The Mill Literary Magazine: Fall 2011

The

Mill

Proudly Sponsored by The University of Toledo English Department and the Shapiro foundation

Fall 2011

Editorial Board

Chief Editor - Peter Faziani Web Editor - Laura Scroggs Poetry Editors Fiction Editors Art EditorsMary Persichilli Alysha Hill Mary Persichilli Lindsay Vreeland Chris Riley Rebecca Stanwick

Cover Art by Caitlyn Witt Layout by Peter Faziani & Lindsay Vreeland All Copyright reverts back to the author/artist.

November 17, 2011 Hello everyone, I’d just like to say thank you for picking up a copy of the Fall 2011 issue of The Mill Magazine. It means so much to everyone on the editorial board that students and faculty like you support this endeavor. I’m incredibly proud of the progress this magazine has made in the last year. Each and every one of the submissions from many new and returning contributors were great, which made it a difficult task to decide which to publish, but it’s important to us to thank everyone who took the time to submit their work.

In addition to the outstanding number of great submissions, special thanks go out to all of the staff that helped bring the magazine to its new level.

Our web editor created an internet presence that really helped spread the word to supporters and contributors about the events we sponsored, and her hard work did not go unnoticed. Our art editor also deserves to be recognized as well for her efforts in spearheading our art cover contest. It was something we wanted to try, and as you can tell by the fantastic picture on the cover, it went swimmingly.

As with the end of every school year and the beginning of another, the cycle resets itself; therefore we had new editors join the team to fill the void that former ones left, and I can’t say how happy I am to have them on board. They are all very valuable to me as a source of trusted opinions. Without them, this magazine would have never gone to print.

So as you read this issue, remember that you are a part of this community of people experiencing life, so write about it. The Mill isn’t planning on going anywhere, and with the support of our contributors, we’ll keep supplying you with an outlet for your voice.

Peter Faziani Chief Editor – The Mill Magazine

Mission Statement

The Mill is a literary journal publishing poetry, short fiction and art by University of Toledo students in an attempt to strengthen ties and voices in the literary community at the university. It is edited and produced once per academic semester.

We consider all submissions for publication and the writing contest. One piece was awarded top honors in this publication. All submissions were evaluated based on established criteria. The Mill editorial staff made the final decision on the contest winner.

For more information regarding the editorial board or past issues, or general inquires, find us at our website, Themillmag.weebly.com or on Facebook.

Table of Contents Cover Art Contest Winner - “Life in a Fairytale” - Caitlyn Witt Fiction Contest Winner - “Scattered” - Robert Bovee Poetry Contest Winner - “Mabuhay” - Feliza Casano Elizabeth Anderson - UTWG

French Lessons Jelly Bean Car (and Other Things) Migration

Alyn Beysersdorf - UTWG

Super Nintendo Entertainment System Traffic Jam

Paris Black

That Hospital Room

Robert Bovee

Magdalena Hirt

9 folktales caused cotton to rise 10 I’m Unburned Delany 12 Regeneration

Allison McGhee

13 Alone I am 14

15

Rachel Morris

Being Adopted

Jesse Olsavsky

Radical Milton

Scattered

4

Lawrence Carter Romance with the Wind

Coffee Speech 17 Shore Thin Mint

Feliza Casano - UTWG Mabuhay

Tatay

Patrick Cook

Of Chaos and Law

Sam Fetters

Fourth of July Months (3-5,7-9) Waiting in the City

Zachary Fishel

Kevin Risner

8 Timothy Salow 18 Hamlet Had It All

Too Too Late

19 Kelly Thompson Past Participle Parent thank you, m.a.

Work Ethic 20 20 S. T. 22 Mom

Zoe Young

Philosophy from the Meat Counter 23 Seabird Solstice to Standoff 24 Twentysomething *UTWG- Membership in the University of Toledo Writer’s Guild

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 36 37 38 39 40 41 43 44

Robert Bovee Scattered It was all wrong. Gray above green above brown, each slopping over into the next and mingling until all seemed to be lost, blotchy spots in a child’s mud pie. The hand of God squeezed that iron mass until it cried. The water fell down into the terrible verdant hills, soaking through to the ugly black soil. It was wrong, and no one else seemed to mind at all.

The boy cast one last look into those hills as he stepped under the overhang, deciding to leave his contempt at the door. But that meant all he was left with on the opposite side of the falsely inviting foyer was sadness. West Virginia was wrong. He’d told his mother, and his aunts. But the women of the family were set and determined, fastidiously so, on a mountain burial. A family burial.

“He’ll be good and comfortable next to his kin,” his mother had said when showing him a map of the available plots. “Our family has always used this lot right here.”

“Grandpa told me he wanted to be scattered into the Atlantic,” the boy said, yet again. And so he had. His grandfather had used to take him fishing along the coast near his home in South Carolina when the boy came to stay.

“This is what I ‘magine Heaven looks like,” said the old man, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder as the sun sank blearily into the ocean. The boy looked at the sun disappearing, seemingly into a mass of water. But instead of dampening it’s rays, the water caught like a flame. The light became red and orange, streaking to green and finally to purple as the darkening sky lumbered after the failing light, like a tired shepherd sallying forth after his flock, never abreast, but always within hailing distance.

The man had seemed eternal. The dust thrown into the air by stamping feet and laboring hands during the building of the world, seemed to be caked into the lines and creases of his face, 4

Robert Bovee underneath the broad fingernails. He was a man, and to a young boy, all men are the giants of hearts and history. But his grandfather had been a cog of the world. Perhaps not the biggest one, or by any means the essential mechanism, but a cog nonetheless, a strut in the frame of reality.

Men who know the world, who love life’s borrowed enchantment, that bring in as much as they take. Those men deserve peace in whatever form the world can offer it. For his grandfather, it had been that sunset.

The main room of the parlor was filled with relatives. Some were sitting. A procession of viewers passed along two tables at the end of the room which had been set up with pictures and flowers, at the center of which sat a polished wooden box. It looked a bit like his grandfather’s old cigar box. Moving up to it, the boy looked closer and saw that it was embossed with his grandfather’s name and dates of birth and death. It intrigued him that they had spent extra money to engrave a box that would never be read again after it was put under about a ton of wet earth. He touched the box with the palm of his hand, and stood there, looking for something. He felt it inside himself, but it was still wrong. All wrong. His grandfather would suffocate under this matted heap of hills and clouds.

The dirt and the trees and the air were so dense that breathing felt far too labored, the air far too close, pressing in and down.

The boy took a seat near his mother in the front of the room, and he listened to her talking to her sisters. Idle gossip and mechanical phrases poked through the dull murmur. It was the type of chat that asserts itself at funerals, thriving in the empty space left by the departed, until the speaker is able to find a less driveling coping method.

A woman stood up. It was his grandfather’s sister. More people began to meander towards the chairs. She went to the front of the room, and began to speak to the now-silent mass.

5

Robert Bovee When the short service was over, the gathering broke into groups or pairs and began to leave. Soon his grandfather would be alone in this musty fake-pretty room, filled with fake-pretty flowers.

Flowers are never beautiful at a funeral, the boy thought. They are mockingly arranged, sneeringly perky and straight and perfect in their crystal vases, as if to say, ‘look, your fancy jar is full of ashes and mine is still green and fresh,’ when really they were just as dead, held over for a little while, but really just beautifully dead flowers.

There would be no attended interment ceremony. Most relatives were heading back to their hotels, and then home, wherever that might be. Soon the room was empty, save for his mother and one aunt. They were preparing to go.

“All right, mom,” the boy said, stepping towards the door.

“I’m heading out.”

“Okay honey,” she said, a sad smile on her lips. “I know it’s been a rough day for you, for all of us. But at least grandpa is in a better place now.”

He resisted the impulse to throw her words back at her, the insolence in his chest rising up before he was able to swallow it down again. He gave her a hug, let her kiss his cheek, and turned to leave.

He sat in his car, parked in front of a carry-out two blocks away from the funeral home. He saw first his mother’s and then his aunt’s car go by, and then pulled onto the main road going the opposite direction. In a few minutes he was again crossing the falsely inviting entrance hall of the funeral home, a duffel bag in his hand.

The box had been moved from its display, the flowers cleared away. He looked around and spotted a cardboard box on a table near a door that led to another room. He went over to it, and saw it was marked Callahan.

6

Robert Bovee He untied the twine holding it shut, slid the top off, and looked down at the small wooden box, before again put his hand on the polished surface. He lifted it out and placed it gently into the duffel. When he withdrew his hand he was holding a shoebox that contained a quantity of dirt, which he put into the cardboard casket, and slid the cover back on, hurriedly tying the knots.

Ten minutes later the lines on the road were zipping past him as he drove South. He looked into the passenger seat at the bag, across which he had strapped the seat belt. “It’ll be a close call, grandpa, but I think we can make it before sundown.�

7

Feliza Casano Mabuhay Pull open the first drawer, jumbled: a loose hank of twine, five green gelcaps, one small ancient tub of Vicks, an ’88 day planner marked at October, “Will you marry me?” penciled into the first Tuesday, the brown leather case for sunglasses he’s worn for twenty years, bottles of cherry-almond lotion and cold cream that make up his scent.

Pull open the second drawer, stacked: three cracked and faded photographs of his girls and his wife laid over a black and white portrait of his mother, whom he misses.

On top of the dresser, neat-arranged: a framed photograph of his wedding day next to the small folded flag – red, blue, white and gold stars and a sun with eight reaching rays that used to mean home.

*Author’s Note: Pronunciation ma-BOO-hai. Origin: Pilipino, national language of the Philippines.

8

Elizabeth Anderson French Lessons

It fell from the sky, A question:

Do you know how to say I love you In French?

Suddenly sunburnt, No, I don’t – But I didn’t say that.

I said… something about French pronouns. ...smart girl, he said quietly (and I hoped in disappointment), but then it fell from the sky, an answer: Je t'aime.

Je t'aime, I said with dandelions and sunshine and rainbows – I love you.

9

Elizabeth Anderson Jelly Bean Cars (and Other Things)

(inspired by George Ella Lyon’s poem “Where I’m From”)

I am from The Lion King and dreams of Africa, from Dark Side of the Moon, Master Gardeners, and Manhattan Transfer, and I am from project management and college math, retail work and bus-driving.

I am from horses ambling past the family room window and roses the color of sunset growing in the back garden, from Kimmy and Galway and a succession of dogs, from black and white barn cats who nose at the side door when they’re hungry and the year the neighbor’s garage tumbled away in the wind.

I am from silence games and tickle fights, Crayola crayons and The Chronicles of Narnia, from Harry Potter, a strawberry summer, realestating and Thomas L. Cooley Law School, from winter soup and good sauce, sauerkraut and pepperoni bread, and sky-smelling t-shirts fresh from the laundry line.

I am from the forsythia bushes growing at the front of the house, from the pine tree so vast we could crawl beneath it and search for fallen birds’ eggs, from candy molds, from a two-days’ drive to Florida, from every year the Atlantic Ocean and palm trees, sands and Shutters, and nights in the Green Cabin Room, just Daddy and me.

10

Elizabeth Anderson Before bed in the old house, he would tell us a story: Once upon a time, there were three little girls who lived in a brick-and-yellow house til we got too old for tuckings-in and bedtime stories and rode into the rose-colored sun on the backs of horses and in jelly-bean cars, the smell of leather under our thighs.

11

Elizabeth Anderson Migration I want to rise up and fly into the sun.

Autumn tickles my feet until I hear the homing call, the timeless instinct that bears me far above the winter like some great migratory bird, a wood-duck or egret flying before the bitter snow and settling in an untouched lake until some other instinct calls me home.

But now it is August: The days stretch long and hot before me, blue-skied, green-leafed, and humid, yet instead of nesting I want to fly to rise up into the sun and send a single green feather floating back to earth.

12

Alan Beyersdorf Super Nintendo Entertainment System I believed in the artificial intelligence of programmed dialogue

a rat in Skinner’s box politely pressing my buttons a click at every cue I searched maps of flat universes I found empty treasure chests with luck pixelated glitter filled my brain fuel at the 16-bit forged of evasive princesses and knightly frogs with swords gone unkissed I buried myself to rot in quilted shrouds a basement a tomb a sawdust-floored cage cotton shields daylight from small windows or underneath the doo 13

Alan Beyersdorf Traffic Jam

Mom tore the map open from vacuum-sealed plastic, replaced the gnat-splattered windshield with crisp gridded guidance.

From the crumby upholstery of the back seat I watched orange lamps glow, hovering above the empty highway, traffic-jammed UFOs queuing around the darkest bend for the southern half of Florida.

My little brother cried, as his coloring book filled up.

14

Paris Black That Hospital Room

As we stepped out the car I could hear nothing, But sirens uniforms moving and yelling.

My mom and I walked into the brisk building, I could hear my heart beating like an African drum.

I stopped as I saw the bright orange sign flashing emergency, I don’t want to move so my mom gives me a slight push that shift my feet.

My palms are sweating as I push the up button on the elevator.

What should I think?

The eye contact my mom and I are making is penetrating, Like she’s reading my mind and thinking through her eyes.

My legs are dragging behind me as I stroll into the hall.

“This way” mom says, I can’t move again.

Grabbing my face as if she were going to kiss me, I smell the winterfresh gum she chewed an hour ago.

She kisses my forehead and chills sprint up my spine, so I walk.

Approaching a door that read Robert Black, I freeze.

My mind racing, what should I think?

I hear soft singing coming from inside the room.

Different tones scatter throughout the hallway, Yet the only voice I hear is the raspy one.

The melodies stream through every inch of my soul, Tears fill my eyes, Drip smoothly down my cheeks.

Pushing the door open the singing is louder.

My body moving to the bed where my grandpa is laying weak, Making eye contact with him I can feel myself get frail.

Grabbing his cold hand, The tears flow harder, what should I think?

15

Paris Black The singing continues as the nurse walks in, She takes a deep breath as if her lungs were going to collapse, “Robert you have cancer.”

My heart drops.

His grip still tight I close my eyes as the tears drip down my face, Placing my head on his chest listening to his heart beat like a song, And all I remember is him saying is “Don’t let go!”

Then the song stops.

16

Lawrence Carter Romance with the Wind I could hear her. At times, she was fast approaching, saddened by her circumstances and thrown about with fear of what was behind her. She would come and throw herself around me, shouting in fits through my ears, screaming and shrieking the promise that she’d never again leave me if only I would confide in her, though she knew I couldn’t. I would stand in the cold and feel her pain, breathing her cares into me, enduring the sting. Numbed by the grave chill of her words, I sought to take refuge in the memories she carried with her. She would open the book of my mind and turn the pages to remind me from where it was that I came; she’d turn the pages more quickly as I’d look on. The memories that haunted on the bad days, and the ones that blessed on the good. I gave her my heart to wrap up in her arms. She would turn it about a few times, comforting it with soft whispers, and hold it. For it was hers to keep.

Other times were so wonderful. She would murmur my name into my ear, sending chills through my head. She was always just passing, and she would pass her finger along my neck to trigger my sense of her presence. This gave way to her cheer, forgetting what was following her, and springing forth toward me in shouts of warmth and joy, enveloping me with love as she did. Her presence complemented the sun and comforted me. I could feel her, though she wasn’t there. I could sense her, though she rarely came. I could hear her, but she only called when I missed her.

She was twirling around me. I told her she was my everything, and she sighed into my ear, giving way to a high sent up through my skull. Her wisps of hair, curling around my fingers, excited my touch. As she drew even nearer, her cool breath fogged my senses and fogged them to the point that there was really nothing in the world left to think of other than me and her. In that moment, I could feel her breath rising and falling in my chest, the cavity of my lungs filling and releasing her. My eyes were shut with tears brimming the corners, and I closed my hand to grasp hers only to find that she had slipped away, that her touch I once felt was but only for a passing, yet again.

17

Feliza Casano Tatay When I kneel at the side of Tatay’s grave I look past the hand-hewn gravestone to the jungle.

I wish I could go back to my fifth birthday and Tatay taking me on a walk in the jungle.

I want to go back to the quiet afternoon on dirt paths winding through the tall lean trees like snakes in the brush when Tatay, who I’m named for, reached over my head picking fresh manggas to eat.

With his favorite bamboo-handled knife, he peeled red-green mangga skin from tender yellow flesh, slicing off bits just small enough for my five-year-old hands.

Juice squelched from my mouth when I tore in, sliding from my lips and down my chin like dew from flowers, the sweet scent of mangga-peel mingling with its honey taste.

Tatay laughed at my surprise as I caught drips of juice in one hand, patting my head and rumpling my hair with a huge rough palm.

I never saw him laugh like that since.

The branches of a mangga tree dip over Tatay’s grave heavy with their fruits, and I wish I could go back when it was only me and my father and the sweetest manggas in the world.

18

Patrick Cook Of Chaos and Law The world was forged of Chaos and Law. One and the same, both with a flaw.

“Just do as I say, and be rid of spontaneity.”

Spoke Law with his typical authority.

As Chaos is prone to refuse Law’s rule It's response was as a stubborn fool.

“Naught will be without help from I, Perhaps you should not to yourself lie.”

They glared from across an expanse.

Law raised a silvered lance.

Chaos took an offensive stance.

And thus began their endless dance.

The lance struck forth at Chaos' chest.

But Law was thrown, his attack a mere jest.

Then in the dirt they tried to wrest Control for Chaos, and for Law unrest.

Eons passed as a fight was made.

Both combatants claiming accolade.

Chaos would clash forming flaming spheres And when Law struck true made matter adhere.

Soon both lay in a truly sad state.

They feared one may seal the others fate.

Looking about to see what nearby lay They saw all creation and halted the fray.

“Let us end our aggressive brawl.”

Spoke Law in his breathy drawl.

“Agreed.” said Chaos without a pause “It seems that every effect has a cause.”

19

Sam Fetters Fourth of July Chronic youth, acne-scarred and overworked, film the finale so they don’t have to look.

Months

Month 3 Spring sprang on the calendar, but Dirt City is still cold as shit.

I haven’t left my head in days, and everyone stays home.

We’re hiding from the weather.

Month 4 Spring still doesn’t exist in this town of empty houses and latchkey grandmothers.

20

Month 5 The citizens of Dirt City emerge from their holes to curse the winter and put on disgusting half-clothes.

Suddenly summer.

Sam Fetters Month 7 Vacation youth, bored to tears, stick their penises In vacuum cleaners, and watch themselves on the lunchtime newsteenage blues.

Month 8 I sit on the porch with my mother listening to the bugs of summer another bummerI keep getting older, I keep getting dumber.

Month 9 Warm but not hot.

Television national pride.

A light rain fallsKeeps the grass green a little bit longer.

21

Sam Fetters Waiting in the City The little aproned waitress trays around, serving tired old men who talk rahowa and the church.

Outside, beautiful girls wait for the bus and take deep breaths of warm and dirty city air and braid plastic flowers into each other’s hair.

22

Zachary Fishel Philosophy from the Meat Counter From the counter tickets are screamed over bawling children as calf livers are wrapped and oxtails go on special.

We’re all cased naturally, waiting to be ground into a shitty substandard meal in a homeless shelter.

The women here are pushed around at home by cubicle marauding idiots with interest bearing accounts and a love of dry aged beef at a cool thirty bucks a pound.

Cleavers sharp and picking at the finger tips of unwashed bathroom hands, the smug mothers fork out dough to a guy named Sam, or Bill, Eddie, or Hank, to take home to their blood suckers.

23

Zachary Fishel Solstice to Standoff The thrumming of a bee filled with daffodil nectar collects in the musty air of summers long forgotten bedrooms where we made love every night, disregarding the shouts of neighbors trying to sleep.

We clicked beer bottles like ruby slippers working a buzz of our own towards home.

The elevators of moving from point to promise was grand until we both hit the basement level and had to give up the hope.

With dropping willow branches and aspirin barked trunks, I gnawed nightly as the frost began to swarm over my hands and muddy knees in the dirt.

I rolled and toiled in its roots, Trying to get back to our season to relish in one more kiss.

24

Magdalena Hirt folktales caused cotton to rise

flying 30,000 miles above the clouds

In the sky, far above the dirt of the earth, cotton grows in the shape of fluffy clouds that release folktales of slaves from their suspended wait.

The crows caw to steal magic back to fields where wide-eyed children wait to grasp the past holding their tongues and feathers within moments of soft fibrous stories.

Ears grasp axes, picks, shovels and they dig deep into the pages of a new history to tell the truth of the Brer and the twisting roots of starlit nights. They sing in the patience of a tree like soft moss silent as it watches boat rides northward. Under cottony cloud cover that mutes stars, a midnight escape went undetected.

I dwell with thoughts of cotton, flying, floating wanting to release the plant from its stem.

25

Magdalena Hirt I’m Unburned Delaney

“They whip and burn them, my child, to make them obey.”

Don’t pack me, don’t you dare scald me, and don’t let me see you reach for that whip. I am unburned from the center of this land, now ransacked for body property. Don’t burn me. Don’t brand me. Don’t you dare pack me. My soul will not fit into a coffin or inside fetters, chains.

You will not starve me, deprive me. That wood will not feel the groove of my hips as it tosses in Atlantic waves. It will not contain my vomit as the sea fights with the wind. I will not be burned. I will not be packed.

I am unburned. My skin is soft, delicate, ready for exploring. No hot iron, no rod that sits and melts in a fire will reach the tiny hairs of my hips, my shoulders, my waist. I will not be packed. I will not be your child. Your affair.

Your mistress. Your rape victim. You will not burn me. My skin will not contribute to the sizzle of flesh smoldering in the air. Burn, burn, my eyes will burn into your sins. Obey is not written in my skin. You may not extract me. My skin lives in desert sand and sea water, igniting, scorching, roaring just for me.

26

Magdalena Hirt Regeneration

As part of the sand, I am part of Egypt. My cells breathe the wind and crushed stone, the sphinx. My cells form into the pyramids that point to the stars. My cells become a civilization that moved like a black cat in and out of history.

As part of the sculpted rock, I am part of Stonehenge. My body stands in hills of the Cotswolds withholding history in a circle. My body resists strangers who stare at my worn, well-rounded pillars. My body becomes a mystery that moves like a wolf’s lips as it howls under constellations.

As part of stones, I am pebbles, long branches, and buffalo hide surrounding a fire. I am the warmth of the tepee, expressions in the carved totem pole. I break and fold to live near a river, on the coast, in a ravine, by the herd. I refine into a horse nation with painted skin made to rise like smoke above whispering leaves.

I am a white female, but my skin is sandy-stone, grey, deep green, wheat-cream, earth.

27

Allison McGhee Alone Tall and still, She remains a constant shade of dark blue, Nights filled with aged Humphrey Bogart films, Eyes left tortured and sleepless residing in her head, Due to a mix of insomnia and cheap wine, She’s never truly lived but she knows she is not yet dead, Wonder and Bliss just outside her dimmed window, But she can not find herself in their company, Pale and silent she doesn’t find comfort, She finds a daily routine and stale air, Unlike most she smothers herself in silence, As if it were a heavy wool blanket, Sometimes only broken by the creaks of her strained wooden floor, As she drags herself down the hall, Her only regret is her fear to reach out, Fear to extend her dimmed hand into the sun, Fear to find comfort in others, Fear to shine light onto what dark corner she has put herself in, Fear to be happy, Fear to be hurt.

28

Allison McGhee I Am I am from grilled hotdogs and grab plate, I am from ninety degrees and still rising, From burnt faces and the lasting scent of coconut, I am from no makeup and wind blown curls, I am from the ocean, the endless blue horizon, From short, lethargic days, and long, sleepless nights, From no cell phones, computers, or TV, I am from coolers as fridges and towels as blankets, I am from windows down and wayfarers up, I am from Thursday night Jamfest and obscure street shops, I am from mint ice cream at Kilwins and the record store on the corner, From Sunday service with the blue gill and catfish, I am from Paradise City and Axl Rose, From the warm feeling of home, the knowledge of true purpose, and the discovery of soul, I am from that perfect spot on the beach, the sand beneath my toes, the moon above my head.

29

Rachel Morris Being Adopted To be adopted is to develop an imagination, Lower your eyelids and be mystified, Words puzzle together to create images, Images of what they may appear as, Who you may look like more, Unanswered questions of certain behaviors, Interesting to know what it may have been like, Not curious enough to actually live it, Grateful enough to be accepted, To be taken in by caring people, Taken in under their wings, Now soaring high with endless possibilities, A star in the sky when I am lost, A warm hug when I am cold, Miracles have brought us together, Love has connected our souls, Support has come from these people, People that recognize me as their own.

30

Jesse Olsavsky Radical Milton “On Returning after Many Years to the Sources of a Stream in the Mountains, and deciding to Follow its Full Course for the very First Time” Brownish brook below the mountain, Deep in my youth’s hollow, I return to your sweet fountain, Eager now your way to follow.

Your placid path I’ve not minded While lingering at your pure source, Where thou first writhed and designed, Striving to seize that truest course.

Thou truest flow in realest forms, The falling road to eternity, Ever-changing through droughts and storms, I yearn to grasp yourself in me.

Because I am flux, I am motion, So mutable though never mute, Undisciplined in devotion, Hoping to learn your righteous route.

For through you I’ve never tried To find my own untiring mind.

31

Kevin Risner Coffee Speech Every time you place your hands on the table The coffee wobbles like a top almost done spinning And napkins soak up stray puddles So what soaks up misunderstanding?

Fresh (frank) sentences stick together Magnets to teeth to mugs to plates to doctors To illness To airplanes To another country Where we combine our metal flasks of knowledge But many hear the foreignness Darts that are aimed at the distant shores Lapping at the rising tide of our consciousness And they recoil as springs to the touch In the evening The sun pours into my eyes As I drive back to the west side of the city And the strum of a ukulele Floats out my open window

32

Kevin Risner Shore Oh, the sand As it travels along the shore Pulled by the child Into the shallow sea And thrown back Almost unwanted With the glistening water Soaking deep inside Making everything uniform Equal Together Smooth Until the sun bakes it raw Allowing the crafty wind To make it fly away And even disappear

33

Kevin Risner Thin Mint With each bite of that chocolate circle The crescent moon wanes some more Until the cat swipes at it and it falls On the ground Stuck in the carpet Where the crumbs tickle the threads And by this weekend the pieces will soon be presents For the ants squeezing inside from the holes That line the base of the wall Near the chipped front door This line of little critters lead outside The endless line The endless endless endless line Stretching for miles and miles and miles and miles But in reality it’s to the first car in the parking lot Oh that poor car With its rear tire almost fully deflated Maybe it’s really in quicksand Sinking below the blacktop All because of torrential price of upkeep The price of mobility Of excessive mobility Oh to be mobile today The price of a little thin mint that was brought into the apartment By that same sinking car That’s now stuck And that damn thin mint landing on that white plate Innocently waning in an endless endless endless cycle Again and again waning and waning And everything plus the crumbs landing on the ground That shaggy carpet In that spot on the floor the vacuum cannot reach 34

Kevin Risner Oh but those ants can get at the crumbs They sure can But only the first few are rewarded The rest of those waiting will have to wait some more In that endless endless endless endless line That line that stretches for miles and miles and miles to that car Stuck in quicksand Deflated Unable to get more thin mints when the crumbs run out

35

Timothy Salow Hamlet Had It All In a moment there is a thought And in another none And in the space between we find That there never was was.

Computers are slow, pens are slow Too. Too slow, o, too too too The brooding black stares back Into these sallow eyes watching The escape, the get-away,— it stays away.

And liquors and beers and wines, lovely red, Dance a fiddler’s tune Beneath moons round and pale and forgetful too.

But there is nothing more to say And never there was, except Let it begin again and perhaps In order anew.

36

Timothy Salow Too Too Late The hour is late, This is no time for poetry.

Yet here I lounge Beside a beautiful brunette A bob and done up in curls.

A klutz and known so, But too cute to deny With the innocent sway That is anything but. . .

Her eyes are terribly brown.

But it is too late For causal jokes, And dreams of sweets And youth new and precious Beside moans of delights mocking.

Goodnight, dear girl, goodnight.

37

Kelly Thompson Past Participle Parent There is only ever enough time, now To realize that the time you had is gone.

I wonder if ever she was sitting in a darkish room smoking a filthy Benson and Hedges thinking about the exact same thing: time.

Her same circular blood pieces running through a like-structured mind frame, thirty years apart, nearly to the day.

She probably used matches, though.

She probably lit with a thumb.

It’s a bigger difference than one would expect.

I’m sitting in that time now. two thumbs were made from her thumbs twining round and round her memory.

Smoke now.

38

Kelly Thompson thank you, m.a. you clung onto me like laundry on a line dirty laundry a perfect noose

39

Kelly Thompson Work Ethic The thing that separates animals from people is the single opposable digit.

What separates people from people are callouses.

Pockets of love desensitized one heart working for another.

40

S. T. Mom you showed up one august night dressed in finery waiting to marry a man and find a daughter whom you barely knew. seven days later you boarded a plane that took you to a new, shiny and strange place (land of the free) you watched your husband happily explain this strange country’s even stranger customs to you you cooked meat curries even though you’re a vegetarian you saw the washington monument explored luray caverns and refused to eat lebanese food. you came back to an empty house (beautiful on the outside, you decided – but so ugly and dead inside.) you hated it so much. nothing you knew was real anymore not even your “family.” so you packed your bags and left offering the excuse that you didn’t feel well and needed to be with family (my own, but you didn’t say that aloud) you were never seen again. i can only wonder now what thoughts enveloped you

41

S. T. all those countless times you were silent – why you never said a word. maybe you were afraid of change of people of life itself. you never wanted to be a replacement a beacon of hope for my broken family you never wanted the fancy cars and sprawling mansion you never wanted us. although i didn’t really know you i hope you’ve found a better life leaving us was the best thing you could have done and i’m not sorry that you’re gone. goodbye.

42

Zoe Young Seabird The horizon disappears under a cold blanket of pale grey turning foggy sea into hazy sky; the two now indistinguishable, aside from dark rocks punctuating steel grey waves breaking into frothy white, or an occasional bird announcing her indifference as she is swallowed whole by the grey void that stares blankly at the shore.

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Zoe Young Twentysomething we told stories in the basement of a burning building— a rooftop party back in june where the dew of the evening settled cool and easy on our skin and the wine was sweet and red and never ending. heard the sirens; mistook them for music— a long illustrious drive through the high desert of Nevada where Jack and Maggie got out of the car to shoot two bullets in the air and they howled with laughter because it was 4 a.m. and because they’d forgotten about gasoline, but, by god, they had enough cocaine to drive straight back to suburban Detroit where the stars wouldn’t look the same. the ceiling started to cave and smoke crept in but we had a few more songs to sing before the sun came up and not a moment to spare.

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The

Mill

Proudly Sponsored by The University of Toledo English Department and the Edward Shapiro Fund for English Composition II

Fall 2011