Fall 2020

Editorial Board

The Witch and the White Stone Grave

by Danielle Harris-Burnett

Nine and ten long summers ago,

when the day was clear and light,

in the brink of the wistful unknown,

within a small copse of pine trees,

I happened upon a grim sight.

Of a specter resting upon a white stone,

half eaten by the hungry mouth of the earth.

The old hag took notice of my face

and let out a crow of mirth.

“Fiend!” cried I,

“Away from this hallowed place!”

“Fiend?” hollered the hag.

“Thou be mistaken if ye think me so,

my soul was chained to this cursed stone

nine and ten long winters ago.

Hear me clear before thee hath flown,

the sins of thy forefathers thou must atone.

For upon this very rock, as thou may see,

nine and ten long winters ago,

thy own kin caused the death of me!

The crops had bowed over to Hades that year

and in the town, there was talk of witches.

Ah how I wish the root of wickedness was that simple.

Men will talk themselves in circles, see,

to excuse their self-inflicted lack of riches.

I lived alone at the end of town,

and was awoken one night by cries of fear.

To my home my neighbors set a roaring fire

and chanted maliciously, “back to hell with ye, Moll Dyer!”

Fearful, I stole away into the woods

as the evening glossed in a winter storm.

From behind I heard a cry like thunder,

thine forefathers had come in an angry swarm.

And so, I ran, into the deep haven of the thicket

and the brink of the treacherous unknown.

I felt myself worn down to the bone

and in the center of the woods, unaware,

I collapsed upon that dreaded white stone.

I did not wake to see the morning star

but instead found my own funeral pyre,

my neighbors gathered round with the savage cry,

“Rejoice the final fall of the witch Moll Dyer!”

My body had frozen stiff in the night

they had decided to do away with the evidence.

I was trapped, dead with no proper funeral right.

I felt my heart flutter, still stiff from the cold

and I cursed that mock grave, to cause them pain tenfold

Now I wait, inside the rock, until again I am free

I dream of seraphim with fiery tongue and heavenly steed,

to enact their vengeance in love of poor me!

But Death has one truth, that The Creator is gone,

if they cared they would have let me see the dawn,

or embraced me softly in my moment of need ...

And so, brave wanderer, before thou depart

could you complete a simple task

to heal an abandoned old maid’s heart?”

“Surely,” said I,

“What need do you have of me?”

“Nine and ten long winters from now,

remember always that thy kin will be grieving

and know thy death will carry a terrible price.

Eventually the epitaph will bear no meaning

and be nonsense eternal in stone.

Thy ancestors made their legacy their vice,

And for their crimes thou must atone.

Live fully and kindly, careful woodland wanderer,

and know thy pain and joy will be left as they were.”

With that, the accused witch departed

from sight and her long-forgotten grave.

I sobbed, miserable that my own kin could be so hollow hearted,

yet as I went back along the path, I swore the trees did wave

To this day I like to think I fulfill her request

and now dear Moll Dyer’s soul can finally find rest.

See, from time to time I’ll venture to that same pine grove,

to the brink and back of the wistful unknown,

and happen upon a peaceful white dog slumbering upon the aging stone.

Les feuilles d’automne

by Maggie NeuMan

Les feuilles d’automne volent doucement à la terre,
Petits confettis pour la nouvelle saison.
Le soleil les enflamme, les dore de rayons,
Orange et pourpre brûlants, l’ambre chaud dans l’air.
L'été retire ses longues journées, ridé et fier,
Maintenant il observe de sous son chapeau en haillons
Les feuilles d’automne volent doucement à la terre,
Petits confettis pour la nouvelle saison.
Il sait bien que les doux jours deviennent amers,
Quand le froid mordant nous lie à la maison
Rien ne dure éternellement, et c’est pour cette raison
Que nous sourions lorsque, par temps clair,
Les feuilles d’automne volent doucement à la terre.

Autumn leaves

by Maggie NeuMan

Autumn leaves gently fly to the ground,
Small confetti for the new season.
The sun sets them alight, gilds them with rays,
Burning orange and crimson, hot amber in the air.
Summer withdraws its long days, wrinkled and proud,
Now he watches from under his ragged hat
Autumn leaves gently fly to the ground,
Small confetti for the new season.
He knows well that the sweet days turn bitter,
When the biting cold binds us at home
Nothing lasts forever, and that's why
That we smile when, on a clear day,
Autumn leaves gently fly to the earth.

A Realization That Sparked A Period of Personal Growth: I Am Going To Be Exactly Like My Mom

by Maggie Neuman

Some people think that my mom is crazy. Sometimes even I think my mom is crazy. Or a witch. It’s hard to deny when she reads spell books, keeps entire rooms full of plants, and goes to
the mall in search of earthing shoes. And this is why it was slightly concerning when I started to
be told that I not only looked, but acted in ways identical to her when I began high school.
The first time someone told my mom and me that we looked alike, I was really taken aback. It shouldn’t have been weird to hear that I looked like her— she was my mom— but somehow it was. No one had ever said it before, and I had never really considered it. But we both
have golden-blond hair, the same ball-tipped nose, and are round-faced, gray-eyed, and thin-lipped. We even shared the same wide ankles she lovingly bestowed upon me. I was told of
our similar features, and then I heard it some more, and finally, I agreed and forgot about it. But as I matured, and grew more into myself and my personality, people saw the resemblance in our characters, too. My dad made fun of me for it. Once when my parents and I were discussing how to improve my SAT scores, and we were going over tutoring options. “Okay well it looks like we
can get you a personal tutor to work with you one-on-one, or sign you up for a group-type-thing
with a couple of tutors and more kids,” my dad explained. “The group,” I told him. “I don’t want a strange person I don’t even know sitting right next to me and breathing down my neck while
teaching me testing strategies.” He laughed in a sage type of way, then said “You are just like your mother.” I never did see what was funny about my response, but I admit that my mom
wouldn’t be caught dead doing something like one-on-one tutoring.
I started to worry about this being-like-my-mom problem, because nobody wants to become their parents when they grow up. It’s the golden rule of youth— “Whatever you do, don’t become your parents!” And not only that, but there were some traits about her that I wasn’t
sure I wanted to acquire— that is, if I hadn’t already. My mom was kind, of course, but also
wasn’t to be messed with. She was infamous for slamming the door in solicitors’ faces (can you
really blame her, though?) and voicing her complaints to the Verizon representatives on the
phone when they upped the bill for no reason (again, can you?). I thought that if I was like that, I
might come off as rude to a lot of people as a first impression. Obviously I knew that she wasn’t
rude, but if that’s the only side one saw of her, I could see where they would get that impression.
My mom also had some quirks. She pronounced certain words incorrectly, and used some unique
phrases— and no, she is not foreign. She pronounced turmeric tuh-MAIRE-ic, era like error, and
height as if it ended with a th. Whenever it rained really heavily, she would say, “It’s pouring the
rain out there!” and if we went the long way to get somewhere, she often said, “We went around
Robin Hood’s barn to get there.” I used to point out whenever she pronounced something
strangely and tell her what it was supposed to sound like, but my efforts were hardly fruitful.
Another quirk of hers was her hoarding of (or accumulation of, if I’m being gentle) plants. My
mom is not only my mother, but the mother of countless photosynthetic youngsters, and she must
move her second family inside when winter approaches. But for my benefit, the living room always becomes the most luscious indoor jungle in the winter. English ivy would drip down from
hanging baskets like sultry lace, miniature palms fanned themselves out in large clay pots, and
cute cacti sat with flowers in their hair as if posing for a school portrait. I loved that scene. In
addition to these quirks, my mom also was extremely spiritual, one might say; a firm believer in
natural healing, and things like chakras and negative ions. She quite possibly is a witch. I
remember one cold winter night hearing the thud, thud, thud, thud of my mom’s feet bolting up
the four steps of our front porch before I could see them. The door swung open like it was
gesturing for me to slip out into the frosty night, and soon followed the duck of my mom’s head
inside with a toothy grin. “Maggie, you have to see this full moon,” she said. “It’s emitting some
crazy negative ions.” I joined her in the snow, and stared up at the fat wheel of swiss cheese in
the darkness, craters and all. “Can’t you just feel all that energy in your bones?’ she asked me.
The only thing I could feel was frostbite forming in my left foot, but I remember wishing I could
feel whatever she had been, because then I might have had a smile as wide and as beaming as
hers was that night.
What was I to do with all of these unwanted character traits I would inevitably collect
from my mom? Each time I mulled over what I could do about it, I kept returning to the same
dead end: There is nothing to do about it. This is out of my control. I also found, each time I
began worrying about this problem, that I would become inflated like a birthday party bouncy
house with happy reminders of the unique person my mom is, and why I loved all of those funny
things about her more than I disliked them. I loved that she was firm with the solicitors— she
was never pushed around and could always stand up for herself when she needed to. I loved that
she pronounced words differently— it always made for a good laugh. I loved that she had so many plants in the living room— who can’t appreciate an indoor jungle in the dead of winter?
And I loved that my mom was so openly spiritual and untouched by others’ judgement of it —
she had the kind of natural devotion to the earth I could only dream of having one day. On
Mother’s Day this year, I gave my mom a card with a picture of several potted plants on the
front, after I came to my conclusion. It read, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! I know that I may be
even more obsessed with plants than you are now, but this card still made me think of you.
Thank you for always being there and for listening in my darkest times. I’m starting to like the
idea that I am exactly like you, because I wouldn’t want to be exactly like anyone else. I love
you, Maggie.”

Lost Girl

by Alexandra Efron

Little Lost Girl
What are you doing, so late at night?
Face so fine
You carved your eyes out of glass.
You’re just a puzzle
Waiting to be solved
Come here.
Come here, little girl.
Let me tell you
Let me show you
Let me pull open your wooden mouth
And tear out the key.

Headlights

Danielle Harris Burnett

Must All

by Morgan Thomas

Must All Rivers
Flow, fade, and die?
All that remain
Are cracks, snake's paths slovenly curved,
Etched into the Earth,
Wrinkles worn on God's face.
Then must all the reservoirs of ours
Flow, fade, and dry?
For when they do,
Our parched lips tremble
As all that nourishes crumbles to dust,
Just as I.
Must all oceans
Course, fade, and dry?
Push and pull for only a millenia times a millenia times a millenia,
But before they dry, before they dry
All the human race has crossed the path to die.
Must all rivers flow and fade as I?

The Hive Consumes

by Danielle Harris-Burnett

They crawl

Through the open wounds

Of the house

And builds a fleshy home

Above the high window

Of my bedroom.

There are more now,

Humming as they make their way

Further down my throat

In search of nectar.

Their bellies are never full.

They swarm to the window,

Coming to rest on the golden spines

Of my small garden.

Was there ever an outside?

Or is this small place,

Now the sum of my universe?

I drink deep their honey

Allowing it to solidify

As it stretches my throat.

They come closer now,

Weaving me into hexagonic patterns

Until I can no longer remember

What it was like

To be alone in my own body.

The queen squeezes her way out

Of the old hive

And slams her weary body

Against the thin sheet of glass

Attempting to break

The prison we all made.

It is like rain,

Tapping its fingers

On the glass,

But she is dead by morning,

Resting in the shade

Of a now overgrown window garden.

But there is a humming in my chest,

As the hive begins life anew,

In a smaller world

Without any air.

The Hive

Danielle Harris-Burnett

what we gained: a window into the post-covid world

Angelie Roche

even months later, we pause

before embracing. we are wary

of one another: the hurt we might carry,

the pain we could give.

it’s difficult to close the distance now,

to get in our cars and drive forward

into a changing world;

to start again. what

have we gained? we wasted so many months

of warmth, lying awake in our beds,

letting feelings become stagnant. we thought

about each other. about ourselves. and

when our loves expired, we left them

sitting out in our front lawns. we watched them

decompose from our windows. we let it go on

for too long: always inside, looking out.

we thought this was a way to live, a way

to keep ourselves safe, away

from connection. We shielded our hearts, wrapped

our mouths, afraid to breathe other air: what

have we gained? we implore of our

cat, who seems to shrug, stretched in the sun.

our empty words bounce off disinfected surfaces

& find their way back to us.

they always find their way back - & so do

our loves. maybe in different forms, through text

or email or carefully penned letter. maybe from

different people. like stray pets, ragged & hungry,

they arrive for us, just as we’re wondering

if we’ll ever get back what we had before, realizing

We never asked for what we needed, exchanging peace

for a lifetime of trivialities.

love, then, was the question -

the answer, it seemed, was pawing gently

at our front doors, waiting

to be let in.