Issue 63/64: Regeneration by Ruminate Magazine

REGENERATION / 63 & 64

Fall-Winter 2022 $20

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Jess Jelsma Masterton & Cherie Nelson

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Matt Jones

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Amy Sawyer

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Chaun Ballard, Tara Ballard, Jerome Blanco, Rebecca Doverspike, Henry Hietala, William Jones, Hanna Mahon, Michael Moening, Kelly O’Brien, & Evan Senie

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contents

FICTION

POETRY

Goats, Jason Pfister Angel Bath, Bergita Bugarija When She Wears the Mask, Gabriel Thibodeau 84 On the Endangered List, Bridget Muller-Sampson 87 Comfort, Cristina Legarda 102 The Naming, Sarah Damoﬀ 119 The Replay Channel, Juliana Rosati 132 Go, Andrew Cominelli 145 Warehouse Song, Icarus Laurence 175 To Have and to Hold, Sacha Bissonnette 179 The Bet, Jemimah Wei 188 On the River Trail, Claudia Schatz 193 Wooden Airship, Rich Richardson

34 37 49

21 39 50

NONFICTION

Salmanders, Allie Dixon In the Petrified Forest, Dan Musgrave Broken Home, Alan Schulte An Alphabetical Catolog of Love, Loss, and What We Ate, Melanie Bryant 105 The Lizard Girl & the Alligator King, P. L. Watts 135 The Body is Loyal, Marianne Jay Erhardt 156 Playlist: Hey Jude, Carla Riccio 161 An Eclipse of Moths, Blythe Kingcroft 199 Dogs I’ve Read, AJ Strosahl 32 57 68 73

Lemons, Arminé Iknadossian Snow Sleep, Sabrina Ito Immortality is (Im)material, Jen Karetnick 53 Winter’s Carol, Sara Moore Wagner 54 Dear Mother, Kelly Fordon 65 Guts, Mostly, Elizabeth Lerman 66 Águila del desierto, Daniel Elias Galicia 70 After—, Esteban Ismael 81 Little Alps of Grief, Elisávet Makridis 82 Abortion Made a Road, Cathlin Noonan 99 Aftermath, Julie DeBoer 100 Why Write Another Poem About the Moon, Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach 115 Hidden Attractions, Yvonne Zipter 116 Dear Crossing, Lauren Fulton 131 Rapture, Laura Apol 142 The Skinning Tree, Julie Hensley 155 Girl in My Youth, Allison Field Bell 159 The Elephant, Amanda Hawkins 168 Broken Sonnets for the Body, Eros Livieratos 191 What’s a Vegan to Do, Cezanne Waid

2022 vandermey nonfiction prize

F I R ST P L AC E

S E C O N D P L AC E

MARIANNE JAY ERHARDT

P. L. WATTS

The Body is Loyal

The Lizard Girl & the Alligator King

F I NA L I STS MELANIE BRYANT, LESLEY HEISER, BLYTHE KINGCROFT, JILL MCCABE JOHNSON, JEAN MCDONOUGH, MICHELLE NICOLAYSEN, SARAH ORNER, AJ STROSAHL

C O N T E ST PA N E L I STS JASON BRUNER, GYASI BYNG, ELIZABETH DARK, CRAIG REINBOLD, ISAAC VILLEGAS

O F “ T H E B O DY I S L OYA L ,” F I NA L J U D G E E R I N K E A N E W R I T E S :

This masterfully braided essay weaves the metaphorical with the literal into an incisive dive into the power and pain of motherhood. With vivid images and rigorous, tender insights, the writer contrasts the physical violence of labor and vulnerable moments of motherhood with the play-acted tyranny of Mother May I, whose appointed mother can demand and withhold without fear of lasting damage. There is no winning in the author’s clear-eyed game, only good-faith attempts to reconcile the imaginary glory of motherhood with its reality. The essay ends beautifully by reaching up, writing of a mysterious force pulling a body, in the thick of its leap into motherhood, toward something it can be “loyal to, more than itself.”

2022 william van dyke short story prize

F I R ST P L AC E

S E C O N D P L AC E

JEMIMAH WEI

RICH RICHARDSON

The Bet

Wooden Airship

HONORABLE MENTION CRISTINA LEGARDA

Comfort

F I NA L I STS AMINA GAUTIER, EATON HAMILTON, JUDITH HANNAN, ICARUS LAURENCE, JOSHUA LEVY, JULIANA ROSATI, LEE THOMAS

O F “ T H E B ET,” F I NA L J U D G E M O R G A N TA LT Y W R I T ES :

“The Bet” is more than a story—it’s medicinal. With such evocative language, strong characterization, and a dazzling narrative precision, “The Bet” is a story you won’t forget. In fact, it’s a story you might call upon when you need to be reminded of how important it is to love the complex and difficult people in our lives.

2022 poetry prize

F I R ST P L AC E

S E C O N D P L AC E

ELISÁVET MAKRIDIS

AMANDA HAWKINS

Little Alps of Grief

The Elephant

HONORABLE MENTION JULIA KOLCHINSKY DASBACH

Why Write Another Poem About the Moon

F I NA L I STS LAURA APOL, LAUREN FULTON, CAROLINE HARPER NEW, EROS LIVIERATOS, CATHLIN NOONAN, YVONNE ZIPTER

O F “ L I T T L E A L P S O F G R I E F,” F I NA L J U D G E R A J I V M O H A B I R W R I T E S :

An epistle addressed to the speaker’s Yiayiá, the couplets lay bare the associations the speaker makes between relationships, landscapes, and mortality. Ruled by image and recurring dream, the surreal layers of the closure enliven the spectre or grief soon to haunt the reader. Yiayiá’s body becomes a landscape from which the speaker lifts into flight.

2022 waking flash prose prize

F I R ST P L AC E

S E C O N D P L AC E

BRIDGET MULLER-SAMPSON

SARAH DAMOFF

On the Endangered List

The Naming

F I NA L I STS RUTH JOFFRE, EMMA BOLDEN, DANIELLE JOFFE, CHELSEY HILLYER, CANDICE MAY, FIYOLA HOOSEN-STEELE, SUDHA BALAGOPAL

O F “ O N T H E E N DA N G E R E D L I ST,” F I NA L J U D G E C H E R I E N E LS O N W R I T E S :

“On the Endangered List” is quiet and strong, a piece I found so compelling that I had to read and reread it, feeling the way it grew in its weightiness each time. In it, Muller-Sampson has carefully layered details—about the American Burying Beetle, the protagonist’s marriage—to put readers at a point of decision with a complex character approaching a moment of change.

readers’ notes ON REGENERATION

It was before she stole a tree. That summer day upstate was so hot that, when we spoke, our tongues dried like prunes. I walked faster than her, shielding my face with my arm, the German Shepherd pulling me down the street. For a moment, I was talking to her shadow and, the next, it was gone. I turned to see her kneeling by a small tree, the tips of her fingers caked in dirt. But it’s lilac, she said when I protested. I am only taking a small root. I could tell she was trying to console me—in the way she walked, the tone of her voice, how she pointed out the shape of the clouds. I asked her when Dad would finally come back and stay with us, not leave again. One day, she replied. I pressed for a better answer. We’re doing something new, remember? This house. This city. New. It’s supposed to be like this, and the dog started pulling me along and I turned to find my mother by that tree. She replanted it one lazy afternoon. I went back to my bike, the days in August passing and, months later, the ground was fully covered with snow. And after the cold, when the spring months finally returned and there was more daylight and easiness, but still no father, I began riding another bike, a bigger one, my old one already decomposed somewhere in a dumpster. Without realizing, I was riding around a small sprout. For a long time, we forgot all about it. Yes, it survived

thunderstorms and snowstorms and soccer balls and children’s feet. What I mean to say is, it grew. CHELSY DIAZ AMAYA, UTICA, NY

A dried piece of bark lay amid clutter of clay pots on our back porch. It didn’t look worth saving, so I tossed it in the woods out back. Later, while composting eggshells and broccoli stalks beneath the live oaks and native magnolias, I spied a fern at my feet. Stooping to peer closely, I saw it grew from the same crust I had dismissed as unsightly, now covered with frilly green fronds. “That’s the resurrection fern I left on the porch weeks ago,” my husband said. We replaced it among the potted plants and watched as the plant turned brown in heat and rejuvenated after a shower or when I sprayed my peace lilies and begonias. Resurrection ferns are epiphytic. They grow on top of other plants but are not parasites, don’t steal nutrients or water from their hosts. A resurrection fern can remain shriveled for a hundred years yet revive after a single rainfall. The slice of bark that houses our fern may be from a tree downed many years ago. It’s now wired to a plate stand and fastened to our fence as yard art. After each downpour, we hurry to the window to see a phenomenon that looks like

rebirth but isn’t. The fern doesn’t die but draws back in times of drought to conserve scant moisture, then rebounds, vibrant with life when refreshed. I’m like that. Sometimes when I feel down, all it takes to perk me up is a shower in the form of running into a friend in the supermarket or hearing a loved one’s voice over the telephone. ANNE WATERS GREEN, SAVANNAH GA

An elderly woman at the tiny, sedate, Full Gospel church told my parents she had received a word from the Lord. “God has something more in store for you.” She said the Lord had told her that Broadway Baptist was a place where the Holy Spirit was alive. It was vibrant and full of children. The woman was right. In a stone building, along a busy, downtown boulevard, people sang and danced. They spoke in tongues and waved their arms in celebration. As many wore shorts and sandals as did suits or dresses. But Broadway broke my parents’ hearts. I watched my mother’s face twist when the pastor said that Sunday morning at ten o’clock was the most racist time in America’s week. When I asked about two men holding hands, my stepfather said that church was a place

where sinners came to be redeemed. When the pastor wrote an editorial in the Kansas City Star claiming that sexuality, straight or queer, was a gift from God, we left. I was fifteen years old. Back at the Full Gospel church, the woman whose revelation had directed us to Broadway had passed. There, we sang from hymnals. The pastor spoke of sanctification. After a few plaintive Sundays, expecting refusal, I asked my parents if I could go back to Broadway. They said they would pray about it. Later that summer, waiting for me on the sidewalk as I exited Broadway Baptist Church, I saw an angry face and a sign that read “GOD HATES FAGS.” Broadway’s Sunday schoolers had gathered nearby; a sort of counterprotest. One held a sign that said, “God Loves You Too, Fred Phelps.” I made my way past the crowd to the idling car where my parents waited for me in their Sunday best. JEFF PETERSON, PORTLAND, ME

Driving from San Marcos to Austin on a wide ribbon of highway, I could see ahead for miles. It was a new sensation, terribly interesting. And terrifying. There was no shelter here. The next day, I left the six-lane highway to drive beside it on the access road, closer to the fast-food restaurants

readers’ notes ON REGENERATION

and strip malls, places where I could stop whenever I wanted. I was almost an hour late for lunch because Jane’s directions assumed I’d be driving on the interstate. I pulled into a business park and stopped a mailman to find the way. Get back on the highway, he said. When I finally arrived at the restaurant, everyone had ordered. A few women said they were sorry I was late. Jane said, I gave her perfectly good directions, but she refused to use them, her sharp New-Zealand accent clipping her words. I know, I said. I just don’t like the interstate. You’re out there in the open in the middle in the sun, nothing to touch on either side. Adrift, no boundaries at all. They looked at me, bemused. As if openness could produce anxiety. Imagine. The next day, as I drove to another meeting, I listened to the Dixie Chicks sing “Wide Open Spaces.” I pictured them singing about the great expanse of the Texas landscape, not the busy highway, not the cars and trucks, only their wild selves on a deserted road. And I saw myself anew, with all of their agency, driving my own car, joining the wide and moving stream. LINDA WISNIEWSKI, DOYLESTOWN, PA

The vinyl wallet came with a little identification card where my thirdgrade teacher wrote my name in looping cursive. She wrote an “8” under “Age.” As she remembered that I was younger than the other kids, a December baby, she pressed hard and produced a profile, a “7”—a skinny, hatted, bellied figure. I had a dollar bill in there, folded in half, nickels and pennies, a substantial quarter, a delicate dime. I closed it to hear the satisfying snap, my corrected identity safe in blue ink. Martin was a fatherless boy from “El Ghost Town,” the barrio one street over from mine. His pants were oversized and dingy, and he flopped around in too-large shoes. He liked to dance and play on the girls’ side of the playground. His dervish spinning blurred everything that was wrong about him. Martin said he had a wallet with money, too, that his father had given it to him. The teacher said that was impossible because he didn’t have a father. He wore the look of a boy who knows his father will never come back, as still and quiet as he became when the teacher made him go from the girls’ side to the boys’ side of the playground. I rubbed my finger on the stamped words on the wallet, “Port Aransas,

Texas,” and wished it was summer again. A seahorse stared blankly over orange coral. A blue fish emerged from green seaweed, its mouth a small, silent o. I looked once more at my name on the card, the anthropomorphized “7.” In three months, the buried “8” would be unearthed, embellished with the extra pressure of a pen. Worn away, the snap of the wallet would never make that pleasing sound again. YVETTE BENAVIDES, SAN ANTONIO, TX

Searching the inventory. Looking for something, anything, to make good. No recipes, directions, or proper ingredients. Without the convenient steps, resources… so I adjust in the day. Use this. Mix that… smell first and add hesitantly… the unknown, remember you are not without hope, here in cooking with what you have. MATTHEW BERG, BEECH BLUFF, TN

In 1992, my family couldn’t Google iguana care questions. We relied instead on the magazine Reptiles and wellmeaning, often incorrect advice from pet store clerks. We knew about caudal

autotomy, though—a green iguana can sever its tail as a defense mechanism to escape predators and it will grow back. Iggy was shy and skittish, but nothing had touched his tail. We never knew what frightened him enough to drop it one day, what he’d misinterpreted as a threat. Being warned, I was prepared for the tail wriggling by itself. But the sheer distance between Iggy and his detached appendage struck me. He crouched at the left side of the tank, in front of his heat rock. Far away, past the pale curved driftwood he enjoyed perching on, his tail quivered in the tank’s right corner, a maroon speck of blood at the break. When Iggy’s tail regenerated, it didn’t look the same. Before, it had been a bright, leafy green with brown stripes, longer than the rest of his body, tapering to a fine point. When it grew back, the new section was a dark grayish brown. It was shorter now, no longer whiplike. The end was thicker, rounded and stumpy. I’d assumed that regenerating amputated body parts was such miraculous magic, it couldn’t appear any less than perfect, that I wouldn’t be able to tell Iggy’s tail had ever broken off. Instead, I could see where the trauma had occurred. There were signs of the extremes he’d gone to for self-protection, of the hard, stressful

readers’ notes ON REGENERATION

work necessary for recovery. Proof that something incredible, but not effortless, had taken place. MARY KUNA, SAINT JOHN, NB

My husband’s dark night of the soul concluded with a cocktail of prescriptions. “And sleep,” his therapist emphasized, “is the most preventative medicine.” Months later, baby growing inside me, I feared the way nighttime cries would impact my husband’s recovery. I enrolled in a newborn sleep class. “Your baby is not a robot,” the blonde instructor began brightly. “Humans are messy.” Still, I hoped against humanity. Hoisting my heavy body onto the couch, I streamed a video with tips for getting baby back to bed. “Open the blinds first thing,” the cherubic coach continued. “Remember to let the light in.” ANNA ROLLINS, HUNTINGTON, WV

Mamaw passed away from Alzheimer’s a few years ago. She always said she wished one of her kids had stuck with the piano. My fingers long, not thick, but alone with that quiet figuring. No one to teach my hands, I’d sight-read the beginner piano book, there in the formal room, white carpet vacuumed in stripes, walnut

tables, chalk peppermints in crystal, the light from what she called window dressings. With “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore,” I was learning hallelujah comes from everything that makes sound, if I hear it right. Later, my mother told me Johnny Cash had played that same piano. He was seeing her babysitter. She was quick to add, That was before June. May we forgive our geniuses their trespasses. And if we believe that what is touched touches again, what of that? Regeneration? Virginal me touching Johnny Cash? That I’d have maker’s hands, too, fear they’d be taken away. Could I trace my own rowing to more than one shore? The hallelujah of musk and mouth. A ring of fire consumes everything, everyone—indiscriminate in place. Before we fall, we let our feet leave the hallowed ground. In “Walk the Line,” Cash sings, I keep the ends out for the tie that binds. Because you’re mine goes first. Maker’s hands, the left in gold. Muscle is but the habit of reaching. HEATHER DOBBINS, FORT SMITH, AR

The man lay on the table. I held the Richardson retractor as my partner shoved laparotomy pad after laparotomy pad above, then below the man’s liver, his spleen, his pelvis, packing all four quadrants of his

abdomen to staunch any bleeding from the self-inflicted gunshot wound. Once packed, I relaxed on the retractor and looked at his vital signs on the monitor, waiting for the anesthesiologist’s eyes to appear less worried over his mask. After a unit of blood was in and another was started, the anesthetist nodded. I replaced my retractor, and my partner slowly removed the lap pads. Every single one was clean—no blood, no bile, no stool. The bullet had miraculously tracked around the stomach, the colon, multiple loops of small intestine, and had stopped millimeters from his aorta. I blinked. The dread that we would find something irreparable vanished. The excitement that we would find something to fix, to save his life when he had wanted to erase it, evaporated. Annoyance, then guilt crept into my mind. But I did not feel guilty for feeling annoyed. Thirty minutes before, I had cut my infant daughter’s fingernails too short. The blood at the tip of her first finger came quick, immediately after the flimsy nail bent and I had re-grasped too much tissue in the clippers. Then my duty phone had rang. I tasted her blood in a quick kiss, then passed her off, crying, to my husband. I had left her for this. The tips of her fingers will grow back. And the nails, too. And somehow, I will

eventually convince her to forget this nail cutting, to trust me to hold her fingers close to the clippers, to remove the sharp bits again. But I will always remember. KRISTA PUTTLER, NORFOLK, VA

When I was a girl, I thought cicadas rose from the dead, each one a hundred years old, a thousand, clawing out of the ground like a bear in spring. Connecticut cicadas belong to Brood X, which is on a seventeen-year cycle. They do not hibernate. Each insect is a fresh new being, spending all but two months growing up underground. Seventeen years seems like a good rhythm for rebirth, to wildly change my fate, but in my thirties, it already feels so hard to turn. I focus on replacing what has worn out, rewiring habits and unhelpful histories, moisturizing, engaging in that very thirties’ ritual of “rejuvenation.” Each time I restore, I risk forgetting. A translucent wing: the bottle green Atlantic, which would never tow me out like the hungry Pacific. A red eye: night-driving through backroads, never spying another taillight. A reticulated leg: falling asleep, always curled to the right, away from the hall light my father leaves on because I fear the dark.

readers’ notes ON REGENERATION

The next Brood X is due in 2030. Will I have given up my project of regeneration by then? Will I still leave the light on for my own brood, my own children? I chase away the dark for them, uncertain. ASH HUANG, SAN FRANCISCO, CA

The boards crack into two pieces beneath my bare foot. The buff men holding them tumble backward, broken remnants in their large hands. “Well done, Kathleen!” the Dojang’s Master exclaims. He grants me the Red Belt in the Korean martial arts form of Tang Soo Do. When I was a small girl, my grandmother informed me that I must marry a man and have babies. She primed me for this foreseen path. She trained me in the fine art of housekeeping, baby birthing, and roast–beef dinner making. She beamed on my wedding day as though she had reached her singular, crowning achievement. Except marriage wasn’t the culmination of my story. Neither was delivering a baby. Neither was buying a house. Neither was chasing a career. On the Dojang’s mat, I unload the dead weights of my former training. Every kick, every punch, and every push-up chips away at disappointments and regrets. I discover my own strength to transform into whatever and whomever I wish to become.

I rebirth. Tang Soo Do is less about the linear achievement to be a Black Belt and more about the cyclical nature of learning an ancient form of combat. The moves, the strikes, the steps—all must be practiced and practiced and practiced. Regeneration occurs through every belt level. There is no glory, just growth. On Saturdays, I step on the mat with a bow. Elementary–school age girls practice before me. White, yellow, orange belts—just starting their journey. Fire sparks in their eyes. Their tiny feet smash repeatedly into the large, black target pad held by the instructor. Their warrior cries echo across the Dojang. Anticipation engulfs me. More boards will break. I can feel it already. KATHLEEN DUNLAP, ARVADA, CO

Brown, almond eyes look into mine. Fingers maneuver scissors through my hair. I stare back. In mirrors, my eyes greet me and see me. They always have, even back in Iran when I avoided them in the bathroom of my grandparents’ house—the day that my cousin and I played on the sidewalk, when a man from a few doors down talked about my small eyes and called my cousin “the British one.” At nine, I understood that beautiful meant large eyes in Iranian culture, and mine were not.

I was not beautiful, and that was the fault of my eyes. So I focused on other fragments of me: the plump sulk of the lower lip, the timid thirst of the chapped skin. My lips seemed abundant, even beautiful. At least no one had ever said otherwise. Further away from the foggy mirrors of my teen years, I began to feel desired. Each time, I thought it was my lips, but it wasn’t. When we were dating, I asked my husband which part of me he found the most attractive. He said, “Your eyes.” My lips echoed the words: “My eyes.” I found them in the mirror of his car, watching me, as glossy as that day in my grandparents’ house. They are my mother’s eyes, often stubborn. They know how to question, when to encourage. My eyes see me as I am: a girl who didn’t fit all those years ago, a woman who tries to stand out instead. The hairstylist frames my face with a few layers and holds up a mirror. She has removed the dead ends and lifted the weight from my shoulders. I begin to warm to the new cut; a few creases appear on the sides of my eyes. They reflect my smile. NAZANIN KNUDSEN, DURHAM, NC

I might not have noticed had it not been for the pandemic. I might not have stood

still so long or so quietly. I should have been walking, regaining my strength. My eyes were heavy, my feet dragging the earth. Three empty swings swayed in a gentle wind that moved across the grass and scooped up leaves. A chill swept over me. Further away, a cigarette butt beneath an empty park bench moved in the breeze. The sidewalk made its way around me. The traces of bicycle tires etched here and there. The silver water tower loomed high above, unchanging. Birdsong still echoed, but not the laugher of children or the calling of mothers and fathers. Another day ended and another began. A masked mother and a small, caped girl appeared. A tiny silver mask subdued a laugh. Another child, another mother appeared. Their eyes met above the masks. Another day ended and another began, and another child with a father appeared and another. Masks, and then no masks. The birdsong echoed behind the laughter of the children. Another day ended and another began. The leaves danced above small hands. Some, with perfect symmetry, like a quaver on an eighth note. Some leaves without symmetry, and those would not be pressed into books or taped on paper. Those would not survive the coming winter. But many would. The children would gather them.

readers’ notes ON REGENERATION

Dusk. Dawn. I drive past. Trees like skeletons and then, not. On a dull, gray branch, a white flower appears, and then another. Various hues of greens emerge and the swings soar, heavy with children. Masks; no masks. The grass reaches out in every direction and is now trampled with sandals. And the skies open across a wider world. SANDRA HAMMOND, FRESNO, CA

Two weeks before I started chemotherapy, I stood in a bathroom blow drying my long hair, holding the locks like a lover. Like a wounded lamb, already bleeding. The caramel backdrop with its hints of honey gold woven throughout— lightning in strands through my hands as the air took hold and the water lifted. Long pieces—unwieldy vines—coming out whole all at once and floating to the wet floor, a shedding of the old. I kept pulling my locks in patches with the brush, kissing the bristles with the hot blowing mouth and carrying them over and over again away from the roots to the ends. And it hit me—the whole process—like I was preparing a corpse for burial. Putting lipstick on a dead mother. Making my hair beautiful one last time for the photoshoot I was now late for. The photographer would understand, I told myself, texting him I was five, ten, fifteen minutes behind. Sorry! I texted again.

When I apologized to him in person and thanked him for his patience, I told him why the shoot was so emotional for me, just weeks ago diagnosed with breast cancer at thirty-two. He understood, he said, thanking me for sharing, for telling him such an intimate part of my story; he said it was his pleasure to capture such bravery. I stood and smiled and half-smiled and blank-Vogue-stared and thought about my hair leaving my head. And without realizing I was thinking about it, I thought about regeneration. About what might become of me once I lost this lifelong friend. It would be cold—the loss. But with every click he captured, I felt something that said, strangely, there’d be good in it. New life somewhere in the death. VICTORIA SOTTOSANTI, HANOVER, NH

The kalanchoes took a hit. Between aphids and rodents, they are all but obliterated on my balcony, taken down to the roots. The remnants don’t look salvageable, but I’m trying. I’ve moved them inside, out of reach of the mice and rats. I’ve carefully watered them, applied onion pieces to discourage aphids. There are some small signs of hope, but very small. The remnants don’t look salvageable but I’m trying.

I have two different kalanchoes. One’s flowers are deep orange, almost red. The other blooms lighter with yellow edges. One came from a funeral, one from a birthday, but I don’t put too much weight, sentimental or otherwise, on their sources. Over the years, all kinds of plants have come and gone, but I also have plants that I’ve kept alive for well over a decade. Their survival is not beside the point—it is, indeed, the point—but I know about life and loss. I will not be shattered if the kalanchoes do not make it. They are in two pots. I don’t remember which bloomed what color. One plant is a bit over an inch tall now, but still fragile. The other isn’t doing much but there is the tiniest possible green leaf, so I keep tending it. Green means life. They’re trying. I’m working with them, best as I know how. It is such a small thing, insignificant in the face of so much destructive energy in the world. Nonetheless, I breathe on my kalanchoes, tell them I believe in renewal. This is how we practice. NEIL ELLIS ORTS, HOUSTON, TX

JASON P F I STE R

Goats

LI WATCHED THE GOATS from the European-style balcony of the second-floor duplex. There were at least twenty of them, hooves ticking on the cobblestones, throats baying in mournful staccato as they snaked uncertainly below. He assumed the appearance had something to do with the storm the night before. He and Charlize had slept through most of it, but he remembered waking in the night, half in a dream, and being disturbed by the howling wind and the force with which the rain was pelting the window above their bed. “If we had not opened that second bottle after dinner,” Charlize confessed, “I’m sure I would have woken Mrs. Holloway and asked her if we shouldn’t go hide in the basement.” “You would have done no such thing,” said Eli. “You would have made me do it, and we both would have looked like idiots.” This made Charlize laugh. “True enough,” she said. “And goodness, Mrs. Holloway would have really thought us city folk then, don’t you think? I’m sure she’d have loved to see us terrified of a little rain.” Eli agreed. The old woman had seemed unable to hide her displeasure when Charlize told her they lived in Manhattan. “I could never live in a big city like that. Too noisy,” she’d grumbled. Funny how people who didn’t live in cities were always going on about how they could never live in one, Eli thought. A bizarre sort of pride in their disinterest in culture, art, music, and delicious food. “You could though,” Eli always wanted to say. “You could live there and maybe you should if you’re so ignorant as to imagine there’s nothing of value in such places.” Charlize joined him on the balcony now, phone in hand. She’d spent the morning in bed and was still only wearing a pair of pink ankle socks and panties. She pointed her phone and began recording the goats, speaking in the same cheery, semi–news anchor sounding voice that she always used whenever she made videos. “We are here on the island and it seems the goats received word we were coming and have put together a little a parade…” Eli frowned as he listened, eying the dark windows of the buildings that lined the opposite side. “Look at them go… Hello there, little ones! We are honored!” “Shouldn’t you put something on?” Eli said, motioning to her bare breasts.

In response, Charlize huffed, and while still recording, she turned the phone on Eli with a rebellious sneer. “Free the nipple,” she said, and then, lifting her arms in the air and thrusting her chest forward over the balcony, she yelled. “Free the nipple!”

THE RESTAURANT WAS GREEK and they ate outside in a pebble garden against

a wall of vined trellises. They ordered the grilled feta with toasted sesame seeds and honey and a delicious olive tapenade that they spread over warm rosemary dinner rolls, the bread emitting gasps of steam when punctured with a knife. For the main dish, Eli had the Florentine and Charlize got the French toast, which she took only a few bites of before declaring she was full. “Get it wrapped up,” Eli suggested. “And what? Eat leftovers on vacation?” There was a fence but the street was still visible, and they watched two teenage boys corner one of the escaped goats against a garage door. The tallest lad was tasked with trying to loop a rope around the animal’s neck, while the other, stockier boy, clapped his hands and moved to block the goat’s escape whenever it attempted a stunted charge. After a short drama, the goat was successfully lassoed, and then both the teens led the thing—bleating and thrashing—away down the street and out of sight. “What do you think they do with them?” Charlize asked, a far-off look in her eye as the goat’s cries grew weaker. “I’m not sure,” said Eli. “Do you think they slaughter them?” “Maybe,” said Eli. “Oh, I hope not,” said Charlize. Eli had noticed the couple eyeing them during their meal, but he hadn’t given it much thought. The man looked to be in his late fifties: salt and pepper hair receding at the temples, a soft, grizzled double chin. He wore a white blazer, while his wife—who looked to be around the same age—wore a beige, billowy summer dress, and thick, expensive-looking sunglasses that were black and flared at the tips. Her skin, Eli couldn’t help but notice, was waxy in the way that usually betrayed some history of youth-affirming surgery, though—luckily for her—she did not appear to have acquired the swollen plastic look in her lips that plagued so many of her ilk. “They eat some of them,” the man said loudly. “We came for Easter one year, and there had to be at least a dozen being roasted on outdoor spits all across the island.” Charlize grimaced and lifted a hand to her forehead. “You shouldn’t have told me,” she said with a groan. “The poor dears…”

“It’s because the island is mostly Greek,” said the man. “I usually don’t care much for goat meat myself, too gamey, but the Greeks can’t get enough.” “Yes, I’ve heard that,” said Charlize. The man nodded with gusto. “My wife and I, we come here every year. Sometimes two, three times in a season. We just love it. We live about six hours north, but the locals all know us by name. Just ask around about Ron and Judy, they’ll tell you. We’ve been vacationing here since the early nineties. It’s almost like a second home, really. We’ve brought our friends, our kids, grandkids, cousins, you name it. We really just can’t get enough of the place. Have you been to the botanical garden yet? Or the art museum? Where are you all from? Did you travel far to get here, or are you locals, like us? Ha ha. How long will you be staying for?” At this point, the man’s wife reached and placed a hand on her husband’s forearm. “You’ll have to forgive him,” she said. “I’m afraid he’s developed a little crush. We saw you this morning, you understand, on your balcony. Ron was quite impressed.” “Now, Judy…” said Ron, frowning before lifting what looked to be a gin and tonic and sipping generously from the black straw. “Don’t embarrass the girl. I was just being friendly.” “Oh,” said Judy, addressing Charlize. “I hope you didn’t take it that way, sweetheart. I think it’s wonderful actually, being so comfortable in your own body. When I was your age, I was the same way. I used to go sunbathing at the nude beaches on the Amalfi coast. Have you ever been?” “No, I hear it’s beautiful though,” said Charlize. Her smile was cordial, and she did not seem the least bit embarrassed. “Oh, it is,” said Judy. “You absolutely must make it a priority. You haven’t really been in the ocean if you haven’t been in it naked. So freeing. It’s almost spiritual.” “I can imagine it would be,” said Charlize.

THEY WERE ON THE BIKE PATH that ran parallel to the bay and the grayish,

flat stretch of pebbly beach. Ahead of them, the coastline curved and then was interrupted by a wall of windswept trees, beyond which a rustic hotel balcony was only just visible. “We’ll have to get dinner with them now,” said Eli. Charlize seemed to not hear. The bikes were rentals, cheap and teal colored. There were no gears and Eli thought his tires could use some air. Pedaling seemed more difficult than it should be and, on hills, he was having trouble keeping up. “I told them we’d think about it,” Charlize said.

“What excuse could we possibly give?” said Eli. “We’ve got three days left with them here.” On their right, a green pickup approached, coming up the road from behind. As it passed, Eli recognized the two boys whom he had watched wrangle the goat earlier. They were seated across from one another on the lip of the truck bed, grinning happily and laughing whenever they jostled over a pothole or section of uneven pavement. “They’re still on the lookout,” said Eli. “Wonder how many are left…” The truck disappeared around the bend and then a particularly fierce gust of wind forced Charlize to stop her bike and pause to readjust her ponytail. With one hand, she choked her reddish curls with her thumb and forefinger, pointing her chin upward, while her other hand performed the delicate act of untangling and then widening the mouth of her scrunchie. “I thought Judy and Ron were nice,” she said, easing the hair through the band and then twisting and pulling it back. “Anyway, it might be fun to pretend we’re adults, don’t you think?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” This time, Charlize didn’t answer but instead turned and looked out over the bay. In the distance there was a helicopter inching above the black water. A buzzing speck, like a fly caught in a vat of blueberry cream.

THE BAR WAS EMP TY, and though they weren’t hungry, they ordered steamed

clams to pair with the chilled glasses of Chardonnay. “So you’re sulking now?” said Eli. Charlize poked a tiny silver fork at the flesh of her plated mollusk. Her legs were crossed and the heel of her white sneaker was tapping against the wooden rung of her stool. Tap, tap, tap. “Aren’t we on vacation? Shouldn’t we try to have a nice time?” said Eli. “You never want to talk about it,” said Charlize. “That’s not true. I just don’t want to talk about it while we’re on vacation.” “Or when you’re working.” “Or when I’m working, yes.” “Or when you’re tired.” “Look, Charlize, can we just…” “Or if it’s too early. Or if it’s the weekend. Or a weekday.” “Charlize…” She was gone when he returned from the restroom. He sat down and ordered a cocktail, searching the vacant tables and the view of the ocean and the balcony through the sliding glass doors. “Did you see where she went?” Eli asked, once his drink was in front of him.

The bartender was tall and pudgy, with clean, hairless cheeks and neatly cropped black hair. “Through the side door,” he said, motioning with an elbow. “Outside?” said Eli. “She left? Did it seem like she was coming back?” The bartender shrugged, and Eli rose, gulping his drink and fingering his wallet out of the pocket in his shorts. “You have kids?” Eli asked.

B OTH BIKES WERE STILL WHERE THEY HAD LEFT THEM and so he

guessed that she had walked down to the beach. He made his way along the craggy path that cut between the dunes and then emerged out onto the waterfront, pebbles crunching under his sneakers and the air smelling briny and like the sea. To his left, the beach was flat and deserted, but if he looked right, he saw the land rise up into a jagged cliff face, silhouetted so that it appeared like the bow of a gigantic ship, calcified in the bright sky. The shoreline below the cliff looked difficult to navigate, spotted with black boulders and driftwood, and Eli guessed that Charlize had not walked that way—or to the beach at all, since there was no sign of her—and so he began retreating back toward the hotel, grumbling to himself about her flair for the dramatic. He stopped when he heard the bleating of the goat though, and waited, listening until the call came again, just to be sure he hadn’t misheard. That would have gotten Charlize’s attention too, he thought, and so now he redoubled his steps, setting off back down the hill and then turning on the beach in the direction of the cliff and haggard shoreline that wrapped like a horseshoe around the escarpment. As he picked his way against the jutted rock wall, he was forced to use the flat edges of the submerged boulders and the spines of bleached tree trunks to keep his shoes from the tide. It was a difficult balancing act, to be sure, and he became so absorbed in toeing from branch, to rock, to branch, that he did not immediately realize when he cleared the corner of the cliff and began moving into a small, sheltered cove. “Bahhh!” The shriek surprised him enough that he lost his balance and abruptly slipped, elbows first, down into the shallow water. Cursing, he sat up and then found the goat watching him, a petulant look in its black eyes, and its mouth full and chewing on the woman’s wet hair. Eli blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing, and then, after he had no choice but to confirm it real, there was a panicked instant where he was sure the naked body was Charlize’s. There was a schooner behind her though and a web of blue veins on her bare arms and legs that meant she must have been lying there for some time. The storm, he realized, she must have been caught… A shipwreck.

He got up and made his way, sloshing out onto the beach, ignoring the goat’s bleating protest and its eventual skittish dance backward towards the shadow of the overturned vessel. There was a faint smell, and he held his arm over his nose and mouth while he bent to examine the corpse. He could not bring himself to touch the skin with his bare hand, and so he fished a twig out of a nearby puddle and then used it to gingerly thread back a plastered knot of hair that obscured her face. He was not prepared— Wide milky eyes, staring into nothing, and her mouth wide too and filled not just with her tongue but with swollen intestines, regurgitated in the death throe, a desperate attempt by her body to expel the salt water. He choked, reeling, dropped his stick, and began pedaling backward. When he was far enough, he lifted his hands over his head and breathed deeply, a cold sweat on his neck and forehead and the world growing closer around him. He noted the sparks that flitted over his vision while continuing to breathe, focusing only on the line of spindly trees that looked down on him solemnly from the height of the cliff above. The goat bayed, and he sensed it moving off but ignored it. Then, behind him, he heard what sounded like a cough. When he turned, he found there was now a man leaning against the side of the schooner, watching him. The man was thin, sinewy, with balding blondish hair and a leathery, workmanlike face. He wore no shoes and his frayed jeans were cut off at the kneecaps. He grinned a toothy grin at Eli, adjusting the shoulder of his sweat-stained, whitish tank top while tapping a flat knuckle against the hull. “Must have got caught in the storm. Rich folk, thinking the rules don’t apply to them,” said the stranger. Eli gave an uneasy nod. “You see that copter earlier?” the man asked. “This is what they was looking for. Hard to see anything in this cove from above though.” The man now stepped off from the schooner and moved with his eyes fixed on the dead girl. “Shame about her, isn’t it? Pretty thing like that. Bet she had more than a few more pony rides left in her, wouldn’t you say?” He grinned stupidly, but when he saw the look of horror on Eli’s face, he seemed embarrassed and shook his head. “Only a joke,” said the man. “I don’t mean no disrespect to the dead. I just mean that it’s a shame is all, that she was cut down in her prime like she was.” An uncomfortable silence settled between them, during which time the goat meandered over toward the corpse, sniffing and thinking perhaps to return to nibbling on the woman’s hair. “Shoo!” Eli cried. “Shoo! Get away!” The goat bleated and leapt back. “Ah, the beast can’t do no harm,” said the man. “It’s just curious is all.”

“It was eating her hair,” said Eli, trying not to sound too hysterical. “Was it?” said the man. “Well, it would leave the flesh alone, is what I mean…” Again, there was an uncomfortable silence, after which Eli started walking back in the direction of the pointed cliff. “Where are you going?” “The police,” said Eli. “Don’t worry about that just yet. Come on back here, there’s something I need to show you.” Eli hesitated. He was unsure what the protocol was in such situations. Perhaps the man, a local, had seen this kind of thing before and knew better than Eli on how it should be handled. “What is it?” Eli asked. “Why don’t you come on over here and you can see for yourself,” said the man, already moving around the side of the schooner. Eli looked uncertainly at the goat and the goat looked uncertainly at him. “Come on,” said the man. It was difficult climbing into the cabin from the vertical deck. The wood was slippery and there was only a thin blue rope to aid Eli in his ascent. He could smell the stench of death even before reaching the opening, and he had to pause, gripping the lip of the splintered doorframe while he pulled the neck of his shirt up over his nose. When at last he took a deep breath and let himself inside, he paused again, seated on the wall of the small stairwell. In the cave-like darkness, he could hear the man moving through the water below. “Don’t be shy now,” the man called. Eli remained where he was but did peek out a bit further, blinking and attempting to orient himself to his surroundings. There was a porthole in the ceiling, through which a sunbeam speared the murky seawater, spotlighting an array of floating cookware and the corner of a waterlogged mattress. The walls around the porthole were curved and reinforced by a series of white planks that striped the inside of the hull, eerily reminding Eli of a rib cage. He could see the man now, standing at the back of the cabin, waiting, and he could see also, to the right of the staircase—tangled in what looked to be a cotton hammock—the bloated shoulders and half-submerged head of another man, who was clearly dead. Eli groaned, turning his face away. “You’ll get used to the smell in a minute,” said the man. “But the body isn’t what I need you for. Why don’t you come and take a look?” “I’m not going down there,” said Eli. “You’ll have to,” said the man. “Can’t get it out on my own.” His back was to Eli now, and he was struggling to lift something up out of the water. “What is it?” Eli asked.

“Come down and see for yourself.” “I won’t. Tell me, or else I’m leaving.” The man groaned with effort or frustration, before he let whatever he was attempting to lift up drop to the bottom of the flooded boat with a thud. “It’s a safe,” said the man, wiping his hands on his t-shirt. “We have to hurry though, before the tide goes out… We have to move quickly.” “What?” said Eli, though he had heard exactly what the man had said. “It’s a safe,” the man repeated. “I can’t get it out alone, too heavy, but if you help me, we can tie life preservers to it, and then I’ll swim it out to the other side of the shore where I can pick it up with my truck.” Despite himself, Eli felt like laughing. “You want to loot the boat?” “Why not?” said the man, stepping forward so that the tip of his balding head seemed to catch fire in the light. “We’re the first to find it, aren’t we? You think the police wouldn’t have the same idea? All they’d have to say, if anyone asked, is that it must have sunk in the ocean. Who could dispute it?” “I’m not a thief,” said Eli. “Neither am I,” said the man, stepping even closer now, so that his whole head was burning and his ear was pink and Eli could see the dark veins through the skin. “This isn’t the same as stealing, is it? They’re dead and won’t be missing whatever is here…” The water sloshed against the walls of the boat. “Don’t you see?” said the man. “It’s a gift. They’ll never know. These people were rich, can’t you see? It probably wouldn’t mean much to them even if they were alive. And they were arrogant too, going out there in that storm like they did. It’s god’s will that we happened on it before anyone else. This was meant for us! Isn’t that obvious?” The man’s head was full of flames. He waited on Eli to reply. “I won’t be a part of it,” said Eli, and he began turning in order to crawl back out. “Wait!” the man called. “You don’t trust me… I can understand that. After all, we are strangers. So here then! Here is something else! I will give you this for your trouble, if only you just help me. Look, I’ll give you this!” Eli knew he shouldn’t turn and that, of course, he would not help, no matter what it was that the man was offering. He could feel his breath hot on his chest, with the collar still pulled up, and he could feel the neck of his shirt tugging and slightly irritating his nose. “It is probably worth more than what is in the chest all by itself,” said the man. “But I will give it to you if you help me carry the safe out. Please!” I should go and not look back, Eli thought. But still he remained, crouched in the slanted stairwell, breathing. “Please,” said the man. “Oh please! At least look and see what it is! At least just look and see!”

AS HE MOVED UP THE HILL, Eli spotted Charlize on the hotel balcony. She was smoking a cigarette and gazing off down the shoreline that was spotted now with joggers and a family of four walking a golden retriever on a leash. She did not see him, her gaze fixed, elbows on the painted railing, and as he moved closer, he found himself struck by how beautiful she looked in that moment. Her brow was lowered and serious, and her neck was smooth like driftwood, curving elegantly and showing the length of the muscle and tendon beneath. He stopped a moment to admire her, smelling the salt air and feeling the breeze travel and press against his back and then move up and tug at the banded curls of Charlize’s ponytail and the black frill of her Parisian-style skirt. How long had it been since he had appreciated her like this? he wondered. And as he did, he felt a pang of sadness in the realization that he could not recall the length of time and was forced to admit that, over the years, he had somehow learned to take her beauty for granted. As he was thinking this, she sensed his presence, and her green eyes flashed. They looked at one another then, but it was a while longer before he would continue up the hill and climb the wooden staircase to the balcony where she waited.

“MY GOD!” CRIED JUDY, clutching Charlize’s ringed hand in the candlelight. “It’s

beautiful!” “This happened just today?” asked Ron, leaning in his chair and squinting at the diamond over his wife’s shoulder. “Yesterday,” said Charlize. “We’d been fighting, and I feel so silly because I was really angry with him and then he just…” “We must order champagne!” cried Judy. “This is so exciting. Waiter! Oh waiter!” “We’re so honored to be able to share this with you both,” said Ron. “This is a moment you will remember for the rest of your lives!” He turned to Eli, grinning. “Come with me,” he said, motioning as he pushed his chair back and stood up. “Let the girls chat. I have something for you.” The restaurant was on the beach on the western side of the island, which meant the sand was softer and the water wasn’t quite as calm. Eli could hear the waves rolling and breaking nearby, but there was no moon and the lights of the restaurant behind them made it difficult to navigate the darkness. “They’re Cuban,” said Ron, lighting Eli’s cigar with a silver Zippo. “Got them from work.” “What kind of work?” Eli asked. “Textiles,” said Ron. “We do business with factories all over South America. You?” “Real estate,” said Eli. “Her father owns a business in the city.”

“You work for her father then, huh? Was that before or after?” “After,” said Eli. “I was waiting tables before.” They puffed in silence. Eli could taste the bitterness of the tobacco on his tongue and began to feel the delicious calm of the nicotine coursing through his bloodstream. “She had a miscarriage,” said Eli. “A few months back. I was relieved, if I’m being honest… But Charlize, she…” Ron nodded, exhaling a gray plume. “I understand,” he said. Eli spat onto the beach. “I hope you’re not offended,” said Ron, “but that morning, when I saw her on the balcony, your wife or… your soon to be wife, it stirred something in me, a dream, a terrible dream that I almost couldn’t escape from.” “Oh?” said Eli. “I heard the siren’s call,” said Ron. “Like in Odysseus, have you ever read Odysseus?” “The Odyssey,” said Eli. “In college.” “Well, whatever it’s called, it was just like that, it really was, like a song drifting into me from some kind of dreamworld, a mystical realm. When I saw her that morning... I wanted to be young again. I wanted to be free, I wanted to fall in love, to feel something… to not have to think about what it would cost. I wanted to just… just…” Ron puckered his lips and exhaled a smoke ring, smiling. “You see, all of this…” he said gesturing vaguely back toward the restaurant. “This world, it all works because of transactions. You get me? It’s built on paying, and giving, and taking, and weighing what is worth what and to who.” “Hmm,” said Eli. “But for a brief moment, that morning… I remembered something else. That something else exists beyond all that bullshit, beyond that pencil pushing, numbers, and spreadsheet bullshit…” said Ron. “It’s huge and I used to feel it so close to me, so real inside me that I almost couldn’t stand it, I almost couldn’t bear to keep it down because it was always calling to me, always whispering to me to follow it. And I was so sure I’d always have it there with me. I always was so sure…” Ron paused, and now that Eli’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see there was a group of children running down by the beach and kicking a soccer ball. He could hear them laughing, and he thought he recognized the two teenager wranglers in the crowd. Though he couldn’t be certain. “I don’t know how it happened exactly…” said Ron. “But over time, I lost it somehow. I don’t know how I did, but I lost it without even realizing…” The waves crashed in the darkness and Eli’s stomach was feeling a little queasy now from smoking.

“Don’t ever let that happen to you,” Ron said, his voice gentle all of a sudden, the orange eye of the cigar flaring. “You remember that, okay? Don’t ever let that happen to you…”

“I ORDERED THE RAVIOLI appetizer for the table,” said Judy, handing Ron and

Eli glasses of champagne as they moved to sit. “It’s what the waiter recommended and us girls were starving.” In the dim light of the restaurant, her skin looked silky and smooth and not at all like work had been done. You could clearly see how beautiful she must have been in her youth. “To the happy couple!” said Judy, raising her glass. “Here, here!” The ravioli was cooked in a brown butter sauce, with candied walnuts and shaved truffle. It was wonderful, both sweet and savory, the softness of the pasta pairing excellently with the walnut crunch and the tender herby sweetness of the filling. After the first bite, Eli and Charlize looked at one another and laughed. “It’s delicious,” said Charlize. “What’s in the center? I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite like it.” “Oh,” said Judy, lifting her napkin as she chewed and seeming embarrassed. “I thought you knew.” “Knew what?” asked Charlize. “Goat, sweetheart,” said Judy. “It’s goat meat. I’m sorry, I hope that’s okay.”

ALLI E D I XON

Salamanders

HE STRANGEST THINGS can make me cry.

Like this nature show I was watching about salamanders during breeding season, for instance, it made me cry, and when I was crying, I was laughing only for one reason, the reason being I was crying at salamanders breeding on my television narrated by David Attenborough, who can make anything sound glorious, even a pile of salamanders breeding, a wiggling slime pile of salamander orgy, and I was watching, and laughing, and crying. But I was mostly crying. I was crying because the males are competitive to deposit their sperm. Deposit. I hate that word, deposit, when talking about sperm, like it’s a meaningless transaction performed a thousand times at a bank, and then there is the bank, the immobile bank, the place responsible for the safekeeping of the deposit, the place with all the responsibility to grow the deposit, the place that will be blamed if anything to do with the deposit should go wrong. We see this on these shows, these male animals, aggressive and dangerous and killing and fighting and forcing their way into depositing sperm, and sometimes, a dozen males at once chasing one female. She becomes exhausted, often injured, often already protecting her existing young, and if she doesn’t escape, she concedes out of necessity for her own life and the lives she is responsible for. I can’t imagine the luxury of a life of worrying only about the self, because even without another life growing inside me or attached to mine yet, there is the idea of yet, that’s exactly it, yet, this gnawing notion of yet that chews and chews and chews and chews and strips my protective coating until its capable teeth hit my electric center. And these salamanders were the same, but almost worse than a bank or cheetahs or wolves or people. It began with just one or two salamanders wrapping themselves around the fertile female, and they battled around her body, for her body, a fight to see who could get their slimy little junk inside of her first, and she remained trapped and limp between them. And then more males wrapped around her, and then more, and then they were deeper into this flowing stream, not just on the moist rocks surrounding on the bank, but they were in the water, washing away, and before I knew it, I was looking at about fifteen male salamanders wrapped around one female, fighting, killing, all of them wriggling and trying to deposit their sperm inside this bank and finally, I couldn’t see her anywhere.

They drowned her. That’s what David Attenborough told me in his kind old man, British, storybook way. They drowned her, and that’s just what happens to females sometimes during mating season. And down the stream the camera showed a pile of dead females that had drowned beneath the weight of males, stuck against rocks with water flowing over their slimy swollen bodies, the ones being fought for, dead. A pile of dead banks. I used to catch salamanders in the woods underneath wet logs and rocks when I was a little girl, before any of what made me so sad happened, before I knew what it felt like to be a wet, limp, swollen dead bank on a rock with water running over me, before a place like the woods scared me into looking over my shoulder. If I had known then what I know now, I would’ve gotten us all out of the water.

ARMINÉ IKNADOSSIAN

Lemons after Joy Harjo

She had lemons who cracked open from too much ripeness. She had lemons who looked ripe but tasted of pennies. She had lemons who crooned to her, lemons that smoked unfiltered cigarettes, lemons that rolled down mountains to be near her. She had lemons that found all her cuts to pour themselves into, that went off to war and were first to be killed, that came back from war and only craved salt. She had lemons that wallowed in hospital beds, wallowed in bad marriages, swallowed pills colored seafoam green and burnt sienna. She had Meyer lemons, Eureka lemons, lemons in the shape of Buddha’s hand, lemons named after saints, lemons from Greece, Lisbon, Avalon skin like alligators. Some lemons sat in her decorative bowl for weeks unsqueezed, unmouthed, a steady diet of lemon juice in a cold glass of water.

She gathered her skirt to hold dozens of lemons bird-bitten, eyeing her from the ground. She let go of her skirt so many times, let them roll away without notice.

SABRI N A I TO

Snow Sleep she would put the baby out in the snow, for winter sleep when there was talk of too much crying and of that weak style of mothering that was too indulgent, raised too many spoiled, ungrateful children. a cure-all for the colic, was a baby in a well-bundled snowsuit tucked in deep, watching snowflakes heap and gather into folds between the rib cage, of her pink bassinet. and soon, baby sleeps and mother rests on the new chesterfield, smoking, her last cigarette.

BERGI TA B U G A R I J A

Angel Bath

EE SAT ON a mid-century sofa, sweating through an itchy designer dress into the tweed upholstery. She tried to appear unfazed before Damien Kersd, a renowned art broker she’d persuaded to visit her middle-of-nowhere gallery and browse the collection before next week’s grand opening. The sofa was the only furniture. Dee had replicated the interior and the architecture of the Copenhagen gallery profiled in W magazine. The sprawling rectangular building was made entirely of glass enfolded by a concrete ceiling and floor. The gallery sat on a former steel-mill site perched on a cliff above a muddy river. Across the river lay a rusty industrial plant with tall, smoking chimneys. The smoke was white, which Dee found whimsical—an elegant complement to the interior display walls lined up side-to-side like white dominos. Dee luxuriated in the bare space. She was in recovery from her last enterprise selling porcelain figurines on cable TV, and the clean minimalism was an antidote. She smirked at the thought of Charlene, the presenter she’d hired to sell the figurines on QVC, who would’ve broken out in hives at the sight of this uncluttered space. Charlene would have dashed to the nearest Home Depot to get brocade wallpaper or chintzy drapes within minutes of setting foot in here. Good thing she had no idea where here was. Outside the front glass wall was a vast gravel lot where the tractor trailer— Damien’s ride—was parked. The driver was asleep, head thrown back and mouth agape. “I have to admit, the tractor trailer was a refreshing touch,” Damien said, flipping through an oversized black portfolio with photos of Dee’s acquisitions, tapping on the gold pirate hoop that adorned his ear. “Aren’t private jets passé?” Dee said, chuckling a little, pleased with herself. Her inventiveness had once again found a way to appeal to someone’s vanity—a weakness for all things large-scale in Damien’s case—without burning through loads of cash. Not that she didn’t have any. She’d made serious dough selling the figurines she’d imported for cheap from China. A fictitious “ancient glazing technique” the Chinese had revived “just for Glossy Guardians!” had justified a hefty markup, and money flowed like wine. Had she given it a few more years, Dee herself would have been private jetting. But she didn’t care about obscene wealth. She’d watched the relentless shipments of porcelain garbage roll in for years. Each time Charlene swooned over the tacky glaze, Dee’s stomach grew ulcerous over her own complicity in the world’s

tastelessness. To redeem herself and the masses she’d misguided, Dee had directed her riches from the figurines into fine art. As soon as she’d made enough to open a gallery, Dee set Charlene up with a generous severance, and shut down the deplorable foil. “Okay if I look around?” Damien frowned, his eyes scrutinizing the photos in the portfolio. “Please,” Dee said, hoping he didn’t catch her spring eagerly off the sofa. Damien propped his carved silver cane against the glass wall and started to walk, his gait unaffected by the cane’s absence. Dee had read that he’d gotten the signature accessory from a Berber artisan in Marrakech. She’d always assumed it was a modish way to deal with a disability and not, as it turned out, a brazen tactic to repurpose handicap as style. So much to learn. He scanned the empty walls and the artworks leaned against them, peeking behind the protective linens shrouding paintings, sculptures, and photographs: all of Dee’s treasures. His sparsely bearded chin tilted up. “Cute little assemblage you’ve got here,” he said. “And yet I’ve never heard of you.” He squinted at her through thick, matte-bronze frames, then looked out the glass wall toward the plumes of white smoke in the distance. “Guess I’m losing my mojo.” Dee sipped air in tiny gulps lest a big inhale reveal her shameless pride. Ever since she’d moved from the Balkans, she’d wanted to pursue a life as diametrically opposed as possible to the one she’d led there. Back then, she’d worked in her family’s souvenir shop selling religious tchotchkes in a small town where the Virgin Mary appeared daily on a rocky hill above the church. Pilgrims climbed barefoot, bled, eager to bathe in the Virgin’s healing aura. The locals were quick to inform the faithful that the Virgin’s curative energy weakened right past the last souvenir stall. Dee’s top seller had been the 100ml Holy-Mother-of-God-shaped bottle in waxy white plastic with a red heart nestled in its concave chest. At first, she filled them with blessed water she got at the church, but when the shop was busy, Dee found that the tap water from the backroom looked, smelled, and tasted just as holy. But it was a gigantic rosary with beads as big as unshelled walnuts that changed Dee’s life. An American woman thought the eyesore would bless her family room. Six months later, Dee got a letter from the grateful pilgrim—Trisha—crediting the rosary for curing her chronic rheumatoid arthritis, and insisted Dee name her reward. A year later, Dee was enrolled in a community college in central Pennsylvania. She studied marketing because it sounded important, but aside from escaping the sham her hometown ran on, she had no vision for her future. Until one night she discovered W magazine in Barnes & Noble, and in its pages, Damien, wearing a washed-out denim romper inside a Copenhagen gallery. The clean space and the art—all spare lines and subdued colors—were a balm, a spiritual sustenance Dee hadn’t known she’d needed, a glimpse into a nobler life she’d hungered for. Within a month, her plan crystalized.

When she needed an early investor for Glossy Guardians—imagine how many more people they’d heal!—Trisha, by now a formidable tennis star, had funded the launch. No one, Trisha least of all, had to know about Dee’s endgame: that she’d set out to wage a crusade on kitsch and be part of the world where art was fine and its devotees wore shoes. Damien’s shoes, though, confounded her. They were barely-there slip-ons made of a transparent textured rubber that displayed the forest of hair on top of his feet in squished patches. “3D printed,” he said. “Excuse me?” Dee replied. “The shoes.” He strolled back to where the portfolio slouched unzipped at the other end of the space. “Don’t blush. Everyone stares at them.” His weight rested on one foot while the other skated on the heel, toes lifted. His eyes and the tip of his finger lingered on a Tiff Anglikur piece. He tugged on his pirate hoop, nearly tearing it off his earlobe, and Dee almost second-guessed her taste and the soundness of her plan. She could neither access nor afford older masterpieces, but the loot she’d made on Glossy Guardians was enough to build a legitimate artist stable on budding talent. Still, she didn’t want to seem like a novice to Damien Kersd, so she’d stacked big, glossy monographs in tall columns around the sofa, pretending to strip off the pretense by using them as makeshift coffee tables. Dee made sure to top each stack with monographs by artists she knew Damien admired. On top of an Andreas Gurskey retrospective, she’d placed a plexiglass bowl filled with homemade snail-house cookies, and on Florentijn Hofman’s Rubber Duck, she placed a plexiglass tray with a cut crystal carafe of slivovitz and matching tumblers. A dash of baroque was an assurance, to her as much as to Damien, that she wasn’t an extremist—wasn’t a starkshapes mental case, as Charlene once labeled “whoever invented Ikea.” Dee didn’t offer the booze; Damien would give some kind of signal if he was game. She told Damien that the cookies were imported from the Balkans, which was one way to put it since she’d whipped them up last night from her grandmother’s recipe. “Your background, again?” Damien asked, walking to the cookie bowl. His fingers tweezered one of the snail houses between his thumb and middle finger. “Karadjordjevic, the last royal dynasty of Yugoslavia,” Dee said. “Ninth in line.” She smiled, arms wide and fingers pinching a phantom crinoline as she curtsied. “Should our South Slav tribes ever forgo that democracy nonsense, of course.” Damien cracked a smile. Dee had debated the risk in assuming a fraudulent identity, but figured she was safe since Wikipedia confirmed the dynasty’s existence yet tabloids overlooked its obsolete nobility. She had told Damien in an email that her self-effacing family had been exiled after the World Wars and their art collection confiscated and scattered across the

globe. The few nostalgic, hopelessly homesick offshoots, Dee’s grandparents among them, returned to the old country and kept a low profile under a new name. The lie was more practical and stylish than the truth. Also, cheaper than paying her vocal coach ad infinitum to erase her accent. Dee had accepted she’d never be able to pronounce TH any other way but as a hard D, or V as anything but W no matter how many times the coach made her say Venus Williams, his lips contorted to highlight the obvious difference, lost on Dee. “Poor little aristocrat, you,” Damien said. Dee released a theatrical sigh. “Why dwell on misfortune if you can start from scratch,” she said, her flat tone, she hoped, simultaneously serious and blithe. “So many fantastic young artists out there looking for a break.” At this, she opened her arms, less to emphasize the sea of undiscovered talent hungry for her patronage than to air out her damp armpits. Damien turned to the view of the chimneys across the river. “Interesting locale.” “I was going for ironic,” Dee said, making sure there was no amusement in her voice. She didn’t have to work hard to achieve the effect. To her, there was nothing funny about how she got to this point. The devious path that made this possible— the gallery, Damien’s visit, the collection—made her sick. Every time she’d watched Glossy Guardians sell like hotcakes and Charlene giggle like a mad cockatoo in her dragonfly clip-ons and teal zebra suit, Dee felt nauseous. The market’s gluttony for poor taste and Charlene’s ability to steer the infatuated flock to the Glossy Guardians with the fervor of a mega church preacher had exceeded Dee’s wildest predictions. And made her rich. Dee smoothed her skimpy dress and flipped her hair to the side. The nightmare was over. She had survived, had risen. “And all on your own.” Damien looked at her, his fists bulging in tight seersucker pants pockets. Dee shrugged and looked away, her smile shaky. None of this would have ever worked had it not been for the Virgin Mary and Trisha. And Charlene. Dee had first seen Charlene in Marketing Management 101. The girl that curled her ginger hair and wore too much eye shadow. She giggled a lot, regardless of what had been said, as if she was on a timer. Dee had noticed Charlene because it was impossible not to and because she reminded her of the inventory at her souvenir shop back home. Charlene didn’t look like any specific piece, more like the totality of the store’s interior, busy and crass. At the end of their second year, Dee received the confirmation that QVC had greenlit Glossy Guardians. She sat staring at the email on her laptop, quietly panicking as other students took their seats around her. What was she thinking? No QVC shopper would buy anything from an immigrant with a thwacking Slavic accent. Just then, Charlene walked in the classroom wearing hot

pants in hot pink, cinched in with a rhinestone belt, a ruffled tube top, and a strata of foundation caked around her giggling mouth—an epiphany in bubblegum aura, a drifting neon sign begging to inhabit a home shopping studio. “I prefer teamwork,” Dee said to Damien. She looked out the glass wall at the chimney tops flickering against nightfall, like lighthouses. “I plan to collaborate with artists, have them create pieces just for this space.” She looked at Damien and he raised his eyebrows. It seemed to Dee he did so less out of curiosity and more to conceal a creeping yawn. Dee turned to the sound of gravel crackling. The truck she was expecting the following day faded in from the dusk and attempted to park next to the tractor trailer. “Speak of the devil,” she said, “here comes the material for the first installation.” Once, after a record sales day, Dee had gone to the warehouse and crashed two boxes of Glossies against the brick wall. The sight of dismembered angels soothed her, but as she cleaned up the mess, she realized that tossing them in a trashcan, even though that’s where they belonged, wouldn’t bring closure. Instead, she’d bought an old UPS truck on the black market and stored the broken angels there, the ones with manufacturing flaws and transit-sustained damage, and the ones she broke herself. The growing jumble put her at ease, like contrition. “Who’s the artist?” Damien said. “A surprise. All will be revealed at the opening.” Dee squinted at the UPS truck as it fishtailed on the parking lot as if it were a frozen lake. The driver was a dark silhouette behind blinding headlights. Dee frowned and turned away from the ungainly sight with a chuckle. “All I can say is that it’ll be quite a statement.” Dee had dreamed up the installation months ago, when she first saw this site perched on the edge of a cliff and imagined unloading the defunct Glossy Guardians into the gorge. When she thought of all that shiny porcelain shattering down the slope, angels’ limbs mangled and plump cheeks drowned in the muddy river, her body quivered in an almost religious ecstasy. She’d title the piece Death to Kitsch. It would be her penance. “I’ll take suspense any way I can get it,” Damien said, yawning. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time I go.” Dee jerked open the massive glass door with both hands. With a decisive toss of her head, she tried to whip her scattered tresses off her face along with the acrid whiff of the factory smoke. When she succeeded at neither, she shook her head like a sneezing dog. “See you at the opening?” she yelled to Damien’s back over the noise of popping gravel. The UPS truck still struggled to park, lifting an impressive cloud of dust. Damien shielded his eyes and mouth and scurried to the tractor trailer. Dee watched the giant vehicle exit the lot in an elegant loop around the dwarfed UPS truck, which finally gave up and parked at an awkward diagonal, one of its front corners dangerously close to the glass wall. Dee recoiled a little where she stood holding

the entrance door ajar with an arm and a leg, waiting for the driver to come out. It was hard to see clearly in the darkness, but when the driver’s door opened, a patent stiletto emerged. Then a hiked-up boucle skirt and a rustle of bangles and finally, a big head of curls. “Charlene?” Dee gaped. Charlene landed on the gravel and nearly rolled her ankle. Dee stifled a gasp, but Charlene steadied herself and pulled down her skirt. She glanced at the delivery slip she held in one hand and her phone in the other, a snakeskin purse dangling from her forearm. “Says I’m at the right place.” “I was expecting one of the delivery guys.” Dee gulped. “Didn’t you get my letter?” Charlene walked toward Dee. The light from the gallery bounced off Charlene’s gold rhomboid earrings. She opened her purse, pulled out a sheet of paper, and read aloud, “Thanks, couldn’t have done it without you… time to move onto new ventures, part ways, surprise ourselves… best of luck… onward.” She waved the paper at Dee. “That it? ’Cause, I don’t get it.” “There was,” Dee halted, “another sheet.” “Oh, the severance? That sausage of zeros? Yeah, I got that,” Charlene said. Dee thought she sounded irritated, but then she tilted her head, her eyes supplicant. “What’s going on, Daliborka? You’ve been absentminded for a while but I thought it was just the business-growing jitters.” “Let’s go inside,” Dee said. The click-clack of Charlene’s pumps echoed as she looked around. “What is this cold, empty brick? A private studio?” She looked at Dee, her eyes shiny with hope. “For Glossy Guardians?” Dee poured two shots of slivovitz and held one out to Charlene. “I felt it was time to move on.” “At the peak of our sales?” Charlene said, taking the drink. “You were always a little weird, but I mean…” She traced her hand around the space, spilling slivovitz on the concrete floor. She walked to the bowl of cookies and stuffed one in her mouth, then snatched a handful more. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?” She wagged her finger at Dee. “Like back in school, the way you’d sit in the corner, never raise your hand, then blow everyone out of the water with As.” She walked to Damien’s cane where it leaned on the glass wall. She grabbed the handle and slashed the air in a figure-eight motion. Dee swallowed, the drink burning her throat. “Put that down,” she said. As soon as Charlene left, as soon as this was over, she’d text Damien. “Look—we had a good run with the Guardians. I just wanted to try something different. I don’t expect you to understand.” “Oh, no?” Charlene lifted the cane high then dropped it on the concrete. It clattered hollowly. “Why not?” She gestured up and down Dee’s outfit. “I’m not classy enough

for your slip and your orthopedic clogs, that it?” She extended her tumbler and Dee automatically poured her another. “And what the hell is going on with your hair? I saw you put on a show for that weird guy, flipping back and forth. Who is he? A flood victim? I mean, why else would anyone roll up their pants that high.” Dee poured herself more slivovitz and sat on the sofa. She sighed and looked out the glass wall. Black everywhere, the flickering chimneys and a gauzy smoke in the distance softening the darkness. “People change, Cee,” she said. “Sure, but this much?” Charlene pointed to Dee again. “What happened to ‘a power suit and fuchsia lipstick is what you need to succeed’?” She sat next to Dee, pulling up the dress strap that had fallen off Dee’s shoulder, her hands cold and moist. “We’ve made more than money. Our angels bring people joy. The fierce Daliborka I know wouldn’t ruin that,” Charlene said, tucking a strand of Dee’s hair behind her ear. “You don’t look like yourself, Daliborka.” “Actually, I do,” Dee turned to face Charlene, her voice firm. “The person you knew was someone else. This is me. And the name is Dee.” Charlene pulled away a little. She rested her tumbler on top of an Agnes Martin monograph and grabbed the carafe instead. “Do you remember our first shipment of Guardians?” She smiled as if recalling the birth of a firstborn. “I can still feel that smooth sheen on my fingertips, those angelic curls and double chins, chubby thighs— so delicate. Ours to take care of. Find them good homes.” She swigged out of the carafe and grimaced as if she’d chugged gasoline. Dee put her feet on the sofa and pulled her knees to her chest, hugging her arms around her shins. Charlene went on. “I still remember when I put on my first suit, the electric blue one you’d sent me for good luck. I remember the sound of my brand new pumps when they hit the shiny floor of the QVC studio. I knew I would sell out the first batch under time.” She paused to close her eyes and breathe in deeply through her nose. “And I did it again the next time, and again, and again. It felt so good, so on top, I’d almost forgotten all about where I came from, the trailer park with the stray dogs roaming around.” She looked at Dee. “Because you believed in me. You gave me the chance to spread cheer, live my life’s purpose.” She swigged out of the carafe. “And now you’ve pulled the plug.” She stuffed two cookies in her mouth and chewed with her mouth open, crumbs getting stuck on the enormous brocade buttons on her jacket. “The severance is more than generous,” Dee said. “Move on.” Charlene grabbed Dee’s upper arm. “It’s not about that, Daliborka. Dee,” she said, lowering the carafe on the floor with a clang. “I don’t want to move on. I’ve arrived.” Dee yanked her arm out of Charlene’s grip. “I couldn’t let those hideous fakes keep on going. They suffocated me and now I can finally breathe.” She straightened up against the sofa. “Guardians are a cheap, shallow thrill. Angels don’t exist, Cee.”

“The name is Charlene,” Charlene shouted, jumping up off the sofa. “You will not reduce my good name to a letter. Dee. You’re a fake, Daliborka. And I’ll make sure the whole world knows about it if you don’t call China and let me take over.” Dee stood up. “No.” She closed her eyes and said quietly, “Kitsch seduces then traps and ruins, Charlene. I will not be its accomplice.” Charlene looked at her as if at an alien. “You used me,” she said. “You betrayed me.” “Now, now. No need for harsh words. Change is hard, Charlene. But it’s for your own good,” Dee said. “Here.” She pulled an Agnes Martin print from the monograph. The print featured a grid, lines in faint gray against a blank backdrop, titled On a Clear Day. “I know this is not your aesthetic. Yet. But, if you keep looking, you’ll see.” Charlene looked at the print, her hand shaking. She turned to the UPS truck parked outside. “What are you going to do to them?” “Don’t worry. I have big plans for our angels,” Dee said. “A tribute. For all they’ve done.” Charlene swayed, her eyes wet. Dee picked up her phone. “I’ll get you an Uber.” Charlene looked at the print in her hands. “You call this art?” She lifted it up. “I see blank label stickers I could get at Staples.” She tore the print and wrenched the door open, stumbling to the van. The print was just a replica—mass produced as a party favor to be handed out at the opening—but Dee had to calm her breath, agitated by Charlene’s blasphemous act. “Charlene, wait.” Dee went after her, the chunky mules she wore impeding her step. Charlene took off her pumps, got in the UPS truck, and started the engine. She backed up abruptly and the gravel beneath the tires exploded and scattered, hitting the glass wall. Dee ran back inside, wishing the wall were brick and mortar. She stood behind the sofa as if for protection, willing the truck and Charlene to stop. Instead, the truck headed toward the road. But before Dee could curse Charlene for hijacking the figurines, the truck abruptly reversed, accelerating toward the gallery. Dee ducked behind one of the display walls and covered her head as the vehicle crashed through the glass, shards raining on the concrete floor. The chimney lights flashed red on Dee’s dress while the orange of the truck’s blinkers flickered by her feet like an erratic pulse. The horn blared long and hard and then went silent. Dee peeked from behind the wall to find the UPS truck was lodged in the glass where the door used to be. The floor was covered with broken glass that shone like minerals. Dee stutter-stepped to the truck, scratching her neck, pulling up her dress straps, breathing fast. She’d almost reached it when the truck’s back door growled open and an avalanche of Glossy Guardians rushed out. Dee ran into it, arms outstretched, desperate to stop the tide from flooding the gallery. “Move away!” Charlene yelled from the flatbed.

But Dee was already swamped by the rolling quicksand of porcelain shards. All she could do was cower, surrender, her dress and skin raked by broken edges, her cries smothered. And then it was quiet and dark. Dee couldn’t move. She heard muffled clanking of the porcelain around her sliding and cracking until the load on her head lightened and she gulped air. Charlene frantically removed the shards from her neck. She cupped Dee’s cheeks in her hands. “What were you thinking, Daliborka?” Charlene said, her voice alarmed. She pulled Dee closer and breathed in her hair. “It’s all right. It’s a good thing. I always wanted you to really feel the Guardians. Let them guard you from yourself.” She gestured to the gallery. “From this abominable plainness.” She started to arrange the angel remains around Dee’s head, like a kid on a beach burying a friend in sand. “Did I ever tell you about those stray dogs in the trailer park?” Charlene asked. Dee stared at the ceiling. Yes. “Had to be five or six of them,” Charlene went on. “Fighting over a bone. They barked so loud, and their teeth looked so sharp and shiny. Mom was sitting in her lawn chair and had just cracked an egg into her Iron City, and I ran right past her and hid inside the trailer. I covered my ears and waited by the sink for the dogs to go away.” Charlene lay on the broken angels, her body prostrate on the heap, her head next to a trickle of blood that dripped down Dee’s chin. “Next thing I knew, that bone flew into the kitchen and thumped on the linoleum,” Charlene said. “All those dogs rushed in after it and my mom locked the door behind them. She was coughing and laughing the whole time, and I begged her to open the door in this whiney voice I’d never heard myself make before. It was so whiny.” Charlene bent her head and brushed a strand of hair off Dee’s face. “I didn’t want to be whiney. So I stopped.” Dee breathed spasmodically; she wanted to break out but could only whimper. Charlene kept talking. “The dogs wrestled with the bone for a while but soon they calmed down and stopped barking. They walked all around me; they brushed off my bare legs like cats do. I was deep in dogs like in bath water; I remember their fur was soft and prickly all at once. And I let all that tension go, ’cause I wasn’t afraid anymore. It became clear to me that I just had to see them. Feel them.” Charlene dabbed her boucle sleeve on Dee’s forehead and brow. “Just a few scratches,” she said propping herself on hands and knees. “Please, Charlene, help me,” Dee said, her voice a thin whine. “I am,” Charlene said, running her palm against Dee’s cheek. “You enjoy your angel bath and I’ll be right back.” She slid down the slope of the angel mound. When she stood, rivulets of blood sprang from her knees and soaked her torn stockings.

Charlene disappeared from Dee’s field of vision and Dee could hear her pour slivovitz into a glass. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. If she opened her mouth, her scream would be as silent as Munch’s. Pink saliva oozed over her lower lip and glazed the mutilated angels around her. She squeezed her eyes shut and shivered, her teeth rattling. When she opened them, she saw Damien peeking around the side of the UPS truck, looking at the scene inside the gallery, his eyes wide. Dee looked to the side. Charlene stood next to the heap with a filled tumbler looking at Damien like an apparition. “Let him in, Charlene,” Dee said. “Please. He likes this stuff.” Charlene’s eyebrows twitched. “Through the truck,” she yelled to Damien. Damien climbed up and, a moment later, materialized at the mouth of the UPS truck’s rear door, his face stumped. “I… need my cane,” he said. “Of course,” Dee said, her voice eager. “Charlene, please get Damien’s cane.” In slow motion, Damien lifted his hand in greeting. Charlene slid on panty-hosed feet and fetched the cane, handing it up to Damien. He crouched on the truck’s platform to grab it. “Doesn’t look like you need that,” Charlene said. “Since when does self-expression have to do with utility?” Damien said. Charlene snickered. Then they both looked at Dee. “There goes my surprise,” Dee said, trying hard to chuckle. She cleared her throat. “Damien, Charlene is a groundbreaking installation artist. She’s demonstrating the custom project for the gallery I’d mentioned. She wanted me to feel it.” Damien swallowed. “I thought I’d seen it all,” he said. “Savage.” He leaned on the cane, his other hand tugging on the pirate hoop in his ear. “By the way, savage is a word I use for why the hell not,” he said. “See you at the opening.” He pivoted and walked back into the darkness of the UPS truck. He reappeared beyond the destroyed glass wall and ducked into a yellow cab. “What’s an installation artist?” Charlene asked, gaping into the hollow night. Dee wanted to push her off the cliff, bury her in broken Guardians. The urge felt like a summons from the art gods to evolve the installation into a performance piece. The red flicker of the security camera caught Dee’s eye. It beat steadily, red like the heart on the Mother-of-God bottle in the souvenir shop. Dee smirked at it. Let it watch; nothing can stop art. Dee would see to it as soon as she broke free of the shrapnel dune. She tried to wiggle out of the wreckage, every move a cut deeper.

JEN KA R E TNI C K

Immortality is (Im)Material Juvenescent jellyfish live to infinity in the mega-flooded garden of the Mediterranean, those raised, sedimented beds first planted by the Atlantic. It’s almost criminal how invertebrates ripen for purposes of reproduction, then devolve once that triumph of sex has been achieved, shrinking down to a size where near-disappearance is so applauded. If only being a woman is also this studied of a survival. Born of tide and appetite, how your eyes assess me, ever-smaller, older. When seas dry, as they do, promised however they once might have been to jellyfish, they leave a yield of quartz and silicon. All sunglow. But I temper, smoke into glass.

GABRI EL THI B OD E A U

When She Wears the Mask

HEN THE GIRL WEAR S THE MASK , she feels more like herself. Not prettier or uglier or more hidden or seen; the mask isn’t about appearances. It doesn’t care what people on the other side of its wood think about its acorn nose or picket-fence teeth. The mask only cares about the hug of the girl’s cheeks when she smiles. These days, the girl isn’t smiling much, though, and her wonderful mother, while stirring a wonderful soup, tells her she’s missed the point. “We’re not playing dress-up,” she says. The girl looks at her mother’s wonderful apron. “Everything is dress-up,” she replies. “Your cousins won’t be wearing them,” Mother says, “because of their asthma. Or allergies? I dunno.” She fingers a blue rectangle from a cardboard box and looks at it accusingly. “But we should still wear them. Shouldn’t we?” The girl tilts her wooden head. “Are you asking me or the mask?” “We should wear them,” Mother decides. “Not at dinner, of course, but yes.” She presses the mask into the girl’s hand. It feels like fabric but also like paper; it’s stiff even as it bends. The girl much prefers the carved mask, how it always feels heavy and cool, as if her head is perpetually tipped against a chilled car window, watching the world gust by. Her father made it months ago, before he left the house and faded like smoke down the road. She likes to tap her knuckle to its cheeks and pretend he’s come back for her: Knock-knock! Who is it? The girl’s aunt calls it a tribal mask because she is racist. What it really is is wooden. An oval scoop of pine with little horns fingering up from the top. It has eyes, sort of, but they blend with the forehead, following the globes of the face: two shallow wood-mesh craters the girl can barely see through. She can feel her lashes brush the wood when she wears it, though, and that feels better than seeing. For her wonderful mother’s birthday, the girl is asked to wear something “nice,” so she shrugs on her fluffy orange dress with its tulip hoops of tulle. She slips stars into her hair and steps into her sequined shoes. They sort of wink as she walks, those shoes, like her feet are made of sparkling eyes. She has a perfect little purse she grabs next, unspooling its long strap and hooking it over her shoulder. It matches her dress and the shoes, and when she looks in the mirror, it matches the mask too. For the finishing touch, she lifts the blue paper rectangle her mother gave her and stretches it across her wooden face: a mask for her mask.

The girl waves at herself in the mirror, a pixie princess with a crown made of trees. She feels frothy and light like a handful of suds, like she could turn toward the hall and waft down the stairs, floating like a dandelion to her seat at the dinner table. Her wonderful mother is probably already waiting there, sitting straight as a spike with the girl’s adoring aunt and the cousins who always stare at her, aren’t they just the best? When she settles into her chair in a hush, the girl’s dress will ripple across the centerpiece like the tendrils of a jellyfish. She will furl the fabric tight around her legs as her cousins watch from above their bow ties. The tall one will be so startled he’ll drop his fork with a clatter across the table: Knock-knock! And when dinner is served, she will bring her spoon to her masks and let the soup dribble down her covered mouths, trickling through the spun sugar of her dress, all the way to her blinking shoes.

KELLY F OR DON

Dear Mother, Once mother. Once upon a time. How the king swooped down and caught you in his net. As in snapped. As in mine. Oh, mother, such a wild ride, such ferocity, such

Neck.

conviction.

A bus filled with pilgrims, singing as the convoy sails over the cliff. Those who seek the promised land strewn with mines. Oh mother, once upon a time, mother. I owe you something but what? And what of me here in this white room with the ash scattered and the rocker stationed at the window. It’s winter. the trees are cowering.

Even

All day long I listened with my ear against the earth for something to germinate and lift, for the ground to part, for the shoots to emerge. I wanted you to materialize on a shiny green leaf, as if your exodus was a temporary matter.

SARA MOOR E W A G NE R

Winter’s Carol The autograph tree, a single rose, white with that fragile yellow eye opens, excretes red seed clusters, drops them into the earth, soil bloody as the hand of Salome who checked Mary for purity, whose hand was devoured by the fetal savior, still in womb, her fingers extinguished to bone. What shock to find a child can transform you. Once, the Lord in flesh was like this: strangler fig and tentacled. Tell me—who gets to live (the self, himself). Salome got back the use of her hands only when she stopped searching so hard for that broken bit of hymen to imply yes, no one has been here before me, no one lovingly opened the blossom with a long tongue, like a butterfly. That child—pitch apple, distinct marker of the father, so loved the word, so loved all the invasive exotics, he transported each seed across oceans, planted in the bellies of the women a long

itch and irritation, born in clusters, elemental and all consuming. Like that tree, he smothers and replaces, lays waste. Invades.

DAN M U SG R A VE

In the Petrified Forest

HE ARGUMENT SETTLED INTO SILENCE just as my wife and I pulled

off the interstate to follow signs for Petrified Forest National Park. It was one of those too-close-for-too-many-hours arguments. Born of friction between the excitement of exploring someplace new and the exhaustion of getting there. Our misunderstanding grew from nothing into something as fast as clouds over the desert. On the highway, we’d traveled under an open and infinite Arizona sky, but after taking the exit, there appeared potential for change to the east. A streak of silver, the hazy hint of rain beneath, hung like an accidental brush stroke over the painted desert when we pulled off the road to rediscover our patience and tour the remains of a longago forest. In the slow quiet that descended after our initial volleys, we entered Holbrook, Arizona. The audiobook we’d been listening to had been paused for several wearying minutes. It envisioned a future where interplanetary travel was smooth and dependable but interpersonal communication failed often and spectacularly. As we drove, my hands worked at the steering wheel like I had to squeeze our route out of it while my wife stared out the passenger window, chin in palm, giving me a view of the back of her head and the crest of one ear. This was, and still is, a form of punishment—the not seeing her fully. A withholding of the potency of her profile from my, even mid-conflict, peri-prurient gaze. It was, and still is, a very effective punishment. She was wearing a casual, sporty, red dress. Easy travel wear that nevertheless clung to her appreciatively. I wanted to attend to her soft swells and curves. But, even silent, we were arguing, so I had to look at the hard-edged town around us. While we were in it, the argument was all-encompassing. Like there was nothing beyond the four doors and the windshield. The odometer clicked and the tires beneath us thrummed but time didn’t seem to advance. It’s said that when Einstein explained relativity to lay people, he quipped, “Sit by a nice girl for an hour and it feels like a minute, sit on a hot stove for a minute and it feels like an hour. That’s relativity.” Being married and arguing, I existed in both of Einstein’s states simultaneously. The marital Schrödinger’s cat. I was sitting on a hot stove even as I was sitting next to a nice girl, and my ass was roasting with each interminable second. Love is relativistic like that. It can dilate the world to the sharp intake of half a breath, the space between parted lips, the incremental uptick of temperature as two forms share heat. It makes it all stretch into the infinite. At will, I can still relive the

first moment of seeing the woman who would become my wife and thinking, “Oh no. This could get serious.” And those unspoken syllables stretch years, so that I am still there, seeing her anew, feeling the world shift and not yet admitting that the change I suspected was on the horizon had already occurred. But relativity cuts both ways. In discord, as in the town of Holbrook, the world is distilled down to hearing what my partner says and deploying a strategic response. My thoughts swirl, faster than light, without allowing them to reach beyond the immediate. The rest of the world fades. The history of who we were and the potential for who we will be dissipates. There is only the argument, seeming to define our entire life together, with its outcome perilously uncertain. In our silence, where love was backgrounded and seemingly undetectable like radiation from the Big Bang, I searched Holbrook for any indication of life outside of us right then. Something to give me perspective. Confirmation that the world was continuing to spin madly on, and coexistence was still possible. What I saw was a Holbrook devoid of other humans. The town displayed a stillness of almost post-apocalyptic levels. In that moment, the town was like the desert around it, a reminder that all things, given enough time, fade. The only three species of storefront I could see were: fossil shop, pawnshop, and vacant unit. I don’t doubt that comfort existed somewhere in this town, but it was not immediately available to me. On our right, we approached a lot full of giant white cones. It looked like the kind of thing a child would design. Like a lot of novelty-sized nuclear warheads. As we got closer, I saw that the cones were supposed to be tipis. The Wigwam Motel, its sign said in proud neon. The rooms were two-story tall, concrete parodies. I allowed myself to hope it was a spoof made by enterprising Apache or Diné folks to fool money out of that seasonally nomadic tribe of tourists. “Wow, can you believe that?” my wife asked. An offering. The opening I had been waiting for. But then her inflection—the effort in it—I bristled. It was an opening, but now that it had been presented to me, it was as abrasive as the grains of desert sand carried on the wind around us. How unacceptable to force it like that. To put effort into returning things to pleasant. “Mm,” I hummed. My lips pressed into a mesa above my chin. Here we were, both looking at the motel and marveling at its compounding of errors. How the place was not so much naively post-truth as violently counterfactual. It took the northeastern Algonquian word wigwam—rather than the more local Apache wickiup—for its name, misapplied it to a northern plains’ dwelling, the tipi, which was historically lightweight and nomadic, and then made the whole complex out of immovable concrete. “Can you believe that” indeed. Instead of reconciling after we passed the concrete affront to Indigenous peoples, I entrenched myself like a child in a couch-cushion fort. To respond to her entreaty

would be to accept moving on, and I couldn’t do that because moving on would not solve anything. All it would do is make us feel better. And of what value, ultimately, is that in a marriage? I had seen how short-lived this could be when I was ten years old. How things set aside and unaddressed could embed themselves between two people. The way they would grow and reemerge to fissure a relationship and break a home apart one unsaid word at a time. I resisted because I did not want us to become like that. Geologic. I didn’t want to be surprised when some shift revealed the seed of this argument once again. Where, after years of being buried and entombed but steadily accumulating, the discontentment would emerge hardened into something else, bigger, transformed into an object impossible to break down. I needed all our arguments stopped while they were warm with life and vulnerable to decomposition. Or, perhaps it is all much simpler than that. Perhaps I resisted her overture because sometimes I am as petulant as a grown man with hurt feelings. We drove on through the heavy quiet following the signs for the national park, turning toward the edge of town. We traversed a railroad track that cut through the road at a slight diagonal. The car trundled over unevenly, driver’s-side first then passenger. My side of the car’s shocks yielded, inclining me toward the center between the two seats, while hers compensated, pressing her against her door. Then the other side, with the same results. We were a couple of magnets with like charges, repelling from contact. Immediately to our left, we passed a historical marker for the Bucket of Blood Saloon. Another of Holbrook’s charming little spots, famous as much for a double homicide as for being over a century old. A plaque celebrated its historical significance. I wanted to make a comment about it, something about how we’d fit in there, but nothing worth breaking the silence for came. So I chuckled instead. A single “Huh.” The chuckle, I know in hindsight, probably seemed passive-aggressive. Looking back, I want to say I intended it as a monosyllabic commentary on the absurdity of our limited American sense of history. It’s the historical understanding of a child, incapable of imagining or acknowledging life existed before its birth. Terra nullius. Where a hundred-year-old bar was worthy of a historical marker. I wanted to laugh at the way we seem to only value history when we consider it ours. But I probably chuckled because it felt good. A little punch of breath thrown out into the air we shared. Just before we reached the entrance to the National Park, on the opposite side of the highway, I stared at a warehouse with a red metal roof. Cross sections of petrified wood, our first good glimpse of the park’s namesake, sat on end in front of the store. Rocks littered the ground and each one, I was surprised to realize, was a fossil.

There was so much petrified wood it was hastily piled everywhere. Fossil wood was mounded in white-fenced corrals that stretched around the building. I knew this kind of place without stopping. Had seen many like it, growing up on countless road trips in the Midwest. It’d be like those roadside shops with buckets of arrowheads priced by the pound. Arrowheads likely looted from Osage and Kansa and Otoe and Ponca burials or abandoned villages. Settlements where my grandmother’s people once lived, happily and healthily, hundreds of years before the Blood and Guts Saloon served its first shot of swill. Places that are marked by no plaques. Places that, for the most part, don’t get to have histories. Though, the arrowheads could have just been dupes too. Newly made points knapped out behind the shop by a club of enthusiasts. I don’t know which I would find more distasteful: the physical theft or the unremitting cultural one. The warehouse looked like the kind of business that would promise pieces for any budgets. I imagined petrified wood carved into clocks and coasters and keychains, built into chairs and coffee tables and benches, mounted on wall hangers and shaped into decorative eggs and sliced paper-thin into display pieces. I wondered how much of 225 million years ago my wife and I could buy on our humble incomes. I wanted the answer to be none, since we couldn’t reasonably afford to even drink twelve-year-old bourbon, but I knew it was probably quite a bit. I made the final turn. With the fossil-wood dealer behind us, I felt emptier. As though that business had taken something from me, too. Where I had been rigid, I didn’t so much soften as crumble a little bit. Our argument diminished. In the national park, we stopped first at the welcome center. Outside the car, the gentle movement of the warm desert air roused words from our mouths. It’s strange that for all the vividness of my memories of the threat this argument posed, I do not recall its actual content. I remember the adolescent frustration and the childhood fear and the adult exasperation. I remember hoping that this wasn’t us or who we would always be and being terrified that it was. I remember that on this trip we had two songs continually stuck in our head: “Use Me” by Bill Withers and “Gimme Some Money” by Spinal Tap. But I cannot, for the life of me, remember what we were arguing about in Holbrook. I think it was something as inane as directions or which exit to take. In the parking lot, our sentences were rushed, louder than intended, and clipped before fully concluding. A family of six skirted past us. The youngest children sprinted up the path to the waiting fossils. The parents pretended not to notice us. Evening was drawing down on the park quickly. It overlay the landscape in a blanket of flaxen light and, somehow, I had the sense that my wife and I were running out of time. The sky above flirted with clouds and the encroaching spot of rain, though they remained like a rumor, distant and ill-defined. All around, the desert smelled not wet, not like the plains before a storm, but expectant. Like anything could happen.

“We can just get back in and keep going,” I suggested. “No,” she said. “We’re here. Let’s check it out.” We were there and that simple fact of proximity was probably what saved us. But, also, I suspect we both felt the same pull that had put a burst into the legs of the children that ran by. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry too,” she said. A concrete walk wound up a small rise. With each step, it took us further from the car and our disagreement. Our shoulders brushed. There were a few light comments floated out on passerine wings. They flapped once, then tucked and gave themselves to gravity, not knowing where they would land. We smiled quickly, meeting eyes in passing before glancing at the ground. Despite the strange modern amalgam of concrete beneath our feet and the painted steel railing that lined some sections of the walk, there was a sense of traveling outside the present. Like we were entering an eddy at the edge of the normal flow of things. A reprieve. The fossils lay on their sides all around us, as if they’d always been there exactly like that. There was no sense that the trees had ever fallen. Instead, it was as though they had chosen to take an extended repose. Standing among them, their stillness seemed to touch even our hearts, which slowed in their steady presence. My wife leaned over one. “They still have bark,” she said. Her voice was soft as she said it. Reverent. For all the discoloration of the now mineralized pulp, the bark looked the same as that of the conifers outside our apartment. She moved delicately and put her hand on the log as though not to wake it. Her shoulders relaxed and her lids grew heavy. She leaned closer. Paused. Leaned closer still. In slow motion, in the way of seconds relativistically extending and becoming more, she knelt and put her ear to the crystalline face of the fossil. Her eyes closed. She listened. Here, in the golden light of the retreating sun, in her red dress, with her hand laid on the stone bark of the tree as if to comfort it and her ear to the multihued crystal that was once phloem, cambium, and xylum, she blazed. The desert seemed frozen and even my breath, which was weary and hopeful and shallow, felt like an intrusion. She stilled. Her expression was the same contented look she gets when she plays piano and leaves me to become a part of the music. A few feet back, standing somewhat unsteadily like a sapling, I wondered what she heard. Did the trees sing of the soil of the western portion of the long-split Pangea? The way their roots were threaded into a landmass that was united and whole and millions of years away from fissure? How, from the threading of those roots, they stood tall, two-hundred feet up in the oxygen-rich air of the late Triassic, shading protocrocodilian phytosaurs, rumbling herds of stocky herbivorous dicynodonts, and scores

of armored, spiny archosaurs? Did they revel in the fact that they were giants before the age of giants? Or did they retell, with warmth, being there for the taxonomic infancy of mammals? The way those small, novel creatures, with their fur and mewling dependent young, would scurry up the trees’ trunks, touching the same bark that now rested beneath my wife’s palm? How, in the twilight when the darkness offered some small measure of shelter from the dinosaurs, their small, clawed forelimbs and twitching snouts investigated the larvae’s boreholes that still, even now, dotted the fossil’s surface? Did it swell with concern for those pinecone-sized refugees adapting to, and settling for, the niches left mostly untouched by the cold-blooded protoreptiles that owned the world? Or was it a lament? Did it relive their fall? How, amid a swirl of ash and volcanic spew, they were brought low? Was the river that became their pallbearer cold and shocking in its contrast to the burning air, as it caught and carried the trees to this final resting place? Could they sing of their regret that the ash and stone and silt buried them before the flora and fauna of the waterway could set to work repurposing their bodies into nutrients to feed the next cycle of life? How they lay below the surface in darkness, gradually hardening in the absence of oxygen and sunlight? Did it tell of how the silica, dissolved from the ash, infused their very cells as if they were a mold waiting to be filled and, combining with minerals from the water— the iron oxide, hematite, limonite, chromium, and cobalt— cast the trees as yellow, purple, ochre, grey, and green quartz sculptures of their former selves? Did they embrace their new, fortified composition with the defensive vigor and underlying bitterness of those who have been hurt too often and betrayed too dearly? Did their time in darkness warp them? Were theirs the ululations of the badlands, of cliffs and gullies and buttes? Did they embrace their bentonite bed with its swings of temperament? The way it swelled and cracked according to the whims of the desert rain, making it nearly impossible for any other plants to take root and consistently thrive atop their resting place? Were they comforted by this fact and its suggestion that perhaps this site was and always would be theirs? Had they spent so much time with their own loss that they could only feel relief at the misfortune of others? The unlined serenity in my wife’s face suggested this could not be it. That this was just me letting my present permeate into, coloring and recasting, the past. Still, I broke my focus from her and the fossils and us, and I glanced around. The growing clouds were approaching. The precarity of the desert brushed against me in a gentle breeze. I felt foolish and small and unnecessary. My wife had not moved. She was there with her ear against the fossil and peace on her face. Such is relativity that I could be so privileged and yet I had not been able to escape the conviction that our utterly forgettable argument had been everything while it was happening. Such is relativity that the threat of losing her,

no matter how unrealistic, once acknowledged could still feel tantamount to my world ending. Perhaps, maybe, the tree intoned a tale of patience and the unending progression of all things. How there, entombed, the trees lay and waited and rested in the Earth’s embrace. And for millions of years, they were still and, maybe, content even as the continents broke apart and drifted. Maybe they muse about the 165 million years the dinosaurs ruled. About how it was like watching grandchildren in adolescence. Maybe they spoke more of the way that rule gave way, first in an explosive flash and then steadily over eons, to birds and mammals? How ice encroached, regressed, encroached and regressed again and again and yet the warm bed of the earth held constant? Was there a smile as they noted how those first furry beings not only survived but grew and changed? Did they relay the stories from a hemisphere away of how some of these small hairy creatures continued down that tree-dwelling path to become primates? Would they chuckle, knowingly, about those big-brained, visually oriented, perpetual troublemakers? And would they slow as they sung of the genus Homo, and its immediate antecedents, and how there had once been numerous species of them all living at the same time, all vying for the same resources to keep themselves and their offspring fed, all with varying sizes and shapes of skulls but with nearly identical hearts? I was not listening, and so I cannot say exactly what it was that she heard that smoothed her face that way. But I was watching, and I absorbed every fractional release in my wife’s jaw, how the wind stirred only certain hairs from the nape of her neck. Seeing her hearing that song was almost too much for me to bear. Despite all the history all around us and built up within us, for now, this moment was all. For now, it was ours. And as the sun settled down to couple with the horizon, throwing wide, orange shafts of light out like arms stretching to embrace the landscape, and the clouds directly above opened up in heavy drops that fell so slowly they looked like strokes of calligraphy in the air, cooling the evening further, I saw so much. How small and transient I was, as fleeting as the wetness that blossomed on our clothes where each pregnant raindrop landed. How the fossil field, that aeon-spanning graveyard, would soak up the moisture and, briefly, throughout the evening, would awaken. Flowers and shrubs and cacti with names like small spells would bloom and reach skyward as if they could draw it closer. The scattered yellow bursts of summer poppy, chinchweed, desert marigold, burroweed and Coulter hibiscus, interspersed with the purple of devil’s claw and trailing four-o’clock, punctuated with the off-white of sacred datura. For a few days— maybe less—for a racing moment, the ground would thrum with life and rejoice. The trees would be surrounded by the brief, opportunistic life of their descendants.

Reckless and exuberant. And just as quickly, they would recede. The landscape stilled, waiting for the rain to incite another sweet burst of flitting fullness. And I knew, suddenly, seeing my wife framed by a nimbus of now-crystal wood with her closed-lip smile spreading, what it must have been like for these fossils when, eventually, the tectonic shifts of the crust finally thrust the Chinle layer up once again to the surface and these great trees got to greet the sun for the first time in millions of years.

ELI ZABE TH L E R M A N

Guts, Mostly

ATELY, IT SEEMS THAT IF YOU SPEAK TO ME , I will either ignore

you or eat you alive and its rarely the latter but sometimes I do swallow people up so quickly they get stuck in my throat and it’s not about eating anymore it’s about owning and bodies aren’t meant to be held there, in the space between smile and sternum so eventually all I taste is blood and sometimes I think it’d feel nice to be with someone softer than me and I don’t mean sweeter because that sounds short-term but someone with less gore growing in them because lately, if you ask me what I’m thinking about I will say guts, mostly, about entrails and all the ways we can be emptied. I am thinking about the woman I met, a friend of a friend, who told me how her intestines were removed so her baby could be born. She was awake while it happened, conscious of her own reshaping, alert to the feeling of organs being taken out then loaded back in. I am thinking about body horror and birth and how that’s just the noble beginning of it because what it’s really about is violence and the way it invades the best and worst moments of our lives and I’ll never have to make anything up because the world writes itself and I guess what I’m saying, in its simplest state, is that people, mostly, I mean, don’t want to hear about being hollowed out so, lately, I am finding them hard to talk to.

DANI E L E L I A S G A L I C I A

Águila del desierto so once again he would heave, would struggle to thrust it up, sweat drenching his body, dust swirling above his head. - The Odyssey, Book XI: The Kingdom of the Dead

Because he found brother, cousin facedown. Because he lost home like bones lose flesh. Nights, he sits in bed, stitches his heart with cactus spines, the muscle thick, leather-bound. Somedays he feels wind rip pages from his book of longing, pin them to barbed wire. Somedays he can’t go on, lets heat blister through him like water dumped by la migra from matte black jugs. Because he can’t go on, he must go on. Father

taught him sun’s a rattlesnake. Cover your neck, mijo, heat’s venom. Still the nation, like the sun, flares up, rears back, strikes— bodies stagger to underbrush. How to go on searching for the missing, planting white crosses for their remains, upand-down sun-stroked valleys, knowing the desert, like a vulture, claims the flesh of bones?

ALAN SC H U L TE

Broken Home

Y FATHER SPRAWLS at the kitchen table. It’s not really a table, but a

repurposed and weather-beaten wooden spool, four feet across, the kind used for wound industrial-gauge wire. My sister makes herself small, crosslegged on the floor as she twists the frayed strands of an old braided carpet around her fingertips, choking the ragged pink skin to a swollen, fleshy plum. My father taps a work-hardened fingernail on the edge of his coffee mug, a gesture traditionally followed by some formal declaration. “I’ve decided I want to be closer to you,” my father says. It is a cool nor’easter making landfall. My sister has bound three fingers into plump purple grapes. “Besides, it looks like you could use some help around here.” My mother is still, touching her lips to the edge of her teacup, not sipping, or swallowing, or breathing. Her mouth set in a tight, unwavering line, as my father’s voice is swallowed by the whir of the ceiling fan and her wordless acknowledgment of the exposed knotty-pine trusses that support the vaulted ceiling over our heads. Ten years after the divorce, my mother had saved enough to put a down payment on the turn-of-the-century farmhouse. It is a work in progress, but it is ours. The two of us rip away a bygone era of ammonia-scented horsehair plaster and splintered lath that line the walls and ceilings through most of the structure; an incessant white film covers every surface. The kitchen is still in pieces. The double sink, still plumbed to the wall, rests on a 1940s porcelain enamel tabletop my mother picked up at a yard sale for twenty-five cents, haggling the lady down from a dollar. My mother and I work beneath the house in the old root cellar that smells of black earth and overripe potatoes. We work to raise the sagging farmer’s porch overhead and tie it back to the house. It is here I learn to position the tall, rust-colored cylinder jacks that look like military-grade projectiles tipped up on end, spaced apart in fourfoot intervals along the perimeter, making sure they sit perfectly level, perpendicular to the ground and the support beam on the underside of the porch. I crawl down below the tired structure, hunched over in that dark, damp place, and turn each threaded pipe inside the cylinder, one full revolution, putting my chest and every ounce of my ten-year-old weight into the large crescent wrench, twisting the screw that presses a broad steel plate against the old wood, gaining a centimeter at a time, raising the piston and slowly lifting our home back into place. When the wrench becomes too difficult to turn, my mother shows me how to place a length of pipe over the handle to gain leverage, to make light work of the

stubborn jack. Every twist must be gradual and even, so that with every incremental adjustment, the hundred-year-old wood has time to rest into place. We check our level often to see our progress. Painfully slow. Until the day I am not strong enough to turn the screw. When my mother’s hand is weak. When we find there are some things we cannot fix.

ESTEBAN I SM A E L

After— What’s hardest is free time, no need to be anywhere midafternoon meals gone uncooked, cold iron pans kept in the unusable oven, a cracked block of cheese in dry light, empty blue couch. No hurry, the motor idling away from work & no five-point schedule or overnight shifts trying to keep everything from falling apart while everyone else dreams face-plant, spread-eagle. The mute living room, untranslated air gone to gather dust instead of the English channels. When the time comes six months after a fear tingling like sand rushing down a vial the shape of a morphine syringe, the world’s quiet

panic takes the form of order: folded linens, clean floors.

MELAN I E B R Y A NT

An Alphabetical Catalog of Love, Loss, and What We Ate AMUSE-B OUCHE

French; pronounced ah-myuz boosh. Small bites served at the beginning of a multicourse meal. Translated as mouth amuser. Meant to incite the appetite, explode in the mouth, excite the palate. Think of the amuse-bouche as the first kiss between lovers; the spark of two lips meeting; something unforgettable. BAKLAVA

Baklava is my specialty. Layers upon layers of thin buttered phyllo dough, nuts and spices, cinnamon and sugar mixed together. The hardest part is using the knife to cut through the layers before the baklava goes into the oven. The knife has to be sharp enough to cut, not tear the dough. Once baked, golden and crisp, the baklava is topped with a syrup. My secret is five-spice powder—the anise, softly aromatic, that faint taste of licorice, it throws everyone. It’s an unexpected element. BRAIN TUMOR

In film and literature, brain tumors are a major plot twist, the most unbelievable thing imaginable; it’s a shocking diagnosis; people will try to make sense of it, try to remember where they were and what they were doing right before the brain tumor was discovered. In real life, it’s a Monday morning in January. My husband and I are eating toast and jam, drinking coffee, making plans for a weekend getaway. He kisses me goodbye and goes out for a run. In real life, it’s a phone call that summons me to the hospital, a nurse who says, “Your husband has had a seizure.” Later, a doctor enters the room and says, “Your husband has a mass on his brain. It’s a tumor.” BRO CA’S AREA

The tumor in my husband’s brain is growing. The first craniotomy steals his words. My husband loses 20% of his language skills and suffers from Broca’s aphasia. In his brain, he can easily form words, but he can’t produce them in his speech. Everything is mixed up. The stove becomes a rocket ship, the car a BBQ, the cat an elephant.

CRANIOTOMY

A craniotomy is the surgical removal of part of a bone that forms the skull in order to expose the brain. Once the brain is exposed, a neurosurgeon will attempt to resect or remove a tumor. Complications include seizures, stroke, swelling of the brain, brain damage, loss of cognitive and mental functions. The plural of craniotomy is craniotomies. My husband has two craniotomies. The bone does not grow back, but the tumor does. CHEESE

Once, in a small village on the outskirts of Florence, my husband escorted me through the narrow streets and into a tiny shoebox of a restaurant where we dined on the local fare—bistecca alla fiorentina and Chianti—chargrilled steak and red wine, and at meal’s end, the waiter wheeled over a lavish gold-gilded cart laden with cheeses and an array of accompaniments. My husband expertly eyed the selection and pointed out a pecorino from the Maremma—the coastal terrain where the lush green hills rolled languidly along, giving way to woodland and flat marshlands, and where, among the fields of sunflowers, the sheep grazed undisturbed, their sweet milk grassy and sharp, a hint of salt from the Tyrrhenian Sea. The cheese was stark white, paired with a handful of dark red cherries—a shocking contrast—but together, they married into the most perfect of unions. The first taste jolted my senses—the bittersweet cherries, the rich butterfat of the cheese and the grassy herbaceous notes of the wine collided in sweet rhapsody. My husband squeezed my hand, leaned in, and whispered across the table, “What you taste is this day, this place, this time in our lives. How magical it is!” CRUSTACEANS

Once, in a tiny San-Francisco kitchen with a window that opened onto a fire escape, my husband brought home live Dungeness crabs, their claws scissoring wildly into the air before he quickly dispatched them and roasted them whole in a buttery bath of garlic and winter herbs. To cook such a feast in a small space, he opened the window in spite of the cold and foggy mist, and then we huddled at our table, jackets on, while we pulled apart those giant crabs and soaked up the buttery sauce with crusty bread. DUCK

To cook a duck correctly requires a very hot oven of 500 degrees Fahrenheit. For the whole of my life, I was too terrified to cook at this temperature, though my husband begged me to let him roast a duck, describing in great detail the crispy skin and how that succulent meat melts in the mouth. But I never gave in until I knew

that my husband was dying. Then, I was no longer afraid to crank the oven up to 500 degrees Fahrenheit, even after I disconnected every last smoke alarm. It was New Year’s Eve. It was raining outside. We were wearing our jackets and our gloves when we sat down at our table to eat that crispy roasted duck. The meat was tender and succulent. DYING

I recall a Samuel Beckett quote that I once heard in a college literature class: They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more. I wonder why I never remembered it, how it didn’t cross my mind again until that New Year’s Eve, how clearly I recalled it then, as I wildly tore into the crispy skin of that roasted duck. The clock was ticking to midnight; another year was ending. ENTRÉE

The fourth course of a classic French menu. Served after the fish course. FISH

My husband was a self-proclaimed poissonier and rightly so, for under his delicate hand, fish would come alive, sing in the pan, and then willingly surrender to a sauce. His specialties: a fragile skate wing with an earthy beurre noisette, a crispy fillet of halibut cooked in hot cast iron and finished with cherry tomatoes and capers, and a wild salmon, a shade rare, perfectly pink and sauced with butter and a generous handful of tarragon from our garden. The salmon—my favorite—was a labor of love for the painstaking work of removing the pin bones. My husband, though, never complained. He would pour himself a glass of wine before laying the salmon out on a board and then, with a pair of tweezers, pull out each bone, one by one. “For you, my love,” he would say as he ran his fingers along the flesh of the fish, double-checking for any bones that he may have missed. GLIOBLASTOMA MULTIFORME

Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM) is an incurable, insidious, fast-growing, and always deadly brain cancer with an average life expectancy of six months; diagnosed in only .59 per 100,000 people; a cancer of unknown cause. A surgeon can never completely remove the tumor. The tumor cells are scattered everywhere throughout the brain. “Think of GBM as if you mixed a cup of sugar and a cup of cinnamon together,” the neurosurgeon says. “The tumor is the cinnamon. Once it’s mixed in with the sugar, you can never separate the two.” There are always cells left behind, cells looking for

a blood source and, once they find it, they will grow incredibly quickly—doubling, tripling, even quadrupling in a matter of weeks. GRITS

My husband loved grits, so I made them for him all the time. When he would come into the kitchen and see the pot on the stove, he would start singing the ‘grits song’ by Little Milton while breaking into a dance. He called it his happy dance. If I don’t love you, baby Grits ain’t groceries Eggs ain’t poultry (FADES) A-don’t you know I love you, baby A-don’t you know I love you, baby Ev’ryday and. GETTY MUSEUM

The day before the second craniotomy, we held hands as we strolled through the gardens at the Getty Museum, posed before the resplendent bloom of yellow daffodils, purple irises, and a rainbow of tulips. We surveyed the Ancient Egypt exhibit, analyzed every detail of those mummified remains. For lunch, we dined on chicken and waffles and then wandered along the shore of the Pacific, the sand cold on our feet, the waves stinging our ankles. That night, we dined at a little neighborhood restaurant and ate wood-fired artisan pizzas and drank wine and shared a tiramisu so good that it made us both want to cry. HOLIDAY CO OKING See DUCK . INN

The second craniotomy was at a hospital in Los Angeles. We checked into a Days Inn a few blocks away. One night, when I was back in the room alone, long after midnight, I plugged my old Kindle into a socket to charge and it blew a fuse, cut the lights for the entire building. A kindly old Indian man with a flushed face and a flashlight came to my door, and I ushered him inside so that I could show him the outlet, singed and black, the way that surge hadn’t even been contained there but burned out onto the wall. I needed someone else to see the damage, so I pointed to the enormous and ominous dark cloud on the aged and worn blue paint.

JOIE DE VIVRE

Once, in San Francisco, we packed a picnic lunch of bread and cheese and, in a rented car, drove across the Golden Gate Bridge to the Marin Headlands, which lie at the bridge’s northern footing, where the juxtaposition of pillow-black basalt against the iconic orange landmark is softened only by the bluest of skies. There, on a narrow bluff, while the songbirds sang, we spotted a kettle of hawks and watched their courtship dance as they swooped and sailed and glided through the cables, around the towers, effortlessly weaving between the suspension ropes. It’s here where, each year, these solitary raptors return to find their mate, that lifelong companion. If I close my eyes, I can still taste that runny cheese—an Époisse—aged and earthy and buttery on my tongue—and still hear, too, the crack of the crust as my husband tore into the baguette and handed me a piece. KOREAN FO OD

Korean food is meant to be a collective experience; sharing a meal; grilling together. We both liked Korean BBQ, especially the kimchi—the fermented cabbage with gutfriendly bacteria that’s eaten for good health and a long life. The last part was only hype. LAMB B OLO GNESE

Once, I came home after a long day to find my husband making fresh pasta on our ironing board. Strands of pasta hung like streamers, over cabinet doors, from wooden spoons laddered between canisters and wine bottles; a pot of lamb Bolognese simmered on the stove. My husband was joyous, filled with pride as he showed off, with floured hands, his artistry. I was tired and cranky. How I still regret that, even now. MOLLUSKS

Such strange creatures—oysters, mussels, and abalone. In California, the oysters were small and fine—the flat French Hog from the ultrabriny waters of Tomales Bay, faintly metallic, and the sweet and salty Kumamoto from farther up the coast in Bodega Bay—their subtle and heavenly nuances far too ephemeral for a spicy sauce, so instead, my husband would whip up a tart mignonette that played perfectly against the taste of the Pacific and, when I smiled with delight, he would remind me, “Food is all about a time and a place—an everchanging landscape.” To his point, the best mussels where just off of Union Square, at a tiny French bistro on a back alley where the tables were set up outside and covered in white linen. The mussels were cooked in wine and heavy cream, perfumed with fresh herbs and garlic. In the warm sunshine of October afternoons, we’d slurp that magical broth

from big white bowls and drink glasses of wine before walking, half-buzzed, through the city streets. And it was on the beach, bundled in sweaters and watching the sun set, when we first ate abalone—that rarest and sweetest of finds—fresh from the hands of the free divers who plunged into the cold and watery depths, knives in hand, and then pried those prehistoric mollusks from the rocks as their rasping mouths were still feeding on the kelp. NEW ORLEANS

My husband was a New Orleanian of French descent. He came from people who prided themselves on their hospitality and joie de vivre. He never failed to greet his hospice nurse with a smile, a wink, and sometimes, a knowing tilt of his head. OEUF

The French word for egg. I never knew anyone who loved eggs more than my husband, especially those from our neighbor’s chickens. The yolks were a vivid orange, deep and streaky, a sign that the chickens were given free reign of the pasture, a chance to forage the bounty of the earth that was ripe with seeds and roots and worms. PATISSERIE

Once, on a foggy morning in San Francisco, my husband led me by the hand over the hills, through the sleepy city streets, and then off the beaten path and down a less traveled side street where, through the mist, a barely visible neon sign revealed a patisserie. The faded red door framed a long rectangular panel of glass, steamed opaque from the ovens inside, and upon opening, a ringing bell announced our arrival. As the door shut behind us and we took our place in line, we were blanketed by the heavenly sweet aromas of burnt sugar and butter and yeast, a heady mix so sublime that I still recall how I steadied myself against my husband and leaned into his warmth. The whole of the shop was quiet and still—churchlike—except for the roar of the oven and the rustle of the brown paper bags as the attendant slid each order inside. Up ahead, over shoulders and between shapes, I saw the variety of pastries in the case—airy croissants, their buttery sheen glistening in the light, delicate heart-shaped palmiers, and palm-sized tarts, finished with a single jewel-like raspberry, an emerald sepal still attached. And then, with our own brown paper bag, two heart-shaped palmiers inside, we set off again on that long walk back home.

ROUX

French; one of the Mother Sauces. Fat and flour are cooked together, married, until the desired color is reached. Roux is used as a base for, and thickener for, gumbo. A dark or mahogany roux is used for game and meat gumbos, while a blond roux is used for seafood gumbo. In New Orleans, a man is known by his roux. Everyone wanted to know the secret to my husband’s gumbo, how he cooked his roux. STROKE

During the second craniotomy, the neurosurgeon tried to tease away the tumor’s tentacles and nicked an artery. My husband suffered an intraoperative stoke. No one knew what the damage would be. It was a waiting game, waiting for my husband to gain consciousness—if he ever did. Minutes ticked by. Hours passed. Days ended and began again. Then, I saw it—an essence, a spark, a flash of light—and then movement—an eyelash that fluttered, a nostril that flared, a finger that twitched. He’s still alive, I thought, and then I waited for him to open his eyes. I was terrified that they would be flat and lifeless, that he would blankly stare into space, that there would be no flicker of recognition. But when his eyes finally did open, I bent down nearer to his face, and I could see into him; I could see that he was still in there; I could see that he was still with me. TROUT A LA MEUNIÈRE

My husband’s favorite dish was Trout a la Meunière, which means in the style of the miller’s wife who, according to French lore, cooked everything in a coating of flour. A clever woman, if you ask me, since it turned out that dredging the fillets in flour before tossing them into the hot pan was the secret to the dish—those floury bits and hot butter browned into a most delightful and nutty roux. The fish was always perfectly flaky and moist. UMAMI

One of the five tastes along with sweet, sour, salty, bitter. From the Japanese, meaning essence of deliciousness. Taste receptors on the tongue send impulses to the central cortex of the brain where perceptions can be identified. VALENTINE’S DAY

Once, we bought each other the same Valentine’s Day card and laughed so hard we nearly cried.

My husband, the romantic. The special dinners, the exotic orchids, Neruda’s love poems. Favorite Valentine gifts that my husband gave me: -Garden clogs, tulip bulbs, and flower seeds -A velvet, heart-shaped box filled with fine French truffles -An easel and tins of paint My husband died on a February afternoon, three days after Valentine’s Day. From the window, I watched the stormy sky, the unsettled clouds. Down below, along the garden path, I could see the first tender tips of the tulips waiting to bloom. WORDS

Before the second craniotomy, my husband said goodbye to me before he disappeared behind the hospital doors. But then, he quickly reappeared, running back to me. That one last smile, that one last kiss, that one last embrace as he whispered in my ear that one last I love you. XENO GLOSSY

My husband called me Mon petit poi! French for my little pea—a token of love. After the stroke, when my husband finally talked again, he spoke in French. He had never learned to speak French—at least not in the fluency of whole sentences. An old aunt said that when he was a child, his great grandmother would read to him in French. The doctor said they knew very little of how the brain works. My husband never said my name again. Instead, he called me Mon. People heard this and pitied me; they thought that he was calling me mom or that he had forgotten my name entirely. But I knew that he was calling me Mon, and that was enough for me. YOKE

1. A wooden crosspiece that fits over the necks of two animals and is then attached to the plow or cart they are meant to pull. 2. A culinary term meaning a binding agent. Yoke, sometimes confused with yolk. The latter, the yellow-orange center of an egg that provides nutrients for a new life growing within. ZEST

The topmost part of a citrus peel; fragrant. Also, meaning with great emotion. Synonyms: gusto; relish; passion; an appetite for life; love. See AMUSE B OUCHE .

ELISÁVET MAKRIDIS

Little Alps of Grief Toddlerboltupright, I collect what I desire into a fiery red beach pail: ten hermit shells in muddy brine. Yiayiá, this is the stew that lives inside me. Overnight, my pail stinks up the veranda so you rinse its guts out with rosewater. Each crustacean, a tear on its two travels in & out. That July backchannels multiply in my sleep: your memory, knitting itself into mine like Madreporian coral. In a recurring dream, we wake to find the dead crabs have reincarnated as flies shitting over freshly dried nightgowns. I pretend I’m the goddess Myacoris & peel iridescent droppings off each visible surface: our 80’s futon, Panagía’s icon, black & white linoleum. Droppings mushroomed round the caves of your eyes, two fluttering cauldrons. Listen, what I want now I wanted then: my tongue on your knees, Yiayiá, to stir up the blood’s incognito business. Your knees, stupendous little alps of grief— here & here a bluff to vamoose off.

CATHLIN NOONAN

Abortion Made a Road How months earlier I’d unzipped fleece, laid belly-down cheek-flushed on ice. How in Queens at 82nd, a center of road smoldered so cold, numbness thawed. My palms, graveled blood but for a scotch of freeze. How I tongued the puddle, concrete through flesh. I rose, shame-laced relief for a taxi driver spared, for the green chemical dawn above Northern towards the bridge. How I train to anywhere. How no would-be search. How I could. Not be. How I continued past 37th & half-torsoed barefoot mannequins shivered in latex jeans. Fluorescents twitched, stores aglow, shuttered within settled grates.

And Bleecker to Mulberry, her leaves fodder for silk fibers I spin and latch to each streetlamp to Mott, block apple named for a butcher to Planned Parenthood, fruit tree made puree made a pummeling made a geography, knotted with gauze, thread woven through holes— her grocers, her salted fish, her mushroom hills, her sweat-beaded geese strung above lemons, her steam, her dumplings after work, her dwindle of visitors & tightening lanes & secret curves & doorways to tunnels, her smell, gamy and pearled.

BRIDGET MULLER-SAMPSON

On the Endangered List

OSEMARY MOLLOY HOLDS A MEMORY of an American Burying

Beetle, a two-inch long black, hard-shelled creature with an orange badge on its pronotum—the scallop–shell shaped area just behind its head. She thinks of the Nicrophorus americanus when she sees houseflies, as she does now, and then reaches over and remembers that her addict, once-husband Bradley, the previous evening, had wandered in from his nighttime escapades and insisted on passing out in bed beside her. His hand feels cold. Orange facial markings and orange tips on the antennae, though depending on your sources, scientists might tell you that Rosemary’s girlhood memory of holding an American Burying Beetle is impossible because the beetle was already endangered when she was young and, certainly, there is also the chance— quite possible—that the beetle never even lived in the suburbs of Baltimore. She knows all of this. She also knows that cigarettes will kill her. From down the hall, she hears their daughter, Sadie, flush the toilet. Still, she remembers cradling that tiger of a beetle in their sunny, grassy backyard as the sounds of her parents arguing drove through the kitchen windows. She never saw such an insect again. She searched for it in books, on videos. She began to draw its shape; she grew into a printmaker, specializing in botanical renderings of insects. Her father moved to Colorado. Her mother continued to serve on boards. She married Bradley because she loved his hands and the dimple in his chin and his desire Eventually, he began to steal money from her. She thinks of the American Burying Beetle often, but especially around flies because the beetles bury the newly dead carcasses of birds or chipmunks—or other creatures about the size of a hand. The beetles (a couple by now, as the male has wooed the female with the security of a found carcass!) excavate the dirt under the carcass and pull it down into the earth where they preserve it with anal and oral excretions so that the brood they are expecting can eat and grow into adult beetles. Otherwise, the carcass, left above ground, would rot and attract flies, which spread disease to humans and livestock, whereas the burying beetles add nutrients to the soil when they’ve had their fill and the mummified carcass decomposes into nitrogen and potassium and phosphorus for plants to nourish themselves. The first time she met Bradley, she was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and red canvas sneakers and was very insecure. She thinks she hears him sigh, but his hand is so cold. A scholarly article that Rosemary once read about the Nicrophorus americanus and its historical population

in Virginia states the following: Like all Nicrophorus, this species, the largest North American member of the genus, exhibits extended biparental care of its young, and both adults and larvae feed on carrion. Unable to retain the word for word, she has always understood the beetle family burrowed together as an inseparable unit. She wills the insect from her memory to appear. Their daughter jumps on the bed before Rosemary can say, No. Rosemary continues to touch the cold hand. The remaining American Burying Beetles closest to Baltimore reside in Rhode Island. Sadie kisses their dog’s head over and over. Yes, American Burying Beetles, Rosemary thinks, are strong fliers. But they only pull themselves aloft in the night. And it is very early morning.

CRISTINA LEGARDA

Comfort

ILES OF PINK AND PURPLE FLESH everywhere made Essie almost gag. She

dreaded going to the wet market in Chinatown with her grandmother, especially the meat section, with its scary body parts and gruesome innards. In the seafood section, the creepy gray bodies of raw crustaceans and their beady eyes made Essie feel as if hundreds of little legs were crawling up and down her arms. But she hated the thought of Lola Shonnie trying to navigate the noisy crowds and grimy aisles by herself. She pictured her lola in a flower-print dress getting lost, or people trying to take advantage of her because of the innocent look on her heart-shaped face. So either Essie’s mother, Emilia, would go, or Essie would, if she didn’t have class or rehearsal. At the border of meat and seafood, Essie almost bumped into a white plastic crate full of live frogs, maybe thirty of them, light green with brown spots, nostrils just above the water surface, each frog bigger than her outstretched hand. Most of them were motionless, as if resigned to their cramped quarters, but a couple of them were flexing their legs and trying to propel themselves over their peers. She turned her head to avoid looking at them, only to catch sight of a pair of white rubber gloves, like disembodied hands, resting on top of a mound of ice piled high with raw shrimp. All the labels were in characters she couldn’t read. The air smelled like fish. Essie wanted to leave. “Are you all set, Lola?” she asked. Lola Shonnie had picked out some goat meat for kaldereta and some beef to cube for salpicao, but she was definitely on the lookout for something else. “Wala silang puso,” she muttered. They don’t have heart. “Like, pig heart?” Essie knew what she wanted it for. Bopis: a dish of sautéed morsels of offal. A dish she had reached adulthood without trying, like dinuguan, blood stew. “Lola, why don’t we go get some garlic for your salpicao.” Lola took her arm. “Your pay-bor-it,” she said, beaming. She had never lost her accent. Essie loved it. She found it homey and heartwarming. Hearing it made her feel safe and cared for. She breathed a sigh of relief when they arrived at the bright reds, greens, oranges, and yellows of a produce stall just a few doors down. The fruit stand her grandmother favored was owned by Filipinos. They sold tamarinds, canned lychees, calamansi juice concentrate, and, past the fresh produce, aisles of canned Spam, soup mix for sinigang and kare kare, glutinous rice, SkyFlakes crackers, Chippy corn chips, bags

of garlic-seasoned peanuts, and many other foods that homesick Filipinos bought by the dozen. The store also had a home remedies and beauty aids section stocked with popular shampoos, cold cream, and Vicks VapoRub, the Filipino family’s treatment for nearly every ailment. Essie and Lola Shonnie wandered through the aisles picking up various items to put in their shopping baskets. Lola Shonnie bought six heads of garlic, a few varieties of peppers, two green mangoes, a jar of bagoong to eat them with, and a small tub of Vicks for her aches and pains. Essie picked up some coconut milk, ginger tea, and a cylinder of cocoa tablets. The shopkeepers always met them with warm smiles and the eyebrow raise typical of Filipinos. The cashier greeted Lola Shonnie with an affectionate, “Kumusta po?” Back outside, they were assailed by a distinctly New York odor—a mixture of metal, cigarette smoke, and urine. Lola Shonnie carried the lightest bag with the vegetables and soup mix; Essie took the rest. As they were walking to the subway, Lola Shonnie stopped abruptly and exclaimed, “Ay!” Essie turned to her. Lola Shonnie was brushing at the front of her neck and breathing heavily. Her gaze darted upward and around as if she were looking for something. “Are you okay, Lola?” “Something… something fell on me.” Essie looked more closely at Lola Shonnie’s neck, expecting to find pigeon droppings. There was just some moisture there. When she looked up, she noticed a dripping air conditioner in one of the windows above. “It’s okay, Lola, it’s just some condensation from that air con.” “Get it off. Get it off!” Essie pulled some tissues out of Lola Shonnie’s purse—Filipinas never left home without them—and wiped off her neck and collar bones. “It’s not so bad, Lola. There. All gone.” Lola Shonnie was shaking and clutching at her chest. Violets on her flower-print dress crumpled under her whitened knuckles. “Does your chest hurt, Lola?” “I’m okay. I’m okay. It’s just my usual.” Lola Shonnie had had episodic chest pain since she was young. She had been evaluated numerous times throughout her life, reevaluated after menopause for angina, heartburn, and stomach problems, but her coronary arteries were clear of blockage, and doctors could never find anything wrong. She had even had a CT scan of her chest and abdomen that revealed something unexpected: Lola Shonnie’s body appeared textbook perfect. “Let’s go sit on that bench for a second,” Essie said.

Tiny droplets of sweat had gathered over Lola’s forehead. Essie dabbed at them calmly and held her hand, waiting for this episode to pass. After a few minutes, Lola Shonnie’s breathing slowed to normal, and her color returned. “Do you want to go to the emergency room?” “Hay—of course not,” Lola Shonnie replied with a dismissive hand gesture. “You know I get these all the time.” “I know.” “And they never find anything. Look, I’m fine.” Lola Shonnie sprang off the bench and did a little twirl. “See? O.” “Yeah. But…” “What.” “How about the walk-in clinic? Benji’s working there tomorrow. Maybe just to make sure?” “You like this new boyfriend, ah. I can tell.” Essie couldn’t suppress a grin. “We can go early, before my class, and I can let him know, so we don’t wait so long.” “Sige, sige. Let’s go na, hija,” she said. They walked to the subway arm in arm.

ESSIE HAD ALWAYS FELT AT HOME in New York, but nowhere more than in lower

Manhattan. She got to know the area during her first summer dance intensive when she was twelve, and now, almost eight years later, she felt Greenwich Village was more home than Astoria, where she lived with her mother and grandmother. The pharmacist at Bigelow’s recognized her when she went in for her supply of BFI powder and surgical tape for toe blisters; the guys at Bagel Buffet knew to over-butter her bagels after heating them up; and the proprietor at Charlie Ma’s didn’t even need to ask for her order when she would stop in for broccoli with garlic sauce. The dance studio was Essie’s sanctuary. She loved the view of the Jefferson Market Library tower from her favorite warm-up spot. Even if she went in feeling creaky and stiff, she would come out feeling like she could leap from one building to the next. She once saw a documentary about the Kirov Ballet in Russia in which the narrator said hopeful girls auditioning for the school had to be “physically perfect for ballet.” By some happy accident of genetics, her body seemed predestined for dance—long legs that could extend well over the crown of her head in all directions and rotate outward at the hip socket a full ninety degrees on each side, feet that arched beautifully when she pointed her toes, and a metabolism that burned through anything from Bagel Buffet. Her mother told her that she had the added advantage of having “Filipino musicality.” All her teachers encouraged her to pursue a professional career, and her rise through youth ballet competitions had been meteoric. At seventeen, she was

offered a spot in Ballet New York’s apprentice company, but Emilia insisted that her daughter finish high school first, so Essie joined after graduation, with an offer to join the main company after one year. She was a little worried about getting lost in the corps de ballet at BNY after doing solo roles with BNYII, but she hoped her gifted legs and feet would help her stand out. The company was rehearsing a contemporary piece set to electronic music that sounded like metal clanking in 4/4 time. No story, no characters, just pure technique and athleticism, daring lifts and angles, movement without emotion, except perhaps the sense of triumph in having complete mastery over one’s body and the space it inhabited. Nothing was more exhilarating to Essie than executing a step with perfect control or creating shapes with her body that made people gasp. Her muscles almost always did what she wanted them to. Her body gave her power, over herself and others, and it was hard not be intoxicated by that. She loved the classics, The Sleeping Beauty and Giselle and all those older ballets, but the modern piece gave her the kind of pleasure she imagined hunters must have upon hitting their targets swiftly and cleanly, so flawlessly that the struck creatures felt no terror or agony. When she was dancing, she owned space and time, which felt to her like owning the world.

WHEN ESSIE GOT HOME FROM REHEARSAL, she found Emilia sewing in her

bedroom. Essie plopped onto the foot of the bed and curled up on her side facing her mother. “How was rehearsal?” Essie watched as Emilia pushed the needle up through the cloth, pulled it toward her ear, then pushed it back into the cloth and pulled it again from below. Up, pull, down, pull. “Okay,” Essie replied. “Still not where I want it to be.” “It’s early pa. You have time.” They could hear a knife blade tuk-tuk-tuking on a wooden cutting board, then the sound of something sizzling loudly in a pan of oil. Soon, the apartment was filled with the aroma of garlic. “I love that smell,” Essie said. “Your lola’s making salpicao for you. Or maybe sinangag to go with it.” Garlic rice, to go with garlic beef. Essie wondered if ancient Filipinos believed garlic had some magical power. It was in everything. She rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling. There were cracks in the plaster here and there. One looked like a small tree, another like a meandering stream. “Did something really bad happen to her during the war?” Emilia put down her sewing. “Besides her husband getting killed?” She looked at Essie for a moment, then went back to her stitching. “She doesn’t like to talk about the war. I know very little about what she went through. Why?” 90

“Nothing. Just wondering. She had another anxiety episode today. And sometimes in the middle of the night, she cries out in her sleep like she’s having a bad dream.” Up, pull. Down, pull. The sound of the needle and thread filled the pause before Emilia replied. “Well. War is terrible. And soldiers can be cruel. The Germans in Europe, the Americans in Vietnam, the Japanese in Asia. No one’s immune. War brings out evil in people you would never think could be so heartless. Your lola’s generation had it so hard. It’s probably why she always scolded me for complaining about anything. When I was young, she would get really mad about even the slightest comment I would make, like if my dress was itchy.” “Really? I bitch and moan about my life all the time and she just chuckles or squeezes my arm.” “Granddaughters are different. You can get away with murder,” Emilia said without bitterness. “Me though? I could never do anything right.” “Moms are always strictest with their own daughters. You’re strict with me.” “Ha! I let you get away with murder too. But you turned out okay.” “I’m gonna go shower. Do you need anything?” Emilia shook her head and waved as Essie left the room. She stared at the doorway for a few seconds after Essie left, wondering if she should have said more. Some stories were not hers to tell. She reached for her purse, pulled out her wallet, and opened it to look at the pink card she dreaded, though she had seen it hundreds of times. It wasn’t the photo that made her wince, as was often the case for driver’s licenses; her hair had actually cooperated that day, and her light makeup was just right. Next to the photo was the name she made sure never came up if she could help it. “I go by Emilia,” she would tell people preemptively when asked for her ID. The license read, last name first, DURANTE, YOKO in all capital letters. Yoko. A name that made her wince. A name she had come to hate.

LOLA SHONNIE FELT MOST AT PEACE when she was cooking. Every night, she would rinse a cup and a half of rice until the water ran clear, then put it in a pot with enough water to submerge her middle finger to the first knuckle with her fingertip just touching the rice. This is how her mother had measured how much water to add, and her mother’s mother, and her great-grandmother before her. She would bring the rice to a boil, then cover it and lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Chopping vegetables calmed her most. She found the repetitive sound of the metal knife on the wooden cutting board soothing, even reassuring, and the sensation of slicing cleanly through an onion or with a satisfying crunch through a head of cabbage brought her deep enjoyment. The knife was an ally, a sign of mastery, a danger tamed. Almost a friend. With the garlic minced, the beef for the salpicao cubed, the rice ready, and the sauce prepared, Lola Shonnie decided to lie down for a bit. She slept poorly at night 91

and napped often. Her room, while not messy, was the most cluttered in the apartment. A small Santo Niño stood on her dresser beside her rosary and a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. On her wall were countless photos and awards from Essie’s dance competitions. A collection of miniatures of all types adorned the shelves next to her bed—a little castle from Ireland, a frying pan with two sunny-side up eggs in it, a writing desk and chair, a breakfast tray from Paris filled with tiny croissants, jam jars, and coffee cups. She turned on the bedside radio to the Spanish channel, which reminded her of her childhood in Manila before the war. Near the dinner hour it was always some kind of religious program. Lola Shonnie turned down the purple bedspread and took off her house dress to change into a clean one. She never undressed in front of Emilia and Essie. There were no mirrors in the room. Essie was singing in the shower. Along with the familiar sound of water pattering against the bathroom tiles went a deeper, drumming sound of the shower water striking the side of a large plastic vat. Lola Shonnie and Emilia kept a vat in the shower stall filled with “emergency water”—an old habit from their days living in the Philippines. Lola Shonnie preferred to use vat water to bathe herself, as she had before moving to the United States, scooping some out with a tabo—a plastic dipper— to wet her body, then using several scoops to rinse off after soaping herself. As she drifted off to a light sleep, the sound of the shower reminded Lola Shonnie of a family vacation when Essie was about five, just before Emilia’s no-good husband left them. They had gone on a trip with another family. Those kids were going to the hotel pool for a swim, and Essie’s parents had gone to run an errand. Essie begged her grandmother to bring her to the pool with the other kids, but Lola Shonnie was nervous and wouldn’t agree. Essie cried. Lola Shonnie filled the tub and tried to console her. “Here o. Just play here. You can pretend it’s like a pool.” Essie refused at first, but after Lola Shonnie put her in a bathing suit, she acquiesced and splashed about in the tub until her parents came home and were able to take her to the actual pool. “Mama naman,” Emilia scolded. “She would have been fine in the kiddie pool.” “Well, I was scared. Now you’re here. You take her.” “You’re always scared,” Emilia snapped before shutting the door behind them.

THE NEXT DAY, Lola Shonnie, Emilia, and Essie sat in the waiting area of the

clinic where Benji worked once a week. “How come you haven’t brought this guy home, ha?” Emilia prodded. “Ma. We literally just started dating a month ago.” “Ah okay. So no kissing yet.” “Ma.” Essie couldn’t suppress the eyeroll. Benji’s bed was the only place she let go of total control over her body, yet in a way that gave her the same sense of freedom and power she felt in the dance studio. 92

“H-H lang,” Emilia persisted. “What’s that?” “Holding hands only.” “Sus, pabayaan mo na yung bata. Leave her be na,” said Lola Shonnie. A nurse appeared holding a clipboard. “Exaltation de Vera?” “It’s actually Exaltación. Like the Spanish word,” Emilia explained. The nurse suppressed a look of irritation, led them to an exam room, and gave Lola Shonnie a gown. The paper on the exam table crinkled every time she shifted on it. Emilia sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair. Essie waited near the door. When it cracked open, her face lit up. “Hey,” she greeted. Benji entered, held up a hand in an abbreviated wave, and smiled at Emilia and Lola Shonnie. Essie could see even through the white lab coat the muscles in his arms that had first caught her eye. She shifted her gaze to the floor with a little smile. “Hi. I’m Benji Arai, one of the medicine residents. Essie’s told me so much about you.” Lola Shonnie and Emilia were both frowning. “Hello, Doctor,” Emilia said. “Please, call me Benji.” He shook their hands. Lola Shonnie’s was cold and clammy. “Your name is Benjamin?” she asked. “It’s actually Benjiro, but everybody just calls me Benji.” “Benji Arai.” At that, Lola Shonnie broke into a fit of laughter. “Arai,” she repeated, laughing some more. Benji looked to Essie, unsure of what to say. For Emilia, Lola Shonnie’s laugh was contagious. “I’m sorry, Doc. I think my mother is laughing because aray is what Filipinos say when we suddenly hurt ourselves, like by stubbing a toe or hitting our funny bone.” “And my chest hurts. Aray!” Another fit of giggling overcame her. Essie smiled sheepishly at Benji and mouthed Sorry. “Filipinos find everything funny. You’ll have to pardon us,” Emilia said. Benjiro Arai smiled back and waited for the giggling to abate. He looked through Lola Shonnie’s chart. They talked briefly about Lola Shonnie’s episodes, and the incident near the market. When he unfolded his stethoscope, a navy blue Littmann he had had since medical school, Lola Shonnie’s breathing quickened. She turned to Essie and said, “Ayaw kong tanggalin ito.” “Everything okay?” Benji asked. “Oh, yes, it’s just—my grandmother prefers to keep the gown on while you check on her, if that’s okay.” “Oh. Sure. Of course. We can definitely work around it.” He placed the end of the stethoscope gently on Lola Shonnie’s chest. She kept her head turned away from him and looked at the ceiling. He listened in three places, then at her left rib cage. “Try to breathe a little more slowly if you can, Mrs. de Vera.” He took the end of the stethoscope and placed it on her back. “Big deep breaths for me. All the way in, all the 93

way out. Nice and slow.” Lola Shonnie was breathing more deeply, but still somewhat fast. “I can’t. I can’t.” She pushed Benji away. “I’m sorry. You have to go. Please go.” “What did I…” “Lola! What’s wrong?” Emilia put her hand on Benji’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Doctor Arai. Esperanza, please take him out.” “I can have my attending physician come and see her.” “Yes, yes, thank you, that would be great.” Emilia practically shoved the two out the door and closed it abruptly behind them. “What was that?” Essie said in dismay. “Benji, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened.” “Um… is it because I’m Japanese-American?” “What? Of course not! That’s… Oh. Oh God. I didn’t even think of that. She’s never seemed… I mean, she’s never said anything…” “It’s okay. It’s okay, Essie. But I think my attending should see her.” Benji went down the hall and spoke to an elegant middle-aged woman in a white lab coat. Essie could see her listening intently, then nodding, then meeting Benji’s gaze and nodding again. They came back together. “Essie, this is Dr. Fernandez. I told her what happened.” “Hi, Essie. I’m going to go talk to them for a bit, all right?” Essie nodded. Dr. Fernandez entered the exam room. “I guess I’ll go back to the waiting area.” Benji squeezed her hand. “I have to keep working. Talk later?” “Yeah.” Dr. Fernandez opened the door slightly. “Essie. Would you join us?” Lola Shonnie was still sitting on the exam table, her legs dangling over the edge. Dr. Fernandez found a footrest for her. Lola Shonnie was wiping her eyes with a tissue. Her hands were still a little shaky. “Nakakahiya,” she kept saying softly to Emilia, who was now standing beside her, one hand rubbing the spot between Lola’s shoulder blades. Emilia said, “Hindi naman, Mama. Okay lang.” Essie didn’t have the heart to explain to Dr. Fernandez that Lola Shonnie was feeling ashamed, and Emilia was trying to console her. Dr. Fernandez took a seat next to the exam table and looked up into Lola Shonnie’s face. “Is he… Is he angry?” Lola Shonnie asked. “Who—Benji? No, of course not. He’s just worried about you being okay.” New tears began to flow down Lola Shonnie’s face. “I’m sorry, hija,” she said, turning to Essie. “He’s a nice young man.” Dr. Fernandez put her hand on Lola Shonnie’s knee. “Tell me what happened. We’re here for you. Don’t be afraid.”

Lola Shonnie had spent so much energy trying not to go back to old memories, trying to keep them wrapped tightly in a locked box inside her mind piled high with imaginary blankets so it wouldn’t be opened. As she felt each blanket slipping off the top of the box, she frowned and closed her eyes, her facial muscles in a wince she could not dispel. “They urinated on me,” she said, finally. Her accent made her words clearer rather than less understandable. Emilia’s hand was over her mouth. She had only heard snatches of her mother’s story before; this detail was new. Essie drew a breath in. “Who?” Dr. Fernandez asked. “Some soldiers. Japanese Imperial Army soldiers. I had fainted, I think, after… After…” Dr. Fernandez took Lola Shonnie’s hand and squeezed it. “When I woke up, I could feel something wet falling on my face. My chest. My arms. They were urinating on me and laughing.” Lola Shonnie paused to wipe her eyes. “I wasn’t the only one. There were other women there. We were afraid even to move. Where could we run without getting shot? We were like those frogs in the box at the market. Or lobsters in a tank just waiting to die. Helpless animals. We just cried and let them do what they wanted. I was lucky they didn’t burn the place with us inside, the way they did in other places. But they gave me this.” Lola Shonnie opened her gown. On her abdomen was a two-inch purple scar where a bayonet had entered, just missing vital organs. “The Americans rescued us that day and brought everyone to a military hospital. Nine months later, I was in that hospital again giving birth to you,” she said, turning to Emilia, “not knowing who was the father.” She turned back to Dr. Fernandez. “They kept trying to bring me my baby. So I could hold her.” She shook her head. “I kept saying ayaw ko. Ayaw ko!” Ayaw ko. I don’t want to. To an American ear, it would have sounded like “Ayoko.” Or Yoko. Tears streamed down her face. “I tried to love my baby. But I didn’t know who her father was. My husband was dead. The Americans put the name Yoko on her birth certificate. I was too confused to correct it. I thought it was a sign that my husband was not the father. And every time I looked at her, I could think of only bad things, the worst things. But then one day,” she continued, turning back to Emilia. “You smiled. Nagulat ako—you looked just like Emilio. I began to call you Emilia. After that, it got better.”

OUTSIDE THE EXAM ROOM, Benji stood at the clerk’s desk thumbing through a chart. He looked up when Essie, Emilia, and Lola Shonnie came out of the exam room, but only approached when Essie waved at him to come over. They found a quiet spot in the corridor away from the desk and waiting area.

“Benji, I’m very sorry for my reaction,” Lola Shonnie said. “Not at all, Mrs. de Vera. It’s totally understandable.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “My grandparents were in an internment camp in California during the war. My grandmother once had a moment when she was uncomfortable with an American doctor. I understand completely. I just want you to know that if you ever need to come back, we’ll have Dr. Fernandez take care of you. She’s great.” Lola Shonnie gave his arm a squeeze. “You’re great too. And you have muscles! Wow! No wonder Esperanza’s head over heels.” “Lola.” “Come for dinner,” Emilia said. “We’ll make Filipino food for you.” “Oh. Okay.” “Are you free tonight?” Emilia wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Um, yeah, actually. Yeah. I’d love to come.” “Good. Essie will tell you where.” Mother and grandmother headed back out to the lobby, giving Essie and Benji a moment. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” “Absolutely. I’m happy to come. Your family’s adorable.” Essie hugged Benji, and he put his cheek on her head for a moment and gave her a big squeeze. She gave him the address and made him say it back. “Seven p.m. See you there.”

ON THE SUBWAY TO GREENWICH VILLAGE, Essie stood deep in thought in her

usual “dancer stance,” as her friends called it—most of her weight on her left leg, left hand on pole, right leg and foot diagonally in front of her rotated to the right, and right hand clutching her black dance bag against her hip. She was thinking of Benji and the way he kissed her. Of the way her dance partners lifted her over their heads, caught her when the choreography called for her body to lean into them, held her steady for a balance or supported her for pirouettes. Of how it felt to be cherished in someone’s arms. If anyone deserved the safe haven of kind hands and respectful looks, it was Lola Shonnie. Years of her being easily startled, having nightmares, not wanting to feel water spraying on her, and having anxiety so profound it caused her physical pain made sense now. Essie brushed a tear from her cheek as she got off at 14th Street.

EMILIA AND LOLA SHONNIE WENT FOOD SHOPPING on their way home from the

clinic. They walked arm in arm, the way many Filipinas did back home. They were silent at first, but after picking through bok choy and then green beans, Lola Shonnie spoke. —Alam mo? said Lola Shonnie. (You know something?) 96

—Ano, Emilia replied. (What.) —Nagsisiping yung dalawang yun. (Those two are sleeping together.) —Jusko naman, Mama. (Geez, Mama.) —Mabuti nalang mabait yung lalaki. (At least he’s a nice boy.) —Basta hindi siya mabuntis. (As long as she doesn’t get knocked up.) —Hindi naman nagmana sa iyo e. (Well, she doesn’t really take after you.) Emilia stopped and looked at her mother to see how barbed this remark really was. When she saw the twinkle in Lola Shonnie’s eye, the corners of her mouth turned up. Lola Shonnie let out a chuckle. Then the two were in a fit of laughter, mother and daughter guffawing together in the vegetable aisle.

ESSIE WAS HOME IN TIME TO HELP with dinner prep. “What are we making?” she

asked, rubbing her hands together. “The usual chicken adobo for first-timers?” Emilia and Lola Shonnie grinned. “We have that, but we also found something else.” Emilia reached into the fridge and pulled out a heart. “We can finally make the bopis your Lola Shonnie’s been craving. But no lungs—they’re illegal daw.” “Oh. My. Goodness.” “Don’t worry, we won’t make your boyfriend eat that. Just adobo.” “Well, he’s going to be here soon. I told him he had to help with dinner prep too.” Lola Shonnie took her favorite kitchen knife and sliced the heart in half. The chambers were empty and clean, and she stared at them for a moment as if searching for something. She tossed the heart into a pot of simmering water with some lemongrass. Benji arrived with a bouquet of irises for Lola Shonnie and a small box of chocolates for Emilia. “Wow, Benji, you already know my weakness. Here,” Emilia said, handing him an apron. “We’re gonna put you to work. But you have to tell stories while we work. We call it making kuwento. That’s very important. How did you and Essie meet?” “Smooth, Ma.” “What? I wanna know.” “The dance festival in Bryant Park. She was so beautiful. I think I cried a little,” Benji replied while washing his hands. Essie gave his shoulder a friendly pinch. “That was the show where we did a bunch of pas de deux—remember Ma? He actually asked for my autograph.” “Uy! Ang cute naman!” Emilia exclaimed approvingly, giving Benji’s shoulder an affectionate shove. As they often did, because they could not help themselves, the women, with Benji’s help, made too much food for four people: chicken marinated in soy sauce, vinegar, and minced garlic, then simmered in coconut milk; fried spring rolls, the name for which Benji endearingly pronounced “loom-pya;” the modified bopis flavored with 97

garlic, chili peppers, and ginger; Essie’s spinach salad; and, of course, heaps of hot white rice. At the dinner table, Lola Shonnie watched Benji carefully—the way he met Essie’s gaze, the ease with which they broke into laughter together. She glanced at Emilia and smiled with a contentment she hadn’t known in years. Emilia held out her hand for Benji’s plate. “Here, Benji, eat more.” She was pleased he had let Lola Shonnie correct his vegetable-chopping technique, that he knew the finger method for cooking rice, and that he even tried a bit of the stir-fried heart. “Essie? You want more?” “No thanks, Ma. I’m really full.” “I’m gonna get ready for bed na,” Lola Shonnie said, getting up from the table. “Eat lots of dessert, okay?” “You feeling all right, Lola?” Essie asked. “I’m just a little tired. Good night, hija.” She waved at Emilia and Benji. After bathing, Lola Shonnie sank gratefully into her bed and drew the covers around her shoulders. It was still early enough to hear the occasional car honk outside. From the living room came the sound of happy voices as Benji, Essie, and Emilia made kuwento. On the Spanish radio station, a deep voice was reading from Isaiah chapter 40: “Consuelen, consuelen,” it began. Lola Shonnie’s body relaxed completely, and she fell into a deep sleep.

JULIE DEBOER

Aftermath A wolf eel washed ashore like this once tender pink & white insides exposed where it had been nipped in the side by a harbor seal & lived until it didn’t because escaping with your life is not escaping & this is a wound that I know how the skin still purples where the grip-marks were I can’t stop looking for what was & is not the way a dog keeps licking at what used to be there.

JULIA KOLCHINSKY DASBACH

Why write another poem about the moon when my son is surrounded by the severed heads of Barbies I spent a decade loving but haven’t touched for three of his lifetimes? how long after he ran his fingertips so gently across their hair did he tear the plastic skulls from their torso trunks and leave them naked like birch branches from my childhood stripped of bark by summer thunderstorm and strewn so far who knows what tree they once belonged to? the doll I carried from Ukraine across the Atlantic is hit the worst. her pelvis cracked in half and head missing altogether its mess of dirty curl just like his own and eyes

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too much like mine. Moons he says they look like hairy moons my son their sun and I am terrified for every woman every moon he longs to touch

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SARAH DAMOFF

The Naming

HEN I HEAR AB OUT ADAM naming the beasts, I chew my fingernails

down to stubs. Sea sponge. Naming’s the job of a parent or scientist— those who hold those without language. Trilobite. I’m not a namer; I’m a woman who lost my life. Part of it, anyway. Senior year of high school is black as a closed mouth. Jellyfish. Maryann rings my doorbell with her elbow, a casserole dish in oven-mitt hands. Word must’ve spread that my stepdad died. Bear. I peel a thankyou from my tongue but say people shouldn’t go to trouble—he was old and sick and ready. Mama and I were with him at the end. That’s good, Maryann says. Yes good, I nod. Tortoise. When he was still lucid, we made offerings of love and memory: the trip to the coast and when I beat him in chess and how Buddy returned to us after two days gone. Vulture. He reminded me about my Honda maintenance, and I said don’t worry, you taught me well. Mama and I took his last days in shifts. Snail. After language left him, I asked questions: Why didn’t you help with my misplaced year? How come dread zipped up my thighs when my college boyfriend used your shampoo? Why did I reflexively kick at the gynecologist from inside my papery gown? Emu. Did any of the first beasts resist their names? Did Adam grow weary of his endless task? Did lazy, wrong names get doled out? After the man and woman left the garden for the desert, did they have a lover’s spat over what to name a camel? I put Maryann’s slightly burnt casserole in my freezer and drive the Honda out to his grave. Horse. It’s a humble headstone: Scott Maynard, and dates. The only father I knew. I sit crosslegged and rake my fingers through the fresh swell of dirt. Gnat. No earthly idea, he said, why ya can’t remember senior year. Mama shrugged. Straight A’s, they said, memories with friends. Scott bought me the Honda and named it a good year and that, clearly, was that. Elephant. You should forget about it, were his words. I obviously have, were mine. Albatross. He said I didn’t need to see some hokey hundred-buck-anhour therapist, so I didn’t. I should have, though—I can’t let men close (not that I told him that). It’s the whisper-thin dread in the thighs. Lion. I lose Scott incrementally: scent, laugh, eye color. His drift runs parallel with my memory gain: prom, college acceptance letters, Christmas break. I pry that year open like the jaw of a corpse, and I do not stop until darkness eats me. Mammoth. What of the beasts yet to be named? Tiger. I visit the cemetery every year on Scott’s birthday. The ninth year, I bring no flower and a breathing memory. Owl. I am old now, or old enough anyway. The gray sky hovers close as sin, thunder rolling like the clearing of its throat. I’ve found my memory and lost my mind. Wolf. I bend to trace his stone-etched name with animal hands. Rain begins to lash us. It’s the wrong name, I tell him, straightening out 102

my spine, it wasn’t a good year and you knew it. Snake. I speak it barefoot on an underground of a thousand ears. Rape. There are times when a beast needs a woman to name it.

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P. L. WATTS

The Lizard Girl & the Alligator King An alligator’s stomach is acidic enough to dissolve a child’s bones in 13 days.

E STAND IN THE SIDE YARD of the grand new house in Palm River. The house where cockroaches no longer skitter across the floor at night, where Cricket and I finally get our own rooms, and you do, too, sleeping in the green guest room at the end of the hall on the opposite side of the house from Mommy’s. I’m nine years old, barefoot—as always—toes curling in the fresh-cut grass, wearing my favorite blue corduroy overalls. Two braids dangle down my back like Pippi. You stand before me in holey cut-off denim jeans, bare-hairy chested and thick, black curly hair brushing your shoulders, mustache like an angry caterpillar trudging across your upper lip. You’re laughing, for now. “Hold still!” you say. I do. You cradle two fat lizards gently in your thick hands; you poke their tiny mouths at my earlobes until their jaws gape open. Then they clamp down. You let go, and I’m the first girl in the neighborhood to wear live-lizard earrings. They dangle long seconds, their small, sharp teeth a dozen pinpricks in my ears. I stand breathless and giddy, ignoring the pain. After all, haven’t I sat out in your garage kingdom watching you pierce your own ear with a needle without even making a face? You pulled the thread all the way through the hole and then you stuck a large, crooked quilting safety pin in for an earring. You are the bravest person in the whole wide world, and I will be just like you.

Alligators have the strongest bite of any animal ever recorded—nearly 3000 lbs of force.

YOU WRESTLE ALLIGATOR S. This is not a joke or a tall tale or a metaphor.

This is a job. Part of the “entertainment industry,” a show you put on for tourists. You do it because you cannot get other work anymore. I am too young to understand why this is. (Or why Mommy divorced you. Or what divorce means except that you take off now for long stretches of time without telling me when you’ll be back.) I am also not allowed to watch your shows, but you take me to the pens where you work. The 105

old gators hunker down, each in its own small aboveground pool that looks almost like a baby pool behind its own chain-link fence. We walk the concrete path between them. Their bellies are three of me wide. Their eyes above the water watch us pass, as though they’re waiting for us to accidentally wander into their pens. You greet another wrestler. He is bald, beefy, and tan, wearing sunglasses and a wifebeater. He’s also missing two fingers—hazards of the trade—but you still have all of yours. I’m proud. You bring home baby animals for me and Cricket to play with. This started in our earliest childhood. The Miami Herald’s magazine The Tropic has a picture of the four of us—you, me, Cricket, and Mommy—from when I am two and a half years old after the authorities retrieved us from Mexico where our birth parents had spirited us away to when they stole us from Mommy and you. I am on your lap laughing, and Cricket is on Mommy’s. Both of us hold a tiny rabbit that you brought for us. Cricket still does not like to talk about this picture. Infants should not be entrusted with tiny, squeezable rabbits. You also bring home baby ducklings to splash around in our bathtub and other soft creatures, but I remember the reptiles most clearly. Sitting in the garage with you on a cooler between your sewing desk and the door into the house, you drape a giant snake wider than my neck around my shoulders like a feather boa. I think it is a boa constrictor like the ones in Shel Silverstein’s books, but this is probably not true. This is before the age of cell-phone selfies, but I can still see myself there in my corduroy overalls adorned with a snake as big as my body, head thrown back like a movie star. And of course, there is the baby alligator. You carry it into the garage in your blue mini cooler. You’ve taped its beak shut with electrical tape, careful to leave its nostrils clear. Its toes are sharp against my forearms. Its body writhes more strongly than a snake. I imagine what it will grow into and how strong I’ll need to be to sit on its back and hold its jaws shut from behind.

Florida is the most lethal place in the US. It’s home to the most venomous snake in the world, and it’s the only place with two members of the Crocodilia order—both crocodiles and alligators.

HURRICANE ANDREW WAS A BIG DEAL , so the rest of the world said. It came ashore in Southeast Florida as a Category 5 just north of Homestead and leveled it, though Mommy said that’s because Homestead was all trailers. Andrew did cause more damage to the US than any storm in history until Katrina. But it had weakened a bit in the four hours it took to cross the state to us.

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I am sitting with you in the garage with the garage door open watching it rage. You let me take an opened umbrella into the driveway, just outside the safety of the garage and then farther. You watch as I lift it high and hold on tight, as the storm picks me up and plops me down a few feet farther down the drive. My hair whips around me like snakes, and I laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh. I run back to you and shelter as the storm picks up again. We watch as tree branches and shingles fly around. The top fourth of the thirty-foot pine tree across the street that I like to climb all the way up and feel the wind sway me (I am not supposed to, but Mommy is too weary and sad in bed to catch me) breaks off and crashes to the ground. After the storm, I will stalk the neighborhood cataloging the changes to my landscape. The biggest casualty is in the yard on the corner—another of my favorite climbing trees. It has been entirely uprooted and lies sadly on its side. The boy next door and I walk along its spine like a massage, as though we can make it feel better.

Alligators can eat almost a fourth of their body weight in one meal—around 100lbs.

MANY OF OUR ADVENTURES take place in that garage. Mommy parks the blue minivan as far to the side as possible, so there is maximum space for your bike, your tools, your coolers, your sewing desk, your fishing gear, and bags of crushed cans waiting to be taken out for money (several of which you’ve placed fishing weights in to cheat up the weight). And on the desk, your red and yellow and blue poker chips. Your beer holder and blue glass ashtray shaped like a shell. Your rolling papers and tobacco. Your beads and string or quilt pieces—depending on your project of the moment. You sing to me, “‘Cuz I’m a loser, Baby, so why don’t you kill me?” And then you give me a beer and watch as I drink the whole thing, “so [I]’ll never be an alcoholic like [you].” Your deck of playing cards is clipped at the corner to prove that it came from a real casino. You teach me to make a bridge when I shuffle, even when my tiny hands can barely hold the whole deck. You teach me to play poker. I am five years old when I get my first royal flush. Soon after, you teach me to cheat by placing your sunglasses casually on the desk, angled just so that they show my hand. When I am twenty-one, you say, you’ll take me to Biloxi to gamble. I practice my poker face in the mirror when I am alone. Cricket has decided by ten that trick-or-treating is undignified. So that Halloween, I go alone. I spend the next week playing poker against the neighborhood kids, and I win their candy so Cricket can have some. This clearly makes me the best sister ever.

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Alligators have been around, nearly unchanged, for over 70 million years.

ALL OF THE NEIGHB ORHO OD B OYS are in awe of you. We play a game of

pile-on in the backyard beside the jungle gym. The boys crowd over and, one by one, we all reach onto your arms to see how many of us you can hold at one time. You joke about Popeye and spinach, and yet, at one point you have eight of us dangling off your arms. There are no more of us to hang on, and no more room on your arms to grab onto, but you do not seem to tire or struggle. You catch me lifting your weights once and shout, “Don’t do that! You won’t be able to have babies!” But what do I care for that? When you are gone, these boys are my pack. The pack leader being whoever can climb the highest and wrestle the best and dare to go down the old dirt Alligator alley at the back of the neighborhood the furthest—which is me. The jungle gym in the backyard is my kingdom. I come up with a ritual when new kids come to the neighborhood. I invite them back there. I climb up the steps on one side of the tree house, and they climb up the steps on the other side until we are nearly even with the top. The pack stands beneath the new kid. Then I hit the tarp roof and the toads that live in the triangle beneath the wood and the tarp go leaping out the other end at them. Many new kids run away screaming. The ones who don’t get to join our pack.

Archaeological remains show that alligators once ate dinosaurs.

YOU TEACH ME TO FISH. You help me choose and strip my own pole, then you

whittle and smooth it and teach me to string it with line. We climb down to the canal underneath the bridge that I walk across to get to my bus stop. I’ve never seen anyone down here before, but they must come because there is yellow spray-painted graffiti on the concrete. Using your handmade lures, I catch a sunfish. You show me how to slice it open down the center and dig out its eyes and guts to use for bait to catch bigger fish. I don’t quite have the courage to climb down under the bridge by myself when you aren’t there, but I carry my pole to the top of the bridge and stand right against the railing away from the cars. Once, I catch an alligator gar—fierce and twisted and angry looking. It nearly carries my pole away, and I don’t keep it (or let it bite me). Another time, I watch an otter play along the shore. Once, when I am with the boy next door, I catch something so big that I can’t bring it up myself, so I make him run back home to fetch you. You come, looking gruff enough to scare any fish to death.

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You wade right into the canal up to your chest and fish out my prize—a rich person’s discarded exercise bike.

Mother gators spend at least a year and up to three caring for their young.

SOMETIMES YOU TAKE ME FOR TRIPS around the city on your bike—your

only means of transportation since your license was revoked. Your cooler and clothing and other worldly belongings fit in the milk crate bungeed to your back rack, and you stick me in the basket in front of your handlebars. I sit with my feet tucked under my chin, and you ride us everywhere, anywhere—to the grocery store, the gas station, the beach. The world speeds by, and my hair streams into your face. The salt air off the Gulf stretches the skin on my cheeks taut. You take us to Gary’s—even though I don’t like him and you don’t like him and his little daughter Brookie is always scared and I think she has reason to be. But he is your business partner or something, so we go, but I won’t step foot in that dark house, and you don’t want me to, and Brookie isn’t allowed to come out. I fish a coconut out of their canal and spend all afternoon carefully breaking it open with a dull rock so that it won’t completely shatter and spill the milk. I get my own bike for Christmas when I am six. It is beautiful, blue, and too big for me. Mommy has lost her two real daughters (lost, as though they have just stepped off the right path and wandered away) and divorced you, so you are gone. I must teach myself to ride. I spend a whole day launching myself down the new, smooth, double driveway into the street of our cul-de-sac over and over, always crashing. I am bloody by the time the sun goes down. After a week of this, the next-door neighbor’s mother finally takes pity on me and teaches me to ride. Then I am unstoppable. I bike every inch of Palm River. I make a map of its curves and twists and surprises in my heart, and I never want to go inside again. But this leaving you do, it happens again and again. I never know when you will go or how long you will stay away. I teach myself to do tricks in your absence. To ride around and around the cul-de-sac with my eyes closed and without touching the handlebars. To speed up so fast that I can stand on the seat and stretch one foot back like a circus performer on a horse galloping in a ring. And maybe this is what I will become someday. And if I get famous enough then you won’t want to leave anymore.

Alligators are strangely maternal, carrying their babies around in their mouths.

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SOMETIMES WE GO TO THE BEACH when it’s sunny and cheerful out, all four

of us, and you teach me and Cricket to dig our toes down into the sand at the top edge of the shore where the waves end. The holes fill up with water, and if we can dig down far enough, little sand picas will wriggle up and bite our toes. Once we find one, you fish them out and stick them into your cooler to use later for bait. Or if we dig our feet down in the sand closer to the waves, we can sometimes find live sand dollars. When we hold them in our hands, millions of little hairs walk them across our palms. You and Mommy will bleach them out in the sun later to use in artwork. But one day, we go out there alone. It’s light tropical storm weather. Not raining yet, but windy, and the sky is ugly-gray. I am seven or eight. You leave me behind on the shore and swim all the way out to the sand bar. You are forever away. You stand in the middle of the ocean, the water up to your chest, and look back at me like a statue. You stretch your arms out like a scarecrow. You wait. The waves beat against you, and the wind howls. It’s a dare. And I refuse to be afraid. I swim as hard as I can, as fast as I can. I am always trying to reach you. The waves will me back to shore or worse, down to the undertow to drown. I swim forever and ever. Until I think that my lungs will burst. Finally, I reach you. I cling to your body like a barnacle. But you do not bend to embrace me. You just stand still, looking back at shore. I want to touch the solid ground of the sandbar like you, but I am too small and I cannot sink that far on my own. So I use your leg like a ladder and climb down, hand over hand. I have spent months training myself to hold my breath underwater. All for this moment, it seems. I stretch my foot down to the sandy bottom, but it is not sand that meets me. A flutter, a soft, almost furry movement. A ray. I shoot back up to the surface, terrified but not stung. I refuse to go in the Gulf for two years.

In winter, the Everglades shrinks down to small holding ponds. Predator and prey press in together—gator fast food.

I D O REMEMBER that you have not always been the center of my universe. Before

the divorce, when we lived in the old house by the beach. But that was when Mommy still took me to collect seashells in the early mornings and Titi Laurie was still alive and fed me kiwis and taught me to press hibiscus flowers in the pages of books. Then you were a glowering presence. You darkened the doorway of my and Cricket’s bedroom and snapped your belt at us, threatening to whip us if we were too loud.

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I remember getting up early to watch Saturday morning cartoons. You would storm out of the bedroom that you and Mommy shared shouting, “¡Apaga la televisión!” Once, I got up around four am. I crept as quietly as I could into the living room, but there on the back of the couch stood the largest rat I have ever seen, reared up on its hind legs, staring at me with red, evil eyes. I fled. And I never watched Saturday morning cartoons again. It wasn’t until many years later, reviewing that memory, that I realized the rat, besides being huge and terrifying, had also most definitely been wearing a top hat and a scarf. Those details had not struck me as strange at the time, but living rats don’t wear those things, do they? Still, your ruse worked, didn’t it? I never woke you up early on Saturday mornings again.

Baby alligators are a delicacy of the animal kingdom. Raccoons, otters, birds, fish, and adult alligators all eat them.

AND, YES, I ALSO REMEMBER , in a fuzzy way, you standing in my bedroom

doorway late at night telling me never to touch myself and never to let other boys touch me. And I do remember you holding me between your legs and rocking against me over and over in the hammock on the back porch when we are alone. But I also remember being starved for touch because no one else even hugged me, because everyone else was too tired and depressed to be paying attention. “Culita, Culita,” you said sometimes, making pinching fingers, as I walked by. Mommy told me that means “cute little ass.”

Of the approximately 35 eggs in a nest, only 2-3 will survive to adulthood.

MOMMY DIVORCES YOU when I am six, but your leaving never seems to stick.

At first, she drops us off in a parking lot to visit you, and you take us to your hobo camp in the woods. But before long, I tell you where our new house is, and you show up. And leave. And show up. She never turns you out, but she never really lets you in, either. And by the time I’m twelve, it’s all wearing thin. I have sprung a woman’s body overnight, and nobody plays capture the flag anymore, and you don’t come to my room at night, and school is a mess. Your brother is coming with his family to visit from Puerto Rico. I have never met him, and I don’t want to. I hate him. I know nothing

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about him. I want you gone and everyone gone. I want the whole world to go away and leave me alone. You’ve gotten a job as a caddy on the golf course behind our house. You borrow a golf cart and let me drive—to cheer me up? We whiz through the trees. “Slow down,” you say. “We’ll wreck.” I turn to you and say, “I don’t have my foot on the gas. You do.” And then we do wreck. My elbow is leaking blood as I run back to the house with you chasing me. (I will need to have several stitches.) The guests have arrived. There are so many that we will need to share rooms. “Don’t share with Rick,” I yell to Cricket. “You might get AIDS!” It’s a stupid thing to say, and I have no idea why I do. But your brother and his family leave furious the next day. He thinks you have been talking about him to me, about his drug addiction and what it caused. (But you haven’t.) I did not know then that Abuelita avoided you because your drinking was like your father’s, or what it must have cost to have the rest of your family cut you off. I do not know what evil spirit put those words in my head. I’m sorry. I never meet any of them again.

Alligators that survive to adulthood live an average of 50 years.

NOT LONG AFTER , YOU COME HOME from the VA hospital. We are alone in

the garage, and you break down bawling like a little boy. You have just been diagnosed with cancer. You look at me as though I’m the grown-up, and am I not? Who else does the dishes and cleans the house and tries to get Mommy out of bed? You say, “I don’t want to die.” I wrap my thin arms around you and promise you’ll be ok. I lie, of course. Over the next eight years, they’ll take your tonsils and parts of your throat and soft pallet and organs that I did not know were dispensable. You will go from being the strongest man on the planet to a yellowed and shrunken shell of yourself. You will also try over and over to stop drinking. When I am sixteen you will ask me to be your sponsor, and knowing no better, I’ll agree. You will get in and out of rehab, and I will watch you go through withdrawal repeatedly, your skin turning light gray and clammy, your body seizing up like it wants to liquify itself without its prime sustaining fluid.

They even have antibiotic blood that kills bacteria and viruses.

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I ONLY SEE YOU ONCE after I leave for college. Winter break my freshman year. You have a camper parked out in the woods behind the next house, the log cabin on the edge of town. I have a boyfriend back at school. I spend the month making a quilt for his birthday. You decide to make one, too, but the treatments have dulled your mind and shaken your hands. You used to make me tiny silver paper cranes. You strung them up on twigs, the ends wrapped in thin red yarn. I had a mobile hanging from the fan. You also quilted and strung bead necklaces. I marveled that the same thick hands that once wrangled alligators could do such fine, precision work. Before the alcohol swallowed your life, you were a registered nurse. I can picture you in hospital scrubs, tenderly sewing up somebody’s wounds. But your hands aren’t equipped for such fine work now. Still, you dare me: who can piece a quilt faster? I win, of course, when we realize that you have sewn half of your triangles wrong-side up. The boyfriend back at school lived for a year in Ecuador and misses speaking Spanish, so I ask you to reteach me so I can impress him (he and I break up almost the second I return to school, not that it matters). You write me a quiz in your thick, neat pen. The top sentence says: “Mi Papi es mi amigo.” Es verdad. Es verdad. Te amo, Papi. I take a year off school after my sophomore year. I move to a commune in upstate New York to teach at a hippy, alternative school. I dream one night that I am dying of cancer and my eyebrows have to be shaved off. But it’s ok. Whoopi Goldberg is in the dream, and I get to kiss her, and she is a great kisser. I wake up at peace. I know, somehow, that the dream is true, but it’s not about me because I would know if I was sick. I call Mommy when I wake up, and she tells me you went into a coma the night before. You never wake up. Within a year, Mommy is dead, too. (And the cousin who moved in when I was fourteen, and my best friend from high school, and my childhood cat.) I spend more than a decade on the razor’s edge of poverty working an average of three jobs at a time to scrape by—cheesemonger, scissor jockey, waitress, housekeeper, grocery-store sample chef, textbook editor, nude model, bookseller. I learn how to hustle. How to eat $20 for two weeks. I never quite end up on the streets. Then the pandemic hits, and everyone is terrified (and behaving poorly online.) But it doesn’t hit me the same way. I dream of swamps and alligators for the first time in years. In one dream, everyone is rushing around terrified because this great mama gator keeps snapping at them. But I know she is only snapping because they keep getting ahead of her. So I walk behind her head, and I am just fine.

The gators who survive become apex predators who fear almost nothing.

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YVONNE ZIPTER

Hidden Attractions September, and dead cicadas are scattered along sidewalks like breadcrumbs leading us back into autumn, their torsos in army fatigues— warriors who’ve lost the battle against time. If your toe should happen to nudge one that’s merely inert, it spins and buzzes like a spring too tightly wound, making the dog jump. Some cicadas lie belly up, legs folded like hands in prayer, their undersides white as burial shrouds, as if they’d been rehearsing a lifetime for just this moment. They’re not what you’d call handsome, with their bulging eyes, their bodies like tanks. Except for their wings— miniature works of art, dainty leaded-glass windows, as elegant as any Frank Lloyd Wright designed, little light screens, almost chevron patterned, a tiny W on the outer edge of each, not predicting, as old belief would have, war, but a label for the anatomically mystified. W, wing.

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LAUREN FULTON

Dear Crossing do you remember dear the first time dear became an accusation? dear we drove through the desert at night headlights revealing dear as something crashed into impact dissolving into cries of dear cracking windshields stiffening seatbelts dear when did something so soft become all antlers, all stab at the sound of it dear

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we said as humor until it became habit until it became hatred dear in that desert I carried within me someone half you and someone all me, and new dear became dare, became read these signs of warning, we knew to be afraid those nebulous nights of things we could only see as shadows dear i was already a shadow when we stood on the mesa shielding sunset from our eyes our outlines behind us dear my vision of you deserted in a place that felt like death whatever silhouettes we have left must learn to thrive on scarcity survival is dire with you here -

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JULIANA ROSATI

The Replay Channel

HE COULD WRITE A POEM about his face. His eyes are mirthful wells of

blue. His smile, the sun breaking through clouds. Night after night, she comes home from the office and tunes in to Wesley A. Smith as Eric Dalton in Rockin’ Times on the Replay Channel. How unexpected, how delightful, to find this picture of charm and warmth in his 1980s visage, which peers at her from across time and between the shelves of Penguin Classics and film-noir DVDs around her TV. Love was the last thing Jessica expected, just scrolling through the channels, oldschool, alighting on a parade of commercial-ridden kitsch that proceeds all day, every day, from the fifties through the eighties and back again. Tuning in would be restful, or ironically hilarious in the age of streaming, she thought at first, and can she really ask more of life than that? She can. She can ask for Eric Dalton’s earnest, amiable air, his way of being both dorky dad to the pigtailed orphan girl who landed on his doorstep, and corny rock star/rom-com hero to the female publicist in power suits who provides his badly needed dose of common sense. She can ask to see him at 11:00 p.m. on weeknights and 2:00 a.m. on Saturdays as she lounges on her dove-gray, English-style love seat. The best part is how he does whatever it takes to make Jessica—and the studio audience—laugh. It’s as though he doesn’t know he’s handsome, hasn’t realized he could coast by on his looks instead of getting nachos thrown in his face by the orphan girl, or needing the publicist to wipe a dust storm off him after he assembles his vacuum cleaner backwards. He’s famous. He’s dead. It’s perfect. He’s well worth suffering through the commercial that comes on, every fifteen minutes or so, about final expenses. Make sure you have considered, don’t burden your loved ones, act now, act now. Love could not be more inconvenient, or more safe. It’s not a problem.

IT’S A PROBLEM. That she has comprehended his existence only after he has

shuffled off this mortal coil! That she never watched the expression in his eyes— those big, vulnerable pools—turn from eager-to-please, to surprised, to alarmed all those years when it was possible to know he drew breath! It is too sad. All at once one morning, the sadness hits her. You never know what you’ve lost until you’ve lost it, or—what you could have lost, if you’d had any idea who someone was at the time

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they kicked it. Dragging herself out from under the covers, she tries not to notice how empty her bed is, or imagine Rob breaking up with her tonight. Later, in her office at the children’s museum, she sits down to write the press release about the Play Through the Ages exhibit. Clad in a black sweater set and slacks rather than a power suit, but a publicist no less, she mournfully assembles her words on her computer screen to bring parents and children to the museum. And what, exactly, is she mourning? The loss of the boyfriend she might have had, in her imagined future, as a little girl, if she’d tuned in when Rockin’ Times was new? Or, the boyfriend she might have had in reality, had she been born several decades earlier, and ventured as an adult to the right place at the right time in 1980s LA? She writes of dolls and trains and board games, of learning and growth. Pausing, she recalls the day that Wesley A. Smith died, two years ago—the first she’d heard his name, and only to scoff that some actor could be deemed an icon of the first decade of her life, yet entirely unknown to her. She’d been on perhaps her second date with Rob that night; over dinner, it was one of her witticisms to note how the self-indulgent posts of friends left her unmoved. “You’d think their father died or something,” she said, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. “I hope you don’t look too far back at my posts,” Rob said, nerdy and reserved, as the IT guy of his dating profile should be. “You might find the time I carried on like my mother died, when it was only a sci-fi star.” Rob’s face, too, had been shown honestly on his profile, as a bit too heart shaped. But perhaps it was that moment when the sparkle in his eyes began to win her over, those dark eyes that are not as beautiful as Wesley A. Smith’s, but warm and steady. That was back when she was enough for him. “Have you added the pinwheels and the magic lanterns? Can we send it out today?” asks Hans. Her spindly boss has materialized behind her, speaking in his solemn, European tone of humorless dedication to whimsical things. “Today?” she asks; it was tomorrow they’d discussed. “Things are shifting,” he says. “I think we must send it today.” “I’d be curious to know why,” she says, to remind him she is not a machine. “It will be revealed,” he portends as he walks away. By afternoon, she’s in the museum’s white activity room with its primary-color tables, one of fifty staff assembled to meet about the sickness that might come here. But Wesley A. Smith’s face, beautiful within and despite his straw-like helmet of hair, persists. She folds her arms, taps her foot in her incessant way. Warnings on a grand scale bore her. It’s her father telling her to clean her room, her mother asking her to use less water, or—what? Something bad would happen? Something bad happened anyway.

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AND HAPPENS THAT NIGHT WHEN ROB comes over, like she knew it would.

“Where are you?” he asks, his big, brown eyes both familiar and strange, his sturdy fingers rubbing her shoulder as they sit on the love seat in her apartment. “Nowhere. I mean, I’m here.” “Well—did you have anything to say?” “I mean, I guess we’re finding out we’ve had different things in mind. Like, I don’t want to get pregnant, probably ever.” “It’s just that I really want to be a dad.” “I’ve never wanted to be a mom.” She tries again to picture it—the two of them holding the hands of a helpless, halo-haired tot as they walk down an inexplicably endless hallway that’s like an airport tunnel. The little voice says, “Mommy, why do bad things happen?” Her answer? “Beats me.” She could let Rob handle that one, but she can’t expect him to do everything. And she wanted his answers for herself, those answers it meant so much to get, like you’re so pretty, and you’re so much fun, and how could anyone not want you. “There’s no chance you’ll change your mind?” he asks. How could he have caught it, the parental impulse that infects so many? She sinks into his arms, his cozy navy-blue sweatshirt. She wants to be all he wants. “I don’t see how,” she says.

HIS EYES ARE ALL THAT’S LEFT OF LOVE . His smile, the joy that’s gone

for good. It is the next night, and if a dull weight weren’t affixing her to the love seat, maybe she’d reach for one of the unremarkable notebooks in which she tries to write her poetry. It is fitting that her time with Rob began with Wesley A. Smith’s death, and has ended just as Eric Dalton has come to life for her. Just now, Eric is playing a board game at a picnic table with the orphan girl. Soon, he’s jumping with itches, having used a mosquito-attracting candle. Suddenly he works his magic again: Jessica finds herself laughing with that old, giddy-silly feeling that she’s, say, eight years old and it’s her birthday. Yes, if she’d known Eric then, in his heyday, surely everything would have turned out better. During one of the final-expenses commercials, she closes her eyes to picture it. It would have been a balmy spring evening in 1989, and she would have parted the chintzy curtains to wave at her relatives pulling out in cars that had the decade’s angular, rickety look. Her birthday party would have left in its wake the scent of blown-out candles, the glitter of wrapping paper and ribbon, the plastic smell of new dolls and toys.

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Her mother, yellow-permed, would have beckoned her to sit on the zigzagpatterned, scratchy beige couch which, if you thought about it, was probably a hangover from the seventies. Her father, in oversized glasses, would have joined them on Jessica’s other side. Eric, on the rabbit-eared TV, would have broken into one of those gorgeous smiles as he taught the orphan girl to play ping-pong, and Jessica would have been protected by something—the same story everyone was a part of then. Under her arm would have been her doll with the glittery powder-blue hair. Her parents would have kissed over her head. It all would have been so hilariously retro. And if they’d kept watching, maybe somehow Wesley A. Smith as Eric would have made things stay the same.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” the dour Hans asks, partway through their meeting the next

morning. She was picturing Eric in the courtroom scene last night, arguing his case so earnestly for adopting the mischievous orphan girl, finally winning over the female judge by breaking into song with his electric guitar. Perhaps tonight will bring some romantic misadventures between him and the ballsy, shoulder-padded publicist. She clears her throat, meets her boss’s gloomy gaze. “I was thinking I’d write several versions, so they’re ready,” she says, knowing she should, not believing she’ll need them. “Perfect,” he says, and approximates a smile. Back at her desk, she begins, For the good of public health, and in the interest of our patrons, at this time the museum . . . is operating at a reduced capacity. is closed for two weeks. is closed until further notice. Then she reaches for her purse, pulls out a gray spiral notebook, and writes: What I’ve lost: The goofy man I could have loved Hopelessly, at the age of eight. Or—the unstoppable woman I could have become Had the world retained its eighties state. O cheesy sitcom rock star, I succumb to your charm too late.

THAT NIGHT, JESSICA ESCAPES into the mall, its lovely lively atmosphere

such a comfort because of its apartness from her incessant mind, and picks out two of the eighties-type billowy blouses that are back in style. In the dressing-room mirror, the effect is oddly stark. The draping fabric, choir robe–like, masks what was left of

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the girl in her, makes her the eighties woman she expected, as a child, to become. There are fastenings low on the wrists, high on the neck. The fabric doesn’t breathe. The blouses grip her, grip her like the past. She buys them.

IT IS THE NEXT DAY that an email sends everyone home early. All afternoon,

there is a mosaic of her coworkers’ faces on her laptop screen and frenzied chatter about two weeks, state of emergency, never seen anything like this. Jessica sends out announcements, writes more for Hans to approve, and finally closes the lid on work. Alone at her desk in silence, she surveys her apartment: the dove-gray curtains and upholstery, the rugs with William Morris–type patterns in green and blue, the shelves of literary and film classics with their black spines, the poetry notebooks. By the door, with no destination, are her Degas tote bag—a gift from Rob—and three pairs of ballet flats in shades of beige and gray. How can it be that life has become a matter of staying home alone, and canceling everything, and trying not to get sick? There is still the Replay Channel. She turns on the TV, sinks into the love seat, watches the candy-colored fantasies of the sixties, the dowdy-clunky family jumbles of the seventies. Eric’s hour arrives and the three characters go shopping for school supplies, a de facto family. The publicist and the adopted daughter pile up notebooks and folders until the stack covers Eric’s face and he falls down. Soon all three are giggling on the floor. Jessica, from the love seat, joins in. Family is so much better unmoored from the constraints of biology and marriage, everyone there because they want to be. Back then, so many things were unimaginable. Among them, being left alone on the scratchy zigzag couch, with videos to keep her company, with only magical creatures and handsome strangers from times unknown to love, as her parents argued in the kitchen, or went out to get help with Our Relationship. “We’re working on it,” her mother assured her. “We’re going to make everything better for all of us,” her father agreed. Liars, both. Now Jessica’s phone lights up and it is Rob. They say the words two weeks, state of emergency, never seen anything like this, and she wishes he’d ask to come over, but he doesn’t.

TWO WEEKS COME AND GO and Hans informs Jessica that her task is to write

descriptions of the collection from her desk at home, a “safe” distance, for others to enjoy from the same. And since the objects have been photographed incompletely, to describe them partly from memory, whilst a solitary photographer roams the deserted museum, filling in the gaps.

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This charming mid-century train chugs clockwise around the track. Or does it go counterclockwise? This Victorian doll has enchanting brown eyes that open and close. Or are they green and static? It is no time to protest; jobs are bleeding in every direction. She must keep Hans from becoming too grim, and remain employed and alive, alive and employed, whichever comes first. Sometimes, at a loss as she conjures the collection, she finds herself staring into one of the paperweights on her desk—at a butterfly, a pressed flower, an Impressionist dancer. At noon, the news interrupts her streaming classical music—which has begun to sound like the orchestra on the deck of the Titanic—and she paces the length of her apartment as the words pile up like bodies: death toll, job loss, hunger, beyond capacity, unprecedented, unprecedented. Like a seasick passenger, she is wary of lunch. Maybe just chocolate today, maybe just oatmeal. There is the laptop screen for the people she knows, and the TV screen for the people she wishes she knew, but never will. Her mother texts and wants a family video call. Her father texts and wants the same, for his family. Jessica excuses herself with work, with fatigue—yes, she wants to know everyone is well; no, she doesn’t want to report to them or digest what they might say, probably the same words everyone says incessantly. At night, she can eat again. Stomach full of ramen, she lies back on the love seat during the final-expenses commercials, imagining it is 1985 and she has contrived to turn thirty years old at the time of her fourth birthday and win the role of the publicist on Rockin’ Times. She comes in every day to the job of supplying the witty responses to Eric’s chaos and flirting with him as needed, clad in magenta power suits and billowy teal blouses with heavy metallic jewelry, her hair frozen into wing-like formations with ozone layer–eating spray. It’s perfect.

HER PHONE LIGHTS UP ONE NIGHT and it is Rob again, and a scene lights up

in her mind before she can stop it: him beside her on the love seat, having loosened his grip on the particular future she can’t seem to want. Maybe they’ll watch Eric together tonight and laugh, with him and at him; those sweatshirts with the geometric patterns really are ridiculous. “I realized some things—” he begins. “Yes?” “Some things of mine are at your place.” Onscreen, Eric is rushing to and fro. The publicist, who asked him out on a date he accepted, is displeased because he stood her up. The reason, which he brazenly conceals, then gracelessly reveals, is his failed attempt to date both her and an exgirlfriend on the same night. The adopted daughter stares wide-eyed from between

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the staircase railings above. Jessica crouches by an armrest. Why hasn’t she ever known what story she is in? Even in Wesley’s living room, which by now is like an extension of her living room, she doesn’t know. There is no trustworthy, enlightened man who appreciates an intelligent woman. No happy daughter. There is just—awful, unhealthy, clichéd strife that the studio audience insists is funny. Hilarious! “No!” Jessica yells at the screen. “Stop it! Just stop it!”

THE SUN IS FADING BEHIND THE TREES and Victorian houses on Jessica’s street as she waits outside for Rob the next night with a bag of what she has come to think of as his effects. There are the things he asked for—the charcoal sweatshirt she liked to wear, that still smells of his aftershave; the book of travel essays she pretended to like, because it was comforting to listen to him read it aloud; the mailorder oldies CDs he bought as a joke but listens to, she knows, sincerely. He needs them for the next girlfriend, the wife-and-mother. Then there are the things he didn’t mention—the razor, the polishing cloth for his glasses, the cufflinks he wore when they went to his brother’s wedding. It is a balmy spring evening, almost her birthday. But behind everything now there is an invisible weight, coming down silently, making the trees and houses press in closer, closer, whenever she ventures out for her infrequent errands and daily walks. She stands twisting the end of her too-long ponytail until Rob’s worn but sporty silver sedan pulls up and he emerges, his face beneath his eyes covered in plaid, just as hers is covered in the wildflowers of an old sheet. They are both dutiful, alike in certain ways. Unalike in others, such as the edginess that has overtaken him, as it did when she introduced him to her mother over lunch and he kept asking the waiter for missing condiments. “How’s it going?” he asks. He’s left the motor running and stands scratching the back of his neck. “It’s going.” She didn’t request anything, but he hands her a shoebox. Her heart sinks as she peers in at the earrings, paperbacks, and toothbrush she’d have liked to imagine still accompanying him, perhaps one day soon persuading him. He probably reorganized his already-sparse closets the first week of lockdown. And now he’s organizing her, out. “What’s the rush?” she says. He pauses. “What do you mean?” “I’m the one who’s supposed to be in a hurry to have kids.” He sighs. “I know this isn’t easy, but we’ve been over all this. Sometimes it’s just— time to move forward.” He has retreated into the vocabulary of work. Jessica laughs. “This is, like, unprecedentedly not a time to move forward.”

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“Look, if you’re angry with me, fine, I get it.” “Whatever.” She holds forth his effects. “Take care.” “All right.” He takes the bag. As he gets into his car, he leaves her with those maddening words everyone is saying: “Stay safe.” “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?” she demands as his car recedes into the dusk.

THAT NIGHT, SHE WATCHES REPLAY but skips Eric’s hour. She can’t deal with him just now, after he stood up the publicist. She takes in the succession of living rooms and offices in which things happen, or are said to happen elsewhere—decade after blissfully ignorant decade of people walking into rooms where other people were, hurtling blindly towards this moment—and she cries. Oh, give it back to her, that safe, sane world, that haven of peace and prosperity in which she grew up, where you could still convince yourself that your parents really loved each other and you. As the nineties dawned, she tried to believe them, every time they returned to her on the zigzag couch. Finally one day she sat curled in a corner by the armrest, trembling and clutching the doll with the glittery powder-blue hair, her face wet with tears. Her mother at last stepped into the living room and said, “Well, I guess you heard.” With those words, the story they’d told her came to an end. By then, her father was driving the hilarious faux-wood hatchback to meet his “old friend” Evelyn. “Sometimes you find out you love someone different from who you thought you loved,” he told Jessica in instructive tones the next time she saw him. “I should have married my college boyfriend,” her mother mused when Jessica returned home. “I mean, had you first with Daddy. And then married my college boyfriend.” As the new decade wore on, she got shuffled between two houses—two sets, in a way, of budding family sitcoms from which she was largely written out. “Why do you have other people’s parents?” her four-year-old half-sister Amy asked circa 1996. “Why don’t you have your own?”

IT IS 3:00 A .M. and since she cannot take comfort in Eric, perhaps she can find solace in Wesley A. Smith. Jessica pulls up a mosaic of videos on her laptop and clicks on one from ten years ago. “I don’t know,” says the aged actor, seated beside the aged publicist and grown-up adopted daughter on the couch of a morning show. “Eric—let’s face it, he’s kind of lacking in edge. I mean, he’s with this knockout day in and day out, and he waits for her to make the first move?” He elbows the publicist. “He’s pretty clueless as a dad. And what’s up with his music career? Did he ever actually have a hit?”

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“But people love him. You must have too.” “Yeah,” he says, “and I had a mortgage.” The audience laughs as if he’s said the wittiest thing, not disowned Eric and everything about him. But Jessica can see the strain behind the smiles of publicist and daughter. She shuts the laptop and stumbles into bed.

THE NEXT NIGHT, masked, gloved, she plods through grocery aisles, filling her

cart. “It’s still here, it’s still here,” she murmurs, meaning the lovely indifferent world outside her mind, which she once depended so much on escaping to. When she looks at the shoppers’ covered faces, the weight bears down on her again. So she focuses on the bright lights, reflected glossily on the floor, and all those rows of comforting products with their kitschy designs—the bakery on the oatmeal box, the alps on the bag of chocolates. At the checkout, he is there—Wesley A. Smith, in one of the smaller photos on the cover of a senior citizens’ magazine. His secret life. God help her. She can’t, just can’t, read that now. Neither can she leave him behind. She puts a copy in her cart, and when she gets home, slides it under a bookshelf by the TV.

THE WEEKS ROLL ON and she goes on living what is left of her life. There are

matters of scenery, lighting, makeup to consider. Each morning, she assembles chair, notes, camera angle, like a royal making an address, to appear before Hans as a nouveau eighties–bloused thinking woman, bookshelves behind her. Offscreen are the flowers, the leaves, the stones she collects on her walks. They litter her apartment in a way she never would have let Rob see, meant to revive the poetry she can’t seem to write at all now. She finally surrenders to the tiled faces of her families—first one, then the other— appearing for them in a T-shirt before a blank wall, like a hostage. Here’s a story. Of a man and a lady who found her not-enough enough to make new families to replace her. Who made it impossible for her to want a family of her own. “Are you stocked up?” asks her mother, beside her husband, Rich, on Saturday morning. “Are you streaming shows?” grunt her half-brothers, Ben and James, each in a square with a spouse. “Are they keeping you busy?” asks her father, beside Evelyn, on Saturday night. “How’s Rob?” her half-sisters, Amy and Elsie, affect to care, each in a square with husband and tot. “Yes, no, yes, and fine,” she responds, an unforthcoming journalist on the ground of her own life. But the real question is—what could she have done (surely she could have done something) to stop them?

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In a sitcom, she would have risen from the couch, glittery doll in hand, gone into the kitchen, and said, “Mommy, Daddy, I want you to be together.” When the video chats are over, she lies back on her bed and pictures it. “I guess I have been spending too much time with Evelyn lately,” her father says. “I guess I have been in a terrible mood most days,” her mother replies. “Should we give it all up and start over?” her father asks with a grin. “That sounds pretty good to me,” her mother answers with a smile. “Awesome!” Jessica says, as they come together for a group hug amidst applause.

SHE HAS NEVER BEEN ENOUGH for anyone. The only one she is enough for is Hans, and it is a tenuous thing. As long as she can recall the objects, make sacrifices of sleep and hygiene, write descriptions to accompany the yet-unseen photos (the first photographer fell ill, has been replaced), she remains alive and employed, employed and alive, though greasy-haired and sweat-scented. “Your progress has been superb,” Hans says. “Hundreds of descriptions.” “Thank you.” “But I believe that we must pivot.” “In what way?” “We ought to be releasing the Clowning Around exhibit first,” he says, with the gravity of a public health official. “How many of the costumes have you described?” She checks her list. “Two.” The only description she can find for his face is dismay. After they log off, she notices the bloody cut on her palm. She opens the drawer she doesn’t remember closing, takes out the metal heart paperweight from Rob; she must have squeezed it like a stress ball. Closing her eyes, she conjures a ghostly procession of circus garb: a whimsical mélange, a kaleidoscopic array. At this rate, she’ll end up dead or delusional, delusional or dead, whichever comes first. In a sitcom, she would change her mind, or Rob would change his. “I guess I got so focused on starting a family, I forgot to focus on us,” he’d say. “I guess I got so hurt by my old family, I couldn’t think about having a new one,” she’d reply. “What say we put our heads together and figure out a future we can both live with?” “That sounds pretty awesome to me.” Hugs. Applause.

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SHE CANNOT GIVE HIM UP. She must find a way to forgive him. Can she imagine

he didn’t mean what he said? No. That if he’d understood how it would hurt her, he wouldn’t have said it? Maybe. That he couldn’t help what he wanted? Onscreen, the de facto family has reached a kind of accord. If you can put out of your mind Eric’s dishonesty and Wesley A. Smith’s remarks, down a pill to blunt your recurring headache, and stay awake through Eric’s hour, you can still enjoy the warmth that comes over him when the publicist has a cold and the adopted daughter makes her soup. Oh, if only he could, why can’t he, break the fourth wall and love her? Finally one night she reaches under the bookshelf, opens the senior citizens’ magazine. Looking up at her is a young Wesley A. Smith, a sweet-faced boy in 1950s play clothes, a youth more handsome than he knows in a 1960s suit. Her heart fills at the sights, the revelations—troubled, addicted, gruff but loving, eccentric but kind. Perhaps she hasn’t lost him after all.

JESSICA WALKS UP THE STAIR S to her apartment after a grocery trip one night, Wesley A. Smith’s little-boy face hovering before her, and thinks that perhaps now she understands: compassion is the key. A way to dim the hurt: Seeing oneself in another, Seeing another in oneself. Or is she getting confused? Is confusion a symptom? A temperature certainly is, which perhaps her flush just now is a sign of? And she enters her apartment to find him there—Wesley A. Smith, or Eric Dalton, she isn’t sure which—relaxing on her love seat, watching his rival eighties sitcom on Replay. The words form as if she always expected to speak them. “It’s you,” she says. “How did you get here?” He turns to her and his face, beneath the helmet of hair, above the geometric sweatshirt, lights up with that unforgettable smile. “You,” he says, standing up. “You brought me here.” “Because—I love you?” “And forgave me. And now I love you.” Jessica inhales slowly, whispers. “You’re everything I ever wanted, everything that’s gone.” “And you’re exactly what I want,” he says. In a sitcom, it might end like this.

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“I guess I didn’t really understand before—that someone could hurt you, without meaning to,” she says. “I guess I never really stopped to imagine you.” He crosses the living room and takes her hands in his. “How about if we imagine something new together?” The questions in her mind are sliding away, as if she is growing warm and fevered from a drink. “Awesome,” she says, folding into his arms.

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LAURA APOL

Rapture On the last day of the world I would plant a tree - W.S. Merwin

The last day of the world will not find my father on his knees, where he has been for so many firsts and lasts and days between. Instead, he’ll call me up. He’ll read aloud the local obituaries, repeat a rabbi-and-priest joke he heard at morning coffee, tell me that Dante’s Inferno was yesterday’s answer to Final Jeopardy and he got it right. He’ll tell me to be sure that the outdoor cats have enough food and water to get by, that the temp-controlled condo he sent for them is still plugged in. He’ll inquire about the bat house, the salt lick, remind me to clean the fridge and leave out my vegetable scraps for the possums and raccoons. On the last day of the world, my father will wander back to stories about the girls he dated, his high-school barbershop quartet, and the grocery store he managed the summer after my birth. Then he’ll advise me to pick all my unripe tomatoes, arrange them on the windowsill in the sun. Just in case. In the last moments of the last day of the world, my father will think of the orioles, the finches, the hummingbirds, the jays. Are all the feeders filled? he’ll ask. You don’t want to be someone who is unfaithful to the birds.

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ANDREW COMINELLI

F HE CAN get the circuits to work, and the train to run—if he can set the train

running and get the boy who is lost in the woods back to the town, back to the father waiting at the station—then, he thinks, something in him will change, or start anew. He sits up each night surveying three different model railroad forums, posting questions about his circuitry issue. His idea is for the train to go into the hills and slow in the woods, and for the boy who’s been lost in the woods to see it, board it, and for the train to go full steam ahead back to town to reunite the boy with his lonely and shaken father. But the circuitry is complex, and he cannot get the train to go. He sculpts huge foam blocks into the shape of the Naugatuck Valley. It is long, slow work, but soon the hills rise and fall, the river runs. With an Exacto, he scallops the river’s surface, then paints it high-gloss green. He conceives an angle for the sunlight and hangs a tennis ball from the basement ceiling on a string, to remind himself. He glues miniature trees along the riverbanks and paints their soft reflections on the water. He sits the father on a train platform, on a bench. He stands the boy in the woods, facing the town, but maybe not seeing it? Maybe not knowing how close he is to the town and to the father. He lays the track all through the valley. He wires the circuit board according to the train set’s instruction booklet. But when he tests an engine, it will not go. He puts a post on the forums titled “Inexplicable short circuit!” and gets some replies, but when he tries the advice, the train will not go. He paints in fine detail a library, a city hall, several dozen houses. He places feelgood people on front porches, a collapsed drunkard in front of O’Flanagan’s pub, a dalmatian on the firehouse lawn. Gluing tree after tree to the hillsides, he makes woods. The train will not go. He repaints the father’s hair and mustache gray. He replaces the figurine of the little boy in the woods with one of a grown man, but this is too unnerving, because a grown son is seldom lost but instead chooses to stay away, so he quickly switches it back. It is better, he decides, if the separation is a mistake, the result of some lapse or misunderstanding, no one’s fault. Having decided this, he drops the grown version of the boy into a wastebasket. He gives the Reynoldses a pool and the Romanos a tire swing. He paints, sculpts, glues. He troubleshoots the wiring. He makes forum posts titled “VERY IMPORTANT

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and “URGENT!!!” He paints the words FORGIVE ME on a tiny sign and sets it on the bench beside the father. He puts small fine lines of age in the father’s forehead and cheeks. He troubleshoots and checks the forums. Sometimes he stares at the train and says, Why won’t you go? and curses, his thumb pink on the remote’s hammer, saying, Go.

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MARIANNE JAY ERHARDT

The Body is Loyal “Choose someone to be the Mother.” - Rules to the game Mother May I?

N ONE VARIATION, the Children ask the Mother for permission to move their

bodies in certain ways across the field. She’s across the field, a figure turned away from them, gaze fixed on something in the trees. The Children are limber. The Mother, unpredictable. Sometimes she says yes. Other times, no. The Children play with the size of their requests. Two leaps forward? Five baby steps? One lamppost? Yes, you may, says the Mother. And the Children come to their knees, lie on their bellies, stretch their bodies as long as they will go. Where their fingertips reach—the buttercup, the acorn, the yellowing blade of late summer onion grass—this is where their feet are allowed when she gives them the signal to stand.

I AM THE MOTHER , almost the mother, desperate in the belly of the night. These

waves strike at one minute apart and last a minute each. No reprieve for twelve hours. I feel chased up a ladder, and the ladder is very tall, and the ladder is very loose, a set of stilts. I stand over my bed in the birthing center, fists in the mattress, moaning so forcefully that my voice is hoarse. Behind me, Maureen, the midwife, flanked by nurses. One places a white cotton washcloth, rolled up, between my teeth. Bite this. They promise that what is about to happen will be quick, but it will also amount to the most intense physical pain of my life. Far worse than the birth itself. Far worse than the ring of fire or the torn perineum I’ll endure several hours from now. “Are you sure you want us to do this?” asks Maureen. I grunt my assent through the cotton; my teeth are tight. My tongue rubs the bumps of the cloth, exaggerated taste buds, no longer a cloth but another tongue I gnash with my molars. Maureen holds my hips, keeps my pelvis still as the nurses prep the four needles. In my periphery, I see each one widen her feet, find a soft plié, bracing for the peak of the next contraction. Maureen counts to three. And they are exactly right. The pain is utterly blinding, the worst I have ever felt then or now. I scream like a woman lost in time, like a woman biting a stick, a woman tortured, set to burn or left to drown, a woman whose scream will carry into the hall,

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the yard, the village, the future. It is one scream, and it ends. I let the damp towel fall from my mouth and crawl into the bed. I say thank you. I have manners. The magic is in the pain, not the injection, which is only sterile water. It’s a sleight of hand, a swap. To shock the nervous system, to disrupt its inventory of prolonged, relentless back labor, by flooding it with something worse. To force a mother’s endorphins to rush, to drug her from within. To buy her some time before the transfer to the hospital. For a spell, the body and mind are mere neighbors. The pain gate between them can be open or closed. Or open but so overcrowded that it’s rendered functionally padlocked, impossible for one version of pain to pass through.

THE WINNER IS THE CHILD who reaches the Mother first. The Winner touches the pattern of the Mother’s sleeve and they swap roles. The Child figures out how to stand, where to look, now that she is the Mother. The tagged Mother, now a Child, runs back to the other Children, some of whom hold grudges about her earlier behavior. They suspect she had favorites. They feel she enjoyed her power too much. That she kept the Children in the sun too long. She stood too far away, remember that? And they could tell she was moving even farther away from them, taking baby steps she tried to mask with her long floral dress. The Winner vows to be different, to be her own kind of Mother. There is no version of the game where the Mother is the Winner, although some Mothers will claim victory when they have been too cruel to let anyone get close, and so the Children give up, or when the game runs out of time, when their own mothers call them inside for supper, noodles, and there is enough for everyone to have seconds but not thirds.

I AM THE CHILD . Not growing properly. I am naked from the waist up, humiliated, while the doctor and my mother discuss the flatness of my chest and the curve of my spine. I try to cover my chest with my wild hair, an appropriate mermaid who will never have to worry about never getting her period. But then I have to touch my toes, and so my hair sweeps the floor, and my doctor’s hands are cold and clean and damp on my back. Seven degrees, she says. A touch of scoliosis. Something to keep an eye on. As I dress, I twist, try to see it. On the drive home, I accept that I am Judy Blume’s Deenie. Who would have thought, of all the medical fetishes in my pre-teen books—leukemia, epilepsy, several pink paperbacks about cystic fibrosis—that I’d be a girl with a twisted spine. I make plans to hack off my hair, like Deenie does when she gets diagnosed. I find myself looking forward to a back brace, some surrogate body to inhabit. One afternoon, I pull on a green turtleneck, trapping my hair inside.

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I tug it loose a few inches, simulating how I’ll look when I work up the nerve with the scissors. But the scissors never happen; the brace never happens. No mother, no doctor ever says scoliosis again. I don’t cut my hair short for several years, and when I do, it is against my mother’s wishes.

IN ANOTHER VER SION, the Mother says yes every time. But don’t mistake permission for indulgence. The Children remain bound to her choreography. Crabwalk back to Phillip, she says, or Do one cartwheel forward. And it’s not enough for the Children to simply obey. The Mother demands doubt, a double-check, Mother May I? She’ll say yes, but without fail, some Child forgets to ask, starts her cartwheel before Mother confirms her wishes, and the Child is sent all the way back to starting line, which might be indicated by a pair of birch trees, a jump rope stretched on the ground, a dropped cardigan, or, in my case, a stack of firewood where one evening I find a half-starved coyote poking around. She studies me, checks over her shoulder, looks at me again, then leaps over the barbed-wire fence, into Henchion’s pasture, where milk cows wander and nibble at grass.

I AM THE STACK OF FIREWO OD, the sack of bones, the undertrained

dancer. I’m just a few years older than the undergraduates in this advanced modern workshop, but already I feel like their big awkward sister, their clumsy great aunt. It’s a heavy-limb day, a body-is-a-chore day. With every combination, I lose my breath overthinking my breath. Then we break into groups to observe and scribble notes on one another’s improvisation. When it’s my turn to move, I try to suspend my selfconsciousness, adopt an agenda of authenticity, doomed to buckle. When I finish, the girl in the perfect messy braid says to her notebook, “You neglect your back body.” The other girls agree. In this moment, I feel both totally seen—Yes, I do! I do neglect my back body!—and utterly wounded. Neglect? That’s the word to surface in the room when I move? For the remainder of the semester, I try to inflate the paper doll Marianne, to give her dimension. I close my eyes and awaken my trapezius, invite spaciousness into the links of my cervical spine. My ribs are not a ladder, or a line of piano keys. They wrap around me, hold me, contain me. I can send my breath between them and around them. I can let the breath go.

NO, IT’S NOT THE SAME basic game as Simon Says because Simon is nobody’s Mother. Plus Simon talks about himself in the third person. Also, Simon faces you like a fool, no mystery, no chase. Simon only clocks your obedience. Mother measures your loyalty, your love.

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I AM THE THIRD PER SON . The first person is the speech therapist who

specializes in newborns. It’s not that newborns should be speaking, but apparently eating is like speaking, and this is where you go when the lactation specialist runs out of patience and the fenugreek has failed to up your milk production but has made your baby’s urine smell like maple syrup in a bad way. The baby, Nolan, is the second person, though the therapist and I discuss him in the third person. She holds him, even when I hold him. I nurse him. She does not approve of the sounds he makes. They are the wrong sounds. She takes him in her arms and moves to different furniture. She offers him a bottle and he is happy to drink, doesn’t care that she is not me. She wants me to watch. She says a lot of things, but I only remember two. The first is that he won’t be able to play contact sports. I should be skeptical or alarmed, but instead I feel impressed. She seems to know my baby much better than I do. She’s some kind of wizard, predicting his future with a glimpse of his neck flexion. My neck works but my arms are empty. I begin to think that my arms will always be empty, that she will never give him back, that she is becoming his mother right in front of me. This possibility fills me with both dread and relief. If she walked out of this room with him, would I have the energy to follow? Would I be the mother who is devastated? Would I be the mother who takes a nap on a stranger’s small office couch? The notion of sleep fills my chest with milk but I don’t leak. I never leak, another way my body is wrong. The second thing the therapist tells me is that I need to support Nolan’s chin with every gulp he takes. When she says this, she gives him back to me so I can prove I am capable. I hold a finger under his little jawbone and she teaches me how to push up into it, to encourage him to maintain suction. It is a dance, my hand, his chin, this rubber nipple. She says, “More pressure. You won’t hurt him.” I don’t believe her. I stand to leave and I thank her for whatever this was. She says this was a consultation. That I should come back. That I should keep coming back and she will keep holding my baby and showing me things about his mouth. But I carry him away, away from the nap on the couch, through a doorway, away from the smiling office manager, the fourth person. I don’t stop at the check-out window, and the first and fourth persons are saying things back there, but they don’t chase me down. I am a lost cause. On the long drive home, foggy thoughts gather in my head, in my mouth, and I share them with Nolan. He coos and chirps, a string of perfect sounds.

NOB ODY WANTS TO BE IT but everybody wants to be Mother. Except for the real mother. When she dreams up the game at a birthday party, she whispers it to a Child and takes no credit. She makes herself small and runs to the pack who will ask, Mother May I? She has no interest in standing alone far away, being pursued, granting permission and doling out punishment. Nevertheless, she has a long stride she fails to shorten. Before long, she outpaces all of the Children and nearly wins. When she tries

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to throw the game, omits the magic words, the Mother won’t allow it. You win, fair and square, she is told. And because she failed to love their rules, the Children gang up on her or lose interest in the game, switch things up. They make her It. She has no say. It is all they want for the Child’s birthday, for all of their birthdays, and she obliges. She chases them and does not catch them. She runs as fast as she can run. She follows them to their own front doors, which they slam. Under a streetlight, she shouts, “Olly Olly Oxen Free!” but by then the Children are dreaming.

SAY YOU ARE THE MAGIC. Say you are the balm. Say you are the one they ask

to map the field where mothers go. What on earth can you do with a lump in your breast or a shadow in your heart? What can you do when you are barely a wind-up toy needing a turn, when the knobs of your spine are impossible to grasp? One afternoon, you are floating on your back in the Mediterranean. You are free. You are shining into the sea, into the sky, out your limbs and the tips of your hair, your crown. And you find you are too far from the shore to swim back. You are too tired. And there is no panic, just a pulse from somewhere. A whale, a star, a dead relative. Who can tell? You stay on your back, find a way to kick your legs so gently, barely, aiming your body for land, for your husband burning on the shore. The pulse might be your children, a decade away from arrival. And remember some summer in high school, running alone on the track at dusk. The sky too beautiful. The bounce of breath at the end of a sprint and some sudden grief, flooding love for your future children wrapped up in the love of your own child self. How you wept and wept and could explain it to no one. That you had met them on that field. That they came to you.

A B ORED MOTHER might be inclined to dare the Children. Steal, she might say, a healthy piece of bark from that maple tree. Chase the smallest Child until he falls. Count the sounds in the most forbidden word you know and walk that many steps forward, then say the word out loud that many times. Carry your supper into the woods and fall asleep with the bowl on your belly, noodles warm and fragrant. Last. At first light, emerge. Wash the bowl in the sink of any strange house. Find Mother, an early riser herself. She is tender in the morning. She will fill it.

SHARE, I SAY, your weapons. I don’t call them guns because I don’t allow guns. I

do allow blasters, squirters, shooters, and Epic Battles. Gun, Gun, Gun, say my boys. No, a gun is never a toy, I say, filling a blaster with water. Even if it is pink plastic and every surface of the gun says Toy Toy Toy. Even if you are gifted one at your birthday party from the kindest child in the class, the child who tucks her trains into little beds

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at night, the child who will surrender the swing at the first hint of your want, the child who takes her time on your birthday card, using every color crayon, sounding out every word she writes. Friend. Day. Happy. Even then. Now, aim for the belly or the middle of the back. I confuse them. One afternoon, we walk home from the park and they find sticks of promising shape. They make shooting sounds, blast each other’s white bodies, perform their wounds. They point their sticks at cars driving by and I grab the sticks. I shout. Never! What if someone thought these were real guns? They would never think that, they say. They can tell. My boys are comforting me, proof I am doing this wrong. There are children, I say. And somebody thinks they aren’t playing. Somebody thinks they aren’t children. Somebody has a real gun. Only I stop after there are children. What children? The boys want to know. I kiss them to fill the silence. The sky whitens, weighs its options. I fail, fall into my own imagined innocence. I change the shape of the story, pretend it’s about permission. Tell myself this is age-appropriate. But for whom. Just. You can play with play guns. You already do. Call them guns. A blaster is a gun, a stick is a gun, a pouch of candy is a gun full of rainbow-colored bullets.

OF COUR SE, THERE ARE DAYS when the Mother must be ready to catch a raw

egg in her hands. To cradle it in a spoon and run, run, run without dropping it. Days the Mother shimmies into a real potato sack—a couple of Ida Golds forgotten in the corners—to hop across the field. Some days, the Mother’s ankle tires of the twine that ties her to the Father, ready for some race. She can be restless. In the woods, I’ve heard, is the Grand Mother. And when you get to the river, the Great Grand Mother. Great Great roams the mountain, flies a kite along the ridgeline. Triple Great knows the valley, has rested in every hollow. And so on.

AT THE BASE OF MY SPINE is a four-cornered diamond of bone, a dormant kite. It’s called the Michaelis’ Rhomboid. It’s where the needles go on that day I am almost a mother. They enter just shy of the lateral corners known as the Dimples of Venus. And while the circle of the cervix is doing its magic, this wedge of bone is moving too. It floats up and out, bulging from my back, opening space in the pelvis. Midwives say that, when the kite rises, the mother will raise her arms above her head, instinct guiding her to hang on to anything to keep her steady while whatever stability she has left in her pelvis falls away.

It’s good. It’s supposed to fall away.

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When she reaches, the mother might find a bar above the bed, hung for this purpose. She might find a door frame, a husband, an exit sign, a tree limb, a lamppost. She might find there is nothing to hold, not yet, but that her arms reach anyway, that the body is loyal to more than itself.

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JULIE HENSLEY

The Skinng Tree He had planned to hang a swing from one of the low branches of the white oak left to spread in the barnyard, an apparition that never came to pass. Their boy was born without breath— shadows ringing eyes tight as fists, lips bruised-violet and cavernous as the mouth of a fish. Instead, he hoists carcasses here: A doe aged four days, long enough to keep the muscle from toughening. A catfish pulled from deep below the dam. Too big for the cooler, its gills fanning slowly in the bed of the pickup, fanning still when the fish swings from the tree, and he pulls its skin away like a wet sock. His wife held the boy’s body close, held him for too many minutes—until the silence in that room felt like something that would fill their lungs. When she laid the infant out on the bed and flayed the soft hospital blanket, he saw the limbs were red and wrinkled, peeling though it had only been hours.

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This tree is scarred, bark husked by the frantic scratch of the dog’s claws each time the animal runs a squirrel up the trunk, but the branches still drop acorns as summer withers into September. They crunch like bones beneath his boots when he walks to open the chicken house. Soon, the deer will come to feed, their flanks so brown and alive, against the dusky curtain of the injured autumn sky, their white tails twitching as they lift, then bow, their heads, feeding on these small gifts the season offers.

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ICARUS LAURENCE

Warehouse Song

HE WAREHOUSE IS BUILT inside a cave. The job posting said that this

peculiar location maintains a nice, crisp sixty-five degrees all year round. The uniform regulations are simple: a short-sleeved shirt that doesn’t have any vulgar printing, a pair of jeans, and a solid set of work shoes. I have those three items in the back of my van that my little girl Isa recently renamed Rosanne. Rosanne’s name comes from our goldfish that died the day we moved out of our apartment. We found the goldfish belly-up on a Friday morning. It was the first bad omen of things to come. “Moved out” is a term used loosely. Our removal of ourselves from the apartment came with little notice. We woke up in our beds as usual and then before the Goodwill closed, we were donating trash bags of stuff we didn’t have room for anymore. They don’t ask for proof of residency at the warehouse. I can avoid the drama of trying to sneak through the mailbox at the old apartment. All that Upside Down Clothing Fulfillment Inc. wants me to do is fill out liability paperwork and proclaim that I won’t sue the company if anyone gets hurt. Unlike my old job’s prerequisite hours of online workplace harassment and abuse training, Upside Down lets me start working once I scribble my name. They have a daycare at the warehouse. I can’t leave my little girl Isa in the car alone during my shift, so this was the main reason I signed that paper without much thought. For two dollars off my hourly pay, they keep her occupied. Make her read sometimes. Feed her lunch, although I pay for it. Even so, with the money the daycare industry forces out of poor working parents’ pockets each year, Upside Down’s childcare plan is almost unbelievable. My application was received and accepted quickly. My little girl Isa and I show up after rolling Rosanne the Van over gravel streets and railroad tracks. There is a line of semitrucks at the straight-edge side of the cave. We pass the assumed drop-off/pick-up location and park in the nearby lot. In front of us, there is a large building made of cement and white paint. It was built right in the mouth of the cavern. It juts out as if the cave is seconds from biting down on it. We enter. I drop my little girl Isa off at the daycare, kiss her goodbye, and then I’m ushered into a cold conference room. After a quick orientation, they put me and the two other new hires to work. Following the issuing of key cards, we step into where the cement building becomes a natural formation. I feel the uneven ground underneath

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my shoes. We walk down a dark narrow pathway until we emerge into the deepest part of the giant cavern. I can see the cuts in the bumpy pillars where they carved away rock to create space. It’s damp here. The ceiling is high, and thick hanging stalactites look willing to drop. We are told by a woman who loudly chews bubble gum behind her face mask that we work within the seventy-five horizontal rows of shelves that look like a labyrinth. We’ll get used to walking, I’m told. She shows off the number of steps recorded on her outdated smart watch. She tells us that, every morning, we approach a desk at the front of the shelves and grab our scanning devices. We get a rolling cart and cardboard tote boxes. Our device gives us a random assortment of letters and numbers. Using these clues, we locate a specific shelf. Once found, we report back to our device, and it spits at us another series of code that indicates a specific item. A box of shoes, a pair of socks, a set of crew-neck sweaters. When our totes are full, we put them on the assembly line that goes into the backroom. We get new totes and do it again. Rinse, repeat. After six hours, not only do my feet hurt but my brain swells. Sometimes the item I’m looking for isn’t in the spot the device says it is. I search through nearby crates to find it. When I’m incorrect, the device screeches at me. I’m wrong and wrong and wrong and walking back and forth and wanting to find whoever incorrectly placed these items and strangle them. We’re told there is no internet service this deep inside the cave. We can listen to music or podcasts while we work, but we must download them before our shift starts. The bubble-gum manager asks me if I have anything to listen to music with. “Remember next time. The day people forget their headphones is the day people quit.” I pick up my little girl Isa from daycare. She talks about the kids she met while I buckle her into her car seat. I pull up to the mall and push her around in one of the free-to-use strollers. Coffee shops give out free water and Wi-Fi. Gently rocking my little girl Isa to the beat of the top 40s pop music, I start downloading for tomorrow’s shift. My man used to listen to a podcast about the crazy things that people do when they win the lottery. One winner used his money to create an all-female wrestling show called Wrestlicious; he was nineteen years old. I got pregnant at seventeen; my man was sixteen. My man’s mother took me in when my own parents threw me out, but she always told me that I ruined her son’s life. I never put up with that. After all, he ruined mine too. That didn’t mean he hadn’t tried to love us. He dedicated himself right then, right when that little pink line showed up with a friend, to carving a hole in the world for the three of us to be safe in. He promised this while looking me in the eyes and

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pressing big hands on my stomach, although it was still flat. Like he could already picture the life inside that was separate from me. As any good young and poor parents would, we put our education behind us. We needed money, and all we had was our youth to offer. After years of trying and quitting jobs, my man landed a position at a construction company, and I started cashiering at a gas station. Upside Down Clothing Fulfillment Inc. is competitive, as they informed us that all good workplaces should be. There is a manager always sitting at the front desk asking us how many totes we’ve finished so far. They say so as if our devices don’t tell them when we’re moving slow. There is no real threat if we fall behind besides the nagging from the managers. The incentive comes from the reward of pushing ahead. Rumor is you don’t have to walk so much in the backroom. Rumor is you get higher pay. Or, if you use the daycare, you don’t get the cut in your check. After six days of work, I get my one day off. I’m happy when they assign it as a random weekday. We can go to the public library. We hide in the children’s corner. I try to take a quick nap on the beanbags while my little girl Isa plays with the toys and keeps watch. When I wake, my little girl Isa tells me about her day. “They moved me to the bigkid room since I’m such a good reader,” she says while neatly coloring an elephant green. “And that means I get to play in the caves.” I start to create a budget of how much money I must save to move us into an apartment. Even in the worst parts of the city, I need at least five-hundred dollars as a down payment. That’s after I pay the fee to submit my application. And on the assumption that I get accepted. I’ve never applied for housing before since I had lived with my man and his mother for nearly six years. The only reason I didn’t convince my man to move out was that I pitied her. Although she side-eyed me at every turn, mumbling critiques, she couldn’t work. She could hardly walk across the apartment without help. When our mouths started getting full of sharp words, my man would intervene with a grin and gentle hands. He had that type of smile that made you remember how to trust. His mother and I lived in harmony just to keep that smile on his face. When he cheated on me, I almost wasn’t upset. It was that damn grin. When she dropped him off that Friday, they winked and kissed and shushed. I wasn’t upset at first. They looked happy together. Just by looking down at that smile from the apartment window, he had me hypnotized thinking that maybe it was for the best. Only when my gaze tore away and down to my little girl Isa did the rage burn in that empty part of my stomach. In the library, my little girl Isa is giving the elephant a hat. “They taught me a new game in the big-kid room.” I try to focus on writing impossible financial goals on a bookmark. “What’s the game?”

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“There are two teams: red and blue. I’m on the blue team with Annie and Taytay. If you’re the best on your team, you get to be the game leader. They don’t gotta run around as much. I’m gonna be the game leader next time.” “All right baby,” I say. “You go show them that you’re the best.” I pick up the pace too. My tool is my headphones. I download upbeat, fast-moving music and set it to 2x speed. While instrumental code blares in my eardrums, I can ignore the aching of my joints as I rush through the merchandise maze. My man told me that he wanted to be a songwriter. I thought it was one of those hobbies people with meaningless careers pick up. We’d be lying in our bed, and he’d rolled over and show me the notes app on his phone. My man would have me review his lyrics. Sometimes he’d try to get me to read them out loud. I’d always ask: “What for?” He’d say: “Can you hear any music to ‘em? What do you think they’d sound like?” I would shake my head. My man and I had a similar affliction. We could not fathom a new melody. We’d try. We’d sit in the park thinking while my little girl Isa played on swing sets. He’d be in his neon best and I’d be wearing my name tag, on my way to my overnight shift. We’d go back and forth with his lyrics, trying to conjure instruments in our minds, chasing a tune for a course. We could not imagine a song that didn’t already exist. Head full of empty silence. I said that he should be calling himself a poet instead.

WHEN I CLO CK IN to begin my third week, I am promoted to the backroom. The

first sensation I feel is pride. The second is the heat. The backroom is where the trucks dock and take our packaged supplies to the next destination. The responsibility of the backroom crew is to finalize the orders. We take the totes, scan them for accuracy, and package them into boxes. Those boxes then are stacked at the open overhead door for the loaders to pick up and stuff in the truck. There is an opening in the cave here, a hole created in the cliffside. So, we have a clear vision of the outside world for most of the day. Sometimes our stacks of boxes create a wall if the trucks are being slow. A cardboard shadow falls over the small room and the six of us at our desk spaces while we scan and pack in a silent rhythm. Besides the rare momentary barrier, we watch the movement of the sun in the sky throughout our shift and have no protection from the weather. Sixty five– degree promises are forfeit. The heat fills the room like smoke from a forest fire. We are victims of the direction of the rain. No one is protected besides the two people stationed by the front of the room and away from the dock. Those two spots are competitive as well. A fan is in their corners to cool them off during the day. They get first picks on the totes coming in on the line. It is a sweet

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spot. Until I can show off my speed, I get the desk in the back, across from an older woman who is sweating and huffing. No one looks at me when I arrive. The work is not as frustrating as picking items, but it is as tiring. Standing in the same spot for hours at a time, repeating the same actions over and over, creates a mental fog. Not only is the work tedious, but the competition of those around me takes a toll. I keep my gaze on my hands and the computer in front of me, only listening to the sounds of their muffled movements underneath my music. I pick up the work quickly and find a steady beat to it. The simple beep, slide, tape, stack molds to the rhythm of each song on my playlist and resonates in my head at all hours. Beep. I take my little girl Isa to the YMCA after work every other day. The membership belongs to my man. I’m always surprised to know he hasn’t removed us from his account—it’s something I would do. I help my little girl Isa shower and then I drop her off at the child’s playroom for the hour I’m allowed to. I revel in alone time while I wash. I analyze the new shape of my body since starting at the warehouse. I think I like it. Slide. My little girl Isa tells me more about her game when we are eating fast food in Rosanne the Van. She tells me that she’s the game leader now and that she likes it much better than being on the running team. I try to tell her that, while I’m glad she’s doing her best, she should give other kids a turn as the leader, trying to begin a maternal lesson on playing with others. Her tiny face contorts into an expression I’ve never seen on her before. She scrunches up her nose and angles down her thick eyebrows. She thinks that I’m wrong. Tape. My man calls. He’s been calling and I’ve been ignoring him. He leaves me another voicemail. I’m glad that I can’t see that damn smile, but I know he’s trying to get it through to me. He tells me that he knows that he messed up, but we need to talk. He says that I am taking my little girl Isa away from him. I don’t call back but, if I did, I would tell him that I’m not taking her away. He gave her to me. He put her inside my stomach, and I chose to let her cook until she came out a person. He just didn’t know I had a no-return policy. Stack. With a quick progression, I move ahead in the order. I can’t make eye contact with my coworkers. I’ve removed many of them from their positions. I almost feel bad, but the cool breeze of the fan eases my mind. On a particularly hot day, the heat in the backroom is nearly visible. The fans are not helping enough and, when we stack boxes near the door, we can smell the melting plastic in the dumpsters across the road. On my way back up from putting down a load of packages, I see a young girl pause her work. She’s last in the row. Her face is pale and dry and I’m hardly surprised when she takes a deep inhale and drifts back toward the floor. I rush to her and fail to catch her head before it hits the rock. I think of waking her, of picking her up and taking her to the cooler inner caverns, or taking off her face

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mask to force water in her mouth. With an amateur hand on her forehead, I look up to instruct the others to help me carry her. Beep, slide, tape, stack. No one has moved from their stations. They are looking at me out of the corners of their eyes. Someone mouths “sorry.” Beep, slide, tape, stack. The four remaining packets have formed a beat together, a song that I’ve never heard. They are moving fast in unison and picking up speed at the end of each verse. They are going to move ahead of me. I’m going to get pushed back. I leave the girl and rush to my station. She will be sent back to picking items if she returns tomorrow, replaced easily by the next best employee. I refuse to go with her. I grab extra totes; I do not double-check my work. I beepslidetape until my hands disjoint from my wrists. They separate and act alone. I do not stop to stack because the computer does not atone for the time it takes to carry the boxes across the room. I’ll miss lunch today to move them. A wall begins to form near my desk, so high that I can no longer see the girl on the ground. Eventually, soon, after a while, a steady tone sounds on the intercom signaling a break. My hands lock back into place, but I do not feel complete. We all walk over to the girl and cannot communicate with time to figure out how long she’s been asleep. Together, we wake her and hope she’s well enough to finish her workload. The girl who fainted is not sent to the hospital. When she wakes up, we offer to call an ambulance, but she says she can’t afford it. Unsurprisingly, she quits, but the rest of us go to work the next day. I’m not able to maintain my position in the front. I fight with my joints, stiff and sore from work and sleeping in Rosanne the Van for so long. It is frustrating. Every day I’m not assigned the front desk is a day I want to quit. Still, I pick up my little girl Isa from daycare and watch her fall asleep in her car seat on our way to wherever we can waste time for free. I have to keep going. Even if I can’t move up, I can’t lose my spot in the backroom. We’re so close. I’m moved back up to the first station the day a landlord gives us a key. My little girl Isa runs around the empty one-bedroom apartment like a plane. She dumps out the toys that we’ve been keeping in a trash bag on the hardwood. The apartment is cheap and covered in sloppily finished white paint, but it’s a place where I can put a mattress down. I find furniture on the curbside of suburbs. I can fit most of it in Rosanne the Van. After trying, I find out I can’t carry most of it upstairs by myself. When he shows up, we are waiting outside with what I had already dragged to the sidewalk of the apartment building. My little girl Isa is lying down on the mattress, soaking in the summer heat, and halfway to a nap. We’ve been taking a lot of naps recently. She smiles when she sees him. I expect my man to drive up in his vest and construction hat. He’s always wearing it at this time of day. Instead, he’s wearing blue coveralls with sleek black boots. There’s a name tag on it. I don’t let my gaze drift any higher so I can keep avoiding that damn

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smile. I almost want to tell him to keep his face mask on. Still, he calls out to my little girl Isa, and I can hear it. I keep my eyes focused on the ground while they reunite. I stare down at the sidewalk in disgust. It’s half taken over by weeds and half by the littered trash. My little girl Isa wants to take my man up to the apartment. I kick a fast-food cup towards the overflowing sidewalk trash can and tell her to go on up. I hear my man tell my little girl Isa to go without him, that he’ll be there soon, and the door swings closed. He did that for me. I can turn to him now and he’s not smiling. I have free will. Together, we carry the furniture upstairs. We tell each other when to push, pull, stop. My man plays with my little girl Isa while I organize the kitchen. He brought more toys for her. I wish he would’ve brought a microwave. She gets preoccupied playing a game on his phone in the room. Digital chirping and her grumbling follow his footsteps moving toward the kitchen. I prepare. I press my shoulder blades back against the wall and push my chest and hips forward. Presently, absent-mindedly, I scrub a spoon with a washcloth. He says: “Hey.” I ask: “How’s she doing?” “Good.” He leans against the counter, hands sliding into pockets. “I missed her.” “Would be messed up if you didn’t, don’t you think?” He nods and his bottom lip finds its way into his mouth. I want him to get on his knees and kiss my feet. I want him to notice my new shape and wish he could have me. I want him to say something dumb so I can slap him. I want him to move in and pay half the rent. He does say: “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I never fucked her. She was really close to the boss and was always up on me. I was tryin’ to get her to chill out without making her mad. I was close to a promotion. Fulltime benefits with health insurance and all that shit.” I say: “You got it though?” He says: “Yeah. I got it.”

MY MAN TAKES MY LITTLE GIRL Isa on the weekend. It allows me to go to sleep earlier now that I don’t have to worry about making sure my little girl Isa eats dinner. He calls me on my breaks. “What’s this game she plays at daycare?” I shovel food in my mouth. I’m upset that he’s interrupting the short lunch I get. “What do you mean? It’s a game.” “She keeps fussing about it. I told her we could play it here but she’s just throwing fits about it.”

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“What do you want me to do about it?” The next week, my little girl Isa won’t get out of her car seat. “Don’t make me go to Daddy’s. I wanna go to Upside Down, Mama.” “Baby, you’ve been to Upside Down all week. Weekends are for watching cartoons with Daddy and Nana.” “I don’t wanna watch cartoons. I wanna play the game. Someone else will be the game leader if I’m not there.” I pause unbuckling her seat belt. “You seriously won’t spend time with your Daddy just ‘cause you trying to keep first place? What about Taytay? How come she doesn’t get a turn?” “Taytay’s not fast enough. She’s not even in the big-kid room anymore.” “What do you mean? Isn’t Taytay eight? That’s two years older than you, Baby.” My little girl Isa tries to re-buckle her car seat. “She’s not fast enough.” A few days later, my man is back at my apartment. My little girl Isa decides that she’s too tired and drags herself to her room in the middle of the movie. My man has been coming over with the intent to spend time with her, but he lingers for me. I let him. Maybe it’s the familiarity of his heat near mine or him tricking me again with that damn smile. Either way, when I’m around him, that warehouse song doesn’t play so loud in my mind. I blame him when I start moving back. He fooled me into falling in love with him again. My mind returns to that still silence. I can’t hold a melody. Downloaded music turns into slow songs instead of the upbeat rigor that I need to succeed. I daydream that we’ll be able to work it out this time. Maybe he’ll finally propose to me. We could hang up our marriage certificate right next to our family health insurance cards. Thoughts like this slow me down. After three months of working in the backroom, I clock in, and they hand me a device. The supervisor tells me to grab a cart and start picking. I’ve been demoted. I can’t. I don’t. I stand flustered for a moment. Then, without thought, I find my arm arching into the air and smashing the device on the ground. It explodes with an echoing pop and scatters into mechanical pieces. The cut rock floor is covered with bytes and bits like mechanical confetti. The system stutters. Everyone’s rhythm pauses; their hands lock back into their wrists at the sound of the explosion. They all look at me, breathing heavily, for a moment. After an instant of silence, the march begins again. The rest of my band, those moving to the backroom, only glance before shaking their heads. My absence and outrage do little to affect the system. The woman’s gum smacks. “They’re going to make you pay for that.” I can’t. I don’t. I grab my bag and rush down the narrow hallway leading to the concrete building. With the music of rolling carts and beeping devices behind me, it takes all my muscles to keep me from looking back.

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I run to the daycare. I yell over the baby gate that I need to get my little girl Isa immediately. The attendant frowns. “You’ll have to wait a bit here. They are playing in the caves right now.” “No, I need her now,” I say. “Where’s the other entrance? I’ll go get her.” She stands with her hands out. “It’s fine. I’ll grab her, just wait.” She goes towards the back of the daycare. Infants are sleeping in colored cribs. Another worker stares at her phone, rocking a toddler in a wooden chair. There’s a metal door awkwardly placed in the bumpy cave wall. The first employee cracks the door open and slips inside quickly. Still, I hear it. I jump over the baby gate and run to the door. I enter and see the largely flat landscape of an unfamiliar room of the cave system. I squint as the sun shines through a wall opening, like the dock in the backroom. There is a conveyor belt in this room too. However, it is leading in the opposite direction. Children are running around. They drop items in boxes on the moving line. I know these boxes. I spent tedious hours sorting through them on endless shelves when I first began at Upside Down. I refused to do that again today. I cannot completely comprehend the system. The children know it well. There are two central points. Two teams. One of the points is familiar. She is standing over a large box and sorting through each item while holding a box cutter. A group of different-size cardboard packages sits near her. She rapidly hands items to the other children and points to crates moving down the line. I navigate around the blur of children to her. “Stop,” I call out. They don’t slow their running. It’s nauseating. I reach out to grab her wrist and pull her toward me. We both yelp in surprise. The box cutter slips out of her hand after the blade catches her skin. She presses her other hand against the wound. I follow with more pressure and drop to my knee. “Baby, we have to go,” I say. “I’m so sorry, we have to go now.” “But, Mama, I was doing a good job,” says Isa. I watch as her head tilts left to right. Like she is trying to dance to the sound of the shoes hitting the floor, of the cardboard boxes being sliced open, of the heavy crates moving down the conveyor belt. Without my notice, my head begins to tilt too. It sounds like the chorus of a very catchy song.

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ALLISON FIELD BELL

Girl in My Youth Before her, I liked them. Their volume, their strength. Girl in my youth pulled at her own muscle there, telling me too much body for one body. And: running makes our bodies ugly. Legs manly. Carved calves, thick thighs, soccer player shinguard tan, slope down to the ankles, muscles I could flex. Defined and sturdy. She stood in front of the mirror: pinching, angling, sighing. Before her, I didn’t want my body smaller. Before her, I didn’t know I wanted to be like her. Her body, her legs. Her way of looking, hungry for some other body. Before her, I didn’t know I wanted her. And after her too. For years, I didn’t know how to want a body like mine. A girl can see another girl in the mirror, can fail to see the woman at her side.

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CARLA RICCIO

Playlist: Hey Jude

OU WAITED UNTIL you were thirty-seven years old, in order to be ready.

Emotionally ready, you told your friends, who were happy to watch you go first. By thirty-seven, you thought, you’d done what you needed to prepare: you’d untangled from your family and fled straight to the heart of a difficult city, the first place you’d call home. You met a man there, a good one who made you food and played you music. You spent ten years together, just the two of you, working past love, through hate, to a place quieter than either. You adopted a dog and bought a house. The extra bedroom upstairs, groaning with sunlight, told you it was time. But no one could tell you this: That your first child would not arrive to shine a light on the parts of you that you had made whole. That she was not your reward for good behavior or admirable self-awareness. That she was not, as you’d secretly hoped, the reincarnation of yourself, given to you to restore what you think you never had. To prove this, she comes out looking nothing like you. Impossible, you think, that the coupling of two black-haired, dark-eyed lovers could produce this pale animal whose eyes are so blue you know they will not change. No one in your family, as far back as you can see, has had eyes lighter than the dirt they sprang from. You have never had a blue-eyed friend, have, in fact, been suspicious of all blue-eyed people, as if a lack of pigment equaled a lack of depth or gravity. Which is exactly the message your firstborn delivers in the cool blue gaze that sifts right through you: Not only are you not what you thought yourself to be; you are the very opposite of everything you thought you were. For example: You are not a person who yells. Or slams cabinets, car doors, dishes. You are not, god forbid, the kind of person who will become a joyless parent, but this child will bring it out of you, bring back parts of you ignored for so long you’d thought they’d drifted away, until you find yourself here, on a Wednesday morning in late February, slumped in the driver’s seat, crumpled inside and out. It is 8:15 a.m. and already you have struggled and lost—with the hairbrush, the winter coat, the car seat, the thousand tiny arrows of an average morning. You press your head into the headrest, close your eyes and breathe. But it is no use. After three years, you are what your daughter wants you to be: the broken wall her heart-sized fists have brought down. You throw the car into reverse and roll down the driveway. Catching a glimpse of your daughter in the rearview mirror, her brow a wrinkle of anger, you do not think you know what’s going on inside her spidery brain; you know you have no idea.

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Turning onto the street, you crank the heat and cue the music, hoping for a tenminute truce in the car ride to school. You flip to the Beatles playlist you made in a happier time, when you imagined rollicking sing-alongs she’d recall fondly to her own children. Idiot, you think now, just play the music. You skip “Here Comes the Sun”— you don’t care if it’s her favorite—and hit “Hey Jude” because that’s what you want to hear. The song begins, and you feel what you needed to feel: the opening bars—Paul’s low croon over brooding chords—slip into your spine. It will not heal everything, this music, but it will help, a little. You keep your eyes on the road and pretend you’re alone, just you and this song. Twelve miles. You can do twelve miles. But a mile in, there’s a buzz, a tinny reverb behind Paul’s voice, and you think of course, even this small comfort will be taken, as you fiddle with the wires. Then you hear it again, differently: not a mechanical glitch but your daughter’s small voice, an octave higher, trailing Paul’s. You want to turn your head to look but you don’t dare. From the rearview, you see her, looking out the side window, her face softer now, her mouth moving along with the lyrics. How many times have you played this song for her? Not many, always skipping to the brighter melodies she demands. You watch as she moves from the obvious words to the parts you still mumble and, somehow, she knows it all, not just the chorus, but the meat of the thing—there she is singing the movement you need is on your shoulder, every syllable in its place. You grip the wheel hard but your eyes blur anyway. Your daughter sings and your skin prickles with— what? Relief? Regret? Apology? You don’t know. By the time she gets to let it out and let it in, her chest lifting the seat straps, the steering wheel is hot beneath your hands and fat tears burn your cheeks. You know better than to think this means something, to think this moment is anything larger than itself. After three years, you have learned that much. It is not a turning point or a new beginning, not the moment your life with your daughter changed, but even so, a tiny piece of you, a half note, rises up. It will not carry you through the rest of your days, will not even get you through the rest of the week, but it will take you to the other side of this morning, and, in days to come, will remind you that there is always another side to be carried to, another shore to be reached, but only after letting go of this one, the way a ballad can become a rock song in six minutes and fifty-eight seconds, but only after the tambourine shakes its way inside, making room for the drums, first the sticks then the boom of the bass pedal, until the door swings wide and a whole ensemble stumbles in—guitars, cymbals, a choir of drunken, off-key revelers, and from somewhere a full orchestra (trombones,

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cellos, bassoons), until the tiny theater of your Subaru thrums, floorboards to roof and back again. Behind the steering wheel, you listen hard, maybe for the first time, to what Paul is doing in the middle of all this noise. How he navigates as the song buckles and slides beneath him. Six minutes in, it’s not the love letter he set out to write, or the jam session he was in a second ago. You lean forward and watch as he lets things go: first the story, then the lyrics, landing on a one-syllable chant Na-na-na-naaaa, that carries the tune for a minute and then dumps it out, until finally, as the whole orchestra is either rising up or crashing down (it’s hard to tell), he opens his hand one last time and lets it all spill, a long, rolling wave of ows and heys and yeahs. You notice how each syllable feels unchosen, how it rides whatever comes up. In the back seat, your daughter is quiet. Up front, you are, too. The sidewalk from the parking lot to the teacher standing at the classroom door is straight and long. From a distance, you think, you must look like a normal thing, a mother walking her child to school. When you hand your daughter over, you give the teacher a small smile, one you hope looks more like gratitude than guilt. Back in the car, alone now, you cue the song and hit repeat. You sing it, from clarity to chaos, over and over, louder each time, hoping to lodge it deep enough for the rest of you to hear.

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AMANDA HAWKINS

The Elephant Perhaps flowers are too obvious. Dramatic, ridiculous, sexual by definition, I used to cut them out. A food writer who also came out later in life no longer writes about food, says it feels a little too Wizard of Oz, like, Pay no attention to that— Same, same. An elephant wherever I go and not a square of fabric to cover my eye. I cut flowers for the table. When I see them I startle, so garish, I cut them out of my poems. I mean I used to— I already said that, I know. Look, last night I went out to see the moon rise like a pink peony above the fields. I went out to see a body bloom itself from darkness, because I believe in celebration. Celebrate whatever you have, my grandmother used to say, If you can’t cover it up, decorate it. I consider the bunch of peonies on the table. Imagine myself weaving a fucking crown for my head.

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BLYTHE KINGCROFT

An Eclipse of Moths

UR DAUGHTER WAS B ORN in a flame. Up north, a flare of moths. Every

corner of our home covered in their pliant brown bodies: the parkade, the balcony, the space between the window and its white metal ledge. Down south, the wildfires. Smoke crept in like a weed, filling our city with late summer ash. For seven days after Maggie was born, an orange sun hung low over our balcony plants, which withered in the heat. I felt too protective of our daughter’s little lungs and couldn’t slide the glass door open to water the dying basil. Meanwhile, hundreds of moths swam about this smoke as we stayed wrapped inside. Last summer, the summer I was pregnant, there was an outbreak of western hemlock looper moths in my city. Outbreaks like this happen every eleven to fifteen years, blanketing our forests in soft brown wings. First, in June, the moths’ barrelshaped eggs crack open. Like any newborn, their young are ravenous but inefficient eaters. All summer long, they gnaw at trees—hemlock, balsam fir, white spruce— stripping each branch until patchy and bare. Once plucked, the trees burn to yellow and red then fade to brown, like a tree that’s been touched by fire. Last year, the moths were most noticeable in September. By then, the well-fed caterpillars had transformed and our city was sheathed in papery wings. Moths flapped wildly through the trees, spilling out of the woods into neighboring streets. “Is this the apocalypse?” people joked, taking pictures of patios, sidewalks, park benches—all covered in moths. At the height of this outbreak, my husband and I went for a hike in the woods. The wildfire smoke was mild, barely noticeable that day, but it was hot and we needed shade. Every step, we were surrounded. Silky strands of recently hatched cocoons lined the forest floor, loose-hanging satin on arched ferns. Above, hundreds of moths flitted through bald and browning trees. Their tawny wings hovered like wind-torn rags of laundry on each branch, the same shade of decaying brown. We marveled at the way they flapped, swaddled in the forest’s light. I went into labor the next day. For forty-six hours of contractions, the moths kept me company. Dozens followed while I moved up and down our parkade’s cement staircase, trying to lower the baby. As I labored through the nights, they beat against our tall glass windows. It was early Saturday morning when our midwife finally came. The apartment was tinged in sunrise pinks, furniture bathed in gold. As I lumbered

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through the kitchen, heavy and afraid, I noticed them: two moths had slipped in. They hopped around the birth pool as it filled with cool, clean water from the kitchen tap. Soon after this, my own water broke. It was too brown for a safe delivery—filled with flecks of meconium that might asphyxiate the baby—so we abandoned our hopes of a home birth and rushed to the hospital instead. While my husband ran around our apartment, feverishly packing a bag, the moths hid in our curtains. When we came home the next day, new daughter in our arms, they flew out to welcome her. I anthropomorphized them with ease. Dressed them up like doulas in my mind, thanked them for their gentle work in bringing her here. Later that week, sleeping newborn on my chest, I researched the western hemlock looper moth. To me, their beauty felt gratuitous, not unlike my daughter’s. Their presence, nature’s grace. But to many—several species of trees, say, or those in charge of national parks—their presence in this world is alarming. What stunned me made others panic, a justified response to this creature’s injurious appetite. An outbreak of western hemlock loopers is destructive. Trees die, forests dry, wildfires increase, logging timber is lost, wildlife lose shelter. Whole forestry budgets are tweaked to minimize this damage. Because of this, I learned, the western hemlock looper is nicknamed “the mournful thorn.” I cradled this detail in my mind, unsure what to make of it. Of course, other creatures welcome this season. Countless birds and invertebrates flourish during these outbreaks, feasting on the abundance of moths. Even the forest welcomes the change to its structure. Canopy gaps caused by defoliation make way for bright patches of sun on the forest floor which, in turn, nurtures new growth. What were these moths, then—beauty or horror, destruction or grace? Surely, like all nature, they contained multitudes. When our daughter was just five days old, my parents visited. They arrived at night, skies dark and smoky. We talked in hushed voices in the living room while the baby slept in her bassinet. Outside, the moths flickered in overcast streetlight, streaks of lit wings bobbing in hazy light. Squinting, my father asked, “Is something on fire?” No, I explained, and described the glow he saw. I told him about the “mournful thorn” that covered our city. Told him how their bodies gathered like piles of dead leaves, small harbingers of autumn. Told him how some entomologists describe outbreaks like these as snowstorms: wings descending in a flurry, shrouding the city. Nonetheless, my father’s question was apt. Of course, yes, something was on fire. California was burning and Vancouver’s sky was filling with late summer smoke, a smoke that’s perennial now. As we watched over Maggie in our 650–square foot home, learning to soothe and nurse her on two to three hours of sleep a day, California smoldered towards a record-breaking 4,257,863 acres burned in one year.1 Two states 1

2020 Fire Statistics, Cal Fire, fire.ca.gov/stats-events/ 162

and one Canadian province north, there we were: two new parents, obscured by a climate crisis, trying to make sense of our small private miracle beneath a blurred-out sun. And always considering the moths. In Jewish and Christian scriptures, moths are often a symbol of refinement or erasure. Throughout these writings, divine discipline is clothed in hazel wings and hungry as a hemlock looper. Instead of thinning forests, these moths feed on human greed. The Psalmist’s God is a moth who gnaws at wealth. Isaiah’s moth similarly disciplines Israel’s enemies, whose hope is too material. Here, the Hebrew word for moth is ash, which comes from ashesh, meaning to shrink, to fall or waste away, to be consumed. While this image is unsettling, the writers seem to think of this consumption as an ultimate good, a cleansing fire of sorts. In eating harmful attachments, the moth carves space for a wayward people to return to their creator. There was so much to love about my daughter’s newness: her sweet milky breath, the way she mewed with need, how her small hairline furrowed like a hawk. Yet her survival depended on me, on my body giving itself. And while I welcomed her need, possessed with love, I also felt destroyed, stripped bare, consumed. I was “devoured like a garment” as Isaiah says.2 She was my mournful thorn, my wild rose. I, her crazed balding gardener. Despite their obvious threat, the moths stayed a grace in my mind. However, the murky air in which they waded was an undeniable horror. “Maggie was born in an ecological crisis,” the skies proclaimed. “She will die in one too!” I had plenty of time to weigh this argument against children before I got pregnant. I had even more time to consider it while I nursed her in a burning skyline. As she ate at my breasts in those early weeks, I thought about the parts of humanity that need to fall away, like motheaten trees: our collective consumption, my own pernicious greed. I thought about my own complicity as I watched the moths beat like flames, moths that were now, thanks to my father’s failing eyesight, permanently linked to a world on fire, small brown metonyms of a suffering landscape. A group of moths is called an eclipse. Eclipse, from the Greek ekleipsis, which means “failing,” and ekleipein, which means “to forsake a usual place” or “fail to appear.” When I learned this, I thought of Lynn Canyon’s depilated trees, how the leaves failed to appear, eclipsed by another creature’s hunger. Thought of the absent sun, darkened by smoke. Thought of my own effacement, erased by a child’s needs. And all this amidst a landscape of wider ekleipein: in California, the hottest August in state history with record-high temperatures and drought, whole forests waiting to scorch. A place forsaken by human consumption. Like a moth, fire is also an eclipsing force. For this reason, fire is a natural religious metaphor for spiritual refinement or purification. Fire cleanses dross. It effaces bad 2

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habits. Not simply for the sake of erasure, though. In many religious writings, fire is a symbol of transformation. There is an old story from the early Christian tradition of desert monasticism. Abba Lot, seeking further spiritual enlightenment, visits Abba Joseph. “Abba,” he says. “As far as I can, I say my little office. I fast a little. I pray and meditate. I live in peace as far as I can. I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?” In response, Abba Joseph transfigures before him and his hands become lamps of fire. “Why not be turned into fire?” he replies. Or as another translation puts it: “become all flame.”3 Be consumed. In our daughter’s early weeks, worrying about wildfires, my husband and I revisit an apocalyptic story from his childhood. He was raised Brethren, during the height of 1990s evangelical kitsch. Back then, a series of YA armageddon books circulated with popular force. These books reimagined a piece of poetic scripture in literal terms, spinning an epic tale in which all Christians are raptured at the end of the world while everyone and everything that’s left behind eventually burns. They were entertaining things, lining young minds with a page-turning idea of this world’s telos: one of fiery doom and destruction. Theologically, they engaged the theory of Christ’s consummating parousia—meaning “presence” or “arrival”—and translated it to Hollywood terms. (Think Indiana Jones but the quest is for your soul.) Now in our mid-thirties, we laugh about it before pausing to give this familiar story a spin. What if it’s us who burn, who choke on smoke, efface like a moth-eaten cloth? What if the world is the material that survives us? We don’t mean to erase any divine hand in earth’s trajectory. It just often seems our erasure might be necessary for the life of the world. Or the erasure of our hunger. Something needs to be eclipsed. Death is built into the fabric of this world. While our hyperactive resource consumption is turning this world into kindling at an alarming rate, there have always been wildfires, and with them, the death that fires bring. In fact, forests seem wired for flame. In some ways, fire is more damaging to us—our homes, our lungs, a climate we find temperate—than it is to forests themselves. In nature as in life, destruction often births new things. Fire rejuvenates. Firefighters use this knowledge to help struggling forests with a method of controlled burning. A struggling forest is sectioned off and fire is offered gently, like a much-needed drink of water. Once the flames subside, the soil absorbs the ash, sucking nutrients from burned things that might otherwise take years to decompose. And in clearing detritus, fire creates space for sunlight, which nourishes young shoots and stimulates new growth. Canada’s boreal forest—which spans from northern British Columbia to the easternmost maritime provinces—is so reliant on fire for its 3 Ward, Benedicta, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection, Cistercian Publications, 1984, xxi. 164

rich biodiversity that some people term it “pyrodiversity.” Without fire, no patchwork of aspen, white birch, jack pine, and lodgepole pine. In fact, of these trees, the pines rely on fire to simply reproduce. Without extreme heat, the cone’s waxy resin won’t melt, won’t release the seed that then cracks into something new. No fiery destruction, no grace of vibrant new life. Fire, then, can be an act of ecological care. It acknowledges that death is part of any ecosystem’s cycle, working with this death to nurse renewal. Like the western hemlock looper, fire brings both life and chaos. I am trying to be someone who believes in this contradiction, who tends life on a dying planet without acquiescing into despair. I am trying to see grace amidst increasing horror, and to participate in life-making despite the odds. As a creature entangled in her ecosystem, I recognize there is no life without death. How is it that a recognition so ordinary and banal can be equally surprising, and so humbling? The fact that all life is enmeshed in another creature’s decay—whether compost, spring, labor, or fire—is a strange comfort to me, a dark hope. I do not want to slide into apathy, letting this fact anesthetize me to real injustice. I do not want to confuse hope for optimism. But any lasting resistance of death must be rooted in some small hope, even if it’s just a stubborn belief in the ordinary resurrection of pine cones. Wendell Berry writes: “Much protest is naive; it expects quick, visible improvement and despairs and gives up when such improvement does not come. Protesters who hold out longer have perhaps understood that success is not the proper goal…. Protest that endures, I think, is moved by a hope far more modest than that of public success: namely, the hope of preserving qualities in one’s own heart and spirit that would be destroyed by acquiescence.” What is childbearing in a world on fire? Is it a form of protest that endures, refusing to give up and despair? Many experts argue for fewer to no children in light of the climate crisis, saying that a reduction in births could reduce our overall carbon footprint by 9,441 metric tons per kid.4 Given this, we might question if childbearing is morally or ethically defensible. However, this statistic is based on a typical Western lifestyle—one of jets and cars, meat eating and gas heating, fast fashion and consumption—amidst current government policies, which are projected to change in my daughter’s lifetime.5 (And which, it is worth noting, most experts say is the only effective change whereas all personal efforts to reduce individual impact is equated to saving a sinking ship with a teaspoon—a claim that calls into question the value of individual integrity versus 4 Jennifer Ludden, “Should We Be Having Kids In The Age Of Climate Change?” NPR, August 18, 2016. 5 Sigal Samuel, “Having fewer kids will not save the climate.” Vox, February 13, 2020. 165

impact.) When accounting for future policy changes, however, Western children emit as much carbon as a few transatlantic flights. Under this logic, when evaluating your own carbon footprint, fewer trips to Europe should be under scrutiny as much as reproduction. It is, perhaps, then, a question of how we raise our kids to live, a question of what world we actively hope towards. A question of eclipsing our consumption, both in the home and at the level of government. I wonder, then, if childbearing in a world on fire is an act rooted in hope—the kind that does not, as Berry says, acquiesce. If my child can teach me to die to myself—which she regularly does, often painfully—can she also teach me to die to my consumption? If I worry about the world she’ll inherit, am I willing to “become the flame” that effaces my consumption for her sake? Can children, then, instead of abstracted resource sucks, be a slow controlled burning of our collective greed? Two weeks after Maggie’s birth, I counted the moths’ dead bodies. Their season had ended and the smoke was clearing as we slowly emerged from our newborn surroundings. Outside, our balcony was covered. Several moths had jammed into the space between the window ledge, wings dissolving to dust. Inside, one fell beside our baby-arrival cards: face up, wings spread out in cruciform position. I didn’t sweep it up for weeks. While nursing, I studied its corpse. The moths had uniform bodies: all fawn colored, with matching wings that curve and point like scallops, and a single black line penciled across their wingspan. When looking at my own postpartum body in the mirror, I noticed the way my new linea nigra—a vertical line that develops on the stomach during pregnancy—mirrored the moths’. I traced my fading line and remembered the many angles of my creatureliness: how in tune I felt with my animal self as I labored through the nights, how I’ve been tethered to my child ever since, how we are born thirsty for survival. In the Book of Job, moths seem less a symbol of refinement and more a reminder of human frailty. Here, Job reasons that our lives are “like a garment eaten by moths.”6 A text familiar with sorrow, Job emphasizes that life is brief and as foolish as a tender new shoot in early spring. Life, according to these ancient Hebrew writers, is marked by limits we cannot exceed.7 In an age where we have mastered so much that once made us face our frailty— things like weather, winter, hunger—we seldom face our limits and revere them like Job. We seldom remember that we are made, as Job’s scriptures say, from dust, lives framed by our universal return to it. There are two ways to interpret Job’s remarks: wonder or fear, humility or despair. These days of wildfires are anxious things. But in it all, perhaps, the awe of being a creature, of being here at all. I am trying to be someone who is loyal to that awe. 6 7

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An old friend of mine, Emma, has two children. She is careful to teach them the generous way our world offers itself. In her garden, she shows them how to grow big palms of kale. At a nearby beach, she cultivates tide-pool wonder. At night, she shows them how to chart the moon. I watch this all from afar, double tapping photos of her kids online, admiring the creatureliness she models in little squares on my phone’s screen. One day, she posts: “I would rather be born in a world on fire than never be born at all.” She sees sorrow and still makes breakfast, still teaches her children the astonishing existence of starfish. In a review of Jenny Offil’s Weather, Leslie Jamieson says that “we can still be in love with what happens on a dying planet, and [acknowledge] that life is always many things at once—full of love, full of despair, full of slobber frogs and melting glaciers and babies who won’t nap; that what happens on one scale doesn’t negate the others.” It takes great fidelity these days to see nature’s grace in all this destruction, to persevere in seeing it. It seems passive, perhaps not enough. And yet, it is essential, because adoration is a far greater impetus for care than anxiety. We are considerably more likely to take care of something we revere than we are if compelled by doom. The spring after our daughter is born, we return to Lynn Canyon. She is seven months old. We strap her still-small body into our car seat and drive to the forest. We are hoping the trees might widen her small life. But beneath that, we are hoping to consider the moths that descended like fire last year, hoping to remember the way they ushered in her arrival. When we get there, it is hot: an early spring heatwave, reminiscent of last September’s thick heat. Upon entering the tree line, our bodies cool. A bright green ceiling shields us from the sun, letting in pinholes of light. There are no moths this time, only leaves. They glimmer in the breeze, rustling as we walk past. Halfway into our hike, our daughter fusses. She is strapped to her father’s chest and wants out, wants milk. We unfasten the baby carrier and pause to nurse, perched on a fallen tree. After a long drink, she pulls away. She smacks her lips and babbles. Satiated and curious, our daughter turns to take in this strange new place. I plop her on the forest floor, let her touch the rough bark of the dry log. My husband, a few paces away, brings us a pine cone and we place it in her small hand. Together, we examine the cone: its layered honeycomb, its sticky sap. She sticks it in her mouth, all tender inquiry, until I pry it from her gummy hands. Watching her, I remember how some species of pine need fire to make their own babies, and tuck that fact away as a future story to tell our daughter about this world: a world on fire, a world whose existence hinges on the surprising grace of resurrection. From all effacement, something new. We hope she grows up to marvel at this small and ordinary fact.

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EROS LIVIERATOS

Broken Sonnets for the Body 1. Yesterday morning I watched a ladybug set itself on fire—drowned in wax on the windowsill. Every winter morning is a brilliant suicide in a home with vines interwoven & climbing bricks. My mother keeps my brother’s ashes in a shoebox under her bed. She sleeps with my brother below. My father once called me in tears and told me “I love you!” “I love you! I can’t lose another one.”

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2. Another morning, I was lost—foraging under stoplights, my body a public mess. Loaded. My psychiatrist with her thick Russian accent who prescribed pills like falling water will sit with muddy coffee. My body: a body of scarring— a body who has scarred— will make it to the curb. Does violence glow? In a fit of rage, I beat that boy till he looked a lot like a canvas of paint.

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3. When I felt the weight of his body pressed onto mine I heard God the priest whose jaw looked like a desert eagle told me to bow under the cross and pray beneath my breath—we are always sinning. He was an idealist, and a pedophile. Do the rooms in a home Have enough space for all the pieces?

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4. The white of the sand was nothing more than a facade covering the toilet seats and condoms of Atlantic City, an artifact of exploited labor where opiates and heroin have more home than animalia or flora or any fucking naturalism at all. I bought drugs from a dead eyed man and a six-inch pocket knife to dig into my knees when you weren’t looking. I thought the world could be clay if my flesh could be more malleable.

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5. In a basement I saw God again under hazy lighting with pipes and signifiers telling me who’s fucking who and to listen to the bodies of boys whose hands made melodies of strings I envisioned as future lacerations, as love in a way. Static feedback tidal waves; if I drowned the noise with noise—I could breathe.

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6. Was tripping on salvia and anti psychotics in a green room—screaming I felt death like a bath of fire. Like a charred body or ocean where the waves were built from glass and my body was sprawled, scrapped into pieces. A decade later and I’m still drowning. I treated my body like precious nourishment and carved into my flesh as if there was enough for everyone. Was there enough for everyone? I felt the heat of furniture I set ablaze and remembered the scent of burning hair. If my body did not fit my body, then couldn’t I just burn the body?

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7. Some days I spend staring at my hands. I make fists. I spread my fingers wide apart. My fingertips still don’t feel much after the stove. Some Buddhists claim the self is all there is, and loving the self is loving everyone. I love everyone. But I’m not sure the body can be honest. I spent a decade playing jump rope with neurons finding tachycardic rhythm. Out from flame—I stand wavering slightly, but here.

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SACHA BISSONNETTE

To Have and To Hold

Y TUESDAYS ARE NOT like my Thursdays.

On Tuesdays, Shelly and I drink fast and to the point, aware of the small moments, but we bully right through them. The small moments have never really been our thing. Our thing is to get fucked up fast, together, ritualistically, surgically. I’ll tell her where it hurts this week and point to the place on my body. That’s where she’ll cut me open, where she’ll reach inside and go to work. I’ll feel the sore of my sutures as the sun crawls up my bedroom wall. She’ll never kiss me goodbye. Thursdays are with Marcia. She is an accountant. She is only free from six to ten. All our moments are scheduled, predetermined. We either order pho at hers or grab tacos near mine. Only rarely do we diverge from the plan. Only rarely will she get lamb over the beef. When we drink, it’s expensive red wine, never liquor. “I don’t believe in being out of sorts,” she said sternly on our first date. It felt more like an interview, her napkin repurposed as a comprehensive ranking system. She asked many questions until nine, when she invited me over to have sex. She told me I better stick to my side of the bed and if I snored to leave. She wasn’t joking. Rules are very important to Marcia. I kissed her deeply at 10:00 and caught the 10:15 bus home.

DAD TO OK ME TO FLORIDA when I was fourteen. I remember the suffocating

July heat and how everything seemed tied in with it, like we were all these little house flies buzzing around Disney World, waiting to be sucked into a glue trap. The heat left us dewy and shiny. We were always moist and tired. After a day of amusement rides—I was too chicken to tell Dad how sick they made me—I’d crave a dip in the over-chlorinated motel pool. I’d wade around for hours, sipping mango smoothies that Dad left out on the ledge for me. I would practice backflips and he would hold up his judge’s score on cocktail napkins. I’d rarely score below a nine. From there, I watched him bring this little tiki bar to life. Well, a kind of life. Big fish in a motel pool. It was like watching a sitcom, my aging father the star, but the sitcom was getting into the later seasons and the audience was still tuned in, wondering how long could he keep this up. And the lead was losing his edge. We had a pool in our backyard at home in Ottawa. There, I’d dive down and hold myself under, watching the bubbles rise. I’d practice being quiet and still. I’d practice

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drowning out the noise of the above world. Of Dad’s vodka-fueled anger. Dad spat so much when he screamed. Mom was a thrower. Anything within reach. She could pitch like a pro. I went down to the basement freezer a few times to get him a bag of frozen blueberries to ice different parts of his body. The same blueberries she baked into the most delicious pies. All the holes punched into the walls started to look like the constellations I’d string together as I lay floating in our pool. In Florida, I didn’t have to hide. Mom wasn’t around and I could have all the sugary drinks I wanted. This was part of the bribe. He wanted me to buy into this daddy timeshare. As if this could be more than a one-time escape. That’s the thing about vacations, they can trick you into thinking that they’re not exactly that. That I could stay by this pool, sipping mango smoothies until I drowned. He would swing by, smelling sweet. “Florida women are different, man. They’re fiery, got something behind the eyes, man.” He always called me man. I wasn’t a man, but was starting along that path, wondering what the women looked like under their swimsuits and wraps, as he spun them around to Jimmy Buffet. Always Buffet. Watching him reaching for their lower backs and kissing them on their necks. Whispering into their ears as sweat moistened the back of his white linen shirt. Their eyes would light up every time. Was it the same line he used on all of them? I thought of doing the same, of being like him. In those two weeks, I saw five women that he brought back to our room. Plus one that came back three nights in a row. Six in total. He always thought I was asleep, but I never was. I wanted to know which women fell for his charm. They all knew about me. Part of dad’s appeal was his kid, so he never failed to point me out from where he was entertaining at the bar. “Hey, Boyo, give me a big wave,” he’d shout. When he came back with them at night, he would rush to turn on the shower and usher the chosen one to the bathroom. They would disappear in there for an hour or two. Sometimes, there would be a sudden burst of laughter, but mostly I could hear how deep and raw these women could feel. They would always leave that night, but often he wouldn’t come out, and in the morning, I’d find him sound asleep in the tub. I’d pee as quietly as possible. Three-nights-in-a-row’s name was Heather. I heard him yell it out twice the last time they had sex. When she exited the bathroom, she had a towel wrapped tightly around her blonde hair and another loosely around her body, one of her breasts exposed. She caught me peeking and held eye contact as she dressed. She did have something behind her eyes, but not what my father saw. On the way out, she kissed me where my mouth meets my cheek. I never told Dad. For the two weeks I watched him, I thought about mom and how the other dads buzzing around the Disney glue trap must also be the other halves of failing marriages.

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When I got back to Ottawa, I dropped my bags at the door and ran to my mother to hug her deeply. Maybe if I could hold her hard enough, she could feel Florida, because I was never going to tell her.

I LIE WITH MARCIA on my side, perfectly still. I want to be with her. I want to be

one of her rules. I tell her about Florida, and Heather. How I still picture her breast sometimes, dewy in that Florida heat. And I tell her about my father, that in all his glory, maybe he just wanted to be held. We lie quiet for a moment, but before the comfortable silence can set in, she suggests I see a therapist. To unpack all my issues, she giggles. When things end with Marcia, I call Shelly. In many confused words, I tell her to bring the scalpel. I tell her I need the small moments now, not to bully through them anymore. I beg her to try them with me. I tell her they are an acquired taste. When she arrives, she can see that there’s not much left in me. I show her where it hurts, but before she cuts in, she gently draws a circle with her fingers, tracing her scalpel line. She then puts her ear to my chest and listens for a bit, quietly, without moving her lips.

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JEMIMAH WEI

The Bet

A .M.: 29°C AT 93% HUMIDITY with 41% chance of rain. It was the morning of the walk. The temperature regular, but the humidity especially bad. Oh well, Ming Jun thought, I’ve already said I would do it, so do it I must. He flung the covers off, hoping the momentum of the action would translate to an energy that he’d carry long into the morning, but by the time he turned the fan off and stepped out of his bedroom, his calves started to ache, knowing what was to come, and protesting. His wife and daughters stood in the kitchen, waiting. Please, his wife was saying, stop being so stubborn. But in front of her was a bowl of the oatmeal she’d cooked, just the way he liked it, as if she knew her attempts to stop him would fail and the oatmeal would be needed after all. All right, he thought, showtime. He walked over jauntily and planted a big kiss on her left cheek, both his daughters turning away automatically, averting their eyes, even as the older one—Lorraine, lovely Lorraine—said, Pa, the temperature is going to peak at 34 degrees at noon, you have to call it off. The younger one was quiet. Ming Jun felt his heart go out to her. Savina, eight and not yet disappointed in him, alone understood why he needed to do this. He spooned the oatmeal and kept his spirits up. 34 degrees? That’s too bad. He would suffer. Lorraine repeated, stop, Pa, don’t be ridiculous. Was she crying, or close to it? He faltered, even as she offered again to call off the bet. It was a joke, she said, she didn’t actually want him to walk across the country, it was madness. But he had lost. He had promised, again and again, never to return to the Singapore Pools, and each time he promised, he’d meant it. When Lorraine caught him with his hand in her wallet, he too was genuinely surprised. It’d been two in the morning. The bleariness of sleep crumbled into fury when she realised why her father was in her bedroom. You promised, she said. You promised. Ming Jun promised again, but he could see that she didn’t believe him. I mean it, he said, let’s make a bet. If I ever go back, I’ll walk across the whole island as penance. Lorraine’s whole face tensed with hesitation, a beat before belief, and his heart soared. And then he’d gone and gambled again, anyway. He started to wash the bowl, but his wife gestured for him to leave it. Take a water bottle with you, she said, but he declined. It was hard to find public restrooms, and on his fifty-fifth birthday, the mandatory checkup had confirmed the bladder issues he’d long suspected were coming. This is madness, Lorraine repeated, I don’t need you to do this. I don’t. He tried to kiss her on the cheek, but she dodged his dry lips. They

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weren’t an outwardly affectionate family. But then he looked down and there Savina was, clinging to his waist, wrapping her spindly arms around him, squeezing tight. Seeya later, he said, cheerily, and pulled the door shut. People were already on their way to work, crowding the sidewalks, angrily taking pictures of the buses stuffed with people that passed without stopping, no doubt for the purposes of online complaint later. A couple of them looked askance at him, plodding along in his black FBT shorts and a tight, long-sleeved exercise shirt which wrapped uncomfortably around his belly. In his right hand, a long tree branch, with which he expected to defend himself from the wild dogs that frequented the construction sites he’d pass once he made it to the middle of Bedok and beyond. Something was always being constructed in Singapore, pockets of progress scattered all over the island, and once upon a time, Ming Jun believed a point would come when progress would’ve been reached, when they could collectively relax as a nation and enjoy the fruits of their labor. His wife, who’d once accepted everything he said without question, believed it too. She’d believed him when he said the gambling was just to blow off steam, that he was taking a small chance on their future, speeding up their journey to retirement. The fruits of their labor had been such a long time coming, and the sense of possibility that yawned open in the moments directly after he placed each bet was exquisite. But the moment always ended. He’d been promised things and made promises in return, and for what? At the end of the day, all progress had done for him was phase him out of employability, his skillset apparently interchangeable with the wonders of automation. The overhead bridge loomed, and he crossed it. He was on the other side of the highway, moving under the train tracks, which rumbled in four-minute intervals. The crowds had thinned, and the streets were quiet. Ming Jun stopped for a moment, pulling a hand towel out of his fanny pack, rubbing at his forehead. A condition of their bet was that he’d make the entire journey by foot. No taxis, trains, buses. Later, after she’d failed to talk him out of the walk, Lorraine had tried to negotiate the terms, compromise on the public transportation bit of it. No, he’d said, that stupid smile on his face persisting, I promised! I’m going to do it. Watch me! End to end, Singapore is fifty kilometers across. A man once walked its full length, following the curves of the East-West train line, in fourteen hours. It’d taken 67,665 steps, but he’d accomplished it in a day, and made it to the morning news. Ming Jun would take longer, because he wanted to seek out covered walkways where possible, taking refuge in the shade of various void decks, but the point was that it could be done. You are not that man, his wife had said, but why couldn’t he be? He thought again of Savina, his youngest. For the two older women, the walk would at best be redemption, but wouldn’t Savina see it as a point of pride? She was only eight. She was his third chance to get it right. His mouth was open, his breaths coming in short, shallow huffs. A maid, bent over from the weight of schoolbags and dragging two

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reluctant children along, said a quiet excuse me, and stepped around him. I’m doing a marathon too, he wanted to tell her, but she was already gone, shielding the now curious children from his gaze with her large body. Cabs honked at him from the road, but he shook his head, ignoring them. A couple trailed him hopefully for a while, but eventually sped off. Good, he thought. Good. To advert potential temptation, Ming Jun had left his wallet at home. He had no cash on him, and his phone was an old one, which didn’t have any of those snazzy new tap-topay functions on it. At his wife’s insistence, he’d taped his ID to the back of his phone. She watched him the entire time too, as if afraid that he’d rip it off the minute she looked away. He wasn’t happy about this. It spoke of a lack of faith. I’m not going to need it, he said, what do you think I’m going to do, forget my own address? She replied that it was illegal to be found without your ID in Singapore, which was true, but also consistent with the fact that, when in doubt, she reverted to the law. Live a little, he wanted to tell her. Some risk is good. Just some. He wound through the various void decks of Simei, walking past the old men playing chess at the community tables and the teenagers practicing skateboarding tricks under a No Skateboarding sign, blatantly ignoring the CCTV cameras above head. Ming Jun could feel their eyes following him, and he glanced back. The pitterpatter trail of water he’d left in his wake was already evaporating from the afternoon heat. His phone rang. Hi, Sayang, he said. Don’t call me that, Lorraine replied. How are you doing? Will you please come home? It’s going great, this is great exercise, maybe I’ll do this every week. Where are you exactly? He looked at the block number closest to him. Somewhere, he said. You sound terrible. He could hear the anger in her voice, trembling. Can you please tell me where you are? He stopped walking and put a hand over the receiver so she couldn’t hear him pant. When he’d sufficiently regained his breath, he put the phone to his ear again. Don’t worry about it! I’m doing great! The phone was wet where it’d touched his face, his hand. He hung up and reoriented himself. Toward the next overhead bridge, then the coastline. Little bell sounds tinkled temptingly in the air. Did bicycles count as public transport? Ah, but he didn’t have his wallet. He shook his head at the bike rental man and continued walking. Around him, families whizzed by on their double-bikes and roller skates, and shirtless young men ran with their dogs, exhaling in low and controlled puffs as they pounded down the beachside track. The rain trees spread out above head, the dappled sunlight casting shivering shadows on the floor, and without the relentless assault from the sun, Ming Jun could almost enjoy the sea breeze.

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But someone must have called the police. He was in Aljunied, somehow sitting at the bottom of yet another overhead bridge. He could not recall having taken a break, but the floor around him was damp, his white dry-fit shirt almost transparent. The young men in blue were asking him a series of questions, and he rattled details off to prove sanity of mind. Tan Ming Jun, fifty-seven years old, NRIC SXXXX154D. Pasir Ris Street 79, Block 436, Unit Number 04-533. He walked all the way here from Pasir Ris? Yes, yes, he did. He was exercising. His family knew about it. It was his right to exercise, no? Was he breaking any laws? Were there rules against going on a walk alone across the country? The policemen looked at each other and scratched their heads. All right, they said, take it easy, old man. One of them offered him some water, and he almost didn’t accept, out of pride. But he was thirsty. Thank you, he said humbly. Already he could feel his bladder whining. In the lobby of a cheap hotel, a security guard directed him to the restroom. It’s really supposed to be for guests, he said half-heartedly. Ming Jun watched the weak stream of piss swirl down the urinal sadly. His body couldn’t hold on to too much for long. It was surprising that the morning oatmeal hadn’t found its way out of him yet. He paused in front of the sink. If only he could take a shower! Ming Jun splashed water all over his face and neck and stripped off the sticky shirt, running paper towels under the tap then wiping down his whole torso. The time had come to put his shirt back on, but it was clammy and quite disgusting. Might he finish the rest of his walk shirtless? Why not? Other people did it. He rolled it up, but it wouldn’t fit in the fanny pack. With no other options, he stuck one end of the shirt into the waistband of his shorts, hoping it’d stay secure. When he left the restroom, the security guard charged towards him, ushering him out into the blinding sun before any guests caught sight of him. He was sweating again. The phone rang, but he ignored it. When he looked, he could see that Lorraine and his wife had both tried to call several times. He knew hearing their voice right now would be very difficult. He was tired, amenable to persuasion. This was his problem, he knew. Things always started out well. But let the siren call, once. He’d be led anywhere. One time, he thought he’d go beyond the small stakes of the Singapore Pools and play with the big boys at the Marina Bay Sands casino. Why stand in line under the hot sun, waiting on the luck of a ball or the amble of a horse, when there were carpeted floors and air-conditioning, clean toilets and background jazz to be had? Only the entry fee had stopped him. He hadn’t realised Singaporeans were charged $150 to enter the casino. The country willing to benefit from the gambles of others but not their own. Ah, it had worked. $150 was a lot. In all his years of betting, the best he’d gotten was a $430 return some years ago, half of which he’d used to pay for a nice meal for his family. They’d gone to that zhichar restaurant by the train station. He’d ordered two kinds of crab. Chilli and salted egg. Plates and plates of mantou. Lorraine was already in her carb-conscious

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phase, but Savina went at those steamed buns like they were McDonald’s fries. She tore and dipped them into the crab sauce, the buns soaking yellow and red. It’d gotten all over her face. She’d been six and so adorable. His wife had mainly looked worried. But later, she swore that the dinner was delicious, such a treat. The best she’d ever had. The sun was almost setting and he was not yet halfway through the island. This walk was taking longer than anticipated. He could see that measuring himself against Google Map’s standard walking pace had been an act of generosity. Ming Jun plodded through the Central Business District very slowly. The golden sun rays bounced off the glassy skyscrapers and multiplied, trapping the last of the sunlight. He no longer had cause to come to the Central Business District regularly, but Ming Jun still felt a secondhand familiarity with the area: it was the facade printed on most of Singapore’s tourism collateral. After he phased out of this cluster of high-rise office buildings, he’d be able to see the Singapore River and the boat quay which wound around the rest of the Civic District. Back in the day, when his wife still worked as a receptionist for the Ritz Carlton, they’d walk the length of the river after she knocked off, to the Padang field outside the courthouse, hoping to spot their favourite local teams at informal soccer practice. That was back when they were freshly married: twenty-four, twentyfive. At one end of the Padang field sat a short building of red brick, the Singapore Recreation Club. They’d never been inside, but one time, on Channel 8, they saw that it had an underground swimming pool, carved out of fake rock to make it look like you were splashing in a cave. They’d been captivated; how different from the aspirational condominium pools they were familiar with, how much better. I’ll get you in there someday, Ming Jun had told his wife. How much can a country-club membership be? Looking back, his life had been a long leash of naivete. He’d convinced her to quit her job too when they’d been pregnant with Lorraine. We’ll save on childcare, he reasoned, and it’s better for a child to grow up under a mother’s guidance. Latchkey kids always end up joining gangs. I can support us both. And for a short time, before Savina, his wife tried to go back to work. But the work of a receptionist had changed. Or perhaps his wife had. She could no longer click back into the rhythms of customer service; her attempts at charm jarred and bumped up against the newer ways of being. People didn’t like warmth anymore; they wanted professionalism and elegance. Ming Jun didn’t know how to feel when she told him she was returning to the life of a housewife. He preferred it, he decided, but the extra cash would’ve been good. Move it, someone said. It was a businessman behind him, speaking loudly into the air. Ming Jun started, then saw the metal cord in his ear. Oh, he was on the phone, he wasn’t talking to him. But then the businessman made an impatient gesture, and repeated: move it. Ming Jun was walking too slowly, taking up too much space on the footpath. The businessman resumed chattering on about the Dow Jones as Ming Jun stepped hurriedly to the side. He swished past, and was gone. Suddenly aware of the

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double takes from the freshly released office workers, spilling out into the streets all around him, Ming Jun caught a glimpse of himself in a swinging office door and was surprised to find that he was still shirtless. None of the office buildings would let him in without a pass, so he ducked into an alleyway and hid behind a giant trash bin as he put his shirt back on. The shirt was mostly dry and smelled bad, but it was better than nothing. How much further did he have to go? The impossibility of his task loomed before him. He slapped at a fly buzzing around his ankle and noticed a mosquito bite forming. He must have been bitten somewhere between Tanah Merah and Katong, but only upon noticing it did it start to itch, terribly. He longed for hot water and mopiko. It would be fine if he went home. His family would be relieved, grateful even. But even as he considered it, he saw Savina in his mind’s eye. Savina, who was young enough to hope against reason that her father had completed the thing he said he’d do. He continued. It was never truly dark in Singapore. Streetlamps stood two meters apart, serving as both light and yardstick. Just to the next one, Ming Jun told himself, and then I’ll take a rest. And the next, and the next. At the edges of his mind lurked a sense of the remaining ground he had to cover, but he wouldn’t allow his thoughts to go there. Why did he have to go into his daughter’s room in the middle of the night? Why couldn’t he have just waited for her to leave the house before going through her things? No, he pulled himself back, that’s not right either. The feeling of awful surprise when Lorraine’s eyes met his that night echoed in him. Just to the next one, he thought. He’d made mistakes, he’d made promises. His phone buzzed, but he ignored it. They wouldn’t stop him, not now. He wouldn’t let them. He would do them proud. Sir? The word was polite, but the tone was not. Ming Jun was surprised to find himself standing before another two police officers, these ones older than the ones at Aljunied. Where had they materialised from? Behind them, he saw another, younger officer, lingering by a police car. The car door was open: they’d driven here, stopped by the road where he was standing, and emerged. The sequence so intentional that they had to have been looking for him. The man directly in front of him said, again, Sir? Yes? His voice was not his own, his lips cracking painfully as they parted for that sole syllable. Please come with us. Ming Jun shook his head vigorously. He couldn’t get in a car. That would be breaking the rules, and he’d already come so far. The younger officer took a step forward, a hand on his hip. Immediately, the first officer shifted, putting a hand up. The younger officer stilled. Sir? The first officer said again, more firmly this time. Ming Jun got the impression that he was being managed, but that the voice was corralling the younger officer

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as well. We’ve received multiple reports of a suspicious figure lurking around this residential district. Oh. With some effort, Ming Jun forced himself to speak. I’m okay. I didn’t see anything. The officers regarded him, three pairs of round, searching eyes. The second officer, who’d been quiet until now, spoke up. We’re going to need to see some ID. Now that he was no longer actively moving, dizziness leaked into his eardrums. Ming Jun swayed dangerously on the spot, and the younger officer flinched, revealing how much of a novice he was. ID, please. It was a perfectly reasonable request. Ming Jun grappled with his pocket, fingers finally closing around his Xiaomi. The phone screen lit up from the touch, revealing a low battery warning and 57 missed calls. Ming Jun flipped the phone over, but before he could pry the tape off, the second officer reached forward and plucked the phone out of his hands, squinting at the ID card on the back. A long way from home. Mind telling us what you’re doing here? The first officer interrupted. Can you tell us your name and where you live? Behind them, the younger officer’s eyes didn’t leave his face. There was too much going on. Ming Jun took a step backwards and swayed again, blinking furiously. He wanted to tell them that he’d already gone over this with their colleagues, that it was his right to walk around neighbourhoods in the middle of the night if that was when he deigned to exercise. It was a free country. But the words mixed around in his head and all that came out was a surprised puff of air. All right, said the second officer, who Ming Jun decided had a streak of meanness in him, let’s go. He stepped forward and took hold of Ming Jun’s arm, his grip rough. He started to guide Ming Jun to the car, tossing the Xiaomi to the younger officer with his other hand. Address, he said, talking to the younger officer, who nodded and got into the driver’s seat. Ming Jun didn’t want to get in. No, he said, trying to wrench his arm out of the officer’s grip. No. He forced his legs to stop taking steps, and the officer nearly tumbled over from the sudden shift in weight. Come on, old man. No car. The officer came up close to Ming Jun and wedged both hands under his armpits, trying to drag him over. Ming Jun made his body go limp, his deadweight collapsing against the officer. Jesus, the officer said. Then, to the first officer, what are you doing, just standing there? The first officer hesitated, but moved to join them. He put his hands on Ming Jun’s waist, then, changing his mind, grabbed at his feet. Ming Jun started panicking.

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No car, no. We’ve got a crazy, the second officer said loudly, his voice a beacon. The younger officer leapt out of the car and ran towards them. Ming Jun’s phone tumbled from his lap, and bounced twice on the road, where it lay, face up, the screen cracked. Oh my god, the younger officer said, his face near Ming Jun’s for the first time. He stinks. Ming Jun flailed suddenly, his hand suddenly coming free and smacking the second officer in the face. What the fuck, the officer said, and out of nowhere Ming Jun was on the floor, his cheek pressed to the gravel. The phone was right in front of him, barely a meter from his nose. David, the first officer said, be careful, he’s old. I’m not going to break any bones. But the second officer was sitting on Ming Jun’s back, keeping him pressed to the floor. Ming Jun could feel the second officer’s weight, supported primarily by the low squat of his thighs, with just enough pressure exerted on his back to keep him in place. They were in Clementi. It wasn’t bad progress at all. Ming Jun was nearly three quarters of the way through. He was so close. Help, he said, but the officer didn’t, or wouldn’t, hear. Do we take him into custody, or send him home? The younger officer was excited, his voice charged. Singapore’s crime rate being so low, this might have been his first ever actual altercation. Help, he repeated. The weight on his back increased, ever so slightly. Call it in, the officer above him said. See if there are any known records for this guy. Did you get his ID? On the floor, the phone began to ring again. It was on silent mode, so the Xiaomi’s screen just flashed, and the phone vibrated, trembling on the ground. I’ll get it, the younger officer said. It wasn’t clear if he was referring to the ID, or the phone call. Please. This time the officer heard him. What? Please, Ming Jun said. He struggled, his body twisting uselessly. No. Fingers appeared before him, reaching for the phone. Don’t. The officer’s weight shifted; he was looking down at Ming Jun. From somewhere above his head, the younger officer’s voice floated. It says it’s his daughter. He was in Clementi. He was so close. Only 22.6km more to Tuas, if he took Boon Lay Way. He didn’t even really have to make it to the very end of the island. As long as he got to Jurong East, that’d count; that was essentially the last interesting thing on this end of Singapore. After that it was all construction and sand. If he made it to Jurong East, he’d call it a win. Please, he said again, twitching against the officer’s bum. Please. I only have a little bit more to go.

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Hey, is the old man hyperventilating? Get up, get up. The phone was still ringing; Ming Jun could feel the air vibrating with the force of the call. David, get the fuck up. You’re going to be in deep shit if he has a heart attack. I bet he’s a runaway, the younger officer was saying. Let’s find out. The first officer: Christ, don’t be an asshole. Can’t you see he’s crying? He’s not right in the mind. Please, please.

MING JUN D OZED OFF several times in the car, sandwiched between the first

and second officer in the backseat, sneezing every couple of minutes as the air conditioning blew straight at him. They’d given him a tissue to mop his face up, but the tear and mucus stains had dried on his cheeks and under his nose regardless, cracking painfully with each twitch of his face. His wife and daughters would be waiting downstairs when the police car pulled in, red-eyed with worry. They hadn’t eaten all day. Lorraine in particular had spent most of the evening harassing different police branches in an attempt to file a missing persons report, even though upon describing her father’s last known physical appearance, each officer on the phone had said, patiently, that it seemed as if he’d planned to go on a long walk, what with the full exercise outfit. Was she sure he wasn’t just choosing to digitally detox? His wife had said, over and over again, you can’t stop that man, he does what he likes, he doesn’t see that it affects us all too. There’s no point, he’ll come back when he wants to. But she’d continued calling Ming Jun regardless, dialing every few minutes, burning down the battery on his phone. Only Savina, standing between her older sister and mother, waited patiently for her father to return. She wasn’t worried. Even though it was way past her bedtime, she didn’t feel sleepy in the least. Her eyes were bright, seeing what her mother and sister couldn’t see. As the police car turned into the estate, Ming Jun barely conscious within, Savina straightened. She tried to make herself taller, watching the car twist through the different blocks, threading its way to the three waiting women. The red and blue lights flashing in triumph as her father returned home in glory.

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CLAUDIA SCHATZ

On the River Trail

E ARE SITTING ON THE WALL at the river’s edge, helmets on, our

bikes sprawled on the grass behind us and our bodies touching from hip to shoulder through our winter coats. The water’s surface reflects the gray sky, the current steady and flat beneath our dangling feet. Cal studies the bare branches on the far bank and breathes slowly. We have just finished breaking up. “So let’s stop being in love now,” I say. He laughs. “Exactly.” The air is cold around us, but my right side is warm where we are pressed together. “It’ll be strange when I cut my hair and you aren’t the first to see it,” I muse. “You can send me pictures.” Cal leans into my shoulder. “I won’t, though,” I say, and he nods. “I guess we probably won’t finish our bike-every-street-in-the-city project,” he says. “Probably not.” “That probably wasn’t the best idea.” “Probably not.” Like so many things. Cal turns to me. “We keep agreeing on everything now. Funny timing.” “No, it’s not.” “Ha, ha.” The silence sits with us on the wall until Cal’s shoulders start to shake again. I twine my arms around him as he cries, try not to think about how much he loves the word “garland,” how he likes to pull my hands to the nape of his neck and say, “You’re my favorite garland, Judy,” and I protest, “My name is Julie,” but he shakes his head and won’t budge until I confess that I’m a Hollywood legend. “It’s okay,” he sniffles. “It is,” I agree. “I hate it.” “Me, too.” We watch the river for a long time, as if it will tell us how both can be true. Finally, Cal clears his throat and straightens from my shoulder. “I’m good. I’m done. I’ll get the rest out at home.” “You know you can call me to talk more.” “I won’t, though,” he says, and I nod. A blur of movement catches my eye: another rider braving the brittle air. Her smooth silhouette streaks down the bike path, all pumping legs and fluid speed. I

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imagine the heat rising from her back, how alive she feels, all the space she has on the road by herself. Cal and I never figured out a system for who would tuck in behind the other as we approached other cyclists, always fumbled at the last minute with our brakes squealing and gears snagging, tires cutting zigzags across one another as we struggled for balance when moving so slowly, indecisively. I watch the solo rider pedaling unhindered; her movement and blunders and collisions are hers only. I hope she knows. Cal pushes up his sleeve. “So we give our watches back now, right?” “Oh.” I stare at my wrist. “I’d forgotten.” “We don’t have to yet,” he says, quickly. “It does feel sudden.” “No,” I say. “It’s what we said we’d do, if ever.” “It seemed pretty hypothetical at the time.” “It did.” We unbuckle our watches and exchange. I haven’t seen this slim golden band against my skin since we first traded, over a year ago. “I want to give you my time,” I’d said, “in exchange for yours.” The face looks small and sad, and it’s right on the minute instead of slightly fast how I like it. I move to adjust it, then lift my fingers from the dial. I can wait. “Your secret to always being early!” Cal studies his watch. “I didn’t know you set it forward.” He holds his arm up, gives it a twist. “Or that you’d worn out the strap so much.” “We’re really smart for this,” I say. I rub my thumb over the tarnished hole where Cal always buckles the wristband, two spots out from where I set it. “Increase the straps’ lifespans because we wear them at different lengths. They’ll wear out half as fast.” “The whole thing was just a money-saving scheme,” Cal declares. “Glad we beat the system.” “Yay,” I say. The gray sky is getting grayer, the winter light falling short. “We should go home,” Cal says. “We should,” I say. “And then we shouldn’t see each other for a while.” The words float smooth and flat on the surface of the river, then sink all at once. Cal nods. Then he leans over and, as he’s done so many times, bumps his helmeted head against mine, a tiny, buffeted collision that makes our eyes flutter closed

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reflexively, just for an instant. As they open back up and find each other, he begins to speak, but I cut him off: “Not while you’re looking at me.” I wrap him in my arms again. “Now you can,” I say, muffled. “I love you, Julie,” he says into the down of my shoulder. “I love you, too,” I say. “But let’s stop.” “Let’s stop,” he agrees. We stop. We stop hugging, stop touching, stop talking. We stand and mount our bikes, point our wheels in different directions. I ride home and wait for the rest of it to stop, everything inside of me. I sit still. I set my watch forward, but I still have to wait a long, long time.

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CEZANNE WAID

What’s a Vegan To Do fig seeds can writhe into larvae —squirming in and out of focus flinching away I taste the entire life cycle of the fig wasp and still—can’t forego figs for the love of their open-handed leaves and their so-sweet summer on the tongue

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RICH RICHARDSON

Wooden Airship

OU LIVE IN a rainforest at the back of Kalihi Valley in the middle of the

Mighty Pacific. The clouds travel across the tropics and get stuck there against the ancient volcano. New clouds are born from the mist along the crumbling caldera. It’s been raining here for three million years. You are a distraught, sharply dressed man in a city of mellow people in baggy shorts. You have a high regard for the lowly arts. You do improvised stand-up comedy for anyone who will sit through it, and black velvet paintings about magic and shame. Your wife is descended from Vikings and cuts through the chaos of life like a machete through the meaty base of a banana tree. She bailed you out of jail and talked you into having a child. The perfect shape of her cheekbones brought a spring thaw to your icy pessimism. She gave you a child and the child gave you an excuse to grow up. Your daughter is dressed in clothes you sew from blank canvas. She is seven years old and has her own language. She knows “over fifty” imaginary games and “some” of the alphabet. She likes to play in the jungle you call a yard. You are attached to her with an umbilical cord made of reverence. A recent storm washed away Waikiki. There is a new beach now, a half mile inland, and it is a lot less crowded. Another storm is coming in big and fast. Your wife takes the Little One to the next island over where extended family are gathering to avoid the crush. They lie back in lounge chairs enjoying cocktails and a view of the hurricane. They will be safe there. If not safe, they will be together there. You should try to join them soon. You see them off on one of the last boats to leave. You stay put to board up the house and ride it out with the pets, high winds, and night marchers. You also feel like you need to tend to your quirky disorders and disturbing personality traits. You need to clear your own decks. You are taking inventory and counting scars. You are going to shelter in place and make things right, even if that seems like the wrong thing to do. A Category 5 slathers your town with suffering. It moves slowly but makes quick work of everyone’s long-term plans. Airplanes are swept off runways and boats are sunk. You pray to a god called “Luck.” It is raining inside your house, and you are trying to decide what is most important to you even as everything that is most important to you is ruined. You are able to salvage The How-To This & That and every time you pick it up, you seem to find exactly what you need to know. One time, you found a chapter called

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“How-To Paint Like a Champ.” Another time, your wife found you a chapter with wonderful illustrations about “How-To Behave Like a Human Being.” As soon as the storm is spent, you make a Category-6 cup of coffee and take this treasured little book of yours outside to survey the damage. Your outer world is a wreck, but your inner world is vibrating with a strange and optimistic vibe. You sit under a tree that’s dripping rain and mangoes. You open up the book to a chapter called “How-To Build a Wooden Airship.” You are missing your family now and filled with caffeine and a vague heroic impulse. You scour the neighborhood for appropriate debris. Interesting materials have been redistributed by the storm and are plentiful and free. You build all night under a tent, under the tree, under the moon alone there in your so-called yard. Your best find is an old yellow dinghy. It’s made out of wood and about the size of a small bed. It’s perfect for people who might need to land on the sea. You attach a couple salvaged solar panels and decorate tastefully with shag carpet and party lights. The topper is a massive balloon with improbable riggings. It’s shaped like a fish and lit softly from within like a dull lantern on an autumn night. You made it from the Mylar you traded for fresh mangoes with two clowns from Party Central. The sun heats it up, the air inside expands, and the balloon becomes lighter than the air around it. It’s a year’s worth of material for balloons that will never be birthday numbers or happy anniversaries. You top it off with Forevlium, a synthetic helium that lasts a mighty long time. When everything is assembled, you take off. Lines are released and you wave thanks to the neighbor who goes back to watching the news about himself on the news. You are nervous and excited and find it sweet to leave the salt of the earth. You have a keel at the top and one on each side, so you have a pretty good chance of steering. It doesn’t make good sense, but it eventually makes good time. You bring some secret sauce and pencils to write love letters to the cosmos and draw comics for the sky. You have a radio that picks up a signal from smugglers and submarines. There is marching music in the background, mixed with string versions of party anthems and fight songs. You bag all your nasty traits and are squishing them into aluminum cases that overflow. You have to sit on the lids to latch them shut. They are ballast now and heavy like they should be. They are bad Habits of Mind, but you would hate to see them go. It is fifty miles from here to there, but going there is going to be better than here. You pick out a pair of shoes that are the proper balance between rugged and refined. You sail at night and leave your past on Oahu. You sail intentionally off course with the first Kona winds, first southeast and then over the Hawaiian Deep. You only have the right opportunity when the winds blow the wrong way. Soon, the Konas die out, and below you, the sea is twenty-thousand feet

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deep. Your heart is beating fast, but your voyage comes to a standstill. The surface of the sea is pushed and pulled by the moon. Inevitably, the Trade Winds take over, and rush you northeast, exactly the course you had in mind. Your previous experience helps, flying from rooftops with a beach umbrella. Above the land of your former self is a palace of quiet. The traffic and drama of conversations disappear and your mind is swept clear by a light breeze. You float over shipwrecks. You float over tiger sharks. You pass over patches of water that have never felt the shade of a cloud. You pass through electronic transmissions that never reach their destinations. You pass over lost keys and sunken skulls that slip from flooded graveyards on the ancient coastline. You fly over the Channel of Bones. You turn up the radio for some choral music, and there is a chanting from the ancient times about mysteries and beauty. There is an amplified bulldozer in the background and an electric hammer that keeps the beat. You will let the experiences of your past be your teachers and not the rulers of your future. You see swirls, eddies, and little waves foaming up and spinning into mist and nowhere. There are ten-thousand shades of blue. There are round cottony shadows on the sea under the clouds in the sky. You see little puffs of clouds and then banks upon banks of clouds heading towards you from Ketchikan and Sitka. There is a chilly Alaskan version of the Pacific, sharing whale songs and shipping disasters. You are headed for your daughter, your wife, your mother, and your sister. Your brother-in-law works there part-time for the Dept. of Merriment. It does you good to think of your family there together by the sea. You are thankful that your wife had “everything organized” on her side. You are thankful to have connections to connect to, with their lounge chairs in a circle now, talking nonsense. You sip the secret sauce to clear your head. It’s part dopamine and part smoky mezcal with a pinch of dreamberry and a spaghetti-western soundtrack. You toss your other prescriptions into the sea.

YOU ARE COMPETENTLY ST EERING your balloon towards your aim and then,

you are hit on the side of the face with a fish. Fish cannon! The greasy boat below you has a massive 1950s-style air compressor they’ve turned into a cannon. They are doing their best to shoot you with the worst thing they have. They must want your rig! The second fish misses by less than ten feet, but when he loses steam, he is right about eye level. The fish gives you a look from just off the bow. Then he falls back into the sea. There’s no time to ponder; your balloon is being pelted by dozens of large, half-dead fish from the desperados below. You undo the clasp of your aluminum case and take a final look at a few of your regrets. It doesn’t make sense to carry these to a new land. Your future stands to gain by whatever you can manage to lose. Inheritance is a heavy ballast and it is time to let

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it go. You snap the lid shut and heave the deadweight overboard. You hope it will hit the enemy’s deck. Their ship is a mess of old gear and death. Fishermen have turned to chemicals and smuggling. They are trailed by a slick of oil and fueled by resentment and dread. You worked for them once, a long time ago, and you know their ways. They have miles of metal line and indiscriminate hooks. There are twin pit bulls on board who never stop barking. They pull at their collars until the chains shape the skin of their necks. Direct hit! All the things you regret explode on their deck: the sorrows, the misunderstandings, the failed tests and lost opportunities. The crew is retching black bile. Their craft spins uselessly in circles as you sail on. The sounds of trauma fade. The dogs’ sad barks are drowned by distance and the ambient roar of the ocean’s swell. Curious birds return. You are glad to be free of the menace and malice of the fish pirates below.

WHITECAPS CREST AT THE BIRTH of each wave. They splash and spin and

dissipate. Their mist turns into the clouds above. Some waves are so small you just know they’ll never make it to shore. Some clouds are so wispy and tentative they cease to exist before they fully form. You fiddle with the radio, but your news feed no longer provides nourishment. You are better off listening to crickets. You don’t need what you don’t want to hear, and you don’t want to hear about things you don’t need.

CLOSE TO THE SOARING CLIFFS on the backside of Molokai there is a sudden

drop in air pressure. The shore birds scatter, your balloon is shrinking, and you are dropping fast. Poised unfortunately below you is Nimbus, the giant squid, attracted to the scene by the stunned fish from the cannon. Nimbus is bold and gangly and twirling near the surface. Her eyes project manipulations. Her arms are gray and chaotic. Her enchantment reaches between the realms of the sea and the sky. You and your vessel are no match for the wrenching tug of her electromagnetic charm. You are jerked down towards the sea by her telepathic pull. You heft a huge trunk of terrible habits over the side of your airship. You dump another and then another dense crate of emotional waste. They whistle like sirens as they drop through the sky. When finally your burdens have been jettisoned, your balloon responds skyward. The giant squid with her nasty interfering ways is knocked out by the blows. She sinks back into the Trench and the Midnight Zones of the Deep. The future lies clear and open for you now. The skies astound you with their infinite new patterns of cloud and light and color.

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THERE’S A BIRD there beside you, moving at the same speed and height. It’s flying parallel to your path and only ten feet away. It’s supposed to be a flightless bird, like a Dodo or a Nene, and it’s also supposed to be extinct. Being big and slow meant he was easy to hunt. He looks you in the eye for a moment and you feel a connection. Your cheeks warm up and you might be smiling. Both of you are smiling, if a big flightless bird could be said to be smiling. You have no name for this creature, cruising swanlike through this Sky Blue sky in this strange archipelago. You just skirt over the top of the cliffs, brushing Ohia blossoms with your hand as you pass by, happy to see land again. The deer race ahead to warn the town you are here. You pass over the school at the end of the road. One kid looks up and brags to his friends that he’s seen you “plenty times” before. Your landing is smooth and you fold up the balloon and tuck it into the yellow dingy, leaving everything organized under a tree, in the shade, for someone else to use. Finally, you are reclining on lounge chairs and munching Power Bars with your kid. Her eyes change colors with the passing of the clouds from Beach Glass to Peacock Blue. She tells you that, while you have been apart, she’s made a rainbow of zines about philosophy and knows “over a hundred” games and “most” of the alphabet. You don’t need shoes anymore. She calls them “foot jails.” Besides, your feet are warm and well worn, and they keep you connected to being alive.

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AJ STROSAHL

Dogs I’ve Read For my aunt, Meg Wolfe, a dog lover [Fred’s grave] is the only grave I visit with any regularity…. I do not experience grief when I am down there…. But I feel sadness at All Last Things… sorrow not at my dog’s death but at my own, which hasn’t even occurred yet but which saddens me just to think about in such pleasant surroundings. - E.B. White

N CALIFORNIA , THE VALUE OF A D O G is fifty dollars. The teenager who

checks me out at the shelter tells me that of my $445 adoption donation, only $395 is tax deductible, because the state has decided that fifty dollars is what a dog, as a piece of personal property, ought to reasonably cost. “For your records,” she says, looking apologetic. She hands me my tax receipt and slips the lead around the neck of the small brown and black dog who is now mine. In the red tote bag over my shoulder, Klaus shifts against my book and wallet and makes a sound in his chest. He extends a thin white paw out the top of the bag, like he is trying to shake the girl’s hand. I tuck it back in. We take the new dog, Winnie, home. It’s September of 2020 and we’re getting Winnie because Klaus and I can’t sleep. We need a functional dog to show us how to live again. Ever since last March, it’s been getting worse and worse. Our insomnia is an old affliction, familiar and cruel. We were out of practice being sleepless, but we took back to it easily. At night, I read for hours or listen to audiobooks hunched over a quilting hoop, pulling the needle through again and again until my wrist aches. Beside me on the bed, Klaus drifts in and out of anxious wakefulness, swaddled by a nest of fabric. Through the night, we are terrors unto ourselves, Klaus coming to full alertness every two hours with mournful, warbling cries that wake me as intended. He sounds afraid. He always quiets immediately when I lift him out of the bed, tucking his head under my chin. He can’t do stairs anymore and can only control his bladder with any certainty for about three hours. At regular intervals, I carry him down the steps and out into the moonlit yard, where in the dark, he is an alien on the surface of a distant planet, lurching and sniffing, taking thready steps across the blighted landscape. His spine curves nearly into the shape of a horseshoe, and his haunches tremble as he urinates into the patch of wood-chipped ground beneath the apple tree that he prefers.

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He will whine when he’s done, impatiently, letting me know he is ready to be swept into my arms and carried back to bed like a prince on a litter. This process begins anew, every few hours, until we can see light in the sky. We are okay. I think we are still doing okay.

KLAUS IS EIGHTEEN YEAR S OLD, partially deaf and completely blind. He still walks—grudgingly, on shaking legs—but prefers to be carried. He eats ravenously, even though he is bird-thin now, down to nine pounds from a stout seventeen in his prime. He was once deeply, lustrously red, like an old penny polished to a high shine. Now, it looks as if he is being slowly erased, colorlessness creeping in from all his extremities. First his paws became tipped with a rusty white. Then it snuck up his legs, then to his shoulders and thighs, until it covered everything except the tips of his ears and a long strip from the nape of his neck to his tail. In his face, it began across the bridge of his muzzle, then spread up and out. Now his face is the whitest part of him, blanched except for his dark round eyes, cloudy with cataracts. He has a fatty tumor in one of his armpits. He’s always had it, but it seems worse now that the rest of his body is also failing. It’s grotesque and breast-like, tipped with a blackened area that looks like a nipple and which will express small amounts of a thick gray substance if squeezed. This tumor is benign and, due to its placement, could not be surgically removed without costing Klaus his right front leg. So, it’s just there, bulging and visible. Objectively speaking, Klaus has always been a terrible dog. I felt burdened immediately, the first time I saw him in early 2007, howling in a piss-stained cell at a rural Humane Society in Washington outside the college town where I lived. I volunteered there occasionally, walking the dogs or hosing out the kennels. He was not meant for the pound, it was clear; he was so frail looking and neatly put together, with a stubbed tail that seemed aggressive, even when not standing on end. He was terrified, and furious about it. He barked and barked and refused the treat I offered. Then, on our walk, he peed alarmingly close to my feet, glaring up at me. He would only stop growling when I picked him up and wedged him firmly under my arm, like a football. I already had a dog: my affable Lucy, a Great Dane mix I’d adopted four years earlier from the same shelter, back when I had been crazed and heartbroken and usually drunk. I’d thought getting a dog might make me a different sort of person. It didn’t. The day I met Klaus, I was barely a year sober and shell-shocked with it. The usual things had precipitated my latest foray into recovery—catastrophically fucking up school again, a long period of escalating drinking with diminishing returns, a couple of DUI’s, a hazy sex life colored by episodes of violence and questionable consent, complete and numbing psychic abstraction. But, for the first time, there was a growing

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sense of permanency in the effort, like I could finally see, in my mind’s eye, the barest outline of what my life could look like, if it continued to receive sustained effort and adequate care. Sobriety, I’d begun to think, might be for me. It was precarious, of course; the entire endeavor felt like it could be knocked off its axis by a strong wind. I definitely didn’t need another dog. But, that day in the shelter, when I looked into Klaus’s mean little face, I thought: oh no. I thought: I am responsible for you. He was four or five years old, the Humane Society ladies told me, and a miniature pinscher. They were pretty sure that he would bite. He did.

IN MARCH 2020, Klaus has never been happier. The pandemic grinds the world

to a halt and suddenly his dreams come true. I am home at all hours and, together, we fall into a prolonged stasis. In the mornings, I drink iced tea at the kitchen island, listening to Democracy Now!, while Klaus dozes against my chest. We take a long walk through the neighborhood in the afternoons, his small head poking out of the red tote bag. Nights are his favorite: my graduate program is online in the evenings now and I am free to sit cross-legged on our living room rug with my laptop on the ottoman and Klaus in my lap, both of us peering into the lit screen. After school, we eat dinner and sometimes I write or sew or exercise or talk on the phone, but he’s there too, pressed against my leg, small and ornery and always close to hand. I’ve never seen him so smug; it’s like he thinks he’s finally getting as much of my attention as he deserves. In the opening weeks of national crisis, I feel industrious and excited. I sew 350 masks for the local hospital, where there is a PPE shortage. I start making a quilt using every single scrap of solid fabric I can find in the house. I host our company’s annual investor meeting on Zoom and go on Zoom dates and start a weekly Zoom writing session with some classmates. I start getting used to seeing my own face in the background whenever I’m speaking to another person. I sleep well.

DURING MY FIR ST YEAR S OF SOBRIETY, I’d read aloud to Klaus at night. It

was something my therapist suggested. I’d had terrible insomnia my entire life; it was one of the only things my drinking had, genuinely, helped with. I loved to read and had always done so compulsively, but, early on in my recovery effort, I realized how—like so many other things during the years of drinking and other excesses—I’d let the practice fall away. Sober me, I decided, would read anything, everything. As long as a person I knew told me they’d liked a book, I’d check it out of the library and read it. I read things I’d never have previously considered and I enjoyed them: those tacky Jack Reacher novels, anime, a book about restoring old cars, Dune, three biographies of Anne

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Sexton, Guns, Germs and Steel, classics I’d missed like Wuthering Heights and The Picture of Dorian Grey. Reading felt palliative and essential, and it folded in so seamlessly that it was like I’d never abandoned it in the first place. But at night, this resurgence of my reading habit could seem bleak and draining. The voraciousness and scale of it recalled to me the feeling of drinking until blackout. When sleep failed me and I felt an encroaching darkness of mind, curling into myself with a novel in silence and panic seemed like doubling down. Klaus was a nervous wreck, an ankle biter, a yapper. He confounded Lucy, constantly and fervently attempting to hump her, despite their ludicrously disparate sizes. He was prone to non–life threatening but expensive self-injury; he once rolled in broken glass at the dog park, necessitating minor surgery. He had to wear an eyepatch for a week after chasing a cat into a briar patch, badly scratching his cornea. He snuck out the window of my ground-floor apartment during a holiday party to provoke a dispute with a passing German Shepherd, who roundly thrashed him. That night, I came back from the emergency vet hours later to friends playing Trivial Pursuit in my living room. I just sat there holding Klaus, trying to calm down, as he leaked runny stool onto my velvet dress, happily drifting in his haze of painkillers. He was terrible, with an overall vibe that could only be described as both chaotic and fascist. But at night, if I was alone and couldn’t sleep, I’d pick up whatever book I was reading and read to him. I’m a terrible reader—mealy-mouthed, stuttering—but Klaus was always entranced. He stayed up with me, soothing and present, drowsing under my arm or on the pillow next to mine. His daytime persona, which was nerve-fraying and borderline hostile, seemed impossible in those moments of pristine, supportive attention. At first it felt dorky and stilted, the way my voice would hang in the air, the cumulative eeriness of being so frequently and acutely awake when most sensible people are not. Reading aloud also made it impossible to engage in the psychic multitasking that had been powering my insomnia for years, all the mental engines whirring through well-worn trains of thought. Silently reading in the dead of night, it was possible to simultaneously ruminate, at vicious length, about how I’d fractured my relationship with my father and about the mole on my face that, in daylight, mostly seemed like a beauty mark but, in the wee hours, came to feel more like a crone’s wart. Reading the words aloud to my audience of one, though, I’d become actually engrossed in the task: I could not escape the plainness, the comforting reality, of what I was doing. There was no room for anything else. I am reading this story. Someone is listening. I am in bed preparing for rest.

IN APRIL, KLAUS STOPS SLEEPING through the night. He howls every two

hours, kicking and squirming in the bed linens. He licks a small hotspot into his left

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shoulder, and it turns into a patch of hairless gray skin, which is dry and tacky to the touch, like old paper. I could have gotten earplugs, or made him sleep in the living room on his memory foam bed, or put out those absorbent pads people use for puppy training so he could pee in the night without disturbing me. But also: of course, I couldn’t. I thought of my state of chronic wakefulness as akin to sympathetic pregnancy, where male partners of pregnant people experience pregnancy symptoms like bloating and leg cramps, despite having none of the equipment necessary to make the real thing possible. My dog was in distress and, well, we do everything together. His sleeplessness—and, subsequently, mine—seemed of a piece with what was happening to the world anyway. My computer screen suddenly contained the near-entirety of my social, professional, intellectual, and creative life. Time operated strangely: Sometimes it took me hours to send a single email; other times, I completed an entire day’s work in a manic thirty-minute burst. I was eating strangely, too. Scrambled eggs and raw, salted tomatoes, peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, dozens of navel oranges, handfuls of almonds. I couldn’t bring myself to cook anything, really; after all, it was just us. My best friend, who had recently moved in with his boyfriend, baked loaves of bread and pastries and meat pies and other increasingly intricate treats. Sometimes, he would come to the house with an oil-stained bag of beignets he’d spent two days making and I’d greet him with Klaus in my arms, having recently finished eating tuna directly from a can. My concerns were banal or troublingly existential: I had run out of my preferred face oil and Amazon anticipated a shipping delay. Also, I was worried that my mother, a public-school librarian, would be exposed to the virus and would die. It seemed, at least, tonally consistent to revisit the kind of sleeping schedule I’d kept when a deep and painful reorganization of the self was underway. It was fine; I had lots of books on hand.

FOR YEAR S, I WAS DESPERATELY AFRAID of Lucy’s death, but when it came, in early 2018, it was peaceful. One day I woke up and the tremor in her legs and her tired face made a new kind of sense to me and I just knew it was the day. She went so gently, so gratefully, with her head in my hands and the vet’s needle slipped quietly into her vein. It was hard, brutally hard, but it was a good death. After it was over, the vet tech asked if I wanted her ashes made into a pendant or interred inside a small porcelain vase with a sealed lid. “No,” I said. “We’re atheists.” I regret it. When I left the vet after she died, I felt odd and light, so untethered from the known world that I could have floated away.

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IN MAY, I START A DAILY IN VENTORY of Klaus’s body. I slide my palm over his vertebra, one by one. I hold each of his paws in turn, feeling the tiny bones shift in my grip. I lift up his lips so I can inspect his teeth: he has a couple of bad ones in the back, but otherwise they look clean, strong. His long snout fits perfectly in a circle I can make with my thumb and middle finger. His gait is less steady by the day and sometimes when he totters into a corner, he has to bark and cry until I rush over to point him away from the wall. In the red tote bag, I carry him to the protests in downtown Oakland. We march for days. Klaus is usually still in the canvas bag, but occasionally, he pushes his head against me forcefully, as if offering support. He sometimes squawks until I put him down on the ground to pee or give him water to drink out of my cupped hand. Each night, everyone scatters when the police descend with tear gas and guns, and we run the eight blocks home, helicopters buzzing overhead. I find I need to read to him nightly if I want to get any sleep at all. We visit my parents in Washington and, one afternoon, a freak windstorm blows down nearly all the trees in their neighborhood. I leave Klaus inside while we go out with the neighbors and haul the fallen trees to a vacant lot a half-mile away, panting in our masks. When I come back hours later, he is under the kitchen table, making a tremulous, unceasing sound, something between a whimper and a howl. He only stops when I pick him up. That night, I dream that we are in a burrow underground. The walls are made of a rough, dense clay and are warm to the touch, like skin. I wake to a dissonant continuity: in both worlds, Klaus’s breathing body in my arms.

E.B. WHITE HAD A VERY BAD D O G named Fred. He loved Fred deeply, though

with some chagrin. White wrote of their relationship: “His activities and his character constitute an almost uninterrupted annoyance to me…. Life without him would be heaven, but I am afraid it is not what I want.” When Fred died, White buried him next to the grave of a pig on his family’s farm. The pig had been intended for slaughter, but when it fell ill, White and his family tended to it like an ailing relative: calling in the veterinarian, wrapping it in blankets heated by the oven. Despite their efforts, the pig suffered, then died. They gave it a proper burial. After the pig’s death, White became preoccupied with writing a story in which—on a farm, by some unthinkable grace—a pig might be spared. I was always obsessed with books that tried to make some sense of animal consciousness. As I child I read Dr. Doolittle, Where the Red Fern Grows, Watership Down, The Wind in the Willows, Black Beauty, Old Yeller, White Fang and, of course, Charlotte’s Web. When I got older, I gravitated toward horror, and I wanted to adopt all the monsters. I wanted to cure Cujo’s rabies and give the selkies back their stolen skins and grow gills so I could ride Leviathan to the bottom of the sea. I had dreams

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of shipwrecks, of washing ashore onto jungly islands where animals had their own spoken language, one that, with some effort, could be learned and known.

KLAUS GETS TWO EAR INFECTIONS in June, one after another, and seems to be shrinking. He is very confused at night. We read together a lot. He goes everywhere with me now, though where I go is mostly nowhere. We attend a Zoom wedding. There is class every week. Work has never been busier. Most of the time, I feel like a floating mind that lives in the Internet, visiting locations that only literally exist on servers across the world. But always there is Klaus, in my lap, his stubborn heart knocking away in its cage, warm and real. “Does he seem okay?” I keep asking our beloved vet, Dr. Gil. “Do you think he’s doing all right?” “Well,” she says. “He is healthy, for his age. You would know better than I if he is all right.” Most days, I think we are still okay. But when I read, every dog in every novel is him. I sob while finishing the new Ottessa Moshfegh book, as its unraveling heroine murders her own loyal dog in a delusional frenzy. I reread The Dogs of Babel, which concerns a man whose Weimaraner, Lorelei, has witnessed his wife’s mysterious death. Afterward, he becomes fixated on the idea of surgically modifying the dog’s mouth and brain to enable it to speak English. Respectfully, I skip the more graphic passages when reading to Klaus, but this time around, I understand the hopeful logic in the protagonist’s mania. Once the idea of it grips you, it is hard to let go: What if, after all, dogs could be made to speak? What would they say? What have they witnessed of us that we ourselves cannot see? Sharing space in my mind with Lorelei are all the phantom dogs in books I’ve read, each now assigned Klaus’s face: his blind eyes, his sour carnivorous breath. All of them watching, empathically, and suffering the folly of their human companions. Poor loved, doomed Oyster in The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. The grisly, unrewarded loyalty of every dog in The Only Good Indians, a book that imagines animal consciousness as a monstrous spectral force capable of holy savagery. Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead, full of dogs and other animals dying violently pointless deaths. David Sedaris’ mother adopting a series of interchangeable Great Danes and treating each like a treasured nuisance. The apricot standard poodle in Very Nice—a recent addition to the list—who is magnificent and, gloriously, lives. Cujo, who had once been a good dog. If these animals were to tell us stories of ourselves, what would they reveal? Klaus sees my browser history. He sees me picking scabs and tweezing the occasional hair from my nipple. He sees me crying over lost pet posts on Nextdoor and having sex and digging away at the pores on my chin with unmitigated appetite. He’s seen me

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on Zoom calls of all stripes. He’s seen me binge five hours of Netflix at a stretch, say things I regret to people I love, make uncorrectable mistakes. He has seen my deranged secret heart, open and undignified. He has seen so much of me and for so long that he no longer feels like a separate mind. He knows only my love and my need, and how it answers the call of his own.

KLAUS IS BETTER IN JULY. His gait is steadier than it’s been in some time and

he seems slightly more alert. He’s better. I am worse. The pandemic is endless and depraved political theater plays out across our screens in real time. I have grown fatter, less sane, and almost completely unsure of my own usefulness in the world at large. If I was single before the pandemic, I am ten times more single now. Sealed up in my apartment, caught in an infinite loop of virtual meetings, I am terrified I may never date again. I’m a hairsbreadth away from forty and handily hitting the spinster trifecta—middle aged, fat, obsessed with my dog— with extra credit due to my consuming affinity for handcrafts of all kinds. I go to sleep next to Klaus each night, book in hand, and decide I’ll worry about it if the pandemic ever ends. In August, there is a change in Klaus. He is bonier, his hipbones sticking up in the back like a tailgate, a winged shape visible just beneath his skin. He’s shedding excessively. There is a lack of differentiation to his moods; all are tinged with confusion. The smell and temperature of his breath has changed. He still wants to be held, tucked against my chest like an infant, but I feel the presence of him less urgently when I hold him there now. His body seems whiter and more skeletal, like if I let this go on long enough, he will fade entirely from view. My dog is now, visibly, engaged in the dying process. “I think it will probably feel like the time has come soon,” Dr. Gil says when I take him in for a checkup. I can feel Klaus’s diminishment of consciousness, how sometimes when he wakes up, I have to carry him around limp, inside my sweatshirt, for twenty minutes before he snaps back into himself and scratches at my chest, asking for me to set him down to begin his day. His longevity is a gift, Dr. Gil has told us, far exceeding his breed life expectancy. A gift to which of us, she doesn’t have to say. The usual equation that precedes euthanasia is understood to most pet owners from the beginning. It involves a comparison between your animal’s level of suffering and their level of enjoyment of their life. Once the former definitively outweighs the latter, it is monstrous not to act. In reality, this equation is quite difficult to parse: Klaus is suffering, that is clear. He is full of anxiety, brittle and sore with arthritis, wandering the house demented, blind. He cannot sleep. But also, he is okay: He snuggles happily into my arms and basks in the sun when I take him to the park by our house, and he will still attempt to snatch any tempting food directly from my hands 206

without hesitation. When I read at night, even though he can’t hear very well, I can tell that he is still with me, still listening. But then again, I cannot imagine what it would be like to live in his body. I cannot ask him to let me know when the day comes that he would be happier dead than alive.

IN SEP TEMBER , I put Klaus in the red tote bag and we go to a shelter in the city,

where we learn how the state assesses a dog’s value. There, we meet Winnie, who wraps her long sturdy body around Klaus and herds him gently into a wall. He calms immediately. He’s never liked another dog except Lucy, but when we get Winnie home, we both realize that she is worth far more than fifty dollars. The weather breaks, hot and suffocating, and nearly the whole state is on fire. A few days after we get Winnie, the sky turns orange and blown-out, full of descending ash. The clouds are warped and ruined; the worst thing is that it doesn’t impact my day at all. I am on the computer all the time now. Whenever I’m apart from it, it is only a matter of minutes before I return. Klaus is invigorated by Winnie, squirming inside the tote bag during our daily constitutional and even walking several blocks on a leash at a stretch. I had hoped this would be the case, but he doesn’t follow her lead at night. His mind seems at war with his body, which is slower each day to obey his commands. I carry Klaus down the stairs. I carry Klaus up the stairs. I read to him. I read to myself. Winnie gets concerned when Klaus and I are separated; if he is in the living room on his bed and I am in my bedroom on mine, she runs back and forth between the two of us until I get up to retrieve him. I already feel guilty that she sees us like this— chimeric, inseparable—but I am grateful she is here. Winnie takes to caring for Klaus like she is born to it. She presses her body against his when he cries in the night. She likes to be read to. She and I are still getting to know each other, but we are united in the task of preparing to lose him.

IN O CTOBER , I TURN FORTY. The pandemic limps on. I have been sober for fourteen years. Most days, it feels like I have a reasonably happy and productive adult life. Klaus is still here too, frail and implacable, a tumor lodged someplace so wellintegrated within the larger structure of my mind and body that I am sure I will lose a limb, at least, when I have to cut him free.

DESPITE MY BEST EFFORTS, the day comes.

The end of Klaus (in my arms, on Election Day, another clean death) has lost its fixed place in my memory. It is a fast-moving target that sometimes narrows my focus to a fine, dark point and sometimes seems like a spacious, hopeful moment in some 207

imagined future, endlessly unfurling ahead. 2020 has retained its interminability, though technically, it’s a new year; I wake and sleep on his schedule, still. I don’t think his death is the end of this story, because I think this is a story in which a dog might be spared. So: The end is a beginning. It’s the predawn hours of an unspecial day. I woke up around 4:00 a.m. Klaus hadn’t whined on his normal schedule and I felt it in my body. I had been dreaming something terrible; I was drunk and giving birth to a litter of bloody puppies in a gray snowdrift that stretched as far as I could see. I woke in a panic of certainty, sure he had died in the night. I reached over and splayed my fingers against his side. His inhalation was slow and labored with sleep. Every single rib rose in concert, fanned out under my hand. He was still there, an unknowable consciousness in his wrecked little body, as ever within arm’s reach. I held my hand there for one breath, then another, and another. At the foot of the bed, Winnie slept. Klaus woke and burrowed closer, pressing his face into my armpit. He breathed, and breathed again. I turned on the light and started to read. He did not die.

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contributors

L A U R A A P O L is the author of five full-

length collections, most recently, A Fine Yellow Dust (Michigan State University Press, 2021), which has been recognized for a number of awards. A past poet laureate of Lansing, Michigan, Laura conducts creative writing workshops internationally, nationally, and locally. Find her at laura-apol.com

anthology with the help of a National Canada Council for the Arts grant, an Ontario Arts Grant, and a Youth In Culture Ottawa Grant, and he was recently selected for the Writer’s Union of Canada - BIPOC Writer’s Connect mentorship. He loves film and comfort food and tweets @sjohnb9

S A C H A B I S S O N N E T T E is a short story

M E L A N I E B R Y A N T has written articles and essays for Honey and Nonno, Curvy Magazine, Holidays Central, Foodie Daily, and was both the narrative voice behind the blog You Had Me at Butter and a regular contributor to Edible San Luis Obispo as The Preservationist. Her essay, “Departures,” was anthologized in Dear Nana: Grandmother Tales of Love, Secrets, and Going Home. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her cat, Suki, where she is at work on a collection of essays exploring grief and identity. She received her Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of New Orleans.

writer from Ottawa, Canada. His work has appeared in Wigleaf, Lunch Ticket, SmokeLong Quarterly, and Cease, Cows, among other places. He has upcoming short fiction in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, BULL, and Terrain.org. He is currently working on a short fiction

B E R G I T A B U G A R I J A was born and grew up in Zagreb, Croatia and now lives in Pittsburgh. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Pleiades, Salamander, PANK Daily, Flash Fiction America anthology, and elsewhere. She recently

A L L I S O N F I E L D B E L L is originally from

northern California but has spent most of her adult life in the desert. She is currently pursuing her PhD in prose at the University of Utah, and she has an MFA in fiction from New Mexico State University. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Gettysburg Review, New Orleans Review, West Branch, The Cincinnati Review, The Florida Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Shenandoah, The Pinch, and elsewhere. Find her at allisonfieldbell.com

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completed a collection of stories and is at work on a novel set in Dalmatian Hinterland. A N D R E W C O M I N E L L I is a fiction writer based in New Orleans. He received the 2021 Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society’s Faulkner-Wisdom prize for best novel-inprogress, and he is currently an MFA candidate at the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans.

holds an MFA from the University of Oregon and a PhD from the University of Pennsylvania. She is the Murphy Visiting Fellow and Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Hendrix College and lives in Little Rock with her family. J U L I E D E B O E R is a poet and psychotherapist living in Seattle. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, Sugar House Review, Bracken Magazine, and West Trade Review.

S A R A H D A M O F F has written for Open

Global Rights; contributed to A War on My Body (DiAngelo Publications, 2022); and co-authored The Gospel Advent Book (Lucid Books, 2018). Her debut novel, The Bright Letters, is forthcoming (She Writes Press, 2024). JULIA KOLCHINSKY DASBACH

(juliakolchinskydasbach.com) emigrated from Dnipro, Ukraine as a Jewish refugee in 1993, when she was six years old. She is the author of three poetry collections: The Many Names for Mother, Don’t Touch the Bones (Lost Horse Press, 2020), and 40 WEEKS, forthcoming from YesYes Books in February 2023. Her poems have appeared in POETRY, Ploughshares, The Nation, and AGNI, among others. She

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A L L I E D I X O N is a writer with an MFA

from Lesley University. She writes creative nonfiction, fiction, and poetry, and also teaches high-school English and creative writing. Her work explores systemic sexism and the humanity inherent in all of us to make sense of life’s uncanny moments. Currently, Allie lives just outside of Boston where she happily (and not-so-happily) is working on a debut novel. M A R I A N N E J A Y E R H A R D T teaches writing at Wake Forest University. Her work appears in Oxford American, River Teeth, storySouth, and elsewhere. She is a recent Pushcart nominee and a recipient of a North Carolina Arts Council

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Fellowship. “The Body Is Loyal” is from a completed lyric memoir on motherhood and imagination. Marianne is in search of a publisher for the book. D A N I E L E L I A S G A L I C I A has published

poems in Beloit Poetry Journal, Iron Horse Literary Review, Relief: A Journal of Art & Faith, and more. His chapbook Still Desert was a semi-finalist for the 2022 Chad Walsh Chapbook series. He is a Pushcart-nominated poet and recipient of Relief’s Editors’ Choice Award. E S T E B A N I S M A E L (he/him) is a Pushcart-

nominated poet, screenwriter, and instructor from National City. His poems have recently appeared in Poetry Northwest, Southern Humanities Review, Harvard Review Online, Puro Chicanx Writers of the 21st Century, Spillway, and Conduit, among other fine magazines. He can be found at estebanismael.com S A B R I N A I T O ’ S poems have appeared in

Bamboo Ridge, Clarion Magazine, Slipstream Press, and Coachella Review, among others. She is also the author of the poetry chapbooks The Witches of Lila Springs (Plan B Press, 2018) and Messages from Salt Water (Finishing Line Press, 2019). For more information, visit:

sabrinaitopoetry.com K E L L Y F O R D O N (she/her) is the author

of a short story collection I Have the Answer (Wayne State University Press, 2020), a novel-in-stories, Garden for the Blind, (WSUP, 2015), a poetry collection, Goodbye Toothless House, (Kattywompus Press, 2019) which was adapted into a play, and three chapbooks. She hosts “Let’s Deconstruct a Story.” L A U R E N F U L T O N is a queer, single mom and writer of poetry, fiction and essays. Born and raised in Florida, she now lives in Portland, Oregon. She loves naps, public libraries, cooking, and she really misses traveling. A M A N D A H A W K I N S holds an MFA in

poetry from UC Davis and an MA in theological studies from Regent College. They are a Tin House, Bread Loaf, and Mellon Public Scholar, a three-time Pushcart nominee, and a recipient of the Editor’s Prize for poetry at The Florida Review. Their work has been published in Orion, Boston Review, The Cincinnati Review, Massachusetts Review, Terrain, Tin House, and Tin House Online. J U L I E H E N S L E Y is a core faculty member

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of the Bluegrass Writers Studio (the low-residency MFA program at Eastern Kentucky University). She has been awarded fellowships from Yaddo and Hambidge Center for Creative Arts and Sciences. Her poems and stories have appeared in dozens of journals, most recently Image: Art, Faith Mystery, Mom Egg Review, The Journal, The Southern Review, and Saranac Review. She is the author of a collection of poems Viable (Five Oaks Press, 2015) and a book of fiction, Landfall: A Ring of Stories (Ohio State University Press, 2016), as well as two poetry chapbooks, The Language of Horses (Finishing Line Press, 2011) and Real World (Artist Thrive, 2019). Born in Beirut, Lebanon, A R M I N É I K N A D O S S I A N ’ S family fled to California when she was four-years-old to escape the civil war. After graduating from UCLA, Iknadossian earned an MFA in Creative Writing at Antioch University. The author of All That Wasted Fruit (Main Street Rag), Iknadossian’s work is included in XLA Anthology, Tlacuilx: Tongues in Quarantine, Whale Road Review, Southern Florida Poetry Journal, MacQueen’s Quarterly, and The American Journal of Poetry. She has received fellowships from Idyllwild Arts, The Los

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Angeles Writing Project, and Otis College of Art and Design. She lives in Long Beach, California, where she offers writing workshops and private manuscript consultations. J E N K A R E T N I C K ’ S fourth full-length

book is the CIPA EVVY award-winner The Burning Where Breath Used to Be (David Robert Books, 2020). Her fifth book, Hunger Until It’s Pain, is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry (spring 2023). The co-founder and managing editor of SWWIM Every Day, she has work recently or forthcoming in APR, Another Chicago Magazine, Notre Dame Review, Terrain.org, and elsewhere. See jkaretnick.com B L Y T H E K I N G C R O F T is a writer and

photographer from Victoria, BC. She lives in Vancouver, on the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and TsleilWaututh First Nations, with Matt and Maggie. I C A R U S L A U R E N C E graduated with a degree in English: Creative Writing from Webster University in 2021. Icarus is an editor and a teacher for the community college and university of their hometown in St. Louis. He has short stories

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published in The Green Fuse and The Oakland Review. Icarus volunteers with LGBTQ+ groups and utilizes his status as a transgender veteran to spread awareness.

to deconstruct theoretical and systemic frameworks. Eros is a harsh-noise artist and can often be found yelling about aesthetics and automation in your local basement. They live with their partner and anxious chihuahua, Bambi.

C R I S T I N A L E G A R D A was born in the

Philippines and spent her early childhood there before moving to Bethesda, Maryland. She is now a practicing physician in Boston. She enjoys writing about women’s lived experience, cultural issues, and finding grace in a challenging world. Her work has appeared in America, Dappled Things, FOLIO, The Dewdrop, HeartWood, The Good Life Review, and others.

E L I S Á V E T M A K R I D I S (she/her) is a Pushcart Prize– and Best New Poets– nominated poet. Her work has been featured in Grist, Frontier Poetry, Bellevue Literary Review, Crab Creek Review, and Tupelo Quarterly, amongst others. She holds an MFA from Cornell University where she teaches as a lecturer in the Department of Literatures in English.

E L I Z A B E T H L E R M A N is a creative writer based in Brooklyn. Through her prose and fiction, Elizabeth aims to examine the significance of small moments and the space they hold. Her work has been published by Curlew New York, Sad Girls Club Lit, Train River Poetry, Coﬃn Bell Journal, and Quillkeepers Press.

B R I D G E T M U L L E R - S A M P S O N earned her MFA in fiction at the Bennington Writing Seminars. She lives on Martha’s Vineyard with her husband and her rescue border collie, Pearl. Her stories have appeared in Consequence, The Northern New England Review, and Dappled Things. She is the winner of the J.F. Powers Short Story Award.

E R O S L I V I E R A T O S (he/they) is currently

an MFA candidate in creative writing at Ohio State University. Eros’ writing tackles topics of identity, capitalism, art, and the Anthropocene; their poems seek

D A N M U S G R A V E is a writer and

photographer whose work often focuses on the intersections of the human and animal world. Most recently, his writing

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has appeared in New Letters and The Razor. He is currently working on a memoir with his father, John, about the intergenerational legacy of combat. He lives in Miami. C A T H L I N N O O N A N (she/her) is

completing her MFA at Texas State University and is assistant poetry editor for The Night Heron Barks. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Broadkill Review, Broad River Review, Crazyhorse, Sweet Lit, and Small Orange Journal. She can be found at cathlinnoonan.com J A S O N P F I S T E R is an MFA candidate at

the University of Illinois UrbanaChampaign. You can find more of his recent fiction in Uncharted Magazine and The Eunoia Review.

likes to make art and veggie chimichangas. J U L I A N A R O S A T I is a communications

professional living near Philadelphia. She graduated from Bryn Mawr College with a major in comparative literature and a minor in creative writing. She participates in the Open Book Writers Group and Rosemont College writing retreats. This is her first published work of fiction. C L A U D I A S C H A T Z (she/her) lives in

Philadelphia and is a writer, bike mechanic, triathlete, and editor of The Spotlong Review. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Glassworks Magazine, Blue Earth Review, Soundings East Magazine, Santa Clara Review, Lunch Ticket, and descant. More of her work is at claudiaschatz.weebly.com

C A R L A R I C C I O , a former editor and

teacher, lives with her family in Boulder, Colorado. She has work in Chautauqua. R I C H R I C H A R D S O N wrote this story because there are no hot air balloons in Honolulu, where he lives with his adorable wife and child in a little red house in a peaceful green jungle valley. He builds things with reclaimed wood and

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A L A N S C H U L T E is assistant professor of English at Franklin Pierce University. He received his MFA in creative nonfiction from the University of New Hampshire. His work has appeared in JunkLit, The Henniker Review, and UNH Magazine. Alan lives in Bedford, New Hampshire with his wife, their four children, and their dog, Coco.

contributors

Born and raised in Seattle, A J S T R O S A H L is a writer who now lives and works in Oakland, California. She has work published or forthcoming in The Summerset Review, Oyster River Pages, Signal Mountain Review, Treehouse, and other outlets. Her short story, “Dayton,” was longlisted for the Jacob Zilber Prize for Short Fiction in 2020. In 2022, AJ will be an Artist-in-Residence at the Vashon Island Arts Residency and the Bryn Du Art Center in Granville, Ohio. G A B R I E L T H I B O D E A U makes indie

movies, edits children’s books, and writes queer stories, by every definition of the word. He is the proud recipient of a Glimmer Train Short Story Award for New Writers, an 8th-place ranking among McSweeney’s Top 20 Stories of 2020, and a Speculative Literature Foundation Diverse Writers Grant, which was awarded in support of his novel-inprogress. (Yes, his novel is quite queer.) S A R A M O O R E W A G N E R is the author of

two prize winning poetry collections: Swan Wife (Cider Press Review, 2022) and Hillbilly Madonna (Driftwood Press, 2022), and two chapbooks. She is a 2022 Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award recipient and a 2019 Sustainable

Arts Foundation awardee. Find her at saramoorewagner.com C E Z A N N E W A I D spent over a decade

teaching English and haunting bookstores in Istanbul. Now back in Tucson, Arizona, where she was raised, she spends her time studying nature, drought, memory, and expectation—otherwise known as gardening in the desert. P . L . W A T T S escaped the Florida foster

care system and worked her way through school. She earned an MFA from Vermont College and a Lambda Literary Fellowship for Emerging LGBTQ Writers. Her essays have appeared in New Letters, The Florida Review, and elsewhere. Her first novella, The Bonny Swans, will be out in January. You can find her work online at plwatts.com J E M I M A H W E I is a Singaporean writer

based in the Bay Area, where she is a 2022-4 Stegner Fellow. She has received awards and fellowships from Columbia University, the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, Singapore’s National Arts Council, Writers in Paradise, and the Francine Ringold Award for New Writers. Her fiction has won the William Van Dyke Short Story Prize, been nominated for the

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Pushcart Prize, recognised by the Best of the Net Anthologies, and appeared in/is forthcoming in Guernica, Narrative, and Nimrod, amongst others. She is at work on a novel and two short story collections. Say hi at @jemmawei on socials or jemma wei.com Y V O N N E Z I P T E R is author of the poetry

collections The Wordless Lullaby of Crickets (Kelsay Books, 2023), Kissing the Long Face of the Greyhound (Terrapin Books, 2020), and The Patience of Metal (Hutchinson House, 1990), the novel Infraction (Rattling Good Yarn Press, 2021), and two nonfiction books.

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last notes

In August, the cicadas in the pine tree in front of our house are deafening, yet I love how their song pulses, like a roller coaster of sound: loud, then fading away, then loud again, and so on. I know they are merely trying to outshout each other in their quest for a mate, but there’s a sense of community in their shared desire to reproduce. It’s that renewal of life that seemed especially meaningful when I wrote the poem “Hidden Attractions.” It was a year after I had undergone a hysterectomy, a cancer diagnosis, and, soon thereafter, chemotherapy, and I was striving to figure out who I was now. Scarred physically and emotionally, I nevertheless felt an incredible sense of luck that I had passed through that terrible time—in the middle of a pandemic—and had come out mostly whole. Of course, I didn’t travel through that ordeal alone. I had a dedicated community of doctors, nurses, friends, and family who bolstered and supported me, each doing their own important thing but working in concert to help me survive and thrive. Despite my appreciation for such extraordinary allies, and despite those who told me I looked fabulous, with my downy new hair and look of health, I felt as ugly as a cicada, my belly misshapen from the surgery and marked with a long,

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meandering red line. The cicadas, in their dying moments, were trying to teach me that even the homeliest among us have beauty. It’s taken me an additional year to realize the lesson. And it may be another before I’m able to embody that positive outlook. Yet I’m glad to be alive in this dazzling world. YVONNE ZIPTER

“Girl in My Youth” was a challenging poem to write, and even more challenging to share. It took me thirty-four years to own the fact of my sexuality. Being bisexual made it easy to hide behind relationships with men. It wasn’t until recently, meeting my dear friend and writing mentor, Clarke, that I was able to feel comfortable enough to come out, to be my full self. I don’t know what this means for me exactly—I share my life with a man—but I know it is important. I know it is a kind of regeneration for me. A rebirth. I became the person I had always been. “Girl in My Youth” is my first poetic attempt to rewrite the experiences of my younger years, to queer them in a way that feels more honest and more representative of the person I am now and of the feelings I didn’t know how to express then. But it is a poem, too, that is wrapped up in the body. So much about the inadequacies of the body—our own

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heartbreaking assessments of them. In this poem, regeneration is two-fold, yielding both negative and positive results: in the immediate moment, there is the speaker’s own reassessment of her body in comparison to another’s, and later, the speaker’s understanding of her own sexuality. I don’t know how much of my disordered thoughts about my body are related to my years of repressed sexuality—but the two seem as inseparable in my mind as they are in “Girl in My Youth.” ALLISON FIELD BELL

Every time I am back in New York, I try and visit Salvador Dalí’s Crucifixion Hypercubus. I spend time with the brush strokes invisible to me through a screen. I take in Christ’s body affixed to otherworldly geometry and, each time, I remember: the body persists. I get caught on Gala’s eyes in Mary Magdalene and, in this gaze, I find that I am standing on the other side of a world of trauma. Like most men throughout history, Dalí’s abuse went unquestioned. The circle of 20th century French artists treated artistic praxis as if abuse were a commodity. Everything could be excused in the name of art. For a young writer lacking formal education, the ideas put forth from men

throughout history were toxins. I spent so much time chasing the story. I recall being violently drunk in a stranger’s apartment, with all this noise I could not understand. Putting cigarettes out on my arm, trying to find the story without knowing what “solipsism” meant. I was sixteen with no plans of sticking around much longer. I remember my mother’s tears as she picked me up from a county jail cell on an armed robbery charge. The process of changing is not linear. The buffet of antipsychotics and trial state-offered therapists were one aspect. Learning to love skin that never quite fit came with correcting the practices of self-loathing I had gotten so good at. I had to look at photos. I could no longer avoid the mirror. I am grateful for that labor. When I look at my body, now covered with tattoos, stretch marks, and maps of survival—I am grateful to have kept going. When I tell my mother about teaching poetry, she smiles saintly. Everything often feels otherworldly— however, my body persists. EROS LIVIERATOS

It is 100 degrees outside, and everything is dying and showing it like liver spots on middle-aged knees. My thighs are turning towards twilight, and I shiver despite the heat. I wait for

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you to return from church where you believe in transubstantiation, the flesh turning to bread turning to flesh again. Like losing one’s mind, then regaining it before losing it again. I look for bodies of water to immerse myself into, to lift my sagging jowls and belly. Invisible bosom, that wordless blue. I enter the nave of the Pacific without proper attire. Whiskers sprout from my upper lips and cheeks. My eyes become dark and large. I grow flippers and dive deep, somersault underwater, a free body. I disappear from sight, then reappear blowing bubbles from my snout. My silken body circles the abyss, rides the waves, taunting predators and humans alike. Nobody can catch me. I am swift, slipping into, out of seaweed and silt, gardens of anemone hiding octopus and tiger sharks. Nobody asks me how I feel or where I’m going next. I’m still a mammal, but a more forgiving one. I learn to surf with the whales and stick to my herd. Nobody turns me in for indecent exposure, and I get to eat all the cod my majestic body requires. Nobody fat shames me or suggests talk therapy. There are no pharmacies in the deep, dark blue. No doctors or clinics where water is served in small paper cups. It is 100 degrees, and everything is alive and showing it like sunning oneself on an abandoned raft in

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the middle of the Pacific Ocean, not a care in sight. ARMINÉ IKNADOSSIAN

Spiritual regeneration is seen by many as an act of God. A person who is spiritually dead is “born again” or brought to life. Some Christian denominations believe that without regeneration, a person cannot be saved. In my case, I was reborn the day I left the Catholic Church, the day I realized I no longer needed or wanted to follow the rules and regulations set in motion by people who, it seemed clear, were not God. Those people, having human proclivities and fallible for the same reason, had decided that men lead the church, men channel God, men grant absolution, only men and women can marry, only an annulment (and a monetary offering) can end a marriage. The pedophilia scandal spurred my doubts, but a minor absurdity proved the decisive blow. When I told our parish priest that my son had been diagnosed with Celiac Disease, he said there was no such thing as a gluten-free host, that there had to be wheat in the wafer because “there was wheat in it when Jesus ate it.” After forty years within the Catholic Church, faithful, attending mass every

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Sunday, having raised my children and sent them to Catholic schools, it proved no small feat to leave. But I had seen the light; I had been reborn, and though some thought I had been shunted down the fluted chute to hell, I felt otherwise. Now I recognize how many manmade institutions deploy God as a weapon and lead us away from anything approximating divine. If an assemblage purporting holiness causes harm to fellow human beings, how can it possibly emanate from God? Personally, to feel in touch with divinity these days, kindness is all I require. KELLY FORDON

Sure, the axolotl and its perfect new limb, the salamander’s tail, the sea star’s magic trick: an entire body grown from a single arm. It’s the sea cucumber that gets me. Not much to look at, H. glaberrima, shuffling along the sea floor, a wet tube in an ugly housedress, passing the ocean through its body, breaking things down, spitting things out, moving on. Making life a little better for the marvels downstream—coral, anemone, pearlfish. Millions of years ago, the sea cucumbers faced a choice: bones or no bones? They declined, then sat back and watched as their cousins pebbled and spiked, the obvious path: soft parts inside,

hard parts out. Protection. To evolution’s long question—How will you survive?— the cucumbers said Give us a minute, we’ll come up with something. And they did. Under attack, a sea cucumber will eject her internal organs onto her predator— Take this, she says. I’ll grow more. And she does. Eviscerating, scientists call it. Counterintuitive, illogical, flat-out weird. Effective for millennia. Last night, my fourteen-year-old daughter shook her head and said I can’t wait until you’re dead. Tired, I nodded and stated the obvious—It’ll happen eventually. In bed, I lay awake wondering how all the hours I’d poured into her, all the hours she’d received, had led us here, wondered which in the tower of days I should have done differently. When the hall darkened and the house sank into sleep, my mind shuffled forward to other hows—how I could do better, how we might. Sleep drifted through me, a little. Morning. When the light climbs into the house again, I peel off the blankets, plant my feet on the floor and stand. I step into the hallway. I say good morning, and I mean it. CARLA RICCIO

I am perennial. The flowers I planted in fall, for hopekeeping, bloom at the cusp of April. I wake with them and their petals of pink and blue. The sun sets late and

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empowers me to complete assignments, eat well, write beautifully, sleep soundly, love. I love in May. I am loved in May. You all loved me in May. I get outside as much as possible. Although my grandmother is afflicted with skin cancer, I allow my skin to burn. I must prove that I made the most of the sun before my leaves turn yellow and my petals wrinkle. You all were still with me in July. When I raised my face towards the sun, you all commented on the gold appearing in my brown eyes. I remained with my head tilted back and eyes open even when my neck ached, and I couldn’t see in the light. I repotted all my flowers the other day. I fertilized them, misted their leaves, and held my breath so I wouldn’t jostle the barely hanging on petals. I cried when they only fell sooner. Before you came home, I taped them back onto their stems. My flowers and I will hold on as long as we can for you all, until we turn dormant and quiet and colorless. If I can get out of bed in September, I’ll plant more seeds. I’ll hope for more blossoms in the spring, and I’ll return with them, more beautiful this time around. ICARUS LAURENCE

A thousand years ago, they made sacrifices in the jungle outside Honolulu where I live. They thought giving blood

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back to the soil would guarantee life in the future, and I guess they were right. The chickens are always squawking and making a fuss, and the next chicken or egg or whatever is inevitable. Symbols of eternal life are everywhere. A hundred years ago, two wallabies escaped from a zoo and now there’s a swarm of two hundred. Let’s keep that secret. The technically extinct Hawaiian Crow has been reintroduced to the wilds and there’s a new batch of polliwogs in every autumn puddle. A huge flock of escaped parrots is migrating into our valley and most have never seen the inside of a cage. Monk seals are retaking the beaches of Waikiki. For a few years, the city was in hibernation, but the artists are getting together again, and the clubs are filling up with overaged drinkers and bands with troubling names. The air reeks of stale firecrackers from festivals that were postponed, and the drummers are slightly unsynchronized but determined. There’s a sad and triumphant glow at the old royal palace where the lights are dimmed low. The Hawaiians are coming into their own again. Our favorite beach erodes and the cheap mansions of stucco and drywall stumble into the sea. The air is thick with volcanic ash from newly minted land. Vines of former house plants entwine

last notes

rusty lawn chairs and old bicycle spokes and reach enthusiastically through the rain towards the sun. A large mysterious wildcat was spotted several times this week. Human population numbers decline, and the bird of Kū, the god of war, has bounced from one nesting pair in the 1960s to over two thousand today. The capital of extinction has never felt so alive. RICH RICHARDSON

Last year, I visited Houston’s Rothko Chapel—a non-denominational spiritual space conceived by Mark Rothko and opened in 1971. Rothko’s massive paintings, created specifically for the site, fill the octagonal chapel’s walls. The only interior light is daylight, filtering through the windowed cupola in the center of the high ceiling. It was quite dim inside, on the overcast day of my visit. In the silence of this place, I began to disbelieve in death. I had, it seemed, proof. First, there was Rothko himself. How could one say he was dead, when he was so clearly present here, when his design, his brushstrokes— executed by the same hand that ended Rothko’s bodily life in 1970—were creating my experience in 2021? Rothko and I were in touch: speaking, almost. Second, I had just learned of a longhidden suicide in my own family. The

details of this death, much closer to me than Rothko’s, had caused this person to surge forth into my life. My uncle, who died at fifteen, well before he could even become my uncle, is now a presence where before there was none. It’s as though he was waiting to come alive again. Regeneration, it seems to me, is a natural law of existence. Our lives conceal their own most basic truths, truths that wait for the precise moments in which to make themselves known. Timing is everything. Regeneration is, to me, less the idea of things being reborn from scratch, and more of an encounter with what has always been present but hidden. If we pay attention, we can uncover these rudiments of ourselves. And when we do, our lives expand in unknown directions, into new dimensions. ANDREW COMINELLI

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MATT JONES. Pepper & Cody, 2022.

Digital Photography.