Genealogy

by Trenten Johnson

Body from Body
like amoebas,
there is only one wise asexual parent
who's regeneration preserved self
becoming first to rise after that early false night
turned dawn.

Body from body
one substance sole,
dirt and breath bound into naked slime.
Every life ripped off from the side,
incubating under an arm
budding out of a hand
or foot.

Body from body
across generations—
membrane division of spirit—
pulling apart, becoming new.
A father, a mother,
all things collapse into one body;
mangled into a thousand parts,
blood strained from flesh.

Body from body
ad infinitum.
Imbibing, engulfing,
with reverential greed the consecrated carcass.
Cannibal transmission.
Piece by piece transcendence.
As death is by breaking and blood
birth is by breaking and blood.
Trenten Cox Johnson, 1982–2005, earned his BA in English with a minor in philosophy
at BYU in April 2005. He presented his original poetry portfolio at the National
Undergraduate Literature Conference (WSU, 2005) and later that year received an
honorable mention for the 2005 Ethel Lowry Handley Poetry Prize. During his time at
BYU, Trent was a member of FAD., the Forum for Artistic Discussion, and April, a
writers' group.This is his first posthumous appearance in Inscape. Trent would like to
take this opportunity to perform the Riki Tiki booty shake.

Three Poems

by Trenten Johnson

1. Buddhism
there is something
exquisitely unspeakable
about the first day of fall
whose leaves billow a swarm of butterflies
and land perfectly
no matter when or where.


2. Rains Come
Before the week of rain
stewed the delicate dusting of fallen leaves
each one a crumbling husk
into the shell of smashed pumpkins on the road a week after
Halloween.

You should have seen it then
when the wind danced with brown and yellow
and all life spread out nude and clean
under a rustling blanket in the weak sun.

A moment's reverence only
until the inevitable crushing stiffness of my boot
left the first mark of loss
an instant crumbled and left to fade.
If anything is left now of the world
made by that first stumbling change
it is dissolved in sodden grey skies.
Somewhere where no rain comes

the leaves are always fresh fallen
where I will not step again.


3. Intentionality
The leaves plastered wet to rust stained cement
could not be more perfectly placed
if God personally dictated
each individual impression.

Trenten Cox Johnson, 1982–2005, earned his BA in English with a minor in philosophy
at BYU in April 2005. He presented his original poetry portfolio at the National
Undergraduate Literature Conference (WSU, 2005) and later that year received an
honorable mention for the 2005 Ethel Lowry Handley Poetry Prize. During his time at
BYU, Trent was a member of FAD., the Forum for Artistic Discussion, and April, a
writers' group.This is his first posthumous appearance in Inscape. Trent would like to
take this opportunity to perform the Riki Tiki booty shake.

Eating My Lunch in Trafalgar Square, I Get My Picture Taken

by Deja Earley

If your Texan grandma
begged the fountain ducks to hold still

or if your German nephew scattered pigeons
on a May afternoon

if your Pakistani boyfriend
posed like Admiral Nelson

or if the American teenagers
reclining on the lion's back
draping their arms around his neck
sitting on his paws
picking his nose
giving him bunny ears
and a kiss

belong to you

look for me to the left
one inch tall
eating my yogurt
wearing a red sweater.

I'll take my camera home on Tuesday.
But my image will scatter the globe—
going home in rolling suitcases,
showing up in glossy prints,

accidentally re-wound when your French cousin
hit the wrong button

tossed and trapped forever when delinquents
snatched your purse.
Deja Earley writes poetry mainly from memories and travel experiences, using her
imagination to make the familiar foreign and the foreign familia1; She will graduate this
August with a Master's in English and will start her PhD in the fall at University of
Southern Mississippi.

Sleeping after Ten Hours at the Fabric Store

by Deja Earley

I dream the screaming ladies follow me home,
pushing their carts still packed with Christmas-in-July bargains.
They line up at the foot of my bed,
demanding two yards, sixty-three yards, forty-two centimeters,
an acre of slipping satin, and sixteen inches of leopard print fleece.

I plead my shift is over.
I can't cut fabric in my sleep.
But grandmas keep shoving 40% off coupons under my pillow,
furious I am out of Santa-suit velvet.

Shift to the kitchen table,
and they are all my grandmother,
crunching saltines and drinking milk to unwind.
We snap jokes and giggle over zipper lengths
before I tuck them into their carts,
curled under scratchy batting,
bolts of flannel for pillows.

I tell them I finally forgive them
for being too sick to see my debut
in Hansel and Gretel when I was 10.
I tell them we're moving the patterns
to be close to the notions.
I tell them I will cut again tomorrow.

Then I glide them home through rainy streets
and park them on their doorsteps,
murmuring for drinks of water
and new thimbles.

Deja Earley writes poetry mainly from memories and travel experiences, using her
imagination to make the familiar foreign and the foreign familia1; She will graduate this
August with a Master's in English and will start her PhD in the fall at University of
Southern Mississippi.

Hunger Song

by Aaron R. Allen

It has rained constant and soft for three days now.
The ground has filled with water, the roads are wet
and my good leather shoes slush and squish with mud
as I walk slowly home.

On the concrete there are worms.
They move, scattered and slow, some diagonal,
others without any order.
I stop to watch one as it makes slow, desperate circles.

Then the pigeons come squat and slick and wet beaked.
They gorge themselves on the aimless worms
and fly over trees towards nests
to satiate their children.

I walk, quick diagonal across the street
towards my home, and inside
my thoughts move with the worms and the rain—
constant, aimless circles.

I learned just yesterday that worms rise so as not to drown.
They flee the saturation of the ground.
They can't survive the constancy of rain.

Pick me up God.
Fly me home.
Feed me to your children.
Only then can we be satiated.
Aaron Robert Allen is not a psuedonym. Recently graduated with a BA in English, Allen
plans to return to BYU this fall as a grad student in poetry. Allen is a cast member and
writer for Divine Comedy, BYU's premiere writing group, and a founding member of
Cougar Raps (C-Raps).

Flowers for Gabriella

by Aaron R. Allen

I forget if it was tulips or roses
we threw on Victor's sinking coffin.
I like to remember it as spring:
great handfuls of pastel tulips.

I remember a plane ride,
corning home alone,
thinking all the time of our tenements,
stacked side to side, high and human.
Deep green and orange honeysuckle vines
along and between the buildings,
sucking out their sweetness from the bitter red brick.

Your great grandfather beat his pregnant wife.
He hoped, if she just bled enough,
he could excuse himself from the revolution.
She did not bleed for long, nor did her child.
He went off to fight.
She eased the three-headed pain inside with a tea
brewed from lemon and hibiscus petals.

Before a high school dance
my small blonde date—slight shouldered wisconsin girl—
pinned a carnation to my lapel.
Her hand trembled all the way
and fumbling, pricked herself on the pin.
She left her pale hand on my chest,
still trembling.


Your great-grandfather died at Torreon,
going down under his horse after the first volley.
When the hooves and dust had passed,
open eyes staring on a patch of nearby daisies:
(he thought last of his wife and child, like daisies)
white petals, yellow center,
roots that grew strong and deep, and red.

When we saw Van Gogh's Sunflowers
lilting in their vase like forgotten royalty,
we suddenly left that place.
In central park we stretched ourselves
it seemed, to the heatless winter sun
and lying, said nothing for a very long time.

Casablanca lilies, heavy headed in the vase
pull on their stems and quickly bow.
The burden of their fragrant heads always too much
for a sudden lack of roots.
My mother used to say,
if I pulled the pollen off their pistils
they would live longer.
I could never bring myself to do it.


When your mother threaded orange blossoms
through your hair, her hand also trembled.
You didn't notice, you were a child,
and refused to come in at dusk when she called.
She told me once,
walking through the orchard
And looking at the pebbled, fallen fruit
that she mourned you even then.

The construction paper roses on the dresser
(where you left them)
gather dust and, when I pick them up,
leave their imprint on the clean black wood.
I have come to unfold them, and learn
How they were made.
Instead, I just look at the absent space in the dust,
And at the red tops of the flowers,
Open like wounds.
Aaron Robert Allen is not a psuedonym. Recently graduated with a BA in English, 
Allen plans to return to BYU this fall as a grad student in poetry. Allen is a cast 
member and writer for Divine Comedy, BYU's premiere writing group, and a 
founding member of Cougar Raps (C-Raps).

the dishwasher

by James Dewey

kids out, dishes in
she slumps at the table
smearing a dollop of peanut butter as far as it will smear
and listening to the dishwasher

clean dishes dirty
dirty dishes clean
clean dishes dirty
dirty dishes clean

and she’s somewhere in between

suddenly standing
suspecting something in the cycles
in the mutter of tupperware drums, she
woosh-opens the dishwasher door

plates stop their tribal romp in mid-step, sweat
dripping from perfect bodies
monkey cups shiver in the alien breeze
knives breathe

everyone
is staring
at her staring face
Why do you get jungle? she asks

but only the heat-an animal tongue-responds
enwombing her neck, lips,

ears

she flips the switch
secret rites resume

soon the rhythm is a room
soon the rhythm is a room
soon the rhythm is a room

chants dancing
in steam and rain

James Dewey is a Master's student in Portuguese at BYU. Dewey founded The
Poetaster Project. In his spare time, he travels to Mozambique.

Pink Ribbons

by William Bishop

Lying awake at night
I decided her long teeth
look like John Elway's—
the grinning
quarterback-thoroughbred,
triumphant in the Kentucky Derby
or Super Bowl.

But lately, when she smiles,
I no longer think of football
lying awake at night.

I think of two yellow braids,
a red, fleshy laugh and
lips to match.
I think, laying awake at night,

not so much of
horse teeth, truth
or dare or
the fences we've hopped, but of
eyes.
Blue eyes.
And then it
occurs to me as I
roll over onto my back.
It occurs to me like
some sort of Tom Sawyer
turning twelve.
It occurs to me as I close my eyes and,
for the first time, think
what if we were to—
just maybe, what if we
pull out
those pink ribbons, let it
all unravel
and forget about football
and forget about braids.

William Bishop was born and raised in Boise, Idaho. He spent two years as a
missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Spain's Canary Islands.
Graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in Humanities from Brigham Young University
in 2004, he currently resides in Provo, Utah, while he works on a Master's degree in
comparative studies from BYU. Since October of 2002, Will has been an active
participant in The Poetaster Project, the university's informal poetry club.

L’amitié

by Chloë James

This is just to say,
that I’d like to take the box
from your freezer, and sit indian-style with
my back to your fridge, across from you,
your knees making a valley for pitted fruit:
one for me, one for you,
until our fingers and mouths and the linoleum
are sticky; until we curl for sleep
in our sugared breath, safe, after
swallowing anxiety and exposure,
respectively cold, and sweet,
no apologies
for the empty paper box.

Chloe James earned her BA in English at BYU in April 2005. She presented her original
poetry portfolio at the National Undergraduate Literature Conference (WSU, 2005)
and was one of three students chosen to present individual creative work for the
English Department Reading Series (BYU, 2004). Chloe enjoys photography, oil painting
and the solitary drive to Southern Utah. She currently lives in Sandy with her dog,
Skipper. and loving roommates (most call them her parents).
This is her second appearance in Inscape.

will it be in black and white

by Chloë James

in this picture kurt cobain is wearing more
eyeliner than I did yesterday
when I abandoned my tea for an introspective
look into the weathered eyes. I am stolen again, for a moment
by age, depressions and pale gray variations in skin.
how does each framed eye, the colorless,
become water and ash at the moment we see each other.
I have crow's feet too. I'm twenty-two.
I layer thick, black pigment over
the fragile skin
mimicking rolling stone's rendering. I'll take up smoking
if it will make me care less
when the terror comes.
Chloe James earned her BA in English at BYU in April 2005. She presented her original
poetry portfolio at the National Undergraduate Literature Conference (WSU, 2005)
and was one of three students chosen to present individual creative work for the
English Department Reading Series (BYU, 2004). Chloe enjoys photography, oil painting
and the solitary drive to Southern Utah. She currently lives in Sandy with her dog,
Skipper. and loving roommates (most call them her parents).
This is her second appearance in Inscape.