Car Lights and Ice Cream, by Emily Bush '11

York Beach; Powers by Rachel Miller '09

These lovely photographs were slated to appear in the 2008-2009 issue of Labrys, but we weren't able to get high-res versions for printing. So be careful when you submit: always scan your artwork or take your photographs with 300 dpi at least. If you have particularly large images (like 20x30in or something similarly ginormous) at 72 dpi, we may be able to make it work. Still, better to have your images at 300.

Isabella by Liza Aberbach '11

Mirror Images; Protest by Molly Sauvain '11

Snacks, No People

Shots from our Fall Issue Reading/Release Party! 

They are all of snacks and books and things, no people. Sorry.

Thank you for coming! (Part II)

Thank you for coming!

Thanks to everyone who came to the reading last night! It was lovely to see all of your faces, which are also lovely. Keep an eye out for the poets you heard last night and more in our upcoming issue!  We have Amanda Pollock to thank for these shots from the party. 

Green Street Café Hosts Labrys Poets

Thursday April 9

8-9 PM

64 Green Street

Four poets from the upcoming print issue of Labrys will read from their work as part of the Green Street Café Poetry Series! 

Anny Chen

Amy Sefton

Megan Burbank

Indus Chadha

Come enjoy a glass of wine, pots de crème, the candlelight or just the poetry! Reading ought to last under an hour!

Laundry by Angelica Huertas '10

the clothes must be separated.

first, my son’s faded band tee
a whitish smear undoubtedly spurted
as a result of his private passion.

there is a hint of red stain
in my daughter’s underwear, betraying
the secret of new sexuality.

my husband’s blue button-down
carries the faint scent of foreign woman
an odor familiar from his embrace.

and the only sound that echoes in this house
is the dull hum of the washing machine.

Love by Claire Harper '11

She lay awake in her boyfriend’s arms some nights, watching the blue of a movie flicker over blanket and walls. She felt the weight of his arms on her ribcage and tried to feel the size of her heart. This pressing feeling against her esophagus, was this love? She imagined that lumpy cardiac muscle expanding, ever expanding to hold this big thing called love, its thin pathways lengthening, its unexplored niches becoming cavernous. She pressed herself closer to his warm body, wanting to retreat into his comforting skin. To make her overwhelming but still abstract feeling for him something solid, to live among his precious organs and hold in her hands the beautiful cells that made him.

Petrograd, by Abby McIntyre '10

Other Side of the Glass, by Claire Harper '11

October Growing Pains by Melissa Maranto '12

Wrinkled in my closet
Folded and jammed between
A flapper gown and a faded spacesuit
Lies my favorite costume:
Iridescent white slip,
Gold-painted cardboard jewelry, plastic scepter
To make me Queen of the Nile
Cherished that outfit, promised
To wear it on another Halloween

It’s my final year of high school
I’ve spent the whole day in costume
Prepared to prowl the darkened block
For the very last time:
Wrapped in enigmatic black
Velvet cape, emerald painted face, pointed hat
Cleopatra forgotten, for now
Not bound by a river’s waters
I defy gravity as the western witch

But I am bound by schoolwork
Shackled by my own maturity
Slave work unknown to an Egyptian queen
I am slave to my own nature:
My sophisticated black colors my mood,
And I dream of skipping again
Through both street and life
Seeking happiness and chocolate
My Cleopatra gown white as innocence

The clock strikes eleven
Celebrations, quests for candy over
My studies complete at last,
I can challenge my situation:
Toss aside the broom that failed to fly
Retrieve white dress, fake jewelry
But the little slip sticks
Refusing to fit a woman’s body
My face still green with envy
For the child I once was

We Live off the Highway by Catherine Dodson '11

We live off the highway. Like so many suburban landscapes, they laid the thick black tongue of the highway down and these houses just kind of sprouted up around them.

Have you ever listened to the call of the road? It never ends; be it dark or light, dawn or dead of night, the highway keeps up the roar. I can hear it even now, beneath the murmuring tones of suburbia; lawn mowers, children, birds chirping in the pseudo-wilderness of the immaculately tended backyard forests.

So little of this existence are words spoken. Present in the absence of sound is the silence, or worse, the hushed and quieted tones of languages that would be spoken aloud, crushed beneath the roar of that yellow-barbed beast.