Open Access Journals at IU Indianapolis

Mukum Mbaku, John

State Responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic and Their Impact on Human Rights in South Africa

Dobson, Elise

65
Father, I confess to a faltering faith. 
For I’ve bore witness to your Saint 
Magdalene for sale on East 38th. 
Money for pleasure, a biblical feint.  
The Virgin Mary carries latex love, 
a sanitized and sultry slut. 
There is no God in the blue above— 
but on her knees stays the beaten mutt. 
A pimped out sinner sold for an eighth, 
adorning only her Habit of self attaint. 
Choral hymns stink of Catholic wraith, 
breath that reeks of poor self restraint. 
Father, I confess to sins hereof. 
My act of contrition washed down with rotgut, 
deliver me absolution from the Lord above, 
“Go in peace, you heretic smut.”
Elise Dobson
In the Shadow of Magdalene


English

In the Shadow of Magdalene

Nigh, Mack

68
     In the gales I see my fate, drifting effortlessly alongside me as she always has. 
I am tiny and helpless compared to her, compared to her compelling forces that 
guide me from place to place. But in the end I see no flaws with her logic. If she 
wants me here, flying above acres and acres of rolling fields and bustling human 
towns, then here I will stay. Here I will thrive. 
     I have seen my brothers and sisters, under guidance of the breeze, submit and 
fall to the ground below. They land on sharp blades of grass and glide down to 
the moist dirt, and the wind does not pull them back up. They remain there as 
tiny particles of white fuzz and a singular seed, but they call up to me as I con-
tinue to fly. “Do not worry!” They beckon. “We will be just fine on this ground! 
We will bloom into bountiful bouquets; we will turn these dull and lifeless fields 
into galleries of wonder! Our yellow petals will paint the earth in sunlight, and 
we will shine as we were always meant to! So go on—do not fret, and land on the 
ground when you no longer fear the stability beneath you!” 
     They tell me not to fear. I fear anyway.  
     The wind never lets me touch the ground. They let me see my siblings drift 
off, let me see them bloom into tiny dandelion flowers that dance and twirl in 
performances on the ground. But they never let me join. In truth, I am grateful for 
the winds that carry me high above the ground. Those muddy puddles and dusted 
heaps of soil will remain a mystery. But what a bliss it is to live in mystery. I am 
blessed to only know the wind, to only know endless change and distance from 
the world. Permanence cannot grasp me; I am free from it all, and I will be forev-
er. I will always be changing, moving, leaping, flying. The ground will never rise 
to meet me, and I will never fall to its will. Never, never, never, never… 
     And then the gales guided me to the earth. Even when I pleaded to them, 
begged them to not let me be swallowed up by the darkness of soil and the shiv-
ers of rain, they persisted. 
     I touched the ground softly and watched the gales fly without me. 
     There is nothing beyond the looming grass above me. There is nothing hidden 
in the shadows of greenery. There is nothing above me, hiding in the dark rain 
clouds. There is nothing here, nothing but stillness. 
     There was no point in trying to stop the ground from consuming me. The wind 
Mack Nigh
In the Gales I See My Fate
69
would not change my fate. I could not be lifted into the sunny skies anymore. 
The rain has already weighed me down. There was no viable choice but to submit 
to the ground beneath me, and though it was dark and cold and unknown, I let 
myself go to it and fall under earth’s fine crust. 
     It wasn’t so cold after that. There was darkness, yes, but there was warmth 
too. I could feel the ground warming under the sun’s rays. I could feel the rain 
lifting off and evaporate into the clouds. I could distantly see the roots of grass 
stretch out to dig into the earth further, I could hear the birds and bugs that they 
were so blessed to see. And at that moment, in those days, in those eons of noth-
ing but warmth and curiosity, I wanted to see and hear the world around me too. 
     Roots grew underneath me with quick instinct. They were feeble and stringy, 
but for now they could hold me. They could give me the courage I needed to lift 
from the ground.  
     I was more than a soft seed now. When I lifted from the ground, I felt larger. 
Different. Made of sturdy walls of cellulose that left me flimsy but strong. The 
grass over my head was no longer looming, but welcoming. Peaks of sunlight 
poked through, and I felt those powerful rays bless me with nourishment and 
love. I was loved here, somehow. I was loved by the grass. I was loved by the 
bugs. I was loved by the sun. I was even loved by the earth, whom I was so cau-
tious of before. I was loved by them all, wasn’t I? 
     More than anything, I wanted to love them back. I wanted to spread my roots 
through the ground, I wanted to grow my own leaves, I wanted to reach above 
and touch the heavens as I once had, but I wanted to bring them all with me. I 
grew so quickly I could barely recognize what my body had once felt like. Now 
I was a tangle of scattered leaves, protruding stems, mixed and mangled roots 
around the earth I once dreaded. Now I was amongst my new kin. I was one of 
them: a singular plant among a garden of affection. The fear I felt in the skies was 
gone, and there was nothing in my heart but curiosity and the brightest love.  
     So, this is what the ground was like. 
     My first flower bloomed unexpectedly. The blades of grass teased me for 
it, how I, once so fleeting and frightful, had grown so quickly around my new 
friends, and became so boisterous and confident that I bloomed a flower in this 
ground. But what a pretty flower it was, the one I grew. And what a treasured 
earth I fell on that I felt safe enough to bloom a flower.  
     Soon I grew more flowers, and soon new bugs flew over from the heavens to 
land on my soft petals. A bumblebee with heaps of pollen on her legs gazed at my 
petals. She rested her weary body on my body and spoke of distant gardens.  
70
     “Is the wind still kind?” I ask her. 
     She chuckles on my stem. “Even when you’re in the ground, with your roots 
tangled in the dark crust, you still think of the sky?” 
     “It is quite hard not to. All the wind has done has led me here.” 
     “And… do you miss it?” she asks, rubbing her pollen off her legs in idle 
thought. 
     “I think of the wind every day,” I answer, “but I do not miss it.”  
     She spoke of how the wind carried her and her sisters across meadows and 
gardens, some of which held my brothers and sisters. She carried the messages of 
flowers abroad and migrating butterflies in the sky. And she corrected me on one 
thing, only one, before leaving. 
     “The wind is not kind,” she claims. “That is not to say it is cruel, but rather to 
say it holds no regard for you. You just like to think the wind was kind because 
you have spent so long in it, drifting from place to place, event to event, with no 
rest in between. But now you are here, in the earth that holds you tight, with the 
grass that cheers you up, with the sun that wakes you every morning.” 
     “But if the wind is not kind,” I ask her, “why do I still think it is?” 
     The bee hums and shakes her wings against her body. “Nostalgia keeps us 
locked like that. You’re no different than any of us.” 
     Days pass, and more creatures and insects gather around me with their wis-
dom. The birds tell me of the nests they are building and the children they are 
preparing for. Insects hide in my petals and bless me for my coverage against 
their prey. And the blades of grass, who had been watching me grow from a 
frightened seed into the sunshine of their garden, are always laughing and watch-
ing the nights fade into the horizon with me. 
     And the earth holds us all. Though it is as indifferent as the wind, it holds us in 
our joys and comforts us in our sorrow. I do not remember why I was so afraid of 
this. 
     The end of summer approaches, and my petals shed slowly and meet the 
ground beneath me. I’m wilting. I’m dying. But it feels good to die here, sur-
rounded by the ones I love. They will take care of me and hold me during my 
passing. 
71
Title of piece
     I have children by the time of my death. They’re still growing on me, just 
reaching the end of their development, when I suddenly feel the last slips of my 
energy begin to fade. I know what will happen to them, but they are still so young 
and pure. I do not have the heart to tell them how the wind will tear them from 
me, will tear them from each other, will frighten some of them and overwhelm 
the others with joy. I cannot tell them about the ground they will soon find and 
the creatures they will meet. I will not try to predict which ones will be happy to 
find stability, and which ones will be so used to the wind that, the second they 
land on safe ground, they will panic and shriek and plead to not be left there. 
     But this message, this one final call, is one I will whisper to everyone still near 
me. 
     I love you. I, who was once so foolish and afraid, love you, the secureness in 
my life, with such intensity that I could not imagine my life without this love. I 
love you, dear blades of grass, whom I have bonded with and aided in our times 
of droughts and floods. I love you, insects from above, who gifted me with the 
pollen I needed to create my beautiful children. 
     And I love you, earth beneath me, the being I did not know I needed. I love 
you endlessly. 
     My children, who now fly away in the wind upon my dying breath, know 
forever that I love you.  
 


In the Gales I See My Fate

Allee, Evan

107
One year on E means, “Congrats! You’re not dead 
Yet!” There’s only a few more to live, so live wisely.  
Advocate for the muzzled congregates, degenerates, 
Miscreants; the poor, confused, brainwashed kids.  
They’ve got their lives ahead of them, contingent behind  
Public-funded doors. If they aren’t dead by 18, maybe  
They can swing back-alley hormones. Maybe they 
Won’t have to, but maybe that’s wishful thinking. 
Maybe the government’s bit carved their smiles  
All the way to Glasgow—and this isn’t mutilation, 
No. Not like that thing they call “top” and “bottom” 
Surgery. That’s where the line or the weapon is drawn. 
It’s unimportant whether it is held by someone else’s hand 
Or the child’s own. It’s not like the Land of the Free is too our home. 
Evan Allee
This Land is Your Land, This Land is My 
Your Land 


This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Your Land

Terhorst, Elizabeth

159
I think you long 
for the days when 
I was still a part of you. 
Developmentally, 
there’s a period 
where the born baby 
still cannot distinguish 
itself from the mother. 
How long does it take 
for the mother to 
distinguish itself 
from the baby? 
What happened when you 
realized you couldn’t see 
your face in my reflection?  
I think you long 
for the days 
when I made you 
feel whole. 
After birth, the uterus 
is a gaping wound, 
“dinner plate sized.” 
To fill the void,  
did you start putting me  
on your platter? 
Thin, spaghetti hair. 
Candy apple cheeks. 
Olives for eyes. 
Did I taste good going down? 
Elizabeth Terhorst
Fatal Development
160
Marshmallowy fists. 
Plucked chicken thighs. 
Fleshy, full lips. 
Did I curb your craving? 
I see your face  
in my reflection 
with my blood  
dripping down your throat. 
Was it worth it? 
Do you feel whole again? 
I don’t think I’ve ever felt whole, 
but I’m afraid of building something 
I cannot help but bite into. 


Fatal Development

8” x 8” Found Image, Archival Inkjet Print on Habotai Silk, Embroidery Floss, Embroidery Hoo

Montanez, Sarah

165
8” x 8” Found Image, Archival Inkjet Print on Habotai 
Silk, Embroidery Floss, Embroidery Hoop
Sarah Montanez
Mend


Mend

LaMar, Paige

215
18” x 24” Pencil
Paige LaMar
Herron Hallway


Herron Hallway

Park, Isabella

229
Where are you now that you are elsewhere? Are you talking to a Viking pirate 
or a catholic priest? Are you rethinking a disagreement with an extremist from 
r/worldnews subreddit? Have you found a tank to take over–are you shooting 
big missiles into empty fields of overgrown grass? Are you working through 
complex equations or performing long division? Are you coding a program to 
manage the burdens of feeling human? Have you asked Chat GPT about us? Did 
you receive its advice like you would your father’s? What algorithm will show 
that I am beside you tonight? In your world, do the boundaries of me still render 
on screen? May I emulate how the moon is growing brightly into our room? Do 
you miss touching soft skin? Or do nude pixelated girls preform your wants with 
discretion? Have you fallen down lines of JavaScript? Can you climb up the blue 
light to exist with me for a stint? Will you stay awhile before the servers spit you 
back out like a cannon? 
Isabella Park
The Computed Image of Us


Not a member yet

State Responses to the COVID-19 Pandemic and Their Impact on Human Rights in South Africa

In the Shadow of Magdalene

In the Gales I See My Fate

This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Your Land

Fatal Development

Mend

Herron Hallway

The Computed Image of Us

"Western" Medicine is Misleading: It\u27s Time to Give Credit Where It\u27s Deserved

Coded & Old Bones

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