The Yale Literary Magazine

Kevin O

gunniyi an epitaph for the damned.docx

Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf

Lucas Sin photo 1...photo 2...photo 3...photo 4.jpeg

April W

en cusp.pdf

Dom

inic Lounds paintings1.jpeg paintings2.jpeg

Jake Orbison P

OR

TRA

IT IN W

HITE

.docx

Dan Friedm

an Shift R

eport.docx

Santiago S

anchez (photo Portfolio).pdf

Vincent Tolentino fog.docx

T H E YALE LITERARYMAGAZINE

Letter from the Editors

Dear readers,

If this issue were to have a theme, it would be benevolence. We mean that sincerely. One piece features a benevolent judge, another, benevolent ghosts. We ourselves are well-wishing, we wish you well. Goodbye readers. We are writing down everything.

What does it mean to begin with a refrain? We were saying goodbye. At the end of this issue, we began with a reordering. We had a certain texture we wanted.

There are many booklets, all of them pieced together. You may take them apart. They may or may not work together.

It’s like every day just had this weird feeling to it. The issue is eating dirt and putting on a lime green-wig. It won the grand chili pepper eating prize.

Congratulations writers, congratulations readers. Thank you to Verlyn Klinkenborg for judging the Francis Bergen Prize.

Our deepest gratitude to our designer, Lian Fumerton-Liu, and to Carmen Cusmano and everyone at Yale Printing and Publishing Services who helped bring this issue to life.

Kindly,Maya and Margaret

Spring 2015 Volume 23 Issue 02

Ivy Sanders-S

chneider Happy in love, life...ry thing.docx

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf

Dom


Jake Orbison P

OR

TRA

IT IN W

HITE

.docx

Dan Friedm

an Shift R

eport.docx

Santiago S



Dan Friedm

an Shift R

eport.docx

Every 15 minutes I must update my report. Even when there is nothing to report I must update it. I must write “Nothing to report” in the “Update Your Report” box, and then I must click “Add to report” in order to add it. On some days, I must do this many times: every 15 minutes for a duration of hours. Today, I think: I will play a small game. I will write something different in the “Update Your Report” box. I write, “Patron requested my help,” though that is not true. I write, “Patron requested assistance.” I write, “Patron wishes to be sublimated into the icosphere, into the interstitial boundary of impossible space. Patron yearns for unspeakable movement, for horizonless void—for the key-frame-and-skeleton on wire grids beneath emptiness. Patron begs, bores, performs

Shift Report

Ivy Sanders-S


contortions of frame, and of frame rate, face selection—Please recalculate normals. Our facilities implode; patron’s ‘Request for Service’ failed; I, alive, gasping gamma-rays, directed patron to the circulation desk.” At the end of my shift, I must click “Submit your shift report.” I am scheduled from morning to night.

Winner of the Francis Bergen Prize

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf

Dom


Jake Orbison P

OR

TRA

IT IN W

HITE

.docx

Dan Friedm

an Shift R

eport.docx

Santiago S



Dan Friedm

an Shift R

eport.docx

Ivy Sanders-S


Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf

Dom


Jake Orbison P

OR

TRA

IT IN W

HITE

.docx

Santiago S



Jake Orbison P

OR

TRA

IT IN W

HITE

.docx

PORTRAIT IN WHITE

Outside the store I see a woman. The store’s name is Beauty Supply, and I think Beauty Supply? Beauty Supply. There has been construction on this block for months but I never see men working.

I consult, again, the sign:

BEAUTY SUPPLY*100% Human Hair *Cosmetic *Beauty Aid *Electrical Supply

The womanwears a lime green wig, coveredher face all in white

Ivy Sanders-S


like a kabuki show, orlike a lady at the masquerade. Something anonymous about it.Something formal and physical, and reminding you, yes, to be still in your body can be quite painful;

also, to be known is to be culpable,and despite what you might have read having a body is not arbitrary.

How could it be, if dressing up is so much fun? You do look like you’re having fun. Apologies if I’m wrong.

You know, my uncle works for the city sometimes. He throws events for special days.He told me once they hired Mexican dancers for the Israeli Day Parade.

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf

Dom


Jake Orbison P

OR

TRA

IT IN W

HITE

.docx

Santiago S



PORTRAIT IN WHITE

Outside the store I see a woman. The store’s name is Beauty Supply, and I think Beauty Supply? Beauty Supply. There has been construction on this block for months but I never see men working.

I consult, again, the sign:

BEAUTY SUPPLY*100% Human Hair *Cosmetic *Beauty Aid *Electrical Supply

The womanwears a lime green wig, coveredher face all in white

You see me see you.I look at the time, down and away.

I was saying goodbye. I was writing down everything.

Ivy Sanders-S


Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf

Dom

inic Lounds paintings1.jpeg paintings2.jpeg Vincent Tolentino fog.docx

Ivy Sanders-S


Santiago S


Fence and Window, Miami (2015)

Roger, New Haven (2015)

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf

Dom


Ivy Sanders-S


Santiago S


Roger and Harry, New Haven (2015)

Palm Tree, Miami (2015)

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf

Dom


Ivy Sanders-S


Santiago S


Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf


Ivy Sanders-S


Dom

inic Lounds painting1...painting2....painting3...painting4.JPG

Tan

Self-Portraits

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf


Ivy Sanders-S


Dom


Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


April W

en cusp.pdf


Ivy Sanders-S


Dom


Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf



Ivy Sanders-S


April W

en cusp.pdf

Vulnerability comes in many different flavors, one of which is: terrible. I read in the news today that the MCAT started labeling their booklets “Battle Royale” in light yellow Comic Sans.

“Honesty is the best policy,” my father said, shuffling the newspaper.

The MCAT flavor was so terrible that my big sister Jennie came home from the test frowning. And Jennie always smiles, a professional smile that she can’t take off when she comes home from hostessing. This does wonders for her relationship with her boyfriend Craig, who gets especially confused when Jennie starts cryling (cry-smiling). My limited experience with vulnerability probably stems from observing Jennie and Craig’s honestly scary romance. And of course, my mother and father’s relationship — which isn’t a relation-ship so much as a pizza party with only calzones.

But that summer, I found love. Not infatua-tion, not obsession — no. I loved him up close.

“Vulnerability comes in different flavors,” he said, “with intimacy as the aftertaste.”

cusp

How often do you meet someone who has a mouth you want to talk to and kiss? In retro-spect, his words had only the aesthetic of truth. But that didn’t stop me from loving them. I still remember his lips in the moonlight, like little pieces of bacon.

That July, things started getting spicy. The whole town was ready to host its tri-annual chili pepper eating contest, and Jennie and I were helping set up food tents in Linkin Park. As we hammered pegs into the grass, someone behind us whispered, “Hey, ladies.” I wore a floral dress without bike shorts. Jennie and I were bent over, so this voice-man must’ve been talking to both of our butts. I turned around to see Guy Fieri carrying a child-sized chunk of Boar’s Head ham.

“You want a piece of me?” he mumbled.

Guy’s smirk dipped my whole body in fear. I glanced over at Jennie, who was still smiling, but I just knew she was frowning on the inside. Couldn’t Guy recognize the panic on my face, the universal sign for “You should go now”? The town had worked so

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf



Ivy Sanders-S


April W

en cusp.pdf

hard at being emo-tionally on-point for Spicy Throwdown; I really didn’t want to make a fuss over him looking at our butts. But Guy Fieri kept inching closer to us with that ham.

“Woah, man! Guy FIERI?!”

Craig was running towards us with a bottle of hot sauce.

I grabbed Jennie’s hand, but she couldn’t move. I took a step backwards into the tent, and, with a kaboom, it crumpled. One peg flew loose and hit Guy in the neck. Everyone in Linkin Park turned around to see Guy Fieri on his knees, clutching his double chin in pain, and Craig smiling really big, holding his autographed ham. Then the camer-as came and slapped Jennie, Craig, Guy, and me with pictures. These remained the town’s only memories of that fateful day. Spicy Throwdown has since gained conti-nental recognition.

What makes me sad, though, is that no one remembers how my rabbi almost died after winning the grand chili pepper eating prize. As Jennie and I made our way back to the parking lot, we found the rabbi splutter-ing on the ground like

an amoeba. I had got-ten a CPR certification in school that year, but I had no idea how to do CPR.

“Call 911,” came a calm voice behind the trees.

“Guy Fieri,” I mum-bled sadly.

I turned around to see where the voice was coming from. There, under the sycamore tree, stood the rabbi’s son. Before I could get a good look at him, he walked over, knelt beside his father, and administered the most breathtaking CPR I’d ever seen. The rabbi gasped and shook and began to take great gulping breaths. His son looked calmly out over the Linkin Park hulla-baloo.

“Could you give me a hand?” he asked.

After we hauled the rabbi’s spluttering body back to his Hummer, the son sat down on the pavement and put his head in his palms.

“Every damn year,” he murmured. “They’re going to turn everything into an emergency epi-sode of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives and say it’s good for the town.”

When I saw a tear roll down his cheek, I knew: it was time to pull out the travel-sized Jenga.

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf



Ivy Sanders-S


April W

en cusp.pdf

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


Ivy Sanders-S



Augment, not Neutralize

Dragon Scales

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


Ivy Sanders-S



Duck, Duck, Duck

The Walk Home is a Series of Steps

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf


Ivy Sanders-S



Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf

Ivy Sanders-S



A loss. To begin with a reordering. To scrape it into some-thing else. Felt I was talking too loudly. Cornflower bloom. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters. Talking seeming suddenly strained. Mornings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitchen, drinking tea. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. To see the roadside sumac. She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. All the Gauloises in her voice. A lull. Before the wind-slept portico. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. Two egrets on a glass table. Winter, no fall that year. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flowers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. Now, summer. Always ever only almost sure of anything.

A loss. Cornflower bloom. Two egrets on a glass table. To scrape it into something else. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. Talking seeming suddenly strained. Winter, no fall that year. To see the roadside sumac. She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. To begin with a reordering. All the Gauloises in her voice. Felt I was talking too loudly. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flow-ers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. Before the wind-slept portico. Now, summer. Mornings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitch-en, drinking tea. Always ever only almost sure of anything. A lull. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters.

She’d read to the point of fear, then of drowsiness. To scrape it into something else. The magnolia grows its petals in spirals. To see the roadside sumac. The dream was of ghosts, several, benevolent. A loss. Before the wind-slept portico. Always ever only almost sure of anything. Their baby dear, their fragile darling, their cheer up what’s the matter, always ever. Now, summer. To begin with a reordering. A lull. Singing, sighing, like all her older sisters. Winter, no fall that year. I opened the tin of tea one time, a turquoise box, found bits of crumpled flowers, blue, electric, bright against the pitch-brown cloves and things. Felt I was talking too loudly. The girl in her stroller, her old soul still in her. All the Gauloises in her voice. Cornflower bloom. Morn-ings we would spend at the bar of her red-tiled kitchen, drinking tea. Two egrets on a glass table. Talking seeming suddenly strained.

fog

The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Blue and green, and red. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. Still as entasis. That’s the maple. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation would any day begin. The floorboards’ wormwood smell at night. Still as the gods’ stone faces. Birds singing a full-bore assault over this house. Trap snares dopplering past the window. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. In the other room with her neoclassical nonstop toccatas. To live there for years before painting it. Allow and remember. To wrest those sweet notes out. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what you mean, when you say you’ll crash, on some other shore, where some other sun is rising?

Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Still as entasis. Blue and green, and red. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. Allow and re-member. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation would any day begin. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what you mean, when you say you’ll crash, on some other shore, where some other sun is rising? The floorboards’ wormwood smell at night. Still as the gods’ stone faces. Trap snares dopplering past the window. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. That’s the maple. To live there for years before painting it. Birds singing a full-bore assault over this house. Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. In the other room with her neoclassical nonstop toccatas. To wrest those sweet notes out.

Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Still as the gods’ stone faces. The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Blue and green, and red. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. Trap snares dopplering past the window. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what you mean, when you say you’ll crash, on some other shore, where some other sun is rising? To wrest those sweet notes out. Birds singing a full-bore assault over this house. To live there for years before painting it. In the other room with her neoclassi-cal nonstop toccatas. Allow and remember. That’s the maple. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation would any day begin. Still as entasis. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. The floorboards’ wormwood smell at night.

The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Blue and green, and red. The reve-lation that it’s been happening for years. Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. Still as entasis. That’s the maple. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation would any day begin. The floor-boards’ wormwood smell at night. Still as the gods’ stone faces. Birds singing a full-bore assault over this house. Trap snares dopplering past the window. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. In the other room with her neoclassical nonstop toccatas. To live there for years before painting it. Allow and remember. To wrest those sweet notes out. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what youmean, when you say you’ll crash, on some other shore, where some other sun is rising?

Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Still as en-tasis. Blue and green, and red. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. Allow and remember. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degradation would any day begin. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what you mean, when you say you’ll crash, on some other shore, where some other sun is rising? The floorboards’ wormwood smell at night. Still as the gods’ stone faces. Trap snares dopplering past the window. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. That’s the maple. To live there for years before painting it. Birds sing-ing a full-bore assault over this house. Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. In the other room with her neoclassical nonstop toccatas. To wrest those sweet notes out.

Goose-down to prick their gentle faces. Still as the gods’ stone faces. The bend of these curtains, the whim of the wind. Blue and green, and red. Trash-pickers clinking through the glass bin. Trap snares dopplering past the window. It’s on some distant shore that you crash, isn’t that what you mean, when you say you’ll crash, on some oth-er shore, where some other sun is rising? To wrest those sweet notes out. Birds singing a full-bore assault over this house. To live there for years before painting it. In the other room with her neoclassical nonstop toccatas. Allow and remember. That’s the maple. Car-parts, bottles, and cutlery. Our parakeets chat with the robin outside. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. The revelation, at twenty, that our bodies were past their prime, that the slow degra-dation would any day begin. Still as entasis. The asphalt of that private lane like a skillet beautifully seasoned, rinsed in oil-rains. Last night’s moon, a white thumbprint in the sky. Unadorned ionic, capitals curled like smoke. The floor-boards’ wormwood smell at night.

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf

Ivy Sanders-S



The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. Conspiracy of clods. Clouds spread out like blight. Through the open wound of the mouth. Egyptian chords immanent. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. In search of fresher air, have driven north. She had the most exquisite taste. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. This is nothing. Wound about her every word. Last night’s moon, honed to a vanishing. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. And he feels afraid. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other. This whinging, ailing mess. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. An exercise in disappointment, or meditation on an unknown theme. After years of waiting, nothing came.

After years of waiting, nothing came. Clouds spread out like blight. In search of fresher air, have driven north. Egyp-tian chords immanent. This whinging, ailing mess. The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. This is nothing. And he feels afraid. Conspiracy of clods. Last night’s moon, honed to a vanish-ing. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. Wound about her every word. An exercise in disappointment, or medita-tion on an unknown theme. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. She had the most exquisite taste. Through the open wound of the mouth. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other.

Last night’s moon, honed to a vanishing. Don’t torture me, please, let’s go back, please. Paint beneath paintings or animal digestion. Illuminated cities, out of earthly focus. She had the most exquisite taste. They trace terrestrial, not solar, wind. An exercise in disappointment, or medita-tion on an unknown theme. Nothing until this named thing nameless is. After years of waiting, nothing came. This whinging, ailing mess. The geomagnetic storm, a six- to eight-grade solar flare, auroral ovals over Connecticut. And he feels afraid. Sound of small organisms metabolizing each other. Flaring on the frame of everything he is. I stare, I see, or think I see—a greenish glow. This is noth-ing. In search of fresher air, have driven north. Conspiracy of clods. Wound about her every word. Clouds spread out like blight. Through the open wound of the mouth. Egyptian chords immanent.

They fought until the birds protested. To approach the very edge of artifice. Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. So that when he exhales be-neath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crippling awe. The courtyard flinched with frost. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. The closest we come to religion. At night, grinding teeth, sharpen-ing incisors. Drifting off between linens laundered by forces economical and unknown. A palm sliding across the cheek. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell. Fair as flight is fair. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. Through the open wound of the mouth. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. The turning of a page.

On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. Through the open wound of the mouth. The courtyard flinched with frost. At night, grinding teeth, sharpening incisors. Drifting off between linens laundered by forces economical and unknown. A palm reflecting sunlight to-ward the cheek. The closest we come to religion. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. They fought until the birds protested. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. To approach the very edge of artifice. A palm sliding across the cheek. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. So that when he exhales beneath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. The turning of a page. Fair as flight is fair. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crippling awe.

Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. A palm sliding across the cheek. Drifting off between linens laundered by forces economical and unknown. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. The closest we come to religion. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. So that when he exhales be-neath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. At night, grinding teeth, sharpen-ing incisors. To approach the very edge of artifice. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crippling awe. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. They fought until the birds protested. Fair as flight is fair. The courtyard flinched with frost. Through the open wound of the mouth. A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek. The turning of a page. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell.

They fought until the birds protested. To approach the very edge of artifice. Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. So that when he exhales beneath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. On Sun-days would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crippling awe. The courtyard flinched with frost. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. The closest we come to religion. At night, grinding teeth, sharpening incisors. Drifting off between lin-ens laundered by forces economical and unknown. A palm sliding across the cheek. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell. Fair as flight is fair. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. Through the open wound of the mouth. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. The turning of a page.

On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. Through the open wound of the mouth. The courtyard flinched with frost. At night, grinding teeth, sharpening inci-sors. Drifting off between linens laundered by forces eco-nomical and unknown. A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek. The closest we come to religion. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. They fought until the birds pro-tested. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. To approach the very edge of artifice. A palm sliding across the cheek. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. So that when he exhales beneath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. The turning of a page. Fair as flight is fair. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crippling awe.

Will count the minutes till free of these people, this place. Every twenty years, the shrine is ritually rebuilt. These sounds, I’ve come to realize, are the same. A palm sliding across the cheek. Drifting off between linens laundered by forces economical and unknown. The revelation that it’s been happening for years. On Sundays would call ahead, then go and sit for tea. The closest we come to religion. Impending morning with its foreign breakfast rituals. So that when he exhales beneath the trees, one can’t know where the smoke ends and the breath begins. At night, grinding teeth, sharpening incisors. To approach the very edge of artifice. This fills the children, inexpert with fire, with a crip-pling awe. A wedge of an orange unsticking itself from the globe. They fought until the birds protested. Fair as flight is fair. The courtyard flinched with frost. Through the open wound of the mouth. A palm reflecting sunlight toward the cheek. The turning of a page. The ache in the fat of the fist, where it landed on the door. The smell is like nothing—it is the opposite of smell.

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf

Ivy Sanders-S



Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf

Ivy Sanders-S


Happy in love, life, and every thing

Like in the fable,the magpie swallows stone after stone, watching its swelling belly in the kitchen window—now, when it drinks, it won’t need so much water.

*

There’s a picture of me as a toddler about to gulp a handful of soil.My mother remembers I ate a spider off the floor.

Twenty-five years before, the year the U.S. banned lead pigment, her dentist advised don’t eat paintbecause children are eating the walls of their homes and she knew it was because plaster crumbles on the tongue just so—

*

She keeps a carton of Arm & Hammer baking soda in the bathroom.She says it brightens her smileand scoops cups of it from the orange box beside the sink and chews it.

Once, we share a spoon: it tastes like chalk and sweetheart candies.

*

I call home Sunday night. Mom says Even before you were born I felt like I’d like to have sand in my mouthAlthough she doesn’t do it anymorehasn’t done it in a whilehasn’t had the craving in quite some time.

*

In the South women buy white dirt by the pound in zip-tied plastic baggiesor dig it from their backyards while their children are at school.

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf

Ivy Sanders-S


They crave it in pregnancy, swallowing handful after handful. In a documentary one says Every day, twice a day, I take dirt from this wall and eat it—

*

I read an article a doctor says it’s culture bound,in another generation it will disappear altogether.

*

My mother was born in Wisconsin,raised in the Midwest,she did not mine the Kansas mud.

She tells me I had a certain texture I wanted and when I had it for the first time I realized this is what I’ve been looking for—

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

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Untitled Works (from Mall Series)

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf

Kevin O


Cindy H

wang M

all Series.pdf

Kevin O


Yo pelearía a todo el mundo para ti. Si pudieras estar mi compañero, mi amante, ¿harías lo mismo para mi? ¿Por que no sonríes? ¿Estas recordando? Rememorar los tiempos en los que todos parecían mejores, en los que eras un caballero y un aventurero… Era preparado para luchar a todos. Me dijo sobre sus desafíos, sus sufrimientos, que al principio fue preparado para amar a todo el mundo. El mundo no te comprendía, y tú supiste odiar. Pensabas que eras mejor; ellos te catalogaban peor. Aprendiste la envidia. Te convirtiste en un tullido moral.

The thinker was called Antonio, or, as the Benevolent Judge had called him when they had met by chance at a function—some function, Devil take its name, and the name that the Benevolent Judge had called him, for Antonio had a prevision that names did not mean what they signified, though he could not explain why. He had been told that all languages were identical, that inflections and dialects were like rays of light oscillating in vain attempts to escape the event horizon, but he felt with an unspeakable conviction that thinking in Spanish helped him to curb his grief. I have not mentioned the time at which the story takes place, or the place, as a good storyteller would, but I do not know where this city is or when the story takes place. Moreover, this ambiguity of setting allows the intelligent reader to ascribe any degree of freedom or teleology to the actions of the characters. I allow my readers to fashion their own interpretations, to make what they will of time and space, and if those interpretations yield bad outcomes, the strong, white hand within the Universe will set things to rights.

Antonio stood and stretched his strong, wiry body. The joints cracked, and he thought of the crackling of fried plantains on a stove. This thought gave him pause. While he pondered it further, the creases on his forehead increased in prominence, such that Antonio’s face looked as if he were emulating the dunes of a desert. Where had that come from? He could not remember having seen a stove or a desert, but these thoughts lingered in his head.

Now Antonio was a dreamer, he thought of sentiments rather than causalities and laws.

The doorbell rang. He thought of Tomas’s white hands and unsmiling eyes.

Antonio had met Tomas some time before, he could not say when, nor could he say if any time had passed, for the Benevolent Judge had ordered to be collected the clock of every household in the city, citing fears that an awareness of time would lead men to speculate about their consciousness of freedom and foment a revolution that would leave the city crippled and ripe for some passing Asiatic warlord’s plucking.

Antonio’s caretaker, before her death, had enlisted Tomas to come to Antonio’s home and help him with his studies of Astrology and Cosmo-philosopho-theo-dramato- nigology. Antonio was too much of a dreamer, it was said, and a tutor would help him to realize that the best dreams are to be found in what Antonio himself thought to be banalities. Tomas wore a yellow “jumpsuit,” as it was called. Antonio had heard somewhere that yellow signified leadership, exceptionality, power, and that the person who wore yellow had to have a boisterous and stormy intellectual and martial presence. In truth, Tomas was precisely what the color indicated. Being the president of his school’s studentry, he had the privilege of often leading the school to a new understanding of the unlimited

An Epitaph for the Damned

virtues of the illustrious Judge; he sat apart from everyone else in his school’s mess and ignored all those who spoke to him, certain in his superiority because he had convinced himself that all of the others were flaunting with words and unsubtle gestures their own superiority; he often was the first to recognize the problems in this attempt at a mathematical proof and that aspect of the strategy of Napoleon I to crush the Russian General Kutuzov in the War of 1812. Tomas was thin where Antonio was wiry, Tomas’s eyes never seemed to smile when his mouth did, and Tomas’s hands were so white and aristocratic that Antonio had once feared that his friend would be indicted for seditious plots and executed on his hands’ account alone.

Aristocratic hands was the refrain. Antonio knew by intuition that there could be no aristocratic or plebeian hands, for there were no aristocrats or plebeians, and the deriv-ative of a thing must have an integral in that very thing. Antonio had once read about the “calculus of history,” but the phrase seemed to him an absurdity. He knew in his heart that such a thing could not exist, just as aristocrats and plebeians could not exist in this place, but he could not express the reasoning for either conclusion, and he resigned himself to repeating, “That’s just how it is” and tugging the collar of his purple jumpsuit. When Antonio awoke, he saw what he imagined to be the Archangel Gabriel. He had not read the Bible, for the same reason that he did not accept the phrase “Calculus of History”: his exuberant consciousness of freedom and inviolable faith in that freedom. As such, he knew not the monstrous, indescribable forms of the Seraphim, and he still imagined all angels as men with extraordinary and womanish beauty clothed in golden lights, silver helmets, and eagle’s feathers.

The presence of the angel said to him, “You are an apostate. You deal in sophistries and false dreams, the apparitions to be found beyond the ivory gate of Pluto’s kingdom. I am. I am more than sophistry, and your dreams are little more than the desperate throes of a dying man. You think, you speak, you dream, but you are not. You are the fool who preaches freedom and vivacity when you are little more than a corpse yourself. Why do you seek problems and complexities? ‘Hitch together, hitch together,’ I have heard it said, though a more appropriate phrase would be ‘band together…’”

Antonio did not hear these words, but the airy and evocative sentiment behind them roused him from his stupor. He had the impression that he had missed something important, and he wished that whoever or whatever was interfering with his vision would leave him be. The angel’s garb resolved itself into a jumpsuit, the crown became a bed of hair, and the foggy film that obscured his vision vanished, and there was only Tomas.

Tomas gave Antonio one of his unsmiling smiles and said, “I spoke with Andrei. He told me about your problem. Why did you not tell us? Did you think that we are sirens, waiting for Ulysses to come around so that we can lull him into the sea? Did you see within us Scylla and Charybdis, those repetitious monsters cursed to impel and expel for all time? Think you that we can draw the Leviathan out of the sea with a fishhook? Defeat pious Aeneas with Cupid’s arrows? Words, words, words—I fear that I am bor-ing you. You say that I should be more self-indulgent, and though I am indulging others, I am indulging myself, and when I sup upon the Classics, I sup also upon myself.

“I see that I am boring you. Have you suffered this gross indignity for your entire life?”

Antonio said that he had.

“Well, I have read of ‘totalitarian states’ and their inflictions of violence upon man and language. If I knew better, I would say that we live in one. The stomach empties, the head fills with air, and behold!—one becomes the Madman of Sevilla. Things cannot be

Kevin O


so easy though. I must fight, complain, suffer, become trapped in the moment, allow myself to be deceived and cheated, deceive and cheat others, read Tocqueville and, like a tragic hero, see nothing of myself in his depiction of the democratic man. I must delay. Why? Because that is what people do in totalitarian states. When one is an ironist, he can speak of things with levity that would be weighed down with the most ponderous and miserable words in other contexts. I don’t need to be Tacitus, deploring the atrocities of Tiberius and Nero and the seemingly endless potential for degradation and injustice of the Roman Empire, the moral and martial ruin that oily Augustus Caesar brought to Rome; I need not be Amos or Hosea, spewing invectives and muttering honeyed absurdities in the stopped-up ears of the Israelites… The worms are going at it”—Antonio said, “You told me that purple is often the color of royals. I think it is contemptible and vile.”

“But fitting. In truth, the greater the power of the aristocrat, the less his freedom. He is subject to numberless constraints of the external world, the pressures of space, time, and the need to have the appearance of a coherent casuistry. What did Prince Genji gain from all his power except the need to satisfy his longings in secrecy and one of the most extraordinary courts of flatterers, sycophants, rogues, hypocrites, wastrels, bad poets, and scurrilous moralists ever seen in fiction? No, sir, aristocrats are terribly unfree, because the public gaze is upon them. It’s the same as you being unable to cross the street. You are fortunate, in truth—what if it had been not the color of your jumpsuit but the color of your skin that disallowed your crossing… I see that I am witless and boring you, but you brought this torture on yourself.”

“My jumpsuit does not disallow me from anything; yon cloudy sky does not disallow the sun from rising tomorrow.”

“A poet, and a pedant too? You are set to surpass me, mi querido.”

“What will you do? His Beneficence the Judge has seen it fit not to add a purple light to the streetlights. Would you preempt or defy his Eminence?”

Antonio did not like the Benevolent Judge, and Antonio had convinced himself that calling Him “His Beneficence” instead would reveal to everyone that His legal power had been a conditional grant from the people—that He should be grateful, or beneficent, rather than thinking that He had risen to power because of His endless stocks of moral and intellectual virtue.

Tomas sat on Antonio’s couch and winced. Did this couch have teeth? He stood, fetched a watermelon from a cupboard in Antonio’s kitchen, cut it with magnificent aplomb into pieces that he could swallow, returned to the couch and began to eat. He had not eaten a watermelon in his life that he could remember with pleasure, but this one he liked very much. It smacked of rustic beauty. He thought of a young woman with galoshes covering her bare feet, a smile as sweet as cherries, and a white dress light and fitted well enough that she could glide like a fairy without having to worry about tripping on the dress or catching it on a door’s handle. When he remembered himself, he catalogued the instances in which he had read of such simple delight: Virgil in his Fourth Eclogue imagined that Octavian Caesar would bring about a time of plenty and splendor; Ben Jonson had the venerable country estate Penshurst; Ariosto, too many beguiling mystical pleasure palaces to count; Tolstoy, the paradisiacal homes of Nikolai Rostov’s uncle and Konstantin Levin; the Thousand and One Nights was a parade of extraordinary pleasures, rustic and cultivated… Had Antonio laced the fruit with hashish? Tomas did not know why he had imagined such foolishness, and he told himself that he loathed this sudden digressiveness.

At least forty-five minutes after he had started eating the watermelon, he turned to Antonio and shook his head.

Tomas replied, “I do not know. Festina lente, and ‘Man proposes, God disposes,’ and all that. Fixing the light would make for an absurd spectacle. You have been patient for many years, not suffering any of your friends to know of this ignominy. Now any attempt to help you would stand out as a fat civilian holding a scepter and wearing a silk diadem would have stood out at Actium…”

Tomas did not continue. Antonio’s gaze seemed (in Tomas’s view) to say, “You know what has happened to me. Do not disgrace Andrei by making a fool of us. If you will help me, tell me so, and we will sup and laugh together; if you will not help me, do not mock me.”

Tomas sighed. The two men looked at each other’s eyes, and something, an understanding and camaraderie, passed between them. No doubt remained that Tomas would do as he said.

The silence was mellifluous. Antonio was always musical, not an incongruous and disjunctive figure like Tomas. Though he had often heard people say that nothing would come of nothing, it was the nothingness and emptiness of the moment that wafted him into the immeasurable pleasures of an Elysium, the world of the Platonic lover, of the Aristotelian Eudaemon, of the Christian fool. He saw the vitality of all things; all that had been dead, waxen, yellow, and rigid for Antonio was now alive, fluid, white, elegant… It was as if he had witnessed his own funeral and interment and now had awakened and seen the reanimation of his corpse at a distance…

Kevin O


Editors-in-Chief Maya BinyamMargaret Shultz

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