02809

By: Amy Jarvis

This is not where I’m from, it is
a retelling, written in the absence of where home once was
I pull the tide close to my chest,
rhythm of washing things clean right outside my bedroom
window
Stories here all have the sea as a metaphor for self,
a place made for
release & not rebirth
I am not a traveler,
I invented walking here & yet
the peninsula drowns me in my skin,
unsettled in my chest
& I come back to a place I refuse to be put to rest in
& I do not pass through, here are my roots, embedded
in sea & salt & sky
I now stand north of the current & watch it climb up to the
shore
One day I’d like to leave here & never come back but
the tide calls me in a fever dream leaving messages for a
version of me
washed away by something that promised to just make me clean
& I have seen the light
calling out to people who will never return to it,
shore becomes sea becomes storm
I don’t look upward for heaven anymore
I see God in the tide coming in

***
amy jarvis is a first year Creative Writing major from Rhode Island.
She’s a lover of light, a poet, and by default, a hopeless romantic.

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Where Did the Beach Go?

By: Richard Berwin
Salted crests from bay
roll in, carrying
broken glass shards
smoothed into mosaic
tile by gentle caress
of Poseidon’s hands.
Childhood lemonade stand
weathered by Sandy and Irene
into lean-to against concrete
slab holding memories of
crabbing vessels.
Crosshatched gate fences off
community from nature
to prevent condoms and needles
intermingling within
“good white neighborhood.”
Weekend sundowns illuminated
by round-the-clock ice cream lullaby
and street lamp night lights
allow late childhood
rundown to sanded beds.
Thrumming mist rolls angular
smells of city life
and cool oceanic
sighs into mid-island
conditioner units.
Legend says this shore
held child adventurers
planning for futuristic
fantasies but crushed by
lack of access to these tides.

***
richard berwind is a sophomore Creative Writing and English Literature
double major with a double minor in Publishing and Editing and
Theatre. In his free time, you can find him running across campus to get to
something, having an existential crisis, or knitting. While he doesn’t travel
that much due to a lack of his own car, he treats any travelling as an opportunity to learn about different people.

Hullet

By: Valeri Lohrman
Wyoming, I think of you always. Your
open prairies, how they sway in the wind
along the turning of the sky, beige grasses
against navy blue atmosphere or purple bighorns.
Your geologic wonders, laccolithic buttes
and hotspots, your sparse towns and
friendly rest stops, the way you feel like home
even when you’re farthest from it. I watch
old westerns and sing about casper and
dream of ten sleep and I wish myself back
at the ponderosa cafe in hulett or to that sunset
northward from your southern brother,
where the laramie mountains sat against
the orange sky like sentences, written
in cursive and in blue ink, to be studied
and remembered and repeated as you.

***
valeri lohrman is a senior Creative Writing major and songwriter
from southern New Jersey. Traveling and writing about places are what
make up the left centricle of her heart. She travelled to New Zealand for her
GO trip, and it changed her life.