spokane falls community college – 2012 – creative arts...
TRANSCRIPT
Spokane Falls Community College – 2012 – Creative Arts Magazine
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2011-12 Wire Harp Staff
Literary Editor Robin Golke
Art Director Brian SiemonGraphic Arts Advisor: Doug CrabtreeLiterary Advisors: Laura Read Connie Wasem Scott
Literary Staff Mikayla Davis Tara Halvorson Caitlin Houghton Sierra Schleufer Kim Taylor
Special Thanks Richard Baldasty Glen Cosby Connie Johnson Heather McKenzie Mardis Nenno Carl Richardson Tammy Santana Erik Sohner
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Richard Baldasty Awards
Richard Baldasty taught philosophy and history at SFCC from 1984-2007, and during his tenure, he was regularly published in this journal and contributed significantly to the arts on our campus. Upon his retirement, The Wire Harp honored the spotlight he shone on poetry by naming our poetry award for him. Each year, The Wire Harp staff selects what we consider the most artistic poem, written by a student and published in this issue, as the recipient of this award. Three other awards, one for a work of fiction or nonfiction, one for photography, and one for fine art are also awarded. Each of these students will receive a $100 prize, as a result of a generous gift from Richard.
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Wire Harp – Table of Contents by Genre
Poetry No Utensils Needed 1Robin Golke
The Meaning 3Abigail C. Tyrrell
I Want You to Love Poetry 7Mario Tedesco
Taste 8Derek Annis
Descending Within 21Austin Prettyman
The Everlasting Gift 27Yukihiro Furusho
Cellphone 28James Tankersley
Spilling out 31Michele Burkey
How I Got My License 38Caitlin Houghton Richard Baldasty Poetry Award Winner
Loneliness 41Rachelle Bradley
On the Corner of Second Street 43Mikayla Davis
“Scary Thought: A Halloween Without Pumpkins” 47Derek Annis
Packing 48Michele Burkey
Un Peu de Temps 50 Josh Myhre
Berry Havoc 54Raquel Houghton
God 58Robert Skovajsa
Lilac Summer 61Cara Lorello
Parallax 65Megan Hewins
While Watching the Cat Chase the Sunlight 66Tara Halvorson
The Demise of 5 Children 76Sierra Schleufer
Unattended (5 Across) 78Alicia Barranco
Family Ties 86Robin Golke
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Wire Harp – Table of Contents by Genre
Fiction Glass 12Josh Myhre Fiction Award Winner
Discomfort Food 33Alicia Barranco
Satin Moo 52Richard Baldasty
The Message From The Sky 68Yukihiro Furusho
The Subway 82Abigail C. Tyrrell
Fine Art Bob’s hand 4Caitlin Clawson
My version of persistence 5 Elizabeth Honrud
Long Live Gonzo 6 Gavin Griffith
Green gone wild 10Kathleen Miles
Palouse wheat cups 11Kathleen Miles
Unseen Dimension 2 13Paris Reese
Rabbit 19Seng Olsen
Machine 20Joshua Hall
Chayote 25Krystn Parmley
Finger extension 26Joshua Hall
Tea pot with cups–Euajira 29Iveth Canales
Untitled #1 30Katrina Walker
Fog, December Morning 90Ryan Miller
Burial of the Good Calf 95Mario Tedesco
Program Teams With Hospitals to Give Students Job Experience 98Sarah Suksdorf-Reiner
Poetry
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Wire Harp – Table of Contents by Genre
Fine Art
Photography Where we dwell 2Eric Beaudaurier
Handle with Care 9Loretta Surma
Untitled 15Chris Thompson
Beyond 17Loretta Surma
Watergirl 24Brad Lewis
100 years in the making 34Chris Thompson
Again and again 45Frank Knapp
Piano string 46Brad Lewis Photography Award Winner
Chained 49Frank Knapp
Irrigation Pier 51Frank Knapp
Butterfly 32Seng Olsen
Ziling 35Sophia Xue
Hope and Fear 36Jamie Bendixen Fine Art Award Winner
Untitled 37Brendan Dodge
Untitled 40Paris Reese
Gothic building 42Brendan Dodge
Dr. Seuss’s Marbles 80Caitlin Clawson
Angel of Justice and the Fall of Babylon 92Paris Reese
Scott Olson 94Julia Grandy
Triptych with dog 96Jamie Bendixen
Us, from yesterday–head of woman 97Iveth Canales
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1
No Utensils Needed
Robin Golke
One thing occupied the enormous pantry in our family’s kitchen— it was a small can of sauerkraut juice, silver rimmed with a lime-green label, an image of a cabbage head stamped onto the front; rusting at the bottom, leaking out its juicesslowly. Looking back i wonder why i checkedin the pantry daily, already knowing all iwould find was that lone can. But iwas just 14 when hope heldas much power as a loafof bread, or a hollowbelly begging for eggs.i could feel a drinkof water splashat the bottoma rogue wavebroke in my guti would imaginea tiny creaturesurfing carelesslyon the wave in myhollow stomach.
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Where we dwell
Eric Beaudaurier
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The Meaning
Abigail C Tyrrell
i cook like a broken violin playsthe heat from the stove stings my facebubbling oil clicks and flicksi can taste the steam when i breathei close my mouth and the taste turnsit smells like the lovely kiss of thrown punch to my nosei bet this is how you felton the bench in front of Starbucks in ’07it wasn’t a benchit was the curb of the parking lotwomen in scarves and babies on leashes swam past usbut we couldn’t see themwe were supposed to be carving out our homeworkbut we couldn’t because he wore green and i had a navy knit scarfour shoes fell from our feetand then our feet fell from our bodiesas the rise and fall of our thoughtsrocked our heads together with a bang
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Bob’s hand
Caitlin Clawson
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My version of persistence
Elizabeth Honrud
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Long Live Gonzo
Gavin Griffith
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I Want You to Love Poetry
Mario Tedesco
Because I do, and we really need something new to talk aboutbesides football and People magazinealthough I like to talk about those things toobut that is what separates you and me
I want you to love Philip Larkinthe lonely librarian who speaks like a busy trainor Pablo Neruda, who through poetry paints himself as the faithful loverbut he was only that
on paper. Most of all thoughI want you to love my poetryas much as I do I want the first time you read my work
to feel like your scalp is drying up and when your chapped skin splits and runsI wish that we would play a game of Stop Hitting Yourselfwhere I grab your hand and force you to pull your hymen
out of that dry place and give it a little tearthen when I let go you will lookdown at your dripping fingers and you will suck on themone by one, reveling in a new sweetness
I want poetry to be the reason you keep your nails cut shortso the next time you step into a library you will rememberone of my raunchier poems and while looking around for othersyou will slip them under the band of your underwear
but to tell you the truthmy poems won’t excite you like that becausethere are no words in the one I wrote for you and becauseI have nothing new to talk to you about.
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Taste
Derek Annis
Listento the newspaper scrapsin the gutter.They speak in graveltones. Ask them about the shapeof clay,and they will tell you
how to make rainout of hairand leather. Drink quickly boy—and with infinitegreed—you were born to forgetthis lesson, born to questionthat lingering tasteof soil.
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Handle with Care
Loretta Surma
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Green gone wild
Kathleen Miles
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Palouse wheat cups
Kathleen Miles
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Glass
Josh Myhre Fiction Award Winner
He’d seen the vase first on Thursday, sitting seductively in the window of Milli’s Antique Mall on Holly Street, down on the waterfront, up a block from the burrito place. By Friday morning the vase had shifted its position, and was now no longer residing in the window. Frank missed gazing at it, and by Saturday he’d decided he would enter the store, first to see if it was still there and second to bask in its radiance without the veil of glass between them. So he entered the shop. The adorable old couple behind the counter shot him a toxic glance. He no longer cared about people who did that because he understood as well as shopkeepers that he was a shoplifter. He picked through the items of the store for what felt like an eternity, his heartbeat climbing throughout the venture until he finally fell upon the coveted vase. The object exuded a rich glow in Frank’s hand, a light which drew sharp contrast between the vase and the stuffy, dreary interior of the antique shop. It had translucent organisms composed of a seemingly everlasting ephemeral emerald, golden lutescent sun rays leaping across its rim, delicate blush roses etched and stained as if dancing across its body. Frank could practically taste its perfection, and this is exactly what was so significant about the vase. Previous to his meeting this collection of colored pieces of glass, he hadn’t believed in perfection. Frank thought about Keats. He decided that the poet and his silly urn were total losers in comparison. Frank does not believe in paying for objects, with a few important exceptions. For example, Frank will pay for works of art which he has personally deemed worthy. He will pay for vinyl records although he’s never actually purchased one. Frank will also pay for locally grown fruits and vegetables. Frank will not, however, pay for items such as pens, guitar strings, clothes, cigarettes, or anything from chain grocery stores. And even though the vase was far more than worthy of his money, Frank decided in Milli’s Antique Mall on Holly Street that he would not be paying for the vase. Seven blocks and forty two minutes later, Frank sat across from his cousin, Tom, in the Horseshoe Cafe, which was also on Holly Street. The north wall, the one they sat next to, was covered in a mural depicting a battle between cowboys and Indians. The cowboys were winning, because obviously they
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Unseen Dimension 2
Paris Reese
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had to win or we wouldn’t be here. They were making space for railroads, for civilization. Three cowboys in the lower left corner, their hats lying lonely on the ground, roasted a rabbit over a fire. A pool table slept on the southeast side of the building, across from a dingy, battered vending machine which dispensed aspirin, Tums, Bic lighters, and Skittles. Chipping light fixtures hung from the mysteriously dark ceiling like comically overgrown glow worms, and the floor was a rorschach of coffee stains. The table was laden symmetrically with greasy, pitch-colored coffee and a grotesque amount of fried chicken, none of which had had the chance to shed its excess oil. Tom believed in fascism. He had been a post-structuralist, but then 9/11 happened. Tom did not like anyone. He did not like himself, he did not like his wife, nor did he like Frank, who he considered to be his closest friend. Tom was a public defender. “I just need that vase, I can’t explain it.” Frank peered over his coffee at Tom. His eyes spoke an insane truth. “You can’t explain anything, you greasy hobo,” Tom shot back in a flat tone. He was tired of Frank believing himself to be the philosopher with the hammer, the warrior of artists. He was sick, most of all, with Frank’s fascination over art. “You understand how useless that shit is, right? It’s just a thing to look at. And a vase? With roses? That’s boring as hell.” “I mean... uh....” Frank stuttered for a few more moments before falling silent. For a glitch of a second he started to believe Tom, at least about the boring part, so he started chewing noisily on a chicken bone. Tom became annoyed with Frank’s childishly obstinate chomping, and decided to speak up. “I just think your time would be better spent reading a book about politics... Or the economy. Something. Something productive for once in your life.” “And what the hell is productivity, anyway?” Frank threw the bone down onto the table. It clacked against the napkin dispenser, creating a resonating bing before coming to a rest next to Tom’s hand. “The only things that really mean anything are ‘useless’ and ‘just things to look at.’ Inspiration, creation, that’s what it’s all about.”
Glass, continued
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Untitled
Chris Thompson
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“No,” said Tom, taking a more aggressive tone. “That’s absurd. Take a look at the world, Frank. The people who make a difference are the people with money and power. Dictators. Corporations.” Frank thought for a long second. Finally, he looked down into his coffee and muttered, “I’m surprised you don’t like art more, considering Hitler’s lust for beauty is what created Nazi Germany.” Tom glared across the chicken at Frank. Tom hated Nazi jokes. He could take light ribbing about him being a fascist, but Nazi jokes were too far. After a few moments, Frank spoke up again. “Look, just listen for a second. It’s not important whether or not the vase is important. I fell in love with that vase. I wanted to sing to it.” Frank was proud of the love line. He’d spent the whole walk to the Shoe thinking about it. “Gay,” said Tom. “So what’s the issue?” “Well...” Frank paused. “I can’t pay for it.” Tom looked relieved. “Well shit, I can give you the money for it.” “It’s not like that.” Frank looked out the front windows, at the group of gutter punks loitering, the one with a shaved head flicking his obscenely large nose ring at passersby. “I’d rob the gas station if I was really that desperate. No, man, it’s because the vase is too beautiful. Money would just be a disrespect.” He thought back to the mesmeric intercourse of the amber and emerald, the elegant curvature of the sun beams. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” “No, shut up. Listen, would you pay money for your wife? Would you purchase your wife? How do you show her you love her? Not with cash, man, actions. Actions.” Frank was more than satisfied with his argument. Tom just growled. Cash was, in fact, how he had traditionally communicated the things which most people refer to as “feelings.” It was much easier for him than uttering the L-word in the midst of their furious humping. Tom felt attacked, so he just took a huge mouthful of dripping chicken. He relished the clogging of his arteries by the saturated fats. Remember, Tom is not a nihilist. Frank’s elation was sagging, so he began to stare into the abyss of his coffee and contemplate Tom’s orneriness. There were several minutes of awkward silence. During this time, Frank thought about Tom, and Tom thought
Glass, continued
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Beyond
Loretta Surma
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about cardiovascular disease. Frank decided to try one last attempt at seeking Tom’s counsel. “Tom, have you ever encountered perfection? Think really hard about it....” Tom shook his head, no. “Yeah, I doubted it. I just get the sense that this vase is more than I can even comprehend... Like somehow it’s the key to all of my work so far.” Tom burst out laughing. “Work? Ha! You stand on a street corner, Motherfucker. The hell do you even mean, ‘work’?” Frank stared at him. His eyes indicated that they were now even for the Hitler joke. Tom continued after a moment. “Honestly, man, I really don’t care. It sounds like you’ve made up your mind. And I have better things to do than continue to sit in this grease pit. This place is disgusting.” “Fine, fine, I guess I just wanted to see what you thought. What do you got going on today?” Frank wanted reconciliation. “I’m going hunting.” “Haha! Seriously?” Tom nodded solemnly, not sharing the slightest bit in Frank’s delight. “So, what? You’re killing your own food now?” “Nope.”
By two o’clock on Sunday afternoon, Frank found himself standing on Holly Street across from Milli’s Antique Mall, down on the waterfront up a block from the burrito place. The white paint was peeling from the entire building after years of abuse from nature. The sign spelling out the name of the store attempted to be grand in its font, and it probably had been a few decades past, when the wood and paint were fresh. But as the sign faded in violent streaks it only looked decrepitly sad, like an old lumpy dog who knows that his time will soon be up. Behind the building the ocean shimmered, beautiful as the emeralds of the vase, somehow always ephemeral. Frank stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, a ragged backpack strapped to his back, no money on his person. He thought about Keats. Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. He started to walk across the street.
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Glass, continued
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Rabbit
Seng Olsen
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Machine
Joshua Hall
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Descending Within
Austin Prettyman
I’m twenty-three years oldthis much is realand Carla is my girlfriend
first there is a single corpse swaying slowly on a coarse rope pendulumthen there’s anotherand anotherdropping like spiders from the darkness abovethey all swing back and forth in unisonI look into the voidof a glassless window the trees hold the moonand a rubber duck floats toward me and it has the head of a dead goat
I shut my eyes, but I can’t stop seeingMom is hunched over the tableshe lifts the butcher knifeand places her hand under the blade“crunch, crunch, crunch”red droplets rain onto her snow white apronher fingers roll like carrots“dinner is ready” she smiles
Why do the trees hold the moon?
the ocean is silent with colda crag breaks from an icebergfalls into the water sends a splash over thirty feet into the airI am the cragfalling to cold
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I run the sharp edge of a rock down my armants pour from the wounda whole army living inside mesmall ants and large antsI smash them and they smell like ivory soap
I’m twenty-three years oldthis much is real andCarla is my girlfriend
I can’t stomach blood oreyes that never stop lookingthey never stop lookingeven when they’re deadso I have to pluck them outI have to cut the fur away from the cheekbone and dig the eyes outthey’re slippery so I’ll press my hand up the neckinto the brain of cold macaroni and cheeseI stab them from behind“pop! pop!”
they’re still lookingthey summon heavy chains on methat dig holes in my shoulderssweat, blood, and bruisesI’m primedready to fightI spin like a ballerinaand the chains wind around meI’m the squirming fly larvaon the face of a pathetic novelistI fall to my side
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there’s a stone girl dancing in a dry fountainher broken head lying at her feet“dinner is ready” she says and smiles with blood- stained teethin her hand is a spider frozen in a cube of icebut its legs hang out the sidesI need to read my Bible more
I’m twenty-three years oldthis much is realand Carla is my girlfriend
Carla is twenty-three years oldI place a hand on her shoulderit falls through her vaporshe turns to meher face is a skull“worship me” she hissesin each eye socket dangles a corpse swinging in slow motionI pull a toothpick from my mouth and flick itit spins twice and stabs into a granite tombstone“Freud flirted with demons,” I sayand walk off dust splashing like puddles beneath my cowboy boots
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Watergirl
Brad Lewis
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Chayote
Krystn Parmley
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Finger extension
Joshua Hall
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The Everlasting Gift
Yukihiro Furusho
When I was just a girl, when I didn’t know much about life, my mother took me to the riverside to see the fireflies. In a myriad of floating green lights, when I was feeling as if I were walking in the Milky Way, one green light landed onto my mother’s shoulder.
Gently she took it and held it before my face. Inside her white cupped hands, the firefly emitted a strong light in gradation like a flame on a dwindling candle. She released the firefly into the night and asked me if I knew that fireflies live for only seven days.It’s so unfair, I said. She didn’t say anything. I asked her. Why? She said, aren’t they beautiful? I was just a girl. I didn’t know much about life.
The numinous river shimmered in the early moonlight.The sounds of wavelets accused my innocence.and the gentle breeze swayed inside my heart.But I was just a girl. I didn’t know much about life.
Five weeks later, my mother died, and my father told me she went to heaven. I asked him. Why?He didn’t say anything. I was just a girl. I didn’t know much about life.
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Cellphone
James Tankersley
I watch the robot arms that put the pieces together, pushing the buttons that make them my arms’ extension. Sometimes when my mind wanders from here into oblivion, I think about how many mouths will speak into these, how many ears will be pressed on their sides. I’ve put together thousands and thousands and thousands, written on them is Nokia, one of these would have changed my life. My mother didn’t have a cellphone in her home. But she had a gun, when her boyfriend Curtis ripped the front door off after ripping out the phone cords, that is when he came charging down the hall. I stood staring through the eyes of a four-year old, wearing nothing but a Kool-Aid stained t-shirt and Spiderman underwear, as my mom pulled the trigger three times and he fell down, hard. That happened twenty years ago now. Hundreds of thousands, I must have put together hundreds of thousands of these by now.
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Tea pot with cups–Euajira
Iveth Canales
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Untitled #1
Katrina Walker
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Spilling out
Michele Burkey
Sometimes when he talks he forgetshe has a cup in his hand, it tipsusually just enough, and the contents splash around his feet or mine. Sometimeswater, or coffee, or tea. Hot and Cold. One time it was gasoline. I keep thinkingabout why he holds things crookedhis hand, waiting, swinging, smiling. It doesn’t seem to go away, and mysteriouspools of water can be found around the houseand sometimes it gets on my clothes. At firstI couldn’t stand it, the spilling over of things,but now, after watching his coffee hit the hardwoods at the Kitchen Engine, I laugh. SometimesI think he is too full, he has to dump a little out to make room for the filling again.
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Butterfly
Seng Olsen
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Discomfort Food
Alicia Barranco
Her favorite food was tomato soup. She liked to watch the Saltines drown and eat the soggy remains when the soup was gone. She liked the taste, and when she could not taste anymore, she liked the color. This changed like when she lost her hair, or when she needed new clothes to fit her shrinking body. She vomited red after her treatments. Damn the soup that she couldn’t hold down. Her cheeks were drained of the tomato red that used to color them.
She hated tomato soup the way she hated death. The way I hated drinking her milk so she wouldn’t get in trouble. The way she would have hated the dress Mom picked for her to wear in her little red casket. My mother made tomato soup for dinner, I did not eat it, and she sent me to my room.
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100 years in the making
Chris Thompson
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Ziling
Sophia Xue
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Hope and Fear
Jamie Bendixen Fine Art Award Winner
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Untitled
Brendan Dodge
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How I Got My License
Caitlin Houghton Richard Baldasty Poetry Award Winner
It’s not as if I lostthe ability to drive, keysleft on the indifferent dashboard, my handbruised yellow for a week like a weathered picket fencefrom beating the car window, then the wall, then the road;I’m like the clean plastic shift.
I’ve been thinking about my mom, her parked car against a fenceenclosing us from nothing, her luminescent handgripping the wheel. I shuffle toward the car, shiftmy gaze like a magnet, circling lostuntil I’m drawn back to her wet bark eyes, look down the roadand see myself standing before her front door, tickling the keys.
But I’ve got to handit to you, you’ve got guts to get into my passenger seat, ignore the fenceI’m backing into, buckling the years as I shiftand pull out onto the shrieking road.You look lostalready, and I hold up my now sand-dusted keys.
My mom drove up a cockroach-infested roadcalled life. She didn’t hesitate to snake her hand,wind my waxy keys:blue, purple, pink. At that age I was a see-through shiftinvisible until you saw a tremor of cloth caught on the fishhook fence.By then I had lost
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my unblinking wisp-soul, it’s lostlike fingernail clippings. And I am a voodoo priestess. Roadkill, that’s what my mother feels she is now, another pair of broken keysshivering in the tossed tea kettle. Shape shift,she tells me, turn into a wolf, a lioness, a flaming set of teeth outside the fenceof God’s thorny palms, watch for his slicked red hand.
Don’t fall for it! If it’s not their gilded fenceit’s her own that I’ll be peering through, my eyes a makeshiftexcuse to look. I smithed a pair of keysfrom my ribs, with them replaced the bones in my hand,chiseled into fingers that write, that can’t be lostor dropped between the cracks of an abandoned road.
My keys are hers, and we take the secluded roadto avoid everybody. No fences, unless shark teeth count, and my handshifts or swerves around the deer who always looks lost.
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Untitled
Paris Reese
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Loneliness
Rachelle Bradley
We are the folds in a blanket,paths crossing among seams, I left late night wrinkles in your shirtpillowcases drenched. I hug weightless feathers to my chest as you walk out of the room,truth burns daylight into my eyes.
July 9th two thousand and seven.The calendar marks the lone nine in bold ink,barely curving perfectly inwardso similar to the thick waves, which dance around your ear.
Footsteps splash down the stairs,echoing rainfall’s soft pattering of your footstepswalking into the sun. Abandoning me again.
I exhale loudly, the walls soaking in my exhaustion.
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Gothic building
Brendan Dodge
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On the Corner of Second Street
Mikayla Davis
There is no way the nestsof light rest upon my headwhile darkness waits, panting, to fill my holes with cash.The freshest kills have yet to smellbut day by day they rot.Carcasses burn in the brightest sunbut I am still nothing more than a bump in the road.
I throw my leg out, white like eyesrolled back. Purr and moan.Flash my breasts.They only swerve to avoid me. They know death when they see it. I can’t hide the matted hair, crustedwith liquid need, eyelids clumped together in sultryexhaustion. Like me, the lashes think warmth is gained by close proximity. Friction will only burn at the endbut I know all about burning.
Night is my haven. It hidesthe veins that trace my thighs, purpleand throbbing, the lines mined into my face from hardships and too many peckingglares from the good citizens.But scavengers scour the black,their eyes like guiding fires.I pull them close. I feedtheir hunger. They always ripout the tender parts first.
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When the sun saunters from its house with the picket fenceand two and a half kids,only my skin remains,if that.Despite the halo that hangs in the skyabove me and laughs at mewith its heat,I will lie naked beneath it, fleshand nothing more.
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Again and again
Frank Knapp
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Piano string
Brad Lewis Photography Award Winner
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“Scary Thought: A Halloween Without Pumpkins”
Derek Annis
Trick-or-treaters may see fewer pumpkins on their rounds this year, thanks to a series of natural calamities that befell East Coast pumpkin farmers this year. –MSNBC News, October 2011
Somewhere, in a place made of dustand sun, a child sits in the dirt,skin sinking between the bonesof her rib cage. She lets flies creepacross the cracked flesh of her face, eats a small bowlof paste made from wheat flourand fetid water. Scavenger’s shadowcircles around her as she sucks thickliquid from tiny fingertips. There is an islandmade of American wastein the middle of the Pacific, my entire fridge goes rancid six timesper year, and the little girl watchesthe sky streak orangeas the sun rolls off the edgeof empty plains, the short wickburning away behind her eyes.
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Packing
Michele Burkey
Stillness at ten in the morning on the front steps of my brick home brings drips onto my face like a broken faucet. Maples almost unmoving, surreal.Shades of the house walk across the lawn as the sun moves, slowly over head. Brick and mortar has become a breathing member of my family. Consoled by the warm wood floors beneath my feet at night and the tub that can drown away any problem life throws at me temporarily disappearing down the drain. It’s time to move again. I have lost count
of the homes (over twenty five, close to thirty) that have held me like my mother once did when I was too young to rock myself to sleep. I have loved this house. Through the big living room window my Christmas tree was spinning last winter, and when there was still snow on the ground my kids rode bikes
down the bumpy sidewalk. When spring came, we napped on the lawn, and ate popsicles on the curb. I had a few kids’ birthdays here, and a few holiday parties. I painted my bedroom green, my favorite color. I have to paint it back to white now.
The kitchen sink was always too small; the drain empties slower than the snow melts. The bathroom is too small too, so I think maybe it is for the best. I have to think that.
Every time I leave a house I love, I imagine someone peeling me off the railing outside, like a banana,bruised and sweet.
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Chained
Frank Knapp
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Un Peu de Temps
Josh Myhre
The sweet spicy odor of Nag Champa incense, wafting through the empty dank house... There’s a fog upon LA, and those drifting, empty violins creep across the room, in rhythm with the smoke. Meredith, hair spiked thirteen inches into the air, sometimes blue, green, purple, depending on what we did that week... Syncopated breakbeats of Streetlight, hitting ears along with gentle wind in cars’ backseats. Bagels at sunset, dirty ocean (no swimming), and then I dropped my camera. It gets cold in November, awful cold; we’d stand over sewer grates. Emptying our guts into the bushes off the river, under the bridge, over the train tracks. I only got pulled over once, and it worked out alright. I’d like to visit an eco-village; Nag Champa? Cold bean & cheese burritos, infected coffee at the Shoe. Now I know who I am.
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Irrigation Pier
Frank Knapp
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Satin Moo
Richard Baldasty
They accept the theory that the souls of the greater, wiser, and most holy have, in their transmigrated state, passed into the bodies of several species of white animals. –“A Glimpse at Siam.” The Spectator. September 18, 1897
Maris sighs in relief: an ad card, not another parking ticket, tucked beneath her wiper blade.
You need help with relationships, health, decoding the cosmos. I provide. I am Professor Zigmunt Kenster, Doctor Mirabilis, best-loved spiritualist, clairvoyant, psychic, mesmerist, and voodoo healer in the world. Severe case specialist. Call immediately for miracles. I already know you better than you know yourself. You have suffered misunderstanding and the spiritual foreclosures of this overdrawn society. But I can and will change your present, your future, your past. Desperate for answers? Tired of pretenders? Reach out. The wisdom that is mine becomes guidance that is yours. Payment plans to fit every circumstance.
Maris folds the offer into an airplane, sets it free. She gets into her car, drives outside the city. It’s wet, soupy, ghostly, gray-white, unearthly. Maris no longer sees the highway. Maris can’t predict the curve. Her car tears through small trees and a feathering of reeds, halts within fog. She could be anywhere or nowhere.
She hears the sole sound in the meadow: the lowing of cattle. They graze somewhere near, somewhere in the brume. They may be near as the crumpled hood, close as the broken headlights. But Maris only hears.
One cow summons her. An appeal unhurried but personal, unmistakably individual, direct. A cow making sounds deep, gentle, soft, slow—imperative, interrogative. Like Adam in Eden, Maris feels she must name. She calls her Satin Moo.
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Maris sits in her car listening to Satin Moo moo. How she loves her! How she loves to listen to her lowing in the fog.
Maris rolls down her windows to let in fog and the moos of Satin Moo. She stretches out a hand—tap-tap-taps her fingers on the door. She taps for, responds to, dear Satin Moo.
She’s been gone many hours. It surely has been noted how late she is. They may be searching, traveling the very highway she left, passing the cleft she made, the break through saplings, the cut across fallen reeds.
But the air is sore dense now. Maris can’t see her fingers out the window. Maris can’t see them if she brings them to her face. There is no way she can be discovered. Nothing can be disclosed. There is only low, low lowing, the mooing of Satin Moo.
Tomorrow or another day, she may walk home. For now, Maris stays, attends the smooth satiny sound. Closer than any Kenster call. It has found her, and all white is all around.
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Berry Havoc
Raquel Houghton
I look into the crystalline sky,as my toes cling like talons to the precipice of the cliff.I hear the voice of my mother, Don’t jumpbut the whir of the needle hitting the spinning wheelhammers out a message: If you’re afraid of wolves, don’t venture into the woods.But I want to eat a blackberry picked fresh from the bush,to lick the succulent juice from my fingertips where it runs into the webbing.I strain to pluck the swollen, black orb from the shrubbery;the flavor bursts my tongue as I sail down sweet oblivion.
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Some time at Finch
Chris Thompson
56
Untitled
Tom Duncan
57
finalprofinishdone
Delaney Hicks
58
God
Robert Skovajsa
in a young one’s mindthe voice of idea gains the word of ruleslift your fork this wayfood goes here –Barbies and GI Joes must learn to be nice to their siblingsor they face being naked,or getting sand thrown in their eyesunder their lids a gritty mudkeeps them from seeingthe joy of blindness
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4 Pacific
Jeremy Stebbins
60
Feather
Loretta Surma
61
Lilac Summer
Cara Lorello
The lilacs you and I planted years agoI pick in large bouquets in June.In that first green summer
the day’s temperature reachedits high long before noon.Now, the lilacs you and I planted years ago
bloom until July, leaves still vibrantin August when ripe berries leave their stain.In that first green summer
we spent hours stirring batches of jam,heat turning the green-white fruits deep red.The lilacs you and I planted years ago
have since become a fort for my niecesseeking a refuge from the heat of the day.In that first green summer
we took evening strolls, lay atop haystacksin the night’s cool reverie, high abovethe lilacs you and I plantedin our first green summer.
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Untitled
Brad Lewis
63
Smoking kills
Heather Biggs
64
Untitled
Brad Lewis
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Parallax
Megan Hewins
for Leighton Welch
I didn’t know him, just a routinefigure appearing throughout my dayOn 8th and Ash he would board the bus, nodding at the regularsgreeting everyone with a gleaming smile, missing a toothjust like a boy By the smokers’ hut outside the math building, puffing away, he cheered me onurging me to conquer numbershere and there, bits of conversation revealed our lives ranparallel, both multicultural Natives, frequently misidentified,parents of autistic children, recovering alcoholics, adults returning to college for the second time He wanted to change the world, give hope to wayward teensfor his wife, his kids, his tribe Only 20 out of a 100 Indians make it to collegeand of those 20 only 3 will get a degree The odds got him, will they get me? I didn’t know himjust a face on campus and around townalways looking dapper and debonair
He lived in kindness and generosityand he drowned in that river down there
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While Watching the Cat Chase the Sunlight
Tara Halvorson
There is a queer twist to the angle of the light.It bounces and zips every time the door swings.I sat watching it for a lost amount of time.
The voices rise from outside and the door the lightsweeps the floor like a broom made of moonbeams. Time danced away with it.
There was the moment when I thought of dancing, as the light is dancing.I remember thinking“The light is something that can never truly be caught.”
Again the flicker of light grazes the carpet.The queer twists and turns and zips.And the voices grow outsidelike the wind carrying living leaves on its back.The clock ticks over my shoulder and I think again of dancing and time and sunburnsand light.
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Lighthouse
Shaun Schlager
68
The Message From The Sky
Yukihiro Furusho
Lily Bell. She was a mysterious girl—when we were twelve, she and her balloon saved the lives of a single mother and her daughter.
I haven’t seen Lily since I moved to Manhattan more than ten years ago, but every time I see a balloon, it reminds me of her and our elementary school in Rochester.
So, when I saw a red balloon that a little girl was carrying at Central Park this morning, I decided to rent a car and drive to my old hometown.
I could see some clouds in the sky—according to the forecast, it was going to rain in the afternoon—but it was a beautiful sunny day for driving. While I was driving, I thought about Lily and the day we flew our balloons when we were twelve.
Lily and I were not particularly close, but I felt there was something between us, not a boy/girl thing, but some kind of friendship: she was one of those few friends who were in my class every year from the first grade through the six grade. Actually, she was in my class in kindergarten too.
She was a very pretty girl—and smart too. But she was not the kind of girl who attracts people’s attention; she was demure and a little bit shy. She didn’t talk much with boys. There are many things I remember about Lily, but what I remember the most about her is the mysterious episode of her red balloon.
It was a part of the ceremony in our annual event—at the end of the field day, we released the helium balloons into the air, attaching little notes to them.
“What kind of things are we supposed to write?” I asked our teacher, Mrs. White.
“Think of it like a message to the sky. Your dreams, your wishes, anything you want. You can also write a message to someone. There is a chance that someone will find your balloon somewhere and read your message. You might even get a reply.”
There was our school address printed on the behind of note. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I remember my blue balloon soaring into the beautiful blue sky with the other balloons. The red ones, blue ones, yellow ones—they flew like migratory birds. Lily was staring at her red balloon too. Her balloon was a little bit behind, and Lily was watching it with sad eyes, as if she was hoping something to the wind. The gentle breeze carried our balloons to the west in the golden autumn sunshine. How far can they go? I wondered. There was no answer, but it
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seemed like each balloon had its destination like our journeys through our lives. We watched our balloons until they disappeared from our sight.
After the field day, time went by quickly. There was already a hint of spring in the air—although the air was cool in the morning, the sun was warm in the afternoon, and from our classroom, I could see a couple of butterflies flying over our school garden, and there were a couple of dandelions basking in the sunshine. Next to their yellow petals, the birds were looking for something to eat.
“I have a surprise for you today,” Mrs. White said to the class with a smile as she entered the room. The class became quiet for a moment.
“Uh-oh, I forgot to read The Giver,” said Jennifer, the girl next to me, putting her hands on her mouth.
“No, it’s not a pop quiz,” Mrs. White said, putting her books and notebooks on her desk next to the white board. “But you have to read The Giver. Reading chapter seven to nine was your homework for yesterday.”
“Oh, shoot. I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said and hit the desk with her palm, and the class burst into laughter. Mrs. White smiled. I glanced at Lily; she was quietly laughing in her desk beside the window. Her blond hair was like a halo in the morning sunshine.
“So, what’s your surprise?” asked Robert who was sitting behind my desk. Robert was Lily’s next door neighbor. He was a music maniac. He had long wavy hair, and he was always wearing funky blue clothes and blue jeans.
“Yeah, what is it? It should be a real surprise because you already surprised me for nothing,” Jennifer said, and we laughed again.
Mrs. White grinned and took out a white envelope from her jacket. “Do you remember how we flew the balloons with our notes at the end of the field day? Well, we got a letter,” Mrs. White said with a delighted voice and waved the envelope over her head. “Someone found one of our balloons and wrote back to us. It was—”
I heard someone whistled, and we hooted and clapped our hands with delight.
“Whose was it?” Erika asked when the class stopped hooting.“Yeah, whose was it?” Robert said. “Well,” Mrs. White looked around the class with her mischievous grin. We
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watched her in silence while she moved her head from right to left like a slow observation camera. When her eyes met mine, my heart jumped, and I felt like time stopped for a moment. I swallowed. But her eyes passed through me and stopped right next to me.
“Oh my God,” Jennifer said, jumping onto her feet like a rocket. “Oh my god, really?” Her hands flew to her mouth.
Then Mrs. White quickly turned to the window side and said, “It was Lily’s.” “Huh?” Jennifer’s smile disappeared from her face and she dropped her
hands to her sides as if all the strength escaped from her body. We burst into laughter again, and I saw her face blush. She sank into her chair like a withered flower, mumbling, “I can’t believe it.” I knew it was sort of a punishment, Mrs. White’s way of telling us not to forget homework.
“Lily,” someone said, and our attention turned to Lily. We clapped again. I could see Lily move her mouth, “Thank you.” She was smiling, but when Lily glanced in my direction, I caught her eyes for a moment, and I could tell she was not comfortable with all the attention. Pink tone suffused her white face. I thought her shyness was charming.
“Lily,” Mrs. White said, “I’m going to give you this but later, because I’d like to read this to the class. Is that okay?” She looked at Lily with a grandmotherly expression, calm and gentle, and yet hard to say no to.
I could see Lily hesitate a little bit, but she nodded. Mrs. White took out the paper from the envelope and held it out before her
face. She cleared her throat, the way she always did before she read a story or a poem for the class.
“Dear Lily. My name is—” she cleared her throat again and continued, “Dear Lily. I’m sorry that it took me a while to write back. I wrote this letter because I wanted to say thank you to you. You saved our lives. The day my daughter and I found your red balloon in our yard, I was thinking about ending my life. My life was falling apart. My husband had left me, and I had lost my job. And my….” Mrs. White cleared her throat again.
Although I was just twelve, I knew that Mrs. White skipped some details in the letter because she didn’t want us to know some things, such as the name of the woman and some inappropriate things she had done. But I remember that I thought there was something more, and that made me want to know about what
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Lily wrote in her message.Mrs. White continued, “I was encouraged by your letter. I did everything
I could to start our lives over. We are now living in a small apartment in Westchester, and I have two jobs. I’m so busy I barely have time to spend with my daughter, but I am happy because we have each other. If it wasn’t for your message, if we didn’t find your balloon that morning in our yard, I couldn’t have celebrated my daughter’s—”
Mrs. White sniffled, and when I looked at her face, I saw a tear roll down on her cheek. She wiped it away, and I stared at the drawing on my desk again as she continued the letter. “I couldn’t have celebrated my daughter’s fifth birthday yesterday. Thank you Lily.”
Everyone was quiet, even Jennifer. I quickly glanced at Lily, but she was looking down so I couldn’t see her face.
Mrs. White gave the letter to Lily, saying, “You did a wonderful thing, Lily.” Soon boys and girls around Lily started asking her what she wrote on the note, but Mrs. White stopped them and said, “I’m not gonna give you a pop quiz today, but we’re gonna talk about The Giver and Jonas’s life.” She looked at me and asked me what I had to say about Jonas’s world.
Not that I didn’t do the reading assignment, but I couldn’t think of anything smart to say.
“Uh, I think that Jonas’s world is—” I cleared my throat. “Uh, I think it’s—” “Hey,” Jennifer said, “I just remembered the name of Jonas’s sister.” She
slapped her desk. “It’s Lily.” “That’s irrelevant, Jennifer,” Mrs. White said. And we all laughed. I liked my class, Mrs. White, Jennifer, Robert, Lily—all of my class mates.
That year was one of my best times. But I wondered why Mrs. White didn’t read to the class what Lily wrote on her note.
After six hours of driving, I found myself on a familiar street. It seemed that it hadn’t changed much in past ten years, except there was a new Starbucks, a McDonald’s, and a 7-11.
After I saw my old house and elementary school, I parked my car in front of a small playground near Lily’s house. Outside, a gentle breeze touched my cheeks as if welcoming my visit to my old hometown after ten years. I could see huge gray clouds in the sky, and the weak sunlight painted my old hometown in a
72
sepia tone, as if trying to imprint this nostalgic image on my memory forever. I looked at the playground. I saw no one, and the quietness brought back one
of my memories. I used to run with my dog and take a break at this playground every day. Sometimes I released the leash and let my dog play while I sat on the swing. Sometimes, at least once a week, I saw Lily walking with her grandmother carrying grocery bags. I waved at Lily, and she always waved back with a smile. Once I saw her say something to her grandmother, and her grandmother nodded, looked at me, and waved at me with a warm smile. I had seen her brother David a couple times before, but I had never seen Lily’s parents.
I still remember when Lily came to me while I was sitting on the swing and said, “My grandma told me to give this to you.” She was holding an orange popsicle.
I was kind of surprised, but I said thanks and took the popsicle. When Lily was about to leave, I remembered something and said to her back, “Lily, can I ask you something?”
She turned around and nodded.“What did you write on that note? The note that you attached to the balloon?”She looked down, and I regretted asking the question. But she looked at my
face and said, “You won’t tell anybody?”“I won’t.”“Promise?”“I promise.”She started to open her mouth, but then her grandmother called for her to
come.“I’m sorry. I have to go,” Lily said and started to run. I stared at her back.
Before she turned the corner, she looked at me and waved.That was the last time I saw Lily. The next day—I still remember it was
Saturday—my parents got into a huge fight, and Sunday, my mother grabbed my younger sister and me and shoved us into the car, and we drove to Manhattan where my mother’s parents were living. I was not surprised; I had known this day would come since I was around eight.
Now I was about to see Lily and hear what I had wanted to hear for ten years. I thought of how pretty she used to be, and then wondered if she was still single.
In front of Lily’s house, I caught myself pacing like a broken spring toy. My
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palms felt damp in my pockets. I thought about going home without seeing Lily. I thought about Lily coming home with me.
I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again. No answer. I looked around her house. Neatly tended green lawn stretched inside the white picket fence. I saw windows on the blue wall, but the blinds were pulled down so I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside.
When I gave up and started walking to my car, I noticed a blue Honda civic that was blasting loud rock music pull up in front of the house next to Lily’s. A young man with long wavy hair dressed in a blue T-shirt stepped out from the car.
“Robert?” I called to him.He did a double-take and said, “Tim, what a surprise.” He smiled and
approached me with open arms. “You haven’t changed at all,” I said.“Right back at you,” he said, and we hugged.After we exchanged information about each other’s life, he asked, “So, what
are you doing here?”Somehow, I wasn’t sure how to answer his simple question. The question
echoed in my head. I know why I came here, I came here because... A raindrop hit my forehead, as if reminding me that Robert was still waiting for my answer. “I wanted to talk to Lily,” I said, trying to sound breezy. “But seems like nobody’s home. Is she still living here with her parents?”
He didn’t say anything. The smile disappeared from his face, and it made me uncomfortable.
“Robert, what’s the matter?”“You don’t know?” His tone was serious. I felt my muscles tense. “Of course
you don’t know. You left the town out of the blue without saying good bye and out of—”
“Robert, what is it?”He sighed, looked at me, and opened his mouth: “Tim, Lily died.”“What? What are you talking about?”“Tim, she died a couple months after you left the town,” he said and looked
down. “She had leukemia.”
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Everything went white, and I felt my strength escape from my body. I couldn’t believe it. I left without saying anything. Robert was calling my name but I didn’t look back; I just kept walking until I got to my car. It had started to rain.
The raindrops kept hitting the ground, and I was wet, but I didn’t care. I just sat on the swing and thought about Lily. And all of a sudden it all made sense—Lily’s pale white skin, her wavy blond hair that somehow always managed to stay the same length, and her shyness.
It was quiet; the only sound was the rain hitting the ground, and I felt as if they were accusing me. She’s been dead almost ten years, and you never even came back? What have you been doing? What’s been so important to keep you away? Coward.
I pictured Lily in my mind—still twelve waving at me from that corner. Even at that time she was fighting against leukemia with her small body, a nd I didn’t even know. I looked up at the sky. The rain washed my tears. Then I remembered my last conversation with Lily.
“What did you write on that note? The note that you attached to the balloon?”“You won’t tell anybody?”“I won’t.”“Promise?”Alone, sitting on the swing in the rain, thinking about Lily and her sad eyes
staring at her red balloon as it soared into the blue sky, I felt quite sure that I understood what she must have written on the note that day.
❧ ❧ ❧
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Dry Falls State Park
Frank Knapp
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The Demise of 5 Children
Sierra Schleufer
Maria Volcek had a nosebut on the converse sideleaving a blank space broad and palebetween her mouth and eyes
Maria Volcek was taken awayby the kindest of her dreamsmade an exit through her pillow’s doorsuffocated, so it seems.
:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:
Bernadette wore steel-toed bootsto preschool show and tellsticking magnets to her feether classmates under spell
She never knew the metal plug,the stopper in her toe,Bernie bled out center-stagewhen the magnet let it go.
:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:
Bradley the obedienthad learned well from his spankingsand accepted with his heart entirehis place amongst the rankings
Bradley, newly literate,saw a road sign going pastbeing red and octogonal his heart stopped. That was that.
:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:
Jemimah Ray, who’d never seenthe Atlantic nor Pacific,at six declared her love for lifeto be marine-specific
Her family took a road-tripfor aquatic explorationno one thought to pack an Epi-PenRay was allergic to the ocean.
:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:
Lucas, selling lemonade,grinned at a man approaching nearwho threw down a couple quartersthe first customer all year
But instead of changing coin for juice,because it simply was his time,Lucas laid down on the counterand met his poorly timed demise.
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Lake
Shaun Schlager
78
Unattended (5 Across)
Alicia Barranco
I wear running shoes without the slightest intentionto use them for their purpose.A coffee shop is the perfect place, to finish this crossword.
Who likes to sip coffee through a tiny hold? A risk even for the brave.No one likes to burn their tongue.I take off the lid, and the aroma comforts me.My wife made our coffee strong.
The postman will be here soon,and I will be waiting.My daughter sometimes callsand I will hear her ring.
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Life is a game
Christine Bennett
80
Dr. Seuss’s Marbles
Caitlin Clawson
81
The story of jeans
Loretta Surma
82
The Subway
Abigail C Tyrrell
Part I: Jacob I can feel my hands start to clam, and my heart rings in my head. A breeze finds its way into my zipped coat through my collar, but I don’t shiver. I can’t, because she is looking at me. Five days a week I ride this subway, and five days a week I see her figure. Black hair, tweed coat, and pale face with lips the color of pomegranates. I’ve never said hello, but today I did. Today I clenched my jaw and walked over to the woman who has been haunting my thoughts, living in my dreams. I suppose it was easy; I knew everything about her. I knew she liked her coffee black and her cigarettes strong. I knew she wore white musk perfume. She had to; it was what I’ve been imagining every day for two years. Ursula. She says her name like a song. I can’t help but smile and twist my body towards her on the cold bench, eager to let her know we were already old friends, long lovers. She took the bundle of peach roses I had barely noticed from her lap to her face, breathed slowly, put them back down to her knees and looked ahead. I wanted to ask who they were from, but all I could do was watch her profile as we waited for the subway.
Part II: Ursula Yesterday. Yesterday my husband was alive. Last night he was in my bed. It wasn’t until I woke this morning that I realized he would not be, never again. In the hospital I couldn’t hear what they were saying, how he had died. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m no longer whole, and the love of my life can’t kiss me in our kitchen anymore, can’t tell me he loves me and that he wants to make a baby with me. The flowers in my lap feel dead in my hands. Peach roses like the ones he often got me for no reason. I was supposed to put them on his chest this morning, and say goodbye. I’ve never seen them look so droopy before. But he is not gone, he was here yesterday. He will walk out of the cemetery in Auburn Park and come to our kitchen to kiss me. And here is Jacob, the young man from the subway who watches me wait. I know he fancies me. He’s a nice man with kind eyes and a loving way, I can tell. But he cannot make me whole, even though I smiled a little when he blushed. Ursula. It comes out higher than I expected. I haven’t said a word all morning. I am not whole, and there is nothing to say.
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Part III: Stranger I sold our car because April is pregnant again, and we need the dough. No room to sit, I stand near the door holding onto a metal pole as the subway takes me north. This subway. Only my second time riding it to work and already I hate it. If I could blow up every subway in this city, that would suit me just fine. I take a sip of my coffee and silently thank April for making it. She’s good to me, too good. I couldn’t ask for a better wife. But I am not myself anymore. Not who I wanted to be anyway. Marriage changes you. Little pieces of your soul get chipped away until you’re something completely different. The dark tunnel outside breaks, and for a few seconds I see the florescent lighting of a waiting platform. A few people scattered up front, a couple sitting in the back. I see a beautiful woman holding peach roses given to her by her husband who looks at her with his whole body. Adoration fills his face as she smells the bouquet, and I can see how much he loves her. I want to love April like that; I need to love April like that. The subway moves on, and black bricks fill the windows.
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Flower house
Brad Lewis
85
Untitled
Delaney Hicks
86
Family Ties
Robin Golke
It isn’t hard to follow the trails we hikedin The Kettle Moraine Forest. Our father giving me a piggy back, you walking next to us drawing lines in the dirt with a stick.Memories of you as a boy
disjointed with the man stolenby mountains of pills. i’m left wondering why you allowthese tiny portions of numbnessto drive you into need.
A howl bursts through scar tissue-- my clandestine dark obsession.Owned by a need, cold sweatsdon’t negotiate. Fists clench,soul bound, out of mind.A voice i can’t stop replaying,a death i can’t stop denying.
Your painkillers, the color of cold bone that has aged; i cling to our father’s. Bothcrumble under pressure. No oneknows how i silently watch daddy’s flesh as it rots, how tightly i cling to his jaw,his rib of Adam. You and iare not much different, brother...unable to pull the hook from our lips
the worms in our mouths will grow & grow
until we are parasites, burrowing in dirt.
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Sink
Shaun Schlager
88
Old barn
Shaun Schlager
89
Dry Falls State Park
Frank Knapp
90
Fog, December Morning
Ryan Miller
She found a mother sleeping in the park. Rain welled at her feet and small blooms broke in rapt green. She wondered if she might ask a forgetfulnessof the cold: a conjuration, like a dove, or an eddy of lightfrom drawn curtains.
Later, looking through Decemberto the sky where the mother, bearinggreat mounds of grey into the noon,walked in blue tears, she knew whyshe could not stand to watch.Frost etched its pale cartographyacross the widening turf,and ice held the ground.
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Five shoes
Frank Knapp
92
Angel of Justice and the Fall of Babylon
Paris Reese
93
94
Scott Olson
Julia Grandy
95
Burial of the Good Calf
Mario Tedesco
There are centipedes in the hair of my dead, Jersey calf.Thrashing, they are wiped away by a farmer’s rough hand and sitsquirming and waving their heads from side to side as if to gesture and say,“Hello” like an awkward house guest caught in bed with your daughter.A time since fall, it’s been, since I gently laid him six yards from the Centennial trailand covered his facewith dirt.
Did such beasts sprout to comfort you? As ifto welcome you to the woods, your new mother, one who will raise you in this rain though you no longer grow.Nacreous is the eye I stare into that stinks and pinches my nose.
Yet I beat the ground around your lame figure.I enlist the vibrations to twitch life into that rancid eye,and when I rub the back of my neck and weep,the mud on my fingers leaves a chill, like death, upon it.
A summer from now,someone will strike out from this trail and stumble upon the safety in this spot.Be it a hiker to apply mole skin to his corned, sweaty feetor two fumbling lovers eager to break pant zippers and morals for the first time.
Someone will bump this mound of dirt and draw from it a piece of your jaw.They will turn it over in their hand and mistake it for a horse’s,but they will knowthat you once lived here.
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Triptych with dog
Jamie Bendixen
97
Us, from yesterday–head of woman
Iveth Canales
98
Nan was eighty-nine.She had little patcheson her headwhere you could see the scalpshowing throughflaky and whitelike a paint-chipped buildingno one wants to visitanymore.
She would say“help me”over and overwith vacant awarenessof what she needed help with.
Nan had to drink thickened milk.
If this is whata lifetime gets youI think I’d rather not.
Program Teams With Hospitals to Give Students Job Experience
Sarah Suksdorf-Reiner
99
Fast
Tom Duncan
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