Adelaide Literary Magazine No.23

NOVEL AS PAINTING:
THE TIGER’S WIFE
BY TEA OBREHT

by Wally Swist

Lead sentences to monumental novels are character, is on a mission of mercy at an or-
memorable. Gabriel García Márquez opens his phanage beside the sea in a Balkan country
One Hundred Years of Solitude with Colonel attempting to heal deep rifts after years of
Aurelio Buendia facing a firing squad and think- armed conflict. While Natalia and her lifelong
ing about his grandfather telling him the story friend, Zora, finish inoculating the children
about the time he had “discovered ice.” Fran- there, she begins to perceive the secrets per-
cine Prose opens her inimitable American clas- vading the very landscape around her. She also
sic, Household Saints, with how a bride was experiences a deep and haunting mystery sur-
won in a game of pinochle, ''It happened by the rounding her grandfather’s death, which she
grace of God that Joseph Santangelo won his attempts to plumb.
wife in a card game.'' Tea Obreht opens her
novel, The Tiger’s Wife, in an impressionistic Questions abound within her: why did her
prose style, which is kept buoyant throughout grandfather, a renowned physician, chose to
the entire novel: “In my earliest memory, my die in a tumbledown outpost which no one in
grandfather is bald as a stone and he takes me her family had ever heard of before? Why did
to see the tigers. He puts on his hat, his big- exiled himself? There are some of the reasons
buttoned raincoat, and I wear my lacquered why Natalia begins her hero’s journey.
shoes and red velvet dress.”
Afflicted with heartache, Natalia attempts
Obreht is, indeed, a painter and her palette to explore what her grandfather’s state of
includes not only the entire alphabet of words mind may have been that precipitated his de-
but their own hue of colors. The Tiger’s Wife is parture. She plumbs the recollection of their
a postmodern folktale with all of the rich em- weekly trips to the zoo when he would read to
bellishments that one might expect from both her from a well-worn copy of Rudyard Kipling’s
the folk tradition and a sense of a rupture of The Jungle Book. He also told stories of his
postmodern society. Natalia, the novel’s main encounters over many years with “the death-
less man,” an extraordinary immortal and a

vagabond who apparently never aged. She "excellence, originality and accessibility in
also recollects her grandfather telling her the women's writing from throughout the world."
tale of a snowbound winter during World War The prize then included an amount of £30,000
II when the Nazis were kept at bay due to im- cash and the "Bessie," a limited edition bronze
passable roads deep in snow. Natalia never figurine. The Tiger’s Wife was also cited as a
forgot her grandfather’s descriptions of the finalist for the National Book Award for Fiction.
frightening presence of a tiger: hunting, on the
prowl, lurking in the wintry darkness. 1 Hamilton, Ted (25 March 2009). "Student
Artist Spotlight: Tea Bajraktarevic" (interview).
When an unwitting blacksmith kills himself Cornell Daily Sun. Archived 7 March 2012.
accidently, the tiger is opportunistic, but ever Retrieved 12 April 2014.
mysterious. Obreht writes, “ . . . he was ready 2 Simic, Charles (26 May 2011). "The Weird
to fire, strangely calm with the tiger there, al- Beauty of the Well-Told Tale". NYRB
most on him, its whiskers so close and surpris- (nybooks.com). Retrieved 10 May 2011.
ingly bright and rigid. At last, it was done, and 3 Sheehy, Christine (6 May 2011). "Fiction
he tossed the ramrod aside and peered into Addiction: Introducing The Tiger's Wife". The
the barrel, just to be sure, and blew his own New Zealand Herald. Retrieved 22 November
head off with a thunderclap.” What shivers we 2011.
may feel from reading Obreht’s prose prove to 4 Schillinger, Liesl (11 March 2011). "A Mythic
be as icy as they are memorable. Novel of the Balkan Wars". The New York
Times. Retrieved 11 March 2011.
Although essentially being a tale regarding
a deaf-mute girl who befriends an escaped
tiger who fled the zoo, when Obreht was asked
to summarize The Tiger’s Wife by a journalist at
Cornell University, her Alma mater, she replied,
"It's a family saga that takes place in a fictional-
ized province of the Balkans. It’s about a fe-
male narrator and her relationship to her
grandfather, who's a doctor. It's a saga about
doctors and their relationships to death
throughout all these wars in the Balkans." 1

Writing in The New York Review of Books,
Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Charles Simic wrote
that “Tea Obreht is an extraordinarily talented
writer, skilled at combining different types of
narrative — from objective depiction of events
to stories mixing the fabulous and the real — in
a way that brings to mind the novels of Mikhail
Bulgakov, Gabriel García Márquez, and Milorad
Pavić, the Serbian author of Dictionary of the
Khazars.2 Other reviewers cited Obreht’s abil-
ity to blend “fact and folklore, ritual and super-
stition”3 together with “astonishing immediacy
and presence.”4

At 25, Obreht was feted as the youngest
recipient of the prestigious Orange Prize for
Fiction, in 2011, which is recognizes

About the Author:

Wally Swist’s books include Huang Po and the
Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois Universi-
ty Press, 2012), The Daodejing: A New Interpre-
tation, with David Breeden and Steven
Schroeder (Lamar University Literary Press,
2015), and Candling the Eggs (Shanti Arts, LLC,
2017). His new books are The Map of Eternity
(Shanti Arts, 2018), Singing for Nothing: Select-
ed Nonfiction as Literary Memoir (The Oper-
ating System, 2018), On Beauty: Essays, Re-
views, Fiction, and Plays (Adelaide Books.
2018), and the winner of the 2018 Ex Ophidia
Press Poetry Prize, A Bird Who Seems to Know
Me: Poems Regarding Birds & Nature (Ex
Ophidia Press, 2019).

WILL I DIE OF HEAT
STROKE

by Ruth Deming

My metallic gray Nissan with its red racing was the perfect choice. When I sat down to
stripe sped confidently into the parking lot of eat, unwrapping the tissue paper, I realized we
Staples, a seven-minute drive from home. were in a blistering heat wave here in suburban
Friendly Dave installed an anti-virus protector Philadelphia. Luckily I was wearing shorts and a
onto my laptop. tank top.

Back to the car I went, gently placing the en- Let’s back up a moment. In 2011 I had a kidney
cased laptop onto the back seat. I slid in the transplant. Sixteen and a half years on lithium
front, and turned the key in the ignition. Si- for bipolar disorder had ruined my kidneys,
lence. Not a sound. As quiet as a winter snow- both of them. My oft-estranged married
fall. I tried once more. Nothing. Nada. daughter Sarah Lynn donated her kidney to
me. Ah, she really loved me.
“Why didn’t you call me?” asked my boyfriend
Scott later on. “You know I’d do anything for I was not going to sacrifice her 38-year-old kid-
my Ruthie.” ney. I was not going to die of heat stroke on
busy Terwood Road, crumpled up on the side-
I had absolutely no answer for him. walk like a dead mouse.

All I knew was that I would walk home. It My immunosuppressants are two: Prednisone
couldn’t be all that far. A forty-five-minute and Tacrolimus. How fortunate I was to take
walk perhaps. After all it was only a seven- these meds. Prednisone was invented by Ar-
minute drive to get there. thur Nobile in 1950 and sold through various
drug companies. Today its generic version is
With insulin-dependent diabetes, I knew I must incredibly cheap.
fill up on food during the walk home so I
wouldn’t go “low” and pass out. Tacrolimus was discovered in 1987, when I was
a young lass of 42, working as a psychothera-
Dunkin’ Donuts, with its warm brown and pink pist in Bristol, Pennsylvania. Few people knew I
colors, is right there in the parking lot. had bipolar disorder. And I certainly had no
inkling that one day I’d be knocking on the
Walking into DD, I felt the cool of the air- door of Tacrolimus to save me. Or that, in a
conditioning on this hot July day. Studying the twist of fate, my bipolar disorder would vanish,
menu on the wall, I ordered something that
wouldn’t be too sweet. A buttered croissant

like a helium balloon disappearing in the ones. My kids knew what to do with my lifeless
clouds. body: cremate me and toss my ashes into the
Pennypack Creek.
As I sat munching on the buttered croissant
and sipping on ice-cold water, I planned my Step lightly. Step lightly. There on the right was
route home. Straight all the way down Ter- Old Tyme Burgers and Shakes. The last time I
wood Road. was there I’d ordered a cheeseburger and fries
and glass of iced cold water.
I put on my blue long-sleeved shirt to shield me
from the sun. Normally I wear sunscreen since “How is it?” Julie had asked.
a small percentage of transplantees develop
skin cancer. Not me. I would walk in the shade “Oh, it’s delicious,” I said, swiveling on my stool
at a brisk pace. with the red cushion.

Out of the air-conditioned doughnut shop I Step lightly. Step lightly. I thought of hitch-
came, bursting into the inferno of the day. hiking the rest of the way home. Not a good
idea. When I attended Goddard College in
“You can do it,” I said to myself. My body re- Plainfield, Vermont, I’d hitched and a dirty old
mained cool from the A/C for less than five man with tufts of nose hair had picked me up. I
minutes. It was eleven a.m. The sun shone with knew if I needed to, I could open the door and
a malevolence as if it would burn me alive like roll out. This was no Ted Bundy, serial killer,
Joan of Arc. who popped his victims in his van with no door
handles.
And what was this fairy-tale that I’d be home in
forty-five minutes? Step lightly. Step lightly.

A stillness prevailed over me. My wandering Off to the right was the office of my nephrolo-
mind never wandered. All I thought of was the gist, voted “Best Doctor” in Philadelphia by his
next step ahead of me. peers.

Damn! My shoelace was loose. I had bought a “Why?” I asked the slightly balding Dr. Ghan-
pair of cheap black sneakers at the mall and tous.
had painted them – yellow, blue, red, and gold
– and stooped down to tie them in double- “They say I spend a lot of time with my pa-
knots. How vulnerable I felt as the traffic tients.”
whizzed by.
He would always tell me the creatinine level of
Onward I marched. What if I panic, I thought, my new kidney. “Point seven or point eight,”
and fall down in a faint. he’d say.

What if a car careens off the road and kills me. “That’s excellent,” he’d tell me in his slight Leb-
Well, at least they would know the identity of anese accent. He always boosted my self-
the dead: a tiny – four-foot nine - 72-year-old esteem when I left his office and drove home, a
woman. quick five minutes away. I rarely veer far from
home.
My gray canvas backpack was securely
attached to my back. My driver’s license would My shadow on the sidewalk revealed my une-
identify me. My hair was blonde on the license ven shoulders. A reminder of an operation the
photo, unlike now, when it’s a lovely fake red. same year as my kidney transplant for my dev-
About two-hundred people would mourn my ilishly painful sciatica, an unstoppable pain,
death – I was the founder and director of New both day and night, that ran from the toes on
Directions, a support group for people with my left foot all the way up to my left buttock.
depression, bipolar disorder and their loved
Thankfully my plantar fasciitis had finally gone

away. Exercises I did every morning did no “Yow!” I cried out in pain. My sweaty feet stuck
good and made the bottom of my left foot ache to the sneakers I had worn without socks.
even worse. Were the opposite sides of my “Yow!” I hollered again. A blister had formed
foot engaged in a boxing match? beneath my right toe.
Bent over double, I limped into my bedroom,
My whole health history revealed on this walk fell on my face on the mattress and slept for an
home. entire hour.
Not bad for a woman of seventy-two.
When I walked the slight breeze I created
cooled me off a bit. Not so when I waited to About the Author:
cross a busy street. The seconds ticked off as I
waited for the light to change. I’d touch my Ruth Z. Deming is a poet and short story writer
toes to keep up my momentum. who lives in Willow Grove, PA, a suburb of
Philadelphia. Her works have been published in
The sun seemed to drain the life from me. Was Mad Swirl, Literary Yard, Scarlet Leaf Review
my blood thick and viscous? Desperately, I and other writing venues. She runs New
wanted to run, like I did as a kid. Seventy-two Directions, a support group for people with
isn’t terribly old but my legs and a foot whose depression, bipolar disorder and their loved
bones, two years ago, had literally broken in ones. "Yes I Can: My Bipolar Journey" details
several places would not bow to my wishes. her triumph over bipolar disorder. A mental
health advocate, she educates the public about
Walk spritely. Walk spritely. this treatable illness.

One fear was left as I neared my yellow house
on Cowbell Road. My three-bedroom house
where I lived alone - now that my two children
were on their own - was at the top of a hill.
Whatever energy I had left would require a
massive effort to make it to the top of the hill.

Looking at my colorful sneakers, I bounded up
the hill. There was Sean’s mail truck parked in
its usual spot. Did I care? There was my favor-
ite house made of warm brown wood and the
tall ornamental grasses on the lawn. Did I care?

Finally I burst through the church-red door into
my house. Thank God I was home. I turned up
the A/C, went into the kitchen and splashed
cold water on my face.

The clock over the sink read 1:30. It had taken
two whole hours to walk home.

On my white Ikea shelves, I chose a tall glass,
stuck it under the water dispenser on the out-
side of the fridge, and listened as cold water
splashed into the glass, like Niagara Falls. I took
small sips, gasping with relief at each swallow.

Sitting on the stairs, I carefully removed each
sneaker.

TWILIGHT

by Richard Dinges

Twilight Suffocation

Shadows hide in Long after echoes
twilight, hide in fade from closed
banality of dim door, I remember
skies cracked by toilet water hugs
blurred limbs. Limbs and pickled kisses.
sway spasmodically My father's family
in wind's whispers. suffocated with hot
A judgment of a day hellos and goodbyes
that promised sharp lines to begin and end
between light and dark, wakes, unable to
now slips quietly dispel loneliness
over a gray horizon. for a child seated
A judgment recasts on a chair, weeping
on the other side. openly among all
After night's long slumber those dry averted eyes,
we awake to face hands clasped coldly
the east once more. in silent hard laps.

Satisfied Clay

We walk, my dog Immersed in mist
and I, around this shallow shed from a gray
pond with unseen depths. distance, a veil
She pauses to peruse odors rises between
left behind by other me and what lies
wanderers. I ponder beyond, perhaps
a horizon that spreads eternity or just
gold to orange to red. another day.
Beside us, sky shimmers I flow into
at our feet, riffled by wind, this gentle rain,
a chill that shudders. each drop a damp
I do not look down. fairy kiss, until
I may look back, I sop and shiver.
and walk on, follow I lose what warmth
my dog, satisfied I can spare. Just
she knows the way. to that point
where I may blend
with mud, my
waterproof self
awakens and
I emerge from
my cocoon.

Dreams About the Author:

Future dreams emerge
between clouds
clouds block sun long
mask shadows
a world less black
less white less
vibrant closer
to expectations
pupils adjust
eyes see trees
broken limbs
missing leaves
wave gracefully
passing birds
a flurry of feathers
I want to grasp
carry me toward
that horizon where
sun shines.

Richard Dinges, Jr. has an MA in literary stud-
ies from University of Iowa, and manages infor-
mation security risk at an insurance company.
North Dakota Quarterly, Former People Jour-
nal, Stickman Review, Bitchin’ Kitsch, and Thin
Air most recently accepted his poems for their
publications.

INTO THE BLIZZARD

by Kathy Robertson

Fall Festivities Homeward bound we lick
double-scooped cones
During our annual drive as a syrupy sunset
we rediscover blazes the horizon
the buttery meadows while honking V formations—
meandering amongst black on orange—
Niagara Escarpment bluffs take flight to southern climes
decked in colourful coats under the benediction
of the season—burgundy, of a harvest moon.
gold, scarlet, plum—
as sun’s rays
torch the landscape.

Crisp, crinkly leaves
crunch underfoot
as we stop to survey
roadside stands bursting
with seasonal produce—
apples, grapes, pumpkins
carefully chosen and bagged—
while fermenting flora
waft on scented breezes.

INTO THE BLIZZARD

The blizzard of the world has crossed the
threshold and it’s overturned the order of the
soul.
Leonard Cohen

It’s a blinding blizzard About the Author:

the kind that shrouds
well-worn paths
to safe harbours
where snow surges
throughout the night
flinging flurries
whipped by prevailing
westerly winds
weeping ominous wails
like a fog horn at sea.

Red-eyed at 3:00 a.m. Canadian writer Kathy Robertson is the author
of Poetic Ponderings. Her work has appeared in
he studies the storm literary journals and anthologies including Voic-
es Israel, Crannóg Literary Journal, Taj Mahal
from his bedroom window— Review, The Avocet, The Banister, The Ontario
Poetry Society, and Tower Poetry Society. Most
his anguished soul chaotic recently, she is published in Tamaracks: Cana-
dian Poetry for the 21st Century by Lummox
as the tumultuous tempest— Press in California. Kathy was a performing
literary artist for the 2018 Cambridge Celebra-
then begins to comprehend tion of the Arts, a presenter at the Bluewater
that only as he trudges Reading Series in Sarnia, Ontario and a panelist
into the blizzard at a literary event discussing the topic From
can he emerge Monologue to Dialogue with keynote speaker
John Greenwood.
chastened and whole
on the other side.

WHISPERS

by Makayla Minnich

Whispers

When I am still, I start to think,
And thinking rarely serves me well.
My mind recalls hurt feelings, fear,
And empty threats on which to dwell.

A foreign voice spits, “no one cares,”
A chilling laugh taunts, “second-rate!”
“You’re all alone,” the shadows sneer,
“You’re not enough, child, it’s too late!”

These thoughts do more than come and go,
They bury deep, untouched by light.
They wait for me to drop my guard
And creep upon me late at night.

I’ve heard that I should tell my friends,
But won’t admission prove me weak?
Distraction is the way I’ve found
To make the night not quite as bleak

A movie can divert my eyes.
A blasting song may close my ears.
An easy book might stall the whispers.
Funny jokes will block the tears.

Depression paints the world in gray,
But keeping busy is the key.
Now, when I say, “I’m fine, just tired”
Others never question me.

Capture the Flag The thought of being so accused
Left her speechless and confused,
The teenage girl trudged up the hill But as she raised her hand to slap,
In low-topped shoes that fit her ill. She changed her mind and took it back.
She grumbled as she took the hike A boy like that would never get
To play a game she did not like. Just why his words had made her hit
Him, so she turned around and went
When she finally reached the top, Back to her room so she could vent.
She found that she had missed a lot
Of rules about the game of flags About the Author:
For which the teens used plastic bags.
Makayla Minnich was homeschooled through
The distant sky of misty black high school and attended Lancaster Bible Col-
Would make the flag quite hard to track lege where she received an associate degree in
By light of stars all frosty white Business. She enjoys Theater and Dance, and
That set the mood that winter night. spends most of her free time reading. Makayla
has written many short stories and poems but
As teams were picked and she was not, prefers to write for the enjoyment of it rather
She knew that she would soon get caught. than to publish them.
She found it hard to run in snow,
She couldn't help that she was slow.

Her captain placed her as a scout.
The game began, and she set out.
The game was played like hide-and-tag
While hunting for the other flag.

She wasted time in no man's land,
And nothing went quite like she planned
Until she saw a boy run by
Right where she sat, a perfect spy.

"Now's my chance!" she thought with joy,
And darted off to tag the boy.
The ground was slick, but still she tried
To catch him so she'd save her pride.

She tagged him just before he tapped
The base where half his team was trapped,
But to her shock, they all returned
To their own side, escape unearned.

When she charged him with the act
Of cheating, he returned attack,
And said that she had cheated too,
A thing that she knew wasn't true.

GRANITE

by Elizabeth Spragins

Granite
a stream of pebbles
trickles down the fractured face—
rivulets of rain
tug an acorn from its tomb
deep within the wrinkled rocks
~Mount Desert Island, Maine

Jewels
daybreak polishes
dew drops pearled on linden leaves
with emerald fire
iridescent damselflies
dance the darkness from my heart
~Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden, Richmond,
Virginia

Shooting Star

fingers of a breeze
sweep the strings that tether stars—
silver serenade
that blazes in the blackness
kindles balefires* in my bones

~Fairbanks, Alaska

*Large open-air fires that serve as beacons or
celebratory elements

Mourning Band About the Author:

the snake encircles
limbs that cradle unfledged young—
a ribbon of black
burns the arm of her husband
as his fist pounds blood-red clay

~Appomattox Court House, Virginia

Avalanche Elizabeth Spencer Spragins is a poet, writer,
and editor who taught in American community
the mountain shudders colleges for more than a decade. Her tanka and
and rolls a restless shoulder bardic verse in the Celtic style have been pub-
weary of winter lished in England, Scotland, Canada, Indonesia,
ice bears* unfold rumpled sheets India, Mauritius, and the United States. Recent
of the fragile frozen seas work has appeared in the Lyric, Rockvale Re-
view, Blueline, Halcyon Days, Page & Spine,
~Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, Alaska and flash & cinder. Publication updates are
available on her website:
*Polar bears www.authorsden.com/elizabethspragins.

OPEN BOOK

by Dominique Williams

The Consequences of a Dream

A bitter truth wrapped in translucence
A fervent hope dashed upon consciousness
A trip to Utopia
A descent into Hell

Memories revealed as an abandoned home;
It’s paint and wallpaper peeling off of the walls
And rotting interior festooned with cobwebs

With only a sliver of sunlight allowed inside,
I find a standing lamp’s cord resting next to a wall plug;
Their absent connection a distant memory

It’s there I seek the departed in every corner of my slumbered imagination
Hiding behind a curtain of sub-consciousness, they refuse to manifest
And do not follow my script
They reside only in a chamber of recollections
As Invisible apparitions
And when sometimes only their ghastly version emerges
I make my hasty retreat back to wakefulness

Perhaps if I drew the curtain and plugged in the standing lamp,
They could be enticed to come forth bathed in a light of comfort

And it wouldn’t hurt anymore

When the silent movie ends, I awake
With a tearful grimace
Or a smile
Or with relief

And I resurrect
And accept the consequences of my chimerical journey

Waverly Place and the Dying Swan

A gentle breeze of recollection returns me to what no longer exists
Floating in a sea of memories in an 1800’s rowhouse in Greenwich Village, I reunite with my par-
ents, their youth and beauty shaming the cruelty of time

And I am able to dance again—no longer the well-worn model of myself, I Gracefully leap across
the creaky parquet floor ignorant of the disrupted peace our downstairs neighbor suffers

And upon that floor:
The swan dies again and again
The broken-hearted peasant girl chooses eternity over romantic rejection
I multiply myself into four versions of my cygnet self
I recreate a tragic Russian puppet and a hypnotic German doll.
The clock strikes midnight and I keep losing my shoe
And bad timing repeatedly causes my tragic end in a darkened crypt

Outside our apartment window, a series of dramatizations unfold before me
I perch on my window seat: a simple pine chest decorated with a red clown motif, stuffed with cos-
tumes, toys and drawing pads
I have the best seat in the house as a story of outcasts parade below me on Waverly Place:

Two women drag their lovers quarrel to the street--their dance is a violent one
My youthful intuition foresees their unhappy end

A gentleman with long dirty hair and a beard relives the pain of his life on a fire escape across the
street
He screams his operatic pain all night long as his lady friend watches helplessly
It seems he bought a ticket to the wrong destination

When the glorious sunlit morning has banished the previous night’s demons, I espy that same gen-
tleman on the street with his walking stick
He and his paramour on the balcony share a longing look indicating their shared anguish, her en-
treating posture heart-wrenching to behold.
But he turns away and limps down the street never to return.

And there were the twins; two aged and unseemly creatures not unlike an amalgam of characters
Rendered by The likes of Charles Addams and Edward Gorey
Funny, they were never seen apart
They simply creeped
They watched
They existed
I wonder what ever became of them
Perhaps they died together

Inside our railroad flat all seems well
My father goes out to teach and he goes out to paint in a water bug-infested studio on Christopher
Street
And he sleeps a lot
After holding court all night
He always seems so happy for someone who grew up in Europe watching lots of people die
I guess that’s how he learned to love life
I guess that’s how he learned to be an artist
But the demons
Meanwhile,
My mother reads to me
She prepares me for the dance
We mess our hands with flour and water and torn bits of shredded newspaper
And complete the edge pieces

And she keeps quiet about her pain

I witness a perpetual list of the intellectual and artistic, visiting my parents on a regular basis
They eagerly make their pilgrimage to Waverly Place
Indifferent to the laborious climb up the two long flights of linoleum-covered stairs

As the chiming melodies of their ice-filled cocktails provides an accompaniment to the classical mu-
sic playing on the turntable
They sit in our living room bearing their souls, exchanging thoughts on art, literature and philoso-
phy,
And gossip about each other
Their forms appear ethereal in a cloud of cigarette haze

And I sit in the audience, rapt
I don’t belong, I am not part of the play

I’m too young
Will I be as interesting and have as much fun when I grow up?
Are they so different from the beleaguered souls floating through the streets of Waverly Place?
Am I?
I wait by the stage door for someone to let me in

Time to go to bed

But the next day, my mother wakes me up and I go to school and I go to ballet class and she will
read to me and we will mess our hands in an art project and complete the edge pieces

And I look out the window
And I create my own theatre

And the swan will die again and again on the creaky parquet floor.

Open Book

Now and again I relive the pain of having been left emotionally bereft by those to whom I once
chose to hand myself over. A brief ecstasy of Spring’s miraculous rebirth found its way into my soul,
my exultation only to be soon dashed by a cruel winter’s icy death.

Thus I learned: don’t be an open book and do not rush to utter your poem to him for surely it will
end in bloodshed, not poignancy.

Was a history of amorous road accidents my cruel destiny? Many times I pondered and wept over
how the purity of youthful love could have evaded me. Is not the youthful tragedy of heartache
everyone’s legacy as the perfect allegory of the starry-eyed duo in the grandest love story of all?

But every ardent encounter begun with a stanza of purity only ended a sullied epilogue. It seems I
forgot to play the part of an enigma lovingly deciphered by my paramour. Instead, my open book
was carelessly tossed over their shoulders in favor of less complicated delights. They could have at
least read the cliff notes.

In time, I learned to read my own book. And I found: if my poem does not correspond with his po-
em, still the spring will turn to summer, the summer will turn to fall, the fall will turn to winter, the
winter will turn to spring and I will thaw.

Epilogue: My book remains open and someone finally read it.

About the Author:

Dominique Stavropoulos Williams is a native
New Yorker who holds degrees in Illustration
and Interior Design. She is a former dancer and
a member of SAG-AFTRA. Her poems have
been published in Adelaide Literary Magazine,
Better Than Starbucks and The Big Windows
Review. One of her works will soon be appear-
ing in The Voices Project. She writes a blog fo-
cusing on Interior Design, Architecture and Art
and has additionally written for Array Maga-
zine, a design trade publication. She lives in
New York’s East Harlem with her husband and
grey tabby rescue cat.

IN THIS GREAT AND
COMPLEX WORLD

by Carla Carlson

GREETING THE BUSINESSMAN AFTER INDIA I feel my body
sinking into a coffin.
I have no say
over the sky’s I move closer
to the sound of rain—
grey determinations.
My husband drives rich jingle of coins
on trucks and pavement.
a motorized toothbrush
into his mouth.

He’s still jet-lagged.
A problem is a thing

one must change.
A kiss. A volume.

In the darkness
of the bedroom

IN THIS GREAT AND COMPLEX WORLD THE MORNING AFTER WATCHING A FRENCH
FILM
I look at the rose
her thoughtful veins How silent is
like a special woman the crowd of people
who’s unrepentant rising in apartments.
wrapped in crystal, stapled
in Manhattan, at the corner The way to sit
of 44th and Park. is known,
Noticed, she’s an eon the way to eat,
of silent arpeggios, the way to plant seeds.
laughter, a gentle madness,
closer to beauty I have in my own way
at every angle her head caused damage,
is turned. I tell myself. Each
person discovers what it is,
cleans the grit,
replaces the dead bulb.

A woman
is a world.
A man is a world.
Where they connect
is a third world.

My husband
desires a god.
Understanding such,
I soften. Here,
the future me writes—
look at Marie, who is blind
and deaf and locked.
I pass love through my hands
over his papery lips.

DAISY ANXIETY VS. LIGHT

Freezing, I am alone I have no answer
on the lawn when my son heaves down
before others rise in the chair across mine.
thinking time He taps his fingers—
is my domain. Aristotle said
I enjoy it. Somewhat. light is the activity
Do you wish of what is transparent.
for greater detail? Who am I?
No. I presume I’m wearing persimmon
you’ll prefer I remain because’s the sun’s reticent—
a voice, as I wish it’s how I make light.
my masters to seem The sky is blue
forever strange. because molecules scatter
I have come a long way blue light more so than
to tell you what you red, orange, yellow.
can expect from me. At the river we are fascinated
A young man wails. by reflections on water,
He can’t breathe. red paint, peacock splotch.
He can’t stop craving What if he’d listen to me—
noodles. The sky is the woman who nursed him.
subversively blue.
My head throbs
in the sunshine.
This is what I wanted
to tell you—I cannot
change the world.

About the Author:

Carla Carlson teaches poetry at The Writing
Institute at Sarah Lawrence College where she
earned her MFA in 2015. She is the author of
the chapbook Love and Oranges, Finishing Line
Press, and has poems published in print and
online journals such as Statorec.com, The Mom
Egg, Columbia Review, Prelude Magazine, and
YES Poetry. She volunteers her time at the
Hudson Valley Writers Center in Sleepy Hollow,
NY, where she co-runs a submission coopera-
tive. She lives in Bronxville, NY with her hus-
band.

IN ANOTHER MAN’S
POEM

by Gordon Roberts

After the Service On My Way
for Rudianne
a sad angel you are
After the service squatting to guard the
After the prayers doors to purgatory
After the family gathering with cowering gaze
Going through his stuff I await your okay
My sister shows me judgment from a sad angel -
His All-Star Cons in blue suede laughable, grotesque -
His feet were narrow admit me to the place of
Mine are wide impermanence, so I
But I took them anyway can pay my dues and be
Wondering if I’d dare on my way.
To walk in his shoes

In another man’s poem

In another man’s poem
I am a midnight hunter, with a coin in my mouth as
he perches me on a ferry’s bow beside
the boatman’s living light – below –
eels on a black river.

In an ex-lover’s poem
I am a gypsy with bare feet
She browns me on the river’s beach -
banks dismal and water murky -
her poem sends a crocodile to seize my knees.

Who am I in my own poems?
Diluted black-ink night, grey is my regard
as I sicken, poised against a railing and
head hanging over the water’s slithering surface -
in my own lines, I drown.

Things no one will inherit

Grandma’s woolen blanket, repaired over the years
bought in New Jersey for the trip to Germany
on her ocean liner honeymoon
in the roaring 20s wrapped her shoulders warm
through Vermont winters
now my feet
in bed
worn thin by a hundred years of holes now
unequivocally the Danish winters will wear it down

Grandma’s expectations for circumcision that my cock carries
will not rock on
Her daughter had me, I had no one

Grandma bought into ‘deny yourself’
the price of acceptance in her New World
this German Jew immigrant at 5
arrived before the world wars
fell for an atheist goy
let her children chose their own
religion
When I emigrated I bought into the same story
Blanketing my passion for coaching basketball
in the Danish tongue
lost the soul of the game – keep your eye on the ball
In my family, that lesson is learned but will not be passed along

what has moved from Europe to the states and back again
is the mistaken attempt to assimilate at the cost of lost integrity

Grandma gave my parents two matching upholstered chairs
for their wedding - re-upholstered by them at least 5 times
made their every living-room move
my father still had his mother-in-law’s chairs when he died
my brother packed them for the flight to Denmark
I re-upholstered them from their inherited California yellow to royal blue
like the lost integrity, the chairs keep changing living-rooms and color

The chairs will end on a bonfire
like the current trend of burning authors publicly
for being different
those who challenge us to see across generations
to embrace across oceans
to venture to question what we’ve inherited
will end their usefulness with me

About the Author:

I am an ex-pat, living in Denmark for almost 40
years. I’ve published poems in now extinct
journals such as The Piedmont Literary Review
and San Fernando Poetry Journal. Also, in the
70s, I was co-editor of the college poetry maga-
zine for my college in Dubuque, Iowa. In the
80s and 90s I edited books for academic Danes
writing in English, performed sound poetry in
bars, wrote scripts for and performed in politi-
cal street theater. I continue to write poems to
this day and again I’m curious to find out what
others think of them.

ALL THIS LOVE

by Jared Pearce

Computer Chess of self-deceit or the surprising leap
from revelatory knights
I keep clicking undo to hold that Queen
to trace my losing
streak, to find out so she’ll see me and want me.
I’m always back at the game’s beginning,
all my mistakes. fretting over the pawns of diet
If I go another way,
if I had allowed my brother and so many hours slept, holding
dear to my rooks for the endgame—
to tag along more often, the end that comes no matter
or if I had not lied to my friends
to protect my embarrassment, how far back I go or how
much I can erase of where
or if I had been more subtle I started or how I got here.
or more striking, would the children
be happy then? And with her,

what could I have done
better to love? I’m not sure
I can find my way past those bishops

All this Love Cutting

She’s working to remove the grass, One would have her leg
the grass I’ve worked to grow and green, hacked, another an arm—
the welcome mat I’m holding out such appendages seem easy
to God, she wants turfed for flowers, to divide. But others went
for fashion: buttocks
a giant stone, and when I arrive I see and trim the thighs, or my head
her cutting the yard into patches, rubbing must be ten percent my body
her sore wrist from mining the clover. mass. And some for bits to cheat
She hopes I’m not angry because loss by removing every other toe,
one ear, the incisors, hair.
she loves me, she says, she wants me
to rip my lawn in half, she wants a thousand Until she said her
hours of care sacrificed at her delphinium too big breasts, worthless
altar, she’s willing to wait two hours lobes, too in-the-way,
too defining, the two great balls
for me to finish knifing my weekend bits chaining me to womanhood,
to a rubbish pile. It takes me a little making me a sex—these stones
longer because I’ve got to pick the grubs strapping me in a drowning
out the roots and feed them to the robins. when what I want is to be held
with a light grace, apart
from what I am or am not.

Dad’s Staying at My Home (1) Dad’s Staying at My Home (3)

Before breakfast I’m listening beside the cur- When he slips between rooms, he tips
tains: on the light switch, does what he sees
Birds, I say, out at the feeder; a couple, maybe. he had wanted, and then leaves, the room
Quite a few, Dad says. He pours milk blazing like seventh heaven through the winter.
on his porridge and in a bite halves his toast.
As a youth I was vigilant to keep those
He has explained he knew, when my aunt died, unused lights dead—Dad had economized
that he could pull her back from beyond the the California darkness, pared-down
veil my wasteful flicks, until I was a Tarzan
drawn over her irrevocable blue eyes,
but he also knew God had stopped him cold. swinging from circuit to circuit. Now I tread
on the light he wings sparking the house
I don’t remember if I told him I had a vision— with electric bolts. Look up, boy, he says,
if it had mattered that I had seen the face of and the miniature angels burrow into my
God, brains.
that at one point I, too, had touched back
my mind’s drapery and counted every sparrow.

About the Author:

Jared Pearce's poems have recently been or
will soon be shared in Aji, Wilderness House,
Triggerfish, Valley Voices, and Your Impossible
Voice. The Annotated Murder of One, his first
collection, was released from Aubade Press last
year (www.aubadepublishing.com/annotated-
murder-of-one).

CERTAIN THINGS

by Steven Lebow

I. II.

Today is Tuesday. Tomorrow will be
I have begun to think about the day after today. I begin to wonder
certain things. if one day will resemble the other.

Women, wearing tight skirts, It doesn’t matter, in the sense
pass me by. I make asides that I can forget
they don’t respond to. or mistake one day for another.

A piece of paper hurries by I can remember, too,
and a tree shakes its fist. Certain things I have left;
I move out of both of their paths. today, tomorrow, the day after that.

Then the sunlight shifts The hair on my face
from air to land. Pushes its way through the skin.
I walk up steps, only to forget I remember that it’s time

which step it is I’ve climbed? to take a razor up again.

About the Author: Penny Shorts, Flash Fiction Magazine, the Scar-
let Leaf Review, Down in the Dirt, Literary
Rabbi Steven Lebow has published mystery, Heists and Danse Macabre.
horror, and science fiction stories in Aphelion
Magazine of Science Fiction, Infernal Ink, Liter-
ally Stories, The Bitchin' Kitsch, The Airgonaut,

NOTHING LEFT TO SAY

by George Freek

THE DEAD (After Mei Yao Chen) NOTHING LEFT TO SAY (After Su Tung Po)

A sultry breeze weakens, The sparrow builds her nest,
as the dying sun but the wren sleeps in it.
falls like a ball of lead. The world’s a nasty place,
A raven searches for carrion, even for the human race.
hovering above my head. Stars fade on a bleak night,
I walk the lake shore alone. and December winds
I walk like a man made of stone. nose through the streets
If she were alive my wife like hungry swine,
would walk by my side. searching for scraps to eat.
My thoughts are disconnected. The moon climbs the sky,
Like dead leaves like a curtain on a play,
they scatter in the wind. but the show is old and stale,
The leaves fall at my feet. and the end is predetermined.
Tonight they will deepen The stars go out one by one.
when I finally sleep. I can only turn away.

DESIDERATA (After Li Po)
Black clouds disturb my mind.
As I walk in their shadow,
they absorb the light.
Their dialogue is with the night.
The gentle moon goes up alone.
I know nothing of what it thinks.
Its meaning is unknown,
but it won’t go away.
Crows curse the sky.
Nothing replies.
My life has been wasted.
But there is no God
to whom I can apologize.

About the Author:

George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Bel-
videre, IL. His play BECOMING STRANGERS was
recently published in Turkey. Other plays are
published by Playscripts, Inc.; Lazy Bee Scripts;
and Off The Wall Plays.

LONELINESS IS
RARELY IMAGINED

by Richard LeDue

Because The Doctor Recommended Walking In Bed With a Fever

Noticed a truck parked at your apartment, Evening breeze sneaks in,
and wonder if you're seeing someone new. cool against goosebumps,
even under blankets meant for two.
Why do my legs betray me nightly,
conspire with restless hands, Beads of sweat are lies told
who miss the fingerprints they left to you? by a bored forehead,
who misses your nightly kiss.
Neither of us believe in heaven,
so how is this hell so real? Beneath dry tongue, sad words
scrape open cankers;
Blowing snow might as well be ash mouth stinks of pennies.
falling from the devil's beard,
his laughter the cold wind Pills help my temperature
I can't escape. countdown until darkness
can claim what's left of me.

Sleep brings a memory from summer:
you bra-less, soaked like a flower in rain,
your hand buried in my pants,

heat embraced until our bodies
beg us to stop-
we were never good listeners.

Loneliness is Rarely Imagined
I want to walk and count snowflakes
with you, only to stop:
hood peeled back, hat fallen,
palm naked on red cheek,
fingertips warm against cold neck-
our kiss
meticulous as old love poems
no one has the time to write anymore.
But instead, my footprints punctuate
another day's end, and your's
go in the opposite direction.

About the Author:

Richard LeDue was born in Sydney, Nova Sco-
tia, and has been a teacher for twelve years. He
currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba. He
has work that will be published in the upcom-
ing winter issue of Tower Poetry.

SONATA

by Trivarna Hariharan

Lullaby Reflection

Listening In the stillness
to our river’s old flow— of an autumn river—
I make peace with myself. I meet a world
untouched by
Sonata the mind.
What shall fill
the absence of Flowering
the flowers that
have fallen from Breath by breath—
our Kadamba? a peony opens itself up
to the joy of being alive.

About the Author: Review, Across the Margin, and others. In Oc-
Trivarna Hariharan is a student of English Liter- tober 2017, Calamus Journal nominated her
ature from India. She has authored There Was poem for a Pushcart Prize. She has served as an
Once A River Here (Les Editions du Zaporogue), editor-in-chief at Inklette, and a poetry editor
The Necessity of Geography (Flutter Press) and for Corner Club Press. Besides writing, she
Letters I Never Sent (Writers Workshop, Kolka- learns the Electronic Keyboard, and has com-
ta). Her poems appear or are forthcoming from pleted her 4th Grade in the instrument from
Right Hand Pointing, Noble/Gas Quarterly, En- Trinity College of Music, London.
tropy, Third Wednesday, Otoliths, Sweet Tree

BLAKEAN REPROSE

by Alex Bastianini

Blakean reprose
there’s a giggling babe
with a face full of life
she tells a young old tale
of where we came and
what we were born
she tells a young old tale
of fears not yet with form
and without words articulate
in a state of innocent bliss
with a mother’s love her own
she tells a young old tale

The trapeze ego

There is no right or wrong answer
it’s a resonance between two decisions.

This can be just as encouraging as it is frightening
because the trapeze act
is a display no more than of suspense.
the trapezist knows the decision
except the superego incites angst.

The tightrope’s wrangle
is the uncertainty of
the other’s response
that may be predetermined, by
teeters of the subconcious:
stirring rage, wonder and longing, each
in direct conflict of another.
ambiguously resonating,
a mystery of compassion,
or is it undetermined?

This is the daring performance
the id plays for the self.

About the Author:

To Alex Bastianini poetry is about exploration,
this is why his writing style tends to vary from
whimsical, experimental, and phenomenologi-
cal subjects. Through his writing, Alex hopes to
inspire curiosity and a sense of wonder in read-
ers to be able to express theirselves. Alex Bas-
tianini is from Pittsburgh, PA, he holds a degree
in English studies and enjoys acting, comedy,
and writing.

I AM AN AFRICAN

by Okoli Stephen

I AM AN AFRICAN I am an African
Not a negro
I am an African, I'm not helpless
Not black So, don't pity me.
I'm dark, with bright brilliant colour
Bold and strong 'Twas through your pity,
Gifted You milk my cattle
Talented 'Twas through your pity,
And crafty You harvested my crops
'Twas through your pity,
Dark I am You stole ideas from Africa
Not black And brought to America.
So, don't pity me
I am an African,
I am an African Not black
Not a monkey So, don't pity me
My colour is a victim
Just like my poor health
Dark I am
Not black
So, don't pity me

IF ONLY HE COULD TALK About the Author:

History said... ÓKÓLÍ STEPHEN NÓNSÓ is a poet and an essay-
At child birth ist from Nigeria. He is the winner of 2014
The blade was lost SOASA AIFCE creative writing competition in
But found it way poetry, a number of his poems has been pub-
Through the face of an innocent child lished in some online magazine such as praxis
Revealing his tribe. magazine,Tuck magazines and some other rep-
utable blogs. His poems come from the heart
Reality reveals... and a desire to share words of joy and happi-
At adulthood ness. He believes that poetry can be used as a
The wounds healed tools to solving societal ills.
But the scars remain
To remind him
The tears he shed
And the blood he lost.

If only that innocent child could talk
He would have said NO!
His looks reveals his tribe
And the scars now signpost
Of his miseries
He now carries tattoos
With scars of hate,
Favouritism
And TRIBALism

If only that innocent child could talk
He would have said No!

ALIVE DAY

by Ashley Ener

ALIVE DAY

You don’t know you’re in something till it’s over
You don’t know you’ve made an impact till it’s past

Ever changing
Ever still

One minute you’re sixteen wanting to make a difference
The next you’re nineteen questioning everything

Ever changing
Ever still

On the news you saw their faces stoic, solemn, sedate
You felt the pull to brotherhood, to fight, to save

Ever changing
Ever still

Their caskets covered in freedom and sacrifice
The price they paid, you wanted to make

Ever changing
Ever still

You’re waiting for the order that never comes
Swept away by the blast, dust blocking your view

Ever changing
Ever still

You’re fighting for the men at your side;
To keep the war from reaching home

Ever changing
Ever still

Sand. Blood. Bone. The hole you’re in is painted red.
The tourniquets you used to tie his life in.

Ever changing
Ever still

You wake from the memory that is always with you,
You check your hands to make sure they’re clean of blood

Ever changing
Ever still

You can’t explain why you were able to come home.
Why you? Why you? Why you?

Ever changing
Ever still

You don’t know the impact you made for your brother you wouldn’t let death take.
A brother whose grave stands empty today.

Ever changing
Ever still

Nineteen. Then Twenty-six. Nineteen. Then Twenty-six.
One breath you’re there, then you’re home, then back again.

Ever changing
Ever still

TILL DEATH DO US PART

The night promised friendship and fun.
It had been months since the air around us
was light and full of laughter.

Over the pooltable, the lights swayed in the wind.
Most of us had been drinking more than our share.

Our friendship had once brought me a brother.
Yet, there we were, standing opposite an old bar table
as almost strangers.

I would have cut you out of my life months before.
But I was soon to be chained to you till death do us part.

The longer I’ve stayed, the deeper the cut,
the tighter the grip, the hotter the rage.
The stronger the pull and love to the one you call brother.

That day had already brought me pain.
Inhibition gone, I naively trusted you with it.
Old habits die hard.

The laughter of our friends and the clicking
of the pool sticks faded out.
Your words reached me through my back
and into my heart.

The words tumbled out of your mouth as if
like me, they meant nothing to you,
Dripping down my back, staining as they
left a sticky clotted trail.

For the longest time your painful attempts
to get me to leave were only felt by my back.
Now you have made the final push of the knife
so everyone can see what you’ve done.

About the Author:

Ashley Ener is a 26 year old writer from Texas.
She is currently pursuing an Associate of Arts
degree at Lone Star College. She has loved
reading all her life and has been known to read
multiple books at the same time. She also has a
love for art, Paris, Audrey Hepburn, Farrah
Fawcett and anything related to Christmas.

TEENAGE ANGST

by Omar Reyes

Teenage Angst

i was never really
in love
i was only
sleepwalking
with a loaded
gun
aimed at your forehead
15 miles away
comfortably decaying
on an empty twin bed
covered in batman sheets
listening to my favorite band
singing about broken
body parts
dancing alone like
happy ghosts under
red lights
writing poems about
your pussy and
how there was nothing
that i wouldn’t do
to get it

About the Author:

Omar Alexandre lives in Miami, Florida. He is
an aspiring writer/filmmaker who recently
completed his first short film and one of his
music videos will be screened during the 16th
annual Miami Short Film Festival. His poems
have been published in In Between Hangovers,
Your One Phone Call, and Juste Milieu. Follow
him on Instagram @alexandre88.

HONEY JARS II

by Allie Rigby

Bones

Where I am from, women have broken
fingernails that dig in the dirt
like badgers, looking for bones. Bones
mean yes, a lovely spot for pansies.
Plant two there. We scrub our hands
before dinner. We get the dead
dirt rubbed off our palms like it was bad,
what we did in the garden.
It’s always bad, what we do (in the garden.)

We water bone-grown flowers
with heads hung heavy like bells,
all wet and droopy like sad snails.
We water and water and keep watering,
water until it feels better, our heavy heads.
Mama says it will feel better. Keep watering.
And I always do what mama says.
When we are done watering, we dig
and scrub our hands before dinner.
It is hard to get dirt (in the garden)
off the bones and then we eat.

sea slug

i watched hermit crab silhouettes, three, just the triangle shells
sail through painted pools, ignorant of sunset above and my phone battery had died
before i caught a picture of the colors and the clouds.

i held a sea slug three sizes too big. it sunk, oily and drooping like pizza dough, stretched to the
tide-pools from whence it came.

i have slipped on dead man’s fingers before, and laughed at how the tiny cuts sting most.

When It’s Gone Honey Jars II
sun going down, bright light
i want to sip it. Gulped life down To chew a papery thought is a bee.
like good-for-me yogurt. She transfixes paper into spitballs,
thoughts wadded in pulp - stuck
remember at sunset like legs in tar mistaken for water.
how I used to soar?
when my fingers ache She watches - no - envies pollen-studded bees,
arthritis I cry. cannot all the sex flying gold across the orange.
imagine the pain Sweet nectar sway, so easy to miss
of not knotting. the thick thoughts and sticky time.

It’s always the shiny words that glisten
that feel like the words with wings.
Fast breathy expressions are honey.
Slow mumbles glow with poetic taste.

Let rest, the hive. Like mead in glass,
the clarity: pour words into honeycomb cells,
seal the hive with red wax. They too might
sweeten and one day, stir thick, like syrup.

The Artist

Listen to what she says.
Her name is warm chill.
Her name is little mess.
Her name is salt in your eyes.
In art circles and congress
listen to what she says.
Her name is vinegar moth.
Her name is pickled herring.

In public and private, it’s as if
the rubber band holding
her nimble bimble body
is about to snap. So keep not
listening to all the things
you do not want to hear.

About the Author:

Allie Rigby is a Bay Area poet based in cow
country. Conversations and encounters with
the wild stir her hunger for meaning in the
meaningless. Sacred Ground Café in the Haight
-Ashbury neighborhood is her favorite place to
read her work.