Graphic Arts

Issue Artwork, Fall 2019

by Wilder Voice Artists | Graphic Arts | Fall 2019

The following works appear independent of any print piece in the Fall 2019 issue.


The Bittersweetness

by Jamie Weil | Poetry | Fall 2019

Jack Spector-Bishop, Dog Days

take that tranquility, there,  
                 that heat before the clothes are folded 
                                  that makes the cold air sweeter.

take it into your arms unfurled take me 
into your arms, that tranquility 
               that weakness upon waking, 
      not knowing where you are, 
                        but knowing

that heat before you touch the floor, before 
             you are unfolded, recklessly, 
                        in a rush to make amends with the morning. 

             into your arms again
             and again 
             that weakness upon waking from a dream 
                          of folding clothes early in winter. 

                                                    tranquility, take me 
                                                        so that i may know    the bittersweetness 
                                                                                                         in taking.


Organ Pump

by Jamie Weil | Poetry | Fall 2019

Photo by Vu M. Nguyen

a sketch of melody 
perhaps, not quite 
skin and bones.
more like powder
or the tone of the sea 
on a cloudy morning. 
you can’t quite 
grasp it slips through
your fingers
and into your eyes 
like gold flake;
a solar eclipse.



by Liam Hastings | Poetry | Fall 2019

Photo by Vu M. Nguyen 

What moves
Like a wave
That drills
Spinning to nowhere

You’re picking 
At architecture 
And it’s how 
Hole like a scab

I don’t know
How it fits
But each
Word is like 
Another wrapper, 
Evidence that we ate

You who must 
And who does 
Examine its 
Odd pilings 
On the floor

I can see
One way to make it whole

Heal the scabby 
Hole from which
It all falls
Perspective is healing 
Now let’s make
A trade with the
God beyond
The periphery
The god behind my head!


How to Find Home

by Lucy Kaminsky | Voices | Fall 2019

Ian Ruppenthal, Hood and Lure

At nine months old, leave the Upper West Side apartment your parents brought you home from the hospital to. Retain no memory of it. Move into a big house in the suburbs with a view of the river. Play in the sprinklers, build zip lines and fairy houses, invent games with your brother and sister. Color with chalk and pick berries. Fall in love with this house and cry with your older brother when your favorite tree gets cut down. Be the baby of you three, falling twenty-two months behind. There are three boys next door, all of whom you will have a crush on, but especially the one your age, the middle one. You’ll run around with these boys and swim and stray too far from your homes. Their parents will divorce when they are young, elementary school age. Their mom will move away. They will be around less and less. 

Ring Neighbor Ruth’s doorbell. Talk to her and drink orange juice and eat strawberry hard candies. You call her Neighbor Ruth because your father’s mother is Grandma Ruth. She has a small white house and no children and monochrome rooms. You all love her. When you have a snow day, bring her a crepe you made. Every Halloween, trick or treat at her house first. 

Go to all the parties your parents host—dinners, holidays, weddings, fourth of July barbecues, parties where your dad’s whole office comes up for the day. Make challah or do something else adorable so that everyone will fawn over you. Ask your mother if she’s drunk after your parents’ holiday party and watch her laugh in response. Feel unsettled by this answer but relieved to see her happy. Soon enough, your parents won’t throw parties anymore. 

Try to accept that your parents are getting divorced. Let the news that you are moving gut you. Let the divorce tear open a hole inside of you that you will spend the better part of a decade, or maybe your whole life, sewing back up. Wait out the year where both your parents rent a temporary home. 

On the day that your mother finally moves into the new house she bought, get there early and sit in the bathtub and read while you wait for the movers. Unpack as quickly as you can in your new pink room with your big white bed. Put in white shelves to organize all your books by genre and author. 

Fight with your sister over your shared room at your father’s house. You will decorate it floral and purple and she will exile herself to the downstairs office with a daybed. Don’t let her resent you for it—she put herself there. Keep your drawers bare, your life completely at your mother’s house. Don’t let anyone come until a full year has passed. Eventually, let your best friend come over, and let her meet your future stepmother. Wonder why you are still empty and heartbroken. You cannot figure it out. 

Turn fourteen and fifteen and sixteen and seventeen and eighteen. Use your mom’s big kitchen to teach yourself to cook and bake. Decorate your wall with quotes and photos that make you happy even when you’re sad and lonely. Bury yourself in your big bed during summers and winters of depression. Get a smaller bed so you can have more space in your room and less space for your grief. Watch your brother paint big canvases of landscapes. Have sleepovers with your friends, get drunk and spill juice in the basement. Knock on your sister’s door when she has boys over, refuse to be the forgotten little sister. Junior year, take your skirt off on the reclining couch with that cute boy with whom it would never work out with. 

Get new appliances and do your homework at the kitchen table decorated with a border of painted lemons. Make candles and spill wax on the bamboo floors. When it’s cold out, take a shower while you wait for the bath to fill. Take lots of baths in that big tub, in the last house you can call yours. 

Watch TV with your mom in her California King bed all through high school. As you come closer to graduating, your mom will talk about moving, but do not let yourself feel it or deal with it. You will leave for school and you will never come back to that house again. Bring all your stuff into your father’s house when your mother moves. 

Make space for yourself. Take out the old curtains and lamps and pillows and replace them with new, white ones. Watch your family fill itself out and build itself back up. Make a huge mess that your father will complain about, but clean it up before you go back to college. Drive up and down and take the train and the subway to escape the hole you’ve been hiding from since your mother sold your house. 

Avoid thinking about the word home. Every time you come back to your parents’ houses, swear you never will again. Go to Ohio. And every time you say you won’t, come back to New York. 

Spend a summer in Brooklyn and be depressed and exhausted and narcoleptic. Smoke too much weed and start thinking that you’ll get into drugs. Go to Israel, to LA, to Nashville, to Portugal. Get yourself out. Keep hiding from what’s eating you alive. 

Stop boiling. Spend a summer with your father. Sit in the Adirondack chairs on your lawn and look at the butterflies in your garden. Roll joints and smoke from your bong. Your father will complain and tell you that you need to stop lighting incense in the house. Fight with him about tattoos. Sit on the floor of a room furnished with the way your childhood bedroom was, cut out pictures from magazines and glue them to another piece of paper. Bring three of your best friends to sleep on your floor. Stop hiding as much. Fight with your dad in a park in Nolita and tell him you’re not going to his wedding. Then tell him you will. 

Ian Ruppenthal, Feeding

Start to move toward acceptance. Fight the instinct to run away and sit tight as much as you can. Yell at your sister and best friend from middle school for being bitches. Feel grateful for the people in your life. Apologize for being mean. Tell everyone how you really feel. Make your father take you to look at the house down the street he wants to buy and don’t freak out when he puts an offer on it. Fixate on the poem “WHEN THEY SAY YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN, WHAT THEY MEAN IS YOU WERE NEVER THERE.” Fixate on that title. Think about the idea of home. Start to create it for yourself. Grapple with the idea of your father getting married. Give yourself permission to not have it all figured out. 

Think about your first home, with fairy houses and a zipline and your favorite tree before it was cut down. The three neighbor boys are all at Duke now and Neighbor Ruth died a few years ago. Your sister and brother graduated and you are across the country at school. Think about how you’ve grown up. Try to remember what it felt like to be six, to be in that big yard and to catch fireflies and think your idyllic life was what everyone had. Love that you are still the baby, even after all these years. Take comfort in the things that don’t change. Learn that home is not a place or a feeling or a state of mind, but what you had, even if you are unsure that you will again. This is where you can start. 


Love and Death

by Kate Fishman | Voices | Fall 2019

Emily Harter, Minotaur Sleepover

I’m reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion on the subway, and in the Starbucks a couple blocks from my internship at a literary agency. I usually take my lunch breaks there and ironically, because it’s pretty much all I do at this internship, I read. It’s January. This is a good book to read in a city—surrounded by people, but having a private experience. I love having a private experience, so I love being alone in cities; the ability to imagine is that much more palpable. 

Joan Didion is a celebrity writer, which feels a bit like the academic version of a famous ballerina. She’s the sort of wealthy elite who, at least in this book, rarely points out her own privilege. But she’s also so observant and interesting that she’s beloved anyway. The glamor of the film sets and houses and beautiful trips described in her book feel untouchable and not to be envied, because her husband has suddenly died and her daughter is gravely ill. 

She was living in New York when her partner, John Gregory Dunne, died. Her book about this tragedy calls on you to imagine, not in the way where you bitterly shake your head and say, “I can’t imagine,” but in the way where you actually do it. At the time I was reading, I was away from my partner for one whopping month, for the first time since we’d begun dating, and it was difficult for us. Didion’s book made for an interesting reflection—what would I do without this person? How does the total loss of partnership deconstruct your life? 

My parents, brother, and I wondered for a while when my cat, Twilight, was going to die. Twilight was the love of our lives. She’d first come to our back patio years earlier—before we ever saw her, we heard the distinctive timbre of her meow, and looked out through the sliding glass door into the dark to see her silver tail silhouetted. She had a kind, round face and huge green eyes. Her fur was thick, soft, and gray. She’d tried on all the neighbors in our town house complex, but soon she became our cat. Anytime we so much as moved the screen door, we’d hear a musical jingle (from the bell on the collar we’d bought her) and see her slender form bounding down the hill toward us. She was a magical cat, behaving like a dog, coming to us at the slightest provocation. She just wanted to live in our house, darting between our legs and up the stairs, and once inside, all she wanted to do was sleep. She was a creature of the utmost comfort. Of course, before a few months had gone by, we had taken her in for real. 

I believe that being a cat person means understanding solitude in tandem with closeness. Knowing a cat is developing sensitivity to their every noise and motion—which little twitch of the tail signals that they want you to stop touching them, which shift of your leg means you’re now lying in the right formation for them to join you on the sofa. I think people can be like cats too, and I have always loved celebrating aloneness in such a way. While in the city, I did this amid a sea of faces and bodies ebbing and flowing through the subway and out onto the street and back again at the end of the day. I’d return to the empty basement apartment where I was staying, cook a small dinner, watch some Netflix, maybe FaceTime my partner, and fall asleep. He made me feel relaxed in a way no one else quite did—as though being together was, in some sense, as honest as being alone. No matter how much I loved being alone, I would miss being with him. 

A large part of Didion’s book is about her conviction that John was coming back, somehow able to return. This was the magical thinking. It’s always struck me as quite a lovely title, quite whimsical—maybe because “magical thinking” calls on us to think about the imaginings of children, about the feeling of falling in love, about fairytales. Didion’s magical thinking let her believe that her husband, who had died without warning or chance to anticipate it, was not really gone. Often throughout her book, she tries to parse whether he had known he would die, or expected the coming of his own end. Because they were both writers, she investigates through words, close reading their lives for signs of both departure and return. The Year of Magical Thinking is painful and tender, like a wound. 

My grandma died on my birthday, the year I turned eight. My birthday party was in the afternoon, in a pumpkin patch, attended by a beloved group of my three best friends. There is a picture to commemorate this occasion. We are well-lit by autumn and all in need of braces. 

That night, my whole family came over. We and my mom’s sisters and my grandparents lived within an hour of each other. Someone had promised me sometime earlier that my grandma would be well enough to be at this party, and though she was not there I was gently dissuaded from asking questions. I understood she’d spent much of the week in the hospital. 

The next morning, my parents woke up my brother and me and told us that my mom’s mom had died. I imagined that this had happened sometime after I’d gone to bed, imagined my mom waking up to take the phone call. 

I cried a lot. There was a wake and a funeral. I remember seeing my grandma in the casket with extreme clarity. I remember a lot of hugs. I remember not being able to look at her without crying, the emotion sweeping up through me each time as though it had been lying dormant somewhere behind my lungs. My mom’s eulogy for my grandma was partly based on the book The Lovely Bones, where the girl’s heaven is the halls of a high school. She imagined her mom’s heaven as a picture window where she could sit and look out, her cat curled in her lap. My mom couldn’t deliver this eulogy because she was afraid of bursting into tears, so my dad did instead. 

My mom told me years later that the story I’d always assumed was wrong — my grandma had died in the very early morning on the actual day of my birthday, which was a Saturday. Not that night, not after I went to sleep. She was dead when we went to the pumpkin patch, and she was dead during my birthday party that night. My grandpa had been there. The whole thing was his idea; he told my mom and her sisters not to tell any of us kids what had happened yet. He didn’t want to ruin a little girl’s birthday party. I imagine him at that birthday party. I picture my obliviousness, remember receiving the gift they told me that my grandma had picked out for me: a spiralizer, that would let you turn out beautiful patterned shapes across a page. It was my favorite one. My grandpa’s partner was dead. 

I don’t know how to describe the moments before death, nor am I the most qualified. But there’s a certain immobility that’s heartbreaking and feels so natural, the body gently closing itself down for whatever reason it needs to. My guinea pig, Iris, died when I was a kid. One morning, she was suddenly unable to move. Guinea pigs aren’t known for their agility to begin with, but she was rolling to her side rather than standing. Her breathing looked enormous in the otherwise stillness of her body. The deterioration was fast, a matter of hours. Animals, I learned then, know when they are going, and go. Like clockwork, or like magic. 

We can feel magic manifest in both love and death, I think, or maybe in both love and grief, intertwined as they are. I think this is felt particularly with animals; all of their communication is nonverbal, external, and actualized. In the same way that toddlers experience pain, or loneliness or hunger or frustration and can’t help but to scream and cry, pets are honest in ways that adult people can rarely hope to be. 

Toward the end of Twilight’s life, her teeth snaggly and her fur knotty and her smell tangy and warm, she developed distinctive behaviors by which to communicate her desires and articulate her needs. She’d always been vocal, sometimes abrasively so, but in her old age, if left alone in a room she would yowl incessantly until someone arrived to pet her and calm her down. Never particularly hungry before, she started eating literally everything—bowls of grated cheese and unattended fish or meat were her favorites, but even salad was a likely target. While before she’d often drink out of glasses left on the table, she now knocked them over completely, not out of any desire to drink but probably just out of a desire to fuck up our shit. 

A day or two after I finished The Year of Magical Thinking, Twilight died. I was spending a weekend at home, and when I got off the bus and climbed into our car my dad was waiting for me with the news. It was an odd feeling—over a year after her decline and plateau, I had always expected and feared that I would be at school when Twi died. How ironic that she had gone when I was just an hour and a half away from home. I remember my parents attempting to say a few words about Twi over dinner and all of us dissolving into tears. 

Missing Twi, I realized in the days after her death, was missing her physical presence. I missed her heavy body weight over her tiny paws as she walked across me as if I were a piece of furniture, her big well-padded head, the way that she would rub on people by shoving her wet nose directly against them and then pulling her face to the side. She was full of patient, simple love. If you picked her up when she didn’t want to be picked up, she’d dart out her head with a warning nip. She never hissed at anyone except for our other cat, George. I missed how she would sleep with me, her warm lump of a body curled against me. I loved waking up in the morning to find her there. 

I think the death of an animal is particularly poignant because of the total lack of verbal closure. It’s insufficient to the relationship: no matter how much you baby talk to your animal or how well you learn all of their many sounds, you’ll never be able to speak to each other. It’s hard to know if they were happy and comfortable, if they had closure for their sweet life, if you could have done something to make their last moments more peaceful. Of course, you can talk to animals—I would walk into a room and Twi would meow at me insistently and I’d meow back and she’d meow back and I’d meow back. It usually felt like a productive conversation, usually ended in an amicable grunt. But now that she was gone, I couldn’t bring in too much philosophy. I couldn’t reflect on her words or thoughts. She was a cat; her desires were obvious, visible, and physicalized. 

The breakdown of her body was similarly inevitable. In the hours before her death, she dragged herself dejectedly across the floor to be found out of bed in the hallway or bathtub by my parents. One side of her face was slumping downward, like someone who’d had a stroke. When she became less able to express herself, the idea of what she may have wanted at the end of her life without ever being able to say it was sobering. 

I sometimes talk about Twi in the present tense, and when I’m home I often forget that she’s not still there. I never leave full glasses out on the table. If I’m heading out the door, I always pull it quickly closed behind me—Twi was always an indoor pet. She rarely tried to go out, especially as she got older, but my dad still believed in an element of her wildness and suggested that we were trapping her. 

A week before she died, in a rare burst of energy from her frail, six-pound body, Twi dashed between my mom’s legs and out the door while she brought in groceries from the car. My brother retrieved her quickly, and they were all dismayed at the return to a former habit. 

But my dad fixated on the idea that she wanted to be outside. After dinner, despite ridicule from my mom and brother, he lifted Twilight, cradled her in his arms like a baby, and brought her out onto our front step. I can picture it, although I was 90 miles away at the time—the view of the lawn in the center of our townhouse complex, everything crisp with frost. I see my dad lowering his nose gently to the tiny cat’s as she sniffed the air. I see them gazing together at the falling snow.