This fourth issue of WRITING UCONN has been preparedby Matthew N. Proser and William Sheidley, with theassistance of Noel Ambery, Jennifer Bacon, SusanCossette, Debra Dean, Joshua Ladds, Rudi Lebowitz,Philip Love, Sara Neller, Mary Ellen Olson, PeterWalsh, Matthew Winiarski, and Wilkey Wong. The coverdesign is by Pat O'Hara of the UConn Co-op. LynneRowley typed the manuscript, and the booklet itself wasproduced at University of Connecticut Publications.

Our objective remains the publication of the beststudent writing done at UConn, and we once again inviteundergraduates to submit work for consideration.Regrettably we cannot print all the good writing weget. We wish we could. But we promise to give eachsubmission a thoughtful review.

We hope that through the pleasure WRITING UCONNgives, all students will come to make good writing areal part of their lives.

CONTENTS

Susan Cossette / FOUR POEMSDebi Kang Dean / FOUR POEMSPeter Walsh / MERCYa short story

1

6

10

Lynne M. Vail/THREE POEMSMary Kane / THREE POEMSJeff Seiler / FLUNKING OUT

a personal essay

161922

Mary Ellen Olson / FOUR POEMSJoseph P. Gillotti III/TWO POEMSJosephine M. Cannella / FOOD FOR THE GODS

a short story

252933

Christine Jopeck / BABCIA (PARTS I AND II)a poem

36

Josh Ladds / (PARENTHETICAL OUTBURST)a poem

38

Anonymous / OUR CONFIDENCE: YOUR CANCERa poem

39

Mary Ellen Olson / UNTITLEDa poem

40

Patrice McCurry / GOING TO SCHOOLa poem

41

Sara Neller / ELEKTRA, TXa poem

43

Daniel Thomas Jones / CHAPTER'S ENDa personal essay

44

POEMS BY SUSAN COSSETTE

Small Spaces

little blue & whiteroom in mommy's six roomcolonialchipped Sears furnitureportable black & white TVclosetful of clothesno where to go

but

college they put me in thisten by fourteen room that Ishare with a girl I nevermet and have not muchin common with Istudy Igo to some bars warm bodiesbeer soaked floors loud musicpress through the crowd for athe bathroom to comb out hair

wedrink to

and they expect me to findsomeone to marry when I graduate

~--~----~~---------------------------------- ~ 1 _

I throw flowersat the ground Ithink I see youstandingin front of me, but

EpithalamionOphelia

1.

virgin your whorefantasy I

curled in the bedfor days, a dozenbooks dirty coffee cupsand overflowing ashtray

you have gone

brooding boyI wonderif you really loved me--was I your

wearing my father's pajamas, Ihaven't showered in two days Ihaven't. left this room this

poem wants to be finished

have more to do Iam worth more Irefuse to runmadthrough the woodtalking to myselfscatteringdead flowers

if I am waiting in the bedroomlet someone write my wedding song--it would be a real beauty Iwould inspect it, the waya scientist examinesa curious new species Iwould let it spin down the drainwith tonight's dirty dishes--there is no

time for weddings Ihave already married words

any longer I

am so afraid ofyour flame Iwatch youburn white-hotburning flames

consume you

If I loveyouit is forthe worst of reasons

II.

let me show you a poemlet me show youyour lady--her lips painted slick redsucking on a cigarette, your ladyis a dragonyour modest bridewears black lace slips,doesn't cook, she can

whip up a mean poem whenshe has to--since

her friends are all marriedsinceshe isn'tsinceno dark-eyed wavy-haired impassionedpoet writes her wedding song she

writes her own

Untitled

my poem changesitself changesother poems eachtimeit is written

this poem isa wooden club thispoem is asnake that sheds its skin

there is afeeling ofpower that flowsfrom my pen

knowing

I can change theways in whichyou might see these words on the pageknowingI am dangerous

Susan Cossette is a senior English major.poems in English 246.

She wrote these

____ ~ ~~ ~~~ ~ - 5 -

POEMS BY DEBI KANG DEAN

A ~ Year's ~ in Hawaii

The night our mothers . .Turned us loose with Z1PPO 11ghtersAnd a string of firecrackers,We stood on the back stairs,A couple of sparkling live wires.We dared each otherTo hold those red devilsTill the count of five,Like heroes with grenadesIn old war movies--Certain no fuseWould last past three.

(My tag-along sisterAnd her friend tracedTheir names with sparklersOut in front. Stuck in cold water,The spent rods hissed. )

A hot hand of hanaFlared in the kitchen,Hoots and groans burst outAs players slapped cards down.Long into the nightThey chunked ice cubesInto glasses, filledEmpty beer casesWith bottles sweating still.

In the glow of yellow lightI plucked at my stringAnd secretly counted--He loves me, he loves me not--As we tossed fireworksWhose shattered shellsWould blanket the lawnLike a thousand hibiscus petals,By morn.

Hb&n ~ visits

When she visits, Kana always entersWith the authority age requires of her.Then she hops up into a straight-back chairAnd lets her dangling feet swing bare,Straightens wiry wisps of hair (escapeesFrom the confines of a net) and granny glasses.She heaves her leather purse onto her lapAnd deftly undoes its polished clasp.Frisking each pack of gum and candyShe carries for grandkids, she makes inquiryAfter a book of matches and her Winstons.A cup of coffee with two saccharinsIs put before her. "I smoke now," she declares.Who of us would dare dispute her right?

- 7 -

~, Goddess 2i volcanoes

When Gloria OgataBrought a pictureOf Kilauea eruptingTo school for show and tellI saw you, Pele,Caught unaware.From the craterYou directed the flow of lavaTwisting itself like ropeDown to the sea.

Clad in a pau knottedOn your side, you stoodWith one hand outstretched, pointing.The flames hot winds fedFlew back--tongues of blazing hair.But I remember mostYour eyes, the fiery intentIn the eyes of a goddessOne might hope only to appease.

That night at the dinner tableI hid choice morsels of pork,Then wrapped them in ti leaves for youOut in the backyard. Later,In bed in this house at the baseOf Punchbowl's dormant craterI lay dreaming, dreamingOf smoke plumes, lava flows,And your black eyesDescending.

Keesler ~, Mississippi

On her full-length mirrorMy roommate's left a noteAgain: "Don't wait up."

Here even the homeliest among usMight attract suitors enoughTo count on both hands,If she desired.

Alone in my room,Seeking reliefFrom summer's sweat-soaked airI Slough off all my flabby clothing.

How sallow my tanned skin's turned.I front the mirror,Scowi at my reflection.

Even that coarse patch of hair mocks me,An arrow on a mapTelling me, "You are here."

I turn out the lightAnd slip between cool sheets.My back presses itselfFull up againstA concrete wall painted white.The instinct to survive rising.

Debi Kang Dean wrote these poems in English 246.

~~----~--~~~----------------------------------------------- ~ __~ 0 _

MERCY

Peter Walsh

I think Halloween fell on a Saturday that year because Iremember what the air felt like. It was really heavy,

ushing in from the left and right, pushing down from above.~ou could feel the air surround you, a~d whenever you moved,it was like walking under water. That s how Saturdaysalways were, removed somehow from the rest of the week. ~ndlike the day, I couldn't help but feel detached. Everyth1ngaround me seemed to be held static somewhere between autumnand winter, a still and silvery place.

It was Barbara's idea.to go to the hospital. I didn'thave the presence of mind to tell her no--I was too busylooking at her face. I want to say it was angelic, b~tthere was some sort of mild corruption in her eyes wh1chmade her that much more attractive. Whenever Barbara spoketo me her voice took on a tone of saccharine compassion, asweetness thick enough to immerse my thoughts in anunaccountable desire. I was trapped. She descended upon meafter classes and I soon found myself backed up against mylocker agreeing to go with her, in costume, to thechildr~n's ward at St. Vincent's Hospital. Halloween wasonly a day away.

The whole plan was probably just a community serviceproject she had cooked up to get into the National HonorSociety. Regardless of this, I had committed myself ..Leaving the house on Saturday, I was dressed as a vamp1re.Somehow I ended up driving. I suppose that's the masculinething t~ do, but I've never liked driving. There is alwaysa feeling that the situation is completely out of my hands.

The whole way there Barbara had been desperately tryingto keep the wings on her angel costume from being crushed.Every time we turned a corner she would suck air in throughher perfect white teeth and tell me to slow down. We pulledup to the attendant's booth at the hospital parking lotwhere a man peered into my window and smiled a big, yellowsmile. The cigar in the corner of his mouth, just a shadelighter than his skin, looked as though it had been therefor days.

"Trick or treat!" he laughed, but his smile stayed thesame, so it probably wasn't a smile at all, just a way tokeep his cigar from falling out.

I reluctantly spoke to him. "We're here to visit thechildren's ward. Can I park here?"

He waved me through with another laugh and after drivingaround for a few minutes, I found a space in the far cornerof the lot. The huge, silver hospital seemed to archtowards me as we moved closer to it. I saw my vaguereflection in the windows of the cars we walked between.The unfamiliar face of a vampire gazed back into my eyes.There was little definition in the afternoon sky. The greylight that fell upon us made me feel confused about Barbara.Dressed as an angel, the beauty she held still filled me atonce with both desire and a subtle repulsion. There I was,at the hospital against my will. There she was in front ofme, clutching a down jacket against her chest, the whitedress, her naked shoulders. It all compelled me to turnaway and once again look for myself in the opaque carwindows on either side. Glancing into the glass on thepassenger side of a Volvo, I saw only dark ovals where myeyes should have been.

White light poured from the doors at the hospital's backentrance. As we stepped towards them, the glass doorsparted automatically with shrill electric music. The areawe first came upon was the emergency room waiting room. Awoman was performing the rosary in another language while ayoung girl sat on the floor at her feet, pulling on pages ofHighlights magazine. The only other person in the room wasa man of fifty or so. His fly was unzipped and he wascrying into his hands. Something terrible had brought himto this, the most terminal of places.

We got into a service elevator with two orderlies whowere talking about their squash games. Getting off on thefourth floor, one of them laughed and said that sometimesthe hospital felt like a cage. The doors closed behindthem. With the two voices gone, I suddenly became aware ofthe hum bearing down from the fluorescent lights overheadand the sound of the invisible machine that pulled us up tothe seventh floor.

The doors opened and the smell hit me like the glare ofblue and stainless steel.

"Jesus," I spoke under my breath, but Barbara still heardme. Her wings caught the air as she tuned around.

"What's the matter?"

"That smell reminds me of biology class."She said nothing, but my thought remained on the scalpel

I had held over the fetal pig. I could see my reflection in

- 11 -

the blade. Holdin~ the cold fetus still with my other hand,I had shuddered wh1le making the first incision. Fluidpoured out of the cut, and I felt an itching in my palm. Atfirst glance there was nothing, but blood soon emerged in myhand from a gash the length of a cigarette. The rounded cutlooked like a gill in the center of my palm. Through theformaldehyde haze, my eyes moved from the pig to the bloodrunning through the lines in my hand to the industrialturquoise walls of the classroom that swam about me. I feltlike my body was lying in the center of a vast ocean oftepid water. The last thing I remember was how cool andsmooth the bathroom floor felt when I fell to my knees.

Barbara led me to the reception desk, and for the firsttime I noticed that she was carrying a paper bag in her arm.The woman at the desk gave a kind of half smile when she sawus. Her beehive hairstyle made her look too much tallerthan she really was. She told us that we should avoidexciting the children and then said that some of themcouldn't eat candy. I saw that uptight WASP look come intoBarbara's eyes as she pulled some diabetic candy out of thepaper bag and slid towards the nurse for inspection. Thenurse nodded.

As we walked down the corridor, Barbara turned and lookedme over. "Aren't you going to put your teeth in?"

For some reason I whispering. "Why, does it matter?"

"Yes, it does, it matters very much." She smiled at mewith an all too familiar coercive look in her eyes. "Comeon, just do it, please?"

. I put the plastic vampire teeth into my mouth. They feltJust as I had expected them to feel. I was aware of my gumsand tongue, and because my mouth was kept open it wasdifficult to swallow. '

. ~arbara decided it would be best if we separated andv1s1ted the rooms alone. She left me with a bag of candyand then walked down the blank hallway where she disappearedaround a corner.

The first room I walked into smelled like warm,antiseptic care. The little girl on the bed looked like abr~k7n statue. She was lying on her back, staring at thece111ng. Her name was Christine and she had fallen out of afifth story window.

"Are you a good vampire?" she asked me.

I smi~ed and offered her some candy corns which she tookand put 1nto what was left of her mouth. I felt the

sickening rush of saliva as the taste of my fangs seemed tomagnify. Christine spoke about the things that came out ofthe closet and moved around the room when you were asleep,things that wanted to get you. I tried to tell her thatsuch things didn't exist, but she was intent upon making mesee otherwise. I gave her some more candy and went out tothe hall where I got a drink of water.

The next room was bigger and moist. I heard ahumidifier breathing somewhere near the corner. The wallswere a very light blue, almost green. Combined with thesound of the steam's release, it was like standing at awater's edge.

Philip couldn't move from his position on the bed. Hehad been put into a body cast after being hit by a car as hetried to ride his brother's ten-speed bike.

"Do you really drink blood?" he asked with a toothlesssmile.

An older boy on the other side of the room laughed. Hehead was shaven into what at first appeared to be a monk'stonsure, but I suppose he was having some sort of brainsurgery. The bandages on his wrists were stained likeddirty linen napkins. In spite of all this, the way he waslaughing made it impossible for me to feel sorry for him. Iasked him what was so funny.

"You are," he smiled faintly.You're not anything."

"You're not a vampire.

I pretended that I wasn't paying attention. I picked upand examined the G.I. Joe at Philip's bedside as thepeculiar boy continued.

"This is the cup of my blood."

Philip started crying as though he had heard all of thisbefore.

"It will be shed for you so that sins may be forgiven."

Philip was screaming for the other boy to shut up. Ireluctantly went over to his bed and asked him to pleasestop. I gave him some candy. He smiled at me with his eyesclosed. As I walked out the door, I heard the sound ofcandy hitting the floor.

There were four beds in the next room I visited. Theywere brothers and sisters, all badly burned. Their skinlooked like the top of an overcooked open grilled cheesesandwich. Three of them were jumping about the room

____ ~ __ ~ __ ~ _=_L,~ ~~ - 13 - . _

speaking Spanish, throwing pillows at each other a~d pl~yingwith the electric beds. Th~ eldest sat on a bed ~~th ~~sface to the dark window. H~s I.D. bra7elet rea~ Garc~a,J." With my limited knowledge of Span~sh, I tr~ed to askhim hi s name.

He replied in a voice that seemed removed from his thinbody, "Jesus," without even turning to see the vampire wholoomed over him.

He had burns allover his arms and legs, and I could onlyimagine what lay beneath the hospital smock he wore. Allthe burns I could see had a strange symmetrical pattern.Trying to talk to him was frustrating. I arranged asentence in my mind and asked, "What happened to all ofyou?"

He spoke quickly, but I understood the important words."Mother ...very angry ...pushed us into the stove .... " Heturned and revealed the stove-top burner spirals brandedinto the sides of his ten-year-old face.

My head began to swim. I couldn't understand whysomething like that should ever happen. There were noanswers on the walls as I looked around the room, catchingglances of grilled cheese skin. I wanted the power t~ laymy hands upon their open wounds and have all the burn~ngfall into my empty soul, or to put them asleep for a longtime so they might awake with no recollection of anythingthat had happened.

I felt an uncertain sickness, a ringing in my ears likethe sound of the automatic doors that had swept me into thatplace. I moved from the bed slowly, leaving Jesus to stareat the floor. I walked to the door as calmly as possible,telling myself the whole way that the burning-flesh smellwas merely a hallucination. That made wading through thesmell no easier, and I let out a breath as I stepped intothe hallway. I bumped into the nurse with the beehivehairdo.

"Oh, it's you. I hope you're not scaring the children."

I tried to speak, coughing up only a few syllables beforeI was taken over with the sensation of choking, as though Iwas being given a throat culture. I spat out the vampirefangs into my hand. An embarrassing string of salivastretched between the corner of my mouth and my fingers. Iwanted to be far away, swimming in a cool blue ocean.

"I don't know what happened," I told her.kids started crying for no reason."

"One of the

I didn't look into her eyes, but I knew she was staringat what was hanging out of my mouth. "Well, in the future,be more careful."

I wanted to tell her there wasn't going to be any future.Once I left the hospital, I had no intention of everreturning.

As the nurse walked away, I felt Barbara's presence frombehind. I didn't turn around when she said my name. Shewalked around to face me. For some reason, her dress hadstains and marks allover it. One of her wings was about tofalloff, and her halo was so crooked it looked like asilver zero floating over her head.

"Every fucking kid had to pull on my costume when theyhad chocolate allover their hands." I noticed she wassweating. Makeup had started to run down her face.

"Can you fix this?" She motioned to the wing that wasfalling off.

I went behind her and took hold of it. The sound ofcrumpling paper was like celery being chewed. I pulled itup a little and the wing began to tear.

"Never mind!" Barbara pulled away from me, but I didn'tlet go. The wing ripped off her back.

She spun around and glared at me as I held the thing inmy hand. "You stupid asshole! Why the hell did you dothat?"

She looked at me for a moment, as if she was waiting foran answer. I let the wing drift to the floor in front ofher feet. I looked backed at her with that kind of blankexpression which sometimes accompanies the greatestsatisfaction.

Peter Walsh is a sophomore English major. He wrote thisshort story in English 246.

______ ~ __~ __~ ~ - 15 -

POEMS BY LYNNE M. VAIL

Perfect Years

she mixes herself the perfectgin & tonic,cutting limes methodicallyshe has been doing this for years.it has been a good week.he hasn't hit her more than twice.he was drunk,she thinks.if he does it again I'm leavingbut she has told herself this before.they only talk to each other in bed.she remembers, at sixteen, coming homewith a hickey on her neckand having her mother askthe typical maternal questions.her father didn't even ask.he just looked at her.she tilted her chin in the air, slightlyas if she were proud.they didn't noticeher torn stockings.at least she didn't have to lie.she sighs and adds three icecubesto the drink.she listens to them hitthe bottom of the glasslike a well-aimed uppercutto the jaw.

Hangoyer

Fire spreads its Fury's wings over the room,rising from an indigo place,a source that moves in desperate syncopationlike the breathing of cliff diversin the sudden shock of sea.

An infinite microcosm, still young, still growing,arches its neck into and through the light.Pulsating angrily as beached jellyfish,congealing into one stinging masson" the shore.

Encapsulated worlds conceive themselves,generate fertile personalities.Branches of light, newborn,flex a mutant, eight-fingered hand.

Hand becomes fist,then shape-shifts to become a single orb,dilating and contractingits pulsing, violent pupil.Magenta waves descend,coursing ecstatically as let blood,blinding swiftly like too much darkness.

~--~--------~~ ~ ~-L - 17 -

Flight Through Montage

A blonde womanWearing yellow wingsLeaps over a Rockefeller balconyInto the sea.

The best flowersBloom at night.

Crushed cigarettesStink in a Mexican ashtray--Unseen man lights another,Waiting for a call that never comes.

Near MilanA butterfly is pinionedIn the grip of a black leather glove.

Bright pigments mixInto hallucinationOf future days.

Meanwhile,A black-shrouded angelWith white wingsBrings me down to earth.

Lynne M. Vail is a sophomore English major.

POEMS BY MARY KANE

South Africa ~ ~ Metaphor

What if the metaphor were printed in the pressBlackandblue and bloody fucking whiteBlackandblue on bloody fucking whiteIronic? Black ole words on background white?Power! Power! who's got the power?Same moneypaper whites. It's them's gotthe last word: no white, no words.

What- if the metaphor were printed in the pressBig bold black against pulp paper whiteOh, thou winged whites, in splendor spoken, stoppingto blow away with bullets blacks who slipped and spoke.The Blacks, the ugly black print, wouldn't havewicked words worth spouting if it weren't for the whites.

What if the metaphor were printed in the press, our press,And everybody start screamin and hollerinabout the horror and the injustice of the metaphorOnly nobody saw it. Nobody noticed thatit was a metaphor. That it is a metaphor.Ain't nobody could miss seein the metaphor's link,Oolala, that perfect p-p-p-p-p-p-piece.

- 18 - - 19 -----~~----------~ ~ __ _L _

I am the silence.Awake, Unnoticed I wanderthrough bars and bus stations,classrooms, cafes and crowdedkitchens and cafeterias.Unheard,you think me not therebeneath the musicof the juke boxes, transistors andhornsbeside the voices shouting, whispering,lying, laughing andsingingBut I amI lie comfortablebetween uneasiness.I fillspacesabsorbing uptight vibesof the unspeaking angryand the nervous confessors--the waitingI am the silence thatmy mother can't standthat she beats uponsenselesslyjust for being.I do not sleepwhile you doNo, I nestle around youwatching the images in your dreamsnot needing the dialogueI am notinterruptedas is so often said of merather, I am ignoredand I am oftendespisedI am the silence watching,hugging the night walkersand the lovers past their nervousnessI speak to the surprise visitorson a backroad in Northwest Irelandwho stop to listen to meand at dawn Iintroduce the birdsI am the peacebetween each loud tick ofthe kitchen clockI am the silence thatspeaks from your lover's mouththe words you didn't get

Untitled

The cast you recognize as your own.Five sets of accusing eyesyours on loan from the catalogue of noticeables, nuts,

and family from the past.The little psychotic (you know those ones

who always wanted to be somethingthey're not, but don't give it up. Instead they

torture themselves by serving one who Is: the failedmusician turning pages for the pianist, his eyes twodarts shooting at you the creator)

Then there's the couple married latein life, still smiling at each other, holding hands,

forty years old in churcheyes for only them

overlooking the little failure psychotic. And don'tforget the square faced poet woman waxed anti-feminist

sitting pretty with yuppie beauLooking, All of them, at you, your eyes black, cruelly

caston your characters in the street.

Mary Kane is a junior English major.

~ ~ __ ~ ~a ~ __ L- - 21 - ._

FLUNKING OUT

Jeff Seiler

I am at college. I am very drunk. I do not care, notlike you might think I don't care, like you think I justwant to get drunk and pass out without caring about anythingexcept the half finished bottle clasped in my fingers; it isbecause I care too much, I can't care. It is because if Icared I think I might die, so I don't, I just sit here anddrink.

I am sitting-leaning on the fraternity porch against thecool roughness of the brick walls. It is night, a coolblack night that feels like smooth glass, in which whiteimperfect stars smudge the completeness of the blackness.From here, where I sit, i can see a corner of the quad,though it is not 'the' quad but a small field on which thefraternity sits on the west end, next to the faculty parkinglot, and across from West Dorm. The quad is a plane ofgrey, a carpet of grey I feel I should wrap myself up in,rolling faster and faster into the hidden security of theround roll.

I take another drink. A long drink. I think 'hiding,' Ithink the word 'security'; I examine them, not as entirewords, not like in a dictionary, but as dissected pieces ofwords. "Hi Ding," I say to myself knowing deep within thetruth of the word, as if the word were made for thatpurpose, to mock me. I shiver. I feel the liquor in mystomach, feel the queasiness of drinking too much tooquickly. The other word 'Security': I think this 'secours'is French, only I don't know any French, but there is thisword mocking me again, withholding its meanings. I guess,remembering back to some high school French to some Ladynamed Mademoiselle Glickstein, and think 'secours' meansidiot. There 'idiot' I-ty, the 'idiot italian,' I thinkagain this, 'Hi Ding. '

The fraternity is quiet inside. I listen at the bricksand almost hear nothing except for the wooshing noise in myear, as if I were listening to, instead of noise of thefraternity, to the hollowness of my own head. I think,everybody is studying, there is no one to make any noise.Somewhere, in a dorm, on the second floor down at the endcorner there is my room, and inside in the stark yellownessof the ceiling light glinting off the white grey of the~alls, off the metal bed frames, the plastic of the desks,1S a part of me. On the desk, beneath the arch of thearchitect's lamp, sit my books in a skewed columns likeancient Roman columns waiting to finally erode, to finally

topple. It is where I should be, even now should be, onlyI'm drunk. Probably too drunk even to stand, though not tofeel.

I feel, I don't know how, old, worn. Like time wasstolen from me, pulled so slowly from me that I never knewit was going, never cared, until now it's gone. And notjust gone, not just like all time goes or has gone or willalways go, but gone because it was not used. As if almost Ihad slept the time away, had cared that little, and nowawake, a piece of my time is gone. And there are noexplanations ..

. .I jerk the bottle to my lips, tilt the liquid back, tilt1t back like it holds life itself, and let the fountain pour~own my throat. But it can't all run in and I have to puke1t aut, waste even that. And then, sitting-lying, my headon the dimpled cool concrete that smells of dry ash, I beginto sober. I feel pain. I wonder at the pain, till I wonderpast the pain, and start just to wonder. I wonder aboutthings, though nothing with shape, as a person withanesthetized arms might try to feel the shape of an objectand can't. Then, finally, something forms.

I wonder about a postman, I wonder about a letter he isabout to deliver; a very thin letter in an envelope with theschool emblem emblazoned in raised print on the front. Hewill deliver it to a metal mailbox flaking bits of blackpaint and sagging slightly forward. And, after the letterhas sat in the mailbox for a short time, my mother will walkout the front porch, carefully closing the door behind herand locking it, and she will walk down the steps on hershort fat legs, her round body rolling slightly from side toside. She will walk down the crooked flagstones of ourhouse, on either side of which limp dark green grass grows, .down to the mailbox and remove the mail flicking through thesmall pile until she gets to the letter and stops. She willstop. her plain face pinching slightly causing her eyes tolook almost crossed, and she will stare at the letter, stareat the name, the address to make sure it is really for the'Parents of.' Then ·she will shake her had, pass by theletter, keep on flicking until the end, then retrace herfootsteps back into the house. And she will put the letterby itself, on the kitchen counter, alone on the brown 'linoleum. Later, when my father comes in with his tiredface, his clothes full of the dust of rock or tile, he willenter the kitchen and see the letter immediately. And theletter will stay there, untouched, until after dinner.Then, my father will push back from the table, and takingthe g~ass of r:d wine"from dinner, he will say, "So whatcame 1n the m~ll, eh? to my mother. And she will reply,her eyes starlng at a plate or window or clock she willreply in a small simple plain voice, "Oh, just'a letter from

- 23 -

'Th 'college. And she will reach around, without having toI ~ but through some inborn directional motherly device,

o~ ~rab the letter and give it to my father who will read~~ his face not changing shape but somehow darkening in~oior as a chameleon will when confronted with danger.

I wonder about all this. I wonder about explanations,but there aren't any. There are only words. And when myfather comes in his red beaten pick-up with the dents on therear-right panel. When he comes, and still, even then,knocks reverently on the door and awkwardly stands withinits small walls that he had said once, "were of good make. "He will want to know about the letter he has tucked into hisback pocket. He will not ask, but just pull the letter outand hand it to me, still in its envelope, and then stare atme, looking up and down at me as if he had not seen me sinceI was a little boy and was astonished at how tall I hadgotten. And wait. Wait as if he could wait forever, hadalways waited forever, and a little more of any forever wasof no import.

And it will be my turn. I will look at the room packedinto a few boxes, leaving only its shell: the bed, bureau,desk, look at the boxes holding my belongings like they hadno right to be in boxes but should still be outside theboxes, tucked in their usual places, only they aren't. AndI will think back to the night I was drunk. And I will say,"It doesn't matter. I don't care. You always wanted me tohelp you with your work, anyway."

And I will see my father, mine who always looked so tallso strong who held me once the day grandfather died andsaid, "You must be strong," him, I will see his shoulderssag, and his head will turn quickly away. And from over hisshoulders he will say in a low voice like a life's lastgasp, "You disappointed me."

Jeff Seiler is a senior English major.

POEMS BY MARY ELLEN OLSON

Untitled

I left today to visit my mother(who is cool and white and above me)and returned dodgingthick bolts shooting offa metal skythat strike and dig deepinto my soft headthe way· the apple sank deep intoGregor's back.

And I'm crazy now,the forest aches and screamsand tears with outraged arms andhard ripping nails that rakeand bubble warm blood--I need to clutchand bite and crush that coldmachine skybanging my head.

But anger gone I'm deadand quiet beside a window--bitter sour tears cooling my facewhich twitches and shakeswith memory and my brainthrobs from hair pulled and endless screaming--And I am tired and sleeplessand completely unlike the moon.

- 25 -

Dancingwith rainlightswept through open windows;swaying note by notewith George Winstonunder dark time stars(5.99 from the catalog)plotted point by pointinto ceilingconstellations.

Later, with you gone,those stars beckonlike your eyes;shimmering,and the raindances at my windowand I sway slowlyto sleep.

Twisted in moonlightmelted by Venetian blinds;I wake--one sweaty footcaught deep in the covers;and everything bare and blacksave the small red spot of the alarmand bold numbersthat thoughtlessly train ouruniverse

Untitled

At 19 my soul exists in a foreign body.Sitting by this window it dawnson me that i have broken sevencommandments ...going on eight.

I've never liked playing by the rulesAnd besides, I've never seen these tablets'traced their message with a long fingernaiismoothed the top of the cold, moss-grown st~ne.

Purgatory worries me though. At nightI shrink from languid monsters whoseArms drape about me; in horrori sink into Hell's brown slime.

Eyes open and the big light forces the old milkstench away, the gurgling stops, and but forthe clinging, greasy film on my skin andthe snarly nest of my hair i am safe.

The wind paws at my clean lacey curtainsand tickles a soft finger about my neck.I don't know the meaning of my hell;I don't understand the Hell in my life.

- 27 -

l!ntitl~ POEMS BY JOSEPH P. GILLOTTI III

What i mean to sayis that i am a flowersucked in rain-made mud;form flayed by wind,eyes teased by dust and blind,limbs fresh and green and reaching.

Hahnenkamm

What i mean to sayis that i am a flowerforced fragile,And that my silky sweatspins sweetly through fieldsbut is sweat.

A warm, grey cloudOf snow blankets the villageNarrow streets, nestled shopsChalets and inns

Small quaint quietLife hidden in the AlpsBefore roaring fires, great hearthsWhere skis stand dripping dryAnd accordions play

Understandthat the softness that draws yousecretes stringy veinsand blankets the black meshthat twists fragments of my soulinto liquids and cells.

But higher up in the peaksA true cold, bleak firsChoral winds or gentle fogOf snow falling

What i mean to sayis that i have become,that i am twilight,and linen, and the bitter demon rain,And that long necked crystal vaseswith wide rims cannot hold me.

Lonely nervousExistence explodes out the shackDrops a racer likeLightning to a wild ride and yellsAnd cowbells clang

Mary Ellen Olson is a sophmore English major. She wrote"January Stars" in English 246.

The Strief track begins, Mousefalle (a cliff drop)Allover the steep upper part, whistling pastCatch nets and haybales, taking air off theSteilhang a shattering bump diving, cuttingHard right then tucking into the treesA long middle road never fast enoughCascading down across the side hillEdging, scraping, chattering downTop speed around ninety into theCompression, knees to jaw theFinal schuss under bannerStopping the Swiss timer.

- 28 -__ ~~~ ~ ~ ~-29 -

The long slide into the paddockCrowds, ten deepCheering to a beat around theSnow fence, asFrom the mountainousValley of risk, theirHero (the Austrian) is deliveredA glorious, daring victory inThe downhi 11.

Staring

who swept themines and not the tearsand the sea was blackand oil chunkedsomeone in a high placemisspoke near a microphoneWall Street turned to goldand rusted, a strong goprotesting nuclear arms and plantsinjecting arms, poisoning plantswithout music as aural loses tovisual people go blindthey hear only worse things, sometimesthrough a hot black and greyhaze, the world sore and stingingCosmonauts invading Central Americafighting leftist, dramatic, dogmatictactic in a leafy rain forestno hope poor people onold crumbly streetsand giant modern towers shimmeringfiscal trump cards planning thesavings of loan futures, sexyhorses trample down soft, greenlawns on a polo shirt aboard theConcorde with French jazz distractedby a curvaceous nylon-clad performerdancing hard on high heelswithout politics, policies or police, orcriminals spoiling the good timefor wasters drunk on beerinterrupted by a commercial in ajewelry box conjured up bycomputer graphics, mega-bytetechnoid man-machines displayingno anger or emotion only confusionpurring quietly in large, flat, roomsbehind securities, air conditioned

- 30 - _ 3-1-- _

rain down then straigh~e~e~ outin minds flashing, min1m1z1ng . .the Suez and MacDonalds an~ def1c1tsPentagonal concerns, potom1c ~ov7lsinterrupting satellite transm1SS1onsPresident's bombs onthe media-scape which isoh-so promising.

Until it shrank anddisappeared

inside itself.

Joseph Gillotti is a senior marketing major. He wrote thesepoems for English 246.

- 32 -

FOOD FOR THE GODS

Josephine M. Cannella

On Sunday afternoon, we were to go to the town fair. Butfirst we had to go to Mass, and then we could go to thefair.

For a four-year-old going to the fair, Mass was longerand more tiresome than usual. I sat between Mom and Dad,who held my hands in their laps. Their hands were alwayswarm, and mine were always cold. Father Bill was talkingabout the Kingdom of God and Heaven and eternal bliss.After Mass was over, I asked Father Bill if Heaven wasreally in the sky and if we really get angel wings andeverything we want when we go there.

"Well, Tina, it's hard to say for sure since nobody who'sever been there has come back to tell us. But my guess isthat when you're in Heaven, you won't be wanting the samethings you want now. You won't want anything at all,because you'll be very happy anyway."

I didn't understand how you could be very happy if youdidn't have all the things you wanted, but I was afraid toask any more questions. Mom smiled at me, though, as if totell me, it doesn't matter. We'll take care of you. We'llkeep you happy. Then she picked me up and said, "Come on,little one, we're going to the fair now!" I forgot all myquestions and brightened my spirits with the thought of thisother mysterious event.

The nine of us packed ourselves into the red Ford stationwagon. I had to sit in the "way back" because I was theyoungest. Bethy had to sit with me because she was thenext one up. Joey, Marjorie, Louise, and Susan sat in thehuge middle seat, and Benny got to sit up front with Mom andDad because he was the oldest. Bethy told me when she wentto the fair last year (I couldn't go then; I was too young),she had popcorn balls and rode on the "fairies' wheel."Usually she and I got into fights, but not this time,because I just sat wondering about popcorn and fairies.This would indeed be a wonderful place.

Finally we were there, climbing out of the station wagonlike so many circus clowns. The park was filled with peopleand bright colored signs and a strangely sweet smell I hadnever known before.

I was to walk with Marj because she had the mostpatience. She showed me the Midway where you could win abear by throwing a ring on a bottle. But I couldn't see the

- 33 -

bottles or the bears. All I could see were people's legs.If you weren't afraid, you could go into the Gypsy's tentfor your fortune. But Marj said she was too afraid, and Iwasn't allowed to go in alone. We heard old men under atarp calling out numbers. Marj wouldn't tell me why. Sheput me on a plastic horse, but it made me sick.

I asked for a popcorn ball and a fairies' wheel and shelaughed at me. "I'll buy you a popcorn ball, but a ferriswheel is way too expensive!" Then she picked me up andturned me around and pointed to the left, saying "That's aferris wheel, Teeny, not a fairies' wheel. Do you want toride on it?"

"Wow!" I exclaimed when I saw the giant wheel withbaskets on it. I couldn't see it before; I was too small tosee much at all. Marj carried me to the candy stand andbought me a popcorn ball. Then she ran with me over to theother side of the park where the huge machine was.

We had to wait a long time. The popcorn ball was sticky,and I kept licking my fingers, but I had promised myself Iwouldn't eat it until I was on the ferris wheel. When wegot to the front of the line-,-Marj gave the woman twotickets and we sat in a chair with a door in front. Thewoman locked the door and said, "Now you stay in your seat,young lady. I don't want anybody fallin' out!"

Suddenly all my hopes were turned to fears, and the hugemachine at the middle of the wheel looked like a nastymonster waiting to eat all the little children who didn'tstay in their seats. Of course I won't stand up, lady, Ithought bravely, but I didn't have the nerve to say it.

. We mo~ed up. slowly as the woman locked more passengers~nto the~r cha~rs. As we got higher and higher, I quicklyforgot my fears when I looked down below. This must be howGod sees us, I thought. I took a bite of my popcorn balland looked up. Nobody's legs were in the way now. I couldalmost touch the clouds. I wondered if I could see Heavenif we went any higher. I took another bite of my treat.

I remembered what Father Bill had said that morning andI thought Heaven wouldn't be any good if I couldn't ha~e apopcorn ball. I decided I would eat only two more bites ofit and then save the rest so that when I died I could eat mypopcorn ball in Heaven.

I took one bite. Then the machine, the ferris wheelstarted moving much more quickly, around and around, so'thatwe went up to the top, then rushed back down again. "Thismust be what it's like to fly," I said to Marj picturingthe angels following the same patterns of flight that we did

- 34 -

in the ferris wheel. But Marj just tried to look at hereyebrows. I took my last bite of the popcorn ball, and whenthe ride was over, I would never eat anymore of it.

That night I hid the confection in a shoe box in the backof my closet. I kneeled down and blessed Mom and Dad andMarj (for being so patient), and everybody else, even Bethy.I asked God to bless my popcorn ball, too, just to make sureit would be o.k. to eat when I got to Heaven. I slept wellthat night.

Some time later, Beth found my popcorn ball. She hadbeen in my side of the closet looking for her old pair ofshoes.

"What's THIS?" she shrieked, holding up the ant coveredremains of my ambrosia by the tips of her thumb andforefinger.

"I wanted to save it so I could eat it when I go toHeaven, like on the ferris wheel," I replied with a littlehorror at the sight of it.

Bethy started laughing, and she ran to tell all mysisters and brothers about how "Teeny-weeny Tina's savingpopcorn balls for Heaven!" I stood there in my room, infront of the closet, crying confused tears that fell likesalty rain on the sweet little wo~ld of the ants.

Josephine M. Cannella is a senior English major. She wrotethis story in English 216 .

_ ':\0; _

POEMS BY CHRISTINE JOPECK Babcia (.£att ll)

BabciaI brought her a pale yellow crocheted shawlOn Christmas Eve.She smiled and saidIt was beautiful.I told her my roommate's Grandma made itSpecial for her--So she wouldn't get coldSitting in her bed.She rubbed her cheek against itAnd couldn't believe how soft it was.

She sat in a lounge chair underThe basketball hoop of the gray garage,A thick blue blanket covering her legs.November wind tossed her cotton-soft hairAnd lifted orange and brown leaves--Dried leaves that scratched againstThe driveway when they landed.

Through tiny glasses she watched the man next doorRake the brown leaves into the roadWhile his children, on their bicycles,Skidded down the sidewalkInto the piles of leaves ...Perhaps she had forgotten we were there,My father and I.She looked down at the tiny gold watch--Its band over tissues so it couldn't cutHer skin,The way it wanted to.

I wrapped it around her shouldersAnd.tied the ties into a bowBeneath her chin.Her warm fingers touched my faceAnd she kissed my cheek."I like it company,"Behind her tiny glassesI saw her eyes fill with water.

The wind howled and sent leaves flying.She looked up at the sky"Maybe snow soon?"And to my father in Polish--"When is she going back to school?"She could remember her school daysAnd even the poems she had memorized."But what happened yesterday?"She was ready,To go inside, she said.

She turned to my fatherSitting next to her on the bedAnd spoke quietly to him in Polish--She wanted to know if ZJadek and Uncle JohnWere buried in the United States.My father only answered "tac": yes, andMy eyes began to sting.They were buried in Connecticut,Her husband and her brother.She was there last springWhen we planted flowers.

I turned to the windowAnd watched the white snowIn the dark blue night.

I carried the blanket.My father helped her up the steps.She sat in the nearest chair,Waiting to catch her breath."Thank you for coming to see Babcia,"She held my face in herWrinkled hands,"Jencuya": Your're welcome, I saidAnd walked the two miles homeAloneCrunching through dried leaves.

Christine Jopeck is a freshman English major.

- 37 -

JOSH LADDS

(rarenthetical Qutburst)

(taking an angry walk)snow covered treesorslush-filled asphalt crevices

(browningscum covered pavement,dismal squirming wetnessbeneath my feetas I pounceacross campuS upon)

ice slickedwalkways plodding throughsinking slush

(to my ankles)

then(finally reaching room)I slide intothat(ugly, stinking,)soft, comforting couch(and write this

Josh Ladds is a junior English major. He wrote this poem inEnglish 246.

- 38 -

»

ANONYMOUS

Our Confidence: Y2YI Cancer

Talk about your double edged swords:You're spouting science at me,Ali from Iran's talking antibodies,and the jokes revolve around your drunkennesswhich no one really thinks is funny.

The antibodies cringe yellow at your plans,the ever willing bottles stretch their necks bottomlessas I empty the third ashtray,and I'm the only one who knows.I'm the only one who knowsand I don't know if it's true.

I'm not sure if you're youI can't talk to your antibodiesI can't talk to anybody

Talk about your double edged swords:I dreamt your circles had a sourceI conserved questions, beer money, words

and cigarettesheld onto ten lines of feeling, a remembered smileand blame you for your drunken abuse.I reasoned away the malignant dreams.

What's the use? Either way I lose.The words sink in like smoke. They stink,make me cough, make sense, and either way I lose.If it's true I lose you, standing alone with a full bottleIf beer told me, lying, then I lose hold andtrust becomes scientific.

Damn! I'm not sure if you're sickI can't talk to your antibodiesI can't talk to anybody

MARY ELLEN OLSON

Untitled

My Poppumped ironpissing poisonon red benchesthat meltskin.

My Poppounded fistand beat his bloodblue

My Popshattered bouldersand bonesthen swept offsomedaysfor paydays.

Now meunder bargrunting up weight--bubbling blue,burning thatweary glowfrom his green eyes.

- 40 -

PATRICE MCCURRY

Going to School

Sitting at breakfast in this quiet kitchenListening to the 10 am chattermixed with the tweaking and chirpinginto the room, gently blown,my coffee spills drop by dropover the rim and into the saucer,the cup, possessed crockery,shaken, convulsively, invisiblyby my knee jiggling angrilyunder the crowded table.

10 am is too latetoo late to linger over breakfaston a week day.In this quiet placewhich confuses with its idlenessI am too heavy with wordsor, really, I would go back.

I would go back to the 5 am darknessmorning and coffee, blackwith little glints of reflected light on their surface.Silent faces.There can be no quiet in such a silent placeSo much is said by puffy eyes, restingon the thick rim of the mug.and silence still as we climbdownthe rickety sticks of the wharfand up, again,and swing across out over the oily watersilent glee when our black rubber boots clumponto the red, wet, wood and stoodblack feet shadows dripping water.

The long beach curves awayand we follow.Along the edge the seastealthy, silent,slides up like a puppy, and licksour black boots, glinting wet sunlight.

At school, there was milk.

SARA NELLER ELEKTM, TX

Patrice McCurry is a junior English major. She wrote thispoem in English 146.

HOW CAN A HEART EMIT NEON SPARKS AND FLASHESIN COLORS THAT DON'T EVEN EXIST?SHE IS DANGERHIGHVOLTAGE, A FIREHAZARD, CRAZEDDEAD ELECTRIC CONTRABAND QUEEN.SINE WAVES OVER THE OCEAN; A TOWN IN NORTH TEXAS:ANYWHERE: ELEKTRA's FORBIDDEN POWERZAPS OUTFLYINGINTO THE NIGHT-DAY SKYIN STRANDS OF ELECTRIC BLUES,AND GREENS, AND PINKSLIKE HAIR

Sara Neller is a senior English major. Shewrote this poem in English 246.

=-...!J_2 - I .• - 43 - _

CHAPTER'S END and had spent the night there. Could thO be the reason formy thoughts of divorce? I knew that the~: thoughts hadoccurred before then. There was something more.

~aybe it was the fact that my parents never did anythingbeSldes take care of the lawn. A couple of years ago theyhad taken dan~ing lessons. They never went out dancingtho~gh, they Just ~at at h~me. They saw an occasionalmOVle, but never dld anythlngSpecial.

My mother began keeping close contact with a friend ofhers that she had gotten to know while we were living inTennessee. Joanne w~s.divorced and living in Nashville.She had come up to V1Slt my mother a couple of times duringthe.previous year. My fath7r was usually out of town onbuslness wh7n she came to vlsit, and she and my mother wouldgo out at nlght to have a couple of drinks to talk. Mymother visited Nashville a couple of times also. I began toget a feel for why I had thought of a divorce.

Just then I heard my parents arrive back home. I startedto get a sick feeling in my stomach. This feelingintensified when I heard my mother calling for my sister and~e to come.downstairs. We went down and found them sittingln the famlly room. The room is large, and our parents weresitting apart. Spunky was lounging by the door that leadsout onto the deck. My sister and I sat down, knowing thiswould take longer than a minute.

Daniel Thomas Jones

It had been a long year. My fall semester I had almostflunked out because I had thought that I wanted to be anengineer. My spring semester has been spent fulfillingrequirements of the School of Business Administration. Iwasn't quite sure if a major in business was right for me.

My father and I drove back to Danbury in a rented vanthat was filled with my sister's and my own worldlypossessions. My mother and sister drove back in the carbecause there was not enough room in the van for everything.My father seemed preoccupied. He asked me about school, andI asked him about his work, but there was littleconversation.

We arrived at a house that I hadn't seen since springbreak. It was the same old place. A large, tan, suburbanhome on a well kept acre. We emptied the van into thebasement and went upstairs. I greeted our dog Spunky, whowas fast approaching fifteen years of age. He had cataractsand was getting senile, but he still had some energy in him.My parents went to return the van to the rental agency.

My sister and I were left standing in the kitchen,contemplating the work it would take to move our kitchenthings upstairs and refill our empty rooms. Brenda, who wasmaking Dean's list, is considered pretty, and was in a goodmood, having just taken her last final exam. I saw a stackof papers that were stapled together in a remote corner ofthe kitchen counter. I walked over, casually picked it up,and flipped over the cover page. I read some legal jargonthat translated into "your mother is divorcing your father."I felt the adrenaline rush through my body as I staredblankly at the page.

"We have something very important to talk about," mymother said in a shaky voice. Her eyes began to tear.

We know," I replied in a voice almost as shaky as mymother's.

"You know? How do you know?" my father questioned. Iexplained to them that we had seen the document in thekitchen.

When I recovered I handed the document to my sister andsaid, "Take a look at this." She took a little bit longerto look at it than I had. "Interesting," she said, lookinga little scared. I suppose I did too. Nothing else wassaid, we simply began moving our things back into our roomsand waited for our parents to return.

"Oh," my mother said in an almost.relieved tone, knowingshe would not have to use the word dlvorce.

My mother did most of the talking. She said that mfather didn't live at the house anymore, that he hadn'~really lived there in quite a wh~le. They had decided towait until the end of the acade~lCfy~~r to tell us, so itwouldn't disrupt our studies. Yd a ~r was beingtransferred to Maryland, I l~arn~~e~n ~~ ~~ther was movingto Nashville at the end of t eo~ld ha~e to b at time thehouse would be sold. Spunky w e put to sleep.

d to know anythiThey asked us if we wante. decision ~g about thecircumstances surrounding th1S . I lmmediately said

I was shocked, because my parents had always gotten alongwell, but I knew that I had considered the possibility oftheir divorce before. I began to wonder what had made methink about it.

I remember that over spring break my father hadmysteriously fallen asleep on the couch quite a few nights,

------------------------ ~99 - - 45 -

"No, I don't care to hear about it," and went back upstairs.I had to get out of the house. I called my friend Eric,whom I hadn't seen since spring break. I didn't tell himabout the situation, but he said he would be over to pick meup and go do something.

I heard Eric pull into our driveway from my room. By thetime I got downstairs my mother had already greeted him atthe back door. He and my parents were in the family roommaking small talk. I hastened the end of the conversationby saying "Let's go." I said goodbye to my parents, butlooked only at my father. I stepped out into the coolevening air, knowing he would be gone when I returned.

Daniel Jones is a senior economics major. He wrote thisessay in English 249.

- 46 -

Hriting ~ Spring ~ is a publication of theConnecticut Writing Project.

For information about the Connecticut Writing Project itsSummer,Institutes on the Teaching of Writing, and its'Inserv1ce Programs for Teachers, please contact the~i~;ct~r! Wil~iam E

f. Sheidl7y, Department of English, Box

- , n1vers1ty 0 Connect1cut, 337 Mansfield Road Room332, Storrs, CT 06268. '