Fall 2019

Editor’s Note by Noah Hickman


I Dreamed That We Were Sister Wives by Chanel Earl
Kingdom Awakening: A Play by Dallin Hunt
Slipping (Flash)back(s) by Mauri Pollard


Painted by Rebecca Cazanave
Back to the Salt Mine by Chanel Earl
Gail Enough by Gail Roberts
Elegy by Logan Davis
A Woman Here by Ranae Rudd


New Year’s Eve by Olivia Moskot
Constellations by Michael Jenkins
Ekphrastic Repose by Andrew Levine
Sister by Dylan Robinson
Purity Lost (2019 AD) by Alixa Brobbey
Untitled by Olivia Moskot
Nightly Rites of a Florida Childhood by Kyle Singleton
Bed(s) by Therin Jepson
September, My Brother by Scott Porter
Roses Climbing a Wall by Cliff Saunders
Ceres by Scott Porter
Upstate Veterinarian: Some Opioid Users Abuse Pets to Get Pills by Isaac Robertson
The First by Dalan Grundvig


Kisha Lewelynn Schlegel Q/A
Matt Mendez Interview
Matt Mendez Q/A


Middle (4) by Sarah Waldron Brinton
Pink Girl and Pink Mirror by Nicole Navarro
In Close Proximity by Rachel Henriksen
Where Do We Go? Part 3 by Grace White
Golem Walk by Annie Wing
Plumes by Annie Wing
Slump by Samuel Everett
A Man Wearing Glasses in an Orange Room by Greg Caldwell
A Man in a Pink Room by Greg Caldwell
Drowning 4 by Nicholas Rex
Anchor & Marker by Annie Wing
Faulty Landscape by Annie Wing
Lurk by Samuel Everett
Cloud Lake by Amelia O’Neill
Nurturing Nature by Hannah Landeen
Before by Samuel Everett
Serpentine Verdite by Melissa Gonzales
Enclosure by Rachel Henriksen
Opaque Tunnel by Annie Wing
Conglomerates by Carrie Jube Everett
Imperishable Perennials by Carrie Jube Everett
Victory by Rachel Henriksen
Life Magazine Special Issue – World War II, 40 Years Later: The Heroes, The Battles, The Home Front, 1985; pg 52-53 by Hannah Landeen
Clouds Cover Everything by Amelia O’Neill
Where Do We Go? Part 4 by Grace White

Winter 2019 Art

“3 AM what day is it?” by Greg Caldwell
“Playground by Sally’s Apizza” by Madeline Rupard
“Soccer at Cacoosing Meadows Park” by Madeline Rupard
“Untitled” by James Talbot
“Untitled” by James Talbot
“Untitled” by James Talbot

In the land of the dead

by Emily Brown

In the land of the dead there are questions, muted, no phone calls, linen dresses of red, some question as to whether we are living to whether we have woken up from a dream in another world and somehow we can remember all that came before the dream and remember all after. In the land of the dead we wander between frames monochrome and polychrome we wear our hair always in the many ways we wore it if then you knew us you know us know if you could see us you could see our usness our usness is not seeable our usness is yet apparent. You are looking at a photo of your grandpa, then photo of your other grandpa, you see the youth on grandpa’s face on face teeth you wonder how he sounded when he was singing when he began to be called, an angel.



Emily Brown is a Californian songwriter and poet and is currently an MFA student at Mills College in Oakland. Her poetry has been included in BlazeVOX and the Provo Orem Word.

These are the kind of times when we ask, what kind of times are they

by Emily Brown

this makes a trick of the eye when a ball appears to be rolling up but not down,
as it pulls away, as the cars pull away in their turning revolutions,
who will not worship anymore feeling unaccepted at their meetings
who ceded a lot of ground through exhaustion.
I have no need of mushrooms. I don’t like how they chew.
I’m in the middle of my bedroom with my computer on my knees.
the way it sifts and sieves instead melting ore,
the way it sweeps out.

where little growing things meet great growing things,
where they look up into the dark trees
spat on by pieces of yellow and gold
I don’t want you to know about it.
It shouldn’t belong to anyone, anyone.

that I know about it, why do I mention it at all?
even to hear about something like this is a gift
to say you may piece it together in the brain.


Emily Brown is a Californian songwriter and poet and is currently an MFA student at Mills College in Oakland. Her poetry has been included in BlazeVOX and the Provo Orem Word.

Fall 2018 Art

“Untitled (70s)” by Karl Andersen
“Untitled (Eye)” by Karl Andersen
“Untitled (Foot)” by Karl Andersen
“Untitled, Nizhny Novgorod, Russia” by J. Lyman Ballif
“Deer and Friend” by Fiona Barney
“Places” by Bette Benson
“Eavesdropping” by Kate Butler
“Man Driving a Truck” by Greg Caldwell
“Man Holding an Orange Cup” by Greg Caldwell
“Dating” by Sam Carlson
“To Be Close to You: no. 3” by Annelise Duque
“To Be Close to You: no. 4” by Annelise Duque
“To Be Close to You: no. 13” by Annelise Duque
“To Be Close to You: no. 16” by Annelise Duque
“Cloud with Flags” by Maren Elmont
“Red Noodle” by Maren Elmont
“Sausage Grid” by Maren Elmont
“Take Me Home” by Sidney Fa’anunu
“Untitled” by Samantha Jameson
“Waves” by Melissa Larrocha
“I Hope the Best for Everyone” by McKay Lenker
“Gods of the Desert” by Mykaela Rogers
“Spray Paint Weather” by Aaron Rollo
“Return to Sender” by Zackery Rowley
“Grocery Store Flowers” by Madeline Rupard
“Petsmart Goldfish” by Madeline Rupard
“Hombre de Sandia #1” by Steven Stallings
“Hombre de Sandia #2” by Steven Stallings
“Stream 1” by James Talbot
“Stream 2” by James Talbot
“Memory Sticks” by James Talbot
“Three Years” by James Talbot
“Love & Longing” by Collin Edward White
“R_P” by Collin Edward White

Editor’s Note

We have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. Has it terrors, they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abysses belong to us; are dangers at hand, we must try to love them . . . . Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.

—Walt Whitman

At some point in my life I got tired of keeping things to myself. Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 2, movements 1 and 2. The gospel of summer. That unearthly spot on the mountain above the mouth of Provo Canyon where I sit and look out at the valley and imagine it flooded with water. You can go there: just take University Avenue all the way north to the canyon, then follow it not so far to where Mt. Timpanogos Park lies plateaued on the left with a parking lot. Park. Climb up the hill. The further you go, the better the view.

Are good things better shared? Or are they better in secret? I feel like Walt Whitman, and the author of The Song of Solomon: it’s as if I am a witness to something astonishing and beautiful and I can’t help but speak. I think, to some extent, all writers are like this. To write is to commit an act of optimism, an act of love.

Inscape is not a secret. This issue is small, beautiful, and precious, but it is for you and all others who are greedy for life and the world, and are, like the overambitious Carlos Argentino Daneri in Borges’ story “The Aleph,” interested in the pursuit of writing it all down. All you need to know before settling into these pages is that this is a work of love, love for the world around us: for its old women, its sonatas of thunder, its lime-green things and flowers tucked between, its resin-sticky hands, its air-conditioned and cold office parties, those moments of negotiation between husbands and wives, those vulnerable hours in the salon chair, the boring, the startled, the numinous, and otherwise worthy of our attention. Read and know the love that was poured into this issue of Inscape.

Drew Rupard

Reading May Swenson

by Theric Jepson

Reading May Swenson
who loved moonshots
I learn that the Wright brother
who flew
lay facedown
his hips in a saddle.
He would wiggle his hips
to move the rudder
and steer through the few feet
of sky through which he passed.

I too have shot the moon
lying facedown
upon you
moving our hips
to fly away together.

But now I sit under
suburban redwoods
as they shadow the street
and pairs of women
walk by talking.
I don’t know if May Swenson
ever walked the
streets of Berkeley
as we have.
But she spoke too much of space
not to know what it means to fly
with the likes of you.

And she was human, wasn’t she?
We all move our hips
and hope to fly.

The Universe is Waiting to Disguise Itself

by Isaac Robertson

The long serrated grasses of the Sri Sri Radha Krishna Farmhouse
cross off date after date on our calendars.
We, the bastions of old spiritual regard,
we are much too wizened now to clench them with our ritual lips.
Yet do you notice the llama trainer sitting by the slop pond?
He lets the horse flies and faded butterflies condense
onto his muggy, elbow-patched tweed jacket, his soapy beard, his angry haunches.
He spits into the sediment and smears his own eyes with it.
We are here, ready, too.