Into the Abyss
2024-2025
I Know
By Danielle Halnen
By Danielle Halnen
It's midnight, and I should be asleep, my parents expect me to be asleep, but they don’t know what I know, and what I know is that the snow will be too high to go to school tomorrow, so I know they will get a call around 5:00 in the morning telling them that I should not go to school because school is canceled.
So I stay awake to watch the silvery blanket slowly form over the yard, and the driveways, and street, and I know I should probably go to bed, because I want to be up early enough to see the plows go through it, pushing the snow to the side of the road, the white flakes taking specs of dirt with it, turning it to cookies and cream.
I listen for the flakes to hit the ground just like it does when it rains, and I strain my ears with the effort, but I’m able to hear a soft whisper of whooshing outside my window, reminding me of my little sisters whispered dreams that she tells me when she’s half asleep before she rolls over again, and she asks me the next morning to tell them to her because she forgot.
She was sad to see that her favorite tree to sit under had lost all of its leaves during fall, and no matter how much I tried to convince her they would come back, she didn’t believe me, but what she doesn’t know that I know is that this tree is my favorite when the bare windy branches outstretched themselves like arms hold the snow above the ground because it looks like the leaves have come back pure white, glistening in the silver moonlight, and the magic leaves stay for only a couple of days like a dusting of powdered sugar before the sun licks it away.
The Seagull
By Coltrane McGonigle
By Coltrane McConigle
Regardless of the song in his head,
The seagull pecks away.
Regardless of the love in his heart
The seagull pecks away.
Instead of the beautiful sunset
He pecks.
Instead of the bluest ocean
He pecks.
Pecking at the brain,
The man washes away.
And so he pecks.
And pecks. And pecks.
Conceptual
By Alice Modica
By Alice Modica
I wasn’t fully aware of what my husband saw in this type of modern art. I had only agreed to go to this art exhibit as a sort of last resort to revive our relationship, but I was having trouble understanding what emotion could possibly be portrayed by a banana taped to a wall. We stood side by side, eyes focused on the dull, metallic shine of the Duck tape contrasting the freckled, ripe yellow banana.
“So,” he paused in anticipation. We looked at each other, his green eyes unblinking. He squinted at me, confused as to why I was not responding. I wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask me, or rather what he wanted me to say. He was a confusing man, I had not, after all, married him for his communication skills. “So…” I responded, staring back at him, almost unable to break his gaze.
“What do you think?” He said, staring for another moment before glancing back at the banana. I looked back at him, searching for something. Wondering how the answer I gave would affect us as soon as we left this gallery.
TWICE MINDED
By Jameson Gillihan
By Jameson Gillihan
I put things off again last night
the countertop flour trail
crusty forks water-bogged rice maggoting the drain slick-slop butcherbait or wo-
Somebody is in my kitchen.
Why is there another person
in my kitchen.
There’s a stranger scrubbing stovetop grease and meatstuff off the counter
Purging pink slime my slime get your fucking hands off my slime
To stop the stranger I plug my nose and plop my tongue on the cutting board
defiantly (I WILL DO THE CLEANING)
I lick pig juice from polyethylene
slurp
This does not deter the stranger,
who in fact seems almost compelled by the scene, this strange head slapping the counter
tongue flailing like an animal
that shits itself or sheds its limbs in panic, and what are you going to do about it? Are you really
just going to keep cleaning?
It was kind of a point of pride, seeing how dirty my kitchen could get.
I liked seeing smell become
tangible
I liked that I could affect the world in this way
I liked having irrefutable proof that there might be something wrong with me
So
you're kind of fucking up my everything
what you're doing right now
The stranger hums sniffles or shifts the way one does bored or uncomfortable.
The speaker realizes their position
primed like pork for carving
and I didn’t put the knives away last night
obviously
[
]
That’s the sound of nothing happening.
Despite being splayed wide and irresistible
I guess I’m not good enough for whoever is in my kitchen.
Something about me is just
unappetizing.
Are you really not interested in cutting me up?
Would you at least think about it
I imagine the look on your face
slicing strips of me
underwhelmingly
all I can do is imagine
at some point you’ll succumb to the urge
or my jaw will get tired
Would you succumb to the urge already
[
]
That’s still the sound of nothing happening
and still, nothing happens,
serrated sloshing rough-side sponge
silver-on-silver
sink-soaked leftovers
The stranger says I don't have to take control of my body by hurting it
I can take control of my body
by taking care of it
So would you take your tongue
off the cutting board
please
The stranger puts the knives away
My jaw is getting tired
I saw you in someone else/Te vi en otra persona
By Johann Klassen
By Johann Klassen
Te vi en otra persona
Te vi en otra persona,
los mismos ojos que una vez me miraron con ternura,
los labios que sepultaban mis secretos,
incluso esos pequeños bigotes que llevabas con orgullo.
Eras tú,
pero eras también un eco del pasado,
la sombra de quien fuimos,
cuando todo parecía posible.
Recordé tu forma de caminar,
las manos siempre escondidas en los bolsillos de tus pantalones,
el suave abrazo de los suéteres que ocultaban tu cuerpo.
Qué desgracia,
mientras yo me perdía en el reflejo de un alma
que se olvidó afeitarse,
con el cabello revuelto, desaliñado como mis propios pensamientos.
Y ahí estabas, frente a mí,
pero eras otra persona,
un recuerdo disfrazado en la piel de un extraño.
La vergüenza me ahoga,
saber que, a pesar del tiempo y las distancias,
mis sentimientos no han encontrado paz.
Hoy te vi en otra persona,
y en el brillo de tus ojos,
pude ver el eco de un amor que nunca apagó,
un fuego que, a pesar de los años,
sigue ardiendo en el rincón más oscuro de mi ser.
I saw you in someone else
I saw you in someone else,
the same eyes that once gazed at me with tenderness,
the lips that buried my secrets,
even those little mustaches you wore with pride.
It was you,
but you were also an echo of the past,
the shadow of who we once were,
when everything seemed possible.
I remembered the way you walked,
hands always hidden in the pockets of your pants,
the gentle embrace of sweaters that concealed your body.
What a misfortune,
while I got lost in the reflection of a soul
that forgot to shave,
with hair tousled, disheveled like my own thoughts.
And there you were, in front of me,
but you were someone else,
a memory disguised in the skin of a stranger.
Shame drowns me,
knowing that, despite time and distance,
my feelings have not found peace.
Today I saw you in someone else,
and in the shine of your eyes,
I could see the echo of a love that never
died, a fire that, despite the years,
still burns in the darkest corner of my being.
I’ll Make You See God
By Violet Russell
By Violet Russell
Another strange tide
approaches the horizon
Sand slip time, the world’s
Ends starts to tatter,
Loose bits of light a
Sad white flag, no
One reads defeat as
Righteous, taste that
Shoe polish morning,
Bared neck dew, let
That sweat roll off
And that’s where the
Sea gets filled with salt,
And god had no hand
In this, nothing tilts
The world even, or
Shakes the globe flat,
I’ll make you see god,
And it’s just this misery
Misery misery.
7/31/24 12:29 am Don’t Dive Too Deep
By Charlie Black
By Charlie Black
I want to be back
In those flowers
All pink and green
I felt strong again
More graceful than before
Is it because my body is now a woman’s body?
Age
Not gender class
Bodily integration
The sandbar beneath the wave
Refracting light
Take another hit
Taste the air
Make a list
Green things:
Leaves
Cartoon poison
Limes
The ocean
Sour apple sour straws
Grapes
Cars
Moss
Blue:
Their eyes
Grandma’s pool
Glass bottles filled with bath oil
Purple:
Blueberries
Sunsets
Extra large polo shirt
Amethyst
Pink:
The inside of the eyelid
Peonies
Your tongue
Tell me something new about the sun
Or Hercules
Or the best kind of pickle
Or maybe even plan the revolution
My ex used to say they wanted to run into the woods and live in the trees and throw bricks down at everyone
But how do you get the bricks up in the trees?
Cary them up and then throw them back down?
Climb down and pick them up? Climb back up the tree carrying a bunch of bricks?
Only to fling them back down again?
Even if we had ape-like feet,
I think we would struggle
I like it here on the ground
Sometimes
MARCO
By Jameson Gillihan
By Jameson Gillihan
Marco was my neighbor’s dog. They never bothered to train him which I never thought was fair, not to him or them or me and what about me, what I deserve, I’m up the street, your neighbor. The dog’s name was Marco and he was black with cute tan eyebrows over which he had immaculate control, raising one, the other, pleading begging crying or manifest-excitement his eyebrows flying off his face he’d run. We took him for walks when the neighbors were out of town and listened to him howl on the weekends when they threw their parties. Marco had sharp teeth and a wet, pink tongue. His nails left shallow ruts in the living room floor. He was always so full of energy. Who has that much energy?
Dogs. Dogs have that much energy. What do you really want to know the answer to?
I guess I want to know why he couldn’t calm down. What’s so hard about sitting still for an extended period of time, really. Why my neighbors thought to get a dog in the first place if they were never going to bother trying to train him—
Sorry. Really though, what was that decision process like. Or what is it like to share a house with an animal you never want to spend any time with, or what it’s like to spend all your time an animal thumbless covered in fur. How to be a dog and never trained. Could you not afford me this small attention? I just want to be good for you but I never learned how. And I have so
much
energy
racing
through me
rib-rattled
hyperactive
mongrel
breaking chains I
needed to know what would happen if I pushed your
limits or
if you even had any
I was wrong/
wrong/ wrong/ wrong I was
paper-whacked righteousness I was
red-skinned blushing I was
blushing
I knew I had done something wrong
I did something bad
To you
What did I do
*
I develop a habit
of licking myself pink
of tongue-scraped bald spots under my ribs
I lick myself nauseous
I puke black hair
You clean for me while I watch
guilt-touched but pleased with the attention
I taste the creases between my arms and belly
the arch of my thighs
my tail
my shit
I develop a habit of whining
a tool I will keep with me forever a smoke signal catharsis a thing to do bored
I’m always bored
Marco was always bored
but the poor thing never could control himself and it was easy to grow resentful,
my second-story
glower snipe-shooting from afar
telepath misanthropy
my neighbors were immune to,
poor Marco, I think he absorbed it all for them.
He was gone eventually not sure how, or
when our last walk was or if he’d jumped fence or
tugged himself loose mid-walk one day or if
his owners finally got tired of guarding the gate and decided to just let him go for it.
He was gone but they were still there. I watched them dismantle the dog house from the second-story window.
Anticipation
By Violet Russell
By Violet Russell
Frostbit cheeks,
slices of leftover
apple pie, my legs
quiver like a fawn.
I’m waiting for you
To call me by my name,
standing out on the
front porch steps.
All night, I wait for
your recognition,
I'm waiting for a reply
I never called out for,
too tired from the nights
before, before, before.
Listening to the gutters
moan, straining against
heaven's weight,
waiting until it's
quiet enough to
hear the upstairs
radiator's thrum,
it's lonely here,
isn't it?
Light scatters into
crocodile print,
a road glazed in
frost, a wayward
airplane scrapes
the skim off the
dark cream sky,
and I am still
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
On The Way to Forgetting
By Jacqueline Modungo
By Jacqueline Modungo
On the way to forgetting I grabbed my purse
My room reeked of cinnamon so that I couldn’t place whether it was the gum or the broom or the way your hair smelt before it kept changing
I had made the arrangements
And I was swaying like I had been laying on the current before I even started to move
Softly submerged before I had even reached the stairs
The phone call where you plainly stated “You are someone I want to know”
As long as it stands, this house will be home to many
Too many, I can’t keep track but I try
How lucky we are to reach the point of abundance
I return to your face like going back to check the stove
The silk scarf ghosts dance around me and it’s a shame I can’t wear everything I own at once
They say it all ends up just the same as before you came to be
I believe that no matter how the cards fall they will always overlap
On the way to forgetting-
The trees waved me over, branches made of sharp-elbow turns
My directions have changed nearly twelve times today, I take in what I still can
On the way to forgetting-
I spotted the bench that always gets moved with the shade, and so I sat
And on the way to forgetting, I forgot to go