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The Trinity Review

Editors-in-Chief Sandra Gurrola Martin Rosales Editorial John Bieberich Samuel Cornett Parras Dumlao Samara Gerstle Iniya Gopal Avery Letendre McCaden McClure Alexis Norman Emily Ore Ash Perry Linda Robb Parker Snellgrove El Stratton Austin Valentine Serena Wadehra Faculty Advisors Jenny Browne Kelly Carlisle Andrew Porter Office Manager Sarai Santos-Valle

Since the 1980s, the Trinity Review, a journal of literature and arts, has been published in collaboration between students and the English Department of Trinity University. The editors would like to thank the Student Government Association, the Art and Art History Department, and the English Department. Copyright ©2025 The Trinity Review Published bi-annually: Online in December Print in April Cover Design by Ash Perry Cover Art by Yvonne Gu Section Art by El Stratton https://trinityreview.org/

Contents Photography..........................................9 Jay Burdine Weimar (No Scratching Please)..............................10 John Pascuzzi Kreb.........................................................................11 Mazu........................................................................12 Ash Perry alignment.................................................................13 from below...............................................................14 unset table...............................................................15 John Thweatt Austin Nights….......................................................16 Far From Home......................................................17 Heavenly Earth.......................................................18 Paul Wooten Cardiac Hill at Night..............................................19 Fountain to Tower...................................................20 Sam Vader 52°00'43.0N 4°21'30.5E.........................................21 Brutalism….............................................................22 Doomsday 1............................................................23 Rain-Kissed Angel..................................................24

Prose...................................................25 Devon Bellamy If You Don’t Heal Today..........................................26 Robin Guadalupe Bernal Sexy Nuns (God is a Man)......................................33 Keyla Limones Escúchame…...........................................................36 Jaden Martens Dreaming of Dreaming...........................................38 Zinab Mohamed Pomegranate...........................................................43

Imaan Moosa Affliction..................................................................45 Linda Robb That Tragic Night....................................................47 Martin Rosales Summer Moon.........................................................51 Peyton Sterling Cardinal..................................................................54

Art.......................................................55 Jasmine Evenstad White Moth..............................................................56 Yvonne Gu Complementary Study No. 7....................................57 Empress of Personas...............................................58 Nom-nom.................................................................59 Nurturing Nuzzle.....................................................60 The Market...............................................................61 The Reflectors..........................................................62 Tradition Never Dies...............................................63 Rory McCarthy Armadillo CD..........................................................64 Mi Nombre...............................................................65 Miya Morris Under Sway.............................................................66 Alexis Norman want_me_again.......................................................67 El Stratton A Gift.......................................................................68

Poetry..................................................69 Michael Ard The Stupidest Sailors the World’s Ever Seen...........70 John Bieberich Pando Forest, June 2022........................................71 Alex Brown Southeast of Clovis, New Mexico............................72

Samuel Cornett For My Parents, After College................................73 In the Backseat of a Car..........................................75 Look Don’t Touch....................................................76 Louie Cruz Licorice Lover.........................................................77 Parras Dumlao Monday; April 15, 2019..........................................78 Ownership...............................................................79 The Blues.................................................................80 Sadie Eidson The Fall...................................................................81 Fraebart Hawkins A False Farewell.....................................................82 A Solitary Stroll.......................................................83 Will It Happen?.......................................................84 Avery Letendre Fiddlehead Ferns....................................................85 Keyla Limones La Frontera..............................................................87 La Raza por la Causa...............................................89 Si Valgo Madres.......................................................92 Patricia McDonald Leviathan, the Carrion-Eater..................................94 Haniel Neves The Gibbet...............................................................96 The Pianist..............................................................97 Alexis Norman Inescapably Inexorable...........................................98 Anthonia Ogbo When I Speak of Light...........................................100 Abby Power Will the Circle be Unbroken..........................,.......102 Zain Rahman Definition...............................................................104 Jorge Romero An Ode to St. Cecilia.............................................106 On the Greenest Hill.............................................107

Parker Snellgrove Decapitate.............................................................108 Manual..................................................................109 Julia Williams The Cynical Cycle.................................................110

Weimar (No Scratching Please) Jay Burdine

Kreb John Pascuzzi

Mazu John Pascuzzi

alignment Ash Perry

from below Ash Perry

unset table Ash Perry

Austin Nights John Thweatt

Far From Home John Thweatt

Heavenly Earth John Thweatt

Cardiac Hill at Night Paul Wooten

Fountain to Tower Paul Wooten

52°00'43.0N 4°21'30.5E Sam Vader

Brutalism Sam Vader

Doomsday 1 Sam Vader

Rain-Kissed Angel Sam Vader

If You Don’t Heal Today Devon Bellamy Stella took her regular path to the jewelry store. She stopped at Café Du Monde, like always, to order a hot café au lait. She paid with a crinkled five-dollar bill. At this point, when she left for work on the weekends, she left her wallet back at the apartment. Most of the businesses in Jackson Square only took cash, anyway. Today, though, her wallet sat in her front pocket so that she could feel it hug her hip when she walked. The sidewalk down St. Anne’s and the right-hand turn onto Royal Street was blissfully short. Stella opened the door to Silver Lotus and stashed her bookbag behind the counter before Ana could see. She was fidgety today, and she didn’t want her aunt to ask any questions. Well, they thought of each other as cousins, since Ana was so much younger than her dad. Ana was evidently an accident, and she wore it as a badge of honor most days. It was just her sense of humor. Her humor was the least of Stella’s worries. It was already enough to have Ana’s Russian phrases hoisted upon her at any possible opportunity because, according to Ana, she couldn’t lose all that she learned from her trip abroad. Ana was the manager of Silver Lotus, twenty-four, and a full-grown adult now. She chopped off her hair. She pierced her belly and wore tiny tank tops to show off the gem. Three years ago, she waltzed home on a Thursday evening with a tattoo that wrapped around her bicep, up her chest, and down to her sternum. Ana got in so much trouble after graduating from college. Stella ached to be just like her. “Stella! Как вы? How was your day?” Ana embraced her, her long arms squeezing the breath from Stella’s lungs until

Stella beat her back, embarrassed. Ana only laughed and released her. She was familiar with the woes of adolescence. “Oh, don’t be like that, Stells.” “They don’t hug like that in Moscow. You’re just annoying,” Stella said. She rounded the counter to angrily punch numbers into the register. She needed something to do, something to get the anger out. Ana leaned on the wall opposite from her and crossed her arms, perceptive as always. “You never say that many words to me,” Ana grinned good-naturedly, trying to lighten the mood. “Что побого, звезда? What’s with the look and the angry fingers?” Stella shot her a glare, and Ana sighed, shaking her head. She held her palms up in surrender. “It’s supposed to be a good day, Stella. That’s all.” “I know.” Stella bit the words out and tugged on the bracelets around her wrist. Silence fell over them. The middle of the afternoon always brought a lull to Jackson Square, so the store was empty. Stella surveyed the jewelry case and contemplated running away to the little room behind the art gallery, but Ana spoke again. Her voice was very careful and measured. It only made Stella more irritated. “Then…?” Ana tried, eyes searching hers for some sort of answer. Stella tried to evade her prying eyes and crossed arms. She deflated against the counter when Ana rubbed her shoulder soothingly. Tears pricked her eyelashes and clumped against the mascara she wore. “Dad didn’t call,” Stella said. She gripped the edge of the counter. “What?” Ana stared down at her, incredulous. “Stella, it’s your seventeenth birthday!”

Stella wordlessly looked to the side and willed her tears away. “Sebas, that дурак, that no-good dickwad,” Ana muttered, turning away. “I’ll show him what it feels like to forget his own daughter’s birthday…” Stella shook her head, defeated. She didn’t need Ana to defend her anymore, even if Ana was more than willing to do it. Ana gave her a once over, eyes welling with concern, and acquiesced. They shared a silent understanding. The relief that Stella felt snapped the thread of her resolve, and she hiccuped, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Stells.” Ana’s face softened. She stepped around to hold Stella in her arms. Sure, Stella didn't need Ana to fight for her anymore, but maybe she needed Ana to support her. She let the side of her face rest against Ana’s shoulder. Ana only left her briefly to lock the front door of Silver Lotus, exclaiming that the customers’ needs were nowhere near as important as her baby cousin’s. That, and how the sentence was laden with profanity, made Stella hiccup again on a giggle. A tense silence stretched over them as Stella collected herself. She heaved heavy, moist breaths as the walls spun around her. It was moments like this when she hated that each one was painted a different color. It made her want to throw up a little, the way that each color blended into each other, the way it made her breath pick up more because there was nothing to ground herself with. Ana smoothed a palm over her back and whispered something, some syllables that were meant to be soothing, but Stella couldn’t hear her over the blood rushing in her ears. It was unwillingly, but Stella came back to herself after longer than she’d care to admit. Ana had stayed with her for so long that the sun was starting to dip past the horizon. The hotels opened their street-side doors to curious passerby. Faint techno

music kicked up from Bourbon Street. Stella licked the mucus off her lip before she tried to speak. “Why? Why would he forget?” she rasped, miserable. “Ah, a потому что ‘потому’ кончается на ‘-у’,” Ana grinned. Stella pinned her with a vicious glare and tried to hold back her laughter. It bubbled out anyway, but it was weird and snotty and caught in the back of her throat. Ana covered a giggle with her palm unsuccessfully. “Sorry, Stells. You know that’s my favorite.” Ana paused. “You know, though? I don’t know why. Maybe it is just ‘because’. Why do we bother with trying to find the truth about how we behave? Why do I work here at this store instead of using my degree? Why do you cry on your birthday? Why are we all living, here, in stupid, muggy ass Louisiana? Just because.” [...] Stella rode home in Ana’s car in silence. Ana didn’t give her any pitying looks like she had expected, so that was a nice surprise. She stared out the window at a trio of musicians on the corner of Canal and St. Charles, but they were all blurry. Hot, angry tears threatened to spill from the base of her eyelashes again. She ended up back in her bedroom, alone. Holly jumped on her bed and curled into a big, black and white cotton ball on the flower-patterned duvet. At least she was content, Stella grimaced, but the sour look fell away when Holly fixed her with large, adoring eyes. Stella sat next to her to scratch behind her ears. Her mother was working an overnight shift at the café tonight, so Stella had all night to be angry. It was already raining outside, which meant no stress-relieving walk with Holly. Her mood plummeted again. She spread out on her bed, but she soon felt antsy, like she still had something to do. She had already

checked the sink for dishes, eaten the dinner in the fridge that her mom left for her, and swept the kitchen floor. At this point, she might just vacuum and polish the banister to keep her hands busy. Holly stirred beside her and splayed all four of her limbs out. She took up more space on the bed than Stella did. When Stella tried to push her over, she knocked her phone off of the bed. It made a soft thunk on the carpet, and she grunted when she threw her arm over the side to fish for it. Frustratingly, she couldn’t reach, so she got up and promptly stumbled over a hardcover that she had left on the floor this morning. Pain shot up her leg like lightning. The tears that she had worked so hard to keep back pricked her eyes again. “Putain! Hy, shit–!” She clutched her foot up to her other knee, willing the tears back. “J’peux pax–no puedo–FUCK! Why can’t I just speak!” She collapsed back onto her duvet and sobbed into her palms until Holly licked the salt and mascara from them. Sniffling, she clutched her puppy. Holly nosed her temple like she knew everything. Holly couldn’t speak, but somehow, Stella understood her better every day. Even with four languages, Holly’s big brown eyes and border collie tail strung together sentences better than Stella ever could. “You must have it good without having to speak all the time, huh, Holly? My Holly-olly?” Stella whispered. Holly wagged her tail. It thumped heavily against her bed, and all of a sudden Stella felt better. Not completely, but better enough. Maybe, she thought, things didn’t have to be better all the way. The window drew her attention away from Holly’s wiggling tail. The stars were out tonight despite the light pollution in New Orleans. Stella almost stepped out on the balcony, but Holly had fallen asleep on her forearm. She gave up, pressing her cheek

into the fur of Holly’s stomach and letting her mind float back to Pearlington. That night at the space center, all those years ago, before she learned what picture the stars in the sky painted, Stella fell and scraped her knee. She remembered how scared she was. She had never seen the way her skin could open before. The way her blood beaded up and dribbled down her shin convinced her that she was dying. Her raw screams had her father running from where his telescope was set up. “Starling!” he scooped her up, kissed her wet eyes, and set her back down. Instead of cooing over her, he laughed. He laughed so hard that Stella forgot why she was crying. It didn’t hurt that badly anymore. Her dad brandished a Sesame Street band-aid from his back pocket with a wink. Stella, awestruck, watched as he slid it into place. It fit perfectly over the cut. “You’re hurt, Stells. What do we always say?” Her dad’s eyes sparkled with mirth, but Stella could recognize a faint trace of something deeper. She was too young to understand then, but now, as she hid her face in Holly’s coat and remembered the magnolia, she could see the worry on his face, clear as day. Back on the dewy grass, her dad sat next to her and allowed her to clamber onto his lap. “Sana, sana, colita de rana,” her dad began. Stella hiccupped around a handful of tears, but the rhyme soothed her into complacency. “Si no sana hoy–” The memory disintegrated too quickly for her liking. Stella opened her eyes to whisper. “Sanara mañana.” The retro analog clock above her headboard ticked. The reminder of how fast seconds could pass made Stella dizzy. She laid back down on Holly to dispel the nausea. After it waned, she sat up to gaze out the window. She looked past the tempered glass, past the wiry metal balcony and the concrete terrace, past the lights of the tram tracks, past the magnolia that lined the

Quarter and past the god-awful Razoo on Bourbon Street. Maybe, her dad didn’t have to call. He didn’t have to send her a birthday card. Maybe her mom didn’t have to be home. She didn’t have to cancel a shift to at least blow out candles with her baby girl. Maybe, Stella thought bitterly, her eyes fixed on Cassiopeia. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll feel better enough.

Sexy Nuns (God Is a Man) Robin Guadalupe Bernal God is a man. In May of 2025, I will have a Bachelor’s degree in Religious Studies. I have read the entire Bible three times. In my sophomore year, for a theater course, I wrote a thirty-page play about the Biblical story of the Binding of Isaac, my least favorite story in the Bible. In the story, Abraham is asked by God to kill his son Isaac to prove his loyalty. Isaac isn’t killed in the end, but Abraham is only stopped once his son, a blessing from God, is bound to stones on Mount Moriah with a knife above his chest. God is a man, for who other than a man could ask a follower to kill his son in his name? Had God asked Sarah, Abraham’s wife, she would’ve run off into the desert with Isaac. For a Holy Father, it’s a perfect test of his son’s faith. But no Holy Mother would have asked one of her daughters to kill her blessed child. God is a man. I was baptized as a Roman Catholic, and I went to Church at the San Fernando Cathedral in San Antonio while in elementary school. High on the ceiling, there is a stained glass window of a dove that I would stare at instead of listening to the priest. During silent prayer, six-year-old me begged God to show me a dove. Prove to me you are real, I’d say in my head, and I am all yours, your loyal servant God! Forever and ever! But I never got my dove. “Oh, that’s not how it works,” I hear the congregation murmur to me. “You must have faith in God. He should not have to prove anything to you, child.” To that, I say God is man, for only a Holy Father could ignore his

child and have His followers remark, “Trust and believe in him anyway. He’s your father, after all.” A Holy Mother would never get such leniency. She would have to prove herself every time she was called upon, fulfilling every prayer, lest she be seen as a neglectful mother. God is a man. Every Halloween, I walk the isles at a costume store, and I see no less than four sexy nun costumes. A few months ago, there was a discussion on social media about these sexy nuns. Some said it was an abomination, others feminist liberation. And yes, of course, there is something inherently misogynistic about sexualizing women who dress modestly to demonstrate devotion. But who decided that a woman’s body was immodest? Moreover, what kind of God would see a woman’s body as immodest? I have a guess. In a class I took about Latino Religion, we discussed the concept of reclaiming the kitchen. When female Santeria practitioners are forced to cook for rituals, relegated to the kitchen by male practitioners, can those women reclaim the kitchen and make it a place of their own? Can the kitchen be a place where those women rule? Can it be a space of female empowerment even? We decided that women could not take back anything they were forced into. Yes, a female Santeria practitioner could choose to be in the kitchen and enjoy her time there. But it could not be reclaimed if it was her only choice. As such, the nun cannot reclaim the habit. She can choose it. She can enjoy it. But if she wants to devote herself to God, it’s her only choice. In Catholicism, she cannot discard her habit for a bishop or deacon’s robe nor a pope’s regalia. She gets her habit and nothing more. God is a man, for no woman would do such a thing to

her sisters. No Holy Mother would ask it of her daughters. But the Holy Father does not just suggest it. He decrees it. 1 Timothy 2:11-2:14, New Revised Standard Version, Catholic Edition: “Let a woman learn in silence with full submission. I permit no woman to teach or have authority over a man; she is to keep silent. For Adam was formed first, then Eve; and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor.” According to God, man was first. The first human sculpted in the image of God was a man. The teacher. The speaker. The Man. Meanwhile, the human who doomed humanity was not made in the image of God. The transgressor, the first to eat of the apple, formed second before Adam, was only a poor imitation, always less than, so long as she’s a woman. God is man. For who else could look at a woman, a giver and creator of life, and claim that not only did man come first, but that she, his creator, was less than him?

Escúchame Keyla Limones “Escúchame, por favor, escúchame,” le grité al viento. Ese semestre de otoño lo recuerdo como el más frío. No solo porque la temperatura había bajado a cincuenta y ocho grados en el comienzo de noviembre, sino porque también sentía un vacío enorme por donde iba. La noticia de la pérdida del novio de mi mamá fue verdaderamente inesperada y no sé si realmente fue como un chiste mal jugado por Dios. Es simplemente que siento que en los momentos que menos te lo esperas y todo suele verse bien, el de arriba decide agarrar la carpeta y jalarla de bajo de tus pies, como si burlándose de lo duro que uno trabaja. La relación entre mi madre y él fue muy su cosa, por decir poco de mi opinión, pero con todo y las peleas por las cosas insigniﬁcantes. Ellos así nomás eran felices, bueno, lo fueron por seis largos años. Todavía recuerdo cómo mi mamá le decía, “Muévele, Daniel, hay que terminar a que esta niña termine de mover todas sus cosas al cuarto.” Entre ellos dos me ayudaron a mudarme a mi cuarto de segundo año de universidad, igual que el primero. Lo triste vendrá cuando me tenga que mudar fuera de él al ﬁn del año, solo con la ayuda de mi madre. “Ya que… ¿Que se le hace? Pues la gente como nosotros muere y nace a cada rato sin nadien que nos ladre.” Esa frase la recuerdo a cada rato de una conversación que tuve con mi abuela algún día, ya hace varios años, pero nunca lo llegué a entender hasta este momento. Por más que me da vuelta en la cabeza todo lo que ha pasado en el último mes, estoy en desacuerdo con lo de morir sin que a nadie en este mundo le importe. Fue así como en una noche, que entre tanta desesperación e insomnio por no poder dejar de pensar y llorar, salí al balcón de mi cuarto y me puse a hablar

con el viento. Como persona loca me puse yo a pedir por una respuesta que me hiciera sentir paz. “Escúchame, por favor, escúchame,” le grité al viento. Recuerdo que duré como media hora afuera porque luego luego sentí como mi trasero se congelaba y le corrí para adentro. Esa noche no pude dormir de tanta cosa que yo traía por dentro; era como si un remolino estuviera dándole y dándole duro. No fue hasta en la mañana que de verdad sentí la consecuencia de mi ocurrencia, ya que los ojos los tenía inchadísimos como si me hubiera atacado un grupo de abejas y todo el cuerpo me dolía. Creo que de todo lo que fue del resto del semestre, yo ansiaba regresar a casa para asegurarme de que todo anduviera bien. Al ver a mi madre llorar ese otoño, me prometí seguir trabajando duro sin que me importara si algún día Dios se levantara con las ganas de burlarse de mí unas cuantas veces más. La vida sigue y hay que salir adelante.

Dreaming of Dreaming Jaden Martens Lying in bed. A statement I’m not fond of, for it is only in bed that I am truthful. Blue turns orange then red through the window. I have not moved. Dry cracks spread across my glass eyes, threatening to collapse. No one has left yet. It is quiet. No, I do not want it to be quiet. Music plays, from the other room, a record player. Jazz, soothing jazz, I had put it on to lull me to sleep. The music sweeps through the halls, cushioning the darkness. For it is dark. Very dark. I can only sleep when it’s dark. When I cannot see my life. I do not like to think. To think. Think. Actually, no, there is not music. Nor are there halls. It is just me, in my bed, truthfully. Wet eyes; no eyes. No think. *** “You would think,” Greg says, “that by now people would understand. I mean, it’s been, what, ten years?” Fedora and trenchcoat, that was the costume Greg had decided to adopt today. What a terrible day for it with how the sun beating the sweat right out of people. Mike could hardly stand the tanktop plastered to his chest or the shorts perpetually clinging to his crotch, so he couldn’t imagine how Greg was not dying. “I don’t know. What you think, Mikey?” Greg asked. “You never said where we’re going,” Mike replied. “What that gotta do with anything?” “You asked what I was thinking.” “Huh, ‘spose I did. Well, we’re here anyhow.” “Where?” “Here.” “Where is here? I can’t see anything.”

“You can see me can’t you?” “Yes, but—” “I’m part of anything.” “Greg, where the hell are we?” “Alright, calm down, man. We’re at the lounge—sitting at the bar. The bar looks like marble, but if you feel it, you’ll realize it’s some cheap knockoff. Your drink’s getting warm, but you don’t drink anymore, so that’s fine. Em’s working tonight, but she hasn’t been over here in a while, you won’t make eye contact with her. Last time didn’t go well. Still, you dressed up for the occasion, three-piece and everything. It’s crowded, honestly ain’t much room for us to sit, so she could just be busy. Scotty on the other side of the room, flitting away on the piano. Over by the—” “Piano?” Mike asks. “No, I said no music.” “Michelle?” Mike turns away from the lounge, and Em is there, leaning against the stone railings of the bridge. Warms eyes, cold body, the way she always is. “I didn’t think you would come,” Em lies. “I knew you would,” Mike lies back. They walk together, enough distance between them to ensure it hurts. The woods grow around them, encasing them in shadow, blocking out the vicious light. People walk around them. “It’s so nice to be alone, finally,” Em says. “I agree.” They say nothing else. Nothing they say will be anything other than what they’ve already said before, so what would be the point. At least they can walk, for a time. Until— “I have to go,” Em says. “I know.” And she is gone. Michelle stands there, alone, once more. It’s getting early. Time to go home. This apartment she calls

home. This room she calls home. This bed she calls home. Someone sleeps there already. “Get up,” Michelle said. *** Getting up. A difficult thing to do. Abandoning the comfort of my reality for the obligations of absurdity. Blaring alarms urge me forward until there is water straining through me and the pleasantries of morning are being exchanged outside. As I’ve finished slipping into my skin, the familiar thrum of rubber against concrete settles in, and the lines separating chunks of sidewalk start to pass me by. Staring down is not an unpleasant feeling; though, if I stare for too long, I find the lines begin to close in—trapping me. I look up. “Whoa, careful there,” Rin says as I narrowly avoid running headfirst into his chest. His smile steals me away. “Hi, Rin,” I speak for the first time. It is a strange feeling, but words come naturally. Rin scoops up my hand in his; he’s gentle. “Come with me?” he asks, already fading. I smile and fade with him. We are somewhere new yet nostalgic. “It’s nice here,” I say. “It’s beautiful,” says he. “I like it here.” “It’s empty here.” “It is.” I turn to him, but he is already gone, and so is the emptiness that held us. It is filled with walls of wood and glass. The fog of coffee drifting through the air is kept circulating by the ringing of a cashier and the shuffling of workers. Em is working, though he doesn’t seem to have noticed me. I’m reading, likely as a means to avoid eye contact when necessary. It becomes necessary as Michael walks in and sits across from me. The words on the page swim around, but with

the way my head is spinning, it is not hard to read. It’s a world of magic and swords. Knights fight alongside mages in a battle against evil. Nice, simple, and controlled. A world where fantasy makes sense. What a nice world to slip into. “What are you reading,” Michael says, taking my book and cutting off my escape. Gravity sets in. I am sitting in this chair—wooden—in a café that is itself in a city occupied by so so many people, yet it is here that Michael finds himself, on this Saturday morning, across from me, wearing a three-piece suit and tie, sipping a cappuccino and holding the only means I have of being anywhere else. Over the speaker, a piano tickles the intro to a jazz piece. “I said no music,” we say together. Eyes turn to look at us, and the music keeps on playing. Heat burns in my cheeks, and my breath quickens. A spurt of laughter then the room begins to cackle. Hundreds of people, thousands pile in to add their laughter. I squeeze my eyes shut, begging for the darkness, longing for the darkness, but it does not come. It is not my turn to sleep, not my turn to dream. A hand finds itself on mine. “Hey, it’s okay,” Michael says. I open my eyes. How do I only now notice how tired he looks? “This isn’t fair,” I whisper. “No, it’s not, but we’ll get through it.” “Are you sure?” “No.” “I find that comforting.” “How so?” “That you’re as unsure as I am.” I smile as he chuckles then yawns. “Come on,” he says, nodding to the door. A moment of hesitation. I am back in bed, snuggled up in darkness and hidden away from my life. I feel guilty, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit

to also feeling relieved. We’ve reached an understanding, at least for now. At least, until I can find some strength to be awake. The door opens, Mykhailo leaves, and I slip away from my thoughts, truthfully.

Pomegranate Zinab Mohamed Cold, cold white. The walls blurred with the world outside. The office’s bland paint was cold, isolated enough. Out of the big windows, a pomegranate tree heavy with ripe fruit towered in the yard surrounded by plastic flower bushes. It didn’t matter if it was all plastic— she only saw it through the window. Except now everything was white with little specks of pink peeking through. No blue sky, either— the smog took care of that long ago. The woman never went outside, but she enjoyed the view. When she wrote emails, she felt like Emily Dickinson, even though she was no Emily Dickinson or any poet for that matter. She was tempted to take a step into the yard or even farther out where people had height and moved beyond the four corners of a screen, but she never took those steps. The woman did not fear the world beyond the gate, but nothing out there was fascinating. It started with a kitchen— a drip above the sink. Negligible, the water in the sink could just be from the faucet as long as she didn’t look up at the ceiling, white with beige stains. Then water dribbled in the living room, but she hardly lounged there for it to matter. Then it was the bathroom, a perfectly normal place for water to be. And when the ceiling of the office caved in, it didn’t rip— it bursted. A flood more akin to a monsoon than frozen pipes, everything was gone, and in the center of it all, the woman stood shivering and grasping at the falling water, trying to push everything back to its comfortable place. What was done was done, and she was living in the future, the one where she’s alone and exposed.

No one else is here, the woman thought. So it’s up to me to pick up that phone and call someone. She picked up her phone and stared at the white numbers. As her finger hovered there, the numbers were teasing her, but the water didn’t stop. The water didn’t hesitate. No, it couldn’t stand the constraints of pipes, so it forged its own path. When the plumber came, the door was wide open. The woman opened it before returning to the downpour. Someone had to keep an eye on things, right? The plumber followed the rain and found the woman wading in her own office like it was perfectly normal. “Why didn’t you shut off the water supply?” She stared at him blankly. If she figured that she had the power to turn off the water, then she wouldn’t have bothered calling him, wouldn’t have bothered saying the name of her address to some stranger, wouldn’t have bothered to be considerate enough to open the door. The woman smiled and laughed, remembering the rhythms of conversation and persuasion. “There’s a way to shut it? To just turn it off? Can’t you just do it for me, since you’re here? Please?” The plumber stared at her, and she remembered that she, too, existed in the three-dimensional world, just like him. “Sure, I can do that,” he said. “But go find somewhere dry.” The woman nodded and left the office, and as she walked out of the desolate room, the pink of the pomegranates glittered through the window. The shade under the tree was dry, so she wasn’t breaking any rules if she decided to go there. As she stepped out into the bitter cold, she realized that this was her house. She was in charge of the rules; she could stay in that damn office if she wanted, but she was already under the tree, already grabbing a fallen fruit and slamming it against the trunk until the seeds spilled, submerging the snow with red. When dawn broke, there were no pomegranates left; by noon, the only life left in the rubble was the barren tree. 44

Affliction Imaan Moosa Maria let the phone ring exactly five times before picking it up. Unsure of what would meet her on the other side, she answered with trembling hands. Just a scam call, she futilely hoped, but the thick silence was oppressively unsettling. She recalled the first time he had rang her. He spoke her name as if he was taking an eternal vow. She flashed a shy smile, fingers twinning in the old phone cord like they would a lover’s hand. The poetry of his promises rushed over her until she was caged in his sickly sweet words. The weight of expectation pressed against her ribs. Back then, she had been nauseatingly in love. The kind of love that blurred edges, that silenced reason. She hadn’t noticed the world fading away, hadn’t questioned how his embrace felt more like possession than affection. It had been intoxicating, consuming. She had ignored the way his eyes darkened when she asked too many questions, impervious to the lingering sense that she was something of secrecy. And then, he was gone. Months passed, and she languished in a hollow space, waiting for something that had already slipped away. She thought he might have left something behind. Maybe a letter or a keepsake, something to reminisce. Instead, she had found a single lock of hair, carefully folded into an envelope marked with the initials L.K. Her stomach twisted. It wasn’t hers. It was a relic of someone else. A warning. A breath broke the silence on the phone. “Maria.”

He said it like an invocation, like a claim. She stood silently as his honeyed lies swirled around her, afraid that if she spoke they’d swallow her whole. She clenched the receiver in her hand and slammed it down before her credulous heart could betray her.

That Tragic Night Linda Robb You ever stared death right in the face? I have. I was technically dead for approximately 5 minutes. It was enough time to realize your life doesn’t flash before your eyes. Cause if that were true, I’d know who I’d marry, how many kids I’d get, the horrible things I saw, did and experienced. I’d have seen the people who’ve came and left my life. No, it was blank. I saw nothing, but empty space. Nothing. Nada. Rien. Life can suck. I should know. I was handed a crappy one. I’ve never done anything bad, well besides the one time I smoked weed, but that’s another story. I’ve done everything right. I graduated high school, got to junior year of college, I’ve never had sex (that’s actually a lie), never drank even though I knew of my parent’s secret stash. If I could do everything differently, I would. But I can’t. I just can never get those words out of my head. Those specific words, just 4 words, can change your life. “Your parents are dead.” Never thought I’d hear it. Never. “Ma’am?” a police officer asks, placing a hand on my shoulder. I think he introduces himself as Officer Barrow. I just look at the officer, not having the strength to speak. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Officer Barrow asks. I shake my head no. “What happened here?” was his first question. The most important question of the night. What did happen here? “I…I” the only thing I was able to get out. “Ma’am?” the officer questions.

“I remember getting a phone call,” I manage to say after two minutes. “What was the phone call ma’am?” the officer asks. “My parents are dead,” I tell the officer staring up at the sky. “Do you remember anything after that?” “I-I…I was crying…,” I think, I add in my head. “Officer, can you continue tomorrow. We need to get her to the hospital and look over,” an EMT tells the officer. “Of course,” the officer nods. “Ma’am can you get in the ambulance?” the EMT asks me. I get to my feet before stepping up into the awaiting vehicle. The EMT got in behind me and had me sit on the bench. She checks my heart, my eyes then assess the damage done. “Ma’am, I’m gonna ask some questions. I’m gonna need you to answer them to the best of your ability,” the EMT tells me. “Okay,” I say softly. “What’s your name?” she asks first. “Paisley Kelsy,” I say like it's an automatic response. “How old are you?” next question. “21.” “When’s your birthday?” third question. “March 21, 2001.” “What do you remember last?” fourth. “Getting a phone call,” and it’s the truth. “What is 4 plus 4?” fifth question. “8.” “Can you hear this noise?” the sixth. A faint buzz is welcome by my ear. “Barely,” I tell her. “Can you look at the sign over there and tell me the smallest letter you see?” seventh question now. I look over at a sight chart. Not squinting my eyes, I see a lower case ‘n’ on the second to last row. I tell the EMT that. 48

“I’m going to drop something. Can you catch it?” eighth. She drops a cup. I look at it as it drops before my hand reaches out to grab it right before it hits the ground. She jots something down. We finally arrive at the hospital. They put me in a stretcher and take me to a room where they ran a few tests, poked me then finally left. Alone with my thoughts once more. My head is probably the worst place to be considering everything. My thoughts are my enemy. I’m forced to think about things I want to ignore. Like my parents. Or the fact that I haven’t spoken to my siblings since I left for college, even the older ones. Even the fact that my best friend is going to murder me when she learns about tonight. A doctor came in an hour later. Told me they were packed before getting onto my health. No concussion. Only a few bruises, no broken bones or ribs. No major injuries in the head. I’m fine. Just need some rest and more nutrients. The doctor said I would be discharged in the morning, just to make sure nothing comes up. I kinda hope it does so that I could be reunited with my parents. That’s not going to happen. The doctor told me goodnight before leaving, turning the lights off in the process and drawing the curtain closed. I turn on my side, away from the curtain. I look out into the abyss, seeing nothing, but darkness. I was dead for a total of 5 minutes, least that’s what the EMT’s told me, yet I have no broken bones or ribs. Not even a concussion. I hate it. I want to be in pain. At least then I’d know I lived and not died. Groaning from the sun, I wake up. My back was cramped and my left arm was killing me. I feel like I was ran over by a bus. At least it’s close to what happened. “Paisley Lin Kesly!” the voice of my best friend greets me.

I turn to face her as she storms in. Though she stops short when she sees the state I’m in. It doesn’t stop her from hugging me tightly though. “What happened Paisley? I thought you were just going to the library! But I got worried when you didn’t show up at dinner time. Next thing I know, the hospital is ringing me telling me about you! Where are your parents? I thought they’d be here before me and also looking like shit,” she rambles. “Sage, my parents are dead,” I say bluntly. The words sounding sour on my tongue. “What? Last weekend they were ﬁne,” Sage says in outrage. “Car crash,” was all I managed to tell her before bursting into more tears. Who knew I had more tears left. “Oh honey.” Sage pulls me into her arms like my older sister used to. Sage didn’t have to say anything to comfort me. She knew me. She knew that wouldn’t help. She knew I just needed someone to hold me, nothing else. Nothing would ever change what happened. Nothing.

Summer Moon Martin Rosales Upon entering the coffee shop, I was struck by how full the room was. Maybe it feels more full because the room itself isn’t particularly large, but it always boggles my mind how popular coffee shops are for people doing work. A quick glance around the five-walled room reveals that most everyone here is college-aged, though there are a few people who are undoubtedly older. It’s a place for all sorts of people, I decided as I took my seat by the far corner, as far away from the door as it gets. My attention is caught by the strange artwork plastered on the walls, with one side having a grayscale painting of a furnace in an old, run-down wooden cabin, and another the words “Summer Moon” written in chalk with fancy swirls. One side has antique-hailing art, the other has modernist scrabble. Additionally, in the middle of the room is a chandelier made by wrapping nine light bulbs attached to ropes around a single wooden beam, which itself is attached to the ceiling by thin kevlar ropes. An interpretive, wooden chandelier, if you will. Despite having mostly muted colors, the shop has five differently colored walls — light blue, wooden veneer, pastel blue, standard white, and red-brick veneer — all of which blend into each other. There is a bald black man at one table, his broad shoulders slouched over his laptop on one table, and in the next table over is a blonde white girl, who is pouring over her textbook and laptop as she furiously tucks a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. These two catch my attention in particular. The man is old and the girl is young, and yet they both have the same style

of coffee cup to by their side as their focus on their work — lulled by the sounds of espresso machines hissing and the scent of coffee wafting from the front counter. Much like the multicolored walls, I see people of all backgrounds working separately, yet coexisting in the same space. Some tall, some short. There’s one group of three on the leftmost desk, and everywhere else people are solitary workers. Distinctive harmony. Every occupied table has at least one laptop on it, and if you focus real close, you can hear the succinct sound of clicking keyboards. There are four workers scrambling behind the counter — all of them women who wear aprons and carry their hair tied up. They are working women, with two people constantly running the machines, one manning the drive-through, and the last taking orders at the counter. To not overuse the “well-oiled machine” metaphor, I would rather say they instead resemble the walls that surround them, or the very people that they are serving. Distinctive harmony. These women are all operating different portions of the workspace — each one staying out of each other’s way, yet they still exist in the same space in unison. These thoughts fill my mind as my eyes shift from the wide array of consumers and workers back to the interpretive art. Is the multitude of wood panels all hanging off of each other above me a piece of art that adds to the idea of the coffee shop? Do the cracked stone floor and soothing orange light from the strange chandelier work together as separate entities? I watch silently and then find myself agreeing with the thought. Everything about Summer Moon is both distinct and in perfect harmony with everything else. Where the mixture of antique and modernist art should clash, they instead cohabitate. While the young and the old may not have much in common, they both share space. The too-full coffee shop is strikingly

poetic, though after having spent over a half-hour watching it, anything might appear to be poetic given the effort. My phone buzzes, indicating that I’ve been here too long and that it’s time to return to campus. As I open my bag to return my journal and pencil, I’m suddenly struck by the thought that by observing the coffee shop, I may have been the only part of the environment not in harmony with itself — almost as if by observance, I ran counter to the spell.

Cardinal Peyton Sterling Where I am sitting there is a bush with red berries. Now, I do not know what kind of berries these are. They look quite nice however, in contrast to the orange red brick behind them. Upon looking more closely at the bush, there is a cardinal sitting within the branches. He blends in so well that if you didn't look closely, you might have never even realized he was there. I ponder over whether taking a picture would be a good idea, if it would scare him away. I thought this was something my mom would decide was a good omen. Right as I’m thinking about this, two girls riding in a golf cart drive around the corner that the bush is on. As the cart rounds the corner, I see the cardinal jump out of the bush and dart across my sightline until I can no longer see him in my peripherals. The cardinal is gone, just as fast as he came. I’m not exactly sure why I was so attached to this cardinal in this specific spot, something about it just seemed right. Something about the complexion of the cardinal and the berries on the bush mixed with the background of the bricks just looked so right. But it flew away like none of it meant anything, like there was a better place for it somewhere out there. I know he could come back, but I know in my heart that he never will. Once he flies away, he is gone forever.

White Moth Jasmine Evenstad

Complementary Study No. 7 Yvonne Gu

Empress of Personas Yvonne Gu

Nom-nom Yvonne Gu

Nurturing Nuzzle Yvonne Gu

The Market Yvonne Gu

The Reflectors Yvonne Gu

Tradition Never Dies Yvonne Gu

Armadillo CD Rory McCarthy

Mi Nombre Rory McCarthy

Under Sway Miya Morris

want_me_again Alexis Norman

A Gift El Stratton

The Stupidest Sailors the World's Ever Seen Michael Ard Out in the sea, near the Strait of Zebee Sail the stupidest sailors the world’s ever seen! With a compass so broke and a map up in smoke, They set sail on a quest full of folly and hope! There’s: Squinty McGee, who couldn’t quite see, Ol’ Lucius McPhee, and his trusted pet flea, Morris de Jaine, who swabbed on the main, But couldn’t remember his own damn name! Fergus van Kerfus, who comes from the circus, Barnaby Percus, whose luck is a curse-us And Captain O’Hane, who leads this whole gang, But has no sense of rudder nor lane! Through harrowing storms and waves tall as trees, They laugh in the face of the angriest of seas. They fight giant squids just to settle a bet, But smash into rocks and lose all their net! By logic and reason they shouldn’t survive, Yet somehow, some way, they’re all still alive! With barrels so empty and a hull full of leaks, They dance on the deck as the salty wind shrieks And never lose a grin, for they live by their luck, Through madness and chaos, never losing their pluck!

Pando Forest, June 2022 John Bieberich “It’s all a single tree.” A hundred acres of aspen, a forest of clones. Plants born before the touch of humanity. Branches speaking before written word, A collective before government, One or a thousand intertwined, living in unison, utopic. Seeds still drop into the valley, spreading a macrocosm across the hills. What can it mean to live when the weight of nature covers hillsides, veiny roots embracing every new leaf? In the last thirty years it saw its first gap since humanity populated Mesopotamia. It’s overgrazing, overhunting, overpopulation. Soon nature is limited to a shrinking canvas. One day it’ll fit on the end of a paintbrush. “No, I see two trees right there.”

Southeast of Clovis, New Mexico Alex Brown empty land useful land rich land sometime after a fluted flint pierced the flesh of a young mammothmethane flares erupted over immusical pipes like security lights over mansions in the memorial city as stars behind them, same as the ones charted on the canyon walls, sung their quiet, chaotic song empty land useful land rich land a permian pactolus; and like the Lydiansunwilling to see the golden curse of Midas’s riverthey strike from it the root of all evil empty land useful land rich land

For My Parents, After College Samuel Cornett The feeling of home Was not a warm crackling fireplace, but it was laughter and wry clever jokes and Four blue walls. My room, And being able to sleep. Also joking and fighting with my sister, And the sound of music in my ears, And my mom cooking– And me sitting in my room thinking Again, after hugging my dogs and being Afraid but needing to get over it. From shelves in my room and time spent With my mom and my dad— Conversations and talking hard— Never stopping once, not even for breath. I don’t need to think that much. Speaking of exposure, the feeling Of home was an incomplete poem and thinking and it not necessarily constantly Feeling comfortable but real, From the feeling of the fan running above me, Not necessarily feeling comfortable but real, And pained in the way That only you can feel at home.

For that is how home Is meant to feel, an incomplete poem, The incessant sharpness of the knife, The silent comfortable drunkenness of napping Two very distinct parts Always adding more and more to That endless combination of homesickness, That sad happy feeling which best occurs after good memory. Cold and hot, comfortable and sharp, Blue and pink, light and dark, All the moments, the place to be And an infinite challenging capacity for Everything that was built by my parents and their reality. The real, not the fake. The unregulated, This is what home means to me This is how I work, why I need them. You are ready to go away from here.

In the Backseat of a Car Samuel Cornett All I long for is human connection— A touch of a hand, a snuggle under a blanket, A man or a woman, it doesn’t matter, On misfit island. What can I write? I do not and never know. All my friends knew for years I just took a little longer— To know that love did not matter, man or woman, it was matterless. It was the brown of eyes! In which so deeply I swim. Or some exchanged words too tireless and tiring to understand. The shadow in the corner of my room, That hangs muffled and full like cotton in my mouth, On the ceiling— Is my fear of love, and fear of the past, Which my friends, whom I envied so much, Again, gave to me in the backseat of a car.

Look Don’t Touch Samuel Cornett I don’t want to pray, because I don’t want to have any obligations But I didn’t cry last night, No, no I didn’t cry last night. I’m young and stupid and somehow I believe Being in love is uncomfortable But when other people see it it’s perfect. When we’re young, love Is a shapeless thing that is carved by other people’s eyes, A virgin Venus and a naked Mars For “love is second-hand” And in this age it’s true. But at the same time, real (true?) love flits like a bird in the corner of your eye (See it in the carvers’ eyes too) And so we find ourselves hoping We can see it flutter and perch restless, And that as it clings tightly to the branch It puffs out its chest and tilts back its head: Perhaps just beginning to sing its sweet Song. 76

Licorice Lover Louie Cruz Your gaze is black licorice-sweet and dark, deep sparkles like cider. My reflection warbles within it, twisting like scalding taffy. Pull me in, darling. I'll fold smooth under your coy desperation.

Monday; April 15, 2019 Parras Dumlao She is on the Hill, the crucifix still standing, and she’s crying— cradling the corpse of the rebel, heretic: Jesus of Nazareth. Anointed in his own blood. Poor Mary— Oh! Poor Mary’s eyes straining up above to the fires of the sky, the collapsing rock, wondering why God— Oh! God! Why would you take our son? Why do your angels sing from beyond? Why do the fires of Hell bake in the skies of Heaven? Where– Oh! Where God, begs Mary, is mercy?

Ownership Parras Dumlao White picket fence “The paint is peeling” Growing green grass "You have to mow the lawn" A fiery red Ferrari “Get the Nissan for the kids" 32" plasma screen "We're going to church" Office on the top floor "Take some time off" Stainless steel knives "I do all the cooking" Friday night meetings "You missed Daphne's recital" 1939 red wine from France "I'm just not happy" King-size memory foam mattress "I'm just not in the mood" Marble tables "You're never clean" Spotless floors "I want that maid fired" Trophy wife "I do all the work" "I can't clean it out!" Red stained sheets

The Blues Parras Dumlao There were times when I wondered why Ma married my father. He wasn’t a bad man, better than most, but he drank. He wasn’t an angry drunk or a happy drunk but a quiet drunk—a sleepy drunk. I remember how the static television glowed during those nights when I came home late smoking cigarettes. He was a ghost in that chair, the light playing along his sleeping face, as he decided to dream with a bottle of beer rather than Ma. Distant. I think I’d call him a distant man. There were times when we were eating as a family that he’d just go quiet and stare through whatever was in front of him as if it were a window. I was probably 16 when I found out he did music. Me and Ma were cleaning out the attic and found some rusting old trumpet, and I think she screamed out of excitement because she took that trumpet and gave it to my father whose glassy eyes suddenly came to life. It wasn’t the best playing I heard. Hell, I’d even say it was bad! But he was happy, swaying his head too and fro, wiggling the trumpet’s triggers, and sliding up down the major scales from memory. I think I saw my Ma wipe a tear from her eye, cause Pa was young again and for once seeing something other than clear glass windows.

The Fall Sadie Eidson A new dawn breaks over the gold-rimmed horizon, and I find myself sitting alone on the edge, watching as the dusty pink streaks turn crimson in the pale morning sky. The cotton candy clouds burn away at the sun’s touch, fading into the blushing sky just as a lovers kiss rests upon the flushed cheek of a young, red-lipped girl, aflame and unafraid. My weightless feet swing back and forth across the open air, as if teasing the welcoming ground lying lifetimes below, as if tempting the thoughts that run rampant throughout my mind, the thoughts that picked me up and drove me to this place. I lift my eyes to watch the sun, a splendid God, reaching out its gleaming hand to caress the waking earth. The sleepy flowers wipe their eyes and slowly rise, their faces turning up as they greet their lover with open arms, aflame and unafraid. A running leap is all it takes, and then, akin to an aureate eagle, I find myself flying through the air. I spread my wings and soar, down, down, down, past the reddening stone, towards the glowing earth, cutting through the wind as if I had razors on my feathers. I lift my head and find myself bathed in golden light as I plummet to the ground, aflame and unafraid.

A False Farewell Fraebart Hawkins Now by the power of Heaven we may have peace in our time, and all the while you old crones have sent us forth to die in war's crime. Every adventure I take across the line in the sand breaks hearts, on one side is a life of political debate and room for the arts. The other a land of glorified gore and dead men rolled away in carts. Poets of emperors twist fantasies to children's stories, and the scribes of soldiers weep at the truth they unfurl. The evil smiles that curl, the boy that leaves behind his girl, the red glare in the air that decorate the world as they twirl. And yet I am called a hero. Praised for deeds my God has wept at the sight of. And yet I am called the victor. Worshipped for stories I am forced to embellish. Sure I once fought for you to be free. And now I'm the one who has to watch as the new lords send you off to sea.

A Solitary Stroll Fraebart Hawkins Do the buildings get lonely at night? Do their halls feel hollow and sad with spite? Do they try talking to us and whisper "please come again with the first light." Do their midnight luminous faces want attention-do they want to be in our sight? Is it dreary to the point where the wind can bite? Is it hard to watch a man wander and see he isn't going inside to fill them with might? Do their windows curl up together nice and tight? Do the memories of those who built them kiss them goodnight? Do the brother bricks comfort their sister roofs when they awake from a bad dream in a fright? Can the whole world see my walk and weary wander. Does it see my clever eye and writer's gaze that betrays a look of confusion when I ponder? Does the city know my urge to wrap them in my arms and share my love brought on by a tree's gentle charms? Can it feel my devotion on the wind every week as the words are flown to its vast cheek? Can every tower feel my prayer for God's power? Oh dearest home, can you not see that I too am afraid of the night because I hate being alone?

Will It Happen? Fraebart Hawkins Will there come a day when children learn how it happened that way? Shall their teachers ask for a moment of silence and fuss at those who play? Will the rusting hull fade to oblivion? Or will the extra salty water we shed add too much pressure and make the grave a hidden dominion? Quietly and solitarily I picture myself there in that port. Brushing my hands in the water and signing a cross for God to witness what went down in war’s court. I will look upon my flag one day when I am there and say, “How can you keep on flying? Who could not make you sway?” And then I too will look down and see my countrymen’s final spot. I will watch as a wreath and roses are tossed in and I will find a seat to calm my stomach that’s in a knot. And so I’ll condition my mind to anger that I can’t do anything more to help other than remember. Remember this deadly morning in that distant December. I will feel the weight of our country’s mighty call to assemble and I too shall tremble. Shuddering like the ground we traded for the harbor. I will break a tear and ask Jesus to sit with me as in that moment of memorial because I too will need a partner. So that through the thousands of names which stopped being spoken that last morn, I too will rage at war and what it has torn.

Fiddlehead Ferns Avery Letendre The soothing pitter-pattering of droplets thrums heavy on the loamy earth above, Sending delicate vibrations Down through the thickness of the soil. It is a soft, warm hug, pulled up close and tucked in tight In the reassuring dark. I know I will always love it here, for nothing could ever be better. The gentle damp, the cool earth pressed in, the unshakable dark— This is my place. Now and forever. Or so I thought. But this morning, the rain must have been just perfectly gentle and light, Or the soil just perfectly nutritious and right, Because now, far too suddenly and all at once, I find myself feeling— small. uncertain. i think i am beginning to feel a change in the earth? the dark, the dirt, is different, new, transformed—my surroundings are beginning to change, to pull away, slowly at first, but as i stretch out to grasp them back, they move quicker, farther and faster than i can reach—and i am beginning to panic—unless—

it isn’t my home that is pulling away. it’s me. i am pulling away. i try to fight it, but i am too Small, and every time i shift, i change more—more quickly, more notably, more irrevocably, until i am forced to come face to face with the fact that i am changing. and there is nothing a being as Small as i can do about it. so I stop trying to fight it. I stop trying to shift. And I wait to see what will happen. I pay close attention to the change, and I find That something wild and wonderful inside of me is breaking open to make way for the new. As the dark looms back and the earth parts before me, I flare out into the light— Bright, blooming, brilliant light! And the air feels clean, and joyous, and living, and the rain’s soothing pitter-patter falls now On my curling, unfurling leaves, and the greenery that surrounds me, rooted deep in that loamy earth below, As I sprawl up toward the wild blue sky, As I lunge for the sun and stretch to touch the clouds, And I realize that this, right here—this is my place. Now and forever.

La Frontera Keyla Limones I am a daughter of the Frontera, El Rio Bravo, the Rio Grande. I am not from here nor from there. Not belonging to one side or the other. I am the owner of myself, My thoughts, feelings, and emotions. Celebrating my women hysteria, Y menstruación. If the love I have for myself, My culture And my raíces, Scare the boots oﬀ you. ¡Qué bueno, that’s good! It’s great to turn the tables, For once to occupy space. My existence is not for me to be quiet. Porque calladita no me veo más bonita, And no matter how much pain History carries, It is not only our past, but our present. We all still remember, The wise dicho of “Sana sana colita de rana Si no sanas hoy sanarás mañana.”

All this because of broken hearts And souls that can be amended With an order of tacos de asada, Y una coquita bien helada. Not belonging to one single place, Is no longer a burden. It's a golden ticket, That runs through our veins.

La Raza por la Causa Keyla Limones The guilt, y mi maldita desgracia. Si yo pudiera Quitarme mi ciudadanía Que los pinches papers De mi espalda Como la ropa que llevo puesta Para salvar a mi Raza Lo hiciera sin dos veces pensar, Without a second to waste Me hincaría en frente de Políticos y presidentes corruptos Peores que la misma maña Si los pudiera a todos salvar Utilizaría mi cuerpo como escudo Entre su vida y la mía. Porque, we matter Mi gente sí que importa Ellos que trabajan, Estudian, Se desvelan, Y madrugan Para un American dream Que les cuesta su vida

La razón por la cual Ustedes tienen Taco Tuesday, Y los mariachis para celebrar, Una economía a las espaldas Del racimo sistémico Pero mi Raza no se raja Ya que, ¿verdad? Si nos cachetean, ponemos el otro cachete. Pero ya no más. Nos han tirado al piso, Nos han llamado invasores, Nos han dicho que volvamos A un país que nunca dejamos. A la chingada con sus muros, Con su odio envuelto en leyes, Con su miedo a nuestra sangre Que pinta su bandera con cada gota derramada. Porque aunque nos quieran ver muertos, Aquí seguimos vivos, Más vivos que su odio, Más fuertes que su miedo. Ellos no entienden, No lo harán jamás. Nosotros somos la raíz. Que rompe el concreto. Somos el maíz, La ﬂor que resiste en el desierto.

Y aunque nos quieren en silencio, Seguimos cantando. Aunque nos quieran de rodillas, Seguimos marchando. Porque mi Raza no se rinde, Ni pide permiso para existir. Nos vale madre si les gusta o no. Aquí estamos, y aquí seguimos. Porque mi gente no se apaga, Mi gente brilla.

Si Valgo Madres Keyla Limones I never had a dad. Y le tengo que agradecer a mi mamá. Because I never needed one. No tienes madre. Sí la tengo. Y bien puesta. En la línea de fuego, O en la chinga, Dándolo todo Por mí. No vales madre. My worth is more than what your eyes can see, Porque no necesito tu aprobación. Tengo pura madre. Y no me vengan con sus cuentos De que al mundo me trajo un hombre también. Porque mi madre me cargó Entre costilla y entraña, Apretando dientes, sudando fe, Sin más milagro que su propia voluntad.

Yo sin ella ni estuviera aquí. Porque por mi padre No estuviera yo acá: Deseo impuro, Concepción de algún dios Que nunca preguntó por mí. Gracias, mamá. Por enseñarme Y creer en mí.

Leviathan, the Carrion-Eater Patricia McDonald a sea of birds descends upon her and leaves only bones behind What sort of sin is it to look, to watch the world with feeding eyes to take in hand that whistling-kettle need to open up the world and sink your teeth into it I remember the many-toothed maw of the earth those yawning smiles begging open-mouthed for rain hungry, hunting— The eye is an eating thing. It makes slow circles round the sun a beast under its yoke the ox that drags a plow waiting, wanting— What a thing it is to be seen, to be the place where art enters me And takes up its bleeding residence How long can you gaze into the red and blinking eye of night at the whole world through a window How long does it take before the eye stares back before it catches you cold in a lace-thin net of veins like the hen plucked bare of feathers or the deer stuck through and strung up silent, staring— with her back against the wall

If I look at you and you look at me Who is eating whom? Who has more flesh between their teeth?

The Gibbet Haniel Neves Let down, Let down, Let down thy sweet suffering! Come to me now, O misty eclipse of hope - sing praises to my life! Win comfort for my flesh, let no hope escape; Gird my lifeblood and sentence my soul, Wrap arms around me and let me see my faith. Escape me not, unbounding roots; encircle me closely. Branches, withered, dried and blackened, so close to imitate The unsavory nature which touches it, Let me live! Let me see my past! Let me love once more. Let me hang in solitude.

The Pianist Haniel Neves The soft drops of moonlight, spilled on the ground, Grey covered in silver, shadowed with intricacies. Notes of despair, terror, love, and promise Ringing out from the windows, into the garden below. Love promised, grief expounded, stories unfolded, Chords unresolved in order to prolong. Passion ensuing, the flight of anger accruing, Ivory keys broken and caressed to tell the story. It is he who tells the story, taking liberties from its origin, To grieve is to interpret what is written, To love is to set apart certainty from necessity. The dry and dull-dimmed walls, their character hidden Like the music, must be given a chance to flourish. Watery eyes can tell stories, but so can the dead; The similarity is evident—several harmonies secure them both. He tells the story, and I listen to attempt his, But what he tells is troubled, though the music be of cheer. Unusual it is to hear notes of promise, Yet be shuttered with the stiffness of despair. The tale seen can so quickly be undone By one who wishes to tell another, For the silver now has turned to black. Its shadows rule; Necessity has won.

Inescapably Inexorable Alexis Norman She's not dead, she’s there right in front of me. A shell of the person I once loved. My love is liquid Aimless without someone to fill Ever flowing, never ceasing Creeping through the cracks Cumulative affection, months, years worth of it But as soon as that trust is gone My anxiety twists free It bores a hole into the vessel, a worm in the rotten apple of my eye And my love leaks out until I become lost again I am mesh. Unable to retain my own love To let it nurture myself So instead, I fill the cups of others This emptiness Is it jealousy? Anger? Yearning, for what once was Well, what was only moments in a sea of nothing But they made me feel so loved.

What is fueling this bottomless pit in my stomach? It reminds me of the days I spent In constant sympathetic control My heart thumping faster than I thought it could handle Hyperventilating madness Every breath seemed to leak back out at an impossible pace All the memories I've had in this very room Flood back to me Trickling from my mind to my eyes Threatening to spill out as salty regrets I was a fool To stay the night To risk sobbing my pathetic eyes out in front of her Again. It brings out my sympathetic side. In both ways. That primal emotion. That endless forgiveness. Why? Back to her. Like a dog. Curling into that warmth Focused only on the present Because it’s all I know. I’m dizzy Oscillating between love and hate Two sides of the same coin Just like she said we were Spinning, balanced on that razor thin rim

When I Speak of Light Anthonia Ogbo I speak of endless sky engulfed in night, frostbit fingers interlocked and squeezing as if afraid to lose something precious– the breath in my lungs or the curve of her spine or the gravity between us – something like that. Specks of moonlight fall onto her shoulders and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful– Moon Goddess. Ganymede. Selene. Beloved. My bones are ringing with Bible hymns, and I know I promised that I would be good but when you send me a girl with a laugh like twinkling stars– a girl who can split me in half like a blood orange, tender and pulsing and ripe between my ribs– Where else am I to worship, if not at her feet? For when I speak of light, I speak of the time I swallowed the sun whole, belly full of sunrise and sunset and sun and shine and her hands around my neck like a pretty pearl necklace – never choking, simply holding heat simmering under skin lit aglow by the touch of a god and perhaps my name should be Icarus with the way I let my wings graze her morning glow – with the way I let myself burn at the touch of her fingertips, my salvation found in the palms of her hands.

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Yes, when I speak of light, I speak of 2AM in the kitchen summer fruit split into halves with the softness of hands over the sharpness of blade. Starlight beams from our mouths wide-open and flows down our chins to the soles of our feet in a pool of heaven; it swallows the ground and fills up the room and our eyes and our lips and our lungs until we are no longer flesh and bone, but stars, Schedar shining brightly at the heart of Cassiopeia. God, when I speak of light, I speak of Her–the sun, the moon, the stars–and I, light-eater, light-loving.

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Will the Circle be Unbroken Abby Power I’m from precious memories, unseen angels sent from somewhere to my soul from hugs and kisses when you come through the door and when you eventually leave I’m from a sky full of stars that heals my broken heart but I think I’m gonna miss you, for a long, long time I’m from country roads, take me home on summer nights when the humidity greets me with a warm embrace from cicadas buzzin’ and crickets chirpin’ ‘til dawn I’m from guitar-pickin’ harmony-singin’ (albeit not well) I’ll Fly Away O’ Glory Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound I’m from the single mother that raised me, the father that drifted, the grandmother that stepped up the sister and brother there with me singing and showing I got you, babe

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I’m from two steps and cumbias dribbling basketballs and trips to the sac n’ pac from your word is your bond family is everything and don’t you forget it have courage and be kind and don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy I’m from my cup runneth over with love I love you, babe I love you, too I love you, more I love you, most Forever and ever, Amen

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Definition Zain Rahman The black mirror cracks in front of us As a Facade of lies we were told as truths fall to Us like the broken wings of a bird. Stuck. We were taught to live on these fantasies of false reality Where every day we live up to the expectations others made of us Unable to forge our own Future We are a produced to make up for the sins of eve Forever bound to the chains of our ancestors, Forced to live in a poisonous cloud of pesticide Our peers the farmers and their endless arsenal of hate their poison Our disorders defined us they said But You have to believe they were wrong We define ourselves and from the broken bones, sticks and stones, Thrown We create our own futures And even when the darkness calls to us in the night Replaying our past trauma like a scratched record player On repeat You have to believe they were wrong For we break the chains of insecurity binding us To the realities our tenebrous minds set for us You have to believe they were wrong

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Because we are the future And if we weren’t stronger than those around us We wouldn’t be here today For with any amount of struggle There is a greater reward

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An Ode to St. Cecilia... Jorge Romero After years of stillness, When only a faint hum resounded, A broken melody in my heart. Lady of music, Patroness of musicians, You finally appeared. The sole hum became many ‘Til their voices erupted, Resonating and blending together Making a beautiful, Unified, harmonious sound. And so I began to sing with it Matching its tone: its boisterous, Passionate, addicting energy; Filling my entire body With joy and excitement; With grief and uncertainty. Sentiments I welcomed As goosebumps blossomed On my burning skin. As my heart raced with the life That was once stolen from it. And the chorus continues its song… And this time I continued with it.

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On the Greenest Hill Jorge Romero On a hill where the grass is greenest Where the landscape looks unending Where the sun is warm and the breeze is light And where the fluffy clouds tickle our feet We’d run off together, our bare feet on the earth As I try to escape your hungry arms Laughing and smiling the closer you get. ’Til you finally catch me, and pin me down Your eyes piercing right through mine. We smile, we laugh, we kiss, we touch; Our bodies melting into each other. No one here, just you and me. Not even God is here to judge. Up on this hill, where happiness never ends Where our passions bloom and sprout. I lay my head down on your chest Your skin so warm and touch so soft Promise me you’ll stay; here with me Forever on this hill, where the sun never sets.

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Decapitate Parker Snellgrove after Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio I have already met my end. Here the strands of my hair are grasped tight, lifted aloft— and here viscera drips into the shape of my name, eyes rolling back away from the accusation of it. My teeth rot, ready to fall from my jaw. My body slouches somewhere over there, in the shadows, puppet strings severed at the neck. Its palms reach up for nothing, an unanswered ask to be added to the picture.

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Manual Parker Snellgrove I watch your hands move, each joint and tendon and muscle perfectly bulging with every grasp, every jerk. My mind’s eye sees those hands let go of the gearshift, let go of the steering wheel, let the car go where it may in favor of reaching over to me. I see your hands grasping my flesh, fingertips digging deep into me. I see your hands stripping the skin from my thighs, tearing me to pieces, pulling apart the meat of me until I’m left as bare bones. With eyes only for each other, some version of us spins into a fiery crash. In the aftermath they’ll find my smoking skeleton, cut with crescent moons from your fingernails; the last shape of me marked by the lasting shape of you. 109

The Cynical Cycle Julia Williams The cynical cycle of experience that belief we can somehow seek purpose is halted without even a moment’s notice. Death, do you hear me speaking? I can hear you in the trees our souls taking root in Earth’s very being. I can hear you in the sea the chaos of the ocean just like you it is all consuming. I hear you in every clock that ticks my regret, my guilt whispering softly as I grow sick: Death, why won’t you tell me? That our lives, they must have meaning. But the question falls flat, the silence is deafening I can seek the answers but Death, you will never tell me. Oh world, oh life which I’m living: if I am to be judged, let my knees begin to bend if I am to die, let my worth also rest. 110

Artist Bios In Order of Appearance Jay Burdine is from Houston, Texas. He is a senior Art major at Trinity with a focus in multimedia works. He is interested in creative writing, filmmaking, and concept art. John Pascuzzi is a Business major who enjoys photography. Ash Perry is a Communications major who creates visual art. They also write editorials, prose, and poetry when they have the chance. John Thweatt is a sophomore photographer with over a year of experience, and they currently work for the Trinitonian, specializing in sports photography. Paul Wooten is an Engineering student from San Antonio struck by Trinity’s empty nighttime atmosphere. Sam Vader is a Computer Science major with a minor in Art and Ethics. He’s also a photographer, focusing on large-format portraiture. You can see more of his work at www.svader.me. Devon Bellamy is a junior English major, works for the Trinitonian. Robin Guadalupe Bernal is a San Antonio local and a non-religious Religion major. They will be graduating from Trinity in May of 2025. Keyla Limones is a first-generation Mexican-American student who is a sophomore and is triple majoring in International Studies, Political Science, and English. She has a deep passion for prose, poetry, and the arts. 111

Jaden Martens is a sophomore who likes telling stories and hopes to do it for a living one day. Zinab Mohamed is a first-year from Houston, Texas. While she is unsure about many things, she is quite sure about her love for writing and Audrey Hepburn. Imaan Moosa is a senior Neuroscience major with a newfound interest in fiction writing. Linda Robb is a freshman from Dallas, Texas. She is in the CAT Alliance and get to feed Jojo on Wednesdays and Fridays. She enjoys a good book and writing stories. Martin Rosales is a sophomore English major. He works primarily in prose fiction and hopes to publish a novel someday. Peyton Sterling is a junior majoring in English. Jasmine Evenstad is a junior Anthropology and History major from San Antonio. Yvonne Gu is an International Business & Marketing major with an Art minor. Rory McCarthy is a junior from Rosenberg, Texas. She loves exploring all kinds of art mediums and is currently exploring ways to turn old unused objects (like CDs) into art. Miya Morris is a freshman potentially majoring in biochemistry with a religion minor. Alexis Norman writes poetry and draws in their free time as a way to keep themself grounded. 112

El Stratton is a sophomore, pre-PHD Neuroscience major with a Creative Writing minor (but still loves engaging with various forms of art, e.g. this magazine, for fun). Michael Ard has been writing poems for a few semesters now, ever since stumbling on Shel Silverstein's "Where the Sidewalk Ends" for the first time in years. John Bieberich is a sophomore English major from Austin, TX. He is a lyricist, musician, and short story writer turned poet. Alex Brown is a junior History major, who likes to write about people as a part of a wider landscape. Exploring the ways in which people are deeply connected to the land and their environments is something that motivates their work. Samuel Cornett is a freshman currently planning to major in English. He has always enjoyed writing—most recently poetry—and has played piano for almost 10 years. Louise Cruz studies Biology and Music. She loves trombone, writing, drawing, and reading comics. Parras Dumlao is a sophomore English major. He’s been writing for a good portion of his life, and he hopes you— yes, you—enjoy it. Sadie Eidson is a senior majoring in geoscience, environmental studies, and religion. Fraebart Hawkins is a freshman who absolutely loves poetry and creative writing and is always looking for the chance to better himself as he writes. Avery Letendre is a sophomore English major with minors in Communication and Creative Writing. 113

Patricia McDonald is a sophomore Classical Languages major originally from Dallas, Texas. Haniel Neves is a senior Organ Performance major who has regularly been involved with every aspect of musical expression on campus. You'll probably see him walking around campus in a suit because why not. Anthonia Ogbo is a lover of all things poetry. She usually keeps her poems locked away in the Notes app, but sometimes–when she likes them well enough–she lets them out of the dungeon and shares her verse with the world. Abby Powers is a sister, daughter, granddaughter, niece, and friend from Kyle, Texas. She is a member of the Spring 2023 Torres Philosophy and Literature Circle. This poem was inspired by and written for them. Zain Rahman is sophomore biology major. Jorge Romero is a sophomore pursuing a Global Latinx Studies and Spanish major with a Linguistics minor. He hopes to incorporate more of his love for languages in his writing. Parker Snellgrove is a senior English major from Birmingham, Alabama. He is also minoring in French and Film Studies. He is a Creative Writing graduate from the Alabama School of Fine Arts. All his work is dedicated to his two cats, Freya and Persephone. Julia Williams is currently a sophomore student studying International Studies, Strategic Communications, and Philosophy.

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