DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

Kurza, Alexandra

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 30
Spring 5-1-2017
Parlez-vous de Danse?
Alexandra Kurza
College of DuPage
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This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
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Recommended Citation
Kurza, Alexandra (2017) "Parlez-vous de Danse?," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 30.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/30
This is a language
so little of us speak.
For it is one of bodies
where music leads. 
 
A language so peculiar,
it requires two.
One to lead
and one to follow. 
 
This is one of romance,
one where love burns.
A concoction of emotions,
some sweet and some sour. 
 
You get lost in a trance,
when it’s first spoken.
You stutter in the beginning,
but flow smoothly in the end. 
 
This is ballroom,
this is a passion.
Words are rarely spoken,
we convey with expression. 
 
So come join me, 
and take my hand. 
I promise this is a language, 
you’ll soon understand.
Parlez-vous de Danse? 
The Climb
Robin Liefeld
Alexandra Kurza
Spring 2017    31 1
Kurza: Parlez-vous de Danse?
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


English

Parlez-vous de Danse?

Shubert, Jessica

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 33
Spring 5-1-2017
Actually, I Do Write Comedies
Jessica Shubert
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Shubert, Jessica (2017) "Actually, I Do Write Comedies," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 33.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/33
Actually, I Do Write Comedies 
  
There once was an excellent poet 
Was it I, you ask? You know it! 
You’ll see how I rhyme 
With high regard to meter, verse, diction, structure, and rh—time 
Because when you’re the best, you show it. 
  
As it happens, the poet—yours truly— 
Encountered a rhyme most unruly 
And with valiant effort, ‘twas met 
With the help of the Internet 
Which smote it thusly: canaliculi! 
  
Victorious, the poet—myself— 
Sought enthronement on the highest bookshelf 
But elf would not do 
To make this rhyme true 
So for prestige, she went with the near-sound of commonwealth. 
  
Such formidable use of such words, you see, 
Allows real poets to take these liberties 
Comedians also know this well 
Though that’s another story to tell 
In which our heroine will jest, laugh and be merry— 
Unless, of course, the joke is on me . . .
Jessica Shubert
Spring 2017    33 1
Shubert: Actually, I Do Write Comedies
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


Actually, I Do Write Comedies

Morris, Wilda

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 37
Spring 5-1-2017
Hometown
Wilda Morris
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Morris, Wilda (2017) "Hometown," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 37.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/37
Hometown 
  
This is the city of my impatience, 
the city where I heard train whistles 
as a call to wander, the city 
where I practiced departure and return. 
I had hardly learned to walk 
when for the first time, tired 
of waiting for Mother, I toddled unafraid 
up our unpaved street. My small feet 
clad in Buster Brown shoes 
headed downtown. Just how far 
had I gone before my desperate mother 
caught up with me, kissed and scolded me, 
took my hand so I could not escape her care? 
  
This is this is the city where I slipped 
again from the invisible leash 
when I was five, while Mother 
was distracted with conversation 
or commercial transaction. I found 
myself alone, stood in front of a bakery 
and cried for my lost mother. A stranger 
quieted me with a fresh-baked bun, 
teaching me the power of tears, 
the kindness the world offers a wanderer. 
  
I was content to return for a time 
to the nest of my home, 
but I had become a fledgling. 
Someday I would let the train 
take me wherever it went. 
Someday I would walk in alien cities. 
Someday, I would fly. 
Wilda Morris
36    Prairie Light Review 1
Morris: Hometown
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Hometown

Blanco, Tania

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 45
Spring 5-1-2017
The Journey
Tania Blanco
College of DuPage
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This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Blanco, Tania (2017) "The Journey," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 45.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/45
The Warrior Healer 
Some are destined to be one thing 
Some are destined to be two 
The latter describes myself 
For I have been a butcher of men 
And a savior to others of my ilk 
My hands have been suited for a dual purpose 
To wield the sword and axe against foe 
And through graces not fully understood 
Send magical healing into the wounds of my tribesman 
I kill out of duty, not desire 
Gifted with the sword, yet I take no pleasure from it 
Warriors are numerous in tribe, healers are rare 
Yet my astuteness in fighting chains me to the battlefield 
While my God-given talent lies precariously dormant 
Until the heinous injuries of my kinsmen are too great to bear 
Perhaps I will miraculously grow old and unfit for confrontation 
Then my true calling will finally be utilized to its fullest 
For I fear not death, only destined potential squandered 
Taking lives versus saving them is my life’s conundrum 
May I solve it before it’s too late
The Journey
Ink and Fumage by Tania Blanco
Matt McNichols
44    Prairie Light Review 1
Blanco: The Journey
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The Journey

Sauers, Ryan K.

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 47
Spring 5-1-2017
Death Be Nimble
Ryan K. Sauers
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Sauers, Ryan K. (2017) "Death Be Nimble," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 47.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/47
Death Be Nimble 
death 
is solace 
an end to a mean 
 
a vacuum 
linear 
cyclical 
 
death is sorrow 
death is foot to ass 
death is final 
 
no loose talk 
sinking of ships 
trading of secrets 
looks over shoulders 
among the dead 
 
Abrahamic 
Dharmic 
Nihilistic 
 
the results 
are the same 
eternal internment 
senescence 
 
peace 
a breeze that fans 
throbs the temple 
 
death be nimble 
death be quick 
death be the candle wick 
In the Grass by the River
Ink by Kelsey Flinker
Ryan K. Sauers
Spring 2017    45 1
Sauers: Death Be Nimble
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


Death Be Nimble

Flinker, Kelsey

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 61
Spring 5-1-2017
Battleship Island
Kelsey Flinker
College of DuPage
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This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Flinker, Kelsey (2017) "Battleship Island," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 61.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/61
Battleship Island
Ink by Kelsey Flinker
Spring 2017    59 1
Flinker: Battleship Island
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Battleship Island

Rausch, Cheryl

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 62
Spring 5-1-2017
Curious Babies
Cheryl Rausch
College of DuPage
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This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Rausch, Cheryl (2017) "Curious Babies," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 62.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/62
Curious Babies
Mixed media on watercolor 
paper by Cheryl Rausch60    Prairie Light Review 1
Rausch: Curious Babies
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Curious Babies

Szelina, Joey

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 1 Article 13
Fall 12-1-2017
Salt
Joey Szelina
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Szelina, Joey (2017) "Salt," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 1 , Article 13.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss1/13
7Prairie Light Review  Fall 2017
 Salt
 
 A faucet. An unremarkable stainless steel faucet, gushing 
unremarkable tap water. I wash my hands. Wake up. Dry mouth, 
can’t imagine how ghoulish I must look but I have not crossed paths 
with a human being in a long while. Thirsty. Headed south towards 
salvation (some may say that salvation has always laid to the south). 
But I never imagined I would be this far south. It’s so cold, but my 
nerves are petrified, synapses studded with ice shards. And salt. So 
much salt. 
 It’s a sick joke really, the greatest irony. The oceans were 
cremated when a mountain the size of the moon screamed across 
the sky and plunged from heaven, Lucifer himself. We knew it was 
coming and we were powerless to stop it. While some appealed to 
divinity and as others prayed for deliverance, I assembled a bunker 
beneath the backyard sod with my wife and son, and we held each 
other as the world burned around us. But they’re dead now. So 
much salt, all that remains of the ocean. 
 Almost. The company I’ve kept for the past lifetime is dead 
fish. Legions of them, frozen rotten popsicles stuffed in the freezer. 
Rotten, most would think, but they are remarkably well-preserved, 
entombed in ice and ash and salt. I never was much of a fisherman, 
yet I can say with confidence I have held more fish in my hands than 
any man who ever walked the Earth. Using a hypodermic syringe, 
the only tool of my trade I still have a use for (its original use is lost 
on me at this point) I suck the brine from their scaly corpses and 
gulp down the fluid. If I could taste, my body would certainly reject 
it, but the shriveled heap of flesh in my mouth is more of a parasite 
than an organ. 
  Headed south.  Back on the continent, the final government 
broadcast told all survivors to make their way south, and fresh 
water will await. Civilization. Not that any of those bastards expect 
PLR F2017 FINAL.indd   7 11/1/2017   4:51:16 PM
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Szelina: Salt
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2017
8Prairie Light Review  Fall 2017
anyone to make it. But I am greater than most men. Settling down 
to sleep, I look out at the waste and dark red fires fueled by sodium 
chloride sparsely populate the void with glowing eyes. Though I 
have never encountered these men, they are my stalwart compan-
ions. Can only hope they feel the same about me. Who’s to say that 
they’re men at all? 
 Sleep. Different dream, this time a case of bottled water is 
loaded into a shopping cart. I’ve considered lobotomy to end these 
nightmares. Can’t though, I laugh. 
 Fish. 
 Squish. 
 Suck. 
 Slurp. 
 Crunch. 
 So much salt. 
 Been doing this for a thousand years. 
 So much salt. 
 Perhaps God is real, and He I. 
 ... 
 A frigid gust of wind rips across the flats and I think I can 
taste salt. 
 Go to sleep. 
 Wake up. No dreams tonight. 
 Onward. 
  
 
 Joey Szelina
PLR F2017 FINAL.indd   8 11/1/2017   4:51:16 PM
2
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 40, No. 1 [2017], Art. 13
http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss1/13


Salt

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 1 Article 19
Fall 12-1-2017
For Lack of a Hero
Jessica Shubert
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Shubert, Jessica (2017) "For Lack of a Hero," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 1 , Article 19.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss1/19
12Prairie Light Review  Fall 2017
Hit And Run
Amy Peter
Someone’s uncle, 
Someone’s father, 
Someone’s husband of nearly 30 years; 
met an untimely end staring into headlights. 
He didn’t deserve to die at a speeding car’s mercy. 
Even if he’d been more visible, 
it still might not have stopped. 
The driver that blew through the crosswalk 
didn’t give the man a second thought. 
Hit and runs are a tragedy, 
but they happen every day. 
As long as people are so rushed; 
neither car nor man look both ways. 
The family doesn’t know who killed him, 
and they probably never will; 
but that doesn’t mean they’ll stop searching. 
Justice for the hit and run killer, 
and the victim gone too soon. 
For Lack of a Hero            
Jessica Shubert
Pigeons scattered as the gentleman with the tailored suit walked up 
to where the woman sat on a flattened Coke box, plucking a banjo.  A 
nickel or dime would drop into a cap crumpled on the sidewalk occa-
sionally.
            “You’re six cents out of tune, my dear,” the gentleman said.
            “And sixty cents short of a sandwich,” she replied without 
stopping.
            He glanced around, sniffed, and left.
            When he returned, he set the sleek case down and opened it, 
smiling self-consciously.  She shifted for him to join her, cross-legged 
on the cardboard stage.  The banjo led and the violin played along.
PLR F2017 FINAL.indd   12 11/1/2017   4:51:16 PM
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Shubert: For Lack of a Hero
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2017


For Lack of a Hero

Roylance, Taylor

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 1 Article 56
Fall 12-1-2017
Panic
Taylor Roylance
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Roylance, Taylor (2017) "Panic," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 1 , Article 56.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss1/56
65Prairie Light Review  Fall 2017
Panic
Taylor Roylance
There are days where Panic clings to me like a toddler in a depart-
ment store, desperate not to lose his mother, clutching her floral skirt 
in two tiny, white-knuckled fists. 
 
Panic smells like the bleach and lemon pine-sol my mom uses to clean 
up after I’m sick. 
It is the same smell as hospital hallways. 
 
Panic feels like a concrete truck rolling over my legs and pouring its 
freshly mixed cement down my throat and into my lungs, weighting 
them down as it dries. 
 
Panic sounds like raging techno beats.  
like water roaring, and not in the oh-I-can-totally-do-yoga-to-this 
way,  
but in the hurricane-is-going-to-destroy-my-house way.  
It sounds like tribal drums, banging away in my ears until they ring. 
 
Panic is the fire that rages through a forest, killing every bud and 
sapling in its way. 
It is the black hole at the edge of the universe 
Waiting to destroy all of our photos, shoes, and the ground beneath 
us. 
 
Panic tastes like battery acid and blood. 
I try to spit it out, 
But that awful cocktail won’t leave for hours 
 
Panic looks like scabs on my arms and fidget toys in my bag 
For when the black hole 
The tribal drums 
The Pine-sol 
The toddler 
Become too much for me and I can’t handle all this 
Panic.
PLR F2017 FINAL.indd   65 11/1/2017   4:51:19 PM
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Roylance: Panic
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2017


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