Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 25, June 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

ah’s cries grew more determined, my own “The science has changed since I was in
breasts ngled and swelled, my nipples rig- school,” he said.
id, milk leaking, I begged to have my daugh-
ter’s ny baby mouth back. His nutri onist advised him to eat
roughage. I went out to the grocery store
“Stop,” I cried. “You promised.” My voice and made sure there was plenty of granola
sounded to my ears stressed to the point and salad so we could both have as much
of nausea. I had a sick feeling in gut as if I as we wanted.
needed to throw up.
A few days a er my return to New York,
Terry returned her to me and I snuggled my daughter was born. My father wanted
her, a feeling of relief washing over me, to hold his granddaughter, so I flew with
gra fied that my baby refused Terry, and her only a few weeks old, so he could see
that my baby and I were connected by this her before he died. She cried when I put
invisible force. Terry’s daughter woke up her in his arms, so I cozied up with her so
from the soundness of her sleep and start- he could touch her in the rela ve safety of
ed crying. Terry took her to her breast. my lap, where she enjoyed having him hold
her fingers and coo at her. I could tell it tore
In high school I loved learning about hu- at his heart, knowing he would never see
man biology, I read everything I could on the her grow up. That same day, several of my
subject, and my father and I would discuss brothers came in from across the globe and
what I had learned. Some mes Terry joined we sat together on the back deck listening
our discussions. They tried to steer me into to my father reminisce about his own fa-
pre-med, but my math skills were so abys- ther’s end of life, and the friends he wished
mal, I decided regre ully not to pursue it. he had kept in touch with, and hadn’t when
his family and prac ce grew. I suggested he
I thought back to the me, only a month look them up and call them, but he said it
ago but if seemed like a life me, when he was too late.
called me and said in an unemo onal tone
that he had cancer, sounding like he was My father didn’t want to die in a hospi-
talking about a pa ent that he didn’t have tal. He hated hospitals, having worked as
a stake in. I rushed home, despite my ex- a surgeon for most of his working life. He
treme pregnancy, in that cri cal period two thought them cold and ins tu onal. He
weeks away from my due date, flying 3,000 wanted to be at home, surrounded by fami-
miles to be near him. I waddled into the ly. “I’ve spent plenty of me in hospitals, I’d
house and saw him looking healthier than rather die at home,” he said.
I had ever seen him. Gone was the puffy,
I understood what he meant. The hos-
red complexion from overwork and lack pitals he had worked in were filled with
of exercise. He said he had started walking the sick and dying, sterile factories filled
with his live-in nurse, and he was ea ng with the smell of an sep c. I didn’t find
healthier. them cozy, either, having visited with him
frequently while he was on the job. But it
That first morning I was home, we fought was weird having him at home; weird that
over the granola, a food my father had nev- we could spend whole days together. Be-
er touched un l his diagnosis. I voiced my ing with my father at a me when he was
surprise, knowing how much in the past he
spurned it.

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not rushed or in a hurry to get somewhere ty. Her pa ents don’t mind if she can’t do
made it easier for him to express his emo- some things, they understand what she’s
going though.
onal side, something he had kept hidden
much of my growing up years. And there The research has yet to show conclu-
was John, my father’s male nurse, a sweet sively what triggers her disease or how it
soul always with a song on his lips cheer- can be stopped, but scien sts have discov-
ing us up when any of us felt low. He sang ered a lot about our bodies and how they
to my daughter: “Baby face, you’ve got the work, yet there’s so much we don’t know,
cutest li le baby face.” so much to learn. A couple of the most cur-
rent theories, that bacterial infec on or an
I sat with him the day he died, holding overproduc on of nitric oxide in cells in-
his hand, musing on our memories of good hibits the natural process of programmed
cell death, leading to a lot of damaged cells
mes we had spent together. Holding his messing up the work of healthy cells. Rheu-
frail, emaciated hand, I felt helpless, know- matoid arthri s itself, along with some of
ing there was nothing I could do to ease his the medica ons used to treat its symptoms,
pain. He said that the process of dying re- can increase the risk of osteoporosis, weak-
minded him of being thirsty in the desert ening bones and making them more prone
and searching for water, and finding none. to fracture, and that’s the danger Terry has
As the pain worsened, fed through a tube, to live with.
his pain kept at bay with fentanyl, he died
in his sleep. Terry hopes a cure can be found soon.

I took Sarah with me to visit Terry a er I hope science figures out this puzzle be-
he died, as soon as I was able. Terry now fore it’s too late for Terry.
specializes in geriatric medicine, the one
field where her disease isn’t such a liabili-

About the Author:

Joanna Kadish was a regular freelance contributor for
the New Jersey Regional Sec on of The New York Times,
and several regional newspapers and magazines, includ-
ing The Cleveland Plain Dealer and Asbury Park Press.
She received a few awards for her essay and feature
wri ng from the Society of Professional Journalists. Her
short fic on has been published by Literary Orphans,
Cultured Vultures, and Citron Review. Joanna was a fi-
nalist in the Black Coffee & Vinyl Presents: Ice Cultures
project, summer of 2018, Cu hroat 2016 Rick DeMarin-
is Short Fic on Contest, and received honorable men-

on in GlimmerTrain’s Emerging Writers Contest for
2015 and 2016.She holds an MFA in crea ve wri ng from Bennington Wri ng Seminars in
Vermont, and her undergraduate degree in literature and philosophy is from UC Berkeley.

150

NOTHING THERE

by Megan Madramootoo

I watched Seth quietly and quickly disappear saur that had kept Isaiah company for the re-
behind the off-white front door as he held mainder of his days inside his ny incubator.
something small and box-like between his I laid my head against the hard armrest and
two hands. When the door slammed behind cuddled the toy next to my chest. I listened
him, I immediately began to feel the dark- to the silence. I thought about Seth…and
ness of that morning’s events encroach upon how, in that instance of his leaving me in that
me. I waited for one whole minute for Seth dark apartment alone, I had realized that he
to remember me…for him to come back for completely, without a doubt, hated my guts.
me…for him to even lock the damn door be-
hind him to keep me safe from the outside At 2:20 that morning, August 10, 2004,
world. But he did none of these things. Dr. Keplar had called to let us know that Isa-
iah was not doing so well…that even though
I suddenly remembered the memory our baby had received a blood transfusion
box that the hospital had given us a li le the night before, it hadn’t done much to
over one hour before. My red eyes moved increase his oxygen level. I was sleeping
from the front door to the glass dining ta- when the phone rang, and was having trou-
ble where the box had been le when we ble grasping onto what the doctor was tell-
returned home from the hospital 20 min- ing me. So I asked him if Seth and I should
utes before. But it wasn’t there. I squinted meet him there at the hospital.
some and searched harder—I even got up
and made my way to the table. Si ed care- “Well, uh, yes…I think you should. I
fully through the unopened mail and the mean, he may soon start to respond to the
pile of paperwork from the baby’s short oxygen therapy we’re giving him, but it may
stay at the hospital. Nope, nothing. That’s be a good idea to come.”
when I realized that the small and box-like
object that had been in Seth’s hand was the I gently shook Seth un l he awakened.
memory box. He had secretly taken it with Relayed the news to him just as the doctor
him when he hauled ass to get out of that had relayed it to me. But he had rubbed my
apartment…and away from me. back and told me to pray…that everything
was going to be alright. Without wan ng
I wiped at my right eye, which had begun to, I obeyed, closing my eyes ghtly and
tearing up again, and trudged back to the willing myself to believe that he was right.
maroon sofa. I sat down, folded my legs into
myself, and picked up the small stuffed dino- When Dr.Keplar had called again at 4:10
a.m., I let Seth answer the phone since he

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didn’t believe Isaiah’s condi on was dire the door would be unlocked. I searched
from the doctor’s first phone call. A er through my cell for any other messages or
ge ng off the phone, he sat up slowly and calls that I might have missed from Seth
looked at me: while I had been sleeping. But there was
nothing there.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?”
I shut my phone and pulled my legs over
I stared at him through the dark of the the sofa. I leaned forward and looked at the
bedroom, wondering what universe he was kitchen table again, wondering where Seth
currently living in, but not having the cour- could be with our memory box. Sudden-
age to ask. I didn’t want to upset him, as I ly, without wan ng to, I heard the excited
was apprecia ng the very rare calm that we sounds of happy children playing outside, and
were experiencing since Isaiah was admit- my heart sank into my belly. I thought about
ted into the NICU six days before. Instead, I Caleb at that point and how, even though I
told him yes and put my clothes on through hated being le alone in the apartment, I was
the s ll of the early morning. When we had just thankful that he had been able to stay
finally arrived at the hospital at 5:45 a.m., with my mother during this whole ordeal.
Isaiah had already passed.
I wiped at my eyes once again and ran
A er the nurses had ushered us gently my hand through my uncombed hair. From
inside the sterile NICU, I sobbed quietly the me Seth and I had go en back into the
behind the curtain that separated us from car a er leaving Isaiah’s li le body at the
the other babies who were s ll alive. Sur- hospital, to the me Seth had put the car
prisingly, Seth held onto my shoulders as he in gear and le the hospital’s parking ga-
cried silently while I held onto my baby, hat- rage, I sensed that something immediately
ing every fiber inside my body for not hav- changed between us. For a second, while
ing been there to hold my son’s ny hand as in that NICU, I had actually thought that we
he passed from life to death. But I bundled were going to be okay a er he tried to con-
him as close to me as I could and whispered sole me the minute we saw Isaiah’s lifeless
repeatedly how sorry I was, drowning his body...I had actually thought we were going
pre y brown face with tears that would to be okay. Even though he had last raised
never stop flowing. his hand to me less than a month ago, I was
so sure that we were going to be just fine—
Morning dri ed away into the late af- because he had tried to console me a er
ternoon and somewhere in between, I had our baby had passed.
fallen asleep. At 4:30 p.m., I woke up to the
so buzzing of my cell next to my head. I But on our way back home, I no ced the
sleepily li ed my head, grateful for any kind way his jaw seemed to clench every me I
of contact from the outside world. There cau ously turned to look at him from the
was a text message from my good friend passenger seat. He also kept his hardened
Kelly, le ng me know that she had finally face straight as he fully concentrated on the
woken up from her nap since ge ng home traffic ahead of him, indica ng to me that
from her night shi that morning, and that somewhere deep inside of him, he wanted
she would be on her way soon. I sent her to blame me for what just happened, like
a response text back, telling her thank you he did with everything else. I just felt it…
and informing her to just let herself in…that because always right before he apologized

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for hi ng me…right before—while he was cell once more, just in case I had missed
s ll in the thick of his madness— he would any calls from Seth—or anyone else—while
always tell me that I made him hurt me. So I had been in the bathroom a few moments
in the painfully quiet car ride back to Tem- before. Nothing. Just then, I heard the slight
ple Hills, I knew, without his even saying it, turn of the door handle, and I grew hopeful
that he was quickly searching for a way to that it could be him.
blame me for Isaiah’s death.
“Hey swee e.” Kelly quietly announced
And when he quickly unlocked the her arrival as she carefully stepped inside
apartment door and headed straight to the the living room, bending over to take off
narrow hallway bathroom with his shoes her sandals, which she le next to the neat
s ll on his feet—without even making sure collec on of shoes by the entrance. She
that I had made it in safely—and walked then slowly and quietly closed and locked
right back outside without so much as tell- the off-white door and stared at me for a
ing me to fuck off, his newfound hatred for minute, her eyes teary with compassion
me was confirmed. and understanding.

I looked down at my closed hands, which I mustered a quiet Hey, momentarily
rested on top of my lap; opened them… disappointed that Kelly wasn’t Seth, but
clasped them back together again, then glad that she was finally there with me. I
reopened them. I reached over to my right watched her as she walked over towards
for Isaiah’s dinosaur and held its so ness to the glass table, holding a large plas c bag in
my nose. I breathed in the subtle newborn her le hand. She set it down opposite from
scent le behind by him and leaned over where I sat, and immediately, the smell of
into my thighs, le ng out my cries inside baked chicken invaded my nasal passages.
the palms of my hands.
“Well, I brought you guys some food
By 6:10 p.m., I had managed to move from Boston Market. I know it’s not much,
from the sofa in order to switch the floor but hopefully it will help a li le.” Kelly
lamp to its dim se ng and finally use the pulled out a vanilla-colored chair and sat
bathroom a er more than 12 hours. When down. “Where is Seth, by the way? I didn’t
I was done with that, I decided to take a see your car outside...”
seat at our dining room table. Well, actu-
ally, it wasn’t my dining room table; it was I sniffled and wiped at my nose, keeping
Seth’s. And in the me that I was le alone my focus on the bag from Boston Market.
to mourn the loss of our baby by myself, “I don’t know. As soon as we made it back
I had quickly begun to feel as if I were no from the hospital, he le —”
longer welcomed inside the apartment that
Seth’s father had leased for him almost a “—he le ?”
year ago. As if, with the death of our baby
came with it the death of my and Seth’s re- I nodded my head and made eye contact
la onship, and any other a achment that I with Kelly, who now looked puzzled as her
previously had to him. green eyes began to search my own for an
explana on. “Yep, he le .”
As I sat next to the empty space that the
missing memory box had le , I opened my She kept her eyes on me for a second and
breathed in slowly and deeply. “And where’s
Caleb?”

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I breathed in, as well, trying hard to day surfaced from a place buried deep in-
fight the tears that were finding their way side of me that I had never known existed
back to the edges of my eyelids as I thought before that morning. I wanted to escape
about my five-year-old and whether or not outside myself—be anywhere and be any-
my mother had told him that his brother body other than where I was and who I was
had passed. “He’s been at Veronica’s. She at that moment—and get away from that
came and got him when my water broke.” horrible darkness that now hovered closely
over me…that refused to say when, or if, it
I watched Kelly as she con nued to search would ever leave my world.
my eyes for some inkling as to what I needed
for her to do in that instant. But I crossed my Kelly let me go and rested her hands on
arms over one another and hugged myself top of my knee caps. She looked up at me
through reddened eyes, and I was grateful
ght, choosing to look away from her and so that somebody was there, feeling my pain
I could refocus my a en on on that Boston with me. “You’re going to be okay. Now, I
Market bag, trying with all my might to block can’t tell you when exactly, but know that
out the youthful voices that con nued to one day, this will come to pass. Okay?”
float into the apartment from the outside. I
hugged myself even ghter, feeling a sudden I looked into her eyes and whispered Okay.
chill in the air, even though it must’ve been
at least 85 degrees outside. By the me evening gave way to early
night, I was bathed, clothed in fresh paja-
“He has the memory box,” I suddenly mas, and my hair was combed into two long
heard myself blurt out a er a while. French braids, courtesy of Kelly. As we sat
side-by-side on the maroon sofa, I flipped
“I’m sorry, he has the what?” open my cell phone for the fourth me that
day to see if I had missed any calls/texts
I li ed my heavy eyes and fixed them from Seth—or anyone else—but there was
back onto Kelly’s. “The baby’s memory box,” nothing there. I sighed and let my head fall
I simply stated. “I would show you pictures against the back of the sofa.
of the baby and everything—even a lock of
his hair they had clipped for us—but Seth “Hey…let’s turn the TV on,” Kelly sug-
took the fucking box. Took the fucking box gested, pa ng my knee gently. I don’t like
and le me by my fucking self, Kelly.” I was the thought of this house being so quiet
angry, hopeless, ashamed of myself, and re- right now.” I kept my head back and my
gre ng the day I met Seth, all at once. As eyes towards the ceiling as I felt her li her
memories of holding my poor sweet baby body from the sofa. Two seconds later, Alex
rushed into my mind, I had no choice but Trebek’s voice filled the lonely apartment
to give way to the uncontrollable tremors with his announcement of Final Jeopardy.
that began taking over my body un l I was
forced to openly sob in front of my friend. I took my eyes from the ceiling and rest-
ed my head onto Kelly’s slender shoulder
Kelly hurried over to my side of the table, once she sat back down. I breathed in the
knelt down in front of me, and wrapped her floral scent that emanated from her blonde
arms securely around my waist. I held onto curly hair, and closed my eyes as I inhaled
her as ght as I could and cried my sorrow her calm, finding myself desperately want-
into her shoulder. The nonstop tears that ing the same thing.
had been a part of that whole dreadful

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At 9 p.m., Kelly gently informed me that the door behind her, the darkness that
she had to head home and get ready for had stayed at bay during Kelly’s stay quick-
another night shi at the hospital. I got up ly began to move in on me once again. I
from the sofa and walked with my friend stood by the front door for a whole min-
to the front door and thanked her again ute, unsure of what to do next. Finally, I
for coming to my aid. She kissed my right made my way back to the sofa, collected
cheek and wrapped her arms around me. the small dinosaur that had been si ng
I inhaled the fragrance of the flowers from by his lonesome, and sat down, bringing
her hair once more as I leaned my heavy my legs up close to my chin. Before cover-
burden against her small, but strong frame. ing myself with my oversized co on robe,
God, I didn’t want her to leave. I reached for my cell that had been rest-
ing on the sofa’s arm, and checked for any
When she let me go, she looked at me missed calls or messages that I might have
and took my right hand and squeezed it lov- missed from Seth while I had been saying
ingly. “Drink the tea I made for you earlier goodbye to Kelly. But there was nothing
and take the Benadryl so you can sleep… there. Breathing out my pain, I pulled the
and I’ll call you in the morning.” dinosaur close to my heart and listened to
the hushed voices coming from the TV, the
I nodded my head obediently, swal- only sound now being heard in the dark of
lowing my urge to cry again as I watched the apartment.
Kelly leave the apartment. A er I closed

About the Author:

Megan Madramootoo is majoring in Crea ve Wri ng with a concentra on in nonfic on at
Southern New Hampshire University. Her works usually include pieces of her past that she
uses to help others who’ve experienced the same. On a normal evening, you can find her
typing furiously away, a glass of Merlot close by her side. She resides in Maryland with her
husband and four out of their five children.

155

FATHER JOHN

by MIlton Montague

It was in the middle of World War ll. The gether where his mom prepared his favorite
United States was figh ng both Nazi Ger- foods while he told them of his adventures
many and Japan. Milt had just completed with Uncle Sam. Milt had learned that there
four months of basic infantry training at was a bed check at 11:00 PM, so of course,
Camp Wheeler in the almost desert of cen- his parents drove him back to school in am-
tral Georgia and was on track for heading ple me, a er a super delicious repast of his
into combat, as a rifleman to replace our favorites, topped with his mom’s scrump-
dead or wounded soldiers, un l….
ous cake. This happy situa on went on for
The Five Fickle Fingers of Fate inter- several months un l one day when.........But
vened. Milt had recently taken a test to we’re ge ng ahead of the story.....
get into a newly formed Engineers Force,
anything to escape the damned heat and Their favorite teacher, by far, was Father
the infantry. He was selected and was now Young. He was a pleasant looking man with
heading to his new post. a long full brown beard that reached al-
most to his waist that was topped by danc-
The next day Milt was elated, as they ing brown eyes. He was short, perhaps five
pulled into New York’s Penn Sta on, trans- foot three inches tall, probably in his mid-
ferred onto army trucks, proceeded to thir es with a shock of brown hair and a
Brooklyn, finally pulling up in front of St. pronounced limp that was partly hidden by
Johns College. Milt was extremely pleased his long cassock. His order were missionar-
as his family lived in Brooklyn, just fi een ies and teachers and before being posted
minutes away. He could hardly wait to call to St. Johns he served for years in a small
his parents and tell them know the news. village in backwoods China. The boys were
fascinated by his stories of a far away land
Some of the classrooms were converted with exo c customs. Much more fun then
into barracks, where the men lived. The in- the dry math he was supposed to teach.
structors were the same priests that taught
there before. [It was a Catholic College.] Food Their favorite Father John story went
was prepared downstairs and the former gym something like this; Father Young was in
served as the mess hall. The en re school, charge of a small missionary and school in
meal service, and living quarters were con- rural china in the early 1930’s. He knew ev-
tained in the one building. Very neat and sim- eryone in his flock and when he no ced the
ple especially for security. This was war me. absence of one of his oldest parishioners,
he feared for his health and decided to pay
Milt lost no me in calling his parents
and They were delighted to pick him up to-

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him a visit. He had his own mule, and af- several sor es found a lovely Meerschaum
ter services rode over to the old man’s hut, pipe that would be highly valued as a luxu-
at the edge of the small village. He arrived, ry by any pipe smoker. The present was gi
dismounted and entered the humble shack. wrapped, addressed to Father Young, and
The man was si ng on the only chair and deposited with the mail to be delivered to
painfully rose to offer the priest his seat. the servicemen that day.
This man was ancient and yet had only a few
wisps of long white hair on his face. [All Chi- Mail was always a treasured link to home
nese men have very sparse facial hair.] The for men in the armed services, far away
second thing is that in China old age was from family and loved ones. Mail call, or the
highly respected and associated with great the personal delivery of individual pieces of
knowledge. [Please remember that this the mail, was a me honored daily event of ma-
1930’s.] He was very impressed with the Fa- jor importance to everyone. It was most of-
ther’s waist length beard and figured that ten the highlight of their dull and lonely day.
the priest must be 200 years old and was Here it occurred just before Father Young’s
quick to show him proper deference. math class commenced. The soldier, who
was delegated to hand out the daily mail to
As the weeks rolled by, the men in Milt’s our class, called out each name, then hand-
group grew very fond of Father Young. He ed the men their precious le ers.
was the an thesis of the strict Catholic
theologian some had known in childhood. In That day, as he was distribu ng the mail,
the course of conversa on, they discovered the last name he called was,
Father John’s birthday was soon approach-
ing. He was a pipe smoker, and used an old “Young.....Father Young?.......Father Young?”
corncob pipe. His order had taken vows of
strict poverty and one of the Father’s very The priest, sensing the men were kidding
few indulgences was an occasional pipeful. him, went along with the gag and answered,
“That’s me,..... I’m Father Young.....Over here.
This gave Milt an idea. He collected mon-
ey from the men in his class to buy Father He was playing along with the perceived
Young a new pipe for his birthday, as their joke, opened the box, saw the card and the
way of saying THANKS to a great teacher and beau ful new Meerschaum pipe nestled, in
for a new slant on missionary work in China. its own custom made container, and real-
Since Milt was the only na ve New Yorker, ized it was no jest but an extravagant out-
and also a pipe smoker, he was authorized pouring of love for him.
to find and purchase, at a good price, the
new pipe. Milt went downtown and a er He stood there speechless, as tears slow-
ly filled his dancing brown eyes and spilled
onto his luxurious brown beard.

About the Author:

Milton Montague, na ve New Yorker, survived The Great Depression, public school system,
World War 2, college, marriage, several businesses, helped raise 3 lovely daughters. Discov-
ered wri ng at 88. Now at 94 has almost 200 published poems and is wri ng nonfic on. So
far 24 non-fic on memoirs have been published.

157

LOST AND RE FOUND

by Jane Babson

It may well be true that my son David’s the Lake, but by Autumn there is mostly a
Chromosome 7 is partly responsible for an dry meadow, for there is no more moun-
overnight journey to Lost Lake in the Mt. tain water to replenish what is lost. It’s not
Hood Na onal Forest that I recently took a duplicate lake at all then, just truer to its
with him and his staff, Jose. I say this be- duplicate name. Go figure.
cause Chromosome 7 has been studied
quite a bit and various developmental dis- According to the Human Genome Proj-
orders may be linked to its gene c materi- ect, when the gene c region on Chromo-
al being displaced, or lost, or shuffled, or some 7, called 7q11.23, is duplicated, Au-
even repeated. It’s easy for me to blame his
condi on on something, so I do, though, of sm-like traits and language problems are
course, it may not be true. the result.

Chromosome 7 represents 5 – 5.5% of David’s absence of spoken language, his
the total DNA in our cells. low-func oning Au sm, require that two
people accompany him for long drives and
5% may not seem like a lot, but it is the sleep-aways, so it’s not lost on me that his
7th longest chromosome with maybe 900 7q11.23 could be why we made this jour-
– 1500 coding genes depending on whose ney. Jose and I had no way of knowing if he
site you read, so no turning your back on really wanted to go, but he is the reason
this guy. Here we were then, away from the why we did go. A er we walked around the
city and the group home where David re- 245 acre Lake that is never lost, we le our
sides in order to show him new adventures, cabin (easy to lose in the dark) in order to
to shake off any lurking gene c-fate, to find some dinner in the closest town, Park-
make his life look like other people’s. dale, but first had to find a Pacific Pride gas
sta on for the group home’s company car.
This par cular Lost Lake in the Upper It turns out there is a Pacific Pride in Pine
Hood River Valley, Oregon, is not lost, for Grove, and oh boy I should have known
it never goes away, or disappears. It can al- where Pine Grove is—-having passed it
ways be found at the end of a very long and a million mes on Highway 35 from the
windy road. There is, however, another Lost town, now city, of Hood River to the village
Lake in this same state. This one is in the of Parkdale every Summer of my life-as-a-
Willame e Na onal Forest and is so named youth.
because it really does disappear into three
holes in the ground. The Spring run-offs fill Pine Grove’s business center is one mar-
ket and one gas sta on and has looked ex-

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actly the same for ever. It has not gained they talk to each other just fine, but I get
ground, or lost ground, for that ma er, and Rutherford’s point. This protein sequence
for this alone it is unique—at least it can be seems agreeably blame-worthy plus I like
counted on not to reshuffle itself. One can, its full name—-forkhead box P2—even if
and should, say that it does stand the test it might be playing with my son’s genome,
of me. You would never know a Pacific lost, misplaced, or shuffled in some way. I
Pride lived there; there is no sign, and the have no real- me words that go along with
pump is playing possum behind the every- the house pictures. If only pictures remain,
body-can-use gas sta on. It’s not lost, but then, in this way, I am some mes like David
it’s not easily known, that’s for certain. If it though I can recall certain words, phrases,
had been there all those years, then it was sentences Jose and I shared during that
invisible to me. I could have both seen it
and not seen it. me, and my son can’t, I think. David re-
sponds in countless ways, vocaliza ons,
Jose, a favorite and experienced staff gestures, various signs, so clearly some
from David’s group home in Salem, GPS’ed of the me he does duplicate his hominid
a different route back to Parkdale a er Pine cousins, and nothing wrong with that—way
Grove and other landmarks appeared, puz- too many people talk who shouldn’t be al-
zle pieces of the past nkering with me— lowed to.
Woodworth Road where I rented a house
one Summer while se ng fires for the For- In her 2005 bestseller about Au sm and
est Service plus a sign for the Parkdale Cem- its correla on to animal behavior, Animals
etery. The house I hadn’t thought about in Transla on, Temple Grandin, whose Au-
for a long long me, so it was a memory
re-found, just like that—a three months’ sm couldn’t be less like David’s, remarks
moment from 1974. A space, mind you, on her mental cogni on as one of seeing
not par cularly relevant to my before-then in pictures: “During my thinking process I
existence or my a er- then existence, but have no words in my head at all, just pic-
some mental pictures developed, oblivious tures.” The academic and well-known au-
to my say-so. My son must think in pictures. thor explains that words come in, but only
He doesn’t know words in the sense that he “a er I’ve finished thinking it through” (her
can’t say them or write them, but he knows itals). These two things then (Temple and
what a lot of them mean even though he David) prove the Sesame Street song to be
can’t picture the le ers in his head, I think. true: “One of these things is just like the
other; one of these things is just not the
Three of the genes on Chromosome 7 same.” But guess what? That is not the case
that may be related to Au sm are AUTS2, because they (Temple=David) do match ac-
CNTNAP2, FOXP2. cording to the latest Diagnos c and Sta s-

The gene, FOXP2, is related to one’s cal Manual of Mental Disorders or DSM-5
ability to speak. According to Adam Ruth- which is the go-to book for finding out how
erford in A Brief History of Everyone Who you are similar and different from the nor-
Ever Lived, “There’s only two changes be- mal people.
tween the protein sequence of FOXP2 in
chimps and us, and we can talk and they The DSM-5 “diagnosis will be called Au-
cannot.” I like chimpanzees, and I imagine sm Spectrum Disorder (ASD), andthere no
longer will be subdiagnoses: Au s c Dis-
order, Asperger Syndrome, Pervasive De-

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velopmental Disorder Not Otherwise Spec- NS—not specified; whereas, the Cemetery
ified, Disintegra ve Disorder” (The Ameri- is VS—very specified.
can Academy of Pediatrics). (my itals).
The cemetery was much smaller than
Anyone can see that the problem with memory said it would be. Alongside Mom
the previous DSM-IV was that it was way and Dad are four others—my paternal
too crowded with things that were really grandparents, and a paternal aunt and
not the same but had a few look-alikes— uncle, which was a surprise because I had
which caused some consterna on and forgo en they stayed there as well. The
upset the natural Sesame Street order-of- cemetery has a drama c natural backdrop,
things. DSM-5 erased that prickly-pear of a Mt. Hood, and in a society under siege by
problem by simply reshuffling the four into the war between sameness and otherness,
one, Au sm Spectrum Disorder, where a it is something of an egalitarian residence
person with a PhD and another person who given the equal payout of grave markers
can’t say or spell PhD are holding the same for the dead by the living. No stone edi-
umbrella with a big fat sign on it saying ASD fices here, no outsized monument to one
HERE. Andrew Solomon rightly quips about father and husband, no statues to mother
the disappearing disorders in his ground- and grandmother. If you have a choice for
breaking work Far From The Tree: Parents, one last place to live, you can do a lot worse
Children, and the Search for Iden ty: “PDD- than this picturesque cemetery (from GK
NOS—pervasive developmental disorder, koimeterion ‘dormitory’ from koiman ‘put
not otherwise specified (which cri cs claim to sleep’). Going to sleep with like-mind-
stands for ‘physician didn’t decide’”). (my ed people in a similar environment under
Itals). Six words, just like that, lost forever the watchful eyes of a majes c mountain,
and why not, it was a mouthful and a tad on what’s not to like?
the vague side.
I showed David his maternal grandpar-
Compared to the mentally-neglected ents’ places, and he jumped and hopped
house on Woodworth Road, a few words on them, unmindful (no, mindless) of who,
and pictures arranged or shuffled their what, or where, or why we were there,
way into memory lane when we visited the while my mind saw the lost years fly by. The
Parkdale Cemetery, a er finding the gas, quiet dormitory is surrounded by an apple
but before finding the dinner. The sign de- and pear tree orchard, and a deer glided
manded our presence, for my parents are through some trees, and looked at us——at
there, and I hadn’t been to see them for me I was certain. Yet who is to know what
several years. In that sense, the house on a deer sees, or thinks? He stopped right in
Woodworth Road and my parents’ res ng front of us, and I held David’s head, trying
place are not the same at all—one was a to force him to sight this wild nature, this
rental house I will never see again; where- deer. He didn’t, of course, and my mindless
as, the cemetery I have visited a few mes determina on to make him see what we
is my parents’ forever-home, since 2000 for saw has ever been a lost gesture, yet who
my mother and since 2010 for my father. knows what David actually sees? While
You could say that, like one of the four dis- Jose, David, and I all have the visual appa-
appeared Au sm disorders, the House is ratus to sight the young deer, maybe only

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two of us really did see something that, to metaphysical door and kicked up a memory
us, was just the same. of another deer in the film Three Billboards
Outside of Ebbing, Missouri. The character,
Chromosome 7 has 159 million base pairs. Mildred, is plan ng flowers next to one of
the billboards where she has placed an ad
Sure, that sounds like a lot, but these that is a pre y clear demand to the Sheriff
building blocks of DNA in Chromosome 7 to find the person who raped and killed her
are the most highly studied of all the chro- daughter. She is silently thinking of her loss,
mosomes, and the mystery of lost words and a fawn materializes out of nowhere,
or unsighted deer may be uncovered here. stops, and looks at her. She says to the deer:
The inability of this man-son with healthy “Well, you’re pre y. But you can’t be her.
eyesight and hearing to be able to focus on She got killed, and now she’ll be dead for-
close-up or middle-distance images, never ever. I do thank you for coming up though.”
mind a far-off flying hawk, is a never-for-
go en reality of the low-func oning kind of The mother’s loss is and will con nue
Au sm, and I don’t mean the other end of to be profound, and the writer fuels it by
IT —pre y much anyone can fall under the this act of suspending disbelief—who sees
Au sm Spectrum Disorder. And fall under it a deer staring at her when life stops at sor-
they do, although presumably far from any row and mortality? Should Jus ce prevail,
trees one can see. Sta s cs reveal Au sm Mildred’s words reveal the finality of her
to be so common but really, then, where loss: daughter’s death, no a erlife, the deer
are they all? “coming up” as though it resides in the un-
derworld. Even so, Life’s grace and fragility
There is no photograph that proves the are equal to the young, pre y deer that is
deer, and only two out of the three people not her daughter but has given the mother
there could talk about it the next day, or the the only posi ve response to her words on
next. But that too falls apart because the the billboards, which have pi ed the town
words and the pictures in my mind and in against her.
Jose’s mind cannot also be the same. Any
meaning, if there is one for Jose, a thought- But this clever brain-storm happened
ful ar st, is his alone, and must be different much later, a er dinner, a er walking
than mine: he, too young to dialogue day through Parkdale, a er seeing the old wood
to day with mortality as I do; he, who did church da ng from 1911, the place where
not know my parents; he, who has not lost I was told I was bap zed (maybe 1950)
a parent. Older people seem to be mired obviously too old at the age of three for
in death-scapes, and, if they don’t like religion to s ck around and, appropriately
the mire, they may be unable to stray far enough, no mental pictures or words rise
from it. Mire, related to swampy or boggy up from that at all. None. No one has ever
ground, but also—and so more true to my talked about it, a Not Otherwise Specified
mind—to be involved in a difficult situa on, event certainly. Come to think of it the only
that is a mother who will one day not be people who can tes fy to this not-proper-
present and a son who will not understand ly-a-memory are together in that dormitory.
why she is absent.
Next appeared the building where my
This deer followed me fondly for the sisters, mother, and I went to the movies,
next few days knocking on my moody oh-so-long-ago, and I recall to this day, my

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

first cinema-seeing, my painful entrée into have incubated through me. It is my mem-
the two-faced Janus of comedy and tragedy. ory and no one else’s though I would prefer
The grandfather’s orchard where we stayed it had become lost along the way because it
every Summer was a few miles away, and clearly hasn’t done me any good. I’ve been
for an evening excursion, we went to the lo- blaming it on my fear of heights ever since
cal theatre, although I only remember this then, so I can’t back down now. The inside
one me, so maybe it did not occur o en, theatre is no longer there, (of course, obvi-
or maybe it occurred only once, historical ously), but I remember exactly which build-
facts being notably lean on the ground this ing it was located in, and I proudly point-
trip, as anyone can see. I remember it be- ed out to David and Jose, as a good tourist
cause the Na ve American women in the guide would, where I saw that movie.
audience wore tradi onal clothes, had long
braids, and really-and-truly had babies on Some weeks a er the Lost Lake adven-
their backs in papooses you now see only ture, I was reading Ed Yong’s breathtaking
in books. page- turning study of microbes in his 2016
book I Contain Mul tudes: The Microbes
But that is totally not why I remember it. Within Us and a Grander View of Life. He
The birthplace for this memory is because colorfully shows that individuals are pre y
the film scared me to death. If you want to much tethered to the microbes in their Sys-
look up The Long-Long Trailer (1953 Fox) tem. Microbes in the intes nes affect peo-
starring Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball, you too ple’s immune systems, and it turns out that
will find this Hollywood ar fact, perpetra- “Many condi ons,..are accompanied by
tor of a singular, albeit cloudy, snapshot changes in the microbiome, sugges ng that
that I can bring to life as if it occurred yes- these microbes are at the very least a sign
terday, which isn’t much it’s true. of illness, and at most a cause of it.” Wow
is what I thought because Au sm is one of
The year is probably 1954, which makes those condi ons he lists. If I can just reshuf-
me seven and seemingly too old in today’s fle David’s gut bacteria, maybe he too can
terms (technology having made innocence see the deer.
and naivete obsolete) to be so distressed
by a movie where the characters are in per- Yong writes “that we have around 30
il of driving their very long trailer off the trillion human cells and 39 trillion micro-
twisty-turning high cliff road to die a terri- bial ones….” Microbes “…the brainless, mi-
ble death. But that isn’t correct either. This croscopic, single-celled organisms that live
is comedy, pure and light. There is no rea- inside us have been pulling on our strings
son, from any normal perspec ve, where- all along.”
by the trailer could actually fall off the cliff,
crash, and harm the two comedians. Zero. Microbes in the human body outnum-
Not going to happen. ber every single human cell!? Brainless
they may well be, but if it is microbes (not
No flip side to this at all, no gray area, David’s Chromosome 7) that spin his exis-
no dark humor. Desi and Luci will never die, tence, and by extension mine, and the peo-
and no one in that theatre in Parkdale, Ore- ple who work with him like Jose, then there
gon, thought they would (except me). What is more blame to go around, which I am
I can’t prove is that any of it is true, nor will quite happy about.
anyone be able confirm this scene that I

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Our next trip is to find that other Lost The three of us together will see that
Lake. Jose and I have decided David would there is no Lake there. We will share a simi-
love to see it, we mindful, but really mind- lar reality as we walk through it, because the
less, of his true desires and so off the three ground won’t be underwater, and maybe we
of us will go, pulled by the genes in chro- will all see a deer. Jose, David, and I will not
mosomes or by not-so-brainless bacteria see what, in the past, was there and what,
or just by the luck of the draw. There won’t in the future, will be there again. In this way,
be a lake then at the end of August, just we three will be the same. And when the
a meadow. The water will be lost under- mountain water fills the meadow up with
ground and no one knows, year a er year, a lake next Spring, this too we will not be
exactly where it goes. there to see, even though it will be true.

About the Author:

Jane Babson has a Master’s degree in African Languages and Literature and a Doctorate
in Compara ve Literature, both from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She has taught
literature for the past 20 years at Western Oregon University. Her work has appeared or will
appear in Neutrons Protons, Cargo, and Punctuate.

163

IN KABUL

by Robin Fasano

There are no parks, barely a blade of grass. sandals next to him on the floor mat where
Kabul is wide open sky and rugged blue he dozes. The warm dough is comfor ng on
mountains. My driver, La f, has been with my fingers. “Good, huh? Glad you like it,” La f
me since I arrived. His familiar profile greets says, sa sfied as if he baked it himself. “To-
me each day. His eyes focus on the unpaved morrow we come back.”
streets as he swerves around potholes and
swaths of dust. I look out the window and see children
as young as five—on the dusty streets, in
A couple of months ago when he picked the pi ed decrepit alleys, standing up to
me up at the airport he told me his name their knees in gorging potholes, their ny
means “gentle.” I told him I came to here to arms unfurled begging for money.
teach English. His face opened, his choco-
late-brown eyes lit up, “My granddaughter A boy of six weaves from car to car amid
wants to be a teacher,” he said, proudly pull- exhaust fumes, tapping on car windows,
ing out crinkled faded photos of his grand- selling packs of chewing gum in his ny
children. His voice animated, lively, just like hands. No one buys. No one stops.
my neighbor Susan back home when she
shows me photos of her grandchildren. Soon we pull next to a steel door with a
metal sliding peephole. Everything in Kabul is
This morning his silver hair is slightly damp behind a concrete wall, shut in; hidden, out
from a shower as he picks me up at the house. of sight. Houses, schools, hospitals, build-
ings, offices—everyone lives behind a wall.
“Hello Miss Robin,” he says, as I ghten
my headscarf and slip into the backseat. We enter a dank, windowless cinder-
We drive under a cloudless sky, a faint wa block structure barely the size of a living
of kebabs in the air. Cars, rickshaws, goats, room rug. Twenty children, aged five to
donkeys all converge into one. There are no seven, are si ng shoulder to shoulder on
stop signs, traffic lights, or sidewalks. It’s wobbling knees blanke ng the floor, rus-
chaos and order all whipped together. tling their pads of paper, dangling pencils in
their padded finger ps, whispering in muf-
We careen around sharp turns and abrupt- fled tones to each other. I sit outside the
ly halt to jarring stop. “Best naan in Kabul small low-hanging entrance, to observe.
right here,” La f points. “Salaam, hello,” I say
to the ragged breadmaker who apparently In exchange for a ending this once a
works and sleeps in the same dough-laden week class, each child receives a bag of rice
clothes in his makeshi stand, placing his and a bo le of cooking oil for his or her

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Revista Literária Adelaide

family. It’s essen ally a bribe, for parents to her daughter to this program, she says, be-
encourage their children to a end school in- cause she needs the cooking oil and rice.
stead of working on the streets to help sup-
port their family. La f and I head to car to leave. He press-
es his foot to the gas and we start to veer
An Afghan teacher in her early twen es through clogged streets. Mid-a ernoon
is standing in front of a donated chalkboard, sun bears down on us, shimmying off the
chalk dust spraying as she scribbles, clacking ra ling metal cars, absorbing the soiled,
the white chalk s ck against the board. Her s cky streets: people, fumes, sheep, baked
voice lilts like a choir as she sounds out words bricks, children are digging through piles of
and le ers, opening her mouth wide then trash for food or items to sell.
stretching the corners of her lips to her ears.
On the bare dirt near the side of the road,
A young girl with a round face and brown a begging, burka-clad woman is si ng cross-
marble eyes brushes next to me. She’s late legged, her covered body is like a tent as she
and there’s no place le for her to sit, so she swaddles her unwashed infant in her arms.
plops down beside me, par ally outside the Her two young children with dust-smudged
doorway. The marble-eyed girl gazes up at faces, wearing knee-worn pants and ragged
me, a radiant white smile shining across her long sleeved shirts flank her, their palms are
face. It’s rare to see children smile here. facing upward as they’re begging for spare
change along with their mother.
A er class, a woman draped in dark lay-
ers with thinning hair peeking out from her A er a while, La f pulls up in front of the
headscarf walks over to marble-eyed girl and house. The muezzin bellows throughout
clasps her ny hand. The young girl is her the city. “Prayer me,” he says, closing his
daughter, she tells me. She has seven children eyes, si ng s ll as stone behind the wheel.
with her husband who at age 60 is 30 years We’re si ng in the hot, idling car, exhaust
older than her. Her billowing black layers are chugging, windows rolled down. La f’s face
somersaul ng in the wind, lines crinkle and is solemn with concentra on, his lips form
crease around her eyes as she tells me her a straight line, eyes shut. I let the call of
daughter works on the streets selling trinkets the muezzin sink deep in my bones, in my
to make money for the family. She only brings veins. Hot desert air brushes me. I exhale.
And I start to pray too.

About the Author:

Robin Fasano has wri en for Spirituality & Health,
Berkshire Magazine, and the Massachuse s Review,
among others. She has spearheaded cause-driven
campaigns for over 16 years and traveled throughout
the Middle East and Africa. Most recently, she’s been
living and working in Kabul, Afghanistan.

165

HIGHWAY MIRAGE

by Dale Dewoody

“Near the highway surface, grazing rays from the sky in front of us pass down
from higher cooler air to warmer rarefied air and back up again into our eyes…
If a mountain rather than the sky is properly located, then we see mountain light
refracted up to us from below. In this way, any object near the horizon can be seen.”
- from Color and Light in Nature by David K. Lynch and William Charles Livingston

Eight hours of sun transmutes the grey concrete interstate into glass—
not quite liquid or solid. Some of us can’t quite follow the rules.
Like light, we behave as both wave and par cle, bending
in the heat to create mirror images of the horizon in mercurial pools.

If I could just move fast enough, maybe I could reach
that translucent divide between worlds—
re-visit every wasted Thursday a ernoon. Take some me to drive back
down this highway. Follow every backroad un l it succumbs to decay:
broken bridges, dead ends, abandoned grain silos, cemeteries.
Watch the old farmer drive the rusty blue tractor in slow circles,
rolling the dried grass into hay. Some mes I’m envious;
for once, I want everything to quit moving.

Maybe this me, we finally say what we never could. Maybe
I’ll take myself more seriously. Drive away from
that ephemeral realm before I slip outside

of the margins.
Backtrack the hours and mistakes—try to get back in focus.
Keep following the interstate un l sunset’s shadows absorb all those mirages,
turning them into the distant auras of headlights, streetlamps, airplanes and satellites.
The syncopated sway of searchlights on the horizon silhoue es the unknown—
I know why the moth seeks the flame.

166

First Sounds of Spring

The so coos of the Mourning Dove dri through
the truck’s open window as I turn down Highway 16.
Frost hides in the long shadows where the trees
block the early morning sun. Spring’s first victory.
Cows march in straight lines towards the feeding troughs like commuters
filling the interstate. Only one stays behind. Some mes,
I try to escape this illusion. Search the forgo en
highways and county roads—trying to rediscover America.
I want this to ma er.
The contrast of red a erbirth on the cow’s black tail
caught my a en on. She stood weary and helpless,
bellowing visceral lamenta ons. I no ced the s llborn
calf as I slowed around the curve. A car honks, and I swerve
back into reality.

Photo at Jackrabbit Trading Post

My dad showed us the old snapshot of himself
in front of a faded yellow sign that proclaimed
“Here It Is” next to a giant, black rabbit.
He said we were going to take our picture in that exact same spot
We chased the signs for 600 miles, hearing stories about painted deserts,
petrified forests and haunted Navajo court houses.
When we finally pulled up to the yellow sign,
it was coated in fresh paint. The rabbit didn’t look the same.
My dad shook his head slowly, pulled out the worn snapshot—
It’s always too late, he said as he slipped the photo
into my hand and forced a smile for the new picture.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author:

Dale Dewoody graduated from the University of North Texas with a PhD in English in 2012.
He currently abides in Shawnee, OK, with his wife Susan. He does whatever he has to do to
get by. He likes to explore the back roads and get into adventures.

168

BRUCE LEE

by Marc Carver

I found Betrend Russell in a park
I had never been to before
I had Bruce Lee dumplings
and people kept smiling at me all day long
and a family adopted me on the train
The young women in red lion park
no ced the pigeons having sex
It was very quick.
I winked at the pearly man
singing down the tube.
I read my father standing up in the same park.
A petal blew off the tree and landed on me
even though it is not spring
The sun shines and I really feel
I have found a place
a space
I have never been in before

169

THE BICYCLE

by Mark Jamieson

Ge ysburg More bread, more bourbon, more steak.
Chicken basket, beer with lime.
Ge ysburg, park on the hill. Next day, like Lee, rode from town
Elevator to fourth floor. In a southern direc on.
Riding boots. Walk to supper, Jacket patches, souvenir magnets,
Across the street and next door. Add to collec on.
Old tavern, downstairs, bricks Ge ysburg, park on the hill.
And candles, a nice choice to make. Elevator to fourth floor.
Bench, dark wood, quiet corner. Journey con nues. Couple days here,
Bread, bourbon and well-done steak. Would like couple more.
French onion soup, beef, French dip,
And a beer with lime, for you. From Motorcycle Stories
Plus history lesson,
Read from a dimly lit menu.
Hallowed ground and tour busses,
Pilgrims all, for the next day.
Li le Round Top, Devil’s Den,
Picke ’s Charge, Picke ’s Buffet.
Cannons, green fields, monuments,
Each, its own weathered bronze plaque.
Heroic deeds, read the all?
Be er plan you to come back.
Photos, Peace Flame, trees,
Motorcycles at High Water Mark.
Sons of Virginia, New York, Tennessee.
At it l dark.
Mind, leg, weary, sunshine worn.
Supper, hotel lounge this me.

170

Mostly Elbows and Knees The Bicycle

Though she seemed mostly elbows and knees, The bicycle had only one speed,
Good Friend Peach managed graceful at ease. So Apple would, no limits, exceed.

A li le taller, a bit more reach, Was big and sturdy, far from the ground,
She could discuss advantage of each. But when it rolled, made barely a sound.

Any awkward, she worked to disguise, Had a front basket, and Bermuda bell,
And was quite perfect, in Apple’s eyes. Ridden to town, you could always tell.

He enjoyed her every each mo on, Chrome shiny chain guard, and coaster brake,
Not so much a curious no on. Could skid the back re, make no mistake.

Clip-on roller skates, wearing her key, The fenders were huge, repainted twice.
Steel wheels, sidewalk, a spirit set free. He waxed them o en, to keep them nice.

Timeless beauty, kept on the inside, With Good Friend Peach on the handlebars,
Except, these moments of sweetest ride. They would race the wind, and watch for cars,

She was all ways, a fine sunny day, And keeping to a level terrain,
When viewed in her special sort of way. Forward mo on, was easy maintain.

Though she seemed mostly elbows and knees, The bicycle had only one speed.
Good Friend Peach was both, Was Apple’s classic, his friends agreed.
thank you, and please.
From Apple’s Journal
From Apple’s Journal

171

Two Spoke in Whispers Analog Cowboy is Leather Gloves

Two spoke in whispers, secret it was. Analog Cowboy is leather gloves,
And two spoke in whispers, just because. And old saddles, and push come to shoves.

Most of the rest, remained undeclared, And thinking through, and taking his me,
Although, much more, together two shared. And slow horses, and near past his prime.

Talk comes cheaply, and stories abound, And red bandannas, and denim shirts,
But, for this two, truth needed no sound. And keeping at it un l it hurts.

And people thought whatever they would, Harmonicas, of metal and wood.
As the never could be understood. Musical theory, misunderstood.

Even at half, they had it all wrong, A pocketknife, two forks, and a spoon.
Only two were correct, all along. And coyotes that bark at the moon.

No ma er their voices were muted, Bedrolls, and coffee, and outdoor camps.
These two were, each other, well suited. And long, cold nights, and kerosene lamps.

Proper, or not, in me, two would know. And truer meanings s ll to be found.
Un l then, mostly quiet to show. And under the stars, but above ground.

Two spoke in whispers, secret it was. Analog Cowboy is leather gloves.
And two spoke in whispers, just because. Forgo en mistakes, remembered loves.

About the Author: From Analog Cowboy Collec on

M.T. Jamieson and his wife, Susan, live in
northeastern Ohio with their rescued dog
and two rescued ki en/cats. He is twice a
university former student, and a Viet Nam
Era U.S.A.F. veteran. Some of his poems have
appeared in recent issues of “WestWard
Quarterly”, “Pancakes In Heaven”, “Northern
Stars Magazine”, “The Poet’s Art”, “The Po-
etry Explosion Newsle er”, “The Lyric”, and
“Fourth And Sycamore”.

172

LIFE OF A POET

by John Kaniecki

A Alen

Absolute I have never wri en
Data, informa on, Truth A poem for Alen
Can you compute? Once close and ght
Are you astute? We were a comical sight
These theories they present in Me short and small
Higher educa on His lankiness looking tall
Do they serve sin? Alen wanted to play baseball
Do they offer salva on? Major League dreams and all
Scarecrow on the cross defining pain Now he pushes pharmaceu cals
Nails pierced through skin and bone We all have our fantasies
That is not the reason We all have our reali es
For his moan I am happy and content
He is paying the price But ah if poetry could only pay the rent
For mankind’s treason Sell your soul
Or abandon control
All alone Either way

I clearly say
You pay your toll

173

Life of a Poet Adelaide Literary Magazine
Barry No Moore

Living kills me School boy infatua on
Bills poke my eyes Lost over a Richard M. Nixon rubber mask
Tears fall Stretching the prominent nose
Generic form rejec ons slash my jugular veins Flabbergasted at the elas c recoil upon release
Blood flows A metaphor on life
Junk mail is from Pluto Norma called
Graffi is the brave new fron er In a round about diplomacy she declared
Art-poetry-civil disobedience Our comrade Barry is dead
Meaningful pre y colors He’s be er off was the diagnosis
The masses are extremely gullible WTF?
The elite are conceited in know it all stupidity Was Kissinger correct in his fascist arrogance?
P stands for pompous Doctor Spock Masturba ng in lus ul ego and influence
I’m proud the FBI search my mail Time Magazine stained in the
Irrefutable evidence I am a patriot White House bathroom
Tricky Dick and S cky Dick
Treason is the noblest crime Here’s a sugges on in memory
of our dearly love departed
Poetry is the art of rebellion Herd together the en re collec on of despots
And their spineless cohorts whispering
Guilty of Death sweet nothings of vile
No true warrior celebrates glory in death
I brought my own nails to the crucifixion Unless their humanity has been X’d
Being hung on a cross breaks your bones Like John Chivington and his
But names are eternal cousin in killing Custard
If Plato was so wise why didn’t he write poetry? Take a group Polaroid
Autumn the golden harvest, A er it is fully developed in techno color
winter the purity of the end Strike a match and set it ablaze
Pilate inquired of my defense Just cause you can
I handed him this poem Use claws of jus ce to shred
He smiled and turned thumbs down the smug mocking mask
Of the sinister superior Nietzsche
“Guilty of death, Amature!!” charged super man
Observe a tormented toddler
Wounded beyond point of view
Never to comprehend
The most precious words

174

Revista Literária Adelaide

I love you humanity washed clean
Like Barry would pronounce As we pronounce bold words in cau on
But no longer We walked the winding way once before
He is fading fast into forge ulness Of whom Barry was one
Unless in irony in future days of radiant glory Demand in meekness
Inquiring minds come across this pome No more
English a vanquished dead language May all wars cease
Babylon banished Then Barry
Tyre toppled You may rest in peace
And all the proponents of One you par cipated to create
genocide meager ashes Where Love rules over hate
The darkening of the face of

About the Author:

John Kaniecki is a Chris an of over thirty years and is presently a full- me caregiver for his
wife Sylvia. John served eight years as a voluntary missionary to the inner city of Newark,
New Jersey with the Church of Christ at Chancellor Avenue. John is a published writer and
poet who has a very diversified collec on of literary art, including his personal story “More
Than The Madness”. John hopes to become a professional writer to support himself and
his family as well as to bless others. To learn more about the author please explore his web
page. h ps://johnkaniecki.weebly.com

175

THE WALT
WHITMAN BRIDGE

by Steven Goff

Ferris Wheel

At the impetus of fortune or fate,
you and I have stolen ourselves away the confines

of a bucket seat
and are li ed easily like silver hands traversing pearl inlay
on the face of an an que clock.

We are cradled by the Ferris wheel’s
interlocking la cework, the choreography of lights

below is radiant and rainbow like.

Love is when the iron webbing
of the wheel lurches to a halt and by chance we find

ourselves perched at the very top.

Upon being taken up,
love is returning to solid earth and feeling assured

by the firmness of the fairground squarely underfoot.

The evening’s in ma ons
balloon as if fixed to a plas c clown’s gaping mouth.

176

On S lts Revista Literária Adelaide
Headless Statue of Orpheus

I am walking on s lts, taking There is no part of him that does not yearn
surefooted steps over the sea. to be heard, his muscle’s cord having been
The very tops of shingled drawn nearly as taut as a moleskin drum.
roofs are accompanied We cannot know the prosody of his turned
on the storm’s lip by ceaseless head or craning neck,
foam bea ng against his arms’ overtures have been silenced.
bare wooden stems. The frenzy s rred into being by his hands
I am impervious to the swollen has long since se led down as his fingers
mist that rises to arrest me. fracture and physically break.

How funny I must look, a flamingo Strumming at the bodies vine, fre ng over
borne from the water’s tendons and skin,
froth, a paragon of grace gliding effortlessly the ligatures that bind his lithe brawn are
across unyielding surf. s ll fine enough to double for viola strings.
I step forth and roads bubble up.
I strut upon gangplanks Imagine how pliant his tongue would be
of foam, carrying myself with the persistence had it been maintained, his willowy frame
of a pendulum. had it not been disassembled
like a flute and packed away. Sour features
There are no shores le to wash up upon. wane. The body badly needs to be restrung.
Stone becomes an instrument of its
own pain playing out a fading denouement.

177

Distant Animal Adelaide Literary Magazine
The Walt Whitman Bridge

A blaze of horn amid startled A bridge between thoughts
breadths, fiery lungs without pause, I drive
at my ease observing a stretch of the road.
start in against your inner haunch The enumerate shadows of birds descend from
as yellowed grass is met with brisk air. lo y uprights like a smog, the superstructure’s
unchanging green is bullied on by traffic
The dun of your hind legs is in abeyance that cannot be contained between
streaked with bronze. green towers and tolls.

Winter’s end has been Old paint flecked struts chip,
etched in equal parts steel beams become
across your bare fur as copper se les undressed. Top forty hits are carried by a fervor
on the velvet surface of of horns that whistle and laugh.
your antler’s nes. Regarding women and men
the same, entrea ng
Handsome traveler, the of each what good new thing
underbrush suddenly parts, the earth bestowed
on them, the bridge straddles escarpments
unshod hoofs in flight mix abreast the Delaware and strips, reveling in its
dirt with freshly nakedness.
budding columbines beside the path.
Your eyes bore into me as a minivan’s
headlamps might.

Only blonde sprigs remain a er you pass,
only what was snared by
ne les or myself
is le .

About the Author:

Steven Goff studied psychology, crea ve wri ng and publishing at Drexel University. He en-
joys wri ng personal poems indica ve of life in the Philadelphia area as well as ekphras c
and literary leaning poetry. His other interests include making music and mosaic art. Stevens
poems have appeared in such publica ons as Pendora Magazine, The 33rd, The Magnolia
Review, and Literary Yard among others.

178

REVOLT

by George Held

On St. Cecilia’s Day

22 November
From harmony, from heav’nly harmony
This universal frame began...

—John Dryden, “A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day, 1687”

They don’t make saints like you anymore – And I would no way sing to God as I lay
Virgin, singer, lover of God – Bleeding. Taking three days to die, you earned
And we remember your day less
For you than for the martyred JFK. Your sainthood fi ngly, more so than did
Those popes whom there
In your firm faith, you sent Valerian, was such an unseemly
Your husband, out of Rome for bap sm Rush to canonize – for fear they’d be
And assured him your guardian angel Le out in the crush of events those days?
Said God had made you ever a virgin.
Like you, JFK bled copiously,
More than Purcell’s piece or Raphael’s But died instantly; he had no me to think
Ecstasy…, I recall Dryden’s “Song” for you, Of God or sing to Him; his death made us
And his ode on “The Power of Music,” Uncertain... of so many things. Do we
Wri en “in honor of St. Cecilia’s Day.”
Have the art to match his legend to yours
The Romans’ overheated And the faith that new men and brave women
bathhouse would have done Will intercede for us, as you two did,
Me in, not to men on the decapita on, Now that the book of martyrdom is closed?

179

Shorty Adelaide Literary Magazine
Revolt

1. “Revolu on” carries the seeds of “revolt” –
One of the day laborers, a shoveler It’s the re-turn, the turning-back, around,
on the job building Doc’s new pharmacy
across the street from our apartment, Revolving on the same axis that got us here
was named “Shorty” Lavelli, From there: 1776 to 2018, 242 years
and listening to the workers’ banter,
I learned his nickname was not so much Of progress and decline and about to fall,
for his stature as for a war injury The hardening of societal arteries,
he’d suffered in the infantry in Nam –
jumping over a fallen tree trunk The disequilibrium, the insufferable
like a hurdler, Shorty was shot Gap between the very rich (“different
between the legs and the bullet tore off
the p of his penis. Luckily, he and his wife From you and me”) quaffing Champagne
already had a kid before his wound And the rest sucking hind e. Who knows
became a joke among his fellow workers.
How to squelch greed, impose equality?
2. But gird your loins and prepare to join
I was young and stupid when I hung out
with Shorty and the others at the work site, The next revolters, the turners-around,
and I didn’t understand the humor in losing Who’ll rouse the crimson rabble, those
the p of your dick, but Shorty laughed
along with the others when they teased Who won’t hesitate to break the eggs
him about his loss. Thankfully, he resisted for a new revolu onary omelet.
their urgings to show me his stump, like
some carnival a rac on in a dimly lit tent, Hear them? They are at the gates.
and I felt only a queasy curiosity before
the relief when he walked away with his
fingers fixed to his s ll-closed fly.

3.
Shorty marched in the Fourth of July
Parade in Yonkers, but on Labor Day,
he told me, he took his wife and kid
to Rye Playland for the day, and tried
to forget about the work he’d done
for Uncle Sam, and about his wound…

un l the next day on the job when
the ribbing began all over again
and Shorty, with the thrust of his spade,
tried to drown it out.

180

Revista Literária Adelaide

Cubs on Parade

“Children [called Cubs of the Caliphate] are taking a much more ac ve role...receiving training on the
use of heavy weapons, manning checkpoints on the front lines, being used as snipers and in extreme
cases being used as suicide bombers.” – Julie e Touma, UNICEF regional spokeswoman (Reuters)

Cubs are cute, whether lion or bear,
but bear the genes of a predator.

The same’s not true of IS cubs, who might
become scholars or teachers if not recruited

to kill, to ng second-hand AK-47s,
sniping with long rifles at other human

beings soccer fields away, or up close
and personal when detona ng their vest.

The Cubs of the Caliphate might suffer
phantom pain like the annealed stump of a bomb-

severed limb or feel numbed by the carnage
they cause, though a er the damage

is done, they are praised by their trainers
or else dead too.

About the Author:

A ten- me Pushcart Prize nominee, George Held con-
tributes poems, fic on, and transla ons to various peri-
odicals, including Adelaide, Blue Unicorn, Home Planet
News Online, and Transference. His latest collec on of
poems is Second Sight (Poets Wear Prada, 2019).

181

TOO MANY WORDS

by Mukund Gnanadesikan

Too Many Words Unlucky

Obfuscate if you must She hobbles forth on the twisted ankle
If it helps assuage the sickness Of capricious ill circumstance
That roils your conscience Pain is nothing if not constant
Causing fever and delirium Unwavering in its a en ons
No arms bend to hold her
Excuse me if the corners of my mouth
Remain unmoved by your gyra ons To bu ress frame as thin
Of flowing lingual dance, your As Sunday communion wafer
Filtered apologies spilling over dam’s edge And equally as disregarded

Ears trained by transparent ora ons Scrub away the dirt, the grime
Blown away before the eye can catch them And ostenta ous dwellings gleam
Now doubt the honeyed promises Invisible forever, she disappears with a twenty
Of repara ons and prosperity No smile, no warmth, no thank
you from the boss
Now is the me for ac on and amends
Given without fanfare, without bluster Home is a dingy room, musty and sparse
Mouth closed, hands and heart open Safe for the shedding of tears
Approach and act with me, together. Fit for li le else
Who dares ask for more?

182

Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author:

Mukund Gnanadesikan is a poet and novelist currently based in Napa, CA. A 1992 gradu-
ate of Princeton University, his poems have been featured or are upcoming in Sheets:For
Men Only, Adelaide Literary Journal, The Ibis Head Review, Tuck Magazine, Junto Magazine,
Streetlight Press, The Bangalore Review, Blood and Thunder: Musings on the Art of Medi-
cine, Junto Magazine, Poesis Literary Magazine, and The Cape Rock.

183

THE HUMAN SPIRIT

by Diarmuid ó Maolalaí

The human spirit is starving. take bad
rela onships
is very breakable. over no-one at all.
we don’t birds
fight. take off in winter. go to
give in africa. go
all the me. to spain. we don’t
do that.
crayons we won’t even
break dig a hole
in our five year old to die in.
fingers
and look at that; 184
suddenly
our pictures
have double
the amount of blue.

we take circumstance
and adapt.
survive
be er. most of us
don’t challenge the world.
we change instead,
to fit it.

take bad jobs
when the alterna ve

A life so fine. Revista Literária Adelaide

I have the kitchen
surrendered is for chaos now. a closed door
the kitchen. waved and mad havoc
a flag. every day and a life so fine
dirt slid off me
and I pushed it back, for flies. the mice can have it.
woodlice can learn to climb.
red I buy sandwiches
like an overnight prepackaged
bus. spa ers and eat them in bed
respat themselves reading novels. the rest
a er being of my territory
wiped clear is already
and squashed flies shrinking.
s ll spo ed
on the counter.

what broke
resistance
finally
was one dropped bomb
on construc on - a pillar
out of place
in a castle
on the sink. plates exploded
and glass shot
shrapnel. cups collapsed
like cliffs into the sea,
sloshing the linoleum
with waves
and ro en water.

185

Something a lot like poetry. Adelaide Literary Magazine
Bi ng a flower.

no cause for a candle. one day
burn one anyway - I was hanging out with cora
the sun has not se led when she was s ll
but what the hell; my ex. walking along queen st
you like ligh ng fires in late february
and it drives away the flies. to that fake beachfront they’d made
on the lake. I don’t remember much
and you lean back of what we talked about,
and you tap your leg against the tablestem, except she told me she had gone on dates
vague in the aim which she’d enjoyed
of crea ng some dribbles somewhat
on the side of the winebo le but she hadn’t fucked anyone
which props it, since we’d ended things. she had,
but no luck - she burns of course. so had I,
clean, but you don’t
si ng straight to a en on tell someone that.
and s ff as a priest’s collar.
a er a while
and you s ffen your drink I confessed
and sit, why I’d suggested
trying to look interes ng she meet me,
and staring out the window, and her mouth
into an alleyway felt small
with nothing but cats. like bi ng a flower
the a en on you pay but then it went in harder,
to making everything got big
be arty and all around. we sat down on the beach
for the benefit in a public sunbed
of no audience at all and tore each other
and no reason for 30 mins
beyond self-image - or more.

it’s something then we got up
a lot and finally went
like poetry, to my place - pulling paper
though at least the candle off the box
provides a li le light. of why we’d come.

186

Revista Literária Adelaide

I don’t begrudge it.

the pigeons of winter
are barking than badgers; all the fes vals
beau fully lining on your house
and christmas like strangers
is shining knocking to get in. christmas, halloween,
out of windows. kids hell,
are lining up even my birthday
to get presents passes with vegetables
given. in shopping centres and flipping through the first
santa clauses ten pages of books.
die for a cig. I walk from work let people
the same as always light up their houses with fire hazards -
but colder I don’t begrudge it. plus
and go into a house it’s dublin;
the same lights on a tree
as always walking by
but warm - and the good thing are the best stars
about living alone I’m ever
is that you can take less no ce going to get.

About the Author:

DS Maolalai is a poet from Ireland who has been wri ng and publishing poetry for almost 10
years. His first collec on, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the
Encircle Press, and he has a second collec on forthcoming from Turas Press in 2019. He has
been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize.

187

THE STATE OF AFFAIRS

by Douglas Polk

The State of Affairs Nebraska’s Hills of Sand

ignorance now, wind blown sand,
the reality, piled through the eons,
yet knowledge accumulated, beachfront property,
easily and endlessly, abandoned,
everyday, for even the ocean has fled,
on the web, leaving hills of sand,
yet surprisingly, sunbaked,
isolated, and desert dry,
the process of thought atrophies, an ocean of sand,
while interac on becomes more difficult, and grass,
with each passing day, wave upon wave,
more like a herd of sheep, yearning for the sea that once was.
or swine,
looking for cliffs,
possessed by demons,
of our own design.

188

Revista Literária Adelaide

Birds of Spring

cranes heard in the morning light,
a choir,
a thousand voices strong,
the essence of Spring,
celebra ng the return of the sun,
flying north or south,
eternal,
Spring a er Spring,
Fall a er Fall,
marking the seasons,
be er than the calendar on the wall,
cranes heard,
a harbinger of Spring.

About the Author:

Douglas Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and son, two dogs
and three cats. Polk has had over 1,000 poems published in hundreds of publica ons.

189

APRIL CHILDREN

by Kevin Keane

Unsuccessful Death April Children

The crossbow above her fireplace Children dance and walk to school
Was to me a precious symbol of As lonely dogs watch through windows
her glowing in disguise
Her persistent beauty carved A baby stops to pick a deadly flower
heavy images into my mind And dies along the road
She held me with cold finger ps
Wrenching from me all I could carry Children dance and play in pairs
The yellow sun, the black metal stairs
The crossbow above her liquid fire
Gave way to treacherous thoughts A baby stops to touch a deadly spider
of dying beside her And dies along the road
With li le me for bleeding
And no me at all for ques ons A mother runs in tears
Si ng beside her burning heart Along the path to the school yard
We produced a ny play with our She finds familiar gloves along the way
fingers used as puppets
Like two children we played at gro oes She stops to li her daughter’s mi en
And hid beneath our coats And dies along the road

With the crossbow above the fireplace
I pierced my lover’s heart
Not engorged with scarlet blood
But infested with poison worms
Bi er dry wine
And a loaf of French bread

190

First Christmas

To see the hummingbird on Christmas day
In this desert city so far away,
from the very first Christmas
Where I began in black snow, black ice below
Half a short century ago

With li le blood puddles marking the way
On the very first of Christmas days
Trains and elephants coming through tunnels
Like squeezing Christmas trees through funnels

I feel the li le lungs moving
Innocent and intensely soothing
This could be anywhere, at
the start or its ending
A final Christmas card I’m sending

About the Author:

Kevin Keane was born and grew up in New York City and currently resides in Arizona. A er
wri ng for more than forty years, Kevin only recently began submi ng his work in 2018.
Previously Kevin Keane has had three poems published since he began submi ng his work
in 2018 and this will be the second appearance of his work in Adelaide Literary Magazine.
The writer is working on edi ng a compila on of his poems wri en over a forty year span
for inclusion in a full book of poetry to be ready before the end of 2019. Mr. Keane has been
influenced by Lorca, Bukowski and Don Van Vliet.

191

TENDER

by Gabriele Super

Dissonance Grey, the cloudy
iced over pond,
Dissonance, in trudged around through
blue. The broken the snow. Grey, when it
rippling pond, driven is prodded and that ice,
around at the park, under the pressure of
alive with lazy life a finger p
(bobbing ducktails, collapses into slush.
glimmering scales). Through frosted
Dance around it, window panes and
even though, under freezing slush – you,
the flame of summer- on cigare e three,
you beckon. caught up in that
hazy dawn smog.
Dance around it-
share a cigare e 192
and a coffee at
dawn while
life is s ll, and
swirling smoke and
steam are their
own orbit, a
celes al passing of
cosmic vices between
finger ps, back and
forth, back and
around.

Cleaning Revista Literária Adelaide

Cleaning the house Tender
scrubbing the dishes, flipping
backwards through dinners There is flour under her nails
past. from the night kneading tender scones,
Sweep up the crumbs at and she’s le the door propped open
the corner of the kitchen out onto the pa o.
doorway that keep s cking
to your toes. Just risen, you sit beside her,
Sheets into the laundry, light a cigare e, and it burns
clothing into the laundry. like she is already burning, like the late
You, into the shower. a ernoon cloudless sky. You offer
Put the books back her the cigare e and she hands you
on the shelf, except her coffee, and the mer cks.
“How To Ruin Everything”
it has her name scribbled You sit on the pa o sharing a chair
in the cover, it with her propped feet and sharing
doesn’t belong here. a cigare e and sharing her
you can’t find coffee and sharing your
where it all
belongs. sunrise, her sunset, the
ck of me, and the coffee

has no me to go cold.

193

Adelaide Literary Magazine
Best Things to Take With

The burn of sound some notes of
pressing between ears bi erness
too close to the speaker lingering at the back
and all the moving bodies of the tongue
huddled around.
Barefoot and breathless on “listen”
the porch, stepping over
the doorstep, inside. words for bi er:
The flick of a lighter, baker’s chocolate,
the brand it leaves lemon zest, bi en
against thumbprints. adderall
Sweat beneath sweatshirts
cold walks each step warmer just one last moment
dragged behind pan ng dogs one last sensa on of
in a circle back home. going out the backdoor
into the heart of fall
About the Author:
the pulse
the marching band
behind the ears
in the thick of it all

“listen”

burning sips of coffee
the first traces of
heat in the dawn

you, you, you.

Gabriele Super is a writer and teacher who lives and works
in Saint Louis, Missouri. She completed her BA in English and
Anthropology at Saint Louis University.

194

MABEL YU WITNESS

by Mariah Swartz

Mabel Yu Witness

Your opal earring hung steady on your right ear
too far too the right on your le .
I remember your white paper bag with
grease bu erflies and a bo le of murky liquid
weighed at the bo om.
Hot oil stains skin a meat red
leaves scars like 6 o’clock arguments.
Pink wispy clouds se ling beneath dusty canyons
sinking to red rivers and white water rapids.
Tell me about the license plate
with your two favorite numbers and ini als of my name. Your opal earring
buried with you now, the other s ll on display at the
downtown market where you stole it. I s ll use
the bag with bu erfly grease stains to put books in
your license plate s ll hangs above our bed frame,
engraved with the pink in your name. The last thing I remember saying to you was
somewhere in my dreams when I called your name, you didn’t reply.
I remember the grease stains came from
the house, we le the stove on while encompassing
our naked bodies into each other, whispering
into coves of stretched stomachs
while sunflower seeds plant into soil. Tell me you’ll remember me
when the sky’s grey and sunflowers bloom in fall, almost ready
for their second birthday. Tiger lily hair and summer yellow hearts.
She reminds me of you, Mabel. Come back to to my dreams
and return your opal earring.

195

Adelaide Literary Magazine

I want an apology

Tall pines swaying East to West, but I’m going North.
You’re selfish. Don’t put him on a pedestal and hate us for your mistakes.

Or maybe I’m going home. Home is where you should feel safe, joy and grass stained memories.
You don’t deserve to be loved.

I taste the bi er nge of her words in my ears, above robins chirping.
The sunset reminds me of pumpkin carving, hands cut and shaped awkward in the sky.
I never once said the sunrise reminded me of him.

If you leave this house never come back.

I’m not looking for red horizons anymore.
She doesn’t remember, but
she s ll wears the hoodie with
tears in the zipper teeth
blue not dark enough to wash the smell of chain smoking Newports
the holes in the wall.
S ll, I can smell smoke in the entryway, himid with

How are things? Good to see you.

I want an apology. To feel arms wrapped around my shoulders
let’s pack a lunch with three ham sandwiches and hit Highway 93.
I want an apology, tuck me in at night and tell me you love me.

You’re a piece of shit just like your father.

I want to hear the river current
Bailey pan ng, blowing water from her scrunched nose
shaking her body against hot sand.
I want an apology, I never asked you to play drug dealer hopscotch un l
the stone landed on the number you wanted.

Are you sure you want to come back?

S ll, you’re looking for red horizons.

196

Revista Literária Adelaide

The Time I Scored Front Row Sea ng at an MMA Fight

Every Saturday night it’s the same kicks to the head or blows to the mouth, but different bulky
men. I’ve never really understood why anyone would watch MMa figh ng on television. But maybe
I’m just sensi ve. The walls here are real thin, and I can tell by the sounds that there’s blood in
his mouth because I remember my mother’s lips when she asked me to dial 911 on the house
phone and she said don’t let him talk to you like that. I didn’t feel my fingers dialing on the house
phone, or handing it to my mom on the ground while he stole a bike and broke the mailbox.

MMA- AAANNNNDD he’s got it! Look at that leg trip takedown.
Oh now he’s going for the triangle choke by golly he’s gonna—

I don’t understand why a grown man thinks it’s ok to do cocaine in the master bathroom of
a two bedroom trailer while the twelve year old daughter takes care of a one year old who
didn’t get so lucky, doesn’t have her own daddy because he’d rather get high on drugs than
li his baby up. He can’t remember her name or birthday but doesn’t ever forget where
he put his pipe. But I can’t forget when he hit my mom in the kitchen the first me.

MMA- Oh, he’s going to get docked for that one. Pulled the most dangerous illegal move there
is. The other guy is s ll trying to achieve a knee strike from the ground and there he goes—

It doesn’t many any sense. I don’t know how the score works any more than I know how
to count the amount of dirty UA’s or days spent far away from the baby he le and never
came back for. My mom tells me everyone makes mistakes, but she misunderstood what
I was trying to say, when I said I didn’t want him here. He taught you how to ride a bike,
she says. But when my sister asks where her daddy is, how does that help me explain?

MMA- He’s going to tap out, here he goes! The choke hold
is too much for him, he lost another round..

I remember someone once asked me what I was afraid of. I didn’t answer. I
didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure what happened on a TV screen and what we
watched in my living room. My mother always told me memory is tricky, maybe
he was drinking. And some mes we confuse our fears with reality.

About the Author:

Mariah Swartz is a senior at Big Sky High School in Missoula, Montana. She has lived in Mis-
soula her whole life, and she is the primary editor for her school’s literary magazine, Aerie
Interna onal.

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A STATUE OF MARY

by William Miller

A Statue of Mary That was before the bomb fell,
doubt rained down like acid rain,
In the courtyard, beads cla ered on stone floors.
in the dry fountain,
she stands on a concrete block. The ghost of a virgin, she smiles
sadly now, childless, as if someone
Rain-streaked, she is ten shades should pray for her.
of gray. Lichens turn brown
in the folds of her robe.

But she opens her arms
to a suffering world,
s ll welcomes the prayers

of the faithful, even here,
even in the ruins of a house
once filled with children

who learned to pray in La n
as soon as they could talk.
That was before the Storm

closed the doors of churches
where many prayed, families,
widows and blind men.

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