ISSUE III

2 SIENNA SOLSTICE 

ISSUE III 3 

LETTER FROM 

THE EDITORS 

Dear Reader, 

A year ago, our team was scrambling for our first issue’s release. We were in the heart of 

quarantine, which meant the only way we had been designing our publication was through 

FaceTime and the occasional Zoom. In fact, I still haven’t met most of our team in person. 

Yet—and this may sound ridiculous since I know virtual interactions can hardly compare to 

those in-person—the way I feel around and trust them is pretty special. 

When Sienna Solstice first came to be, I identified it as only an intellectual endeavor—a way 

to fill the time I had too much of. It isn’t. So while you read, dear Reader, I urge you to recognize 

this issue as an exercise for both the mind and the heart. 

—Rukan 

The release of ISSUE III marks the one year anniversary of Sienna Solstice’s first publication. 

We have cycled from the longest days of the year to the shortest and back again, and during 

that time, we’ve explored AI art, human and computer-generated poetry, podcasts, films, watercolor, 

graphic design, and so much more. We’ve also been fortunate enough to investigate 

intention with Annie Finch, form and function with Safia Elhillo, and now the value of tailored 

curiosity with Dr. Anjan Chatterjee. 

When we first started building this journal, we focused on themes of renewal, connection, 

and fluidity. As we approach our second Summer Solstice, we have found fluidity to be one 

of the most vital ones—fluidity in the antidisciplinary sense, in which we perpetually open 

ourselves to featuring new ideas and expressions of truth, but also fluidity in a more practical 

sense. We began this journal ambitious with the intention of publishing on every solstice and 

equinox, but after our first issue, we refocused to publishing biannually every solstice. This 

adaptation was made to maintain the strength and quality of every issue we produce and to 

allow us to stay fluid and flexible. Sienna Solstice started when we were in high school, and 

now our team is composed entirely of college students; as we grow, the journal grows with 

us, and as we learn, the journal does as well. We are eager to see where we are next summer, 

and we hope you are there to witness our growth, too. 

SPECIAL EDITION PODCAST 

Listen to our Special Edition Podcast where we speak with two individuals who we feel 

embody the idea of the antidisciplinary. Join us as we continue exploring the truths that 

binds us all. 

“The history of science is essentially the 

history of knowledge.” 

Dr. Paula Findlen is a professor of history 

at Stanford University, studying the history 

of science, especially in the context of the 

Italian Renaissance, in which she describes 

“take enormous pleasure in examining a 

kind of scientific knowledge that did not 

have an autonomous existence from other 

kinds of creative endeavors, but emerged 

in the context of humanistic approaches to 

the world”. 

In an exclusive interview with the Sienna 

Solstice editors, Dr. Findlen explores the 

Leonardo effect, great antisciplinary minds 

in history (Kepler, Newton, etc.), Brad Pitt 

and A River Runs Through It, pursuing 

truth, and what it means to cultivate forms 

of internal and external diversity. 

“Every scientist is an artist, most of the 

time.” 

Ikumi Kayama, medical and scientific illustrator, 

is the perfect manifestation of her 

own statement, using art to communicate 

or “filter” obscure scientific concepts. Having 

earned degrees in Scientific Illustration 

and Medical & Biology Illustration from the 

University of Georgia and Johns Hopkins 

University, she produces award-winning 

work that can be found in textbooks, websites, 

journals, and science exhibits. 

Join us in conversation with Ikumi as she 

walks us through her journey to her career, 

starting from her second grade cat drawing 

to her experiences in medical school 

classrooms at Johns Hopkins. 

ISSUE PLAYLIST 

Also featured: the ISSUE III Playlist, curated by Editor Rukan. 

We suggest you listen as you read. 

Thank you for celebrating with us this Summer Solstice. 

Warmly, 

Kate, Lea, & Rukan

4 SIENNA SOLSTICE ISSUE III 5 

TABLE OF CONTENTS 

An Interview with 

Dr. Anjan Chatterjee 

The Editors 

6 

30 

31 

J.I. Kleinberg 

Silvana Smith 

But what of glaciers 

Hold Tight 

sweetdreams 

A Classmate Uses a Word I’ve 

Never Heard as a Poem Title 

Christian Leon 

Guerrero 

Darnell “DeeSoul” 

Carson 

10 

11 

32 

32 

32 

Hunter Anson 

Andrea Chow 

Aliza Li 

Untitled Artwork 

February Poppy 

dentistry for grown-ups 

Introspections 

Phillipp Schmitt 

12 

33 

Miranda Navarro 

Untitled Artwork 

Untitled Artwork Jisu “Jisutice” Kim 14 

[The Earth Waltzes During 

Rush Hour] 

Hannah Villanueva 

15 

chaconne Sophie Mathieu 16 

Cacophonies Casey Aimer 17 

Untitled Photograph Kara Theart 17 

Untitled Photograph Makino Kinjo 18 

34 

35 

36 

37 

38 

Julian Berger 

Amelia Horney 

Lauren Pan 

Divya Mehrish 

Sol Paz Kistler 

Waves 

Stasis and Liberation 

bear vs. BEAR 

The Body is a Memory 

Undine 

40 

Jake Bailey 

The Soft Glow of Ribs 

Horror Vacui Yuan Changming 20 

Country of the Moon Sebastian Petersen 21 

41 

Eoin O’Dowd 

Saint Luke Drawing the 

Virgin Reassembled 

You Don’t Have to Take Orders 

from the Moon 

Jaina Cipriano 

22 

exhale Charlotte Cao 23 

42 

43 

Makino Kinjo 

Ofem Ubi 

Untitled Photograph 

Spiriting... 

44 

Ofem Ubi 

Untitled Photograph 

Darkness Will Fall Mileva Anastasiadou 25 

The grand father Melnir 

~ 

Ricardo General 26 

46 

Ricardo General 

Three generations 

Untitled Photograph Makino Kinjo 28 

I Can’t Imagine Morning Heath Joseph Wooten29 

48 

All Authors 

Biographies


ISSUE I 7 

An Interview With Dr. Anjan Chatterjee 

This idea that you might ask questions about the nature of mind in terms of biology was regarded by 

many as soft and fuzzy. There remain residual sentiments along these lines in some parts of 

neuroscience. 

I went on to do my neurology residency at the University of Chicago, and then I did two fellowships. 

One was in dementia at Case Western Reserve and the other in behavioral and cognitive neurology at 

the University of Florida. 

In the early 90s, I began my academic career at the University of Alabama in Birmingham. At the time, 

I was studying questions of spatial cognition, spatial attention, language, and how we communicate. 

Then, in 1999, I was recruited to the University of Pennsylvania, where a center for cognitive neuroscience 

was being created. 

Dr. Chatterjee is a Professor of Neurology, Psychology, and Architecture at the University 

of Pennsylvania and author of The Aesthetic Brain: How We Evolved to Desire Beauty and 

Enjoy Art. The founding director of the Penn for Aesthetics, his research has focused on 

questions about neuroaesthetics, neuroethics, spatial cognition and language. 

DR. CHATTERJEE: We can start at the beginning. 

Tell us a little bit about yourself and your background. 

I was a philosophy major as an undergrad, and I’ve never stopped reading philosophy. Questions from 

philosophy remained of interest throughout my career. Similar to our conversation about the idea behind 

Sienna Solstice, part of the issue was: how do you approach philosophical questions and remain 

grounded? For me, grounding in those questions meant being tethered to empirical sciences. I’m not 

saying that’s true for everybody; but for me, that grounding is necessary. 

When I got to medical school, I found medicine—at least as a medical student—to not be very exciting. 

Medical education is ingesting a bunch of facts. It’s conceptually light and factually dense. So, it never 

fired my imagination until we got to the neuroscience section of the curriculum. 

Just to give you some context, I graduated from college in 1980. In the late 70s, neuroscience was not 

something that undergraduates were exposed to. I went into medical school without knowing anything 

about neuroscience. So, encountering neuroscience was the first time I got excited about a biological 

approach to the mind. I graduated medical school in 1985. At that time, cognitive neuroscience and 

cognitive neurology was not a fashionable career choice. The idea was that if you wanted to be taken 

seriously as a scientist, you should be studying protein chemistry, cellular biology, or immunology. That 

period between 1981 and 1985 was when AIDS hit the scene. It was a completely novel and devastating 

disease. So, immunology was a hot topic. 

My move [to Pennsylvania] was a period of transition. I was hanging out with some friends in Birmingham, 

and we were thinking about what we might do over the next 10 years — this idea actually came 

out of a barroom conversation. One of my friends brought up the question: “Imagine yourself ten years 

into the future. What would you regret not having done?” At the time, I thought that I had always been 

interested in arts and aesthetics. While a lot of my work was in visual and spatial processing and communication, 

I’d never really thought of incorporating aesthetics as a focus of inquiry. Growing up as a 

child, I used to draw all the time. I’d carry a sketchbook with me. Later, I ended up doing much more 

photography as an aesthetic practice. In pondering that question, I decided to study the biology of aesthetic 

experiences. 

Early in 1999, there was almost nothing written about the biology of aesthetics. Partly because this was 

an academic transition period where I was reevaluating my plans, I thought I’d incorporate aesthetics 

seriously as part of my research program. 

Do you identify as an artist or a scientist exclusively, or do you feel that your identity is a fluidity of both 

processes in both frameworks? 

DR. CHATTERJEE: I think most people who end up studying empirical aesthetics or neuroaesthetics 

tend to have an aesthetic practice. That’s often what drives them towards such investigations. It can 

be music, it can be painting, it can be photography, it can be drawing, and some people write poetry. I 

think there are some similar features to both endeavors—a kind of curiosity drives both and a willingness 

to be vulnerable. 

How do we appreciate the contributions of both art and science without oversimplifying either process? 

DR. CHATTERJEE: I think the kinds of questions people ask or address can be similar and overlap. Scientists 

can inform artists and artists can inform scientists. 

I think it simplifies the process to say that artists are scientists, as some do, and denies what makes 

these endeavors special. Both approaches abide by certain distinct rules. You could say that soccer 

players could be good baseball players, and baseball players could be good soccer players, but it 

doesn’t really make sense that a soccer player is a baseball player.



To make such broad statements undermines and denies the uniqueness of each sport, and by extension, 

the different strengths that artists and scientists bring to bear on the questions they pursue. 

In science, when we talk about experiments, and when people talk about artists experimenting, the 

word “experiment” is used in very different ways, right? 

In science, the general idea is that you usually have some kind of theory. You have a hypothesis to test, 

and you design controlled experiments. Advances in science are incremental. The conclusions are 

provisional, and subject to change. You put [the findings] out there for other people to either replicate or 

disconfirm. The nice thing about that approach as a general model to advance knowledge is that the experiments 

and the data determine how you think about the world. At the end of the day, the data drives 

our thinking. Creativity for a scientist comes in figuring out the right question and then asking “How are 

you going to design a decent experiment?” 

So in my lab, one thing we repeat is, “The question is the question.” You can spend months figuring out 

what [the question] is. Which question is worth asking? Once you have some sense of that, you start 

trying to craft the best ways to address that question. There’s a lot of creativity that comes into those 

stages. 

Artists are not constrained by data. Their process, as I understand it, tends to be much more individual. 

Once they put their artwork out there, the core aspects of how science advances through replication 

and verification, don’t really apply—at least not in the same way. 

So, I think the process of most artists’ work is pretty personal, even when embedded in an institutional 

or cultural context. Experimental science doesn’t advance through individuals. It’s almost always 

conducted in teams. To conflate the practice of art and science as the same— just denies the unique 

strengths of each approach. 

antidisciplinary 

(adjective) 

• • • 

A rejection of the idea of the 

“interdisciplinary,” as 

disciplines are not only interconnected, 

but interdependent. 

Wherein no system of thought can contain the fullness of the human experience. 

How do you continue asking novel questions and experimenting in the field of neuroaesthetics? 

DR. CHATTERJEE: It’s really fun. 

For an investigator, it’s a gift to be in a field where fascinating issues are wide open. There are so many 

low hanging fruits to be addressed. I think if you’re a curious person, and your curiosity is a bit disciplined, 

novel questions become apparent. Another important aspect for a principal investigator to stay 

fresh—and this gets lost when people talk about how science advances—is to pick the right people 

and then not get in their way. Young scientists animate my thinking as much as I mentor them. Having 

young people who are excited about what they are doing at the start of their careers rejuvenates me.

`10 

SIENNA SOLSTICE 


A Classmate Uses a Word I’ve Never Heard as a Poem Title 

Darnell “DeeSoul” Carson 

Ophiocordyceps 

Noun. 

A genus of fungi containing about 140 species that grow on insects. 

Ex: 

ophiocordyceps unilateralis is known for its parasitic 

relationship with ants, altering the host’s behaviors in order 

to ensure its own propagation. Host widens mandibles to root 

itself to the underside of a leaf. Host will stay there until 

its inevitable death. I am unsure if it is even conscious of the choice, 

or what it will soon bring. All that is left, days later, is a shell of what 

was once was an ant, still attached to the leaf’s vein, and ophiocordyceps, 

bursting 

OR 

the summer after my freshman year, a boy hijacks my prefrontal cortex 

and I no longer make sense to myself. Every neuron rewires 

to ensure the survival of our relationship. Soon, my body 

reroutes to every place I think conditions are suitable enough 

to sustain what isn’t there: Two hours beside the closest lake 

Google maps could lead us to. A midnight-lit playground 

the eve of his departure. I do not know how he hurt me 

until five months after it has ended. 

OR 

It is a summer and a half later. On social media, I can see he has attached himself 

to another. Every day, I try to save myself from the shell I’ve become by learning 

to undo the damage. Most days, it works, always a lesson in forgiveness, 

or mercy, though I’m not sure which one of us it is for. But some days, 

I can see myself, still rooted where the boy left me, and all of the hollowness, 

bursting 

sweetdreams 

Mixed Media on Hot Press Watercolor Paper 

Christian Leon Guerrero



Introspections 

Philipp Schmitt 

Sending a blank canvas to a machine learning model meant 

to process photos returns…a blank image. But repeat the 

action over and over and the model starts to introduce its 

own artifacts. It's subtle at first, but ultimately the model devours 

the image, creating an abstract visualization of its own 

inner state and architecture. An introspection made visible, 

the piece materializes a glimpse into the opaque, high-dimensional 

vector spaces in which AI makes its meaning. 

Photography by Makino Kinjo



“I participated in a collaboration with a fashion 

stylist, a photographer, and a model. 

We wanted to create something vibrant and 

colorful, so I painted on a giant cloth for the 

background. I took this photo when they were 

shooting and I loved it simply because the 

model looks like a part of my painted cloth.” 

— Jisu “Jisutice” Kim 

[ The Earth Waltzes During Rush Hour ] 

Hannah Villanueva 

somewhere in the monotony of things we settle 

besides emerald branches entrenched into 

chalked prism colors on the pavement where 

the jaywalker leaps—in the path parallel 

a child recites sticky lyrics to a Mona Lisa while 

the performance begins as the one-man-orchestra 

harmonizes B notes—paints lavender adagio cymatics 

on illuminated stucco the size of an ochre sun 

a beat changes 

neon dots halt the muffled engines 

in the rearview grandeur vistas of multidimensional 

cinematic plots—carrying the depth of expectations 

nearby the waterfowls fox-trot into the dross 

the crescendo ends 

we step away from the synchronicity of this gallery pane 

under the last light of the gold composed 

our soles find the path for 

solace 

to recommence. 

Photograph by Jisu “Jisutice” Kim



chaconne 

for voice, flute, viola, cello, and piano 

music by sophie mathieu 

text by john mietus 

Cacophonies 

Casey Aimer 

cacophonies of city cars represent 

equally to me the leaving and 

arrival of spirits. I envision lanes 

of sunlight rupturing through 

thunderclouds as the tunnels 

for departing and returning souls. 

yet being ghost among the living 

is superior to living as umbra under 

divinity. quickly the dead discover god 

is either dead nor alive, simply 

beneath their station. 

Photograph by Kara Theart



Photography by Makino Kinjo 

Photograph by Makino Kinjo


Horror Vacui 

Yuan Changming 

Looking up to the darkish infinity of the outer space, I see how a 

star has been growing only to die, in (holographic) parallel with a 

cell within my body & come to know my protobeing & the cosmos 

as one & the same: just as I is the cosmos, so the cosmos am I. 

Even in this very moment 

My mind is full 

Of struggling presences 

Such is 

Always the case: 

It is infused with 

I stop to squeeze out 

But it always returns 

To occupy the vacated room 

The moment its door opens 

whims & wishes 

Each bubbling perception 

in a bloated form of wonder 

Which has held part of me 

Country of the Moon 

Watercolor on paper 11”x17” - 2020 

Sebastian Petersen 

You long to become mindful 

Of a spiritual vacuum 

Yet it never allows for 

The briefest moment 

of emptiness


You Don’t Have to Take Orders from the Moon 

Jaina Cipriano 


exhale 

Charlotte Cao 

the rat gnaws 

at my ribs 

and when its 

flattened head 

rams itself against 

the fat of 

my underbelly 

i pitch myself, forward, 

hitch my lungs to 

the hook that hangs 

at the crest of my chest 

and when 

i can feel the bitter tip 

crimp the muscle, 

like a needle, 

but there is no stitching, i 

crumple 

and press the air 

out in the way 

quicksand would engulf my every part: 

slow as old honey then 

rapid 

rushing 

as 

my limbs jerk, convulse, quiver, and 

i think an arrow has shot 

down the narrow 

pinprick 

of my diaphragm, 

because i am 

clutching at air, 

and the 

wood splinters, 

and years later, 

i will still 

be prying little 

shards, 

thin as breath, 

out 

and 

my rat, 

ravenous, 

will gouge 

its teeth into what 

i have lost behind, 

what has 

yet to be 

purged.



Darkness Will Fall 

Mileva Anastasiadou 

Morning light finds us at the diner, which is always busy, but we pretend there’s no one but us, we 

pretend we like this place and coffee tastes like nectar, we hold the map in our hands, he takes a 

look, I say, we’re here, not at the top yet, he says, but we’re close, we’re close, that’s how it starts, 

the game of make believe. 

Across our street there is a tiny hill we call the little mountain, and when we get there, we find 

ourselves under a couple of tall trees that hide the sun and we call the place the little forest and 

we pretend we’re lost in the woods, that we live in a fairy tale, we practice darkness, but then after 

a couple of steps there are olive trees and vineyards and light and that’s mostly disappointing, but 

also relieving. 

There’s a cliff on the little mountain, and we pretend it’s a steep cliff, although if we went off and 

jumped, we wouldn’t break a bone, but we pretend down lies the abyss, and when we get there 

we hold hands, like we’ve finally made it, like we’re on the top of the world, we check the map, he 

says, we’re here now, and I nod and we kiss for everyone to see, but no one’s watching, no one 

cares. 

We go to the creek we call the small river and we first check if anybody’s around but usually there 

isn’t, because there’s no river but in our joint imagination, and then we sing, we sing loud, we sing 

the River song, that song by Bruce Springsteen, only we change the lyrics to make it a happy song, 

and we pretend it is, because we can’t stand sadness, it wears us out, so we sing and sing, like 

we’re a pop band and we pretend we are, until we run out of breath. 

When evening falls, we go home, turn on the lights and have deep conversations about the meaning 

of life, we talk and talk, like we’re on a talk show and we pretend we are, we’re so important, 

we’re heard, we’re wise, but then the shadows get thicker, we can’t escape darkness, but we pretend, 

we pretend there’s still light, we’re so lucky we have each other, I say but then he says, I made 

us dinner, so we stop talking and we eat. 

At night, we hold on to each other, we grab each other, we make love, we call this place sacred, 

our joint heaven but there comes this feeling, like darkness lightens an emptiness which remains 

hidden by daylight, we check the map again, but that’s uncharted territory, we’re in the middle of 

nowhere, we throw the map away, we know, we know darkness will fall, on us, on life, before we 

reach the top, because there is no top, but we pretend there is, and we pretend we’re flowers, we 

don’t grow old, instead we blossom, and we pretend we grow, but never, ever grow apart.



The grand father Meliñir 

Photograph by Ricardo General


I 

I CAN’T IMAGINE MORNING 

Heath Joseph Wooten 

I have one thing to tell you: I need your breath to confirm 

my existence like a fist. No, I’ll tell you now, 

this is not 

something that I wanted 

to say. Again. My body catches the sun and returns 

it as silence and morning was never 

supposed to come. Do you ever think 

about the skin of a fruit like that? I mean like my 

skin? As silence? You’d be wrong. My body catches 

like a thread. I’m thinking about you 

getting dressed. You, a synonym for steam, in the bathroom 

not thinking about my body but yours. You’re still 

in bed. You’re gone. I haven’t decided 

which is easier this time. You’re slicing 

an apple for breakfast. A question: why 

can’t daybreak dress us. Why silence. 

II 

I always start begging before I know 

what I mean: pull me behind your eyelids 

and let me find myself there. Give me 

the brown washcloth you used to wash 

your body and let me remember knowing 

you. I’ve never said. My whole life spent 

in pursuit of evidence of your existence. 

Like a god. A question that no dream 

could answer. I lose my words. I always 

speak better to you in the language 

of dreams. Tell me a story of you as a child 

and let me eat an apple from your palm. 

III 

In this empty bed that smells like you, 

I believe in the possibility of fruit. The flower 

of a tongue upon my collar. I need 

your breath to confirm. I need you 

to describe the taste of my skin. 

I need to give too much 

of myself to you. I have one thing 

to tell you though you already know: you are the pang 

that realizes me as being alone 

in being alive. And my body catches. When I open 

my mouth to take a bite I’m supposed to be humble. 

Do you ever think when you fall asleep that my skin 

could be so quiet, could turn the day to night? 

I’m really asking: please think of me. Please stay 

inside me like a fire lives upon the snow. 




Hold Tight 

Silvana Smith 

But what of glaciers 

J.I. Kleinberg



February Poppy 

Andrea Chow 

the wind, short-tempered, howling, 

fickler than her mother 

between her gasps and shrieks 

has crafted an accidental hurricane haven. 

she threw tantrums through December 

and spat rage through January. 

and finally, she has sobbed out all her despair 

wrung out from her misty body like a wet rag 

leaving only a damp trickle 

that wraps the mountains in a spilling sunrise light. 

she has spent months screaming, 

coaxing angry wrath across her breast, 

coating the mountains in a thin ash blanket. 

she has spent even more months weeping, 

a child mourning the loss of her mother, 

dusting coastal crags in a frigid powder. 

she cannot be angry forever, 

so, she collapses, exhausted, in February 

as one does after expending all their energy 

after a long day of grief. 

and in the brief respite 

a single poppy blooms 

between the cracks on the sidewalk 

miraculously dodging the heavy tread 

and unrelenting assault of the tempest, 

a delicate and solitary monk 

vivid, radiant, effervescent – 

exhaling softly against the February wind. 

dentistry for grown-ups 

Aliza Li 

open mouth. 

insert scalpel into gums 

slice horizontally. 

excavate the gold of a filling 

until you hear the shriek of 

someone’s mother. 

a tooth is only lost at a certain age. 

i receive a quarter 

for each dissected tooth, 

for all thirty two: an army 

jackknife. a slipjoint, the 

backspring inclining towards 

open, closed--and nothing between. 

slip the blade between two teeth. 

wiggle back and forth and 

detach every tooth from 

its seat until white 

is dyed red. girl 

becomes woman. 

Artwork by Miranda Navarro 

Artwork by Hunter Anson



Stasis and Liberation 

Amelia Horney 

Waves 

Julian Berger 

“Producing this composition was a big undertaking as this was my first 

time making a fully electronic piece. This project was made in Logic Pro 

X, conducted using only looped sounds. I decided to experiment with 

a whole variety of different sounds, some sampled from libraries, some 

stock sounds in my DAW, and sounds from my synthesizer. I also sampled 

my dad playing the shakuhachi, which is a Japanese flute that you first 

hear around 0:50. This piece strives to create an ambient atmosphere 

that experiments with a lot of bending and trippy sounds, while creating 

a relaxing soundscape that would be good to listen to when you sleep.”



bear vs BEAR 

Lauren Pan 

Who doesn’t love Paddington the bear? Or Fozzie from The Muppets? Or even the classic Winnie 

the Pooh? I don’t know about you, but these lovable, good-natured bears have definitely 

added value in my life. I learned compassion from Paddington. I laughed at Fozzie’s attempts 

at humor. And honestly, Winnie the Pooh just has the cutest character animation. Even with all 

these examples of fictional bears, we can add one more to the list, a very real one — the BEAR. 

The Bridge-Enhanced ACL Repair (BEAR) is a new cutting-edge method that uses a sponge 

scaffold to reconstruct a torn anterior cruciate ligament (ACL), an important ligament in the knee. 

Among all sports injuries, tearing the ACL is not only one of the most common, but also one of 

the most severe. Unlike an ankle sprain or a muscle pull, the ACL cannot heal on its own because 

there is not enough blood supply. Normally sudden pivoting or twisting movements of the 

knee joint cause ACL tears. Therefore, athletes who play high intensity sports, such as football 

or basketball, are the most at risk population. Fortunately, there are a couple ways to fix/treat a 

fully torn ACL. 

Traditionally, orthopedic surgeons completely remove the torn ACL and replace it with a graft 

harvested from the patient’s own hamstring. However, this procedure is relatively invasive since 

it requires several incisions to insert cameras and other tools arthroscopically and harvest the 

replacement ligament. While useful, these procedures start to add up when considering the 

fragility of the human body. In addition, although harvesting a graft from the patient’s own body 

lowers the chance of rejection, it also adds more burden onto the body when healing. Instead of 

just one compromised area, there are now two (the ACL and the hamstring). Thankfully, BEAR 

offers a potential solution to these problems. 

Currently, BEAR uses a bridging scaffold, which is a sponge injected with the patient’s blood. The 

sponge is then inserted between the broken ends of the ACL and sewn into place. This increases 

the chances of a successful procedure and also means that there is no need for extra incisions 

to harvest the graft. Additionally, instead of completely removing the torn ACL, BEAR preserves 

the remaining ACL tissue. 

Headed by Martha Murray, MD at Boston Children’s Hospital, the clinical trials of this study 

are still in its early stages. After being split into two groups with 10 patients in each, subjects 

in one group received the BEAR operation and subjects in the other received the traditional 

ACL reconstruction with the hamstring graft. The physical examination findings, patient-reported 

outcomes, and adverse events were similar for both groups. The experiment documented 

knee laxity (the looseness of the joint) and functional results, including hop testing, extension 

and flexion, and others. While the data showed slightly higher/better results for BEAR than the 

hamstring ACL method, the difference in results were not significant enough to conclude that 

BEAR is definitively better. 

While more testing is needed in order to be able to conclusively say that BEAR is the superior 

surgical method, I personally see no contest between BEAR and our beloved, but fictional bears. 

Works Cited 

“ACL TEAR: SYMPTOMS, RECOVERY TIME AND TREATMENT.” PeerWell. 

“Bridge-Enhanced ACL Repair Clinical Trial: Boston Children’s Hospital.” Boston Childrens Hospital. 

Murray, Martha M, et al. “Bridge-Enhanced Anterior Cruciate Ligament Repair: Two-Year Results of a First-in-Human 

Study.” Orthopaedic Journal of Sports Medicine, SAGE Publications, 22 Mar. 2019. 

The Body is a Memory 

Divya Mehrish 

What if I told you the spine 

is oblong like a domino, 

that the body is a memory 

that loses itself and keeps 

losing itself like a ripple 

that echoes across a glassy 

mirror of water until the sun 

blinds its shrinking radius 

into silence? What if I told 

you that you have only been 

taught the shape of your hips, 

that what you see in the hum 

of your reflection is not what 

you are but what you could have 

been? What if I told you the pelvis 

is a planet and your torso is orbiting 

a sun it cannot find? What if I told 

you the human skeleton knows not 

how to forget pain, that it touches 

itself gingerly, as if its entire life 

has been permanently bruised? 

What if I told you reminiscence 

exists as a light year—the star 

exploded centuries ago, but from 

where you sit, its serrated frame 

flames into the swollen center 

of your fickle vision? What if 

I told you Mother Earth is yours 

and yours alone—she is your 

daughter, and your own breast 

is the universe: the raw milk 

of your fertile land sustains 

all of humanity. What if I told 

you, softly, that you are enough? 

You are enough. What then?



When our mother went to be with 

God, I am told my sister did not hesitate 

to be the one to replace my polyisobutylene 

pacifier when it would slip from 

my mouth. Her grieving for Mother was 

overtaken by her captivation with me. 

That little petrochemical nipple provided 

what nourishment it had to offer us both. 

My first memories are of following 

her around the backyard barefoot, polycarbonate 

sippy cup in hand —a thermoplastic 

containing, no doubt, the precursor 

monomer bisphenol A. She kept our 

baby dolls under a tree, sisters like us, 

made with additive plasticizers to soften 

their polyvinyl chloride bodies. She 

would brush their nylon hair and place 

them side by side to “sleep” under a blanket 

of biodegrading leaves. This is how I 

thought of her: I thought my sister had 

the power to infuse life into otherwise 

passive matter. She served this vitality 

to me from our high-impact polystyrene 

tea set. 

I am aware that my memories might 

be selective looking back under these 

circumstances. For example, it seems 

possibly too symbolic that the polyester 

comforter we pulled over our heads 

at night was printed in a lovely, replicative, 

baroque pattern of invertebrates 

and Carboniferous ferns. Or that the only 

children’s book of ours that I can recall 

with any detail featured sorrowful woolly 

mammoths, their trunks raised, unable 

to lift their knees in pools of tar. I know 

now that this image is merely a simplification 

for children, and that the much 

truer story of petroleum is composed of 

microorganisms; of phytoplankton, zooplankton 

and algae. But this is harder to 

Undine 

Sol Paz Kistler 

depict. 

At the time, I had taken a ballpoint 

pen (polystyrene and polypropylene) 

to the book’s pages and scribbled blue 

tears falling from their eyes and forming 

lakes around them. My sister drew ladders 

for the woolly mammoths to ascend. 

My sister stole for pleasure. I 

would be on the lookout at the market 

as she hid a can of peaches under her 

clothes. She would place the can on top 

of the fence and make us wait until the 

fruit had warmed in the sun, corn syrup 

mixing with BPA, until we would scoop 

out the syrupy half-moons and eat them 

with our hands. 

She drank straight from the polyethylene 

gallon milk jug, wiping her 

mouth dramatically afterwards. She was 

also a true redhead, like Mother. Each 

strand of her hair seemed to be a various 

shade of gold or copper. I watched 

her braid this hair with a nylon bristled 

brush, securing each plait with an elastomer 

band. 

Every time we would get into the 

car, my sister would turn and quickly 

buckle my polyethylene terephthalate 

seat belt for me before I had the chance. 

She would never outgrow this game. 

When I fell, she would gingerly apply 

nylon polymer bandages to my knees. I 

think of these gestures as the links between 

us —as long polymer chains of 

hydrogen and carbon. 

When the time came, my sister 

warned me that the sodium polyacrylate 

sanitary pads would feel like wearing a 

diaper. She showed me, before I had to 

ask, how inserting a low-density polyethylene 

tampon applicator was easier 

and more comfortable to do while standing 

up with one foot on the sink. 

Side by side at the sink, we 

scrubbed our faces with an exfoliating 

cleanser made of micro-fine polyethylene 

granules. These tiny beads have 

since sailed down, spilled out, and propelled 

themselves away into currents 

where they have passed into ever-increasing 

bodies of water; first a river, 

then a sea, until finally they reached the 

ocean where they are forever suspended 

into what could now be described as a 

large soup of materials that cannot die a 

natural death. 

She remembers our mother, while 

I can not. I think this is why my sister is 

the type of person that claims the belief 

that her spirit will never fully depart, 

but will only change form. Why she can 

look up at the stars and say that she 

feels “at home in the universe.” Like most 

redheads, she has a baptism of freckles 

across her face indicating stardust. I 

thought her beauty would mean she was 

stable and nearly-eternal. 

I chose to become a chemist in an 

effort to learn how to transform waste 

into worth. I wanted to understand intimately 

how, say: through the cumene 

process, where phenol is made from oil, 

a capsule of aspirin can be produced. 

And the expanse of geologic time can be 

held in the palm of your hand and administered 

to someone with a fever. In 

chemistry, things become more similar 

than they are different. DNA and nylon, 

for example, are both polymers. Simply 

put, they are long chains of repeating 

molecules. It’s the small changes in the 

type of molecules being bonded and 

how, that create different compositions. 

There is a memory I have, thinking this, as 

I watched my sister wearing lipstick (petrolatum) 

and biting into an apple coated 

in paraffin wax. I wanted to make sense of 

the way that death can imitate life. 

My sister and I, we are together everyday 

now. Grown old from other kinds 

of love that failed and disappointed. I am 

holding her hand, and this is the truce between 

our two dichotomies: we’ve agreed 

that her polyvinyl chloride IV is her etheric 

cord tethering her to this plane of energies. 

As she lays in her hospital bed 

breathing shallowly, I look into her eyes 

and see —what else? Nurdles, those resinous 

microplastics swirling in retinas the 

color of two great water columns. 

At her side, I am aware that I am incessantly 

lecturing that her current state 

of failing health is likely the result of a consumerism 

that we’ve both been immersed 

in. That all of these short-term pleasures 

have assembled in her body, mimicking 

life and disrupting her endocrine system 

until she has become frail from the organic 

eternity that is constant change. I find 

myself angry at a solidified material that is 

hard to pull apart, passive, yet performing 

invisible tasks. Fulminating that we were 

so desirous for a world that could always 

be future tense, we created an abundance 

of things made only for immediate consumption. 

At this, my sister’s eyes widen and 

her voice is propelled forward with that 

incalculable impetus, not the imitation of 

life, but the real thing: “Imagine how the 

ocean feels!”



Saint Luke Drawing the Virgin Reassembled 

Paper Collage (Source image: Rogier der Weyden) 21.20cm 

Eoin O’Dowd 

The Soft Glow of Ribs 

Jake Bailey 

Astonishment delayed, 

radioactive hoofsteps 

evaporating into the emptiness 

of a bowl that once held 

palms on either side. 

Now, it collects dust 

deeper than this world. 

Remember the birth of this 

idea, instrument of the given 

and the soft glow of ribs 

picked clean. Nothing lies 

blooded on the table, being 

becomes a syntax of water. 

Somewhere in-between 

erasure and dream 

imagines a veil, 

a place of nectar pooling 

in candles lit midscene to reveal 

a face carved out of broken glass. 

There is little difference between 

the shape of a church and its body. 

Stained glass often reflects the interior 

of a surface before the surface itself. 

Let the light come in the room. 

Let the moon become one 

with the sun as if lovers beneath 

cotton sheets in the midst of December, 

soft chill pulling bodies 

toward each other like the opposite 

of empty, bowl filling itself 

with smoke, cascading ghosts 

of shadows erased as 

cave made star. 

A man in the desert 

tracing footsteps back 

to the promise of a hand.


Spiriting... 

Ofem Ubi 


Photograph by Ofem Ubi


Three generations 

Grandmother, mother and daughter share 

the time in the little home to avoid the cold 

weather outside. This was the last time 

that I saw them together because sadly, the 

grandmother named Ofelia passed away 

because of COVID-19. 

Photograph by Ricardo General

author & artist 

BIOGRAPHIES 

Casey Aimer holds an MFA in poetry from 

Texas State and a bachelor’s in prose from 

Texas A&M University. For over a decade he 

has performed nationwide with spoken word 

and page poetry. He is a former non-profit 

writing director and the blog editor for the 

Porter House Review. Aimer has previously 

been published in Ars Medica, The Fictional 

Café, Toyon Literary Magazine, Inwood Indiana 

Press, and more. 

Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from 

Athens, Greece. A Pushcart, Best of the Net, 

Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions 

nominated writer, her work can be found in 

many journals, such as Litro, Jellyfish Review, 

HAD, Ruminate, Lost Balloon, X-R-A-Y 

and others. 

Hunter Anson is an artist from Perth, Australia 

who primarily focuses on graphic design, 

mainly consisting of apparel design 

and album artwork. Although, he also really 

enjoy playing around with digital textures 

and colours to create detailed pieces. 

Jake Bailey is a schiZotypal experientialist 

and host of Poetry and Pot. He has published 

or forthcoming work in Abstract Magazine, 

The American Journal of Poetry, Constellations, 

Diode Poetry Journal, Frontier 

Poetry, Guesthouse, Mid-American Review, 

Palette Poetry, PANK Magazine, Passages 

North, Storm Cellar, TAB: The Journal of Poetry 

& Poetics, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere. 

Jake received his MA from Northwest 

Missouri State University and his MFA from 

Antioch University, Los Angeles. He is a former 

editor for Lunch Ticket, current reader 

for Grist: A Journal of the Literary Arts, and 

lives in Illinois with his wife and their three 

dogs. You can find him on Twitter and Instagram 

(@SaintJakeowitz) and at saintjakeowitz.xyz. 

Julian Berger is a LA-based multimedia 

composer who is currently studying music 

composition and minoring in film music at 

Chapman University in Orange County. Coming 

from a classically trained background as 

a pianist, Julian has begun to branch out and 

now experiments with producing and blending 

electronic sounds and acoustic samples 

to create a vast variety of music. Find out 

about Julian’s most recent works on his youtube 

channel, www.youtube.com/c/Julianbergermusic 

Charlotte Cao is a current junior at Portola 

High School in Irvine, California. An avid 

reader and writer, she draws her inspiration 

from the likes of Sylvia Plath, Celeste Ng, and 

Ocean Vuong. As the daughter of Vietnamese 

immigrants, she is especially drawn to 

narratives that explore culture, family values, 

and the beauty of domesticity. Though she 

has yet to decide what she will pursue in the 

future, she is especially drawn to literature 

and the social sciences, believing that both 

provide a snapshot into the human experience. 

When she’s not writing poetry, she can 

often be found drinking excessive amounts 

of Thai tea boba and fawning over her dog 

Hershey. 

Darnell “DeeSoul” Carson (He/They) is a 

Black queer poet, performer, and educator 

from San Diego, CA, and Editorial Assistant 

at The Adroit Journal. A 2020 TWH Writing 

Workshop Fellow and two-time CUPSI finalist, 

his work has been featured on Button 

Poetry, in The Adroit Journal, Between My 

Body and The Air (A Youth Speaks Poetry 

Anthology), and elsewhere. He is graduating 

with a degree in Cultural/Social Psychology 

and a minor in Creative Writing from Stanford 

University and will be a Writer in the 

Public Schools Fellow in the NYU M.F.A program 

in Fall 2021. 

Yuan Changming started to learn the English 

alphabet at age nineteen and authored 

monographs on translation before leaving 

China. Currently, Yuan edits Poetry Pacif-

ic with Allen Yuan in Vancouver. Credits 

include eleven Pushcart nominations, ten 

chapbooks and appearances in the Best 

Canadian Poetry & BestNewPoemsOnline, 

among others across 46 countries. Recently, 

Yuan served on the Jury for Canada’s 44th 

National Magazine Awards (poetry category) 

and published a Chinese poetry collection. 

Andrea Chow (she/her) is a Chicana/Central 

American writer from Southern California 

and a student at Yale. Her work has 

been honored by the Ventura County Poetry 

Project. In her free time, you can find her 

performing slam poetry at her local library 

or going for long hikes in the Santa Monica 

Mountains. She also has her own blog, andreasarea.weebly.com. 

You can find more of 

her poetry in Changing Womxn Collective, 

MixedLife Media, Periphery Journal, and antifragile 

zine. Reach her on Instagram @andrea.chow 

or by email andrea.nicole.chow@ 

gmail.com 

Jaina Cipriano is a Boston based artist 

working with photography, film and installation. 

Her work explores the emotional toll of 

religious and romantic entrapment through 

immersive sets and emotional performances 

that mirror the subconscious. 

Eoin O’Dowd is an artist from Dublin, living 

and working in Helsinki. The following two 

works submitted to Sienna Solstice, are from 

an ongoing body of work titled Emotional Illiteracy. 

Each hand cut collage is an image of 

itself re-imagined. Thematically, Eoin’s work 

references violent personal experiences and 

employs a volatile and frenetic kind of energy. 

The work concerns that emotional illiteracy 

, taught, and ubiquitous in a masculinity 

that is aggressive and reactionary. 

Ricardo General is a photographer, documentary 

maker, who began his career in 

2010, recording social movements in Chile. 

In his career he has explored areas of registration 

in performing arts, cultural heritage 

and diverse cultures around the world with 

publications in various Chilean and Latin 

American magazines such as National Geographic 

in Spanish. In 2018, he held the exhibition 

Shades de Thailand, which would 

later be transformed into a book produced 

by the Royal Thai Embassy describing the 

most important aspects of Thai culture. His 

photography has always been linked to unraveling 

the intimate aspects of each cultural 

manifestation as well as the environment 

within the daily life in the places he visits. 

Photography must be a journey. 

Christian Leon Guerrero is an Asian American/Pacific 

Islander freelance illustrator 

and fine artist based in San Francisco, California. 

Born and raised in the Bay Area and 

Los Angeles, Christian earned his Bachelor 

of Arts degree from California College of the 

Arts. His choice of medium is a diverse range 

of traditional materials. He strives to depict 

dreamy and nostalgic imagery through color, 

shape, and form. He currently creates work 

for editorial magazines as well as galleries 

throughout the U.S. 

Amelia Horney (b. 2001) is a New York and 

Los Angeles based composer whose work 

has always been very emotionally and visually 

driven. She is deeply inspired by collaboration, 

other art-forms, the human condition 

and subconscious, and her natural 

surroundings. Recently, she has been specifically 

fascinated by expansive and surreal 

imagery, from both paintings and from her 

own dreams. Through her music, Horney 

seeks to share her inner emotional experience 

and create spaces that spark curiosity 

and reflection within the listener. Horney 

has participated in summer festivals such as 

Curtis Summerfest Young Artist’s Summer 

Program for Composition, Boston University’s 

Tanglewood Institute Young Artist Composition 

Program, and the Lake George Music 

Festival Composer Institute, where she 

has had several works premiered by faculty 

and peers. Horney is currently pursuing 

a Bachelor of Music in Composition at the 

University of Southern California, Thornton 

School of Music, and has studied privately 

with notable composers such as Saad 

Haddad, Alyssa Weinberg, Andrew Norman, 

Veronika Krausas, and Ted Hearne. When 

she is not composing, you can find Amelia 

creating light installations and playing with 

her adorable Labrador Retriever, Percy. 

Jisu “Jisutice” Kim is a painter based in 

Seoul, South Korea. She finds it very unusual 

to write about herself in the third person, 

but will give it her best effort. She graduated 

from the college of Fine Arts at Kyunghee 

University, but has since developed her own 

painting style by purposefully un-learning 

what she learned in school. She would say 

that what really taught her the most about 

art was a moment when she found little wild 

flowers which look very fragile, but have an 

instinctual tenacity and passion for life. She 

believes that such qualities are necessary 

for a healthy society to exist, and so those 

flowers, without saying a word, provided her 

with the realization of what she wants to do 

with her painting.She is making a conscious 

effort to do her part in inspiring others to feel 

passionately grateful for being alive by creating 

paintings and sharing her everyday life 

on social media, and existing quietly, similarly 

to the wild, natural world. You can always 

feel free reach out, connect, and get inspired 

by finding her on instagram; @Jisutice 

Makino Kinjo grew up in a small island of 

Japan, Okinawa. She majored in American 

Literature in Bunkyo university. While she 

was in Canada as an exchange student, she 

became interested in photography by borrowing 

her friend’s camera. Then she started 

talking photos as her hobby. Her photography 

has no specific genre, but mainly focuses 

on realistic and well composed moment 

happens in ordinal life. She respects Japanese 

photographer Kishin Shinoyama. 

Sol Paz Kistler is interested in exploring 

how the culture of military imperialism specific 

to the U.S. infuses and informs civilian 

life, values, identities and desires through 

their writing. While they are primarily a visual 

artist, they write short stories to supplement 

and expand on an image. They have 

not lived long, but they have lived in all four 

corners of the continental United States and 

currently reside in Kealakekua, HI. 

J.I. Kleinberg, in the unrelenting battle 

against doggerel and sloth, wields recycle-bin 

magazines, x-acto knife, and glue. 

Her visual poems, which explore the accidental 

syntax of unintentional phrases, have 

been published in print and online journals 

worldwide. An artist, poet, freelance writer, 

and three-time Pushcart and Best of the Net 

nominee, she lives in Bellingham, Washington, 

USA, and on Instagram @jikleinberg. 

Aliza Li is a freshman at Johns Hopkins University, 

studying writing and cognitive science. 

Her work has been recognized by Aerie 

International, Canvas Teen Literary, and 

the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She 

spends most of her free time glued to a computer 

screen or hanging out with friends at 

her local boba shop. Her favorite album to 

listen to while writing is Takatoshi Naitoh’s 

“In The Forest”. 

Sophie Mathieu has won numerous awards 

for her work writing music for diverse mediums. 

Her music explores concepts of vastness, 

timelessness, and ethereality. Collaboration 

is a key facet of her artistic practice. 

Sophie is a first year masters student at the 

University of Texas at Austin. She completed 

her undergraduate at the University of 

Southern California, earning the distinction 

of “Outstanding Graduate in Composition” 

when she finished her studies. In addition 

to composing, Sophie plays cello, frequently 

performing her own works and those of her

colleagues. Outside of music, she loves to 

cook, watch psychological horror films, and 

play Sid Meier’s Civilization V. 

Divya Mehrish is a writer and student at 

Stanford University. Her work has been recognized 

by the National Poetry Competition, 

the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award, the 

Scholastic Writing Awards, and the Columbia 

College Chicago’s Young Authors Writing 

Competition. Her writing has been published 

in or is forthcoming from Sojourners, PANK, 

Coastal Shelf, Prairie Margins, Broken Pencil, 

Roadrunner Review, Blue Marble Review, 

Polyphony Lit, Tulane Review, and Amtrak’s 

magazine The National, among others. 

Miranda Navarro is a 20-year-old artist 

from Argentina. She’s studying to be an ESL 

teacher, but in her free time she likes to draw 

and paint. Miranda is interested in different 

forms of art-making, such as drawing, making 

music, cooking, building, creating, writing, 

digital painting, etc. She had been working 

as a digital artist on Instagram during the 

pandemic until she decided to take a break. 

Besides studying, Miranda currently makes 

hand-made paintings on clothes with acrylics. 

Lauren Pan, from Dallas, TX, is a part of the 

class of 2024 at Johns Hopkins University, 

majoring in Biomedical Engineering and 

potential minoring in Applied Mathematics 

and Statistics. On campus, she’s involved in 

Hippocrates Med Review, Engineering without 

Borders, TEDxJHU, Phi Mu Sorority, and 

a few others organizations. In her free time, 

she loves to play ice hockey, waste time on 

TikTok, and play WordHunt on GamePigeon. 

Sebastian Petersen enjoys creating abstract 

sculptures and illustrations as a form 

of relaxation between working on highly 

symbolic illustrations about his culture, and 

family history. This piece is no exception and 

speaks to a place inhabited by strange fishlike 

beasts at the edge of consciousness. Sebastian 

lives in San Francisco with his dog 

and partner, where he beach combs and 

thrifts during his off hours to fire supplies for 

art projects. 

Philipp Schmitt (he/him; b. 1993, Germany) 

is an artist, designer, and researcher 

based in Brooklyn, USA. His creative practice 

engages with the philosophical, poetic, 

and political dimensions of computation. 

Philipp’s works include installations, artist 

books, websites, photography, and sound. 

His current work addresses opacity and 

imagination in artificial intelligence research 

and its history. 

Silvana Smith is a visual artist and writer 

born in Sicily and raised in Florida. She 

recently graduated from The University of 

North Florida with a degree in fine arts. She 

pursues sculpture, photography, illustration, 

printmaking and any other practice that can 

help convey ideas. Her creations typically 

focus on linework, longing and language. 

Her art and poetry have been published in 

Folio Weekly, Backslash Literary, Honeyfire 

Literary Magazine, The Giving Room Review, 

Baby Teeth Journal and The Luna Collective. 

You can find more of her baking , art making, 

poetry and quarantine activities through Instagram 

@eggexplorer. 

Kara Theart creates physical images of 

loneliness with the space itself having an effect 

on the subjects within. 

Ofem Ubi is a Poet, Photographer and Film 

maker from Nigeria. He was shortlisted for 

and also published in the Deep Dreams 

Anthology of the Nigerian Students Poetry 

Prize, 2018 and has been published in the 

Inkwell Journal. He seeks to fuse art genres 

into documentation. Presently using film, 

poetry, photography to tell time, archive the 

present and explore the nuance that exists 

in memory, the divine and Nigeria generally. 

His works are displayed in his social media 

handles as well as his YouTube channel. 

Hannah Villanueva is an emerging writer 

and photographer from Palmer, Alaska. Living 

with a mental illness for her whole life, 

her work is focused on observing the earth 

as a source of healing for the mind, body, 

and soul. She values the art of stillness as 

a daily cultivating practice. Currently she is 

pursuing a degree in film and media studies. 

In navigating her identity as a multiracial, 

Latinx, Asian-American woman, she hopes 

to portray wholeness in her creating. 

Heath Joseph Wooten (he/him) is an MFA 

candidate at Northern Michigan University. 

He is an associate poetry editor at Passages 

North, an upcoming guest reader at perhappened 

mag, and was recently nominated for 

inclusion in the Best New Poets 2021 Anthology. 

He is an avid collector of cassettes and 

other obsolescences, and you can find his 

work in or forthcoming from mutiny!, Dear, 

perhappened, and others. 

Kate Hayashi 

Editor 

Rukan Saif 

Editor 

Lea Wang-Tomic 

Editor 

Yumnaa Aboosally 

Design 

Esther Suyoung Moon 

Design 

Audrey Pham 

Design 

Jisoo Hope Yoon 

Poetry Reader

ISSUE III

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