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Echoes Fall 2010 Issue
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echoes ( )
echoes ( )
Winter2010-2011
StaffEditors-‐in-‐Chief
Caroline� Blehart� &� Kari� Putterman
Layout� Editor
Kate� Welsh
Assistant� Layout� Editors
Phoebe� BrosnanLauren� Harvey
Treasurer
Elizabeth� Keene
Managing� Editor
Abigail� Arnold
Head� Copy� Editor
Elizabeth� Keene
Copy� Editors
Abigail� ArnoldCecille� de� Laurentis
Carly� SilverTara� Sonin
Angela� Wang
Publicity� Directors
Rachel� HowardTara� Sonin
Echoes� is� a� general� literary� magazine� that� fosters� the� free� expression� of� the� Barnard� College� and� Columbia� University�
communities� through� poetry,� prose� and� artwork.�
Sponsored� in� part� by� the� Arts� Initiative� at� Columbia� University.� � This� funding� is� made� possible� through� a� generous� gift� from� the�
Gatsby� Charitable� Foundation.
Table of ContentsWriting
Anne� Brink,� Brighton� BeachJoanna� Barnett,� I� Am� Never� Jealous
Nicollette� Barsamian,� Glose� on� Lorca’s� “Dawn”
Tara� Sonin,� Towards� Thee� I� RollAbigail� Arnold,� Nights� at� Kilroy’sJoyce� Ng,� Brutal� Little� TextAndrew� Hamilton,� Akrasia� ForestChelsea� McGettigan,� Leer� Bolaño� in� Translation� (inglés)Chelsea� McGettigan,� To� read� Bolaño� en� traducción� (Spanish)Nico� Gurian,� CrossoverMikhaela� Mahoney,� The� Argument
Tara� Sonin,� They� Took� Dinah� From� the� House� of� Shechem�
Sam� Johnson,� UntitledKate� Welsh,� Between� Dinner� and� the� ShowKatie� McNeirney,� AllegoryRebecca� Gray,� to� saw� a� thought� and� take
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ArtBarrie� Sterling,� UntitledBarrie� Sterling,� UntitledAllyza� Lustig,� Jujuy,� ArgentinaBarrie� Sterling,� UntitledShaowei� Wang,� Cold� RadianceAllyza� Lustig,� Mandril
2615283336
Cover� Art:� Barrie� Sterling,� Untitled
Echoes� is� a� general� literary� magazine� that� fosters� the� free� expression� of� the� Barnard� College� and� Columbia� University�
communities� through� poetry,� prose� and� artwork.�
1
Brighton Beachby Anne Brink
I� have� memories
eyes� up� and� hands� open� to� the� skyto� see� the� world� in� a� picture� frame,hungry� for� light.Night’s� dreams� worn� black� and� smooth,cloaks� obscuring� us� in� shadow
tears� of� gold� and� orangeas� we� waited� for� the� future� to� come.Above� the� beach� we� saw� the� lift-‐bridge� riseover� the� deepest� part� of� the� bayand� touch� the� hillswhere� my� mother� still,� satarms� folded� around� her� sides.We� will� be� back� she� said.We� can� pack� the� future� in� a� box� and� eat� it� for� lunch� tomorrowif� you� want� with� tears� and� gold� and� lightweighing� heavy� in� our� pocketsstill� hungry� for� the� future.
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Caroline Framed
by Barrie Sterling
3
I Am Never Jealousby Joanna Barnett
Smothered� scientists� in� sulfurand� got� a� museum� erected� to� her� furyWith� nonstop� footage� of� her� temperShowing� every� hikerThat� she� can� drop� them
Faster� than� June� can
Rita� got� there� three� weeks� too� lateAnything� Louis� had� was� waterloggedHis� bulldog� lying� slack-‐jawed� outside� VersaillesMartyred� and� Canonized� on� the� AstroTurfBut� she� rammed� SamSo� someone� might� remember
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Glose on Lorca’s “Dawn”by Nicolette Barsamian
� Those� who� go� out� early� know� in� their� bones� there� will� be� no� paradise� or� loves� that� bloom� and� die:� they� know� they� will� be� mired� in� numbers� and� laws,� in� mindless� games,� in� fruitless� labors.� � � � � -‐� Frederico� Garcia� Lorca,� “Dawn”
Yellow� as� yellow’s� thistle,red� rearranges� the� roar� in� your� eyes.New� York� (Nueva� York)� awakes� and� rollsyellow,� red,� orange� from� the� skiesas� the� whispering� mires� of� black� billow� their� way� backto� recapture� the� bits� of� the� night.� (Those� who� go� out� early� know� in� their� bones)
Lost� connections� on� the� subway� platform,girls� gone� from� green� to� grey.� The� mud� splatters� your� white� Sambas,your� Venti� Iced� Mochaccino� now� lives� in� the� drain.The� promise� of� pulchritude� still� festers,
(There� will� be� no� paradise� or� loves� that� bloom� and� die)
“Do� Not� Block� the� Box!”� blasts� and� blows� as� you� sigh.
� � � � � � � transportals1,2,3� approaching� Penn� Station,� 4,5,6� has� arrived� at� Canal� Street$11.26:� daily� pack� of� heart� attack,� $9.95:� wholesome� panini.Scarlet� Louboutin� pumps� can’t� pull� out� of� Big� Red� Juicy� (gum)� stuck� to� the� street.(They� know� they� will� be� mired� in� numbers� and� laws)
There� are� some� sanctimonious� souls� who� still� hope,
These� Streets� Will� Make� You� Feel� Brand� New/� Big� Lights� Will� � � � � � � � � Inspire� YouI� Want� to� Wake� Up� in� a� City� That� Doesn’t� Sleep� /� If� I� Can� Make� It� � � � � � � � � � � There,I’ll� Make� it� Anywhere,� New� York,� New� York,� New� York
It’s� a� hard� knock� life.(in� mindless� games,� in� fruitless� labors)
5
Towards Thee I Rollby Tara Sonin
Come� hell� or� high� water,� Ahab� is� in� the� distance.Our� odyssey� rests� on� a� chewed-‐up� leg:His,� chump� change� for� whales–Mine,� I� tried� to� barter� for� love.� On� shore,� he� is� waving� a� prosthetic� he� built,cut� from� the� marbled� body� of� a� catalpa� tree� infested� with� � � � � � � � � � � � � worms� in� the� backyard� of� my� hallucinatory� childhood� home.There� must� have� been� millions� of� them:worms� weeping� from� the� carcass� of� the� rotted� limb,� splinter-‐� � � � � � � ridden,� in� Ahab’s� anchored� hand�
He� picks� it� up.� I� have� seen� that� look� before:How� many� worms� for� a� whale?A� round,� white� sun� holds� his� gaze� before� disappearing� into� ocean� thunder.I� can� see� how� far� those� ripples� descend� and� question� turning� � � � � � � � back:� for� unlike� my� love,� I� am� unprepared� to� lose� limbs� by� chasing� worms
Just� when� I� think� he� is� lost,� crisscrossed� in� time,buried� underneath� a� foamy� break,He� looks� up!� I� am� caught� at� last.Towards� thee� I� roll,� he� growls—zealot,� with� an� obvious� intent—� Stuck,� teetering� in� the� wooden� boat,� I� am� thinking:Is� there� something� wrong� with� me?�
Still,� I� keep� reaching� into� the� deep.� Following.
When� I� reach� the� shore—not� a� whale� or� a� worm,� but� a� tangible� being—� my� feet� touch� dry� land,� I� am� gripped� by� sandpaper� hands,� and� I� wonder� if� he� will� ever� understand� me� Or� if� we� will� forever� be� slaves� to� phantoms.
6
by Barrie Sterling
7
Nights At Kilroy’sby Abigail Arnold
by� color.� � She� put� the� brown� ones� on� the� top� shelf� and� lined� up� the� blue� ones� in� the� middle.� The� grey� ones� were� really� getting� too� chipped� to� give� to� the� customers,� so� she� put� them� aside� to� take� up� to� her� apartment.� They� would� make� good� planters� for� pansies.� Sasha� always� arranged� and� cleaned� up� around� eleven,� a� slow� time� at� Kilroy’s� Diner.� It� made� it� easier� to� keep� everything� under�
excited� and� (she� saw� it� clearly� now)� completely� clueless.� � She’d� never� washed� any� of� the� dishes,� and� the� sticky� things� had� all� piled� up� in�
the� last� remnants� of� pie� had� begun� to� mix,� and� she’d� nearly� gone� mad.� She� supposed� that� she� tended� to� overcompensate� a� little� to� avoid� things� of� that� sort� happening� again.� � � Sasha� usually� had� everything� in� order� by� midnight,� when� she� switched� shifts� with� her� daughter� Anna.� If� Sasha� had� had� her�
She� had� wanted� Anna� to� get� a� job� worthy� of� her� good� education,� but� Anna� had� insisted� that� Sasha� needed� her.� “I’ll� have� a� chance� some� other� time,”� she� had� said,� tossing� her� head� and� reaching� over� Sasha� to� grab� a� slice� of� warm� chocolate� cake� à� la� mode.� Even� though� she� didn’t� want� to� tie� Anna� down,� Sasha� was� glad� to� have� her� there.� The� customers� liked� Anna,� with� her� frequent� smiles� and� jokes.� An� elder-‐ly� customer� had� once� told� Sasha� that� Anna� made� the� days� brighter,� which� Sasha� had� thought� an� excellent� way� of� putting� it.� Besides,� the� diner� wouldn’t� have� been� a� family� concern� if� Sasha� had� been� there� alone,� with� Anna� gone� and� Sam,� Sasha’s� husband,� dead� for� the� past� ten� years.� � On� this� night,� the� usual� customers� were� there.� At� a� table� in� the� front� sat� John� Buchanan,� the� policeman,� who� always� drank� at�
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and� fascinated� Sasha.� She� watched� him� narrowly,� admiring� the� perfect� way� he� balanced� them,� noting� the� precise� movements� of� his� large� hands,� and� praying� to� God� that� he� wouldn’t� make� a� false� move.� Across� from� John� sat� Loretta� Martin,� who� was� frankly� Sasha’s� least� favorite� customer.� She� had� once� slapped� Ted� Stevens,� a� hospital� clown� who� left� generous� tips,� and� he� hadn’t� come� to� the� diner� since.� Loretta� herself� never� tipped,� and� she� sat� there� for� several� hours� nursing� the� same� tiny� cup� of� tea.� It� was� contrary� to� the� spirit� of� being� a� regular� customer.� “Hey,� Sasha,”� said� John.� “I’ve� got� to� be� going� now.� See� you� later,� beautiful.”� He� waved� to� the� two� women.� Sasha� gave� John� a� half� smile� and� vigorously� scrubbed� a� plate� with� a� stubborn� stain� as� he� set� out� into� the� rainy� night.� � � “You� going� to� head� out� too,� Loretta?”� Sasha� asked� hopefully.� � � “Oh,� I� don’t� think� so,”� said� Loretta,� dumping� about� half� the� sugar� bowl� into� her� cup.� Sasha� made� a� mental� note� to� buy� more� sugar.� Loretta� stirred� the� sugar� into� the� tea� with� one� skinny� hand,� twisting� an� unnaturally� bright� red� curl� with� the� other.� “That� John� sure� is� good� looking,� isn’t� he?”� “I� suppose,”� Sasha� replied� vaguely.� Just� then,� Anna� burst� in� from� their� apartment.� She� plopped� herself� down� on� an� empty� stool� at� the� counter,� swept� her� brown� hair�
Hi,� Loretta.”� “Oh,� dear,”� said� Sasha.� “Maybe� we� ought� to� just� take� it� down� and� store� it� in� the� closet.� � After� all,� your� father� was� the� one� who� bought� it,� not� me.”� “No,� I� like� it.� How� many� people� can� say� that� they� have� a� moose� head� in� their� living� room?”� said� Anna.� “How’s� business� to-‐night?”� “As� usual.� Families,� regulars.”� “Well,� I’ll� stay� here� and� serve� the� late� night� creeps.� You� can�
� “I’ll� be� leaving� too,”� said� Loretta.� She� rose� from� her� table,�
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tossed� some� bills� and� change� on� the� counter,� and� sauntered� out� the�
counting� the� money.� � � “No� tip!� � Again!”� said� Anna.� “What� a� bitch.”� Sasha� sighed.� “I’m� really� tired� of� her.”� “You� should� be,”� said� Anna.� “She� never� tips.� � She� drove� away� our� best� customer.� I� think� she� only� comes� in� here� to� look� at� John.”� “Oh,� do� you� think� that?”� Sasha� asked.� Avoiding� Anna’s� eyes,� she� went� back� to� scrubbing� at� the� plate,� even� though� her� hands� felt� raw.� � � She� wondered� what� had� caused� the� stain.� “Everything� okay?”� Anna� asked.� Sasha� nodded.� “You� don’t� sound� okay,� so� I’m� just� asking.”� “It� was� a� tiring� day,� that’s� all,”� said� Sasha.� “Don’t� worry� about�
wondered� if� she� should� keep� it� in� the� diner—the� customers� prob-‐ably� wouldn’t� notice.� No,� she� couldn’t� stand� it,� she� decided,� putting� it� with� the� cracked� cups.� � “I’m� going� upstairs.”� “Love� you,� Mom,”� said� Anna,� giving� her� a� quick� hug.� “I� love� you� too.”
� Working� quickly� that� Saturday� evening,� Sasha� plated� slices� of� apple� pie.� The� customers� always� said� that� Kilroy’s� apple� pie� smelled� delicious,� but� Sasha� had� gotten� used� to� the� smell� in� the� past� twenty-‐seven� years.� � “I’ve� got� a� new� cake� with� cherries,”� Anna� shouted� from� the� kitchen.� She� pushed� the� swinging� door� open� with� her� elbow� and� brought� a� cake� over� to� Sasha.� “Fred� says� for� you� to� try� it,� Mom,� because� he’s� sure� you’ll� like� it� and� that� you’ll� put� it� on� the� menu� and� that� we’ll� make� a� million� dollars.”� “Well,� I’ll� try� it� later,”� said� Sasha.� “Just� put� it� on� the� counter�
employee� who� had� been� at� Kilroy’s� almost� as� long� as� she� had.� On� the� other� hand,� he� was� given� to� outlandish� new� cake� ideas� at� inoppor-‐tune� times.� The� time� for� cake� tasting� was� on� a� quiet� weeknight,� not� during� the� Saturday� dinner� rush.� �
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� “I’ll� try� it� now� if� you� won’t,”� said� Anna,� seizing� a� fork� from� a� pile� of� dirty� dishes� and� giving� it� a� quick� rinse.� Sasha� suppressed� a� shudder.� “Otherwise� it� won’t� be� warm.”� She� speared� a� forkful� of� the� cake,� which� looked� to� be� mostly� chocolate,� and� put� it� in� her� mouth.� “It� tastes� okay.� � The� texture� is� gross,� though.� Maybe� if� he� mashed� up� the� cherries…� You� need� anything?”� � “Finish� the� slice,� Anna.� � Don’t� just� leave� it� on� the� counter,”�
There� are� these� little� hard� things� in� the� cake.� � That’s� gross.”� She� took� a� last� bite� and� headed� over� to� the� sink.� � “I’ll� wash� these� dishes� before� I� go.� � I� would� not� recommend� that� cake.”� “Thanks,”� said� Sasha.� “So� you� wouldn’t� put� it� at� the� top� of� the� cake� scale?”� “I� wouldn’t� even� put� it� in� the� middle� of� the� cake� scale,”� said� Anna.� “It’s� down� there� with� that� custard� cake.”� � Sasha� groaned� and� laughed,� remembering� one� of� Fred’s� attempts� gone� awry.� “Why� can’t� Fred� make� me� another� cake� with� sprinkles?� Just� because� I’m� not� six� anymore� doesn’t� mean� that� I� don’t� still� like� sprinkles.”� � � “I’m� sure� that� he� would� make� you� one� if� we� asked,”� said� Sasha.� “Look� out� for� one� on� your� next� birthday,� perhaps.”� � � Anna� smiled,� placing� the� dishes� neatly� on� the� shelves.� “You’re� the� best,� Mom,”� she� said.� � “See� you� later.”� � She� headed� up-‐stairs.� � � At� eleven� that� night,� Sasha� did� her� usual� tidying� up,� waiting� for� Anna� to� come� down� and� take� over.� The� diner� was� almost� desert-‐ed.� Loretta� hadn’t� come� in� that� evening� at� all—not� that� Sasha� could� say� she� missed� her.� John� was� there,� though,� stacking� cups� as� usual.� He� looked� up� and� smiled� at� her.� His� teeth� were� really� very� nice.� “Any� exciting� diner� stories� today?”� he� asked,� pulling� his� chair� closer� to� the� counter.� � � “Fred� made� a� new� cake,”� said� Sasha.� “I� haven’t� tried� it� yet,� though.� � I� suppose� I� should� get� to� that� now.”� She� went� to� retrieve� the� cake� from� the� back� counter.� Tasting� a� small� sliver,� she� found� herself� agreeing� with� Anna’s� opinion.� The� cake� tasted� delicious,� but� it� was�
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uneven� and� lumpy.� � Not� Fred’s� best.�
don’t� look� like� you’re� enjoying� it,”� he� said.� “Give� me� a� piece?”� He� held� out� his� plate� with� an� appealing� look.� “I� don’t� promise� much,”� Sasha� said,� cutting� him� a� slice,� “but� you’re� welcome� to� it.”� “If� it’s� bad,� you� can� give� it� to� me� for� free,”� said� John.� � � “It’s� on� the� house� in� any� case,”� said� Sasha.� “It’s� not� on� the� menu� yet.� I� don’t� feel� I� can� charge.”� “Oh,� it’s� not� bad� at� all,”� John� declared.� He� was� quite� a� neat�
I� can’t� pay?”“Don’t� even� think� about� it.”� Sasha� tried� to� giggle.� She� wondered� if� it� sounded� as� forced� as� it� felt.� “I’ll� have� to� return� the� favor,� in� that� case,”� he� said.� “I’ve� got�
into� his� wallet� for� some� bills,� which� he� then� handed� to� her.� Sasha� gave� him� a� quick� smile� as� she� took� the� money� and� gave� him� back� his� change.� “See� you� soon,� Sash.”� With� a� mock� bow,� he� headed� out� the� door.
-‐ished� tidying� up.� John� Buchanan� was� a� man� who� knew� how� to� do� things.� The� incident� was� still� on� her� mind� as� she� said� goodnight� to� Anna� and� headed� for� her� bedroom,� giving� a� quick� glance� at� the� old� moose� head� that� Sam� had� purchased� for� their� living� room�
properly,� not� that� that� could� be� counted� on.� Sasha� wondered� if� men� who� knew� how� to� do� things� could� be� counted� on.� Silly,� incompetent� men—well,� if� they� could� get� themselves� together� enough� to� make� a� gesture,� they� probably� meant� it.� Men� who� knew� how� to� do� things�
bow,� to� call� someone� “beautiful.”� They� could� do� these� things� just� to� brighten� up� someone’s� day.� They� could� smile� at� anyone,� be� it� her� or� a� customer� like� Loretta.� She� thought� about� John� Buchanan’s� hands� as� he� stacked� cups� and� handed� her� money,� large� but� precise.� �
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Akrasia Forestby Andrew Hamilton
Our� hearts� do� in� dark� forests� dwell.� Each� feeling,� choosing,� kernel� core� lives� in� a� roughly-‐tangled� dell,� a� wilderness� of� soul� and� spore.
Each� forest� lives,� each� forest� grows,� unfurls� through� time� our� destinies.� Alive� with� buzzing� thoughts,� each� glows,� cohesive-‐seeming� unities.
But� any� object� so� complex�
a� thorny� mess� to� reason� vex,�
With� verdure� dampened� by� moon� light�
in� each� remaining� numbered� night,� they� grow� one� more� decision� tree.
These� trees� form� shady� woodlands� vast� entranced� in� thought,� alone,� intent.� These� tortured� trunks� of� choices� past� are� ‘twixt� diverse� desires� rent.
As� fresh� arrives� each� new� day’s� dawn,� the� battered� trunks� still� stand� up� stout� but� noxious,� oozing,� bleed� upon� the� softly-‐creeping� moss� of� doubt.
Within� each� grove� and� ancient� glade,� discordant� mobs� of� passions� brash� contest� control� of� choices� made,� as� grim� ‘mid� stand� and� copse� they� clash.
Through� dim� dendritic� alleys� fast� en� route� to� rotting� battle-‐lines�
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these� ragged� feelings� hurry� past� and� hack� aside� regretful� vines.
Then� donning� wistful� root� and� bark,� these� rank� and� frenzied� fungal� hordes�
all� straining,� struggle� in� the� dark� ‘round� primal� wild� unthinking� lords.
Oh,� if� these� crews� could� but� agree� what’s� best� for� us,� and� when,� and� why,�
In� great� and� moldy� agonies,� our� hearts� all� tremble,� moan� and� roar,�
wishing� combatants� to� appease,� surcease� demanding� of� this� war.
Oh� we� would� dearly� pay� to� rest�
Each� urge� not� shouting� it� knows� best,� but� to� all� others� like� a� friend.
For� what� on� one� more� foully� grates� than� stings� and� scorns� of� civil� war?� That� bloody� feud� among� the� states�
of� mind� that,� though� they� fealty� swore� to� common� ends� and� calm� debates�
now� campaign� savage� with� full� bore.
Yet� our� poor� hearts� cannot� surmisehow� deaf� the� woods� are� to� our� plea.�
With� war� they� cannot� break� their� ties,� for� but� constituent� havoc� free,
and� strife� to� give� our� passions� rise,� we� would� unconscious,� heartless� be.
For� without� writhing� contrast� bright—systemic� constituted� brawl� –�
� we� would� not� be� alive� at� all.
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Brutal Little Textby Joyce Ng
Standing� in� the� shallow� end� blowing� bubbles
Half-‐drowning� in� the� deep� end
My� body� knows� it’s� safe� to� bleed� here
Nothing� is� sacred.
Punctuating� self-‐presentation,
Filters� language.
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“Jujuy, Argentina” by Allyza Lustig
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Leer Bolaño in Translation (inglés)by Chelsea McGettigan
To� read� this� hombre� adecuado
I� need� a� lifetime� of� engañoAnd� an� eternidad� of� romanceTo� dissect� his� canto� soberano.�
A� detective� on� the� prowl,� él� no� sabe� quién� le� sigueAnd� his� poets,� poetas� son,� pero� también� son� detectives.Se� acuesta� with� a� goddess� dressed� in� ropa� de� ancianay� si� Platón� lo� desease
Yes,� he’s� an� hombre� desconocido.
And� his� work� no� terminaba.
Y� esto� no� lo� esperaba.
Whose� language� is� this� between� two� lands?¿Quién� duerme� entre� mis� párpados� delincuentes?
I� know� the� poet� needs� a� subject:He� roots� the� reader� in� his� hands.
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To read Bolaño en traducción (Spanish)by Chelsea McGettigan
Para� leer� a� este� adecuate� man
Necesito� toda� una� vida� de� deceptionY� una� eternity� de� romance
Para� diseccionar� su� soverign� song.
Un� detective� andante,� he� doesn’t� know� he’s� the� objectiveY� sus� poetas,� poets� they� are,� but� they’re� also� detectives.
He� goes� to� bed� con� una� diosa� en� ancient� dressand� if� Plato� wanted
Si,� es� un� unknown� man.Y� su� trabajo,� never-‐ending.
Pero� me� veo� descuidadaAnd� that’s� not� what� I� expected.
¿Quién� domina� este� idioma� entre� países?Who� sleeps� between� my� delinquent� eyelids?
El� poeta� necesita� el� sujetoY� al� lector� le� da� raíces.
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Crossoverby Nico Gurian
Someone� is� sweating.His� tattered� blue� uniform� grounds� him� to� the� dirt� of� a� foreign� land.
And� they� shall� beat� their� swords� into� plowsharesand� their� spears� into� pruning� hooks.
He� is� a� father.�
He� is� a� caretaker,� away,� stuck� on� a� rubble-‐ridden� road.
There� is� none� to� take� her� by� the� hand� among� all� the� sons� she� has� brought� up.
This� is� an� orphaned� land.-‐
nounced� burden.� The� burn� sears� strong.
But� he� was� wounded� for� our� transgressions,he� was� bruised� for� our� iniquities.
On� the� horizon,� the� blurred� lines� of� dust� and� rock� areoutlined� by� blackened� blood.This� is� his� work.
19
The Argumentby Mikhaela Mahoney
The� scene� begins� in� blackness.� A� single� violin� is� heard� playing�
something� beautiful� and� slow.� A� second� violin� joins.� The� lights�
come� up� on� a� child’s� bedroom.� The� room� is� neat,� but� certainly�
lived� in.� There� are� stacks� of� books� on� an� Up� Left� desk� and� be-‐
side� his� bed,� which� is� left� of� center.� There� are� framed� photos,� a�
few� travel� posters� with� mountains� on� them,� pictures� of� concert�
halls,� music� sheets,� and� the� covers� of� the� Harry� Potter� books� (or�
something� analogous)� tacked� up� on� the� walls.� The� windows� are�
all� closed� and� locked.� � In� the� room,� a� man� and� a� child� are� playing�
the� violin.� The� child� (Nathaniel)� is� about� 11,� and� sitting� on� the�
bed.� He� is� very� small� and� gangly� and� ill-‐looking.� He� has� a� severe�
bed,� tall,� handsome,� brown� hair,� dressed� simply� but� well.� As� he�
plays,� his� music� calms� him� and� a� quiet� energy� spreads� through�
him.� They� continue� to� play.� It’s� dusk.
Brian� enters.� They� don’t� acknowledge� him.
BRIANOkay,� buddy.� Mom’s� waiting� out� in� the� car.
SEANWe’ve� still� got� another� 20� minutes.
BRIAN(Ignoring� Sean,� he� speaks� to� Nathaniel)� You� can� make� it� up� to-‐morrow,� alright?� You’re� going� to� be� late,� Nathaniel,� and� I� don’t� want� you� to� have� to� wait� in� the� waiting� room� too� long.
NATHANIEL(To� Sean)� I� like� the� waiting� room!� � It’s� better� than� the� doctor’s� and� I� get� to� read� all� sorts� of� magazines� we� don’t� get� at� home.� �
� There’s� one� just� for� kids� that� I’m� going� to� write� a� letter� to,� I� think.
20
Thanks,� Sean!� Make� something� good� for� dinner!(He� exits,� leaves� the� violin� on� his� bed� without� putting� it� away.)
BRIANMaybe� I’m� wrong,� but� I� thought� the� whole� point� of� you� teach-‐ing� him� was� that� we� wouldn’t� have� to� worry� about� scheduling.
SEAN(Not� bitterly)� Or� pay.
BRIAN
and� we� never� know� in� advance.
SEANAnd� god� knows� no� other� violin� teacher� would� ever� understand� that.
BRIANHe� likes—we� all� like—it’s� important� for� you� to� be� around.� For� you� to� know� him.� He� loves� having� you� around.
SEANI’m� not� going� anywhere,� Bri.
BRIANOkay.
SEANI’m� just� giving� you� a� hard� time.� It� always� just…jars� me� a� little� when� I� stop� playing.� Like…I� don’t� know.� Like� nothing� appropri-‐ate� to� say� in� a� kid’s� room.
BRIANThanks� for� that� image.
21
SEANIt’s� true,� though!� There’s� nothing� else� like� it!� Ask� Nat� about� it� sometime.� He’ll� have� the� words� for� it.
BRIANHe’s� very� good,� isn’t� he?
SEANAll� bullshit� aside?� Yeah,� he’s� very� good.� Better� than� any� of� my� other� students,� probably.
BRIANBetter� than� you� were.
SEANBy� far.(Pause)
At� his� age.(Pause)
He� could� really� go� places/� you� know.
BRIANCould� have� gone/places.
SEANWhat?
BRIANGive� me� a� break,� Sean.� It’s� lucky� that� you’re� around� to� teach�
it� when—
SEANNo� real� need� for� it.� You’re� unbelievable.� �
BRIANWhen� he’ll� be� too� weak� for� it,� really.
22
SEANI� read� that� kids� with� CF� are� supposed� to� exercise� a� little,� Brian.� Play� tag,� I� don’t� know.� Sit� up� straight./� Breath� deeply.� �
BRIANPlay� the� violin.
SEANYeah,� play� the� violin.� It’s� good� for� him.
BRIANIt’s� good� for� you,� you� mean.� It’s� pretty� good� to� you,� by� the� looks� of� it.
SEAN(Slowly,� level)� Listen,� Brian,� I’m� not� here� to� reenter� into� any� of� our…shit.� � But� I� am� here.� � I� could� be� in� New� York/� on� a� solo�
with� your� son.� Because� I� like� him,� and� I� like� playing� with� him,� and� I� love� him,� Brian.�
BRIANSo� go� to� New� York,� Sean,� go� back� there.� Go� get� paid� scads� of� money� from� old� women� in� fur� coats� for� playing� their� favorite—And� while� you’re� at� it,� ask� if� they’ve� got� any� change� to� spare� for� some� research� foundations,� ask� if� they� can� spare� a� moment� of� your� lovely� concert� to� think� about� more� than� their� own� enter-‐tainment,� build� a� hospital,� for� chrissakes.
SEANI� don’t� want� to� talk� about� this� anymore.
BRIANFine.
23
SEANI� am� happy� I’m� here,� Brian.
BRIANI’m� glad.
SEANIt� really� means� a� lot� to� me.� To� play/with� him.
BRIANJesus� Christ,� I� know.
SEAN(With� weight)� With� him.� To� play� with� him.� (Silence)� He’s� a� pretty� incredible� kid.(Pause.)
Talented.
BRIAN(Sarcastically)� Wonderful.� Maybe� you� can� take� him� on� tour� with� you,/� then� neither� of� you� would� have� to� be� stuck� with� us.
SEANHe� could� go� on� his� own� tour� one� day,� Brian.� I’m� serious.� � (Excit-‐edly)� He’s� really� got� something—
BRIANWhat� aren’t� you� getting� here,� Sean?� He� doesn’t� have� the� “one� day”� that� you� did,� you� know?� His� “one� day”� could� be� literally� just� one,� /� do� you� understand?
SEANHow� can� you� have� given� up� already?� He’s� only� 11,� people� are� living� longer� all� the� time� now—I� work� with� somebody� in� the� school� systems� who’s� 28,� a� full� time� teacher,� with� a� wife—and� a/� family� who� supports� him.
24
BRIANA� kid?� A� kid?� Do� you� know� how� CF� is� passed,� Sean?� Do� you?� Have� you� done� any� research/� into� this� at� all?
SEANOf� course� I� have.
BRIANWell,� it’s� passed� hereditarily.� There� are� a� lot� of� carriers� out� there,� but� it� doesn’t…manifest� itself…unless� there� are� two.� Hus-‐band� and� wife.� Both.
SEANYou� don’t� know/that� his� wife� would� have—
BRIANOf� course� I� don’t� know!� Do� you� think� we� knew?� Do� you� think� this� was� something� we� were� excited� about?� “Hey,� Rachel,� you�
get� it� on—let’s� make� a� baby!”� You� think� we� wanted� to� watch� ev-‐erything� we’ve� worked� for� be� sucked� down� the� antiseptic� medi-‐cal� drain� trying� to� help� him?� To� keep� him� alive?
SEANBut� you� are� keeping� him� alive!� He’s� fucking� alive,� Brian!� Look� at� this� place!� It’s� got� a� little� soul,� you� know?� It’s� not� a� hospital� room!� /� Not� a� science� laboratory� with� emergency� showers� or� anything—�
BRIANHe’d� be� safer� if� it� were.� (Pause)And� the� money’s� going� to� run� out.� The� money� is� running� out.� And� then� we’ll� be� in� for/� a� bumpy� ride.
SEANA� treat.(Silence.� � Sean� begins� to� put� Nathaniel’s� violin� back� in� its� case)
25
(Brian� does� not� respond.)� �
Brian?� � If� you� need� help—�
BRIAN(He� picks� up�
a� fallen� sheet� of� music).� Actually,� fuck� it.� No,� I� don’t� appreci-‐
indulgent…fuckheads� of� the� world,� padding� your� pockets,� lin-‐ing� your� underwear� with� silk.� It� would� be� like� accepting� blood� money.� We’re� going� to� do� this� on� our� own.� Without� your� help./� � We’re� making� it� out� alive� and� without� you.
SEANWhat� I� do� is� important,� Brian!� People� come� up� to� me,/� after� shows,� with� tears� in� their� fucking� eyes,� you� know?� Life� is� utili-‐tarian…death� without� something� to� make� it� beautiful!� Some-‐thing� to� make� you� WANT� to� open� your� eyes!
BRIANWhat� you� do� is� a� waste� of� time� and� a� waste� of� money.� Tell� me,� Sean,� how� much� did� that� conservatory� cost� you,� huh?� We� didn’t� have� that� kind� of� money� then,� and� we� really� could� have� used� it� now,� you� know?� But� I’m� glad� you’re� happy,� I’m� glad� you’re� enjoying� yourself� out� there.
SEANWhat’s� the� point� if� you’re� not� enjoying� yourself� when� you� can?� Why� do� we� choose� to� live,� because� it’s� a� choice� you� know,� every� day,� if� not� to� enjoy� ourselves?� And� if� not� enjoying,� then� wres-‐tling� with� meaning,� truth,� beauty,� love—these� separate� us� from�
art� is—it’s� humanity!� And� your� son—
BRIANDo� you� know� what� I� did?� Do� you� want� to� know� what� I� voted� for?� Which� propositions� I� shot� down?
26
SEANBrian,� your� son—
BRIANYeah,� his� school,� my� son,� my� son’s� school,� is� out� of� money.� And� they� asked� us,� asked� me,� “What� do� we� cut?”� And� I� said,� “Cut� funding� to� the� arts/”� and� give� every� last� dime,� every� last� fucking� penny,� to� science.
SEANThese� programs—this� is� what� I� do!� Teaching� children� to� ex-‐press� themselves,� think� creatively,� feel� like� they� have� something� to� contribute� to� the� world,� a� soul� that� matters,/� thoughts� that� matter—
BRIANI’m� a� little� preoccupied� with� bodies� at� the� moment,� Sean.� � Bod-‐
SEANDon’t� you� see� what� you’ve� done,� what� you’re� doing—how� can� anyone� solve� problems� without� creating—it’s� art,� Brian,� /it’s� all� art—
BRIANYour� schools� and� your� programs� will� come� back,� once� there’s� the� time� and� money� for� them.� We’re� giving,� everyone� in� this� town� is� giving� every� last� fucking� penny� to� science.� To� hospitals.� To� science� laboratories� and� /white� rats.
SEAN
BRIANWe’re� going� to� survive� this.� That’s� how� you� survive.
27
SEANNo� one� ever� said� surviving� and� living� are� the� same.� But� I’m� sure� you’re� thinking� of� cutting� English� programs� next,� so� pay� no� at-‐tention� to� that� distinction.� Just� pay� attention� to� yourself.
BRIAN
one.� You’re� killing� me,� Sean,� /positively� slaying� me.
SEANWell,� at� least� I’m� not� killing� your� son.� (Silence.)
I’m� going� to� go� make� dinner.� Bread� and� water� sound� good?� As� long� as� we� survive,� right?(Sean� exits.)
28
“Untitled” by Barrie Sterling
29
They Took Dinah From the House of Shechemby Tara Sonin
I.� And� they� left
My� father� exists� like� air� in� wind� chimes.As� a� child� I� would� look� and� thinking� I� saw�
mossy� colored� teeth� and� cobwebs� of� hair,� I� saw� myself� instead:
and� would� walk� me� to� the� ‘better� store’� on� Irving� Place� and� 17th� Street,� across� from� the� statue� of� Washington� Irving,� whom� I� was� convinced� looked� just� like� him.�
One� day� I� must� have� noticed,� walking� along� that� block,� years� after� the� lollipop� store� had� closed� down:� that’s� not� my� fa-‐ther.� That’s� some� other� man.� He� must� have� done� something� special� to� get� an� iron� statue� of� his� face� on� a� street� corner.�
People� still� meander� up� to� the� entrance� of� the� Record� Hunteron� 5th� Avenue� between� 42nd� and� 43rd� Streets.� They� pause� before� the� locked� door
I� read� that� New� York� Times� article� maybe� twice� a� month.
He� is� as� he� was� when� they� wrote� it,� watching� himpack� up� his� life� in� boxes� sealed� with� duct� tapeencased� in� cigarette� smoke� and� deteriorating� denim.Watching� a� successful� man� with� a� beautiful� wife� lose� everything.I� am� not� mentioned� in� the� article� butMy� smiling,� bald-‐headed� face� is� in� every� word
Should� I� confess?I’m� not� sure� if� I� am� what� made� him� want� to� live�
30
or� if� I� was� the� distraction� that� caused� this� awful� mistake:my� mother� felt� a� cramp� and� in� his� haste,my� father� signed� an� incorrect� paper� or� checked� the� wrong� tax� bracket.�
He� is� the� same� at� 70.� We� sit� at� lunch� to� celebrate� his� birthday,and� I� see� doubt� in� burrowing� pleats� across� his� face.� He� is� keening� inside,� still� that� thirteen-‐year-‐old� boy� who� knocked� his� head� on� the� glass� mirror� in� Melvin� Blaustein’s� � � � � � � � � � house,who� would� do� anything� to� please� his� father,� the� jukebox� man.“Some� days� I� didn’t� think� I’d� make� it,”� he� says,� his� lips� curled� like� the� wetted� ends� of� an� envelope.
II.� Where� do� they� take� her?
Dinah� is� left:� tethered� to� the� desert,� Her� ebbing� breath� beneath� the� pooled� waters� of� a� hot� spring
when� all� she� wanted� was� to� be� acknowledged.
I� used� to� have� this� dream� that� while� taking� out� the� garbage,I’d� see� these� strange,� dark� men� clumped� by� the� corner.Afraid,� I’d� start� to� run� back� to� the� doorbut� suddenly� I� become� caught� between� entranceways:The� men� on� one� side,� howling–� my� father� on� the� otherand� myself,� locked� between� them.
He� is� faceless,� but� I� recognize� him� immediately.Crying,� begging� for� him� to� let� me� in:� unlock� the� door!It� is� then� I� see� his� shackles:� chained� to� a� dream,� my� Jacob� just� stands� there,�
I� wake� up� before� Simon� and� Levi� can� drag� me� away:before� the� IRS� or� the� creditors� or� the� shameruptures� us� any� further.
31
City� lights� careening� past� a� screen� of� screaming� scenes� between� � � the� lines�
� to� the� spongingcaress� of� the� loveless� test� of� time,� reeling� to� kneel� at� the� peel� of� a� shrill� bell.
in� the� kiln� of� my� killin’� with� a� soft-‐mouth’d� villain,spraying� the� plague� of� rain� and� blame� to� shame� the� cranium’s� � �
free-‐lancin,� dancin� about� silver� spindles� of� rhymeto� imbue� with� symbol� symmetry� that� spherical� time.
In� the� waste-‐land� skyscraping� hands� abandon� theirstrands� of� peacefor� incredible� grandeurof� light—the� refrainin� the� neon-‐cold� night� turns� to� kaleidoscopic� fright,lurid� in� the� sea� of� removable� eyesand� loveable� though� lackluster� lives� the� citysleeps,� weeps,� in� the� cry� of� the� wind
you� might� let� me� begin.
� you� have� any� brain� at� all,� you’ll� know� that� nobody’s� sane.Like� a� clockwork� mind,� I’ve� just� begun� to� unwind,creating� undulating� verse� so� full,meticulous,� blind� to� the� ridiculous,� the� rest� of� usalways� seeming� to� get� the� best� of� us� are� wells� of� blasphemous� � � � swells� of� hate—�
sure,� you� can� make� a� foreign� call,� but� it� will� cost� more� than� � �
and� to� create� a� state� of� bliss,� what� will� we� miss,� but� our� time?
Untitledby Sam Johnson
32
and� you’ve� discarded� baggage� of� the� simple� morals� you� � � � � brought.Believe� in� death� and� you� die.Believe� in� life� and� you� lie,between� the� seemly� and� the� seams� of� such� appearances,� cry
and� though� the� sea� is� not� full,wail� to� the� moon� and� spill� your� tide� to� its� contemplative� pull.
Rearrange—rewind,� combine,� repeat,� and� entwine.� The� line
Encircling� radio� waves� heave� upon� leaves� of� newspaper� reelsand� eels� of� electric� thought� and� the� crowd� below� isbowing� in� collision� in� toiling� precision,� boiling� emission� of� � � � howling� derision� andnoise.
But� in� the� soft� light� of� lamps,away� from� mutinous� amps,a� candle� glows� a� knowing� glow
In� darkening� curtains� of� secrecy,� bending� togetherto� make� the� black� blanket� sky� close� and� the� seams� knittogether,like� the� dilating� black� hole� of� that� wondrous,� curious� jet
into� the� stratosphere� of� night� with� cities� gleaming� below,like� little� stars� as� far� as� Marsin� blinkingtwinkling
Inkling—
But� Night’s� octopus� ink� is� seeping,� sweeping� the� thinkingfrom� stinking
like� a� pillow-‐lined� ceiling,reeling,� Kneeling� andfallingto� sleep.
33
“Cold Radiance” by Shaowei Wang
34
Between Dinner and the Showby Kate Welsh
Hannah’s� just� here� for� the� weekend,� so� we’re� walking� through� Times� Square� like� tourists,� and� I� amtrying� to� give� the� illusionthat� these� neon� lights� are� oldnews,� that� I� am� unimpressedby� billboards� bigger� than� buildings,that� I� don’t� notice� how� many� people� we� walk� straight� through.� � � � � � � � � � � � � � My� blue� beret� does� nothing� to� cover� my� ears,� to� keep� the� cold� from� biting,� and� Hannah’s
she’s� from� Chicago,� that� this� cold� is� nothing.� The� red� steps� we� standon� make� it� easier� to� pretend� it’s� warm—hot� even—so� we� takephotos� of� ourselves,� like� everyone
of� a� dozen� other� cameras� winkingat� the� same� time.� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � We� go� inside� a� theatreto� ask� about� entering� the� ticket� lottery.� The� woman� you� can� barely� hear� behind� the� glassassures� us� it� won’t� be� a� problemto� get� seats.� “The� city,”� she� informsus,� “is� absolutely� desolatethis� weekend.”� � When� we� walk� outsidewe� are� spun� around� by� a� groupfollowing� a� women� in� a� yellow� hat� and� a� comedy� club� promoter� asks� if� we’re� Danish.
35
Allegoryby Katie McNeirney
he,� protesting—“I’m� not� hungry,”� he� pleaded.� “Besides,I� don’t� know� if� I� believein� sex� before� marriage.”� The� next� week,� they� wentto� a� faux-‐French� restaurant,� drankred� wine� and� white� and� he� haileda� cab� and� they� stumbled� and� fumbledthe� whole� way� home.� They� carriedeach� other� to� his� room� and� did� iton� top� of� the� rose� petals,� the� shatteredwine� bottles,� the� still� burning� candles.� When� he� left� the� room,� she� tooka� quick� swig� of� wine,� pickedshards� of� green� glass� from� her� back,� and� pressedmelted� wax� into� her� wounds.
36
“Mandril” by Allyza Lustig
to saw a thought and takeby Rebecca Gray
37
tastes� � � � � � � � � like� � � � � � � � � these� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �
� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � don’t� go� away� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � from� this� into� space
� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � for� scrubbing� ribs� with� rain�
� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � and� be� looking� still� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � from� this� into� place
� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � where� sounds� drying� out� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �
� �
make� me� want� � � � � � � � � to� shave� � � � � � � � � taste� buds� from� tongues
� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � spoken� in� Papua,� New� Guinea� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � where� revenge� means� war
� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � is� just� another� way� of� saying� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �
� desire� and� grief� taste� the� same
to saw a thought and takeby Rebecca Gray