Founded 1971
Spring 2020
Dear Reader,
What is there to say about this semester that hasn’t already been said? From unconventional graduations, to worldwide catastrophe, to much needed social change, we remain awestruck at the endurance and wisdom you—the campus community—provide. If the past few months have proved anything, it is your capacity to lead by example, and we could not be prouder.
This magazine is a celebration of creativity and unity. We would like to thank our wonderful editorial board, the student content creators that make this magazine possible, our faculty adviser Professor Gabriel, and, as always, you our reader.
May you be safe and fulfilled, we’ll see you again in the fall.
—The Editors
Editorial Board
Danielle Harris-Burnett
Alyssa Hawkins
Vera Armstead
Alexandra Utts
Clare Kelley
Shoreline Stepper
by Mollie Rudow
Watch me walk around the water and two inches into it. It is fifty degrees
Farenheight-- not Celcius. That is something I do not understand.
Plus or
minus 3.3 degrees?
Maybe.
Maybe maybe maybe and I will possibly never wrap my
head around a change I should probably understand for watching cooking shows
that are not from the expanse of land I have driven across once
and plan to see the surface of from above when I travel to the coast with the leading
edge and upwelling that makes its water
that I have not yet swam in
frightfully cold.
Now I pause.
A moment to thank the Atlantic for its bluefin tuna
that I ever so love and their football shape spirals that propel them
through the water at a speed I will look up later.
A million loves and
thanks to dorado that might not live to more than three years or will be
eaten as eggs but those that prevail, in part through luck and in other
through instinct,
painting the water with seafoam and vibrant chartreuse
and
splotches of yellow color shows in the sunlight zone.
Blessings to seaweed
and
the sweet protection they offer the little ocean lives and nutrients for
omnivores like the green sea turtle and herbivores
like not me.
Mother Gaia created the oceans and their salt and I am forever in awe and
grateful. I love salt spray and how my hair becomes a brittle birds nest
after I have
sat atop a twin-vee that runs me through it at knots I could not otherwise
reach.
Metric.
Lost on me are kilograms and kilometers but
I will always kiss
the killifish that Rachel Carson writes about and a
50-gallon brackish water
tank in the Bay Room holds safe when there are no eels under its rocks.
Steps steps steps
and little waves sloppily kiss my ankles and sometimes send their drops to
my unshaven legs where they speckle my steppers and roll down to join
their lower friends.
Grains under my soles are the sweet color I would like my
locks to blend into. And little heart flutters when they mix with
the chestnut
that has framed my face since I was learning to stand in surf with waves
that could topple my fragile body.
One time I was learning and the Atlantic
swallowed me up and pummeled me into its benthos that was normally a comfortable home for my raisin feet.
But it took my
hand and gave it a sharp shell and a mark so that I would remember it.
The
heart line that runs through my palm is a testament to the power of that
great body of water vertical and horizontal beyond my own comprehension and the energy that runs through it:
wind made, gravity made,
moon made force untouchable by opposable thumbs.
My best friends have troughs
that aren’t made to hold,
they’re made to carry and topsy turve the paddle board letting me examine
zoos phytos in a
three-foot zone that the light above seeps through.
This Shouldn't Be Happening
by Vera Armstead
*trigger warning for gun violence*
I woke up earlier than my alarm. I was tossing and turning; for some reason I couldn’t sleep. It was 8:32 am. My phone dinged a couple times and I tried to ignore it, but I finally decided to just open my eyes and check the messages.
At first I questioned it. It seemed unreal and I wanted to cry. I wanted to fast forward to the end of the day, believing that would erase the possibility of a gun threat. In reality, there is a threat every single day; every hour.
My old roommate texted me: “I don’t know if you guys have class today but my housemates saw some guy holding a gun like 100% on the path.” What the hell. “So I would stay in your rooms.”
I didn’t want it to be real. I wanted her to be joking, to be playing a trick on me. I asked her if they reported it. “Yes. We called Public Safety and 911.”
Sandy Hook Promise had just released an emotionally-charged commercial depicting tweens being victims of a school shooting five days prior. The day after I watched the video, I had a nightmare about a mass shooting. I was right next to the shooter, seeing the destruction caused. Hundreds were affected. I tried my hardest to defeat the shooter, stealing the gun and firing back, but it was impossible. The shooter was indestructible.
My housemate got the text too, but he was in the shower. As soon as I heard the bathroom door open I launched from my bed and told him to check his messages. Just the year before, a mass shooting happened 7 miles down the road. Was it so improbable that one would happen at my college?
My heart rattled my ribs and constricted my lungs. As soon as someone else knew, it became real. He texted some of our other friends to be safe. “I don’t know what to do.” We whispered in the early morning. My roommate hadn’t woken up yet. We decided to call the Public Safety Officers on campus to reassure ourselves.
“Yeah, we’ve gotte n a lot of calls about this…” The officer was too relaxed. He seemed honestly annoyed about the amount of hoopla over this unconfirmed threat. He said that there were deputies searching the area.
“Should I stay indoors? Or…” I was surprised with how calm I sounded. I assume I was in shock. My anxiety hadn’t taken over yet.
There have been at least 2,235 mass shootings in the United States since Sandy Hook Elementary’s in 2012.
“No. If something happens, we will let the college know immediately.”
Two people I had shared a home with last year saw a man carrying a gun out in the open on campus. Maryland is not an open carry state. I trust their account enough to stay indoors; to preserve my life.
They would let the college know immediately? If something happened? I didn’t want to be out in the open when that something happened.
I started swearing up and down. I’ve never cursed in front of my mother but when she FaceTimed me after I notified her of the situation I was stressed. I felt like the school was trying to keep the whole situation hush hush to preserve a reputation instead of prioritizing the wellbeing of the students, faculty and staff. “In this day in age when schools are being shot up 24/7, this should be considered a threat,” my housemate stated.
I sent my professors an email telling them I wouldn’t be in class that day. I wouldn’t risk it. Thankfully, they were understanding. This was the first word that they heard of the incident.
My father has PTSD from his experience as a marine. He texted me, “glad to hear you are being wise - God provides & protects (psalm 23) & also gives us brains to get away from the fire and the ever-present hurtful few who cause it.” I responded, “Definitely not risking being traumatized or dead over a day of class.”
Hours later Public Safety sent out an email to the college. “I don’t know what this was supposed to do. It doesn’t make me feel better,” my roommate said.
“This morning, at approximately 8:00 a.m., Public Safety received reports from two students witnessing an individual with what appeared to be a silver colored pellet gun in his pocket near the bell tower.”
My roommate became frustrated. “It doesn’t say that anything has been resolved. It doesn’t say that there’s not a threat.”
Our college is 80% white. We joked that the description of the shooter accurately matched my housemate with every characteristic: white, male, thin, short brown hair, 6 feet tall, no facial hair. It seemed impossible to find the real perpetrator.
After reading the email, my mother said it best in a text: “They need to find the fool.”
For the rest of the day we stayed indoors, anxiously awaiting the sound of gunshots.
In America we must choose between staying alive and attending a day of class.
Little Miss if Ignorance was Bliss
by Kyra Smith
Little Miss.
Little Miss.
Being born into a world with such ignorance
Makes you beautiful
That beauty makes those you call “family” forget about
The problems they go through
That ignorance helps you strive on in your mellow
years of chillin’ and rockin in your little onesie with
The dancing bears playing on the screen as
you clap your hands in glee
Life would always be like this, yeah,
wouldn’t that be great?
If only ignorance was bliss.
Little Miss.
Little Miss.
Why do you cry when that boy said you
couldn’t play with him?
He didn’t push you, did he?
Well, don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere
in life after that incident with his own little miss
When you’re older, be careful for men like that, okay?
Don’t cry when your mother yells at you for not being in
that show that makes little misses such as yourself go down
the path of “If my mom thinks this is okay, then it’s okay for me
too,” that’s toxic.
It’s not cute at all
You didn’t ruin anything
She doesn’t understand that dolls and playhouses are
a bore
Sometimes in bed, you wish you were that new born baby
again
Where your ignorance doesn’t cause problems around
you
If only ignorance was bliss
Yeah, if only.
Little Miss.
Little Miss.
The dos and don’ts for a little miss makes you seethe
with such anger
Anger that could match those who knew no matter what you do,
NOTHING will change
Constant “whys?” that come out of your mouth,
the so called “higher” race and “dominant” species
look at you in awe
Like you’re not supposed to speak up for yourself
or others who don’t have a voice to speak out like
you do
“Why can’t I get a job with my hair natural and free, yet
She can come in with hair that screams “ATTENTION! LOOK AT ME!”
“Why do you look at me and want me for my body, but why
can’t I tell you about my day without you ignoring me or telling me
that I’m annoying you to your very soul?”
“Why do you lust after my skin color? Saying “I never
dated an insert color/ ethnicity girl.” Keep it that way.
What changed your preference?”
I think that they get the point Little Miss…
Why is it that…
Growing up to this age, ignorance isn’t cute
Nope.
Not at all.
It makes you less, lesser than your true self
Don’t let people tell you otherwise
Going through the tides, rolling with the punches,
that’s what you were raised to do
That’s how you raised yourself!
Ignorance isn’t bliss anymore little miss
Ignorance, brings consequences that you don’t want to see
But hey…
We all can’t help being ignorant can we?
Little Miss…
Over
by Caitlin Mays
Here I go again, down the spiral that would make even a ballerina dizzy.
As I twirl through my thoughts- each one deeper than the next- I get lost.
I overthink so much I overthink my overthinking.
If my thoughts were a single drop of water I’d have the Pacific ocean filled by noon,
Atlantic by dusk,
And the entire planet by the next morning.
Here I go again, through the maze in my mind that would confuse even Einstein.
There is so much material in my mind that the greatest of authors would be lost in material.
Here I go again, having a never ending conversation with myself.
I am very good at what I do, no doubt about it.
Because believe me, I’ve thought it over.
The Machine Marches On
by Danielle Harris-Burnett
A blanket fog lingers,
choking out those far removed
realities that are better left
untouched.
An engine springs to life.
Above the trees the three-legged beast
blinks its weary artificial eyes
and begins to walk anew.
A rusted metallic hull,
carrying the husks of its crew,
follows orders for a hundred years
with no mind to question why.
A rabbit waits under a log,
paranoid by the shadows
of predators that now are
no more.
A crushed body,
violent red against suffocating gray.
A metal foot that is unknowing
and uncaring for the life it took.
A disruption in order, far removed
from a now silent body.
Nature that never was for itself,
now never will stand again.
A machine that marches onward,
towards a goal long abandoned.
Disappears into the smog
to begin its work anew.
44 S's
by Emma Slyker
the leaves shine from
the steady battering
a slick blanket settles
over the grass
from the heavy silt slithers
a sticky pink body
shaking, stretching, searching
caught in a solid, sloping surface
and scrambling for the soil
from where she came
she swings her damp,
cylindrical body to and fro
seeking shelter from drowning
in the singing storm and the
swooping, stabbing beaks
from above
I wonder if she shudders
as she steers herself
from a screeching toad
who would gladly stuff
her down it's throat
I wish her well
I hope she escapes baking
in the sweet, spring
sun.
Walls
by Taylor Byrd
The ceiling lay wrinkled
and sagged like the sheet of an unmade bed.
The walls were bare
but not smooth,
they ran with veins and bruises.
The room was almost empty.
My shoes on the ground
next to my backpack
next to his suitcase that he hadn’t unpacked yet.
A desk,
a chair,
a bed,
and a white board with a to-do list on it
that said nothing about me.
One window that let in slanted white light
which shadowed the face
that used to look so much softer
and kinder.
His face that was quiet
and still under sleep,
completely unaware that I was awake
and trying to breathe even quieter
so that I wouldn’t wake him up.
It felt like lying next to a stranger.
When he opened his eyes,
I smiled,
but he didn't.
He breathed in and got out of bed
without a word
or a touch
or a glance.
He slipped his shirt on over his head
and left the room.
So I stared at the walls
and wrote a little poem.
When he came back,
my shoes were on my feet
and my backpack was on my back
and his suitcase was still on the ground fully packed.
He really was just a stranger after that.
19
by Kelbey Egerland
Two trees
Gnarled roots break through the brown earth
Anchored forever in one place
One is to the north
One is to the south
I pass through these gates
Of no return
His song echoes through my mind
As i run my hand over the cracked bark
One is me and one is he
Staring forever in opposite directions
Searching for each other always
Looking in the wrong direction
He is a hurricane and i am a moonbeam
He is wild i am light
I pass through this gateway everyday and remind
Myself
Of what it means to fall in love
How there is no return
No going back
No choice
No regret
All you can do is hold on tight
And hope the other person falls
Just as hard
Through the trees of no return.
Reintroduction
by Marie Keller
in the summer
i like to indulge
i want to be outside
in the sun
full
my stomach sitting comfortably
on my thighs
skin suit unzipped
as sun cream sinks
into my shoulder blades
i don’t mind
a little redness on my cheeks
layered across
freckles and pimples and cellulite
because the aloe plant,
inside,
waits for me
its arms reaching out
towards my palms
it lets me have
a squeeze, a taste, a smear
to cool the parts of myself
that have been burned
in the summer
i like to indulge
i want to be outside
in the sun
getting to know myself
again
Sunshine State
Mollie Rudow
Is Florida a real state?
I’ve been there three times but I’ve never
seen any raccoons. And all I hear when I am not
in Florida about Florida is that Florida has raccoons
and Floridian raccoons are not afraid
of venturing their little tippy-tappy paw-pads onto the
peeling painted pale yellow planks
of your porch to root through suburban Amazon packages
and
fish banana peels adorning double-stuffed Oreos from Glad waste bags
tied by loop the loop bunny ears.
Florida what, Florida rumors of
Florida men who naked rake attack their back yard rattlesnakes on a June 12 morning,
and
Florida men who have drunken manatee rides on the nights of September 22nds,
and
Florida Man Puts Dragon Lizard in His Mouth, Smacks People With It on January fives.
Florida, Florida why have you never let me kiss an alligator roadside or
hug an indigenous palm?
I want to defile your wildlife with my curious hands and lips
and I swear to the aboves it isn't that weird,
I want just to embrace experience your
warm water warm air high humidity creatures
With my flip-floppy climate tendrils.
Your men make moonshine loving to manatee mailboxes, Florida.
Florida beaches with Coke cans and vice and beach wrack
from a Gulf, bays and bays, and one big Atlantic.
A Gulf one Atlantic cultures cross to cultivate opportunities
within your foundation and become it,
working hands for your waterlands and water world prisons.
Florida last last February when I landed on your land
I drove a Toyota Tundra into Orlando
and was engulfed by magic vegan or vegetarian eateries,
street art graffiti of
bold men puffing yellow smoke pipes
and primarily color pitbull faces
on the sides of rescues that are not the kill shelters
that speckle your Florida face.
Orlando gave me food poisoning and that is okay;
I will now never eat a black bean burger again.
Florida weather Orlando streets brought me to a weeping willow
with oak moss
and bright blue birds bothering me from above
when I just tried to iPhone picture your
industrial wasteland:
Florida.
Jumble Mumble My Mind Fumbles
by Kyra Smith
I...am one body, With two faces.
Being made with a body that goes left while the mind goes right.
And yet, I’ve been told, “You are not your own; you were bought with a price”.
I was bought with a price?
Was that price sleepless nights, ugly thoughts depressive words that make others onder about my being?
The ability to trust another and to allow them in my circle only to kick them out if they show the slightest inconvenience?
One face, Two face, Red face, Blue face.
One face is Red face.
Two face is Blue face.
Red face is Bitter.
Blue face is Bliss.
Turn to quick and you might miss…
This…
Wake up at 3, the body marked as present while the mind is absent.
Tears flow without a thought.
Take pity on this mind; its thinking of ways to harm those who wronged.
Murderous intent flowing through the veins, the body is frozen as others come near.
Hear those voices speak in your ear, each a different tone,
Louder
Louder
LOUDER
Please Lord, take pity on my bitter soul.
Only 18, feel 80.
The mind is a beautiful being, as I grow, it grows alongside me.
Many things make me question, “Maybe I’m growing up?”
That’s sad.
I’m sad.
Mind on crack but not on the task at hand.
Voices through the dark tunnel and out the side, the light isn’t there.
LALALA I’m not listening!
WHY can’t you take a fucking hint and leave me alone?
Socially dead? Or just plain stupid?
Does mommy not give you enough attention at home so you have to constantly want mine?
Your voice makes me want to commit and jump from that window, yeah, right behind you.
“Gently” telling you to leave my presence but you can’t take a hint.
So stupid!
So dumb!
So annoying!
So...So..SO!!
“I’m fine.”
Told again, “You are not your own; you were bought with a price”.
I was bought with a price?
That price is being blessed.
My jubilance is my being.
Being alive is my vision!
Two face, Blue face, One face, Red face.
Two face is Blue face.
One face is Red face.
Blue face is Bliss.
While Red face is...Bitter...question mark?
Put on a smile.
Eyes stare, take them away.
Laugh with the old, learn with the new.
Music makes the world go round? Listen to the same song on repeat but damn girl, jam on!
Look outside, what do you see?
Swaying trees of green..the breeze visible to the eye…
Birds minding their own like humans do.
A butterfly, wings slowly flap, like a clap!
Large peace, for small beauty.
I fit in, but my puzzle is different.
Tedious jobs while goals sit along the line.
Laugh child. Laugh!
Look at the world, smell the roses.
Purrs against the leg make me rumble with bumbles.
Out that window to see the same view; the street lamp, the car. Wish upon a star to see it change.
Bother others with politics, hear opinions, have ANOTHER laugh child!
Sit, observe, they aren’t you!
Sit, observe, the world continues without them!
Sit, observe, you are you!
Sit.
Sit.
Sit.
A hand in my face makes me jump. Looking I see my brother.
A goofy laugh comes from his mouth
We look alike…
“You good yo?”
My mind jumbles.
“Lolo yeah, just tired..”
I am….me...I think?
Just Sitting Here Not Writing My Paper
by Gracie Balzar
10:00 am
I’ve been sitting here for hours
Thinking about anything and everything else
Should I do my laundry?
Did I turn that light off?
Would making a detailed, colorful schedule help me?
Maybe I should do tax forms?
What should I do for summer vacation in six months?
Everything else except for this darn paper
It isn’t that I don’t want to do it
It’s just I am scared
I don’t know what to write
I don’t know if I am correct
I don’t know if I’ll offend somebody
I don’t know where to begin
I don’t know what my thesis is
I don’t know
12:00 pm
Wow
Two hours passed and all I’ve written is I don’t know about a hundred times
Maybe I shouldn’t have spent all day yesterday watching YouTube videos
Although turtles eating watermelons are just too funny to not watch
Maybe I should’ve started this earlier
Maybe I should make myself a snack
Maybe I can ask my friends if they can help
Yeah I’ll do that
3:00 pm
They didn’t have any help to give
But I found out about a cool concert they’re going to,
How they’re little siblings are essentially stealing their rooms,
And an entire theory about how the Mayan calendar might have been read wrong
Say what you want, but that phone call to my friends was well worth it
Anyway, back to the paper
Ok let’s go, I can knock this out
Gosh this blank screen is hypnotizing me
As if saying, “be as blank as me, be as blank as me”
That stupid cursor just blinking as if it’s that ticking clock sound blasting into my head making me feel every second go by
No, I will not succumb to that terror
I look at the assignment sheet to distract myself
Also, because I’m hoping I got the due date wrong
Nope, midnight tonight
6:00 pm
Now seems like a good time to start.“In Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare, Beatrice and Benedick…
Wait
I didn’t have dinner, can’t skip dinner
8:00 pm
Good dinner, well worth the break.
Four hours before the deadline????
Is someone stealing time??? How rude!!
Ok, time to get serious.
Ok, “Beatrice and Benedick really did like each other despite saying otherwise, you can tell based on their use of…”
11:50 pm,
Ok, paper done
Now all that’s left is to submit it
Wait… what’s my password again?
Shoot… um…. oh right
11:57 pm
Ok, this is so great!
I finished the paper
I feel pretty good about it
I think my teacher is going to like it
Man, what was I so scared about?
Ok, upload the paper
Man, I’m a little…sleepy
Still uploading
Keeping my eyes open has now become a workout
Just have to click… confirm…submission
Then I’ll brush…zzzzzzzzzzz
Rapture
by Kelbey Egerland
i wrap your hands around my neck
Bloody and bruised
i feel rapture in your touch
Your lips find mind
A contract is sealed
Your words skim like rocks
Across my skin
Skipping the surface
i lay back
Consumed with
Despair
Desire
Your eyes following me searching
Caging me and setting me free
With the same heartbeat
My words die on my lips
Slamming a door forever
My breath tears from my
Throat
As i am
Undone.
The Backseat
by Danielle Harris-Burnett
The bridge curves to the will of the fog. That ceaseless nothing that blends me above and below. I do not now know which way is up, or which way I have already traveled by.
Am I dreaming? Or will the road never again embrace the land?
The radio static clings to my skin and bones, weighing me down into my seat. It has not worked since I got on the bridge.
But how long ago was that? I do not believe I was traveling at night—or at least that was not my intention when I crossed over.
I mistook it for the headlights of another car at first. Perhaps not knowing would be safer.
But I have seen it blink. That pearly rainbow eyeshine that flutters through the dark and lands in the reflection of my rear-view mirror.
It shifts in the backseat, formless and uncomfortable in the dark of the car. I know of the creature; and it knows of me. We are equals now, at least in that regard.
But I will not turn around to face it.
The bridge arches his back into the tires of my car, gently pushing upwards before breathing us back down above what I hope is the water.
The creature’s breath is batted with what I dread to be anticipation. It is a raw earthy smell, like dirt after the rain, although without the purity of experience.
Still the earth is blanketed, although I do not now believe there to be anything natural in the fog.
The night is a darkened cloak, wrapping tighter around my eyes. I have forgotten how to breathe around it.
But the fuel tank ticks lower, lower still—
And my wallet is stuck in the backseat of the car, along with the horrible seen unknown—
I dread the artificial blue intrusion of the gas station I think is ahead. But I must believe there is something other than this nothing.
I do not know what will happen when I stop.
Pineapples and Green Apples
by Kyra Smith
Pineapples and Green Apples
One’s an apple and, while one’s not.
One’s sour, while the other is sweet
One with memories I’ve chosen to forget,
while another I wish I had more memories of.
I can’t eat pineapples like I want without my tongue burning.
Its taste leaving a feeling of dread, an uneasy feeling in my stomach―
Days and weeks down the line I watch as the pineapple decays along with the potent smell of its
Used to be wonderful words and gestures turn into a brown mush and black oze of lies and realization of
“I can’t do this anymore...”
Green apples are my wonderful relief.
The sour taste of honesty to make me realize that I should forget about the pineapples
Green apples are the real apples.
It was there along.
Taking the seeds and creating something new, a life of eye widening words and the mouth watering feeling of “I think I love you…”
Pineapples and Green apples―
One my forgotten pleasure and the other my sweet relief.
A Midday Treat
by Marie Keller
at summer camp
i would regularly eat
lunch alone
and i developed the habit
of taking my time
to eat
because more time
eating alone
meant less time
playing or sitting
or being
alone
so
i learned how
to peel my grapes
the big, fat and green ones
so plump they’d snap open
and coat your tongue
slippery, sweet
i’d use my nails to get under
their skins
itching to get to the
inside parts
revealing their veiny
underbellies to the
whiteness of my teeth
today
i want to do the same thing
but to my eyeballs
pluck them out of my skull
and lay them in
the palm of my hand,
peel off their outer layer of
“eyeness”
and get to what’s underneath
i have to sit with my memories
eat them,
digest them,
let them dissolve into my
stomach acid
that is the snack i am craving
a plan
for coping
The Future is Female
by Kelbey Egerland
*trigger warning for mentions of sexual violence*
What does it mean to be a woman?
‘Man’ exists as its root.
What does it mean to be a woman?
Can we be separated from our oppressors?
What does it mean to be a female?
‘Male’ exists as its root.
What does it mean to be female?
Once again, can we be separated from our oppressors?
What does ‘man-kind’ mean?
History, for the most part, is written by men.
What does ‘man-kind’ mean?
Why not woman-kind?
Why are women good enough for men to
Bear children,
Rape,
Murder,
Cook,
Clean,
Be submissive,
But women are not good enough for men to
Represent humans (even that word has ‘man’ in it),
Be educated,
Be CEOs,
Be representatives,
Be President.
Why can’t women represent our interests and needs
As well as,
If not better than,
Men?
The Ugly Truth About Life
by Kyra Smith
Life isn’t all about beauty.
“We” look at beauty like its abstract.
See what you want, pick it apart like a pomegranate, choose the seed you like then eat it.
Let the juices fill you mouth and savor the rich flavor─
The flavor of the vast world that’s for you to explore and take up the
Distant view of the sea, the sky, and the creatures that make the ugly world seem….
Life isn’t all about beauty.
Most can’t stand the sitting of watching life bring out life.
Blood pouring out of the most sacred part of the body that gets called many things
But beautiful.
Screams and pants of “I can’t do it!”
The classic, “GET THIS THING OUT OF MY BODY!”
Or the shaky whispers of “I’m scared..”
Squeezing muscles, dark faces with encouraging smiles and praise
Only to see strangers through the squinted eyes of pain.
Crowds of old and young surrounding the one body who is only capable of letting this
Gift come into the world─
“Where? Where’s my baby?”
A mess was left to provide a story of its own:
To sustain pain
Letting their guard down to look weak
Sacrificing her own beauty to bring out the new beauty into the new world
A violent cry rings through the air as well as the soft whimpers of one
Holding the crying.
A kiss on its slimy head doesn’t matter to them
Just the little life that was born.
The Space In-Between
by Taylor Byrd
There was a space above our tiny town, which was nestled into the valley of two mountains. The space was normally blue, and it was normally empty, aside from the clouds and the sun. At night it was normally black, and it was normally empty, aside from the moon and the stars. The space was occasionally occupied, and it really was oh so occasionally, but Joy’s favorite times to see it filled were during the in-between of the blue and the black.
Everyone had their favorite times to watch the sky be occupied. Joy loved the in-between of the fall. When the sun set in the autumn, the sky was just unbelievably tempting. She couldn’t quite describe it well enough, so she always insisted that it was just something you had to see. The light perfectly turned the right color of amber, so that it looked like melted butter on the topside of a pancake. When she and I used to look up into the glow, she would point out the silver metal butterflies that were to be were seen overhead, pushing through the sky on the wind.
In the fall evenings, after school, Joy would religiously hike up the mountains. Her hair was always tied tightly into a ponytail and secured with a navy ribbon that looked harsh against her light hair. When we got to the top, or wherever Joy felt like stopping, we turned to look out at the town. The toy doll version of our town, where if you squinted hard enough, you might be able to see a tiny hand waving from one of the windows. That was too close for Joy. It was all just a little too close. Occasionally, the sky would become occupied while we happened to be looking out at all that closeness, and Joy would smile up at the plane. It would roar into the emptiness and fill it with sound and glint in the sun. Anyone who was lucky enough to watch her see the planes would have seen that the lightbulb within her heart was illuminated and burned bright. She wanted to be a pilot.
So on these occasions when we stood up in the mountains and the planes flew overhead, Joy would become a plane too. She would take off, racing down through the trees to feel the rush beneath her outstretched arms. She ran with the plane; two lone figures moving together now. As Joy’s legs pumped to keep up, she would raise her own hands to feel the familiar push back of air against her palm, and it slipped fast and cold between her fingers. She would run, and run, and run until she hit the town. Too close now, and bigger than she was, reminding her that she wasn't a plane. She wasn't even a pilot. She wished it was real, and she knew that it wasn't. It never was. She never would stop wishing, though. It was what she wanted: to get into a real plane, or a helicopter or a rocket for all she cared, and fly away.