Bikepath

There's a bike path by the river. We go there a lot—“we” being me and Anja. Never anyone else, because when we arrive it's too late for anyone else to be there. We meant for it to be that way, when we started going. Sometimes we walk, but usually we take bikes. I lied and told my parents I lost mine, because it would be too difficult to get it out of the house every night, or almost every night. Now it's locked by the beginning of the path, our path, mine and Anja's. We like to think no one else knows about it.

Anja always rides in front, because even though I'm a leader she's an in-front kind of person. Her hair streams behind her when she rides, and it keeps streaming even after she gets off because of the breezes by the river. She's beautiful, Anja, but in the way that you want to look at her twice. Her hair's been lots of different colors, red and blue and platinum blonde, but now, except for a few black streaks, it's been restored to its original, which is a creamy dark blonde that is usually dirty blonde, but it's not that way on Anja. Her nose is tilted slightly upwards, not so you can see up her nostrils, but just enough so it's not classic. I always look at her eyes, to check, but I can still never remember what color they are. Her breasts are small, and she's thin and shimmery—that's how I can always see her in the dark.

We ride without speaking, Anja and me, no sound except the wind. It's not solemn, though, or heavy, not the way you'd think it would be. It's more just soft. Shimmery the way she is. Sensual maybe. The breeze connects us, weaving through her hair and coming to my own. It sometimes—often—well, always—stings me that I am not as beautiful as Anja, me with my face too round and my own small breasts offscale on my shorter unshimmering body. I wonder if perhaps this is why I choose to ride with her, hoping that her beauty, her shimmer, will somehow come to me.

Unless discussed beforehand, we meet every night, Anja and me, regardless of whether it rains. Sometimes we'll be riding under a perfectly clear sky, Orion's belt or Capricorn or whatever happens to be up there, and rain will blow in unexpectedly. Usually light rain; for some reason there has not been a rainstorm in all the time we have been riding. This is where we store our bikes in the area off the path where the trees grow, large lush trees which will protect our bikes from rain and therefore rust. This is where we position ourselves on the cement ledge by the river, not to leap in but simply to watch the union of waters from separate worlds.

And this is where we kiss each other, slowly sliding our lips around each other's and letting them unite like the water, letting ourselves be sprinkled by the rain. This is where we remove our shirts, undo our bras and regard each other's breasts, this is where we take off our pants and underpants and observe each other's nudity. By now we know what it looks like, but it's not as if we mean to undress anymore, it just happens. Neither of us are lesbians, at least I don't think we are—I hope we're not—and yet when I kiss her and see her body, I am excited. I love to see and feel her skin, under the fuzz of wet rain, to feel the tender spark of her lips, and it twists something in me that I could not comprehend even if I were to try.

This is where we will speak to each other, too, saying the weird otherworldly things that neither of us would bother to tell anyone else, things we couldn't say to anyone else, things by the river and under the velvet rain and satin darkness. I laugh, silly and high, the squeaking notes I never dare to hit in public. Anja is freer with herself in public, she always has been, and yet she always has as many secrets to tell me as I do her.

I don't understand quite the way we started, Anja and me, not just the kissing and things but the meeting in itself. It was just one day, no different from any other, when Anja and I were having a small conversation, the kind that people have when they know nothing of each other, and somehow the conversation drifted to the river. We're both water-people, Anja and me, rather than earth or air or fire. And then one of us, I forget who, said there was a bike path, and the other said that they remembered that. We asked, Do you ever ride bikes? and said Yes, it's the only sport I like. Which would have been a lie for Anja, of course, if she was the one who said that—she is on every sports team—but true for me. And then somehow it came around that we would meet there that night (I don't know why we picked the night really, it just seemed safer than the day) and from there it was just automatic that we'd return. It did not rain until about two weeks after we'd been going, but after the first time what we did in the rain was automatic too. If she is to tell me we're not going to meet, now, she calls on the phone and pretends to be someone else, to talk to me without my parents knowing. Then she says, “Another time,” and I say, “Okay,” and hang up the phone. The nights without the bike path are always funny and hollow and uncomfortable—I am not used to sleeping at that time of night, I am used to being outside. But the bike path is sacred, I could never go there without Anja.

It's funny, the way Anja and I are, because we hardly speak to each other in school. I say, “Hi Anja!” perkily in the halls, and she waves back or says hi and sometimes we'll have a little conversation about nothing whatsoever, but we never act as if we matter to each other in the slightest. It is quite obvious to both of us that we have to keep the nights a secret, not just because of what happens in them but because of their actual existence. Therefore we avoid seeing each other much in the course of the daytime. I don't look at her in class, don't sit with her at lunch, and with my smaller friends I may even trash her, talk about her looks or her style of dress or the things she has done with guys, and no one will guess that she has also done some of them with me. No one knows that every night, on the bike path by the river, me and Anja are riding.

Gemma C.

God's Will

Then inspiration bid that they be blessed
And that they multiply and fruitful be.
Thus ere the silent words had fled God's lips,
They seas and lands forthwith began to fill—
Not driven by a haste unknown to love,
But sooner likened to a task devout—
In place of what may be considered lust;
As on the earth, the green of growth obscured,
A many-colored pair created more
(The two who started—startling!—turned to four)
And on it went, as rain when first it falls,
One drop let go with others slow to flow
Next swiftly, with fantastic pace, like tears
The showers promptly drown earth's sorrowed face.
A story similar succeeds in seas,
Where creatures, winged with fins, through liquid fly,
Entwining with themselves, and stirring sounds,
Once solemn, thence to swell and surge, thence spill
Beyond their bounds as when a cup, too filled
With substance overcomes itself and shuns
Its brim. The globe, now provéd worthy, blest,
But with a mouth too gorged to thank the Lord.

Melissa S.

Brick

I am looking as a chimp at his shadow.
The blank facades of Brooklyn are budding
with this sun so long hidden these weeks.
I am one lone citizen outta many one head
sitting itself offshore, the brightened walk
of the shore.
I shoot up from the railing, me, a balancing stalk.
The river says Get in the pooooool.
I salute both boroughs, chew my tongue, me
I feel faint dead air
behind on my side sun shudders a blast at me, click clack the gun goes.
Bubble sun, bright brick color, painful light straight to my dome piece,
I am looking looking tick ticking inside.
Oh the brick, God help me, those buildings make me squint.
My muscles my mouth my void for a mouth.
Of all places I am at the expanse where my streets
suffer themselves dead till they're water,
mistaken little place, unknown edge, indescribable down low,
righteous grit. Oh how we're righteous.
Blessed river, cobbles, blessed coast.

I am looking behind at this vision,
roads and roads before me, oh God,
I feel I feel dead space, deadness and fear it.
The alleyways, sun, whipping wind off the bay,
reflected Brooklyn looming below between the two bridges
where I stand awkward, flipped buildings aiming their pointed heads at me,
I peer wide-blank-faced, doe-eyed stunned, down the barrel.
What a dark and a painful dot of black.
What a smooth blank
wall of brick. Bridges, bridges, my bibles,
my dear old places, my basis, my base,
my passing days and those passed and those that shall be,
my clock clocking winding spinning down own self getting ready.

Margo G.

In the Now

Now she was a dancer. Now she lived in a strange city, surrounded by people with pointy feet and stiff hair. Now she was a dancer, and outside people carried heavy bags and walked with their shoulders crooked and hunched. Now she was a dancer and spent her days in a place that smelled of hair spray and body odor. Now she was a dancer and countless hours were consumed by Europeans with thick accents and small chests, priming and poking, shaping and molding into impossibly straight lines. Outside the sweet smell of sauerkraut and nuts drifts past the open window and people eat their doughnuts and orange juice for breakfast. Now she was a dancer, and with tremendous grace she propels herself through a difficult leap, her small frame seeming weightless, as if her insides were made of Styrofoam or air. Outside it rains, and droves of people clod to random overhangs and scaffoldings, their hunches deeper, their footsteps even less buoyant and light. A clap of thunder breaks Alice from her concentration, and she finds that rain is more interesting than any plié. Now she was a girl. Now she lived in a familiar suburb surrounded by people with dirty knees and bubbling smiles. Now she was a girl, and inside the instructor slaps her rump and alerts her that she has lost the tightness in her position. Now she was a girl and spent her days in a place that smelled of apple juice and cookies. Now she was a girl and countless hours were freed by domestic types with small voices and big hearts coddling and laughing, shaping and molding her into her own something abstract. Inside the intrusive smell of stale coffee and must wafts past Alice, and people of the studio eat their discipline and drudgery for breakfast. Now she was a girl and with a roaming mind she wills herself through a challenging turn, her small frame seeming lost as if her insides were made of flesh or bone. Outside an old man trips on a twig and a little girl loses her footing, dropping her ice cream. Inside Alice fades in and out of concentration, vacillating between moving her body and watching it move. Dancer. Girl. Dancer. Girl. Now Alice finds her head spinning with confusion, frustration, and fury, now Alice wrenches off her shoes and stomps out of the classroom, now Alice whips open the door to the back entrance, now Alice slumps her body down on the steps, now Alice cries, now Alice screams, now Alice pulls every last bobby pin out of her bun and breaks them in half. Outside the sun starts to set, and now Alice knows how hard it is to grow up.

Cody S.

The Long Dark Lapidation of the Soul

As my heart performs successively more convoluted 3/pi time
coming to resemble various classical pieces,
I realize again how sweet the delibation
of love can feel. I resist the temptation
to perform spiritual self-gralloching,
tear out my senses, revoke my brain's leases
on its spot in the intellect; but to just decollate
without rhyme or reason this Ravian state
just because of the wanions on my always-full plate,
nasty self-doubting that invariably teases
the part of my mind that would gamble away
what the strong central leadership leaves us today
or the predictions, like yethhounds, whatever it pleases
them to call forth, though it is what we all wish, stops on a dime.

All this confuses my mind, but would it bring synchesis
to a mind nicely cluttered with its natural grime?
Is it cause to defenestrate
or floccinaucinihilipilificate
what for all these hard years kept the boiler-room smoking
simply because this just won't let me say
even simple risky phrases; it gets in the way
with reasons and syllogisms, merely uttering “nay”
and of course, in my home's chaos, to can it is a crime.
These xanthodontous councillors cause me no end of frustration
but can my next witenagenote end with their erasion
or, as Richard Fish would put it, shall my mentulate prime
be lost under the last of a previous me's freezes?

J.C. R.

Her Boobalets, Her Boobilettes, Her Breastitz

Flap, flap, flap.
Her squeeze-dried breasts slap alternatingly
as she comes down the stairs.
Flap, slap; deflated and drained,
these pouchy breasts, through their nipply nozzles.

I know. I did it. Squeeze-dried.
         How dare she demand the tract, the debit, the dried-out, wizened.
I dripped-dry the buttermilk containers. I will take them to the
country doctor: the horse-feeder, the pig-grinder, the cow-debaucher.
And now comes the moment of truth:
The, did you do it Hannah—did you? Did you?
Well slap me pink I did.

Hannah M.

Sleep and Watermelons

Benet K.

“I stand here before you today to present my mission for my kinssheep. For the past two thousand generations our kind has been oppressed. In our day we continue to be so. Though many of the less sturdy-minded would try to persuade us that we have all that we need and should not ask for more, I say that the time is past for such settlements. We can no longer afford to present ourselves as lower than we are. Not only are we stripped of our wool, our only protection, but our name has been plastered across the planet as a synonym for conformist. Sheep are widely regarded as animals who simply follow the rest of the herd but never lead, like the infamous lemmings. The media would like to pretend that if one sheep walked into a wolf's den, the rest would jump in line after him. Do they not realize that our tendency to follow our kin into danger is really a testament to the strong bonds that exist within our community? We follow to warn. Unlike those selfish humans who would run from trouble or pity those in it, the sheep creed demands a respect from every sheep for every sheep. They do not grant us the intelligence we deserve. They make a mockery of us with their foolish words, and we mock ourselves by allowing them to continue. It is for this offense, my kinssheep, that I address you today as a revolutionary. We can no longer be complacent. We have all that we need; now, like the American Revolutionaries, we must ask for more. We must tread wisely and without rashness—once the decision to fight has been made, it will be many moons before our baahs become a bite. Do not think I advocate violence—I seek the best possible way for achieving our ends. I cannot find that way alone. But now, all I ask for is your stamp. We cannot see our community and race rise above the standard until we have risen together in the sacred display of our choice. I cannot show you my ideas until I have the authority to do so. So I ask—give me your pledge. If you at all value your worth as a species, and wish to see our race heightened, then vote for the sheep that dares to make a peep. My name is Irving Kernel, and I am running for president.”
When Irving's last words merged with the mid-morning mist and faded from hearing, a dreadful silence filled the vacant spaces. It was like the coming of a storm. Blank faces stared up at the podium where he had stood, as if the fleas that had jumped off his back would suddenly take a stand and explain that everything would be all right. They wanted to hear that reassurance more than anything at that moment, for they weren't quite sure what they had heard. Of course, rumors had been spreading throughout the young community—Kernel's platform was well known—but once the breath had hit the air, the shit had hit the fan, at least in their minds. Nothing was clear. No one moved a muscle, paralyzed by the very truth that they feared to face. Hubert and Procter, Irving Kernel's closest advisors, mumbled nervously behind their paws and discussed options. They were in the middle of a ten-second-long heated argument when they heard the first promising sound of the last thirty seconds—a hoof, stamping on the ground. Again it sounded, from the far back and to the left, on a small patch of barren earth where grass just would not grow. A small sheep, almost still a lamb, was casting his vote. He looked, and indeed acted at political meetings, very much like the young Irving Kernel. He had a fire for the unknown, a hidden fire, that was just beginning to show. It was, perhaps, a divinely imbued fire, for no mother sheep had taught him thus. Again and again the hearty sound of approval echoed throughout the crowd, and gradually the message was transmitted, so that every sheep, mirroring his neighbor, stamped the ground to show his heartfelt gratitude for the wisdom given to him that day. Soon they stamped with all their might, some with all four legs, and felt the grandest elation in the action, for here was an occasion to celebrate. Herman Granig, the other candidate, let his head drop as he realized defeat. Soon, however, even he was stamping. Each one looking around to watch the glee of another, they felt innately that it must be the happiest day of their lives. As Irving Kernel took the podium once more to give his flowery acceptance speech, the ground shook with the thunder of a thousand revolutionary voices, using democracy as a tool to achieve personal freedom for sheep, forever.

Melissa G.

When Bonnie Rolls Awake

When Bonnie rolls awake,
and tears open her salt-stuck eyes,
he's still there, always there,
breath reeking of a burned heart
with a spider web's trail of saliva
strung precariously from lower lip to eyelid.
In those early days of gunpoint and near escapes,
she had thought his snoring the roaring of a sleeping lion.
But now the heat dries out his membranes,
and Clyde gasps loudly for air.
And Bonnie tries to remember the last time
her pelvis ached the way she liked it,
the morning after a night spent reliving the heist,
his climax spilling the syrup of invincibility
as he broke into her armored vault again and again.
But now the rough sex was gentle and weak
so she left her safe wide open for him, easy loot for the taking.
But Bonnie, she told herself, let's be fair.
You wear the most sensible shoes,
and from the Sunday paper cut coupons for cat litter
(although you could afford having kitty shit on $100 bills for fun),
and Bonnie, your tits have gone south for the winter,
while Clyde's member rarely comes north.
Oh, what is life without the danger of pursuit,
without your face on the most wanted list?
Most wanted, the most beautiful words,
meaning always one step ahead, out of reach,
like the damn grapes Tantalus couldn't get,
or like the apple of which that nice dyke Sappho spoke,
reddening on the highest bough,
most valued but the squads of little piggies.
And for one brief quiver of a moment,
Bonnie thinks that maybe there is one heist left in her,
one final moment of criminal glory,
for she and he are the stuff of which legends are made.
So with a rush of excitement she
taps, touches, shakes Clyde awake,
“What, what is it, Bonnie,” he wants to know,
“Later I'll take the trash out, or the dog or whatever you want.”
“I want us to do what we do best, Clyde,” she answers,
“I want to blow into the bank of our choice,
scare the shit out of a civilian,
steal the loot, and make a nice, clean getaway.”
A pause.
“But it's Sunday, Bonnie, the banks are closed.
And anyway, the pistols are lost somewhere in the basement
and the car has seen better days.
And, oh Bonnie, we have enough money now,
go out and buy yourself something pretty.
I want to sleep.”
And with that Bonnie rolls back to sleep
and joins Clyde in dreams of days long since past.
For these two great criminals are the victims of theft,
of youth and guts, and the greatest sex infamy has ever known.
Not even Bonnie and Clyde can outrun time,
so let them sleep.

Eleza J.

Webs

You who laugh and dance all day with your still blood red nails and soft skin
lingering in the light
rushing rushing, sucking down smoke
goodbye, goodbye, cheek kisses once such a sign of something
so un-society when they're done right.
You who say, this is it
while drinking iced coffee, while dangling legs, while braiding long hair
yes yes this must be it
while walking up Houston Street, while waiting on Brooklyn benches
while drinking rum and eating peaches in the backyard at two.
You who waver back and forth
I must always, I will never
it's all words perhaps
all phrases and lines put together
The yes yes of courses at just the right time
while looking up from the gaze at your toes
the talking so fast you think you'll never be able to say what you mean, to get it all in
yet before you know it there's no talk at all, and there's something right about that
about the still quiet, the footsteps, the feeble attempts
(there is more urgency in silence than in speech sometimes).
You who light your cigarette last
who leave the window open in winter
who tell the cab driver to simply go straight over the bridge until...
You who make sounds in your sleep
and leave the radio on and close your eyes just before dawn.
You who are learning and loving
and living and leaving and always
remembering the reasons.
You who evacuate and relocate
coins flipped, bags packed, money spent
tears almost dry now.
You who crash and burn
and swagger and sway.
You who read between the lines
and you who get stuck amidst the lines of stories sometimes
caught in the act of no action at all.
You with your skinny jeans and faded T-shirts
silk-cut dresses and rose-colored cheeks.
You who smile at the camera
and you who shy away at the stop now
quick quick, click click speed of it all.
You with the lights of Paris, the sleepless city of summer
with the visions of Las Vegas strips and London's cobblestones.
You who think too much
and you who don't think twice.
You with your lost loves and later loves
of Irish country roads and English pubs
and New England seasides in August.
You who taste champagne from the bottle as it rolls down
past lips and hips and fingertips.
You with your joints smoked
so as not to forget to remember to fall
and you who can just laugh at it all.
You who write (or promise to write)
once the time is right
whole books about rooftop boys and poets and princes.
You with your foggy details and vague lines—
moments of clarity still.
You boys who walk that way
and talk that way
laugh so loud and smile so deep.
You girls with your hand-held recorders
black and white photographs, engrained
books of dreams, tattered
with your rock star jukebox selections
with your blurred vision and sixth senses.
You girls with the grace, you boys with the charm
you all with the silver.
He was, she was, they were, they are—
you city beauties with your woven hearts of glass and gold.
You are, you all, you are—
you've got it all now.

Caroline D.