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Bennington College's journal of arts and letters
Volume 67: Issue 2
Monologues from Ghost Light
Julia Mounsey ‘13
I love creaking, but I love pots and pans especially. You go to bed and CLANG! The kitchen is full of me! I have so many hands. I love my hands, but I love your feet more, your tired footsteps down the stairs, your lovely head full of my hands, full of my pots and pans. You always smile. I love creaking, and I love your sheets. I pull them off to watch you shiver. I have so many hands, but no fingerprints mind you. I’ll never leave a mark, I love you too much for that.
Saskatchewan
Sara Judy ‘11
You will make a liar out of me if you listen.
The sky is the only whole truth I’ve told you,
and even that, badly. If I even speak about
the valley, the river cutting tight along tree lines,
the grass as fluid as the ocean, more deceptive,
just as deep, you will know the things I’ve hidden.
Jeweled fox backs and owl eyes, abandoned
silos like petrified giants, tractors and threshers
push out the fat bellied grouse, running forward
on their feet, chests out, under fences and
across the highway. The reservation dogs,
all lean muscle and teeth, big beautiful
half coyotes specked with blood-grey ticks
in the spring, who hang heavy in the fur
until the children pull them off to pop,
or they fall to the ground and splatter softly.
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Reverence, Defined
Crystal Barrick ‘11
more than a right
hand dipped in water
before entering
the building.
remove your sandals
at the foot of
the mountain, our bed, burning
tree booming names.
Love in the Time of Cellular
Katherine Perkins ‘11
Mustache Man and I—we never even had a real date. He invited me to his studio one day, and we sat on stools at a table made from rough wood propped on saw-horses. I asked what he was feeling and he told me that sometimes he got nervous, while I sat across from him rolling pieces of masking tape into tiny little beads and lining them in perfect intervals on the table in front of me. He offered me coffee and we drank it black. This could work, I thought. This could be something sweet that moves slowly.
A Life Imagined South
Anna Gyorgy ‘14
I listen to the stories of the storms and she records them
She corrects the syntax of the thunder
I help her light candles when the power goes out
She likes to work at night when you can hear the mountains sleeping
And I like to hear her dreams
How To Perform An Exorcism
Kaitlin Yaeko Tredway ‘11
it’s the numbing of the
Curd made flesh; slowly sniff
sapinsense and fyrrh to feel
nothing in the brain. it’s never
about feeling. do this in mockery
of me. risk all that’s held true.
Lamb of God, You take away
the ability to see, hear, discern.
genital motor skills—gone. get
a room, concrete or imagined.
one entrance, no exit.
it is fixed. This is My Body,
which has been thisismybody
Evacuation Day
Kaitlin Yaeko Tredway ‘11
Kiku saw very few smiles that day. She knew that the sight of all these Japanese Americans in their Sunday best with sad and grey faces would never leave her memory. This day marked the death of their former lives. She wanted to cry.
Idolatry
Crystal Barrick ‘11
I am not ashamed
of a man’s teeth on my ear, his cold,
slick arms as he uncarefully
removes all doubt.
A Bit of Dried Grass, Broken Off Onto Live Coals
Sara Judy ‘11
I grin as quietly as possible
at the baby in front of me
making a fortress out of her
mother’s? cousin’s? sister’s?
shoulder. I worry about being creepy.
