Postcard
A massive brick building dominates, its multiple chimneys wedged between rooftops. In the yard, to the back right of the porch-front, and adjacent to three pines, lies a barn, topped with a weathervane. There are three on the stairs beneath the portico. Two are women in early-1900s dress, sitting next to a man wearing a hat and tie. A single gentleman in a suit jacket stands off to the side, on the lawn. Nearby, and behind this suit-jacketed man, stands another man, leaning on the porch’s balustrade and holding a book.
I found them in a box.
It was a warped, chestnut box, in which they had evidently lived for some time. It lay on its side in a neglected corner of an antique shop, alongside a rasping fan whose grimy blades propelled the only breath of air in the cluttered room. The sepia postcard with the photo of the building, the barn, and the small group of characters, was unearthed in the summer of 2000. I had leafed through twenty or so cards before coming to this one. The others were mostly generic tourist postcards, with old scenes of Niagara Falls or the palms of Florida. This one was different. The title below the photograph read: “Sanitarium, Wellsville, N.Y.” Turning it over, the correspondence was no less intriguing. The card was addressed to one Mrs. Clark Burdick of Hornell, N.Y. It carried a postage mark across a green, decorative, one-cent stamp with John Smith’s likeness, commemorating the founding of Jamestown. It was postmarked August 17, 1907:
Dear Cousin, I am going home to day to stay over Sunday. so if you have a thought of comming over here tomorow put it off until next Sunday the 25. I am getting along allright how are you all Lovely your cousin cjg.
My description was not nearly as precise as it should be, I realized.
A massive brick building dominates; its multiple chimneys, wedged between piercing rooftops, stand powerfully in the seemingly threatening sky. The building’s large structural windows trap the musty atmosphere of heavy velvet curtains and dark mahogany furniture. In the yard, to the back right of the sturdy porch-front, and adjacent to three giant pines, lies a dilapidated barn, topped with a weathervane pointing east. East wind brings bad weather.
There are three on the stairs beneath the portico. Two are women in sweeping eyelet dresses. One wears a brooch at her neck, the other a lily perched behind her ear. They sit around a man wearing a straw bowler and a pin-striped bow tie. He is laughing at a joke he has just told about a horse. The women appear to be hanging on his every word. A solitary young gentleman in a crisp jacket and satin tie stands to the side on the lawn, smoking a White Owl. Nearby and behind this suit-jacketed figure stands a mustachioed man, leaning lightly on the porch’s elegantly turned balustrade. He is holding a copy of the complete poems of Shelley beneath his slender fingers, and gazing blankly ahead, transfixed.
Suppose her name was Clare, the one with the lily behind her ear. Clare J. Greenwood, “cjg.” Her middle name was Jane, but she fantasized that it was Jasmine. She had once smelled the heady scent of jasmine from a perfume bottle, which had been sent accidentally to her father’s general store. She did not forget the way the smell mirrored the musical cadence of the name. She could have been seventeen, having just finished her schooling a year before, in a one-room schoolhouse in nearby Esopus.
Perhaps she had long brown hair. No, more likely she was blonde with a fair complexion. Blondes with fair complexions are more susceptible to the disease. Yes, she had consumption; one wonders where such a dogged companion had first crossed her path. But she felt that this presence somehow set her apart, lent a touch of the heroic. And here she was at the Wellsville Sanitarium, where, despite the nightly sweats and aching joints, she found the attention she had craved.
She had never been thought of as other than Allen Greenwood’s daughter. She worked at the store every available minute, and was pursued for the muslin she sold, or the candy she could reach, but never for the person who she wanted to be. At Wellsville, it was different. Her temperature was graphed daily, her diet monitored by the dietitian. The middle-aged Doctor Stevens checked her every Tuesday and Thursday. His cold hands rested on her shoulders as he listened intently through his stethoscope to her irregular heartbeat.
Clare had written to her cousin to postpone the weekly visit. Clare had said in the postcard that she would be returning home on Sunday. She had lied about leaving the Sanitarium; in fact, she wouldn’t have left for anything, as the activities of the day at Wellsville were far more entertaining than anything she might hope to find in the outside world. Clare also did not want Cousin Sarah to interfere with the day’s plans. The gentlemen had proposed a picnic, and if Sarah were to come, Clare would have to tolerate a long, dull visit. During this visit, they would inevitably discuss Sarah’s knitting project; did Clare think the trim should be blue or green, and was the stitch too tight in her opinion? There would be large doses of “Clare, you look so pale. Oh Clare. You really look like the blood has been drained out of you. Your color reminds me of the pig we butchered last week. Sucked dry! Clare, are you eating?” and “Clare, if they’re not taking care of you properly, I’m sure I’ll…” Clare never had the energy to interrupt Sarah’s ranting.
Clare wanted to go on this picnic because the men had desired her presence—real men, not the dirty, hayseed boys she knew from school. Clare recalled that one of these awkward boy classmates had once rubbed his knee against her at school, and the dirt made a perfect print of a circle on her dress. No, these were men—bearded, smoking men with more to do than to have spitting contests.
Chester, who was always smoking cigars, had seemed distant at first. He had a shy smile and soft, liquid eyes, which would tear from time to time. The artistic gentleman, who held his poetry books as tenderly as a fallen sparrow, was Mr. Jeffreys. He rarely spoke but was often nearby. She thought him completely absorbed in his readings, until she once caught him stealing a glance at her. She had turned away immediately and reached up to adjust the ribbons of her hat, trying to mask her pleasure.
And then there was Charlie. All the ladies seemed smitten with him, but there was no doubt in her mind that he liked her the best. He had claimed that her paleness was becoming and always inquired if he could get her a glass of water or lemonade. And no one had ever made her laugh like Charlie. He owned several bow ties, and it wasn’t infrequently that Clare would see him peering at himself in a mirror, toying with the angle of the accessory.
Clare was slowly dying, but this fact had not seemed to occur to her yet. When she was too ill to attend the picnic, she took secret pleasure from the fact that it was called off because of her condition. Watching through half-closed eyes, she beheld the faces of her friends peering intently at her with furrowed brows. She absorbed the worried murmurs and sighs of the doctors as they discussed her plight, while all the time dabbing her forehead with cool compresses.
As her strength waned the following summer, Clare finally began to face the possibility that she was not going to recover. She grew despondent and cried for lilies by her bedside, so that her room could be filled with perfume and her mind could float on the sweet fragrance. The day came when she felt so ill that she wished silently for a different life. She had always admired the elegance and grandeur of the chestnut trees that lined the road into the sanitarium, so she asked for a final resting bed of chestnut. This request was granted. It was from the contents of a smaller box of chestnut that I fashioned a glimpse of Clare’s short history, from a hint, a gaze, a shade, a posture.
Annabelle B.
Song of Simian
1. The song of songs, which is of simians.
2. Let him pick vermin from my fur with his able fingers: for his fingers are as long as the trees are tall, and as leathery as a crocodile’s belly.
3. Thy lips are as two large slugs in their beauty, their thickness and sliminess unmatched in all the land.
4. Hoot loudly, I will run to thee: for thy call causes beautiful pain in my ears, and brings to me joy greater than can be expressed. We will hoot, and rejoice, and remember thy fine fingers, and we shall love thee.
5. Thy fur is soft as wet moss, as long as a hobo’s beard, and redder than the most raw cut of meat. I will run my fingers through it, and grasp it tightly.
6. Thine eyes are to me as green as the thickest mold upon my bread, hedged by lashes thick as palm leaves, and as brown as the feces that thou throwest upon me: I will stare into them day upon day until I may stare no more.
7. We will jump, and we will scratch our bellies, and swing by branches and vines: thou swingest with the ease of an elephant squashing a banana beneath its feet, and I will follow thee, and watch in awe.
8. My beloved is unto me as a bunch of ripened bananas in the jungle.
9. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou hast opposable thumbs.
10. Behold, my love, thou art pleasant; behold, thou hast teeth yellow as bad milk, and pointy as the claws of a lion.
11. Thy tongue is long, and thick as the flies upon your body; thy nails are like black obsidian, and sharp as thy piercing screams.
12. Thou that dwellest in the trees, call to me, and let me pick insects from your fur; and I will eat them with great enjoyment.
13. Thou whom my soul loveth, eat bananas, and fling the peels at me: I will take of them, and be content.
Diana B.
An Excerpt from Carpels and Toast
Lights up on a small one-room apartment. There are two doors, one on either side of the stage. There is a table downstage right and a bed center, slightly closer to left. Two chairs sit upstage of the bed, facing the back wall. It is morning. ALISTAIR sits on the bed picking his toenails. He is biting his tongue, which hangs slightly out of the corner of his mouth. He is ripping off pieces of his toenails and placing them in a jar in front of him. The jar is not clear, so the amount is hidden. ALISTAIR pauses, about to sneeze, and throws his head back. No sneeze comes. He resumes his activity. The sneeze comes again, but it decides to remain in his nose. Sighing, he stands and stretches. He picks up the jar, screws the top on and waddles over to the window, downstage left. With his hands on his hips he peers down, out the window, looking for something. After a minute of looking in all directions out the window he jumps, and runs and hides in the closet, upstage right. He leaves the door open slightly, just wide enough for one eye or his nose to stick out. Voices can be heard offstage left, behind a door.
COLLEEN (OS): Good thing we got the batteries, otherwise I don’t know what we would’ve done.
BERNAND (OS): Well, I would’ve kept on sleeping, that’s what I would’ve done.
COLLEEN (OS): I know at heart you’re a morning person. I read it in your horoscope so don’t even try it.
COLLEEN, 47, enters through the door and walks over to the bed and flops onto her stomach. She dumps the plastic bag she was carrying onto the bed and begins to sort through it. BERNAND, 43, enters carrying a canvas bag, and after closing the door behind him he goes over to the table downstage right. He takes out of his bag a large piece of fabric which is transparent black with silver stars on it and drapes it over the table to create a tent. The fabric falls to the ground. BERNAND crawls underneath it and sits Indian style. COLLEEN is still sorting through contents and finally finds what she is looking for.
COLLEEN (getting up from the bed and going over to closet): Hey Beer?
BERNAND: Yes?
COLLEEN (pausing in front of closet door): Should I put them in now? Or should we wait?
BERNAND: I don’t know, maybe we should call.
COLLEEN: Call the makers?
BERNAND: No, the manufacturers.
COLLEEN: But—
BERNAND: Please remain calm dear. I’m concentrating. (pause) We should have a baby.
COLLEEN: But we had one, don’t you remember?
BERNAND: Really?
COLLEEN: Thirteen years ago. It was 79 degrees out.
BERNAND: Ah, yes, the heat, I remember the heat. Wasn’t it wet though?
COLLEEN: Well, it was outside I believe, but it was quite dry inside. (She walks back over to the bed and sits on it. She smiles, remembering the time.) It was a boy wasn’t it?
BERNAND: I’m not sure. We used to call it Ali. It could’ve been either, I suppose.
COLLEEN: Well, I hope it was a boy.
BERNAND: Whatever happened to the child?
COLLEEN: You know, I don’t really remember anything other than its birth. Although, I think he became an inventor. Every other generation on my father’s side was an inventor you know. My father was one, did you know that? He invented the stair.
BERNAND: I thought stairs were invented by an architect back in 200 B.C. or something.
COLLEEN: They were.
BERNAND: Oh. (pause) Wait, but you just said that your father invented them.
COLLEEN: Jesus Beer! Can’t you use your ears? I told you already. My father invented the stair.
BERNAND: I don’t understand.
COLLEEN (exasperated): You know when you’re walking along and all of a sudden you are on a slope and voilà: one stair which will prevent someone from falling and breaking an arm and suing the owner of the place! (pause) You understand now?
BERNAND doesn’t answer her. He sticks his feet, now shoeless, out from under the cloth and begins wiggling them. COLLEEN stands up again.
COLLEEN: Stop that! You know how much I hate feet! Especially today of all days! You know what my horoscope told me! “Beware of unavoidable feelings of hatred towards someone who you are close to. Your greatest fear will arise in them unless you take careful precautions.”
BERNAND: Colleen, please! I know your greatest fear is not my feet.
COLLEEN: Please put them away.
BERNAND: No, I refuse. This is my home too, you know.
COLLEEN: Get out. You and your feet. (pause) Get out! (BERNAND continues to wiggle his toes.) Fine, I’ll leave. But I’m taking my batteries with me, (pause) and the appliances! (COLLEEN grabs the batteries off the bed and storms over to the closet. She pulls out a toaster and a juicer and marches to the door, and exits. ALISTAIR tumbles out of the closet and lies on his back on the floor, not moving.)
BERNAND: Hello? Who’s out there? (BERNAND squints through the curtain, trying to figure out who is there. ALISTAIR quickly crawls under the bed as BERNAND slowly lifts the curtain, and warily crawls out from under the table. BERNAND looks around the room and, seeing no one is there, shrugs and goes over to the closet. He sits down on the stage and begins picking things up out of the closet and examining them. There is a knock on the door. BERNAND crawls over to the door and opens it as he stands up. COLLEEN enters and goes over to the table and crawls under it, with the appliances in her hands.)
COLLEEN: I’m sorry. We should share the toaster. I was being selfish. (COLLEEN pushes the toaster out from under the table. BERNAND stares at the toaster and goes over to the bed and picks up a loaf of bread. He puts it under the table.)
BERNAND: Thank you. (pause. He sits down in front of the table.) You know that I would do anything for you dearest, it’s just that I feel that I can’t let myself go if you make me so self-conscious about my feet.
COLLEEN: Dearest, I thought about what you said, and I’ve decided that maybe we should give it a try.
BERNAND: Do you mean it sweetheart?
COLLEEN: Yes, I am ready to have a baby.
BERNAND: Oh that means so much to me!
COLLEEN: I know darling. That is why we should start trying now.
BERNAND: I love you.
COLLEEN: Ditto, my beloved. (BERNAND and COLLEEN kiss through the curtain. BERNAND stands up and runs to the bed to pick up two coats which are lying on the end of the bed. He goes to the door and opens it.)
BERNAND: C’mon my sweet, let’s go.
COLLEEN: Coming hunny. (She climbs out from under the table and crosses over to the bed. She picks up her bag from the bed, and goes to the door. Taking one of the coats from BERNAND, COLLEEN walks out the door blowing him a kiss. BERNAND puts on his coat and closes the door behind him. ALISTAIR crawls out from under the bed and goes over to the toaster which is still on the ground. He picks it up and sets it on the table. He then picks up the bread and takes a piece out of the bag. He puts the piece into the toaster and then crosses to the bed. He lies down on the bed and takes another piece of bread out of the bag. He examines the piece, looking at both sides, then folds it and shoves it into his mouth. Blackout.)
Sinead D.
Photograph by Joanna B.
Kyoto Calling
When ice melts and Manhattan floods,
we will all have to go live
in the Empire State building
and send submarines out for groceries.
We will dance on the Observation Deck,
we will all enjoy an ocean view,
and the fish will ride the subway.
Venice will have drowned, too,
and a thousand gondolas will float out to sea,
songs of amore bouncing on the waves,
blending with the song of the whales.
Is that what you hear, out on the Deck by the sea?
Gondoliers singing their love with the whales?
They sing of the real Atlantis,
a slow song that we can sway to
as the setting sun lights Lady Liberty’s torch.
From here, you can faintly see the neighbors
sitting out on her crown,
the breezes sweeping over her hair and through theirs.
We are the animals of Noah’s ark
waiting for our ship to come in.
We gather on the Deck,
those of us who could not bear to leave;
we recall those who left,
the masses of people that moved
when the tides changed,
when they felt too threatened.
In self-admiration we say:
We are the captains going down with our city,
sinking with the sun as the water rises.
If we are to die here, our bodies will rust
and decay with the buildings,
and when the gondoliers glide over our graves
they will sing new songs for us.
Joanna B.
|
Henry
“I’d like to kill
All of the butterflies in the world.”
His lip is curling with rage
And manic excitement.
You can see the bursting arousal behind his
Clouded eyes. His cheeks engorge,
As if the frenzied wings of these evil
Birdlets were beating
In his heart and in his stomach.
“THE ARROGANCE OF THEIR
FLUTTER IS INTOLERABLE.”
His face was pulsing, bulging,
As if his brain would explode.
He has been pulled taut,
Pumped too full of blood,
And pushed to the brink
Of some downward cascade.
Sitting across
From him for the first time in years,
I seem to have lost all perspective on what is
Food and drink.
My plate is steaming in my face, my nostrils
Sear in blindsided horror
Of this melting boy across the table.
My hands
Are
Shaking
At this breaking shell of my Henry.
I knew him when I was young
In the sand town,
During his period of purity/piety.
God, to him, was smeared across the sky,
And there was no moon,
Only sinking blue,
And the rusted frames of our
Beds rocked.
There was no rage in his cheeks,
Just milk and admiration, and I drank his eyes like
They were bludgeoned oranges running
Down my face and neck.
But something has ruptured in him,
Atrophied times a thousand; someone
Has bumped the dial on the TV that adjusts
The base color from blue to orange
And he is
Sinking so low in his chair
(Always in his chair) that no one can
Reach him or hear him.
And so he screams.
Sarah S.
|
Sleeper Train
At this point he could only think of two things. His first train of thought was of a rigorous proof which summed up all the reasons. Why he had the top bunk. Why he hated the top bunk. And why he hated Carter (the man who was now below him). He used to have the bottom bunk but Carter had introduced himself (nervously), listed all the reasons why he, and all other human beings hated the top bunk, and then asked to switch. How could he have refused? Second, there was the heat. It was too hot. The heat just fanned the flames of his anger. Every time he thought about the temperature, he wished he were on a nice, comfortable train and not in a compartment with strangers on this old piece of crap. He had bought tickets with the woman who was lying in the bed across from him. Buying two tickets was cheaper and otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to afford it. But she had never mentioned that this was the train they would be on. She was the reason he was on the train and he regretted his decision to help her out. He told her. She held the comment against him. She thought he was self-centered. He thought she was ungrateful.
There was a small, caged fan next to his head. That fan was too loud. No one, not even the woman lying across from him, would have been able to sleep through the noise it made. But there was nothing he could do. If he turned it off, he and the woman would sweat to death, and, although this had a certain appeal, he would much rather be awake and comfortable than awake and overheated.
He had nothing to do. He lay on his back and let his gaze wander. He kept track of time by listening to the rhythmic noise made by the train as it roared along the tracks. Eventually, he rolled over. He was greeted with a glare from the woman across from him. He stared right back. He assumed she would look away. She didn’t.
“Are you really still mad ab—”
“Stop!” she interrupted resentfully. He looked at her for another second, then rolled over—this time to face the wall.
He couldn’t fall asleep. He climbed down the ladder and put on his shoes.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the dining car.” He walked slowly through the dark towards the back of the train. On the way he tripped on someone’s luggage and fell.
When he arrived at the dining car, he slammed the door behind him. Inside there were a few tables. They all had white tablecloths. The tablecloths were covered with thin sheets of plastic that reflected the light overhead. To his right was a bar. He looked to see if there was anyone there. No one—the dining car was closed. He sat down at one of the tables to rest. There was a window that was open. It let in the noise and a few drops of rain that landed on him every so often. He tried closing it but couldn’t.
It was very peaceful. He was there for a while. He was just sitting by the window and watching the movement of the rain, the tracks, and the train. He felt like trying to sleep again. He walked over to the door. It was locked. The conductor must have locked it without checking if anyone was still in the car. He collapsed back down on the plastic chair; it bent, then folded. The legs collapsed from under him. He fell under the table. He escaped and got up. He checked his watch. It was late. He kicked the fallen chair. He noticed the “Fire Exit” door at the back of the car. He went with his first impulse. He was hoping it would set off an alarm. He didn’t care that the train might screech to a stop. He walked over to the back of the car. He didn’t think. He only concentrated on moving through the hot, hazy car. He didn’t take the time to calm down and realize that the alarm would cause everyone to panic. But the door didn’t open, and the alarm didn’t go off.
An hour later she walked in. His mind raced. How had she gotten in here? He knew he should have warned her about the door but, before he could, she made a comment about the oddly placed, broken chair. He responded with a flurry of insults. When he was finished, she slammed the door, walked up to him, and cursed. She had been waiting for the chance. He made no attempt to respond. When he heard the sound the door made, he knew it had jammed. His heart sank.
She paused to let her victory sink in. She smiled, got up, and walked over to the door. It didn’t open. She scowled.
“Why didn’t you tell me the door would lock?” He looked up at her for a second.
“Shut up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when I was holding the door!”
“First, it’s not locked; it’s jammed. It jammed because you slammed it. And second, shut up.” She glowered at him.
“Look!” she screamed, “I, I want to sit as far away from you as possible! So go. Go sit in that chair in the corner.” She sat down in the opposite corner.
Half an hour passed. Every few moments they exchanged stares. Neither one spoke. It was the loudest silence he had ever experienced. It was unbearably hot in that room. They could both see each other sweating. He got up.
“Just listen”—he said before she could interrupt—“we’re both too hot. It’s coolest by the window. “Let’s just both move there; it won’t mean anything.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” They moved. They left plenty of space between themselves. “Hey,” he said, in a slightly quieter voice, “You hungry?”
“I haven’t eaten since dinner.”
“Ok, here, I’ll buy you a sandwich.” She gave him a confused look. He looked back at her with a slight smile. He leaned over the bar and grabbed a sandwich that was wrapped in plastic.
“Aren’t you going to pay for that?” she stammered.
“Of course,” he responded. He dropped two dollars in the tips jar.
“I had one of those for lunch. They cost three dollars.”
“Well,” he paused, “it was overpriced anyway.” She laughed, nervously. He handed her the sandwich and sat down.
By the time she had finished eating, they had cooled off. He looked over at her, got up, grabbed one of the tablecloths, and handed it to her. She gave him a confused look.
“A blanket.” He handed it to her and sat down by the open window.
Eric S.
November 1952
I see your picture, braced between sliding panes
Of glass, suspended, hanging motionless.
I think I have the shape of your face
And your brother’s artistic streak.
I saw a negative of you once, hidden between
The protective pages of a book.
You were two, maybe three, the negative
Transparent, ghostly, almost nonexistent,
Yet holding a slim presence.
I only knew you through pictures
And stories your son told me.
I wish I could know exactly
Which part of you is mine.
Is it your kindness, your intelligence, your character?
Or are the only things you’ve given me
Your name, your face, and your eyes?
Marjorie R.
|
The shell-like curve of her ear suspends
a streamer of light
and I’m still watching when the shadows shift
to cover it—
twisted tendrils, the heavy darkness of her hair
escapes its confines
to hang quietly around her face
and I reach to smooth it back
then stop myself
or the intervening room does, its quiet air like brambles
pinning me softly still
her eyes flicker like a dying bulb
and I don’t want to see that,
I really don’t,
so instead I watch the wrist bones swivel
in delicate synchrony
the silence hangs heavy—
pressing down the flower of her soul
till it lies flat;
flat in a box by a six-foot hole
and the lid is waiting
Katie B.
|
Bits
I am sacrifice
Always there
Helpful
Even when it is tedious
Even when it is for you
This is my love
my passion
my hurricane of endorphins
my cracking a smile
my catalyst
my can opener
Possessed
Waiting
Gossiping
Guarding a secret
You let me down
I am unsure of my
Knack
I am incapable of
Anything
Again.
Try me
Taste me
Feel me out
Don’t use
My mind
My movement
My self
Don’t take me
lightly
I want to use my my my.
Sinead D.
|
Danny knew as soon as his father headed towards the kitchen’s back cabinet, marching past him in his determined bow-legged gait, that he was at it again. Pouring himself over Chapter 18 of his chemistry text, Danny could tell his father’s mouth would be curled up, suppressing a coy, scheming smile, his wiry whitening eyebrows crinkling in calculating thought. Sam returned, flushed and puffing, bearing a weighty stack of wrinkled yellow pages, four editions high. He let them drop with a papery thud on the kitchen table, upsetting Danny’s cryptic penciled electron configurations. Danny looked up and muttered something inaudibly about eleven pages of reading-and-response questions as he deftly concealed his relief at his father’s unwarranted interruption. He had recognized all the common symptoms and made his diagnosis without the least bit of hesitance: his father was in one of his spontaneous, at times erratic, modes. Which, in years past, had lead to a variety of ends, from a new sniffling puglet, promptly named Quigley, and a road trip to visit Uncle Claude in Delaware for the holidays, to the child-proofing of all electrical plugs, radiators and dangerous corners.
Danny hesitated and after a moment then ventured to ask timidly, “So, Dad, what are you looking for?” At first there was no response, as Sam thumbed excitedly through the delicate pages of the phone book. “Dad—?”
“Here, Dan, I could use your sharp eyes,” Sam said, pushing the phonebook in front of his son. “Help me find Queen of Peace, would you?”
“Queen of Peace?”
“Uh huh,” Sam replied quickly. “Under ‘Q’, don’t you think? Or maybe—here, you look under ‘churches’.” He slid another copy of the Yellow Pages in front of Danny and resumed searching through his edition. “I’ll keep looking for ‘Queen’ here.”
It was not at all what Danny had expected. He was completely stunned silent by his father’s liturgical impulse. He was sure he had the day; it was the sixteenth, he was sure. A quick glance at his notebook verified the date. There it was in his own hand, 11/16. Confused, Danny watched his father as he scoured for the name of the Virgin Mary, running an extended forefinger down the columns of ‘Q’ names, murmuring to himself “Queen of, Queen of, Queen of,” until the syllables blurred into a foreign, pagan chant.
“Have you found her, Danny?” his father asked, not lifting his gaze from the revered book. Danny shook his head silently. “Well, keep looking.”
Slightly dejected, Danny dropped his eyes and continued searching through the two-year-old testament of catalogued numbers, names and other mysterious identities. He bit his lip and tried to choke the confusion and disappointment that were swelling in his throat. Danny was not a spoiled boy, nor was he pampered, even though his father, in truth, had always wished that he was. Inherent to his nature and one of the remaining traits of his mother, Danny was modest and always did his best to deflect any special favors or treatment. The only exception was from his father on certain occasions, such as his birthday and the days surrounding the sixteenth of November. It was simply that these annual autumnal indulgences had become an unspoken tradition and expected in the Berets household in November, just like the reduced prices of Butterball turkeys at the Planckdale A&P.
It had been scientifically proven in numerous studies, as Sam so often quoted in his own defense, that such indulgences not only aided the healing process after losing a parent or spouse, but were altogether necessary for this healing to occur. This had been their custom for the past six, now seven years. Not all of Sam’s whims, as he liked to call them, were necessarily of great interest to Danny, who was always most pleased by those “whims” that resulted in a trip to the pet store. Nevertheless, Danny knew even when he came home one evening in sixth grade after rehearsal for the Thanksgiving pageant to find his father in a dust mask, standing on the kitchen’s step ladder, surrounded by the spilt contents of his tool box and the tangled remains of all the window’s Venetian blinds, that somehow he himself was at the heart of all his father’s intentions. “Quick, Dan, put it on before the dust gets to you,” Sam muffled through his cottony mouth guard, as he tossed one down to his awestruck son. “You like? I got us matching ones, see?” Danny stared at the mask in his hand, “Put it on,” his father urged. “This dust, it’s just full of bad stuff, just packed with carcinogens and the whole lot of those things that’ll destroy those lungs of yours.” Putting his book bag and lunch box down, Danny slipped on his mask.
“Found it! There it is, Queen of Peace,” Sam exclaimed triumphantly. “Now, I need your eyes. What do those numbers say, Dan?”
Danny read the numbers aloud as Sam punched them into the telephone. For a moment, there was complete silence, except for the monotonous drawl of the ring of the telephone. An expression of startled apprehension consumed Sam’s eager countenance as he waited for what seemed to be an interminable amount of time for someone to pick up on the other end. “Oh, yes, hello,” he said with relief. “I was just wondering what time mass was today?”
“Today?”
“Just a sec, Danny. What was that? 5:30? Can you write that down, Danny? You got that, 5:30?” Sam said, talking to Danny and into the telephone’s receiver simultaneously. Sam hung up the phone. “ We had better getting going, hadn’t we, then?”
“To church? We never go to church, and, and, it’s Saturday. Who goes on Saturdays?” Danny asked, confusion contorting his face.
“Don’t worry about that, Dan, it’ll be fine.”
“But, Dad, we’ve never gone, it’s not fair.” A hot tear rolled down his cheek and he thrust the phone book to the floor.
Mariela Q.
Song of Keys
Thy teeth do saw me when grasped harshly
but if properly handled like the deity of doors which you are
a flick forewarns a click at which point the weighty wood is laid open
an entrance
Thou art like thy lady’s comb or perhaps more like an equine grooming device
By little as one notch, thou differest from thy brother but
thy toothy edge doth liken to none other
O You who hath fallen into my possession by chance circumstance
like pinecone or patterned fingerprint thou art to me
to each most tiny crevice trickeleth through the faintest yellow of sun
Just the sameth each ziggity-zag of your hagged denture searcheth
for its own sun, its own complement within a lock
like also the button to a hole or zipper side A to zipper side B
In thy absence I am barred from my chamber. The knob and I doth battle while thy shrill
clinkity-clacks wail from within. O You, left carelessly on the washstand or in a darling petite
purse! Valuables you do guard and watchman you are to thy mistress, to whom thou liest like a
most willing manservant, finding welcome entrance in all crevices you may enter.
Nora S.
|
an unpromising ring
On her Westside of the city
she spent most of the time
picking dandelions and
dawdling precisely
visiting farmers’ markets
learning her own version
of the tango in front of her
mirror and being cheeky
A veteran of the place
living in a rent-controlled apt.
under low ceilings and in
circumstances of high taxes
not paying electricity bills
filling up on take-away food
using candles for light and
mood and tin cans to converse
From her Westside apartment ran a string,
a sort of musty French Vanilla colored string
which rambunctiously jostled through and
through the city air
The metal can which used to hold stiff paintbrushes crosses through mid-town
transgressing all electrical wires, stuffy tunnels, Hudson canals, subway tracks
all to make Eastside before rush hour
“—farther farther” the voice
contained inside the jar echoed
as the can hit up against the
window, the sculptor turned abruptly
He threw up the loose screen and
with a scalpel held between his teeth
he voiced back to her “meet your
mom and father, isn’t it a little soon?”
He removed the tool and readjusted his jaw
He returned to the sculpture nervously
thinking and smoothing the clay until he
met his other finger through its thinness
She sat back westward awaiting
a reply from the sculptor,
playing with her eyelashes in
the meantime.
Of course it was too soon
All she meant was they should
meet up on 56th, a little farther
But if he felt so perturbed
she would simply meet him
normal hour, normal place
But if she so wanted him
to meet them, he would
He took down the navy
suit, washed up, oiled up
He marched downtown
dandelions at hand
In her casual style, she paced
freely
and in simple miscommunication of an unlikely kind
the two met midtown—parentless—splendidly ignorant
with a crinkle down the center of each of their foreheads.
Molly D.
|
The Façade
Would you be upset
if I were so fixated on your shoes
that I forgot to look at your eyes?
Sure, your eyes were there,
and they were so blue and green
I couldn’t look away,
or something,
but there, suddenly,
were your shoes!
Waspish leathern daggers,
threatening the floor at every step—
I was riveted.
I hope it doesn’t concern you
about your clothes.
You know, how they danced and shone
of their own accord.
Oh, you were there:
ectoplasm.
A wraith in corporeal costume.
And your hair!
God, your hair!
It had rivulets, tributaries,
you Gorgon, you,
I was petrified by its bounce and hiss,
issuing from pasta pots eternal,
into whose bowels I now glance,
on occasion,
expecting to find homunculous you
squatting on the oven,
just above the oven,
hair swaying among the steaming bubbles.
Face?
a mask,
quivering on the bridge of a phantom nose,
clinging to the balcony of a lofty theater,
concealed by everything,
containing nothing.
You will forgive me
if all I notice
is what is painted before my eyes,
if I let dissolve
that which is empty anyway.
Jonah L.
|
You Remain
I traced you in the sand,
Yet also underneath my eyes.
I held you; sand erased,
I saw my world through you.
Somehow you were like sand,
With such integrity and breadth
Of heart. And they walked on you, too.
(Except for me, who saw you.)
Have you heard me? Haven’t you
Grown tired of me? Perhaps you
Never wanted to be touched,
Never wanted the glide of my fingertips.
I drew the image in the sand of you
To show that while appearances disintegrate,
You remain.
Allison B.
|
Photograph by Sara W.
Ode to a Delivery Man
Dost thou not pity the man that,
whilst thou read’st the latest tragedy,
covers his ears with a woolen hat
and makes for thy house-number 573?
Striking his skin with unforgiving blows,
the wind stamps two red imprints on his face
to mark the trip in which thy hunger grows,
only to make the destination with goods in place.
And as he climbs the glazèd icy steps
and rings the bell—nose numb, lips blue—
thou selfishly dread the downstairs schlep
only to give meager compensation to
a man who serves you again and again
only to receive for his trouble four dollars ten.
Emily B.
|
Jealousy Under the Sun
Eighth Day of Heat and Wind
According to my counting, today marks the eighth day that sandy winds are blowing across these sun-baked fields. There is no end to the heat, the sand, the wind and the fierce light that the original creator has given us so that we may see our way as we work the land. I should not say “we,” however, as I alone walk my fields daily, sowing seeds, slowly hauling water from the far Euphrates River, defending my crop from my brother’s sheep and the wild animals of the region, and harvesting it all when the time comes. It is back-breaking work and can be slow in yielding results, but I will continue to work the earth diligently and provide for my family. It is necessary for me to produce steadily, for although my brother Abel occasionally provides my parents with much-appreciated meat, that is not enough to sustain us. My stability is depended on, and a nomadic lifestyle would not suit me—I could never be happy creating a new home for myself every month, although I do often wish for some company other than my family. I was born on this land after my parents were sent here by their creator, and I hope to remain here for all of my life, just east of the Garden.
How many times I have heard the story of that garden! The Garden of Eden, as my parents called it when they filled the sleepy afternoons of my early childhood with accounts of their time in that paradise. It was a luscious place—greener than my fields by ten times and filled with every plant that one could wish for! They lived there in peace and happiness until the fateful day that my mother ate fruit from the central tree and shared it with my father. On this day, their creator came to them in the Garden and, cursing them, banished them from their utopia. They were sent out to this land, and my family has labored on it ever since, first my father, and now I, following in his footsteps. We have both toiled for many years but have been blessed with only paltry harvests; whereas Abel has spent his time wandering to and fro with a flock of sheep and has been granted fertile ewes and many lambs each year. This I recognize to be unjust—do I not work harder than he? Yet my father’s creator is not fair. Since my youth, I have never been able to muster up great admiration and adoration for Him because he took away from my parents what had been previously granted to them. Through my parents’ stories of their banishment from the Garden of Eden, I grew to dislike the creator who had so suddenly denied them the life that they had been promised. I will continue to honor Him, however, and shall soon make an offering of my bounty to Him.
Fourth Day of Warm but Cloudy Weather
It has been almost seven days since I last sat down here in my field and wrote, for in the past few days the weather has been temperate and I have been ardently harvesting my crops. My diligent care yielded me an abundant crop this year, and yesterday I gathered the best of my produce to make an offering to my father’s creator in thanks for my plentiful harvest. My brother and I, each bringing our own offering, went to the highest hill in the region to present them to Him. We set up our altars side by side and recited parallel invocations to the creator. Neither gift exceeded the other in value or labor, but Abel’s sacrifice was readily received by Him, whereas mine was not. When our father’s creator smelled the odor of the meat being cooked for Him by Abel, He was clearly pleased and accepted the offering. When, however, He saw the bounty of my harvest which I presented to Him, the creator would not accept it, nor did He give me any reason for His displeasure. I grew frustrated by this unjust treatment, for I had worked as hard as my brother to honor my father’s creator. Eventually I asked Him why He would not receive my offering, but He replied only: “If you do well, will you not be accepted?” I had no answer for Him, but I could only think to myself: “In what have I not done well? I, and my father before me, have worked the fields harder than my brother Abel has worked to tend his flocks, and yet my father’s creator has regard for Abel alone, and not for us. Has He not mistreated my parents and me for years, while my brother so easily finds favor in His eyes?” Thinking on these things even more, I have realized that if there is place in the creator’s eyes for my brother alone, I will be neglected along with my parents. If temperate weather and bountiful harvests are not granted to me, I shall soon perish, all by the cruel whim of my father’s creator. Is it not logical therefore that my brother should be eliminated so that my family might survive?
Katie D.
Trail of Tears
My eyes opened to a shaky landscape, for our transportation was rough. The trembling of this large cradle seemed almost to rock me to sleep. I sat, hypnotized by the innumerable Conestoga wagons crawling, in sequence, behind our own—each with its flimsy and weathered canvas. The dye of the setting sun was overwhelming, transforming the thousand rolling tents from the cream color of the pale-skinned men to the red shade of our own faces. The air was dry, relentlessly sucking the moisture from our hardened faces. I turned away from the bitter exposure and toward the inside of our wagon where my mother lay sleeping, dreamless. The wretched deerskin blanket failed to protect her uncovered feet, blistered and calloused, from the icy cold. One of her russet hands, the back of which was cracked and lined with dried blood, hung loosely at her side, and her onyx hair showed her age. The soggy flesh of her face seemed to be melting like hot wax, and I thought, for a moment: we are the wax of America’s candle. We gradually drip, awaiting our destiny, against my parents’ soil. For who will see our red skin against the red clay of the earth? When America’s brutal flame is rid of our people, there will be no more wax to burn. America’s flame will be extinguished.
For now, our crimson sails cast high, our wheels as our waves, we search for an America of our own.
Adriel S.
wanting Her roses
Star stands pressed against the greasy pole
three million people touch everyday
She avoids the wondering,
adoring, oblivious, snoozing
eyes, all flickering Her way.
today She is acting normal.
a man with green knees picks up his flowered and fraying briefcase
and brushes by Her
shivering in the warm summer heat
not distinguishing the face he admires every night
at ten p.m. eastern standard time on TNT.
She pulls Son of Star closer to Her
with a scolding squeeze of His shoulder
not wanting Him consumed by the sea of staring people
He drifts too far from Her left hip.
as the train slows to a halt in the darkness,
a girl with flu symptoms grabs at the window
seeing the reflection of Her,
remembering the ugly shoes She wore
to that awards show last weekend,
she too wants to meet Her,
and peek in Her windows in the evenings,
to watch Her blink for a moment.
young women with matching skirts chat about Her
in their made-up language
wanting to teach it to Her as well
so that they can run across the street together
holding Her faultless hands.
Star shrinks against the door with quivering elbows
grabbing at Son and shading His eyes
shading the pleasure Her face gives these passengers.
She doesn’t notice Lover has drifted,
disappearing, deeper in, closer
to the center of the ellipse of watchers, waiting, debating
would it be rude to get Her autograph.
Lover sways His hips and knees
dancing Baby of Star in a snuggly
towards Their reflection
facing the darkness and graffiti,
Baby reaches away
for Her face.
next time the doors open They are bathed
in the impending shadow of fluorescent lights
which fill Their minds, ahead.
the stares from within
follow as She reaches the stairwell
carrying Baby’s carriage
with sinking shoulders
losing Her visibility as She pulls on Her hood
to receive the rain waiting outside the station.
in these ten minutes it takes
to reach Boy’s school, where She was once anyone,
a widow walks by Her new house
inhaling the dizzying scent of Her flowers in a fenced garden
snapping off pink roses she’ll bring back to her cat,
not knowing She lives there,
not caring.
the scent of the roses remaining
treasured all the same.
Sinead D.
|
Dora
Elijah never said his first words, but it wasn’t until he was four that his parents began to think that something was wrong with him. They immediately withdrew him from his kindergarten class and buried him in psychoanalysts and speech therapists. The whole thing was very vexing for them, for they were ambitious people and felt that any son of theirs would be destined for great things. They refused to believe that Elijah couldn’t speak; they preferred to believe he wouldn’t. They sought to force him into speaking by ignoring him completely, canceling all Christmases, birthdays and other holidays. At the age of eight, Elijah remembered nothing but silence and therapy and had not received a single present or kind remark in four years, save for a sweet pug puppy that an old befuddled aunt had accidentally sent to him, momentarily confusing her disappointing nephew with another much more favored one (and since Elijah refused to let the puppy be pried from his hands, he was allowed to keep her). His parents ignored her, as they ignored him. But Elijah adored her, he absolutely worshiped her. He named her Dora—which no one ever knew, of course, since he could not speak her name out loud. Dora was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, with her gleaming black velvet coat, her soft pink tongue. In the special hand language he had made up, her name was a hand placed solemnly over his heart. A single purpose became very clear to him, which was to make her happy. She was his only friend and he would do anything for her. Once when they were together he discovered a silk ribbon which he thought would look very pretty on her, but when he tried to tie it around her neck she protested, hating the feel of it. And when Elijah demonstrated to Dora how comfortable it was by tying it around his neck, she barked gleefully and picked up the other end. From then on whenever they were together it was Elijah who was led on a leash.
He and Dora had been together for about a year when he came to breakfast one day to find Timothy sitting at his place at the table. He recognized him instantly from his latest training videos. Timothy would appear on the screen and chatter easily and amiably, and Elijah would be coaxed to follow his example. When, of course, he could not, Elijah would receive a small shock from the apparatus attached to him. Timothy had sandy colored hair, freckles and a wide, empty grin, and Elijah detested him. But he was so surprised to see him at the breakfast table that he momentarily forgot his hatred of the boy. Dora, following quickly at Elijah’s heels, dropped the silken ribbon in shock and barked. Elijah’s mother turned around from her position at the stove and looked at Elijah’s father, who got up, rolled his newspaper, thwacked Dora on the nose and booted her out the door, closing it behind her. Elijah’s eyes opened wide and he waved his hands to signal his distress, but as usual his parents ignored him. Timothy asked for some cream, grinning, and Elijah stared, all his hatred rushing back.
From then on, a new routine began. Elijah’s therapists vanished. And though he was happy to be rid of their endless questions and torturous methods, he was unhappy to find that all his possessions had been suddenly given to Timothy. He stood at the fourth side of the dining room table, since there were only three chairs and Timothy had taken his that first morning. One night he was preparing to get into his bed only to find Timothy already in it, grinning at him. After that, he and Dora nested on an old forgotten couch in the attic, far from the warm comfort of the downy blankets in Elijah’s former room.
As the days wore on, Elijah gradually got used to the change. Although his parents had ignored him for almost as long as he could remember, he had always had the best of everything given to him. Now without a seat at the dining room table, a bed, a room to affirm his existence or possessions of any kind, he became almost a ghost, appearing to his parents and Timothy only at mealtimes. More and more he depended on Dora’s company, the only company he had. The small figure of the ribbon-tied boy, made smaller by the hunch he had acquired in order for Dora to be able to reach the other end of the silky leash with her mouth, became a common sight around the grounds that surrounded Elijah’s house, if there had been anyone who cared to look.
One day Elijah and Dora were sitting on a wall, resting during one of their mid-afternoon walks, when he felt Dora’s body stiffen beside him. He looked around to see Timothy staring at them from the bottom of the hill, wearing his usual vacant grin. Elijah waited for around fifteen minutes until Timothy walked away. Dora pulled on the ribbon and led Elijah away: he was startled to see that she was shivering.
The next day Timothy appeared again. He walked a little closer to them and stayed a little longer. The day after that he tried to come closer, but Dora growled menacingly at him and he kept his distance, although he still followed them. Elijah started to hate those walks, and he would trot moodily behind Dora, stretching the ribbon to the utmost, on the lookout for Timothy. Once he refused to go out and tugged at the leash, but Dora nipped him and pushed him outdoors anyway.
That night, Elijah stood at the doorway of the dining room and untied the knot around his neck so that Dora could wander about the house during the meal. But before he could release her, Timothy got up and went to the doorway. He wrenched the untied ribbon from Elijah’s hand; with the other end still clutched in Dora’s mouth, he led her to a spot by his seat. Elijah’s parents followed Timothy with their eyes, smiling. Dinner was agony for Elijah. He was forced to watch as Dora sat by Timothy’s chair, eating the tidbits that he fed her from his plate. Elijah tried to catch Dora’s eyes, but Dora refused to look at him and continued to eat, her expression unreadable.
The next afternoon, Dora disappeared. Elijah searched the house and grounds only to find her with Timothy, out for a walk. In despair he threw a rock at the boy. It missed him, landing at his feet, but it erased the grin from his face at last. Timothy stared at the rock for a moment and then walked away, back to the house, dropping Dora’s ribbon. Elijah picked it up and tied it around his neck. That night he insisted that he and Dora skip dinner, thinking that they could sneak into the kitchen later and forage. So they went to their couch early and slept as they always did: with Elijah stretched out flat on his back and Dora curled up on his stomach.
Elijah woke up with Dora’s claws scratching at his chest. His eyes snapped open to see a faint shadow standing over the couch, its pale hand stroking Dora’s fur. It was Timothy. Elijah watched the hand run up and down her soft black fur, and fury took hold of him. He stood straight up, sending Dora tumbling to the ground. The silken ribbon, still in her mouth, gave his neck a cruel tug but he barely noticed; he had wrapped his hands around Timothy’s neck and was concentrating on breaking all the bones in it. Timothy began to shriek in high keening notes which only strengthened Elijah’s anger. Dora was barking loudly and Timothy’s legs, wildly propelling through the air, landed her a hard kick and sent her flying against the hard brick wall. Elijah neither heard nor saw any of this. His whole being was concentrating on slowly squeezing every bone, every tendon, every muscle and vein in Timothy’s neck, breaking down their resistance. He squeezed with all his might until Timothy’s neck was as soft as putty in his hands and the boy’s wild kicks and screams had stopped. Then he jumped up and looked for Dora. He couldn’t see her. He ran frantically toward a corner but a weight on his neck jerked him to the ground. He pulled himself up but the weight dragged him down again, half choking him. He spun around and saw Dora lying on her side, a small furry lump. He fell on his hands and knees and crawled to her. Cradling her in his arms, he tried to rouse her but she lay still. He pounded the ground with his feet, opening and closing his mouth as if moaning, but she didn’t move—her little velvet body was limp. He heard footsteps coming towards him. Frantically, he ran to the small round attic window. He picked Dora up and placed her on the window ledge, then climbed up beside her. After one last look at her, he pushed her out. If anyone had been in the attic they would have seen Elijah’s tear-streaked face as he watched Dora’s fall, one hand over his heart, before he was pulled out after her, the ribbon still clutched tightly in her jaws.
Kiki T.
|
Tokens of Affection
A golden bracelet lies in its suede slip,
below tangles of socks and hose.
Dull luster glows to each finger’s tip,
hanging knicks and knacks that a grandmother chose.
An heirloom packaged in paper and bow,
passed to new hands, now luminous round a wrist.
A tender clasp holds this chain with trinkets in tow.
Supple loops lull the pulse of clenched tense fists.
Silver in sound, a whistle dangles from dim gold,
a boat billows without a zephyr to control,
an arabesque fan reads “I love you” in its folds.
Green-capped, a miniature monkey plays on a pole,
a palm tree bauble, rustling with other jangles.
Whispers within a drawer, hidden charmed bangles.
Mariela Q.
|
‘Turn left at the clinging fire’
The crescent city that praises and mars
The deep-cut fjord, that looks to and shuns
The distant mountains—it huddles on the hillside
And with creeping fingers touches the shore.
The washed-out city, made grey and peeling
By winter snows, that lives in summer and bids
Farewell to those who come to see the sea it slays
With factories that blacken the beaches.
This city, whose maze of streets, whether you
Turn left or right, leads to the cliff above the sea,
The sea that attracts and repels without cease,
All streets that lead steeply down the hill to the bay.
Abby H.
|
Flowering
When the spring comes we dance in the streets
lightheartedly, like a dream of the holiest Sunday.
(We may break windows, but we are not drowsy.)
These leaves are mine, of my body,
and no other may have them but that they rejoice also.
The rivers flow muddily onwards
to drowse in the sparkling sea.
Carrying my shoes, I walk past the cattle-fields, singing
of other, older rivers, now dry.
Katie B.
|
Evaluating the Intensity of Glances
Evaluating the intensity of glances
and the length of hugs
I will reason with myself
temperature is indisputable
and time overlooked
measuring mannerisms
and uncovering hints
I will sink into you again
in no hurry, I will think a minute
lingering in a favorable environment
in an envelope of warmth
multiplying and dividing to solve for the unknown
fickle in its variability
secretive in its shade of coefficients and exponents
a maze of quadratic formulae and bracketed parentheses stand
between the seeker and her pursuit
requiring careful navigation
many dizzying headaches visible from afar
daunting and unavoidable
yet a seemingly certain reward lies at its center
or even if such rewards are never certain
a pull draws from somewhere within
and reasons may prove no longer important
a reeling slide show of catalogued memories
revolves in constant motion
But a sudden lurch interrupts a stream of thought
The door at the top of the stoop opens and
In hasty rearrangement we rise from our stupor
And unaware of the spell that has just been broken
We stroll down the street to find
A more satisfactory resting place
Nora S.
|
Gargoyles
Smirking faces upon high, leering smiles gazing down
Who put them there?
Maybe an errant craftsman sneaking up on the towers to work
Or a company executive with a taste for doom
Either way they still laugh at the petty ants who scramble to work eat and love
Under their steely gaze upon the canyons of Wall Street,
Upon the towers of the town, they watch and wait until all the towers
Fall
And the civilization which spawned them vanishes.
Chris N.
|
Untitled Cape
Out on a miniscule cape by the sea, there stands a house. It is old and dusty and leans precariously to one side, giving one the impression that all the objects inside must slide to one wall, a herd of cascading couches and tables. The house could be described as two stories, but it is better described as two entirely separate houses, one of which is perched on top of the other. Unbalanced and uneven, the jutting sides sag as the years wear on. To any passersby, the house invokes an odd, queasy feeling, as if having just stepped off a roller coaster, they must find solid footing again.
There are, however, few passersby, for few know that the cape even exists. It is so small and insignificant that it rarely merits identification on a map. If one were to search for it, one should search for Untitled Cape. This is the name with which the cape was christened. The explorer who discovered it, also insignificant and nameless, had no better or more creative idea for such a plain expanse of rock, and so he called it “Untitled Cape,” making nowhere a somewhere that nobody would want to go.
On Untitled Cape, however, there stands the lopsided house and there lives one man. He is not alone, but in the secluded company of his two canine friends. He is the veteran of some war, the name of which he has forgotten along with many other names. He recalls his own, those of his dogs, and the name of Untitled Cape. If he should ever forget his own name, he would not mind; if he should forget those of his dogs, they would come to the same intonation; and if he should forget the name of the cape, he could rename it and the cape would not mind bearing an official title.
This man was exceptionally stretched out; had he been shorter, he may have looked proportional, but as he was not short, his large hands and bony arms resembled knobby paddles. Time had imprinted itself upon him as wrinkles; from head to shriveled toe he continuously looked as if he had just stepped out of a long bath.
He had inhabited the Untitled Cape for some long number of years. He could not recall how many unless he took the time to carefully count the stripes on his scarf. Every year of his life at Untitled Cape he had knitted a black or white stripe (black for odd years and white for even). He started with black and had now ended with black but had forgotten what the numbers were or how old he had been when he had moved. He knew only, at the end of his count, that he had occupied the house for fifty-seven years (twenty-nine odd and twenty-eight even). This year, however, he did not add a white stripe, but a fringe, and awaited the oncoming winter.
When he was younger (about the time of the third or fourth stripe), he had built a lengthy dock off the tip of Untitled Cape. When he was at the end of this dock, the tilted house and the cape on which it sat seemed a distant horizon, and the dock seemed to recede into a triangular shape as all objects do when they disappear into the horizon. He would often go and stand on the very edge with his dogs, surrounded by sea and immersed in his thoughts.
It was at these times that he would produce an old and disintegrating piece of paper from within an envelope in his dusty coat pocket. The seal that had been printed at the top had faded, leaving only a wrinkle in the paper where it previously had been. The once black ink had faded to gray and looked as if it were merely dust that could be easily blown away. If this were to happen, though, and the words were carried out over the sea, the spindly man would not mind so much, for it was not the message that was important to him but rather the substance. He rarely read the letter anymore because his eyesight was failing him, but he knew that he had always associated its contents with that of his life’s. He would stand and feel the letter’s deteriorating edges and feel safe with the knowledge that all things age: the world, his cape, himself, his dogs, and his letter.
On a shadowy evening, when the sunset had left no afterglow, this man stood out on the tip of his dock on Untitled Cape and fondled his letter with the utmost care. A light breeze blew off his back, and as he looked down at his letter he could faintly see the words lift off the paper and sail out over the waves, separating at the letters and rewriting themselves. When the page was entirely void of its contents, the old man released it to the breezes and watched it carefully turn from gray to dust to nothing.
Joanna B.
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Photograph by Mariela Q.
A Chance Encounter
Rodrigo was twenty years old and cursed with a metal mouth. He was a skinny fellow with a squinty-eyed grin and closely cropped brown hair. Lucifer was fifty, rotund, and blessed with silky yellow locks. The two men had never met, but now they found themselves staring at each other face to face, surrounded by hot, soapy water and warm bubbles. They sat, gawking, in silence. Rodrigo decided to make the first move.
“Hello, Mr. Man,” he spoke amiably. “I am Rodrigo. What is your name?” After a pause, Lucifer answered.
“My name is Lucifer and I am an insurance agent. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“I am a sanitary worker and it is nice to meet you.”
“Good,” said Lucifer happily.
“Yes,” Rodrigo smiled. “Quite.” There was a longish pause. Rodrigo considered the situation. He was cut off by Lucifer’s pronouncement,
“The weather is very nice today.”
Rodrigo grinned, happy for the relief of pressure. “It was. The sun was shining.”
“The sun was shining quite hotly,” Lucifer mentioned in a businesslike manner.
“Quite hotly. Hot indeed.”
“I do adore the spring,” Lucifer noted.
“Yes,” Rodrigo replied. “It ranks among my all-time favorite seasons.” There was now a very long and awkward pause. Rodrigo decided to break the tension.
“I have a boxing dog,” he subtly mentioned.
“A boxing dog?” Lucifer was perplexed. Rodrigo was pleased to explain.
“It is a prize-fighting dog.”
“Oh!” Lucifer now understood. “A dog which boxes!”
“Absolutely,” Rodrigo agreed. “A boxing dog.”
“May I see it?”
“I’m afraid not,” Rodrigo answered solemnly. “It is dead. It was killed in its last match.” There was a pause.
“That is unfortunate,” Lucifer sighed. “What wondrous beast defeated it?”
“I am not entirely sure,” Rodrigo groaned. “I am not entirely sure.” There was here an extraordinarily long pause.
“What are you doing in my bathtub?” Lucifer wanted to know.
“Your bathtub?”
“Yes, my bathtub.”
“I was about to ask the same question of you, Mr. Lucifer.”
“That is strange.” Both men considered their options. Lucifer spoke up. “But this is my tub.”
“And I assure you that this is my own.” There was another brief gap in the conversation.
“Then we,” Lucifer said with an air of finality, “will agree to disagree.” They looked at each other and smiled. This was clearly the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Oliver I.
You
You are a thrill, like the fresh breath of spring,
like the sweet sucrose nectar of poisonous things.
Your eyes drag me under
the torturous spell
of you with your soft tender lips.
Your smile sends me shivers
that whisk me away
and bind me so sweetly, I can’t help but stay,
so true
just to you
every night, every day
I am captured
by irresistible you.
Jeanna P.
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And it is dusk, timid and graying. The west’s hills are still lit by a fading, grandiose light, while in the east, night is growing into its full and serene self. The day’s dust is setting—the children who had danced and beelined, jumped and played, raced and hotfooted are drooping into silent shingled houses. It is quiet now where we sit, creaking in our wicker rockers. Hush… even the factory stands silent. Eternal and majestic, yet ephemeral and dirty, it looms over the village. Up the road Mammy Sutten calls for her husband, seven years in the grave, to come home. I sigh. The women stand waiting in their doorways for the men to come home, vainly striving to ignore the drunken ditties and hymns that always accompany payday. I rise. Over the valley the first night owl soars, silent, seeking, seeking. My dress sticks to my back. In town, the general store is closing.
“Marge,” I say, “I’m heading home.” She assures me I’m welcome to stay for dinner; I can’t find a hint of sincerity in her eyes. The other women clamor to tell me to stay. I assure them I’d love to but I already made something to eat. As I exit, the women turn back to their scripture reading. I know they call me strange and, if they had enough intelligence, would label me a recluse. Though I live alone, I am not without company. I live here with my cats, and my hands, and my books scattered far. I live here on this planet, among the mountains and trees. I live by this stream with the bones of my body amidst the suffering and gaiety, and I wonder. I wonder where all these swords and bombs came from, and the troubadors and dancers. I wonder how it got to be so, this world, so rich, so poor, so loving, so indignant. And I cannot answer.
All my tears have left me, left my eyes raw and enlarged. All vitality has been stolen from me, leaving me nothing but body, without soul. And yet in the very depth of darkness there is not only black, but shadow and timorous light. And in that light I dragged myself from sorrow when my mother died and my husband as good as died, the parson’s daughter stealing him from me. There have been days when I have huddled in warm, clingy, all-too-easily ensnaring tendrils, and the air pushes in on me, surrounds and closes, wraps me in chilly self-denying despair. Believe me, I have long since estranged myself from that self: I have become more—more than what I was then, more than what I was before, more than the future given to me by birth.
I sit here now in my domain. I sit here as my dinner sits cold in the next room, as my cats cry out in hunger. And I wish that I would weep again, free myself, but I am unable, and the sky slowly darkens.
Death has usurped from me all I once loved, life forced me from all that was ever dear to me, and the race of men has wreaked havoc upon all that was ever prized by me. Born to the basest of all scum that has existed and to the sweetest thing (my mother) he could lay hands on, I grew up more adept at dodging my father’s hand than at games, more skilled at escaping my mother’s switch than at lessons. And yet, through the thick of it, I loved them still with the battered, life-wearied, unsophisticated love of one who has known no other. About when I turned seven, my mother grew sick, and we hired the doctor who then healed her to death with alien medicines and cures. We couldn’t pay the healer’s fee and so they drove this motherless child and her debt-riddled father from the town with the sound of gunshots and threats. And in the silence, I wept. In the rhythm of the cartwheels I wept. In the cornfield’s whisper I wept. I continued to grow, the unwanted reminder of a ruined life to my father. I dressed in the remains of rags and endured hunger and pain, and every night beneath the magisterial Kentucky corn I walked and walked by that great and golden river, my bare feet mud-flecked, dry, dirty, making their silent procession.
As I sit here now I cannot see the sky with its last flecks of muddy gold adorning it. All I see are the long years that have passed in such little time; all I see are my old dreams, fallen from my mind’s firmament to the dust, grime, and grit of reality.
One night, while my father snored with whiskey-tainted breath and his daughter’s blood upon his fists, I walked till I left town. One night while the people slept and I waked, I left the county. One night while the dock master slept unaware of my thieving presence and intent, I left the state. In another village, I lived on, grew strong, and crowned myself as head of my house, head of my world. There I married a scholar who served as schoolmaster. We were strong and beautiful in mind and body in our shared youth; he was my father, my mother, my lover, my husband. I devoted my world to him, my realm, which shrank and shrank till it but encompassed the kitchen and the rest of the house only when it needed cleaning to him. I was not enough. He slept with every woman in the village he could lay hands on, and in my agony I hid in alcohol. He left me and my domain in shambles. He stole all I had and all of me he could. I know now that I could not flee myself, and so I starved in darkness, suffocated in gloom. I locked all people away from me. But I could not die: too much of me still yearned for light and love, and so, driven by lack of other recourse, I lived and forced myself to reemerge, to become whole and beautiful until my life was livable again. And so, knowing I must become more, I returned to my father’s household in time to see him die. I wept a pitiful few tears over him, but I was full and whole as I had never dreamed of being. This is who I am, this pitiful Job. Mock me not, for I have found peace and gentleness in this world and all its poor treasures of unfathomable wealth.
And it is dusk. I arise, my chair protesting. I walk inside, to this dinner, to this life.
Nathaniel B.
Cook Me Up
New world humor
Tears are frowned upon
Because it’s a sign of weakness
Or human emotion
Rigid bones
And
Flesh that is not touched
But who in your measly little world are you trying to prove that you’re made out of gold and can’t be sold
Don’t assume that the world is measly,
Take this as is, my syringe, my death dose, cc’s magnified by 10, to cure anything that golden
goddess can create.
My intolerance:
Pandora’s box.
A box of rain
And heroin in the blood
So kill me now,
Or decapitation
In a pounding beat that is feminist
Communist
Racist fascist Lamborghini movement
(Towards nothing but the heroin)
Will do so.
And Farewell to the third golden era
Forget the California Dreamin’
Mamas and the Papas,
Cause she’s got a black bong, pop.
Alice in a bottle
Dodo,
And Tweedle DEE
With a mind not as eloquent as her insults (or a face as nice as
her twins)
On the yellow submarine’s maiden voyage
She bellows
LOOK OUT BELOW
(She’s committing thoughtcrime, doublethink, the fucking works!)
Suppression of the human body
Literally,
From corsets to forced anorexia
And how does love exist
Amongst those never taught it
She Never had hands on the small of her back,
HOW CAN LOVE EXIST
When fire is screamed in a movie theater, or maybe, just while they’re the only ones in the house.
Amongst such stressful conditions,
When one asks, point blank
(With a gun, if necessary)
Which way he feels entitled to your body
With guitar strings around your neck
and wandering feet
and anger-flushed cheeks
and vinyls for sale in the sooty record shop
and sanctions and homes
(Where she just came back to)
Tarnished in a statement about how love is independent
Of the drug
(Not the heroin this time, not the word independent)
And sadly obnoxious lines are twisted amongst smoke from her mouth
How can love exist? God, then? Sanity? Sanctuary?
JESUS, mother whispers
(Not Jesus, but pretty close)
as she hears the two giggling,
Behind the shaded door
Counting down the best ways to die:
Serene face, needle in vein
Suicide (any way you order them, sunny-side up, scrambled, poached)
Poisoning
Nitrogen bubbles
Punctured lungs
“Virginia Woolf”
Suffocation
Crucifixion (that’s a popular one)
A brick to the head
Hit by a car
Dead on the road
Dead on arrival
STOP.
(We are not reverting back to the age of the telegram, it’s just what her mother screamed when she
heard the chattering, and laughter.)
Hannah M.
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