Evening Street Review Number 19

Number 19 Autumn, 2018
EVENING STREET REVIEW
“
”
Published by Evening Street Press

Sacramento, CA
ROBERT HAYDEN
THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS
Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Cover image by Steven Johnson “Those Winter Sundays”, after a

poem by Robert Hayden.
It was featured on the cover of the student art show brochure at
Sierra College and achieved Honorable Mention at the California
State Fair. Johnson came across Hayden’s poem in an anthology
called “Every Shuteye Ain’t Asleep” and it moved him
immediately. “It’s interesting when you paint something that you
feel strongly about, it comes through to the viewer.”
NUMBER 19, AUTUMN 2018
. . .all men and women are created equal

in rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness.
—ElizabethCady Stanton, revision of the
American Declaration of Independence, 1848
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BY
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Cover image by Steven Johnson
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PUBLISHED TWICE A YEAR BY EVENING STREET PRESS
NUMBER 19, AUTUMN 2018
CONTENTS
BY THE FOUNDING EDITOR Occasional Notes:
Toward Freedom 6
POETRY I: FROM THE HELEN KAY CHAPBOOK

POETRY CONTEST
PEGGY TROJAN Home Town 10
Free Range 10
Bible School 11
Lunch Guest, 1939 11
Spring 12
TOM BOSWELL The Neighbor 13
The Potter 13
The rental next door 15
The Serviceberry 16
POETRY II
JOE ALBANESE A Thankless Job 24
VINCENT J. TOMEO Let’s Eat Grandma 34
Ode to Labor 35
DAVID STALLINGS Ridge Walking 40
Messing the Corners 41
Best work I’ve ever had 42
On Artillery Hill 43
Ode to a Sawed-Off Shotgun 43
JOE MASI Game Ball: 1950 Princeton Tigers 45
PAULA YUP What I Miss in Majuro? 51
Majuro Clinic 51
Mysteries are All I Can Read 52
Ars Poetica 53
MICHAEL CASEY shower walk 64
CATHERINE MOSCATT The Reader 66
KORKUT ONARAN Sunshine after the Storm 83
Of the Eclipse 83
SUZANNE O’CONNELL My Downstairs Neighbors 84
DARREN C. DEMAREE Trump as a Fire Without Light #484 86
Trump as a Fire Without Light #485 86
Trump as a Fire Without Light #486 86
LAWRENCE WILLIAM BERGGOETZ Wthout Dreams 87
JUDY SHEPPS BATTLE Misguided Trust 95
BILL SIMMONS January 19, 2017 A Healing 96
On Snowy Days 96
20518 East American Avenue 97
Mr. Vendor 98
Red-tail 98
DIANE DECILLIS Properties of Plastic 102
BILL BROWN Charlie 104
Stardust 105
Doze 105
CHARLES W. BRICE Enough 113
HOLLY DAY Birth 114
The Dreams of Tiny Things 114
CYNTHIA KNORR Young Woman with Bald Head 116
Still Life with Dragonfly and
Hypodermic Needle 117
Revelation 117
On Verisimilitude 118
Why Scientists Disagree about
Global Warming 119
CHARLES RAMMELKAMP Under the Microscope 127
BUFF WHITMAN-BRADLEY Dust 128
Nap time in the woods 128
MICHAEL JACK O'BRIEN all that i need to know 130
central coast storm 131
dear brother, 131
mid-december… 132
NANCY SMILER LEVINSON Invisible 138
Pine Box 138
Mystery 139
What I Remember 141
Subterfuge 142
CLELA REED The Legend 143
Becoming 143
When Parachutes Were Silk 144
The Kimono 145
Isadora’s Scarves 146
FICTION
MICHAEL WELCH Calcium 19

RICHARD KEY Elements of Success 25
F. JOSEPH MYERS Nadezhda 55
JENNIFER LEVIN Lambs Wool 67
TERRY SANVILLE Over-Town 107
KENNETH N. MARGOLIN Old Lover 121
LENNY LEVINE Wisdom 101 134
NONFICTION
STEPHEN PARK The Good Boy 36

WILL BROOKS Caney Mountain:: the Land of Uphill
Both Ways 88
LISSA BROWN What I Didn’t Know about
My Best Friend 99
J.J. ROGERS Missing Her 115
L D ZANE It Happened Over Coffee…and a Bagel 148
COLLEEN FERGUSON Kissin’ Wears Out 162
BY THE FOUNDING EDITOR Neglected Help:

Watch 1807, Keaton 1924 168
CONTRIBUTORS 169
6 / Evening Street Review
OCCASIONAL NOTES
TOWARD F REEDOM
I. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, 1880s-1890s
“The … Association has been growing conservative for some

time. Lucy and Susan alike see suffrage only. They do not see
woman’s religious and social bondage, neither do the young women”
(205).
“Stanton enjoyed her return trip to England but could not

resist commenting that an intelligent woman graduate could design
better ships (204).
In 1900 she noted with amusement and alarm “the presence

before Congress for the first time of the anti-suffragists, who begged
to be left in their chains” (205).
In 1895 Stanton published The Woman’s Bible, “her most

audacious and outrageous act of independence….She had long
believed that ‘the chief obstacle in the way of woman’s elevation
today is the degrading position assigned her in the religion of all
countries’” (210).
“Public reaction was sensational. The Woman’s Bible was a
best seller; it went through seven printings in six months and was
translated into several languages….The younger suffragists were
furious” (112).
Though her eyesight was slowly failing, she “filled her days
with reading”: Arnold, Boswell, Spencer, Charlotte Bronte,
Thackeray, Tolstoy, and Mark Twain, “whose fun is only equaled by
his morals” (216).
—quotes from In Her Own Right, a
biography of Stanton by Elisabeth Griffith,
1984.
II. Half the Sky, 2009, by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn
Patriarchal tyranny exists around the world, in some of the

most primitive cultures to some of the most advanced: because
6
Editor / 7
patriarchy, the early social pattern for human beings, effected, it

appears, by the size difference between male and female in mammal
species, is itself world-wide.
This reality, in its resulting sex slavery for females, young and
old, is the subject of this major new book by two writers and
researchers at The New York Times.
“Our estimate is that there are 3 million women and girls (and
a very small number of boys) worldwide who can be fairly termed
enslaved in the sex trade. That is a conservative estimate that does not
include many others who are manipulated and intimidated into
prostitution. Nor does it include millions more who are under eighteen
and cannot meaningfully consent to work in brothels. We are talking
about 3 million people who are in effect the property of another person
and in many cases could be killed by their owner with impunity” (10-
11).
Technically, trafficking is often defined as taking someone (by
force or deception) across an international border. The U.S. State
Department has estimated that between 600,000 and 800,000 people
are trafficked across international borders each year, 80 percent of
them women and girls mostly for sexual exploitation.…As the U.S.
State Department notes, its estimate doesn’t include “millions of
victims around the world who are trafficked within their own national
borders.”
“In contrast, in the peak decade of the transatlantic slave trade,
the 1780s, an average of just under 80 thousand slaves were shipped
annually across the Atlantic from Africa to the New World. The
average then dropped to a bit more than 50 thousand between 1811
and 1850….In other words, far more women and girls are shipped into
brothels each year in the early twenty-first century than African slaves
were shipped into slave plantations each year in the eighteenth or
nineteenth centuries…” (10-11).
“While there has been progress in addressing many

humanitarian issues in the last few decades, sex slavery has actually
worsened” (11). An increase in world population, of course, but the
authors consider additional reasons. One is “the collapse of
Communism in Eastern Europe and Indochina. … the immediate result
was economic distress and everywhere criminal gangs arose and filled
the power vacuum. Capitalism created new markets for rice and
potatoes, but also for female flesh.
“A second reason is globalization….A Nigerian girl whose

mother never left her tribal area may now find herself in a brothel in
Italy.
“A third reason is AIDS.” Brothel life was always a form of
imprisonment but now can also be a death sentence—”because of the
fear of AIDS, customers prefer younger girls… they believe less likely
to be infected. In both Asia and Africa, there is also a legend that
AIDS can be cured by sex with a virgin” (11-12).
The weak point in this excellent and much-needed work is its

analysis of women’s role, that is, the error of blaming women almost
equally: “women themselves absorb and transmit misogynistic values
just as men do. This is not a tidy world of tyrannical men and
victimized women” (69).
Yes it is. Patriarchal values have been taught and enforced by
males against females for many centuries, probably from at least some
9 to 10 thousand years ago—the change from hunter-gathering to
agriculture and herding, that “Agricultural Revolution” so praised by a
long history of male writers. And perhaps much longer. Hunter-
gatherer bands, usually of modest size, vary a lot but tend to have few
and limited authority figures. From band to tribe crucial size-changes
occur, populations grow, conflicts over territory begin to matter and
become acute, creating a need for militant leaders—essentially the
hunters with their weapons, not the gatherers with their hands. There’s
a lot we still don’t know—the subject is huge—but the overall pattern
is clear.
Given this history—or something like it—the indoctrination of
males and females in the authority and control of the stronger is
obvious. Group-survival dominates the individual, as it still does
almost everywhere. Mothers, wives, grandmothers, etc. are all under
the authority of the strong male in the family, the group, the clan.
Religion is the primary power invoked by the patriarchs—they
typically claim personal access to the spiritual powers—and is
eventually used to control all aspects of the individual’s life. “Brain-
washing” is not new but old—only the term is new and typical of mass
journalism in its menace and vagueness as it develops with the surging
growth of human populations in the 18 th and 19th centuries. This was
human life. It’s education that is new.
The especially valuable contributions made by the book are
(1) its wide interviews and research in various countries, giving plain
Editor / 9
evidence through such research that patriarchy, its power and attitudes,
are worldwide. Europe and America, creators of the idea of “human
rights,” are not the only patriarchal cultures. (2) They are essentially,
so far, the only cultures that have affirmed a freer, more just way of
being—maybe achievable before we all die and humans become
extinct on this planet with weapons in their hands, the Glock pistol that
shoots a 14-year-old girl in Central Asia because she wants an
education and the nuclear silos controlled by men with expensive
watches.
G.G.
Reprinted from Evening Street Review #7

PEGGY TROJAN
SELECTIONS FROM FREE RANGE KIDS: winner, Helen Kay
Chapbook Prize 2017
Home Town
About a mile square

surrounded by woods,
my hometown provided
a safe nest.
Anchored in the center
with a town hall,
one church, and one school.
We knew the names
of every person in every house,
and all the dogs.
Allowed to roam free,
we invented our days
with the resources we had:
the river, backyards, each other.
None of us were ever afraid
to walk home in the dark.
Free Range
In summer, after breakfast

and occasional chores,
we left the house
for the day.
No one worried about us.
Where would we go?
Surveying the town
from the top of the fire tower
it was clear
we were surrounded
by miles of woods.
No one had a watch.
We headed home
10
Trojan / 11
at dinner time like chickens

coming to roost.
If our mothers wanted us early
they called from the back steps.
When we were out of earshot
the message was relayed
by someone halfway,
“Your mother's calling.”
Bible School
Bible school
was held in the town hall
every summer for a week
sponsored by the only church
in town, Presbyterian.
We all went.
It was something to do
and more of a craft camp
than a serious religious lesson.
I did win once, for memorizing
the most Bible verses,
a small cardboard cross
covered in luminous paint.
It hung on my bedroom wall
where it glowed in the dark
when I was going to sleep
until I tired of being reminded
God was always watching me.
Lunch Guest, 1939
Mom, who’s that man on the steps?

Just somebody passing through.
Why is he here?
Because he was hungry.
What is he eating?
A fried egg sandwich.

And coffee?
Yes, and coffee.
Why is he eating out there?
He said he liked it outdoors.
How did he know where we lived?
I guess they tell each other.
Where is he going?
Back to the train, I think.
Is he ever coming back?
Probably not.
Why did he call you “Ma’am”?
I think he was just being polite.
Spring
a day would arrive

with April's sun melt
when I unhitched my garters
rolled my long brown stockings
into doughnuts at my ankles
and skipped home from school
letting spring splash
my white winter legs
/ 13
TOM BOSWELL
SELECTIONS FROM NEIGHBORS: winner, Helen Kay
Chapbook Prize 2017
The Neighbor
There goes my neighbor again,

out walking his little white dog
in the listless rain.
His hair is turning white

as the dog’s, which means
he is getting older. Which means
I must be getting older too.
He has some kind of cancer,

he told me recently, but
that does not deter me
from asking him to lend a hand
when I have some heavy work to do.
He pauses, out in the languid rain,

or maybe it’s the dog that pauses
first, needing to pee. No matter.
They both pause and look around
as if they are lost for a moment,

or maybe they are just not
in a hurry, having both made peace
with relentless time, and then
they walk on in the lackluster rain.
The Potter
Even before the old man

retired from the feed mill
he put the potter’s wheel
and kiln down in the basement
13
10
and began to make pots.

After a while, his wife
was helping out and what started
as a hobby became a habit
and soon a business of sorts.
He always insisted he wasn’t
an artist, just someone who liked
to play with clay, yet he took pride
in mentioning how he and the missus
traveled to Europe and Africa
on the profits they earned
and squirreled away
from selling the pottery.
After she passed, he continued

to churn out bowls, vases, mugs
and pitchers, even an urn
now and then, but his heart
was somewhere else. If a bowl
or vase had a crack or flaw,
he’d give it away. A few he saved
for himself, but found there are only
so many things that need containing
and some that can’t be kept no matter
how big or beautiful the vessel.
Soon he lacked the strength

to throw the pots or fire the kiln
on his own. The oldest daughter
helped him sell the remnants
at the holiday fair, but the other children
didn’t come around much anymore.
The newer pieces–the urns–
were for a few old friends, commissions,
but he could not charge them,
in the end, even though he put
as much skill and sweat into these
as any other work.
Boswell / 15
When the middle child, Frankie, moved

down to Florida with hardly a goodbye,
the old man had no idea when he might
return but the boy called one day
to say, if he should die, he wanted
to be buried back up home
in the plot on Cemetery Road
where his mother was and where
the old man would someday join her.
So when the boy’s ashes arrived
in the mail he took them out back,
to the shed he had built from fieldstone
long ago, and poured them
into the big blue urn, the last vessel
molded from his hands, but damn
if there weren’t too many ashes to fit.
Frankie had been a big son of a gun.
He told his daughters and anybody else
he rambled on to in those days
that he had tossed the excess in the trash
but, in truth, he scattered them
all around the roses and raspberries
in the garden, the same plants the boy
had helped him tend when he was young.
He told himself that Frankie
would have wanted it that way.
The rental next door
It’s a ramshackle place,

its only purpose to make money
for its owner, like a whore
for her pimp.
Tenants come and go. Most

I never get to know.
Once a man moved in

for a while. I think he thought
his stay would be short.
He would go some day, when
his wife wanted him back.
Sometimes his son came to visit

and the two of them would practice
with a bow and arrows
in the back yard. They seemed so serious,
as if it were much more than play.
They placed a target back near

the woods but the son’s arrows
often went astray, as if shot
by a blind or drunken cupid.
The man was patient, taking pains
to teach the son how to nock
the arrow in the string,
pull, aim and let it fly.
The man must have had a gun

because he was a deputy sheriff
in the city nearby, but I suppose
that would have been too easy.
There was the matter of the son
and the life insurance policy.
One week the house next door

sat quiet, except for the wind
rattling the dangling drainpipes,
and then came the story
in the paper about how his car
had swerved across the center line
on his way home from work
and hit a semi straight on.
The story didn’t say, but rumors
were his wife had found
herself another lover.
Later she came and collected

all the stuff from the upper flat,
hauled some away in a truck,
but tossed most on the curb
for the neighbors to pick through
like crows pecking for their lunch.
There wasn’t much of value to be had.
I did see the bow and a quiver
full of arrows buried under a broken
wooden chair, but something said
to me it was better left alone.
The Serviceberry
You had planned, in your practical, persistent

English manner, that it would be spring
when we visited your charming country estate.
The same way–I imagine–that you planned
this house and gardens resting on the last moraine
of the last glacier. But it was cold that day,
the wind still biting and blustery, the Serviceberry–
your prized possession–still hesitant to bloom.
You had a husband of sixty years who needed

cheering, his surgery scheduled for week’s end,
so you hid your worry while he, in his practical
English way, wrote his epitaph. After brunch,
we braved the wind and walked the hilly land,
you the polite but proud docent pointing out
each native shrub and flower, sometimes
searching for its name like someone
looking for a light switch in a dark room.
Boswell / 17
I must confess I envied you again, that day,

for all those living things that seemed to do
your bidding, but now I think you found
your bliss in creating, not controlling.
Others say you could not suffer fools, and so
I feel you would not fool yourself to think
we can claim these neat kingdoms we fashion
any more than we can dicker with death.
How I despise it when obit writers or TV pundits

remark that so-and-so’s was an untimely death!
Scripture says there’s a time for everything
but whose death is ever timely? Not now,
when fickle spring comes creeping in at last,
when everything is waking and your Serviceberry
exploding with its clusters of white blossoms.
Your husband was still healing in the hospital

when you fell, that night, found the next morning,
the first of May, by your daughter. What caused
the fall–heart attack or stroke–is anybody’s guess,
but the hypothesis is you died of hypothermia.
You were lying with your head by the bleeding hearts.
No, let’s not make those innocent flowers

a bloody metaphor. It is what it is.
A metaphor means to carry over
and every gardener knows nothing stays put
where it’s planted, no matter how precisely
planned. You might just as easily have taken
your final sleep by the maidenhair fern,
the irises or hostas, or even the Serviceberry.
The tree claims so many names. Serviceberry,

they say, because years ago impatient couples
would wait out the long, cold mountain winters
until the preacher who rode the circuit
would arrive to conduct wedding services …
which was when the dirt roads were dry enough
to traverse in horse and buggy … which was when

the tree began to bloom. There’s also shadbush
or shadblow, and Juneberry because that’s the month
the petite berries ripen to blue. The songbirds

love them but I imagine you managed to pick
some first and baked a cobbler for your husband
and friends. Who will harvest the berries this year
or would you be content to leave them for the birds?
Will they thank you for this generosity?
Will the frogs still be chattering in your ponds?
What would the wild lilies you planted, if they
could open their yellow throats and speak,
utter at this most untimely time
when once again all the world is bursting alive?
/ 19
MICHAEL WELCH
CALCIUM
There was so little reality to any of it. To Glenn, his wife

had more of a condition. Fatherhood? He could get no further
than clichéd imagery of a firmly jutted jaw and stiff, folded
arms. Not that these defined his own father, who was lithe and
tricky, more of an escape artist. He couldn’t remember ever
holding his hand or climbing into his lap. Now, for quite a while,
his father had been where he couldn’t escape: in an urn on a
shelf in the garage. <<When are you going to do something with
him?>> Jen had asked recently. <<What? Pull the lid on that
genii?>> he’d joked.
Glenn was forty, which implied he should have been
ready, but also meant that for years he’d gotten delivery stories
from buddies, tales milked for humor but focused entirely on the
terror of the event. They would finish with dutiful reassurances
that it was all worth it, but if he dug for anything deeper, they
resisted. These were their stories and they were sticking to them.
During a birthing class, Glenn asked the instructor
<<What if I just can’t do it?>> She looked down at the doll he
had just attempted to diaper. Jen was feeling sick, so he’d
arrived alone, late, and been given the last doll, a tired-eyed
thing with a field of scalp-punctures where hair used to be.
<<Not so bad really>> She didn’t see that his fear had little to do
with diapering or even the blood of delivery, but that at some
critical moment Jen would grip him for support and instead
glimpse an absence that she would never forget.
Glenn detested the part of himself that remained under
the sway of his father’s disdain; it felt indulgent. At the end of
class—maybe because of Glenn—the instructor suggested that
to become better acquainted with their babies everyone make or
purchase a gift for them for their fourth birthday.
Jen spent the week tiling a dresser with jungle scenes,
while Glenn put off the assignment as long as he could.
19
An hour before next class Glenn drove alone to a part of

town he didn’t usually go, out past the new Target and some
modern housing tracts, and pulled into a Dairy Mart. He sat
behind the wheel for a while then finally walked inside. The
assignment was a gift for his child’s birthday, but the way Glenn
first heard it was on rather than for, his image just a normal
scene long after any party. He pictured a little girl. They’d be out
of milk and his daughter, so sleepy she could barely stand,
would still insist on going. He would buckle her into her car
seat, and she’d want to go to a place all the way across town
<<just because>>. She’d try to lug the gallon jug herself, both
hands—<<Calcium—for bones>> she’d explain—until it would
become too heavy and he’d take it and she would take his hand.
At the register, right there at her eye level, would be the candy
rack and she would give him that secret look…
Behind the wheel again, Glenn studied the Jolly Rancher
in his palm—watermelon. The scenes that haunted him with his
dad weren’t the worst ones, the sadistic jousting, the physical
fights, the times he ran away, finally for good, but the ones at the
margin that seemed they could have been different.
The birth came quickly, first in terms of months, then in
terms of Jen’s contractions and pealing cries. The plan was to
have a water birth at a birthing center—a doula handling the
delivery with an OB/GYN on call. But there were problems. The
doula’s face paled and she mouthed something to her helper
about dark blood. Glenn asked what was wrong but got no
answer. The doctor was called and machines were rushed in.
Glenn stood by Jen’s head, forgotten; only the marks on his
forearm from her nails seemed real, and even those looked like
bird tracks in sand…
Then, added to the chaos, came the cries of a baby. A
distressed face and undersized, chalky body emerged, tethered
by a wildly eerie, pulsating gray-blue cord. Jen needed
immediate attention, so the baby—a girl—went quickly to a
nurse, was swaddled, then all too quickly was handed to him. In
his hands, she weighed almost nothing—so how could she be
producing so much noise? Her face, so pruned, didn’t look fully
Welch / 21
human. Her eyes batted open, struggled against the room light,
then gave up and closed again. Finally the crying lost vigor and
the tiny muscles eased.
Before he left, the OB/GYN spoke plainly to him. <<You
saw all the blood. It may take your wife a few days to recover>>
Glenn asked the doula <<So, what do I do?>>
The doula scanned the room and with a casualness that
both irritated and reassured him, said <<Right there. Hot tub.
Take one—both of you. She’s been in one for nine months,
she’ll love it. I’ll put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ on the door>>
They were left alone. Just the three of them, Jen sound
asleep. It took Glenn quite a while and a hundred pointless
moves before he finally laid his daughter on the bed and began
to unwrap her. He waited for her body to appear and for a
preposterous moment feared that it had somehow withered away.
Finally, there she was, a dainty but engorged belly crowned by a
crusty umbilical hub. Her appendages quaked, unsure what to
make of their sudden freedom.
Glenn peeled off his clothes and sank in, holding his
daughter aloft. Her toe grazed the water and her eyes widened in
bewilderment. He was tempted to lift her free, but then she
relaxed and he lowered her in further. He rested her against his
sandwiched thighs, her chin resting on the water. Maybe it was
the relief of being back in liquid, but for the first time she
focused on him, as if wondering what she’d gotten herself into.
Soon her stare became timeless and utterly nonjudgmental.
Usually it was only in the darkness of a movie theatre that Glenn
allowed himself to cry, but he found himself wiping at his eyes.
The muddy trail through the woods behind the house is

marked by a line of footprints, Glenn’s own from previous
walks, though today’s feel somehow deeper. Cleo is in her
carrier at his belly. Her own bootied feet bob in the air. It is her
first venture outside.
Jen grabs Glenn’s arm from behind and peeks past <<Is
she still awake?>>
Glenn lifts the fleecy flap that shields Cleo’s face. Her
head wobbles like a faltering gyroscope so he props it up on
either side with the edges of her blanket. <<Yup>>
<<Fresh air, yesss>> Jen says. <<You’re joining the
world>>
They descend into a small ravine and as they mount the
opposing hill Glenn reaches back to help Jen along, then they
pause to rest against the root ball of a huge fallen fir.
The woods is wide below them. <<Wow—I’ve never
been up here>> Jen says. <<You can’t even see a house. We
could be anywhere>> When she sees that Glenn is distracted,
she asks <<Well?>>
He nods. <<Ready>> and he means it. From the linen
bag looped over his shoulder, Glenn carefully removes the urn.
<<Are you going to speak?>>

Words. Glenn shakes his head at their pointlessness. But
of course he knows he needs to say something. <<Strange as it
sounds, Dad, I was picturing you meeting Cleo. I truly think you
would have made a good grandfather. Less at stake>> But then
he grows self-conscious, suddenly he is speaking to nothing but
air. He looks down at Cleo to get his bearings, and that’s when
he gets emotional. He glances at Jen but her image is splintery.
He summons himself to begin again. <<Dad…well… you died
alone. Which helps me to—>>
<<Hon>> Jen whispers <<Try not to shake your head>>
He hadn’t realized he was.
He goes silent, uncaps the urn. His father is no more than
dust, flecks of bone. Glenn readies to tell him that he forgives
him, but also that he needs to leave him behind, pursue a
different path. <<Dad…>>
<<Umm, Hon?>>
<<What?>> he asks, confused as to why Jen is making
this harder than it already is.
Jen nods toward Cleo. To her smile and her little
bouncing hand that must have just grazed the urn. Then Glenn
Welch / 23
sees it, like melting snow, the dust disappearing on their

daughter’s tongue. Calcium.
JOE ALBANESE
A THANKLESS JOB
There are probably benefits to having a

last name that begins with an “A.”
If there are, mine are hidden in the blowbacks.
Throughout school, both high school and college,

I’d always be forced to go first
to give speeches or presentations.
As an introvert struggling secretly with anxiety
and panic attacks, it gave me nowhere to hide.
Ears are still fresh when you’re the first presenter.

It’s not until three of four speeches in do your
audience classmates’ ears start translating the words into
white noise. When you’re the first, all eyes are on you,
not wandering around and falling closed from boredom.
They’re judging and comparing what they have to give to
what you are. There, they have a benchmark in you.
In my stumbling phrases, lax eye contact, and jittery

hands, my classmates had theirs.
None of them ever thanked me for

setting the bar so low.
24
/ 25
RICHARD KEY
ELEMENTS OF SUCCESS
Levon Sharp’s Chrysler, Dodge, Jeep, Ram, and Fiat

dealership stood on six acres of suburban real estate just off Interstate
10, directly across a four-lane highway from King’s Lincoln Ford.
Both were imposing cubes of glass and steel surrounded by a sprawl of
asphalt filled with even rows of shiny vehicles, like competing
megachurches on Easter Sunday. Fast-food enterprises populated this
stretch of road along with gas stations, assorted small businesses, and
fading strip malls. It was a good place to look for work.
And that is exactly what brought Jesse to this side of town.
Young Mr. Kramer, as some older folks called him, was in need of
employment, or more specifically, the fruits of labor. High school was
behind him now, and he wasn’t sure about college. His parents urged
him to take his time while he figured things out. But the elder Mr.
Kramer suggested four hundred dollars a month for room and board if
Jesse wished to remain under their roof, and the first payment was due
July 1.
Jesse parked his 2003 Jetta near the service area and
approached the sparkling glass-fronted showroom of Sharp’s with all
the expectation of a condemned man. He had spent the last three days
filling out applications and talking to unenthusiastic potential
employers. His route had been poorly planned and desultory, and he
only chose Chrysler over Ford because it didn’t require a left turn.
Jesse had gone along with his dad to pick out his Volkswagen a couple
of years ago, but he really knew nothing about the car business. At the
moment it just sounded better than working at Arby’s.
He entered the immaculate showroom with the thirty-foot-high
ceiling and approached one of several desks spaced out on the
mirrored gray tiles. A young lady talking on the phone glanced up at
his short red hair and slender six-foot frame and continued her
conversation. As he was forming sentences in his mind, a salesman
appeared at his side.
“How can we help you today?”
“Oh. I don’t need a car…uh…I’m looking for a job…and I
wondered if you need any help.”
“I see. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Hopkins about that. I’ll take
you to his office. Do you work on cars? I think the garage needs
25
10
mechanics.”
“Not really. I was thinking about sales.” Jesse winced
inwardly as he tried to imagine himself as a salesman. Still, anything
was possible, and he might as well give it a shot.
They arrived at the open door of Willie Hopkins, and Jesse
nervously rubbed the back of his neck as he waited to be introduced to
the assistant manager, a heavyset black man in a pinstripe suit sporting
tortoiseshell aviator glasses.
“Willie, this is Jesse Kramer. He’s looking for a job.”
“Mr. Hopkins?” said Jesse incredulously.
“That’s right. Have we met?”
“I had you for seventh-grade science.”
The manager laughed and wiped his brow with a
handkerchief. “What’s that last name again?”
“Kramer.”
“Okay, okay. Kramer! You were kind of a quiet kid. Sat near
the door. Is that right?”
“Yeah. I didn’t make much trouble.”
“Come in and have a seat. What’d you get in my class, Jesse?”
“B minus.”
“B minus! I gave out a lot of B minuses in those days. Man
that seems like a lifetime ago.”
“I never expected to see you here.”
“Well, I tell you, Jesse. I put in my twenty-five years and got a
pension, and I just walked away. I liked teaching all right, but teachers
have to do a lot more than just teach. And between you and me, I don’t
miss it. Selling cars is not my dream job, but they never make me do
lunchroom duty or go to parent-teacher meetings.” He sat down and
motioned for Jesse to occupy a cushioned chair on the opposite side of
his desk. “So, you looking for a job?”
“Yes sir. I’m not going to college. At least not yet.”
“It’s not a bad idea to see what the real world is like first. Not
a bad idea at all. No sir. You might even save up a little money. Do
you have any experience?”
“Not selling anything, but I’ve worked summers at a few
places. And I’ve mowed grass and had a paper route.”
“Well, sir, the way it works is, we don’t put people on sales
right away. They have to know something about the product first so
they can answer customers’ questions. Are you familiar with the
details of the Jeep Cherokee or the Chrysler Pacifica?”
Key / 27
“Not really, no.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be. But I can start you at the bottom
somewhere, and you can study up on each vehicle until you feel
confident enough to move into sales. How does that sound?”
“That sounds great, but don’t you want to see my references or
anything?”
“No sir. I go a lot with my gut feelings about people. I
observed you for a year, Jesse. I talked with your parents. You’re a
good kid. We’ll see how you do on the job and go from there. But I do
need you to fill out some paperwork. If you want to start today, I can
put you in charge of balloons.”
“Balloons?”
“You sound surprised. You cannot sell an automobile in
America, son, without balloons. That is a bare-nosed fact. And helium.
Do you know which element helium is on the periodic table? Do you
remember learning that in my class?”
“It’s near the top.”
“That’s correct. Near the tippy top. Number two. Numero dos.
Hydrogen gets all the glory. Hydrogen keeps us from freezing to death
by fueling the sun, but helium is what makes us happy. Helium is fun.
Helium is birthday parties and celebrations. Helium makes your voice
sound like a chipmunk. And helium, my friend, sells cars.”
“So, I would just blow up balloons all day?”
“Inflate, son. You would be our chief inflation officer. And
you would attach each balloon to the cars in a way that induces a
customer to pull in and browse the lot. In my opinion the balloon man
is second only to Mr. Sharp in importance. What do you think of when
I say ‘July Fourth’?”
“Cookouts.”
“And…”
“Uh, flags.”
“And…”
“Fireworks?”
“Bingo! Imagine the Fourth of July without fireworks. It can’t
happen. It mustn’t happen. And I can’t imagine a car dealership
without balloons. Balloons symbolize America. Think America and
you think bombastic rhetoric, jingoistic hyperbole, militaristic
overreaching, and bubble-producing commercialism. That, my young
friend, is what the helium-filled balloon proudly represents. Balloons
are America. And balloons sell cars.”
“Well, I’m sure I could do that.”

“Of course you can. Plus, the more we get to know you, the
more responsibility you’ll get.” The manager got up from behind his
desk and motioned for Jesse to follow him. “I’m not busy right now.
Let me show you around the place.”
The two of them circled the showroom, pausing to peek into
the cabins of a couple of the fancier vehicles. Jesse inhaled the new-
car scent and admired the smooth leather seats, daring to imagine
owning one. Mr. Hopkins led his former student through the center
glass doors and pointed out certain highlights of the campus. They
continued toward the highway entrance, and Mr. Hopkins took Jesse
by the sleeve. He pointed over to the Ford dealership across the road.
“Now, look over there, son, and tell me what you see.”
“Cars.”
“Yes, cars, but what else?”
“Uh. A building.”
“And…”
“Balloons?”
“Correcto. Balloons. Red, white, and blue balloons. Because
Mr. King knows that Mr. and Mrs. Auto Buyer want to buy American,
or at least believe that they are buying American. Of course, red,
white, and blue are also the colors of France, Russia, and the
Netherlands, but that’s neither here nor there. The unmistakable
message is that car buying is patriotic. But we can’t copy Mr. King.
We might have to have white balloons with American flags printed on
them. You can think about it tonight and we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
Jesse drove off after completing all the forms and signing the
required papers. He felt an odd mixture of excitement and dread, thrills
and misgivings. At least he had something to report to his parents.
***
“So, you got a job?” his father asked. “Excellent! Where?”
“Sharp’s Chrysler dealership out on Highway 67.”
“Really? Selling cars?”
“Well, I’m the chief inflation officer.”
His father repeated the words slowly, trying to parse some
meaning from them: chief…inflation…officer. “So, you work in the
financing department?”
“Not exactly. It’s more like promotions and advertising.”
His mother responded happily, “We’re so proud of you, Jesse.
That sounds so important.”
Key / 29
“How much are they paying you?” Mr. Kramer inquired, still
not totally satisfied.
Jesse then realized that money hadn’t been discussed, and his
brain scrambled to find the best way to BS his way out. “It would be
the base salary…with benefits…but I’ll find out more details
tomorrow.” That was enough to satisfy the press for now, but he saw
how easily he could be outfoxed in this grown-up world he was
entering.
***
The next morning, Jesse showed up at 6:45 and waited in his
car until the doors were open. He wore the required khaki slacks, but
still needed to be issued his black polo with the Sharp’s insignia. One
of the salesmen approached him. “You the new balloon guy?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Dwight. Dwight Harris. Be glad they’re starting you in
balloons. They put me in the car cleaning area when I started. I don’t
know if anyone told you, but you can actually design the balloons and
order them from an outfit online. It’s pretty cool. I can show you how
it works later if you want.”
“I appreciate it. What about the helium?” Jesse asked.
“They always keep a couple of tanks in the back next to the
break room.”
Jesse’s former teacher arrived shortly thereafter and came up
to greet him.
“Good morning, Mr. Hopkins.”
“You can call me Willie. Everyone else does.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” Jesse confessed. “It would
violate something.”
“Whatever you say. But if you’re still here in a year, make the
transition or you’re fired. Hear me?”
“Yes sir.”
***
Three weeks into his new job, Jesse went by Mr. Hopkins’
office to gather his first paycheck, which had been placed into his
assigned mail slot just inside the door. The assistant manager was at
his desk and sensed that something wasn’t right with his protégé.
“What’s a matter, Jes?”
“What? Oh, nothing, sir. I just came by for the check.”
“Come in and close the door. Something’s not right. I’m
getting a bad vibe.”
Jesse sat in the cushioned seat. “My girlfriend broke it off last
night. She’s going to State, and wanted to be free to date other guys.
We’ve been going together for two years.”
“I see. So the young lady graduated from high school, and
now she wants to graduate from you too, is that it?”
“I guess. I didn’t see it coming.”
“I feel for you, son. I know it hurts. But someday you might
see that your girlfriend’s doing you a favor. She’ll be in that rearview
mirror, and you’ll have the lady of your dreams in the passenger seat.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
“If it makes any difference, you’re doing a fabulous job with
those balloons. Everyone thinks so. You seem to have a flair for that
sort of thing.”
Jesse rose to leave, but turned to his mentor. “There’s one
more thing, Mr. Hopkins.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been having to redo the balloons every morning. The last
four days someone has been popping them during the night, so I spend
a few hours in the morning blowing more up.”
“Did anyone look at the security videos?”
“We did, but the person is covered from head to toe and you
can’t tell much. I’m wondering if I should hide out here one night and
see if I can catch him.”
“No, no. You leave that to us. This is a security issue. It’s
more than a prank if someone is trespassing.”
***
One thing the recent graduate discovered was that car
dealerships are open six days a week, including every Saturday and
some holidays. But the second Saturday that he worked, a tremendous
storm not only kept the serious shoppers away, but also the casually
interested. Things were slow, and he pulled out a sketch pad he kept in
his locker. He sat across a parked show car from where the receptionist
Jasmine sat at her desk painting her nails. In less than thirty minutes he
brought over his charcoal portrait and asked her opinion.
“You did this?” she exclaimed. “It’s fabulous! Can I keep it?”
“Absolutely.”
Overwhelmed by the gesture, she carried the masterpiece to
every person there. “And he did it with his left hand,” she exclaimed.
The other ladies present demanded that they have their
portraits done as well, and by quitting time he had completed three
Key / 31
additional portraits, donating them all to the models.

Mr. Hopkins wasn’t present on that Saturday, but heard about
the artist in their midst Monday morning. At this point it was mid-July,
and Mr. Hopkins called him into his office.
“Jesse?”
“Yes sir.”
“I’ve seen some of your drawings. They’re quite good. You
use charcoal?”
“Yes sir. A charcoal pencil.”
“Carbon. Element number six. The crucial element of life on
this planet. That’s amazing, isn’t it? In one form it’s charcoal that we
burn to cook a hamburger—or draw a picture. In another form it’s a
diamond engagement ring.”
After a pause, he chuckled as he continued. “As you can see,
I’m still a teacher inside. Have a seat. We found the balloon popper.
Dwight Harris. Joe Morgan and myself hid out in the lot last night and
caught him around three o’clock. We’d about fallen asleep, but you
can’t pop a balloon without making some noise. We confronted him
and his excuse was he thought you were being favored and needed to
be taken down a notch. We told him that destroying property was not
the way to settle a score or teach someone a lesson. So we gave him
his walking papers, and he won’t be around here any longer.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say. Dwight seemed
like such a nice guy. That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, Dwight. He puts on a good show, but this isn’t the first
time his ugly side has been exposed. A while back he got called on the
carpet for swooping in on a sale after somebody else had done all the
work.”
***
By the first of August, Jesse was beginning to accompany
salesmen with customers, to observe and assist. During one such
session Mr. Hopkins paged him overhead to come to his office.
“Jesse, I want you to meet Mrs. Oshikawa—is that correct?”
he asked, looking over at the petite woman with dark hair and black-
rimmed glasses. She nodded. “She’s one of our valued customers, now
the proud owner of a Fiat 500L. She’s also an art instructor at Venice
College over in Lakemont. She noticed your charcoal drawings and
wanted to meet the artist. Anyway, I told her your story, and here she
is.”
The professor smiled broadly as she spoke. “Jesse, I’m really
impressed with your drawings. Such fine detail, and you really capture
the character of your subject. I would like to see more of your work.
And it just so happens that we have a scholarship opening for the
upcoming year. I would like you to consider coming to Venice
College.”
“Wow,” he responded. “I never thought it was that good. I’m
mostly self-taught, but people seem to like what I do. I’m not sure I’m
ready for college, but I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
“Well, do seriously consider it, Jesse. And here’s my card.
Call me in a few days, and we can set up an appointment for you to
come for a visit and bring some more of your work for the whole
department to evaluate.”
She left in her new vehicle, and Jesse returned to his duties.
But before quitting time, he was back in his mentor’s office.
“Jesse, let me ask you something. Do you feel like you’re cut
out for this business?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, the car business has a lot of turnover. I mean a lot of
turnover. As you see, two guys have quit since you started and one has
been fired. It’s a tough business.”
“But you’ve been here for five years?”
“Almost five, yes. But let me tell you a secret. Everyone here
is a refugee. We’re all running from something. The car business ain’t
everyone’s dream job. I’m here because my house payment is due
every month and I need health insurance. Robert out there. You know
Robert? He’s addicted to gambling. Every weekend he’s either in
Biloxi or down at the dog track. He says if he hits it big, he’s outta
here. And, between you and me, he ain’t ever gonna hit it big. Joey,
he’s got two alimony payments. Two. What I’m telling you this for is
no one starts out in the car business. They end up in the car business.”
The manager pointed out three clear cubes of acrylic on the
top of his desk that functioned as paperweights. “You see these cubes
here?”
“Yes sir.”
“Each one has a different metal inside. This one has a little
piece of gold—see that? This one has a piece of iron, and this one
has—what do you think that is in there?”
“Is that mercury?”
“That’s right. Mercury, the only metal that is a liquid at room
temperature.”
Key / 33
“Do you know why I’m showing you these?”

“Not really.”
“Well, I keep these on my desk to remind me that everyone is
different. These two—mercury and gold—couldn’t be more different,
but they’re right next to each other on the periodic chart. Mercury has
one more proton than gold. Now, if we were all gold, that’d be a
disaster wouldn’t it? You can’t make a bridge out of gold. It’d be too
heavy and soft. For that you need this one—iron. And mercury—
what’s that good for? Well, for one thing it expands with heat and
flows inside a tube, so it’s used in thermometers. Iron can’t do that.
You know where I’m headed, Jesse?”
“No sir.”
“Well, where I’m headed is this: If you have a dream, and I
hope you do, then follow that dream. Don’t make this your dream. Do
something that you believe in, and if that don’t work out, then start
looking at selling cars. We’re not too far away from people buying
everything over the computer anyway. After that, they’ll have these
self-driving robot cars, and at that point I’m planning to be out on the
lake with a fishing pole. You know what I mean?”
Jesse stared intently at the three acrylic cubes like he was
staring into a crystal ball. “Am I being fired?”
Mr. Hopkins laughed aloud. “No, you are not being fired. That
being said, though, I think you should consider resigning to further
your education. I’m going to tell you something confidential. I haven’t
told anyone but my family.” At this he picked up the acrylic cube with
the iron inside. “I’ve been anemic. The doctor said my iron was low.
After a few tests, they found that I have colon cancer. So, I’ll be taking
a leave of absence while I have surgery and whatever else I need.
Anyway, I didn’t want to burden you with anything, but I hired you,
and I want you to factor that into your decision. Frankly, I hope you go
back to school. I believe that’s where your future is.”
It was the end of the workweek, and Jesse walked out of the
showroom toward his Jetta. He sat in his car for a few minutes without
starting the engine. Then he got out and untied one of the large blue
balloons with white stars that he’d designed and took it with him to his
car. He wanted one to show his mom and as a keepsake from his time
at the dealership. His friend Kyle invited him to go sailing on the St.
Johns River. They would put down at Palatka Saturday morning and
return Sunday afternoon. By Monday, he figured he’d know exactly
what to do, if he didn’t already.
VINCENT J. TOMEO
LET’S EAT GRANDMA
I was wearing a tee shirt

Its graphics read,
“LET’S EAT GRANDMA.

LET’S EAT, GRANDMA.
Commas save lives”
I was passing a senior citizen center

An elderly lady yelled,
Look! What this generation is up to now!

Sonny! What’s this world coming to!
What’s wrong with your generation!
Elsa!
Elsa!
Look what he is wearing!
Ladies! Calm down.

Stop and read the tee shirt.
I can’t see.
What does it say? What did he say?
What?
What?
They put their glasses on, stared

One minute later,
We were all laughing.
34
Tomeo / 35
ODE TO LABOR
They worked the land

Sowed the soil in sweat to reap a harvest
Cranked a winch, winding weight,

Hauled a load
Welded a nation
Hear anvils ring
Raised ships of steel
A nation adrift at sea

Take up oars
Push earth’s waters weight
Into the future
Wind of labor’s strength

Forward the ship of state
They built the mightiest nation on earth.
STEPHEN PARK
Darkness and Despair
Working for the California Department of Mental Health
THE GOOD BOY
In over a quarter of a century working for the California

Department of Mental Health, I’ve worked with every designation of
Developmentally Disabled patients. I’ve also worked with LPS—or
Mentally Ill patients, and Penal Code patients—commonly called the
Criminally Insane.
This story happened with Medium Functioning Develop-
mentally Disabled patients.
I’d just come to work. On entering the office filled with
employees, the quiet was striking. The first person I saw was Mr.
Marks, our Unit Supervisor. My shift supervisor, Joe, usually greeted
me with a smile. Not today. I was worried. I hoped that no one had
gotten hurt.
Mr. Marks glanced around the office and said, “It’s time for
shift change, people.” He shuffled some papers. “I had a visit from one
of the administrators up on mahogany row today, and it wasn’t a
pleasant one.”
That got everyone’s attention. A reprimand from one of the
upper level superintendents could end Mr. Marks’ career, if it ended
up in his personnel file.
“It seems someone went up to the school and…”
“I know what this is all about.” Vivian interrupted abruptly.
“It was me.”
Mr. Marks tilted his head down and looked over his glasses at
Vivian. “Yeah, and you read one of the teachers the riot act.”
Vivian was a good looking woman who had aged well. Even
in her middle sixties, she was nice looking. Eyes glittering like hard
diamonds, she snorted in derision. “After I picked at him, I got Jimmy
to talk. It was Ted who told him that he was retarded.” She looked
defiant. “That dumb ass could have been a little more…considerate.”
Mr. Marks sighed deeply. “I have a note from Ted. He said
that he was following protocol and presenting reality…”
“Reality my ass!” Vivian snapped. “Ted didn’t have to say
that. If he isn’t careful he just might say the wrong thing some day and
end up hurt.”
36
Park / 37
Mr. Marks said, “He grumbled to his supervisor, who

bypassed our program office and complained to the administration
building. This could cost me.”
Vivian glanced down, took a breath, and said, “I’m sorry,
Robert. You know I’m past retirement age.” She brushed back her
short wavy hair and added, “I don’t know why I keep hanging around
this place, but if you want me to go…”
“No, no, I don’t want that.” Mr. Marks said. “Just, please,
don’t go storming up the hill like an angry whirlwind—dressing down
their teachers.”
“All right, all right.” Vivian said. “I’ll stay away from Mr.
Ted. But could you please let them know over at the school what a
careless word could mean to a young boy like Jimmy?”
Mr. Marks looked closely at Vivian. “From what I’ve heard,
Ted has been told.” He looked around the room. “I think he’s heard
from just about everybody. I’m hoping he’s learned his lesson.”
Shift change went smoothly from there on. Mr. Marks went
through the roll call board, patient by patient. The only patient with a
problem was Rory. Rory had been kept at home until his aged mother
couldn’t take care of him anymore. He wasn’t a violent patient, but he
would sometimes curse the older employees.
“Oh, by the way, Joe,” Mr. Marks said. “we’re getting a new
patient this afternoon from Ward B. I hear he’s a pistol, so be careful.”
Though he wasn’t tall, Joe was a big man. Face impassive, he
nodded once and said, “What have you heard about him?”
Mr. Marks said, “Autistic, the family’s youngest child, raised
at home.”
Joe nodded. “By a loving family.”
Mr. Marks continued, “Yeah, by his parents. He started getting
a little wild at home when things didn’t go his way. After several visits
by the police, and a few trips to Ward B, they think he might be better
off here. Let’s hope his first stay with us works out for them.”
“Yeah.” Joe added. “And they can visit him any time they
want.” With that, shift change ended.
Later, I accompanied Vivian into one of our dorms. It was
linen day, and we were making beds. I saw that Vivian was angry. I
was grateful that she kept it to herself. We’d worked our way through
half of the beds when Rory came in to plop down on his newly made
bed.
“Vivian, you’re a bitch.” Rory said. Head bobbing in a strange

way, he stared intently at her. Vivian was experienced and didn’t let
patients get to her.
“Oh my God.” Vivian said. She looked at Rory with an injured
look on her face.
Rory smiled a wicked, satisfied grin. “I hate you, Vivian.”
“Oh, God no.” Vivian said. Mollified, Rory wouldn’t take it to
the next level. We finished the rest of the beds without incident. Rory
sat on his bed, smiling a satisfied smile.
Later, Joe found Vivian and me in the clothing room. Even
though Bobby Joe would destroy the clothing room later, we still
folded and sorted everything. Joe asked me to help him admit the new
patient.
We were met at the double doors to the unit by administration
staff. They were big men, and I could see why. The new patient was
stout, and muscled. He glowered back and forth between the
administration staff, and Joe and me
The administration employees handed Joe a stack of
paperwork, including the patient’s chart, and left us.
Joe looked at the chart, then over at the patient. “Your name is
Michael, huh?”
“Ye, yes,” the patient said. He had a peculiar way of nodding
his head when he had a hard time getting a word out.
“Well, come with us to take a shower.”
“But I al,” nod, “already took a shower.” They gave new
patients a shower at admissions.
“We have to check you to make sure no one beat you up.”
“No one bea,” nod, “beat me up.” Michael said with a smile.
Joe stepped close to Michael. “We have to check, so come
along. You don’t have to take a shower. We’ll give you a change of
clothes.”
“O,” nod, “Okay.”
While changing clothes, I looked over at Joe and said, “He
doesn’t have a mark, scar, or tattoo.” Joe jotted down a note. I
continued, “There must be some sort of mistake, Joe. Our unit is for
bad boys. Look how good Michael is. If he’s a good boy, we’ll have to
send him home.”
A light came on in Michael’s eyes and he took a pose, hands
hanging down in front of him like a puppy sitting up on his haunches.
“I’m a good boy.”
Park / 39
So began Michael’s struggle to control his anger. Time after

time, he’d ask to go home to, “Be, be with daddy.” When told no, he’d
struggle to be a good boy and hold back his anger. When we’d have
dinner, he’d ask if we were going to have pie for dessert. When he was
told not tonight, he’d get angry again and stumble away, trying to be a
good boy. Then he started a new tactic.
When denied what he wanted, Michael would run into the
bathroom and scream. After staff rushed to see if he was hurt, Michael
would smile politely and say no. Days turned into weeks, then months.
Michael did his best to control his anger. Screaming in the bathroom
became more commonplace, which upset the other patients. We had to
take him to the unlocked timeout room, where we watched him
through a small window in the door.
I tried another tactic when Michael’s anger got beyond his
control. “I want to teach you a new thing that might help you, Michael.
Say what I say, okay?”
Eyes glowering in anger, breathing heavily with pent up
emotion, Michael breathed out, “Okay.”
“Can’t always…”
“Can, can’t always…”
“Have what…”
“Have what…”
“I want.” When I said those last two words, Michael screamed
and dashed away. He ran the length of the hallway, almost a hundred
yards, then turned around and sprinted back. With Ricky Lou in the
hallway, I was worried that he might run him over. But Michael went
around him like a linebacker. Joe came out to stand beside me.
“Man, he’s fast!” Joe said.
“Agile too,” I added.
After several laps, and he began to slow down, we stepped in
his way and stop him. I said, “I thought you were a good boy!”
Chest heaving with exertion and anger, Michael said, “Shut up
or I’ll hit you with fist, you bitch!”
Displaying shock on my face, I spun to Joe and exclaimed,
“Oh my God. Did you hear that Joe? He called me a bitch! A bitch!”
Joe nodded like a good straight-man. Michael glowered at me with
satisfaction.
From then on, whenever he got angry, Michael would run.
When he was really mad, he’d use the ‘B’ word.
DAVID STALLINGS
RIDGE WALKING
I can’t go ahead
and I can’t go back,
my hiking partner yells.
I pause, peer along the narrow ridge,
sheer drop either side.
Breathe, I say,
and I breathe with him—
sough of light breeze
red-tailed hawk cry above
whoosh of heartbeat in ear
Over our years of scrambling

alpine back country
he returns the favor,
like the time he got me home
after I sprained my back
on a high pass.
Often I call him
a thoughtless, demeaning asshole
as he leads us up
yet another tough bushwhack,
and he’ll answer, How else
we gonna get there, you simpering shit?
Nights we play cribbage—
but have learned
to avoid politics.
Today we meet at a ranger station,

drive up old logging roads,
then climb a sunny outcrop on Buck Mountain.
Early morning news had been bad—
another mass shooting,
probably terrorism.
40
Stallings / 41
We stumble.
It’s too bad—we had a chance to throw out
all Muslims after 9/11, he says.
I could say, You blame a whole religion?
or I could be silent.
It’s a tough problem, I say—

only balance I can find
on this windswept ridge.
MESSING THE CORNERS
Pure art, her folding—

but what a mess, my own efforts
to fold these fitted sheets.
I request lessons.
Chronic pain increasing,

mobility lessening,
my neighbor lets me know
she wants to continue
our arrangement—
washing my laundry—
but no longer can she fold it.
A petite lady
with long dark hair,
my neighbor channels
her old-school
German mother.
She demonstrates—
fold inverted corners
seam to seam—right side out,
then right side in, again,
and a fourth time—
a flannel origami.
Then wabi-sabi,
a purposeful messing
of bunched corners
in the resulting rectangle—
yields flat, even folds,
a tidy package of beauty
on my shelf.
Best work I’ve ever had
says a middle-aged woman

across the cafe table,
about her years of coaching
circumcised immigrant women
to achieve orgasm
through energy work—
of interest to the dinner party
which includes three teachers
of sexual tantra, two therapists,
and a pair of sexual surrogates.
After my complicated hysterectomy,

she continues, I had to practice
what I preached. Go figure—
she pauses to pass the pad thai—
strongest orgasm
I’ve ever had turns out to be
in my left elbow.
I take the dish of pad thai,

nod my thanks,
gaze appreciatively
at her extended left arm.
Stallings / 43
ON ARTILLERY HILL
Among these century-old concrete bunkers,

I hear the land keening
on this early morning walk
through madrona, fir, fog,
past grazing deer,
to overlook Admiralty Inlet.
A friend’s voice
drifts down the forested hill
from an entrenched chamber
as he intones a Scottish lament
and many a day and night have passed
since you’ve been gone….
The empty gun emplacement

reverberates, deepens his tenor—
tears giving voice to the earth.
ODE TO A SAWED-OFF SHOTGUN
You find me in southern Alaska—

your sawed-off barrel pitted,
your wood stock chopped to pistol grip.
My gun-loving, horse-trading stepfather

gives you to me on my 12th birthday.
Twenty inches long, you resemble
a pirate’s flintlock pistol—

innocent, with a whiff
of old-time danger.
When I slide a single

.410 shell deep into your chamber,
I grasp your power
to blast a bloody swath

across close space. I have no use
for you, so tuck you away in a closet.
Leaving for college,

I offer you to a friend’s older brother,
just back from Viet Nam—
with no more forethought

than shown by my
long-departed stepfather.
/ 45
JOE MASI
GAME BALL: 1950 PRINCETON TIGERS
The football peeks out from a

crowded corner of my cluttered desk
It is wrinkled
Its pigskin orange faded
Crumbling words conceal names of

competing colleges we crushed
Our top six national ranking

visible only to the sharpest eye
As I drift from drowsing to dreaming

my hand recalls gripping the ball
My feet recall rushing for a score

My ears recall the fans roar
Rah, rah, rah

Tiger, Tiger, Tiger
Sis, sis, sis

Boom, boom, boom, ah!
Princeton, Princeton, Princeton
Suddenly, I awake. It is fall 1950

It’s game one; we clobber Cornell
Captain Dave thrusts up the game ball

like Liberty’s torch
He glances my way
Flashes that twinkling eye smile
45
I often see after he flattens me

with a ferocious hit
This ball is for you, Joe

Your TD dash crushed our foe
Yeah, I tally a touchdown

through a hole so wide a crawling baby
weighed down by a loaded diaper

could waddle in for the score
I propel our lead up from a

lopsided 54 to a more lopsided 60.
It’s the last time this season

I suit up in varsity gear
For the rest of 1950, I wear

the hated white jersey
I quarterback the B-Team

leader of the lepers.
My anger is a lion’s roar

echoing in an earless forest
Wait ‘til next year, Coach Charlie

You sightless son of a bitch
Like Shylock
I will extract my pound
As 1951 season begins

I stare at my locker
Dented, battleship grey

like other lockers in the row
Masi / 47
It breathes out of its

rippled slots
whiffs of Ben Gay encased

in clouds of dried sweat
When I open my locker door

I will know for sure:
If the hanging jersey is black

I am big man on campus
If it’s white
I remain a lowly scrub
One more year of daily scrimmages

against Dave and his animal pack
Dropping back, dancing, dodging, ducking

Finally smacked with a vicious sack
Why dwell on my dark demise

My varsity berth, as certain as sunrise
Last spring’s inter-squad game:

my ticket to the prized black shirt.
Grandstands burst with coaches there

to behold football’s newest formation
created by College Coach of the Year

Our own Charlie Caldwell
With a promise redoubled

I burst Charles’s bubble
Lead our B-Team castaways

to an incredible victory
One more time

before opening that locker door
My mind replays The Pass

The pin that pierced Charlie’s balloon:
Few seconds on the clock

Ten pairs of intent eyes lock on mine.
Goddamn
keep those bastards out of my face
Jimmy
run like your ass is on fire
Flood right, fade left, fake dive, on hike

Ready. Set. Hike.
The line is an impenetrable wall

Jimmy’s burning butt bursts down field
I let loose a 70-yard tight-spiraled bomb

soaring like an eagle
Descending like a dove

into Jimmy’s cradled hands.
I’ll be damned
We B-team castaways win!
There is no way Coach Charlie

overlooks that spring game moment
No way: I beat out our Heisman Trophy tailback

No way: I’ll be overlooked as his backup
No way: That hanging jersey is

any color but varsity black.
Masi / 49
Enough of these reassuring recollections

I hesitate, hesitate,
Press down the locker handle

Hesitate one last time
With an explosive move

I swing open the locker door:
Son of a bitch
It’s white!
Now in my aging years

as I recall my football career
My deepest disappointment declares

my most memorable moment:
If Charlie chose me to back-up our

Heisman Trophy tailback
I am an unknown,
a varsity benchwarmer
Only playing for seconds

at the end of lopsided victories
Instead Life, November 1950 issue

celebrates my varsity cannon fodder role
Features me as the quarterback

savaged by a national football power
Not once a season but

three times a week
Far more rewarding recognition

from those I maligned the most
The only varsity or B team player

awarded a silver platter inscribed:
To Joe Masi with gratitude

for all you have given to Princeton Football
The Varsity Coaching Staff December 1951
/ 51
PAULA YUP
WHAT I MISS IN MAJURO?
What I don’t miss surprises me:

TV, radio, libraries, shopping malls and movies.
I miss talking to Karen in Maine,
I miss my 80-year-old friend in LA
who I’d drop in on while returning from trips to Baja,
I miss my Cape Cod friends
like Meg the caretaker’s wife on Penzance Point
or Delores a secretary at the MBL.
or Ami and Rudi scientists at the Oceanographic.
I miss my Honolulu friend who I saw again after seven years.
I miss my friend’s son who I just talked to
over a month ago about my move here.
At 17 Mile Beach over the weekend

PK says he misses his friends terribly.
but we can make friends in Majuro he says.
He seems so young to me like I once was young.
When I was young I used to boast that I could go anywhere
anywhere at all on the planet
and I’d land on my feet. I no longer make such easy assertions,
in my forties I have an awareness of my limits,
but I agree with PK and my younger self,
for the same thing that makes old friends possible
promises well for new friends in my life.
And without friends to miss what’s the use
of landing on my feet anywhere on this planet?
MAJURO CLINIC
The Filipino doctor talks to me for an hour

saying how two out of three Marshallese are obese
and the politicians with too much power
lack the political will to deal with this problem.
The Majuro Hospital refers diabetics
to Honolulu hospitals and now the government is bankrupt
51
10
owing over seven million dollars in hospital bills.

The Filipino doctor has lived here for twenty years
and for thirteen long years he was at the mercy
of the Majuro Hospital where he worked.
Doctors continually get threatened
with termination at Majuro Hospital.
So in 1996 he founded Majuro Clinic
and from 1997 to 1999 the government
gave him funding, but for ten months
he has had no funding at all
because the government has money problems.
He has a prescription for his obese patients:
take a thirty-minute walk ﬁve days a week
and have a daily intake of 1,200 calories.
He sets an example by walking from six to seven
every morning even if it rains
and tells me I can set an example too if I exercise.
He says I may not be eligible for health insurance
until after I establish one year residency here,
I need to ask Social Security.
Then he scolds me about my weight
170 pounds is skirting the edge of disaster,
and my optimal weight is 105 to 125 pounds.
His theory is that an unloved child
develops had habits like eating unhealthy foods
and not exercising while children who are loved
learn to take care of themselves.
He says older people have a hard time changing,
but it you get a child young he can learn.
A woman shows up in the waiting room
so I say good-bye to the Filipino doctor
and take a taxi back home to Long Island.
MYSTERIES ARE ALL I CAN READ
here in Alaska
exhausted with bloodshot eyes
asthma
assorted afflictions
Yup / 53
loneliness
after a dozen years
in a third world country
this transition back to life
in the States
distracts me
but it's ok
life is a mystery too
ARS POETICA
for Andrew Garrod
Poetry is solitary
me alone writing on paper
stray thoughts
maybe meaningless
maybe meaningful
I never know
like a haiku
I wrote in high school
or maybe in college
Once I found a calico

kitten a stray
on a Phoenix sidewalk
I was a kid
my mother told me
our German Shepherd ate it
some poems are like that
moments
and a textbook company
in the midwest
wants my butterfly poem
another seven years
including disability versions
while my newer work
languishes forgotten
in dusty magazines
or long gone in landfills
but the plays you put on

here in the Marshall Islands
with Dartmouth students
and Marshallese students
is a different story
and for nearly a decade
“A Midsummer Night's Dream,”

“Twelfth Night,”
“Romeo and Juliet,”
“Much Ado About Nothing,”
“The Comedy of Errors,”
“Hamlet,”
“The Tempest,”
“As You Like It”
and now “West Side Story.”
I only missed one
for with Shakespeare and the musical
something changes
because you have an audience
/ 55
F. JOSEPH MYERS
NADEZHDA
I rubbed at the cheap ink on one of the pages of the little red
prayer book, as the sacred text beneath my thumb faded. My nail
finally ripped through the brittle paper. A local Mukhtar named Riad
gave it to me in a small village on the outskirts of Baghdad. The
circumstances surrounding the gift still leave me with an ache I cannot
seem to soothe. It was my first overseas assignment for the State
Department. I was twenty-three years old helping to clean up
America’s mess as a member of the bureaucratic and heroic sounding
Office of Reconstruction and Humanitarian Assistance.
On the secondhand end table next to me sat a glass of bourbon,
neat, a Beretta nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol and a cardboard
box containing things I’d somehow decided to save from the war, like
notebooks, maps, and crumpled dinars.
I thumbed through the little book, the size of a pack of
cigarettes, gazed at the ornate serpentine Arabic printed within. The
tiny volume with the dirty cover reminded me of Riad’s little
granddaughter who I often saw during my visits to the village. She had
a dirty cherubic face and stood about three and a half feet tall, always
wearing the same dress with tattered pink bows on each shoulder. Her
name was Karima. While the other children in her neighborhood
clamored for candy or soccer balls, Karima would just walk up to me,
smile, and gently hold my hand.
It was a tiny act of tenderness in a demonic land.
One of the last times I visited Riad’s house, the women of the
neighborhood were huddled on the floor along the wall, weeping, loud
wails and gasps. Blood streaked along the linoleum floor. American
mortar rounds had accidentally fallen on the peaceful home. It was
Karima’s blood. The little girl in the dress lay still, in the dirt. She’d be
buried before nightfall.
Once, she had pointed at the colored markers hanging from my
vest and asked if she could have one. “No, I need them for my job,” I’d
said. I used them to mark locations on my maps. I wished now that I
had given her one. I could easily have gotten more. It might have given
her a small amount of joy in her short life. It was thirteen years since
that day, and I was still waiting, in many ways, for the rest of my life to
begin.
55
10
My phone was vibrating as my mind drifted back from the

desert. It was Carla, the nurse at the home.
“Mr. Mayer. Riad has been asking me all day whether you
were going to visit today.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s almost five. The race has been on for a while,” she said
chiding me.
I downed the last of my Kentucky bourbon and tore away the
damaged page of scripture, crumpling it into a tiny ball, dropping it
into the rocks glass. “God is greatest,” I said. I picked up the pistol and
carefully placed it in my bag.
It was Sunday, and I had to visit my friend.
It had begun to drizzle by the time I rang the doorbell next to

the powder blue door on Logan Avenue. The cozy two-story home had
faux-stone siding and a chimney. The yard was brown and poorly
maintained, but from the street the house looked warm and inviting, the
sort of DC suburb home a retired army colonel might own.
Carla, in scrubs, opened the door a crack and peered out at me,
then stepped back, letting me in with a cold glare, still reproachful of
my tardiness. An elderly woman in a white sweater sat at the kitchen
table and looked at me as I closed the door. Her eyes widened and she
rocked in her chair. I smiled, always a bit uncomfortable with senility.
She must be a new patient, I thought. I didn’t recognize her from my
last visit.
The latch on the wooden gate at the bottom of the stairs always
confounded me. I felt the old woman’s eyes on me as I fumbled with
the latch. The narrow staircase was made narrower by the chair-lift
along the side.
The door to Riad’s room was open. I heard the roar of the
NASCAR engines before I entered. Riad had been fascinated by the
spectacle of the races ever since he’d come to the U.S. His was a small
room, maybe 200 square feet with one wall slanted to the contour of
the roof.
Riad slept in his recliner, slumped to his left, as if the ceiling
had fallen on him. The ninety-year-old former Iraqi army officer wore
sweatpants, and a hoodie that didn’t quite match. His breathing was
calmer, his hands not trembling as much as when he was awake.
Parkinson’s disease.
Myers / 57
His thin, white hair was neat and distinguished—dignity’s last

pocket of resistance on his collapsing body.
I placed my backpack by Riad’s bed, pulled up the spare chair
and turned down the TV as he slept, a set of worry beads dangling
from his hand. Soon, with his eyes still half closed, he began to stir,
reaching for a small glass of sweet tea with a straw in it. I watched for
a moment to see if he could complete the act on his own. When it was
clear the drink would spill, I quickly got up out of my chair, grabbed
the glass and gently placed my other hand on his shoulder.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum, my friend. How are you feeling?”
He slowly opened his eyes, a little bewildered, as if still unsure
of my identity. “Wa alaikum….assalaam.” He spoke with a choppy
rhythm since he was only able to annunciate on exhales.
I reached down, unzipped my bag and pulled out the little red
prayer book. “I can’t stay long. I’m going away again, but I wanted to
visit you before I’m gone. I brought you something that I need you to
have. I’ve kept it for many years but something told me the other day
that it belongs to you more than me.” Riad inspected the book for a few
moments then handed it back to me, seeming not to realize what I was
giving back to him.
“No, no. It’s for you,” I said. “It was Karima’s.”
“Oh,” Riad said, with pain in his eyes. “Shukran,” he spoke
again, placing his hand over his heart and the book on the table next to
his tea.
I developed a very close relationship to Riad during my work
in Iraq. He was an energetic tribal leader, eager to cooperate with the
Americans and committed to making peace and stability for his people.
He had known tragedy and loss all his life. His wife died of cancer in
her early forties. His only daughter died giving birth to Karima.
Two weeks after Karima’s death, I was tasked with delivering
a “condolence payment” to Riad on behalf of the American
government. Twenty-five hundred dollars in cash was the best we
could do to express our deepest sympathy. What sickened me most
about the indecency of the transaction was logging it into my ledger
later that night. Under the “Supplies and Services” column it read:
“Condolence Payment: Death of grand-daughter from Coalition Forces
mortars.”
There it was. The record of Karima’s death, hidden in a
spreadsheet, soon to be forgotten, listed among broken windows and
damaged front gates.
As I turned around to leave that day, shivering as the shame

coursed through my veins, Riad called me over and placed the prayer
book in my hand.
“This belonged to my Karima,” he said with a warm smile.
“You were very fond of her. I could tell. She felt the same. You will
remember her with this. Yes?”
I was stunned by the gesture, and wondered why he would
want me to have it. I was not his family.
“Shukran,” I said as I accepted the book, placing it over my
heart. He just didn’t want his granddaughter to be left as a line item on
the American’s financial books.
We both sat in silence watching the race. I wondered whether I
had offended him by returning the book. His memory was often poor,
so he may not even remember giving it to me. All I knew was that I
couldn’t stand to keep it any longer, its weight crushing me inside.
“How is your health, my friend?” he said. It was typical of him
to ask about my health while he prepared to die.
“I can’t complain.” It was the truth. I couldn’t.
“Good. Good. I am glad. How is that young teacher you are
seeing? You seemed to like her very much.”
During an earlier visit, I’d shown Riad a picture on my phone
of a woman I’d been seeing, Veronika, and her four-year-old son from
a previous marriage. I had met her at a Russian language course I was
taking about six months earlier. Our first date had been like nothing I
ever experienced. I found myself captivated by her beauty, dignity and
warmth, a combination I’d never found before in a woman.
After dinner that night, we sat wrapped in each other’s arms
until two in the morning on a bench in a small triangular park in Foggy
Bottom. The peace and security I felt then reminded me of the stillness
of nights spent falling asleep on Baghdad rooftops during the war.
Even though there was always the threat of violence at any moment, I
took comfort in knowing I would not die alone.
I told Riad a little about Veronika and the problems we were
experiencing. She was born in Russia, the daughter of a Baptist
preacher and a year older than me, teaching a level one Russian
language course at the State Department. She was divorced with a son
named Vladimir. I recalled the end of our first date when she said to
me, ‘Andrew Mayer, you intrigue me.’ No one had ever said that to me
before, and I hoped she had never said it to anyone else.
Myers / 59
But she was acting distant recently, and I was beginning to

sense that she was not over her ex-husband Mateo from Colombia. She
often referred to him as her husband and rarely hung the “ex-” in front
of it. I found this strange, especially given the financial strain the
divorce had placed on her and Vlad. I had been willing to overlook it
for a while. But finally I confronted her about it one night as we sat on
my couch.
“I don’t know,” she said, staring ahead. “It’s only a habit I
suppose.” She paused, raising her eyebrows. “He’s Vladimir’s father
after all. Nothing changes that in the end.”
I knew there were aspects in everyone’s life that were
indelible, no matter how hard one tried to scrape them away.
For Veronika it was Mateo. For me it was Baghdad.
I shifted the conversation back to Riad and asked what kind of
woman his wife had been. He did not immediately respond. He looked
tired and weak. Then he finally shifted his eyes from the television to
look into mine. “My life was…nothing…until God give me her.”
I noted the humility of Riad’s words. They were words that
could only come when the shroud is slowly being pulled over a man’s
eyes, and what is truly important appears clearly. The statement also
confirmed what I felt was missing from my own life.
I got up and walked over to his dresser, looking at a framed
five-by-seven of him and Karima in Baghdad not long before she was
killed. I looked at that photo every time I visited. Riad saw what I was
looking at and said, “She shined for us all in her days. You were very
kind to her, Andrew. She did not like many Americans.” He began to
laugh, “How do you say? Headstrong. Like her mother.”
I smiled as I turned away from the photo and sat back down. I
could feel Riad’s eyes still on me.
“You are still a young man, Andrew. You will make a good
father someday. I know this.”
I looked over at him and smiled. I could have told him the
truth. That there would be no children of my own. But it just wasn’t
something I talked about with many people. Not even with him. Not
even now. So I just said, “Thank you my friend.”
It was getting close to supper time, so I decided to say good
bye.
“I understand, Andrew. You are a busy young man. But you
are the only family I have, you know. So, of course, my time with you
gives me pleasure.”
Riad was a strong man. But Karima’s death nearly broke him. I
saw it in his eyes the day he gave me the book. I worked every
connection I had in my young career to get him a visa to live in the
U.S. He would live his final years in peace. That I promised.
“Next Sunday is the end of Ramadan. Maybe you come and
watch the race with me then?”
Why’d he have to say that?
“We’ll see, Riad. I might be out of town.” That was the best I
could do.
Out in front of the house, I carefully placed my pack in the
front passenger seat of my ‘92 Volvo. I sat for a moment in the driver’s
seat before I put the key in the ignition. It was dusk, when I always felt
the emptiness and melancholy seeping into my soul. Sundays were
especially bad.
I thought of Veronika and evening walks we took around the
monuments along the National Mall. Our favorite was the Lincoln
Memorial. We stood one night inside the memorial, alone, reading the
words of the second inaugural carved into the wall. Veronika had
suggested a game. We would each pick a word from the speech and try
to guess what the other had chosen.
Her guess was wrong, but I knew immediately the word a
preacher’s daughter would choose. “Hope,” I said confidently. She
turned to me with shock in her eyes, wide and glistening beneath long
eyelashes. She’d kissed me on the cheek and held me tight.
Sitting there in the car, I somehow knew I would never know
that feeling again.
I exhaled and swallowed—once, twice…again—as I often did
when nervous. I put the key in the ignition, looked in the rearview
mirror at Logan Avenue. I would visit her tonight. There was
something I wanted to give her.
Veronika lived two miles northeast of the assisted living home.

Her house was built along the side of a hill. It was somewhat shabby,
but it was hers—bought by her without assistance from her ex-
husband, a professional student with little income.
The siding was white with shutters and a bright green door.
Her son, Vladimir, loved the color and insisted the door be painted so,
just as he insisted she wear green nail polish all the time. Veronika told
me once that if small things like these made her child happy, they were
Myers / 61
worth it. He was the center of her world. She was a good mother. It’s
what I admired most in a woman.
I grabbed my pack and walked up the narrow steps leading to the front
door. I nearly slipped on the wet leaves covering the steps. I took a
deep breath and rang the doorbell.
When she appeared at the door, I felt a rush of adrenaline
course through my body. She wore jeans and a light pink t-shirt that
accentuated her effortless beauty. She had a shapely figure, largely the
result of healthy eating. She rarely exercised. Her long, auburn hair
framed a kind and composed face.
Her nose had a slight crook that, she told me, was the result of
an accident, but I didn’t quite believe it. The shape of her nose too
closely resembled her father’s, in the photographs she showed me. He
brought his family to the United States during the fall of the Soviet
Union.
“Andrew?” Her eyes widened. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. I guess I should have called.”
She nodded then said, “No. No, it’s fine.”
I immediately felt unwanted, but at that point I didn’t care.
“Look, can I come in? I brought you a couple things.”
She hesitated, glancing behind her, then back at me. “I wasn’t
expecting you, and the house is a mess.”
“Who cares? Look, I’m not going to stay long. I know you
probably have to get Vlad to bed soon. I just want to give you a couple
little gifts before I go.”
“What do you mean, before you go? Are you leaving town?”
I hesitated but recovered. “No. I just might be taking some
vacation soon, that’s all.”
“Okay, come on in.” She opened the door for me.
Her son’s toy cars were strewn across the living room floor. I
could hear him playing in the backyard. I knelt down and reached into
my pack. With my finger, I checked to make sure the safety on the
pistol was still in position. Then I pulled out a box.
“Okay, first,” I said smiling, “I got you a GPS for your car.
That phone of yours is always dying on you. In case I’m not there, I
want you to keep this in your car so you don’t get lost. Besides, you
know I hate it when you’re looking down at directions on your phone
while you’re driving.”
She smirked and shook her head as she accepted the box.
“Andrew, you shouldn’t have. How much was this?”
“It doesn’t matter, just use it, okay?” I knelt down again and
reached into my bag and pulled out a small jewelry box. “Now, this is
your real present. I hope you like it.” I handed her the box.
Veronika opened it. Inside was a silver heart-shaped pendant
with the word надежда engraved on it. Pronounced, nadezhda, it was
the Russian word for ‘hope.’ She stared at it with a pained look on her
face as tears welled up in her eyes. It was the reaction I hoped for.
“So, you’ll always remember that night we stopped at the
Lincoln Memorial,” I said as I gently patted her on the arm.
Just then, Vladimir came scurrying through the back door to
his mother. I smiled, expecting a warm greeting from the boy. Instead,
he ignored me and asked his mother something in Russian as he
inspected her nails. She answered in Russian, and he hurried out into
the backyard.
I followed Veronika’s eyes out the window. A man was
holding out his arms to the little boy. Mateo. The father. He wore
comfortable looking jeans and a white undershirt. He scooped the boy
up and threw him over his shoulder as the boy squealed. Veronika’s
eyes darted back and forth between Mateo and me.
I felt ill, foolish, intrusive. I said nothing. Veronika said
nothing. I stared down at my open pack.
Veronika broke the silence. “It’s what’s best for Vlad,” she
whispered.
I stood motionless, and then finally asked, “Was I wrong to
think there could be a future for us, even without having a child of our
own?”
She seemed to weigh her words. “To be truthful, Andrew, you
weren’t always easy to be around.”
“What do you mean?”
“The drinking. Sometimes you just didn’t know when to stop.”
I shook my head in disgust, “Yeah, well. I never hurt anyone.”
“Except you,” she said, folding her arms. We stood in silence
for several moments, and then she added, “Andrew Mayer, I’m sure
you’ll find someone.”
I looked at her and smiled, nodding my head but not in
agreement. I began to chuckle, recognizing the pity in her words. I
reached down for my backpack. “Promise me you’ll use that GPS.
Please.” I looked her in the eye then walked out the door.
Myers / 63
That night I didn’t know where to go. I felt trapped within

myself, nowhere to escape. Finally, I decided on the right spot to do it.
I’d go to the little park in Foggy Bottom where Veronika and I had sat
that first night.
It was about nine o’clock as I approached the bench at the apex
of the triangle. It was our bench. I liked thinking maybe no one else
had sat there since that night months earlier.
I placed my pack on the ground and sat on the right side of the
bench, my side. The bench was still moist from the rain and soaked
through my jeans. I looked off to the right at a little garden Veronika
and I had admired. I sat trying to reclaim the majesty of that night.
In the distance, I heard an ambulance siren and felt the blood
rush out of my face. I remembered why I had come here. I swallowed
hard and reached down to unzip my pack. No more gifts for others.
I pulled out my pistol.
I placed it on my right knee and pushed the safety-lever up
with my thumb until I saw the little red dot. The weapon was ready to
fire. I looked around. The only soul in the vicinity was a man in a suit,
standing fifty feet away at a bus stop. He was smoking and
occasionally looked over at me.
I decided I’d use the statue of the Olympic discus thrower that
stood on a pedestal in the middle of the park to focus on, help me
steady my hand.
The spring air hung cool and still. A bus arrived with a
rumbling wheeze, and picked up the man in the suit as he flicked his
cigarette onto the curb. Truly alone now, I stared at the muscular
silhouette of the discus thrower. Coiled, like me, prepared to unleash.
A calm came over me as I sat upright, motionless.
But I couldn’t get the image of Riad’s hand out of my mind.
The hand I placed the cash in. The hand that gave me the book. The
hand that cradled the worry beads. It was strong.
I looked at my own. Cowardly. Clutching escape.
I pushed the safety lever down on the pistol with my thumb,
covering the little red dot.
There was a race I needed to see next week. It wasn’t time for
this.
He wasn’t the family I’d imagined for myself. But he would be
expecting me.
MICHAEL CASEY
shower walk
from the MP hooches to the shower

was maybe a two hundred yard walk
you walk by the water buffalo
and the piss tube
an empty rocket canister in the ground
go cart size carport walls on stilts
around three sides for modesty
and then the house of fecal
the six hole outhouse
it actually had a big sign
six feet long shaped like an arch
HOUSE OF FECAL on it
and then the shower room
with maybe six or seven overhead faucets
the place the lower half of it
was washed with bleach
but the ceiling was covered
with spider webs and big boy spiders
until a HHQ sergeant’s monkey
visited that wonderful creature
swinging from faucet to faucet
ate all the spiders
I recall the sergeant well
he carried a carbine
and ironed his bush hat
so the rim was perfectly
horizontal to the ground
as if trying to style it
into a Smokey the Bear top
the HHQ hooches hired cleaning ladies
who’d sit on the hooch steps
while they polished shoes
wearing a towel I’d turn on the charm
walking by the ladies
well they were young girls really
and on our base they actually did cleaning
64
Casey / 65
I would smile a buoi bu ruong or buoi bu tuoi

good afternoon or good morning
once I did ask the sergeant
what kind of monkey is it
he said it’s a spider monkey, stupid
CATHERINE MOSCATT
THE READER
“Who would like to read?”

I keep my hand firmly at my side
My fingers sticky with my sweat
Hands pop up across the room
“Catherine why don’t you come up here and read?”
No
Heads swivel towards me
He looks at me
Expectantly
I have no choice
My eight year old legs carry me

To the front of the room
He hands me the page
“Read” he instructs
But I didn’t raise my hand

I begin to read, my voice halting
Tears roll down my face
“I have a stomach ache” I tell him
“Again?”
That’s what the nurse asks when I appear in her office
I lie down on the familiar cot
Tuck my legs into my body
Safe at last
66
/ 67
JENNIFER LEVIN
LAMBS WOOL
Gretchen was missing. She was nowhere to be found when

Mitchell Bloom came home after work to take her out to dinner. He
called but there was no answer at her best friend Trinnie’s house.
He had no idea what to do.
If Joan were there and lacking another immediate course of
action, she would spend the down-time devising their daughter’s
punishment. Then, when Gretchen eventually came home, unaware of
the upset she’d caused—having been playing at Trinnie’s or watching
TV at some neighbor’s—Joan could begin screaming immediately.
Gretchen would cry and scream back, and then Joan would take her to
her bedroom and spank her with a hairbrush. Both of them would wail
for hours.
Unlike the rest of America’s parents, Joan never assumed
Gretchen had been kidnapped, that she was in trouble and unable to
escape or contact them. When her daughter went missing for a few
minutes or a few hours, Joan assumed it was evidence of Gretchen’s
cruelly strong will or, on other occasions, her spiteful stupidity.
“Give her a break,” Mitchell said once. “So, she’s a little
spacey.”
Joan had sucked in her cheeks, a look that Mitchell used to
find sexy but over the years had come to regard as terrifying. “You
want to be accused of raising a moron?” she hissed. “If she’s not being
a stupid bitch by refusing to learn to leave a note, then she’s being the
kind of pathetic, snotty little girl who can’t ever be troubled to think of
others. Or, maybe she’s just a fucking retard who shouldn’t be allowed
out of the house by herself if she can’t learn to leave a fucking note!”
Joan bashed her head against the bedroom wall for emphasis at the last
part and screeched as if the wall had attacked her. “Fuck! What the
fuck!”
He tried Trinnie again—still no answer. And then Mitchell did
something he knew he would regret. He called every number on
Gretchen’s class contact list, even though if Gretch found out she
would curl up fetal and refuse to go to school in the morning, and then
Joan would have to pull her out of bed by the hair. For reasons that he
couldn’t fathom, Gretchen was under the impression that almost
everyone in her class hated her. Mitchell didn’t believe this to be true
67
10
but he still knew that calling all those kids’ families to ask after
Gretchen would embarrass her to the point of incoherent tears.
He wondered if her intense self-consciousness of the last few
months had something to do with her age, the way Joan said it did,
always referring to Gretchen as an “adolescent” in a tone of voice that
implied this “phase” was something Gretchen could have avoided if
she’d been a better daughter. She was still just a little kid, he thought.
He remembered being in the sixth grade. He’d had a winning Little
League season and an enormous crush on Polly Davidson, the first girl
in his class to grow breasts. With something like shame, Mitchell
realized that Gretchen was mostly likely the Polly Davidson of her
class. She even looked a little like Polly, with her dark curls and big
eyes. He’d always had a type, he realized—the Joan type. Raven-
haired, pouty-mouthed, and crazy. Joan and Polly both had freckles.
When Gretchen was little she’d tried to apply her own freckles with a
cinnamon-scented marker from her set of sixty-four. Joan had wiped
them off her cheeks with nail-polish remover.
No one knew where Gretchen was. “She didn’t leave a note?”
asked the parents of the kids who supposedly hated his daughter. “Do
you know if she was on the bus?” “Can we help you set up a phone
tree?” “Have you called the police?”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Mitchell told them.
They hinted that he was being dangerously passive. They
advised him to start a search party, to comb the forest preserve and
field near their house. She could be in the cattails, or under the bridge,
or flailing and drowning in the creek with a piece of her clothing
snagged on a submerged tree limb.
Trinnie finally answered her phone.
“Well, Mr. Bloom,” she said in her gravelly, too-sexy-for-a-
kid voice that Joan maintained would get her pregnant by fifteen. “I
invited her over after school but she said she had a headache. She has
way too many headaches for a kid our age. I think she might have a
brain tumor. You should take her to a doctor.”
Mitchell pictured Trinnie, with her flaxen hair and baby-blue
eyes, playing with a string of pink bubble gum, stretching it out and
then curling it back into her mouth with her tongue. Joan had slapped
Gretchen for doing that with her gum once, and then grabbed the wad
out of her mouth. “Was she on the bus?” he asked. “Did she get off at
her stop?”
Levin / 69
“We’re not on the same bus.” Trinnie’s tone implied that he

was a terrible father for not knowing this.
“But you live so close to us!” he protested.
“On the other side of the forest preserve.” He could practically
hear her rolling her eyes. “You should check across the street at that
boy’s house. She has a crush on him, I think, but he’s not good enough
for her.”
It never would’ve occurred to Mitchell to check at the brown
house with the dandelion lawn, but that’s where he went, forgetting his
jacket, shivering on the stoop while he waited for someone to answer
the door. The Goldings—with their son, Jeremy, who was a year
younger than Gretch—were the latest family to live in his block’s only
rental house. There was an endless parade of tenants, a new one every
six or twelve months, and every single one of them was satisfied to
keep the lawn withered and dead, which he appreciated because he
didn’t take very good care of his lawn, either. Joan had hated each
family for different and specific reasons: their taste in cars, their yappy
barking dogs, the looks she imagined they gave her when she saw
them in the driveway or ran into them at the grocery store. She always
thought people were judging her, as if anyone had time to worry about
strangers in the bread aisle.
Joan hated the Goldings because they sent Jeremey and his
older sister to Jewish day school instead of public school. Joan, a non-
practicing Jew, resented her observant brothers and sisters. She
considered private religious education akin to membership in a cult.
Despite having been bar mitzvahed once upon a time, Mitchell had
little use for religion himself— though he knew that if the shit hit the
fan he’d be taken to the ovens with the rest of his tribe, which was his
basic litmus test for spirituality. He was fine with anyone who didn’t
want to kill him. It was a free country. People could send their kids to
school wherever they wanted.
An angry, bespectacled teenage girl answered the door.
Mitchell asked after Gretchen and she made a gesture that he thought
might indicate she wanted him to follow her. He could have navigated
his way through the house with his eyes closed. Like all houses in their
neighborhood, its floorplan was identical to his own, though because
the Goldings lived across the street, everything was flipped to the left.
Decorating choices varied wildly around the neighborhood. The
Blooms’ living room, for instance, was chocolate brown with a
lavender accent wall, while the Goldings’ was a flat cream, the color
of every rental apartment Mitchell had lived in before he met Joan in

1971. The Blooms’ house usually smelled of cigarettes and Lean
Cuisine lasagna. The Goldings’ smelled like lemon Pledge and
Sunday-dinner—pot-roast, probably, and rosemary potatoes—and
furthermore lacked the bitter stink of divorce.
* * *
Gretchen was playing Robin Hood with Jeremy in his

backyard but she wasn’t having as much fun as she wanted to be
having because she was arguing with Trinnie in her head. She didn’t
want to care if Trinnie was mad at her. Trinnie was always mad at her.
Trinnie didn’t like it when Gretchen resisted her in any way—opted
out of a weekend sleep-over, squirmed away when Trinnie used her
jean-clad thighs as a napkin at lunchtime, played with Jeremy after
school instead of her, etc., etc., etc. Trinnie was always accusing her of
lying even though in reality Trinnie was the one who lied all the time.
When Gretchen had told Trinnie that her parents were getting divorced
and her dad was moving to Michigan, Trinnie claimed it wasn’t true.
“If I were you,” she’d said, bugging-out her kewpie-doll eyes,
“I’d be afraid lying would make it come true. If you lie about it and it
comes true, it will be your fault.”
They’d been friends since nursery school but sometimes
Gretchen wanted to flick Trinnie in the forehead. She aimed her bow
and arrow at the dead plum tree in Jeremy’s backyard, fervently
wishing she could leave town with her father. She needed to get away.
Her arrow went wide, bouncing off the bushes behind her target.
Jeremy’s older sister leaned out the backdoor and called
Gretchen’s name. She was fifteen and always in a bad mood. “Your
dad’s here!”
She dropped her bow, elated, unable to stop herself from
breaking into a run. Somehow, she’d managed to completely put the
fact that it was Dad Night out of her head for over three whole hours.
After dwelling on it all day, it seemed like a miracle to get to get
excited about it all over again. Gretchen raced through the living room
and shocked herself by throwing her arms around her burly father.
“You came to get me!”
Mitchell was disarmed by Gretchen’s unusual display of
affection. His wife was the toucher, the hugger. It had been years since
he’d so much as held his daughter’s hand or swooped her up for no
Levin / 71
reason. Joan was paranoid about incest. She said fathers who let their
daughters sit on their laps were asking for trouble.
Michigan, here I come.
Soon, very soon, he’d be able to sleep past 7:30 a.m. on the
weekends without receiving a lecture on sloth from his wife, who
smoked two cigarettes in bed every morning before she even got up to
pee. He’d be able to eat more than three cookies in a sitting, should the
urge strike him, without getting an earful about gluttony and how
she’d had an eating disorder in high school. He’d be able to pick his
own television shows, eat red meat, and relax with a beer on a
Saturday night without being accused of having a drinking problem.
He decided not to tell Gretchen that he’d called her entire
class, since it was possible she’d never find out. Joan would have
yelled and punished her for “making” her go through the trouble—
there would have been no going out to dinner after something like this.
But he didn’t see any reason to ruin the evening since he could count
the number of hours he had left to spend alone with his daughter on his
fingers—and she was just so easily struck down. She was getting to be
too much like Joan. They cared so deeply about what others thought of
them that it could literally send them to bed, writhing in what appeared
to be physical pain.
* * *
Joan enrolled Gretchen in her first ballet class the day after she
turned three. She looked so darling in her little black leotard and pink
tights, Joan thought—if not for her ridiculous stocking feet, she’d be
as perfect as the little girl in the jewelry boxes, the little girl who
ceaselessly twirled, always kept her spot, her arms held forever aloft.
Technically, the class was not real ballet but something called
“Beginning Movement.” When Joan called the Northbrook Park
District to inquire about children’s dance classes, she was told they
had to be at least five years old to take even the most rudimentary
ballet class. Thinking the park district was staffed by Philistines, she’d
called a private studio—far more expensive but worth it if it meant a
better quality of person answering the phone. But they all said the
same thing. One vile woman had the nerve to tell her that ballet could
do “permanent damage” to a three-year-old’s body.
“Their little legs and feet aren’t ready for the pointing and
flexing,” she said. “We just can’t allow it.”
Absurd. Joan had begged her mother for ballet lessons the
moment she could speak. The very moment. Before her thighs and hips
became unacceptably fat she’d been the best dancer, the star of every
recital she’d ever been in, the most talented little girl anyone had ever
met. She regretted every moment of her life that she hadn’t spent
dancing. Perhaps Gretchen would at least learn a bit of grace in this
class, something she sorely lacked. Maybe she would learn to
tumble—maybe she would become an Olympic gymnast! One never
knew. Anything was possible if you stayed thin and persevered. Joan
was determined to teach Gretchen a true sense of perseverance, to
make her understand that no one would ever make you feel good about
yourself. No one who said anything nice ever meant it, not in the right
way, so you had to make sure they knew exactly who you were. She
wouldn’t be held back by the Northbrook Park District—she would
teach Gretchen the basics of ballet all by herself. By the time Gretchen
turned five, she’d be dancing at an advanced level. She’d be ready to
go en pointe, and the Philistines would know exactly who counted.
On the way to the first “Beginning Movement” class, Joan
allowed Gretchen to sit in the front seat. “Like a big girl,” she told her,
but Gretchen didn’t even say thank you. She just drooled her sloppy
smile.
“Do you love me?” Joan asked.
Gretchen nodded.
“Then say, ‘I love you, Mommy.’ “
Gretchen snorted. “No!” She wiped her hand across her drooly
mouth and wrinkled her unfortunate pig nose.
“Buckle up,” Joan said brightly, “lest you go through the
windshield.”
As expected, “Beginning Movement” was a joke. The little
girls did nothing but screech and run around in circles, flapping their
skinny arms as though trying to take flight. Gretchen had a fabulous
time, but her taste had never been anything to brag about.
* * *
Mitchell waved at Gretchen from across the booth. They were
at a Mexican chain restaurant by the expressway. “You spacing out?”
“Sorry.” Her smile could only be described as wan, and she
apologized for the oddest things. He wished he knew how to tell her
that she didn’t have to without hurting her feelings.
Levin / 73
Too much of his life was spent this way—waiting for a girl’s
mood to play out—so though he hated the idea of leaving Gretchen, he
was pretty sure it was too late for her. She was already gone away to
wherever Joan went when she went nuts. He was sure he hadn’t known
any girl as high-strung and morose as Gretch when he was in sixth
grade. She was twelve now, and maybe not such a little girl anymore.
Her body displayed all the signs but she and Joan had seemed
oblivious so Mitchell had finally brought it up six weeks earlier, in a
move so calculating he felt a jolt of glee every time he recalled it. He’d
known exactly what would happen if he brought it up, what he needed
to have happen.
The right moment came in the bedroom on a Sunday morning.
Joan was folding laundry and he was pretending to read the
newspaper.
“Don’t you think,” he began, “that it’s time for you to buy
Gretchen some bras?”
Joan dropped the socks she’d been balling. She sucked in her
cheeks. “Don’t evaluate the size of your daughter’s breasts. I don’t
know why your pedophilia should come as a surprise to me, but just
make sure you don’t fuck her, okay? She’s going to need copious
therapy as it is.”
Mitchell took a deep breath and said the words he’d been
holding in his throat for the better part of a week, since the very
moment his boss told him his request for a transfer had gone through.
“I’m leaving you, Joan. I got a job in Michigan and I want to take
Gretchen with me. I want custody.”
Joan stood stock-still, her eyes closed. He waited for her to
choose her demeanor. After a moment, she cackled maniacally and
when she opened her eyes they were filled with a terrible gleam. She
delivered her verdict in a voice so low it seemed to have no volume at
all. “I will sue you for everything you’re worth. I know you have
money stashed away. What do you have, a lake house? An antique car
collection in a barn upstate? I’ll find your assets, you motherfucker.”
He couldn’t remember loving her, not even a little. “I make
fifty-five thousand dollars a year.”
“And I want to know where the fuck it goes!” she screamed.
When Joan put her mind to something she saw it through, and
from that moment forward she put her mind to making sure he
behaved like, in her words, “your typical uncaring divorced dad, a
weekend dad, the kind of guy who only sees his kid to give his ex-wife
a break. You can have her summer vacation and Chanukah. And
you’re free to visit any time, of course, although you will not be
allowed in this house. I’m changing the locks the fucking second you
abandon us.”
Now Mitchell peered at Gretchen over the top of his menu,
wiggling his eyebrows in a furtive manner. She glared at him because
she thought she was too old to laugh at something like that. After the
waitress took their orders, they talked about school.
“Every week we have to memorize a poem now,” Gretchen
said. “We’re allowed to pick any poem we want as long as it’s not
Shel Silverstein because Mrs. Stout says he’s too easy. We have to
recite them on Friday mornings in front of the whole class.”
“I didn’t know they still made kids do that.” Mitchell had a
moment of anxiety over a fourth-grade oral book report he thought
he’d forgotten. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The day of his
turn he got a headache and sweated profusely all morning, and then
he’d run out of the classroom with the dry-heaves during the report
before his. He was allowed to try again the following day but again
he’d been racked with nerves. He flubbed the whole way through,
talking over his own words, not making any sense. By the end even the
teacher had been laughing. He flinched recalling the embarrassing C-
minus, the first bad grade in his young academic life. His high school
career was quarter after quarter of C’s, and college never really agreed
with him. He blamed that day in the fourth grade. You never knew—
his youthful fear of public speaking could have led directly to the fact
that he wasn’t now a tenured professor or famous literary critic. Joan
would have loved him so much more if he were smarter.
He realized, proudly, that he was already thinking of their
marriage in the past tense. People who said divorce was difficult were
nuts. This was going to be the best thing he’d ever done for himself.
When the food came, Gretchen poked her chicken enchiladas
with her fork, which she then sent clattering to the floor under the
table. “I’m sorry!”
Mitchell leapt up and grabbed a new set of silverware from an
empty booth across from them. “Don’t worry about it. See? Brand new
fork. All better.”
Gretchen’s lower lip quivered but she smiled. He asked her
what poem she was memorizing. “Lady Leh—Laz—Lady Laz-
something?” She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I should know the title.”
Levin / 75
“‘Lady Lazarus’? By Sylvia Plath?” Good grief. “Where did

you find that?”
She gave him a furious frown. “In one of your books!”
He snickered. “That’s your mom’s book.”
Gretchen looked despondent. Her right shoulder was hiked up
more than usual that day. She’d been diagnosed with scoliosis the
previous spring by the school nurse and then by a real doctor at a
hospital. Immediately her small, hunched figure had come into
focus—the way her head tipped slightly to the left, how her right
shoulder lifted and her left collar bone jutted out too far. She stood
unevenly as well, and her balance had never been anything to brag
about. They’d met with a physical therapist who taught them special
stretches that Gretchen was supposed to do every night before bed.
“Kids don’t really understand how important the stretching
is,” the therapist told Mitchell and Joan, “so until it becomes a habit,
the best way to ensure she does her exercises is by doing them with
her.”
For a few weeks, Joan stretched with Gretchen every night.
And for a few weeks, when Gretchen complained of her usual aches
and pains—a burning sensation in her lower back, shooting knives in
her calves, an inability to turn her head from side to side—Joan, who
didn’t believe in pain she couldn’t see, didn’t call her a liar. And once
he found out that his daughter’s back really was messed up, when he
knew for sure that it wasn’t psychosomatic like Joan had always
thought, Mitchell went out and bought her a heating pad.
The mother-daughter stretching didn’t last. Joan declared that
“moving her body again” was “transformative,” and made her “need to
dance.” She’d danced as a child but gave it up as a teen for reasons she
always attributed to being “too fat.” She wasn’t fat at all, not too him.
In fact, Mitchell wished he didn’t still find her so attractive. Since Joan
never did anything half-heartedly, she signed up for two classes that
each met twice a week, and Gretchen’s exercises dropped off her
radar.
“Mrs. Stout must be mean,” he said, wondering what kind of
witch was in charge of his daughter’s education.
Gretchen scowled. “No, she’s nice. The only reason she’s
making us do the poems is because we took a hundred-word vocab test
a couple weeks ago, and almost everyone got under forty right. Mrs.
Stout says memorizing poetry will improve our vocabulary and help us
learn other things, too. Like spelling, I think? I don’t care about that. I
just like memorizing.”
“You flunked a test?” How had he not heard about this? She’d
never gotten an F before. An F would have sent Joan into a rage—
although it was possible she’d gone into a rage when he wasn’t at
home.
“I got a hundred percent,” Gretchen said through a mouthful
of food.
Mitchell involuntarily hit the table with his fist. “No kidding!
A hundred percent? One hundred words?”
She nodded. “They were Latin words. I don’t know why Mrs.
Stout wanted us to learn them, but I thought it was fun. Did you know
that ‘ibid’ means ‘the same’?”
“Did you study for the test?” Gretchen’s teacher was
obviously a monster, but he was grinning like an idiot and he didn’t
care. Latin!
Gretchen appeared frustrated. “I don’t really ever study,” she
said. “I mean, not things that are reading. Reading isn’t really
homework because I like to read. That’s what Mom says.”
Joan was so mean to Gretchen sometimes that he wanted to
belt her, show her what happened to most people when they acted like
assholes. He didn’t believe in hitting women, as a general rule, but
clearly some of them would deserve it. “Well,” he said, trying to hide
the tremor he felt in his voice, “when you come for the summer, we’ll
get you a library card right away. And I’m going to buy you a bike so
that you can ride around and go places while I’m at work.”
A white-hot light filled Gretchen’s ribcage. Her mom always

said that her dad wanted to be free of responsibility and that’s why he
was leaving—that he would never ask Gretchen to come live with him
for real, not for any length of time longer than a summer, because he
didn’t care about her enough. Her mom said he loved his freedom
more than he loved her, that all dads did. Summer was just an
obligation, just what was expected of divorced fathers. Knowing this,
Gretchen had resolved not to ask him if she could live with him unless
it seemed like he really did want her to—but maybe he was afraid to
say so.
“I asked around when I signed the lease on the place,” he said,
“and there are lots of kids your age in the complex. There’s a
swimming pool. You’ll probably have a whole group of friends in no
time.” He leaned across the table and ruffled her hair, something she
Levin / 77
couldn’t remember him ever doing. The light hovered in the back of
her throat. “There’s a park a block away,” he said, “and I saw a ballet
studio on my way to the office, so that’s convenient if you want to
keep up your classes.”
“I quit ballet almost two years ago,” Gretchen whispered, a
pain starting behind her eyes. She needed to cry so badly that it made
her face hurt. The night she refused to go back to ballet she’d lied in
the hallway outside of her bedroom, screaming that her tights made
her legs itch like there were red ants under her skin, and her mother
had pulled her hair so hard that some of it had come off in her hands.
The light tried to climb higher in her throat, so she concentrated on
keeping it low. “I’m nauseous.”
“You probably swallowed funny,” said her father. “Drink
some water.”
No one ever believed her. “I might throw up.”
“Go to the bathroom!” He rushed her from the booth and then
patted her on the back as though wishing her luck. Taking deep breaths
the way he always told her to when she felt sick, she made her way to
the women’s restroom. The door locked behind her with a sliding bolt.
Gretchen hunched over the toilet. The water inside was chemical blue.
* * *
The toe-shoes had once been pink but the satin had worn thin,
near white in the cleanest parts—here stained dark with sweat and dirt,
there a patch rusting from the inside out. When Gretchen turned five,
she was finally old enough to wear them, her mother’s most precious
possession.
Joan pointed at the rust. “That’s blood.”
Gretchen knew the words by heart.
“I danced until my feet bled because that’s how much I loved
it. You’re supposed to put lambs wool in the toe, but that’s just for
comfort. If you really love it, it doesn’t matter how much it hurts.”
Walking in the shoes was harder than Gretchen thought it
would be, round and round the living room, upstairs and down, to train
her feet. Her ankles burned and her toes felt folded in half. She wore
them as often as she could.
* * *
Gretchen coughed and choked over the restaurant toilet, trying

to make something come up. The light filled her whole head and
radiated down her shoulders, pulsed out to the space between her brain
and her skull, the space between her skull and the skin on her skull.
She stuck her finger down her throat and gagged, but nothing
happened. She tried again, again and again, and then she was
scratching the back of her throat with her own fingers and then—
finally.
She didn’t examine what she’d forced out of herself. She
flushed and left the stall. She rinsed her mouth at the sink and studied
her red cheeks in the mirror. Her plate was gone when she returned to
the table, even though she hadn’t finished her meal. Her father was
drinking coffee.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She slid into her side of the booth. “So, Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think…I was wondering. See, I really hate
Northbrook. The kids at school…they don’t…” She kept her eyes on
her palms, as though there were something written there. “I was
thinking maybe I could move to Michigan with you.”
He looked worried, rather than happy, and her heart sank.
“You want to move to a whole new state just because you don’t like
the kids at school?” he asked.
Gretchen squirmed. The way he said it, it sounded dumb.
“They don’t like me,” she tried, but it was no use. It was too late.
“Forget it.”
In a halting voice, Mitchell said, “Maybe you can live with me
in a couple of years. But right now…until things get settled…it’s just
better if you stay here with your mom. You’d miss her too much if you
lived with me full-time, anyway. You know you would. But you’re
gonna come for the whole summer!”
Her face was melting. She brought her knees to her chin.
“What’s wrong?” Mitchell asked, but she could barely hear
him.
She curled up in the backseat on the way home, buried her
face in her knees and practiced not breathing. She recited her poem
silently. The words made her feel powerful and guilty.
A sort of walking miracle, my skin.
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
Levin / 79
A paperweight,
my face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin,

O my enemy.
Do I terrify?
The car slowed to a stop. All her senses told her that they were
by the field between her house and Trinnie’s, next to the forest
preserve. There was a rustle of trees and a whispering chorus. She kept
her eyes closed. Were the deer chanting her name?
“Gretch,” said Mitchell, “sit up. You have to see this.”
* * *
When Gretchen was six, she was the youngest student in her
ballet class. In the spring, the dance school held a public recital for all
the students, the little girls on up through the teenagers, who Joan said
would be dancing with a real company by then if they were any good.
The eight- and nine-year-olds in Gretchen’s class had costumes of
flowing white, quite grown-up, Joan told her. On the day of the show,
she twisted Gretchen’s hair into a bun and put makeup on her—blush,
lipstick, and coats and coats of black mascara that Gretchen
complained made her lashes feel thick and crumbly.
They needed to be at the rented auditorium an hour before the
recital began, so they drove early, leaving Mitchell to meet them later.
On the way there, they sang along to A Chorus Line, which was Joan’s
favorite. But right in the middle of belting out “Dance for Grandma!
Dance for Grandma!” their brown Saab sputtered and jerked. They
floated toward the curb and came to a stop in front of a yellow house
with rose bushes along its walkway.
“Fuck!” Joan screamed. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” She
slammed her head against the steering wheel with each repetition.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Her teeth gnashed in a violent spasm, and
then she howled liked a banshee, stretching out the syllable,
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!”
And then everything was quiet.
Gretchen didn’t take her eyes off her mother. After a few
minutes, she sat up and seemed to shake off whatever had come over
her, like a wet dog. She resettled herself in her seat and turned to
Gretchen. Her eyes were narrow and her voice was soft.
“Get out of the car and don’t forget your bag. If you leave
your ballet shoes in the car, you might as well kill yourself.” They
walked up to the door of the yellow house and rang the bell. “Just keep
your mouth shut and smile,” her mother hissed.
The old woman who answered had white curly hair and wore
pink pants with a matching T-shirt. “What do we have here?” she cried
when she saw Gretchen’s costume.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but my daughter is a prima
ballerina and she’s late for a performance just a few miles from here.
Our car has broken down outside, and we’re already late. It’s a sold-
out performance! She simply can’t disappoint her audience this way.
Soon she’ll have missed the overture! Please, it would be very
generous of you; I was hoping you’d give us a ride?”
The woman welcomed them inside. Her living room walls
were minty green and the house smelled of soup. Several potted ferns
hung from the ceiling. She offered to call a tow truck. “I don’t think
you understand,” said Joan. “We don’t have time for a tow truck.” Her
voice grew louder and she edged closer to the woman. “You don’t
seem to understand that my daughter needs to be on stage in ten
minutes! What kind of a person refuses to drive a little girl—a little
girl who is the star—to her performance?”
“I’m sorry,” the lady sputtered. “Why don’t you tell me where
you’re trying to go.”
It turned out that the auditorium was just a few blocks away.
Walking distance. Joan grabbed Gretchen’s hand and pulled her out
the door. “Run!” she screamed when they hit the sidewalk. “Run!”
They were the first ones to arrive. Joan took Gretchen to the
deserted dressing room and instructed her to warm up and go over her
routine, and then she went across the hall to the bathroom and
slammed her head against a metal stall five times, screaming in pain
with each thwack. Gretchen couldn’t help hearing. She sat in the
dressing room on a stool, her knees pulled to her chin, trying as hard
as she could not to cry, not to get sick, to remember why she was
there.
The teacher and the other girls and their mothers showed up
backstage with just twenty minutes to spare. Her mother, who was
calm by then, with her hair fluffed over her bruised forehead, loudly
disdained their lateness, but no one seemed to hear her. No one
Levin / 81
answered when she proclaimed that their lack of seriousness about

dance bordered on criminal. Gretchen wondered if she was the only
one who could hear her mother speaking, or if everyone was just
purposely ignoring her. Joan hated to be ignored. All the other mothers
went on putting lipstick on the girls and curling their bangs with their
fingers, hugging them and wishing them luck. They were all nervous
yet excited, sharing in a giddiness Gretchen knew she wasn’t allowed
to be part of.
The act of dancing was a blur. It was so much to remember—
how to hold her arms and point her feet, which way to turn. As long as
she could see the other girls, she could remember what came next. She
tried to remember to smile because her teacher told her she frowned
too much. As she lifted her arms to one side and then the other,
extended them in front, put her leg behind her in an arabesque—for a
few seconds she was having fun. And then she was in the wings
getting hugged by the teacher and patted on the head by the other girls.
Usually they ignored her because she was so much younger, but today
they acted as though she were the cute baby everyone loved. There
was a finale, curtseys and more smiles, and then she was in the
dressing room once more, admiring her still-perfect makeup in the
mirror. She thought she looked almost like a grownup.
Her mother came in and stood behind her, arms crossed over
her chest. “Let’s get out of here,” she said in her angry voice.
Gretchen’s insides slipped into her feet. “You’re mad at me?”
Her mother sighed for what seemed like forever. Then she
took a deep breath and sighed again. “The fact is, Gretch,” she finally
said, “you’re not talented. I have to deal with that.”
Gretchen began to cry. “What did I do?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Joan said through clenched teeth.
She took hold of Gretchen’s arm and dug her fingernails into her skin.
Gretchen wailed. “But I didn’t do anything!”
“You don’t know the routine!” Joan bellowed as though her
contents had been trapped under pressure. “You follow the other girls!
You have no pride! You’re not a real dancer!”
She dropped Gretchen’s arm and seemed almost to deflate, but
Gretchen knew she was only getting madder. Gretchen covered her
eyes and dug her fingernails into her cheeks. Inside her head there was
thrumming, which turned to pounding, and then to hammering, and
then to nothing at all.
* * *
What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot—
“Gretchen, get up. You’re really missing it,” said her dad. And
then he said, “Oh, no.” The odd tone in his voice propelled her to a
sitting position. The field was flooded with people, shining flashlights
at the ground in the dark. She knew some of them. There was Trinnie,
wrapped in the blue blanket from the Bomgarts’ family room, standing
under the weeping willow and crying like someone had died. Through
the closed car window, she could hear them.
Gretchen! Gretchen Bloom!
“What’s happening?”
Mitchell sighed. “It’s a search party. I’m sorry, Gretch. This is
partially my fault.”
“They think I’m missing?” Dying, she thought, is an art. Her
cheeks went hot. There was something exciting about this. “Why?”
“When I came home from work, I didn’t know where you
were. So I made some calls. People got the wrong idea.”
The thought came to her unbidden—They would like me if I
were missing. Everyone loved the girl in trouble. Even if she were
found safe, people would probably be nice to her at school for a couple
of days. She was needy, she knew, always wanting to be the center of
attention.
“I can’t believe they jumped to this stupid conclusion,” said
Mitchell. “Your mom’s right. This town is filled with ignorant morons.
It wasn’t like I thought you’d been kidnapped! I wasn’t panicking
when I called them. We have to tell them you’re not missing. They’re
wasting their time.”
I am your opus,
Your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
“We have to go home,” she said, “I’m going to throw up.”
Mitchell rubbed his hands over his face. He had no idea what
to do. “But they’re looking for you.”
“No,” she said, “they’re not.”
/ 83
KORKUT ONARAN
SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM
Just yesterday snowflakes were pelting

against my face. And now,
in this cheery end-of-April afternoon,
tight leggings on young legs claim the sidewalks.
There is sex in the way sun’s warmth

touches faces. And the flower petals
lying on the pavement tell me that
a journalist with a blooming mind
– someone I could have met next month –

is being arrested right this moment back home
for announcing to the rulers that there is sex
in the way sun’s warmth touches faces.
OF THE ECLIPSE
The moon doesn’t know anything about

how we rush into her shadow
doubling the population of some states
tripling the business in some cities.
She is not aware of the awe

she gives us wearing that golden crown
and how unusual for us to feel cold
in the middle of a hot day.
And the diamond ring! O the diamond ring!

An orgasmic flash at the edge of her being!
Short when it happens but then it lingers
in you for years.
No, she is not aware of any of this.

She just happened to go by in between.
83
10
SUZANNE O’CONNELL
MY DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBORS
How can they choose to live like that?

So many people crammed into every room.
Babies crying. Toilets flushing day and night.
Snores rise in the darkness.
I picture them lined up like enchiladas in a pan.
I never speak to them.

They don’t speak English.
I walk up my stairs and look straight ahead.
They don’t even have a car.
How do they get around?
Yet sometimes during the day,

when I’m by myself studying,
or trying to write a paper,
I hear them laughing, big hearty laughs
like a bowl of punch
being passed around.
And sometimes in the evening
I can smell the onions
and meat cooking on their stove.
I lick my lips.
Their clothes are worn.

The women have long black hair
and they never go to the beauty salon.
They aren’t thin either, probably because
of all those babies they have.
One woman wears the same gray sweater
every single day.
84
10
O’Connell / 85
Yet one night when I came home,

I looked in their window as I walked up the stairs.
It must have been her birthday,
there was a cake, candles were lit.
A group of them were gathered around the table.
She was smiling, wearing the same old gray sweater.
She had her arms around her husband’s neck.
She was looking into his eyes, kissing him.
It was then I stopped asking myself

how they can live like that.
DARREN C. DEMAREE
TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #484
At least seven transgender women have been killed so far

in 2017, and that is seven more hearts that have been
broken for no reason other than they were not the hearts of
the wealthy or the white.

in 2017, and that is too much death to tomb in two
months. That is enough death to bring back the carts from
the European plague. Bring out your non-heteronormative
bodies? This is fucking ridiculous. This is not much of a
poem. I lost the tether on this one, and I can’t get it back.

in 2017, and I have decided to swim in a claret punch until
I cannot ever be sober again. I don’t think I can be sober
through all of this. I will be, of course, because I cannot
be a monster that joins the parade of monsters, but I’m
going to need to go back on my meds soon.
86
/ 87
LAWRENCE WILLIAM BERGGOETZ

WITHOUT DREAMS
The distant sky emblazoned by twilight dims

as if its orange clouds have opened
like hands unfolding
releasing the last colors of the day
Slowly the blue evening air thickens black
In this wide silence

I recall my old dreams
and how they have faded
like this waning dusk
yet
the young night is now dawning with stars
as here I stand
without dreams
smiling under the light
of a thousand suns
87
WILL BROOKS
CANEY MOUNTAIN: THE LAND OF UPHILL BOTH WAYS
There is a certain amount of scoffing about public hunting in

Missouri, and rightly so. Public hunting equals free hunting. Anything
free is almost always too good to be true. Free draws crowds like the
St. Louis zoo or Popsicles on the Fourth of July. It’s meant to allow
anyone the opportunity to hunt. What it usually results in is crowded
hunting, game that seems to evaporate, and sore feelings about hunting
on public land.
However, there are public hunting areas that are great, using
practices that make hunting more productive for game, while helping
reduce hunters competing against hunters. Such a place is Caney
Mountain Conservation Area.
In the 1940s, wild turkey and deer had barely made it through
the Great Depression (turkey hunting actually closed in 1938). Some
estimated there were only forty wild turkeys left in Missouri. Caney,
with its rough mountains and lack of human presence, was one of the
few places in the state that still had wild turkey.
Caney was first made into a wildlife refuge under the
supervision of A. Starker Leopold (yep, son of Aldo Leopold) with Joe
Morrison as the park manager. They built a cabin for Starker to live in
and a fence around the refuge. At the time free-ranging was still
practiced in the Ozarks. and the fence kept out livestock. Bear and red
wolf were hunted and trapped. Food plots and ponds were established,
and slowly turkey and deer numbers increased.
Caney Mountain is named after the giant cane that grows
along Caney Creek, just below Leopold’s cabin, which is still
standing, complete with outhouse. Giant cane was once prevalent
along Ozark streams, but now is a rarity. Giant cane is only one of the
few rare or endangered plant species found within this natural refuge,
which includes a state record gum tree.
The knobs of Caney are centrally located in what is called the
Gainesville Monadnocks, formed from an ancient plateau. These
mountains are what Rocky Mountain folks call speed bumps. Locals
call them knobs. They’re bigger than a hill but smaller than a
mountain, mirroring the Appalachians to a lesser degree. High points
with names like Tater Cave Mountain, Deer Lick Point, Long Bald,
and Big Acorn Knob are topped with chert conglomerate, a rock that
88
Brooks / 89
looks like granite’s weird cousin. The chert is harder than the
surrounding dolomite, which has been eroded away by tributaries,
forming the knobs.
Henry Schoolcraft was the first recorded white man to come
stumbling around the place in 1818, in search of lead. What he found
were abandoned Indian camps on the edge of the mountains, proving
the area has always been a draw for hunters.
But enough about history and geography; let’s talk about the
hunt. Caney Mountain has four spring turkey managed hunts, a youth
season, and three weeklong hunts during the regular season. Hunters
apply for the managed hunts in the winter, and the winners are drawn
on March 15th. For the weeklong hunts, ten groups are chosen. The
groups can be a single individual or a maximum of three hunters.
Doing the math, that’s a possible thirty hunters on 7,899 acres, giving
each hunter 263 acres. Granted, Caney is split into three zones, with
Zone 1 being the managed hunt area. Zones 2 and 3 are open for
regular hunt seasons. Also, Caney’s rough terrain limits some areas
from being hunted. Starting to sound crowded yet? Fortunately, not
everyone shows up.
Me and my friend Will Thompson (yes, we have the same first
name) received our managed hunt pack for the second week of the
regular turkey season (April 25–May 1) in the mail. I immediately
started preparing. Not only did I have to get my gear in good shape, I
also needed to be in good shape. On top of that, we were primitive
camping for three nights.
Having visited Caney once before, I knew the amount of
walking that was going to be involved. Caney has twenty miles of
gravel road inside its boundaries, but like all public hunting, you have
to get off the beaten path.
I hunted the opening week on my family farm in Webster
County. I went out every morning, not killing a bird until Sunday. My
wife asked me when I’d be returning from Caney. I told her the latest
would be Sunday afternoon, but with some luck, Friday.
“Yeah, right,” she said with a giggle. I think she doubted my
turkey-killing abilities. In truth, I figured I’d have to hunt the whole
three days, which in Missouri is actually three half-days. Hunting ends
at 1:00 p.m..
We arrived Thursday night and set up camp. On a map I
showed Thompson my plan for the morning. We still had some
daylight left, so we headed out to put some birds to roost. We hadn’t
been driving long when a big-bodied turkey ran across the road about
a hundred yards in front of us, moving up to the top of Long
Mountain. We intuited it as a good omen.
We rode over to the west vista and walked a ways from the
truck. If nothing else, Caney Mountain is a quiet place. No major
interstate, railroad, or airport for a good long ways. We set and I blew
a few times on my hoot-owl call as the sun melted into the horizon.
We heard nothing but the whistling of our own noses. We were okay
with that.
Back at camp we made supper and discussed manly topics like
the difference between waterproof and water-resistant, then retired to
our tents. The next morning we awoke to a steady west wind. My old
nemesis was coming: rain.
We started toward our chosen spot full of optimism that Caney
turkeys would gobble loud enough to burst eardrums. Only when we
arrived at the west vista, some dude was already parked there. I had
made the first mistake of public hunting: I hadn’t made a Plan B.
Panicked, I turned the truck around and headed down another road.
Daylight was coming and the rain was coming. We needed to get in
the woods. We pulled over and just took off.
We started along the edge of a long point that overlooked
Caney Creek. Flustered, I blew on the hoot-owl call to no avail. We
heard nothing but wind through the trees. I decided to descend down
an almost bluff to Spout Spring Nature Trail. Not familiar with the
terrain, we declined into what could only be called an Ozark jungle. A
machete would have been handy. Although sprout thickets are
important for wildlife, they are a nightmare for a rambling hunter.
Somehow we made it through to the trail and started north, calling
occasionally as we went. Still, no gobbles.
The only thing that kept me composed at this point was the
beauty of Caney’s established timber as we went up Spout Spring
Nature Trail. We intersected with the north multiuse trail. Both
directions on the multiuse trail were up steep inclines that looked
dubious to walk on, yet imagine a state employee driving a truck on.
“You remember your grandparents talking about having to
walk to school uphill both ways?” Thompson asked.
“Yeah.”
“I think this is it. Caney Mountain—the land of uphill both
ways.”
Brooks / 91
As we traveled, Thompson’s statement seemed true enough.

We’d descend a steep grade only to start up another grade. Finally, as
we neared a food plot, Thompson spotted some turkeys. Only they had
already spotted us, flying off before allowing themselves to be ID’d.
But we’d seen something, and this was an improvement. As we
staggered up hills, we could hear thunder in the distance. We decided
to head back to camp, a mere two miles away.
After ascending to the top of a ridge, we were making better
time when the first close thunderclap opened near us. A turkey
gobbled at the thunder. He gobbled again. I called and he gobbled. We
set down and he gobbled a few times more. Through the vegetation I
eventually saw some movement: two toms in half strut, eagerly
chasing a hen. I saw them just long enough to see them, at about
eighty yards through the woods, and then they were gone. They
gobbled no more. The thunder, however, was intensifying.
We got up, moving as swiftly as the terrain would allow. At
the next cluster of food plots, we bumped into some more birds, but
the rain was falling so we kept moving. Finally, back at camp we set
under a camp pavilion Thompson had brought, drinking coffee and
making jokes about the rain. After an hour we got bored, and decided
to pick up my truck, which we had left along the road.
It was still raining steadily when we came around a bend in
the road. I spotted some strutters moving through some burnt woods. I
was ready to pursue them when a big lightning bolt cut through the
sky. We eased on by toward my truck.
At my truck we decided to check out a wildlife-viewing blind
shown on the map, our thought process being we could sit and be dry
while hunting. The blind itself was your typical sturdy, government-
issue building, complete with metal roof that drummed out all noises
with pelting rain. Still, it kept us dry.
We heard and saw nothing. At 12:30 p.m. the rain had passed,
and we made our way back to the section of woods where we spotted
the four toms earlier. Of course, since an hour and a half had passed,
our chances were slim.
Slim or not, we made a half-mile circle trying to cut off where
we thought they’d gone, but to no avail. The clock struck one and we
were done.
Back at camp we stretched out a tarp and laid out our gear to
dry. We ate, played a couple games of washers, read, talked, and just
enjoyed ourselves, deciding the next morning to start in the area we

heard our first gobble that day.
That night it rained and didn’t quit until 5:00 a.m. We
staggered up High Rock Mountain toward our suspected turkey haven.
The sun rose like always with no gobbles discerned. After an hour we
got up and started slinking around, using our binoculars to scout out
food plots from the woods.
We hadn’t gone far when I called on my box call and a tom
gobbled close enough to stun me. Panicked, I scrambled to find a tree.
I had broken an old turkey-hunting rule: Don’t call until you’re set up.
Settling down against a hickory, I called again, but no
response. We got up after a time and realized the tom had been in a
small hollow, keeping him from our view, a mere sixty yards away.
That was close.
We kept up our slinking around, using the woods as cover and
staying off the main road, scouting food plots as we went.
We had just left a few jakes that seemed disinterested in my
calling, when I broke the same rule again. We came out onto a bald
hill with scattered scrub oaks when I called again. A turkey in a nearby
ravine answered with a gobble close enough to send us into a flurry to
sit down. Only there were not really any good trees to use.
Dillydallying, we finally set up and I called again. No response.
We got up and stuck with what had gotten us this far: slinking.
Circling wide we came back around to the base of the ravine the
turkey had gobbled from. This time we set down and I called—
nothing. I called some more—nothing. I tried every call I had in my
vest—nothing. Frustrated, I got up and Thompson followed. Just
cresting the break of a hill in the woods, we spotted a turkey taking off
up the multiuse trail, its beard bouncing against its chest.
Disgusted, we watched him retreat, followed by two more
toms, all out of gun range. With time ticking down we decided to set a
decoy and wait it out. There had been birds in the area. Perhaps with
the hour and a half we had left, they’d calm down and return. The only
thing we accomplished the rest of that hunt was a good nap.
Back at camp Thompson packed up. He had a hot date that
night. His hot dates are few and far between, important enough to miss
our last day of turkey hunting.
Alone, I spent the afternoon trying to dry my boots by the
campfire and reading. I had already decided to return to where we’d
heard the first gobbler that morning.
Brooks / 93
Around 7:00 p.m. came a heavy rain with lightning. After that
the morning was forecast to be clear.
I was up early the next morning, my boots still a little damp
from the dew the previous morning. The weather was clear and cool as
I marched up the mountain. I snuck around to the edge of the food plot
closest to the supposed turkey-roosting spot. The sun came up, but no
gobbles anywhere.
After an hour I got up and started my slinking action toward
an area that would allow me to scope food plots from the cover of the
woods. My slinking action was enhanced by the heavy wet leaves
underfoot.
I knew I was doing a good job of slinking when I spotted two
coyotes across the road before the wind shifted, causing them to dart
back into the brush. I just needed a turkey to gobble.
I restrained myself from using my box call. I wasn’t going to
call until 9:00 a.m. I kept up my slinking action, “S-ing” my way
around a food plot to the junction in the road where we’d seen the
three toms the day before.
I couldn’t see anything through the binoculars and crossed the
road. The other side of the road was timber that had been burnt earlier
that year and was more open. Good killing ground. I found a tree I
liked, one that gave a good view of the road, and prepared to sit for a
while.
When I was in position, I called with my box call. Nothing. I
called again—a gobble in the direction I was facing. The turkey was
on the other side of the path I’d taken not twenty minutes before. He
gobbled again, voluntarily this time. I called on the box again. He
answered, hot and quickly. This had potential if I could keep from
screwing it up. He gobbled once more, closer this time. I called with
the box call one more time, and set it on the ground as he gobbled in
response. He was closing in.
I felt my chest heave and told myself to calm down, repeating
in my head, It’s just a turkey. He gobbled again, closer—this was
happening. I moved my shotgun up on top of my knee, so the
movement wouldn’t be so sudden when he came into view. He’d be
looking and looking hard. Move too fast and he’d renounce his
avocation for love. Make a good shot, I was thinking, when I saw a
movement through the brush. He picked along, looking in my vicinity
for his would-be lover. He kept coming and I made out his beard, a
long lot of whiskers. He stepped behind a tree and I raised my gun to
my shoulder, aiming in the area he should step out. When he did I

made a soft putt with my mouth. He stretched his head vertically, dang
near perfect. The thunder rolled out of my gun. He fell backward as if
someone had just swiped his feet out from under him. He was done.
I was on top of him shortly, putting my hands on him before
he had a chance to move again. When he was finished I stood over
him, thankful and well-pleased.
The bird weighed twenty-one pounds, with three-quarter-inch
spurs. His trophy was his beard with a few hairs reaching twelve
inches. But the true trophy of the hunt was the opportunity to hunt on
such wonderful ground, public ground, and walk away with a nice
bird.
/ 95
JUDY SHEPPS BATTLE

MISGUIDED TRUST
She calls in familiar irritable way

Where are you kids, the dog
needs to be walked!
We hide behind living room couch

your adolescent body pressed to me
whispering
Shush, pretend we are not here

or hiding behind a bunker
she will go away
Better yet, stand up and tell her no!
Sure of your support I tremble and

shout only to hear you ask with
saccharine smile
Momma, what can I do to help you?
Good son, she beams

Bad daughter, she growls
But it was his idea, I want to say

knowing she isn’t listening anyway.
I watch you eagerly swallow her love

while I sate my parched throat
with liquid anger and numb silence.
Fifty years later you shyly confide

how much it hurts that mom
loved me more than you.
95
10
BILL SIMMONS
JANUARY 19, 2017 A HEALING
As we wound around frozen coves

And oaks on our evening bird and deer count,
Our voices became more sedated
Than usual, trying to keep a focus
On birds and deer, knowing we couldn’t
Escape the inevitable: your stage 4
Lung cancer, size of a golf ball,
Chemo and radiation your only chance.
Seeing no birds in the dormant oaks

You broke the ice: “My grandchildren
Won’t even know who I am.”
We wept and drove, our tires
Crunching snowy ice on the road.
“My oldest is five, my youngest, six months;
I probably won’t be here in two years.”
Wiping our eyes we kept a slow pace
Eventually parking in the fish house
Parking lot. “They’ll never remember me.”
Quietly we sat panning the frozen lake,

As evening skies darkened.
There in the middle of the lake
Circling in open water,
Seven white swans, peaceful and regal
Amongst thousands of cackling geese,
Turned their heads toward you.
ON SNOWY DAYS
On snowy days when under

The desk my feet get cold,
I think of the San Joaquin;
Its green, winter pastures
Dotted with waddling doves,
96
10
Simmons / 97
And wish I were back herding

Jerseys to the barn, smelling
Rolled barley and hay with Bach
On the radio playing
To lactating cows standing
In their stanchions, my brother
With his head in the flanks
Putting suction cups on their teats,
And the whump, whump, whump
Of the De Laval pump
Wafting a sweet oil scent
Across the barnyard to Heaven.
20518 EAST AMERICAN AVENUE
Going by the old home place

at 20 miles an hour was slow enough
to see 44 acres of flat
leveled land with rows of citrus
running east-west in sterilized soil—
just one big orange orchard.
You’d never know the house on the hill,

a driveway lined with walnut trees,
the pasture with jerseys, wildflowers
in the grapes with pheasants, rabbits and quail,
and a field of cotton bordering the creek
where red-tails sailed in late afternoons.
So I pushed on the gas and headed

on up American Avenue
with my two brothers, taking
a left on Engleheart on our way
to Wahtoke Lake, pondering
20 years of our lives erased.
MR. VENDOR
Monday through Friday 8:45

He pushed his ice cream cart
Out of Arden farms Creamery
Onto “L” Street tooting his horn
For the warehousemen across the street,
As they laughed and puffed their smokes;
“Hey big business man, big business man.”
He’d wave and go on up the street
Crossing the tracks and bakery smells
And vacant lots with ground squirrels
That stood when he passed by
On his way to Ventura Street
To make his cold and wanted sales.
RED-TAIL
When I’m dead look closely

at my right index finger,
the scar, now thin and white,
from a red-tail I shot.
He swiped at me, missing,
pieces of hardpan falling
from his claw into the foxtails.
I saw blood trickle down my finger,

knowing someday he’d get even,
as his body thrashed and talons gnashed
the dry grass; his eyes gleamed the fear
and hatred of a fallen world.
When I lie as still as the red-tail,

my killing, thrashing and living done,
he will be even; he got his.
And I’ll be with the red-tail
Flying back to a day where we lived.
/ 99
LISSA BROWN
WHAT I DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT MY BEST FRIEND
For the past few years, I’ve looked forward to infrequent

phone talks with MaryLou, my best friend from junior high school.
We laugh recalling childhood pranks and old boyfriends and for a few
minutes, we are thirteen again.
Our paths intertwined until we graduated from high school.
MaryLou married that year and I went off to college. For the next fifty
years, each of us led very different lives. She remained close to our
New Jersey home while I moved progressively south to my present
home in North Carolina. Sadly, we lost touch.
Like so many people our age, we reconnected through the
Internet. First through Facebook and later by phone and in-person
lunches, we picked up where we’d left our friendship. She sounded
like the same MaryLou I’d hung out and grown up with except for one
major stunner she delivered after reading my book about bullying.
MaryLou is an avid reader and I looked forward to her
impression of my novel. With hindsight, I almost wish I hadn’t heard
what she said. It haunts me still.
“What I’m about to tell you will shock you,” she began. “Your
book hit a raw nerve. Do you remember a girl named Loretta from
junior high?”
Loretta was quite an unforgettable character, one who was
always in trouble for her totally unfiltered speech, among other things.
She was a neighborhood tough from one of the roughest
neighborhoods in our city. One didn’t mess with Loretta. I got along
fine with her, but MaryLou had a very different experience.
I listened in horror as MaryLou unraveled a story of torment
suffered at Loretta’s hands. I’d done lots of research on bullying in
preparation for writing my novel and knew the statistics about adult
trauma that resulted from childhood bullying. It’s one thing to delve
into research; it’s quite another to learn that your best friend lived in
terror for two and a half years.
As kids, MaryLou and I shared all. I thought we knew each
other’s deepest secrets until she spilled out the details of her hellish
experiences at school. How could I not have known that Loretta
assaulted MaryLou at her locker each day demanding at knifepoint
either her lunch or her lunch money?
99
10
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked as I tried to comprehend

what my friend told me.
“I never told anyone, not even my parents, until a couple of
years after we got out of that school,” she answered. “It was too
painful and I worried that my parents would go to the school and
Loretta would make good on her promise to kill me if I squealed.”
“I might have been able to stop it,” I told MaryLou. “I got
along with Loretta. She would have listened to me.”
I felt sick thinking about what my friend went through,
especially since I believed I might have been able to get Loretta to
leave her alone. I agonized as I asked myself repeatedly how I could
have missed it. True, it was a large city school and MaryLou and I
didn’t have many classes together. There were four or five lunch
periods and we never ate at the same time.
MaryLou and I graduated from junior high school and went on
to high school together. Loretta disappeared from our lives except for
the lasting harm she’d done to my friend. I assume she went to a
different school or perhaps she ended up in the juvenile justice system.
Perhaps it wasn’t coincidental that within weeks of hearing MaryLou’s
story another mutual friend from junior high school recounted a phone
conversation he’d had with a former classmate. To my great surprise,
the classmate whom I remembered as a really nice kid revealed that
Loretta was his cousin. I didn’t wonder why he’d kept that family
connection to himself. I doubt I’d have admitted being related to her
either. I learned that Loretta had apparently reformed her horrible
behavior, relocated to another part of the country and was by then a
respectable doting grandmother.
When I related that information to MaryLou, I wasn’t sure
how she’d respond. The voice that came through the phone was tense
and angry. “My revenge is that I’ve lived a good life,” she told me.
Her fear was palpable.
I felt guilty because I hadn’t been there to protect my best
friend when she needed me. On some level I believed I should have
known what was going on. Surely there had to be witnesses to
Loretta’s repeated assaults. Had I missed something as it traveled
through the school grapevine? Being a fixer by nature, I knew I needed
to use MaryLou’s experience to help someone. In a small way, I might
be able to prevent it from happening to someone else.
Following the publication of my second novel, I’d spent much
of the year doing book events, speaking to groups about bullying and
L Brown / 101
hoping to raise awareness of the scourge responsible for ruining lives.

Midway through the year, MaryLou told me her story adding a
horrifying personal dimension to my work.
“Will you give me permission to share your story if I change
your name and other particulars?” I asked a short time later. “I think it
might help me make a point to young readers about talking to
somebody if they’re being bullied.”
She agreed, and I had an opportunity to speak about it to a

group of high school students in Nashville, Tennessee within weeks. I
related her story and urged them to talk to someone if they were
targets of a bully.
One boy asked a question I hadn’t expected. “Since you know
both the victim and the bully, will you try to connect them so they can
reconcile their differences?”
“Wow, that’s a great question,” I said stalling for time to think
of an appropriate response. Failing to come up with anything brilliant,
I said the only honest thing I could. “I’ll have to think about that. I just
don’t know if it’s possible.”
Further discussion with the group convinced me that
MaryLou’s story had given them a reason to consider my advice. I
couldn’t wait to report to my friend that her experience might, after all
that time, produce some good results.
I was nervous about sharing the boy’s question with MaryLou.
I knew I risked opening an old wound, but since she’d given me the
okay to use her story, I felt obligated to provide feedback, so I called
her.
I felt something positive had come from her story and thanked
her for letting me tell it. She seemed pleased. I almost lost my nerve
but forced myself to tell her about the boy’s question. I simply
reported what he’d asked. I waited for what seemed like several
minutes before she spoke.
“You were always good at making lemonade from lemons,”
she said. “If my years of terror at the hands of a bully are useful to
help other kids avoid it, that’s healing of a sort for me. I don’t think I
need to reconnect with Loretta, but if I had it to do over, I would have
told my best friend.”
Sadly, MaryLou died before publication of her story and I

hope she rests knowing it will do some good.
DIANE DECILLIS
PROPERTIES OF PLASTIC
after watching “The Fall”
1-
A serial killer bathes the porcelain-white
body of a beautiful stranger he’d just strangled,
places her on her bed, onto the fresh clean sheets
he’d laundered. He combs her lustrous dark hair
inhaling its scent, strokes her unblemished flesh,
and poses her like an Ingres painting, draping
white fabric over her buttocks, adjusting it, just so.
Later, at the morgue, when they lift the Barbie-

stiff body you can hear her hollowness as they lay
her on the metal table, still posed: face down,
arms folded, her cheek resting on her delicate hands
exposing the red fingernails, he’d polished with care.
Odd how his blank face, his gentle handling

of her lifeless form seemed much more violating
than when she was alive, could resist. She lay,
as if in sweet repose, no trace of the clenched,
wide-eyed terror we see moments before she dies.
2-
I never liked dolls, never had the urge to dress one up.
Those vacuous eyes, and planked bodies, the molded
Hershey-Kiss breasts. It wasn’t because I was
a tom-boy or that I couldn’t relate. More that I saw
the live version, watching my mother dress-up
each morning—always perfectly coifed. Her array
of pencil skirts, sheath dresses, and stilettos,
the pearls and perfumed dabs, all of it signifying
she was leaving for work, followed, at times,
by an evening out, leaving me
with a palpable emptiness. And so, I preferred

to find some tree to climb, some dare or scrape
that I could feel, physically, to detract from
102
DeCillis / 103
the muffled ache that left me vulnerable. I learned

not to cry if I fell, to stiffen my countenance,
conceal pain that might push someone away—
the unceremonious burial of feeling.
BILL BROWN
CHARLIE
Her fingers drilled the maple table,

then stopped and closed inward
until knuckles whitened and a scar
between forefinger and thumb
stared up at her, mocking her,
bringing back the night a window
banged, when she had dreamed
of Charlie. She got up to close it,
shut the world out once and for all…
but then her finger straightened,
hand palmed wood grain like
a child making handprints in mud,
in sand, in freshly poured concrete

on her childhood sidewalk where
CHARLIE in all caps was neatly
written with a popsicle stick.
She could close her eyes and see
both of them in the third grade
class picture, then summer hopscotch
and jacks and Charlie taken to
a place called St. Jude in Memphis,
and summer closed, a night closet.
What waited behind the door—
her bald head, long black hair
just fuzz on neck nape,

and that goofy bucktooth smile.
She became a name in concrete
on a hometown street, a scar

when we became blood-sisters,
a wind-gust window in a night storm.
104
B Brown / 105
STARDUST
They were us—two people

two cats—finches at the kitchen window—
screech owl in the night orchard
They touched often—one asleep—one awake

wondering how the earth rushed around a star
while they huddled together
in an antique bed bought at a roadside stand

in Leech , Tennessee—a little hole in the wall
where healers in another century
gathered leeches to bleed the sick—how

if any of this made sense—he didn’t get it—
then more sleep—then coffee
Fall maples bloomed red—the earth continued

to bring night in a bowl of stars—they were us
at the window—each holding a spoon
DOZE
The fist of night

relaxed its fingers,
studied quilt texture,

followed threads circle
of a quarter moon as
the prayer of sleep
ticker-tapped the day

like a child looking
out a car window,

counting barns on
an evening highway,
plotless as a bedroom
ceiling before
first light.
/ 107
TERRY SANVILLE
OVER-TOWN
Doris decides to walk to the Pebbly Beach freight yard. The

tug won’t be leaving for San Pedro for a couple of hours and she has
nothing but time. A white van passes her on the winding shoreline
road from Avalon. The driver beeps its horn. She waves automatically.
After fifty-plus years on Catalina Island everybody knows her. She
and Jack spent rainy nights in the back of Luau Larry’s, nursing
something alcoholic and listening to their neighbors’ stories. Now it’s
the town’s turn to pay attention.
The wind wet with sea spray blows cold. She pulls her shawl
tight around her slender body and fights to keep gray hair out of her
eyes. Puffy clouds drift overhead and push up over the channel and the
mainland, glowing pink in the afternoon light. The road’s gravel
shoulder crunches under her sturdy shoes. At the freight yard, Julio
comes out of his shack and joins her. He smells of bourbon.
“Sorry to hear about Jack. The County brought him down an
hour ago. He’s all secured.”
“Thanks, Julio. Welch and Sons will be on the docks to meet
the boat. Who’s the skipper today?”
“The new guy, McGregor. But the channel should stay flat, a
real milk run.”
“What about those?” Doris points to the clouds.
“Yeah, they could mean somethin’. But it’s May. I can’t
remember the last time we had a hard blow in May.”
She nods and stares at the three loaded barges tethered to the
dock behind a stubby tugboat. She checks her watch.
“So you gonna, ya know…see him off?” Julio asks.
“Nah, I just wanted to make sure he…he made it here.”
“I’m real sorry, Doris. Everybody loved Jack…he’ll be
missed.”
“Our daughters are flyin’ in from Boston. I’m going over-
town on the 9:50 tomorrow to meet ’em at LAX.”
“You got somebody to watch your house?”
“Oh yeah, the whole street has been banging on my door all
week. Juanita will feed my cats.”
“Good, good.”
They gaze across the freight yard at the 4:40 ferry entering
107
Avalon harbor. It’s packed with tourists, ready to enjoy a lively

weekend on The Island of Romance. Fifty-three years ago, Jack
brought his new bride, Doris, over on the Great White Steamer from
Wilmington. The town of Avalon used to have a brass band that
welcomed the incoming tourists while speedboats crisscrossed the
harbor, pulling water skiers – beautiful girls in tight bathing suits. But
all of that’s gone, replaced by huge cruise ships anchored off Lovers
Cove, disgorging their throngs of Asian and European visitors.
“How long you gonna be over-town?” Julio asks.
“Maybe four days. The funeral’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Too bad Jack couldn’t stay on island.”
Doris sighs. “Yeah, if it was up to me, I’d spread his ashes
over the channel, out beyond Abalone Point. But his Sister wants to
plant him in the ground with the rest of their family.”
“Huh. Well, let me know if I can help. You…you are comin’
back, aren’t you?”
Doris laughs. “I get a headache every time I go over-town.
That damn LA smog and traffic is murder. But our oldest daughter
wants me to go back to Boston with her. I don’t know…can’t decide.”
She stares at the tugboat until their silence becomes awkward. “I’ll see
ya, Julio.”
She tucks her long hair down the back of her blouse, tightens
her shawl and walks toward Avalon. At Abalone Point she stares
across the harbor at the round seaside Casino, glowing white in the
fading sun. By the time she gets to the ferry landing, the inbound
crowd has cleared out, whisked away by taxis to their hotels. The
lights flick on under the palm trees along Crescent Avenue, the
restaurants and bars already deep into their happy hours. Happy
hours…Jeez, I could use a few of those.
Eric’s On the Pier has shuttered its windows for the night.
Flags hang limply in the evening quiet. She thinks about going up
canyon to their empty cottage, one of many tiny wooden boxes built
on the flats between the wars.
But her stomach growls. Haven’t eaten since breakfast…need
food. Walking behind a clot of tourists, she stops in front of the
entrance to Steve’s Steakhouse and Seafood. It’s on the second floor
with arched windows that look onto Avalon Harbor and the California
mainland beyond. A long staircase provides the only access. Jack had
complained about not being able to eat there, the stroke confining him
to a wheelchair those last two years. Doris grabs the banister and pulls
Sanville / 109
herself up the stairs.

Gloria, the hostess, sees her coming and hurries to meet her,
clasps an elbow in her warm brown hands and helps Doris the rest of
the way. “Next time just yell from the bottom and I’ll come getcha.”
“I want to do it by myself as long as I can.”
“I understand…and I’m so sorry about Jack.”
“Thanks, Gloria. Now, please find me a window seat and a
Cadillac margarita.”
The crowded restaurant rumbles with the sound of boisterous
tourists waiting at the bar to be seated. But Gloria takes her to a table
for two that offers the finest view of the harbor. A huge margarita
appears before her along with a menu. She grins and gulps the tart
cocktail, the best in town, then stares at the food selection. An age-
spotted hand touches her arm and she looks up. It’s Steve, the owner.
“Doris, how are you doing?” He kneels beside her. His thick
silver hair flows back from a forehead that’s a study in deep crevasses
and wrinkles. But his gray eyes remain clear. He grins, showing off
full dentures.
“I’m doing good, Steve. Everybody’s been so…so kind.”
“Well, you and Jack were always nice to all of us, the best
Post Office people we’ve ever had.”
“Yeah, we liked working all those years, even during Vietnam
when we’d watch for draft notices from the Selective Service.”
“The new people at the Post Office are good. But Jack had a
way of…of, ya know, connecting.”
“Yes, he missed coming here…but those last years he couldn’t
get up the stairs.”
“You should have told me…we could have fixed a plate to
go.”
“It wasn’t just the food he missed. It was this place and…and
you.”
“Yeah, I miss him too.” Steve sucks in a deep breath and
forces a smile. “So what are you gonna do now?”
“I don’t know. My daughters want me to move back East. I’m
going over-town tomorrow to meet them at the airport.”
“You’re not actually thinking of leaving us, are you?”
Doris stares out the window at the blue, pink and gold
mainland. “I…I don’t know. I’ve been here so long. But I’m…I’m old,
and old goats move near their kids.”
“Do you need help?”
“Sometimes. But I guess I’ve learned from Jack to make do.”

“Yeah, I get that. You’re tough, Doris.”
“Not that tough.”
Steve bows his head and stands. Someone calls his name and
he hurries away, a broad grin pasted on his face.
Doris orders her favorite dinner, the seafood platter, and
another margarita. Anita hasn’t cleared away the extra place setting
across from her. She stares at the empty wine glass, the neatly
arranged silverware and smiles, pictures Jack gulping a glass of
cabernet and ravaging the bread basket while telling an oft-told tale
about his early days as a South Coast fisherman.
Outside, the purple night closes in on the little town. A gust of
wind slams the picture window next to Doris and she jumps. Palm
trees bend in the squall and drop dry fronds onto the beach. Tourists
along Crescent Avenue scurry for cover as the rain drenches Avalon.
Whitecaps cover the once-calm San Pedro Channel. The little tugboat
chugs through the tortured sea, towing its precious cargo; its running
lights twinkle in the gloom.
Doris sips her margarita, eats a humongous piece of mud pie,
and asks Anita for the check. But the waitress shakes her head.
“Complements of Steve…and…and me. I’m sorry for your loss. You
were always kind to me as a kid, my first babysitter.”
“Yikes, the years sure flow by so fast. You were such a…a…”
“Go ahead and say it, a brat. I realize how bad I was, now that
I have rug rats of my own. You should visit us sometimes. We’d love
to have you join us for dinner.”
“Thanks, Anita. That would be great.”
Doris descends the stairs slowly with Gloria at her elbow for
support. The wind howls, sending litter flying along the street. She
wraps her shawl tight and pushes westward, past closed shops and
crowded bars and restaurants, their patrons seemingly ignorant of the
gale outside, much less the one inside Doris.
At Metropole Avenue she turns up canyon. The lights from
Vons Grocery spill across the sidewalk. Even in the storm, the place
hums with customers – business owners and employees doing their
after-work shopping before going home. She pushes her way down the
narrow wall aisle and pulls a bottle of cheap tequila from the shelf,
grabs some batteries for her flashlight, a jar of Folgers, a box of
powered-sugar donuts, and waits in line at Pedro’s check stand. He
works fast, his head down, scanning each item with a practiced grace.
Sanville / 111
“So where’s Chico tonight?” he asks Estella, the woman in

front of Doris.
“No lo se. Probably messin’ ’round with his friends.”
“Yeah, I hardly see my own son, even on school nights.”
“We’re lucky we live on an island. We’d never see those fools
if we lived over-town. Oh, hello Doris. How are you doin’?”
Doris raises her tired face and smiles. “Okay…one foot in
front of the other, ya know.”
Estella places a hand on her shoulder. “I’m walkin’ your way
after I’m done here. Do you want some company?”
“Sure. But I’m about talked out.”
“That’s okay. You know me, I can talk for both of us.”
Pedro charges Doris only $5 for the groceries. She’s too tired
to protest and thanks him for the discount. The sky over Avalon has
cleared. She wanders up canyon, with Estella at her side chattering
about sons and daughters, ex-husbands, and the snooty German
tourists that leave five percent tips at the Pancake Cottage.
They stop in front of Doris’s house. “You want me to come in
for a while?” Estella asks.
“No, I’m fine. I need to pack. I’m over-town tomorrow.”
“Well, you’d better not be gone for long. Who else am I gonna
complain to about my idiot kids? I should pay you instead of that
shrink I’m seeing in Long Beach.”
Doris gives Estella a hug, the woman not wanting to let go,
then ducks inside her cottage. She nearly trips over Estupido, her
chocolate-brown cat who often forgets where his litter box is kept and
makes unfortunate deposits throughout the house. She clicks on the
kitchen light and her other cat, Rosalia, glares at her from the top of
the refrigerator.
She fills their bowls with kibble, mixes a strong drink, and sits
in front of the TV, thinking. Boston…could I handle snow after all
these years away from it? And Sarah can be such a control freak.
She’s been hiding gray hairs for years with those ugly dye jobs.
Nobody has that shade of red hair. Still, it’d be nice to be close to her
and the grandkids, to have somebody in the house with me or at least
close by. And I won’t be able to walk to the grocery too much longer.
I’ll have to get one of those electric carts to roll over people’s toes on
the sidewalk.
In her mind, Doris tallies the pros and cons, the physical and
emotional pluses and minuses of moving in with her oldest daughter’s
family. But the arithmetic still doesn’t satisfy, and the effort exhausts
her. At midnight she folds back the covers and slips into bed, dizzy
from the booze and the constant mental battles. Estupido climbs onto
her chest, tickles her cheek with his whiskers and purrs. In a minute,
Rosalia lies across her legs, the two cats effectively pinning her to the
mattress.
She dozes. The bedside phone rings. Doris jerks upward,
sending the cats into sub-orbital flight with the maximum of
squabbling. She fumbles in the dark for the receiver. The person on the
other end speaks gibberish.
“Whoever you are, slow down. I can’t understand…and
English, please.”
“Sorry, Doris. This is…is Julio.”
The poor man sounds like he’s not sure. “What’s going on,
Julio? Didn’t the funeral guys show up in San Pedro to claim the
body?”
“Oh, they were there all right…but they didn’t need to be.”
Doris sits up, wide-awake. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, it’s like this, that freak squall turned the last barge
broadside to the swell and snapped its tow line.”
“The tugs carry spare lines, don’t they?”
“Yes…yes. But the barge listed hard to port. The containers
broke free and…”
“And what, Julio?”
“They sank. I’m…I’m sorry but Jack’s at the bottom of the
channel, over two-thousand feet down.”
In the darkness, Doris feels her face split with a grin and she
chokes back the laughter that wants to explode. “It doesn’t sound like
Jack wanted to leave the island either.”
“What…what are you talking about?”
“Don’t worry, Julio. I’ll speak with you in the morning. I have
some grave-side services to cancel and some phone calls to make to
my daughters. I won’t be going over-town after all. They can come to
me.”
/ 113
CHARLES W. BRICE
ENOUGH
The tiny travel clock that betrayed me

arched across my dorm room, bounced
from sink to floor, shattered into a chiliad.
My philosophy professor, Richard Howey,
had phoned, “You missed your Final Exam.”
My sleep-soaked brain slowly registered
this disastrous news. I grabbed the clock.
The computer projected my GPA at a .22.
“You’re wasting your mother’s money,”
my advisor chortled, “Are you good with your hands?”
Godlike, a professor, so much smarter than me.
I quit going to French class. Turns out
you can spell “F” the same in English and French!
The only course I thought I’d pass was Philosophy
and now, exhausted from reading The Republic until 4 AM,
I’d run deeper into the cave.
I’d spend my life counting pie tins and mop heads

at my mother’s restaurant supply business.
I’d die in a rice paddy in Vietnam or live the rest
of my life with those I’d killed— a dolorous slab
of slag courting a bourbon bottle.
“Come to my office,” Howey said, “I’ll give you the exam.”
I dressed in the elevator: had pants and shirt and shoes
in the right places by the time I hit the lobby of Orr Hall.
Five minutes later I arrived breathless and sweaty, ready
for chastisement. Instead, Howey handed me a cup of coffee
and a cookie. “Relax,” he said. He gave me a bluebook
and the exam questions. I got an A in Philosophy and English
that term, squeaked by with a 2.22. Next semester, under
Howey’s watchful eye, I got a 3.80 and, eventually, a Ph.D.!
My father supplied the sperm, mother the mechanics,
but it was Richard Howey whose kindness that day
ignited the spark that became me.
113
10
HOLLY DAY
BIRTH
They pulled him from my body

blue as Buddha, white cord wrapped around his neck
as if, even then, I wasn’t prepared to let him go.
I will always feel his hand in mine

feel his head on my shoulder as I fall asleep
fight the passage of time that has turned him
into this man who can’t wait to go.
THE DREAMS OF TINY THINGS
The birds outside my window speak

of world domination, the tiny gray sparrows have staked out
my kitchen for the headquarters of their
aggressive, bird-centric movement. They fly
right up to my window so they can look
inside my house, stare into my kitchen
chirp angrily to one another about how wasteful I am
sweeping stray breadcrumbs into the trash
mutter about how things will be different once
I am out of the house.
The squirrels in the yard are in it with the birds,

but they have smaller demands, a smaller scope of conquest.
Today, their view of domination concerns taking over
only a couple of houses, or maybe even a couple of square blocks
of old, crumbling, Depression-era residences. They scamper up
to my basement window, put tiny brown paws
against the glass, stare in at me working, take stock
of all the little cubby holes and drawers stuffed with loose paper
that would be better suited for building nests
raising pink, hairless babies, and hiding out
against the long winter ahead.
114
/ 115
J.J. ROGERS 15424-032

MISSING HER
I dial the number. The phone rings five times. My stomach tingles,
palms sweat: we have not talked in a while. Anticipating—then, voice-
mail.
I do not like life in prison. Not knowing is the worst: What is she
doing? Who is she with? Where is she? It tears me up inside. I feel like
I have a right to know; after all, I love her. We were together for eight
years before I went to prison; she was my whole life—she is still my
whole life in my mind. I miss her.
I try again one hour later: third ring, fourth ring, voicemail. I sigh. I
wonder if she intentionally avoids my calls. Maybe she does not want
to talk to me; prison is difficult for everyone. Maybe I embarrass her
too much. I want to tell her, for the one-millionth time, that I am sorry;
I never planned on going to prison.
Third try. Surely she will answer this time. She must miss me too.
She must still remember the good times we shared. She must hope that
one day we will be reunited.
The phone begins to ring—I tap my foot inside my shoe. Three
rings. She answers.
“Hey Baby, how are you?”
“I'm fine, Daddy,” she says. “Sorry I missed your calls. I had band
practice. When are you coming home?”
I sigh again, smile, and wipe my eyes.
115
10
CYNTHIA KNORR
YOUNG WOMAN WITH BALD HEAD
Her backyard is a floral masterpiece

our group has finally been invited to see.
Plants we have trouble growing thrive here:
delphinium, lavender, gardenia, hibiscus.
We’ve come on a good day, she says,
but it is hot and she must be exhausted.
We admire her pluck in abandoning wig or headscarf
but worry that the sun will scorch her scalp.
One of us has a cold and stays an arm’s length away
not wanting to tax her depleted immune system.
She’s fought this battle for years, someone whispers
so this new round of chemo can’t be good news.
What will happen to her garden when she’s gone
and cannot prune, pinch, weed, or water?
The boldest of us asks where she goes for treatment.
We are taken aback when she tells us she has
alopecia, not cancer, and her reluctance to invite
us in only means she has a demanding schedule—
not that she’ll soon be dead.
Who among us, we wonder, planted this bit of fiction,
turning what might be into what is
without checking the facts, although we all glommed
onto the story like hungry tics hooking into bare legs.
If we wanted the truth, it hung right above us
like a peach in a tree, not about to fall into our lap
but reachable with effort.
Easier though to pick up the peach on the ground,
the one right by our foot, dripping with juice
but just a little bit rotten.
116
Knorr / 117
STILL LIFE WITH DRAGONFLY AND HYPODERMIC

NEEDLE
At dawn on the edge of the swamp

where herons gather to search for frogs
a dragonfly sits on a log, still as stone.
The rays of the rising sun dispel

the last traces of night from the log
but are caught by a long silver needle
that points to the dragonfly’s leg and glints

as if it knows it doesn’t belong
and doesn’t care,
its tubular shape like the dragonfly’s own

but in place of wings, an empty syringe
attached to a plunger that pushed
the junkies who gathered here to the gates of heaven

then dropped them on their knees.
At the edge of the swamp
a piece of the night was left behind

that confounds the rising sun
and taints the dewy scene like swamp gas.
REVELATION
I’m a kid sitting up front in the kids’ pew

eating M&Ms in my white gloves no longer white
but red, green, and brown, colorful as stained glass.
Why they let us all sit together I’ll never know,

with no adult near enough to stop the shenanigans:
the giggling, note-passing, spit-ball shooting,
the devil so present in our high spirits that the sight

of Pastor Miller’s man boobs or Choir Director Amy’s
arm flab flapping sends us into spasms of laughter.
But bad behavior can’t numb the prick of my anxiety,

ever-present like dust motes in a sunbeam,
amplified when a lady in the pews stands up to share
her revelation that if we listen, God speaks. In fact,

He spoke to her yesterday, sending her home before
the leak in her basement became a flood.
On the day her dog passed, He put a rainbow in the sky.

We’ll hear Him, she says, if we just tune in.
Heads around her nod but mine
doesn’t budge and I wonder what God said to my friend

Lucinda before the dead tree limb fell to earth as she rode
beneath it on her bike, breaking her neck.
Am I the only one here who isn’t tuned in?

Billy Taylor, sitting next to me, is apparently on
God’s wavelength, because he whispers in my ear
that He is telling him to pinch me, and as he squeezes

the flesh on my arm, I don’t feel annoyed but scared,
like I’m alone in a corn maze I can’t figure out until
I turn around and see my dad sitting back in the last pew
and he smiles at me in a way that tells me he’s not tuned in
either, just struggling to understand like me, like all of us.
ON VERISIMILITUDE
Is there another word as delightful to say?

Verisimilitude—almost a poem in itself,
a dessert of a word with a soft center
that slips past the lips
like a cat through a crack in the cellar door.
Knorr / 119
Is there another word as generous,

offering its syllables wrapped in a bow,
a gift that can disarm a skeptic,
boost a fragile ego, impress a date.
Is there another word as dense,

packing into itself all that is true
and all that appears to be true
like so many shirts in an overstuffed suitcase.
Is there another word as slippery

twisting from v to final e like a water slide—or
like the ride you took me on
when you seemed so steadfast
but were really flying by the seat of your pants.
WHY SCIENTISTS DISAGREE ABOUT GLOBAL WARMING
They don’t.
But if they did
the fossil fuel industry would fold the uncertainty
into a textbook called
Why Scientists Disagree About Global Warming
and mail it to every science teacher in America.
If you are a science teacher and received a mailing

from The Heartland Institute with this title,
consider it an artifact from an alternate universe
because in our universe, the real one, we get hot

under the collar if a single polar bear goes hungry.
Crops don’t fail. Children don’t starve.
Houses don’t fall into the sea.
Our carbon footprint hardly makes a dent in the sand,
which still covers our beaches
in part because the fossil fuel industry

has gracefully wound down their operations
in favor of charitable work for the poor.
So it is doubtful
they would be funding a textbook that says
rising temps = natural phenomena,
a notion on par with thunder = angry gods.
But, don’t throw the package away, science teacher.

Pass it on to the civics or history department
for a valuable lesson on propaganda.
Teach the kids how to explore the origin
of the Heartland Institute
through investigative journalism.
(Follow the money trail!)
Show them how to dig up the truth
when it’s buried in a swamp of deception.
/ 121
KENNETH N. MARGOLIN
OLD LOVER
Was it two years ago or three that Helen died? I have to

concentrate to remember. Einstein taught that time moves more slowly
for us with speed. He never warned that it passes more quickly with
age. What I remember clearly were Helen's last minutes. She lay
bundled beneath layers of blankets on a warm spring day, her gray hair
grown white, her face gaunt, eyes half closed. She had stopped
struggling against a merciless cancer. I sat beside her holding her hand
and kissing her forehead as often as she would tolerate. After 40 years
of marriage, I did not see the face of a dying woman, only my wife and
the core of my contented life. With tortuous effort, she propped herself
up, more alert than I'd seen her in hours.
“Promise me that you will meet someone after I die,” she said.
“ I don't want you to become a cranky, lonely old man.”
“I can't make that promise,” I told her, “and you're still here.”
Helen caressed my arm. I wanted to preserve the moment in
amber, two fossils, forever unchanged. Time would not stand still for
us. Helen died within the hour.
As I look back, my grieving for Helen had comic elements,
and three distinct phases.
I called phase one, “the wailing.” For twelve hours, I took the
phone off the hook, pulled shut the blinds, and stayed inside. I sat on
the floor and made inhuman howls, cursed the fates, asked for death,
banged the walls. I pray now that no neighbor heard me. Finally, thirst
forced me to drink and hunger, to eat. I slept for a day and a half.
The second phase of my grief was “the face to meet the faces
that we meet.” As I returned to the world, I soon tired of the endless
offerings of sympathy from people I barely knew. When I spotted the
squinched expression on the face of a casual acquaintance, I steeled
myself for “I heard about Helen, I'm so sorry.” When I could tolerate
the pity no longer, I affected a keep your distance expression that I
practiced in the mirror before I went out. After a while, those who
passingly knew me, and Helen and me as a couple, disappeared from
my life. Afraid to mention Helen, and unsure how to approach me, one
after the other, they left me mercifully alone.
Freed from the concern of others that had freshened my
despair like the scratching of a wound, I entered the third phase of my
grief, the “zombie” period. To the outward observer, I had mourned
121
10
my wife's death appropriately and resumed the normal rhythms of life.

I shopped, went to an occasional movie, resumed my three mile fitness
walks, and returned to the local breakfast place where I had eaten
alone at six o'clock Saturday mornings for years, while Helen slept.
Helen and I had been childless, and I was able to focus all my psychic
energies on living like an automaton. I could not bear the reality that
Helen was gone, so felt as little as possible, walking the earth like a
wraith. After a while, I became comfortable in my half-alive state.
I believed I would live this way until I died, a prospect that
brought solace. Time denied me my mental crypt. In stages, I began to
live more or less like a normal human being. My memories of Helen
became a source of comfort, not a soul-crushing black hole.
The telephone interrupted my daily reverie of life with Helen.
I picked up when the caller ID showed “Roland,” my long-time friend.
Our friendship was as odd as it was enduring, I the slightly rumpled,
retired sociology professor, Roland the suave investment king and
tony country club maven.
“Where have you been, John? I thought you may have died.”
Roland always began conversations aggressively.
“I've been busy,” I said. “Sorry I haven't called.”
I pictured Roland on his palatial deck overlooking his tennis
court. It was 11:00 a.m. He would be drinking a bloody mary, his full
head of hair, freakishly still dirty blonde at seventy years of age,
perfectly coiffed.
“There's someone I want you to meet,” he said. “Don't worry,
Milagra approves of her.”
Milagra was Roland's third wife, and like his first two,
Stephanie and Melinda, exotically beautiful and thirty years his junior.
Unlike Stephanie and Melinda, Milagra was a woman of substance. I
hoped this marriage would be Roland's last, and I told him so. Milagra
had become a friend. When Helen was ill, she worried after me with
an earth mother heart inside her fitness club body.
“I'm not interested, Roland, but out of curiosity, how old is
this woman?”
“Age is just a number,” he said. “Her name is Mary, and you'll
like her.”
“How old?”
“She's eighty, John, and you'd never guess it. I'll text you her
phone number.”
“Eighty,” I said. “Jesus. Why not just ship me off on the ice
Margolin / 123
floes.”
Milagra prompted Roland in the background, tried to tamp
down his effusive personality.
“John,” he said, “Get real. You'll be seventy-three in two
months.”
“All of your wives could have been your daughters,” I said.
“You can't compare us, John. I'm handsome, and I'm rich.
Talk later.”
I dialed Mary's number, as if I had no will to do anything else.

When she answered, the voice on the other end of the phone was
intelligent and assured. It did not have the strained timbre I associated
with elderly women.
“I'm glad you called,” she said. “Roland and Milagra speak
highly of you.”
I should have responded in kind instead of my poor attempt at
humor.
“They always had good judgment,” I said. We made small talk
for a few minutes, and at the end of the call, agreed to meet for coffee
at a local restaurant. Mary, who I am sure I'd never seen, lived only
several blocks away.
I spotted Mary at a corner table when I entered the restaurant.
It had to be her, as the rest of the patrons that morning were families
with rambunctious kids. I worried that she would emit the smell of the
sweaty caked-on powder that my aunt wore when I was a child. As I
approached the table, Mary stood and shook my hand firmly as we
introduced ourselves. She wore a long, pale blue peasant skirt with a
flowered pattern, a purple blouse, and brown orthopedic shoes, not the
sandals that would have accompanied the skirt were she younger. Her
white hair was trim and tied back into a long pony tail. Old hippies
never change, I thought. She carried herself with a physical assurance
that suggested her body had escaped the worst ravages of age. A deep
crease lined her forehead.
Our conversation stumbled along innocuously until she
mentioned Helen.
“Roland told me your wife, Helen, died three years ago,” she
said. “I'm sorry.”
“Two years,” I said. She looked puzzled.
“I'm not prying. I just wanted to acknowledge that I know
your situation.”
“You do?” I said, with an abruptness I immediately regretted.

“I mean that you are widowed.”
We turned the conversation back to trivia. Mary looked into
her coffee cup so many times, I was tempted to look myself to see if
something fascinating had appeared by magic. She glanced at other
patrons. Once, I caught her looking at her watch when she thought I
wouldn't notice.
“Are you divorced, widowed, never married?” I asked.
That got her attention.
“Didn't Roland tell you anything about me?”
“No, just that he thought I would find you interesting.”
“I've been widowed for twenty years,” she said.
She said it matter-of-factly, and her demeanor did not change.
I learned that Mary had been married for thirty-two years when her
husband died suddenly, and that she remains grateful for that day.
“He was verbally abusive,” she said, “a sad, nasty man. Don't
ask, because I don't know why I stayed. We had no children, and there
is nothing left but sour memories, mostly faded now.”
When Mary talked of her late husband, I felt a harshness from
her that I found off-putting. As discreetly as I could, I studied her face,
and could not imagine her tolerating someone who demeaned her. She
intimidated me in a manner I could not define. Perhaps it was my
rustiness dealing socially with women other than Helen or Milagra.
With no warning, she said, “I'm tired and I want to go. Can we
get together again?”
Our breakfast had been so awkward and her pronouncement so
sudden that it took me a moment to appreciate that she wanted to meet
a second time.
“Would you come to my house for dinner, tomorrow night?”
she asked.
I accepted, unsure of why I would go to the home of this
woman I did not know.
She lived in an airy one-floor condo with a lot of glass, on the
top floor of her building. The furniture was lean and modern, of
imported woods off-set with various metals. The walls displayed oil
and water color paintings depicting wilderness and ocean scenes with
complex hues and perspectives. They were beautiful, and, I thought,
must have been expensive.
“Did you decorate the condo yourself?” I asked.
Mary laughed. “I would never allow someone to decorate for
Margolin / 125
me. My husband's taste ran to herculean couches and overstuffed

brown chairs. These furnishings are part of my liberation.”
We toasted with the martinis she prepared. The paintings were
all her own work. She had been an artist who gained high praise and
commercial success in New York before she moved to our quiet
suburb several years ago. Her paintings could be found in exclusive
homes all over the Upper East Side and the Hamptons.
“When I moved, I stopped painting for money. It became
exhausting, and I was financially secure, so had no need. I guess that
makes me retired.”
Mary's idea of retirement was a nonstop whirlwind of
activities. She traveled overseas twice a year for extended stays, and
favored less-visited locales. On Wednesdays, she taught a course at the
senior center on painting for beginners. Four days a week, she
exercised at a health club where, she said, she was the oldest regular.
She thought nothing of spending a weekend in the city to attend the
ballet or see a show, and she would travel on a whim to take in an out-
of-state art exhibit that especially interested her. All of this, she
accomplished solo. I dreaded the inevitable question about how I spent
my time, which seemed mostly to be free. When she finally did ask, I
straightened up in my chair and puffed out my chest to keep from
physically shrinking, and hoped that Mary did not notice.
“I love to read,” I told her. “Since Helen died, it seems that I
have a book in my hand for hours each day. I've reread many of my
favorites and completed books I never thought would interest me.”
“Theatre?” Mary asked. “Movies? Museums? Travel?”
I searched for hints of disapproval, but discerned none in the
neutral tone of her questions.
“I've never been a theatre goer,” I said. “I don't like the city.
Helen and I traveled abroad every few years, but I've not ventured far
since she died. I prefer videos at home to going out. Museums? I don't
think about them much.”
Mary watched me intently. Once, she clasped her hands and
pressed them to her lips.
“I take a brisk three mile walk around my neighborhood
several times each week, no matter the weather.” I hoped this
revelation did not sound pathetic.
Mary went into the kitchen, and returned with a meal of
braised scallops, mixed greens and homemade bread that was as
delicious as any I could remember. We touched our glasses of white
wine together.
“To health,” I said.
We ate with little conversation. I had noticed that Mary
tolerated long stretches of silence, a trait that I shared and valued. My
head swirled ever so slightly, fueled by the martini and wine, which
gave the room, the scene, and Mary, an amiable softness. Mary poured
herself another glass of wine while I sipped on mine. When we had
emptied our plates, Mary leaned forward and sighed.
“Don’t you think,” she said, “that you should get out of your
rut and live more adventurously?”
I drew back from her.
“What I think,” I said, more loudly than I intended, “is that we
don’t know each other well enough to tell the other how to live.”
As I tensed for a sharp response, Mary began sobbing like a
teenager who just told her best friend about a painful breakup. I
searched for soothing words, thought better of it, and waited.
“I had no right to say that,” she said. “My unfair words were
all about my own demons, not you. I despise growing old. You work
harder and harder to hold on to fewer and fewer of the things you love,
and every day the hour glass is less full.”
I simply nodded. Mary excused herself to bring dessert from
the kitchen. She returned empty handed a few minutes later, walked
straight over to me and kissed me on the mouth.
I stayed as still as a mannequin.
“Am I making a fool of myself?” she asked.
She did not wait for my answer, and kissed me again, more
ardently. This time I responded, at once grateful and overwhelmed.
For a dizzying moment, my marriage to Helen never existed. There
was only the press of human warmth and need. Mary grasped my hand
tightly.
“Come to bed?”
I closed my eyes and wished to be anywhere else. Mary had
asked me a question, and questions require answers. I needed more
time. If only I could board a space ship just then shuttling by at the
speed of light, I could hold onto my old life for just a while longer.
When I opened my eyes, I saw sadness and doubt on Mary’s face, and
I felt her grip on my hand loosen. There was no space ship. I put my
hand to Mary’s cheek, and she leaned against it.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
/ 127
CHARLES RAMMELKAMP
UNDER THE MICROSCOPE
“The Steve Carell character complains,

‘Socrates said the unexamined life
is not worth living,’” I was telling Milt
at the kiddush luncheon,
relating a joke I’d heard at the movies.
Teddy Borowitz had just rolled him up
in his wheelchair to the folding table.
“‘But the examined life is no bargain either.’”
Usually morose, Milt roared, his mirth genuine,

and I understood the comedian’s satisfaction,
getting an audience to laugh.
“After Miriam died, my life went to hell,”

Milt had observed more than once to me:
his wife of thirty years, killed
in a cancer treatment gone wrong.
Until then it had been all success,
the distinguished medical career,
the show-business hobby, the home,
the kids, the friendships — poets,
painters, playwrights — the travel.
Now, helpless, he’s in assisted living,

pushed around by attendants in his wheelchair,
nothing but time on his hands,
time to review his life,
to assess it and to weigh it and to size it up.
127
10
BUFF WHITMAN-BRADLEY
DUST
From time to time

The dead blow through me
Like a sudden gust of wind
Raising dust clouds
On a country road.
Specks of memory swirl in the air
Catching rays of sunlight
And glinting like tiny jewels.
I see the faces
And say the names
Of all those I've loved
Who have died
And thank each one
For our time together.
Then the moment passes
The wind subsides
A million motes drift downward
Through afternoon light
To settle on the ground
Dust becomes dust.
NAP TIME IN THE WOODS
As we sit at a picnic table

Under a grand old oak
In a forest glade
Insulating us
From the worst of the intense heat
Beyond the trees
Our granddaughter sleeps in her stroller
And the only sound we can hear
Is the faraway whisper of traffic
Enhancing the stillness
Rather than disturbing the peace.
There are no birds singing
128
Whitman-Bradley / 129
No bugs buzzing
Not even the slightest movement of air
To rustle and rattle the leaves.
And as I sometimes do when all is quiet
I begin paging through my catalog
Of sorrows and regrets
Painstakingly compiled over the decades.
But I don't get far before I am distracted
By the sudden song
Of a bird I do not recognize
In a nearby tree
And then an amiable breeze
Comes sauntering over the top of the hill
Down into the glade
Introducing itself to the trees
The low shrubs and brambles
The toddler's bare feet and legs
The sweaty backs of our necks
In such cordial fashion that I realize
I am in no mood after all
For poring over melancholy archives
And instead wish simply to be here
Thinking exactly nothing
In the beguiling wafts of cooling air
As we wait for the little one
To awaken from her afternoon nap.
MICHAEL JACK O'BRIEN

all that i need to know
wichita.
hot summer
after first grade.
i hear the song
“ghost riders in the sky,”
daydream of riding
over the clouds
on the devil’s horses.
a neighbor shows me
his book about hell,
a picture book of people
being boiled in a big pot
and other things
i see now in dreams.
i know where the devil lives.

it’s not in the sky.
neighbor-kids drop
sweet alice, a white cat
who lives with us,
into a tall
cardboard box.
they won’t let her out.
i become the cat,

can see what
sweet alice sees
through the top of the box.
this summer
sweet alice
disappears.
130
O'Brien / 131
central coast storm
this morning’s paper

delivered the soaked news.
driveway drain backs up,
begins to flood the garage.
coastal oaks, parched for months now,
will be refreshed, wild grass
will grow green-long in rings
beneath rough-bark branches.
fire-scorched hillsides soak until
soil slumps onto roads and homes.
dry stream beds full of beer cans
foam cups, condoms, and animal scat
flush into the pacific.
frogs pop out of mud near vernal ponds,
sing, mate, and create polliwogs
that dart around the mallards.
fields soaked, mixtec farmworkers
hunker down in dank motel rooms of
santa maria, salinas, and watsonville.
poppies and lupines will soon bloom
orange/blue along 101.
on slopes of the coastal range
mountain lions slip through wet chaparral.
further up among the gray and coulter pines
and the high canyon stands of douglas fir
black bears wait out the storm
in caves where stone-age folk
would stare out at forests
transformed by snow.
dear brother,
at home
listening to
a jazz trio
new to me,
the pianist
reimagining
“blue skies,”
the drummer
pulsing, pushing
the chords,
the bassist
plucking,
playing off
the pianist,
the trio’s fusion—
cool beauty,
so, my brother,
i reach
for the phone
to share
with you
this discovery
and suddenly
remember your
suicide.
mid-december…
and we have no card from you

of course you are dead of course
yours, brother, was suicide

but the loneliness…
yours always
the first card received
covered with
renaissance angels
or mary,
before the horror,
O'Brien / 133
serene in
luminous blue
showing your love

of art your spiritual
yearning
then your
personal note
printed in
perfect script
as if wrist control
could take you

to grace
LENNY LEVINE
WISDOM 101
Okay, if you’ll all take seats. Thank you.

My name is Dr. Walter Carmichael, and for those of you
wondering what you’re doing here, which is probably all of you, I will
explain.
I know you were surprised at Freshman Registration to learn
that you were automatically enrolled in this course. Sorry about that.
This last-minute change occurred because the august
institution for whom I endeavor, and from which you hope to graduate,
has seen fit to add to its offerings a course entitled “Wisdom.”
So that’s why we’re here.
Merriam-Webster defines it as “knowledge that is gained by
having many experiences in life, the natural ability to understand
things that most other people cannot understand, knowledge of what is
proper or reasonable, good sense or judgment.”
That would all be true if wisdom existed. But it doesn’t.
Wisdom is only what people decide it is.
Let’s take those four definitions:
“Knowledge that is gained by having many experiences in
life.” People can, and frequently do, experience the same thing in
different ways and draw different lessons from it. Over a lifetime, how
many of these are wisdom and how many are just plain wrong?
“The natural ability to understand things that most other
people cannot understand.” Well, the last time I checked, that was also
insanity.
“Knowledge of what is proper or reasonable, good sense or
judgment.” Yes, but people must agree on what those things are. And,
if you’ve noticed, people generally don’t.
Remember: It’s been over a million years since we humans
started to think, but it’s been only four hundred since wisdom stopped
telling us the sun revolved around the Earth.
Wisdom exists only in the eye of the beholder.
And if you approach this course with the right attitude, and
you work hard to develop the necessary skills, here is my promise:
Each and every one of you, with the exception of the lowest twenty
percent who must fail, will, to varying degrees, become wise in the
eyes of others.
134
Levine / 135
And that is all that matters.

Look at the syllabus in front of you, and I’ll give you an idea
of what’s ahead.
For the introductory section of the course, you’ll need to buy
two books, The Virtue of Cynicism, by Jacques Disparager and
Capacity for Opacity, by I.M. Ply.
The first book outlines the importance of skepticism. Nothing
works better to set you apart from the herd than if you oppose popular
beliefs.
But it’s not that simple. Done incorrectly, you’re dismissed as
a crackpot. Done artfully, you could claim the sun won’t rise
tomorrow, and people would actually give it credence.
The second book, Capacity for Opacity, deals with ambiguity.
To quote John Lennon, “Got to be good-looking ’cause he’s so hard to
see.”
I can’t stress this enough: The more meanings people can take
from what you say, the better. Do it effectively, and they just fill in the
blanks. Any idea, no matter how vague, makes perfect sense to them.
The intermediate section of the course covers the proper use of
phrases like “obviously,” “as we now know,” and a myriad of others.
You’ll need two more books for this, Friend or Faux, by Sue
Percilius and The Myth of Common Knowledge, by Una Ware.
As you can see… Incidentally, did anyone notice that I just
used another of those empty expressions? You’re nodding your heads,
but I don’t believe you.
As you can see, phrases such as these convey the impression
that you respect your reader or listener’s intelligence.
Because you are students at a prestigious university, and have
met certain high standards to get here, you undoubtedly assume that if
anyone’s intelligence deserves respect, it’s yours.
Right.
Let’s move on to the final section of the course: literalism.
Does anyone know what that is?
Oh, come on, now. Are you already so intimidated that, rather
than raise your hand, you’d give the impression of ignorance? If you
learn one thing in this class, it’s that it’s not smart to play dumb in a
course called “Wisdom.”
I’ll ask again: What is literalism?
Yes, young man? Speak up, I can’t hear you. “Taking things
literally.” Thank you, that was brilliant.
For this section, you’ll need to buy only one book because it’s
the definitive statement on the subject. It’s called Oh, Really? by
Walter Carmichael.
That’s right. I have to make a few bucks like everyone else.
They say that literalism is the opposite of creativity, but
they’re wrong. In the proper context, it’s a very useful tool.
Do you remember a while ago, when I said you could claim
the sun won’t rise tomorrow and people would actually give it
credence? Well, guess what I’m claiming? The sun will not rise
tomorrow.
Anyone disagree?
Come on, what is this, an oil painting? Let’s see some hands if
you think the sun will rise tomorrow.
There we go, nearly unanimous. My God, what courage!
I notice there’s a young lady down front who didn’t raise her
hand. Would you care to tell us why, miss?
Ah, yes, a shrug. Wonderful exercise for the shoulder muscles.
I repeat: The sun will not rise tomorrow. Since so many of you
disagree, will someone tell me why I’m wrong?
You there, the fellow in the back, wearing that garish tie-dye
shirt. Why am I wrong? Why will the sun rise tomorrow?
What was that? “Because it always has?”
No, I’m afraid the answer is precisely the opposite. The sun
will not rise tomorrow or any other day because it never has.
The sun does not go around the Earth, remember? It doesn’t
rise and set. Welcome to the real world.
***
Okay, if you’ll please take your seats. Thank you.
Well, here it is, at long last, our final class together.
It’s been a lively semester, to say the least, and out of the
eighty-seven students who began this course, only five have seen fit to
drop it.
The rest of you have taken to it quite eagerly. You plunged
into the techniques of sophistry, verbosity, and circumlocution with
such relish that it’s almost as if they came naturally.
I have the results of your final exams here, and they indicate
significant potential. Which disappoints me greatly.
It means that you have completely missed the point of all this.
Do you recall my saying that wisdom exists only in the eye of
the beholder? Of course you do.
Levine / 137
But you never realized that you, as the beholder, were given
enormous power. You could have rejected me and everything I say.
You could have seen through it all and understood that I’m espousing
only the shallow trappings of superficiality. But you didn’t.
Those five people who dropped the course did. That’s why
they’re all getting A’s.
As for the eighty-two who remained, well, you’ll also recall
that I said the lowest twenty percent of you must fail. I was not
referring to a curve, and it didn’t mean that failure would be confined
only to that twenty percent.
In fact, to the contrary, each and every one of you will be
receiving an F for this course.
Sorry.
And when you take my course again, which you will be
required to do, don’t take me for a fool. Don’t assume you can get an
A by simply dropping it, as those insightful five did. That train has left
the station.
You’ll have to get there some other way.
But don’t worry. Now that you’ve spent this term learning
what not to do, by getting so good at doing it, you’ll be able to
recognize pretentious phoniness when it rears its ugly head. And that’s
a good thing.
That’s why the great majority of you will figure this out, and
I’ll be glad to remove those F’s from your record.
Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll be among the lucky few who
catch a brief, microscopic glimpse of wisdom.
In the meantime, enjoy your intersession!
NANCY SMILER LEVINSON

INVISIBLE
The childless couple named my mother Golda

when they adopted her after the baby’s mother died giving birth.
They cherished Golda and she adored them. Yetti sewed pinafores
for her, tied peaked bows atop her hair, and baked apple strudel
the way she did in the old country. Henry, a physician,
sometimes invited Golda to accompany him in his carriage
and later in a new Model T auto while visiting rural patients.
When my mother was eight, Henry’s father came to live with them
and remained until he died the year my mother turned fourteen.
During those years this grandfather did not speak to her.
He did not look at her. He did not acknowledge her existence.
At the dinner table he did not ask her to pass the kugel or sugar bowl.
Why Golda’s parents didn’t speak up remains unknown.
What was known: My mother was adopted, not the true birth child
of this grandfather’s son. And every day the old man
wearing a yarmulke, stroking his bristly gray beard,
sat in the synagogue by the eastern wall,
davening, back and forth, in prayer with God.
PINE BOX
My eyes are closed, my ears are sealed,

and beneath the blanket, my nearly-naked body
lies flat and stiff, corpse entombed.
What other image have I but ravaged, distorted,

then remolded by a mortician’s skilled hand,
my face starkly whitened, waxed to the touch?
This plain pine box, willed by Jews

for humble simplicity, in accordance
with my earlier requests to my sons,
138
Levinson / 139
to place treasures about my neck—

gold wedding band on a chain, moonstone necklace
gifted one anniversary, my mother’s antique locket.
I envision with surety my burial with chest scarred

like a penciled Mondrian sketch, beneath my bra
stuffed with soft silicone prostheses.
.
From my coffin, on display in the chapel,
I do not see who is attending, nor hear the rabbi sing
Eil Maleh Rachamim, grant eternal rest.
I feel nothing of my coffin carried out

and placed next to my husband’s grave
in the Mausoleum Garden in the section of Canaan.
Is it a summer or winter day? Is a light rain falling?

I am unaware of tears shed at our burial site
during the recitation of the mourners’ prayer,
Kaddish, which speaks not a breath of death,

but only of God’s glory, hopes for peace
even amidst earth’s darkness intensified
in blues and blacks and whites, cataclysms of war.
MYSTERY
They journeyed a great distance,

my grandparents Edel and Inez
from a dismal mud flat village
across the Atlantic to America
and finally to Minnesota
where relations had already settled.
Where had they come from? The old country.
What did a child like me know of Europe?
Shtetl? Struggle? Despair? Always, only
I heard from adults in the family
they came from that place—the old country .
Edel, strapped in suspenders, amused

me and my sister, magically pulling pennies
from our ears. He sat hours in our garage
pickling cucumbers in a barrel of briny water.
What was he doing? In broken English
he told us making jars of good dills.
Inez always dressed in black. When she sat

and crossed her ankles her nylon stockings
rubbed together, a quick zipper sound.
On our davenport in the summer watching
me and my sister playing paper dolls, she worried
we might catch a death of cold on the floor.
She beckoned me, come, sit near Grandma,

but I didn’t. What could we talk about?
I would kiss her briskly, bring her tea in a glass,
parade a new pair of shiny patent leather shoes.
But converse? I kept a comfortable distance.
In passing years, books told me of Eastern Europe,

ragged immigrants crushed in steamers’ steerage,
blinking in darkness, yet with flickering light
behind their eyes. And what turbulent seas
they endured coming all the way to America—
to scratch out a new life penny by penny!
I hadn’t thought, I hadn’t known to ask

my grandparents on our davenport or in the garage.
Then came the time, too late, when I wanted to know

their stories. Who were they, my ancestry?
Who did they come from? And what of their village?
Did they hide from the Czar’s marauding soldiers?
Did they milk a goat, chase after chickens,
wring their necks and cook them in soup?
When did they meet? Fall in love? Tell me,
tell me the mystery of crossing an ocean.
Levinson / 141
WHAT I REMEMBER
I swiped a ten-cent pack

of bareback picture trading cards
from Woolworths. Oodles of poodles,
but I could just as easily have picked
kittens or ladies in summer hats.
My girlfriend, Sheila, and I

had ridden the streetcar downtown
and got root beer floats at the lunch counter.
After that we watched caged canaries
and tiny turtles with painted shells.
Then we wandered up and down the aisles.

That’s when I took the pack of cards
and tucked it in my little straw purse.
I didn’t know why.
I could have paid the dime.
Sheila told her mother, who called my mother.

Sheila told her mother everything.
And she did everything her mother
told her to do and say. With no fuss,
without one stomp of a foot.
Sheila was very pretty, fluttering lashes,

no braces on her teeth, Bermuda shorts and tops
perfectly ironed, always wearing
a hair ribbon or set of barrettes
that matched every outfit.
I don’t remember if I were punished or not,

beyond hearing that I should never ever steal again
and what would people think. And my mother
went on, as she did for years to come,
why couldn’t I be like Sheila.
SUBTERFUGE
I felt the mattress ripple when you shifted,

turning towards me at dawn
and I sunk into the warm nest of your arms.
“I’ve come back to you,” you murmured.
I heard that cooing of your voice, clearly,
felt the move of your embrace that morning
although I didn’t know the hour
or the earth’s position or if it were daybreak at all.
In our bedded garden, joy awoke in me—

but for a second only, perhaps two or three,
while my eyelids fluttered, oh where had you gone
in the year since you left, following the
disappearance of your memory, your mind,
carried off somewhere by a raptor.
/ 143
CLELA REED
THE LEGEND
She wants tea in the garden as planned,

but yes, Leizu will comply after.
She knows a wife’s role—even as Empress.
The mulberry trees seem unhealthy, he said,
and she must inspect them today.
But this tree with low branches above her

shows little struggle, she thinks, as it
moves in the afternoon breeze, bowing
to filter the sun. Still ... just there.
She parts leaves to see—cocoons!
Evidence, she knows, of the chewing worms.
And so, she dutifully plucks them
to show the Emperor tonight. One slips
from her fingers, lands in her cup.
She shakes her head at her clumsiness and
goes on to other trees, plucking the bundles
like tiny ripe fruits that mound in the bowl.
~~~~
Thus the story goes: Leizu, called Xilingshi,
empress of China in the 27th century BC,
will return to her cup, find the cocoon unspooling
in the tepid tea, imagine the worth
of such a fine, long fiber, lustrous and strong.
She will invent the loom and start
to weave her country’s future. She will
bow to the Yellow Emperor, who will take
full credit for prosperous trade, for the
metamorphosis she began.
BECOMING
“With time and patience, the mulberry leaf

becomes a silk gown.” Chinese proverb
143
10
The leaves must be eaten.

All of them—
mundane frightening
delicious bitter—daily leaves
from the mulberry trees you know
and those you don’t.
Leaves:
dreariness surprises.
Digest rest digest grow—so much

that you outgrow who you are
and become become become
until you must stop the madness
the frenzied hunger
the dizzying change
and curl your self into yourself
begin to spin
from your own being
a soft shell to hold your longing
a shelter made of one long dream of wings
one long sigh of truth
which in time unfurls

in time is stretched strong
woven smooth
and stitched with music
And what is made
we call poetry.
WHEN PARACHUTES WERE SILK
So many tried to float the sky

when parachutes were new and flawed.
Silk cloud and cords to dangle by
seemed magic one must dare to try.

Compelled to drift on the breath of God,
so many tried to float the sky.
Reed / 145
Some climbed up towers straight and high

to leap as crowds rushed to applaud
silk cloud and cords to dangle by.
Some needed ways to flee and fly

from burning planes in wars abroad.
So many tried to float the sky,
and after days of soldier and spy,

new dreamers were entranced and awed.
Silk cloud and cords to dangle by
lured those whose hearts might nullify

earth-bound life where the cautious trod.
So many tried to float the sky.
Silk cloud and cords to dangle by.
THE KIMONO
Apart from the rye field in late October,

mist rising in layers,
or the woods violets perched on velvet leaves,
it was possibly the most beautiful thing
he had ever seen.
The kimono of silk, blue like her eyes,

with swaths of ivory highlighting
cherry blossoms, petals embroidered to a satin finish.
A crane—curve of graceful neck, wings unfurling
for flight—caped the back. For good luck, he was told.
The silk was as soft as lips, as smooth
as skin of the inner thigh.
He and the Okinawan volleyed the price until
both felt clever and the robe was his.
My brother and I, childhoods rich in celebrations,

never understood why our father, a generous man,
bought no gifts for our mother.
“She can buy anything she wants,” he would say.
But I would coax Dad at times to let me

choose something for him, for under the tree
or beside the cake, to say “Love, Bill.”
At eighty-seven, after Mother’s death,

he told me one unhurried day
the story of the kimono—his country-boy pride
in buying such a treasure for his city wife,
using money saved while fellow sailors
caroused on shore leave, gambling away fear,
buying pleasure. I sensed the sweetness
of his intent, steeped for sixty years.
“But you know,” he said, “When I gave it to her,

she laughed at it, ... and at me.
‘What will I ever do with such a thing?’
She laughed.”
ISADORA’S SCARVES
“Affectations can be dangerous.” Gertrude Stein

upon hearing of the death of Isadora Duncan
She refused the cape she was offered,

though September in Nice could chill
the throat as quickly as champagne.
The convertible ride was theater;
her image the thing she prized
and so the scarf—long, silk, some say blue
—wound about her neck once, twice
and tossed behind her to flirt with the wind.
Her signature. Her costume and prop

to veil her naked body as she danced
to Chopin’s waltzes, to move
like music through the leaps and turns
of the heat of Brahms’s German mode,
to flow behind her like the wake of a revolution
when she honored France’s “Marseillaise,”
Reed / 147
her long, silk scarves were undulations

of sensuality, flags of the scandalous triumph
audiences came to see.
But who could have guessed the strength,

the worm-wrought, loom-welded strength?
Who could imagine how airy silk
snatched by spokes could ratchet the body free,
torque the neck, and slap the skull
to the pavement, eyes wide in amazement?
L D ZANE
IT HAPPENED OVER COFFEE…AND A BAGEL
As I waited for my order at Starbucks, someone from behind me

asked, “Avi. That’s short for the Hebrew name Avraham. Are you
Jewish?”
I turned to see who was speaking to me. He was a stocky
young man sporting a beard, about five-ten, perhaps in his early
twenties, and appeared to be Semitic.
“Yeah. It’s short for Avraham, and I’m Jewish. What about
it?”
Avi. My late parents—more precisely, my mother—thought sending

me to Hebrew school during the school year—beginning when I
turned eight—and to Brooklyn to study at a Chassidic yeshiva for one
month during the summer break—until my Bar Mitzvah, at the age of
thirteen—would thwart my juvenile delinquent behavior. It didn’t.
But I always had a thirst for understanding how, and why,
things were the way they were. The more I learned, the more questions
I had. ‘Twenty-question Avi’ was my nickname while attending
religious schools. Surprisingly, I was a better student at the religious
schools than I ever was at the secular ones. I never found my secular
studies challenging.
Anyway, the Rabbis referred to me by my Hebrew name,
Avraham ben Lazer—which translated to Avraham, the son of Lazer.
It got shortened by others in my classes, from an early age, to just
‘Avi.’ It’s come to be a term of endearment. And to this day, I have
only allowed a select few to use the name. The stranger wasn’t one of
them.
“As-salām 'alaykum,” is how he greeted me.
“That’s Arabic. Are you an Arab?”
“Actually, Palestinian.”
I glared at him for a moment, and then responded, “Same
difference.”
He smiled. “I beg to differ. But this is neither the time nor
place for that discussion.”
I continued the stare, and said, “You can ‘beg to differ’ all you
want. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to discuss.” But to
148
Zane / 149
show I wasn’t a complete boor, I responded to his greeting: “Wa

'alaykum as-salām.”
I usually don’t venture into Starbucks. The coffee is overpriced and

overrated for my taste; they’re always crowded; it’s located on the
wrong side of town—the affluent side, called The Hills; and most of
the patrons—at least to me—are pretentious. Everyone is on their
laptop or tablet. I have no idea what they’re doing, nor do I care. The
only reason I came this time was because I had one of their $30 gift
cards, which I won in a contest at work, and I had some time to kill on
my day off—two days before New Year’s Eve day. I don’t know why
our company thinks going to Starbucks is a gift.
As I was standing in line looking over the menu of coffees, I
became overwhelmed—and I’m not easily subjugated by fits of
indecision. Not only were there two boards, but each selection had a
calorie count and at least three sizes from which to choose.
There were two women in front of me agonizing over what to
order. They finally settled on the type of coffee they wanted, but then
anguished about the size in order to stay within their prescribed daily
caloric intake. Finally, one of them said, “Oh…the hell with it. Who
am I fooling? I stopped counting calories on Thanksgiving. I’m even
going to get it with whipped cream!” The other agreed and they
gleefully placed their orders.
Whatever happened to: “Coffee for here”?
I was up next and made it simple for the cashier: “Medium
house blend and a toasted bagel with cream cheese.”
“That’s it? Just plain coffee? she said with condescension.
“Yeah. Just plain ol’ coffee.”
“Regular or decaf?”
“Regular. I like caffeine.”
The inquisition continued. “What kind of bagel?”
“What kind do you have?”
She pointed to the menu, and said, “Everything, raisin or
plain.”
“Just a plain bagel,” I responded.
“Whole wheat, multi-grain or gluten free?”
I thought, Christ…did someone in their corporate office sit
around all day thinking of ways to make this so damn difficult? “None
of the above,” I said curtly. “Do you have any made with real flour?”
“No. Just whole wheat, multi-grain or gluten free.”
“Fine. I’ll take the whole wheat.”

“How do you want it toasted?”
I rolled my eyes and said, “Almost burnt.”
“Regular cream cheese or low-fat?”
“You’re kidding?” I said, incredulously.
She just stared at me.
I looked at her name tag and asked, “Is your nickname,
‘Twenty-question Sarah?” She didn’t respond. Instead, she asked
again—as if she were an automaton—”Regular cream cheese or low-
fat?”
“Regular. I’m not counting anything except the time it’s taken
me to order a cup of coffee and a toasted bagel. “
“And your name for the order, please?” she said, without
looking at me.
“Avi.” I gave that name out of spite. Amazingly, she didn’t
have twenty questions about it. I’m sure she never attended a yeshiva,
I thought. “Do you also need my social security number?”
No response from her other than, “That will be $7.90.” She
swiped the gift card, and handed it back to me. “You have $22.10 left
on the card. You can wait over there for your order. We’ll call you
when it’s ready.”
I was afraid to ask, but deemed it necessary: “Could I get the
coffee with cream?”
“You’ll find the condiments on the other side of the counter
from where you pick up your order. There’s whole milk, skim milk,
organic milk and half and half.”
“Of course.” And with a sarcastic smile, I said, “Wouldn’t
have expected anything less.”
As I was waiting with the others—including the two women
who each ordered a large, white something-or-other with whipped
cream—I heard the voice from behind me ask the question.
The Palestinian had an ever-so-slight British accent, and a broad, hefty

smile showing off his perfectly white, straight teeth. From his speech
and smile, he didn’t appear to be someone who grew up in a ghetto in
Gaza.
“I’m surprised you know Arabic,” he said. “You spoke it
flawlessly. I thought you would have responded with the Hebrew
greeting, ‘Shalom.’”
Zane / 151
“The same thought crossed my mind. You knew I was Jewish,

but chose to greet me in Arabic. That said, I always respond in kind,” I
said snarkily.
“Ah, yes…a hint of hostility,” he said still smiling. He paused.
“My greeting was more natural, as it is my native tongue. No offense
meant. Nonetheless, I appreciate your greeting and the effort behind
it.”
Just then, a young man behind the counter shouted, “Avi.
Coffee and bagel.” I realized then that I should have ordered more, as I
had worked up an appetite just placing it.
I grabbed my nourishment. Before I went searching for a quiet
table where there were no electronic devices in use, and doused my
coffee with half and half, I turned to the Palestinian. With the same
intensity in my voice as in my glare, I said, “Don’t confuse hostility
with suspicion.”
He dropped the smile.
I found that table, and assumed I would be able to savor my feast in

peace. I was wrong.
The Palestinian stood next to me and asked, “May I join you?”
He was also eating light. He had tea and a Danish of some kind. I
wondered if they had given him the third degree as well.
I didn’t want company, but I also didn’t want to appear rude—
although that rarely stopped me before. But the kid had a pleasant
demeanor, if not intrusive, and was dressed in a preppy manner. It
wasn’t as if he just stepped off the boat.
I said, with no welcoming smile or tone, “Please. Have a
seat…across from me where I can see your hands.”
“That’s quite insulting.”
“Then find another seat. I wasn’t looking for company.”
I sipped my regular coffee and started to spread my regular
cream cheese on my barely-toasted bagel. Holding it over my lighter
would have toasted it darker.
To my astonishment, and disappointment, the Palestinian
appeared directly across from me. He put down his food, sat, and then
laid both of his hands on the table—palms up. It seemed to me he had
done this before.
“There. Satisfied?” He appeared greatly annoyed. But I wasn’t
sure if his irritation was directed at me, my request, or his compliance.
“Are you checking for weapons, or just want to see if I washed before
eating?”
Good comeback I thought, and chuckled to myself. “Both,” I
said, slightly looking up. “I like to know I’ll be able to finish my meal.
Old habit from Vietnam. And I have a fetish for cleanliness.” He
didn’t appear to have any weapons, and his hands were clean. “As I
said, don’t confuse hostility with suspicion.”
“But why would you be suspicious? I don’t believe I’ve given
you any reason.”
This time I did look up, and at him. I gave a one-word answer:
“History.”
We both sat in refreshing silence for a few moments. I was
fixated on my bland bagel. Then, he started up again.
“Is Avi your given name?” he said in a more congenial tone.
I sighed and said, slightly exasperated, “No. It’s Allen. Avi is
just a carryover from my youth.”
“Mine is Abdul-Basir Al Hamdani,” and enthusiastically stuck
out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Once again I was faced with a decision. Why can’t I just order
and eat without being interrogated? I can’t remember the last time I
had to make so many useless decisions. I put down my plastic knife
and shook his hand, but didn’t look directly at him. I couldn’t bring
myself to say, ‘Pleasure to meet you as well.’ Instead I offered up,
“Abdul-Basir. ‘Servant of the All-Seeing.’ Correct?”
The young man dropped his Danish. “I am indeed impressed,
Avi.” Then he caught himself. “My apologies for using that name.
That was quite presumptuous of me.”
“No harm done, Abdul-Basir. I opened that door,” I said, still
preparing my bagel for consumption.
A profound look of relief crossed his face. “Then call me
Basir, if it pleases you.”
“What would please me more…Basir…is if you would allow
me to drink my overpriced coffee, and eat this poor resemblance of a
bagel before they both get cold. Cold coffee I can handle, but not a
cold bagel with cream cheese. Especially this bagel.”
“Absolutely. But if I may ask just one more question?”
“Is your nickname, ‘Twenty-question Basir?’”
He stared at me, not knowing what I was asking.
“Never mind,” I said. “It’s an inside joke. Go ahead. Ask your
question.”
Zane / 153
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I said under my breath, “Something tells
me you would have asked it no matter what my answer was.” He
didn’t hear me. If he did, he ignored my comment.
He fiddled with his tea for a moment, and then asked, “How
did you know the meaning of my name? I mean, I’ve been studying at
Columbia University for almost four years now, and not one person,
not one, outside of the other Arabic students who already knew, has
ever asked me the meaning of my name.”
“I’m a virtual cornucopia of useless knowledge, Basir. And
I’ve also been to Israel many times to visit friends. There are things
you learn through osmosis.”
“Very interesting, Avi. Are you afraid when you visit Israel?”
I looked squarely at him and snapped back, “No. Should I
be?”
“No. But there are…risks.”
“From whom? You and your friends?”
He shot back defiantly, “I’ve never done any act of civil
disobedience or terror.”
“Never? Really? You’ve never tossed a rock, a bomb, or a
Molotov cocktail at an Israeli patrol or tank? Never launched a rocket
into an unsuspecting civilian neighborhood?”
His coal-black eyes burst into flames, and he pounded his right
fist on the table: “I said never, Avi, and I meant never!” A couple
seated near us looked over, greatly miffed we had interrupted their
bond with their devices. I paid them no mind. I made no apologies.
Well…that struck a nerve, I thought. Let’s see where this goes.
He composed himself, and continued: “My parents would not
have tolerated that type of behavior. Some of my former friends have,
and still do, but not me.”
“So, you do have friends who are engaged in acts of terror?”
“I said former friends. And they are acts of civil disobedience,
not terror.”
“Yeah. One man’s act of civil disobedience is another man’s
terror. So why are they your former friends?”
The level of his voice dropped, as did his head. “They want
nothing to do with me. They are ashamed of me.” He reflected for a
moment, then raised his head and spoke directly at me: “And why do
you keep associating me with those who engage in acts of terror? I’m
not now, nor have I ever been a terrorist. I’ve never injured another
human.”
“Like I said…history.”
“You may not believe this, but not all Palestinians embrace the
same history.”
I wanted to say, ‘You’re right. I don’t believe you.’ But I kept
my mouth shut—surprisingly. Instead, I pivoted. “Well, there are risks
here, Basir. Besides, I stay with friends when I’m in Israel. Most
served in the I.D.F. Some served with Mosaad. Are you afraid here?”
“It is true. There have been times when I have been concerned
for my safety.” His demeanor again became more solemn. “But I am
more concerned for my safety when I go back home, which I haven’t
done in a while, much to the dismay of my parents and siblings.”
“And why is that? That you’re concerned for your safety back
home?”
Basir again bowed his head, and spoke in a subdued tone:
“Because I have not taken up the same cause some of my childhood
friends have. They believe I am not among the faithful—that I have
betrayed them.”
“Have you, betrayed them?” and took another sip of my
coffee, and a bite out of my bagel.
“I don’t believe so. I believe in the same outcome, just not the
manner in which to achieve it. Violence only begets violence.”
“There’s a time for everything. Violence is one of them.”
“Perhaps. But not toward the innocent.”
My tone softened. “On that, we both agree.” I pressed on:
“And you believe these…former friends of yours may try to harm
you?”
“I do not know. That is what concerns me.”
Let’s see how far I can push this. “And what cause, exactly,
are we speaking of?” although I knew what cause it was.
I sensed he didn’t want to venture any further into this
conversation. I really didn’t want to either, and quickly pulled back. I
spoke with a calm, but yet commanding voice, “Don’t answer that.”
He gave an involuntary deep sigh of relief that we weren’t
going to pursue that discussion. We both knew the outcome could
have—no, more than likely would have—been explosive. So I
changed the subject. “What’s with the British accent?”
“You are indeed observant, Avi. My compliments. Both of my
parents are doctors and completed their undergraduate studies in
Zane / 155
England. They sent me there, to a boarding school, when I turned eight

years old. I didn’t want to go and be so far from home for such a long
time, but they insisted it was best for me.”
“Yeah. Been there, done that,” now fully engaged with my
bagel.
“Your parents sent you to a boarding school as well?”
I wanted to explain my religious exile and imprisonment, and
to add, ‘Does reform school count?’ but decided he wouldn’t
understand, and I was in no mood to explain. “No, not exactly. But I
had the same feelings through some of my schooling. And so did my
parents.” I quickly asked another question. “So how did you wind up
at Columbia?”
“My father made that decision for me. He and my mother
studied medicine there. That’s where they met.”
“Where would you have preferred to study?”
“I would have been content at Tel Aviv University. It would
have been closer to home and it would have been a first-rate
education.”
“But Columbia has a more worldwide reputation. Besides,
didn’t you say you were afraid of going home?”
He became adamant, and said almost shouting, “I said I was
concerned for my safety. I didn’t say I was afraid!” Basir paused, and
lowered his voice: “But it’s still home,” and took a deep breath. “This
is not.”
I could see tears forming in his eyes.
I knew that feeling—what it felt like to be away from home. In
addition to being shipped off to Brooklyn every summer and my stints
in reform school, I served seven years in the Navy. Part of that was a
combat tour on river boats in Vietnam—where I was wounded, and
then recuperated for four months at a military hospital in Hawaii—and
the other part was serving onboard a Fast Attack submarine based at
Pearl. I had no desire to go home, but I missed it all the same.
“Hey, Basir, I know you won’t believe this, but I do
understand what you’re feeling. I really do.” I continued with the
questions. It’s just my nature. “So, are you going to become a doctor?”
“I’m not sure, but I have to decide very soon. I’m in my senior
year.”
“I think I know the answer to this question, but I’m going to
ask it anyway. What do your parents want you to do?”
“We both know the answer to that question, Avi.”
“What do you want to do? After all, it is your life.”

At that question, he became more passionate: “I want to
pursue mathematics. I’m good at it, and I love it. Many of my
professors have encouraged me to follow that path.”
“So do it! What’s holding you back?”
“The disapproval and disappointment of my parents…and
money.”
“Yeah. Know that feeling as well. Seems that’s universal with
kids and parents. Same shit, different culture.” I’ve been on both sides
of that equation, having raised three children. Disappointment and
disapproval go both ways—even between spouses.
Basir leaned forward, “I believe I know what you mean. I see
it every day with the American students, but more so with the foreign
ones. If I don’t pursue a medical degree, I’m concerned my parents
will not help me to finance my extended education.”
“Concerned or afraid? Which one?”
“Both, Avi. There is no way I could afford to finance my own
advanced degree. It’s difficult enough for those who are born here. No
one would lend me the money.” He started to fidget with his plastic
spoon. There was anxiety in his voice when he said, “But if I do
become a doctor, my parents will want me to practice in Gaza and in
Israel, as they do. They are apolitical and well-respected in both
places. But they, too, come under a great deal of pressure from all
sides, as I would. I am not as strong as they are. I truly don’t know
what to do.”
This kid is caught between a rock and a hard place. I’d been
there many times—unfortunately. But I was stronger than he appeared
to be. I had to be. I had no safety net. For most of my life I had to rely
on myself. Some of that was by choice. Some of it was… because
….well…I brought it on myself.
I attempted another angle for the young Palestinian to
consider, although I didn’t quite understand why. “You’ve probably
played cricket, correct?”
“Of course. And I’m quite good, if I may say so myself.”
“Well, I’m a big baseball fan. And there’s a saying: ‘swinging
for the fences.’”
“We have a different saying, but I know the meaning.”
“What do you think it means?”
“You go for it. Try and get the home run and perhaps even
win the game.”
Zane / 157
“But you might strike out or otherwise fail to get it out of the
park.”
“That’s true, Avi. But one never knows until one tries.”
As he said that, I saw an a-ha! look on his face. He just sat
there, staring into space, as if he were watching a movie playing inside
his head. Then he nodded his head in agreement. It appeared Basir had
come to some conclusion. Perhaps he finally made the connection,
and now believes he can change his own future. Perhaps he came to
the conclusion that he is stronger than he thought.
And then something strange happened to me; something I
never thought would happen between me and a Palestinian. Am I
feeling empathy for Basir? We shared some similar experiences, and
both of us had had decisions to make. Maybe neither of us realized at
the time that they came with consequences—some of them negative. I
know I didn’t. But we made them nonetheless.
I had swung for the fences many times and was willing to let
the chips fall where they may. Basir had already done it once before—
even if he hadn’t realized he had—and I believed he was ready to do it
again. Perhaps he was more prepared this time.
Funny thing happens, though, when you swing for the fences:
whether you get a home run or strike out, there will always be those
who will say you made the wrong decision. It’s bad enough we second
guess ourselves; but even when we don’t, there will always be those
who will. Fuck ‘em.
“What’s on your mind, Basir?”
“I think…no, I believe I have a solution to my dilemma.”
“And what is it?”
“Forgive me, Avi, but I would rather not say at this time. I’m
not quite confident of all the details or ramifications. But it is a
solution, or at least a plan.”
I gave up a genuine smile, and said, “Good for you. A plan is
better than nothing. But do you know what validates a plan?”
“Please tell me.”
“Acting on it.”
Basir looked relieved—more relieved than he had during the
entire conversation. There was an assurance about him. I was
confident that, whatever his plan was, he would somehow, someway,
make it work—and I was happy for him.
At that moment, several thoughts raced through me. What the
hell just happened? And what was happening to me? Was I going soft?
At any other time, I would have told this kid to buzz off. That it was his
problem to solve, not mine. I would have said good luck—maybe—but
certainly would have said goodbye.
I was as finished with my coffee and bagel as I would ever be.
“I should be going, Basir, as I have some errands to run. But before I
go, I have just one more question.”
“Certainly, Avi. What is it?”
“What brings you here, to my city?”
“My roommate is from your city. He lives close by, and
generously invited me to stay with his family over our winter break.
Interestingly enough, he is Jewish. And…his father is a doctor!”
Who would have thought? “That doesn’t surprise me. This is a
very affluent neighborhood, mostly made up of professionals, and
there are many Jewish families who reside here.”
“Do you reside here?”
“Nope. I live on the other side of town. It’s not quite as
affluent, but it’s nice, and I call it home. Have you discussed your
dilemma with your roommate, or his father?”
“Only with my roommate. He’s facing a similar dilemma, and
I didn’t want to…what’s the saying?…‘muddy the waters.’ He doesn’t
know how to approach his parents either.”
“Yeah. That’s the saying. And you were wise not to get in the
middle of that situation. My compliments on your judgment. Perhaps
after you’re sure of your plan, you might want to suggest it to him.
Then, let him do with it as he sees fit.”
“As you did with me!” he said with a new-found resilience.
“So, let him decide whether or not to swing for the fences. Is that what
you’re suggesting?”
“Precisely.”
We stood, disposed of our trash—which included half of my bagel,

and an unfinished cup of coffee—and ventured onto the parking lot.
Before I headed for my car I asked, for some unknown reason, “Do
you want a ride?”
“I appreciate the offer, Avi, but I believe I’ll walk. It’s only a
few blocks and I know the way. Besides, it’s a nice day and the walk
will help me to think through all of this. Perhaps I’ll take the long way
as it will give me more time.”
“Fair enough. Well then, I suppose this is goodbye.”
Zane / 159
Basir just stood there. Neither of us paid any attention to the

cars or people moving about on the lot. Then he said, “Perhaps…if
you would agree, of course…we could, you know…”
“Just spit it out!” although I had an idea of what he was going
to ask.
“Well, keep in touch. Communicate from time to time. I know
I would enjoy hearing from you, Avi. I don’t have many people
…actually…I have no one, to really confide in. And I found it very
easy to converse with you.”
“Really? Not many have ever said that. And I certainly didn’t
expect you to hold that sentiment. I wasn’t exactly welcoming to you
at first. But to answer your question, yes, I would enjoy hearing from
you as well.” I was stunned. The words just fell out of my mouth.
He lit up that broad smile, and said, “Don’t confuse hostility
with suspicion—right, Avi?” and gave a deep belly laugh. I smiled and
laughed as well. This kid has some moxie.
I reached for my pen, but realized I had nothing to write on. I
said, “Don’t move, Basir. I’ll be right back.”
I went inside and grabbed a napkin. I didn’t want to ask any of
the staff if they had some scrap paper. And thank God I had a pen. I
could only imagine the myriad of questions that would have been
hurled my way: ‘Do you want a pen or pencil? Black or blue ink? Gel
or regular ink? How big of a piece of paper? Recycled or new?’ My
head was swimming.
I wrote my e-mail address and cell phone number on it, and
brought it back to Basir, who was patiently waiting. “Here. You’ll find
all of my contact info on the napkin. I’ll get your e-mail address when
you write to me.”
“So you’re counting on me to write first?”
“You got it, Basir. It’s on you.”
“Fair enough, Avi.”
“Just do me one favor.”
“And what might that be?”
“Don’t share this with any of your former friends back home. I
don’t need to be on any government watch list,” and feigned a scowl.
Basir looked mortified, until he saw me crack a smile. He
laughed and said, “Ah, you’re just fooling with me, Avi…” and then
the same concerned look crossed his face, “aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m just playing.”
He gave a sigh of relief and said, “I don’t know you well

enough to know when you’re kidding.”
“Remember that. Keep your own counsel. Only share your
deepest thoughts and feelings with those whom you believe you can
absolutely trust. Unfortunately, you’ll find that there will be few of
them. I’ve learned the hard way that you just never know who will
attempt to use them against you some day.”
“Understand. I have so much to learn.”
“For what it’s worth, we all have a lot to learn. It never
stops...or at least it shouldn’t. You’re doing fine.” He gave one of his
trade-mark smiles and stuck out his chest. He apparently didn’t receive
too many compliments.
Basir studied the napkin for a few moments, then looked at me
and said in his most sincere tone, “You are a wise and generous man,
Avi. I believe I can trust you.”
I didn’t know how to respond—which is usually not the case. I
looked down, nodded my head, then looked directly at him and said,
“Again, not sentiments most people hold about me, but thank you.
You’re a thoughtful young man. And I believe I can trust you as well.”
Again he smiled. Then a melancholy look came over him.
“Well then, I should be on my way, Avi, as you must. Perhaps we can
meet here again.”
“Not here. I don’t like this place.”
He became animated. “I know what you mean, Avi. The tea is
putrid and overpriced; the Danish selection is limited and not always
fresh; they’re always crowded; and everyone is on their laptop or
tablet. They’ve lost the art of spirited conversation, which is another
reason I enjoyed my time with you. You were not afraid to speak your
mind in a civil manner.”
I had to laugh at his assessment of Starbucks, and that he
believed I spoke my mind in a civil manner. Yet another attribute most
would not assign to me. But he was spot on about the attachment
people have to their machines. Whatever happened to two people just
sharing coffee and conversation?
He continued: “Perhaps we could meet at one of your local
diners. I have been to a few in New York and New Jersey, and I know
of one not too far from here. My roommate has taken me there on
several occasions. They are much more welcoming, far less intrusive,
and inexpensive. After all, I am still a student on a limited stipend. I
Zane / 161
have also become quite fond of the American breakfast…minus the

bacon, of course.”
“Of course. That would work for me, Basir. You and I share
the same taste in food and venue. I know several places, and the one
you speak of. Drop me a line, or call. I’m sure we can work out a time.
How long will you be in town?”
“For about another week.” He then said with childish
enthusiasm, “I promise I’ll write, or call, or both. And one more thing,
Avi.”
“What’s that?”
“Please call me, perhaps in about a year or so, should you
have the opportunity to visit Israel.”
“And why is that?”
“Because that is part of my plan—to be back home.”
“Outstanding! I sincerely hope you make it work. Also make it
part of your plan to talk with your parents. You might find them to be
more supportive than you think. And I promise to see you if, and
when, I return to Israel.” I paused. “Then it’s settled. Breakfast, and
possibly a visit with you in Israel. I look forward to both.”
“I know you must be on your way, Avi.” He stuck out his
hand. This time I didn’t hesitate to shake it, or say, “It was a pleasure
meeting you, Abdul-Basir.”
“So you see, Avraham, two people can change history…yes?”
“Yeah. That’s usually the way it happens. One person at a
time.”
Basir remembered how he greeted me at first, and switched it
up. “Shalom, my friend.”
I responded in kind. I always do. “Shalom. Peace be with you,
my friend.”
We separated, but something told me our lives would forever
be connected.
What the hell just happened?
COLLEEN FERGUSON
KISSIN’ WEARS OUT
Pound cake, in its original form, was comprised of four

ingredients: one pound each of butter, flour, sugar, and eggs. The
recipe was conceived in Europe at the beginning of the Age of
Enlightenment, and, relatively quickly, was disseminated across land
and sea—within 100 years a recipe for pound cake appeared in the
1796 cookbook, American Cookery, and by the 1960s, pound cake was
introduced to the Wong-Chung family of Chinatown, Honolulu.
Decades later my mother, Mei-Lin Ferguson (née Chung),
brought the recipe with her to California, where she eventually
introduced it to me. To us, it was a recipe of special occasion—made
only once a year, every Christmas. My mother was never a devotee of
the oven, so the infrequent smell of warmed butter and sugar was
always peppered with a few panicked, muffled swear words. It was
my job to wrap the cooled cakes in aluminum foil, tie them with red
ribbon, and deliver them to the neighbors—a task I adored. I felt like
Santa Claus: showering joy and love upon the neighborhood vis-à-vis
our delicious, homemade pound cake.
I never gave much thought to the recipe’s origin, and simply
assumed it hailed from my dad’s mother. She, like most baked goods,
was solidly European, and a proud and frequent producer of breads
and other pastries. Only recently I learned the recipe came from my
mother’s family; or, to be more precise, her grandfather—Quon Fi
Wong of Chinatown, Honolulu.
Quon Fi Wong is dead now. He died long before I was born,
but even if he had been alive, I never would have met him. He left the
family when my Popo (Cantonese for maternal grandmother) and her
seven siblings were children. He returned for a time when she was an
adult with her own family, but for the most part he was absent in life;
likewise, estranged in death. I’m not sure if anyone knows when or
where or how he died—I never asked, and no one ever told me. We
didn’t talk about Quon Fi; in fact, I can only recall two conversations
in which he was discussed – the first, with my Auntie Millie, over
Chicken Katsu and rice.
I had just graduated college and was visiting my family in
Oahu. I stayed with Popo in her dilapidated Waimanalo bungalow, and
for one week hosted a revolving door of cousins and uncles and
162
Ferguson / 163
aunties popping in to say hello, eat a meal, or drop off a bag full of
manapua and mochi. On my last night, Auntie Millie, the eldest in the
family, brought dinner to Popo’s house—she had made my favorite,
Chicken Katsu. As Auntie Millie and I readied the table, we talked
about food, and I asked her where she got the Katsu recipe.
“Quon Fi,” she said, “Popo’s dad.”
“Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”
“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, “He wasn’t really around. He left
Popo when she was a little girl, yeah? But then he came back after she
was grown, and she took him in.” She turned and walked to the family
cabinet which was covered in hundreds of photographs, all discolored
by decades of kitchen grease. She took a box from the bottom shelf
and shuffled through some papers, until pulling out one photo.
“It was his birthday,” she explained, handing the photo to me.
Two-thirds of the photograph was dominated by a giant
yellow banner with two red Chinese characters stitched in the middle
of it. In the foreground sat a feeble looking Chinese man, dark-
skinned, sprinkled with liver spots, holding the bottom of the banner
and examining it. He was looking down, his eyes hidden, his face
expressionless, and his mouth a straight, flat line. Around his thin neck
sat a plump lei of creamy-yellow plumerias.
“We made that for him,” Auntie Millie explained, pointing to
the banner. “All of us girls. That’s his name in Chinese—Quon Fi
Wong. This was a sign of respect; making the banner, taking care of
him…” She hesitated, her face revealing nothing, “Even though he
wasn’t…he wasn’t a very good person.”
I handed the photograph back to her, “Because he abandoned
the family?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “Because he came back.” Popo came into the
kitchen, and our conversation ended.
……………………
The next time I heard of Quon Fi was this past Christmas,
when I decided to continue the pound cake tradition in my home. I
asked my mom for the recipe, and she obliged, mailing me a scanned
copy. The recipe card was a vintage delight—wholly 70s in style,
ornamented with lime green vines and orange flowers across the top
and bottom. At the top, a seal decorated with more flowers and vines
circled around a fairy-tale couple, the man in knickers and the woman
in a full skirt, holding a teapot. The words, KISSIN’ WEARS OUT—
COOKIN’ DON’T, framed the characters. To the left of the seal were
words: HERE’s WHAT’S COOKIN,’ and below, my mom had typed

the list of ingredients and directions.
I began measuring out sugar and butter, looking at the recipe
card, and noticed that underneath the blue HERE’S WHAT’S
COOKIN’ was typed “GG’s POUND CAKE.” Who is GG? I
wondered, Great-grandma? I called my mom to ask.
“The recipe actually came from Popo’s dad – your great Gung
Gung, Quon Fi Wong.”
“Oh, him!” I cradled the phone with my shoulder and dumped
sugar and butter into the mixer, “He’s responsible for the Chicken
Katsu recipe, too, right? Auntie Millie told me about him the last time
I was in Hawaii. She showed me a photo of him, actually, the one
from his birthday with the banner you guys made. He looked…old.”
“Really? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen that photo.” She
hesitated, “…What else did she tell you?”
“Not much—just that he left the family, and that he wasn’t a
cool guy,” I turned the mixer on, and it grumbled to life, starting its
toil. I raised my voice, “I figured as much, you know, since he
abandoned everyone, but Millie said he came back.”
“Yes, he did.”
I set the timer for five minutes, walking away from the
noise— “Can you tell me about him?”
She sighed, and I could hear reluctance heavy on her voice,
“Well, as you know, he left the family when your Popo was just a little
girl. Her mother, Kam Hung, was left with eight kids in a tiny
house—she died really young, I think—Popo was maybe 16 or 17
when it happened. Popo didn’t tell us much about her childhood, just
that her dad had left and her mother was a saint.
“He came back when Popo was grown, with a family of her
own. We had moved to Waimanalo by then. Auntie Millie and I were
in high school, and Carol, Rachel, and Nadine were still in middle and
elementary school...” Her voice trailed off, and she stopped.
I waited for her to continue, the drone of the mixer amplifying
our silence. “You were in high school, and….” I asked, a little
impatient.
“Oh—I’m sorry. I lost my train of thought for a moment.” She
continued, “So, yeah. Popo took him back in. There were five of us
kids in that tiny two-bedroom house and she took him in.” She
sounded angry now, and was talking faster, “Unbelievable—but that’s
how things were with the Old Chinese, you know, no matter what, you
Ferguson / 165
respect your elders. They’re the most important, so you take care of
them, even if they didn’t take care of you.” I could imagine her on the
other end of the line, shaking her head, “All we knew about him was
that he had been working as a cook in Chinatown in San Francisco—
though when he lived with us, he didn’t work very much.”
She stopped again and was silent for a few moments. I
pressed the phone against my ear, listening intently as her speech
became slow and wooden, “He was old and mean. He was especially
mean to Nadine—probably because of her disability. He treated her
like she wasn’t a person.”
“Oh, what an asshole,” I knew she felt especially protective of
Nadine—the youngest of the five, plagued by a lifetime of doctor’s
visits and health complications. “I’m sorry—we don’t have to talk
about this if you don’t want to.”
“No,” she said a little too abruptly. She paused and lowered
her voice, “I haven’t been keeping this from you…I just found out
myself. I just…I just never found the right time to tell you.” Her next
words dripped through the phone like pitch, “Quon Fi was a
pedophile—he molested Auntie Carol and Auntie Rachel.”
The timer went off like a siren, and my entire body flinched. I
reached to turn it off, my heart racing. I stopped the mixer. “I don’t
understand,” I said.
“Nobody knew,” she said. “Neither of them told anyone.
They didn’t even know it had happened to each other until a decade
ago. We all found out at Great Auntie Siu’s funeral. Well, Carol says
she told mom at some point, but Popo…at that time it just wasn’t—I
don’t even think she believed her. It was different then, you know.
Especially with the Old Chinese mentality—he was the elder, her
goddam prodigal father.”
I leaned against the counter, “What about you,” I asked
tentatively, unsure if I wanted to know the answer.
“Millie and I were older, and maybe safe because of that. We
were always gone, you know? Carol and Rachel were home all the
time…he taught them how to cook” She was crying now, softly, “I
didn’t know,” she said again, “we had no idea.”
We stayed on the phone for another few minutes, until she had
stopped crying. I thanked her for telling me, and we both apologized
to each other. I wasn’t sure why. I hung up the phone and returned to
the mixer, looking at the lump of crystallized fat. Without thinking I
took two eggs and broke them, watching their gelatinous masses slide
down the side of the bowl and collect into a golden pond in the middle.
I dropped a teaspoon of vanilla into the batter, and turned the mixer
on. Should I even be making this? I thought about Auntie Carol’s tense
and nervous disposition. Auntie Rachel’s problems with alcohol. The
photo of Quon Fi, buried in a box.
I turned the mixer off and poured the batter into two pans and
placed them in the oven. Why am I still doing this? This recipe, which
I had always associated with celebration and joy had just been
transformed into something painful, dark, shameful. I felt like it, too,
should be banished to a box, only brought out in shadows, only talked
about with hushed voices.
I set the timer for an hour and sat at the kitchen table, thinking.
I thought about my family. I thought of my Popo and her mother each
raising a family alone. Both trying to do their best. I thought of my
mother, of her apologies. I thought of innocence, lost.
Instantaneously, I comprehended the entirety of my family’s
prolonged and hidden anguish, and felt like I would be crushed
beneath its weight. I began sobbing. It was violent and all-
encompassing, ugly and slightly indulgent. I let myself weep in this
way until I couldn’t anymore.
The timer went off, and I gathered myself, blowing my nose
and rinsing my face with cold water. I opened the oven. The tops of
the loaves were golden in color and sprang back when touched.
Perfect.
I pulled the pans out of the oven and felt a tinge of pleasure
for the first time that day. The kitchen had become filled with the
cakes’ bright, sweet fragrance. The smell suddenly transported me to
my childhood, to my mother’s kitchen, and I could see her standing
there in front of me, smiling, slightly frustrated, messy with flour. My
heart swelled with love and memory and I felt, for a moment, the
innocence of my childhood, preserved.
I turned one loaf over onto a plate. Steam gently rose off the
top and I cut into it easily. As I brought the first taste to my mouth,
and I thought of my aunties, I made this for you, I thought.
The pound cake melted into my mouth, and I thought of my
mother, I made this for you. I cut another piece, a bigger one, and
thought of my Popo and her mother, I made this for you. I held the
piece of pound cake in my hand—"You don’t get to have this, Quon
Fi” I said aloud, to no one, to everyone, “This is mine, now.” Crumbs
Ferguson / 167
fell out of the sides of my mouth and onto the floor. We have taken
your recipe and put you in a box.
NEGLECTED HELP
WATCH 1807, KEATON 1924
When’s the movie start?

It’s on all the time.
Can I have a ticket, please?
Adult or child?
Which is which?
Adult 40 cents, child 10 cents.
Can’t you hurry a little? I’ve been waiting a long time.
I said just a minute.
I don’t mean Susan B. Anthony. Didn’t they try to make her
into a dollar coin?
It didn’t work. Too religious.
That’s good.
No, that’s bad. 10 cents, please.
When do you get off work?
Never.
How much are they?
Adults 40 cents, child 10 cents.
I’ll take one.
One what? You’re not bad looking, you know.
10 cents.
G.G.
Reprinted from Evening Street Review #7
168
/ 169
CONTRIBUTORS
JOE ALBANESE is a writer from South Jersey. His poetry can be

found in recent or forthcoming issues of Calliope, Lowestoft
Chronicle, Poetry Pacific, Sunset Liminal, and other publications.
Recently he graduated from Rowan University where he majored in
Law and Justice. His first novel, Caina, a crime comedy, will be
published in 2018 (Mockingbird Lane Press).
Judy Shepps Battle has been writing essays and poems long before
retiring from being a psychotherapist and sociology professor. She is a
New Jersey resident, addictions specialist, consultant and freelance
writer. Her poems have appeared in a variety of publications including
Ascent Aspirations; Barnwood Press; Battered Suitcase; Caper
Literary Journal; Epiphany Magazine; Joyful; Message in a Bottle
Poetry Magazine; Raleigh Review; Rusty Truck; Short, Fast and
Deadly; the Tishman Review, and Wilderness House Literary Press.
Lawrence William Berggoetz has been published in The Bitter

Oleander, Sheapshead Review, Pacific Quarterly, Skidrow Penthouse,
Stoneboat, Blue Heron Review, Poetry Pacific, JONAH, and others.
He lives in Dallas and is a graduate of Purdue University. He has
written the book Under One Sun, which is a journey upon the path
taken by everyone who would like to find inner peace, tranquility, and
wisdom
Tom Boswell is a writer, photographer and community organizer

residing in Wisconsin. His poetry has appeared in the Atlanta Review,
Rattle, Poet Lore, The Potomac Review, Two Thirds North and other
journals, as well as the anthology New Poetry from the Midwest 2017
(New American Press). He has won national competitions judged by
Tony Hoagland, Luis Alberto Urrea and Robert Cording. His
chapbook, Midwestern Heart, won the Codhill Poetry Chapbook
Award and Neighbors, the Helen Kay Chapbook Prize.
Charles W. Brice is the author of Flashcuts Out of Chaos (WordTech

Editions, 2016) and of Mnemosyne’s Hand (WordTech Editions). His
poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in
The Atlanta Review, Hawaii Review, Chiron Review, The Dunes
169
Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Sport Literate, SLAB, The Paterson

Literary Review, Spitball, The Writing Disorder, and elsewhere.
Will Brooks received his creative writing degree from Drury

University in Springfield MO. He returned to his home town after
graduation where he works for his family's propane company and
moon lights as a writer. He spends his free time working on Pinterest
projects his wife, Sesily, finds and playing with his son, Bradshaw. In
between that he spends time hunting, fishing, hiking and making
improvements to their farmhouse. He enjoys history and humor
literature, and tries to combine the two in his writings.
Bill Brown is the author of six collections of poems, four chapbooks

and a textbook. His new book, Elemental, is due out in September
from 3: A Taos Press. The recipient of many fellowships, he was
awarded the Writer of the Year 2011 by the Tennessee Writers
Alliance. A Scholar at Bread loaf and a Fellow at VCCA, he has work
in Asheville Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, Big Muddy, Southern
Humanities Review, Potomac Review, Prairie Schooner, North
American Review, Southern Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry,
Smartish Pace, Rattle, West Branch, The Literary Review, and
Connecticut Review, among others.
Lissa Brown’s work appears in several anthologies. She is the award-

winning author of Real Country: From the Fast Track to Appalachia
(as Leslie Brunetsky), a young adult novel, Family Secrets: Three
Generations, Another F-Word, a novel about bullying’s devastating
effects on a gay boy in the rural South and a sequel, Family of Choice.
She retired from teaching, public relations and marketing and writes
full time in her Blue Ridge Mountain home.
www.lissabrownwrites.com
Michael Casey had a book Obscenities in the Yale poetry series in

1972. Loom Press of Lowell, Massachusetts published his latest book
There It Is in 2017.
Holly Day's published books include Music Theory for Dummies,

Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar All-in-One for Dummies,
Piano All-in-One for Dummies, Walking Twin Cities, Insider's Guide
Contributors / 171
to the Twin Cities, Nordeast Minneapolis: A History, The Book Of, and
the poetry book, Ugly Girl (Shoe Music Press).
Diane DeCillis’ poetry collection, Strings Attached (Wayne State

Univ. Press) was a Michigan Notable Book for 2015. It won the 2015
Next Generation Indie Book Award for poetry, and was finalist for the
Forward Indie Fab Book Award. Her poems have been nominated for
three Pushcarts, and Best American Poetry. Poems, stories and essays
have appeared in CALYX, Minnesota Review, Nimrod International
Journal, Connecticut Review, Gastronomica, and numerous other
journals.
Darren C. Demaree is the author of six poetry collections, most

recently Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly. He is the
Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird
Poetry He is currently living in Columbus, OH with his wife and
children.
Colleen Ferguson enjoys exploring the unconventional and

unfamiliar. She received her BS in Cultural Anthropology from Cal
Poly, San Luis Obispo in 2007; shortly after, she traveled and lived
around the world, contributing articles on traditional medicine,
migration, and culture. Now she explores the human experience
through story telling.
Richard Key was born in Jacksonville, Florida but grew up in

Mississippi. He currently lives in Dothan, Alabama with his wife
Laurie and cat Kiko. He works as a pathologist by day, but has been
writing short stories and essays for about nine years. His work has
appeared in Adelaide, Bacopa Literary Review, Broken Plate, Crack
the Spine, Forge, Hawaii Pacific Review, Storgy, Tusculum Review,
and others.
Cynthia Knorr, a medical writer in New York City, now lives in rural
New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in Imitation Fruit, Shot
Glass Journal, Adanna, Atlas Poetica, and others. She was awarded
First Prize in both the New Hampshire Poetry Society’s national and
members’ contests, and is a regular participant at the Frost Place
Conference on Poetry.
Jennifer Levin’s fiction, essays, and reviews have appeared in The

Iowa Review, Freight Stories, Twelve Stories, American Book Review,
and Entropy. She is a staff reporter for Pasatiempo, the weekly arts
and culture magazine of the Santa Fe New Mexican, where she writes
about literature, theater, visual art, film, local history, and social
justice. She holds a BA in creative writing from the now-shuttered
College of Santa Fe.
Lenny Levine has written songs and sung backup for Billy Joel,
Peggy Lee, Diana Ross, Barry Manilow, the Pointer Sisters, Carly
Simon, and others. He’s also composed many successful jingles,
including McDonald’s, Lipton Tea, and Jeep. His short stories have
been widely published in literary magazines and journals, and he
received a 2011 Pushcart Prize nomination for short fiction.
Nancy Smiler Levinson is author of MOMENTS OF DAWN: A Poetic

Memoir of Love & Family; Affliction & Affirmation, as well as stories
and poetry that have appeared in publications such as Confrontation,
Poetica, Survivor's Review, Burningword Review, Third Wednesday,
Rat's Ass Review, and Drunk Monkey. Essays are included in three
anthologies, including one nominated for a Pushcart prize. In a past
chapter of her life, she published twenty-eight books for young
readers. She lives in Los Angeles.
Kenneth Margolin is a practicing attorney, father of two adult

daughters, and lives with his wife, Judith, in Newton, Massachusetts.
He has published articles in professional journals, monographs, a book
chapter on Facilitated Communication, and a journalistic essay in
Sport Literate Magazine. He is relatively new to fiction writing and
has had short fiction published in PIF online magazine, Peeking Cat
Poetry Journal, and Short Fiction Break.
Joe Masi grew up as a “townie” in Greenwich, CT during the Great

Depression. 88 years young, he is intently pursuing his poetic craft,
and has most recently published poetry in Trajectory, WestWard
Quarterly, and Anti-Aging Articles. He is currently at work on a full-
length poetry memoir.
Contributors / 173
Catherine Moscatt is a 20 year old college student studying

counseling and human services. When she is not writing poetry, she
enjoys playing the piano, loud music and horror movies. She has been
writing poetry since she was fourteen.
F. Joseph Myers is a writer based in Alexandria, VA. He has

nonfiction published in The Washington Post, The Baltimore Sun,
Stars and Stripes and The New York Times. He contributed to the
memoir The Strong Gray Line published by Rowman and Littlefield in
2015. He is veteran of two combat tours in Iraq, and lives with his cat
named Daisy Lou.
Michael Jack O’Brien, for over fifty years, has written and
occasionally published poems in small press periodicals, on-line
journals, and anthologies. He still works on inspiration and craft.
Suzanne O’Connell is a poet and clinical social worker living in Los

Angeles. Her recently published work can be found in Poet Lore,
American Chordata, Alembic, Forge, Juked, Existere, Crack The
Spine, and Pennsylvania English. She was nominated twice for the
Pushcart Prize. Her first poetry collection, A Prayer For Torn
Stockings, was published by Garden Oak Press in 2016.
Korkut Onaran, originally from Turkey, lives in Boulder, Colorado,

and practices architecture and urban design. He received the First Prize
in Cervena Barva Press 2007 Chapbook Contest and Second Prize in
2006 Baltimore Review Poetry Competition. His poetry has been
published in journals such as Penumbra, Rhino, Peralta, Colere,
Writer’s Journal, White Pelican Review, Crucible, City Works Literary
Journal, Water~Stone, Review, Atlanta Review, Bayou, Common
Ground Review, and Baltimore Review.
Stephen Park, a Southern California author, has worked for over

twenty-five years for the California Department of Mental Health as a
Licensed Psychiatric Technician. He is a member of the Inland Empire
Branch of the California Writers Club. He learned many things
working in the Psych. field, the most important of which is that eighty
five percent of the patients he worked with were abused as children.
childabusemuststop.org, or thenewhorizonbystevepark.wordpress.com.
Charles Rammelkamp is Prose Editor for BrickHouse Books in

Baltimore, where he lives. His most recent book is American Zeitgeist
(Apprentice House), which deals with the populist politician, William
Jennings Bryan. A chapbook, Jack Tar’s Lady Parts, is forthcoming
from Main Street Rag Press, and another poetry chapbook, Me and Sal
Paradise, is forthcoming from FutureCycle Press.
Clela Reed is the author of five collections of poetry: Books: Dancing

on the Rim (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2009) and The Hero of the
Revolution Serves Us Tea (Negative Capability Press, 2014).
Chapbooks: Bloodline (Evening Street Press, 2009), Of Root and
Sky (Pudding House Publications, 2010), and Word Bully (Finishing
Line Press, 2018). She has had poems published in The Cortland
Review, Southern Poetry Review, The Atlanta Review, and many
others. She lives and writes with her husband in their woodland home
near Athens, Georgia.
J.J. Rogers is an innate in federal prison. He holds a B.S. in Business

Management and a Doctorate in Ministry and Christian Counseling.
He teaches classes on creative writing, music theory, and advanced
guitar to inmates. He is currently working on a memoir, in the form of
a collection of essays and poetry, that he plans to publish when
released from prison in 2019.
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-
poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house
critics). He produces short stories, essays, poems, an occasional play,
and novels. His short stories have been accepted by more than 280
literary and commercial journals, magazines, and anthologies. He is
also a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues
guitarist.
Bill Simmons was born in Kingsburg, California and got his B.A. in
English/Philosophy, emphasis writing/studying poetry.at Fresno State.
He studied under Peter Everwine, C.G. Hanzlicek and Philip Levine.
He lives in Carroll, Iowa with his wife Chris and conducts poetry
readings at the local junior colleges, Des Moines Area Community
College, where he started a writing group with the instructors, and
started a poetry/reading writing group at the local library.
Contributors / 175
David Stallings was born in the U.S. South, raised in Alaska and
Colorado before settling in the Pacific Northwest. Once an academic
geographer, he has long worked to promote public transportation in the
Puget Sound area. His poems have appeared in several North
American, U.K. and Swedish literary journals and anthologies, in
Resurrection Bay (Evening Street Press), and in Risking Delight
(forthcoming mid-2018, Kelsay Press).
Vincent J Tomeo is a poet, archivist, historian and community

activist, for 32 years a New York City public high school teacher,
teacher of American history, presently working at the 9/11 Tribute
Center museum at Ground Zero. He has been published in the New
York Times, Comstock Review, Mid-America Poetry Review, Edgz,
Spires, Tiger’s Eye, ByLine, Mudfish, The Blind Man’s Rainbow, The
Neovictorian/Cochela, The Latin Staff Review, and Grandmother
Earth (VII thru XI).
Peggy Trojan retired from teaching English to the north woods of

Wisconsin. Her work appears in a wide variety of journals and
anthologies: Naugatuck River Review, Boston Literary Magazine,
Wisconsin People and Ideas Magazine, Finnish American Reporter,
and many others. Her chapbook, Everyday Love, placed second in the
2015 Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets contest, and was a finalist for the
Northeastern Minnesota Book Award. Evening Street Press published
her chapbook, HomeFront, Childhood Memories of WW II, and her
full collection, Essence, won publication by Portage Press. She is a
member of Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. Free Range Kids won the
Helen Kay Chapbook Prize.
Michael Welch is a graduate of the Pacific University Writing

Program. His recent(ish) publications include Searching for the
Reservoir (Lime Hawk, Spring ’17), “The Rental” (decomP), “An
Intersection of Bones” (Meat for Tea). He grew up in the South Bronx
and now lives in Seattle with his wife—Mia, girls—Macy and Cleo,
mastiffs—Sophie and Otis, and a barnyard of other animals, names
withheld. His website/blog is VoicesfromtheMargin.com.
Buff Whitman-Bradley's poetry has been published in many print

and online journals including Atlanta Review, Bryant Literary Review,
Concho River Review, Crannog, december, Hawai'i Review, Pinyon,
Rockhurst Review, Solstice, Third Wednesday, Watershed Review, and

others. He has written several books of poems, including When
Compasses Grow Old, To Get Our Bearings in this Wheeling World,
and Cancer Cantata. In addition, he has co-produced and directed two
documentary films, Outside In and Por Que Venimos.
Paula Yup returned to Spokane, Washington after a dozen years in the

Marshall Islands. In the past forty years she has published over two
hundred poems in magazines and anthologies including those put out
by Outrider Press. Her first book of poetry is entitled Making a Clean
Space in the Sky, Evening Street Press.
L D Zane served seven years in the Navy, which included a combat

tour in Vietnam on river patrol boats, and five years aboard nuclear-
powered, Fast Attack submarines. At 68, his life is quieter now. He
lives in a small city in southeastern Pennsylvania, and is a member of
The Bold Writers group. His short stories have been published in,
among others: Indiana Voice Journal, Slippery Elm, Cobalt Review
(print), Evening Street Review (print) and Philadelphia Stories (print).
Assasinations The Right attacks the Left
Marilyn Monroe: 1962

John F. Kennedy: 1963
Malcolm X: 1965
Che Guevara: 1967
Martin Luther King, Jr.: 1968
Robert F. Kennedy: 1968
.
Evening Street Press

Sacramento, CA

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Number 19 Autumn, 2018

EVENING STREET REVIEW

Published by Evening Street Press

Sundays too my father got up early

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

Speaking indifferently to him,

Cover image by Steven Johnson “Those Winter Sundays”, after a

NUMBER 19, AUTUMN 2018

. . .all men and women are created equal

PUBLISHED TWICE A YEAR

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018904904

Cover image by Steven Johnson

For submission guidelines, subscription information, published

© Copyright 2018 by Evening Street Press

NUMBER 19, AUTUMN 2018

POETRY I: FROM THE HELEN KAY CHAPBOOK

MICHAEL WELCH Calcium 19

STEPHEN PARK The Good Boy 36

BY THE FOUNDING EDITOR Neglected Help:

I. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, 1880s-1890s

“The … Association has been growing conservative for some

“Stanton enjoyed her return trip to England but could not

In 1900 she noted with amusement and alarm “the presence

In 1895 Stanton published The Woman’s Bible, “her most

Patriarchal tyranny exists around the world, in some of the

patriarchy, the early social pattern for human beings, effected, it

“While there has been progress in addressing many

“A second reason is globalization….A Nigerian girl whose

The weak point in this excellent and much-needed work is its

Reprinted from Evening Street Review #7

About a mile square

In summer, after breakfast

at dinner time like chickens

Lunch Guest, 1939

Mom, who’s that man on the steps?

A fried egg sandwich.

a day would arrive

There goes my neighbor again,

His hair is turning white

He has some kind of cancer,

He pauses, out in the languid rain,

as if they are lost for a moment,

Even before the old man

and began to make pots.

After she passed, he continued

Soon he lacked the strength

When the middle child, Frankie, moved

The rental next door

It’s a ramshackle place,

Tenants come and go. Most

Once a man moved in

Sometimes his son came to visit

They placed a target back near

The man must have had a gun

One week the house next door

Later she came and collected

You had planned, in your practical, persistent

You had a husband of sixty years who needed

I must confess I envied you again, that day,

How I despise it when obit writers or TV pundits

Your husband was still healing in the hospital

No, let’s not make those innocent flowers

The tree claims so many names. Serviceberry,

to traverse in horse and buggy … which was when