Sitting at the counter of a
someone once told me,
“A man knows where he is from
when he knows where he wants to be buried.”
And maybe married?
Parry the blow.
I know my spot already:
On this cliff’s deep green
Looking out to sea, to see
the curved horizon proving the world not flat,
with some sharp stones to dig into my back.
Sow my soul in some rugged red soil.
But patience, please.
I’d like more time.
Fifty, sixty, seventy years more.
Then I’ll take my
six foot box: a foot for every fifteen years.
I was going to write separate letters to space and to time but someone told me that your addresses were the same. I have never written to you. You don’t really know me. My role in your grand existence is that I cause little distortions. Very tiny distortions. In the spacetime where I exist, I am always told to believe that everyone starts by creating equal distortions. Equally little, or equally large. They bend you, stretch you, causing you to spiral in towards or away from them. That has been my existence so far: Being pulled and, on occasion, pulling others. But I also get pushed and sometimes nothing happens at all. It is all in your fabric.
Both on our campus and in the national news, “rape culture” has become a recent buzzword, catapulted into the forefront of our thoughts and conversations. When reading news articles, it’s easy to feel enraged about Donald Trump and “pussygate,” or fume over Brock Turner’s grossly expedited jail sentence and marvel at how anyone might question the integrity of his victim. And while these are unquestionably serious—and awful—examples of the prevalence of rape culture and minimization of sexual assault that pervades our country, they can sometimes distract us from how we conduct ourselves in everyday life. Peel your eyes away from the headlines for a few moments, and it becomes evident just how insidious rape culture is, how it’s not merely possible but also likely that ordinary, well-meaning people will become complicit in perpetuating a society that’s hostile to survivors of assault, and to women in general. Continue reading Asking For It (Review by Sara Schulwolf ’17)
Look where I am, Ma
A sunset soul wandering
Transplanted, like a heart
This isn’t anything like home, Ma Continue reading Look by Heather Brennan 20
‘You shut your fucking mouth Travers,’ he says, but not angrily or loudly, he says it firmly and resolutely and self-assuredly, even repeating, in a low, nodding murmur to himself, ‘you shut your fucking mouth.’ No one over the age of twenty-two has made eye contact in what seems like years. Continue reading Time’s Fool by Logan Seymour ’19E
so gather up the dust
that dwells below bed,
the real stuff of dreams; Continue reading Day-breaks by René Kooiker ’18
He howled against the stupidity of paper walls.
Letters never swelled with lips or chest,
Like a mind wholly mind, perching
Its gooey wings; but still its shit
Hit hard ground, hardly a ground
That was mine to understand,
Although inhuman, always of the world.
In this star-spangled, god fearing country the orange-clad are granted a final meal before they’re offed. Continue reading Cherry Pie by Gabby Edzie ’17