Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 31, December 2019

SPACE AND
OTHER TRAVEL
DESTINATIONS:
PACKING FOR ZERO G

by Mike Fumai

How many times did I look up at night watched Star Wars and read Fantastic Four,
when I was a kid and contemplate what it and couldn’t wait for the return of Haley’s
must be like to float among the stars? Too Comet. It wasn’t so hard to get hooked on
many to count probably. Back then I had outer space when you consider how many
an extremely limited understanding as to aspects of pop culture it’s influenced. You
the purpose of these celestial bodies, but can find the magic of stars in lines of poetry,
I knew whatever was going on out there, it and galactic charm in the Googie architec-
was big. It seemed at the time like the per- ture of California. There’s stargazing clubs,
fect metaphor for possibility. and 4K video games with protagonists who
defend Earth in Andromeda. Sometimes get-
Nowadays, I don’t often consider the ting out of our solar system feels just within
universe beyond our world—life has be- reach. Sci-fi operates on the axiom that you
come so much fuller now, and decorated can travel from one planet to the next as if
with responsibilities. There are nights you were packing the trunk of your Outback
though that are so clear you can’t help but for a weekend getaway in the Poconos.
notice the constellations and the limitless-
ness of space. I’m reminded of the wonder Today space is more popular than ev-
I had when I was a kid, and the gratitude I er—a SpaceX launch taking off from Cape
now have for the planet I live on. Canaveral can sell out its 100,000 seats.

There are millions of people out there, Which isn’t so surprising. Millenni-
like me, who have a soft spot for space. We als-on-the-move are more interested in

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space than previous generations. Although in Antarctica. Temperatures there can reach
they are far more likely to rent than own, minus 130 degrees Fahrenheit. A human
they know how to travel in style. Breathing sporting a parka and a pair of heavy fleece-
in the air atop the mountains of Machu lined pants would have about three min-
Pichu and wading through the turquoise utes to survive outside. Space on the other
waters of Playa Conchal in Costa Rica are hand is minus 450 degrees Fahrenheit! And,
experiences that trump being chained to a oh yeah, it can also get really hot. Just ask
mortgage. And space is the next place Mil- one of the crew onboard the International
lennials want to go. An Ipsos study showed Space Station (ISS) when they’re in direct
that 19% of adults 18-34 would volunteer sunlight.
to visit Mars (compared to 13% of Gen Xers,
and only 5% of Baby Boomers). They’ve These extreme temperatures are just for
done their research too: forty-one percent starters. There’s also no air, so not only can
of Millennials know what the Goldilocks you not breathe you can’t hear anything ei-
zone is—for the rest of us that’s the area ther. Makes you appreciate the comforts of
near a star where a planet needs to be for Earth just a little bit more, doesn’t it?
water to exist.
Despite the perils of space travel NASA
Perhaps another reason Millennials has always believed it’s worth the risk. Es-
are looking forward to space travel is be- pecially when one of their main goals is to
cause their everyday gadgets are getting find other inhabitable planets.
upgraded faster than they can pay off the
bill. They know first-hand how rapidly tech- Accredited Space Agent
nology is advancing on Earth, and it’s easy
to presume that it’s only a matter of time NASA has gotten some pretty good press
before new tech gets us deeper into space. the last fifty years, ever since the success of
the Apollo 11 mission in 1969. Millions of
But we’ve still got a ways to go. Humans viewers were captivated by their black-and-
have only been as far as the dark side of the white TV sets as the Apollo lunar module
Moon, a distance of 239,000 miles. touched down on the Moon and Neal and
Buzz bounced across its pock-marked sur-
Mars, at its closest, is 34 million miles face. A door previously closed to mankind
away. was swung wide open—Ursa Major and the
North Star weren’t just for navigation any-
Can Anybody Hear Me? more, soon we would be sending rockets to
their solar systems to stake a claim.
It’s not just the distance between other
planets that poses a problem. But despite successive trips to the Moon
things didn’t happen quite so fast.
By now the hazards of space are common
knowledge, but they’re worth repeating in In 1977 NASA got America excited again
light of the growing section of the popu- when they launched Voyager 1, a probe
lation willing to brave them. Once outside designed to study Jupiter and Saturn on
our exosphere, the first thing you’d realize its trek into the beyond. Even with an im-
is that it’s cold. Very cold. The coldest place pressive rate of speed (11 miles-a-second)
on our planet is the East Antarctic Plateau it took thirty-five years for the probe to

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exit our solar system. By the time this feat Fortunately for SpaceX time has been
was announced in 2013, the kids who had kind. Today when we think of SpaceX we
watched the Moon landing on TV were now think of ‘Starman’ in Musk’s old Tesla
preoccupied Baby Boomers preparing to cruising the interstellar highway towards
send their kids to college. We were going to Mars, David Bowie blasting on the stereo.
need a whole new generation to champion No one would be able to hear the music of
the colonization of the Red Planet. course, but we still think it’s cool. And cer-
tainly no one can forget what they saw in
Enter Sir Richard Branson, a jetsetter the sky one fall evening in 2018. The cell
and business magnate with a vision to bring phone videos uploaded to the internet
space to the people. The very rich people were zoomed in on a ball of bright white
at least. In 2004, Branson and his newly light speeding across the sky, a buoyant
formed Virgin Galactic announced that by bell-shaped contrail following behind. It
2007 space tourism would be a reality. When wasn’t surprising that social media’s first
2007 came and went Virgin had no choice reaction to the sight included panic—it had
but to push the date back. Continuous de- never seen anything like that before. Only
lays still weren’t enough to keep wealthy later did onlookers learn that what they wit-
cosmic cruisers from reserving their seats. nessed was a SpaceX Falcon 9 on its way up
The price tag for Virgin’s maiden tour into to space to deliver a satellite.
space? A hefty quarter-of-a-million dollars.
Interstellar Dreamin’
We’re Almost There
If technology continues to keep pace with
The idea that one day soon astronauts will ambition it’ll be interesting to see where
be sharing space with whoever can afford it space will take us from here. Today, the Fal-
is due in large part to Branson’s marketing con 9 only requires 25,000 gallons of RP-1
bravado in the early 2000’s. And although (rocket propellant) for its first stage com-
the dream of space tourism is yet to be pared to the 200 thousand gallons need-
realized Virgin Galactic is at least heading ed for the Saturn V in 1969. SpaceX has
in the right direction. The company had its even developed reusable rocket boosters
first suborbital space flight in 2018. to knock down the price on a trip to space.
There’s also been developments in how far
Branson hasn’t faced the challenges of we can peer into the universe. Hubble has
space travel alone. His younger contemporary, discovered countless galaxies: we’ve been
Elon Musk, has been launching rockets since able to map out solar systems, and name
2006. Just in case you never heard of him contenders for planets that might be like
Musk founded SpaceX, and cofounded X.com our own.
(which today we know as PayPal) and Tesla.
Marvel blockbusters like The Avengers
Musk has sixty flights under his belt; and Guardians of the Galaxy seem less
some of these flights have even resupplied like fantasy than when we first read about
the ISS. But before everyone was talking their adventures on the pages of comics
about his company it had its fair share of forty years ago. No doubt the things that
struggles. Typing the words ‘spacex’ and Branson and Musk are up to, the popularity
‘explosion’ into YouTube’s search field will of quantum mechanics, and technological
yield you thousands of results.

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innovation have their part in creating the years: this number alone should give you
vision of our future. an idea of what we’re up against. For now,
we’re going to have to make do with our
Of course, there’s always the chance own playground. It doesn’t have any other
that someone’s going to be disappointed— planets with water, but it has Mars, and it
depending on what they mean when they seems like a lot of people are looking for-
talk about space. If they’re hoping for a new ward to setting up operations there.
planet covered in fields of exotic plant life
and pools of warm blue water, they might While we’re waiting, I heard that on
be waiting a while. We have to find a way Earth there’s a nice little spot in the Carib-
out of our solar system first, and we’re still bean to visit during the spring—a little sand
working on that. The Voyager 1 probe won’t and a few margaritas might do us a world
see another star for another 40 thousand of good.

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POETRY



SWALLOW

by Keith Hoerner

swallow ah, the image of you
the even-measured pace
engrossed with millions of americans with which you feed
in others’ misfortunes so naturally

movement distracts me beaks wide open
from the nearly two-hundred tufts of plumage
pound nine year old on tv sunlit-exposed organs
through tissue-paper skin
you carry a juicy earthworm
in your bone-colored beak commercial-sponsored judgment is rendered
to feed three tiny, ravenous chicks guilt through gluttony
nestedinthefosterholly human failing
outside my window self-will run riot

the image of padlocks on pantries tormented guests stand, starve
screaming boy man, sobbing mother for tangible solutions

then you again – wings credits
spread victorious roll
return with another twisting morsel
as you fly away
millions of pixels shed light on with the one true answer
conflicted emotions
pastel-plastic cafeteria trays
moderated portions face down on the floor

About the Author
Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois.

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MOTHERHOOD’S
COLOR WHEEL

by Timothy Robbins

Morooj and Hanan

I almost wake up. Almost miss If opposites attract it’s because
my bonus dream: no two lovers are
Morooj and Hanan coming wholly opposite. Even the most are only a little.
from the halal sex shop I first wondered if they were lovers when
just opened in holy Mecca. the school tried to separate their classes and
Morooj with her skater’s they pleaded to stay together. It became
slouch, covered with a baseball cap. (She clear when I learned Hanan was divorced (the
once came to my class uncovered — her dense only divorced Saudi I ever met) and they lived
black brush, the plushest I’ve ever seen.) with her ten-year-old son and
Morooj in blue jeans and Converse high-tops. never wanted to go
Hanan, formed and draped like a living altar. back to Saihat. We started
As cool and shaded as Nickels Arcade. Jewels meeting before school,
glowing candle-warm. A sky-blue hijab framing me coming out of Dave’s little
her sly smile. A long pleated skirt flowing from grocery, them sitting
fruitful hips. Her slippered feet as she glides to at a table outside the pizzeria, aiming their
the car peep from the hem, cigarette smoke at heaven. These
ancient with purpose. meetings outlasted
Morooj slides behind the thaw and freeze of the Arab
wheel. Hanan cradles the Spring. Much remained
scented candles in her lap. unanswered. How did they meet?
Waking, I think of Michigan Was it online? Was it
Snow and Saudi Sand. Woman two years before they knew
and Man. Christian each other’s names? Did
and Muslim. Sunni and Shia. Lipstick and Butch. Morooj and the boy skate-board together?

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Why didn’t he live with his Spectrum
father? Our knowledge
of each other was like a festive Lullabies are unhappy
meal — delicious in the gray mother’s mouth.
and nourishing — but in the They squirm and complain
context of a life, what is like the infants in her care.
a single meal? Even the meal By noon, the blue mother’s
at the close of Ramadan, milk has soured in the
a wedding’s consummation, the unplugged refrigerators of
last repast before a her breasts. She drinks
state executes us for our otherwise some herself, hoping for
unstoppable love. food poisoning.
I got an email from Hanan
this morning. She’s at The blue and gray bear
the University of Central Oklahoma. Morooj is mentioning as much as the
working. Rashed graduates transparent mother
from high school in May. with her church-lovely voice
I think about Lesbians in Arabia and lyricism that pervades
and Arabs in the Sooner like the void.
State. I have this bonus dream.
To be there when he
graduates, to give them each
a fierce protector whose
ears are always cocked.

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Encounter Adelaide Literary Magazine
Susan Smith

It doesn’t matter if I flush that Bootleg baptism, bathtub
seven hundred down the drain, gin, 5 parts barley, 5 parts
down my vein, into a publishing kin (my troublesome kids
scheme the financing of which to be precise).
I’d rather not explain. I’m
53 and time limps away faster The prohibition on the rite
than money. stands alone in my head.

Mom and I and our phlebotomists The lake is a magnet. The
know searching for poems basket is woven from
and searching for love is like metal, not bulrush. The
searching for a vein — basket is a bull grinding
sometimes as natural as diving its tires in mud. Death is
into a river, sometimes like a matador flourishing a
digging a well. red cape. The cape is
sunrise warming up the
Last night’s pill is on my lake.
tongue. Last night’s pill is
still on my tongue. The bull is a sedan-size
Last night’s pill is still still juggernaut.
on my tongue. I sucked The juggernaut is a
yesterday’s kisses into my lungs. bubble two boys can’t burst
An idiot child, I thought I to save their guts. The
could keep them there like bubble is an aquarium.
the kid who kept fireflies in Those two frightened faces
a mayonnaise jar with just are swollen guppies.
so much air. (He’d seen the
dragonfly in his uncle’s
paperweight, flaunting its
wingspan, never tiring,
persisting without a care.)

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Revista Literária Adelaide
Ferguson Academy, Good Friday

The thing about nondestructive testing is: uproot young mothers like weeds from a grave.
Does it work on humans? Does it work on Centurions shackle the madonnas’ wrists and
children and other natural wonders? Does it load them into screaming patrol cars. The
work on the Marvelous? Say, the Miracle of power is cut. Doors are sealed. Two days later
the Darkroom? Her womb was a darkroom. in every room, now darkrooms all, pictures that
The darkroom was her first refuge. Gently haven’t been shot develop ex nihilo. All we see
pulling prints through the bath, she felt the of the reporter is her microphone moving in
melting together of emergence and cleansing. and out of the oval of light, approaching to
She felt and struggled to gather the mother’s answers, withdrawing to
accept the needfulness collect clarifying suspicions. “He clamped his
of darkness in the photographic process. hands around my neck He tried
Women like her stooping and laughing in an to break my phone.”
urban garden, infants in cribs and toddlers It was a battle of sound and sight. To steal the
curled on floor mats like cinnamon rolls on a voices, the graven images.
baking tray — these images allayed her fears. Sound against sound —
Imagine her dismay when sirens to stifle chanters who
other images appeared, thrust fingers in their
faces just below the surface ears. She sat down on the pavement, her wrists
of a hateful baptism. cuffed behind, her belly swollen with master-
While children of the rich are dressed up and pieces. More Madonnas than Raphael painted.
dragged to church to gawk at suffering, Innumerable Pietas: dead
a reporter’s microphone is schools, dead ambitions
thrust at an anguished draped languidly across her
stammering face in an oval of light. (It’s hard thighs. Black marble
to believe this black is mere night.) Male hands beauties these lines only dream of.
like collars wrap around female necks. Police

About the Author

Timothy Robbins teaches ESL and does freelance translation
in Wisconsin. He has a BA in French and an MA in Applied
Linguistics from Indiana University. He has been a regular
contributor to “Hanging Loose” since 1978. His poems have
also appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Three New
Poets, The James White Review, Slant, Main Street Rag, Two
Thirds North, The Pinyon Review, Wisconsin Review, and
others.

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LISBON

by Byron Beynon

Waves Lisbon

Firm muscles of water Lisbon is a ship
move deliberately across the board full of discoverers.
pumping the air with sounds; Again you come to me
a panoply of waves, after all those fallen decades
the preserved overlap as I follow the inquisitive
in a mind of curling whispers rhythm of the Tagus.
come to blend with the shore. A source for adventure,
Complex characters the brave, the reckless,
with a fickle strength those with enough faith
their joints flex the sinew of each current, reaching towards a fresh horizon.
a flipper of transport for the moving sea. I send you
a memory of exiled postcards,
a stainglassed window
from history made for the people
to scrutinize as flags slowly unfurl.
The tides are my witnesses,
calmly speaking their unique
speech to the stars.

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Ponte 25 De Abril Revista Literária Adelaide
Rubbery

Crossing the river Each wave a miniature cliff
I imagined a bird crumbling into foam and forgotten.
flying over this stretch of confident Molecules of sand come to the boil,
water guiding me towards home, hot-plates beneath the sole
towards safety. as a tune of sea ripples into chord.
The familiar light, A flux of turquoise
a dagger of sun adding season to the flavour of the shore,
piercing the eye, while conforming lizards
the accomplished link wait for the evening feast of moths,
that gained a foothold their rubbery bodies translucent
on each shore. against the bulbous light.
I float with thermals
beneath the sky’s arc,
deep blues which caress
the mind’s senses,
I travel there with time
on my frame.

About the Author

Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including
Adelaide Literary Magazine, San Pedro River Review, North of Oxford, The London Magazine
and Poetry Ireland Review. Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press) and The Echoing Coastline
(Agenda Editions). His selected poems appeared in 2018 (Bilingual: English/Romanian -
published by Bibliotecha Universalis/Collectiile/ Revistei “Orizont Literar Contemporan”,
translations by Dr Monica Manolachi, University of Bucharest).

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Assembly ALTERED

Place the by LB Sedlacek
frame
on a press
to
flat secure
clean hang
surface frame
on a
bend tabs flat
back clean
remove surface.

protective
film
insert

picture
artwork
life

bend tabs
forward
and

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Nobody’s Playground Revista Literária Adelaide
Bluish Blue

I noticed the slides first, hidden in the Snow
trees, trees grown up around camouflaging at the top
the unused abandoned playground of the hill
the utility building red with doors wide a lookout at the
open – it is empty, the picnic shelter vacant too bottom
the merry go round with metal bars a group of kids
shaped like upside down letter u’s all related
I remember running beside them going sledding
and jumping on and spinning round and round how did we not know
but now the articles, the experts say those nights
they’re too dangerous to ride the neighborhood
the swings are farther down the hill would be our last
in the tall oaks and unshorn grass and times
green leafed trees I can’t identify together
the slides – there are 2 the hot chocolate
one high and long, one shorter not as the snow cream
tall – both metal, rusty from the freezer
they probably got hot in the sun and sometimes a
legs sticking on the way down bonfire
but the metal doesn’t shine how did
its polish worn smooth and tarnished we not know?
it’s a sunny day but
the playground is still invisible
where it vaporizes
unless you happen upon this clearing
where it materializes
as shadows and shapes
I squinted at first wondering what
my eyes were seeing
I wondered at first if I had ever
climbed on the slides or swung on the swings
I stopped at first not letting my kids
play in it – too old too unreliable
I believed at first that I’d just imagined it
that silent playground melting
beneath the trees.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Altered

How could a simple handshake
turn into something more
everyone has had this happen
or maybe not enough
to write about it but
it’s beyond the four
stages of grief because there’s
no reason to be
shocked or sad in denial
there is every reason
to be mad at shadows
at circumstances and at
you.

About the Author

LB Sedlacek lives in the mountains of North Carolina with her family and hyperactive dog.
She enjoys swimming, reading, traveling and volunteering with her local Humane Society.
Her local poems poetry book, “Poetry in LA” has given her the opportunity to teach poetry
workshops at elementary and middle schools around the area. Her poetry books include
“The Architect of French Fries” (Presa Press) and “Words and Bones” (Finishing Line Press).

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HEARING

by Diane Webster

Hearing I want to scream!
Green numbers
My hearing intensifies on my digital clock
when I lay me down to sleep reconfigure from 8 to 9 to 4 a.m.
like feral cat dozing
on top of abandoned shelf when man delivering newspapers
with sounds tickling roars through gravel outside
delicate ear hairs and bangs paper home;
I hear front-page photo
like train whistle miles away grunt house after house.
with wind I am in my bedroom
at my parent’s house, summer night
I left both windows open
to catch cross-breeze
if one happened by

after I read chapters of In Cold Blood,
I slept, awoke to something
sneaking closer
until I focused on curtain
billowing air into room

I gasped airless
at each settling, cooling creak of house
as it steps closer, closer.

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After I Tell Adelaide Literary Magazine
Seed Sprouts

I brace myself in the hallway; As soon as seed strikes earth,
sitting with back against one wall it grows, sprouts, knows its future
feet pressed against opposite baseboards lies up the trellis old lady
a parallel line to stare at, focus bought special for it.
breathe in, breathe out, watch line
move closer, closer It latches on, hoists itself
and I, victim, caught between walls along each square, each parallel lath
crushing closer as my knees bend, horizontal, diagonal, vertical at last
thighs quiver as I attempt to slow as it crisscrosses itself with leaves,
flattening process blossoms, muscled tendrils.
like rose petal thumped between It breeches eave and searches
encyclopedia pages beginning with hernia handholds under asphalt shingles
or hibernation all dark, rolling over, onto roof
dry, smell of pseudo-death glorious in touching morning sun first
dreamed of, unaware of if real but feeling evening’s frost drip beneath
forgotten if not. and sparkle across ground,
around its outer garments
Let tornado turmoil twist outside all while reaching Braille-like
calm…calm toward peak searching sun.
as sunshine seeps
under curtains, doorways, eyelids That basking warmth absorbed
and my toes can’t touch like water to sagebrush rabbit
baseboard anymore. hidden from coyote sniffing
in wrong direction
when time runs out in frost’s descending
hour-glass sand. Seeds hibernate
breathing between grains
sniffing for first scent of lilacs.

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Glides In Stealth Revista Literária Adelaide
How Long

He glides through halls in stealth mode How long will it take
uncloaking behind, beside before I stop watching the mail
with man eyes, man smile for Grandma’s Christmas card
any woman would cross the street with the $2 bill inside?
to insulate distance between them.
How long will it take
Want to sew cat bells before I stop wanting to write
on cuffs of his jeans, letters to Tonya to cheer her day
but afraid he’s too adept and let her know someone cares?
to wobble metal inside.
Suspecting what a robin must feel How long will it take
in claws and teeth before I stop hearing the cat
of neighborhood cat – meow at the back door?
escape, escape, escape again
only at cat’s pleasure and whim. How long will it take
before I stop looking for Grandpa
every time I smell pipe smoke?

How long will it take
before I am a memory?

About the Author

Diane Webster enjoys the challenge of picturing images
into words to fit her poems. If she can envision her poem,
she can write what she sees and her readers can visualize
her ideas. That’s the excitement of writing. Her work has
appeared in “Better Than Starbucks,” “The Evansville
Review,” “Vita Brevis,” and other literary magazines.

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BALM

by Pitambar Naik

Balm there’s a constellation of a hot
fountain that wears decadence
Remember the havoc in your in the hot porcelain coffee cup the
thick apple-red heart coffin of a lonely moon rests
your journey finishes in the what language does it speak?
middle of the rainy kisses It’s the spring’s love season on the balcony
how to coin a new emotive reaction which economic trick does it offer
in the autumn season to sink with the world?
your solitude is a bony whirlpool with
disproportionate gravitation
the need of wrapping the name
of the past can be realized.

A courier in a pensive parcel
unravels the thirsty anxiety
you bring the tepid hope very
close to your discretion
somehow we had a deal even
with an earthquake
it erupts the old melic of solace
and that’s a healing touch.

May be a few drops of nectar from
our forgotten story is a balm
—bear the magic of an upsurge:
blessing and moksha

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Revista Literária Adelaide

I Can’t Stop Drinking Your Shadow Songs Love is a Lonely Territory

You are clothed in ghee colour sensation of jazz It’s tensed with a hyphen; the
my childhood was a flowery stardust of mahua plateau
plateau to snugly play with home to your laughter; have you ever noted it?
this time I can’t stop drinking
your shadow songs. Down your poliomyelitis, in the civil
war era, my peace is a refugee
Still I remember the gift you it strands desperately just as
parceled form Santiago a few wingless waves.
on my 18th birthday missing the
last letter of my name Love is a lonely territory fenced by
and the 6th zero of the postal index numbers dots and garnished in brackets
many a time I remember the the endocrine bliss of the holy
gnome and gorgeousness hymns clot in your appendix.
how we engineered trains of
matchboxes of contractions. The semi razzmatazz of a gloomy
evening peeps as an enigma
A factory chimney smudges frankly speaking that’s a coffin
the rosy lips of the sky of the bronze age
in a cloudy day with no electricity the creamy hymn on your lips
inside; it’s like hatred at bedtime the familiar rhapsodies
and the softest illusions allure ooze from Radha’s Vrindavan.
the fragile apocalypse
the piece of land we live in Does peace wear the new costumes
hisses with heinousness to sit across the table warmly?
but, I can’t stop drinking your Letting the kisses touch the tears
shadow songs even in a fury! of love and barbed fear
at last we ask each other to water
our righteousness to blossom
around 300 kilometers now to
go further the borders.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

A Thousand Other Sins

Mesopotamia is a flat valley of hibernation with tulips
glasses of whisper and pints full of tequila gossip till late nights
a haphazard infatuation that encircles your solitude
the aftermath of the first pregnancy was an architecture
of peace, prima facie and pointillism
can you see heaven’s thousand other sins?

We’re some of the desiccated pronouns of the antiquity
and our integral self is outrageously eclipsed and fallen off
the creak of the mars’ axis sends a telegram
when a war ceases our emotive speculation
it becomes the ceremony of half past 10
while frolicking with depression; the moon washes its semen stains
rain is a mirror of poetry and drumstick flowers
enough is the less of the rhythms of rasarkeli.

Often caesuras of our blood shells turn rectangle
gluing with syntaxes to drink a few more pegs of those other sins
the curve burns a camphor and smells the brevity of the vocabulary
however, smiles of this city germinate less camouflaged duplicity
depression is often a harmony of this part of the world
crowded intimacy is the new solitude of a joyful sabbatical.

Glossary:
Rasarkeli is a word used to connote an ecstatic love affair in Sambalpuri folk songs in Odisha.

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Half Life

The brief hiatus of your salvation
paints an acrylic garden of skins, veins and pulses
you stir a glass of milk like the storm of sins
when summer is around the corner
you cheer to a mug of palm juice
after a nice meal, the chronic complaint
is your invertebrate pain
why you don’t forget to reminisce
how shy you were
after the first HCG and BCG tests
those syllables intentionally slipped to your midriff
you winked like polyphonic poetry of Gulzar
this afternoon’s mail is a great solace
to eliminate any disaster in between us
yet you feel it’s an epitaph of a half life!.

About the Author

Pitambar Naik is an award-winning poet and writer from India
and the author of The Anatomy of Solitude, a book of poetry
(Hawakal Publishers, Kolkata). His work is forthcoming in Queer
Poetry of South Asia: HarperCollins India and has appeared in
Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Voice
and Verse Poetry Magazine, Vayavya, Literary Orphans, Stag Hill
Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Occulum, The Mark Literary Review,
Mojave Heart Review, Best Indian Poetry, The Turnpike Magazine
and The Oddville Press among others.

221

UNLIKE A DREAM

by Mark Tulin

A Skeleton’s Tie-Dye Kristallnacht: Night of Broken Glass

The esoteric bearded man Flames, looting, babies screaming.
at a Dead concert Fires destroying nursery rhymes.
felt the spirit of the 60s Didn’t they know I’d miss my parents?
rippling through his bones Mom? Dad? Where is my promise of safety?
that made his white T-shirt
turn into a tie-dye swirl. Broken glass shatters our childhood.
Bare feet bleed on shards of hate.
He’s a dancing skeleton, It’s chaos and thievery in the street,
a man who wasn’t afraid arrested for being born under the Star of David.
to let his hair down;
music’s emotion in mashing guitars Soon, trains carry the cold and starving
made his body glide to destinations unknown
down the narrow aisles without sunlight, without dignity.
of the splintered sunlight. Crammed into trains like cattle;
vermin, subhuman, the executioner’s say.
He understood the Grateful Dead. Dead spirits will haunt us all for generations.
He understood the Dead Head dreams
in his stoner hip bends, Smoke rising like butterflies from crematoriums,
head twirls, and peace sign hands. gold fillings, jewelry piled high,
innocents shot dead into muddy burial pits.
And when Weir Humanity reduced to disposable waste.
and the spirit of Garcia Stacked bodies form ancient pyramids.
had finished their endless jam,
the young bearded man Our flesh will perish, I could hear
put his psychedelic glasses on, the God of Abraham say,
pulled up his hoodie but the Nazi’s soul
and left section-H incognito. will suffer forever.

222

In an Old Pickle Jar Revista Literária Adelaide
Squeaky Voice

I have nothing to do today When I was a boy,
but survive, I spoke in a squeaky
voice.
shield my head from the sun,
take a nap wherever I can find one. I was afraid to read
I exist in a poor man’s swirl in front of others
at the insistence of everyone’s for fear of being ridiculed
insolence; and teased.
although, barely seen
or heard, My best friend had his own take,
said it was my anxiety
invisible on the street that made me shrill like a bird
like a stray when I read the Adventures
who hasn’t been spayed, of Huckleberry Finn.
looking for a temporary home,
a patch of grass to lay on. My doctor said I’d outgrow it.
It was just a phase
I live on the fringe, of pre-adolescence
blocking out the chatter, I was going through.
avoiding the police
in their leather boots I knew it was something
and high-pitched sirens. more profound, though,
something metaphysical
I count loose change that even a doctor
by chance couldn’t identify.
in an old pickle jar
as the sun turns to rain. I realized later
that I was afraid
of speaking
in a strong voice.
I was embarrassed by my masculine nature.
I was afraid to be heard.

223

Unlike a Dream Adelaide Literary Magazine

As the fire burns A voice in the distance
the good Shepherd cries though you can’t hear
abandons his flock. because the respirator mask
is strapped too tightly to his head.
As my uncle gets lowered
into the freshly-dug hole, The neighbors who once greeted you
an old bridge crumbles were burned and sizzled yesterday
under a heavy toll. with all their belongings
and promises they couldn’t keep.
Faces you can’t see
become even murkier Unlike a dream,
from the heavy smoke everything is gone
and debris. when you awake.

About the Author

Mark Tulin is a former family therapist from Philadelphia who
lives in Santa Barbara, California. He has a poetry chapbook,
Magical Yogis, published by Prolific Press, and an upcoming
book of stories, The Asthmatic Kid. His stories and poetry
have appeared in Fiction on the Web, Ariel Chart, Amethyst
Magazine, among anthologies and podcasts. His website is
Crow On The Wire.

224

SOME MONDAY
OR ANOTHER

by RC deWinter

Some Monday or Another in for the night

I wasn’t there when the microwave caught fire. my eyes grow weary with the surfeit of
This is what happens when the ridiculous the gaudy pomp
dementors roam unsupervised. of pretension stains the clarity needed
No real damage except now to complete appointed tasks
there’s no microwave.
it’s all make-believe anyway you know
Someday a new one from a reality’s a word invented to frame a
bigbox store will appear.
Like magic. A gift from gods who still care. construct we can wrap our minds around
I don’t. Not enough to replace it. to keep from going mad

Until it does the coffeepot will be on all day. we live our own myths making them up
The coffee will be hot but as we go along nothing’s ever certain
bitter. I’ll drink it anyway.
Bitter is the flavor of the month. The year. i know one thing if sunrise is delayed
my journey will be short and swift
Somewhere in an airless room a man sits
Wondering I don’t know what. He can’t hear now i lay me down to sleep
Me singing. His tears a waterfall no goddamn prayers here i lack all
but this body that just keeps going
Of coffee hot and bitter in my dreams.
My skin brown from standing under it. i wouldn’t know what to ask for
Mouth open. It splashes out. I can’t drink it all.

225

taming the lion Adelaide Literary Magazine
split second

although it’s been forever it was just a second since i’d turned away
since our last waltz turning back i saw
you occasionally make an appearance
unbidden the world was drenched in blood
unwanted that splashed me with its acrid stain
unlooked-for
in my dreams turning back i saw
you’d disintegrated gone to stardust
it is always the same that splashed me with its acrid stain
in the light of the hunter’s moon
you stand armed to the teeth colliding with unknown dimensions of loss
a bandolier of ready lies
crisscrossing your chest you’d disintegrated gone to stardust
that x marking the spot unmoored i trudged through sorrow’s acre
where a heart should be
colliding with unknown dimensions of loss
and as a cloud crosses the face disintegrating to a formless sea
of the indifferent moon
you shed your weapons unmoored i trudged through sorrow’s acre
and your skin the world was drenched in blood
and on all fours
raise your head disintegrating to a formless sea
with its magnificent mane it was just a second since i’d turned away

we lock eyes
the current flowing
is almost tangible
and because it is necessary
to soothe your savage breast
i hum a melody
in the key of heartbreak

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Revista Literária Adelaide

no swimming

thick july’s driven me
to the cool of the wood
i sit on the riverbank
wondering if the water is
as coldas your last kiss
i’d like to jump in
but fear i’d drown
my heart is made of stone

About the Author

RC deWinter’s poetry is anthologized in Uno: A Poetry
Anthology (Verian Thomas, 2002), New York City Haiku (NY
Times, 2017), Cowboys & Cocktails: Poetry from the True Grit
Saloon (Brick Street Poetry, April 2019), Havik (Las Positas
College, May 2019), Castabout Literature (Dantoin/Hilgart,
June 2019) The Flickering Light (Down in the Dirt, June 2019),
Nature In The Now (Tiny Seed Press, August 2019), in print in
2River View, Down in the Dirt, Genre Urban Arts, Meat For Tea:
The Valley Review, Pilcrow & Dagger, Pink Panther Magazine,
Reality Break Press, Scarlet Leaf Review, The New York Times
and in numerous online literary journals.

227

DEAR PROFESSOR

by Jason Boone

Dear Professor Use the table to measure the ruler

You know so much more of the world than I, He had no model for how to
Even though you lack the navigate these streams
simplest sophistications, Of paper banks and veneered surfaces.
Born as you were, in the fine He tried to apply the force of the soil
dust of the piedmont, Towards a problem of intelligence,
Reared in staggering steps, Tried to operate as a local agent
between comic battles, In a monopolized land
You wrestled yourself for language, And fell short by either measure.
fought for it over years, Not forceful enough to plow his
Applied techniques and squares. way through the rural
Now you are the preeminent Gauntlets of rocky manhood
rural phenomenologist in the world, Not refined enough for the domes of prestige
Expert in the application of force. Or the avenues of influence.
Scenes from your yellow past No matter. One may make a way
Hold dominion over the whole, gray world. In the world of the artist, in
I live in limbo between your the company of misfits.
world of myths and Speaking in ironic native tongues,
The myths of your world. with satirical dialects,
I wither in the shadows cast from your Remaking the world through a new
Outstretched limbs. language, rigging the game
To be won, no matter the outcome.

228

Impoverished poultry Revista Literária Adelaide
Early winter

Even after the chickens quit laying The inconsolable snow may fall in time to cover
she kept on giving them the layer feed, the bare dirt of what is supposed to be a yard
In hope, perhaps. Supposed to be green and lush but has been
Or impotence. scratched and clawed into an obscenity.
Walking though winter shadows where But by mid day she no longer cares
momentum stops but life hangs on and on, about the lack of fertility,
With no reward, the shame of poverty written out
with no idea how to end it, For neighbors to read.
not sure what she would even The last leaves, silently on
do with that knowledge. the trees, red but dry.
They squawk and scratch and demand of her, Mid day is as quiet as one can imagine,
but do not distract from what is coming, as dry as one can imagine,
Do not provide sustenance against and the seawater she drinks
another ageing winter. only makes it worse.
If the snow does fall, she knows what it covers,
and the snow is no consolation.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

A good Scottish reel

If you and I roamed around those mountains One morning we went to see a
And watched the river for hours play about a mortgage signing
even in the dry winters when it froze With sweaty lawyers and fat agents.
In its tracks and stopped time along with it– It made no sense to my mind or yours.
If we ever really stepped foot on the rocky soil After it was over, we watched ourselves
And wandered along the edges– get into a car and drive away.
Those memories would echo
across the valley now If we had really roamed those mountains,
And roll down the graded soft landscaping music would be playing around us,
Across the highways dancing at our feet.
to spill out It does not.
Onto a street of service But how else could it be
vehicles and work shirts That we are here–
And single mothers. if not for those mountains,
if not for our roaming?

About the Author

Jesse Benjamin (Jason Boone) lives in Raleigh, NC. His poetry
has appeared in Adirondack Review.

230

THE ARENA

by Doug Bolling

0nce More We made a fire on a dozen beaches
And cooked from cans and fish
Summer of 2018 along the Gulf. Caught on our improvised hooks.
Our journeys toward an undecided We made love in folds of night wind
Far off but strangely near. Fresh from the sea, imagined warmth
The quickening winds from the south, When a sudden chill looped in.
Touch of palm leaf against exploring flesh.
0ur voices sometimes taut as new wire We are moments of flesh and soul
strung to keep out all impostors. LaNita said as surf flooded close enough
Sometimes almost musical as we To eat away our small flames.
Learned to forget and imagine We carve ourselves from niches
A future. Of space and time and make words
Into poems that will speak and live
Far down as Tampico then the Yucatan Awhile as we.
Before turning north to search again for
What we’d lost or misplaced in the years
Behind us. 0nce or twice we drowned
In gravity of memory before pulling
Up and away in saving force of
An unwritten calling out to be read.

231

To the Unmarked Grave Adelaide Literary Magazine
Winter Song

I visit you once in autumn once We knew him for all our years
In spring each time bringing a leaf But didn’t, not how he walked
Or petal. Each time finding the In crooked fashion we couldn’t
Awkwardness in words as they Imitate. Not how he quoted the
Stumble out of me into spaces Bible in a strange tongue or
Ever changing. Chased us away when the
First snow dropped.
You the forgotten or destitute
Scorned by whatever dignities This last winter when we climbed
Of paid up arrangements. Larch mountain to surprise him
Perhaps even the obligatory In his shack of boards and leaky
Embalming job. Roof.

I tell myself I come to bear witness Found 0ld Bertram snug in his
To some remnant of humanity Bed of bad smelling sheets and
Saying the dead must not be A bear skin long from the hunt.
Forgotten whatever life dealt
Them, or didn’t. Found him sleeping the sleep
Nobody returns from, a scrawled
0n rainy days I resolve to Note propped on top saying only
give you a name or two,
one for each gender. Gone and Well Forgotten.
But the alphabet refuses to
Surrender such as though
It knows the barriers beyond
Which no letters can meld,
No grammar assent.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

The Arena

Somehow I signed up for the seminar At the Brownout Bar down
On Critical Theory. College Avenue.

Don’t know why or why. Just that We were would-be writers
I did the summer term of 2015. Dreaming of turning life
Into fiction for the ages.
The prof had it down neat.
No compromises. No exceptions. At exam time we gave him
Back what he wanted
The self a fiction imagined in Hating our betrayal but
The language games played Needing the grade.
By all unsuspecting ones.
I remember thinking there
The words write the novel, Might be a middle ground,
Not that myth called author. A distant place where
Words begin the game
We argued, debated, smoked, And a solitary self
A hundred packs of Camels Manages to escape.
Or whatever, followed through

About the Author

Doug Bolling”s poems have appeared in Posit, Water-Stone
Review, Isthmus, S/word, Poetry Pacific, And Common Ground
Review among others. He has Received Best of the Net and
Pushcart nominations And several awards and lives in the outlands
of Chicago.

233

CONSTANT CRAVING

by Mark Young

Survivisection it out. Houses are the best
places to hide out in. I exit
A coal stove burns out of the tail with CTRL+C
in the corner. I don’t & continue. Assume that
want a coal stove. In everything is case specific.
a survival situation,
versatility is essential. My biggest fear is that I’ll
fall back down the hole.
Knife, ax & machete — Ramen noodles aren’t the
these items are extremely most nutritional food but
necessary. Other minimal they are cheap. & easy to
lists have taken the count-
ing challenge to the limit. prepare. I no longer have
a coal stove or pots & pans
I now own 15 things. Je or water, but I watched
veux un hamburger. “Yes. a video & now know how
Much as I expected.” The to cook ramen in a cactus.
other eats, hates himself
for eating, & then purges

234

Revista Literária Adelaide
Constant Craving

The day is spinning wildly yet spoken for—which in itself
on its turntable, & even out is indicative of its value—or doing
of it the vibrations can still
be clearly felt. I’m trapped in a dodgy deal in wagyu beef
what might as well be Mach- futures. Neither of which…
iavellian Merchandise, a tent
on sideshow alley, where there’s But I am brought down to
nothing you want or need earth & saved from calamity
by a track squeezing through
or can afford but still feel from the dodgems next door,
compelled to spend up big before k.d. lang singing so in love, the
you go. Either by the purchase of Cole Porter song, that acts as
axis to steady everything around.
a cutprice epiphany that is not

The Greek ficcione

On being told that his latest work had been rejected for a literary grant, Socrates stamped his sandal
& stormed out of the Atrium in a fit of pique, muttering something about never being able to trust
platonic lovers who were always badmouthing you behind your back.

That there had been a mistake wasn’t discovered until a day later; but by the time they found him to
tell him it was actually Sophocles who wasn’t getting any money, it was too late. The hemlock had
done its work.

To save face the committee of eminent citizens pretended no mix-up had occurred, expressed their
sadness over the death of Socrates, & then announced they were going to subsidize Sophocles’ new
play, Antigone. It was a great tragedy.

235

Pelican Dreaming Revisited Adelaide Literary Magazine

Today the centuries after we’d
postman brought looked after it for
me a postcard 60,000 years. Look at
of Venice, sent this place. Effluent
by one of the in the lagoon, dead
pelicans that fish, houses
usually lives in decay or sinking
on the lagoon below the water-
at the bottom line. Gone to the
of the street. doges, as the locals
“Strange to be say. Still, it’s great
fishing through to be a cultural
a culture that’s nomad for a
only a few while. Paris
thousand years last week, the
old,” she wrote. “But Greek Isles next. Now
easy to see how & again I have to
the Europeans pinch myself, just
managed to fuck to make sure I’m
Australia over in not dreaming.”
just a couple of

A line from Lady Gaga visible, nor could he find
any manga stockists here; so,
Some years after the to pacify his needs, he paid
Great Fire of London, a visit to a production of
Samuel Pepys, on a
visit to Copenhagen, Twelfth Night by graduates
from the Performing Arts
climbed the helix spire School. “I love androgyny,”
of the baroque Church he said, “& the fact that
of Our Savior by way
of its external winding Viola gets around in men’s
clothes provokes an infinite
staircase to see if he imagination of gender ambi-
could see any bishōnen — guity & quiet homoerotica.”
beautiful youth — in the
street below. None were 236

Revista Literária Adelaide
About the Author
Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing
poetry since 1959. He is the author of around fifty books, primarily text poetry but also in-
cluding speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his
essays & poetry translated into a number of languages.

237

LISP

by Jean-Luc Fontaine

Ode to the Old Naked Man in the Gym Locker Room

Have you ever seen a throng of half-naked
muscled men turn their heads in shame

like little boys during the nude scenes of an r-rated movie?
I have, in a Planet Fitness locker room,

when a sweat-glazed old man decided to drop
the towel draped around his naked frame

to the floor as he interrogated the contents of his locker.
He stood there, leathery and micro- waved,

shrimp-pink creases forming under
his breasts, and the ripped men, who just minutes before,

slaved away in the iron temple of testosterone
—grunting and groaning, Gatorade-sticky,

hoisting weights above their heads like bright ideas—
how fumbled with their protein shakes,

quietly spritzed their pits with body spray.
And even I—the newest convert to the church

of crunches and curls—wanted to rush to the indoor rower,
paddle away from the thought that my body

might one day look like an overripe banana.
But even as my insecurities slipped into the room,

started sticking needles into the weather balloons
of my biceps, I couldn’t help but admire

the old man’s shiny strut, the way he bared
his body: unashamed of the graying clump

of kelp dangling from his chest, of his jump rope
arms noodling by his side. And I swear for a second,

he looked like a king smiling at all his fearful subjects—
the aluminum light crowning his head,

the blue veins under his skin pulsing like lightning bolts.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

On Finding a Moldy Block of Cheese in my Father’s Fridge

Cleaning out the fridge in silence when my deaf dad finds a
block of cheddar with a white fuzz fro and jokes,
Food doesn’t really go off, mold just starts munching on it before we do. Cheese
was always a language for us, wasn’t it dad? Before the bloomy rind of brie

or herbaceous zest of Humboldt Fog, we would sit in a room for
hours without saying a syllable—your hearing aid
faintly buzzing in your ear, like a dusty vending machine.
We suffered through our quiet until you brought home a soft
block of limburger and laughed as I scrunched

my face at the off-sock smell and squinted at the turquoise veins
spidering through the goo. You dipped a hand
into the swell of my hair as the cheese melted
into a constellation of flavors, and I rushed for another bite.
As a kid, I felt like Indiana Jones gazing at the golden

idol in Peru when you handed me amber curls of comtè,
and told me how the fresh-damp, barnyard smell reminded you of the poverty
you stole away from when you first moved from France to London—how you took
refuge in a cramped, one bedroom-apartment. How you would treat yourself

to a hot cheddar and butter baguette as you slogged away in kitchens and dreamed
of one day opening up a restaurant all your own. Back then, we devoured so
much cheese milky stars stained the pink galaxies of our fingernails.
When I moved to New York, I wrote to you

and told you how I squirreled away what little money
I had so I could scribble poems in my musty-smelling apartment,
hoping to one day pen a book all my own. I confessed
to you that sometimes I savored a bag of faux-cheese Cheetos
as I took the 2 train to work—imagining

a white avalanche of feta, wet discs of mozzarella. We are so much alike, but as I
crouch near the bottom of your fridge, I want to blurt, I’m sorry. I’m sorry
I haven’t come home in over two years. I’m sorry
I don’t write to you more often. I’m sorry for hating

the two hirsute hearing aids that squeak like cheese curds

in your ears and make it nearly impossible to chat with you over the phone. Today
is the first time we’ve talked for more than five minutes in nearly six months, but
still, you scrape the white fluff off and slice me a wafer-thin piece.

239

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Lisp

As a child, I didn’t call anyone by their names—
afraid my lisp might tangle

my ths like vines,
that my ss
would wake up as zs.

At home, mother made me
practice syllables

by reading the grease-
splotched take-out menus

she brought home from work—
snapping her spoon against the table

each time the wood chipper of my mouth
mangled meatloaf
or worcester.

After she lost her job,
we moved onto the addresses

of past-due bills and collection agencies
as she raked a comb

through my hair—
dust clouds of dandruff puffing
into air,

6s and 7s wrapping around
my tongue like dollar store spaghetti.

Wrong. Again,
she said as she dragged the comb
through the loops of my fuzz—

my scalp stinging
from each rough drag.

Eventually, she had the names to call
for food banks

and government housing
scribbled on scrap paper,

scattered on our table,

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Revista Literária Adelaide
like tarot cards

predicting our future.
Go on, read the names,

she said as she strapped
a can-opener

into a tin can of corn.
St. Celia’s,
St. Nicholas,

Common Pantry,
my tongue flailing in my mouth

like an out-of-control garden hose.
Nearly, darling. Try again,

she said as she pried
the round jagged lid
slowly from the can.

About the Author

Jean-Luc Fontaine is a Tucson based poet. He enjoys long naps
and hot coffee.

241

SHADOWS AT NOON

by Terry Brinkman

Shadows at Noon Sonnet CXVII

Swift wings no longer serve Jack priest’s office
Shadows at noon Red bridge sag
Like sailboats along the horizon Ruddy wool rag
Clouds shadows quaking Cowboys and Indians bliss
A flock of birds crashes past Dark lady and fair man kiss
Now calm returns Ghost woman nag
An arrow quivers the air Grave yard swag
Like sailboats along the horizon Chalk-scrawled prejudice
With livid flashes Bulldog Mac wage
Shadows at noon Sea me arching of the orangutan
Old man’s age
Whirling whistle clang
Sea cold eyes rampage
Maladroit silk Boomerang
Slope of Sage
Old hag rang

242

Rock Creek Revista Literária Adelaide

Pinter scenic highway Sonnet CXXXIII
Hope mill site
The Stamp mill Cough-balls of laughter
East Broadway Dancing Coin
Sinking in Des Moines
Montana water Catalectic tetrameter thereafter
Rock Creek Blue silver grafter
East Broadway Grave yard deep groin
Ranking Eleventh Acrid smoked sirloin
Ineluctable modally after
Sunk a shaft Shattered glass
Dragged into the field Wet sand slap
Mines discovered Gold Frog green Bass
Wood sieved strap
Guide you in the search Razor shell Brass
Hauck home Damp cracking wrap

Sonnet CXXXVI About the Author
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over
But as luck would have it forty five years. He started creating Poems,
I woke at cock’s crow he has had five poems in the Salt Lake City
She’s’ a sleep I will tip-toe Weekly. Four E- Books. Variant and Tide
How long did I sleep Fit-Bit? Anthologies. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny
I need a coffee hit Seed, jute Milieu Lit and Utah Life Magazine.
Ghost candle light glow Poem Village, Snapdragon Journal, Poets
Out the window I see snow Choice, In Parentheses, Healing Muse and
Opening my shaving kit the Adelaide Magazine.
Chalk-scored back door
Nipping morning old house 243
Metempsychosis Baltimore
Annie’s spouse
Metaphysical snore
Crucified blouse

WOMEN IN LOVE

by Karen Deaver

Women in Love rip in time

Her art, his mine, saliva mingles Lover, you slipped through
in the Midlands grass cut sweet and a rip in time when the home
tongues lap to the rescue was burning.

of the drowned. No one was I didn’t and the children
to know their hearts were promised were awake their post and beam
between mountains and the moors protected from a virgin
conveyed without a trace. forest flaming.

Even in their prime and hungry Gudrun, Once I imagined newlyweds in
Gerald, et al were frozen out there after dark. farm rooms tossing bottles
into a hole deep underground.
Modernity murdered them Blown glass still marks their need:
as secrets swallowed hair oil, cough medicine, perfume.
whole the lake one night.
Post wreck dish porcelain
shards crammed under-
neath my skin like fat;
in you I tasted tinder
and tomatoes.

I ogled one white peony surviving

and pictured this: their bodies hidden
in the well while resting regal
necks bent back like spoons.

Once you came I never could be safe again.
That fire torched the lines
when you slipped through.

244

Death of Nostalgia Revista Literária Adelaide
Daughter

I used to be wild We loved strawberries in May
to do what I desired each ripening as if to last
when I desired to
and ate them crushed and soupy
until I tired of being told or as trophies coveted by thirst
I was condemned by girls
whose boys would fly away our summer knees in dirt zucchini
with me while spilling all. offering abundance across vines

One stayed polishing platinum and underneath sleek silver queen
with his tongue and won me we mouthed cobs with butter
rolling edges over time. running from the sun

He put a stake into the ground of autumn when we touched each other’s hair
where chained I breasted for comfort, bristles, head pulled back
every infant’s mouth,
watched them breathing, while Julia Child opened up her French
skulls that pulsed between my hands. so we could taste the shallots

In bed I’m always twenty burying us like spring when daffodils erupted
and there’s one that got away. words like birth or fresh, magnolias too
Lovers we are molten
in the darkening afternoon each starred alone in one
until one body rings until cacophonic perfume.
you fall asleep inside.
Pressing faces to the flesh–-
Desire is as strong as metal.
I would have stayed with you
When I awoke your words were I would have called the scent my own.
faithful to the never kiss.

Today I want to eat the chain
risk flight. The race is on
my birds have flown and
crony wings beat back time.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Karen Deaver teaches writing at The College of New Jersey.
She lives in Pennington, NJ, and has previously published es-
says and articles in The New York Times, Princeton Packet, The
Explicator, and Parents magazine on a variety of topics from

poetry to salsa dancing.

246

AFTERNOON MUSING

by Steven Gerber

Afternoon Musing and color fill my squared
proscenium window frame.
I gaze from my window, Also in view are the young and old
side-tracked from the of buildings, animals people, cars.
volume of Mythology, As if in a winks time, everything
open on my lap. first bursts and emotes life,
My notebook nearby, only to whither, age and die.
I am now impacted. So… as the butterflies all
I wallow in the shadows seem to be flying North in
of West, Steinbeck, Fante, a kind of formation,
and all others whom have and the sky begins to fold
graced this great state. over to a more suitable
I feel stunted by their genius. shade of dark…
So much to know… I wonder where all my dead
so many obstacles. loved ones and friends
Today’s sky is blue, have eternally retreated to.
giving forth no rain.
Clouds of all shapes, size,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
About the Author
S. A. Gerber is a native and resident again of Los Angeles, CA. after having spent twenty-
four years in a neighboring “city of sin” in the Silver State of Nevada. His work has appeared
in such diverse publications as Desert Voices Magazine… Subtopian Magazine…Talking
Sidewalks… Mad Swirl, (where he is a “contributing Poet”)… Sediment Literary and Arts
Journal… Poetica Magazine… Black Heart Magazine… The Blue Collar Review…Los Angeles
Review of Los Angeles… The Linden Avenue Literary Journal…The Poet’s Haven…Stray Light
Literary Magazine… Literature in Los Angeles Magazine… Opiate Magazine… Pacific Poetry…
Neologism Poetry Journal…The Lyric…Free Venice Beachhead… The Shot Glass Journal…
and Dove Tales-“Empathy in Art: Embracing the Other”, Writing for Peace, An International
Journal of the Arts. He is also a member of the Los Angeles Poet’s Society, (where his work
can be found “Spotlighted” on their website).
His two (2) volumes of poetry, Under the Radar and Inventory can both be obtained on
Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com, as well as Beyond Baroque Bookstore in Venice, Ca. The
Amber Unicorn in Las Vegas, NV. The Book Monster in Santa Monica, Ca. and City Lights
Bookstore, San Francisco, Ca.

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