by Estée Arts

These things don't happen in daylight
Or when you're watching 
They're shy
Or perhaps too respectable 
They lurk, prowl and sigh 
Playing with children 
Then drinking bourbon.

The Honeybee’s Epic

by Penelope Richards

Fat, striped honeybees
bounce along through the garden
in the summer light.
One—bonk—flew into a stem
Then—buzz—went flying again.

Penelope Richards is a senior at Brigham Young University. She loves reading, writing, and painting. Originally from Houston, she has always loved a sunny day at the beach. But she is learning to appreciate Utah’s long, snowy winters as well.

Midnight Drive

by Cosenza Hendrickson

To think I spent nine waking years there—
In a land driven mad by the Doppler effect,
Where I thought so much about the power of Purell

And the gloss of Jen’s pinky toenail,
Where a girl could live on likes alone.
I have done my squat pulses at 7 a.m. and prayed to my planner;

But tonight, I’ve escaped in your gold Protegé
To study the delicate droop of french fries
And gulp down carbonated life, admiring my size 6 shoes on your dashboard.

Keep your gaze forward, clandestine friend,
Like a darker-eyed me in your sky-gray hoodie.
Don’t tell me that anything has an end.

Tell me that the fire is as I imagine it,
That the mallards by the road mean something,
That when I walk out the world will pause a moment. 

Cosenza Hendrickson is an English major from Kona, Hawaii. She is the oldest of five girls and is lucky enough to have parents who love to read. Cosenza’s first experiences with creative writing were facilitated by an amazing fourth grade teacher and a purple, spiral-bound notebook. During her sophomore year of college, Cosenza fell in love with poetry during a lecture in which the professor explained the different types of poetic feet. After graduating from Brigham Young University in April, she hopes to continue her study of poetry through an MFA in creative writing.

Editor’s Note

by Rebecca Cazanave

Sometimes semesters feel more like years than months. Sometimes the cold weather drags and motivation begins waning as early as January. Stepping into another semester of remote learning and social distancing on top of the typical winter doldrums, I expected pulling together another edition of Inscape to feel wearisome.

Under the best of circumstances, Inscape impresses me. From the hundreds of submissions we get, the hours our staff spends discussing each piece, and the care that goes into copyediting and formatting, every edition feels like a literal miracle rising out of the overwhelm of a semester.

This semester, however, Inscape inspired me. Despite emotional challenges, theses defenses for our genre editors, exhaustion, and manifold other difficulties, our team put in the time and effort to make something beautiful and to shine a spotlight on the artists that have made us think differently about life and the world.

A part of me wishes I could say something profound about this edition, about how we curated it or about the themes that stood out to us, but lately I’ve been thinking about the last lines of Archibald MacLeish’s “Ars Poetica.” It reads “A poem should not mean / But be” (ll. 23–24). I think the same can be said for an edition of Inscape.

So instead I’ll say thank you to our contributors for trusting us with their work and to our staff for fully investing. Inscape couldn’t be without you.

Rebecca Cazanave
April 2021