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Summer Storm

 

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A bowl of overripe cherries between you and I,

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The casual angel you are in summer,

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And the simple pleasure of your smiles turned wry,

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And the bruising purple sky against the brutality of thunder.

 

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We are tying and untying the same tired knots,

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With the wet whispering from behind clouded glass.

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Time slides gently through us with the sloth summer allots,

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And the dew collecting, beading, and falling from the grass.

 

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Isabel Ruppel ’21

Stephanie Zhang '21

Hannah Adler '21

Joy Liu '21

house party on a summer night

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the world ended here

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when we missed the turn the first time

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and the splintered gate, the dark road

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under the sky, hazy

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the cicadas screaming in the trees as we heard

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the drifting smoke and voices

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screen door ajar, letting them in,

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the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone

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sat on the couch in the living room

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dampness seeping into bones, the humidity suffocating

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bare feet itching on the floor, our hands

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drinking in that muddled scratchiness they needed,

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the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone

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lying all over each other, words

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swirled around mouths, easy, and spit out, easier

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hair curling at the ends, twirling

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skin on skin, slipping, out onto the deck

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to the hot tub, and we raced them,

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the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone

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crowding into the water that boiled from the inside

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and listening to the sounds, the night

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catching on the edges of vision, snagging

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on the loose ends of familiar smiles, and stories

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that we didn’t have last year

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late August before we knew them better,

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the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone

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who snuck in while we were tapping our fingers on the dashboard

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I missed my chance with you

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when you kissed her and it wasn’t everything, anything

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the stars behind the haziness mimicked

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by fireflies, far out in the backyard

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and I was silent as the laughter stained

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the stuffy air, I can’t lie

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and they hate me when I don’t force conversation,

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the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone

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who doesn’t know that this isn’t you

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or maybe it is, and I’m just grasping

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at the pieces of something, the burned paper

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curled into dust that sifts through fingers

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my fingers, tapping on the dashboard to a song that’s too loud

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the hollow sound of speakers

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and the high buzz before we killed them,

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the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone


 

Eleanor Peters ’20

Ella Xue '23

The Scourge of Man and Sea 

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The sea, the lurching stomach, spews out foam from the black depths. 

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White droplets of liquid silver interlace my defenseless toes. With each surge, I dig my heels into the moonlit beach to fight the water’s fierce blows, as if each grasp could pull me into the expanse below the surf.

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As if being underneath the waves is somehow worse than being above.

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The moon dips dazedly, a drunken sailor atop the whispering waters, retreating back into the horizon. I whisper him goodnight as an old friend.

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The ocean grows sick as he departs.

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My feet barricading their approaches, the tides tremble, belching up something unnatural, something poisonous. A venom so foul it turns this beautiful world grey.

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A torn, wax-paper wrapper lazily bumps against my calf.

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What could it be, this trifle adorned with such an innocent face, that comes to bid me welcome?

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I bend, picking up the plague with my forefinger and thumb.

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A plastic bottle drifts ashore beside me, smiling deviously, making my efforts futile.

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I move to take it, but a vacant plastic bag spirals out of the depths and brushes against my foot, cackling

something infernal with the chorus of waves.

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I look up.

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A wave towers over my body. I feel like an ant under its massive stature.

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Rubbish covers the wall of water.

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The sea, finally ridding itself of its affliction, bares down on me, pleading for a moment of peace.

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How could I blame the ocean, for if I had been cursed as horribly, I’d attempt to rid myself of my sickness as well.

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But as the water stares, I realize I already had.

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With a thunderous crash of plastic, the debris engulfs me. I am drowning in my own creation. The parasite returns to the sandy host.

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I thrash, but the virus ensnares me; barbs slice my body.

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As I stand upon the beach, which once was spotless, which once carried footprints more kind, which once was pink but is now grey, I cannot help but cry.

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And the sea sleeps at last.

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Aidan Cooper ’22

To Judge What You See 

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My identity as we speak

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is a mask plastered with

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the assumptions you make,

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thoughtless and unforgiving,

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contaminated with your critiques

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And your torturous tongue

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lashes out at each skin,

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too strange,

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seeking the surface and

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twisting it to fit a “better” frame

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You suck on my sorrow,

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scorn the blood in my marrow,

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and reject my thoughts,

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for I am nothing to you,

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not even an afterthought

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When I bare my heart,

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you slam your unaccepting

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doors and toss away

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the key when you cannot

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welcome what you see

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But as you peel away

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the layers, the categories in

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which you boxed me,

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you perceive that I’m person,

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not the label that you think

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Krishnapriya Rajaram ’21

Hold Me, Catch Me

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Will you hold my hand?

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As I take my first baby steps?

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I will teeter precariously

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On my unsteady legs

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But mother, will you catch me

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If I fall?

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Will you hold my hand?

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As I receive my diploma?

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I will do my best

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To walk up that stage

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Tall, and proud

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Like the woman you raised me to be

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But mother,

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When my jitters overcome me

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Will you catch me if I fall? 

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Will you hold my hand?

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As I float down the aisle

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Encased in a gown of white

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You will hand me to my husband-to-be

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But if he breaks my heart, mother,

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Will you catch me if I fall?

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I will hold your hand

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When you no longer can walk straight

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If you forget where you placed the keys

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And your hips ache with pain

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If the simple things

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Become the hardest tasks

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Even if you don’t want me to see you like this

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I will be there, mother,

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To catch you if you fall

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Debi Chakrabortti ’21

Ella Xue '23

Audrey Zhang '21

"Peony" Julie Chung '21

The Social Rabbit Hole

 

                          Memory Map

 

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The burning glare of the screen at night

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I couldn’t hold it in anymore

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The people whom I thought I knew I didn’t anymore

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My room was my rabbit hole

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I could hide in it and let my emotions go

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To come out again and act normal

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The feeling of rejection never leaves

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To have ever felt happy

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To be used as a place holder

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I never had this happen before

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Until the winter of that year

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It seemed that nothing was left for me

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But a sad and lonely girl

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I didn’t think I had a purpose anymore

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And felt left for dead

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I couldn’t bring myself to do it

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Thank God I had some guidance

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And was fished out of that deep dark rabbit hole

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The pictures never stopped

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No one ever seemed to care

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Whenever I mentioned not being there 

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It never crossed anyone’s mind

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Those I would tell about the exclusion

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Would just say, “it will be all ok”

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Even though it never was

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But if I really did bring myself to do it

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People would turn their heads

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They would wonder what happened to that girl

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And others would never know her

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The ones who cared and loved me 

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Were the ones there to help me 

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I now find myself happy

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And I managed to make more friends 

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The rabbit hole is now cold and lonely

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Left for dead 

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I hope no one, not even Alice

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Falls down that hole again

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Sabrina DeGraw ’21

Janus Yuen '21

Aidan Cooper '22

Maze of Mind

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People venture into me.

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They run through the entryway

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and they feel so big—

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a sense of thrill lives about them,

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one that I know will never last

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for most.

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I see them running at first.

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Even without competition,

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they want to make it out fast,

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to set some impossible record.

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I see them hit their first dead end,

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yet they do naught but hesitate.

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They know they're wrong,

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they turn to another direction, another path,

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they run.

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I see them caught in the trap of a loop,

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finally realizing that they have been circling

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around and around

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like a wooden horse

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leashed to a carousel.

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They slowly slow down,

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a standing figure.

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The figure stands

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small, trapped,

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in the midst of maize, of me

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till death, perhaps—

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for death is not an exit.

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There remain the prancers,

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the jumpers.

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They, too, are small.

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Yet they prance, they jump,

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they unwind from the spirals

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of corn stalk and vine,

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their ambition, their vision

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ricocheting off the narrow walls,

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reflecting against the leaves,

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echoing into the open sky above me.

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Through the exit they run,

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up the steps they climb,

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so high that they can hear—

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they can feel—the echoes

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ringing.

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They look down at the view,

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at the path they have maneuvered,

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at the passage they have carved

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and shaped

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of me.

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The survivors,

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they are level with the clouds.

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They feel so big.

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They are so big.

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Amy Song ’23

Joy Liu '21

Janus Yuen '21

Audrey Zhang '21

Nothing

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At last, the weekly hum settles dry in the stereo set.

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The earth has become a library, and I relish in its silence.

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No bird creaks, no human whispers.

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Only the sun makes noise with its shine.

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I listen to the space between the lines of daily life,

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Wishing, somehow, for something I’ve never liked,

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For a pad of blank pages. For a long awaited sigh.

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The coffee cups are passed around from lip to lip at a boarding school,

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But I want to drink tea

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Slower than clouds inch across the sky,

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Tasting the droplets spilled by us all in our hurrying to class Monday to Friday and then

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Saturdays and Sunday in rehearsal and then

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Games Wednesdays and Thursdays.

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I want to write

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Not because of a deadline

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But because I wish to.

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I want to see the earth more than I can with this lifestyle of rapidity and a world of constant change.

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I want to press a quiet finger to my lips,

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And hold your eyes in a hopeful stare,

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That we may see the sun from a corner of the sky,

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And do nothing one day but ardently care. 

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Eva Evans ’21

Dora Lin '23

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