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4/11: by Alice Held my least favorite word is the one i say the most. slur apologies throughout the day more than people say my name apologize for apologizing too much as if my tongue felt the need to pick up the ones you dropped sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry i need to remember that silence only resembled unity when i was with you so through every mumbled apology of mine, i drown out the noise of your sorrow directed towards me, i have trouble noticing where your apologies lie- they are there in every syllable of your name in every car i think i’ll see you in in every poem my brain denies but my heart embraces watching waiting alive 4/10: “Samantha Lost Her Mind, Jesse Lost His Voice” by Isaac Scobey-Thal 1. Jesse used to scream so loud When we went to the beach That he would lose his voice His throat would be crackly with sand And hoarse like the empty waves crashing But then at dinner He’d eat sweet corn and smile And laugh again I don’t see him laugh as much since then 2. I’ve known Samantha’s mind was gone Since my memories of her face began Her eyes looking at the distance we could never fathom Her hands tight to her thighs Like they’d never come alive Her mouth muttering messages just light enough for her breath to catch Her ears open, like she was listening to the soft call of the beach That no one else could hear Her mind was gone 3. Jesse was not a bad brother to her It’s just that he didn’t understand what she was So he’d pull her pig tails And push her around And their parents would quiet him for that He was a boy with her And they resented him for that It went deeper, though. It was as if Samantha’s mind was concrete It was hard and fast And they couldn’t change it But Jesse’s was just clay They could still mold it, shun it So they would hear Samantha’s undistinguishable muttering And they’d push Jesse They’d tell him to be quiet As if the command would somehow ricochet off of him And absorb within Samantha. 4. As they grew older Jesse started using swear words And his body got thick But Samantha’s mind couldn’t fill out like his frame And he got impatient She stayed oblivious And their parents got tired The cycle began Samantha would hear the beach calling They’d try to listen, but to no avail. 5. One day during our family beach vacations Me and Jesse were sitting in their suite Watching a boyhood movie And Samantha ran out of her room And she was screaming And we couldn’t understand Her mother ran to her And put her hands on her shoulders And tried to help her breathe And Samantha cried that she’d lost her book And her mother looked her in the eyes But she just kept on screaming Like a nail of an idea she couldn’t get out of her head And Jesse closed his eyes and shook his head But she couldn’t find her book She couldn’t catch her breath And her mind was gone And so was Jesse’s temper He cried “Samantha, it’s a fucking coloring book, shut up!” And her mother turned to Jesse And pointed at his chest And she said “You shut your mouth You have no idea who she is” Samantha is crying now Jesse talks back But their mother zips his mouth closed With years of bottled up frustration And Samantha is on the ground now And her mind is gone And Jesse sits down With just a little bit more of his child soul Battered out of him And he closes his eyes Their mother returns to Samantha And wraps her in her arms And she squeezes her so tight It’s as if she was trying to transport A little bit of her sanity Into the empty spot on the back-left side of Samantha’s brain Samantha is screaming With a gaped mouth and her eyes closed And her mother’s eyes are shut tight To block out the engraving of this scene on her all-too-tired brain And Jesse is crying quietly And his eyes are closed So no one can see his red eyes And his tears 6. At 16 Jesse’s been silenced so often That he’s lost his voice His clay mind has been beaten by the beach sun And dried into adolescence His discrete giggle was left on the sand Where the waves can eat at it And Samantha’s lost her mind to starlight and wave whispers Jesse’s lost his voice Samantha’s lost her mind I wish I could find them both. 4/9: “Bare Into the Earth” by Isaac Scobey-Thal When my father told me bedtime stories he spoke in terms of miles traveled, distances lost or gained. He spoke of crumbled dirt against cracked heels because it was important to remember every inch that had created my life had been covered by bare soles over the earth. In bedtime stories I first learned how to worship grandparents who walked barefoot through lifetimes I could only reach in dreams. Great-grandmother, my father told me how you left your sister in a potato field when you were young. You crouched low because around you soldiers fired guns. You left your village alone, and your sister never left at all, because America would only welcome immigrants who came unscarred, and your sister’s blind eyes still bled as you left her ducking under bullets she could not see. You wouldn’t have looked back as you walked farther and farther away, but each narrow gouge dug by your toes into the dirt would have rooted you to bullets and potato fields behind you. And after you were gone I think your sister knelt and smoothed her fingers over every shallow gash like healing scars, attempting to absorb all trace of you so that only her hands would remember how to follow. She didn’t know then how some footprints cannot be erased. Great-grandmother, did you think of your sister later, in 1933 when you spoke the word Holodomor and your entire country starved? Did you think maybe she was buried then, among the millions in mass graves, swallowed by a hunger so large you almost believed your blood felt it too? Did you wonder whether her eyes closed then or after, when tanks rolled into your village and your home burned? As you laced leather shoes over clean white socks and toes, were you reminded that your sister was buried with bare feet covered in dirt? Did you remember the roots you lay so long ago? When you met your husband he also spoke the language your sister still whispered to you in your dreams, and his feet remembered walking, callused and bloodied, over mountains and continents to reach the ocean that had taken him to you. You loved him because his feet, too, remembered Ukraine, and villages and siblings who burned Great-grandmother, I listen to news of your country, whose feet are still bare and cracked, whose mouth is still gaping in hunger, whose blind eyes are still forced to bleed. I will listen to your story. I will take it with me into my dreams. I will press my feet bare into the earth. 4/8: “Bare Into the Earth” by Sofia Fall When my father told me bedtime stories he spoke in terms of miles traveled, distances lost or gained. He spoke of crumbled dirt against cracked heels because it was important to remember every inch that had created my life had been covered by bare soles over the earth. In bedtime stories I first learned how to worship grandparents who walked barefoot through lifetimes I could only reach in dreams. Great-grandmother, my father told me how you left your sister in a potato field when you were young. You crouched low because around you soldiers fired guns. You left your village alone, and your sister never left at all, because America would only welcome immigrants who came unscarred, and your sister’s blind eyes still bled as you left her ducking under bullets she could not see. You wouldn’t have looked back as you walked farther and farther away, but each narrow gouge dug by your toes into the dirt would have rooted you to bullets and potato fields behind you. And after you were gone I think your sister knelt and smoothed her fingers over every shallow gash like healing scars, attempting to absorb all trace of you so that only her hands would remember how to follow. She didn’t know then how some footprints cannot be erased. Great-grandmother, did you think of your sister later, in 1933 when you spoke the word Holodomor and your entire country starved? Did you think maybe she was buried then, among the millions in mass graves, swallowed by a hunger so large you almost believed your blood felt it too? Did you wonder whether her eyes closed then or after, when tanks rolled into your village and your home burned? As you laced leather shoes over clean white socks and toes, were you reminded that your sister was buried with bare feet covered in dirt? Did you remember the roots you lay so long ago? When you met your husband he also spoke the language your sister still whispered to you in your dreams, and his feet remembered walking, callused and bloodied, over mountains and continents to reach the ocean that had taken him to you. You loved him because his feet, too, remembered Ukraine, and villages and siblings who burned Great-grandmother, I listen to news of your country, whose feet are still bare and cracked, whose mouth is still gaping in hunger, whose blind eyes are still forced to bleed. I will listen to your story. I will take it with me into my dreams. I will press my feet bare into the earth. 4/7: “Slicing Peppers” by Isabel Sandweiss She said the heat was so piercing she thought she would die. I kept slicing habaneros, membrane by membrane, I sliced and roasted and stung. I let the butter bubble my fingertips I thought, maybe she’s right. The cabinets were coated in pepper smoke, Jalapenos long like her gaze. the seeds burst and ripped open the air, sharp water dripping from her eyes she watched as my hands sliced and searched for familiarity in my humming, wondering all the while where I had learned this tolerance Hot smoke cracked from the frying pan and I smiled. Mom’s eyes popped sharp Jalapeno seeds, both sets of eyes wet but only hers were crying. Membrane by membrane we dissected the peppers and I felt her trying to recognize me. I wanted to tell her I could still see myself in the windowpane Mom, the smoke is warm in our lungs. Mom, can’t you feel the promise in the heat? Mom, we can still breathe. Instead, I kept slicing. I blended and buttered and seeds continued to cut the fragile air the smoke covered the countertops and when it became too much I watched her leave, gasping and coughing eyes stained red. I kept slicing the habaneros, watched the seeds break in the pan. I took a deep breath and continued to hum. My fingertips tore apart membranes as I thought of my mother and around me all that remained was the heat and the you. 4/6: “Cold Road Spring” by Ellen Stone Down in the river valley, we stream on old roadways above the Susquehanna watch the spring come on and sawdust coat the hillside. Road crews have strewn it, left from their pruning. April calls sweetly to the turkey vulture winding on a wind swirl. We climb above the Cumberland Valley, swing west toward Thompsontown, Cuba Mills, small town Pennsylvania. Workers in celery green spread cement smooth over an asphalt patch, signal us past, blinking orange arrow left, syncopated on, off while a blue mountain ridge spires above the low farmland. Sun gleams off cars sparkling in the thin sun. We slow and a girl sings softly in the back seat. Oak leaves, shale and Styrofoam litter the roadside as we roll through. White silos from an old barn point skyward, church steeple at the Cedar Grove Baptist Church. We speed up toward Mifflintown. Dairy farms and corn stubble fly by. Slow dance with the tractor trailers, swoop down near Arch Rock Road, a hard guitar solo rings from the radio. More buzzards and a strange haze up the mountain angled to a soft grey shifts like a morning mist. The hillside is scattered with rock slide, careless and wild, granite stretching up as far as we can see. Electric Avenue toward Selinsgrove, we climb, rock outcrop to our right, a deep silent blue valley to our left. April awakens, fresh and scarred yellow as forsythia, black as Country Jack’s, old stone foundations, Strode’s Run Creek flows, cold road spring. 4/5: “Salt of The Earth” by Tracy Scherdt I inherited the words my grandfather used to describe what the bottom of bomber planes look like, and how he saw Lillian in the clouds of Japan. The words my mother would use to describe a sewing machine’s heart beat. These words I absorbed into flesh, a bone structure of verbs. I learned how to use the words by picking up the letters off of pages pulled from bookshelves low enough to reach. My inherited words, read before they were spoken. When I speak, you can hear my Michigan accent full of grandmother’s cooking, thick cream and real maple syrup. The words I learned to wrap my sounds around, stick to the backs of my teeth. Maple syrup, fear. I worry they’d fall silent surrounded by too much noise. I’m old enough now to learn the letters on bent postcards sent from Germany, from the country forgotten by my voice but not by the bridge of my nose or the sharpness of my last name. I haven’t yet worn my heritage in that way. I’ve let the words drown in the space between 1942 and 2013 in the time while you were still alive in the years you could have taught me what being German American meant, and what words you’ve taken from men who would have rather been the thief. My hands molded from German farmers, the salt of the Earth, filling my cuts with a burn that reminds me of homesickness. My hands, meant to be writing the homeland into the soil next to potatoes, and the flag we took down before the war. And I still can’t choke out the words to thank my great grandmother for giving me her name. 4/4: “zion” by Katie Taub I don’t know where I fit in Socially, yes, on a micro scale this may be false but expand that to my people a supposed chosen few and hell I don’t think we’ve ever found our footing in the sand the grains of which have been torn apart and melded into glass beneath our feet a beautiful outcome only to leave scorched souls and a lack of footprint caramelized skin for the scapegoat of sorts appreciated feared fearing all together irreconcilably different oh how vast the ignorant minority i feel when i deny the color of my skin because it no longer patterns with how i was treated how in the middle ages i would be crucified for denying myself its existence but yet I am grouped in with the rest of them to say that the book does not match the cover would be an understatement an overstatement of fact and i am denied by these statements because i have supposedly wronged the people by whom i have been marred my entire lineage the thick sanguine red is no different than the blood that courses through any of your veins in vain i deny myself of assign my life to a color whereas you fight to keep me on the UV spectrum hell, i am as pale as god almighty but when i am seen as successful i am at war with a double standard my standard held high with conjoining triangles ladened upon blue and white breaths a symbol worn on a shield of my people at once i am the oppressor and the oppressed the lion and the lamb the calm and the storm the sickness and the antidote and guttural elocution can only differentiate us so much 4/3: By Kiley Paige This Guy. Under this sky, There is this guy. Who likes to look fly, While the birds fly. This guy gets high, Likes to say the end is nigh. Will use hair dye, Oh no, in his eye. His girlfriend is kinda shy, With a sigh, she says bye. And now he’s all alone. 4/2: “Pennicooke’s Fiddle” by Ken McGraw He plays violin and you will do anything he asks. But all he asks you to do is listen. And you listen. His song is the cut of a ragged blade, sudden laughter from a second story window. Your hand smoothes his bed as you lean back; you watch his arm saw across the small body like a woodcutter: again and again and again, the fall of trees inexorable under that persistence of love. You cover the scab on your knee, hide its itching, its ache. Your anguish ages this love a day into a year, and finally into bricks half buried in dirt. You have been with him forever, and his songs have always played for you: the pleading of birds in a lilac bush, spring after spring. 4/1: “Berenstain Bears for Breakfast” by Abby Stone-Lauer My tiny fingers skimmed through the colored pages as I awoke one morning. My long hair tangled by a restless nights sleep I passed the glossy front cover without thought, making my way to the rough white paper that followed. I’d look down, trying to make sense of the symbols on the page. Before preschool, my mother would read to me. Soothing me with her words, and images of the tree-house down on the sunny dirt road. I was mesmerized lost in deep bear country. At sunrise, I’d eat my waffle with peanut butter for protein, syrup for a treat and dream of honeycomb for breakfast. A bear’s morning snack. Worries never come the way of bears. I long to be a bear. A Berenstain bear