by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on October 2, 2025

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A breeze formulating,
as soft as a cloth,

you wipe away my tears,
you settle my shaking bones.

Out in the sun,
ice cold sips of water,

your hand warms my skin
just the same.

Laughter prances across the yard,
we share the same smile.

The grass beneath my bare feet;
I’ll be home forever.

Until a brisk night falls,
we’ll share the shiny stories,

the dim stories too,
lanterns will keep them lit.

Never let me go.
My father’s eyes are proud.

My mother dresses up,
You’ll never be worn down.

When the summer kisses
and melts

my skin, next year,
you’ll be much more than a mere memory.

by Riley Londraville ’27 on October 2, 2025

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Ryan and I step into the elevator up to the rooftop, and I look into the mirror of lustrous metal. I admire his cleanly shaven face and the jeans he’s put on for the occasion. We’re hand in hand, my green and white satin dress gliding over my oiled legs, and I can’t help but smile at the moment, and everything that led me here.

My roommates had just stood over me in the wooden desk chair they dragged in front of our double sink vanity. I meticulously painted my lashes, pulling my eyelids to the side for a sharp wing, as my breath fogged up my reflection.

Six years is big; it deserves the fuss, the wing, the satin, and more. Gio powdered my face while Katie twirled my hair in her hands after passing it through with the hot brush. I ran my hands through silk while Gio told me to look up, pressing away the trenches that had carved their way under my eyes. My legs shone thanks to Gio’s shaving oil, yet another thing I had borrowed in preparation for tonight. I used her oil, her bronzer, her concealer, and Katie wasn’t safe from my sticky fingers either; my hair is smooth and straight thanks to her hot brush, and my lips glimmer from the gloss that she stuck in my purse to bring with me to the rooftop.

It was a team effort slipping on Gio’s green and white satin dress, although it didn’t have to be. It was endearing to pretend I couldn’t reach the zipper, lifting my velvety hair up while Katie’s delicate hands pulled the clasp closed. Gio flashed her camera, capturing these moments in time—photos I’ll obsess over in weeks to come.

Now, Ryan bends down to kiss me on the cheek, making me glow like the sunset of the wildflower petals he gifted me earlier.

As the elevator doors to the rooftop open, I feel overwhelmed—no, pampered—with love.

by Andrew Auclair ’29 on September 25, 2025

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The young swallows fly
like black ashes in the sky.
Take no time for rest,
for the skies they must infest.
The birds fly into the evening.

Dark clouds of dots dance
on the horizon, they romance.
The red sky retires,
the night put out the fire.
Of swallows I was dreaming.

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on September 25, 2025

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A curve, a dip, a slope 

You are full of light, more than you truly know 

You may not look full, you may encompass darkness 

Yet you provide immense light 

You have a uniqueness, a dimness, that glows in a way no full moon could ever beam 

Someone could sit if they needed a rest 

Like a head leaning on a shoulder, falling asleep within the bend 

The slumber will feel like a glow 

A glowing vacancy

by Clara Johnson ’26 on September 25, 2025

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Rendered in colors blue and gold and sage
Of water color, my fragile heart was made.
Its pigments spread onto the ancient page
Made from the sturdy bark which aspens gave.

It shifts, it changes every time it rains.
The colors bleed and intertwine within.
And when I weep, it further seeps and stains.
Mostly it spreads. Grows wide, but it thins.

My water color heart, sacred and strange
Which every moment has the chance to change
Whose color seeps into the roots and veins
Of aspen bark—the blue, the gold, the sage.

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on September 18, 2025

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Darkness all around us 
We walk 
Between the crevices of light 
Your eyes are filled

With lucid hazels 
Your words seep through your skin, 
Delicate and feathery, 
The night’s wind

Crisp and calming 
It lulls me with each laden step. 
I’m within a shallow pocket 
Cushioned by the conversation 

Out of my cautious body, buzzing, breaking, 
I can’t believe 
The soothing song 
Light and sweet on my tongue

Are the words that fall out 
Sliding down 
The smooth crescent moon 
Swaying pendulously above.

Forever it hangs 
We circle 
Until the strides become painful, 
The rain will fall all night long

by Sydney Cloutier ’27 on September 18, 2025

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The Devil and I walk side by side into the diner. We sit down at the counter, shoulders touching. I order coffee for the two of us from the girl behind the counter. She smiles sweetly and hands me two mugs. She doesn’t address the Devil beside me. 

The Devil and I go to the park. As we walk down the paved path, the Devil captures my hand a little too tightly. I try not to notice the little girl in the stroller rapidly pointing at the Devil as we pass by.   

The Devil and I go up the stairs slowly. I knock once we reach Val’s door. I watch her try to subtly glance at the Devil before she lets us inside with a weak smile. People are scattered throughout the cramped rooms of her apartment. I embrace old friends and am introduced to new ones, but I don’t introduce the Devil. 

The Devil and I sit on the couch and watch people mingle over empty glasses of wine. The Devil puts an arm around my shoulder, firmly locking me in place. I try my best to ignore the Devil’s iron grip and the way everyone in the room avoids the couch.  

The Devil and I put on our jackets at midnight. I linger for a moment to thank Val while the Devil waits outside. She clutches my hands and pretends not to know what I am thinking. I wish I could stay, but the Devil doesn’t like to wait, so I hurry down the stairs and into the cold night.  

The Devil and I walk home with our arms linked in silence. The Devil walks faster than I, but I cannot afford to slow down. The Devil leads the way into our building without even caring to look in my direction.  

The Devil and I brush our teeth at the sink together. I can’t stop staring at the Devil in the mirror. I want to look away, but I am trapped in the Devil’s dreadful stare. 

The Devil and I lie down and I try to hide under the covers. But like a nightmare-ridden child, the Devil finds me. The Devil whispers in my ear and I know it’s no use. The Devil wraps me in its arms as I sob quietly. I curse the Devil, I curse myself, I curse the Devil and I.

by Grace Batsie ’28 on September 18, 2025

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You are an answered prayer.
And I’m so happy that you’re here.

I would make you paper stars
Until my fingers cramp up.
Even then, I would tie them on a little string and hang them in your room. 

Because you are an answered prayer,
And I’m so happy that you’re here.

by Meg Brodeur '24 on March 3, 2023
Portfolio Co-Editor

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“So saying, her rash hand in evil hour

Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate:

Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat

Sighing through all her works gave signs of woe,

That all was lost.”

(Paradise Lost, Book IX, Lines 780-785)

I’m blamed for the demise of my sex:

the sex created under a pretense of partnership with man

They cite a wrong flick of my tongue as the initial flame,

That has burned women at the stake for witchcraft,

seared the widows thrown onto funeral pyres

and branded female slaves as sexual currency

I stare eternally from my cursed flesh,

at the consequences of only my actions

They tell women to know their place,

As subservient creatures created for the pleasure of man,

Thousands of translations have melted away the words

“partnership” and “equality” from the pages of scripture

They have distorted the word “woman” into a tacky, five-letter word-

Devoid of the divine feminine energy that dwells within my daughters

I watch with tear-soaked eyes at the scars on their skin,

Each individually feeling the burn from my initial flame

I’m blamed for the excruciating pain of childbearing

and take responsibility for the shameful habit of menstruation

It is Adam’s punishment that they strictly view us as possessions—

properly bought and sold with the blessing of a holy man

Through bloodshot eyes,

I’ve seen little girls beaten, chained, and enslaved

Under the pretense of “arranged marriage”

I’ve watched them be stripped of their purity:

the same sexual innocence that men hold so closely and praise so loudly

They scream at the top of their lungs, claiming ownership

over something that doesn’t belong to them,

Has never belonged to them,

And will never belong to them.

A little girl is a child, she cannot be a vixen

Do not call her a femme fatale to justify your pathetic lack of willpower-

Blame Adam for that.

by Max Gilman '25 on March 2, 2023
Portfolio Co-Editor

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 Heat screams with no place to hide,

   Spewing, steaming, pushing, stewing—

             Stirring beneath stretching ceiling tiles,

            I listen because I am willing,

                 Whining through ear holes

  Like exhalation,

                   smoke travels

               thoughts linger

               fogging.

       I used to tell her I would be unbreakable when I got older.

And I’ll never again comprehend

what the hell that word ever meant to me,

pride-protection-value-identity-projection?—

Like metal.

My mother sits by the train window

my hands sit by the legs 

waiting for a tacking,

a buzzing will tell my thigh the head

is happy— a mere vibration.

The clawing on the other side of the wall,

pretending ears full,

fingers like a drenched rat—

when I make eye contact for the second time 

with the same pair of glasses three seats down.

On train, bathroom is escape, if needed.

the clearest reflection ever seen 

is a mirror coated in dirt, cracked several ways down the middle.

But train freedom—

 is the last thrill, entering wind like a bird.

mother was never meant for the prior,

on a train, for no destination.

The gale will guide her.

unbreakable like the sky;

the lie of the train, time,

the line of the yarn ball tangled beneath the steel wheel,

and nothing on a train lasts more than hours,

days, and strangers with lives that die in your mind

days after the trip.

Her and I never talk about the things we care about

Or maybe it’s I who avoids those things,

In the silence of a train bathroom

You can hear the world complicate,

Vibrating the bumpy tracks beneath,

And authority becomes you and the nothingness 

Because derailization could be death,

But still never tell her the things I care for.