Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
Stop yelling - not my fault the damn bridge is up. A hundred groans from the mouths of late commuters. He watched his daughter’s crew team race here, once. Did they win? Who can remember. Is this aging or something worse. He feels as if he is living that one Billy Collins poem about forgetfulness but ironically can’t remember most of it. The scene is unglamorous. Something about the stillness of cars parallels late night anxiety: it makes you think about what you said and what you should have said and this and that and quondam relationships. Turn up the radio. See, Taylor agrees: you should have said no. She’s going to be so angry, god god god. She’s going to dump me this time, not like last time, for real this time, and it isn’t even my fault that some skyscraper of a boat needs to pass the Cut. A red balloon bounces down the sidewalk, across the road. What is traffic but poetry. What is traffic but the cacophony of every little thing that killed you this past week, exploding. I pull out my moleskin but wonder whether I really appreciate this particular brand of poetry or whether I just want to exude the classically-Seattle, indie exterior of a woman who carries a spiral notebook wherever she goes. Alaska Airlines arena. How did it get that name? He wonders about corporate sponsorship and then about the real likelihood of subsidized time. Honey, look, I think they’re lowering the bridge. Honey, please could you text Joanna that we’re going to be late to dinner.