Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 24, May 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide
On the Stairway

I. II.
He was coming up the stairs Odd how you can take such moments
as she was coming down, with you–they ride along like shadows,

and for just a moment his eyes almost unseen. It wasn’t anything–
were level with her sandaled foot, it wasn’t a kiss or even a smile.

the painted nails, the pale arch. S ll he never men oned it to his wife,
He saw her toes lap gently over or to anyone for that ma er. He kept

the edge of the step, and then the moment to himself, a selfish pleasure
her arch rose, and she con nued perhaps, but it was such a small thing.

to move away from him. He never And yet, he never climbed the stairway,
saw her face; he didn’t glance over never let his eyes fall on that par cular

his shoulder to see where she was place, without remembering, without
going, and yet he never climbed thinking to himself, How lovely.

these stairs without remembering
the sparkle of a gold buckle,

a bracelet eclipsing the hollow
of her heel, and then she was gone.

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Prophecy Adelaide Literary Magazine
Three Poems: Sunday A ernoon

During last night’s storm, Courtesy
a young sycamore fell into
the arms of another. I always knock
on the fox’s
Now it lies in that embrace, back door,
tethered lightly to the bank before le ng
by a few tenacious roots. the dog
put his head
I know what will happen here: in the front.
the fallen tree will put up new
shoots and the upper limbs Why I did not look for you...

will twist and torque and turn, The needle in the haystack
reaching for the sun, while no longer resembles a needle.
the stronger leans almost
Now it looks like a piece of hay
impercep bly to balance that might prick my finger.
the unexpected load. It will
grow to accept the new weight A er watching the children roll down the levee

as if it were its own, un l years We go up the hill to find adventure,
from now—a wet spring, a heavy we come down to tell the story.
wind–both will come down

in a flurry of limbs and li er,
neither blaming the other
for such an expected outcome.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

In the Garden About the Author:

The neighbor woman is calling her cat. Cathryn Essinger’s poems have appeared in Po-
His name is P. T., and it is not an easy etry, The Southern Review, An och Review, The
name to call. Easier to think of it as Petey. New England Review, as well as PANK, Spillway,
and Midwest Gothic among others. Her poems
She has been calling Peteypeteypeteypetey, also have been nominated for Pushcarts and
for over an hour now. The cat is asleep “Best of the Net,” featured on The Writer’s Al-
under the azaleas, dozing a er manac, and reprinted in American Life in Poetry.
a trip to the creek,

where he spent the morning stalking the fish
and the crickets that have yet to be named.
Ten o’clock, and already it is hot.

He does not remember his name, and her voice
is lost in birdsong. S ll, she keeps throwing out
her lasso of words, as if he
could be called home,

as if words were more than
a melodious babble.
What words have to do with
the cool place beneath
the bureau and the food in
his bowl is uncertain,

but for now there is no need
for them what-so-ever.
It is lovely here under the
azaleas, as lovely as Eden–
petals falling all around, and
the long slow day ahead.

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SAVIOR

by Donald Illich

Savior Wolves add horror to our decision,
a howl that doesn’t elude our ears.
Grimy trees, a ro en egg moon. We freeze, parts of us torn by rays of fear,
Trails captured by vines and weeds. looking up into the sky for a hopeful sign.
We’ve lost who and where we are,
hiking these woods turning to darkness. Midnight doesn’t hold out any answers.
It swirls with a will-o-wisp of stars.
There’s nowhere clear to pitch a tent, It could drag us anywhere if we follow it.
set up a camp with a propane light, It will not lead us to a savior again.
find out that our phones don’t work.

Some of us want to savagely chop
through the forest, keep digging into
its sides, un l it bleeds an escape,
a meadow we can s tch our selves
with threads of humanity and noise.

Others believe we must con nue,
though the path is almost obstructed,
that it’s unknown when we’d be able to rest.

Our feet could keep tearing through
the wilderness, trying to avoid roots,
tripping into undergrowth, spraining
an ankle, tearing apart leg muscles.

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Wings Revista Literária Adelaide
Dreamers

We pick up feathers The dreamers could not be convinced
but there’s not enough they were dreaming. We showed them
to make wings for us both. pictures of them asleep as we talked,
manifested ourselves as monsters
Trapped in this prison, they could not actually be talking to.
certain of death tomorrow,
we must decide what to do. They told us they had to punch the clock
at the ma ress factory, that the vampire
I give you all mine, then who was the boss would punch his own
you hand me all of yours. holes in them if they showed up late.
I ask that we snooze some, Even pictures of their parents snoozing,

that maybe rest will help us and photos of their friends sleeping,
find another way out of here. could not prevent them from thinking
As your dream, I glue feathers that they were walking nude at school
where they had a surprise quiz in every class.
to your arms. I boost your body The dreamers in their hearts knew we were
to the top, where the window is,
saw off the bars so you will fit. right, but why wake up again, enter a world
filled with weapons and disasters, live now
You do not wake as you fall. only to expect death to come sooner or later?
I am about to scream as you near At the ma ress factory everyone expected
the ground. But soon you’re flying. bu erflies to follow them a er qui ng me

The wings know what to do to their homes. They could name the pre est
even within your slumber. ones a er their mothers, who lived in the stars,
I prepare for my execu on, and the ugliest a er their fathers, who could’ve
been the moon, but their angry
even as my mind is with yours, faces were hidden,
swooping through the air, ge ng a thick cloud of blood would blind their eyes.
close to the sun, swerving away.

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Sleep Talking Adelaide Literary Magazine
Un l the World Is Exhausted

Flies kept entering the room, Snow curbed streets.
as if sweet garbage filled it. Fragile icicles hang off eaves.
I wanted to see like them, Children a empt to smother

a thousand or more angles each other with frost, smashing
so nothing surprised me again. it into their faces. Parents add
I wished to fly with wings more whiskey to their coffee,

from house to house, valley imagine shoveling into the deep
to valley, to a place I belonged. sidewalks. Buried cars s ll hum
Maybe that’s why flies came: with poten al, to run when they’re

they knew I was unhappy, brushed off. Snowmen want to li up
understood I’d be a reminder. from the ground, seize whatever
She didn’t want me here anymore, kids they can get their hands on.

saying “hi,” expec ng “goodbye,” Like everything, they’re stuck
nervously an cipa ng someone else. to the surface. The clouds show
They had already rented my place, they could drop flakes at any me,

my former roommates, stoned, lost, though the sun is out, doing its job
my name disappearing on their lips. to light the world. Schools buzz
Now I would vanish in my car, with spectral lights, classrooms

barely waving goodbye to her, empty in every chair and desk.
and I would find a hotel room, Snow shovels grind through
in the overwhelming darkness. the neighborhoods. They will not

The lights and the Bible, the key, stop un l it’s all over, ll the world
other vehicles in the parking lot: is exhausted, cleared, and good.
they would be my only confidants

as I whispered what happened to me,
as I began to talk myself to sleep.

254

WORDS UNSPOKEN

By Kimberly Crocker

She dissolved from the feet up, Kimberly Crocker
vanishing in surrep ous bites like those
taken by children when no one is looking.
The strokes had crushed bits of her armor, too,
leaving an opening but taking her voice.
An unfortunate trade.

I think she loved me.
But, then, she kept her thoughts
hidden in a mar ni glass amongst the olives.
And, when thrown, her splintered words
made quick, painful cuts.

The tender pain of witnessing
a mother’s last moments, with
loose ends dangling like paralyzed limbs,
her inten ons noosed and strangled.

So s lled, was she. Eyes glazed, unblinking,
murmuring to the corners of the room in
a bargaining for moments,
her light eclipsed by a pale shadow that
lengthened as her sun set.

She eased out of her body with a sigh–
A resigned, gentle disrobing,
so as not to disturb.
Her calling card, a silence that smothered and
hung in the room, thick with regret and
the weight of words unspoken.

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