There are two main professions that nice little girls in the first grade aspire to have:
1. A Teacher
2. A Nurse
I decided against teaching as soon as I realized not everyone loves to learn as much as I do, therefore, in roughly two years I will be in nursing school. Due to my decision, and the passion surrounding it, when I am not writing, I am watching one of the many trauma unit, surgeon, or EMT shows I have developed an affinity for over the years.
At this point, those that live with me often hear one of two things:
1. Frank Sinatra on the thrifted Victrola I claim as my prized possession, along with my also thrifted leather jacket and twenty-year-old stuffed lamb.
2. The sound of ambulance sirens blaring from the speaker on my iPad.
\u2026
If there is one thing I have learned from the over consumption of medical related television shows, it is that if I ever get shot, I should pray there is an exit wound.
This is for two main reasons:
1. The exit wound provides a place for the energy to go. Bullets travel fast and carry large
amounts of kinetic energy. If the bullet stops, lodged in the body, the surrounding tissue is left
to absorb the remaining energy resulting in collateral damage.
2. The exit wound provides another way for the blood and debris to drain.
One would imagine the time and passion prescribed to my future nursing career would result in the
subject becoming a metaphor which I relate all other extraneous elements of my life to. But love and
its gentleness, have traditionally been so diametrically opposed to violence, that it has taken me until
now to realize the explanation for my hardships has been at my fingertips. I endure suffering beyond
what I imagined from the lack of release of people that have crossed paths with me, because they are
lodged in my head like a bullet.
I have to let them go for two main reasons:
1. The exit wound would provide a place for the love to go.
2. The exit wound would help the grief drain properly. <\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAbecedarian to My Mother by Baylee Sidden<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Mother. A word of so few letters and so many
meanings, like how my mother is a tempest,
never ceasing to blow and blow until
nothing is left.
Or perhaps, she blows until
only that worth keeping still stands.
Passionately placid eyes like an ice-
pick that slice through bone and marrow, cutting to the
quick, but only for those who truly deserve it. No, you can't
quit<\/em>, is her motto for life, working day and night until she has to
rest, but never by choice. Just keep on keeping on<\/em> at an insurmountable
rate until the hurricane crashes to the shore, and the skies turn blue once more. <\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nConsumed by Baylee Sidden<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Lips, so pure they bubble
like a pour of ambrosia around her mouth,
bathing the eyes, the face, the body.
Hair of crystalized honey, melted
by the heat of runway lights.
Legs smooth as the streaming sand
flowing through her hourglass body.
Her face, the symbol of perfection;
women are told to want a taste of
that cotton candy sweetness for themselves.
Candied apple cheeks burnished
like Eris' gift - celestial, yet
destined to be consumed.
Demeter in the flesh, goddess
of the harvest, become the fruit herself.
But my beauty is my own.<\/em><\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nProjection by Baylee Sidden<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
You can look inside an image
at a home that was never yours,
at a snow-covered town
with ice filling its contours
where you've never been warmed by a fire
under roofs, the color of copper gone sour
after being exposed to the world
for too long.
You can long for the crown
of a white steeple where
you've never sung a hymn,
never knelt, head bare,
praying - in pain or in joy,
you get to choose.
It is a mural after all.
Perhaps the painter stopped
when she saw this view,
set up her easel,
took out the reds and blues,
and tried to capture this feeling,
so that others could share this home, too.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMyth Maker by Jamie<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Myth cradles against my ear like a conch,
Listening to the fog between
My ears, looking for survivors.
It whispers my own secrets back-
An echo that palms my face, cradles
Me like a mother should - does myth
Make mother, or mother make myth?
The conch mimes the mother
Shaped cavity in my mind, aiming
For precious gems that wail
Of self-pity in a deranged
Kind of shade.
My mouth fills with blood
Oranges, citrus the cloying smell
Of myth making.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nResemblance by Kariss Johnson<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Resemblance
Stavanger, Norway. Dec 9th, 2005<\/em>
She stands on the swaying dock,
Bracing against the biting breeze,
Russet curls escaping her bun to dance around her face
Softly lit in the flash of the old digital camera.
She is cradling her first daughter,
Lovingly wrapped in a pink blanket;
Snuggled tightly in a onesie softer than lamb\u2019s wool,
Whiter than the Norwegian snow coating every surface,
Dampening every sound
To a whisper.
Only nine months grown
With open eyes, bright and brown
Behind them the yellow and orange
Beams of light waltzing over the snow and water,
Picture of the days dancing end
Painted over the icy fjord;
Daughter looking to the rising moon
Mother gazing at the setting sun.
Does she know that soft new face,
Like dough just starting to rise
Will become a reflection of herself?
After gazing at the grainy pixelated image
Glowing on my computer screen,
I know it has.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSister, Mirror by Kariss Johnson<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Her face is my own
Crafted by our mother with care
Together we have grown
We share blood and bone
Different eyes, same inquisitive stare
Her face is my own
Together our lives have been sewn
Our minds are fused, every thought we share
Together we have grown
Even when tempers are blown
When angry words slice the air
Her face is my own
Features so well known
Identical glowing smiles, eyes closed in prayer
Together we have grown
When we are entombed in stone
When we are no longer aware
Her face is still my own
Together we have grown<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n“sex on thursday church on wednesday” by Emma Kelly<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
promise you won't tell anyone
we both whisper to each other in a way so synchronized you would think that it was scripted
instead of a consenting yes, we agree to sex with a secret
but god already knows
sex on thursday church on wednesday
scars from surgery
elbow snapped in half at the age of three
your left ear is split
i know you nakedly
chicken nuggets at midnight with a crisp sprite
weird movies
your father
i know you sacredly
we've shared classes since our freshman year here yet it took me only a week and a half to know that you fear here
like me
we think the same which is so much scarier than i ever imagined it to be
i wished on eyelashes for someone to know me like you do, but i didn't know that it meant
twenty four seven honesty and vulnerable questions being asked with you on top of me
i will answer every single one of them
because we have sex on thursday, and you go to church on wednesday
it took god seven days to create the world but we only need six
sex on thursday church on wednesday
you are like a confessional
i get on my knees and i bow my head into your legs
i pray to the holy altar of your stomach
divine, rewarding, merciful
there are tears in my eyes that do not exist from crying
i take in all of you
my throat
gasping
gospel
because sex may be on thursday, but you are my
lectern on friday
pulpit on saturday
sacrament on sunday
communion on monday
baptism on tuesday
my
church on wednesday<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPruned Fingers by Bee Lotz<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
You stare out your window
frost gripping the edges of the glass,
like how you gripped his cotton shirt to keep him
above the icy water.
You shut your eyes tight, tugging your sweater.
Water droplets fall from the dark knit pattern.
The weakening pit in your chest shrivels.
The home you shared, overlooking his grave taunts you
The crackling ice sounding more and more like laughs
and shrieks from a successful reaper.
Collapsing on the floor,
your body curls like swirls of water down a drain,
ears filling with phantom water, deafening
your pleads for the shattering ice to be silenced.
For his cries to be silenced.
Your fingertips raw,
But bitter water bit the wounds to win.
You hold your hands out,
shaking and pruned.
Pooled on the cold floor you lay,
numbness creeping like ice
into your regretful pruned hands.
You knew the ice was too thin.
You didn't stop him.
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nthe day the blue lake froze by anonymous<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
i know i was a child
on the day i heard the news
alarms proclaimed it far and wide
the countryside refused
to comprehend what had been done
our doors were swiftly closed-
and that's what i remember
of the day the blue lake froze
adults around me shivered
as the panic settled in
and when i asked i only got
a enervating grin
for this my childhood did not know,
the lake tied to their soul:
their spirit-sense, their deity,
their worship, and their goal.
anxieties and screaming
(all frustration and the same)
soon overtook the verdant valley
chaos was to blame-
curses mumbled o'er the earth
knives pointed to the sky
and soon the elders swore aloft
at their proclaimed High:
\"Oh God, my God, what have You done?
You cannot treat us so.
Do not forget Your promises;
This Land, You bid us go:
For all we did is bring Your love
To those who erred, and so
Condemned them all, as we were taught,
As Your commandments show:
You sent us here to subjugate:
And that is what we chose.<\/strong>
Forevermore we curse You
From the day the blue lake froze.\"
the sight was all a ghastly scene.
the clouds had formed a sheet;
the purple rain confirmed
a potent sacrifice, complete.
the lightning pealed, the thunder roared,
the ground began to shake,
the wind would howl, the earth would growl;
for that was a mistake.
and then i walked over the road
the door behind me closed,
for that was when i had enough
after the blue lake froze.
the cobblestones clinked as i walked,
wind rustled at my coat,
anticipating instant death
as i approached the boat
the ice had formed, and sacrilege
it was to cross the sea;
but i had faith in something
that would one day set me free.
i rowed across the great divide,
its ice transformed my clothes:
my soul, my life, replenished
on the day the blue lake froze.
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nfor the girl that needs to hear this by anonymous<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
for the girl that needs to hear this<\/strong>:
I want you to know that this journey is demanding.
that it will challenge you in ways you did not anticipate.
that it will shape you both in mind and in body.
that you will change, and grow,
and become the woman we all knew you were.
one does not easily undo oppressive nature as
the helices that shaped you forgot their jobs.
and that pathway is painful
and it is expensive
and it is not your fault
and there is no reason you should have to pay for nature's mistake.
for the girl who needs to hear this<\/strong>,
you must be kind to yourself.
the world is cold and unforgiving.
it may not understand you or
it may claim that you are confusing it.
but you must drown out the noise.
as your body moulds and curves
to manifest your pulchrous soul,
please remember that you do not walk alone.
find those who support you-
who call you by your <\/em>name, not theirs.
cling to your friends when your wings are tired.
let others use your shade when the light shines
and sit in their smiles as the sun sets.
for the girl who needs to hear this<\/strong>:
you are beautiful and worthy.
you belong here and you will blossom
no matter who you are or how fast you go.
so take time to enjoy the subtleties of it all.
spin in the meadows and watch the flowers beneath you
as they revel in who you are.
let your dress flow and watch it blow in the breeze.
take the cobbled road as it rises to meet you;
feel the wind at your back carry you forward.
bask in what you make and all the people that you follow,
the watchful eyes of night go as they carry in tomorrow;
and while the rules of life mean that sometimes the world feels hollow,
remember that there's wondrous joy that always breaks the sorrow.
for the girl that needs to hear this<\/strong>:
life is yours to live.
so laugh with those you find, and
live and care for those who mind;
as love breaks through, it binds
this universe in golden twine.
for the girl who needs to hear this<\/strong>:
i love you.<\/em>
i will stand alongside you
as you become who you were always meant to be.
rise from the ashes
your complete form has been waiting
for too long.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nthe power to choose by anonymous<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
in flowered fields, the butterflies
on petals come and go
a purple flier joined the field
some fourteen years ago
she brought a smile to where she was,
such energy and joy-
she stopped to smell the flowers,
poppies, roses, even soy:
her birth was heralded
throughout the field as one of awe:
delight and effervescence
were the qualities we saw
but fourteen years go by
the cameras showed it all on tape:
bruisings, beatings, forcing, and
her innocence was...
police had told her family
that they would not track him down;
his buddies took him off,
their getaway car had left town.
that criminal injustice
was the least of her concerns,
for here our story takes
another devastating turn.
not only was there trauma
caused by innocence forlorn,
her doctors told her later
that a life would soon be bourne.
those joys of femininity
are for a different age;
she could not understand it all,
the news filled her with rage.
no one chose this for her
(and we know she's not to blame);
she doesn't want duality
her life is not a game.<\/em>
but in the end the fat\u00e8d choice
was never hers to make;
the one choice she wanted
was the one she could not take.
just over two long years ago,
the robes had had their say-
and when they did, her father said
he wanted it that way.
choosing to come
over the ones already here;
the righteous all rejoiced
to hear a penalty severe.
so eight months later, this young one
was forced to pass along;
the complications took her life,
her voice, her joy, her song.
and in the name of life invoked
the harbingers of death
their righteousness prevailing
over every laboured breath.
so: if you claim the godly,
be prepared to take the stand
for all your \"life is precious\" platitudes
her blood is on your hands.<\/em><\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBirthmark by Ivan Calderon<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
I wear a stain over my eye;
a purple splotch that sprouts prickly hairs
like a fat tick laid
dead on my face.
When I was young,
I knew people couldn\u2019t unsee
the crisped clump of torn fat
like a scorched marshmallow,
a mold-chewed blueberry,
shit over my eye.
But now, I look at my dried paint stain
as if it\u2019s a crown,
hot under the mountain sun.
My spine aligns like a spear
As if my post-natal scar
Is purple velvet,
an amethyst geode,
panther\u2019s fur.
I shift through streets,
creep like a jaguar
and prepare to prowl.
A rolling gulley of shadow
lies behind
those who will follow
in a cluster through jungle,
in lines through swamp,
in rows through the cordillera,
wave a banner
stained by dried mud
cinders
caked with the hot stench of rifles
and wildly blasted flesh.
As a purple veil is cast over sunset,
those who see my mark
as the melted lead
of the revolution
bellow my name,
as if
the wind moved steppes to say:
El Morado<\/em>
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHere We Stand by Ivan Calderon<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
We stand over burnt grass,
the night chokes the sky.
We stand under a breathless horizon,
the wind spews black sand.
We stain this world with rimy tears
and gag up sulfuric air.
We scratch at rocky soil and
pull no roots, only packed pumice.
We stand like furled calluses
And hide our faces from the mouth of night.
The sky was bright once
and the horizon could breathe.
It was an aurora who blushed,
and hung a high tapestry of the sea.
Once, plump castles flew
and the fiery pigments
of fleecy fields
poured out of the sky. Then
we peeled its prairies,
and brought its cathedrals asunder.
We gagged the stratosphere,
we invaded
on our gray clouds,
and we slew the sky.
Now, here we stand as titans.
Here we stand
radiant and bejeweled
alone
on a plateau
cold to the bone.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHeracles Below by Ivan Calderon<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Your feet press into the cliff face
like anvils over the eyebrows of the world,
yet there you stand
at the steps to Olympia
with a visage of cold lead,
an ice-embossed body
now snatched
within the portcullis
of my damp, cold hands.
Your pectorals are boulders,
you core cavernous causeways
where streams of runny persimmon
pour down your quads,
the blood of beasts,
the ichor of the Hydra,
the life of your mother,
the breath of your love,
washed down all the same.
So, you hide
beneath fluffy, curly lion\u2019s hide,
blonde tufts and angelic puffs,
raise a chin that gleams
like the broad edge of a triumphant blade
after the parting of muddy rain.
Oh, your platinum grin narrates the epic
of a hero guided by an iron-clad heart,
by bolts of wisdom
from a pantheon so pure,
but your gaze,
like dim light
behind cloudy skies
over frozen grass
of a land that once
cheered your name.
Now, you\u2019re in my house.
I rot in these damned tunnels,
wade through these shallow puddles,
my hair soaked in the carcass water
like the rats who scurry
beneath my throne of bones.
As I shift in the bog on
the seat of my chair,
I search through dark
as murky as the subterranean swamp
of my rat kingdom.
You, Heracles,
have always lived above.
You grew out of the roots of
people, food, and speech
to be seen as a god, to be known as a hero.
I, scraped out of the
belly of the mountain, only
to fall
far,
column of my spine
broken to shape
the pillars of the underworld.
Now,
how does it feel to reach the end?
Your frame rusted and bent
like a skeleton wound with aluminum wire.
You look out beneath the
underbelly of the world with
tin glands dry,
eyes
too tired to cry.
Heracles, what\u2019s inside you?
Beneath your corroded steel skin,
the inferno hisses,
your cast-iron cheeks
melt
cascading,
a cauldron unable to contain
unending hellfire.
Achilles\u2019 rage came from passion,
the murder of a dear friend
he followed the trail
sprinkled with the shards
of his broken heart.
At least he fought a worthy Trojan
while the target in your sights,
your wife and child,
were fruit flies
senselessly torn apart,
too small,
for all to see
what you had done.
Oh, great Heracles,
son of Jupiter,
now you lie with me
in a place gone too far
from the world to see.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[concert] by n. speck<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
the scent of singer\u2019s saving grace stilly filling in the stairwell
concrete echoes of strings through the floor
the red door walking squeaking the wood more
keys keys keys keys walking twinkling alive
running up running down striking loving by five
round sounds quickly circles small up coming down
water fountain small circles small round music frown
bubbling versatile canvas small life incise still scented stairwell
for remembered round hours we live and small insolent minutes we do well
cannot unawake sounding unguents come to the tougher steeps
clack rod black on black sooner comes leaves
bow stiffly the floor black on black flat bereaves
the graceful unknown and the comradely hive mind
in out in and graceful eyes meet congratulate escape find
light memories light windows colored glass black on black
flow gently, sweet thames, and the song will come spilling back
no revels no tumult revise reconquer coming to other than unknown sleep
down forget travel gone fingers dipping strike strike down the soft spacial leap
murder contradicting nonsense contrast presence new consistence
down the steps!
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[villanelle: a privilege of hypocrites] by n. speck<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
the last shall be first and the first shall be last,
but they are just lazy, we quickly surmise -
encased in perfection we drive along past.
black marker on cardboard. we, passive, aghast,
despise tangled beards and deepset wrinkled eyes -
the last shall be first and the first shall be last.
give all to the needy, if any thou hast;
remember that they may be angels disguised.
encased in perfection we drive along past.
intangibly righteous we pray and we fast,
and crossing the sidewalk mark read our replies.
the last shall be first and the first shall be last.
but when our eyes open, are we the outcast?
and can we explain why we\u2019re struck with surprise?
encased in perfection we drive along past.
but i\u2019ve done the same, though i try to contrast -
oh God, our hearts harden. please open our eyes.
the last shall be first and the first shall be last;
encased in perfection we drive along past.
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[to the nameless turkey that president biden ate today after nobly pardoning both peach and blossom] by n. speck<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
\u2018i used to torment penny. a childlike thing to do
she\u2019d whine and sit by mother, to say, i don\u2019t like you\u2019
small minds without ambition but to be loved and rest
why should i crush young feathers new-fallen from the nest?
with ermine fur and holly we merrily deck the halls
a cosy read from herriot. all creatures great and small
o earth and fields and mountains, o how have we gone wrong
to grind up meaty scraps of those we say do not belong?
why walk the grey enclosures this midwest safari boasts
to see the eyes of sluggish lions fed on greens and toast
o earth and fields and mountains, retake these concrete walls
at least the farmland, loved and grown, is gifted fallow falls
the trees we must protect them. the humans that are ill
we steward what we\u2019re given according to God\u2019s will
recycle plastic bottles. all well and good and fair
but i\u2019m the creatures\u2019 lorax and i see injustice there
if by my logic i can\u2019t wean you from your rare-cooked steak
have you looked into its eyes? how do you know it\u2019s not awake?
<\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Collateral Damage by Morgan Mayo There are two main professions that nice little girls in the first grade aspire to have:1. A Teacher2. A NurseI decided against teaching as soon as I realized not everyone loves to learn as much as I do, therefore, in roughly two years I will be in nursing school. Due […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"page-no-title","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-49","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inscape.jewell.edu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/49","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inscape.jewell.edu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inscape.jewell.edu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inscape.jewell.edu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inscape.jewell.edu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=49"}],"version-history":[{"count":23,"href":"https:\/\/inscape.jewell.edu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/49\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":267,"href":"https:\/\/inscape.jewell.edu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/49\/revisions\/267"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inscape.jewell.edu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=49"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}