My Gift to You

by Andrea Traietti on October 18, 2018


by Gabriela Baron ’20

If I could have anything, I would choose a mason jar.
Not one filled with caramel candies
or crumbled pocket money,
but one holding light.
Light that radiates:
the rush of riding a perfect wave
and the vivid memory a song brings.
A worn out, well-loved book
and a puppy’s slobbery kisses.
A baby’s uncontrollable laughter,
sighs of relief,
and extra time.

an illustration of a mason jar filled with light
Graphic Design by Portfolio Co-Editor

I’d bring that jar with me
and share it with:
The boy sobbing
because he lost his little league game.
The teenager
who flunked her final,
the uncle
who never calls his family,
and the sibling
who always feels second best.
The bride that walks down the aisle
without her Dad,
the mailman
who never gets a “thank you,”
and your neighbor
who lies in bed, staring at the empty pillow beside her.

I would give it to them
so the boy
will want to play again,
and the teenager will learn
scores don’t measure her success.
The uncle will come home for Christmas,
and the sibling will realize
there’s no competition for a parent’s love.
The bride will feel her father’s presence,
the mailman will know he matters,
and your neighbor will remember,
she’s not alone.

If I could have anything,
I would have a jar
that lights up the darkest miseries of life.

these words will not write themselves

by Andrea Traietti on September 27, 2018


by Sam Ward ’21

an inkwell spilled over
Photo courtesy of

each sentiment rises and falls as if the moon inspires
but these are brain waves
living, breathing, decaying
eternal in space, ethereal in time

a reprieve from continuity
complacent thoughts comatose
its perfection or insanity
and these thoughts will drive you mad

so spill black and blue blood spelling out spirit
spell with each the hand that guides
        with each the symbols that hide
        with each a desire that burns where your cognition resides

                                                         You are not without weakness

these whirling wrinkles whistle by your ears
but you wont be here unless you look in the mirror cause

you are not without weakness
these words will not write themselves

the ghost writer who keeps you up at night
will not revel in the respite but rather
atone the anxiety and administer the anguish
find your peace between the margins

your mind will condone the grip you have on the bic pen
the ink bleeds to your wits ends.