“there is no use trying,” said alice. “one can’t believe impossible things.

”
“i daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the queen.
“when i was your age, i always did it for half an hour a day.
why, sometimes i’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

—lewis carroll

opus 2010 vol. 50 is made possible with the sponsorship of the

student activity fund.

opus 50th anniversary

table of contents table of contents

the fashionista’s husband painting photography collage

hilary vander sanden. . . . . . 04 marlene carter. . . . . . . . . . . . .10 lindsey bennett. . . . . . . . . .12 angela mendoza. . . . . . . . . . 22

fantasy on a theme of anonymous the big bang silk screen illustration

j. matthew noonan. . . . . . . . 04 collette shanahan. . . . . . . . . .10 cheryl mcgugan. . . . . . . . .13 erica bartley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

catharsis in memory of robby painting photography

collette shanahan. . . . . . . . . 05 jennifer koron. . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 sandra rodarte. . . . . . . . . .14 marlene silva. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

if it can rain snow, it can snow rain collection of poems collage photography
romana amato. . . . . . . . . . . . . 06 danielle malloy. . . . . . . . . . . . 30 samentha powers. . . . . . . .14 shara fitschen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

a special place cube photography photography

chris jensen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 06 kendall steinle. . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 anileni mendez. . . . . . . . . .15 michael cole. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

design go away 3d photography

kendall steinle. . . . . . . . . . . . . 07 alca usan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 bridget mitchell. . . . . . . . . .16 ashley olenick. . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

this is just to say sweet girl linoleum block printmaking drawing

kelly malone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 07 margaret perez. . . . . . . . . . . 34 rachel lange. . . . . . . . . . . . .17 jana terborg. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

ragdoll deformed replications of reality illustration illustration

molly caldera. . . . . . . . . . . . . 07 mario gutierrez. . . . . . . . . . . 34 zach kekelik. . . . . . . . . . . . .17 rhonda swanberg. . . . . . . . 26

so if there was this open letter collage photography

gina de vivo. . . . . . . . . . . . . 08 gina de vivo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 james williams. . . . . . . . . . .18 bridget mitchell. . . . . . . . . . . 27

poo stain salty mouths 3d painting

kendall steinle. . . . . . . . . . . . . 08 marlene carter. . . . . . . . . . . . 36 erica bartley. . . . . . . . . . . .18 michelle richardella. . . . . . . 27

the last lily pads pale in comparison to you photography photography

alexis ware. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 09 yadira lopez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 heather boss. . . . . . . . . . . .19 ashley olenick. . . . . . . . . . . . 28

bal masque petals on dawn’s horizon drawing ceramics

erica bartley. . . . . . . . . . . . . 09 romana amato. . . . . . . . . . . . 37 justin bozzelli. . . . . . . . . . 20 angie helwich. . . . . . . . . . . . 28
jamie chan
little miss sunshine sherin erakat drawing
danielle malloy. . . . . . . . . . . 09 caitlyn tetta scott marciniak. . . . . . . . . . . . 29
brittney terrell
 the fashionista’s husband catharsis
hilary vander sanden collette shanahan

The fashionista’s husband Somebody, quick

never wears name brand. Break the seal on these lips
Holes in his jeans and Before the levee in a mind
an old band t-shirt with stains. Breaks, and a million voices
His socks don’t match poking through his old, beat-up shoes. Silenced, pour forth to suffocate the living.
The button on his jeans has been replaced,
hanging, again, by a thread. Deprived souls whose voiceless
His shaggy hair is all over, History serves as a single paragraph
held back by a pair of sunglasses from the 90s. In your text book.
The fashionista’s husband A quiet mention of suffrage, whispered
loves to go shopping. Skeletons rattling “feminist”.

But me, I don’t believe in closets.

So, I’ll string up their bones
To dance off my lips like a
Marionette, there is no shame
In secrets if there is truth
In the sentiment.

The history of women says this:

We came, we saw, we conquered…
So why am I still earning seventy cents to his dollar?

The unyielding act of defiance

The elephant crammed in the corner, the
Lapse of silence before a
fantasy on a theme of anonymous Domino effect, because I think in equals
j. matthew noonan I am a terrorist, like the glass ceiling
Sheltering your head is
roses are red, violets are blue, at-risk.
st. valentine is dead, and you will be too;
he got eaten by the lion and the lion died My contradiction of cause and curves
by way of axe and the axe was made of Creates friction, so that if the fairy-tale
wood from a tree and metal from the mountain Page furls just so, I’ll singe it
and the mountain was made of dead lions and And the “seen-but-never-heard-chef-maid-sex toy-doll”
saints and trees that would make roses and Will vanish into ashes.
chocolate and future axes and saxes and
it happened sans taxes or monetary transactions But your dream is another’s nightmare;
or material distractions because there was no work Where those who refuse to accept “NO” are
to do because it was always being done there beneath Forced to tread on your
the mountain without ever having to kill a man for what Social land-minds, rumors
he believed because the only things to believe were Buried in the depths of hushed
that the leaves would leave the trees and that the rain Whispers and cold stares
would be leaving the leaves dry heaving and eventually return That pull at the ankles
and anyone who didn’t believe that was towards another closet,
a cynic and an idiot because it was Another door, another moment of silence
absolutely true and it happened for everyone to see For those who bear the brunt,
year in year out without a doubt or skeptic tank. Of “Woman“.

04 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 05

 if it can rain snow, it can snow rain design
romana amato kendall steinle

It snowed the day I fell in love. I have a surfeit of abhorrence,

The warmth seeped from my skin I reject them with disdain.
and melted the frost in the air. Not antipathy, but an acquired disgust
For the execrated maimed.
That’s how it became spring again.
I wholly regret my convictions,
The snow blended in with the purity As the blame they claim is small.
of my love. White. I made a snowball Design exhibits its most horrid flaw. --
and pressed it to my chest. If design govern…in anything at all.
It melted into a stream.

That’s how it become spring again.

It rained the day I fell out of love.

The cold seeped from my skin this is just to say
and froze the humidity in the air. kelly malone
That’s how it became winter again. I have throw away
the box
The rain blended in with the melancholy that was sitting on
a special place of my tears. Colorless. I found a puddle the table
and splashed in it.
chris jensen It dissipated into snowflakes. that I
An unexpected abundance of life was planning
That’s how it became winter again. on keeping
Is spread out Everywhere.
Tumbleweeds pop up in impossible nooks. for life
A squirrel scampers over rocks in search of seeds.
Forgive me
Among hills rise into the blue sky it was painful
It is so wonderfully silent. so sad
An incredible symphony and so heartbreaking
Of nothing
That brings me serenity.

The falling sun sets the hills ablaze ragdoll

with shades of orange and red.
molly caldera
This is a special place were I feel alive. such a lady, she sits
and smiles so passively in deep
Then the silver light of the moon washes over meditation. Her every move has been
Cooling everything with its soft touch. thought out according to her playful
companion’s instruction.
A moonflower opens its petals to the night air. Casual and yet
proud, among poised neighbors, rag doll
A constantly changing work of art bows and is envied for her mobility.
Whose beauty surpasses that of every museum combined. tight stitches will never whisper
Human hands could never make anything close Her ideas and dreams; she is limited to
These wooden shelves, to the soft terrain
To this masterpiece from god. Of a young girl’s playroom. Rag doll waits in her pretty
And humble dress, for tea parties and adventures ahead.
We need treasures like this Her love is always and
To remain unmolested. Only for her.
her
You can rebuild a city
But these places only live once.
Don’t you want your grandchildren to have them to enjoy?

06 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 07

 so if there was this the last
gina de vivo alexis ware

if we considered it, maybe on a park bench somewhere. i’d paint the sky above us, just for you. if we What I know about that morning
talked when we needed to and breathed when we didn’t, and if (a) the kid two swingsets over scraped is containers stacked in my room
her knee and didn’t care or (b) a pigeon was graceful for just two seconds when the dog chased it into and little Styrofoam noodles on the floor
the air, well then maybe all these things we’ve been wanting & learning & missing could be true? and clothes and purses balanced on the counter
and me, screaming
(teach me to fix things, too.) crying here and there sad to
bal masque leave the trees; nothing about
the new experience everything about
erica bartley
this lost soul.
Everything was spinning,
the tables, the chairs,
the people, or was it me,
poo stain and the person upstairs.
kendall steinle
He came up behind,
The most vicious cycle of life arrives in the midst of pimples and newly discovered hormones; as quiet as the breeze,
between perky breasts and cracking voices, we learn to tear each other apart from the inside out. his words on my shoulder,
Adolescence is a period on the timeline when we find out who we really are and, more specifically, who could this really be.
we would much rather be. A cruel, cruel segment of life—but not even that excuses us.
Everyone was mean to Shawn. I turned to face him,
I was mean to Shawn. a whisper to my ear,
He was awkward, short and ugly, with crooked teeth that were confused by their own chills ran down,
placement, running into one another, creating a chaotic scene behind his puffy lips. An immense birthmark could it be so clear.
resided on his right cheek, which everyone claimed was shit he must have forgotten to wipe off; they
came up with some ingenious and innovative nickname, something to really leave them speechless; if I Everything began to fade,
recall correctly, it was poo stain. Poo Stain Shawn. the chandeliers, the pearls,
He ran like a crippled duck, and for some reason, this was funny. Boys would chase him down felt I was too,
the hall to make the rest of us laugh. And they all laughed. I laughed. with the rest of the girls. little miss sunshine
One time he tripped down the steps in Graves’ classroom and he heard about it for weeks. danielle malloy
(Have a nice trip, Poo Stain?) I remember tripping in the same spot not too long after, but only hearing His quiet smile gleamed,
mere acquaintances inquire about my well-being, genuinely concerned. his mask as dark as night, First day of competition; the air
His chest stuck out and everyone mimicked him, poking fun at the instrument of his imminent his eyes like wild sapphires, is thick with tension and
death. it felt so right. aerosol-canned hairspray that catches
in the back of the throat.
Shawn got a nasty cold one Monday and died that Friday from an enlarged heart. As soon as he touched me,
everything shifted, Tutu-clad four-year-olds sit, stoic
I went to his calling ours on a cold December night, my mom waiting patiently for me in the car. that once happy feeling, as they get their faces put on
I remember standing over his dead body, dressed so nicely with his hair combed to the side. His boy was he gifted. while slightly stale smelling Mommies
eyes were closed, but not tightly; not the way he closed his eyes when he was covering his ears, trying to frantically tease their hair to dizzying heights.
make us disappear.
A teacher from school came up behind me and thanked me for coming. Rehearsing “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”
I turned to him with crooked eyebrows and scanned the room; it was empty. for the 600th time can’t hurt, not
A few relatives sobbed quietly in the corner, but the guestbook held only my name. that precious pigtailed Maddie needs the extra practice;
I looked back at Shawn. I had laughed too. Mommy took care of Judge #1 last night.

We kept his seat open in every class for the duration of that year. It was as though we were That shiny polyethylene crown will be hers.
trying to make up for what we had done, because we had all laughed. She’s worked so hard for so long with nothing
to show for it, but this time – she deserves it.
Because I had laughed. And Maddie will be excited for her Happy Meal.

08 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 09

 painting in memory of robby
marlene carter jennifer koron
 
Oh that painting told us so well. Swallowed by darkness and loneliness, Robby sat on the damp linoleum floor in his basement. 
We put up shelters, Robby’s tender, young heart was exhausted, diseased of loneliness like cancer, deeper and more painful
preparing enough to get by. than I will ever understand, though I believe that since they found him that day, I’ve come close to and have
While those oils had dried too brittle. almost been touched by the phantom of terror and hopeless broken-heartedness that swallowed Robby
  whole.  I’ve tried to imagine, with often times eerie success, the overwhelming desperation that tore away
Where the nails hung up the frame, his heart with razor fangs as he contemplated the seductive invitation of abandonment and freedom.  I
the wall cracked. have pictured a clammy palm embracing the smooth, cool metal of his daddy’s pistol; his hand shaking,
his heart pounding and bleeding a slow trickle of liquid red sorrow as he raised that gun, with deliberate
resignation, held it to his head, and pulled the trigger.  My cousin Robby was a senior at Saint Rita high
school when he died of existential loneliness, more commonly and comfortably referred to as suicide.
Outside the basement, warm rays of May sun nourished a delicate, blooming lilac bush with
the big bang maternal tenderness.  Shocked by the thunderous intrusion, the bird song fell silent for an instant, then
collette shanahan resumed its melodic spring worship.  Gently, an afternoon breeze carried the perfumed scent of purple
blossoms and fresh mown grass through an open window into the basement, mingling the breath of spring
In the beginning, there was darkness. with a faint odor of gunpowder.
It was springtime, Robby.  Most people die like that in the long, cold month of February.
Tired hands moving, cumbersome Robby haunted my thoughts for days afterward.  Angry, acid tears fell from heaven stinging my
over the shards of a broken person, cheeks every time someone said, “How selfish of him,” or “He had so much to look forward to,” or “He
A being who drew too many seemed like such a normal, well-adjusted boy,” or “How could anyone have known?”  I didn’t go to Robby’s
spades in the deck of funeral.
suitors, and fixed clumsy wounds A couple of weeks later, I met Robby’s grandmother shuffling down the street.  Her cotton white
with uneven sutures, a world head bobbed toward me and, seized by panic, my feet tried to run, yet I stood immobile.  She smiled
prehistoric, the night was too dark, weakly over a bag of groceries, and I blurted clumsily, “I’m so very sorry, Edith. . .so very sorry.”  A big tear
the wounds, infected, quivered in the corner of her eye. 
I was a mad-woman, unknowing. “It was such an awful accident,” she whispered. “Only Robby, no one else was hurt.”
Confused, my voice trembling, I questioned, “what are you saying?  What do you mean?”
And suddenly, there was light. “The car accident,” she replied, staring vacantly past me down the street.
I understood and made no reply.  I wanted to shake that glazed look out of her eyes and
You, picked up the pieces scream, “I can tell you what made him do it!  I know why Robby shot himself!”  Something in her eyes, some
of my broken artistry, and pleading, desperate fear flickering behind the absent gaze, stopped me.  I nodded, “Yes, I’m so sorry, such
redefined my existence, a tragedy.”  And Robby’s grandmother wandered off down Lawndale.
took each laconic shard and stuck it Choking on sobs, I stumbled home and fell through the door into my sister’s arms.  She held me
in my chest with such eloquence, until at last, tears spent, I closed my raw, swollen eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep.
your hands built my heart into I cannot recall what slapped me out of this drug-like slumber the following morning, but I awoke
A mosaic. suddenly.  Every cell in my body jumped to attention in unison as I pulled up the blinds and received the
kiss of sunrise.  In my heart, I still believe that the sun rose especially for me that morning.  I beheld a hot,
So when I catch a corner just right, orange orb with white swirls entangled in its surrounding glow.  I stood dazed, my parched spirit drinking
or sit beneath the sunlight, up those precious beams.  I put on the Eurythmics Greatest Hits CD, and lay on the floor of my bedroom,
I illuminate. comforted by the lyrics sung by Annie Lennox:
How many sorrows, do you try to hide
My soul’s colors radiate In the world of illusion that’s covering your mind?
rivaling the ROY G BIV combination, I’ll show you something good
and you are the prism, an entire world I’ll show you something good
opened up When you open your heart, you can make a new start
in the wake of interloping lips, limbs When your crumbling world falls apart. . .
this house of cards became A miracle of love. . .will take away your pain. . .
A fortress. When a miracle of love comes your way again.
My eyes overflowed with fresh tears that streamed sideways into my hair as I thought about
Laughter filling our garden like an opus, Robby.  I thought about the word miracle, and realized a sharp, urgent hunger inside of me. . .I knew at that
you write such beautiful music, moment that I want to be HERE.  I wanted to be one of those blessed people that always know how to sift
but you love to hear my tune through the pain and tragedy of life and uncover the buried miracle.  I was hungry to gobble life, to taste
--the only songbird who let me sing the sugar, the vinegar, the jalapeño, and someday sit back and pat a happily full, satisfied belly.  Thoughts
“be true”. of Robby now cause my heart to ache with a strange, sad gratitude, aware of the chastening irony that his
death gave birth to a passionate, insatiable hunger for life.

10 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 11

 2

lindsey bennett
1
photography

cheryl mcgugan
2
silk screen

12 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 13

1

sandra rodarte
painting 1

samentha powers
collage 2

anileni mendez
photography 3

14 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 15

1 2

bridget mitchell
1
3d

rachel lange
2 linoleum block printmaking

zach kekelik
3 illustration

16 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 17

1 3

james williams
collage 1

erica bartley
3d 2

heather boss
photography 3

18 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 19

1

justin bozzelli
1


jamie chan
sherin erakat
caitlyn tetta
brittney terrell
drawing

20 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 21

 angela mendoza 1 3
1 collage

erica bartley
2
illustration

marlene silva
3
photography

shara fitschen
4
photography

4
2

22 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 23

1 michael cole
photography 1

ashley olenick
photography 2

jana terborg
drawing 3

24 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 25

1 2

rhonda swanberg
1
illustration

bridget mitchell
2
photography

michelle richardella
3
painting

26 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 27

1 3

ashley olenick
photography 1

angie helwich
ceramics 2

scott marciniak
drawing 3

28 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 29

 collection of poems cube
danielle malloy kendall steinle

I watch her age spotted hands Dad called,

gripping the cup of earl grey The Ford Windstar is dead.
as she pleasantly beams at my four-year-old. Transmission shot in Randolph,
“Who is this little angel?” Paul left alone at the recycling center.
[We always did plan on saving the world.]
We weren’t prepared for this. Now memories of mine, and yours too, you know,
We needed more time. Will be reconfigured, reshaped, redefined,
Lost and gone forever, a metal cube,
“It’s your grandson, Christian. Remember Sophie?” And in that cube sits my first ticket,
She nods her silvery-blue permed head My instrument of infidelity,
but her eyes are bewildered, My tool of my very own destruction.
searching for something that’s not there. I knocked over the fence
To get to you,
I take her weathered hands in mine,
and we sit - quietly, peacefully. And in that cube is the first time
I pulled the emergency brake,
Because I kept thinking to myself,
I’m bored! If my dad finds out that this is why
Gramma’s friends smell funny I wrapped the van around the tree,
I want to go home He’ll kill me.
watch Ninja Turtles
play with my new Transformers. And in that cube will be fishtailing,
Graffiti, youth. There will be a dead
Deer, a ditch or two, and the First Baptist
Couldn’t visit her today. Church going up in flames,
This was a good week The cornfields behind us mocking us
but today is the anniversary of his death; For all we were worth.
she talks like he’s still around.
And in that cube is a broken fan belt,
Ten years ago at this time And no power steering,
we would all be crammed Inducing conversation and drinking,
into his Oldsmobile, bickering And before you know it, ten new mistakes.
and laughing on the way to brunch.
And in that cube rests you and I,
Seeing her face crinkle into laughter Ghosts of the past and their trips to the vet,
always warmed me - still does, Games of midnight basketball
just not in the same way. And a shattered metatarsal.
Now I fear it’s empty.
And in that cube rests visits to Fledge,
His concave back still facing Pontius,
This woman has such gentle eyes, But who wants glue when you can have a cube?
gentle but so tired –
Why? I wonder. And in that cube is my desolation,
All that I was and all that I ever will be,
This child is an absolute vision – Liberation on back roads vanished from sight,
he reminds me of someone A vivid fixation on my own tangible existence…
but I can’t decide who. But who wants a stone when you can have a cube?

30 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 31

 go away
alca usan

- “Why do babies eat baby food?” - “Because of these I don’t think I can”

- “I don’t know Mia, why?” - “Babe, that’s why I love you, who else am I going to do stupid Scrubs trivia with”

- “BECAUSE, babies eat baby food! GET IT? BABY FOOD! HA HA HA”
 - “Text message I love you five”

I can’t stop laughing at the emphasis she puts on words, grant it I realize it’s not as funny to the average - “Good one, U going to be up when I get home?”

reader as it is to me, but she’s four, and smart, and funny, and my little girl. - “Aren’t I always, I’m watching Scrubs.”

- “Want anything?”

My sister is picking up bright paper cut outs of apples.
 - “Horchata please!”

- “Titi, what are you doing?”
 He continues making tacos and she watches Scrubs. She randomly sends him quotes she sees but he doesn’t write
- “None of your business Mia.”
 back because the restaurant is busy. It’s twelve thirty in the morning but that means there is only one more hour left.
- “I know, but what are you doing?”
 She yawns a little but doesn’t lie down because she wants to be awake when he comes home.
- “Mia it’s none of your business.”

- “Titi, I know it’s not My business, it’s Your business. What’s your business Titi?” - “Wake up sleepy head, Mia jump on Daddy.”

- “Wake up Daddy!”

- “If that’s how ur gonna act when we get back 2gether I’d rather b single. I’m just going to worry about - “Ugggh I’m sleeping,” he covers his head and turns over.

being thr 4 Mia ”
 - “Wake up kisses, Mia help me give Daddy wake up kisses.”

“Do you believe that mom? He text that to me. I mean first of all, what makes him think I even want him. Yeah - “Ugggh MAN I’m trying to sleep!”

I miss him, but that’s because I was with the guy for six years, six years of MY life I gave to him, I miss him but - “Babe the alarm is going to go off in five minutes.”

even when I do I don’t want him back you know. And how dare he. Act like he’s such a good dad. I text him - “Then let me sleep five more minutes!”

because I needed medicine for Mia. She’s sick and I’m broke. And he writes back because I’m “nagging” - “Come on Mia, You want a piggy back ride back upstairs?”
him. He comes to see her once every two, three weeks, and for what? FIVE MINUTES before he has to run
back out for work. How could I want to be with him? With someone that’s that, ugh mami he’s mean, he’s - “ Titi said a bad word to me. I don’t like that word!” yells Mia through her tears. She doesn’t like the phrase, “go
mean.” away.” She cries, and sits in a corner.

- “Honey I have to go to school today.”
 - “Hey Mama, how are you?”


- “You’re sick mommy, you have to stay home.”
 - “Great”

- “Mama I’m not sick. I have to go to school.”
 - “What are you doing sweetie?”

- “You a little sick mommy.”
 - “Um watching t.v. What are you doing mommy?”

- “Mia, I’m not sick.”
 - “I’m at school baby, How was your school?”

- “I a little sick mommy. Whose gonna take care of me, and love me, and feed me?” - “ Great”

- “What did you do at school today?”

My sister is standing by the stove. Her creative chef brain is mixing flavors together and the grease - “I played in the kitchen, I read a book, I do everything mommy”

molecules are exciting in the pan. She places something in the pan and the hot grease splashes up and out - “I miss you hunny,”

of the pan. Mia is hanging around her legs.
 - “I miss you hunny,”

- “Go away Mia”
 - “Hey wait a minute”

Mia runs out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the porch closing the door behind her and crying - “Hey wait a minute”

all the way. She opens the door and sits outside. By herself, on the stairs, outside of our house, alone, four - “Are you copying me?”

years old. No one notices. I’m in another room studying and realize I haven’t hear my baby in a while, - “Are you copying me?”

which means she’s doing something bad like painting another spider web on John’s door because he likes - “Oh Brother!”

Spiderman. I get up and look for her. I go to the porch hall which is where she plays and find the door - “Oh Brother!”

leading out open. I look out and there is my precious person, alone and crying. I can’t keep my tears back. - “Mia!”

My gorgeous is sitting there with her wet tearful face in her folded arms. Anything could have happened to - “Mia!”

her, any one could have taken her in the three minutes that she had been there. - “ I love you honey”

- “I love you honey”

Text message
 - “Baby I have to go now, Mommy has another class to go to.”

- “What has two thumbs and doesn’t give a damn? Bob Kelso, I thought we’ve met.”
 - “Okay mommy. I wait for you tonight. BYE mommy.”

32 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 33

 sweet girl
margaret perez

Three years old

Smiles full of happiness
Legs crossed
Perfectly posed
Leaned back open letters
While the dress covers the knees gina de vivo
Sweet girl, sweet dreams
Golden, light brown dear Universe:_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ dear time:
curly hair _m
_ ay i trouble you _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ i'm still in line.
Pink velvet bow,     for time?
Pink shoes,
Pearls adding an elegant touch dear forever: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ d_ ear never:
deformed replications of reality
_ _ this passes swifter than-_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ i build you with
She sits up tall mario gutierrez _ _ how long will i be here?_ _ _ _ _ _            disappointment.
In her smallness __
As pink becomes her Freedom blind, confined, entwined-
dear Love:_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ d_ ear history:
Only favorite color Within illusionary arrays of -
_ _ hello?_ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ you are cancer in the air.
Conceptual designs of minds
__________________________________ i cannot breathe.
Two things can only change: Erratic in blank stance of trance
Hems come up and dear future:_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ d_ ear silence:
Smiles turn into smirks. Wound balls of data clad
_ _you're never on time.
Frightened by poisoned fumes
Acidic smoke, burning away at the-
dear loneliness: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ d_ ear heart:
Obscene realities-spiritual flesh
_ _ you are bruised.   _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ i'm sorry,
_ _ you bleed.           _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ skin's not armor.
Raised walls, blindness’ debt
_ _ we'll find a way.
Terrified still in ignorance kept
_
Afraid to blink, to link’n rethink
dear you:_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _      dear future-me:
Passionate-lies’ bittersweet kiss
_ _ please come home soon._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ i have worked hard for you
                                                                  to be born.
Framed images cycled-old
Brain-washed in dilute toxins swept
dear reader:                                          dear logic:
Into everlasting -
    go to sleep you fool.                                 i calculate earthquakes
Haunting visions of flashing truths
                                                                    (that never happen).
Realities transfigured-deformed replication
dear memory:                                        dear reality:
Presented false-unto the masses of
    why do i feel so dizzy?                             how do you learn to be
Accepting mirrors-dancing to rotted tunes
                                                                   okay with me?                                        
Bent, misshapen flutes singing vainly
dear stars:                                           dear God:
Proud are the synthetic lords
     my apologies for                                                sigh
Fake in their existence among the dead
     the dust and smog. 
Perceptions lost within closed eye visuals
Skeletons-walking…devoid of thought

Reason, bound- trapped in ignorance

Human conditions- reverberated echoes of-
A conscious stream adapted to obscenity
Bliss. Terminated, these feeble mice-

Forever blind

34 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 35

 salty mouths
marlene carter
 
Lets all go down to the room.
colored masks on floors, petals on dawn’s horizon
discarded before the doorframe quickly.
romana amato
 
The doorman opened the way,
“You know that spring night that comes once every year? Where the sky is the deepest black and the
with a grin and
stars are shining bright? And there are no clouds covering the moon? Where there’s a gentle breeze
said, “Back so early?”
that smells of fresh air and rain? And this breeze isn’t cold, but it isn’t warm? It’s the kind of breeze
 
that’s cold when it first touches your skin, but then it subtly warms your soul, and you can only close
You see these cheeks have a
your eyes, stand still, and wait for the next breeze to brush past?”
color gray and lonely.
They need to be warmed
He held her close.
by a fire.
 
“And as the breeze brushes past your skin, it moves into the trees, causing its branches to softly sway
It’s cold outside with this ash.
and the leaves to rustle as the flowers float to the ground. And your listening to all this, wondering if
Past the grin, unnoticed.
it’s possible to preserve this feeling forever. Because in this night with the dark sky, bright stars, soft
 
breeze, and relaxing sounds, you find a sense of happiness. But it isn’t overwhelming happiness. It’s
We trudged in.
soothing and comforting; it’s calming and tender.”
Up through the stairs.
Airy heads with ideas.
He intertwined his fingers with hers.
Care forgotten.
 
“The kind of night that reminds you of the first time you realized you were in love. When your eyes
Only a quenching thirst
sparkled brighter than any star. When that invisible breeze brushed past your skin and overwhelmed
of burning.
your soul with desire. And you were so happy, you wanted to cry tears, but you couldn’t, so you cried
We’re all like
on the inside.”
salty mouths.
He smiled.

“Yet, it’s that indescribable feeling of realizing only after the relationship’s disintegration that you love
him. Understanding that you had pushed him away because, like that breeze, he warmed your soul,
but you were afraid of being happy. It’s where you don’t know what love is until it breaks your heart,
lily pads pale in comparison to you and you want to cry tears but you can’t, so you cry on the inside.”
yadira lopez
He nodded.
You are a lily pad gently floating down a small stream.
You’re always so calm and collected. “It’s the night that makes you want to have your first kiss all over again. The first kiss that is both
Like a lily pad, you are comprised of a beautiful flower, awkward but beautiful. That first kiss where you have no regrets.”
which is like your beautiful face and soul.
It can also carry the weight of a frog, He kissed her.
which is like the weight of your own world that you carry.
Even with that weight, you manage to never sink down under pressure. “It is a night that is so perfect, even perfection doesn’t equal it.”
You seem to float through life gracefully,
no matter the type of turbulence the waters can send towards you. He handed her a rose.
You provide a place of comfort and support,
available to those who depend on you to get through the stream of life. Then, after taking the rose, she plucked the petals one by one, watching them float away in the breeze.
There is simple yet complicated elegance about you,
drawing people in to admire your beauty. “It’s the kind of night that only lasts till dawn, and you know that you’ll have to eventually say goodbye.”

You are a lily pad gently and gracefully floating down the stream of life.
Floating down the calmest and most unstable of waters,
never losing your poise and elegance
With that beautiful flower that is your soul.

36 | opus 2010 50th anniversary | 37

 credits

graphic art & design director: zach kekelik

advisor: prof. peck what is opus?

literary editor: romana amato saint xavier university’s annual art and literary magazine, opus, provides
assistant literary editors: gina de vivo students with the opportunity to showcase their creative work. through a visual and
kathryn james written medium, artists and writers are able to challenge the parameters of possibility
danielle malloy and display pieces that represent their own unique style.
celebrating its 50th anniversary, opus has become one of the oldest art and
cover design: angie helwich literary magazines in Illinois. The magazine aims to highlight the accomplishments of
future artists and writers in the saint xavier community.
art selection jury: kelly ciurej
erica bartley
rhonda swanberg
erica king

opus 50th anniversary

 saint xavier university
3700 west 103rd street
chicago, il 60655

saint xavier’s visual arts center

10435 south spaulding
chicago, il 60655