Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 32. January 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

The hunter went down the side of the hill and once squirming under a storm drain
to the site and saw nothing amiss among chasing after a raccoon who had slipped
the grasses. No indentations, no jostled into that world under the pavement. These
stems, there were no tracks indicating that stories always strike me as bittersweet.
a bison had come or had left. In the very She did not have a happy childhood. The
center of the four directions, he discovered youngest child by a eight years, her siblings
a single hoof print. The bison, the story were mostly out of the house by the time
goes, was sacred and ascended to heaven she was in middle school. Her eldest sibling,
that fifth morning, leaving behind nothing Bebe, was a full eighteen years older, and
but a trace. Out of that hoof print, out of had passed from cancer when my mother
disappearance, grew Mother Corn, the first was still a small child. My mother had a lot
woman on Earth. of time to herself, especially due to the fact
that Dorothy suffered from depression and
*** had at one point been diagnosed at bipolar,
and she spent much of my mother’s child-
My mother and I would routinely walk hood in and out of being institutionalized in
through the woods near our house. Her mental hospitals.
favorite season was early spring, when
she would get anxious if she didn’t go out Nature was her escape, as was reading.
for a week that she would miss the white Her favorite childhood book series was
trilliums, which she generally managed to Little House on the Prairie which she sub-
catch a glimpse of, nestled on the crest of sequently read out loud to me when I was
a creek bank, dark leaves unfurling out of a child. She told me one of her favorite
the dead foliage shed earlier in the fall. Our games after reading the books was to pre-
walks were slow at that time of year when tend that she was a young Native American
compared to her usual fast clip, we stopped girl. She even asked for a pair of moccasins
every few steps as she would quiz me on and, once she had them, would run through
wildflower names I knew she had told me the ghostly sycamores and thick oaks of the
before but that I rarely could remember. Maryland countryside fully believing she
lived at some other time, was some other
“Right, is this Squirrel’s Corn or Dutch- person. Now, she walks, and pauses, and
man’s Breeches?” she would ask, crouching, it seems less as if she is pretending to be
lightly touching a small land with delicate someone and more as if each flower we see
white flowers shaped like a heart. reminds her of who she already is.

The curved edges gave it away as Squir- ***
rel’s Corn, Dutchman’s Breeches was nearly
identical however the crests weren’t curved The government attempted to “teach” the
like the top of a heart but rather pointed indigenous farmers how to farm through
into two peaks, meant to resemble panta- demonstrations given by white farmers, a
loons hanging on a drying line. I guessed largely unsuccessful endeavor as many
correctly. were given land inhospitable to agricul-
ture, and additionally, the U.S. government
She loved nature even as a child, fondly focused on teaching the men how to farm.
recounting stories of spending hours up in Generally, in the Plains tribes, planting and
a tree observing a fox with her young kits,

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harvesting was considered women’s work, to sustain human life in America. Around
part of the sacred feminine extending from 40% of commercial corn is used for eth-
Mother Corn as Keen tells me. Regardless of anol, about 36% as animal feed. Much of
these challenges, the Burke Act was passed the edible corn is exported. Of the small
in 1906 which allowed the Secretary of the fraction used for American consumption,
Interior to determine if an allotted farmer ears of corn represent an even smaller part,
was “competent” to manage their farm be- the majority is used to create corn syrup.
fore the end of the trust period. This gave Memory in the Plains appears to be selec-
a government agent strange, immense tive.
control in the lives and affairs of individual
people and families, as this provision also ***
made the Secretary the sole determiner of
legal heirs to the allotments. If he didn’t be- Taylor describes the sacred feminine as
lieve there was a legal heir, the allotment a concept central to the Omaha tribe as
would be sold, generally to a white settler. well as other indigenous groups. Farming
has long been associated with this sacred
After the boom of industrial farming feminine, stemming from the Mother Corn
following the end of World War II, the origin myth. This connection anointed the
small-scale farms that still remained under practice of growing corn as sacred, as ritu-
indigenous control became even more dif- al, perhaps more so than labor. Women of
ficult to operate. By and large, white cor- child-bearing age planted the fields, har-
porations were the only ones with enough vested, braided corn, threshed it, dried
capital to invest in the machinery, pesti- it, ground it into flour. Planting would oc-
cides, employees and other aspects critical cur on the new moon as all things moon
to compete in the new American agricul- were associated with the sacred feminine.
tural economy. Many remaining allotments A ceremony of rhythm, planting was ac-
were sold or leased. As of 2012, indigenous companied by the voices of women singing
people made up only 1.8% of American traditional songs. Though only women of
principal farm operators despite many still child-bearing age planted, their mothers,
living in rural agricultural areas. great-great grandmothers, aunts, living
and dead were with them through the tra-
I ask Taylor, “What’s the reception of ditional planting songs passed down from
your work by people near you?” generation to generation.

“I would say most of the traditional Although he is a man, Taylor sings to
farmers just kind of ignore us,” he replies the corn in his backyard. It’s his hope that
with a sarcastic chuckle. “It just doesn’t women in his tribe become more deeply
compute into their minds. Your average involved in this movement of revival. “The
person, when shown Indian corn says, ‘You sacred feminine,” he tells me, “is what fed
can’t eat that, right?’ That was a marketing us all.”
campaign by somebody, maybe it was Oscar
Will.” ***

Surrounded by industrial corn, it’s hard Dorothy was also a potter, largely by hob-
to remember that only a tiny fraction of by though she occasionally sold individual
what is commercially grown is edible, used pieces. We still have one of her vases that

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she gave to my mother. The vase is mud mass erasure from the world. Yet the moon
and knows it is mud, and for this it is beau- also gives light. Mother Corn was birthed
tiful. Glazed clay coats the top of the vase, from absence, from disappearance. Ancient
which then gives way to a gritty lower half. forms of corn - kernels of jade, ivory, onyx,
This half is deep brown, nutmeg soil on a amethyst - thought to be forgotten sprout
damp morning, soil where if you look at in Taylor Keen’s backyard. Quern stones
it for more than a moment you’ll begin to dust soil from their shoulders. I crank the
see its life: pulsing with burrowing worms, lever of Dorothy’s flour sifter, her yellowed
microscopic spiders, hard-shelled roll-polys writing provides dough again and again
barreling ahead on whatever business they and again. Once chilled, I roll the dough out
have down in the dirt. into thin layers, cut it with serrated cookie
cutters her family used; Christmas trees,
I can see why she was attracted to the soldiers, West Highland Terriers and doves
quern, as she also used her hands to coax softly rise in the oven.
such beauty out of nature. Though Flint un-
covered the quern, Dorothy seemed to care My best friend from childhood lived next
the most for it and first laid it out as a bird to a farm, the crops would rotate yearly be-
bath. Did she feel a woman’s hand in the tween corn and soybeans. One night we
weight of the stone, did her low back pinch, decided to venture into the field, crunching
her forearm tremble with some memory of over bent, thick stems of corn leftover from
that land-body labor of farming? Built, not the harvest, above us the stars were out. I
thrown, on the top of the vase she layered can’t remember what we talked about, or
thick slabs of clay, gently folded layers in why we wanted to be out in that cold black-
which she etched various designs: swirls ness, but I remember a coyote yipped and
here, hollowed dots there. I run my fin- then let loose a cry from somewhere in the
gers over the rifts, searching for a voice, a nearby trees, close enough that we could
muscle, a knuckle to hold onto, fumbling for hear it. Instead of running back inside her
women who came before me. house, laughingly opening the screen door,
I wish that we had thrown back our heads
The feminine and the moon. At first, I’m and howled along. I wish that we would
afraid this designation confines women to have listened longer, remembered how that
darkness, the collective silence of night, moon-world sings.

About the Author

Phoebe Myers is a nonfiction writer and poet currently
pursuing her M.F.A at Florida State University. Her
creative work has been published by Aquifer: The Florida
Review Online, the blog of Tricycle, the national Buddhist
magazine, and the journals Inklings and East End Elements.
When she isn’t writing, she can likely be found simmering
a vegetable stew or working on her home yoga practice.

151

JELLYBEAN

by Marisa Mangani

I was four years old when my grandmother the mynah bird, because it was something
announced that she was going to shoot she wanted to do and this would make her
the mynah bird. The sun had been above happy. And if she was happy, she’d be nice
the ridge of the Koolau mountain range to me. I needed my grandmother to be
for several hours, washing us with tropical nice to me, and now, wanting to shoot the
honey hues as we sat at the metal dinette mynah bird, she wore an almost-smile on
outside her house on Kahala Avenue. I was her lips, where she usually wore a frown.
just coming into self-focus in my short life,
and this memory has built upon itself lay- “Of course I mean it,” she said. Go get
ers of clarity over the years, like the faintest your brother’s slingshot from the garage.”
of paint strokes, applied one atop anoth- Referring to my Uncle Jack. Who was at-
er, until the image is sharp and bright. The tending Stanford.
enormous jacaranda tree which housed
the offending bird had decorated the pa- My mom rolled her eyes and flipped
tio stones with feathery lavender blooms, through the Honolulu Advertiser noncom-
which danced and blew lazily across the mittally.
stones in the light trade winds. On this day,
I was nibbling micro-bites from a toasted Shrock!
cinnamon Pop Tart.
I stopped chewing the edges of my Pop
Shrock! The mynah bird protested, and I Tart, and some words rushed out past my
covered my ears against the painful attack. fear of her, “But Grandmother. What about
the jellybeans? Do we have any jelly beans?”
“See?” Grandmother said, “I can’t even
read my paper with that racket. You!” she This is such a fond memory of that house
pointed a sun-worn finger toward the jac- at 4504 Kahala Avenue, an old house with
aranda tree. “I’m going to shoot you with a cottage out back, near the Pacific Ocean,
jellybeans!” that contains my earliest memories of Ha-
waii, after my mom fled my brilliant but
My mom, who was actually there that crazy dad in Berkeley with infant me, and
morning, said, “Oh Mother, you don’t ran home to her mother. But pleasant mem-
mean that.” My heart fell. My mom, whom ories like this one are rare at this house
I hardly saw, was disrupting the rhythm of and the fog surrounding my memory for a
things. I wanted my Grandmother to shoot long time hid the truth from me. That my
grandmother resented me being there,

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resented my mom gallivanting around the with us on Maui. I had a job in a restaurant
Ala Wai yacht harbor learning to sail on her kitchen and was making my own money,
new boat purchased with an inheritance independence driving me to near insanity.
from her paternal grandmother. My grand- My mom still cowered under the weight of
mother resented me so much, and hated Grandmother’s words, and did not step in
my screaming so much, she’d lock me in to defend me when those sharp, conde-
the cottage out back, behind the beautiful scending remarks sliced through the air, di-
jacaranda, where I could hear the shrock rectly at me.
of many mynahs, and sometimes I could
hear the washing of sands by the pounding “You should wear eyebrow pencil to cover
waves—or maybe I created the soothing that scar from when you ran into the house.”
sounds of waves as a highlight to this
memory— but I do know that I was alone, Or, “That friend of yours is prettier than
and I was afraid. I would scream myself to you.”
sleep, earning me the reputation in the
family as ‘the screamer.’ Or, “Oh! What are you thinking? You’re
not smart enough to attend Stanford!”
The search for jellybeans became my
personal mission, as three generations Or, “Get back into that kitchen right now!
of us wandered Waikiki after Mom and Go get your plate and eat your vegetables.”
Grandmother had had their Mai Tais at the
Halekulani pool deck, while I collected pri- Most of the time, she didn’t have to
mary-colored swizzle sticks from drowsy say anything for me to feel her disapproval.
tourists pinking up in the sun. Mom ex- Under the scrutinous eyes of my grand-
haling Marlboro Reds through red lips into mother, I always felt more dumb, more fat,
the exhaust-fumed city air. Grandmother more anxious, more stutter-y.
still, with that almost smile. In and out of
stores we went, asking for jellybeans. So A four year old marching down a side
Grandmother could shoot the mynah bird. street in 1964 Waikiki probably was an odd
And I could watch. Perhaps, if this mission sight, even for back then. But I popped
were accomplished, she would actually into little Japanese gift shops, spaces full of
smile, then she would like me. Maybe she rattan and colorful plastic trinkets, proudly
wouldn’t scold me so much. Maybe those asking for jellybeans. I would be the one to
evenings in her quiet house, where I wasn’t bring jellybeans to Grandmother, and she
allowed to touch anything except her flea in- would smile at me!
fested dog, would become more fun. Maybe
I’d stop screaming and she wouldn’t lock me Only there were none.
in the cottage when my mom wasn’t around.
I wandered out of each shop more dis-
No jellybeans were found along the appointed than before. Finally, a tall white
main drag, so when Mom and Grandmother sailor approached, asking if I had lost my
weren’t looking, I veered off down a side mother and grandmother and, if so, he
street to continue the search on my own. knew where they were. Well no, I hadn’t
lost them, I had left them to go on this
When I was an angst-filled, insecure, important mission. But I knew I had to go
stuttering teen, Grandmother came to live back to them, so I let him lead me out of
the store where, on that hot, sunny, Waikiki
street-corner my mom stood teary eyed
and my grandmother stood stoic.

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I began to cry. There would be no jelly- excavated from my psyche that she, Grand-
beans and my grandmother wouldn’t shoot mother, had put me in the cottage before I
the mynah bird. Of course I looked like a began screaming, not the other way around.
scared lost girl, crying like that. Mom took Her lie that she had spun into the family
me into her arms and said, “It’s okay, we’re fabric. I reconciled her affect on my young
here,” one of the many times she would not life and have spent a lifetime proving that I
understand me. have worth. Am I proving her wrong? Did
her put-downs form me into the driven
When I was nineteen, I lived in a ram- person that I am? Am I successful because
bling old house in a Portland, Oregon of her?
suburb, with my musician boyfriend and
his band. I was working and attending com- I am not sure. What I am sure of is that
munity college. Stanford a long, lost dream. she was a driven and intelligent woman in a
My mom never told my grandmother about time of male dominance. She was a school-
my liberal living arrangement. One day my teacher, as her mother had been, at a pres-
mom called and said my grandmother had tigious private school. (Punahou, where
died of throat cancer. She was sixty-three. Barak Obama attended, and where I got
asked to leave after Kindergarten for mis-
“Oh,” was all I could say. behavior—which embarrassed her amongst
her teacher friends, and which she would
Back home on Maui in my twenties, constantly point out as one of my many
one night Mom and I were playing Crib- failures.) She was unsuccessful at relation-
bage, cross-legged on the carpeted floor ships, and failed three marriages, as did my
of her small condo with the coffee table of mother. (I failed only two.) She was a neat
cards between us and our respective drinks. freak, my mother was a slob, I am a neat
And here is when I learned that my grand- freak, though I try not to be too extreme
mother, now gone five years, did not die of like she was. But I do like to make my bed
throat cancer but of cirrhosis of the liver. like she taught me—hospital corners, and
This prognosis had embarrassed my grand- snug enough for a dime to bounce off the
mother and she had flirted with the doctor spread— and I abhor terrible table manners,
right before her death to get him to change like she taught me. And I’m pretty particular
the cause-of-death on the certificate. about unruly children, as she was. I always
wash my hands after using the rest room
Suddenly, visions of that frosted rock and, looking in the mirror, I can still see her
glass with shiny gold leaves which had look of disapproval shot toward a lady in a
back-dropped everything from poached egg restroom in Honolulu, who headed to the
breakfasts to breaded frozen shrimp from a door, her hands still marred by her own
box came to mind. So my grandmother had germs.
been haunted by her alcoholism, and she
took it out on those who were around her— In my fifties now, sometimes I reflect on
my mom and me. But still, at twenty fours ‘my inner Grandmother.’ That disapproving
years old, I felt nothing. narration in my head about all things im-
proper, or gauche. When my husband wipes
The memory of my grandmother lay dor- his food fingers on his jeans I cringe and
mant for some time. There was a burst of hand him a napkin. “Oh my Lord,” says inner
recollections during my late thirties when
I spent time on a therapist’s couch, and I

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Grandmother. When he eats like someone’s big black one-piece to sun her broad shoul-
going to take the food away, I tell him to ders, and her purple wormy varicose veins
slow down. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she in her legs were exposed to the world, she
echoes. was fifty three. Oh, my God, I thought, I’m
her age now. But I still wear a bikini. I do not
Something hit me the other day, thinking have varicose veins. I will never have a dog
of her which, for some reason I do often in my house. I am happily married.
now. She died at sixty three, when I was
nineteen. Which means that when I was But I do fill in my eyebrow scar with
nine, and she’d take my best friend Jackie pencil. I’ll give her that. And when the
and me to Mokapuu Beach, and we’d play squirrels start pillaging the bird seed in our
in the tide pools with that flea and tick-in- feeder hanging on the big oak tree in our
fested little dog Mele (is this why I don’t like front yard, I think: If only I had a slingshot,
dogs?) and she’d slip down the straps of her and some jellybeans.

About the Author

Marisa Mangani is a former chef, and now designs commercial kitchens and bars. In her free
time, she is the Sarasota host of Tampa Bay’s Wordier than Thou, an open mic storytelling
forum. Her essays and fiction have been published in Hippocampus, Skirt!, Aji, Borrowed
Solace, South 85 Journal, Sleet Magazine, Punchnels, Sandhill Review and Entropy Magazine.
Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Sundress Best of the Net Anthology.

155

YOU KNOW

by Shauna Speakman

You grew up with loving parents. Not only people but they learned to save everything
that but, you grew up with a wonderful set they could get their hands on.
of grandparents, an amazing step-grand-
mother, and a full set of great grandparents You know from walking into Dede’s
to give you love and attention. house that she learned to keep everything
as well. She has a house with two floors.
You grew up in a place where people In that house are five washing machines,
dream of living. You went on your first va- hundreds of pounds of used clothing, and
cation to Florida when you were six months mountains of small broken kitchen appli-
old. You went camping hundreds of times, ances and food wrappers. You know how
on road trips constantly, and to zoos all the that house smells too. It is never the wel-
time. You had a house over your head that coming scent of fresh-baked cookies so
your parents built from the ground up years often associated with grandmothers but in-
before. You had dogs, a cat, a bunny, goats, stead the pungent scent of cat urine and cig-
cows, and chickens. You were allowed arettes. Mom volunteered to host Thanks-
to start your own garden and you had a giving and Christmas in order to get away
playset with a full curly slide. You even had from that smell.
a blow-up pool in the backyard.
At Thanksgiving two years ago she was
Some people might argue that you have assigned to bring dessert. She ended up
no right to complain about anything in your only bringing one pie with her. Your aunt
situation. To that, you ought to say that revealed to the entire family the reason:
those people have never met Rita Baker. she had bought four pies. Dede had eaten
three of them. By herself. In one sitting. A
Rita is the reason you exist, or more disgustingly impressive feat which she de-
simply put: your father’s mother. fended herself by saying, “It was only 2!”

You know of Rita’s childhood only in snip- The photo of three empty tins in the
pets told to you by your Mom and Dad. She trash that your aunt sent to your mom later
still lives in the same town she grew up in. that night said otherwise.
You know that since she was a child she de-
cided that people would call her Dede and She went to college in Boston too. She
nothing else. Her parents lived through the went to Boston University. She bragged
Great Depression and that they were kind to you about it. You also know that she
dropped out to go and marry Grandpa Bob

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when she was younger than you are now. step-grandmother- who sometimes can’t re-
You know that he cheated on her with sev- member your name anymore because of the
eral women and that they hit each other. dementia- took you to plays to teach you the
Their divorce was messy. So messy, in fact, “sophistication of the theater” and told you
that your father rose his voice for probably to wear a bandana over your hair when you
the first time ever against his own 98-year rode in her convertible to make sure all of
old grandmother for trying to bring it up. your styling work didn’t go to waste.

Dad quit drinking when he was 17 be- Even when you were little you knew the
cause of what an angry drunk he was. You difference between love and being used.
know that Dede was the reason he had Dede always had a motive around you.
access to the alcohol and that she is the
one who taught him to smoke weed. They You remember the first time that Dede
smoked together most of the time. You made you really, truly mad. Blood boiling,
don’t tell your parents you smoke, because seeing red kind of mad. You were cele-
you know how disappointed Dad will be. brating her birthday at a restaurant. It was
You also make sure to limit yourself, in most just you, Mom, Dad, and her. You were
ways, because you never want your health talking about the future, about a boy in your
to go down the same road that hers has. class who said he wanted to be a teacher.

She is a type 2 diabetic and just had a full Dede laughed, her smokey, gravelly,
cardiac surgery in January to make sure her ugly laugh and said “Well good for him!
heart didn’t fail on her. She understands so He’s going off to be a glorified babysitter!
little of her health that you have to wonder All these teachers these days asking for so
if she ever had a nutrition or physical edu- much! Don’t they know they have it made!
cation class. They don’t even need a college degree”

You know from your Mom that it always You sit next to your mother. As the words
hurt Dad to see how much more you loved come out of Dede’s mouth you want to leap
your other grandparents. But, you also know across the table and punch her. Your mother
that Grandma, your moms’ mom, took you is a teacher.
to Friendlys for mac and cheese and would
bring you to the pet store in the mall to see You fought with Dede until Mom told
the puppies. She understood how mom was you to stop. She didn’t say it because she
and let you talk about your feelings. She stuck wanted you to stop being rude. She said
up for you. You know that Grandpa, your it because she knew better than you did
moms’ dad, was a hoarder too. But, at least about Dede’s ignorance. She knew that ig-
his stuff was cool. He let you play with the norant people do not often want to learn.
old scrap metal, his collection of shiny fishing
lures with your cousins, and build forts with You could feel yourself start to wish you
whatever you could find. And he would even weren’t related to her. You don’t know why
let you sit in the front seat of his pick-up Dad would be offended on behalf of his
truck in your carseat because there was too awful mother. You aren’t sure you will ever
much stuff in the back. He never smelled understand why Dad acts like he owes his
like cigarettes and you always laughed when deadbeat parents things after all this time,
you were with him. You know that even your after all he has already done for them. After
the lack of things they have done for him.

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There were many times when you and even cry when she dies or if you would be
your Mom sat and talked about Dede. You willing to skip a class to go home for her fu-
disliked her, so did she. Dede cheered when neral.
your Dad broke up with Mom when they
were 21. You wouldn’t doubt that she cried You do know that you can choose your
when she heard they got back together, and family- but that you can’t choose who isn’t
then engaged six months later. your family. Being born into it cements you
and no matter how much you try, and try,
You don’t know when you stopped and try to get away. Not even moving to the
calling her Grandma Dede and started just city can separate you. Dede is not the worst
saying Dede with malice in your voice. You of the family you have. She doesn’t even
don’t know when you began calling her your come close to the horror of “Aunt Crazy”- a
not-grandmother. You don’t know the first loving name coined by your Mom- or Paul-
time you hid in your room, as silent as pos- who is forty and living in a tent in his twenty
sible, when she had shown in hopes that year old girlfriends mothers backyard- or
Dede would not detect that you were there Leon- whose biggest success is being the
and would leave without a conversation. mall security guard (he got fired after 2
You don’t know how such an awful woman weeks for smoking weed in the back room).
raised your Dad, someone who you look up But, she remains to be the biggest failure
to so greatly. You don’t know when you de- of expectations in your eyes. She will likely
cided that she should never be invited to never change, and, somehow, you have
your wedding. You don’t know if you will managed to come to terms with that.

About the Author

Shauna Speakman is a student at Emmanuel College in
Boston, MA. She is a double minor in English: Writing,
Editing, and Publishing as well as Communication and
Media Studies. Speakman expects her degree in 2021
and hopes to pursue a career in book or magazine editing.
When she is on break from studying she visits her home
town on Cape Cod to say hello to family and her two boxers
and to enjoy sitting by the beach reading. You can reach
her at [email protected] or on instagram as @
speakman24

158

THE PSYCHOPATH

by Wendy Swift

I struggle to grasp that Danny is an alco- past few years, he embezzled more than
holic, despite the glaring evidence. I under- $800,000, taking money from clients that
stand drinking is a way of life for him, to the was intended to pay off mortgages and
extent that when our kids reach for a sip investing those funds in an import/export
from his Sunday morning OJ, we warn them business. I will later learn an additional one
not to drink from Dad’s glass. It’s spiked. million in unaccounted funds is missing, but
And then, there are the glasses of scotch I don’t know this until his arrest. He tells
found in odd places like the kid’s craft clos- me he will need to leave for a month for
et or on a shelf in the garage. At one point substance abuse treatment. I know nothing
we discuss the possibility that he should at- about rehab. When I envision St. Mary’s Re-
tend a support group―Lawyers Concerned habilitation Hospital, I see doctors in white
for Lawyers, but Danny dismisses that idea. coats speaking softly to patients while
He doesn’t want his reputation to be dam- they walk grassy knolls. In the past, he ex-
aged (I know, I know) if somehow it gets pressed disdain for psychiatrists, saying
out that he has a drinking problem. There they are nothing more than tape recorders
are the headaches, those terrible migraines who playback everything told to them. I ask
treated with massive amounts of narcotics whether he thinks he could stop drinking for
prescribed by two different doctors writing the rest of his life because this is something
scripts. By the time his name comes before I cannot fathom. He says he doesn’t know,
the State’s Attorney for embezzlement, it but he has to start somewhere. He suggests
is clear he is in deep trouble. He decides it I see someone at the Institute of Living, the
might be a good idea to visit a psychiatrist venerable Hartford psychiatric hospital
in New York who recommends rehab. once known as the Hartford Retreat for the
Insane.
I remember the afternoon when Danny
and I take a walk around the trail at Sims- Our conversation leaves me reeling from
bury Farms, a park across the road from what feels like a tectonic shift in our lives
our house. It is late April 1994, a few weeks from a messy, but lovable Simsbury family
before he leaves for St. Mary’s. He uses with three young daughters, a couple of
this occasion to explain why he is facing ar- bunnies and a friendly yellow Lab to a family
rest. I had found a letter from an attorney facing criminal charges and the subsequent
regarding restitution but when I ask, he upheaval that will inevitably follow. I think
is evasive. He now admits that over the about what we will tell the kids, our parents,

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or our friends who think we are one of the end of the first semester, Danny had
them. Before this, when I had peered into become my friend.” I visualize the nights
our future, I saw myself growing old with we four spent together, smoking pot and
Danny, and I pictured a Hollywood version listening to Danny’s albums of British rock
of our life as we walked hand-in-hand along ‘n roll while hunkered down in our dingy
the beach with the sunset casting us in a apartment on Westcott Street―the lower
rosy glow of tenderness. Now I am left to floor of a run-down Victorian. It was de-
wonder which one of us is more delusional. pressing.

I’m nervous when I enter the office of “Syracuse wasn’t a good place for me.
a psychiatrist with whom I am able to get The winters are cold and long and I was
an appointment on short notice. He stands reading literature like The Bell Jar while ad-
to welcome me and points to an over-sized miring Sylvia Plath for her suicide attempts.”
leather chair across from his desk into
which I lower myself, awkwardly smiling “Have you ever been treated for depres-
and thanking him for taking the time to sion?”
see me. He nods solemnly and asks what
brought me in today. I dive into the memo- “No, not really. I did see a therapist in
ries and anxieties swirling in my brain. We Syracuse, particularly after I hooked up
only have an hour, so I talk fast. with a random guy I met while hitchhiking.
But no, I’ve never been in therapy for more
I begin by telling him I met Danny when than a few weeks at a time. I’m sure I was
I was a freshman at Syracuse and he was depressed which is why I finished college
the boyfriend of my girlfriend, Vicki. When in three years―to leave Syracuse and start
he visited from New Paltz where he was a my life.” He takes notes and encourages me
student, he brought the strongest pot I had to continue.
ever smoked, along with opiated hash and
sometimes Mescaline or LSD. I tell the psy- I get to the part where Danny and I end
chiatrist he had always loved drugs and took up in relationship. “It happened,” I tell the
LSD almost every day during high school, of- psychiatrist, “the summer we graduated
fering the lame excuse that he grew-up in from Syracuse and Vicki’s parents paid
a small upstate town, the son of a chicken for Vicki and me to travel to California as
farmer and a school nurse where his closest a graduation gift. On the plane ride home
neighbors were his aunt, uncle, cousins and Vicki told me she was going to break up with
grandparents and he where he was bored Danny because she was ready to move on. I
most of the time. was surprised but understood since they’d
been dating for five years.”
“I ended up living with Danny because
my girlfriends and I, including Vicki, decided I condense the next few years into a
to move off-campus. Days before moving, few sentences by talking about how we
Vicki told us Danny transferred to Syracuse lived together that summer and moved
and was going to be living with her. I wasn’t from friends to lovers between getting high,
thrilled because I thought it was just going taking walks in the woods, having sex on
to be three women, but he was Vicki’s boy- his water bed, snorting coke and discussing
friend, and if she wanted to live with him, a future that Dan imagined would include
there wasn’t much I could do about it. By a private jet. I throw in the private jet be-
cause, although I was impressed by his

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ambitious vision for his future, I recognize “You do know you are smiling,” the psy-
a private jet is a little over the top. At the chiatrist chastises. “This is a very serious
time, I didn’t understand the significance situation you are facing.” I’m embarrassed.
of grandiosity. I explain that when summer I didn’t realize I was smiling. It’s a defensive
ended, he moved to Long Island to be with reaction as I cling to a thread of hope that
me. We had an apartment but when we got our situation can be repaired. That’s when
behind on rent, we moved in with my par- the doctor presents his findings.
ents until we married three years later. We
optimistically believed the commissions he “Your husband is a psychopath,” he says.
earned from selling life insurance and my “He lied to his mother (I don’t know how
meager preschool salary could sustain us, he knew this since I never mentioned his
but we were wrong. As I describe the sordid mother ) and he is lying to you.”
details of my life: the unplanned pregnancy
and abortion precipitating our decision to “I’m sorry.” I lean forward to hear him
marry, his ongoing deceptions about money, better. “I’m not sure I’m certain what you’re
his migraines and addiction to Fiorinal and saying. I know Danny is out of control and
Codeine, his alcohol abuse, his failed import we’re in trouble, but did you say a psycho-
business, his theft of client funds, and my path?” This is not what I expect to hear. My
denial, it’s hard to miss the pattern of irre- smile broadens.
sponsible behavior that led to my present
circumstances. “Somehow,” I explain, “I “From what you have described, this is
held out for the possibility we would out- the diagnosis that applies. He manifests
grow our problems. When we were in our many of the typical traits including: grandi-
twenties, I was convinced we wouldn’t be osity, glib charm, pathological lying, a need
smoking pot in our forties.” The psychiatrist for stimulation, manipulative behavior, im-
looks up from his note-taking to ask, “What pulsivity and a lack of empathy. If you want
attracted you to Danny?” to learn more, you can read the work of
Hervey Cleckley. I am basing this diagnosis
I pause to think about my attraction to on the commonly used Psychopathy Check-
Danny which has wavered over the past list-Revised (PCL-R), developed by Robert
few years especially when he is drunk Hare and his colleagues.”
and sloppy. “College was over. I would
be returning home after that summer we “Yeah…he may have some of those char-
spent together, to work as an elementary acteristics,” I nod my head. “But a psycho-
school teacher. I worried I would never find path? Really, that’s what you think he is?”
someone to love me and would spend my I look to the psychiatrist, the authority to
life alone, like some spinster teacher.” The offer reassurance. A cure perhaps? Then, he
psychiatrist studies my expression, inviting tells me the most startling news.
me to continue. “He’s funny. He makes me
laugh and he likes doing the same things I “There isn’t a cure. There is treatment
enjoy like hiking, playing tennis, watching that includes at least a year in a psychiatric
movies, discussing politics.” I shrug and hospital like the Institute.” I stop smiling. I
add, “He does love to talk. I had never been cannot get out of his office fast enough. I
with a guy before who talked as much as stand abruptly and the doctor holds out his
he does―actually speaks in full sentences.” hand, wishing me luck and telling me to see
his receptionist to pay the bill as I hurriedly
exit and decide I will not be returning.

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I don’t remember the ride home. I do him, so really, how could he know? But
remember being in my kitchen that after- that’s the psychiatrist’s job―to diagnose
noon with sunlight streaming through the crazy people. He must know one when he
windows and the kids in school. Every- hears about one. The possibility that my
thing is in the same place as it was before husband is this far afield doesn’t match my
I left that day, but now it looks dirty. I start experience of living with a man who spends
cleaning―wiping counters, straightening every Sunday afternoon at my parents’
piles of papers and sweeping the floor. I re- playing chess with my father and enjoying
play each word spoken in the psychiatrist’s my mother’s pot roast. It doesn’t fit with
office, trying to reconcile the man I know the soccer coach who reads to his children
with the label of a psychopath. My under- at night before bed. And, he is so good to
standing is psychopaths are evil and don’t his dog. He loves Jake, taking him on long
experience remorse. I consider famous walks after work and rolling around on the
psychopaths like Hitler or Charles Manson. floor to play with him. Is this what a psycho-
Danny isn’t like them. He’s not evil and he path looks like?
isn’t violent. I think he feels remorse be-
cause he seems sorry now that he’s prob- I consider what this diagnosis says about
ably going to end up in jail. I am trapped me. I admit to going along or turning away
between this diagnosis and my eighteen from troubling behaviors because I am in
years of marriage to a man in whom I have too deep. We have three children. When I
invested so much―the man with whom I am frustrated or desperate, I know it is be-
have three children. cause I feel trapped. I remember speeding
away into the nearby hills of New Hartford
Later that afternoon, Dan calls from late one night after a heated argument with
Saint Mary’s. I sob as I tell him the psychia- Danny. I drive recklessly on back roads, un-
trist’s impression. Danny laughs, “That’s ri- furling my anger behind the steering wheel
diculous,” he says. “This guy hasn’t met me. while considering options that lead me to
How can he diagnose someone he’s never both a physical and metaphorical dead end.
met? You know I’m not a psychopath. I’ve I am stuck. There is no way out. I don’t have
never threatened anyone or hurt anyone. a job or money of my own and I’m sure as
You know me better than that.” He sounds hell not going to ask my parents for help. I
so convincing. “That guy’s a nut. He’s a psy- am convinced they will shake their heads
chopath. Wendy, you don’t have to believe in disgust since they never approved my
him or me. Go see someone else. We’ll marriage to Dan and I want their approval.
get this all sorted out when I come home I want them to think everything they are
but don’t worry about it. Of course I don’t seeing: the lovely home, the terrific schools
need to be institutionalized.” He chuckles at our kids attend, the vacations at Disney
the silliness of the whole idea and ends by World, and even our goddamned piano are
saying, “That makes no sense.” real. I want to be their smart, respectable
daughter, happily married to an attorney
For a few minutes after hanging up, I feel with three sweet children and a charmed
better, but then it occurs to me that if he life. I hide from the truth in order to project
is a psychopath, he would deny these alle- an image I so desperately need in order to
gations and blame the psychiatrist. Maybe feel successful―in order to feel I am good
Danny’s right. The psychiatrist hasn’t met enough, but there is no hiding now.

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When Danny returns from Saint Mary’s, is that alcohol and drug abuse amplify psy-
he meets with psychiatrists and is diag- chiatric problems and I shouldn’t rush to
nosed with a Narcissistic Personality Dis- judgement. I don’t. I wait until Dan is sober
order―a slight improvement from the di- for a while and it becomes possible to as-
agnosis of a psychopath. In the weeks and sess his mental status and reflect upon my
months ahead, I consult with lawyers and own. When I do make a decision about our
other therapists, beginning to understand future a few years later, after he is in jail, it’s
my role as a caretaker in this dysfunctional to file for divorce. It is time to salvage what
relationship. Generally, the advice I receive is left of my life.

About the Author

Wendy Swift is a graduate of Syracuse University. She
currently directs the Center for Writing at Cheshire
Academy, a boarding and day school located in Connecticut.
Swift also teaches creative writing and facilitates writing
groups for students and faculty. In addition, she writes for
the Connecticut Academy of Science and Engineering’s
Bulletin. Swift has pieces published in Grub Street
Literary Magazine, The Adirondack Explorer, Long Island
Woman, the Litchfield Times and The Bethlehem Writers
Roundtable. She lives in Farmington, Connecticut.

163

THE ARGUMENT

by Nate Tulay

Fact, if you TELL humans to breed based on Empire: Presenthia (Pre-sen-thia)
intellect they will tell you that you are racist
and mad and that intellect isn’t all to life. Nationality: Presenthians (Pre-sen-thians)

But if you were to tell them to breed Ethnicity: Human
based on behavior they really can’t make
any rational argument since no one wants Religion: Cosmic Friendship
to be with a negative and hateful and vi-
olent and abusive and revengeful and self Leader: The People of Presenthia
centered and irrational and inconsiderate
and jealous person at all given that if Motto: We the PEOPLE of Presenthia
someone knew the person he or she is in- vow to always challenge ourselves to live
terested in were negative and hateful and in accordance with fairness and honesty
violent and abusive and revengeful and self and kindness and understanding and com-
centered and irrational and inconsiderate passion and love and friendship each day
and jealous he or she might not even en- to give birth to a more colorful nation and
tertain the idea of them. And so you have universe wherever we go!
to make an argument based on behavior to
checkmate humans. Slogan: I am Presenthia and Presenthia
is a BETTER and more Colorful ME. The
And the madness is the fact that an un- person I always wanted to be but couldn’t
derstanding and honest and fair and kind be in this life.
and friendly and compassionate and loving
person is also an intellectual and creative PS
because to live in accordance with those
things you have to have a rational reason What does a Christian, Muslim, Jew,
or be a mutated human with the nature of Black Hebrew Israelites, Buddhist, Sikh,
Aliens in flesh. Hindi, Jain, Mormon, Scientologist have on
a Presenthian?? What do they have on a
Presenthia’s Flag: A white or black flag Presenthian?? What do they have on the
with a shining yellow sun in the middle of the highest biological beings the earth is ca-
flag and a sphere circle made of the rainbow pable of giving birth too??
colors around the shinning yellow sun.

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A wise man once said, “That which does not kill us, makes
us stronger.” – Nietzsche My name is Nate Tulay and I am an
aspiring Liberian-American poet. I would love to tell you all more
about my story but I can’t because I do NOT have the words to
thoroughly explain it as of hitherto; however, I will foreshadow
the exposition of my future poetry book by telling you all I was
born in a third world country during a civil war with two major
birth defects and also experienced another Civil War when I was
four and lost my childhood innocence to it. My experiences and
struggles made me a philosopher sooner rather than later in life
and they are also my motivations to strive for greatness and be
a fair and kind and friendly and loving and understanding and
compassionate and honest person one day at a time.

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OUR CELLS

by McKenzie Fletcher

People want me to talk about it. They say his side? He probably wouldn’t say any-
it will help. But I am more focused on the thing because he sounds bad either way.
way the chair feels hard and cold under me, Or maybe he would twist the situation so
so the memories and feelings don’t touch much and brag about it. But if he did that,
my brain. The feelings I was holding at bay would it even matter? Whoever gave him a
seemed like they were going to hit me like a high five and pat on the back for his story is
wave, take me over and drown me. I didn’t someone I didn’t care to be around.
know if I could bear it, so I didn’t. I sat in
the chair and focused on it. Not on that Some girls I met at school invited me
night. Not on that boy. Not on the way I re- to a party that they got invited to by boys
member being scared and in pain. Not on they had met on Tinder. I agreed simply be-
the way his hands felt as they held my arms cause I wanted more friends. I didn’t have
down. Not on the way I wished I had never any here, and I felt lonely. I thought meeting
gone. On the chair. people would help. Make me feel like I be-
longed somewhere.
“What happened?” my friend asked. She
sounded like a therapist. I only drank twice, and only with my best
friend at the time who I trusted. Drinking
I knew I would cry if I said something. with people you didn’t trust was a risky
If I said the words. So, I didn’t. If I started game to play. Boys take advantage of girls,
crying, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to and boys love it even more when the girls
stop. I was afraid of being sad. I was afraid are drunk. My older sister warned against
of the loss that I might feel. it, but in a way that my parents didn’t. In a
way that said, “if you drink, be smart. Never
I shook my head and looked down. leave your drink anywhere and never take a
drink from somebody you don’t trust.” My
“It’s okay. I’m not going to judge you,” she parents warned in a way that said, “Don’t
tried to smile at me. drink. You’ll end up like me; an alcoholic.”
My dad would never admit that he strug-
I didn’t care about being judged. I mean gled with alcoholism but they both said it
I did, but I didn’t. I wanted a reputation at was somewhere stuck in my genetics. It
this school, but at this point it seemed to had found its way into my genetic code and
be the least of my concerns. Or maybe it wouldn’t leave. A sip of alcohol would stick
wasn’t. Was he going to tell people? Were
they going to judge me if they only heard

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me in the very same position my parents her. At first, I reacted like I should have. I
were when I hated them. despised alcohol. She had just gotten
back from three months of rehab and left
I blame them for the first time I got me with the man who wrapped his hands
drunk. And not because of that predispo- around my neck and choked me up against
sition to addiction because of my genetics the wall when he was mad. I blamed the
crap. Because I had to prove to myself that alcohol. The genetics that somehow held
I would never end up like them. I feared alcoholism in them. The family history that
drinking, for a good reason. I watched it ruin I had no choice to be in. I felt like I was
two people who ruined me because of it. dropped in the middle of a nightmare that
I wasn’t supposed to be in. I didn’t know
I was nine. The tragedy of my mom’s what I did to deserve this. Why did these
little sister committing suicide was the be- things keep happening around my birthday?
ginning of the seemingly endless years of I felt like I should’ve never been born. The
trauma to come. We were driving home worst things that have ever happened to me
from my birthday party in our dark blue happened only a couple of weeks before my
minivan back to our middle-class home in birthday. I never knew that one of the worst
the middle of the city. It didn’t seem like would actually happen on my birthday.
we lived a small life until we were on the
opposite side of the city with all the big, ex- I followed the girls into Tinder Boy’s
pensive houses with pools and eight bed- apartment. It was dark, and the music was
rooms and fancy cars parked in the drive- loud. I got a weird feeling, but I shook it off
ways. I stared out the window through the as nerves. I was met by a hug and a beer
fingerprints and sticky goop that never got being stuck in my hand from Tinder Boy.
cleaned up. I shoved my fingers as deep
into my ears as possible so that I wouldn’t “Kenzie, come here,” one girl said, patting
hear the explicit names yelled between my the fuzzy brown couch she was sitting on.
parents. Those words aren’t something a
nine year old should hear, much less hear I sat next to her and she leaned in to
because her parents are calling each other whisper.
every name in the book. It made no sense to
me, but this is how they dealt with trauma. “He’s checking you out,” she beckoned
They didn’t cry together. They yelled at each toward Tinder Boy.
other like it was the other’s fault. Somehow
it was always the other’s fault. Even when We had been there for one minute.
it wasn’t.
“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to make
Since that dark night, I never felt the her not worry that her best friend’s “man”
same about my birthday. Or about my family. was going after me.
Or about marriage. Or about people. That
day marked everything falling apart. My As the night went on, my friends got
mom chose alcohol to cope with it. It got so more drunk and Tinder Boy got more
bad that she almost drank herself to death. touchy. People say and do things they don’t
mean when they’re drunk, so I brushed off
When she recovered, she told me that his nice compliments and sweet nothings
if I ever tasted alcohol, I’d likely end up like and moved on.

The girls left the living room to go to get
more drinks, and Tinder Boy sat next to me

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on the couch with some drink in his hand. going to meet Tinder Boy. He asked me
His bloodshot eyes sparkled and he started out on a date, but I declined. I said I would
whispering compliments into my ear. I talk but not go on a date. We could meet
tried to show him that I wasn’t into him. I up sometime at school and have a conver-
didn’t respect boys like this because they sation. Not a date. I wore leggings and an
reminded me of my dad. oversized flannel to make sure he didn’t get
the impression that I was trying to impress
The rest of the night was blurry. I found him. He said he would text me and let me
myself in Tinder Boy’s bathroom. One of the know where to meet him. It was probably
girls I went with was sitting on the side of against my best judgement to go meet
the bathtub with her beer. She was trying to Tinder Boy somewhere at our school late
tell me some deep sob story about her life, in the evening. A lot of things in this situ-
but I wasn’t paying attention. ation were against my best judgement, but
I didn’t care. My reputation proved more
“Ya know?” she said. important than my safety in this situation.
Saying this out loud sounds so stupid.
Her voice was quivering. I knew that
meant she was crying. I pulled the door open and sober Tinder
Boy was sitting in the driver’s seat, smiling.
I nodded.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
I met her a few weeks ago and now we
were sitting in a random boy’s bathroom I smiled.
together. I was slouched against the closed
door. She pulled me in so she could cry and Compliments from sober boys are better
throw up with someone. than drunk boys, but compliments are al-
ways a warning.
Tinder Boy messaged me on Instagram
a few days after the blurry night of people I hate that compliments are a warning
throwing up at a kick back. He wanted to about a boy who just wants to sleep with
hang out. The feeling wasn’t mutual. I was you. That’s the thing about being a pretty
embarrassed of my first impression, though face. Boys are proud to “get you.” I hated
and decided why not clear it up, so he being called a pretty face. Of course, being
knows that I am not that girl. I wasn’t like called beautiful was flattering, but I liked
the girls I was with that night. I wasn’t the when I was called smart or funny or strong.
girl who goes to random parties at random I liked being told that I had a good person-
boy’s houses with random drunk friends. ality, or I had a good heart. Because that was
If I made a better impression, seeing him something I could control. I couldn’t control
at school wouldn’t be as awkward. I knew the way my genes lined up to create some-
it would be weird. But how else was I sup- thing outwardly attractive to men. I liked
posed to give him the true impression of being complimented on the things I worked
me that I deserved? First impressions can’t hard for. The things that I earned. The titles I
be that important, right? I hope they aren’t. gave myself. Not just on the pretty face that
Your first impression of someone tells you my parents gave me.
nothing about their story, which is really
what people are. Maybe it did, and I just Tinder Boy and I talked for three hours
didn’t want to think so. Regardless, I was that night. His story was a lot like mine.

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Enough like it I had to wonder if he was I was handed a different drink, the can
making it up once he finished after I told looked like a red bull. They promised there
him my story. My story of my mom’s al- wasn’t a lot of alcohol in it. They said it
coholism and my dad’s domestic violence wasn’t even considered drinking. You can
and my screwed-up high school ex-boy- taste alcohol and I couldn’t taste any in
friend who told me I was going to kill my- whatever this was.
self without him and my extended family
members who committed suicide. His abu- “Finish it before we go in, babe,” Tinder
sive alcoholic dad left him. One of his aunts Boy said to me, rubbing my leg. “We are
committed suicide. I felt like we got each going to have a good time tonight.”
other. And that’s what got me. He got me
by his story. That’s what I thought I liked I smiled and finished the can.
about people. When they were vulnerable
and told you what made them who they are. “You’re so hot,” he whispered.
We are all a product of what has happened
to us. What other people did to us made us. It should have been a red flag that he
In a warped kind of way, we are all a product complimented me the most when I was
of our past, our story and what happened doing the things he told me to. But it wasn’t.
to us. The good thing is that we might not because he got me with his story. His past.
have control over what people will do to us How we related over our pasts. The way he
or who hurts us, but we get to choose to said he was determined to get married and
make something out of it. So, I chose. be a better dad than his was. Why would
that have been a line? Loving Jesus and
After our three-hour long conversation wanting to get married is the most messed
and a few dates, it was my birthday. The up pick up line I’ve ever heard.
day I despised. There were too many bad
memories; it would take a lot of good ones After dancing in the club for what felt
to make up for it. I had plans with my family like a while, I realized something was wrong
during the day and plans with Tinder Boy with the way I felt. I felt like I couldn’t see
that night. He wanted to go to the club with straight, my feet weren’t under me and I
one of his roommates and his roommate’s was dizzy. I looked at Tinder Boy’s room-
girlfriend. I’ve never got to a club before mate’s girlfriend with a concerned face and
but trusted the promises that slipped out she asked if I was okay. “I need fresh air,”
of Tinder Boy’s mouth that it would be I yelled over the music that was so loud it
fun. I met him at his apartment, and we made my ears throb.
stopped at the liquor store where his twen-
ty-one-year-old roommate grabbed alcohol. “Okay let’s go!” she yelled back.
He came back to the car with a bag full of
drinks that promised a good night. I was She grabbed my hand and led me up
handed one. I told them I was a lightweight some stairs that were too hard to climb and
and that was the reason I didn’t want to onto the roof. There were people standing
drink. I didn’t want to just say “no” because at the railing looking over the city, some sit-
I had turned down weed all night and they ting on the couches and others dancing. It
continued to beg me to take a hit. One “no” was peaceful.
wasn’t enough.
I walked to the railing and held on. I
felt nauseous now. I was confused. I didn’t
know why I felt like this. I thought maybe it
was the loud music and people or maybe

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the fact that they were smoking weed the “Go ahead and lay down, baby, I’ll be
entire time we were on our way to the club back in a minute.”
and maybe I got high from their hot boxing.
Suddenly it hit me, the drink Tinder Boy I laid down and pulled the blankets up
handed me in the car had something in it. to my chin. I sank into the bed and closed
my eyes. I didn’t care whether he slept
My head was spinning as we left the club in the same bed as me or not, which was
and walked through the cold to get to the something I would have normally cared
car. It was refreshing. The number of sweaty about. I was too out of it to think rationally.
hot bodies dancing around us all night made I held myself to high standards because I re-
me feel sticky and needing the brisk air. spected myself. I was too tired to even peel
my eyes open as I felt him slide into bed
“Are you sleeping over, babe?” Tinder next to me.
Boy asked me.
“What happened?” my friend asked
“I am too… too…” my words were stuck in again.
my brain, and I felt like they couldn’t reach
my mouth. “Too drunk to drive home.” I didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want
to think about what happened to me that
The word drunk slipped out of my mouth night. The chair was still cold and still hard.
because I was sure blaming it on that was My focus on the chair faded as the feelings
better than saying I was too out of it be- came streaming in. I scratched my arms
cause of what he gave me. as I remembered the feeling of his hands
holding my forearms against the bed. I re-
He smirked. member how violated I felt as my shorts
were ripped off of my body.
I smiled back.
“He…” the word was too hard to say out
I thought that look was because he loud.
thought my inability to get simple words
out of my mouth was funny. But it wasn’t. “No,” I said pushing him off of me, “I’m
not like that.”
I stumbled into his apartment and took
my shoes and coat off. Everything in me just “I’ll go slow,” he whispered, “You know
wanted to lay down and sleep. I was still you want it.”
feeling loopy but more together than a little
while earlier. The blurriness wasn’t gone, “Stop,” I said.
but I was more aware of my surroundings
than I had been when I was in the club. My The blurriness was back, but not because
feet were killing me from the heels I was of the alcohol. I felt a tear leave my eye and
wearing. I sat on the end of Tinder Boy’s stream down my face. I couldn’t breathe. I
bed, waiting for him to come into the room. was hyperventilating.

“Are you trying to sleep in jeans?” he He got my pants down and then held my
asked me. arms down as he violated my body.

“No,” I laughed. “No. Stop,” I tried to push him off, but I
couldn’t.
“Here,” he tossed me some shorts and I
changed into them. I had a lump in my throat.

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“You’re so hot,” he said. off and climbed into the shower. As the hot
water hit my body, I prayed and cried.
“Ow,” I whispered, “You’re hurting me.”
I didn’t know how much of this was my
“It’s okay, this is good. I really like you,” fault. Tinder Boy called to tell me that it was
Tinder Boy said. a drunken mistake. That we both were to
blame for this. Were we? Was I? Did the fact
He was just spitting out every line that that I was intoxicated make this somehow
he had ever come across to get a girl to my responsibility as well? I sure hoped not.
sleep with him. I remembered telling him I Tinder Boy said I asked for it. I know that I
had never slept with anyone when he asked said no. I said no so many times. But I was
how many people I had been with. I remem- drunk and drunk me wasn’t as credible as
bered how he told me he respected that. I sober me. At least in the court of law.
remembered how he said he messed up in
the past but was different. “He raped me,” I said. The words were
harder and colder than the chair.
But now here I was, in random Tinder
Boy’s apartment, in his bed, losing some- As the words fell out of my mouth, the
thing I knew I could never get back. fear of judgement hit me. I couldn’t bear
being told that this was in some way my
“I really really like you,” he whispered in fault. After all, I went over. I took the drink.
my ear. I got into the bed. I changed my pants. I was
wearing that shirt. I didn’t report it. I didn’t
This wasn’t me. It wasn’t but I couldn’t scream. I didn’t leave. I saw him again after
stop it. He was too strong, and I was too out it happened. The shame that was being cast
of it to scream. And what would happen if upon me because of my decisions had led
I did? I was in his apartment with his room- up to this moment that was so judgmental
mates that I didn’t trust to do anything. and raw. But before this happened to me, I
You’re always told to scream and bite and would have said the same thing. I would’ve
kick if you’re getting raped. But that was gone through the if you hadn’t’s and the
only when it was the random creepy old but you shouldn’t’s the same way they were
man who was hiding in the bushes. Not the going over with me. Until it happens to you,
boy who was almost your boyfriend. Be- you can’t understand the mind of a girl who
cause those people didn’t rape people. gets raped by her almost-boyfriend on her
birthday.
The tears were still in my eyes, the lump
was still in my throat and I could feel my I didn’t know how to feel about any of
face burning from anger. But I gave up. I this. My mind spun wondering how this
knew fighting him would get me nowhere. I could have happened to me. How all of this
already tried, and it didn’t work. He wasn’t could have happened to me, but especially
moving, and I was too weak to shove him this. Throughout my entire life, I’ve never
off of me. had control over what happened to me.
What people did to me. How people hurt
I went into the bathroom and switched me. I never imagined that someone could
my light on, forcing me to squint. I couldn’t take this from me too. Take something that
sleep. I looked in the mirror and saw the was mine that I could never get back. Take
dark circles under my eyes and my puffy
cheeks from crying. I pulled my sweatshirt

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something that I had kept and was sup- There’s not much of a difference. In a
posed to have control over. I wanted to sense, we are all the same. You and your
have control over myself, because I never eyeballs and brains and feminism and
had control over my life. And something gender and race and theories. Me and my
this cruel world taught me through Tinder knee-caps and ideas and fears and religion
Boy was that I never had full control over and writings. We were all cells, and what
anything. makes the difference is where our cells end
up. We can’t control the crap our cells are
It didn’t matter if you didn’t deserve it. born into. We can’t change the what our
You aren’t any different from the girl who cells have to go through in this life. And
lives across the street and lived the perfect even more so, we can’t understand this
life with the perfect family and the perfect crap. It’s a lot to comprehend. Too much for
grades who met the perfect boy and fell in the human mind. Too much for our wildest
love and got married. She didn’t deserve dreams. Too much for logic or our fears. We
that life any more than you did. She just got can come up with theories on why. But we
it and you didn’t. can never know why.

About the Author

My name is McKenzie Fletcher. I am a nineteen-year-old junior in college, studying Psychology.
My goal is to earn my Master’s degree in Clinical Counseling and be a published writer. I have
loved writing since I was young, and I have always dreamed of my writing being read. I believe
that part of my purpose in this world is to write and share the stories of my life to in some
way impact and inspire people.

172

POETRY



LOOKING UP
AT THE SKY

by John McKernan

LOOKING UP AT THE SKY

I always stop what I am doing at two o’clock in the afternoon and wait ten minutes for Death. I do
this every day. It came to me in a dream and I like it. This was easy all those years I was a student. If
possible I like to look up at the sky and notice the different colors of cloud.. Blue is my favorite color
there. I have never had a smoke or a drink or took a drug during those ten minutes. I am still here

BIG CONTEST

The Gonorrhea cheering section seemed the rowdiest. They wore the skimpiest uniforms
Their cheers at times seemed more growl than cheer. They were definitely the loudest.
The Chlamydia group had the highest jumpers. Leapers would be the right word. Their cheers
always rhymed and had a good rhythm. The electric guitars kept the judges awake.
The AIDS Squad held up Braille posters. They would lift up their hands to try to coax each
other to sing. They kept falling down. Many had bruises on their arms and faces.
Team Syphilis emphasized the international. They’d be dancing to an Arabic tune one minute
then to a Chinese waltz. The most gymnastic – they used way too much makeup.
The rowdies from Hepatitis A & B & C & X were disqualified on a technicality. Their
passports were confiscated and they retaliated by stabbing four judges with spears.

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Every member of the Herpettes had elaborate four-color tattoos. Part of their act was
a mime with bagpipes in the background, but their cheers sounded like thunder.

Something happened in the parking lot. A large group in costumes that looked like toads or
frogs were screaming and overturning cars. The police blocked them from the stadium.

I pity the grounds keepers. I have never seen a stadium packed with what must have been
117,000 corpses wearing yellow & blue robes. The organ never stopped playing a dirge.

DEATH CERTIFICATES FOR BROCCOLI AND ENDIVE

The certificates for endive shall henceforth be triangular and fabricated of red plastic. All
certificates for broccoli must be octagonal and fabricated of blue cloth. The lettering for
the endive shall be in Bodoni Bold 12 point. The lettering for the broccoli will be in New
Helvetica Narrow either 10 or 12 point Each certificate must list the instrument used (knives.
machetes, saw, icicle and so forth) to cut the broccoli or the endive from its stalk.

The printing must be clear and legible in one of the following languages: Chinese,
Yiddish, Russian. Choctaw, Swahili, or Tamil. The hour and date of execution must
be stamped on the reverse in Arabic numerals using Greenwich Mean Time.

THE END

Volvo’s parents took away all his James Dean videos while he was out drag racing with friends.
They were surprised to find no drugs in his room.”Kelp tablets?” each said at the same time as
they stared at each other. They did discover a biography of James Dean under his mattress and
they burned it in the backyard.charcoal grill. As a part of the aversive dream therapy, Volvo’s
younger brother Scooter was designated to wake up Volvo the moment he began dreaming of
James Dean. The pastor visited the family on Mondays and Wednesdays distributing capsules
of atheism and a stirring sermon on the dangers of American football and Hollywood movies.
Volvo always wore a red nylon jacket. Every morning Volvo’s uncle would appear at the kitchen
door with another basket of brown eggs to warn his brother, “If you don’t do something
soon about your son, we’ll wake up one morning and find ourselves famous.” Three days
before his funeral, Volvo told his parents at dinner, “I know now there is a God and that he
hates both of you and loves me.” His parents passed him the bread knife but said nothing.

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LEARNING THE NUMBERS

Ten candles waving light everywhere flicking the shadow right then left
A black Cadillac hearse backed up and knocked me down My face red in brake light
Nine papers from my paper route thrown in a drainage ditch beside Dodge Street
I had to stand in the back of the class an entire semester at Creighton
because I was always late for my eight o‘clock Theology Class
I fell asleep in the Joslyn Museum Flower Garden and woke at seven covered with apple blossoms
Six crushed blue jays on the dirt path home from school
Five o’clock Sunday a.m. to wake on a wet pillow of leaves underneath a picnic table
Who pasted these four pictures of my father over that small mirror on the wall
Three pink cushions under my skull with images of an oak casket
Walking home slow with two half-pints of grape vodka punching my heart up & down
One whole winter whenever I saw ice on an inside window I would scrape his initial J on the glass

About the Author

John McKernan – who grew up in Omaha Nebraska – is now
a retired Comma Herder / Phonics Coach after teaching 41
years at Marshall University. He lives – mostly – in New
Smyrna Beach Florida. His most recent book is a selected
poems Resurrection of the Dust. He has published poems
in The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, The New Yorker,
Virginia Quarterly Review and many other magazines.

177

NORTHERN ISLET

by Danielle Hanson

Northern Islet So this is what is meant by radiance

All the saints here are made of stone, The sky is dark,
eternal life mocked by their crumbling. yet every (small) thing
I pick up the stones and swallow glows as if in full sunlight,
them in my gullet— a complete inversion.
even the bread is made of stones. The body has become the soul.
It’s only a matter of relativity of size,
of seagulls trying to blend in with the night.

Spider The water is not there for the fish

You said you would die for me, but what good The water
Is the dead to anyone? is not there
You were a fool who rushed to see the sunset, for the fish.
just to see the sun die. And in the darkness
realized you were a ghost The fish
haunting the wrong house. is there
So death has woven your time like a spider? for the water.
What else could we do?
So that no one
will drink it.

But with us
things are more
interdependent.

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Conversation with an Alzheimer’s patient

I wanna get back
I got some people comin’ in
I wanna get back
I haven’t seen them in a while, honey

I don’t do this kind of work
It looks like nothin’

If I miss these people . . .
Well, I don’t do paperwork

About the Author

Danielle Hanson is the author of Fraying Edge of Sky
(Codhill Press Poetry Prize, 2018) and Ambushing Water
(Brick Road Poetry Press, 2017). Her work has appeared
in over 70 journals, won the Vi Gale Award from Hubbub,
was Finalist for 2018 Georgia Author of the Year Award and
was nominated for several Pushcarts and Best of the Nets.
She is Poetry Editor for Doubleback Books, and is on the
staff of the Atlanta Review. Her poetry has been the basis
for visual art included in the exhibit EVERLASTING BLOOM
at the Hambidge Center Art Gallery, and Haunting the
Wrong House, a puppet show at the Center for Puppetry
Arts. More about her at daniellejhanson.com.

179

THE FROGS

by Bruce Morton

Holocaust Memorial, Berlin Storks, Ipsheim

It is a stretch to transform They are everywhere
sorrow, ash, guilt—loss. Throughout the village
But the stelae are concrete, not abstract stars On the red tile rooftops
Fallen in firmament, a hard grid that is buried Anchored to flat spots
Like piles for a pier where conscience will dock Next to steeple, chimney,
Or depart. It is intended to disorient in a maze. And gable, the nests bristle
With sticks and straw,
I am amazed at the frolicking fools who gambol Serrated silhouettes, marked
From one to another, betting By white guano arrows pointing,
one footfall to the next Making a statement, we are
Will not suggest disrespect as they sit atop Up here. You are beneath us.
Coffins or tombstones or The storks nestle, incubating
whatever they are, not Precious eggs that will carry
Grave but laughing, licking their ice creams. Future generations.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

The Frogs

It is not every poem that begins
With an apology to Aristophanes.
So, here it is—I apologize.

For there is nothing funny about those
Frogs we left floating, their white bellies up;
Frogs bloating—quite croaked.

They had succumbed to a storm of BBs
Rained on them from Daisy rifles aimed,
Fired by addled adolescent testosterone.

Their chorus silenced, the humidity
Smothered Thurrrott’s Pond. Its algae rank,
A fetid buzzing broth in which they sank.

There was little sport in the killing;
In their dying not much thrilling;
Our absence of conscience chilling.

Now memory churns and hindsight yearns,
For relief from guilt and insight, knowing
That the climate has changed—
and their silence.

About the Author

Bruce Morton splits his time between Bozeman, Montana
and Buckeye, Arizona with the occasional visit to Germany.
His volume of poems, Simple Arithmetic and Other
Artifices, appeared in 2015. His poetry has appeared
or is forthcoming in various magazines and anthologies
including Kansas Quarterly, Connecticut Quarterly, Spoon
River Quarterly, Pembroke Magazine, Muddy River Poetry
Review, San Pedro River Review, and Main Street Rag.

181

TABLE FOR ONE

by Alan Berger

I’m lonely I give it a heavy helping hand
But It backfires when I make that stand
I’m well bred
Well read I’m lonely
Well fed But when the door closes behind me
My favorite position in bed It’s my Kingdom I survey and sway
Is laying alone I’m lonely
Being off the phone But stay out of my way
I’m lonely I want you close
But stay out of my zone But not all day

I’m lonely I’m lonely
But But I look forward
I don’t like people Up and down and sideways
They accelerate my evil For a Chinese dinner
With a big egg roll
I’m lonely And some Dim Sum
But I’ve never used force And a Table for one
Nor do I let nature take its course

About the Author

Alan Berger has two films on Netflix that he wrote and directed
and over fifty short fiction and poetry pieces published since 2018
He lives in West Hollywood with the memory of his beautiful cat.

182

SLEEPY WHALE

by Terry Brinkman

Sonnet CCLXVII Sleepy Whale 283

Bristles shining wirily in weak light Stood before the shattered window
Lady Chapel Jack Priest Peacock The swing back and forth up and down
Motley affairs of a moss covered rolling rock Her stockings
Last swig of the Challis at twilight Fell loose over her ankles
Loom of the Moon-light With field glasses
Pat of her destruction Flintlock Probably at his lunch
The sun never riser before the hawk Watching alabaster silent wild geese
Receiving a Papal blessing at first daylight Greenwich Time, can’t see the clock
Her Biscuit Tin holding a lizard Blurt out, must be a
Like a fly sticking in a duck’s quack New Moon, falls at gas halls spinning
Storm tossed hearts in a blizzard
Nudging the door open with her back
Sacred synod believe in the izzard
Philosophical assertions of Jack

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Sleepy Whale 284 Adelaide Literary Magazine
About the Author

New Moon shadows over frozen rock Terry Brinkman has been painting for over
Dead Shells lay around its feet forty five years. He started creating Poems,
She’s May Moons beaming love he has had five poems in the Salt Lake City
Like holding water in your hand Weekly. Five Amazon E- Books. Variant and
His hands fell again to his sides Tide Anthologies. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny
The rain mucks up Muslin prints Seed, jute Milieu Lit and Utah Life Magazine.
Molly looks out of plum Poem Village, Snapdragon Journal, Poets
Wealth of the known world Choice, In Parentheses, Healing Muse and
Wet warm human plumpness
Harvest Moon, won’t pick up the pins the Adelaide Magazine

Sleepy Whale 285

Glow worm’s lamp is gleaming
Harvest Moon’s hopes
Hear it in the library
Hoof thuds low-ringing causeway
Rain mucks up the thrum
Dallying silk mercer’s windows
Silk high voices drink Meyer’s beer
Sun-warm blood-hued Poplin
Perfume of embayed heart
Pincushions great chorus

Night Stroll

Night my time to stroll with
snot green ghost candle
I run pass the verge of the keen glance cliff
Cross over the narrow gorge on red bridge
See the jack priest and moon mid-watchers
The noisy cowboys and Indians at Lady Chapel
Made me half mad
Cigar fibers flying from my lips
Deathless Gods staying alabaster silent

184

SAY ANYTHING

by Austin Adams

Carrion Flower I Will Never Rhyme Light with Night

Faint fragrance of a I will never rhyme light with night
Flower too subtle for because I imagine a language in which
Human sense. words of truer friendship,
It is there. bitterer rivalry,
more sensual congress
What one cannot know, have evolved in sound
Call by any name: together.
Iandipan, aruzzrula,
Dogwood. She says, “This is the logic
of the loveless.”
There are no lessons
That cannot be learned.
All things, inarticulate, are.
That is no lesson.

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Say Anything Adelaide Literary Magazine
Ode to an Object Seen Through a Far Window

Before the white dividing Occult, being
An I from another, behold and fear And this concomitance of being,
The pathless sprawl of space That you too should be implicated
That separates In the importunity of air.
Friend, lover, brother
There are
Step All things
Say anything And to see
More things
Paralyzed will, marshal-like before Than all the eyes of earth
The globe of enemy ground Have moments or
Whom shall I slay? Volition.
What should I say?
Every track profanes the unbegun campaign of A recital death, I die
Faultless snow Granting you,
Object, ephemeron –
A single word, the first-sung note Full surrender to the nonpareil
Impregnates paper, air with yes: Of another.
It is not life that’s sure of craft; But it is as if too
To all but death, the second guess A friend I find
So grateful am I that you
Thus, vault your hazard or retire Or anything brotherly beside me
In ought, the will supreme or else Should graciously condescend
The ego: To exist.
White the silence, red the choirs,
Pride prevents more murder Boom punch bullfist train
Than it inspires Rail-shrieks to platform shuddering
Stop.
Windows incradle to doorways.
Outstreams a
Catchless swarm
Of undemanding
Amity—
Among
I am
An any.

Inflamed with stars, the common sky.
Magnificence
Pullulates:

This fearful generosity.

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Die as Brightly Born

Nothing so frivolous as a flower –
What dance more lustful,
Simply to be.

That you, commissioned diplomat,
Are tendered to sing where lovers fail to speak
Charges our race with the failure
To apprehend spring pedagogy.

So if a usurping suitor of wind should snatch
My bouquet of coward intentions,
Lust would find ideal expression:
Journeymen of no port,
Borne no lover bound,
Sportively daring any bold enough
To pluck pure expression
From the ravishing air.

About the Author

Austin Adams is a writer from Tennessee. His work has
appeared in The New York Times, The Los Angeles Review
of Books, The Millions, Prelude, The Offing, Poor Yorick
and more.

187

MEDUSA

by Andre DeCuir

When My Father Calls Medusa

When my father calls, we talk of birds, Red eye in dark water
how the blue jays cannonball, gazing upon shapes of
their large bodies splashing myth-like creatures,
water out of his birdbaths: monsters, they say,
old rusty pans found in dumps some with parts like
now resting on boards tresses of long hair
in the green shade of a mimosa tree. writhing in currents.

There is a little talk of aches and pains, A jellyfish bobs
but nothing about the wheezing I hear like a silken moon,
between his sentences. swirling light
like in that Van Gogh painting
Just news about cardinals, brown of the night sky.
thrashers, and floating hummingbirds,
rabbits grazing on tall, uncut grass, A curious shape
sometimes even appearing at the backdoor, encircles the glowing prize.
a shape that could be a coyote And then a burst like a star,
at the far end of a soy bean field, arms and tentacles
the figs he plans to pick and radiate from the orb
preserve and give away. then collapse, disappear
into blackness.
Father, in your years alone,
you have created in our backyard A centuries-old curse has been broken,
a secret chamber of wonder and life, your gaze no longer feared,
your refuge, your sustenance, your legacy. now privy to this:
secret, strange, watery life.

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Cinderella Revista Literária Adelaide
Snow White

The white bird in the hazel tree remembers: Long ago,
Snow White’s mother
Long ago, you came to us, looked through the window,
white lines on your face, at the snow in the gray sky
hot tears scouring through dirt and ash. not yet knowing of things to come,
like her own death
Your dress, a shapeless rag, the next winter
not beautiful one more of ice than snow
like grey morning fog. or the woman who would sit
not at this window but at a mirror,
And your shoes of wood so heavy its unfathomable depths drawing her
they could crush small violets to her own darkness,
back into the dark earth. or a rustic cottage
in the blue shadows
Through your sobs, of ancient fir trees,
we heard something about a ball, or deadly wares,
a fancy party. an apple of irresistible red
finally being the one,
So, through the whispering leaves, just like that, or a coffin of gold and glass
we gave you a dress of gold resting on a summer hill.
that flashed like finches’ wings in the sun. No, none of this she saw.
Just a bullfinch
And slippers to match that did the trick. the color of flame
landing in the white quietness.
Now, when her daughters want party dresses
she orders online
and gets them the next day.

Even though we can get them faster.

I guess she still isn’t over
what happened at the wedding.
When the step-sisters arrived,
we flew from her shoulders
and pecked out their eyes.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Briar Rose
(on the paintings by Edward Burne- Jones)

Remember, and regained.
when the princess
fell asleep for a hundred years, The princess alone on her couch,
she wasn’t the only one. no warmth of a slender arm
touches her in her sleep.
The brave knights in the wood She will have her prince though,
nestle together, who searches through the wooded maze
long legs stretched in the grass, and perfumed air
helmets off, hair streaming, and will draw back a curtain
a head resting the color of the sea,
on an armored chest,
stoic faces now relaxed his kiss,
in something like desire. his embrace.

The royal court, And all will wake
bodies in silken and stare
rose, purple, and green and feel a bit colder
lounge at the king’s feet, as they fall away
the last song of the youthful bard like dreams
stirring dreams and like thorny branches
of lovers lost with sweet blossoms.

About the Author

Andre DeCuir teaches at Muskingum University in New
Concord, Ohio. His work has appeared in publications such
as Heron Tree, Mystery Tribune, Gay Flash Fiction, Dialogual,
and The Rose and Thorn Journal.

190

LIBERTY ATOMS

by Christopher Barnes

Liberty Atoms 6 Liberty Atoms 8

Cormorant beak-walked an eight yard string, Our soot-dim mirror
Rebuking tide. Narrowed the fullness that wasn’t there.
Pratfalling crock – sauce duxelles. Blankness. Carping resentments.
Maisie hassled tufts Maisie’s doll-heads passed up a snigger.
- Lost wit’s fingers. Libra couldn’t be balanced.
Sunset on a rubberstamp: Felt-penned on resin tombstone:
“Everything seemed inevitable”. “Mother May, being older,
Had no clear role”.

Liberty Atoms 7 Liberty Atoms 9

Shellac disc Waveband tunesmiths
Rumpled under needle, jilting Plunked cadences rearwards
an overture’s tingle. To an insubstantial nucleus.
Parakeet erupted, groggy. Maisie flounced, blasting a decanter.
Maisie bumped as Styrofoam teemed, No one strong-lined her to polonaise.
Head joggling over night-weary candles – Each chorus hoarser.
A spoon’s dome attended to. Rippled on our tarn
Reminder on a page: Silvered words:
“Don’t worry – it’s not time yet – “I know you are a callous liar”.
For me to go”.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Liberty Atoms 10

Overnight infinity sultried anti-glow,
Wizening roses to backbones.
Flesh crept on Maisie’s countenance;
Daddy’d promised she’d never be hatched.
Far off, the byre’s pebbles spelled:
“Edward had taken hold of her dress”.

About the Author

In 1998 Christopher Barnes won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 he read at
Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology ‘Titles Are Bitches’. Christmas 2001 he
debuted at Newcastle’s famous Morden Tower doing a reading of poems. Each year he read
for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and partook in workshops. 2005 saw the
publication of his collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews,
Edinburgh. On Saturday 16Th August 2003 he read at the Edinburgh Festival as a Per Verse.
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored him to be mentored by
Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. He made a radio programme for Web
FM community radio about his writing group. October-November 2005, he entered a poem/
visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in
Betty’s Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. He made a digital film
with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The
Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains his poem The Old
Heave-Ho. He worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your
Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle
University, including a film piece by the artist Predrag Pajdic in which he read my poem On
Brenkley St. The event was funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute,
Bio-science Centre at Newcastle’s Centre for Life. He was involved in the Five Arts Cities
poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children’s literature building.
In May he had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People’s Theatre. The South Bank
Centre in London recorded his poem “The Holiday I Never Had”; he can be heard reading it
on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=184 In August 2007 he made a
film called ‘A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot’ for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow
Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival He has
also written Art Criticism for Peel and Combustus Magazines.

192

ENCLOSED BY LOVE

by Nardine Sanderson

Land and sea when angels fall.

I did not fall to call your pain, or break ones heart so soft again, I felt such love within no doubt
Like heavens precious rain
A magical voice I heard by ear, and eye to dwell a lonely tear, to touch the pages of your words
Bought likeness smiles here
And so your lips had spoke of love, and to my heart it burns of truth
And way would go from
Old to New, and part ways of love in youth
For any love I would behold the light there and it’s truth
I did not fall to call your pain, or break ones heart so soft again, I felt such love within no doubt
Like heavens precious rain
And as I watched the flowers open, your rose eternal blooms again
And I in love reciprocate and disapate such pain
With open eyes, and clear blue skies
Such love it coverts the land and sea
And wills it way thoughout any day and finds its way to me.

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White Lillies Adelaide Literary Magazine
Enclosed by Love

Wild are the Lillies Where the time falls like silken
down by the lake, streched as sheet’s, we lay enclosed by love
far as the eye can see, And when we close our eyes to
dream find those fields above
A symbol of a love forever, Thou Such a pretty stage of cloth to dress
hast come to comfort me ones bed just like a flower
And take ones breath before the heavens
In my weary days on earth, alone On death’ good willing hour.
the footprints leave, We never rearly speak of death’ for
watchman come to pry with eye
countless hours of your beauty , the As so they then would cease ones
Tempest heart does greive breath and take towards the sky’

Softer than the light of heaven, Though wooden boxes
brazed and bright just like a star Fancy made should dress one up delighted
so, and so the ground would hold Love dear
I wonder through the path of many When it’s time to go.
White Lillies, as you are

And in my silent auction
Take gentle each step
By feet,

to meet upon the beauty surrounding
Your soul I long to greet

To stay thereby the water
Embraced the heart
In love, to pick but all
One flower

One lover from above.

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Songs of you, and songs of i. . Revista Literária Adelaide
Galaxy that needed no name

I followed the sound Where do you wonder
Of several birds, who spoke of My lover my friend
you, without ye’ words..
I’ve walked the boundaries and come to an end
a little song
With highest tune I’ve turned a mountain
They circled the sky’ And lifted a stone
Beneath the moon
Here is where I found me all alone
Their nests awaited
A feathers rest I’ve searched through old
I felt there strongest memories kept by grace
Within my chest
And still I long
Your beating heart for your sweet face
A love so strong
it lead me home I know you’re in here
Where you belong And dream to be found

Now every night My angel my lover
I hear them sing You fly above ground
And to my heart
they come to bring My heart is eternal
I cherish and hold
A peaceful rest and warm reside
With you my lover The light of your halo
At my side Your wings made of gold

As every morning sun Our love everlasting
To rise, I see their beauty Each moment in time
Within your eyes
The stairwell to heaven
And so on feathers they do fly, and sing of love Your feet met to climb
Within the sky’
I’ve danced in the shadows
Songs of you and songs of I, in highest tune To the music of soul
And words of nigh’.
within your blue eyes
My heart beating whole

One love to another we burnt like a flame

Two stars in a galaxy
That needed no name.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Nardine Sanderson is a Geelong born writer poetess who’s
love of poetry stretches across the seas immortalizing
Those she loves in words.

196

MEMBRANE

by Alfred Fournier

Membrane His steel eyes flashed.
I felt the slash of each word,
The cat had been missing for days. This is not about the cat.
Your mother is dying.
Mom was home, behind French doors.
Her hospital absence stretched, My eyes came into focus.
a membrane under each precise day: Dad’s face, suddenly old, melted
Teenaged sister who drove us to school into a frown.
the chores we never failed to do Sisters wide-eyed,
meals prepared by dad himself stopped in mid-breath.
on the table at five o’clock.
I felt it snap—
The day I found the cat, The thin layer that had held each day in place.
dad came home in from a 12-hour shift Illusion of a world where I was safe.
stirred vodka and orange juice A world dead on the basement floor.
whisked about the kitchen, humming. A woman dying behind French doors.
Scent of pork chops and onions in the air.

I’d found her stretched
on the basement floor.
Numbly stroked her cold, dull fur.

At dinner, stared at my plate
in silence. I felt dad’s eyes on me.
What are you crying about?
I looked up. The cat died.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Monologue

My father was a coal miner. I watched him flipping matches,
My mother was a waste. Twisting ashes from his brow,
My family was a group of humans
Crowding empty space, Stepping into night
Vying for a place beside As if he owned its airy depths,
The noble king, the Christ. Discarding broken rules,
But I was not inclined to beg While taking tender hearts to bed.
And much too small to fight.
I hid beneath the table, My high school sister wedged herself
Since we didn’t have dog. ‘tween death and status quo.
I gnawed on wood, sweet maple, Her smile was a shadowbox
And discarded scraps of light Of childhood afterglow.
That streamed through cracks in curtains She shouldered every family need
Drawn mercilessly tight. With tick-tock angel’s grace,
But carried folded pocket dreams
Little sister scattered Of any other place.
Circus feathers with her smile. Her mournful front-pew wail rang out
We shared a child’s wilderness As mother’s casket closed
Of helpless, hungry guile. And climbed cathedral walls
Adored me out of solitude Before it settled in my bones.
With green-flecked jewel-thief eyes,
Past quick-hushed talk of chemo Never spoke a word of silence,
To join her childhood crimes. Stepping softly in my grief.
In Chinese acrobatic play, Listened long to Sunday sermons
Suspended her in air But never could believe.
And held her high, where none could die, I filled my chest with lightning
But couldn’t keep her there. During every summer storm.
Let it leak beneath the covers,
My brother was a gypsy king. Reading books to keep me warm.
Kept a hundred lovers. My mind became a dialogue,
We shared a room in silence So I was not alone.
In the absence of our mother. My life became a monologue
Could rub no words between us Shaped like my mother’s bones.
In our place beside the pyre.

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