Sprim ZOOg "always it's Spring)and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves" cummings "who knows the moon's" e.e. - if Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from LYRASIS IVIembers and Sloan Foundation http://www.archive.org/details/aubade200939univ AUBADE 2009 Editorial Staff Editor-in-Chief Leslie Fannon Poetry Editor Newnam Chelsea Prose Editor Elizabeth Pringle Mission Statement The Aubade is the University of Mary Wash- ington's annual review of art and literature. We seek to showcase the best of what the ar- UMW tistic community at has to offer. All submissions are judged anonymously by the reading staff and editors of the Aubade. Submissions should be sent to [email protected]. — Table of Contents Poetry Scott, Leighton My Father's Alvarez 33 BoDi, Elizabeth Acoustic Midnight Walk 7 Strobel, Nathan Efford, Bradleigh Look, Marie 36 For this train 12 Thorne, Neil For reasons cannot I Saxony's Second Sonnet 44 have a cat. 14 Fannon, Leslie The earth does not grieve 15 Kinim (Exodus 8:16-19) 16 Prose Newnam, Chelsea On Casting 18 Afsous, Shirin Cut 19 Dear God 6 Why burning my bra in 20 BoccuTi, Amanda 1968 worth more is Namazu 28 than your six-figure BoDi, Elizabeth paycheck This is Side B 9 LONGBOTTOM. ERIN Scott, Diana Frankhn St. 22 Sandy Things 40 Negash, Dabash Last Ethiopian Car Ride 24 OKeefe, Johannah Cow Skull on a Wall 25 The Dam 27 AR'IWORK Agakin, Jake That's a Scratch 38 Technology Will Be 39 the Death of Us Winners of the 2009 Aubade Bower, Ben awards for outstanding Game Warden 26 contributions The Burial 49 Artwork Caramillo, Erika My Love 35 Clarissa Gotsch, Castle Carnival Black Dog 35 (Cover art) Geissler, Genine Poetry The Orchid 42 Bradleigh Efford, For this train— GoTSCH, Clarissa Prose The Frog King 43 Elizabeth Bodi, This is Side B Mathusa, Molly Mindless 46 Cracked 21 Lefler, Kyle Flash of Color 47 Negash, Dabash London Eye 23 Afsous Dear God Dear God, dear world, dear listener in the night, dear ticking clock, dear everything near and dear, i ramble at 3 am. you would too, ifyou attempted coherent thoughts-sentences, ideas, ex- pressions beyond snoring and dreams--3 am. apparently this is the hour, the hour that the whole night waits for. the trees are silent, as silent as trees will ever be, and there are whispers in the house, whispers of what? ofyesterday, of tomorrow, of ages ago, of ages to come, of chil- dren, ofpast children, and of future grandchildren, parents to the era approaching at dawn-- ear, lend me your ear. or perhaps, better your soul, for i have misplaced mine somewhere be- tween the front door of the mosque and the rocking dance floor where a twenty something cavight my two searching eyes. oops, but i ramble, i rumble, rumble, rumble, i grumble, at my parents, at my ticking clock, at my wide eyes, grumble, grumble, grumble--i grumble at God. Dear God, Allah, Lord, are you really out there? if you are, and you hear my thoughts, for i am told you do, perhaps you might also hear my prayer. Please end the wars, the pain, the suffer- ing, end the injustices, the cruelties, and the subordinations. Don't allow this generation to wal- low in disbelief at your existence because the world is breaking--super glue would deem espe- MAKE cially worthy and necessary at the present moment. Fix the pieces of earth so signs of LOVE not WAR do not parade down crowded streets in hands of powerless, hopeful marchers. 3 am. and my eyes stay open, how many 3 ams have passed while i slept, unaware of the ram- blings my mind might communicate had i stayed awake? are any of us really awake? 3 am. the call for morning prayer will ring in two hours and i will sleep through it. It. It is three am. and my ramblings are effortless in my effort to sleep. Shirin Afsous Midnight Walk BODI The streetlamps are burnt out like cavities, lining the road like dinner utensils. Beyond the dead buzz of lampposts, bleached stars costume the sky like jewelry — round cut, princess, marquise, pear - brilliant tiaras littering black vinyl space. I am walking through velvet, through dense coal mines without a canary or crumbs to carry me home. My insomnia follows just two steps behind, his shadow blending into the mouth of the night, encouraging me My to dance with his skeleton. pupils, fully dilated like the open mouths of loaded cannons, guide me farther down scorched paths full oftripping cobblestones, dragon-scale-like and opalescent. The tiniest flames of fire trickle down from a spiced moon hanging like a pearl earring from the lobe of the sky. giving just enough light to see behind for a moment. My insomnia is lagging four steps now. trying to find me in the dark. His bones rustle like the leaves under my feet pricking their needles into my pores, their stems through the spaces between my bare toes. My cannon-eyes feel gravity now, a moon-tide magnetism compelling me backwards, past the waltzing bones. Heat and wakefulness begin to escape like smoke from loosed lips, wisps of fog ready to sink ocean liners, tugging me back to wade again through BODI scales and sugar-sores, through coal midnight, hooded-cloaked and onyx-polished. Elizabeth Bodi 8