John Carroll University

Ahern, Erin

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 11 
December 2019 
Stuck 
Erin Ahern 
John Carroll University, eahern21@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, and the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Ahern, Erin (2019) "Stuck," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 11. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/11 
This Poem is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
Stuck  
By: Erin Ahern 
 
The secondhand ticks to the beat of time. 
I am caged. 
And the metal thorns protrude from my castle, 
Anyone who loves me will bleed. 
 
The sound of uncertain silence 
Yells. 
Screams. 
Beats its platonic drum to the voices in my mind. 
 
I call out, 
Yet only hear the faint rustles 
Of leaves scattering the pavement 
And the second hand of my small wooden clock. 
Tick 
Tick 
 
To escape from my cage  
Would be to light my soul on fire 
And offer a band-aid and cold water as remedy. 
 
Hopeless. 
 
So I am stuck. 
Cast away from a dreamer’s village of “Hello’s” and “Good Day’s.” 
Cast away from feeling my feet firm on the ground 
And my heart filled with purple songs. 
 
My anchor has sunk below the depths of the ocean 
And I am alone in my castle with this tattered book 
And the sound of time ticking on.  
 
1
Ahern: Stuck
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


English

Stuck

Franz, Autumn

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 18 
December 2019 
Red Crayons 
Autumn Franz 
John Carroll University, afranz20@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, and the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Franz, Autumn (2019) "Red Crayons," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 18. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/18 
This Poem is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
RED CRAYONS  
By: Autumn Franz  
 
Is love infatuation? Butterflies?  
Is it a good feeling? 
The one you get when your eyes first meet  
and you know already they understand? 
Is it a coffee cake and dark roast at 10 am,  
you know, the way it seems it is for twenty somethings  
with tiny apartments and college debt? 
 
Or is it a bloody necked mouse in the teeth  
of your fluffy ginger snap colored cat named Sparkle? 
Or the tiny still dewy hands of a child  
grasping dandelions tighter 
than you’ve ever held onto anything? 
 
If I could give love a name I wouldn’t name it after you.  
Love isn’t you or her or that guy from high school  
that bailed on date night for his football buddies. 
 
I can’t say what it is.  
 
Maybe,  
to be cliché,  
you can say love is the ochre of a sunset,  
your partner’s hands, the firework finale of a First Kiss.  
 
But maybe it’s also the swish swish  
of your mom’s polyester track suit or training wheels  
or the way you tuck yourself in bed.  
 
You know love when you give it away  
and when people take it from you  
and somehow—still—when you find it  
again. 
 
1
Franz: Red Crayons
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


Red Crayons

Cullen, Demitri

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 24 
December 2019 
To Disappear 
Demitri Cullen 
John Carroll University, dcullen21@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, and the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Cullen, Demitri (2019) "To Disappear," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 24. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/24 
This Poem is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
 
To Disappear 
By: Demitri J. Cullen 
 
To disappear; that is a skill 
To go unnoticed by the eyes of many, 
Passing with no attention, through each day, 
Hiding among the swarms of strangers, 
Just another face to be forgotten. 
Never met by friendly eyes or 
A warm smile, let alone  
Compassionate words of appreciation. 
To live a quiet, lonely life, away 
From longing stares and admiration 
From the eyes of roaming strangers. 
To live each day in that solitary way, 
To disappear; that is a skill. 
But to be noticed? 
Admired? 
Cherished? 
To exist feeling the gaze of humanity 
Closing in, and to still go on living? 
That? 
Is a gift. 
 
1
Cullen: To Disappear
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


To Disappear

Baust, Payton

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 27 
December 2019 
Adoption 
Payton Baust 
John Carroll University, pbaust22@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, and the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Baust, Payton (2019) "Adoption," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 27. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/27 
This Poem is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
Adoption 
By: Payton Baust 
 
Between me and the woman who gave me up 
Lie legal fees and adoption papers. 
 
Under my bed lies a closed white box. 
I only open it late at night. 
A worn and faded photograph,  
My mother holding me in her dark arms.  
Tears rolling down her cheeks.  
 
I imagine rough hands from a hard day’s work 
Smelling of ammonia, 3014.5 miles away.  
Cleaning for a living. 
 
My father, I’m unsure of who he was 
I’m fairly certain I got my nose from him.  
Hair pulled back as she scrubbed dirty tile 
Just so she could take care of me, her baby. 
 
I trust mis padres americanos, 
she really loved me. 
But does she still? 
 
My abuelo might have been a Mayan 
Warrior, fighting the battles of the past. 
I often wonder who they were, 
My imagination left wild and free. 
Cartel? Warriors? Housekeeper for sure. 
 
Precise broomstick swipes across the floor 
Body tired from all of the work. 
Questions of who and what? Clash with reality.  
I’m in America now, unlike them.  
 
I am training to be a teacher, a writer.  
Not a warrior, or housekeeper 
And definitely not the cartel.  
Pen to paper, writing my own story.  
 
1
Baust: Adoption
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


Adoption

Orr, Keisha

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 30 
December 2019 
Black 
Keisha Orr 
John Carroll University, korr22@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, and the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Orr, Keisha (2019) "Black," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 30. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/30 
This Poem is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
Black  
By: Keisha Orr 
 
I stand out on campus. 
The only black in a white classroom. 
Uncomfortable stares as I walk  
into rooms and take my seat. 
Does my blackness offend you? 
 
White professors delighted to see 
me mix things up.  
They are not so quick to label me, 
“a problem,” like society has. 
They refuse to join the 
fearful crowds pinpointing 
my brown sugar tone as if it were  
a loaded 9mm or a 12 gauge. 
The Black label is all people see. 
 
Black is the color of my skin, 
hair, behavior.  
Make whites uncomfortable 
when in their space.  
There, am I out of place?  
“Will you slay me like Zimmerman did 
Trevon Martin?” or “ignore me as 
if I don’t exist?” 
 
 
1
Orr: Black
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


Black

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 31 
December 2019 
White 
Keisha Orr 
John Carroll University, korr22@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, and the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Orr, Keisha (2019) "White," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 31. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/31 
This Poem is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
White  
By: Keisha Orr 
 
I see nothing but young white inexperienced  
men and women on campus.  
Sit in classrooms surrounded by white walls.  
Indulge myself into white written novels,  
Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Wolfe.  
Short stories, Poe and Twain. 
I am instructed by white professors  
with doctorates and master’s degrees. 
They know so much, so I intensely listen  
To what they say.   
I focus on the white board when taking notes. 
I save all my best ideas on my white  
jump drive.  
By coming here, I wonder 
“Are they trying to steer in me  
in the white direction?”  
When I am here, I am white Keisha.  
But my white friends do not see color, 
 just me. 
 
1
Orr: White
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


White

Altejar, Ronie R

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 36 
December 2019 
Unleavened 
Ronie R. Altejar 
John Carroll University, raltejar21@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, and the Poetry Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Altejar, Ronie R. (2019) "Unleavened," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 36. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/36 
This Poem is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
 
Unleavened  
By: Ronie Rafael Altejar 
 
The altar’s marble glitters with flames. 
Organ pipes, wet with age, arouse solemn hymns. 
Lit wicks dance and interpret meditation. 
 
Pews are molds, the logic of our prayer. 
Square shoulders, the frames of our windows. 
Warm wind breathes past our still panes. 
 
Hands fold in our laps and do not rise. 
Petitions fill the cracks of our fingers. 
Real warriors battle with folded hands. 
 
The stained glass paints the martyrs in gold. 
 
Side one sings, loses its tempo. 
Side two loses its pitch. 
David’s Psalms are our war cries. 
 
The unleavened host is raised up. 
Knees pound against the floor tiles. 
Genuflection—the hammer that sparks reverence. 
 
The deacon holds the Son with veiled hands. 
We stare. We are blind. Still, we follow. 
We lap up flames that fall, food for the fallen. 
 
Housekeeping sweeps the fire off the marble. 
 
1
Altejar: Unleavened
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


Unleavened

Minear, Sarah

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 51 
December 2019 
Feed the Birds 
Sarah Minear 
John Carroll University, sminear22@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, Photography Commons, and the Poetry 
Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Minear, Sarah (2019) "Feed the Birds," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 51. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/51 
This Visual Arts is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted 
for inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
1
Minear: Feed the Birds
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


Feed the Birds

Morton, Gabriella

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 73 Issue 2 Article 55 
December 2019 
Chops 
Gabriella Morton 
John Carroll University, gmorton21@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, Photography Commons, and the Poetry 
Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Morton, Gabriella (2019) "Chops," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 73: Iss. 2, Article 55. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol73/iss2/55 
This Visual Arts is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been accepted 
for inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more information, please 
contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
1
Morton: Chops
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019


Chops

Polcyn, Madeleine

The John Carroll Review 
Volume 74 Issue 1 Article 8 
December 2019 
The Old Man 
Madeleine Polcyn 
John Carroll University, mpolcyn22@jcu.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr 
 Part of the Fiction Commons, Nonfiction Commons, Photography Commons, and the Poetry 
Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Polcyn, Madeleine (2019) "The Old Man," The John Carroll Review: Vol. 74: Iss. 1, Article 8. 
Available at: https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol74/iss1/8 
This Short Fiction is brought to you for free and open access by the Student at Carroll Collected. It has been 
accepted for inclusion in The John Carroll Review by an authorized editor of Carroll Collected. For more 
information, please contact mchercourt@jcu.edu. 
The Old Man
Believe it or not, I have seven younger siblings -- yes, seven. Seven humans who all look 
towards me for guidance, who could screw up like I did because they were dumb enough to 
use me as an example. And that’s scary. They could come home smokin’ crack and decked 
out in ink and leather, and when the Old Man would ask, “Why in God’s name would you 
do this?” they would reply behind nicotine-stained teeth, “‘cause he did it, Pops.” I don’t 
want ‘em to do anything I did, though. I want ‘em to be better.
They’re not my biological siblings, o’course; I don’t think the Old Man is potent 
enough for that, bless him. We’re all adopted, so besides the twins, none of us share any 
blood. For all I know, I do have biological siblings, but I pray to God I don’t ever meet ‘em. 
My biological family was shit -- sorry, pardon my language -- and couldn’t keep their hands 
off o’me. Not a good place to be.
A lot of people make the assumption that the foster system screws you up, but that’s 
not it. The system itself wasn’t so bad, but I was eleven when I got thrown in there. At that 
age, even if you’re put in a house, no one really wants you, ‘cause you’re not a baby or 
absolutely precious. I thought I could say goodbye to ever getting out. I guess I was lucky.
The Old Man was a combat vet who attended college after being discharged and 
scored a cushy job as the head videographer for a local news channel. He married his high 
school sweetheart two days after their graduation, but she high-tailed out of there with some 
pilot not long after the two of them got full custody of all the little ones. No matter, though, 
because he still had that big house he inherited from his old man. It was only because of his 
wife that he got any of us, ‘cause I bet no one in their right mind would let a 
thirty-some-year-old cynic riddled with PTSD look after his twelve-year-old counterpart 
without another voice of reason. Back then, I didn’t care, though. I had a mom. I had a dad, 
the most relatable dad ever. I thought it was awesome.
But like I said, it’s not the foster system that screws you up. It’s the people who throw 
you in and, sometimes, the people who yank you out.
Madeleine Polcyn
11 1
Polcyn: The Old Man
Published by Carroll Collected, 2019
At first it was a fairytale, but of course, I was still messed up: nightmares, anxiety, violent 
outbursts, all of it. And the Old Man was exactly the same, ‘cept he directed his violence 
towards me and the other kids after his wife abandoned us. I was always the Old Bastard’s 
favorite target, since I was the oldest, but I never hit back. Two of my sisters did, though: the 
one closest to my age, who was an adult by then, so the Old Man kept his mouth shut. And 
one of the twins, who the Old Man had removed real quick.
It didn’t help that I got bullied real bad in high school. There was always this one guy, who 
always toed the line between toyin’ with my feelings and breakin’ me down, and one day, I 
just I dunno. I snapped and attacked him, tried to strangle him. He lived, though, don’t 
worry! I went home and cried to the Old Man, and, for the first time, he didn’t tell me to 
toughen up. He let me cry, and it well it was weird. 
The kid’s family didn’t press charges. His brother told the Old Man that his dumb ass 
deserved it. The Old Man checked me into a psych ward, said I was, “a danger to the babies,” 
that Old Crook.
After a month, I was discharged, but I wasn’t “all better,” no. I was fuckin’ pissed. I 
lashed out at the Old Fool and ran away the next night. I did real dumb things, like cocaine 
and prostitution and all that dumb shit, and when I came home oh God when I waltzed back 
home like I hadn’t been on a monthslong coke binge, the Old Man could’ve wrung my neck. 
But he manipulated the system like he manipulated everything else, and I didn’t have to go 
to jail. I just had to face rehab and the dirty look in his eyes when the Old Criminal asked me 
to set the table or help one of the little ones with homework.
All six of the little ones were homeschooled, which provided the Old Man the perfect 
opportunity to twist their minds and keep them silent with God and discipline. He was real 
good at twisting things, twisting ‘em with poisoned words and a grimy, deadpan stare.
And God forgive me but I hate that Old Fuck’s grimy stare.
But the little ones? Right. I don’t want ‘em to turn out like me, but I doubt they will. 
The Old Man’s a devil, but the youngest six were all taken in as babies, so the only thing 
tainting them is him. My other sister, the one closest to my age, is so smart, such a ball of 
sunshine, and she’d never get involved with anything like that.
I say they’re lucky even if they’re dumb enough to look up to me. I love ‘em even if I 
don’t show it a lot, and I’m so proud of ‘em. Someone’s gotta be.
12
2
The John Carroll Review, Vol. 74, Iss. 1 [2019], Art. 8
https://collected.jcu.edu/jcr/vol74/iss1/8
