California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Freebird, Raven

Tell them and Sigh
Raven Freebird
Sometimes I tell them what they want to hear
I confirm the lie
Made by genocidal ties
forget to remind myself
About the ndn 
That dont look like u 
Or me
That ndn is more ndn than 
U or me
But how can that be 
generations have known where we need to be
colonization broke our stories
true ndns
are lost bc of american history
I know it
Absorbed by the mainstream
lost ndn 
Where could u be
Ur right in front of me
I’m sorry for your loss 
Come back home
119


English

Tell them and sigh

Dones, I.J.

!
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MICROREVIEW?
I.J. DONES
 The poem “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG?” by Sesshu Foster is part 
of a collection of poems published in Foster’s book, City of 
the Future. The Japanese-American poet’s collection includes a 
fusion of cultural identity and thematic commentary on the In-
dustrial Revolution and its twenty-first century repercussions. 
The book is mainly composed of prose poetry, and while the form 
is one of the most engaging aspects, Foster does not hesitate 
to add layers to his composition. “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG?” is 
an exception to the prose poetry theme, unlocking a deeper un-
derstanding of the piece and adding dimension to the book. Fos-
ter’s use of content, genre, and form in “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS 
DOG?” is the key to understanding Foster’s vision, theme, and 
precursor to the entire collection.
 Foster’s use of form is critical to understanding key el-
ements of his vision and theme. The poem is divided into two 
sections: prose poetry and line breaks. The first half of the 
poem is written in prose poetry, and every letter is capital-
ized. The poem’s second half is designed to look like contact 
slips on a ‘Lost Pet’ flyer; consequently, this section is 
turned on its side, creating chaos. Additionally, alternating 
the form creates a submersive effect, helping to portray the 
poem as a real advertisement. Foster also changed the contact 
slip format to all lowercase fonts. This detail may seem arbi-
trary, but Foster is trying to correct the chaos he introduced 
by making the prose poetry section all caps and by turning the 
poem on its side to convey sympathy and order. Returning to the 
traditional line breaks is an attempt to portray normalcy, es-
pecially since he separates both sections with “take one.” 
 Traditionally, ‘Lost Pet’ contact slips do not include any 
text, but Foster ignores tradition to convey his theme. Addi-
tionally, there is usually a picture of the lost pet. Instead, 
only one message suggests no urgency to find the lost dog. 
Choosing prose poetry form creates a sense of urgency, giving 
the poem momentum, but it also deviates from the traditional 
form of the ‘Lost Pet’ flyer. Collectively, these form choices 
convey emotional longing. The flyer seeks to reach out but is 
not concerned with the dog since the diction largely focuses on 
derogatory terms. Foster uses words like “WONT START”, “DIRTY”, 
67“DENTED”, “BAD”, “WOBBLE”, “MURKY”, “STOLEN”, “INFAMY”, 
and “CRASHED” to convey the deterioration of this car that 
could be a dog (19). In the end, he includes that “THIS 
DOG MIGHT STILL BE IN IT, BARKING AT PEOPLE,” but there is no 
picture of the dog. The quantity of the derogatory content com-
pared to the mention of a dog contradicts the narrator’s intent 
to find it. This conclusion leads to another question embedded 
in the form. What is the narrator trying to find, and what is 
the urgency? 
 The key to this question is in the other half of the form 
and disclosed by some content. The most notable aspect of the 
line break section is the indication to take one contact slip. 
In traditional ‘Lost Pet’ flyers, there is no request to take a 
number. The number is there for people who have seen or might 
have seen the dog, but Foster includes the request to take it. 
Consequently, the narrator longs for contact. This detail may 
seem far-fetched, but the second half’s diction and content 
make the conclusion evident. In the line breaks, the narrator 
pleads through repetition in every line, using the phrase “call 
me” (Foster 19). These lines are not cohesive, but some stand 
out more than others. Foster writes, “call me please call me 
today or tomorrow” and “call me I have something to say to you” 
(19). Foster is trying to send a message about solitude since 
the poem highlights a longing for contact within the form and 
diction. However, the reader might wonder why the contact slips 
contain different numbers and how this could be a plea for con-
tact and a break from solitude. 
 Foster’s use of content and genre is critical to under-
standing key elements of his vision and theme. The genre and 
content are identifiable by crucial aspects of the text, and 
they allude to the title and overall collection. Since the col-
lection title is City of the Future, it should be no surprise 
that the poem’s genre is science fiction. The main giveaway is 
the description of the dog. Foster states, “GOES BY THE NAME 
TOYOTACOROLLA 1970”, the first indicator that the setting does 
not fall under realism. This detail may seem like a mistake and 
subverted by the final statement about the dog, but the poem 
conveys the opposite within its chaotic form. 
 Additionally, the sister is mentioned as driving the 
“THING.” Aside from a fragmented stream-of-consciousness 
narration, the poem does not use non-indicative lan- L
68
guage, but the narrator refuses to describe the dog as an ani-
mal or the car as a car. Considering Foster’s entire collection 
and this “City of the Future”, the poem suggests that this may 
be a futuristic rideable dog created by Toyota. Reaching this 
conclusion aids in understanding that while there was a dog in 
the car, the two dogs are not the same, which enables the genre 
to convey another theme about importance. In this futuristic 
city, and based on the flyer, it is evident that technology is 
more valued than organic matter, supporting the theme of soli-
tude. By placing more importance on technology, humanity values 
itself less, which would generate a need for human contact. Re-
call the form and how the first half is prose poetry—a non-tra-
ditional form which appeals to people who value technology over 
organics. Then recall how the send half is written with line 
breaks—a traditional (old) form—and turned on its side, appeal-
ing to people that long for human contact. The poem establish-
es an undeniable connection between solitude and technological 
advancement.
 Others may argue that the poem is a job since it conveys 
humor and the contact slips include different numbers but con-
sider each number request as a different need. Foster states, 
“call me i am looking at you right now in a binocular… i feel 
soft white fur… this is not a trick or a joke” (19). These lines 
do not define the same person and even stipulate that it is not 
a joke. There is no way to argue that the narrator’s number is 
not within those slips. Furthermore, the content conveys an epi-
demic of solitude within these people. One of the contact slips 
describes a person looking at a car on fire (Foster 19). The 
person looking through binoculars could be anyone the narrator 
may know or see from their apartment, but what they all have in 
common is that their activities are performed in solitude and a 
plea for a call. 
 In conclusion, Foster’s use of content, genre, and form is 
critical to identifying the poem’s thematic meaning. Foster’s 
collection and his poems convey underlying solitude within 
technological advancement. Foster uses prose poetry to subvert 
the traditional form, depicting change. He uses genre to convey 
meaning and content to illustrate the theme. Altogether, this 
creates a symbiotic relationship between the poem and the col-
lection.


Have You Seen This Microreview?

Lerner, Jason

87AROUND DUSK 
JASON LERNER
 I don’t recognize the number on my phone, but I answer. 
It’s Bob, the manager from my old apartment. This is odd, con-
sidering Bob loathes me. When I lived in his building, he only 
dealt with my ex-girlfriend, the two striking up an unlikely 
friendship over makeup and George Clooney. We make small talk, 
I’m polite, and after a few minutes he asks if I’m still living 
locally. 
 “I’m over in the Valley, now.” I yawn into my arm, “Sher-
man Oaks.”
 It’s technically Van Nuys since I’m north of the 101, but he 
doesn’t need to know all that.
 “Listen kid,” Bob begins, his voice dropping a level above 
a whisper. “I didn’t just call to catch up—I need to talk to you in person about 
something. It’s…well, it’s strange.”
 Stretched out on my futon, I now prop myself up on my el-
bows, intrigued.
 “Strange how?”
 “Could you come over to the building tonight?”
 “Am in trouble?” I ask, suddenly suspicious of this im-
promptu contact—I’m trying to recall everything I destroyed be-
fore moving out, but the list of casualties is too long.
 “You’re not in trouble. You know me—I wouldn’t be calling 
you if it wasn’t important.”
 I look around at my spartan apartment: the blank canvas I 
bought months ago with the paint set still in its plastic, the 
stack of used philosophy books I haven’t opened since the day I 
purchased them, the tiny television playing Baywatch with the 
volume off: I can’t even pretend to be busy. 
 “Yeah, I guess I’m free.” 
 “Wonderful! Can you come by around six-thirty?”
 “Sure. What’s this all about, though?”
 “Trust me,” he says before hanging up. “You need to hear 
this in person.”
***
 I pull up to my old place off Hollywood Boulevard 
just after six-thirty, and Club my Honda. Even in the dead 
!
of summer with the sun still up, the tweakers and freaks are 
shambling around like the living dead, looking for a score. 
There’s fresh graffiti on the trunks of the dying palm trees 
lining the street, their angled shadows at this time of day re-
minding me of mausoleum pillars. That, and the red-tinged sky 
from the fires up north, lend an apocalyptic vibe to Hollywood 
that feels… appropriate. 
 My old building looks the same—shabby, slumping, and still 
an eyesore wedged between two newer, fancier condominiums ca-
tering to the influx of transplants. I stroll through the cin-
der block propped-open gate with a quick glance at the mailbox-
es, checking for familiar names and recognizing a few.
Bob answers his door on the third knock, and I’m taken aback 
by how poorly he’s aged in two years, his hair completely gray 
now, his gut more pronounced. 
 The aging queen still projects the same self-assured deca-
dence, though, greeting me in a bright green silk kimono with a 
yellow dragon curling up the side.  
 “Come in,” he says curtly, a cigarette dangling between 
his lips. “You’re letting all the cold air out.”
 I enter, then take the fuzzy pink recliner offered to me 
while he takes the loveseat, tucking his legs under him. He 
offers me a martini, and I politely decline. He makes some awk-
ward small talk about the weather and some terrible band he saw 
at the Echoplex the week before, and I finally get fed up with 
his banter.
 “Bob?” I interrupt. “Why am I here?”
 He hesitates.
 “First, you need to understand that I’m not crazy.”
 “Fine, it’s been established that you’re not crazy.” 
 “I’m not making any of this up.”
 “Making what up?”
 “Your old apartment.” 
 “What about it?”
 “It’s haunted.” he says, blowing smoke. “I haven’t been 
able to rent it for more than six months at a time since you 
moved out.”
 I laugh. He doesn’t. 
 “I lived in that apartment !fteen years.” I remind him.   
“It’s not haunted.”
89 “Yes, it is.”“I never once saw anything resembling Casper the Friendly—”
 “It’s haunted by you, Justin.” 
 I consider this.
“By me?”
 “Yes.”
“I’m haunting it?”
 “Yes.”
“Don’t you need to be dead to haunt something?” 
 “Apparently not.”
“Is the apartment vacant right now?”
 “It is.”
 “Then let’s go over there.” I invite, standing up. “I want 
to see my ghost.” 
 He takes a key from his robe pocket. 
 “Your timing is perfect—it gets active around dusk.”
 We cross the shaded courtyard while the collective hum of 
air conditioners provides the city equivalent of a cicada buzz. 
I keep my head down, embarrassed to be seen by my old neigh-
bors—I am the former pariah of the building, after all. When I 
lived here, the cops were called to my place no less than twen-
ty-five times.
 We at last reach my old one bedroom at the back of the 
building, and I’m relieved to see the door has been replaced. 
At least something is different. 
 Bob uses his key, and we go inside.
 It’s hard describing how I feel being back in a place I 
never thought I would see again. I lived here a decade and a 
half, experiencing the most important and difficult times of my 
life within these walls. The apartment stinks of fresh paint, 
the color a bland eggshell white. 
 When I lived here, the walls were constantly changing col-
ors, but never once were they ever eggshell white. The fist-sized 
holes I left in the plaster have obviously been patched up, the 
boot scuffs obliterated, the hundreds of nail holes puttied 
shut. 
 If not for my supposed ghost, it’s as if I never existed 
in this place. 
 The carpet is a dreadful cream color and new enough 
that we leave snowy footprints walking into the kitch-
90
en. There’s no stove or refrigerator, and the linoleum, once a 
groovy 60s baby shit yellow/brown, is now a tasteful checkered 
black and white tile. 
 “I’ve gotten lots of complaints about activity in here 
specifically,” Bob explains as he runs a thumb along the count-
er for dust, “Dishes shattering, the faucet turning on, people 
being shoved violently...”
 He turns to me. 
 “Have you talked to Sarah recently?” 
 I’m blindsided by this question. 
“Sarah? No… not for a long time. Why?” 
 “Just wondering.”
“Is she haunting this place, too?”
 He hesitates.
 “Yes, it’s the both of you.”
“Come on…”
 “The other tenants are scared!” he suddenly screams at me.  
 “They want to have a fucking exorcism in here, that’s how 
serious this is!” 
 At a loss for words, I follow him through the living room 
and down the hall past the bathroom to the bedroom. Despite the 
fresh paint and new blinds, it’s the same ugly room I remember, 
with the terrible view of the parking lot and the overflowing 
dumpsters. 
 “It’s the worst in here.” Bob explains, calm again but 
barely holding it together. “People being shaken awake, objects 
being thrown, sightings of you and Sarah—I’ve seen it with my 
own eyes, Justin.”
 “This is nuts.” 
 “You’ll see.” Bob promises, grabbing my hand and placing 
the key in it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to my 
air conditioning and my Housewives of Potomac marathon. Take your 
time. There’s power if you need light. Drop the key off when 
you’re done. Ciao.”
 “What do you expect me to do?”
 He pauses in the doorway.
 “Whatever you can, kid.”
 I hear him leave, and then it’s just me and the ghosts. 
 I remain completely still, waiting and listening for any-
thing supernatural to occur. After a few minutes I feel really 
stupid, and go into the living room to find the sunlight quickly 
91giving way to the encroaching night.  I make sure the paint is dry, then lean against the 
wall to watch YouTube videos on my phone. I do not like 
being here—it’s painful even two years later. I watch a couple 
funny dog compilation videos, and that cheers me up a little. 
I notice that it’s seven-twenty.
Dusk.
 Again, I wait in anticipation of spirits, my expectations 
slowly fading as the minutes tick by. After twenty minutes, I’m 
done waiting. 
 “Whatever.” I mutter, putting my phone away. I don’t want 
to admit it to myself, but I’m pretty disappointed, as if see-
ing the unexplainable will fill the holes that I carry inside.
 As I leave my spot for the front door, I notice a reflec-
tion of light gleaming off the bare wall. I look down the hall 
to see the bathroom light is now on, and my breath catches in 
my throat—this is getting interesting.
 Delighted and frightened, I force myself to walk down the 
hall and enter the bathroom. The walls are freshly painted like 
the rest of the apartment, but the painter was sloppy in here, 
the coat uneven, the counter drawers sealed shut. 
 Behind me is a new toilet, and to my sadness, a new bath-
tub. I remember my bathtub when I lived here: a huge, gaudy an-
tique. Whoever moves in will never know the wonders of a shared 
bath, or that this wet cathedral can safely hold three doz-
en burning candles before it gets dangerously hot and hard to 
breathe. 
 I remember her face emerging from the steam to kiss me in 
that old tub, and I catch myself beginning to dwell on Sarah, 
and put a stop to it at once. Realizing my bladder is full, I 
decide to christen this toilet with its first urination. 
 I unzip, and I’m in mid-stream and thinking about what to 
microwave for dinner when the door slams shut behind me, mak-
ing me scream and spin around, inadvertently pissing all over 
the bathtub. The sealed drawers begin rattling loudly in their 
inlets, then something pounds so hard on the door that I nearly 
fall into the tub. 
 This interaction stops as suddenly as it began, leaving me 
quaking and my heart jackhammering.
 “Hello?” I manage to say as I zip up with trembling 
92
fingers. 
 I slowly open the door and peek out, first to my left—the 
bedroom door is now shut—and then to my right. I opt for the 
living room, but first I rinse the tub out while cautiously 
watching the door. 
 In the living room, I take a seat against the far wall 
where our TV cabinet once stood. I wait and listen as the room 
grows gloomier, my thoughts journeying backwards in time. 
 My mind encapsulates thousands of hours in this room, 
alone or with Sarah or with friends, watching movies, smoking 
joints, ripping lines, playing a succession of video game con-
soles, listening to music... 
 I think about bands that formed, blew up, and broke up, 
all within the lifecycle of my relationship with Sarah, here in 
this apartment.
 Sarah… now that’s a painful chapter in my life. 
 You know this story: two kids from Nowhere, USA, fresh out 
of high school with no grounded plans like college. Just those 
big Hollywood delusions driving us onward. 
 This was our first apartment, and we had great and terri-
ble times together in these rooms. We loved and hated each oth-
er and forgave one another again and again within these walls, 
and in the end, we nearly destroyed each other trying to fix 
something that broke long ago. 
 Like I said, you know this story. 
Sarah escaped first, moving out suddenly one afternoon. I came 
home from work to find her gone, the place half-empty. Instead 
of leaving and starting over myself, I stayed another year and 
died every night in this apartment, missing and hating and lov-
ing her in equal parts. 
 The few lousy friends I had left finally wised up and 
called my parents to intervene, but only after I had overdosed 
on Vicodin and whiskey.
 I’m sweating profusely now, the room stifling, and I get up 
and open the window to let some air in. I look down the hall, 
and to my surprise I notice the bedroom door now stands open. 
I head back there to crack the window to get a cross-breeze 
going, and as I’m sliding it open, I catch not only my own re-
flection in the glass, but a younger me as well: shirtless, 
blotto, and deranged, watching from the shadowy corner.  
I wheel around to find the corner empty, then back at the mir-
ror: it’s just my reflection.
93I despise this fucking room.  I remember Sarah staying in here for weeks at a time 
during those darkest days: the blinds drawn, the constant 
crying. I remember our terrible arguments in here as we unrav-
eled. 
 I wasted my life with you.  
I remember when she said that to me. I was standing over in 
that corner, drunk and bare-chested and every bit the failure 
she thought I was. During that last year without her, this room 
became my tomb, as well.
 The sudden shattering of glass in the kitchen snaps me 
from these terrible recollections, and I rush to see what’s 
broken, switching on the kitchen light to discover nothing on 
the floor, and every cabinet standing open and empty. 
 I feel something like cool air brush past my arm, and I see 
the outline of Sarah over by the counter reaching into the cup-
boards, pulling dishes that aren’t there. I can’t make out what 
she’s screaming, but I place this event at once: it’s the night 
we drank too many bottles of red wine following weeks of chilly 
silence. A night of peace became a night of truths, and she 
broke every dish we owned when we ran out of words. 
 As this half-formed specter smashes phantom plates, I fo-
cus on the counters behind her, and suddenly recall the bet-
ter times: the countless meals made on those countertops, and 
the bottles and drinks covering them during New Year’s Eve’s, 
this kitchen packed shoulder to shoulder with laughing, happy 
friends.
 Good times.
 Sarah’s specter slowly fades away, and I’m alone once 
again.  
 Two hours pass without any signs of the paranormal. 
 It’s almost ten, and I’m sitting in the slab of light 
from the kitchen doorway, recalling my 30th birthday in this 
room, when a sudden pounding on the front door jars me from my 
thoughts. 
 I watch the deadbolt snap right, the door swing open and 
stop abruptly as if caught by an invisible hand, then slam shut 
hard enough to shake the walls and rattle pictures that aren’t 
there. 
94
 Two figures begin to take shape not five feet from me. I’m 
sitting rigid and enrapt, reliving this particular event that 
took place five months before the end. By then, I had been on 
the couch seven months, and we hadn’t been intimate with one 
another in over a year, passing each other in these rooms like 
strangers.
 Like ghosts. 
It was only a matter of time before one of us cheated.
 Unfortunately, it was me. 
 I watch the two ghosts move around the room in partial 
form, their screaming perfect recreations of myself and Sar-
ah at our worst. I cringe when my phantom shouts, I only stayed with 
you because I felt sorry for you! before heading down the hall, punching 
the wall and the bathroom door before slamming the bedroom door 
shut. 
 That’s where my recollection of the argument ends, but now 
I’m cruelly treated to the unseen aftermath: I watch her shad-
ow in the kitchen doorway, her head down with her hand over her 
mouth, sobbing into it as quietly as possible. After a moment, 
the shadow turns and goes to the sink and leans against it, 
shuddering. 
 I’m on my feet and in the doorway in a heartbeat, trying 
to comfort a phantasm from an event long ago.
 “I’m so sorry I ever said that to you, Sarah.” I whisper to the 
ghost. “It’s one of my biggest regrets, baby.” 
 I don’t expect a response, but the shade turns and looks at 
me as it dissipates, as if hearing me across time and space. At 
that I drop to my knees, unable to cope with the hurt any lon-
ger. I let my tenuous guard crumble as I cry, these bare walls 
all too familiar with my pain. When I’m done, I pick myself up 
and wash my face in the kitchen sink and dry my cheeks with my 
shirt, another long-forgotten ritual relived. 
 I return to the bedroom and plant myself against the wall 
where the headboard once was, and make myself remember the good 
times in this damned room—making love to Sarah in our bed, 
sharing our dreams and hopes and fears in the dark.
Making promises we never thought we’d break.
 Realization strikes me hard, and I understand at last what 
this is all about—of course it is. A single event. 
 It happened right here. 
 I hear her before I see her, not two feet in front of me 
95and laying on her side atop a bed no longer there. A bent shadow sits at the corner of this bed that isn’t there, and 
I know it’s me. 
 This is it—the moment just after Sarah found out she 
couldn’t have children, and also the moment I realized I would 
never be a father if I stayed with her. 
 In the end I did stay with her, and I promised her it could 
work, that the two of us would be enough, and for a while it was 
enough. 
 It was, until it wasn’t.
 “I love you, Sarah.” I whisper. “I’m sorry.” 
 When the spirits fade, I clumsily get to my feet and wipe 
my eyes. 
 Stepping into the hallway, the bathroom light turns on. 
 Unafraid, I enter. In the mirror I see how tired I look, 
yet beneath my weariness… is a peacefulness I never believed I 
would find again, especially in this place. 
 The bathroom door slams shut behind me, and I don’t even 
flinch. The drawers begin to violently shake in their paint-
sealed slots, and when they stop, on impulse I take hold of the 
top-drawer handle and force it open, breaking the shell of dry 
paint along its cracks. I’m not surprised to see a folded note 
with my name scrawled on it in neat print I recognize at once. 
I touch the paper to make sure it’s real before picking it up 
and reading it. 
Justin,
Bob called me about what’s happening here. I asked him to call you, but to not mention me 
because I didn’t think you’d come if he did. I’m leaving this note in this drawer, and in the 
hands of fate. Maybe you’ll never !nd it. If you are reading this, though, then you’ve seen what 
I’ve seen, and you know we have un!nished business. I don’t want to be angry anymore. Bob 
will give you my new number if you ask him for it. 
With love, S
 I read the note two more times before folding and pocket-
ing it. 
 It’s nearly midnight—Bob will still be awake, and 
I’ll get Sarah’s number from him and we’ll deal with this 
96
unfinished business.
 Together. 
 I open the front door to a starless night, and hesitate in 
the doorway: I’m frightened of the unknown, yet excited by the 
possibilities. How will this time be any different than before? 
Does more pain and disappointment await us?
 I feel the ghosts at my back, urging me to stay and visit 
a little while longer, but I resist their invitation—I have to 
leave them and this place behind.
Life demands it. 
 With a deep breath, I let go.


Around Dusk

Cooper, Brianne

97
 Open your eyes. Look around. Squint a bit, from the 
blinding reflections of white teeth and white hair and white 
walls and white lights. Glance and see the empty, yawning space 
that stretches so far it turns into a foggy haze, only inter-
rupted by a single white desk. Be welcomed to the family by a 
couple kindly figures with clasped hands and polished grace. One 
introduces himself, Michael, and tells you that he and his as-
sociates do not like to be called anybody’s superiors, although 
everyone inevitably reports back to them regardless of title. 
They tell you that you are here to make things better, to im-
prove the lives of the people. Poor things, they lament to you, so 
unable to help themselves without the guidance of those who know best.
 You do not know much of humanity yet. There is time to 
learn. For now, just nod and take to heart your new purpose—you 
are a guide to the path of a better, more honorable life.
 You start out being given small tasks. People always need 
more food, and seeing them bow their heads in thanks for an-
other day without hunger leaves you feeling proud. You welcome 
weary and struggling people, even if only temporarily, and send 
them off having listened to their stories. You start collecting 
ideas for what you and your family can improve.
 Lose yourself in helping as many people as you can. Min-
utes or lifetimes or mere seconds pass for all that you’re 
paying attention, hands now calloused from hauling lifesaving 
supplies to those in need and toiling alongside them to build 
better lives. 
 Societies rise and fall, but you notice that there are 
always groups coming out of it better off than they should be. 
Take your concerns to Michael, asking why there is such in-
equality between the people who are growing fat and lazy in 
their greed, and others who claw and struggle just for scraps. 
That’s just the way it is, he says, shaking his head in 
tepid disapproval. Some people just take advantage of their opportuni-
SERAPH 
BRIANNE COOPER
98
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ties and improve their lives in greater quantities than others. No use worrying about it 
when you’re busy guiding others. He pats your shoulder and gives you a 
smile, asking instead about what you’ve been up to recently. 
You’ve lived amongst humanity now. You’ve seen the shin-
ing eyes and smile-lined mouths of a couple laughing with each 
other, youthful joy just as apparent three decades into their 
marriage as it was at the start. You’ve witnessed the soft beam 
of a mother looking down at her child in awe, as small and pre-
cious as the life she just brought into the world while death 
rages around her. You’ve seen the reassuring upturn of lips 
from a father as he told his children to eat, knowing that he 
could not afford enough food to feed them all. 
 You’ve seen many smiles, so it is clear to you now that 
Michael’s is fake.
 Despite your best efforts and those of your family, the 
world only seems to get worse. You’re forced to bear witness to 
the accumulation of wealth among those who misuse it with wrath 
and greed at heart. You’ve tried talking to Michael again, tried 
contacting other superiors of yours, but have been dismissed 
each time. Violence has become prevalent to a wasteful degree. 
The loss of life is not something you can easily ignore, like 
the others. 
 It is by mere chance that you see a flash of white while 
offering your help in a war-torn, bleeding city. You’ve wan-
dered away from their refuge, searching for any injured or dy-
ing who need help among the rubble. The dusty wind blows copper 
and smoke into your nose until you can smell nothing else. Your 
clothes were stained gray long ago, but you know the grime will 
settle on them in a way you won’t be able to fully get rid of 
after today. 
 The noise clues you in first. The thundering of a tank 
or several coming down the adjoining street, followed by the 
marching of heavy boots. Press yourself against the wall, peer-
ing out as much as you dare. Behind the tank, in an armored ve-
hicle, sits white teeth and white hair and white suit. Pristine 
and out of place, compared to his surroundings. Next to him, the 
!warlord of the region, malevolent smirk on full display as he takes in the leveled buildings and plumes of dark smoke 
polluting the sky. The parade passes by. Without thinking, 
follow on unsteady feet.
 Stay hidden, and wait for them to retreat back to the war-
lord’s palace. Listen to them discuss profit and loss, planning 
a future around the suffering of a dying people wiped out by 
their hand. Of course this needed to happen, Michael simpers, it’s all so you 
and your people can have better lives. 
 You’ve heard enough.
 Return to where you were once welcomed into something you 
thought was just. Look at where the shadows now seem to creep 
around corners farther than they should be able, look at the 
hint of fang and malice beneath pleasant veneers.
 Look back at what you’re leaving behind, one last time. 
Look into the eyes of those who claimed to be family and see 
them now for what they are, so unlike how they see through you, 
ravenous for their own self-importance and veiled greed.
 Turn back around.
 Jump.
 Set your wings ablaze on the way down—better the pain than 
the reminder of your association to them. 
 Scream amidst your agony. Let the ash and smoke bleed them 
black, half branded and wholly monstrous. 
 Become better.


Seraph

Alvarado, Corie

|  55 |
Only a few hours old, you held
my hand for the first time. Tiny fingers cocooned
in yours—tan, covered in age spots, with small
birthmarks that I grew to count.
Fourteen.
Twenty-six years later, you held my
hand a final time. A breathing tube filled
your throat while you traced impatient
circles along embroidered yellow flowers.
Your hands remained weeks after, guiding me as I
picked shards of glass from the floor of dreams; white
cactus flowers among ears of blue and white corn.
Yours steadied mine, soaked in tears that
tasted like Sunday Morning Mass.
We deserved more time in corn fields sprouting
from rust colored dirt. More time swimming up red-rocked
streams, its waters rushing loudly down mountain sides. I
needed more time under hot Arizona suns, brighter
than the false fluorescence of that hospital room.
Your last six days still lay scribbled in your cursive: the
last prayer, a hand, that I still cling to.
You are never parted from the beating of my heart.
C o r i e  A l v a r a d o
H a n d s ,  a n  A p a c h e
P r a y e r


Hands, an Apache Prayer

goli, sam

|  52 |
s a m  g o l i
a  p h i l o s o p h e r  s a i d 
t a s t e  d e p e n d s  o n  c l a s s
miles away, distressed acidwashed
skinny jeans lie
folded on a table—rag
and bone,
two hundred
and fifty plus
tax
here, could pay her month’s rent, could
buy her time to relax. instead
she washes and folds until her bones
show, cleans floors on her knees, ignoring
her grumble below—acid
rising. at home with her children, wiping
bread crumbs from their faces with a rag,
damp from distress and
    a bit of milk.
before bed, hands folded, head
bowed, sews up holes in torn
little pants.


a philosopher said taste depends on class

Needham, Tim

|  48 |
T i m  N e e d h a m
The universe, I have learned,
is dangling on a string,
hanging from a lid,
inside a trash can,
filled, of course, with fireflies.
Well … that explains everything,
   doesn’t it?
(but only for a moment)
Until I begin to wonder:
What is outside the trashcan?
 and
How did it get there?
 and
What day is trash day?
T h e  U n i v e r s e  P o e m


The Universe Poem

Lopez, Steph

|  45 |
Prep time: 2 minutes to whatever time he tells everyone he lasts.
Cook time: 9 months
Total time: A lifetime
Serves 5.
Ingredients:
3 eggs
3 teaspoons semen
2 undocumented adults
2 diagnoses of anxiety and depression
1 promised American dream
1 diagnosis of cancer (a premalignant tumor may be used as a 
substitute)
2 college tuitions
5 mouths to feed
4 underpaid workers
1 tablespoon of salt
1 ½ cup of tears, separate ½ a cup
30,000 dollars
A pinch of misunderstanding
for added flavor: A dash of selfish desire
Instructions:
1. Add the 2 undocumented adults to a mixing bowl and mix in 1 
promised American dream
and put to the side.
2. In another bowl, whisk together the 30,000 dollars, ½ cup of 
tears, and 1 tablespoon of
salt. Combine ingredients with that of first bowl.
3. Simmer on medium low for a few years, gradually mixing in the 
S t e p h  L o p e z
A  R e c i p e  F o r  F a m i l y 
D y s f u n c t i o n
|  46 |
eggs and semen, and the remaining cup of tears.
Note: 3 children should be produced. If it begins to thin too much a dash of 
nagging grandma may help.
4. Slowly begin to fold in all remaining ingredients.
Caution: Mixing in both diagnoses of depression and anxiety may cause 
adverse reactions and a sour taste.
5. Take off heat and cover.
6. Fight over portion sizes, and serve cold.
A Recipe For Family Dysfunction |  Lopez


A Recipe For Family Dysfunction

Marshall , Sierra

Dinner Party

Leaños, Angelina

269
NR
Le
a
ña
The
y Trie
d
 To
 Bury U
s |
 A
ng
e
lina
 Le
a
ño
s
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 g
irl I w
a
nt to
 m
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rry te
lls m
e
 she
’s no
t e
no
ug
h 
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 p
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te
c
t m
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 fro
m
 a
 w
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rld
 tha
t m
e
re
ly 
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e
fo
re
 to
ssing
 us a
sid
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 a
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 b
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rn a
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 in the
 sa
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 w
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m
 fo
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o
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s like
 us 
I w
ill no
t le
t m
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g
a
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 b
urie
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 b
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fo
re
 
M
y sto
ry ha
s b
e
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n w
ritte
n 
I’m
 a
 rive
r o
f w
o
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s una
fra
id
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 c
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M
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 the
 g
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rth tha
t w
a
she
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w
a
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ur vo
ic
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 sta
ins 
W
e
 w
ill p
la
nt so
nne
ts in the
 so
il, sc
a
tte
r e
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g
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s 
In the
 se
a
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nd
 b
lo
o
m
 b
o
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re
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b
s
A
t le
a
st I o
f a
ll p
e
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p
le
 kno
w
 Po
w
e
r b
y he
r fig
ure
 
Eve
n w
he
n she
 is a
b
se
nt.


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