3. i
University of Louisville
Fall 2014
Volume XI
Board of Editors
Hanna DeMarcus
Co-Editor-in-Chief
Tessa Withorn
Co-Editor-in-Chief
Charles Burns
Sam Dungan
Ashley Flesher
Sydney Fone
Deryn Greer
Cate Heady
Zofia Hetman
Ameenah Ikram
Dylon Jones
Adam King
Destiny Minton
Robert Mudd
Hannah Rego
Blake Schreiner
Natalie Smith
Sam Smith
Ashley Taylor
Adeline Wilson
Luke Buckman
Staff Advisor
7. v
Letter from the Editors
Dear Readers,
This semester of The White Squirrel has been a tornado
of changes, improvements, and general anxiety for Tessa and
me. As we strive to improve the quality of the magazine, dozens
of ideas and suggestions must be considered, incorporated, and
maintained. Student-run publication allows for a lot of flexi-
bility, but it can also force us out of our comfort zone. We’re
constantly endeavoring to balance the demands of student life
with our roles as editors of a literary magazine.
For the first time, we’ve opened submissions to the
general public. We intend to transition to an annual format in
the future, and set up a structure this year with our successors.
We hope a larger range of submissions will encourage the
literary community of Louisville, and we would like to continue
actively supporting local readings and other literary events
around the city.
I’m confident this issue of The White Squirrel is one of
our best. We received five times the amount of art submissions
this semester, and as a result, this issue features numerous
talented and creative artists. We’re proud to feature the work
of Jackson Taylor as our cover art, and we’re equally as enthusi-
astic about our poetry and prose contributions this semester.
If there is a theme represented in this body of work, it would
be the theme present throughout literary endeavors. Perhaps
how our contributor Griffin Dimaio phrases it: understanding
the horrors around you. Whether it be coming to terms with
personal identity, traumatic events, or the failures of our
society.
We would like to thank our new and returning editors
for their enthusiasm, the professors of creative writing and art
for their benevolent endorsement of submissions, and our staff
advisor Luke Buckman for motivating our ambitions. We hope
you enjoy the eleventh volume of The White Squirrel!
Sincerely,
Hanna DeMarcus and Tessa Withorn
Co-Editors-in-Chief
8.
9. 1
on the airplane seat next to me, he
glances at my thin, folded legs: “are you a dancer?”
I turn away to face the window and the
receding world, the growing sky:
Teena is a dancer.
Midstage she waits, lit in yellow, and I
watch her from the balcony. The orchestra builds, she
flutters in its breeze, in her anticipation.
And the dance: her heart, blood, brain, and supple muscles.
And the music: swayed and swaying within its currents, her
finespun body caught.
I hide in purple shadow. I let the music flow
into my mind and I live in there, nested in
the space between the notes, curled in
the imaginary world of oboes and rests and interactive strings.
I watch Teena, through glass like a storefront window. I want to
pull out my wallet. How much for her life? Her body,
stored like a mannequin: bending, twisting, folding,
ephemeral movements. However,
I have nothing to say through my body,
no overgrown, overwrought, tear-stained phrase
or sentence or declaration.
The music pools. The plane dips, wheels drop. I sit, still body.
Why I am not a Dancer
Fiona Grant
10. 2
On the Ocassion of Being Mistaken
for a Boy While Holding the Door
Open at Panera
Lauren Whitcomb
They filed through, their bellies filled
dressed in Sunday’s best. Blessed by the Lord
with the status of upper-middle class.
The old lady smiled long, tattering her cane
saying “They just don’t make ‘em like you anymore.”
I returned a cordial grin, door still in hand as
her family followed:
A Father and his daughter
He tips his hat and manages a proud
“Thank you Son.”
as if I was partaking in a brotherly code.
I suppose he did not see my small hands
or my large breasts. He did not hear my soft voice say
“You are welcome.”
I have been mistaken for a boy many times:
kids in my seventh grade class,
construction workers on Second St,
homeless man outside of Scheller’s Food Mart,
man behind the counter at Papa Johns,
old woman on Market St who lost her bus transfer.
This man however,
the one who resembled my father
sent me into Panera wondering
which bathroom I should cry in.
12. The Braid
Hayley Stevenson
My parents called me down when I was sixteen.
“You haven’t been acting yourself lately.” It was a funny
observation. It was true, I hadn’t been acting myself. But
I hadn’t been acting myself for sixteen years.
“Is there something wrong?” My mother said.
Her eyes were wide, her gaze unfocused, as always.
“I’m alright.”
My father looked at me, stubbornly. I knew this
meant that when my mom left the room I’d have to talk
to him.
She left.
“Is it your mother?”
“No.”
“Is it me?”
“No.”
He sighed, frustrated. “I tried.”
He walked out of the room.
I had stopped wearing my braid. I think that’s
what they noticed at first. I took it out about a month
beforehand, just to see. I looked at my hair, straight and
flowing down my back. I hated the length, but I loved the
freedom.
It was damaged. I never noticed how badly dam-
aged it was when it was plaited. When I would get my
hair cut, the hairdresser would tell me to stop putting it
in a braid, especially while it was wet.
“My mom puts it like that because it’s easier for
it to set when it’s not dry.”
The hairdresser asked me why it needed to be set
so firmly. I never answered. I never knew.
4
13. A few days after I stopped wearing the braid, I
went back to the hairdresser.
“What do I do with my hair now?”
“I don’t know.” The hairdresser sighed. “What do
you want to do?”
I stopped. I took a breath. I hadn’t taken a breath
for myself in a while. I hadn’t been asked about myself in
a while. What do I want to do?
“Cut it off.”
She widened her eyes. “Now honey, you’ll have
to think about that. It’s a big step.”
People knew me with my braid. For sixteen years,
I had been the girl with a three-strand style. It was never
out of place. It was showy. It was long. I stopped wearing
the braid. No one noticed me.
I noticed me. I noticed the dead ends, the leftover
mess. My hair was dry. It got greasy. I didn’t realize it
when I wore the braid. People saw it after I let my hair
down. But after taking out the braid, I realized I never
wanted it back.
My parents knew something was wrong when
I cut off the hair. It went from being halfway down my
back to above my shoulders.
“Are you depressed?”
“Are people bullying you?”
“Do you feel ugly?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have stopped wearing
your briad.”
Maybe I never should have started.
When the hairdresser told me I had to wait a
while before she would cut the hair off, I took a blade to
the dead ends. I thought I would’ve cried. I’m an emo-
tional person. It was a big step. But I didn’t cry. When I
looked in the mirror, I laughed. I was ecstatic. I walked
5
14. into the hairdresser. She smiled.
“You look nice.”
She sat me in the chair and fixed what I couldn’t
see.
“I wanted you to cut it off first. I couldn’t take
that step for you.”
Thank you.
My parents can’t look me in the eye. Late at night
they’ll tell each other they’re worried. My hair is ugly.
I look like a boy. My mom offered to buy me a wig. My
dad said it looks like I was trying too hard.
I looked in the mirror today. I smiled. No more
separating the hair. No more tightly wound sections,
pulling at my head. No more damaging the hair to make
it look nicer. No more control.
6
16. Prodigal Daughter
Lauren Whitcomb
Dissonant chords from Catholic Church bells clanged
between my mother and I for 18 years. I took a hammer
to her tradition the Sunday I left home with my backpack
full of clothes, a guitar, and about a hundred dollars cash.
I was depressed, jobless, wore the same floral dress for
weeks and slept between friends’ houses on dilapidated
couches. I stayed high off weed I never paid for, and
counted quarters from a change jar every morning. John
and I celebrated on dirty carpet when we figured out the
difference between a Cobra and a Colt 45 was a dollar.
The album of the summer was “Climbing to New Lows”
by MGMT because man that “low-fi synth beat and
desperate vocal sound is where it’s at.” I didn’t shave my
armpits or legs and never wore deodorant. Never did
laundry either.
I ate microwaved meals from my cousin Becca’s house
when I was hungry. I got a job teaching high schoolers
how to play percussion but couldn’t wake up in the
morning and gained thirty pounds by July.
I ate a handful of mushrooms and ran down the street.
Away from my friends, moldy dishes, sad music, I had
nothing and I couldn’t stand to be in nothingness. It was
a strange moment to watch myself give away my sanity.
I screamed and found a cardboard box in the alley behind
the Shell Station. And so I lived there for an hour.
8
17. Mid-August beat down and a picture was posted to
Facebook of me high, sweaty, and despondent on a dilapi-
dated couch in that floral dress. My mom messaged me
“Was this a shining moment in your life? What is it on
this day that makes you seem so far away? Where have
you gone my daughter?”
9
19. Pink Roses
Lauren Oliver
there is a hole in my left side so i fill it with roses. pink
ones, not red, because even though red roses symbolize
love i am not love, and the color red frightens me. to me,
red means war and fireballs that plummet between my
legs and blood that drips from my cracked lip. i fear that
level of intensity so i fill all my holes with frivolities and
girlish colors to avoid confrontation with depth. i close
myself off to the world so all that’s left is me by myself
with shriveled pink rose petals falling from my body.
they form a silhouette of a dragon on the white tiles.
11
20. Off Road
Carroll Grossman
off the highway, a grassy hillside
blue white yellow flowers cluster
a gentle wind blossoms tremble
nearby broken glass, bent metal black marks
soft sun soft breeze soft clothes
cotton lavender, pink, yellow
clothes on the side of the road
the wind lifts color moves not much
not much clothes lie still too still
Sirens Flashing lights
Hurry Hurry
touch the flowers, embrace the clothes
Hope hope Help them move again.
12
22. This Is a Story I Rarely Tell
Anyone, Story 2 (detail)
Taylor Beiser, Graphite, 4 ft x 6 ft
14
23. Semi-nonconsensual
Fiona Grant
He was 34.
He was a 34-year-old accountant and,
He was a 34-year-old bearded accountant and he,
well.
He was a 34-year-old, 6ft3 bearded accountant and,
and he,
he,
well..
He
pushed, prodded, pe-
penetrated.
February.
February to May.
Pushed.
He,
he groomed me: like a little girl for a beauty pageant.
Prodded.
He,
he prepared me: like a turkey for dinner.
Penetrated.
He,
well.
15
24. If I close my eyes, maybe it will go away.
If I vomit, maybe it will come out.
If I walk fast, maybe I can leave it behind:
rip it off like a scab,
cut it out like a tumor,
abort it like a mistake, like a mistake child.
If I walk fast, if I run maybe I can leave it behind,
but my foot catches on the edge of the curb and I sprawl
facedown on concrete,
forehead sliced.
16
27. Song of the Desert Lark
Madeleine Loney
Where must I go to forget your heartbeat?
I lay my head on the breast of the dune and listen,
But I hear only the drum of the nomad.
The wind of the desert dances across my upturned face;
it is no longer made up of your exhale.
I listen to the wild humming of the Milky Way
The songs of the travelers and
the fires of their caravans have disappeared.
How far must I travel to stop leaving footprints?
Handfuls of sand slipped through my fingers;
When I stood face to face with the nomad
He said to me: I cannot teach you how to stay
I too was born a wanderer.
The song of the desert lark cries: Follow, follow the fool.
Where did he hear this melody?
I told him that I drank from the upside down teacup
because I wanted to destroy my destiny.
How can only one truth exist?
I was born of the apple eaten by Eve
And I grew up in a world that fears pleasure.
I sought the balance and discovered all the sources of my sadness.
This is the cause for celebration.
I was not created.
I am the fool that the lark spoke of.
I am becoming.
Still, I am becoming.
19
28. Here I became healed
between the stars and the sand
My body finally free from the traces of your bitemarks.
On top of the dune, the northern star guides me south.
Running, I seek the drunkenness of freedom
I am dancing, spinning, and falling
down the dunes into the arms of those whose
tents will come and go in the red morning.
I am at home only when my feet are moving.
20
29. Peace Lily, Queen of Sadness
Nathan Douglas
In the daytime, Peace Lily saved the world for
minimum wage and attended school. At nighttime she
partook in weekly rituals of conservation and goodwill
towards men and women. Tuesday nights were her
favorite; she loved the feeling of carrying her orange
recycling bin to the street corner for all her neighbors to
see. It was the climatic conclusion to her weekly disposal
of glass milk jugs, organic cereal and fair trade tea boxes,
plastic cutlery from monthly “family” dinners, and any
other self-pronounced ethical commodity she purchased
on impulse from Kroger.
Peace Lily wasn’t Peace Lily’s real name, but
a name given to her by a classmate when she studied
abroad one summer in Tanzania. She found her new
name to be a convenient springboard from which she
could begin a conversation on African warlords and so-
cial justice to anyone asking about the origin of her name,
which happened on an almost daily basis. Peace Lily
would support African warlords if she could afford it,
but conveniently she could not. T-shirts were fortunately
within her means however, and her economic situation
was a decent excuse to purchase a KONY 2012 t-shirt in-
stead of a diamond necklace anyway. As an added bonus,
the cotton shirt was of unprecedented softness.
On Monday mornings, Peace Lily rode her bike
to work to save the environment from her 4-door sedan
she drove on Tuesday through Sunday and on Mondays
when it was too cold, too wet, or when she didn’t feel
like it. Her route led her through the campus of an all-
male catholic high school in the wealthy neighborhood
21
30. she used to live in with her parents. Seeing the teenagers
enjoying themselves before school made her feel sick, and
would frequently cause her to vomit in her mouth, which
she would politely ingest rather than make a spectacle
of herself. “Fucking kids,” she thought, “just wait until
they’re older, then they’ll see I’m right,” followed by “I’m
tired of folk music” as she shuffled through songs her on
iPod. Thus her daily cycle of vicious self-inspection and
subsequent feelings of guilt began well before noon and
would continue well into the night. Ageism and adultoc-
racy were not concepts Peace Lily was familiar with, and
her fragile conscience, which teetered between emotional
instability and self-loathing, was protected from the two
articles she happened to miss while perusing Wikipedia
on articles about discrimination. Had she known about
them, perhaps she would volunteer at a nursery or bring
it up to her friends the next time they were having a
casual conversation.
Peace Lily spent most of her working day contem-
plating what she should be offended by and what new
cause she could champion. She secretly hoped that what-
ever cause it was, it would have a slogan that would refer
to some aspect of agriculture, and have a color scheme
dominated by her favorite color, dark green. Peace Lily’s
thoughts often took a circular shape, and her half-heart-
ed attempts to think through current systems of racial
inequality and oppression were frequently met with
thoughts like, “Shit, can I still put Aunt Jemima on my
pancakes?” Peace Lily decided that she would no longer
buy Aunt Jemima syrup and opted instead for real maple
syrup. To her, the world’s ills were curable by means
that were within her reach, mostly through alternative
consumption habits. She felt proud. Switching syrups, she
thought, would be an excellent way to combat racially
charged sleight-of-hand in our consumer culture. Peace
22
31. Lily could not wait to tell all her friends that she had
made the switch, and wished that she could access from
work any one of her multiple social media accounts to
proclaim her devotion to non-discriminatory condiments.
The big reveal had to wait until the second
Monday night of February. The second Monday of each
month was selected amongst Peace Lily and her acquain-
tances as the date for a special dinner night, which would
certainly have cured society of all social ills if, and only if,
they could attract a crowd of even ethnic and racial distri-
bution. On the rare Monday when the crowd appeared
as anything other than ethnically and racially homoge-
nous, a particular excitement was elicited that could only
be captured through filtered Instagram photos, carefully
composed to highlight Peace Lily’s innocence to racism as
well as her savvy in selecting salad greens. In anticipation
of such a turnout, Peace Lily stopped by the local farmers
market, housed in a tin shack under a highway overpass
in a part of town she only recently realized existed, while
on the way to her nearby second floor apartment.
At the farmers market, Peace Lily found a stag-
gering selection of syrups. She found their containers,
plastic imitations of earthenware jugs, to be aesthetically
pleasing, and thought that regardless of the quality of the
syrup, at least she would have a nice vase afterwards to
showcase her rusticity and Appalachian side, as Appa-
lachian culture and local food went hand in hand in her
mind. The price of a quart of maple syrup was roughly
half of what Peace Lily had earned at work that day.
The allure of the syrup, however, was far too great, and
the warm feeling that would inevitably result from the
purchase could not be expressed as a monetary value, only
as an emotional one. The purchase carried with it a state-
ment of character that Peace Lily would hold close to her
23
32. heart and flimsy conscience, it reinforced her position in
society as a warrior for social justice, and for a brief and
fleeting moment, made it feel as if Aunt Jemima syrup
did not exist, and edified Peace Lily’s sense of self-worth.
Peace Lily made the purchase with gusto, thinking how
great it would be if everyone bought maple syrup. For
a split second she felt as if her vision of the world was
becoming fully realized and she didn’t have to feel guilty
anymore. This was not the case.
“Would you like a bag?” said the cashier, half-ex-
pectantly.
“No, thanks,” she replied, smirking and satisfied
with her preparedness, “I brought my own.”
Peace Lily, with the flourish and enthusiasm of
a magician, pulled her reusable grocery bag from out of
nowhere and lightly dropped it on the counter. In a brief
and fleeting vision, Peace Lily saw a smiling rookery of
penguins, playfully sliding on sheets of ice. Suddenly her
screen-printed canvas tote, which featured the logo of her
workplace, was forcefully thrust into her hand from be-
hind the counter, cruelly interrupting her arctic fantasy.
“Have a good afternoon,” the cashier said me-
chanically, staring at his phone.
Peace Lily put the syrup into her backpack and
started an uneventful journey home.
Peace Lily’s guests began arriving at 6:45, the ex-
act time set for the event she created on Facebook. Each
familiar face was met with forced enthusiasm; the anxious
anticipation of a non-Caucasian guest was too much for
Peace Lily to bear. By 7, after several rounds of uncom-
fortable exchanges amongst the visitors, Peace Lily had
given up the prospect of capturing a worthy-enough pho-
to for her social media outlets. “This is fine,” she thought,
“Everything is going to be alright.” She breathed deeply
through her nose, a stress-relieving technique learned in
24
33. a recent therapy session. She looked around her living
room, scanning the faces seated on the floor. Her acquain-
tances made her nauseous. Behind their half-smiles Peace
Lily thought she saw who they truly were, punk-ass
humans not devoted to saving planet earth from injustice.
Meanwhile, Jeremiah, one of Peace Lily’s friends, was
smoking pot in her bathroom, blowing smoke out of the
window.
By 7:30, dinner was ready. Peace Lily had careful-
ly orchestrated the menu to accommodate syrup, having
previously typed in “Dishes eaten with syrup” to Google.
Unsatisfied with the initial results, Peace Lily settled for
making pancakes and figured that she may as well just
make breakfast for dinner. Meanwhile, Jeremiah, laughed
to himself at the absurdity of serving breakfast for dinner,
thinking about how no one ever serves dinner for break-
fast unless it is reheated leftovers. He could feel the frigid,
accusatory stare of Peace Lily as he stifled his laughs.
“Alright guys, dinner’s ready,” Peace Lily said,
feeling rather maternal and proud of it. She eyed her
guests as they lumped their food onto flimsy paper plates,
feeling a swelling sense of pride just below her ribs as
they poured syrup onto their food. Peace Lily hoped
that her guests would notice her syrup, but soon lost her
patience.
“That’s fair trade syrup you guys,” she said flatly.
“I remember reading an article about syrup,”
someone replied.
“I bought it today at the farmers market, you
know regular syrup is just high fructose corn syrup with
maple flavoring it,” the volume of Peace Lily’s voice rose
in fear that no one was listening, “it also promotes racist
stereotypes,” she concluded.
Peace Lily’s coworker was moved, “I had never
25
34. thought about that,” he said, “like Aunt Jemima!” His
face reflected his genuine surprise, followed by a look of
pride in his newfound realization.
“We’ll never be able to stop racial injustice unless
we talk about it here,” Peace Lily said, filling her guests
with hope that perhaps for an instant, their use of maple
syrup was the anecdote to years of stories and politically
rooted racial oppression.
Sitting down on the living room floor, everyone
began to eat, feeling as if Peace Lily’s apartment were a
refuge from all the racism in the world.
“How is it?” Peace Lily asked, her face in a per-
petual scowl, “I mean the syrup, how is it?”
Her guests nodded in agreement letting out a
muffled “Good,” through their food-filled mouths. Each
bite of sugar soaked starch that Peace Lily ingested, to her
at least, was another nail in Aunt Jemima’s coffin. Lost in
thought, Jeremiah felt accomplished at his restraint to not
help himself to seconds before everyone else had finished.
That night Peace Lily, like on most nights, could
not fall asleep from tossing and turning in frustration,
having overheard at some point in the night someone say
“Chinaman,” and by the fact that only two people had
rinsed their plates before loading them in her dishwasher.
26
36. Good Riddance
Jared Colston
Goddam woman. I’s three years from retiring. She
had to go an ruin everything. Well not everything. I tell
ya, if it weren’t for the boy, I’da been long gone. Workin
my whole goddam life fo’ this retirement. That boy will
be a good factory worker. Got strong hands. He only thir-
teen too. Hell, he almost a man now. Three years. Three
more’n he’ll take my spot. Then I get my retirement.
And I’ll kick that goddam woman out. She had to go and
mess everythin up. So much as look at her, she jumpin in
yo bed apparently. I tell ya, I ain’t sure that boy is mine.
I asked her, I asked The boy even mine? She says yes,
always, course he mine. I ain’t so sure now, goddam wom-
an. I ask her, Where the hell you been? I work all goddam
day at the line to come home to an empty house. She ain’t
got no job. Where the hell you been? I was at the store,
she says. I was gettin something special fo’ dinner toma.
You know good as I do it’s his birthday toma. Hell, course
I know. He’s my boy ain’t he? Course he is. Next day, I
come home early an’ I tell ya, goddam woman gone again.
First day off early in thirty years an’ I come home to an
empty house. I tell ya, I sat in that ol’ armchair fo’ three
hours til she get home. She ain’t got no groceries, no sir,
no market bullshit. Where the hell you been? I says. Well
I shocked her bein there, I tell ya. She didn’t have no lie
fo’ me. The boy at school. He’s a good boy. Almost a man
now. Three more years an’ he gon take care of his old
man. I’ll get my retirement. First time I stopped workin in
fifty years, I tell ya. She had herself a necklace. Where the
28
37. hell that come from? Not with my wages. We ain’t got
no means fo’ that. This ain’t from you, she says, this was
a gift. From who? You got some rich boyfriend? Who the
hell want to buy you a necklace? What you now, thir-
ty-eight? Who the hell buy you a necklace? Goddam that
woman. She says, A man who knows how to take care of
a lady. A real man. Work my whole damn life, an’ I ain’t
no real man? All I got now is the boy. When I retire, I
tell ya, that woman, she gone. Out. Livin’ with that ol’
necklace givin boyfriend o’ hers. Goddam home wrecker, I
says to her. This ain’t no home, so how can I be a home-
wrecker? This a damn joke. You a damn joke. You know,
yo brother came by yesterday. No, not Louis, was the
other. What was his name? Anyways, he say he know
that necklace boyfriend o’ hers. He live over off 2nd. He
say she been over there this whole week. Boy too. I say
good riddance t’ her. Not the boy tho’. That’s ma boy.
She cain’t take him. She do what she damn well please,
but he my boy. She say to me one day, she say, he want
to be a writer. He ain’t goin’ to no factory. His hands too
big to not work in no factory. He made fo’ that work.
Ya know, I ain’t seen them aroun’ all day. Dey better be
home toma. I’s three years from retirement, that goddam
woman ain’t takin my boy when I’s just three years from
retirin.
The classroom was small, much smaller than its
white counterpart. The walls were shabby, cheap, but
clean. So clean. There was only one room, filled to burst-
ing with desks and second-hand books. There were all
manner of school supplies organized neatly at the front,
29
38. next to the blackboard. Class was over, and I packed my
bags up, ready to file out with my friends. I hear my name
being called. It was my teacher, asking me to stay after
class and talk with her a bit. She had heard about my
parents; my mom moving out. Are you okay? I’m fine, I
say to her. Have you been to see your father? Yes, ma’am.
I go and see him every once in a while. She was an older
black woman, well accustomed to the molding of young
minds. Her face was lined, both from smiling down on
good students, and giving stern looks to the trouble-mak-
ers. You know, your momma used to always come in and
talk to me about your school work. You should tell her
to come back and see me again. Yes ma’am. Maybe you
could go spend the day with your daddy while we talk?
Well, ma’am, I dunno. Momma doesn’t like me staying
over there too long. She say he’s a bad influence on me.
My teacher stared for a bit longer than usual, studying
me and my response with something close to pity. Well
I’ll just have to talk to her. You might need to come along
with her, but you’ll have to wait outside while we talk.
Yes ma’am.
The yard was full of black folk. It was crammed
with the neighbors, all of them acting not quite sad
enough; not quite in the mourning mood one would
expect. The three of them stood by the casket, the only
ones focused on the center of the funeral. Mother, son,
and step-father stood talking in low-voices. The casket
was closed, yet everyone knew about the body. Everyone
knew about the bruises around the neck. The low voices
in the room all sang the same song. Yes, I heard he did it
30
39. three days into his retirement. What a shame. Lawd, you
know whey he goin. You know what It say ‘bout that.
The son was quiet, letting his mother dominate what
little conversation occurred in their three-part family. She
was spouting the same verses as the rest of the crowd.
Three years must have been long enough. Long enough
to distance herself from the man, the corpse, in the casket.
The step-father comforted both of them, sympathy taking
over where empathy was not possible. The funeral ends,
the neighbors file out, contented with how mournful they
were. Wondering who seemed the most mournful, and
envying their acting. The son was the last to leave. After
leaving the church, he turned onto the main road out of
town. This road only led to one place a Negro boy of six-
teen could go. The doors to the factory were closed, but
not locked. He opened them with his large hands; hands
ideal for factory work.
31
41. Black Tie Affair
Destiny Nowlin
black
boys
walking in the middle of streets
riding subway buses
home
getting sweet tea
whistling
at pretty white girls
Radio Raheem
headache like bloody burning balloon
chokehold till they can’t breathe
I’m sad for my brothers
and
they are my brothers.
But I’m sad for the officers too
I’m sad for their burning bodies
In hell.
Their hearts
remaining ice cold
freeze burned
I wish Donald Glover were the new Spiderman.
He would have been a great Spiderman. Black boys love Spiderman.
Someone please let Kanye West take over the fashion industry
so he can finally
shut the fuck up.
33
42. Headache like bloody burning balloon
from heartache
and fear.
itchy eyed
from crying too much.
I bought a jewelry box
And put all of my favorite black men in it.
And there was laughter and music and smoke.
They were well dressed
And they were
Alive.
34
44. 36
Thanks to our sponsors
and supporters!
The University of Louisville Honors Program draws
its strength from the talent, intelligence, diversity
and dedication of almost 1,300 Honors students.
Participation in the Honors Program comes with
numerous advantages such as personal Honors
advising and graduation with Honors, but it also
challenges students to maintain academic excel-
lence. Visit www.louisville.edu/honors for more
information.
45. 37
University of Louisville
Creative Writing Department
Anne and William Axton
Reading Series Spring 2015
Frank X. Walker is from Danville, KY
and the current poet laurate of the
state. His works include Black Box,
Buffalo Dance: The Journey of York,
Affrilachia, and his newest collection
Isaac Murphey: I Dedicate This Ride.
Reading: Februrary 19th, 7:30 pm,
Bingham Poetry Room
Master Class: February 20th, 10 am,
HM 300
Michelle Latiolais is the author of the
short story collection Widow: Stories,
and the novels A Proper Knowledge,
and Even Now. She teaches creative
writing at the University of California.
Reading: March 26th, 7:30 pm,
Bingham Poetry Room
Master Class: March 27th, 10 am,
HM 300
The Anne and William Axton Reading Series was established in
1999 through the generosity of the late William Axton, former
University of Louisville English professor, and his wife, the late
Anne Axton. The series brings highly distinguished writers
from across the country to the University of Louisville for two-
day visits to read from their work and share their knowledge
and expertise.
46. 38
Special thanks to Sunergos Coffee, Carmichael’s Book-
store, and the Etscorn Honors Center for selling previous
editions of the magazine.
