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As the last restraint clicked on my arms, they tightened
the belts across my chest and waist. A dark figure rose
behind the surgery windows, leaned forward.
Overhead speakers, said: Begin.
Preparing numbness, an attendant sobbed,
I can’t face him. I can’t do it.
Someone flipped a sheet over my head;
pink flowers on light blue cotton against
my nose. A flash of light from the left;
doors opened; a soft thud
as they closed. Someone gripped my left arm,
Control: We’re starting now.
Softer: You’ll feel a slight sting, maybe a chill.
And I did. As they pumped the dye
into my arm, it stung; then rushed cold
up into my shoulder. On my right, a voice read out
metered progress. Muted discussion back and forth.
Control we’re trying again.
Multiple hands on my left arm. Again
the sting, the cold. Again the read-out.
Again the conference. Someone on the left said,
We have to get it this time.
To me, John, we’re going to do it again. I nodded
against the sheet; thought of the sack in Fargo.
Control, we’re doing it again. It didn’t take.
The sting, and they began squeezing my arm like a cake
decorator puckering pink sugar roses.
I must have floriated the display; they said I could relax.
Movement around me seemed to pull back,
then stopped as Doc entered, introduced himself,
Do you feel this? Or this? A rustle
of paper garments; a click of instruments;
Control commanded: Stop!
Beneath the bed of flowers, I tasted salt.
John Hicks is a narrative poet whose work has been published or accepted for publication by: Valparaiso Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Ekphrastic Review, Glint Literary Journal, Midnight Circus, Panorama, Mojave River Review, and others. He writes among the wild horse bands of northern New Mexico.
Before they fixed it up, traffic could drive all the way around Marheinkeplatz until it reached the dead-end cement posts at Bergmannstrasse in front of our pub. We spent all day on barstools along the front window with a view across the square.
In this corner of Berlin the tall Passionskirche presides over the tree-lined rectangle of the Marheinkeplatz. On Sunday bells toll across the gravel pathways. Benches and rose bushes surround a patchy lawn mined with dog poop. At the far end (a world apart from our pub’s daily soap opera) a sandy playground with swings and slides backs onto a line of clumped bushes and trees.
One day I arrived early for my afternoon shift at the pub. Seated on a shaded bench under a leafy tree in my cheetah-print skirt, I was unsurprised when Gunter left his barstool and sauntered out to join me. The warm air on my legs, the background noise of kids playing at the playground on the other end of the square and the heady feeling of his cautious admiration all created a perfect capsule better than any drug. Marheinkeplatz seemed for a golden moment to be the navel of the universe, the most desirable place I could be.
That feeling of being in the right place, in the right skin, comes and goes in life. Pursuing it can become a full-time job. The promise of such felicity has fueled some of the wishful choices I have made. And it is the reason why, several years later, I found myself again on Marheinkeplatz, this time at night.
A bitter, dry paste glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Cool air brushed the sweat on my forehead as I hurtled down the damp cobblestone street, miraculously not turning an ankle in my stiletto heels. At the corner of the Bergmannstrasse I paused, unsure of my next move, then headed for the Platz with its cover of bushes and trees. The swish of traffic and rain blended in my ears above the thud of my pounding heart as I arrived and scoured the area for cover. Happily, a gap in large clump of bushes appeared to my right near the playground. I crouched down into it, hidden by darkness and leaves, and tried to stifle my gasping breaths.
Across the square from the dark mouth of the Bergmannstrasse where it emerged tunnel-like from between tall rows of bomb-pocked apartment houses, I heard him.
Where are you, slut?
I know you’re here.
I’ll find you.”
I crouched lower, hugging my knees. I felt fairly sure that he would not find me, here in the bush, in the state he was in. The more pressing problem was where I could spend the night. I couldn’t go home to the apartment we now shared until he’d had a chance to sleep it off.
The heavier weight I carried in my chest was the knowledge that I would indeed return to that apartment again. And again. Because I wanted a taste, a glimpse of that safe right feeling I’d known sitting on a summer bench two years before, here in the Marheinkeplatz next to the bush I now occupied.
A thin slant of golden morning light threw long shadows as I strolled past the playground along the gravel pathway. A bench appeared invitingly to my right. Exhausted from jetlag and yesterday’s flight, I settled to watch some early traffic across the park. A flow of women with children filled the paths. The children carried school bags or wore backpacks. The women hurried them along the path toward the Zossener street subway entrance.
As birds flitted through the rose bushes I sat, fascinated. In twelve years spent living in Berlin, I’d never glimpsed this morning activity. The rattle window shutters being rolled up came from the market hall at the end of the Platz. Delivery drivers called out to each other in barking Berliner tones. I thought of my two children back in California, ages 7 and 2. Of my long path toward choice and freedom.
If I had stayed here, would I be shepherding them towards the subway for school like these moms? Or would I ever have made it out from under the bush?
Tamara Catto lives in Santa Cruz, California, where she cares for two daughters and a menagerie of animals. Alongside this, she teaches ESL at a local Adult School. She is learning to carve out time to write. Favorite subjects include her job, parenting, and twelve years spent in Berlin, Germany.
At Marshall Fields that year
When I was eight,
They took a photograph to make
A doll with my face,
My wavy auburn hair.
I unwrapped that doll
On Christmas day. She had
A wardrobe of clothes
Just like mine. A green wool coat
Trimmed with muskrat fur,
A taffeta skirt and lace collared blouse,
A skating outfit and small white skates,
Flannel pajamas and scratchy underwear,
All sewn by my mother
Late at night on the Singer.
The doll was eerie, my
Doppelganger. A better child
Than I would ever be.
She had a pimpled leather prayer book
Fit for a believer,
She sat in my bedroom
On a quilted chair
Before the vanity mirror
Where we were both reflected.
Her hair brushed to shine,
Her smile impassive,
Her complexion putty-colored
Minus my freckles, her brown eyes kind
My mother named her Dolores, her choice
For me vetoed by my father who said
It meant sorrow.
Dolores’ legs bent
So she could kneel
With her little rosary
In her little fingers.
Joan Colby’s Selected Poems received the 2013 FutureCycle Prize and Ribcage was awarded the 2015 Kithara Book Prize. Her recent books include Carnival from FutureCycle Press, The Seven Heavenly Virtues from Kelsay Books and Her Heartsongs from Presa Press. Her latest book, just published is Joyriding to Nightfall from FutureCycle Press.
Chloe Yelena Miller
Three Weeks Early
Most of me, all of you, hidden:
blue curtain along my bare clavicle.
My head turned to one side to vomit,
jaw rattled with cold, gasps.
Your father held my hand, kissed my face.
I thought of my mother,
cold enough to ask for socks in labor.
I couldn’t feel my feet to know if they were cold.
Did you hear my cries
before I heard yours?
Finally, you, brow furrowed,
saw my wet face
from the distance of your father’s arms.
I tried to push you out, sweet baby love.
I wanted to pull you to my chest,
nurse you and stroke your dark hair.
There was so much I’d planned,
before the blood & rush the night before.
I knew I’d die in childbirth.
(I was wrong about that, too.)
Once I could walk after the C-section,
I pulled my body & IV to the bathroom.
I had felt, and now could see in the dim light,
whiskers on my chin.
No one had plucked them.
Only my breasts and hands would be remembered in photographs.
What would baby think of me?
He had been inside. Knew me the way no one else did.
What would he think of me, now?
four weeks old
You startle me. A human
displacing yesterday’s empty space.
Some call life a miracle.
But hilltop gods didn’t glue together dirt,
olive branches and marble with saliva
to build you or the others.
Closing apartment doors startle you.
Your arms push back behind your head;
hands thump against
me or the crib, squinting eyes dart.
That reflex to protect yourself,
to survive against storms, other humans.
My instinct to protect you,
to remove all inside doors,
lay shag carpet & hang medieval
tapestries to muffle sound.
To nail boards over the windows,
hold you too tight in my arms
as we hide under the crib.
I have so much to unlearn.
Chloe Yelena Miller is a writer based in Washington, D.C. She teaches writing at the University of Maryland University College and Politics & Prose Bookstore in Washington, D.C., as well as privately. She blogs at chloeyelenamiller.com and tweets at @ChloeYMiller.
“Each dance, Elmore, has a specific narrative. Take the waltz, from the German wälzen, or to turn. It’s a dance of conquest, in which the lead, usually, but not always male, allows the partner, usually, but not always female, to conquer him. The lead begins by pursuing the partner, but becomes, on the third beat, the pursued. This is the turn.”
“It’s very sensual.”
“It’s not sensual,” Suzie said. “It’s militant. The dance is about the Thirty Years’ War, and the brutal interrogation of Viennese prisoners by their Protestant oppressors. The mind games they played were paramount to torture. I’ve also heard the dance referred to as ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop.’”
“Where have you heard that?”
“In various circles. Dance circles.”
Elmore stood up, and dusted the pie crumbs from the front of his trousers before switching the record.
“So, dancing, Elmore, is just like acting.”
“How long is side B?”
She didn’t know why he was there, in her apartment, how he had gotten there, how she had descended from 12G to the Lafayette Street exit, her legs suffocating under her stockings in the humid swamp of mid-August, how she had ended up in a country bar, a tourist bar, looking for tourists, and finding Elmore, an old acquaintance, half-forgotten.
“You put yourself in the role of a Viennese prisoner, and voilà, you’re waltzing with the best of them. Sometimes, it’s very difficult to deconstruct the narrative of a dance, and this can be problematic. I’ll see a couple, or an individual, dancing, and it will take days before it clicks – He’s pointing out a flock of birds in the sky to his newborn daughter, or the heat is off in their apartment building and they’re shaking from hypothermia. Now, the running man is an existential dance. The where is not important, but you need to understand why you’re running, on a philosophical level. If you don’t know the narrative, how can you expect to experience any sort of catharsis, or stay on beat, for that matter?”
She dimmed the lights.
“The line dance?”
“A line of defense. You’re part of a small principality forming a barricade against an invading fascist régime. I find it best to imagine tanks are involved. Most dance is combative in nature, your partner being the enemy.”
Then her hand was on his chest and she was kissing his rough cheeks, his closed eyes, the way she’d seen done hundreds of times on TV, when the moment was so passionate, mouth kissing simply would not do.
“Twenty, or twenty-five minutes.”
“What?” He was surprised to find himself unbuttoning her skirt, removing his shirt.
“Side B. Twenty, or so minutes. It’s got “Won’t Get Fooled Again” on it, which is pretty long. Ten minutes almost. Do you have protection?”
He nodded, and she led him to her lips.
Sometimes when she is alone, Suzie pretends she is the organizer of a large factory union in the thirties. She and her fellow workers demand an increase in salary and when it is refused, they strike. They are replaced by scabs. They are beaten by men with crowbars and bats. They go hungry. In the end, they always go back to work, without the raise. This fantasy resides in a certain masochistic corner of Suzie’s brain that she doesn’t understand, and she doesn’t question. She has never told anyone.
“The tango is one of my personal favorites and involves a woman who is too drunk to walk home. A stranger, who is not her husband, is there to keep her from careening to the sidewalk, which she barely knows is there, since she’s so schnockered. The man, though he is pressed for time, having a wife and kids of his own to meet, must stay with her until she has sobered up enough to walk unaccompanied, which is often late into the night, or even early the next morning. It’s a dance of obligation, and of regret – one of the hardest you can perform and even harder to teach.”
“Have you ever done it?”
“Once, when my family was vacationing in Miami. A man of thirty, or forty, I don’t know, approached me at the mall, invited me to his dance studio and plied me with liquors, silver tequila mostly, cold shots. I was an unsupervised child. Not bad, per se, just, in need of surveillance. A fourteen-year-old-girl needs some kind of surveillance, or she’s liable to crack up.”
The speakers hissed with the slow groove of a guitar solo, one of Clapton’s finest, and Suzie’s hips responded accordingly, fluttering to the soft, starved pains of e minor. She arched her back and moved her fingers down her sides, kneading the blended fabric of her t-shirt, hooking her belt loop in her crooked thumbs. The drums came up, and she pounded out the two and four, flats against the floor,
echoing off the walls of the lightly furnished studio apartment. There was the couch, its solo assembly a three hour, two bottle, ordeal, that ended with an episode of incoherent, tearful sputters, and handfuls of tan, plastic screws that went nowhere at all. The bed was twin, the hardness of which was allayed with half a dozen throw pillows of various sizes, textures, smells. One pillow, in particular, smelled like home, the beach, maybe almonds, her mother’s perfume, White Diamonds. It had come from a garage sale in Susquehanna and had never been within a hundred miles of her childhood house, or the beach, or her mother, who had been dead some time before the pillow was acquired, though Suzie ignored these facts. The kitchen was unmemorable, unremarkable, unkempt. Suzie piled dishes in the sink, and left sticky, batter-smeared egg beaters on the top of the range, for weeks sometimes.
“Elmore,” she said. “Come dance.”
She pulled him across the room, pulsating in the spotlight of two faux marble table lamps, her shadow winding in the carpet under their bare feet. She stepped forward, to the left, and he followed.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, and how could he? The air around her neck, her shoulders, her arms, was thick with an invisible force, a glow of energy, of sound and movement.
“What does this dance mean?” he asked.
“It means, Elmore, you’re falling in love with me.”
She woke up irritated, angry, finding even the simplest morning task, turning the shower head, or unfastening the toothpaste cap, a struggle. A string of multi-syllable curses issued low and endless from her cracked lips. There was not enough space in her bathroom, Suzie thought. A woman couldn’t move. She flipped both of the switches next to the sink and a flood of harsh, white light washed over her. Her nightshirt, she discovered, under illuminance, was the same color as her skin, and turning toward the mirror, she met a stranger, her shaggy nudity puncturing the scene. Suzie extended her left leg into a simple tendu, trying to recall the name of her junior ballet teacher, a lithe woman with a perpetually stretched face. At the time, the woman had seemed ancient, but she couldn’t have been more than thirty-five. Suzie bought her legs back to first-position, and rose up on the balls of her feet, the inches between her heels and the cold, vinyl tile a distance she could not begin to comprehend.
“I can’t believe I forgot about the Charleston!”
Her father’s house was a mess, not like she remembered it at all, though this was a subject she found difficult to broach at the dinner table, with her father and stepmother staring at her like a piece of meat, like some goddamn cut of chicken, raw and bloodless and infected. It was Thanksgiving and she had driven out to Oyster Bay, but she had not left early enough to figure in the staggering crush of holiday traffic and it was already after dark. “The Charleston, as you may have read, is the dance of the twenties. It’s Gatsby’s dance. However, the real art of the Charleston lies in its politics.”
“Yes, Sue,” her father said. “It’s a satirical dance, to mock teetotalers.”
“Let her finish,” Deborah said. She was not Suzie’s mother, though she stank of White Diamonds, of the beach, of almonds.
“You’re wrong, Papa,” she said, topping off her burgundy. “You’ve never been more wrong.”
“Well, then tell me what’s right, Sue.” He sat back in his chair, a wall of suspicion, of irritation and depression, of grief for her mother. This, Suzie understood, was paternal love in all its ugly incandescence. Love beamed here, shining at the dinner table. Love filled the room with its bewildering voice, singing, these are the days that you’ve lost and will continue to lose. Outside, love crashed against the beach in horrible, cacophonous waves.
On her way home, pulled over on the shoulder of the road, she talked her way out of a DUI. The officer’s name was Mitchel. He was born in Hicksville, and had never pulled his gun on duty, of which, he said, he was very proud.
– There was a time when I thought Suzie was, hands down, the smartest girl I’d ever met. Which is – What? Oh, you want another, Elmore? Yeah, two more on my tab, under Daniel Patterson. It’s, like, a bright red card. You can’t miss it. Not as much ice in mine. No, I got a cavity. It’s the worst. Now, what was I saying about Suzie?
– It sounded more like a warning, really.
– Well, I don’t know about all that. I mean, listen, El, I knew you were sleeping together, but not, like, you were in love with her.
– How could I not be?
– And she can’t dance.
– No, she can dance, Danny. She was classically trained. It’s just everything that comes out of her mouth that’s bullshit. She tried to tell me the waltz was about the Thirty Years War. Now, I just keep Wikipedia open on my phone. I check it when she’s in the bathroom. ‘The Thirty Years War?’ Who even thinks of that?
-Anyway, she’s got this thing. It’s very alluring, the way she just comes after you.
– One hundred percent. A, uh, femme fatale is what they call it.
– That’s it. That’s what she is. I mean, when I first started seeing her a few years ago, she was, like, this force in my life. Nothing else mattered. John would call, you would call, my mom would call, and I wouldn’t even look at the phone.
– Danny the Ghost.
– Completely, but that’s because, oh, thank you. No, I think we’re good for now. Ah. Oh, thank you. That’s so much better. My tooth thanks you. That’s because she –
– I have perfect teeth.
– Enough. I know. You have a good job, that’s why. Hey! Watch it, pal! Jesus, this holiday crowd is the worst.
– I hate this song.
– Why do we come here, Elmore?
– Good ambience?
– …So, you gonna call her tonight?
– Why? If I don’t, you will?
It’s New Year’s Eve and for some awful reason she’s in Time Square and there are cops everywhere and it’s gigantic speakers and it’s pop acts and EDM and the mayor has made a speech and the news anchors are huddled around a case of sparkling wine, blowing on their scarlet fingertips like some Tompkins Park vagrants, and keeping the cameramen at bay. Elmore is somewhere in the crowd and he’s calling Suzie’s cell, which is on silent, and she’s staring up at the clock, 11:45, and at the ball, which is twice as gaudy as the year before, but so what, everything is.
She hasn’t seen him in a week, not since he showed up Christmas night banging on her apartment door, cradling a bag of gifts, his lips pulled back in a widescreen grin. She told him she would be spending the weekend with her family in Long Island, but she was lying and he knew it, though at the time she thought maybe she would really try and get out there.
“Go home,” she said, unfastening the deadbolt anyway. Then they were in bed, and Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald were seeping out of the speakers, and she breathed the sweet trombones and trumpets, and her body hummed to Louis’ low growl, and her sweat stuck to Elmore’s dress shirt, which he left on, which had become his habit.
“A lot of jazz dances don’t exist anymore. The revolutionary European dances of the twenties and thirties have simply vanished.”
“Because of the war?” he asked. His pants were draped over a chair by the bed, and he fished in the pockets as he spoke, finally extracting a crumpled pack of Camels. When did he start smoking, she wondered. Did he always? Was it getting trapped in her comforter, the stink of nicotine, in her hair and on her breasts and in her blood?
“Yes,” she said. “Because of the war. Many of those dances were never even named, but they were wild, transgressive.” He offered the cigarette and she shook her head, her eyes on the ember.
“One dance,” she said, “one dance was said to be so intense, the dancers could actually leap out of their bodies, and look back at themselves.” Would it never leave? Was it sticking, like leeches, to her clothing? Her furniture? Was it on the throw pillows? Where could all this smoke go?
“I can’t imagine,” he said, smirking.
He stubbed the ash out in a nearby wine glass, and she
a deep throaty growl that would have made Armstrong proud.
Now, in Time Square, Suzie checks her phone, and his thirty-four texts, his sloppy apologies, locational inquiries and amorous proposals are all underscored with the naïve notion that this night, any night, can still be saved, that in fifteen minutes he’ll find her in the throng of drunks and she’ll rush into his arms, and the ball will descend while they push forward into the future.
This is a mistake, she says out loud, but the sound gets lost in the onslaught of air horns and screaming teenagers. What she wants is to be on the subway, not tonight, the packed cars a crude simulacrum of so many SoHo clubs, girls with glittered faces, men with gin soaked lapels and sunken eyes, but on the subway on a Monday, unimportant, slumped against the sliding doors with vocational commuters, headphones in their ears, riding out of the city, toward the obscurity of a cheap studio in Harlem, a two bedroom in Corona, the dead winter beach of Coney Island. A couple are having a conversation too close to her ear, and instead of leaving, Suzie cuts further into the bedlam, toward the barricade.
All eyes on the LED screen now, and its minutes and seconds and milliseconds. Here, they worshipped time, like some old god, if only for an hour, as nines became eights and eights sevens and sevens sixes, every metamorphosis a triumph of modern living.
“Miss.” A man’s voice cuts sharp through the dissonance. “Miss, arms behind the barricade, please. You’re too close.”
She apologizes, but doesn’t step back. The crowd does it for her, bodies pressed against hers, shoulders shifting, a unity of heads and arms and feet, all shifting, eyes glued, primed to take in the first moments of the new year, with its new media, and its new politics, and its new dances. Suzie feels her body pivot to a pocket of space.
“I’m not going to tell you again, miss, ‘behind the line,” the voice says. The future is palpable in his hot breath.
And she knows there will be a moment soon when it will all escape her, a moment when she will be unable to decipher the undulations of young bodies, throbbing to sub notes, electric and cunning. And Elmore, she supposes, will dance whatever dances they offer up. Of course he will. Elmore, who found paradise in simple two-steps and jerky pelvic thrusts and uninspired head nods, would buy into it all, never understanding he was betraying his own narrative, while she strived for something more.
There is more space now. The breath is getting closer, the voice louder, violent. It wants to hold her. It sounds so much like Elmore telling her he needs her. And she drowns out all of it, because she’s moving.
And she’s dancing. She is jitterbugging, she is lindy hopping, she is swinging. The numbers on the screens are a blur, but she knows that they are close, because the crowd is counting down, and she keeps such perfect time. A hand grabs her arm, and she shrugs it off, like she shrugged him off, like so many dresses, and she twists away from the cutting voice, evading pursuit.
And all around her, the crowd is forming a body, but it is not her body, her body that can Mambo, and Samba, and ballet, and disco, her body that can boogie-woogie, and Calypso, and tap dance, and belly dance, and line dance, and square dance, her body that knows even those forgotten dances, secret and forbidden, and because they are so close, she dances them now, transforming, brilliant and wild, breaking out of her skin. Here, there is no one to hold her. Here, she is a pioneer. Here, she is a scientist. Here, she is shouting and kissing and aching. Here, she is living.
And the crowd roars, “Happy New Year!”
And here she is.
Kevin Hinman is a Southern California writer and rapper who has been slamming words together with a mad man’s abandon for nearly three decades. His fiction has appeared in Temenos Journal, blink-ink, Newtown Literary, and Mojo. His new album ‘Beat Therapy’ is available on all streaming platforms and at www.speshtodeath.com.
Yvonne Higgins Leach
POPSICLES AND A LIFETIME LATER
The cabin porch stairs squeak
as they sit down on the peeling paint.
The summer sun is forgiving
in her gaze. A popsicle
in each of their hands—
the red and orange blare
in the light. The coolness
relieves their lips and tongues.
Their fifth summer. My lake friend
is how they describe each other in winter.
How last winter changed his voice,
and gave her body curves.
As is their ritual, they switch
Popsicles halfway down,
and when they do, they touch.
She cannot move her hot toes
from his calf. He feels them too—
small buds, perfectly placed.
Because one of them will die,
they choose to wipe the crumbs
from the counter and not comment,
to bring in the patio cushions when
(Leach, Popsicles and a Lifetime Later, page 2, new stanza)
the other one forgets, go to the movie
the other one picks, and at times,
push cruel words to the backs
of their throats.
In their dailiness, they hear the clock tick,
know eventually it will win,
know each sun-moon cycle
presses her heavy hands on their hearts.
Their bones might break,
their hearts might explode,
their minds mind forget
their deepest memories.
Whatever becomes the final moment
is just that—the final moment.
For now, the rose bush they planted last
spring grows more tender.
Yvonne Higgins Leach is the author of a collection of poems called Another Autumn. Now a full-time poet, she splits her time between Vashon Island and Spokane, Washington. For more information, visit www.yvonnehigginsleach.com.
Nearly dark when I got home from work. On the deck, a young raccoon was draining the hummingbird feeder, his hind paws on the rail, the long fingers tilting it so the sugar water ran down the side to his tongue. Seeing me, he ran along the rail, front legs hurrying to stay ahead of hind ones. Quick leap onto the tree, he scrambled head-first to the ground, black claws scratching his departure. He disappeared downslope into the darkening trees of the watershed. Further down, two Barred Owls called back and forth. They always sound muffled–like a mystic figure invoking spirits through a cloak-draped forearm. A hummingbird buzzed me as I lifted the feeder from its hook; impossible to see it against the shadows. A doe watched from the wildflowers where they edge out from the trees. I went to the kitchen for an apple, but when I returned, she was moving off, parting the fireflies in the undergrowth. So, I ate it and watched the sun dip beyond the far ridge, backlighting the trees like teeth in a comb. As it withdrew, the cicadas went silent. Then the birds. Even the breeze in the pines. It was like the momentary space an audience gives when the curtain goes up.
And I’m in a rowboat on San Diego Bay. I’m sunburned and thirsty, have an oar in each blistered hand, and my butt’s sore from the board seat. It’s late. I’m sixteen, and don’t want to head in, to surrender this independence, oblivious to my family’s concern. By myself for a day, I find rowing mindless enough that the day slips from my shoulders. I’m enjoying not being responsible; no thought about where I’m going; safe within the bay. The sun is setting over Point Loma, shadow pouring over the near shore. I rest the oars, water from their tips drops into ripples that flatten as they slip away. This is the first time I hear it: No gulls shrieking, no bus engines or car horns. Not even children playing on the sand. For a short time, the world holds its breath. I think no one has ever noticed this before. I lean forward, waiting for something significant to happen. But the city exhales: mothers call their children, buses pull away from curbs, a light changes and traffic starts. Darkness moves across the Bay, across the city, and all I know is there are things invisible in my everyday.
I left the apple core for the raccoon to find. Went in.
John Hicks is a narrative poet whose work has been published or accepted for publication by: Valparaiso Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Ekphrastic Review, Glint Literary Journal, Midnight Circus, Panorama, Mojave River Review, and others. He writes among the wild horse bands of northern New Mexico.
someone pulling open the
emergency exit, sucking me
out as I grab onto the door
frame— then whip away,
perhaps still buckled to my seat
with other hapless fliers
hurtling through sheer freezing
blue toward the cloud cover’s
endless Arctic below….
Would I unbuckle from my
seat and stretch out like a hawk
or sky diver spread-eagled
in happy freefall like all my
dreams of flying, controlling
my descent like a glider,
away as I pray to every angel
and archangel for my perfect
rescue, preferably plunging
right into a band of handsome
paratroopers who grab me into
their star formation, then break
apart to hold me close as their
chutes explode open overhead,
allowing me to enjoy sailing
through the heavens in the
arms of a devilishly good-
looking airman to land in an
open field of soft alfalfa with
hardly a scratch?
Or, do I stay buckled in to ride
that airplane seat down to a
breathtaking water landing, my
seat skiing across some large
unfrozen lake, my legs pointed
straight ahead to avoid drag,
until, soaking wet but
unharmed, I gently glide to a
bobbing halt near two curious
swans, the whole skid live-
streamed by amazed joggers on
Of course, I’ve left out the
logical end to my story when I
slam into whatever I happen to
hit—ground, trees, power
lines— ripping my soul free
from its shattered body—
wiser—in that I at last know
what a person thinks about
when hurtling to their certain
death and whether that moment
comes before or exactly when
she meets the ground.
Over her career, Mimi Plevin-Foust has been a poet, glass artist, screenwriter and filmmaker. Her poems and articles have been published by Carve Magazine, LearnVest/Forbes.com, POZ Magazine, Willow Review, and more. She lives in Cleveland, Ohio and recently won the Gordon Square Review Poetry Contest. Learn more at mimiplevinfoust.com.
Joseph D. Milosch
After working six days a week for four months, Leo was half way through the highway project on the California and Nevada State line. It was 10 am when he arrived home. Turning off the ignition, he recalled that as a young man, he drove home nightly. Nearing retirement, he found that he could no longer stay awake on the daily drive home. Therefore, he alternated the days he stayed in a motel with the days he drove home.
He didn’t like staying in a motel for two or three nights during the week, nor did he like the effect that working far away had on his 30-year marriage. This was on his mind as he drove and fought sleep. When he had pulled over for a nap, his worries about his home-life prevented him from sleeping.
He rubbed to eyes to remove the dryness caused by his fatigue before he lifted his night bag out of the rear bed of his sky-blue pickup. Walking towards his house, he heard a Mexican crooner singing Mi Prieta Linda and smiled because it was his wife’s cooking song.
Pausing at the side door, he listened to his wife singing and smelled her cooking. Entering the house through the laundry room door, he set his bag on the washer and turned left to walk into the kitchen’s doorway. His wife, Alma, stood in front of the oven, grilling serrano chilies.
Besides the comal was a frying pan full of chorizo, papas, and cebolla. “Deme un besso,” he said, and she tilted her head and offered her cheek. Kissing her, he smelled her hair, which had cloaked itself in the odors of breakfast. He touched her long brown hair, which was so dark it looked black under the kitchen light.
She had tied it back in a ponytail, and below the long silver feathers dangling from her ears, a few gray hairs curled on her neck. Her shoulders were exposed by the wide collar of her dress with its lime leaf pattern.
Pouring coffee into his black cup with a chipped handle, he sat at the kitchen table. Tacked on the wall, the church calendar marked the days he’d been gone. “It doesn’t get any better than this,” he said to his wife, who was loading their plates. Sitting down, Alma held his hand, and he said grace.
“Do you like seeing me only on Saturday?” she said.
“No,” Leo answered, shaking his head. He felt too tired to argue and hoped that his silence would disperse her anger.
“What am I to you?” Alma asked.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Coming home to you makes me the luckiest man I know.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because I know you.”
“I’m not lying,” he said.
“Do you think we’ll be together in the next life?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, trying to avoid the things he had said in previous arguments.
“Am I ugly?” she asked.
Wondering how she balanced her uncertainty about his love with the vastness of her love for him, he said, “You’re the prettiest woman west of the Mississippi.”
“Be serious. You spend so little time with me now. Do you think you’ll spend more time with me when I’m dead?”
Stirring the salsa into his chorizo con papas, he thought because she’s been fighting cancer for 15 years, she had the upper hand.
“All I’m asking is for you to be with me while I’m still alive. I want to spend time with you now.”
She wouldn’t let him take her hand and rub her knuckles. He stared at his food, ashamed to look her in the eyes because he knew in 30 hours he would leave for work and not see her for another week.
He would come home, of course, but she would be asleep when he arrived. When he left at dawn, she would be asleep. Then, there were the nights he slept in a motel.
“You don’t know me anymore,” she said, “Do you know my favorite color?”
That was her trick question. The answer had multiple choices. When they first married, her favorite color was yellow. The color of the morning flower on a cactus.
Her first cancer diagnosis changed her favorite color to the blue found on the Madonna’s cloak in their church. When her cancer reappeared, her favorite color became the shade of the tree leaves above her father’s grave.
Sipping his coffee, he looked at the calendar’s picture of a California Mission. Below the Spanish word for Sunday, Domingo, was written 1030 mass and Leo leaves at 530. She angered him when she insinuated that he wanted to work out of town.
That anger supplemented his anger with the California traffic that he fought to come home. Also, he was angry at always working far away. He was tired and angry and wanted to say, “Just let me eat in peace.”
He considered saying that they both wished to be together; unfortunately, work kept getting in the way, but that was a dead-end comment. Placing his cup on the table, he looked at her and said. “You’re right. I don’t know your favorite color, but my favorite color is brown, the shade that matches your skin.”
Alma looked at him and drew the edge of her hand across her eyes as she quoted his Irish cousin, “You’ve got the blarney clear up to here.” They ate in silence for a while. Rolling her tortilla in the palm of her hand, she said, “Hurry up and eat so you can shower and sleep. When you get up you can buy some beer. I’m going to make tacos.”
“Okay,” he said and reached for her hand. When she allowed him to hold it and to kiss the back of it, he knew he wasn’t quite out of the cold, but the ice between them was beginning to melt.
Joe Milosch graduated from San Diego State University. His poetry has appeared in various magazines. He has multiple nominations for the Pushcart and received the Hackney Award for Literature. His books are The Lost Pilgrimage Poems and Landscape of a Hummingbird.