Brigid MacArthur-Thompson, ‘17 Plastic beads swinglike rosaries through the leavesAnd the sidewalks have scarsFrom the rising water.The roots grow big enoughThat as you walk,You could be upended at any second.And the ocean waits, ready to rush inAnd fade us into oblivion.The trees must be as oldAs my soul,Because the closest I’ve come to findingGodIs on…

Laura Kuhn, M.F.A., English Department Adjunct My mother holds forth at the table,tracing dirty plates with a moistened finger —licking the crumbs she swipes from one plate, then another.Savoring it all;nobody’s watching.My father, in the next room, watches a game.He takes no part in the conversation, but interjectscorrections to let her know he’s there.The mighty…