Summer Storm
A bowl of overripe cherries between you and I,
The casual angel you are in summer,
And the simple pleasure of your smiles turned wry,
And the bruising purple sky against the brutality of thunder.
We are tying and untying the same tired knots,
With the wet whispering from behind clouded glass.
Time slides gently through us with the sloth summer allots,
And the dew collecting, beading, and falling from the grass.
Isabel Ruppel ’21
Stephanie Zhang '21
Hannah Adler '21
Joy Liu '21
house party on a summer night
the world ended here
when we missed the turn the first time
and the splintered gate, the dark road
under the sky, hazy
the cicadas screaming in the trees as we heard
the drifting smoke and voices
screen door ajar, letting them in,
the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone
sat on the couch in the living room
dampness seeping into bones, the humidity suffocating
bare feet itching on the floor, our hands
drinking in that muddled scratchiness they needed,
the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone
lying all over each other, words
swirled around mouths, easy, and spit out, easier
hair curling at the ends, twirling
skin on skin, slipping, out onto the deck
to the hot tub, and we raced them,
the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone
crowding into the water that boiled from the inside
and listening to the sounds, the night
catching on the edges of vision, snagging
on the loose ends of familiar smiles, and stories
that we didn’t have last year
late August before we knew them better,
the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone
who snuck in while we were tapping our fingers on the dashboard
I missed my chance with you
when you kissed her and it wasn’t everything, anything
the stars behind the haziness mimicked
by fireflies, far out in the backyard
and I was silent as the laughter stained
the stuffy air, I can’t lie
and they hate me when I don’t force conversation,
the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone
who doesn’t know that this isn’t you
or maybe it is, and I’m just grasping
at the pieces of something, the burned paper
curled into dust that sifts through fingers
my fingers, tapping on the dashboard to a song that’s too loud
the hollow sound of speakers
and the high buzz before we killed them,
the mosquitoes, I mean, and everyone
Eleanor Peters ’20
Ella Xue '23
The Scourge of Man and Sea
The sea, the lurching stomach, spews out foam from the black depths.
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.
As if being underneath the waves is somehow worse than being above.
The moon dips dazedly, a drunken sailor atop the whispering waters, retreating back into the horizon. I whisper him goodnight as an old friend.
The ocean grows sick as he departs.
My feet barricading their approaches, the tides tremble, belching up something unnatural, something poisonous. A venom so foul it turns this beautiful world grey.
A torn, wax-paper wrapper lazily bumps against my calf.
What could it be, this trifle adorned with such an innocent face, that comes to bid me welcome?
I bend, picking up the plague with my forefinger and thumb.
A plastic bottle drifts ashore beside me, smiling deviously, making my efforts futile.
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.
I look up.
A wave towers over my body. I feel like an ant under its massive stature.
Rubbish covers the wall of water.
The sea, finally ridding itself of its affliction, bares down on me, pleading for a moment of peace.
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.
But as the water stares, I realize I already had.
With a thunderous crash of plastic, the debris engulfs me. I am drowning in my own creation. The parasite returns to the sandy host.
I thrash, but the virus ensnares me; barbs slice my body.
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.
And the sea sleeps at last.
Aidan Cooper ’22
To Judge What You See
My identity as we speak
is a mask plastered with
the assumptions you make,
thoughtless and unforgiving,
contaminated with your critiques
And your torturous tongue
lashes out at each skin,
too strange,
seeking the surface and
twisting it to fit a “better” frame
You suck on my sorrow,
scorn the blood in my marrow,
and reject my thoughts,
for I am nothing to you,
not even an afterthought
When I bare my heart,
you slam your unaccepting
doors and toss away
the key when you cannot
welcome what you see
But as you peel away
the layers, the categories in
which you boxed me,
you perceive that I’m person,
not the label that you think
Krishnapriya Rajaram ’21
Hold Me, Catch Me
Will you hold my hand?
As I take my first baby steps?
I will teeter precariously
On my unsteady legs
But mother, will you catch me
If I fall?
Will you hold my hand?
As I receive my diploma?
I will do my best
To walk up that stage
Tall, and proud
Like the woman you raised me to be
But mother,
When my jitters overcome me
Will you catch me if I fall?
Will you hold my hand?
As I float down the aisle
Encased in a gown of white
You will hand me to my husband-to-be
But if he breaks my heart, mother,
Will you catch me if I fall?
I will hold your hand
When you no longer can walk straight
If you forget where you placed the keys
And your hips ache with pain
If the simple things
Become the hardest tasks
Even if you don’t want me to see you like this
I will be there, mother,
To catch you if you fall
Debi Chakrabortti ’21
Ella Xue '23
Audrey Zhang '21
"Peony" Julie Chung '21
The Social Rabbit Hole
Memory Map
The burning glare of the screen at night
I couldn’t hold it in anymore
The people whom I thought I knew I didn’t anymore
My room was my rabbit hole
I could hide in it and let my emotions go
To come out again and act normal
The feeling of rejection never leaves
To have ever felt happy
To be used as a place holder
I never had this happen before
Until the winter of that year
It seemed that nothing was left for me
But a sad and lonely girl
I didn’t think I had a purpose anymore
And felt left for dead
I couldn’t bring myself to do it
Thank God I had some guidance
And was fished out of that deep dark rabbit hole
The pictures never stopped
No one ever seemed to care
Whenever I mentioned not being there
It never crossed anyone’s mind
Those I would tell about the exclusion
Would just say, “it will be all ok”
Even though it never was
But if I really did bring myself to do it
People would turn their heads
They would wonder what happened to that girl
And others would never know her
The ones who cared and loved me
Were the ones there to help me
I now find myself happy
And I managed to make more friends
The rabbit hole is now cold and lonely
Left for dead
I hope no one, not even Alice
Falls down that hole again
Sabrina DeGraw ’21
Janus Yuen '21
Aidan Cooper '22
Maze of Mind
People venture into me.
They run through the entryway
and they feel so big—
a sense of thrill lives about them,
one that I know will never last
for most.
I see them running at first.
Even without competition,
they want to make it out fast,
to set some impossible record.
I see them hit their first dead end,
yet they do naught but hesitate.
They know they're wrong,
they turn to another direction, another path,
they run.
I see them caught in the trap of a loop,
finally realizing that they have been circling
around and around
like a wooden horse
leashed to a carousel.
They slowly slow down,
a standing figure.
The figure stands
small, trapped,
in the midst of maize, of me
till death, perhaps—
for death is not an exit.
There remain the prancers,
the jumpers.
They, too, are small.
Yet they prance, they jump,
they unwind from the spirals
of corn stalk and vine,
their ambition, their vision
ricocheting off the narrow walls,
reflecting against the leaves,
echoing into the open sky above me.
Through the exit they run,
up the steps they climb,
so high that they can hear—
they can feel—the echoes
ringing.
They look down at the view,
at the path they have maneuvered,
at the passage they have carved
and shaped
of me.
The survivors,
they are level with the clouds.
They feel so big.
They are so big.
Amy Song ’23
Joy Liu '21
Janus Yuen '21
Audrey Zhang '21
Nothing
At last, the weekly hum settles dry in the stereo set.
The earth has become a library, and I relish in its silence.
No bird creaks, no human whispers.
Only the sun makes noise with its shine.
I listen to the space between the lines of daily life,
Wishing, somehow, for something I’ve never liked,
For a pad of blank pages. For a long awaited sigh.
The coffee cups are passed around from lip to lip at a boarding school,
But I want to drink tea
Slower than clouds inch across the sky,
Tasting the droplets spilled by us all in our hurrying to class Monday to Friday and then
Saturdays and Sunday in rehearsal and then
Games Wednesdays and Thursdays.
I want to write
Not because of a deadline
But because I wish to.
I want to see the earth more than I can with this lifestyle of rapidity and a world of constant change.
I want to press a quiet finger to my lips,
And hold your eyes in a hopeful stare,
That we may see the sun from a corner of the sky,
And do nothing one day but ardently care.
Eva Evans ’21
Dora Lin '23