Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 46, March 2021

Revista Literária Adelaide

porch with a hatchet in hand. He’s wearing a Last night, a few of my friends got into
beige winter jacket and blue jeans and white an argument over religion. I hate these
sneakers and a pair of yard work gloves—the arguments. I have a vague suspicion God
same gloves I used to use, before I got my exists, but without evidence I can’t move
new pair. The axe in my hand is new, with the case forward. For instance, there’s the
a yellow plastic handle and steel head. It’s God paradox—because it’s impossible to
pretty nice; my mother got it when she got prove whether or not God exists, arguing
me the gloves. The only annoying thing about about it is pointless. Whether you believe
it is that it has this rubber border around its or don’t believe, one argument, even if it
neck which always slams against the wood, lasts many unpleasant hours, is never going
and so the rubber has already split, exposing to be enough to really change someone’s
the weak plastic beneath. I’ve duct-taped mind about divine existence. Even so, the
around it, to hold the rubber together. argument from last night was an especially
annoying one: my friends Stephen and Isaac
“Hey Tommy, what’s up?” my father asks. were arguing—Stephen, the atheist, started
it—about a convent of nuns who wanted
“Not much,” I say, trying to be brief. government funding for birth control. Ste-
phen said by that logic he should get money
He walks over to where there are two for Viagra. Isaac—a Christian—said that’s
wooden racks aligned in a V, with thick un- not a fair comparison. It went on like that,
split logs stacked in rows atop them. My fa- fueled by bourbon and typical suburban
ther’s had a new theory recently. He thinks boredom.
that, if he cuts off the bark of each of these
unsplit logs, that the wood is less likely “So how was last night? You got in kind of
to be eaten by the insects that live in the late,” my father says.
bark. I contend that chopping off the bark—
which is meant to protect the wood from “Yeah, I got a little drunk so I stayed until
weather—actually makes the wood more I was sober enough to drive.”
likely to rot due to exposure. Like many of
our prolonged discrepancies, this is some- “Did you have fun?”
thing we have yet to solve.
“Yeah. Though Stephen and Isaac and
He finds a log at the end of the row and Patrick were being drunken idiots and ar-
flips it over and starts chipping away at the guing about religion and God again. It’s a
circular border with the hatchet. I lift the futile argument. Nothing is going to be ac-
axe, swing it, hear the wood splinter—the complished by having it.”
two halves briefly hold onto each other
with little wooden strands like arms—I drop “Not every discussion has to be an argu-
the halves on the ground and slice between ment. You can just have a conversation.”
them, the axe sinking through mulch into
soil. Little chunks of wood and dirt scatter “Well yeah but not when you have two op-
and land on my blue jeans and in my cheap posing viewpoints that are immovable, like
black Vans shoes. The sun is drifting like Isaac’s and Stephen’s. Pat and I contributed
a ball of slow fire. The wind picks up and a little to the argument, Pat more than me.”
wiggles its way through my hair. My father
chops at the bark. “But do you see how your friends were
still able to have a civil discussion, despite
their differing viewpoints?”

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“Yeah. But it just ticks me off,” I say, My father continues slicing the bark
swinging the axe. around the logs. I’ve gotten through maybe
a fourth of what I’d get through if he
“You know, if you use the log blaster, you’ll weren’t out here. A couple days ago I had a
split the log faster.” pile three feet high. He told me next time I
should stack the chopped wood on the rack,
“Well, yeah, but then I get tired twice as otherwise the woodpile would kill the grass
fast.” beneath it. The Jesus statue is staring at me.

“It takes fewer swings, so it evens out.” “See this is why I like writers. Guys like
George Orwell and David Foster Wallace.
“I prefer this one.” They kept religion out of their writing, at
least in terms of trying to shove it down
When I was younger, a tree fell in the people’s throats, unlike C.S. Lewis,” I say.
backyard; I spent days trying to cut through
its trunk with an axe. I never succeeded, but “You know C.S. Lewis was an atheist be-
got more than halfway through. Later my fore he became a Christian?”
parents would ask me to cut down a thin
tree that had recently died and I would “Yeah but it’s not C.S. Lewis being a Chris-
comply, leveling it with ease. Now, the tian that I have a problem with.”
wood that I chop gets used to fuel the fire-
place flames in our family room—which I “Then what is it?”
have enjoyed warming up near ever since
I was a kid and would come back wet and “Take J.R.R. Tolkien, for instance. He was
cold after sledding, and which I now enjoy a Christian. But, he didn’t try to worm that
sitting by while I write—so my productivity through his writing to manipulate people.
often springs out of a desire to feel the Sure, the classic Christian good-evil themes
warmth of the fire that these very logs I’m are there, but they aren’t in-your-face like in
producing will emanate, just as how I write Chronicles of Narnia, or even worse in Mere
to read what I’ve written. My parents like Christianity.”
to sit by the fire together, massaging each
other’s aging shoulders to relax. My mother “C.S. Lewis didn’t try to manipulate people.
is 59 and my father 61. They like that I chop He was a Christian man and he wanted his
wood for them, and pay me $20 an hour work to reflect what he believed,” says my
to do it. My friends wonder why—with father. At this point he’s mostly stopped
my parents paying me that much—I don’t chopping the bark and is now more focused
head home every weekend. I tell them it’s on the “conversation.” Little spirals of cloud
because there isn’t enough wood for that, roll slowly over the deep red evening sky.
that soon enough the racks would fill and The sun is falling. The air grows cold and
my parents would have enough for next thin. My father’s face looks tan in the shade.
winter—and trust me, they would, I’ve He has deep wrinkles in his forehead. His
been chopping wood since I was kid, I know glasses have rounded-rectangle transition
it well—but the real reason is that when I’m lenses: right now they are dark from being
there I feel younger, like a child, insignifi- outside. His mustache looks as if drawn with
cant, and sometimes I’ll even notice my be- pencil, gray like graphite—or in his day, lead.
havior reverting to what I was like in high
school, when my parents and I most butted “Yeah, but don’t you see how his inserting
heads. When I was rotten. explicitly Christian themes into his writing is
kind of morally questionable?”

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“No, not really.” “But you haven’t read any of his work?”

“See what I like about J.R.R. Tolkien is “No. I don’t need to.”
that he didn’t do that. He let the story tell
itself. He let it come naturally. What I like “Why not?”
so much about The Lord of the Rings is that
it doesn’t alienate atheists or agnostics or “Because his work doesn’t matter any-
whoever. There were all these hippies back more. It hasn’t aged well. Orwell’s work,
in the ‘60s that worshipped Tolkien. And on the other hand, has remained relevant
what’s funny is that Tolkien hated those long after his death. We still use the term
people. He was an upright Christian and it ‘Orwellian’ to describe anything denoting
annoyed him so much he once referred to totalitarianism.”
them as ‘his deplorable cultus.’ I think what
I’m saying is that it’s better to keep religion “And yet Orwell was a socialist.”
out of the whole thing, at least in terms of
religious persuasion,” I say. With a swoop “No, he was a democratic socialist, there’s
my axe cuts the final wedge of wood. I take a difference,” I say, swinging harder than I
the pieces and stack them on the rack and was before.
get a new log and roll it over to the clearing.
My father continues to wage his futile an- “So does that mean he’s more trust-
ti-bark war, swinging the axe like an Iroquois worthy than Chesterton?”
warrior. His hair is puffy, silver-gray, flicked
up to either end of the part like the grass “No. What I’m saying is that Orwell’s
swaying in the wind at my feet. work is better because it doesn’t alienate
anyone. Chesterton inherently appeals to
“You know Tommy, I wasn’t always Cath- Christians more so than non-Christians, so
olic. I was a socialist when I was your age.” most of what his writing does is merely rein-
force beliefs already held by the reader. This
“So?” is the same with Lewis.”

“Well, it was around that time that I first “Well that’s not true. I read Mere Chris-
heard about Mere Christianity. Writers like tianity when I wasn’t a Christian, and it
Lewis and G.K. Chesterton—” helped me to realize the value of faith.”

“Oh don’t even get me started on Ches- “Yeah, that happens. But just as often that
terton. That guy’s a chump.” same attempt is made with a staunch atheist,
and the exact opposite effect happens—the
“How do you know that?” atheist gets mad and decides he won’t read
any more Lewis; or the work of any apologist.
“He wasn’t a writer. He was an Apologist. Maybe the insertion of theology into artistic
Just like Lewis. He devoted his life and work expression in an explicit way is what causes
to Catholic propaganda, rather than to the that atheist to hate Christianity even more.”
art itself. And his writing suffers because of
it. It’s now dated, irrelevant.” “So how is Orwell a better option?”

“Have you even read any of Chesterton’s “Well, for one, he leaves theology out of
work?” says my father, a slight scoff in his voice. his writing.”

“No. But I know what George Orwell thinks “And that’s a good thing?”
of him, and I trust Orwell over him,” I say.
“It might not seem like it. But, in leaving
out religion, he allows for the underlying

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moral values of his writing to show through “We aren’t arguing.”
universally, just like with Tolkien, or Wal-
lace,” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead “Yes we are.”
with my right glove.
“No, this is a conversation.”
“Wallace wasn’t a Christian was he?” he
asks. “Well if this is your idea of a conversation
I don’t want to have it.”
“Nope. But his writing didn’t try to
alienate Christians. He still wanted to ap- “Why can’t I talk to you?”
peal to people with faith, even if he didn’t
agree with them.” “Because I don’t like to talk while I chop
wood.”
“And what about Orwell?”
My father works for the United States
“He was a Christian. Anglican. But that government, in the Department of the In-
was never something he let influence his terior, in the Office of Surface Mining. He’s
writing. Maybe his moral compass, but not been there for decades, and is getting ready
his work.” to retire soon. He’s conservative and votes
Republican and tunes in to conservative talk
“And that makes him better than Lewis radio almost every day, listening to Michael
and Chesterton?” Savage and Mark Levin and Rush Limbaugh,
among others. He hates big government
“Well obviously he’s better. But also, he’s and believes strongly in personal freedoms.
more significant. More influential. Orwell’s Perhaps that’s why he often dumpster dives
work has lived on long beyond when he in the alley behind his office, snagging un-
died, which was in 1950, a year after he opened stacks of computer paper that
published Nineteen Eighty-Four.” would otherwise be wastefully discarded.
Or why he is a hound when it comes to
“Really? I didn’t know. Even so, how does yard sales, able to sniff one within a mile
that make him better than Lewis? You hav- and track it down via fliers and signposts.
en’t even read their work, so how can you Like me, he’s not cheap, but frugal. He is a
know?” he says. His tone of voice is conde- careful man who often asks me important
scending, parental. questions twice to ensure I’ll remember
how I answered him. As I lay in bed when
By now I’m realizing that I’ve gotten very I was little he would tell me stories that
little work done with my father outside. It’s he would make up on the spot about war-
been a good while and normally by this riors traveling great distances to compete
time I would have a small pile going. I’m get- in fighting tournaments, or they would be
ting paid to do this and the money I make carefully chosen fragments of the short
is going to be what I live off of once school stories he had written years back about a
starts back up. I’ve only split three logs. hedgehog, which had gotten denied by
publishers due to their being too mild, re-
“Dad can we do this some other time?” strained. When I was in grade school and
the mornings were cold I would wait with
“Why?” him in his car with the heat on for the bus
to come, flipping through the ZZ Top songs
“Well, it’s annoying me, to be honest.” in his CD player, each of us singing along.

“Why does this annoy you?”

“Because I don’t feel like arguing right now.”

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The red of the sky is drifting into black- and quiet so I can listen to music and relax?
ness. Tree shadows seem to stretch all Talking to you about these things puts me
around us like spastic fingers. The clouds on edge.” At this point, I’ve put down the
swallow themselves and fade. axe and we are now facing each other,
standing on the mulch, the wind swirling in
“I think we should be able to have a dis- little puffs and settling again.
cussion without arguing,” he says.
“Well you need to be able to talk about
“You say that as you are arguing! You’re these things without letting it get you upset.”
always trying to convince me of something.”
“I don’t let it get me upset. It just upsets
“No I’m not. I just want you to look at me. Stop trying to apply logic to human
things with an open mind.” emotion.”

“An open mind? You are one of the most “So what is it about Orwell that makes
close-minded people I know! It’s no wonder him so trustworthy?”
we are always arguing. You sound just like
those asshole conservative talk show hosts “The fact that, despite his having died
you listen to all day. Like that scumbag Rush at age 46, his works—his essays, his novels,
Limbaugh. I still can’t believe that you still his criticism—still hold up today, despite
listen to him—after the comment he made changing literary standards. His work is
about the Abu Ghraib prison tortures? That trustworthy because it touches on universal
the soldiers doing the torturing were just themes, and those themes are not selective
‘having a good time.’ What? That’s insane!” in who they apply to. Unlike with Lewis or
Chesterton, Orwell’s writing has stayed rel-
“Rush Limbaugh is an entertainer.” evant—it has continued being significant.
You know that Animal Farm and Nineteen
“That’s what you always say. It doesn’t Eighty-Four are the two best-selling English
matter how you label him. He’s a hate- language novels of the 20th century?”
monger and what he said about Abu Ghraib
was sadistic and horrible. I can’t believe you “No, I didn’t.”
still listen to that shit.”
I honestly don’t know where I got that
“Rush Limbaugh is supposed to be over from. I looked it up later and found that
the top. And I don’t just listen to him— The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe has
there’s Michael Savage, Sean Hannity—” sold 85 million copies since its release, and
Nineteen Eighty-Four has only sold 25 mil-
“But you listen to it all day! How can that lion. And I also learned that Mere Christi-
not have an effect on the way you talk to anity, though Apologetic, is a work of non-
people? You’re so condescending about it. fiction and therefore is honest in its attempt
You don’t even consider the idea that maybe to convince—rather than manipulate—the
I hate the system as a whole, and just assume reader. Though what I said had swayed the
I’m a liberal. It’s bullshit and I’m sick of it.” argument, it wasn’t true. I guess that’s why
my dad frustrates me sometimes. A lot of
“Why can’t I talk to you? Why do we al- the time, he’s right.
ways have to yell?”
Three weeks before this it was the end of
“Maybe, at this moment, I don’t want to Thanksgiving break and I was getting ready
talk to you. Did you ever think of that? That
maybe I’d like some alone time, some peace

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to head back to JMU the next day. It was off the supine face of the only chopped log
that day when my father and I got into an still on the ground. The wood seems to light
argument about politics, which is our worst up, glow even. It reminds me of an empty
subject of conversation. As per usual, some doorway filled with morning sunlight.
aspect of the conversation veered into
political ideology and my father’s and my Suddenly I hear my father—who had
conflicting viewpoints crashed head-on into been shredding bark off a log in the dark—
each other. He called me a liberal. I called yell in pain as he hits his thumb with the
him a jerk. I’ve told him before that I hate mallet.
liberalism and conservatism equally—that
they are both corrupt political ideologies; “What happened?” I ask.
yet he always implies I’m a “Lib,” even
though I’m a democratic socialist. For some “I hit my finger,” he says, groaning.
reason that day as we yelled at each other
in the kitchen he was more belligerent than “With the hatchet?”
usual, and I responded in turn. I ended up
saying to him to at one point: “Yeah, well, “No, with the mallet.”
you weren’t a very good father.” Looking
back on this I regret it immensely, but not “Oh, phew. Okay good. Is it bad?”
because I was worried I had hurt his feel-
ings. I was pretty sure that he would be all “Not too bad. But that’s definitely it for
right. But I was mad at myself. I said that to tonight.”
him and then left without saying goodbye to
anyone. I went to my friend Patrick’s house “You know Dad, when I said you weren’t
and waited a little while before driving back a very good father, I didn’t mean that at all.
to say goodbye to my sister, who was only You’re a great father. That was stupid of me
visiting for a few more days before going to say.”
back to her home and husband in London. I
still left without saying goodbye to my father “You know what Tommy? That didn’t
and mother. It’s kind of childish but I always hurt my feelings, because I knew you didn’t
have this vague sort of fear that when I do mean it.”
that, after an argument, when I hear in my
head the words my grandma is always the “I had wanted to call you afterward, the
first to say: “Don’t go to bed angry,” I worry; whole time I was back at school I wanted to.
what if something happens and I never see I just figured it’d be better to address it in
them again? My father is in his 60s and soon person when I got back.”
my mother will be too.
“It’s fine Tommy.”
My father has resumed shaving bark off
the logs, this time using what looks like an “Cool. All right, you go inside and get
iron mallet and chisel. The light fades to a some ice on that. I’m gonna finish up here.”
shadow landscape—the motion sensor light
attached to the corner of the screened-in “Okay, don’t forget to put all the stuff
porch turns on in response. Yellow rays cross away.”
the darkness in front of me and reflect softly
“I won’t.”

I hesitate for a moment.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna watch Jim Gaffigan’s new stand-up
routine? It’s on Netflix.”

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“A new one?” he asks. Jim Gaffigan is off, as if made of rubber. I try putting the
his favorite comedian. His food- and fam- log on its back and doing it that way: same
ily-based jokes are just edgy enough to result. I stand it up and spin it around so
be consistently funny, but also not vulgar the other side is facing me. I take one giant
enough to offend my father’s conservative swing, pulling down with my triceps and
sensibilities. In particular my dad likes his shoulders as my arms straighten—the ful-
bit about Hot Pockets, and quotes it quite crum motion stabs the axe head deep into
often. the log. I pull on it to take another swing,
but it’s wedged. It’s completely stuck. I try
“Mmhmm,” I say. lifting the whole thing, log included, and
slamming it down, but with little effect. I
“Sure. You want a beer?” put the log on the ground and stand on
it with one leg and try to pry the axe out.
“Okay, yeah. Do you have any more Yuen- Nothing. I look over on the ground and see
gling?” the log blaster in all its cumbersome glory.
I reposition the knotted chunk of wood on
“No, sorry, just Michelob Ultra,” he says. the support log, and, using the log blaster,
Michelob is his favorite beer. Up until this swing and hit the stuck axe head so that it
point, I didn’t like it. clangs like a cowbell and dislodges. I notice
the gleam of the axe and the maul as they
“That’s fine,” I say. He goes inside. lay on the ground in the light.

This final log has a knot in it. Right in the
middle. I swing the axe once; it just bounces

About the Author

Tommy Sheffield was born in 1991, in Fairfax, Virginia. He is a graduate of James Madison
University, where he studied poetry under Laurie Kutchins. He currently resides in
Washington, DC. He is the poetry editor for Stillhouse Press and studies poetry in George

Mason University’s MFA program. He was the Managing
Editor for Megan Merchant’s poetry collection Before the
Fevered Snow, and is currently the Managing Editor for two
upcoming books of poetry: Baltimore Sons, a collection
by Dean Smith, and How to Bury a Boy at Sea, the debut
collection of poet Phil Goldstein. Sheffield’s poetry, stories,
and essays have been featured in ucity review, Sanitarium,
Cough Syrup Magazine, Virginia’s Best Emerging Poets: An
Anthology in 2017 and 2019, Lexia, Gardy Loo, More than
Medium, and Ming Magazine.

205

CYPRUS: A
PAINTERS JOURNAL

by Jeri Griffith

Now is midsummer. During the month of abruptly and pads back through the unillu-
July, it doesn’t rain here. The days are hot mined opening behind her, followed by the
and the evenings cool. In a dry streambed, cat.
smooth chalky stones absorb and dissemi-
nate solar heat while oleander bushes with Like a gift free for the taking, she is a
shiny, narrow leaves flaunt pink and white potential painting. But I am not here in Cy-
blooms. At the edge of this road, thorny prus to find fodder for art. I’ve come for my
caper plants creep through detritus of thin brother’s wedding. He is marrying a Greek
soil. And there in the distance, like vision- Cypriot woman he met through his job as a
ary omens in a painting by El Greco, the consultant in international agriculture. I’m
twisted trunks of ancient olive trees eddy here to support the beginnings of a mar-
upward into a radiant sky. riage. Every marriage is a fragile thing, and
so I’m offering whatever I can to make this
Like all islands, Cyprus is surrounded by one work.
water, in this case the Mediterranean. I am
a painter. With an artist’s eye, here is what I live in Texas. I had to fly from Austin
I see as we drive through a small village: a to Dallas, from Dallas to London, and from
background of white stucco highlights ma- London to Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus. It
genta blooms of bougainvillea. Stepping was a long way for me to come— geograph-
from the ebony penumbra of a darkened ically and emotionally. This leap back into
doorway, an old woman appears and bends family life fills me with doubt. After a long
to stroke a white cat. period of estrangement from my family, I
don’t quite feel I belong here.
One of the eternal yia-yias—Greek
grandmothers in perpetual mourning for In this Nicosia neighborhood where my
husbands and fathers who are all dead— future sister-in-law’s family lives, cream-col-
she moves across the picture plane in her ored houses with flat, square roofs have
black dress, stockings, and scarf. Barely reddish-brown wooden shutters at the
glancing at the flowers, the woman turns windows. The squared dwellings lock into
one another to form Mondrian paintings

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perched on hillsides. The outside of each My parents are not rich. The money they
house is a flat stucco facade, an organized spent to get here from their home in Wis-
presentation offered to the world. Inside consin must weigh heavily on them. The
is private space and the patio where we wine flowing freely at meals threatens them,
are sitting—me, my brother, parents and and the unfamiliar food makes my mother
nephew mixing with the parents and family click her teeth in a sour way. I see both bit-
of the bride. terness and confusion on their faces. What
are they doing here? To my mind, they
Her mother passes me a fresh bourekia. should be at home.
The sweet, flavorful cheese pies, formed in
a half circle and smelling of melted sugar My father lights another cigarette. If
and rosewater, are delicious. Knowing that I the drinking doesn’t kill him soon, then the
love to cook, she invited me into the kitchen smoking will. Last year, while visiting my
to help. Everything was done from scratch. house, he had a terrible bronchial infection.
She even made the cheese herself the day For three days, he wasn’t able to eat for the
before. I tried my hand at shaping a few. coughing. It sounded as though his lungs
were ripping free, as if in trying to expel the
We all sip from diminutive cups of coffee. poison, he was tearing himself up inside.
It’s a lovely setting. Beside the miniature
mandarin orange trees, lustrous magnolia They left when he was somewhat better,
leaves hide fragrant white flowers and pro- continuing their driving trip across the
vide shade. But there’s tension in the air. country. “We’ll get him to the doctor when
And it’s not simply that these people from we get to Tucson,” my mother promised.
radically different cultures have never met “He just needs some antibiotics. Then he
before. can keep going.”

This might look like a carefully framed But for how long? I look at them and an
and charmed circle. But surface appear- inheritance of pain makes it difficult for me
ances lie. Our family harbors many secrets to smile.
having to do with my father’s alcoholism
and my mother’s meanness. Most of the Here in this garden, seated on these iron
time, it’s hard for me to separate the two. filigree chairs, we are feigning normalcy. We
are pretending to be what we are not. I’m
For the moment, when they are at home, asked to act as though none of the bad
my mother keeps my father alive by sitting in stuff ever happened. All those scenes, all
a room with him watching television. Left to the screaming and yelling, the blows, the
his own devices, and for whatever reason, he broken glasses, and the smashed cars dis-
would quite literally drink himself to death appear. And this is the way it has always
in a matter of days. He has tried numerous been—such happenings never to be spoken
times to do so, has fallen into a snowbank, about, never examined, never looked at in
has gone to the hospital to dry out, has been the clear light of day.
in treatment, has gotten dead plastered on
his way home from an AA meeting. What’s I experienced much of my youth as a
more, he’s currently recovering from having kind of emotional slavery from which I
his recent colostomy reconnected. He’s not hoped to escape. Still, I’ve decided that my
really well. He looks sick. parents will not control my experience here.
I am going to drink wine and eat well. As a

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student, I came to Greece on foreign study. I us” mentality. She would like me to take her
plan to use my limited command of the lan- side and join her in ridiculing or criticizing
guage to communicate with people. I will our hosts. That’s just the way she is, the way
laugh and have a good time. she lives. If I give her the opportunity, she’ll
test me to find out whether I’m in solidarity
On the breakfast table luscious fresh with her. I’m not.
apricots—soft and golden—form the mak-
ings of a still life painting. My eyes follow As usual, I feel more like “them.”
the shapes of each piece of fruit in the
white bowl. The nature of the picture plane That evening, at an outdoor dinner, I
is to be flat and unyielding. The artist has to enjoy the delicious lamb with bulgur. The
make it bend. He or she has to dig for space, bride’s father pours me yet another glass of
look at the interstices, draw the negative red wine. I don’t turn to see any potential
shapes around objects to find ways around distress or disapproval on my mother’s face.
or through. Among the apricots are ripe, red I drink the wine slowly. I savor an olive and
cherries. These exist as punctuation marks. that chunk of crusty bread. I’m fighting for
On a canvas, they would draw the eye. In autonomy, fighting to maintain my identity
real life, they seem to sink back, pulling me in the face of what feels like an onslaught.
toward the darkness at the bottom of the
bowl. And in spite of all, the days are here
wonderful.
I take up an apricot, bite into it, and
suddenly know that this is what an apricot The island is beautiful.
should look, feel, and taste like. Tree-rip-
ened and local, this piece of fruit could These cherry trees growing in the
compete with the perfect prototype for ev- Troodhos Mountains are each about thirty
erything an apricot is supposed to be. feet tall and laden with several sweet va-
rietals—one dark red and another golden
Morning sunlight streams through the with a crimson blush. This land and the
open window to form patterns on the tiled cherry trees are owned by my future sister-
floor. I tell myself again that I’m here for my in-law’s family. Agios Demetrios, outside of
brother and his new wife. I truly wish them Nicosia, is their home village. They have a
well. But how can I avoid being pulled back house here, and come to harvest the cher-
into old patterns? ries for market.

And ultimately, I do not know whether I Tall grasses beneath the trees have been
can see this through in the years to come. smashed down by the picking operation.
Sure, I can manage the wedding, but what Ready to pitch in and help, we climb ladders
about the rest of our lives? I find it hard to to reach the lower branches, stripping the
be in such close proximity to my parents. I cherries from them to fill large pans. When
simply don’t have the right feelings about we’ve finished working, we share food
them. I might pity them but I don’t love under the grape arbor with its vine that is
them. And it wasn’t merely my father’s alco- almost sixty years old. Heavy bunches of
holism that destroyed those feelings for me. green grapes hang from this ceiling, and the
broad leaves shade the table.
My mother purses her lips, and I know all
too well she is establishing her “them and Around us are the accouterments of a
way of life: clay vessels, rusted implements

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and tools, and a scythe set to rest against over from a past incarnation, another pe-
a rock wall. A small, fenced garden bursts riod of my life when I tried to be something
with zucchini, tomatoes, and young leaf let- I was not.
tuce. Pots of flowers and herbs are casually
set at the edges of the flagstone patio. I’m thinking about how that didn’t last
and this probably won’t either.
Lunch is haloumi, a salty Cypriot cheese
grilled to make it warm and chewy, then I see my parents sitting alone and apart
souvla of chicken and lamb, a salad of from the other people. They look ill, iso-
garden greens dressed lightly with olive lated—but I have no idea what to say to
oil and lemon, fried potatoes, marinated them that would bring relief or help them to
mushrooms picked last fall here in the enter the group of revelers. I plow through
mountains and canned, and caper greens, the party, ignoring them, and trying to
also gathered nearby. grease the social wheels as I introduce my-
self to other relatives and wedding guests.
Later that evening, a friend of the bride I’ll only be here for a few more days. We
reads my fortune. This is done by tipping plan to visit more places on the island, and
the tiny cup over after you’ve finished sip- I’m looking forward to that.
ping a Greek coffee. The grounds spread out
on the white saucer making patterns that, To get from Nicosia, which is inland, to
supposedly, tell the future. Larnaca on the sea, we drive through a
white lime desert. Silver olives and dark ju-
“A young man is turning to you for help,” nipers mark the landscape, but at the height
she warns. of these summer months this is mostly
barren land framed by ghostly mountains.
Who? Who might that be? Certainly, I
have little idea how to help anyone here. At first, the sea is like a thin line drawn
I’m not even sure I can help myself. across the page. Gradually, as we draw
nearer, water fills our vision. Waves bump
That night, as though some psychic door and break on a sand beach, and my eyes
has been opened, I have a nightmare and peer outward toward everything that
scream in my sleep. Never have I done this be- cannot be known. Is this time or space? I
fore. In the dream, a miasmic darkness comes can’t tell.
toward me and tries to engulf me. I think I will
be swallowed up. The huge creature is like And it doesn’t matter because soon we
an oversized trilobite covered in hair matted are seated at a dark wooden table with
with blood and shit. With great difficulty, I dis- clean white linen covering most of its sur-
solve the image and fall back into an uneasy, face. Sheltered and protected from the ex-
semi-conscious state until dawn. tremes of midday sun, we rest and order
lunch. The meze follow one another in
The wedding is celebrated in a Greek Or- succession: first the traditional bread with
thodox Church. I’m given a special place to hummus and eggplant puree; then deep-
stand in a stall where monks once sang the fried crab legs, mussels in a garlicky cream
daily office. Later, at the reception, I’m of- sauce, chopped fish and onions under
fered champagne. I’m wearing beige heels, melted browned cheese, and grilled cuttle-
and the shoes are out of character for me. fish; and then octopus basted with olive oil,
High heels are something I gave up when small red fish, about four inches long, crisp-
I stopped working in an office. They’re left fried with the bones intact, deep-fried rings

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of squid, fried potatoes, and huge juicy something to eat before catching my next
lemons for squeezing over everything. flight. A few hours later, well out over the
Atlantic, the plane feels hot and stuffy. Aim-
After lunch, having donned my bathing lessly, I page through the airline magazine
suit, I navigate the sandy beach and move looking at pictures of exotic destinations
toward the waves. I settle into warm, salty like the one I’ve just visited. Will I ever re-
water. Floating on my back, I am rocked as turn?
in a cradle. Looking deeply into the blue sky
above me, I squint a little. Next to me, a British woman headed for
the American Southwest with her husband
It’s the last of my days here, and it’s only a and two sons orders a gin and tonic. She’s
matter of waiting now. Alone at a small café, enthusiastic about their trip, excited to see
I sip away at yet another coffee. The man Arizona and New Mexico.
at the next table has a baldhead, a hooked
nose, and a huge mustache. Mentally, I draw I’m happy too, elated to be going home
him, finding the line of his cheekbone and to my chosen life. I’m hungry for my hus-
imagining the exact shape of his skull under- band and friends and for the expression of
neath his hair. He might have been a model honest and unrehearsed feelings. In my ex-
for Leonardo da Vinci. Gesturing as all Greeks hausted state, I make a promise to myself
do when talking, he seems to make his point. that I hope I can keep. I’m tired of hiding,
The young woman with dark hair and red lips lying, cajoling, and equivocating. All that
sitting across the table from him nods. seemed possible when I was 25 but at 40?
I want to begin to tell it like it is—whatever
That evening, I leave to fly across Eu- that means, however it can happen.
rope. Once at Heathrow in London, I get

About the Author

Writer and artist Jeri Griffith lives and works in Brattle-
boro, Vermont, after stints in Boston and Austin, Texas, but
her childhood was spent in Wisconsin. Jeri has published
stories and essays in literary quarterlies. She is currently
working on a collection of essays and a collection of short
stories, as well as organizing exhibitions of her art. Her
short autobiographical documentary entitled ‘Hunting
Arrowheads with My Father’ was selected for this year’s
Wisconsin Film Festival and the 2020 Weyauwega Interna-
tional Film Festival.

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THE PUSH

by Dan Shiffman

My family had been friends with Laura’s laughed about our dancing. When the wait-
family since I was in elementary school, ress brought Laura what was obviously the
but I am five years older, and so we didn’t wrong piece of cake, she insisted it didn’t
have very much to do with each other as matter and refused to send it back, even
children. Laura and I sat at the same table though the waitress offered to. “We call
at birthday parties and Seders, listening to Laura ‘the accommodator,’” quipped Patricia.
our parents talk, then dispersed to back-
yards or bedrooms with friends and siblings Laura and I lost touch after that, and I
closer to our own age. We could still hear only heard about her through my parents.
the muffled voices of our fathers discours- They said that she had dropped out of NYU
ing about their patients and clients, the oc- because of anxiety and moved back in with
casional burst of laughter from our moth- her parents in New Haven. A few months
ers. We both grew up eclipsed by parents later they reported that Laura had met a
with capacious personalities who saw our medical intern while she was waitressing at
reticence and introversion as a chance to a diner in New Haven, and they were get-
tell us who we were or what should matter ting married. The wedding would take place
to us. Our parents set Laura and me apart while I was back in Connecticut during my
from our siblings: We were the “flaky” ones, winter vacation from grad school in Wis-
a “real pair.” Laura and I resented–and part- consin where I was a second-year PhD stu-
ly accepted–these labels and we felt drawn dent in American literature.
together by them as we grew older.
I drove down with my sister to the wed-
I met Laura once during her freshman ding in DC where Art the intern was now
year of college at NYU when I was visiting a cardiology resident. We were there to
a friend who lived in the city. We went out represent the rest of our family, a pared-
with her and her roommate Patricia, ending down delegation signalling how skeptical
up at the club Sounds of Brazil where we all my parents felt about what was happening
danced clumsily, surrounded by samba afi- to their close friends’ daughter. Laura’s par-
cionados. For a brief moment, Laura pressed ents arrived at the synagogue at the very
up close to me and smiled before backing last minute looking grim and ashen. Right
away. Later, we stopped at an all night before the ceremony, Laura’s father turned
bakery and Laura sat on my side of the small to me and said in his lawerly baritone, “It’s
booth. We each ordered a piece of cake and like watching a train about to head off the
tracks and you can’t stop it.”

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The rabbi, who had met Art and Laura moved back in with her parents. I did this
for the first time two weeks earlier, intoned because I liked being with someone who
about the “the obvious affection these two had known me for a long time, even if we
have for each other.” I was also startled to had never spent that much time together
learn that Laura, whose mother was Presby- and also because of what she had said at
terian, had formally converted to orthodox the wedding. Laura helped me prepare
Judaism. I always thought Laura had more for my foreign language proficiency exam
of her own mind than this. She was quiet while Jake napped. I was impatient with my
like me, reluctant to assert opinions, ner- German skills, but Laura got me to focus; she
vous around highly confident people. Or at had been an outstanding German language
least this is how she seemed to me. I also student in high school. We sat holding warm
thought Laura was beautiful. mugs of tea with my textbook between us
and worked on grammar exercises. When
Art barely spoke to Laura after the wedding we heard Jake sniffling through the baby
ceremony. After the ceremony, he performed monitor, on the verge of crying, Laura sprang
card tricks in a shabby lobby of a Holiday Inn up, handing me her mug that I struggled to
where we were all staying, while Laura and I keep from spilling, and dashed up the stairs.
sat by the bar talking about places we would A moment later, Laura brought Jake down
like to travel someday. We had both recently clinging to her and rubbing his eyes. He
read books about the Silk Road. Laura’s first sat on Laura’s lap, still somewhat stunned
choice was Samarkand; mine was Bukhara. with sleep, as we completed the last few
Then she looked back out across the lobby exercises on prepositions. After finishing a
at Art performing for the few guests and said sippy cup of apple juice, Jake was now fully
to me, “I guess this means we’re through.” It awake and ready to go outside. We went for
was a joke that needed to be released, but it a walk around the neighborhood, Jake trot-
surprised me how sad it made me feel. Laura ting along on the sidewalk well in front of us,
was only a few weeks away from her due date. taking detours into driveways when he saw
puddles he could step in, holding his right
Two years later, Laura was caught in a cus- arm out like a tea kettle as he splashed. Jake
tody war with a belligerent, manic, and ma- was all circles–eyes, cheeks, nostrils and
nipulative narcissist who, who may or may chin. Laura laughed that he had always stuck
not have completed a degree from a Carib- his arm that way when he jumped or ran
bean medical school and who moved from and hoped he would never stop doing that.
one position to another just as questions Jake couldn’t understand why he shouldn’t
about his credentials and behavior arose. Art stand in other people’s driveways and, when
made outrageous claims about Laura, and I pointed out to him that the driveway was
often acting as his own lawyer, berated her “someone else’s property,” he seemed ami-
with absurd letters and concocted briefs. He ably unconvinced.
was pursuing full, sole custody of their son
Jake, arguing that Laura should only be al- The temporary custody order granted
lowed supervised visits under the guidance Art seven hours of visitation with Jake
of a suitable mental health professional, as each Sunday, but he did not always show
he said in one of his briefs. up and never let Laura know ahead of time
whether he would or not. Laura explained
I started visiting Laura during my breaks that Jake said little about his visits with
from grad school, after she and Jake had

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Art when he first got back, but then later I hadn’t been listening to the tape care-
would sometimes start murmuring new fully enough and couldn’t remember why
words and phrases like “bullshit” or “what Benjamin and Peter had ended up under
the hell” while playing with his heavy plastic the basket, so when Jake asked me what
dinosaurs on the floor of her cluttered I thought, I said that his mom was right,
childhood bedroom. Sunday, the day she adding needlessly that cats are hunters.
dreaded, pushed through the other days of
the week accosting Laura with Art’s manic “My Gram has a new cat,” said Jake. “Critter.”
compulsion to punish her for leaving him.
“Critter, huh? I like that name.”
They’d meet in front of the Stamford
courthouse, halfway between Laura’s par- “She sleeps in the basement,” added Jake.
ents and Long Island where Art was now a
neurology resident. On my next time back “Well, maybe I can meet Critter some
from grad school to visit my family, I asked time. Can you introduce me to her?”
Laura if I could go with her to Stamford. Al-
though my question surprised Laura, she Jake didn’t say anything.
was receptive.
Laura handed me a box of raisins to give
I tucked Jake into his car seat in Lau- to him. I looked back a moment later to see
ra’s old Ford Escort full of wet wipe boxes, Jake rubbing the tips of his fingers of his left
graham cracker crumbs, and children’s hand across the glass of the window.
books. “My Dad and me are going to Disn-
eyland,” he said as I readjusted the straps. I The drop-off went quickly. Jake hunched
didn’t know how I should respond, so I just his shoulders slightly when Art took him
replied, “Oh.” It took me too long to get the from Laura’s arms. Art glanced at me briefly,
buckle to snap properly, and I tried not to looking irritated and maybe amused, then
pinch his legs. Jake listened to his favorite handed Laura a copy of another of his let-
Beatrix Potter cassette tape on the way ters to the court. “How’s my precious boy-
down to Stamford, clutching his stuffed lob- chik?” I heard Art say as he walked away
ster, “Lobsturry.” Laura turned the sound to with Jake down the street to his car.
the back speakers so we could hear each
other better and started telling me about a I already knew so much about Art: He
Stefan Zweig novel she was reading. Then was fervently an orthodox Jew who ate a lot
she paused the tape and looked into the of unkosher fast food and smoked pot oc-
rear view mirror. “What’s that, sweet pea?” casionally. His father had been abusive. He
could do little for days and then stay up all
“Why was the cat mean to Benjamin and night crafting fellowship applications, many
Peter?” repeated Jake in a scratchy voice. of which were obviously successful. He
He was still getting over a cold. moonlighted as a magician for bar mitzvahs
and weddings. He claimed that Jake was ev-
“What do you mean?” erything to him.

“The cat sat on the basket for five hours For the next few hours, Laura did a week’s
and Peter and Benjamin were inside.” worth of homework for one of the commu-
nity college courses she was taking as we sat
“I’m not really sure, honey. You know together in a desolate Dunkin’ Donuts. “Art
how cats like to catch things.” really snapped me into focus. I’ll give him
that,” said Laura, looking up from a biology

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textbook, a yellow highlighter in her hand. Art then proceeded to lecture the judge
Then we went for a walk around the block about Laura’s mental issues. The judge told
together looking in the windows of closed him he needed to leave the courthouse. “I
thrift stores. We were both feeling anxious, have never had to act so quickly before,”
so we talked about things and people that said Laura. “It was terrifying, but I did it.”
created anxiety for us. We discussed group
sizes that made us feel the most socially In graduate school nothing happened
awkward, excuses made to leave parties that quickly or decisively. If you did well
early, and growing up wrongly believing during your master’s year, you were granted
your parents were right about everything. a teaching assistantship renewable for three
Although it was April, we also talked about years, and there were other funding oppor-
winter weather in Connecticut, the slush tunities beyond that to keep you afloat in a
after a soggy snow storm and the crunch of small city of pleasant bike paths, a great farm-
salt under your shoes after the air turned er’s market, summer softball leagues, and
sharply colder again. We were stepping warm coffee houses in the winter. Professors
around the edges of something now. I knew took months to return dissertation chapters,
that Laura wasn’t looking for a “boyfriend”; I but it didn’t matter because there were few
got that without her needing to say it. I really good jobs available for new PhDs. Most of my
couldn’t say at this point if I was hoping to be friends did not seem in a particular rush to
in a romantic relationship with Laura. I just get to the future. The job market was bleak
knew I liked being with her, even on such a and graduates often found themselves in a se-
strange, fraught, tense day as this one. ries of short-term or adjunct positions, if they
were lucky enough to find a full-time teaching
As we walked back toward the court- position at all. I slogged along on my disser-
house, Laura turned to me and said, “Some- tation, two pages a day. I wasn’t a brilliant
times I imagine I’m holding Jake in the eye student but at least I could be steady. One of
of a storm and the only thing I need to do my grad school friends called me “the hardest
is just hold on. It kind of simplifies every- working teaching assistant in show business”
thing and helps me cope with Art’s crazi- which always felt slightly like a put down.
ness.” Laura explained that before the ini-
tial custody hearing, Art trailed her around But I got just enough encouragement
the New Haven courthouse whispering that from my professors to keep me moving
he was going to take Jake with him to Col- forward. In this way, I avoided hitting ob-
orado and that she would never see him. stacles that might have led me to fully con-
When Art disappeared for a few minutes, sider if being a professor one day actually
Laura hurriedly found a sympathetic clerk suited me. I grew up with a strong sense,
who helped her fill out the paperwork for mostly from my father, that there were only
an emergency temporary restraining order. a handful of professions that could be safely
“The clerk said she would hold Jake while I regarded as prestigious, and being a litera-
filled out the forms, but I wouldn’t let go,’’ ture professor was in a grey area. The fact
recalled Laura. Carrying Jake in her arms, that I was enrolled in a good but not a first-
she ran up two floors and found a judge tier program, therefore, further confirmed
walking into his chambers who listened to that I was “bright, but no genius,” as my fa-
her and signed the order, just as she heard ther once told me. I didn’t feel a need for
Art coming up the stairwell. Stunned at first, professional success particularly, but this

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was how I had been raised to value my life backseat window. I felt vaguely like I was
and to measure it. playing defense in a game of basketball with
my friends back in Madison.
At the pick up, Art held Jake close, dab-
bing his face with sloppy, showy kisses be- “What’s going on, Dan? What’s the matter
fore lowering him to the ground abruptly with Jake?”
about ten steps in front of us, like he was
placing luggage on the floor. It was dis- “He’s fine.” I hoped that Jake wasn’t
tressing how abruptly Art could turn off his watching this, but I did not want to turn my
guise of fatherly affection, but what was back to Art.
hardest to watch about the handoff was
that it had become routine for Jake. As “Then why did Laura look so upset?” Art
Laura scooped Jake up out of the demilita- took a small step forward to peer over my
rized zone, I saw Art looking at me again. He shoulders and, as he did, my hands rose up
had been quite friendly at the wedding, but to his spongy chest.
now was obviously different.
When I pushed Art away from me, he
When we got back to the Escort, Laura lost his footing momentarily, his shoes
remembered that she’d promised to call her scraping on some loose gravel. Then he re-
parents as soon as Jake was returned safely. gained his balance and glanced down at my
Couldn’t this wait? Laura often said how she hands, perhaps waiting to see if I was going
wanted to escape her parents’ drumbeat of to pull out some kind of weapon.
criticism and panic, so why was it so urgent
that she called them now? Art looked around to check if anyone
was watching. He stepped closer again. “Go
“Let’s just get out of here,” I said. “There’s ahead, hit me,” he said, obviously taking
payphones on the way.” This was still a de- pleasure in mimicking some movie he had
cade before cell phones were ubiquitous. watched on one of his sleepless nights. He
I placed my hand on Laura’s forearm and smelled like peppermint. As I tried to slow
when she pulled back, bristling, I felt the down my breathing, Art pointed to his chin:
closely guarded space around her that still “Free shot,” he added.
belonged only to her and her son.
Of course, I didn’t hit him. I think the last
“I’ll be back in two minutes,” said Laura. time I had hit someone was in fourth grade
She got out of the car and walked toward and I ended up doubled over with the wind
the graffiti-covered phone booth on the knocked out of me. Art and I just stared
corner. Jake had already fallen asleep. at each other for a few seconds, my heart
pounding so loudly it seemed like Art would
That’s when Art approached the Es- be able to hear it.
cort from the other direction, hands in his
pockets. Art was bigger than I was, probably “Know what, Dan?” Art said, his face
by at least thirty pounds and four inches turning slightly red. “You’re fucked. You.
taller; balding, broad chested and flabbier Are. Fucked.” Three short pokes in the air in
than I remembered from the wedding. I front of my face. Then he put his hands back
locked the doors as he came closer, but in his pockets just as Laura returned.
that seemed weak and ridiculous, so I got
out of the car and stood in front of Jake’s “Get lost, Art. Your time’s up for today,”
she said, speeding up as she passed by him,
her eyes locked on Jake’s window.

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Art stepped back as if Laura had bumped “He got too close to Jake.”
into him. “Just let me see that Jake is OK,
Laura.” He was writing. I turned my head back
to the Escort for a moment and saw Laura
“He’s fine, Art,” responded Laura flatly as lifting Jake out of his car seat, shaking her
she walked around the Escort and opened head at a paramedic and smiling nervously.
the driver’s side door. “Now go.” Behind her, I could see customers in the
strip mall pizza restaurant sipping on straws
As I got in the car too, Art sighed with in styrofoam cups, watching the spectacle
patronizing disgust, then turned around that mostly I had created.
and started walking urgently back to his car
parked around the corner. Jake woke up for a An older cop walked over to us, his radio
moment when Laura started the car. I turned squawking. “The boyfriend?” The young
the Beatrix Potter cassette on low volume, cop nodded and patted my coat pockets,
and we began driving back to Laura’s par- removing a juice box.
ents. I wasn’t sure if Laura had seen me push
Art, but I wasn’t yet ready to say anything I had had a few, mostly alienating, short-
about it. As she rather roughly shifted gears, term experiences with other grad students
an empty Dunkin Donuts’ cup rolled back since moving to Madison, but I hadn’t truly
and forth between my feet. When I reached been anyone’s boyfriend for years. Some
down to pick it up, Laura whispered, “Shit, grad students arrived as couples, but for
shit, shit.” I lifted my head up and saw a po- most of us lasting relationships belonged to
lice car blocking the entrance to the highway. the future. And to me this future seemed so
Then two more cars appeared behind us, dim and unformed, even more so now.
blue and red lights flashing. Laura pounded
her hand on the top of the steering wheel, At the station, my thumb was pressed
and then we pulled into a strip mall parking onto sticky ink. Then I signed a paper stating
lot. A young cop knocked on my window and that I understood my rights and was given
signalled for me to get out. a date to appear in court later in the week.
I realized I would need to find a lawyer
“The father says he was attacked,” said quickly, but I tried to reassure myself that
the cop. “And that you kidnapped his son.“ everything would be OK. I could get an-
other teaching assistant to cover my class
At first I couldn’t find any words. I don’t for a lesson or two, if necessary, but surely
think a cop had ever addressed me directly the court wouldn’t waste its time and tax-
in my whole life. “We definitely were not payers’ money on my harmless push? The
kidnapping him,” I began. “Laura and I were truth was I had no idea. As I waited to be
just taking Jake home after his visit with Art, released, a new cop came into the holding
with his father. That’s all.” room, looked at me, and then asked his
colleague who had taken my fingerprints,
“But did you hit the guy?” “What did this guy do? Beat his wife?”

“No.” Laura and Jake pulled up to the front of
the police station as I came outside, feeling
“No?” He turned his head slightly. a little unsteady on my feet. “This is what
he does,” whispered Laura, pulling back onto
“I pushed him.” I-95 while Jake flipped through Cars and

The cop pulled a small notebook out of
his pocket. “OK. And why did you do that?”

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Trucks and Things that Go. Jake paused from vacations throughout the rest of the year.
his reading to point out dented cars that we “You keep showing up,” Laura said to me, on
passed or that passed us on the highway, but one of my visits, handing over some letters
he didn’t say anything about what happened that she had not yet mailed to me. The fol-
or much at all on the rest of the way back. I lowing February Laura came out to visit me
really wanted to know what Jake might be in Wisconsin, leaving Jake with her parents.
thinking. When we got back to Laura’s par- We hadn’t talked about what this meant,
ents, Jake showed me where Critter slept in only how good it would be to have some
the basement while Laura called her lawyer. time with each other away from Art and
our parents. Our relationship was already
I was lucky: A few days later, the prose- memorialized in police records, court doc-
cutor decided to “nolly” the charges against uments, and psychologists’ reports, but we
me, even though Art had hired a rough and hadn’t communicated directly very much
tumble lawyer to represent his interests at about what was happening between us.
my hearing. Still, it wasn’t lost on me that Laura had
never been away from Jake for more than
I returned to Madison, relieved and also seven hours.
disoriented. There were more Friday night
drinks at the Pink Flamingo, gossip about On her first day in Madison, we went
the thirty-six year old adjunct lecturer who ice skating and later I invited some of my
was dating an undergraduate, watching friends over to my well-insulated, over-
the fishermen sitting by small huts on heated apartment for pizza and beers. Later,
Lake Mendota from inside of a coffee shop we all went bowling together. There were
scattered with scruffy, listless graduate far more gutter balls than strikes and lots of
students. When I told a few of my friends ironic joking. I thought maybe Laura found
about what happened in Connecticut, they my friends to be slightly ridiculous, sus-
listened sympathetically but did not resist pended in perpetual adolescence, but she
letting the conversation soon drift back to said she envied them. “At least they’re on
more familiar grad school banter. track to something,” she said. “I stepped off.”

A few weeks later, Laura’s lawyer received One of my friends offered us his car for
a letter outlining Art’s injuries including the the weekend and the next day Laura and
claim that his right arm had begun to “at- I drove out of Madison past corn stubble
rophy.” Attached was a two-page report poking through the snow all the way to the
from a neurologist that never mentioned Mississippi where we stayed at a bed and
Art by name. Art announced that he would breakfast full of doilies and family photo-
continue to “allow’’ Laura to share custody graphs. There wasn’t really enough time to
with him, when primary legal custody had do anything before dark other than take a
always been hers. Next, Art filed a motion chilly walk by the river. We never seemed to
explaining that he was now unemployed as have enough time.
a result of his incapacitating injuries caused
by my push, or in his words “unprovoked vi- At breakfast the next morning, a young
cious assault,” and requested that his child guy who gave off the air of being on the run
support be reduced to $50 per week. from the law, introduced his companion, as
the laconic middle-aged guests and us sat
Laura, Jake and I continued to spend around a single large dining room table
time together in Connecticut on my

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waiting for omelettes or french toast: “This Neither Laura nor I ever had much room
is my wife,” he said squeezing the shoulder or time to reflect on what we were doing
of his uncomfortable looking teenage bride. as a couple or to experience what would
“We just got married yesterday.” There were normally be considered romance or family
a few murmured “congratulations” and then building. There were no neverending early
it was up to Laura and me to try to keep dates or talks with our best friends that
the conversation moving forward. Normally, we may have found “the one”; we have no
we both waited for more talkative people to photos of us on a beach somewhere. Our
carry group conversations, but now there relationship had always been and would
seemed to be none. We somehow managed continue to be a kind of promissory note.
enough small talk to avoid too much painful But really, we had been all in from almost
silence. By the time we finished eating, it had the very beginning. There was too much at
started to snow heavily and we had to leave stake for it to be otherwise.
right away in order to get back to Madison
in time for Laura’s flight. After we packed up The day after our wedding, I flew to Po-
our things, Laura said she wanted to neaten catello, Idaho to begin teaching. Laura and
the bed before we left, which I tried to ex- Jake wouldn’t be able to leave for another
plain wasn’t necessary. Laura gasped and month because of the inevitable deposi-
then laughed when she noticed the corner tions and already agreed upon visitations
of a condom wrapper hadn’t made it into with Art. When Laura finally pulled out of
the garbage can. “I don’t know why I should her parents’ driveway, the Escort packed
feel like I have done something wrong. It’s with clothes, toys and wedding gifts, her
kind of ridiculous,” she said. “I mean, I have mother stood on the front porch sobbing as
a child.” Then she put her arms around me. her father consoled her. He waved goodbye
only to Jake. They were both convinced that
That spring, I was offered a visiting pro- their now twenty-five year old daughter
fessor position in Pocatello, Idaho starting was about to drive off the rails yet again.
in August. I thought this could be Laura and
my chance to break away and start our own Pocatello, a small city surrounded by
life. I remember staring at the wide dark sagebrush and juniper high desert, suited
green spaces of southeastern Idaho in my us almost immediately. Our accommodating
father’s massive atlas, mesmerized by my natures and clean-cut appearance gave us a
own ignorance of this part of America. Laura kind of welcome anonymity in a community
was nervous about the idea but ready to do of friendly Mormons and non judgemental
it. By now, we knew we wanted to spend libertarians. Too much of our lives up to this
our lives together, to be a family. I didn’t point had felt like standing outside of a circle
want to do anything reckless, but I was sick of misinformed people who were having a
of being held back, sick of being shadowed conversation about us. In Idaho no one had
by Art, the case, our parents. We both were. any preconceived ideas about who we were.
Laura’s father was convinced that the court We rented a small bungalow-style house just
wouldn’t permit us to leave Connecticut be- a few blocks from the university and around
fore the final custody decision and probably the corner from Jake’s pre-school. We went
not after that. He was wrong: the judge did hiking almost every weekend, through the
allow us to move prior to the final custody fall and into the winter, venturing along
decision, as long as we were married. snowy trails with Jake wedged into the child

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carrier backpack on my shoulders that he a word about Art since he was five years old,
was quickly outgrowing. Later we would and we weren’t sure he even remembered
sometimes soak in the steamy water at Lava him. When we nervously pulled down an
Hot springs while snow fell down on us and overstuffed box of court documents from
then eat cheeseburgers and fries at the the top of our bedroom closet, a few pieces
Wagon Wheel restaurant. of paper fluttered to the floor. The custody
ruling would have been our failsafe if Art
We finally received the final custody de- were to show up in Pocatello and pull some
cision in February: Laura had been granted kind of stunt, but as time went on the twen-
sole legal custody and Art’s visitations ty-eight page document seemed more like a
would require supervision. Art called a few dusty artifact. We also called the police, but
times demanding that Laura fly back with there was nothing that could be done. No
Jake for a visit. When Laura explained that law had been broken, and Art had always
he was legally required to pay for Jake’s had certain lines he wouldn’t cross. He was
ticket and hers, he stopped calling. too self-protective to be that foolish.

Ten years after we first moved to Po- That would be the last time we would
catello, when we were living in a small col- ever hear from Art. Maybe he was just
lege town in Georgia, our neighbor came hoping to find evidence that Laura was still
over and told us that a friendly, well-dressed chaotic and irresponsible as he had argued
man had knocked on their door while we so vehemently before the court years ear-
were away, claiming he was Jake’s father lier, or perhaps he was seeking to confirm
and looking for him. By this time I had that Jake was now a miserable, neglected
been “Dad” for years. There were moments, and rootless teenager, shunted around the
though, when I still felt that protected space county by unstable parents. When Jake got
surrounding Laura and Jake, and sometimes home, he played badminton with his sister
I was too aloof. I wanted Jake to become in the backyard before dinner. Jake could be
his own person, not to be overshadowed a little impatient and bossy with her, but she
by parents as we had been, but I took the loved the attention from her big brother.
point too far sometimes. It was not good for We could hear them counting off their shots,
any of us, especially Jake, and we probably trying to break ten in a row. Laura and I
should have gotten help earlier on. stood together at the kitchen window, our
shoulders touching, watching them play to-
Jake, who was out at a friend’s house gether.
when the neighbor stopped by, had not said

About the Author

I am a high school English teacher at the International
School of Hamburg. My creative work has appeared or is
forthcoming in Hobart, Literary Orphans, the Chariton Re-
view, Abstract Magazine, X-Ray Literary Magazine and else-
where. I also recently published College Bound: The Pursuit
of Education in American-Jewish Literature (SUNY Press).

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OUR BEAUTIFUL
TAHOMA

by Mike Nolan

When my grandmother was hospitalized, I received a phone call from my dad. “Drop what
you’re doing and drive home,” he instructed me. “Grandma’s in intensive care and not ex-
pected to live.”

A few hours later my wife and I were at Grandma Effie’s bedside. She was alert and rem-
iniscing about her favorite mountain, Mount Rainier, the fourteen-thousand-foot peak she
summited in 1919 and 1920. Effie usually referred to the mountain in its original Salish name,
“Tahoma.” She spoke about her life—her marriage, her years as a teacher in a one-room
schoolhouse at Panther Lake—but she kept coming back to “our beautiful mountain, our
Tahoma.” Grandma Effie died less than twenty-four hours later.

That was years before our three kids were born, but Effie left me her treasured hand-
written climbing journals, which helped me pass along her stories to our children. Effie’s
adventures became part of our family folklore, stories our daughter Madeline grew up with.

Now in her mid-twenties and inspired by
her great-grandmother, Madeline decided
to climb Mount Rainier in Effie’s memory.
“Great-Grandma loved that mountain, and
her focus was on family and adventure. She
made this climb with her husband and her
dad; that’s want I to do.”

A climbing party was formed consisting
of Madeline, her husband Andy, two friends,
and me. The first thing Madeline did was
outfit herself with climbing boots. “I went
to a store that had seven different kinds of
mountaineering boots, and six of them were

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for men. I tried on a pair in my size, and when the clerk asked me how I liked them, I told him
I didn’t know, because there weren’t any others to compare to. It was a hundred years ago
that my great-grandma summited Rainier. I see women on climbing walls and doing extreme
sports, but mountain climbing itself hasn’t fully integrated over the years. I’m lucky I had a
family who encouraged and celebrated women in outdoor adventure.”

We began training six months before the climb, exercising daily and hiking weekends,
gradually working our way up steeper grades. Madeline hiked with liter-size plastic bottles in
her backpack and built up her endurance by increasing the amount of water she carried each
trip. Some weekends Madeline hiked by herself, which was something she’d never done
before. “Hiking has always been a social, fun activity. Now it’s training,” she grinned, adding,
“but it’s still fun.” Our preparation eventually culminated in ascents of Mount St. Helens, Gla-
cier Peak, and Mount Adams.

(photo by Mike Nolan)

During our months of training, I went back and re- (photo by Mike Nolan)
read Effie’s journals, beginning with, “to wish us the
safe fulfillment of our anticipations.” To put her climb
in historical perspective, Effie first summited when
the Treaty of Versailles was signed, marking the end
of World War One. Her second summit occurred when
women gained the right to vote.

“To me,” Madeline reflected, “Great-Grandma was
ahead of her time. She wasn’t the first woman to
climb Rainier—that honor belongs to Fay Fuller, who
summited in 1890—but when Great-Grandma made
her climb, it was still noteworthy for a woman to ac-
complish that feat.” Madeline smiled. “Effie might be
able to claim a first in that she scaled the peak wearing
pants.” Early photographs of women climbing Mount
Rainier show them in long, flowing woolen skirts. Effie,
ever practical, borrowed her brother’s trousers.

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By late summer we were fit, con-
fident, and ready to take on Rainier.
We chose the most commonly used
route—the Disappointment Cleaver
trail—and drove to the parking lot
at Paradise Lodge.

From there we hiked up to

Camp Muir, where we made our

base camp. As our climbing party

sat in a small circle on the snow,

Madeline said, “I grew up knowing

my great-grandma made this in-

credible climb, hearing stories that

captured her love for this rugged, (photo by Mike Nolan)

beautiful place. Great-Grandma

could have walked right here. Now I’ll see what she saw.”

While Andy got the camp stove going for an early dinner, Madeline said, “I appreciate my
great-grandmother’s efforts even more when I look around. I’ve got crampons and high-tech
climbing boots; she had corks nailed into her shoes. I’m wearing layers of moisture-wicking,
insulated fabric; she wore her brother’s wool pants and long-johns. We brought an ultra-light
propane stove; she carried firewood.”

For dinner, I held open an aluminum foil pouch while Andy poured in boiling water. Stir-
ring my freeze-dried meal, I told Madeline about Effie’s journal entry describing their first
dinner, camping at Longmire. Effie wrote, “We built a fire and prepared our supper of boiled
potatoes, steak, coffee, sandwiches and cream puffs.” Effie described eating by moonlight,
and “after supper we rolled up in our blankets, and using Mother Earth as a bed, lay down to
sleep.” Breakfast the next morning consisted of “eggs, meat and potatoes, coffee and bread.”

What hadn’t changed, I told Madeline, is how physically demanding it is to climb the most
heavily glaciated peak in the lower forty-eight states. With a vertical elevation gain of more

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than nine thousand feet over a distance of eight miles, only half the climbers who attempt
Mount Rainier reach the summit.

Madeline, Andy, and I laid out our ropes, harnesses, and crampons beside our tent and tried
to get some sleep. At 11 p.m. we fixed a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal, put on our gear,
and roped up. Straining through the darkness to see the mountain, Madeline pointed out tiny
strings of lights—“like slowly moving glowworms”—climbing parties beginning their ascent.

As we began, Madeline related the three laws of mountaineering. “It’s always farther than
it looks, it’s always taller than it looks, and it’s always harder than it looks.”

Effie’s journal entry on the final approach reflected parallel sentiments. “It was some
stretch . . . I had to stretch every muscle and nerve to make it, and felt so seasick that only
the desire to make the top kept me going.”

Madeline confided to me, “There were times when I thought, I don’t want to keep going, but
Andy was there to say, ‘You can do this!’ and, of course, I remembered Great-Grandma Effie.”

Contrasting with the physical exhaustion were moments of awe-inspiring beauty, like
seeing the perfect mountain shadow on the snow as the sun rose over Disappointment
Cleaver: stark white on one side, pitch darkness on the other. As we ascended, the direct rays
of the rising sun struck our bodies, with a rejuvenating effect.

Effie recounted satisfying views in her journal, at one point writing, “The view from this
hill was wonderful. On one side loomed the mountain, rugged, steep and white. On the other
side was the Tatoosh, with a purple, hazy background, out of which rose Mount St. Helens.”

In another entry, Effie noted, “All the time we climbed, we were on a ridge and could look
down upon the Tahoma Glacier, which was full of great crevasses.”

At the halfway point of our ascent, our party approached a crevasse too large to step or
jump over. We came to an aluminum ladder laid over a narrow portion of the yawning space,
and each of us gingerly crawled across it to the other side. “It was scary going over that,”
Madeline told me, “but there was a sense of safety being on the rope with the people I trust,
the guys who know me best, my husband and my dad.”

(photo by Mike Nolan)

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When I crossed, I couldn’t help glancing down into the crevasse, fifty or sixty feet deep,
glowing with the neon-blue of compressed ice. It pulled at my attention like a magnet. Effie
noted identical amazement. “It was a wonderful sight to look down into those great, cold
and brilliant colored crevasses.”

By 8 a.m. Madeline and Andy and I were just below the summit. Climbing over the edge
of the volcano, the weariness and exhaustion disappeared.

Effie related similar feelings in her journal. “The little unpleasantries and hardships are
easily forgotten, but the memories of the wonderful old Tahoma will remain with us forever.”

Our party scaled the lip of the crater and stowed our gear in a heap, then walked to Co-
lumbia Crest, the high point of the summit, where we cheered our accomplishment. With
arms outstretched, Madeline slowly turned in circles, surveying 360 degrees of breathtaking
scenery. “I want to commit it all to memory and bring it home with me.”

(photo by Beau Palin)

We posed for pictures, congratulated one another, then began our descent. Hours later,
we reached our car at the base of the mountain. We could finally proclaim, “We did it,” with
Madeline adding, “and just like Great-Grandma, it was me, my husband, and my dad. We
stood on top of the world, but we weren’t alone. Effie was there at the summit with us.”

“She was,” I answered, wrapping Madeline in a hug. “A hundred years later, and Great-
Grandma was there. You pushed yourself to the limit, then pushed some more; you followed
in her footsteps.”

“I see Rainier every day on my drive to work,” Madeline said. “It’s almost as though it’s
in our backyard. Now I won’t just see a mountain . . . I’ll picture myself standing on top. In
today’s culture, you go, you take the selfie, and you check it off the list. That’s where the
experience ends. You did it and it’s over. But this will remain with me forever. Effie made
the climb because she treasured her mountain. The experience made her feel alive. It was
a defining moment that helped Great-Grandma know herself. I understand how connected
this adventure made her feel.”

I unlocked the car and, reaching into the glovebox, grabbed Effie’s climbing journals and
presented them to Madeline. “These are yours now . . . you’ve earned them.”

Madeline’s eyes filled with tears. Holding the journals overhead, she said, “We stood on
the summit of the beautiful mountain, our Tahoma. You, me, Andy and Great-Grandma.”

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About the Author

Mike lives in the coastal town of Port Angeles, WA, USA, across the water from Vancouver
Island, BC. He has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Across the Margin, Storgy
Magazine, and The Cabinet of Heed. Mike has a web presence at mikenolanstoryteller.com

225



POETRY



SONNET

by Pawel Markiewicz

Sonnet about the fallen moon and morning star

Heavenly sailorling spy out the wan light-sheen of star.
Baffling unearthly time: weird having just thieved by elves.
One of pale mornings longs for some meek fulfillment of night.
Moony and nostalgic chums – comets are upon the skies.

Lonely dreamery – lying just blink-sea, weird above.
Endless nostalgia is being of pang. Hades is fay.
Heavenly moony lure, beings seem dark, Ethics fly off!
Poignant decease has become drab black, comet has picked rain.

The glow, which is deathless, at length in the sadness full bane.
Grim Reaper loves more than You dream – a bit lights of the worms.
Marvel of starlit night: I have found a little of my name.
Starry night – dreamy glow are only in the tender souls.

Sensing the moonlet, demise of cool-blue song will be free.
Your worm bawls after all certainly. Death blubbing like me.

About the Author

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland.
He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender
poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published
his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and
German.

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NEW TIME

by Wendell Hawken

Aretha in her Golden Casket New Time

The angled photograph reveals If it all comes true, every bit of it,
the crown of her head, face obscured, every tarot card, queen of
clubs, every lightning
ruffled red bodice, smooth red silk skirt, bug that ever trudged a life-line
shapely café-au-lait calves and ankles to the high point of a hand,

tapered into five-inch (at least) stiletto heels. if space bends, as they say, and gravity is
red, of course, and matching. up for grabs, its force perhaps too strong,
too weak, or as just right as Baby Bear’s chair,
She could have been—and was– any woman
laid out in ruffled red (which is not to say if our skies hold history
and every star’s shine comes from past time
there was ever more than one Aretha) to meet the present eye,
all doodled up (my mother’s voice) it is possible to wish the wish you wished
tonight on an extinguished star
but here’s the thing: they had her legs which may or may not
crossed at the ankles, left over right, matter for the wish.

as if kicked-back relaxing post-performance Likewise, if the absence of evidence is,
and in a way you could say she was. as they also say, evidence itself
and you had the choice,
even had to choose
the falling back to old time
having tired of the new,
the Ouija answers every question
Yes! while the chicken livers look
propitious in the pot
being boiled for the dogs.

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If you walk out at sunrise, Walking Down the Farm Lane
orange rising into white, to Retrieve the Morning Paper
dogs will leave you to the gravel two-track
having beasts to tree or send to ground After a dreaming thin ice night,
and though you might not see them, the scrub woods stark and flat
they will you, moving past the grazing cattle as a woodcut illustration
who raise their heads, deem you harmless. comes a cat-lap morning
You can watch them think it through summer whitewash of Marguerites,
as they stand and stare and chew. Queen Ann’s Lace.

Untrimmed fruit trees
yield scant fruit. What fruit there is
sways out of reach
though one recent season, peaches
hung in earth-bound plenitude
so heavy the boughs broke.

Mid-field,
pungent waft of fox. Hounds could hunt
if today’s a hunting day.
This is the season.

A red-tail hawk, the smaller male,
prey lassoed in his talons—black snake,
probably. Hard to tell from here
as his wings work across a watercolor sky,
itself a revelation after wild rain.
The old dog in the house, done in by thunder.
Air hangs water-thick.
Leaves turn light-side out.
Branches tremble as another dark disturbance
threatens to roll in.

At the county road,
the hiss of bamboo canes enlarges
its percussive. A white-muzzled red fox
bursts in view, ears back at its pursuer –
though, in truth, not seeming all that worried,
loping across the asphalt and away.

Out of the same thicket
comes the neighbor’s dog, plants front feet
in roadside surveillance—a piece of Kabuki,
well-rehearsed.
I pick up the paper with its day-old news
that’s new enough.

Some days, ants are
small dark ants, not floaters in the eyes.

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Pineapple Adelaide Literary Magazine
Squirrels

A kitchen mood all over me, I wake up in a room with yellow walls,
having severed spiky crown, sliced yellow splatter on the trim.
rough green skin, I begin to gouge Footsteps echo down a corridor.
(excise, a father’s voice, excise!)
oval brown pineapple eyes, A fire door slaps shut. Out the window,
not hurrying because there are so many eyes, a fat squirrel with a misshapen tail
because my hand curves around saunters across a village green.
soft moist fruit as if his thigh—remember!— At home, the squirrels are small and wild.
because, were I to lick my palm,
heart- and life-lines would be sweet, Yesterday to be led into this room:
because the mourning doves are calling narrow bed against its wall,
out there in the yard rattle of wire hangers, ill-fit drawers,
and it is too soon to feed the dogs I was back in college first day afraid.
or start the Dobyns book,
because of pleasure in my paring Or a Brennan fresh from County Cork.
knife up and down, gouging Any woman really, in the garret refuge
anywhere I please, and if I wish, of a stranger’s house, one soft cloth
suck the juice behind each blinded eye satchel in her hand.
as my pineapple turns honeycomb
because honeycomb kinder than This room has yellow walls,
all those sightless eyes yellow splatter on its trim.
and, done with paring, next, a larger At home, the squirrels are small and wild.
knife must cut flesh from its core.
No, not any woman. No. I take that back.
I will miss you, Pineapple, Not an asylum seeker at our Southern border,
companion of a kitchen afternoon, a pallet in a holding pen.
turned bite-sized in his mother’s cut-glass bowl,
absent skin and eyes and crown and core,
nothing like you grew warm and wet,
rising as a pink cone
nestled in a sharp-leafed shrub
your blue blossoms folding into berries
melding into who you are, Pineapple—
tough and spiked, all eyes—
how far you’ve come in airmiles,
to end up here with me who is the one
to carve your insides out and civilized.
Until the last few years, Pineapple,
I have not lived alone.

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About the Author

Wendell Hawken: Living on a grass farm in the northern Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, my
work often reflects a rural lifestyle where the weather means more than what clothes to
wear. I earned an MFA in Poetry at Warren Wilson College’s Program for Writers in 2005,
decades after a BA in English literature. Previous publications include three chapbooks plus
two full collections, The Luck of Being (2008) and White Bird (2017) a sequence about my
husband’s battle with cancer.

233

GENES

by J.M. Allen

Drivers Test Why I Bought a Gun

Put away your phone, and we will go outside. Guns are made to hurt people,
Hop in my car, and I’ll take us for a ride. that is clear for everyone to see.
Driving starts out nice with So I bought myself a firearm,
few vehicles around. to deter someone from shooting me.
Turn on some music and listen to the sound. Yes I believe I’m going to go to Heaven,
which is a Paradise that is quite fair.
But as we head downtown, But I’d rather kill someone who was trying
traffic starts to get thick. the same to me - and thus to not go there.
And the smell of exhaust, it
makes me feel slightly sick.
The greenish view has slowly
changed to concrete.
After a short while, I wish I
could get out of my seat.

The many red lights, they all last way too long.
And the fun of steering, it has
long since been gone.
My car now tests my sanity, where
it used to be the best.
Should I get rid of my prime
possession? The real drivers test.

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Genes

I am stuck this way, there’s no
way to change me it seems.
Because this physical characteristic,
it is due to my genes.
I crave to fit in! But I’m obviously
different as you see.
My parents didn’t consider what
burdens that it would have on me.

From before I was born, I was
to inherit my trait.
There’s nothing I can do - I
am stuck with my fate.
There is no path to normal, it really isn’t fair.
And I hate it when people
sometimes gawk and stare.

Almost all people are so fortunate
and don’t even know.
The DNA is on the inside, but on
the outside it may show.
If I had just one wish, I sure know what I’d say.
Just to be ordinary! If only just for one day.

About the Author
J. M. Allen is a 50-year old, who recently started writing a
bunch of rhyming poems.

235

SEXT

by Daniel Edward Moore

Sext Help Me Remember the Roses

Halfway to midnight Once the voice was raised
& still the need for silence stopped wagging its tail.
Like a dog unsure of love, that,
words to break the day and yesterday’s ignorance
in two, regardless of how the heart can safely beat,
finding us covered in anger’s dust,
of how tired the tongue the hammer, the body, the blow.
is from digging
Surely, an object wisely chosen
pearls of praise could have halted the untamed tongue
out of silent shells. from putting its paw through the cage.

This is when Even though the roses remaining
the Captain turns were shaped like the mouth of a deer,
in the right vase, made by you,
the rudder into they would have lasted the night,
flesh, at peace lasted till morning found something calm,
harmless & without teeth.
with how the
bow will break

a thousand miles
from home.

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Action Heroes Revista Literária Adelaide
Misunderstanding Avenue

The woman in me & man in you needed Call us late summer leaves,
more skin to get out, more bones to build fallen & scattered on
a home in the center we arrived at late. Misunderstanding Avenue
where you drew the line
No shame existed for living extreme, in a bed with no sand
for burying boredom in a lavender field. as I slowly sharpened
the sword’s cold blade
What needed to be done was done. warmed by suffering’s sparks.
I took one eye. You took the other.
Wondering if, there would
Gently bowing to kindness come a time without hands
turned violent streaks reaching for the bucket of blame
into circles of light, haloes of lock & load, & a chewed-up straw
where judgment’s voice was cast into pigs no words passed through,
you asked me to plunge
bleeding like the good book said. the knife’s pearl handle
deep in a fist that could save you.

I cut the rope.
Your eyes turned green.
Blisters bloomed with clarity.

About the Author

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey
Island. His poems are forthcoming in Nebo Literary Journal,
Nixes Mate Review, Lullwater Review, El Portal, Emrys Journal,
The Meadow, West Trade Review, Toho Journal, The Big Windows
Review and Route 7 Review. He is the author of ‘Boys’ (Duck
Lake Books) and “Waxing the Dents” (Brick Road Poetry Press)

237

BUTTERFLIES

by Andre Swanepoel

Dancers on a rooftop Love is

Sirens in flight, light feet Love is fury, strife above
And white - if only you were The din of battles it refused
Less bright, I, the messenger To fight in a war it has already won
Sin sight could dream your great height Do not present love to me
But I deem myself far removed As a meek, tenderly little thing:
It is both the iron against which
From white-light. The world crashes and cracks
And the forge that so tempers
Henceforth I simply evaporate

Butterflies

They break upon us unrelenting
As the dawn breaks like a rainbow
Refracting our dewdrop-eyes
That settle at once upon our love
Like condescending dust confounded
In beauty that fuels these monarchs that flit
As thoughts between sun and shade
Gathering potency

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Observations in a park at summertime On an unknown road just before dark

Is it not a beautiful sight: the bees The sun runs off the page
Fly in perfect synchrony within reach As if to hasten its turn
So bright and lush that a summer’s But I know the rules:
day should blush and diminish? I close my eyes for five beats
At six I listen for the direction of his footfalls
Equally I admire grains of sand At seven I breathe trying to catch
who rise from the soil his summersweet scent
As men once rose from dust, to At eight I tap my foot impatiently
draw ragged breaths bearing At nine I doubt myself and all his faculties
On their backs their teeming black thoughts. And ten: I stand
Alone. On an unknown road.
I observe. Within me stir deep appreciation It’s already dark.
And envy for their buzzing, their beating
Beneath my grasp grows frantic and bulges
Transforming, transcending and slips
On the soft summer breeze away.

About the Author

Andre Swanepoel seeks to convey his unique take on life
and literature through his poetry, often inspired and built
on the foundation of his experiences in the medical field
where he works as a doctor in semi-rural South Africa. The
belief that words can heal all wounds is one that is dear to
his heart.

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CHRONICLE

by John Kaniecki

The Humanity Of The Enemy

Reality, is a rocking cradle, God is able, a miracle sleeps
Mother’s gentle hand does not understand forces beyond her command
The winds wails, the system fails, hatred prevails
Religion, nationality, ethnicity, ideology, is null and void
As baby cries, humanity dies and the Earth is being destroyed

Outside miserable men march, in uniforms green, merchants of death
In a nursing home, beloved grandfather, flocked by family, takes his last breath
What matters? All of us possess things that bless, love and kindness in heart
Our common humanity greatly outweighs what we have apart

The byproduct of the war machine, is most obscene, obstinately unclean
Impoverished billions in continents far, millions wallow in poverty here
Bickering politicians want to kill social security, to save a dime, what a crime
Organized violence, requires no license, blessed by wizards of science
Sucking brain power, they devour the intelligentsia, captivated
So the real issue, the virtue of bettering mankind is abandoned far behind

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you
Are those words wrong or are those words true?
We shall escape the rape of the world in its savage brutality
When see with our eyes and realize the humanity of the enemy

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Chronicle Revista Literária Adelaide
My Madness

A moment still Madness
Sun glaring She’s queen of the clowns
Time a river scorning seven frowns
Jester’s bells woven in the locks of her hair
Memory’s lake Wagging a dragon’s tail
Ocean of forgotten Reciting undecipherable riddles
Joking in dead languages
Refreshing dew She laughs laughing alone
Spirits of yesterday Her beer barrel belly shaking
Like gyrating grape jelly
We have moved Her mascara in thick purple globs
Transverse the cycle Lipstick ruby red put on haphazardly
She mourns for the living
Rapids of rage While cursing the dead
Meandering calm Giggling during the eulogy’s somber silence
Seeds deposited in fertile mind
Reflection Cherished sprouts come out
Flux With wicked blade slashing
Sparing weeds only
Heaven’s fury Madness
Constant Innumerable in her deeds
Missiles of mass destruction
The second hand named peace keepers
On the ancient golden watch Houses boarded up to prevent
the homeless to enter
Has indicated Food to feed all as babies starve to death
In the context of eternity Billion of people most of them alone
Late at night like a rat gnawing on a rope
All is made anew I wonder
And nothing has changed Can’t we do better?
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…. All religions proclaim peace and
practice perpetual war
Madness
Her chastity belt tightly secure
Still she is the chief harlot
Nothing is holy
Hear her lament at the wedding
A song of joy on the battlefield
Oh saturated in the dying man’s cry

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

What for? A Sonnet of Surrender
So lines on the map can be moved
So digits on a computer can be changed Here’s a sonnet a sonnet of surrender
Madness Where words sail as birds in the evening skies
Sometimes it is the only sane answer Take off the mask see I’m no pretender
Come distant night where the fleeting light dies
Poetry Time Double entendre extended metaphors
Little children chanting nursery rhymes
Today is a day to write away the gray What is that in midnight black? How it soars
No matter how much a wretch Careful pilgrim it’s the changing of the times
You can always pray We transverse this narrow transcending trail
Always pray Confident of victory and success
For a better day…… But where are we now can we still prevail?
I chose never to curse only to bless
Now it is poetry time Here’s a sonnet a sonnet of surrender
It really don’t count It’s the best offering I could render
If you don’t rhyme.
Apply every technique
Be sure to turn the other cheek
Blessed are the meek
We need to listen
If we desire
To hear the Lord speak

I once was a pilgrim on a Middle Passage
An unholy slave trader immersed
in sordid sacrilege
John Newton found ‘Amazing Grace’
In that foul and wicked place
Where the scent of feces of chained humanity
Spoke profoundest vanity
Ah the cruelest crime
When wanton words refuse to rhyme

Life should fall into line
Life should fall into line
Life should fall into line
But a scattering of flowers works fine

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

My poetry has appeared in over one hundred outlets and my prose in about a dozen. I
was until recently a full-time caregiver for my wife Sylvia. She suffers from dementia. She is
now presently safe in a nursing home. I work as an assistant to a lawyer. I am also a peace
activist and a minister in the Church of Christ. I have over a dozen books either published by
small publishers or self-published including four science fiction books. My long term goal is
to have my writing support my financial needs. My poem “Tea With Joe Hill” won the Joe
Hill Poetry Contest in 2012 along with a $500 prize. My memoirs “More Than The Madness”
finished in the top ten in the 2015 Westbow Manuscript Search. My poetry chapbook “The
Second Coming of Victoria” was a quarter-finalist in the 2015 Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook
Contest. https://johnkaniecki.weebly.com/ http://johnkaniecki.blogspot.com/ https://www.
facebook.com/JohnsPoems/

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WITHIN THE DIN

by Linda Imbler,
Translated by Isaac Cohen

Within The Din / Linda Imbler ‫ֶר ְּלבְמ ִיא הָ ְדנ ִיל – הלומהה ךותמ‬
‫תירבעל תילגנאמ םוגרת‬: ‫ןהכ קחצי‬

‫ֹואֹובְל ָה ָכרְּב הָ ְעמָׁש ֹאל ֹוׁ ְש ַפנ‬, ‫םיִׁ ָש ְחר ַקר‬. His soul heard no welcome, only murmurs.
‫ ָהקּו ְתמ הָר ִיׁש ַ ֵעמֹוׁש אּו ֶׁהש ֹול הָ ְא ִרנ‬. It seemed he heard sweet singing.
The hope that he was right stayed his sorrow.
‫ֹונֹו ְגי ֶתא ת ֵׂא ָשל ול ָהרְזָע קַדָצ אּו ׁהֶש הָוְ ּקִתַה‬.

‫ם ִיכָאְ ַלמ ֹו ְּמכ ּוע ִּיגִה םיִמּו ֲמ ָעה ויָתֹומֹולֲח‬. His bedimmed dreams came as angels.
‫ֹורֵבֲחַל ְ ַךפָה תֶ ָּומַ ׁהֶש ֹו ְּמכ‬. As death became his friend.
He saw his own grace.
‫ ָה ָכז ֹוּב דֶ ֶסחַה ֶתא הָאָר אּוה‬. And all of sweet peace wailed for him.
‫ויָ ָלע )תֶ ֶננֹו ְקמ( הָכֹוּב ָהקּו ְתּמַה הָ ְו ַׁלּשַה לָ ְכו‬. And within the din, welcome finally
showed its hand.
‫ףֹוס ףֹוס םֹולָׁש ַתּכְ ִּרב הָּ ֻל ֲמ ַהה ןִמּו‬ © Imbler, 2020
‫ויָ ָּנפ הָ ְּמדִק‬.

Translated by Isaac Cohen
‫ןהכ קחצי‬

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Linda Imbler is the author of five paperback poetry collections and three e-book collections
(Soma Publishing.) This writer lives in Wichita, Kansas with her husband, Mike the Luthier,
several quite intelligent saltwater fish, and an ever-growing family of gorgeous guitars. Learn
more at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.

Isaac Cohen was born in Beer Sheva, Israel, in 1960. His work was published in important
anthologies and literary periodicals. He has received several prizes for his works. He is a member
of “Voices Israel” – an association of poets. His works were translated to Spanish, Tamil, Russian,
Philippine and Hebrew.

245

ALIVE IN ROME

by John Drudge

The Pull of Stonehenge Ancient knowing eyes
Illuminating
We set out from Bath Hidden stories
Through the English Across lands of the dead
Countryside And the fragments
The relentless greyness Of a deeper understanding
Of the sky Of who we are
Lending a constant drizzle
Of drama to the day 246
It can be seen for miles
On the horizon
As we approach
The sarsen towers
Of mystery
And the bluestones
Of forgotten meaning
A Neolithic madness
Growing bolder
As we hike across
Wet meadows
To get a closer look
They say Druids
Moved among them once
In rituals of seasons
And offerings to the sun
But for you and I
It’s a new beginning
With our own legends
Coalescing
As we pass beneath

Alive in Rome Revista Literária Adelaide
The Lost City

The nun flew by me A lost ancient city
In her tiny Fiat In the scrub plains
Straight through the crosswalk Of a desert land
Near St. Peter’s The remnants of an empire
Without slowing even slightly Under the forgotten
Scowling as she passed Persian sun
Apparently annoyed The opening of skies
That I had the nerve Onto fractured stones
To cross the street Pebbles on a pond
In front of her As we ripple out
When there were things Humble beginnings
To be done From nomadic tribes
In the Kingdom of the Lord And lost treasures
And quite clearly Hidden under sand
She was late Dusted over
So with a sense of relief And blown away
And renewed faith As we waltz
At being given a second chance The length of forever
To breathe Oblivious
I pushed along the narrow street And the victors
Crowded with taxis Ride their horses
And tour busses Into the empty square
To the basilica
Through the archways
And across the square
Past the lines of tourists
And children splashing
In the fountains
To the small rented room
Above the osteria
Where I held you tightly
In our precariousness
As the days grew colder
And the devil
Danced across the rooftops
In autumn’s fading light

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in
social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of three books of poetry:
“March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019) and New Days (2020). His work has appeared
widely in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also
a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his
wife and two children.

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