Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 36, May 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

She lays it in front of me, then grabs an- stabbing the dough help? I grab the fork
other dough-round and repeats the steps. A (Mama says I hold it like a shovel), but before
matching pair sit on the counter. “Did you I can stab the dough pocket, Babcia moves
know I was making pierogi on the day you the handle between my thumb and pointer
were born? Now, it’s tradition…for good finger, like a magic wand. We rock the fork
luck.” forward until the pointy teeth smoosh into
the dough. Then we lift it, move it over, and
I try pinching one together but the filling do it again. And again. And again. Forming
flops out. Babcia pats my hand. “Watch a cool stripe pattern.
what I do then try it on yours. We will do
it together.” My stomach grumbles. We’ve been
working a long time.
I smile at the word together. I like the idea
of us as a team—two pierogi makers—I’m “Babcia, why are we making pierogi when
less scared to mess up. She takes one side we have lots of party food?”
of the dough, lifting it a little, then pulls it
toward her. “See how I folded that in half?” “Don’t you feel useful being productive?
Plus, cooking is my therapy.”
I concentrate very hard so I don’t miss a
single step, to make her proud. “Oh.” Mama and Tata told me about
therapy; if they cook, they never bring me
“Pinch it,” she says in English, but it leftovers. “But what about the extras?” In
sounds more like an English-speaker trying school, I learned about food shortages. But
to say the Polish word for five hundred. because I can’t mail stuff from our cup-
board across the world, Mama tells me to
“Like when we make pie?” eat all my meals.

She smiles. “Yes, just like that.” She “We freeze them.” She winks. “We never
switches back to Polish. waste food. I learned that as a young girl
in Poland during the war.” Babcia is very
My heart flutters: Babcia is proud of me. smart; I hope I’m like her when I grow up.
“We can store them in the garage.” Tata un-
“You can use your fingers.” She takes the plugged the refrigerator to save power so
dough and pinches it like she sometimes we use the garage like a huge refrigerator
pinches my cheeks. Then takes my hand and now—the garagerator, my new favorite
lets me pinch, pinch, pinch. She holds it like pretend word. We stocked the garagerator
a jewel. “There you go—your first pieróg.” with all the stuff the refrigerator had, lined
in rows like soldiers. I stacked boxes of Eggo
Babcia pinches five more, very fast, as waffles and Toaster Strudel on Tata’s work-
I finish one. Hers look perfect: half-moons bench underneath his tools, like breakfast
with bulging white bellies and scalloped Jenga. I wonder if pierogi get frostbite as
edges. Mine is flabby with a wide, flat lip. waffles do.
I watch Babcia’s hands, papery frail with
strong blue veins, work the dough in deli- “Did you make pierogi with Mama when
cate pinches. she was a girl?”

“You can also seal it with a fork.” She hands “Of course. Now I’m teaching you.” The
me one. large pot’s lid begins to bounce from the

I don’t understand. I use my fork to stab
chicken nuggets and the broccoli. How will

99

Adelaide Literary Magazine

foam bubbles, and some water sloshes pierogi with a large wire spoon; they slide
out. Babcia lowers the temperature and on their fat bellies across the plate.
the rumble steadies. “Your mommy was a
naughty girl. She would steal pierogi then She takes off her glasses, wiping her face
sling them across the room.” with her shoulder.

Babcia grabs another dough round, zip- “What’s wrong, Babcia?”
ping through the steps. She balances it on the
handle of a fork, then pretends to slap the “Nothing. Sometimes grownups get sad,
other end. I squeal, thinking she might do it. but we must never show it. We are brave,
yes? For now, let’s make pierogi.” She
A door slams and Mama rushes into the swats at my hand before I can bite my nail.
kitchen wearing her coat. “Why are you “What’s the next step?”
screaming?” Her eyes are red, her hair wild.
“Tasting them!” I hop off the chair. “I like
“Are you helping Tata outside?” I ask in mine with butter, maybe sour cream too. I’ll
English. get them!” I bounce down the steps to the
living room. Babcia calls my name, but this
“We’re talking,” Mama replies, her voice job I can do by myself. I hopscotch the pat-
sounds harsher speaking English. She eyes terns in the rug to the garage door, careful
Babcia who keeps pinching pierogi. “Tata is to avoid the red because it’s magma—and
checking on the backup generator.” Babcia that’s dangerous.
dunks the pinched pierogi into the boiling
water, its rumbling now quieter. In the middle of the gargerator stand
three long tables, waiting for a party, heavy
“Why did you fling pierogi?” with food jam-packed on plates, heaped
into bowls, and crammed into every shape
Mama yanks my sleeves then tugs my of Tupperware: a plate of deviled eggs
long hair into a fresh ponytail. The elastic topped with mustard sauce and peas; rows
pinches my head. “Much better—what?” of rolled herrings in a crystal boat dish; a
round platter piled with four different kiel-
“In Poland, as a girl.” basy; squares of different colored cheeses. A
variety of salads: shredded beet; jarzynowa,
Mama says, “Your uncle dared me.” She finely a chopped root veggies mixed with
licks her finger then wipes my face. I squirm mayo; a boring American lettuce one
and scrunch my nose. wrapped in Clingfilm. Hearty entrées: a Tup-
perware full of mashed potatoes, a tray of
“You told me not to do things just be- breaded pork cutlets, and a tall pot of bigos,
cause others dare you.” cabbage stew with chunks of sausage—my
favorite. Babcia cooks it every holiday and
“That’s exactly right.” Mama nods. special occasion. There’s other Polish dishes,
“You’re lucky to have Babcia as your teacher.” too, nearly as much as when we prep for
Thanksgiving and then eat leftovers for
Babcia huffs and turns her back on breakfast, lunch, and dinner…for days.
Mama who looks like she might say some-
thing else, but leaves instead. The butter tub waits on the far table
wedged between Tata’s famous ćwikła (he
I face Babcia. “Why were you and Mama
fighting earlier?”

Some bubbles spill out onto the burner
with a hiss hiss hiss. Babcia removes a few

100

Revista Literária Adelaide

says “Polish people like having beets pre- Tata and Mama huddle near me, but on
pared numerous ways”) and Mama’s mush- opposite sides. “I don’t need a party—even
room gravy. I grab it; the outside door slams. when the Ice Storm is over,” I whisper.
Startled, I duck.
Babcia holds a plate of boiled pierogi.
“I just don’t understand how much longer “Why is she crying on her birthday?” She
you expect me to play happy family,” Tata scolds them, speaking fast and using Polish
says. I hide under the tablecloth. words I don’t understand. The pierogi bounce
around like bumper cars.
“Now is not the right time to talk about
this, Walter. My mother is here and it’s Eva’s “Am I really selfish?”
birthday.”
Tata looks like someone punched him.
“You’re right. You’re always right. You tell “No, sunshine. Who said that to you?” He
me when it’s the right time. You control ev- strokes my hair. “Sometimes grownups fight.”
erything else.”
“You’ve ruined everything,” says Mama,
“If family is such a burden on you, please standing, hands on her hips.
don’t bother with us.”
“No, honey, don’t cry,” Tata says. “She
I drop the butter. It lands with a thwack. means me, not you.” He whips his head to-
ward Mama. “Magda, seriously?”
“Who’s there?” Mama asks.
“I don’t want a party,” I say to Tata. “Please
I don’t answer, but they must hear me don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry I’m crying.”
crying.
“No one is mad, right Magda?” He looks
“Eva?” Tata pulls up the tablecloth. at Mama. “Let’s talk, as a family.”
“Słoneczko!”
“Eva, we didn’t want to—”
Hearing that nickname makes me cry
harder. I hide my head in my knees, hugging The doorbell rings. Colorful balloons float
my legs, like sunshine disappearing behind into the room. Mama greets our neighbor
storm clouds. Tata cradles me as he car- Mrs. Potter who holds a cake topped with
ries me into the living room, leaving Mama seven candles. Mama hugs Josie, and flicks
behind. Warm air from the wood-burning one of her pigtail braids. Tata adds a log to the
stove kisses my cheek, but I’m shivering already hot fire, putting a smile on his face.
from the garagerator cold. The room smells
of firewood and fried onions. I wipe my tears and stand. I am seven. I
can be brave.

About the Author

Jennifer earned her BA in Literature from the University of Rochester and a MSc from the
University of East Anglia. Her short story “pi” appeared in Pif Magazine and she recently
completed a novel set in Edwardian England about redemptive love and the many definitions
of family. Follow her on twitter, @jomecki.

101

FOURTH OF JULY
CONFESSION

by Amber Brandau

The town’s streets were lined with Ameri- I looked at her briefly before returning
can flags, signaling another Fourth of July my gaze to the menu that was written on
was here. I walked down the old brick pine wood which hung above the counter.
streets that paved the historical part of our She nodded and leaned against it. Clink
town heading towards the main street cof- went the small metal bell above the door.
fee shop. I hoped Abagail would be work- Her smile grew lighting up the room.
ing today. The bubbly blonde who had cap-
tured my heart. “Erin!” She called as she waved her arm
beckoning him over.
The chime of the bell clinked as I walked
in the shop, the scent of roasting coffee The sound of footsteps could be heard
beans hit me. Then the scent of honey- against the tile floor. I inhaled sharply I
suckles drifted my way. Abagail was here. I couldn’t confess how I felt. At least not with
inhaled sharply because today was the day. Erin right here. I sighed heavily the weight
I needed to confess to her how I felt before of my thoughts crashed into me. I nodded
she got married to Erin. I couldn’t let my in greeting and he smiled back.
best friend, someone I thought was like a
brother to me, marry the love of my life. “I’ll just take a decaf coffee. Nothing
Not until I at least told her how I felt and let fancy today.” I said quickly.
her decide if she still wanted to marry him.
She nodded and got me my piping
She smiled warmly at me and I retuned hot cup and turned to take Erin’s order.
the gesture as I made my way to the counter. I watched from the small table by the
I glanced over the menu to see what I window. My courage started to disappear
wanted to order today. as she laughed at something, he had whis-
pered to her. Her face flushed as she tucked
“What can I get you, Max?” she asked a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear. I
cheerfully. gulped down my nerves and griped my cup
tightly to keep my hands from jittering. I
“I’m not entirely sure yet.” was going to tell her that from the moment

102

Revista Literária Adelaide

I had laid eyes on her I was in love. Then and I had to know if it was possible you felt
Erin came in and swept her away with his the same way.” I stated quickly my nerves
war stories. How he fought for our country rearing its ugly head, once again.
and she just swooned for him. Of course, I
wouldn’t have told her about how Erin pur- Tears filled the corners of her eyes. I
posely butted in after I told him I liked her. couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a
I also wouldn’t have told her the stories of bad thing. Another shake of her head and
him going off to war were also lies. Those her mouth was covered.
were my stories I told him in letters, from
blood brother to blood brother. “Max, I am so sorry, but I don’t feel the
same way.” She looked down trying to
Erin kissed her on the cheek before he avoid eye contact with me. Which I couldn’t
left. I got up and made my way over to the blame her.
counter. I stood there and cleared my throat.
She turned and smiled at me. “I understand.”

“Is everything okay, Max?” she asked. I backed away from the counter not
taking my eyes off of her. I felt my heart
“I just have something to tell you is all.” break into two, not literarily of course. I
sniffed back tears that threatened to flow
“What is it?” from my eyes. Turning quickly, I made my
leave. I walked out of the coffee shop and
I held onto the edge of the counter to keep back down the brick street. I let myself cry.
my hands busy. Our eyes met and I inhaled a Let myself be free for just a moment.
shaky breath. “Abagail, I love you. I just wanted
to tell you that before you married Erin.” “I want her to be happy, but I can’t attend
the wedding. I thought I would have been
I felt perspiration form on my palms, and able to, but I just can’t,” I muttered aloud.
I let go of the edge quickly.
I had to let her go and be happy with him
She looked shocked and glanced down. even if it hurt. Even if I knew he had lied to
Her smile now faded. Her hands trembled and her. I still wanted her to be happy. That’s
she shook her head like she was in disbelief. something that will never change. One
thing that I must do though is to let go of
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked who I thought was my best friend. If I
while her hands trembled. wanted to ever recover from this, I had to
do just that.
“Because I’ve loved you since I first laid
eyes on you. I’ve never felt this way before

About the Author

Amber Brandau is an Ohio based poet and writer of fiction.
They are currently attending Full Sail University for their BA in
Creative Writing for Entertainment. They enjoy gardening and
spending time with their family.

103

LINEMAN’S HUT
NO. 13

by Magdalena Blazevic

The shadow is alive and Sofija knows she click of the iron lock, Sofija’s eyes are swal-
cannot run from it. The room’s walls can- lowed up by her eyelashes. They will remain
not soak it in, nor can the dark swallow it there until it is all over.
up. She pulls the covers over her head any-
way. She can smell it even there. Impreg- The boots stand untied in the middle
nated railway tracks melted in the sun. The of the hall. The tiles are cold. The bucket
grease of the coarse material of the work is metal. The water splashes briefly. A few
overall. This smell is what she goes to bed times. Wet fingers through hair.
and wakes with.
The steps are practically silent. Sofija
She knows how it all goes. A slight beam counts them. One, two, three, four, five…
of light splits the darkness. The hut shakes That’s how many there are from the door
slightly. The locomotive’s whistle is shrill; to her bed. The cover slides off her face. Her
she recognizes it, but it is still in the dis- nightgown is twisted into a noose around
tance. The light becomes ever stronger. It her neck. Over there, the breaths are deep.
fills the room with flickering. The flickers Sofija is not breathing. Damp hair on her
fracture against the showcase glass, against face. Cold and slippery. Hands scalding hot.
the cups and glasses. The racket is eerie. They tear and burn the skin between the
legs. This is how a child’s palm sizzles when
The train thunders by destructively. The pressed on the stove.
glass is tense. On the verge of shattering.
Sofija knows that none have ever cracked, The belt is unbuckled. The worn leather
but in her head, they shatter into thousands and metal. It sets a stagnant stench free.
of pieces, the roof of the hut caves in. Over
the place where she is lying. It leaves hot pokers in her womb. Snails
in her ears.
The light goes off and the sound be-
comes a monotonous whooshing. Her body The sheet is a slimy bog.
freezes. She can’t open her tiny fists. No
sound comes out of her dry throat. At the The last sigh is always deep. Full of relief.
Sofija does not move an inch.

104

Revista Literária Adelaide

She counts the steps again. One, two, lined with flowering thistle and gentle poppy.
three, four, five… The nests of yellowhammers are empty
under sharp weeds. Ravens and field mice
And when she opens her eyes she can have only left speckled shells behind.
see nothing. The yellow flecks are shiny.
From the path, the lineman’s hut and
Sofija lowers her nightgown. She pushes the red-hot tracks are visible. Sofija thinks
it between her legs and eases the pain. that no grave has become more one with
vines and tiny wild roses than the hut has.
She hears the door to her mother’s room Poisonous ivy has crept under the green
close. She turns towards the wall. She sticks façade and has crawled up to the roof. The
her nose into the cold whitewash. petals of the wild roses are fragile and pale.
While the trains passed, the unripe petals
The darkness goes quiet. would decay on the ground. They manage
to survive now if no storms blow or heavy
* rains fall.

Sofija waits for the cemetery gate to close. The hut has kept well over the past few
Her eyes are turned towards the melted years. It was only hit by a stray bullet. Under
yellow candles pressed into the dry, sandy the green façade red brick. A round tear.
soil. The sun is burning, the roses will not It ages naturally. The color has peeled in
keep their freshness for long. The cross places. The window frames have dried up.
is oak. The letters white. Plastic. Jozefina It’s holding up nobly in comparison to other
Vila (1952-1994). All the crosses above the village houses. Once painted white with red
fresh graves were made by the same hand. roofs, now neglected and grey.

Although her eyes are red, and the thin When she moved here with her mother,
skin around the eyes are purple, Sofija has she was afraid to sleep in the lineman’s hut.
never shed a tear. Not even when the coffin The night trains shook the walls and the
was lowered into the grave. The shadow furniture. Mother said we should be happy.
pulsed beside her. She didn’t smell of No one wants a woman with a bastard.
melted railway tracks, but of the damp and Jumping from the attic, punching yourself
cold earth. She clenched her cold, sweaty in the stomach is in vain. And the railway
fists. Sofija thought that the trenches were linemen are well situated.
enormous molehills and that shadows could
not pulse on walls without light. She wasn’t allowed to cross the tracks,
and in peaceful days, she could hear the
Her mother’s black dress suits her. Their babbling of the Bosna river. In summer,
bodies are the same shape. The mother’s the splashing of water and the shrieking of
lines on Sofija’s face. The slightly lowered children climbing the bent willow and then
eyebrows, the grey eyes. Her hair was jumping into the muddy river. She would
somewhat lighter, gathered at the nape. stand, leaning on her elbows in the window
Boiling hot beads of sweat sizzle on her skin. and watch the high treetops at dusk. She
would wonder that there was nothing
Only when the voices fall silent does Sofija above them. There were no towers in the
make her way down to the gate. The rusty village; not even the birds flew so high.
metal crosses. She wipes her hands on her
dress. The cemetery is on a hill and the path
to the lineman’s hut is narrow. Both sides are

105

Adelaide Literary Magazine

On the wooden lid to the well there was grout gone black. Beside the wooden cab-
a lock. When the lid was lifted, dead air inet the untied boots. The metal bucket with
was within. She thinks that the air must be water. Sofija’s fists clench. Cold and sweaty.
like this in trenches too. Her mother would She opens the kitchen door. He is sitting on
open the well and stare hard and long at Sofija’s bed. His head resting on the white-
her reflection on the surface. Sofija didn’t washed wall. Five steps separate them.
hear the splash, but she knew… She wasn’t
in the house, and her slippers stood beside *
the front door. She imagined her mother
going out barefoot and how the concrete The rain has torn the last petals off the blos-
in front of the lineman’s hut felt on her feet. soming poppies. The bare pods bent over
There was a narrow strip of grass alongside and damp. The night has dropped onto the
the well. Sofija bent over the edge. On the roof of lineman’s hut no. 13. Sofija is in her
calm water surface her mother’s face was mother’s room. From the bed she looks at
reflected. Sofija touched it with her fingers. the ceiling, into the dusty, flowery light fit-
ting. On the bedside table a candle stuck
It didn’t take long for them to pull her out. onto a saucer burns. The light is gentle and
The stone walls of the well echoed loudly. The yellow.
skull banging against the wall, the scraping of
the rope over the edge of the well. They lay The black dress is thrown over the chair.
her on the grass. Her face purple and slashed. The uniform full of damp and cold earth
Wet, darkened hair. Her nightgown twisted lies crumpled on the floor. Her nightgown
around her neck into a noose. is twisted around her throat in a noose. His
eyes are two black wells. In them, Sofija
The lineman’s hut was unlocked. The sees her mother’s face.
door, wooden and painted green. The yellow
roses on the tiles in the hall cracked. The She turns away.

The shadow pulses on the wall.

About the Author

Magdalena Blažević is a short-story writer from Bosnia
and Herzegovina. Her first short story collection will be
published this year in publishing house Fraktura, Croatia.
She won several prizes for best short story. Some of
them are translated and published in English, Russian,
Macedonian and Hungarian.

106

HORSEBACK

by Eric D. Goodman

Dustin prepared the horses for another too done up for a camping vacation. The girl
day of riding. The sun had barely risen, but giggled, already petting the horses tied up
he’d already put in a few hours. Earlier, he’d to the split-rail fence, talking to them in a
made breakfast—eaten three eggs, bacon, syrupy voice that he imagined she once
toast, and gravy—and brewed a pot of cof- used on her dolls, or might use on a man in
fee to fill his Thermos. He went to the sta- a few more years. And the little boy stood
bles, loaded the horses into the trailer, and behind his sister, looking at the horses like
hit the road from his home farm in South they were some kind of wild animals, not
Shore, Kentucky, to his job across the river quite sure about them. Dustin smiled.
at Shawnee State Forest in Ohio.
Beyond his initial “Howdy,” Dustin didn’t
Once at the state park, he went to the say much, just stood there and waited for
riding stables, set the horses out in their in- the man to talk. The man was reading the
dividual stalls, made sure they had plenty to sign and the sign pretty much said all they
eat, and turned the sign on the post from needed to know.
“closed” to “open.” Then he kicked back in
the wooden rocking chair, crossed his boots Horseback Riding: 45 minutes, $50
on the split-rail fence, and drank the last of
his coffee from the plastic thermos cup. 1 customer per horse, Must be 6 years
or older
It was just after seven when his first cus-
tomers of the morning came along. He set Your guide today is two-time national
his coffee cup on the wooden side table rodeo champion Dustin Coomer
and approached the family of four: man,
woman, teenaged girl, little boy. Tips Appreciated

“Howdy.” Dustin tipped his cap. Dustin looked down at the dirt and
turned over a rock with the toe of his boot.
“Morning.” The father of the family He waited for the tourist to say something.
looked about forty, clean cut, business part Finally, the man opened his mouth.
in his hair. Looked like a talking head on the
news, only he wore a flannel shirt and blue “So, you’re open?”
jeans. The woman looked about the same
age, maybe a little younger, with wavy “Yup.”
blonde hair and makeup that made her look
“We’d like to ride, I think.” The dad men-
tioned it as though he hadn’t been sure

107

Adelaide Literary Magazine

half a minute before, as though they hadn’t “I want this one.” the teenage girl stood
come all the way out here knowing that before the big black stallion.
they wanted to ride.
“That one’s mine.” Dustin gave his fa-
Dustin looked at the man from beneath vorite a playful swat. “That’s Romeo. You’ll
the brim of his cap. “All right.” get Smokey. He’s more suited to your pretty
little frame.”
“Can my son ride with me?”
He walked over to the father. “Daddy,
“Nope. Only one person per horse, like you get Charger. Mommy, you can ride on
the sign says.” Buttercup. And son, you get the best horse
of all. You get to ride Wild One.”
“But he’s little, and kind of uneasy about
riding a horse.” The boy didn’t look thrilled. Dustin was
tempted to tease the boy a little but de-
“How old is he?” cided against it. Better not to lose two cus-
tomers since the mom would probably sit
“Seven.” out with the boy, wouldn’t think to let her
baby out of her sight unsupervised for an
“Well, then, he’s plenty mature enough hour. Dustin needed the money.
to ride his own horse.”
A few minutes later, they all sat in their
“Do you want to give it a try?” the dad saddles (with a bit of help) and began riding
asked. The boy shook his head and backed the trail up into the treed hills.
away.
The dad took in a deep breath of fresh
“Ain’t nothing to it,” Dustin said. “When I morning air. “It’s beautiful country out here.”
was your age, I was riding and roping cattle.
You can ride. We can put your horse be- So, this one’s going to be a talker. “Yup,”
tween your mom and dad.” Dustin agreed. “Between the rivers and
the mountains and the woods, it don’t get
“It’s safe, isn’t it?” the mom asked. much better.”

Dustin chuckled. “Ma’am, riding a horse “We’re from Cincinnati.”
is a lot safer than riding a car.”
“Camping?”
“No, I mean out here, with all the ani-
mals.” “That was the plan. But we decided to get
a hotel.”
“Ain’t no animals gonna hurt you,” Dustin
assured. “Safer here than a city.” “Guess that’s more comfortable.” Dustin
smirked. These city slickers probably
“All right then,” the father finally com- couldn’t figure out how to pitch the flimsy
mitted. “Four.” tent they bought at their local mall.

“That’ll be two hundred.” Dustin led the horses. They were not
tethered, but they all knew the path and
The dad had it counted out and folded only deviated once in a while to grab a
up in his pocket already, like he’d already mouthful of grass or weed. The horses
known the price, had already seen the sign climbed the path of dirt and gravel up the
by the park entrance or looked it up on the
computer. Dustin sized up the four of them
and selected the best horse for each.

108

Revista Literária Adelaide

hill, up the side of the mountain, the trees expecting to be thrown but not expecting
all around them. If not for the gravel, the the bull to fall over with him still riding, not
path would’ve been too muddy to navi- expecting it to crush him beneath its flexing
gate—for tourists—and he’d have closed muscle and kicking legs. Dustin was used to
down for the day. It had rained all night, but the bucking, but it was unusual for a bull
the sun shone bright now. He looked behind to fall over. During those seconds, as the
him to make sure everyone was in line. The hide-brown ground came toward him, as
dad followed Dustin, then the girl, the boy, he still straddled the muscular bull, Dustin
and the mom. counted himself as good as dead. When the
bull finally stood and Dustin was still con-
The dad asked, “So, you were in the rodeo?” scious, he found that he couldn’t stand up
himself. He couldn’t move or feel his legs
“Yup.” Dustin wrote it on the sign to im- or anything from the waist down. He’d ex-
press people, to let them know he wasn’t just pected the bull to come back for him, to
a stable buck. He used to be a living legend. trample him, and lifted himself to his arms,
He’d been somebody before starting his own trying to drag his useless body off to the
business. He’d had status before trading it side. He knew he didn’t have the strength
in for security. “Kentucky State Champion or time to make it, that the bull would be
three times, rode the circuit about eight on him before he could cover two feet of
years, two-time National Champion.” dusty distance. But the rodeo clowns got
to the angry bull first, some of them dis-
The dad’s nod bounced with his horse. tracting the bull, others pulling Dustin out
“Guess there aren’t very many older rodeo of harm’s way. His doctor told him the same
stars still working,” the guy said. Dustin thing he’d told him after past injuries: that
took this as a way of asking why he’d quit he should hang up his rodeo hat. This time,
the rodeo instead of making a life out of it. Dustin decided to listen.
Dustin was accustomed to such questions.
His own dad hadn’t listened. His dad was
“Broke my legs twice, pelvis once. After I a rodeo star, too, and had taken Dustin with
broke my pelvis, I had to take it easy. I can him on the circuit as far back as Dustin could
still ride, love to ride. But I can’t do the tricky remember, back when he was four or five.
stuff no more. You don’t see very many By the time Dustin turned six, he was riding
daredevils out there much more than thirty.” alongside his dad. By the time he reached
ten, he worked in the rodeo himself, in solo
“What did you do? In the rodeo, I mean.” acts without his dad. When Dustin was fif-
teen, his dad got killed by a bull.
“Oh, a little of this and that. I roped steer,
rode bulls, did some bull fighting. It was a Now a dad himself, Dustin had a boy of
bull that broke my pelvis.” twelve in school. He didn’t want such a risky
life for his son. That’s why Dustin opened
“Wow,” the dad said. his own business, taking tourists out for
rides. He’d conned himself into appreci-
“Wow’s right,” Dustin said over his shoulder. ating the beauty of a slow trot across the
“Two thousand pounds of rodeo bull crashed forested mountains instead of longing for
down right on top of me. I’m lucky to be alive.” the thrill of cowboy stunts. When he started,

Dustin made light of it, but truth be told,
when it happened, he didn’t think he would
live through the ordeal. Riding the bull, fully

109

Adelaide Literary Magazine

he enjoyed the peace and quiet of Shawnee out here.” But Dustin was a little worried at
State Forest, the beauty of the mountain this news and considered cutting the ride
paths, river views. Truth was, sometimes he short as he tried to do the math in his head.
longed for a little more excitement. Lions . . . tigers . . . leopards . . . panthers.
He didn’t really know his wild animals that
“Ask him about the animals,” Dustin well, but based on what he did know, he fig-
heard the mother saying to her husband. ured some of them could travel from Chilli-
The husband cleared his throat. cothe to this area in twelve, thirteen hours.
Perhaps paranoia was playing tricks on him,
“So, how about those animals?” but he began to consider it likely. Shawnee
State Forest seemed a welcoming place for
Dustin looked around them for evidence. such an animal to hide. Away from the city,
“Oh, we see some deer out here pretty often. lots of open space, trees and brush. “Just to
Squirrels and bunnies and chipmunks. Once be on the safe side,” Dustin suggested ca-
in a while you might see a bear or fox. Wolf sually, “let’s go ahead and mosey on back.”
or coyote.”
He heard the woman worrying aloud
“No, I mean Chillicothe.” as he turned his horse around and passed
them all. “Oh, it’s not safe, is it? You think
Dustin swatted at a fly on his neck. “Chill- they’re out here?” His horse now stood next
icothe?” to the woman instead of the man.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s all over the news.” “Everyone just pull on one side of the
reigns and turn your horse around. We’ll
“I ain’t seen the news since yesterday just mosey on back, nice and easy. Ain’t
morning.” nothing to worry about. Nice and peaceful
out here.”
“Oh my God, he doesn’t know.” The wom-
an’s nervous voice grew higher in pitch. “We Dustin wished he could have turned the
need to go back to the car.” whole train around, so the man rode at his
back instead of the woman. She sounded
“Don’t worry,” the dad assured her. Then worried even when she wasn’t making a
he addressed Dustin. “Some crazy guy let noise. But he didn’t say anything to upset
loose a bunch of wild animals in Chillicothe. anyone. He tried to ride casual, looking
Just last night, around five o’clock.” about him for signs of unusual life. He con-
vinced himself he was just being paranoid—
For the love of God. Dustin sighed and just another ten minutes and they’d be back
took a look around them. The new park to the stalls. No predator in its right mind
ranger, in charge of notifying recreation would come to these parts to attack people
vendors, always seemed to forget about when there was an abundance of wild ani-
him and his operation, forgetting to tell him mals. “Almost back,” he assured the family.
about things like early closings and severe
weather conditions. But there’d never been Shawnee State Forest was quiet. Song-
news like this to share before. birds chirped in the distance. He heard two
deer scurrying out of the woods, crossing
“They couldn’t have made it this far, the trail behind them, then leaping back
right?” The woman’s voice didn’t sound so
sure. “It’s safe out here, right?”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Dustin comforted.
“There ain’t never been any animal attacks

110

Revista Literária Adelaide

into the trees on the other side, down to- with the blunt branch. The leopard backed
ward the river. off just a bit, just enough for the man to
scoot back, crawling crab-style on his hands
Then, he heard the snarl, the feline and feet out from under the cat and off the
growl, heard the leaves and tree branches path. Dustin beat the leopard on the back
rustle, then not rustle, as though the animal and across the face, but the wildcat didn’t
had left the surface. Dustin looked behind back down. Dustin tried ramming the blunt
him and saw beyond the terrorized faces end of the branch into the leopard’s face,
of the woman, the teenaged girl, the little which seemed a little more effective than
boy. Their father had fallen off his horse— swinging. Dustin stepped slowly back, put-
or rather, had been knocked off by a large, ting distance between him and the cat.
spotted wildcat. Then Dustin charged, ramming the leopard
in the face again. The leopard swept up the
“Help him, help him, help him!” the tree in a flash, regaining its strength on a
woman screamed. high branch about the same size as the one
Dustin held in his grip.
“Dad!” His daughter cried out in a shrill
voice that Dustin hoped would drive off the Dustin kept the branch close to him and
cat. his eye on the leopard, but he walked over
to the man. “Can you get up?”
“Kill it,” the boy cried. “Just kill it!”
“I dunno,” the stunned man said, as
The dad flopped his arms beneath the though he didn’t even know what he was
leopard, apparently hoping to hit it, but not saying. Dustin helped him find his feet. The
focused enough to aim as the cat sat on city slicker had lost a lot of blood; he looked
top of him. The leopard looked up at the as pale as a dead man.
screaming people around it and growled.
The horses all broke into a frightened “Let’s walk back.” Dustin dropped the
gallop—fortunately in the direction they branch and draped the man’s arm around
were headed, along the path. his neck, pulling his limp body along.

“Stay on the horses,” Dustin yelled to “Tell . . . Karen . . . that I . . . love her . . .
the family as he jumped off his. “They’ll tell the . . . kids that …”
head back to the stable.” Dustin ran to help
the pinned man. The guy grasped around “Enough of that.” Dustin didn’t have pa-
him with one hand, as though for a stick tience for dramatics. He was scared for this
or rock to hit the cat, while his other hand man’s life and his own. Dustin looked back
was beating the leopard in the skull with every few steps, knowing that the leopard
the palm of his hand to no avail. The cat was fast and could be on their backs without
had a grip on the man’s shoulder and was a second’s warning.
clamped down. He opened his jaw every
few seconds, then clamped down again, as Dustin could see the stable ahead, just
though to get a better grip, or to cause more a hundred feet away, and he could see that
punctures, more damage, perhaps seeking the woman had locked herself and the kids
out a main artery for a quick kill. Dustin saw in their car. She screeched into the phone,
a large branch on the ground near the path. undoubtedly to the police. Dustin won-
He took it and beat the cat across the head dered whether this tragedy would get him

111

Adelaide Literary Magazine

shut down. Would blame fall to him, or to Just like the man.
the nut in Chillicothe who let these animals
out? He wondered whether he’d have to The woman and the kids were crying, hy-
give up the business and sell the horses perventilating, not believing what just hap-
and find another way to make a living and pened before their eyes.
support his wife and boy. He wondered
whether he’d live to do it. Dustin knew what it was like to lose a
father to an animal. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I
Instead of looking at the stable and won- tried to . . .”
dering, he realized he needed to look be-
hind him. When he turned to look, he saw The woman screamed at him. “You
the leopard drop out of the tree. It sprinted should have stopped it! You should have
in their direction. Dustin saw it looking at told us it wasn’t safe!”
him and the other man, sizing them up,
determining the easier meat. The leopard “Mommy, is Daddy gonna be all right?”
leaped—seemed too far away to have begun the little boy asked.
his leap—and then flew toward them. He al-
most looked like he was going to soar over “I killed the leopard,” Dustin offered. But,
them. As though he had rudders to control of course, no one gave a damn about that.
his altitude, the leopard adjusted his path
as he came down on them. The leopard “Can’t believe you didn’t stop it!”
targeted the weaker, injured man. The dad
fell to the ground with a scream, and the “Mom.” The daughter wrapped herself
cat snarled and clamped his jaw around the around her mother.
man’s shoulder while standing on his back.
“Is Daddy gonna be all right?” the boy
Dustin pulled out his hunting knife. asked again. Dustin wanted to pick up the
He jabbed the cat in the shoulder and it boy, but he knew it wasn’t his place.
flinched, turned to face him, then dug his
claws into the lifeless body beside him. The The ambulance arrived from Southern
leopard turned away from Dustin and pro- Ohio Medical Center, and the Portsmouth
ceeded to drag the body toward a tree, as police came minutes later. By the time po-
though it planned to pull the corpse into the lice arrived, asking Dustin to relay the story,
safety of the branches. Dustin wasn’t sure the medics had already put the man into
whether the man was dead or alive, but he the back of the ambulance and rushed away.
knew he didn’t want this cat to go free. He One of the police drove the family to the
stabbed it again with his knife, in and out hospital—the wife was in no condition to
of its right front upper leg, then he stabbed drive—and Dustin figured that he’d end up
it in its face. The cat let out a snarl and delivering their vehicle to their hotel or a
batted a paw at Dustin. Dustin jumped on shopping center or something, because
the leopard, wrestling it away from the still he knew it would be too traumatic for the
body, and sliced the blade of his knife across woman to come here again. Dustin took the
the cat’s throat. After a few moments of officers to the leopard.
struggling, of avoiding the cat’s sharp claws
and large canines, the cat went limp. “Get Chillicothe on the horn,” said one of
the officers—Heaker, according to his me-
tallic tag. “Let Roscoe know we got one of
the leopards.”

“What else is out here?” Dustin asked.

112

Revista Literária Adelaide

“We’re not certain.” Officer Heaker looked “Yeah, don’t I know it. I’d get my horses
him in the eye. “But they’ve got animal ex- barned up if I was you. And stay inside with
perts tracking them. Said there could be two your family, if you got one.”
leopards and a tiger coming in our direction.”
“Yep,” Dustin said. “Be a good idea to
“That don’t sound good.” Dustin looked close shop for a few days, I reckon.”
at the dead leopard.
As Dustin prepared the horses for the
“We got the good end of the stick.” Heaker ride back across the river, he thought of
looked around them, into the woods. “They his son. He decided to pick him up early
think a black panther and a whole pride of from school. He couldn’t help but thank
lions are headed up to Columbus. And Chill- God it was the other father, and not his
icothe’s just crawling with wild beasts.” son’s father. Not a nice thought, but an
honest one.
“Hard to imagine.” Dustin lifted his cap
and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

About the Author

Eric is a full-time writer and award-winning author of literary fiction. Setting the Family
Free is his fourth book. His short fiction and travel stories have been published more than a
hundred periodicals, including The Baltimore Review, The Pedestal Magazine, The Potomac,
JMWW, Barrelhouse, Scribble, Grub Street, Syndic, and New Lines from the Old Line State:
An Anthology of Maryland Writers. Eric reads regularly from his fiction on radio, at book
festivals and events, and he curates and hosts the popular Lit and Art Reading Series, today’s
longest-running literary salon in Baltimore. Learn more about Eric and his writing at www.
EricDGoodman.com, where you can listen to radio readings, read excerpts and stories, and
more.

113



NONFICTION



REIMAGINING:
MARCH 31, 2020

by Rachel Cavell

“Liza, be careful not to touch the banister ing two? We need a new word here for de-
when you go downstairs”, we overheard tail. “Granular” is a word used by television
Max telling our daughter late last night. Mo- anchorpeople to describe a moment looked
tivated by Trump’s musings about quaran- at from all sides. But what happens to those
tining parts of the Tri-state area, they had details when the world you began with
decided to leave Brooklyn a day earlier than stops looking familiar.
planned. Quarantining parts of the Tri-state
area? From each other? From New York to I told them, Max and Liza, that I was
Connecticut? From towns within the state? reminded of stories from childhood about
Queens to Manhattan? The Bronx? From East Berliners waking up one morning to
County to county? Details matter. Did I find thirty miles of barbed wire surrounding
touch the faucet after I put soap on my face their City. This season has brought us ways
but before I washed the soap off? Will I now of thinking that weren’t in the world before:
need to wash my hands again before wash- “…be careful not to touch the banister.” “…
ing the soap off my face, and then how to quarantining parts of the Tri-State area”.
turn the faucet off? Did I touch the non-po- Thoughts of barbed wire surrounding the
rous countertop after I washed my hands New York City metro area. Just where would
when I touched the can opener but before I the wire be? Hung across the Henry Hudson
picked up the knife to chop the potato? Did Parkway from the 86th Street entrance off of
I rub my eyes after I put on my shirt that Riverside Drive with police patrolling against
was on the chair that the dog had sat on be- vandalism? Would the barbed wire be hung
fore I had a chance to take off her leash that taught? Or loosely? From polls astride the
had brushed a car door parked on our block Cross Country Parkway West? Would there
that belonged to someone unknown to me? be loops of wire preventing them from ac-
Did I pat the dog after my daughter patted cessing the Sprain Brook Parkway? Or would
the dog and did I then pop a raisin into my it be clear sailing all the way to the Taconic
mouth? Two raisins maybe? Did I need that State Parkway, where chains of metal and
raisin? Did I need to flirt with chaos by eat- patrol cars would keep them from accessing
points North and the Hudson River Valley,

117

Adelaide Literary Magazine

where we live. Would Max and Liza have On March 12th my son and his partner
honored the barricade or would they make took the Amtrak up the Hudson River from
a run for it, gunning through the wire per- Manhattan to their recently acquired house
haps or ditching his father’s Honda at the in Germantown. I picked them up at the
perimeter and heading for the wooded area Rhinecliff train station and we laughed as I
on the side of the highway. Those woods squirted sanitizer on their hands while they
need their own word now. sat right next to me in the front and back
seat of our car. We walked in a public park
This moment has altered our landscape a few days later with lots of other people,
of human relationships in ways too nu- and took turns lying on an oak tree near
merous to count or to know yet. It is for the Hudson River, whose limb was smooth
one, the first time many of our twenty and and bare from many visitors. We spoke with
thirty year old children have actively wor- fellow hikers from a distance of one or two
ried about us, in the way we have become feet and later that afternoon walked into
accustomed to worrying about our elderly our town’s crowded health food store and
parents. And we are confronting the fact purchased a few extra supplies. Sardines,
that our children might be dangerous to apples, kale.
touch. During March there came into ex-
istence pictures all over the world from By the end of the month, our world had
countless families that would have been grown small. When Liza and Max got here
unimaginable four weeks ago: In our tiny from Brooklyn sixteen days later, I had seen
corner of this world there exists one taken no one at closer than ten feet in 14 days. My
last Saturday in front of a brick building husband and I greeted them in the dark-
in Prospect Heights -- Max’s parents are ened driveway from a distance in the rain,
standing right next to each other outside and they scrambled up into the back rooms
the front door; Max ten feet away, waves of our house behind closed doors like refu-
to the camera. His sister, their daughter, a gees. From what angle can I make any sense
little harder to discern behind glass, smiles of what I am now seeing as my daughter in
from a closed window on the second floor. her own house, beloved fugitive?

About the Author

Rachel Cavell is a Faculty Associate with the Bard College
Institute for Thinking and Writing. She also teaches a course in
Essay and Revision in the Bard College undergraduate program,
and she teaches with the Bard College Prison Initiative program.
Rachel is also a practicing attorney, representing children in
neglect and custody cases in the Family Courts in Ulster County,
New York. This is her second contribution to Adelaide.

118

A MOTHER’S SIGH

by Susan Bloch

In a Congolese village, it is dark. Smoke potholes while they stalk their prey. More
dribbles up and up, blemishing the light terrifying than the soldiers’ shouts, the rat-
from the sickle moon. Thatched roofs have a-tat-tat of AK-47s, and machetes hacking
collapsed. Shrapnel pockmarks dot black- through flesh.
ened mud walls. There is a smell of blood,
charred grasses, and fear. Anyone alive?

A groan, a wail, a shriek, and then silence. When the smoke clouds lift, and the
night becomes lighter, a cock crows, a goat
Was it only an hour ago that you could bleats and tugs on its rope, and a shrike
hear the rhythmic thumping of mortars warbles. In the vegetable patch, the ten-
mashing cassava in mahogany pestles? The drils of beanstalks bearing plump pods cling
drumbeat announcing that dinner would to thin bamboo poles. A plantain tree that
be ready soon? You could hear women gos- has seen more than this one attack bears a
siping, children laughing, and metal spoons scarlet flower the color of blood alongside
clinking in pots. green clusters of its unripe fruit.

Now that the militia have left all you can From a thicket of acacia shrubs a baby
hear is the silence. whimpers. A mother soothes, sighs, and
croons a lullaby to the sound of sucking and
Silence more terrifying than the sound slow, sleepy breathing.
of grinding gears as trucks grunt through

119

NO DRUDGE,
NO GRUDGE

by Nancy Wick

I was thirty-nine and I was finally getting house, washed the clothes, and did the bulk
married. After years of entanglements with of the childcare. And so it was in my friends’
inappropriate men leading to heartbreak families too.
and disappointment, I had found a good
man who wasn’t afraid of commitment. When I was in junior high school in the
There was only one problem: I was worried early 1960s, I—like all girls—was required
about who would do the housework. to take three non-academic classes: cooking,
sewing and home management. The boys,
Housework is inescapable. When people on the other hand, took wood shop, metal
live in a house, it gets dirty and needs to be shop and electric shop. I didn’t really think
cleaned. People need to eat, so food must about it at the time, but the school system
be purchased, meals must be planned and was clearly assuming that students would
prepared and the dishes must be washed; grow up to live lives like their parents: the
people wear clothes that get dirty and need girls would need to know how to do house-
to be laundered. I had done all those tasks work and the boys—even if they didn’t
as a single person and then a single parent, become carpenters, electricians or metal
but now I was adding a husband to the mix. workers—would need to know how to fix
Would it mean less work for me . . . or more? things around the house.

There was a time when this question But taking the classes didn’t mean I liked
wouldn’t have come up. Men had jobs out- the role I was being assigned; I picked up on
side the home, women didn’t. So women’s the feeling that housework was not valued.
work in the house was their contribution At home, my father pointedly refused to do
to the family. That was the world of my any of it. If my mother went somewhere in
childhood. Dad had a job in the steel mill; the afternoon and was late coming home, for
he worked forty hours a week and brought example, he didn’t step in to do meal prepa-
home his pay. The only chores he did were ration. He sat in his chair and waited for her,
home maintenance tasks and yard work. fuming that she was not there to make his
Mother cooked the meals, cleaned the dinner after he’d worked hard all day. He

120

Revista Literária Adelaide

did not help with the dishes before my sister Second-wave feminism had risen during my
and I were old enough to do it. Nor would he college years and many married women had
clean or do laundry, even if Mother was sick paying jobs. But the dynamics inside the
in bed with the flu. I got the distinct idea that home hadn’t changed as much as people
he thought housework was beneath him, thought. In many marriages, wives were
something a man would never do. still doing all or most of the housework, de-
spite the fact that they worked full-time and
I thought housework was boring, often made a significant amount of money.
drudgery, something that had to be done but Arlie Hochschild hadn’t yet written her
no one wanted to do. I didn’t mind baking— classic book, The Second Shift (published
supplying the homemade cookies my father in 1989), but lots of women knew all about
demanded for his packed lunches—but pre- that shift. I didn’t want to be one of them.
paring dinners didn’t interest me, nor did
cleaning the house (although I was required Judging by what I knew of my hus-
to clean my room once a week). As for band-to-be, I might have expected that
sewing, I went through a phase of making housework wouldn’t be a problem. I’d
clothes because it was cheaper than buying made no secret of my feminist beliefs, after
them, but I went about it with impatience, all, and he hadn’t objected when I told
unwilling to rip out botched seams, always him I didn’t intend to change my name.
finding ways to hide mistakes rather than But housework loomed in my mind as a
correct them. bigger deal precisely because it seemed
trivial. Fighting over who does the laundry
Meanwhile, on television, situation is surely not as important as fighting over
comedies seemed to imply that house- how to spend joint income or how to raise
work was something only women could do the kids, is it?
competently. There would be an episode
in which the wife would go away for the Maybe not on the surface, but bickering
evening, leaving the husband in charge. He over who will clean the toilet or mop the
would be shown wearing an apron, usually kitchen floor points to a deeper issue of
with ruffles, standing in the middle of a equality. Housework is a service, so who-
kitchen disaster: a pot that had boiled over, ever does the housework is a servant to the
a bottle of milk overturned on the floor others in that household. This implies that
and a screaming baby in his arms. The wife the person who is served deserves more
would come home, survey the damage and respect than the person doing the serving,
put everything right in a jiffy, after which just as a rich employer gets more respect
she would embrace her poor befuddled than the servants he hires to do jobs like
husband and promise to never leave him in housework. And since housework is con-
such a situation again. stant—a project with no completion date—
the inequity is reinforced every day.
I couldn’t help thinking the husband
was pretending to be inept at housework So I approached my fiancé with some trep-
so he didn’t have to do any. And what a neat idation. “I want to talk about how we’re going
trick—making her think she had some spe- to live after we’re married,” I said to him one
cial ability that he lacked. night. We were sitting on the old faux-suede
couch in the living room of my rental house,
By the time I was heading into marriage, where we’d settled to watch a little TV.
it was the 1980s and a lot had changed.

121

Adelaide Literary Magazine

He gave me a quizzical look. “What “I don’t know what to put on a menu plan.”
about it?”
“And you think I do, just innately?” I let
“It’s about housework,” I said, rushing on the question hang there for a minute, as if
before he could respond. “We both work. I I expected an answer. “Look, neither one
can’t see myself staying home even if we of us is a great cook. You know the kind of
could afford for me to, which we can’t. So I things we eat. How hard can it be?”
don’t want to do all the housework. I want
us to share cooking and cleaning.” He glared at me. “Oh, so I have to make
the menu plan because I do the grocery
“Is that all?” His shoulders relaxed and shopping?”
his face broke into a smile.
I softened. “No, not necessarily. We can
“Yes.” I paused. “This is important to me. trade off on that job.”
I can’t marry you if you won’t do this.”
“All right. Why don’t you do it the first
He grabbed my hand, laughing. “You time . . . since you think it’s so easy.”
don’t have to give me an ultimatum. I don’t
mind doing housework. I’ve certainly done “Fine, but you’re doing it next week.”
enough of it since my divorce.”
We both laughed. Our first argument
I relaxed too, thinking the problem was over housework had been relatively easy to
solved. But it wasn’t—not quite. resolve. But it wouldn’t be the last.

After we were married, my husband and We had agreed that every week the house
I started a system whereby we alternated needed to be vacuumed, the bathroom
who cooked dinner. The person who didn’t cleaned, and the furniture dusted, but we
cook, we agreed, would do the dishes. We hadn’t discussed how that would work. The
each confessed that there were chores first few weeks of our marriage I found myself
we hated—grocery shopping for me and doing these chores whenever I noticed that
laundry for him. Luckily, I didn’t mind doing they really needed to be done, all the while
laundry and he didn’t mind doing grocery dropping hints to my husband about it:
shopping, so those tasks became our per-
manent chores. “Hey, that rug’s looking grimy.”

But as he prepared to go to the grocery “I could write my name on the coffee table.”
store the first week, my husband asked me
what he should buy. But he seemed oblivious.

Caught off guard, I looked at him blankly Finally I confronted him. “You know, we
over the top of the newspaper I was agreed that we were going to share the
reading. “I don’t know. What are we eating housework, and you’ve done that with the
this week?” cooking and the menu planning. But you ha-
ven’t vacuumed or cleaned the bathroom a
“How should I know?” His brow furrowed single time since we’ve been married. You
in irritation. haven’t dusted the furniture either.”

I put the newspaper down. “You know as He looked surprised. “Well, you haven’t
well as I do. Looks like we need to make a asked me to.”
menu plan, then buy what we need.”
“So I’m in charge of the chores? You only
do them when asked?”

122

Revista Literária Adelaide

“I don’t know when things need to be presents, so we each supplied her with a
cleaned.” list. On Christmas morning, I was surprised
to unwrap a cookbook—an item that was
I raised my arms and my voice as if seeking definitely not on my list.
divine help. “They need to be cleaned when
they’re dirty. How hard is that? Why do you “Why would she get me this?” I asked my
think I recognize dirt better than you do?” husband. “I didn’t ask for it.”

The obvious answer was sitting there be- “Oh, I put it on your list. I thought we
tween us, but he didn’t say it. “I don’t want needed a good cookbook.”
to be doing things around the house that
you don’t want done.” I dropped the book in his lap. “Then why
didn’t you put it on your list? I would rather
“So the house is my domain then? I’m in have had a new sweater.”
charge?”
He picked up the book and turned
“Yes.” He raised his own arms, flicking away to place it on a shelf, saying nothing,
his hands toward me as if to say “of course, but it didn’t matter because I knew the
isn’t that clear?” reason—or thought I did. His mother was
a pre-feminism woman thirty years my se-
“And I’m to tell you what to do there.” nior. Although he was willing to take his turn
at cooking, he didn’t necessarily want his
“Yes.” mother to know about it. Or maybe he just
couldn’t bring himself to be a man asking
I took a deep breath, trying to think how for a cookbook for Christmas.
I could get him to understand my feelings
about that. I stepped closer and got right As I thought about our relationship, I
up in his face. “You know what that makes found it all rather curious. My husband’s
me? That makes me the nag. I’m not going first marriage had been quite traditional.
to be the nag. This house belongs to both Although his wife worked, she had done all
of us. We both get it dirty and we both the cooking and cleaning in their household.
clean it.” But by the time he was single again, society
had changed, and he had changed with it,
That argument brought “the schedule” at least in principle. He understood femi-
into our lives. We made a chart of weekly nism and always said he was happy that I
chores and monthly chores, divided them was an independent woman with a mind of
into groups and decided that in any given my own. Still, our experiences with house-
week I would do Group A and he would work showed that he hadn’t really shed the
do Group B, and the following week, we’d attitudes of his childhood, which had been
reverse it. Posted on the refrigerator, the similar to mine.
chart told us our assigned chores, which we
agreed to complete by Sunday evening. And We’ve been married for more than thirty
nobody had to be the nag. years now, and I’d like to think the cou-
ples of today no longer face these issues.
But old attitudes die hard. Our first After all, today’s husbands were raised by
Christmas together, six months after we less traditional women, weren’t they?
were married, my mother-in-law asked But that does not seem to have made as
us what gifts we would like. She was a much of a difference as one would hope.
generous woman who loved to give us

123

Adelaide Literary Magazine

In the “Dear Sugars” advice column in the just as I did with mine, and to explain how
New York Times in 2018, Steve Almond important such a division was to her. What
and Cheryl Strayed answered the letter of they didn’t stress, but should have, points
a woman complaining about her husband to another reason why the cultural norm
being AWOL from housework. Moreover, about housework has endured: she should
the woman, who called herself “Domestic raise her sons to think of housework as part
Drudge,” was just one of many women of their lot (and daughters to think it isn’t
who made a similar complaint. The letter, exclusively theirs).
Strayed said, came in response to a call she
had put out on social media for letters ad- Thanks to the system my husband and I
dressing several topics they’d be bringing worked out, my son grew up seeing both of
up in their column. us do housework, and this by itself taught
him that men do these tasks. When he was
“No topic received more responses than old enough, he became part of our system,
the one you wrote to us about, Drudge, doing his share of the cleaning. I also taught
which speaks to how common your frustra- him how to cook and do laundry, telling him
tion is,” Strayed said. “Most of the letters that when he grew up he would need to
could’ve been written by the same person feed himself and keep his clothes clean, that
— all of them women who described a situ- no woman was going to become a second
ation similar to yours.” mother to him and he shouldn’t expect it.
Now married, he thinks nothing of cooking
How is it that these women, raised in a meal or doing laundry. The first year of his
an era when less than 20 percent of fami- daughter’s life, he was the one who stayed
lies have a stay-at-home wife, are still doing home with her.
all or most of the housework? Perhaps it’s
just the old cultural stereotype that says I’m aware that not all women feel the
housework is a woman’s job, enforced by same way I do about housework. One
the fact that if the house is a mess, the wife woman I know declared that she didn’t want
will be blamed. But women have fought her husband anywhere near the kitchen;
cultural norms before; why does this one another said that her husband’s standards
still stand? Perhaps for the same reason I of cleanliness were not high enough for her
cautiously broached the subject with my to trust him with the vacuum cleaner and
fiancé years earlier: because it seems so mop. Each couple needs to work out be-
trivial. Feminists have fought for the right tween them what they consider to be a fair
to attend elite colleges, to enter profes- division of household tasks. But I believe
sions like medicine and law, to ascend to that this discussion must happen and that
high levels in their chosen fields, to be free it should never start with the assumption
of harassment. These are big things. House- that housework is women’s work—or that it
work, by contrast, seems small—petty. But is a trivial matter. An equal division of labor
to millions of women trapped in the second is as worth fighting for at home as equal pay
shift, it is not small; it is a blight on their is on the job.
everyday lives.
I am retired now, but in my working
Strayed and Almond encouraged the years I didn’t have to come home and cook
woman who wrote to them to negotiate dinner every single night, nor did I have to
a fairer division of labor with her husband, spend all weekend getting the house clean.

124

Revista Literária Adelaide
As a result, I never developed resentment
toward my husband and son for having a
get-out-of-housework-free card just for
being male. I may not have saved the world
in my ordinary life, but I saved myself and
at least one other woman from the fate of
“Domestic Drudge.”

About the Author
For many years, Nancy Wick worked as a writer and editor at the University of Washington
in Seattle. She’s won numerous regional and national writing awards from the Council for the
Advancement and Support of Education. Now retired, Nancy writes personal essays and other
nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Minerva Rising, Persimmon Tree, Oasis Journal, Longridge
Review, and the anthology Triumph: Stories of Victories Great & Small, among others.

125

NAMES

by William Alton

My mom was a Neel of the Izard Neels. We feel the air in the room get heavy, before
were the people folks avoided in Izard’s one moving onto the next kid.
bar. We were the people folks whispered
about over coffee. We were the kids in the At recess, I sat on the warm asphalt
principal’s office, the kids standing on the and watched the other kids running and
corner smoking cigarettes looking for a screaming. They climbed and chased each
fight. My name was Billy Alton but I was a other. At home, there were always people
Neel and everyone knew it. around. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. Someone
was always saying something to me. This was
Being a Neel in Izard was often a burden. different. No one sat with me. No one spoke
When you come from a family like mine, to me. I sat alone, awkward and out of place.
there’s always a history. My first day of kin-
dergarten, the teacher called my name. Ms. It was nice being out of the house. I sat
Waters was old, the same age as my grand- and watched the kids playing. Lotti Henderson
parents. No one messed with her. She’d been came and sat with me, a skinny thing with wild
a teacher forever. She was the monster in the white hair. “Billy,” she said. I remembered her
corner. I thought she looked a kind if slightly from class. I remembered the way she looked
bent old woman. “Billy Alton,” she called. at me when the teacher called my name. She
smiled but she didn’t giggle. “Billy,” the girl said.
“Here.”
“Yeah.”
Ms. Waters narrowed her eyes. “You’re
Nadine’s boy?” she asked. Ms. Waters knew “I’m Lotti.”
my mom, but then everyone knew my mom.
“Lotti,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Lotti Henderson.”
I wanted to make a good impression. I
wanted her to like me and I wanted the other “I know who you are.”
kids to like me too. Ms. Waters frowned.
“Are we going to have trouble?” she asked. The Hendersons were a ragged bunch. They
I didn’t know what was happening. I was lived down the road from Grandpa’s place. Five
six, but Ms. Waters seemed to dislike me. of them shared a shotgun shack set in a stand
She didn’t know me but she didn’t like me. of white oak surrounded by round hills with
I curled into my desk. Ms. Waters stared a little creek running through it. An outhouse
for a moment, just long enough for me to sat at the bottom of the little valley next to the
chicken coop. A couple of goats and a mangy

126

Revista Literária Adelaide

dog shared a small patch. A small truck garden The Hendersons were poor folk. They never
gave them vegetables for canning. had a new thing in their lives. Clothes hung
on their scrawny shoulders and narrow hips,
Heck Henderson was a little man. They patched and mended until there was nothing
had only the one pickup so Skinny Hen- left to patch or mend. Being the youngest
derson stayed stuck at home while drove and the only girl, Lotti had plenty of physical
Heck to town every morning where he was protection. Anyone with a lick of sense knew
a janitor at the school. better than to start shit with the Hendersons.

“That man knows how to work,” Grandpa “You’re not mean at all,” Lotti said. Her
said. Saying someone knew how to work dad came and took her hand. “Lotti, come
was the best thing Grandpa could do. He with me.”
saw the world through a lens of usefulness.
If you were not of use, then you were not “But Sweet…”
worth the attention. Heck Henderson, he
tended the stills dotting the mountains “Come with me.” Heck looked scared and
around town. He let my uncles grow pot angry at the same. He looked at me and he
on his property. While Heck worked in looked at Lotti. “No,” he said. “You leave
town, Skinny stayed home. Not that staying that boy alone.”
home wasn’t work. She mended clothes
and tended to the garden. She cooked and “He’s not mean.”
canned. She rose before the sun and milked
the goats. She gathered eggs. “Leave him alone.” Lotti climbed into the
cab. She looked sad. Disappointed. Embar-
When the cotton came due or when the rassed. “Mr. Alton,” Heck said. “I hope my
weed needed harvesting, Heck brought his daughter didn’t bother you.”
family over to work the fields. Sometimes,
of a Sunday evening, Heck sat on the porch “No sir,” I said.
with Grandpa and my uncles. They smoked
and got slowly drunk, talking about their wars He nodded. “Say hi to your Grandpa.”
and their women. Late at night, Heck went
off home to get some rest before the week “Yes sir.”
started.
Because I was an Alton but really a Neel,
even grown men grew nervous when they
spoke to me.

About the Author

William L. Alton was born in Central Washington but spent
most of his childhood in the Ozark Mountains. He started
writing in the Eighties. Since then his work has appeared in
Main Channel Voices, World Audience and Breadcrumb Scabs
among others. In 2010, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
He has published several books. One collection of flash fiction,
Girls, two collections of poetry titled Heroes of Silence and
Heat Washes Through, a memoir titled My Name is Bill and two
novels: Flesh and Bone (2015) and The Tragedy of Being Happy (2019). He earned both his BA
and MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon. Currently, he lives
on Portland, Oregon where he works with at risk youth.

127



POETRY



DAYLIGHT ROLLS

by Diarmuid ó Maolalaí

Daylight rolls. Cold as a coat from the closet.

daylight rolls winter comes
like trains on traintracks brittle and thick soupy.
onward, very steady, lather soaking upward
very hot and business- in a draft of rotten leaves. it piles,
like. warm as snoring animals,
curled like a croissant with coffee,
legs pressed up
against their chins. the year
ends in september
and begins again with april,
while, between those, sparks heaviness
and settles all over. cold
as a coat from the closet
which you haven’t worn in months.

I pull up the bag on my shoulder
and feel a light rain - not enough
for hoods, but enough
that the air becomes colder,
and fresher from flowers
everywhere. they rise;
the snapped efficiency
of umbrellas in a crowded street.

131

Buildings built by hand. Adelaide Literary Magazine
My flowers

contacting a friend they’re selling the house
in a foreign country. before I’ve had a chance
watching the television to see my flowers.
and not seeing any gunshots,
which means really last year
very little - I sowed my grandfather’s potato patch
they hardly ever broadcast with seeds I’d bought
things like that; in packets.
they just say they said
“still at large”. and paris “wildflowers”. I had a plan
is a beautiful city,
strung with stones for a meadow
and wrought iron, as if somehow or something like
they wished to remind you a meadow - if it had been up to me
of buildings built by hand. we’d have torn away
the grass. that year
in the dispatch room things grew,
guys make jokes
and swap links to various murders. but only
and it happens where I’d put them. an image
here also - why should it not? of colour
the text goes out still in someone’s
to no new answers. control. like realist
I look for a while, painting. I aim
browse news websites for the abstract. air thick
and then get back to work. with bees and pollenating
animals. a sweet smell. wildflowers.

I’d had an idea
which didn’t go anywhere, though perhaps
the next owners
will take it up. I remember
walking out each morning
with a coffee to look at flowers.

I remember
going to work
knowing I had flowers.

132

Revista Literária Adelaide

The thing with alz.

visiting my grandmother this tragedy
and the lounge-light without sense - like the last tree
lengthens yellow; falling down.
the air hot I got up, left them
and very dry, and went to get the nurse. just make sure
the way they keep it it was all ok. and it was - the alz.
in nursing homes. again. apparently
the lady who’d panicked
and the nurse sometime thought the other lady
was attractive. my girlfriend was her daughter
noticed me looking; made a joke about it - or something like that. she was confused,
how that’s why they kept her here, heartbroken with the death of a child
working on the women’s ward, years earlier.
to save her in the future
from my grabbing hands. they sat together
quite often,
and we sat and very rarely
in uncomfortable chairs, talking screamed.
about nothing
very much - the thing with alz. .
being that even meager conversation .
can be reused. and then there was .
this woman, .
in another chair .
a few seats over. and she began
panicking - pulling at the hands
of her neighbour, screaming at my girlfriend
about how she wasn’t breathing right, about
“look how cold” she was. it was terrible,

About the Author

DS Maolalai has been nominated four times for Best of the
Net and three times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has
been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in
the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among
the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019)

133

POEM FOR FAMILY
AND FRIENDS

by Tom Carter

Grandmothers, Like Mine Poem for Family and Friends

Bedrock, When I look on you, I see
Over which A land that is your own:
Flow
The dreams, Un-pioneered ravines and hills, overgrown,
Uncharted streams and dales, valleys
Of so many,
Some in waves Nooked in darkness still, unsown,
Fertile tracts of ground waiting to be grown
Of stones,
As waters Into prolific fruit and flower upon the vine –
Would have it, It calls you now – to partake of that wine divine.
Others, thanks be!
Are mined Then take a cup,
of gold. And raise it up and up,
Below wide smiles and clinks,
Take a drink;

Come catch a bouquet,
Go fetch a garter,
Arms wide open –
To your friend Tom Carter.

134

Revista Literária Adelaide

To a Dear One Near Death – For Sam K.

As you lie long, Uncle,
I think of your charity:

The fishing trips, the baseball games,
The miniature soapbox derby car we made,
The boxing lessons, all our talks
(And arguments) – that you stood up for me,

The long apprenticeship to manhood,
Your patience with the rebel in me,
Figure of the only father,
Don’t leave us please,

Man of the serious dark eyes
Who taught me to weigh all things,
Friend of a thousand thanks –
The giving of your time
To the lonely, skinny boy.

1989

About the Author

Tom Carter splits his time between the West coast of the
United States and Europe, loves gardening, nature, and
spending time with his family. When not engaged in the
ruling passion of reading and writing, mainly poetry and
fiction but non-fiction as well, I enjoy spending time with
family and friends, hiking, swimming, traveling, teaching,
and staying healthy in important ways. Engaging in literary
activity has become a spiritual practice which also brings
emotional and intellectual development that I have found
indispensable in my life.

135

LOST

by Allen Vega

I’m lost, a child walking through the night, Thump-thump.
walking among the woods. The moon hiding Who lurks in the darkness?
behind the clouds, shows its face from time Thump-thump.
to time. I can see my breath in the faint Is it watching me?
moonlight, reminding me of the cold air Thump-thump.
around that blankets me. No warmth. Just cold. What are you?!
Thump-thump.
The trees, which stand high, act like a What do you want?!
veil, interrupting the moonlight that shines THUMP.
through the clouds. It shines and dissipates THUMP-thump.
almost rhythmically with the clouds floating I’m alone in these woods; I’m lost. The
through the night sky. The light that only sound that resonates is my heartbeat.
struggles to make its way through, barely Thump-thump, Thump-thump.
casts images on the earth beneath. In this I can’t say how long I’ve been walking, this
darkness, there’s only one sound tonight: my is the longest night I’ve ever seen. Where I
heartbeat, resonating through the woods. am, where I’m going, it’s all unknown. I’m
just walking; walking in the cold through the
Thump-thump, Thump-thump. woods in the still of the night. Every now and
It echoes. then I’ll catch a glimpse of the light, seeping
Thump-thump, Thump-thump. through the wall of trees that drape over
My feet don’t even make a sound. Each the moonlight. They are my prison, standing
step is silent, almost as if I was walking tall and wide, growing close together.
on clouds. Maybe I am; I can’t seem to Thump-thump
see the earth beneath my feet. All I see Thump-thump
is the faint silhouette of the the trees, THUMP.
my solidarity, the darkness beyond the I’m lost, a child walking through the
trees; the void beyond the darkness. night, walking among the woods, walking.
Am I alone in these woods? I’m afraid
that I might be; but the most frightening
thing isn’t my solidarity. The most
frightening thing is that I might not be
alone. Who walks these woods with me?

136

Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Allen Vega: Growing up in a border town, I was exposed to different people from all walks of
life. I grew to love writing and music and released my first Album in San Diego, California; It is
this experienced that showed me a love for writing. Shortly afterwards, I moved to Olympia,
Washington to expand on my life experience. It is here that I established myself as a teacher,
family man, and an avid writer. I am currently working on a second album and a novel, along
with spending time with my family.

137

LISTENING TO
SILENCE

by RC deWinter

reality 2.1 we think we’re connecting
the deeper we go
wrapped in shrouds of self
we’re everywhere we’re not
inescapable impenetrable
glued to worlds we see we’re building brick by invisible brick
but cannot touch our own isolation booths
remaking reality
to be what we want it to be an insidious plague we embrace
rocketing us to a world
pedalling furiously where we’ll never have to speak
to keep up as we march in lockstep
push ahead to alone

break through
time and space

to a different
better (we think) place
than the one to which we’re chained
the consequence of choice
and circumstance

138

mooning around Revista Literária Adelaide
listening to silence

i hate a moonless night the airwaves silent
even if the sky is sprinkled not a flicker or a blip
end to end with stars and that’s okay
the absence of moon
renders it rudderless words are not always necessary
i need to see the controller some words must be saved
of the great salt tides for the proper time
that bathe the earth
with timeless regularity i have nothing to say that cannot wait
and some words must be bitten back
(that same salt water in the interest of self-preservation
run in our veins
tinged with scarlet only knowing when to keep silent
upon shedding) is an art to be cultivated
silent and listen are twins rearranged
yes i need the moon
the great timeclock of life listening to silence can be instructive
to feel bound to that
which so depends upon it
no constellation can replace
the fearful majesty
of a shining silver moon

139

dollar short Adelaide Literary Magazine
light fantastic

i’m nodding off in the rocker stripped down to
every joule of energy sucked from the bare essentials
bone and mind honesty
by a world too crowded too loud passion
too everything pearls
i will be waiting for you
trying to convince myself to pack it in to discover me
get some shuteye in the space
between night and day
this requires unfolding myself where hope lives
from my sanctuary corner balanced on
climbing stairs fragile heartstrings of desire
to the wretched narrow bed awaiting waiting to be plucked
by the hand
winding sheets dusted with the colorless ash of the one meant to
of everything pawned and lost play the tune
sing the song
cursing i prepare myself for another burial and together we will dance
from which i miraculously arise each morning in perfect rhythm
swindled of everything but
heartbeat and breath

About the Author

RC deWinter’s poetry is anthologized, notably in Uno: A
Poetry Anthology (Verian Thomas, 4/2002), New York City
Haiku (NY Times, 2/2017), Cowboys & Cocktails: Poetry
from the True Grit Saloon (Brick Street Poetry, 4/2019),
Castabout Literature (Dantoin/Hilgart, 6/2019), Nature
In The Now (Tiny Seed Press, 8/2019), in print in 2River,
Adelaide Magazine, borrowed solace, Call Me [Brackets],
Genre Urban Arts, Gravitas, Kansas City Voices, In
Parentheses, Meat For Tea: The Valley Review, Night Picnic
Journal, parABnormal, Pink Panther Magazine, Prairie
Schooner, Southword, and appears in numerous online
literary journals.

140

NUEVO LAREDO

by Paul Bamberger

Life As A Thirty Second Sound Bite

would he find a way out or was it simply too much trouble the grandeur of simplicity too
unattainable the idea of get on with it made no sense to him at all given the lack of sincerity
passed it on to the jokester who found money value in the laughable but could something
retrievable be coming his way perhaps through a gate left open by the very few sundown
shadows at the top of the stairs fail the possibility the report on him he would stay put

Looking For The Comfort In It All

never trust all you hear it’s a pyramid scheme prosperity in a vacant lot freud walked right up
to her looked her in the eye told her she was cured so off she went looking for the comfort in it
all and where’d ja who on every street corner who’d ja say all those sweet saturday night boys
and how’d ja where in every boy’s embrace what did ja find there’s no takeout service here

Nuevo Laredo

where the dying give flight to meanness temple raised to sentencing of the soul any fool
can tell you the market’s going to crash but you continue to open and close doors looking
for the boy who once stood where bridge and fence meet did he cross and in crossing find
you gathering up your things hurrying to get out of Nuevo Laredo you who climbed back
fence into the fast comings and goings of a Mexican night you who took a girl who in her
youth had everything to give in that one unnamed moment glad to be done with her

141

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Cross Currents

in the beginning there was i’ll show you mine if you show me yours and she gave birth to a
son who could sight read in any direction the old huckster saw that the boy was as one of
them the arrow that knows only the one direction crossed garden skies she took her son
and by morning gone south to find work in a land where the old huckster dare not go with a
smile the old huckster tipped his hat moved on to other projects in the south the days were
hard the nights not pretty don’t you worry yourself dearie the honeysuckle will soon bloom
then you will forget you ever had those garden dreams her son became famous traveling
the flatlands selling notions that turned destinies evenings they drank in the park

A Strange Day In An Early Spring

where clouds shadow field down to river’s edge scent on wind keeps the hounds baying
a body found it’s ok maw he was no good rumor is he touched a child then another then
another and still yet another mornings whistle the boy into the street where meanness is
no more than another game laughter a lesser god of things gone wrong he ventures into
the shadows lashes out who is this boy lashes out until the world bleeds who am i now
lashes out until the cruelties come home lovers in their beds lie still shades drawn

About the Author

Paul Bamberger received an MFA Degree in English from the University of Massachusetts/
Amherst and had several books of poetry published, most recently, On The Badlands Of New
Times, Deerbrook Editions Publishing in 2018.

142

WINTER IN DELHI

by Anvesh Jain

Tuesdays are to Anjaneyar Winter in Delhi

I wish I didn’t have to think Stolid husk-to-be—
About my hands coiled in red string, Shuck you like limed-up corn
Performing ablutions on a dirty mug Embalmed on a flat stove, oxygen
As the water seeps through my knuckles. pump on a flat bed,
I wish I didn’t have to feel the skin-canvas Death bed.
Molting across the temples of my skull, Charred black, flaking, peeling skin
Standing there like a south Indian priest Picked at with particle grime fingernails,
Wet towel-veshti wrapped around my fat gut. Perambulating nigh-corpse
Two-weeks unshaven, You are not my fucking grandfather—
Cutting a three-week old apple, How dare you whisper the end-rites.
Making chai with butter Die like I knew you properly, between
Because I forgot to get milk again. Myth and memory in a photo album
A brown-grey offering to the bodily gods. Left dusty atop the refrigerator.

I wish I didn’t have to think Like Hansie Cronje, Lech Wałęsa,
About putting one foot in front of the other A hero of Independence (born July 1932).
Of the way my toes gish gallop inside my boot The first Independence, earthly shackle broken,
The spot on my back that itches Victory of the mother’s bosom;
Because it scratches the lining of my jacket. Strut like Nehru (and his hat!),
My jacket is too heavy Shot like Gandhi (in the heart!),
Becoming Dronagiri Let virus God and Godse unmake you.
My thighs ache. The dream-truck carrying pilgrims to Bihar,
I watch my fingers slither and yawn Bastard piety and your Jain facemask ripped off
Like Surasā, around something that is not there By spectral green hypocrisy, masala red,
I am watching myself but I am not there Spotty spots on the periphery that read:
I am not doing; I am not being,
I just wish I didn’t have to think.

143

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Keep distance//BLOW HORN Shadows huddle around a charcoal pit;
Time seems supine above mustard fields
Line unto line awaiting the birth of a Republic. And an orange sun waxes in primal verve.
Everything can be specific
and diffuse, Professor, Electric-blue nightstalls pierce that
When we speak of your Famous Delhi fog hiding cloth
forefathers that beat mine, And kites and idols along Janpath.
Upturned sod in the village maidan, The Kotla has fallen.
Unusual imprint of Jodhpur boots Palm trees sway as the Mahavira burns—
As a lathi cracked on my babaji’s back. Obey your Prime Minister’s curfew
Romanticism is a type of small vole. O’ Nawab of sleet and snow,
Unravel the sacred thread from the Maharajah of Cabbagetown,
Navel of the Canada-wala, Emperor on Parliament st.
Spin like Draupadi I am so filled with hatred for you who
And remind him that he too Was once so filled with brotherly
Has a home somewhere. love and amity for
There are no jobs in Calgary. All mankind in the name of a-him-sa
Meaning “the negation of violent action.”
Asuras and angels dance a divine lockstep Decrying the ancient slaughter of our kin
On the crown of the seven-headed serpent. And ahista ahista (slowly slowly)
With feverstrength your zombie claws I drag you down the manic stir-
Try to snap my garba stick wrists. pot until we drown.
We tousle on the side of your resting place,
Epic battle over a pan of shit.
Agni rages in cool Ellora,
Swallow the blue throat-toxin and
Listen to the sounds of street-dog pugilism,
The jugalbandi of black crows,
Honking car raags compose
An elegy, just for you.

I will deposit you at Vaitarna River, old man,
And leave you to Yama’s clutch.
Let vayu clear the dust.
Delhi Ma you choke me
On a rooftop where my lungs
Strain for atmosphere,
Where homecoming begets homecoming
And the eagles of the old city
Caw and scratch at my ears—
Evincing chalky blood from gobi pulp.
At Inchhapuri the wish-granting temple,

144

Revista Literária Adelaide

Apart-hood

Sitting by the window sill,
I’m struck by how gently the snow chooses to fall today.

Fall on the unstill city,
Fall on the still faithful,

Fall on you too, if you’re out there.
There is a quality of apart-hood
To the snowglobe country, and its nacreous citizens,
Shattered by children tapping on the glass.

I ponder the last time I held you
As my Empress rules me from her Sapphire throne,
Unimpressed by my colonized musings.
Crackling logwood sets the drumbeat for an army,
Soldiers of the Raj marching along my veins.
A cantonment sits in my liver.
My reflection is trapped in the bottle,
And it dances amongst the flames.

I kissed you like the snow that day,
Desperate and ragged.
On old church steps,
In the entryway of a train station,
You held me close and whispered beatitudes in my ear.
The apart-people of the snowglobe country passed by
As you adoringly wiped my dripping face,
And they too would have felt honest in the helium of our love.

About the Author

Anvesh Jain is an undergraduate student of International
Relations at the University of Toronto. His work has
previously been published in the Literary Review of
Canada, and he is an Associate Editor at the Hart House
Review.

145

BEFORE
TOMORROW CAME

by Carol Lynn Grellas

Before Tomorrow Came

In this pandemic, I’m thankful for the chance All my joy and anxiety has always been from
to say, I love you, because there’s not my kids. But now it’s only anxiety about mine
always tomorrow when the
world’s been thrown and everyone’s kids. Still, each night I set
the table and I’m grateful for the home we
a curveball. Where’s Superman when you need live in, for the walls that shelter us inside—
him? I thought I could do it, you know, save
the whole universe, but God must have gotten and for the windows that overlook the garden
where we used to walk beneath the gazebo
annoyed with my prayers beside the roses all in bloom, where we’d talk
after a while. Too much
to handle, so many problems about a wedding planned for June, or who’s
all at once. It can’t be wearing what this coming year—and as I place
easy being the one who a glass to the right of each dinner plate
watches over everyone.
and the Waterford silverware carefully over
I know, just from worrying the double folded napkins, as I position chairs
about my own children, for us who used to sit together and enjoy
I have hives in several undisclosed places.
At least my dermatologist a meal with banter about the day’s doings—
says that what they’re a parking ticket, a college acceptance letter,
a broken washing machine, a visit to the Vet,
from. An unscientific term she
calls motherly unease— now I’m just grateful to sit together
and for memories of what used to be

146

Revista Literária Adelaide

1963 Ambient

In the kitchen, I remember my mother Sometimes, your mouth is an ice cap
handing a glass of Scotch to my dad of arctic gray. When you’re angry
wearing his favorite green plaid shirt I’ve felt the urge slide away—
the color of trees—our dog Blackjack
and his broken look after being scolded the way a greyhound runs over land,
for scarfing down a lump of eggs, I gave if only I could capture your anger
him as he waited routinely under the table— in my arms, but you are a victim
where beneath a world of loss rested
on the hollow of a hardwood floor. How of your own trigger and the coldness
that floor came to echo voices of the dead that lives in your mouth; a freeze I can’t
and the clang of hanging bells every time cross no matter how inviting
another passed. My father reading names
in the obituary, the sharp edging of metal the tongue that often imitates
that scraped my knees as my weight shifted a home or even the heat of one
from one side to the other—the dawn’s light lone burning star.
an amber river that streamed in from the half
opened window in the empty space of morning

147

Letters to My Brother Adelaide Literary Magazine
Daily Ritual

Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house My child’s skin was the taste
—Cesar Vallejo of apples in the warmth of summer—

Brother today I sit on the brick bench there’s a way of holding an apple,
of the house where we grew up cradling its preciousness like a baby
and think back to another time
when the two of us were young, in your hands, the startling sweetness,
you younger than me, and the way of flavor that lingers all day, stays
we’d bicker about everything. Your
hands in the pond by the side inside my throat. A child isn’t yours
of the house searching for tiny when they are grown, yet the feeling
green frogs, you so much faster
than me and how I was only searching of being needed by someone so trusting
for you, my palm upturned and waiting reminds me of the way I yearn for apples
for some sign of closeness between us,
but you were only passing time in summer, fearing one day
hoping for the next fleeting thing my hands will be empty.
that couldn’t be caught, your fingers
dipped beneath the murkiness of water
even now, the best place to hide.

Brother today I sit at the cemetery
where our parents are buried,
both of them in the same tomb, father
above mother so carefully placed in their
ornamental caskets as I watch the sparrows
in the nearby olive trees and the squirrels
scamper over grass, and I remember
the day we walked this boneyard
together, our feet sinking into the softness
of newly opened ground, how we said
things will be different now, how we said,
from this day on, we’ll stay in touch
the way we always should have,
the way our parents would have hoped
for, yet here I am, sitting on this bench
alone, without you, we’ve not spoken
in months, or maybe we have, but I don’t
think we said anything worth remembering.

148