Stylite #72 (porcelain) by David Helrich, senior, IU Bloomington

Hibernation by Timorthy Borntrager, senior, IU Bloomington

Penelope by Amanda Sisk, senior, IU Bloomington

Book cover by J. Keith Raines, senior, IU Bloomington

Formula I (detail), Design Studio (detail), Formula II (detail) by Tsuyoshi Miike, senior, IU Bloomington

Art in Word and Image

The Perfect Specimen

Mesmerized by the
slippery click of your

ex o skeleton

Kafka had this vision
this
nightmare this
meta mor phosis
of fear

sliding past my titanium like lover
his armor gleaming
mine dulled by the glare

in the far reaches of a museum
I saw your
tight

ex o skeleton

pinned

to a red felt board
in a climate controlled box
preserving
a perfect specimen

your barbed legs still wriggling
your razor wire chrysalis
remains in my bed.

—Gretchen Oberle, junior, Indiana University East

Fast Girls Kiss on the First Date

Four months of conversation;
four months of emails, letters, phone calls;
all-night fantasies of phantom fingers braided in mine,
then dragging over my anticipating mouth
culminated in a charged meeting of nettled hormones
which my mother warned would be explosive:
Best to go with friends and come home early, she warned,
and don't kiss, don't touch, and don't fool around—
which lasted until ten o'clock and our second round of pool,
with my body laid out like a rug over the scratchy turf
of the billiard table, butt poised like a denim speed bump,
ready for him to drive on over.
I sent friends home and got in his truck,
our thighs rubbing subtle sex static.
We parked in the Quaker's friendship gardens,
the night sky purple-black as a bruised eye,
framed by weeping willows and the sculptured heads
of street lights.
We sat on the cool damp stone benches, fireflies shining out SOS
with electric abdomens—God's last attempt at control
over his shaking legs and my sweaty hands—as I puckered lips
and dropped kisses in his cheek, experimenting, until he theorized
I would return his tongue with a taste of my own,
as he taught me the delicate art of making out
and deceiving my mother.

—Jessica Fields, sophomore, Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis

Grandmother

If I call your name,
will you listen from the grave,
crawl out of Jesus' bosom
and say here I am?

If my sleep is void of rest,
will you lie my head in your lap,
smooth my temples with hyssop
and spiral my locks
through familiar fingers?

If I should ask about our name,
will you touch hot coals
to your tongue,
promise to tell the truth,
open your mouth, and let your secrets spill out
like an army of locusts,
record your mysteries in my heart
for me to shoulder as my own?

—Gaylie R. Cotton, junior, Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis