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botticelli magazine

Published by Columbus College of Art & Design

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table oF content

The Visible Universe

Anna Leahy

You’d Better Run

Natalie Shapero

The Problem Is How

Meghan Privitello

Claiming What Is Ours

Meghan Privitello

The Story of a Pretty Girl: Slam Poetry Abby Vance

The State Is An Old Man’s Withered Arm (Cento) Katherine Zeilman

Life Drawing

Haley Behnfeldt

The Obligatory Making of Amends

Natalie Shapero

Summitless

Christine Pear

Interview with Charlene Fix

Haley Behnfeldt

Adroit

Charlene Fix

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Alice in Teachingland

Charlene Fix

White Rabbit

Charlene Fix

Worlds of Rock and Iron

Anna Leahy

You Look Like I Feel

Natalie Shapero

On Being Small

Betsy Toadvine

Letter to My Future Daughter

Abby Vance

Unfinished Murder Ballad

Darren Demaree

Web’s End

Katherine Zeilman

Row Row Row

Meghan Privitello

Worlds of Ice

Anna Leahy

Hoc Est Sine Dubio

Katherine Zeilman

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the Visible UniVerseAnna Leahy

We know what we can see: thatwhichreflectslight,catches oureyesinthenight,hits the mirror of our collective telescope. Ifspacereallyisthefinalfrontier, we are left with un-shadowed stretchesofweknownotwhat,ahush, somethingthatisnothing,nothing thatissomethingexpanding,and we—knowing without knowing what— driftinthisinfinitedarkness as if it weren’t incomprehensibility.

Heather Taylor Untitled Photograph

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Oriana G.G. Hirschberg Pipes Monotype

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YoU’d better rUnNatalie Shapero

Prone was never the wayIpicturedIsaac,provingyetagain:ofaltars,Iamallbut ignorant. Of coursehe was tied with the softsideup,simplertocutwith that which makesus human. Take this birdoutsideoftheluncheonette,the one with the kettlefriedchip in her beak.She’s unable to break itsmallenoughtoeat,andsoisblessedinherownway,lacking the nerve orknowhow to hunt what’shard.Me,Ifavorgruffness.I like military haircuts.I like the inscrutability ofsandbarsandofboxbombs,ofBobDylan,quotingGodwhenGodsayskillmeason.Me,Iamalways

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grappling against the pressofmybacktotheearth,but prone was neverthewayIpicturedIsaac,because prone just isn’t howit’sdone:gallowsorstake,whenwedieforfaith,westand.Although,cometothinkofit,Isaacwasn’tslated for martyrdom;senseless is the wordI’m searching for.

Lauren Rassenfoss Untitled Digital

Jeremey Haun Immortal Jellyfish Digital

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Olivia James, Black Light Over Clouds Experiment #2 Photograph

the problem is howMeghan Privitello

What if the best feeling isn’t your fake child asleep in your lap,but waking up to a sky so black not even a glass eye shines.What if when your friends found god, you found a bicycle inthe woods that could have belonged to a god it was soimpossibly golden and apart. There is lettuce stuck to myknuckles which means the earth must be real. There arepunches waiting to be thrown which means my nametag saysHi My Name is Human.What if a cliff is another way to say it’sfinally over, there are no more songs to bring us back to love.When the clock stopped telling time, I stopped telling stories tomy hands as if they would live forever. What if your sore throatis your body telling you to say a loud something. What if youcannot love the ground because of the way it always holds you.If you had wings, you could move like a slow child’sdescription of light. If you collected enough stones you couldbuild a mouth which is the only way to say What if I don’t wantany of this, What if the body was born to float away, What if I goand go and go. There is a rope at my feet that asks to be followedwhich means there could be a beginning of sadness. There is atrap door beneath every god which means it is endless, whichmeans What if it never ends.

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Oriana G.G. Hirschberg Crystal Eaters Silkscreen

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claiming what is oUrsMeghan Privitello

Just because we can make babies. This is no reason to hold eachother like two people lost in the woods. There is warmth inorange, in a dark shade being lowered. When a husband andwife died in a house fire — sleeping, dream-drunk — wecounted our alarmings. We are riddled with disaster. Yousuggest a rope tied to the leg of the armoire. An easy escape.What happens when you find me leaving through the windowin the cold. Rope-burned hands trying to keep from clapping.Will you believe me when I tell you I saw the flames signingyour throat. That the mattress was pregnant with paisleysmoke. Because I read that book about tricksters, I laugh like acoyote and put your heart between my teeth. Love is not sodifferent from a tomato. Useless seeds. A bitter red. When thehusband and wife died in their bedroom, they had forgotten toturnout the lights.The trickydifferencebetweenfireand lamplight,the gracious unknowing. Our house is always dark. Thespiders gather in the corners and talk about our cumbersomebodies. If we were like bowls, stackable, we could fit into anyspace of each other without breaking our bones. When the fireclimbs the stairs, we don’t bother introducing ourselves to eachother. If we were that husband and wife, we would keepdreaming about an elevator that traps time until it suffocates.We would count each other’s breaths and wake up withfavorite numbers. Instead, we creep closer to the door. Give thefireachild’sname.

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the storY oF a prettY girl: slam poetrYAbby Vance

ForaslongasIcanremember,Ihavestoodinfrontofthemirrorandsucked in my gut just to admire the curve that it would make where the bottom of my ribcage met the empty pit in my stomach. I would stand thereandpressinthelayersoffat,rollingthembetweenunclenchedfingersandsquishingtheminjustsoIcouldimagine,ifonlyforamoment,whatIwouldlooklikeasoneoftheprettygirls.WhenIwassixteen,mybestfriendtoldmethatshewouldspendhernights shoving food past her lips only to spend the next two hours bent downinfrontofabathroomtoiletassheforcedherfingersdownherthroat and watched as it all came back up into the porcelain pot. She’d tellmethatshe’sbrushherselfoff,flushitdown,andthenexamineherself with a smile before going back to the living room and act like not a damn thing had happened to her.Shewouldtellmethatitwashardtogetuseto,butonceIdid,Iwouldbe okay.Mysenioryearofhighschool,IforcedasmileasIsatinfrontofthecamera for senior pictures. I was the fat girl… whether or not it was justinmyheadwasadifferentstory.Iwouldhidebehindhoodiesandjackets,shovingmyselfinthecorneroftheclassroomtodoodlepretty

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girls on scrap pieces of paper. I’d joke with my friends that I loved my “fluff”,thatitwasjustmoreofmetoloveandmoretohold,allthewhileIspent the nights penninghatemailtomyselfinstraight,sharplinesacrossskin.WhenIwaseighteen,hewrappedhisarmsaroundmeandtoldmehelovedme.Hekissedtheimperfectionsonmyskinandranhisfingersalongthe stretch marks and sharp white scars on my arms. He looked me in theeyesandpromisedmetheworld,thatIwastheprettiestgirlhe’deverlaid his eyes on. He’d draw hearts on the back of my hand and call me beautiful,insideandout…andjustforamoment,Ibelieved.

Heather Taylor Untitled Still from Video

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the state is an old man’s withered arm (cento)Katherine Zeilman

Lightning bolts out of his eyes.Maybethewrongstory,but I was never the light of my father’s eyes nor anynewly-filledgrave.Faces,whoneedsthem?Gatheredfromyourdyingoff,Iwillnevercontainthewholeofit,hesaid.We both wished he wasn’tafraid ofthewreninthegarden,themoonontheroof.Adaughterbearingbirdnamesonherlips,cuttingfor the grackles to nest inthishollowrunningformylowlife.OFather,but I still have my river mother.

[LarryLevis/RosemaryGriggs/CorneliusEady/VieveeFrancis/MarkDoty/MaryRuefle/Lucie Brock-Broido / Linda Bierds / Caconrad /Caconrad / Haley Leithauser / Roger Reeves /Frannie Lindsay / Vievee Francis / Frannie Lindsay]

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Nick Seitz Untitled Photograph

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liFe drawingHaley Behnfeldt

A woman draws a bathto untie her eyebrow skinand let the steam clumpher loose chalk thoughtsas the day’s eyelid weightsunhookfromlashes,dissolvinginto water whispers in bubble crackles.

A day past had watched his mug drawcoffeelinksandchainsofgolda trash-day table’s crown.Toast crumb glitter still rememberedas lonely day confettiin old age table and rug braid crannieshis apartment the solitude hotel.

Herhumbledrawing,alibraryofdustthecellarspider’sneedlefingerscrochet lace doilies in expertiseand secrecy; she never drawsattention,buttableundersides,

Catherine Norwood Can I See Photograph

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and soft-spoken bookshelf nookskeep her secluded residence.Drowsy morning clouds hoversurveying like a man drawinglines in footsteps through Septemberwinterwheat,autumn’soffspring.Here he can be alone with his waiting.and covers like a mother’snursingblanket,underwhichEarthissatisfied.

A tall earthen throne clothedinriches,goldgrassgardenuntouchedbut by breath songs and drawingsby a young woman whose whistles echothe sparrows single songagracefulsoliloquy.

A writer reclines in his bed drawingwordsfromhismouthtohisleadedfingershis voice humming the baselinepercussionplayedbypenciltapdancing,therhythm,clothesandsheetsaskewthetempo,thedarkandidlenightairdirectingagainhispiecewithoutmelody,“fourwhitewalls.”

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A wife draws the blindsagainst the light-sponge darknesssheglidesherfingersdowneachslatcold aluminum in dust clothesslowly intently free from timelike her eyes on dripping dishesinspectingthroughsoap,throughplatesthroughwindow,throughdarkness.

Abirdflieslowlyto draw veins like bowstringsby the sound of her feathered wingsheardonlybyquietwillingandatherrelease,theresonancesings like a stone cathedralwhereaviolinistdrawsafinalnote

Dressed in fatigued and sterileshe,thememoryaccountantdrawsdustofftheAlzheiemeredmind the chandelier droppingcrystals,thewaxsculpturedrippingover becomes its architectureasquietdustsettlingsaysit’sokTocareisahopesponge,but apathy is thievery.

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the obligatorY making oF amendsNatalie Shapero

Museumsofwar,theyboreme.I’minmythirtiesand so already know every form of humanrepugnance—only a child has anything thereto learn. And only a child should come to my playaboutHeaven,howHeavenisgivenoneyeartospendasitpleases,andelectstoplummetdownhereandliveasaman.Thismeans,ofcourse,ayearwithoutopenHeaven,duringwhichnoone,nomatterhowdesperate,letshimselfdie.Peoplecandothat,youknow—resolvetoremain

untilsuch-and-suchdate,forachristeningorIPOor whatever their thing is. But my primary fearabout dying is not missing Heaven. It is burialbesideahatefultree.Theyareoutthere,youknow—highoakswhoselimbshaveofferedthemselvesforhangings,andIfearthatmybodywill slough itself down to feed one. This is howI have spent my whole life. I have served yearlingsto tyrants. I have kept fat each war in this warmuseum where only a child could hope to learn.

Elizabeth Toadvine Untitled Steal and Braising Rod

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sUmmitlessChristine Pear

No bird soars too high,if he soars with his own wings.-William Blake

Abreastunderthelight,floatingbeneath a clear andhumble sky

wheretheydrift,twofliers,held bywind and girth on topof an aged

Summit. Together theysoar farbeyond the peak withresolute

purpose,betweenunhingedgaps ofwavering air towarda crisp blue.

Allie Vanaman Lophii Digital

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Catherine Norwood Not Your Average People Photograph

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Catherine Norwood Casual Conversations Photograph

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Nick Seitz Untitled Photograph

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interView with charlene FixHaley Behnfeldt

CharleneFixisanEmeritusProfessorofEnglishatColumbusCollegeof Art and Design. During her twenty-eight years at CCAD she has taughtWritingandtheArts,WritingPoetry,FilmandLiterature,AmericanLiterature,TheArtistasProtagonist,WordandImage,RoadTrip!thePicaresqueNovel,andIntroductiontoLiterture.ShealsochairedtheEnglishandPhilosophyDepartmentfrom1997-2011.AmemberofTheHouseofToastPoets,aworkshopandperformancegroup,shehasalsoreceivedpoetryfellowshipsfromtheOhioArtsCouncilandtheGreaterColumbusArtsCouncil,andhaspublishedpoemsinvariousliterarymagazines,amongthemPoetry,LiteraryImagination,HotelAmerika,TheJournal,TheManhattanReview,BirminghamPoetryReview,Rattle,andTheCincinnatiReview.EleanorWilnerchosetenofCharlene’spoemsfortheRobertH.Winner Memorial Award from The Poetry Society of America in 2007,andDavidLehmanselectedherpoem,“OntheOutskirtsofVeritgo”fortheLouisHammerMemorialAwardforadistinguishedpoem in the surrealist manner from the Poetry Society of America in2011.CharleneistheauthorofFloweringBruno,acollectionofpoemswithillustrationsbySusanJosephson(XOXOXPress2006andafinalistforthe2007OhioanaBookAwardinPoetry),Mischief(achapbookofpoemsfromPuddingHousePress2003),CharleneFix:GreatestHits(achapbookofpoemsfromKattywompusPress2012),HarpoMarxasTrickster(acriticalstudyofHarpointhe

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thirteenMarxBrothers’filmsfromMcFarland2013andfeaturedataThurberHouseLiteraryPicnicinthesummerof2013),andFrankenstein’sFlowers,acollectionofpoems,fromCWBooks2014with cover painting by Anita Dawson. Charlene was a featured poet attheOhioanaLibraryBookFestivalin2014andisco-coordinatorofHospitalPoets,partoftheOhioStateUniversity’sMedicineintheArts Initiative. Theinterviewer,HaleyBehnfeldt,isinherlastyearstudyingfashiondesign at CCAD. While she hasn’t been under the instruction of Fix,shehasimmersedherselfintheEnglishdepartmentandhasbeen asked to read her own work at on-campus events. She read poemsincluding,“LifeDrawing,”“LessonsinEmbroidery”and“Handmade”amongstothers.Haley Behnfeldt:I’manartistmyself,workingforamagazinethatrepresentsbothartandliteraryworks,sonaturallyFloweringBrunosoundsreallyinterestingtome,andofcoursetoourreaders.Let’sstartwith that co-creation! Charlene Fix:Yes,thesisterartsfrolickingtogether!Inthiscase,there was great pleasure in collaborating on the book. Susan and Ihadalotoffun.Infact,theprocesswentsosmoothlythatIwassurprised,onceIstartedsendingoutthemanuscript,todiscoveraprejudice against illustrated poetry: university presses won’t even look atit,WilliamBlakenotwithstanding.But,serendipitously,wefoundapublisherwholovedthepoemsandthepictures,andwasn’thunguponthat“foolishconsistency.”HB:Thankfully!HowaboutyourrelationshipwithSusanJosephson?Howdidthecollaborationtakeplace?

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CF:SusantaughtPhilosophyatCCADformorethanthirty-fiveyears.AsLiberalArtscolleagueswithofficesacrossfromeachother,webecamefriends.DuringthoseyearsIalsoacquireda“CCADpet:”anElkhound-Keeshondmix,Bruno,mystudentAngelafoundinaboxonachurchsteps.Ifyou’repayingattentiontowords,you’llseewhymyarthistorycolleagueRobincalledhima“magicdog.”ItookBrunohome,andhesubsequentlywalkedaroundinmanypoemsovertheyears.OnedaySusanandIwerehavingcoffee,Imentionedthis,shesaid,“letmedraw,”andsoitbegan.IgaveSusanachaoticpileofmaybesixtypoemsandsheorganizedthem—agreatgift—intoseasons,perhapsbecausesheisaBuddhistand this order is traditional in Buddhist poetry. We worked on the bookforacoupleofyears,SusandrawingonhercomputerwhileIcontinued to write and revise. We’d get together to go over the work-in-progresseverymonthorso.Ican’tsaywecritiquedmuch;wetended to respect the autonomy of each other’s work. IimaginedBrunomakingpawprintsatbooksignings,butalas,hebecameillanddiedwhileIwassendingoutthefirstiterationofthebook.Icontinuedtowritepoemsthroughtheillness,death,andgrieving.Onepublisherwhotookasniffatthemanuscriptsaidweshould include the death poems. So Susan illustrated the new poems forafifthseasoninadditiontoSummer,Fall,Winter,andSpring,thenThe Final Season. Susan eventually created color versions of the original black and white drawings.Ourpublisher,JerryKellyatXOXOXPress,wantedtousethembutcouldn’taffordto.Ididafewreadingsprojectingthecolorslides.

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Alayna Smith Buckets Photograph

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HB: Have you had previous experience collaborating with an artist likethis?CF: Nothing like the making of Flowering Bruno. But I have had severalartistfriendswhohaveprofoundlyinfluencedwhichpoetsIread.Andagorgeouspainting,Tryst,byCCADEmeritusProfessorofPainting,AnitaDawson,gracesthecoverofmymostrecentcollection,Frankenstein’sFlowers.Inaddition,Ihavewrittenpoemsinspiredbyvisualartandfilm.AtthispointI’llquotemyselftheprefacetoGreatestHits:“Artmakingalways,tosomeextent,involvescollaboration. We are never alone when we are writing poems: poets livinganddepartedarewithus,joggingourelbows,dribblingtheink,sprawlingacrossthetable,modifyingthelightsource,leaningoutthewindow,smokinginthecorner,sneakingtotherefrigerator,andsitting,witheachoftheirtwenty-onegrams,onourheads.”Let’saddmoreinfluences:ourfriendsandfamilies,nature,themanifoldcrittersandpeopleoftheworld,includingthosedeliveredbymedia,and the visual artists whose work colors and shapes our lives. So much swappingofenergyfields!HB: It seems like your work with Susan happened sort of suddenly andorganically,butdoyouhaveanyadviceforartistsandwritersinterestedinthiskindofcollaboration?CF:Enjoytheopportunitytoseewhatyouthinkyouknowthroughother eyes. Susan revealed my house traveling through the seasons tome.SheheldamirroruptothebelovedBrunoandmycatKizzy.InherdrawingsIsawanewtheneighborhoodandtheGlenEchoRavine where I often walked Bruno. Because the nature of the work ofartistsandwritersisverydifferent,however,collaboratorsneed

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to be super-sensitive to issues that will impact each other. And that probably means being good listeners and good communicators—it’s a tricky business trying to read someone else’s mind. On the cover of Flowering Bruno is a beguiling photograph Sonya created of Bruno wearingaflowergarlandshemadeforhimforhisreunionwithKate,hiscaninegirlfriend.Toolate,Irealizeditwouldhavebeencoolifwe had transitioned within to the drawing Susan made based on that photograph:sortoflikegoingfromtheactualdog,metonymyforlife,tothenecessaryfictionofpoetry.IwishIhadthoughtofthatorSusanhad suggested it. I suspect she wanted the drawing to be in the book. HB:Also,hascollaboratingcloselywithanartistaffectedyourclassroominanyway?CH:Yes,ofcourse,andviceversa,forIwasprimedforthecollaborationwithSusanbyteachingEnglishcoursesatanartcollegewhereIwasalwaysthinkingaboutstudents’priorities,theirtime-consumingstudiowork,andseekingseguesbetweenliteraryandvisualart.Ioftenassignedreadingsrelevanttoboth,andevendevelopedspecialtopicscourseslike“TheArtistasProtagonist”and“WordandImage,”alongwithwhatbecameaLIBAstaple,FilmandLiterature.Istillfantasizeaboutacross-disciplinarycourseinanimatingpoems.And I have always been curious about my students’ visual talents. Back intheday,studentworkwasdisplayedanonymously,butsometimesI’drecognizeaself-portraitandbeastonished.IknowIamheretodevelopstudents’readingandwritingliteracies,soItendnottohavethemdraworpaintorfilmormake3-Dconstructions.Thatsaid,inWritingPoetry,Ihavestudentsmakebroadsides:limitededitionposter-sizedcollectibleartcombininganoriginalpoemwithanimage,

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Alayna Smith Untitled Photograph

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ordesignpostcardsorbookmarksfeaturingpoems,orevenanimateapoem.Lastyear,inasophomorewritingcourse,Igavestudentsanassignment option: depicting a scene from one of the short stories we readincomicbook/sequentialartform.Theresultswerearevelation:Icould“read”theirideasandinsightsinthisprimarilyvisualmedium.Theywerealsobeautifullymade—suchtalenthere!Soyes,Inoweasilyseehowreadilythesisterartscanplay,andfrompersonalexperience know that siblings can make lovely mischief together! HB:Let’stalkaboutyourtwomostrecentpublications,Frankenstein’sFlowersandHarpoMarxasTrickster,beginningwiththefirst.Tellusabitaboutthework,wherethesepoemscamefrom,andthemyths,books,andfilmsyoureference.CF:Whoknowswhencepoemsarise?Thesourcemayevenbedifferentforeverypoem.Thoughts,emotions,memories?Theexternalfoldedin:splashesofnature,artifacts,andeventsfromtheculture,country,world?Butletmetrytoansweranyway.PoemsinthefirstsectionofFrankenstein’sFlowersaddressmyth,mostlyPersephone’s,whichIrelateto.Jungsaideachofusislivingamyth,andtounderstandourliveswemustfigureoutwhichone.Notto worry: this gets easier as one gathers years that reveal the narrative pattern. The myth of Persephone is full of archetypes like passionate unanticipatedlove,dividedlife,emotionalambivalence,leavingone’smother(ourfirstlove)forthenext,deathandresurrection,theafterlife and the soul’s adventures there. A forthcoming anthology of Persephonepoems(Iwasinvitedtocontributeapoem)suggeststhemyth’senduringappeal.IalsoalludetoOrpheusinFF,animportantmythforartistsbecauseheisthefirsttopitartagainstdeath.Odysseus

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andtheCyclopsappeartoo,withrecentpersonalrelevance,agoodexampleofhowarttravelsthroughtimeandevolvesinmeaning,evenfortheonewhomadeit.Sometimesmythisabeard:“LittleCorn,”forexample,alludestoPersephoneandhermotherDemeterbutactuallycommemorates my own mother. Inthesecondsection,poemsriffoffofbooks.Thiswasinevitablebecause books are my drug of choice. They get inside me and inebriate me,changingthechemistryandstructureofmybrain.Sowhenapoembeginsthebeguine,allusionstobookssometimesdancewithmetaphors,devicesofsound,andtherest.Doyoueverwonderifbooksonourshelvescomealivewhilewesleeptoconversewitheachother?Well,apoemisakindofdream,andbookscancomealivethereaswell.Anyway,thepoemsinthatsectionaren’treallyaboutbooks;rather,bookshelpthepoemstosaywhattheysay,beitphilosophical,personal,orpolitical.Thefilmpoemsinthethirdsectiondosomethingsimilar.Ibuyintomovies wholeheartedly—they seem real to me. And they stay with me. So naturally they end up in poems. I remember writing the title poem,“Frankenstein’sFlowers.”MyhusbandandIwerewatchingtheoldJamesWale/BorisKarloffFrankenstein,oneofhisfavorites.Isaid,“whydon’tyouwriteapoemaboutthis?”andhesaid,“whydon’tyou?”Igotrightupfromthecouch;wentupstairs;wrotethepoem.Itwassuddenandalmostcompleteinthefirstdraft,whichisrareforme.Focusingonthemonster/littleMariascene,itbecameameditationon a sin committed in perfect innocence. I didn’t know that’s where itwouldgo.Poetsgenerallydon’tbeginwithathesis.Ifthey’relucky,they are able to get out of the way and let the poem write itself.

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Austin Burnside Surface Cement and Twine Cement and twine on wood

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HB: So Harpo. You said it took you ten years to write! That’s an indicationofdiligence;whatbroughtontheinterestinHarpoMarx?Whatkindofthingsdidtheresearchinvolve?Tellushowallofthatformedthebook?CF: Harpo Marx as Trickster is actually criticism: a prose study of HarpointhethirteenMarxBrothersfilms.Itfeltlikemyhomeworkfromtheuniverse.IntheprefaceIsay,“myinterestinHarpobeganinchildhood,whenhewasalreadysoiconicthatonechildoranotherwouldbeaccusedofresemblinghim.”Ijustlovehim.He’shilariouslyfunnytomebecausehe’simpulsive,reallywild,butalsosortofholyandmagical.Inreallifehewas,byallaccounts,akindandlovingman.Thisisgoingtosoundschmaltzy,butIthinkthattheheavenssendhumanityangelstohelpusabide,andHarpowasoneofthem.Bytheway,IcouldhavecalleditThePoeticsofHarpoMarxbecausethere is much poetry in what he does. The book took me so long to write because I was teaching four classes and chairing for much of that time. I would try to persevere but simply hadtoputitdownduringsemesters,thenre-immersemyselfduringChristmasandsummerbreaks,whichwasfrustrating.TherewasnostudyofHarpowhenIbegan,butWayneKoestenbaum’sTheAnatomy of Harpo Marx came out a few months before mine. For aboutfiveminutesIwasbitter.Buthere’sthething:someofthebestinsightsinthebookcameneartheendofthoseyears.Also,Wayne’sbook,thenmine,suggestazeitgeist!Finally,Harpodeservesmanybooks.“All’swellthatendswell,”sayeththeBard.Iwasalreadyfamiliarwiththefilms,havingoftenlaughedatthemuntotears.AndIhadreadHarpo’sautobiography,HarpoSpeaks!

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Then one morning I woke up with the conviction that Harpo is a tricksterfigure.Ialsowonderedwhatthatmeant,sospentayearortworeadingabouttrickstersinmythandlegend,compilinglistsof trickster traits. Then I read every book out there on the Marx Brothers,boughtallthefilmsonDVD,and,clutchingmytrickstertemplate,watchedthefilmsagainandagain,tooknotes,andwroteaboutHarpo’stricksteressenceineachfilm.Lucky for me the original idea not only held up but also kept unfolding!Harpowasindeedatrickster,andinmorewaysthanIoriginallyanticipated.SoIwroteachaptereachthefilms,thenanintroductioncontextualizingthemhistoricallyanddefiningthetricksterarchetype.Ihadagadfly:mydaughterSonyamademedealwithculturalinsensitivityinthefilms,leadingtosomesurprisingrevelations,andshepushedmetostudyAshkenaziandSephardicJewish tricksters as most of my research had focused on American IndianandancientGreektricksters.Then,whenIthoughtIwasfinished,shesaidIhadtoweavethematerial,resultinginaforty-pageconclusion,“ARetrospectiveMontage.”OnceIfoundapublisher,Ihadawholenewtask:supplyingpictures.I preferred to use screenshots so I could show Harpo doing particular tricksterthings,butMcFarlandwantedhigherresolutionstudiostills. And that meant visiting vendors. I paid the Margaret Herrick Library of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in L.A. to search their collection. And I went to New York: to the Performing ArtsbranchoftheNewYorkPublicLibraryatLincolnCenter,toPhotofest,andtoJerryOhlingers,thelatterthecoolestplace:packedtotherafterswithpictures,withnowheretosit,butwiththe

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Danielle Hall Prufrock’s Predicament Steel, Wood, Coffee Spoons

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knowledgeable,helpful,andloquaciousDollybehindthecounter.McFarlandlimitedmetothreepicturesperfilm,butbeingunabletoobeyseeminglypointlessrestrictions,Isentthefinaldraftwithtwiceasmany,pluscaptions.Myeditorpraisedthework,thensaidIhadtoremovehalfofthepictures.IweptasIcut.Theirlimit,bytheway,wasaboutfearoflawsuits,forcopyrightgoesonwaytoolongandwelackclarityconcerningfairuseof“thecommons.”Thebookwouldhavebeenricherwithallofthosepictures.Seriously,wouldtheMarxbrothers’descendantsorthefilmstudiobossesreallyobjecttosomeonepayinghomagetoandrevivinginterestinthefilms?Harpo’ssonBill,bytheway,sentmealovelyemailafterhereadthebook.AndIputmyfavoriteremovedscreenshot,ofHarpoinbedwithahorse,onat-shirt. HB:Whatmostrecentworkdoyouhavegoingon,manuscriptsandotherwise?CF:Ihavetwounpublishedmanuscriptsofpoems,pluspoemsfromthe last two years. The poems in On the Outskirts of Vertigo (thanks toSophiaKartsonisforthetitle:myvertigoandherquipwhenIsaidIwasstill“ontheedgeofit,”whichalsogalvanizedthepoemIwasworkingon)featureinfancy,childhood,adolescence,love,parenting,agingparents,agingself,writing,andteaching,withaseriesoffruit-shapedpoemstuckedinsideforaperhapssuperfluoussnack.Thepoems in Taking a Walk in My Animal Hat feature the four-legged and winged nations. Both manuscripts are too long: I need an editor but she isn’t me. These days I tend to work on poems more slowly. Looking at poemsfromthelasttwoyears,Ifindanimalsandinsectsthatare

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simultaneouslyaboutloveorpoliticsormortality,books,dreams(thoughthey’lldenyitifyouaskthem),blindness,mysister’sbreasts(accordingtoafriend,reallyaboutmodernism),mymom,childhood,adolescence,Jewishstuff,theseasons,cats,dogs,crimes,andmygranddaughter. I can see that many could be shoe-horned into the abovetwomanuscripts,swellingthembeyondallhopeofpublicationand making them collapse under their own weight. Help! HB:So,after28yearsofteachinghere,you’reretiring!Tellusaboutwhere you’re at with that right now. CF:IofficiallyretiredinJune2014.ButIneededtoeaseintotheseparationandtoemptymyofficeofdecadesofbooksandteachingfiles.Thankfully,thecollegewasaccommodating.I’mteachingabit.LiketheWickedWitchoftheWestbutmoreslowly,“I’mmelting!”HB:WhatkeptyouhereatCCADthislong?CF:ItwasteachingwhatIlove,literatureandwriting,whileimmersed in an art-making environment. It felt oh so simpatico. In myearlyyearshere,I’dpinchmyselfwalkingupthebackramptoKinney Hall—I couldn’t believe my luck. I have had the honor of workingwithpeoplewhomadethisplacegreat.Itipmyhattothem,many no longer here. Besides,IhadalreadymovedaroundsomebeforeCCAD,teachingreadingtoadults,highschoolequivalencycoursestoheroinaddicts,freshmancomptoOSUfreshmen,andlotsofdifferentEnglishcoursesduring ten years teaching at a Catholic High School. When I needed a change from the latter—I allowed a gorgeous essay expressing gay love(andloveofbooks!)tobeacceptedforpublicationintheliterarymagazineIoriginatedandadvised,andforthatwasalmostfired—I

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Nikki Moon Untitled Painting on Wood

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appliedandwasacceptedtothePhDprograminEnglishatOSU.Butwiththreekidsandacademicjobsscarce,takingtheCCADjobofferwasnotadifficultdecision.My years at CCAD have involved lots of professional and artistic growth. I tutored and taught both writing and literature. A painting professor asked me once how one would teach the writing of poetry. I’membarrassedtoremembersaying,“Idon’tknow.”Butwhenthetimecame,Ididknow.Teaching at CCAD and of course living life inspired lots of writing: poemsthatgatheredintochapbooksandbooksofpoems(Mischief,FloweringBruno,GreatestHits,Frankenstein’sFlowers)aswellascriticism(“TheLostFatherinArthurMiller’sDeathofaSalesman,”“YesandYass:DeanMoriarty’sEcstaticandLugubriousAffirmationsinJackKerouac’sOntheRoad)aswellasHarpoMarxasTrickster.Forthelatter,IwasluckyindeedtobeatCCADwhereIcouldnudnikpeople from Media Studies and at the IT Help Desk to enhance screen shots and pull clips for presentations! My colleagues cheered me on! NanetteHayakawahanddeliveredcopiestoCinemathequeFrancaiseFilmCenterinParis!Whatextraordinarysupportshe,LesleyandJosh,Sophia,Palmer,Stewart,Eric,Ron,andothersselflesslygave!HB: Think on your experience at CCAD. Can you give some highlights or challenges you’ve had and some things you’re going to miss?CF: Highlights and challenges both involve dueling vocations. WilliamCarlosWilliamsoncesaid,“I’mafulltimedoctor,afulltimepoet,andafulltimefather.”Well,duringmyyearsatCCADIwasafulltimemother(wife,sister,anddaughtertoo),afulltimeprofessor,

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and a fulltime writer. Somehighlightshavebeenabitoflocal,regional,andnationalrecognitionintheformofinvitationstoread,includingaThurberHouseLiteraryPicnicandanOhioanaLibraryfeature,twoPoetrySocietyofAmericacontestawards,twoGreaterColumbusArtsCouncilpoetrygrants,anOhioArtsCouncilpoetrygrant,plusindividualpoems,chapbooks,andbookspublished.Positiveteachingrecommendations,students’ownfinework,andmessagesfromformerstudents encouraged me as well. Yet at some point while I was teaching four classes and Chairing—overseeingcurriculumrevision,assessment,meetings,minutes,hiring,and supervising in addition to teaching four classes (while raising a family,caringformymomwholivedtobealmostonehundred),andtrying to maintain a writing life—I turned into a crispy slice of bacon. BecauseIfounditimpossibletostintonanyoftheworkIwasjuggling,I longed for parity in course load for Liberal Arts professors. (I was eventuallygivenacoursereleaseforChairing.)Butluckyme:I’vehadtwosabbaticals,mysecondintimetoformatFrankenstein’s Flowers and proofread and index Harpo Marx as Trickster. And I was given and am deeply grateful for other kinds ofsupportatCCADovertheyears,includingpromotions,facultydevelopmentgrants,evenavisitingartistpresentation,aswellasfinancialsupporttopresentpapersatconferencesandattendtwoPSAawardceremonies.I’mhappynowtohaveEmeritusstatus.ThesedaysIammovingbooksandfileshomeinsteadofpitchingthem.Sometimesweneedtowinkatourselvesorevenliealittle,no?IfI’mslowlyclosingthedooronthehouseofteaching,I’llbeopening

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Whitney Ransdell Brazillian Gold Watercolor

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the door of the breakfast restaurant to meet with retired colleagues! AndmaybeI’lleventakeadrawingclass,somethingIhavealwaysthought I would do. I will certainly miss my students: youth is contagious! Will I fall face down,acroneinthesnow,asaresultofleavingthisShangri-La?Iwillmissseeingmywonderfulcolleaguesfrequently.I’llmissexposuretoshowsandvisitingartists,notthatIcan’tcomedownforthem,andwill. I will miss putting on my snorkel to dive deeply into literature andfilm.AndIwillmisstherhythmsoftheacademicyear,thewayteaching structures my life. I don’t want to go back to Red Queen daysofrunningfastjusttostayinplace—I’mfinallymakingadentinthosetowersofbooksandNewYorkers—butintherightproportion,workdefinesleisure,liketheshapingofnegativespace.Ontheotherhand,andsometimesIhavemorethantwoflappingandwaving,Ilookforwardtohavingmoretimeforfamily,includingmygranddaughterEllie,forreading,writing,andfortravel.Iwillcontinue working on poems with the House of Toast Poets. I am co-coordinatingHospitalPoets,areadingseriesatOhioStateUniversitythatispartofOSU’sMedicineintheArtsInitiative.Iamworkingwith a group devoted to Israeli-Palentinian peace. I also hope to dopoetryreadingsfromtimetotimetopromotebooksandfindhomesfortwounpublishedmanuscripts,OntheOutskirtsofVertigoandTakingaWalkinMyAnimalHat.Moreover,newpoemsareflutteringdown,aflockgatheringinashapeIwillhavetodecipher.HB:Well,Thankyousomuch,Charlene;you’reawonderfullyenchanting person and a joy. Shall we end the interview with some poems?CF: Thank you Haley! This was both challenging and fun!

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adroitCharlene Fix

Let’s start by liking the wordwith its full belly and tall alphaheadingconfidentlysomewherebut slowing down to hold and rockbeforerelinquishinguswithat.Like a name but adjectivaldescribingthedeftnessofhands,then rising from the rhymedphysiqueoffingers,knucklesflabbylikeelephants’knees,andplumppalepalms,toafigurativeresourcefulness:senses again seducing us untotherealmofthought,nimble hands pushing on doors ofair,openingthem,clumsinesshidden,subsumedinthetask.

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alice in teachinglandCharlene Fix

Everythinghereseemsstrangelylow:the table and the lectern where I lay my notes.Andnotbecausemyneck,grownlongfromeatingesotericmolds,hasthrustmyheadthroughtreetops,farfromtoes.I just feel high. Or else the table is beingswallowedbythefloor.Thisfeeling,risingfrommyswaddledhearttomycabezafloating,makesmeask:whatdenizensarethesewhositbeforeme,essaysstapled,holdingpensI’mconjuringtohoverintheair?Ispeak,descended from the past on my long tether; theybandyqueriesfromtheirfutureworld.We pass like pilgrims on a mountain roadexchangingacademicgreetings,protocolI breech sometimes by signing emails withmygivenname.Butevenit,today,soundsstrange.Parched,Itakeabreakfrom class to bend before the fountain inthehall.Headuncovered,looseofhair,I pull a gesture from the left hip pocket of my repertoire: I bow.

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white rabbitCharlene Fix

That damn pocket watchanditstwits.Toapuppy,pre-lapsarianofconsciousness,ticking is comfort. But to a mid-life rabbit stretching tobedapper,ittendersterminus.“Ohdear,ohdear,”hemuttersinhissyncopatedhaste,verbatimonce in Carroll’s text but ofteninDisneyandSvankmajer,animators Mengele-untwinned byperson,politics,andplace,“Ishallbelate.”Indeed,indeed,didCarrollcouchinfoliage,flowers,keys,incroquet,cookies,cups,andawinsomedance,so shall we all.

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worlds oF rock and ironAnna Leahy

TheclosertotheSun,thefasterthespinning;thefasterthespinning,thegreaterthefriction;thegreaterthefriction,thehigherthetemperature.Howhottomelt?

Foriron,somelikeithot:thousandsofdegrees.The unit used for heat applies to anglesasifeverythingbentbelongstoacircle,asifan arm must move in an arc. The measure

ofangleisthesameforancestry,mysisterand I just one degree from our mother.Orinmusic,onenotchfromthemainnoteinascale,butnomattertoourtonedeafmother

who imagined her singing voice in heavenbecominglovely,lovelier,yearninga matter of degree and matter spinningtoofasttograsp,toohottohandle.

Nick Seitz Winter Stream Photograph

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YoU look like i FeelNatalie Shapero

Dirt on my chin and I wonder: am I alreadyintheground?Likeatoyturnedreal,IcannotshedthesensethatIhavedied.TheGermanword

for Heaven’s the same

astheGermanwordforsky.Onhearingacruelprincewasindanger,Iprayedforhimtothrive,notforhisownsake,butfortheconcubines,

sure to end up buried

along.Tomyrealface,amanoncecrowedIRUINEDYOU,andthoughhedid,thejoke’sonhim:heruinedmeonlyforthisworld,

and this world is not long

foritself.TheEarth,thatever-lovingbutdistrustfulkin,keepsleavingusjustalittlepocketmoneywhenitdies,nevertheland—

Brianna Parrish War on Women Digital

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on being smallBetsy Toadvine

I thought you were smallwhenIwatchedyourbelongingsflyout of the windows. Your lit cigarettehit the black pavement.The cows kept chewing grassnext to your mangled belongings.Bovine eyes see everything and feel nothing.I couldn’t hear a sound.I just walked closer to your sparkling gums.Redbloodpouredthroughyourglass-filledsmile.

I thought I was smallwhen I came home that night.Exhausted-toanemptyapartment.Yourthingsweregone,butyoulefta note.I felt small in our bed for twoand I didn’t hear a sound that night.

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Thenextday,Iawoketoscreamingsirensandflashinglights.Hurriedoutmybackdoor,ontothebalcony.Others were out too.Wewatchedasourneighbor’shousefilledwithflames.Smoke covered the sky. Windows shattered.Glassandpersonalbelongingshittheblackpavement,I watched everyone watchand I knew we were small.Everylastoneofusand I smiled because I could hear the siren’s scream.

DeMattia Rosalyn Shark Culling Digital

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Brianna Parrish Temptation Digital

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letter to mY FUtUre daUghterAbby Vance

Acrosstheroomyourfathersleeps,havinghadbeenupallnightwithme waiting for you to make your grand entrance. Looking at you now,it’shardtobelievethatoneofthesedaysgoingtorunuptomeandcurlyourlittlefingersaroundthehemofmyshirtandpullmedown to my knees so that you can look me in the eye. Just like daddy does,you’llsayasyoucupmycheeksinyourtinyhandsandsquishthem together as you try to hold back giggles at the faces that I make. You’ll press your nose to mine and bare that toothy grin with gaps and holes,onlytoletoutalaughthatsoundslikeangelsintheheavens.Thenyou’llbeinmiddleschoolwithtearsrunningdownyourcheeks,leaving your eyes veined with red rivers. You’ll come through the door andbrushpastmeasIaskhowyourdaywas,replyingonlyintheword:Fine.I’mnotstupid.Ihadbeeninyourshoesonce,andyesI’llworry,butI’llletyougotoyourroomandcryforawhile,justtoletyougetitallout.Aftertenminutes,I’llheadbackthehallwaytoyourpostercladdoor,andI’llhesitate.IknowthatbeforeIevenmanagetoturntheknob,you’llbeinmyarms,yourfaceonmybreast,askingmewhylifeissohard.Withasadsmile,Iwillwipeawayyourtearsandtellyouit’llbeokay,beforedraggingyoutothecartogeticecream from the little stand down the road. It’s the same stand where you’llgetyourfirstkissfouryearslater,wherehe’llgetdownononekneewithhishighschoolringasaskyoutomarryhim,andyou’llsayyes because he’s the best thing that has ever happened to you. I might

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seemoldwhenItellyouthatthereareplentyother“bestthings”thatwillhappen,andthatturningthatboydownwon’tbetheendoftheworld.Itmayhurtatthatmoment,butwhenyougettocollegewithouta child on your hip… you’ll thank me because I only wanted the very bestforyou.Whenthetimefinallydoescomeandyoudecidewalkdowntheaisle,I’llhelpyouheavethatheavydressoveryourhead,and tediously slide the buttons through the eyelets in the back. I’ll pretendIhaveallergies,constantlywipingmy eyes and nose and making excuses to leave the dressing room. I’ll beinthefrontrow,tearsstreamingdownmyfaceasthewords“Ido”dripfromyourlips.Oncethehoneymoonphaseisover,you’llcradleasoft blue blanket… and you’ll know then the love I felt for you.

Anna-Lisa Eriksson Double-Faced Pod Queen Wax Clay

Anna-Lisa Eriksson Double-Faced Pod Queen Wax Clay

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Allie Vanaman Whale Songs Digital

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UnFinished mUrder ballad: when the swimmer drownsDarren Demaree

Healthyuntiltheholeswerepushedthroughhim,tookcircularpiecesofhisfleshandexplodedthemintoastarshapeforthefishtoexplore,hewasaboattheysaid,hecouldspendalldayinthewater.Hewasaboattheysaid,hecouldbefoundinwater.Hewasaboattheysaid,withenoughseparation between his ribs the water could reach in and take him down deep enough to be home forever. The river he swamcrossedseveralcountylinesquickly,snakedthroughthetrianglethatledthroughintoKnox,andallthosetreesjustkeptprovidingcoverforarifle.Anyonecouldhavefiredthoseshots.Everybodysaidhewasboat.Everybodyalsosaidhewas an asshole and a liar.

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UnFinished mUrder ballad: the woman Finds her ex-loVer in an alleY in philadelphiaDarren Demaree

Hewasneveralone,evenwhenhewaswithherhefoundotherwaystobeun-aloneaswell,sowhenhestumbledpasther,drunkonhimselfandmostofthebarsinSouthPhilly,shewhirledaroundwitheveryintentionofgivinghimpeace,givinghimachancetobealone,andyetun-alone.Hewouldgetusedtothecoldhands.Ifanybodycouldrevivethetouchofdeath,itwouldbehim,andaslongashedidn’tturnaroundinthenextfiveseconds,shecouldscreamhelp,shecouldstuffherpurseintotheheartofhisjacket,andallowittodrownintheechoesof her most primal of wishes. This sober thought was calming to her,andshecouldfeelherownstrengthgripthefreedomthatcame from her own steel loneliness. This must be what an eagle feels like before a dive into the river she thought…

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UnFinished mUrder ballad: in some towns there is onlY one pUblic oFFicial and one prostitUteDarren Demaree

They canceled the crossing countdown for the one blind resident,thatbirdsoundonlypissesofftherealbirdsofthetown,whichreallyisjustastateroutethatbarelywindsthrough,enoughthroughthatthecarsrefusetoacknowledgethedipinspeed.Nomatter,theyallseetheprostitutesittingonthepicnictableoutsidethecoldbeerdrivethrough,andsince she wears only colors that clash with the blue polar bear onthecarsideofthebuilding,everyoneknowsthatquicklytheir world could improve with such a rainbow before them. Notamayor,notapoliceofficer,thetownshiprepresentative,onceColumbiaGasmanagement,knowsthatonlyoneofthemshouldbeperchedoutsideonthattablegettingdrunk,but if all two hundred and twenty seven guns were trained on onetarget,itwouldbehisspillingtheymightdesiremost…

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web’s endKatherine Zeilman

Huddledyellowspider,wasthereever such a screeching from the rustylip?Lustlikestalling,lustlikeusing.Eightlegsandalemon-spottedspinedesistfrom spinning silk and the mindsof those who had been near but spuntheir webs too tight.Employconcludingsentiment.Lucyflickstheflamedissolving every goddamnedcreaking hallway in your home.Yourfailing,fallingself.

Tyler Davis Crocheron Mixed Media

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Lauren Rassenfoss Untitled Digital

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row row rowMeghan Privitello

Just because you know every fold of a paper boat, you are not agod of the waters; you do not deserve a Latin name. I’mlooking for any troll who still works full-time under a bridge totell me what we become when we die. It is worth the gold coin,the heroic journey. My heart exploded when you told me wewould become trees that bloomed violet every summer. I sanghymns to erase what you said. I want to be hidden, a bone, asmall puff of what we are too ashamed to say out loud. Whenthe rain puts its hands on my shoulders and rubs me to sleep, Ithink I would do anything to have its child. In the garden, thespiders are talking about us like we’re the enemy. When’s thelast time you talked to the ground like it could help you out ofyour deep-rooted depression? Doctor Earth, your seas are lousylovers and every night I end up alone in bed touching myselfas if I were a mermaid – confused about where I let a man in,about how to let myself out. When we die, who will look for usout of their bedroom window in the dark, who will know thereare two used-to-be’s looking for a familiar place to sleep? I willnot forget the comforts of living: the just-cooked lentil, thefreshly laundered pillowcase. There must be a kind of holidaythat celebrates the departure of your paper boats. What can wecall millions of vessels sent to sea without any idea of home,each ship deck its own soggy heaven, clueless about everknowing what it would mean to turn back.

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worlds oF iceAnna Leahy

Intheoutersolarsystem,thegiants:theplanetsoficeandgreatgravity,onewithalargeredspot,astorm,anotherwithastonishing,thinrings,oneamethanegreen,anotherwith big moons in its grip.

Gofarenoughout,andheftturnsfumesintometal.Thatfarfromheat,largessturnstofloating,asifanythingcouldbelighterthannothingatall,as if nothing at all is possible.

Gofarther,andweightisacore,as if rock and water were a heartbeneaththemantleifthemantlewereskin,asiftheheartwerethecenter,theseedofallreaction,acedingcontrol.

Gofarenoughback,andmassivecomesfromlump,thebeginningoftheend.Theslowloop,thefastspin.Form + Motion = Body.

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Nikki Moon Untitled Ink

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Natalia Monserrate, Nature Embodies Deer Digital

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hoc est sine dUbioKatherine Zeilman

YoucanfindherneartheoutskirtsofSoundlessness.onequartermilepastthesuntunnelsintheir gemmiferous iris gold.Turn to embrace your humiliating enthusiasmsandthoselittleruptureswillflakeapart the moment.Findherwadingintheweeds,twistingtimothy grass between her teeth – this abscission is for you.Shewakesthethingyouhavenotyetdone,forwhich your apologies are premature. She has become the spectacle.Youcanfindherrightherewheremypulseisweak,letmeshowyou.Sheisdocileuntilsheisnʼt,andpolyvalentthroughrhythm.ChrysanthemumQueen,wonʼtyoupleaseundome.Cradle this clarity till it is brighter than your marbled eyes.Find her in an exchange of attention – the paying and the losing. A vivid uncertainty to tacitly trip you up.Her altar is crawling with the ends of earth and toil

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andtomorrowʼsalabasterbloom.Lighterthanthebonesyoubroketomakeitfit.Youcanfindherinthearchivesofeachmeadowlarkandthumbprint,whereancestryliesquiveringand bound – an empty thing.Split-lippedsmilesguardanarmyofcalcifiedfears. She will keep the fallen through the night and plant again at dawn.Findherturninginsidesout,slackeningthe lordless nerves you herd. They are eating from the body of self-contempt.But she can loosen that gut; braid it ten thousand waysandputitbackjustright,intoyournewlysilken sensibility.Youcanfindherwherethewormsdoze,woozy from the actual weight of this world. You say“meanderer”likeitʼsabadthing.Awakeandwadinginpoolsofaceladonblue,nirvanarestsinherauricgesture,anditcannot go unseen.

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Findherreturningtosomethinglikewoman,somethinglikeastutterturnednonsound,gracelessyetcollectedinthisgorgonizedinstant.Buy a ticket to ride her train of thought straightthroughsyncreticskies,windingwordsround your unhinged ears.Youcanfindherdownstairswiththeratsplayingpoolwithyoureight-balleyes,theyskitterevery which way and she sees.Shesays,“Iʼllbearound,”shesays,“tellmeastoryyouʼveneverknown.”“Whatishalfofonewhenallofoneislonely?”But when you reach the point of settling inshewillbemilesaway,hyaline,hitchingaride on hummingbird-breath – this iswithout a doubt.

Oriana G.G. Hirschberg The Suburbs Digital

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biographies

Haley Behnfeldt

A graduating fashion design student at Columbus College of Art & Design. At various Botticelli and on-campus events she has been selectedtoreadherwork,which,likeherdesigns,focusesonquietness,inspired by nature.

Darren C. Demaree

Theauthorof“AsWeRefertoOurBodies”(8thHouse,2013),“TemporaryChampions”(MainStreetRag,2014),“ThePonyGovernor”(2015,AfterthePausePress)and“NotForArtNorPrayer”(8thHouse,2015).HeistheManagingEditoroftheBestoftheNetAnthology.HeiscurrentlylivinginColumbus,Ohiowithhiswifeand children.

Anna Leahy HerbookConstituentsofMatterwontheWickPoetryPrize.HerpoemsandnonfictionappearrecentlyinNimrod,TheRumpus,TheSouthernReview,ThePinch,TinderboxPoetryReview,andothers.SheteachesintheMFAandBFAprogramsatChapmanUniversity,where she curates the Tabula Poetica reading series and edits the journal TAB. She co-writes Lofty Ambitions blog at http://loftyambitions.wordpress.com.

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Christine Pear

RaisedinMichigan,shefirstbeganwritingin“TheMidnightClub,”a celestial decked-out basement closet. However her universe opened upwhenshemovedtoEnglandandtastedalemondrop,revelinginthe strange new discovery of writing with the senses. With graduation loomingonthehorizon,she’sreadytoembracetheworldwithherminimalistic poetry and keen eye for detail.

Meghan Privitello

The author of A New Language for Falling Out of Love (YesYes Books,2015).PoemshaveappearedinBostonReview,KenyonReviewOnline,PleaseExcuseThisPoem:100NewPoetsfortheNextGeneration,&elsewhere.Sheistherecipientofa2014NJStateCouncil of the Arts Fellowship in Poetry. The works featured in this issuehavebeenpreviouslypublishedinGettysburgReview,andTheNew Megaphone.

Natalie Shapero

The author of the poetry collection No Object; her writing has appearedintheBeliever,TheNewRepublic,TheNewYorker,Poetry,TheProgressive,andelsewhere.ShelivesinColumbus,OhioandworksasanAssociateEditoroftheKenyonReview.Theworksfeatured in this issue have been previously published in The New Republic,PinwheelandPoetry.

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biographies

Betsy Toadvine

CurrentlystudyingfineartsatColumbusCollegeofArt&Design.Sheenjoys making several types of work but mainly focuses on Jewelry and wearable sculpture. In her free time she enjoys writing poetry.

Katherine Zeilman

A Fine Arts Junior with a concentration in glassblowing. Her craft is based in technical vessel making and experiments in the application of surfacematerials.ShewillbeattendingPittsburghGlassCenterthissummer to study goblet making under the craftsman Kenny Pieper. Her biggest fear is sleepwalkers.

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