“I know I only show up once every five meetings, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose your personality around me.”
Overheard during conversation about club meetings
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A Gentle Thing
“The couple on the sidewalk embrace, face to face, covered in dusk. They stand so close together that the falling sun leaves the shadow of just one person on the concrete.”
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Drumthwacket: The People’s House
Nicknamed “The Peoples House,” the New Jersey governor’s mansion is located not in the capital city of Trenton but in Princeton — what are the implications of its geographic dislocation from the state’s citizens?”
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On the Steelers and making this place beautiful
The last time the Steelers won a playoff game was the first Trump Administration. Nothing’s changed. Everything has.
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It’s More than that Damn Phone
If the discontent people online have is due to some sense of displacement, then maybe this is what the Modernists were talking about.
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Symphysis
At midnight I woke membered to the night with violent blood and pale gashes swimming wild courses through the dark. Some blast from my dream rang shrilly over my ears like frantic veils.
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The Immigrant Daughter Speaks
I’m not going to force your name–– Mother → Mommy → Eomoni → 어머니 → Eomma → 엄마–– because I never called you that. I never called you anything. For all your shifts you were the same, twisting every verb into –ing (I am telling you, I am not saying) when it already happened.…
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Letter from the Editors
It’s the last issue of the semester, and we’re mixing metaphors like water and oil: the Nass’s regular season is over but the playoffs have just begun; it’s high-noon and we’re taking a little siesta, but we’ll be back soon; the curtain is falling on this volume’s first act, a cliff-hanger that leaves your heart…
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Homecoming 1970
Coming to America, your dad found God and mine found Bruce Springsteen.
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Letter from the Editor
At this time in the year, one starts to think about escape — a dreamy kind of escape, from stuffy rooms into warming air and budding trees; and a more wishful kind to cope with the sense of unravelling that mounts as things continue to fall apart. Our writers have escape on their minds this…
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aubade for egg time-lapse
after Alan Michael Parker it starts as a rash hungover past the yellow line i blur into a stroller on the far platform we threw out anything remotely half-used: my bedsheets lay limp, like bedsheets egg whites crease on themselves at every intersection your basement smells rotten for a week this is how the world…
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