Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 50. July 2021

Revista Literária Adelaide

The Shining with lots of friends. My husband though, and I ended up wrestling the tree
and I would paint and re-paint the baseboards, for it; by the time it came loose it was ba-
dinged and scuffed along with screams of sically bare of blossoms. I threw it onto the
laughter. There’s no room for scooters in the patio with a huge “SHIT!” I was shaking
rental we moved into, but I guess the boys petals out of my hair when I noticed little
would be outgrowing them by now. Ashley from next door, sitting on her steps
watching me. Ten minutes later, she was at
My friend, the homeowner, had dropped the back door with two huge handfuls of
off the catering boxes earlier. She knew food wildflowers, roots attached, dripping dirt
helped keep people at an open house, and all over the welcome mat.
she also knew I couldn’t afford the spread. I
opened the Subzero and began to pull out the The food for the open house was all set,
platters of salads and gourmet sandwiches. So so I went down the hall to turn on more
much food. I’d take most of it home and we’d lights. At the end of the hall was one of the
eat it for days. I had bought a bouquet of peo- biggest selling features of the house, a first-
nies with me from our yard. (Well, technically floor bedroom suite. In the listing, I called
our neighbor’s yard; one branch of the peony it an “in-law apartment or au pair suite.”
bush reached out to our fence, as if to say, “Go This room was staged as well, waiting for
ahead, pick me.” It offered, I accepted.) grandma or some sweet young thing from
Germany to come on in and make it theirs.
As I laid everything out on the huge I sat down on the bed for a minute, careful
kitchen island, I thought about all of the not to mess up the throw perfectly placed
dinners and parties we had thrown in our at the corner of the bed.
former house; our kitchen island saw a lot
of action. My husband surely had a previous In our former house, we had an entire
life as a chef; he so loved to cook. We both third floor that we never used. We had
loved to entertain back in those days on grand plans…a craft room for me, a music
Florence Lane. Our huge house was the so- room for my husband. But mainly the two
cial center of the neighborhood, with gath- bedrooms and bath up there were used
erings in our big kitchen and on our wrap- for overflow guests when my family vis-
around porch. Martini Fridays, clambakes in ited. I envisioned it as a space where my
the summer, fondue parties in the winter. mom could come live someday. As much as
The last dinner party in our house was right my mom laughed off the thought, I had a
before our move, with the couple whose feeling she pictured herself cozy and tucked
house I’m standing in now. away up there in her later years.

We had made a favorite meal of every- Whenever the subject came up and
one’s, Korean hot stone bowls. As I set the people joked with my husband about his
table, I blinked away tears. Boxes were al- mother-in-law, he would say that he’d rather
ready packed upstairs. I didn’t want to spend live with her than me - she was way cooler.
money on flowers; that luxury was long in He loved telling people about the Pearl Jam
the rearview mirror. But I had another idea. concert he took us both to. How I had to give
I stepped outside to grab a branch of pink myself an in vitro injection in a broken por-
flowers from a tree on our patio. It would ta-potty while my mom held the door closed,
look beautiful as an Asian centerpiece for yelling for me to hurry because the band was
the table. The branch was thick and tough, starting. How her boyfriend was fourteen

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years younger than her. As our finances got know, so we could go out to lunch and walk
tougher, I spent less and less time up on that through Target without a screaming tod-
third floor. Why bother to make an effort to dler. Our growing bank account and spread-
fix it up? Nesting made no sense when we sheets with worst-case scenarios would
were most likely going to lose the nest. eventually convince me that I might belong
in a house that looked, well, so much like
After prepping the downstairs, I made my this one. We couldn’t imagine then what
way up to the second floor, to turn on lights worst case scenarios were zooming our way.
and open doors. The stager had worked her
modern magic in the master bedroom. (A After we moved in, I remember saying
stripe of purple on the bedspread – she’s to my mother, “I’m just afraid now that
gone wild!) But the other four bedrooms someone will get cancer.” I was living in a
were left bare. I walked from room to room, dream and didn’t trust it.
my shoes echoing in the empty hall. I hadn’t
worn these shoes in years and realized I had She laughed as she poured me a wine.
probably gone up a size since my office days. “I’m sure you’re right. Enjoy it while you can.”

One of the bedrooms looked like it had The open house started; the front door
belonged to a little girl. I turned on the was unlocked, and the sign was out on
lightswitch and a tiny, crystal chandelier il- the manicured lawn. As usual, no one was
luminated the huge room. You could have showing up. This market was horrible. Just
fit four of my childhood bedrooms into this like my timing in starting a real estate career.
one. How I would have loved that chandelier
as a kid. I thought back to my bedroom in What was I doing? The very industry that
our small ranch house, decorated in purple had flattened us was now a place where I was
and green. Mom had wallpapered my walls trying to find success? When the recession hit,
in a lilac flower pattern and had sewed a our home’s value plummeted, and so did my
bright green bedspread with purple trim. husband’s career. He sold mortgage-backed
My grandmother often picked lilacs from securities; the housing crisis was a death
her side yard to place on my nightstand; to knell. Our savings slowly dwindled. Paying
this day the smell reminds me of her. down credit cards changed to avoiding calls
starting with “this is an attempt to collect a
Many years later, that little girl found debt”. We slid down a long, jagged slope to-
herself living in a big fat house in Fairfield, ward foreclosure; we avoided it by the skin of
Connecticut. My husband was doing so well our teeth with a last-minute short sale.
at work that we might as well have been
printing money in our basement. With each I once had a successful career in mar-
quarterly bonus check, we paid down thou- keting; I was a Vice President with a corpo-
sands on our mortgage, put thousands more rate card and car, sitting on a mountain of
into savings, and often planned a purchase frequent flyer miles. But I had walked away
of a piece of furniture, an antique, maybe a from it. We wanted a family, and that ended
small trip. A week of boot camp training for up happening after six rounds of in vitro and
our new Labrador, Shelby. A once-a-week an adoption. Money spent, hormones in-
babysitter to give me down time. Sweet jected, and more money spent. (Years later
Ella, who gave up time with her own chil- when the boys lobbied for a little sister, I ex-
dren to take care of other people’s kids. You claimed, “We had to buy one of you and cook
the other one up in a lab. We’re done!”)

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And now, resumes I sent out weren’t an- gear, and no purse with her. She took off her
swered. No matter how impressive the in- sneakers and told me she lived next door.
formation on it, it still had a huge dark hole
- twelve years raising the children I fought so “My kids are in the yard, hope that’s okay.
hard to have. Employment dates that gave I’ve always wondered what this house looks
me away as “old.” So, here I was, helping like inside,” she said. A nosy neighbor. Terrific.
people find their dream homes while still Mascara was probably running down my face,
mourning mine. Our rental was fine for now, I hoped it would scare her away quickly.
but it could be sold out from under us at any
time. My mom was being forced into retire- She started looking around. “It’s dated,”
ment and wasn’t going to be able to keep her she said, as if she had been expecting that.
condo without her salary. She was hitching Her face was wrinkled in distaste as she
her caboose to our run-away train. She’d be stepped down into the family room.
moving into our rental with us; we lost the
house that would have been her dream too. “Well, it has a lot of traditional features,
ones you don’t see a lot anymore,” I said,
I sat on the floor of that huge, empty my lines memorized. “Don’t you think that
room and stared up at that tiny chandelier. makes it unique?”
What little girl would eventually live in this
room? Why couldn’t it be my child? We did She murmured, “Hmm...not really. Just
everything right. We saved, we didn’t buy sort of boring.”
above our means – we aced all of the for-
mulas and ratios you use when figuring out You’re boring. I’d rather be upstairs hys-
how much to spend on a home. Why didn’t terically crying.
we deserve this? I would be lying if I said I
never dreamed about us, somehow, being She stared down at the newly stained
able to live in this house that I was spending hardwoods. I had chosen a colonial brown,
so much time in. I spent hours here during to keep with the traditional – or, boring -
the open houses imagining how I would features of the house.
decorate each room. Our friends wanted
the money but didn’t need it. I seethed with “The floors were just refinished,” I told
envy at every family who walked through it. my visitor, my voice lilting high at the end
I envied their security, and their options. Get of the sentence, as if asking a question, or
out! I wanted to scream at each and every for approval.
one. As I sat on that floor, I started to cry.
“Yeah, not the greatest choice. Light is
The doorbell rang. trending, not dark.”

Jesus Christ. I jumped up and ran out into You know what I think is trending? My
the second-floor hall, straightening my real- hatred of you.
tor’s name tag and wiping my nose. I took
a deep breath and walked down the stairs. She made her way around the first floor,
Whoever you are, welcome to my nervous peeking into closets and peering around
breakdown. doorways. She eventually headed back to-
ward the front of the house. “Want to see
A small blond woman was closing the upstairs?” I asked her.
front door behind her. She had on workout
“Nope, seen enough.” She put her hand
on the entry table; she seemed to contem-
plate the statue for a moment.

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“I see it’s listed for $1,399,000. Do you salad bowls. I bagged it all up to bring home,
think the seller would make any conces- including my stolen peonies. I wiped down
sions to us, if we paid cash?” the counter and made my way through the
house, turning off all of the switches I had
I’m sorry, what? turned on before.

“Uh…I’m sure my client will be willing to I lingered for a minute in the bare room
have a conversation with you about it,” I upstairs, the one with the tiny chandelier. I
managed to say. imagined a small version of me cartwheeling
her way across the floor in her cousin’s
“Great. My husband wants to put in a hand-me-down dress. I saw the homemade
pool, and we could use the extra land so I bedspread and heard my mother’s muffled
don’t have to look at it from the house. Most swears as she hung that sweet wallpaper. I
of the year a pool is an ugly covered-up hole, heard my little brother in the bedroom next
don’t you think?” door, talking to himself, counting his collec-
tion of bottle caps as he laid them out on his
I think I nodded. She wanted to buy this floor. I smelled the hand-picked lilacs on the
house, tear it down, and put in a pool. A nightstand, and my grandmother’s chicken
pool she wouldn’t have to look at. soup cooking down the hall. I took a deep
breath. I shut off the light, and left.
Yes. She called her husband and con-
firmed it. Paperwork would be on its way I called my husband and told him the
from their realtor. I had a feeling my friends good news. He was at the stove, and I heard
would accept their bid; they were looking the boys in the background; one was chasing
forward to unloading this house. the other, and their antics were making the
dog bark. I told him I was coming home.
“It’d be a nice commission for you, huh?”
she said, as if she expected me to thank her. I made my way to the front of the house,
She put on her sneakers and yelled for her turning off the last light in the front hall. I
kids. (Kids who I hoped could swim well, opened the front door and turned back to
hidden away in their new pool.) look at the entry table.

She was my only visitor that day. The “We did it,” I said to the piece of stone,
only one I needed. My first sale. She’d never and closed the door behind me.
even introduced herself.

I cleaned up the kitchen, covering all
of the platters of food and putting tops on

About the Author

LeeAnn Weaver has been writing in many capacities
throughout her career. She worked in marketing and public
relations, served as a grant writer for non-profits, and
currently writes a lifestyle blog. LeeAnn lives in Fairfield,
CT with her husband Jeff and their two sons.

102

THE PERILS
OF BELIEF

by Dian Parker

TI joined a cult in my 30’s. My reason for could take over. During sense deprivation,
joining was to change the way I thought. we would lift the frequency of our bodies to
a more refined state. In this state we would
Of course, at the time, I didn’t know it be able to heal ourselves, heal the sick, walk
was a cult. I was entering a spiritual school. through walls, and eventually, after more
The teacher would show us how to master and more mastery of our human limitations,
our limited thinking. My concept of reality achieve Greatness.
was, I knew, limited, but the biggest reason
for attending the school was to free myself. Who would believe such outrageous
I was riddled with fear. I was expecting to promises? I and thousands more educated
learn how to overcome my fears and gain professionals. Why not, when the world
the sense of freedom I yearned for in myself. was rife with disease and war, with preju-
dice and oppression, with failed marriages
The teacher also promised us the ability and aging bodies, with poverty and fear?
to read minds, levitate, become invisible,
teleport our bodies from one place to an- I attended my first audience with the
other, as well as heal the sick, and yourself. teacher after a six-year relationship with my
He said that if we mastered our humanness, boyfriend ended. I had thought it would last
we’d have the ability to reverse aging, and forever. Devasted and unable to rise above
achieve “eternal youth.” The pinnacle of the crushing reality, I was jolted awake
all our years of training ‒ immortality. We when the teacher said, “Do you think that
would “conquer death.” what is real is only what you can see and
touch? You are greater than your bodies.”
It’s not easy to explain, even to myself, My body was in pain and torment. I’d been
why I lasted sixteen years. They were ar- crying for months, not able to get past my
duous years, involving long hours of med- desperation of being alone. Here was an an-
itation, often outdoors, in wind, rain, heat, swer to my torment. Master my weaknesses
and snow. We spent weeks, sometimes a and become more than my genetics, and
month, in retreats designed to break down not be dependent on a man. My greatest
our resistance so that our “greater mind”

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weakness was fear – fear of being alone, limited belief that I was poor, which I be-
fear of failure, fear of growing old, fear of lieved was why I was poor. This convoluted
not being good enough. thinking kept me in a downward spiral.

For me to be an “Initiate of the Great How did I become free of these harmful
Work,” I felt it was necessary to sublimate beliefs? How did I deprogram my brain that
my years as a theatre professional in order had been brainwashed? How did I come to
to be, as our teacher demanded, “Becoming the understanding that I’d been in a cult for
nothing so you can be all things.” During my the last 16 years, even though I’d sincerely
years in the teachings, I worked to erase my and ardently believed I was becoming great?
past, clean the slate, and become great.
I fell in love.
This is not a story about the cult. To at-
tempt to tell you what we did in the school Patterns of brain waves continually
would be too complicated, and mostly un- change. Normally, when awake, we are in
believable. This is a story of believing some- a beta pattern which is the fastest of brain
thing so deeply that I forgot myself. waves and a high frequency of 12 Hz to 40
Hz (Hertz being a unit of frequency). In this
Even though I followed the teachings frequency range, we are solving problems
daily, without question, I battled with the and remembering. If there is too much
persistent belief that I lacked what it took to beta we are stressed. Too little beta we can
be a master. After 16 long and painful years, be depressed. Drink more coffee and you
I had not been able to heal my decaying can increase the beta waves. The next fre-
teeth, let alone levitate off my mat. In fact, quency band, alpha at 8 Hz to 12 Hz, hovers
I later realized, I’d actually paid little atten- somewhere between conscious thinking
tion to my own wellbeing. All those years and the subconscious mind. This brain pat-
of deep devotion never altered the place in tern is a feeling of deep relaxation, which
me that felt I wasn’t good enough. I had to alcohol, marijuana, and antidepressants
work harder, meditate longer, deprive my- can be used for. But too much alpha state
self more. And more. And more. can make it hard to focus and lends itself
to daydreaming. Theta brain waves occur in
One of the directives in the school was to that twilight state between those moments
practice the ability to manifest. Because all being awake and sleeping, or vice versa;
during those years I lived in poverty, giving 4 Hz to 8 Hz. This is our creative, intuitive
everything I earned in order to pay for the state – almost semi-hypnotic; dreamlike.
continual workshops and retreats, my main The slowest brain waves, delta, are found
focus for manifestation was abundance. To most often in infants and young children. As
be free of debt. To even be wealthy. I fo- we age, we produce less delta even during
cused on that thought for years. And yet deep sleep. Delta is responsible for our un-
during all those years I lived in a trailer conscious bodily functions like digestion
with no running water or electricity, used and regulating heartbeat. At 0Hz to 4Hz, we
an outhouse, and basically survived on Top are in the deepest level of relaxation and re-
Ramen and canned soup. I didn’t want to storative healing, but usually not conscious.
look closely at this situation because it all
came down to the fact that I was a failure During my years in the spiritual school, I
in the great work. I could not conquer my now believe my brain was functioning much

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of the time in Theta – semi-hypnotic. Be- talked through everything – what we did,
cause we often meditated wearing blind- how we’d done it, and most of all, why. Our
folds and earplugs, I was hovering in a state whys were the same. We wanted to be free
of mind where I could be programmed. of prejudice, frailty, and limited thoughts.
Coming out of these long meditations Think like a genius. We wanted to create
was usually when the teacher taught us. a better world. Live free of pain and anx-
Because the teachings reinforced images iety. In the end, we realized we’d been pro-
of becoming a Master and conquering grammed. Like habits, the brain had fired a
our limitations, my neurological network specific way for so long, neurological path-
formed pathways of these beliefs, over and ways were set. We’d locked our thinking
over again. These neuropathways became into believing in the concept that we could
well-traveled and solidified through the have unlimited spiritual power. And I was
years. And right alongside those pathways, locked into believing that I wasn’t doing
were the other well-traveled and solidi- enough to get there.
fied networks that I wasn’t doing enough.
I didn’t have what it takes to be one of the Being ecstatically in love, cooking de-
“radical few.” licious meals, reading great books for the
first time in years, dancing naked, playing
To climb out of the spiraling darkness chess by candlelight, and having more and
of my belief that I would never reach this more sex helped to dissolve these frozen
exalted state, I became exalted by falling in networks in my brian. Like the chrysalis in
love. My new love had been in the school a cocoon, my skinny and diminished cat-
even longer than I, for 20 years. He had erpillar was dissolving, and I was growing
believed as I did that we were destined for wings.
greatness. The difference between T and I,
is he didn’t follow the teachings religiously Instead of practicing to levitate every
like I did. If we were supposed to stay out- day, I was flying high, wrapped around my
side all night in deep focus while it was new love’s body, drifting in a world of musk
raining, he stayed in his tent and focused. If and sweat, immersed in the senses. Instead
we were awakened at 4 am to go sit in the of sitting cross-legged without moving for
snow, not moving, he’d wander off into the hours being the perfect student, I lay in bed
woods, giving his imagination free reign. taking deep draughts of his neck, feeling his
legs, his buttocks, his sex pressed against
When he told me how he’d done these mine, mapping his body instead of my
things, following his own guidance, I was dream of fabulous wealth and conquering
flabbergasted. I had followed to the letter death.
everything our teacher told us to do, and
T did not. He had remained through it all Lying in bed after making love and
his own person. Yet, he too deeply believed talking through our years in the school, I
that there was more to life than making could literally feel my brain ungluing. It
money and being a success in worldly af- was a physical sensation. Those frozen
fairs. T wanted galactic travel. highways were unthawing and I would lie
stunned, not moving, marveling at the new
It took us less than three months to walk vistas that opened up before me. I had been
away from it all. During that time, we mostly brainwashed! Instead of trying to be great,
stayed in bed making love, and talking. We I could be and do anything I wanted. If I

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wanted to watch American Idol, read novels, happy for the first time in 16 years. And to
even write again, there was only me to refer my surprise and delight, effortless mani-
to. The voice in my head, my teacher’s, was festing began to happen.
dissolving. There was nothing to become
because I was everything - a human being By surrendering deeply to loving and re-
that was sensual and exciting and had a fu- ceiving love, I was able to face my fears. The
ture glistening with whatever I wanted. fear of being abandoned. Of giving away my
power to a man. Of growing old. Of dying.
Instead of feeling guilty for not spending Through love, I lived nakedly and fully,
more hours meditating, I spent hours without defense, and found that my fears
reading to T in bed. I read “To Kill a Mock- dissolved. He could walk away next week,
ingbird,” out loud, using Southern accents. next month, next year, but I had myself. I
Because I’d trained at the Royal Academy always had myself.
of Dramatic Art and sat for hours in a pho-
netics booth, I was good at accents. We I’d given away my power to a belief.
cried when Scout saw through Boo Rad- Someone else’s belief that had not origi-
ley’s eyes. We discussed how it was possible nated in myself. If I believed something, so
that Scout had become Boo. Did Harper Lee completely, that came from a mind that was
meditate for hours to be able to write this? not mine, I was doomed to failure. Love is
Did Nabokov meditate for weeks in the not a belief. It is an organic compound that
snow to write “Ada?” Did Beethoven give was alchemizing my cells. Through love, I
up sex for decades? Did Einstein think he stopped judging every thought I had, seeing
was one of the chosen few? Now I was free if it was lofty enough. I stopped judging my
to ask these questions. every action to see if it was what a Master
would do. I stopped judging others for not
In the school, I never questioned the doing the important work. I became kind.
teacher’s declarations and promises but I My teacher’s voice was no longer in my
constantly questioned myself, tearing my- head, telling me what to do, how to do it,
self down because no matter how long I and berating me for not doing enough. For
practiced the disciplines, I was never doing berating humanity for being ignorant.
enough. Why couldn’t I heal my decaying
teeth? Why couldn’t I heal my Mom’s knee For years after I quit, I would have vivid
so she didn’t have to have a knee replace- dreams that I was still in the school. In these
ment? Where was next month’s rent for the dreams, I would be at the school and all
delipidated trailer I shivered in? Where was would be chaos. I wasn’t able to locate my
my bathroom with running water? Where seat to mediate amidst teeming crowds. I was
were all these things? They were not part of exhausted and couldn’t find my tent where I
my life because I was always lacking. slept. The teacher would look at me in the
dream and I would confront him, which I
When I fell in love and stayed in that never did while attending the school. All
ecstatic state for months, I felt as if I was those years were so embedded in my brain
everything. I became everything through that even though I no longer believed, I would
love. I was young and beautiful again. I was dream I was there, doing the “Great Work.”
smart and funny. I was a great cook and an In deep confusion. The frozen neurological
amazing writer. I was flexible and strong network in my brain was unraveling. When
and powerful. I was already great. I was I woke, I was deeply relieved. I had escaped.

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My dreams gradually changed over the lips. All the kisses and whispers and glis-
years. I dreamt of braiding a turquoise sades down my body, how could I not be
silk parachute with gold thread. After happy? Our love makes other people happy
the braiding was complete, I ran down a too, like the angry man in the supermarket
sweeping green hill until the parachute bil- that grew a smile on his face because he
lowed out behind me, lifting me into the saw us kissing in the produce aisle. I may
sky. I glided effortlessly. When I woke, T not be able to solve all his problems but I
was gliding his foot along my calf. I didn’t can help him to smile. Walking through the
remember the dream until later that day forest, I breathe in the sweet smell of pine
when I was braiding my hair. These dreams and I swell with gratitude that I woke up.
showed me that even deep in my subcon-
scious mind I was now free. I take nothing for granted because I had
given up everything and now I have it all. I
Now, instead of reseeding the rainforest have myself. I also have my past back that I
in my mind for months on end, I climb on had so arduously tried to get rid of. I have
the roof to clean our solar panels. Instead a rich background of travel and theatre
of wearing a black cape, blindfolds, and ear- and cities and awards, being the dancer
plugs to block out light and noise, I listen my mother always dreamed of being, and
to Tori Amos and Led Zeppelin, full volume, all my bitter failures and joyful success. I
dancing around the house in my underwear. have a family that I gave up for 16 years. I
have friends that never deserted me even
Years after quitting, I continue to wake though I deserted them. These dear people
up excited for the day. Instead of dreading were there waiting until I finally woke up.
the long hours of disciplines, I wake up to
kiss his swollen lids, make hot coffee, wash How could I have been bamboozled
the dishes with running water, play on for so long and then love comes along and
the floor with the cat, work on the craft awakens me? This is the great mystery of life,
of writing, read Madame Bovary. This can not denial and promises and rigid belief sys-
be what life is about. If it’s not to conquer tems. Love is a great teacher. And gratitude.
death, then I’ll try living for love. For every breath and spore and snowflake.
For wind and rain and searing sun. Instead
Being in love is teaching me far more than of dreading the weather because I have to sit
the Royal Academy and the cult combined. I still in it for days on end, I invite its embrace,
am a young ingenue in his arms even though loafing and laughing and delighting.
I’m past menopause now. I can travel to the
top of K2 through photographs, or wander I give thanks for everything. For all the
through the desert in Paul Bowles’ stories. I kisses. Food. Storms. Blankets. Stretching.
can lie on my back and drink the stars. Travel Lounging. Reading. Playing. I thank him
to the Andromeda Galaxy with my mind. I for combing my hair after I take a shower.
don’t need to physically do it. My imagina- Thank the trees for their shade. For the
tion is unlocked. I follow my own desires. clean water I drink. I give thanks to love
for getting me out in time, before I was too
These days are real. Days of touching worn down to care.
what is in front of me. Smelling the salt
air, hearing the wind in the beech trees. I am grateful for my 16 years in a cult
Walking in the sand barefoot. Kissing his because it showed me firsthand how a par-
ticular belief system can alter one’s mind.

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Watching the storming of the Capitol in D.C. when T and I were kissing. I happened to
last month, I understood why the people look over my shoulder and out the window
were so destructive. Why Q exists. How reli- was a lean coyote watching us. I nudged T
gions can produce rigid thinking. Why there and he saw the coyote too. We all three
is such extreme duality in politics. Why were still, pretending we didn’t exist. We
there is racial hatred. Why the United States stared for so long, for a moment I experi-
is so divided. We lose our moral fiber when enced the coyote’s view of me through the
an idea, a formula, a belief system that did glass.
not originate in ourselves becomes the way.
The Right Way. The Only Way. Our love continues to grow, like the big
maples around our house ‒ tall and protec-
No child is born with prejudice. Racial tive, a safe haven in a risky world. But this
hatred is taught, just as religion is taught, kind of risk is nothing compared to the risk
or Q is studied. No child is born a Demo- I took while denying and demeaning myself
crat or born believing that some people are for 16 long years. Now I am flooded with
ignorant and others are superior. These be- deep appreciation for the goodness that I
liefs are taught. I was taught to believe that I am. For the wonder I have for life. For my
could be different from the rest of humanity ability to feel deeply. To care deeply. To be
because I was doing the great work. That grateful.
I knew the “secret teachings” that would
enable me to defy death. I had been brain- I’d forgotten that being human can be im-
washed into a new program. In the same mensely gratifying. Why did I think I had to
way others are altered by any belief system give it all up? Give up walks down a country
that believes it is right and the other side road during the full moon. Snowshoeing
is wrong. across a frozen lake. Going to museums and
marveling at the beauty a human being can
Love tackled my delusion and sent it create. A garden of fragrant peonies. An-
flying. So many years of trying to master my other morning of tenderness.
limited thinking has taught me how limiting
a belief system can be. To enjoy the things Believing exclusively. Believing you are
of the world, to truly and deeply love life, is right and another is wrong. Believing in
not deluded. someone else’s dictates can so easily be-
come a cult. And dangerous. It makes us
Believing in a particular way of being is forget we are just like everyone else on the
over for me now. What’s left, is this morning planet.

About the Author

Dian Parker’s essays and short stories have been published
in The Rupture, Critical Read, Art New England, Event,
Anomaly, Upstreet, Channel, Deep Wild, Cold Lake Anthology,
among others, and nominated for several Pushcart Prizes.

108

THE FADE

by Mary Casey Stark

Five people living in a one-bedroom house if you were lucky enough to get to make
was not unusual in my neighborhood. I your phone call. They also contained maps,
suppose you could call it a neighborhood, most useful if you were lucky enough to go
though each street seemed to have an in- anywhere and needed to find your way. If I
dependent streak and there was a hierar- made a phone call, I also doodled, I still do,
chy, even among the poor. It was a small, though I have not gained any marketable
incorporated city “out in the country” as talent in fifty years.
we would have called it then. We were cut
off from the rest of the county on some Our home was small, not tidy, we had
basic utilities and we even had a trunk line a big yard with a vegetable garden, fruit
telephone that would terrify and confuse trees and “the woods”. I lived here with my
anyone under fifty today, or anyone that grandmother, Grandad (her 2nd husband),
had money. In our cramped and dirty kitch- and my aunt and uncle from that marriage
en there was a rotary dial phone on the who were not much older than me. We had
wall with an old wooden school desk un- big dogs and bigger dreams. We had small
der it, that is where we made our phone amounts of money and buckets of creative
calls, if we were lucky. You see, our trunk ways to get more. Before it was Earth-
line was shared by the neighborhood and friendly to gather and recycle aluminum,
you would pick up the phone and hope for we did, and we also collected bottles that
a dial tone and then make your telephone could be exchanged at the IGA for coins to
call. If you were truly lucky, you would pick be spent on groceries. We grew our own
up your phone and could hear a neighbor’s vegetables and canned some for winter,
conversation (both sides)! You would know we “borrowed” raspberries from the neigh-
what people were up to and it was invari- bor’s yard, we made ice cream from snow.
ably more interesting than what you were Grandma could identify every tree and
up to. Grandma (did I mention I lived with every bird, she headed up the local scout
my grandma?) would sometimes listen troops, she trooped us to the school bus
longer than was polite and doodle on the stop and public bus if we needed anything
notepad that was always on the little desk the yard and IGA could not provide. Trips to
along with a pen or two. Under the desk the library were my favorite, gazing up at
in the book cubby several phone books the domed ceiling in the entry and finding
were housed. Phone books, you may recall, my way to the children’s area to see a world
were the source of phone numbers to call beyond our reach. If I were to be totally

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honest about my favorite activities, walks to an irrigation system to nowhere. The woods
the tiny local store for penny candy would were a haven of safety until Grandma came
be number one. Our aluminum can riches for us after Grandad left to work the night-
allowed the odd dime to well-behaved chil- shift, and, inevitably, she had walked into a
dren which was richly rewarded with a bag door again.
of penny candy. So, there you have it, candy
first, books second. That holds true today. Years later, she moved out to live with
her other daughter in the country. She
My grandmother had moved to America watched her grandchildren and her mother,
ten years before I was born with her mother, retired from her job, tended a tiny garden,
daughter (my mother) and a cat named started another scout troop and got smaller
Pinky. There were a variety of reasons for dogs this time. Life continued like this for a
this move and speculation endures today, number of years and it wasn’t grand, but it
but I always land on the “fresh start” ex- wasn’t poor. There were no fears of Grandad
planation and it satisfies me. She was from because he could not be bothered to drive
England and while she did eventually get that far to see or abuse anybody and even-
to return there for visits, there was rarely tually, he died, still living in the tiny house on
a day that went by that she did not dream Walnut Road. Grandma still dreamed about
about traveling to England, or Mexico, or the places she would go, though sadly she
Florida, or anywhere. never made further than the state fair.

Eventually, I went to live with my mother Then it came for her. Alzheimer’s Disease.
in an apartment and my grandmother re- There were little signs at first of course, for-
sumed working. She rode the bus down- getting names, appointments, missing her
town to her job and sometimes I would take favorite TV show. But this happens to ev-
the bus from where I was living to meet her eryone and she was in a very active house-
for lunch. Her trunk line eventually became hold with teenagers to keep track of. Then
a regular phone line (with a push button it got worse, like the time she forgot she
phone!), the garden began to get smaller collected owls after I gave her one, or the
and the dogs died off. The tiny house on time she called me in 2008 to wish me a
Walnut Road had changed little, Grandad Merry Christmas and then called back five
was never interested in repairing things as minutes later and we had the exact same
much as he was interested in fishing-and conversation. I sat down and I cried. I knew
abusing Grandma. The Fade was coming.

The abuse had started years ago, but Through a series of family events, they
it was many years before I realized what returned to the tiny house on Walnut Road.
was happening. Grandad had a violent Her disease progressed, but she always
temper and there was never a pattern as to kept her good humor. She would repeat
what might “set him off”, it just happened. the same jokes, enjoy her cup of tea and
Grandma would tell my uncle (who was 5 ice cream, often with a dog on her lap. The
years older than me) and I to go play in the Fade continued though, at a faster pace.
woods and stay until she came for us. And The Fade does not wait.
we would. Hours in the woods, but to me it
was an adventure, climbing trees, looking Grandma was moved to a memory
for ancient ruins, once, I even developed care unit after a series of events that indi-
cated she now required around-the-clock

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care. The first visits were the hardest, she country. The expressions were of particular
knew she was not home, but did not know interest to the staff who would come to me
where she was. I explained it was a retire- and ask what she meant and repeat what
ment community and she shared a flat she said. Generally, it wasn’t a very nice
with someone. Flat, meaning apartment, thing she said, but I would twist it (after all
her American words transitioned back to they were looking after her) and adapt the
her English words and phrases and I had meaning to something kinder. Later, I would
to adjust my vocabulary as well during our laugh to myself about it, The Fade had its
visits. I often felt like I went down the rabbit lighter moments.
hole with Alice, but so be it. The Fade was
coming. She seemed to accept her home Over the course of her time in the nursing
faster than others I witnessed. In her unit, home, The Fade continued to ravage her
residents shared common spaces much of mind, now it came for her body. She had not
the time and I got to know several residents been able to walk in a while, her weight was
quite well during my visits. Many, upon ar- very low, and, despite my best efforts on the
rival, kept their shoes on and held tight to cheeseburger front, she rarely ate. In the
their purses, they looked terrified. They winter that followed, she was hospitalized
pleaded with you to drive them home, over twice and returned to the nursing home when
and over. Usually I would tell them it was she was “well”. It was the flu which came,
raining and that ended the conversation. For went and returned with a vengeance. At 93
three years I visited, watching Grandma fade, years old, there was not much do be done if
I would show her pictures from her youth they wanted to. Thus began the final Fade.
and she would cry at the photos of herself.
She knew everyone in those images. Her The Fade, the final Fade, lasted a few
mind was in there, just performing differ- weeks. She was confined to her bed, not
ently, in a different timeline. We would talk eating, not drinking, not responding. That
about England and I would promise to take last day I arrived at noon and stayed by her
her there again. I would take her home. In side all day, talking to her from a chair next
those moments, talking about home, there to her tiny bed. The staff brought me a tray
was clarity in her eyes, I was not imagining with coffee and snacks, they knew I was not
it. I often wondered if she knew what I really going anywhere until she did. I talked to her
meant, that I would take her remains home. about everything and anything, the secrets I
could not tell anyone else, the apologies for
She hated the food there and despite things I should have done better, again the
their best culinary efforts, I began smuggling promise to take her home. She lingered for
in cheeseburgers and chocolate. The Fade eight hours, rapidly breathing, but no other
also comes with “the mood” and sometimes response. This Fade was unavoidable, and I
my efforts were rewarded with a cheese- did not want to say goodbye, but goodbye
burger being flung at my head. Whether was also what needed to be said.
she even knew who I was often was a mys-
tery to me, but I kept going, feeding her, I climbed into that tiny bed with her and
talking to her, playing John Denver for her held her. There were tears in her eyes, I feel
(her favorite), and watching The Fade. Her like she knew I was there. I told her to go,
English accent remained all these years and that I would take her home to England (a
so did some colorful words from her mother promise I kept) and that I loved her. And
after just a minute or two, she Faded.

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My grandmother, Mary in her passport photo, 1955.

About the Author
Mary Casey-Sturk is a writer in northern Kentucky. Her
work has appeared in Hyde Park Living Magazine, the
Cincinnati Enquirer, Cincy Magazine, Smoky Mountain
Living Magazine and more.

112

DISCOVERING

by Alexis Garcia

“I want you to read something and see if good progress over the years, I always knew
anything resonates with you,” my therapist there was more to the story. I was this being
told me, handing me a booklet. with faulty wiring in her brain and wanted
so desperately to be fixed. There had to
My eyes focused on the list of symptoms be something else wrong with me. As I got
for a mental illness I had heard of maybe older, I started to step into the spotlight
once or twice in my life. Up to that very little by little. I spoke when others were
moment, I accessed barely a fraction of around, I stopped holding my head down
the puzzle that was uncovering the layers whenever I walked outside, and I took small
of someone I wanted to get to know better. chances here and there to fill my social in-
I was diagnosed with a social anxiety dis- teraction quota. Despite doing what I could
order when I was around 16 and I thought to manage my anxiety, there were other
the acronym for it, SAD, best described my feelings that were getting harder to ignore.
life. It also gave me some of the clarity that These feelings stemmed from my lack of in-
I spent years chasing after. Why did I have terpersonal skills but also from my severely
to rehearse what I was going to say anytime low self-esteem.
I spoke to someone? Why did meeting new
people and visiting new places absolutely I wanted so much to be understood even
terrify me? Why couldn’t I just be normal? though I couldn’t understand myself most
days. I would be doing anything, like playing
I developed a skill for making myself invis- a video game or if I was at work, the most
ible. I was always the girl who faded into the insignificant things would cause me to fall
background and did everything in my power into this emotional spiral. A slightly different
to avoid eye contact. There were many oc- tone in someone’s voice, a disapproving re-
casions when someone hadn’t realized I was mark, or even seeing something that would
in the same room as them and when people give me this sinking feeling in my stomach
would tell me stories about something that could easily set me off.
happened, I would have to remind them that
I was there. I usually walked behind whoever And to throw even more salt onto my
I was with, in the hopes that others would self-inflicted wounds, I would constantly ob-
speak to them instead of me. sess over things that did nothing but make
me miserable. I’d analyze every word, every
Even after the diagnosis, going on Zoloft syllable, every possible meaning, every pos-
to help take the edge off and making some sible scenario until I tired myself out from

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hypothesizing. It’s no wonder I’m exhausted as if a timeline of my life had been plastered
all the time. Who wouldn’t be? My brain is across the page. With each symptom, came
in overdrive most days and there’s been a several examples of my behavior that exem-
small bit of comfort in it. I’ve never been plified them. At that very moment, my con-
one to just sit and relax. When I’m alone fusion seemed to subside.
with my thoughts, it takes a lot for me to
step back into reality. The one thing that leapt off the page
immediately was an intense fear of aban-
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” my donment. For as long as I could remember,
mother would usually say. “You’re just weird.” I was unable to understand why I would fall
apart at the thought of someone leaving me,
I could never tell if she was attempting whether it was temporary or permanent.
to normalize my behavior or make me feel When I would spend time with cousins and
more alienated than I ever felt. I always felt either they or I had to leave, I would be an
so broken. It was as if I was like a toy that absolute wreck. This was only amplified
would work at random moments and short in my friendships and even more so in my
circuited most of the time. I never realized romantic relationships. I would always do
just how detrimental to my mental health or say whatever I could to keep someone
the belief that I needed to be fixed was until liking me so they wouldn’t decide to just up
I was older and started wondering how I and leave. If they decided to leave my life, it
could ever forgive myself. I was adding to obviously had to mean that I was not good
the stigma that mental health is a character enough for them, or so I thought.
flaw - some kind of stain that you need to
rid yourself of. A pattern of unstable intense relation-
ships was another hard-hitting symptom
Forgiveness has been the key in my for me. In retrospect, I have had double
mental health journey. I’ve tried to live the amount of unstable relationships with
my life by certain cliches, one being “for- people as opposed to stable. Romantically,
give others, not because they deserve for- I’ve never had much luck, which is some-
giveness, but because you deserve peace.” thing a lot of people say. It always seemed
And it’s taken me a long time to realize the like romance just wasn’t for me. It was
“other” is myself. After years of tormenting something you’d see in a television show,
myself, critiquing every thought, every on a movie screen or something you heard
emotion and blaming myself for things that about from couples who have been to-
have been beyond my control, enough was gether for years.
finally enough. Being alive and simply ex-
isting feels like quite the hurdle some days Women are passionate, emotional, frus-
even without throwing the other things into trating, amongst a host of other things and
the mix. I needed to introduce myself to a because of that, it almost seemed like my
new feeling: kindness. The kindness I always relationships were supposed to be tumul-
gave to others, needed to be given to myself tuous. I’d be all in, regardless of the person
first. and regardless of their intentions. All it
took was for them to say the right words
Fast forward to 2018 and I was reading and I was wholeheartedly enamored. But
the answer from a booklet that my therapist when I would feel a disconnect and the
handed to me. I read through the criteria right words were no longer being said, I’d
for Borderline Personality Disorder. It was

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come to the worst possible conclusions and individual, so I followed along. Whenever
convinced myself to believe it. They were I’d wind up alone, I felt a strong urge to latch
just using me, weren’t they? They were just on to the next person who showed me even
looking for a temporary distraction, right? the slightest attention.
And for a while, I’ve thought that maybe I
am destined to be just a stop in the road I still think fondly of the therapist who
for someone instead of their destination. I told me about Borderline Personality Dis-
would be incredibly infatuated with them order. Some days I still question why I’m
one day and a few days later, disgusted and this way instead of a normal, functioning
never wanting to speak to them again. But being. Plus, it is extremely difficult to not
there was always this magnetic pull that get caught up in the concept of normalcy.
kept me around. What even is normal? A tumultuous thought
process, a seesaw of emotional irregularity -
It didn’t help that I would also change that’s my normal. There are still some days
how I perceived myself with each person I when I feel broken and do what I can to
encountered. I’d adopt their likes and dis- shake that feeling. People like to say that
likes, even their thought patterns. After you are not your diagnosis when in fact, it is
all, they wouldn’t feel the need to leave or a part of you and always will be. Society has
be done with me if we shared so many of vilified those struggling with mental illness.
the same interests. I lost a bit of myself in I wouldn’t say I’m struggling with mental ill-
every single one of them. I figured they only ness. At this point, I think I’ve gotten pretty
pretended to care about who I was as an good at it.

About the Author

Alexis Garcia (she/her) is a queer Hispanic writer from
New York, NY. She graduated from Manhattanville College
in 2017, where she studied Creative Writing and Criminal
Law. Since then, a few of her poems have been published
in the anthologies UNITED: Volume RED and UNITED:
Volume HONEY with Beautiful Minds Unite LLC and Upon
Arrival: Threshold with Eber & Wein Publishing. Most
recently, she has had more of her poems accepted for
publication in Orange Blush Zine, Mixed Mag, along with
other publications.

115

A BIG WIND
KNOCKED IT OVER

by Bethany Reid

Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow, The small raine down can raine.
Cryst, if my love were in my armes And I in my bedde again!

-16th century, anonymous

My husband is anxious of late. Not just a Sound from the north. As Mass and Dotson
little anxious, but very anxious. One of the explain, our rain-saturated terrain and tall
things that increases his anxiety is the wind. evergreen trees intensify their effect.

* *

We live in unincorporated Edmonds, north My husband worries when the wind blows.
of Seattle, Washington. In the fall and early He worries that we’ll lose power. He worries
winter, windstorms sweep through our re- about the trees in our yard and in the green-
gion, the Pacific Northwest, plucking limbs belt behind our house. He worries about all
from trees and shingles from roofs, uproot- the clean-up that will be involved. He wor-
ing whole trees and blocking roads and ries about damage to our roof. He worries
knocking out power for thousands of Puget that too much rain will tax the sewer and
Sound Energy customers. In minor storms, drain system. He worries about driving con-
the wind gusts 40 miles per hour or so; in ditions. One night recently, about 10:00, he
our “big blows,” they reach 75 or even 100 came out of the bathroom and announced,
miles per hour. According to an article by “It’s happened! The toilet has backed up!”
Clifford Mass and Brigid Dotson that ap- He went to bed in a state of extreme anxiety.
peared in AMS100, these “extratropical cy-
clones” are as powerful as class two or three The next morning he got the plunger out
hurricanes. They develop in the Pacific Ba- and unclogged the toilet. I watched, fasci-
sin and then unravel along the Pacific coast, nated, as his life righted itself, a little boat,
sometimes swirling up and around, through bailed out for now and sailing toward a
British Columbia and down into the Puget patch of blue sky.

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* icle. On Columbus Day itself, there was a
school holiday and I was at home. I have
In the Bible, in the book of Job, God speaks no memory of the storm, only the headline
out of a whirlwind. For the prophet Samu- and picture in the next day’s paper. I know
el, the wind has wings. In the book of Jo- that school was canceled while the roof
nah, the Lord “hurl[s] a violent wind” and was repaired, an unexpected and unmer-
Jonah ends up in the belly of the whale. In ited holiday. I don’t remember if we lost
Isaiah: “So they will fear the name of the power at our house, but I would guess that
Lord from the west /And His glory from we did. We had a wood cookstove on the
the rising of the sun, For He will come like backporch, a wood-burning furnace, and
a rushing stream / Which the wind of the lanterns. I don’t think my parents minded
Lord drives.” In the book of the prophet the outage, even though, in October of
Nahum, the Lord punishes the guilty with 1962, they had five children, including a
whirlwinds, and “storm is His way.” In the baby only one month old. I’m sure that I
New Testament, a storm overtakes Christ didn’t worry about any of it.
and the disciples on the Sea of Galilee, and
after Christ’s death the spirit descends, in *
Acts 2:2, with “a violent rushing wind.”
I vividly recall the Inauguration Day storm
The wind buffets against our house, and of 1993. My husband and I were at that
my husband stands at the window, shaking time hoping to adopt a baby and the young
his head, and saying, “This is bad news.” At woman we called “our” birthmother, Sele-
least he is not alone in viewing the wind as na, was nine months pregnant and over-
apocalyptic. due. She needed someone to drive her to
the doctor, and though we lived north of
* Seattle, and she lived in Tacoma, no wind
of whatever magnitude was going to stop
He has been diagnosed with Depression me from fulfilling this office. As I exited
and GAD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder. A the freeway near Selena’s mother’s house,
doctor recommended that he avoid coffee, Maya Angelou was reading her commem-
but when he Googled coffee’s effects, he orative poem, “On the Pulse of Morning,”
learned that while caffeine is bad for anx- and I pulled the car over to listen. I was late
iety, it is good for depression. picking up Selena, though we made the
appointment on time. When the baby was
* born, Selena and the baby’s father changed
their minds and kept him. Which had noth-
The Columbus Day Storm of 1962 brought ing to do with my being late to pick her up
with it hurricane-force winds. It is on the on January 20, 1993, or I don’t think it did.
record books as being without equal on
the west coast, and it was possibly the *
worst non-tropical storm on the continent
during the twentieth century. In 1962 I was My husband has always been a worrier,
six years old and in the first grade. My ru- but this winter his worries have gotten out
ral school in southwest Washington was of hand. He worries about the stock mar-
damaged by the winds, enough so that the ket, about politics, about our money run-
next day we were on the front page of the ning out, about whether or not we have
Chehalis-Centralia paper, The Daily Chron-

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enough food in the house, about the oil in nia. Lately, however, my sleep is more dis-
one daughter’s car and the tires on another turbed than usual, carrying me through the
daughter’s car. He worries about what we night, clanking and screeching like a freight
will eat; he worries that I don’t eat enough. train. I wake and listen to the wind. I watch
He worries about how we will pay for food TV. I read. I drowse in short bursts, and
and utilities. He worries about whether the toward morning I grow confused, falling
thermostat to our furnace is broken and if asleep in one boxcar, waking to find myself
the water heater is working and if the pipes thrust into another, propped amid crated
will freeze. He worries about what these cargo. When I do sleep, I don’t pry open a
potential disasters will cost. He doesn’t single crate. When I wake, I remember no
think of them as “potential”; for him, they dreams.
are real. His worries are so severe that he
ends up in the hospital, where he asks each *
doctor and nurse, “How can we afford this?”
A few weeks ago, our middle daughter,
I wake in the night and I worry about him. aged 25, was walking her roommate’s dogs
late at night and was hit by a car. Paramed-
* ics were called, though she was only shak-
en up, scraped and bruised. She called me
My mother, too, was a worrier. Not so much, at 11:30—who knows why we need to talk
I don’t think, when her children were small. to our mothers at such times—and though
She never worried about money or food, she insisted that she was all right, I got out
but as we grew older she worried about of bed and put on shoes and drove to see
us. She worried about her boys with their for myself. It was a moonless night and wind
motorcycles and their guns and their girl- was whipping the trees around. The wind
friends. She worried about my sisters when seemed to blow all of my other worries
they married young, and she worried about straight out of my head—the unexpected
their pregnancies and she worried about bill, the sore shoulder, the looming dead-
their babies. She worried about me because line, even my husband’s anxieties—these
I didn’t get married young. She worried became smaller than small. They hunkered
when I didn’t get pregnant, and she worried down like mice hiding in a hole.
about the daughters I eventually adopted
(she once called me to make sure I wasn’t The next morning, when I filled my hus-
leaving my older two, twins a few months band in on this adventure, he lifted his arms
old, alone in the bathtub). I have her King and exclaimed, “What will this cost us!”
James Bible and I can find the passages she
underlined: Be anxious for nothing; Be not *
afraid; Consider the lilies of the field; What-
ever is good…think on these things. It isn’t that I don’t worry about my daugh-
ters, but I believe that my job as their moth-
My husband’s worry this winter has far er is to hold fast to an image of their ideal
outstripped my mother’s. selves. They are smart, strong-willed, capa-
ble young women and of course they can fig-
* ure this out (whatever this is) for themselves.
My husband, on the other hand, seems to
I’m not a great sleeper, and I admit to hav- think that, even though they are now young
ing at times cultivated a thoughtful insom-

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adults, that they are still his needy little girls. the Wind (Susan Denning), The Western
He has to buy their tires, pay their insurance Wind (Samantha Harvey) – these were just
and their doctor bills, and do their taxes. My a few. According to Goodreads, there are 53
clever girls shake their heads and say, “Well, romance novels with the word wind in the
if it makes Dad happy!” title. Not by accident, I found my copy of
Laurie Colwin’s A Big Storm Knocked It Over,
* and lay awake quite late, rereading it.

On his better days, “anxiety” feels too pre- *
tentious a word for what has beset my hus-
band. That he frets is closer to the reality. Each morning my husband, bleary-eyed,
His concerns, worries and fearful ideations reads the newspaper cover to cover, look-
put me in mind of a too tightly strung in- ing for what is wrong with the world. He
strument. His constant fretting releases a frowns, shakes his head sadly, clucks his
discordant music, a jangling and twanging tongue. What will he do with this tired old
of tortured notes that sets even our dog to body of yesterday’s news? He tries to share
pacing, that makes our cats howl. the highlights with me, but I don’t want to
listen. Finally, he has no recourse but to fold
* the newspaper open to the crossword and
begin inking in the squares, time’s nephew
Sometimes at night I get my iPhone out and writing its obituary.
do some research. A few windy words I have
found: blast, blow, Boreas, breath, breeze, During his current crisis, he can’t finish
Chinook, cyclone, draft and draught, flurry, the crossword. I sometimes rescue one
flutter, foehn, gale, gust, hurricane, kham- from the bin and finish it for him. Now I’m
sin, mistral, northeaster, puff, trade wind, the one fretting.
Santa Ana, sirocco, southwester, squall,
tempest, twister, typhoon, wafting, whisk, *
whiff, whirlwind, williwaw, zephyr. So many
of them are composed of sounds that make A more useful morning practice, for me,
them seem comic: Williwaw! Really! than reading the incessant and appalling
news headlines, is to write in my journal.
* Usually I fill a page or maybe two. During
this winter with my husband’s anxiety, I fill
On a whim (which, being a turn, a start, a three or four pages, or more. He interrupts
freak, a fancy, an impulsive blast of inspira- me to ask what I’m doing, where his glasses
tion, could itself be a wind word), I decided are, where his cell phone is, or what I make
to look up novels with “wind” in the title: of a news story about the president. I hun-
Gone with the Wind (Margaret Mitchell), ker over my journal. I’m like a child building
The Winds of War (Herman Wouk), Wind in her own kite out of balsa wood and news-
the Willows (Kenneth Grahame), The Name print. When the adults say the wind today
of the Wind (Patrick Rothfuss), Fair Blows will rip that kite apart, you’re just wasting
the Wind (Louis L’Amour), Where Wind your time, I keep writing. Maybe nothing
Meets Wave (Caroline Fyffe), Cold Wind (C. J. will ever come of the lines I scrawl in blue
Box), What the Wind Knows (Amy Harmon), ink on the white pages, but I love my time
A Vengeful Wind (James L. Nelson), Embrace with the crinkly paper and strips of wood

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

and Elmer’s glue. It calms me. I’m perfectly When I shared this thought with my hus-
happy here, lost in play. band, he shook his head knowingly and said,
“Unless something worse takes its place.”
*
*
On a website of severe weather records, I
learned that the current record for strongest There was nothing in the newspaper warn-
measured wind is held by Tropical Cyclone ing of it, and it is no longer the season for it,
Olivia, which hit Barrow Island, Australia, in but late yesterday afternoon we had anoth-
April of 1996, with gusts up to 253 mph. er windstorm. It howled around the house
like a wild animal, maybe like williwaw, bit-
* ing off limbs of trees and shaking them into
our backyard. I watched from the kitchen
“It’s an ill wind that blows no one any good.” window as one big limb thumped down on
This old saying is first recorded in John Hey- the clothesline and another fell on our deck.
wood’s A dialogue conteinyng the nomber I thought of a line from an Emily Dickinson
in effect of all the prouerbes in the Englishe poem: “When Winds take Forests in their
tongue, 1546: “An yll wynde, that blowth Paws—” My husband came up behind me
no man to good, men saie.” To paraphrase, and watched, too. An hour later, it was over.
the wind blows in good fortune as well as My husband walked out to get the mail and
ill, it sails ships and windmills and—even when he returned he said, “It’s a surprising-
when it’s an “ill wind”—it will keep blow- ly beautiful day.”
ing until it blows the bad on through and
something better takes it place.

120

POETRY



OF SCRIBBLING

by Korkut Onaran

The Second Day of the Second Decade Conversing with Abu Nuwas

The sun reappears “. . . wine, clear as a lover’s face”
from behind the clouds
beamijg into the narrow opening and after a glass or two
along the horizon the lover’s face starts to glow
to shine for a little while inviting me for one more sip.
on the face of the city.
Then it sets Let me be the surprise
and the sunset starts happening: exclamation on your face, she says,
colorful reflections reach higher when you have a sip.
and higher
and the whole sky “ . . . her eyelids, tears start glistening”
is on fire now;
a brilliant symphony of colors! then, a tear drop leaves the eye,
travels down the cheek,
which reminds me lands in the glass. I respond
of those who die
not knowing how their lights shedding a few of mine too
will reach the clouds into the wine. She tastes ever so
and spread in the sky. salty, full with spices,

It’s a good thought to start a new decade. and with strong emotions.

“ . . . many a wine, like ripest rose . . .”

I love age in a woman
especially if she is wine.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

The taste that collected years You and Me and the Sea
of learning and ripening.
Give her a kiss and take her in, Your lips
walk on a pristine beach
you’ll ripen and wise up as well. when you speak the names of places
Then again, too much wisdom from your adolescence.
may give you a headache. In your green gaze
is a long summer day.
“. . . daughter of an harbour, pleasant to drink” Under the shade of your curves
the words ocean and orange
when she flirts with the cheese, exchange scents.
especially with St. Agur, I enter your voice
she is daring and demanding. and take an afternoon nap.
When I am awakened
She decides about the positions; at the call-for-gin-and-tonic time,
she acts as if nothing is complete just before the sunset,
without her know how. I am a kid again
walking by the shore
She is, after all, a Cabernet Sauvignon, searching the water
who grew up at the beach for an octopus. A breeze
freely, proud of her body. in my hair and salt
on the eyelids of my tomorrow.
“While we may not know the heaven in this life I don’t know of your green gaze yet.
Still, we have paradise’s libation” Then again maybe I do,
maybe it has always been with me.
And the fish! Each
created by an Etruscan artist!
Let us swim together
into the evening
all naked. The moon
is about to rise up.

124

Of Scribbling Revista Literária Adelaide
Winter’s Wee Hours

A gray warm day! Minutes are dusting
I’ve been following the weather in the cold outside,
almost hourly like shy snow particles
to grab every opportunity to sit outside hanging in the dark
and do my scribbling as if my life depends on it. hesitating to land.
In a way it does. What else
is there anyway, if not And me
top write about scribbling here
a distant sea sitting
and the colorful shell of an abalone at the kitchen table
and her relatives in the sky like an exclamation mark!
hiding behind the clouds?
And the jelly fish The insomniac silence
lingering above the snowy peaks to the west? is a river with no water
And a cup of tea yet it keeps running
warming my hand in February? and running
making no sound.

About the Author

Korkut Onaran’s The Book of Colors has received the
first prize in Cervena Barva Press 2007 Chapbook Contest.
His poem House has received the second prize in 2006
Baltimore Review Poetry Competition. His first book of
poetry The Trident Poems has been published by World
Enough Writers in February 2018. His poetry has been
published in journals such as Adelaide, Penumbra, Rhino,
Colere, White Pelican Review, Crucible, City Works Literary
Journal, Water –Stone, Review, Atlanta Review, Bayou,
Common Ground Review, and Baltimore Review.

125

NARCISSISM

by W. Colin McKay

Beer He tried to turn away.
To stop looking.
Hey, Bartender! Over here! But as hard as he tried, and he really did try,
I need another beer. he couldn’t turn his eyes away from himself.
I’m trying to write a poem Too bad.
in this crummy bar If he had been paying attention
before stumbling to my car to something other than himself
and heading to a home he might’ve seen the cliff’s edge.
where I’m forced to disappear. He might not have fallen.

Can’t write without a beer. Nevertheless, he fell.

Narcissism Spread-eagled, twisting, twisted,
confused by the quick descent,
He found himself while on a plunging through dark smoke,
journey of self-discovery. passing through sporadic sounds of voices,
What he selfishly discovered disturbed him. only to land upon the broken
He expected more, leavings of the fall.
much more of certain qualities,
much less of others. Stepping in ghostly silence,
he sifted through the ashes of the site,
searching for something of value.
Finding nothing
he tucked away the remains of hope for
possible re-appraisal at some distant time.
Uncertain when the distant time might occur.
he curled himself into a ball
awaiting, dreading, inevitability.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Dear Life

Dear Life,

This concerns standing order 06221940.

I am in receipt of all ordered volumes, including the most current. All delivered exactly when due.
They are timely, and easily indexed for archival study. Your contextual expertise, coupled with
your inventiveness of presentation, consistently amazes me – with special notice to delightful
Volumes 10 through 50. Indeed, commencing with the incredibly magical Volume 1, I have been
a loyal and satisfied customer. You cannot imagine my dismay, therefore, to find that wondrous
artisanship which defined your earlier works in serious decline. Truly, so great is the difference
between then and now, I suspect an unannounced change of management and mission.

Contrasting to earlier Volumes, the latest additions contain irreparably
torn pages, plus incomplete, and often incoherent text. Moreover, the
most recent cover arrived frayed, crumpled, too damaged to fix.

I am deeply distressed.

Of course, I am aware you present no guarantees and that, by signing on with you, I acknowledged
and accepted your policy of no returns, no refunds, and no substitutions. In light of your
policies, therefore, I find little choice other than to cancel my standing order as of today.

Respectfully, a formerly happy customer

About the Author

W. Colin McKay is a California native, born and raised in
the Golden State. He loves to travel, however, he is always
happy to return home. Colin currently lives in Morro Bay
with his wife Cary.

127

SEÑORITA BANTE!

by Roseangelina Baptista

Bante! Para vir a entender
nessa primavera,
Assim te chamei. que faltei
Entretanto, duvidei em não ter mais
que pudesses me ensinar fé na benevolência.
a arte de abraçar as coisas
como elas vêm para nós. Tua, a habilidade
Como o inverno De confiar além do medo.
desiste de si Calma e desafetada,
na estação das flores, capaz de aceitares
eu desisti de ti o curso natural
naquele dia das nossas atitudes.
de Martin Luther King.
Tu,
que tinhas razões
Para desgostar, maldizer.
Mas, fostes maior que
teus obstáculos de gata.
Plena e descomplicada.

Te perdendo,
ganhei a medida
de meu próprio
desafeto.

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Miss Bante Revista Literária Adelaide

At first, I called you With the right to serenity,
Bante! Though how the privilege to suffer,

could you teach me you leapt all hurdles
about letting go? cool cat that pounced

As winter gives way your way to wholeness,
to spring, I gave unshackled.

you up that Martin Losing you gained me
Luther King Day. my own measure
of distance.
That spring, when I failed 
to believe in goodness,

you had the capacity
to trust beyond fear.

About the Author

Roseangelina Baptista is an American-Brazilian based in
Central Florida. She is a bilingual freelance writer with
interests in promoting poetry, mindfulness and in reviving
Indo-Portuguese literature. Her poetry first appeared in
the Joao Roque Literary Journal (June 2019) and Adelaide
Literary Magazine (November 2019 and February 2020),
other works were contributions to local anthologies
(2019/2020.)

129

COMING AND
GOING

by Roger D Anderson

The other Strange Journey

is curiously appealing I met an unkempt man on the
but I have no intention of keeping it busy sidewalk today.
newness fades He stared wildly at me and shouted,
and I am not always a fool “You both must be quite mad.”
but enticement does tempt I sensed it was something he
enough for an occasional just needed to say.
whatever So I nodded and smiled to pacify him,
but nothing more and then went on to tell him of many things,
a rock is more precious than much of which he did not understand.
a beautiful blossom But I spoke,
separated from its creator because he needed to know.
and placed in water
My next meeting was with a sad-looking
woman waiting at a bus stop.
She looked at me through spent eyes,
then faintly smiled and whispered, “I know.”
I asked if she could tell me why,
but she just shook her head.
I soon grew weary of her company
and walked away,
not knowing any answers.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

I then met an elderly priest at the shelter, Coming and Going
but not being of his religion,
I felt I could not speak to him. My swaying branches will tell me of her arrival,
Perhaps he understood this. and fallen leaves will whisper to me
He said nothing and just occasionally nodded, when she vanishes into somewhere.
so I was probably right. Carousels and carnivals are
We sat there in silence confusing, yet alluring,
as faceless figures shuffled by. like her, when she shoots her
Then he disappeared into somewhere. web from inside herself.
It can be quite lethal,
As late afternoon melted into the long shadows but so soft and inviting to lie in.
of evening, I walked to the base
of a tall stone tower. Feeling trapped may simply be accepted
Knowing I hadn’t the strength and have its moments of delicious rapture.
to climb to the top,
I laid down on the cold, wet ground at its base A rushing stream sweeps me
and I wept. to the eventual eternity of the ocean
and that never-ending line on the horizon.

Spit into the sea, I willingly accept my mission,
back upstream like those frenzied salmon,
intent on their purpose and
their self-destruction.

It is a long way back,
but her web awaits,
and I feel my branches begin to sway.

The leaves won’t fall for a while,
not until she is sated again.

131

I Loved My Job Adelaide Literary Magazine
Missed Opportunities

I wanted to work there, I sat on a plain wooden chair.
so they let me.
The white rats became my friends. In front of me was a plain wooden table,
People there had white coats too, then another beyond that,
but their coats had pockets then another and another and another,
for pretty pencils and pens. then still more, eventually disappearing
  into distant evening fog
The lights were always so bright, to somewhere beyond.
and I liked that.
Even when it rained it was bright inside, On the first table was food for thought
and I felt warm and safe. neatly placed on a fine china plate.
  It tempted me to take a taste,
The people were always so busy but I was too cautious to take
writing things even one small bite.
with their pretty pens and pencils.
The rats were busy too when On the second table was opportunity
the people were there. hidden in a golden goblet.
  I thought to peek inside, but hesitated.
I wish I could go back there. Then I saw it quickly snatched away by another.
I miss the bright lights
and the colors of the pretty pencils and pens On the third table was regret
. . . and the rats. tightly wrapped inside a plain brown package
encircled with twine and tape.
It made me feel uneasy, so I looked away.

On the fourth table was satire
pinned to a raggedy clown puppet,
but clowns frighten me
so I avoided its gaze.

The fifth table was difficult to see
since the fog partially enveloped it,
but I could make out the word “indecisiveness”
seemingly floating above the table.

Beyond I saw only vague outlines
of a few more tables,
but was unable to discern what
each had to display.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

I wondered how many more tables reached
deeper into the fog.
No matter though,
since I now understand this plain wooden chair
is meant to claim me forever,
while my eyes weaken
and my hunger and thirst wane.

About the Author

Roger D. Anderson: I enjoy reading and writing poetry.
I only write when the words and emotions and feelings
are suddenly moving about in my head. They beg me
to quickly write them down, lest I soon forget them like
last night’s dream. Credits include Fine Lines, Westward
Quarterly, Nebraska Life, Cholla Needles, Chronogram,
and Scarlet Leaf Review. Several of my other poems have
been accepted for publication in an upcoming edition of
another journal.”

133

HOME GROUND

by Dale Cottingham

A Little History each with a history as I pass through
like a ghost as I live my own,
Watching the river in flood, that teeters on being swept away
each exhale huffing over the one before,
its red, swollen reality waking imagination. in this torrent of time, events,
each iteration combining
Dismembered tree limbs, into a larger one, gaining
water logged, sodden, submerging,
re-emerging for encores of helplessness, a force of meaning, emotion—
what will I remember
tumbling in the roiling flow. from this pause on my walk?
A tire, worn and wet, rolling in the current, Will this be one focused moment
upright, overturning, swerving in a series of unplumbed events,
swept away with other debris,
in free-fall downstream,
to a fate I can’t see. or will I glean new insight, leaving
From my perch, I read with the memory of sun lighting
a storm’s watery aftermath,
my family history, part native American
forcibly removed removed the power in this most fluid element,
from their homeland my synapses sparking as I watch,
in a torrent of movement, seeing branches, trash bags, silt anew,

and sitting apart–, part White as they course by, submerged,
settled here from somewhere else, like my ancestors to different degrees
each an immigrant trying in the turgid flow, some afloat,

to swim amid the flotsam
in a swirl of meanings
jostled by the flood

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Revista Literária Adelaide

some drowning as I watch, none This Icy In-Between
I can save from the churning river—
the willow on the bank, caught in the flow, This evening, during the blizzard, on my way
to check on you, while snow blew in streaks,
clinging by roots as the scourging flood
scours the soil, the willow still grasping, horizontal and quick, driven by wind
with each billow less able to stand— in utter fidelity to the current, blurring my view

leaning, so that even if it holds of the dirt road I drove slowly down—
amid the change, it is changed, guided by a solitary out light
and will not remain unchanged. on a hill’s low crest.

The light shone like an outpost, its dome
illuminating in blue light the snow, each flake

not specific, but in mass, a slur glittering
in their hurry, as the CD I played,

Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings,
reached the long crescendo, violins

moving up the register without interruption,
voicing my emptiness, leaving me

gapped and torn, edging along a precipice,
in a blizzard of unspoken words.

But I can’t say that was all.
I can’t say it was only snow,

I can’t say if it was longing
or the adagio I felt,

my car slipping on unseen ice, that I
must navigate, turning the steering wheel

counter to my slide, but carefully,
the crescendo ongoing, the precipice

threatening, or tempting. Snowflake
of my soul, coursing on currents.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I’ve blown through money and time; Home Ground
borrowed prayers, faith, gestures,
The ground rises before me,
glances, and some blues I’ve sung. fallow and open, ghosted
Aren’t I both subject and object
by my ancestors, both Native
on this road, the crescendo and White , last year’s stalks,
cascading now, descending
dirt-spattered and weathered
to one more sorrowful resolution, by snow, by frost,
the snow still blowing, scouring
corn husks once luscious and florid,
the icy road, some piling in the ditch, that rose in summer sun,
some blown to field
prone, picked over
beyond the blue of my sight, by birds, like readers
like souls I’ve seen but not touched,
seeking stray kernels
while you wait, knowing in the scribbled margins
I’m in this icy in-between,
of second-hand books.
that I strive while you wait anxiously, The wind ribbons through,
you sitting in your chair,
fecund, bearing pollen, spores,
phone, remote, Bible at hand. humid enlightenments,
O, prayer of my heart,
the expectation of rain.
let my spoken and unspoken words A lone car passes, heading to town,
be enough, my arrival in a blizzard
whose far warrens
saying everything necessary, offering of urban entertainments
a slippery concept, what I call me.
of the body and mind,
hold no attraction for me.

Hoe in hand, I seek a soulful way.
As the car crosses over the next hill,

rolling dust over the empty plains,
I can’t say that I am more than breath,

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Revista Literária Adelaide

as I scrape metal against pliable earth, The Joining
sensing the always-feeling-an-absence
Listening to the piano, each note
present, the sehnsucht, joining the next, precise, and expanding,
despite the presence of so much:
soothing with melody, lifting us,
dust, roots, spores, humidity— while she played Appalachian Spring,
I stand at field’s edge,
in this widening illusion. I watched her
gawping as if a ghostly pageant from half way back, playing
passed by, the wind persisting,
without sheet music,
shuddering the dry stalks, song filling the sanctuary, her fingers
this dust, this solitude,
flawlessly striking keys, sharps, flats,
my angle of repose, following Copeland’s score,
this odd jealously rising,
but adding her own supple emphases,
my ancestors immigrants too, softnesses, delays—she leaned
never close enough to the land—
into the keys, then swayed back,
It is an other, it is other, eyes closed as if in prayer,
as I carve furrows
pouring herself like champagne
in this land I stand on, into the music—no,
whose grit collects on me,
the sunlit music effervesced
as I attempt to translate through her, thrilling our ears,
the wind’s soulful whispering
resonating through pews,
to earth, which seems notes rising, falling like breath,
to understand in ways I can’t.
the notes rising, falling like breath,
singing me so thoroughly, I didn’t see

the others waiting for the wedding to start,
listening to her impromptu performance,

the notes continuing, gaining,
then losing intensity.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I lean my head back, my silent voice
reaching to meet her. Can’t I be
both subject and object—nuances
and lilts—chances taken,
or fates. Notes lofting, then
losing intensity. How can I deliver
my self from my individual will,
from outside this moment, free of need?
Each note in its little jacket of tone,
a mix of script and impromptu play,
my eyes on her, her eyes still closed,
head back, but leaning into the piano,
not one note lost, the music wafting
and waning—and henceforth,
wafting—my body turned medium,
the music lifting me,
lifting me as if my redemption
depends on it—

About the Author
Dale Cottingham has published poems and reviews of poetry collections in many journals.
He won the 2019 New Millennium Award for Poem of the Year. The poems in Midwest Hymns
are consistently at a high level of thought, insight and clarity. The poems probe longing and
mortality in a uncaring land. The author live in Edmond, Oklahoma.

138

ONLY STARS

by Peycho Kanev

Only Stars And at that time we started
going to parties,
When I look back, the boombox jumped with electro music,
I always do it weed and vodka were the things we needed
not with a smile, but with astonishment to become real men, and we swapped stories
on my face. I remember the time, about who managed to throw some girl
when I was little kid and then on the sweaty mattress
there still were old people who in the dark basement.
were from another time,
who still remembered the world While at the same time in an
before the cameras, before electricity, apartment below us
before the TV. one of them was preparing to go to sleep,
without getting bothered with
A world in which they had only one our load music and cries,
old book and two newspapers, he was ready to dream again about the times
when the word hunger was not just a word, when there were no planes in the night sky,
and the war was so real, no satellites, only stars,
as Starbucks and Twitter are today, from horizon to horizon, large and shiny,
calling for great journeys,
but they continued to live in this new world, in a world which for them was one step away
so strange to them, and they slid like ghosts from true perfection.
between modern cars and children
with large headphones,
and they walked with their heads down,
hunched and staring at the ground,
who waited to embrace them
like a loving mother.

139

Dim Memories Adelaide Literary Magazine
Dim Impressionism

I am here alone At first I tried to draw you
reaching out to the sun, but soon I discovered – that
which hangs on a thin thread is impossible
in the corner of the sky, swaying gently.
Nobody else knows I’m here Such nuances and
in this white and primordial house tinctures and shades are not
made of clouds, in front of the garden invented yet
of plowed shadows.
there is no brown like the chestnut
The wind is looking for his foggy keys of your silky hair
to sneak through the door. there is no pink like the warm milk
Each stone outside is a captured David, of your skin
waiting to be carved out, every bone in me and the color of your eyes is
belongs to someone else who has yet to the whole ocean within two
be born, every breath I take is already drops
exhaled by some dying creature.
Nothing else is darker than the depth of
I am here alone your core
and slowly growing old with a smile.
The tomatoes turn red in the garden That is why
as the face of a politician on trial, I light my cigarette and let the smoke
girls with the color of sparrows cross the street do the job.
and their laughter rise up and gets lost
inside the crevices of my blue childhood.
Suicidally beautiful boys, like angels, ran
over and fly away.

The rays of the sun’s octopus
penetrate the window and fill up the room
to the ceiling, the waves of time splash
and crash into the walls, a moth flies over
and disperses scents of silky old age, life
stretches from room to room, like a gold
toilet paper roll and then stops.

An old woman dressed in black,
stooped like the letter C, stands in front of
the door and whispers something
to me about my life,
which I can’t fully understand.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Peycho Kanev is the author of 6 poetry collections and three chapbooks, published in the
USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Rattle, Poetry
Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead
Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review
and many others. His new chapbook titled Under Half-Empty Heaven was published in 2019
by Grey Book Press.

141

SEA AND SOIL
POEMS

by Steve Mentz

Of thirteen minds

I swim past Whale Rock. As I swim back, I count a third time.
Cold air leeches warmth from rotating arms I think of the rock’s thirteen minds,
That plunge into grey-green The wind’s emptiness,
sea with each stroke. The ocean slippery and green buoying me up,
Turning my chin, I count, and count again. And the weakness of my wet body
Surrounded by sea.
Their beaks all point north, into the chill breeze,
Away from me. The season changes.
Cormorant-devils. I feel it.
Black birds who fish my waters,
Who from the air spy through sun-glint
Belly-flashes of silver, and then –
They dive, plunge, turn, swallow,
retreat up to sky.

One bird, not the biggest but perhaps bolder
Than others, holds wings open, arched,
So that the creature feels the north wind
Under his body, providing a slight lift
And drying force that I imagine
Gives pleasure.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Bodies of Water

Because it fills
Because it fills up
Because it fills up my body and overspills

the round curvings in the world’s pockmarked surface

Because it flows
Because it flows down
Because it flows down from clouds and sluices

through canyons and throats and membranes

Because it falls
Because it falls into
Because it falls into my memory and floods
dry wastes of skin and imagination

Because it fastens
Because it fastens itself
Because it fastens itself to shivering forearms and sucks

heat and life and blood-color out of flesh

Because it freezes
Because it freezes sometimes
Because it freezes sometimes in my obscure bay and flashes

a rime-hard shell over slow-undulating sea

Because it foams
Because it foams inside
Because it foams inside body and bay and disquiets

Both self and world

Because it fills me, and is not me.

Because I thirst
And mostly we both taste salt.

143

Sea Music Adelaide Literary Magazine
Soiled Poem

Rhythm abrades with weight’s Not so many inches deep, in
force and rumble. some places not any –
Air fills water with foam. The ocean’s None atop the granite that dimples up
Body shoulders itself through narrow gaps In the garden, puddles rainwater, stifles roots,
Between and beneath overhanging rocks, Scraped my son’s knee one day,
Forcing tearing colored overalls –
Lumbering bulk onto and over stone. But that’s rock itself, not this terrapoem.
This ground song surrounds the rock, nests it,
It won’t stay. Subtends it, matrix and generatrix,
Water-fingers dissolve foam-outlines, The soil that soils, dirties, grows, builds, smells,
Whiteness falls as if in shame, Stains, burrows into and stays where it gets.
Not wanting to remain where many can see. Soil lives on bodies and loves to mark clothes.
As if all our fond works, -culture that seeds
We hear an indistinct music – The root agriculture, and poetry’s
Grinding and a cushioned wet rumble. Cultured and culturing vectors –
Back and forth we listen to warm salt water All these germinations, wet and fecund,
Clutch volcanic rock. Lapping fingers spill Stretch themselves thin and dark and hidden,
Over the path where your Across fields, around rocks, and
bare feet just stepped. beneath swamps
Froth-arms retreat into larger body, Soiling our land.
Slopping down into light-
framed green and depth.

Sounds linger unclear in waterlogged ears –
And distant deep murmurs echo
All our way home.

About the Author

Steve Mentz is a writer and teacher who lives on the
Connecticut shoreline. His poems have appeared in the
Glasgow Review of Books, Underwater New York, and in
the book Oceanic New York.

144

TIME

by Eugenia Fain

Time Beloved Hero
A fibonnaci poem A trimeric poem

Time You are my beloved hero,
Fades The apple of my eye.
Into You bring me hope,
Eternal In the darkest night.
Waves cascading in The apple of my eye,
Pools in which we are a pebble. You shine above the rest,
Spurring the on to my goal,
A Rondel Poem While the storm winds assail.
Spurring me on to my goal,
When I do spy your lovely face, You ignite a passion within,
My heart leaps with joy, Always reminding me to live,
At your antics that are so coy. With my back towards the wind.
My pain leaves me without a trace. With my back towards the wind,
I carry you in my heart,
This world bestowed upon me grace, As the inspiration that I need,
So that I am a lucky boy, In this life to carry on.
With pleasures, I do run my race,
And with you the moments to enjoy. 145

Keeping you in a sacred place,
Requires nary a wicked ploy.
Honesty is all I will employ,
As long as the sun runs its race.

My Lass Adelaide Literary Magazine
A Cantena Rondo
Dancing with The Stars
A strambotto poem

How I adore my lass, Now dancing with the stars above on this earth,
And how I carry her in my breast, My spirit and my inner man begin to soar.
Holding her close in my breast. As a creature of God, I see my self-worth.
How I adore my lass. My newfound freedom is all that I hope for.
The is what I sought from the time of my birth.
Keeping you near to my heart, Exuberant joy radiates in my core.
I am faithful to the end. Joy does fill me with laughter
TO you my life I lend. and so much mirth.
Keeping you in my heart. As the luminous lights above, I explore.

Never ever doubt my love.
It is as eternal as the earth.
Of my tender feelings there is no dearth.
Never doubt my love.

If you will love me, too.
All will be right at last.
Our union erase the past.
If you will love me, too.

About the Author

Eugenia Fain is a seasoned author with forty years of
experience in writing poetry and prose. She is a fiftyish
married woman who resides in South Carolina with her
husband, Ivan and her tabby cat, Buddy. Eugenia is a
preschool teacher and tutor who has no has children of
her own. She is an international Amazon author who is
published in America, Thailand, India. She experiments
with various forms and themes from many lands including
Burma, Vietnam, Japan , Cambodia, Italy, England and
America.

146

TAKE TEN

by LG Pomerleau

How We See

“No telescope is more powerful than the prejudice of the person looking through it.”
Kevin Ashton, How To Fly A Horse, 2015

The spider in your eye is Becoming accustomed to
blood perceiving
the doctor says. A viscous that which I expect, like the
(“vicious?”) astronomer Lowell searching deep
membrane afloat in the field. into the night through
the tightened aperture of his telescope trained
As we age… a pause. I blink, on Martian canals, cracks, lines, and spokes to
his eyes soft, brown, my cheeks warm. prove extraterrestrial life on distant planetary
Blood. worlds all the while mapping the web
of mirrored retinal veins:
…the vitreous changes in his own eye.
texture the gel shrinks, it shifts
in the eye’s centre sometimes Poor Percival he could not
forcing the retina to… see—never did—the error
detach… of his ways. Certain blindness.

He slows, waits as a tear rolls… The arachnid’s limbs sway with
no, no, please don’t…it’s intact. every blink cloud my vision swirling dark
threads across my sight so damn
The shadow will disappear annoying I wonder will I ever not
see its foul ink blot my
or not. page?
if not, you’ll get used to it…
you won’t see it anymore, Ma’m. A certain blindness which for
once, at least, is only
Oh, I know about shift, young man,
contraction, detachment, too. a bloody spider.

147

Take Ten Adelaide Literary Magazine
I had no sympathy

They praise my looks so for my mother. In winter, chores done
I invite them in
the camera too stamping our boots brushing snow
my lover but much harder
to control I make them take we’d find
Take then Take after goddamn
Take the windows open wide her face bright
to perfect her tilt,
eyes half-closed, awakening red as if from joy or a glass
from her dream sideways smile then
a yawn, suggestive even of wine her upper lip dripping sweat
in bed I scent No. 5
so she won’t ever as she kneaded dough making
leave me
Bread.
Alone, jaw clenched, I knit
booties while I wait She’d pat and punch until it squeaked then
for the next, the last
Take. declare it ready to rise
Unshed tears sparkle
the camera loves Queen of the table she’d serve it warm
Me
spread with butter always on
So they say they can’t see my
knotted womb, a den Friday fresh bread to go with fish so
of scars where anger lives nothing else
grows. delicious for Years until she hit

Let them growl, curse me, let them Forty.
wait for who kept the very We’d slam the door crying why
President on hold: “The Late freeze us out like this? Bread tough
Marilyn Monroe!” to chew, good for nothing but
Toast.
Cheers, applause but then
by night her breathy Mom’s lost
whispers dancing feet her knack, we grumbled eating
tire me so I can’t store-bought bread. Dad got a machine but
sleep. she never even opened
the box.
Take one, Norma Jean.
Just one more oh take three then… Her chronic dizzy spells, night sweats all
a play
they’ll be sorry so for attention an excuse to lie
sorry I’m sorry I did down on the couch as, not silently,
try to call but—it was too I screamed
Late. at her highs & lows wildly cleaning
house then falling into her bed
exhausting us, father, siblings &
I sliding into shells fashioned for
Ourselves against the stark Cold.

148