ScholarWorks @ SeattleU (Seattle University)

Ferguson, Emma

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 1 
2022 
Beautiful 
Emma Ferguson 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Ferguson, Emma (2022) "Beautiful," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 1. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/1 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
 1 
Beautiful 
By Emma Ferguson  
 
“You look beautiful!”  
I look up from trying to put in my links, surprised to see my mom leaning against the door 
frame of my bedroom.   
“Mom, don’t say that. I’m handsome or macho!” I correct jokingly, dismissing the compliment, 
as my mom walks into the room to sit softly on the side of the bed, half made and covered in the 
clothes I was wearing earlier.  
Putting on a suit is no joke, and making sure it looks perfect is even harder. But it’s prom, so 
might as well go all out, right? I smooth my hands down the side of my satin jacket, abandoning 
putting in the cuff links to admire the texture of my suit in the mirror. I had gone shopping with dad a 
week ago to find the perfect suit for the occasion, one that I could use again in the future. After three 
different shops all scattered across the city, I finally found this one.  
Putting a spin on a classic look, I chose the black satin jacket to go with the nice black slacks, 
white button up shirt and matching black satin tie. I felt like James Bond when I tried it on for the first 
time—even did the hand guns in the dressing room mirror, not that anyone needs to know that.   
  “No,” my mom says earnestly, “Aaron, you look beautiful.”  
I look up to see her with tears shining in her eyes as she looks at me in the suit. Overwhelmed 
by the emotion behind that statement, I look down at my shoes and put my hands in my pocket. I’d 
never thought of myself as beautiful before. I wasn’t super muscular like my wrestling friend Jake or 
super skinny like my friend Haris. I’d always told myself I was going to start going to the gym and get 
super fit, but it just never happened. I usually tried to not think about the way my body looked because 
it makes me anxious when I focus on it too much, my chest tightening painfully. But it sounds so true 
coming out of my mom's mouth.  
“Thanks Mom,” I say back softly.  
This is the closest I’ve felt to being beautiful. Is that weird? It almost makes me sad to think 
that this is something that I haven't felt before. My eyes start watering for an entirely different reason 
than my mom’s.  
I turn from my mom, facing myself to look into the mirror again as I, once again, start to 
attempt to put my cufflinks on. My mom’s feet patter softly over the carpeted floor as she walks up 
beside me, wrapping her arms around me to put her arms on my shoulders in a tender embrace. We 
make eye contact in the mirror just as I finish the last cuff, both of our eyes sparkling, and we share a 
private smile.  
1
Ferguson: Beautiful
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2022
 2 
She rubs my arms and then leaves the room to let me finish getting ready. I go and take the seat 
where my mom was and slip on my nice dress shoes, shiny from the polish my dad helped me give 
them last night. And as I stand up to go downstairs, I glance one last time at myself in the mirror and 
whisper quietly to myself, “I am beautiful,” before I quickly wipe under my eyes and hurry out of the 
room ready for a fun night.  
2
Fragments, Vol. 64 [2022], Art. 1
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/1


English

Beautiful

Calton, Carissa

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 5 
2022 
10 
Carissa Calton 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Calton, Carissa (2022) "10," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 5. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/5 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
It is 12:00 am. 
It is 12:00 am and we are sitting on the top of her car, my shoes rested gently against the windshield. I 
can sense her behind me, though I don’t turn to face her. I am thinking about our combined weight on 
the roof of her car, becoming increasingly conscious of gravity pressing down upon us. On some 
illogical impulse I shift my weight and lift my hands. They hesitate in the air a moment before settling 
back against my thighs. My palms feel cold against the metal. 
It is 12:04 am.  
I study the shapes of the hills in the dark. I read once that in the absence of light, the human brain seeks 
out the familiar. A primordial skill, but one with consequence when people see faces and figures in the 
dark that aren’t quite right. 
I don’t see anything in the hills. Just a vague impression that my brain is willing to accept as the rise 
and fall of land.  
It is 12:06 am.  
I feel her hand brush up against mine. Her fingertips rest beside my own, and I am more aware of her 
presence than ever. I know I should turn to face her, but gravity holds me in place. I wonder what her 
face looks like in the dark. It occurs to me that my brain may fill in the gaps, and I imagine her features 
shifting in the dim light; The curve of her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, the shape of her 
eyebrows, all subtly wrong. It is an uncomfortable thought. My hand shifts away before I can consider 
the consequences. It is done. The moment is over, the night has ended. My eyes are fixed on the hills as 
I hear the impact of her shoes on gravel. 
It is 12:10 am. 
We drive in silence. It is not unfriendly, and when I glance across she offers me a smile. But her eyes 
are distracted and far away. I suppose mine are too. The integrity of her face remains intact under the 
dim, shifting light of the streetlamps. She is whole and perfect, safe from my brain’s flawed 
interpretation. It feels impossible to explain this to her, but the silence is comfortable and brings its 
own sense of understanding. I close my eyes and let the artificial light wash over us. For now, it is 
enough.   
 
1
Calton: 10
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2022


Kelly-Jervis, Lily

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 16 
2022 
Malu 
Lily Kelly-Jervis 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Kelly-Jervis, Lily (2022) "Malu," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 16. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/16 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
Malu 
 
in the malu 
of the mahina 
shadows 
 
in your malu 
in your body’s view 
 
a womb inside a womb inside a womb’s heart 
uncovers the malu of your hidden scars 
 
disturbing the heavens 
your art    
 tears apart   
heavenly silence   
trailing   
running 
 
reaching   
living       
 
between your 
‘umalu 
and you 
  
1
Kelly-Jervis: Malu
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2022
tails 
or heads 
Find a Penny/Pick it Up 
 
find a penny 
 pick it up 
  put it in your mouth 
       and suck 
all day long  
you’ll have [bad] luck 
   
 
            it doesn’t matter 
    your blood will still p 
        o 
            u 
                r 
        lo͞oziNG 
           iron 
      bleeding 
          air 
       leaking 
        cries 
          iRONically 
suffocating 
on the face of 
your maiden name 
who wouldn’t watch  
this amazing race 
handed down pennies 
reach down your throat 
hand you your heart 
pumping out blood  
in the fist of honest abe 
tarnishing the zincoln 
name 
 
2
Fragments, Vol. 64 [2022], Art. 16
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/16


Malu

Selthun, Elena

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 4 
2021 
Superstitions 
Elena Selthun 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Selthun, Elena (2021) "Superstitions," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 4. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/4 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
1 
 
Superstitions 
Elena Selthun 
 
 
When I first heard the word “Sinagua” as a kid, around 
seven or eight years old, it sounded made-up, the kind of 
word you might find in a fantasy book as the name of a 
far-off city or a mysterious wizard. The context didn’t 
help: I was standing in a quiet, wooded canyon with my 
parents, sleepy little sister, and a small group of other 
tourists, all of us staring, agape, at the cliff dwellings 
surrounding us on all sides. “The Sinagua Indians built 
these pueblos over seven hundred years ago,” the guide 
told us, gesturing to the walls of reddish stone and adobe 
bricks tucked neatly beneath the canyon’s limestone 
ledges, just out of reach.  
I had no concept of how long seven hundred 
years might be, but I remember looking at the Sinagua 
pueblos and thinking it couldn’t really be that long. They 
looked old, but not that old. You could have told me that 
people lived in them fifty years ago – as old as my 
family’s little ranch house in Phoenix – and I would have 
1
Selthun: Superstitions
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021
2 
 
believed it. Some of the walls were crumbling; many were 
not. They had doorways, windows, even alcoves that 
could be beds or tables with a little imagination, and I 
wasn’t short on imagination when I saw Walnut Canyon 
National Monument for the first time.  
Some pueblos were enshrouded from our prying 
eyes, and unless the sun touched them at just the right 
angle, the doorways led to small pockets of total 
darkness, hidden in the safety of the canyon walls 
themselves. The longer I looked at these homes, the 
longer I walked down the meandering canyon trail and 
caught glimpses of more doors, more bricks, more 
worlds tucked just out of reach through the trees, the 
more I began to believe two things: seven hundred years 
was a very long time, and this was the most unreal place I 
had ever stepped foot in. I didn’t have the words for it 
then, but I felt like a voyeur in Walnut Canyon, peering 
into empty houses, breathing in the scent of dusty 
Ponderosa pine and wondering what happened here. The 
guide kept telling us they didn’t know where the Sinagua 
went or why they left, like it was some big mystery to be 
solved. I wasn’t so sure they had left at all. I kept looking 
at those black doorways, only to walk quickly past when I 
got close, cold sweat sliding down the back of my neck, 
2
Fragments, Vol. 63 [2021], Art. 4
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/4
3 
 
half-convinced that if I looked too hard, I might see 
someone looking back. I kept looking, anyway.  
Sinagua,” I whispered to myself in the backseat on 
the drive home. Saying it beyond that entombed canyon 
felt like a curse, or maybe a promise, although I suppose 
that’s what curses are. I had a fondness for words as a 
kid, but I didn’t know what to do with this one. I didn’t 
write it with the others, but I didn’t forget it, either. 
Maybe it didn’t let me forget it.  
It was only in my first Spanish class in seventh 
grade that the actual meaning struck me: Sin agua. 
Without water. I laughed as I put the pieces together: not 
a name of intrigue and magic after all, but a gross 
inaccuracy. The Spaniards, baffled by mountains without 
rivers, named them the Sierra Sin Agua, now the San 
Francisco Peaks. But their first name is from the Navajo 
(the Spanish thrust names upon people and places alike – 
their self-given name is Diné, the People): Dookʼoʼoosłííd, 
or “the summit which never melts,” the highest point in 
Arizona. These mountains, like all of the mountains 
encircling the Verde Valley (Yavapai name: 
Matkʼamvaha), are volcanic. They are quiet; just sleeping, 
not dead. Beneath their perpetual snowcaps lies ancient 
fire, but the Spanish were wrong – they hold water, too. 
3
Selthun: Superstitions
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021
4 
 
Without the water in the aquifer beneath 
Dookʼoʼoosłííd’s caldera, the neighboring city of 
Flagstaff would be just another of many ghost towns, 
lost to boom and bust. Unlike the Sinagua, the people 
who built those doomed towns didn’t understand the 
vital rule of the Southwest: water is life.  
I learned this early on. Heat stroke sets upon the 
human body with deceptive slowness; you don’t realize 
what’s been taken from you until your vision blurs and 
your skin grows clammy with the precious water wicking 
off of you. Even then, our brains don’t easily grasp 
dehydration. We live on the Blue Planet, our bodies are 
sixty percent water, the damn stuff falls from the sky – 
how can it ever run out? This is what I would have 
thought if my brain had any water left to think when I 
almost died in the Superstition Mountains. It wasn’t 
dramatic, the way it happened. I just sat down on a rock 
next to a saguaro old enough to remember the 
prospectors, tucking myself into its lone strip of shade, 
and told my family to go on without me with all the 
urgency of needing to tie my shoe. I only remember this 
vaguely, like the echoes of a dream right after you wake 
up. What I remember most is that big blue sky, cloudless 
and even like an ironed sheet strung between the 
4
Fragments, Vol. 63 [2021], Art. 4
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/4
5 
 
clotheslines of the horizons. In my desiccated haze, I 
wanted to sit there and stare into that blue sky until I 
joined it. Maybe it looked like water to my parched brain. 
Then my mom shoved her water bottle into my hands 
and made me drink.  
If they had left me, I think I’d still be there, 
staring. Under the Sonoran sky, it’s hard to tell if you are 
mortal or eternal, but the sun will always remind you in 
the end. Water is life. 
Water is also death. Walnut Canyon’s neighbor is 
another National Monument, the Spanish misnomer 
Montezuma Castle. It is neither a castle (more like an 
apartment complex), nor built by Montezuma (most 
likely the work of Sinagua women). The Castle was grand 
to me in the way I expected monuments to be, not 
tucked a mile down a canyon, but proudly on display 
ninety feet up on the side of a sheer cliff. As incredible as 
this was, I was a curious child who liked to wander off 
and read signs, hungry for new knowledge, new pictures 
to draw, and always more words to write. So I found a 
sinkhole.  
To be precise, I found directions to the sinkhole 
and convinced my disgruntled parents to drive there. 
Located eleven miles northeast of Montezuma Castle, 
5
Selthun: Superstitions
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021
6 
 
Montezuma Well (also unrelated to Montezuma, also not 
a well) can only be described as bizarre. It is a four-
hundred-foot wide pool of deep green-blue water formed 
by an underwater spring, bounded by cacti and creosote 
on bare limestone, and so prone to overflowing that it 
has to be regularly maintained. A charming collection of 
species call the Well home, including a leech found 
nowhere else, but there is a marked absence of fish. This 
is probably because the water is carbonated, with a 
generous dash of arsenic. Yet there are familiar homes 
around it, those stacked stone bricks and perfect 
doorways that say, The Sinagua were here. It was a 
conundrum. If I had a better grasp on arsenic poisoning 
then, I might have theorized that this was where the 
Sinagua met their doom, making their name all the more 
ironic. The signs didn’t answer my questions, but when I 
visited the Well years later, now with my iPhone at the 
ready, some deep-dive Google searches did: the Sinagua 
didn’t drink the water, but used the Well’s overflow to 
irrigate their crops.  
So the saying holds: water is life, even when it’s 
death. You can’t afford to be picky in the desert. That 
bubbly arsenic water’s not gonna drink itself.  
6
Fragments, Vol. 63 [2021], Art. 4
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/4
7 
 
The lack of fish would have been a red flag. But 
maybe they were too desperate to notice, or care. Or 
maybe they just had faith that this water could, in its own 
way, be life too. The Sinagua had water, until they didn’t. 
Maybe they did run out one day and had to leave all of 
their hidden homes behind, their poisonous, life-giving 
sinkhole and their not-a-castle, seeking a kinder oasis. 
Even if that’s true, their name is of their end. It’s like 
naming you after the worst thing that ever happened to 
you. 
Because that is the worst thing that could ever 
happen to you, here. It’s already happening to us. 
Sometimes I wonder how long we have until we start 
looking at wells of death with new eyes, abandoning our 
drought-stricken canyons of suburban streets and 
skyscraper castles, and leaving them to the sun’s mercy. 
Maybe that’s the pessimist in me talking. Or maybe it’s 
just the child in me, running past doors too full of the 
past to stand and face them.  
Sinagua. This is the first time I’ve ever written it 
down. I still wonder what they called themselves. I 
wonder what they’ll call us. 
7
Selthun: Superstitions
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021


Superstitions

Le, Annika

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 19 
2021 
Polydipsia 
Annika Le 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Le, Annika (2021) "Polydipsia," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 19. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/19 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
 
POLYDIPSIA 
Annika Le 
 
 
Vietnamese words taste  
pickled in my mouth– 
saliva pools out from glands like  
rain gutters in a Saigon monsoon 
 
When I attempt to backbend  
my tongue into unfamiliar tones, 
my grandmother’s forehead furls  
into a question mark, and the  
uncles burst into contractions of  
synchronized laughter 
 
To me, the glyphs on letters look like  
ranges of mountains or falling tides  
that mimic the moon’s loop– they taste  
meaningless against my teeth 
 
On the Lunar holiday, we must wish  
New Year blessings in Vietnamese 
before she bestows the lucky red parcels– 
they sit under her elbow and  
against her ribs like armor:   
 
Chúc mừng năm mới 
1
Le: Polydipsia
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021
 
What leaves my lips is a windstorm  
of whispers, misspelled mush,  
a lotus flower without its seeds,  
my jaw now severed like  
the lost string of a guitar  
 
Again, the contractions of  
laughter, this time from the aunts  
and cousins, too– it descends  
from lips and pools on the tile 
 
I grab a sponge from the belly  
of the kitchen sink, and attempt  
to extract my mispronunciations  
from the floorboards 
 
2
Fragments, Vol. 63 [2021], Art. 19
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/19


Polydipsia

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 17 
2021 
Magnolia Tree 
Annika Le 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Le, Annika (2021) "Magnolia Tree," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 17. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/17 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
MAGNOLIA TREE 
Annika Le 
 
 
 
 
 
i. i’ve been watching  
the magnolia buds 
 
shaped like  
rubber torpedo pool toys 
 
fuchsia kernels  
ready to burst 
 
 
ii. yesterday 
a hailstorm loosened them 
 
petals now  
half-husked 
 
 
iii. they have  
unclenched  
their pink fists 
1
Le: Magnolia Tree
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021
 
palms open  
to skies 
 
 
iv. petals pepper 
the sidewalk 
 
only a few remain  
on branches  
like loose teeth 
 
 
v. several buds  
never bloomed  
at all 
2
Fragments, Vol. 63 [2021], Art. 17
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/17


Magnolia Tree

Bonow, Lila

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 26 
2021 
Synesthesia 
Lila Bonow 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Bonow, Lila (2021) "Synesthesia," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 26. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/26 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
Synesthesia 
Lila Bonow 
 
It sends 
a  
lightening-rod 
chill  
down 
my  
spine  
to think: 
before the roaring-orange 
lion-head  
phantasm 
of you 
I  
was a simple  
fool. 
A blind 
knight  
jousting 
horseback, 
who thought 
Tuesdays 
could be 
mauve.  
1
Bonow: Synesthesia
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021


Synesthesia

Leone, Shelby Joy

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 33 
2021 
Prayer for a Bedside Table 
Shelby Joy Leone 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Leone, Shelby Joy (2021) "Prayer for a Bedside Table," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 33. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/33 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
PRAYER FOR A BEDSIDE TABLE 
Shelby Joy Leone 
 
 
 
BED 
MY BED IS AN ALTAR I MAKE FOR MYSELF AND PRAY TO REGULARLY 
I MAKE SMALL OFFERINGS OF ENCOUNTERS AND LEAVE GOLD  
LEAFED CONDOM WRAPPERS OUT AS PENANCE   
MY HANDS WRAPPED IN PRAYER AROUND YOU AND I   
HOLLOW BE THY NAME 
BY KINGDOM CUM 
THY WILL BE DONE 
MY HANDS WRAPPED IN PRAYER AS I SING CONTRITION  
 
 
HANDS 
MY HANDS WHICH USED TO GRAZE YOUR HAIR 
DOWN YOUR BELLY  
PICKING AT FOLLICLES AND MOLES 
UNTIL IT REACHED WHAT I WISH I HAD 
STILL HAD 
WHAT I WISHED TO CONSUME 
TO BE FILLED BY  
MY HANDS ARE EMPTY NOW, AS AM I   
1
Leone: Prayer for a Bedside Table
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021
SWITCHING OFF EACH LIGHT UNTIL THERE IS NOTHING BUT THE  
BLUE  
OF A ROOM WITH NO ONE IN IT 
NO ONE LIES INSIDE ME NOW, THE LIGHTS ARE OFF 
 
 
BODY 
MY BODY LIES HUMMING, WHIRRING 
GLORIOUS AND NOT YET DEAD 
STOP THAT HEAD, THIS IS NOT YOUR LINE 
IT’S MINE, AND I HAVE IT GRACIOUSLY 
THERE IS NO RESOLUTION, NO SOLUTION 
REVELATIONS OF THE BODY AND ON THE BODY  
WHERE IS MY BODY? ANY BODY? 
ENBY BODY YOU NEVER SAW ME AS I WAS   
YOU HAND ME THE PLASTIC COCK AND I GO NUMB 
ALL THIS WRITING ABOUT PUSSIES AND DICKS  
AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT 
I COWER AT THE SIGHT 
I CURL, I WINCE 
YOU’VE CAUGHT ME IN THE ACT 
I AM NOT AS BIG DICKED AS I SEEM 
AND YOUR MOCK COCK 
LIES BESIDE ME.  
2
Fragments, Vol. 63 [2021], Art. 33
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/33


Prayer for a Bedside Table

Miller, James

Fragments 
Volume 66 Parallel Article 18 
2024 
Close(d) 
James Miller 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Miller, James (2024) "Close(d)," Fragments: Vol. 66, Article 18. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol66/iss1/18 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Seattle University Journals at ScholarWorks @ 
SeattleU. It has been accepted for inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
Skin Red Like Fruit by Fox Robinson 
Fingers entwined, 
Tightly clasped - digging. 
Rock picked raw 
Drilling. 
What are you getting out of it? 
Tearing at my skin 
In the shower 
Skin red like fruit 
Not quite high enough. 
Carve your name 
In bark 
Empty your pockets 
Into my mouth 
Tell me your stories 
And expect me to swallow. 
Shedding layers 
Burning and used. 
Plug my ears 
So I don't hear the sounds. 
Branded body - scorched soil 
Flower buds are closing. 
Go back under 
It's not safe up here. 
Utterances grinding 
Whispering: 
Mother is dying. 
Close(d) byJames Miller 
not enough seats 
we squeezein 
bus doors opening, 
like praying mantis legs, 
closing, we are soclose 
we're touchingclothing 
still not enough space 
my face your face 
bus doors opening, 
closing, you'd never let 
me get thisclose 
I breathe slow 
try not to show 
if you were blind 
I'd stare at you more 
f i n a l l y ,  v a c a n c y  
you nudge my elbow 
I go 
slow 
bus doors opening, 
Ihopeyoudon'tnotice 
I'm disappointed 
but I'm going, 
closing 
Why does this feel familiar? 


Close(d)

Creson, Fern

Fragments 
Volume 66 Parallel Article 10 
2024 
Encounter/self 
Fern Creson 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Creson, Fern (2024) "Encounter/self," Fragments: Vol. 66, Article 10. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol66/iss1/10 
This Visual Art is brought to you for free and open access by the Seattle University Journals at ScholarWorks @ 
SeattleU. It has been accepted for inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
The Man in the Alley by Emma Caplinger 
I saw him before the sun did-
his wide face stubbled and dew-chilled, 
still and sitting against the damp concrete. 
He looked so much like my brother: 
his dark hair stuck to his forehead, 
broad nose freckled and pale. 
I stopped to watch him 
and was watching still when I saw them coming, 
flashing red against the rain-blue morning. 
When they heaved him onto their cart 
and secured his legs to the stretcher, 
his icy, nowhere-gazing eyes matched the sky. 
And as they pulled the zipper shut, 
I thought of calling home. 
Encounter/self by Fern Creson 


Seattle University

Not a member yet