{"id":5170,"date":"2025-08-05T20:03:46","date_gmt":"2025-08-05T20:03:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/?page_id=5170"},"modified":"2026-03-08T12:32:44","modified_gmt":"2026-03-08T12:32:44","slug":"seven-poems","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/vol-6-winter-2025-2027\/seven-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"Seven Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Sophia Reich<\/em><\/h4>\n
\n

 <\/p>\n

The Bathers<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Moth-eaten light<\/span><\/p>\n

traces orthogonals into<\/span><\/p>\n

her body\u2019s plane. A worn<\/span><\/p>\n

torso etches itself<\/span><\/p>\n

into the walls<\/span><\/p>\n

as if it has been waiting\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to meet the wind, to meet\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the rain. Her right leg curves\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

like a silver pendulum\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

until it falls perpendicular with\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the wooden planks. I sit across\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

from her bitter exhales,<\/span><\/p>\n

anchored in the<\/span><\/p>\n

weight of salt. I cannot help<\/span><\/p>\n

but stare at the way\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

she swats at her shoulders\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to disrupt the emptiness\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

as though she can cleanse herself\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of time. And how she lets<\/span><\/p>\n

the spare glass-beads collect\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

just below<\/span><\/p>\n

her blue temples and seep\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

from the creased valley<\/span><\/p>\n

of her upper-lip<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014they seem to seize the promise<\/span><\/p>\n

of water. In time, I will<\/span><\/p>\n

undress myself to the body<\/span><\/p>\n

of a fragile membrane\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

against the black-pitted stones<\/span><\/p>\n

and her flesh will become\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the faint lines in my palm. There is no<\/span><\/p>\n

fountain, no riverbed. You cannot\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

drink out of it, even when your tongue<\/span><\/p>\n

is a warped petal, and you are\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

caught between your stifling\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

dreams.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Karma<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Karma arrives<\/span><\/p>\n

in gossamer tights\u2014which cover\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the silver capillaries of her ankles. She cuts\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

her ear lobes with blood-let garnets, perfumes<\/span><\/p>\n

her pale laugh in absinthe.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

With a cigarette holder\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

perched between her fingertips, she reveals\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

her pearl-like molars<\/span><\/p>\n

as she invites you into her jagged nebula.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She says\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

that she is only staying for a couple nights,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

perhaps in some damp, bleached-carpet ashtray of a motel<\/span><\/p>\n

which parallels the interstate.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You let her walk into your life\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

as easily as a crow contorts its spine, as easily as<\/span><\/p>\n

a streetcar skims lacquered steel.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Your dreams<\/span><\/p>\n

are filled with decks of cards. Knaves and queens twist<\/span><\/p>\n

in vermillion wind-tunnels, their turpentine bodies<\/span><\/p>\n

as flimsy and oblivious as paper\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

itself. She fingers through the cards,<\/span><\/p>\n

only to pause when she\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

reaches the hollowed face<\/span><\/p>\n

of the fool.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You know that she will leave you\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and yet, like some forlorn lover<\/span><\/p>\n

you wait on the other end of the line<\/span><\/p>\n

in silence. Just long enough\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

so that the\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

telephone cord\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

begins to coil\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

around your soft, fetal neck.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Two Worlds<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A man sits on the edge of<\/span><\/p>\n

a highway, eternities separating him\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

from the solid dashes of titanium-white and\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the starved headlights. He holds a sign to his\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

concave chest. Shredded cardboard meets\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

his wind-calloused fingertips. Drawn letters\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

melt like candle-wax. <\/span>Is it all in vain?<\/span><\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Plastic bags sever the leathery tendons of\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

his ankles, and he vanishes into the\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

car-choked exhaust and the translucent\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

weeks. The cars drive by.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I once saw a deer caught between<\/span><\/p>\n

two worlds. It hurled its abdomen<\/span><\/p>\n

into a chain-link fence, over and<\/span><\/p>\n

over again. What was beyond\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the fence, I don\u2019t know. Perhaps\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the black-walnut<\/span><\/p>\n

trees called to it or the\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

tear-soaked lichen. Its distant\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

crashes trembled in the woven drum\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of my skull, as raw as the wounds<\/span><\/p>\n

of a gorge. Those steel chains,\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

like daggers, recoiled into the turgid\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

underbelly of the deer\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

until its coat was red-clay and\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

its eyes were sphincters\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

endlessly searching.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Ars Poetica\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Poetry is the act of carving<\/span><\/p>\n

away at Roman marble, as if to<\/span><\/p>\n

liberate flesh\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

with the unconscious edge<\/span><\/p>\n

of a chisel.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Let the solid bust<\/span><\/p>\n

meet the tender grip\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of your hands,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and the snow-bound<\/span><\/p>\n

light penetrate\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the eye.\u00a0 Feel the stone\u2019s porousness,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

as it siphons the heat<\/span><\/p>\n

of your blushing fingers into its\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

sculpted tundra. <\/span><\/p>\n

There is a pulse,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

a root, a world resolving itself to\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

space. You can feel the cypress tree<\/span><\/p>\n

as it writhes in the breath of<\/span><\/p>\n

spring. Its green tendrils\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

weave like nylon sutures\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

towards the hand of God.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I fear the day\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

when I will have to forgo\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the blade for the shovel. I will be\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

bound to overturn\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the carcass of the earth, to\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

shunt the worm-eaten<\/span><\/p>\n

impulses,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to bury the words. The lilies\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

will be left with iron lungs and<\/span><\/p>\n

black-tarred veins.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And I will inscribe\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

their silent names in\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the slate of a\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

tombstone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Self-Portrait\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Behind me walks a girl\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

in a red wool hat. She trails\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

behind, filling my slipstream<\/span><\/p>\n

with her na\u00efve<\/span><\/p>\n

ways. It is as if\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the midday sun\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

has peaked in the sky\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

its lazy jaw hangs overhead and\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

gingerly casts a shadow<\/span><\/p>\n

on the asphalt. She is quite a\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

bit shorter than me, and has hair<\/span><\/p>\n

that hangs from her nape\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

like Spanish moss. She waltzes<\/span><\/p>\n

in strange bluebells,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

laughs in crinkled bits\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of wrapping paper,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and presses her small nose against<\/span><\/p>\n

carpeted floors. I like that<\/span><\/p>\n

she follows me,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

her narrow shoulders bow<\/span><\/p>\n

to her jelly-footed\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

skips. She is blind\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

in the way that ivy<\/span><\/p>\n

is to rain. She seems to go away when\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I need her the most. Her sugar<\/span><\/p>\n

footprints dissolve into\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

graphite, liquify\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

into grey matter.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A breathless void<\/span><\/p>\n

which leaves the hours long\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and vacant. I awake\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to rattling heaters and white<\/span><\/p>\n

bed sheets only<\/span><\/p>\n

to look at the pale numbers which glow before\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my very eyes. And I think of her,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my sweet, sweet<\/span><\/p>\n

shadow.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Rousseau\u2019s Tigers<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Anslem worked for\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my grandparents. He had skin\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the color of blackstrap molasses\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and wore his jeans loosely\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

as if his leather belt was a ring of\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Saturn and his narrow waist\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

was some distant planet. He would arrive\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

with metal pruners in hand,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and cut away at the lopsided mango tree\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

until it bore fruit again. I had never seen\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

anyone who had seen more suns\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

than Anselm. The whites of his\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

eyes were oxidized to the color of\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

dried palm, nicked with stagnant deltas\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of blood. He didn\u2019t say much\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

but I remember how I\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

thought he was the richest man\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

alive because of his gold-capped-teeth.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Once the rainy season came,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

he stopped coming. His exit\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

was marked by the ping-pang\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of stucco-roofs and the tender\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

drooping of vines. He must have<\/span><\/p>\n

drank himself\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to yesterday. I have searched<\/span><\/p>\n

for the face of God\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and found nothing<\/span><\/p>\n

but the forked ribs<\/span><\/p>\n

of a tiger.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

the sparrow<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you are the sparrow\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

which sits upon my windowsill\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

how can you be so still?\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

god must have carved<\/span><\/p>\n

your pupils out of\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

marble\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

and plastered your\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

wings\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

with sepia.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you tell me of the world and everything in it\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

your distant lullabies\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

are like a silver flute\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a faint whistle, <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a strange chord.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you have seen<\/span><\/p>\n

the oak undress herself,<\/span><\/p>\n

threads\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

slipping<\/span><\/p>\n

from her bare\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

shoulders\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

into echoes\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of amber.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you have seen the\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

body of night\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

as it eats away<\/span><\/p>\n

at the tender flesh of\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

daylight,<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the flecks of mischief\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

upon a fawn\u2019s<\/span><\/p>\n

winter coat\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the sternum\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of the sunken pine<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

which only\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

native eyes\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

can see.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you make me wonder\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

how bones can be\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

hollow<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

i have become accustomed\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to enamel,<\/span><\/p>\n

to brushed collodion,<\/span><\/p>\n

the walls\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of paper mache\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

that leave particles\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of ether<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

pressed against\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

my fingertips.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

i want to tell you\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to leave,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

to go\u2014\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

for every<\/span><\/p>\n

moment<\/span><\/p>\n

you are earth-bound\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

the shears of time<\/span><\/p>\n

clip your gentle\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

wings.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

perhaps in seeing<\/span><\/p>\n

you<\/span><\/p>\n

so still,<\/span><\/p>\n

so fair,<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

i am reminded\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a window is<\/span><\/p>\n

just a cage\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

of\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

glass.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Sophia Reich<\/strong> (she\/her) is a rising senior in the Honors College. Born and raised in Hunterdon County, New Jersey, she is double-majoring in cell biology & neuroscience (CBN) and art history. She gives special thanks to Professor November and Professor Miller, both of whom worked with her during the 2024-2025 academic year.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Sophia Reich   The Bathers   Moth-eaten light traces orthogonals into her body\u2019s plane. 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