Through Our Eyes

A dialogue.

I don't look into people's eyes enough.

Enough for what?

To see past skin.

Into their souls?

No, into their eyes.

What's to see if not their souls?

What they see,

You can tell by pupils?

What they see of me?

You--

Look at me.

You look--

Who looks like this?

This is weird. Avant-garde shit.

Shit you call your life if you can't look at

other people's eyes.

I look, okay? It's you--

You dart.

Blink?

Roll.

Glance. Wink.

Pretend to--

Think.

Is this awkward for you?

What are we--

Trying to be real.

Really!

You're right. If I can't see, I guess I can still--

No you can't.

Love.

No you can't.

--Mary Adkins, Trinity '04

INVASION

I had a dream:

Strange-colored men crossed the border

Illegally.

Speaking another language

Bearing their gods, their smell, their lust

Invading.

They trampled our flag

Stole our work

Took our women

Killed our children

And erected their own country

And called it

America.

--Mariana Carrera, Trinity '04

Sonnet

People get confused.

Like some people,

They keep talking of national security and say they are American,

Or they think of their Caucasian body and say they are American,

And other people,

They mention their birthplace and say they are whatever else,

Or they ponder their ancestors' homeland and say they are whatever else,

And they are all confused.

Me, I walk this land of our fifty great States grasping my freedom

With a mitt on my hand

And Leaves of Grass in my back pocket

And my pants rolled up

With a pleasing accent on my tongue and Chuck Berry in my limbs, and both

pulsing from my core everywhere else.

I am an American.

--Brett Couric, Trinity '03

Homage

Darling, in moonstruck

cities, a field of miracles

blossoms its weight,

as failures unfold into

tangerines, as dusk

christens alive boardwalks,

as rain dissolves

complacent vacancies.

And I stand beside

my love, who crescendos

through the crevices

of America, through

barbed rain, forgetting

how my hands once held

a solitary grief.

--Roger Pao, Trinity '03

Proud to Be An American

I am so darned patriotic,

Probably more than you are.

You only got two bumper stickers,

Seven American flags,

One cheap, screen-printed T-shirt.

That ain't nothing!

Don't you 'member we got a WAR

ON TERRORISM on our hands?

How can two bumper stickers,

Seven American flags,

One cheap, screen-printed T-shirt

Be enough when we got blood on

our hands?

You fixin' to cover it up?

Wipe it away?

Sure as hell can't wash it off!

What blood?

Only the blood of Jesus

Can wash away all of our sins.

Them liberals! Them conservatives!

It ain't my opinion.

Just draw a utility function and you'll

see:

There ain't no reason to worry.

Might is right, someone once said.

Though your sins are like scarlet, they

shall be as white as snow.

I am so darned patriotic,

Probably more than you are.

I got class in seven minutes.

Gotta run.

--D. T. Hsu, Trinity '04

The Gate

I remember the gate,

It was gray like the sky

Where thin clouds caught

The broken shafts of sunlight.

It could have been five in the morning

Or five in the afternoon,

This far north it really didn't matter,

This far north the sun slouches

Around the horizon, looking for a

Place to rest its tired brilliance

Looking for a place to unload its heavy burden

Of warmth and illumination.

In other parts of the world

The sun works only half days,

Going home at night

And returning in the morning.

But here, during the summer,

It fills in for night

And tries to manage both shifts,

Tries and tires and manages only

A gray sort of light that

Looks old and sickly,

Frail even compared to

My oldest memory,

The memory that comes before all others

That sits entrenched in my brain

This unchanging picture

Of a gate and the sky and

The sulking sun.

--CK Swett, Trinity '04

A Letter to my Government in Washington

Sirs and Madams,

When you guys think about

what to do about

September 11, 2001

if you can, remember,

that when that guy called from the bathroom of the plane

knowing him and the other people on the plane were all

going to die,

he wasn't calling to demand that the ones who were

responsible

be killed too,

he was calling

to tell his family he loved them.

--Brett Couric, Trinity '03

when sometime lofty towers i see down-razed

afterwards my nose bled

lightly

leaving delicate flecks of spreading

scarlet

upon the stiff white cloth from my

pocket

the chill january wind

that night moving north

choking me, blinding me

stirring the caustic ashes

i let my eyes water

freely

let my life's salt fall--

liquor of lamentation

to the thirsty ground

standing on the edge of the pit

i thought of the ant hill in my yard

countless times destroyed by

spinning blades

no doubt the death of two hundred

workers

daunted them

yet without fail my ragged machine

would find a rebuilt mound to

shatter

and weeks later, when they found

their way

into my house

no one was saved from the

crawling terror

of tiny black workers wanting

revenge

but scattered ants have smaller

worries

we men find ways to dwell in

the past

and seek amends for grief

and so, standing amidst this

desperate scene--

floodlights, broken stones,

twisted earth

the obscenity finally struck me

a phoenix will never arise from

these ashes

only a mute ghost, a dread

harlequin

full of fury, yet unable to speak

i have stopped running over that

patch of dirt in my backyard

the invasions have ceased

but i hear the ants are still angry

--Jacob Usner, Trinity '04

9-11 at 08:45 hours

08:45 hours:

in the corner Starbucks

people get their

early morning lattes and espressos.

Two men, one tall, lanky,

the other whose belly

hangs over his belt,

in jovial moods

look forward to the day ahead.

Flirting with the long blonde haired

girl behind the

whoosh of the steamer,

they settle into seats at the counter

to chat about the times

when they had calls that

kept you laughing for days

or those where you

got a heart starting again.

Times when you got the

rare thank you's for a

tough job well done.

08:45 hours:

after dropping off a patient,

a woman and an

ER nurse share a smoke.

He makes eyes at the slim

young brunette he knows

he is too old to date.

"Come on baby,"

he chides through shortening

cigarette butts.

She laughs and finally concedes.

08:45 hours:

a husband and wife

make love on a floor newly mopped

of past patients

in the back of the ambulance.

A rare moment, since shifts

are long, always conflict,

and by the end you've seen

too much.

08:45 hours:

a woman counts blankets,

checks the oxygen

picks up the litter of needle caps

and plastic wrappings from

a busy night before

settling to read

Dear Abby in

the New York Times.

08:47, pagers go off,

the radios crackles.

"Day's starting early today"

and with a laugh

coffee cups are left to turn cold.

"We'll be back,"

as they head out to the

baby blue sky day.

"You'll be back?

I'll give you one hour."

"Why?" she asks.

"Because I haven't asked you

for your number."

He grins, she rolls her eyes, laughs

as she and her partner

jump lightly into

the ambulance.

One last case hard kiss before

covering their nakedness,

grateful for those snatched

few moments and

the rustling of a closed newspaper

dog-earred for when its reader

would return.

--Marcia Wong, Trinity '03