by The Cowl Editor on April 8, 2022

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Portfolio

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by Caitlin Bartley ’24

I like to imagine that the world was drawn in pencil,

my body an illustration on a canvas.

Just think of all the things I could fix,

stretch marks on my thighs

erased like crooked lines on geometry homework,

coffee stains on my teeth

erased like dirty smudges on clean parchment.

I could sketch contours on my cheeks,

curves on my hips,

life in my eyes.

I like to imagine that the world was drawn in pencil,

my thoughts a rough draft of prose.

Just think of all the things I could fix,

foolish love notes and empty promises

that I’ve written in pen.

I cross out the words a thousand times

but they don’t budge,

mistakes stained on paper like sins on a soul,

names etched into diaries like runes on an ancient tomb.

If they were written with pencil,

I could scrub at the page with an eraser until it was rubbed raw,

leaving nothing behind but a blank sheet

and the ghost of a confession.

If the world was drawn in pencil,

I could rearrange the planets,

realign the stars,

rewrite fate.

I could create constellations,

conquer astrology,

devise a personal game of connect-the-dots.

I could master the universe,

the celestial bodies once crafted by the hands of gods

now at the disposal of my fingertips.

There’s a painting in a museum called The World,

billions of people pass it every day.

I join them and watch from afar

behind a rope of velvet that feels more like steel,

pencil in my pocket,

useless.

I listen to art connoisseurs whisper about

brushstrokes and color palettes,

what they might mean.

I don’t know what to think.

I stand in front of the painting until the museum closes,

wishing the world was drawn in pencil.

There is so much I want to fix.

 

by The Cowl Editor on October 21, 2021

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Portfolio

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by Mariela Flores ’23

 

It’s as if someone cut you out of a magazine

and glued you under my eyes.

You are the accessory that I have been given,

even in my well-rested times.

I’ll always know when I’m tired

but I won’t ever need an eyeshadow base,

and even if I don’t like you that morning,

you’ll always be a part of my face.

 

You’re the star witness of my best nights writing

your brown-ish purple hue lets others know that I am still fighting.

I keep my darkest secrets in the roundness of your bags

the swollen fragile skin stays soft despite the tags.

They remind me of my father whenever I look in the mirror.

Caffeine courses through our blood and it helps us see much clearer.

 

I don’t know who I’d be if you weren’t there.

Makeup tried to hide you

but I didn’t like the feeling or the purple-lacking stare.

I see now you are my inheritance

a face I cannot escape,

but I’ll always remember to love

my tired face.

by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020

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Comics & Drawings

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by Mark Fairchild ’20