Black Fox Literary Magazine Issue #15 (Winter 2017) by Black Fox

Black Fox Literary Magazine is a print and online literary magazine published biannually.

Copyright ÂŠ 2017 by Black Fox Literary Magazine. All Rights Reserved. Written and artistic work included in Black Fox Literary Magazine may not be reprinted or reproduced in any electronic or print medium in whole or in part without the consent of either the writer/artist or founding editors. Issue 15 Cover Art (La Luz Divina para los Seres) by Sheila Fraga ISBN: 978-1-365-73706-0

Editors’ Note Our word for this period is bravery. It's a pretty brave thing to be a writer. It's not easy telling your stories and then there's always the people whispering in your ear, telling you that you can't do it, or maybe that you're not good enough. We see your submissions and we know how hard it must be to put yourself out there. Now, more than ever it's important that you tell your stories. No matter how many rejections you receive, or how many people tell you that you’re not a writer—keep writing. The world may be full of ugliness, but we writers can take comfort in our words. When the world is in a state of chaos and confusion, let’s be brave about our writing. Let’s find solace in the fact that we writers have a gift and it is our responsibility and right to share it. Let’s rely on each other. Let’s stick together. Thanks, as always to our contributors, readers, supporters, and volunteer staff members who make doing what we love possible.

-The Editors Racquel, Pam and Marquita

Meet the BFLM Staff: Founding Editors: Racquel Henry is first and foremost a writer. She is also a part-time English Professor, freelance editor, and owns the writing center, Writer’s Atelier, in Winter Park, FL. Racquel writes literary, women’s, and recently YA fiction. She also enjoys reading a variety of genres, and is currently obsessed with flash fiction. She earned an MFA from Fairleigh Dickinson University. Her fiction, poetry, and nonfiction have appeared or is forthcoming in Blink-Ink, The Rusty Nail, Lotus-Eater Magazine, The Best of There Will Be Words 2014 Chapbook, Ghost Parachute, and Moko Caribbean Arts & Letters, among others. You can follow her writing journey on her blog, “Racquel Writes.” Pamela Harris lives in Greensboro, NC and spent seven years as a middle school counselor. Currently, she is an assistant professor in the Counselor Education Department at The University of North Carolina at Greensboro. When she's not molding the mind of future school counselors, she’s writing contemporary YA fiction (and has also recently started writing middle grade). Some of her favorite authors are Ellen Hopkins, Courtney Summers, Roxane Gay, and Stephen King. You can also find her at the movie theaters every weekend or pretending to enjoy exercising. She received her MFA in creative writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University in 2012, and her PhD in Counselor Education at the College of William and Mary. Marquita "Quita" Hockaday lives in Williamsburg, VA. She is an adjunct professor who has never been able to shake her love of writing and reading. There is always, always a book near her. Marquita is currently enjoying writing young adult (historical and contemporary)—and most recently wrote her first middle grade novel with co-editor, Pam. Some of her

favorite authors are Laurie Halse Anderson, Blake Nelson, Cormac McCarthy, and Joyce Carol Oates. Marquita also graduated with an MFA in creative writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University in 2012, and is working on finishing her PhD at the College of William and Mary. Copy Editor & Reader: Elizabeth Sheets is a writer, an Editorial Assistant for The Journal of Proteome Research, and Managing Editor for Population Research and Policy Review. Elizabeth received a BA in English with a concentration in Creative Writing from Arizona State University. Some of her favorite writers are Stephen King, Anne Rice, Elizabeth Gilbert, Sarah Waters, Aimee Bender, Dan Chaon, Melissa Pritchard, Tara Ison, and Stacey Richter. Her creative work appears or is forthcoming in Mulberry Fork Review, Apeiron Review, Kalliope â&#x20AC;&#x201C; A Consortium of New Voices and in Black Fox Literary Magazine. Interview Editor: Alicia Cole is a poet and fiction writer. She edits for Rampant Loon Press, and has interviewed for Bitch Magazine and motionpoems. Her creative writing is forthcoming in Vagrants Among Ruins, Torn Pages Anthology, Gadfly Online, The Dawntreader, and Lakeside Circus. She spends much of her time either freelancing or playing with a menagerie of animals. Readers: Donna Compton lives just outside of Washington, D.C. and graduated from the University of Maryland University College with a Bachelor's degree in Psychology. She began taking creative writing courses a few years ago, with a focus on short stories. Currently, she's reading and writing a lot of flash

fiction. Her other favorite genres include literary fiction, mystery, thriller, science fiction, and fantasy.

Contents: Fiction The Next One After the Last One by Eric Rasmussen (9) Otis: 1998-2016 by Sarah Bradley (36) Where Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Smoke by Debra Cross (62) Two Mugs, One Sea by Kimberly Gomes (85) Pas de Deux by Erika Staiger (100) The Center of the Universe by A.K. Small (119) Cold by Liza Carrasquillo (148) Poetry Selected Poems by Alan Ferland (28) Selected Poems by C. Wade Bentley (30) Selected Poems by Joan Colby (56) Dancer, Orpheus, Rilke by Kip Wilson (59) Selected Poems by Chloe Burns (73) the elephant in my solar plexus by Irene Thalden (76) A Feeling of Elsewhere by Stan McCormick (77) Selected Poems by Scott Coykendall (79) Inside Love by Jennifer Ruth Jackson (81) Selected Poems by Allyn Bernkopf (82) Gone to Rubble by Timothy Pilgrim (84) Toy Brother by Alexandra Kulik (89) Selected Poems by John Grey (91) Ghosts at Stoplights by Nicklaus Hopkins (96) The Gatekeeper by Brandon Marlon (111) Selected Poems by Rhosalyn Williams (113) The Faithful Couple of Wawona by Carol Park (117) Selected Poems by Elizabeth Morton (142) Too Much to Taste by Michelle Lee (144) Selected Poems by Michelle Boland (146) Cover Art: La Luz Divina para los Seres by Sheila Fraga

The Next One After the Last One By Eric Rasmussen My wife told me she would leave me if I ever smoked another cigarette. There’s no way she was serious. The infractions that would actually end a marriage don’t need that sort of clarification. Let’s say a husband cheats on his wife with an old high school girlfriend he ran into at a bar after way too many drinks. After that sort of mistake, the wife has every right to end the marriage, right then. She didn’t need to clarify it ahead of time. She didn’t need to explain to him, on his way out the door, that if he had sex with anyone that night, she was gone. No matter how desperate he was to go out and recapture some freedom, now that they had a difficult toddler and he never left the house anymore, she didn’t need to reiterate the rules. When wives start sentences with “The marriage is over if…” they’re bluffing. If it needs to be said, it’s probably not true. I kept my last unfinished pack of cigarettes hidden behind a drawer in my dresser, and I took them out every once in a while, just to hold them. They were almost two years old. The cigarette paper felt brittle, and they no longer smelled sweet, like raisins. Sometimes I forgot why they used to be so appealing.

Abby helped me so much when I quit. She gave me backrubs through all the cravings. She took off work and we watched movies, and she endured every shitty thing I said to her because of the nicotine withdrawal. She arranged for our one-year-old to stay at Grandma’s for a couple days, and she bought me little rewards for each smoke-free milestone. After three weeks, when it was done, she took me out to dinner and said she was proud of me and that she would only help me kick the habit once. Next time, she was gone. But she didn’t mean it. After everything else I’ve put her through, there’s no way she meant it. * The bachelorette party invitation arrived in the mail, a surprise to both of us. Abby knew this particular high school friend was getting married, but they hadn’t talked in years. She opened the pink pastel envelope while I did the dishes after we put Inga to bed. She read the card, then handed it to me. “You should go,” I said. “You deserve it. Show off, have fun. Inga and I will be fine.” But my insistence was unnecessary. Her smirk told me she was going whether I liked it or not. Her sigh then told me what we needed to discuss was my participation in the weekend. She rested her elbows on the counter. “If you come, 10

then my parents get to see Inga,” she said as she fanned herself with the scrapbooked card. “But I don’t like them,” I said. The light above the kitchen sink provided the only illumination in the house, even though it was early, only 8:15. We half-whispered, scared to death of waking our daughter up. “That would be an awful weekend. We get there late Friday, and then you’re going to leave, what, Saturday afternoon? And then I’m supposed to hang out with your parents alone the whole time?” “They would really enjoy seeing you.” “And then Sunday you’ll be all hung-over?” She sighed. “But you can’t not go.” “Why?” “Because that’s all I’d hear about for months. ‘Tell me again why Inga couldn’t come with when you were in town last?’ She would say that a thousand times.” “She says that anyway.” “You have to go.” “I’m sorry, but there’s no way...” “You have to go.” Abby’s voice carried through the quiet house like someone talking too loud at a library, at a funeral. Maybe Inga could hear us through her bedroom door, maybe she couldn’t. I always meant to check, have Abby try some different volumes while I sat on our daughter’s bed. 11

Talking, and, you know, other noises. But since I had never gotten around to it, we always opted for as quiet as possible, until Abby communicated her seriousness by risking waking up the four-year-old with a sleep disorder. I had to go. * Four weeks later, we packed for our trip back to Abby’s hometown. I rolled one of my old cigarettes back and forth in my fingers while I pulled boxers and t-shirts from my dresser and stuffed them into my duffel bag. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, half new mom, half stripper. Flannel pants and maternity shirts repurposed into pajamas on one side, short skirts and platform heels on the other. On Saturday, she would return to sexy womanhood after her brief stint in frumpy motherhood. That was also the day I planned to smoke my next cigarette. “I can do it!” shouted Inga from her room across the hall. “That’s fine, but I’m going to check to make sure you have everything you need,” said Abby. “No,” said my daughter. “I can do it.” “I’m not arguing with you.” “No!” Abby marched across the hallway into our room. I tucked the cigarette into the corner of my sock drawer. 12

“Are you comfortable with your daughter packing her own bag for the weekend?” she asked, hands on her hips. “Sure,” I said. “You’re nuts,” she said. She leaned over her suitcase and picked through its contents. She straightened up and looked around the room and silently went through her packing list on her fingers. “I hope I remembered everything.” “That’s a pretty wild outfit you have there,” I said. I stuffed extra socks in my duffle bag, and zipped it closed. “You haven’t worn anything like that since before you got pregnant.” “Yeah, well, nothing’s fit since before I got pregnant.” “You were pretty big there for awhile.” “You know you don’t have to say every thought that passes through your head.” “No, I just meant… All that work is paying off. You look good.” I looked down at my hand and ran through my own packing list. “Can I touch your hip?” “Quickly.” I rested my hand on Abby’s side and snuck a finger just under the waistband of her jeans while she zipped her suitcase and hefted it off the bed. “We need to get going. I’ll meet you at the car.”

Before I turned off the lights in all the bedrooms and grabbed Inga’s bag, I added the old pack of cigarettes to my luggage. This would be a big weekend, for the both of us. * I think we each heard the moaning from the backseat a full minute before we chose to acknowledge it. The woman’s sex noises hit about the same frequency as the hum of the freeway, so it wasn’t immediately obvious what Inga was watching on her tablet. When it finally registered, Abby and I looked at each other. I smiled, because it was funny. She did not agree. “What is she watching?” “I don’t know.” “Is she watching porn back there?” “Relax,” I said. “It won’t be a big deal if you don’t make it a big deal.” “On what planet is this not a big deal?” I angled the rearview mirror to make reflected eye contact with our daughter. “Inga sweetheart? What are you watching?” “Music videos.” “Oh yeah? What’s happening in the video you’re watching?” “Two ladies are hugging on a couch.” 14

Abby took off her seatbelt. “I’m going back there.” “Why?” I said. “To get a snack. What do you think? To stop your daughter from watching lesbian sex videos. This is why I said we should check the parental controls.” Abby climbed over the seat. She kneed me in the shoulder with one leg as she slipped through the gap between the seats, then again with the other as she fell back next to Inga in her booster seat. “Can I see that please, sweetie?” “I can do it.” “But you don’t know what I want to do.” “I can do it.” Inga yelled. Abby yelled, and so did the woman in the video. It’s weird sometimes, how relative raised voices can be. It’s like watching TV. No matter how far you turn the volume down, wait a minute and your ears adjust and it’s fine. Or keep turning it up, and you don’t notice how loud it is anymore. Abby and Inga talked to each other so loud all the time, they stopped noticing that all they did was shout. It was almost time for Abby and I to add a second kid to the family. Imagine a baby crying on top of the fight over Inga’s favorite soft-core porn.

Abby crawled back into the front seat. I cowered into the driver’s door so I didn’t get hit again. “All taken care of?” I asked. “Yep,” she said. “Was it hot?” “Yes, Chris, it was super hot. That’s why I came back up here, to mount you.” She put her seat belt on, and let her head fall back onto the headrest. “Can I hold your hand?” I asked. “Okay,” she said. “That would be fine.” * Abby’s dad, Don greeted us at the front door like he had been waiting there all day, like he was some pathetic lonely dog left home while the family was all at work and school. “I was wondering when you’d make it,” he said. He kissed Abby on the cheek, and gave me a quick nod. “How was the drive?” “Good,” I said. “Traffic wasn’t too bad, Inga watched a bunch of porn…” “Chris!” shouted Abby. “Just being honest.” “You don’t need to be honest about everything.” “I thought it was funny.” 16

Abby’s mom flowed into the foyer in a cloud of multicolored scarves. “I am so excited you’re here!” She patted Abby’s cheek, then crouched to envelope Inga in a giant octopus grandma hug. “Good to see you, Judy,” I said. “You look like you’re ready for a magic show.” Judy stood up. “What do you mean?” “That’s a lot of scarves.” She squinted and turned her head while keeping her eyes fixed on mine. “You know, magicians use scarves. They pull on them and they keep going and going.” Abby stepped in between me and her mom. “Ignore him, Mom. He’s nervous so he’s apparently going to say all sorts of weird things.” She set her suitcase on the floor, and let her purse fall next to it. “We need to get Inga to bed right away. It’s already an hour past normal bedtime, so this might be even more of a disaster than usual.” “Of course,” said Grandma Judy. She leaned down to Inga’s level again and rested her arm on the preschooler’s shoulder. “Come with me, dear, and I’ll show you the room I made up for you.” “I can do it,” said Inga. She ran up the stairs. “This is going to be a nightmare,” said Abby.

“It’s going to be fine,” I said. “I’ll go get the rest of the bags.” I leaned in close and lowered my voice. “Okay? Relax.” I nodded. “Can I kiss your cheek?” “Fine,” she said. Abby trudged upstairs, and her dad slapped me on the shoulder. “We’re going to have fun tomorrow. I set up a shooting range out back.” “Like, guns?” “I just got a new Beretta. You’re going to love it.” I made eye contact with him, but he didn’t break his big goofy smile. “Is this like when the daughter brings home a new boyfriend and dad tries to intimidate him with firearms?” “I don’t think so,” said Don. “Why would I need to intimidate you?” Suddenly he wasn’t smiling anymore. “You treat her right, don’t you?” “Of course,” I said. I managed to get the rest of the luggage out of the car and up the stairs in one trip. I handed Inga’s bag to Judy, who sat with Inga in Abby’s old bedroom. “Here’s your bag,” said Judy in a sing-songy, little-kid voice, way too young for Inga. “Let’s find you some pajamas.”

I walked farther down the hall, to the old-lady floral guestroom. I sat next to Abby on the bed. She didn’t look up from her phone. “This is going really well so far,” I said. “It’s not my fault. You’re the one being weird,” she said. “Abby!” shouted Judy from down the hall. “Do you have Inga’s other bag?” “What?” Abby shouted back. I followed my wife back down the hall. Abby was an only child, the spoiled kind, and her old princess bedroom proved it, with its pink walls, four-poster bed, and giant TV. “I’m just wondering if you have the bag with her clothes,” said Judy as she stood next to the doorway and leaned on the frame, to let us know she was in charge, and she certainly didn’t need our help. Past Judy’s shoulder, Inga stood by the bed over her unzipped duffle bag. She pulled out Twinkle, her big stuffed unicorn, and gave the toy an adorable hug. There was nothing else in the bag. “Where’re your clothes?” asked Abby. “Daddy told me to pack what I needed. Twinkle is all I need.”

Judy smiled for half of a second, until she saw Abby’s face. I smiled, too, even though Abby’s clenched jaw told me not to. “This is funny too?” she asked. “Oh yeah,” I said. “This is hilarious.” * A 24-hour Wal-Mart down the highway can solve most of life’s problems. It took me fifty minutes to buy two outfits, a pair of pajamas, underwear, a toothbrush, and some melonberry toothpaste. After paying the silent cashier, I walked through the dim parking lot and remembered three other things Abby told me to get, socks and a sunhat and some of these chewable melatonin supplements she swore helped Inga fall asleep. She was wrong. If the pills actually helped, Inga would stay asleep for longer than an hour once in her life. But Abby disagreed. Most nights, I was too tired to argue about all the bullshit tricks and routines she insisted we try. Tonight, I was too tired to walk back into the store to find the grape flavored tablets. I drove back to Judy and Don’s house, and handed my wife the plastic bag of supplies through Inga’s bedroom door. She had less to say than the cashier. At 10:45 PM, no part of Inga’s evening routine was salvageable. Our daughter sat on

the bed in a daze, her eyes red and breathing heavy like she was trying not to cry. She looked like I felt. “I’ll take care of it,” said Abby. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I can help.” “That’ll just make it worse.” “I’m… really sorry.” I tried a smile, slow and halfhearted. “Can I touch your side?” She turned her head and acted like it was a major decision. “Fine.” I rested my hand on Abby’s waist, and I could feel her hipbone through her jeans. I liked touching her there more than anywhere else. It was a private spot, but not salacious. It was as intimate as she would allow me to get, anymore. I took my hand away when she started to close the door. Judy and Don watched TV in their bedroom at full old people volume, so I grabbed the pack of cigarettes out of my bag and crept through the dark house and out the front door. I stood on the other side of driveway, under the shadow of the giant lilac bushes. The cigarette felt good in my fingers, the firm stack of tobacco, the springy sponge of the filter. When I started smoking the summer after high school, I would hold them between my pointer and middle fingers, until I decided it would be much cooler if I came up with my own unique way of smoking. I worked on a method for weeks. I took a puff, 21

then took the cigarette out of my mouth with my pointer finger and thumb. I half-flipped it to my pointer and middle finger to flick off the ash, then brought it back to my mouth. I ran through the motion a few times while I stood in the driveway. People always told me I looked really awesome when I smoked. I bought a lighter at Wal-Mart, too, but it stayed in my pocket. * Abby left the house on Saturday afternoon like a high schooler dressed too skanky for the school dance. She carried her big heels in her shoulder bag, and she wore a hoodie over her sparkly shirt that drooped low around her cleavage. She pulled her skirt way down so it came closer to her knees. Even though her mom only saw the prude version of the outfit, she couldn’t stop raving about how her daughter looked. “Abigail, I can’t believe how much weight you’ve lost,” Judy said as we sat on the back patio and Inga played in the ancient sandbox. “Getting rid of baby weight is so tough. I still have mine from you!” She grabbed her stomach. “I don’t know where you found the motivation, but you should be so proud. You must have worked so hard.” “Yeah,” said Abby. “It was a lot work. Thanks, Mom.”

And then, after lots of kisses for Inga and one each for her mom and dad, and a quick hug for me, Abby left. The rest of the day was actually… fine. While the girls watched a movie, Don and I fired his handguns in the woods behind their house. We ordered pizza for dinner and played Candy Land. Judy offered to put Inga to bed, and it worked. Unbelievably, Inga went to right to sleep, and Don and Judy said I’d probably appreciate a little time alone, so they left me the big TV in the living and a stocked fridge and excused themselves to their bedroom. I decided 11:30 was a good time for my cigarette, just when Abby was getting drunk and flirty with whatever strippers they hired or dudes they met at the club. I returned to the driveway and nestled into the bushes. Flicking the lighter felt more satisfying than I remembered. The first drag made my limbs shake and my head swim and I smiled like I hadn’t smiled in a long time. I smiled like I did when Abby used to wear tights and let me rest my hand on her thigh. Abby texted after my third drag. Can you pick me up? There’s an issue. What’s up? Nothing serious. I’m fine. I’ll tell you when you get here. Be there soon. 23

I wanted to take one more drag, make it my last one, maybe ever. But I had stomped the cigarette out right when I felt my phone buzz. * All Abby said when I picked her up in front the downtown bar with the smoked glass windows was, “I need something to eat.” In the car she took off her heels, and put her sweatshirt back on. I found one of those family restaurant chains, and we slid into a booth. I ordered pie, and she ordered waffles. When they brought out her soda, she looked up at me and started talking. “The person who was supposed to be the designated driver drank a ton, and there was no way I was going to get in a car with her.” “Makes sense,” I said. “Do my parents know you left?” “I put a note on our door.” She sucked down half of her cola. “Did you have fun?” I asked. “Up until…” “Yeah,” she said. “I guess. Not really.” “I knew you wouldn’t. That’s not who you are anymore. You’re a mom now…” She interrupted me with a glare. “Don’t say that. I don’t need to hear that.” 24

“I’m just being honest.” The restaurant was pretty full for as late as it was. Plenty of the people you’d expect to be ordering food in the middle of the night sat at the tables. Groups of teenagers occupied each of the corner booths in the dining room. The table across from us held a big group of construction guys. An old lady sat at a long table with what looked like all her adult children, almost a dozen of them, and they jabbered in Spanish and laughed and fought to gain each other’s attention. But the part I couldn’t figure out was all the kids. Who takes kids to a restaurant after the middle of night? Who lets kids stay up that late? One family with two elementary aged kids, all dressed up like they came from a wedding ate off a platter of mozzarella sticks. A big fat woman sat with a baby on her lap, a toddler in a high chair, and a preschooler coloring his placemat while her boyfriend typed on his phone. Kids need sleep. Kids need twelve hours of sleep, every night. Why were these people here? “I know blatant honesty is your thing,” said Abby, “but now it’s my turn.” “Okay.” “I didn’t want to come to this thing at all. I just felt like I should, before we try to get pregnant again. I just wanted to show off a little.” 25

I tilted my head. “Thank you for being honest. But I knew all that already.” She dabbed at her suddenly moist eyes with her napkin, wiping off some of her thick mascara. “Well, how about this then.” She sighed. “I don’t want another kid.” I took a sip of my water. My stomach still felt queasy from the nicotine. I swallowed each sip long and slow. “Okay then. Inga will be our last one.” “Are you being honest now?” I shrugged. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.” On the other side of the construction workers sat a table full of kids. The parents had their own table across the aisle. The youngest kid was maybe six, the oldest in her teens. Maybe they were cousins or something. They were all blond and had great postures while they blew their straw wrappers and flicked water out of their water glasses at each other. When would they all go to bed? 1:00 AM? 2:00 AM? “And just so you know, I’m not honest about everything,” I said. “Oh yeah? That’s new.” Abby held up her empty soda cup and waved it at the waitress across the dining room. “What do you got?” “I smoked part of a cigarette.” “When?” 26

“Tonight.” She looked at me, and all of the possible responses raced across her face, which surprised me. I thought she would have known ahead of time exactly how she would respond. She nodded. “I’m not surprised.” She crossed her hands on the table and leaned forward. “So, are you a smoker again?” “No,” I said. “For sure not.” I reached across the table and rested my hand on hers. “And there’s one other thing.” “What?” “I hate that I have to ask to touch you.” “Yeah,” she said. “I hate that, too.”

Selected Poems by Alan Ferland In Your Absence There is more room here than I am used to; not just at the dinner table, but in other places throughout the home where echoes of intimate words never die out and the paths taken by white-hot love never fade. The most glorious of these moments reprise themselves, unannounced, and my eyes flood with tears. On the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s longest tin-can phone, your voice, faint but audible, is all that is left of you to hold teddy-bear close in a bed half full.

Fallible Captain America has stopped sizable foes in their tracks over past decades in the name of liberty and justice of his country. But how does a masked avenger stop an absorbent prejudice passed generation to generation; a caustic cause of infighting amongst those he has sworn to protect? At graves in Baton Rouge, St. Paul, and Dallas, he genuflects, with tear-stained cheeks and stutters syllables of grief 28

and apology about how he wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t there in time.

Selected Poems by C. Wade Bentley That Guy Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m the guy with the baseballs in his backyard because the neighbor kids wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take the dare to retrieve them. The guy with the house your parents warn you about on Halloween, then check your candy for ground glass and razor blades. Every curtain is closed, though maybe you think you once saw a face in an upstairs window. The grass and sow thistles are high enough to hide a family of feral cats, or a small child. At night, only the blue flame of television flickers. One group of neighborhood do-gooders long ago spread the word that when they brought the bouquet of edible flowers and the pamphlet of community association guidelines to my door, they were met by a man in a gray chenille bathrobe smoking something hand-rolled, and that while they were distracted by the contents of the unsecured robe, he took the assortment of chocolate-dipped pineapple daisies, their leaves carved from honeydew melons, and shut the door. They were wrong to embellish, however, by saying they heard me cackle maniacally or peeked 30

through the window to see me sliding sugared orange slices under a padlocked closet door. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not that guy, as I told those who came later.

The Dead The world is lousy with the dead, a hundred billion of them, lifesized dolls cut from the ether. You see them flickering out the corner of your eye, feel them jostle your coffee arm as you wait for the train. On every sofa, every park bench, they are stacked a dozen deep. That voice that wakes you at night, the knocking you might have heard at the front door? Them, them. So many they fill every fallow field, standing shoulder to shoulder like terracotta Chinese soldiers, an army of scarecrows. In every senior living center, every TV room, you can see the residentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; skin turning translucent, watch as they smile and move their lips as if deep in conversation, as if the dead 31

pull up chairs and call them by name.

Loose Ends Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m at loose ends, this morning, having already completed my usual chores. I took an extra long shower, with loofah and body wash, until the hot water was gone. I worked up an omelet with some veggies from the fridge that were just nudging past their prime. Let the dog walk until he was pulling me back home. I have seen everything there is to see from the kitchen window, the one that looks out on the stand of scrub oak and the little stream coming down out of Adams Canyon: juncos doing their morning moonwalk, stirring up seeds; a kestrel hovering over the field further out, hoping something will make a move. My brother-in-law the attorney sent me a packet of Living Will materials, and the papers lie scattered across my desk. Some of the answers were easy enough: agree to be an organ donor? Yes. Take measures to save the fetus if it is determined that I am pregnant, even if it cuts my own life short? N/A. Some of the other questions are putting up 32

more of a fight. Selecting the “agent” who will make decisions about my end-of-life care. Telling others how heroic they should be in attempting to prolong my life. What level, what quality of life qualifies as life? And if I should change my mind in the end, only able to scream with my eyes: don’t you dare take one step closer to that plug? I can smell the last of the Stilton that I left sitting out on the kitchen counter calling to me to make a decision, soon, about lunch, about roast beef or ham, with mustard or without, sliced pear or apple—the cheese having reached that insistent age when, if I don’t make a move, it will.

The Names of Clouds It seemed important, once, to know the types of clouds, to point them out to my grandkids, retrieve their names like skipping stones I had found and saved for a day at the lake, where I would give instruction in the correct sidearm delivery and flip of the wrist: cumulonimbus, cirrus, altostratus—look at them go. These are the things grandpas know. How to get down on a ground ball. How to use a blade of grass to whistle like a loon. 33

The virtues of depositing oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s birthday money in an interest-bearing account. Choosing a shaving soap with lanolin for a richer lather. The kids have long

known the names of all the dinosaurs, dozens of them now, it turns out, many more than the three I once learned to depict in dioramas. They learn computer coding, in summer camp, the way I was once taught Morse code, in Scouts, along with how to make leather Indian moccasins. They do not let me hold the video game controller or follow them on Instagram. When we look through my old superhero comic books, they tell me how much they would be worth, mint. They oblige my need to hold them, huddled together on the couch, as they show me how to google all the names of clouds.

You Know This One by Heart It will start as the sort of love poem you know by heart, with the young couple waist-deep in the ocean, entwined, and then work its way around to a day at the park, throwing frisbees to their corgis and kids. Then, not unexpectedlyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;you will have seen 34

it comingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the requisite scene of vitriol and recrimination. All you will need are a few details about who was found in whose pickup truck doing what with whom, and you could write the lines yourself. Where the poem takes a turn, however, is when we see

the man, years later, walking in a forest as if he knows it like the back of his hand, kneeling to see the tiny vines of blueeyed marys growing alongside the trail, when all at once a great horned owl rises, so close the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hoary heart nearly breaks in his chest, beating like wings.

Otis: 1998-2016 By Sarah Bradley Less than an hour before Nora’s fifth date with Aaron, Otis goes missing. He is in the bathroom with her while she showers and starts her makeup, scratching his ear with his hind leg. She leaves for a moment to retrieve her dress from the bedroom and when she returns, he is gone. It worries her. Since Nora moved back into the farmhouse, Otis has followed her from room to room in all his waking hours, searching for her whenever she disappears for longer than a few minutes. He inserts himself between her legs at the kitchen table while she eats, sniffs around her bare feet as she makes coffee, and tucks his compact body against the footboard of her bed while she sleeps. For as long as she has called this house her home again, Otis has been loyally underfoot and nearly impossible to shake—until now. Nora searches for him in all his favored places inside the house. The stone border around the fireplace, the balmy gap between the oak cabinets and the kitchen island, the loose vent in the guest room that lets out more heat than any of the others. Each time she checks these places, she expects to find Otis waiting there, unaffected by her growing panic. Looking back at her with tired eyes and a tail that flickers casually. Of course I’m here. Where else would I be? 36

Nora calls for him as she begins to look beyond his usual spots, her voice flat and small inside the wood-paneled rooms of the house. Her fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s belongings no longer crowd the corners and cover the walls. He has been dead for more than a month and it has taken her nearly all that time to sift through the detritus of his forty years inside the house. She was not sentimental about his things, but there was a staggering amount of them; a new stash of boxes emerging each time she thought herself nearly finished. In fits of purging, enormous black garbage bags in hand, Nora cleared through her fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s personal effects with satisfying decisiveness. It became hard for her to stop throwing things away, her momentum gaining as the bags bulged and overflowed. She stripped closets and drawers. She dumped out shoeboxes and suitcases. She emptied bookcases and kitchen cabinets of their contents, leaving nothing but dust mites. Soon she was dragging furniture out to the curb for trash pick-up, lining water-stained end tables and wobbly floor lamps and her fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tattered armchair with the broken footrest on the edge of the lawn like some pop art tableau of life in the seventies. What she was left with, when it was all over, was a small collection of things that had nothing in common, except for some indefinable sense of nostalgia. Hundreds of albums 37

stored in milk crates, filed in alphabetical order, and a portable record player; a cast iron skillet and two kitchen bar stools; a rectangular tin of shaving accessories on a shelf in the bathroom. And, of course, there was Otis—the arthritic basset hound with large dark eyes, downward drooping mouth and silky pear-shaped ears. When she was a little girl, Nora used to gently stretch his ears out wide like wings and let them go, watching them swing gracefully back into place. Except for a few unrelated items of furniture, it’s only her and Otis now inside the house, trying to fill up the spacious rooms with their warm bodies. She transplanted her belongings from her one-bedroom loft in the city after the funeral, begging her landlord to release her early from the rental agreement. Her father’s farmhouse, vast and cavernous, makes her handful of things seem miniature, like doll’s furniture arranged inside a full-sized house. The house throbs with emptiness, every sound louder than it has any right to be. Each night, Nora sits on the loveseat in the living room, staring at the open space where a coffee table should be, running inventory in her head of all the things she threw away. She drinks a glass of wine and wonders whether or not one of the neighbors rescued her father’s armchair from its fate on the curb. If someone two streets away is sinking down into the collapsing seat—the springs creaking and groaning with 38

effort—and pulling uselessly on the lever that should raise the footrest, but doesn’t. --When she has looked for Otis in every room, Nora goes outside. Wracked with pain in his hips and shoulders, he rarely leaves the house anymore; but still, she squats down to look beneath the porch, where he used to retreat in his younger years. It has rained all day and water is collecting in the crawl space, attracting small swarms of mosquitoes. Nora looks out across the front yard, to the picket fence and row of budding azaleas by the property line. A strange, sick feeling crawls up her throat from her stomach. Even as a puppy, Otis never strayed further than the familiarity of their yard. She is still standing on the front steps when Aaron pulls into the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires of his burnished sedan. He crosses the lawn to greet her with his arms open, but drops them to his side as he gets a closer look at her—bare feet in the wet grass, hair pulled away from her face in a sloppy knot, blue silk dress crumpled and unbelted at the waist. “What are you doing?” “I can’t find Otis,” she says, suddenly self-conscious, tugging at her hair to release the elastic band holding it up. “Did he get out of the house?” 39

“He never leaves the house. But he’s not inside.” “Maybe you missed him.” “I looked everywhere.” Aaron smiles patiently and gestures toward the house. “Let’s look together.” Inside, they walk from room to room searching for Otis. Aaron’s dress shoes echo loudly on the hardwood floors. More than once, his cell phone chimes from his pocket with text and email alerts, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Nora doesn’t say anything when he looks in places Otis could never find his way into, opening closet doors and pulling back the shower curtain in the bathroom. She remembers him telling her, on their first date, that his mother never allowed him to have any pets. When they finish checking the upstairs rooms, Aaron follows Nora back down to the kitchen. “He’s never done this before?” “Never.” “Should I cancel our reservations?” They have plans to go into the city tonight, first to dinner in the financial district and then an art gallery for a fundraiser hosted by his law firm. She checks the clock. “I don’t think we’ll get to the restaurant on time. I can’t just leave.” 40

“That’s fine.” “You should go.” Aaron shakes his head, momentarily distracted as he deletes their reservation on his cell phone. “No, I’ll stay.” “You can still make it to the gallery. It’s for work.” “They won’t miss me,” he says, looking through the kitchen window at the grove of trees stretching out behind the uncultivated garden. Her father toiled in the garden around this same time every year, but Nora has done nothing to clear away the yellowed vines climbing up the lattice borders, the blackened leaves rotting into the soil. Her commitment to exorcising her father’s presence from the house has not yet extended to the outside. “Would Otis go into the woods?” “No.” He turns to her. “Are you sure?” The sick feeling sweeps through her again, a tide of nausea ebbing and flowing. “I don't think he could make it that far. But I don’t know where else to look.” “Why don’t you put on some shoes? And a coat, too. Looks like more rain.” Aaron cranes his neck close to the window, examining the sky. “I don’t need a coat,” she says, stepping into a pair of muck boots by the back door. 41

Aaron smiles gently again and Nora briefly hates him for his patience, a match igniting in her belly that burns out quickly. There is little to criticize him for: he is considerate and kind, curious and intelligent, subtly handsome in a way that makes him appealing yet easily overlooked at first glance. He has a frustrating yet innocently meandering way of telling stories, focusing too long on the unimportant parts. He is more honest than a successful lawyer should be. The night they first met was her last night in the city before moving, three days after she buried her father. Aaron was alone at the bar beneath her loft, soothing the side effects of a 14-hour international flight and sporting a lush, seven day-old beard. Nora was restless after spending the afternoon packing up her apartment, wearing an ill-fitting dress snatched from the top of a moving box. They were both drinking more than usual, laughing at stories that weren’t funny and pretending to be recovered from the sting of recent failed relationships. She liked him quickly and easily—like slipping on something familiar, something softened with age, and admiring the way it fits. A few hours later, when she stood to leave, Aaron asked for her number. Nora laughed. I’m moving tomorrow. To Ridgewood. I don’t mind, he said. I like to drive.

She swayed gently on her feet. She’d had four, maybe five, glasses of wine. We can just leave it here. Never see each other again. I don’t want that. Neither do you. How do you know what I want? I know. How? I know you, he insisted quietly. And I think you know me. Nora did. She knew what kind of man he was—not a placeholder or a distraction, like all the others. Something different. More. You know, my father just died. I’m sorry, he said, instantly alarmed. Do you want to talk about it? Yes. She shut her eyes and shook her head. No, actually. No, I don’t. Aaron cleared his throat and rose soberly from his seat. I’ll walk you home. She laughed again, mostly to herself. I live upstairs. Then I’ll walk you upstairs, he said, tucking two large bills under his empty glass on the bar. Is that okay? Yes, she said, welcoming the steadying effect of his hand on the middle of her back as she wobbled out of the bar 43

and up the stairs to her third floor apartment. She typed her number into his phone, said goodnight, and fell asleep on her loveseat surrounded by columns of cardboard boxes. She thought she would never hear from Aaron again, but he called a few days later, asking if she remembered him. Yes, she said, not bothering to hide her surprise. He asked if he could take her to dinner, and every Friday night since then has been the same: Aaron travels an hour outside the city to pick her up, making the necessary plans and reservations, buying movie tickets or museum passes. Sometimes they venture back toward the city, but mostly they stay near Ridgewood. Either way, he drops her back off at her house before midnight like a dutiful teenager meeting curfew. She invites him in for coffee and he takes it black, uncomplicated, drinking it down quickly and kissing her goodnight. Each time he pulls out of her driveway, she thinks it will be for the last time. But then he is back again the following week, eagerly standing at the bottom of her porch steps, and Nora can almost believe that he has missed her. She doesn’t know why he keeps coming back—to the hollowed-out farmhouse or to her, reticent and guarded, revealing only slivers of herself to him like a moon that never fully illuminates. She only knows that when she is with him, she can’t stop herself from saying yes. Yes, I’ll go to dinner 44

with you. Yes, you can come in for coffee. Yes, I want to see you again. The unspoken acknowledgment that repeats between them, the one that frightens Nora because it’s never been true before: Yes, I know you. I know who you are. --Side by side, Nora and Aaron wade through the overgrown grass in the backyard as they set out for the trees. The storm front advancing on the house starts bringing down splatters of rain in fat, heavy drops. “I don’t think Otis would come all the way out here,” Nora says, staring into the densely wooded acre separating her father’s land from Tom Henson’s property. In the fall and winter, Henson’s large white colonial is clearly visible through the naked trees, but Nora’s view of the house is obscured behind the new growth of May leaves. “He has a hard time getting around.” “How old is he?” “Eighteen.” “I didn’t think basset hounds lived that long.” “They don’t, usually.” Aaron is quiet, calculating the math in his head. “So then he’s your dog too, right? If he’s that old?” “I guess so. Why?”

“Nothing, it’s just—when I came here for the first time, you said he was your father’s dog.” “Oh,” Nora says absently, not remembering. “We got him when I was eight, after my mother died. My father said it would make me feel better but mostly I think it was for him. I’ve never really thought of him as my dog.” As they reach the trees, Aaron holds back a lowhanging limb so Nora can stoop beneath it. They weave through a thicket of shrubs and vines, snapping loose twigs under their feet. “That must have been hard, losing your mother when you were young.” “I don’t really remember much.” “I’m sure you remember some of it.” “I remember my father being different. He was always either sad or angry, nothing in between.” Nora recalls silently what it felt like to be in the same room as her father in the months after her mother died, the careful tiptoeing around his wildly swinging moods—a walk across hot coals. “I didn’t talk to him much. I think eventually he started to worry about me.” “So he got you a dog?” “He probably thought it would give me something else to think about,” Nora says. “Otis was only two months old. I 46

tried to train him but he wouldn’t listen to me. I lost interest after a few weeks, but he did something to my father.” “What do you mean?” “My father would come home in a sour mood, angry at the whole world, and he would yell and curse at Otis for nothing—for watching the neighbor’s cat out the window— and Otis would just sit there and take it. Like he was absorbing all of my father’s hurt. And my father would instantly feel better. You could see his whole body relaxing, like a balloon deflating.” “Then…what?” “Then he would call Otis over for a belly rub and they would act like it never happened. After a few years, he wasn’t so angry anymore. But he never really stopped being sad.” They stand in the middle of a small clearing, a few fallen trees shaped into a crooked circle fencing off some of the surrounding overgrowth. Nora pushes her damp hair away from her face. “He can’t have gone much further than this,” Aaron says. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll go this way a little, you go that way?” They drift apart, Nora stepping out of the clearing and putting a swift distance between herself and Aaron. Before 47

today, she resisted all of his attempts to coax childhood stories out of her. She hasn’t talked to anyone about her father since he died. It feels like picking at a scab—pleasurable and painful all at once, satisfaction followed by a dull ache. Something shifts to her left and she freezes mid-step. Nora hears Otis before she sees him, a low guttural whimper escaping from the crevice between a rock pile and a fallen tree a few yards away. “Over here,” she calls back to Aaron, trampling furiously through the underbrush to reach the sound. Beneath the rotted trunk, the dog lies on his right side, tail twitching limply against leaves, eyes half shut. “Oh,” Nora says quietly, kneeling down in the saturated dirt. Mud sticks to her skin. “Is he alright?” Aaron catches up and peers over her shoulder. “Is he hurt?” Nora shakes her head silently, inching closer to Otis, trying not to startle him. His white belly swells and sinks slowly with each breath. “Should we move him?” Behind her, Aaron crouches down. “Not now.” Otis whines again and looks at them, curling himself toward Nora. She puts her hand on his stomach to feel it move under her fingers, the time between breaths growing longer. 48

His hind legs shudder and his belly fills up with air once more before collapsing with a final heave. The perfect stillness that follows is unnerving; Nora searches the dog’s tail and ears for movement but can find none. Aaron puts his hand on her shoulder and she shrugs it away. A moment later, he removes his suit jacket and settles it onto her shoulders. She cries into the wool collar. “What do we do with him?” “We'll get him back to the house,” Aaron says, standing. Nora watches as he steps between her and Otis, squatting to heft the dog’s body off the ground. He holds Otis in his arms like a sleeping child and begins to walk back towards the yard. “We should have brought a flashlight,” Nora says, her boot catching on a branch. “It’s okay,” Aaron says. “It’s not that far.” Once they break through the trees, Aaron cuts a straight path toward her father’s tool shed. “Can we put him in here? We can't bury him now. The ground is too wet.” “It’s locked. I don’t know where the key is.” “Maybe there’s a spare hidden somewhere? My dad keeps one under a rock.”

Nora nods and walks around the shed, turning over a flat, mossy rock with her foot. “Here,” she says, picking up the key imprinted into the mud underneath. “I forgot. I’m sorry.” “That’s alright.” Nora looks at Aaron, devoutly cradling Otis against his button-down shirt, his eyeglasses spotted with water. She is surprised to see he is unbothered, as comfortable standing in the rain holding her father’s dead dog as he would have been at the art gallery fundraiser they were supposed to attend. She realizes she was wrong: she doesn’t know him at all. Nora starts to cry again, her nose running down to the top of her lip. He watches as she unlocks the shed door and wipes her face with the wool sleeve of his jacket. Aaron ducks inside and kneels to lay Otis down on the wooden floor. “Do you have a tarp? Or a blanket?” Nora lifts an old tarp from a neat stack of maple logs. She shakes it out and covers Otis with it, tucking the canvas in around his head and tail. “I'll come back tomorrow and help you dig the hole,” Aaron says. Nora doesn’t argue. They walk back to the dark house without speaking and enter through the kitchen door. The house is sticky with humidity and warm from the heat wafting through the vents. They are both soaked through their clothes. Nora slips off 50

Aaron's jacket and gropes for the light switch, flooding the kitchen with fluorescent light. They neglect to leave their shoes at the door, depositing a trail of muddy footprints across the linoleum. “Do you have anything to drink?” Aaron asks. “Just water. Or I could make coffee.” “Not that kind of drink,” he says. His wet hair hangs loosely around his temples, curling at the ends. His neck is damp, the formerly crisp collar of his dress shirt wilting from sweat. Otis was small but heavy. “Oh.” Nora points down the hallway. “There’s beer and wine in the cellar. Last door on the right. I’ll get us some towels.” Aaron disappears down the basement steps, and while he is gone Nora retrieves a pair of towels from the bathroom. They meet back in the kitchen, exchanging towels and beer bottles until they both have one of each. “Do you want to change? I don’t really have anything…I gave away my father’s clothes. But I could try to find something.” “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s just water.” “Okay.” “I’m sorry,” Aaron says. “About Otis.” “Thank you for helping me.” 51

“Of course.” Aaron looks out the kitchen window again. The thick band of gray clouds is moving west but now twilight is settling in, the shadow of the storm replaced by a more obtuse kind of darkness. “This is a nice property. I can see why you wanted to move out here.” “I didn’t really want to. But I didn’t want to sell it, either.” “It was your home,” he says, and the simplicity of his words cuts her cleanly—a finely sharpened knife slicing easily through skin. “The house needs work. It needs things. I don’t have much.” “What happened to your father's furniture?” “I got rid of that, too,” she says, taking an overeager sip of beer. She swallows the liquid in stages. “I shouldn't have.” They drink in silence for a few minutes, their wet clothing loosening from their bodies as it begins to dry. Otis rarely barked, but made his presence in the house known in other ways. With regret, Nora realizes there will be no ragged snoring at the foot of her bed tonight, no toenails scrabbling on the hardwood floors while she is making breakfast in the morning. “Why Otis?” Aaron asks. 52

“What?” “Why did you name him Otis?” “Oh. My father loved Otis Redding.” “Mine too,” he says. “He made us listen to Dock of the Bay every Sunday night after dinner when we were kids.” “I have that one,” Nora says. “My father had an album collection.” She leads Aaron into the living room and opens the closet door to reveal the towered stacks of milk crates stuffed with records, thumbing through the alphabetized sleeves until she finds it. She wrestles with the record player beside the crates, wiggling it out onto the living room floor. Aaron takes the record from her and lowers it onto the platter, centering it around the spindle. Nora watches as he lifts the tonearm and lowers the needle gently down onto the black disc’s outer grooves with a practiced hand. “You’ve done this before.” “I told you,” he says, smiling down at the player. “Every Sunday.” They stand shoulder to shoulder as the title song starts to play, the sound of waves breaking on the shore bleeding into the subdued instrumentals—delicate guitar, tender bass. Redding’s voice sounds as mellowed and rusty as tarnished silver in the nearly empty room. The record player spins 53

fervently on the floor, sending vibrations through the hardwood and up the soles of Nora’s feet. “I should have kept the coffee table for the record player. But I always hated it.” “Why?” “I don’t know.” Nora turns to Aaron and moves closer, accidentally stepping on his toes with her muck boots. She kisses him slowly, forcing herself to ignore the echoing acoustics in the room and think only of his mouth, his tongue, his long chin pressing in toward hers. He puts his hands on her shoulders and they settle there, firm and unmoving, like twin paperweights holding her to the ground. Nora focuses on the heaviness of his hands, the feeling of being anchored in the middle of the room. The unbearable quiet of the house begins to soften, its sharp edges dissolving. Aaron kisses her again and Nora lets him be all there is: he is smoke swirling around her, spreading through every inch of the house, infiltrating all the gaps in the tiles and cracks in the floorboards. He is rising bread dough, growing and expanding in size, squeezing into corners and pressing up against the windows. Swelling and dimpling and wedging into spaces she never knew existed. Filling up her father's house

until it’s no longer empty, until it threatens to burst, until there is room for nothing else. “When I come back tomorrow, we can go get a new coffee table. If you want,” he says. “Yes,” she says.

Selected Poems by Joan Colby Book Therapy The aspects of pregnancy. The way Breasts grew tender and swelled, the belly A turnip, then a melon with a revolving door, A sudden poke like a tagline To an old joke. The pain beyond All expectation. I yelled Holy Jesus. Help. Though I had ceased to believe years ago. And then the baby. Red-faced, bald-headed, Fierce. I opened my book to follow The Bull From the Sea as Theseus Gripped the thread in a maze of bafflement While Ariadne danced, bloody mouthed with The maenads. That child became the Madwoman Of Challot her senior year. Then the Sorbonne, a flat On the Left Bank whose Madame Taught her chess. She came back Changed, of course, no longer heeding What I said. When she left for the coast I turned my head as the Volkswagon jolted Out of the drive and sped Through Ariel to find how rage, Burning like dry ice, can Stain a page. Years later, after the diagnosis, Waiting for surgery, the Christmas lights burning On the wreath strangled tree, A house full of company, Presents hid 56

From the toddlers. A roast Browning in the oven. I couldn’t help Thinking how it was dead, This feast we planned to eat. I sat on the sofa, vigilant Of the ticking hours. Cracked and spread A spine to learn About Love in the Time of Cholera.

Predators Bang on the siding as the songbird Tries to escape the redtail’s stoop. Another gone, since the hawk took residence In the lofty oak. Everything’s in hiding; Squirrels, sparrows, finches. The feeders hang Half full for the courageous chickadees, Nuthatches, downy woodpeckers who conduct Swift sorties. That hawk—a serial killer Protected from harassment by laws Passed by predators. He soars Over the barn roof seeking swallows Or the scarlet tanager that arrived yesterday Unaware of the neighborhood. It’s the innocent who are at risk. The children playing ball on the parkway. The girls whispering on the brick stoop As the hot night settles its wings. The fledgling sparrow, split from its flock, Who clung day after day to the feeder As if a wealth of seed Could save him.

Like Dreams They disappear like dreams, these planes That go off-course, undetectable, one moment A speck on radar, then nothing, Like waking and trying to remember When all you have is pure emotion. Somewhere in that ocean, uncharted, There might be wreckage. That’s what happens When love dissolves in flame Like plastic leaving only The toxic odor. Everyone is looking For evidence. Something to surface, floating Or the ping of the black box But it’s all surrender. No one ever Wants to hear your dream. The entire sea Renounces the divisions Imposed by chart makers. Bits and pieces Of flotsam jog your memory. It’s another morning. You’re Up and at it. The salt water Calm and deep. Whatever went down Or where, it doesn’t matter.

Dancer, Orpheus, Rilke By Kip Wilson I. Dancer Beginning with my tentative first step, I twirl through life with music in my ear that guides, sustains, and beckons through the fog, inspiring me with otherworldly fuel: ambrosia, nectar, kisses from the gods course through my limbs, and with each breath I take across the stage, I fly under the lights and think of nothing but the joy dance brings. But when a friend of Vater’s comes to call, a poet with eyes clear as summer sky, a passion for his words flows from his lips as gently as my sure feet flutter by. We stop, we watch, we listen, spinning by each other in the maelstrom of our worlds. II. Gravestone Inspired to become more than my dance, I listen to the music from the sky, resounding with the weight of eons past, inspiring me with otherworldly tones, that lift me to new heights and make me soar across the stage, but thus fulfilled I’ve gone from mortal toward unthinkable I float, the border to beyond lit up with stars. As price to pay, my body’s ripped apart 59

by illness sharp as teeth that grinds my bones and mashes dreams into a pulsing heap, discarding them like flowers on a grave that soon will bear my own name on a stone, a last reminder tying me to Earth. III. Beyond I slip into this other world beyond where darkness swallows everything I see and pulls me in, and I am falling fast through time and space as light as snowy flakes. My feet meet ground, alive and real and new, surprising me with harsh and solid truth: that I’m almost alive as I once was, my senses catching signs from all around— a breeze that coats my lungs with crispest frost, a group of gray-brown trees and ice-blue sky— and it’s as though I’ve fallen back to Earth, my footsteps’ echo bouncing off the bark and not from me but someone else, alive, whose voice gasps words that strike me deep inside. IV. Eurydice “O, Orpheus sings!” and suddenly I’m lost to force transforming me against my will, becoming him whose magic purely flows from fingers and from lyre and from song. But no, instead of soaring through his head or flowing from his mouth with richest notes 60

the poet sends me deeper in a world where gods and mortals struggle over souls. I find myself embodied in his wife, who heads across the Styx without a word and follows his dull shape until he turns, a move that sends me plummeting away and back through time, through space, and gleaming stars until Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m at another poetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s side. V. Muse Herr Rilke sits despairing at his desk, print Orpheus looming from the wall above. As I, a dancer, glide around the space, the poet fills his pen and, longing, waits. A whisper of a girl, I float his way transforming into poetry herself that spills inside this tired poetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ear, years waiting for his otherworldly muse. Inside his ear, I rest on swany down and coax his words to paper from his pen, inspiring him with beauty that was mine when I still lived and danced and loved and flew. My wings now fill his pages soft as snow as I blow him a kiss and soar away.

Where There’s Smoke By Debra Cross John looked down at the eggs he was frying, wondering how he was going to get this woman—whatever her name was—out of the house before Ashley got home from her law conference. She sat thumbing through a magazine at the kitchen table, one foot swinging loose as it skimmed the floor, one gripping the edge of the glass tabletop, her leg forming a sharp right angle that framed the trashed living room. Two bottles of cheap champagne had severed the umbilicus of civilized living—shriveled pizza, a shattered glass, and puddles of liquid spotted the hardwood floor. It wasn’t like he hadn’t cheated on his wife before; he was no saint and she knew it. He forgave her for loving her job more than she loved him, and she forgave him his indiscretions. But never had he brought a woman home. Adulterer’s honor, if you will. He started to ask his guest to take her foot off the table, but what was the point? Making her privy to house rules assumed a return visit, and there was no way she would ever be given entrée again. “You like your yolk runny or hard?” he asked the woman. She was easy enough to look at, even in the unforgiving spotlight of morning sun that streamed through

the window. There was no such thing as the color of her hair, though. Sort of dried-blood red. “I like mine hard, baby,” she said, winking at him. The spatula froze in midair. Now he remembered. The shrill, nasal voice cut through him like shrapnel. He turned his attention back to cooking, avoiding eye contact, kicking himself in the ass for his conundrum. He always went to the pick up’s house because he could leave when he wanted—no complications. But she was from somewhere else—in town visiting a friend, she’d said—and they couldn’t go back to her place. So the lethal combination of one too many tequila shooters and an empty bed at his house had prompted John to bend his own rules. “I’m just going to run to the little girl’s room before we eat,” she said, swaying across the kitchen to the guest bath wearing Ashley’s tiny robe, snapping her gum and humming. John racked his brain for a name. Cindy? Kelly? He ran through the alphabet, giving up after “T.” Who the hell cared anyway? He just wanted her out. And yet, he’d offered to cook breakfast for her, felt compelled to send her off with a full stomach. A shrink could have a field day with his compassion code. “Baby, you’re out of toilet paper.”

Damn. Ashley kept the toilet paper in the hall closet, which meant he was going to have to actually open the door of the bathroom and hand it to her. The thought of this strangely intimate act with the nameless woman made the hair on his neck stand at attention. “Coming,” he called out in failed casualness. He opened the closet and scanned for TP, but there was not a roll in sight. He cursed Ashley for her shopping philosophy of not buying anything until it ran out. An open package of travel-sized Kleenex dropped to the floor as he mined the eclectic collection of stuff. It’d have to do. He opened the door to the bathroom and tossed the weightless package in the general direction of the toilet, eyes closed, head turned away like some grade-schooler. She giggled. “You missed.” “Can’t you reach it?” he asked, horrified at the prospect of what she’d say next. “I’m sort of occupied here, if you know what I mean,” she said, raising the screech factor an octave. A beveled mirror in the hallway caught John’s reflection and threw back a cruel image—black bedhead hair atop bloodshot brown eyes and a darkly shadowed jaw. The chef’s apron he’d tied on to protect his jeans and bare chest from grease spatters made him look like an extra in a porn flick. In his hungover state, he figured his options were this: 64

he could either walk away and let her fend for herself, or close his eyes, open the door, and feel around for the tissues, hopefully avoiding visual contact. His choice was made for him by the scream of the smoke alarm. He ran toward the kitchen, where the eggs he’d been frying were now fully engulfed in flames. As were the curtains that dangled close to the stove. He grabbed the kitchen phone and dialed 9-1-1— where a frustratingly calm voice assured him that help was on the way—then flailed away at the flames with an impotent hand towel, which disintegrated into hot flakes that floated over and torched the gauzy green panels that hung on the French doors. He stood in the middle of the growing inferno, trying to decide whether to fill a pan with water to throw on the flames or find his cell phone. Ashley hadn’t made her usual “I’m on my way home” call. How close was she? This was a nightmare. He spotted his cell on the counter and snatched it up. Insurance would fix the kitchen, but nothing would repair the damage if Ashley came home and found her house on fire and a strange woman standing in the front yard with her bathrobe on. No messages.

He grabbed his shirt and headed for the front door, remembered what’s-her-name and shouted “fire” before running outside. He stood in the driveway staring at his phone as Engine 40 made its way down the boulevard, a harsh red box of lights and sound ripping a swath through the tranquil neighborhood of multi-million dollar homes with putting green lawns. As it pulled up in front of his house, a crowd of neighbors began to gather. He was caught now. No way out. “You the owner?” asked a calendar-boy firefighter, pulling on his gear. John could only nod. “Anyone else inside?” “My wife’s out of town.” “Pets?” John felt his head turn east to west a couple of times. “Okay, sir. Just stay here,” he ordered, flipping the plexi-mask over his face and heading toward what was quickly becoming a three-alarm blaze. As if he could have moved. He had possibly just sentenced another human being to death. He could actually feel a dark spot on his soul start to grow. ~

Poppy—that was her name—was focused on trying to grab the edge of a flimsy Kleenex from a crumpled travel pack. Geezus, you’d think a classy house like this would have toilet paper, she thought. And then she began choking on the thick, black smoke that crawled under the door and lapped at the ceramic throne where she sat. “John,” she screeched. “John!” The smoke was so thick it strangled her words. She wiped, plastic wrapper and all, and staggered to the door. She frantically slapped around until she found the knob, which was so hot it burned her hand. That had to be a bad sign. She tried to scream for John once more, but her voice came out in a gruff whisper. She was on her own. Staggering to the bathroom window, she heaved herself up to the hand-painted, cobalt blue Mediterranean tile windowsill. She paused a few seconds to survey the situation, and though she wasn’t a religious woman, she made the sign of the cross before closing her eyes and diving the six-foot drop to the back patio. Even there, the smoke had closed in like thick fog. Her freefall punched the wind out of her lungs and it was a while before she could gingerly pick herself up and stagger down the alley. ~ Ashley made a rolling stop as she applied lipstick in the rearview mirror, nearly hitting the disoriented femme who 67

stepped into the street. “Stupid bitch,” she mouthed to the woman whose hands rested on the hood of her Porsche. What the hell was she doing walking around in broad daylight wearing nothing but a very short bathrobe and pink, kittenheeled slippers? They made eye contact for a split second before the woman pushed herself upright and continued on her crooked path. She was obviously on something. Ashley blotted her lips with a stray business card as she pulled up the number for Security on her cell. But before she could connect, Pretty-in-Pink tripped over the curb and took a nosedive onto the sidewalk. A dormant sense of duty took over, and Ashley was out of her car and kneeling by the woman. “Are you alright?” “I think so,” she said. She rolled over and began poking herself to assess damage. Ashley looked back to make sure she wasn’t scuffing the leather on her new Jimmy Choos, trying to figure her next move. She sighed. Picking the woman up was like pro bono work she supposed. Something she could tell the senior partners about so they’d get off her back about donating her professional time to the less fortunate. “Do you need a ride somewhere?” They hobbled toward the car, and Ashley folded the woman into the passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt across 68

her chest. She slid behind the wheel and glanced over at her long enough to take inventory. She was attractive in a vulnerable sort of way—pale skin, huge green eyes, tiny nose, bee stung lips. Her hair was a strange sort of burgundy, though. “What’s your name?” she asked. “Poppy.” “Poppy? Like the flower?” “Yeah, as in California Poppy. My parents were hippies.” Ashley cringed at the grating sound of Poppy’s voice. She’d questioned a few women on the stand with unfortunate voices like this. She always felt a little sorry for them, because she knew the jury wouldn’t. “So, where do you live, Poppy?” “Tulare.” “Tulare? That’s 200 miles from here.” Ashley was already beginning to regret her philanthropic mood. Poppy snorted when she laughed. What a shame. “I’m visiting a friend. She lives close.” She was slurring her words, and Ashley began to question her sobriety anew. “How close? Do you have her address?” Ashley asked, her index finger cocked on her GPS.

Poppy crinkled her face into a pout that would give a five-year-old a run for her money. “I don’t know the address. It’s in my purse, which is probably burned up by now.” What a loon. “I’m afraid to ask, but why would your purse be on fire?” Poppy rolled her eyes. “That’s a long story.” “I’ve got time.” There was no way Ashley was going to pull away from the curb without just cause. She could still give Poppy the boot as long as they were parked. “Well, my friend—Jasmine is her name, but I call her Jazzy—Jazzy and I went to The Dirty Martini for a couple of drinks last night. You ever been? It’s in Santa Monica. The hottest guys hang out there,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, revealing a purple bump the size of a miner’s light on her temple. “What happened to your head?” Ashley asked. Poppy touched the giant bruise and cringed. “I think I hit it when I jumped out the window.” That would explain a few things. “Anyway, I ended up going home with this really nice guy. He was cooking me breakfast and I went to the bathroom and somehow the house caught on fire. I guess he must have burned the eggs.”

A sly smile crossed Ashley’s face as she began to imagine which of the men in the neighborhood had made the idiot mistake of his life. She powered down her window and stuck her head out to look at the sky for smoke—proof of this woman’s viability or insanity. “Look,” Poppy screeched. Ashley’s eyes followed a French-tipped acrylic talon to a black smudge on the summer sky. It was only a block over, very near her house, and she might be worried if she hadn’t just had a text from John. But curiosity trumped altruism and she pulled away from the curb. ~ He couldn’t do it. Screw the consequences; he couldn’t have her death on his conscience for the rest of his life. John charged so hard and fast by the firemen manning the hose that they didn’t notice him crossing the threshold. Smoke gagged him the moment he stepped into the house. As he staggered in the general direction of the bathroom, his mind went back to the “stop, drop, and roll” drill he’d learned in elementary school. Stay close to the floor if the smoke is thick. He dropped and began crawling on his belly like a combat soldier. He probably would have made it, but a 12x12 beam gave way, pinning his leg to the floor. They had paid $5000 for the solid, distressed wood that accented the English farmhouse motif of 71

their living room. And they’d gotten their money’s worth, John thought, as he tried in vain to free his broken leg. Flames licked at his back, and he felt his silk shirt ignite and melt into his skin. The realization that he might die occurred to him for the first time, and a tear trickled down his steaming face. His cell phone chirped the arrival of a text message, and he struggled to pull it out of his pocket. He held it an inch from his face so he could read it. “Home in 10, luv ash.” “K,” he typed in, just before the ceiling gave way.

Selected Poems by Chloe Burns bethlehem she was always trying to Be Good, and she was always trying to Be Smart, and she was always trying to Find Love. when the census came she went handing out coins, people begging or not. breaking her bread smaller and smaller until you could see her bones. she found the wise men: debated without ever saying anything for fear of being wrong. building words into towers that leaned and leaned without quite falling. they could learn nothing from each other. she walked following the stars and taking what people offered her. coins, bread, beds, conversation. one night she woke up with an angel sitting on her belly. she asked: do you love me? that is not the point, the angel said.

gap tooth my head feels like the year we didn't talk, like aladdin finding his dad in the king of thieves; the way seeing things for real breaks every piece of stained glass in your head: what you thought it would be like. outside the weather is al green's voice swaying 73

between the tightrope of two notes (i-i-i-i-i am so in love with you), is our teeth scraping together in my first kiss. everything happens over and over, and, my mom thinks, for a reason. my head feels like one hundred heartbeats crammed together, like my old trashed laptop, like the year we didn't talk. i almost forgot how.

contact you don’t love (boys and girls): both in the same way (even if you do) love both. it’s jelly vs jam ooh vs aah now vs later smoulder vs blaze. even if: she watches you with a wolf’s eyes under subway lights. even if: he leaves on polar bear feet, leaving tufts of white caught in the hinges of your bedroom door. even if: he is east of the sun and she is west of the moon. even if he catches fire, even if you catch fire and stand there burning. even if she reaches out.

sleeping with your exes it happens the same way every time. you’ve never said the thing they say in movies, the “this won’t happen again.” instead you say, “this shouldn’t happen again,” “we shouldn’t do this again.” you know that you shouldn’t, you know that you will. it’s always stormy, or raining, or much too hot. it’s always nightfall or much past. your body’s always got that heavy feeling, the dragging feeling like it’s trying to go back in time. you’re listening to drake in your car, you’re listening to chet baker in your car, you’re listening to blonde in your car. why do you think people reread their favorite books over and over, why do you think people have favorite foods and favorite songs. something familiar: something you know, that knows you inside out, who would recognize you if you were walking down the street with your skin on inside out. when you were younger and wanted to be a writer you started to write a book that was a catalogue of aches, all different kinds. the ache of pangea, growing pains, loose teeth, airports, spare change. your ex-lovers are constellations in your phone, buzzing & sighing. your ex-lovers are a bittersweet fruit salad. your ex-lovers open their arms to you and you feel guilty and you feel irresistible. alight like the statue of liberty. it’s all choreography, it’s explored territory, it’s a long car ride home. it’s not love, but it’s like love. it’s not love, but it’s like a metaphor for love. it’s a pillow, a tooth, an ache that grows and grows and bursts, an overripe plum, it’s exertion, it’s salt. learning cello, your teacher telling you that if you practice the fingering or the shift or the vibrato one hundred times your body will know it, tuck it away in its muscle memory. this is your body’s bluebeard, the muscle memories you tried to lock away. sleeping with your ex is a growing pain, it’s a time machine. it’s listening to a long voicemail you’ll never get to the end of, on a bus somewhere in between dusk and night.

the elephant in my solar plexus By Irene Thalden I sleep at night the clock ticking I sleep alone in crisp white sheets mother told me many things when I was young but mostly I have no value with no man by my side my fault no matter how he treats me she says the having is important I hear the elephant recite soliloquies my attention undivided if only I had listened my mother says inside the elephant wagging her finger if only I had found a man to lie by me in my crisp white sheeted bed his hand fondling my breast making promises that make my mother happy the clock has no alarm as I shut my eyes 76

A Feeling of Elsewhere By Stan McCormick I peel an onion to the bulb and find a body denuded, in sheaves of ice. I core an apple and discover its seeds are tiny fetal eyes waiting to open. For me, this is the feeling of seeing. Now go skin a peach, cradle in your hands its fleshy yellow meat, imagine it’s foraging, like sudden viscera, the deep soil of your palms. This is the sense of touch. In a late autumn field, I chop corn to stubble and uncover my wife’s muscled hands: two yams gnarled and knotted and rooted to what she brought to life: knit sweaters and cotton shirts, folded and pressed. Knees bloodied and bandaged. And wet laundry, flapping in the breeze. When you look at the landscapes that abound in your head, you find fire and sky and ocean. But also, incipient grass, tomorrow’s clouds, and the looming shouts of summer’s softest hues. 77

Yes, there are days when you ask, what’s the upside of sanity? Then find solace knowing the mind gains flesh in songs of the beautiful unlikely. Like The memory of your birth, or taste of a spicy sauce you once believed was youth, then put away in the fridge right next to the mayo and cheese. Try this remedy, this ridding: First, replace the skin of your face with wax paper, then cellophane it. Next, fill up the long bones of your legs with night and inhale the sea and see if you feel better. Finally, try saying, God be quiet one hundred times. Say, God, stop pretending death’s nothingness is paradise in a brown paper bag. God, my voice has the floor: Make life a brie I tongue more than taste. Make me wealthy in the sweet poverty of loneliness. A face to face the lathe of the sun, and lungs to breathe A new language of aeration - something distant and bright that’s trying to come closer, yet never arrives.

Selected Poems by Scott Coykendall Geppetto’s Dream It’s been years since I dreamt my brother came back in a long gray Mercury. I don’t remember much: we were kids and adults and kids again -- his freckles blazing and receding, my hands growing and shrinking, depending. We were rough-housing on the driveway behind the car we drove to California and his end. When his head hit the asphalt with the sound of a wooden bowl, I remembered he was dead and I was now a man. Or maybe when I remembered he was dead and I was now a man, his head hit the asphalt with the sound of a wooden bowl. I hooked my arms beneath his and dragged him to the toolshed that was suddenly near. He was already turning to wood. In a few seconds, he was a post. I straddled him on the dirt floor, with a carpenters’ plane and desperately tried to shave him back to human form.

big plans We had big plans the last night I saw my mother. I was leaving to teach in Italy and flew back first to take them out for dinner to the Mexican place in the old downtown. I wanted to buy her a margarita and see her eyes dance. I wanted to fly away with that memory. But at breakfast she put her fork on her plate and her face in her hand and asked for morphine. Cancer augured under her ribs and all day on that last day we tried to push it away with the little syringe. She tried not to cry, and later, she tried not to scream. 79

In the afternoon, I lay on Dad’s bed, next to hers, while she told me the lies she thought I needed to hear: she would be here when I came back in the summer, she was going to whip the flower beds back into shape. For dinner, Dad and I took turns eating leftovers in the kitchen while the other sat uselessly beside her. Dose, dose, dose— that’s how we hid her from her pain. She muttered, her eyes jitterbugged beneath their lids. By 8, I lie beside her and let the grief coiled round my chest strangle my plans. It was enough to see the morphine shelter her in a dream. She would not wake when I flew out early in the morning. We cannot ask the world what it means by what it does.

Inside Love By Jennifer Ruth Jackson Butterflies didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t glide around my belly, they consumed it Mandible punctures mixed blood with acid Perhaps they only sought release from the bean-shaped Room in harlot hues, eating out of boredom or frustration, Tattered wings held in disdain I must have swallowed them, unknowing, when I tasted your tongue Maybe they will crawl into my veins and propel themselves Using my heart, to shoot into my fingertips so you can feel Them inside when I caress you

Selected Poems by Allyn Bernkopf Suicide Attempt Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll admit piercing a bloodstream might be like drinking too much coffee. Watch the red lick down a clean drain or porcelain bowl and analyze how my fingers shiver off my identity as adrenaline or caffeine rushes arteries. Fight or flight, I remember from Psychology 1010, as I watch my self-worth spill down like Hemingwayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rain. My girl friend killed herself three weeks ago gagging pill after pill until her face sagged and her mouth tweaked in that perma-tooth smile. She asked, once, if I would take her pistol or hide her blades after she confessed, rape, and I sat silent, running fingers through greasy hair.

Medicate I am labeled victim, carved deep into skin, tears bash hard lines, etching the harsh word from tight teeth. Fuck you, I think, and tip back the gin. Booze spits from my lips, spills down my chin, my hips hum sex, nights bounce and blur, I am not a victim, I hiss, removing my victim skin and snapping his pants down, I lap up his foreskin, then ride him right, until I feel power. He finishes, leaves, and I soak in more gin. Days trip as I toast myself and see laughter in sin. 82

I am not the victim, I purr, it is you who is conquered, listing my victims, names flavored with “twist of lime” skin and ginned at my birthday, I flash friends and men, then watch myself start a car, body slobbered. I don’t remember driving; a DUI virgin. Sitting in jail, tears and booze wrap me in cuffs, my skull meets my fist, until guards interfered to label me criminal, carved deeper in skin, and I sit, quiet, lips humming with gin.

Gone to rubble By Timothy Pilgrim Husband thirty years, he writhes, shakes in bed, calls for another soda, this time after she leaves the room. He has peed himself again, third time since dawn, urine returning butt to red. She changes diaper, preps for doctor trip, fears a repeat of last week--shower, scrub, shampoo, rinse. He shits as the toweling begins. Another rinse, dried, dressed, he pees. Wash, ointment, fresh diaper, finally ready, walker to the Ford promised to still be hers when savings are gone. He asks to ride his bike, wants a pop, drinks, pees the seat. She screams, why, why, why can't you tell me you have to go.' Parkinson's marriage, no way back. Earthquake, gone to rubble, trembling only the beginning, all major destruction coming later.

Two Mugs, One Sea By Kimberly Gomes There used to be two—two mugs, two pillows, two people in this home. I’d watch your sun-lit silhouette through the window – watch your two feet trudge through the whitewash, surfboard in hand, the horizon behind balancing your steps with its visible, encroaching gaze. I’d sit there, sip there, mug in hand, heart reaching through the glass. I’d set down the half-finished sketch, swing open the creaking, paintchipped door as you breached the part of the sand where a picket fence would’ve been if we were the kind of people to have a picket fence. I’d kiss your salty lips, caress your fresh scrapes, and take the board back out for my own surf along the horizon line. I’d run alongside your footprints, parts of you soon to be washed away by the always coming ocean pushed by the pulsing horizon. There used to be two—two mugs, two pillows, and two people sharing one board. It worked that way, that forced separation of space, that solitary time for each of our souls duck-diving through the crests, turtling on our own accord. We’d paddle at our own pace to catch a wave that signified how we wished the rest of our day, our week, our life would be.

On the good days, I’d dance across the board cocking my confidence from cove to cove. Your tall shadow waved back. I’d imagine you there smiling, mug in one hand, towel wrapped around the waist, drips of the ocean pooling in the same spot it had for the last seven years. Drips you’d let air dry, allowing part you, part sea to bend the wood in ways we hadn’t intended. You’d trail your foot over this little mound, this little fragment made and meant for you. On the bad days, we’d each paddle out a little further, further, further with halfhopes the ocean would swallow one of us. Neither would ever say who, but as your arms grew smaller and your breath weaker we both knew it’d be easier that way—a kinder way to go amidst the horizon line we loved. There used to be two—two mugs inscribed with each of our names. You’d sip from mine, so I’d sip from yours, our own way of interchanging parts of self, sharing, merging, while still having our wholes on two sides of the imaginary line. Then, there was that first day of that last summer where I was sipping and you were sleeping—not out in the waves, not submerged amidst the floating kelp. Asleep—or maybe pretending to be. I kissed your dry lips and caressed your scratchless forehead, and whispered “going for a ride” the way you had every morning, every summer before that.

Your board lay propped against our wooden house, alongside the green, chipped door—the squeaking one I said I’d paint last summer but never did. The door you said you’d fix, but walked through and never did. The raised mound of wood you formed and I ignored. The little niches we’d said we’d face, the way we put off those big trips and any discussion of kids, the silences we got used to it, kept moving through, and kept loving until we could love no longer. I still think of you as I stare into the horizon, wondering which wave you’re riding. I still think of you as I walk through the paint-chipped door, the door I whisper promises of murals and fresh coats to. I look for you when the big ones come, when I’m beneath the ocean—body and water one. And on the good days I still dance across our board, your board, my board. Your tall shadow isn’t there to wave back, but the mug still sits right where you left it—with my name neatly positioned against the horizon. I used to say I’d move it, wash the brown rim linings that led your lips through its last sip. I used to say I’d wash it, put it away, wipe the sill clean. Somewhere along the way I stopped looking at this mug as an intrusion and more of a legacy, the landscape we created and left behind. So, I just keep it there—our little work of art, our fragment of domesticity—the only kind I’d ever want, the only kind I’d ever do. With you and no picket fence, 87

with the beach, and the board, and our bodies constantly nearing the horizon.

Toy Brother By Alexandra Kulik I’ve watched this video many times, Your little loose body straddling our old wooden Rocking Horse limbs branched out and one arm cycloning the air, miming a lasso like John Wayne (or whatever, we didn’t know our monochrome fathers they hightailed and left us the rope) and mommy wants you to sit still and talk to the camera she watches America’s home videos every night at six but you’re wound up on repeat “Mommy look at me, look what I can do!” I can copy the men on T.V. I can imitate as good as anyone can I can even learn to be daddy, ‘cause you must love him and that’s why you keep him. Your lemonade head and baby pool eyes tender as pink pansy lips and Truth ecstatic screams high as holy hysteria and dizzily feminine but you don’t hear that yet, nor worry your joy is too much, your laughter too long unaware the nerve of daring to laugh too long that Mommy has known for years, so she snaps “just talk buddy, talk to the camera!” but you giggle deaf-dumb and centrifuge your arm faster, faster. And it’s a wonder what happened to that old horse ‘cause no one bothered to film that part. But I think I came upon it in a story once— 89

whispering to a little cotton rabbit everything we needed to know, but couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know to ask. And the rabbit stayed tender.

Selected Poems by John Grey For Company Because of love and living, there are now those women I have loved who are dead. More than their gravesites, I think of photographs as holy places, to be trod in parlor light, not to lay roses, but fingers and thumbs. In silence, my body in a comfortable chair, it's their best chance for being here, after all the grief has settled, I can look at them, establish a bridge, get back to old feeling, close my eyes to see, shut my ears to listen, a cocooned present serving as a portion of the past. Because of cameras and poses. old faces find they have a role to play. No longer themselves, reduced to what I cannot know and yet - there was a kiss behind the red barn wasn't there? A gentle hand reached down and pulled me from the mud-heap, didn't it? Hugs and letting go, hearkening and healing because of acts and actions, a stillness moves me.

Once and No Future Love I wanted her. Everything of her. And that included her flesh of course. In fact, my memory reports back that that was all I wanted. But now, as she is buried, the pastor says nothing of the bare back and the late afternoon and the room with the huge windows that let in so much light, I could almost believe that sex was enlightening. But years have gone by. My wanting and needing have been passed along many times, like a relay baton and, in the spirit of elongating the analogy, some races were won though never in record time and there were occasions where my feelings were dropped unceremoniously in the hand-over. Funerals, of course, are supposed to take me out of my life, defer to the death of another. The newspapers mentioned something about a rope and a neck and heavy debts and the last motel in the world that any poor soul would wish to die in. But, deep inside, where my self-interest lies, I can't equate emotion now with emotion then. I can only put on a suit and follow the stream of funereal ears, the people closer to her in those many intervening years. I don't remember ever using the world â&#x20AC;&#x153;love.â&#x20AC;? That was always a great fear with me. Saying it would have been like staying out too long in bad weather. I'd end up catching something with no easy cure. 92

Like she must have done. The pastor is lenient, doesn't hold her suicide against her. There are other guys here of my age, mostly toward the back of those mourners who have more at stake. One or two Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sure had wanted her at some time in their lives. But, like me, just not long enough to sustain anything. She was pretty but what else was she? Put a microphone in the face of that guy and that other guy, and me, and we'd all just blubber. Only the pastor is certain of his words, and they're all in the book he clings to. An older woman sobs every inch of the coffin's lowering. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m eager to break away, like all the others who can't quite make the connection between fun and death, when there is nothing in between to go on. I continue to touch people in certain ways. Some contact even has the feel of going much deeper. But most times, for all its self-congratulations, it doesn't break the surface. So I tell myself get to know people better or not at all. Don't just take and pretend it's a gift. Of course, I ignore my own advice. Or I put it off because there's a funeral to attend. Sure, I know I'm not the reason she's in the ground before her time. I'm merely the reason that I'm not.

The Impossibility of Perfect Sex I've been reading up on Zeno of Elea. Nothing like a paradox to take the head prisoner. His argument against motion still has my finger taking to skull like a stiletto. According to his fractions, I can never get where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m going. And yet a woman's open mouth invites me into another world. Ten billion bodies are unaware of this experience. Some are dead. Others are invisible. A cold moon overhead and yet I'm boiling in my bones. Burn out, roll over, for all I know, loins burst with fire, but here, for now, on this blanket, as with the planet earth, we ultimately fall. Or, as Zeno might have put it, company is not as good as it gets just the best I'll ever have. Sex is winging it or praying that the bullet didn't lodge in heart or brain. It's nakedness in a harlequin suit. It's guys like me, with lungs, flapping their gills and trying to breathe that way. In the rain, in the shadeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;it's all weather. She's gone now. Sun slips down behind the bedroom. I can taste inedible damnation. 94

As for information, I need more. A man cannot live on pen and ink alone. Into the pot, some herbs. Into the broad valley, a glider. Into a roll of fresh bread, my front tooth. It wasn't what I expected. According to Zeno, that's to be expected.

Ghosts at Stoplights By Nicklaus Hopkins I see ghosts at stoplights, red-on-black-night checkered past. Present-day Saint, loving Father with sheep for children, queen-less, King-pleasing, shuffles the Cross-walk, pulpit-bound. Takes me back—an aching back—stiff and sore from pew wood, week-inweek-out, weak-knees knelt, ‘til the stains on my hands outshone the glass, and the bread and wine tasted too much like my old man’s cooking. While this light’s too dim now to darken the door, get-up-and-walk away miracles abound: these pockets are fuller, back’s been healed. Striped

and zipped, self-discipline sports a sweat suit, streaks across my windshield view. Stocking-capped and playlist pumping, no doubt watching his daily intake with the same 20/20 vision of my former self— before I got glasses of vodka, gin in on the fight to forget my father’s expectations and judgment. He entered the earth without argument from me— for once. No laughs, calls, beers or ballgames shared on his way out— four years running. Tired of being chased by reflections that look everything and nothing like him, I’ve fashioned a clever disguise; the unrespectable facial hair, irresponsible drinking habit, and good-luck-finding-another job in the not-my-family business keep hidden all evidence

proves he was here, prevent those who might remember— namely me—from doing so. Alone in the car beside, a woman most certainly named Regret. For, she looks like you, mouths the same dirty words when green goes yellow, keeps your terrible rhythm on the dashboard, in raucous dance moves that persist though stopped and stared at. Were it not for reasons so small they’re forgotten, which I let spoil the taste of salty kisses after night walks, peppering of memorized freckles, hiding beneath my sheets, we’d put your twin to shame— here and now— volume up, windows down, drowning her solo act with this rescued love, duet—driver and passenger—

mouth-to-mouth between verses, or until the light changed. Don’t change, don’t ever change. But, the countdown defies; pedestrian pace quickens, last three steps, two-second delay, one foot on the gas…and, she’s gone, your memory in tow. Flash of eye-whites in her rearview, the stare meets, lingers long enough to glimpse the haunted, expose the never-admitted-to regret and turn red the face of the ghost left chasing.

Pas de Deux By Erika Staiger We are nine. We both play mice in The Nutcracker. We wear white button down shirts with bowties and have whiskers drawn on our cheeks with a black eyeliner pencil. We have decided by this point that we hate wearing makeup and that being a mouse is childish. We want to wear tutus like the older dancers and dance the pas de deux with the Sugar Plum Fairyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s prince. We want to grow up and trade bowties for tiaras and slippers for pointe shoes. When the older dancers are on stage, we sneak into their dressing rooms and try on their tiaras and take turns pretending to be the Sugar Plum Fairy. Maggie is afraid to try on the pointe shoesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;she thinks we will get caught and get in trouble, but I am only thinking about the lights and the people in the audience and how magical it feels to be up there and how much better it would be if I were a person and not a mouse. I convince her, and together we put our feet into shoes several sizes too big and tie the ribbons sloppily around our ankles and try to stand on our toes. We get caught and scolded and we spend the rest of the evening playing cards until it is our turn to go on stage, and then it matters less that we are mice and not people. We are ballerinas, even with the whiskers. 100

* We are eleven. We stand at the barre with shiny new pointe shoes and wobbly ankles. Neither of us understands how to tie our ribbons properly yet, and they keep coming untied despite our best efforts. When I take my shoes off at the end of that first lesson, there is an angry red blister glistening on the side of my pinky toe. It had already broken open and the pus has stained my tights. I feel proud of myself because this means that I have worked hard today. Maggie peers over at my feet and I wiggle my toes proudly. “Gross!” she says. We feel grown up at that moment. We think of all the time that has passed since we were three and we took our first dance class together in sparkly skirts and cheap pink tights from Target that were too baggy at the knees. Blisters are the beginning for us. They feel one dainty, ballerina step away from tiaras and tutus. That year when our ballet school puts on The Nutcracker, we play children that go to the party in the first act. We are frustrated because we still have to share a dressing room with the little kids. We have multi-colored braces that reflect the stage lights in unflattering ways and gangly legs we haven’t quite worked out how to use yet. We are too old to be mice. We are too old to be cute, but we are not old enough to be in the older girl’s dressing room or dance with any of the 101

boys. When we land jumps in our pointe shoes, our teachers tells us we sound like a heard of stampeding rhinos. We work on rolling through our feet so we can land quietly. * We are thirteen. I sneak the cordless phone into my bedroom to complain to Maggie about the argument I had with my father. I am failing algebra because I haven’t been turning in the homework. I am supposed to cut back on rehearsals until my grades come back up, but cutting back on rehearsals feels like holding my breath—it can be done, but it’s quite unnecessary. Maggie tells me I should just work on it during snowflake practice, but I can never concentrate then. I always end up doodling in my notebook or reading bad crime novels I stole from my mother, and those two things only happen if I am too tired to understudy. This is the first year Maggie and I have different parts in The Nutcracker. At the beginning of the year, I went home from class in tears because my teacher told me my ankles were still too weak to be a snowflake. She recommended I do one hundred relevés a day. Maggie tells me there is nothing wrong with my ankles and calls my teacher a new curse word her brother taught her. On the days I don’t have rehearsal, I use the kitchen counter as a barre and do one hundred relevés

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while I watch TV. I start doing my homework on the bus in the morning. * We are fourteen. I finally get my braces off, but I have another growth spurt. When I look at myself in the mirror, I feel like the puppy my parents rescued from the animal shelter—gigantic paws. Gangly legs. Awkward and clumsy. Somehow, my feet are growing faster than the rest of me. I don’t want to get any taller—I already have to stand in the back—but I want desperately to not feel like a duck or a platypus when I walk. Maggie goes to the private school in the next town over now. I sit alone on the bus and do my math homework. I wear flip-flops to school even though it is nearly November because my tennis shoes press on my blisters, and my boots from last year don’t fit anymore. We have always gone to the same school. The space next to me feels so large and open without Maggie that I am almost grateful when someone new sits next to me. It’s one of the older boys—a junior or a senior. He reads Lord of the Rings and listens to his iPod. I now try to hide my feet under the seat so he won’t ask questions about my blisters. I get to be a snowflake this year, but Maggie gets to be Clara, the star of the show. When she got her casting letter, we 103

shrieked and jumped up and down on her bed until her dad yelled at us to be quiet. But, when she tells me about how sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s going to be interviewed for the newspaper and how our teacher suggested she audition for the Pittsburgh Ballet summer program, all I can think about is how much I hate my big feet and how tired I am of standing in the back. Eventually, I mention this to the boy who sits next to me on the bus. He looks confused when I tell him my feet are too big. He asks me to come to homecoming with him. The other girls at the dance kick off their high heels and slow dance in their bare feet, but I keep mine on and he is impressed when I tell him that high heels are nothing compared to pointe shoes. * We are fifteen. We take our teacherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s suggestion and start thinking a lot about nutrition. My parents take us on a road trip to the Grand Canyon that summer and we whine and protest when my mother tries to stop at Taco Bell for lunch. She frowns and buys us salads from McDonaldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s instead. We put on bikinis at the hotel and it is possible to see every single one of our ribs. When we get home, Maggie leaves for Pittsburgh Ballet and I spend the rest of my summer trying out two 104

different brands of pointe shoes and three different boys. None of them make my feet look any better. We use all of the minutes on our cellphones talking about the boy Maggie is learning to dance a pas de deux with in Sleeping Beauty. She hopes that he will ask for her number on their last day. He doesn’t. Maggie wonders if she talked too much and bored him. I tell her he is a douchebag and decide not to tell her about the boy at the city pool who liked my blonde hair and long legs. We wait for our casting letters to come to tell us what parts we would play in The Nutcracker that year. I still don’t get to be Clara. Maggie comes over and we stay up all night, eating cookie dough even though we are terrified it will make our thighs too big. * We are sixteen. My father starts leaving college brochures on my desk even though I spend all of our dinner conversation telling him about how I had heard that European ballet companies like taller dancers. We skip junior prom so that we don’t miss rehearsal and I do one hundred relevés with my AP Biology textbook propped open on the kitchen counter. Maggie has stopped going to the private school so that she can focus on ballet, but even though we are together again, we still don’t have any of the same classes. My parents have told me that I need to take all honors and AP classes if I want to keep 105

dancing. Maggie takes two sections of choir and all of the regular classes. I don’t understand why she needs help with her homework and she doesn’t understand why my arabesque is so much lower than hers. I get to be Clara that year. I had finally run out of bad words to call my teacher in my head when I got a call, saying that the girl they had picked for the part had broken her leg in a skiing accident and I was needed to fill in for her. We celebrate by driving to Wal-Mart in my rusty Dodge Neon. We had just enough pocket change between the two of us to buy a tube of raw cookie dough. We ate it in my driveway and in the morning when I told my parents I’d gotten the part, they hugged me and told me that hard work always pays off. Maggie is the Snow Queen and dances a pas de deux with a boy who still does not ask for her number. After the last show, we take pictures with the little kids and let them try on our pointe shoes with their wobbly ankles. That night, we stay up late even though we are exhausted and we talk about how when we are on stage, it doesn’t matter that our feet are too large or that we don’t get enough sleep. We are ballerinas and when we are on stage, we move with a grace that makes us free and beautiful. My boyfriend thinks it’s childish, but I cry when I hand back my Clara tiara at the end of the last show. 106

* We are seventeen. Maggie dances the lead in our spring show, Cinderella. I play a stepsister in the first act and a partygoer in the second. I attend rehearsals with girls two years younger than me. Maggie drives an hour twice a week to take classes with the professional dancers at Grand Rapids Ballet Company. My trashcan contains college brochures and rejection letters from ballet summer programs. We go to our last high school dance and perform in our last Nutcracker together. Maggie dances the Snow Queen again, and I am the Dew Drop Fairy. We tell ourselves it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matterâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;that we will always be friends and that we will do bigger and better things. We tell ourselves that even though the odds are bad that we can make it if we work hard enough. I come home with regular blisters and blood blisters and I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t flinch when I poke them open with a needle. I stay up two hours later than Maggie, writing essays for AP Literature and doing worksheets for Calc. I try not to doze off in AP Chemistry and at parent-teacher conferences, my history teacher expresses concern to my parents that I am not getting enough sleep. I get sick all the time. They keep a tissue box for me back stage so that I can blow my nose between scenes.

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Sometimes, the dry air in the theatre makes my nose bleed and I am warned not to get any blood on the costumes. I stand in the back and Maggie stands in the front. I try not to hate Maggie’s perfectly arched feet and high arabesque. I try not to think about how tiny and perfect she is—not at all like a duck or a platypus. I try not to burn inside when she stops our nutrition plan and starts eating ice cream and Taco Bell again and does not gain weight. I start wearing yoga pants to school, because my new boyfriend says they make my legs look nice, and I can’t tell when I am wearing them that my hips and thighs have started filling out. The day that Maggie comes to school in her new Pittsburgh Ballet sweatshirt, I get a letter in the mail from a school that says that because of my ACT score and my GPA, they will give me a scholarship. My father tells me how proud he is of me and how hard work pays off, and he surprises me with a cake from the bakery after school. I don’t try to explain to him that I don’t eat cake. Instead, I eat three pieces, because I realize how tired I am of standing in the back and sleeping through class and popping blisters with needles. In our dressing room, we don’t play cards anymore like we did when we were little. Instead, I study and Maggie texts a boy she hopes will be her boyfriend. I lean over and 108

help her come up with things to say to him and show her pictures of potential dresses for senior prom. The night before the show opens, we drive to Wal-Mart in the middle of the night and do grande jettes down the baked goods aisle because the novelty of being able to drive ourselves places has not worn off yet. When we get home, we waste all our cellphone minutes whispering about how we arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ready to live in different cities or buy our own shampoo or figure out which of our clothing actually belongs to whom. Our lives are so physically entwined it is difficult to figure out where the we ends and the I begins. We are not ready to draw the line. We are not ready to stop our pas de deux. Our dance for two. But, when we leave the theatre at the end of the last show, Maggie puts on her Pittsburgh ballet sweatshirt and tries to talk to me about college dance programs. I think about all the rejection letters in my trash can and the blisters on my feet and the hours of understudying and the good job cake from the bakery and I tell her I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what I will major in, but it wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be dance. I think about the most recent letter I received, the one from the school principal, congratulating me on my academic performance. I think about the bright red shoes my mother bought me to match my graduation gown, and how no matter 109

how long I stand in them, they will never hurt my feet as much as pointe shoes do. I am told that at graduation, I will stand in the front.

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The Gatekeeper By Brandon Marlon By Friday afternoon she is buried alive by wobbly stacks of paper in her 54th floor, midtown office overlooking the river teeming with nonchalant drakes and ganders, oblivious to their colloquy as indoors she pores over reams of solipsistic rubbish the likes of which have never before been seen on God's earth, she avows to no one in particular. The week is nearly ended and she is bone-tired of scribbling notes on boilerplate rejection slips to hapless rhymesters to the effect that a haiku is a tanka for folks in a rush or that writing offering all heat and no light is no good to anyone even in the dead of winter. Low-grade efforts dispatched from around the globe meet their doom atop the infamous and unforgiving slush pile, the refuse of the refused, dreadfully awaiting its fate of defenestration. With her razor-sharp eye she audits hemistich and stich, painstakingly scrutinizing stanza and strophe in the desperate hope of discovering a quality ever underrated but undeniable: merit. Her approach, finical if not fanatical, has her scurrilously imprecating typos and blowing her gasket over haplography, elevating her blood pressure and abridging her lifespan. Not for the fanfare does she subject herself to such exacting standards, though the awesome power of serving as mediatrix between twaddle and treasure is hardly lost on her. She knows full well she stands like a literary Colossus bestriding worlds, 111

arbiter and custodian of the worthy. When at long last she excavates a hidden gem she cachinnates in triumph, nettling attorneys-at-law in the neighboring firm who shoot her dirty looks, which, in her overdue bliss, she ignores. Only thereafter does it dawn on her what an arrant sty she occupies, which she must titivate prior to the publisher's matinal arrival come Monday.

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Selected Poems by Rhosalyn Williams The American The mud stuck in a young boy’s imagination, there because of the rain. His walks to school would rinse off the stains of busy horses and work that had to be done. These mornings he’d raise his hand to cars, raise his voice to the neighbors, bent on their walking canes. At Barry Boys’ he was more often called “Mighty Mouth” than a Williams, but those afternoons slept on jejunely. His mother didn’t often yell, but when the brandy was low and her kitchen was brown he’d have to explain that Wellington boots were never made to be clean (and thank heavens for that). He ate gooseberry pies, gooseberry jam, the small dog bit him again, the magpies tapped on the window he fell in love with an American. When he first arrived he tried not to change. But the cars on crowded streets had no time for his eager hand, neither the men on walkers. 113

The mud was different, too never quite so substantial, mixed with sediment. He ate a Hershey’s chocolate bar, and then didn’t again— stayed clear of barn dogs, even when his girls begged him and everyone else had a pet. He wore a suit for a few years, and his shoes were immaculate. Every Saturday he would tidy up the yard of his brick house and he lost a bet (a time or two) against American beer with his American friends. When his mother died he went home again and noticed that the air smelled of violet and leek. He took from the earth, in a jar, the mud -good mud- to have a bit of home in his nice brick house. He left his Wellington boots in the kitchen, with a half empty bottle of brandy, made the nine o’clock flight.

As For Your Next Life If I am with you, I will be less of the fly hovering about your eyelashes and, instead, take up knitting in the yard— hope for something obvious, like worms or bread for dinner. And you, in the field will be so overjoyed with the long expanse of grass 114

and the long promise to sleep you won’t even notice they’re carting you off to supper.

To Make Peach Fritters Unwrap 1 neighborhood boy, you’ll climb the peach tree in Mr. Schmidt’s backyard. Do not feel guilty when the overripe peaches drop from the branches, marring the grass with their spoiled bits— the best fruits don’t fall. Eat slowly, slip sticky fingers into each other’s mouths, the juice will run clear from his chin. Brush off the bark from your back, climb out slowly. Slip into mama’s kitchen through the back door don’t let her know where you got the peaches. Make sure to wash well, no one likes dirt in their pastries. Wait until the oil is hot. Set a frying pan in it, unpour peaches, and milk, and cornmeal. Careful not to scald, although occasionally, you’re eager. Deliver a parcel at his doorstep with a note in purple looped handwriting. 115

Wait. Don’t watch him getting off the bus. Don’t look for him sliding through the shadows with a girl in white lace socks. She’ll be dirty too, soon.

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The Faithful Couple of Wawona By Carol Park Two tiny cones, buried side by side, thrust up to reach for oxygen and chlorophyll from filtered forest light. Years of multiplying cells increase size. When small and slender under gales or snow, they made it through as comrades leaning on each other. Without, what storm would have claimed them when winds uprooted siblings all around? Their interlocked, sapling roots—though shallow—held them firm, enabled a growing tall in a slow Sequoia way, where one foot means a century passed. And separate includes equality, unbending, tall. Still in time, their girth increased and red bark crept outwards around their two bases, bringing their two trunks ever closer. At eye level I see them merged— not two trunks, but one. Yet, midway up, on tipping back my brow, a different story comes in view— the tree trunks part. Two separate spires and, unlike the artful sanctuary of Avignon, no cry nor clapping when it finished— I and mine too attempt a seamless foundation—two spires atop mark who and what has kept us standing, purposed to storm the stars, the sky.

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Many falsities of our decades weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve uncovered and survived, yet still we fight to prevail and pass the impulse to divide. Or, more subtle, pull back, ignore. Our baseâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;our roots, joined bark, the interweaving.

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The Center of the Universe By A.K. Small Dedicated to Tamara Dean’s photograph “Center of the Universe”

When Dean stepped out from between the pine trees onto the lakeshore, Charlotte shielded her sunglasses with her palm. The lake was and always had been the focal point of summer, but Dean’s appearance that July stole the spotlight and made everything sharper and brighter, at least for a while. That day, Charlotte slunk her way to the picnic table near the water and sat down next to Maddie, her oldest childhood friend. Pretending not to have seen him, she rolled her mom’s medallion between her fingers and silently said 1,034 days since you left me but who’s counting? “God,” Maddie groaned. “I hate him.” Before Charlotte could ask why and before Maddie could answer, Dean had slipped behind them. “Who do we hate?” he said. Maddie scowled. She stood up, yanking on her bathing suit bottom. “Come on, Char,” she said. Maddie was two weeks younger than Charlotte and she was Dean’s second cousin. At age fourteen her small size was a handicap. People still asked her if she was in the sixth grade. To tell the truth, Maddie, of late, did act like she was in the sixth grade, which had begun grating Charlotte’s nerves. Dean 119

planted his feet in the grass and chewed on a dandelion stem. Charlotte turned around to face him. She wanted to see what he looked like up close, if she’d imagined him glistening like some Disney prince coming out of the trees. “I assume you’re Charlotte?” Dean said. Charlotte nodded. She hadn’t imagined anything. Dean was better than Disney. He was brighter than the sun, Venus, and Mercury combined. He wore long silver shorts, the band low on his hips, and flip-flops. His stomach looked like miniature sand dunes. But what blew Charlotte’s mind was the length of his arms. They seemed to dangle mid thigh. His eyes were as bottle green and deep as the lake. “You swim?” he asked. “Duh,” Maddie answered for the two of them. “What else is there to do here?” She pointed to the water, its bottom obscured. Dean took two giant steps and dove from the edge of the grass right into the water. “He could have banged his head on the rocks,” Maddie said. “He doesn’t know this lake. Could be shallow.” Except it wasn’t. The lake that Charlotte had gone to all her life was deep. There was not a single area where you could put your feet down. Charlotte got up from the table and 120

went to the edge of the grass. The lake was still. Not a ripple dancing in the breeze. Not a flip-flop floating. “I hope he drowns,” Maddie said, then she sat down and dipped her toes into the water. The sun shone and the heat enveloped the area, like gauze. Aside from birds chattering in the trees, the lake seemed silent. Charlotte was about to join her when Maddie yelled. Dean must have swum underwater to where she was. He must have grabbed her ankles and pulled hard because Maddie went flying off the ground and splashed into the lake, arms thrashing around. Charlotte watched. Maddie’s mom and aunt sat far away near the empty cabins smoking. Maddie’s dad was probably napping. Charlotte wondered as arms and legs kicked in the water if she should call this an emergency but then Dean’s head popped out. His hair was slicked back and his smile dazzled. Again, Charlotte found herself covering up her sunglasses with her palm. Maddie surged from the water coughing and gasping for air. “You douche. You nearly killed me,” she half choked. “I hate you, Dean. I’m telling. God.” Dean shook his head. He swam away from Maddie kicking his feet, smiling at Charlotte. In one hand, he held his

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flip-flops. The wind rose and soft ripples shook around him. Charlotte couldn’t help but grin back. “What’s so funny?” Maddie asked, climbing out of the lake. She shivered in her bathing suit. “He’s the devil,” she continued. “But because he lives on his own and went through the foster system or something, my mom thinks we should all try harder, be nicer to him. Whatever.” She marched off into the grass toward the cabins, expecting Charlotte to follow. Charlotte looked back at the lake. The foster system? She hoped Dean would yell something else, but he was swimming further and further away from shore. *** At dinner, Dean didn’t show. Maddie’s parents built a fire in the pit. Stars blinked in the sky. Maddie roasted marshmallows for dessert. Charlotte sat in a lounge chair, nibbling on a graham cracker. She wondered if Dean had been punished for his juvenile action, if that was the reason why he was cooped up inside one of the cabins. But, oddly, just like the lake, Charlotte couldn’t get him out of her mind. She knew he was near. She felt him everywhere. His absence filled up as much space as his earlier presence. If not more. Charlotte also noticed new things around her, like how Maddie’s dad kept leaning toward Maddie’s aunt, clinking his beer bottle too

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hard against hers, and how Maddie’s mom walked around with a plastic bag, picking up trash. “This is so boring,” Maddie said, biting the burned crust off her tenth marshmallow. “Math camp would have been more exciting.” Charlotte wished for Maddie to go away. She thought of algebra class, how they were talking about adding positives and negatives, how Maddie was a giant negative. Though she was one of her only friends who’d attended her mother’s funeral, something Charlotte loved about her, Maddie, these days, was always pissed at something or someone. She bossed everyone around. Charlotte wanted the cabins around them to be full with families like last summer, because Maddie would have made friends with the toddlers. She would have held hands with little girls and ordered them not to go near the water. But this year because of the mosquito outbreak Maddie’s family and one couple were the only guests around here. “Wanna do something?” Maddie said. “We could play Taboo.” Charlotte sighed. “Let’s go spy on Dean,” she said. “Hell no,” Maddie answered. “Plus, I think he’s grounded.” She smiled the biggest smile of the summer,

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planted her hands on her hips, and said, “Finally. He deserves it after almost drowning me. Told you he was the devil.” You are a giant negative. Charlotte nodded because she had nothing else to do. Then Maddie’s mom called Maddie. “Be right back,” Maddie said, stomping off. Maddie’s dad, Greg, sat on a blanket, telling some kind of dumb insurance story. Maddie’s aunt, Jill, threw her head back, laughing too hard. Charlotte dropped her cracker and got up. She wondered what grown up love was like. It seemed sad, like the beginning of a song that never really amounted to anything. She wondered about first love, too. What that was all about. Since her mom dying, she’d stayed away from boys, afraid she might make mistakes and have no one to lean on. One of her therapists had told her to rate peers: 1-2 enemies, 3-7 acquaintances that could swing either way, 9-10 best friends. “People are a trip,” she’d said. Right. Boys somehow seemed to range the whole gamut. Charlotte couldn’t see through them and felt like they might swallow her right up before she could get her feet underneath her and rate them the right number. Her dad, of course, didn’t count. He was a 10 but all he ever did was work. Yet tonight, she couldn’t stop fretting and thinking about Dean, how until today, there had been a gray blanket 124

covering everything, even the lake. How numb Charlotte’s body had been and how Dean’s appearance had melted the gray. Charlotte now felt raw, as if everything around her shone extra bright, as if her insides were on the outside. In her jean shorts and her bathing suit top, she sprayed herself with bug repellent. When she turned around to see if anyone was watching and no one was, she started her walk toward the lake. The moon was a slender crescent above the pine trees. Crickets sang. Once in a while, a firefly blinked light near her knees. Charlotte came here because she always had. Maddie’s mom and her mom had been best friends. The lake was their annual family gathering haven. Then Charlotte’s mom got sick. So Maddie’s parents offered to take her to the cabins to help Charlotte’s dad in July. A tradition out of tragedy. Charlotte should have felt grateful but she only felt distracted by the universe around her. For example, the lake was nearly invisible. It blended in with the grass. You took one extra step and bam! Your whole body was submerged. Charlotte turned to look at the pine trees. She knew the distance between them and the edge of the grass. She also looked for the picnic table. It sat empty on her right. “Careful,” someone said, scaring the bejesus out of her. 125

Charlotte gasped then stepped back, and there on her left was Dean. “A few more steps and you were going in.” He was lying on his back, still chewing on a dandelion stem. He was definitely not grounded. He wore different shorts and a plain white tee. His hair was wet. Charlotte couldn’t help but remember the dunes beneath his shirt. She crossed her arms, highly aware of her bikini top and unsure of what to do. “Is your mean sidekick around?” Charlotte knew he meant Maddie. She shook her head and looked out onto the lake. “Sit,” he said. “Or she might see you and bark out new orders in your direction.” Charlotte sat and shivered though the night was hot. For a while both of them swatted at mosquitoes. Then Dean said, “You speak?” He removed the stem out of his mouth. He turned on his side, propped himself on his elbow, blew away a mosquito. Beneath the moon, he radiated nuclear power. Charlotte again was struck by his arms. Even in the dark, they were long, tanned, and sinewy. For a teeny second, she imagined Dean

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wrapping them around her waist. She got so hot and cold and faint she had to close her eyes. “Yes,” she managed. Dean broke into a grin that made Charlotte’s stomach dissolve into the back of her knees. He assaulted her organs, which seemed to be stuck on the outside of her for good. Her heart like a purse dangled around her throat. “You do this every summer?” he said. “Yep,” Charlotte answered. “Is it always this quiet?” “Well,” she began but stopped. “CHARRRRRRLOTTE!” Maddie was yelling from near the fire pit. Her voice rose with every call. “Shhhh,” Dean whispered. Charlotte stayed still until the sound of Maddie’s voice tapered to a lame yell then to silence. “You must really like to swim if you come here with her this often,” Dean said. A few mosquitoes had come back. They buzzed around their feet. “Sort of,” she answered. Dean lifted an eyebrow. “Sort of?” Charlotte hadn’t really ever said this out loud but maybe because it was dark, she felt daring. “Maddie is my 127

oldest friend. We’ve always come here. And I know how to swim but I don’t like going into the lake unless I’m on a canoe or jet skies or something.” “You don’t ever swim to the middle?” Dean said. “Of the lake? As in a mile out? No.” The lake was too deep, she thought. There was no place to rest. Instead, she said, “It’s not like there is a floating platform where I could catch sunrays.” Dean scooted closer to her. He smelled like fresh dirt and shampoo. He lifted the dandelion stem and placed it between her lips. Their eyes locked. Charlotte sucked in her breath. She had the urge to cover her face with both hands. “Know how to float?” “I’m like a rock,” she murmured. “I go straight to the bottom.” Dean laughed. “Nah,” he said. “It’s in your head.” He reached his long arm toward her and took the dandelion from between her lips. He put it back in his mouth. “I guess we should go before Maddie explodes?” Charlotte nodded. Let’s stay. She did not want to see Maddie. Maddie reminded her of night, of sitting on the curb across from the funeral parlor in a May drizzle, of knowing that ashes would be the only thing left of her mother. She did not want to argue about not playing Taboo and she did not 128

want to have Maddie’s mom look at her with pity and ask if everything was okay. Charlotte wanted to stay near the lake where everything felt sharp and bright for eternity. They stood and faced the water. The faint reflection of the moon shone on the lake’s surface. Charlotte thought she saw the outline of bats against the sky but could that be true with all the mosquitoes? Dean’s body and his steady breathing next to her were so overwhelmingly present that she couldn’t think straight. “On a scale of 1 through 10, 1: an enemy, 10: a best friend, what are you?” she blurted. Dean grabbed her wrist. Charlotte thought he was going to push her into the water. A 1, of course. She could already feel herself falling headfirst. She shuddered at the cold stinging her skin. Or worse the slithering fish. She could hear Maddie calling him a double douche, but Dean did not push Charlotte. He wrapped his arms like she’d imagined earlier around her waist. He pressed his body against hers so that Charlotte could feel the sand dunes rippling beneath his t-shirt. A 10. Dean tilted her chin up toward the night sky and kissed her, lighting Charlotte on fire.

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“I thought we should just get that out of the way,” he said, eventually, breaking their hold. “And, FYI, I’m unratable.” Could you define that? Charlotte thought. But instead, she nodded again. You’re a 100, a 1000, a million. When she got back to her cabin, the lights were off. The adults were still lying around the smoldering pit engrossed in politics. They didn’t see her—lips swollen, throat squeezed shut, heart in her palm—sneak in. When she slipped into her sheets on the bottom bunk, Maddie, who slept at the top, didn’t say anything. She was either raging mad or fast asleep. Charlotte did not care. She lay curled in the fetal position, trying to hang on to Dean’s smell of fresh dirt and shampoo and to the new flu-like feeling of that and drowning.

*** The thing about being near someone who radiates nuclear power or lights up brighter than all planets is that you’d better wear glasses and learn how to safeguard yourself from their rays. Especially if you’ve been seeing life in gray. The next morning, Charlotte opened the door to her cabin. The air smelled fresher than before. The lake shimmered diamond-like. When she took a sip of coffee, she decided that Maddie’s mom’s coffee was the best Breakfast 130

Blend she’d ever sipped. She tried not to turn toward Dean’s cabin. She tried not to flip her hair over and over, hoping that the highlights she and Maddie had sprayed on with Sun In were visible. She tried really hard not to hum and even harder not to run her hand on her belly button where just hours ago Dean’s six-pack had brushed. “What happened last night?” Maddie said, taking a bite of cinnamon raisin toast. “Nothing,” Charlotte said, smiling at her coffee mug. Maddie was not in a bad mood. She wore a pink Lady Gaga shirt, her hair up in a ponytail. “I yelled for you a bunch of times,” she continued, oblivious. “Sorry,” Charlotte replied. “I was wearing headphones, listening to the playlist you made me.” “You doofus,” Maddie grinned. They put their mugs down and ran toward the lake. First, they bronzed on towels. They played Taboo at the picnic table. Butterflies darted around the grass. They sucked on popsicles. Every now and then, Charlotte glanced toward Dean’s cabin but there was no sign of him. By noon, Charlotte had begun to worry.

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“What’s up with your cousin?” she said, trying to sound extra casual, not daring to say his name out loud. “Does he sleep in until afternoon?” Maddie shrugged. “I hope he dies of a heart attack.” But Maddie’s mom, who was lying out in the sun nearby, overheard. “Maddie!” she yelled. “You know Dean’s got a lot going on. He needs a family right now. Be nice.” “Would you like me to knock on his door?” Charlotte asked. “Check on him?” This was her once-in-a lifetime opportunity. “Sure,” Maddie’s mom answered. “I’ll go too,” Maddie said. “You stay,” her mom scolded. Charlotte strolled picking dandelions that bloomed in her path. “Hurry up,” Maddie shouted. When she got to the door and knocked, Charlotte had a bouquet. She held it against her chest and tried to regulate her breathing. After one knock, Dean opened the door part way. “What?” he said. The cabin was dark but Dean’s skin gave off incandescent sparks. His hair was disheveled in a grungy but hopelessly cute kind of way. Charlotte had the urge to take his fingers in hers. She knew that if she did she’d ignite. 132

“You rate a million,” she said, handing him the bouquet. “Thanks.” Dean glanced at his bare feet, then shut the door. For the next several days, Charlotte could barely eat. She woke up and spent every hour hidden behind her sunglasses, head in a magazine, lying on the lounge chair, trying to get back to the numbness, the place where everything was blanketed and gray. But ironically, the weather was perfect. The sun shone bright with not a cloud in the sky. Even the grass was emerald green. Maddie and Dean went to the lake and swam. So did the parents. They laughed and joked and talked about hiking and even going into town for a grocery run. Charlotte closed her eyes and thought of the days after the funeral, how she’d emptied her mother’s closet, her heart dwindling on itself with every item. “Take what matters,” her father had said. “I know you loved her blue scarf, her satin holiday shirt.” But Charlotte had taken nothing. She’d placed her mother’s running shoes, her studded purse, and even her Hermes perfume in a trash bag. By the time her father had returned from work, her mother had been erased. “Why give everything away?” He’d asked her. 133

“Easier.” “You alright?” Maddie’s mom, Cynthia, said on the fifth day of Charlotte’s lounge chair strike. It was near noon. Charlotte had covered her body with a towel. She wasn’t in a bathing suit. She wore shorts and a tank top. She sipped on a lemonade and clutched her medallion. “Sure,” she said. Cynthia touched Charlotte’s cheek with her palm. The gesture was so sweet and unexpected that Charlotte bit down on her lower lip in order not to sob. “You miss your mom?” “Yeah,” Charlotte said. Missing her mom was like breathing, an every second thing. But she thought she’d gotten used to it, dug up a hole and stuck all the pain at the bottom. But when Dean came and shone his sun on her, then took it away, the hole had opened up and all the pain had gushed from it, still gushed now, like a huge geyser. Cynthia said, “I wish I could bring her back.” Charlotte sat up on the lounge chair and kept twirling her medallion. “You were a great friend,” she said. Cynthia’s eyes got big and her lips trembled, too.

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“I still remember when she put that charm around your neck on your very first birthday.” Charlotte gave her the perfunctory hug, got up and walked away. Near the lake, Dean was throwing a boomerang from the rocks. Every time, it neared Maddie, who sunned herself, she shrieked. Charlotte looked at the canoes beached on the shore. She squinted toward the center of the lake. What lurked beneath the surface? Who cared? Plenty lurked above. “Hey,” Dean said. Charlotte, who usually took days deciding what to wear or what classes to take, what bathing suits to try on, what type of yogurt to eat, crouched and splashed water on the back of her neck. “Are you going in?” Maddie yelled. Charlotte ignored her. “Charlotte?” Dean shouted. Charlotte stripped off her shorts and t-shirt. In nothing but her undies, she dove in. She would not look at them. She would not answer them. She would swim all the way to the middle. She would find the geyser and put a lid on it once and for all. The water was far colder than she thought. Charlotte trembled. She kicked her feet as hard as she could and sliced her hands through the water. She swam and swam and swam. 135

When she couldn’t take another stroke, Charlotte looked up. The shore was hardly visible. Only green swelled around her. Can you float? She heard him say. She thought of his laughter, of the way he’d placed the dandelion stem between her lips. The moment when the blanket of gray had lifted from her. Tears surged and mixed with the green. A fish slithered near her foot. Maybe it was algae. Charlotte gasped and swallowed water. She kicked her arms and flailed. She tried to turn around but now she couldn’t tell which way was the shore and which way was not. When she looked up toward the sun, birds flew. When she looked down at the green water, shadows of birds flew. “Whoa,” someone said. “Easy does it.” Charlotte spun around again and there was Dean, not a foot away from her, head bobbing in and out, hands reaching out to her. “How did you get here?” she managed. “You didn’t think I was going to watch you swim topless to the center of the universe alone? Did you?” He grinned. But Charlotte was tired and scared. “How long will it take me to get back?” Her breaths were short. She kicked her feet as hard as she could.

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“Fifteen minutes tops but try to float first,” Dean said. “Like this.” He lay on his back, toes sticking out. “I can’t swim fifteen more minutes.” New fish darted around her hands, making her yelp. “Come here,” Dean said. “You think this is funny, but it’s not.” Charlotte dipped her head in the water and lowered her body hoping to find the bottom, just one rock to put her foot on, but the ground was nowhere in sight. When she came back up, she tried to inhale and again swallowed more water. Dean swam to her. “Look at me,” he said. His green eyes melted with the lake. Charlotte coughed and coughed. She thought she was hallucinating. Maybe she was drowning. She kept pedaling her feet when she felt his arms wrap around her waist. “Stop,” he said. “Just look at me and do what I say.” His hands were warm. He rubbed her naked back. “Put your feet on top of mine.” Charlotte did. His body was cushioning hers and his arms somehow were lifting them, chin above water. They swayed chest to chest. “Come on,” Dean eventually said. He pointed to a brown spot on the water. “Let’s swim to that.”

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Soon, they were holding onto a long piece of hollowed wood. A buoy in the middle of the lake. Charlotte’s fear lessened. Their noses touched. She inhaled his breath. Dean swam backwards. “Why did you shut the door in my face?” “Because,” he said. “I didn’t come here looking for a girl. This thing between us, it’s—” he paused, “bad timing.” Charlotte shuddered non-stop. She gripped the log harder. “Bad timing? My mother dying of cancer on my eleventh birthday was bad timing. Not being able to swim fifteen more minutes in the middle of a goddamn lake is bad timing. Trying to not fall for my best friend’s shady foster cousin is bad timing.” Dean laced his fingers in hers and slipped her body atop of his. “Are you feeling this?” he said. “Us?” Charlotte nodded. He kissed her hard on the lips. “Good,” he said. Still holding onto the log, he kicked his feet harder than before. They made their way back. When they finally climbed out of the lake, Maddie came running.

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“OMG, Char! Have you lost your marbles? You scared the crap out of us.” Behind her, Maddie’s mom and aunt trailed. They stared at Charlotte’s chest, then at Dean who was toweling himself dry. *** That night, it rained. Charlotte didn’t hear him coming into their cabin. She didn’t hear him clicking the door shut. The swimming had wiped her. She only felt him slipping into the bottom bunk while rain beat down on the windows. Dean curved his body to hers and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I lost my mom, too,” he said. “Not to cancer but to drugs. And my dad.” In the dark, he ran his fingers under her nightshirt. “You still mad at me?” Charlotte wasn’t sure now that he lay, like this, behind her. “You and me,” he said. “We’re broken souls. Always looking to be mended. Always looking to put a lid on stuff.” He kept on running his fingers along her waist, around her belly button. He found her shoulders, traced a line down her spine along the edge of her underwear. He kissed her at the base of her hairline, a tickle that resembled slithering fish. 139

“Feel,” he said. “Always. That’s what keeps us living.” Charlotte shuddered. She wanted to know more about his parents, to ask how old he was, why he’d come here in the first place, and about broken souls but because they lay skinto-skin, discovering each other’s bodies, she felt somehow mended. She kept from speaking. She’d been speaking all these years to her dad and therapists and friends and friends’ mothers. She was all spoken out. Tonight, the bottom of her bunk bed felt like a radiant boat, sliding on a fragile surface, a place between numbness and pain. Eventually, Dean stopped touching her and she, him. They fell asleep, feet entwined. When Charlotte woke, he was gone, his fresh dirt smell on her pillow the only give away that he’d ever been there. “Where is Dean?” she asked later when everyone hung around the pit, discussing plans for the afternoon. Maddie placed her hand on her hip and rolled her eyes. “I guess after your little lake escapade, my mom didn’t feel comfortable keeping him around. Hasta la vista, baby!” Charlotte walked to his cabin and opened the door. The table was wiped and the bed he’d slept in was made. There wasn’t even a hair in the sink. But on the bathroom mirror, Charlotte saw the word, FEEL. It was smudged in pen, in capital letters. She ran to the edge of the lake. The sun shone

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high again. There was not a tinge of wind and the bottle green of the water obscured the bottom, as always. Please come back. Charlotte listened for the birds trilling in the trees. She tried to remember what the stem of their dandelion had tasted like, what his fingers had written on her back, but all there was out here was silence and the flat taste of her gum. Charlotte lowered herself down onto the grass. She brought her arms around her knees, then felt for her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s medallion around her neck. Gone too. Maybe sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d lost it swimming in the water. Somehow the pain of the two losses merged together and zigzagged, traveling like lightening from the top of her skull straight down into her chest, slicing her with grief. By the time Charlotte caught her breath, her clothes were soaked from tears and all she could do was shake. Eventually, when she turned and gazed at the opening of the pine trees, only shadows danced on the grass. The next year, she was not invited. The only souvenir Charlotte would ever have of that July was intangibleâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a faint sense of courage at having swum to the middle and a sharp taste of woe and boy-light. No one would ever appear as splendidly bright to Charlotte again.

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Selected Poems by Elizabeth Morton 23andMe: I’m counting on proteins, washing pegs of chromosomes, prayer beads of ATCG in fine shark tooth lines. It is noon and the basin is full of Brussel sprouts. I can roll my tongue and make a hitchhiker’s thumb, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy. I made a bracelet from saliva and cotton swabs. I put my last dream in a test tube and sent it to the USA. I eat Brussel sprouts because of Ancestry.com. I met my dead relatives in cyber space, sootfaced and bowlegged, and kind of like me. They had the gene for boiled brassica. We were all pharaohs in a past life with golden earlobes and taxidermied cats. But for now I’m the recessive child rinsing a colander of vegetables, boneless with blue eyes.

Postcard from your obese lover I am the butterknife, not the cleaver. You might think I’m invisible, potato on a side plate. I’m a belly full of proverbs about the best way to a man’s heart. I can tell you what a field of sunflowers cannot. I’m canola oil, amber light refracting. I can see that you’re a hard yolk to split. I’m comfort food and empty carbohydrates. I’m mash. Macaroni. I’m a throat full of stewed pears pushing up against 142

the sewer grate. I’m Cola cans and supermarket bags. I’m the butcher’s block and the whinnying piglet. I’m salted. I’m the pot calling the kettle black. I’m the fluids drained out in the basin. You might think I’m invisible, potato on a side plate. But I’m your reflux and your heartburn. I’m what passes for love.

Gap You might make it, if you sprint. We run with our hands in pockets. We are pink dots on an aerial photograph gapping-it through the seafields. I am running out of ideas. All the honeybees are dead and here we are packing cargo into thought-bubbles. It’s like it never happened. The oceans did not rise up and claim us. The hooks we cast didn’t return broken bottles with SOSs. We were not rehearsing defeat with every gesture. We run with our suitcases, dredging a maze of pesticides and flotsam. We beat through waterlogged scarecrows, zigzag the salted orange trees, whistle at muttonbirds as we whizz by. The world is a smudged thumbprint. Saline. Everything is moving away from us. By the time we reach the start-block it’s ten past midnight. When the pistol fires, nobody knows in which direction to run.

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Too Much to Taste By Michelle Lee Eggs used to be us phoning in sick to work because we stayed up all night fondling past the glow of Leno into something John Hughes on a local channel. You coveted Molly Ringwald —it was her red hair, her sweet bruised heart missing pieces that made you wonder if she was strawberry on the tongue then a decade passed and two kids moved in between our sheets Cheerios clattered into bowls scrambled eggs smeared onto bibs at dawn-dark as we bulleted lists for the day. ● ● ● ●

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We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t touch in the light of the television anymore because weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve run out of excuses. Or maybe the thought of our fingers our mouths our bodies glowing like swollen red numbers on the alarm clock ticking down our past is too much to taste now.

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Selected Poems by Michelle Boland And We Wonder Why Everything’s such a little mess, such a little mess. The toothpaste oozing from the tube, the marriage too long to annul. The sweet summer peach juice unnoticed on your chin and my eye always following, notching your flaws like welts from your leather belt. Such a little mess. The flag of truce has been bleached so much it’s now gray as rotten teeth. And yet we’ve made such a little mess, we hardly stop to mop it up, but tap dance around until it slicks the soles of our shoes. And we wonder, how did we get to this middle ground with so few cracks in the windshield from our drunken youth?

Before Tomorrow Comes We Must Sleep Early in his breakdown, while my firstborn slept shirtless and covered in sweat, I watched him sleep, his tall man-boy body curled into a question mark so tightly wound around more pleading than I’d ever known. In his arch of pliant skin, spine and sinew, it seemed was the ache for answers to every injustice 146

that had left him stripped of his inborn faith in our kindness. It asked, Father, if we are so fearfully made, why are we thus made so fearfully broken? And in his asking the unanswerable thing, he laid bare all our guilt so that none of us are left knowing the insulation to be found in truth.

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Cold By Liza Carrasquillo When you reach the clearing at the top of the ridge, it is nearly midday. The sun beats down overhead on your heavy coat and exposed neck, causing your skin to shine. You run a sweaty hand over your short, dark hair and glance behind you as you hear the clumsy footsteps of the out-of-state college kids who’ve probably never hiked a day in their lives. You wait for them to catch up, feeling old even though you’ve only got a few years on the freshman who wanted to pay you, a bona-fide “local mountain man,” to lead them through some hidden trails. After the snap of some twigs and the laughter of the two girls as the third hiker—the only boy, forced to come by his girlfriend—slips on the steep incline, they reach you. “Oh, wow!” says one of the girls, drawing out the words. “Who knew the Appalachian Mountains were so breathtaking!” The girl, Caitlyn, had been the one who contacted you to guide her, her boyfriend, and their friend after seeing one of your flyers pinned up somewhere in the University’s library. She had left you a voicemail, and you responded via e-mail, then later, text. She had sounded just like you had pictured her—long, black hair, impeccable, yet somewhat impractical fall fashion, and a bright smile impressed by everything that 148

wasn’t urban. The long a she used in her sentence echoes in your ears, and you scratch the stubble from your short beard, cringing at her mispronunciation. You dismiss it as something out of her control. They’re from Connecticut, after all. You look out at their view and admit to yourself that she’s right; the mountains are breathtaking. It’s fall now, and the landscape below you is blanketed in patches of that special leaf-red color, broken up only by the speckled green of the tall pines and other evergreen species. You glance behind the hikers at the tall trees you just emerged from, satisfied with the site you chose. Whenever new hikers stumble out of that steep, narrow pathway of rocks to be met with the openness of the sloping mountains, they are speechless every time. These kids wanted a view for their Instagrams, and you gave them one. “Hey,” says the boy in the group—Jason, maybe?—as he turns to you. “Do you sleep out here and stuff? Like, live off the land?” You hesitate, then nod, unwilling to explain that “sleeping out here” really meant sleeping in a two-bedroom shack left to you and your younger brother when your parents passed, and “living off the land” meant living on PBR twelve packs, or Capri-suns for Lane, and whatever take-out you could afford off of your assortment of odd jobs. Today’s hike 149

would go to the Chinese food you’d order this weekend, as well as part of the water bill. “Cool.” He slings his arm around Caitlyn’s shoulder, knocking her off balance slightly, then looks at you again. “You got a cabin in the woods or something?” You shrug, then give another slight nod. “Come on, dude, I’m just curious.” “Lay off of him, Jake,” says Caitlyn. You mentally cross out “Jason.” “You paid this dude to be our guide,” he says, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I at least want to learn some cool stuff from him.” “Jake,” says Caitlyn, leaning towards his ear, “We talked about this in the car, remember?” “What? No, about what?” She glances at me and hesitates. “Whatever,” he says, turning to me. “C’mon, you got anything to say?” He removes his arm and walks towards the trees we exited, then points to one. “What’s this called?” Caitlyn steps forward. “Jake, he’s—” “Just let him talk, Cait, damn!” His voice echoes over the ridge. You look at the tree. “Sh-shh-shortleaf p-pine,” you stutter.

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There’s a pause, then the boy’s eyes fix themselves on the ground. “Thanks, man,” he says. Caitlyn narrows her eyes—a deep hazel that matches the pines—at Jake, then gives you an apologetic smile. It’s a very pretty smile, and you smile back. You relax the fist you didn’t realize you had made. The third group member pipes up, and you flinch, forgetting that another girl was part of the party. “Hey,” she says, holding out her phone to you, “can you take a picture of us? It’s perfect here!” You smile and nod, then carefully hold up the phone. What it is, is cold, you think as you snap away at the trio. No matter how many new hikers you lead or how much you sweat under your thick, worn coat, there is always an undeniable coldness of the mountains that you can’t shake. They see perfection because this isn’t their home. They’ve settled into their first few months of school and they think it is, but it’s not. You hand back the phone and stand apart from the group as they swipe through the photos. “How do you spell Appalachian?” asks the other girl. “It’s for my Instagram caption.” Jake takes her phone and types out the word. “Seriously, it’s in our school name,” he says. “Get your shit together.” 151

Caitlyn smiles again, this time at him, and laughs when the other girl rolls her eyes. You step a little further away, lean against a shortleaf pine, and wait until they are ready to descend. * When you return home, you creak open the thin front door and see Lane sitting at the kitchen table doing homework with a half-eaten plate of Totinos Pizza Rolls in front of him. He’s illuminated by the dim light above the table, and the glow of the open microwave. You close the front door, careful not to let it slam so that the top hinge doesn’t get loose again, and Lane looks up. “How was the hike?” he asks. You shrug, and walk into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge. You turn and narrow your eyes at him, then slam the microwave door shut. Lane smiles. “Sorry,” he says, “I was too hungry to think about the electricity bill.” You grab a pizza roll off of his plate amidst his protests, and sit down at the table with him, glancing at his homework as you do so. Every worksheet says Honors or Advanced at the top. You smile to yourself. “I know what I want for my birthday,” he continues, booting up the only computer in the house, an old Dell with a 152

slight crack in the corner of the screen, like an eggshell. He types rapidly for a moment, then turns it towards you. “It’s an astronomy map. I could use it with Dad’s telescope.” You raise your eyebrows. Thirteen years old, and the kid wants a map? He turns the laptop back towards himself. “Hey, it’s my birthday. I need something to compare my own charts to. I think Dad’s map is missing a lot of new stuff. I’ll e-mail you the link. Plus, shipping is free.” You watch him and notice that his light-brown hair— Mom’s hair—is falling into his eyes. He’ll need a haircut soon. He sticks the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, the way Dad would when he was focused, and you smile at their favorite child. “Hey, when we get it, can you take me camping up on that ridge again? The one you and Dad always went to?” he asks. You hesitate, knowing that he’s been asking for this trip for weeks, then take the laptop and type Pisgah Astronomical Research Institute into Google Maps. He shakes his head. “The best place to see the constellations is here, not in some center two hours away. And tours are boring. Come on, you haven’t taken me hiking in forever!”

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You sigh. Lane is strong and smart and articulate in a way you never will be, and you are afraid that his love for this land will tether him to it. “S-sure,” you say. He pumps his fist in the air, and you polish off a few more of his pizza rolls, then head for the shower. You pull off your shirt and stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. A lifetime of hiking and exploring the mountains has left you with a lean build that, given your tall height, makes you look somewhat lanky. Still, you have your father’s strong jaw and broad shoulders—features that always looked comically out-of-place when he was crouching behind his telescope—and you’ve always felt confident because of them. You empty your pockets onto the bathroom counter, and are surprised to see a new message on your phone. It’s Caitlyn. You text her back, and schedule another hike. * Next weekend, you take her, Jake, the other girl, and one more boy—maybe this time a Jason—across a five-mile trail that leads to some small rapids. The second girl enjoys this immensely, and Instagrams a picture with the hashtag, “No filter.” You sit on a damp rock as the others explore the area. Caitlyn kneels down and runs her fingers through the icy water, and you try to forget how many empty beer cans you 154

threw into there during the first few weeks after the funeral. None of them dulled the memories like you had hoped, the image of the narrow mountain road with a left curve that was too sharp, nor the snow-white lights that filled the front windshield of Dad’s Cherokee at the wrong time. You almost laugh when you remember how slight the jerk of the wheel was—hardly a turn at all—that sent the car skidding until a crunch by your window flipped everything to black. “These mountains are like a dream,” says Caitlyn, pulling you out of your thoughts. She pauses. “Everything down here is like a dream.” She looks your way, and gives a small laugh to the crisp mountain air. “Even you.” You give a small laugh as well, and shake your head. “What?” she says, “Is that weird to say?” She holds her chin and studies you for a moment, as if you are the most intriguing specimen in the forest. “You’re like, I don’t know…the embodiment of these mountains somehow. Definitely wouldn’t meet someone like you in Connecticut, that’s for sure.” She walks over and sits down beside you, squeezing onto the small space clearly meant for one. You both watch as the others hop around on the wet stones, trying to get the best picture. The other girl throws an arm around Jake’s neck, and he squeezes just above her hips until she squeals and jumps 155

away. She runs, and he holds on a little too long when he catches her. Caitlyn keeps her eyes fixed on the ground, grinding pebbles into the damp dirt with the tip of her new North Face boot. “I hope it’ll be a long time before I have to wake up,” she mumbles. She leans her weight against your shoulder, and you find you like the pressure. Caitlyn hires you for three more hikes after that, until the chill in the air turns frigid. The first of those hikes, it is Caitlyn and a new friend. The second, it is her and Jake, who told her there was no way in hell he would let her go into the woods alone with a mute mountain man. The third time, it is just the two of you. “I told him I was at a lacrosse game all day, and he bought it,” she says, laughing without a smile. “I don’t even play lacrosse.” She is tense, and you worry that it is because she is afraid of you, because she is afraid that Jake was right. You try and stay a few feet away from her as the hike continues, but she talks to you constantly. You appreciate the fact that she is always content with nothing more than a nod or a shake of your head, sometimes a few words, as a response. The more she talks to you, the more that tension fades away, until you 156

forget that you’re a twenty-three-year-old mute mountain man hiking alone with a nineteen-year-old freshman girl, and allow the distance between the two of you to shrink. About an hour into the hike, she calls for you to stop. She kneels down, takes out her phone, and snaps a picture of a white violet—surprisingly still holding out against the impending winter—and smiles. “I just can’t get over how simple and easy everything feels out here,” she says, standing up and stretching her arms upwards. “No classes, no tests, no Jake—just freedom.” She keeps them in the air for a moment, then quickly drops her arms to her sides. “Not that I don’t love all of those things! Well, most of those things. Maybe not tests. Or…well, definitely not tests.” She gives a hollow laugh, and you force yourself to smile at the girl who sees freedom in these icy mountains, but not in her college classrooms. For a moment, you think of Lane. Maybe for Christmas he’ll let you take him to that center. You walk ahead and continue the hike until you kneel down to point out a fox den. She stands behind you to look, closing what little distance had been accumulated after her comments by leaning her legs slightly against your back. You focus on the feel of her shins, on the weather-resistant fabric—

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suddenly much thinner—between you and her, and heat rises to your face. You still like the pressure. “Hey, what’s this?” she says as she pokes a thick, pink line of skin running a couple of inches across your head, starting from above your right ear, barely visible beneath your short hair. You jerk away and stumble upright, then catch her hand. “I’m sorry!” she says, eyes wide. She tries to pull her hand free, but you tighten your grip and stare at her hard. “I was just curious!” she says, pulling harder. Your anger fades quickly to guilt after you hear the panic in her voice, and you let her go, stepping away with your hands thrust deep into your pockets. “S-sorry,” you say. “No, it’s okay—I mean, it’s my fault.” Her hands are clenched together, her body tense. She is afraid of you. She has to be. You nod back down the trail, and start descending the mountain. “Adam, really,” she says as she follows you down. “I’m sorry!” You nod at her again, but don’t stop walking. Your hands stay in your pockets for the remainder of the hike. At the beginning of the trail, you place the money she gave you on the hood of her car, and walk towards your own beat-up Chevy. You ignore her calling after you, and head home. 158

* It is two and a half weeks later when she calls you— the first time she’s called since reading the flyer—and she is drunk. “Adam!” she yells into the phone. “Adam! Are you there?” You hear harsh music and the voices of drunk boys hooting in the background. “C-c-ait?” you say, rolling over in bed to check your clock. It’s 1:07 a.m. “Aaadam!” she says, drawing out your name. “Are you still mad at me? Jake erased your number from my phone ‘cause Helen told him I didn’t play lacrosse. Fuckin’ bitch.” You sit up in bed and rub your face, trying to shake off sleep. “Both of them are bitches. Whatever, I don’t care. Some guy here had your number! He said you took him hiking!” She starts to laugh. “You charged him more than me, though.” A voice in the background yells at her. “Caitlyn, who the fuck are you talking to?” “None of your damn business,” she yells back. “Go see who Helen’s talking to!” “What the fuck, Cait.” The voice gets louder. “Who is that?” 159

You shout into the phone to get her attention. “Adam, I’m sorry,” she says again, almost crying. “A-Ad-dress,” you say, then again, louder. “Ad-dress! Wh-where are y-y-you?” She mumbles the name and house number on a party street near the college, and the line goes dead. You jump out of bed and pull on a sweatshirt, jeans, and some shoes. You exit your room, and find Lane on the couch playing Nintendo. “What?” he says at your stunned expression. “It’s Saturday night, remember? I can be up ‘til twelve.” You point at the microwave clock. “Oh. Wait, where are you going?” “G-get a f-friend.” You cut off any other questions by pointing to his room. He huffs, and stomps inside. You grab your keys and leave. You turn onto the street and spot a girl in dark jeans and an expensive-looking fleece jacket stumbling down the side of it, alone. It’s Caitlyn. You pull over, and when she realizes it’s you, she throws herself into your arms, dampening the front of your shirt with whatever concoction must have been spilled on her at the party. “Adam!” she says. “You found me! You’re such a good mountain man.” You help her into the backseat, and try to get her to tell you where her dorm is. She sends you 160

everywhere from the campus to Cookout, until you finally give up and drive back to your house. When you open the door and lead her inside, Lane is awake, playing Nintendo with a plate of pizza rolls on his lap. He jumps when he hears you, and starts rambling. “I couldn’t help it, I was concerned ‘cause you left so fast, and then I had to take my mind off of the worry, so I started playing the Wii again, but then I also got hungry— ‘cause of the worry—and had to make some—” “Oooh,” says Caitlyn, cutting him off. “Are those pizza bites?” “Rolls,” says Lane. He pauses, then holds out the plate. She dives for it. “Who’re you?” he says. “Adam never brings friends over.” They start to converse, and you stare, trying to process the fact that your drunk friend is bonding with your little brother over pizza rolls. You walk into the kitchen, pour a glass of water, then slam the microwave door shut. They both freeze, and Lane slides the plate into Caitlyn’s hands. “I should probably go,” he says, saving his game and turning it off. “But hey, you should come camping with us for my birthday!” She nods furiously. “I love camping!” she says. “I love everything here! I never want to leave!” 161

“Me neither! Hey, do you like stars?” You walk over and fold your arms as you stand behind Caitlyn, so Lane can see your looming figure. “Let’s talk another night,” he says, creeping slowly off of the couch. “Bye, Caitlyn!” Leaping into his room, he shuts the door before either of you can say anything. The only sound left in the house is that of Caitlyn eating. You hand her the water, and sit down on the opposite side of the couch, head in your hands, as she gulps down the glass. “I freakin’ love pizza, and I freakin’ love water!” she says, sinking into the couch. Worried she might get sick, you try and differentiate between the types of alcohol you smelled when you helped her into the car. Beer definitely, probably some Party Juice and vodka, too. “Hey,” she says, pulling herself upright with a level of difficulty only achieved by attending Frat parties. “Tell me about the scar.” You look up, and she is waiting, staring at you with those pine-colored eyes, beautiful even when dazed drunk. The pizza rolls are demolished. “Car a-accid-dent,” you say. “B-black ice.” You tap a picture frame on the table next to you with your parents’ wedding photo. “F-f-five years a-ago.” She casts her eyes slowly around your home, resting them on the peeling, yellowed wallpaper, the mismatched 162

kitchen chairs, then the cracked Dell gleaming under the kitchen lightbulb. “Just you and him?” she asks. You nod. “I was e-e-eighteen. L-lane, eight.” She puts the plate aside and scoots closer towards you, and when she reaches out towards your head, you do not stop her. She runs her fingertips along the raised skin, until she feels it disappear. “Fucked up your speech, didn’t it?” You nod again, giving a slight smile at the memory. Lane had called dibs on the right side of the car, but you shoved him to the left anyways. That’s probably the first time being a bad big brother ever saved anyone’s life. She taps you on the shoulder, and when you turn, she kisses you. You kiss her back, acutely aware of her hands running up your arms and across your abs, and just as aware of your hands sliding onto the small of her back and pulling her closer. She tugs at your belt, but you catch her hand, pull your lips from hers without really knowing why. “Come on,” she mumbles, finding your mouth again. “Don’t make me wake up yet.” Reality clicks back into your mind. You break away from her and push her back gently by the shoulders. You, the mountains—everything—will always be a dream to her. She frowns at you through half-closed eyes, and you stand up from 163

the couch with her still reaching. You slide one arm under her knees and one behind her back, and you lift her up amidst slurred giggles. You place her on your bed and pull up the covers, then grab a trash can and the glass of water and put those by the bedside. You close the bedroom door behind you, and settle yourself in on the couch. You fall asleep with the taste of Aristocrat and pizza sauce mingling in your mouth. When you wake up the next morning, Lane crunching cereal in the kitchen. A post-it note slides off of your chest when you sit up. Sorry about everything, it read. Jake’s picking me up soon. Don’t remember much of the night, but thanks for getting me. “Saw your friend leave this morning,” says Lane through a mouthful of Fruit Rings. “Some dude in a Mustang picked her up. Will she be back?” You reread the note over and over before finally answering him. “No,” you say. You check the time, stand up, and get ready to take another tour group up to the ridge for a Sunday hike. When you get there, the father of the group, a young family of four, hands you his phone to take pictures. As they swipe through them, you stand apart—always apart—and look back out at the serene, icy landscape of the much too quiet 164

mountainside. You try to remind yourself that there is beauty in isolation. You zip your coat all the way up to your neck, and try to block out the chill.

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Contributors: Cover Artist: Sheila Fraga is a Cuban- born artist based in Miami. She graduated from the Academy of Fine Arts San Alejandro in 1999. Her painting and drawing is focused on the female figure and personal life. Fraga’s work can be found in permanent collections at St. Paul Episcopal Cathedral, Italy, The University of Aveiro Portugal and Sacramento Contemporary Art Gallery. She has participated in solo and group exhibitions and events such as Art Takes Miami and Scope Art. Her artwork illustrated the cover of “La Voz” magazine last May 2016, as well as the cover of the next edition of the magazine, Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art 2017. Find her on Instagram: http://instagram.com/bwsilhouette. On La Luz Divina para los Seres: The artwork "La Luz Divina para los Seres/Divine Light for the Beings" is a painting titled "Love" with the technique of oil on canvas. I initially realized the idea in the year 2009, which is represented by a naked woman in a position of nearness to the sacred land. In 2015 I returned to the same work to incorporate new figurative elements, the use of other techniques, such as collage, cut-out, pastel and acrylic, where it takes on another concept and form. I transformed the image of the woman alone and naked to something more emotionally charged with figurative elements and composition, hopefully giving a new conceptualization of art. Now it is my new vision of my own reality, where I acquired more responsibility for all the weight I have as a mother-wife-artist and woman in which I ask God Mercy for my own being.

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C. Wade Bentley teaches and writes in Salt Lake City. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in journals such as Cimarron Review, Best New Poets, Rattle, Antiphon Review, Pembroke Magazine, and Poetry Northwest. A fulllength collection of his poems, What Is Mine, was published by Aldrich Press in January of 2015. You may visit wadebentley.weebly.com for complete information about his publications and awards. Allyn Bernkopf lives in Northern Utah and received her Masters of Arts in English, emphasizing in poetry, from Weber State University. She currently teaches undergraduate English and poetry, and picks up odd jobs around town to subsidize the lack of money that she makes as an educator (she does, however, love teaching). She also enjoys the mountains, relaxing, wine, and reading. Previous publications include Medusa's Laugh Press, These Fragile Lilacs Poetry Journal, and The Quotable Literary Journal. Michelle Boland is completing her MFA in poetry at Lesley University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily and California Quarterly. When not writing, she is either practicing yoga or getting lost anywhere in the world a plane ticket will take her. Sarah Bradley is a freelance writer and creative writing teacher from Connecticut. She has written for various print and online media sources for nearly ten years. Since 2012, she has been teaching creative writing to youth and adults along the shoreline, encouraging writers of all ages to put "pen to paper" and see where their ideas lead. In 2014, she was the recipient of the first place prize in fiction at the Trumbull, CT annual arts festival. Her fiction has appeared in The Lost Country and The Forge Literary Magazine. Her nonfiction has been featured at Tribe Magazine and Parent.co. Sarah

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currently lives in Connecticut with her husband and three young sons. Chloe Burns is an English major at the University of Alberta. She is the winner of the Vancouver Writers Festival 2016 Poetry Prize, and her writing has most recently appeared in baldhip magazine, text lit mag, and The Chappess Zine. Find her on Twitter: @chloe___rae // Instagram: @cooldotorg. Liza Carrasquillo is a writer from Charlotte, North Carolina who will graduate with a BFA in Creative Writing, a minor in English, and a certificate in publishing in the spring of 2017. When she is not writing for her Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s newspaper, she pets her dog and writes short stories like the one featured here. She hopes you enjoyed her work. Joan Colby has published widely in journals such as Poetry, Atlanta Review, South Dakota Review, Gargoyle, Pinyon, Little Patuxent Review, Spillway, Midwestern Gothic and others. Awards include two Illinois Arts Council Literary Awards and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Literature. She has published 18 books including Selected Poems from FutureCycle Press, which received the 2013 FutureCycle Prize and Ribcage from Glass Lyre Press, which has been awarded the 2015 Kithara Book Prize. Three of her poems have been featured on Verse Daily and another is among the winners of the 2016 Atlanta Review International Poetry Contest. Her newest books are, Carnival which was published by FutureCycle Press in 2016 and The Seven Heavenly Virtues, just out from Kelsay Books. Colby is a senior editor at FutureCycle Press. Website: www.joancolby.com. Facebook: Joan Colby. Twitter: poetjm.

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Scott Coykendall is an Associate Professor of Communication and Media Studies at Plymouth State University in New Hampshire. His work has appeared in The Cossack Review, Quarterly West, Hayden's Ferry Review, and in the Poet Showcase: An Anthology of New Hampshire Poets. Debra Cross writes and teaches. She splits her time between Southern California and the Midwest, which she likes to think gives her perspective. She loves the short story form and is currently working on her first novel. Twitter: @DebraLCross. Alan Ferland graduated in 2011 with a Bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in Creative Writing. He lives in Keene, NH with his wife and cat and has a deep love of Brazilian cuisine and culture. He also shares the same first name and passion for writing with a video game character named Alan Wake, the protagonist from a psychological action thriller with the same name. With two poems forthcoming in Black Fox Literary Magazine, he has had one prior publication in Cactus Heart Press. Kimberly Gomes lives is San Francisco where she writes for a literacy non-profit by day and herself by night. She's currently pursuing her MFA at San Francisco State University, where she's working on her first novel and a book of poetry on the women's experience. Her non-fiction has appeared in The Bold Italic and The San Francisco Chronicle and her poetry and prose have been featured in The Rattling Wall, Elephant Journal, and are forthcoming in Red Light Lit Journal. You can follow her on Instagram or Twitter @writeon_kim. John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. He was recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review, with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review. 169

Nicklaus Hopkins is an English professor from the Sunshine State. He writes for both television and pleasure. His work has appeared in over forty TV shows and countless print publications. He resides with his writer-wife and their two furry children. Jennifer Ruth Jackson is an award-winning poet and fiction writer whose work has appeared in Verse Wisconsin, Kaleidoscope Magazine, and more. She runs a blog for disabled and/or neurodivergent writers called, The Handy, Uncapped Pen from an apartment she shares with her husband. Follow her on Twitter @jenruthjackson. Alexandra Kulik lives in Chicago, IL with her dog and many scattered books. She is a devout nature walker and tea drinker. Michelle Lee is an associate professor of English at Daytona State College. She has edited various academic and literary journals, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has published across genres. Most recently, her work was published in the anthology, All We Can Hold, by Sage Hill Press and with Hypertrophic Literary Magazine, as well as online with Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, and Spry Literary Journal. This winter/spring, you will also find her work appearing online with Dying Dahlia, Literary Mama, and LitBreak. You can email her at Michelle.Lee@daytonastate.edu and for more information, you can visit michelleleewriter.blogspot.com. Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 160+ publications in 23 countries. www.brandonmarlon.com.

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Stan McCormick grew up on a cattle ranch in the mountains of southwest Colorado. After a childhood spent tagging along with his father, a cowboy and truck driver, he attended medical school and became a pathologist. He now practices in St. Paul, Minnesota. His scientific writing has appeared in many medical journals. His poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Minnesota Medicine, Thin Air, and Pilgrimage. Elizabeth Morton is a New Zealand story-teller. She has been published in journals at home and across the world. Her prose is included in Best Small Fictions 2016. Her first poetry collection has been published by MÄ karo Press (2017). She likes to write about broken things and things with teeth. Carol Park is a teacher of English as a Second Language, both in the San Francisco Bay Area and also in Japan. Exploring her own language more and more brings joy, and also the friendships and understanding of the other that can come through tutoring. Writing is also a way of pursuing varying geographies, internal and external. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing through Seattle Pacific University. She writes fiction and personal essays as well as poetry. Timothy Pilgrim, a Pacific Northwest poet and emeritus associate professor of journalism at Western Washington University in Bellingham, Wash., has published several hundred poemsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;with acceptances from journals like Seattle Review, San Pedro River Review, Third Wednesday, Windfall, Cirque and Toasted Cheese. He is author of Mapping Water (Flying Trout Press, 2016). His work can be found at timothypilgrim.org. Eric Rasmussen teaches high school English in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. He is pursuing an MFA from Augsburg College, and his work is featured or upcoming in Sundog Lit, Forge, 171

Pithead Chapel, Chariton Review, Mulberry Fork Review, and Volume One Magazine, among others. He serves as assistant fiction editor at The Indianola Review, and founded the regional literary journal, Barstow & Grand. A.K. Small is a French-American writer. She’s a graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts. She’s attended literary events such as Bread Loaf and Writers-In-Paradise. She is nearly finished with her first novel, RAT-GIRLS. Her fiction has appeared in various journals and she was chosen as the 2016 YA Aspen Summer Fellow. When she’s not writing, she mothers three daughters, spends time with her husband, and takes yoga. You can find her in Pittsburgh, PA. Erika Staiger is a first-year MFA student at the University of South Florida, where she also teaches Freshmen Composition 1 and 2. She recently completed a Bachelor's degree in English from Michigan State University. Erika is originally from Michigan, where she was a ballerina for sixteen years. She now lives in Tampa, Florida with her cat, Cissy and rabbit, Dory. This is her first literary publication. Irene Thalden, presently writes and lives in St. Louis, MO. She has published a collection of her poems, Echoes of a Littered Past, and is presently working on a second collection. In addition to writing, she also teaches poetry at Washington University’s Life Long Learning program. Rhosalyn Williams is an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of New Hampshire, where she sings, writes and plays outside. This is her first publication. Armed with a Ph.D. in German Literature, Kip Wilson is the Poetry Editor at YARN, publishing everything from poems by teens to pieces by established authors. Her own work has been published in the Timeless and Spain From a 172

Backpack anthologies as well as Appleseed, Cobblestone, and Faces magazines. Her work is represented by Roseanne Wells at the Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency. You can find her on twitter https://twitter.com/kiperoo and on her website http://www.kipwilsonwrites.com/.

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