Chair at the Window by Liane Beckley

Issue 32.1

Editor’s Note

To the students of Washington College:

The job of the editor, as I see it, has always been that of guide—shepherding art to its greatest end, helping readers find their way to affecting work. My job, in these editor’s notes, is to contextualize the accompanying issue, both in the scheme of present circumstances and as the pieces relate to one another. Anymore, that feels like a nearly impossible task. We are now just over halfway through what has, for the vast majority of us, been the strangest semester we’ve experienced. It’s hard to know how to guide others when I’m still figuring things out for myself.

I’ve spent most of my time in these past few months consuming whatever media I can find. Books, movies, tv shows, articles, albums, exhibits—anything to distract from being inside, to be reminded that there are other people in the world. What I’m doing, I think without having realized it, is letting art guide me. Whether toward comfort, curiosity, or an entirely new frontier, art has been the thing steering me through these odd and unfortunate days.

This issue, the first student issue of the year, contains works of visual art, poetry, and prose that plumb the depths of hope, loneliness, fear, identity, and companionship. I will say nothing of how you should read, only that there is very good reading to be done. Each work of art will carry you to the next. Let them take you where you need to go.

Take care of yourselves,

Justin Nash
Editor in Chief, Collegian

Static

When we woke up, the ocean was on fire. People lined the beaches to see if it was true, to see if the news channels had it right. We watched from our bay window as the tourists crept along the side of our house, hesitant at first. But then their eyes would fill with orange and their feet would move forward and their bodies would follow. As if the fire was beckoning them towards it like an altar. But the tourists all stopped along the shoreline, shielded their brows from the heat, snapped some pictures, and left.

The fire had moved pretty quickly, as far as fires go. I suppose it began at the horizon with the sun, introducing the sea in the golden blushes of the morning. By noon it caressed the ocean like a necklace and now, when the sun should have been setting, it sat on the shoreline and licked the sky with sparks that sizzled against the foam of the waves.

The city didn’t know what to do but run as cities always do, emptying houses as shells to the lives that were here. We did that once, when Mom died and no one expected it, abandoning the metal of the city for the warmth of the beach, insulating ourselves between the rippled slate of the sea and rich neighbors who had nothing better to do than sell us cookies. Dad would plunge himself into the ocean every morning since the day we moved in, neatly tucking his socks into his shoes on the back porch so we’d know he had gone. The water was the type of cold that you could feel deep in your bones, but he went in anyways, as if his body belonged to it. The sun began stretching in the sky and sometimes his swim was so long we didn’t know if he’d come back.

There was a day when Louie and I tried to go with him, waking up at dawn and pulling on stiff bathing suits over our pale tangle of legs. But as soon as dad saw the image of all three of us in the mirror of the water that was only still in the morning, he turned and glided from the ocean as if it carried him out with the tide. He shut himself away in the house as the sun just started peeking over the horizon.

Louie and I stayed outside for as long as we could and waited for him to come back. But the water was too cold to even stick your toes in, so eventually we went back inside and crawled into beds that were too large for little kids, and from my bedroom window I could see dad slip back into the water as if he was whispering an apology for ever having left.

He didn’t go for his swim that morning with the fire. We told him not to. When we stood at the shoreline with the tourists, his eyes weren’t filled with orange but were filled with nothing, as if he expected the ocean to acknowledge that it disappointed him. But it didn’t acknowledge him and he wasn’t able to go for a swim so instead he went inside for the rest of the day without another word. I blinked at the flames as he slid into the house with the breath of his silence.

The fire had fringed his face with the warmth he might have had once, but the glow of the flames in his eyes was too bright against the darkness of his pupil. The soft brown that always lit up when he saw our mother was consumed by rippling heat. He almost looked the way he did when they were both alive, but not quite.

We weren’t evacuating, though the neighbors thought we were crazy. They cried as they packed up their Buggies, knowing we weren’t leaving. Some of them even tried to convince Louie and me to go with them, squeezing our arms and assuring us that our dad would understand. But we shook them off with light smiles, promising we would leave if the flames began to crawl out of the ocean and up onto the shore near our house. We liked the warmth of the flames, we insisted, and the quiet of the neighborhood would do dad some good. They climbed into their Buggies and dabbed at their eyes with dotted handkerchiefs as they drove away.

Louie and I filled a backpack just in case, but the fire hadn’t moved from its curve along the water. Rather, the hummed static of the flames spread a warmth through our house all of its own, a whisper that made me pay attention to my breaths. It reminded me of our apartment in the city when we were all together, of the stone fireplace that Mom used to read us stories beside. Louie and I would huddle against each other while she thrummed words off her lips as if they were her own, and the light of the room seemed to grow brighter in my eyes right before it would fade into the blur and the memory that is sleep.

I held a book to my chest now, a new one, unopened. A neighbor had lent it to me after I watched her nod off while reading it on the beach. She didn’t care. The neighbors only found warmth in sweat, cookies, and condolences. But we left all our old books at the apartment when we moved, so I didn’t have a choice but to ask for new ones from strangers.

I swung my legs from the couch, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I padded into the kitchen and dropped my dishes onto the stack in the sink. It was nighttime now. Louie had gone to bed hours ago, clearing the dinner table and heading straight up to his room as he had done every night since Mom died. I didn’t know if he went to sleep or if he would lie awake as I often did, counting memories as if they were sheep. I didn’t know. I didn’t ask.

I leaned my forehead against the window above the counter as I filled a cup with water. The flames were brilliant against the depth of the sky, honey yellows and wine reds streaking across a black canvas. They singed my cheeks through the glass.

I stepped around the counter and slipped out the back door. The hum blew into a roar out here, deafening and silencing all at once. The ocean spit droplets from its mouth as if they were sparks, crackling against the recoil of the waves. The wall of heat made it hard to look, but I didn’t have to see the flames to know that they blocked out the stars.

I took a step forward and stumbled over something that littered the deck, sending a splash of water out of my cup. It evaporated before it could hit the ground. And beside it, beside the spot where it should have been, tipping right-side up after being nudged out of place, was one of dad’s shoes. The light from the flames pulled its shadow thinly across the deck. One sock hung limply from its mouth.

I looked up at the shoreline just in time to watch a shadow, a piece of canvas, sink into the blaze. But then the sea and the fire closed together, ice and heat sealing the silhouette into nothingness. The wisps that jumped from the flames painted streaks in a sky that was too small for so many flames.

by Joshua Torrence

dowsing for love in a country of skin

i forget i sweat marmalade sometimes.
it’s a kind of art, this exercise
of sleeping without pillows. i stumble
through the cotton-candy labyrinthine
esophagus of my subconscious, witness
mountains rising up like crucifixes,
devilish in their wood and charm, and
find myself large as an eighteen-wheeler with
a blind spot that punctures into my foresight like
a scratched cornea, wandering and wondering
what kind of world allows for voyeurs,
venus flytraps, and featherless birds.

there is a plume behind the shop window,
which beckons the man who can’t look
at himself. aspiring to fashion of peacock
sensibilities, he bedecks his body in silks,
hoping for blessings of masculine nature,
the stone of the torso,
the thistle-sharp jaw.
to resemble the disarming bearded male specimen,
who stares back at you from smelly pulp, delights
green eyes that dilate at flashy expenditures,
scales the fish in the page’s cup, sets fire to
the boy’s priesthood, placates the bourgeois.

immaterial is worthier than chameleon scale.
new mantras come to me more unexpectedly
than the flash of a pendeloque or the sneer
of a palmist. unheard, fleshless, no spoon
can function as well as a vision.
my name is oracle and i do receive, despite
my rough, unintelligible mercury, despite
this goddam gravity and this lipid-cursed,
opaque cage. behind my brow i house a prism.
rock me with your hot white light, and rainbows
will dance on my tongue after downpours.
on a search aboveground, i dream of water.

Acrylic Pour #12 by Aryanna Horan — *Acrylic Pour #12* by Aryanna Horan

by Isaiah J. Reese (Brother Yaw)

a wish from west Baltimore

keep the bullets home tonight
my Mom gets off late
so if you really answer prayer
you need to take a trip to West Baltimore
it’s still blood on the ground from
the last time you granted someone’s wish
Because of you
we have to keep our heads tucked from windows at night
while the gun grippers spill and spread moisty myrrh

but God your guns are never aim for the deserving ones
So, do you want me to do it?

With this prayer I could kill with the best of them
Whatever I say must manifest, you put it in my name―
Isaiah.

So, should I abuse your power like how you abuse us?

by Joshua Torrence

phantasmagoria

nana’s neck stiffens // she wonders what if & oh god save me // sleeps on cold coils of springs // imagines they’re satin // i come home reeking of leeks & radishes // i sicken her with my grocery stench
suddenly i am essential // drink berry-blue gatorade & shrink into a skink // taste salt as the ocean hiccups on my tongue // in the unwalkable doldrums of a double shift // yessir still out of charmin // smiling ultra-softly through my teeth
deal with death as surgeons do // slip on the gloves // new sun sparkles like a scalpel // as i lysol the conveyor belt i whisper // do no harm // small talk soaked with bedside manner
father flicks his eyes at me // stop working he says as i walk inside // no i say but i want to // say money is not dirty // i am not greedy // a thousand palms have touched those bills // close enough i think // close as i’ll get // stuck on this private moon of mine // thumb through a few wrinkled lincolns // feel the warm skin that once brushed his beard // cash connotes hands // such flesh in that green
boy learns to inhale the vanilla // vape he brought to work // i gave him my number how // could i have been so defenseless // beanpole straggler // haunt of the breakroom // called me cutie once after clocking out // but my phone’s stone silent on the coffee table
screens breathe with tigers // basking in the arms of a mullet // pay for two husbands with meth & a feline streak // didn’t know daniel wore denim & neon prints // as he strutted into the lion’s den // am i asleep or did he just burn up // a couple alligators in a scale-grey smoke // “what is this world” asked chaucer once // turn off the tv & google tells me // there are only four thousand fearful symmetries // left jungle-wild // striped as jailbirds
cancer fattening my calico’s jaw // i put myself in her four paws // i am neutered & stout as a teacup // eleven years domestic they named me daisy // i growl when the parents spit & shriek // i shit on the floor to shut them up // silence is a kingdom // of this house i am empress // purr when they snore // nap languid in a leg crook // piss on the carpet because i can // when i die they will remember me
lately the days feign significance // now i know what it means to be furloughed // monday called itself holy this morning // i drowsed till noon on a drool-stained pillow // picked fights in my pajamas with overstuffed pantries // told mom that yes there’s a semblance of routine // but even the miracles jade me // fig trees never castrated anyone jesus // they did not ask to be fruitless
up into spell-casting hours it’s late // i know but there’s beauty on the television // a cactus blossom swoons // beneath the moon i witness a bat // flap aerial skin long tongue // tickling the flowers’ uvulas // searching for sugar in petals’ saliva // o sweet night garden i want to lie still in you // to be small as a cholla // teddy-bear prickly // at peace in the arms of a mexican dusk
bored of couches i walk to the woods // bring a few books to pass the time // on the forest floor i flip through photographs // of a silvery america that warhol snapped // way back when reagan beguiled the suburbs // in the glossy pages i meet john sex who is also // an aries & get a glimpse of montauk for the very first time // outside the world is not so nebulous // i never want to go home again
boy remembers my blond // & the curve of my buttocks when i walk // into weis for the first time in weeks // just came to pick up my paystub // leave blushing with a heart // innumerably starred
downloaded tinder let’s see what happens // three cardinal suns till age of consent // i dream up a darling who might dement me // tell me i’m turquoise & tortoiseshell-soft // become the buck who licks my lungs // with antler of velvet // who dyes his hallowed bone the dark hue of my blood
i am woodpecker grounded // drilling hard beak deep into trees’ dead bark // head feathered furious-red // white-eyed // someday soon i will fly this coop // wings flapping skyward // crowing my whinesong
march 4 2020 — april 18 2020

Cows at Cuba’s All Organic Farm by Isabella Smith — *Cows at Cuba’s All Organic Farm* by Isabella Smith

by Lenora Brown

Purpose

i like to think
god held me back
for two weeks, ‘cause he knew
my crab tears would
cause a second flood

or maybe she made
my hands shake and
an inability to concentrate
because me and my focus
would be a magnifying glass
on a hot summer day and
she didn’t wanna see
the world burn

other people know
how to take this life in
uniformly, gradually,
but the stars named me
devourer, and made my meals
scarce, so i inhale
every pleasure quickly, and
spend my days reminiscing
about the taste

you see i like to think
this body is vital, because
without its limitations i’d be
too bright, too fast, and
gone too soon

by Nicholas Ritter

5:18am

after “Son of Msippi” by Henry Dumas

Up
my eyes forced awake
as the sun barely begun
to show.

Up
I found myself
buried in something de-
-eper than I was willing to
unbury.

Up
I understood this
burial as I struggled to find
a physical print of Henry
Dumas's poetry.

Out of the dirt it seems
unjust to be buried by
the same hand he
protested.

It is these restless nights I
am so fond of. I hold free-
-dom, the easy access to bleed
these dreams. I inhale
time through the holes that
got lost. I float on
to remain think wonder
question discover

I have
no physical creation to
show but believe in this man-
-ifestation.

Up
I rather embrace it than
struggle beneath it

Death bullet dead man
don’t write his pretty
poems no more.

Hello, My Name Is by Elizabeth Tilley — *Hello, My Name Is* by Elizabeth Tilley

by Isaiah J. Reese (Brother Yaw)

Hood Poetry

Kill him―and let his soul go wild.
—Langston Hughes, “Genius Child”

They told me poetry isn't a style for hustlers
But can I finesse and speak a language so foreign―
Hood Poetry.

“The Hood”

A place where clothes hang from lines like strange fruit
Where the streets are covered in oily myrrh

A place where the reds and blues bang on each other―
Twisted fingers, crocheted bandanas, and BLOOD

EVERYWHERE

ironically.
Hood poets are the natural ear hustlers
The streets call us home to remind us of our roots
And the love in which we’re picked from.

Such strange fruit.

My hood is place where you can hear the ancestors cry.

I can be a bop away from home, but since I’m a “Hood” poet
I’m always home the ghettos are everywhere

where some of the soulless roam.

by Annalie Buscarino

the horse that killed her never stopped running

they said that the horse tossed her from its back into the hands of the wind that were bent to the town’s mills, and into the body of the river that was broken by the town’s dam, and no one was really surprised when they said that it killed her, especially not the mother who scolded her to close the pretty shutters to match the rest of the town, and especially not the father who ordered her to stop flooding the streets with the water she fetched from the well, and especially not me who would always escape with her to the river and tear along the ring of the town’s walls and who barricaded my house the day that they said that leaving is what killed her so they had to break down my door in order to enter and though I heard the thundering of hoofs in the expanse beyond my walls their shadows were blocking the light that was streaming through the splinters of my door so when they killed me next I wasn’t smiling the way she might have been if only the wind plucked her body from the horse’s back and swaddled her in the sky before releasing her into the river’s frantic, blissful
current

Yellow D.C. by Elizabeth Tilley — *Yellow D.C.* by Elizabeth Tilley

by Elizabeth Hill

Solitary Panes

He liked to sit by the window in the afternoon. It was a large window, very open and bright. It could fill the whole living room with yellow and gold. Beside it was a single comfortable chair and a small, yet practical, table. There he’d keep his coffee, or his beer if the day called for it, and a book.

It came to be that every weekday afternoon he’d glance up from his book and, squinting out the window, he’d see her. Running along the pavement; first her hair was long and blonde and tangled in a bun, jumping as she ran. A couple weeks later and she was running with a shortened bob, now dark brown. And on she went―ever changing, ever running. He never knew how to expect her, but the surprise was always a pleasant one.

Strange, he thought, to be observing the neighbor on her afternoon runs. But was it all that strange? A routine. Come home from work and shower more often than not, look through the kitchen, think about cooking, later but not now, and brew some coffee. A little pick-me-up after the day. Pass the darkened hallway, the stairs he never uses anymore. The worn chair, slumped with his shape, the books he has on rotation. Open the blinds and there she is, running round the bend, coming down and passing right in front of his window, the sound of her feet hitting the pavement audible through the glass. He thinks of her distantly, always aware of the square panes and wire mesh which separate them. He wonders where she goes when she isn’t in his window, thinks about the person waiting for her to return just as he anticipates her arrival.

On the weekends it’s different, quieter. He doesn’t work and she doesn’t run. Still sits in the chair though, a book and a mug to give him company. He keeps the window open, but he knows the weekends are for rest. Monday was the day to look forward to, the day all went on as it should. The house was empty for all but him, but there was comfort in it. Him in his chair: alone, yes, but not always. Every once in a while, in the lapse between the setting sun and the ascending moon, he imagines movement in the shadows, a familiar silhouette. And when he first wakes in the morning, the birds and their early chatter remind him of music and moments that happened long ago. Sometimes, but not always.

When she’s tired, maybe, or worn out, she stops her running and walks. She walks slower than he would have expected, if the pace of her walk was something he gave thought to. Slow enough that from the left edge of the window to the right, minutes stretch into hours and he watches her and she’s near enough that they could make eye contact if she only turned her head, just a little, and sometimes he can imagine she does, and she sees him and she acknowledges it, them, their routine, and he isn’t alone.

by Teddy L. Friedline

Rush

We steal liquid fertilizer from someone’s yard, take it along the creek.
Our feet move between the stones and cockroaches.
The air is sawdust and cherry. The bottle dangles from our fingers
and he looks at me. He falls and some spills onto the earth. The air
is liquid fertilizer and cockroaches. We wander until we find his yard,
his farmhouse far in the distance. He plays Rush. He looks at me.
He spreads the fertilizer on the maple sticks and newspaper sheets.
He lights them and the flames grow. We laugh and find sticks,
paper, firewood. The air is maple and smoke. We sit on his truck bed
and he plays Rush. He lights up and the air is tobacco tar and leather.
He hands me the cigarette and we smoke. He looks at me. We imagine food,
Taco Bell and Colonel Sanders. The sun falls. He looks at me.
His shirtfront is stained with dust. We imagine food, breakfast,
ham and cheese. I scream. He looks at me. We sing. The air
makes us dizzy. We run to the creek, gulp. He looks at me. The air is water
and maple. We see red birds, stars. We laugh. He plays Rush. We imagine
food, meat, drumsticks and chicken. We laugh. He looks at me.
His muscle stretches behind his shirtfront. We imagine food, mangoes
and tomatoes, filling our throats like flesh. We run back and forth
to the creek, gulping and laughing. The air is leather and apple bark.
He hands me his jacket. He plays Rush. We imagine food, heavy cream.
The air is stars and burning leather. We laugh. He looks at me.