& Vol. 1

Selections from our 2017-18 Magazine

Untitled

Jack Cleghorn

Micheline used to come to our house and knock on our door. A construction worker leaning on a small fence takes a drag of his cigarette while he stares at nothing in particular. The man holding the sign fidgets in place. I jump over the hole in the middle of the street and walk up the steps. My dad would answer and say what do you want girl and she’d say “can I take a bath with Mark?”. Images flash into my mind of times past. Too quick to be conveyed with words. Feeling. Mood. Vibe. Intense melancholia and longing mix with nostalgia. “Nostalgia”: the pain of home in Greek. Greek. Chronos, biblos, strategos. “Black bile”. The covered walking area creates a wind tunnel effect; the gusts of wind hit my face and make me sniffle.

The sky is grey and cloudy; brainlike. Walking along, remembering the first time I heard this song. The smell of the green plastic air mattress, the quilted comforter, the paradoxically spacious computer room of Nana and Papa’s house. My dad would say my son ain’t here and send her home and shut the door and we’d all laugh, and Micheline would walk down the street glowing and smiling like she’d just gotten Paul McCartney’s autograph. Crying tears only a fifteen year old could muster. Tears preceding impending exodus. Embarrassing, looking back. Exodus; Lamentations? I smile sadly. “Yea we wept when we remembered Zion”. Sitting along the banks of the St. John’s river, weeping, remembering Zion. “Mene mene tekel eufarsin, you have been weighed and lost”. Powerful image. I walk along, up a set of concrete stairs, and look at the small patch of blue visible in the sky. The beach in Saint Augustine, towel laid out on the sand, shirtless. Girl in sunhat and newly-purchased bikini. Intense melancholy of moments lost in time. I sigh. Wind stings my face, and my eyes start to tear up.

I see that kid. I’ve seen him before, I think. He looks like me: red hair, chubby, hair unkempt. Do I know his name? Certainly not. But maybe. I went to see him in Ohio, he had a horseshoe shaped scar on his scalp and he talked real slow. We played pool like we did in our teens and his head was shaved and he still wore bell bottom jeans. June. Blue Florida skies on a car ride to dinner. Some cultures don’t have a word for blue, only light, dark, and red. I wonder why. What does the blue look like to them? Trip to theme park with friends, driving on backroads listening to this same song. Rollercoaster. “Rollercoaster”? I laugh a little. The connection is amusing, if nothing else.
I’m walking down the hill; my feet can feel the coldness of the concrete through my tennis shoes. “Down Colorful Hill”? No, I say to myself, now you’re doing it intentionally. Everyone is walking against me. It was the first time I had saw a hummingbird or a palm tree or a lizard or saw an ocean or heard David Bowie’s “Young Americans” or saw the movie Benji in the theater. Benji the dog. Dead now, certainly. Another sad smile; a bitter joke. I enter the building, I turn off the music, and open the door to the counselor’s office.

Lexington, VA - March 20, 2018

People…I miss people

People who just talk…honestly

I sat upon the garden wall

Pulling flesh from bone

A man approached

His beard portrayed a ragged soul

yet something betrayed this ideal

The conversation was simple

He expressed concern for the overgrown bushes

I expressed my care and respect

For the restless bushes he so loved

He asked me my name

I responded

He turned away

After my hesitation

I asked for his name

He turned back

Planted his hands

in the front pocket

of his red weathered smock

Hesitated

Then said

Peter

This man is a professor

He could have demanded respect of title

The genuine authenticity of his soul,

Weathered like his smock was apparent

He understood why I was here

—Levi Lebsack

Queen Mab

a black lady’s water breaks at midnight.

flying in with iridescent wings to peer

between her knees—wide open,

and whisper, “the child is near”

queen mab arrives.

between mid-moan, sweat dripping down her temples,

mixing with the tears pouring onto her chest—

the black woman asks,

why the fuck are you here now?

Mab’s sly response, “to deliver a dreamer.”

the wise black woman lifts the tiny fairy queen,

holding her body between her

forefinger and thumb,

and with her last bit of energy

finishes what Mercutio couldn’t,

flinging mab in her empty hazelnut carriage

out into the black night.

—Makayla Lorick

VMI Keydet

Leeann Passaro

I stripped myself of my clothes in the shadows of a nearby tree. The summer night blew a warm wind against my exposed skin as I pulled the shirt over my head and dropped my civilian clothes in the grass. Faint light from a far off street lamp illuminated the back entrance of the barracks as I stepped back onto the pavement. I looked at Sam, dressed in her whites. Her hair stuck out at odd angles, but her uniform, as always, appeared impeccably clean –an accomplishment after our night out on the little town of Lexington.

“Just throw your hair in a bun and no one will notice,” she said as she glanced at the military grade watch on her wrist. I began to gather my thick, unruly hair in my hands, twisting it about itself, hoping that it would stay put in an appropriate looking bun. I glanced at the muted green building hulking before us.

“Can’t you get in some kind of trouble for this?” I asked. I fastened my hair successfully to the back of my head and gave a little shake to ensure that the locks would not come loose.

“Probably. But whatever,” Sam shrugged. Who knew what this institution did to its misbehaving students? Although I remained curious of the potential consequences, her gesture showed no signs of worry.

“This place is a prison,” I grinned and raised my eyebrows. A sense of excitement washed over me as I situated myself in my own new uniform. I had always been an outsider, from the school next door, wondering what lay beyond those puke green walls.

“Yep! And today, you get to break into prison!” she smiled, walking towards the metal door labeled with a block-letter F. I knew, just from one look, that it would require a real push to get that door open.

“How do I look?” I peered down at the military-issued mesh shorts and grey t-shirt. I felt comfortable, but still out of place. I turned my head sideways and read the serial number that printed itself across my upper left chest. Thankfully, I would be nothing more than just another number in the midst of that concrete jungle. No one would notice me as anything different.

“Like a true Keydet,” she said, smiling proudly of her delinquency and rebellion against the system,“let’s roll, rat.”

Letter to a Prodigal Son

If I prepared salted cloth for your wounds

graced with smoke-laced perfumes

in that hole of mud initiation

would the sweat bring you home?

I see the thorn in your crown

yowling in that cocoon of yours

while the world mistakes you

for the last unicorn –

what glitters, but out on

and easily vanishing.

I would never kick you in prostration, Seeker,

never force into your cavernous

cathedral of dreams

like brown leaves and melodies.

Holy is that hurt – holy power

of the humble snake’s mouth –

the guardian of fallen fruit.

Little Kokopelli, your infinite song

animates my womb,

opens the mother’s portal.

Magic like a well awaiting

fingertips – willingness to dig

and like Pachamama’s orgasm

direct, bring forth that geyser

sound, hushed Eagle’s-cry-echoes.

You remember that union

when the sun birthed your limbs

and they stretched miles

within, without, weaved

before you could speak –

before the first bruised fruit.

Now your leaches are gorged –

let them roll, leaving nothing

but silver scarred circles,

a warrior’s reward.

Soon light language will move

your tongue as you bury

the veil of your ancestors.

— Virginia Kettles

October Six Years Ago

I used to be a playwright

for the dramas in the front yard;

an audience of pumpkin guts

and your dead cat’s name

immortalized in the concrete.

But I’ve forgotten about the footed bathtubs

and the long papered hallways.

How the kitchen had that pipe stove,

somewhere,

maybe next to the fireplace.

Oh! How I could stand in the middle of the cul-de-sac!

My fingertips tingling,

as though I were a witch,

and the answers in the wind

made perfect sense.

And our great ghost hunt!

Crawling through stairwells,

scouring the chimneys,

when everything came crashing down

in a thick wall of soot.

Licking the ash out of our teeth.

I’ll never see it right again,

except in the burrows of 3AM.

But I can imagine,

looking through the upstairs window,

by the occasional silhouette,

the semblance to six years ago.

— Darcy Olmstead