Adelaide Literary Magazine No.49, June 2021

Revista Literária Adelaide

long to leave. For almost fourteen years myself. I knew that drinking to oblivion (I
she had endured my father’s abuse and had already accumulated two DUI’s by the
alcoholism. Once she and the boys were time I was nineteen) and spending most of
gone, I was left to take on the role of care- my waking hours in smokey bars hustling
taker of my father, who was by then glued pool was not a sustainable lifestyle for me
to his vodka bottle, shaking like Jell-O in and I wanted more for myself. My father’s
the morning until the clear liquid surged newfound sobriety inspired me to do the
through his body. He had been fired from same. I quit drinking and got my G.E.D.. I
his teaching job in Ogden within a matter of stopped playing pool in bars, but I entered
weeks, for drinking on the job and throwing a national pool tournament in Las Vegas
a stapler at a student. at the MGM Hotel and took second place.
I won fourteen hundred dollars. This gave
My life became a nightmare of picking me the money I needed to make a change. I
up my drunken father up from the floor, moved to California and got a job as a recep-
cleaning up after him, and trying to get tionist at an escrow company. I eventually
him to eat something so he wouldn’t die of married a loving, stable man who was the
malnutrition. He was usually too sick to eat, complete opposite of my father. Michael
so he drank raw eggs and milk to get some was patient and never critical of me. We
nutrients into his system. His delirious cries bought a beautiful home in a gated commu-
and drunken rants filled the dingy basement nity. I went to college and graduate school,
apartment we lived in at the time, keeping starting with a G.E.D. and coming out with
me up all hours of the night. My drinking a Ph.D. I published two books. On the out-
escalated as well, and we found ourselves side, I appeared to have it all. And that was
drinking together. He had finally given up precisely my plan. I figured if I crafted a
on trying to control me, and we both sur- polished persona, I could pass myself off as
rendered to our new normal. “normal” and successful. I would reinvent
myself from the outside in. If I created the
When I was nineteen and my father was right image, my childhood would go away.
forty-five, the miraculous happened: he
got sober. He had tried countless times but That’s not what happened. I had made
had always failed. This time was different great strides in creating that shiny, new
because he had finally hit a bottom. If he life for myself throughout my twenties and
wanted to stay alive, he knew he had to quit. thirties, yet internally I struggled with de-
I saw a change in him—he was less angry pression, anxiety, and ultimately, addiction
and claimed to have had a spiritual awak- again. I’d spiral down, then pick myself up in
ening. He was still prone to angry outbursts a vicious cycle of highs and lows. Aside from
occasionally, but he did the best he could to my husband and a couple of close friends,
overcome his demons and to make amends no one knew what was going on with me. I
with me and my brothers. appeared to have it all.

Two years later, at twenty-one and I knew my problems weren’t situational;
against all odds, I hit my own bottom. I was they were internal. It was my damned past,
tired of being drunk and exploited by older old tapes telling me that I was worthless,
men and exhausted from being in survival irreparably damaged, doomed. For many
mode, looking for places to stay and strug- years I possessed a victim mentality—all of
gling to make enough money to support

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my problems were not of my own making, I thought, I can’t believe I’m still working on
but of my father’s. With the help of a skilled this shit.
therapist I began to delve into my childhood.
I attended workshops on healing your past The retreat was held near St. Helena,
and read countless self-help books. I at- California on a beautiful 45-acre property
tended twelve-step meetings and shared at the foot of the Mayacamas Mountains
parts of my story, releasing layers of tension surrounded by majestic redwoods and a
and anxiety that seemed embedded in my crystal-clear stream. Approximately thirty
flesh. people showed up, their expressions ap-
prehensive. Cell phones were strictly pro-
I realized that blaming my father for all hibited (there was no cell signal or internet
of my problems was not serving me and I access anyway).
had to take responsibility for my own life.
This change was slow and painful. Child- For the first few days, I tried my best
hood memories and beliefs about myself to get into it. I beat a pillow and screamed
that my father had instilled in me as a child at it like it was my father. “I hate you, you
often overshadowed the self-esteem I was mother-fucker! You ruined my life!” I hated
trying so hard to develop. My relationship every minute of that particular exercise and
with my father improved slowly, but we thought it was a waste of time, partly be-
continued to have problems communi- cause I didn’t believe that I still felt that way
cating with each other. He was in California about my father. Counselors walking around
now too, and though he was sober, he was among the participants encouraged us to
still prone to occasional angry outbursts, keep going. On day five, after what seemed
and he couldn’t seem to help but continue like hours of battering the pillow, I heard
to be critical of me. Even as an adult, in my myself scream, “You killed my mother!”
thirties and forties, I would end up in tears The floodgates opened and I cried huge
after having a conversation with him. I still tears that soaked the poor, smashed pillow.
felt myself trying to avoid making him angry. I was stunned. Where did that come from?
Old wounds were easily triggered, I would This wasn’t a belief I remembered having. It
react, arguments erupted. scared me, but it also opened a dam that
allowed years of pain to flow through. I felt
A week before the pandemic hit I at- a huge release when the exercise ended.
tended a week-long retreat called “The
Hoffman Process,” held by the Hoffman On day six the counselor in charge had
Institute and advertised as a “Seven-day us close our eyes and imagine what our
soul-searching, healing retreat of transfor- parents were like as children and what they
mation and development for people who went through. Emotional music played in
feel stuck in one or more important areas of the background to create a nostalgic feeling.
their lives.” It’s an experiential process de- I immediately saw my father as an eight-
signed to help you identify negative beliefs year-old boy. It was the year his mother
that were unconsciously instilled as a child. was put in the state mental hospital and
Two of the outcomes they promised were diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia.
“making peace with your past”, and “emo- Over the course of several months during
tional healing and forgiveness.” With a sigh, my father’s childhood, she was taken there
I signed up. As I filled out the online forms, many times and given shock treatments
that made her seem as if she were far away

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in another world. I had never thought of home. It warmed my heart to see his face
what it might have been like for my father, light up when he said, “I love waking up
living without his mother, even when she to my tea.” His days were mostly spent in
was at home, not receiving the nurturance his room, watching movies, playing soli-
he needed. I had never thought of my father taire, composing emails, reading, napping,
in this light before. Along with the others and watching YouTube videos to pass the
there, I wailed through the entire exercise. time. I checked on him frequently. He pre-
That experience and others helped me to ferred to eat his meals in his room watching
reframe my relationship with my father and old westerns on Netflix. I cooked comfort
see him as the man he was trying to be and food I knew he would enjoy—stuffed bell
not the abusive drunk he had been. I had to peppers, meatloaf with mashed potatoes,
let go of the past and my resentments and chicken curry, and his favorite, Shepherd’s
find more compassion for what my father Pie. Every night he looked forward to his
had been through in his life. favorite butter pecan ice cream. When I
retrieved the dishes, I’d ask, “Do you need
By the end of the week, we all looked ten anything, Dad?” I washed his clothes, ran
years younger. We called it the “Hoffman his bath water, emptied his urine bottles,
Facelift.” With expert guidance, we had and even cut his toenails (luckily, with only
traveled from the depths of despair to a one leg, there were only 5!). I was still the
place of enlightenment and elation. We little girl desperately trying to get my fa-
packed our bags and headed back into the ther’s approval; that was not lost on me.
real world, only to discover that the world Those things never really change. My deep
was coming to an end. A global pandemic, need to connect with my father, to gain his
Covid-19, had hit, and people were locked attention, love, and acceptance were still
up in their homes in an attempt to slow the alive and well.
spread of it. It was as if I had been living in
a time warp and while I was gone, all hell Compliments were rare from my father,
broke loose. and when they occurred, they washed over
me like a soothing ray of sunshine. Over the
I got to the airport, a ghost town with next several weeks I heard many things that
a few people wandering around wearing were foreign to me but that filled me up.
masks over their noses and mouths. It felt One night he said, “I want you to know, I re-
strange and spooky. I thought of my father, ally appreciate all that you’re doing for me.
alone in his trailer. I called him as soon as I I’ve never been treated this well before.”
got home and suggested he come stay with Another day, he told me he was impressed
us for a while. He arrived the next day. with the life I built for myself. My restrained,
reserved father was becoming verbally de-
My father and I quickly established a rou- monstrative in a positive way and I loved it.
tine. My husband worked from home and
was extremely busy, which gave me plenty Partly due to his age, and also because
of time to focus on my father. An early he was drunk most of the time, my father
riser, I made my father’s tea and poured remembers very little of my childhood and
it into his large Thermos, then placed it the horrible things that happened. I have
next to his bed in the guest room while he longed to have him understand what it was
was still sleeping. This saved him the ar- like for me, how the devastating events of
duous trip to the kitchen in our sprawling

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my childhood affected my life as an adult. I dissipated because since he arrived at our
wanted him to know the whole story. And I home there hadn’t been one negative word
wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t to punish him and from him. He had somehow lost his moti-
make him feel guilty; I had given that up. I vation to criticize me. It’s hard to criticize
wanted a witness, and an acknowledgment someone who is serving you.
of just how bad it was, something he had
never really admitted. I didn’t want to have Because things were going so smoothly
to carry these memories inside me without between my father and me, this opened
anyone really understanding what I experi- the door for us to occasionally reminisce
enced, especially someone who was there about the past. One day in June, we sat in
at the time. When he was critical of me as the winged-back chairs in his room, eating
an adult, telling me that I was self-centered smoked oysters, crackers and cheese. I
and overly sensitive, I wished I could show shared my first memory with him.
him a video of my childhood. I wanted him
to see it and weep, and then put his arms I was three, a year after the train acci-
around me and tell me how sorry he was dent. A nightmare jolted me out of my sleep
that I went through all of that. But I never in the middle of the night. The head of a
got the opportunity to share the details of menacing wolf with large fangs came to-
what happened, nor would I have gotten the ward my face at an increasingly faster speed
response I wanted. Understandably, my fa- until it was right up to my face. I woke up
ther hated rehashing the past. The last thing and screamed. Within minutes my step-
he wanted was to be reminded of, or made mother appeared and knelt by my bed. She
aware of, were his mistakes. At first we asked if I’d had a bad dream. I remember
avoided any deep conversations or heart- the crushing feeling I had when I realized it
to-hearts, preferring to keep things light was she who had come to me, not my father.
and avoid any touchy topics. I didn’t want
to ruin what appeared to be a good start of “I wanted you to be the one to come to
our time together under one roof. my room and put your arms around me and
comfort me,” I said. “But it never was you.”
One early morning during his stay I
slipped into my father’s room while he I reined in my tears, expecting him to be
was still sleeping. His prosthetic leg was annoyed by my telling this story, or to dis-
propped up against the chair, a shadowy miss it as something I should get over, as he
figure symbolizing just one of the many had always done when old memories resur-
things he had lost over the years. I watched faced. Add to that, my father doesn’t like
him for a moment. I thought about all he seeing women get emotional. His eyes re-
had been through—his painful childhood, mained dry, but I saw a slight pain in them.
the train accident that took his pregnant
wife and two small children, his struggle “I’m so sorry, Laurie. I wish I could have
with alcoholism. A feeling of love and been there for you.”
compassion washed over me. I could tell
he was making a real effort to be patient My father had apologized to me before,
and grateful, and I knew that my caring for something along the lines of “I’m sorry I
him had played a major role in the process. was such a terrible father.” But this apology
All of my fears about him staying with us felt different. There was genuineness in
his tone, and there was the “so” before
the “sorry”—whatever it was, I felt it in the
depths of my soul. I knew he truly meant it.

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Being able to share a specific memory with of my personal development, but in the end,
him and getting that reaction felt healing. it seemed that time was the key factor in my
being able to let go of resentments toward
“It’s okay, Dad. I know you did the best my father. There was no forcing it; there was
you could,” I replied, and I meant it. only being open to it. There was no waking
up one day and saying, “I’ve decided to for-
That was enough for one day. I picked give my father.” It wasn’t a mental exercise;
up the empty plates, got up and said good it was an internal experience that evolved
night. without my really even noticing it, like the
roses in my garden that unfold impercep-
“Love ya, kid,” he said, as I shut the door tibly until one day I notice the full bloom
behind me. and witness the beauty of it without having
perceived the process happening.
Sometimes we have to reinvent our re-
lationship with a parent, or at least accept On the last day of his stay with us, I en-
a new version of it. Sometimes we have to tered my father’s room and opened the cur-
settle for what we can get and lower our tains. The first bloom of the roses outside in
expectations. Sometimes miracles happen the garden was about to occur, their small
and relationships are healed. In some cases, buds ready to unfold as if on cue. My father
estrangement seems to be the only option. was propped up on his side in bed, playing
This can feel like a death in the family. I was a game of solitaire.
glad that my father and I kept trying. Layer
by layer we were making progress. I realized “Dad would have loved these roses,” he
it was never too late to make strides. said. My grandfather had prize-winning
roses when he was alive. I asked Dad what
How do we forgive the unforgivable? he wanted for breakfast.
How do we reconcile devastating childhood
events that shape who we are and affect us “How about pancakes?” There was an
for the rest of our lives? We are told “It’s impish smile on his face.
in the past, you’re an adult now” and to
“get over it”. Hard as we may try, doing this “Sure,” I replied.
isn’t so easy. For me, forgiveness came in
layers over the course of several decades. As I approached the door, he said, “We’ve
All of the work I did on myself helped tre- come a long way, Laurie.”
mendously in various ways along the path

About the Author

Laurie Gelfand is the author of: “Love Before Sex: How to
Establish Love and Commitment Before Bringing Sex Into the
Relationship” and “The Big Talk: Talking to Your Kids About
Sex and Dating.” She worked as the family therapist for an
alcohol and drug treatment facility in southern California,
and is now writing full time. She is currently working on a
memoir about her early childhood and teen years. She lives
in Los Angeles with her husband and two dogs.

103

AN UNEARTHLY
GRACE

by Peter McQuade

The ice surface at the Mount Vernon Sports “I’m finishing nursing school in Pennsyl-
Complex—my home rink—was down for vania,” she said, “I’m in DC for a job inter-
repairs that springtime Saturday evening in view at a hospital and thought I’d check out
1984. That meant I’d have to go to the Fair- the rinks while I’m here.”
fax Ice Arena instead. If it hadn’t been for
that bit of inconvenience, I would probably I glanced around. Why me? I wondered.
never have met Judy. Of all the people here, why are you singling
me out? After a moment’s pondering, my
An hour into Fairfax’s public skating ses- unspoken question answered itself: being
sion, the truck-like Zamboni ice-resurfacing an adult male figure skater, I was a rare
machine rumbled to life, chasing the crowd commodity, perhaps even a curiosity. Prob-
off the ice. As I clunked toward the benches, ably more important to a good-looking
a young woman emerged from the milling single woman in a strange town, the glimmer
clusters and approached me. Her skates from my wedding band would ensure that
commanded immediate attention: the she could have a friendly conversation at
boots had the unique tan color of expensive, a safe, arms-length distance. Essentially, I
custom-made Harlicks. The blades were would be low-risk. I relaxed a little.
top-of-the-line MKs. Whoever she was, this
lady was a serious figure skater. I judged “This rink’s nice,” I said, “but Mount Ver-
her age to be about the same as mine—late non’s my favorite. Have you been there?”
twenties. She was tall and slender, with a
tremulous smile framed by dark, eager eyes “No,” Judy replied, her ringlets swaying
and a swirling torrent of brunette ringlets. as she shook her head.
She was pretty, and that sent a nervous
tingle crawling up the back of my neck. “My coach there’s fantastic,” I said. Once
again considering the seriousness of her
“Hi, I’m Judy,” she said softly. skates, I added, “She’s always taking new
students.”
“Hello,” I replied with a hesitant smile. “I’m
Pete.” Judy nodded. “Thanks.”

A moment later, she was gone, some-
where up in the bleachers.

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When the Zamboni had finished its job, Judy pulled up alongside me. We talked
we all returned to the smoothened ice, and for a moment, then set out separately
soon after that, I was lost in the intense on the glassy surface. A hint of Zamboni
work of jumps and spins. Judy became just exhaust still hung in the air as pop music
another person to avoid hitting. began to flow from the PA system. A few
other skaters joined us—so unlike the
* pressing crowd at Fairfax. This was how an
evening skating session should be.
A few months later, on a Saturday evening
in early summer, I was bending down to After a couple of warm-up laps, I hock-
remove my blade guards before stepping ey-stopped at “the boards,” the waist-high
onto Mount Vernon’s sheet of pristine wall around the ice. After Judy passed by
white when a soft voice called from behind for the third time, I leaned back against the
me. “Pete?... Remember me?” door of the penalty box and forgot about
the practice I’d come to do. There was
Still bent over, I looked up at the woman— something extraordinary, almost magical, in
Judy. Her thin frame was outfitted in typical her simple forward-crossover strokes as she
ladies’ figure-skating fashion: black woolen flew around the rink, oblivious to the world,
tights on her long legs; a tiny pastel-green apparently lost in the music within her head.
skating dress; and a black wrap-around car-
digan sweater. A friend pulled up alongside me. “What’s
up?” he asked.
“I got that nursing job,” she said with
a shy smile. “And I took your advice.” She “I dunno,” I replied. In truth, I did know. I
swept her hands in an arc that embraced just couldn’t find the words.
the building’s interior. “This is my home rink
now.” Suddenly Judy three-turned, now
heading backward, circumscribing the rink
“That’s wonderful,” I replied, straight- in gigantic figure-eights—her slender legs
ening up. I stepped out onto the ice and pulling into powerful back crossovers, her
glided a short distance, then stopped. The hair fluttering in the cool air rushing past
nervous tingling returned. It was always a her.
delicate walk on the tight-rope—talking
to, and sometimes befriending, an attrac- These were simple, beginner’s moves—
tive female skater. It was especially so for a very common. However, the way she did
happily married man who fully intended to them was entirely uncommon. The word
stay that way. And, temptation aside, in the perfect kept reverberating in my mind. Ev-
world of skating, a juicy rumor could wipe erything is just perfect. The precision of
out a good reputation faster than the Zam- her movements. The set of her head on
boni could clear the ice. On the other hand, her shoulders. The positions of her arms.
Judy seemed okay. She was apparently just Her posture, body-line, even her fingers—
a nice person with an interest in skating all just so. Probably even her toes inside
to match my own. And she needed some those Harlicks, pointing like a ballerina’s.
friendship. I reasoned that sometimes you Perfect. A faint, placid smile shimmered on
just have to put up the appropriate walls, her lips. Her eyes peered slightly upward at
do what you think is right and decent, and something beyond the bleachers, beyond
ignore the rumor-mongers. the walls, perhaps beyond Washington, DC.

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No Olympian’s crossovers could have been single jumps—waltz jump, toe loop, Sal-
more mesmerizing. There was something chow—were magnificent. Smooth, unhur-
else to them, and it took a while to put my ried, and big, as she vaulted and soared as
finger on it. Her strokes were silent—totally high and far as any skater I’d ever seen. And
silent. When her blades dug into the ice, there it was again, that perfection. Even in
there was none of the usual scraping of the air, every part of her body was in exactly
knife-sharp steel slicing into rock-hard ice. the right position. And constantly, there
Just smooth silence. It was as though she was that other-worldly silence of her move-
were gliding a hair’s width above the ice. ments. Obviously, it was a sign of exquisite
muscle control and flexibility, but she might
My buddy again skated up and tapped as well have been made of gossamer.
my arm. “What? Are you camping out here?
C’mon, get going.” At one point, she came racing toward the
jumping zone near the curved end of the ice
“In a minute,” I mumbled. Then I nodded and lofted into a huge double Salchow. In
in Judy’s direction. “Look, don’t get me the air, everything was marvelous. However,
wrong. I’m eternally spoken-for and totally she couldn’t quite complete the second ro-
devoted to my wife. But I could watch those tation, and on landing, her blade slipped
crossovers all evening. I don’t even need to out from under her. She flopped onto the
see jumps and spins—although I’m sure ice and slid to a stop on her backside, never
they’re perfect, too.” losing her air of dignity. She grimaced a little
from the pain, but didn’t groan or curse, as
My buddy shrugged with a hint of, Yeah, skaters normally do. Instead, in only sec-
right, then set off. A moment later, I pushed onds, she was up and moving again, the
away from the boards and re-started my smile having returned to her lips.
warm-up. After that, I immersed myself in
the usual regimen of alternating between I went back to working on my own
jumps, spins, and footwork, throwing in a lap “double Sal,” striving to emulate her graceful
or two of fast stroking and crossovers to get power. Nevertheless, the skill gap between
the heart and lungs pumping. First, I did the us loomed large. It would only be a short
full set of old familiar moves, then worked time before her double jumps were as
up to the harder ones: the flying-camel spin magnificent as her singles. Then who knew
and the double jumps I was just learning. what—triples? For an adult skater with a
full-time job and fully ossified bones, that
Skaters are constantly on the lookout to was the stuff of dreams. Except maybe for
avoid collisions, so it was only natural that I Judy. My own journey was unlikely ever to
would catch an occasional glimpse of Judy. carry me as far, and every victory along the
She and I were technically at about the way would be a struggle. I felt no jealousy,
same level in our skating. That is, we were only inspiration and a deep appreciation for
working on the same jumps and spins, which the artistry I was witnessing.
were at a difficulty level considered quite
good for adult skaters, though far behind *
the young kids who were being groomed as
serious, national-level competitors. Weeks went by and the demands of my Air
Force job at the Pentagon began to inten-
Beyond the technicalities, Judy and sify. That required careful life-balancing to
I were worlds apart in style and skill. Her

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protect the precious time my wife Marilyn There was no hiding my stunned expres-
and I needed to be together. On my priority sion, and she murmured, “I’m so sorry. I
list, skating would have to settle for a dis- wasn’t watching. Did I hurt you?” She was
tant third place. Years before, when I took on the brink of tears.
up skating, I’d hoped Marilyn might join me
and make it a couple’s activity. As things “You just nudged me,” I replied, finding
turned out, her interests lay elsewhere, so my full voice again. “I barely felt it.”
I skated alone and she provided moral sup-
port. “Are you sure?” she pleaded, as we began
stroking down the straightaway.
During this hectic time, I practiced
skating whenever my tight schedule al- There was no need to embarrass her
lowed. Occasionally, I’d see Judy at the and I couldn’t ignore her unspoken call for
rink. Every time, her fluid, ethereal grace reassurance. “Yeah, I’m sure. And, by the
was just as intriguing and inspiring as it had way, you’re so close to nailing your Axel. It’s
been that first night. We became cordial gonna be terrific.”
friends, though not particularly close ones,
and that seemed to suit us both well. “How A hint of her smile reappeared and we
are you, Judy?” I’d ask. “How’s your nursing went back to practicing.
job? How’s that double toe loop coming?”
Her answers were always accompanied by An hour later, a buzzer sounded and
that reserved, contented smile. At times, I the session was over. As I joined the crowd
detected a trace of loneliness in it. walking off the ice, Judy approached. She
leaned toward me, her voice just above a
One evening, I was just clearing out of whisper. “I’m glad it was you I bumped into
the jumping zone when something brushed over there.”
against my shoulder. Unexpected contact
with another person, especially in the My mouth hung open. “Huh?”
landing area, is enough to give any skater’s
heart an electric jolt. This reflexive fear of She lowered her gaze to the rubber floor
a high-speed collision instantly conjures up mat. “Anybody else would have yelled at me.”
images of broken bones, a concussion, or a
muscle and tendon sliced by a twelve-inch “You’re kidding,” I blurted. “It was
steel blade. Sensing such a disaster had just nothing, Judy, really.” I wondered what
been narrowly averted, I glanced behind past experience might have prompted that
me. remark from her—perhaps a serious col-
lision followed by an ugly confrontation?
“Judy,” I said, gathering up the remnants I felt an urge to pat her shoulder, or clasp
of my composure. She had landed just be- her hand reassuringly, or give her a friendly
hind me, with her customary softness and si- hug. Those possibilities were prevented by
lence. This time, that wonderful quality had the arms-length distance my wedding band
proven dangerous. I quickly concluded she’d compelled—the distance that had allowed
only grazed me with her hand and I thanked us to become friends in the first place. How-
God it hadn’t been a full-on collision. ever, her implied compliment warmed and
humbled me. For the rest of that night, I
“Hi,” I said, all other words eluding me. wondered how it could ever be possible for
anyone, no matter how callous, to yell at
such a sweet person with such a magnifi-
cent talent.

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* Wendy’s, I was full of nervous energy, eager
for the free-skate part of the competition.
Over the next few months, my Air Force
project ramped up to a fever pitch, with Back at the rink that afternoon, I changed
many long days and late nights of analy- into my program outfit, a striking navy-blue
sis and computer coding, so time for skat- one-piece jumpsuit Marilyn had expertly
ing became harder and harder to carve sewn for me. Then I lugged my skate bag
out. Nonetheless, I did the best I could to to the benches in the building’s anteroom,
prepare for the Washington Figure Skating which was bordered with lockers, offices, a
Club’s upcoming annual competition, to be snack bar, and the swinging double doors
held at Mount Vernon. During that period, I leading to the rink itself. I was settling nicely
rarely saw Judy. into my competitive mindset, envisioning
every move in my program, internally
When the day for the event arrived, I hearing the music—a cut from Hagood
noticed that Allen, my good friend and Hardy’s “The Homecoming” for the slow
toughest competitor, wasn’t on the roster part, followed by Floyd Cramer’s vibrant
for the adult men’s category. My coach piano rendition of the “Knots Landing” TV
Shirley told me he’d been injured. A tall, theme. Nodding my head to the music, I
good-looking, warm-hearted fellow with squeezed my right foot into the wood-hard
dark, curly hair, Allen was a better jumper leather boot and began lacing up.
than I was, though my spins were a bit
better than his. And I usually had the edge “Hi,” a man’s voice rang out from nearby.
in the compulsory-figures part of the com- It was Allen, in street clothes, rather than
petition, the arcane variations on circles his familiar black competition outfit.
and figure-eights that skaters would trace
before stone-faced judges, with fastidious “Hey,” I replied. “What’s this I hear about
precision and nearly-impossible slowness. I you being hurt?”
enjoyed the figures and practiced them as
assiduously as I did the far more exciting “It’s just a pulled muscle,” he said. “The
free skating. Most other adult skaters I doc says I’ll only be out for a few weeks.”
knew—including my competitors—found He paused and gazed into the distance. “Did
them boring. That generally worked to my you know I’ve been dating Judy?”
advantage.
“No,” I replied. “But that’s great!” Never-
I sincerely hoped Allen would have a theless, in the strange way that men some-
speedy recovery from his injury, but I had times feel about such things, there was a
to admit that his absence that day would faint echo of disappointment inside me.
take some of the pressure off me. Logically, I had always known that Judy was
off-limits to me—and I to her. Nevertheless,
Figures were held that morning, and this was one of those odd moments when
they went well for me. I had a habit of never logic takes a momentary vacation.
checking the scoreboard until the competi-
tion was over, so I didn’t know where I was I continued to lace up my right boot. I
placed after figures. Yet I was confident I had to admit it was easy to picture Judy
was in good shape—probably in first place. and Allen as a couple—maybe even as pairs
When I left the rink for lunch at the nearby skating partners. And it was heartwarming
to imagine Judy’s loneliness alleviated by a
relationship with a gentleman like Allen.

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“Congratulations,” I finally said, in an at- He continued staring at the floor. “She
tempt to clear out my feelings and reset my was driving to work a couple weeks ago,”
concentration on the task ahead. he said softly. “They were filming a chase
scene for a movie—in her neighborhood.”
Instead of evincing happiness, Allen stared He choked and his eyes welled up. “They
at the floor, somber-faced. “I heard that she didn’t seal off her street. The car ran into
and you are friends,” he said hollowly. her. She’s dead.”

Where’s he going with this? I wondered. The untied laces of my left skate dropped
Sure, I felt honored to hear him say it. to the floor. “Oh, my Lord,” I gasped. Judy?
Obviously, he’d have heard that from Judy Dead? My mind was suddenly a swirling
herself, and that was a nice affirmation of maelstrom. How could this sweet person,
my friendship with her. But why would Allen this beautiful, ethereal skater be dead?
bring this up at a time like now? Had the And poor Allen—he has to be devastated. I
rumor mill been at work? My inner defenses felt helpless, short of breath, weak in the
began to muster. No matter what people knees—knees that I desperately needed to
thought, I had carefully toed the straight- be powerful, agile, and certain, as my time
and-narrow path and had never done, said, to skate rapidly approached.
or even thought anything inappropriate
with regard to Judy. I’d remained faithful to There was nothing I could say.
my bride. What was Allen getting at? This
was turning into a jigsaw puzzle where the With his head still hanging, Allen turned
parts didn’t fit. to go, then stopped short and looked over
his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “I probably
“Yeah, she’s very nice,” I said. To steer the shouldn’t have told you right before you
direction of the conversation toward safer skate.” He forced a painful smile. “Good
waters, I added, “And what a skater…” luck…. Go skate for Judy.”

Allen swallowed hard before continuing. I peered down at my skates, wondering
“Did you hear what happened?” how I could possibly go out and compete
now. When I looked back up again, Allen was
I didn’t like the new, downward tone in gone. Someone called my name. “You’re up!”
his voice. “What do you mean?” I asked as
I cinched the double bowknot at the top of Numb and lifeless, I performed my free-
my right skate. To take the impact of landing skate program for the usual stoic judges
the jumps, it had to be tight, though not and a small audience. When I’d finished
tight enough to impede blood flow in the and stepped off the ice, Shirley put her
lower leg. It took concentration to get that arms around me and squeezed my shoul-
balance just right—concentration I was now ders. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Somehow, she
lacking. I looked up, not sure I wanted to knew or had figured out the shock I’d been
hear what Allen was about to say. Whatever through. She had that kind of coach’s sixth
it was, I needed to be on the ice in just a sense.
few minutes, and now I’d been pulled out of
my mental zone. I considered simply getting In the dressing room, I changed back
up and saying, “Let’s talk later.” Yet some into my warm-up sweats. The only thing I
haunting thing in his words compelled me could remember about the program was
to stay. “What happened, Allen?” that, although I’d had no falls, it hadn’t been
good. Undoubtedly, my high standing after

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figures that morning had evaporated. But I Now, after three decades, four kids, sev-
couldn’t have cared less. A short while later, eral careers, and total knee replacements
I left the rink to go home, without checking in both knees, it’s rare that I even notice
the scoreboard to see where I’d placed. my skates sitting in the walk-in closet, gath-
ering dust—and my old competition out-
* fits still hanging there. But once in a great
while, usually late at night, I’ll take out those
Two years later, Marilyn and I moved to Col- skates and stare into the dim reflections
orado with our newborn daughter, Rebec- in their silver blades. Sometimes, in the
ca. Over time, I drifted away from skating. glimmer, I see Judy: she’s gliding over the
Perhaps inevitably, the sport itself under- ice, regal in her unearthly grace, the silence
went fundamental changes—changes that of her strokes broken only by the echo of her
made it less of an old friend to me. Most words, “I’m glad it was you I bumped into.”
strikingly, in 1991, compulsory figures
were dropped from competition in order And that echo touches the hollow place
to enhance appeal to the audiences, who in my heart where I keep the knowledge that
demanded the action of jumps and spins. this one split-second on the ice—with my
And so, figure skating lost the very essence mind overwhelmed by fear of a collision—was
of its name. the only time she and I were ever to touch.

About the Author

Peter McQuade writes essays and fiction from his home
in Colorado Springs, where he lives with his wife, Marilyn.
When he’s not writing, he’s also an aerospace engineer
and professor of Space Systems Engineering. Granted,
that’s not fiction, but it’s literally cosmic. He’s also a former
competitive figure skater. Pete is a member of Pikes Peak
Writers and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, and an
affiliate member of Mystery Writers of America, through
their Rocky Mountain chapter.

110

THE TORCH FOR
PEACE

by Deborah Kent

I met Lydia in my college dorm back in 1966, asked for comments about the new victim.
and I knew right away we had nothing in But Lydia wasn’t anyone else. “She could be
common. Where she was brazen I was cau- a model!” someone cried as the projector
tious; where I was diligent she was exuber- clicked again.
antly hit-or-miss. Boys trailed after her like
the tail of a comet. If anyone male sat next “She has poise,” another girl added, set-
to me in the dining hall, I could barely ask ting off a hail of praise: “Dignity!” “Panache!”
him about his major. “thlan!” and finally, amid gales of laughter,
“Pulchritude!”
Yet Lydia and I bonded one afternoon in
Miss Roebling’s PE class. That day Miss Roe- Miss Roebling sprang up to restore order,
bling took footage of each girl in the class tripped over the projector cord, and yanked
as we walked slowly across the gym. Then, the plug out of the wall. The lesson ended
as the film rolled, we were told to identify, in shambles. I was rescued! Lydia had saved
out loud, all of the flaws we observed in our us all!
classmates’ posture: sway back, forward
head, round shoulders, knock knees, and pi- “Let’s hit the snackbar,” Lydia said after
geon toes. I barely registered the comments class. “I need a tall mocha shake.”
about my fellow sufferers. I just braced for
the bad news I was doomed to hear about We sat for two hours in a booth at the
myself. snackbar. Lydia introduced me to the friends
who streamed by: Matt and Michael from SDS,
In extremity I turned to Lydia and whis- Brian who wrote editorials for the campus
pered, “God, this is gruesome!” paper, Hank who got arrested for guerrilla
theater at the Stop and Shop. I was right there
“It can be fixed,” she said. When the pro- with the people who made things happen.
jector clicked to the next slide, she exclaimed,
“I wish I had that hair! She’s gorgeous!” Lydia and I went to the snackbar three or
four times a week after that. I was a quiet
If anyone else had said it, there might observer, happy to float in her orbit. I lis-
have been a few titters before Miss Roebling tened to the talk about protest, the plans

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and possibilities, but I was still too shy to At four in the morning I heard footsteps
get involved. in the hall, and the front door slammed.
Lydia was off on a grand adventure with the
The torchbearers rolled into town on a Torch for Peace.
windy morning in April. The advance guard
parked their VW bus on the square, and the The sameness of my room, my life,
news swept across campus. “Their bus is closed in around me. I wanted to rush after
full of tents and sleeping bags!” “They have Lydia, to cry, “Wait! I’m coming!” But I had
their own cook stove!” “It’s about the Torch made my choice.
for Peace.”
I thought of the torch months later
I was on my way to class when the torch- when I boarded a bus for Washington to
bearers themselves trailed in, and I paused join throngs of protesters who marched on
to listen to a boy with a megaphone. “We’ve the Pentagon. The following summer the
carried the Torch for Peace all the way from torch floated across my mind again, as I said
San Francisco!” he announced. “We’re taking goodbye to everyone I knew and set out
it to the steps of the Capitol. We’ll show Con- to do an internship in California. I remem-
gress that people all across America want an bered the torch years later when I walked
end to the slaughter in Vietnam.” away from a job I loved and the profession
I had trained for. I moved to Mexico, wrote
That night Lydia came down the hall and a novel, and transformed my life in ways I
knocked on my door. “I’m going with the never could have predicted.
torch people,” she said. “Want to come?”
I lost track of Lydia after we graduated,
I imagined the journey. We’d walk along but I ran into her at our thirty-fifth college
country roads and roaring highways. We’d reunion. It was commencement weekend,
eat squashed sandwiches and sleep in the and her son was about to graduate from
cold and sing Bob Dylan songs to keep our our alma mater. “I’ll never forget when you
spirits. Across Ohio and Pennsylvania and went with the Torch for Peace,” I said.
Maryland, strangers would join us and turn
into friends. We would relay the Torch for “When was that?” she asked. “I guess I
Peace from hand to hand, building our did a lot of crazy things back then.”
strength, speaking our truth.
“Oh, not so crazy,” I said. I wanted to tell
Yes! I wanted to go! But . . . her about the adventures I’d had since our
college days, the zigzag path my life had
“My Shakespeare paper’s due Thursday. taken, the way she had made a difference.
And Monday I’ve got a history exam.” But we only had a few minutes together.
Her son was waiting somewhere; her hus-
“Get extensions,” Lydia said. band kept texting her. It was clear to me
they made sure Lydia followed the rules.
But I never asked for extensions! “Next
time,” I promised. “I just need to plan ahead.”

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About the Author

Deborah Kent: For most of my writing career I have written fiction and nonfiction for middle-
grade and young-adult readers. In the past several years I have branched into writing narrative
nonfiction pieces. My essays have been published in Damselfly, The McGuffin, Persimmon
Tree, and in several anthologies.

113

GETTING COCKY

by Mary Ann Koruth

My uncle raises chickens for eggs. To facil- recorded my mother’s garden, then opened
itate egg production, he bought a rooster. her gate and entered my uncle’s backyard.
The brood runs around in the grass in the Things went smoothly, until I came upon
back of his house, which was my grand- the chickens. They cooperated, by ignoring
mother’s before it became his, and the me, and my camera naturally zoomed into
house where I spent my summer vacations the rooster. He was flamboyantly pecking at
as a child. It is an old two story built in the the air, jutting his head forward at imagined
‘50s, in an urban village in central Kerala enemies, with his scarlet comb and wattle
on India’s south western tip, where garish - the loose bags of skin that hang from the
apartment high-rises with flashing neon beak - trembling, a kingpin on the march.
names intrude into skies whose emptiness I stopped. This was a catch! I leaned in,
was, until recently, broken only by the star- sticking my own head towards him. What-
fish-shaped silhouettes of coconut palms ever happened next, happened swiftly. The
bobbing in the wind. The land behind the rooster bristled. It lunged. Then it fanned its
house is overgrown, with patches of grass wings, reared grandly, filled its flashing sails
running into piles of loose red soil, a raised of red and black, and flew at me, perching
coop for the chickens, and leaves and fallen just a foot away from my face on the top
branches of banana trees. At the far end of of a fencepost that appeared miraculously
the back yard is an abandoned, overgrown to break its path and save me from a direct
cowshed, dark and musty from disuse, that and awful peck. I barely held on to my iP-
housed my late grandmother’s buffalos. hone as I fled, aware that my slippered feet
The milk cow is tethered to a spot outside it. were kicking up clouds of red dust. End of
The chickens roam the land between house video.
and shed.
I related the story to my mother—who
In January, I flew to Kerala from New rolled her eyes—and to Sathya, the young
Jersey out of a sense of urgency, to visit my woman she employs to cook and clean for
mother, when the pandemic showed no her, and a longtime aide-de-camp. Sathya
signs of ending. The morning after I landed, nodded vigorously, pointing to a long
hearing the birds whistle and exulting in the bamboo stick, six times the rooster’s height,
warm air coming in through the windows, leaning against the gate. “It’s my weapon.
I rushed out of our house with my iPhone In case he attacks.” Then she grinned
on video mode and began recording. I sheepishly at me. The rooster’s impact was

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replete: where it struck fear it also doled delivered to our house by my uncle’s office
out humiliation, and all who hesitated, or manager, who works out of my uncle’s back
carried sticks for self-defense, or ran from porch. The word ‘back’ is key, because the
it, were contrite. Our cowardice bloomed location of his office inadvertently requires
like a waxing moon each time someone dis- the manager, Jacob, to set foot in the back-
cussed the rooster. yard, and trespass the rooster’s domain, to
visit the guest bathroom. My mother in-
I watched later that day as Sathya es- formed me after getting off the phone with
corted her 5-year-old son, stick in hand, Jacob that such trespassing had occurred
across the backyard and into my uncle’s only twice in the past month, and Jacob had
house, where his playmate lives. She had been pecked on both occasions through
given us a rollcall of the rooster’s victims: it his Demin jeans, as he descended from his
had pecked her son (his wail made her drop air-conditioned office into the wild world
the pot in the sink) and his skinny father beyond. Therefore, he had given up visiting
(marks on his arms) and had nearly pecked the bathroom during the workday, had
her too. It had also charged at his caregiver, compressed his working hours and simply
a well-built father of three who lives behind left early to avoid stressing his bladder. The
my uncle’s house and is paid to take care of rooster, not the pandemic, was his impetus
the chickens and the cow. to telecommute. He could not risk walking
across the backyard to bring the document
“I cannot believe you are all so frightened to my mother. He did not apologize for the
of a rooster,” my mother said, scornfully. inconvenience.
Sathya shook her head — disappointed
that even I, the daughter, could not con- The task now fell into my lap. Would I
vince my mother, her employer, of why the collect the document from him and bring
rooster needed to be feared. But I had, at it over? As with parents and children, espe-
least, joined her club. I was one of many hu- cially expatriate adult children, this was not
mans who were too chicken to cross paths a request as much as it was a command. Yes,
with the rooster. Consider the implications I said, without flinching. My mother and I
of the puns in this sentence. If you are too examined each other briefly, the challenge
chicken to cross paths with the rooster, you in her eyes ignored by me, the hesitation
will be confined to your house, unable to in mine, ignored by her. Our filial bond is
stroll across for a neighborly visit to your littered with such instances, and a measure
uncle, maybe even having to drive out in a of the success of our relationship is that a
car to make that visit, lest, god forbid, you therapist has never had to intervene in this
be waylaid by that territorial bird along the primal negotiation.
shortcut. Yet you must be a chicken, and can
only be a chicken, to truly cross the roost- I opened the gate. I looked left, right and
er’s path, to truly embrace and examine left again, as I had been taught in school.
its roosterly magnificence. Some of these No rooster. Yes, I took the stick. I made it
bold chickens even went on to lay eggs—a across and into Jacob’s office. There was an
catch-22 in language and in life. air of despair in the room as he handed the
document to me. His desk was clean, and
As with all testy situations, there is al- his computer asleep. He was not as busy
ways one that brings things to a head. My as the chickens, which I could hear outside,
mother needed an official document to be

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pouring out of their coop, squawking and and watched from opposite ends of the
clucking. He had the manner of a tired pris- yard, with me — the Nick Carraway to my
oner. “Hello, I’m Jacob. I think the rooster mother’s Gatsby — as she marched across
attacks people in jeans. It’s a good thing with the document, looking neither left or
you’re in a skirt.” To my shock, out came his right, though she did pick up a twig, and
own bamboo pole (the waxing moon of our twirled it like a baton in a brass band. The
mutual cowardice flared briefly in the noon rooster muddled around near the fence. A
sky) and he gallantly insisted on standing little breast-beating, but no more. So it was
guard on the steps outside his office as I that mother and bird, both roosters among
crossed over. chickens, levelled with each other, while
fools suffered.
And there it was! It literally clattered
across the yard toward me, crowing, half Time to reassess threat levels, pivot, act.
flying, half running, beating albatross wings A Google search revealed that the frantic
attached to a poultrine body — in these pecking-at-the-air was a mating skill called
gestures both rooster and I mimicked each ‘tidbitting’. And where were the ‘pecks’ on
other, if you substitute limbs for wings in my Jacob’s jeans? I had seen none. Clearly, the
case, one chasing, the other fleeing. Behind rooster knew to play its cards. It knew when
me, I heard Jacob’s door bang shut. Ahead to hold ‘em, fold ‘em, and o did it know
of me stood ever-grinning Sathya, who when to fan ‘em. It was, basically, a bully, an
swung the gate open, let me in, and did not impresario who sniffed out interlopers. As
miss a beat: “I heard you yell.” with boxing rings and interview panels, the
trick was to show no fear. I could act now, or
But the stakes were fated to rise, again. forever be triggered by waxing moons.
Jacob called. A signature was missing. I
would need to take the document back. So, I walked across, the sun in my eye,
“No,” I said to my mom. “No way.” My and nothing happened. Later that afternoon,
mother grunted, seared me with her eyes, I heard Sathya follow suit, closing our gate
slipped on her sandals, and said, “I’ll do it behind her with her child, and I did not hear
then!”. This is the appropriate moment for him wail. But the greatest freedom would
that break in narrative arc where I describe be Jacob’s, because that evening, he de-
my mother to the reader. She is a goader scended his unholy ladder and crossed over
to action, a challenger of status-quos, a to us, the final, completed document in his
girthy grandmother who incites grandba- hand, signed, sealed, delivered. A string
bies to mischief, a deservedly mytholo- of sweat beads on his forehead gleamed
gized high-school English teacher whose like diamonds, hard-earned, worn with
50-year-old ex-students organize reunions pride. “Thank you,” his eyes grew liquid as
around her schedule, with her permission. he handed my mother the piece of paper.
Sathya and Jacob, those banished oarsmen “For dinner tonight,” he announced, “I have
of a dried-up Styx, brandished their poles asked my wife to cook us a chicken.”

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About the Author

Mary Ann Koruth is a journalist and creative writer. She is a transplant from India, now
rooted in Central Jersey soil. Her writing explores experiences spawned from her life in both
of these worlds and everywhere in between.

117

YOU’LL ALWAYS
BE THE TRUMP

NEIGHBORS

by Chris Sowers

I’ve seen you walking your dogs around the curb appeal. Must be nice people. Then
neighborhood. Almost every day for the the flag went up. My wife didn’t believe
last 17 years, ever since we built this house me when I told her. We were driving out
in a far-south suburb of our midwestern of the neighborhood and passed you. You
city. The dogs have changed over the years. were walking the dogs. You waved. My wife
You have three now. waved back. I didn’t.

And you’ve both changed over the years “You know they’re the people with the
as well. As have I. Looks like you’re nearing ‘Fuck Your Feelings’ flag in their backyard,
retirement, maybe not quite. I’ve got less right?”
hair, more pounds. You both look like you’ve
put on some weight, too, although all the “What flag?”
dog walking has helped.
She’s not one for details, didn’t even
We’ve had two different dogs over the know such a flag existed. I’d seen it before,
years we’ve lived here, with a three-year on my backroad drive to work. Instead of
gap between them. Just enough time to leaving the neighborhood, I took a left turn
get over the “I’ll never have a dog again” to drive by your house and show her. There
heartbreak of saying goodbye to a dog. was just enough breeze to make it legible.
When I walk the dog we have now, we pass
sometimes and I don’t make eye contact. It TRUMP 2020
wasn’t always this way.
And below that…
You seemed nice. After all, you’re dog
people. You keep a neat, clean yard, keep FUCK YOUR FEELINGS
your house and vehicles maintained. Nice
In your backyard. In a neighborhood.
Where neighbors walk their dogs on your

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sidewalk and kids ride their bikes past your “Ignore it and keep walking,” I muttered.
nicely groomed home with the big wooden I kept walking. My wife stopped.
Welcome sign on the porch. Not sure which
to believe. The sign or the flag. “You’re the people with the Fuck Your
Feelings flag, aren’t you?”
I used to nod as I’d see you coming the
other way. Make small talk while the dogs You stood. Seemed unclear about how
checked each other out in that way that to respond. Finally, “Yes. I’ve asked my hus-
dogs do. The weather, the Colts game. Have band to take it down.”
a good one, probably see you tomorrow. I
stopped nodding in mid-2020, after I saw “Good,” my wife said, then kept walking.
the flag for the first time. Started crossing
the street instead. The dogs were confused. The flag came down a few days after the
Didn’t understand why they didn’t get to election, as it was becoming clear that the
say hi to their friends. mail-in ballots would put Biden over the top.
We still pass you on our walks. Our dogs still
Decided to believe the flag, not the sign. try to greet each other. You still try to allow
I tried not to even look in your direction. it to happen. We still keep walking.
Just put my head down and kept walking.
Sorry. You don’t get to fly that flag and pre- I put my American flag up today, just be-
tend to give a shit about your neighbors. fore noon, when Joe Biden was scheduled
Not even if dogs are involved. to become the 46th President of the United
States. When it was scheduled to be official.
A couple weeks before the election, my Fuck Your Feelings man would slink off, tail
wife and I were walking the dog. We passed between his legs. A disgrace, but nearly suc-
you, trying to ignore your existence. You had cessful in his attempt to destroy America.
a new dog, a black lab. Big, but clearly still a Maybe he was successful. I guess we’ll see.
puppy. Wanted to say hi. We kept walking.
You’ll always be the Fuck Your Feelings
“Can he come say hi?” you asked. neighbors.

I hope it was worth it.

About the Author
Chris Sowers is a freelance writer, editor, and writing coach
living in central Indiana. He likes most of his neighbors.

119

BLESSED ARE THE
FREE IN SPIRIT.
A JOURNAL IN

COMPLICATED TIMES

by Samuel Robert Piccoli

Here we go again, a new book is born. A But this is not a philosophical book, de-
few weeks ago, when all the chapters spite the many philosophical issues that
were already written, I just had to write crowd its pages. Nor is it a political one,
the Introduction to outline the purpose, despite the seven subchapters devoted to
goals, and contents of the book. Which, the Trump era and its implications in the
at least as regards the contents, was not political, social, cultural, and economic life
an easy task at all, since this is a book that in the U.S. and elsewhere.
ranges across a vast array of topics and
subjects. Yet I was well aware that the Let’s put it this way: to me, it is always
contents are not what matters most, to like this in people’s lives, the idea is to al-
some extent they are just a chance and an ways go forward, to progress toward an
opportunity. What matters most is what ever better condition. And it is right that it
certain events, facts, issues, thoughts, and should be so. But reality rarely matches the
feelings can teach us about ourselves, life, initial vision exactly, and often it marches
and the world around us. I’d say that this in the opposite direction. Contrary to pop-
book is a dialogue with myself about my ular belief, in our times many never stop
understanding of and relationship with life unlearning, nor do they give up rising in
itself. Existential, political, and philosoph- the hierarchy of what is contrary to the
ical issues—which are frequently recur- Good, the Beautiful, the Just, or simply the
rent in the book—are functional to wider Reasonable. Ours are times of intellectual
self-knowledge and self-understanding. chaos and moral relativism, if not nihilism,

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and everything seems on the verge of falling are arranged in chronological order (from
apart, as the events of the recent past in the most recent to oldest), as well as by sub-
U.S. and elsewhere, in case it was needed, ject matter. The second is that the author
have abundantly shown—by the way, while is no longer exactly the same person he
I was writing the Introduction, thousands was when the first book came out in 2012.
of President Donald Trump’s ardent sup- This for the simple reason that time never
porters violently were storming the U.S. passes in vain. As Heraclitus said, “You
Capitol building, prompting evacuations, cannot step into the same river twice.” The
injuries, and arrests... water in the river is never the same, it is
constantly moving, so the river is never the
The whole story of Covid-19 fits perfectly same river twice…
into this context, to the point of becoming,
at least in my mind, an effective metaphor One word on the title of the book. A
of the Zeitgeist, which is interwoven with in- free-spirited person can be many dif-
dividual and collective pursuits, aspirations, ferent things—even (at least apparently)
and ambitions that are so very often ill- opposed to one another rather than har-
conceived, short-sighted, and based on monious or compatible—because their
false premises. Yet, such an upside-down heart is their compass, and heart has no
world is nevertheless our one and only boundaries or rules imposed from out-
world—and it is well worth fighting for, in side. When they are religious, they tend
spite of everything. In a small way and to to focus on the innermost teachings and
some extent, Blessed Are the Free in Spirit. truths of their religious faith rather than
A Journal in Complicated Times is my contri- the “letter” of the Scriptures—and there-
bution to the fight. fore they’re often, if not always, on the
verge of heresy... They do not dwell on the
Like my previous book, Blessed Are the past but resist a progress built on the de-
Contrarians. Diary of a Journey Through In- struction of traditions that go back many
teresting Times, this one is a kind of diary centuries and of the systematic denial
of a journey through our time—politics, of our history and civilization. They are
culture, lifestyles, worldviews, etc.—and fiercely independent, but can still develop
back home again, where “home” stands a close emotional bond with those who
for a deep sentiment of belonging to our provide for them and look to others for
own free and indomitable spirit, which is protection. They deeply care about their
much stronger than the spirit of our times, beliefs and what they feel strongly about
however powerful and attractive it may but seem to not worry at all—except the
be. Moreover, in this book, as in Blessed bare minimum—about normal stuff like
Are the Contrarians, I have selected some money, career, success, etc.
of the articles posted on my blog over the
last few years, those most suitable for this Free-spirited people are the salt of the
traditional mode of communication. In earth, they are not restful persons. You
other words, Blessed Are the Free in Spirit never relax with these people. They are in-
is somehow none other than Part Two spiring and thought-provoking, challenging
of Blessed Are the Contrarians. But with and uplifting, men and women at their best.
a couple of differences. The first being They are “contrarians” in the best sense
that in this book, the “journal” entries of the word. And so they are somehow a

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

step ahead of those to whom I dedicated than in negative terms? Well, let’s say, for
my previous book. Some time ago, I stum- instance, that one may be cheerful/ironic
bled upon an excellent definition of that out of seriousness, easy-going out of se-
blessed kind of person: “A free spirit is not verity, naive out of sophistication, and so
bound by this, that, matter, materialism or on. Hence Montaigne’s writing en chair et
opinion. They sing, dance, and flow on the en os (“in the flesh”), as well as the imper-
wind—for they are at one with it. They are ceptibly subversive turns of his sentences
nothing and everything—void and expanse. and the slyly ironic tone that often creeps
Even space and time do not confine or de- into his Essays. That’s what free-spirited
fine them. For they are pure energy itself” people are made up of, and why they are
(Rasheed Ogunlaru). the salt of the earth.

With that being said, please note that By invoking blessings on the Free in spirit,
free-spirited does not mean self-referen- I’m trying to express the feeling I feel for
tial, solipsistic, or selfish. Quite the con- them, my deep admiration and gratitude
trary. It’s because they are deeply in love for their very special contribution to man-
with Life, Humanity, Poetry, Music, Dance, kind and society. They are my North Star,
Theater, Writing and so many other things my source of inspiration, and the reason
that Free-spirited people are what they why I am what I am. I would like to think
are—if they flow on the wind it’s because that in whatever I write there is something
they are at one with it! If they are self-con- the free-spirited writers and thinkers of the
fident it’s because they have faith in life! past centuries would approve of. Likewise,
As the French say, tout se tient (everything I hope what I write does not displease the
fits). Freedom itself is not an absolute, not free spirits of our day too much.
an either-or proposition, but a set of rela-
tions, possibilities mixed with actualities. Author: Samuel Robert Piccoli
Likewise, freedom of spirit, which is the
quintessence of human nature, is basically Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/S.-R.-
the fruit of a compromise, a miracle of bal- Piccoli/e/B009JVXDOG
ance and elegance. Ultimately, free-spirited
people cannot but be the result of a coin- Website: http://www.aninfiniteidea.org/
cidentia oppositorum (the coincidence of
opposites). As the most elegant of essayists Title: Blessed Are the Free in Spirit: A Journal
and a living miracle of balance and intel- in Complicated Times.
lectual like Michel de Montaigne once said,
“One may be humble out of pride.” Which Paperback – Independently published (Feb-
is certainly not a good thing, but what if we ruary 5, 2021) – ISBN-13 : 9798702016979
apply the same scheme in positive rather
Kindle Edition – Publication date: February
4, 2021 – ASIN : B08W2DP9RC

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Samuel Robert Piccoli was born on the Island of La Maddalena, off the northeast coast
of Sardinia, to an American mother, from Philadelphia, and an Italian father, from Treviso.
When he was very young his family moved to Rome. He studied political science at the
University of Rome. He then moved to Venice. S.R., best known in the social media world
as “Rob,” attended the Ca’ Foscari University, where he graduated in philosophy. He also
studied English at San Francisco State University. A blogger, a History teacher (until a few
years ago), a writer, Rob is based in the Venice area and lives with his wife, his daughter, and
their dog. In 2012 he published Breviario del giovane politico (in Italian) and Blessed Are the
Contrarians. In 2014 he published his third book, Being Conservative from A to Z. In February
2021 he published his fourth book, Blessed Are the Free in Spirit.

123



POETRY



CHICAGO

by Elsa Pair

Bloodletting coated in it,
white-hot rage.
Bloodletting,
but for the rage. I tried sucking on ice cubes
to make the rage melt away
If I cut open my chest
surely all that will come out is the but now I just have a belly full of water
to keep the rage afloat.
rage, spilling down my front
like vomit or molten lava. I dream in red
and speak in tongues
If I hold it in any longer
the fever will kill me, and do not remember the girl
who knew the words “sorry” and “love”.
and if the fever doesn’t kill me
the grudges will.

It’s turning my fingers and toes
blue.

The rage, I mean. It is the only thing
taking up space in my body,

sitting on its haunches, gnawing
away at my guts.

It’s burning me up from the inside out
until everything out of my mouth is

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The Dentist Adelaide Literary Magazine
Chicago

I go to the dentist because Ten years old in Chicago, waiting for the L train,
I like the excuse to have someone inside me. waiting for my mother to let go of my hand.

The dentist suits his hands in rubber gloves Something in the city felt sacred and gold.
and puts his fingers in my mouth, Gray sky and fuzzy clouds enveloped

one by one, glittering glass buildings, modern
Mount Olympus,
groping the contours of my teeth. and I knew all of the secrets in the world hid

I try to imagine what I must look like to him. somewhere just beyond my sight, waiting
I try not to envy him for getting for me to unearth them.
to see me this way.
But the city was so big and
When he is knuckle-deep, I think of how easy it was only summer
it would be to bite down, pierce the skin, only vacation only the last time my parents
would ever be happy and there was no time
tear clean through the bone. to search for God (because surely
if God’s love is anywhere it would be here)
If I swallowed his finger whole, he and I and I remember how badly I
would be one, and then he would be inside me wanted it to be forever
how badly I wanted to stay
instead of the other way around. Either way
we consume and are consumed and when I went back it was one parent less
it doesn’t stop or start at the moment where one city over one train ride away and still
his fingers pry open my mouth—
it’s already happening, it’s always happening, it was enough to find my heart in the spots
and I can’t control who consumes me but where the sunlight bounced off of skyscrapers.
I can convince myself that I could be the one
doing the swallowing for once.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

December

December wraps me in her arms and tells me
she loves me.

She lays me on a bed of dead leaves
and takes what little I have left,

leaving sticky residue
on my calves, on my ribs.

Her love is cold but it is love nonetheless.
I would suffer much worse than frostbite

for love.

December digs my grave in a bed of snow
and tells me to get in.

She shoves dead leaves down my throat
and I open wide,

always complicit,
always eager to please.

I would choke on my love for her
if I had any room left to breathe.

About the Author

Elsa Pair received her bachelor degree in English and
psychology from the University of Houston, where she served
as poetry editor for Glass Mountain. Her work has appeared
in Glass Mountain and Defunkt Magazine.

129

IN THAT SAID-SAME
SECOND

by Keith Hoerner

In that said-same second

In that said-same second The world contemplates,
between realigns its incongruities
life and death, among a misaligned universe,

a child is born to a tentatively raises the shade on morning
woman— and blows out the candle—
not quite ready. signaling night.

Ribbons are awarded The moon
to winners of the swings
McCarthy County Spelling Bee. low.

A bottle of bubbly is The second
popped between
in Paris, life and death is an unending continuum,

while a man in Colorado is one that does not decipher laughterfromtears
sentenced or as in this passage—
to prison (though innocent of his crime). poetryfromprose.

About the Author

Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA.
He is no stranger to lit mags and will publish his memoir, The Day The Sky Broke Open, with
Adelaide Books in 2021. Additionally, he is the founding editor of the popular online lit mag
The Dribble Drabble Review: highlighting little-ature in 50 and 100 words.

130

BOBOLINKO IN
A FOREST

by Kenneth Pobo

Wandawoowoo And Math Wandawoowoo Gets Drunk and
Watches All About Eve
Numbers feel like a desert
I’ve never visited. I’m probably missing I can be maudlin, full of self-pity,
some gorgeous night-blooming cacti. and magnificent at the same time too.
I doubt I’ll ever venture there. I have Watch me climb a staircase and put
movies, books, and music. In high school myself to bed having said that we’re all
I entered a dark room called algebra. bees making honey and making stings.
When I looked for the light switch, In my domino dreams, I fall
I was told to sit down. Obedient, I sat. and fall, crushed before I awaken.
In the morning I’m Sisyphus
A scary but kind spider crawled out
from an equals sign. We talked about pushing each up a hill. My day
Whatever Happened To Baby Jane. begins with a starchy old sun kicking
My teacher said I should listen harder. my curtains. I tell it to go away,
He meant to him. I needed solving. but soon light bathes me. I’m on
My pencil had no eraser. a stage. Performing. My bones are keys.
They turn many locks in my mind.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Bobolinko in a Forest

I’m not alone. Ferns grab my legs
as I walk to the lake. Trees descended
from those in The Wizard Of Oz grump
that I’ve come. Why not stay where
porches fill with drinkers, faces lit

by tiki torches? Books tell me that
in Nature I can find God tripping
over a root. Is that so?

The forest surprises,
like pitcher plants dissolving
bugs and lolling in water. Nature
has a mean temper. It’s not all
playful otters and pink ladyslippers.
I can get eaten, bones lost
to sphagnum moss. At night
I enjoy starlight on lapping waves,
listen for what rustles, and look
up to see what talons are reaching out.

Morning fogs in. I’ve made it
through the dark hours. They will
return. For now I walk
looking for a way out, not sure
that I’ll find it.

About the Author

Kenneth Pobo is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and
nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend
of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling
Rivers), and Uneven Steven (Assure Press). Opening is
forthcoming from Rectos Y Versos Editions. Lavender Fire,
Lavender Rose is forthcoming from Brick/House Books.

132

PESSOAS

by Arthur Powers

Pessoas 2.
(Seánce with Fernando Pessoa)
Is it Ophelia’s fate to love
1. a man split into many – he
who can neither be nor not to be
I, I, I, I... or should I say “we” but mutters of things not dreaméd of?
- we know the Anglo-Saxon mind
that desperately seeks and seeks to find Who am I, we, but a minor clerk
the Truth behind ambiguity. of import/export houses, using my skill
in language to fill an order, draft a bill
Do we not know the black/ of lading, turn a dull piece of work.
white of your thoughts?
Did we not compose in English first But then there is the real work. Flowers
- feel on our own soft tongue the thirst in my mind amidst commercial weeds,
for clear and simple, plain blooms of mythic heroic deeds
and straight and taut? - out the harbor, past the Tower

Now you discover the obscured unseen of Belém, to sea – Ah! We defy the sky,
- even the famous letter of ‘35 Alberto, Ricardo, Alvaro and I.
to Casais Monteiro, claiming to bring alive
the eighth of March – 1914 –

all is a myth where we hide me,
screen behind endless smoking screen.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

3. Itacajá – 1992

Where now the tears of Portugal? (the Brazilian backlands: we learn that
The mother’s tears, the child who falters, we will be transferred from our ministry)
the fiancée beside an empty altar,
the man who recklessly answered the call The night we knew we had to leave,
I walked out of the parish office
of the sea? Was it worth it? All and stood in the small front yard.
is worthwhile be the soul not small. It was nine o’clock, and the town
was almost silent. Glow from streetlamps
But that is the question. Is our soul flowed between the strong dark branches
as open and wide as the wind in a sail, and the dark green leaves of mango trees
or small and pathetic as the shadow lining the unpaved street. A quiet light
of a man afraid to live, afraid to fail, shone from a neighbor’s window,
a woman called out softly to her son.
afraid to step the step, to pay the toll? A bicycle went by, its wheels whirring
Ah, to know... to only, really know.... on the sandy soil of the street, and
the young woman riding it lifted her hand
Night in Ipanema in greeting. The wheels whirred away
and the silence fell of insects chirping,
Night in Ipanema. A single bright star. a distant truck heading up hill, a single dog
A breeze off the ocean. I am a kite barking once into the night.
rising smoothly upward, unbelievably light,
expanding to capture the breeze, to fly far.

My body – my body, poor limp weight
hanging beneath the kite, ragged kite-tail,
a deadish thing, enlivened by kite-sail,
serving, perhaps, to give steadiness to flight.

And string – the string that holds kite to earth
is love – that binding, pain-provoking gift
that tight stretches and will not let kite drift:
soil and grain, tree, mountain, bird - birth

and life and longing eyes that touch and call –
without the string stretched
tight, the kite will fall.

134

An Old Man in Ipanema Revista Literária Adelaide
(November, 2000)
Manaus: The Rio Negro
(7 p.m., January 18, 2001)

I will wear a linen suit, Slate gray cloud-swept sky
a white shirt, a silk tie, over slate gray water – wide
smooth brown leather shoes, and still as a lake. Sky and water
darkening. One spot
carry a walnut walking stick
along the promenade by the sea, of light (fading, yellow
my hair, a little long, yellowed white, rimmed with pink) remains
in the west, under the clouds, over
my mustache, a little long, flowing white, the dark silhouette of rain forest.
my back straight, my pace certain
but slow – recalling a time A boat’s green lantern – too far
to be heard – slides swiftly upriver
when a man’s word from left to right. When it
was an emblem of honor – is gone, the yellow beacon
and people will turn,
of a small plane – too far
a little surprised, amused, to be heard – slides silently
seeing I am out of step with the times. through the sky, left to right.
The light in the west
And I will walk, each step
an attempted harmony. pales, refracts on the surface
of the river shimmering, except
for one spot in the middle
where current makes the water

About the Author obscure, non-reflecting, dark,
bathed in mystery.

Arthur Powers went to Brazil in 1969 as a Peace Corps
Volunteer & lived there most his adult life. His poetry has
appeared in America, Chicago Tribune Magazine, Hiram
Poetry Review, Kansas Quarterly, South Carolina Review,
Southern Poetry Review, Windhover, & many other
magazines & anthologies. He is author of two collections
of poetry, Edgewater (2015) & Sketches/Rio de Janeiro
(2019) as well as two collections of short stories set in
Brazil, A Hero for the People (Press 53, 2013) & Padre
Raimundo’s Army (Wiseblood Books, 2021).

135

TENEMENT BASH

by John Grey

Tenement Bash They’d rather talk
stuff they love
Another party in fractured English
on another tenement third floor. than listen to the latest
He gets there late. on Maria’s baby
There’s people speaking Spanish. in their native tongue.
There’s some speaking English. He gets into the back and forth
It’s a neighborhood bash of cultures.
and it’s that kind of neighborhood. He even blurts out
The food’s mostly Mexican, “Bueno” once or twice.
tacos, burritos, By two a.m., he’s drunk,
and the beer’s Corona that third race,
though someone lugged along and there’s plenty more like him.
some Coors. His arm’s around a Puerto Rican girl.
Everyone seems to be having a good time “Adios,” he says to his parent’s
when he gets there worst nightmares.
and nothing stops because of him. “Dar las gracias,” he adds to his
He tries the salsa. new most favored dreams.
It sets his mouth on fire.
No problem.
The beer is like
a red truck with a Dalmatian
running behind.
He finds a chair,
a place to listen in
to words he cannot follow.
Then he stands around
with a couple of guys he knows,
talking baseball.
Two Guatemalans join in.

136

Expatriate Comes Home Revista Literária Adelaide
Poster Vandal

Providence to Brisbane – Days of drawing beards
it’s a ten-thousand-mile journey and moustaches
back in time. and devil horns
on politicians are long behind him.
First night, jet-lagged,
I sleep enough for six journeys Likewise
until the sun wakes me, blackening alternate teeth
lights up, just for my sake, of grinning models.
its favorite continent.
These days
I hear the surf near, rowdy, boisterous, he merely scrawls
no longer that blunted New England the word “sucks”
splatter on exposed rock. whenever and wherever he can.

No blue-jay hack. A man and his spray can
No mourning dove moan. prowl the sorry advertising halls
From palm trees, of night.
sulfur-crested cockatoos When the lights go out,
shriek like nineteen-thirties’ paperboys. there’s just this giant sucking sound.

This is the land
I was born and raised in.

I hear sounds,
see sights,
from ten thousand miles ago.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

At The Farmer’s Market

Peaches in paper bags,
apples with cozy names like honey crisp,
pumpkins jammed together on benches
like faceless jack-o’-lanterns,
heirloom tomatoes preening in the sun,
skins yellow and red and green.
This is a time when no work of art,
no gorgeous landscape,
no attractive man or woman,
catches the eye.
It’s a day for fruit and vegetables,
fresh from the tree, the soil.
It’s when the farmer looks his best
just so no one will look at the farmer.

About the Author

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently
published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River
Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through
Amazon.

138

ALABASTER POLISH

by Terry Brinkman

Alabaster Polish Sonnet CDXXXII

Short admonition able Mingling error remembered by chief
Spiritual like purity abolish She likes an Umbrella in her beer
Beautiful veined alabaster polish Post-exilic eminence three point deer
Deliberate lie whit cable Accepting the analogy’s new hat thief
Lady her self-setting the table Analogy of slain deer grief
Unmistakably evidenced demolished Aristotle’s Purple of the rabbinical gear
Woman’s softly feathered face polished Philosopher antic verse to hear
Gentle a high degree of fable Ancient Hebrew fragments of the leaf
They were cited using Irish languages to beg
Substantiation oral sweets of a sinner’s dinner
Inferior style penultimate keg
Arithmetical gently aleph dialed inner
Both of each ordinal cardinal videlicet peg
Theoretical grammatical rules syntax winner

139

Sonnet CDXXXI Adelaide Literary Magazine
Sonnet CDXXIX

Non-conformist explains Ash-plant bore door of egress from the Bank
changing on the beach Two Candle-sticks on the floor of the Bar
Reassuringly mechanical mixture cleared Hat on her head fell a little a jar
Broken unmixed feelings first feared A door of ingress for a cat so dank
Smoke-stained kitchen window impeached Spectacle confronted emerged
Hieroglyphs epigraphic Egyptian Leech silently cat double drank
Somnambulism autistics suggestion neared Obscurity penumbras of the gardens cat scar
Indefinite sleeping- bag smeared Regulated her hour skipping
One hired silent secret ritual each hopscotch on fresh tar
Her night attire vacant mute Recess duck’s lawn English vista tank
expressions ceased Objected not stated sinister anchor
Propagation of rumors cheating Contemporaneously depart second barge
State of comparative ignorance east Heaven-tree if stars hung night blue spinier
Dark Lady Fair Man certain meeting Portending he had hoped imagined large
Ridicule ignorance divine feast Secret purpose similarly if differencing thinker
Mental or physical disturbance un-beaten
Inhabitant’s mater healing herbs enlarger

About the Author

Sonnet CDXXX

Adolescence regulated skipping Terry Brinkman has been writing for over
rope on the beach forty five years. Has Five Amazon E- Books.
Balsamation pendulum aerial fight cleared Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed, Jute Milieu Lit
Wheel-gear unmounting exactitude feared and Utah Life Magazine. Snapdragon Journal,
One porcelain wave moustache cup each Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant,
Natural phenomenon motley leech Tide and UN/Tethered Anthologies, the
Irish political autonomy end time neared Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses,
Consummation ethnically irreducible smeared Ariel Chat, New Ulster and in the Glove.
Distich defective chant arrested to impeach
Mutual reflection periphrastic venin ceased
Egyptian epigraphic hieroglyphs cheat
Cuneiform ogham writing merged east
Inscriptions guinquvecostable meeting
Unfamiliar melody at the Irish feast
Identities queasiest stations unbeaten

140

ZERO SUM GAME

by Mark Murphy

Bird Brained View of Power
for John Bolton

I have not journeyed here to steal anything
from your domain,
least of all, your modest nest,

which, I am at pains to point out
is far beyond the skill of any human hand
to build or replicate.

Still, you eye me with an air of suspicion,
as if I might betray
you with my superior memory –

take what can never be mine,
even with all my 21st century tools.
When you, dear bird have only spittle and beak

to achieve the requisite design,
which you must live
and die in without any thought of love or betrayal.

*

So, Diogenes in his barrel, asks Alexander to vanish
from sight, as if he too might live out
his days as a bird on the wing, free to roam the sky –

And purge his Spartan world of all human convention.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Thought Crime or Contrary to… Zero Sum Game

1 Nil argumentum ad hominem…

When mother’s milk curdles in the bottle We have witnessed
any attempt at rebellion the dead and dying dance the mambo.
will be met with the hocus pookas And we have become wise to the ducking
of the Orwellian jackboot and diving on the dance floor. How she hopes
stomping on the human face – forever to dazzle and lead the throng astray
with her coquettish games, and utterances.
When all the best books are burned
in fear and loathing No fire in those eyes for any man, yet no one
of familiar pain – any attempt at sedition dare dismiss her, or delve deep enough
will be met by the sorry spectacle to see beyond the false finger-nails,
of Big Brother weeping hair extensions, obvious mockery, and twirling
like a Girl Guide in a Sunday hem lines – that cause some men to blush
School congregation and pause, at the thresh-hold
of their own duplicity.
2
No hiding in the illusions of
When the obsessive refuses companionship today,
mother’s milk, or its deft solitude, as you grab another
the intelligent lunatic will defer bottle – looking for a way out – an alternative
to the greater good to the stasis of lies that
accommodate the greed
Not so much to be loved of our lady of the bounced cheque –
as in a last bid to be understood her rendezvous with shame, and
like the secrets perpetual amnesia.
we hide from our selves

142

Cider with Bhikkhu Revista Literária Adelaide
Last Stand of the Lafargues

We suffer more from imagination than from If one cannot work for the Party any longer,
reality one must be able to look truth in the face and
die like the Lafargues.
– Seneca
– Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
i
(December 3, 1911)
No more waiting for the apple to fall
though the branches bend With the last of the General’s legacy
low to the ground exhausted – the Lafargues
as if ready to yield to wind and gravity
will never know
No percentage in confusing lotus flower the full triumph of the cause,
and dharma wheel
when the tree of knowledge to which they entrusted their lives.
contains all there is of good and evil And though we cannot stare

No percentage in knowing if artifice down the abyss with them –
leads to suffering We mourn with the working poor
or suffering leads to artifice
but the string along with bait and switch of Paris and Europe, and take our leave
as they left us, defying bourgeois
leave us all none the wiser and friendless
and landlord, police spy and censor.
ii Hard to know just what

No suspense in the suspension of disbelief their last stand evokes,
only a retreat from defeat but as deeply weighted with violence
after defeat
though the orchard has given up its secrets and cruelty as this life is –
the Lafargue’s cyanide exit, inflames us all.
like a barrel full of Spitters
Let these be our final words…
Long live the Lafargue’s singleness of purpose.

Now, Laura and Paul will retreat no more.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Mark A. Murphy is editor of online journal, POETiCA REViEW, and author of six full-length
collections, including The Ontological Constant, published January 2020, in a bi-lingual
German/English edition by Moloko Print in Germany.

144

COMING OUT

by Chris Arnone

Coming Out XX or XY

head-first, blood-slicked Show it to me. What’s wrong with my baby?
hair like a tiny John Stamos. Ten fingers, ten toes, ten hours to coax
Bubbling with style but no pronouns. from womb to frigid Missouri day.
A simple question: Girl or boy or hoax?
Snip the umbilical, suction
and wail, count ten You keep saying tests.
fingers and toes but no sex. Chromosomes? Please why
are you shouting? No dope or coke or X
The womb was my in me. Three days to wait, wonder, pray
closet, sonogram spun for XX or XY, my babe in flux.
straw into a golden child.
Twenty-six days late and still not ready
No mom-we-need- to see the sun and bloom forth a sex.
to-talk or come-home- The space between its thighs—tiny, empty
early between-sheets discovery. of split, of stem, every doctor perplexed.

Before I could forge Three days come and go, solve X and Y
a memory or heard to find my bright, wriggling, intersex boy.
the word intersex,

I came out.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Infection

Puberty manages the game, changes the signs, sends
semen and urine down the wrong base lines.
I dive

to the carpet like plastic
George Brett diving on my bookshelf.
Neither of us can make the out.
One testicle softball size,
a boiling ruby hardball.
George’s miniature mitt is no match.
I can’t

stand
walk    run

throw.
Fetal and crumpled, holding myself like broken
bats might spill from my middle.
Vas deferens shred silent
signals to kidneys.
Swing.

Bunt.
Swell.
Steal.

Pain like splintered bats flying
through my plumbing. No home
runs in this game, only foul after foul after fever.
Two hours of step-umpire’s “stop being
a baby,” finally mom’s 911-call for a review.
Infection striking out the side:
kidney through scrotum.
Hit the bench.
Take a shower.
Five days bed rest, blood
tests, IV antibiotics before
I’m back in the game.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

This is a Pornographic Poem

Not like that. Rural Missouri. Sunday night. Delta Chi party barn. Rolling Rock sweats my palm.
Half a dozen fraternity brothers crowd dilapidated couches and a rented VHS. Excitement
rises—not like that—with thrust and retreat and the rhythmic slap of skin like a sexual
touchdownhomerungoooooooal. My dry-hump, high-school exploits seem meager—not like
that. Playacted moans intensify. Bodies in tandem row, disturbingly pubescent oh yes and guttural
commands and moans and groans and hands and knees and slaps and he pulls out and—

Wait. What? Is that supposed to happen? Splattered across her breasts. Is he okay? Is that puss or—

oh.

Five brothers cheer the magic money shot, the cream on sweat-drenched skin. A childhood
chat with Dad delivered more ums than information, failed to expound on the plumbing,
the penetration, the hydraulics of ejaculation. A decade of locker-room jokes now explicit
on screen. I sit in silent revelation of my intersex sterility. I can orgasm—not like that.

147

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Urethrascopy

This nurse says just breathe, Stop, I stammer.
this won’t hurt a bit. The scope rams
My breath blasts another slim spot, ripping
out a scream. pain up my keel.
Average male Stop, barks
urethra is 8-9 the urologist.
millimeters. Cystoscope set to full
Ample space reverse, backing
for a 6.3 mm to calm, open
cystoscope. waters. I’m drenched
Mine is more in Suez spray.
or less more Urologist cocks
and less. his head, says
More meandering Let’s try again.
Missouri than unswerving
Suez Canal.
My urethra as ironic
inversion: man-made
manhood, though nature
carves a truer path.
Stop being
a baby, she says,
pushing a freighter up
my uneven urethra,
probing my channel
for the gap, the leak
somewhere north
of my “natural” opening.

About the Author

Chris Arnone’s work has been featured in Runestone
Literary Journal, No. 1 Magazine, and FEED. He has an MFA
in Fiction from the University of Missouri-Kansas City. He is
an intersex author, poet, and performer living in Kansas City,
Missouri.

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