We welcome you to the first ever national edition of The Tributary. Authors and poets from all over the country allowed us to weave together their works into an iridescent tapestry. It is one that we here at The Tributary are proud to present to you. From the forests of Vermont to the Valleys of California, we are proud to present to you our first group of works from the 2023 national edition. We thank our writers for their inquisitive, vulnerable, breathtaking work, and we thank you, for reading with us.
Tributary 2022
It is finally here! Submissions like rain mixed into a puddle, dripped into a stream, formed this year’s issue of Lycoming College’s Tributary. Rather than parse that expansive literary-sky, find your favorite (or soon-to-be-favorites) here in our collection of works. We thank you for your patronage and urge you to support our journal and future suppliers of fresh art.
2022 creative nonfiction fiction literary journal poetry TheTributary
Red Summer
Sarah Lanphear
There’s an etching in the southern magnolia
on the corner of Fourth and Mae, a scar
hidden by flowers, sticks, and leaves
on a branch just low enough,
just within reach.
The cut buried
by men who know how to hide
when they need to, who know
to work by night. White
hoods masked
by the dark.
The wound deepens
with each sunset, suffocating
a branch not made to bear the weight
of a man or the tension
of a rope.
But the hoods are too tied up to see
the carving, cutting too deep,
the branch, wearing away
until the day it finally
snaps.
Residuum
Rylee Delaney
Desolation
follows a path
of pickle jars
past teacup
vistas of watercolor
clarity,
through rum
bottle forests,
empty,
to one too many
towels, soiled
and vacant,
again.
Particle
Bianca Valentin

I am
Rylee Delaney
They, myself
not excluded, thought:
but surely I am
None,
not one
are the “other”
The hurricanes, the
earthquakes, several feet
from the other
All lusting,
a storming desire to
be the “other”
Together, a collective
petrified, shy, shying
from the other
Knowing, it’s possible,
impossible, to
be the “other”
They, myself
not excluded, thought:
but surely I am
The Riverwalk
Sohini Mukherjee
As the sun set by the Susquehanna riverwalk,
the sky took a shade of orange, lively
yet soul-soothing. The hills, newly clad
in emerald, ripple like the sun rays
on my caramel skin, whistling as I walk.
The river’s wind pushes into my brown hair, sends me
into a labyrinth of my fondest memories. One night,
a sweet friend took me to the riverwalk.
I heard the flowing water, saw the stars
illuminate the night. I spent those summer days
laughing with my friends and cracking the jokes.
We watched ducks cross the river, fish swim next to us,
and birds flying past. Paper airplanes fly above us,
our hearts would long to board one, to go home.
In the darkness, I swore the riverwalk
was a confluence of the Indian rivers
Alakananda and Mandakini.
In a moment, my childhood days;
I longed to hold my maa and baba’s hand again.
The little neighborhood lights from the hills reminded
me of home where the village women, up in the hills,
would light oil lamps in the evening to perform their
evening prayers and illuminate their little shanties.
Intimidated to go on a walk by myself, once I
learned that I am enough, how beautiful
of a mind I have, my riverwalk strolls became
the happiest instances of self-care. There is no fear
of being judged or labeled at the riverwalk.
The river accepts me for who I am and here I go,
whistling my tune, being my authentic self.
Nightmares
August Wampole
I had a nightmare.
(Not unusual, but it left me in a haze)
God gave me His power, said He lost care
For humanity. Left me in a daze
And then he was gone.
And I was alone with the world.
The Grand Tetons, Wyoming
Rylee Delaney

Who’s The Bastard Now?
Caleb Hipple
1. A Hippie Fucks My Mom, 2000
“Tune in, Turn on and Drop out” (his favorite quote on Facebook)
Robbie, my absent creator, holds a breath—
he imagines instead her lover’s puffed chest, quakes
knowingly, blows on plump dandelions, unsheathes
in her stretching garden. Hidden, a snake
slides from basement cinder blocks, two states away.
Terry pins, presses, severs its squirming neck.
He doesn’t fear its bite, tongue, or patternless sway,
as four kids upstairs ask what’s nextnextnex—
thinks I’m child number five, made weeks prior.
Back in Ayden, NC, a spill of cum won’t unslick
the floor. Beneath tiles and grout, there’s fire
ivying towards Pennsylvania. Sweat drips
down truth; I can’t (but could?) be of the love she spurned,
yet my flowering roots ask when we’ll return.
2. I Imagine Robbie and His Dad
Shutout
You didn’t just win; you championed two states!
Robert Sr. smells pine-tar under a hellish
sun, on his brow and shaking hands. Relish
soaks through a bun, beneath my nails. (I am late
by twenty-one years… or early. No, I arrive
at the last inning.) I can’t find your head
amidst the jerseys, flying spit; the sky is red
as thread from a ball. It wraps your career in five
years of coaching, guiding our Robbie to bat
at unseen meteors. He trips. And he hurts.
In a Friday’s dusk, his pants rip; the tears bleed
into a rusty slick. His dad hides in his hat,
holds back tears; it is quiet. He doesn’t know why
fatherless sons scream play ball, hoping the kid cries.
3. After Robbie Posts About Me Without Permission
I scan my face like it’s your message,
marked by hands I’ve never felt. So unfamiliar
in a mirror, those pearlescent vestiges
wait for me like a father: brow greased in anger,
the nose, beard hiding moles. Punnet squares
surround my patchworked childhood, cover questions
and cover-up answers. I can’t even heave in air—
or undig—I am the hole, the dirt, lessened
but greater with each clenched scoop. Now nothing’s left
for me to squeeze; this mud was bound to dry.
We talked only once. This paydirt lead to your theft,
your public claim, of my impossibly blue eyes…
I too can’t keep secrets, so should’ve known sooner
to give you my nickname for you are now “The Ruiner.”