The dandelion
snow
amassed
along curbs,
before parking blocks,
and settled
into cloistered pockets
of the pedicured lawn,
where, with studied solemnity,
the commencement tent
mewed
on the hill
above the haven.

A man wakes up under the sun, though nothing calls his name.

A man’s room is small. A man sits at the edge of the bed and looks at himself. A man’s hands have built nothing, or maybe they have built something invisible. A man doesn’t know which is worse.

Sustainability Board Photography Contest Winner. Photo by Jane Glover ’29; caption by Greta Lee ’28.

Another knock! I shall not show surprise.
I know that rhythmic hate behind their guise.
Stand where you are! The chain stays on the door.
Your presence marks the marble ‘cross my floor.

It melted
It melted slowly, painfully, endlessly
The igniter turned off with a satisfied hiss
Then silence
As if it were admiring its own masterpiece
She screamed
She grabbed frantically at the people around her
Her friend from high school
Her favorite teacher
Her sister
Her dad
None of them spared even a look

The school provides a basket of oranges every day. I am an island, breaking the waves of students as I contemplate the gleaming fruits. Under the gentle lights, their protective rinds take on an artificial glow– despite their ostensible natural identity. That color is too bright to be real, too beautiful to come from Mother Nature. They should not be so uniformly appealing. Each little stem has been perfectly severed like an umbilical cord. Their countless pores are hiding secret chemicals, and I can imagine the curated smell that would aerate as I rip away their skin.

By now, word has spread around the city that you have been chosen as the successor of Ellison & Rowe, the world’s single dominating business in the finance corporation.

When you first receive the phone call from Mr. Whitmore, the legal counsel of E&R and a well-known gentleman who was involved with the corporation for so long that he has become somewhat of a public figure, you rub your eyes and check your phone again before answering, hands trembling.

A pause
breaks the silence created in degrees,
layered up in edges and vertices: connections.
A path may lead to a sum of none,
so simple relations may never overcome
gaps set throughout, predefined by glaring differences.
However, those discrepancies come together, meeting on
edges — subtraction becomes a foundation for insights:
A diversity, illuminating inventiveness in everyone.

Mrs. Confine hurried down the barren street, eyes fixed on the black door a few buildings down. It was a cool January evening, the 11th to be exact. The snow on the ground was beginning to freeze over, no longer fresh and powdery but gray and stiff. The plowed snow bunched up near the curbs, brown with the dirt of the city. The icy air was making her eyes water, so she adjusted her red scarf and pulled her coat tighter. Across the road, she spotted an officer. They don’t exactly try to conceal themselves, she thought. Yellow is such an odd color for uniforms. The officer waved, then returned to his watch. Nearing the door, she looked up at the surveillance camera. The sign below it read, “Smile, you’re on camera.”

I used to dance in the rain puddles,
with soaked sneakers,
the rainbow polka dots on my
umbrella bleeding
into each other.
back then,
i believed that
the world knew how
to live in harmony.

Aging white stucco crumbled off the side of the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Inside, the living room smelled of dust and instant noodles, the beige couch sagging downwards toward the center of a stained, gray rug that suffocated the hardwood floor underneath. A 30-inch TV hung crooked above a fireplace covered in layers of ash. Floral, mustard wallpaper crowded the walls, its bird-patterned canopy watching silently, their glassy eyes fixed in a constant surveillance. In the hallway, the attic trapdoor sagged in the ceiling, its dangling string, brittle with age, swaying slightly whenever the heat kicked on.

Sustainability Board Photography Contest Winner. Photo by Mia Dong ’29; caption by Timothy Edwards ’28.

Exiting the airport, I feel the heat squirming against my skin. I hear people all around me speaking, and they form sounds I’ve heard all my life but can barely understand. Shaggy dogs sleep in the shade if they can find it, on the burning ground if they can’t. It’s busy in a way that would seem unorganized back home, but here the constant motion nestles itself comfortably in the honking cars and the streets of shops packed haphazardly one on top of the other. Each piece of this place fits together seamlessly even though it feels like it shouldn’t.

“Where are we going now?” I ask my parents.

“Home,” replies my mother.

Sustainability Board Photography Contest Winner. Photo by David Malkhasyan ’28; caption by Kenley Cox ’28.

      At the end of every week at soccer camp, our coach, Avery, hosted the “Lost and Found Scrimmage.” The idea was simple: every forgotten water bottle, worn-out shin guard, or mystery
T-shirt went into a pile. Each camper could claim one item before the match—and whatever you
picked, you had to wear or use for the game.
      The kids loved it. Shouts echoed across the field as players scrambled for mismatched
socks and oversized jerseys. But one camper, Leo, stood out. While others hesitated, wrinkling
their noses at stained pinnies or ripped shorts, Leo always raised his hand first. He’d grab the
most battered gear without complaint, lace up, and sprint onto the field. By the time the whistle
blew, he was laughing, sliding, and celebrating goals like his uniform was brand new.

I used to wake up
To the smell of coffee every morning,
Soft notes of french vanilla
Drifting through the door,
Sweet and steady as your voice
Calling me to breakfast.

I never needed to drink it
To feel the warmth it carried.
You’d offer me a cup anyway,
And somehow, that was enough.

Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.
Don’t stay up too late, you will need your rest.
Sweet dreams, tomorrow morning will be bright

and early, you will go to start the fight.
It’s not your job to always be the best.
Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite

The beat echoes through your chest,
banging against your ribcage until your
bones crackle—each rupture steady,
like your strides into your very first birthday party,
just before somebody
gags on your shirt.

If I had nine lives

I’d spend the first one
learning how to breathe again.
To quiet the panic,
Let the fear loosen its grip,
Instead of pulling me under.
Maybe after I swim to the surface,
I’ll finally find peace and
Won’t be afraid of the ocean.

“It’s fascinating how light works,” I tell him. I go on and on about the mirror and its ability
to reflect a clear, crystal image of me and the silhouette of my brother’s hunched body. Orange
light from the sunrise follows his every movement. Turned away from the mirror, he eats stale
croutons while listening to live television updates from the war in Afghanistan. I wonder if he
still thinks about our life before his deployment: our family trips, our competitive chess games,
our love for the outdoors. Lately, he startles at the smallest sounds, whether it be the click of the
lock on the front door after returning from his rehab appointment or the light switch that turns
our home dark.

The sound of soft wind howling through a space,
Created by the absence of the leaves,
Leaves echoes in my ears I’ve tried to trace
To my serene heart as it softly grieves.

Such strange fellows they are who set their feet in this world.
That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile,

As I gaze upon the lake water, Helios’ design in the sky
hugs the setting sun, like the branches of a maple tree
merging into a canopy of scarlet-tinted leaves and lights.

As clear as truth itself, every detail of the lake
sings Helios’ ballad, projecting each stroke of his art.

That soft kind of love
In the morning when sun bathes over you both, and you understand the true meaning of the
word “content”
When you walk together and his hand brushes yours, three fingers whispering three simple
words
When it’s late in the night and he pulls you closer,
When you two watch a movie and you feel calloused hands massaging your neck, his breath on
your face
When you’re in the car and his head finds its way to your shoulder, and warmth spreads through
you.
When you wear his clothes and his scent consumes you and you feel so safe.

The stone is cold beneath me.
It seeps through the coat,
too heavy for my shoulders,
too big to be mine.
It smells like smoke and baguette
and someone else’s home.

 

“No! Please, no,” I cry, sprinting towards the train. The doors close in front of my face,
and the train begins mockingly pulling away.

“Ughhhh,” I mutter dejectedly. I climb back up the stairs to the main terminal of Grand
Central and look at the departures board. The next train to New Haven leaves at midnight, so
I’m stuck here for the time being. I find a bench and lie down, no longer caring about the people
staring at me. I look up at the ceiling and wish I could join the constellations in the heavens.

Curtainless Georgian windows
facing East atop hill,
over ivy company town,
glaze shadeless students
in blazing glare,

The ruins of a thousand lifetimes
Lay among the yellow buttercups in a field,
The Roman Empire has fallen.

“Your move,” Dad says.
      The clock clicks louder than it should. It’s been ticking away for twenty years, ever since
Mom died. Dad sets up the pieces the same way every Sunday, even when his hands tremble too
much to hold them straight. He doesn’t talk about anything real anymore. Just the game.
      I stare at the board. My pieces are all paralyzed: knight pinned, rook trapped, queen busy
with other enemy pieces.