Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 48, May 2021

Revista Literária Adelaide

The other night, dear, Evelyn quieted. Her screams turned to
As I lay sleeping, whimpers, and then faded into saliva-filled
I dreamt I held you by my side. gurgles.
When I awoke dear,
I was mistaken. “I’m almost done, baby. Then we can
So I hung my head and I cried. snuggle.”

“It’s okay, baby. Evelyn….Evelyn...look at Her face was wet. The tears, the spit, the
mommy! Look here baby! You’re okay. I’m mucus running from her nostrils, the agony
almost done. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re I didn’t understand.
okay.”
Was she hungry? If only I could have
You are my sunshine, gotten the breastfeeding to work, for her to
My only sunshine. understand to latch onto my nipple instead
You make me happy, of the bottle, but after five weeks of exclu-
When skies are gray. sively using bottles in the NICU, she just
didn’t understand how much simpler this
It was a little too soon to shut down the whole process could have been for us both.
machine, but it was close enough. The bot-
tles filled quicker than they had during the I’ll always love you,
first days, days when mere droplets lined
the inside of the bottle, what the NICU And make you happy.
nurses said would give your baby the taste
at least and we’ll supplement with donated And I know you’ll say the same.
milk. It was time to turn the dial on the
pump’s speed down. The grinding softened But if you leave me,
to a hum.
To love another,
You’ll never know, dear,
How much I’ll love you. You’ll regret it all one day.
Please don’t take my sunshine away.
My voice softened on these last words
as we finally lingered in a silent room.

···

I later learned that “You Are My Sunshine”
became popularized in 1940 by Jimmie
Davis, a former college professor, criminal
court clerk, and hillbilly singer.2 He later
became the governor of Louisiana and the
song became the second state song, behind
“Give Me Louisiana.” Davis sang “You Are My

2  https://www.salon.com/2013/05/26/you_are_my_sunshine_how_a_maudlin_song_became_a_childrens_
classic/

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Sunshine” at his campaign rallies. It became “Yucky!” she said.
a symbol for what is American, the simple
melody easy to learn, the lyrics of the chorus “Okay, so what book do you want to
uplifting. When I read the verses, especially read?”
the lines most left out– but if you leave me,
I dreamt I held you by my side, but I was mis- “Kindergarten Here I Come!” she said.
taken, you’ll regret it all one day–I thought
of how we were told we’d lose Evelyn just It was a new book she had received for
like my other babies, how she wouldn’t sur- her birthday. It was one I had read to her
vive two holes in her heart, how she was the past two nights.
born too early and had to prove her strength
and will to live. She was my sunshine. Please “Okay, but after tonight, we take a break
don’t take her away, too. from it.”

I had heard others sing the song, most When she wasn’t tired, when her mus-
recently Johnny Cash’s solemn version on cles still had enough life in them to get her
YouTube when I was searching for lyrics. So legs onto the metal bedframe and her bi-
many have sung the haunting lyrics, each ceps could still pull on the covers, she could
putting their own take on what the words get herself onto the mattress. But tonight,
mean, how the melody flowed (fast and like most nights, her limbs were loose, her
jazzy, slow and weepy): Louis Armstrong, efforts coming out in grunts and motion.
Gene Autry, Lawrence Welk, Bing Crosby, … Her hands grasped at the bedding. She
the teachers in Moore, Oklahoma to their swung her legs to the left, trying to catch a
fifteen young students as they hid in the foot on the edge of the mattress. Each time,
bathrooms while they awaited the torna- though, she slipped down just enough to
does to blow past, mothers bathing new- keep her from getting up.
borns and lulling them to sleep, me with
a crying newborn preemie, not yet five I pulled her onto the bed.
pounds, grasping for something to soothe
us both. “Ugh, baby, you’re getting to be so big,” I
said. Her thirty-five pound body stretched
··· my arms, pulled at my knuckles, popped
my wrist as I lifted her up and swung her so
One early July night when Evelyn was her feet landed by me. “Let’s get your night
four-years-old, on the brink of turning five, shoes on.”
I was putting her to bed. She brushed her
teeth (then I took a turn to reach the mo- Since she was a baby, we had been
lars), she used potty (then I helped her wipe treating her club feet. First in the NICU with
and straighten out her bunched-up under- tiny white casts that covered her foot-to-
wear), she came into her bedroom, I asked knee. One morning we came back to find
did you wash your hands?, she responded nurses had written ‘Hope’ and ‘Love’ on
yes…., she returned to the bathroom and I with purple and blue markers.
heard the water run, and she came to the
bed where I sat. When she came home we visited a pedi-
atric orthopedic doctor. We sat in the exam
“Hi, baby. Thanks for actually washing. room, Evelyn sitting on my lap, my purse
Remember germs, right?” under the chair. When I was not much older
than her, I sat with my dad waiting for the
orthopedic doctor to examine my spine, my

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ribs, my deformities. To learn if progress I picked (the only choice I had). Watch Dr.
was made, or if my scoliosis had worsened. Ravish hold Evelyn’s left foot at a ninety de-
I wondered how much of this Evelyn would gree angle, knee bent.
remember when she was thirty-five.
1.5: Keep Evelyn still so the cast assis-
At Evelyn’s first appointment, we learned tant can wrap the gauze, the pink or blue or
the casting that she had in the NICU was purple or red soggy strip around and around
the wrong kind. That’s the Kite method, and around until it is thick and heavier than
Dr. Ravish had explained. I do the Ponseti Evelyn’s whole body. Repeat on the right leg.
method. It’s the most widely used method
of casting for treating clubfoot. The ‘gold Step 2 (after the first 8 weeks): Get Ev-
standard.’ When he told us we’d have to let elyn fitted for the Ponseti braces (our ‘night-
her feet be cast-free for three week to let shoes’).
them return to the clubbed positions, I was
angry at the NICU doctor for having taken Each day: Put foot in, make sure heel
us on the wrong path. Why didn’t the NICU is down in the bottom of the shoe, buckle
guy know better? I asked Jason on the ride three times (middle buckle always first).
home. He’s a doctor, right?3
2.1: Pull buckles so tight it feels like her
How to undo the mistake: metatarsal bones might fracture.

Step 1: Full-leg casts–ones that now cov- Pro Tip: When you think you’ve tight-
ered her feet and stretched up to her hips. ened it enough, go for one hole tighter.
Change every week for eight weeks. Have her wear shoes for twenty-three hours
a day for the first year (one hour allowed
1.1: Load Evelyn into her car seat after for bathing).
finding pants that will cover her heavy,
casted legs; keep her calm during the 30 Step 3: After one year of diligence, wear
minute drive to and from Dr. Ravish’s office. the Ponseti braces for twelve hours a day.
Repeat every Friday.
Step 4: Maintain for the next four years.
1.2: Watch the casting assistant start up
his drill. Listen to the loud grinding, watch Step 5: Wean off to Ponseti braces for
the blade spinning close to Evelyn’s leg. five nights a week.

1.3: Hold Evelyn’s hands to keep her lying 5.1: Celebrate ‘no shoe nights’ by putting
back. Keep her still. Watch her face for signs fuzzy red socks on Evelyn’s liberated feet.
of fear, of crying, of confusion. Say: it’s okay,
baby. You’re doing so good, baby. Almost Step 6: ?
done! while holding in my own tears and
desire to grab her from the table and safely ···
wrap her back up in the stroller.
Evelyn always cooperated with the
1.4: Help Evelyn sit up as the cast assis- shoes. By the time she was four-almost-five,
tant wets the fiberglass–a wrap in a color she didn’t know a night without them.

“But I HAVE to sleep with them on!” she
said.

3 I searched the internet for the NICU doctor and found he worked in a clinic that primarily treated adult patients.
Why the hell do they let him treat babies in the NICU?! I wondered.

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“Dr. Chandran said your feet will be okay,” I pulled the middle strap over the tissue,
Jason said. over the chip, and into the metal clasp. The
strap stretched as I tugged it hard. The first
“If we notice anything changing, we’ll let time I had to strap her newborn foot into
Dr. Chandran know right away,” I added. the shoe, I was certain I would break her.
Having clubfoot seemed to make her feet
“We have to tell her right away!” Evelyn smaller than normal. She wore six-month
said, emphasizing each word with a wave of shoes when she was two-years old.
her index finger.
Now, I yanked. Each hole that I could
When we had our first no-shoe night, stretch out of the strap reminded me of her
we commemorated with a family snuggle– arch collapsing back onto itself, her toes
Jason on one side, me on the other– in her reaching once again toward each other,
bed, for reassurance. her stubby digits with toenails curved and
scrunched. We witnessed the curvature
We left her alone to sleep, her feet happen once when Dr. Ravish requested we
free to rub within her red fuzzy socks and start the casting over. It wasn’t something I
amongst the soft flowered sheets. I, too, al- ever wanted to see again. Jason and I were
ways rubbed my bare feet on the soft sheets in charge of these shoes. We were the ones
to help me go to sleep. protecting her feet.

The Ponseti shoes challenged me every I clicked the metal bar to the sole of one
time it was my turn to put them on Evelyn. shoe, then to the other. The metal bar teth-
ered her feet together
“Toes up,” I said.
“Okay, baby, get comfy.”
Her right toes naturally angled outward
up to ninety degrees from center. It made Evelyn wiggled up the mattress until her
her foot look as if it were attached sideways– head reached her squishy hedgehog pillow.
sometimes when she stopped walking she’d Her feet dragged behind.
stand so her right toes pointed behind her.
It’s a rotation of the bone starting from “Let’s sing one song. What do you want
the knee, her orthopedic doctor in Ohio, to hear?” I asked.
Dr. Chandran, told us. Asking her to rotate
it straight would be awkward for her, just “The stake song.”
like it I asked you to turn your arm and hold
it there. Yet Evelyn could do it easily when “Which one?”
asked, no pain, no crying.
“The stake song!”
“Don’t forget the tissue!” she said.
I thought for a moment. I pictured a steak.
The tissue, folded into a small square, We never ate steak.
protected the top of her ankle from the
buckles rubbing. The tissue was our design. I mentally perused the brief catalogue
The ‘Pringle’ chip came with the shoe. At- of songs I knew by heart. Memorizing lyrics
tached to the middle leather strap it was was a weakness of mine. Unless it was a
supposed to be the protector. It just wasn’t song that I loved–the melody, the beat, the
enough. invitation to dance, the minor key it’s in, the
dramatic tone, the beauty in the words–
“Got it, baby.” lyrics expired in my memory. My mom sang

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Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the mari- them, and filling in with mumbles when
golds… but never You Are My Sunshine. necessary.

Sometimes songs remind me of a mean- You’ll never know, dear,
ingful time, like Christmas at the ranch How much I love you.
house I grew up in, or old country music Please don’t take my sunshine away.
that played in my parents’ kitchen, and in
the garage, and on the car radio, and in my I inhaled enough to carry me through
dad’s basement workshop. Often singing the next verse. She smiled and waited.
‘do do do’ or ‘hmm mmm’ to cover for the
words I didn’t know, or just finding replace- The other night, dear,
ment words altogether, there were few As I lay sleeping,
songs I sing enough times that I could actu- I dreamt I held you by my side.
ally memorize.4 When I awoke, dear,
I was mistaken.
“Oh, you mean the mistake song?” So I hung my head and I cried.

“Yeah!” she waved her arms at me in ex- “Wait!” said Evelyn. She held her hand up
asperation, her weakened right shoulder in my face.
not allowing her arm to extend as high as
the left. Yet both of her hands waved at me “What?” I said.
as if she were saying get with it mom! “Did you look for me in my room?”
“Well, no, I guess not.”
“Okay, but you have to sing with me.” “You need to look for me in my room! I’m
always right here!”
She nodded. “Okay, baby, next time I will do that.” I
laughed. “Let’s keep going.”
You are my sunshine,

My only sunshine.

Her soprano voice squeaked over my
alto tone.

You make me happy,

When skies are gray.

Her words came a beat after mine. She You are my sunshine,
was trying to match the lyrics, remember My only sunshine.

4 S ong lyrics I know accurately by heart: Most Garth Brooks songs (I had been obsessed with him since I was
eight), Islands in the Stream, a duet by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton (even this has become shaky in my adult-
hood), Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star, Jingle Bells, and You Are my Sunshine.

 Song lyrics I cannot remember or have to make up: everything else.

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You make me happy, You’ll never know dear,
When skies are gray.
You’ll never know dear, How much I love you,
How much I love you,
(Evelyn pointed her right index finger at Please don’t take my sunshine away.
me when she yelled “you”)
Please don’t take my sunshine away. Evelyn yawned, her mouth stretching
into a long misshapen ‘O.’ We had a picture
We paused. I looked at her. Her eyes of her from the NICU with her mouth in the
seemed to beg me to continue. same shape, a photo from a professional
photographer working for a volunteer or-
I’ll always love you, ganization.
And make you happy,
And I hope you’ll say the same. Her arm wrapped around Larry, her
But if you leave me, rainbow llama.
To love another,
You’ll regret it all one day. “Goodnight, Evelyn. You sleep so so so
good so we can have a lot of fun tomorrow,
“But I’m not going anywhere, Mama. I’m okay?”
right here!”
Her fingers traced my cheek, my nose,
“That’s good, baby,” I say. I leaned in and my eyelids.
wrapped my arms around her.
“Don’t poke me in the eye, Ev!” I said.
“And what does ‘one day’ mean?” she The tingling on my cheek and nose lingered.
asked. I soaked in the warmth from her finger, the
softness of her skin.
“Just like...sometime in the future.”
“I’ll always be here, Mama.” “You sleep good too, Mommy. You need
“I hope so, baby,” I said. I sat up. “We your energy!” She had learned that the ad-
have one more verse. Ready?” vice I always gave her was good for me, too.

You are my sunshine, “You’re right. I definitely do.”
My only sunshine.
You make me happy, I hit the orange button on her owl night
When skies are gray. light. The white glow faded as the owl aged
each year. The button on her tiger night
light required four pushes, bypassing the
white glow, the green, and the blue, until it
shined purple–her favorite color. I reached
behind her basket of stuffed animals sitting
upon her bookshelf to grasp the off-switch
to her reading lamp.

“Night-night, Evelyn. See you in the morning.”

The laminated paper EVELYN hung from
her doorknob swayed and I pulled it away
from the jamb so it wouldn’t get caught.

“Night-night, Mama.”

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I shut the door and walked away. Away that is there, on the casts and braces and
from the buckles and the leather straps, night shoes, on the hours spent on physical
away from the shoes and the metal bar, therapy and the crunchies and leg lifts and
away from the owl nightlight and the tiger snow angels and arm raises done at home
one, away from my Evelyn so she could rest between the appointments. On the bois-
her tired body tonight. terous, too-smart-for-her-age toddler who
was softly falling asleep under the butter-
I shut the door on the previous preg- flies on her comforter.
nancy losses, on the realization that I’d
never carry another healthy child, on the I shut the door on the fear of not having
sadness that stings my soul every time a a child of my own, of losing another one, of
friend says I’m pregnant! We’re having an- fearing for my child’s life.
other one! We wanted Sammy to have a sib-
ling!, on the confusion and wonder about I shut the door on regrets, worries, anx-
when (or if) my body could do what a wom- ieties, darkened days.
an’s body should or meet the expectation
I shut the door knowing we would start
all over again, tomorrow.

About the Author

Laura Gaddis is currently an MFA candidate studying creative nonfiction at Miami University
(in Ohio). She has previously been published in Thin Air Magazine, Scary Mommy, Tiny
Buddha, and The Mighty. She has a piece forthcoming in The Avalon Literary Review. She
resides in Oxford, OH with her husband, daughter, and pug Rocky.

155

FUTURE, PAST,
PRESENT, AND ALL
OF THE DAYS OF
INFAMY AND GRACE

IN-BETWEEN

by Lori Johnson

One night in 2002 He giggled and for a moment looked
game before the old soul in him stirred
“Mom, do you ever wonder what the future again. “No Mom,” he said. “I mean after
is gonna look like?” we’ve gone to heaven. Do you think the fu-
ture is gonna look different then? I mean,
I don’t know if it was the water’s soothing like, will a tree still be called a tree or will it
caress, the process of scrubbing off the be called something else?”
day’s dirt, or simply the one-on-one of it all,
but whatever the reason, the bathtub had *
long been the place where my then five-
year old son and I routinely discussed the The day prior to 9/11’s first commemora-
more meaningful things in life. tive anniversary, I asked my son if he knew
why people were talking about September
“Don’t worry. In ten years or so the future 11th and if he recalled the planes that flew
will be here and you’ll know exactly what it into the two tall buildings in New York. His
looks like.” I smiled and tickled his feet in response–a shoulder hunched, “Not really.”
hopes of luring him back into the less taxing
confines of the simple and silly.

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Perhaps I should have been grateful Jr. in my own. A few of the similarities are
that my son harbored little memory of that downright eerie. In 1968, I was living in
tragic day or the agonizing ones that fol- Memphis, not too far from the small liberal
lowed. After all, he was a child easily sad- arts college that back then bore the name
dened and quick to cry. Also, much like his Southwestern. At the time, my mother was
father, he was prone to night terrors that the sole parent present in my life. My fa-
left him trembling, if not pleading for mercy ther, a military man, was stationed in the
beneath his twisted sheets. Philippines. Similarly, in 2001, my son and
I were Memphians, living in the shadows
Who knows what kind of emotional of that same liberal arts college located on
and/or psychological trauma might have the corner of North Parkway and Universi-
occurred had I not sought to shield my son ty Street, formerly known as Southwestern
from the real-life nightmare that caught so and now known as Rhodes. Like my mother,
many of us off guard that sleepy September I was a lone parent. In the weeks prior to
morn, but within seconds forced every still the September 11th attack, my husband
shut-eye wide open. Truly, a nightmare it had moved and started a new job in Cleve-
was and one filled with all of the sights and land, Ohio. And my husband’s employer?
sounds of our most basic fears, like fire, and The Federal government, the same as my
falling, and hordes of people fleeing, their Dad’s, only in a non-military capacity. Even
faces painted in varying combinations of our respective ages fell within the same
ash and blood, but all framed in the same span of early childhood. My son was three
blank shade of terror. months shy of turning five when the twin
towers toppled. I was nearly seven months
Rather than spare myself, I’d opted for into my fifth year when King was murdered.
the role of witness, a stance motivated in
part by patriotism and pride, but which I want to say I remember hearing the
led to a less than honorable appetite for now famous “Mountain Top” speech on
the most horrific details. How many died? the radio the night before King was gunned
What was said in those final phone calls down. For years I’ve been able to conjure
to loved ones? There’s actual footage of a sensory filled image of myself at age five
people jumping? Just how hot were those listening to the rise and fall of King’s distinc-
flames? Like a junkie sprung on an hourly fix tive voice as I lay in the pitch black of the
of media-doctored madness and mayhem, tiny room my mother and I shared. Though
I watched, read, listened and in the quiet the memory could very well be a false one
spaces in between, I wept and prayed for that willed itself into creation over time.
all that had been lost. Nothing good could
come from exposing someone as young as But there is one thing I absolutely do re-
my son to such an experience had been my member with regards to that sad and brutal
line of reasoning. Now I wonder if I might event–a memory equal in intensity only to
have been mistaken. the one I’ve held since I was three when
the middle finger of my right hand was ac-
* cidentally crushed in the sudden slam of a
car door. On the day of MLK’s funeral, rather
In many ways, the September 11th trage- than make herself comfortable on any of
dy in my son’s life parallels that of the April the available den furniture or even the floor,
4th assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King

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my mother chose to squeeze herself into help but wonder how my friend’s view of
my little red rocking chair. Positioned there the world and her role in it–currently as a
in front of our 16 inch black and white TV professor who specializes in race, class and
set, she sat and rocked with tears streaming gender issues–might have differed had she
down her face as she watched the slain never seen her father’s picket sign or had
civil rights leader’s home-going. Barring any firsthand knowledge of his involvement
the onset of Alzheimer’s, that image of my in The Movement.
weeping mother is one I will surely carry
with me to my own grave. Certainly, I don’t regret shielding my
son’s eyes from the searing glimpse into hell
Without that image, King’s assassination that was 9/11. At age four, he possessed
would have been, for me, forever lost in a neither the insight nor the emotional forti-
muddle of memories. With it I’m able to tude to stomach such a vulgar array of visual
stake a genuine claim as a witness to that horrors. But had I to do it over again, rather
murderous moment in history. Much like a than a total shut-out, I think I’d grant him a
puzzle piece, which when properly placed, small degree of access, if to nothing more
brings an entire scene into focus, the image than my feelings about all the good and
allows me the clarity to not only look back evil done in God’s name on that day. Rather
as an adult and see “the big picture” but to than close the door completely, I’d leave
experience the emotions of it as well. it cracked in hopes that he would, in fact,
bear witness to my tears and prayers and
A part of me regrets I didn’t allow my perhaps therein be forever changed for the
son the same opportunity with regards to better by the experience. And if he dared
the September 11th terror attack. enter, rather than usher him out, I’d gather
him into my lap, press his ear to my chest
* and bid him listen to the “life is precious”
mantra that drives the beat of my heart.
I have a friend whose father participated
in the 1968 Sanitation Workers Strike that But since I can neither relive or rewrite
brought Martin to Memphis. My friend, the moment, I’m forced to content myself
who was a pre-teen at the time, likes to tell with the very real possibility that my son
the story of how she and her siblings acci- learned as much from my deeds and di-
dentally stumbled upon the “I Am A Man” gressions as he did from my secrets and my
sign her father had stashed in a closet. Her silences; and perhaps even more from my
father was a self-employed landscaper who honest-to-God truths and my bald-faced
sodded and graded the lawns of newly built lies.
homes. According to my friend, in addition
to not wanting to alarm his children, her *
father had hidden the sign out of fear that
word of his involvement (via some of his “Mom, do you ever wonder what the future
less than sympathetic neighbors) would get is gonna look like? I mean after we’ve gone
back to his primarily white clientele. to heaven . . . will a tree still be called a tree
or will it be called something else?”
Not until I became a parent did I fully
appreciate and understand her father’s in- Seventeen years have passed, but even
stinctive desire to protect his offspring from now, a part of me longs to tell my son
all that might hurt or harm. Even so, I can’t that the future will be very much like the

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past–full of terrorists, tyrants and tears; ab- it whether out of ignorance, spite, or the
sent fathers, dead martyrs and humble he- purely selfish quest to lay sole claim to the
roes whose deeds go unsung, but ultimately plant’s shade, fruit and beauty.
good will prevail and all will be wondrous
and right in the world. And yet, the cynic Thanks to the notes I was smart enough
in me is just as tempted to share with him to jot down and save from that time, I
what I truly fear about the not so distant fu- know that the conversation about the fu-
ture, which is that there will be no trees or ture I had with my son during his bath in
even remnants of such. The world I envision 2002 digressed into a discourse on angels,
in my darker moments is one of scorched and how they manage to stay up in the sky
earth and silence. And if there be a single and whether or not they ever visit earth.
tree left, whatever remains of what we now Sometimes I’m convinced that in asking the
recognize as humanity is sure to destroy questions, my son’s real intent was to help
me find the answers for myself.

About the Author

Lori D. Johnson has an M.A. in Urban Anthropology from the
University of Memphis. Her work has appeared in a variety
of publications, including the SFWP Quarterly, Midnight &
Indigo, Arkana, Arch Street Press and Mississippi Folklife.
She lives in Charlotte, NC, but considers Memphis, TN
home.

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TWO DAYS
IN BANGKOK

by Teresa Yang

Two days before my flight to Thailand, the Fun confirmed my mother was still breathing.
phone rang. I screamed at my father to call 911. Then I
made plans to fly to San Francisco.
“Terry…” my father’s voice wavered. In
our family, phone calls were always unidi- I was actually supposed to go to Thai-
rectional, from child to parent. land, Cambodia, and Laos. It’s a trip my
husband and I had been planning for some
“Your mother’s not talking,” he said. time. Angkor Wat is 900 years old and will
Despite the typical frenzy of a Monday still be there next year, I reminded myself.
morning, he wanted to wait. For what, I
thought, for her to suddenly speak in co- I arrived early Wednesday and headed
herent sentences when it’s been intermit- straight to the hospital. My father was sit-
tent gibberish for months? ting beside my mother’s bed, holding her
hand. Her eyes were closed, she was immo-
In the early evening I texted their con- bile and, frankly, she looked dead. He looked
cierge doctor, the one my mother had in- small – and scared. My brother was sitting
sisted on years ago. Minutes later a return in the hallway, eyes on his iPad. The IV line
text appeared: Your father doesn’t want connected to her arm contained fluid but no
your mother to go to the emergency room nutrients. My parents had historically been
or hospital. He was still reeling from her adamant about “no heroic measures,” a de-
broken shoulder a year ago, an emergency cision I admired until that moment when I
room visit that left both of them exhausted, saw it in action. Their doctor had prepped
confused, and powerless. the emergency room staff not to intervene.
There would be no feeding tube.
I’d forgotten that I had the medical
power of attorney. Words like “quality of life” were tossed
out like doggie treats.
By Tuesday morning, my mother’s
speechlessness had turned into unrespon- When their doctor arrived later in the
siveness, her silence almost as loud as the day, my father launched into his prepared
Cantonese squawking of her caregiver. Ah

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speech, “Doctor, I know my wife. She would part of his “no heroic measures” philosophy.
not want to live this way or have anyone Curiously, he didn’t look sad.
see her like this. She has had a good life.” It
sounded like a eulogy. Yet it was true. In re- “We all die,” he said. He was ninety-four.
cent years my mother had covered her face All of his brothers and most of his friends
anytime a camera or phone was pointed at were dead.
her. She would look at old pictures and say,
“Oh, I’m so ugly here.” Only once do I recall My children also encouraged this course
her saying, “Oh, I like this picture. I look of action. Grandma has no idea you were
pretty.” It was a photograph my father had even here, they said. I made a mental note
taken where she looks out behind lidded to allow my children the freedom to go
eyes, my Mata Hari mother. If she saw her- on with their lives when I am in a similar
self now, she would want to desperately hospital bed. My brother said nothing, not
cover every pore. wanting to overstep.

My brother and I wanted to blame the I decided to go to Thailand, knowing that
doctor for sealing my mother’s fate of non if I were a celebrity, internet trolls would
intervention. But, really, the doctor was condemn me.
acting on orders – my father’s and, pre-
sumably, my mother’s even as she couldn’t Bangkok was, expectedly, hot and humid,
speak for herself. but we were staying at a hotel adjacent to
the Chao Phraya River, so we were cooler
She was unresponsive the entire day. By than most. I told our tour guide about my
now, with radiographic proof, the doctors mother’s stroke. I didn’t want her to think
had confirmed the occurrence of a stroke. that I appeared apathetic to her country.
Blood had escaped into her brain like the She said that her own mother also had a
leaking water from their broken bathroom stroke and lived with the family for nine
faucet. Both my children took the day off years before finally dying.
work to be with their grandmother, some-
thing I had not requested but nevertheless “It is our way,” she said, “to care for our
warmed my heart. For a brief few minutes, elders in our home.”
my mother opened her eyes. Sadly, it didn’t
mean much. She still looked dead. I began She said this so matter of factly, without
to cry; were we starving her to death? Did judgement or condescension, as she
she know she was in the hospital? What touched my arm. It’s very difficult, she re-
was she thinking? Was she even thinking? A membered. “I wish your mother a miracu-
second scan would be taken soon to deter- lous recovery,” she said.
mine if the bleeding had slowed or ceased.
It was a waiting game at this point, one that Already, I love this country.
could go on for days or weeks.
The following day we visited temple after
I had to leave for the airport soon. I was temple – Wat Phra Kaew, Wat Traimit, Wat
supposed to go to Asia tomorrow. Pho. Bangkok was a city of golden spires,
tentacles reaching for the sky. I thought
My father pulled me aside, insistent that about Siddharta and his transformation to
I stick to the plan and travel to Thailand. It’s Buddha, his denunciation of worldly pos-
sessions and privileged lifestyle, and his re-
alization that human life is suffering. And I
wondered: would Buddha have approved of

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so much pure gold, or his giant rotund form saying my mother was now flirting with the
in a reclining position? I started to ask our attending doctor. Yet so far, my mother’s
guide, but in my jet lagged and distracted condition remained unchanged. They had
condition, I became mute like my mother moved her from the ICU to a room with a
in the hospital. I strained to distinguish be- view of downtown San Francisco.
tween the blinding yellow of the noon sun
and the ubiquitous gold. I was grateful as This text, however, was different. Short
we stepped into the long boat, the noise of and succinct, it only said: We need to talk.
the engine stopping all conversation and
the breeze from the river cooling my over- My mother had successfully passed
heated and conflicted heart. the swallow test. It meant that she could
eat, even if she had to be spoon fed every
Siddharta is right, I thought. Even on va- morsel. They had started bringing meals up
cation, we suffer. from the cafeteria. It’s good news, I thought.
She is less dead. It was still a waiting game
We returned to the hotel where I had though. What we knew for certain was that
signed us up for a “couples massage.” From she could not remain in the hospital indef-
a list of options, like super fast Wifi or late initely.
check out, I was instructed to choose three.
Somehow, a massage seemed just the an- As latchkey children, being the oldest,
swer. It would be a forced novelty for my I was put in charge by default. Like a first-
husband, like eating chicken feet, to be born son of nobility, I ordered my brother
tried once. around as if it were my duty. He rebelled
and shouted, “You’re not the boss of me!”
We were led into separate dressing and would disappear after school on his
rooms. I soaked in the hot tub for a few min- Stingray bike until our parents came home
utes, then emerged in a white fluffy robe. from work.
My husband was already waiting, dressed
in a matching robe. I imagined us in a dark My mother blamed me for his stutter,
room, perhaps with scented candles flick- one he mostly outgrew in adulthood, now
ering, soft instrumentals in the background, that we were separated by coasts and con-
being kneaded on separate tables, yet teth- tinents.
ered together like my father’s hand over
my mother’s in the emergency room. But Although my brother doesn’t say, he re-
that was not what happened. Two massage sented my absence and lack of meaningful
therapists appeared. The prettier of the input. There were decisions to be made. We
two beckoned him down one hallway; I fol- ended the phone call with shouted obscen-
lowed the other in the opposite direction. ities. Siddharta would not have approved.
The “couples massage” was a decidedly soli- Nor the tour guide.
tary experience. Finger tips upon scalp, I fell
asleep and, a second later, the massage was We had one more day in Bangkok and
over. then we would fly to Chiang Rai. Bangkok
was the spoke of the wheel and any trip
There was a text waiting from my back home would involve returning to
brother. Since landing in Bangkok, lengthy Bangkok first. There were decisions to be
texts had been arriving with pulse-like reg- made on both continents.
ularity. I hoped it would contain good news,
I only knew this: there is suffering ahead.

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Since it was not his mother, my husband “Next time you come you must stay the
deferred to me whether we would abort night to see the fireflies,” the hostess said.
the journey. I offered that he should con- “People see shapes in their lights. Some-
tinue on alone. He declined. Like my father times they see their pets, or long departed
agreeing to the expense of the concierge relatives.”
doctor, the truth was he probably didn’t
want to go in the first place. Our driver stirred from the hammock
and he and Bing helped themselves to the
In my heart, I knew there was only one remaining dishes. I closed my eyes and tried
path. I searched online for a return trip home. to conjure the lighted pixels of the fireflies.
It would be even more money, but somehow, Tomorrow we would be on the plane, a
I was already feeling better! I wondered, had mere firefly at 30,000 feet.
Siddharta felt this lightness as he shed his
opulence for a life of simplicity? I called our Bing’s final words when she dropped us
tour guide, Bing, and she didn’t seem sur- at the airport were, “I hope a miraculous
prised we were leaving after two short days. recovery for your mother.” Her own mother
couldn’t speak or move her left leg for nine
“Your mother can eat, such good news,” long years. What was there to justify her
she said. “We go to floating market tomorrow. outlook? Did we suffer less if we just ac-
You will enjoy.” cepted it?

Maybe the jet lag was easing but Bing There were so many questions for which
was right. Like our boat on the water, I I had no answers.
floated through the day. The Floating
Market teemed with life, fat catfish playing When I finally saw my mother, she was
between the boats. Lime green sayongtes sleeping and her salt and pepper hair, now
and deep purple eggplants sat along- mostly salt, was unkempt. She never dyed
side beheaded chickens. Flies and local her hair a harsh black like some of her
shoppers circled greedily. We visited one friends. Or painted her nails Siren Red. If
market where a railroad track bisected its she had, the creeping whiteness of her
center, like a human spine. Every hour the roots and the chipping red islands of her
merchants had to move their wares aside, nails would’ve reminded me of life’s unre-
bodies pressed together, flesh upon flesh, lenting decay, even as she was being fed
to allow the train to pass within inches of and repositioned on schedule. The bags
the market. Even the flies buzzed around to under her eyes were new, and pronounced,
make room. This is co-existence, I thought. looking like the Thai catfish. She seemed
very old and the doctors very young. Nev-
We stopped at a rural house on the way ertheless, my mother’s spirit had prevailed
back to the city, the home of a retired tour in spite of being starved for almost a week.
guide. She and Bing rattled away in their na- She was alive, though the quality was ad-
tive dialect. She only cooks now, Bing said, mittedly poor. She could chew and swallow,
as she seated us next to the fan. We ate but she could not stand, her left leg possibly
fish, chicken, long green beans the shape paralyzed.
of thick spaghetti grown in the yard, dish
after dish of farm to table food that felt like I spent hours at the hospital, gazing at
a meal in wine country. the hills and valleys of the city view when
I needed a break. My father worried that

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I was walking back to his place in the dark. Together, my brother and I found my
There is at least one mugging every day in mother a temporary home six blocks from
the city, he said, sometimes with fatal con- my dad. I put pictures of her family on the
sequences. He could not withstand any wall next to her bed and wrote our names
more bad news. underneath in black marker. My mother’s
roommate was only a year older than me,
One day I arrived to find my mother sit- and like a teething toddler, constantly tried
ting in a chair. A nurse’s aid was feeding her to bite anyone within reach.
breakfast. Even though my brother and I
had stalled and avoided the hospital social It’ll be nice, I told my dad. You can walk
workers, whose job was to transition pa- there and visit her every day.
tients out, she was improving and no longer
considered critical. She could not remain in Then I found my mother a permanent
the hospital indefinitely. Terms like skilled home, one where they would one day
nursing rehab, hospice care, nursing home, scatter her ashes into the San Francisco Bay.
memory care facility, home health occu- It was what she wanted, written into her will.
pational and physical therapy were intro-
duced. It was all confusing. I thought of the For now, though, when I placed my lips
organic simplicity of Bing’s mother being close to hers, she kissed me every time.
cared for by her family and wished that this
could happen, all the while knowing that it I plan to return to Thailand. I will go to
never would. the countryside and, in the dark, witness
the fireflies and hope to see the once bright
image of my mother again.

About the Author

Teresa Yang is a dentist living in Los Angeles. Besides
dental articles, her work has appeared in HerStry, The
Writing Disorder, Mutha Magazine, and others. She has
just completed a memoir about her secret life as a dentist.

164

LESS WE FORGET

by Gretchen Weaver

“Her name is Dua Lipa, mom, not Leepa Dupa,” “That’s what I said, everyone needs to
says my very exasperated 15-year-old son. brush their teeth.” I pretend to repeat my-
self, “Quit stalling!”
“Oh, you know who I’m talking about,” I
laugh it off, but ugh. More than once I have flat-out forgotten
entire species of animals and their plural
My own mother does this too—goofs up forms. This is not like a duckbill platypus sit-
the name people, places and things. I used uation. I’m forgetting animal and animi that
to think she was doing it on purpose to get I’ve been able to identify since I was three.
a laugh. It drives me bonkers probably be-
cause it also scares me. Now I realize it’s not “Kids, look over there at the ducks.” I
funny. point out the window of the car.

Something has happened to my brain. “That is a goose,” my husband corrects
me.
I’ve lost the ability to conjure up the
name of books. In my book circle, The Hand- “Kids, look over there at the gooses.”
maid’s Tale has turned into The Handmaid-
en’s Life and most of my sympathetic (and “Geese,” he says under his breath.
older) friends go with it.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” I gush.
Forget trying to recall anyplace with an
unusual name. Every Christmas, we go to I’m a writer. My currency is in words and
the ChristKindlMarket and every Christmas, my words are slowly diminishing. Who’s
I call it the Kris Kringle Market, as my chil- going to pay the price?
dren roll their eyes and focus hard on their
hot chocolate. Certainly not my husband. He’s happily
cashing in on my faulty wiring, especially
But it’s not only incorrectly naming things. when I say things like, “Man, that Eel’s con-
I’ve also started mispronouncing words and cert was the penultimate.” The fact that I
carrying on like I’ve done no such thing. still go to concerts has to make me some-
what hip, right?
“Everyone needs to broosh their teeth
and get ready for bed” Never one to let it slide, my husband
urges me to continue, to share with him my
“Broosh your teeth?!” I hear several gig- meaning of the word penultimate. I know
gles among the ranks. enough to know that I’ve gotten it wrong,
but I can’t go back now. I also know that

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

the word I want is hiding behind my tongue, I do but it’s too late. Forevermore in our
playing some deranged game of hide and house, the definition of penultimate is not
seek with my brain. Even after counting to one you’ll find published in Marriam Web-
ten, it won’t come out. ster. Now when dinner is a notch above
average, say I serve the family two types
I silently will the meaning of penultimate of veggies, Mi Armoire lets me know how
to change before my husband’s ears. ultimate, ultimate I am. Did you catch that
last one? I did and I did it with purpose. Or
“You know, the best ever. The ultimate, was it on purpose? Whatever. There’s still a
ultimate,” I say with complete authority. little blood left in this stone and I’m going
to write ‘till it’s dry.
“Ah” he smiles, “You might want to look
that one up.”

About the Author

Gretchen Weaver is a freelance writer living in Chicago
with her husband, 4 children, 2 dogs, 1 cat and a lizard
called Gordon. She has worked in advertising for the last
twenty years and is working on her first memoir.

166

PRETTY ENOUGH

by Grace Meadows

Ever since I was a child, I knew I wanted crushing fun, my eczema moved to my face
to be beautiful. The kind of beautiful that and established itself onto a patch around
merits a second glance when walking down my mouth. The thing about eczema is that
the street, so beautiful like a model or ac- it’s not just itchy. It blisters and weeps a
tress with full pink lips, a swan-like neck, transparent pus and burns. It’s uncomfort-
little pools along the collarbone, dazzly, able. Especially at school, it made staying
glossy eyes and a smile that is as seductive focused a strenuous task, specifically to a
as it is sweet. I was 10 years old when I re- 13 year old daydreamer.
alized that I would never be that beautiful.
The experience of change rooms and family Then, in grade seven, the rash around
trips to the pool suddenly became some- my mouth manifested into something
thing to dread. In grade four, when puberty bigger, something much worse, and spread
hits and training bras are the newest topic, to my whole body. The entirety of my figure
and grade five when boys and girlfriends was covered in red scales, like a fish that
and crushes begin to be the talk of the spent too long in the sun. My face grew
playground, being pretty starts to be more puffy, and my eyes couldn’t open all the
important. I didn’t actually start wearing a way when I woke up in the morning. I re-
bra until middle school. member crying everyday, grieving over the
heartbreak of being so terribly unbeautiful.
I’ve had eczema ever since I was born. We tried every cream, potion, pill, tincture
Little six pound, fresh out of the womb Grace and therapy known to the world. Here I
came onto this Earth with a little patch of have compiled Grace’s Top Five Best Ec-
rash on her forehead. This wasn’t too sur- zema Moments:
prising, as both my mum and my grandma
share the same skin disease. Eczema held I went to light therapy every Thursday,
my hand through junior school, its constant where I stood in an enclosed and tall circle
presence on my legs like ivy growing up an of lights, wearing the glasses one would
old building. Except I wasn’t a sturdy, well wear in a tanning bed. It was quite the look.
built structure; I was a little 8 year old whose
heart broke over Justin Bieber and Troy I put tinfoil over my face and connected
Bolton and who wore a different headband it to my legs with these electrode wires that
everyday. When I entered middle school, were supposed to take energy from my face
three years of melodramatic, soul sucking, and spread it to the rest of my body. We
were desperate.

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I went to acupuncture, and had little plain in society’s eyes, main character con-
needles stuck on what seemed to be nected with me. But of course, she lacked
every surface of my body and was tasked the key ingredient to a happy life: confi-
with wearing a crystal beaded necklace to dence. The confidence to find a nice guy
remedy what needed to be remedied. and move up in her career, two things 13
year old Grace could definitely relate to!
I went to a naturopath that gave me over However, I could in the way that I felt the
twenty pills to take each day. Pills like vale- same harsh prickle of disappointment when
rian root and some microorganism found in looking in the mirror as she did in the movie.
the sea that would apparently heal me. I felt the same yearning to take life by the
collar and demand it look at me. Naturally,
I used to soak a calendula flower paste in the Hollywood way, she gets the guy in
on my face every night. I would sit, with my the end, the right guy though, the job, and
head tipped back, on the big blue chair by the life she always wanted. But not having
the window in my house, watching people changed a thing about her appearance, just
as they passed. Occasionally, they would her attitude. Maybe I should’ve tried falling
feel that ghostly tap on the shoulder, the off an exercise bike. One probably has to
feeling that someone is watching you, and watch the movie to understand that refer-
look up and do a double take at the young ence.
girl with a yellow mush mask on her face. It
always made me laugh. The green monster of jealousy overtook
me and my blood started to drip with dis-
Now, there isn’t anything wrong with me, dain for the people around me. My friends,
I’m not a mutant with a flesh eating disease. my sister, and the models in magazines. But
I just have a bad case of eczema, or atopic jealousy is heart wrenching and exhausting.
dermatitis, the fancy medical name. But to It is so tiring being angry all the time, espe-
middle school Grace, I was contagious, I cially at those you love. My beautiful friends,
was weird. Most of all, I wasn’t beautiful. with their beautiful clear skin made me feel
This somehow was the worst of it all. Still, singled out and alone. What I didn’t under-
that’s the thing about being a teenage stand then was everyone has their thing,
girl. The immense pressure of being per- their “rash”, so to speak. All my friends, who
fect, of being exceptionally good and pure, were perfect in my mind, had their insecuri-
while remaining wildly irresistible. The thin ties that probably ran as deep as mine did. I
line between trying harder and trying too didn’t yet comprehend that we are all con-
hard blurring constantly. And no matter stantly battling ourselves. That I wasn’t the
how hard I tried, doing my hair differently, first person in the world to feel unworthy or
painting pretty, glittery colours to my eye- insecure. Though, that was the difficulty of
lids, or applying black mascara to my lashes being a middle schooler, we were self ab-
to try and make my green eyes pop, it was sorbed. Not in a vain, I’m so much better
never enough. I was never enough. I was than you way, but in a vulnerable, everyone
so heavily influenced by the people around is paying attention to me way.
me. Social media didn’t help much either.
But nothing really lasts forever, and in
A couple of years ago I watched a movie March 2016, during spring break, my family
called ‘I Feel Pretty’ starring Amy Schumer. went to the Children’s Hospital in Vancouver.
Something about the lovable and funny, yet

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Following a few long hours waiting in a typ- me resilience and positivity. It has helped
ical blindingly white hospital room, I was me find the people, my true friends who are
given a wondrous new cream and mois- there to turn tears into laughter. I’m trying
turizing routine that seemed to finally give to be my own perfectly unique version of
my skin life. After Vancouver, we drove to beautiful that is compared to or based on
Oregon to go skiing. My sister spent the car no one else but me. I’m Grace beautiful.
ride there peeling my old skin. I was molting Not anyone else’s rendition, understanding,
like a snake; I had finally outgrown my skin. or expectation of what being beautiful looks
like. I am beautiful because I am happy and
Eczema helped me discover the impor- peaceful, and most importantly, loved. By
tance of family and support. It has taught my friends and family, and by me.

About the Author
Grace Meadows is a high school student from British
Columbia, Canada, who always has had a passion for writing.

169

A DREAMER’S
COMMENCEMENT

by Marie Seeba

Restless. Anxious. Overwhelmed. City isn’t what it used to be, you know. Ev-
eryone is leaving. These are some of the
I moved to New York over two weeks ago things I heard from strangers and friends
now, and I haven’t had a full night’s rest as I prepared to leave. Some of these state-
since. Writing this, it shocks me to realize ments were founded on truths, while some
it’s only been two weeks; it feels like at of these statements were made by people
least two months and sometimes two years. who had never stepped foot in the city. I
From the external viewpoint, it would ap- was able to brush off any snide remarks,
pear that I am living out my wildest dreams. at least until I had arrived at my dream
At fifteen, I wrote a paper describing my destination. If nothing else, I am known
deep desire to move to New York as an to be quite stubborn once I make up my
adult, even though I had never been to mind to do something, which is probably
any northeastern city at all. Six years later, why my parents didn’t try to stop me. But
here I am, in a small but cozy apartment days of job-searching went by with nothing
in Brooklyn, shared with two roommates to show but a few polite rejection letters,
whom I had never met prior, and my vaga- which were still better than the roaring
bond partner-in-crime chihuahua, Gemma. silence that followed most of my applica-
It would appear that I have freed myself tions. Each night, most often between the
from the temptations of a modest but com- grueling hours of 2 to 4 am, the remarks
fortable life in the Midwest. It would appear rose from my subconscious to wake and
that I have freed myself from the very idea taunt me. Was I here pursuing my dreams,
of home itself, off to reinvent the word by or was I merely running away from all the
my own rules. If only I could be convinced nightmares of my past, of the past year’s
of this illusion myself. nightmares in particular? It’s true that I was
no longer sitting still in one place, but was I
I just don’t understand why anyone just running in circles instead, and was this
would move to New York in a time like any more productive?
this. Isn’t it a dangerous place? New York

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As I wondered whether or not I was tunnel that moves us forward, but rather
headed for a quarter-life crisis and imme- the torch we are handed that guides us.
diate burnout, I watched the inauguration And this rings true for our country as it does
of the newest President of the United States, on a personal note, for me and likely many
Joe Biden, along with his Vice President, Ka- others in situations like my own. We must
mala Harris. And it was the most unusual move forward with resilience, not because
ceremony, far from ideal in anyone’s minds, it always seems logical and not because it’s
but despite this, there was a glimmer of comfortable, but because we owe it to
hope. It was not the end of a fight, but the those who were resilient before us. We owe
reminder of resilience. It was the realization it to the dreams of our younger selves, and
that it is not the light at the end of the we owe it to the dreamers of tomorrow.

About the Author

Marie Seeba is a past elementary school spelling bee
champion, a current people watcher, and a future ghost.
She writes about the endless things that intrigue her and
also sells upcycled secondhand clothing. If she didn’t
suffer from vertigo, she would definitely be an astronaut.
She specializes in humor for those who also grew up in a
small town, Midwest preferred, but not necessary.

171

THE ANATOMY OF
DISCONNECTED

LINES

by Tim Harris

I first noticed him on the other side of West- expand or contract according to the unpre-
bury Avenue, as we both made our way to dictability of the rush hour, one couldn’t
the bus stop. determine how one might coincide with
these integers. And so … there was little
Even through heavy traffic I could see point running for the bus. He assured me
his brogues had an economy of movement: he could prove this algebraically, but didn’t
raised enough to avoid tripping over un- have much inclination to do so.
even paving stones, or stepping on cracks.
He said to me, that it amused himself to In any case, on weekday mornings the
think by treading on them he’d fall into their median waiting time was four minutes, and
world of unpredictability and imperfec- he thought it foolish to define four minutes
tion. That beneath the stones, suffocated as waiting.
in a turbulent sea of discomfort, he’d lack
the ability to free himself from its reckless When he saw commuters scurrying it
transformations. For this reason he’d skip would strike him as absurd: their coats flap-
over them. As a consequence his head ping in their wake, briefcases stuck under
would occasionally bob above those of his their armpits, and hands holding hats to
fellow commuters. their heads. At times he would scuttle
along, but like a race walker at least one of
He took the opinion that the 141’s time- his brogues was touching the paving stones.
table represented a rotating loop of contig- No matter how quickly his legs carried him,
uous eight minute integers. For each com- his stride was never more than a walk.
muter the integer maintained an element
of standing or sitting—the arrival of the bus He was determined not to run, and as far
a divisor between the two. As time would as I knew, he never did.

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He admitted his sole concession to haste talked, he would present his back to me,
was to snap a series of imaginary geodesic and his words—put together without much
chalk lines over the cartesian plane of the fluidity—would stumble over the empty
neighbourhood. This way he travelled the seats ahead of him.
minimum distance from point A—his front
door, to point B—the bus stop. In this un- It was a hot week in Spring when we had
usual manner he cut the most econom- our first conversation. A handful of April
ical path around obstacles, or through the days in London that take you by surprise.
crowd. On occasions he recalibrated his Blustery and wet some weeks before and
way forward, moving around those more after—for now it was hot and dry. A fore-
unyielding than he was. taste of what you’d want the summer to be,
though it rarely was.
*
The conductor energetically turned the
It was many months before we would speak curvaceous cast-metal handles, lowering
to each other. the Routemaster’s fanlights. The strips of
glass fell sluggishly on their worm gears, as
Until then I had the opportunity to ob- if fatigued by the heat of the morning. A
serve him from behind. He frequently sat pleasant breeze would move through the
ahead of me on the Routemaster’s red- lower deck as the bus hurried down Green
chequered moquette seating. With a sheen Lanes. As it passed around him, I smelt the
of pomade, his rosy ears bookended his well unscented pomade that gave-off a metallic
combed heavily dressed hair. It fell from a tang. It mixed with a smell of starched
single crown, where small particles of dan- cotton like the charged molecules of ozonic
druff were encased in its oily blackness. And air before a storm.
despite his reluctance to hurry, the ruddy
scruff of his neck had a mix of perspiration It was unexpected, pleasant, neutral-
and pomade. It formed beads on the nape ising the disagreeable smell of the mo-
of his neck, between his short-back-and- quette—caused by the sweat of passengers:
sides and starched collar. a catalyst that encouraged the dust to re-
lease its muskiness. Without much thought
I’d idly draw patterns between dandruff, I found myself sitting behind him. So on that
tracing constellations across the shoulders hot spring day a wholesome breeze charged
of his navy-blue gabardine trench coat. The with youthfulness washed around me. A
coat strapped to his young wiry-frame by chaste scent infused with innocence and
the narrow leather strap of a camera case. virtue: a primordial odour yet to be touched
by the sins of humanity.
None of these attributes were in them-
selves strange. It was rather their combi- And whilst it would be true to say he was
nation, together with his habit of sitting good looking, introspection and a lack of
perfectly immobile, with introspection and expression obscured his attractiveness. His
acute self-consciousness. It commanded appearance and manner of dress were pa-
my attention. Deep in thought, he seemed trician, but an awkwardness and hesitancy
to be grappling a conundrum, though curi- betrayed a lack of privilege. And despite
ously at ease with the interest he attracted. displaying a facility for exactitude, its exe-
Conceivably he’d grown accustomed to the cution lacked flexibility. He was frequently
discomfiture of everyday life. Yet, when we in the right, but I often found it unnecessary

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

for him to be so. He lacked the ability to where his assistant had placed it. He’d re-
be economical with the truth, keep his own turn it beside ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’—albeit
counsel, or loosen his expectations. It ap- covertly, as I suspected he would be sensi-
peared he had no sympathy, compassion or tive to the feelings of his young assistant. He
understanding of the human condition. might also run a finger down the spine, lev-
elling it with the books on either side: pat
But as far as I could see, that was unfair. the shelf and let-out a quiet ‘ha!’, behind
Any aloofness or censoriousness was a mis- pursed lips and a half-smile.
understanding—on the part of others—of
his theoretical disposition, that was unpre- They had very divergent views about the
pared and ill-equipped to negotiate the ter- classification of books. So one imagined
rain of human fallibility. the unfortunate John le Carré enduring a
nomadic existence, between the shelves of
Despite this, as an assistant in Bethnal the library. Destined to travel from C to L
Green Library his appreciation of the plas- and back again. Making frequent visits to
ticity of time, mathematical reasoning, and his fellow authors Lewis Carrol and Harper
necessity for order, was likely a benefit in Lee.
many facets of his work. Despite possession
of these uncommon attributes, he main- “You like taking pictures?” He returned
tained he was comfortable with the routine my non sequitur with a non sequitur of his
of public services administration. Happier own.
when its predictability overwhelmed the
unexpected. “It’s hot,” he said, turning to me with an
ineffectual look, as though unprepared for
It would be unreasonable to say his in- the consequences of the summery weather.
troversion was mute. He chattily explained
the nuances of the library’s classification “The road gullies will be dry today,” he
system. As ‘le’ was a definite article, he offered, then adding, “it’s an opportunity to
was adamant John le Carré should always lift them—they won’t put them back prop-
be on the same shelf as Lewis Carrol and erly.”
not Harper Lee. Though to the contrary he
explained that as ‘Le’ was part of a proper He inclined his head, raised a brow, and
noun, it was acceptable for Ursula K. Le opened his mouth as if to voice an opinion,
Guin’s books to be beside Harper Lee’s. yet seemed reluctant to add anything more.
His shoulders dropped. After a few mo-
“But you’ll always find a‘Tinker …’ side- ments he lifted his head. Again said nothing,
by-side ‘… a Mockingbird.’” Amused by until he arrived at the moment when he had
himself he shook his head in a mannered, no option, and words fell from his mouth.
slightly clumsy way.
“If they have a hinge well there’s no
“I guess so.” I acknowledged, unconvinced problem lifting them and then lowering
of its importance. them but with no hinge I’m sure there will
be problems and if … well …”His words
Apparently the chief librarian took a con- trailed-off, converting themselves into deep
trary, though mistaken, view. thoughts. To emphasise its importance when
mentioning the hinge, he’d ostentatiously
As such, I speculated he could not avoid swung his forearm from his left side over to
removing, ‘Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy’ from his right.

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And so I learnt about his very peculiar His eyes opened wide, acknowledging
interest. an observation that in all certainty was rel-
evant—however unwittingly found.
From his coat he pulled a small spiral
bound notebook and a pocketful of pho- “And so? …” his voice called on me to
tographs—images of manhole covers. He widen my thinking.
shifted himself forward. Placing both el-
bows over the handrail between us, he The difference was conspicuous—I’d
opened the notebook to a vector diagram overlooked the hot melt thermoplastic paint.
of Bethnal Green. Each vector represented
a borough’s road in its approximate carto- The photograph without a number had
graphical location. A circle, more or less a centre line painted over the tarmac and
enlarged according to a significance I was manhole cover, whilst the cover in the num-
unaware of. He turned the page: bered photograph—after being painted—
had been lifted and replaced in a different
‘Ada Place/Approach Road/Bethnal orientation. The road’s centre line was
Green Road/Bishop’s Way/Blythe Street/ broken—wasn’t continuous. The line on
Bonner Road/Cambridge Heath Road/Can- the manhole cover was randomly oblique
robert Street/Centre Street …’ to anything around it.

Many of the photographs had numbers His interpretation of the road as a ven-
on their back. I reasoned they corresponded tilation engineer’s diagram was fanciful. If
to the numbers next to the list of street the road’s line represented a duct, the cov-
names in the notebook. I leaned forwards so er’s virgule would be an inline-damper …
our foreheads almost touched. With the tip constantly open. Only rarely—should the
of my forefinger beneath my nose, I turned cover be replaced correctly—might it close.
the separating page backward and forwards. Open, it would be a fountain of unpredict-
Eventually arriving at the understanding ability and imperfection, throwing cascades
that, more numbers meant bigger circles. of confusion into the streets of the borough.
Such a theoretical flight of fancy bore an
But the significance of the entire vector empirical truth—road lines had a duty not
diagram remained unexplained. to equivocate. However one looked at it, a
manhole cover with a hinge was easier to
So he held-up two of the photographs lift, theft proof and couldn’t be replaced in
in front of me, “What’s different!”he de- an incorrect orientation.
manded with an unexpected surety.
“It’s not such a problem if they’re rectan-
The only visible difference was on the gular,” he added. By rotating it three times
back of one he’d written a number, and on I calculated there was an evens chance that
the other he hadn’t, “Well … they’re both the manhole cover would be replaced cor-
manhole covers.” rectly. The probability of an error tripled
when the manhole cover was square. When
“But they’re different.” His self-assurance they were circular, they’d be replaced incor-
grew. rectly: the council couldn’t match his stan-
dards or expectations.
“No I don’t think they are. They’re made
in the same foundry; they’re round, and “Do you know there are infinite possibil-
both are in the middle of a road … look! You ities to replace a circular cover incorrectly,”
can see the road markings.” he murmured.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Yes I do.” I agreed. deteriorating. He passed them to me over
his shoulder.
Misplaced manhole covers were bea-
cons of ineptitude. ‘We read with great interest and give full
consideration to your suggestion to replace
Despite the success of his disclosure, he the current inspection covers with hinged
was uneasy with any praise that would come units along the borough’s roads and high-
his way. He was a little diffident. Explaining ways. However, we do not feel it prudent
his work had revealed his disposition—a at this point in time to adopt such a pro-
blend of assertiveness and reticence. He posal. The works are deemed non-essential
was a suspension of oil and water. A sin- and currently only essential works are being
gularity of two opposing forces. No matter considered.’
how much he tried to emulsify them, they’d
stubbornly separate out. If it was a condem- The other proposal followed a year later.
nation of his youthful ingeniosity, it was also
his prerogative and undoubted charm. ‘We read with great interest and give full
consideration to your suggestion to lift and
* realign inspection covers along the bor-
ough’s roads and highways. However, we do
The following morning, from his coat pock- not feel it prudent at this point in time to
et he removed two sheets of yellowed pa- adopt such a proposal. Current procedures
per. Both folded in half twice. Sent by the for replacing inspection covers after mainte-
Town Clerk of Haringey Council, he opened nance works are deemed adequate.’
each letter carefully. The folds had begun

About the Author

Tim Harris, a designer from London, chose to develop
his writing in a remote Spanish village. Work has been
accepted by Litro, Sad Girls Club, The Dead Mule Society
of Southern Literature and Litbreak. He’s lived in the UK,
Spain, Mumbai, and Doha, which feeds his fascination for
showing the idiosyncrasies of the human condition.

176

POETRY



MY TWO FATHERS

by Ryan Rowland

our grief goes the way of a dominos pizza

our grief goes the way of a dominos
pizza frozen then thawed by gloved
handlers rising and
bubbling with powdered stuffed
crust and washed down with thick
burnt coffee from the bottom
of an irish gravediggers percolating
urn what I mean is our grief
is temporary finger food something to
hold you over throw
some pepperoni and mushrooms and ashy
knub midget carrots with ranch dip on your grief it will
divide nicely into plastic catering trays and
bend the way of bullshit
small talk with assholes from high school who are only
here for the networking and hot
asses in the wake line then suddenly while
studying your crooked septum through a silver bulb on a christmas tree outside
the only tavern where she left you
alone to drink you will see how your grief can
shake and
settle into fat like a packet of cheap parmesan on finally your own
personal pan pizza you can paper towel
dap to your liking eat it and
fall asleep

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my two fathers

my dad is
turquoise eye
balled irish
two accidents of
sperm one
at nineteen the other at
fifty had red hair when it came out he is
two dollar bills a chapter
11 bankruptcy and spit
Skoal into a dixie cup a one
couch living room on Chesterland with
Brown carpet he listened to Rundgren and
The Grateful Dead eighties cover Gimme some
Lovin my dad is whisker rubs and red
faced after a few beers Strohs logo
tattooed on his ass
horse racing simulcast
trifectas fistfights with the hillbillys from Brecksville for
Revving up their red mustangs he is a
Jesuit education then
a failed corporate gig at chuck
schwaab and blue cross where he threw a chair successful at
shit shooting with shifty Jamaicans at thistledown and now
Amazon warehouse one
pair of pants
one good coat one pair of
penny loafers cans of
corned beef hash and skyline chili random
Dental floss and old marathon medals no
Steady diet that my mother would tolerate
One divorce a chucked
Gateway computer into lake erie when he found her
Match.com profile my dad is
A brain
Surgery for nerve pain
Trigeminal neuralgia they called it the
Suicide disease a burr
hole in the head and a handful
Of eleven prescription pills plus

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Revista Literária Adelaide

3 tall boys and a trump presidency
Put dad over the edge one night he went
To mcdonalds and got a big mac shamrock shake and
carmel apple slices then slipped
into psychosis my dad laid on the bed and I told the
Lakewood cops he’s a
good dude just weird that he’s talking to lebron’s mom on the wall we got him
strapped to the metal chair and apparently he
recovered
from the
misunderstood suicide note at Lutheran
hospital I said I’m not going my dad
can deal with that shit he’s
a survivor in
recovery from the hard stuff now its just the
hard stuff of throwin
dog stroller boxes from china
17 bucks an hour his
nine year old’s milk money and
soccer uniform my dad
who won’t bother with
calls but chokes out I miss
you saved my diploma
from Ignatius and presented in a frame
for my 27th birthday he is
The old wallet
with holes in the leather
that you wont get rid of more cash in there than the bank and
a good picture of 3 sons and a daughter because
that’s all that matters my other

father is
bald head Italian he
eats and eats bologna or chicken
noodle soup he is a
head that bows to pray like a Lutheran and
this is not catholic
invocations to
Jesus like he is mick jagger
he is a former lineman a
signed football from kent 1972 the
year that the stones released exile on main street a

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

guitar dealer a hustler with no action a bald
headed Italian a pair of
wide foot black nike with Velcro a
triple x
Adidas track suit a
chair in his office that he sleeps on some
fake teeth from amazon and yellow tinted
black framed glasses again amazon ten bucks a constant
phone
Call to Shel the Jew and
John the Bass player and Jose from Hough Tony Koh from
China who I heard say on speaker
Chip, I pray for you every day
For better business my other
father is a
salon right in Cleveland loaded republican friends but he is a
unpaid gospel drummer at the shuttered midway mall he is
a bag of slimy
turkey from Costco but a
prayer that you say
over and over trying to
believe it then he is a joel
osteen infomercial he is
his secrets not so secret about how he left
Gigi stranded at the alter then he is a
facebook post about her
real estate success with the EZ sales team he is
looking for an easy answer to
big questions christ gave him
three kids a small colonial with the day cook
From Houlihan’s next door who had
4 dobermans and tonight he won’t take a small glass of Italian red
wine with his bologna and cheese because its Sunday and hes
trying to watch it from a
health standpoint both of my
fathers are the same.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

90 west or east

to: jimmy boo, my little brother.

don’t worry there is a place beyond Morrison I mean
just look at this map. Have you heard of Lake
Ontario. Jimmy Boo do you
know what a northern pike is they have over 350 teeth. Don’t worry
they eat bait. You are not bait. Small mouth bass can fight be a
small mouth but
you don’t need to fight. and

For hope, look towards I- 90. west or east. East is New York City. Greenwich Village west
or east they are different places in the west part jimi
hendrix had a studio. Electric Lady. Imagine. if you named something that. or being the first
lefty to wail finding Village Vanguard monk jazz and good paper plate
pizza in the East you know
like Angelos on Madison
just different. Don’t worry its ok when things are different your hair is tomato
red
so what. I told billy the gay barber and stray
hound dog whisperer he said cant beat a sharp buzz, or bleach it. So you could do
that. The best men are gay. Watch them. They are intentional and dont
hurt women. Walk down 117th to Clifton but then just keep going. Look beyond Cuyahoga past
Lorain and Huron counties way out west is Las Vegas and its not what you think empty suitcase
hookers cocaine pathetic 5 dollar black jack a life of loss like me and
Dad might have told you. You’ll see. red
mountains pretty girls who are honest wear spearmint
telecaster guitars in ink on their wrists and will let you watch them write a bar receipt in pencil
then slip it into a copy of Tolstoy. You can love them for 30 seconds and not touch. You can study
their penmanship to get some
rhythm you can say thank you thank you for an incredible
meal. You can be a gentleman and not drink please

don’t worry about drinking. put your hand on a glass, you will smell us then
put it down. Think more about the reading, maps over books. If you can think of it this way
root for a team other than the indians or browns. Declare yourself
not a loser right away maybe die
hard Laker from south central city of
angels a georgetown Hoya learn law whatever it takes to get away from the short summer
irish burns

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
canned corned beef hash on morrison avenue. Don’t worry about
me or dad people that go away have you ever
watched a sunrise. Try getting up at 530 am it is
like this. They are there, then they are gone and then they are there again. and they
are hard to talk about. Get an alarm clock and catch a sunrise. Lean into the windshield
and stare don’t worry about your blue eyes they will adapt don’t worry
if you miss it, the sun rises and sets on the lake by the 3 quarter million
dollar houses your cousins live in. I know you can count high, and
keep track. You have a chance. You get one chance each day you will see it
sometime driving on I-90 west or east did you know at one point
it was just grass. The fairview euclid and south
lakewood kids like you had to imagine the road but it was always there
just in nature form I cant promise it will be easier or harder
For you but live towards I-90 west or east just outside of Cleveland and
ill make sure you have a car with a good radio and defrost
so you can see
it all

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Revista Literária Adelaide

outside of where I get my hummos

next to the place where I get my hummos is Cirilla’s the
store for lovers and a barren Spectrum Cable retail peeling away carpet dusty and unwanted
units get dropped off here the guy says you need the remote. the customer says you need what
remote? fuck this place. never again. and the cars on Lorain never stop. screaming then
Whispering then screaming outside are Kaitlyn and Kaelyn 2 north
Olmsted white girls ragged and sprouting like kicked sidewalk
dandelions twelve-year olds who can’t afford braces who should be scared of
men parked at Cirillas but who can still sketch valentines with sidewalk
chalk while their moms Amber and April are worn out from being pregnant again and not having any
Money but you know how these people
Somehow make the best of it. just stand in a 4-hour line for Raptor at
cedar point and watch them not count time as wasted but rather
Dance. they love the ride pictures amber and April
slouch in two plastic chairs beluga chests out eating Rally’s waffle fries enjoying November
Sun getting their ankle butterfly on a guns and rose
Tattoos some needed sun April and Amber are all over their Facebooks and they tug
at droopy electric orange sports bras blow real cigarette smoke and talk like this
That Fuckin. bitch. but she cute
in front of their daughters April speaks plainly about the shittiness of Chinese glitter
thongs purple eyeliner it Gets into your damn skin she says, and I wonder if she means
her cards. her job at
Cirillas or the perverts who browse for tiny Hispanic girl blowup
dolls then her daughter says gimme a fry but April says
Git your own. or eat them sour
Worms and dips it into packeted mayo and
then pretends
to dance
to a Miranda Lambert song playing through a blue jay
nest on strip mall speakers. she shimmy’s her neck and shoulders because her forearms
drip with
skin too young to be loose and her hands get tied up with the store phone a diet Pepsi
and her little mermaid lighter the daughters start a game of tag and the cars never stop
a FedEx van with a huge order for whips and handcuffs unloads there is a pink Kia
soul with purple fuzzy dice on the rearview bumper sticker that says Fur mama
parked next to my new Camry those are cheap cars must be hers I think
I am practical i eat healthy and open the trunk with the sturdy lever stack the hummos against
the spare tire and remark man I even got extra room for storage in this trunk then the two
little girls giggle it still makes me nervous when girls giggle I wonder why do I have a booger

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
and the store phone rings i look up and see them pointing at the window displayed purple
warted dildo that has fallen over and convulses at Cirillas the store for lovers next door to
where I get my hummos and April pops off her chair and yells shit the phone is ringing
shut the hell up you two and the cars on Lorain
never stop

About the Author

Ryan Rowland is a writer from Cleveland, Ohio. His work has been recently featured in Ornery
Quarterly and Heavy Feather Review. He is a founder of good word cleveland, a collective of
emerging writers.

186

AFTER LOVE

by Robert Hirschfield

After Love About the Author

for Julia Robert Hirschfield is a New York-based
poet and free-lance writer whose work
After love has appeared in Salamander, Parabola, The
nothing moves Moth (Ireland), The Writer, The Iconoclast
but time and numerous other publications.
backwards

a face
its green dart
of snow

your seventy-seven
years
blink

187

ALONE IN THE
HOUSE ON A WINTER

AFTERNOON

by Russell Dupont

Alone In The House On A Winter Afternoon Mea Máxima Culpa

This house is so still I can feel it breathe. My mother was a daily communicant
Morning has crept away, leaving nothing and while I was too young to protest
but its odors; and the pale extension — still too young to not believe —
of afternoon will soon succumb to evening. she led me, each morning,
through the streets of The Project
Outside, the street grays, a dog barks to dimly-lit and narrow-aisled
and a trembling motor coughs past. St. Augustine’s where shawl-draped
Here, there is a settling, dry sounds, women with uneasy eyes
the house cracking its knuckles, raised to heaven
clutched their beads
the crumpling of brittle paper. and mouthed silent pleas;
I have gone this far in the day – and a sparse bent man bowed,
as though there could be a turning back – hunched over in his pew,
and there is little to lure me on. hands folded, head buried
in devotion, mumbled
Down the hours, night waves its blunt edge supplications, begged
and beyond, tomorrow lurks in the bushes for mercy and grace
like a thorn, ready to draw blood. while morning’s light flickered
through stain glass windows.

188

Later, when I was old enough Revista Literária Adelaide
to sin and know sin, I heard
hypocrites pervert Ringaleveo
God’s metaphors
with trumped-up lies “All life is a struggle in the dark.” Lucretius
and all around us Imagine it
whited sepulchers beginning in the warm,
preached not love dark-descending summer night.
but hate, while
most of us, Imagine apartments
like those penitents coughing children
from long ago, into the congested street;
beat our breast, children halving into teams,
muttering the hunted dissolving
mea culpa, into the evening.
mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa. The search begins
under night’s windowed eyes;
guttural voices,
too loud whispers,
undermine the stillness.
We searched the streets,
the loosely-linked yards,
stalked the still warm shadows
for friends evading friends;
then clenched our captures
and hauled them back
into the streetlamp’s
prison of light.

Life has become
a dusty attic,
and it is strange
how I am becoming
all past –
how these thoughts
reach out and clutch
at my mind
on this summer evening
so near dark, so near
that moment when night
sucks up the last remaining light.

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Saxton Street Adelaide Literary Magazine
The Coefficient Of Haze

A child’s game The fog rolled in this morning -
[ of sinister proportions ] the coefficient of haze, smoke shade —
we did not dare to dream scientific definitions to label the poetry
the hot intrusion of something that cannot be defined.
of heat to wood,
paper or the old rags The leaves have fallen in the back yard
so casually disposed of. and the bare trees are only dimly visible
and I cannot see the way to reach
Ah! but once for the words that describe the indescribable.
the glorious spark
took hold and spread A curtain has fallen; silence
like gossip obscures my thoughts.
to the backyard fence As the trees dissolve into the light,
that contained the block I resolve to search for an answer.
of apartments
we, unintentional arsonists,
failed keepers of the flame,
unable to take the heat,
extinguish our fear,
race to cooler shadows
while the shrill screams
of sirens wail our names.

About the Author

Russell Dupont is the author of two novels: KING & TRAIN
and WAITING FOR THE TURK. He is also the author of four
chapbooks: UP IN WISCONSIN: TRAVELS WITH KINSLEY;
THERE IS NO DAM NOW AT RICHFORD; and two books of
poetry: WINTER, 1948 and ESTABLISHING HOME PLATE. His
poetry has been published in various literary magazines,
including The Albatross, The Anthology of South Shore
Poets, Re-Side, Oddball, JerryJazzMusician; and his story,
“The Corner,” appears in the anthology STREETS OF ECHOES.
His journalism has appeared in The Dorchester Community News, The Melrose Free Press
and The Patriot Ledger. His novel, Waiting for the Turk was nominated for a Goodreads
Choice Books 2019 Award. He is also a photographer, painter and printmaker whose works
have been widely exhibited and are in public and private collections, including The Boston
Public Library; Brigham and Women’s Hospital; and The Dana Farber Cancer Institute.

190

MASTERPIECE

by Margot Hughes

“I find bits of scrap metal beneath her bed
from boys who bury promises in her belly.”

—Kristina Haynes

Her body was a junkyard: a potpourri She begged one to take her
of someone else’s tired mess—a regurgitated oldest leftover: an old rubber

masterpiece (fragments collaged together: tire spray painted the neon green
rotten bits of stranger saliva). She couldn’t hide of awkward shame. It reeked

the protruding pieces that didn’t of perished hopes & dreams & teenage pep-
fit; they kept on clunking together permint gum. (He wouldn’t take it

with her frozen blender arms, poking no matter how much she eyelashed)
through her stretched-out minnie
She gouged the thing off (bled self-
mouse T-shirt. She’s lost some parts lately: respect & grime), tried drowning it in rusty
some she gave & some were stolen
tears— it grew back twice its size.
by boys with metal detector eyes
whose mere glance turned her jagged

bits to rust. They never found
dimes in her landfill
garbage lot, so they’d throw her parts back

at her— discarded once again.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Bedtime Story

Little girls, do not despair.

Even if your days are mostly overcast
and your clothes are battered & full of holes
just wait— stone-soundless. Someone will
switch on your sun, give you a ball gown.

Little girls, Cinderella didn’t go
to college or get a job. A prince with magnets
for hands reeled in her heavy heart, sewed
strings to ankles & wrists. She jerked with every
flick of his calloused man-fingers.
She may have been tangled & mangled
but she stumbled [forever] drunk off that low-cut
baby blue brain-cell slayer—
smile plastered to her face, a hole just spackled.

Little girls, if a man whose gold
tassels bounce from his shoulders
can put a shoe on your naked
foot, run away with him, for the sunset
is waiting.

Sugar and spice should sit cross-
legged, ruler-straight in the mixing
bowl while Prince Charming cracks
the eggs & douses you with fat-
free milk. He’ll beat & bake & cut
you up for the whole kingdom
to devour.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

A Sestina for You

Your letters used to taste sweet:
awaken my tongue & slither my heart.
You lit a candle we watched burn,
we traveled my arteries (just to get lost).
I breathed nothing but you & it was enough—
until you tossed me a buoy and started to pull.

I got up for air, found myself lost:
Where had you gone? (Where was my heart?)
I coughed you up; you left a burn
like my first swig of vodka I thought would be sweet.
I tried opening your door; you kept pulling
it shut. I guess you had enough.

All I can feel now is that burn

like the sun roasting my sweet

skin. You tug me and shove me, keep getting me lost—

your heart

is the moon: won’t stop pulling

my tides… Enough!

You’ve weaseled to my brain, pulling
strings sewed to my heart—
(I emptied my organs, but that one’s still lost.)
You lit another candle, it’s making me sweat.
I trace my finger through the flame, watch it blister & burn:
a singe I can’t resist, I just can’t get enough.

Now your letters do nothing but burn,
turn mine into ice: they’re shattered, falling like sweet
rain. You are lost—
it’s okay, it’s your heart
that’s at fault. It’s got strings on it, too: she is pulling
at yours, and you can’t get enough.

Open my eyes: everyone’s staggering lost
in this crimson sea of massacred hearts.
Can’t stop licking the blood, it’s possessing, so sweet—
but like that straight shot of vodka, it scorches, it burns.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
I had a heavy, glass bottle-full, but that, too, I lost to the pull
of a fraying heart that just can’t get enough.
You don’t feel your heart until it is dumped in a lost
& found scarred with sweet honey bleach & burned & still not enough.

About the Author
Margot Hughes’ work has previously been published in
Gandy Dancer, Spelk, and is forthcoming in The Magnolia
Review. Currently, she is pursuing her MFA in Creative
Writing and Literature at Stony Brook University, where
she studies under Susan Scarf Merrell, Roger Rosenblatt,
and Amy Hempel. She holds a BA in English with a
concentration in Creative Writing from SUNY Geneseo,
and formerly worked in television production at Comedy
Central.

194

DEMOCRACY

by Katharine Studer

Statistics Red Wave

In 2020, death rates for the They came in droves
lonely climbed. Research showed hiding pointed hats
there Is not a mask for loneliness. and white cloaks,
No one wants to watch unrecognized like a moon
the hands of a clock hovering in the afternoon,
stop. In Japan, standing in long lines
the lonely with clinched fists,
can rent a family for hire. some wearing masks
Pick the day and time some with masks pushed down
and a family to their throats.
will arrive, They filled parking lots with flags,
someone to set the table the red, white and blue stripes,
for, get out the fine the Confederate X
china, light the candles, shimmering in blue pride,
arrange the spoons and knives, whipping in the wind
someone to tell you sounding like the “whisk” the whip
how the tree smells made, as it slashed the bare skin of slaves,
like Pine. through parking lots filled
with Mercedes Benz’s
chanting “Make America Great Again”
then driving down streets joined
by perfectly manicured lawns and iron gates,
singing louder than ever,
“Amazing Grace.“

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Her Instinct

Leash clinched in hand – the hurried time between
we were midway down the siren and a
the stairs when we funnel cloud’s proximity, awaken
saw it, a mother bird from a dead sleep, her
guarding a baby chick feet pushing on a cold floor
struggling to walk across the without hesitation, mothers now weakened
dew covered cement, hovering in front by a Monster that cannot be seen,
of the barking dog who lurking like a serial killer hiding in the streets,
eagerly wanted to examine prompting her to lock the windows
the slow-moving black speck, Mother and latch the screen, camouflaged
bird squeaking loudly when except in diagnosed positives
she saw us, fluttering and probable cases,
wings flying in front of our heads. a mother who whispers to a God
I stopped and we waited – before she sleeps asking:
like so many others pausing What is this?
that third week in April, How bad will it get?
indoors, schools dismissed, washing hands, What should I do next?
laundering beds, teaching
children to put on masks,
to zig zag through crowded streets,
washing canned foods and packages
left in grocery bags by the door,
sanitizing the door knobs and
the mail that was washed clean
and placed on top of the refrigerator
to dry.

The News read 7,233 infected
With COVID-19 in the bay where we live
with 269 deaths, leaving mothers
to sing their children to sleep at night,
watching numbers and pacing
all day behind sealed doors,
placing hands on tepid foreheads,
touching cheek on cheek
to gauge the warning
in a child’s face, on guard
like a woman sleeping in a double wide
in Nebraska, who understands

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Homicide

I see your body on how quickly your blood
lying there in the poured out, knowing they didn’t
same spot, find you until after 3 am, not even a football
where the detectives field’s length from my house.
arranged orange cones and yellow
tape. I saw the puddle I see you lying there
of sudsy water which as you waited alone in the dark
remained, after near the pond with a
forensics came fountain spraying water in
with masks and gloves and out, hoping the trickling
to clean up might have soothed you, like a lullaby
the blood stain, when your mama might have sung?
the police and reporters Did you hear every door knob
had gone home. click, or car engines shutting down?
Were you unable to speak, or
Cars park there now, couples shout for help–- only fifty-eight years old,
step on the exact spot in the middle of a quite
where you drew your neighborhood, in the dark,
last breath, walking innocently where he took your life?
with a dog leash tightly
gripped in their palms, stepping
on the spot
where you conceded.

Each day, I allow myself
to step closer and closer.

I think I heard your scream
that night, out walking my dog
after dark, on what I believed was
just a typical Thursday evening
before 9 pm, as you bleed out
on the blacktop facedown, I imagine.

Some evenings, when it is quiet,
I conjure the sounds
you must have heard,
as you laid there, hours or
minutes maybe, depending

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Democracy

Election Day 2020, white-haired ladies the ninety-year-old man
tailgating the parking lot, wearing standing behind them,
red hates blaring, a grandfather maybe,
Make America Great Again, or an uncle with an old
minding tables Mercedes, swaying,
with red, white and blue flags waving, wobbling
at only 7:30 am. each time he shifts
One hundred voters lined up, to the opposite leg, or the couple
circling around pushing a 1-year-old
the church corridor, in a stroller, pointing
shuffling their feet, to the Shriek movie
standing on a marked red X broadcasted on a big screen,
6 feet apart, with Eddie Murphy’s voice
breathless, blaring through the intercom, as a few
behind masks. Waiting. chuckles filter through the room.

Half an hour later, stepping through Two hours later – sweating
a narrow hall, entering through layers
a larger room, with a loop of sweaters and boots
circle rotation – four curves, as a poll worker with a microphone
zip zagging around chairs, moves through the line,
following the shoes of the one in front of you, shouting for those with a last name
and keeping your feet moving. beginning with “S” or “T”–- it is
Then 2 lines in opposite directions, a lucky day–- because for them–
maybe 3 feet apart, down a long narrow hall there would be no waiting.
during the worst week So without coyness or second thinking,
of the coronavirus infections, nudging through those I stood behind,
standing shoulder to shoulder ignoring their tired sighs,
near a beautiful couple and wide eyes,
with masks pulled down around their necks, I moved myself to the front of the line.
ignoring

About the Author

Katharine Studer divides her time living in her home state of
Ohio and the city she loves, San Francisco. She teaches at San
Francisco State University, Ashland University and Columbus
State Community College.

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