Embedded Files
Matthew Harutunian
Learning about Romanticism
Her eyes hold forests
with more multitudes than I thought possible
A deep forest green laced with golden beams
much like sun when it streams through the treetops
The flicker as the breeze ruffles the leaves parallels
the flutter in my heart when I see her eyes
illuminated by the sun
they open up to let me in
her breath is the release of the breeze
her eyes ground me and plant my roots in the moment
tethering my fleeting thoughts
Her eyes hold forests, ones like I’ve never seen
I am kept in captivity, surrounded by tangles of concrete and rebar
but when I see her, my lungs feel the crisp breeze unattainable in the city
I’ve only really seen, and been absorbed by nature but a few times
but with her I feel it’s relief
I wonder what she might see in my eyes
deep, dark brown faintly chocolate colored only under the sun’s gaze.
Bella Sahota
Annabelle Huyard
Claire Harutunian
Little Back Then
Two chipmunksDraped off an oakOf forty beard-whitening years.Sturdy,permanent, erudite, obstinate.Tears of thick, treacly sapwelled up in the minuscule holespainfully drilled into him by woodpeckers,the inconsiderate lot.
They were going to leave one day,Yes, this much was certain.The squirrely companions whom he had seenrebel against the fleeting nature of life itselfsince they’d first opened their ever-curious,ever-widening eyes,Were going to leave him behind,and he could only wish to share their wholly fierce spirits. The one on the left, streaked with glossy black, but just a little.Her fur, a little unkempt and a little frizzy,Refusing to obey.
The one on the right, barely dangling by the paw,drenched in several coatsof smooth, smooth caramel,but it little shielded herfrom the air, teeming with dust,with dirt, with god-knows-what.
The branches of the oak,A little charred, a deep black, a little gray, a little light gray, with little leaves of silver peeking outfrom forests of evergreen.His large, clammy handsonly served now tolord the precious fruitover their heads.
A steel carriage came to carry them away,away from the place of dreams.They soared silently into the night as the stars whispered just a little.Oh, so beautiful.A little pulchritudinous…
And the little ones look through the glass,a little hope in their little eyes,their little hands feeding their little mouths.And so they lived their little lives,for years and years and years,Forgetting, Among the hubbub,that old, creakybearer of fruit,of life.
Until…
It was coming, it was comingOh, but they couldn’t wait for the momentThey would step their little feetinto the little placethat had embraced them all these little years. The one withthe clean air,the clean streets,the clean life.Home,my love,how are you?Ashveen Banga
Natalie Beary
Annabelle Huyard
Olivia Dangelo
Julia Galperin
Callie Keating
Natalie Beary
‘Til [blank] Do Us Part
Day in and day out
It was stuck like glue
She would wear it throughout
Until her finger turned black and blue
The same gold band
Now dull and scratched
Seemed a little less grand
And her feelings seemed to match
One day, she worked it off her finger
Cast off her vows, and slipped on a dress
No second thought seemed to linger
As she crawled away from this mess
Ha-Thi Nguyen
Annabelle Huyard
Jessica Smith
An Airline Going East
As I sit on the suspicious carpet, my back against the hard window, with one earbud in, the other dangling down to tangle with the strings of my most comfortable hoodie, I can’t help but think of the both of you, Orville and Wilbur Wright.
The sun was barely up and I had to set three alarms to make sure I was two hours early for my departure. You two listened for the rooster on the fence.
After exhaling through the monotony, I arrived at the gate. What quantity and what boredom! Whole families waiting in lines, mothers dealing boarding passes, men in suits furiously typing, crooked necks all around gazing into the blue lights in their hands, unamused by the adventure ahead of them.
I saw your faces glued to the dirty windows, watching the organized chaos of the runway, little jeeps and carts, men with vests and fire in their hands, and the solid white titanic beasts that effortlessly glided over the terrain.
But when you dreamers turned away from the glass, not a single person seemed to care. They were angry and tired and the dress code was very terribly undefined. Orville, you called out as you explored the line: Who has the wind speed on hand? Is anyone checking the wings for tears? Are those plush objects around your neck where you keep your goggles?
We made it through the tunnel and into a plastic capsule, until we found our seats, Wilbur by the window, Orville in the aisle, and me in between their fascination.
The large man behind you grumbled to his wife about his knees hurting while you both were in shock the passengers didn’t have to lie on their stomachs. Two women wearing sunglasses passive aggressively tried to fit their whole personalities into the overhead compartment when suddenly the voice of God instructed us to fasten our seatbelts and told us we would be in Denver in two hours.
And finally, with the force and power of an entire iron factory, we were falling upwards, accelerating faster than Wilbur’s pocket watch could track. And as we broke the limit and entered heaven itself, a woman asked the attendant if the snack baggie had peanuts in it.
Orville and Wilbur Wright, should I feel guilty for not sharing your triumphant enlightenment? Obviously my vehicle is a much improved version of your own creation, but it lacks all the glory of human advancement. No one cares of the physics, no one cares about the numbers, and the man in the back row is recording himself explaining how the earth is actually flat.
As I peer out the window, observing Paul Bunyan’s marks on the earth from the clouds, I wonder what America did you have when Wilbur levitated from the ground for those original 800 feet.
Kevin Kappes
(n.) - a breeze from the west; a gentle breeze
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