A body twitches
on the banks of a glazed lake
in front of us.

There’s a trail
of scarlet smeared on crisp white ground,
and it stains our hands.

Sticking to us,
like the syrup that cascades from our lips.
Spatter splays across our flustered cheeks

Our heads, frozen on winter’s tongue,
leave us no choice but to look at the beast,
and we peer into the cracking glass.

But we do not see beasts,
only men of lust and pride and gluttony;
sins of delight—sins of pleasure.

When we look into the shards of glass,
we do not see beasts.

When we look into the shards of glass,
we see hunters.

Jessica Mele is a first-year student and English major from Doylestown, Pennsylvania.
She enjoys writing poetry, short stories, and novels. She was the copy editor for this
issue.