DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

Katsion, Claire

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 38 | Number 2 Article 67
Spring 5-1-2016
The Hole
Claire Katsion
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 administrator of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Katsion, Claire (2016) "The Hole," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 38: No. 2, Article 67.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol38/iss2/67
        It’s shadowless; an endless haze of pure darkness sapping my power away. Once in awhile a stray 
light catches my eye and provides me a view of my prison: cylindrical walls—probably just one wall that 
wraps around infinitely—that stretches into an eternal void or conversely closing me in until I suffocate. 
All hope is sapped from me instantly knowing that I’m alone as I curl into a ball and sink further into my 
hollow self. The air is damp with the nostalgic scent of fresh earth. The dirt that forms the walls springs at 
my touch, though it refuses to crumble under any force—impenetrable. The caked ground, like cement, 
chills me where I stand and stings my fingertips when I attempt to make sense of my surroundings. The 
ambient air, exuding warmth and humidity, is my only company—a sweet reminder of something living 
besides myself. Every now and then, I’m graced with the majestic presence of a distant star. A speck of 
light no bigger than the point of a pencil that lingers an eternity away. And as much as I dream, even my 
potent imagination cannot pull the light closer. 
 
       But then he appears. Gentle and nurturing; a familiar presence shimmering with sunlit hair and 
scintillating eyes that captured the ocean. The air’s weight turns to dust and flies away as tiny spectacles of 
luminescence turn our small universe bright. Light sweeps softly, and the once-constricting walls seem to 
shy away. They weren’t so close, after all—there is so much room to rest and to play, and no longer must 
I restrain myself to curling into the corner. With my hands safely in his, warmth and life courses through 
me, all my pain dissolving and dissipating through joyful tears. This—all of this—is worthwhile now that 
I have him beside me. I have never known pain, and I never will again. The semblance of sky has been 
pulled closer—a bountiful profusion of stars within grasp. We can view them as though we’re resting on 
the ground just below the sky’s canopy instead of reaching desperately from a cavern. Comfortably in his 
arms, I bequeath my dreams and wishes to the stars, and he does, too. He takes my cares as I take his, and 
I don’t once wonder why he’s here. 
The Hole
Claire Katsion
Spring 2016
59 1
Katsion: The Hole
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2015
       Suddenly, a ladder, woven expertly and generously in rope, dangles 
from the sky. A clear, definitive line wraps around the top of the ladder, 
manifesting an opening to this hole I’ve fallen in. A circle dug into the 
earth which lies now just within reach. Could it be? I can escape at last?
As light ebbs                      and flows in 
the distance,                    my eyes play 
me tricks,        teasing quick 
flashes of a        silhouette.   
But who        could that be?   
For the first        time, I stand. 
My legs        display the
strength to                    jet me away; 
the shivers        of pain depart 
from me like        fallen chains.
But then my        hand recalls 
his warmth.        And I turn to
seek his eyes.        With a pained 
simper, he        knows it’s time
for me to go.        But we both 
know he can’t       come with me.
Courageously—      desperately—I 
keep hold of his       comforting, 
warm hand as        my left hand 
rests upon the        practical, safe, 
but thorny, rope. What could I choose? Life? Or sadness beside his com-
fort? Getting up, he pushes me forward, cradling my hand between his, 
cherishing the last of our interactions. Closer and closer still, he inches me, 
his mellifluous warmth straining my heart and clenching my throat—my 
knowing all too well how dearly I’ll miss it. Suddenly, the rope is between 
my two hands, swaying quietly in the breeze. A burst of fresh air—a beau-
tiful marvel of the outside world—greets me, beckoning me closer. Calling 
me to ascend, for it’s my time to shine. Hot tears pour from my face, scald-
ing my skin. His arms wrap around me breathlessly; a gentle nudge of his 
head rests upon me for the last time. And, with a plaintive whisper backed 
by love and confidence, he sends me off. 
       “Go now, my flower. The world is waiting for you.”
Oozing
Photography
Martin Johnson
Prairie Light Review60 2
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 38 [2015], No. 2, Art. 67
http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol38/iss2/67


English

The Hole

Dady, Marge

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 38 | Number 2 Article 75
Spring 5-1-2016
Water Vessel
Marge Dady
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
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 administrator of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Dady, Marge (2016) "Water Vessel," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 38: No. 2, Article 75.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol38/iss2/75
Serrated swords, 
jagged knives of ice, 
drip in the morning sun, 
and in their dripping grow. 
 
Heroes are the ones  
who both remember and 
forget, Baldwin wrote. 
The body learns early, 
melting burns more.
ICICLES
Maggie Kennedy
Deep freeze. 
A lone dove slices 
through the silence. 
Somewhere the sun 
peeks through.
  
The icicles begin 
their dripping, and in 
their dripping grow, 
drip by drip, each 
melting marked by a ring, 
like a tree adds girth, 
until they grow immense, 
perilous daggers of light 
threatening to crash of their own scars.
Water Vessel
Glazed stoneware
Marge Dady
Spring 2016 651
Dady: Water Vessel
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2015


Water Vessel

Hernandez, Thania

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 38 | Number 2 Article 77
Spring 5-1-2016
Being Lost
Thania Hernandez
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 administrator of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Hernandez, Thania (2016) "Being Lost," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 38: No. 2, Article 77.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol38/iss2/77
Being Lost
Thania Hernandez
       As a child, my mother told me that if I always listened to those in charge, I 
could avoid getting lost. 
       As far as I knew back then, this made sense. When we were still living with 
my grandparents, I knew that if I finished all my meals, remained polite towards 
everyone, and went to bed on time, Mom and I could spend time together in the 
evenings, reading books or watching my favorite cartoons after she’d spent long 
hours at work. 
       However, if I did not follow these orders, my evenings were spent alone. I 
would have to keep the lights off, remain under my thick purple bed sheets, and 
listen to all those loud, violent words which passed off as conversation between 
Mom and my grandparents. I could always hear Mom telling them not to take 
out all their anger at her towards me, because I was just a child and kids always 
tended to act up. Then my grandparents accused her of already passing on her 
rebellious ways to me, saying that I was acting exactly as she did when she was my 
age. If they weren’t there to properly discipline me, then my future was sure to be 
like hers: a deadbeat woman with no husband to bring up her child. 
       As a young child, having to listen to all that while alone in the darkness was 
what it meant to be lost. We didn’t go out to malls very often due to our lack of 
money, so there wasn’t much chance of getting left behind due to staring at some 
Barbie doll I wanted to take home in the toy store. Mom also tended to avoid 
taking me to parks, probably because of all the happy parents and children whom 
you found on every corner, so staying behind due to refusing to say goodbye to 
playmates was very unlikely. Instead, getting lost was not knowing when Mom 
would get away from that ferocious arguing, and wondering if doing something 
differently, like finishing up all my dinner, not talking back, or even picking up the 
only toy I left on the living room floor, would have kept her out of trouble. 
       Then, at the age of seven, Mom thought she found the answer to our prob-
lems. She’d met a man around her age named Bill at work, who started taking 
her out to eat and giving her small presents at random times. After this had been 
going on for several months, he invited Mom to come live with him in his new 
apartment. As far as Mom knew at the time, this man was going to save us from 
all the years of pain we’d experienced with her parents. 
       We left my grandparents’ house with four boxes full of belongings and only a 
note of farewell to explain our departure. Mom knew what they would say if she 
told them, and she didn’t want to go through with that ever again. After a fifteen 
minute drive, I met Bill for the first time as he stood around the entry of the ele-
gant cream-colored apartment building which was to be our new home. Looking 
tall and muscular as he escorted Mom out of the car, he smiled at me and said, 
Prairie Light Review66 1
Hernandez: Being Lost
Published by Di italCommons@COD, 2015
“Welcome to your new home, Mia. I’m sure you’re going to love it here.” Howev-
er, he offered no such words to Mom, which might have been the first sign that 
something wasn’t right. But at the time, I just smiled and said, “I sure will.” 
       For a while, everything seemed okay. Mom and Bill appeared to be getting 
along, often talking for hours in the living room or going out to restaurants and 
movies during the weekends. Trips to the mall and the park became more com-
mon, and whenever I wanted something, they made sure I was able to get it. I 
started making a lot of friends in school, while also getting Mom to sign me up for 
choir and dance classes after school. Within time, I was spending as much time on 
playdates and after school activities as I was in my own home. 
       However, as the months went by, something changed. Mom and Bill started 
growing apart, remaining silent when I was around and avoiding each other’s 
company whenever possible. Sometimes, Bill would give Mom an icy stare, and 
Mom would respond by glancing fearfully back, but would then walk off as if 
nothing had happened.  If these tensions went on while I was at home, Mom 
would say, “Mia, would you like to play outside for a while?” and since I still went 
by those old rules, I always obeyed. Upon returning, I’d always find Mom wearing 
long-sleeved, black clothing, even if the apartment was heating up, and she’d tell 
me that Bill was going to spend the night with friends. 
       If I had been older, I might have suspected that something was going wrong. 
However, because I never heard anymore shouting while I was in bed, or wit-
nessed someone being beaten, I thought any problems they had amongst them-
selves were under control, just as it was with many of my friends’ parents. Also, 
Bill was never harsh towards me, so I took that as another sign that all was going 
well for us. 
       It would take me two years to discover how wrong I was. 
       One day, Mom appeared home from work at six. As usual, she was wearing a 
dark sweater despite it being the first warm day of the year. “Get ready, Mia,” she 
called out. “We’re going out for a walk.” 
       “All right, Mom,” I responded, putting my homework aside to come with her.   
For a while, we just walked around the neighborhood, watching kids running 
around and laughing in their backyards, adults sitting in their balconies and call-
ing out to spouses or children to come join them, and teenagers gathered together 
in large groups, discussing plans for prom night and summer vacation. It seemed 
as if everyone was happy that night, with us two being the only somber people 
within sight. 
       After a couple of minutes, Mom got a hold of my hand and asked, “Mia, do 
you know why I told you it’s so important to listen back when you were little?” 
       “Because by listening to the things people wanted me to do, you knew that I 
could make things easier for the both of us. It meant less trouble for you, and we
Spring 2016 672
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 38 [2015], No. 2, Art. 77
http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol38/iss2/77
could spend more time together. If I didn’t do this, I always felt as if I was lost,” I 
tried to explain.
       Mom nodded slowly. “Yes, I see. But the real reason I told you this was be-
cause that was the rule I’d been living by ever since I had you at the age of sev-
enteen. Back then, I accepted the fact that I’d made a mistake by getting together 
with someone who was so careless, but I also thought it meant I deserved to be 
treated badly by my parents and rejected by my friends. As far as I knew, the 
only way I could gain everyone’s approval was by always listening, no matter how 
harsh or unrealistic their expectations of me were. If I didn’t, I thought I would do 
something reckless again, ending up just as lost as I was as a teenager. And… and 
this didn’t stop when we left my parents.” 
       Then, with tears in her eyes, she started pulling off her sweater, and for the 
first time, I saw all that she’d been hiding from me. On her left arm, there was a 
large, purple bruise forming the shape of a moon, and on the right arm, there 
appeared to be about a dozen scratches, some which already formed brown, dis-
figuring scars, and others that were still bright red, as if they were more recent. It 
served as a clear sign that she’d been suffering through abuse for a long time; that 
we had not really escaped when we went off with Bill. 
       “Did Bill do this?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. 
       With her eyes towards the pink sky, Mom once again nodded. “I thought 
taking it was worth it at first, so you and I could have a stable home for once in 
our lives. Bill only seemed to have those angry outbursts occasionally, so I made 
myself believe this was better than getting berated by my own family every day. 
But now I know that I shouldn’t have, that having someone to guide us along 
didn’t mean we’d be heading in the right direction.” 
       I remained silent. How could I have not thought about this? I had lead myself, 
over the years, to think that words could hurt a person more than stones; that if 
you weren’t seeing or hearing others screaming or beating someone down, then 
everything was under control. But I had not been able to see through Bill and 
the abuse he’d put my mother through. I did not realize we were still in the same 
situation as we were before. 
       “But it’s not going to happen ever again, Mia,” Mom said, putting her arms 
around me. “We’ll have to leave everything behind once again, and we may have 
to wander around for a while, having to find a new job and school, but we’re not 
going to return home. You can’t always listen to others to avoid getting lost, be-
cause the directions may lead you towards a darker path than you were before.” 
       It was then that we finally got the chance to truly escape.
Prairie Light Review68 3
Hernandez: Being Lost
Published by Di italCommons@COD, 2015


Being Lost

Solether, Wes

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 1 Article 14
Fall 12-1-2016
Iron, Awake
Wes Solether
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
Solether, Wes (2016) "Iron, Awake," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 1 , Article 14.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss1/14
The mud might swallow our shoes,  
and that’s ok, because we don’t need shoes  
with the mud smooching our toes. 
 
I wonder how many bones we trample  
as we progress through the woods,  
the dinosaurs and early humans, 
in some macabre, historically inaccurate diorama, 
must look up at us and wish for more catastrophes. 
 
And somewhere nearby a deal is being made  
with all the Santa effigies and coal-eyed snowmen  
that we’ll push back the calendar  
and make it snow, make it snow all year long. 
 
Walk with me across the plain 
as we observe the grass die 
and the musicians keen their legs 
while eulogists’ little lights send out their reports  
and trickle us towards the copse and clearing 
as if saying, “You have arrived at your destination.”  
 
Make sure to hide this behind a photo: 
I want ‘I love you’ to mean something, 
and that’s a secret for us to keep to ourselves. 
 
Ei
gh
t T
on
gu
es
Ac
ry
lic
 an
d 
ch
ar
co
al
 o
n 
ca
nv
as
 b
y
N
at
al
ia
 T
er
tu
sio
Wes Solether
Iron, Awake 
12  Prairie Light Review
1
Solether: Iron, Awake
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


Iron, Awake

Fortier, Mardelle

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 1 Article 15
Fall 12-1-2016
Hemingway on the Left Bank
Mardelle Fortier
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
Fortier, Mardelle (2016) "Hemingway on the Left Bank," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 1 , Article 15.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss1/15
Paris was enormous, 
full of artists 
in creative cross-fertilization. 
We lived among poor workers 
next to a saw-mill. 
The apartment was drafty and old. 
I loved it. 
  
Each day I wrote, first 
in a cramped office, 
later in cafes. Coffee helped me, 
wine helped even more. 
  
I tried to find the one 
true sentence 
  
in that one right place 
Paris. 
  
In Paris 
  
The evenings of September are 
warm 
and seductive. On sidewalk 
cafes, talk must be clever 
and lively: fashion, cinema, 
artists, amour. Champagne 
must be sparkling 
even though that kiss 
will only be a promise. 
  
In October, fallen leaves will be 
plastered to cobblestones 
haunted by longing and memories. 
Walking through rain 
lamplit rooms glimpsed from the 
street. 
The ghost of something in the air.
Tonight, stars--white flames, 
touchable by readers and lovers. 
Lights twinkle by the ever-flowing 
Seine. 
Bridges seem to lead somewhere 
connecting one's half of the city 
to some unique magic 
that can never be destroyed. 
Hemingway on the Left Bank
“Lilies for Mom”
Colored pencil, acrylic paint, stencil, 
and molding paste on drawing paper 
by Marge Dady
Mardelle Fortier
 13  Fall 2016
1
Fortier: Hemingway on the Left Bank
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


Hemingway on the Left Bank

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 1 Article 16
Fall 12-1-2016
Lilies for Mom
Marge Dady
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
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
Dady, Marge (2016) "Lilies for Mom," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 1 , Article 16.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss1/16
Paris was enormous, 
full of artists 
in creative cross-fertilization. 
We lived among poor workers 
next to a saw-mill. 
The apartment was drafty and old. 
I loved it. 
  
Each day I wrote, first 
in a cramped office, 
later in cafes. Coffee helped me, 
wine helped even more. 
  
I tried to find the one 
true sentence 
  
in that one right place 
Paris. 
  
In Paris 
  
The evenings of September are 
warm 
and seductive. On sidewalk 
cafes, talk must be clever 
and lively: fashion, cinema, 
artists, amour. Champagne 
must be sparkling 
even though that kiss 
will only be a promise. 
  
In October, fallen leaves will be 
plastered to cobblestones 
haunted by longing and memories. 
Walking through rain 
lamplit rooms glimpsed from the 
street. 
The ghost of something in the air.
Tonight, stars--white flames, 
touchable by readers and lovers. 
Lights twinkle by the ever-flowing 
Seine. 
Bridges seem to lead somewhere 
connecting one's half of the city 
to some unique magic 
that can never be destroyed. 
Hemingway on the Left Bank
“Lilies for Mom”
Colored pencil, acrylic paint, stencil, 
and molding paste on drawing paper 
by Marge Dady
Mardelle Fortier
 13  Fall 2016
1
Dady: Lilies for Mom
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


Lilies for Mom

Kesler, Lindsay

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 1 Article 22
Fall 12-1-2016
Purple
Lindsay Kesler
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
Kesler, Lindsay (2016) "Purple," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 1 , Article 22.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss1/22
You raised me to be pink and do things that pinks do. 
I wore dresses and heels and put ribbons in my hair. 
I did all you taught me because you said 
that was how a pink acted. 
When you sent me to school I saw something 
new, a blue. 
I knew that dad was a blue, but I didn’t know there were others too. 
As I got older, I began to change, both 
 mind and body. 
While I began to look more like a pink, inside I was becoming blue 
I no longer saw the use for skirts and refused to put on makeup for any given 
occasion 
You asked me what was wrong and I told 
you nothing 
But I could see what was happening to me 
Now I have no dresses 
and short hair, not long 
What I feel inside is slowly 
coming out 
I am not pink 
I am not blue 
I am purple 
But I am so afraid to tell you. 
Purple
Lindsay Kesler
 17  Fall 2016
1
Kesler: Purple
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


Purple

Peter, Amy

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 1 Article 29
Fall 12-1-2016
Drunken Regret
Amy Peter
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
Peter, Amy (2016) "Drunken Regret," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 1 , Article 29.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss1/29
Drunken Regret 
You were drunk, and I was too, 
but I needed you. 
I knew I shouldn’t call, it was so late, 
but I did anyway. 
If I had known before that you’d been drinking, 
I would’ve hung up the phone; 
but you said you’d pick me up and there’s no way I could’ve known. 
When you got to the party, I noticed something wasn’t right; 
but I was feeling so sick and just wanted to end the night. 
I’ll always remember that car ride memory, 
and I live everyday believing if It hadn’t happened you’d still be here. 
You were there for me when I needed you until the very end; 
and I’m so sorry, so very sorry.  
I hope you forgive me, dear friend. 
I’d give anything to go back in time and not pick up that phone, 
because one slip in the rain, 
a hydroplane, 
and you never got to go home.
Amy Peter
22  Prairie Light Review
1
Peter: Drunken Regret
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


Drunken Regret

Cairns, Gail

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 1 Article 30
Fall 12-1-2016
ECT
Gail Cairns
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
Cairns, Gail (2016) "ECT," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 1 , Article 30.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss1/30
ECT- Electro-Convulsive Therapy- 
a controversial treatment in which 
a convulsion or seizure is produced 
by passing an electric current 
through the brain 
  
My sister took me that first time 
She even drove my car 
She had no experience with this 
But she came with an army anyway 
We had to get up very early 
Because it’s first come first served 
Even though what they serve 
Is nearly beyond bearable 
  
She talked to me 
Like you would an injured bird 
She knew that it was all I could do 
To just be, and feel afraid, and make 
myself small 
And I couldn’t speak much 
So she spoke to me 
From time to time we would look at 
each other 
And find each other inside of all 
the strangeness 
Then the others took over 
My sister told me she would be 
right there 
Waiting to take me home 
And when it was over 
She brought me home 
She took over completely 
And as I slept 
She cleared the rooms, hallways, 
stairways of shame 
  
Sometime we can look back 
At this extraordinary task 
And triumph will claim us 
By the depth we belong together 
Then when we look at each other 
We will be overcome 
With all the love that we had made 
On that terrible, terrible day
ECT
lig
ht
ni
ng
 in
 b
ril
lia
nt
 o
ra
ng
e c
lo
ud
Ph
ot
og
ra
ph
y 
by
 E
dw
ar
d 
Va
rg
a
Gail Cairns
 23  Fall 2016
1
Cairns: ECT
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


Pospisil, Katya

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 1 Article 33
Fall 12-1-2016
SAiD
Katya Pospisil
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
Pospisil, Katya (2016) "SAiD," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 1 , Article 33.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss1/33
SAiD 
Do you hear voices in your head? 
And I don't mean insanity  
There was just something they said 
That rattled around my mind 
 
And It gives me headaches all the time 
I can't give you a reason or a rhyme 
It's was just some profanity  
Something about vanity  
Or a fantasy I can't see 
But to me  
There was just something they said  
That left me lingering in my bed 
and I won't remember if I end up dead 
So please tell me what is it that they said 
Unwinding Anime
Ink on paper by Hailey Jayne
Katya Pospisil
 25  Fall 2016
1
Pospisil: SAiD
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2016


College of DuPage

Not a member yet