Roshni Riar
Staff Writer

 

Auntie always amazed me with her endless bag of tricks
in the kitchen stories flowed from her fingertips, each one a little better.
How did she build this house with cinnamon sticks?

Tiny bruises dotting her arms from too tight grips
the shadows of men who've done nothing but mislead her.
To ease the pain, she'd reach fearlessly into her bag of tricks.

Don't worry, adding some sugar is a sure-fire quick fix
to heal the sting on your tongue from the unwanted bitter.
She told me once this house was made with cinnamon sticks.

When she was alone, I’d watch her break out from his eclipse
spinning rotis and crushing pods of cardamom and black pepper.
Auntie always amazed me with her endless bag of tricks.

Did she ever wonder if these walls would be stronger with bricks?
She didn’t care for strength when the scent brought her pleasure.
I can't help but wonder why she made this house with cinnamon sticks.

When her spice jars went empty, she'd stand with her hands on her hips,
the clock ticking towards an unwanted dinner as her forehead grew wetter.
Auntie always amazed me with her endless bag of tricks.

Forget popsicles, this house was made with cinnamon sticks.

Morgan Hannah
Life & Style Editor

 

Oz the car window, bodies reached new energies as they tore across
an asphalt stage; no music but the humming of engines, crashing of
waves against the pier, and the slapping of skin against steel. Gleaming with
sweat, those bodies moved in a frantic, fervent rhythm, beads and bangles
dancing up and down arms with each motion. Teeth flashing, eyes wide.
Gooseflesh on sunbaked skin. Sensation.

Giddy with a need to join them, a scream erupted from me before the
car door even opened. | needed this—we had slept in the desert, we had
climbed through the earth, we had even driven at breakneck speed just to
taste the wind on our tongues out the window.

Stretching limbs, flowing fingers, sweeping hair, and I had been spotted
amongst the crowd. I approached the leader of this new tribe as he called to
me. He wanted me to battle-cry. He must have sampled the capacity of my
lungs earlier—all that pent-up time on the road, and all those jitters—those
sparks of life, now out to play. My body was free, given a chance to explode
with movement. Pulling, twisting, peeling through me, another scream
rolled out and across the waves of bodies, dipping, shaking, and sliding. They
cheered. Yes, we were now dancing.

We praised the gift of these glorious shells—how they move, how they
bend, and how they attract and connect with those of their tribe. We are all
the same, and we are dancing.

Caroline Ho
Assistant Editor

 

I have this tendency, as such

to ruin everything I touch

to damage all that I hold dear

the fool who dares to stand too near

I bury fingers in the dirt

where | pretend that nothing hurts

where hints of green poke through the soil—
one new life I’ve yet to spoil

I’ve planted it, this tiny seed
so I can grow it, tend its needs
so what if I forget to water
(truth is it’s so hard to bother)

I take this task upon myself

let this plant live, if nothing else
let me believe I’m something more
this plant can be my metaphor

I tell myself that I can change
that I will learn to rearrange
that tendency toward self-hate
but that’s all I can cultivate

I want to nurture, care for, tend

to more than just this withered end
to let this living being grow

but I dont have it in me, no

I pray someday I'll learn to love

just shed these roots and rise above
just wait, one day, we'll blossom free—
but until then, I'll just be me.