Together it was common, to weep in the glow of darkness
Straddled to circumstances made from cold structure
Details concern the ripe fright hid by a friendly wind
Her thin skin in an embrace of autumn fits
But living was a tender imagination, for she was dead
Belinda Andrade
She’s the scariest-looking something,
Cane stalk arms and an appetite for huckleberries,
Slowly looking, examining the freshly lit greenery,
My Jesus my, having a baby along?
Fanged jaws and split tongues,
Running, couldn’t die alone.
Henry Claesson
The Boxwood:
Her closed place
A private, secret refuge beyond 124
Denver's imagination is protected
Protected of 124
Protected of Darkness
Protected of Sethe
Protected of a hurt world
Beyond a stream, a field, oaks, bushes,
Beyond hunger
Loneliness was sweet
Loneliness for dead people
Denver, straddled in combination of secret and imagination
The boxwood produced food
Little Denver, crawl from hurt to refuge.
Kelly Dunleavy
Impatient churchbells clanged
in the distance
tight, swollen flesh crunched
the long, wild underfoot
The dying temple told stories
of kneeling and protest
of warmth and cold
The fields of Sweet Home
replaced by its thoughts,
stayed sharp
like an iron point
The long row stretched
from day to night
alive and alone
mother and baby sank
The dying temple told stories
of kneeling and protest
of warmth and cold
The world gained distance
her thoughts shifted
the antelope danced
and her patience drifted
Sophia Sorrentino
This place makes me think of her. She always comes back to help her mother, I think that is why the house that is no longer hers still is. Everything here is untouched like the contents of a museum. But nothing is clean. Dust covers the entire house, especially the attic. The attic is a child's paradise. Relics from the 70's and 80's consume it in the form of clothes and games and music. On the left side there is a PC that hasn't been turned on in 15 years, we loved to push the dirty, faded keys, pretending we were businesswomen while we wore her old shoulder padded jackets. We would push the now ratty and no longer appreciated plush animals in an old squeaky buggy. She has never been childish, maybe she left it all in the attic. Each time we went, we would place a note on the slanted part of the ceiling we could reach. The notes are still there, but now we have to duck so we won't knock our heads on the slanted stucco. My mother’s childhood rests in that attic, packed away but still ready to be taken out and examined by us. Old pictures and dresses were always our favorite to look at. She would tell us stories too, stories I could listen to all day. She is fun like the attic, she loves to take us to museums and out to dinner. She said she loved learning about foreign countries as a child, so she takes us to the countries she could never visit. There are two sets of stairs that lead down to the second floor, I make Anna take the safer one because she's little. The second floor is similar to the attic. The smell of mothballs consume both so intensely. Renovation is not a common occurrence here. "It looks the same, but with less posters and pink floyd albums" she remarked. The hallway walls are filled with pictures of her life, some of us too. Random old paintings and multiple law degrees hang on the wall. She is talented like her family. The best part is the laundry chute. She told us that when she was 7, she and her brother used to drop their cat from the second floor laundry chute into a bed of pillows the bottom. When we come we do that too, no cat this time, just plush animals. We always wanted to be like her. She didn't love everything about her childhood, though. It was chaotic like the living room downstairs. The main floor always smelled like something was cooking, even though almost always, nothing ever was. But the living room was different, it was her father’s room. It smells of books and dirty carpet, the furniture is black and white stripped and the walls are a rich red like, like the blood the seeps from a cut that needs stitches. The living room is eternally stained by the selfish ways of her father. Nobody really likes that room, but you have to pass through it in order to get into a room that is more like her than any other part of the house, the porch. The porch is screened in, it is a small room with two chairs and a couch, both white wicker, a porch swing hangs idly by, waiting for someone to rest on it. I’m sure this room has over 15 small pillows in it and is by far the most colorful of the rooms, even though it is all white. Light always flooded into the room, it seemed to fully disregard the tall shady trees that surround the porch on two sides. It is quirky and different like she is. Sitting on the porch swing you can see the magnificent colors splattered on Columbia drive, the view doesn't get any better considering you're in Waterloo, Iowa. The colors remind me of her, lighthearted similar to her laugh. My father proposed to her on that porch too, I guess happiness just rests there. She is both within and without the grey house on Columbia Drive.
Lilian Walker
Challenges of a blended family
One packet per pair of students
AP Terms and Chapter 3 passage from 37-42
6 minutes of independent reading from page 37 ("I believe this baby's ma'am is gonna die" to page 42 ("Anything dead coming back to life hurts").
Work thoughtfully through as many of the eight questions as you can manage - careful consideration of each question is more beneficial than speed. It's okay if you don't finish all of the questions.
6 minutes of independent reading
Work question out through conversation - even if one partner is more extroverted, make sure that the conversation is balanced. When writing out the two to three sentence explanation for each answer choice, alternate which partner does the writing.
Put both names and the period at the top of the packet and hand it in before you leave.
No homework
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