COLUMBUSSpring 2011

Trinity School101 West 91 Street

New York, New York 10024

EDITORSOwen Kaye-Kauderer

Lynn MiaoART EDITORKatie Bright

ASSISTANT EDITORSElizabeth Hong

Alex Mackof

STAFF

FACULTY ADVISORBill Zavatsky

TECHNICAL ADVISORVictor ConcepciÓn

Copyright © 2011 by Trinity School

Printed byTh e Print Center, Inc.

225 Varick StreetNew York, NY 10024

[Correction: Ada Guzman is the author of the poem "Tired," in the Fall 2010 issue of Columbus]

CONTENTS

Alexa Eff ronLiza Garrity

Camille GoeringOlivia Manocherian

Erika McManusAriana Muessel

Grace Ragi

Wylie RechlerCamille Richieri

Sarah SaltielMadeleine Steinberg

Georgia WeiOzra YazdaniShewit Zerai

Benjamin Rosenblum 7 Appearances

Isabelle Aubrun 12 A Crate of Fresh Fruit

Wellesley Daniels 15 Have You Seen My Bird?

Elodie Freymann 17 Th is City

Danny Ben-David 23

Hadley Boltres 26 Abhorrence of Mankind

Liza Garrity 29 Fossils

Benjamin Bleiberg 31

Chris Han 36 Th e Fisherman's Dilemma

Taylor Collins 38 Termites

Christopher Wayland 40 Tick Tock

Shirley Choicer 41 Standardized

Amy Weiss-Meyer 44 Th e Stuff Worth Living For

Alexander Goldberg 48 Polyphemos the Shepherd

Pauline Ceraulo 50 Escape

Percy Allison 53 Heavy Sleeper

Percy Allison 54 Summer Love

Ishmael Fofana 56 Sunburn

Alex Kiam 57 Th e Essence of Beauty

Benjamin Rosenblum 58 All the Lonely People

Bill Zavatsky 63 A Poem as Long as a Bus Ride

{back cover artwork by Elodie Freymann}

For God's Sake Give Your Poem A Title And It Better Not Be Th e

First Line

Sharing Secrets With Th e Mythic City

{front cover artwork by Addie Minerva}

4 5

“What is wonderful about great literature is that it transforms the person who reads it towards the condition of the person who wrote [it],” declared E.M. Foster, the prominent British novelist. One of the many delights of being editors and readers of Columbus Magazine is that, for the length of time it takes to read a few pages, we are off ered a revealing glimpse into the consciousness of a work’s author and can begin to understand what goes through the minds of Trinity students (the disproportionate number of submissions we received involving the devil in a variety of outlandishly creative hells might give us in-sight into students’ feelings about homework, for example.) Columbus is unlike any other student-produced work at Trinity; we learn from each other, connect on a personal basis, and begin to understand each other’s individual internal realities in a unique and honest way.

Columbus has always been fundamentally a collection of the best creative work from Trinity’s talented writers and thinkers. Th at part of Columbus will never change. But as the new editors of Colum-bus—building on the truly innovative work done for the magazine by our lovely mentors, Isabelle Aubrun and Amy Weiss-Meyer—it will be our goal to further endow future issues of Columbus with all the characteristics that make up the Trinity identity. When readers pick up a copy of Columbus without glancing at the cover, we want them to know that it is in fact Columbus, and not the magazine of some other school or community. In this last year, we added artwork and color throughout the magazine. For this issue, we included Notes from

the Editors for the fi rst time, and have our fi rst-ever faculty work, a poem by our very own Mr. Zavatsky, another tradition we hope will continue into the future. We want to continue to improve and trans-form Columbus, and we cannot do so without the creative and inven-tive minds of the many Trinity students involved in the magazine.

Speaking of Mr. Zavatsky, the Z-man has been the advisor of Columbus for twenty-four years, and has overseen the print-ing of “how many, forty-seven or forty-eight issues?” (as he asks so touchingly in his poem.) Sadly, Mr. Zavatsky will be leaving Trinity this year, but the memory of what he did for the magazine and the impact he has had will not leave with him. Before he as-sumed his role as the magazine’s advisor, it had no identity, little funding, and, hilariously, no name. Now it has those things and much, much more, and it is because of your leadership, Mr. Za-vatsky, that Columbus is what it is today. We, and past editors of the magazine, could not have asked for a better advisor, and we will miss you more than we can express in this short paragraph.

“Remember me a little, and then forget me” you ask us in your poem. We are sorry, Mr. Z, but we cannot oblige. You won’t be for-gotten. And so Bill Zavatsky, forever patron saint of Trinity School’s literary magazine, it is with fond memories and much sadness that we dedicate this issue, and every future issue of Columbus, to you.

~ Owen Kaye-Kauderer and Lynn Miao

NOTES FROM THE EDITORS

Life is simple.When thousands of brilliant colors,dense and deep magentas, pale periwinkles,sparkling, fl ashing emerald greens,dance before your naked eyes,when you fi rst gaze on a rainforest,or a painting, a landscape, an oil spill,all life asks you to do is to see it.

I was feeling somewhat nostalgic that day,feeling like the days gone bymight not have been what I see them to be now,not the halcyon days of yoreor the eternal youthfulness of spirit,but maybe, just maybe, they were honest.Simple, if you will.

Maybe it was just me, as always,reaching out for the fl eeting memoriesof what I wanted to see in life.Th is is not ignoble.Days go fastest when we sleepand when we dream, and maybe,as we tumble headlong into thatchasm of the mind’s fretting,we are caught, as in a net,by that glimpse of what we want to seein what is truly there.

And so the child tells himselfthat the world is what he wants it to be,

Appearance {Benjamin Rosenblum}

{Alexa Eff ron}

76

9

I don’t know what I want to say.

Ahead is a beautiful journey, enchanting,captivating, full of appearances.Appearances, appearances, appearances,the word echoes through the halls,taking on a life of its own,the dark shadows of my youthfl ashing across the auditorium.Th e memories kept sacred throughout life,the thousand little incidents and objectsthat formed me, piece by piece.

And then you are there too,unresolved, uncomforted, alone.Your silhouette weeps tears of obscured sentiment,and times long since forgotten.And you are what I make you,and I have control over your course,but yet I approach your side, transfi xed,palm fl at against the wall where you’vereturned to me.

And I don’t know what to say.I don’t know what I want to say.

Can you reach out to me anymore?You’ve grown since the last time I saw you.Do you remember me?I haven’t forgotten you, not ever.No words come out, no thoughts arranged,Just an appearance and a memory,both deceitful, both untrustworthy, both unkind.Can you try to reach out to me anymore?

I cannot reach out to you.

that the sands will fl y and the moon will singand the water ripple with imaginary pebbles,the special mysteries of life that are caught upon the crests of the tiny waves that lap the shore.But I have lost that quality of discernment,only left with the glint of sunlightthat skims the water’s surfaceand fades into the air.

All a man needs is air.Or so I am told by those who should know. . . .

But yes, nostalgia. Ah, nostalgia!Th at simple state of longing for what is past,perhaps not gone. Th e world seems strange.When I look back I see emotionsas one should, I think.  Don’t get me wrong,I like to watch my life unfold,all potential, waiting for that childlike sparkthat people oft en search for and never fi nd.

I feel right now that I shall never know it.Maybe some should, but not me. . . .

I am standing in the wings for thedress rehearsal of life, knowingthere will never be a performance.I am the only actor in this farce,the producer, the director, the manager,the only audience member ever to see it.Th e time has come for me to introduce the play.And so I walk through the doors and stand before the podium, thoughts empty,heart pounding, palms sweating.

And I don’t know what to say.

8

10

You are too far gone from my past,too far away from the familiar,too foreign, too frightening,too much a reminder of what I have not donein a life full of seemed accomplishment.And while you stare at me, your dark eyesfi xed on my guilty countenance,I look down towards the groundand speak the truth.

I have nothing to say for myself.

I understand.Th is is my nostalgia.Th is is my sleep, my dream,my mystery of life, my mind’s fretting,my childlike spark, my youthfulness of spirit,my rainforest, my landscape, my oil slick.At least today.

Th ere is much left to be doneand much left behind,and our lives run their course between the two.Th is is how it appears to me. . . .

{Perry Leavitt}

11

12

It was as if they were suspended mid-air, in a crate whose original purpose I would never know, but whose current one I was intimately acquainted with. In fact, it was almost possible to ignore the tenuous support they were given, almost possible to direct my eyes solely on the carried, not the carrier. But levitation is a feat few, if any, have achieved.

As far as I can think back, fresh oranges were a weekly off ering from Mrs. Percy. She was the only other resident on the sixth fl oor of 315 West End Avenue, and she existed in the smoke-fi lled cocoon of her own old-age. As the years crept away from her, so too did she recede deeper and deeper into the peeling walls of apartment 6A. Sustained by the delicate spoonfuls of pulverized and lifeless food pushed into her mouth by a housekeeper, Mrs. Percy’s body was slowly drained of the rosy color of health. I looked on, a powerless and horrifi ed girl, each time she emerged in her carpet slippers for a shuffl e up and down the corridor of the sixth fl oor. For the rest of any day I saw her, I couldn’t shed the smell of decay that trickled into the unsuspecting hallway, nor could I rid myself of the clench in my stomach that whispered “one day you too might be shrouded in the helplessness of old age.” But the day I’m thinking of, we met for the fi rst time as a scheduled encounter, rather than an untimely coincidence. Th is hand-off must have been arranged earlier, because it was so Mrs. Percy could relieve herself of the carton of fresh fruit that her housekeeper weekly provided her with. “She would do well to eat that fruit,” my mother admonished right before she went to meet Mrs. Percy at the midpoint between her front door and ours. And so, with no more than a few husky words from Mrs. Percy’s smoke-cracked lips and a gracious smile from my mother, the fresh oranges made their transfer. Innocuous an

A Crate of Fresh Fruit {Isabelle Aubrun}

13

exchange though this was, the oranges proved to be anything but. I wandered in, then out, and then back into the kitchen, soothed by the warm lights and walls cheerily garnished with the artwork of childhood. Th ere, in a ceramic bowl, glowed four purely orange orbs of fruit, their textured outer rind alternately refl ecting the light and absorbing it. It was then, a wholly unsuspecting eight year old, that I was enveloped by the beauty of a fruit that had been christened not by some bizarre word such as “pomegranate” or “lychee,” but with the resplendent color that it is. Simple, direct, unassuming, and pulsing with vitality.

It must have been a healthy dose of obligation and boredom that led me to Mrs. Percy’s navel oranges resting on my kitchen table, because I cannot profess much of a penchant for oranges. As an insipidly adamant apple and banana girl, I was arrested by the discovery that oranges were a venture into citrus, into porous texture, into individual little capsules of pulp, into the eff ort of extricating a meaty fruit, into juiciness. I’m sure I had sucked on an orange wedge at a soccer game once, or swallowed a soggy slice mixed in with other fruits of a misshapen fruit salad. But Mrs. Percy’s orange was in no danger of being discarded alongside a grass fi eld or robbed of its fl avor by honeydew juice. My ignorant hands scaled the surface, rubbing the protective insulation that shielded what I knew to be eight individual cloves impregnated with a mouth-fi lling zing. In order to usher each part of the greater fruit into the world, I fi nally decided I must puncture the embryonic encasement with one of my chewed-down nails. I didn’t expect that gentle retaliation of a stinging squirt of juice to my eyes. I persisted, gingerly and with complete deference to the newly discovered fragility of this beautiful egg I was unearthing. Each strip of half-inch-thick skin was a step closer to revealing the sliced up sphere of zesty life within. With veins that fi rmly scaled the fruit, serving as connective cords that united the whole, the orange within was nothing like Mrs. Percy’s original gift . I suppose that, like all eggs, this one revealed an inner life that was colorful, composed of thousands of tiny particles, soft to the teeth and sweet to the tongue. And then there was that

14

additional growth, the beginnings of a second orange, and the unexpected quirk everyone has but no one anticipates. Well, here it was, protruding out of this orange at a grotesque yet captivating angle. New life, a sort of conjoined twin to the orange, and yet its damning quality at the same time. Th is perplexing idiosyncrasy of the navel orange relegates it to sterility, stripping the orange of its ability to produce seeds and procreate. Here I sat with one and a half oranges, with little idea as to the signifi cance of this bizarre composite of slices that corked the top of the full-grown orange.

In fact, all I really understood as the juice from each little pod of orange exploded on my tongue, was that I was privy to the cycle of life that Mrs. Percy was denying herself. Th ere was something undeniably alive about this orange, however immobile and without agency it was. It had been foisted upon an obdurately unwilling Mrs. Percy, who had in turn dumped it in my mother’s no-more-willing arms. And yet the sharply sweet juice of the fruit, the reluctantly yielding outer shell, and then the triumphant fervor of every bite almost negated the miserable origins of this orange. Almost. Because even though I could relish the lingering orange fl avor on my tongue and on the hands that had pried out the fruit, I knew Mrs. Percy had no such luxury. And it wasn’t enough, even at eight years old, to righteously placate myself by rationalizing that if Mrs. Percy didn’t want these oranges, then she didn’t deserve them. More than anything, I was uncomfortably nudged by a sadness that I could enjoy something that coursed with a richness of fl avor while Mrs. Percy’s diet consisted of foods sucked dry of any vitality. How was it that I could possess this treat that throbbed of fl avor, all because one woman had denied herself of it? Why had I been given yet another gift of Vitamin D, yet another treat, while Mrs. Percy’s drying veins and loosening fl esh only glimpsed them? Did she watch in silent agony as I gamboled up and down the hallway the following week, thinking with a defi ant pride that her fresh orange streamed through my body and contributed to its strength? Or did she just pull the belt of her bathrobe tighter and shuffl e quietly to the midpoint to transfer yet another crate, this time fi lled with apples?

15

Have You Seen My Bird? {Wellesley Daniels}

Have you seen my bird?

Have you seen my bird soar softly overhead?He may have been disguised in sullen fl ight.A violent search for food is oft misread;As self-defense may be confused with spite.

Have you heard my bird whisper something great?Keep your ears open; he’ll sing a soothing hiss.Wait for the stubborn grunting to abate;Bare and lone, my bird offers an honest kiss.

For the whereabouts of my bird, I’d pay grandly,He has no footsteps to help guide him home.The risks of no return, to put it blandly:Quite reckless he can be when left alone.

If you see my bird please tell him I said:The fl ock has been slowly falling since you fl ed

16 17

This City {Elodie Freymann}

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.—Shakespeare, Julius Caesar II.2.32-33

Th e hot summer night clenched the sleeping city in its fi st and held on tightly so that nothing was able to breathe. Sounds seemed muffl ed and muted; the air felt thick and heavy. Th e sun, lying still somewhere behind the peaks of the farthest buildings and curves of the distant domes, breathed a dull, pulsing beat through the silent, desolate streets.

Buildings rose from the cement like pillars of metal and stone, standing side by side in organized rows, casting one another in darkness. Th eir facades were emblazoned with names to commemorate their creation and the original potential the builders saw in the tall, solid walls. A royal purple sky snaked its way through the gaps between the buildings, winding across avenues and down side streets. Most of the windows were black and shuttered; on the towering city rooft ops, the outlines of water tanks loomed like massive nesting birds. In the shadow of it all was the diner.

Above the door, electric green bulbs fl ashed their tired lights. Someone had painted vines of golden fl owers along the edges of the old glass windows, which cast identical black silhouettes onto the cracked, trodden sidewalk. Th e paint was chipping on the narrow doorframe and the bronze bell that hung on the handle was blackened with car exhaust and weather. Th e robust, aproned man behind the counter stood leaning his elbow on the marble, resting his chin on his hand, reading the morning newspaper. His wife and kids were asleep in the apartment upstairs.

Th e diner was empty except for a tall, somber man sitting with his back to the window in a booth farthest from the door. He wore a dark sweater and an old gray scarf. Although it was {Jenna Wisch}

18

stifl ing outside, the man was all too familiar with the chill of the diner’s thunderous air-conditioning, which was mounted above the table he always sat at. He was young and a regular fi xture of the diner, especially during the late hours when he found it hard to sleep. Other than his trips to the diner the man in the sweater rarely left his apartment; he talked little and saw nothing.

Th e bell rang and the man behind the counter looked up. He set his paper aside and nodded at the woman who entered. She too was a frequenter of his restaurant, but never at this time of night. Th e man in the sweater didn’t turn. Th e woman sat down on one of the blue suede stools by the counter facing the street and ordered some iced tea and a powdered donut. Her feet, in bright tangerine-colored sandals, dangled a few inches from the fl oor. She laid her red velvet bag on the stool next to her and stared out into the darkness. Th e diner sat in silence for a couple of minutes, with only the occasional sound of the manager turning a page of the paper. Th e clock above the grill added its constant beat to the tempo of the city night and the air-conditioner roared on. A car drove by. Th e green bulbs outside fl ickered. Th e man in the sweater stood up and crossed over to the counter with his empty coff ee mug. His eyes were cast down at his ink-stained hands folded in front of him. Th e manager fi nished the last few sentences of the article he was reading and neatly folded up his paper. He took the mug gently from the man and turned to refi ll it, so that his back faced him.

“You never picked up those tickets.”Th e man in the sweater fl inched and scratched the back of

his head, but didn’t respond. “You know those were worth something. Th ere are people

who would die for tickets like those.”Th e man still said nothing. “I don’t get you,” the manager turned around with the fresh

coff ee spilling over the sides, “I don’t see why you’d rather be in this junky place than out there.” He gestured in the direction of the window, paused for a second, and then let his hand drop. “Its sad for guys like me. Stuck here all the time, a family to feed, a job to do, standing and watching free guys like you sit and sulk.” He stopped.

19

Th e man in the sweater looked like he was about to say something, changed his mind, and instead bit his lip and shuffl ed his feet. Th e manager sighed deeply, handing the man his mug. He cleared his throat soft ly and said kindly, “I bought you those special pencils you asked me to get, with those fi ne points and stuff .” Th e man in the sweater looked up slowly and timidly smiled. He reached around in his pocket and pulled out some bills, which he started to count. Th e manager chuckled and shook his head, “You don’t need to. You did me a favor, gave me an excuse to get out of the neighborhood. Th at’s payment enough.” Th e man in the sweater murmured a sincere thank you and glanced up at the woman nearby who sat staring at them with fascination. Th e manager ducked behind the counter and pulled out a small wrapped box tied with white ribbon. He handed these over to the man as well, who took them carefully in his free hand. Th e woman continued to stare.

“You draw?” She punctuated her question with a purposeful bite of her donut and a curious tilt of her head. Th e man turned to face her and then shyly looked over his shoulder at the manager. Behind the counter, the manager chuckled, unfolded his paper, and picked up his reading again. Th e woman took another bite of her donut, grabbed a napkin from the dispenser near her, and wiped the remnants of powder from her face, missing a spot to the right of her chin. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and waves of amber spilled out onto her lavender summer dress. She wore no make up. When the man did not answer, she asked again in the same soft tone, “You draw?” His “yes” was so faint it was inaudible. He cleared his throat. “Yes. A little. I draw a little.” She smiled. “What kind of things?” Th e man shrugged his shoulders and crossed back over to his booth away from the window. She followed. “You spend most of your time here, don’t you?”

“All of it, all of my time, here or my apartment.”“You never go out? Never feel like you need to leave this

place?”“ No.”“You don’t feel the need to walk or run down streets you’ve

never been down?

20

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”“Well, you’ve been around here, haven’t you?”“Just the two blocks between here and home.”“Who buys your groceries? Who fi xes your plumbing? Who

gets you supplies?”Th e man nodded in the direction of the diner manager

and shrugged, but the woman was growing agitated. “You’ve never walked past the bookstore on the corner, with stacks of ancient books propped up against the open doors? Down the block with the sleepy bakery, where professors grade papers, stopping occasionally to take a bite of crème brulee or toasted baguettes? Never seen the bicycles chained to traffi c posts, stripped of both their wheels, leaving only an unpainted, metal skeleton? Haven’t been in the perfume store next door, which sends fumes like roses and honey out into the sidewalk, fi lling the noses of the people sitting on the bench across the street? You’ve never bargained with the man at the fruit stand over the price of grapes or bananas? Or glanced at the men hanging about the liquor store, leaning up against the wall, whistling as girls walk past? Passed the abandoned movie theater a few blocks over, where the robed man sits with his tin can; what once used to be a ticket window, now completely covered in paper fl yers advertising guitar lessons, or missing cats? You’ve never been into the Ninety Nine Cent store with its sweet smell of orange detergent and cheap scented candles? Seen the baskets of mesh slippers wrapped in plastic that stand near the cashier? Heard the diff erent sounds of people’s shoes walking down the street? Th e woman strolling in moccasins, the child skipping in rain boots, the man running in sneakers. You’ve never crushed peanuts into peanut butter in the big glass machine at the health food store, or seen the mops for sale at the hardware store across the street, or the man cutting wood for a customer behind a work bench? Surely you’ve seen the old woman and her three dogs perched on the church steps every evening? Heard her purring to them in Spanish about how beautiful they are, as the custodian straightens out the plastic letters in the glass case out front which read, “God loves you”? You’ve never come across the woman at the manicure place when she goes outside for a smoke around lunch

21

time? Absent-mindedly gazing off into the window of the restaurant across the street where the frantic waiter tries to balance trays heaped with steaming food? At least you must have heard the truck with the workers unloading the crates of fruit into the family bodega? Or come across the girl sitting under the plastic covering outside of it, wrapping the fl owers that the young man has just bought, in print-covered paper? Th e school with the naked birch tree in front? Th e ice cream truck across from the bench the old woman sits on, feeding the pigeons? Th e playground with the broken swings? Th e monkey bars, positioned between the group of nannies, and the ancient men playing chess? Th e synagogue which doubles as a preschool with a ramp up to the elevated doorway, with windows you can see into? Surely you’ve walked past that? And at those windows you must have at least stopped once to watch the ballet class inside, with the tall, grand ceilings and walls of glittering mirrors? Tell me you’ve seen the blazing yellow autumn trees lining the park entrance, at night catching the light of the orange street lamp and casting the vivid shadows of billions of moving leaves onto the hard pavement?”

Th ere were tears in her eyes. She opened her mouth to say more, but now she was the one unable to talk. “Aren’t you lonely?” When he didn’t answer, she stood up, retrieved her velvet bag from the stool at the counter, and walked out without looking back. Th e man sat for a moment motionless, and it was only aft er the bell on the door stopped ringing altogether that he leaned over, unwrapped the paper on his box of pencils, unfolded something from within his pocket, and leaned over the narrow table, furiously scribbling.

As the sun emerged from beneath the city’s surface, the man in the sweater rose for the last time from his booth in the diner. With his eyes turned down and his shoulders hunched, he walked carefully to the counter. Th e dozing manager roused himself from where he had been asleep on the fl oor by the stove and stood to look at the quiet man in front of him. His face was pale but there was relief in his expression, and the manager smiled at this. He put out his hand to shake the man’s but instead of off ering his in return, the man in the sweater placed a folded sheet of paper into the manager’s palm. Th en the bell was ringing and the man was gone.

22

Th e manager held the sheet in his hands and looked out, beyond the painted windows to the city outside, before turning to what the man had handed him. He saw for the fi rst time in completion what he had only caught glimpses of on nights when he had come over to the man’s table to off er him something to eat or hand him a bag of groceries he had brought to him. With a fi ne-tipped pen the manager had watched the man draw the city, each grid-like street, each winding avenue. In the beginning he had seen the man in the sweater with a little book, which he copied it all from, and then he stopped bringing the book and started doing it from his head. He added buildings and stadiums. He carefully marked names of boulevards and added subway stations, sometimes correctly, sometimes half a mile away from where they actually were. Each night he’d done a diff erent section, each day he’d let the ink dry. Aft er the sheet had run out of free room and the manager thought he had reached a fi nish to his map, the man started requesting pencils. Th e manager assumed they were for a new project and that the map was done with. But the sheet he held in his hand was no new piece of art. With careful, penciled shading, the man had colored over his entire map in graphite. Just the faintest hints of the buildings below were visible under the layer of metallic gray. Th e entirety of the sheet was darkened except for the short block between the man in the sweater’s silent home and the manager’s empty diner.

As the city awoke and rubbed its eyes, the diner sat stiller than it had ever been.

Music played from within the battered cars rattling through the stirring streets on their way to all diff erent kinds of places. Th e buildings reached skyward, their refl ective sides glinting in the rays from the early, dappled, morning sun. Th e shutters were still drawn on the city but from down below hints of light could be seen through the slits in the wood, and peeking out from behind the drawn curtains, the people inside laughing and eating and preparing for the day. A soft wind swept over the dull edges of the city and cooled the heavy air, so that it was light and crisp. Th ings became more vivid and lost their layer of suppressing dust, colors once again appearing on the billboards, scaff olds and storefronts. Th is city took its breath.

23

For God's Sake Give Your Poem a Title and It Better Not Be the First Line

{Danny Ben-David}We spent a semesterreading the versesof the Great Poets.

Don’t think your poems on male pattern baldnessheld any less esteem in our malleable brains.

Draft Draft Draft Draft “Say, is there a window open in here?”You’d crack,then launch into Donald Duckand his authoritative positionon the matter at hand.

I wonder if teachers ever fear(like students do every fi ft h of a score)that their impression was temporarytheir impact minimalthat the school’s walls seep Tefl on out of their cinderblock.Aft er all, three centuries: it’s a lot of time to get lost in.

You pull your yearbooks from their shelters—Flaking pages hold the names of studentsalumniparentstrusteesand the hastened scribble of that kid who called you aft er a decade of silence to see if you were still throwing Whitman at seniors.

24

Th ey still remember.

And come Septemberwhen the fl oor of your offi ce groans,free of its paper towers,someone else will sit in that chair.

But it’s not their chair.

It’s your chair.

And they’ll be hearing about it for a while

25

{Katie Bright}

26

As he calmly approaches, my heartbeat dramatically quickens.  As this abominable creation looms closer, panic strikes my soul.  Is it not natural to fear and hate the creation that all abhor?  Fruitlessly, I search for an escape.  Oh, dear God! I am trapped with no means of liberation from his menacing presence.  Anger quickly diff uses through my veins, and a yearning to scream encompasses my heart.  I feel tranquilized with fear, for he has seized all feelings of comfort and bliss.    I must bear the mockery of possessing such an outcast for a relation: Shame swells inside. My brother swings open the door to my room, which consequently slams into the adjacent wall.

“Hadley, dinner!” my loathsome brother shouts, stopping in the entrance way.

Th at deafening scream consumes my ears despite my attempt to stop the penetration with my palms.  I rise from my chair and fearfully step towards the door like a soldier marching into battle.  I swallow a gust of air before entering the room that will surely only enhance my misery and despair. Again, the most grotesque voice resonates in my ears as I accompany Him to join my family in a “delightful” dinner.

“Hadley, how many times did you forget to do your chores this week?” my brother says with an unctuous smile aimed at my petrifi ed face.  Oh, that snitch! Glaring across the table, I stare directly into those seemingly innocent eyes.    My eyebrows cringe and my teeth uncontrollably grind.    How I resent thee!  He laughs carelessly in my face, mocking my mere existence. 

“Not once,”  I pitifully utter.  Incapable of concealing the squeak in my voice, my parents raise their brows, aware of the falseness of my response. 

“Five times,” my brother declares, with deep confi dence in his voice, confi rming my dishonesty and his validity to my parents. 

Abhorrence to Mankind {Hadley Boltres}

27

My fi sts clench and my whole body seems to tense up as I pierce my sharp nails into my silky skin.  Only twice had I failed to remember my domestic duties in this household, and yet the verdict remains fi ve.  How powerless I feel about the injustice of mankind.  Th e entirety of my body leans forward, prepared to attack and thrust myself against him with such a powerful and enraging force that he would surely collapse to the fl oor and remain motionless for eternity.  However, I fi ercely refrain myself from committing such a “crime.” 

Glaring into his deceivingly angelic face, his menacing eyes reveal the devilish trait that contaminates his soul.  He chews one colossal bite with his mouth entirely open.  Th e delectable chocolate cookie has converted into a pile of repulsion and detestation, much like the creator of this horror.  Pains in my stomach erupt and my mouth cringes. My eyes turn away to shield me from the grotesque scene I am miserably witness to.  Aft er a voluminous swallow and a disgusting belch, my brother mouths,

“You’re so ugly,” ennunciating each syllable so the words are inaudible but extremely perceptible.  His silent mouthing deafens my ears.  Th e only noise that consumes them is that painful word he seems to shout inside my brain.  Am I the abhorred monster and he the truly attractive one? Th is question burdens me deeply and I am fi lled with such astonishment and bewilderment: my mind is on a perpetual spinning wheel, but my body is as inanimate as a statute. Self-pity seizes my heart, capturing my remaining mirth and burning it to ashes, then blowing it away like dust. Th is monster wildly tears at the seams of my heart as lightning crashes, pounding the window and banishing the rays of sunshine from refl ecting in my eyes. 

“So how was the volleyball tournament? You lost every game, right? Well, you are on the team. An inevitable defeat is expected,” my brother matter-of-factly states.  My parents rally to my side, supporting me with lavish compliments and affi rm accounts on my skill and aptitude. My mother looks sharply towards her son, mentally scolding him while disappointment visibly fl oods her face.  However, I cannot help it if these thoughts of failure seep

through my skin and shatter my former self-confi dence.  I slowly rise from my chair and politely excuse myself from the table.  Th is façade of politeness is scarcely unmanageable any longer, for I yearn to scream and I punch the air, trying to release at least some of my fury.  I abhor him for making me abhor myself. 

Th e pouring rain and thunder consume my ears and I desire to wail, releasing all emotion.  Nature mirrors my feelings, as if perceiving my broken morale and sympathizing with me ardently by fl ooding the earth with tears.  Th at demon, who is surely a friendly companion of Satan himself, has been my sworn enemy since birth and forever will be. He must suff er as I have, feeling agonizing and unbearable misery.   I curse the creators of this being for my suff ering and torment.  How could my own parents, who unconditionally love me, allow a demon to roam the city streets? A leash is a necessity for this feral being, for he not only endangers me, but all of society: All of mankind trembles at this menace’s feet.   

In these moments of misery, feeling so beleaguered, I vow never to let him torture me again.  My revenge upon him can no longer be impeded, and I plot malicious things.  As I enter his forbidden room, my rages of fury are rampant.  Eyeing the beloved architectural design he had painstakingly constructed for months with meticulous care, I smash it into tiny pieces with my bare fi st.  I am oblivious to the throbbing pain in my hand, for ecstasy dominates my soul. Overcome with pleasure, I desire to create more havoc.  I light his three hundred page English thesis with a spare match, gloating as I witness his months of dedication literally burn to the ground. My brother enters the room, and noticing my destruction, screams in violent vexation, then weeps, in his now melancholic state.

If only this illusion were reality.  If only I had the strength to commit such an “atrocity” and execute such vengeance.  But no, I sit in my room in solitude, accompanied only by my wild dreams and deranged imagination.

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Fossils {Liza Garrity}

Like the rest of them, it was a moment that you hope you’ll never have to explain because you know that the minute you try to describe it, it would end up sounding stupid. You would fumble around, searching for the proper word to depict that intangible sense of peace, but inevitably fail. Th e whole thing would fall fl at and you’d avoid making eye contact with whomever you’re talking to. You know now that they’re confused and you’re uncomfortable. But you can’t even say that the moment was inexplicable because that sounds silly, impossible, cliché. So you’re forced to wave it off and say, “Oh, it’s a long story,” if you’re asked about it. Over time, you accumulate moments like these; they are shapeless and they don’t fi t into words. Th ey end up hidden in a shoebox in the back of your closet because you know that no one else will understand them, those instances when you were alone but at peace. Th ey’re frozen solitude, preserved in the mind’s eye. Th ey’re at the heart of you, burnt into whatever it is that you are. Only you know how you felt or what you thought about at that point in time, and let's hope you’ll be the only one who knows it even happened.

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Sharing Secrets with the Mythic City{Ben Bleiberg}

My parents were asleep; I was free. I slunk from their bedroom gleefully, silently. I dressed quickly, created a doppelgänger of bedding, and slipped out into the hallway, closing the door like it was glass. Th e only clue to my disappearance was the dangling chain on the other side of the door. It too was removed from its nightly berth, but I wasn’t worried: it seemed unlikely anyone would awaken during my trip, let alone espy the telltale unfastening. As I strode through the lobby, the doorman raised his hand in greeting and nodded at me knowingly, a sly grin of understanding alighting upon his face. Yes, the night shift would be well acquainted with teenage larks. I called my friend Sean as I walked outside. He didn’t pick up. I was wearing shoes with thin soles, and the pavement sent shocks of feeling into my feet that reverberated all the way up to my thighs. Spring was just revealing herself, and the air was cool, but pleasingly so. It was two in the morning, and the streets were quiet. Initially I had thought them silent, accustomed as I am to New York’s daytime cacophony, but soon I noticed a delicate nocturne of subtler noises: the whoosh of the wind and the cars, the rustling of the trees, and the primitive percussion of a few footsteps. I called again. Th is time Sean picked up. I confi rmed that I had been able to make it out, and he said that he would be there in a few minutes. Th e “there” in question was the Great Lawn, an oval expanse of grass in the heart of Central Park which is a popular hangout for many high-schoolers. Th e lawn merits the great in its name. It is over half a mile around, and it fi lls thirteen acres of prime Manhattan real estate. It has eight baseball diamonds, and a castle, theater, museum, pond, pinetum, obelisk, and memorial statue all abut the lawn. It’s

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{Perry Leavitt}

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located equidistant between the Upper East and Upper West chunks of the island, making it a convenient meeting place. Th e grass, any grass at all being a luxury in Manhattan, is lush even by suburban standards, and the trees provide much needed shade during the baking summer months. Th e views of midtown are spectacular. I knew the route from my house to the lawn by heart, but it was all diff erent in the middle of the night. As when traveling abroad, my senses were on high alert. Blocks I had traversed hundreds of times seemed alien, repainted a darker shade. I entered the park at 84th Street, the Egyptian temple in the Metropolitan Museum to my left . Th is too was all newly strange. Th e park closes at one, so we were running afoul of the law from the outset; furthermore, the lawn had not yet been opened for the season, so we were doubly trespassing. I paused by the road to scan for cop cars. Seeing no intruders on my adventure, I continued on and hopped the fence that surrounds the lawn. I had not stepped on that grass since the previous year, and I felt the warmth of happiness the moment it high-fi ved my bare feet. Sean was lying down in the center of the greenish expanse, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the stars, the vibrancy of which was stifl ed by a scrim of New York light. We had decided to sneak on to the lawn earlier that night. We missed it, and we would get the bragging rights of having been on the lawn before it opened, at night to boot. Now our plan was alive. I lay beside him and said hello, but we quickly decided to rise for a hug. At fi rst we just lay there, cowed and silenced by the enormity of the space. Th en, feeling philosophical aft er being nudged to contemplate our big-picture insignifi cance, we fashioned some of the animated, electric conversation we had each been craving from the other, burning up the time and place like rocket fuel. Th e conversation raced quicksilver until it meandered lazily, like any decent conversation does. We talked about growing up in the mythic city, about school, family, books, friends, and how we see the world. Th en we raced across the lawn until we collapsed, panting

33

like dogs, and just as happy. We shimmied to tinny music and tried cartwheels, unseen by others’ judging stares. We laid fl at against the ground to render ourselves invisible when a cop car passed, hunting people like us. We balled up our jackets and used them as pillows, and talked some more, until the sun came up. Sean could have probably stayed out forever, but my parents would have been distinctly unhappy to catch me coming home when they thought I had been asleep. I returned home along the same route I had taken in darkness a few hours earlier, having left all my energy on the lawn. I eased the door shut when I got upstairs, put the chain to bed, and went to sleep myself. New York is the dreamers’ palace. We fl y here like magnets, tantalized by the promise of a life imbued with myth and magic. Th ose with a penchant for being in the thick of it all fl ock to this place like the sick to a spring. We infl ate our egos with proximity to the new, the now, the glitz and the glam. Unfortunately, we must compete with millions of others for our place, and thus exclusivity is the watchword in this town. We want to snag premiere tickets, to eat at the hippest restaurants; to know the next Sinatra, Kerouac, Dimaggio, Warhol. Yet the timeless, dashing cool of New York is derived from something in the sinew of the city itself. It is in the million gems of gold light seen from across the river, lined up snug in the obsidian mountains; the graffi ti in the bar bathroom; the New York Times; the reminder of a more elegant past in every Art Deco façade; the jaunty pluck of the newcomer and the jaded smirk of the old-timer. New York, with its landmarks, food, nightlife, history, celebrities, characters, and character, will be an immortal city, regardless of whether it is one day destroyed. It will live forever in imagination and memory. Curiously, for such an egotistical bunch, we as individuals have no real place in the public spaces of New York. We’re always part of a crowd, be they strangers or the most intimate of friends, and I as a city-dweller accept this: for the most part, it’s something I want. But occasionally, the need arises within me to commandeer

34

part of this mythic city for myself. To reign over one slice of New York, even for just one night, would give me a home unshared by others, a privilege I’ve never had. But if that night with Sean is any indication, I’ll never be truly alone here: New York City will always be a member of my party, its presence always informing the conversation, shading the ambiance. Of course, being intimate with the city is probably the greater pleasure. We felt grandiose: part of the in-crowd, not just in the crowd. Narcissistically, we fancied we were contributing to the mythology of New York, but it’s certain that at the very least we were writing a new story in our own fables. I realize now that my relationship with the city has been changed forever. I’ve claimed part of New York as my own in a way I had never done before. Now I can share a knowing nod with the city, as if we’re lovers; indeed, we have spent the night together, shielded from the gazes of passersby by night’s cloak. I guess you could say that New York and I already had stories. Now we have secrets.

35

{Jenna Wisch}

36

“One day, my son, you will get what you are looking for,” said my father. Such words fl oated in my mind, winding in and out of old memories and outlandish fantasies, all to the backdrop of that annoying pop song you would always hear. I thought they would be true. I thought it would happen. But no. Not to me. Not now, and not then. To catch a fi sh was a harder task than it was made out to be. Th is world is covered by the ocean. Th is society is covered by that same ocean. Everyone is out there with me. Everyone, at one time or another, will go out into the wide open sea and fi sh. What are they fi shing for? To each his own. But we can all agree that we are fi shing for . . . something or another. In the beginning, it an optimistic time. Th e sun beamed its rays towards the sapphire sea, refl ecting deeply into my gazing eyes and warming my body. My fi ne boat cruised leisurely in the waters of the world, with me directing it at the helm. My wide eyes visualized great expectations, great outcomes, great rewards, and a great happiness. Such hope. Such determination. Such ignorance. When was the last time I felt like that? How many days ago was that? How many months ago was that? How many years ago was that? Th e times had changed, but my status had remained the same. My fi shing rod hangs into the waters, like some old lynched convict, rotting away. Whatever bait was on there remained untouched. Whatever fi sh I beseeched paid not a single heed to my words. Th e sun had since disappeared behind a never-ending cover of dark clouds, as if God had thrown a dark cloth over the celestial orb. Its embracing rays gone, my body shudders in the cold. Th e fi re in my chest dimly fl ickers, trying to cling onto whatever existence remains. I look into the waters, now a dull

The Fisherman's Dilemma {Chris Han}

37

grey and see myself, or rather what I have become. Th at face, morphed into a hideous creature fi lled with bitterness and hated. In the surrounding waters, I am able to see others pursing the same task. People who seek but do not fi nd. People who act but do not gain. Some are people I recognize, others are strangers. Nevertheless these are people in the same boat, while sitting in diff erent boats. Th ey just want a chance at happiness. I want the same. Surely you might get the message. Surely you will understand this plea. One day the sun will shine in my face again. One day I will be happy. One day, but not today. Or yesterday. And here I sit at my pole, staring into the waters that would produce wonders.

I feel wired.all the caff eine in my bloodstreamcoursing through my veins, my capillaries, my arteries, it’s electrifying.I feel sick.I want to cough out all my insides.I want all of my organs to splinter and crack on the linoleum.all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears.termites have burrowed in my guts.they’ve hid their eggs in intricate patterns across my stomach lining. they’ve been gnawing in all the wrong places for four days straight.

maybe everyone deserves to have their heart broken at least once.maybe everyone deserves to have the carrot dangled in front of their face before the fi shing line makes a noose.

I want to scratch the paint off the walls so I can see every inch.I want to scream until the world can hear me, or at least until someone notices.I want to smash empty broken green bottles against the walls of a dirty alleyway, and when I’m done, pound the bricks with my fi sts until my knuckles bleed.I want to exchange my hollow bones for new ones.I want to wait outside on the stoop wrapped in fi re blankets every day.

But these are all impulses.I don’t know what I really want.One minute I’m dripping, soaring out of the tar and fl oating above,Singing, “I can put this all behind me.”Th e next minute I’m crashing back to Earth.But at leastin this caseit means I can dance across the blank white pages,leaving my mark.

Termites {Taylor Collins}

38

{Perry Leavitt}

39

41

Tick Tock {Chris Wayland}

Is there really much to say about a clock, aside from the fact that it goes tick-tock?It has two hands, twelve numbers, and always moves in the same direction, Except for that one backward, magical moment each year that everyone loves,Yet it possesses a shape and dimension that never end . . . that . . . never . . . end . . . Th e hand that perpetually ticks Along the shape that would make infi nity proud,It knows no beginning or end, but we do. It sees all at once without eyes, but we have them.Is it even real? Or did we create it, Just as we did his great keeper, the mechanical clock?Did he create us, modeled aft er himself so that we could see all and ad infi nitum . . . Clicking and turning, speeding by galaxies, big bangs, atoms and their woes, even its keepers, then slowing but never stopping, It threatens to elapse and collapse us into nothing more than a piece of hair forever fl oating and probing in its cauldron of calamity.Each tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, cries louder than the worst destitution, “Loss, loss, loss,” endlessly. Oh, grandfather of them all, is there a hand just for me? An opening in eternity?Release the chattel and unfetter these chains so that the path can be walked,Th e ocean of omniscience opened, and the doors of democracy denuded.Th ere is a way . . .Th e answer is not lost somewhere in our clock that goes tick-tock.

Tick Tock {Chris Wayland}

An endless string of baggy-eyed teens fi le into a colorful room. Bienvenidos, reads an oversized poster. Homemade scribbles cover the walls, reminding their audience of Spanish grammar rules, examples of excellent essays, and one student’s “Lugares Favoritas,” all of which are lined with streaks of glitter.

But the desperately inviting surroundings receive not even half a glimpse from the incoming crowd. Rather, the students stare at the dandruff of the person in front and unconsciously gnaw at their cuticles as they wait for the unpleasantly plump and slightly slumped proctor to scrutinize their eyes, cheeks, hairs and pimples. Full minutes pass between each student’s cross examination with the proctor. Perhaps this is why the test ended forty-seven minutes later than expected. But who can blame him? Th e watery eyes, hair dripping in grease, and pregnant zits belie the depictions on the plastic identifi cation cards.

Once the students pass this fi rst test to prove their identity, they are immediately instructed to sit in their alphabetically assigned seats—or sillas, as the daily vocabulary bulletin board indicates. Th e exposed seats themselves are trembling. From all sides, the seats can reach nothing but the empty air. Th e confi guration of the room mirrors a sheet of graph paper, with forty nine identical seats aligning into seven columns and seven rows. On school days these seats normally face each other in an engaging group circle, but today is Saturday.

Each student carefully unpacks his future life onto the twenty by twenty fi ve inch table: a crumpled, excessively handled sheet of paper detailing student information, testing day information, and a guardian’s signature, a number two pencil, and an eraser, although the number of pencils varies from student to student. At one student’s desk lay fourteen perfectly unused Ticonderoga classic number two pencils and a pencil sharpener, just in case all fourteen pencils suddenly break during the next four hours. Helen McBright, having caught sight of Mr. Fourteen’s desk two seats away, bites her lip before diving into her knapsack to retrieve more sticks of lead.

Before long the pencil eff ect spreads through the room

Standardized {Shirley Choicer}

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like rapid fi re. Th e only students who do not fall under this entrancement squint their eyes and whisper to themselves what seem to be historical fi gures and events: “Hitler, MLK, Susan B. Anthony, Th e Civil War . . .” It was as if the whole world was balanced and delicately perched on the tops of their heads, and the slightest movement or a sudden noise would topple the entire infrastructure. “Hitler, MLK, Susan B. Anthony, Th e Civil War . . .”

A starved mosquito inhales the air in the corner of the room. Despite the abundance of blood reserves in the room, the air is relatively bloodless. But a distinct scent drags the mosquito towards the front of the room, where the proctor, breathing heavily, continues his matching game. Nearby, students attempt to make energy by rubbing their hands together, but their hands and faces remain a pale shade of gray, with all their blood confi ned, yet protected by their rib cages. One child even shivers in his seat while the classroom sweats at eighty degrees.

Th e proctor clears his throat, but even before this act, every pair of eyes is already on him, waiting for the gunshot to begin the race.

“All right, everybody. Good luck, and now you may now beg —"

Forty-nine front covers peel from the rest of the booklets, producing a crisp, scratched sound. Th e booklets produced a magnetic eff ect, drawing in the upper bodies of their owners. Menacing bodies hover over the booklets, bodies ready to tear the smooth sheets with

“—Oh, wait!”Forty-nine hearts crash against their rib cages. “We should wait for the minute hand to reach the twelve.”For the next few seconds, no oxygen enters the lungs of the

students. Gas particles freeze in place as every eye shift s six degrees with each tick of the inanimate proctor.

“—And begin.”Th e unbearable silence roars as two smiling girls, holding

Argentinean fl ags, exclaim, “La Tierra de SoL!” from their two- dimensional speech bubble.

 

{Amy Weiss- Meyer}

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45

Not long ago, I found myself at a funeral. Th e service was touching enough, but I hadn’t known the deceased very well and was there mostly to pay my respects to his son Jack, a friend of mine from college. I looked behind me at one point and noticed a mother raise her eyebrows and put her pointer fi nger to her lips; she was chiding two small girls, probably her daughters, who sat on either side of her. I remembered at that moment: there is something so impractical about being a child at a funeral. As if the concept of death weren’t diffi cult enough to fathom, you fi nd yourself expected to act accordingly, though you’re hardly sure how. Even if you knew the person who died enough to feel sad about the loss, it is always so hard—even now—to allot your grieving to that one day. You cried when you heard the news or maybe you didn’t. But sitting still and keeping quiet in a large room full of adults, you wonder why your grandmother is wearing sunglasses indoors, and soon those sunglasses become so much more immediate than any feeling of sorrow. When I was seven, my great-grandmother died. I had trouble distinguishing the funeral events from a kind of joyous extended family reunion. I got to miss school for a few days and go to Chicago with all my cousins; better yet, we all got to stay in the same hotel. When black town cars picked us up in the morning, we couldn’t help but smile; there was a miniature bottle of water on each of our seats—for us! While adults, noticing our excitement at this small luxury, sternly reminded us that we weren’t there on pleasure, we shot each other knowing looks. Th is is the life.

I can’t remember much of what happened at the synagogue. What I remember most is this: later that day at the gorgeously catered reception, my cousin and I stood near the window and looked at the

The Stuff Worth Living For {Amy Weiss-Meyer}

cheeses. We were fi xated by the array of aged cheddar and Gouda, the soft Gruyere and tender goat cheese laid out so beautifully before us. Th ere were dried apricots and moist grapes and quince paste, all unbelievably refreshing between bites of salty cheese. Lining the sides of the tray was a variety of crackers and several small knives for spreading and slicing.

Best of all was the enormous hunk of aged Parmesan sitting calmly in the far right corner of the tray. It was one of those genuine Parmesans; not some local knockoff , but the real Italian deal in all its glory. I registered on some basic level (for I’d never been formally taught how to spot a good Parmesan) the mark of authenticity it bore. Its waxy rind was imprinted with large letters that spelled out parmigiano-reggiano. I could almost hear it calling out to me. Th e cheese beckoned me closer and dared me to ditch the pretense of mourning altogether in favor of my more natural, hedonist self. I sensed that my cousin, standing next to me, was experiencing a similar rapture. She too, I would soon see, was confl icted as to whether or not she should heed that tempting invitation.

Th ere seemed to be more than enough cheese to last a lifetime. We fi lled ourselves with as much as we could bear and still there was more on the silver tray by the window. Momentary bouts of satiety gave way quickly enough to a small but recurring hunger, a nagging feeling that one small space in my body remained unfi lled. Miraculously, the supply of Parmesan never ran dry. “I could live forever on just cheese,” I sighed. “Yes. And mushrooms!” my cousin added. “And mushrooms.” I can’t recall where this particular aspect of the fantasy originated, only that it seemed a logical and necessary addition at the time. “But you’d get so constipated.” We turned around to fi nd that an older male cousin of ours had joined in, just in time to fi ll in the details of the more practical side of our fantasy. All three of us laughed and looked out the window at Lake Michigan.

Th ere were hundreds of people behind us, fi lling the large

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apartment with their somber bodies and fi lling their plates with asparagus and devilled eggs and chicken skewers. Some tried to procure bits of cheese, but we stood our ground. Aft er all, the very sustenance on which we had pledged to live the rest of our lives was at stake. I had a strange image of myself living in a small cave, surviving on crumbly, yellowing Parmesan and some unnamed variety of tiny brown mushrooms. I truly did not think I would ever tire of the combination.

Th e only potential danger involved in our plan lay in the matter of excretion. It was a danger whose existence we had not yet proved scientifi cally. Still, we would need to test it, we knew, before committing ourselves to a lifetime of constipation, so we waited patiently until it was time to collect our data. We would go to the bathroom as a pair. We needed to be each other’s witnesses, to mutually assure the viability of a life lived on Parmesan and mushrooms (how broad a culinary category!) alone.

Th ere was something so comforting about that large room—not the bathroom, but the dining room, the cheese room—whose corner we guarded so vigilantly. It was exceedingly bright, so much so that I nearly forgot it was late September instead of early August. And we were all there together, all the kids and all the grown-ups, so safe and just the way I liked it. Besides, we had everything we needed to live forever.

I wound up going back to Jack’s mother’s house aft er the funeral. I had wanted to move on with my day, but he shot me what I interpreted to be a pained look just as I was about to leave and I felt it was only right to stay on in the party of mourners. Walking in the door among so many strangers dressed in clothes as dark as mine, I made it my goal not to bore myself with my own false politeness. In other words, I vowed to interact with as few people as possible. I let myself be distracted by the food set out around the perimeter of the small living room. It dawned on

me how essential food is to any funeral, how it becomes one of the best and easiest ways to temporarily distract ourselves, to prevent the inevitability of death from getting us down. A way of thinking about ways to live instead of thinking about ways to die.

In one corner of the room was a cheese platter. It was, truly, nothing to write home about. It seemed almost an aft erthought, certainly not the focal point of the gastronomic spread and probably not something the widow had expressly selected but rather part and parcel of the special event package for which she had placed an order with the caterer. I didn’t see the little girls from earlier anywhere; their parents had probably decided they’d had enough for one day. I certainly felt as though I had.

I stood over the platter and took my time deliberating about which cheese I’d try fi rst. Aft er some time I decided on an off -white, round cheese—probably a Boursin or something of the like. It was one of the only cheeses left completely untouched by the other guests, and I felt a powerful urge to tarnish its purity and lay claim to its sinfully creamy contents. Th e cheese, like its neighboring curds and the platter they sat on, wasn’t anything special, but aft er a long morning in church it hit the spot. I swallowed slowly and immediately took some more, that old trick I learned at the age of seven of how to make the most of funeral receptions. By the time I left , about an hour later, I had talked to approximately two of the other guests and tried approximately all of the cheeses.

Th is is the life.

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49

I care for my sheep and goats—Feed them, stroke them, milk them.Lead them in and out of my rocky caveAnd they lead me across the islandAs my eye no longer is able to see the way.Why did Odysseus kill my sheep?My innocent sheep slaughtered,Just of Helios, the sun god, like the cattleJust like his own men. I am the true king.For a king does not let his men dieNor fi ght the fate laid out by gods.A king must feed, stroke, and milk,Act as an impetus, not a consequence.Rely not on his eyes, be they one or two,But depend on the eyes of others. I lead sheep, yes.I am only a shepherd,But better to lead sheep in peaceTh an men in war.

Polyphemos {Alexander Goldberg}

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{Perry Leavitt}

51

Th e wintry breeze whispered through the window and overwhelmed the radiator’s wheezing heat. Th e sudden collision of cold and hot startled Trista from her daydreams. Pursing her lips, she avoided the main room, evading the pungent stench of the fl owers. She hated to admit it, but she was bored. Glancing at her watch for the third time, all Trista could think about was all the homework she should be completing. Sighing, she glumly regarded her surroundings, hoping to avoid the clusters of people, the amalgamation of relatives and strangers. Retreating to the corner chair, she established a bubble of isolation. Th ere, she was able to survey the entire room, but was fortunate enough to avoid facing the main room, whose open doors revealed her grandmother’s coffi n.

However, she saw an incoming intruder who approached her throne with his fi st clenched around the free mints: Uncle Campari. He would have been the living incarnation of Bacchus, but today his garden-fresh tomato of a face had lost its color. It refl ected the pallor of the moon. Trista was surprised that Uncle Campari’s silent sobs uncharacteristically repressed his loud and booming voice; the barking dog was now gagged by a muzzle of grief. Th ankfully, Aunt Mitty stopped him when she held out her hand, asking for one of his mints. Success — enemy thwarted. Th e castle is safe. Lanky Aunt Mitty again outshone her younger counterparts in respect to her costume; the ensemble of ornate feather-plumed hat, shining black jewels, and dark laced gloves that clutched the enormous bouquet was missing only the sash given to Ms. America in 2009. Although seemingly focused on Campari’s copia of mints, Trista trailed her aunt’s sly gaze to the dark enigmatic boyfriend her cousin Laura had brought.

Kyle Marsellis was the classically “tall, dark, and handsome stranger,”the type of man that all of Laura’s female relatives wanted to

Escape {Pauline Ceraulo}be swept off their feet by in a Hollywood-worthy encounter; but Trista saw otherwise, and was disgusted that Laura brought her vile reptile to such an occasion. Still wearing the dark leather motor jacket that broke many hearts, this Don Juan lizard had already wrapped his sleazy arm around his new prey. Disgusted, Trista left her castle and crossed the room to distance herself from him, but stopped in the main room’s doorway as her gaze accidently rested on the body of her grandmother; dry-eyed, Trista felt nothing except for shameful boredom and restlessness. She couldn’t deny it; she wanted to leave and continue her normal school life—to forget about this horrid bore.

Embarrassed by her dishonorable thoughts, she winced but soon realized that the loud wailing of her fourth cousin, Agatha, was the source of her ears’ resounding pain. Prostrated before the coffi n, Agatha might have been declared honorary mourner of 2010; despite her size, all future and past grievers couldn’t compete with the tiny mourner whose deafening cries compensated for her small stature. Rolling her eyes, Trista’s fl ight instinct kicked in, and she was backpedaling away from the main room, automatically veering towards a nearby couch’s refuge.

Another glance at the watch and only seconds had passed: 8:45. Crossing her legs, Trista found herself suddenly next to her estranged second cousin Darien, who temporarily ignored his hatred for his mother to drag his hi mself to say goodbye to the only relative he claimed to love. Th e familiar scowl engraved on his face warped to a twisted smile, his inner sadism emerging as he observed his mother’s grief. Repulsed by his expression, Trista gazed down, examining Darien’s hands that once seduced the loveliest notes from the ebonies and ivories. His gentle butterfl y fi ngers now contorted, grasping an imaginary object and violently tightening their grip —a vise of death around his Aunt Mitty’s neck, who was now dabbing at her eyes with an expensive, silken handkerchief. Trista’s discomfort heightened, and she realized that she was trapped. All other seats were occupied and the mob of faceless people increased. Th e amoeba of mourners fl ocked closer to her and Darien, setting

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their target on her head—mission: console Trista. She fl ed to the main room, leaving behind the swarm and Ted Bundy’s successor.

Breathing heavily, Trista mustered her courage and walked towards the coffi n. Here her grandmother lay, the serene yet unsmiling waxy doll that was so close to animation and life. Th is was my grandmother? Ashamedly, Trista’s repressed uneasiness surfaced and without a word or prayer, she retreated back to the main room. As she smacked her lips in frustration, Trista felt stabbing gazes on her back. Turning, she noticed the old vultures who scrutinized her. All widows themselves, the great aunts Marsha, Bess, and Rose formed one single entity, their three separate heads connected by their long necks to the same humped body. Experienced in attending funerals, this queen vulture watched over her subjects, scrutinizing them for signs of improper funeral etiquette. And unfortunately Trista failed to meet her expectations. Overhearing their criticisms about Trista’s lack of grief and respect for her grandmother, Trista’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment. She walked away, spotting a chair near the coat closet. Now she was fi nally alone.

Burning with shame, Trista wanted to leave immediately. Tying the laces of her black Converse (her fi rst transgression against the queen vulture’s dress code), she noticed a small pair of black shoes inside the closet; hearing quiet weeping, she curiously opened the closet door and found her fi ve-year old cousin Mimi rubbing her teary amber eyes. Surprised that she wasn’t with her mother, Trista entered the closet. Afraid that porcelain Mimi would break into pieces, Trista hugged her cousin close to her chest, wanting to protect her against all the world’s sadness. Th e toddler’s sniffl es quieted and her small hand intertwined with her cousin’s. Trista closed the closet door, shutting out the world. And alone in the dark, Trista stroked Mimi’s golden hair, unaware of her own tears that fi nally fl owed down her cheeks.

I never wake up in the morning when I get out of bed.So I put my clothes on with my eyes shut.At lunch I have to be an expert of coordination because I can’t see my food, sinceI’m not awake.But I can dream, still.I can walk down the gum-spotted pavement of the New York City sidewalks, but really be swinging in a hammock on some isolated ranch in Wyoming—tucked between two shady trees.Yes, I’m not awake during the day—so I just dream.And that’s the strange thing about it:my eyes close,but my mind opens.And the colors of my sleep fi ll the blackof the day.

Heavy Sleeper {Percy Allison}

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I remember that summer night in Wyoming at the A-Bar-A Ranch,when you and I were sitting onthe oaky rocking chairs outon the porch outside the Round Room(you in your British accent, me in my pink polo shirt).We were talking about how many trout I pretended to have caught that day and how fast you rode on Stable—the roughest of all the horses. Th en you stood up, as if this were all in a movie and every move you made was written in the script,and leaned on the chipped-oakrailing. You moved your littleBritish hips to the side, gently,with your blue jeans pastedon your skinny-pretty legs.I was looking up at you.You were looking up at the sky,which was so big comparedto us and to the one we saw in New Yorkand London; and you pointedyour fi nger up toward a star(to which one I had no clue) andsaid, I bet someone, somewhere is also looking at this star, right nowat this very moment that we are.And you mesmerized me, Clarissa,though you never knew it.

Summer Love {Percy Allison}

{Addie Minerva}

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You burn me,

Giver of life and warmth,

Taker of sweet and aimless joy,

As I rest on the sandy grains

the Earth has given me.

Your orbit burns that precious present,

But I am eager to enjoy and emulate

the interminably dark,

but truly fair-skinned beauties who

grace the glossy inked covers of

People I want to be.

So I welcome you into the cells

of my unprotected skin,

to char their dense nuclei

and to give me dark satisfaction—

the same satisfaction I get

when people ask

where on Earth I’ve been.

Sunburn {Ishmael Fofana}

The beautiful face stares back at me. The

smooth brown hair, the deep blue eyes, and the

perfect cheekbones tempt me and taunt me. The

eyebrows and smile look as if they were crafted

by a god. The spotless skin and shapely nose are

utter perfection. It is too much. I cannot take it

anymore. I take a deep breath, turn, and walk

away from the mirror.

The Essence of Beauty {Alex Kiam}

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Emily entered the threshold of her rental just past six o’clock, as the sun was beginning to slip behind the row of graying four-story walk-ups. Her landlord glared at her suspiciously, as he had on so many other occasions.

“You know it’s the end of the month.” Time collapses in small minds.

“I’m well aware.” Her words had a Brahman chill from an Episcopal upbringing.

Emily had long since become acclimated to these pet-ty exchanges. Indeed, she’d not yet met a landlord she liked, and she’d lived in a number of places all over the country—Los Angeles, Kansas City, Seattle, Miami, now New York and soon Boston. She was convinced all landlords were bred from the same thin stock, the DNA of her social under-achieving encoded in their disapproving sneer. It was a look of surprising effi ciency that reduced everything to a line-item in the human ledger. Th e lines in New York are writ-ten in the ledger of lost dreams. Her friends had assured her that all landlords were not like that, that she had somehow drawn a bad lot in choosing her apartments. Maybe that was why she felt so little regret at having to leave in a couple of months.

“Well, are you going to pay or not?”

“I told you I would . . . when I get my check . . . at the end of the week.”

Certainly she had no fondness for this, the most recent apartment. It was dark and cramped and it smelled of boiled veg-etables and too many people living too close together. Not that Har-lem was that bad a place to live. On warm summer evenings, Latin salsa played out of doors, and beautiful men and women leaned out of windows to fl irt and scold their children. Th e women wore linen

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All the Lonely People {Benjamin Rosenblum}

blouses and the men black patent leather shoes for dancing, and the Coronas fl owed freely hand to hand, if you were Latin. But there were the fi ghts past midnight and the screaming on the same streets that rushed the paper thin walls of the tenements and tore her from the bed sheets unable to cry out. It was an easy walk from the sub-way, but her pale skin left her isolated and out-of-place as she walked past the bodegas on her way home each night. She heard the doors pulled shut a little too quickly so that the black-haired women on the other side of them wouldn’t have to turn away or pretend to com-fort their babies. It wasn’t meanness; she just wasn’t one of them. Perhaps it had been that way as well in El Paso and San Antone. But she did not remember the sting—not the way it burned into her thoughts here. To come home each night to the third or fourth in a chain of run-down walk-ups, each one a little farther up toward the bad lands, each a little darker. Th e fi rst just off Malcolm X Boule-vard, where she’d moved with her very imposing Irish lover—a mar-tial artist whose singular virtue was in keeping the night sounds at a safe distance. But he left quickly, afraid of certain ties.

Th ere followed a string of anonymous men. Relationships with no beginnings and no endings, more like drive-by shootings that dropped her where she stood, each time a little soft er as the numbness intervened to anaesthetize the pain. Until she simply dropped fetal to the ground in anticipation of the hit; until there was just emptiness to fi ll the dark hours, and the averted stares of women with too many children who still knew their men would come home, even if they came home too drunk to stand.

So the emptiness accumulated like litter in the corners of an emptied schoolyard. More than in any other city. Bad luck, maybe. New York wouldn’t miss her when she was gone. No one here would wonder how she was getting on.

“Well, last month you were late. Maybe I should get you a calendar.” Th at same smirk.

“Th anks, but I already have one, from El Tacqueria down the blockeria.”

When Emily’s friends asked her what she thought of the Big

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Apple, she always told them that New York was a city that accepted everyone but didn’t miss anyone. At least she couldn’t think of any one. Memphis missed Elvis: every street and sign post testifi ed to the city’s collective grief. And New Orleans had Harry Connick, Jr. But those were both small cities, big small towns, really. Th ey prob-ably produced fewer celebrities in their entire histories than walked through Times Square on any given day. New York had no favorites, no unrequited love worn on the sleeve of its famous avenues. New York is a place for people to get themselves lost, not found. It is America’s (maybe the world’s) lost and found, where all the human fl otsam washes up anonymously like some unsung Ulysses.

“Well, I better see the money Monday.”

She nodded indiff erence. It was an even call whether she would even recall his face aft er she surrendered the key. She couldn’t remember the others. Like the dark-haired women in the windows. All she would remember was their fl oating sleeves in the evening breeze. Ghosts with no faces.

Emily slipped by the faceless man and up the three familiar fl ights. Certainly she had gotten lost in this city. Or in some aspect of the city. When she had fi rst come to the city, she had made some friends. But those friendships quickly cooled when she mentioned where she lived. Th e black-haired women closed their doors on a rich white princess, but the Protestants found her too poor to play with. She smiled as she read the note tacked above her desk: “We’re sorry to have to relocate you again.”

One has to be located fi rst in order to be re-located.

You climb the rusting metal staircase to the High Line Park every winter morning, with your red, oversized peacoat and your fuzzy, star-studded, green and purple hat with the pompoms dan-gling over your shoulder. Your face is not truly happy, but marked with the lines carved by years of smiling. You pause to refl ect in front of the snow-covered branches and empty fl ower beds. Th en walk slowly toward the balcony and survey the landscape: red brick

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complexes, construction cranes, huge billboards with peeling paint, people walking dogs. You can see your breath fl oat into the green at the edge of an industrial abyss. You rest here for a while, undeterred by the crowds of people that would ordinarily fi ll the park on an April evening or an August aft ernoon. Th en you walk on toward the tunnel with its beautiful acoustics. You have always liked it there.

You glance to the side, hoping that no one will disturb your song once it is begun. You start to tap on the ground with your foot, and register the timbre of the sound as it rebounds off the wooden boards. Th en you begin to sing an A, gently at fi rst, gradually cre-scendoing to a moderate volume, as you are enveloped in the echo of the tunnel walls, repeating your pattern, following your voice:

While Mona Lisas and mad hatters, sons of bankers, sons of lawyers, turn around and say, "good morning" to the night. For unless they see the ky, but they can't that is why, they know not if it's dark outside or light:

You’ll leave about a half-hour aft er you arrive. You rarely come out in spring, only when it is raining, or when you don’t expect there will be people. Your voice is beautiful.

Who are you?

6362

A Poem as Long as a Bus Ride Faculty Work

{Bill Zavatsky}I'm in a sentimental moodaft er hearing Steve Kuhnplay that beautiful Ellington balladat Birdland, with my friend Alan,and now I’m scribbling a poemin my notebook, Lynn, becauseI promised you I’d write onefor my goodbye to Columbusaft er twenty-four years of puredelight as the magazine’s advisor,concluding with two issuesthat Isabelle and Amy and nowyou, Ms. Miao, and Owen madeas editors. It’s a beautifulspring night, April 27, 2011,and we’ve just rounded ColumbusCircle. Th e people on the M104across from me look sleepy,though two Japanese womenare giggling and bumping shoulders,and the woman opposite melooks up distractedly fromher fancy phone, in the middleof a text or her own poem,perhaps, like me. We stop,and everybody gets off and new everybodies get on.A big man in a camoufl ageshirt sits down beside me,but he isn’t hidden from sight.Most of us on this bus ought to losesome weight, and I too am

{Katie Bright}

counting up my losses aft er—how many, forty-seven or forty-eightissues?—in those twenty-four yearsthat I’ve been lucky enoughto watch come off the presses.When I came to Trinity the studentswho did the literary magazinewere changing its nameevery issue. We ran a contestto name it once and for all.In a little box we fi xedto the board outside Room 116,anybody could suggest a new namefor the magazine. Along with thingslike Philosophical Camel and Angles,some genius suggested Columbus—new literary frontiers combinedwith the name of the street on whichwe lived—and the name stuck.Don’t change the name. Don’tlet anybody push you around.Don’t abide a new advisor who wantsto tell you what to publish. Th ismagazine belongs to you. Th ereare the mannequins all lit upin the window of Club Monacoon 86th Street. I wonder how longthey’ll be of use before they’rejunked for a newer model?Remember me a little, thenforget me. I wanted youto do your work. I wantedto stay out of your wayand marvel at the beautifulpages that you made.You did, you know.

For Isabelle Aubrun, Amy Weiss-Meyer,Lynn Miao, and Owen Kaye-Kauderer

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