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 amongst the long, flowing grass.
The sun shines perfectly, illuminating the rich berries delicately hanging.
I rush forward, carelessly stomping over whatever lies under the grass.
The lea scratches my thighs under my pink plaid shorts.
The bramble gets more detailed 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 in the light.
The bulbous berries were so juicy as if they might burst if you looked for a second too long.
My mouth began to moisten,
I dove into the bramble
The thick vines dug into my skin
The leaves itched my cheeks as I tried to find reprieve
A singular spot of innocence sat perfectly protected, slightly more inwards
I closed my eyes, seeing with my hands as the thorns bit into my body
Suddenly, the pain stopped, and I opened my eyes.
A purple reflected onto my legs as berries surrounded my head as a halo would.
I reached up in indulgence as Tantalus might have.
Sweet, warm juice drips down my hands.
The purple juice leaves a stain on my fingers.
The thick aroma of spring fills my nose.
The juice bonds with my bruises and blood.
My hands fill with berries as I pick every one I see.
My mouth gets overwhelmed with saccharine fruit.
My cornsilk hair is stained purple
I sit still for a moment, listening
I can hear the pollination and formation of berries,
The digestion in my own body
My stomach groans and aches, internally scolding me like my mother would have if she found out I ate this much.
I lean forward, putting my hands in front of me, guiding myself forward
The thorns dig into my sides even more than they did the first time
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.
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 we realized.