Adelaide Literary Magazine No.12, April 2018

Revista Adelaide

SURFERS

By Byron Beynon

BOB DYLAN: BLOOD ON THE TRACKS SURFERS

The strong cardboard sleeve came A glint of wetsuits
with Till's photograph scythes the Langland surf
as the back cover turned on a roller day,
to an illustraƟon by Oppenheim; waxed boards
I'd heard Dylan sing live fizz the siren
only once in an English field, of lathery spray,
occupying the stage like an actor a witness of blue sky
with a sense of Ɵmeless above the winter-music
fashion wearing a hat and guitar, on a morning balanced
his poetry, gospel and folk for a marine rodeo;
decades away from the Nobel prize, the sea-dog
those unpredictable words he'd forged emperor of the bay
to the acousƟc and electric music. with thumb erect,
nature’s surveyor
moving like a maelstrom
towards the fluctuaƟng shore,
a reflex of surfers,
the energeƟc insects
on the skin of Neptune’s
melted rink.

199

REMBRANDT’S HOUSE Adelaide Magazine
MY MOTHER IRONING

The odour of canals My mother would navigate
at war with temperature her way through shirts,
in a northern city. bedding and towels,
The exposed beams of oak the hot metal like a miniature
inside a house liner handled with aplomb.
sold for thirteen thousand guilders, Her working voice
number 4 Breestraat would occasionally
its character developed soŌly hum
with brick, glass, wood, a current tune,
stone, paint and tar. as I breathed the iron's heat,
filled hangers for her
Saskia stands by the arƟst; with fresh shoulders,
in a street they observe a lifeƟme of worn and used
the strained façade. memories disturbing
He lives in an area the light of years.
known for publishers and painters, A love for the revitalised
works inside a tall building, aroma of sheets
gathers curiosiƟes, recalled anew,
the pictures stacked a residing energy of change
against and hanging between then and now.
from the walls.
About the Author:
Children that die in infancy,
the stress of a late wife Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has ap-
who bequeaths the condiƟon peared in several publicaƟons including San Pedro
of a small income. River Review, Agenda, Quadrant, Poetry Pacific,
AŌer twenty years London Magazine and the human rights antholo-
he steps out of the front door gy In Protest (University of London and Keats
for the last Ɵme, House Poets). CollecƟons include Cuffs (Rack
misused by hardships Press), Human Shores (Lapwing PublicaƟons) and
he turns with a new inwardness, The Echoing Coastline (Agenda EdiƟons).
sƟll confident of his art.
200

Revista Adelaide

I TRAVELED

by Kai Raine

I Traveled

I traveled, once.
It was a road that curved
And bent and twisted
Straight on forever.

I traveled again
To the end of the world
I thought
But it just kept going.

I traveled then.
I ran like nothing could follow.
It didn’t.
My magic died.

I traveled there
When Ɵmes were dark
So that the sun could come out
And I could learn.

I traveled here.
I came to escape
Everything I love.
Now I want both.

I travel now.
I bridge Ɵme and space
An impossible equilibrium
In an egg
In my palm
Through blurred eyes
In that snowstorm.

201

Heart Adelaide Magazine

An apartment buried in books ConversaƟon is a baƩleground
A nose buried in pages Talking to deaf ears
Eyes that fill and spill. Listening to mute tongues.
Pages smudge. Back to work.
Face in a pillow, The dancing tongue never says
Muffled screams? A word of growing solitude.
Sobs? ForƟtude.
Cries. Loneliness.

Heart caves to too much caffeine, I am her ally but only in music,
Pressure in the chest UnƟl she learns to see me
Desperate for a bed. For what I am.
ResponsibiliƟes abound. Fingers around her core.
Pushed to the end, I hold her in my heart,
Towards elevaƟon. But I, to her, am lost.
AbsoluƟon. Pain.
SalvaƟon. EmoƟon.
Heart.
A new set of pages are saviors
A new frame of mind About the Author:
A new thinking place.
And then wavering focus.
On to the unfinished masterpiece,
Unending taƩers.
Guilt.
Desire.

Kai Raine believes in using the power of stories to
remind herself to quesƟon what she thinks she
know. She lives and breathes stories and oŌen
finds them just as tangible as reality. Kai is a
graduate of the University of Alaska and the au-
thor of the fantasy novel These Lies That Live Be-
tween Us.

hƩp://www.kairaine.com/

202

Revista Adelaide

MIDLIFE

by Timothy Robbins

Midlife What He Wanted

You go to bed early. The typewriter What he wanted was to rap on cordless
(which stuƩers) is locked in the closet phones in penthouses he could never rent
for fear it will write something with Ansel Adams prints rising and cascading
beauƟful. It does anyway, claƩering above chrome-armed sofas. What he wanted
on its own in the arms of all those empty was men to subsidize silk shirts, thick belts
shirts, between the legs of all those and boots that would shame Nancy Sinatra.
empty pants, pounding filled-out On lazy summer evenings he wanted to
words on an empty carriage. hit soŌballs like they were hardballs
You hardly noƟce, lost in thoughts thrown by arms that had mastered
the age your father was when he every curve but his — and then to take
strung Christmas lights above the bed — all four bases at his leisure. He wanted
eroƟc constellaƟons struck blind — sight white boys (like me) whose bellies he could
restored — off and on — off and on to palm like basketballs, Ɵckling us in
disco beats — the modest kinkiness cavernous showers. He wanted (as close
a limited imaginaƟon could invent. as he could come to spirituality) Brothers
He grew the beard that God rejected whose prongs were dark priests blessing
as though it were a grain offering. his dark acolyte. He wanted overweight
But you, you have more luck. women to rescue him from coke parƟes
A Japanese kick boxer with a wink and ask for no payment beyond his
that melts the Golden Calf emails you agitaƟon in their passenger seats.
he’s looking forward to touching your He wanted to borrow and collect interest,
beard, his thick hands sƟll wrapped in to be the only clothed dick at the great sex
gauze reaching up. You have parƟes of Chicago, to make as many men
a drawerful of snapshots: those as possible feel they’d just had an aborƟon,
hands pulled into fists (a vicƟm to keep self-respect no maƩer what, to be
protecƟng his soŌ guts) laced around his own widow. As far as I know,
a delicate teacup, linked with his what he wanted, he got.
girlfriend’s hands, in a stranglehold on
the long stem of a Budweiser,
spread to do fingerƟp pushups.

203

Adelaide Magazine

Revised Vision Missing Pieces

You dream you’re trapped under 1.
Strasbourg’s skyline, a modest I’m driving and can’t locate
medieval graph with one breathtaking by glance or touch
spike, the unfinished cathedral’s a tape of the Big Band Era.
lone spire. It’s an ordinary un-lucid
dream, so when you see your 2.
hometown courthouse tower I sat with Shige on the couch
crowned with its absurd tree in his kitchen, unsaid sex
giganƟc on the horizon, charged between us.
you run for your sanity — past He got up and moved to
dropped jigsaw pieces of Indy’s the draŌy window.
skyline, L.A.’s spears piercing
high smog, CincinnaƟ’s seven cats 3.
each slit-eyeing you from its hilltop On the road to Bloomington,
perch. Herbal Life headquarters speeding on second-hand smoke,
with its huge marijuana-like leaf I gasp when I reach the crest.
is suddenly transformed to a perfect Southern Indiana
structure descending from Heaven, opens below me,
smoothly sliding into the empƟness an ice-age virgin.
prepared for it, making you fell like
John, all too much like Saint John 4.
on the mad island of Patmos. I wake in the night
and don’t recognize the wall.
What sounds like a boy breathing
beside me is my best friend’s bitch.

5.
Those porn superstars lip-synching
Québécois come without fricƟon —
sheer tautness of their erecƟons.

6.
I wake in the morning and see
how the wind has frozen the sky,
how the snow lies neglected
with the meaning of dreams.

204

A Trail for the Ears Revista Adelaide

It’s lucky I like being haunted About the Author:
by tree frogs since
I have no say in the maƩer. By Timothy Robbins teaches ESL and does freelance
haunted I mean, they are not translaƟon in Wisconsin. He has a BA in French
white noise to me. and an MA in Applied LinguisƟcs from Indiana
And it is reassuring to hear them University. He has been a regular contributor to
every night without seeing “Hanging Loose” since 1978. His poems have also
them. They are as I imagined the appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Three
soul when I used to imagine it. New Poets, The James White Review, Slant, Main
Four o’clock this morning, Street Rag, Two Thirds North, The Pinyon Review,
on my way back from harvesƟng Wisconsin Review, and others. Denny’s Arbor
(stealing) flowers, Vitae is his first published book of poetry.
I tracked one frog’s broadcast (Adelaide Books, 2017)
to the ornamental
tree in front of the building
that’s always trying
to sidle up to ours.
There was no doubt.
Those dark leaves were
singing to my innermost
ignorance, warning me that if
I insist on singing all night
every night whether study or
love or sex or drugs are the cause,
my voice too will be ragged.
I walked away with
my fisƞul of lilies, determined
not to fetch a flashlight.

205

Adelaide Magazine

BOARDER by Daisy Bassen

Border Black Ice

The egg is balanced on the rim of the glass bowl. This is the fourth night
It fills the space my palm is meant to hold. He has steered the bed
The energy that will become the cracking And its creaking sheets
Limns the shell. The moment cracks Into the dark crosswalk.
With the possibility that blood will streak He isn’t learning. Each approach
Through the yolk, or worse, a sƟllbirth. Well beyond the speed limit,
Black pressing in on each window.
I sent you home and to what I cannot know. He can’t stop being sixteen,
Your world is cracking around you. Convinced the road is empty.
You knew the words to say but you would not Escape was in front of him
Say them. You wanted to leave, I helped UnƟl her face, pearl,
You leave. You said, Gleamed in the windshield.
Enough, The wipers flashed. She disappeared.
And it was enough.
Telling is tricky, the young doctor’s face
And it wasn’t. I slept, the night a dead man’s float, Curves away like the white pearl
And through it, the doubt rippled towards me, He nearly held. Black ice starts
A reverse Gulf Stream. It will be a very long Ɵme To slick the roads. He doesn’t cry about it.
Before rescue arrives. Cherry petals fall into the street, pink liƩer.

About the Author:

Daisy G. Bassen is a psychiatrist, wife, mother
and poet. She graduated from Princeton Universi-
ty with a degree in English and has been pub-
lished in Oberon, The Sow’s Ear, SUSAN|The Jour-
nal and AMWA Literary Journal. She was a semi-
finalist in the 2016 Vassar Miller Prize in Poetry.
Born in New York, she now lives in Rhode Island
with her husband and three children.

206

Revista Adelaide

WINTER

by Craig Kennedy

Night music Winter

The gold streetlamp sheds its Gregorian chant, burning wood,
brilliant hysteria the midnight blue river
pushing sour sunshine to inifinite frozen thick and biƩersweet,
distances congealed near the earthen road.
uncharted by the small men in the street
unappreciated by the grapefruit moon.

About the Author:

Craig Kennedy writes poetry and short ficƟon. He
lives in the New York City area.

207

Adelaide Magazine

EXPLORER

by Fabrice Poussin

Explorer

A soul floats gently below the thin surface
of pearly saƟn to find its way through a network
of highways to life animated with soŌ stars
rings and strings a giant canvas her image.

Her senses awake to complete percepƟons
she lives the most intense existence within
but she longs for contact with the other
prisoner of her divine infinite fortress.

A subtle door, gaping to treasures of luminance
tender as her every thought, she hesitates
of the strength of universes, fragility of her bones
what will remain when she opens the flood gates.

All is harmony within, must she risk ulƟmate chaos
welcome that which is so foreign to her peace
to fulfill the promise of a prolonged existence
receive the ailment common to all humanity?

Her spirit will embrace the visitor in his simple apparel
like a newborn nourish him so he may survive
offer what she is for all Ɵmes, ask for his sacrifice too
so inside the body, they become highest contentment.

208

Revista Adelaide

Feeding the monsters

Imagine cuƫng through the trap of that aching cage
ripping skin and bone to take out the rusty machine
to soŌly place it on the tray, so desired by the ravenous one.
Offer the warm mass sƟll ƟƟllaƟng to the kind hands
and let them hold it near the loving lips.
Let them massage the past pains with warm palms
gentle providers of life as she gives so compassionate a gaze.
Close those eyes to a present made of many perils
so you may feel her as she touches your very life within.
There is no need to keep the flesh inside the ivory prison
safety does not come from the privacy of those cold walls
it is Ɵme indeed to feed it to the world hungry for a respite.
Risk it all in the ulƟmate meekness of the humble lamb
lower your glance to await the penalty for innocence
and come to life through the giŌ of elegant suffering.

209

Adelaide Magazine

Finger prints on another light

What might remain in a distant future
of the delicate touch upon my door
volaƟle finger prints taken by a breeze at dusk.
Footsteps light as those of a gleeful doe
mindful of dangers in the uncertain forest
she glides to the outside on a pathway to safety.
FurƟve the fragile appariƟon may vanish
when a call goes to catch a glimpse of a gaze
precious to capture the sole moment for tomorrow.
The flash in deep complicity an eternal treasure
is the conduit to her smiling soul, wink to the Universe
he cherishes the visitaƟon and lives on.

About the Author:
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at
Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry,
his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The
Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His pho-
tography has been published in The Front Porch
Review, the San Pedro River Review and more
than 300 other publicaƟons.

210

Revista Adelaide

THERE WAS TIME

by Dean Baltesson

There Was Time Verses Of The Endless

There was a Ɵme They have gone mad
when Ɵme was in store for us contemplaƟng versions
we discovered a summer of the black ocean
and we wanted love sƟll waiƟng to be wriƩen
wanted so much for love and Ɵme to arrive. the blond cliffs before it.

But then we heard Unexpected waves
there never really is Ɵme founder the words
and nothing is in store luring us onto rocks
for either of us but "now" to become predicƟons of the past
and we never have anything. and memories of the future.

But I'm sƟll not sure that All of this experience
somewhere between the finished past is acknowledged and drowned
and the never arriving future with equanimity
some sort of existence in the black ocean
is supposed to exist. sƟll waiƟng to be wriƩen.

211

Fragrance Adelaide Magazine

I don't know the tender DiscreƟon Dance
of this garden
but I think I understand her I could
through the driŌing fragrance if I wanted to
of the roses she cares for but will not
describe with luxury
It is possible she knows the moment we are heart to heart.
how the speech of roses A moment before
can comfort me the furƟve pressure
beyond what has become of your hand in mine
a short life of long days when our dance becomes
a metaphor for a dance.
I did not know you either It is only my theory of
but perhaps I am able what I love most about you
to understand you beƩer how your lovely face
through the fragrance never wears the sorrows
of your sorrow that pass for passion.
You only laugh
Perhaps you knew no Ɵme for the trappings
that is what I needed of modern love
more than any anger but leaning into me
more than your enmity wearing me on your cheek.
or your disapproval.

212

Revista Adelaide

There's A Storm About the Author:

Flags above the breakwater Dean Baltesson is a poet and musician living in
hold the wind aloŌ Victoria BC Canada. He is currently working on a
while the pavement hastens volume of poetry enƟtled There Must be Words
to wet reflecƟons. To Describe This.

The shoreline listens carefully
to a curious dark sunlight
the exasperated ocean
shiŌing out to sea.

The roofs are blue and the sky is not
streets shut their doors
long rows of lingering windows
gathering fracƟons of exhaling sky.

Always the carefully casual observer
I pause once to avoid thoughts of you
while the city becomes a gallery
of black and white photographs.

213

Adelaide Magazine

ESPERANZA

by Manuel Madera

Marmalade The Burgundy Castle Is Not
What It Seems
As the forenoon approaches,
I imagine a globed nectarine The windows are cajoled
ResƟng on my creased hands. At the brush of the pearls
Sniveled by the ether.
Her reddish, shaved skin,
MoƟonless, falling asleep, The mistress, meanwhile,
BeauƟfully nescient. Sets vermilion flowers
At the center of the table.
Kind berceuse, sung,
For an unselfish Silences gathers for
And noble benefit. A fallen saint
In the form of a man.
The nectarine has now
Evolved for The chandelier swung
An opulent purpose. Candidly for his gallantry,
But trivial it had been.

All He could feel was
A ghostly appariƟon
AwaiƟng some reward.

Would the King maim
His only friend,
The decepƟve loneliness?

For reasons far beyond
Mortal apprehension,
His greatest enemy was his greatest friend.

214

A Follower OF DesolaƟon Revista Adelaide

There is not much Esperanza
I do when I think
Of the birches Roll the stout cigars—
ResƟng in the woods. Feast on them
Unto daybreak.
Once in a while
The breeze whistles The bourbon dances
At the breaking dawn, On the shelf,
Whilst I am silent. Exposing his age.

I think very liƩle The boys have guzzled
Of the colliding stars, 'Til the last drop
Although I am charmed Decides to dawdle—
By their lulling laughter.
LeƩers smoldering atop
There, in solitude, A lifeless stove
Composed by melancholy And restless ashes.
And accompanied by oblivion,
I enjoy the pacing sight. A finale approaches
As the visitors
As I swim astray, Tire themselves out.
Much is leŌ to evaporate.
Alone, that is who I was, The cigar puffs a final breath,
That is who I shall be. Clutches its arms,
And rides away, as if it never came.

About the Author:
Manuel Madera is a full-Ɵme student currently
residing in Texas, pursuing a degree in Civil Engi-
neering. His love for prose and poetry has allowed
him to explore the depths of his emoƟons and his
creaƟvity, smothering paper with melancholic
and jovial words. He is currently working on nu-
merous long-term projects and preparing for a
poeƟc future.

215

Adelaide Magazine

THE WAR’S SON

by Anwer Ghani

The War ’s Son The Lost Mare

The soldiers have returned but the capitals of my My grandfather had a compassionate mare with a
chants are sƟll whizzing like a slim mosquito en- brilliant heart. I didn't see that mare, but my
gulfing the noisy and the quesƟons. Their joints mother said that she was legendarily kind and
groan like ice and their hats stray in the streets brave. My family might have possessed a saddle; I
like virgins had been kissed by autumn. I will re- don't know and I didn't ask about this, but I think
turn with dry lips where the hills have slept on if we had one, it will be uncompassionate like our
sidewalks the evening has changed their features. desert. You know; I am an Arabian man and there
I will exit between the jungles like a biƩer dawn is nothing here but deserted souls, so I decided to
giŌing the galaxy stories well known to the immi- immerse in my grandfather’s well and stray in his
grant birds. I am the war’s son; my worn-out old field looking for our lost compassionate
mantle has dragged by arid gazes bringing down mare.
to the river like a cow loving the vows. Yes, it is
me, a remote tent and an old rebel his voice has
been vanished before the sunset. Yes, I am the
war’s son sinking into the sand of the soldiers’
glorious stories and enjoying the legends which
descend in the morning with drowned ships
chanƟng in their ears and without any rose I typi-
fy a big enamored.

About the Author:

Anwar Gheni. Jaber, the pen name "Anwer
Ghani", is an Iraqi poet and writer. He was born in
1973 in Alhilla city. His name was appeared in
Peacock, Otoliths, "Algebra of Owls", "The "Year
of the Poet" and Tajdeed. Anwer Ghani is the
founder of "Expressive NarraƟve’s Group" and the
chief editor of "Arcs" an expressive narraƟve’s
magazine. He had, in Arabic, forty books in poet-
ry, literature, and religious sciences.

216

Revista Adelaide

A PLACE WITHOUT JARS

by Graham McLennan

The clock in my kitchen is always quesƟoning Ɵme
and I'm no beƩer for it without my anger
and a place to store all the built up biƩerness.

A place in which jars exist only to hold
what each one of us tries to put away
before rinsing out the coffee mug and scrubbing every last tooth
before picking up oars and striking channeled water once more.

Because if it weren't for uƩer numbness
novacaine dripping from my pant leg onto the linoleum floor
the clock would be keeled over
arms bent due north so I'm one step farther
down this unlit hallway of nameless nothingness.

But the drip conƟnues and maybe I'm beƩer off for it
eaƟng words of abandoned elaƟon out of the palms
of fourteen solid half-hour friendships
saliva washing away dirt baked into creases
said to hold the brightest promises of our future.

And everyone else is the pick of the liƩer
cradled in soŌ arms off to a place without jars
and coffee mugs and teeth to be scrubbed
with tumbling footsteps around every rounded corner
laughter jumping from lips forming smiles warmer than the stove
surrounded by souls wanƟng to see and be seen under lights
put there to show the way tread not by one lonely rower
but many, hearts intertwined and all.

217

UNTITLED XVI Adelaide Magazine

Amenability unbound ALL CHANGES TAKE PLACE IN THE NIGHT
by dying oaks holding
a city built upon You awoke shaking like a leaf
the wrist bones of youth I'll hold you unƟl you come around
aware of their Ɵmely and we’ll face another day together
trial of aging Let’s draw up the keƩle
deterioraƟon of carƟlage steep some tea
dulling of fingerƟps wrap our hands around the ceramic
arthriƟc dew scaling warmed especially for our Ɵred bones
window sills holding Let’s turn raindrops into swimming pools
back the preening sun Barbed wire into Ɵght ropes to swing and twirl upon
shone on all that is holy Broken glass into lenses through which
before the day the city’s the yard is our kitchen table
all heated blankets the sunset our fading fireplace
and weathered eyes Let’s file away our cutlery and grass-stained appeƟtes
while the stars are sƟll ripe for the picking
Let’s fill the air with Chopin’s weightless tragedies
and Debussy’s moonlit reveries
unƟl our ears are full
our hearts beaƟng calm and sƟll.

About the Author:
Graham McLennan is a graduate of UMass Amherst. He cur-
rently resides in the town of Westport, MassachuseƩs.

218

Revista Adelaide

SHOULDER TO STONE

by Tim Rodriguez

Shoulder to Stone

he waits, fingerƟps
fiƞully filing against
thumb’s thickness
occasionally brushing
the hem of his rented
mourning suit, his feet
unable to tap, trapped
sƟff in patent leather
whose luster dims
in the paschal nocturnal
as the hours stretch
He tells himself
there is no serum
in love’s lost chance
but quite possibly
in the long advent
of blame that rinses
out loss in a four-week
cycle unƟl cleansed
of what He wasn’t sure
happened when He
put shoulder to stone
just the other Sunday
and rolled back
that which was thrice his size

219

Double-thinkers Adelaide Magazine

open the window About the Author:
to flee this worthless limbo
which goes wanƟng Timothy L Rodriguez has published in English and
even though Understanding Spanish. His novel—Guess Who Holds Thee?—is
of right or wrong available on Amazon. His ficƟon and poems have
actually stood its ground appeared in over a dozen naƟonal and interna-
while all around sat Ɵonal journals including New London Writers
among mumbles on steps (UK), honorable menƟon in internaƟonal short
and stoops in hopes story compeƟƟon sponsored by The Writer’s
of being cast as an anyhow. Drawer (Israel), Main Street Rag and Heyday Mag-
azine and Stoneboat Literary Journal (2017 Push-
You claim you are too cart nominaƟon). His essay The Problem Now will
wise even for comfort appear in the 5th ediƟon of New Theory and his
even though you knew poem “Mid the Muster on Main” will appear in
what you intended to do—keep the Spring issue of AMP by Hofstra University. His
quiet, shy away, poem “Finish It” will appear in the next issue of
disappear while others The Ibis Head Review.
rushed to the ramparts.

O, coward,
and a fraud to be
one with any belief
while fliƫng from cause
to a girl with a joint.
If heroin made
you an addict
a user you already are
declaring to all
one thing and
secretly undoing
another in the shadows.
You now refuse
to look into any mirror,
preferring the expanse
of a window where every
thing is possible but you.

220

Revista Adelaide

BETWEEN THE SEASONS

by W. Jude Aher

between the seasons star-dust rhythm

ice carved as light water of peace
dreams earth of dreams
shadows casƟng silence before belief
all the lost images dare
believing to walk alone
beyond the taste of to pass through
blood illusion the mirror of reality
songs conceiving and stand on
sky frozen blue the wall of truth
clear mind care
soul yearning to be of
to see star-dust rhythm
between the seasons to dance
to touch reason under the light of
crosses fall forever
where
skin truth whispers
love cracks the mirror
and so may
the angels sing

221

slow on a young man's mind Adelaide Magazine

i see water crossing change
spill as blood
from an old dream quiet dances a wind
where my soul daring dreams
walked free to
endless sidewalks begin
late night lamp lit in the sea
shadows seasons bleed
dancing seeds
across the quiet sleep possibiliƟes
of children fingers free
behind closed windows painƟng
my open hand clouds in song
filled by sand quick driŌ
moist with blood-water easy reasons
dry lips crossing change
lost sips of rhyme where rainbows
so in love with Ɵme fall free
slow on a young man's mind across the lips
long highway talking of water sirens
measured echoes
and walking
sunset calling
Ɵred soul falling
into
and tomorrow
just another dream

222

Revista Adelaide

shaƩered windows

such are the whispers
of silence
who dance as shadows
of lost wind rhymes
Ɵme
the chimes of moments
shaƩered windows
no beliefs leŌ
to lie upon
empty hands
fingers open
sand dunes across
a wooden floor
the long yesterday
carries empty
when the banshee sighs
tomorrow tomorrow
if tomorrow

About the Author:

W. Jude Aher - 40 years a Poet, from a Ɵme of
Hippies and AnƟ-war rage, from a Ɵme when a
child becomes an ArƟst not for the money but
because the Universe and Beauty called. Though
broken and disabled, he more than survives. A
poet doesn’t just write, he lives his Art.

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Adelaide Magazine

POST WAR BABY

by Timothy Dyson

I never knew my birth mother AŌer the pychedelics came
yet, she gave me more than life that pale face of Dylan Thomas
On a small velvet turntable So too with good old Rimbaud
six babies put out for choosing and Yeats' wild swans
The young post-war couples Went gliding down Elizabeth River
came at appointed Ɵmes towards the unharboring sea
The search began at that moment
From Captain Kangaroo where was the joy forever
on to the Three Stooges
Mighty Mouse saved the day Though I can't explain it
and Topcat pranced away the answer was in simple acceptance
Bunny Rabbit stole carrots In dried petals of Japanese
who knew what Greenjeans did lillies pressed in first communions
And Prince Valiant stood tall Beneath a-bomb moonbeams
on the pre-teen ledge our fortune foretold
When the medium became
Come back, Shane the message of exploding Apollo
bring an extra horse for JFK
Help us, Davy CrockeƩ Rockets aimed at one infinity
in this wilderness of signals at some cosmos of no importance
SplaƩered into consciousness That must be conquered
like sock-hoppers collapsed and the pictures beamed back
On a broken carousel shone with interstellar
clarity and foolish assignaƟon
I saw the brave new worlds The naming of the heavens
burst one night on Mission Beach the collecƟons of dust
Drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon
with a girl named Connie
Her mother'd gone nuts
aŌer raising seven kids with
Her drunk husband who drove
a Sealtest ice cream truck

224

THE BEAUTY OF MYSTERY Revista Adelaide

In a northern prefecture DEAR LEADER
beneath the holy mountain
the Jizo statues smile down And though his country had no need of kings
on the descendants He descended the golden stair
Within the steel palace framed in self-
The older woman Enhancing gazes of glass
who dwells in both worlds And but two steps behind came
speaks to the living The third queen of Slovenia
for the dead A new Helen on the parapets of improbability
Were these the false gods of prophecy
They call this place Or just the flesh anomalies
land of the broken lines Wandering the wasteland of just desserts
where death and dreamers
converse so freely About the Author:
ReƟred from corp HR and took up the life of a
The eighty eights poet/fisherman. Many poems published in a vari-
five small, elderly widows ety of publicaƟons. Married to my beauƟful
come each year spouse for thirty five years and life is good.
to be near the bones

And, always in Spring,
the perfume of rebirth
greets them here
with a ghostly kiss

225

Adelaide Magazine

FOR EMILY

by Joe Murphy

For Emily

In Remembrance

It seems your years were set too closely together:
When one toppled, all the others fell.

Shut the power off, you said. Enough. Your body
Quickly shut down.

Your smile is now as ours will be:
A few to recall, then none.

No trumpets, no drum roll: a short ceremony;
Then on to spring, to summer.

Thousands had died the day before: an earthquake;
Mud-brick houses.

But it was you who brought death into focus.

Outside and alone, fists clenched, sunlight
Seemed to jab at my bent neck.

I began to breathe deeply: arms back; chest raised.

I was sure I could push
My heart beats aloŌ, hoping your spirit
Might gain by it.

I don’t know why I did this, but it maƩered.

I’m sƟll trying to reason it through:
But the parts keep changing shape,
Falling from my hands.

226

Revista Adelaide

Your Footprints

1.

Was it 42’ or 43’?

You, on liberty in Miami:
Off watch, wandering from beach to bar;
Cast from destroyer-grey
Into a bright-colored world, MassachuseƩs
A snow-bound memory.

But what of this shore leave? The last?
What might flash brightest at life’s end?

What beƩer for a young man: The memory of a woman.

Ah, that fateful dance at the USO: KiƩy as war bride
Three weeks from first sight.

Your screen-test-perfect features, hale build, warm grin,
Arm slung over a shipmate’s shoulder: That photo
Said it all; Adonis in Cracker Jacks.

Miss Miami never had a chance.

But love didn’t survive that collision of desire and war.

You: Boston-Irish; smooth talking; but hard-nosed, hard-drinking;
Hard-biƩen by the Depression, hungry to succeed.

Her temperance and BapƟst virtue
Didn’t fit. Your fears didn't help. The soŌ-spoken beauty queen
Seemed too easy a target.

Your Footprints – page 2 of 2 – begin new stanza – Joseph Murphy

Your moƩo: keep her barefoot and pregnant.

And the custom was marriage, no maƩer the cost;
Neither ever rising past anger to peace.

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Adelaide Magazine

Subterfuge. Neglect. Late in life, two fighters
Would be led from the ring: dazed, bloodied,
But separated at last.

2.

You would return to Miami,
Manage a swing band:

Forty-plus years since liberty call had last sounded.

We'd meet. Our fighƟng days done:
Not a word about Vietnam.

You played me a tune
The band had played.

3.

On your death bed, just audible,
You said you were proud of me.

I told you I loved you, set down the phone and cried.

But what to add? Subtract?

As a long-haired, SixƟes teen, I didn’t suggest,
I proclaimed; unequivocal.

Vietnam, my starƟng point; but my litany
Became that list of your wrong turns
I’d surely avoid — no quesƟon, Alan, I’d win.

Now, I’m the age you were then: hair graying;
No less burdened; no beƩer off.
Your Footprints – page 2 of 3 – begin new stanza – Joseph Murphy

As a young man, I thought I could navigate
By the stars of my choice.

Now, I take a shorter view. My aim:
The horizon, one step at a Ɵme.

It’s no surprise
To find your footprints
At my feet.

228

Revista Adelaide

Comrades

The two were depicted on posters hung by the door.

Lenin, 8-feet tall, wore a dark cap, suit and Ɵe;
Red ribbon on lapel.

Pravda peeked from a vest pocket: the truth.

Facing the kitchen, chin held high, he looked past it:
Confident those below had heard his call
To press onward, ever onward.

The man-sized Santa doffed his cap:
Magnanimous, smiling, list in hand; another entry made.

And so they hung, paper-thin, unƟl
Late one night…

Dream transformed them into an appariƟon:
Hammer, sickle, harness and sleigh
Swirled above me.

ClaƩering, clanking, bellowing, they baƩled on
UnƟl, in a final whirl of color and light,
The images dissolved.

I woke clenched to pillow: the hued, crisp air
Of the sƟll hushed city
Calmed me.

Up, blinds raised, I cracked an egg
To sizzle in a black iron pan. Coffee made,
Toast buƩered: It was Ɵme.

Two specters came down: manhandled
From wall to trash.

About the Author:
Joseph Murphy has been published in a wide
range of journals. His first poetry collec-
Ɵon, CraŌing Wings, was published by Scars Publi-
caƟons, 2017. A second collecƟon, Having
Lived, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books (2018).
He is also senior poetry editor for a literary publi-
caƟon, Halfway Down the Stairs, established
2006.

229

Adelaide Magazine

THE ARROWS

by Herbert MarƟn

The Arrows,

ate into Saint SebasƟan’s fresh
like liquid acid,
like something
applied to anƟques
to preserve them,
or prepare them
for a market that
will pay millions
of dollars, or lire
or Deutch Marks
for believers and
non-believers alike.
There is no accounƟng
for desire: an economy,
a market, or a myriad
of government offices
seeking to survive
an easy exit.

230

Revista Adelaide

This Poem Will Name Itself About the Author:

This pen is used to create and compose Herbert Woodward MarƟn was Professor
with those amalgamated hairs of a brush of English at The University of Dayton.
that refuses to say no but rather is willing There, he taught CreaƟve WriƟng (Poetry)
to paint and shape all necessary canvases as well as African American Literature.
before turning to clay; this wheel is the He excelled in the reading of Paul Laurence
first shape of something visible or that Dunbar's poetry and has made a first
something that is rarely perceived with recording of William Grant SƟll's Symphony No.1
the naked eye before we had begun to "The Afro-American with The
use fire to solidify it into something Dayton Philharmonic. MarƟn has authored nine
that will always be perceived by viewers volumes of his own poetry, and
who having seen will be amazed. conƟnues to write.
We are, therefore, makers in the best
sense of creaƟvity, of poliƟcian’s laws,
lords of civility, of words, oxygen,
electricity, the waves of floods, and
the natural earth, for the sake of
humanity’s right to endure;
we offer and sing what must be rightly
sung, so that a richly endowed jusƟce
prevails, both night and day, and unfurls
as the daylight does from east to west
according to the moƟon of this planet
and in accordance with the eyes of men
and women who pay watchful aƩenƟon
to how events are governed and raises
their voices to tesƟfy to what is good
and righteous as well as to that which
must be guarded and given lasƟng
protecƟon.

231

Adelaide Magazine

THE CIRCLE

by Marc Carver

AMBIVALENCE THE CIRCLE

The man stands at the bar I wrote a poem once
he tries to talk to everyone who comes to the bar it was a long Ɵme ago
but most ignore him I guess that makes me a poet
I don't know how long he has been there but I have a strange feeling I was a poet
but I am guessing a while a long Ɵme before that.
he goes to the toilet three Ɵmes in ten minutes
again he looks around for a friend The wind is strong today
he is not young and if I tore this poem from the pad it would fly and fly
not young enough to make friends I would never see it again
but old enough just like my first poem about that big fish and my pain
for everyone to walk past him long
me long
I know beƩer gone.
that is why I sit by myself
with my beer unƟtled
and no one

people come and they go
not many stay
the ones you want to stay
are always the ones to leave
You can sit with the sƟllness
unƟl it almost makes you crazy.
And sƟll they come and go
days turn into months and months years
seasons pick up speed
grow and grow like doubts in your mind.
they all mean something
they all mean everything
everything and nothing

232

Revista Adelaide

REFUSALS

by JeaneƩe L. Miller

REFUSALS

(aŌer watching Jean Cocteau’s “Orphee”)

Death calls him from the mirror FLIGHT DREAMS
but men can’t reach her alive.
The mirror remains only mirror Hundreds of birds gather in the thorn bushes
unƟl Orpheus puts on his gloves. at five o’clock. They
chaƩer, even argue the direcƟon they’ll take.
Hands first, he passes through the glass, The more reluctant hesitate
becoming Death’s lover. Mortal, before they join the formaƟon
he longs for Eurydice, her body. above the bridge. Next day they
repeat the maneuver. In dreams I fly,
Orpheus wants both women but arms outstretched,
Death demands he choose. You know palms down, someƟmes a sidewalk below.
how it ends. She watches him turn, the mirror A gust of wind liŌs me, momentarily
reflecƟng the fatal gesture. taking my breath. Why do the birds return?
Isn’t flight enough?
Alone, he exits to the other side. It takes them far beyond the bushes,
Eurydice is dead. their incessant brambles.
All is useless. He pushes Tonight, from high alƟtude,
I understand. Loneliness: a consequence
against a thick wall of glass, of conƟnuous flight.
the voidclear, unbearable as
an empty page
on which no words assemble.

233

Adelaide Magazine

PUTTING MY CHURCH FACE TO REST THREE WOMEN: MY APPARENT
DISRESPECT FOR ANGELS
AŌer childhood I wore it to the office,
to parƟes, to church -- too always sweet, It is a woman’s duty to wear a veil over her head
a giŌ to lovers unƟl, out of regard for the angels. 1st Corinthians 11:11
Ɵred of repeƟƟon, I peeled off layers
of its façade, worn Because her religion wouldn’t allow
for Protestant approval. Now, when I choose my father’s mother to cut her hair
to reprise mask it’s only cosmeƟc: red, outlined lips, she coiled the length of it into a bun
darkened lashes, and a shadow secured with hairpins and
smeared across my eyelids. I draw over it mesh she’d gathered and sƟtched into
upon a studied precision a circular shape the church called a covering.
my grandfather pracƟced. Bareheaded, her hair bobbed and permed
The town’s undertaker, he worked my mother broke the rules but
to make up the dead the angels didn’t care what she’d done
to appear like they did before dying. with her hair. She wasn’t blood. Without
hat or scarf, my hair cut short, I lived
EDEN’S TRIO outside the blessed. Angels angrily flapped
their wings behind me like conscience. Before
He was designed to care I gave up I looked into
for the garden. It was lonely work. mirrors and windows to get a glimpse of them
IncompleƟon possessed him, contribuƟng
reflected there. One Christmas morning
to his distress. Eventually giŌed with a body a white mist spiraled the tree,
like his and not like his, dropping to the floor below it. Splinters of spun glass
he partnered. From her beginning worked their way into my bare feet.
I’d stepped into angels’ hair.
she had an inkling they couldn’t sustain
the honeymoon. Enter the snake About the Author:
we were taught to blame. It whispered,
JeaneƩe L. Miller - A graduate of the Iowa Writers' work-
“You must not lose your self shop, her poems have been published in Caesura, Phoe-
in that party of two.” In accord be, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, Prompt Press, Pega-
with the serpent, the woman decided sus, among others. Now reƟred from teaching creaƟve
wriƟng as well as pracƟcing as a mental health counselor,
to pass onto the man its advice, offered she is wriƟng a memoir about her experience as a care-
with an apple slice. giver for her elderly parents. Excerpts of it were pub-
She made her deadline just in Ɵme. lished by "Yuan Yang: a Journal of Hong Kong & Interna-
Ɵonal wriƟng by the English department of the University
AŌer three months their relaƟonship of Hong Kong.
had turned into
a hothouse of unaƩainable expectaƟons.

234

Revista Adelaide

EQUINOX SWINGS

by Anca Vlasopolos

Equinox Swings

you’d think equinox means scales perfectly balanced
our ƟlƟng world for once in harmony

yet the arc of sun over trees and water cuts itself thinner

thinner each day while moon’s arc rises grows triumphant

nights almost lighter for longer than days

shadows thrown against lit shades cunningly each withheld dark

Snailing to (Perchance) ByzanƟum

as i am crawling toward old age
i try to leave behind my habit(at)
glorious though it was
stylus-scored spirals mauve against moss-green
inscribing all—exuberance pain sorrows terrors

at my age
i cannot sail forth a proud naked muscle
or fight for deserted shacks to hide my nakedness

i will confess i need a liƩle cover

yet this less solid more translucent shabbier habit(at) i make
look
replicates in (admiƩedly) more muted tones upon a flimsier canvas
the scar collecƟon i so tried to shed

235

Adelaide Magazine

Unrest of Migrant Selves

spring is the Ɵme for leaving
may the most dangerous month
the Ɵme when whatever thought of unfurling
finds itself pierced by inexorable claws
fripperies stripped
excrescences dropped off

as body deŌly opened
lets go its cling to earth
pulse breath tendon shocks of neurons
beats wings
blind to all holds
but zugunruhe*
wild for flight

*ornithological term for migratory restlessness

About the Author:
Anca Vlasopolos is the author of the award-
winning novel The New Bedford Samurai; the
award-winning memoir No Return Address: A
Memoir of Displacement; three collecƟons of
poems, Cartographies of Scale (and Wing) (2015);
Walking Toward SolsƟce (2012); and Penguins in a
Warming World (2007); three poetry chapbooks,
a detecƟve novel, Missing Members, and over
two hundred poems and short stories.

236

Revista Adelaide

THE CLOSED DOOR

by Mukund Gnanadesikan

THE CLOSED DOOR SOCIAL ANIMALS

The closed door never opens As I behold the crimson cracks
Unless a hand so brave Besmirched with smears of innocence
Can brave the darkness Cold, gray ghosts wail silently
Find the knob
And twist against We are but hungry wolves
The forces of inerƟa Diving headlong into lusty meals
Fearful though they be That stare back from a fright-house mirror
And thus the dark room
Stays inhabited Do we survey what lies ahead
For days Or are we choked by blindness
Or months With all our light exƟnguished?
Or lifeƟmes.
The winged beast of jusƟce
FluƩers in the blustery wind
To crash perhaps, but maybe yet to soar.

About the Author:

Mukund Gnanadesikan is a poet and novelist
currently based in Napa, CA. His literary influ-
ences are varied, ranging from Tagore to William
Carlos Williams to Rumi. In non-wriƟng hours he
works as a child and adolescent psychiatrist. His
previous works have been published in "Sheets:
For Men Only" {Dancing Ink Press 2004] and he is
currently working on a collecƟon tentaƟvely enƟ-
tled "Scrawl" as well as a novel Ɵtled "Errors of
Omission."

237

Adelaide Magazine

SUMMER

by Sarah Snyder

Summer Accidental Uncovering

Surrounded by low bushes Maybe finding something
and small thorny plants, at a yard sale or in the aƫc,
I sit, sƟll and small beside the sharp branches
under a porch, listen for footsteps. brushing off the dust,
This is a game. It could be sardines, an inadvertent scraping
hide & seek, capture the flag, kick
of the surface, realizing something
the can. It’s a neighborhood is below—how the weight
where an avalanche
of kids are free unƟl dark of one green leaf
when the parents ferment in a world in summer light uncovers the other you,
of clinking glasses and full ashtrays.
I am full of present—next the discoverer, keeps scribbling
to the foundaƟon of a house, as if a life were worth transcribing,
smelling the dirt, waiƟng
to be caught, to run, to scream, as if blessings clambered,
to laugh, thinking about the coal as if a grocery list were a poem—
I buried in the yard, waiƟng
for a diamond. olive oil,
garlic,
This is a Plan
coconut milk,
A leap into the frothy vegetable stock,
surge—a single
leaf clinging ginger,
to the surface & flounder.
encounters the Ganges
rushing toward Rishikesh
floaƟng over river stones—
an eagle in the sky.

238

Revista Adelaide

To Be An Etch-A-Sketch About the Author:

be an Etch-A-Sketch

When Lassie was heading
for a roaring waterfall,

I’d run down to the kitchen
breathless—carrying the image

of a dog caught in a current, her dark eyes Sarah Dickenson Snyder has wriƩen poetry
tremulous just above the river’s since she knew there was a form with conscious
rim. line breaks. She has two poetry collecƟons, The
Human Contract and Notes from a No-
No one can save her! I said mad. Recently, poems have appeared or are
to a mother who knew about the endings. forthcoming in SƟrring: a Literary Journal,
Whale Road Review, Front Porch, The Sewanee
She’d try to shoo me up the stairs Review, and RHINO. In May of 2016, she was a
to see the collie rescued (by Timmy or his father), 30/30 Poet for Tupelo Press. One poem was
selected by Mass Poetry FesƟval MigraƟon Con-
but I could not bear the imagined test to be stenciled on the sidewalk in Salem,
plunge of rocky death. MA, for the annual fesƟval, April 2017. Another
poem was nominated for Best of Net 2017.
And now, an open window, flimsy
screen, the possibility

of a child climbing on a sill,
teetering beyond a reach—

in some small projector screen
I wince, try to shudder

away the image The Art of Being
to a cleaned slate.

A baby swaddled in coƩon, tucked
in the car seat traveling home
because one nurse believed.

Listen to a drowsy murmur, a soŌ wish—
the sun gliding into the rising sea,
a vacuum grunƟng across the sƟff carpet,

a bird’s call loosening in wind.
Her fingerƟp glides across the iced cake top.
The shadow pumps along the steamy macadam.

The silver ring twirls from a string on the porch alone
in the house on a hill.
A raŌ driŌs calmly in the swelling river.

We sit among willowy women, and there is no
escaping the coffin. Why else would we all move around
a star in such clarity, with such obedience?

239

Adelaide Magazine

SUPER-8

by Timothy B. Muren

Super-8

Your grave, Phil Silver, should be here,
Philip’s Fill-Up—Gas and Gro. Hilarious, bro.
filled up with bones like a new ChrisƟan,
like a new Big-Wheel coasƟng to dirt, down
steep on plasƟc, breaking apart against torque
narrow concrete. Ghosts, remember, sleeping
between Harmon’s liquor and University, staring up at dandelions
growing along creek-edges to hang over us?
Could you place in your memory stucco corners,
the in-through-the-out-door back-lot stealth into
horrible upstairs rooms of Super-8. Screwed to plank –
Rodney Parham, Shoney’s breakfast abutment,
Allsopp park soccer fields–No old photo sparks you, Philemon,
only the heavy swing of coiled guitar cables doubled back
between strap and body. Where are you?
How do you feel, waiƟng for me up there? That was, le’ssee,
who spoƩed the truckstop? The Gypsy camp under
interstate, the barefoot kids in truck bed staring
back through jangling. As a trucker curbed his rig.
As a volunteer referee waited for us to cross
before tossing the soccer ball back in play.
A phone beeped; a phone rigged to hang from leather
loops on some fat-ass’s belt. Hitch the trailer, Philip McGroin,
let us set sail. Docker’s pockets bulging, the trailer lisƟng
leŌ across this great land—yours and mine—a few precarious
corners. A few more. Phil; don’t let’s start.

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Revista Adelaide

Rhetorical

Was I at the park, or have I just heard my father
tell the story so many Ɵmes
I’ve invented the memory of the guy--
dove off the wrong side of the dock, beyond
red and white buoys slick with algae, strung
together with ski ropes. Was the guy
buzzing on smuggled-in beer?
Not even halfway to the far
levy, the lifeguard finally
dragging him ashore to the gathering?

I honestly don’t know, like I do not
know if my city has a dominant
symbol—I have to pull
a rhetoric paper out of my ass for Friday’s class—
Berlin’s architecture is awash with angels, so
what is LiƩle Rock awash with?

And did my dad drape a towel around the swimmer’s
shoulders and say,
“Further than you thought, huh?”

Why is it so hard for me to venture outside
while there might be enough
daylight to discover that unifying
symbol, to escape the chants of cheerleaders
across S street— Jesus, will they ever shut up?
…Herewego Panthers Herewego…
How long does it take?

Last night I leŌ my apartment at 1 a.m.,
walked a mile of Kavanaugh’s yellow
backbone, slipped down and stared
up at stars and dandelions
grown up over the ditch’s edge to hang
over me— why did I fall
asleep there, only to have to crawl
back out to the passing cars?

Cynthia, why so many pictures of ourselves? But
we were supposed to do something like that,
right? Honeymooning,
cruising— new footprints in sand,
rock rakes dragged over--
was that really us, daring
each other to wade deeper. Shivering with feet in surf as
cruise ships blocked our view of distant ocean?

241

Adelaide Magazine

The Duchess of La Monarcha

—with lines from Dorothy L. Sayers Murder Must AdverƟse
Helen considered that she was showing
The spontaneous kiss of an actress on the second
hand of your lips stops the sun winding
clocks in Santa Monica. She sits. You
stand. She talks of blonde hair
dye and cheat day diets and how nothing
means nothing.
the exact number of vertebrae
You lean closer;
you open one eye to the sun— what happens?
Like Isaac Newton, you think,
maybe a kiss for the sake of something
different—you are unusual in your
usualness, perhaps. She breathes,
that the occasion demanded.
“Wait.” You croak,
“Sorry.”
You, standing up straight, straightening
Ɵe, solar flares sƟll arcing across reƟna.
Weren’t you the girl from “Ripley”?
asks Spider-man.

242

Revista Adelaide

Archetypal Dimensions of the Used-Good

Where did Carrie get the heavy pea-coat she always wore?
Went down to her knees. The last Ɵme I saw her in it—
were we sƟll married? A vape store clerk eyed her,
suspicious, then turned to me, “You Navy?” I suddenly
felt like an imposter. That night we hurried from the silver
Honda toward the grade-school auditorium, late
arriving for some niece or nephew’s recital. Just past
cafeteria panes— where did he come from? Perhaps
alcove shadows where double doors swing back through
childhood, moving forward, looking behind, and anyway,
I caught this kid square in the jaw with my shoulder.
He dropped hard to concrete. Kneeling, I touched his blank
face. Carrie held his head unƟl his eyes refocused. Across
campus, muted thumps of tubas and tom-toms bounced across
asphalt with orange cigar-buƩ sparks. I had not been in many
years—brick rotunda with central flag pole, guard rail where
burgeoning rednecks back-flipped to Bermuda grass as we waited
for the second shiŌ of yellow busses.

About the Author:
Tim Muren lives in LiƩle Rock, Arkansas, where he
runs a wriƟng center for students in various health
related professions. Tim has an MA in rhetoric &
wriƟng and an MA in library science. He has pub-
lished poems in Cortland Review, Prairie Schooner,
ConfrontaƟon, and elsewhere.

243

Adelaide Magazine

JOSIE

by Sahina Jerome

Josie

The days, months leading up to her death anniversary
is like being punched
in the lungs.
You're gasping for breath.
You're grasping for something that will ever be
unreachable.
The day of her death anniversary, you hear the clock Ɵcking.
You wonder when the bombs of emoƟons will come.
You aƩempt to prepare
by leƫng your coworkers know and reminding your friends.
The day is here.
Nothing happens.
A few tears shed, dinner is skipped.
The next day arrives. Nothing happens.
It is not unƟl the next month or so,
the forgoƩen bomb hidden in the mines of your thoughts
resurfaces.
You hear your mother tongue on the street. Smell her perfume. See her round face on a stranger.
You explode -
That's when it comes. The pieces
rain
down
and
beat the earth.
The shrapnel of feelings beats itself into the earth.
You, mon maman, in the earth.

244

Revista Adelaide

BiƟng the Skin off My Lips

I don’t want to be an adult anymore
Will MasterCard take my refund?
Or will life only take checks?
Will I receive a cashback offer for every year I delete?
I want to go back to a Ɵme where lonely meant
I was home sick from school and couldn’t see my friends.
I want to go back to a Ɵme where sad meant
My dad refusing to take me to McDonalds because
“Saiu – poukisa? Mange à kay.”*
I want to go back to a Ɵme where frustraƟon meant
Not geƫng what I wanted for Christmas.
Because now lonely means
Finding miniscule moments of comfort
In strangers beds,
Being afraid of silence and unanswered texts,
Caring for others who just take and take -
While I just ache.
Because now sad means
Hiding in your room is safer than
What you may face outside,
Crying over being a half orphan,
Not understanding why some live and others die.
Being your own worst enemy.
Because now frustraƟon means
Just wanƟng to give up and let go,
But 25 has got me this far and

I can’t stop now.
My curiosity has goƩen the best of me and I have to see …
But, if I can get a refund, go back and stay in Ɵme
Not have to deal with just how real life got and can get and will get …
Will life take money order
Or is it just cash only?

*Creole translaƟon: Why? Eat at hom

245

In The End, Human Adelaide Magazine

Crown Heights

The exclamaƟon points His fingers astounded me
I type in these text His fingers played me beƩer than my ex,
Do not describe how I feel. In fact
I am not exclaiming anything - His fingers played me to rolling hills,
I am too Ɵred to raise my voice To rollercoasters,
Beyond a whisper and although To just eyes rolled
My stomach grumbles In the back of my head –
I can’t force myself A grin on my mouth
To bring food to my mouth. A grin down south.
A grin.
Ghost I saw the brightest of colors
I heard the sharpest of sounds
When I say I miss you I felt light;
I mean who I thought you to be Spellbound.
I have to remind myself that like a ghost, Felt my heart and every pound.
You never really existed. God was like, “Yo, what the fuck?”
PrioriƟes forgoƩen:
Bills huh? Loans who? Rent what?
With his hands, he blessed me
Though my body was his to worship
Like a memorized prayer
He knew me beƩer than what he could understand.

About the Author:

Sahina 'Ina' Jerome is a lifelong writer and arƟst who
just recently started performing her poems in New York
City. Her work explores pain, hope, and the perils of
online daƟng. When she's not in front of a stage she can
be found teaching students with special needs, playing
in a skeeball league, and thriŌing for 1950s dresses.
Follow her on instagram at 'themoonspeaks' to see
what inspires her.

246

Revista Adelaide

BLUES BUSKER

by John Sweeder

His Ashes

In early fall, aŌer most tourists have leŌ
the island
to return to inshore homes, we place his ashes in a
makeshiŌ castle
we build with wet brown sand at dead low Ɵde.
Saltwater consumes this ephemeral fortress in
small-scale bites
as wave aŌer wave rushes and retreats like
piping plovers
feeding at ocean’s edge.
The golden sun blinks at us from the clouds above.
Pale ghost
crabs audit our work from their burrows’ breaches.
He did
not think there’d be many aƩendees at his interment
(and he was correct). As his remains wash away with
comingled sand,
we silently pray the Our Father, Hail Mary, and
Glory Be,
then collecƟvely whisper, “Long live the king.”

247

Adelaide Magazine

Light and Dark at the Cineplex

At noon on Tuesday Trish drives her vintage
red coupe to the local Cineplex. Seated
by herself in the 5th from the last row
of a darkened movie theater, she
removes the bag of unsalted popcorn,
purchased the day before, from her paisley
pocketbook, a treasured giŌ from her niece.
As Trish watches PG-rated coming
aƩracƟons, she noshes on her crackling
snack with mouth closed, but is distracted by
a small light source emanaƟng from the
breast pocket of a gray-bearded man seated
arm-in-arm with an ombré-haired woman in
the row behind. Trish says to herself, It’s
rude of him not to turn off his cell phone,
and then thinks, But what if it’s his daughter
who’s trying to reach him? Maybe she’s caught
in a violent rain storm and needs rescue?
Trish refocuses her aƩenƟon towards
the screen in front as the feature film begins.
Several minutes later she noƟces
other translucent parƟcles of light
appearing as arrays of Ɵny shooƟng
stars falling from the blackened sky. Nonplused,
she tries to square this circle by imagining
how such a singularity occurs.
Like film itself, it is dreamlike. Trish deduces
these shooƟng shards of ephemera are mere
droplets of rain that have leached through the
roof of the aging movie theater and bent
the projector’s light beams like a prism—
aqueous beads of stardust, the stuff of dreams.

248