Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 42, November 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

husband and son will stop you from acting not needing you to chauffeur him around
on these depraved fantasies. You will not anymore. I survived the storm, but for what
want to leave your family with the anguish reason? Like a cellar door opening in your
and stigma of suicide. But it will become mind, it will be easy to return to suicidal
harder not to submit. When you are alone, thoughts when you feel anxiety about your
you will cry for no reason or just stare at future.
the ceiling. You will not trust yourself to
be alone, so you will continue to seek out Finding yourself again at a turning point,
friends, but you will focus on perceived you will be reminded of the Choose Your
slights done or negative comments said, Own Adventure books. Maybe you will med-
capturing them like mice to feed to the itate and pray to find purpose? If so, turn
creature in your head. The stench of self- to page five. Perhaps you will seek profes-
pity will start to repel people. You will no sional help, a counselor? If so, turn to page
longer pray. eight.

You will see an acupuncturist weekly to Before you choose the way forward, you
help relieve the hot flashes, back and joint flip back through the pages of your breast
pains caused by the same pill. One day, cancer story. Family and friends and even
when she asks you to describe your symp- strangers showed you love and kindness.
toms, you will blurt out, “My thoughts are Friends cooked and delivered meals. Hun-
dark. I want to hide and disappear from the dreds said prayers on your behalf and of-
world.” She will get you an emergency ap- fered encouraging words. At your boobie
pointment with your oncologist. He will ask, wake, hope flowed like beer at an October-
“Have you ever had those thoughts before?” fest celebration, not just for you, but for all
who attended. You pause in the climax of
“No.” your story when the eye of the storm is di-
rectly above—a moment when you felt no
“This drug is not known to cause those worry, no fear, no anxiety—only the joy to
thoughts but stop taking it and see if you be alive. You now choose your next steps
are better,” he will say. forward, knowing there’s no wrong or right
route, no perfect way to proceed. Amid the
“Will the cancer return if I stop taking the next storm, you’ll look for the sun breaking
pill?” As you ask the question, the irony of the clouds, act to reflect its warmth, and
not wanting cancer to kill you while you are rest in the eye knowing new adventures
battling suicidal thoughts will slap you in are ahead.
the face. Within twenty-four hours of dis-
continuing the drug, the fog will begin to *
lift. By the end of the week, the winds will
calm, and the sun will shine. The snake will Author’s Note: This is a work of nonfiction.
be silent. It relies heavily upon my memory. With the
help of research, emails, texts, my medical
You will function better in the good charts, and fact-checking, I have attempt-
weather, but you will grieve for your life ed to tell the story of my cancer journey as
before cancer. You will not know what to honestly as I remember. Some names and
do with your time now that you no longer small details have been changed to protect
have several doctor appointments sched- the people in these pages.
uled each week. Your son will be driving,

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About the Author

Wendy A. Miller has recently rediscovered her passion for writing now that her son is
almost grown. Once upon a time, she worked for a public relations firm and holds an M.S.
in Communications. Her essays have been published in Grown and Flown and Quail Bell
Magazine and can be found her website: www.wendyamiller.com

150

JAM SESSION

by Svitlana Matiushenko-Musyj

“Rules for happiness: something to do, someone to love, something to hope for.”
― Immanuel Kant

She was challenging herself again, “Can I have a happy family again. Was it irrational?
do it? Maybe I can do it. I think I can do it. Depends. No doubt everyone would like to
Damn, I must do it! …It is never too late to have their cup being full. Imagine if it was,
pursue your passion, hah?” yet, the drink might not belong to the fa-
vorites of yours. Admittedly, you’d satisfy
It seemed like her brain was taking a your thirst; Even so, it wouldn’t be enough
shower of arguable thoughts, mudding to make you happy.
calm waters of confidence and pulling the
trigger of her ambition, “Why is it that I’m “Do you have a job in Canada?” asked Jo-
always looking for a challenge? Why?” anna, (the director of Lodz School of Fashion,
Cosmetology and Hairdressing – Anagra,
Working freelance with unstable income, Poland), with a dash of mockery and irrita-
she’s been hardly making ends meet, espe- tion when Lana approached her requesting
cially in summer. Svitlana used to teach En- an Employment Letter, which was required
glish at high school in the town she lived so that she could apply for Visitor Visa to
in, as well as in Kyiv (the capital of Ukraine), Canada. (May 2017).
even abroad, in Poland. Besides, her pro-
fessional experience was gained working in “No, I’m not going there for work. To put
other fields, often as an English/Ukrainian it briefly, my spouse is a Canadian citizen
interpreter, in particular, when after her who is inviting me to visit him this summer.
husband’s death, she moved to Kyiv to- Despite the fact that he had been to Ukraine
gether with her teenage daughter, and a number of times, including our marriage
spent a few years there, rising to the chal- in June 2014, I have never been to Canada
lenge of a big city life. yet,” replied Svitlana.

Rarely would she have a chance for in- In fact, their relationship with Greg had
terpreter job since she came back to the already been to the hell and back by 2017,
suburban area in Western Ukraine. Leaving because of the distance, borders (Ukrainians
Poland for love, Lana (as some would call cannot visit Canada without visa, while Cana-
her), a woman in her late forties, put her dians are welcome to Ukraine without one),
trust in her beloved, in the opportunity to difficult lung surgery of Lana’s in the fall of

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2014, which was absolutely unexpected, and, Certainly, that colleague of hers, like
consequently, postponed applying for immi- many other Poles she had met in Lodz were
gration to Canada together with her daughter, very nice people, including most of Anagra’s
(while Svitlana’s older child, her son, would students. Svitlana would always smile
still have to stay in Ukraine). Indeed, they recalling one of them, Mateusz, a bona-
planned immigration first, and Gregory, as a fide  Louis Vuitton  fan. (She knew about
sponsor, was supposed to apply by post from his passion for the brand since it came out
Canada, and he did so. (They thought) Only during a class discussion, and she helped
after about two years of waiting in frustra- him to express himself). It took her long be-
tion and despair, did they eventually find out fore she stopped calling him Tadeusz (there
that owing to a weird mistake during posting, were so many new names to remember,
the package had never left the local post of- written in Polish). Even so, the boy was just
fice. Anyway, they decided to try Visitor Visa laughing every next time it happened again,
that time, for it was insane to wait years till and never missed an extra chance to say
the next meeting again. “Dzień dobry, Pani!” (Good Day, Ms!).

Apparently, the idea that their English Once after the classes, being really ex-
Teacher from Ukraine might be granted cited by the news, one of the teachers
a visa to Canada didn’t make the private shared with Lana the following,
Fashion School management happy. Being
notorious for a long history of unfair dis- “Hey, I must tell you something. Tadeusz
missals of their employees, as soon as a has just told me that you are the best
debatable situation between Svitlana and teacher he had ever met, and he’s just in
one of her students occurred, they blamed love with you. That’s awesome!”
the teacher without a single talk about the
case, terminated the working contract and That is to say, having been already fired,
fired her the next day, literary. It happened Svitlana was strolling along the sidewalk
a couple of days after she had collected of the full of hustle and bustle Piotrkowska
her Employment Letter. Obviously, it didn’t Street, one of the major tourist attractions of
take the bosses long (both were women) to Lodz, where most of the city events, matches
choose the group of humans they belonged or celebrations take place. After hours
to: between the beautiful and the intelli- of shopping for bargains with the aim of
gent they picked the first. buying presents for her family, the woman
was carrying a few bags, casually roaming in
“Why did you tell Joanna about your Ca- her sad, deep thoughts. Suddenly, she heard
nadian spouse? Everyone was shocked to someone crying out to her in English from
hear the news of your sudden dismissal!” the opposite side of the street,
said a Polish teacher, Lana’s colleague, the
day she was leaving for good. “Were I you, I “Heeey! Hello!”
would tell anything but the truth. Unfortu-
nately, people like Joanna and Pani Prezes Svitlana turned around and spotted a
(Mrs. President) are not like the majority of gang of young people dining outside the
the Poles. These two are mean and jealous. restaurant on the other side of Piotrowska
I’m so sorry. What’cha gonna do now? May Street. There was only a smattering of men
I somehow help you?” among them. The one of the guys stood
up waving at her, “Hey! Hello! “Dzień
dobry, Pani!” (Good Day, Ms!)”

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It was Tadeusz, a 20-year-old fan of Louis Poland in 2017. In a sense, you need to trust
Vuitton from Fashion School, who was bold that where you are taken it’s where you
enough to ignore the gang’s opinion so that need to go. However, it might make a poor
he could stand out from the crowd and sa- excuse for the events of the summer 2017.
lute the teacher he respected. What a nice In fact, Svitlana had received her husband’s
gesture! Of course, Lana waved him back Invitation Letter, collected all required
with a big happy smile lightning her face. documents (including a new Employment
Letter from the company she got employed
By the way, from her personal correspon- in Ukraine), and, finally, applied to Citizen-
dence with one of the ex-colleagues Svit- ship and Immigration Canada (CIC) for Vis-
lana learned afterwards that the teachers itor Visa to Canada. Surprisingly, it took the
she had got on with were either fired or left authority only seven days, including the
the school themselves. Scarcely any praise weekend, to come up with their decision on
did deserve the ladies in charge. the possibility of the mature couple to meet
in Canada; and the Visa Officer concluded:
It was September 2019 behind her
window, and she was challenging herself ” … I am refusing your application…. You
with something big and smashing. Hard as have not satisfied me that you would leave
she had tried to be down to earth, her pri- Canada at the end of your stay as a tem-
vate tutoring was not enough to feed her porary resident. In reaching this decision, I
well or meet the needs of a weirdo in her considered several factors, including: travel
head, jonesing to follow the current of cre- history, purpose of visit, current employ-
ativity. Indeed, Lana had been in dire straits. ment situation, personal assets and finan-
Even so, she had made a firm decision not cial status…”
to swing out her English tutor practice.
Moreover, she would rather refuse any new In other words, the Visa Officer decided
potential students who were calling with that an ordinary Canadian, for example a
the aim of having private English classes; truck diesel mechanic like Greg, is not au-
she needed time for her new career devel- thorized to invite his spouse to visit him in
opment. case she is an ordinary Ukrainian.

Elusive though her skills were, Svitlana Needless to say, both of them were
had always been aware of them, yet, she had struck dumb when they had read the black
just started doing it for a living. Few people message on the white background. Being
knew about her goals, though. They say a a heartbeat away from a such a tangible
picture is worth 1000 words. However, only result of the visa application purpose, the
a couple were able to assess the things they two of them appeared facing the abyss, the
had been shown. Clearly, most Ukrainians bottomless ocean splitting the plots of land
wouldn’t be able to compare notes of her ac- they belonged to. How pathetic the lovers
tivity, even if they did so, it would still sound looked in the spotlight of the authority!
implausible for them to succeed in the field
she was longing for, especially for a Ukrainian. “My complaint: My wife of 3 years has
That’s why she might have her doubts too. been rejected a visa to Canada. I feel our
application wasn’t looked at properly. It
The view outside her window hadn’t was processed very quickly without any
changed since the time she came back from questions being asked. As a Canadian I am

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supposed to be innocent till proven guilty, First, Lana really broke down, while Greg
yet, this process has found us guilty. She tried to stay balanced (or did his best to
has travelled & worked abroad always re- hide how uptight he was during their Skype
turning to Ukraine (travel history). It seems talks). Nonetheless, after a few days of
as if my letter of invitation wasn’t looked contemplation, they pulled themselves to-
at as I’m funding her trip (this covers: per- gether, bit a bullet and were going to apply
sonal assets and financial status). She wants again; even though they both realized that
to meet my family and friends (according Svitlana’s chances were slim to none.
to CIC an acceptable Purpose of visit). I feel
misled to believe I live in free country that Scarcely anything could have indicated
is welcoming to visitors. All this information the unexpected twist, when suddenly their
is in the application, “wrote Gregory in his communication stopped dead. One day
letter to the Immigration Section of the Em- Svitlana’s message crashed into the wall of
bassy of Canada in Ukraine. silence, built somewhere on the other side
of the Atlantic. The echo of her texts and
“…. The reasons for refusal are outlined calls had never bounced back, without any
on the refusal letter. Once a decision is explanation, any spoken reason, nothing.
made, the file is closed…,” stated the re- No matter how hard she tried to wrap her
sponse message. “Rather, … he or she may head around what had really happened, she
submit a new application and pay new pro- couldn’t grasp it. At least she learned from
cessing fee… However, if the applicant’s one of relatives of Greg’s that he did go on
personal situation has not substantively working, at least that he’s alive.
changed since the last application, there is
little reason to expect a different decision.” Okay, whatever reason caused the si-
lent treatment of Lana by her spouse, time
If the applicant’s personal situation has was passing by, with Greg (probably out of
not substantively changed? Which way was sheer perversity or else) insisting on the
it supposed to change for a woman of 47 straw dog philosophy. Meaning, the classic
and man of 56, married to each other? Sub- is always up to date, as long the Canadian
stantively? Like what? How cynic it sounds! guy behaved like the haughty countess
Diana from The Dog in the Manger or The
White lie might have been sitting pretty Gardene’s Dog by Lope de Vega who rejects
on white background of the text. Indeed, her numerous aristocratic suitors and falls
the message had been just another finished in love with a bright but poor young man
piece of writing in formal style, with certain Teodoro, her secretary, even though he is
combination of the words, within word the lover of her maid. Diana neither let the
limit, fixed by far. There must have been a couple marry, nor marries her handsome
human, though, who let it happen; a Visa secretary herself. Lope de Vega’s play has a
Officer was gentleman’s or lady’s name. It happy ending, though.
would be interesting to know if they are
married, their age; whatever; done. It was Anyway, since February 2019 Svitlana
so crystal clear that without being loaded, had been really writing (in English), and
the chances of an applicant from Ukraine, learning more and more about fancy craft.
to be granted a Visa to Canada were equal Once on 12 July she got a message from a
one’s chances to win playing Russian rou- British literary magazine concerning her de-
lette. What a potentially deadly game! cision to withdraw the poem which was sent

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to them quite long ago; however, she had not enough. It’s not the same,” commented
never had a message back with confirma- after another workshop Lana’s daughter.
tion of the fact of its reception. The message
from the Poetry Editor was the following, “Up to a point, this is true but every case
is different. If something makes you happy,
“Svetlana, why should you kill your inner call? In other
words, birds are given wings to fly. Not
Thanks for the message, my fault for not every bird can sour, okay?” said Svitlana,
replying sooner. I’d like to accept this – can and thought, “Can I?”
you send me a bio?
That evening she was home alone, as
Best…” usual. Her daughter’s comment (or it was
a hint) had been loosening the knot of the
“What? They want to publish me? Oh, writing woman’s confidence. She came up
my!” her joy had hardly any limits. to the bookcase with a glass door. There
were a few photos of the family who passed
Only after a while, did she pay attention away, her father and mother, and, of course,
to a small detail that the happy news arrived Arthur(smiling), the late husband. All of
on 12 July. (It was the date she met her late them were silent witnesses of her doubts.
husband for the first time in 1989. Thus,
every year they somehow celebrated it when “My dear, give me a sign, please. Tell me
Arthur was alive, whereas after his sudden whether I should finally follow my creative
death in 2010, she would visit his grave to pursuit,” no matter how insane it might
light a candle in the memory of love they had have sound, she said it loud.
shared for over twenty years together.)
Having her tea, Svitlana was watching the
Fall 2019 evening news online. When suddenly her
mobile gave a short, high-pitched ringing
Both of Svitlana’s children and even sound – incoming message on WhatsApp.
her daughter-in-law were fluent in English, She checked, and couldn’t help laughing at
which is not common for anybody from the pun image she had been sent; it was
Eastern Europe. Hence, they could be the somehow sexist, true, though so hilarious,
only people she might ask for opinion about
some of her writing. Since her son (28), MD, “OMG!” At first, she used to get annoyed,
would be usually very busy at work (often and even angry with pics like that.
as an English-speaking medical writer), with
anything like that she would rather call her “Gosh! It’s been about two years since he
younger child. Lana’s daughter (20) lived in sent an invite to join his group of friends
Kyiv doing the Master of Laws. Besides, the online,” she thought.
smart girl had been already working as a
Lawyer, part time, where apart from other Her friend would do his best to jus-
duties she was responsible for legal trans- tify the subject of his humor, somehow
lation into English. Seeing her literary skills, changed his style of messaging…. if only
her company provided for a copywriting just a bit. What really attracted Lana in this
course for their young employee. unusual friend of hers was his intelligence,
indeed. Having travelled the world, he had
“Hey mom, the presenter said that so been well-versed in most things, highly-ed-
many people strive to become a writer, ucated, curious, polite, creative and funny,
which is absurd, as having writing skills is

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though often too direct in certain things. away in September the same year. The FB
However, being direct is not so bad; it all friend was there with his supportive mes-
depends. She gave the funny pun another sages from time to time. This way or that
glance, and said to herself, amused, way, they became friends online. Eventually,
Lana told him about her weird marriage
“How come? But I deleted you from FB (only in very general features).
friends a month ago! Did you actually no-
tice?” And thought, “Seems, this perfect “How do you still feel about him? Can’t
sense of humor guy doesn’t mind being out you declare the marriage null and void be-
of my FB list as long as he can text or call me cause he left? ...Sweetheart, go to the court
on WhatsApp.” and get advice…You must go there and in-
sist!!!!! Maybe he got married illegally again.
Certainly, he had started a new relation- …you are toooo nice. …I do care; you don’t
ship. Even so, his puns would go on hitting listen to me,” he said.
her WhatsApp occasionally as if nothing
had changed. She didn’t buy it. Thus, un- Nope, she didn’t listen to him, however,
friended him on her FB. It had been silent Svitlana’s thoughts about Greg were so
for a while until that night. controversial. He used to be her love and
caused her pain; he welded a mysterious
Responding to the image just received black hole in the chain of her life. Would
and thinking of the photos had been posted she come out of its gravitation? Meanwhile,
earlier on his FB (with his new charming she would care about him less and less.
lady), Lana texted back,
“Why are you texting me? Bored?” she
“Getting married? Nice. Don’t get anx- typed.
ious, man. Lol”
“Saying hello,”
“Ha ha funny…., “incoming message
pinged. The man who had been married “Lol…in a very unusual way…”
once would always joke and skip the topic
of commitment. “Lol how so”

Surprisingly, there had always been “Read your messages…rewind Lol…
the feeling that their mind was surfing the where’s hello there?”
same wave, easy to talk to, fun to under-
stand, despite obvious cultural differences Lol hello. O bout ….? he said again what
since they lived on different continents. did embarrass her but him.
He was hilariously proud to be single, al-
though, admitted that he would enjoy a “Who do you think you are? So bold?”
woman’s company. In case Lana was willing, she though.
he mentioned the possibility to visit him, or
travel together. The previous summer the “You must be in love”, she gave a shot. That
enthusiastic traveler was keen to come to moment, her inner voice was telling her in
Ukraine, even though she had never in- Morse code: he is into you, definitely, say it!
vited him. Actually, he could have done so,
yet, Svitlana’s mother had been diagnosed “Why,” he said.
with a terminal disease, and, sadly, passed
“Lol…because…ask yourself why…. I guess
because…. irresistible,” she meant herself,
but didn’t dare to make herself understood
clearly, of course. She had said enough.

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He laughed and gave some other reason “You are funny…but thanks))),” she said,
…denying being in love with his girlfriend. and left the chat.

“Nope,” said Lana. In no way had that weird, although,
pleasant chat been planned. Svitlana went
“What then,” he asked. to bed excited so that she would wake up
‘next day and having coffee realize: not only
“You didn’t get me…anyway…you will had she got so shocking revelation mes-
somehow…Enjoy your weekend,” and sages to tell her friend, but also he was like
saying this she rushed to quit the chat. a wire to transfer hers…For real! What un-
believable news! Whatever sceptics might
“What u up to,” suddenly, he stopped her. suggest, the time will show; whereas opti-
mists must say,
“Hmm…” she thought, replying, “Writing
a lot. It will make me or break me…soon.” “If nothing good is happening, still, make
it out, and you’ll see!”
“U will be made,” upcoming message said.
Occurred, Svitlana’s destiny was walking
“Ooo…thanks…” that was so nice to hear, solo; whatever, she was inspired to impro-
Svitlana even boasted that her poem had vise.
been promised to be published soon.

“Wow u gonna be famous,” he said. “Fa-
mous and sexy”

About the Author

Svitlana (Lana) M. ‘Rochel (@lanam.rochel) is a writer, poet and lyricist who was first
published in BFS Horizons #10 in 2019. With years of experience in teaching English and
interpreting, the author is developing her career in creative writing. Lana writes creative
nonfiction, fiction, poetry, song lyrics, and children’s. Her thoughts define the gamut of
genres she writes. Always keen to share her artistic mind, terrific ideas, and a sense of humor
with her readers. Apart from pencraft, the author is into many kinds of art, especially music,
dancing, cinema and theatre. She admires art, photography, and architecture.

157

STACI

by Jeff Loeb

The house was only blocks away, so I got were humiliation, more tears, then blaming,
there in minutes. Staci’s sobs were already and finally her confessing to the crabs’
breathless heaves. All I could do was hold creepy presence, struggling to convince me
her and utter empty words: “What is it, it couldn’t be her. Or if it was, she’d caught
sweetheart? Tell me what I can do.” them innocently. From a toilet seat maybe.
Only years later could I face the reality that
The crying eased, and she forced out she’d probably been unfaithful the whole
broken fragments: “Sorry. So sorry.” Then time. After all, hadn’t cheating on her last
the gasps came back. And still I had no no- boyfriend been what thrust us together?
tion. Was someone in a wreck? Had one of
her parents died? Rape suddenly broad- It was my first “failed” relationship—at
sided me, and I nearly panicked. She’d least the first one I’d gone all in for—and it
been at the library late. I shoved the grue- left me in ruins for years. Maybe still does.
some images down and away, then held her Up to then I’d been guarded and selfish,
tighter. but Staci—to lift a line from Great Gatsby,
a novel I’d blown off in lit class that first
After maybe ten minutes, Staci’s breaths year back from Nam—“was the first nice
grew slightly deeper and her shoulders girl [I’d] ever known.” Trust me, I know how
sagged. The desperate sobs turned to pompous that sounds; it’s actually worse,
whimpers. I grasped some words—“gross” though, when you tie it into the arrogance
and “awful”—but not the source of her oozing from the crevices of my own rotten
terror. Eventually we sank onto her worn soul. We’d sprung full-grown from the
blue couch. Her chin rose slightly, the first wreckage of her four-year romance with an
time she’d looked at me. I watched the tears athlete BMOC she’d “outgrown.”
cascade onto her robe. “The worst thing
that’s ever happened to me,” she stam- All my worst “selfs”—self-loathing,
mered. Then her hands were covering her self-blaming, (lack of) self-esteem—had
face again. “I think it’s me, not you,” I heard come crashing together my first semester
her say. in Lawrence and driven me into hiding:
staying to myself when I could or ducking
What turned out to be “only” a case of certain topics. I’d gone back as a junior, so
body lice should have been my tipoff. Once I knew the ropes, but eventually dropped
her crying gave over to outrage, Staci acted all my classes to avoid straight F’s. These
innocent enough: Looking back, the stages sorry grades grew mainly from loneliness.

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I couldn’t stand any of the other students, the cheapest wine I could afford with my
but really, really hated the constant blath- slender GI Bill money (Gallo Paisano—$3.40
erers or those who exuded any whiff of a gallon), glaring vengefully at the evening
Greek-ness. “Discussion classes,” they were news on my twelve-inch black-and-white,
called—in Poli-Sci, History and English, the mind aboil with seething, self-righteous
only subjects I could stomach. I’d side- carnage.
stepped math and languages by forging the
advisor’s signature, and never even shown Of course, these rabid fantasies could
up for no-fail biology. bloom only as long as I actually showed up
for classes. Even this ended when Kansas
I didn’t open my mouth in any of the oc- pitched an early cold snap and staying in
casional sessions I actually made it to. For bed grew easier. November 15 had been the
one, I never read the assignments. Not that Viet Nam Moratorium on campuses across
I didn’t read: in fact, I’d stay up all night in the country, and I think the day I decided
my crummy Lawrence apartment blasting to check it in. Some scruffy protestors—the
through James A. Michener or Leon Uris or opposite of my trendy frat enemies, but
Ayn Rand—the lurid, violent stuff of my re- no less vile to me—had forced their way
cent life. And then there was this: I couldn’t into Politics and History of Southeast Asia,
begin to live up to the suave-raconteur pose chiding the instructor for not calling class.
of my own fantasies. I’d pretend my class- I was livid, but couldn’t decide which I
room silences were a choice, not crudes- hated worse, the Greeks, the longhairs, or
cent fear. the wishy-washy professor. Anyway, I never
went back. Since I was failing everything,
I’d perch in the very back of the dusty you couldn’t exactly say I dropped out (the
classrooms, staring out filmy windows at term dignifies my motives too much). What
yellowing leaves, picturing ways of silencing it signaled, though, was the need for a job,
the eager voices in front of me: A sudden or I’d soon be slouching back to my parents’
larynx-shattering strangle-hold from behind basement. In the end, I chose going to seed
was my usual go-to—our favorite choking right where I was.
maneuver during hand-to-hand training in
the Marines. Or sometimes I’d delay the I did have one remaining human contact,
reckoning until after class, when a quick my roommate, Woolley, who in most ways
boot to the upper back might propel some was even more worthless. He was a mas-
glib offender headfirst down the marble sive class avoider, one who stayed fed with
stairs. Either way, it would end (what I imag- a small monthly allowance from his mother.
ined were) their sly glances and under-the- He’d pad this meager pittance with what
breath comments to friends. I should add he called his college survival skills: bribery,
here that I myself had no friends; and, un- charm, and shoplifting. By mid-December,
like my be-Weeguned classmates, actually not even these could keep us afloat. Rent
wore boots—“salty” jungle ones I’d brought was overdue; power and phone turned
back, and which totally betrayed the uncool off; prospects scant for any tuition money
clinging to me. come January. Woolley took off for Mis-
sissippi to sponge off friends for a month.
Afterwards, the ten-cent bus ride home I was forced to get a job in a nearby Taco
being beyond my means, I’d traipse the Bell: greasy, demeaning labor that provided
two miles home and lock myself in, swilling

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me a meal per shift. My co-workers seemed the cafeteria sipping hot water out of an
nice enough—and were spared the venom un-bused coffee cup. Dress-wise, they’d just
coursing through me—but I saw in them have to take me the way I was. The club it-
dispirited ghosts of Christmas future: col- self was named the Rubaiyat. I knew it was
lege dropouts, no particular goals, looming the title of a poem, even if I’d never read it.
middle-class lives.
The manager turned out to be Iranian
At some point, I realized the gas in our (Persian, as he insisted, the Shah still being
apartment was still on—a fuckup by the on his throne), and a dedicated womanizer.
power company, no doubt—so I’d light His name was Mohammed-Ali Masoud, but
the stove burners and sleep on the hard he insisted on Masoud alone. From what I
kitchen tiles. My GI Bill cessation notice could tell, he’d been imported as a sort of
came less than a week after I’d quit, but I exotic by one of the hotel’s owners, a self-
figured I could fox them by pre-enrolling for styled Lawrence playboy and world traveler.
spring. I hauled myself up to campus on a Masoud was thought “interesting,” as I’d
chill early-January day and did just that. In find out, at least by women of a certain age
those days, you could put off paying tuition (such as that owner’s wife), with his accent,
for a couple months if you played things thin build, and slightly walleyed gaze. He
right. Buying books wasn’t a worry since I’d wore flared, cheap, Asian suits specially tai-
formed a plan to bolt for California once I’d lored for him.
ratholed enough government bucks. Not
that I had the vaguest idea what I’d do there. He motioned me inside the dim, empty
My clothes hung off me like they’d been club and seated us in black, low-slung leath-
stolen from a laundromat. erette chairs. The deep-red walls glowed
with iridescent gold leaf. The only other
Pre-enrollment turned out to be my person in the place was a cocktail wait-
lucky day. On a frigid, nearly deserted ress busy toothpicking cherries into orange
campus, the Student Union happened to slices. Aside from an initial glance, she paid
be open. I ducked inside to warm up and no attention to us. Masoud’s first question
found myself pawing through a used news- was how I liked the harem costumes he’d de-
paper. Deathly sick of Taco Bell, I turned signed. I glanced over—the woman’s outfit
to the help-wanteds. One stood out right was scanty and quite Persian, I guessed—
away: part-time bartender at a local hotel. and told him they were really striking. He
I figured why not? I was spending half my gestured for his girl, as he termed her, to
cash on booze anyway, maybe this could cut attend us at our polished brass table. When
costs. I dropped a precious dime into the she arrived, I saw a kind of hardness in her
pay phone and dialed. eyes, like she wasn’t pleased about some-
thing. Masoud ordered an orange juice for
Fortunately, the club manager answered. himself and a non-alcoholic beverage for
He had an accent of some sort and was dif- me. When these arrived, he reached into
ficult to understand, but I scheduled an in- his valise and pulled out a banana, which he
terview for later that day, just before their proceeded to peel. Very carefully and fastid-
afternoon opening. The hotel was on the iously, I noticed. We both sat silent while he
opposite side of town; luckily I had just alternately chewed small bites of the pulp
enough change in my pocket for buses, but and loudly sucked at his orange juice.
that left me with four empty hours. I sat in

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When he’d finished, Masoud tossed the Things went fine with Jim, though I’m
peel onto the table and leaned back. “For sure I gaped at his outfit—black toreador
the ladies,” he said, gesturing at the flaccid pants; gaudy, flowered shirt; a red sash cir-
banana skin. “We all eat much fruit, keeps us cling his waist. He mainly wanted to know
strong.” The diction threw me for a second, how dependable I was, and how fast I caught
especially the royal we; at first I thought he on to things. His questions were direct and
meant everyone who worked there, though down-to-earth; I got the impression that
the “strong” was also mysterious. I chalked the “job” of student wouldn’t impress him,
it up to his struggles with English and only so I included Taco Bell this time. Things
later learned how the words lay bare his would sit better, I figured, if I was actually
Persio-centric biases. employed and just looking for a higher billet.
I didn’t try any lies or evasions, just related
Masoud proceeded to discuss his feel- my prior civilian work—furniture-mover,
ings about women, telling me they were farm laborer, construction grunt—then,
here solely for “our” pleasure. “Pleasing” suddenly remembering the only positive
them though required regular renewals of thing my drill instructor had ever said about
“energy,” such as that provided by the ba- me, blurted out that I had fast hands. He
nana. As degraded as my sensibilities were, caught my eye a second, then hired me on
I still felt shocked. Did he imagine he was the spot. I’d start the next day, when he’d
running some kind of actual harem here in outfit me in my own costume and fill me
Middle America? I couldn’t help glancing at in on everything. I walked out fingering the
the waitress framed in the light of an open change in my pocket. I’d have to do one last
storeroom door with her sheer, flowing Taco Bell shift to eat for the day.
pants and skimpy top. Was she the site of
his expended energy? Bartending not only changed my luck
but in some ways turned out to be my
Only after calling her over again—Vicki métier. The Rubaiyat’s environment was
turned out to be her name—to clear our de- cordial, the complimentary meals in the
bris did Masoud get to the point, asking me hotel restaurant dependable (and civilized),
what my most recent job had been. I decided I had tip money in my pocket, and, most of
it might be better to skip Taco Bell, which all, I’d perfected a new mask. I was always
could be too declasse for his tastes. Instead a decent mimic, so it wasn’t hard to pick
I told him, the Marine Corps. He seemed up the conversation style of my co-workers
pleased. He told me he’d known (in some and customers. If I heard something that
vague way) a U.S. Embassy guard in Tehran seemed socially cool, I right away owned
and was very impressed with the man. Who it. An example would be punctuating my
wouldn’t be? Embassy guards were tall, stoic, spiel with “my dear” and “darling” when
and impeccably turned out—qualities no one speaking to the cocktail waitresses; it’s
would associate with me. Evidently, though, what the regular customers and other bar-
it was enough to elevate me to the next rung. tenders did.
He called Vicki over and asked if Jim, the head
bartender, had come in. As it happened, he I found myself working with a sophis-
had and was busy inventorying liquor. Ma- ticated group—virtually all grad students,
soud nodded, stood up, and motioned me to accomplished and popular, not to mention
follow him. I’d passed part one. pleasing to look at, yet part of a demimonde

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that prized the leftover energy to work and among us, someone who wasn’t sexually am-
drink in a variety of Lawrence bars. I quickly bitious, who didn’t think he or she could “do
invented another self, one able to stay better.” All borders got breached: honesty, fi-
afloat in such an environment, and then delity, respect, self-respect, ordinary decency.
added layers as needed—making myself out We were thrust into a moral hollow space we
to be an educated, intelligent, slightly mys- didn’t understand or have any way of freeing
terious dilettante (here’s where my wide ourselves from. Relationships evaporated, re-
reading helped). Within a short time, Jim placed by queasy, drunken trysts; honor and
was transporting me to the Flamingo Club fidelity were set to heel. Emotional debts
after work in order to swill even more booze got instantly cancelled, the well-being of
than I’d snuck on the job—we all did it, the debtor and lender alike scattered like corn
three bartenders and four waitresses—and to chickens. In ways not always figurative,
introducing me around to the Lawrence bar- rapine and theft consumed us.
scene gentry. It turned out to be no trouble
adopting the town’s louche insouciance. We stood in the hotel parking lot that
Mayday night, Staci and I, watching the tow-
The Rubaiyat itself was a hothouse of ering flames across the valley. Distant blue
sexual intrigue. Beyond the owner’s wife and red lights swirled, and faint howls of
and his own live-in girlfriend (a bedrag- sirens bounced off midnight clouds, angry
gled, mousy person who only appeared on with flickers. I remember thinking of Yeats’s
weekends), Masoud entertained a number words “the blood-dimmed tide is loosed.”
of women in any given week (his fruit bill Now back in school, I’d discovered his poetry
must have been enormous, we’d joke), but that spring and its images were suddenly
he also moved constantly on one of the everywhere. The Union was burning—the
waitresses, Valerie, though so far as I could very place I’d called Masoud from—crum-
see she managed to resist his oozy charms. bling in an arsonist’s flames. Two other
Jim was sleeping with Vicki, despite her buildings had also been firebombed in the
being married and putting her husband reaction to Nixon’s Cambodian invasion. It
through college. Sandy, who lived with her didn’t occur to me then, but this was the
boyfriend, was the continual target of the first time I’d ever seen Staci outside the
other hotel owner, who sauntered in daily, club’s dim, smoky interior.
sans-wife, the moment the doors opened.
Larry stayed dedicated to his girlfriend for It also turned out to be Lawrence’s last
a while, but eventually got swept up too. I curfew-free night: “nonessential” citizens
myself fell into the clutches of the hotel’s were locked in at sundown, while uproar-
night desk-manager (Hence, a choice of ious parties raged in every sleazy complex.
empty rooms!) while her live-in bf, a full- Drunks competed for floor space with
time student, was home sleeping. Only Staci mounds of empties; weed smoke drifted
seemed to stay constant and aloof. shoulder high in each apartment; cheap
portables pounded out Credence and San-
I make this situation sound like some tana; every squealing siren raised cheers.
sort of Hugh Hefner fever dream, but, of Then, within days, Kent State happened.
course, it wasn’t. Beneath the surface was Nixon’s bombs had reached us all.
frantic desperation, a constant sense of guilt,
and vile intrigue. There wasn’t a stable one With protests spreading, KU’s chancellor
suspended school. Lawrence immediately

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became a huge, wide-open party. The her. As disheveled as I was, she had to make
pent-up energy led to one, final, lawless me a project: yet another re-invention, one
blast. Woolley got on the phone and con- I gladly got in step with. She herself was a
vened a blowout at our place. My new- total slave to fashion, to the point of sewing
earned wealth had gotten rent caught up her own wardrobe. I quickly found myself
and utilities restored, but the place itself being clothed (literally and as a cliché) in
was a ruin: carpets burned and stained, ways I otherwise wouldn’t have imagined.
holes in the sheetrock, food rotting in the We upgraded my rundown “look” with
refrigerator. We felt absolutely no obliga- fashionable clothes and more frequent hair-
tion to what we termed the management cuts. We appeared in Lawrence’s more chic
cabal, so Woolley called everyone he knew. dinner spots. In this re-formulation, I was
Unfortunately, I had to work at seven. smart, witty, hip, and most of all fun. After
work, we’d jump into my new Volkswagen
So did Staci, as it turned out. She (another of her insistences) and drive all
seemed upset when she got there, and night to Estes Park for a weekend of revelry.
started drinking earlier than usual. Nat- Or, on impulse, we’d head out for Lake of the
urally I joined her. We both had whiskey Ozarks just to surprise friends living there.
sours. And then more whiskey sours. They We woke up together each glorious morning,
eased our sorrows, which for her included a my former frightened, bitter persona now
big fight with her jock boyfriend. When the banished.
last drunks wobbled out at one o’clock, it
was just the two of us. I took a chance and Both of us were bred from insecurity.
asked her if she wanted to go to a party. Sur- Staci’s vanities were social. She’d actually
prisingly, she not only said yes, but seemed come from a modest background, her par-
enthusiastic. I didn’t yet own a car, so she ents having migrated to Kansas City from
drove. somewhere in Deepest Ozarkia. Her moth-
er’s people were all natives (literally, at least
We heard the stereo blaring as soon as in part—after one holiday trip, she had a Po-
we pulled into the shabby complex; inside, laroid of her Cherokee grandmother), and
though, the partiers themselves seemed her father had had to scramble to attend
wasted. They paid absolutely no atten- college. His degree in chemistry, in fact, is
tion to us. I didn’t recognize any of them; what brought them to industry-rich Kansas
Woolley was nowhere to be seen. As if it City. She’d only “emerged” socially after
were somehow pre-agreed-upon, Staci and high school, she told me, “risen” at chic KU
I tiptoed down the hall and into my bed- from the family’s modest background to her
room. In short order, we were locked in a present status as habitue’ of trendy clubs
panting embrace, then found ourselves en- and boutiques.
twined on my single bed. I remember her
telling me at some point that she’d started For me, though, the seething creature
with the boyfriend right out of high school. below this veneer strained against its newly
He’d been All-State in football, she added. grown skin. The suave, dapper persona
But it was all over now. we’d invented strode blithely through the
frivolous milieu, desperate to be of it. In
We were immediately together ev- reality, even though Staci had ushered me
erywhere. Staci, it turned out, needed into acceptance, I’d never found a way to
someone—some male—constantly with

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unload my burdened past, the lurking will see—and became less and less able to leave
to mayhem. I was absolutely primed for the house, hers or mine. I only wanted to
the inevitable fall that everyone else saw bury myself in books, and expected people,
coming. Staci especially, to accept such behavior.

Less than a year into our relationship, I She and I grew apart, enough that we
got fired from the Rubaiyat because of an agreed to start “seeing” other people,
ownership change (the scion of Persia was though only as “friends.” I got my own place,
canned too). Staci was welcomed into the though we still spent most nights together.
new regime and with a decided uptick in I felt broken, but too late; worse, I was lost.
costumery. I picked up gigs in other bars I started going out with a couple of other
and continued with my BA; even though women. My boozing, always fairly heavy,
I still trailed a string of incompletes, I was got worse, and so did my behavior. My vi-
technically in my final semester, with the olent urges came back, not toward her, but
university at least temporarily willing to en- generally. I got into three fairly gruesome
tertain my excuses. Staci, on the other hand, fights, all in bars where I worked. I seethed
was working on her M.A. and searching for with anger and my instincts were vicious:
a “real” job, which is to say a more normal None of my targets knew he was in a fight
life. Of course, I remained blithely unaware until it was over. It was like my KU classroom
of this shift. fantasies, but real.

I’d become complacent about us, and Sometime in early December, shortly
in many ways slipped back into the morass after the crab episode and just before my
I’d carried home from Viet Nam—negative, last college exams, I was working at a seedy
critical of society, posing as an intellect, dis- college bar called the Mad Hatter. It was
daining the empty rituals around us. Ironi- midnight and not very busy. A drunk pal of
cally, this cynical personality was closer to mine, also an ex-Marine, asked me to hold
the “real” me than anything I’d exhibited his piece for him, a military .45 as it turned
in two years. Staci, I’d privately decided out. He was a law student, but his real pas-
at some point, was actually the shallow time was selling pills, so he always “packed
one for balking at my recognitions of this heat,” as he liked to term it. He must have
person or that event as a mere veneer of been sampling his own wares that night be-
our hollow culture (and yes, I spoke that cause he was feeling cops in every lurking
way then). Ironically, it was really the “coun- patron. We slipped outside and ferried the
terculture”—totally passé in our trendy mi- pistol from his car to mine. I watched him
lieu—whose everything-is-corrupt values eject the magazine and clear the action,
I’d unwittingly embraced. then shoved it under the seat of my VW. It
was exactly the kind of self-destructive be-
I should have seen it coming, of course. havior I invited at that point.
Staci had bigger things in mind—a life, chil-
dren, a secure middle-class existence—while After I got off, drunk and lonely, I drove
I’d been busy avoiding the specter I’d lugged by Staci’s duplex. A strange car sat parked
home in 1969. It grew inside me, heavier all in her driveway; her own was pulled up in
the time and yet harder to reach. I had spells the shadows of the carport. The windows
of what the nineteenth century would have were all dark. I rode slowly around the block,
termed “melancholy”—depression, I now mind racing, refusing to grasp the obvious.

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I told myself it was probably a girlfriend my whole made-up self knocked from under
staying over; or maybe Staci had borrowed me.
her cousin’s car. I decided I needed to call
rather than barging in. I drove to an all-night I saw Staci one more time after that. It
filling station and huddled inside the booth, was twenty years later, in Lawrence. I was
cutting off the frigid wind. delivering the final copy of my dissertation
to the committee director, ecstatic at having
After several rings, I heard Staci’s drowsy that grueling hump behind me. I knew she
hello. It took a minute of bluster to force her still lived there but had avoided her, partly
into the truth: she was with another man. I out of shame, but maybe a squinch of fear
fumed and cursed, then suddenly remem- too—she’d married the guy I’d sent fleeing
bering the pistol, announced I had it and that night, who was, of course, another KU
was coming over. I had no intention of even jock.
touching the now-harmless piece—or prob-
ably even going back—but when I heard the We met at a downtown coffee place. I
receiver slam down, some ghostly message thought she looked terrific, basically her-
from my cerebral cortex must have over- self with a few years added. She had two
ridden any sense I had left. By the time I kids, a boy and a girl, both in school, and the
pulled over just down from her house, I felt husband was a university administrator. She
trapped in my own rage and fear. I just sat didn’t work herself, despite her education
there, hands on the wheel. MA, or rather she’d been a day-care atten-
dant before she got pregnant the first time.
I remember actually feeling relieved— No professions of anger or disgust were
grateful really—watching both of them forthcoming; in fact she said she was sort
dash out the front door and leap into his of glad to see me, but that hubby had sworn
car. I sat riveted at my darkened post as it to kill me if he ever had the chance.
lurched backward out of the drive, then
screeched up the street and around the That was back then though, she added.
corner. I steered home blinking away tears, Maybe I was safe.

About the Author

Jeff Loeb lives and writes in New York City. Prior
occupations include: US Marine, bartender, construction
worker, waiter, truck driver, furniture mover, carpenter,
college and university teacher, radio reporter, assistant city
manager, cable television company manager, photography
studio owner, farmer/rancher, and teacher. He has a PhD in
English from the University of Kansas. Journal publications
include Adelaide (multiple), American Studies, African
American Review (multiple), English Journal, Mr. Beller’s
Neighborhood (multiple), and War, Literature, and the Arts (multiple). Book entries include
“Foreword” in Black Prisoner of War and “Afterword” in Memphis, Nam Sweden.

165

OUZO: A TASTE
OF GREECE

by Grove Koger

Most children grow up loving licorice in- broke away from the Ottoman Empire in
stinctively, but I’ve never learned to toler- the nineteenth century, the liqueur came to
ate the stuff. So it’s been a surprise to me symbolize the nation’s new-found freedom,
that I enjoy ouzo so much. Granted, ouzo is and today it accounts for about a fourth of
flavored primarily with aniseed rather than the alcohol consumed in the country. Ouzo
licorice, but the tastes are similar, and I’m even received a Protected Designation of
embarrassed to admit that with my eyes Origin from the European Union in 2006,
shut I can’t tell them apart. In any case, the meaning that its name can be used only by
tiniest sip of ouzo, even the slightest pass- producers in Greece and Cyprus.
ing whiff, summons up the dazzle of bright
sun on blue water and the sizzle of cicadas Natives of Lesvos claim, with some jus-
in the pines. If I can’t be in Greece itself, a tification, that their island’s many varieties
glass of ouzo is the next best thing. of ouzo are the best, and the Aegean island
can even boast an ouzo museum. However,
Ouzo seems to have originated where the honor of being the oldest ouzo distillery
West nearly meets East—where north- goes to the Katsaros Company of Tyrnavos
eastern Greece stretches out toward Asia in the mainland region of Thessaly. Ac-
Minor. The grapes that yield the spirit base cording to company literature, family patri-
are grown there, of course, as are the anise arch Nikolaos Katsaros obtained permission
plants (Pimpinella anisum) whose seeds from the newly independent Greek govern-
provide the predominant flavor. ment to distill and market the liqueur in
1856. The more familiar Metaxa distillery
The predecessor to ouzo was tsipouro, a came along in 1888.
crude brandy distilled by Greek orthodox
monks from the must or pomace left over In the twenty-first century there are
from pressing grapes for wine. At some a myriad ouzo producers in Greece, and I
point, enterprising souls learned to soften understand that one famous Athens ouzerí
its raw taste by adding a distillate of aniseed, (ouzo bar) stocks an astonishing 688 brands.
and ouzo was born. Then when Greece Some newer brands are “assembled” rather

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than distilled in the traditional manner, and mix it with water or drink it straight, Greeks
some based on mixed grain and grape spirits, drink their ouzo siga, siga—slowly, slowly. I
but virtually all are flavored with a complex urge my guests to do the same, awakening
medley of botanicals. Metaxa’s recipe, for their taste buds not only to the oniony sti-
instance, includes not only aniseed and fatho I might be finishing on the stove but
mastic but also fennel (which of course also to the appetizers I’ve set before them.
tastes much like licorice) and coriander.
Other brands use licorice itself, star anise If you’ve seen the Ben Kingsley film
(another licorice taste-alike from Southeast Pascali’s Island or read the fine novel by
Asia), mint, cloves, hazel nuts, cinnamon, Barry Unsworth that it’s based on, you
mastic (from small trees cultivated on the know that Kingsley’s desperate character
island of Chios), cardamom, and even lime often subsists on the mezés or mezédhes
blossoms. Most ouzos are dry, but some dis- (the equivalent of Spanish tapas or Portu-
tillers, particularly those in southern Greece, guese petiscos) traditionally served with
sweeten their product with sugar or honey. ouzo. Over the past few years, enterprising
Greeks have set up large ouzerí (the word
Ouzo is a fairly strong drink, with stan- is the spelled the same whether singular or
dard brands averaging about 90 proof— plural) to capitalize on the growing popu-
that’s 45 percent alcohol. It’s traditionally larity of snacking on a selection of such little
served with a glass of cold water, but here dishes—fried cheese, roasted eggplant, a
we run into a quandary. Greek guidebooks saucer of olives, and so on— rather than
routinely advise you to pour your ouzo over consuming a traditional meal. On a purely
ice cubes or mix it with the water—steps practical note, consuming food with the li-
that release its aroma and turn it milky white. queur softens the effects of the alcohol.
(It seems that anise oil isn’t soluble in water
and separates as an emulsion that scatters As I write these words, a bottle of ouzo
the light.) However, one well-known Greek is sitting in my modest bar and some tangy
cookbook maintains that mixing creates the Kalamata olives are waiting in my pantry.
kind of “bad” alcohol that produces hang- Although I may not be traveling there for
overs, while others insist that it’s precisely another year, a generous taste of Greece is
the way to avoid them. But whether they only a few steps away, and the cicadas are
already singing.

About the Author

Grove Koger is the author of When the Going Was Good: A
Guide to the 99 Best Narratives of Travel, Exploration, and
Adventure (Scarecrow Press, 2002) and Assistant Editor of
Deus Loci: The Lawrence Durrell Journal. He lives in Boise,
Idaho, USA, and blogs about travel and related matters at
worldenoughblog.wordpress.com.

167



POETRY



VIRTUAL REALITIES

by John Lambremont

The Solo Performer This includes involves removal
of the head of his pancreas,
The tiny ballerina, her wherein his tumor lies,
summer run long over, a part of his small intestine,
limbs brown and withered, and his gall bladder, then
hanging hair disheveled, some human re-plumbing is done.
bends stiffly at the hip,
shriveled hands stretched The surgery will be tricky,
to the tip of an extended toe, because as shown by CAT scan,
frozen in a permanent pose of thanks his tumor has exited his pancreas
for praise of her last fall show and effaces his portal vein,
to her audience of one. without which no one can live,
but he has the best of doctors.
Resection
Recovery from a successful surgery
Chemotherapy is an attempt takes almost a year, then
to shrink a tumor and he will have more chemo,
prevent cancer from spreading. plus radiation treatments,
to try to keep the cancer from returning,
When this round of chemo is over, which is common.
doctors will take him into surgery
to try to remove his pancreatic tumor. If it returns, the prognosis is not good,
as the surgery cannot be repeated.
So the questions are whether
his tumor is resectable and
his cancer will return in the
months and years to come.

Only God knows the answers,
the rest of us will have to wait
and see.

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Heal Thyself Adelaide Literary Magazine
The King Is Dead

A solitary stroll along a balmy coastal shore Once I was the King
will provide some calming to a of my own private forest,
sore knee’s crepitation. and when I roared,
Trod the wet white sands for a the natives ran
long hike of several miles, for cover.
and use the surging surf to bring  
a body’s memory store Now I am toothless,
to muscles that have not been used clawless, and clueless;
for years in such a fashion. my growl is a whimper;
Often stop and squat down for my former subjects show
a pretty bit of flotsam, their disdain and contempt
so as to incur all of the necessary flexion; that I have earned
the beach’s slanted slope will bend over passed years.
one leg more than the other,  
but the return trip back will let I am often told
the bended knee recover. what not to say;
Once the trek is over, plunge my words and deeds
headlong into a wave, are ill-regarded,
swim in churning waters my thoughts worth naught,
unencumbered by old pain, my complaints rejected,
and breathe in deep the sea air my laments ignored.
for the total mass retain.  
I ingest what I’m afforded;
I must not have or take
an extra piece of cheese;
my red meat is restricted:
I am not allowed to eat
the last remaining taco
that no one else wants.

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Virtual Realities Revista Literária Adelaide
Lambremont, REALITIES

When cinema and other media Pg. 2, next stanza
of entertainment became violent
to the point of being bloody Now there have been invented
disgusting, so-called experts helmets and (later) goggles
and other nefarious do-gooders that will take the user into
voiced concerns that these excesses a new and foreign reality
would inure children to violence, which can be changed
and that mayhem and murder to a different locale
would reach unprecedented levels by adjusting the settings.
as a sociological phenomenon. This particular form of play
The solution they derived is certainly far less harmful
was the banning of toy guns; than the ingestion of certain
chemical compounds or psycho-
but for as long as there have been steel barrels, tropic plants for the seeking
black and (later) gray gunpowder, of new and wildly different
and projectiles to fire at foes, states of separate realities,
little boys have possessed weapons but nonetheless constitutes an overlooking
imagined from their hands and limbs, of a fundamental truth of human
fingers with which to point pistols, physiology and its kindred spirit:
hands and arms to lob grenades, that we all experience virtual realities
and shoulders and arms to position and fire of infinitely varying natures,
rifles, machine guns, and bazookas. finding expression running the gamut
Perhaps we should have considered of all human emotion, behavior, and/or
the cutting off of fingers and arms. state of being, each and every time
we lay down our heads to sleep.
We then gave the children We sometimes carry over these
electronic Nintender babysitters, subconscious realities into wakening,
and they have developed this technology but it is thindividuals that cannot ignore
so spectacularly that entire villages, these often deviant thoughts
cities, realms, countries, civilizations, thrumming within their heads
planets, solar systems, and/or galaxies when not sleeping that are truly
can be destroyed and stricken from dangerous.
existence in a single sitting.
It is no doubt a coincidence
that some thirty-plus years later,
that violent crime rate has exploded,
and the murder rate is through the roof.

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About the Author

John Lambremont, Sr. is a poet and writer from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, U.S.A., where he
lives with his wife and their little dog. John holds a B.A. in Creative Writing and a J.D. from
Louisiana State University. He is the former editor of Big River Poetry Review, and has been
nominated for The Pushcart Prize. John’s poems have been published internationally in many
reviews and anthologies, including Pacific Review, Flint Hills Review, The Minetta Review,
Sugar House Review, and The Louisiana Review. John’s full-length poetry collections include
“Dispelling The Indigo Dream” (Local Gems Poetry Press 2013), “The Moment Of Capture” (Lit
Fest Press 2017), “Old Blues, New Blues” (Pski’s Porch Publishing 2018), and “The Book Of
Acrostics” (Truth Serum Press 2018). His chapbook is “What It Means To Be A Man (And Other
Poems Of Life And Death)”, published in 2014 by Finishing Line Press. John enjoys music,
playing the guitar, fishing, and old movies. He has battled pancreatic cancer since 2018.

174

LIE WITH ME IN
THIS MOMENT

by Sarah Stephens

Lie with me in this moment

sink into the book of me
where all my stories wait to be told. Take out the pages
and read–

It’s not quite Spring here– where Winter lags in the heat
and humidity of our bodies in this haven–
the open waiting universe where I want you to swim
with me– defeat darkness and demons– they will penetrate
your holiness. I tell you– All my demons are on the inside.

You know I believe in heaven and hell– this hell– time spent
fighting the current toward the winter solstice where I mark the light
with fingers in the air– ticking the time– tilting to the highest
point of daylight. That’s no way to live– you say, when burying
your fingers into my sense of time and space. Waiting

is death– drowning– in the time between revelries
and wrangling spirits– in the chasm of skin and
sinew and organ and cell– I want to plunge into their stories
learn their secrets, translate the meaning– in a way I can understand.

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A shelter from the rain begs me Quicksand

to rest with the truth of who I am, as if I open the door to my house and fall slowly
I know her. This stranger slowly I am pulled under into
walking through my body discovers social media quicksand
all the lessons on fear come true. I pretend where the free exchange of
this apartment is home, the one I left ideas should flourish–
to find dreams beyond my I find a wasteland swallows
domestic aspirations. me, swallows me whole
Drawn from the depth of seclusion, draught with words that find and feed suppressed hate,
in a secret, this moment seeks to see accusations, judgements I wish
beyond bleakness, it moves were no longer part of our make up
into a stream of air, catches
heartbeats. Wind speeds blow limbs We create fictionalized personas– who forget;
to the ground, branches curl anger feels good but cultivates little else.
into body, close in this isolation In this glass house with the broken windows
in the quietness I am fond gusts scattered on the floor
and turbulence that lash leaves We forget the most basic principles of peace–
into a quagmire, cleaves Darkness cannot drive out darkness.
to borrowed experience. Where
a cockroach crawls out of the sink, an omen We have the light to ignite a deeper love–
to the battle against stagnation to clear shadows of politics, opinion, and race.
and fear, and the familiar paralysis Instead we are pulled under, we
of ordinary things, like flowers suffocate in apathy–
and the bloom of kisses that turn dark Turn gray in the belly of the beast
when pressed between the pages where peaceful protests
of a favorite book. become riots and friends become enemies–
where the darkness covers
our eyes and we miss
unique and beautiful differences
that make us whole.

We need only turn on the
light, open the window
throw a rope into the quicksand, pull free
basic humanity
and see -black and white are not the
grains of sand pulling us under–
God, religion, sexual orientation,
gender do not generate hate–
These labels do not divide us. We

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are divided by judgement, Hang Me in the Louvre
by stereotypes, by words and
actions that don’t follow I don’t want a portrait that creates
the basic tenants of humanity– a static moment in time. If
love thy neighbor… do unto it were 1910, and I his muse,
others… speak from love I’d ask Pablo to paint me like Gertrude,
reduce me to mass on his canvas
In Quiet Contemplation what he observed in his avante-garde fashion,
to deconstruct me, reassemble me, make me
The front porch faces a small lake visible through his fragmented perception.
where I sit on a wicker chair watching I’d ask him to paint me in hues of gravity
the birds mate. Their songs amuse in the vain of Girl with a Mandolin, 
the maple tree budding red. break me down to geometrical elements
develop a new comprehension
Geese nest in secret, where men of the unabridged inner chaos I suffer
can’t disrupt the life they create. when in deep, deep depression.
It is Easter and I feel God in the wind
as it moves through the branches. In the time before he returned to neoclassicism
I’d like to hang on the wall of the Louvre
I am reborn in light as it passes nails driven through my frame, hanging
from behind the house to cover me in grace. beside his other women. Curving and warping
In quiet contemplation of the clouds the space. A brilliant mind, an icon of his time,
clearing after mid-day I am stirred from rest. with little empathy for women, as
those he chose to paint
A divine peace making me anew fared finer than his wives and children.
grows inside the temper of my body,
as seed spreads like dandelions. I’d ask Picasso to teach me to see
through his eye, experience the movement
When the wind blows the yard flowers yellow of his brushstroke; brown to pale to beige and
we plant Yarrow, Daylilies, and the blue-green of my eyes, juxtapose
Black-eyed Susan. the dark planes, smooth
Despite cultivation, divinity grows plentiful
with wildflowers that feed the next season. my rugged cheek, imbue
my flesh with plasticity
the dissolution of my essence
until I am recognizable,
only as color and shape.

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About the Author

Sarah J. Stephens lives and writes in the coastal town of Wilmington, North Carolina. She is
an MFA candidate for poetry at the University of North Carolina, Wilmington. In addition to
publishing in journals such as The Licking River Review and Sugared Water, she has recently
published a chapbook, Where All the Birds Are Dancing, with Finishing Line Press.

178

AMULET

by Mary Jane White

voice of Penelope 66

62 So I felt the urge to run & listen for you
Here where the breeze
All the young men came in compresses the blossom
But you were never there Raises the stems
Standing as likely under a rafter
Off-center 67
Visible enough
I heard you
63 Your instep
Swivel & lift
As a still small-footed
Never old & wandering vine 68
Your trunk the exact imperfect
Square pillar An open sky
Upon every tread as you turned
64 So then I hesitated to listen
& the breezes stopped hiding you
Light red leaves So busy
On a low breeze lifted Reflective of dark silence
Disobediently Alertness & execution
So before I heard anything given or taken
65 I believed I knew your beastly mind

A silver-tongued solitary of the moon 69
& of the oxygen atom
Bloodied all those young men
Felled in close quarters
Their alarms & piercing cries

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As they departed 75
Who were they
The worthless Blood holds half the sky in its arc
& from my rooms
70 I listen carelessly
Since I am one with you
Even our frontiers were Who disregard mercy
murmuring that moment
Who were they 76

71 Listen under your rafter
As we close on cruelty
& I sat & I know how all will resume
Answering myself With me after this
Marrying the unseen with my own answer Your familiar novelty
Your low tone loosened
72
77
Satiated
How am I thus satiated & it is out of my mind
When I have never since eaten I must listen for what is inhuman
Nor opened my hand Out of my mind must hear
Nor opened my eye What the low tree-line against
Nor opened my belly nor my heart the horizon conceals
Nor unstopped my ears
Nor disarranged myself 78
In the least
That sea that ever disturbs your busy heart
73 Since I have already listened long
For you among younger men
All this effort is useless Even as the sinking fog departed with you
To break my coldness with blunt percussions
I no longer require axe heads 79
But crave sweetness
Not for the first time I laugh quietly to myself
74 Dear man
What are you doing
Restrain myself as I must Stacking coins or cards to pass time
Of necessity You with a pastime
My ear at my door
May I avoid drowning in these tears & gasping
As the fresh salt breezes press in

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Revista Literária Adelaide

80 With half the house
& its furnishings
Or am I never
To gauge 85
Your character
For all it is Then may I throw all our corpses out
Or what passes Walk in the salty air
As we lie As you my consort
Listless in winter Lead me for the moment through town
My hands fallen Secure in your honored anonymity
To my sides & feared in the streets their fathers also walk
Helpless Where our new passion withers
To circumstance Withers while everybody watches
Sports foot races or martial contests
81 Where I also come to lose myself
& can drop everything watching
I will not be visible but will make no retreat Our open-hearted boy my joy
An amulet in your pocket In his tamer pursuits

82 86

I will lie as I have lain Where I can run in place
In our house Or raise the alarm of the newest cacophony
Waiting & tried Even that fading away of all youth
That is this very instant screaming
83 A shrill blare we may never know here
Since no one in particular of any stature
Again satiated Is sounding it
May I drink deeply
Of pomegranate 87
Swallow the dregs of it
May I wipe its stain Since I can’t lose
Scour granite My head now
Or in the sunlight
84 Lose you
My nearest & ancient hope
Stream running to the sea
Sky in it below the tree-root
& sea breezes rising
Then may I hardly be there
As the morning has gone & returned
& is scattered widely

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

LAWN More stricture than love revenge
Forgetting memory future
voice of Mnemosyne Or more noise
Or more inexact science
112 Or more chairs in the lawn
That I may cross some new direction
Like a young toddler A narrow shadow running from me
Trying to cruise
A moment my balance was easy 116
Was going well enough
As everything returned nearer than before Some rivulet slowing
Nearer to the short or messy A delicate odor at the beginning of summer
word which is a fitting
Amen to us 117
The wet stems in the vase
Off which the old blossoms are fading The sheer weightlessness of
Then fading again watered breath leaving a body
As dry straight stems fallen
In every which away 118
Like things like sticks
A wonderful remembrance so many lose The window before me open
The small rocks set there
113 The dolls & the figures
The few carelessly strewn &
Where childhood pulls itself up upended companions
& is coming forward The unceremonious laughter of them
As one clings to a gutter None brought in

114 119

One looking ahead The celebrations
Yes only forward Dropped cracker
With as many looking on Sky empty of cloud
As it were upon the advance of life
Why not run altogether 120
The grasses dimpling underfoot
Not even one empty of praise
115 Or the sharp new takings-in

I don’t require 121
These legs ears or ideas lower
than weeping willows Or the falling & ordinary knee-scrapings

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Revista Literária Adelaide

122 AXE

So you won’t leave any legacy to anything voice of Tethys
Or your little cars won’t go
Before the single push 125

123 A man calling grouse or doves

Just the birth of more silence 126
Rusting into the rain
The enveloping chill of the stream
124 in that smallest meadow
Pools of shadow blurring its tree lines
As I was removed from this house
Remembering I cannot go there 127
again & proud I have not
Gone there again Here is a hiding spot I might still wriggle into
That never do old wives return Always the trapped smell of sunlight
That never does a new face not & the oiled axe to split the last of the kindling
rise up out of the earth & the bank’s rippled edge &
With nothing under her the heavy suckerfish
& her legs sinking to her ankles Steady under the running water
There it is a sunken leg
Now there is a wrongful sight
Or even the leg floating free beyond a bend
Slave to the running currents

128

The year’s hatchlings impossible to catch
Anywhere the foot splashes up down

129

Bodies that are wearied in the end

130

A white gate reflecting moonlight
Erasing the lines of curtilage
The slats as if drunken & wandering freely

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

The hinge worked loose from the post REEDS
Itself falling
voice of Artemis
131
135
The slatternly rise over the next boundary
Linking mine to yours & the mind enfolds a wave into its tissues
Mine to another’s You deceive me
Leading leading You deceive me with your very arrival
Always to the verge
136
132
As a game bird listening in the rushes
I believe I am fated yes You reap the wildness that everyone else
I have a mild dampened fact for a body
137
133
Look into the water
How did I walk & no one sitting still in the blind
What did I run to see The water rocking slowly
Why set my foot prints where & as imagined enemies
The dust here is tracked over A night of last summer
At a black metal post My chest relieved of its burdens
With swirls scuffs
138
134
& we sharpen our ears
This here was nothing Beginning the hunt
I believed I would have & we forget the missed shot
Or have any need to relinquish The first

139

Your people waiting an expected letter
About how you may be

140

& there is ready game & the sun
is barely rising through mist

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Revista Literária Adelaide

141 We are unmoving then
You will finish your hunt
& I don’t credit the cacophony You think
& the green of reeds You frown
& if we do not save them Move your legs
For greater comfort
142
147
What loss
What more Slipping out of my fingers

143 148

& there is no disorder by which we You miss them once
might bring hunger to bear You stop finishing
You whisper Zero to the goslings
144 Zero & are angry
With yourself
The body is hidden here
& then let it fly 149
& I will forget the shot
How I shot off one leg in the fog Ah shit & you have finished an ugly
Failure for good
145
150
But missed the fog
That was not my target Off the watery surface
Then O my foreign target You have finished this off
& the willows stand & we listen a little while You my huge target stand admiring failure
Its wet vista
146 Its bitter familiar odor
It’s only a short while
But for several mornings the year’s
goslings hid themselves 151
Huddled off the water
They were healthy & they were alert The odor of it unlike
& I listened to the joyous rustling of escape Any rose or bramble of the mountain
You deceived me
So whispered my new conviction 152
You do not care
To finish even once Once but a passing summer cloud
You will not finish what is yours & why two would ever think to look up at it
From afar & think

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

ENVELOPE 158

voice of Rhiannon The first mark you made after I fell silent
Was not the mark of your tongue
153 But a line
A narrow cold line drawn in the void
By the body you mistook Of which you remain ignorant
The animal body Or that you drew it
Closed & stolid
& outward 159

154 You don’t care to delight me
Breath on its high horse
Dispirited My blessing its saddle
Out of the mouth Parting at a distance
Wriggling
Out of the lines 160
In or out
Of the many glosses That’s that
No more stirring the pot
155 That was animal behavior

Out of that cranny 161
Now out of this cranny
Of what was mistaken Never the body from which the no issues
As the forbearers’ cranny Or which enters a body dully
Glossolalia lost No emptied body into another
From which the no issued unfeelingly
156
162
With sensibility namelessly past & passing
We cocked an ear upwards at birds’ wings then No more animal abandon with
such delightful feet
157 Then patting & padding one
thing & another carelessly
Never the present moment So the fig is closing
It having slipped behind The small envelope the ear the day the earth
As a low road caught behind a last curve So the garden
To fall beneath the wheel The classical figure
Just look & there is another curve

186

OLD WORLD
MONKEY

by Lisa Reily

bucket list

the crackle of plastic as an elephant’s trunk unfurls,
accepts a sugared bag;
gentle eyes and huge eyelashes smile
as it stuffs it into its mouth.
it’s so stupid, it’s eating my bag! shouts the nasty kid.
I am about five. waiting to see the circus.
watching in horror as an elephant eats a plastic bag
sticky with the remains of pink fairy floss.

I am probably thirty, I am right beside him,
a baby elephant in the streets of Bangkok.
he is only my height and has crossed the road with his owner.
I pat his big head, hair all wiry and black;
I was expecting baby soft.
I take a photo; no money is exchanged,
but the next day, I pay to ride an elephant with a friend,

and later, as we step from a temple to find our shoes,
chang! chang! elephant, he come!
we retreat in fear, crouch behind a wall,
as a screaming elephant with a painted face
bounds through the sacred site, running for its life
through a crowd of tourists;
I knew I would never ride an elephant again.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
I am forty, watching friends take their kids to the circus,
colleagues pose, holding snakes and baby crocodiles;
smiling, always smiling, going to zoos for fun.
an elephant is just a thing on a bucket list;
everyone must pat, ride, wash one,
even if it means pretending,
pretending that this is what an elephant wants,
all day every day.
I am fifty
and tusks are still trophies, a bag of fairy floss
is still every elephant’s dream;
an elephant is still a thing
on a bucket list.
an elephant is a still a thing on a bucket list.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

caviar politics & the seaweed rhetoric of salmon

poached fishmongers today have revealed
a devastating deep ocean outbreak of salacious salmon
and promiscuous pufferfish pandemonium,
the coronavirus catch-and-release pariah
finally concluding in a goldfish aquarium stalemate;
this has left the waterproof vested interests of the world
in pescatarian waters.

rockfish admissions and well-hidden industry tackle
have been bulldozed by the bikini lines of pink-slippered holiday makers,
who, with their castigating, masticating lines,
refuse to believe the incendiary explanations
of the suspected hosts: the party-going, Machiavellian salmons
(who are known philanderers in chameleon freshwater jaws,
sparking further protests from racist anchovies).

worldwide, unanswerable palates and marinated trolls
have sparked penchants for embellished visceral scapegoats,
their coffee-chain commitment and facelift rumours
harpooning stock market toe jam and fish farming fashionistas
as the ultimate chopping boards; this has also bloodily hooked
deep sea vegans and their trawled bovine trapeziums
to suspect caviar politics and seaweed rhetoric,

but the nibbling fears of a negative paella restaurant queue
will only be sushied when burnished fish-hook gormandizing
ceases to interrogate random, immaculate grapevines
and elegantly swallows the gasping murmur of rock pools.

This poem was inspired by an article about the discovery of Covid-19 in a Beijing fish
market, with blame for the spread of the virus being placed on imported salmon
and a suspect chopping board. I wanted to highlight how far we can go to avoid
talking about our human contribution to the development of coronaviruses.

189

old world monkey Adelaide Literary Magazine
cover up

my camera holds still black room, a screen of light,
through the bars on my window; photos of you having a cappuccino
small black hands tear leaves with your three daughters,
from the pomegranate tree. your youngest at Disneyland
too close, my fingers stretch to close the pane before she’s even ten;
on a Nilgiri langur selfies at the zoo, holding a snake,
who barks into my face, a koala, crocodile, a chick,
its liquorice mouth and pin-like teeth bared, your husband with expensive café meals
orange mane ablaze. of cheesy chips, burgers, fried eggs
and smoky bacon;
banana leaves shift in the wind, the world around you smiles
and I can feel you everywhere; with GIFs and thumbs of blue, your
a family of sleek black bodies, all sizes spoilt brat grandchildren
from grandmother to newborn, jumping fences, dripping ice cream and showbags,
bounding across our tin roof all on show,
like thunder. and everyone’s so jealous.
I want one! Where’s mine?
you move with ease, nimble over barbed wire at three cute puppies wearing
and metal, concrete and wood, cardigans and hats,
romping and wrestling in the spaces bred right in your backyard.
no longer meant for you; posts when your fridge
your fur, once a coat, is on its way out, poor thing,
your skin, perfect stretch of a drum, and the wine you opened
your innards, dream medicine, was a very good year;
an aphrodisiac. but you’ve had better.
you change your lightbulbs to LEDs,
your bright eyes hold me learn to make a bin liner from newspaper,
at the window, call me to the balcony and tell the world about it.
to be in your presence, softly, no posts about
away from you, the thousands of dogs and
but close enough to feel you breathing. cats quietly snuffed out
behind the government’s closed doors,
the ground chicks behind your eggs,
the piglets whose tails are cut,
screaming; no images
of dying babies in Syria, families in Yemen,
refugees on the Greek border,
only your shiny holiday snaps in the UK, the US,

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Revista Literária Adelaide

and everyone’s sooooo jealous;
though once you posted
the French flag, and a rainbow
to highlight your profile picture,
because you care.

old woman in black

a concrete path leads to two dead chickens, a stray cat smiles over your dead chickens,
taken early this morning by an alepoú; red gashes from teeth, gizzards
you place piece upon piece of spilled onto dust;
scrap metal and wood, your father in the war in 1918,
a makeshift door to hide your last hen. and you here, alone, with your thinking
trees crowd your home, and goats,
mist holds your thoughts, an old burner stove, a peeled apple,
your goats, five, each tied by a single leg acorns collected in worn metal dishes.
in the small room under your house;
you are too tired, too old now, you are well, you say, no pain,
to set them in the yard. black sneakers and stockings
with a widow’s skirt,
a bed covered in laundry, half-folded, cardigan covered in pillings,
reeks of moth balls, and pills strewn across your
a cupboard left open spills blankets, doilies, table; you show me
pretty tablecloths edged by your hand, how to use your ancient sewing machine,
embroidered for your dowry long ago fetch a handful of pepper,
when your husband brought you here to live; then you throw it
now the village holds only thirty, onto the concrete floor of your kitchen;
and he is long dead. your chimney spits the day away
you wear a black scarf to honour him, as a fish van hums outside your door,
light a candelaki on the gravel road. three cats circling.

191

ALMA DESATADA

by Roseangelina Baptista

Alma Desatada Unmoored Soul

A serração desceu rápida e do-í-da. The haziness reeled
Veio duma latência em rodeios Açorianos. Swiftly and pain-fully.
Solitário rochedo, suspenso em fosca água- The fog quivered within
lusa. A latent Azorean discomfort.
Longe, o coro das oliveiras ao léu. The filmy Luso-waves
Açores! Por quem te desatei as naus um dia... Enclosed a solitary rock afloat—
Volátil, irado, vulcanizado. Far afield from the olive chorus,
Mouro-Sefardita dum Ilhéu. At the whim of fate.
Memória coletiva?
Civilidade incongruente. Azores! to whom
Sentimentos de força plena I unmoored the vessels one day...
os tragos dos mapas náuticos.
Mar d’olhos de jade, Volatile, mad, volcanized,
estrelas fincadas no anil. Moor-Sephardi from some Islet...
Um peito mestiço  Collective memory?
apanhado de rochas,  Incongruent civility.
Beijado por sal atlântico.
Feelings in full force,
I carry on from nautical charts.
The sea, emerald eyes,
Stars staked on laundry bluing,
A mestizo chest
Beaten by a handful of rocks
And kissed by Atlantic salt.

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About the Author

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

193

MEMENTO

by Bess Amelia Yeager

Scar Tissue Land Trill

I don’t recognize the yellowed veins of wood Today a flute harmony dug its
chapping into hot, sun-hardened thumbs into my collarbone
beams. It has been too long and hollowed me out like I had meat inside.
since I came here last: to the scar tissue land It left a husk that set my teacup down
where my pets are buried. My on the white wicker table
brother, a perpetual shadow, across from my mother,
whispers from miles away, and the who was reading Pound’s
pale blonde cats are here again, Cathay for the first time.
their hair settling in clumps on dusty lapels. I still don’t know how to say
Microwaved curls of clover that burn up the word beautiful to her
a brilliant green leave traces— or how to say that I feel like a gutted crab shell
never to be as they were. without using the word beautiful.
Everything foreign will dissolve with time,
but I am so alone that I need the arms of this Even a creature boiled alive
decaying porch chair—if not must release steam
any other in the far, along with its last shrillnesses
rusting world—to meet mine. Meet and those cannot be lies.
my wrists, whole and uncomplicated
like the falling mist that sets gently down
summer’s warmth, saying heal over now.

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Memento Revista Literária Adelaide
Age

I miss my old life. If I am the bigger one of us,
The only breaths I take now wrap me up when you’re done.
are while writhing— Take what’s left of me home, and
I once cared about things like weeds preserve me.
and the number of chalk marks on my walls.
For the hell of it,
Last year we held something apply me to your skin—
to our lungs too liquid, being still young, I will try my best
too pliable to be contained by hands— to soak in, to dissolve the film.
we dropped it and grasped at
the shadowed debris At this neighbor’s fence, there is no tired—
there are bicycle spokes, and
of sunburnt prairie weeds there is the sound of you
and wetless teabags— opening a can for me.
shriveled mummies
now stains in flower-painted porcelain. There is no sleeping, even
after I have seeped in.
There are bubbles, and
there are burrows
where boneless animals mate.

About the Author

Bess Amelia Yeager is a recent graduate of Kenyon College
and current resident of Indianapolis, IN, where she roams
city parks after work with her father’s film camera.

195

BE SURE TO SHOW
YOUR WORK

by Art Sorrentino

Pulse Ghosts

What of the drum We see him sometimes up
its timbre a taut there on his stilted walks
membrane between
beat and rest Lunging forward in the light
systole/ as if by accident
diastole
pounding blood to the surface, So far we’ve let him be
twinning one’s body whenever he wanders nearby
to the world. speaking of things
we don’t understand
If you give yourself to it,
find yourself on a riverbank at night Down here we try
padding a cadence barefoot to live simply
until mud oozes up between the toes,
your heart lies open We weigh a man’s worth
beneath the animal hide by the freedom he possesses
stretched across a hollow log and which possesses him
holding on
registering a pulse. That seems fair
to all concerned

Yet there are times
when a shadow follows him
and one wonders

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Revista Literária Adelaide

if there isn’t something we should do Be Sure to Show Your Work

Just to ease his mind The square root of two is not one,
or maybe our own as anyone can tell you
who has measured the perimeter
He seems to regard us as something needful of a relationship.
to believe he still inhabits Angles pose a significant problem:
a place among the living when they are obtuse the shortest distance
between two persons becomes a null set.
It can be troubling On the other hand, if the
thinking of ourselves that way logarithms aren’t right
a couple will have difficulty
Maybe that’s all we are though solving for why on the axis of love.
it’s difficult to find anyone to ask.
If a man leaves his wife heading north
Mt. Greylock Dawn at the speed of infinity
and she circles irrationally at a periodic interval
Slant can’t calculate less than or equal to the
the wise course. probability of convergence,
how long will it take them to intersect
The sun circles at the lowest common denominator,
this mountain, assuming the hypotenuse is not
an imaginary sea creature?
carries wind
in its wake.

The accomplice
of what
we don’t know,

fear whistles at night
and silence
awaits the intrepid.

History shows
civilizations
have been built
on less
than
this.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Artifact

I sensed
I stopped
beheld
was beheld in turn
in wonder
doubting
I redoubled
what was singular about me
preening to stay alive
a ghost shadow
of the nuclear past
leaving a signature
on the world’s face
come what might
like a ball balanced
atop a waterspout
according to chance.

About the Author

A.J. Sorrentino was born in New York City and currently
lives in western Massachusetts. His poetry arises from
the intersection of imagination and language to explore
the way perception shapes the world. He is the author of
the chapbook Being Still, and his poems have appeared in
Meat for Tea and other regional publications.

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