California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Eve Cheby, Lisa

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12
8
PO
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R
Y


English

Granite is the most common plutonic rock

Rhett, Amelia

Mango Tree

Russell, Aja

Sour
Everyone has tasted something sour. Limes, vinegar, candy. 
Most people enjoy it, to a degree. 
It’s a novelty. Some people can’t stand it, even a little bit; 
they want it as far away from them as 
possible. Some people claim that they can never get 
enough, that they wish everything they ate 
was sour. 
But that’s not true. It can’t be. Because acid is an irritant, no 
matter what you do.
There is a limit. 
Your mouth starts to feel raw.  
Your stomach aches. 
So you stop eating.
Some people are like that. 
Sour. 
You like them at first. They warn you that it won’t last. That 
your mouth will get sore, and your 
stomach will start to hurt. That you’ll leave.
And they’re right.
Because they’ve seen it so many times before.
138
You’ll try your best to stay, to push through, but they will 
slowly dissolve your strength. The 
things they say, the way they act, the things they do. Will 
slowly start to wear on you, like 
sandpaper in your mouth. And the more it wears, the worse 
it feels to have even a little bit. Until 
you can’t tolerate it anymore.
“You’re an acquired taste.” 
“You’re fine in small doses.”
“If you could just tone it down a little bit.”
You don’t have to sugar coat it.
They know.
They’re annoying. 
They’re too much to handle. 
They know.
They know because their mouths are blistered. Their 
stomachs always churn. 
But they can’t stop eating. They can’t eat anything else.
“Why are you like that?”
Sour.
I don’t know.
139POETRY


Sour

Ruffus, Stephen

51IN LIEU OF
STEPHEN RUFFUS
It is a flood, dark waters 
that cannot drown my sadness.
 
In lieu of flowers make me the dreamer 
who sees him standing at my door.
 
He will speak to me, say my name 
so I may bear this grieving.
 
Drop the petals, lay out a path for me 
toward him deep within the wood.
 
There, I will feel his breath 
in the shaking of the leaves.
 
The full moon has forgotten to rise. 
I hear the earth turning endlessly.
 
Night is a hollow bone. 
Let the pain burrow inside me.
 
The bouquets appear sullen now 
and are returning to seeds.
 
I still see him as though asleep 
as though he had been praying.
 
Being fated to memory, 
in lieu of flowers I choose the fire.
A


In Lieu Of

Nagey, Thaddeus

Because It\u27s Sunny in LA (Especially on Skidrow)

Lopez, Steph

|  106 |
In hindsight I knew it wasn’t a good decision. I mean anyone 
could have seen that. But they were all doing it, every last one of 
them. And I didn’t want to seem like a wimp. So I stared up at the 
tree...it didn’t look inviting like Grandmother Willow, nope. The 
tree was giant, branches sprouting from everywhere, but some 
of the branches were small, some big, some cut at an angle…as if 
someone tried to tame it but could never quite accomplish it. It was 
most definitely unlike any tree I had ever seen, and reminded me 
of nothing more than the mountainous thorns on which Maleficent 
perched her winged form.
But I climbed
and climbed
and climbed.
And when I turned to see behind me, I saw nothing but the 
leaves blowing in the heavy breeze. It was peaceful. There was no 
one beside me, no one below me. I was alone. But that didn’t matter, 
I had done it and everyone saw me go up. The light that shone 
through the branches next to me caught my attention. I stood there 
in awe, and saw shades of brown everywhere. The leaves swaying, 
a golden brown in the sun. The branch beneath my feet matching 
the color of the wall of a house in the distance. The dirt being kicked 
up by the children, those who pushed me to climb, those who now 
looked like ants. Like coppered-skinned little ants. They scramble 
around the patched field of dead grass after a ball. The more I looked 
out, the more I wanted to see how much the world would change if I 
went further. I wanted to know if I could reach the moon and pull it 
closer to me, just for the night. Only halfway there I thought, the kids 
before me walking further up before jumping off.
So I climbed, again. Going up until there was no more to go. The 
L a  L u n a
S t e p h  L o p e z
|  107 |
wind was stronger is here, pushing the leaves into a dance I had 
never seen. I loved it. My hair was in a ponytail but I was positive 
that if it wasn’t I would’ve looked like Pocahontas in that moment. 
I closed my eyes and breathed in the air, pretending that I would 
never have to leave.
“¿Qué haces? ¡Bajate de allí niña!” 
I opened my eyes to see the bane of my 6-year-old existence, 
the temperamental teacher who even my mother hated. She looked 
furious, even from up here, I could see the small vein popping 
from her forehead. She made her way closer and closer to the tree. 
I scurried, trying to make it down before she could catch me. But 
climbing was easy, getting down was not. I moved carefully, stepping 
around each jagged branch. I could still hear her yelling. I stepped on 
the next branch, it was a little one but it seemed sturdy. My foot went 
on it, bending it slightly, and SNAP.
For a second, I saw everything. I felt everything. I felt my head 
being tugged upwards by something near my jaw. I saw the teacher 
rush to my side, pushing me up and sliding me into her arms. I saw 
red, dripping from my cheeks and onto my shirt. I saw the kids 
rushing towards me. But that second passed, and then I saw nothing.
I woke hours later, from what I was told. But I don’t remember 
much. All I remember is being flooded with brown. I opened my 
eyes and saw nothing but the brown I love, one that matched the 
leaves in the trees. The one in my mom’s eyes. She pulled me close 
and told me never again.
I looked up at her as she said it, the tears streaming down her 
face. I hid in her chest. It wasn’t until a week later when she was 
changing the bandages that I told her about the moon, about the 
wind in my hair. She just smiled and said,
“La luna está más cerca que nunca.”
La Luna |  Lopez


La Luna

Hernandez, Israel

|  100 |
L a  L l o r o n a
I s r a e l  H e r n a n d e z
Where is she? I can’t remember where I placed her. I thought I 
left her next to my bag of meth, but she’s not there. I run to my small 
room and check the busted wooden crib next to my mattress. It’s 
empty.
“Rosa? Rosita? Where the fuck is my baby?” I cry in desperation, 
hoping she’ll respond. But she won’t. She’s only a month old, or has 
it been two already? “Cry! Laugh! Do something you stupid child!”
And then I hear it, coming from outside. A soft echo of a cry 
slithers in through the window. That’s not Rosa. It’s a grown woman. 
I step outside and realize the woman is sobbing loudly. I wonder if 
any of the neighbors will come out, but the dark houses look sound 
asleep. My bare feet pick up the cold dirt and carry it with me as I 
follow the cry. I see her at the end of the street, sitting on the edge 
of the river. Her boney bare feet are clean, as they’re brushed by the 
stream.
“Rosa?” I yell, even though I know the woman isn’t her, but I’m 
scared. I clumsily dance my bruised brown legs over to her as if 
they’re broken. I know she’s close enough to hear me. I yell louder 
than her cry. “Rosa!”
The woman stops. I feel my heartbeat do the same. My hands 
shake as I get closer and her image clears up. She wears a white lace 
veil over her head of long black hair with a matching white gown. I 
only see her from behind, but I see she is cradling something in her 
arms.
“Are you looking for something?” she asks me without turning 
around. 
“Yes, I...” I hesitate. I feel stupid saying it out loud. “I’ve lost my 
child.”
I stop a few feet behind her. Too scared to get any closer. She 
stays silent, all I hear is the gentle stream of water splash against the 
rocks. Spla, splash.
“Have you seen her?” I ask. 
Spla, splash.
|  101 |
I try to peek at what she holds in her arms, but she keeps moving 
them. She looks back suddenly and I jump back in fear. Her skin is 
so tight on her face she looks made of bone. Her eyes are the darkest 
black I’ve ever seen. Still, she looks me up and down. I see her judge 
me. I see her wonder why I’m barefoot, why my legs are bruised, 
why I lost my child. I see her wonder if I love my child. But I know I 
love Rosita. That’s why I’m looking for her.
When I look behind the woman’s frightening face I see the 
blanket-wrapped baby in her arms. I see Rosa. The woman must 
know because she gets up immediately, clutching my baby while she 
turns to face me.
“You’re not a mother,” she says. And I see the truth in the darkness 
of her eyes. 
“Give me my child,” I cry, falling knees first on the dirt.
“Rosita is my child,” she says.
I see her take my child and throw her in the river. I jump in 
desperately waving my arms but all I find is the blanket Rosa was 
wrapped in. She’s lost my child again and now she’s gone. I cry in the 
river as I dive down in search of Rosa. Underwater, I remember my 
beautiful baby. I remember the warm water washing her soft skin. I 
get out of the water and run back home. The pebbles and ants pinch 
the dirty soles of my feet. I run to the tub and pull her out. The water 
still feels warm, but her body doesn’t.
“Rosa!” I cry. I shake her small body, but she stays still. 
She took her.
La Llorona |  Hernandez


La Llorona

Chen, Carrie

Duality

Get This Dance!

Ann Heimann, Mary

33 
Mary Ann Heimann 
Blue Prom Dress 
(for Barbara) 
She had it hanging by her desk, 
for her daughter's prom, she said 
and it was the deep blue shimmering of a lake 
with all the lurking promise. 
You could drown in a dress like that ... 
In its depths I saw my daughter 
not quite two and 
swathed in damp, white cotton, 
my impatience a stopwatch 
urging her on 
faster, faster 
to move beyond the circumference 
of my shadow. 
Then time got stuck on fast forward 
and I saw her grow in jerky motion 
throwing off rocking horse and pinafore 
until she stopped 
at the blue prom dress 
and I was left alone, trembling on the shore. 


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