by Saturn Guo, Rachel Roncka, Anna Costello, Angela Shang, Aditi Singh, and Sam Kang
art by Lilla Bozek
by Saturn Guo
Quiet
adjective
/ˈkwīət/
To be known / is to have your silence /
cremated, decided, half-kindled & /
thin / relentless fire under skin /
stony, formational / urn all marble.
This corpse-note, these ashes / whisper /
“come home.” / Perhaps the burning /
will calm / the plume of our souls.
What do we know / of the flame that chose
/ this fleshy hearth? / Only that to be /
cleansed of sin is to be / eternal.
The matchstick looms / hot and heavy /
on the heels of this / relational calm. /
We are dead / quiet / & forever hypostatic.
by Rachel Roncka
To them you are quiet. This is a flaw. But then if you react with anything less than the expected level of deference — which is what branded you as quiet in the first place — you are suddenly aggressive. Overreacting. Abnormal. An unwelcome surprise.
Now that word ignites something in you everytime you hear it.
You flare up at innocent remarks, the slightest of suggestions
Can trigger a landslide of memories
How many times have you been talked over?
Tentative words met with no response?
Are you really quiet — or are they just not listening?
Silence is learned. Taught. Imposed.
You try to trace it back.
How did you arrive here?
You became so used to someone speaking for you.
Volunteering an opinion for you before you even had a chance to form one.
Perhaps your voice is quiet (an anatomical consequence that you can’t control)
But your mind is anything but.
Half-formed thoughts not fit for speech
Reverberating within your skull.
If you unleashed all the noise contained within
It would deafen the world
A sonic wave swallowing the planet whole.
If only they knew what you were sparing them from.
Maybe it is not your nature
But you are learning to shout above
To demand to be heard
And not care how surprising it is
by Anna Costello
the hotel air conditioner sounds like I’ll be gone in a day or two
the fan in a Marriott
grumbles along to the same eighties line
it sings dutifully
to all of the bodies here, marked
by an anonymous stain,
poking spring and
pre-wedding excitement
waterfalls over the balcony —
sleep is always better
lulled by distant voices
late at night
how many shapes remain
pressed into soft fibers
in the tulle of a dress?
or an old mattress
worn and welcoming
by limbs laid over limbs
for blurry eyes
for a moment —
the time is just red
is that life or only
the dizziness of morning?
if we carry on knowing everything
soon we will not know
what we dreamed about,
or what white shadows
briefly held us in the dark
by Angela Shang
Weeds
It doesn’t feel right to let my mind explode all over the paper like so — colors slipping through my cramped fingers, the ridge of the pencil leaving an indentation sweaty red on my palm. This messiness sticks like the graphite smudges on my eraser into every fold of skin, too many moments of obsessing over surface aesthetic details painting the absurdity of my (non)compliance. Yet this cacophony keeps expanding, tolerating no white space — discovering, devouring, only to give birth to unyielding splashes of line and color.
Let your pen uncover what the forms want to become, the thing (so alive) created out of my conscious subconscious coerced; wait for the lines to unwind on their own.
It is growing out of my grasp, germinating into something untamed like wild asters blooming into every crevice of the intricately constructed architecture of my mind. Yet it is also undeniably my creation, a fraction of my soul imprinted upon something tangible. So I let it be — letting a thousand voices shout their pleas, demands, and obscenities, waiting for them to crystalize into something unbearably beautiful, waiting for eternity to collapse unto the tip of my brush,
and then i will feel the friction of it against that pristine surface,
the vessel through which they pour out,
until there is nothing
but the sound
of my own
beating
heart.
by Aditi Singh
awakening
pine-needle kisses, kind and wispy
whisper the stories of centuries of love
and exploration and beauty.
wet dew-drop mornings encased in soft earth
pass through crevices in sandpaper fingers,
a lover’s tender grasp, filling the space as easily as
the fog masks the river’s reflection.
if the Earth swallowed me whole,
the dirt would breathe in my lungs, loved like the quiet air
that hangs over the Connecticut,
the suspense of a thousand lives to live
evaporating into crisp conifers and their thick,
billowy clouds, blurred with flat glass,
home to a universe of its own.
it would be a new forest of brittle bones,
camellias stretching roots deep into clavicles, merging with tired veins
my tibia a field of tulips
and my heart a river of hydrangeas, erupting
with the petaled promises of unfettered, unapologetic
freedom. an infiltration brittle,
but candied-sweet —
an awakening.
once jaded garnet blood becomes rainwater and liquid sunlight
the inside of my body is no longer foreign. instead,
it smells of the rich morning mist, fresh grass scent overlaying
warm sunflower faces and the sound of absolute tranquility —
it smells of life.
by Sam Kang
i am a girl made of paper & plastic
my arms trophies
my torso a shuffle of transcripts and résumés
[I am pleased to submit my résumé for the]
spilling out like entrails⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [From my]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [exceptional]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [education]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [at] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [Dartmouth] [I excel]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [in fast]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[p]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [a] [c] [e] [d]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [e n v i r o n m e n t s] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [I] [have ]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [experience in many]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [r o l e s] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [A] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [A]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [A-]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ [A]⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ S⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ P⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀L⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ A⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ T.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀
on the f l o o r.
tape me up
so all that precious worth
doesn’t spill out
bright red, screaming,
LOOK LOOK LOOK
IT WAS ALL WORTH IT
because
you’re here now.
and my head
stuffed to the brim with that
rat race culture
screaming
GO GO GO
IT WILL ALL BE WORTH IT
because
it has to be eventually.
i like to think that it’s getting better.
because i am okay with [B+] instead of [A]
some of the time
it is okay to lose some of that worth for my own happiness
i won’t cringe
when i see someone splayed
guts and all
on the operating room table
but i will vomit
hands shaking
when I (don’t) finish
that test
or don’t get [A]
because i
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀ could have⠀
⠀
w o u l d h a v⠀e
S H O U L D⠀ H A V E⠀ ⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠑ didnt
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ have
t ⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ i⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀m⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ e.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
to take care of
this body
too riddled with anxiety
every thought sharp and
I AM STILL THE BITCH OF ACADEMIA.
even though i pretend to be
A feminist
Independent
Mature
Better
i am still that shiny product
shipped from somewhere foreign (MADE IN KOREA, let’s say?)
but inside just stuffed with papers
and fucking plastics
i am melting
embers at the edges.
this priceless product that is my brain
is damaged
a girl made of paper & plastic
cannot live
only survive.
Comments