alison, reborn.

by Alison Christmann-Vener ‘25

my heart aches when i think of the girl i was last april.

she seems so much younger,      six-months-ago me,

had no notion of who i would be here,                cried

on the way back to a city she knew she couldn’t call home again

after seeing that velvet evergreen skyline,            the sun

setting between mountains over a small town street,     bricks 

under her feet,         a small orange cat in a graveyard.

alison-not-ali never drank,      was always looking for reasons to leave,          

had only kissed two boys, thought november’s love was fate. 

i love her now as i hated her then,   regret looks so much 

rosier in hindsight.       six rejections saw her crying on a bench 

outside of leyburn library, every time i pass it i still see her,

& the older girl who cheered her on as she passed,

“gorgeous!”     she was gorgeous. & sad, but wouldn’t admit either,

& i loved her but i don’t miss her.     i’m a different ali now.

i go to bed late & wake up early, walk with purpose & music humming,

watch clouds pass through starry skies on midnight dances home.

i can’t wait to see who i will become.

i can’t wait to reread this poem in six months,     six years,

ache at the thought of this roller-coaster i’m on,

remember this moment with a bittersweet smile.

what is an education here worth? my philosophy professor is asking.

it’s worth everything to me.      to every girl i’ve ever been.

The First Morning

by Sophie Kidd ‘22

Gray mist glazed the earth

like spring’s morning breath, 

softening skeletal trees,

swallowing senses, 

refracting early light.

For three days, 

I was shrouded in numb 

gray brimming

hour after hour

in liminality.

I was taken home

and the sun emerged from limbo. 

I felt naked in the golden blaze

burning through the bleakness

that shrouded me. 

I began to relearn the shades 

and silhouettes of the land,

of life, 

and I began to awake.