PROMETHEUS
After the eagle and the rock, after Heracles
Prometheus lived quietly and old
shuffling down the vine-shaded streets of Jbeil
he made offerings at the temple of Adonis
loved the thick luxury of lampsmoke at dusk
He loved tenderly plucking overripe grapes
careful not to burst their skin,
how they gave way
to his teeth, and the juice, and yes
this was like making love
​
Even old and human,
Promoetheus suspected
he could not die, not in Jbeil
any more than in those unbreakable chains.
Still, he fished.
The harbor was his favorite
He watched the Achaeminds, then
Alexander’s fleets appear
he watched the Ottomans sail in
and cast his nets the same
and was gentle with fish, too.
​
Gentle he worked his knife
Under the skin, removing the scales.
Gentle too he pushed
It into their bellies and gentlest of all
he pulled them empty.
Only periodically,
when he was sure no one could see
did he run his knife along his own belly,
drive his hand deep, and search for the place
where his own blood became a penance
he still felt he might owe to God.
Shadow Play
Elly Kang
Oil paint
IN RETIREMENT
Author | Craig Finlay
l
Fal
i
n
g
Composer | Chase Kuesel
Nocturne with Red Lights
​
Author | Eunice Kim
The past draws back
into the ribboned neckline of the city,
the little black dress of Seoul nighttime.
Hawkers offer bamboo steamer baskets,
lanterns to carve up the dark. Syllables of the language
I misplaced nine years ago. Grandmother
steps out of a eulogy, twenty-two years old,
and takes me to dance. The city corsages my wrists,
adores me for one second more, for one dance
more. When the clock strikes midnight,
downtown dresses up in teething neon.
Every shadow turns into a woman
selling her wares, heirloom bodies
in exchange for coin. I was told Grandmother
ghosted herself in pieces; the pearl-round cheek
and the bend of a shoulder and then
the convergence of her legs. Every night, she let the buyers
roam unshaven sidewalks, prowl through her skin
until the smashed fruit of dawn
came spilling across their beds. There are things we do
to survive. Still, tonight, Grandmother buys me
a lantern to launch into the sky
where the stars drip electric halos, each one
a moon shot out of orbit. For your wishes, she says.
Her dress waterfalls like a monsoon. Tonight,
​​her face is smoother than cloth, and lighter, too.
Life and Death on Boca Chica
Artist | Marcelina Gonzales
Oil tinted resin collaged on wood
De-
Escha
tology
Production | Mignolo Dance Company
Choreographers/Dancers | Charly & Eriel Santagado
Videographer | Brian Curry
Things You Did After Your Best Friend Died Three Years
Author | Mei Mei Sun
You wonder why you never loved her until she tasted the cool metal of her father’s handgun, and cry into your hands for the second time in your life.
“
”
Things You Did After Your Best Friend Died Three Years
and two personal renaissances ago. You mourn for six weeks, then use her death to excuse all of your shortcomings for the rest of the year. One night, your body full of hunger and youth, you carve her initials into your outer thigh with your father’s razor. Later, at a blazing house party, you trace over the scars with a hypodermic needle and black ballpoint ink. This is the memory you always go back to when you sob on the L.A. Metro on Tuesday nights, when even the security officers hesitated to touch you. That winter break, you vomit her blood out on the same bathroom floor where your mother had her miscarriage. Two years later, your computer malfunctions during a software update, wiping with it the only copy of the eulogy you had written for her. After two hours and six hundred dollars, it returns to you, wiped as clean as a child’s apology. As redress, you eat only red and black foods for a week. That same month, you show your crush her obituary on your phone screen during a football game. He never talks to you again, and you accept this as a natural consequence of your growth.
Self Portrait
Artist | Bjorn Bengtsson
Oil on canvas
Secret Door
Artist | Kateryna Bortsova
Oil ton board with found objects
Desi in Her Mother's Dress
Artist | Ann-Marie Brown
Oil and wax on canvas