The words you are searching are inside this book. To get more targeted content, please make full-text search by clicking here.

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent
international bimonthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and established authors reach a wider literary audience. We publish print and digital editions of our magazine six times a year, in September, November, January, March, May, and July. Online edition is updated continuously. There are no charges for reading the magazine online.
(http://adelaidemagazine.org)
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação
bimensal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta. Publicamos edições impressas e digitais da nossa revista seis vezes por ano: em Setembro, Novembro, Janeiro, Março, Maio e Julho. A edição online é actualizada regularmente. Não há qualquer custo associado à leitura da revista online.

Discover the best professional documents and content resources in AnyFlip Document Base.
Search
Published by ADELAIDE BOOKS, 2017-07-13 13:28:23

Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 8, July 2017

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent
international bimonthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and established authors reach a wider literary audience. We publish print and digital editions of our magazine six times a year, in September, November, January, March, May, and July. Online edition is updated continuously. There are no charges for reading the magazine online.
(http://adelaidemagazine.org)
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação
bimensal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta. Publicamos edições impressas e digitais da nossa revista seis vezes por ano: em Setembro, Novembro, Janeiro, Março, Maio e Julho. A edição online é actualizada regularmente. Não há qualquer custo associado à leitura da revista online.

Keywords: fiction,nonfiction,poetry,book reviews,translations,essays,books

uncaught, who haven’t done the same, at least About the Author:
once. I’ve smoked more than my fair share of pot
and a few other things besides. But here I am, CAMERON KENNY’s writing has been published in
and always have been — FREE. Out. And out I Fourth Genre, The Washington Post, The L.A.
will probably always remain. Times, and The New York Post. She has a J.D. and
a Masters in Education. She has worked as a crim-
Michael is out now, after having served 11 years, inal prosecutor, a Legislative Aide in the U.S. Sen-
although as I write this the powers-that-be in ate, a middle school teacher in Harlem, and an
Connecticut are still trying to put him back in. I Associate Producer at Fox News. She lives with
sometimes think about whether many of the peo- her husband and daughter in Montana.
ple I helped send to prison or helped keep in pris-
on are out now, too. For those who remain clois-
tered, I wonder if their kids or wives are visiting
them this Sunday, or whether they've long since
been left behind like Shana's lovely old gentleman
in Angola. I wonder if any of them are nearing
redemption and enlightenment, or whether,
much more likely, they're moving farther away
from it.

It's painful to accept that most of what happens
in the shut in place, whether over a term of one
year or 7 years or 20 years or 50 years, can result
in nothing more profound or insightful than
"Stupid, I guess." The paradox remains that many
of our imprisoned population don't have the
wherewithal to deeply consider their actions and
its consequences, and didn't have the chance to
be anyone different, and didn't have the infra-
structure or wholesome environment or oppor-
tunity or hope that all of us require in order to
become productive and useful members of socie-
ty. Because if they did, of course, they'd be a
whole lot less likely to be in claustrum to begin
with. So the endless factory ramp of the criminal
justice system keeps rolling along. Every minute
of every day, 365 days a year, someone is being
arrested, arraigned, sentenced, paroled. A hus-
band or son enters prison; a brother or grandfa-
ther gets released. The quiet wives and children
sit and wait in cold rooms on Sunday afternoons.
The guards in Angola's watchtowers rest their
shotguns in the crook of their arms, while the
work crews walk below them flanked by deputies
on horseback.

O brother, who is thy keeper? Not I, not any-
more, but Lord knows I wish you enlightenment,
redemption, peace. Try to find some, dammit,
despite all the ways we've let you down. This is
still your life we're talking about.

199

FAMILY PICTURES

Cassidy Senefelder

Flash! She hates taking family pictures. Especially Flash! She hates taking family pictures. Especially
the kind where your ice cold corpse sits in a coffin the kind where you lay in a hospital bed for going
in a funeral home as the family poses for a picture on three weeks, an oxygen tank by your side and
out front. This was the only time they got togeth- numerous tubes and needles invading your skin,
er. pumping you with chemicals to counteract the
other chemicals you’d been inhaling for decades.
"I remember when you were this big" says Uncle
Hank as he places his hand at his waist. She man- She is thirteen years old and this was your first
ages a chuckle and utters, “Yeah, it’s been a long long stay at the hospital. She had found you
time…” Her voice trails off, and she hopes he passed out on the bathroom floor, little shimmer-
senses her disinterest. ing drops of crimson blood coming from the side
of your mouth. You’d coughed yourself uncon-
Those were better days. Days when she still had scious, but she was used to taking care of you.
you; a single teen mom who did the best she That’s what best friends do.
could and smoked a pack of cigarettes a day.
You finally leave the hospital six weeks later, after
She doesn’t miss the sleepless nights filled with you are diagnosed with emphysema.
coughs that sounded as though chunks of your
insides were splashing into the toilet bowl, but “I’ll stop smoking, I promise.” She believes you
she does miss you. She misses the way that you and holds your hand tightly, putting it up to her
were her best friend in the world. nostrils to inhale the smell of Marlboro cigarettes
and Clinique perfume, scared that she may forget
If you were here, she’d bitch to you about the your scent.
family and how sad it is that they only get togeth-
er when someone dies. The irony being that you By the sixth or seventh visit she has heard you say
are now that someone, but this time is out of the those words hundreds of times with varying levels
ordinary. You weren’t some old, wrinkling relative of sincerity and reluctance. By the 13th or 14th,
who she knew only from the occasional holiday she is numb to them.
cards and tales of “the good ol’ days” when the
family knew the meaning of “family”. You were Flash! She hates taking family pictures. Especially
young. This wasn’t right. She has more living to the kind where you resemble an empty, bony
do, and god damnit you were supposed to be shell of what used to be a person. This last trip to
here for it; for her graduation from college that the hospital is different. You can’t pretend any-
she only attended to please you, for her wedding more – pretend that you are immortal and that
to some man or woman who could fill the void the cancer sticks aren’t winning the fight for your
that you’ve now left in her life, to see her scream life.
in agony as she shoves an eight-pound person
from between her legs.

You won’t be, though.

200

She sits gently on the side of your bed, careful not She’ll break a mirror or five. She’ll drink herself
to touch you for fear of breaking your fragile, into oblivion one too many times. She’ll curse
brittle bones. She looks at you, searching your you, she’ll resent you, she’ll hate you for bringing
sunken eyes for a glimpse of that oh-so-familiar her into a world that would one day force her to
heart ache and suffering. They are almost lifeless, exist without you.
sadness and despair replaced with exhaustion
and defeat. Someday, though, she’ll smile at the thought of
you. Your face burned into her memory, she will
She tries to make you laugh, digging up happy no longer resent you for abandoning her, your
memories from the thousands of tiny synapses daughter. She will speak of your memories fondly
firing in her brain as she processes the sight of her without blubbering every word. She will take your
dying mother. The moments of joy that once pictures out of that box she buried deep in the
brought light to your grey-blue eyes have lost basement. She will finally take your clothes out of
their meaning as your organs work over-time to the closet and put them in plastic bags with pleas-
keep you alive. ant thoughts of the poor people in America wear-
ing them to stay warm or to get a job. She will
As she gets in her car to leave the hospital that marry that man or woman, and they will tempo-
night, she wonders if that would be the last time rarily fill the void that you left in her life, but only
she saw you. Memories of your fights about a little. She will push that 7 pound 6-ounce hu-
sneaking out, cell phones, boys, drinking, drugs— man being from between her legs as she screams
all a waste of your time together. The times she and wishes to take it back. She will do these
told you she hated you and you pretended that it things because she is her mother’s daughter.
didn’t break your heart. She wishes she could
take it all back. She wishes you had more time.

Flash! She didn’t always hate taking family pic- About the Author:
tures. Not until they became a token of the loss of
another member of her already scattered, es- Cassidy Senefelder is a recent graduate of St.
tranged, distant family that she longed to keep John Fisher College with a Bachelor’s in English.
from falling apart. She is an unpublished writer and plans to enjoy
her new-found freedom from college life by ex-
You died on a Tuesday. The funeral was a short ploring the creative writing she has been ne-
three days later in your hometown of Pittsburgh, glecting for the last four years.
Pennsylvania.

She was a great woman.

She was the life of the party.

We will miss her dearly.

You look just like her.

She’ll always be with you.

She resents those words, intended to provide
some faulty sense of comfort. They do nothing for
her.

She is a spitting image of you. From your piercing
blue eyes to your porcelain skin and thick curly
locks. From your pig headedness to your intelli-
gence. It made her sick. How could she look at
herself in the mirror for the rest of her life and
see your face staring back at her?

201

FIGHTING

Connor Fitzpatrick

I have been in one real fist fight in my life. I was anger into someone’s flesh. When I am at a fami-
in eighth grade at a classmate’s overnight birth- ly gathering for my dad’s family, I want one of my
day party. We were all downstairs talking about uncles to say the wrong thing. I want them to say
girls and how we were all going to be bigshots in something about my brother being in jail so that
high school. One boy came in from another my anger can start to flow. They’ll say something
room. He had found two pairs of boxing gloves. about him deserving to be in there and my right
Testosterone began to swirl and we decided that fist will come flying in, landing across one of their
we should have some matches. Boys began to cheeks. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a few more in before
pair off in what they believed would be the most chaos envelopes everyone and I’m being pulled
even fights. I was paired with Harold Moran. away.
Harry and I never got along. He would pick on me
for being fat. I would come back by telling him This will never happen, but I want it to. I don’t
that he was dumb. Neither of us were very origi- know where my anger comes from, but I feel it
nal. inside me, buzzing right beneath my skin. I often
feel this way since Max was arrested. I am angry
When it was our turn to fight, I did not know what for him. I am angry with the justice system for
to do. I had never actually fought someone be- holding an innocent man in jail. I am angry that
fore. I had been in some overly heated wrestling there is nothing I can do to help him.
matches with my cousin Brandon, but those did-
n’t count. They were just play-fights that got out My anger comes out when I am alone. Something
of hand. as simple as my cat having her shit stuck to her
will set me off. I know it’s coming and I can’t stop
It was time for us to go. I raised the gloves to my it. My right fist shoots up, colliding with my head
face like I had seen on TV. Harold threw the first repeatedly. I seethe. I growl. I clench my fists
punch, landing his right fist on my ribs. Normally, until I feel the veins in my neck. For a split-
this is where I would have started to cry, but I second there is nothing. The world stops and my
didn’t. It hurt, yes, but it woke me up. It was like muscles relax. The euphoria sets in. Tension re-
on Dragonball Z when Goku would be getting his cedes and is replaced with a light pins and nee-
ass kicked and he’d emerge from a pile of rubble dles sensation.
laughing because somehow it had all made him
stronger. I started swinging. Flailing really. I was Being angry is just a drug. It’s all one big fucked
pummeling Harold’s arms and chest until he up high. It’s just like in Fight Club. There’s no
curled up in self-defense. I was angry and it felt better feeling than after you just got your ass
great. I wanted to keep going. To keep hitting kicked. In that moment I feel free from every-
Harold until I couldn’t move my arms. I wanted thing. It’s not like when I smoke pot where para-
him to know that he couldn’t beat me. We were noia can sink in at any moment. Nothing clouds
separated and I was declared the winner. my mind because I have just evicted everything
that was in there.
It’s been ten years since my one and only fight,
and all I want to do is fight. I want to channel my I’m not proud of these moments. I know it’s not

202

healthy, but when the urge comes it’s almost im-
possible to repress. My right fist has become my
own personal refresh button, and my brain is ad-
dicted to pressing it.
A few years back, while I was in undergrad, I saw
Harold at a house party in Sacramento. I hadn’t
seen him in years and I spent the whole party
watching him. Late in the night he was with a girl.
They were both drunk. He was saying that she
wasn’t strong enough to hurt him. She disagreed.
She wanted to prove him wrong. Confident, he
obliged. She leaned back and punched him in the
face with a loud smack. Half of his face was a
new shade of red. I could see in his eyes that
same dazed feeling. His mind was somewhere
else. Somewhere peaceful.

About the Author:
Connor Fitzpatrick is a graduate of the MFA in
Creative Writing program at Saint Mary's College
of California. When Connor is not writing, he is
obsessed with baseball and his cat, Toni.

203

COAL DIRT

Susan Kay Will

For twenty-four years, my dad worked in the coal I remember I was making the familiar trek north
mines of Ohio and then West Virginia until the on Route 35 through the rolling green hills of
mass layoffs impacting the industry finally southeast Ohio towards my grandparents’ house
reached our family in October of 2015. I had al- when I got the call from my mother that I had
ways associated my dad with coal and coal with been anticipating for months. My happy and up-
my dad. I couldn’t imagine him working anywhere beat travel music was suddenly replaced by my
else. Couldn’t envision a future where my dad mother’s voice coming over the hands-free Blue-
didn’t wake up at 4 a.m. every morning to go to tooth system in my car telling me that Dad had
work, only to return home more than twelve officially received word that his job would no
hours later covered in black coal dirt and smelling longer be there in a few weeks. Even though we
like fuel. had been bracing for this for months, I still felt my
stomach turn and tears start to sting my eyes.
In the spring and summer, it wasn’t out of the “What now?”, I thought. I wasn’t sure what my
ordinary for Dad to come home at the end of a dad as anyone but a coal miner would look like
long work day and grab the weed eater to help and that shook me, scared me even. I wasn’t pre-
my brother get the yard work done faster. When I pared to witness my dad go from being worn out
would take glasses of ice water out and set them from working 60-hour work weeks, to someone
down on the front porch, I would often look over whose worry lines in his forehead were more
at Dad and see the sweat starting to build up and prominent each day from working zero-hour work
streak down the face so similar to my own. I weeks. Although I didn’t know it yet, I was already
would look at him and wonder how and why he beginning to see my dad in a new light. Not
would offer to help my brother when he was better, not worse, just new.
clearly exhausted, and my brother more than
capable of doing all the yard work himself. Why As time has passed, I’ve gotten a good look at the
he willingly overexerted himself so that sweat man underneath all the coal dirt. At some point,
made streaks in the dirt and dust caking his face, I’m not sure when, my dad started aging. The
and caused tiny blades of grass to adhere to his strong, athletic, hardworking father of my youth
entire body. It’s not in my dad’s character though now often uses a cane to take some of the pres-
to walk away and not offer help where he thinks sure off of his aching hips, knees, and back that
help is needed. I can never think of a time where prevented him from finding a new job after the
he ever put himself first. layoffs, and caused him to file for disability in-
stead. I see more salt to his pepper black hair now
When news of more and more layoffs started more than ever, and he seems to have weekly
making its way down from the mountain top coal doctor’s appointments. Through all of this
mines of southern West Virginia, my family knew though, he has taken everything in stride. He has
that eventually, Dad would be laid off as well. It transitioned from an over-worked coal miner cov-
was always a risk working in a controversial indus- ered in dust, to taking on the role of a house-
try but we couldn’t help but hold out hope husband, doing laundry and running errands,
(maybe a little foolishly) that my dad’s job would as well as supporting my mother while she goes
be spared.

204

back to school to earn her first bachelor’s degree. get a whiff of coal dirt and I’ll think of Loretta
And although he makes a lot more “dad noises” Lynn singing about how she’s proud to be a coal
now that consist of “phew’s and oomph’s” and miner’s daughter.
other various grunts and groans, he never com-
plains and rarely asks for help. In the moments About the Author:
when my mind recognizes that my dad is growing Susan Will is a Creative Writing major at Marshall
older, I can’t help but chide myself for taking for University in Huntington, West Virginia where she
granted both the financial and emotional stability is an active member of the Beta Iota chapter of
of a present and loving father all these years. Sigma Tau Delta as well as a staff member for
Marshall’s on-campus literary magazine, Et
People often comment on how much my dad and Cetera. Coming from Ohio and living in West Vir-
I look alike. We have the same heavy lidded, al- ginia, Susan identifies as a Midwestern-
mond shaped eyes. The same full bottom lip and Appalachian and her experiences within these
thin upper lip, and the same chin that juts out regions are often explored in her work that con-
from the same oval face. Our similarities go far sist mainly of Creative Nonfiction shorts. After
deeper than just outward appearance though. graduation from her undergraduate program,
We’re about as low maintenance as low mainte- Susan plans to stay at Marshall to earn her M.A in
nance gets. We’ll take our pizza on a paper plate, English.
our beer straight from the can or bottle, and our
mixed drinks in plastic solo cups (something that
annoys my mother very much). We consider an
afternoon spent on the porch, or a Saturday
watching Ohio State football, time well spent.
There is no need to change the radio station
when we climb into his Ford Escape to run er-
rands on the weekend or go to a doctor’s ap-
pointment; 101.5 Big Buck Country will do just
fine.

Every time the station plays Loretta Lynn’s “Coal
Miner’s Daughter” my dad will perk up and say,
“Hey, there’s your song!” and I’ll laugh while he
belts the lyrics. It’s true though. It is my song.
Although we disagree about the future of the coal
industry, I feel the words to that song more than
he knows. My dad may have only had two kids to
raise, he may have never had to sell any livestock
to make sure my brother and I had shoes to wear
not just in the winter but all year round, but he
worked just as hard and loved us just as much as
Loretta’s father did.

Now that I have moved out of my parents’ house,
Dad will text or call just about every Thursday to
see if I’m coming home for the weekend. The
longer I have been away or the shorter my stay is,
the longer he hugs me when I come home or
when I get ready to leave, and I know now to ap-
preciate the moments when his large, six-foot
frame envelopes me in a huge bear hug. I know
now to appreciate his smell of Lever 2000 and
Red Seal Long Cut Natural. Sometimes I’ll even

205

(DIS)AMBIGUATION

Sarah Kohrs

MÜLLERIAN MIMICRY

Unstable and so tire,d haphazardly in her ab-
desire to retire, re- duction. By other standards,
turn and [capture ^embossed^ like Braille
the motivation for re- variegates as roving sea-
juvenation] / weariness waves, SOSing against
in the marrow, really. the solid steel side.

A caterpillar amble...s Until it cracks,
catapults like capillaries cleaner than an unsalted
sp-i-der-webb-ing pistachio shell. The cupped
very close to Varicose portions plunking over
as varixed as rippled into individual coracles
mtn ridges or the shellwork that maneuver for one

About the Author: of a mollusk, missing once. And then they're left
not quite (inside the pearl- to a wind, greedy e-
Sarah E N Kohrs is an artist, ized variety), but as in- nough for cicada husks
whose poetry can also be tricate in form as the as for abandoned nests
found in Poetry from the wings that are formed as for cocoons u n r a v e l e d
Valley of Virginia, Crosswinds on a Viceroy—mimicker and hollow hulls wrecked
Poetry Journal, From the
Depths, Virginia Literary of what has come, what is “…my own body maneuvers to-
Journal, Colere, and Claudius now, what will be. Something ward molting. And yet, the caspases
Speaks. SENK has a BA from in{side or to the side} of you / never quite activate the same,
The College of Wooster and a of me / of humanity... O, olive Caterpillar.”
VA state teaching license. She aposematic // apocalyptic My chrysalis fails; yet, in fading,
lives in the Shenandoah to a predator. Rouletted: have I avoided life's swift predator?
Valley, where she
homeschools three sons, a black envelop sealed
manages The Sow's Ear with red wax ^impressed^
Poetry Review, directs The and a war machine, sub-
Corhaven Graveyard, and marine silhouetted,
works to kindle hope, where ^etched^ by a thin gold
it's needed most. string Ariadne dropped
http://senkohrs.com.

206

(DIS)AMBIGUATION

It began with the forgetting.
Sunlight sparked off keys
Dangling eye-level near the door;

Yet I walked right by and had
To come back again when
The car remained silent
Despite being helmed.

LIKE A FALLEN ANGEL

Winter winds (like how cows I pluck guttural heartstrings while
With their back-itch) halation shimmers across the reflection
Rub against knurled trees shivering in the stream. Moss carpets
rocks, scaled by droplets as blue as the Morpho
Shivering— illuminated— and as delicate, too. The wind- shield
Casually denuded —and
I wonder why human skins' traces the same ghost. I bend down
Sloughings off happen so away from interpenetrating eyes
to placate the spasms in the butter- fly's
Gradually (like holiday wings. I imagine the grille's imp- ression
Gatherings that yield oohs and aahs and wonder if her ova found their way
At all the inches grown).

But those ticking seconds to the epidermis of the leaf, before...
Deter such revel -ations. I play the part of an ultracrepi- darian,
It takes accumulating snapshots or even though my ancestors lost their wings
Those annual pencil marks long before. What do I know of metamorphosis?
My chrysalis was a womb that affixed

Rising up a door jamb a sheen of pallor over skin. One that gradually
To create a unique key sloughed off after an arrival like a sunburn.
For measuring our re- A falling, really. Into arms meant to imprint
that first feel of love—but, gloved instead. A
Bound from gravity. world cocooned from the visceral's glistening.
And yet, there's all that for-
Getting. The pre- sent is I, prone to tergiversation, pluck guttural
Perpetual; but so, too, are we heartstrings, while the caterpillar, buoyed by
an ambrosia we never seem to find, seeks
Perpetually declining while kaizen. Even those controlled by Apocrita.
Wrangling with the past. Even those left cupped in the palm of a hand.
We're forgotten, forgetting.

207

IF THE TRUTH BE SAID

Patrick Erickson

IF THE TRUTH BE SAID THE FRAGRANT LAIR

and static arises fragrant as lips laid on mine
to cause grievances
among the several parties your lips pale as the moon
of a multi-party line and with its sheen
dank as my breath
or if a single beam on your lips
of fiber optic cable reddening
carries multiple parties
we roll over
and the resulting static ruddy from love
causes grievances and fragrant
and sparks fly with its sheen
and the fire spreads
reddening
and if fire trucks are called for reddening with the sun.
and dispatched
and the firemen stand at the ready
fire extinguishers in hand

don't be surprised
if you're the more put out
the more you're put upon

when the truth is said
and the static grows
and the fire spreads.

208

I STAND AT THE DOOR AND KNOCK WHAT DO YOU EXPECT OF BUTCHERY?

dead set against those The savvy butcher
dead as doornails does his butchering
at night
as those dead as doornails are not dead set
being the doorjamb and washes up after

the doormen so the carnivores
silent as sentinels won't smell blood on his hands
who stand and watch his clothes
his butcher's apron
and spring into action
only when the door is ajar or see it stain
and there's a draft his butcher block

to whom this is and trickle down into the sawdust
open and shut on the floor

another doorknob or pool on the countertop
another deadbolt lock and coagulate
another knocker
another hinge and ask, "Where's the beef?"

another doorstop and have a beef with him
standing on the threshold if they can't have their beefsteak
knocking. rare

their roast beef bloody

their hamburger raw

tooth and claw.

209

WESTWARD HO!

Iron wood
and the iron men
who clear it
for trestles
and for firewood

who lay the track About the Author:
and man the cattle cars
and the cattle catchers Patrick Theron Erickson, a
resident of Garland, Texas, a
who catch fire Tree City, just south of Duck
catching the flak Creek, is a retired parish
of a thousand fiery arrows pastor put out to pasture
through and through himself. His work has
appeared in Grey Sparrow
To the iron horses, then +++ Journal, Cobalt Review, and
and the iron rails Burningword Literary
There is a track Journal, among other
To the iron men who ride them we one-track minds are on publications, and more
and the iron wood recently in The Main Street
a monorail Rag, Wilderness House
and the iron-willed financiers through the trackless waste Literary Review, Tipton
who finesse them. mined for all its worth Poetry Journal, Right Hand
Pointing, and Danse
It is an ill wind that blows Macabre.

that picks up the slack
picking up steam
picking us off

picking us up
and laying us down

so many miles of track bed
without recourse
to a third rail.

210

MARKO POGAČAR’s POETRY

Translated by Andrea Jurjević

ROMEO OF MEAT

I stood bare-chested at the window, yelled
I love meatballs, I love meatballs the best, below headlights
cut the night like flak slices fingers in swordfish hunt
split the dark into halves. a dog, leprous and fast,
fell asleep in a puddle of its own shadow, a pool that moves
like the sleeping dog; how in slumber he’s hounded
by thoughts of hot doe womb.

that warm stream a light, an intangible rug, pours between particles
like wedges. it squeezes through, rubs its back against white walls,
flashes off teeth, to end in the simple logic of the cypress.
an engine that revs in place
lifts sprigs of soundless smoke into the sky. when the twisting light
stumbles upon it,
in the clouds canned insects and moths, blazing specks,
float stunned. if the specks are traced with a greasy pencil
air flickers, a precise portrait of a blizzard, form and fleet of woods.

so: already the heroes who’ll cut down the woods are lined up. whetted
axe blades shine like eyes, when licked by headlights. the silence growls,
the indraft of household aromas flee. just crickets’ pairs of bellows and I
at the window howl I love meatballs, I’m crazy about meatballs,
and then someone, perhaps drunk, passes by, asks: what kind do you love?
and I say, with sauce, tomato sauce, ones in tricorn cans,
the only way to eat meatballs! and the night burns black as an attic corner,
cold like a northern heart.

211

ABOUT POOR WEATHER

This is no Spring.
only flowers twisting tediously out of small cups
and bees singing linoleum and the carpet of wind. the air,
deep and heavy, draws under the grass and lifts
bellies of mice: in less than a day they
bare the body like a curtain and spread
bones and guts. this is no spring.
only the river rising and pantries
waiting to be filled with sheer news. here and there gods
coo from graves, like pigeons. and their people
gouge the eyes of other people, but at night, that happens
at night. it buds in daytime and birds return to the city:
song-heavy cables and shit-fertile soil tighten the throat.
hedges crawl to the sky. waiters bring out tables
and flies fall into glasses. green learns its language fast—
the reliable vocabulary of the cypress, letters of beech and birch;
even the dirt under fingernails is ready to bloom. still this is
no spring. it’s nothing. there’s no spring without you, enough
enough with lies.

About the Author:
Marko Pogačar was born in 1984 in Split, Yugoslavia. His
publications include four poetry collections, four books of
essays, and a short story collection. He edited the Young
Croatian Lyric anthology (2014). He was a fellow at Civitella
Ranieri, Literarische Colloquium Berlin, Récollets-Paris, Passa
Porta, Milo Dor, Brandenburger Tor, Internationales Haus der
Autoren Graz, and Krokodil Beograd fellowships, among others.
His work has received Croatian and international praise, and
has been translated to over thirty languages. Slovene poet
Tomaž Šalamun wrote, 'Marko Pogačar is a miracle; it’s not
fully clear where he emerged from and how – it’s just obvious
that he is here among us, central.' Pogačar resides in Vienna as
a freelance author.

212

SETTLEMENT (GOD AND CASHIER)

The world is a bookkeeper with a comb
in his shirt pocket, a gold band, a link

that’s missing, a link
cut into the flesh of the finger, into a hog’s axis —

bookkeeper, that world, with all his lice,
with his nettle shampoo helpless, oh entirely
needless.

love, a somber cashier.
and then a trip, winter vacation on the Tisa, skating

across a frozen lake, in crazy eights,
in the symbol for infinity, in a dream,

in a dream about hogs it ends with a final fall.
the cashier eats croissants, cheese and sweet rolls, alone:

the cashier under the sky. between her teeth stick
crumbs. in ears rings the clink of ice skates.

and in the matchbox, foul and empty, coffer for the dead,
god: god is an ATM.

About the Translator:
Andrea Jurjević, a native of Croatia, is the author of Small
Crimes, winner of the 2015 Philip Levine Prize. Her poems,
as well as her translations of contemporary Croatian poetry,
have appeared in journals such as Epoch, TriQuarterly, Best
New Poets, The Missouri Review, Gulf Coast, and
elsewhere. Her translation of Mamasafari (and other
things) from Croatian will be published by lavender Ink /
Diálogos in 2018.

213

POEMAS DE

MICHAEL SPRING

Traduzido por Maria João Marques

surrealista no tempo debruço-me sobre o limiar

não há mais árvores debruço-me sobre o limiar
para arrancar do seu corpo da tua voz

de cada buraco espreita um olho quero cair através
como um amanhecer inteiro atraindo do seu céu azul
enxames de relógios e ponteiros
debruço-me sobre o horizonte
fecha os olhos e mergulho

e torna-se nada mais quero levantar uma ponta da rua
que uma jazida de argila e sondar condutas e cabos
subterrâneos
ouve os artistas do novo mundo
marchando sobre a sua testa quero ver
arrastando-se e retinindo as suas colheres gigantes de que é feita a tua voz

eles sabem que horas são quero saber
e estão com fome se posso segurar as tuas palavras
nas minhas mãos

214

nojazz About the Author:
Michael Garcia Spring ganhou a bolsa luso-americana
fecha os olhos 2016 do Projecto DISQUIET International. É autor de
e segue quatro livros de poesia de língua inglesa. O seu quinto
o mergulho livro, Corvo Azul, o primeiro em língua portuguesa, será
esta noite publicado em 2018 e está actualmente a ser traduzido por
é Joshua Redman Maria João Marques. Os seus poemas já figuraram em
várias publicações portuguesas, incluindo as revistas NEO,
a tocar Vértice, The Portuguese Times, Gávea-Brown e o jornal
o saxofone Açoriano Oriental. Michael vive no estado do Oregon, nos
que desaparece EUA, onde é agricultor, instrutor de artes marciais e editor
por entre os densos ramos de poesia para a Revista Pedestal.
da especulação
About the Translator:
a música virá Maria João Marques é licenciada em Escrita de
mil abelhas de vidro Argumento pela Escola Superior de Teatro e Cinema,
invadem-te o cérebro mestre em Estudos Ingleses e Norte-Americanos pela
Faculdade de Ciências Sociais e Humanas da Universidade
as paredes são rios Nova de Lisboa. A sua dissertação foi distinguida com o
os teus pensamentos nocturnos JRAAS Quality Seal for Outstanding Achievement pelo
derramar-se-ão Centre for English, Translation, and Anglo-Portuguese
o chão Studies (CETAPS). É tradutora desde 2008, tendo já
tornar-se-á lama traduzido alguns poemas de Michael Spring, publicados
nos jornais Açoriano Oriental e The Portuguese Times.
e qual fosse a música
que deu início à noite 215
virar-se-á do
avesso e nadará
como uma enguia

não venhas
se procuras
um lugar seguro

SERGEY CHERNYSHEV’S
POETRY

Translated by Boris Kokotov

Sound Звук

Flesh flickers: smoke, a man, Мерцает плоть. То дым, то человек,
an anthill. Sound, blunt and hollow, то муравейник. Звук, почти напрасен,
still palpitates inside the frozen head переломляется в промерзшей голове
and wags its tail -- green, red, and yellow. и бьет хвостом. Он зелен, жёлт и красен,

It’s empty. With a wanton tongue он пуст. С полуразумным языком,
hanging from a knotty muzzle свисающим из нарочитой морды,
it leads someplace -- so fabulously far -- ведущим в некий киев -- далеко.
where apples grow, where people Там яблоки. Там думают на мертвых,

treat their dead as a name and face которым есть и имя и лицо,
but memory hides underneath, suspended. под ним остановившаяся память,
Still deeper -- a sound, an enormous wheel: а глубже -- звук, большое колесо,
the wrists with fusing mouths. запястья с зарастающими ртами.

A Snake Змей

The objective world is an intrusive dream Так навязчиво снится реальный мир --
that doesn't offer too many options. хоть ходи по врачам да суши прополис.
A traveler caught by a train's closing door Пассажиру, закушенному дверьми,
must choose between reality and the dark will выбирать между явью и тёмной волей,

that regards reality as a huge iron snake для которой явь -- лишь железный змей,
that eagerly gobbles people что, нажравшись живым, порционным людом,
then creeps, glowing in a narrow burrow, проползает, светясь, в своей узкой тьме,
horny, with a number on its forehead. с номерком во лбу и рогами всюду.

216

The page

"Be ready to die," a novel's character says to his foe,
"you won't see tomorrow, bitch, end of story."
"I can't see yesterday either," the other laughs,
"your threats are empty, why should I care?"

And he closes the book. The character hides behind
a cardboard door holding a horrible razor
in the solemn silence of pages bound tight
and patiently waits for an unsuspecting reader.

Listen to the dreadful shrieks of those stuck
in heaven's mud, to the whistling of ether,
to roaring tubes... Just be sure to refrain
from turning the page -- he'll gut you for real.

Cтраница

-- Щас ты здохниш, -- грозит литгерой врагу,
-- Неувидиш ты завтрева, сволочь, зарежу тибя я силой.
-- Ну и хуле, -- смеется враг, -- я и вчерашнего не смогу
увидать, а еще меня не было дольше, чем как-то было.

А потом закрывает книгу, и вечно стоит герой
за картонною дверкой с ножом из свинца и дыма,
в тишине слоящейся, нумерованой, туго про-
шитой нитками. Насмерть зачитанный, мнимый.

Слышишь, визг гимназиста, не ушедшего от небес,
продолжается свистом эфира, шипеньем смолы на коже,
песней диких селян, эгегеем в стальной трубе...
Перевернешь страницу и -- опа! схлопочешь ножик.

217

drifting

whether far away from here or long ago from now,
on the authentic Earth where dreams dwell next door,
where time is the king, where every cloud counts,
winter arrives and its humongous shadow falls

on the shores and hills of the inhabited world
blanketing them with pathetic snow. no escape
from claustrophobic chambers filled with abusive music,
from this continent -- next morning it will be gone,

but so far a few birds are scuffling at a feeder
and the hills are pinky and the retreating fog
seems to know who you are, seems to call you
by your name -- now you ought to remember…

дрейф

не то давно, не то далеко отсюда, на настоящей еще земле,
где даже сны всего лишь другая комната, музычка, материк,
где течет абсолютное время, где любому облаку тыща лет,
наступает зима, и огромная тень ее падает напрямик

на убогие взгорья, взморья, невсамаделишний и жалкий снег
обитаемой версии мира -- забредешь, и не выйдешь вдруг
из сдуревшей музыки, комнат запертых (фройда на нас всех нет),
с материка, что вот-вот утонет, что уже утонул -- к утру,

где в кормушке дерутся птички, где несколько белых гор
как положено розовеют, и туман, отступающий по реке
так же легко вспоминает кто ты, как и запамятовывал легко.
сейчас тебя назовут по имени, сейчас ты припомнишь,

218

About the Author: About the Translator:

Sergey Chernyshev was born and raised in Kam- Boris Kokotov was born in Moscow, Russia. Cur-
chatka -- the Far-Eastern region of Russia. He rently he lives in Baltimore. He writes poems and
graduated from the Far Eastern State University short stories in both Russian and English lan-
where he've earned two degrees, first in Physics guages. His translations from German Romantics
and later in Psychology. Currently he lives in St. were published in the anthology "Vek Perevo-
Petersburg and works as a system administrator. da" (The Century of Translation) in Moscow. His
He began writing poetry at the beginning of 21 translation of Louise Glück's "The Wild Iris" was
century and within a few years became well- nominated for the best translation of the year
known in the literary circles and on Internet. His 2012 in Russia.
poems frequently appear in periodicals and alma-
nacs in Russia. He is co-author of the book "Vyhod
v gorod" ("Going to downtown") published in
Moscow, 2006.

219

NOW I SEE

Mignon Ariel King

A Day Off from School, 1971

My big brother knew the shape of a real heart
was nothing like the valentines pretty girls got
in second grade. And he drew the sun top-center

with crayons, filling in the shadows of trees, people,
and lamp posts with pencil. His birthday was Dr. King’s.
Kept home from school in protest of the non-holiday,

we Three Little Ones pretended it was in honor of art.
No slumping solitary in a room full of regulars, ignoring
rather than showcasing that I couldn’t really blend in.

My sun only peeked from one corner of drawings.
What did a plain, bookish girl have to radiate over?
I didn’t miss out on knowledge without school. I learned

about photosynthesis. Gradually, the sun moved closer
to the middle of my happy scenes. In high school, I tried
to hide my very round face and high-foreheaded mind.

Cute girls called me “lollipop head.” My stick body!
My large features! I bemoaned. My brother looked up
from Daredevil to say, “Yup. Just like supermodels.”

220

Chifforobe

Daddy had one, so when its three tones of art-deco wood
creaked open on tiny black hinges to emit a breath of cedar,
I fell in love. I could see the green plastic soldiers inside,
and the black with white tips shaving cream slather brush
on a tiny silver stand, soap disc tray attached as if a butler
were offering it. And I pictured Traci Tricycle riding around
the ecru, scarlet, and navy Old Spice bottle on her rubbery
dolly knees. From 1987 to 2001 I lugged it around, despite
abandoning all things but books, clothes, and kitchen saucers.
Safe at Momma's house for nearly ten years, it stayed behind
when I moved clear across the state it seemed with a fourth
of what's left of me but two parentsful of memories for company.

Persistent Days

Flip the calendar pages or not, days stay with you.
People leave. Time flits. Wounds heal. All true.
But certain days won't budge. They snuggle up
against you on the couch, steal chips from your bowl,
then flip, flip, flip the channels without bothering to ask
if you have a preference. Days are jealous when you lick
salt from your own l-i-p-s. So maybe get some sleep early,
bolting the door on selfish days to embrace truer night.

221

Now I See

It's very clear the moon isn't here for good,
so I pursue it. Out into the impressive cold,
head pounding a hint that this late-dusk trek
is unwise. But my legs don't listen. Feet ignore
chastisements carved from logic. I'm miserable.
Not depressed. Misery always has a cause,
or two. I don't know why the moon persists.

Rounding the corner, I see him. Working hard
in the cold. He smiles. We trade bad-week
tales. And we talk about how much we miss
her still. –His girlfriend says we're urchins
now. I say to tell her the word is orphans.
My mother used to call me a waif, like Dickens'
characters. We joke about how lost we are.

When my brother starts singing Amazing waifs...
I join in, and we sing at the top of our lungs,
college kids walking by laughing like in a movie
under the crazy, beautiful, ice cold moonshine.

About the Author:
Mignon Ariel King was born in Boston City Hospital, a
third-generation new Englander. She holds a Master of
Arts in English degree from Simmons College and is the
publisher of Hidden Charm Press and Tell-Tale Chap-
books. Volumes one and two of King's autobiographical
poetry trilogy are available via ALL-CAPS Publishing. Ms.
King is currently writing a “found book” poetic tribute
to Moby-Dick.

222

HOMAGE TO ORWELL

Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

Homage to Orwell, << A globe,

surrounded by slot machines, two globes,
in the main hall three globes,
(perhaps the Tanjiers?) Earth is the globe where I live>>,
by the penultimate we the baby-boomers used to sing,
of our national heroes, at an early age.
perfect for adults and children, Subtle premonition of the housing bubble,
proud to be perhaps?
the gear lever in Europe, Ora pro nobis.
respecting the margin for maneuver
of our land barons,
while he poses a sinister redesign
of our population pyramid:
it is gypsy croupier,
in a table that is played with antibiotics
(instead of casino chips).

223

You, imputed Absolute happiness

Here, in this second (or so) I tore the corners of an envelope
world tourist destination, on the day of my childhood
after the storm comes the cat: something like exultant
we are all very excited, and cathedrals, shields,
so we do not believe the Delorean even masters in black
long time coming came out of it
(albeit to take you to the Prosecution); (and this is something
we reiterate on emotion, I do not remember if explained
but this is pretty bleak in TV commercials);
to think back to soccer:
your sister is going to open us the door also glue,
dressed as a maid; some media star,
seen from their perspective, the last signings
his hope is so serious as a main topic,
as our pain: as a closure:
all of it finally originates a new brush painted suit
a sexless monster and the most expensive by far:
that makes potions all the time in front of an album:
in a travelling carnival. years, centuries,
a whole morning;
I tore, rimless, exultant,
the corners of an envelope,
outside of a court,
after divorce
and a tense wait.

About the Author:

TS Hidalgo holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a
MBA (IE Business School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel
Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York
University). His works have been published in magazines in the
USA, Canada, Chile, Argentina, UK, Germany, Spain, South
Africa, Botswana, Nigeria, India and Australia, and he has been
the winner of prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial
Destino) in short story and a finalist at Festival Eñe in the novel
category. He has currently developed his career in finance and
stock-market.

224

ONE WEEK DAY
WHILE WALKING

By Jeremy Gadd

One week day while walking down
Wattle Street, I heard a cry that
brought me to a halt in mid-stride
like a prisoner shackled to a wall,
and my heart missed a beat, as if I’d died.
It wasn’t an infant in distress, someone
being beaten or a woman wailing but
over the growl and heavy hum of traffic
I had heard the keening cry of a corella,
that small white parrot with blue-ringed eye
that is prolific in the outback interior
and the equatorial north of the country,
and was transported to another time,
to another place, in a previous life,
before, by necessity, being bound
to an office desk dealing with the
inconsequential, coping with the
grind of a daily diurnal commute,
abiding by train time-tables simply
to keep body and soul together.
Happier, more languid days had once been
spent watching the antics of crowds of
corellas as they argued, mated,
defecated; their antics as amusing
as circus clowns as they raucously

225

ONE WEEK DAY WHILE WALKING - cont. About the Author:

shredded native fig trees beside Over 220 of Jeremy Gadd’s poems have appeared
billabongs on tropical Top End wetlands. in newspapers, periodicals and literary magazines
And I saw again the corella in Australia, the USA, UK, New Zealand, Germany
covered trees and their feathers and India and he published four volumes of poet-
falling like white confetti, the ry: Reflections While Flying on Empty, published
flocks turning like indolent galaxies by Aldrich Press, USA, 2015; Selected Poems, one
as they moved from tree to tree; hundred previously published poems (Australian
saw again the dignified gait of a goanna Scholarly Publishing, Melbourne, 2013); Twenty
before it scuttled between buffalo wallows; Six Poems, a chapbook published by the AICD
saw the snouts of semi-submerged crocodiles (Sydney) in 2000 and A Tale of Tai Ringal and Oth-
patiently waiting for prey to swallow; er Poems, a livre d’artiste with engravings by P.
felt a file snake’s rough skin squirm John Burden, published by the Bournehall Press,
beneath bare feet as it wormed England (now found in rare book collections such
in the mud among pandanus palm roots as the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, the
and, looking up through low-slung Samuel Paley Library, Temple University Library,
wires towards the high-rise city towers Philadelphia, and the Reid Library in Western Aus-
occupied by corporate suits tralia).
pecking at keyboards like battery hens,
I saw two birds, lost and crying,
in a tree, suffocating from noxious fumes.
And as memories of that past Elysian
period re-surfaced in my mind, as if
dragged like salvage from subconscious depths,
bringing a beatific smile to my face
and eliciting tears from my eyes,
I remembered a moment that had been
and sights that would never again be seen -
by me. And as I watched the corellas wheel
and fly, two pieces of purity against tainted sky,
I knew that which has been experienced
can never be taken away; that which is
known is with us to our dying day.

226

WATCHING THE SUN GO BY

By Gareth Culshaw

WATCHING THE SUN GO BY WAY HOME

Her days were by Rain was urgent
the window. An ornament pummelled the tarmac.
painted by his hands. Something had happened
up ahead.
She would watch the sun
move along the terraced Brake lights blew,
house. Turning the time distant drags of cigarettes.
We all lined up into a
from west to east. spine of cars.
A sack of bones for
years, already in her grave. Second hand slowness
of each turn of wheel
He’s made her like this. that wheelbarrow each car
with his all knowing tongue door on our way home
written her history made her
through a band of rain
watch the sun go by. that pecked our windscreen.

227

WHERE THE WIND BEGINS WINTER HIDES BEHIND AUTUMNS BACK

When the wind waits, Winter hides behind Autumn's back
trees grow the wood, sucking out the light of the leaves.
stream shows no lulling. Then stands watching them fall.

The foehn is born here. Hedgehogs disappear, pulled down
Hatched by something unknown, nettle alleyways. Birds are shooed away
lies underneath the leaf-mould, but are told its migration.

gathers in the darkness. Trees moan and groan, letting branches
Hangs around the brambles, move out of their homes. Storms brush
rests in the throats of birds. away the woodland floors.

When the wind stirs it hurls Rain bullets the earth. Clouds block out
a backlog of collared time, the sun. Winter hides behind Autumns back
garnered light, song and rain. changing the life of what we've known

Where the wind begins WOOD OF LIFE
it has no end, unravels until it
downs, to set another trap. They were two trees
growing through the years.
About the Author: Their branches never touched
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales.
His poems have been published reaching out to different veins.
in various publications across Both searched the sky
the UK and USA. saw the sun from opposite angles.

I watched them grow together
with their roots in separate lands.
Two seeds born, sprouted.

One caught early, felled
eighteen months later. While the
other grew from the shadows

but left alone with half turned
faces. Under a canopy of darkness.

228

SHUDDER

Dustin Pickering

Love, shudder and face me:
look at these cold, keen eyes
and terrify them.
Make sound into light
and drive each fault down harder into my heart.

I am numb with confusion
and this madness makes me inept
at revealing my truth…
at seeing the beauty
or knowing its service to my lies.

If love is penultimate whisper,
it must show itself at the end of time
and not come to the edge of the pool,
waiting for the instant of sinking.

I become numb as the Novocain of my heart
flows through my anticipation…
every dream, every thought,
usurped by her bountiful eyes
looking at me,
exposing my darkest graces.

229

Never Resist

This is how worlds happen,
the darkness mingles in the light
like two lovers who never resist each other.

They intertwine, hypnotizing
themselves into believing
there is a grander purpose to their mingling.
They never discover it
but their creations look at them
and reflect on their spontaneity.

One truth turns into another.
They lean on each other,
grieving and burning
like a small atom dying in friction,
becoming a grave of itself.
Nothing true dies.
Only we are alive.

As thinking beings,
we reflect the intensity
of night
as we succumb to the daylight.

If I was a serpent,
I too would tempt you
as only throbbing could.

About the Author:
Dustin Pickering is founder of Transcendent Zero Press, a small
Houston-based press responsible for Harbinger Asylum. Harbinger
Asylum is an award nominated literary journal. Pickering is the
author of two self-published collections, The Daunting Ephemer-
al and The Future of Poetry is NOW: Bones Picking at Death's
Howl. Chitrangi Publishers in India published his poetry collec-
tion Salt and Sorrow, and Hawakal Publishers published A Matter
of Degrees this year. He is published online and in print and his
poems have been translated into Albanian and Portuguese. He
has a soundcloud account under Poet Dustin Pickering that hosts
his acoustic songs and spoken word pieces.

230

THE ASIAN SHOPKEEPER

Kay Merkel Boruff

My eyes adjust to the darkness,
a darkness crowded with antiques splayed in discord.
Candles silhouette artists’ legacies rendered as torn war offerings.
Lệy allows me to wander, willing me farther into the somber darkness.
I weave a path into the tenebrous light, ginseng incense floating in the tight space.
Five orderly shelves climb the wall of the tiny lair.
A small round sphere perches on the top shelf.
Toes straining, arms extended, I stretch upward.
My fingers feel coolness and enclose the smooth object.
Pulling the vase near the edge of the shelf, I join the roundness.
Holding it, I see the bright yellow hue, glaze upon glaze,
perfectly polished as varnished velvet.
A pungent odor radiates from the vase.
A sickly saccharine odor floats from the next room.
Behind me, I sense Lệy’s fear, intense, salient: I continue to stare at the vase—
the shelves blend into a single mass; my hands become formless clubs.
Spots float before my eyes, as looking into the sun.
I dart upward, to return the vase to its home.
I feel serenity return to Lệy.
An antique porcelain from the Xi She Dynasty, the old man says.
I glance through the colored beads hanging in the doorway, at the candles illuminating the next room.
My eyes are drawn to the flame and pipe, poised, waiting beside a bed,
drawn to his translucent expression, his ghostly complexion,
his pupils pinpoint razor sharp.
He turns to lead me from the alcove, through the labyrinth of priceless relics.
We return to the small shop.
I blink as the sunlight floods the windows and the busy street.

231

Lawrenzo Introflection

D.H. Lawrence wrote in Taos, up among the gods, close to the sun,
caressed by blue spruce
trees pointing to heaven, arrows barring reality.

The escort and poet converse
Taos: a dirty town
Yes: the world is dirty
Dirt: there’s nothing worse
Oh: worse things? poverty? ignorance? insanity?

Time frozen for fifty years remains an Indian wrapped in blankets,
eye-slits peering out

Time is Indians sharing a bottle
Time walks forward as young white girl passes through the square:
Both young and old notice denim slits revealing tan thighs

Taos, my Udorn, my Thai city,
dirt roads spiraling in dust clouds sink in mud blankets
urchins beg chewing gum or love
turquoise/reds compete with sun’s yellow brilliance
smells pungent, nauseating, invade foreigners,
time creeps through the heat, stealing life

Oh that I could climb piñon on ladders up to God
GOD IS HERE: CHRIST IS NOW
The Manticore speaks these words and I concur
perhaps now to rest, then to sleep and be at peace
away from dreams of frustration
fears of failure
away from nightmares of death

Tintinnabulation of mission bells brings the poet back to the present

232

Nets and Beards

“As winter’s face becomes spring,
we are reminded of God’s presence in our lives.”
Bonny Bauman Chien

I weave the Gadamerian net though Plato’s beard
and say the words to prove what there is not.
I build my tower, pebble by pebble,
rocks and seaweed garnered from Asian shores.
I climb the tower and stately view St. Stephen’s cross.
I write the words beneath my eyes, inside my skull,
seer them until flesh is ash.

You live in Plato’s cave beneath Odysseus’ sheep,
safe from the light and taunts.
I long to go with you,
into the silent, good night.

A World Without Objects Is a Sensible Emptiness

Frantic, I race back to the house. Keys jammed in the slot, the door opens.
I dash to the jewelry box and slip on the heavy, gold bracelet.
In my fury, the clasp nicks the armoire, bruising my wrist.
I am once again connected to you:
your name in raised letters, heavy on my arm,
an albatross from your quick, clean death.

Your lifeless arm dangles, blood
trickles from your lips as they set in peaceful repose,
warmth fades from passionless blue eyes.

You were the hunter, Artemis, the liberated
You were the bow, supple, well-crafted
You were the target willing the arrow to its mark.

I put on your bracelet, a dream-past, doomed to your
razor’s edge existence,
an endless Odyssey
praying the sniper’s bullet reach another mark—
to join us again.

233

Asian Journey

Thirty years have passed. The war grows cold and ancient.
Buildings replace napalmed earth.
A new generation of street children roam Tư Dờ.
The red-brick church calls my name.
Come inside and take refuge, it begs.
In a sea of black hair and curious almond eyes,
I fall in love with you again.
Anger fades in the cacophony
of blue taxis and motorcycles.
I see you again in the glint of gold and lilting roof tops.
You are once again mine.

Towering banyon trees create a canopy in the decaying wat.
A womb of wonderment, massive roots running wall to crumbing wall
claim the sacred sight.
Namastè, monks chant in the ancient forest.
May you be filled with love and kindness; may you be well.
Climbing the worn, narrow steps atop massive temples,
I peer over miles of jungle and spy tourists clinging to jagged limestone,
elephants lifting logs of teak wood.
High in the clouds, I feel the thrill of danger and pray my exit is joyful.
Like the blind, untethered, barren,
I search for decades and find you in the morning sun.
At last I can fly with you.

About the Author:

Kay Merkel Boruff lived in Viet-Nam 68-70 & was married to an Air
America pilot who was killed flying in Laos 18 Feb 70. She graduated
from TCU with a BA in English & Education; & from UTD with an MA in
Humanities, publishing her thesis “Constitution of Advanced Objects: A
Theory & Application. Her work has appeared in the New York Review of
Books, Vanity Fair, Texas Short Stories 2, Taos Magazine, The Dallas
Morning News, and the Wichita Falls Record News. In addition, she has
work in Suddenly, Grasslands Review, Behind the Lines, Fifth Wednes-
day, Adanna, Stone Voices, Turk’s Head, Calyx, Meat & Tea, Concho Riv-
er Review, West Trade Review, Offbeat/Quirky; and Paper Nautilus.
Letters of her husband’s and hers were included in Love and War, 250
Years of Wartime Love Letters. NPR interviewed Boruff regarding her
non-profit Merkel & Minor: Vets Helping Vets: A Class Act Production.
She attended Burning Man 2012 and then climbed Wayna Picchu in Peru
on her 71st birthday. Her novel Z.O.S. is presently being reviewed by
several agents.

234

THE PUSH

Clay Reed

Dynamic

After Denise Duhamel

Having a child changes a relationship,
at least that’s what our friends with children
have told us several times.
“It changes the dynamic!” they say,
acting as if they are letting us in
on some kind of joke.
What they really mean is that we will argue
more than we already do. I tell my wife
that things won’t change that drastically.
We are just adding a new team member, I say.
“What about us?” she asks, “will we still make time
for each other?” I tell her of course we will,
we will still do all the things we do now,
watch movies, have date night, cook dinner,
we will have plenty of time. She seems
satisfied with my answer, but I know it won’t be long
until she brings it up again. “Don’t listen to our friends,”
I say, “We are more in love than they are anyways.”
She smiles the same way she does
whenever I make the same joke,
which makes me wonder if I have said that before.
She must feel it too, I think to myself.
Just by talking about it, the dynamic
has already changed.

235

The push

After Denise Duhamel

The hospital called after hours of waiting and said this is it it’s
now or never

I grabbed the keys and the hospital bag and we hurried to the car
I started the

engine and drove like a maniac in the snowy streets because I
didn’t want to

miss our chance we parked and checked in and the nurse put
us in the

best room on the third floor the room your friend said was the
best one

and they gave you a gown and told you to get comfortable
it was going

to take a while you asked if I was nervous I said no but
I was lying

I asked you the same and you said no and I believed you
you never

get nervous it’s something I admire about you I ask if you
want to

watch TV you say sure and cops is on one of your favorite
shows we

watch until a doctor comes and hooks you up so that the
pain won’t

be so intense it’s the middle of the night so we try to get
some sleep

when we wake up it is still dark but it’s time says the nurse
time to

push so you push she takes her time coming out she sure has
a lot

of hair said the nurse and you smile between contractions
one last

push and she is here and in the course of one night everything
has changed

236

Habits

After Denise Duhamel
Having a daughter has changed almost every facet of my life. I used to spend my free time how I wanted
(video games), but now my daugher dictates every free minute. I have traded movies I enjoy (Star Wars)
for something more age appropriate (Disney). Instead of my usual reading material (anything science
fiction or fantasy), I now read my daughter’s favorite authors (Dr. Seuss) almost exclusively. My body
has ran on a strict diet (Mountain Dew and Hostess snacks) for years, but my daughter has converted
me to her meal plan (steamed broccoli and carrots). I thought these changes would only affect my quali-
ty of life negatively, and I have never been more wrong.

About the Author:
Clay Reed is studying creative writing at Utah State University in Logan Utah. This is his first published
work.

237

FISHING LOCK NESS

Sam James

Appetite

the steep river underneath
flows on
while trucks grind over the bridge

watch the fumes go up
wait for the lights

you are still living in work, deep in dust,
risk-taking, road-kill, promotion, demotion,
early, late,
it’s in the rear-view mirror, the early morning headlights

shake yourself and wonder how long you’ll live
maybe after death you’ll be swept right back into life,
the old bridge is still there
the river still flowing

against the noises of steel forging,
stone breaking, wheels and disaster,

success,

you can’t keep a distance
you can’t see inside
you need to get some perspective

watching the fumes, waiting for the lights,
with an appetite
that makes you feel like you’re falling

238

Air Base

‘It’s good for asthma. It’s good for flue.’
Legalize It, Peter Tosh

I was only staying a few days
before I was going to get the train from the local station
which would take me to Southampton
where I had booked a place on a boat
to Santander, Spain. But I had to get out
of the dust and dog hair atmosphere.

I kept offering to go to the local shop Up north, we insult people
where I would wait more than we threaten them
behind everyone else’s grandparents. and our threats are more euphemistic:
This is where they all seemed to live I’ll bat you or have you—y’dick-‘ead.
and I permanently needed air. You hear people drinking in ruins, pits,
on piles of slag, under viaducts.
So I packed a bag, said The last of the weed was at the bottom
I need to take advantage of the countryside of my bag. It’s the air I needed, the real reason
but will be back before X o’clock. to risk drawing out those south westerly threats
or finding myself smoking in redundant places.
When my Dad was my age
local kids came to get menthol cigarettes The wind was making it go out.
from the American pilots there. I walked some more along a stream
Like everyone in the south west and tried to get myself lost,
they used kinaesthetic threats, end up walking along the old perimeter fence.
like they’ll bloody your nose or give you a fat lip.
I tried to forget about turns I made
Wrenching myself out of memories but something in me counted
of other people’s stories and took me to a familiar street
I kept my nose down, got past the estates which took me back to the house
and ended up among abandoned hangars, where I embarrassingly vomited as a child
old barbed wire and waist-high grass. and my asthma was provoked
and I was left to crosswords
to avoid racist conversations
and had to disappear to smoke
the week before Spain.

239

Fishing Loch Ness

the stones are cool grey or hairy brown;
the water barely darkens them
for yards and yards out

we argue about how deep it is,
though it could certainly hide a monster.
we argue about if there are arctic char,

and whether posh people really eat it About the Author:
it’s a sort of fish that looks like it smells
really like fish. Samuel W. James is a new writer from York-
shire. He has been published in the following
my eyes follow the line against the stones. magazines: Allegro, Peeking Cat, Clockwise Cat
I grip my coat at each cuff, it’s so cold and Ink, Sweat and Tears.
I don’t want to catch any fish

I don’t want the water on my hands
or the slime. the line on this cheap rod
is short, and the hook too big

it takes a long time for the water to get deep
and I can see so many stones,
but nothing moves across them, there is no break

or flicker—not even little fish or frogs.
there is supposed to crayfish and eels,
but I see nothing and we will catch nothing, hopefully

—but I don’t want to argue about that,
I don’t mention it, just think it,
and why is cold water so inviting?
and why monsters? and why fish?

240

A SIMPLE PROPOSITION

Evyn McGraw

Accidental Platonism – Ghazal

I was born into the world with a defect: my vision.
It gave me the fear to pray, “God, please, correct my vision.”
It was the fear of infinite darkness, a gray world of nonbeing.
where decay would eat away at my retinas like acid and infect my vision.
Black motes swarmed like fine, faceless insects.
I chased them to my periphery as they flecked my vision.
Once I demanded of God, “Do you even exist?” and with Humean doubt,
Cartesian questions rising, I began to inspect my vision.
Trembling with terror, I tore at truth, and knew,
If transcendence was illusion, I had no choice – I must reject my vision.
If meaning was a convenient lie, I could not trust my inner sight.
How could I know reality? Only with hope and intellect: my vision.
And as I wrestled the beasts of beauty and truth, fending off inner darkness
The outer darkness slipped my mind; I began to neglect my vision.
What was sight next to luminescent essence? The material next to the real?
I could either ponder substance or shadow, the world’s Architect or my vision.
So now I, Evyn, fall to my knees and say,
“God, keep me blind but, please, perfect my vision.”

241

A Simple Proposition

We lonely broken few,
Why must we suffer in silence?
You say humanity is nothing more
Than a pile of writhing grubs in a crevice of the cosmos
Offering dirty rags of supplication to God.

All right, fine.
Then why are you appalled when we admit it?

When we approach you with trembling hands, And when we remove this layer of “right”
As we show our souls
In the dark living room
After dinner
And before Bible study.
You recoil.
It is not right, you say.

What is this thin mask you call “right?” And for once
This viscous membrane, speak with frankness,
This gauzy veil draped over a corpse. You treat us like the grubs you believe yourselves to be.
You wrap yourself in it before you leave for work,

If we’re grubs, why So now I offer a simple proposition.
Bother with the mask? Instead of hiding,
Why live with pretensions of “right?” Let us scream our fallen-ness from the rooftops,
This is neither beauty nor goodness, Sing our songs of sin,
But merely thin propriety, And if it shocks; if it frightens you
Shallow milky dishwater. who value beauty more than truth,

Then we have succeeded,

We prophets of Original Sin.

Let us bare our brokenness to heaven.

Lest we forget Redemption

A thing of true Beauty,

Not this thin thing you call “right.”

I don’t swear, but,

Fuck propriety.

Give me Truth.

242

Wake

With twisting muscles I whipped
My body into shape,
I ran like a machine,
Pumping down the pavement through the dead winter wood,
When water’s whisper hissed
My name.

The call led me off the path,
Into gray
trees, down a hill, dead
leaves crunching.

I stood on the wet shore
In the mist of morning and inhaled
The song of the river.
It hissed,
This is right.
This is right.
This is right.

And from the green jade glass splashed
A face, shining in the sun,
Smooth like a river rock.
Rings of silver rippled ‘round her head.

“You have forgotten us,” she said
her voice like falling leaves

“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’ve been busy.”

“Shame on you,” she said.
“Always heed
the river’s call.”

She plunged beneath the water and vanished forever.
And with a twinge of guilty, sweet
regret, I found the path and finished my jog.

243

(Wake—cont.)

Once, between monotonous school days, I fell
Asleep and found myself face down on a swell of snow
Above a forest, where air quivered
With silent ice, a life
unto its own.

I floated to my feet and scrambled through the snow
Up to a stone cottage
Perched atop the hill
Intransient like a pastel drawing.

The wooden door creaked
And I crossed the linoleum threshold,
To meet an old woman perched over a rickety tea table
Drenched in the pale, icy light.

She poured me a cup of tea with her silver teapot.
“Explain to me,” she said, “Your refusal of the call.”

I told her I was busy.
I had things to do.
“Besides,” I said, “You aren’t real.”

The folds of her face furrowed like paper Mache
And with a rush of vertigo
I floated backward through the arctic air
into shuddering darkness.

Then I jolted at the blare of my alarm
And got ready for school with the same mechanical repetition.

These phantasms suppressed,
I lived my life.
Weeks fell away and
Days and nights strung together
Like endless tick marks of light and dark.
And I, a traveler, was trapped in a small town
Of squat concrete buildings and dusty highways
While I pined for ethereal ice
And the whisper of wind and water.

244

(Wake—cont.) About the Author:

Last night I dreamt of a desert. Evyn McGraw is an undergraduate at John Brown
This desolate expanse University pursuing degrees in both creative
Bright in the dream-sun writing and illustration. As a blind artist with delu-
Wavy horizon slicing sions of grandeur and an enduring interest in phi-
Plains of orange and blue losophy, her life experiences, though admittedly
Dunes sunbaked like rich burnt clay, limited, have provided useful sources of inspira-
A stony sculpture of eternal flames, tion.
Windswept, battered, bright,
Below the endless heavens.
I pity those who dream in black and white.

During the day, they tell me I must only
Write about my life.
But how can I when these visions assail me?

I can no longer ignore the call.
I must transcend mechanical repetition,
But where is my journey?
Where shall I begin?
Must I set out only in my dreams?

No.
There are whispers.
Whisper wind and water hissing.
Arctic air and azure sky.
Stained glass streetlamps light the way.
I must begin my journey.

245

HIGH PLACE
PHENOMENON

Hailey Cragun

Gunbroker

I’d yet to be persuaded of the virtue of the firearm until he let me hold it, the Czech Mauser. Time
stamped with the year 1936, I bounced it in my hands, feeling the weight of its eighty-one-years life.
As if I can claim world history as my history.
I found it difficult to imagine it's heft in the hands of
A boy who lied about his age so he could fight in the most infamous war. I can't see his face because he
is faceless and nation-less and far away in time and space but I'm holding his walnut wood Mauser and
pulling back the bolt to load another round in the chamber.
It left me wanting.

The Dangers of Marrying a Perfectionist

It’s very perceptive the way
you let me cut your hair with silver
clippers knowing full well I have no experience
cutting hair with any clippers but you perch on the oak chair
even when I accidentally shear off a dollop of blonde hair and it
tugs your head back and your eyes tear up and I’m so flustered I want to
dissolve into the bedroom and burrow beneath the cherry blossom duvet but you grab my hand
and say it’s alright and ask me to go on.

246

High Place Phenomenon About the Author:

Along the red cliff side Hailey Cragun is a Masters student at Utah State
with staggering ten story drops University studying Writing and Literature. Her
we cling to a chain, silver and black, photography has been previously published in the
its mark worn into the stone. University Magazine Scribendi. She has also
served as Assistant Director of the English 1010
The August sun warms the sandstone Composition program at Utah State University.
when my hand, slimed with sweat, collapses She currently resides in Layton, Utah.
upon it, heat like solid fire enters my palm
and sifts up my arm.

My skin welcomes the flame, the
bursts of wind climbing up the face,
and I dread tomorrow, when we’ll pack
the Honda like kipper snacks and drive back.

Suddenly, a cry from up the chain,
the collected gasps of hiking spectators
as a pair of eleven foot shadows
sail over the crowd.

Right above my head, the condors flap
their black and brown wings.
The whoosh of air not unlike
A young girl propelling herself on a swing.

And being, breathing here
cradled by the orange and red stone
I have the urge to join the condors
and leap from my safe perch by the chain:
High Place Phenomenon.

247

HALF IRON, HALF OAK

Simon Perchik

Half iron, half oak, the bed It was a lake, used to bodies :islands
all night honed on what went wrong With an everlasting sunset and the glare
–it’s an axe, striking upside down From jewelry, veils slowly drifting down

though you sleep facing north As the footsteps that now weigh so much
side by side an empty dress –it came here the way an icy stream
shaped into bulls and chariots enters a slope that can no longer right itself

with your mouth wide apart has no water left to give, no nights, no arms
louder and louder getting ready though you are reaching for these dead
for the slow descent –you sit by hauling off smaller and smaller stones

on the edge, trying to bleed on tip-toe, paving your hands for the unease
to open the sleeves already smelling from wood, rope, holes
still reaching out in the dark. hidden in bracelets and never let go.

About the Author:
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared
in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New
Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The
B Poems published by Poets Wear Prada, 2016. For more
information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic,
Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at
http://www.simonperchik.com.

248


Click to View FlipBook Version