Hawaiʻi Review Issue 24: 1988

S,!J v

(u .H] LIBRARY

Issue 24

Vol. 12, No. 2

Cover photograph of Honolulu historic landmark the Toyo Theatre, shortly before its demolition, by Margaret Russo/Eighth Floor.

"The Road To Kawaikoi," © Marsha Erickson, 1988.

Hawazi· Re11iew is a semi-annual publication of the Board of Publications, University of Hawaii at Manoa. It reflects only the views of its editors and writers, who are solely responsible for its content. Correspondence and subscriptions should be addressed to Hawaii Re11iew, Department of English, University of Hawaii, 1733 Donaghho Road, Honolulu, Hawaii 96822. The editors invite submissions of art, drama, fiction, interviews, poetry, translations, reviews and literary essays. Manuscripts must be accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope. Subscription rates: one year (two issues), $6.00; single copies, $4.00. A.dvenising rates are available upon request.

Hawati"Re11iew, a member of the Coordinating Council of Literary Magazines, is indexed by the American Humanities Index and by the Index ofAmerican Periodical "Verse. © 1988 by the Board of Publications, University of Hawaii at Manoa. ISSN: 0093-9625 .

Staff for this Issue Jeannie Thompson Margaret Russo Barbara Gearen Zdenek Kluzak Shirley Lee

Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Fiction Editor Poetry Editor Reviews and Essays Editor

Special Thanks to: Joe Chadwick Sidney Higa James Kastely Angela Lee Catherine Mau Charles Miller Meena Sachdeva

CONTENTS

FICTION PERKA'S CORN MASH

1

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

16

Victoria Emery lsi Place-Editors' Award

Carol K. Howell 2nd Place-Editors' Award

45

FALLING BODIES MY FRIEND KAMMY A PARTY FOR GUS MAX

61

92 124

Leonard Goodman GaryPak Dellzell Chenoweth Nancy Alpert Mower

POETRY TWO POEMS THREE POEMS WHAT NANCY SAID GOLD CIRCULAR MOTION THREE POEMS THREE POEMS THREE POEMS THE SWALLOWS A SNOW SPARROW THE ORIGINAL MARINERS MAGNOLIAS & MEMORIES THREEPOEMSFORTERRI THOUGHTSOFTHE OVALTINE FACTORY DURING A MOMENT OF HYSTERIA ANYTING YOU KILL YOU GADA EAT GENTIANS

12 14 25 28 31 37 38 39 40 42

Louis Phillips Leona Yamada Jeanne Kawelolani Kinney Roger Jones Mindy H. Kronenberg Marjorie Sinclair Curt Fukumoto John Unterecker Jay Griswold B. Z. Niditch Susan Kraus Kathryn Takara John Charlot

43

Kenneth Pobo

44

Joseph P. Balaz Donnell Hunter

5 7 11

51 lV

THE ROAD TO KAWAIKOI ABOVE MALPASO CREEK THE BUTTER FESTIVAL OFCHONI APPLESAUCE! WORST FLOOD IN FORTY YEARS HEAVEN THE GYPSUM MINES CLAIMS PEARL I SEE YOU RESCUE IN DOG TONGUE CATCHING YOUR DEATH 'NALO CHICKEN FIGHT VARIATIONS OF INFERRED WAR THEMES FROM THE KUMUIJPO AND MO 'OLELO HAWAI'I HAIKU TWO POEMS ON THE SALUTARY EFFECT OF COFFEE (GOOD SUCH) AND OTHER CERTAIN CULTURAL DIGRESSIONS ONE LANAI AT THE HALFMOON STARS SLEEP ON CHE]U ISLAND THREE POEMS THREE POEMS TWO POEMS

v

52 54

Marsha Erickson Sanora Babb

56 57

RobenWarth Alan Seaburg

58 59 60 74 75 76 78 80

StephenJarrell Williams Peter Wild Roben VanderMolen Pauick B. Mikulec C. F. Barnes Nathan Whiting M. Truman Cooper BrianKhaw

82 89 90

Leialoha Apo Perkins Edmund Conti Michael McPherson

105

]. A. Miller

109

T. M. Goto

110 112 115 119

Nora Mitchell William Stafford Reuben Tam Jim Kraus

COMMUNION THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST TRADITIONAL JAPANESE PROVERBS ON LONG POETRY READINGS

123 134

Randy Brieger Pat Matsueda

135

Tony Friedson

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

136

AUTIIORS' INDEX

141

Vl

1

Victoria Emery PERKA'S CORN MASH

The planes swooped over Uzice, dropped their load of bombs, then disappeared behind the surrounding mountain ridges. When the sirens sounded the end of the raid, the townspeople poured from neighborhood bunkers and either rushed to put out random fires or, resigned, went about everyday business. On the outskins of town, along a row of white-washed houses, chickens scratched in the red din and let out an occasional shriek, their feathers still ruffled. A. hedgehog stirred a pile of last year's lime leaves in the corner of a walled yard, then scurried across the courtyard, dry leaves spiked on his quills. Desco emerged from the dark cellar, squinted in the sunlight as he looked carefully around the yard, then called to his mother and the rest of his family. ''You can come out now. They've missed us again."

Perka came out grumbling. "Dammit, they're supposed to get the Germans, not us." She settled herself on a cement bench. Her daughter, Dara, holding a sleeping baby, sat next to her. The morning sun shone through the branches of a mulberry tree, casting a dappled shadow on the beaten earth of the counyard. Perka smoothed her huge black apron, then tucked the ends of her white hair under her hooded scarf. Relieved from the fear of the enemy, of death , of the incessant and annoying rumbling of the planes, Perka's thoughts turned to the small ponion of farmer's cheese she'd kept in the pantry. She was debating whether to bring it out or hold onto it a little longer with Mile, Dara's husband, pulled up a stool and sat by her side. ' "That's a great nation," he said, trying to resume a conversation that had started in the cellar. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, and the stool rocked under him.

Perka ignored him, as she usually did, and sought a more comfonable position against the white plaster wall. Mile had moved his small family in with her after his work position was closed and their home reassigned.

Compared to Desco he seemed childish, and the war, Perka thought, had made him even more foolish. She had trouble restraining her temper with him .

1

"You should've seen Major Wacke!," Mile insisted, his voice rising.

"In the evening after he finished his work at the Gestapo Headquarters, he would sit at the piano, mind you, and play as if he were in a conservatory."

Dara shifted uncomfonably and began to coo softly to the baby. Perka thought of the cheese again. She was about to call Desco to fetch it for her, but the warmth of the sun made her sleepy and she began to doze . She enjoyed sitting in the counyard. When her husband was still alive, she would often take a break from her housework and, cushions piled around her, lie back on the benches and drink black coffee or share a beer with him. Mter ailing for several years, her husband had died of the injuries he had received when the retreating Yugoslav army crossed Albany in the previous war. She had had to raise six children by herself. Four were teachers in surrounding villages, but her youngest, Desco, had never left home. He worked for the Forest Service, and when he wasn't in the mountains he busied himself around the house, fixing this and that, chopping wood, and hauling drinking water from the neighborhood pump a mile away.

"They would have brought us culture," Mile continued, interrupting her reverie.

Perka opened her eyes briefly. "Culture my ass;' she said, annoyed.

"What belongs to God should stay with God . What's the devil's, let go to the devil-the hairy devil in your ass."

She was about to close her eyes again when she heard the sound of a heavy truck roaring up the dirt road. She sat very still and listened. It passed the smaller houses wedged into the bank of the road and stopped by their gate. Red dust sifted over the wall. Her face waxy, Perka watched the gate swing open. A small squad of uniformed men entered and stood silently surveying the narrow, carefully ordered yard and the winding cement stairs leading to the lower counyard. Then down they tramped, hands on their machine guns, the metalic rattle accentuating the heavy tread of their boots.

Perka sat up straight, her back rigid against the wall. Dara pressed against her. From around the side of the house Desco hurried, carrying an armful of wood. He looked grave but Mile stepped forward eagerly.

"Guten Tag," he nodded, and his guileless blue eyes centered on them.

One of the soldiers saluted. Like the others he was very young, and acne pitted the side of his face . To Perka they looked like the boys who played in the dusty street during the summer holidays. "Some army." She shook her head.

The soldier glanced at her then gestured to his companions. They

2

took off their helmets, unstrapped their guns and heavy ammunition belts and set them on the benches. "Food," he demanded in accented Serbian.

He pointed to his mouth. Pecka looked down at her feet. Mile looked at her in disbelief, then began to speak in a halting German. "Sit, sit," he insisted, motioning the soldiers towards the wooden table under the kitchen window.

Pecka watched grimly as they seated themselves. "Tell them," she hissed at Mile, " that in our hard times and primitive conditions we have no food ."

"I can't tell them that." Mile's pale blue eyes widened. " They'll search the house."

"There is hardly enough food to get us through another month ."

Pecka shook her head stubbornly.

Mile was listening to the soldier and nodding. "They've been on the road over seventy kilometers," he said, "and they'd like something warm to eat."

Glaring at them, Pecka pushed herself up from the bench and walked towards the kitchen, slapping the concrete with her wide slippers. Desco dropped the wood next to the huge iron stove and followed her into the pantry. She bent down, groaning, and untied a half-empty sack. Grabbing a large enamel pot, she began to measure out handfuls of cornmeal.

"There isn't enough water," Desco reminded her. ''I'll have to go to the pump."

Pecka turned to him. Framed by the black scarf, her face remained waxy, but her dark brown eyes glittered under their heavy lids. "There's water in the bath house," she said.

Desco stared at her for a moment, then scratched his head and grinned. He walked back to the kitchen, picked up the kettles, and stepped out into the counyard. Mile was engaged in strenuous conversation with the soldiers. Desco slipped quickly through the yard towards the bath house. He stepped through the narrow opening and closed the door behind him. The room was windowless, and he had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dark. A shon corroded pipe covered by a rusty filter led the rain water from the gutters in the upper yard into a deep cement tub. The green water quivered when he dipped in the kettles. He was careful not to disturb the bottom layer of mud. On his way back to the kitchen , he passed Dara and whispered to her. She looked startled for a moment.

"Don't worry," she whispered back. "They're not staying overnight. The Allies are on their heels."

Her face still flushed from cooking, Perka sat on the bench and

3

watched the soldiers gobble up the steaming mash. Dara paced the yard, roclcing the baby, while Desco leaned against the lcitchen doorway.

Their hunger appeased, the soldiers beckoned to the family to join them. Everyone shook their heads except Mile. He pulled up a chair and sat at the end of the table. Spooning mash onto his plate, he continued to struggle with his German.

"Before the war," he said, "I was a part-time consultant at the ministry of Agriculture and Water. Now the Germans have appointed their own consultant." He forked up a huge mouthful. "Why, you might ask." He looked around, his blue eyes clear and earnest. Everyone was intent on eating, their faces bent over their plates. "That would be a stupid question.

We can all learn from that man. Besides" -he swallowed-"unruly resistance ends in the spilling of innocent blood."

Perka snorted.

One of the soldiers asked for milk.

"There isn't any." Perka said.

The soldier went into the lcitchen and returned with a jar of rose-hip jam. He poured it over the remainder of the mash then passed it on to the others. Their plates scraped clean, the soldiers opened an aluminum bottle and passed it around, sipping at the thin wine. They also passed a pack of cigarettes, and each inhaled the smoke deeply. Their bodies seemed to melt, their faces soften. The noon sun glared. Reluctantly, they got up, put on their helmets, and picked up their ammunition belts and guns. Perka started to clear the plates from the table.

"Thanks to our lcind hostess;• Mile translated. Perka grunted, and the soldiers laughed.

The next morning Mile came down to the lcitchen and made himself a cup of lime tea. His eyes were bloodshot and his face white. He looked as if he was having a hard time balancing his head. Every once in a while he would put his arms around his waist and sit on the nearest chair and groan.

Desco carried in a load of wood and lined the logs under the stove, pretending not to notice Mile's condition. He had heard him rushing to the outhouse all night long. Perka, on the other hand, had heard nothing. She had slept soundly, snoring only slightly, her head turned toward the window and the fresh air that comes from the mountains.

4

Louis Phillips WHY 1HE MONARCHY Wll.L NOT BE SAVED

This morning, while the President was planning ways To suspend the Constitution to impose Martial Law, I had decided to write a letter throbbing with indignation, Something sonorous, alluding say to Paradise Lost: "And plunge us in the flames . Or from above Should intermitted vengeance arm, again His red right arm to plague us?"

But my 2 yr. old sons, A spate of miracles Waiting like a delicious boot to be filled, Needed to make W's.

I gave them my paper & pens Which they covered with soaring birds.

Have you noticed how W's Resemble black gulls hovering over an arctic ocean, I.....A.J\....A.J\.....AJ flying off to freedom?

5

GOING TO WORK ON AN INFINITIVE

To really In my lifetime Making waves mincemeat.

Leaving behind What James Russell Lowell sd About Ralph Waldo Emerson "That he talks of things Sometimes as if they were dead," And taking up Where Frederic Chopin, Wittgenstein, &John Philip Sousa Left off let go Split once and for all Every infinitive on the block.

6

Leona Yamada

I THOUGHT

My father called me his accidental prune, saying that I was born too soon after they found out my mother was pregnant.

She had no ti.rile for celebration.

She said I lived longer in the incubator than in her. No one wanted me photographed at birth.

The first ones were taken when I was three months old.

Nobody could cuddle me: child of boxes .

When our daughter was born she was beautiful.

My parents came to the hospital, afraid of what they would see.

They stared at a pictureperfect granddaughter, overjoyed; they filled albums with Polaroids by her first birthday.

People asked: How did you ever have such a cute baby? Later: Where did she get that high I. Q. ?

I would answer just lucky, I guess .

7

My father, last Halloween told her that I was born looking like four pounds of raw meat. She asked him if that was why he called me what he did. Accidental prune .

I heard him laughing from down the block. She told me that he cried and held his belly. She said , Grandpa never named you that; you were always accident prone .

8

ASH ROOM

Twenty two years my aunts have competed with each other, cooking night and day in secret. The anniversary of their mother's death calls six women to prepare again to please.

After prayers, everyone eats; aunties are satisfi,ed with the show of duty and devotion.

Sparks blow from the hibachi; I remember the night Gran' rna was cremated.

My aunts sat around, drinking from paper cups, not talking to their sisters. These glowering coals.

Both parents are in a small hole in some cemetery wall. They spent their lives apart, eternity together. If their remains could make this family whole, I would take their urns and turn them into teapots for the next year.

9

MAIL ORDER for jack.

He spends his nights with his face close to pages where fruit trees flourish, reading every description aloud in his room .

"Seibel5279, Aurora. An early golden-white pinkish eating grape with long slender clusters of tender adherent-skin berries."

The foot of his rock wall fights city sounds.

An accumulation of uprooted trees, former selections from the Southmeadow Fruit Garden Catalog, wind into themselves.

He has always failed with trees.

He licks the envelope flap, a check in exchange for a young grape vine.

His choice: made with the care of a man choosing his bride.

10

Jeanne Kawelolani Kinney

WHAT NANCY SAID

I was in fifth or sixth grade when my uncle died and they couldn 't decide what kind of "service" to give him; he didn't "believe," so they couldn't give him a Catholic service and they didn't know what to do .

Now that was just a bunch of bull , my uncle had been this good guy. I couldn' t see what the problem was. So one afternoon, I went inside the church and took off my shoes. I don' t know why I did that, I guess I thought it was imponant. The church was empty and silent. I approached the altar. The chalice was out with this square cover on it, so I took it off. I stuck my hand into the chalice and put every one of those communion wafers into my pocket. Then I went home and ate them, I ate them all.

11

RogerJones GOLD

Waking to a warm curl of your hair spooled around my knuckle, I feel the hard curves we take into the valley.

Behind us, the Sierras stretch, a smoky line. An hour ago we stood in thin ruts, felt the cool firs gather, their breath like the air that swirled behind wagons a century ago as they passed through, aimed at the unyielding river.

Once, a nugget fell into my hand from a packet my father had ordered.

Go ~st! the flyer said; my father held up a map, ran his finger down veined roads to show me where we were aimed. But I could only gaze at the gleaming chunk that sat heavy in my hand, light congealing around it. All the way out in our Country Squire, I sat behind him , turning the gold around, coaxing shine.

When new classmates came, I held it in my fist, showed it for anyone to touch.

12

Only Cunis, the salesman's son gazed close. Fool's gold, he laughed, and flung it into the muddy culven.

All evening till sunset I waded the depth, hunting some spark or glint, the way I do some days now, touching a curl of your hair this way, clinging to what can save me, what can be saved.

13

Mindy H. Kronenberg

CIRCULAR MOTION for my fother

The love we always had is based in the roundthe warm grasp of your hand in mine as we made our way to the playground , the circular motion of the swing as you wildly pushed me against the will of the eanh.

My lenses curve to the same cock-eyed rhythm as yours, and our teeth bend towards each other with the same mad crunch.

Before I was born , you and mom would whirl through our tiny flat to modern music, eyes dosed in an ecstasy that could prove godly or dangerous.

I picked up the song in my blood, embraced the old records on our monograph player and tossed myself around the room in the same fierce spirit.

Together we watched cowboys on TV raise lassos high over their heads , and you taught me how to ball my fist against the angular threat of anyone .

14

Most of all, I remember the wheels of my bike, spinning as you ran alongside me until your hands allowed a curve of space to cushion the bar-and let go.

Your shouts became smaller and smaller, the words bouncing back to me through the years:

you can do it you can do it

15

Carol K. Howell TIIE BIRTHDAY PARTY

This month, for the first time, I am three days late. I try not to get excited, keep telling myself that possibly by Wednesday, probably by Thursday, certainly by Friday, I'll feel those twinges, that ache in my back.

When I feel nothing by Saturday night, I go out and buy one of those doit-yourself kits, not saying anything to Joel. I have that light-headed prickly sensation you get when something you've waited for for a long time might actually be about to happen.

For three years I've been circling auspicious days in red on the calendar and charting my temperature on a graph pasted over the bed , letting myself tun out of tampons because buying them might jinx my chances, fantasizing about breaking the news to family. For thirty-six months I kept thinking: if I conceive this time, the baby will be born at the end of October . . . January ... July. . . . I felt convinced that when sperm and egg united, I would know. There would be an explosion in my body, suddenly life where there had been no life a moment before. The cells would be dividing madly; the embryo would fasten onto the wall of my womb; by the eighteenth day its heart would have formed, beating in concert with mine- how could I not know?

This month, there has been no explosion. But when my temperature stays up and my period fails to start, I gladly abandon intuition and put my faith in the mysterious logic of the body, feeling a retroactive sense of awe. I even quit drinking coffee and sleeping on my stomach, just in case.

When I get back from the drugstore Saturday night, Joel is in the studio touching up some pots for a show. I go upstairs quitely, lock myself in the bathroom, and draw out the precious vials of powder. I know I can't use them until tomorrow morning, but I want a dry run- I couldn't bear a mistake. I am reading the directions for the third time when the first cramp hits . It is unmistakeable-the same dull ache I've been visited with every thirty days or so since I was thirteen. I run water in the tub to make sure Joel won't hear me crying, and when I'm finished, when my eyes are hot and swollen almost shut and my back has begun to ache in earnest, I decide that we are through fighting fate. No more red circles, no more

16

thermometer, no more crazy ups and downs. I'll go back on the pill or get an IUD-anything to escape the tyranny of hope.

On Sunday, after Joel leaves for the show, my mother picks me up to come help with my grandmother's birthday party at the nursing home. It's an hour's drive and I don't feel like going, but I've promised. Actually, my grandmother passed away four years ago, but since the other old people have always enjoyed the party so much, my mother continues to hold it.

It's a nice memorial, she tells anyone who thinks it odd to hold a birthday party for a ghost. She may have her private reasons as well, but I don't ask about those. I am a great respecter of privacy.

The station wagon is crammed with boxes of food and decorations, including a huge sheet cake that says "Happy Birthday Minnie Meltzer." I slide in carefully, holding a new stoneware pitcher I've filled with early daffodils . " How beautiful! " cries my mother, who seems to love everything we make. Her house looks like a ceramics museum. " Where on earth did you find daffodils?" " In a flower shop," I say.

She smiles. "Don't you just love this weather?"

"I don't trust it. Winter will be back."

"Well, it won't be back this afternoon. Aren't you too warm in that parka?"

I unzip it halfway. "I thought Daddy was coming," I say to avoid further questions about how I feel.

Her face brightens. "He was, but we got three appointments to show the house-all in one day!"

I can't understand my mother's happiness about selling the house.

She says it's become too big for the two of them, that she's looking forward to decorating a cute little condo, that at last she can get rid of the boxes of junk my brother and I left behind. But how can she get rid of the big warm kitchen where we invariably congregate? Or the bay window with its view of the river, and the window seat my father built for me because I'd read about one in Little Women? How can she walk away from the raspberry vines and asparagus patch she's spent thirty years cultivating? Why doesn't she understand that once the house is sold, none of us can ever go home again? We'll visit each other as guests, the common ground between us lost, history receding further every day.

But I say nothing because my mother is telling me how much fun they'll have when my father retires, playing golf and bridge , trying new restaurants, driving around New England 路 to look for antiques. After a 17

while she turns on a Golden Oldies station and sings along to a song she swears was playing the day they brought me home from the hospital.

At the nursing home, we unload the car and put the food in the kitchen. By this time everyone who is ambulatory has arrived to greet my mother, and she sits down for a little rest, holding coun among the wheelchairs and the walkers. A strong smell of rubbing alcohol and pine disinfectant hangs in the air, only slightly dispersed by the fragrance of percolating coffee. Mter her stroke, my grandmother lived on in this place for nine years, longer than anyone expected, longer perhaps than she wanted. The stroke left her helpless and incontinent. The only words she could utter were "Okay! Okay!" or, if exceptionally agitated, "All right!" Even so, my mother made the drive to see her nearly every day. She got to know the other residents, their problems, their families, and after my grandmother died she continued her visits, perfectly at home among the dying. That is something I don't quite understand.

When the coffee is ready I bring her a cup, and the old ladies beam at me through the magnifying lenses of their spectacles. ''Such a sheynrleleh!

Such a pretty young girl!" they exclaim. My mother catches my eye and smiles. She has told them my age many times, but they don't remember.

Besides, she knows I'm used to being taken for a much younger person.

Both Joel and I are small and round with baby faces. People often refuse to believe that we are both thirty-four until we take out our drivers' licenses and show them. I stopped minding being small the day I met Joel, and he says he felt the same. We are perfectly suited for each other. Dancing is no longer an embarrassment; we are in perfect accord about stacking things on shelves and adjusting the car seat; we even wear each other's bathrobes.

People sometimes ask if we're twins, and when Joel is giving a demonstration at a show or a class, they marvel at how such small hands can shape such large beautiful pots. I no longer resent being patronized this way except for the women I meet in the ob/gyn's waiting room, women with swelling stomachs who smile unthinkingly when I tell them we are trying to have children, as if the image of little people with even littler people is too precious for words. Sometimes they say " Why don't you adopt?" as if they think the idea has never occurred to us. We'd never stand a chance with the adoption people-we have little money and less security. There is not much future in stoneware commodities.

"Molly marie this pitcher," my mother is saying loudly, holding it up for them to see. " Molly and her husband are potters."

"Such a precious girl," says Mrs. Tinkelman, reaching a shaking hand toward me . I remember when she used to sit with my grandmother, rocking her back and fonh in her wheelchair as if soothing a fussy baby. It's a 18

shock to see how much she has deteriorated. "How many grandbabies have you given your wonderful parents?'' she goes on in a voice which quavers as much as her hand.

"We have two beautiful grandsons, four and six years old," my mother says loudly, coming to my rescue. She does not add that the children are my brother's, or that they've had a chance to discover the wonders of the windowseat and raspberry vines. The old ladies duck joyfully at my mother's news, though it is hardly news, while she brings out the latest snapshots and passes them around.

When she is rested, we go into the dining room to prepare the pany, shutting the door so the old people can be "surprised" later on. I blow up balloons and hang streamers, while my mother tapes a crepe-paper skin to the table and pins on tissue-paper roses. She puts the pitcher of daffodils in the center, stepping back to admire the effect. My mother likes to say that I inherited my anistic talent from her, and once she even asked me to teach her how to throw a pot, but it turned out she didn't like getting her hands diny. She's happier with paper roses.

Besides, it's Joel who likes to throw the pots. He seems forever intrigued by the possibilities of shaping day. I'd rather decorate, imprinting designs with combs or apricot pits and brushing on a silky matt glaze.

Sometimes I use a baby bottle and nipple to trail designs of colored liquid clay, but this tends to upset me, and then I have to grind something with the monar and pestle to work it off. Joel works off his frustration by kneading the day, slapping and smacking it with his palms. Then he throws it on the wheel, one hand holding the other to keep them both steady as the smooth cone swells beneath his fingertips . Is it my imagination or have all his pots and jars become unusually globular? They remind me of the preColumbian fenility goddesses we collected on our honeymoon in Mexicoonly copies, of course, no magic in those. Joel built a special rack to display them , but last year I wrapped them in towels and put them away. Those bulging bellies and watermelon breasts are too potent a reminder.

Not that I need reminding. Every time I hear a baby cry, my head turns, my pulse speeds up, I'm suddenly aware of my nipples inside my bra. I even choke up if I see the word "child" in print-there's something appealing and vulnerable about the letters. It must be biological. Or else maybe I'm staning to crack up . I wouldn't be the first woman to fall apart over her body's treachery. Joel and I belong to the unlucky ten percent of couples known, ironically, as " normal" infenile, which means the doctors can't find anything wrong. We've had all the tests at least twice. The doctors can tell us all about his sperm, my cycle, the size and shape of my reproductive organs, but they cannot explain why nothing happens. What 19

do they know, these specialists with the framed family photographs on their desks, of the tyranny of basal thermometers and the dreaded surge of hope each time the mercury shoots past ninety-eight degrees? The egg is there. The sperm is cenainly there. Why don't they do what they're supposed to?

"Molly?" My mother touches my arm. From the sound of her voice I can tell she's spoken my name more than once. Does she know? I've never brought it up. I don't tell my mother secrets. There was a time, in fact, when I barely spoke to her at all, when I barely got along with anyone.

Joel, who went through a similar stage, says that this was due in pan to being small, to being perceived as helpless. To compensate, we became fierce and cranky, especially me. Joel is a treasured only child, but I've always had a big, rugged, and successful older brother to contend with. It didn't help that he called me Runt. Even today, I can't quite bring myself to admit my helplessness to my family. But my mother must know. Why else did she leap to protect me from Mrs. Tinkelman? Why is her touch so gentle on my arm?

"I'm going to go fix the platters and mix the punch," she tells me.

"Why don't you find Inez and say hello? " "Don't you need help?"

"No, no. You go on." She gives my arm another pat. For years we did not touch each other. Now it's coming back-the affection and ease we must have shared when I was a child. I understand very well what it is to have a parent. But if I never know what it is to be one, how will I ever understand my mother?

Inez is one of the nurses who took care of my grandmother. I like her because she called my grandmother Mrs. Meltzer instead of Minnie and always drew the cunain around her bed when she changed her. She is big, dark and jolly, unmarried, and a couple of years older than me. When I find her upstairs, we go into the lounge for coffee. A.s usual, she is working on a new money-making scheme. Last time I saw her it was writing romance novels about student nurses . This time it's crocheting winter caps for dogs, with little slits for their ears to poke through.

"There's a big market for things like this,'' she assures me. "People treat their dogs like children." " How are the boys?" I ask, and she laughs. Inez and the "boys,'' three large friendly mutts, live out in the country on a big run-down farm .

Paying the rent takes all of Inez's salary, but she refuses to move, saying that the boys need space to run . " Happy," she replies. "Healthy." She holds up the doggy-cap . "But they wouldn't be caught dead in one of these things."

20

She talks about the boys and their antics, then about the nursing home residents: Mrs. Tinkelman somehow slipping past Reception and wandering down the highway, Mr. Lustig pulling down drapes and pictures, Mrs. Ziff smashing IV units.

"And who can blame them?" says Inez, crocheting furiously. "Awful to end up here after a lifetime of doing what you want and going where you please. Sitting around waiting to die. Turning into a child again, only a grotesque son of elderly child, having to be cared for by your own children."

"Better than being alone," I say.

"Oh, I don't know. At least if you're alone you can let yourself go and not give a damn." She looks up and laughs. "Maybe the boys will come visit me when it's my turn. Can you see them all dressed in their Suoday best?" Her face brightens. "There's an idea: doggy formalwear. I could stan a whole line."

This reminds me of the terracotta dog Joel and I bought in Mexico, a copy of an ancient Aztec figure-a funny, swollen-bellied, stubby-legged creature with an ear of corn gripped between his teeth. We fell in love with his comic grinning fierceness and brought him back to stand guard atop the bookcase. Somehow we developed the absurd habit of dressing him in all sorts of headware-the cap to the furniture polish, which tilts jauntily upon one pointed ear, or Joel's long striped scarf, or one of his work-gloves with the fingers sticking straight up like feathers on a war bonnet. We like to surprise each other. Listening to Inez, I realize that what we really like is dressing the dog. He is our babydoll.

"Listen, if I'm boring you-" Inez is saying.

I open my eyes and manage a smile. "I was just thinking about the ways people compensate for not having what they want."

"You?" Inez stares at me in mock exasperation. "You've got to be kidding. Don't you know how lucky you are to have a guy like Joel? Thousands of women would kill to have what you have. Look at me-my last date was during the Caner administration."

This time we both laugh. One of the other nurses looks in to tell us that the party is staning.

"Good, maybe we'll meet some cute guys,'' says Inez, stuffing her crocheting back into her bag.

"Are you kidding?" says the other nurse, who is divorced and extremely overweight. "The only bachelors down there are Mr. Lustig and his four- year-old grandson."

"Well, keep your eyes peeled," Inez retorts. "You never know what's around the next corner. Right, Molly?"

21

"Right," I say, and she winks.

Downstairs, the dining room is full of nurses leisurely pushing wheelchair patients about like mothers out with their strollers. The pure-white birthday cake, reposing on a bed of paper roses, glitters in the late afternoon sun. My mother moves through the crowd conscientously performing her role as hostess, urging a little herring salad on Mr. Suchman, another knish on Mrs. Koff. The old people hold out trembling hands to express their pleasure, and she takes them gently between her own.

Watching from across the room, I realize with a small shock that the contrast between my mother and the old women is not as sharp as it used to be. She seems to have shrunk ; her head is slightly bowed, the bones in her face and hands more prominent. Then I remember that the last time we were over, she asked Joel to open half a dozen jars-on the Q.T. , as she put it, so Dad's feelings wouldn't be hun. He doesn't have the strength anymore, she said, so she hides the open jars in the back of the refrigerator to keep until they're needed. And it seems to me, as I watch her stoop and bend and reach and pour, that I can almost feel her bones growing brittle and dry, I can almost hear them snap like chalk. It makes me so queasy I have to sit down. Now I see what she means about the house being too big -the steps too steep, the hallway too long, the basement too far away.

What if one fell and the other couldn 't hear? What if a stroke or heart attack toppled them and they lay undiscovered, life evaporating into the empty air? I picture myself standing alone beside a too-quiet patch of green, twisting the handle of my good black purse, a forlorn and abandoned middle-aged child.

"Molly? Where's Molly? " Once again my mother's voice cuts through the haze to find me.

I stand. "Here I am."

She puts out her arm for me when I am still halfway across the room, sidestepping walkers and canes. "This is my daughter," she announces in case anyone is left in doubt. Then she says in my ear: "I'll light the candles and you blow them out." ''I'd rather not," I say. I don't want to be the child. I want to be the mother. " We need a strong pair of lungs;路 she persists, giving my arm a squeeze. "Besides, you'll get to make the wish."

As she lights the candles, a hush falls over the room. In the bright sun, the flames are only a flicker of air. She steps back from the table and looks at me, smiling. I take her place. Where is Daddy with the movie camera? Where is my pile of presents? I take a breath, shut my eyes, wish so hard I feel a pain in my head , and blow out the candles. There is a thin smattering of applause, and then the old people sing in quavery voices: 22

Happy Binhday to you Happy Birthday to you Happy Birthday, dear Minnie, Happy Birthday to you

They like it so much they do it again, sing Happy Birthday to a woman who is no longer alive to celebrate the fact of her birth, and whom they remember, if at all, as a wheelchair occupant in diapers with a vocabulary of three words. My mother, the orphan, sings too, standing near the window, warming herself in the unexpected sunshine.

Mter ice cream and cake, the old people go to rest, the visitors put on their coats and go home, and the director ushers my mother into his office to thank her. I clean up the dining room, load the car, and then, since my mother is still being thanked, go to find Inez and say goodbye.

Upstairs, the nurses bustle about with trays and pills, feeding supper to the immobile patients. It seems as if every TV on the floor is on, tuned to the news. As I wander through the corridors glancing into each room, I suddenly stop and stare at a face on TV, thinking that somehow it's Inez.

Then I realize that it's only a face like hers-dark, vivid, Latino. The woman on TV is sitting in an office paging through a book of photographs. The camera zooms in for a bewildering close-up, and after a moment I realize that they are photographs of corpses piled together. The film has been taken in Chile or El Salvador or one of the other places where people are routinely kidnapped by the government and turn up dead and mutilated in human junkyards. In the film the woman-a young woman, my age perhaps-turns the pages reluctantly, dreading to see the face she loves, the face she has been longing for. The camera keeps running and I keep staring and in the next moment she finds what she is searching for and collapses, wailing, over the book.

I turn away, sweating, go into the nearest bathroom and run both faucets full force. I seem to spend a good deal of time hiding in bathrooms these days, only this time I'm weeping for someone else. When I finish, my face in the mirror looks sullen and young. I slap cold water over it and rub it dry with a scratchy paper towel. Then I comb my hair, blow my nose, tuck in my blouse, and hurry downstairs, anxious to get home, to see Joel and hear him speak and put my arms around him so I can feel the dull thud of his heart against mine. There are other specialists, I'll say: we're young, we're lucky, we'll keep our eyes peeled. We'll try again.

Downstairs, I find my mother waiting, equally anxious to get home and see her husband and hear the exciting events of his afternoon.

"You drive," she says, handing me the keys with a weary smile, and I

23

see that the party has taken its toll on her too. It takes tremendous energy to defy death. And again the old longing seizes hold of me like a cramp-1 want so to give them a grandchild, to make Joel a father, to mother a child of my own-and I want it all now, while there is still time, while my parents are still here to blow out their own candles.

But though I am fearful and impatient and full of longing, I do not forget to be glad, as we step into the absurdly mild air of premature spring, that I am going home to my husband and the life we have shaped, like one of our clay pots, to suit ourselves. I think again of the Latino woman collapsing over the book of photographs and I shiver, despite the sun , and touch my mother's arm as we walk to the car.

"No speeding," she cautions as I unlock her door. " No speeding," I agree. "But home before dark."

24

Marjorie Sinclair HERMIT CRAB

Another one of those days!

My head is empty0, there's a web in it but no spider, only measured sagging strands.

Dust washes curves and corners, whatever lingers has been brown so long it is almost nothing: perhaps a dried and cracked leaf waiting, not waiting, just there.

You need a full head like a stew pot simmering, the bubbles swelling and bursting to show carrots, celery, cabbage, meat, a head full of sound that hums and clicks in the lively fragrant chamber revealing and hiding, teasing about what lies just beneath the belching surface.

Dear heaven, or whatever is in the sky, dear ftre, deep in the round eanh, give me a head that never leaves me desolate with the puckered dryness of a mind shrinking, cold, unlighted.

Let me lure a hermit crab to take up my dusty shell and fill it with his watery zig-zag searching.

25

ORIGINS

I crawl back into my bones after trying all these years to be something else.

Impossible cliffs above clawed by white water.

Island myths weave channels in the blood-I thought in my blood too.

They come out skewed.

Different tales from a different land shadowed by wings of birds who never fly over island trees.

Live on an islandif you weren't born there its mountains aren't your body, its sky isn't your hair, its sea not your blood.

I take the hand of my skeleton and walk down the steamy path under kiawe trees to a place I know. Pictures of men were drawn long ago in outline. Not one fits the pattern of my bones .

26

OLD WOMAN WAKING

She wakes in a swirl of sheets shuttering the dawn with a pillowdrive away a last dream! listen for the returning breath!

The spiky vacant lot, the empty daybirds singing to it, trees and sky touch it.

She wakes slowly to whatever happens turning through the sun.

You can't escape it, you still have to crawl out of bed, see a show-off sunrise spill color in splotches over sky and watereven the sun is tied to obligation.

In her youth, 0 blessed youth!

Diamond Head on the sea's edge turned pink, a tender fragile pink opening her heart to the day.

She clings like a child to the warm sheets of night.

27

Curt Fukumoto

DECEMBER

This morning my grandmother's prayers have awakened me before the sparrows speak oflight.

From my bedroom I trace each syllable with a soft breath, "Na . . mu . . a . . . . . . . . . . mi . . . . . . . . na . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . na ... mu ... amida ... butsu .... ;" my lips are trembling, pressed against the sheets.

In the darkness, I wrap myself in a blanket, as if a monk's robe.

In bare feet I walk out of the room, moving towards her bedroom light, following its yellowed silence.

Before knocking I wait, and watch her pull a thin, black line over the last days of November.

She motions me inside, after the calendar is turned, where I kneel in front of a small bowl of rice and a photograph of my uncle.

Over my small hands, she places her white rosary, as though each bead were more delicate than love .

28

THE LONG DRIVE

The mist rises above the cliff to where the lighthouse is.

I have passed on this thin road more than a hundred times with my father and his voice coloring-in the uees along the roadside.

The uees imply an absence of autumn.

There are only rumors of amber's long silence.

Driving home today, I realized rain has the gentlest way of defining absence.

29

ABOUT SUMMER IN 1915

Doors open slowly beyond the grey curtainperhaps for a camera. They sit on rocking chairs, swinging from shadows back to the beat of ballroom dance music. Dancing was never done in the corners of the church.

It could be March.

Their shoes slide on dust.

"Children never write," she said.

There was no reply, except for the ashes of a calendar marked by Vermont mornings which gather along the edges of a mirror-like rust.

She steps to a waltz and wonders what it is like to lie in a casket.

Her mother calls her, while she holds a doorknob from turning.

It must be June. ''I'd love the white minute frosting recipe."

She keeps her stationery on shelves next to books labeled daughter, books stacked upon windows like ladders.

It is August.

But snow is still in the meadows.

She writes down the ingredients as if engraving them in expensive ink.

30

John Unterecker

MIDNIGHT GUAVA: APRIL 21

Black bones in the shape of a tree: black leaves edged blackened grey. They contain what there is of the town: a confetti of lighted windows and the slowed inaudible headlights that thread this sway of black bone.

I have given up translating carbon-paper leaves, something to do with "gone" perhaps or perhaps the desolation of an almost-motionless plane flickering cold song between Saturn and night.

When I was ten, I lay flat on my back on the roof of the Buffalo Museum of Science, tracking the Leonids.

We were "Junior Astronomers," splayed out on November sleeping bags, each with our star map and compass.

At midnight, my aunt arrived to drive me home.

I had bagged eleven "shooting stars."

Now, on the other side of a year, the other side of the world, the other side of life, I watch bright clouds blot out the great meteor shower in Lyrae.

All over the world , Junior Astronomers chart streaks of light.

I lean back on the front steps as a sudden mist flares every bone.

31

...

ATOLL

The Pacific-the blue, generous Pacificshifts, rustles on all sides of the grained island.

This is a day on which nothing special is happening.

The relaxed waves edge bits of seadrift in, out; in, out.

Sanderlings nudge aside black egg cases looking for brine shrimp and crabs.

The egg cases rim a line of trash and fresh kelp.

Higher up, where dried sand is pulverized gold, real eggs, thousands, pulse.

Under the yellow sand, white eggs pulse; an eggshell shatters.

Terns drift in to circle the fragile place like white dreams gathering.

It is a day on which nothing special is happening, though the sky darkens and more birds gather.

Is it the taste of blood they smell before blood spatters?

Little grains of sand shudder and slip aside.

The beach is lifting.

As a seventh wave sweeps a scurry of sanderlings and kelp high up the awakened beach, screams, metal scraping metal , darken the whirling sky, though nothing special, in this uninhabited place , is happening.

32

1HE GIFI'

1

I. D. Charles Sullivan and I exchanged name tags.

For three hours, we were each other, any answer to any question good enough.

At evening's end, we wore our own skins.

33

2 Surfaces

Not that easy among philodendron and lovers. "of course" " though once" " not that easy."

Charged words: They are strung like paper-shell beads pulsing: aneries.

The coral snake is a garland of blood music.

I measure the betrayal weave of light across sand.

The bay is jewelled: a coil of light , the corals' dark pink gone grey under water.

I cannot see the banded linkage of fish , the moray thrust back into a cave of lean shadows.

There are no snakes on these islands.

Yet philodendron press in, the viewfinder a montage of green and gold: the lift I fall of leaves a fist wrapped on vine throat pulsing under leaves.

It is as if another life breathes within gold light and light itself a column of gold song.

34

3 The Encyclopedia

On p. 291 (Volume 25) of the old Britannica eleventh, an American coral snake swallows a "similarly colored" snake: only the swallowing small mouth distinguishes Elaps fulvius from Homalo-

cranium semicinctum.

I feel the muscles of my throat tighten.

The double- tailed jumble heaps into the shade of a boulder, Arizona-or perhaps New Mexico (never these islands)barren behind the writhing. " They bite only under extreme provocation ... poisonous . . . frequently without serious effect."

35

4 The Rust-Colored Shin The shin is frayed at the cuffs; when I put it on, I become a pan of what I had been.

The bay is a medallion of gold. " Wear me," we cry, who are clothed in loneliness and love; yet not even in dream dare I put on another skin.

It is a skin of gold light stretched over water.

I wear an old shin and a loose strand ofloved words, which I give you for what they are wonh : not my self, not your self.

36

Jay Griswold THE SWALLOWS

The swallows have come out after the rain, they flutter about, just barely above the smooth surface of the lake on which the evening has almost settled. It's impossible now to follow the flight of one bird carving the mist to tatters that always mend, leaving no scar from which one might assume that a wound was opened . The water is dark, and a touch of silver vacillates like the slow subsiding of coins in a well.

One looks, but there are only outlines here, the vague impression of distant hills and a sky as peaceful as the last thing alive on eanh. The mist thickens, and darkness grows shadows. Even the leaves of the trees seem to take on that faded grey dullness in which everything ends at the close of a day, a day of loneliness, a day without memories.

37

B. Z. Niditch

A SNOW SPARROW

A snow sparrow bearing almond blossoms descends on our aviary with his own invented songs. like the First he fools me with the sad morning rain splintering the barnyard full of bird graves.

Now the elements delight gestures in fourteen new pale shadows, with my own secret worrieswondering if there are secret rites which flicker ever they return heredouble-etched, like flesh of my own knowing how skeletons are motionless in the spring of our grizzled pasts.

38

Susan Kraus THE ORIGINAL MARINERS

On the horizon I can see land .

Close enough, yet sky, who is wed to the old man, blocks each attempt with a blustery gale.

This is the time of the whale.

Spouting water, icy blue sparkles, fly into clouds.

Cutting away at froth , the whale emerges.

Clouds on fire enclose sky.

Only shadows of the smooth grey mass guide the bird which has been summoned.

They arise together and fly past the fire clouds.

They breast the gale, vanishing landward.

Their island, destination and home.

39

Kathryn Takara MAGNOLIAS & MEMORIES

She walks out leaving the smell of collard greens porkchops simmering in bacon grease onions I okra/ steaming rice past the lanky dogs hungry for hunting possum the smell of gunftre She walks out past the gate across the golden field deceptively dry seductive to a summer wind a spark a fire caused by lethal Alabama lightning She walks beyond the homestead slips under the barbed wire fence across the neighbor's cottonfteld down the soft slope by the creek mindful of bullwhip snakes thorns water mocassms She passes surreptitiously on toward the giant magnolia uee whose large viridian leaves absorb her misery whose magnificent flowers sooth her wrinkled confusion

40

She is called Daisy cinnamon brown homegirl in a gallery of Southern colors white magnolias sweet as burning flesh after a lynching saffron sun I terre green pine uees smells sharp as red spice ginger She moves cautiously cradling searing memories: golden fields/flash forest fires/ dusty roads/unpredictable blacksnakesfearless and fast as lightningAlabama sky, blue witness of countless color-inspired terrors She walks on to a destiny beyond Dixie beyond the racial creed I beyond the greens I porkchops I possum I fireflies/ blackberry bushes and jagged edges.

But memories stick like thick molasses memories of sweet magnolias and lurking fears.

41

John Charlot THREE POEMS FOR TERRI

I. The Mistress of Knots At first I thought it was your skillful fingers.

Then I saw you didn 't touch the rope.

Now I watch your eyes as the rope straightens.

I suspect you can do it around corners.

II. Deaf men feel music the way I feel your skin , Gathered into it unknowing but aware.

Only my palms become miraculous .

My mouth opens to what I almost hear.

III. In my arms you become a river An animal of a river The bed that hugs the water A mouth on the sea.

You form the four posts of the first house.

I thatch you, cover your sides, Laying the foundation .

Earthquakes will join us.

I come through you again discovering, Recovering my first cry, That first helplessness That forms its world forever.

42

Kenneth Pobo

TIIOUGHTS OF THE OVALTINE FACTORY DURING A MOMENT OF HYSTERIA

They don't know what to do with the Ovaltine Factoryturn it into a condominium, a retirement home, a funky shopping mall.

So the building collects dust, a pension check.

Fifty years ago, our town was a quilt being knitted; Ovaltine was the needle.

Now the quilt is in the moon's attic, quaint and frayed .

I walk on a weird June evening, looking for a smell of burnt chocolate and wheat: red brick, red thread snaking through cloth .

43

Joseph P. Balaz ANYTING YOU KILL YOU GADA EAT

Wen I was wun small kid my fada told me anyting you kill you gada eat.

You shoot da dove wit da BB gunyou gada eat 'urn.

You speah da small manini atda beachyou gada eat 'urn.

You help yow mada kill da chicken in da backyardyou gada eat 'urn.

Whoa brahtinking back to small kid time and da small kid games I used to play afta I heard dat no moa I kill flies wit wun rubbaband .

44

Leonard Goodman

FALLING BODIES

In the six months after Perry's accident spiders had taken over his small house and barricaded every corner with cobwebs. The refrigerator stank from sour milk and rotten franks; his bedroom had the fetid odor of unwashed sheets and underwear. It was his home as he had left it, but it had contracted. Everything above five and a half feet was out of reach, including the fifth of Old Overholt behind the cabinet doors over the kitchen sink. He remembered that it was there and reached for it each time he washed his hands, then drew back in frustration when he couldn't reach high enough. Finally, he asked the chore woman who came every week for the first three months, to get it down for him. There was almost a pint left .

When he was alone he drank it straight from the bottle without removing it from his lips. A trickle of warmth descended to the small of his back and stopped.

He called his friend Dave Barr and shouted into the phone, " Goddamn rye is only half as strong as it used to be. Can't feel it in my toes anymore."

"Sounds like it got to your brain OK." " Might's well be a midget for all I can reach around here."

"Come live with me, man," Dave said. "You can have the big room ."

"I was born here," Perry said. ''I'm not leaving."

He fell asleep in his wheelchair until midnight. By then he had no desire to go to bed, but sat up all night with a sour stomach, brooding over how he would rearrange the house. When the chore woman came next time he'd have a whole list of things for her to do.

Four years later the house had been turned into an extension of his wheeled, legless existence. He still wore his work clothes- a plaid wool shirt and baggy dungarees with suspenders. But he couldn't manage the eight inch Buffalo boots with cork soles and a yard of lacing. He'd learned, instead, to cinch a pair of loose oxfords with one pull from a hook on the end of a stick. A trapeze had been installed over his bed so he could vault into his wheelchair in the morning. A friend from the mill built a ramp so he could leave and enter the house on his own.

45

With all this the bridge began to loom large in his life again. When he was a boy it was a low wooden structure and only an occasional drunk fell off. At night the rhythm of truck tires on the boards, like a heartbeat, lulled him to sleep as he thought of his father on a freighter somewhere on his way to the Orient or up the coast to Alaska. Mter the old supports rotted the bridge became dangerous. In its place rose a hundred foot high steel span that leaped in two steps across the ravine and the ship canal that cut through it. From then on no one fell by accident.

He sat for hours by the south window of his cottage gazing through battered marine binoculars at the walkway on the bridge . If someone came to the railing and started to climb it, the police siren screamed, the engine on the police launch roared, and the launch was on its way to the bridge before the jumper got both legs over.

Perry often imagined himself standing on the bridge with the sun in his eyes, his heart racing as he climbed over the railing. He'd have no fear, he thought, because he could let go and jump into a blaze of sunlight. But with the sun at his back he'd see the details of his drop zone-the houseboats, the steady traffic, the pattern of ripples on the water. He would never be able to do it if he could see where he was going.

(One spring he daydreamed a team of jumpers on the bridge. The bridgemaster blew his whistle and, all together, six bodies dove off. They fell like petals cast off from crocuses, but they never hit the water, because they wore harnesses that were tethered to the bridge. Six bodies bounced and dangled in the air. And as they climbed hand over hand up the ropes boat whistles sounded in applause and the flre boat threw jets in the air.)

Only one whistle sounded at the shake mill the day of his accident.

He'd had a man off sick so, as foreman , he climbed a load of logs himself and set the cable. When he stopped to relight one of the Brazilian cigars he'd taken a fancy to, it happened. Something ponderously heavy, bigger than his body, hit him in the back. When he awoke nurses and x-ray technicians had their share of him while he was trussed up like a turkey in a contraption that turned him at twenty minute intervals. All he could remember of the accident was the shriek of the whistle before he went unconscious. He found out later that the cable he set had jumped the hook and the whole load of logs landed on him. It was a miracle he was still alive .

During the months after his return home he had flashes of hope and expectancy, what social workers call denial. He'd sit in his wheelchair and raise each puny leg with his hands, trying to feel some sensation, anything, a sign there was life, a possibility of control. He called a faith healer named Lorene, who came to the house in a long, green chiffon dress (Green is

46

God's color, she said). She went into another room after telling him she would sense his affliction from there and would send him healing energy.

He thought he felt something, but he wasn't sure. There was no movement, no control. Lorene went away, charging him only half her ususal fee of a hundred dollars.

He became confident enough in warm weather to maneuver on the sidewalk and in the church parking lot next to his house. He practiced going as fast as he could, then braking with both hands without toppling from his chair. His neighbor, Marge Cooper, had given him gloves with reinforced palms to protect his hands. She worked in a nursing home and knew what people in wheelchairs needed. She bore down on him with hot meals and baked goods, even did his laundry under protest. Her auburntinted hair glistening, she traversed the route between their houses-his being the satellite-at the same time offering herself and binding him to her.

"You need someone to look after you," she said one day, placing a hand on his bald head. He felt her starched white uniform and the bulk of her thigh against his shoulder as she stood next to him . " I look after myself," he said, but he didn't really. He'd come to depend on her, though he wouldn't say so.

He showed her his newspaper clippings about the jumpers. Most of them were in their early twenties, from Montana, Idaho, and North Dakota, but there were few from California. The Tim es had published the statistics in a special section called, "The Bridge." More of them went in the spring, not in early spring, but after the forsythia turned green.

"Isn't that something?" she said. "But that's depressing. I never realized how many there were ."

"I don't understand," he said. "They got good bodies and what do they do? Throw them away. Crazy!"

"Just children," she said, and became silent. He remembered she had two of her own and wondered if she was thinking of them, in other parts of the country, approaching what bridges?

The police siren echoed in the ravine .

"Goddammit, not another one!" He rushed to the back window and peered up at the bridge through his binoculars. A young man with long hair and a beard stood outside the railing, his face lit by yellow sunlight.

At fust Perry thought it was Dave, but he knew it couldn't be Dave. He spun his chair around, pushed through the doorway, and down the ramp into the back yard.

"Don't do it! Don't jump! " he yelled through his cupped hands.

The man stepped off. His open shin fluttered in the air as he went 47

down feet ftrst . His body, straight as a rail, disappeared into the water.

When, a moment later his head broke the surface, he swam toward a houseboat. The police launch intercepted him and a policeman pulled him on board. Two attendants helped the police stuff the man into an ambulance. Perry saw his pale face at the ambulance window, his mouth open in a scream, his fists pounding on the glass as the ambulance drove off.

He sat for a while scanning the surface of the water looking for the spot where the man went in, but there was no sign someone had jumped.

Still, he knew he'd seen the jump. Had the man heard him? Did he know that Perry tried to stop him?

"Come in the house," he heard Marge say behind him. 'Til give you a back rub."

In late August, after the jumping incident, Dave came to visit. He waved his straw ranch hat at Perry and let out a rodeo yell as the lift lowered him to the ground in his wheelchair.

"Just like some potentate, by God," Perry said. "You do manage to get around.''

"I wanted to drive the damn thing myself," Dave said. "But the man wouldn't let me near the wheel. Kind of chicken.'' " You must have been one hell of a bus driver.''

"I come to see for myself how you're doing.''

Perry poured two shot glasses of rye. He tossed his down and smacked his lips. Dave winced.

"Not exactly sipping whiskey,'' he said.

"It holds a body together.''

Perry showed Dave his newspaper clippings. " That's morbid, man.''

Perry slammed his scrapbook shut.

"Let's have lunch. Marge brought over some soup and rolls."

"That woman sure is good to you. What else she doing for you?"

"Same thing on your mind all the time, even when it doesn't do any good to think about it."

"Like hell. I got a woman, a real live one.''

"Gone soft," said Perry.

"Only in the peeker, my man, but my mind is working just fine.'' At that moment Perry thought Dave looked like a movie pirate with his pointed beard and a gold ring through one ear.

"Lunch,'' Perry said.

He poured the hot soup into a tureen and placed the rolls, wrapped in a clean dish towel, into a basket.

48

"You're getting good, just like a restaurant." Dave paused a moment.

"Listen, man, you 're not dead." He ladled soup into his bowl and ate noisily. He tore open a roll and stuffed it with slabs of butter. "You already got yourself a woman wants to do for you."

"There's nothing I can do for her. I'm a popscicle on two sticks."

"You got to have an open mind about it. Lots of women be satisfied with other pans."

"Just eat, OK?" "I'll give you the number,'' Dave said. "They got movies show you how to do it when you're like us. They even send somebody over to pick you up."

"Next week,'' Perry said. "Don't let your soup get cold."

Mter lunch they smoked Perry's Brazilian cigars in the backyard, the hot summer sun baking the energy out of them. Perry was glad for the silence. He was annoyed at having a man half his age give him advice. He remembered how they'd met at the rehab center after Dave , a Metro bus driver, had lost the use of his legs when his tandem skidded on oil and wrapped around a concrete suppon. He had to admit that it was Dave who kept him going then by insulting him and cajoling him out of his self-pity.

"You get one miracle, Pop,'' he'd said to Perry. "The rest is busting your ass, so you might as well enjoy it."

Before he left Dave said, " Next time my place. I'll send my limo for you ."

The house seemed quieter than before Dave had come, like a muscle that relaxes after it's been tightened . Next week, Perry thought. Maybe.

He hauled himself into bed using the transfer board and the trapeze. On his back he loosened the brace that held his belly in place. He dropped into sleep without covering up. When he awoke it was late afternoon. He was bathed in sweat and his sinuses were draining into his throat. He'd been dreaming about Marge; her thighs and hips were bare; all she wore was one of his shins and she said to him, " I just washed this for you ."

He pulled the brace together and fastened the velcro straps, hoisted himself into the wheelchair, and sat up straight. He yawned so hard the muscle under his chin spasmed and he massaged it furiously.

In the bathroom he cleaned the head of his penis with an antiseptic swab, lifted the pink rubber catheter rube out of its sterilizing bath, and insened it into his bladder. He sat patiently, watching the urine drain into a plastic pitcher, then flushed it.

He went out to the backyard again to catch some more sun, but it was going down fast and he shivered in the long shadows. Somehow, Marge kept entering his thoughts. If he had his legs she wouldn't be doing things for him. They'd be polite neighbors, as he was with the others on the

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street. He would have shut her out as easily as he closed the front door. But it was too late for that; he'd let her in, let her rearrange the order of his life to include her. But what could he give her in return? What could she possibly want from him?

On impulse, he grabbed the top railing of the fence and lifted himself out of the chair. He still had some of his strength , by God. The legs were useless, but he was able to pull himself across the top of the fence.

Now he was caught on the wire links digging into his chest. The pain felt strangely good. He stayed for a few minutes, panting, then he flooded his lungs with two deep breaths and launched himself off the fence . It happened quickly; before he knew it he was lying on his back unhun.

He raised up to a sitting position and , out of habit reached for the uapeze, but there was nothing to reach for. Slowly he let himself down onto his back again, relaxing into the soft earth. He lay there, his breath settling into a steady rise and fall. He looked up at a deepening blue sky turning to orange in the west, the windows of the warehouse across the canal reflecting bright ftre.

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Donnell Hunter

GENTIANS

In the high country the gentians kept trying to get in my journal but I couldn 't find the right blue.

In the White Clouds some of the dead spruce spiraled the wrong way.

I had no science friends tucked in my backpack to tell me why-you know, something about Pascal, how the whirlpool changes its way to the South Pole. When we found the wolf track in the mud our breath sucked tight.

Silence, except for crowding corpuscles in our blood. At that moment the wilderness erased every beer can.

If a wind began we didn 't hear, all those stories tugging our sleeve: from The Nonh , from Europe , Peter and the Erlking. One track made us believe.

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Marsha Erickson THE ROAD TO KAWAIKOI for Sabra, Nani Kaua 'i, Mark, Laua 'e, and Mana 'o 'io

Between here and that forest, the rusty canyon swoops and winds, folds in on itself crisp like kapa on the lap of an immense, well-formed woman.

On this side, we scout maile, its fragrant tendrils climbing the young koa, tumbling over old logs, twining together, persisting like lovers, somehow, in spite of the blackberries, which tear at our bare arms in the sunlight.

We wander later, wondering, laughing, hoping the truck won't slide down these mountain roads, where clay is grease slick when wet.

Yet today is dry; it hasn't rained in ten days. An unusual February, they say, for Koke'e. We wind down, down into the forest, pala' a brushing the tires gently as we pass. A stream now, a muddy bridge, Kauaikanana, whose sky is small above us, blue blue, the water cuts deeps below us, between stones, over beds of ginger and ama'u. The birds approve. "Himene ka manu!"

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Mana'o'io chirps, bright-eyed as sun in the trees.

Kawaikoi, who's banks are raked with the memory of high waters in December, is low enough to cross today. Just beyond these icy waters, we park, wander off, up the river's edge, into the sugi pines, sliced with light. On the far bank, I ftnd pala'a and palapalai, weaving Laka's dance wantonly at water's edge.

The trees lead us on, deeper into the forest . Even at the end of the road, we don't stop , but take the trail a while, high grasses now, the a'ali'i just beginning to bud, a strawberry guava above, out of reach . We gather armloads of flowers and ferns , running through the grass, shouting, while Sabra tries to catch us with her camera like morning dreams.

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SanoraBabb ABOVE MALPASO CREEK

Our land looks, with our eyes, west to the sea Toward Asia. Waves beat an ancestral pulse That echoes briefly in our blood.

Our land looks nonhward to a cypress grove Green from a mountain spring and shaped by wind Blowing through Indian memories.

Our land looks south to the hidden Big Sur, Canyons and creeks, hills and redwoods between .

The stirring grasses speak in tongues.

We look east to the Santa Lucias: Deer sleep in the heather and cougars go Soft-footed in the dark watching Our ways. Malpaso , evil passage, mocks Our glad, naive delight, and haunts the sun.

The dog growls at the peopled air.

In 1542 Cabrillo looked Upon this coast. Two hundred years ago Ponola chanced this wilderness, And FatherJunipero built Great Spanish missions, forcing Indian hands; The Indians, offered cross or sword, Were gathered, enslaved, to newer gods that In the name of light brought dark. Mexico Freed them to payless peonage .

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This ground, stained and enchanted , hints its past Though only feral feet disturb it now.

The Spaniards left their singing names.

But no explorers we, we' ll leave no name: The land receives us warily, aloof, Its grandeur stern, its primitive wild hean Isolate and proud. We walk respectful, Offering our love. The wind blows over This lonely place, alluding to phantoms, Implying jealous, tenured presences, And running, resplendent horses flashing Silver buckles; and wild things unafraid.

No voice says yes, but none says no.

We offer our love to the living wind, To sea, to earth , to animals and birds, Insects and worms, grass and flowers and trees.

We mention the sun and the moon and the stars.

We praise the universe, our joining breath.

The land is mute but eloquent. We stay, Aware that we invade this timeless space Made virginal again by the lost years.

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Robert Warth

THE BUTTER FESTIVAL OF CHONI

8 skeleton-dancers cavon in the counyard, sleeves ending in gloves, fingers tipped with huge claws.

Ivory white skulls with red fire-eye sockets.

Then, blue-horned Yama, King.of Hell, enters the fray.

Little bald monk boys play small trumpets shaped like dolphins, & 5 pyramids of panels, the figurines of fierce Gombo, sculpted in mountain-sky azure, & exquisite Donker, her skin blushing pink-gold, molded in subzero rooms from 20 shades of butter, are displayed By lantern rays. For one cold, crisp night only.

The whole pantomime is an illusion, as the cliffside lamasery shimmers in the miles-high air.

Almost as if one could see it all through the mantic eyes on Drolma's palms & soles.

Death seems a dream cut in two by the diamondphurba of consciousness, slashing the black twilight egg open, the shell falling, revealing the clear light of dawn.

Alan Seaburg

APPLESAUCE!

Its landscape chunky, but brilliant with its glazes of peel, nutmeg, cinnamon.

It is one of the tiles I ftre in my kiln, as I learn to unravel being a widower.

With 3/4 cup, 1 TBSP, and scant 1/8, I sift and mix on what is now my kitchen counter, molding and shaping with knife, pan, and stove, the pumpkin pie, the oatmeal bread, the pulsating grief.

As I work I glance down at my hand, and ftnd the shape of your hand there, not really of course but real enough, and so something is still very good in me.

Now I stir the applesauce with a certain lilt and vigor.

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StephenJarrell Williams

WORST FLOOD IN FORTY YEARS

Half the town under water, mud, and soggy chips of neighborhood.

Grandpa spits, "I guess our roof is the new front porch ," he chuckles, spits again, and blows his nose.

Past our house rowboats paddle with rubberized sailors . . . yellow raincoats and boots a luxury.

Grandpa yells, " five bucks for whoever finds my rocking chair!"

Standing on our roof, television reporters ask how we feel.

With cameras in our faces, Grandpa spits on their rubber boots.

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Peter Wild

HEAVEN

The first thing I do when the plane lands in a strange town is rush down the gangplank with my cardboard suitcase past the passengers who know where they are going, people in the military, others greeting relatives , the broken rope trailing from my neck with a life all its own snapping out curlicues and ampersands, and plunge off looking for the ideal neighborhood, where the houses sit together, old Yale graduates having had their flings in middle age gathered to run a successful business. Is there a cocker spaniel with his doily on, radiant saint silently barking at the world from his window in heaven, back-yard picnic tables covered with leaves, evidence that people are happy there? Sometimes I'll grab a housewife with prematurely canescent hair, worried if her husband loves her, worried about her children, if she should break out, have an affair, and take her in her torn but fashionable sweater from Lands' End fluttering on my hand to a hill at the edge of town. There as intimate as Georg Trakl and his sister Greta, we're instant lovers, knowing all the things that lovers always know about each other, then send her ruined but enriched back down.

And that night completely sober again lie in my wan room , that stutterer Moses having led his people to the Promised Land , having another paroxysm.

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Robert VanderMolen THE GYPSUM MINES

Above the river There are sieve holes in an overgrown parcel A territory of hills Where they cut hard wood occasionally City loggers with their second-hand Skidders Along O'Brien Driving to work through the back end of the county It's quiet this year Under snow and a viscous sky Where we hunted rabbits MyDadandl With those punctures Crossing a hillside So uniform and ordinary (the small stars descending here some ancient Christmas) As children sleep the dead sleep of falling Flush with vegetation in summer The sound of bikers, nights of trapped branches And sand Somewhere below Tunnels have slammed shut Ore carts flopped on their sides, tracks sinking As water oozes from rock, the walls slick In unforgiveable darkness In dreams We crawl perhaps, feeling our way, Though no one can hear us

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GaryPak MY FRIEND KAMMY

I'm sitting here in what you could call one fairly clean cab, under the swaying coconut trees, Honolulu, Hawaii. Nah, Waikiki . The cab company I work for shares the parking lot with this rock and roll club called the Clinic, why they call it that I don't know, I didn't know there was such a thing as one rock 'n' roll doctor. But then, there's so many things I don't know about nowdays . I'm looking at all these foxy chicks slinking in the bright neon doorway of the club, followed by packs of roving sharks . Looking for some meat, those sharks are hungry tonight. Every night they're hungry.

I wonder where Kammy is? Probably cruising the streets. Sometimes he does that for the entire night, driving round and round in circles, never stopping unless for a pickup. Crazy.

Slow night tonight. Nobody in the stand but me . Wish I never have to work tonight. Shit, but I made this agreement with the owner of the cab, that I would rent his cab for at least six nights a week. Ah well, just as well. No more nothing for me to do at home but watch the goddamn boob tube. Goddamn owner, goddamn capitalist. Squeezing every other dollar from me. Ahhh .. . he 's a good guy. I smoke with him once in awhile .

But everytime seems like I the one bringing the doobies. Christ, what a fuckin tightass .

This fucking seat is real had-it. Goddamn, the fucking owner, he can paint the cab real nice outside, but inside sucks. Shit, my ass almost touching the floor. And the goddamn transmission making all kinds of sounds.

Well, that's not my problem. Shit, but I been getting this backache for the past three or four weeks. I bet is because of this fucking seat. Shit.

Maybe I should go to that rock 'n' roll club tonight. Pick up one babe or two. Christ ... you must be kidding yourself, eh, Bobby? Who the fuck going look at one burnt-out, Oriental hippie . . . with his hair in one ponytail and long enough for almost touch his ass? Christ, the haole girls before used to dig my hair, they used to go nuts with it. And now look at me, streaks of white hair, thick wire-rimmed glasses. You think you have one chance with those young girls or what? Shit. Old man already....

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And look how they all dress nowdays, green hair, fancy clothes, bright colors, designer shades ... eh, what happened to owning one pair blue jeans?

God, what I would do for one joint right now. Or one good lay. I think I would have the lay over the joint. Bzlot, as Kammy would say. Shit, I'm suppose to be liberal-minded , a sixties person, I'm suppose to not think male chauvinist thoughts. But right now all I want is a good fuck that I haven' t had for almost nine months, some fine ass just sitting on my face. And maybe one nice joint to confuse my mind while stroking like mad.

You know, sometimes I think us cabdrivers are just as bad as the hookers on Hotel Street. Here we are, shuttling the military dumdums back and forth , base to Waikiki or Hotel Street, Waikiki or Hotel Street back to base, or trying to con some haole tourist into one inflated tour around the island. That kind of thing. We're just appendages to the economy, moreor-less. We're not a necessary element. And so are the hookers. While we hunt for that big-money ride, they're trying to sucker in some military jerk or tourist into a fifty buck fuck. Or more.

Why the fuck am I talking about all of this for? Shit, there's nothing else to do but think like that. Maybe I'll turn the radio on and listen to some of that "New Wave" rock sounds. Christ, what is this shit they have on the radio nowdays? I wonder where's Kammy? God, I'll tell you something. Nothing can take the place of sixties rock ... yeah! Rah! Rah! Rah! And here Kammy drives in, parks next to me. Hey Kammy! The buggah is always smiling. Just like the guy on drugs all the time. But I know he don't take drugs. He gets out of his car, yeah , he's going to come in my car and we' ll sit and talk, at least have each other's company, this goddamn empty night.

Let me tell you something about Kammy. The buggah is Chinese.

Local, of course, like me. And he's a cabdriver, like me. We both drive the night shift. But the buggah looks like he belongs in another time zone .

Just look at him and you'd think you were back in the nineteen fifties . He always wears dark knit pants and the old kind aloha shirts left untucked, and his shoes are always shiny like black glass . Makes you think he's going on one double date . And look at his hair all pomade-up, slicked back into a ducktail. Hey Kammy! You know, it's the nineteen eighties! Me, I got my hair tied back in a ponytail. Real radical, no? Well, back in the old days it was. Now, I don't know. People look at me as if I'm a has-been or something forgotten. Back in the old days the long hair blocked a lot of doorways for me , but at the time I thought that was hilarious. Funny. Fuck

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them. And back in those days the long hair opened a lot of other doors.

Good friends, beautiful girlfriends who wore no bras and fucked like crazy, nice wine, easy to get into the culture, rock-and-roll. Christ, was it fun .

Shit. Why am I getting off into this tangent, talking about myself? Am I insecure or what ? Christ.

Well anyway, let me get back to Kammy. His first name is Kenneth, he get one Chinese middle name, then Kam, his family's name. He told me call him Kammy because that's what all his friends call him. Once he told me the evolution of his name: first it was Kenny, then Kenny Kam , then Ken Kam, then Ken Kammy (sound Scottish, I told him), then just plain Kammy. Since intermediate school. Dole Intermediate. Then he told me about the music group he was in while at Farrington High School. The Two-Tones, they called themselves. Four- part harmony. Diana. Sixteen Candles. Daddy J- Home. The fifties nostalgia. But back then wasn't called nostalgia. Was just plainly called rock-and-roll. But different from the real rock-and-roll , yeah? You know, the real rock and roll of the sixties. So I asked him, how come you called your group the Two-Tones when there were four of you in the group ? He laughed at me and said, " Actually had six of us." He laughed again . "I tell you why. Us guys, we was all beach boys. Everyday after school we make it down to the beach , go surfing. Even cut school, some days. But we was good guys, nevah cause trouble, we use to drink once in awhile, but not the kine drugs, li' dat. Crazy nowdays with all dese drugs all ovah the place, li' dat. But because we use to surf all the time, we was black like midnight. But under our pants where the sun nevah go under the shons, we was white- white. Shahk- bait. Our 'okoles was white- white . Sodas why, das why we call our group the 'Two-Tones' ."

Kammy. Nice guy. Pa-ke. Into fifties music. Nice guy. Fellow taxidriver.

So Kammy jumps into my front seat and we shake hands.

"Kind of slow, eh, tonight? " he says.

I nod my head . "Yeah, brah."

"You worked last night? " he says.

I nod my head . "Yeah. Was slow, but tonight even mo' slow."

This Kammy, when he's talking sober to me, he tries to speak good English. He knows I went to the University, though I didn't graduate (damn anti- war demonstrations!). And in turn, I try to speak Pidgin, and my Pidgin is rusty cause I nevah speak Pidgin since I waz in grade school and aftah I went grade school my parents wen send me to dat hai- maka63

maka private school wit' da haoles. Funny, I'm aware of this, but I don't do anything about it. I just let it go. And I think Kammy is aware of this, too, and again, like me, he just lets it go. Then there are the times when we've drunk a case between ourselves and I go back to my standard English and Kammy goes back to his Pigdin argot, Christ, some real hard stuff, when you listen to him you think you're drinking on the curb in Kam Housing. That's where Kammy's from . Or he used to be from . He told me that he saved some bucks and bought his parents a home in Kalihi .

"I didn 't come work last night," Kammy says. "I stayed home. I was thinking." He's staring out my dirty windshield, then looks at me with a seriousness, as if he is going to propose something important or businesslike to me. He does. He says , " You know, Bobby. I was thinking. Maybe you and me we should to into business."

I say, " You talking to the wrong person, Kammy. You know I no like get into the kine business like things. I no like capitalism."

"Yeah- yeah ," he says with an irritated nod of his head. " But you cannot just think like this forever. You gotta think about the future ."

"What future?" I say. "The fucking government jus' 'bout going put us in one 'nothah war . .. one nuclear war! Den what? Everything going be dust . Nothing to look forward to."

"There you go in yo' politics again ." He laughs; it is a kind of anxious laughter. "Bobby, you gotta be serious about life. Look. Listen to me. No say nothing until I finish ."

I nod my head.

"If we can put some cash together, eh, then we can buy couple cars, turn them into taxis and put them on the road. Then we can get some other guys drive them and pay us rent. Easy money. All we do is sit back and collect the rent. And after we get some more money together, we can get more cars and put more taxis on the road . The sky's the limit, brah.

Easy money."

Easy money. But where's the seed money? Christ, after paying my rent for the cab and gas after every night, I have maybe thirty-five bucks left.

And that's on a good night. And part of what's left goes to fast foods and rent for my crummy studio. And of course weed and beer. What do I have left after that? Nothing.

"Nah, Kammy," I say. "Not going work . Not fo' me. Why you no go do 'em yo'self?"

"I could. I would. But you my good friend. I see you in the dumps. I like help you up, get some purpose in yo' life."

I laugh weakly. Kammy is a good friend . Yeah, I'm not in that good 64

of a condition , I have to admit that. But Christ, I'm kind of happy doing what I'm doing now. Well, I'm not that excited about my life, but at least I'm thinking of getting my head together. Maybe when I get my shit together, I'll write that book I've been planning to do for several years now.

"Thanks, brah," I say. "But I cannot do 'em."

"Why?" " Cause I think I going start writing my book in little while."

"You been talking about that since I first met you."

That was five years ago .

"I not talking about dreams that not going come true," Kammy says.

"I talking 'bout dreams that going come true. I told you about the things I use to do? About the . . ."

Yeah, Kammy. You told me. About owning a condominium, promoting a boxing card, driving around in a Mercedes. When you first told me all of this, I remember looking at you in total disbelief, actually feeling sorry for you. Here I was, with some college education and I know you knew that, listening to you a high school dropout talking about the big fonune you made in your life. Bragging like crazy. Who's going to believe this guy? I told myself. And if he's so rich, then what is he doing driving a cab? Well, as we continued to see each other in the stands, we began our friendship. And you told me more. I learned that what you had told me was true-or at least most of it was true. So you did own a condominiumwell, you once rented a condominium in Makiki for a couple months; and you were involved in the promotion of a boxing card-you worked for a boxing promoter once doing advenising work, that is, putting up boxing posters all over the town; and you did drive around in a Mercedes-the boxing promoter's car, which you had chauffeured him to the airport once with the instructions to drive it back to the office garage but instead you detoured and kept the car for a week, driving around town like a selfmade man, and when the boss came home prematurely and found out what you had done you were fired. Yeah, there were some major discrepancies to your stories, but the hell with them. At least the fact remained that the stories were close to the truth. And besides, we were both in lonely times and we had a need. And so we got along together, and , though I have never told you because I'm too afraid to say it to your face , you're the best friend I have. " Kammy, you told me that story already," I say patiently.

"I know," he says. "But you never understand the point what I was trying make."

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I let him go. He needs to talk about these things, I think to myself.

Then my mind stans to drift, I start thinking about forbidden things, like what it would be like if I didn't make cenain decisions in my life, where I would be today. Ifl hadn't flunked out of college. I was smart enough . But I was going to too many demonstrations and smoking too much dope and trying to get into as many panties as possible. Yeah, blame it on the sixties, on the demonstrations and women. I had fun. But the fun is over now. It was over a long time ago. And what if, when I was in school, I majored in something more marketable? Like engineering or computer science. Or architecture. Instead of political science. There was a time I wanted to be a people's lawyer. But that soon faded. The only thing you can do with a political science degree is to go to graduate school. And I didn't even finish my undergraduate years. And anyway, studying about political systems and political theory just got to be boring. Just a rehashing of systems that are always imperfect and never work to their claimed ideals. Jesus, after a while every book started sounding boring.

I sigh. I look over at Kammy. He's still telling me his story, so emphatically, his hands gesturing up storms of controversy in the dead air of my cab, it's like this is the first time he's telling me this story. Or like how an eight year old tells his best friend about encountering the biggest fish he has ever seen. Something like that.

But something is missing. It's that look in his eyes. His eyes are sparkling in the dark, once in a while shining brightly with a passing car's light beam. I can see a sadness in his eyes that wasn't there yesterday. He continues telling his story, smiling and laughing in his patented way-his mouth open and exposing his crooked teeth, his face all scrunching up. Later, much later, with not even a call on the stand phone and the dispatch radio seemingly dead, outside leaning on my cab and smoking our cigarettes, he tells me what has really been on his mind.

His father died last night. His voice cracks. He tells me that he has not seen his father for over fifteen years, even though his father lives in Kalihi Valley and Kammy lives down the road in Kapalama. He tells me that his father had disowned him since he came out of the service with a dishonorable discharge, after he had punched out his C.O. which had sent him sixteen months in the brig. I never heard this story about he being in the service and being a rebel and I'm about to say, right on, brah, but I stop shon because I see that his eyes are flooding with tears that drip-drip-drip down his face, silently. His face becomes old and softened and wrinkled, and you can tell he's embarrassed because he straightens up suddenly and turns away from me, wiping away his tears with his hands and sleeve of his shin.

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I put my hand on his shoulder, rubbing some comfon. I say, take it easy, brah, everything's going to be all right. And he says, bullshit, brah, my fathah hated me , even when he was dying he nevah wanted see me. And I say, nah, yo' father was jus' 'fraid tell you he like see you, das how fathahs are, and he, nah, brah, he love my bruddah who get his own business mo' den me. And my sistah who married one rich guy. But me . . . he couldn't care less if I was dead o' alive.

And I'm a bit embarrassed at all of this because I never expected to see Kammy break out of his always-jovial mood, I never expected to see a guy like Kammy, a grown man, stan crying. I've seen other men cry, no sweat on that. That was sixties times, man ... you know, with all that sensitivity to humanism and humanistic psychology and group encounters and therapy and free love and women's lib and all of that. But Kammy? To tell you the truth , I am kind of taken aback to see him cry. He's not supposed to cry. He was raised in an era when men crying is a no-no. Men are not supposed to show their emotions , they are supposed to hide them ... be men. It's all right for someone like me because I'm from the era that says it's all right. But not for Kammy.

Anyway, I feel son of bad thinking the way I'm thinking, so I tell him, eh brah, let's take off from work and go up Diamond Head Lookout and drink some beer. And then I remember that I have a couple doobies hidden in a secret fold of my wallet and so I tell him let's go smoke some joints. And he says, clearing his voice and eyes once again, what? yo' weed? you crazy or what? you think I like be one nogood hippie bum like you? And then he starts to laugh. And I laugh, too. Then we get into our cars and before he takes off, he says, I meet you ovah there. And I know he's going to the liquor store and get himself a cold pack of beer because I know he doesn't smoke pakalolo. So I drive down Kalakaua in the direction of Diamond Head and on the way this young haole chick flags me down and I naturally pull over the side and she gets in my cab and tells me she wants to go to Bobby McGee's Disco and I say to myself, right on cause I'm going in that direction, and it's a shon ride there and I stan making small talk to her, I take a couple glances in the back to size her up but this car behind me has his goddamn highlights on and all I can see is her silhouette and I say to myself she's not really talking to me so I guess she's not interested she just wants to get to where she's going and when I drop her off-meter reads $2.40-she gives me two dollars and two quaners, keep the change, shit, ten cents, fuck you, you .. . you ... you haole. Tourist. Or whatevah.

So I go up to Diamond Head Lookout and get out of my car and I notice several cars parked in the darkness in various conflicting angles to

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one another, and one particular car has a squeaky suspension and I look at it with suspicion and envy. I go to the wall and sit down, overlooking the cliffs and the waves that I hear roaring below and vaguely see the whitewater "by the light of the silvery moon," by the light of the half moon, and I take this thinly rolled smashed joint of Kona Gold from my wallet and light up. I would wait if I knew Kammy smoked. And I blow warm nostalgic smoke out for the breeze to carry to the fucking parked cars, just to let them know what I got so they can get all green with envy.

Then Kammy drives in and parks next to my car, and he gets out with a snap, carrying his package, and his car radio is blasting out the wicked guitar of Carlos Santana-Carlos baby, I can smell your solos ftfty miles away. And I say to myself: Carlos Santana? Abraxas? Since when Kammy staned listening to this kind of music? So he sits down next to me, guzzling down a brew, and I expect him to tell me the name of this particular song, but he doesn't and instead he finishes hls can, crushes it in his hand and tosses it down into the kiawe brush. Ecology, brah, no make litter, ecology. But I don't say anything. He's in good spirits and I don't want to rock the boat. He 路offers me a beer and I take it, and then he says in his best haole, nice tune eh? And then he adds without warning, I fucked one haole hippie chick one time. I open my beer with a spun. Oh yeah? I say.

Yeah, brah, he says, was one good fuck. I try to imagine what kind of girl would fuck him, maybe she was fat, with zits all over her face. Then I start to get ashamed of myself for thinking such thoughts . Shit. I feel bad. Oh yeah, I say again, apologetically, so ... was good? He nods hls head, smacks his lips, and that episode is over. A shon while later he tells me that he's a father. I nevah know you waz married, brah? My Pidgin comes out thick. Beer: the drink of the proletariat. Yes, Kammy says. I notice his haole talk is coming out, though awkwardly. Maybe he used to be a shoe salesman at Kinney's or somewhere like that, talking to hls customers in the best mainland accent and argot he can muster. He says, yeah, I'm a father, but no, I wasn't married to her. He pauses looking out at the ocean.

Long moments pass. I get anxious for him to elaborate more, but I don't press it. Then he says, I was in high school and used to be in this church group, one weekend we went to a Christian retreat up by Mokuleia, I knew her in school, and one night we just went on the beach to talk story and look at the stars and then the thing happened, actually she fell asleep and I thought she was so beautiful the next thing I knew I was on her and doing something I didn 't know how to do and then she woke up and staned crying.

We sit there in a windy silence. Then he says, after that night, I nevah believe in god anymo'. I nod my head and look out at the ocean, sipping

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my beer. And then he says, you still get some of that pakalolo? And I say shakily and in disbelief, yeah, and he, well, light it up den!

So I take out my wallet again and take out the last joint and light up.

I give it to him, he asks me for instructions and I tell him to take a drag like a cigarette but keep it in your lungs and count to twenty before exhaling.

He coughs a lot, but soon we are a mile high. I know he's stoned because we don' t talk for an hour. And then he starts talking .

"Eh, brah, you evah figgah how come some guys get and some othah guys no mo' ?"

And I say with a shrug of my shoulders , "It's because we live in a prejudiced, unequal society.''

"No. Das not the answer I like. I askin' you how come some get and some no mo' ."

And I tell him, "That's what I'm saying. The rich are getting richer and the poor getting poorer because we live in the richman's system. Capitalism. Si?" " Nah, das not what I talkin ' ' bout."

And this goes on and on until I fmally realize that he's talking from his gut and here I am expounding on my ideas in my standard expository way, and I'm saying to myself do I know what I'm talking about and does he know what he's talking about and then I realize hey! that's all right, everything is all right, we're here discussing and cussing anhese matters of political life and whatnot, sitting on this cold rock wall, and the main thing is that we're here and doing this and not not doing this at all . And we continue like this the rest of the night. And I wish that I had another joint to share with my friend.

The phone wakes me up around ten the next evening. I get up, my eyeballs rubberized, and answer the phone. It's my boss, the owner of the cab, and he asks me if I'm coming in or what, and I ask him if it's all right with him if I can take the night off, and he says no . I feel like cursing at him, telling him to go to hell, but I keep quiet and tell him sheepishly that yeah, I'll be coming in. I hang up, drop on the bed, thinking that I had better bounce off the bed before I fall asleep instead of going to work and end up paying the little fucker free money. So I try bouncing off the bed and end up slipping and falling on the floor.

I park at the stand, drinking my large, takeout coffee, my eyes focusing in and out of the darkness. Then the phone rings and I get a fare .

All night I do not see Kammy. He must have had a hangover or something, I think to myself, or maybe he just got too wasted at his first time

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trying pakalolo. I laugh to myself. And he always says he never gets drunk, I mumble to myself.

I do not see him for the next four days. I wonder about him. I start to worry. What happened to him? Then I realize that he probably went to his father's funeral . Yes, I decide, that's where he is. You know pake families, they really get into a funeral, it's a big social event with them.

Mter a couple weeks, I decide to go see him, he hasn' t been to work for all this time. The only thing is that I don't know where he's living. All I know he lives somewhere in Kapalama. So I go to the taxi dispatch office and ask for his address. They have a file on every driver, full of "essential" information . Christ, nowdays everyone has a file on everybody else. It's a police state we live in. I get it reluctantly from one of the dispatchers who owes me something, I turned him on with some of my weed when he was driving cab with us before he became a dispatcher. But the address is a post office box. So I do the next best thing which I should have done first and that is to look in the phone book, and there are several Kenneth Karns and I call them , but they are not the Kenneth Kam I'm looking for, and there are a lot ofKam's listed and so I give up , I don't want to call every number in the listing that begins with an 847 or an 845 or an 841, I'm not cut out for that kind of work. So instead I take the bus to Kapalama and check on every apartment building down several, randomly chosen streets, asking for a Kenneth Kam. I do this for one afternoon and then give up. The next afternoon, though, I find where he was living.

It is a small house at the end of a very quiet and narrow lane, rusty wire fences surrounding every house and the smell of fresh dog shit hanging heavily in the air, no wind dares come into this dismal lane, this I can swear to. I find his house by accident .

Earlier that afternoon, I bump into his brother by accident. He is a shy, soft-spoken guy. I bump into him in the middle of Chinatown. His hands are covered with blood and ftshscales . I am at the open market in Chinatown looking at the fish, trying to decide what to get for my dinner.

It is my night off. I see a dirty, cob-webbed sign and it says: Kam's Fish Market. My mind ticks. I see his brother eviscerating an aku and I go up and study this fishgutter, his face has a similarity to Kammy's though leaner and darker. But still the same snub nose and thick lips and wide mouth. The fishgutter gets uncomfortable at me watching him, so I ask him how much for akule and he says it's a dollar ninety-nine a pound. I ask him if he'd dean it for me and he says, with a nod of his head, yes.

Then I ask him if he's the owner of this stall and he says no, that his uncle is the owner that he just works for his uncle, and then I ask him if he has a brother named Kenneth Kam and he freezes up, he gives me a strange ner-

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vous look as if I'm an FBI agent or a coyote ready to ask him for his green card. Then he nods his head fretfully and says, yes, I have a brother named Kenneth, and his voice is weak and I know he would rather I leave right this second or not ask him any more questions. So I ask for two akules and he quickly selects two, shows them to me and I nod my head , and with a swiftness and efficiency that Hari Kojima could never match, he cleans them under running water, wraps them up in pink butcher paper and tells me the price. I pay him, then tell him I am a good friend of his brother's and I ask where I can reach him. He tells me that Kammy used to live in Kapalama and I ask him for the address and he tells me again he does not live there anymore and he looks down at the fish he is cleaning and I ask him if he knows where he moved to and he shrugs his shoulders and I ask him again if he could give me his address and he then sighs irritably and gives me the address to get rid me.

So I go to the house at the end of this lane and enter the small yard, pushing aside carefully and old wooden gate with one hinge rusted and broken off, and as I climb the narrow wooden stairs to the small porch, I notice three skinny old men staring at me with yellowed eyes and I say hi to them but they don't say anything. So I ask them if Kenneth Kam lives here and again they don 't say anything, they regard me for a few moments, then go back puffing their cigarettes the butts they have scattered by the dozens all over the porch's floor, they stare distantly down the lane at nothing in particular. I knock on the door and after a long wait and couple more knocks this rotund Ponuguese woman answers the door and she says, "Yeah? What you want, boy?"

I ask her about Kammy and she looks away for a couple of blinks, taking in a deep breath and crossing her heart, then tells me that he doesn 't live here anymore. I ask her if she knows where he is , and she says no, that he's living nowhere now. Confused, I ask her for clarification. " Boy, you no read pepah?" she asks me imperiously. " You look like you get college education. You no read pepah or what?"

I tell her, no , I don't read the newspapers. I ask her, why?

She shakes her head. "Then you no listen to the radio?"

I am getting anxious . Why is she asking me all of this for?

She says, " You nevah hear 'bout dat mental who wen jump off the building downtown ?"

There is a frightening chill that enters my body suddenly. My mouth drops open. " You talking 'bout Kammy, eh? The pake man? He wen jump off one building last week . The buggah wen go lolo all of a sudden . Really, too bad fo' him . He was doing real good, you know. I dunno what happen to 71

him. All of a sudden he wen go nuts. He was one good man ... him. No make trouble. The only thing he always talking big kind, how he going do this, how he going do that. And das all he do but talk big but no do nothin'. Talk-talk-talk. Das what his problem was. Talk-talk-talk. He couldn't stop. He always talking what he going be. Ho! My ear fall out listening to him day-in, day-out. Das why I no listen to him. When he around, I jus' going the othah way. Yeah, das what wrong with him." She averts her eyes to the old men. "But othah den dat, he was all right. No make trouble . At least he wen out work, make some little bit money, not only freeload from the state like dese dead heads ovah heah." She issues a taunting look at the three men who do nothing in return but gaze with vacant eyes at the fly-buzzing dirt lane.

I can't think straight, my thoughts are all hammajang, but I say, "When is his funeral?"

"Was today. This morning. You miss it already."

I ask where he was buried , she tells me. I leave, thanking her solemnly, I give my best to the boys now watching me depart.

On the way to the gravesite, I am overcome with guilt. Maybe I shouldn't have offered the pakalolo to him. Maybe that's what threw him off. But I didn't know he was a mental patient, or an ex-one. I didn't know. Kammy, I tell my conscience hoping somehow Kammy might be listening in, I didn't know, I swear I didn't know you were like that. And why didn't you tell me you were like that? I would still be friends with you. You are my only good friend, Kammy, the others have all gone to become doctors and lawyers and teachers and and and and I cannot take the city bus because I am crying, tears are making my face a mess, I cannot see clearly, and I must take the back roads because I'm afraid someone will see me crying in this . . . this broad daylight, and I would be embarrassed.

I find his grave, the dirt is fresh and warm, I run my fingers into the dirt and apologize to him. My tears are gone, but I continue to cry. I imagine my tears falling and dousing his body buried six feet below. There are no flowers on the grave, so I look around and see some withered flowers in a nearby trash can and I go there and pick the freshest and return and place it on the dirt. Then I promise him that I will return the next day and bring him some beer and more flowers. Then I leave.

I do not return to his grave. I am stricken with an inexorable guilt. It exudes from my inner self at all times and invades my thoughts and is destroying my will to live and eat and sleep and even annulling my fantasies

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of sex with strange and beautiful women. This all will pass, I tell myself constantly, it is not my fault. But I cannot believe myself. I am a goner.

Then Kammy comes to me in a dream and we are laughing and drinking, and then he takes me to the graveyard and I do not want to enter it, I stop at the entrance a black wrought-iron gate, there's a mist that covers the graveyard, real spooky! yah! but he shoves me in and drags me to a freshly dug grave. He pushes me to the edge, I'm struggling back but weakly. I look down into the hole and it is masterly cut into the dirt, the corners are neat and perfect ninety degree angles, and I can't see the bottom of the hole, it is dark and endless and I feel a warmth rising from it, I smell the smell of earth that has the bitter-sweet smell of formaldehyde, and the smell is disturbingly alluring and wonderful and makes my body rock back and forth . Suddenly I feel Kammy's cold hand at my neck, grabbing my collar, and he yanks me back and lets go. I am falling backwards, I turn and land on my face, the smell of wet grass stuffs up my nose. Then he kicks my ass and I go flying , knocking my head into an old gravestone. I turn and he is laughing and he shouts, he roars, "Get dah fuck outta here, you fucking hippie!" And I get up and start running as fast as I can. At the entrance of the graveyard, I stop , turn around, and I see Kammy waving his hand way over his head, and he is far away but I think I can see him smiling.

I've just finished page thirty-eight. It has taken me an entire week to do this. My grammar is atrocious. My spelling worse. But the story is coming out. It is not the original idea I had planning in my head for the past decade or century or whatever time has passed. The story is coming out, laboriously, but the fuckah is coming out. The story is about life. And that's all I'll say about it. And I know I will continue and fmish this book, this novel. There are no dead- end lanes for me now. I've seen enough of them. There are only streets and more streets connecting with the last one -like picking up a fare and dropping off and right at the spot you dropped off you got another fare to take you somewhere else. Only nobody is telling me where to go, I'm going where I want to go. Mter I finish with this book, this novel, there'll be others. I know there'll be. I can feel it.

And I'll dedicate this first book, this first novel, to Karnmy. I'll give him the fust copy of the book. If it doesn't get published, I'll xerox a copy of it and give him the original, bound. I'll set it on his grave with a cold pack of his favorite beer, pouring out the contents one after another into the ground. Yes, that's what I'll do. My book to him, the beer, a bunch of fresh flowers . And all of my gratitude.

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Patrick B. Mikulec CLAIMS

She claims she's going to leave him when the kids are grown.

Claims he's too weak, that he never amounted to muchjust a music teacher in a country school.

Claims she's having an affair with an Australian man who likes his women mature.

He claims he lost the finger on his left hand his first year of marriage-his wife didn't like the idea of him taking off his wedding band when he worked on the roof. He claims the ladder slipped and he clawed the roof for any salvation and slid down to where a nail hooked under the ring and slowed his fall until the finger tore loose.

Today, he wears his ring on his right hand and claims this is the same ring that caused him so much pain.

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C. F. Barnes

PEARL I SEE YOU RESCUE forL}C

Late summer storm. The horses have been lured into the corral with coffee tins of grain.

A halter hidden in one hand behind the back tethered each horse as he stretched toward the heavy molasses oats.

You and I crouch on bales tucked up under low rafters in the loft, share a cupped cigarette, squinting through air green with chaff spun up by wind that knocks the barn and somehow enters.

We wait out the rain.

Below, the horses shift their rain-streaked haunches and strain the corral fence as low thunder rolls over the ground. Then lightning bursts and rends the sky. A horse rears, the others surge up with him.

Girdled by fence, they reel down on each other, teeth bared to vise on heavy flesh, screaming.

You break, dive into the storm, into the welter of black bodies, hit the fence running, hook one arm over a post, lean out to unlatch the gate, jerk it open. The horses bolt and stream out.

Above them, your face. Small pale moon I strain toward and let go.

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Nathan Whiting

IN DOG TONGUE

We're among the amusements.

Surf Avenue is back that way and The Boardwalk is up ahead. It's bitterly cold, no one in sight.

We're on W 12 and The Wonder Wheel is wondering why it's locked up like a construction site. The dogs inside start barking murder and going the way we go and a free dog outside follows one of them. It too is German Shepherd. It mirrors the other but never barks or looks too much anyplace except into the fence. I believe Ross feeds the dogs inside.

How the one outside eats there is no evidence but it is the same size with hair just as bushy and dark and light as the working guardians. The dogs locked up have an area to run around small, innocent looking, but highly upsetting quick rides. The free dog is always on its sidewalk sometimes huddled beside the cottage House of Horrors next door waiting for me or anyone to come by so the toothy mouths

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inside will open and speak and it can rush over to look calmly into the hot breath .

No homes are here. Who would live where every hot dog vender has pulled down his tin and gone for months ?

It's too cold for even the homeless to look for stars by the sea where too much light survives floating in wind untouched by it.

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M. Truman Cooper CATCHING YOUR DEATH

"Extreme forms of bondage sometimes offer persons the privilege of staying alive in exchange for their play-and death for refusing to play.''

Finite and Infinite Games

by James P. Carse

There is something you want from the dark place you visit, a power you retrieve from its dusky edges.

You come back to us bitten and wild, missing part of a leg or shoulder, an animal that has chewed itself free of a trap's mean teeth.

We're afraid to think about what you might have seen.

So, we lock you away in our clean white rooms and tell you that your longings will pass, treating you like nothing more complicated than a roving bitch in heat.

But you're getting harder to capture.

Now, nothing we feed tempts you to stay with us.

Nothing in our touch helps you sleep or forget.

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The wind carries a scent that you run to, black and free.

If we had more courage orlove, we'd move closer.

We'd burrow into your fur like an infestation of lice, ride into the howling night, and refuse to be shaken off while you snarl and gorge and tear the meat you need right out of the beast's mouth.

From such a journey, we'd learn who it is we're calling crazy.

It's the least we can do, since we drink your blood in any case.

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BrianKhaw 'NALO CHICKEN FIGHTS

There are rings down 'Nalo ways where cock fights are still held on odd Sundays, after church.

The old Filipino men chatter like chickens as they drink liquor on the rocks, smoke cheap cigars and stand around the broken sod in unofficial rows.

They wave their hands in dollar gestures placing bets with thick clips of no less than fifty dollar bills.

There you can smell the aroma of garlic dishes, lumpia and malasadas fried in golden batter and watch vendors wrap sweet rice in banana leaves, while they sip sugar cane juice freshly made.

A fisherman from his van wearing homemade tattoos unloads ice tubs overflowing with clear- eyed fish, selling them in newspapers and old grocery bags all at half price.

And amidst the fury of eager customers stands a well-paid policeman from the Honolulu Vice who grins as he drinks cold beer.

I see a Hawaiian boy brag of his prize red hatch 80

held in a rusty cagea veteran of fifteen fights smuggled in from a Tennessee farm.

Near him a fonune teller reads the scales on a fighting cock's leg before it is thrown into a ring.

I watch twice as its owner quickly loses three months' wage.

The men surround their chickens and soon there is a blur of mulcicolor bright yellow, blues and reds and the gleam of razor-sharp blades, until a chicken is slashed and lies dead twitching in the dry dust.

In haste, they cut the loser's leg off sending him to the winner's pot.

Then they begin new bets speedily exchanging cash.

Our tall pastor walks amongst us and scoffs in disgust at such a waste of our clean, ripe souls.

He tells us that we will rot in some gambler's hell.

But in the noon he, too, places a small bet on the red hatch watching our fellowship and justifying to himself that there must be some type of communion chicken fighters know.

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Leialoha Apo Perkins VARIATIONS ON INFERRED WAR THEMES FROM THE KUMULIPO AND MO'OLELO HAWA/'1

What orgies of ghost fish in their fishdoms drove sharks to tunnel to the midnight of the ancestors' intestines of knowledge?

To where sitting and spearing of names is men's delight and forensic? To where speaking of battles is lauding conquests of land? To where battle is hand to hand grappling, eye ball to eye ball, chest to chest the breathing hard and fast, the tongue thickening and heavy, the stomach knotted tight , sweat breaking out in beads like dew on the nape of the neck, on the forehead an anointment? 'To where reinforcement is pushing forward of legs, feet clamped to the ground, toes planted, until the strain of bodies locked in space is grip broken?

Until one more warrior needed is slain?

His tattoo from the trunk curled until his stiff genitals' end-no one may know without respecting, even while suspecting some foulness planned as the end.

These are raggedy notions: a mother's stirring distrust that old men unblinking send young to the brink, pushing them close up, nose to nose, spears in hand sure in the thrust deep like a shoot planted in the throat of the eanh: surrendering the caring in boy to the beast prowling in him-its four- legged, teeth- baring assenions screwed for all conquering self- eminence.

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Once there was need, then there was habit.

And habit once settled is feed for the fodder which is soldier, for the mother, who grows older, for the wife, who is widowed for the children, taught to be proud.

These are raggedy notions.

They waver as the swimming of whales, bonito, wrasse, snapper-the alcu , 'anae, uha, opelu: good eating for fighters. If cast to shore, the palaoa, for chiefs-in mano, shark.

All work their sorcerer's investment in belief: the Rat, Owl, Shark families' innards' tradition of content and despair, at everyman's fontanel and intestines. A warrior's vision is raised to the glory of ghosts ancestrally driven in carvings by chisels and mallets on spears, clubs, boats, and wood makings of teeth filing gods, the ancestors demanding raw flesh , cold blood, self sacrifice.

Once there was need, for warriors habit in creed.

Now there is habit and habit for villagers' pelf.

Where there was self, there came principle and with principle, everything else.

What innocent youth would not take up his club in assent, lay down his life if for friend, family, chief? His is the family 's honor to carry for standard, in his village's smallness and goodness of place.land tilled by his hand, fish speared among rocks of his coast, warrior was gardener in famine, between demolishments of families at war for chiefs aching for glory, a man like a dog for rare meat.

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But what of the girl who stood full bodiedly turned in the doorway of her house, her breasts ripe as mangoes in season, her bed in a room fronting a road stamped by her feet-in his warrior's village of mind , road lined over in fresh coral for stones.

Outside her house, sticks are broken for firewood , and each night, the stories spell out his droll fonune .

Options, small as islands, water bound lie cast with sky hovering. In cyclones, warrior is to coconut tree as gardener is to taro.

The girl in the doorway searches the boy in the warrior, for the hope from the fate. She who had never invited him senses a wonder, how he might find he is weak, the pit of his courage, the path of his fate, the movements of warrior's beyond powers rooted in speech. She will have him,

fulfilling a dream, to bear out her fonune of child.

Body for body, baby for man, a face for a face in the arid inscapes of a villager's choice peopling a land.

For his chief, she too assents to the self giving: a warrior's wife is a woman-mother warrior; but for the gnawing, like a marsh rat's teeth in the 'ufi, feeding the tumour of fear, there is no end to the dying within.

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A warrior trapped but relishing the daring, the risk, casts his eyes upward to mountains for personal relief, not to be seen (mistaken for cowardice) for warriors who each to his moment is keen.

Drop by drop , to mind comes the small acid archness of things.

Warriors note the plummeting ridges following the landscape, which follows the line of their eyes to the habits of thought and of heart sung out in the geneologicallistings in mind.

They look down at the valleys that lie at their feet to a dominion of families, backs bent clear down to the taro-pulling, slicing the mud stringing roots, cutting leaves for meat wrapping, for bagging the incised worm-eaten parts of the corn.

Warriors in a farmer's framing of mind look down at the valleys serene, the thin lines of wall that is dike to a swell of a river and sweep of the valleys that bindvalleys that gods confiscated more tightly, invested with the mana and kapu.

They look out at the cave- ridden coast- hiding pirates, waiting with boats: signs known as all movements without words.

The blindings from sweat in the eyes, the rough strength of hands, the swiftness of feetall telling tales' ends . And the mana in whispers, from envy, hate, or neglect, suffusing the prospect that death is all end.

Anticipating the flowing of gore , the crushing of bone, warriors know entry into brotherhood means no one

8)

escapes. Even a seagull may scent the coming of storm and in flight meet it, as a sail boat, tacking the wind .

Were manu, like Frigates, far behind any warrior familiar with the pathways of the most seasoned of fish? There are fish and fish only to fish .

Between chief and the girl in her doorway, a warrior builds his heiau of belief, starting from gardens, simply, leading to dry harvested ends.

Priests wait, dressed in fineries of mats, wait cross-legged while sitting on floors, tapa strewn, hedged round with servitors holding ti leaves and salt water in bowls, piko-ing rooms. Of old, victims were strangled, bludgeoned, stabbed, dissected, nicely, fit for god feasts among trophies of bones.

Suckling pigs, hot yams, the tender taro brought by virgins of state to high priests acting the parts of the gods, godlings, and ghosts indirectly directing the demographic logistics that sustained the compounded glories of chiefs, new, old, and self-assenive in hand whimsical scripts.

Ancestral investitures confounded with lineages mythically live within riddles: propounding, confounding the glories purified of shame alluded in names.

Wizardry, fish nosing to land-kills, move amphibian followings : sons long after who must row double canoes, the canoe strakes sleeky curved like beaks of bird predators turned also prey, or their fall , a pointing of boats that wing like birds over water where monsters eat-

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or are eaten, once and for all, for chieftainships sake, or the gall drunk by the conquered and soldiery: In their wake, warriors leave froth heaving behind, all motions covering I countering, the moves of tradition for mnemonic allusion in dance, drum, and chant that signal the triumphs of camp. Whichever go punctuated with keenings of mothers and wives who are widowed and as gray as the mold of their mats-hair awry and guardians assaulting the insolence voiced in the shark time of the year.

Neither the sea nor the land rovers in their alternate couplings with the god that is earth/sky may surmount the locking in space that is bound to Janus-faced time.

Peace is tricked out of war. The old is remade.

The young may fashion new rarities of gods.

Fish pass through glassy estates, their eyes purled to other eyes that are knit, the zonations of fishdoms equated, evolved from reburials, from ancient yet humble, new boastings, arrogant for show.

Young chiefs' glass forests of shark mind, the eyes beady with greed or forced to contentment, their teeth flled to sawed points for anointments in eating, tongues flicking to kiss while slaying the lesser, in musculature, whether younger or older, though superior in vision and bolder in speech from the ages' culled wisdom . They may taunt while they slay those whom they love,

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loving as fathers or sons, brothers, husbands, friends, and enemies along with innocents.

Every year there is an apostheosizing the fear into pride-a biding for game out of need, for sacrifice every warrior inmunizes his nerves massaged down the years from habit, restlessness, miscalculation, jealousy, exercise, spon, laziness, and ineptness to hear and to think, see what the families recoil at, and that there is nothing more to be done warnng: its elegance of skill its elevated oratorical assemblages of form its high states of mind in the face of plain bodies' limits like a throwing down of the gauntlet to change in jest, a gamble, a test to any who will show himself a warrior, which is less than a man . . . who is son, father, husband-

He who carries barebacked the ancestors' small children at the cross of his spine at the back- ribbed roads of the land: he alone is his own chief to behold, who holds the smallness of life in a child's hand , unafraid to be simply a man.

heiau-a place of worship kapu- restriction mana-power manu-birds piko-salt water used for chasing evil spirits away; to bless

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Edmund Conti HAIKU

OK, all you frogs Everyone out of the pond And form three lines.

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Michael McPherson RETURN TO A NAMELESS PLACE

Coming back the old outlaw no longer can recognize much of anything, the color has faded clean away from whatever it was that once mattered and left only the smudged stains of a life we 'd not have chosen and couldn't live.

His vision is fixed like the rest of us toward the things he didn 't do , except he can't see them worth shit anymore on account of it's all so pale and uansparent by now he wonders what the shooting was about or why anyone would steal what he can 't keep .

He dimly remembers the pure hell of it and the sound of his name still closes curtains, a flurry of hands invisible to him and long since consigned to the senseless shape of his indifference as he walks down the center of front street thinking if only they knew I can't even see them .

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MY UNCLES SURFING AT WAIKIKI, CIRCA 1935

They're young in this picture.

Their lean hard bodies are erect in the style of their place and time, hair blown back as they race toward the camera on long redwood boards.

Behind them Diamond Head is bare but for the ironwoods along the wide white stripe of beach, the outline of cliffs and gullies offset by clouds mingled with spray and rolling foam.

They're gone now, these hapa-haole boys at play on a wind rippled summer wave.

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Dellzell Chenoweth

A PARTY FOR GUS fori. M.

I couldn't find a damned thing to do with myself that night and I W2S sitting on a bar stool in a Greenwich Village cafe all at loose ends, when the fellow alongside of me at the counter handed me my evening right on a platter. He was dark, sharp featured, and curly headed, and looked just out of college. In his arms he hugged a big paper sack, obviously full of bottles. He kept looking over at the bar clock and back at his wrist watch.

Then he turned towards me. " Pardon, have you seen a tall thin girl with a braid of hair around the top of her head like a hoop or a halo and a lot of hair of a different color hanging down underneath like a horseshoe waterfall? " I grinned. " Can't say that I have."

"She has a bad tooth smack in the middle of her face."

"Nope ," I said , "I haven't seen her. Sorry."

He began looking me over from head to toe. I got a little self-conscious and began looking at myself too . I had on a clean plaid sport shin, my best dungarees, a fancy broad belt, red socks, and navy-black shoes. I didn 't see anything to be ashamed of. As a matter of fact, the outfit would have let me into a few of the better Village restaurants.

"Are you an artist?" he said.

"No,'' I said with emphasis until I saw that something else must be required to establish my identity. "I write."

"That's too bad. So do I." He deposited his package on the bar, ordered a beer, and lit a cigarette. Evidently he had come to a decision. " Do you want to come to a party?" he said. " Sure."

"Do you have enough money to chip in on a bottle of liquor?" " I guess so."

"You're invited to my party."

"Thanks." I felt as if I'd been dragged into a steeplechase.

He wasn't ducking a hurdle, anyway. He dragged out his wallet,

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picked out a torn clipping, and handed it over to me. "Read that," he said. " I made it up myself and put it in three newspapers last week."

I read: BED LOVING VILLAGER SHARE SEVEN ROOM ARTIST'S APARTMENT WITH BUSINESS MAN. WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG. CREDENTIALS REQUIRED. BOX 315.

'Tm trying to hook a guy into paying my rent," he said, as he took back the clipping. "Not a bad ad , is it?" he went on proudly. "Sexy, luxurious sounding, and challenging. The 'women' keeps the gays from piling in , and 'credentials required' makes you check your bank balance."

He put the clipping back in his wallet. "Now here's the story in a nutshell. Tonight I've got a man coming who wrote me just the son of letter I've been waiting for. He sounds middle-aged, balmy, and prosperous. He writes that he grew up in India-in a wealthy caste with all the advantages money can buy, no doubt. Says he's worked hard all his life and he's come to the realization that life is empty unless it is lived and so fonh. He wants to see it, feel it, and lose himself in it." He paused for breath. " Okay, that's the body. Now I've run into hard luck arranging a party to greet him with. Everybody I know seems to be out of town-at least they're not answering their telephones, damn them. But a friend of mine is picking up a girl at a bar down the street and Olga was supposed to meet me here twenty minutes ago . Are you following me?" ' 'I'm hanging on," I said. "Olga's the girl with the hoop braid?" " Yes. How about waiting here, picking up Olga and a bottle and making the apartment over on Thompson as soon as possible? Olga knows the address, but you'll have to explain the evening's setup. Tell her there's a chance of some dough as an interior decorator. She'll understand what son of act she's supposed to put on. At least she should, she's never paid a week's rent on her flat in her life. I know, because I paid it for three weeks myself."

He gulped the rest of his beer and picked his bag off the bar. " The man's name is Peters, he's due in half an hour, and we've got to stage a real impressive Village party for him. Got it?" " Right," I said.

He started towards the door and then rushed back. "By the way, my name is Ben. What's yours? " " Louis."

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"Okay, Louis, on your toes now," he said, and he vanished out the door.

I didn't have to wait long for Olga. She appeared a few minutes later.

Her hairdo, which looked exactly the way Ben described it, made her easy to recognize. On the whole, I was pleasantly surprised. She was slender and lithe, wore a slinky black dress and black lace gloves, and you had to look for the tooth in order to find it.

"Olga?" I said, as I went up to her.

"Yes," she answered, with only the faintest son of question in her VOlCe .

"My name is Louis Lathrop and I'm a messenger from Ben. He asked me to meet you here-to take you over to his pany."

She seemed to take me in all at a glance. "Why, how extravagantly nice of you! " I suggested a drink at the bar.

"I've been sticking tight to frosted daiquiris all day," she said.

She had a slight accent, but what made her speech peculiar was a drawl combined with the stress of a panicular word-not always the most impottant word-in almost every sentence. Up to the stressed word her voice seemed to hurry and rise in pitch. Afterwards her voice slowed and fell.

"And there's no telling what we'll get to drink at Ben's," she sighed, as she took off one glove and extracted a long black and silver cigarette holder.

I plunged into Ben's story and tried to do a quick clear job of it.

"I'm so glad you're going to be at the party, Louis," she said at the end, as if she hadn't heard a word I'd been saying. "Ben's a nice kid, but so-so irresponsible."

On the way to the apartment I stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of rum .

The apanment turned out to be a cold water flat on the fifth floor.

Towards the street were two fair sized rooms separated by low pattitions.

The first room boasted a brass bed. The room beyond was more completely furnished, but everything was on the floor: a mattress covered with pillows, a small desk lamp, a combination radio-gramophone. A huge nude hung over a mantel and behind the mattress the wall was decorated with travel posters. Off from the kitchen, towards the rear of the flat, was a space about as large as either of the two rooms in front, but it was peculiarly cut up into three triangular little alcoves. These had obviously been used by previous occupants as storerooms, and were scattered with stray

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bits of lumber, cans of paint, odd rolls of wallpaper, discarded canvases, magazines and newspapers. The seventh room, as advenized in the newspaper, was apparently the john in the hallway.

When Olga and I arrived , Ben was busy with a broom and a dust cloth. Olga wandered about the front rooms, idly arranged the pillows on the mattress, and turned on the radio . I offered my services as banender.

There were two quans of ginger ale and a bottle of claret wine (out of Ben's sack), a pint of rye (a donation from Ben's friend), and my ftfth of rum.

"Ben," I called out, " how do you want this stuff served?"

Ben came running in and stood looking at the bottles. "We can't ask anyone for choices because they'll all take rye and nobody will get tight.

We can't let the pany flop."

"I've heard that you can use any kind of wine for Manhattans,'' I said dubiously. " And we could hand out the rum for chasers." I felt like adding that the best way to use the ginger ale would be for ftnger bowls.

"No," Ben said decisively. "Everybody would just get sick on that combination. There must be some better way out."

"Well, how about some punch?"

"Exactly! Be a good guy and run out and get a cake of ice and some fruit juice."

I staned and then turned back. "I don' t see anything to mix the punch in,'' I said. "We ought to have a big bowl."

"That's okay," he said, " I'll borrow something from the couple across the hall."

I flew out to the nearest cafe, bought some ice, and mesmerized the banender into giving me some fruit juice in a container. When I returned, I found a cut glass pitcher on the kitchen table and an oblong white enamel basin which must have been used for a baby bath. There were some new voices in the living room.

Ben came to the kitchen for a repon and checked my purchases with great approval. "I was afraid Nell had passed out along the way,'' he said.

"She and Jim arrived a minute after you left for the ice." He lowered his voice. "Jim Garrison is a friend of my family. We can rely on him because right now he's working in a second hand furniture store and hopes to sell Peters a bill of goods." He lowered his voice still funher. " Nell mustn't know anything that's going on. As usual, she's in an alcoholic stupor and if we told her about the setup she'd only get confused and blun out something that'd ruin the works. Perhaps you know her. She hangs out at the bars. I call her Nell, but she's generally known as 'Acky Ack' -she's dipsomaniac, kleptomaniac, and nymphomaniac."

He took me by the hand and led me into the living room to Nell who

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was sitting on a couple of pillows under the mantel. "Nell," he said, "Meet Louis, my new bartender."

She was small and blonde, and a pair of vacant grey blue eyes seemed ftxed on some distant spot beyond me. Her dress was sort of pea green with reddish uimmings, and there were two large cloth rosebuds over each breast. One of the rosebuds was dangling by a thread and she clutched it apprehensively. " Hiya, Mr. Bartender!" she said, brightening a little and seductively fondling one of my knees. "Let's play house . Let's play I'm Mrs. Bartender Jones."

She let out a giggle and I gave her a chuck under the chin.

Ben wheeled me around to the man who was talking with Olga. " Louis , this is Jim Garrison."

Jim was older than the rest of us, perhaps early thinies. He was a redhead, on the handsome side, except he looked beaten up, as though he'd run into a bad night recently.

"Howdy," he said.

"Howdy," I echoed.

We shook hands heartily and he turned back and went on talking with Olga.

I hustled back into the kitchen to throw the punch together. Just as I was all poised with all kinds of fancy measurements in my head , the baby across the hall staned to yell. Wonder if it wants its bathtub back, I thought.

While I was listening to the baby, I dumped all the rum in the white basin under the impression it was a bottle of ginger ale. That upset the receipt I had been concocting in my head, so I just emptied everything in, stirred the whole works tenderly, and murmured a shon blessing.

Ben came running in to see how everything was developing and we gathered some glasses and cups together of various sizes and shapes.

"My god!" he said , checking his watch . " Up to now I've been worrying for fear Peters might come before we were ready for him . Now I'm worried stiff for fear he won't come at all."

I dunked the pitcher in the basin and we marched into the living room with our booty. We were received gratefully by all present and there followed one of those shon pauses when the drink of the evening goes on trial . I was a little nervous and the cup without any handles that had fallen my lot almost slipped out of my ftngers as I took an initial gulp. It tasted like diluted rum, but there were other hidden flavors and since everybody already had a base for it to fall upon, it seemed likely that it might produce the desired effect.

I looked around at my victims and assumed a sort of ducking position.

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None of them, however, appeared in the act of throwing their glasses in my direction. Indeed, all of them wore newly relaxed expressions on their faces.

Olga unbent a little. " The punch, Louis, tastes like a double frosted daiquiri ,'' she said politely.

Jim passed by me to change the station on the radio. He leaned down and patted me on the back. "Yes, it's not a bad drink at all, my friend ."

"Thanks,'' I said. All this unexpected encouragement made me feel very friendly towards everyone.

"I needed a drink," Jim went on, and he sat down and talked so no one else could hear. "I've been in pretty tough shape all week trying to get over a binge." He shook his head. "It was the longest binge of my life. I got in a fight with my girl friend , didn' t go into work, and dropped a month's pay. How I came through it alive I'll never know."

"I guess we're all allowed one big binge in our lives, aren't we?" I said.

He frowned. "I suppose. Right now I feel good and lousy. Funhermore, I'm broke. I hope I can sell this guy that Ben's got up his sleeve." He drew nearer. "Perhaps it would be better not to mention the binge to Ben. I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on him for the family-be a steadying influence. Ben's a little wild, you know, and needs someone like me for a father figure ."

Our conversation was interrupted by Nell who was calling for " Mr. Banender." I got up and carried the pitcher back to the kitchen for a refill. " Now take it easy, Nell,'' Ben said.

He followed me out, opened the door to the hallway, and peered down the stairs. "If that guy doesn't show up-after all the work and expense I've gone to!" He looked back into the living room. "We should have a couple more girls, shouldn't we? Here, let me take the pitcher. I know how much to give each one in there."

Mter a half an hour, I began to feel sorry for Ben. He had given up all false pretence and was pacing the floor like a wild man. Jim and Olga seemed to have picked up his nervousness and all conversation was forced now.

Nell, of course, was oblivious to our anxieties . "My this is a quiet pany!" she exclaimed. She ogled atJim. "Jimmie, come over and share a little pillow with me. Remember how you promised to take me home and keep me warm tonight."

Jim pretended he hadn't heard and said something low to Olga.

"If something doesn't happen soon ," Olga murmured, "I shall tire of the whole arrangement ."

"Damn that pseudo Russian slut," Nell muttered under her breath.

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Then she picked herself up and came over and wrapped herself around me. "Darling," she said , "would you like to be rich?"

I put my arm around her. "Yeah," I said , " you've hit a weak spot in my nature. I'd like to have lots of money.''

"Oh," she said, " then you must be nice and strong." She rested her head on my shoulder. ''I'm not sure I could afford to be rich. I'm afraid I'd just go and buy a big stable full of horses and dogs and never come out." She stretched her face near mine and sighed. "I love horses and dogs and all kinds of animals."

I was saved by a sudden knock at the door.

Ben stopped still in the middle of the floor and gasped with relief.

"For God's sake," he whispered, "this is a party. Whoop it up a little!"

He needn't have said a word because the knock was like an electric shock and set us all a-flutter. All except Nell. I gave her a good pinch in the fanny.

"Whoops!" she said, and she leapt to the middle of the floor.

Ben pushed her back on her pillow by the mantel and ran to the door.

"Mr. Peters?"

"Yes," a fussy precise voice answered. "I'm so sorry to be late, but this is my first adventure in the Village. I became quite confused as to direction." He caught sight of the rest of us and stopped shon. "Oh, f hope I'm not interrupting a party."

"No, no, no! " Ben remonstrated. "Just a few of my artist friends who dropped in unexpectedly." He lead Mr. Peters forward . "This apartment, you know, is son of a hangout for the Village intelligentsia."

Mr. Peters stood in the entrance to the living room-a shon squat man with a wide pale face and long greying hair. A pair of thick black goggles seemed to cover up all his features, save for his bright protruding lips which might have been called voluptuous if they hadn't shone with the wrong shade of red. Under an arm he carried a bundle.

He bowed gallantly, whereupon we arose and smiled. All except Nell, who sat and stared and twisted her rosebud with an excited little air.

Ben did the honors. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Peters." He motioned towards Olga. "Miss Olga Sokolinsky- a Russian ballet star."

Olga curtsied and Mr. Peters exclaimed: "Mademoiselle!" He bowed. " I must see you perform." " Of course," Olga said, " but unfonunately I twisted an ankle a shon while ago and so-so I'm quite hors de combat." She limped a little and sat down suddenly on the mattress.

Ben steered Mr. Peters to Nell. "Miss Nell, a-ah-sculptress. She does things with her hands, you know . . . ."

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Nell stared first at Mr. Peters and then down at her yellow cigarette stained hands which she began to move slowly in front of her. All at once she jumped to her feet. " Hello, Mr. Man," she said. She clapped her hands right under Mr. Peter's nose . "Boo!" She let out a little scream.

"Ha, Ha!" Mr. Peters coughed.

Ben hurried towards me. "This is my friend Louis, one of our up and coming writers."

I bowed.

"And, Jim, an art collector." He lowered his voice intimately. "Jim's very modest. He paints also." He turned Mr. Peters towards the nude over the mantel. "He tossed that off yesterday afternoon ."

"Very good! A most challenging oil," Mr. Peters exclaimed. He turned towards Jim eagerly. "Did you-ah-use a model?"

"Why, yes-yes I did ," Jim muttered, and he shuffled a foot shyly along the floor.

"I must see you at work ," Mr. Peters said with growing enthusiasm.

Ben beckoned to me. "Louis, do get Mr. Peters a drink."

Mr. Peters walked over to Ben. " I-I brought along a bit of cheer." He handed his bundle to Ben. Ben unwrapped the package and held up a bottle. " Ah, good, just what we lack! Thank you so much." He gave me the bottle as I passed by to the kitchen .

The bottle turned out to be applejack, a rather cheap brand. Not too auspicious, I thought to myself, if Ben hopes he has landed a wealthy angel. I opened the bottle and poured the applejack into the punch. As I was stirring the bowl , I caught sight of a bottle in the cupboard, half hidden behind a can of coffee. I went over and sampled it. Not a bad brandy, I said to myself. After a moment's hesitation, I uncorked it again and poured it into the contents of the basin. Then I ftlled up the empty bottle half full with the punch. No one will ever notice, I thought, and if they do -well, odd things do happen at parties sometimes. I stirred and tasted.

Something new had definitely been added.

I returned to the living room with the pitcher and the tall red-ringed glass we had reserved for our honored guest. Mr. Peters was in the midst of a long speech and after I had poured everyone a drink I sat down in the corner to listen with the others. " .. .. and so , as I stood there among the Pennsylvania foothills, I said to myself, what is life if it is not to be lived to its fullest? Nothing. No wealth from the material world, no tawdry sense of security can compensate for the precious fleeting moments of life unlived. I will plunge, I said to myself . . . and I plunged. "

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He paused dramatically and looked around at each of us expressively.

Then he went on in a highly rhapsodic whisper. "You have your youth, your art. I have been reborn in spirit."

There was an awkward silence and I sat wondering who would jump into it . Ben at last came to, choked a little, and bluned out: " You, Mr. Peters, are a philosopher! " Mr. Peters weaved back and fonh in delight. "No, no!" he said, "I am as everyone, of common clay. I beg of you , just, just accept me as one of you." He was beaming at us now. " Let us discard formalities. I want to forget the Mr. Dewitt Newcomb Peters that entered this door." He bent forward eagerly. "Please call me . .. Gus." Ben rose to his feet. " I offer a toast. Let's drink bottoms up to Gus. May he long live among us!"

We raised our glasses and, as Ben motioned Gus to join in, we all downed our drinks in one gulp.

I grabbed my throat with my hand and looked hastily around at the others. All were gazing intently into their empty glasses . Olga whispered, "My God!" and Nell began curiously pawing the bottom of her glass with one finger, as if she expected to find a bumblebee there. As I looked at Gus, I thought he was about to explode, but he simply drew in his breath, punctuated with gasps, and let out what finally developed into a violent sneeze. He caught his glass in the nick of time and sat looking at us with watery myopic eyes: "A most bohemian concoction! " he exclaimed, as he reached for his handkerchief and wiped his lips feverishly.

Ben ran over, patted Gus on the back, and pulled him gently to his feet . " Listen, Gus," he said, as he led him towards the kitchen, " we must talk over our plans. Unless you 're acquainted with the New York apart路 ment situation you can't realize how lucky we are to land this flat . There was a thousand dollar tie-in for the furniture , which of course we'll have to junk, but the rent is reasonable , only a hundred a month, and we can redecorate to our heart's content."

Olga almost lost her accent. "I know for a fact ," she said, leaning towards me, "that Ben sublet this flat from a college chum for twenty a month ."

Jim came over and joined us. "I hope to God that this Gus has cash and that Ben's not spreading it on too thick."

I thought of the bottle of applejack and kept quiet. In the corner, Nell opened one eye and muttered: "Money, money, money. Money, money, money."

Ben's voice drifted in. "Now, Gus, my idea would be for you to have 100

these three panitions torn down and make the three rooms into one-a sort of salon in which to receive your guests. Something oriental, perhaps, with heavy dragon drapes, luxurious couches, mandarin screens, and straw mats. I can just see you sitting there serving tea in black satin pajamas."

"Yes!" we heard Gus sigh. "A brilliant idea! " "We're lucky to have Olga and Jim here tonight," Ben went on.

"Interior decoration is a hobby with Olga, and Jim can advise you where to buy anistic furnishings at a reasonable price."

With one accord, Olga and Jim arose and hurried out to the back of the apartment. I followed a minute later with my pitcher and returned to refill the glasses.

There was so much conversation going on in back now that I could only catch words and phrases. I looked over at Nell, who was playing again with her rosebud . " Gus is sweet, isn't he?" she said dreamily. ''I'd invite him into my stable any day." She yawned. " He makes me think of a cocker spaniel. You make me think of a big shaggy shepherd dog-so nice and restful." Her finger twirled around the rosebud slower and slower, and she fell into a doze.

As I adjusted a pillow under my head, I began to feel a bit tender about Gus myself. I was somehow out there in his shoes, just in from the country and all agog at a new adventure. And I suppose no one really enjoys seeing another person taken in-afterwards you yourself are forced to watch more carefully what other people are doing to you. . . . I tried the punch again . It was still as potent as hell and I felt a slow buzz in my head .

At that moment Gus appeared himself. He glanced at Nell and then came over and sat down beside me.

"Perhaps it's just your extraordinary drink, but I do feel slightly dizzy," he said, and he sighed. "Everything is happening so fast and I don't feel as if I'd quite found my roots here yet. I suppose it isn't easy to transplant oneself so quickly." He looked at Nell again. " That's a strange little flower of femininity," he whispered. "I feel she might not be adverse to a sympathetic relationship."

I thought I saw one ofNell's eyelids flutter.

Gus leaned even closer. "How worthwhile are these Village night clubs? Is it true that you encounter these, these ladies of the night?"

I'd been asked some such question several times before by Village tourists and I tossed off my set speech: "Well, you can divide up the girls around the Village into various classes. There are some who can be made every night and there are some who can't be made at all. Both of these classes, according to my book, are 101

to be avoided like the plague. But there are also the girls that can be made just once in a while, if you have that spark of genius about you that night.

They're the ones to really lie in wait for."

I suddenly changed my mind about Gus. Whatever Ben and the others might be plotting in the kitchen, I thought Gus would be much better off with them than where his obvious inclination would lead him. I said so. I said: "Don't be taken in by everything you hear, Gus. Take it easy and let Ben show you around for awhile until you get to know the score yourself."

The conclave from the kitchen tripped gayly in, all talking at once.

"We've been tippling out there路 of that violent mixture of yours, Louis," Olga said, "and I'm beginning to feel actually whoosie." She reached for a pillow and sat down at Gus's feet . "Oh, Gus, I'm really inspired with ideas for your salon . . .." She went on talking in a high excited voice.

Ben was over underneath the mantel, nudging Nell. She stretched seductively and held out her glass. "Mr. Bartender," she called, "a drink on the house, Mr. Bartender."

I found my pitcher and gave everyone a quick reftll. No one seemed to be noticing the punch any longer. Even Gus, who up to now had been sipping with the utmost caution, began to take healthy gulps from his glass.

The temperature in the room raised perceptibly. . . .

"My, it's getting warm in here," Ben said, and he raised a window.

"Say, Gus, you don't happen to have a car, do you?"

"Why, no, I don't,'' Gus said in a crestfallen voice, as if he had fallen short of our expectations.

"No matter,'' Ben assured him, "although it does get hot here in the summertime and a car comes in handy for a drive to the beach."

Gus still looked worried. "I really ought to have a car,'' he said moodily. Then all at once the glow came back on his face. "I know! We'll take a summer place on the Cape for the season-a big place with a yacht and an outdoor motor and-" Everyone broke in and cheered lustily. Ben ran over to Jim and hugged him. " There's your deep water fishing trip, Jim!" he cried triumphantly. "I told you everything would work out okay!" They jumped around in a circle.

Gus was still holding forth with his summer plans. He called Ben over. "Don't you think we should invite quite a crowd to go up to the Cape with us? He winked slyly. "I mean, don't you think we could find some-well-protogees? Some pale delicate blossoms that need the sun and the ocean breezes."

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Ben slapped him on the back. "We'll gather together a whole garden of them for you, Gus." Gus weaved with excitement. Then he reached in his pocket and drew out a long oblong bulging wallet. His face was beaming as he extracted several small photographs.

"Some choice momentos from another glorious summer at the beach ," he said proudly.

Everybody crowded around. From what I could see it was the usual collection of Miss Americas clad in the scantiest of raiments.

"Oh, Gussie," Nell cried out, pressing a photograph to her lips.

"What a sweet picture of you." She leaned over and gave him a smack on the cheek , and then poked around in the wallet on his lap for other photographs.

Someone yelled out: " Bottoms up to Gus again!"

I am still a little hazy about the exact progression of events from that point on. I remember that Ben turned up the radio and called on Olga for a ballet, and that for my money she went through some very creditable pirouettes, in spite of that twisted ankle of hers. In a few minutes, however, Nell was also on the floor, going through the kind of eye-opening gyrations that can only be performed in the closest of family circles. All at once, everyone was dancing, Gus with Olga, Jim with Nell, Olga with me, Ben with Nell-on and on, in a variety of spins, huddles, and strangleholds.

Later, I found myself dancing with Ben. He whirled me round and round and was persistent in his attempts to show me a step he'd made up his very own self. It involved a sort of tango dip, but with all the din I never seemed to be able to hear his directions. But he tried it over and over, now slow, now fast, now all in a spin.

Suddenly we became conscious that we were the only couple on the dance floor. We stopped. Jim and Olga were sprawled out on the mattress.

Gus and Nell were nowhere in sight.

A moment later, a wailing cry began coming out of one of the rooms in back and Nell rushed in wringing her hands. "He's puked all over my lap!" she sobbed, running to the sink.

Ben took one look at her and ran out of sight. I followed , grabbing up the white basin in pursuit.

It was a pitiful sight. Gus had rolled off the couch on to the floor and lay there straddling the hat tree which somehow had toppled upon him .

There was a bruise already beginning on his forehead. From his mouth gushed forth products of a thousand punch bowls. He was sick, and it was obvious that he would be going on being sick for a long time to come.

Ben assumed all the airs of a captain shouting orders from a sinking ship. "Get a towel ," he yelled to me. I rushed out and back with a towel.

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"Get Jim," he whispered hoarsely in my ear, "and for God's sake don't let Nell get away before I get to her."

Jim was already there, his face plastered with lipstick and his nose bleeding slightly. "Olga's passed out," he said worriedly to me, and turned and staggered into Ben who was just coming out.

I caught Nell as she was sneaking out the door. " Nell," I cried, catching hold of one of her arms, "you can't make it home alone."

She struggled. " Can to. Dirty old man puked. Let go of me , damn you!" With her free hand she hauled off and hit my jaw a crack.

Ben appeared, biffed her across the face , and pushed her into the next room on the brass bed. She lay there moaning.

He took my arm and led me into the kitchen. " Listen, Nell has swiped Gus's wallet. It's gone and I know she's got it down her somewhere." " Let's drag it out of her then," I said, feeling for my jaw and staning for the bed.

He pulled me back. "No, listen to me. I've been through all this before. If we touch her now, she'll scream rape and all the neighbors and the police will be on our necks. This is the score. I'll biffher again and load her into a cab. When I get her home nobody will pay any attention to her there. I'll yank the wallet out of her, and in the morning she'll never remember what happened."

He staned towards Nell who was engaged in a new series of moans.

He turned back. " Leave Jim with Gus, and try to get Olga home. I'll take care of this little lady."

A second later a terrified yelp sounded out from the bed and then silence. Ben appeared with Nell in his arms. He turned around with a distraught expression as he stood in the doorway: "How," he said pathetically, "could the best laid plans end up this way. .. ."

He stumbled and recovered himself by resting momentarily on one knee.

Nell raised a dazed face . " Darling," she said, as she fondled Ben's head, "where are you taking me? " She clutched one of her breasts and let out a little cry. "My rosebud! " she whimpered, " my little rosebud-it's gone!"

Her head fell back on Ben's shoulder and they disappeared out the door.

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J.

A. Miller

ON THE SALUTARY EFFECT OF COFFEE (GOOD SUCH) AND OTHER CERTAIN CULTURAL DIGRESSIONS A TALE OF THREE COFFEEHOUSES

If I show you where the coffeehouse has two outlets, three actually, one by Public and one

by Shaker Square and the other by that crossroads known as Coventry, where anything from kung fu to sitar lessons are publicized as enlightened fun , where flower children wearing each one some outlandish hat were wont (recall?) to cavon, calling the strip Free America, as if they only in their pure own selves sanctified, as it were, property so named: this is the land of Coventry you see, unlike old cathedrals on the Mother Isle, blown to all the sandstone fey appeasers claimed was comity and surcease in our time: woe is we.

This is the Coventry never experiencing greater suffering than prices climbing to meet the wages of free Americans rapping, gently tapping onto free enterprise, thus, mirabile dictu, becoming often hater and admirer at once of all the variegated pages of their countcy's checkered though plainly moving sea to <:t~3. experiment. The grandly disaffected and just cu;ious, and others, still hang there of course, and kids born too late must now, Mohawks and nose rings, be the world's- their world's-reminder only dust and ashes wait us when the time of urns and lids close about us, though their own social kind of death to all around them makes one fed they point less perhaps to an answer than to the hean of the problem: surely they know the every breath and rum clothing they usc to damn is joint 105

heir to all they imagine themselves apart, and the future will look as they continue to.

Could they, can they, really live with themselves?

The children-of-the-flowers felt they could until they got their way and then who should have been there putting them on shelves of history- like apparitions from Great Birnamwood or the Slough of Despond-but their own troubled sages and avatars, gurus and all too realized holy men leading the one and the many over the tantalizing cliff of their own high expectations: were there not pages writ large, printed vari-colored, stating again and again this generation was indeed the skiff to take mankind past the narrow shoals of his own self- interest into the placid sea of the common one, that a new age, a brave new world, was dawning?

Where the solace, though, to man and woman alone?

What succor to a life undone?

How was truth surviving devotion become fawning, become glassy-eyed and menacing? Each age fancying itself, perhaps, new.

Each one one out of many.

Return now to the more or less sage mundanity of a cross-section any passing-through or even resident stranger, ivory or dun , is bound to see in these territories of bean more expensive than any corner grocery is sure to handle, and the breadth and heft of life 106

will show itself to even less than keen observers of Ia comedie humaine. Though no cure for loneliness, you may find conversation or a wife -which is no small thing indeed to be sneezed at (unless, of course, tastes are petite , and then you still do well to mind your, yes, manners).

You're about to be-you're on Shaker Square-squeezed among tables only knees apart from corporation men and women, secretaries, students, layabouts, planners, policemen, nannies, doctors, children, hardmuscled workmen lunching on soup so thick a fork is plunged in, ballerinas, clerks and scurrying drivers daring to retard traffic bolting from blinkered cars for the quick cup of adrenalin . All the vatic normalcy and quirks of one and many are proudly or, as the case may be, humbly displayed a/fresco on this patio, dining in when whim or cold descends: inside or out, the human spirit's still imprinted on the face, and whether one is one or several, inclining to logomachy or feeding, here-is room for doubt.

The empire though of this curious brew is incomplete without at least a measured finger toward where what is drinkable downtown is made: any city dweller (will tell you) with friends or kin will have wanted some time to klatsch and linger at a small table in another century, aka, The Arcade; while, preferably, a flamenco guitarist or string trio

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holds the center of a teaming noon crowd up with wafting selections of Haydn, Scarlatti, lves (in his open stage), andante, adagio, con brio, while the office populace will alternately sup and listen as it washes over and through their lives.

Thus you wouldn't, so to say, really want to miss it.

And few even semi-serious residents and travelers dobeing the heart of what makes a multiform city, Before you flnd yourself inclined to be the obit writer for what this time and these people come to , consume, flrst, of the best: sans despising or pity....

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T. M. Goto ONE LANAI AT THE HALFMOON

"Friendship," Tao Qian's critic declares, "is the highest ideal" -and stands suddenly unsteady against the rails , tilting his glass to each of the ladies; tight on the deck, we hold September like a Chinese teacup ; more liquid than fame disappointment washes us all down the mountain, past the clouded stars and haze of highways, past the harbor and out to a perfectly silent ocean.

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Nora Mitchell STARS SLEEP ON CHEJU ISLAND

Stars move, I am bone tired.

Chong Chi-yong, from "White Deer Lake" translated by Peter H . Lee

I move down a slope of flowers They tire me out I am weary of their voices Like children they do not tire I am ready to sleep among the stalks I have walked far today climbing up the side of the volcano Stars move now among the flowers Cattle graze in the bowl of grass below They are dim hulks boulders dotting the lakeshore White goats descend from the heights Bleating they roam among the stillness of cows White Deer Lake is the color of topaz smoky yet dear Goats crowd around it White patches dance upon the shore and constellations move in the center of the lake The stars have walked a long way

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They pause in the crater of this old volcano softened by dark grasses I do not tire of watching Though heavy with sleep I call their names and follow They move among the cattle and do not turn Talking to one another they bow their heads I fall asleep at their feet

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William Stafford

SECURITY

Tomorrow will have an island . Before night I always find it. Then on to the next island .

These places hidden in the day separate and come forward if you beckon.

But you have to know they are there before they exist.

Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.

So far, I haven't let this happen, but after I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.

Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea, and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.

So to you, Friend, I confide my secret: to be a discoverer you hold close whatever you find , and after awhile you decide what it is . Then, secure in where you have been, you turn to the open sea again and let go.

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ANCHOR MESSAGE #1

No, this anchor never held. Its great iron flukes caught on a reef and the chain paned in a high sea, a story often told before our navy's failure became taboo.

Brought ashore, these rusty tons exhibit the power hidden on sunny days under that flowing blue decoration scalloped on the horizon for picnickers drowsing by the lighthouse.

Never tell The Secretary of the Navy that anyone working here told you, but many an anchor chain breaks. Monuments are painted this way to keep the truth under control, lest it rust through.

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ANCHOR MESSAGE #2

Stop here.

Anchor for awhile . Embrace what reliability feels like.

Often everything moves, and always the sea. As you travel, islands maneuver behind each other. And the stars.

But sometimes you center: for awhile you say, "No more," and all the rest of the world goes away.

A certainty remains: you have an anchor. Days pass. A storm ends. You hold by the chain.

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Reuben Tam ADJECTIVES FOR SAND

The shore is working its eons of erosion as you walk across it, but nothing describable shows today though there 's silica from the deep sea beds and the grit of grinding sea energies lying here under the abstract language of sand , which, lacking axis or balance can never rise as a hill rises, and lacking center cannot radiate as the least flower can, or the handsome starfish.

Assigned to no place, sand moves marginally as the unbelonging would.

Yet all through your years sand has held you and shared the sun with you day after day and step by stephow your shoulders blistered in the heat, how your feet tried to glance the surfaceyou think your time and the sand's time the same.

But the loud sea tells you sand is happenstance, like a ghost of forgotten ages of islands.

Today, in a haze of salt-glazed overcast sand looms, primeval , terribly mute, perceivable only in adjectives you have devised from shell cores, coral chips , flakes of light and the deep dead calm.

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WAYS TO THE SEA

Along the cliffed coast you saw how the wind, blocked by lava rock walls, veers to flow the long way over sedimentary beach lanes.

Rows of shored stones dulling between tides wait for the cover of water.

The red-footed booby on its ledge high above the crystal dazzle of the bay, the sky hooded over its eyes, the sea flattened in its gaze, braces to dive into the first surfacing finned shadow.

Once , after school , down the haul-cane road, you saw the stream sifting its way through rafts of coconut husk and kukui nuts, the wash of hillslope gardens destined for the shore .

Your days seemed like beach morning- glory vines that creep node by node toward the seaside to root into the weather of outer seasons.

You would leave your village, the sidewalk grids, the clipped panax hedges, the clicking meters and the mountains with their creased shadows.

You remember a night when all the village lights failed, and you saw, far off, the phosphorescent glow of sea margins .

One day you turned seaward, and came to this beach.

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The strangely empty beat you hear is the ocean drumming its endings.

Reefs rise and shatter along the lapidary of chance.

Your tracks crumble among shell chips and reed sticks, and the wind has shredded your thoughts.

One by one the words you came with have left you to join the vast monotone of sand.

In your nakedness the shore receives you, and time and weather, circling intently over you, assay you for calcium, pith, salt and silica.

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THE HILLS OF EAST KAUAI

From the pasturelands you see the plains ofKapahi .

They are terraces of alluvium seeped down from the hills after each rain .

They are clay pans and water-strung soils on basal rock.

Cresdines of hills ripple across the sky, long waves spilling forests and red oxides, rearing into sudden crag and rounding down, to begin the endless map of mound and swale.

Some days, between rains, you feel the mantled earth underneath where congealed lavas lie, four million years of quenched magma, pillows of pahoehoe, and the cold sleep of aa, layered in dark rhyme with the landscape in the sun, with the corrugations of climate, with a sky that this hour is folding down to rest in the notch between the hills ofKalepa and Nonou.

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Jim Kraus ISLAND

Deep in my pockets I feel the seeds beginning to move.

"Plant them now,'' you say.

First I pull the soil away in a ringdry at first.

Inside you there are passages marked with intricate instructions: press harder here, now press and twist, rub lightly.

Body of an island, hollowed and passed through by all the rivers of emptiness, each of your instructions holds a secret.

When I place the seeds in the soil, they begin bursting, each seed dividing, a chain reaction.

Pushing deeper into the darkness, they fill the empty passages.

Body of yesterday, body of tomorrow, give birth to me; I am your son and your lover, give me a name, an existence within you, a way to emerge and rest beside you.

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THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH: HAWAII I FLORIDA

You stand in the kitchen making bread. You turn and shift your weight . You hold the dough, the clay of time, squeezing it like a body, kneading and rubbing it.

You look at the vegetables, grater, sieve, patterns of white on counter top.

You remember Castillo de San Marcoscoquina walls six feet thick containing the sound and light of a Spanish century. In the hotel which carries the name of Ponce de Leon time freezes.

Nearby, old Ponce declares a fountain of youth, where water moccasins smile up at him, venom flashing vermillion on white fangs . Without love, so many years from home, fortune forbids the fountain.

You play in the cold past-Juniper or Marianna.

The water falls back to the same pool.

Then you fall asleep beneath the boardwalk.

You are founeen . You dream of falling through a hole in the ice; at that precise moment your clothes turn to leaves.

You have wandered for centuries to flnd this beach.

And here he is, waving to you from the surf, as though emerging from a long swim, armor rusted, maybe swept down the beach by the tide.

So it is that old Ponce ftrst walks on this Florida beach and plants a stick in the sand. He circumscribes a groove and begins pronouncing the hours of the day while marching in ever-widening circles.

When the tide comes up he shrinks back, and the fountain of youth is the ocean itself.

Offshore the man-of-war float above a tangle of poisonous tentacles.

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You remember the language of the waves and begin to uace your genealogy in the sand. You watch the sun carefully, its shadows, the flecks of glass in the tidepool, sandpipers weaving back and forth with the murmuring waves.

You toss a piece of stale bread into the tide pool.

Tiny crabs and fish dart toward the center of the expanding rings.

Gulls hover and dip. The fountain of the sea rises with the sun.

Then the water recedes, and you watch the periwinkles disappear in sand so fine it would stick to your skin forever.

Sunlight blazes through the kitchen window.

Waiting for the bread to rise, you acknowledge the irrelevant dial of the clock-its inorganic meaning, and the inevitable future of yeast, timeless as memory locked in the germ of wheat .

"That thing of beauty is the result of the expansion of gases released by the yeast's action and the stretching of the gluten of the wheat."

You wade to a small island, watching for sea urchins and waves.

Hawaiians would make holes in the shoreline lava to collect salt.

Today you see patterns of coarse salt in the ancient burrows.

They would mix the salt with red powder from inland, volcanic clay.

You wade around the perimeter of the island then step up on a sharp rock and onto a shoulder of lava, holding shoe, water, salt, seaweed, bird droppings .

You count fifteen varieties of seaweed.

Perhaps it was here, where birds from far away, carried by nonheasterly trades, dropped the first seeds of vegetable life on this youngest jut of earth.

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And today the steady, slow ooze of lava has crossed the Kalapana Highway.

Nearby the sand is black.

Tumbling rock, like a glowing deep ocean wave, falls toward the creeping tide.

At your high school reunion, drunk on nostalgia, you fall asleep.

You dream of fishing, but a storm pushes you back .

When you awake you are bald, and your legs ache with arthritis.

You are trying to knead bread , but your fingers will not move.

Your arms have turned to stone.

You remember the Spaniards, who may have sailed here long before Captain Cook.

You turn and remember old Ponce imagining a fountain of youth, which is also the fountain of forgetfulness grown old .

Time is the path, the meander to and from a single point on a tide-smoothed beach .

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Randy Brieger COMMUNION for Angela Ball

A woman eats tomato soup alone in a diner.

She opens a packet of saltines and a tiny insect flies out like a dove released from a magician's handkerchief.

For a moment this surprises her, then she remembers how everything, woman, cactus, toothbrush, bowling shoe , even melba toast has a soul.

She thinks that the crackers must have gone stale the second they died, become as cold and blank as the shell of cellophane around them.

She worries about witnessing this rite of passage, the final grain of life rising from the body of cracker, the body of prophet.

This is the first time she has felt death come so close, so alive in her hands.

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Nancy Alpert Mower MAX

The woman they called Bessie pulled a thick black comb from a pocket in her skirt. Max knew what that meant. She would scratch at his head again. He ran to the edge of the room to hide behind his father's heavy oak desk. Bessie carne after him, brandishing the comb like a sword.

"Corne on, Maxie, let Fraulein Schoenrneyer make your curls."

Max crawled under the desk, trying to sink into the thick wool rug.

The woman's long arm, reaching under the furniture, wriggled towards him. He slid further back, wedging himself between the desk leg and the cornet of the room. Now he was out of her reach.

But Bessie jumped up and darted to the other side of the desk, and before Max could extricate himself from his cramped hiding place, she had stooped to the floor and grabbed his left foot. The woman was too strong for him. With sharp tugs she pulled him out from under the dc::sk, off the rug, and onto the rough wood floor.

"Now, Maxie, stand up. There's a good boy. Fraulein will make your pretty curls. If you hold still, it ain't gonna hurt." She tugged at his hair with the comb. "First we must pull out all them snarls. Ah, the pity of it."

Max stood still. There was no point in resisting further. He could jerk himself free and run again, but the woman would catch him. He might as well submit and get it over with.

Hand and comb clawed through his hair, digging ruthlessly, a few strands at a time. Sometimes Bessie's hand slipped, and her nails scraped his scalp. Max blinked to hold back the water that was filling his eyes. He was a big boy of five , and he must not cry.

A pale blue skirt rustled into the room. As Max lifted his head to see who it belonged to, Bessie pulled the comb through a tangled mass of hair, and a jolt of pain careened into his head. He pulled his lower lip inward holding it with his front teeth. He would not cry.

"Ah, Bessie. At it again. Can't you leave the child alone?"

Max recognized the voice of Bessie's sister, Rachel. "I've been looking for you, Bessie, to see if you wanted to have lunch with me at the Hof Brau. I should have known I'd find you here at the Rabbi's. Seems to me you're here a lot these days."

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" Somebody's got to look after the child," Bessie responded. "Look at this nest of snarls. Hair ain't been combed for two days. The pity of it."

"The Rabbi's a busy man, Bessie. He's doing his best."

"More's the pity. Too busy to take care of his own son. And he, so adorable. Just look at these blond locks . Did you ever see such a darling?

He's gotta be the sweetest child in all ofBorslaw-yea, in all of Austria."

She was wrapping hair around her fingers to form the long corkscrew curls. When she reached this step, Max knew she was nearing the end of the combing session, which meant the pain would soon stop.

When Mama had combed his hair, she didn't pull. His life hadn't been the same since that day his mama had stopped taking care of him.

Max had wanted to go in to her. It was time for bed, and he wanted her to hear his Shema. "No, no, Max. Don't bother your mother." " But Mama always hears my prayers."

"Not tonight, Max. Go on , now. Put yourself to bed. There's a good boy."

The next day when Max went into his papa's study, he found the Rabbi bent over the desk, his head buried in his arms. Heavy sighs were coming from his body. Max reached up to touch his father's arm. "Papa, Papa, what is it?"

The Rabbi lifted his head . The skin below his eyes was puffy, and the whites of his eyes were streaked with red . "Has my Papa been crying?" asked Max. The Rabbi put a hand on Max's shoulder. " It's all right, Maxie. Your Papa is sad right now-but he shouldn't cry. No, no. Men should not cry.

You are a big boy now, and you must not cry too."

"I won't, Papa. But why wouldn't Mama hear my Shema last night?"

"Your Mama's sick, Max. Now run and play, there's a good boy. Your Papa has work to do." He put his head again on the desk, and Max slipped from the room.

For days the house was full of people moving in and out of rooms, talking in whispers. Each time he went near his mama's room, they pulled him away. One night they aroused him from his sleep. "Come, Max. Come tell your mother goodbye." They carried him into his parents' bedroom where three candles created awesome shadows across his mama's colorless face. Max's father sat in a chair near the bed, his head bowed on his chest. Max felt dizzy. Objects in the room seemed blurred. Voices were saying, " Be brave, Max. You're a big boy, ftve years old." He felt himself being lifted into the air. They held him so that his face was near his mother's. "Kiss her," they told him. He put his lips against her hot cheek.

"Mama?" he said. "Mama?" A low moan came from his mother's throat.

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Then they carried him back to his own bedroom and told him to go to sleep. For a long time he couldn't sleep. He lay shaking beneath his heavy comfoner, wishing someone would come into his room. Finally he drifted into hazy dreams. When he awoke next morning, women were wailing.

Somber men in black suits, wearing white gloves, carried a heavy black box out of the house and lifted it onto a large horse-drawn carriage. Max's father knelt down and pulled the boy to his chest. Max rubbed his face against his father's thick black beard. "You must be brave," his father told him.

Then his father walked from the house , following the heavy black box, leaving Max at home with strange women. Later in the day his father came back leading other men and women into his study where they sat in a circle on low stools and said prayers. Then women brought in platters of Wiener schnitzel, plates of bratwurst, and loaves of rye bread. For seven days there was nothing in Max's world except food and prayers.

Mter a week all the people went home , leaving Max and his father alone. His father spent most of his time in the synagogue praying or in his study reading the Talmud. Sometimes he held Max on his lap and read to him or told him stories of men named Abraham and Isaac and Moses. But most of the time his papa was too tired or too sad to tell stories to Max. Each day one woman or another would come to the house and dust the furniture , sweep the floors , and cook for Max and his father. Often the woman was Bessie.

Now Max stood in his father's study as Bessie worked the last curl into place. She talked to her sister as though Max could not hear. "Such a darling child," Bessie said. "And this beautiful blond hair."

Rachel's voice sounded cross. " It seems to me you're spending too much time here, Bessie." ''And what business is that of yours? '' "People are talking. There are others. We all agreed to help care for the child. Aren't you overdoing it?"

"I ain't been here for two days, Rachel. And you see, no one has combed his hair. He needs me."

"I'm telling you, Bessie, you're spending too much time here."

"I intend to spend more time . Anna's gone, right?"

"Yes, God bless her soul. Gone these six months." " So, the boy needs a mother, yes?"

"Bessie. You don't mean .. . ?"

"I do mean. I want Max for my son. If that means I have to marry his father, then, dear sister, prepare to become the Rabbi's sister-in-law."

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"And she did!" my mother told me. "That Bessie, hard as nails she was, married my grandfather, Rabbi Frank Schultz, because she fell in love with my father's blond curls."

It was one of the last discussions my mother and I had before she developed expressive aphasia and lost her ability to communicate. Because I had expressed an interest in my background, Mother was telling me about her father's side of the family. Because I had a little blond boy of my own , I understood how Bessie could have been captivated by such a child.

It was easy for me to imagine the boy with the blond curls standing in the front room as his father walked in with his new stepmother.

Bessie ran to the child, picked him up in her arms, and spun around.

"Now, Maxie," she said, "now you can call me Mama ."

Max didn't want to call this woman Mama. Gradually, however, his memory of his real mother faded . Eventually it was hard for him to remember what Anna had looked like. Now that Bessie lived with them, his papa was more cheerful, and he read to Max more often.

One evening his father said that Max was old enough to go to school, and the next day a man came to the house to cut off Max's curls. When school was over in the afternoons, Max hurried home to study, then to listen to his father read from the Talmud. At twilight Bessie came in with candles and told them it was time to eat. His papa kissed Bessie on the cheek, and the three of them walked to the dining room. Bessie and the Rabbi laughed and joked during the meal. For a while. Then the quarrels began.

After a year of marriage Bessie grew restless. ''I'm sick and tired," she told her husband. "Tired of being laughed at by the women of the synagogue who think I ain't good enough to be your wife."

A weary Frank Schultz leaned back in his chair. They'd been through this before. " Now, Bessie, that isn't true . No one thinks that you ..."

"They do, Frank. Oh, I'm good enough to sew their clothes for them, all right. But not to be your wife. They make fun of my talk and my manners. I know I got no education, but ..."

"It doesn't matter, Bessie. You're a good cook. You keep a clean house. You take good care of Max." " But I'm sick and tired of cooking and cleaning." " Bessie! That's a woman's work. It's what the Lord ..."

"Don' t religion me, Mr. Rabbi. I tell you, I've had enough. I'm tired of being the Rabbi's wife . And I'm tired of being hungry."

"Next month, Bessie. Next month there should be more money."

"That's what you said last month. And the month before that. But there ain't never more money. If it wasn 't for my dressmaking, we

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wouldn't have enough for food. And I can't make much money sewing.

We won't never have enough money, Frank. Not as long as we stay in Borslaw. That's why I'm leaving." " You're leaving!" The Rabbi sprang to his feet and strode rapidly to his wife's side. "Now, Bessie, Bessie, ..."

"Don't 'now Bessie' me. It's no good, Frank. My mind's made up. I been saving me some funds out of my sewing money, and I booked passage on a ship to the United States." " You're going to America?" " I'm leaving next week. And I'm taking Max with me . In America there are jobs for everyone. When I get rich, I'll send for you."

On the dim lower deck of the rolling ship Max swayed to the sounds of a cacophony of tongues. He felt pressed in by a multitude of human bodies. The stench of vomit mixed with odors of sweat and stale tobacco.

Bessie walked toward him carrying food. The ship lurched , and Max watched his stepmother clutch at a railing to keep her balance.

"Eat a little, Maxie. It'll do you good." She handed him a bowl of gruel and some dry crackers. " Eat. There's a good boy. I gotta take some food to Frau Fleishmann. She's not well."

His stepmother was one of the few adults who was not seasick, and she ministered to other passengers. Max, exhausted from endless hours and days of sitting still, stood up and stretched. He longed to run about. But there was no place he could run without stepping over bodies.

Max reached into a small canvas bag which held the remnants of his life in Austria-two pair of pants, two shirts, a smooth black stone he'd found while walking in the park with his father, his quill pen, and some school books. Pulling out a book, Max tried to read, but the words on the page blurred as the ship pitched forward . He wished his father were there to tell him stories. Remembering the gentle Rabbi brought tears to his eyes, so Max tried to think about something else. He looked at Bessie, who was moving toward him, stepping gingerly over other people. She esconed a pale Frau Fleishmann. The women sat down on the deck near Max, and in the way Bessie had, they talked as though the boy were not there.

"Will you send the child to school in the new country?" Frau Fleishmann asked.

"Of course," Bessie replied. "He's gonna be educated like his papa.

But won't it be hard for him to learn in the new language?"

"He'll learn faster than you . Children do. Before long he'll be forgetting his German.''

"Forget his German! That would be terrible ."

"He will. Unless you settle in a place like Cincinnati."

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"Where is that? " "It's way out West, in a state called Ohio. My sister lives in Cincinnati, and she wrote to me that the schools teach half day in German and half day in English."

"That should be good for Max," Bessie said. "But I had planned on living in New York City."

"You won't like it. My sister wrote that New York is filthy. Crowded, too. Believe me, you'll be happier in Cincinnati."

Zin zin nati. Max tried the word out in his mind. He liked the sound.

He wanted to practice saying it. Tapping Bessie's shoulder, he said, "How will we get to Zin zin nati? " Instead of answering her stepson, Bessie spoke to Frau Fleishrnann.

"See, I told you the boy's a genius. He's heard every word we've said. How will we get there?"

"Train," Frau Fleishrnann answered. "It's two days by train from New York."

Max was happy to exchange the pitch and roll of the ship for the jolt and thud of the train. After a few tense days at Ellis Island, he and Bessie, accompanied by Frau Fleishmann and a number of other immigrants, boarded a train for Ohio. Now Max could sit by the window and watch his new country roll past.

Strange birds flitted in the trees. Unusual flowers grew in the meadows. And the man who punched holes in their tickets spoke words Max couldn' t understand. But Bessie sat beside him, her arm around his shoulder. "Here we are, Maxie. In a brand new world. For the rest of our lives, this is where we'll live."

"Will we ever go back to Austria?" Max asked her. " Probably not."

Max could feel the tears once more. "What about my papa?"

"What about him?"

"Will we see him again?"

"Of course, child. Didn't I tell him I'd send for him. Just as soon as I fmd a job and save enough money to bring him over."

It took Bessie only a few days after arriving in Cincinnati to ftnd a job sewing in a garment factory. She rented a room in a building close to her work and enrolled Max in a nearby school where classes were taught in English in the morning and German in the afternoon. In a short time the English words began to make sense to the boy, and within a few months he was talking with his classmates in this new tongue.

It was still dark when Bessie left for work in the mornings. Max, at age 129

six, got himself up and off to school. When classes were over for the day, he played in the streets with his friends, then let himself into the sixth-floor walk-up , where he ate brown bread and cheese and did his homework while waiting for Bessie to return from the factory. She came home at seven after twelve hours of sewing, and prepared supper for herself and Max. They sat in straight brown wooden chairs that Bessie had bought at a second hand shop. After eating, Bessie tumbled into bed. Max washed the supper plates in the tiny sink in the corner of the room. Then he, too, climbed into the bed.

On Sundays, her day off, Bessie bent over a washboard , scrubbing Max's pants and shirts and her long dress and the sheets from their bed.

Then she carried a wicker basket full of wet clothes down the hall to the fire escape, where she hung her laundry on a line which ran between their building and the neighboring tenement. Returning to their small room, she blacked the stove and scrubbed and waxed the floor. When the housework was finished, Bessie and Max walked the streets, getting to know their new neighborhood. Then Bessie would cook a little meat with some cabbage and noodles for their supper, bring in the laundry, and put the clean sheets back on the bed. " Now, Maxie," she would say, "Now we're ready for another week."

I was intrigued as my mother talked of her hard-working stepgrandmother. "Did she ever send for the Rabbi?" I wanted to know. " Did she ever!" Mother answered. " In less than a year, she mailed him the fare for his passage over. But my Grandfather Frank had as much trouble making money in this country as he did in Austria. Bessie was always the main support of the family."

Mother lowered her voice . " Now that Frank and Bessie were together again, well, you know ... they found it hard to keep apart."

I smiled. Sex was not a topic my mother could discuss easily.

"And pretty soon," she continued, "they had two little girls."

I had met my grandfather's half sisters , Sarah and Mary, on family visits to Cincinnati, and I tried to visualize them as young children. Mother and I were sitting on the lanai of my Honolulu home, sipping from tall glasses of pink guava juice, as Mother told me her family's history. The sun was slipping behind Diamond Head, and I realized that the afternoon had slipped from the day. 'T d better start dinner," I said, rising from my wrought-iron garden chair.

"Wait, Nancy," my mother pleaded. "Wait till I tell you what happened next." " Can't we continue this after we eat?"

130

"No. Now .Just this one more thing. You'll never believe it."

I knew that Mother relished this chance to talk, and I was eager to know more about my grandfather's childhood, which to me seemed so remote. And Mother's mind was unpredictable. By the time we finished eating, she might have forgotten the rest of the story; indeed, she might have forgotten she had been telling me a story. So I said, " Come into the kitchen with me. You keep talking while I grate cabbage."

"You'll never believe it," Mother repeated.

Now that she had children of her own to dote over, Bessie was less interested in her stepson. Besides, he was growing older and had lost his boyish cuteness that had so captivated her back in Borslaw. And Bessie, continuing to work long hours in the garment factory, and still make a home for five people, was tired. She had no time for child-rearing theories; nor did she have time to cultivate the "pleasant manner and gentle speech" advocated by woman's magazines of her day. Bessie was annoyed that her husband did not contribute more to the household cash supply.

And she didn't like him keeping a gun in the house.

Frank had brought the gun with him from Austria, for reasons that he couldn't explain even to himself. His father and grandfather had owned guns, he told Bessie. "A man just feels safer, somehow, with a gun around," he said.

Bessie disagreed. "Who's gonna hun us?" It ain't like we was living out on the frontier where we had to watch out for Indians." she added, looking at the sofa with its patched slipcovers, "Ain't nobody going to rob us. What have we got that anybody'd want?"

One Saturday morning Frank and Bessie went to the Temple, leaving Max to take care of his little sisters. Sarah, fourteen- months-old, crawled on the floor, and three-year-old Mary sat on the bed playing with a rag doll. As Max looked about the room, his eye was drawn to the gun, which Frank kept in a bracket on the wall, high above the kitchen table. Max was intrigued with this weapon, partly because it was a source of conflict betwen his parents. He longed to hold the gun in his hands, to touch it, to smell it, to find out what it was about this long brown stick that so interested his father.

Max pushed the kitchen table against the wall and lifted a chair to the top of the table . He climbed onto the chair, but no matter how far he stretched, he couldn't reach the gun. He climbed down and looked about for ways to make his ladder higher. In a few moments he had piled all his school books on top of the chair. He then put another kitchen chair next to his home-made ladder, and from that chair he was able to pull himself to

131

the top of his stack of books. Standing precariously on the books, reaching upward with both arms, he was just able to lift the gun from hooks.

Max jumped to the floor, the gun in his hands. He ran his fmgers its polished wood and put his nose against it to see if he could smell gunpowder. He peered into the nozzle, trying to see a bullet. Then he his hand on the trigger and pointed the gun toward the kitchen window.

"Watch, Mary. Watch, Sarah. Max is going to shoot a bullet out window." The little girls looked up to see their brother pull the Mary fascinated, ran forward.

Bessie and Frank opened the front door and stepped into the just in time to see a shell graze their daughter's cheek and imbed itself the wall next to the kitchen window.

The little girl screamed. Bessie dashed to her daughter, while pulled the gun away from Max. Bessie carried Mary to the sink and ut<>ch,.lfl' the blood from her cheek. Then she sat on the bed and held the frightened child in her arms until the girl stopped crying.

Max felt as though there were long metal spikes in his feet, them to the floor. He looked at his father, sitting in the Morris chair, holding the gun and sadly shaking his head. Baby Sarah, crawled about Rabbi's feet. Max could not move . He looked at his stepmother, who was cradling Mary and murmuring soothing words in Yiddish.

After awhile the girl fell asleep . Bessie lay her gently on top of the bed and covered her with a green and yellow afghan she had crocheted. For a few minutes she stared fondly at the child. Then she walked over to Max, who still stood in the middle of the room. " You could have killed her," Bessie's words leaped at him.

Max said nothing. His stepmother looked huge. "You could have killed her," she repeated, her voice rising in intensity. " Your own sister.

Whatever possessed you? Why did you do it ? What did you think you were doing? Is the very Devil inside your soul?"

Max didn't answer. There was nothing to say. He hadn't meant to hun Mary. He didn't know why he had shot the gun. He couldn't remember why he decided to climb up on those books and take the weapon from the wall.

Bessie did not stop. To Max she seemed to grow larger with each word, until she filled the room . "It's the Devil. That's it. The Devil has gotten inside you . I can tell. Well, I won't have it. I tell you, I won't have it. I ain 't gonna put up with the Devil's child in my house." She drew close to Max but did not touch him .

132

" You get out, Max. Get out of this house, and don' t you never come back."

Max reeled. He caught himself before falling and turned to look at his father, who still sat silently in the chair, holding the gun. Max pleaded with his eyes. No one spoke.

Then Bessie repeated, " Go on. Now. Get out."

Finally the Rabbi roused himself. "Bessie, Bessie, he's only a child.

He didn't mean evil. I know he didn't." " I don' t care what he meant, Frank. I know what he did. And he don't belong in this house no more ." ''I'll get rid of the gun, Bessie. I promise. I'll leave right now. I'll go sell the gun. I ... I should have done it sooner. I'll sell it, Bessie." " Good, Frank. You go do that. And you take the boy. He'll have to find someplace else to live. I don't never want him in this house again."

The Rabbi continued to plead. But Max knew it was hopeless. Once Bessie made up her mind , no one could change it.

He would have to get out. He'd be on his own now. He was eleven years old.

133

Pat Matsueda

THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST for A.M.

Sleep is what he wants to give to his friends, his sister, his daughter, his lover.

The women who married too young, now unable to rest, filling and emptying glasses , hoping sleep will follow the last of the wine.

He wants a salve for their disappointments, a hand to choose between his sister and her mistakes, to lift her from the road where she is perpetually lying, having trusted a stranger's face.

Something to take the tears from his daughter's eyes, abandoned before she could speak, a fluttering angel to hold above her, to receive the recriminations from her lips.

How fine and deep a truth he needs for this sleep, for the woman he needs so much he no longer hears her answers to why she cannot stay, the white wings rustling like fires.

When will she leave, he wonders, how can he deepen that sleep so she'll stay?

134

Tony Friedson TRADITIONALJAPANESE PROVERBS ON LONG POETRY READINGS

I sent the following letter to Diane 'Wrlkowski after an interminable Honolulu reading (nearly three hours) by an anonymous visiting American poet resident in Japan. She had walked out. I suffered: Dear Diane, After last night's reading by the visitor from the misty East, I thought I remembered seeing, in Lafcadio Hearn's collection ofJapanese proverbs, a few which pertained. Checked today. Found I was right: 1.

Fujo seppo suru hoshi wa, hiratake ni umaru

(The poet who reads badly for more than forty five minutes is like a blind man feeling up an elephant).

2.

Fujo seppo suru hoshi wa, gun-mo noa-tai etoino saguru ga gotoshi

(The poet who reads badly for more than fifty minutes is like a syphlitic monkey licking the moon).

3.

Fujo seppo suru hoshi wa, hirotake ni umaru ezu

(The poet who reads badly for longer than an hour will leave his audience unable to see water).

4.

Fujo seppo suru hochi wa, hebi ni ojizu

(The poet who reads badly for more than sixty-five minutes has no fear of the snake).

5.

Fujo seppo suru hochi wa, enko gu tsuki wo torato suru enjogotoshi

(The poet who reads badly for more than ninety minutes shall be reborn as a fungus) .

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Notes on Contributors

Sanora Babb's poems and stories have appeared in magazines in the U.S. and England, twice in the Best Amencan Short Stories anthologies.

Joseph P. Balaz, is presently working in ambiguous anonymity for a landscape company.

C. F. Barnes works as an instructor at Colorado State University, where he received his M.A. in creative writing in 1986. His work has been published in Wisconsitl Review, and has work forthcoming in Mid-American Review and Southern P04Iry Review.

Randy Brieger will participate in the Bucknell Seminar for Young Poets this summer. In the fall he will begin graduate studies in creative writing at the University of Houston.

John Charlot was brought to Hawaii in 1949 by his parents. He has taught in Minnesota, Hawaii and Canada, and has written scholarly and popular works on religion, culture, and the ans. He is currently a Research Associate at the EastWest Center.

Dellzell Chenoweth is a graduate student at the University of Hawaii at Manoa.

Edmund Conti hopes to become the next Ogden Nash or, failing that, the ftnt Edmund Conti.

M. Truman Cooper's cycle of poems about the Vietnam War was awarded ftrst prize in the 1987 New Letters Literary Awards and her chapbook, Substanli4/ Holdings, has recently been published. Her poems have appeared recently in The Bloomsbury Review, Kalliope, Manhattan Poetry Review, and others.

Victoria Emery teaches at the University of Hawaii, after receiving her MA in 1987. She has been published in McGuffin and the Indiana Review.

Marsha Erickson, co-founder of the Volcano Arts Center, is currently Executive Director of the Koke'e Museum of Natural History, in Koke'e, Kaua'i.

Curt Fukumoto was the 1986 recipient of the Ernest Hemingway Award for Creative Writing.

Leonard Goodman has published in The Worchester Review, Playgirl, and other publications. He is a registered nurse working in alcoholism and drug treatment in Seattle. Fiction is his passage to a parallel reality.

Therese Moore Goto was born in Philadelphia. She moved to Hawaii in 1981 to pursue a master's degree in Drama & Theatre at UHM, and has continued on for a master's in ESL. She has been teaching composition there since 1985, has directed two plays at Windward Community College, and has published poetry in Rain Bird, Ramrod, Hawazi路 Review, and the Chaminade literary Review, as well as having work forthcoming in Hawaii Review and Bamboo Ridge. In Spring 1988 she was a recipient of an Academy of American Poets Award sponsored by the UHM Department of English.

136

Jay Griswold works as a seasonal Park Ranger for the Colorado Division of Parks Water Patrol. He has poems forthcoming in the Wllshington Review, BittemJot, CliChe Root, Mid-American Review, and many others.

Carol K. Howell is a 1983 graduate at the University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop.

Her work has appeared in Crazyhorse, Nebraska Review, North American Review, Redbook, Quarry west, and other journals. At present, she is teaching at Syracuse University and working on her first collection of stories.

Donnell Hunter will be a visiting instructor at Brigham-Young University. In December a chapbook of his work was published called Turkeys and Trees.

R.ogerJones teaches in the English Department at Southwest Texas State University in San Marcos. He has published a chapbook, and has poems forthcoming in Texas Review, Poet Lore, and CimmamJn Review.

Brian Khaw's poem is the fruit of many years spent frequenting chicken fights on the islands ofKauai and Oahu. It reflects that subculture, its rules and codes of honor.

Jeanne Kawelolani Kinney is a graduate of the Bowling Green State University MFA program. She has poems forthcoming in Ascent, Sepctrum, and Chronos-

cope.

Jim Kraus teaches English at Chaminade University of Honolulu and serves as Poetry Editor of Chaminade Literary Review. His poetry has appeared in Hapa, CLR., Pequod, San Marcos Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and other places.

Susan Kraus, a graduate of the University of Hawaii, is studying dance, French, and contemporary poetry. She lives in Manoa Valley.

Mindy H. Kranenburg's poetry has appeared in journals in the U.S. and abroad, including Chaminade Literary Review, Coe Review, Crosscu"ents, and Kalliope. She teaches workshops on Long Island and edits the Writers ' Alliance

Newsleller.

Pat Matsueda is the author of The Fish Catcher(Petronium Press, 1985 ).

Michael McPherson is presently a student at Lewis & Clark Northwestern School of Law in Portland, Oregon.

Patrick B. Mikulec's work has appeared in several magazines, such as Greensboro

Review, Hawaii PIICtfic Review, Negative Capability, Northwest Magazine, Outerbn'dge, The Phoenix, South Florida Poetry Review, webster Review, and Wisconsin Review. He was born in Honolulu and now teaches high school English in Canby, Oregon.

James A. Miller lives in Cleveland and has appeared in several score journals.

Among them are Commonweal, Descant, Poem and Chronoscope.

Nora Mitchell has had poems in several journals including Calyx, Hanging Loose, Ploughshares, and Sojourner. She is also in an anthology called Witness and Wllit: 13 New England Poets (Every Other Thursday Press, 1988}, and her book }Our Skin Is A Country is due out in October 1988.

Nancy Alpert Mower teaches at the University of Hawaii at Manoa and is State Project Director for "Let's Talk About It-Hawaii." Her fifth children's book, I Visit TUtu Kane and Grandpa, will be published in 1988.

137

B. Z. Niditch has recent poems in Confrontation, Minnesota Review, and Ne. Letters. A new collection of poems, On The Eve, will be published in London.

Gary Pak's work has appeared in Bamboo Ridge: The Hawaii Wn'ters' Quarter/,, Chaminade Literary Review, and Honolulu magazine.

Leialoha Apo Perkins lives in Makaha Valley, one of six independent valleys on West O'ahu. The valleys are guarded by mountain mo'o (lizards, reptiles), giants that physically divide them as they look to the sea. Perkins lives in this spiritually untamed country with two sons, nearing draft age, and a Classicist husband steeped in Greek folklore and history.

Louis Phillips-a poet and playwright whose collection of poems, The Time, TIN Hour, The Solitariness ofthe Place, was published by Swallow's Tale Press, and whose full-length plays include The Last ofthe Marx Brothers' Wn'ters and The Ballroom in St. Patn'ck 's Cathedral-teaches creative writing at the School of Visual Arts in New York City.

Kenneth Pobo teaches English at Widener University in Chester, Pennsylvania and is poetry editor of Widener Review. His work has appeared in MSS, Cum-

berland Poetry journal, Montana Review, Centennial Review, Midwest Q~~~~r足 terly and others. His chapbook is entitled A Pause Inside Dusk (Song Press, 1986).

Alan Seaburg is Curator of Manuscripts, Harvard Divinity School. He is the author of two poetry chapbooks: Thoreau College and The Blue Robe. He also serves as poetry and fiction editor of Snowy Egret.

Marjorie Sinclair's The Place }Our Body Is was published by Petronium Press and is distributed by the University of Hawaii Press. Her poems have appeared in local magazines , such as Chaminade Literary Review, Hapa, Literary Arts Hawaii, and others.

William Stafford's new collection of poems, An Oregon Message, was recently published by Harper and Row. He served as the first judge for the University of Hawaii Press' Pacific Poetry Series competition.

Kathryn Takara teaches both at Windward Community College and the University of Hawaii at Manoa. She lives near Kaaawa.

Reuben Tam's poems have appeared in Bamboo Ridge, Chaminade Literary Review, Hapa, The Paper, and in three anthologies: The Mountain Spirit (Overlook/Viking Press), Poetry Hawaii (University of Hawaii Press), and A Sense Of Place (Saturday Review Press). He lives in Kapaa, Kauai.

John Unterecker is the author of Stone (University of Hawaii Press). His poems have appeared recently in Caltfornia Quarterly, Ironwood, Poetry, and Willow

Springs.

Robert VanderMolen is the author of six collections of poetry (which include Along the River and Circumstances) and is poetry editor of Michigan Sports Gazette.

He lives and works in Grand Rapids, Michigan with his wife and two children.

Robert Warth has had poems in Gypsy, Golden Isis, MacGuffin, Riverrun, Minotaur, Ploughshares and others. He is the recipient of The World of Poetry Golden Poet Award for 1988.

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Nathan Whiting is a relentless explorer of New York City. His most recent chapbook is entitled, Contemplations (M.A.F. Press).

Peter Wild teaches creative writing at the University of Arizona.

Stephen Jarrell William's work has appeared in Black wam路or Review. He is the father of four and works at a software company in California.

I.cona Yamada is a graduate student in English at the University of Hawaii at Manoa.

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AUTHOR INDEX

This is an author I contributor index of the HR issues from Volume 1, Number 1 through Issue 24 (Fall 1988), and includes HR's Special Supplement (Fall 1983). Titles of works are listed under each name. In the case of untitled poems, the first line of each will appear in quotes beneath the name of its author. The abbreviations used are as follows: (p) =poem (s) =story v =volume SS = Special Supplement

Volume 2, Number 2 was the last issue with a volume number; thereafter, issues of the journal are given only as issue numbers.

Abraham, Geoline Mariner's Princess, The (p) 16:60 Abrams, Doug All Things Abstract (p) 8:59-60 Adams, D. L. Rabbit's Luck (s) 7:3-16 Adres, Ben 'Iilk.ing Advice (p) 16:86 AiCh'ing Snow Falls on the Land ofChina (p) 10: 79-81 Akamine, Sandra Trade for Daydreams, A (p) 9:64-6 5 Akamine, Sheri Mae Sleeping Cousin (p) 9:75 Summer(p) 9:76-77 Aleixandre, Vincente AMi Penv (To My Dog) (p) v2,1:40-41 Arbol, El (The Tree) (p) v2 ,1:26-27 Como Moisis Es el Viejo (The Old Man is Like Moses) (p) v2 ,1:44--45 Cuerpo y el Alma, El (The Body and the Soul) (p) v2 ,1:28- 29 Explosion, La (The Explosion) (p) v2 ,1: 36-39

Uueve (It's Raining) (p) v2,1:42-43 Madre, Madre (Mother, Mother) (p) v2 , 1: 16- 17 Mano Entregada (Her Hand Given Over) (p) v2,1:30- 31 Muerla o Antesala de Consulta, La (Death or the ~iting Room) (p) v2,1 :8- 11 Nino y el Hombre, El (The Boy and the Man) (p) v2 ,1:32-35 Selva y el Mar, La (The jungle and the Sea) (p) v2,1 : 18-21 Unidad en Ella (Wholeness Within Her) (p)v2,1 :22- 23 Vals, FJ (The Waltz) (p) v2,1 : 12- 15 Vida (Life) (p) v2 ,1:24-25 Altizer, Nell Demeter's Lament (p) 9:135-36 From a Sequence (p) 8:40-41 Ghost Story (p) 14:90- 91 Haleiwa Churchyard (p) 6 :38 Late News (p) 6:38 St. Christina the Astonishing (p) 9:139 Six Sonnets (p) 9:140-45 Workshop (p) 9:137- 38

141

Among, Michael "Pregnant man has words, The" (p) v1, 1:43 "Takingachance" (p) 19:57 "White horse of the old chinese graveyard, The" (p) v1,1:42 Anderson, Elliott Virginia Flynn, excerpt from (s) 5:33-35 Anderson, Erland Old Papers (p) 19:21-23 Anderson,Jane I WearaRockAroundMy Neck (p) 9:63 Moonside (p) 5:55 Tortoise (p) 9:62 WaitingforaRide (p) 5:54 Andrasick, Kathleen Dishwasher Fears (p) 22:17 Appleman, Philip Scrapbook (p) 5:40-41 Arney, Tim WolfShepherd Cross (p) 15:45 Atkins, Priscilla Spumoni (p) 18:60-61 Still Life Overlooking Lake Michigan (p) 23:32 Atwood, Margaret Right Hand Fights the Left, The (p) 9:52-53 Solstice Poem (p) 9:48-51 Babb, Sanora Above Malpaso Creek (p) 24:54-55 Last Yt!ar, The (p) 21:20 Baber, Asa Surfer, The (s) 10:18-21 Bair, Donna see dgbair Balaban,John Letter from a Vietnamese Bar Girl (p) v1, 2:45 Baland, Timothy Translation: v2, 1: 17 see also Aleixandre, Vincente Balaz,Joseph P. Anyting You Kill You Gada Eat (p) 24:44 just Call Me Nero (p) 23:120-21 Lounge Lizard (p) 21:44-46 Nightmare (p) 16:57-58 On That Same Beach Beneath a Full Moon (p) 17:74-75 When I Get to Heaven (p) 19:54-55 When I Tum Out Hawaiian Electnc (p) 20:79-80

Ball, Angela Essay: Reading Larkin "Something AlmostBeingSaid," 21 :94-103 Filings(p) 18:33-34 Barasch, Charles DejeunerSurL'Herbe, Le (p) 7:62 World Series (p) 7:63 Barnes, C. F. Pearl I See You Rescue (p) 24:75 Baysa, Fred 0.

Cane Fire (p) 18:88-91 Mejiro in a Guava Grove (p) 16:37 Bell, Marvin Conversation with Marvin Bell, 13:56-63 Correspondence [with William Stafford) (p) 13:64-70 Review: Poetry Hawaii, eds. F. Stewart and]. Unterecker, 10:186-87 Bensko, Rosemary Husband Comes Home from Work, The (p) 18:32 Birney, Earle Four Feet Between (p) v1,1:20-22 Blackwell, Anna Derby Howe Kanikau (s) 16:12-19 Bleything, Dennis H. Two Haiku (p) 12:69 Bly, Robert Six Wang Wei-P'ei Ti Translations (p) v1 , 2:30-32 Sleepersjoining Hands, reviewed, v2,1: 89-94 Translations: v1,1:4-5; v2,1:13, 15, 25, 29, 43, 54-55; v2,2:4 see also Aleixandre, Vincente; Kabir; Transtromer, Tomas; Voznesensky, Andrei Two Poems Written on a Visit to Hawaii (p)v1,1:3 Boone, Leslie Elmo Gets Energized (s) 9:44-47 Bowie, Robert Day/amps (p) 14:55 Surviving the Seduction ofNature's Beauty (p) 22:44-45 Boyd, Greg Evolution (p) 22:46 Boyle, T. Coraghessan Fall ofNed Rise, The (s) 11:23-33 Poison (s) 8:83-93 Bozanic, Nick At the Frederic Inn (p) 17:92-93 Woodchuck (p) 23:6-7

142

Brady, Brady T.

One Morning in April (s) 22:74 Painting the Pieces (s) 21:36-37 Brieger, Randy

Communion (p) 24:123 Bruchac, Joseph

Laguna Man, A (p) 9:66 Morning Song (p) 9:67 Buehrig, Roben E. ~tch (s) 5:65-81 Burgess, Puanani 'Awapuhi (p) 9:61 Burke, Tim Desire (p) 6:37

Poem for the 10th Year(p) 6:36 Burrows, E. G.

Language About to Be Lost, The (p) 23: 52

Running to Hedges (p) 23:53 Bushnell, 0 . A. Stone ofKannon, The reviewed , 10:18182 Cabacungan, Darryl

Pa Makani i ka Pauma (Wind Movement) (p) 8:61-62 Cai, Qi-jiao Pearl, The (p) 23:90-91 Cairns, Scott C.

Language ofHands, The (p) 12:57 Caparoso, Fred

Two Folk Tales(p)6:14 Carroli,Jeffrey Review: The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen, 10: 183-85 Stationer, The, excerpt from (s) 11:4961 Carson, Meredith S. Fish (p) 19:7 1 jellyfish (p) 22:22 Windows (p) 22:23 Cashman, Thomas M. Sunset Beach at Night (p) 16:66 Chadwick,Joseph Translations: 20:11 , 13 see also Lirna,Jose Lezama Chamberlain, Karen Patrice A Tea (p) 12 :34 Chang, Laban Lady from a Boston Flea Market (p) 5:4243 Rem Insomnia (p) 5:43

Charlot, John Essay: The Great Hawaiian Feather Worker, 8:13-14 ThreePoemsforTem"(p) 24:42 Chenoweth, Dellzell Party for Gus, A (s) 24:92- 104 Ching, Laureen see Kwock, Laureen Cho, Chi-hun Falling Blossoms (p) 10:104 Song ofthe Cavern (p) 10:103 Chock, Eric &it, The (p) 16:23-24 Eric Chock Interview. SS Home Free (p) 16:25-26 Immigrant, The (p) 10:137-38 Lily Pond (p) 18 :62-63 Manoa Cemetery (p) 6:42-44 Meaning ofFishing, The (p) 18 :64 Moths (p) 6:41 Papio (p) 8:65 Roommate, The (p) 10:139 ~iting (p) 5:51-53 Clute, Mitchell Apothecary's Grave, The (p) 23:97 Cobb, Nora Baby, Baby (s) 20:40-44 Essay: Food As an Expression of Cuirural Identity in jade Snow Wong and Songs for jadina, 23:12-16 Coggshall, Gene Night (s) v2 ,1:84-88 Coleman, Wanda Blind Betty (p) 12 :58 My Love Bnngs Flowers (p) 13:2425 Conti, Edmund Haiku (p) 24:89 Cook, Christine see Kirk-Kuwaye, Christine Cooper, Earl

After Giving Up Fishing for the Day (p) v2,2 :46

Dn"ving Over to the Coast One Night Drunk on Port Wine (p) 7: 34 In Salmon Run (s) v 1, 1:38-4 1 Passage (p) 5:44 Semaphores (p) 5:45 Cooper, M. Truman

Catching Your Death (p) 24:78-79 Cotter, Craig

143

In the Middle ofIt (p) SS

Cronin,John C. Colloid(s) 8:31-35 Crow, Mary Night Train (p) 18:83-84 Curry, Steven Mandala (p) 12:45 Why WeNeedKites(p) 19:20 Cuthrell, Beth Dead Donna, The (s) 17:79-90

Driscoll,Jack

Driving Towards Sleep (p) 18:97 Hermit j ournals, The, excerpt from (s) 19:48-52 Dudko, Rob

Might Leave Here by Summer's End (s) 15 :56-67 Dumaran, Adele "Dear Ginger" (p) 17:76- 77

For the Mlln ofa Hundred HalfSongs (p) 23:3

Damacion, Kenneth Zamora

Moorea (p) 17:78 WOrld Is a Wedding, The (p) 23:1-2

Young Hands, Young Face (p) 16:34-35 Damon, Philip

Growing Up in No Time (s) 6:76- 83 Daniels,Jim

Cold Sheets (p) 12:32-33 Moving Out for the Last Time (p) 16: 36

Until Suddenly (p) 21:18 Danks, Bill Angeliktl (p) 16:55-56 Paris in the Winter Pillffin the RAin (p)

Dunham, Vera Translations: v2,1:54-55 see Voznesensky, Andrei Eakins, Patricia

In the Garden Late in the Day (s) 21:2130 Eaton, Charles Edward Blue Nude (p) 15:54

Exhibition ofBiue Ladies (p) 12:31 Hacienda (p) 18:59 Love Boat, The (p) 19:30 Mlln from Buena Vista, The (p) 10: Ill Raison D'etre ofRApture, The (p) 15 :55 While Feel (p) 8:38

16:54 Davenpon, Guy

Richard Nixon Freischiitz RAg, The (s) 5:56-64 Davids, Kenneth 1ianslations from the Poetry of the Hula (p) vl,2:3-19 Delp, Michael Killings (p) 18:98 Demarest, Susan Shore Leave (p) 12:61 Desy, Peter Mother, Moving (p) 20:84 Dey, Richard Morris Approaching Bequill (p) 20:70-71 Archipelago (p) 23:103 At Hill House (p) 23:102

Edel, Leon

From My journals, 8:6-12 Edel, Marjorie see Sinclair, Marjorie Edson, Russell Nurse, The (p) vl,2:49 Old WOman and the Moon, The (p) vl,2:49

Strange People in Space IA Meditation (p) v2 ,2:60 Emery, Victoria

Ballad ofthe Village School Teacher (p) 15:2-3

Boats at Anchor, Out on Their Moorings (p) 23:104-105 Shipli~ea Woman, A (p) 21 :4-5 dgbair (Donna Bair) Ferry 'crosstheRi11er(p) 12:70-71

Greta's Law (s) 14:85-89 Halea.Cala, The House ofthe Sun (p) 14:63-64

Perktl's Corn Mash (s) 24:1-4 Reading Anna!VJrenina (p) 15:1 Snake, The (s) 14:83-84 Sweetheart, The (p) 15:4 WOman in the Beach Par~ Ga11e Me a Lili~oi, A (p) 15:5-6

Dickler, Howard

Act V.: Hamlet for the Hell o/11 (s) 5:8298 Ding, Dennis Translation: 23:91 see Cai, Qi-jiao Domina, Lynn Wedding Feast, The (p) 18:35-36 Dorman, Sonya NightLife, A (p) 12:51

Enos, Fay

Closure, The (p) 8:72 Erickson, Marsha

Road to l:VJwai~oi, The (p) 24:52-53

144

Saddened by the Death ofFrancois Truf foul (p) 17:48-49 Set~eral Et~enings with the Honol11lu Symphony Orchestra (p) 16:40 Silt~er Button (p) 16:41 Toward the Caf!e ofthe Three Brothers

Evans, David 7-11 in AleXIlndritJ, The (p) v2 ,2:33 Fagerlund, Frances Dust (p) 23:96

House at Poipu BetKh (p) 23 :94-95 Falco, Edward FJegy (p) 13 :95 Farrell, M. A. Killens, The (p) 18:78-79 Kramskoy 's Portrait ofShishkin (p) 18:82 White hawk's Masts at Twilight (p) 18:8081 Farrolchzaad, Foroogh Let's Bring Faith to the Onset ofthe Cold Season (p) 13:46-55 Rebirth, A (p) 10:161-64 Felton, Kristi

Maple and Kukui (p) 7:37 Fiedler, Sally Andersen Curvature ofthe Spine (p) 6:31 Finnell, Dennis Double Epitaph (p) 12:74 Learning to Sleep (p) 12:72-73 Ford, Richard Rummage Through the CorrKies, A (s) v2,146-63 Foster, Sesshu Translation: 22:4-6 see also Torres, Rodolfo Fox, Siv Cedering ComaBernices (p) v2,2:5 Letter, A (p) v2,2:6-7 Like A Woman in the Kitchen (p) v 1, 1: 68 Frieben, Sruan I Don't Quite Understand You (p) 22:33 Translations: 10:122-125; 19:25 see also Holub, Miroslav; Krolow, Karl Friederich, Reinhard Review: Maui the Demigod by Steven Goldsberry, 16:104-108 Friedson, Anthony Conversation with George MacBeth, 7: 66-81 jumping Galley (p) 19:53 Nones for an Expectant Bronze (p) 8: 77

Traditionaljapanese Pro11erbs on Long Poetry Readings (p) 24:135 Frumlcin, Gene

Androgynous Mind (p) 17:47 Islllnds, The (p) 17:46 Ongins (p) 17:50-51

(p) 14:13-15 Fujimoto, Alan S.

Fllaes ofSnow (s) v2,2:48-59 Fukumoto, Cure

Abo11tS11mmerin 1915 (p) 24:30 December (p) 24:28 lnf!tsible Snowman, The (s) 19:6367

Long Drifle, The (p) 24:29 Funge, Roben Rt~nes (p) 22:34 Testimony (p) 22:35 Garbisch, Martha Webb Calling Song (p) 5:20 Looking Glllss (p) 6:17-18 Master Bt~ilders (p) 6:16-17 Shadow Piece (p) 5:21 "Stone hands, tender palms up" (p) 5:23 Wailea Stream (p) 5:22 Wet Cat~e (p) 6:15 Garrett, Caroline Ha~uaBrUige (p) 6:21 KiloPohak11 (p) 6:19-20 Notre Dame (p) 6:20 Gasinski, Thaddeus Translation: vl,2: 29 see also Voznesensky, Andrei Gaspari-Roberts, Vesna Gregory Orr in Conversation, 15 :33-39 Gearen, Barbara CoUectedLetters (p) 21:68-70 Genega, Paul Pharaoh (p) 13:91 Gersaba, George Short (s) 7:23-33 Gibson, Graeme Commt~nton, excerpt from (s) 9:4-12 Gibson, Margaret Speahng Truth (p) 6:32 Givens,John Toads' Eyes (s) 7:45-55 Glasser, Perry Panic (s) 14:58-62 Goins, Timothy S.

Rt.lging Thirst for the National Drink of Hawaii, A (s) 9:35-43

145

Goldbanh, Alben How the Arl Got Mmle (p) 5:24-27 Linkage, The (p) 5:28 Goldsberry, Steven Cocklamation (p) 15: 18 Goldsberry's Gazebo (p) 15:16 MauiLiftstheSky (s) 10:22-30 Maui the Demigod, reviewed, 16:104-108 Organic Harps Diversely Framed (p) 15: 17 Poem as Potential, The (p) 12:67 Sculptor's Night Out, The (p) 12:66 Way It Began, The (s) 17:72-73 Golt, Rick Hawai'i Hawai'i, reviewed, 19:76-77 Gonzalez, Rafael Jesus Windsongfor Pn'nce Henry's Daughter (p)v2,1:56 Goodenough,]. B. Reflection (p) 14:41 Goodman, Leonard Falling Bodies (s) 24:45-50 Gorham, Peter Desert Rain (p) 19:37 Peregn'ne Falcon (p) 16:70 Gorst, Norma Turning Point: Ki'i Pond (p) 22:51 '0/tJi (p) 22:50 Goto, Therese Moore Affinity with Season (p) 22:70 Incision (p) 19:68-69 One Lanai at the Halfmoon (p) 24: 109 Review: The Paper's Farewell Issue, "Night Suites." 22:86-94 Gonlieb, Bill Mark, Chapter 2 (p) 12 :62 Matthew, ChapterS (p) 12:63 Matthew, Chapter 15 (p) 12:63 Matthew, Chapter 23 (p) 12 :62 Graham, David Boys and Fireworks (p) 20:56-5 7 Green, Bob Human Sacrifice (p) 14 :80-8 1 Sojourn (p) 14:78-79 Grey, John Years ofBuzzards (p) 21: 33 Griswold ,Jay Sanctuary (p) 22:52 Swallows, The (p) 24:37 Grover, Laura Stiver Hairpins (p) 6:48 Winds ofStraw (p) 6:47 Gurley, James Sunn'se (p) 22:73

HR. (Hawaii Review) staff Conversation with Diane Wakoski, 9: 1329 Eric Chock Interview, SS Interview with Galway Kinnell, An, 12 :88-96 Interview with Louis Simpson, An, 12:97-102 Habova, Dana Translations: 10:122-25 see also Holub, Miroslav H~a

Epigrams from the Prakrit (p) 10: 11314 Hall,Jonathan Penitent Magdalene, The (s) 20:94-105 Hall, Oakley Flame Ceremony, excerpt from The Spirtli Castle (s) 8:15-17 Hamabata, Marla Oh Wow (s) 13 :99-104 Hamasaki, Richard AfterKubutsu (p) 6:39

By Kubutsu (p) 6:39 Essay: The Cantos of Ezra Pound: East vs.

West, 10:173-77 I Don't Write No Haiku (p) 20:36 "Serf brake" (p) 20:37 "Sun/an orderly rising" (p) 6:40 Hammond, Anne Empathy (p) 8:54 Fish Omen (p) ss Hammond, Karla M. Interview with Judith Minty, An, 12 :10312 LetterforaBrother(p) 14 :26 Paradox(p) 14:25 Hannigan, Cheryle Search for Walter Horace, The (s) 14:4954 Harada, Gail New Year(p) 8:66 Harper, L. L. Vanities (p) 23:77 Hayes, Maria Mitchell Killer (s) 23:111-15 Hazen,James Hartfield (p) 23:17 Heckathorn, John ForE. S. H., 1918-1973 (p) 12:80-81 Heller, Steve Man Who Drank a Thousand Beers, The, reviewed, 18:117-18

146

Henderson, Archibald Five Sisters (p) 13:96 Higgins, Michael

Cambodi<l: Invitation lo an Inlineranl Reaper(p) 13:45 Hilgers, Tom Conversation with Marvin Bell, A, 13 : 56-63 Hindley, Chris Chinese Aunty (p) 23:78 Mrs. Mitchell (p) 23:79 Hindley, Norman A"hythmi<l (p) 19:1 Billy's (p) 23 :58 Black Shoes for the Dance (p) 16:82- 83 Blackballed (p) 9:124-25 Breath Mini (p) 16:80-81 FJe11en Lo"aine Street (p) 9:133 Fan (p) 17:4-5 GoodNight, October(p) 19:2

Holding the New Moon for One Hour Near Christmas, She Lighh.ng the Tree (p) 20:14-15 Home Movies (p) 9:122-23 KJJthleen Like a Zebra (p) 9:126 Keyboard (p) 9:127-28 Killing (p) SS Landlady (p)16:84-85 Land's End (p) 9:131-32 Martha (p) 17:3 Mature Male, The (p) 17:6 Monastery (p) 21:74-76 Shopping the Liquor Bam in Alameda with Tom (p) 23:56-57 That's Allfor Picasso (p) 20:16-17 Winter Eel (p) 21 :77-79 Winter Eel, reviewed, 21:80-93 WoodButcher(p) 9:129-30; 21:72-73 Holub, Miroslav

Dangers ofNight, The (p) 10:125 Galileo Galilei (p) 10:123-24 Newborn Baby (p) 10:122 Hongo, Garrett Kaoru

Hongo Store 29 Miles Volcano Hilo, Hawaii, The (p) 7:42 Rice (p) 7:41 Whatfor(p) 10:109-10 Honma, Dean H.

Abandonment of Wild Pigs, The (p) 16: 90-91

Am"val (p) 21:67 C-Note (p) 16:88-89 Night Dive (p) SS

Walerdancing (p) 21:66 Horvath, Elemer

First Time , The (p) 17 :94 Howard, Richard

Another Language (p) 8:36 Howell, Carol K.

Birthday Party, The (s) 24:16-24 Howes, Craig Review: Ho 'iho 'i Hou, ed. Rodney Morales, 16:109-12 Hsin Ti Dream ofthe Stn"ngs, The (p) 10:84 Elegy (p) 10:85 Lake Pomegranates (p) 10:83 Outside the Door (p) 10:87-88 Parting at Night (p) 10:82 Wordsofthe Wanderer(p) 10:86 Hudson, Lois Next Summer (s) 9:112-20 Hulme, Keri Leaving My Bones Behind (p) 10:153160 Hunter, Donnell Gen/Uins (p) 24: 51 Yearofthe Brothers, The (p) 22:14-16 Hyde, Lewis Essay: When Fish Dissolve in Light, v2, 1: 2-7 Translations: v2,1:9, 11, 19, 21, 23, 27, 31, 33, 35, 37, 39, 41,45 see also Aleixandre, Vincente lgnatow, David "Body, listen tome" (p) vl,l : l 7 Confession, A (p) vl,2 :44 FJegy, An (p) vl,2:43 For john Berryman (p) vl,2:42 "Ilook the sun in the eye" (p) vl , 1: 17 "I shake my fiSt at a tree" (p) vl, 1:17 Subway (p) vl ,l : l8 Ikenaga, Cindy S. Feelings on Faye (p) 13:93 Imamura, Thteo My Garden (p) 7:39 Silent Fly, A (p) 7: 38 Small Thing (p) 7:40 lmata, Michelle Blue Fabric (p) v2,2:32 Ireland, Thelma Post Storm (p) 14:27 Ishihara, Yoshiro Escape (Dass6} (p) 10: 100-101 Condition, The (j6ken) (p) 10:102

147

Kandel,Janos

Ishii,Emi

Thin~ ofthe Children, dren (p) 1~ :44

April (p) v1,2:~8 M.ahh Pumping Station (p) v1,1 :46 'li~Uttmobaba (p) v1 , 2:~8 Issa HiRhl Poems by Issa (p) 10: 121

the Little Chil-

Kaneko, Mitsuharu ShiiTh (p) 10:89-97 Kanemitsu, Daniel

Ko-Uta (p) 10 : 16~ Lullaby Traditional (p) 12:68

Izen, Allan

My 01' Man (s) 21:40-41

Kanemoto, Gayle

Expecting Amy (s)

Jaffrey, Zaigham AnarU/i (p) v1,2:78 James, David

Sand Castles (s) SS

Air l-Ou Left Behind, The (p) 22:18-

Kates,].

Domestic Archaeology (p) 22:26

19

September Again (p) 19:8-9 Stealing from my Grandmother(s) 13 :

Kauraka, Kauraka Flying Fish (p) 20:92 Kazumi see llmiguchi, Chris Kelly-DeWitt, Susan

21-22 Jenkins, Louis Bas~etball (p) v1,1:14 Doing Nothing (p) v1,1: 14

Migration (p) 22 : ~6 Shadow Woman (p) 22:~7-~8

Fall, The (p) 7:~7 First Snow (p) 7:60 For Marlin Per~ins (p) v1,1 : 1~ Going Someplace (p) 7:61

Kelm, Karlton

]aniiiiTJ Thaw (s) 19:11-19 Kerrigan, T. S.

Dublin Re11isited (p) 22:63

~e,

The(p}v1,1:14 lighthouse, The (p) 7:60

Kessler, Milton

Motorcycle (p) 7:~8 Pool (p) 7:~9

Khaw, Brian

Sailing too Far, reviewed , 6:3-10 Nalo

Fights (p) 24:80-81

Celebration (p) v2,2:45 To Kim: A Poem in Two Parts (p) v2,2:4~ Vietcong Woman (p) v1,1:47

Blue Sonnet (p) 8:39 Jones, Roben L.

Setting This Down (p) v1,1:69

Kimball, Anhur G.

Jones, Roger

Late in the Season (p) 20:8~ Wonder Wheel (p) 16:69

Best Friend, Killed on a Rig (p) 18:99 Gold(p) 24:12-13 Juarroz, Robeno

Kingston, Maxine Hong

On Understanding Men (s) 7:43-44

Sixth Vertiul Poetry, excerpt from (p) 20:

Kinnell , Galway

46-53

FIITm P~ture (p) 10:133 Ferry Stopping at McMahon 's Point, The (p) 10:132 Goodbye (p) 8:82

Kabir

jilT Filling, The (p) v2,2:4 Road ofPraise, The (p) v2,2:4 Kalamaras , George

Lcng Boats, The (p) 12:76-77 "Moon is some beached fish, The" (p) 12:77 12 :7~

Kalpakian, Laura

Bare Root Season, The (s) 14:28-40 Hunters in the Fields ofAugust (s) 13:10-20 Kamei, Marlene

Ch~~en

Kimata, Glenn

Johnson, Nick

Passing Lcwell, Indiana (p)

6 : 66-7~

Kaneshiro, Wayne

we Are Far & Farfrom Amenca (p) 8:7~-

Interview with Galway Kinnell, An, 12: 88-96 " Little sorrows" (p) 1,1: 70 Mortal Acts, Mortal Words, reviewed , 12: 113- 16 Kinney, Jeanne Kawelolani What Nancy Said (p) 24: 11 Kirby, David Matthew Arnold on Mars (p) 19:46 Kirk-Kuwaye, Christine

MotherofPearl(s) 1~:19-24 Night Stalker (s) v1,1: 72-78

76

148

Roadside Graveyard,

Kissick, Gary

Bellybutton (s) 20:72-78 GingkoLeaf(p) 16:20 IfStone were Rain (p) 8:43-44 Manoa Valley Theatre Ghosts (p) 16:

At Nuuanu Memorial Park (p) 12 : 13 Dark with the Scent ofSenko (p) 12:

21

11

In Winter Tones ofWind (p) 8:5 3 La11a (p) 12 :8 Recollechon (p}12: 10 Shadows in Charcoal(p) 12:12 Upon Yc>ur Departure (p) 12 :9

24 Kleck, Judith

Turning Stones (p) 18:56 Kluzak, Zdenek M.

Returning from the Capital ofa Small Country to a Small Town in Amenca (p) 23:118 Translation: 17:94 see also Horvath, Elemer

Voyager; The (p) 23:117 Komo, Susan Moon (p) 19:44 Kono,Juliet S.

Amateur Photographers (p) 13:44 CarSounds(p) 16:28- 31 For Comfort (p) 16:32-33 Pearls (p) 23:54 Sulfur(p) 18:73-74

Kuschinslci, Charles Dnving (s) 22:66-69 Kuttner, Edith Translation: 13:111-20 see also MontesHuidobro, Matias Kuttner, Milton Translation: 13:111-20 see also MontesHuidobro, Matias Kuzma, Greg Scene (p) 5:38- 39 Kwock, Laureen Fe11er (p) 17:97 Mr. Charmer(s) 22:27-31 Lakehomer,Leona ~Are

Dew on the Mountain Path (p) 6:22-24 Drinking Hot Sake with My Grandfather (p) v2,2:35 Tantalus (p) v1 ,1:45

FreshAkule (s) v1 ,2:35-41 Kraus,Jim 24:120-122 Island (p) 24:119

Looking for Yesterday (p) 10:134 Two al Twilight (p) 6:35 Kraus, Susan

Onginal Man"ners, The (p) 24:39 Kresge , Lisa

Poem in Three Parts (p) 6:45 Under These &11es (p) 6:46 Krolow, Karl

Ober Biographien (On Biographies) (p) 19:24-25 Kronenburg, Mindy H .

Circular Mohon (p) 24:14- 15 Kubo, Leonard

Lardas, Konstantinos

Cypress Trees, the Sun, The (s) v1,2 :7986 Lardner, Ted

Legends (p) 20:69 Larsen, Wendy Wilder Calling Home (p) 12:44 Coming Home (p) 19:6-7 For Chi Phuc (p) 12 :42 Star-Crossed (p) 12:43 Lasalle, Peter Dream Leakage (p) 13:97 Lau, Alan Chong Sun &ten, the Son Born, The (p) 10: 149-50

Three Sketches from the American Restaurant-EI Dorado Street- Stockton 1944 (p) 10:147-48

After a NtghtofWking lo Pat (p) v1 , 2:77

Death ofthe Horse (p) v1 ,1:33 In the Rain (p) v1,1:33

What Is Given (p) 6:49

Lamansky, Roben

Koo, Alvin

Falling Away oflllusion, The (p) 8:52 Fountain ofYc>ulh: Hawaii!Fionda (p)

Town (p)

Match, The (s) 14:76-77 Kuribayashi, Laurie

On Sleeping with Kittens (p) 16:22 Outer Islands, reviewed , 18: 119-

Northern Blue (p) 13:26-27 Kolumban, Nicholas At a Party (p) 19:28-29 New Yc>rk (p) 23 :116

~ihee

v1,1:34 Kubo, Mari

Lau-Manning, Carolyn

Poe1 Explains Love to Doctor (p) 12 :60

149

Liska, Jaroslav

Lautermilch, Steven

Neighbor Lmly (p) 9:83

Wanderer, A (p) 16:65 I.iu, Stephen Shu Ning AnzonaMoon (p) 8:74 Logan,John Cambridge Reverie (p) 12:78 Poem for My Brother (p) v2,2:2-3

Laymance, Walter M. K. Ke KupumtNo'eau [Hawn./Eng. version] (p) 12:86-87 Lee, Lanning BomandBred(s) 17:33-43 Lee, Peter H.

Poem for My FriendPeter at Pi'ihana (p)

Celebration ofContinuity: Themes in Clamc East Anan Poetry, reviewed,

v2,1:76-.83 Lohmann , Jeanne

10:178-80 Selection of Contemporary East Asian Poets, A, comp. and ed. by, 10:74-108 Translations: 10:103-108 see also Cho, Chi-hun Lee, Tony That Coming ofSound (p) 8:56 Leith, Barbara R. Piela (s) 23:22-28 LesCarbeau, Mitchell Bodysurfer (p) 19:4-5 Crescent Park (p) 16:50 Heaven ofWitches, The (p) 16:47-49 Nesting Groundin Fall, The (p) 15:29 Levitin, Alexis Translation: 19:39, 41 see also Sena, Jorge de I.i Ho Li P'ing at the Lute (p) v1,2:72-73 I.ifshin, Lyn Annie's ListofLast Things (p) 18:75 Flame Swallower's Woman, The (p) 20:93 He Said in the Hospital It (p) 21:52-53

I Didn't Get Yc>ur Violin Back to You I've

Shell Beach (p) 13:40 London,Jonathan

Approaching Infinity (p) 22 :12-13 Friends (s) 18:106-16 Semana Santa in Antigua Guatemala (p) 22:8-9

Two Widows anda Widower(p) 22:1011 Long,Jim

Pieces ofSkin (p) 8:57 Loong, May Sum

Dollmaker, The (p) 14 :1-2 Lord, Nancy

When Bonnie Crossed (s) 23:82-89 Lum, Darrell H. Y.

Moiliili&g Man, The (s) 13:84-87 No Pass Back (s) SS Lum, WingTek Car, The (p) 20:38

East/ West Poem (p) 10:140 Going to 11 Funeral (p) 13:98 Moon, The (p) 19:42-43 Resemblances (p) 20:39 Lynskey, Edward C.

Winter Fields: Getting Through (p) 21:

(p) 19:74- 75

In the VA Hospital (p) 21: 51 Lipchitz (p) 9:80 Lipchitz II (p) 9:80 Naked Charm (p) 9:78-79 Somewhere in the Midwest (p) 12:52 There Were Always Stars (p) 17:95-96 What the Old Man Dreams in the Dawn, Hotel Brenner (p) 5:30 Why Aerograms Are Always Blue (p) 23:34

Workaholtc Madonna (p) 9:81 Lima, jose Lezama

Barbas de un Rey, Las (A King's W hiskers) (p) 20:10-11 t Y Mi Cuerpo? (And My Body?) (p) 20:12- 13 I.ino, Tanya

Ten ThousandThings, The (p) 6:51

32 MacBeth, George

Badger's Poem (p) 7:84-85 Conversation with George MacBeth, 7: 66-81 To Weep (p) 7:82-83 McCann, John].

Honorable Man , An (s) 18:37-55 McKenna,] .].

Celebration (p) 22:72 McMichaei,James Lutra, the Fisher (p) v1,2 :46 Mummers, The (p) v1,2 :47 MacMillan, Ian Proud Monster, excerpt from (s) 20:1-9 Proud Monster: Sketches, excerpt from (s) 16:94-103

150

Rock, The (s) v2,2:8- 19 Visitor's Blue M011ie, The (I) 11 :3-12 McPherson, Miehael A . ]. W: MacKenzie & Son, 29 Mtles Volcano (p) 23:20 Alien Lounge, The (p) 18:29 Aloha Shirt (p) 16:87 February (p) 17: 58

Clouds, Trees & Ocean, North Kauai (p) 13:88

Inspector(p) 21:57 Kiholo (p) 23 :21 King Coral (p) 14:74-75 Lipsh'ck in WJur Volvo (p) 18:27-28 Ma/ama (p) 14:70-73 My Uncles Surfing at ~ikiki, Circa 1935 (p) 24:91 Points (p) 23:19 Return to a Nameless Place (p) 24:90 Roland: In Memoriam (p) 12 :40-41 Tapes (p) 23:18 That ~s Last Year(s) 14:6- 11 Traveller (p) 19:3 Unattended Money (p) 12:36-39 Visit (p) 20:54 White Horse in the Far Pasture (p) 21:56 White Volvo, The (p) 20:55

Matthiessen, Peter

Snow Leopard, The, reviewed, 10:183-85 Mazzocco, Roben Honolulu (p) 9:55-56 Seascapes (p) 8:49-51 Merwin, W. S. Sleeping Moutain, The (p) v1,1:16 Translations: 20:47, 49, 51 , 53 see also Juarroz, Robeno Messing, Sera Playboy Club, Lake Geneva 1969, The (p) 10:135 Out ofthe Desert, Into the Rain (p) 9: 85-86

Oyako-Donburi (p) 10:136 Meyn, Barbara " Try to imagine a poem" (p) 8:42 Mihlbauer,John Minstrel, The (s) v1,2:51 - 57 Mikulec, Patrick B. Claims (p) 24:74 Miles,Josephine Island (p) 9: 54 Miller, Frank Falling Peiffer Flying (s) v 1,2:64-71 Miller, James A..

Injunction on the Thought ofWoman Even After Having Been Up for One and One HalfDay (p) 21:47 On the Salutary Effect ofCoffee (Good Such) and Other Certain Cultural Digressions (p) 24:105-108

Magowan, Robin Across 18,800 Fool TesiLapcha (p) 12:56

From An Abandoned Railroad Track (p) 12:54

Himalayan Pilot on the Eve ofDeparture (p) 12 :55 Santour Nocturne (p) 12:53 Manabe,Jody

Familiar (p) 8: 58 Manin, David Translations: 10: 161- 64; 13:46-55 see also Farrokhzaad, Foroogh Manin, Jennifer Landscape (p) 14:82 Masuchika, Glenn Nagasaki (s) 18:93- 96 Matsueda, Kathy Seedless (p) 15:43 Small Gifts (p) 14:23 Matsueda, Pat Anesthesiologist, The (p) 24: 134 Inflamed (p) 16:27 Inside(p) 10:152 Return, A (p) 8:71 Six Poems About Artists (p) 17:25-30 Small Gifts (p) 14:23

Miller, John N .

Par Avian (p) 23 :35 Miller, Lynn C.

Artist's Model, The (s) 19:31- 36 Miller, Michael Buckets (p) 19:10 Minty, Judith

Country Road in October(p) 12:22-24 Interview with Judith Minty, A.n, 12 :10312 To the Cultivation ofOrchids (p) 12 :2526 Yellow Dog journal-Spring (p) 9:87-92 Misitano, R. Anthony Deep ~ter (I) 11 :69-79 Mitchell, John Faces ofaPish, The (s) 8 :22-26 Human Torch, The (s) 8:27-30 Mitchell, Nora Stars Sleep on Cheju Island (p) 24: 11011

151

Miyasato, Bill

On!Off(p) 8:73 Tsunami (p) 13:42-43 Molinaro, Ursule

Di11orud By the De11i/ (s) 21 :63-65 Montes-Huidobro, Matias Exiles into Fire, excerpt from (s) 13:111120 Moolten, David Daybreak in Deer Country (p) 23:5 Fishing on Sunapee While Darwin's Ghost Watches, Unheeded (p) 23:4 Morales, Peter Ruben Mrs. Ficher(p) 7:35 Morales, Rodney

Clear Acrylic Enamel (s) 5:99-112 Daybreak o11er H41eakala! Heartbreak Memories (A Two-Sided Hit) (s) 17:724

Ho'iho'iHou, reviewed, 6:109-12 Shadow Warrior, The (s) 14:16-22 Morin, Edward Translation: 23:91 see Cai, Qi-jiao Morisaki, 'fracy Caton the Wall, A (p) 21:59 Mower, Nancy Alpen Max(s) 24 :125-33 Mui, Elisa lines (p) 16:38 Murayama, Milton Play: Yoshitsune, Scene 11 , 10:59-73 Murray, G. E. On Getting Unstuck (p) 23:29 Nagata, Alan

Da Well (s) 14:44-46 Nakamura, Mari Ad11iror (s) v2 ,2:36-37 &/-Wife, The (s) v2,1:61-65 Green Apples (p) v2,2:27 japanese Girl Speaks, A (p) v2, 1:66 Long Time Apart, A (p) v2 ,1:66 OldLovers (p) v2,2:27 To Greet You (p) v2,1:67 Women (p) v2,2 :26 Nakata, James Green Lichees (p) v1 ,2:74 Naone, Dana Dark Moon (p) v1,1 :32 Pal/Into GrtJCe (p) v1,1 :3 1 Nathan, Leonard Chosen, The (p) 9:68 Lion Farm, The (p) 16:59

Rites ofPassage (p) 9:69 1i:anslations: 10:112-14 see also Hala; Ramprasad Sen Nelson, David Angel, My Angel (s) 10:13-1 7 Nelson, Howard Review: Mortal Acts, Mortal Words by Galway Kinnell, 12:113-16 Supper in Winter, A (p) 12 :27 Nelson, Sandra Proofio/Lolle (s) 22:47-49 Nelson, Victoria &mey 's Leg (s) 10:54-58 Coming Back (s) 14:66-69 Four Oahu 1izles (s) 13:8-9 Halawa Valley Slide Show, 13:5-7 Nesin, Aziz Hello, Sir(s) 10:5Q-53 File ofthe Green Hat, The (s) 10:4449 Once on Record, Always on Record (s) 10:39-43 Neuer, Kathleen Centenng (p) 20:68 Neumann, Kawehilani PuaHinano [Hawn./Eng. version] (p) 12:82-83 Nga, 'fran Thi Riding with My Father (p) 12 :28 Niditch, B. Z. Snow Sparrow (p) 24:38 Nimtz, Steven Chinese Scroll (p) 8:79 Starling with the Moon (p) 8:80- 81 Nina, Cheryl Nebula Fnght (p) v2 ,2:34 Norman, Howard Allan Translations (from the Creole): &ml Woman, The (p) v2 ,1:59 Finding the Cricket (p) v2, 1:58 Retum to a Friend (p) v2 ,2:61 Song ofa Man with No Tongue (p) v1 , 2:33 Song ofthe Bees (p) v2,1:57 Song ofthe Ca11e (p) v1,2:34 Song ofthe Dusk (p) v1 ,2:33 Song ofthe Dusts (p) v2 ,1:57 Thirst Song (p) v2 ,2:62 Three Poor (p) v2,2:62 Two Candles, The (p) v2,1:58 Nunes, Shiho S. Growing Up with Ghosts, excerpts from (s) 14:92-96

152

Nunes, Susan Grandmother, The (s) 8:18-21 Morning (s) 11:34-38 SmaiiObligah'on, A (s) 13:71-79

Phillips, Louis Bear in Mind (p) 18 :30 Cristabel Colon, Instead ofSethng Sail lo India, Runs His Morning Errands (p) 17:54 DaLocum Melioribus (p) 22 :84 Going to Work on an Infinihve (p) 24:6 Human Mind, The (p) 22:85 I Have No Choice in the Matter(p) 18:31 Noah's Flude (p) 17:52-53 Study for the Left Hand Alone (p) 21:43 To the Director ofthe Metropolitan Transportation Union (p) 20:82 Trans- World Couner Express Is on the Move, The (p) 20:83 Why the Monarchy Will Not Be Saved (p) 24:5 Pickard, Tom Coil Mistress (p) v 1,2:50 Pien, Chih-lin RoundjeweiBox(p) 10 :75 Pobo, Kenneth Thoughts ofthe Ova/tine Factory Dunng a Moment ofHysteniz (p) 24:43 Poverman, C. E. Electric Dress, The (s) v1,1 :48-63 Povich, Anita Sisters (s) 11:89- 100 Powell, Joseph Ode to Simplicity (p) 18:85 Stevens in a Stark Wood (p) 18:8687 Power, Marjorie September Sequence (p) 23:9-11 Pruitt, Gladys To Michael (p) 23:98-99 When the Snow Melts (s) 20:59-67

Ondaarje, Michael Claude Glass (p) 10:115-20 Monsoon Notebooks (p) 13:80-83 Ono, Thzaburo In the Eyes ofa Screech Owl (p) 10:99 One Plant fora Man -Made Oil (p) 10:98 Onopa, Roben When Green Happens (s) v1,2:20-27 Oosahwe, Linda Relacion Rain-in-the-Face Nainoa Goingsnake (p) 21:42 Orr, Gregory Gregory Orr in Conversation, 15:3339 Poem(p) v1 ,1:19 Sleeping Angel, The (p) v1,1: 19 Ozavar, Nadire nanslations: 10:39-53 see also Nesin, Aziz Painter, Charlotte Kill, The (s) 11 : 13-22 Pak, Gary My Fnend Kammy (s) 24:61-73 Pak, Ty Foe, The (s) 15 :25-28 Parham, Roben Cops and Detectives (p) 17:59 Sonnet for Henry, A (p) 17:60 Parris, Ed Unterecker's Guavas (p) 20:45 Pasran , Linda Clytemnestra (p) 5:31 Y<:lu Are Odysseus (p) 5: 32 Patton, Patti Cheyenne Plain (p) 9:70 Pavlich, Walter Explanations to the Mirror(p) 14 :56 Penhallow, David P. MomiandPercy (s) 16:1-11 Perkins, Leialoha Apo Variations on Infe"ed IMir Themes from the Kumilipo and Mo 'olelo Hawai'i (p) 24:82-88 Peterson, Par "There is such vast space" (p) v1,2 :74 Petrie, Loretta In the Valley ofthe Temples (p) 16:51-52

Quagliano, Tony Condo Marxist, The (p) 18:77 "On the ambulance run the red scream" (p) 13 :94 One for William Carlos Wtlliams (p) SS Post Op (p) 18:76 Recollections ofa Coot (p) 22:7 Review: Hawai'i Hawai'i by Rick Golr, 19: 76-77 Rachel, Naomi November (p) 8:55 Saffron: Crocus Sativus (p) 23:80-81 Raleigh, Richard Mountt'ng Suspicion (p) 19:47

153

Ramirez, Valentino Fishin ' Blues (p) 9:58 Insomni4 (p) 8:68 Shorebreak (p) 9:57 What ofthe Night? (p) 8:69-70 Ramprasad , Sen "Ispentmydaysforfun" (p) 10:112 Ramsey, Paul Elegy (p) 19:27 Five 0 'Clock Song (p) 19:26 Ransom, Bill Surt~ivor, The (p) 14:24 Ray, David Gossipy Poem: Honolulu, 1129187 (p) 22:64- 65 Reid, Clara Violent Storm (p) 12:50 Reisner, Bill Moon !sa Street/amp, The (p) 13:92 Rice, SaraJ .

Big Chicken, The (s) SS Rieder, John Essay: Class and Power: Foucault's Critique of Marxism, 23:143- 50 Rinehart , Steve Washington Park (s) 15:7- 15 Rive, Richard Riva (s) 11 :80-88 Rivera, Diana Peacock, The (p) 18:57-58 Robbins, Doren Separation (p) 7:56 Roeben, Scott Bob the Alien (s) 16:71-73 Roeske, Paulette Island, (p) 21:6 Root, William Pitt Clean路ng the Nest (s) 18:65-72 Rosca, Ninotchka Neighborhood, The (s) 10:5- 12 Rose, Katherine Hanohano Nu 'uanu (Majestic Nu 'uanu) (p) 12 :84-85 Rotella, Guy Christmas Eve (p) 21:31 Russell , CarolAnn New Haven (p) 21:58 Rust , Chris Hakalau (p) 15 :32 Sa, Cynthia Poems Adaptedfrom the Chinese ofPin Hsin (p) v1,1:36

Sakihara, Audrey Onsen Keeper(p) v1,1 :44 Summer(p) v1,1:44 Saleh, Dennis Cocoon (p) v1,1:64 Salisbury, Ralph As Sure As (p) 22:71 Sallis,James Conjuring (p) 14:57 Sange, Gary Unsenl Birthday Card (p) 9:82 Sato, Hiroaki Translations: 10:89-99 see also Kaneko, Mitsuharu; Ono, Tozaburo Schiff, Jeff Learned Gesture, A (p) 23:119 Seaburg, Alan Alone in Maniage (p) 21:19 Applesauce! (p) 24:57 Segawa, Glenn From Here (p) v1 ,1:35 Hang-Over Wish, The (p) v1,2:59 Mullet Fisherman (p) v 1,1: 35 Trade Winds (p) v1 ,1:35 Sena,Jorge de Forjonathan Gnffin [Span./Eng. version) (p) 19:38-41 Senn, Fritz jamesjoysymposium, The, ed. by, 5:217 Seto, Cindy Anger, The (p) 13:37 For Wtlli4m Stafford (p) 13:37 Shapiro, Michael Essay: Weighing Anchor: Posrmodern Journeys from the Life-World, 23:12242 Sharp, Bill Making Out Behind the Iron Curtain (s) 17:6 1-71 Shelnutt, Eve Feet (s) 7: 17-22 Shields,James Views ofjonnie McKean, The (s) v1,1 :613 Shigenaga, Christi Dear Valene (s) 9:108-11 Shihab, Naomi Walking Down Blanco Roadat Midnight (p) 6:50 What Gertrude Stein Felt When She WalkedThroughaDoorway (p) 5:1819

154

Ikebana (p) 13:29- 30 Remnants (p) 5:36- 37 White Dream (p) 6 :33

Shinoda, Elizabch

For My Brother's Chmlf!Uis (p) v1,2:60 Old House, The (p) v2 ,2:44 On Leaving the Collage, October 1972 (p) v1 ,2:61

Spencer, Mark Review: The Man Who Drank. a Thousand Beers by Steven Heller, 18:11718 Stafford, William Anchor Message Ill (p) 24:113 Anchor Message {12 (p) 24:114 Comspondence [with Marvin Bell] (p) 13 :64-70 Letler (p) 6:52-54 Reading Their Talk. (p) 12:59 Security (p) 24:112 Sitka (p) v1 , 1:71

"Stones across the pool are cool and damp, The" (p) v1 ,2:62-63 Sibley, Gay Timing (p) 14:48 Siegal, Meryl

Rain on the Outside ofa Black. Car (p) 9:71

She (p) 9:72 Who Shall Live and Who Shall Die? (p) 9:73 Simon, Maurya

Star-Gazing in Autumn (p) 22 :59-60 Twilight (p) 22:61 Simpson, Louis Interview with Louis Simpson, An, 12:97- 102 Sinclair, Marjorie Children, The (s) 10:31-38 Gardens and Orchards (s) 14:98-102 Hermit Crab (p) 24:25 Hulihee (p) 17:44 OldWof!Uin Meditates, The (p) 19:58 Old Wof!Uin Wlzk.ing (p) 24 :27 Origins (p) 24:26 Review: The Stone ofKannon by 0. A .

Bushnell, 10:181- 82 Tristif!Uinia (p) 8:48 Skillings, R. D .

House in the Dunes, The (s) v1, 1:23-30 Skillman, Judith Weeping Fig (p) 22:42 Skloot, Floyd Toes, The Reed, & Mrs. The Reed (s) 22: 36-41 Smallfield, Edward Letter (p) 6 :27 Poem for My Grandfother(p) 6 :28 Smith, Leonora Learning the Need to Dance (p) SS Smith, R. T. This Invasion (p) 22:43 Snyder, Gary TsurugiMountain (p) v1,2 :87-92 Song, Cathy Beauty and Sadness (p) 13:31-32 Beginnings (s) 6:55-65 Chinatown (p) 10: 144-46

ForA.]. (p)6:34

Trying to Become a Confessional Poe/ (p) v2,2:63 Stanton, Douglas

True Story, A (p) 22:82-83 Stanton, Joseph

Brueghel's "Triumph ofDeath" (p) 13: 38-39 .

Dojoji (p) 18:92 Noh Play, A (p) 12:35 Pt1rr0ls in Aiea (p) 21:60-61 Steinglass, David

Lotusbound (p) v1, 1:79-84 Steinhoff, William D. Cow Ate &by jesus, The (s) 9:102-103 It Ain 'I Right lo Beal While Men (s) 9: 100-101

Milke YourselfRighl with God (s) 9:104107

My Life Can Kill Me (s) 9:93-97 Prove II To Me (s) 13:105-10 Super Scrambled Eggs (s) 9:98-99 Stempel, Daniel Essay: Disappearing into the Text: Dithyramb and Nome in Keats's Odes, 10: 167-72 Stewart, Frank Abovejune Lake (p) 18:103-104 Backwater Poets, The (p) 18:102 Flying the Red Eye (p) 17: 1 Hard Yellow (p) 18: 100-101 Poetry Hawaii, reviewed, 10:18687 Stroke (p) 17 :2 Stitt, Peter Review: Robert Bly's Sleepers joining Hands and James Wright 's Two Citi路 zens, v2 ,1: 89-94

155

Stollman , Aryeh Lev Kilauea (p) 14: 12 Storm,Jim

E11angelist, The (p) v1 ,2:75 Falling Asleep (p) v2 , 1:71 Poem (p) v1,2 :76 Tooth Doctor, The (p) v1,2 :75

lilerico, Victor Kohala (p) 8:63

Tearing Down a Plllntation House (p) 10:141 Tam, Reuben

Atijecti11e for Santi (p) 24:115 Calling Out (p) 21 :2 Dark (p) 23:38 Hills of&st Kauai, The (p) 24: 118 Inter-Islllnti Flight (p) 18:105 Ironwoods, The (p) 23:37 Leiter from Ktzuai (p) 16:53 Monhegan, October (p) 15 :30 Oregon (p) SS Tectonic (p) 15 :31 To An~~hola Mountain (p) 21 :3 Waipouli Reef(p) 21: 1 '11ays to the Sea (p) 24: 116- 17 Where the IslllntiEntieti (p) 23:36

Stroup, David

Fifth Rationale, The (s) 20: 18-29 Stuart, Dabney

Meditations ofa Wallflower (p) 6: 30 Sullivan,Johnny Kyoko Obasan (p) 6 :11-13 Susskind, Harriet

Consider This House (p) 13:90 In a Wheat Field Mapped Like Kans11s (p) 13:89 Swann, Gethsemane

Cymical Mllrrillge, A (p) 22:24-25 Sward, Roben

Taniguchi, Chris

Chapter of the Dre11mer anti What He Sees (p) 10:126-29 journal- February 14th (p) 10:130-31

Another Death in Liberty City (p) SS Ch11sing the 'Trane (p) 14:47 &ling Alone (p) 17 :31 Winter Nocturne, A (p) 17:32

Szeman, Sherri

Cutthroat: A Plllyer Who Plays for Himse/f(p) 16:92-93 Tachiyama,

Terada, Wini

M4noa]azz (lamure, tempo ad lib) (p) 13:34- 36

cmy

Angel Says Goodbye, The (p) 12:21 Catch, The (p) 12 :16-17 Here I Am (p) 9 :59-60 Letter to Grandmother (p) 12: 15 Line, The (p) 12:19 Shadow (p) 12 :20 Sitting in the Dark (p) 12 :18 '11aking in the Moming anti Forgelling to Lea11e the Dream Behind (p) 8:78 Taitano, Keolani "I am a born again beast" (p) 16:64 Takagi, Keiko Translations: 10:100-102 see also Ishihara, Yoshiro Takahara, Mel Rising Outof'11ater(p) 5:48 Time for Soliloquy (p) 5:50 '11aiting Child, The (p) 5:49- 50 Takara, Kathryn Birti's View(p) 20:30-31 Ha/awa Falls (p) 23 :100-101 Harvest (p) 19:73 Magnolills & Memories (p) 24:4041 Payment (p) 19: 72

'11a'ahila (p) 13:33 Tharp, Roland

Alii Moana Beach at Se11en (p) 12:65 Before the Storm in Progresso (p) 16:6768

Four Haiku (p) 8:64 MetiitationforLo11ers, A (p) 12:64 Thomas, Debra

Michael's Direction (p) 17:45 "Moon is held in a bucket of stars, the" (p) 16:40-41 "My mouth is a vegetable in the gas station" (p) v2 ,2:20-22 "Rain rain why did you love me so" (p) 16:42 "Sun mannikin feeling reef" (p) v2 ,2: 23-25 That Moment (p) 19:45 Wootirose (p) 13:41 Thomas, Stephen ActofLo11e, The (p) 9:74 Thompson, Jeanie Twel11e ~ars Later (p) 6:29 Thompson, Phyllis Hoge City Is an Iskmti, The (p) 12:47-48 Day ofChange, The (p) 6:25- 26

156

Genitals (p) 5:29 KlliluaBetJCh (p) 8:45-47 Koetsu: Moon andRAbbit (p) 16:39 Silence 0f!erriding, The (p) 23:107-10 Sunset (p) 12:46 Wailing (p) 23:106 WhatisQuut, (p) 10:151

Poetry Hawati, reviewed, 10:186-87 Stone BetJCh: Connemara (p) 8:67 Three Short Poems Haf!ing to Do with Darkness (p) 12 :23 Upton, Lee

Visiting My Family in the Country (p) 9:84

Torres, Rodolfo

Esta Nina Ira AI Cielo (This Child Will Go to Heaf!en) (s) 22 :1-6 Transtromer, Tomas C Major (p) v1,1:5

Summer Grass (p) v1,1:4 Tree and the Sky, The (p) v1,1 :4 Trask, Haunani-Kay MakuaK4ne (p) 20:32-35 Treitel, Margot Butterfly Hunt, The (p) 14:42 Sleep in the Tropics (p) 14:43 Ts'ao, Pao-hua " lioist blows his magic conch skyward, (pJ 10:76 Tsujimoto,Joseph Double Kill (p) 23 :30- 31 Last Samurai, The (s) 8:94-121 Turner, Doug Hitching (p) 21 :34- 35 Turner, Eileen Mercedes (s) 11 :62-68 Ty-Caspar, Linda Wake for Childbearers, A (s) 11:3948

x路

Uchiyama, Kent

Fifteen Proofs for the Existence of God (p)SS Waking Together (p) 12:29 Uda, Lowell

Haukiwaho 's FtJCe (s) v2,1:73-74 Hinaand the Moon (s) v2 ,2:38-43 Woman Who Lof!ed to &1 Squid, The (s) v2,1:72- 73 Unterecker,John Atoll (p) 24:32 Edge (p) 5:46-47 Flight Letter (p) 19:60-61 Found (p) 19:59 Gift, The (p) 24 :33-36 Island (p) v1 ,1:65-66 Island in Autumn (p) 10:142-43 Midnight Guaf!a: April21 (p) 24:31 Night Letler(p) v2 , 1:60 Papayas, The (p) 15:52

VanderMolen, Roben

Gypsum Mines, The (p) 24:60 Vink,James

Again Gaugin (p) 14:5 CanaRoot(p) 14:3-4 Voznesenky, Andrei Ant (p) v2 ,1:54

Old Photograph, The (p) v1 ,2:2829

Woman in August (p) v2,1: 55 Wakoski, Diane Aging (p) 9:34 Conversation with Diane Wakoski, 9:1329 Washing & Ironing (p) 9:30-33 Walker, David Review: Sailing too Far by Milton Kessler, 6:3-10 Wallace, Mark On the ~randa (p) 23 :33 Walters, Lyn

Granny likes Her Massage After Breakfast (p) SS Wang, Alicia Translation: v 1, 2: 73 see also Li Ho Wang, Ching-hsien Translations: 10:82-88 see also Hsin Ti Wang, Hsin-ti Afternoon in Autumn (p) 10:78 Sail (p) 10:77 Ward, Roben R. Lite Spnng (p) 22 :54-55 Shadows (p) 22 :53 Warth, Roben Butler Festiflal ofChoni (p) 24:56 Watanabe, Sylvia Colors (s) 21 :7-17 Wenheim, Bill Song Foundtn Anzona (p) v1 ,2:48 Westlake, Wayne Translation: 10:121 see also Issa Wexelblatt, Roben After the FWim (p) 16:74- 75 Against Discouragement (p) 16:76

157

Clothespins (p) 22:75 In the Days ofthe KJJida Railroad (p) 22 :

Wright, Barbara

Natural History ofSea Turtles, A (s) 15:46-51 Wright, James

76-81 Whisler, Roben F. Tai-po (p) 12:30

Two Citizens, reviewed, v2,1:89-94

Turning Without 11 Signal (p) 22 :

Wry, Hilda

MatterofDreams, A (p) 7:64-65

32 White, John W.

Short Timers (s) 23 :39-51

Yamada, Holly

Fixing Random (s) 16:42-46 Foreign Salesclerk (p) 15 : 53

Whiting, Nathan

In Dog Tongue (p) 24:76-77

Yamada, Leona

Widner, Jill

Guest, The {s) 20:88-91 Gunman (p) 21:50 Lure, The (p) 20:86-87

Ash Room (p) 24:9 Fourth Grade (p) 21:38 I Thought (p) 24:7- 8 Mail Order (p) 24:10 Mother(s) 21 :54-55 Mother and Daughter Summer: Maple Leaf!es Brought to Hawaii (p) 22 :20-21 Smoke Rings (p) 19:56 Stein (p) 21:39

Wild, David

Prelude (s) v2,2:28-31 Wild, Peter

Heaf!en (p) 24:59 Restaurants (p) 17:56-5 7 Robbers (p) 17:55

Yamanaka, Cedric

Williams, StephenJarrdl

What the Ironwood Whispered (s) 18:1-

Worst Flood in Forty Yt-ars (p) 24: 58 Wilson, Patrice

Melchoir(p) 13:28 Wilson, Rob

As the Day (p) 17:91 Need to Speak, The (p) 14:97 Passage to Hawaii (p) 8:37 Review: Celebration ofContinuity: Themes in Classic East Astiln Poetry by Peter Lee, 10:178-80 Review: Winter Eel by Norman Hindley 21:80-93 Soliloquy in Waihki (p) 21:48 Wilson-South, Michael K. Tell (p) 12:79 Wolf, Howard Essay: Property and Fantasy in the American Backyard 22:95-101 Wood, Houston First Days in Exile, 1984 (p) 16:77-79 Woods,John

Girl Who Had Borne Too Much, The (p) v1,1 :67

26 Yip, Wai-lim Translations: 10:75-81 see also Ai Ching; Pien, Chih-lin; Ts'ao, Pao-hua; Wang, Hsin-ti Yonezaki, Ann "The sea is creased like a fonune teller's hand" (p) 7:36 Yoon, Esther Vanishing Point (s) 16:61-63 Yoshikawa, Harold Disappean'ng Chair, The (p) v2,1 :68 Flight Information (p) v1,1 :37

From the Iron Ship the C. S. Longlines (p}v2,1 :69 "Growing small and ugly enough" (p) v2,1 :68 "I lie upon the pebbles . . ." (p) v2, 1:70 Widow, The (p) v2,1:68 Young, Dean My Mother's Choice (p) 12:49 Yuen, Clinton High and Quiet (p) v2 ,2:47

Village Constable, The (p) 22 :62 Worley, Jeff

Kokkan' (p) 23:92-93 Review: Outer Islands by Gary Kissick,

Zafris, Nancy

Final ~eh (s) 23:59-76 Zydek, Fredrick

In Praise ofGrandma's Pantry (p) 23:8

18:119-24

158

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