Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
“Cambridge, MA: The only place in the world where Harvard and MIT professors live next door to immigrant families on food stamps, who in turn live next door to high-profile lawyers, who live next door to Wobblies, who live next door to old-New England money grandparents, who live next door to Harvard frat boys” - Urban Dictionary
Dear Holworthy Street,
I’ll take the 71 or 73
bus, from Harvard
to meet you.
I have trudged
on your concrete canvas
spat gum into sewers
created a sanctuary
of Smirnoff handles
at the bottom
of the Charles River.
From here,
I can see Mt. Auburn Hospital
where i was born
and JFK Park
where I was born again
When I see you,
I’ll bring a bouquet
of cement-seed syringes
a Central Square specialty
where sullen souls shiver
like the rumble of the Red Line below.
And when I see you,
I miss the old echo
of Italian music
in late August
sultry sound & spaghetti sauce
sift through the air
smells like Mimi’s meatballs
and tastes like the leftover
morsels of the material past.
The chapel has since become
a cathedral of condos.
Cambridge, you have become a stranger
The visionaries of the future
have embedded their roots
into your core.
And like a misguided matriarch,
have left your very children
to fend for themselves
while you make the world a better place
with pillars
in need of repair.
At times we felt,
Like thousands
of arching sunflowers
expected to be satisfied
by a sloppy
scientific
splash of sun
and springtime
sidewalk salt.
I miss you,
But the greyhound
growls at Mass’ billboards
looming like mountains
beyond mountains, tracing
the granite shoulders of New
Hampshire,
to where Vermont sky glows
like sun-kissed grass.
Here, I belong.
See you at Thanksgiving,
and like an obsolete relative,
honor how I have grown since.