skin. Sirens
sing in my ears, but I do not want
to listen.
I ignore their call and try
to crawl closer to you still. I wait
for you to come back for me, to
finish the job or fix the fractures. An
unanswered message lies in your
lap, letting you know
I do not blame
you. I could have run the light and
met you halfway, but my foot sat
firmly on the brake. Frozen in the
frantic thoughts that fought their
way to the front of my brain.
I'm
sorry escaped your tight lips as you
ran me off the road. Trapped in the
box, trying to forget how you fell
asleep on my lap as you waited for
me to finish my work, the things I
told you that I can never take back,
the fact that
I would've given up
anything to spend a few more happy
moments with you. Your face blinks
in the blue and red. Two shades
of the same face, one real and one
fake.
23










24
The Gods, the Ghosts, the Living
Juliann Bianco '25
When the earth cracked open,
the first to claw their way out of the stars underneath were the old gods, the forgotten
The youngest had never even seen light before.
She cried when the sun came up for the first time, and let her outstretched h
become petrified in the warmth
.
She didn't mind being a statue if it meant the sun would never leave her
.
The eldest didn't even wait long enough
to let the light brush the blood of the void off his coat
before he pried open the sea and slipped into the sand
to let it choke out his eyes and ears
,
never again letting in something that could be lost.
The ghosts came next,
each one clutching a photograph of who they were,
running around the earth crying out,
Has anyone seen the love of my life?
Has anyone seen my home?
Has anyone seen me?
It was a pity they couldn't read what was written on the tombstones.
They were good people, after all.
The last to free themselves was humanity.
They had to climb slowly,
each crack in the darkness a foothold, a memory of the playground next to
best friend's house.
A leaf fell into the pit from the surface
,
and brushed against a young girl's head.
The rough edges caught in her braid, and in her surprise
,
she began to lau
and soon the world joined her
.
It had been such a surprise, and such a long time since they'd felt life
besid
skeletons they climbed with
.
Her brother was older, wiser, and he knew where leaves must fall from.
Come on, everyone!
He knew the trees were waiting for them
.










p
When h
ur
nanity r
eache
d the earth,
i
t hardl
y r
ecognize
d t
~
e
m
,
.
th
e
ir fa
ce
s streake
d w
1~h mud and t?e, tears from laughing
an
d th
e on
e leaf s
tuck
~n
a
young girl s braid.
h
e g
r
eet
ed the s
tatu
e m the sun, and put her leaf
,
her life, their hope
i
n
th
e ston
e hand
poi
nt
i
ng toward the heavens.
o
m
ewher
e far be
low
the ocean
,
a a
d
o
l
d m
an pus
hed
the sand out of his eyes
a
n
d
cracke
d a sm
ile
.
Self Portrait
Kaitlyn Dugan '25
First Place, Art
25










26
Hi!
My name is _ _ _
_
Or is it
?
No, no, it's_. / think?
spring break
Kaylee Miller '22
I'm sorry. Sometimes I get a little ...
Well, here. Just follow along with me :
Today, I will wake up,
and I will be miserable, because I hate mornings.
If
I have to work, I will plaster on my unflattering uniform
and the smile with the huge dimples that I wish I could erase.
I am predictable. I am reliable.
I am a doormat.
If
I don't have to punch in for once,
I will most likely not change out of the clothes I slept in.
I don't even know if I'll comb my hair.
I try to set intentions that I probably won't achieve.
And if I do, it's never as satisfying as I hope they will be.
There is multimedia I could stream.
There are numerous novels to be delved into.
Or I could "treat myself' and spend my money.
Usually it is all of the above, a conglomeration of eventual disconten
or it is none of that at all.
Also, I will quantitatively measure the success of my day
in
this
way:
Wow, your mind is active at the "early" hour of 9:07 am!
This is sort of nice.
Now you have so many hours
to do whatever it is you wish.
So let's savor that a little bit



























1 here just a little longer.
and
ay
Your eyes and oh,
Close
k . .
10·22
t time you chec It IS now
. ,
thenex
h.
h
is basically
11
am,
w
JC
1
h .
.
h
is practically noon, unc time,
w~~y
that point your family will be home soon
:d
you know you can't appreciate yourself with others around,
so, oh, I'm sorry.
The
day is actually over now!
We
have no choice
but
to sit here and allow it to happen -
the
absorption of the passing of time,
each
second like a blow to the lower back,
a
choking ache hibernating in your chest.
Or
wait!
Let
me try that again, where
I
am better.
Where
I
am at school:
There
are the pros of independence and a sense of routine -
we
are supposed to be the best version of ourselves in just 4 short years!
It's
liberating and terrifying and nauseating.
We
see friends,
and
we are a glittering mask of self-deprecation and modern woes.
In
a cool way, of course.
But
then I say goodbye
and
lock myself away for most hours of the day,
and
~e are the worst sort of amusement park ride.
~re
18
no telling if the minutes will be saturated in overzealous joy or crippling blehness.
e could be harmonizing to the most amazing new song at a dangerous volume
or
exploring a new literary expedition
and
.
'
be
w~
could Just as likely
It'
nu~smg a headache and forcing back the curdled dread of tomorrow's expectations.
M
8
euher or. Usually both.
o':
st
of the time, there is not even enough fuel in the tank to control the outcome.
enough attention devoted when necessary.
27





28
Each second is a time bomb,
a life sentence,
a distraction,
a setback,
a
burden.
Wow, my priorities are out of whack.
I'm so sorry!
This isn't me.
I am_ and I am happy.
I am sweet and unbothered and motivated and thoughtful.
Did I pack the wrong suitcase?




















Mugs
_
Shannon Connolly '24
TodaY,
the masks come off
So J'rn gonna smile at everyone
I'm
gonna
smile at
the quiet girl in the back of the class who's always too scared
to
raise her hand
,
I'm
gonna
smile
at the boy who only smiles at himself
And
the girl who makes snarky comments behind others backs because she's too
much
a
coward
to
say
it to their faces
I'm
gonna
smile
at the professor who's failing me and the professor who thinks
I've
got it
all
Because
the masks are off
And
I
can finally smile again
Now
they can when I laugh at their jokes
Now
they can see when
I
don't
Now
that guy from class can see me blush when he says my name accompanied
with a
"
hello"
Now
they can
see
when
I
stick out my tongue to express distaste
:ow
they can
see
when
I
frown because I'm hurt or sad or coping
ow
that
I
can
see
your face
I
can see that the smile there that was once hidden
and
seemed
so
fake to me is real, or not real
But
why d
.
oes 1t all feel so weird?
I
don't c
lllak
are- because they're off, and I want to see on the world's faces how it
es them feel
29









30
Ode to Purple
Lauren Anderson '24
First Place, Poetry
My favorite color is amethyst. My favorite color is violet. My favorite
or is the faraway galaxy. I get lost in you, sometimes I forget where I
Others say you are graceful and elegant, but I see lavender swirled b
on cut knees and naivety you don't consider relevant. Trinkets and gi
wrappings tickle my arm like a bed of clouds encased in a lilac sky.
p
of family bestowed upon me. Butterfly nets and snug baby blankets -
keep me safe; they give me warmth. They're laced with stolen mome
and lost memories I may never get back. I have a lot of regrets about
And I could follow my fears all the way down to where you sit in wai
- patient and understanding. You know I don't quite get it, but that's
I will one day when reality is put on display. You're there in the form
carnations tucked into chest pockets of black blazers. You're there to
my tears as I sit on lonely church benches. You
'
re there in the sound
hummingbirds perched outside the windowsill, singing Tom Jones's '
lilah." I didn't truly know what you meant until I was staring down at
piled dirt, sleek white headstones, and up at your purple lilac sky ag ·
I'm angry that you sit there so proudly on a day like today. I'm angry
you look so beautiful and so far away, closer to my family than I'll ev
You are the epitome of childhood innocence that was stolen from
me
I'm angry at you
,
purple. I've grown up and I'm angry because you
me what it's like to be me, to face the harshness of reality. For better
worse, purple, I'm angry. I'm angry ... but grateful.





Ledge Light
Amanda Nessel
'25
31






32
Heat Stroke
Anonymous
The vibrations of her voice cover the room.
Whispers not so quiet, not so secret,
But were they even meant to be?
A heaviness carried itself through my chest,
Coated in a butterfly softness,
A pedestal I created for her light.
I continue to hold it up even in the air
that seems to be taking away my breath.
The whispers linger in my lungs
Through each new room
,
each new day.
Her rays weaken the hardiness in my legs -
whether her roots willed it or not I can't be sure -
But in defense of our bond and her golden core
I fight through the burns
,
and refuse to lower the sun.
Hopefully she remembers I'm right below,
And talks to me the way we used to.






















The Compromis
.
e of a Loss
Emma Shaw '22
Third Place, Poetry
1
am
at the funeral of a man
I
never liked
but
always loved:
.
Nostalgia is a pamkiller.
It
hides the hurt in shadows of
computer games and
St.
Patrick's Day Parades.
Sentiment
is the advanced narcotic
in the
laughter that filled the back deck
before
you had one more drink than you should,
and
you'd make one joke too far
just to
piss off my parents.
I
don't
hear what my mom says
to my
dad in the front seat,
but
I
do
still
see your silhouette
waving
to us as we pull away.
Memories
are a boxed red wine
that
you refuse to share,
that
decorates the arguments
with
ribbons and spaniels.
They
look pretty in this light,
reflecting
off the candy bowls and back up
onto
the cold cheeks of my cousins.
~e
screaming matches sound more like duets
in
my head.
ow,
1
stare at the box that holds
lhlne
remnants of your personhood.
tere
r
s mg how
such
a small frame
can
hold·
Is
.
10
the force of your nature.
,1.~t
Wrong of me to say
"lc:ll
I lik:
e you more now that you're gone?
33



34
Someone I Once Knew
Julianna Buchmann '23
The shell of someone I once knew.
Hints here and there.
A spark every once and a while.
A smile I first saw at twelve.
A smile that's just changed now.
It's almost like a death.
But they just sit right there, staring back at you like they used to.
The feeling that look used to give you, it's all gone now.
Maybe moved on to someone else.
Maybe not.
It's hard to see someone you once knew.
Because all you want to do is run into their arms, but a stranger would be holding
y,
And you can't make a person who they used to be.
You can only just try and remember them as they were.
Although we grew together, it didn't remain.
I wasn't there for you.
And you weren't there for me.
There was no abrupt end, it just faded.
And I've changed too, you know.
Maybe you feel the same about me.
Maybe you don't.
I' 11 never know.
The person you used to love.
That person is just a glimmer now.




White Roses III
Ashleigh Barham '22
35



36
Exhibition
Lorah Murphy '24
And I'm thinking of all my loves
The loved
Held in the marble halls of my heart
Tearing at canvases and smashing
Glass blown with the air from my lungs
How they looked at the art made in their honor
and Turned, lit the match
Or worse perhaps still
Never even saw sunlight
Illuminate vulnerable vigils.
Arching into careful agony of memory
Tears swarm to dilute my saliva
Penitent prayers that the newest patron
Wants to see the left wing
Taste like holy ash and watered whiskey-
Embalm me with hope when I die.








Body Language
Kaylin Moss '22
When you were nothing but words on a screen,
your words frightened me.
Your words told me that you d
~
d not want to meet until,
you lost more weight.
My
words should have opposed yours, but our love started with the fear
of you.
It
began with me inflating my ego with the oxygen of people who
looked like you. Days later you are removing your shirt and I am terrified
of
what exists underneath. Weeks and you are flinching each time I touch
your stomach. Months and we are shopping to accommodate your extra
large, extra wide, extra long everything but why are you extra? People
who do not look like you are the baseline in a broken system. Today I am
kissing your stomach. I still look for you in the upper right margin of the
dictionary. Maybe now I will find you.
Fatphobia:
the fear of you.
37











38
•
mine.
my body is my own.
to prod, to pinch, to starve,
for my body is my own.
my body is my own,
to gaze longingly in a mirror
Emme Armstrong '25
Second Place, Poetry
and hope for a miracle transformation.
my body is my own,
yet when you grab and push and bruise,
i let you.
my body was my own,
but you took it and used it and
spit
it out.
it is no longer my own.
people tell me to reclaim my body,
liberate it from the chains i place on it,
but it is yours.
my throat belongs to
your
dry cracked hands,
my wrists as well.
my back is yours to slam harshly into
hard cement walls- you will no longer
care if i cannot sleep on my back anymore
.
my head is yours to throw through car windows,
and into tile floor.
to fill with words of hatred
,
but you claim to love me-
i am yours.




Gilded Age
Megan Byrnes '24
39














40
Life Skills
Michaela Ellison-Davidson '23
I was late learning how to drive
.
The summer of my sophomore year
of college I took a driver's education
course
.
I had little interest in it, even
though I felt as if I was missing some
sort of neces
s
ary requirement in life.
I was late to a lot of things. The idea
of lingering on something- whether
it be driving, or choosing a college
major, or liking someone- it was far
more interesting. I don't know why.
The whole thing might as well have
been an excuse- a subconscious effort
to procrastinate in order to feel vali-
dated.
My first driving instructor was chaot-
ic, her hands trembling as she lit her
cigarette- Parliament Lights, recessed
filter, her sixth or seventh of the day.
I didn
'
t like how she had all the
windows rolled down, how the wind
made my ears pop, how when I went
home my face was flushed pink like
I'd just done strenuous exercise. I kept
thinking, can she tell? Can
s
he tell
how little I'm enjoying this? Can she
tell I'd rather be anywhere else?
My second driving instructor
a welcome change. His name
Cornelius, but everyone called
Corn. He couldn't have been
ol
than sixty, and he had an addic
cherry Halls
.
When we met outside on my
I liked him right away. I wond
how he did it- how he accepted
risk of his life to teach kids ho
drive. I wouldn't have had the
age.
He turned on the navigation. '
is
Jill,"
he said, running a
hand
the screen, cleaning it.
"If
she'
today I might just have to take
for a drink later.
"
It was gloomy outside, storm
c
lingering. We'd made it past
bile mart when it started to r
"Pull in here," he said,
"No
po'
driving in this
.
It's coming
do
sheets now
.
I need to fill the t
anyway
.
"
He filled the tank
.
I parked.
came down quickly, like
bullets
glass. Cornelius had an arm
re





















. d w his cheek pressed against
the
win o
,
.
~
rming from his breath.
I
·1,
fog io
1
·dn't
knOW
what to say. We were
di
rs If
I
tried to make conversa-
slfllllge .
.
.
non
I'd
simply fail at it.
1
wasn't
particularly fond of pleasant-
ries
anyway.
"When I was your age," he said,
drawing
me from my reverie,
"I
got
stuck
in a snowbank."
I
nodded,
not
saying
anything. The
rain
rolled down the windshield in
smooth
lines.
"There
was a blizzard outside," he
said.
"I was driving home from col-
lege
for Thanksgiving break
.
I
was
lost. I
figured that was how I'd die-
someone finding my frozen corpse
days
later when the roads thawed."
"
Jesus fuck."
He
gave me an amused expression. "I
tri
ed
everything- even prayed for the
first
time ·
1-
~
doe
m my 11e. Everyone always
s that, you know- believe in God
When
th
ey want something. They'll
: ;omething like: oh jesus, just let
You
ive and I'll tell everyone about
-...· Then they live and don't tell any-
-~ at
all A
..
....
·
nyway- no one " he said
"Yer
tau h
'
'
g t me what to do when you
find yourself scared, alone, and stuck
in the middle of nowhere."
"Yeah,
well no one ever teaches you
how to file taxes either."
He looked over at me, a smile on
his face. The rain was coming down
harder, people running out of the
mobile mart with newspapers over
their heads
.
"You lived
.
"
I said. "That's good."
"I ended up walking along the road,
my hands so numb
I
thought I'd have
to cut them off." He leaned back in
his seat, fumbling with the air con.
"A
plow drove by and picked me up. I'd
been walking for four hours."
"Why are you telling me this?"
He frowned, as if I'd off ended him.
"I
can't drive in the snow. That's why I
only teach driving lessons during the
summer."
"What do you do when you have to go
somewhere in the winter?"
"I call a taxi."
I placed both hands on the wheel,
resting my chin on them. "I'm afraid
of bridges
.
When I drive over them I
41












42
recite Hail Mary's."
"When I fill the tank with gas it has to
end on an even number."
"I emotionally cannot handle driving
over 65 miles an hour."
He shook his head. "Driving- well-
it's more instinctive then you'd expect
it to be. Your body knows what to do.
Its main goal will always be to protect
you."
We were quiet for a long time, the
storm not breaking. I thought about
Cornelius in the snow bank, his foot
on the gas, his hands white knuckling
the wheel. To think about something
like that, it scared the hell out of me.
It had been a week before prom, my
senior year, when I was reminded that
someone's kid was dead- drunk driver
on the interstate, the girl in my class
dying on impact, only her dad surviv-
ing
.
He'd been a good driver, said his
wife- God, he was probably a great
driver. It wasn't his fault his daughter
died. He'd done everything right.
There I was at twenty with no driv-
er's license, hating the fact that I was
privileged enough to get one, when
that girl who died would never have
the chance.
When the rain stopped, we got
highway. I was suddenly very
I couldn't wait to get home. I
·
want to be reminded of someo
barely knew. I didn't want to
ti
sorry for myself.
"Let me ask you this-" he was
over, looking for something
un
seat.
"If
you could have any
job
would it be?"
I thought for a moment. I didn'
the question. "I don't know," I
"That's the problem. I'm stud ·
what I want, but what I want
to
with it- who knows?"
"You aren't supposed to know.
have time. It took me time."
I considered telling him the
tru
If
I could have any job in the
w
anything, I would be a writer.
else. I'd known this since the
grade. But like driving, I put
it
It frightened me.
If
I died tom
I would not have accomplished
dream. The time he said I had-
have it? And if I let it slip by-
waste.
"It's almost better," he said, "to
an open mind
.
In this world yo
no idea where you'll end up.
about it. You might take a
feW
























and want to be an instructor."
with
me
....i
thank you."
-
1
,0
.
laughed. He was unwrappmg a
J{e
d
"A
'11
rry
cough rop.
nyway, you
cbefine
.
What stupid advice
,
but real-
be
fi
"
ly·
you'll be ne.
1 wondered if his words were worth
t,elieving.
"
Driving a car
,
" he said,
"It
feels like
a big
deal to you right now, because
you've
never done it before. In ten
years,
it will become second nature.
You'll
forget about me and your driv-
er's
test and the worry you have right
now
.
It
'
s a life skill, but so i
s
every-
thing
else
.
Ju
s
t depends on who you
are
.
That's all."
"
Does it ever get easier?" I wasn't
sure
if I wa
s
asking him about driv-
ing
,
or
something else. I don
'
t think
be
minded
.
"
Yeah,"
he
s
aid.
"
Yeah. It does
.
"
When
the hour was over I parked in
fro~t
of my house, the rain starting
again
.
Cornelius wrote a few pointers
0
na
sh
eet of paper (I was terrible
at
lurni
.
like
ng.
Taking them- as he said-
ntot
·
a
~ascar driver)
.
I thanked him,
1oning
t
sto
o open the door when he
PI>ed
'
me. He was holding his wal-
let
,
digging around for something.
"Take a look at this." He handed over
a small slip of paper. It wa
s
a fortune.
One of those from a cookie at a Chi-
nese re
s
taurant. "Go on. Read it."
"You'll travel great distances in your
old age
.
" I laughed, handing back the
paper. "Alright. So have you?"
He smiled, nodding at the dash. "Doz-
ens of miles a day."
43











44
Beauty
Katie Sailer '23
Beauty,
n.
That quality of a person or thing which is highly pleasing or s ·
to the mind; moral or intellectual excellence
.
A recognition that swells my chest and wakes me up / My eyes linger,
warm
washes me/ and everything comes into stark clarity/ I'm given purpose.
Plants that move with the sun / or new white shoes / Orchestral strings /
crescendo in Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma
I
Dancers' synchronicity
I
and co
tency in ideal routines / Uniformity / and seedless watermelon / Dying em
Movies that gift goosebumps / or glances that carry conversations / Comp
crosswords
I
Confidence
I
and overgrown garden greenhouses
I
Woods
that
kle with ice after a snowfall / The uproar of victory that follows final sco
seconds
I
or natural light that fills vaulted ceilings / Cutting open poached
/ Rain that mirrors the world on black asphalt/ and the way that eye's
light
when there's passion.



















"This is my poem"
Ohno!
our
table
rr•sBROKEN
and
so
the/able
was
spoken
A
tableau
ofa
boy
AFRAID
Surrounded
by
Bricks
remnants
of
a
recent past
for
nothing
is
SOLID
And
All Will
One
day
F
A
L
L
Anonymous
45





46
Kat Caravaggio
Second Place,






Does Anybody Know? (Or Care?)
Gabriella Amleto '24
Smoke and illusions
Laugh.
Applaud.
Do not look behind the curtain.
At the diets,
the dehydration,
the choking fabric,
the surgeries
An industry
where even the best
aren't good enough
Rotting flesh
caked in artificial perfection
Smoke and mirrors,
silent cries,
deep depression, they'll bank off it
They bank off anything
Greedy locusts,
devouring green, gorging on it
They suck up youth,
drain beauty,
claiming everything as theirs,
spin everything into green paper
They don't even let
their Dead
indulge in a final rest
Lights,
Camera,
Action!!!
47

















48
Sensation and Perception
Karina Brea
'23
First Place, Fiction
January 23rd, Milagros Hospital.
Pediatric Wing, Room 203. 4:54 pm.
We waited for my
second session
with
Judy
accompanied
by the early
winter
sunset,
the only
source
of light I en-
joyed. I hated hospital lighting.
Bright,
white,
fake.
Mom looked over at my newest read,
The Giver.
"Maybe
it's those books they have
you
reading,"
she
chuckled.
"I
don't know."
"Yes!
Yes
,
I had to read that one when
I
was about your
age! Makes you
all philosophical, thinking about the
world."
She raised her brow in
wonder.
"I
guess. I'm only a couple'a chapters
in."
My
sleep
deprived stare dulled her
with pity,
cramped
in
a
hospital chair
like a crumpled piece of paper. I
stared
back from across the room, under my
white
sheets
attempting a half-smile
.
My cheeks flushed with guilt.
I didn't want to bother her
again
with
the forest. It hurts her.
And I'd rather her think of me as
philosophical than her poor, delusional
daughter. Formerly an innocent dream-
er, now at her wits end.
I
stared
at the clock to tame my tears.
The ticking was calm, but the air was
awkward.
It forced Mom to
say
it
again.
"Marley,
baby. It's just a dre
January 23rd, Milagros H
Pediatric Wing, Room 203.
6
"It's
normal for kids to dream
loved ones who have passed
on
result of unresolved grief."
Mom's fingers ran through
her
"And
due to its reoccurrence,
i
likely a
sign
of psychological
and,"
I felt Judy's eyes on me throu
hall window.
"the
threat of death. Subcon
it's on her mind
."
Mom joined Judy's
stare,
ob
me from outside. I continued
my eavesdropping nonchalant,
ing ahead as my headphones
nothing through my ears.
Mom's voice was quiet.
"It's every night, Judy. I don't
her to
slip
into
actually
thi ·
all real. Nonna died almost a
and I'm just," She dropped
her
defeat.
"I'm
just trying to keep her
h
"I
know, Mrs. Wines."
No
you
don't, Judy.
Watching her
cope
with my o
dream-like thoughts always
h
I can't blame her
.
There's con
having a teen daughter still
go·







































•c forests and Alice-like
..1onUtlJlag1
.
.,.,
-
ds
·
fantasies that tend to die
--Aerlan ·
.
.
....-
ushes its way to our imagi-
reality p
·
on.
-:'
dual. Inevitable.
~
died on February 24th
,
2020.
:O
ooors
down, three doors over to
111e
teft.
fll
never
forget when I f?und out Santa
wasn
't
real. Nonna sat with me on the
c,ouch
after Mom had gone to bed, and
we
watched all three
Santa Clause
movi
es. I
cried mixed tears of joy and
lldne
ss
as she pointed out the magic
~
ning behind the screen.
-SO
long as you don't let the magic
die
w
ithin
you Marley, it
'
s very much
6ere
!
"
lgues
s
it never did.
And
that limitle
ss
part of my mind
ams
to have kept Nonna alive too.
lat
lknow
it'
s
too vivid to be my
imagi
nation
.
My physical body has
Ileen
eaten ali
v
e for 2 years now. But
~
s
oul
is healed every visit. Some-
fling
Within me is revived every night.
laaary
23rd, The Forest. Location
:-'
time, un~nown.
had
reached 1t a
s
I usually do in that
aan
,
deep
elous place in between sleep and
.
dream
s
. According to Judy it's
lbnp
l
I ·
.
'
Y
ucid dreammg
.
A
s
tate of mind
rtach
·
·
fra
in
pa
ss
mg to or from dreams
.
lliece
gment
s
of memory our brains
~
1
10
~etber to make
s
en
s
e of the
.\Qd
exuy
of our minds
.
•
You
kno
h
llaane
ww
at
?
Maybelam
·
Maybe the forest is
s
lowly con-
suming and devouring my perception
of reality. They'll
s
end me to the psych
ward, my sanity slowly chipping away
every time I close my eye
s
. But the
forest i
s
n't a dream
.
It can
'
t be
.
It glistened in twinkling light
s
struc-
tured not by string, but of what looked
like pixie dust, quietly wading around
the tops of every tree and whirling
close to the ground
.
The bubbling of
the brook and mild whistle
s
of the
bird
s
were the perfect accompaniment
for my beautiful Nonna
,
waiting for me
on her
s
ide of the stream
.
We matched eyes and
s
at on the
ground
,
the t
a
ll grass
s
oft and pillowy.
Once again
, s
eparated by the steady
s
tream tugging at the wildflowers on
it
s
edge
,
gently eroding the ground that
protects their root
s
.
"
Still giving you a hard time
,
huh
?
"
"
It'
s
gotten worse
,
Nonna. Judy thinks
I may need a P
s
ych evaluation .
.
. and I
think .. "
"What i
s
it, Mar
?
"
"I think they think I'm crazy.
"
Nonna looked at me
,
chin up with
patient eyes. I twilered the grass with
my fingers.
"Judy thinks this is just a recurring
dream. But I know it's more than that,
it
's
like .
.
. I know I'm here with you.
There'
s
no way it can
'
t be real.
"
Nonna
s
ilently smiled
.
Impatience rai
s
ed my brow .
"What do you think I
s
hould do, or tell
them? I mean
,
It's real
,
right
?"
"
Marley
,
is this fore
s
t real?" Nonna
49











50
teased.
I sighed as she chuckled. The stream
continued to bubble, and the wildflow-
ers persevered in their mild struggle
against the current. I cracked a smile
and giggled with her
.
My neck craned
at the gold glow of sunshine, radiating
from every corner of the sky. My face
was warm. A gentle wind rustled my
worn hospital gown. I breathed in deep
and filled my lungs with the crisp,
playful breeze.
I felt refreshed and clean. Reborn.
"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?"
"Of course,"
"And the trees and magic, it's real. It's
right in front of me."
"Yes."
"And, this isn't a dream." I said mat-
ter-of-factly.
A beat.
"Marley, that's up to you."
I squinted at her before crushing a
wildflower under me, drowning it be-
low the stream.
"Nonna, this isn't fantasy. Look, my
socks. They're wet. I feel them. The
water has made them wet."
"Right."
I ripped at the grass around me all
childlike, rubbing it on my gown to
stain.
"And this is grass, it's real too. It just
wouldn't feel this way in a dream."
"Incredible isn't it?"
I looked up frantically, trying to read
her.
She gets it. Doesn't she?
"Marley, what's wrong dear?"
"Wrong? Nothing. Nothing is
in fact- this is so wonderful.
I
at you and it's everything.
Just
remember you but. .. "
I hung my head, defeated.
"What is it?"
"It can't be." I croaked.
"And why is that?" she probed.
I threw the fistfuls of grass
into
the stream. They merrily
floa
my head grew heavier and
my
blurred.
"Nonna, why won't you just
te
She looked at me, chin up
with
"Why can't you stay with me,
ley?"
My face lifted, lighted-headed
hope.
This is it. This is the time.
I stood up and once again, att
jump over the stream.
January 24th, Milagros H
Pediatric Wing, Room 203.
I shot awake.
Fuck.
My hyperventilating interrup
still noise of my hospital room.
jumped in the chair beside
me
scrambling to put on her glas
slumped back, half under
my
failure.
"Marley, are you alright?"
"Yes," I muttered.
I hid in my hands. The tears
calmly at first. I was so close.
"Was it another dream?"
This was it. 14 and in the psy













































l Y stuck in a world absent
a.nr
Mar
e ,
·b·1
·
~
tment wonder, possi i ity
-1
chan
'
.
;;:
nd
harsh reality
.
My feelmgs were
i-nn
ssible
.
.
=
-
it
'
s alright. We're gonna sort this
-
pe'f
,
;:;:
clicked her pen with a triumphant
sigh
.
?"
"Call
you tell me your name.
-Mar
ley
Wine
s
, it's Marley Wines
.?
'
. h
?"
"'Wh
ere
are you ng t now
.
"'Mi}
agros
Hospital."
I
whispered
lleathl
essly, a
s
I suddenly felt it.
ID
the
room.
She
wouldn't believe my evidence
.
W
as
it evident
?
"Can
you walk me through your
CRIIIl
?"
I
know magic isn't real,"
I
pleaded
despe
rately.
"
But
I feel it."
I
kne
w what
I felt.
Hype
rventilat
i
ng
,
I ripped off the
covers
to try and breathe, move, relax.
l>Ram
s
and fantasies are fake, but
I
eoul
dn't
deny what was happening.
1be
air of the ceiling fan struck me.
Co
ld
and uncomfortable as
I
sat
criss
-crossed, grabbing my feet. Judy
CIOssedNot
her leg
s
as
I
began to sob.
a
dream
.
"Di
d
leyr•
you
see your Nonna again, Mar-
:
head
bobbed up and down as
I
lears
~led to regulate my breath
.
Hot
leet.
l'~pt me alert as
I
held onto my
Cattn
ight, staring down at them.
"\J{i
ernow
.
ere
You o h
•
n er side of the river?"
I looked at Judy. My face was long,
eyebrows curved with concern as
I
prepared to hand over my white flag.
My answer was there with me
.
In room
203.
"My socks."
"Sorry?"
"My socks are wet."
51



52














Hourglass
Miranda Santiago '23
down I go
'kle
of
sand
slipping down the side of sleek glass
spec
.
prisoner, there 1s no escape
.
g a constant reminder that time is running out
there is nothing I can hold onto to stop the inevitable from happening
time
passes, I continue to get close to the bottom
the
end of
this
pile of ash
is no ignoring the suffocating smell of its near presence
way
to
stop
it until time is up
I have not had enough
enough
moments to cherish and remember
do
I make all of the bad deeds right
n
I have been falling left all of this time
second is wasted
If I do not spend it with you
second is spent worrying about the seconds that are passing
·
I feel the sand dune pushing up against my back
'nding
me that it is over
53



54
I love you.
Ashley Marcinek '22
Three hauntingly beautiful words.
Striking my heart like a blood stained sword.
Words that used to caress my cheek
Make my knees oh so weak.
They say I must be so lucky,
To have someone who deeply loves me.
Who checks in on me hourly,
Making sure no man is around me.
Who takes a hold of my body with hands so confident,
No matter how much my mind begs for the opposite.
Muttered as an excuse for his abuse,
Phrased in a way to make me yield to a makeshift truce.
Sure he made me leave my friends,
But love is surely something to defend.
Blind to the terror I faced,
All because of how those words taste.
Once that August struck,
I finally could see just how many bruises stuck.
Injuries too hidden to see,
Yet permanent enough to take away any normalcy.













my
s
elf on that Summer Eve,
-,o
re
to
....
- d ot let love take such a hold on me.
ft'O
Ul
n
word
J
plan to
s
tick,
fo
lllY
arri
v
e with words laid on so thick.
fc,t
you
Jl,e
g
you to take it slow,
for
those three words broke my soul.
Jwi
sh
J
wa
s
n
'
t s
,
o fearful of suc;h
~
phrase,
But
wishes won t take back the pam.
So
let
me dip my toe into the familiar unknown,
Do
not
pu
s
h me further than I can walk on my own.
rm
not
able to be your muse,
For
the
last time please give me the space I am due.
Yes,
I miss the days where love was something sweet,
Instea
d
of
s
omething used to ensnare me.
But
don
'
t
mi
s
take my hesitant state,
For
something that you can take
.
lam
no longer a child desperate for acceptance
,
lam
a
woman begging for independence.
55








56
L
1\vo Years Later
Brooke Millard '25
I walk through the Marist parking lot on a warm day in February,
averting my eyes when the sun catches on the frosted cars and I
pick up the pace for my 12:30 class at Dyson Center, and then I
will go to my advising appointment at 3:30 in the James
A
Cannavino Library with Mr. Cusano where I hope he can help me
decide my major
I admire the matte multicolored stones of the Murray Student
Center that contrast with the reflections on the paneled windows
and have to abruptly stop as a golf cart labeled "Media Center"
peels down the sidewalk and the walk starts to bore me so I put in
my earbuds, shuffle, and smile as Anastacia's voice comes on
singing Left Outside Alone
and then I take out my Nature Valley wafer bar and side-step
because I almost walk into a girl holding a backpack practically
twice her size and continue walking through the sea of mouthless
faces and I start to think about going to Texas Roadhouse for
Valentine's Day next week and I look to my left and see the ice
lodged in the river that creates a standstill in front what looks like
miniature houses on the hills
Now I'm passing the Hancock Center and as I wait to walk across
the crosswalk, I glance at the bright red "Study Abroad" sign in
front of a speckled snow mound and think that maybe I should
bring up studying abroad at my meeting and then I see Elissa and
we decide to do homework at 1 :45 in Donnelly Hall and I realize
today is starting to turn into a busy day
as the bubbled ice that hasn't melted yet cracks under my feet at
the edge of the sidewalk and I say thank you to a boy who holds
the door of the Dyson Center open for me and I sit on a stiff couch
and grab my phone as it pings with a text but instead of a text, I see
an Apple News notification with another 5 deaths added to the
number of fatalities in Dutchess County
and I continue to stare at my phone but my mind wanders as I think
back to that March day of junior year at Ketcham High School and
the feelings of joy I felt after two weeks off of school was
announced because of this weird virus or something like that, and
little did I know the damage it would cause even two years later











Th
ey Call It Rock Bottom
G
reta Stuckey '23
R
ocks
are just naturally occurring solid minerals
C
ha
nge is naturally occurring within individuals
N
o roc
k is
exactly the same, they all take different forms
For
s
ome,
the
bottom is sharp, for others, it is clear and smooth
N
o ma
tter
the size, texture,or color, the bottom is unique
F
ro
m the
bo
ttom, the rock rises up or out with a new strength
Whil
e
i
t i
s
not easy, the rock begins to shift over time
A
s
it
ge
t
s
worn down and stepped on
,
the rock adapts
G
rowt
h
a
nd resilience are slowly formed within the rock
Th
e
b
otto
m
is s
imply the first stepping stone in transformation
Serenity
Lizzie White '25
57
















58
Memories
August Boland '23
Second Place, Fiction
When Aimon Seran awoke on the
morning of the 43rd of Sixthmonth,
he did
so
with the absolute certainty
that the world would end that day. He
remembered the flashes of his subcon-
scious filtering through the radio
sig-
nals that passed through his scalp as he
slept. Remembered talk of a new
super-
computer. It was beginning again. As
his mind cleared, he fleetingly decided
to forget the memory, and let Aimon
Seran live in peace that day. And yet,
he chose instead to give Seran a feeling
of finality; an appropriate sendoff.
As Aimon Seran, 32-season-old
barista at Voran's Tea and Yogurt Sa-
lon, came to, he forgot everything. He
remembered only awakening
.
And yet,
he knew that this was a day for endings.
He could not say why.
"Hey."
He turned, to see the eyes of Nov-
or gazing into his.
"You
were talking in your sleep."
Skies, how had he ever been lucky
enough to end up with a woman like
her?
"I
couldn't wake you up. Another
bad dream?"
Seran hesitated.
"Yeah,
sure." He
couldn't remember. But it would make
her happy.
"It's 8:30 in the mornin
normally on your way to
wort
Navor pulled the covers off
of
an worked up the courage
to
bed, but as he was getting
up,
off at the last minute and
pull
into bed.
"Hey!" she said with
a
He kissed her.
"You never know
which
be your last."
***
As he left for work
that
did not care that he was an h
forty-five minutes late. He t
time, navigating his way
thro
skylines in his personal aviati
not caring when people flew
him that was legally acceptab
hardly batted an eye as his
Voran, screamed at him for
utes, explaining that if he
was
more time, he'd be fired.
And
Geron chewed his ear off
for
chai yogurt in her macchiato
tea, he simply turned his
back
telling her to come back
whell
feeling better. Dr. Geron
didn
what to say to that, so she
le
As he went into the bac
accosted by his coworker,
M
"Hey, what's gotten into
































shrugged. "I don't know.
seran
d
"You
know what
,,
fie pause .
.
.
on the last day of your Job, or
Jjke,
of vacation? There's that
or
,
.
.
~f- finality? That you re gomg
and you don't have to come
?"
Maran
cocked her head. "Yeah.
you
quitting? I thought you needed
.
b
since you couldn't get any
,
work
1'
"
your
degree.
"No,"
Seran
said.
"It's not that.
just.
Ever
since
this morning, I've
that
feeling,
and
I don't know why."
Any
further philosophizing was
off
as Mr. Voran walked in
.
"Seran
,
that's it, you're fired. I
'
tknow why
I keep giving jobs to
polers.
Your people are nothing but
uts
who
can't do an honest day's
''Go
hang yourself, Mr. Voran."
Voran paused, about to continue
llcist
rant, before he realized what
had
said
. "
What did you just say
lle,Seran?"
"You
heard me." The other work-
fiere
peering in from the
shop,
and
~
had fallen over the tea shop.
hang
yourself
.
"
.._:oran stared
at him, blinking
·
y,
as though he were a computer
a
faulty ta
· ·d .
bis
pe ms1 e 1t. Seran threw
Ibo
apron at Voran, and walked into
..
P
proper.
•
J\.U
right
· .
,
most noble ones " he
Ill
his b
'
•
est
announcer
voice. "The
is
closin
.
g, acceptmg
final orders
now
,
last call, everyone, last call."
Some of the customers kept eating.
That was the city of Arasaka, for you.
But others
stared
at him, and there was
talk of calling the constabulary.
Seran threw back his head and
laughed. Distantly, a voice in his mind
asked,
What's the matter with me? Am I
going
mad? But then there was another
voice. A directive, one he knew too
well:
Go outside.
It was beginning.
Seran stepped outside the
shop
onto the promenade. They were on the
outskirts of Arasaka, where zoning
laws kept the buildings low. The sun
shone
brightly overhead, as individuals
hurried down the
street, while
over-
head the occasional aviator flew by. In
the distance, the sun reflected off the
skyscrapers
of Arasaka, making the
structures
of glass appear as towers of
silver
and ivory.
Then, the bomb hit.
A brilliant conflagration exploded
right over the towers of Arasaka.
That's
right. Nuclear bombs are detonated
above
cities
to maximize damage. The
light blinded a patron who had hurried
after
him, and
she
screamed. Blessedly,
she would not see the doom hurtling
towards her.
As though he were watching a
broken tape that had
slowed
itself,
the light hurtled out from the Arasa-
ka flashpoint, as the first wisps of the
mushroom cloud appeared.
59
















60
And then, around him, everything
began to burn.
Everything flammable was in-
cinerated: Garbage cans, automobiles.
People. A choir of screams rang over
Arasaka, like a chorus of the damned.
But not Seran.
Seran stood, unmoving, as the
beams of light bounced off his skin like
UV rays at a day at the beach.
The buildings of Arasaka for
which it was so famed began to col-
lapse as the blast radius expanded. Like
a child's art project of a papier mache
city, the buildings imploded, turning
into dust, and slowly fell to the ground
.
Around him, the patrons of the
promenade ( of whom little remained
save for blackened figures) exploded
into ash, flying outwards and catching
the boiling, hellish winds.
Seran stood, unmoving, as the ash
twirled around him. The last part of
his mind that retained awareness dimly
thought, as he noticed that Voran's Tea
and Yogurt Salon had been destroyed,
that he was now unemployed, and
would have to fill out the necessary
forms.
As the gigantic trees of the prom-
enade collapsed, a storm of debris hit
Seran. As cars and trucks and helicop-
ters were thrown outward like toys, the
subject of a two-season-old's temper
tantrum.
Seran stood, unmoving. He stood
there while the radiation settled. He
stood as the last radio waves flowing
through his brain were silen
stood as ash fell from the sky
.
there until the sun began to
a mockery of the original
flash;
bomb loomed in the west.
***
Awareness poured into
Aimon Seran remembered
w
So, Novrin thought, as
he
awoke from within himself
.
Iii
has blown itself to bits
.
Again.
what? The fifth time? The six
wasn't certain if the first
time
be counted or not, since he
w
largely responsible for it.
The world had ended.
B
ity had not. There would be
re
out there. They would be se
something.
Answers.
A leader.
A god.
The persona of Aimon
S
he had created for himself (to
the boredom of immortality,
o
had been an interesting one,
was the time for something
e
thought. Something new and
He considered, for a moment,
ing the post-apocalyptic was
self, but considered against
it.
get too boring after a while.
he'd just fall into his old kil ·
maiming habits, and even
that
after the third week or so
.
It was nothing he had
not'
before.


























J\Jld so, he sat, cross-legged,
_
in
·ns of the city of Arasaka, his
fill
fi
ming a circle of runes around
hor wrote a new life for himself
.
e.1111
as
e
1·
...-
rnemorie
s
, a new persona 1ty, new
It"'
and flaws. It was a shame that
_.Is
r got to experience the perso-
llD
neve
k
h
and
marvel at his wor at t e same
-
He
sat there for hour
s
, as the sun
dine·
the
moon rose, and set, and the sun
-
.
,
lleg&D
to rise agam.
As
Novrin was about to add the
llishi
ng
touches to his new life and
em1,ra
ce
it, letting him begin his jour-
'1/J'/
anew
,
he paused.
Overhead
,
a
s
atellite station orbit-
ed.
so
far overheard only his modified
-,es
could see it.
Within that station was a man.
Novrin paused. He had not studied
6e
causes of an apocalypse after the
let.
After the world had been de-
aoyed
by runes
,
it being destroyed
Mr
and
over again by nuclear weapons
•
trite
by comparison.
Perhaps
thi
s
time, things would be
if
erent.
He
scoffed
,
and took on his new
:
fe~.s
face and memories changed
.
**
*
of
~onar Verin awoke in the ruins
Ileen
aka. He was a soldier, who had
·
~ared from the ruin by his faith
llt,
be•;e
realized. Looking around, he
liact
bee
as on the promenade
.
Or, what
n the promenade.
Verin shuddered, and looked east.
There would be survivors out there,
looking for guidance.
Verin headed east.
61






62
There's Us
Allie Steingold '22
Maybe you want me to react
So you can point fingers
And when I don't respond the way you want
Perhaps you're disappointed
That's too bad
I find peace in the silence
Because I have said too much before
I have tried to find when the bonds started to fringe
Studying the timeline as best I could
But I noticed when they shrank, and things weren't the same
Both of us found bliss in the ignorance
We did not try to restore what once was
That proves us both guilty
You seem to have no reason behind your feelings
When confronted you were unable to clarify
Afterwards some sat on the sidelines
Others followed you like sheep
Now the bonds are withered and dead like a pitiful house plant
I have grown sick of the ignorance
I am tempted to react unkindly to your words
Simply to bring the situation into light
I do not
There is no reason for you to affect me
It
is only because I'm waiting for escape
I'm sure you're doing the same
In the end we are alone in our actions
You control you
I control me
That's the way it will always be














A Moribund
.
World
August Boland '23
p for the jungled planet
turned to glas
s
ttY
tearless
the
waters of this world
been
boiled away
· g the world into a planet of steam.
lush
green horizons
burned
away
the
flaming sun that the planet orbits
s to have more life
this
desolate
,
moribund world
then
I know failure
.
through the cloudy reflection
a
dream
I see this
this, my vision
no animal walks
ee grows
the roaches crawl.
means death
of all things
eternally decomposing
' floating through the sea
sea
of space
a
decrepit shipwreck.
.
g,
twisting
,
flailing
g,
freezing, burning
aoct abandoned
63





64
Purged and swept clean
By we its guardians
In our moment of hubris
.
A once lush bubble
That hung in the void
Reduced to a lifeless marble
As dead and cold as stone
Eternally orbited by metal
Where the winds never blow.


















Betrayal
.
Santaliz Guale-Hilario '23
1be
words cannot describe how
I
feel.
Vt'b
om
I
thought of as a friend,
sbO
WS
his colors from which I
111
ust
heal.
Y
ou
see my wounds and scars
as
I s
e
ek for your warmth,
onl
y
for you to disregard.
ve
gone for you, cannot
pare
the
little
s
teps you lacked the
ge to take.
that i
s
what I feel
,
betray
a
l.
ting you was my biggest mistake.
65






66
The Forgotten Rules of the One Night
Saoirse Maguire '22
How obscene it is to stick around,
After the deed is done.
After the kisses leave your body
And the pillowcase goes cold.
And the sheets remain on the floor,
Twisted knotted useless fabric.
It used to be rude to leave in a rush.
An Irish goodbye they'd call it,
One moment you're souls are touching,
Drowning in each exhale,
Fingers white knuckling at anything in reach,
Legs wrapped around thighs like snakes choking mice.
And then as soon as it ends,
The quicker you leave,
The higher you stand
.
The less likely you are to hurt.
Although you want to stay,
You don't want to be seen as weak.
You want to continue to hold
But yet you unravel,
Get up,
And leave.















Villanelle For Us, On the Train
Lily Jandrisevits
'25
b
d digs into my
shoulder.
e:ergency
brake is red
train
doesn't care about her.
.
shine, trees
shudder,
knows
everything.
bead
digs into my shoulder.
'
our words will
slur.
, the
brake
swings.
train
doesn't
care
about her.
scene
blurs,
into us at thirty.
bead
digs into my shoulder.
bands
are colder.
and
forth. Back
and
forth.
train
doesn't care about her.
Will
be like this forever,
lier
have
arrived.
'Ille
he~d
digs into my shoulder.
tram
doesn't care about her.
67











68
Lonely
Lauren Anderson '24
Third Place, Nonfiction
Sometimes I think about that day
when you asked for my number. I
was lonely and you were willing. You
took advantage of it. I didn't see it
then. We were fine - walking a thin
line of used and to be used. It was
never for the simplicity of friendship
but of mutual gain. I didn't realize it
until you were hovering at the edge
of my bed. I couldn't breathe. Your
face went red with tears, and I didn't
move. I'd just been through hell
,
departing the safety of my home after
feeling the weight of a casket in my
hand.
"Can I ask you something?" I made
the mistake of saying yes. I made
the mistake of listening. "/ feel like
you 're pulling away from me," you
said. I wasn't. You thought I was, but
I wasn't. You just wanted me there
for yourself. You wanted me close so
no one else could even get there too
.
You were manipulating me - I saw it.
I saw it but I had never dealt with this
before
.
I said it wasn't you. I said it
wasn't your fault because, at the time,
it wasn't. I was grief-stricken and you
decided to make it about you. You
decided that I shouldn't have that
courtesy. You stood there, invading
my space
.
Even so much as having
the nerve to climb on my
little girls at a sleepover
.
Yet
that my grief - my sad days •
you feel like a bad friend.
Yi
me I was leaving you behind
learned something that nigh
We were screaming, back
for hours. It clawed at your
You never let up and I took ·
pushover and you like to p
like to test. You like to argu
like the fight. And when yo
was turned, I wanted to run.
want to listen to broken pro
feelings of hurt that were
in
tied to you. But you made
it
fastened that rope around
m
and made it so I couldn't
b
bad. You cursed my mou
the whole world revolved
It doesn't. It doesn't for
me
I know when to stop. I
knoW
take a step back
.
You don't.
er do. I realized that when
Y'
at me with hurtful eyes. I
with indifferent ones.
Youn
considered the fact that
may
hurting too. It's all about
Y
I realized that I had to
watch
move I made. I had to
think



























t
to
my every word. You in-
•d
reac
.
IIlY
space, you touch my thmgs,
ut it back heedlessly. You
Y
ouP
,
d " .
,
en see that you re omg 1t
teV
.
,
.
?
T b
It's easy for you, 1sn t 1t. o e
· r.
1
gue
s
s I've grown used to
~sed too. Maybe it's my fault.
I
should
'
ve known, maybe
abO
uld've
seen it sooner. B~cause
as
I
grieved,
I
had to thmk of
-
I
wondered why
I
had to thirik
al,cJU
t you at a time like that. Why did
IIIVC
to worry about your feelings
than mine? Why was it you
'
re like
fire and gasoline. We're
sliding
glaciers that pulverize on
t.
We claw and claw at each
until there
'
s nothing but a crack
my
chassis
.
Yours somehow stays
same. I
hurt,
I
break, and you stay
same
.
It doe
s
n't make sense.
OU
belittle me. It's in your voice
,
the
you
talk
.
You say, "Don't worr
y
;
babysit her. I
'
ll make sure she
lrrsn•
t
do something stupid."
Only ...
lllen
I fall -
because I'm clumsy -
' : : ;
n't there like you say you are.
that I'm clumsy. That's not
~blem. I brace for that clumsi-
tbe
e always
,
but you say you'll
re·
y
.._,.
' ou
s
ay you'll make my
-.
is1ons
fo
.
ldoti
•t
kn
r me if I can't. You say
~
ow how to handle myself
.::-crneath
ki
d
1'
111
not
n gestures. You say
meant for anything if you're
nqt
there doing it for me. I walk in
your shadow, and I can't breathe. It
'
s
always/ can't breathe.
When you asked for my number,
I
should've just kept walking. When
you asked for my number,
I
should've
said no
.
But then
I
wonder, where
would
I
be now if
I
hadn
'
t? Would
I
still be lonely?
I
think hard on it and
wonder: would being lonely be better
than feeling alone?
69







70
Ode to Poughkeepsie
Hannah Gnibus '24
In a city of freezing walks and french fries at midnight,
ears and noses are nibbled by winter's bitter breeze
as friends depart toward the McDonald's of Mid Hudson Plaza.
Joey and I walk alone down Beck Place,
side by side, draining out the slither of another's skateboard as
we
talk about anything to forget about the frigidness of the night.
I hear stories of an old man and his two German shepherds,
the only living residents of the street besides
an expansive family of mannequins-dressed and dissected.
Offer after offer come forth worth millions and millions,
but the man rejects them all, leaving the small teal house
and the booming barks of the dogs remaining there out of spite.
During their journey they look upon Cosimo's neon sign;
visions of pizzas topped with red onions
,
mushrooms, and
broccoli dance in their heads, cheesy aroma lingering in the air
.
Then appears Starbucks, home of the finish line
for students of Bertrand-Dewsnap's First Year Seminar;
Pink Drinks, Dragon Drinks, Star Drinks cradled in cramped han
Bees swarmed around the sweet-scented drinks,
mistaking the bright colors and aroma of the beverages
for a bouquet of delectable flowers to drink from.
Friends rapidly clamor into the fated McDonald's to escape
winter's harsh touch on their faces and fingers. Not quite like
Lola'
Texas Roadhouse, or the Olive Garden, but it's tradition.

















der
consists
of greasy french fries and a creamy chocolate shake,
11J
e
1
~:re
i
s
always
a side of laughter and smiles
b
11
1.
.
g t
hrougho
ut the establishment.
ra
d1aun
.
is Pou
ghkee
p
s
ie, New York
.
Some may call it the "Queen City"
111
1
h
.
.
th
"P T
"
C
•
doe
to
its D
ute
on
gms, o ers
o- own 1or convemence.
8
111
I call i
t
a perf
ect home away from home.
Longing for Spring
Olivia Myers '25
71


72
Listless
Rebecca D'Ambrosio '24
She misses the flowing cursive.
The way she used to watch her from the couch,
Her hand shook slightly, but her grasp remained firm on her pen.
How it seemed to dance across birthday cards,
Across grocery lists:
Milk, eggs, coffee creamer.
She'd never seen the words prettier.
She remembers becoming frantic.
Searching through voicemail logs, through text messages,
Anything to find a trace of her.
There was nothing.
The only thing physical,
A card from her 7th birthday,
Dusty and slightly bent on the corners.
She remembers tracing her finger across the words written,
As if somehow it would let her feel her touch again.
But she shook with the realization,
That the card stock was nothing akin to the feel of her hand.
She held it close anyway.




Lethargic
Mackenzie Zeytoonjian '25
73






74
Cacti Don't Have Feelings
Jeremy Skeele '23
Third Place, Fiction
There is a cactus that lives in the
Sonoran Desert. This cactus, like all
cacti, does not have feelings and cannot
perceive. However, if it
did have feel-
ings, and if it
could perceive, it would
very likely be bored.
It sits by a stretch of road in
which very few cars drive by. Flat, dry
land surrounds it. As far as the cactus
would be aware, this is all that exists in
the
universe: a stretch of land in Arizo-
na no bigger than a few miles.
The cactus is a Saguaro cactus.
The kind that litter the landscape of
the deserts that exist within our mind.
It's large and green, and its three arms
curve up, pointing to the sky, reaching
for the sun. Small, thin spines cover the
entirety of the cactus, ready to pierce
whoever or whatever comes near.
The saguaro cactus grows slowly.
The cactus was
'born'
in 1835, and
it wasn't until
1841
that it began to
poke above the ground. In 1846, the
cactus stood an inch tall, and in 1863,
it reached a foot. In the year 1900, it
was six feet tall and grew its very first
flower. By 1912, it was 10 feet tall and
began to grow its first arm. In 1936, the
cactus was 14 feet tall with two arms.
By 1984, the cactus was 26 feet tall. As
of now, the cactus is 186 years old, has
three arms, and stands 34 feet tall.
The cactus cannot be ti!1
ever, if it could, that's how
it
felt by the year 2000. There is
much one can handle being
al
for this long, the cactus would
had no one.
But in its old age, some
changed for the cactus.
On one cool spring day,
received a visitor. Landing on
one of its arms was a Gila
Wi
A bird of medium size, her bl
white striped wings contrasted
a tan head and stomach. She
ing for something.
The cactus has no conce
social interactions. However,
if
would try its best to follow ev
knew. The cactus would wish
a good first impression. It wo
curious, but try not to strike
an
too personal. It would stay on
topics, avoiding anything that
be polarizing and make her
fly
Because before this moment,
n
ever touched the cactus. The c
would be aware that, by nature,
anything it touches. And it wo
everything in its power to
be
than that.
The bird, of course, did n
for social interactions. But she
paying heavy attention to the



































r a few minutes of looking,
s
he
d P
to
the base of the arm,
~
n
e
e u
h
.
.,....
Jetely unaffected by t e spmes.
co01
~ng
a
good spot, she turned to the
filldi
and
began to peck.
-
~e cactus can not feel pain.
wever, if it could, it would be in
ffo
y But even then, the cactus would
,go
~d
to
s
how a negative reaction
~
sPook away the bird. So for hours
and
hours, the bird stood, pecking and
pecki
ng away
.
Eventually
,
there was
a
final
result: a hole in the cactus no
more
than a few inches wide. The cac-
1115
would be in excruciating pain, but
11pp
y
to survive. Happy to be of ser-
Yil:e
,
for whatever the bird's purpose.
But cacti don
'
t have feelings.
And the bird flew away.
The cactus has no concept of pa-
tien
ce
.
However, if it did, it would re-
alil.e
whatever amount it once had was
IDW
growing thin in old age. Nights
turned
into weeks turned into months
af
waiting
for the bird to return
.
And
lbe
cactus would begin to believe that
lbe
bird
wa
s
not going to show up
.
The hole the woodpecker left
llay
ed
expo
s
ed
.
The inside of the cac-
~
once
s
oft and wet
,
began to harden
.
Nov.,
the cactus continued to live on.
• however
,
there would be a bleak-
lless
:at wa
s
n
'
t there before.
it
)
ut a little less than a year after
eft
th
G·1
'l1ie
'
e
1
a Woodpecker returned.
~
actus can not be pleasantly
a.:..
~.
sect
.
However, if it could be the
vuu
s retu
'
...,
rn would make it shocked
-u
ecst
·
atic at the same time. This
would be almost immediately followed
by
a
n anger for leaving in the first
place
.
The bird offered no apology, but
began to inspect the cactus once more.
It
seemed satisfied.
And then it flew away again.
But this time, it returned almost
right after, now with dried grass in
it
'
s mouth.
It
placed it
,
flew away, got
more, and placed it again. This process
went on for a few days, as she began to
build her nest inside the cactus.
As soon as the nest was built, a
male Gila Woodpecker arrived
.
And
soon after that, the mama bird laid four
eggs inside the nest. The father spent
most of his time within the cactus,
guarding the eggs. The mother would
be the one who left
,
flying around and
returning with whatever food she could
fine.
The cactus has no concept of
name
s.
However, if it did, it would like
to name the birds that lived inside of it.
"John" would be the father, and "Nan-
cy" the mother.
The cactus can not understand
parenting. However, if it could
,
it
would know how vital a home is to
a family. The need to have a space, a
nest, walls, any place where they all
could rest together. And the cactus was
now that place. After years and years
of being alone, it was home.
The baby birds grew up quickly,
as kids do
.
Eventually, they left the
nest for good. But that was alright
,
be-
cause by the time they left, four more
baby birds were ready to take their
75






76
place. And for a few years, that cycle
continued. Nancy laid dozens of eggs,
and the birds would grow up and fly
away. More and more holes emerged
on the cactus, where the various Gila
Woodpeckers would exit and enter
from. Each of them calling the cactus
home
.
But the Gila Woodpeckers only
live for so long. After another five
years, John and Nancy grew old.
Nancy died first. John soon after. The
cactus, if it could, would mourn
.
But,
no stranger to death, it would quickly
accept its return to loneliness. To emp-
tiness and holes.
But that loneliness did not come.
For soon after the birds passed away,
other flying creatures saw that shelter
that had been made. And they decided
to put it to use.
Over the last few years, the cactus
has had a variety of birds call it home.
First came the American Kes-
trels. Then came the Purple Martins
and the Cactus Wrens, followed by the
Flycatchers -- both Ash-Throated and
Brown-Crested. All of them making
home within the cactus. Some stayed
till death, some left, but something new
always came to take its place.
The cactus has no concept of self,
so when the Pygmy Owl flew in and
asked Who?, the cactus did not have an
answer. This didn't bother the Pygmy
Owl, who stayed regardless. This owl,
who the cactus would name "Freder-
ick", is the current residence. For the
past year and a half, it has stayed with
the cactus and spent as
much
it as it could
.
The cactus can not
be
However, if it could, it
finally
be. Despite a life of lossed
1
and loneliness, the cactus
w
content in old age. Satisfied
company, satisfied to have
a
satisfied with its view and s ·
with its past. Sometimes,
old
might disturb the satisfaction
cactus
.
And the sadness
often
But never for too long.
The cactus will die very
The cactus has no con
death. However, if it did, it
welcome it. 186 is a very
old
for the Saguaro. That long,
much of it completely alone,
to make anyone or anything
with open arms. Of course,
cactus, it's not that easy.
The cactus would still
all the birds that have come
its final years, even when
it
cactus, older than any hu
be ready and afraid at the s
The cactus can nots
ever, if it could, it would
wi
just two words before it pas
Thank You
It would say
.
And Frederick would
say
Who?
And the cactus would
di
't
Of course, the cactus won
Because cacti don't
have












A cactu
s
canno
t feel
or perceive
be
tired
or
comm
unicate
or know
·ial
intera
ctions or
feel
pain or be pa-
nt
or
be
s
u
rprised o
r name or mourn
ha
ve
a conc
ept
of se
lf or understand
,r
ath
or
speak
or
die
happy.
11
a cact
us can
do
is grow.
Untitled
Annabel Banks
'22
77


78
Unrequited
Rebecca D'Ambrosio '24
It's a sickly sweet feeling
Like drinking a cup of honey.
Clearing my throat can't make you disappear,
Nothing can wash you down.
The butterflies who refuse to leave their chrysalis,
Undeserving to feel that pleasant flutter,
When yours are free,
Flapping their wings for a different set of eyes.
My gazes go unnoticed,
But the slightest of yours sears my skin.
I remember a compliment you gave five years ago,
You can't remember my major in school.
I heard you liked a song,
I listened to it all summer until I had it memorized.
You're a part of my life, not in the way I want,
But I'll take what I can get,
Because I'd rather sit here and watch you be happy
Than not be able to see you at all.











Flying Sonnet
Kevin Pakrad
'23
ugh eyes
of grey
you view this tangled mop.
and flop; fool of pseudo art.
·
ons are caught in dreams. Dreams non stop
_
Hold it. Wait! Lost the verse
.
Let's restart.
name
is lame; basic. I inspire words.
words
survive
through time to fade; none
soar.
soar
above me
,
high, alongside birds
.
stars are
yours
to touch, thine to
adore.
about the door? How do I return?
tial body,
all
I want is you.
ns of heartbreak; never
shall
I learn,
ugh, I know what I want to be true.
lilly
poet,
surrounded
by
style,
love
unwrap itself for the meanwhile.
79




80
Do you ever mourn our memories'>
Olyvia
R.
Young '25
•
Do you ever mourn the
temporary loss of me?
My lurking shadow and
highly contagious giggle.
Do you wish I could be
there to get the piece your
arms can never reach?
My impeccable ability to
Drive to fast, music blasting,
and ringing in your ears
.
Do you ever walk to my
room to ask a question,
only to find it empty?
My fragrant candles and
floral perfumes you seemed
to often complain about.
Do you ever mourn the
temporary loss of us?
Our uncanny resemblance, the
five inches between you and me.
Do you think of our
childhood games and
uneducated sleepy talks
.
Do you resent the times
we hurt each other with
big words and hateful actions?
Our loud mouths, lashing teeth,
and strong flailing arms.
Do you ever mourn the
temporary loss of me?
My irritating big sister presence
and know it all, often wrong, advice.
















U
desir
e my cl
oseness?
l)O
yo
'Jb(
waY
I
wa
s never
pli
aJways ar
ound y
ou.
l)O
,
•
ou
get m
ad
I ch
ose
1
;ave you b
ehind?
ffo
W
J
moved
so far,
seemingly
out of
reach
.
oo
you
ever
mourn
the
m
p<>rarY fe
eling of
missing
me?
')1ie
feeling n
ow bei
ng
mething de
pressi
ngly
permanent.
Do
you
ever
mourn
the
Tem
p<>rary
lo
ss of u
s?
I
kn
ow
I
do.
In a Cafe
Kaitlyn Dugan
'25
81





82
Sometimes
HM'24
Sometimes I wish you still loved me
when you brought me flowers and coffee
and you asked me how practice was
and told me that I was yours forever
as we laid tangled in each other's limbs
Sometimes I wish that I could be happy without
you
when I'm with my family
and all I can think about is you
and you are the only thing I can't have
as I fall to pieces on the floor of the shower
Sometimes I wish I weren't so good at hiding my
darkn
when it starts to creep in while I'm with others
and I put on my mask so no one will ask if I'm
okay
and I wait until I am alone to confront the fact that everything ·
as I walk through life knowing no one sees my
pain
I'm starting to worry
because sometimes has become
always.




Bird of Paradise
Christina Levi
'22
83








84
About love, pain. Strained relationshi
Madelyn Kemler '24
on
september
fourteenth the blood rushing to my ears was louder than
t
if this is what wading in the sea of lovers feels like then let me dn
My mom's spleen is looking good, it'll be able to heal on its own.
standing shoulder to shoulder in the dim kitchen light,
softly whispering over the hum of the television
... But how can ribs heal on their own without. ..
strawberry
ice cream and orange soda and you dozing to sleep
be
...
They're doing a procedure to see if the fractures in her pelvis are sta
they'll have to
...
drive past curfew and run to my bus at 2:
JO.
sitting knee to knee,
tell
3 fractures in her pelvis, Grade 3 laceration of the spleen, no
immediate
you want two kids, i want three. no i don't want to be your best
"When did my text come in?"
"After the accident, I was already on the stretc
i'm cut open and pouring out. we always said what almost lovers
s
I will never feel as good as I felt on the morning of April sixth.
















How much is a little girl worth?
medal silver tooth
SiJV
er
SiJV
er medal silver tooth
She
's
7 years old
She
lost her tooth
y
ou
'
re 70 years old
Kirsten Mattern '24
You
lost your tooth
7
days
a week 7 packs a day
7
years old
7
years old she'll stay
She
won the medal
Y
ou
lost your tooth
sadraw!
A
draw!
A draw! A drawing of scars
llr
underneath her leotard
And
you don't spend a day behind bars
Silv
er
medal silver tooth
Sil\'
er
medal silver tooth
~
much is a little girl worth?
85





86
Looking at My Window in the Gartl
Commons in Poughkeepsie, NY
Gabriela Maria Cunha '22
Gazing hopelessly out the window next to my bed,
The fog consuming the hudson,
Drifting eerily across my window,
A ghastly being.
I sit here and wonder the things I could do
If I could just get out of bed and start the day.
As the squall races in next to me,
I can not longer
see
the hudson across from me,
And I question if it even exists anymore.
The mysterious
snowglobe
enveloping my thoughts as
I wonder what it would be like to dance in the snow,
Not a care in the world,
As the
snow
dances around me.
I have everything seasoned bagels waiting for me in the freezer.


















An Ode to Sacrifice
Britney Carino-Muniz '22
First Place, Nonfiction
in honor of all the people in my
0
gave some part of themselves
e sure I was able to take on the
better.
defined
by Merriam-Webster, Sacri-
is
"
the act of giving up something
you
want to keep, especially in
to get or do something else or to
·
is one of the defining aspects
m
y
life because I'm the result of
sacrifications made by the people
d
me who dreamed of something
, not for themselves, but for the
tions that would come after them.
"fication is brutal because it strips
from
what you truly want to
••
ve
in your life. It means you are
g to put what you want aside in
that the outcome of your hard
was
worth everything you gave for
=:
n:
that v.:as~'t yourself. What I
'-n
e
tn
my hfe 1s not only stemming
.
~e hard work I put in for myself,
lt
1sde
.
la.ts
ep-rooted m the "could-
" and "what would have beens"
echoed throughout the minds of
Wh
d
'
0
id not or have not fulfilled
owna .
sp1rations.
Although sacrifice is an immensely
dark void filled with the vibrancy of old
dreams that were dimmed by reality,
there are so many cracks within its
foundation that allow the light of grat-
itude and appreciation to seep through.
Illuminated by the people who bene-
fitted from that darkness, these people
who recognize the power of this strug-
gle and use it to fuel their endeavors.
It is melchonically beautiful because:
Sacrifice takes courage - it is seen with
the substantial decision my grandpar-
ents made to emigrate their entire fam-
ily from Mexico to the United States
without dwelling on the heavy risks but
looking towards the opportunities of
a better life.
With no documentation,
little money, painstakingly long factory
job hours, and many mouths to feed,
they never let go of the hope that one
day everything would be better because
they had made it to the land that helped
make dreams into a reality, and so, they
persisted.
Sacrifice takes vulnerability - it is seen
within the six months of my life as a
five-year-old when my parents were
evicted from their one-bedroom apart-
ment. Desperately needing to seek shel-
87






88
ter for themselves and their children, we
went to live with my grandparents and
then with my uncle. Still living my life,
as usual, enjoying the innocence I had,
believing that sleeping over at grand-
ma
'
s was voluntary, and not understand-
ing how much we were truly struggling.
Sacrifice takes determination - it is seen
within the endless days and nights my
siblings and I went without spending
time with our parents because they
worked countless jobs to provide for
us throughout my childhood. Watching
them trying to build businesses that
would ultimately be shut down, making
50 dollars a day and only being able
to pay bills, but still not letting these
failures diminish the drive they have till
this day.
Sacrifice takes faith and humility - it is
seen within the nine years my family
and I had lived in government housing
until we moved into our first home in
the suburbs. Watching my parents look
in awe as they reminisce on what their
hard work has given them. Hearing my
mom say that she never thought that
one day she'd own her own home and
be able to enjoy it the way she does
sitting on the front doorsteps with her
kids, eating ice cream, and watching the
people pass as they live their lives.
Sacrifice takes love and selflessness -
It is seen with my grandparents who
cried tears of joy the day they sent me
off to college, the first person
away from home to achieve
hi
cation. My grandfather expre
he had always dreamed of
this
and how proud they are to see
girl so grown up now.
It is heard with my father
who
in passing how intelligent
his
is and how I will be able to ac
thing I put my mind to.
That
obstacles come my way, I
will
overcome them no matter
what
I am deserving of success.
It is felt with my mother,
who
to me while I "sleep," telling
proud she is of me for achie ·
that had seemed far out of si
self. Saying that the downfalls
gone through were worth
it
w
able to see her child shatter
b
Next year, I will finally be ac
ing our collective dream of
across that graduation stage.
though not everyone is physi
me anymore, I understand ho
umental this step is for us.
But
never stop there because I
will
keep accomplishing all of
our
Sacrifice is what drove my
P
generations to achieve the i
and their sacrifice is what
dri
achieve the impossible.





Transformation
Ashleigh Barham
'22
89







90
Wednesday's Child
D'Avion Middleton '22
Wednesday is a pretty word.
When you say it,
Not when you write it
Or think it.
It
takes long
Looks wrong
And I am busy
on Wednesday
But I lack motivation.
Attempt to write another chapter,
Creativity is running again
To a place which I cannot follow,
Nor see.
I try to go outside,
My white breath stops me.
Even the weather
Is Wednesday's warrior
I call my mom instead, and put the heat on eighty.
She says, "Don't catch a cold"
I say, "A cold can't catch me."
Maybe I'll take a night walk.
It'
11 be colder,
And darker,
But it means
Wednesday
1s over.














fbe Drive Thru at the End of the Universe
Kevin Pakrad '23
n the drive thru line
in exhaust
k
at the wall
is the worn decal
,McDonald's
"M"
·
g onward into oblivion
er! What spunk
n-damaged
"M"
!
the potential energy in its wheels,
ing to
o.
0000000000000000
ts
me to
set
it free.
·
bolt the first
second
it gets
probably won't even pick up a
snack
for the trip
.
faster and
fas t e
r
th
e speed of light
mes the fear of death.
)>robably going to the drive thru at the end of the universe.
~r all they work,
rewarded with the wrong order.
91









92
Jden
til)
K
.
I
.-,~
a1t
yn
Dugan
-











Wise Owl
.
Miranda Santiago '23
Mr. Night Owl,
ou
have always had a slight scowl,
w
I wish you were not able to make me feel as I do
0
you walk with your head held high
you ever wonder why things turned out this way?
ou
think
you
are so wise but your mind is what keeps you limited
(eel
manipulated, all the lies that you fed me
I begged and I plead for things not to end up the way that they did
0
tell you the truth I believed in you
the diluted thoughts you put my head
e
reasons I should get out of bed
w
look where I lay as I write this poem about you
ou
once told me valuable people do not get abandoned
how is it that I am alone again
other goodbye, turns into another faint memory
ell
me my wise owl
you also ponder why things ended up this way?
are you
simply,
okay?
93







94
Childhood Saudade
Emma Shaw '22
It lingers in Coldplay songs
and in her voice outside my shut tight door:
See you in the morning glory.
Oh, hot potato
,
tomato.
An earth that smelled like dirt covered knees, sundials
and the screened-in deck where the spiders hid
.
The backyard that I can only remember
in the hues of passing moments
behind the faces of the neighbor girls
that I never got to tell goodbye.
Homes built from soil and stones
that rise to our ankles, cities underneath
the shadow of the cerulean slide.
The big rock that sheltered the bugs
is lifted by my father --
the strongest man in the world.
Yank the beetles and worms from their sanctuary
to cut their lives short in plastic cups of mud and onion grass.
Now earth smells like detergent,
months without my mother,
holidays where we keep our fingers crossed
for the chance to see my brother.
I meet them between the dictations of my faltering youth.
Images of a life that belonged to a brighter me
play like 16-millimeter in my head.
I know I've lost some of the film,
as I can only see flashing fragments of footage
pieced together in fraying strands
like the thin fabric of my little pink blankie
that I'm afraid will disintegrate
in between my harrowed fingertips.
If
I think too hard about
the waning summers between semesters
and the added numbers to my age
I'm filled with dread again,
knowing I have to remember you
for longer than I had you.




Prickly
Christina Levi
'
22
95

















96
L
The End.
Julia Panas '25
We broke up after exactly two and a
half years together.
Though we should've broken up three
weeks earlier when you went on a
fucking bender and and I found you
passed out on the couch with a pillow
covering your dick on what was sup-
posed to be a vacation. "Uspok6j sie."
That's what you told me. "Shut up."
Voice low and fierce like a predator.
HOUSE RULES
1. Julia makes the rules
2
.
If
Julia's not around defer to Lucas
3.
If
you don't cook, you clean
4.
If
you cook, cook for everyone
5. Everyone helps out
6. No smoking inside the house
7. No loud music
8. No complaining, no drama
9.
If
the group says ur too high/drunk
you stop drinking/smoking
10.
If
the group says ur too high/drunk
you stop drinking/smoking.
11. You added that one.
The next day I woke up at 10
:
30am in
someone else's bed to sharp laughter
coming from the living room. I walked
into the noise to find you on the sofa
with a bottle of vodka you bought with
the ID you stole from your brother that
morning, half empty
.
There
one shot glass on the table
and
of whipped cream and straw
strewn across the wrecked
w
face. Little did I know that's
eaten in the past three days.
You told me you always
w
make sure I feel safe
but I don't feel safe when
y
this
again.
I should've broken up with
yi
But it doesn't matter because
up over and over and over a
coming months. Broke ourse
smaller, reverting to our wo
All the problems we ignored
apart the fabric of our fake ·
friends with benefits relatio
The Things You
Broke
• The table
• The trip
• Our trust
• Our relationship
• Me
• You
Broken house makes broken













peV
er been in this position before.
I thought it was you who lost
me but I was wrong
I
Jo
s
t you
And I might never get you back
I
fucked up and I'm fucked up
and for once I don
'
t know how
to
fix
it.
e111'
t
believ
e
I hurt you
I
don
'
t understand how the
little things I did hurt you so
much
But I know it's not about the
little things
It
's
the feeling that the person
you always trusted and cared
for and trusted to care for you
Doesn
'
t fucking care anymore.
so
heartl
es
s
How
c
ould I not care
When I see the pain I caused
you
s
t
r
eaming down your
cheek
s
I'm
s
elfish
You told me and I know now
that you're right
And because of that I can't tell
if I'm writing this for you or
for
me:
But I'm sorry.
The
r
apy Session
We're sitting in my room
Maybe for the last time
Sunset
You want to leave
I want you to leave
Yet we
'
re cemented to our spots.
We can't stop the conversation
Even if it's spoken in silences
.
Light fading on our faces and our
relationship
Until the light is gone from the sky
And the compassion from our hearts.
It always hurts to say goodbye to some-
thing you love
Yet we've done it so many times.
You'd think we
'
d have it down
by now, no?
That night
,
our last kis
s
felt like our
first kiss
We should've known it was the
last kiss.
It
took us two and a half years. And
then the magic was gone.
97
























--
98
Cornelia Counts
Ashley Marcinek '22
Cornelia Counts, better known as Con-
nie, was my grandmother
.
If
you picture
a southern lady, you would picture Con-
nie Counts. Her charming accent would
grace such phrases as "Bless her heart"
or her over exaggerated "Well". I have
never known a conversation with my
grandmother to be dull, for everything
she said was something so remarkable.
She had been slowly declining in health
over the years, with some years worse
than others. In classic Connie fashion,
she summoned all the women in the
family, which is just my mom, her two
sisters, and me. She gave us a speech on
how her time is coming and she wanted
the girls to have her good jewelry. She
was always dramatic like that.
I got the call that my grandmother
was near the end of her life just as the
weather began to chill. My mother
could barely get the words out before
her sobs took over. She had been admit-
ted to the emergency room, and suffered
a small stroke. We are going to visit for
Thanksgiving, so you and your brother
can say goodbye. Thanksgiving. Three
weeks away. Three weeks of worrying
about the last time I would see her.
Thanks to COVID, I hadn't seen her in
2 years. Did I say goodbye? Did I say I
loved her? Did she even remember me?
Those three weeks passed
and
ly it was time to leave for
Ab·
Virginia. Ten hours of
anxious
passed, and there we were,
back
at last. Her piano still stood
in
living room, with all our pie
it's top. The kitchen still had
silver spoons she adored.
Pepa
sized brown leather chair still
kitchen. Nothing had changed,
for the fact Gran wasn't there.
Gran, it felt so empty. After
the home, my mom gathered
us
the kitchen and gave us a
he
briefing.
We are going to see Gran
tomo
3pm. The Gran you will see
to
is not the Gran you know.
She
·
and weak. She is confused
and
speak.
If
she doesn't
remember
are, do not take it to heart.
It's
ant you
say
goodbye, for
her
·
come once we leave.
As we got closer to her door,
didn't even want to go in. I was
fied to see her as she was. Yet, I
how desperately I wanted
to
b~
hand one last time. So, I
went
was distant and quiet, only s
up when she needed a scratch.
medicine made her itchy, it
was
to scratch her head and chest.)
had to step out with my aunt, 1











































ther and I alone with Gran to
-
b~roze
, s
uddenly fearful for this
~
1
for what do I say if every
.-0:::
1
•
is important? I pulled a chair
flJ
to
her
s
ide and began to ramble on
-
t everything in my life. I told her
ifJ
U
.
.
t my college experience, sparmg
'1J
U
.
.
_,
detail when it came to my time m
tea
tre-
I told her about how my classes
an
d
how often I wished I was here
,
.,e,
,
~
ding her hand. _My brother sat behind
_,
stoic and afraid, for we both had
at,so
lutely
no idea what to say. I shifted
te
convers
a
tion to my brother, telling
kr
all about his Grad School education.
But,
before I could continue, she softly
•
ttered,
"
Who?" I thought the saddest
prt
of this would be just that, for she
CIOUl
dn
'
t
rec
a
ll who we were. But
,
it
was
the moment that followed that still
lends
chill
s
down my spine
.
I began to
ap
lain
that it was her grandchildren all
te
way
from Connecticut. We drove
10
lours
so we could have another Thanks-
livin
g
right here with her. Before I
CiOUl
d
get lo
s
t in another story, I felt her
-.id
tighten and I looked at her. For
lie
first time since entering the room
,
I
ltall
y
looked into her eyes. Th~t's when
~
the recognition flash across them.
scanned my face and I could
s
ee
•
tear
be
.
'hiat
•
gm
to trickle down her face.
Qac
s
When I knew she understood
lert
tly Who I was and why we were
~
tor the fir
s
t time in her life
,
she
Ille
kn
not car
e
for her grandkids. I think
'-cl
ew u
s
being there meant her time
cornea d. d
lat
1
n
It
estroyed me to know
Was bearer of that news for her. I
squeezed her hand and wiped our tears
.
I don't remember the rest of that visit,
only that once we left, I began to sob
into my mother's arms.
The final time I saw Gran was on
Thanksgiving
.
The moment we walked
in, it was a completely different Gran.
She was aware, alert, and snippy. Im-
mediately she made sure to state,
"Well,
I'm itching and y'all ain
'
t scratching
.
"
God forbid we stop scratching her
head. She didn't stop there, everything
she said held that Connie charm we
all love. Towards the end of the visit,
my mom wiped the tears from her eyes
and smiled,
"This has been our best
visit
.
" Gran looked right at her and said
"
Don't let that go."
In my time of grief, that memory has
stuck with me. It is so easy to dwell
on the end of her life, but that wasn
'
t
who she was. Even two weeks before
her passing, she didn
'
t let the pain take
away her final moments with her family.
Her whole life she spent loving those
around her. From her youth as a nurse to
her last years spent taking care of all her
grandchildren
.
So thank you Cornelia Counts, for being
the rock of our family. For so many
memories that will always make me
smile. For showing me what a strong
and beautiful woman looks like. For
being my grandmother
.
99





100
A New Love
Lorah Murphy '24
I thought I liked it rough and jagged
Thought I loved the way he broke me so good I
Thought that was how love felt
But you are gentle fingertips dipped in water
Smoothing the cracks and ridges of the fourth-grade clay coil pot
of
You are willowy fingers that are satisfying because
they are yours
You are hands that shake as they rest on my cheek and
Hands that fall to the small of my back, to my waist, because
You are not the volcano that levels its path but are
A forge's fire, powerfully cultivated,
Warm and life-giving.














Longing
Madelyn Cyr '25
·
sh I
was the sunrise
I
WI
. I . h I
1·
J'e
W
and certam. WIS
was a Ie
Jul
never was revealed.
f
wish
J
was a woolen mitten
A
mitten that warmed up your ~happed
ffands. I
wish
I
was intelligence,
I
wish
I
was the ideas
That
kept your mind occupied and full
I
wish
I
was the roses
That
were propped up in a vase
J
wish
I
was as innocent, as innocent as me.
I
w
ish
I
was a teacher and students wanted
T
o
learn.
I
wish
I
was the constellations
ftecing
together the night sky.
I
wish
I
was a traffic light, determining
When
you move
.
I
wish
I
was the worry
Sto
ne
that you rubbed your thumbs across.
I
wish
I
was the polished cross
lba
t
you draped across your neck.
I
wish
I
was the verb 'to forgive'
An
d
I
would never fail your trust.
1 W
ish
I
was a Friday night
That
left you feeling speechless.
Iw
ishr
·
h
,
WIS .
101






102
....
Haze
Megan Byrnes '24





























Without Her
Laratee VanNieuwenhuyze '24
)JISpired
by
Doris
from Leon Bridges and Khruangbin's album Texas Moon
As I leaned on the railing of
the
bridge
,
wind screamed all
around
aie,
crying out
to whoever was around
.,
bear it. It
was
only me. The
sky
was
,eeping,
torrential tears being
splayed
out
across
the
ends of the world. Or, at
)east
it
seemed
like that in my mind.
If
tbe
sky here was lamenting the losses
of
the day,
then
would it not be doing
111across
the entirety of its realm?
It
must
have been
..
.
Huffing, I grabbed a ciga-
lffle
from my pocket. Attempting to
i:ign
ignorance to the rain, I place the
cigarette
in my mouth and tried to light
L
First try
,
a
feeble fairy of a flame ap-
peared
but
was
quick to leave. Second
lry,
a
stronger
one, though only frac-
lionally.
It
went
out
shortly
after, not
alive
long
enough
to make the paper
catch.
Okay, once more
...
Not even a
Ttisp.
Drats. It's okay
.. .it's
alright.
..
No
,
it's not.
bin
It
was
a few measly
seconds,
~
1
swear
everything around me
.
ze
.
The
only
thing I felt was an
~nding
tsunami of rage and anguish
1111,
Ut to
crash
down on the shores of
-,
Ill'
lee
Ind
and
I had no sandbags up to
~
Ille
safe
or
any
chance at reaching
IJet
~r ground. Taking a deep breath in,
it come
shattering
down and felt
time progress around me. I
screamed
up towards the empyrean. Or, at least I
think I did. It seemed like I traded time
for sound the moment I expelled what-
ever had welled up inside me. For what
felt to be forever, I
stood
there until my
throat went bare. The air I subsequent-
ly drew brought a welcomed
sting,
for it reminded me that I was indeed
alive, however irritating that fact may
be. Rain had inundated my
shoes,
but I
did not care. Hell, I didn't even notice
the wet softness of my
socks.
I wasn't
feeling anything around me, or on me.
Instead of experiencing the pain inside
my being or the elements of the world
around me, I was just. .. there.
Existing.
Clenching my fists, I took
deep and intermittent breaths. Tears
threatened to spill from my eyes while
I dropped my head to the ground. I
felt the lighter I was still holding dig
into the
skin
of my hand. A brief rage
washed over me as I stared at the bu-
tane-filled canister, throwing it off the
bridge and into the river down below.
The abandoned cigarette
soon
followed
its lover, falling from my lips. Maybe
it's a sign that I
should
do the same.
Reaching into my pocket, I
pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
When did I put this in my pocket, I
103


















104
wonder? Surely it had been a while.
Undoing the haphazard folds that I had
conjured it into, my eyes scanned the
briskly written script. It read:
Darling, please don't cry. Don't curse
the world or those around you because
I won't be there. When the time comes,
promise me you won't even think about
following, no matter how terribly you
wish I was there with you. You prom-
ised me when we started our journey
together that you would try and be a
better man. A real man. Did our time
together teach
y
ou nothing? Please, for
your sake, prove that it did and keep on
going past the end of my time.
I love you
,
my dearest
.
Doris
Doris. My dearest Doris. I had
forgotten. Oh, sick world
,
how could
I have forgotten? The love of my life,
why have you left me? Why have you
forsaken me to a life to be led into
the depths of despair and darkness?
Doris
.
.
.
can I join you where you
are? Would you curse me for eternity
if I did, like Paolo and Francesca are
condemned to do to each other? Would
a real man be able to live with himself
without his other half by his side? Or
would he condemn himself to everlast-
ing regret, yearning for a longer life?
You would curse me, wouldn't
you? I know, I know you would
.
A quiet sob left my throat as
tears raced down my cheeks. A loud
and anguish-filled cry escaped me
as I sank to the sidewalk ground, the
now drenched letter crushed
up
hands. I sat there for ages
,
ha
my body shook, with no one
to see me
.
The streets around
dead and bare. I was alone.
Ob,
utterly alone
.
A bitter reminder
my lover was no longer here.
I should heed her words, take
into consideration. Listen to b
demand of me.
But what if I forget
a
again? I don't want to
continue
a world where I've forgotten
only one that I have ever
truly
dear to my heart.
If
only
that
last time you had closed
your
No, that's wrong.
It
fault. It was just the card
she
in this life, as the loss of
a so
was the card dealt to me.
But
the world continues on, no
hardship one must face or
the
they experience. Including
me.
I will keep going past your ·
did in fact teach me how to
be
man and moving past your
de
must be part of this
.
I love
you,
dearest. Forgive me, and
keep
over me. Be proud of the man
I
will become. I adore you
and
my flower
.
Slowly standing, I ge
the letter back into my
pocket
began my midnight stroll
bac~
to the place she once lived
WI
To the place I
will
co
live without her.












11
0
se
t.
It
nev
er
ro
s
e.
Hi
s
ho
e
s wer
e a
t the door
.
I
neve
r
got
to
say
goodbye.
Ending
s
Kayla Parkes
'
25
Untitled
Kat Cara
v
aggio
'
23








106
the seasons don't change, we do
Troy Lyden
'23
We blamed it on the winds of change blowing from the east,
We decided that to do the most would be to do the least,
To let the current
sweep
us on to wherever we might go,
And that to try and stay and fix it all would just be all for show.
"There
is no reason" you had
said,
"to carry on like this,
Holding on to what we had would just lead us amiss,
When autumn pushes
summer
out, there's nothing you can do,
But watch the leaves fall to the ground and feel the air turn blue."
And so we let each other go, and let the leaves fall down,
And separately we
sat
and watched the dying world turn brown,
My forecast changed from
sun
to clouds, and finally to rain,
And every drop that hit the floor did nigh to numb the pain.
And then a
stronger
wind blew in; a terrifying breeze,
At first it felt refreshing, but then the rain began to freeze,
The alabaster specks of dust stuck fervent to my hair,
And no matter how I tried to shake them off, alas; they're always there.
They're collecting on my temples, soon they'll cover my whole head,
My
skull
will be a glacier by the time that I am dead,
My
skin
is turning white as snow, my eyes are sinking in,
As I long for sun and
sky
and for springtime to begin.
And once I saw you once again, I noticed something
strange,
I noticed that, unlike myself, you didn't really change,
There were no snowflakes on your head, your eyes as bright as old,
While I lived in frost and shivering, you weren't even cold.
And then I realized what was done; then I saw the truth,
I had let the weather change me; I had let it take my youth,
I had swam the floods of autumn instead of cruising on a boat,
I had been facing winter storms without a winter coat.
I had let the cycle take me, I had let it make my life,
I had let the winds control me, let them cut me like a knife,
So I took my hand and waved away the self-oppressive mist,
For it was time for me to break the cycle; time to now resist.
I broke through the overcast with a former, youthful power,
That had sprung up inside of me, reborn, like a Maytime flower,
And so full circle I have come, now with knowledge new:
The fact is that the seasons don't bring change; we do.












Mom Genes
D'Avion Middleton '22
you do not always know what I am feeling,
As
I walk this earth without death,
Without an apron
MY
fear is that I'll have to ride backward-
Into
memory.
I hate memory.
Then I was back in it.
Does the truth matter
When it
'
s floating face up,
Or
face down?
The young woman whose poem it was,
Crashing home from the Labour Club, mad drunk,
As
scar
s
would attach and ride the skin,
Too public, more vulgar than she wished.
Why does everyone want to torture her?
I am her daughter.
This is certain.
Like two angels who are tortured,
That intense affection
For silence and for bathing,
~d dri~k gin slings all day, like real writers do.
Want Viola Davis to save the city in the last scene
: th_a black fist afro pick -
Usie
of hair
~
'
erfume of isolation
'
lOi














108
The holy city.
Beautiful,
who would believe?
Lines Taken From:
Danez Smith "Dinosaurs in the Hood,
"
Frank O Hara "For Grace,
Aft
er
A Party," Charles Baudelaire "Le Vin Des Amants,
"
William Aggeler
"The Wine of Lovers," Tina Chang, "Love," Elizabeth Bishop
"In
the
Waiting Room," D.A. Powell "Passing Through," Stephen Dunn "De-
corum," Lucille Clifton "sorrows," Galway Kinnell "Wait," Paul Farle
y
"Adults
,"
and Marcos Konder Reis,
"
Map.
"
. bO
Luckey Platt /
I
R~n
,
2_.
Nina
B1sco










Envious
Madelyn Cyr '25
WhY
is it what I want, he will never need?
Everything he does, he does for her, but why can't it be me?
t{e finds comfort in the absence of me, yet I continue to proceed.
Like a gatekeeper, she controls you instead.
Dictating and clingy, why can't he see?
Why is it what I want, he will never need?
In
his head, she helps him succeed.
But to me
,
she only expresses what his future's supposed to be
He find
s
platonic comfort without me around, yet I proceed.
He's a diary full of entries, a book I wish I could retrieve.
I
wish I could take back everything he knows, but I've already read.
Why
is it what I want, he will never need?
I've
painted a picture of our hopeless future in my head
Yet, he and I both know deep down that it erased "meant to be".
He
find
s
comfort in the absence of me, yet I proceed.
I contemplate all of my regrets while I lay awake restless in my bed.
He's not mine and that's too difficult to believe.
Why
is it what I want, he will never need?
lie finds comfort in the absence of me, yet I continue to proceed.
109










110
If We Could Do It Over
Vanessa Hasbrouk '25
Pulling into the driveway after my double shift at the hospital
poses a feeling ofrelief throughout my aching body. Putting the car
in
validates the end of my workday. Entering the house confirms to
me
am able to breathe a little slower, talk a little less, and sleep a little
I was so envious that my husband was able to clock out of
work
3-hours before me. Because he had a head start, he would have
his
night routine completed by the time myfeet hit the welcome matt.
years of marriage solidified our daily routine: We wake up, wego to
he comes home, then I come home. Throughout this routine, we
h
even saweach other so I suppose you could categorize us as roo
opposed to spouses.
Every night I made myself the same meal: chicken, brown
rice
roasted asparagus. I am not of the picky species; I could eat the s
over and over and never truly get bored. I think this is why I am
so
fortable in my cyclical marriage; I never get bored in the most
bo ·
circumstances.
I threw my work bag in the foyer along with my sneakers
and
jacket. The generation of an immense yawn reminded me that
it
w
in the morning. Even though I had to go back to work tomorrow,
or
today, I still craved my savory chicken, seasoned brown rice, and
asparagus.
Upon opening the fridge, I saw a styrofoam container that
had
name on it (literally). I grabbed it because of its food-bearing ap
Placing the container on the marble countertop at the center of
the
floor kitchen, I picked up the note personalized with my name.






















M
a
ybe
you
can
go to sleep a little earli
_
er tonight. I know my
chicken
. '
t
as
goo
d
as yours,
but
I
can cook a mean pot of rice
.
15
/l
.
Love,
Rob
Wi
t
h a
slig
ht smile lighting my face, I swallowed my prepared dinner
a
fast
a
s I c
o
uld. Swiftly brushing my teeth, cleaning my face, and climb-
·
ncr
into
bed
,
I thought about tomorrow, or I guess today. I thought about
Ii:,
hoW
we
wo
uld
wake up, we would go to work, he would come home, then
1
would
co
me
home. I thought about how if we could do it over, I would
wa
nt to
b
e s
po
uses instead of roommates.
Triangle
William Casa
'22
111













112
Reliquary
Michaela Ellison-Davidson
'23
He liked to think there
was
no wrong
she
could do.
She drank juice from wine glasses, her black nail polish weeks old,
her hair cut
short
in that boyish fashion he liked.
And when
she spoke she
did it
softly,
the words leaving her mouth in one languid flow of passion- a
soul
like a poet, a
heart
He resented her but nothing she could do made him wish to look away.
So he just kept on looking, even when the looking got hard.
Just kept on reaching for her hand like God reaching for Adam on the
Sistine
He wanted to keep everything between them
sacred,
as if once it left her mouth it was his to hold.
And then one day
she
sat across from him in a crowded cafe,
the coffee between them growing cold.
We've given up so much of ourselves to other people- he remembered her
sayin
but I'm trying my best. I'm trying to still have
something
leftover for you.
And at times he wonders if
she still
thinks of him in her bed
with the sheets pulled over her chest, with the lights off, with the drapes
pulled,
with the moonlight mirroring long tendrils of white along the floorboards.
He wonders these things and his thoughts are futile,
her voice now forgotten, the memory of her a ghostlike apparition in his
dreaJDS.
But there
she
is in small, obscure ways:
a coat in a crowd, a song on
a
radio, a date that is her birthday.
He is reminded of her and in this remembrance he looks for the validation
that
reminded of him.
That his pain is not one
sided,
that he has not been forgotten before he has
forg













Four Melodies
Brooke Millard '25
~
is snowing in October. Feet crunch-
ing on the freshly fallen snow fills the
be3VY
silence
.
My aunt makes her way
IO
the front of the crowd. Shoes scuffle
and
throats clear. I look up at the bright
white
sky and close my eyes, feeling
die
globs of snow nestle in my hair and
eyelashe
s.
I blink away the snow and
rears
and try not to catch sight of the
white
cloth. I inhale sharply when I hear
"He Will Carry You" playing from my
aunt's phone. A symphony of emotions
overwhelms me. My eyes make their
way
around the crowd
;
I've never felt
more in tune with my family. My sister
clutching her camera, swaying to the
dtythrn
with tear filled eyes and white
knuckles
.
My grandma
'
s deep navy hat
fills me
Yiith
sadness as she sits on her walker
111d
stare
s
into the distance. Finally, my
eyes
settle on my grandpa under the
draped
white cloth that is riddled with
dr_oplets of snow
.
The song ends and I
~I
hear his voice as clearly as the day
~echoed beautifully through the chap-
the
When we all came together to praise
ind
~or?: I know he is singing along
1111
hng down at us, wherever he is
.
2.
His hands move carefully as he un-
wraps his present. I watch as he squints
his eyes to read the fine print of the
case
.
The dimple deepens on his cheek,
skimming through the list of our songs
I downloaded onto the CD. He looks
up at me in awe while I avoid his gaze
and shyly insist that it was nothing, a
stupid grin on my face all the same.
And later, when he pops the silver disk
into his newly gifted player, I realize
that I did not fall in love with him for
his singing voice. "Promiscuous
"
be-
gins to play and the harmony between
us is not reflected in our duet as our
off-key voices fill the air. But even as
his voice cracks on the high notes, I
never want this song to end.
3.
Shaky breaths. Pins traveling up my
arms, needles down my legs. I am
alone and the dorm walls are closing
in
.
Anxious feelings build, a crescendo
of emotions that threaten to consume
me. The door opens and my shaky
breaths falter, my tears are wiped away.
I give a meek and awkward,
hi,
to my
roommate and make eye contact with
the red, blotchy-faced girl in the mirror.
I glance at my phone and spot a new
video from Mom:
This is our song! I'm beggin'
,
beggin'
113








114
you, so put your loving hands out,
baby
.
Her voice calms me down and I
smile
.
Decrescendo.
4.
Music keeps us in tune with ourselves.
The multitude of genres are as vast
and deep as our emotions
.
Songs are
attached to core memories
;
melodies
are imbedded within our relationships.
We are the composers of our own lives,
our masterpieces. You don
'
t have to
be a mu
s
ician to realize that music is
crucial for connection. It i
s
personal,
it is universal. The foreground and the
background, the past and the pres-
ent. Long drives with tousled hair
,
windows down and comfort songs
blaring
.
Music is therapy
.
I listen to
music with people I value because I
want them to feel how I feel. I want
them to be taken back to a time in their
live
s
that they cherish. Like how I
remember my mom being there for me
when I transferred schools every time
I hear "Beggin"' on the radio
.
How I
am reminded of my grandpa's strong
presence whenever I listen to
"
He Will
Carry You.
"
The laugh I let out when-
ever I hear "Promiscuous
"
and imagine
it in his voice
,
singing
our hearts out on his seventeenth birth-
day. Everyone deserves to be taken
away by the rhythm, to let the music
of life guide them. Because music is
everything.




Exalted
Megan Byrnes '24
115





















116
Wet Wall Paint
Cassandra Arencibia '24
I am in Fontaine. A building that looks
like utopian paintings
.
The front door
is broken, or maybe it has just been
freshly fixed. Either way, people do
not use the front door, they all shove
themselves into the side door, blocking
the path and grunting at each other like
oxen. They rush to class, some slip-
ping into rooms of fire and ice
,
others
disappearing in the black box, which
looks like it is made of chalkboards. I
am not here for class, so I feel like an
imposter, like I should leave and try to
hide my face from prying eyes.
I vaguely think of ordering some
coffee
,
something iced, and as I dis-
cover the coffee shop is sold out of
iced coffee, a girl bumps into me. She
shoots me a glare, but it looks perfect
on her face
.
Her blonde hair is pin
straight, with smooth brown lowlights
.
She is wearing small gold hoops that
every other girl has, and she is at least
five inches taller than me, maybe more
seeing as I am wearing platforms. Her
glare makes me shrink in on myself.
Facing a wall, I put myself in an imag-
inary dunce cap. I should have apolo-
gized.
The ceiling in Fontaine is falling apart.
The drywall ripped open reminds me
of how a bullet can blow you
aPlrt.
make your flesh and bone look
lilre
ripped out drywall. Blood, or
maybi
water, has made pockets
ofwetnesa
a
the paint. It surprises me how
muc:tr
J
don't know the properties of
Paint
has formed a second skin over
the
Will.
and the water dripping in-
pres
uma1i1,
from the buckets of rain
we've
beea;
getting- has distended the
paint ·
pimples on cheeks.
It looks heavy, and I reach
out,
to see if the sack of water is
soft
touch.
"Hey!" a gruff voice yells at me. I
start, scurrying back. I open
my
and widen my eyes, trying to
de
feoll
myself, but my voice disappears ·
thin air. I take another jerky step
wards, limbs like a rusty puppet.
A maintenance man is striding
t
OWlil
me
.
He is big and burly,
frightenin&
simply because he is experien~
1
different life than me
.
I would be
ID
love with him if he didn't scare
me
ID
much. Perhaps I love him
because
'-
scares me.
"What do you think you're
doing
?"
asks, stopping to scold me. I
shr
head, still unable to speak. He
















anything, and I wish he would just
saY
ak
the silence, cut the tense wire
:t
ha
s
been tightening all the while in
fllY core
.
"Don't touch that. Get to class
,
" he
orders.
"
I don
'
t have class," I squeak out, and
be
frown
s
.
"Then what are you doing?" he asks.
He
has calmed a bit, my mousy nature
confusin
g
him as he straightens up
.
I do not
s
ay anything
,
instead I wave
goodbye
,
regret it, and scurry out the
side
door
,
bumping into another girl
with
pin straight blonde hair and medi-
um sized golden hoops.
It
is no longer pretty outside. A hint of
spring revealed itself the day before in
the
form of a mild 64 degrees, no wind,
and
a shining sun. Now, the bitter cold
dries my uncovered hands, and I slip
and
skid on salt thrown by other main-
tenance men. I wore heels today and
decided to walk around campus.
1 feel like a dumbass
.
1 bundle myself up, fumbling as I try
to
continue holding my tote bag while
shoving my arms into my coat, putting
~
rny
earmuffs without mussing my
ltli
'
and covering my hands with the
tten
s
my mother mailed to me.
I forget about getting coffee, and
in-
stead preoccupy my
s
elf with tonguing
a new tooth in my mouth. An extra
shard has pierced my gums, all the
way back, nuzzled against my wisdom
tooth. I really need to schedule my den-
tist appointment.
117


118
Trapped
Alyssa Borelli '24
Blue green
I want to paint the color on my ceiling
So I can wake up and think of you
Only to ache for you
Come over
One step forward
Twelve steps back
Plagued by confusion
Pulse in my ears
Blood
Heat
Come over again
I was water in your hands
My tears caress my cheek like you used to do
I have so many thoughts that suddenly I have
None
Numb
Ruined
I hate myself for not hating you
Come over again
Talk about it behind closed doors
But I wouldn't come back
Exhausted but
I tasted real
Your plastic love
Over again








fin
g
ers
i
n my hair
I ki
s
sed
each of those fingertips
But
t
hen
they're pressing me down
MY
h
ead
MY
c
hest
MY
h
eart
caged beneath your ribs
Aga
in
Den
ia
l of
use
But
I
was
used to fill your loneliness
I lau
g
h an
d smile
I'm d
ying
all the while
Com
e
ove
r again
Gota de Iluvia
Claudia Molina '23
119






120
Good Songs and How They Make Me Fee)
Sydney Currier '22
1.
Let it Happen - Tame Impala
Listening to you is anxiety. I imagine my
s
elf running through an endless field
.
Th
sky is flashing between every color of the rainbow as I run with a smile on my
raC:
forever and ever. The red, the blue, the green staring down at me flashing but I
keep
running and running away from something that is chasing me. I am not sure
what
1
am running from, but I feel it there. Flowers covering the field in every pink
trying
to
distract me from running but I have to keep running. For seven minutes and
forty-five
seconds to be exact. The colors are an endless rainbow that is making me dizzy
but
to run further and further through the field is the only way to get by. I instantly
hit
a
glass wall. I know the only way ahead is that I will have to climb. I know I'll
make
it; I know not to get distracted but I don't know how I will make it yet. And I
want
to
do it without any help. Suddenly the base drops and I am at the top of the glass
wall.
The ever-changing colors of the sky stop changing ending with the brightest of
blues
and I am overlooking the field of flowers and distractions that once gave me
anxi
cq
but I ran and climbed and made it to the top. And I am satisfied because in that
minutes and forty-five seconds I let it happen and succeeded
.
2
.
Silver Soul - Beach House
Listening to you makes me calm. I imagine that I am floating through water,
wait.
don
'
t think it is water
,
I think it
'
s clouds
.
Tears filling my eyes. But it's not beca
am sad it's because everything is beautiful. Blissful. Calm. Drifting through
the
Breathing slowly. Tears are dropping as rain drops. Fulfillment and happiness,
ft
ing through the sky. Powerful, I feel so powerful and feel so calm. The same
fee ·
one would get floating on their back in the ocean. Letting the waves take compl
control of oneself
.
Still not a care in the world accept to stay floating. Floating
on
a cloud? Floating on water? Would the two-feel different? I often think about
w
floating on a cloud would feel like, but this song reassures me that I can float
on a
cloud and that I can be calm
.
3
.
Can't Take My Eyes off You - Frankie Valli
Listening to you is love. You're just too good to be true. I imagine that I am
w
into a dark cafe on a rainy day
.
With a book and my glasses on. With my glasses
on I still make eye contact with someone, but I can't tell who it is. I make
my
waY
to the counter to order
.
The hot latte which is my favorite steams my glasses.
B~t
I still make am able to see you out of the corner of my eye. Is this love? The
~ust
pours down outside, the buttery music seeps through the cabaret corners as the











f
s
ome
thing
new fills the
air.
Excited for the first time in a while the
smile spreads
~cro
ss
b
oth of
our faces. And I
sip
my coffee.
·
4_
Tiger
Mountain Peasant Song - Fleet Foxes
List
ening
to
you is innocent. I imagine I am on a hike with my
family
like
when
I
was
you
ng.
Growing up next to the Catskill Mountains climbing over
rocks.
The
swe
et
gu
itar.
I am virtuous and pure as I run through the forest. Picking up precious
flow
er's c
uriosity
with every new smell every new view. There is mud
all
over my
whit
e
sho
es,
but it does not matter. Because here nothing matters it will all go
away
with
the b
reeze
of the wind, right? The only thing that matters is my family who is
runn
ing t
hrough
the woods with me and guiding me through and guiding each other
throu
gh.
A
peanut butter and jelly sandwich at the next flat rock and a Gatorade. The
hot
s
un pe
eking
through the cascade of trees towering above a
small
me. A beautiful
note
ends,
and
I am 22
again.
Reflection
Claudia Molina
'23
121




122
Violet
Casey Brown '22
I'm trying to remember,
Sometimes people do
Things you wouldn't expect them to,
In a way that is no mirror of you.
Learning the hard way
Silence is an act of violence, too.
I was safe with you.
There is no other world to choose
Besides one where I am loving you.
A growing vine in my chest
One that will infiltrate my tomb.
You exist in a world of dormancy,
With no sense of reality,
Too young to realize,
The heart that beats inside,
Was greedy to ever be called mine.






Mosaic_S_2022_001
Mosaic_S_2022_002
Mosaic_S_2022_003
Mosaic_S_2022_004
Mosaic_S_2022_005
Mosaic_S_2022_006
Mosaic_S_2022_007
Mosaic_S_2022_008
Mosaic_S_2022_009
Mosaic_S_2022_010
Mosaic_S_2022_011
Mosaic_S_2022_012
Mosaic_S_2022_013
Mosaic_S_2022_014
Mosaic_S_2022_015
Mosaic_S_2022_016
Mosaic_S_2022_017
Mosaic_S_2022_018
Mosaic_S_2022_019
Mosaic_S_2022_020
Mosaic_S_2022_021
Mosaic_S_2022_022
Mosaic_S_2022_023
Mosaic_S_2022_024
Mosaic_S_2022_025
Mosaic_S_2022_026
Mosaic_S_2022_027
Mosaic_S_2022_028
Mosaic_S_2022_029
Mosaic_S_2022_030
Mosaic_S_2022_031
Mosaic_S_2022_032
Mosaic_S_2022_033
Mosaic_S_2022_034
Mosaic_S_2022_035
Mosaic_S_2022_036
Mosaic_S_2022_037
Mosaic_S_2022_038
Mosaic_S_2022_039
Mosaic_S_2022_040
Mosaic_S_2022_041
Mosaic_S_2022_042
Mosaic_S_2022_043
Mosaic_S_2022_044
Mosaic_S_2022_045
Mosaic_S_2022_046
Mosaic_S_2022_047
Mosaic_S_2022_048
Mosaic_S_2022_049
Mosaic_S_2022_050
Mosaic_S_2022_051
Mosaic_S_2022_052
Mosaic_S_2022_053
Mosaic_S_2022_054
Mosaic_S_2022_055
Mosaic_S_2022_056
Mosaic_S_2022_057
Mosaic_S_2022_058
Mosaic_S_2022_059
Mosaic_S_2022_060
Mosaic_S_2022_061
Mosaic_S_2022_062
Mosaic_S_2022_063
Mosaic_S_2022_064
Mosaic_S_2022_065
Mosaic_S_2022_066
Mosaic_S_2022_067
Mosaic_S_2022_068
Mosaic_S_2022_069
Mosaic_S_2022_070
Mosaic_S_2022_071
Mosaic_S_2022_072
Mosaic_S_2022_073
Mosaic_S_2022_074
Mosaic_S_2022_075
Mosaic_S_2022_076
Mosaic_S_2022_077
Mosaic_S_2022_078
Mosaic_S_2022_079
Mosaic_S_2022_080
Mosaic_S_2022_081
Mosaic_S_2022_082
Mosaic_S_2022_083
Mosaic_S_2022_084
Mosaic_S_2022_085
Mosaic_S_2022_086
Mosaic_S_2022_087
Mosaic_S_2022_088
Mosaic_S_2022_089
Mosaic_S_2022_090
Mosaic_S_2022_091
Mosaic_S_2022_092
Mosaic_S_2022_093
Mosaic_S_2022_094
Mosaic_S_2022_095
Mosaic_S_2022_096
Mosaic_S_2022_097
Mosaic_S_2022_098
Mosaic_S_2022_099
Mosaic_S_2022_100
Mosaic_S_2022_101
Mosaic_S_2022_102
Mosaic_S_2022_103
Mosaic_S_2022_104
Mosaic_S_2022_105
Mosaic_S_2022_106
Mosaic_S_2022_107
Mosaic_S_2022_108
Mosaic_S_2022_109
Mosaic_S_2022_110
Mosaic_S_2022_111
Mosaic_S_2022_112
Mosaic_S_2022_113
Mosaic_S_2022_114
Mosaic_S_2022_115
Mosaic_S_2022_116
Mosaic_S_2022_117
Mosaic_S_2022_118
Mosaic_S_2022_119
Mosaic_S_2022_120
Mosaic_S_2022_121
Mosaic_S_2022_122
Mosaic_S_2022_123
Mosaic_S_2022_124