Cellar Door Staff Members

Emma Nichols
Editor-in-Chief

Jenny Curtis James Warren

Art Editor English Editor/
Public Relations

General Staff
Ted Griese, Gabrielle Grigoli, Pete Viola, Rachel Simons,
Grace Noto, Molly Orman, Katherine Speller,
Kenji Kaneshiro, Brian Garritano, Arielle Kellman,
Nicole Brinkley, Carolyn Candela, Debra Haimer
 INGREDIENTS
Hands by Irene Burrows...................................................................2
Gaillardia by Kristyn Drosselmeier..................................................3
Keep Out by Carolyn Candela..........................................................4
Sweet Leaf by Chris Charchalis.......................................................5
Coupon Clippers by Sean Case........................................................6
Dusting by Jenny Curtis...................................................................8
I Should Have Known This Wet Earth Couldn’t Hold You.............9
In My Dreams I’m Canadian by Emma Nichols............................10
Fo’mo ‘10 by Chris Milea..............................................................11
((Pardon Me While I Scream)) by Chris Partridge........................14
Anthony by Frankie Romano.........................................................15
All of the True Things That I Am About to Tell You Are Shameless
Lies by Sean Case..........................................................................18
An Unfinished Letter to Half of Myself, Lost in Arizona by James
Warren.............................................................................................19
The Peach Tree by Peter Spengeman.............................................21
A Recurring Reverie by Mary-Anne Ramirez................................23
Upon Waking by Pete Viola............................................................25
Her Son by Brian Garritano............................................................26
Perfection’s Lie by Haley Bloom...................................................30
20-17 by Peter Spengeman.............................................................31
A Warning by Katherine Speller.....................................................32
A Very Interesting Tea Party Begins by Jenny Curtis....................33
You Can’t Write a Good Poem by Emma Nichols........................34
A Poem by Kelly Prendergast.........................................................35
The Poetry She Kept by Gabrielle Grigoli.....................................37
1989 [1489] by Chris Charchalis....................................................37
I Write Better Poems in My Head Than I Do On Paper by Brian
Garritano.........................................................................................40
Silver Lining by Arielle Kellman...................................................40
Climbing Poem by Carolyn Candela..............................................41
Haiku by Chris Partridge................................................................41
A Mohonk Day by Pete Viola.........................................................42
The Nostril Pleaser by Julianna Zuckerman...................................43
Kettle on an Electric Stove by Sean Case......................................44
To Do by Frankie Romano.............................................................44
Nathan’s Girl by Chris Milea.........................................................47
Ingridients for Indifference by Colin Williams..............................47
The Barfight by James Warren.......................................................50
I Believe by Julianna Zuckerman...................................................52
Sonnet for the Leper by Colin Williams.........................................53
Wintry Lament by Brian Garritano................................................54
Wasting Away by Mary-Anne Ramirez..........................................54
(Mis)Communication by Kathryn Speller......................................55
Off-Shore Current by Robert Cutrera.............................................57
This Is How to Beat Multiple Myeloma by Kelly McCann...........58
Enthusiasts by James Warren..........................................................61
A Line Back to You by Haley Bloom.............................................62
The Weight of My Grandma’s Love by Gabrielle Grigoli.............62
Proud Of It Only Chant by Jenny Curtis........................................63
Yeah, He’s Back Home by Katherine Speller.................................63
Aunt Char by Tara Molloy.............................................................65
The Jump by Gabrielle Grigoli.......................................................67
Winter, Again, Without You by Frankie Romano...........................68
The Squirrel by Peter Spengeman..................................................69
Cradle by Kelly Prendergast...........................................................69
Craziness by Chris Milea...............................................................71
Drawers by Carolyn Candela.........................................................73
Where Poetry Hides by Katherine Speller.....................................74
Where Did the Sun Go? by Colin Williams...................................76
Underfoot by Pete Viola.................................................................76
Cereal Novels by Emma Nichols...................................................78
Soporific by Jenny Curtis...............................................................78

A Letter from the Editor:

After a successful first printing Cellar Door is back, and
better than your favorite breakfast cereal. This issue brings you
more words, images, and whole grains than the first could ever
hope to deliver. And we swear to be more satisfying than breakfast,
or even pancakes for dinner, at Hasbrouck. So please sit back and
enjoy the collected works of some brilliant writers and artists on
campus; I promise they’re more interesting than your Alpha-Bits.

If you’re interested in submitting your work to Cellar Door email it

to us at newpaltzlitmag@gmail.com
 Kim Marra

1
Hands
My hands are the kind of hands you can’t forget
even though they’re kind of small
and tend to get lost in the translation of foreign, sweaty palms
of not-so-significant others.
My fingers are double-jointed from time and circumstance,
comfortably-cramped after unprotected snowball fights and
carpal-tunnel Gameboy nights and they dish out
as much damage as they’ve been dealt.

My palms, they kill people –

if by ‘kill’ I mean
‘remove every remote possibility of life from’
and by ‘people’ I mean ‘flowers’.
I’ve pointed at cacti and watched them bleed chlorophyll;
I’ve made lucky bamboo feel lucky to leave this world –
the alternative being tended to by a girl
whose thumbs are not green by any standards.
I’m thankful that involuntary plant-slaughter
is still legal in these parts.

Whether organic or mechanic my hands automatically

break shit down; for the love of all that is technological please keep
your cell phones, beepers, laptops, iPods,
Blackberrys, blueberries, toaster oven-microscoping,
waffle-making, photo-taking beings with
electromagnetic pulses and battery-powered heartbeats
far out of my reach because I assure you,
my tentative grip is the equivalent of a death wish.

These hands, they’ve destroyed more than they’ll ever create.

These hands, they only dare to trace the ghost of you
because they’re so used to dismantling everything they touch.
But maybe I could trace what’s etched upon your face in Braille;
if I were blind I’d read you with my fingertips.
You’d be a poem that doesn’t rhyme,
and the most beautiful syllables would make up your jaw line
and so I’m almost inclined to gouge my eyes out
just for an excuse to try to understand you with these hands.

2
 And then I remember that our friendship is more fragile
than plant stalks or Playstations
which makes me feel like fumbling around life wearing oven mitts,
only hugging you through bubble wrap
in an attempt to preserve something as precious
as how we currently are.

My hands open car doors and birthday gifts and

glass containers of curry; they change light bulbs and diapers
and five-dollar bills into singles; they draw pretty pictures
and blood from noses and attention and attention
and I’d mention all the other things these hands can do
but it doesn’t matter
when all they were designed for is hesitantly loving you.
Irene Burrows
Gaillardia
Red collides with yellow
The lunch bell rings
The flowers bloom and close,

The girls pick them

and pin them through their buttonholes.
The boys yank them
and stick stems
between their teeth.

On rainy days,
the girls and
the boys
are herded into
the same shallow gymnasium for
twenty-five minutes they forget

the flowers bloom and close,

and bloom again.
Kristyn Drosselmeier

3
 Emma Lynch

Keep Out
Feet sink deep into chocolate pudding soil,
Mother Earth rises best
between stubborn toes.
“It’s quicksand!” he yells.
“No, just dirt,” she insists.
Curious eyes shift up toward skyscraping pine trees,
Hundreds of years stare down at them,
Drowning out the “Get off my property, kids!”
He carves his name in the soil, quicksand, dirt, what-
ever
(I think we’re the first ones here).
Caroyln Candela

4
 Vinny Carnevale

Sweet Leaf
Remember the time you cried
for nothing?

It was—
Wait

Were you thinking something heavy?

Cracked, soft face I see in Mirror Lake;
backward letters, clever people makers.

I’m sure it was an accidi—

Storm and storm

day and day
wind and wind,
Beat and beat.
Chris Charchalis

5
Coupon Clippers
“Well, I just don’t see what the problem is,” she whined, “I
use these coupons here all the time!”
“No you don’t, ma’am, not when I’m working at least,”
Brian, the front end manager, replied coolly. His arms were
crossed and his mouth was forming a crooked smile. He had had
this conversation many times before, and this certainly would not
be the last. “I don’t know what you’re not understanding. These
are Stop and Shop coupons, and you’re in Shop Rite right now, it’s
really simple.”
The woman was flushed now. She was shaking a bit. “I’m
sick of your bullshit, mister, go get me a Goddamn manager.”
“Gladly,” he said with a chuckle.
That was all I heard of the exchange as I passed by the
customer service counter on my way to the time clock to punch out
for my fifteen. I pushed the buttons mechanically (23783628547)
and went outside to take my place on my usual wooden bench
outside of the store. I sat there for about five minutes, just admir-
ing the view. It’s surprising how beauty can coexist with a hideous
slab of pavement. The parking lot is significantly more elevated at
Monroe Shop Rite than any other place of business in town, al-
lowing one to see the surrounding hills quite clearly, without other
buildings obscuring the view. There is one hill in particular that
I have always admired, to the left of the parking lot. This hill is
covered, for the most part, with bright green oaks, but in the center
of this hill is a small grouping of trees, which I find truly fascinat-
ing. This grouping consists of a circle of blue-green pines with a
single red maple in the middle. Gazing upon this scene, I thought
to myself, my God, we live in one of the most relentlessly beauti-
ful parts of the world, and no one really notices. As this thought
entered my head a police cruiser parked right in front of my bench,
blocking my vision. The officer swiftly exited the vehicle and ran
into the store through the out door. I suspected that the officer was
called to calm down the woman with the coupons. This happens
about once every two months.
I sat there for a few moments more and three kids, a boy
and two girls, probably all about fifteen, sat on the bench next to

6
 my own. Both girls were deathly thin, but pretty, despite the heavy
bags under their eyes. The boy was raggedy, sweaty, and pimply.
The boy inspected the police cruiser to ensure that it was empty.
He then reached into a small drawstring backpack and pulled out
some small bags with blue pills inside.
“All right,” he said to the girls, shakily, “it’s fifteen a roll.”
His glance switched over to me and for a moment an air of uncer-
tainty consumed him. “Hey,” he addressed me, “you cool?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “I’m cool.” He continued with his
business. The girls bought three each. No hesitation in trading
daddy’s money for euphoria. They were no amateurs, took two
each immediately. All three got up and headed toward town.
About five minutes later the police officer came out of
the store, wiping sweat from his brow. He walked to his car and
looked at me. “I don’t know how you deal with those coupon clip-
pers, man.”
“Yeah,” I said, “they can be pretty shitty.”
Sean Case

Dana Heimann

7
Dusting
She steps carefully onto old wooden floor beams,
whose rough edges are worn down slick, nearly slippery.
Years of feet rubbing splinters smooth as stone,
it is quiet and her sandal taps fill the room.

She watches carefully as tender arthritic hands

wipe the shelves clean, slowly.
The soft rhythmic sound of erasing time with each touch,
the collection of crumbling wet dust at the end of every plank.

It’s been a while.

An ancient refrigeration system shudders to life,

keeping three calves missed suppers from spoiling.
Eagerly they wait, for human consumption,
white and shiny new like baby teeth.

She stands in front of pounds of ground grain.

Lifts a sack of white flour an inch,
Lets it drop with muted thud
And a cloud of powder.

She coughs and opens a cooler,

Grabs the firm shape of a bottle
filled with something sweet.
Removed from its controlled climate it begins to sweat.

Like everything else

A quick exchange of paper,

buttons with the numbers rubbed off pressed deliberately.
A brief glance up at rheumy eyes and she is gone,
swinging open the greasy squeak-less door hinge.

Steps again into the buzzing, blurry, sun soaked day.

Jenny Curtis

8
 I Should Have Known this Wet Earth Couldn't Hold You

I am the sea floor

and you once grew from me.
I watched you sway with the waves
washing over your smooth greenness.

I kept you grounded

and I didn't ask if it was fair–
all that went on above me,
because I loved you
and I thought you were beautiful.

But I felt every tug,

every ounce of that ocean rushing through you–
pushing and pulling,
weakening my hold.

One day a storm came

and you didn't even notice
when he took you away from me,
washing you to the rocks
where you dried and hardened in the sun.

Nothing moves anymore

in this quiet cool darkness.
I lie flat and still,
Trying to forget the feeling
of your roots running through my skin.
Anonymous

9
In My Dreams I’m Canadian

Mostly you’re the boy behind the checkout counter.

If not that then the face grinning
aimlessly up at me from the box of Life cereal.
Twice you slid out of the bag of milk
(I always buy milk in bags in my dreams).
And just once you spelled out the winning letters
on my scratch-off card.
Always, always in the grocery store.
Emma Nichols

Christopher Partridge

10
 Fo’mo ‘10
Someone wrote on a gazebo
“Fomo ’10.”

The epiphany and the anti-epiphany.

This echo has gone not as the moon,

Which you can touch,
But as the moon’s dream.
And the very best you can do is touch the thing that bore it.

Fomo was envious of nothing,

While it existed that once.
It is a name known only to itself.
It is why nature is frantic in its slowness,
Because to exist continually is to exist in consecutive ‘onces,’

Fomo after Fomo.

Fomo is someone’s unaffordable love for you,

and the alternative universe they could give it to you in.

I don’t know Fomo.

I don’t know the sand of the Pacific,
Or the fantastical colors of swoops in its stores.

I am not Fomo’s dream,

And almost certainly
I have never sipped the nectar of your oasis well
Through puffs of golden chariot smoke.

I have never known you well enough to call one of your hairs
A stray.

And yet, we share Fomo

like Evey Hammond’s rolled up rose petal.

11
To love a patch of grass is to love the whole field.

Fomo is certainly the brother or sister I never had.

And as Fomo was to me, here to you I am this poem.

And you are someone apostrophe 10.

Fomo apostrophe human.
Apostrophe member of the love brigade
that constantly seeks for itself.

And a blade of grass that could would grow over the whole field.
Graffiti on every bench.
But All I can tell you, Fomo,
Having never known you,
I am certain I love you
Infinitely
Like I love who drew that monkey.

And me, you, steve, cuddlefish2010 and the monkey drawer

are all in this gazebo.

We have different beds in the same home.

And most of all

though I can never touch them,

I wish you dreams that are the reflections of galaxy,

And though I will never know you,

I wish you the sweetest whispers

On the bright side of the moon.
Chris Milea

12
 Jenny Curtis

13
((Pardon Me While I Scream))
the brain spits to the
mouth open wide to the
ceiling rebounds to the
room which spins and falls to the
shattered dreams below where the
soul reaches out to the
jagged edges of the heart to the
cobwebs of the mind where the
poisonous spiders blind us to the
ashes of our lives
where spontaneous combustion
is a norm
Chris Partridge

Rachael Braun

14
 Anthony
We were standing on a dirt mound in my back yard throw-
ing rocks into the pool of scum beyond my house’s property line.
Officially, this was called Mill Pond, but what sat behind the
boundaries of my lawn could hardly be classified as a pond. Hav-
ing never seen a swamp in our lives, we decided to call it The
Swamp. We were five. I can’t remember why there was a giant dirt
mound at the edge of our yard, but it kept Anthony and me enter-
tained for weeks. We’d stand on top of it like giant ants on a giant
ant hill wearing dirty t-shirts and juice stained overalls, just throw-
ing rocks into the green water and watching them make ripples in
the algae. Anthony’s skin was the same shade of blonde as his hair,
and his mouth was raspberry ice pop red even when he didn’t eat
one.
I was in love with Anthony, and appropriately treated him
like just a friend. I believe he was in love with me too, because he
treated me the same. We did what we thought people in love were
supposed to do—ignore each other in school, then get mad when
we talked to members of the opposite sex, come home and lay on
the floor and kiss behind filing cabinets in my living room. And we
threw rocks.
I clearly heard the frantic cry of a very nervous five-year-
old boy urging me to get out of the way of a rock. I watched
the trajectory of said rock from his hand to above my right eye.
What I did not do was piece together this data to conclude that I
had just been hit above the eye by a rock. In fact, I felt confident
that Anthony was just being a sissy, and that I was walking away
unscathed. Only after he gingerly touched my arm and led me off
the dirt to the grass, big blue eyes wet with guilt, did I ask if I was
bleeding (and even then, only to humor him). He squeaked out a
yes and it finally occurred to me that something was wrong when
I blinked blood out of my eyes and pushed my fingers against my
forehead and pulled them back dripping. The rest comes in flashes.
My dad screamed at Anthony to get off our lawn. My mom cried
on the way to the hospital, and I held her hand and told her ev-
erything would be okay. I wondered if they could see my skull. I
asked for a mirror but they wouldn’t let me look at one. This con-

15
firmed my suspicions.
Anthony lived across the street, but that was before the time
I could cross streets alone. He was a boy, and I guess the agree-
ment between our parents was that, as such, he was far less likely
to be hit by a car, so mostly he came to my house. He spent so
much time there that he called my mom his aunt (never-mind the
implications of falling in love with your pretend cousin), and some
days, he brought her flowers from her own garden. He was quite
the gentleman. After the hospital, when I sat on my couch rubbing
the thick string weaving in and out of my forehead, tracing all nine
of my stitches when my mom wasn’t looking, he brought me flow-
ers, too. A shaky fist full of pansies, dirty roots and all.
I still let Anthony over my house after seeing him look
bashful for the first time, anxiously holding out those flowers to me
in apology. In my five years of life experience, I hadn’t yet learned
how to hold a grudge. We were too young and too tough to say we
liked each other, but I remember moments like that and think that
if he hadn’t moved away before high school, eventually we would
have admitted it. Maybe after drunk teenage sex and a tearful preg-
nancy test in the bathroom, or something romantic like that. As I
said, he was a gentleman.
Frankie Romano

Carolyn Candela

16
 Alienated Julie Gundersen

17
 All of the True Things That I Am About to Tell You Are
Shameless Lies
FOMA
God created the earth, and he looked upon it in his cosmic
loneliness
and mud as man got to sit and wonder,
“Why, why, why?”
So Bokonon made up lies
and made this sad world a par-a-dise.
It was nice, nice, very nice...
FOMA
Utopia: The hand that stocks the drug stores rules the world.

Bokonon says, “Let us start our Republic with a chain of drug stores, a
chain of grocery stores, a chain of gas chambers, and a national game.
After that we can write our constitution.”

History! Read it and weep!

Around and around and around we spin,

With feet of lead and wings of tin
Nice, nice, very nice
So many different people
In the same device
FOMA
“Where’s my good old gang done gone?”
A sleeping drunkard
Up in Central Park,
And a lion-hunter
In the jungle dark
“Your gang’s done gone away.”
And a Chinese dentist,
And a British Queen
All fit together
In the same machine
Nice, nice, very nice;

Nice, nice, very nice;

Nice, nice, very nice...

18
 An Unfinished Letter to Half of Myself, Lost in Arizona
It hits me in the fruit aisle next to the coconuts

We met five years ago when you forgot

kindergarten safety rules and took a ride from my father and I
to school, we only had one
class together and we could barely remember each others names
But my smile was convincing
and the walk was long,
and now you’re gone.

It took five and a half years

for us to come to the conclusion that we
are identically distinct personalities
and that our happenstance was simply coincidence
But we would have been different people completely,
and you’re fine with that staring down
the camera lens 7 hours before we part,
possibly indefinitely.

Do you remember?

We wanted to see what coconut milk really tasted like,

your father recommending we break the skulls open with
screwdrivers, and you
proceeded to pound at it with your bare hands,
and I tried to make tables into
coconut can openers.
You almost broke your knuckle,
and mine bounced up and hit
me
in
the
eye.

We disagreed on music and muses,

women and cuisine,

19
and the temperature at which the soul actually burns;
neither of us goes to church anymore.
We discuss philosophy in libraries next to the
bibles and under the quiet signs,
we skipped stones across frozen lakes like they were hovercrafts,
got lost so quickly it would take us centuries to get found but we
knew
constellations

You looked like Hugh Heffner in your prom suit;

did I ever tell you that
The Scrollwork black blazer and the
1980’s disco fever-red vampire dress shirt
completely put you out as most overtly classy,
as if you were the bad guy in a B-rated movie,
but you didn’t mind.
I envied you as you stared proudly at your girlfriend,

who holds you higher than her hands can reach,

she shelved your scrapbooks with the sun.

You didn’t like poetry

and I didn’t care for Katanas
or the newest tablet out for the PC.
I was into loud music and pyrotechnics,
you were into architecture and everything 3D.
You told me I was too easy going,
but we know we’re both deep thinkers when we stop

procrastinating.

There are things we forgot to leave unopened, Justin.

James Warren

20
 Dana Heimann
the peach tree
1
free will is only possible when singularity is achieved,
and only if it’s true, true singularity.
easy enough?
perhaps, but thanks to god or science,
(whichever suits you best)
humans are made with a conscience.
if you are able to deteriorate your conscience,
then living in this world will be a breeze.
if you are content with anything
or indifferent to most things,
then life will be pie.

2
you want a peach tree
your love,
your soul mate,
your perfect match
hates peaches.

21
 she does not support your decision to buy the peach tree,
in fact
despises the sheer thought of it.

you love peaches,

they’re your favorite fruit.
by having a peach tree,
you would be cutting down on your peach-purchasing expenses.
you are somewhat skilled in agriculture,
to grow and take care of this tree would be simple.
you want it -- no question about that.

but you don’t.

a stupid peach tree isn’t worth upsetting your lover.
so you choose to not get it
done.
so you end up making the decision you wanted.
but what did you really want?

3
i love loving you
more than i love loving
me
Peter Spengeman

22
 A Recurring Reverie
The day you walked in,
You were like bittersweet honey.
Wine is now my best friend.
The taste nourishes my lips,
Like yours once did.
This glass is mine,
All mine.
How could it possibly be stolen?
It’s in my grasp.
Caressed by my charcoal stained fingertips.
The black residue won’t wear off.
The gold glimmer shines in your eyes.
Autumn has been recognized.
The Sun doesn’t ask the Earth for favors.
Or does it?
Welcome kind stranger,
For I have nothing to hide.
You are the sweetest escape.
Color to my book,
Your mere presence lights a candle,
Warm my heart like you always do.
Sit by the fire,
And tell me a story.
Remind the sky that it is blue.
Tell the flowers they matter too.
Comfort a mad girl.
Take a sip of my soul.
All that is lost is now dead.
Take my hand, and we’ll bring it to life again.
Mary-Anne Ramirez

23
Ashlee Rose

24
 Upon Waking
The slim white moon appears to sink.

Entwined and lain like silverware

One wakes and tightens their embrace
With fingers lost in tousled hair;
Time crawling by, but caught in place:

Two clocks were ticking [out of sync].

Pete Viola

Jenny Curtis

25
Her Son
It was when the water in the pot came to a boil that Eileen
Gardenfield heard that familiar ringing throughout the house, and
a smile spread across her face. She hummed lightly, stirred the pot
slightly and stopped, reached for the TV remote on the countertop
to pause her favorite Soap Opera.
“Just a minute!” she called, hoping she was loud enough to
be heard at the front door. The window was open, so she was fairly
sure that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Across the kitchen
in two steps, she opened the refrigerator door. Her hand paused
momentarily over the cold-cut drawer as she remembered for the
shortest of moments the hundreds of ham sandwiches and smiles
she sent her children to school with. Her hand moved downward,
further, to grab the Parmesan cheese. Shutting the door, she slipped
across the kitchen with her head in the clouds and stepped into
the hallway, no longer noticing the small decorations and simple
picture frames with various shots of members of the family. Black
frames on a white wall: moments in time captured and rescued. It
was easy to capture a memory. Finally she got into the living room
and didn’t notice any of the decoration she’d poured just that little
bit into.
She passively loved and took for granted each detail: the comfort-
able armchair with a tall lamp for reading, the old china cabinet on
one wall and, across from it, two picture frames above a loveseat
– copies of famous paintings, placed purposely not in line, creat-
ing a dissonant space that was interesting to look at – the large flat
screen television she’d at first been dismayed had been bought,
but had led to her children spending more time in the living room
rather than the basement. As a result this brought them slightly
nearer. She didn’t mind it after that. That was when they really
were children though, not young adults like they all were blos-
soming into. She hadn’t heard word from David, who was visit-
ing today, in almost a year. He was her eldest. There was no fight,
nothing as dramatic as that, simply the loss of time that so often
happens in someone of his age. Part of her was upset with him,
but she couldn’t be mad when she was so excited to see one of her
children. She paused again, in front of the mirror that made up the

26
 closet door, to double check for the fourth time that she was wear-
ing the earrings he had bought her.
She quickly opened the front door. “Oh David! Oh, it’s so good
to see you!” She sighed and invited him in. “You’re just in time,
follow me! Dinner’s almost ready, so you can take a seat right in
the dining room, and I’ll set the table. No no no, not a word! We’ll
save it for dinner when I can really pay attention!” She
hurried away before he could get a word in edgewise, bustling into
the kitchen and checking the sauce again. She’d made Ravioli for
the occasion, his favorite meal. She was glad it was one that didn’t
require the usage of knives. Taking the lid off the sauce-pot, she
let the aroma fill the kitchen and took in a deep breath. Slowly
in, slowly out, and she sighed again, more hoarse this time. She
opened the wooden stained cabinets and took out two plain white
ceramic plates.
“Your father won’t be home until later, you know him, never takes
a day off work!” she explained, “He’ll be at the office another hour
or two, but he’ll be home soon.” She took the two plates and set
them on the table, sparing only a momentary smile for David as
she hurriedly swept back into the kitchen. Opening another cabinet,
she took out napkins, folded them and placed them on the counter.
From there she swiveled to a lower drawer, and pulled out forks
and knives, shuddering slightly, and set the table for two.
“Not much has really changed, I don’t think, while you’ve been
busy. I expect it’s you that will have all the stories! Any girls we
should know about?” She went on without pausing, not giving him
time to answer. “I expect none you’ll want to share, anyways. That
was always something you embarrassed easily about.”
She remembered the time she had caught him halfway through
having sex with a girlfriend when he was seventeen. Hilarious.
He and the girl had both screamed and hastily tried to cover them-
selves up, but she had merely doubled over laughing at how ri-
diculous it was. She had no delusions about him at that age, and in
between gasping breaths, she tried to tell him to be safe, resulting
in her gasping out only the word “condom” in between spasms of
laughter, almost falling over and completely ruining the mood for
the two young ones. Always the womanizer, this one, not like the

27
other three. Memories good and bad floated in and out of her mind,
more often bad for him but funny for her. Her laughter wasn’t the
typical reaction of a mother, but she had always felt a sense of hu-
mor was the best way to get through something she had no control
over. At that thought, she laughed again a little more loudly.
Back in the kitchen, she grabbed a bottle of wine, and asked “What
would you like to drink?” Again not waiting for an answer, she
knowingly grabbed a bottle of orange soda from the fridge, paus-
ing reflexively over the cold-cut drawer. Brown paper bags with
sandwiches, cookies, and juice boxes. Everything filled with
memories. Walking back towards the dining room, a particularly
strong scent of tomato sauce almost knocked her over with memo-
ries. How could she calmly get through this meal when she was
being so sentimental? She heard another slight ring and ignored it.
She thought for a moment, and put down the bottle of wine. Open-
ing the fridge again, pausing again, laughing again, she grabbed a
bottle of diet soda for herself. Eileen had heard that it wasn’t really
that good for you, but she had lost a lot of weight in the past few
years and allowed herself at least a small treat once in awhile. A
small sob choked her.
Eileen stewed over the ravioli momentarily, then reached for a
cabinet and filled a bowl with some sauce, and another with the
ravioli, concentrating on the small tasks at hand. She let out anoth-
er short laugh. Her eyes began to mist and she took the two bowls
out, laughing at herself. “Look how silly I am, a sentimental old
fool, don’t mind me.”
She stopped and sat down, her heart pounding through her chest.
She heard some sort of noise, and felt it swirling all around her and
the dining room table. The sun had begun to set, casting the room
aglow with fire, and she felt the heat of her own head press down
upon her. Her husband wouldn’t be coming home this evening,
she knew. She looked at the sauce in the bowl, blood red, and felt
a crashing all about her. She heard, or felt, the rumble of thunder.
Suddenly a strangled cry escaped her lips. Across the table, there
was no reaction.
Eileen could taste blood and feel the tears in her eyes, and thought
for a fleeting moment that she might pass out. The room was

28
 spinning, and everything was cast beneath the red shadow of the
setting sun. The meal didn’t need knives of memory, but she had
overlooked a key sensory detail and felt that she might vomit. The
pleading look in his eyes on the bathroom floor when she walked
in, a puddle the same color as the tomato sauce touching her high-
heeled shoes. The shoes would be ruined, she thought fleetingly.
Why did she think something so trivial, so shameful? A scream, a
momentary flash in time she hadn’t wanted to capture, but one she
did save, more strongly than the plain photographs in the hall. It
was oh so easy, too easy, to capture a memory and immortalize it in
one’s own mind. Why a pleading look? What was he asking her to
do?
She slammed her fist upon the table, rattling the plates and cups.
More choking sobs threatened to suffocate her, and she put a too-
thin hand to her mouth. Events always led to another, formed a
chain, and that led to her husband. Still no reaction on the other
side of the table.
She sat at a table set for two. One setting for her, and, across from
her, one for her memories. Tears fled her through crevasses in her
cheeks, lines of grief that those who didn’t know what happened
called wrinkles of age. Memories of the eighteen-year-old son that
had left them all of his own volition. Oh, she hated knives, but she
couldn’t stop the swelling tides regardless. Memories she would
try to burn for years.
Brian Garritano

29
 Rachael Braun
Perfection’s Lie
You,
you and those beautiful eyes
your perfect white teeth
and those pretty little lies
fed to me on a silver spoon that I licked clean
no remnants ever remained
of your soul treating me to inferiority
in your checkerboard, hopscotch games of who knows what better
of those late night cram sessions, the taste of stale dining hall food
of laying in bed with me until you realize
you’re just living a life of ease
you retaliate against the hand that held your head falling asleep
last night in those deep brown sheets
you realize no longer can you sit back along for the ride,
grabbing the reins, you drive every little sense of my pain
deeper into my complexes, to the pit of my core
you just let it slip and slide past your mind, disregarding my imper-
fect little life.
Haley Bloom

30
 20-17
football’s on
what a night
haze eyed guys
stirring round a tube -- lights

school nights are stresses in disguise

what a joke to worry about
any particular thing
-
what a stress to worry about --
time for class
time to read
time to meet
what about time to dream?

the clouds cried today as they usually do

dull mondays
sky less days
topped
with inky red night
dark cherry chocolate
lighting up the sky

football’s on
field goal to win it
eight seconds left
and when he kicks it through
i will anticipate the surprise
Peter Spengeman

31
A Warning
I’ll sit with a shotgun resting between my bony knees,
and I’ll shine it four times a day and take aim
at the neighbors,
their pets,
lawn decorations
and the FedEx man, if he dares to approach;
I’ll be the best shot in Westchester county.
I’ll watch episodes of Law and Order in Syndication
and I’ll yell at Jared from Comcast
for not fixing my Goddamn cable.
I’ll arrive at the market promptly on Wednesdays and receive my
discount with a grimace because my hip bones are deteriorating.
I’ll yell at those kids for having no respect and my peers for
Lacking the spirit of revolution.
I won’t explain why I want to be alone when I want to be alone,
I’ll simply do it.
I’ll embarrass my grandkids in public, but spoil them rotten.
I’ll blow out sixty-six candles and fall asleep in my rocker,
tilting myself forwards and backwards
to a steady rhythm.
Katherine Speller

Grandpa Frankie Romano

32
 Arielle Kellman

A Very Interesting Tea Party Begins

"You may have just been poisoned,"
Her sticky sweet lips curve.
A teacup is pressed firmly back into its saucer,
perfectly matched ceramic circles
and a faint click.
Gives way to silence save the constant tick
...tock
...tick
"Now talk."
He spills.
Jenny Curtis

33
What To Do When You Can’t Write A Good Poem
Write a bad one,
Hide it in the folds of your skin–
Places even lovers aren’t allowed to touch.

Fill it with your inadequacies,

And everything you’ve ever feared.
Welcome horrible metaphors
(Old friends on your doorstep you meant to forget).

Refuse to stop.
Gather your metaphors around you,
Tell them it’s a poetry reading.
Serve them coffee and make them snap
As you trip over the only things you thought
Could save you.

When they’ve all awkwardly disappeared

Accept that you could not have done any better,
Eat ice cream to create more folds
For the only poetry you’ll ever write.

Wallow in bed and wonder

Who to blame for the missing words.
Fall asleep and dream of them
Hiding just behind that door.

Next morning take a shower;

Clean out the folds of your skin,
Watch the words slither down the drain.
Attempt to write a good poem.
Emma Nichols

34
 A Poem
The sun on my side of the world makes love in heartbeats
She moves slow
And burns hot.
My sun crashes down on her ocean lover
[the moon hasn’t found out yet]

She tears fingernail ray scratches into the waves,

Clawing until the sea puckers up towards her.
She blows kisses like heat waves,
Sends tornado-wind messengers with hugs
And smiles with teeth like lightning.

To the sailors that dare interrupt her-

She Storms out of the room,
Leaving behind a mess of violence,
The sky hurls itself down,
The ocean writhes with the angst of a lost lover.

The ocean on my side of the world is ruled by the sun

[not her glow-in-the-dark counterpart]
Kelly Prendergast

Vinny Carnevale

35
Ashlee Rose

36
 The Poetry She Kept
Two days after the funeral he found her poems.
He sat on the cold duvet and drank
lukewarm decaf coffee (he couldn’t sleep anymore)
while reading the only words he never heard.
She had written about the backyard garden,
about the sun on the mailman’s head, and
their neighbor’s teenage daughter who
snuck out on Tuesday nights to meet her boyfriend
(he was twenty-three and too old for her).
He stayed up till morning and read her poems
about her sisters-in-law’s newborn twins
and the way the medicine made her want
to throw up and cry at the same time.
Three days after the funeral he finished
reading every poem she kept behind
the box of tampons in her closet
(he was looking for her birth certificate).
When he was done, he emptied
the rest of the coffee pot down the drain
and put the poems back in the closet.
He laid back down on the cold duvet
and wept for the poems he didn’t find.
Gabrielle Grigoli

1989 [1489]
No one saw the noontime
sweeping (maids came in wintertime)
of my ocean harbor.

I was always sorry,

stopped and dirty;
fevered spring blood.

My, my
Emily, emily—
Chris Charchalis

37
Ashlee Rose

38
 Pete Viola

39
I Write Better Poems In My Head Than I Do On Paper
Dedicated to Jason Weiss

Head poems are better than paper poems-

I get these great poetic ideas
And want to crystallize them all.
But trying to catch a poem is like
Needing to hold on to an entire river,
That, like a broken sparrow, tries
To fly from a cage or a nest
And ends up somewhere in between.

This broken bird, this river, it

Blossoms in its cage, in my skull,
Then tries to get away from me;
A lily floating downstream while
I, poet, frantically try to build
A dam to hold my cluttered thoughts
And scattered images and this
Never ending sentence that has
Already flown and swam away.
Brian Garritano

silver lining
I.
walked past a mirror
that i had thought i hated
reflecting a hedge
II.
of luscious pink blooms
bitter wind chill proving
that i had missed them.
III.
happiness is found
when beauty is discovered
in something ugly.
Arielle Kellman

40
 Climbing Poem
Calloused hands cling to a gray boulder
Suspended 200 feet.
Catskill wind whirls through your toes,
Dances up your shorts.
Yellow spray paint sketches the safe trail
In symbols no longer readable, and you don’t care.
Feet still dangling, muscles clenching, legs swaying,
Eyes wincing,
Looking down at the dark, cool crevasses,
Caves that gravity has constructed with time.
Your mind flickers while you think,
Still suspended,
Of that time you climbed the Alps;
Gazed at the sunken Swiss landscape:
Tiny towns caught in folds between rolling hills,
Miniature tourists gliding down silken slopes.
Who lies under this pile of rocks here,
In the Middle of Nowhere, New York?
The stubborn? The weak? The bold?
Carolyn Candela

Haiku
dying man rises
to witness the setting sun
once more before death
Chris Partridge

41
 Jenny Curtis

A Mohonk Day
At Midnight, bone and moonlight gleam as
one.
By dawn some peach fuzz greets the rising
sun.
Midmorning sees some growth as budding
leeks.
Come Noon the beard is near its fulsome
peak.
Midafternoon, virescence fades a-
way.
With Twilight Auburn blooms and hints De-
cay
Pete Viola

42
 The Nostril Pleaser
I have only one purpose.
I exist to be scratched and sniffed.
I see each person’s expression of excitement
when they hear what type of sticker I am.
First they scratch me thoroughly
and don’t even think of the pain I go through.
They don’t realize what it means to be scratched
multiple times a day.
Sometimes an idiot won’t even smell me after one scratch,
But instead of blaming their own incompetent noses,
They just continue scratching – those fools.
Then I am lifted past the smile
And thrusted towards their willing nostrils.
I am then inhaled and returned to the table.
After which they make some sort of statement about my smell.
Then a conversation is born and I am forgotten
Until the next willing set of nostrils come my way.
I only fear the day when I am lifted and nothing is smelled.
The day when it is realized that my smell has run out.
The day when I am all sniffed out.
I prey that instead I will be lost amongst clutter
before that day arrives.
My chance of survival is much higher if I am lost
while my smell is in its prime.
When I grow old I will look back on my life.
I will observe the scratches on my surface
And the lack of odor that comes from them.
And I will know that although my purpose is no more,
I created happiness for nostrils all across the land.
Julianna Zuckerman

43
Kettle on an Electric Stove
Do you remember
how you used to boil?
S l o w
Creeping like fall.
You were shy about it.
Stubborn.
You tried to stay cool,
but the steady heat kindled
in your toes, erupted
through your throat.
Sweat and steam and a soft screech,
a distant train whistle.

Then, tea and television.

Simmering silence in fluorescent dark.
Sean Case

To Do
1. look at gay porn
2. read Lolita
3. don’t do homework or sleep
4. regret everything
5. feel lonely
6. be an asshole who never learns anything from
doing terrible things to people
7. ride bike
8. eat rice
9. send letters
10. feel sorry for myself but never say sorry to anyone else
11. expand collection of Disney/Nickelodeon watches
12. wear socks next time
Frankie Romano

44
 AR

AR

45
 AR

Ashlee Rose AR

46
 Nathan’s Girl
In our swarming populations we automate ourselves.
Hard to monitor, we sometimes pity a vacant cashier
before disappearing over dinner.
We have areas we deem for passing through,
held like cork filled dummies;
we whip around vast echoing vaults of human and metal.
Anomalies occur, rare but undisrupted.
As what should be a blur passes by
dormant brains burst into odd formations of electricity
and even as the two strangers rotate past each other
they experience an intense stillness
where an infinite diagonal of windows can be peered through.
One after the other
A lifetime together
In actuality, only seconds.
In actuality, two coal black locomotives
barreling through the darkness of a frozen tundra,
in opposite directions,
with emptiness on either side,
faces sticking against the glass.
Chris Milea

Ingredients for Indifference

INGREDIENTS: WATER, CORN STARCH, ABSENT MINDED-
NESS, SALT, CONFUSION, WHEAT (FLOUR, GLUTEN), LOSS,
ETHANOL, EMPTYNESS, MONOSODIUM GLUTEMATE, RE-
SISTANCE, AVOIDANCE, SODIUM NITRATE, DESPERATION,
LYSERGIC DIETHYLAMIDE, VAGUENESS, METHYLENEDIOXY-
METHAMPETAMINE, HYDROGEN, OXYGEN, TETRAHYDRO-
CANNIBINOL, THOUGHTS.
*Does contain Whey.
Colin Williams

47
Emma Lynch

48
 Ashlee Rose

49
The Barfight
My philosophy teacher gave me an F when I told her that
God exists, but doesn’t have much of a conscience
and rambles a lot, drinks even more.

I told her about the time I got into a bar fight with God at Last call,
after his shift as a paramedic. Orders enough
Shirley Temples and Bloody Marys to open a brothel.

When he pretends to be a paramedic, and not the Beginning,

He says he sometimes gets lost between the car and the accident,
tends to sewer grate underneath the bodies.
And when you’re that far gone, ambulances are more like chapels,

He does heroin with the blood sample needles, just to taste mortality.
He finishes
the Marlboro of those who almost made it,
swears the lips of cadavers taste like rubber and ambrosia.
He complains about the elasticity of humans,
how we were engineered harder, for more drops.
Less talking.

His chair tilts at impossible angles,

cradles the holy water and gin like a pistol,
orders another round of shots,
reloads like prepping for a crusade.

He wanted a dog, but already knows what a Sheppard

would look like on a crucifix.

Mumbles that I grew up too quickly,

that he tried to clip me like all the other tall ones in his garden
Johnny, Alex, Maurice, clipped them like weeds.
I look into the limbo of my shot glass
and imagine rusted graves in the rum droplets. I swing
The glass coats his face
Shatters. The shards cut through skin like mosses through water.
He falls like any other paragon.

I found out the hard way-

God only throws knockout punches.

50
 Sweeps down on you in slow motion,
but feels like a Mac tuck being dropped from orbit
God Delivers.
Punched me in the temple
knocked in all the stained glass.

We fought out the door where he purged across the pavement

wiped his mouth on the lambskin
and coughed up a commandment.
We sat under the street lamps
he cried, drunkenly weeping about snowstorms at sea,
I felt like the emptiest of human shells,
How does one hold and comfort a man they can’t believe in,
who, through spit bubbles and vomit asks forgiveness for killing his son.
I asked which, I thought we were all God’s children.

As he left, he offered to take me back, let me start over again

said I was the only one who never asked him why, or when.
There are bigger things
than the beginning and the end.
He grinned like the golden gates,
slipped the butt of a dead lawyer’s Camel Gold
between his blood crusted lips
and said that I got it.
I should have played more baseball, learned the cello.
Stopped shaking my father’s hands and just hugged him
Should have called Maurice three minutes before the crash
Would have made one trip to hell of a difference
Told me I should speak as loud as I think,
Speak Louder

I told my philosophy teacher

that I got into a bar fight with God once and lost,
woke up the next morning in a hospital
with an empty bible and a sharpie,
with the words “write big and leave no line spacing”
in the table of contents.
But wouldn’t give away the rest of my story,
he would still keep some things secret from me.
James Warren

51
I Believe
I believe in the importance of daydreaming
I believe that rain boots can be worn at any time
I believe in sword fights with icicles
I believe in whimsical T- shirts
I believe that with a comfortable sweatshirt, a pair of headphones,
and a bag of Cheetos I can escape to almost anywhere
I believe that love can and does exist at any age
And that opposites attracts
I believe that once we stop planning our lives and who we are
We begin to really be and live who we are
I believe in tea and television
I believe that practice makes better… not perfect
I believe that the common denominators for the world are
pizza, free hugs, and don’t stop believing by Journey
I believe in childhood extending for a lifetime
I believe in George Watsky and Shihan
I believe that the answer to everything is 42
I believe in reading the fortune
and giving the cookie to someone else
I believe in dreams and all that they can tell me
I believe in an inspirational thought at 2 am that forces me
to get up and write it down
Even though it would probably be easier to just keep post-its by
my bed… getting up is part of the process
I believe that all people are crazy
And that we have more control then we think we do
I believe in juggling and the saxophone
I believe in attempting before assuming
But mostly I believe that nobody really knows
what they are doing most of the time.
Julianna Zuckerman

52
 Rachael Braun
Sonnet for the Leper
Leaves rest in peace and golden lights reflection,
Some say they die in fall,
Familiar architecture rises tall;
I see beauty in the repetition.
Cracked Earth and asphalt’s dissection,
On road to new Damascus, I am Saul
But, blinded I am not, nor given divinity’s call—
White barricades, yellow tape, detention.

Anathema, I walk for privacy in public

Dancing along the line, just outside—
Pariah, peace is impossible to the heretic
I see myself as the heron, his doleful stride
Separated among the rest, I return, this is my rhetoric—
Searching for separation, a cryptic divide.
Colin Williams

53
Wintry Lament
Wintry wastelands
Excite the small child who is ready
To make his mark in the snow–

First carves angels, then builds snowmen

To tell the tales of his day
Yet is naïve and unaware–

Flurries descend and life persists as

The boy explores and climbs
And soon desires a place to rest.

Glacial reflections increase

In frequency, in hue. He presses on
Through the snow, up the hill.

Stopping, he sees
The endless frozen seas;
The snow covers him

The marks he made vanish.

Brian Garritano

Wasting Away
Time is not on my side.
Each tick of the clock,
Is a constant reminder,
Of what I must do.
The hands of that dignified clock
Strangle my freedom.
Speed up, slow down.
The numbers disappear on my clock.
Time is not on my side.
Mary-Anne Ramirez

54
 (Mis)Communication
She asks him to move over. “To the left. No wait, your other
left.” He dutifully shifts his feet, scuffing those over-loved ten-
nis shoes across the floor. His knuckles are whiter as he grips the
wooden shelving unit.
“Maybe it was fine the way it was…” There’s a drawl to
her voice. The lack of interest makes the grueling act of shifting
her heavy ancient furniture around slightly less rewarding--only
slightly.
“And tattoo ‘bitch’ on my forehead, while we‘re at it…”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Silence.
He shifts left.
She adjusts her own position on the bed, folding her knees under
her chin.
Both wait.
He’d always wait for her to start the conversation, preferring
to stand idle, hands in his lap, until she had something to say. The
start would always be her call. His cracked nail becomes far more
fascinating than it should be, his eyes host an uneven focus as he
slowly pulls at the tip, tearing it away from the center of his thumb.
Her silhouette is forever in his periphery. The blurred figure shifts
left, steadies itself, and lurches backwards before it can stand up.
“I - I should probably start that reading…”
“Oh?” He suppresses the disappointment. It’s good to have
practice.
“I‘ll see you tomorrow?”
A curt nod, a half hazard wave and he’s gone. Slipping out the
door, he’s watching his shoes the entire way home.
Behind the door, she wonders why she can’t hold his attention.
Kathryn Speller

55
Jenny Curtis

56
 Off-Shore Current
“I shall no more to sea, to sea.
Here shall I die ashore-”

Caliban, will you forever stalk Ariel across the land?

Attempting to crush her between the palms of your hands
Shall bring you no good. Will you ever stand
Against the harrowing shoreline and ever present sand?

It is their will you must break;

Do not be afraid to take
What you have been denied. Stand
Your ground, claim your land in their forsaken wake.

Once was hot shall one day be cold;

What has been taught can only now be told.
That which has stood upright soon will fall
But, if you will see it, beauty shall ever hold.

The shutters no longer rapt with thunder;

No longer shall you walk broken, asunder
Amongst fools. Their knaveries and blunders
Have long since kept you under
The waves hilted with jewels.
Robert Cutrera

Vinny Carnevale

57
This is How to Beat Multiple Myeloma
Put your bones inside my body; I will keep you growing.
Sunday pale blue breakfast in your kitchen mourns with me.
Sip your tea, sit with me, tell me where you’re going.

If after the search for corporeal you, no promising outcome is

showing,
allow me at least to be your trustee
and put your bones inside my body; I will keep you growing.

Then I can learn to love a child in your spirit knowing

to mind the details of desire always gently, gracefully.
Sip your tea, sit with me, tell me where you’re going.

Daughters you left behind pace the creaky carpet slowing

only at porcelain Catholic idols gazing with uncertainty.
Put your bones inside my body; I will keep you growing.

If God exists it’s true that there is milk and honey flowing
somewhere far above this family, but it’s something I don’t see.
So sip your tea, sit with me, tell me where you’re going.

Tonight I plucked a petal from the rose by your grave knowing

that it otherwise would wilt, so I pressed it lastingly.
Put your bones inside my body; I will keep you growing.
Sip your tea and remember me, wherever it is you’re going.
Kelly McCann

58
 Baby Abe Kate Brady

59
Grandmother Wolf Kate Brady

60
 Enthusiasts
Little boys
in orange
berets, stampeding
the cracked asphalt street shaking under
their Halloween
enthusiasm.
Spotted brown pumpkin masks
in all shapes of an emotional rainbow
an autumn opera in itself
dark green jackets, logo shouting
"Hallo-Lution"
In Black and candy red.

Lucky him-
they didn't catch
the war veterans eyebrow-raise of amusement
before they pulled
Molotov pumpkin cocktails
from an arsenal of treats
and blow out the window
of the Easter bunny exhibit.
James Warren

61
 Dana Heimann

A Line Back to You

We live without consequences

Another chance for us to go up in flames
Your heart lays engulfed,
By sparks from the sun.
Haley Bloom

The Weight of My Grandma’s Love

My grandma bakes for me
Cookies and brownies
Chocolate chip muffins
Cakes and Easter pies.
She knows that soon enough
I’ll be too heavy to ever leave her.
Gabrielle Grigoli

62
 Proud of it Only Chant
Slapstick chapstick gimme a kiss,
wrap it in happenings glitter and bliss.
Butter me up.
Butter me down.
Toast me on high and watch me drown.

Ready Sweaty mumble and grope,

build me a pill and fill it with hope.
Swallow it fast.
Chase it with wine.
Promise with your eyes that you’ll be fine.

Maybe baby you’ll crumble and rust,

burn it up churn it up turn to dust.
Fire in your belly.
Fire in your brain.
It’ll fizzle out with a little bit of rain.
Jenny Curtis

Yeah, He’s Back Home

Talked again today.
He asked if I played that game.
Told him I dabbled.
Katherine Speller

63
Kim Marra

64
 Aunt Char
“C’mon, we’re going out!” Aunt Char exclaimed
enthusiastically after showing up at my house one random
Saturday morning. I groggily dressed myself and got into her car.
After picking up my younger cousin Keith, we headed up to the
Rhinebeck Performing Arts Center.
“Right through here,” she guided us, smiling and saying
hello to everyone we passed in the lobby.
Inside the theatre was a small stage, where a magician
was setting up his show. He pulled rabbits out of hats, made
coins disappear- and amazing as all of this was to me and Keith,
I couldn’t help but notice how Aunt Char was watching us much
more than she was watching the magic happening right before our
eyes.
“So why did you take us out today, Aunt Char?” I later
asked, thoughtfully dipping my French toast into a pool of syrup at
Blondie’s.
“Well, sometimes it’s important for an aunt to spoil her
niece,” she explained, pulling me into one of her famously tight
hugs. “And nephew too, of course,” she added, grabbing Keith as
well.
Aunt Char always showed up- not every week, but
sporadically throughout my childhood. Even if it had been awhile
since I had last seen her, I always knew she was there.
When Aunt Char got sick with cancer a few years ago, I
had to remember the importance of showing up. As she got worse,
I was scared to visit her. I didn’t want to remember her as sick,
but as robust and healthy. I wanted to remember her fiery red hair
that matched her personality. What I feared most was learning she
was too weak to give her signature hugs, the ones that engulfed
you, that wrapped themselves around you: the hugs that made you
forget what was scary about the world.
One cold November night, about a month before she passed
away, my parents were going to visit her.
“You want to come, Tara? Aunt Char’s been asking for
you,” my mom asked softly.
I had selfishly and guiltily avoided seeing her. I was

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petrified about remembering this new Aunt Char, instead of the old
one who took me to a magic show and out to lunch that day. Yet
somehow I knew, no matter how hard it was for me to see her, I
had to consider what she was going through. This was, after all, not
about me.
Visiting Aunt Char that day was one of the hardest things
I’ve ever had to do. I didn’t really know what kind of condition
she’d be in, or what to expect. Seeing her there was more difficult
than I ever could have imagined. What comforted me was sitting
down beside her bed, and having her pull me into the tightest, best
hug to date.
Tara Molloy

Emma Lynch

66
 The Jump
I like those boys with big shoulders and big
Words that fill my ears with lies and dreams.
I love the lack of truth that makes it simple,
Easy to grab tight and rush into the night.
So c’mon boy, there really isn’t a lot of
Truth spinning, leg twisting to be done.
Faults make the best foot holds when
You need to climb up to the top.
Cause tell me, even if you can’t,
How else will I be able to fall?
Gabrielle Grigoli

Ashlee Rose

67
Winter, Again, Without You
Before I met you, I had only dated
white Anglo-Saxon Protestant males.

Mi Novia,
you couldn’t roll your R’s.
When you tried,
they stuttered and stopped between your teeth.

When you brought me to your apartment,

your mother made me platanos,
I called them bananas by accident.
You explained the difference,
and in a bodega
I began to understand
the different shades
of brown.

I stared at your skin,

the color of ripe tropical fruit.

My nose was pink in the cold.

It’s cold again now,
but it isn’t the same season,
and I don’t eat platanos without you.
Frankie Romano

68
 the squirrel
every single time
i walk by a squirrel,
he flees in terror --
in a bush,
in a tree.

and i wonder:
is this just
the way of the world?
or
am i really as savage
as he makes me out to be?
Peter Spengeman
Cradle
I am secure. I wrap myself in green leaf blankets, surrounded
with branches; I tangle limbs into limbs, twisting vines through my
hair, intertwined in every sense. I let the rough smoothness of bark
massage out my knots, arch my back into the trunk. Shed years like
rings, shrink back into a child. Dangling, draped over branches, I
smell the earth, can taste the rain. I concern myself only with the
conversations I pick up between the worlds; the trees have their
own language. I listen as the trees trade leaf dialogues with birds,
speak in tree branch tongues with the insects, and overhear the
roots introducing themselves to worms. Cradled in the in-between
of the worlds, I give up on walking and instead consider the op-
portunities of tree house living. If I lived in trees, I would sleep
coiled around branches, use mosses for pillows, whisper confide
my secrets to the wind, swear it to secrecy. I would jungle gym
play my way around the branches, up to the top. I would hover in
the awkward silences of passersby, and giggle at the pranks played
by squirrels. I could fall into the graceful gymnastic step that
jungle cats have; I could stalk dewdrops and hide in the shelter of
leaf canopies. I wrap my arms around a trunk littered with tattoos
of years passed, share memories and tell stories, look from another,
taller, point of view. If I lived in trees, I would stay a child forever.
Kelly Prendergast

69
Oliver Kammerman

70
 Craziness
Because I would be unable to embrace you
With a straight jacket on,
We can’t get too crazy.

But baby,
The art of being human is insanity.

There are times you say things to me on the phone

I get so small; I could fit inside a cricket.
And I could be in a belly outside my window, laughing at myself.

And others, I can be King Kong,

And pull you to the top of that stupid city,
That stupid city that hasn’t gotten any taller
Since they dreamed of shooting a monkey off of its peak.

And I’ve been that tall,

I’m not manic,
Just, my size fluctuates.

So I buy shirts that,

Obviously,
I cannot wear the next day.

It is like
Dressing a sand castle.
You’ve always been the prettiest ocean,
Showing me how aesthetically pleasing
Of a shipwreck I can be.
I am grittily aware,
Of all the tragedies,
And you call me crazy
With my hands duct-taped to the wheel,

Cause you never understood

How I could steer when there’s nothing in any direction

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But baby,
That’s being human.

You’re gliding on hope,

And it’s the same hope of the amoeba,
And it’s why I have threaded myself
Into the fabric of the tee shirt you push
Against your face,

And it’s why God is always home

For people who step feet on bricks of doorsteps.
I would build myself a fire of faith on those bricks,
If I could have them with God’s shoe dirt,

And it’s why craziness,

Baby,

Is looking for the diction of a God,

That doesn’t exist,

But if he did,

Would have words to explain everything.

And if I ever wasn’t there for you,

If I won’t be,

It’d be because I’d have gotten

Unnecessarily sane.
Chris Milea

72
 Vinny Carnevale
Drawers
Wooden drawers
Swing
Open and closed;
You sift
Through layers of flannel
Deciding what to wear;
Layers upon layers unbutton,
Revealing rusted guitar strings
From your rock star father,
Who disappeared twenty years ago;
Your hands unfold withering white pages stained with
watercolor flowers,
Your mother’s attempt to recreate the world’s beauty;
“These are my roots,” you say,
Closing the drawer,
Looking north,
To the green mountains that created you.
Carolyn Candela

73
Where Poetry Hides
Under your first cup of coffee,
between the ribbons of steam tickling your nose.
Hopping between the freckles scarcely sprinkled across your arm,
sliding down the goatee you’ve been growing for weeks,
peeking behind your mother as she assures you
she’s crying happy tears.
Riding shotgun in your brother’s beat up mustang
before he tells you to move to the back.
Wherever it is you left your car keys.
To your left,
No, your other left.
Katherine Speller

Dana Heimann

74
 Jenny Curtis

75
Where Did the Sun Go
Flowers tick Geiger scales but last
Wilt in Spring and Fall in bloom
Answers change, but ours clay to cast
Wet in day, blood of the moon.
Where did the Sun go?
Our bodies turned to stalk and bast
Nihilism is woe—
In Human clan
Caressed alone
by Sadist Hands
Our bodies turned to stalk and bast
Roots soil-less grip rock
Nomad wanderers—flock forgot
Our bodies turned to stalk and bast
Answers change, but ours clay to cast.
Where did the Sun go?
We ask in silence, but we already know.
Colin Williams

Underfoot
The Autumn raindrops come in droves.
They crash on yellowed leafy skin,
And each drop, frightened, crying out...
We go outside to drink it in.

Our feet soon smeared with greenish moss:

“Where should we go?” But neither knows
The cool gray rains fall faster still.
We’ve gasping worms between our toes.
Pete Viola

76
 Rachael Braun

77
Cereal Novels
I would like to make a motion:
Bring back the serial novel. Put each installment on the
back of cereal boxes. (I know you think Wheaties “keeps ‘em full,
keeps ‘em focused”, but studies show, kids who read be smarter.)
Aisles in grocery stores would be littered, less intelligent
cardboard boxes cast aside in our haste to learn. Traffic jams may
ensue on delivery days, but I think that’s a small price to pay to
find out what happens next.
See, you’ve already memorized the nutrition facts, the
recipes, and you could do that maze with your eyes closed, while
reciting the effects of Cheerios on your cholesterol and your heart.
But when was the last time your eyes moved with ferocity to reach
the period, the next chapter? The last time you looked up from a
page to realize you’d lost track of time? When was the last time
you read a book?
Emma Nichols

Soporific
Wake up feeling drunk
Though I haven’t been drinking
What’s the word for this?
Jenny Curtis

78
 Several thousand photos
A stanza or two

Enough to make a candle

Enough to make soap
Not equivocal
Real Americans don’t count their arteries

Won’t save you from cramps!

Knowledge E ≠ bombs
Gets you cranked like turbo
Wheaties!

THC

Ambience Dubsteppin
Completely irrelevant.

As I said, real Americans don’t count their

calories; and if watches could keep track of
a time that mattered then mine would be a
stopwatch run by grains of sand with a suicidal
appetite for my destruction. Blood Clot.
This magazine is not for Men with erectile
dysfunction. However, this poem IS for every
other kind of dysfunction. Even conjunction
junction dysfunction, the one with Malaria of
the Metaphor. It will not help you get laid.
What a Lie.

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