Death Spiral
Mara Popa ‘26
In this piece, I explore the cyclical nature of women’s socialization into restrictive gender norms through the imagery of army ants. When army ants get caught walking in a circular motion, it is virtually impossible to break their cycle of movement, and the group will walk until death from exhaustion. In this work, a select few are able to converge from the path of the spiral behind them, only to begin a new cyclical “dance” of their own. Even once aware enough of social expectations to attempt their reversal, it remains forever impossible to live outside their context.
The Bramble
A tangled mass of vines and leaves stands out among the long, flowing grass.
The sun shines perfectly, illuminating the rich berries delicately hanging.
I rush forward, carelessly stomping over what lies beneath me.
The lea scratches my thighs under pink plaid shorts,
the bramble more intertwined as I move faster, trying to outrun the grass.
The meadow retreats as it meets the bright green thicket.
The cloying berries urge me to venture into the bush as they shine,
bulbous berries so juicy they might burst if you looked for a second too long.
My mouth begins to moisten,
and I dive into the bramble,
thick vines digging into my skin.
The leaves itch my cheeks as I look for reprieve.
A singular spot of innocence sits perfectly protected, slightly more inward.
I close my eyes, seeing with my hands as thorns bite into my body.
Suddenly, the pain stops, and I open my eyes.
A purple reflects onto my legs, the berries surrounding my head like a halo.
I reach up in indulgence as Tantalus might have.
Sweet, warm juice drips down my hands.
The purple of it stains my fingers,
and the thick aroma of spring fills my nose.
The juice bonds with my bruises and blood,
and my hands, picking every one I see, fill with berries.
My mouth is overwhelmed with the saccharine fruit,
my cornsilk hair stained purple.
I sit still for a moment, listening—
the buzz of pollination, the formation of berries,
the digestion in my own body.
My stomach groans and aches, scolding me like my mother
would if she found out I had eaten this much.
I lean forward, hands outstretched, guiding me forward.
The thorns dig into my sides, even more than before.
The sun blinds me as I emerge, sitting in the same place in the sky,
as if no time has gone by at all since I entered.
A bumblebee buzzes beyond the bramble of blackberries,
and I quietly thank him for helping replenish my treasure.
Tess Barry ‘27
This piece is about nostalgia of childhood and how when you try to relive childhood experiences, they can often come up as more emotional than you’d originally realized.