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Prose
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The
Secret Diet
Barbara Jean Tannert |
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Nocturne
(Dawn)
Jade Doskow |
My Friend Vikki: A Eulogy Pamela Boslet Buskin
by EP Allan
Hail to the weeds
with their thick green
riot
the uninvited guests
drilling pneumatic roots
through the wispy chatter
of corn and dianthus
Their tenacious lives
neither bass obbligato
nor tenor
but a shrill
violin sawing tunelessly
through the stately
eggplant’s ode to friendship
Unwanted
Unloved
they do not care
but return
through poison
yanking
& fire
bold with stale armpits
unlaved feet
bucked toothed
knob kneed
& fat
elbowing their odious
smug way up to & in
the black loamed
feast
by EP Allan
What hedonistic pleasures
did our ancestors partake
before the opening of Yemen
& coffee
Peruvian chocolate
or Indian toast & tea
Was it just chunks of meat
spitting blood on the fire
the smoky broil of flames
waving in the salivating
night
a goat-skinned
carafe of murky
fermented purple grasped
in greasy unwashed palms
What were the class divisional
pleasures before ice cream
before dusty venetian blinds
choked with the cough of spiders
before the clear glass
window’s sealed eye watched
the wind in the sequestered
thrill of central heating
while the snow stumbles
beyond the pane
& the trees
shiver ice
before the shower’s
steamy kiss & the cling
of chemically softened towels
before they could thumb
through magazines of fashion
& shoes & gourmet recipes
teaming with exotic
spices
before the doorbell
rang what did they have
for winter’s Tuesday
& the languid thrill
of bottles lined in waiting ranks
upon a polished table
by EP Allan
the sun’s blue eye watches
green worlds pulsating
in the swimming irradiated
ethereal sea
pirouetting gyroscopes
spinning emerald life
through the lonely celestial
vacuumed silence
unquestionable nothing
lacking even the mitigation of death
& old ice
an empty silence
waiting the dusty feet of angels
dreaming night
orange fish
& lederhosened fat cherubs
tenoring papageno
on erato’s
stringless lute
to toe their winged
steps of sea green imagination
through the pin-point tears of stars
& sing silver
while below mere men
sweat the night for insecticided
wheat thins
genetically cancerous
plums & slice their brother’s
throat for a pint of oil
by EP Allan
possibilities of the infinite lurk
around each sun dappled corner
to spring out in shrieking
tires & the crumpled
blood wet kiss
of fender & glass
yet how easy to forget
pretending that these days
of fat or despondency
will continue
in an eternal line
of coffee cups
or working
9-5 at a mind numbing
job until the eyes are empty
marbles of insipidity
staring out from faces
more hideous than a corpse
of dull tv shows
or movies
scything away the hours
the limited hours
in which we can be
& do
& feel
into masturbatory muscle
men grinning with snake
oil & stupidity
defeating
evil dung men
with pinched rat faces
& fat foreign
bank accounts
floating in south american
cocaine
yet the infinite is always
there waiting for its interest
due
& the other day
standing at the airport
grey sleet rain pounding
the tarmac deathly wet
was not the infinite between us
the way the bullet
proof wire window
separated the passengers
from those staying behind
waiting for that flaming
mass of steel & silicone
to thunder off into the stagnate
grey underbellies of clouds
not knowing in those
last hand waves would be
the last
or if you would
return and we could go
back to pretending
eternity
even as the cabin
door sealed the promise
or threat of the future
& lumbered upwards
& out
into the infinity
surrounding
by Jennifer VanBuren
On every linoleum-covered table
we find jars of charcoal blackened rice
jammed with unsharpened pencils.
Their print, worn by time not fingertips.insurance companies
funeral homes
car dealershipsWe search drawers for a pencil sharpener
but find only complimentary pocket knives
several plastic-handled potato peelers
a rusted carrot-shredder
and tarnished letter opener.Only dull edges to make a point.
We list the things that might sell
and jot down notes for the ceremony
on the backs of envelopes that promise
you do not need to subscribe
to win.The hardened erasers smear our words
with greasy red streaks
instead of deleting
all places we went wrong.
by Jennifer VanBuren
Greg blackens out select letters
on the worship bulletin, sending his sister
cryptic messages about the bullfrog tenor
and how he flicks flies as they buzz around his
beehive headed wife. She watches the children
from the soprano section, front row.Suppressing giggles, they shrink
from mother's sharp elbow jab
and sideways stares.They drop origami dollar bills
into offering plates
pass it down pew by pew.Doxology.
Mother's voice never
rises up like the owl-nosed lady
with the feathered hat
or even like Mrs. Krauss’ hunch back mother
whose voice wavers in weakness but still
hits the high notes.Mother stays low,
sings in steady, even tones.
Does she not know the melody?Her children have not yet learned
she is the understated bottom
that holds them up with her steady alto strength.
But they will.
by Jennifer VanBuren
You sit atop this high roof
over triangular spaces made safe
from the escape of hot air, rising.Basement is dirt, all skeletons cleared
He takes care of thingsAsks only for a click and flash,
perhaps a line of verse
penned in his slim-lined pocket book.
Always willing to share a piece with a stranger—
save those napkins for chins and foreheads.He takes care.
His wide thumbs untie muscles
knotted and tight from
carrying heavy things.With saw-toothed promises, he
parades spectrums of lady images
sepia skin tone, black and white
haze streaked halo,
colored lips and nails
each for my choosing.We like the ones in the box stores,
thin straps with confident step
their tired eyes almost hide
that low glow of brewing embers
waiting only for our oxygen to
ignite for the roastingHe takes care of things.
Corsage pinned delicate,
finger slides under georgette
touching skin only as intendedTaking control of the drip
drip drip, never neglecting
tight fit O-rings, washers.Today’s image:
loud stomp boots
planted in tall grass,
the tornado far south
spins new winds that lift a light wave
of fine hair off his collarand that is where I fit in.
Conversation #10: Sauna
Title: saunas are too hot for mortalsby Jennifer VanBuren
My lion, my lover,
have you ever felt such heat?Demons and animal spirits
escape through open pores,
impurity falls like rain
into the watering hole.Sweat and steam warp this paper,
and bleed blue letters beyond recognition.
Always these pages will bear the crease,
stain and shadow of our ghostly conversations.Remind me again
how you deserted religion
when they tried to make you believe
matter is empty space.
That day you decided it all must be filled
with impossibility.You ran.
Tripped into me, and like
dry bread soaked in milk
you felt yourself soften.I hold fingers safe from
downhill speed of bicycle spokes
whose motion fills emptiness with the
misconception of matter.Keep feet below your heart
until my presence dissolves the illusion of substance,
heat evaporates the myth of existence.
everything becomes true
and light as youth.The weight of silence breaks.
You told me
You are dangerously closebut it was you who passed
into the edge of flame.
by Rosemarie Crisafi
Belt straps snap red bands;
slit streaks into the skin
of thighs encircling the prism
mirror like shrill chimes.
Hawks disfigure the bridge
below the tower, talons grip,
screaming in refrain the tenor
your pink tongue could never shape.
Then your teeth, too frozen to nibble,
suck an acidic tonic.
It stretches over you a cerulean cloth
to hide your halos.
by Rosemarie Crisafi
1.
She does not understand
at barely 16
how anyone could pay more
than her father ever earned
for the contours of cheeks,
the manner bones project,
or the determination
of breasts.
Wind blown and exposed,
there must be other ways
to please her mother
but there is celebrity,
make-up, and always,
teasing nipples.
Headshots to body shots,
a camera moves
in and out
as efficiently as a physician
palpating.
It is her job
to bear the thrusts
of strange tongues.
2.
Mother said, in time,
the scars fade;
it will make her more beautiful,
more balanced.
Laying back,
arms raised behind her head
picturing
saline filled
silicone shells,
incisions around the areola,
the numbness
(in some cases, permanent).
by Rosemarie Crisafi
Amidst the exclamation points of mountains
and the rock cliffs of the Hudson Highlands,
inlets and channels break the lines
of Martyr's Rock, winding through brackets
of cattail stands.
Brown cigars and yellow spikes hang above
the sentence, stiff as semicolons; furry stalks
hold wind on the shore. Beside violet
blue apostrophes of thick pickerelweed,
wood ducks swallow acorns whole.
Graceful necks bulge with peristaltic colons.
Muskrat dens surround turtles basking
in a small ellipsis of sun. Long-billed wrens dot
Indian Brook gorge. The slash of the hillside
cuts to the swamp's edge, where snapping turtles
bury their eggs within the mud's parentheses.
by Rosemarie Crisafi
That grin has only lips, not a face.
It laughs without wrinkles.
Stooping, making yourself smaller,
knotting your stings, you take up less space.
A stiff tongue, says, "I love you", accent
misplaced, a block played by a school child,
rhythm slow and hollow, stopping unexpectedly,
speaking a strange dialect without pronouns.
Changing the subject, only to untangle,
letting a joke dance across the floor,
your nose is wood only it does not grow.
by Scott Malby
a.
In this wilderness of beingI am blind, lifting the skirts
of rainbows, while the wind
rummages through me
speaking in the jargon
of sinners, saints and thieves,
luring me over the cliffs
and erotic spillways of life
filled with the quintessence
of my own fireweed and yap,
therefore blessed
and necessary are the apostles
of light, whose existence
makes all songs possible;
Air, Ocean, Fire, Earth.
The eyes in them praising
that enchantment of being
which delights us all.
But in us is also a sky
of choking birds where
each flight taken
is an exuberant sacrifice
made radiant and holy
by our griefs, as unpredictable
as rain kissed by the blue
and icy mist of an artic
winter reflecting the sadness
and longing of tears one wound
at a time, both beyond
and beneath, vibrations
like the singing of birds
cleansing our bones.b.
Where did they go?The sun was an ocelot,
the full moon, a Siberian lynx
when I discovered them
rummaging through my head.
I greased their bodies with spit
and gave them birth.
I watched them fly,
hoping the land of morgues
would grieve us by.
I found instead, the further
they flew from my tongues heat
the sun and moon were all
they cared about.
They've traded my blood for light,
they are faithless and
I don't know where they've got to.c.
To move forward efficientlyis what I mean.
I mean that the past
is an old fiction
and we are inevitably caught
in its evolution
we can never fully express.
Let us agree to deviate.
No patriarchs. No Madonna’s.
Only in death do we become
free of ourselves.
Creation is an escapist activity
where we escape
back to fundamentals
where we
hit the ground running
where we......we....
make that news making us.d.
In the rookery of singing birdsIt's not wise
to crow about yourself.
In every direction
sounds are amplified.
But to sing about your time
with you in it, is a calling.
Bringing you in from the cold.
by Ashok Niyogi
Boundary Walls
no tricks with words
no help from the geese
this is now
in the wake
of the swimming flock
this is gravity
perched on Target
owl that sees all
pigeons line up
for military drill
in gathering dusk
the evening people
unleash pets
unleash poems
unleash black
unleash fear
in mixed body odors
the cult of the occult
in coarse grass
spring rain all mixed up
contradicting direction
bringing to ground
the color of the setting sun
poignant smells of thirsty earth
it is summer now
has been for relentless years
pain in summer suffocates
eyes glaze over
as those of a mutilated deer
I scratch my heart
with ingrown toenails
I pinch the ulcers
until there’s blood
but no answers
alive
and not wishing death
seeking deliverance
from this hunter’s trap
the shimmering gold
on palm tree tentacles
the entrapment of the skullSnake
they go about their daily chores
gastroenteritis and parties
weight watching and career woes
zombies climbing ladders
bedecked in finery and jewels
blind to the mad snake in their midst
their perfume is past the expiration date
the snake they have shoved under the carpet
is a Death Row inmate
from country to country they extradite
and keep him gorged on fresh strawberry
mind games prevail
freedom is foul
and yet
the snake sheds skin
and flows into their boring lives
they are embarrassed about snake smell
they mortally dread the excitement
as they do true venom
not prescribed by psychiatrists or palmists
not due for increment or bonus
not even capable of filling an empty day
full of memory and recrimination
this is one dangerous game
this midlife rebuilding from venomous roots
the carpet moves
sinister
the snake coils
rears up its head
licks at the sky with forked tongue
until it is hit on the head
eyes smashed into palate
distended tongue
it coils back into itself
to repair and recuperatePalampur
my boots squelch
between rows and rows
of trimmed tea trees
a flock of green parrots hear me
and noisily fly away.
the sparrows are rather more curious
or perhaps hungrier
they look bedraggled after the rain
wet feathers make them look thinner
the squirrels have drops of water
on the tips of their bushy tail.
across the undulating valley
the mountains reveal themselves
beneath their white shrouds
they are immortal
as are two leaves and a bud.
all of us drink in the afternoon sun
spiders mount central guard
over shimmering rainbow cobwebs
lizards stop and start
filled as they are with the joy of life
the crows unnecessarily make too much noise.
the car is functioning perfectly
the Vodka helps
it also helps that
there is no great poem on the anvil
no fairy words
with which to win damsels’ hearts
the tea trees have no heart
no social cultural or occupational plans
just fragrance
from two leaves and a budDream
Sometimes it is in a morning dream
And to catch it in the morning
In between the lawn mower noise
And distant BARTs speeding away
is not easy
but that is what poets are for
to do all this time consuming catching
I lie in the womb of an octopus
caressed by all eight tentacles
in warm waters deep under
inside the white underbelly
they will harpoon my mother in her belly
and bring us up alongside
tentacles drooping
tomorrow
my poetry will be a clear soup
garnished with dead herbs still fragrant
I will think of those starfish I bought
and dried on the beaches of Nakhodka
we looked outwards you and I
on a clear day we imagined
we saw the shores of Japan
the octopus have no such imagination
but in the morning dream
it was your shampooed hair
with that seaweed formulation
and yesterday’s fragrance
lingering in your woolen cap
I woke up and crawled into a chasm
permanent with huge shards of old ice
fragrances are temporary I rationalized
without money they are not funny
so here I am at the bottom of this ice pit
walls inching in on me
with fingernails and toenails I push
to preserve my sanity
and shriek at the top of my voice
the noise fails to reach
the seaweed in your hair
mocked and despised
by other prisoners of life
we look into the whites of each other’s eyes
and recoil
only rock-ice
no soil
only day no night
only shrieks of today
that echo back from all tomorrows
which I have written away
by way of an account payee check
that keeps bouncing backI Went Blind
when I finally went blind
I held on to images I had last seen
deep-froze them for some future thaw
and carried on with my ablutions
I know those wispy clouds have gone
the geese fly back to the lake
I hear them
the staircase still creaks
the kitchen knives are just as sharp
I feel it is summer
there must be much troubled water
in the mountain spring
the Mexicans must be out for river trout
school is out
so children must be jumping into pools
all over Fremont
I touch and feel
you let me
my discovery amazes you amuses you
assuages your guilt
I sense vibrations
these are not silent sobs
just arrested breathing
defense mechanism against an alien touch
by Les Wicks
Like a currawong's wing
combing tangles of air
or the pulse of waterskin on this sated lake
let me be lazy.
Beside the bat-squeal shifting, pitch fruits of a roosting tree
twigs accrete by the hand's-span brook ...
a minute dam of tadpole consequence.
White cockatoos weed & grumble—
we cannot ask for still
so let me be lazy.
Stock markets crumple then soar,
money gibbers around the globe.
Roads stretch to fit our waistlines
as soldiers camp on contended land.
The Cyrillic of white
on the black swan's wing
is no battle plan for any general.
But my eyes are indolent
& those paths will not crack the world.
A cranky call from the water hen to planes overhead
then I am back amongst gesticulated argument
still based in the caves—
"we need more", "they want ours". Greed & Fear again.
Willows trawl the lake,
eels archive the histories of mud.
Time to replace the old tribal gods—
they've started & won every war.
The Peoples of the Book
should throw those books away.
There comes a time when blood outweighs the ink.
My father is dead,
let the wet-coal tortoises mind the plinth
& we'll sing our hymns to fish.
A seagull is whisking a cloud in the shallows—
your sleep is disturbed! You're lunch!
What surrounds us is not serene. Crows are singing Little Lamb, each
weed is a contest.
But it's the violence of the blinking eye, hum of the skin.
When blood is let loose
millions of cells become individual lives with their own
brief dramas & fates. Is each worth any less
than the great lumpy thing that grew them?
I'd chain our leaders to weathered wooden benches
until the infection of birdcall subdues their hands.
Immobilised eyelids will surrender
to a day of casual forage.
We need peacekeepers
to patrol our heads. With lazy as our prayer,
train ourselves to say enough. Intelligence will listen as each day
becomes its own statement of intent.
by Les Wicks
Hard being poor in this city
but easy to feel rich
as seagulls skim a tablecloth harbour like credit cards.
Heat rises—exhaust of property auctions/
the negotiation of stone & fig.
I try to read the Sanskrit of cirrus—
puzzles of the immense—
seeing the tattoo of a rose on a whale.
I understand the problem
with our need to all do less
but how can Pajeros seem too much
beside profligate sand at all the gateways to deep ocean?
What tile is garish
beneath a sky with flight paths engraved in gilt?
This will never end.
The sun hovers
like a poker-lampshade in epiphany.
by Patrick Carrington
They saw the neon palm, heard
salt air whisper a gypsy’s promise
to tame their nightmares, shrivel
the bad dreams small.Five for foreign-eye crystal
to read their wrinkled scars, ten
for tea leaves or tarot. The future
was cheap, draped in Persian print
and rhinestone, but prophesy
glittered from her like diamonds.For butter and eggs, she stepped
from trailers of vagabonds into summer
sun, from campfires where guitars play,
where tomorrow is serenaded and sold
to anyone willing to pay for its lies.But autumns on the boardwalk
were different, all plywood and time.
In a white shirt, she walked by the sea
that was more her father
than the one she never knew.Always, she went to the clutch
of the water, its old eyes, knowing
the arms and stares of other men
were tricks of her own dishonest craft.Even when the sea gave her nothing,
deserted with ease and no word
of farewell, she stayed. Because
she could not abandon the storm
that created her, or a love
as pure as her fallen cloth.
by Patrick Carrington
Dawn is a peeping tom, intruding
blink by blink. Truth’s spy lighting
its flares, shocking the naked.
They hide their eyes and cover
their breasts, reach for clothing.
In alleys and archways, homes
of the homeless, they feel the burn
of binoculars as its lamps expose
their barren fields. On church steps,they sense the sunbeams steal
their beauty in a sudden gospel of light.
Revelation spreads the shining threads
of its religion, stitching the centers
and corners of bodegas and basements
with filigrees of embroidered reality.They squint, the actors who play
in the theater of deflecting darkness.
They long for the veil that covers
day’s face, its pimples and pockmarks.
They are the unwelcome, and cherish
the hissing masks of midnight
that strip them for love and twist
them with ecstasy. Lost lepers
who become spotless in the medicine
of starlight, healed and pure.
Home again.
Scrubbing Macgillycuddy's Reeks
by Patrick Carrington
So strange, returning to this hill
and standing in my own footprints,
ground-frozen fossils that flinch
under an unknown man, regretting
their shape and seeds. They sunk
in mud that day of torrent, lightning
flashing over the rock glaciers as I
begged the rain to clean me, to takemy sins and scrub them, scrub
their hidden bends and buckles
like it does the fine foldings
of red ridge on Macgillycuddy's Reeks,
those thousand bloodshot eyes
looking over Killarney Town
as a worried father fretting above
his sick son’s straw cradle. I beggedthe heavy water to make me stay,
to lock my loose feet in the marks
they made. To make me stay and be
what I was and should be. A father
like those rocks. A man. A good manwho puts his whiskey down, his hat
on the rack and boots under the bed,
and checks his baby’s breath. Dripping,
slogging up a devil’s ladder, I pleaded
with the sky to take the harsh wires
of his brush and scrub me like stone.Now, sun-baked and suffering under
Carrauntoohil’s metal cross, I can see
the whole of Kerry as summer roses
ask their thorny questions. I can look
straight across the drowned river valley
of Kenmare Bay and into the window
where I left them with a tam-o’-shanter
and a cupboard full of empty glass.
by Kelley Jean White
full of the DNA of Eve
whispering of mothers
grandmothers: O goddess-
in-waiting, sing! We will meet
in the goldring of starfall
and carry you home.
I never tasted honey but
by
Kelley Jean WhiteI assembled a hornet’s nest in my bowels
a bee dance in my head
the little barbed stingers fly out my eyes
and in at the nose
the mouth just smacks
honey honey
and the belly promenade
lays down a paper roar
against winter
and the rule of
brittle ice
In the wilderness of the eternal
by
Kelley Jean Whitemy soul is seeking a little clearing
not far from a stream, a promising
little place to pitch a canvas
I turned the dial to NPR and
by
Kelley Jean Whitethe voice was there in the car
with me: 150 years old
the sound
the very sound
the bugle
the bugler
the sound
the charge of the light brigade
cold hard brass
a modest old man
I had meant to remember his name
by Rochelle Hope Mehr
Does it end in a flash
or an umbilicus of doubt
Are we liberated
or crushed asunder in the abyssWhat assonance
after a paraffin lifetime of sealing wax
and the watch fire of candles
candles tenuous
candles tenuto
candles tainted
candles engraved
candles brave
candles grave
by Rochelle Hope Mehr
smoothing things out
too many thorns
pierce the airpat the earth down
cover over the seeds
maybe they'll grow
by Rochelle Hope Mehr
I fade away
Light loses luster
How many lumens escapeInto lunar landscape?
What is this new shape?
I’d like to phosphorescePersistently at your feet
Neither borrowing nor lending light
Burgeoning no urge—Secure from my flight.
by Yvette A. Schnoeker-Shorb
Waiting, waiting, and waiting more
since the summer edge of spring,
eager, impatient, anxious
as if we were the expectant parents,
we watch her become round,
the growing smoothness of her abdomen
concealing sweet, new life.Finally,
it happens in warm, nocturnal quietude,
but I'm not privileged to view the miracle
until the morning after
my husband has already left for work.
Wanting to share the occasion,
I call to leave him the message
that Hesper has had her babies.The receptionist responds appropriately
with a pronounced "Oh" of endearment
reflecting joy at the announcement,
not knowing who Hesper is—
only that she has given birth
and is special to us.
I do not elaborate on the babies
who dwell, unconscious, developing
as their eight-legged guardian
grasps her pear-shaped eggsac,
pedipalps resting against the silk
as though she were whispering
a greeting through that papery skin
to the hundred or so young within.
Hesper is a typically good mother;
it is the nature of Latrodectus hesperus,
the largest, western black widow.
by William C. Houze
in every machine death
oil and metal bodies glistening
chaos in one's mind and body
lines waiting to converge
on the face of Americaof a piece it is our face
the hotels death camps
and what of the books
that foretell of nothingno release in sex or prayer
priests masturbate to Bach
dead christs and buddhas
for sale at summer's endmullahs and imams crying
kids shooting kids for fun
old glory covers the dead
no politician dares to speak
truth and lies a puddinglovers lie arm in arm
time curves with space
the machines running
no one watching us
it is astronomy on tvwhat meaning is this
a kiss in the rain or snow
birds not singing or flying
can you change a fifty
call me when you can
by Janet Lynn Davis
It’s not like in the movies:
no expansive green hillside
overlooking a flawless
earth. The sun isn’t
beaming and blood-free.
Voices aren’t in tune.
Truth is, you’ll probably find
yourself in a crowded corner
with others who have left
before you. You’ll feel
the feet of your mourners,
but your home won’t be in dirt.
As for those still here
to tread the windings,
none can know the spaces
in their hearts that will form vacuums—
preserved from frost and coals.
Maybe never to be unsealed.
by Janet Lynn Davis
It stumbled across the highway
like a drunkard.
Or maybe it knew just what
it was doing. Maybe its intention
was to swallow me whole,
toss me around, spew me out.
Ultimately, it served only
as a marking: the veiled opening
to another year.
tweedly-dumb and tweedly-dee, the voice of authority
by Terry Lowenstein
the cheshire cat frowns
as words cascade off paper
and crash to the floor
to lay in abandoned heaps
of broken tea cups, tarnished silver
shards of sugar cubesa clam shelled broom
attempts to sweep away
the tide of yesterdayas a clean shaven carpenter
bemoans the walrus's absence
and the white rabbit stares
at his silent watchthe hatter speaks
with forgotten brevity
as the room turns upside down
and monarchs yield their crowns
by Terry Lowenstein
fall and harvest
synonymous words
that softly whisper in my ear
and speak volumesI smile reflecting
on pomegranate seeds
dried apricots and teststhose we study for
and those life serves
up unexpectedly
hidden in the space of a small bite
by Terry Lowenstein
a definition emergesthe yin and yang of mentality
broken down into
new building blocks
that together form a tablenot of metabolic equation
but of rationality and eros
human psyche revealed
in a simple truthyou are what you eat
by Yvette Merton
Moroccan night stenciled between aging moons
inching their way past floating tents and hidden
bazaars reaching a point of saturation,
eclipse of tongues transports us back to times
of bread and wine broken after sunset
lost on the pages of bibles,
wiping hands in oil, palms inward face
kneeling before a Sultans table,
we gather momentum strangers in jackets
turning an eye, alchemists with wood wind
pipes changing metal to gold.
by Yvette Merton
All bones white hang from a coat
outer skin labeled crisp shirts,
I saw him dressed on a mannequin
glass front my only escape,
violin grooved between shoulders
and plaster of Paris chin,Funeral music fiddled from strings
he unfolds an offering such flawless deception,
when hairs on my neck stand up
survival withstands the call of minstrels,
eye’s sideways rove, turning into his head
exterior skin is perfect, untainted snow,
while walking his fingers hold the bow
deep humming bumble bee drone.
O How I Dreamt of Things Impossible
by Corey Mesler
And woke to find the world a bath of silver light
where romped the unfettered figures
of my past. The bed fairly sang with joy, bodies
unlimited by law or reason. This morning,
may it last forever, or until the angels get wind
of our furious participation, and they
jealously restore us with their swords and their fire.
by Corey Mesler
A scattered rainbow
of fruit loops
in my daughter’s bowl
this morning
pleases me beyond knowing.
It is such a simple
thing I almost let it go by
without writing
these few poor words, this
daylight ode.
The Secret Diet Barbara Jean Tannert
Outfield Dunes Mark Miklosovich
Kitchen Fan Lisa Braxton
Forever is too Long Rob Rosen
The Bones Syndrome John P. MatsisImaginary Friends Samantha Cleaver
No More Shortcuts Paul García
Living a Sermon Jack Swenson
Missing: Presumed Not Dead William Gladys
by Barbara Jean Tannert
y little Roy started third grade today. He's a pear-shaped boy, and extremely sensitive. When I discover the Spanish onion, the unopened can of tuna fish, the Granny Smith apples, the empty Ginger Snap box, the utensils, the three custard cups sticky with the remnants of chocolate pudding, I realize just how nervous he must have been these past few days. School has never been easy for Roy. He has such trouble making friends. It's just terrible to think of him sitting in his new homeroom so pale and miserable. Last week he asked if I could teach him lessons at home, like Ma does for Laura and Mary in the Little House books. "Why, think how bored you'd be staying home day after day," I told him. "Think of everything you'd miss!" But the terrible thing is, I didn't mean a word I said. I was thinking how it might actually be nice to have him home with me. He's so quiet and intelligent and interesting, not at all the kind of child you're glad to see get on the school bus in the morning.
Shimmying out from under the bed, brushing dust bunnies from my hair, blinking at the bright daylight, I can only sigh. Respecting his privacy, I remove only the custard cups, which I need for baking.
There's a pumpkin pie in the oven and an Indian pudding cooling on the kitchen counter. It's nearly eighty degrees outside, but once Labor Day is past I start on the Autumn desserts. Baking is my special gift. I make everything from scratch, including fourteen varieties of bread. Growing up, I thought dessert meant slick canned peaches swimming in syrup. Or tinny-tasting pudding that schlopped ready-made from a plastic tray. Or a mountain of mealy, flavor-free ice-cream with its lava flow of brown synthetic syrup. "Oh, stuck up Miss Picky," my mother would say when I pushed my "treat" away. She never was much of a cook and, after Pop up and left, it only got worse. Imagine giving an eight year old child frozen waffles for dinner, or the left-over macaroni and cheese for breakfast! And my mother served everything with such enthusiasm. You'd think she'd spent hours in the kitchen whipping up a gourmet delight. Everything about mom was slightly overdone, a trifle inappropriate; her red hair, billowing out behind her, always seemed too long, her thin face too made up, dresses too loud, heels too high, laugh too anxious. For her own supper, she'd think nothing of wolfing down a quart of Diet Fresca and a family bag of barbecued potato chips.
When I was twelve, I started teaching myself to cook. For my birthday, I asked for a springform pan and an illustrated cookbook. "My goodness, what a little old lady you are!" she said, and bought me this elaborately fuzzy pink sweater with beads instead. I didn't cry, but I did refuse to speak to her for the whole day. That evening, she drove to the mall and bought my pan and my cookbook and a ruffled white apron. She tapped on my bedroom door and, when I opened it, I saw my elaborately wrapped presents waiting in the hallway, dappled with bright blue ribbons, and her perfumed shadow disappearing down the stairwell.
Putting the stew together, I'm worrying about Roy. I can't stop thinking about that strange assortment of food waiting in the dusty twilight under his bed. It's not like him to be so secretive. And—good heavens—the last thing he needs to sneak is food! I've even been teaching him how to cook. He comes shopping with me now, and the baking aisle is already his favorite too. It's less crowded than most and there's something wonderfully solid and reassuring about the fat sacks of flour and sugar, the old-fashioned tins of Hershey's cocoa, the brown bottles of Grandma's molasses, the faint sweet smell of vanilla lingering in the air. We confer on the weekly dessert menu. "How about a steamed chocolate pudding?" I'll ask. "A pecan pie? Stuffed apple dumplings? Baked pears in Hazelnut Caramel Sauce? Scottish Oatcakes?" Roy will say, "Yes, yes, yes!" Sometimes he does a little dance.
"You'd better watch that kid's weight," my mother told me last spring on one of her (thankfully) infrequent visits. "You don't want him to end up like Augustus Gloop." She looked as thin and bright as ever in skinny white pants and a green and purple cotton shirt, her hair layered and sprayed up into a fluffy crimson poof.
"Who. . ." I said
"The fat boy in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," she said. "That book you used to talk about so much. You pretended all the characters lived in your room. What an imagination you had then. You just devoured those books when you were little." She noticed my scowl. "Well, Roy's not quite. . ."
"I should say you are!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, don't get so stroppy." She flitted out into the garden, began skittering around the gardenias like a little chipmunk.
Like a lot of kids, Roy's got some baby fat to lose. A little spare tire is all. Nothing to be concerned about. Now me, I'll testify before judge and jury that I'm overweight. Twenty five pounds, according to Doctor Pirhabi. But I'm fit as a fiddle and Evan tells me I look great. I'm certainly not the vain type that worries about her thighs and hips and liposuction possibilities. Life is too short. You take my mother. She diets herself dizzy, and do you think she's happy? Can she focus on anyone but herself for more than five minutes? Do you think she's ever been able to keep a man?
The butter sizzles in the crockpot. I add shallots, onion and garlic and turn up the heat. Veal medallions dredged with flour. Stock, wine, tarragon, chervil, basil, parsley, salt, pepper. The words even taste good when you say them out loud. From the kitchen window I can see the big, matronly school bus. It stops and releases Roy. He looks pale and harassed. His shirt-tail droops down sadly between his thick little legs. He hurries towards the house. Behind him, the bus lurches off down the street with a yellow groan.
The dear slumps at the table and tries to smile. My heart slumps with him. His coffee-brown eyes, larger and milder than mine; his soiled cream dress shirt with the crescents of perspiration under the arms; his soft black mushroom of hair. My boy. The barber cut his bangs too short last week, leaving his face doughier than usual and with a vague expression of faint surprise.
"Was it that bad, pumpkin?" I ask.
"S'O.K.," he says. Chin quivering, he pushes his new notebook back and forth with his fingertips.
"Would you like some pudding? Cream on top?" I'm surprised that I say this. What I meant to say was, "Honey, can you tell Mommy why you're hiding food under your bed?" I suppose I'm afraid of shaming him. I don't want him to think I'm mad.
"Yes, please", he says. His whole face takes on a bright, focused look, the expression of someone spotting a friend in a crowd of strangers.
We eat our pudding in the sunny private of the kitchen, enjoying its warmth, and the pleasure of each other's company. The veal stock reduces in the pot and gives off a thick delicious meaty odor. I have a vision of Roy as a baby, his intelligent gaze, his surprisingly virile crop of thick black hair, the sure solid manner in which he inhabited his romper. "Are you my boy?" I used to ask, as he nursed with that thrilling but sometimes unsettling force. "Are you all mine?" Evan used to laugh and tell me the novelty of having a child would wear off, but honestly it hasn't.
"So, tell me how school went," I ask now.
Roy licks his index finger and picks crumbs off his plate.
"Don't do that. It's bad manners."
He folds his arms, looks chagrined. "I drew a good horse in Art," he says finally.
"That's wonderful! And what about all your other classes?" He starts to tell me about a disturbing math teacher of his, but I'm staring at the alien scrawl on the cover of his new notebook. Big block letters written with one felt pen, unsuccessfully scribbled over with another.
"FAT PIG" it says. I meet Roy's eyes.
"I'm going upstairs," he says. And I let him go, feeling as though I'm the one whose been terribly insulted.
Evan's a salesman for Nike and he's on the road at least four days out of the week. "Swooshing around," he calls it. Some wives would complain, and it's true I get a trifle lonely now and again, but I think we're awfully lucky. Time apart makes time together more exciting. I came to that conclusion myself long before I read it in McCall's. I wish he were home tonight, though, so I could tell him about the notebook. I stamped an old Santa Claus sticker from last Christmas over the slur but, somehow, that seemed even worse. So I tried to peel it off, and then scribbled over the whole torn mess with black magic marker. Eventually, I just threw it in the trash. I'll buy him a new one tomorrow.
Roy drifts into the kitchen just as I'm getting ready to serve dinner. He shoves his plump little hands deep in his pockets and stares hopefully at the stove. "Is it ready?" he asks.
The steamy essence of veal stock, tarragon and garlic rises from the stew pot when the cover's lifted. The rich aroma makes me feel guilty, and piggish. I can feel the corners of my mouth salivating slightly. "Few minutes," I say. "We can start on our salads." I've made an enormous salad, hoping to dull Roy's appetite for the stew. My intention is to put him on a kind of secret diet where I just reduce his portions, and cut down on fat and sugar in the cooking. No dry toast or artificial sweeteners, just a little moderation. He'll slim down and never know what hit him.
"Salad?" he says, looking startled.
"Go on and sit down, Honey," I say. Watching him shuffle over to the table, a faint but stubborn image of one of those clowns whose bottom seems filled with water pops into my head.
Roy stares down at his food as he eats, one arm crooked protectively around his bowl. I gave us both scant portions. For dessert, I intend us to have thin slivers of pumpkin pie.
"So tell me something," I say.
"Like what," he says, flicking his eyes over me. He spoons his food quickly, purposefully.
"Well. . ."
He drops his fork into his bowl. "Can I have seconds?" he asks.
"Um. . . How's about waiting a few minutes so your tummy can tell your brain it's full."
"But I'm hungry now!" he says.
"That's because the message traveling from your stomach to your. . .Roy!"
He's on his feet, hurrying over to the pot.
"You've had enough. Don't you want your dessert?"
"I want more!"
"No," I tell him. He sits down, looking stricken. "For heaven's sakes."
After he finishes his pie sliver, Roy gives me a wounded look and slumps upstairs.
As soon as he's gone, I sneak some spoonfuls of stew from the pot. Then, all of a sudden, I find myself ladling faster and faster, my arm moving up and down like a piston, feeling more and more ravenous with every bite.
Around 2.a.m., the faint buttery smell drifts into my bedroom like a yellow ghost. I follow its waft through the dark hallway, down the stairs, and into the bright warm kitchen.
Over his blue pajamas, Roy is wearing my apron. His cheeks are flushed, his hair mussed from the pillow. He stares at me in horror, knife poised over a mound of chopped onion on the cat-shaped cutting board. The counter is littered with bottles of hot sauce and Worcestershire, a bowl of beaten egg, a sweating carton of half and half, and an enormous mound of grated cheese. The skillet sizzles on the stove.
"What on. . ."
"I'm making you an omelet!" he cries. "For breakfast in bed!"
I take the skillet off the burner, set it down firmly on the counter with a bang, to show him I'm angry. But I'm not really. I'm even proud of his choice of ingredients, of how adept he seems in the kitchen. But his round little determined face tells me that things have gotten a little out of hand now. "Go upstairs, Roy," I tell him, firmly.
"But mom, I'm absolutely starving," he says, desperately scooping at a handful of cheese.
"Drop it!" I grab his strong chubby wrist. "No." He wriggles and, with his free hand, he grabs another handful and stuffs it in his mouth.
"Ahm weely weely hongy," he sputters.
"Damn it Roy." I shake him hard, amazed at first by his strength and my sudden fury, and then by the sudden sharp impress of teeth on the fleshy underside of my arm. I let him go. Breathing heavily, Roy retreats over by the screen door, chewing violently and swallowing hard, his chins trembling, the fading glint of triumph in his little piggy eyes.
I begin to cry. "Tomorrow," I say, "I was going to scramble you some eggs!"
Return to Prose
by Mark Miklosovich
e found him sitting by a glass door that overlooked a dirt hill. It wasn’t much to look at, this earthen run-off, but at least Jack was getting a little sun on his face and the semblance of fresh air, or so we thought. We didn’t consider what it must be like to sit at the edge of the outdoors, held back by these aquarium walls for the sick and the old. Jack squinted into the late afternoon light, his hands crossed neatly on his lap, with an expression that no man could read.
“Hi Pop,” my fiancé Bella said to her grandfather, “What are you up to?” She kneeled down at his side with the grace of a woman who’d spent years growing beneath him, listening.
“Don’t know,” he said.
“Well,” she said, stiffening a bit, “I think it’s almost time for dinner. How does that sound?”
Jack made a raspy sound in his throat. He looked up with clear blue eyes and shook his head in a slow rocking motion, saying, “Smells like a shit pot in here.”
“Dinner will make you feel better.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, they sure as hell better move these dunes,” Jack said.
Bella looked at me and her eyes were like storm clouds descending on pale green ponds. Lightning zigzagged across her eyes in bloodshot expression.
“Pop, you’re not at the beach,” she told him, “you’re at the hospital.”
“Like hell I’m not. We’ll see about this; I’m not paying for a hotel with dunes in my way.”
I could tell Bella didn’t like taking something away from her grandfather, no matter how far away Long Beach Island was from this suburban Philadelphia hospice. She helped him get out of his chair, telling him, “We’ll get to the beach again, don’t you worry; next time it will be a real nice house.”
“And who’s this guy?” Jack said, looking right through me.
“That’s Steven, you met him on Thanksgiving.”
“Is that right?”
“Are you hungry?” Bella asked him.
“Hold up, wait one minute,” Jack said, agitated and looking over his shoulder at the glass door, “I paid the lady $500 for this place. She’s not pullin’ a fast one on me.”
“Which lady?” she asked.
“Christ,” Jack said, “You can’t even see the ocean.”
“Let’s get you back to your room for dinner.”
Jack made a spitting sound as he shuffled towards his room. He stopped to grab onto the wall for a second, saying, “I’ve got money, plenty of it … I’m telling you, I’m not spending one more nickel here. The food’s rotten.” Out of breath and wheezing, Jack reached behind him for a wallet that wasn’t there.
“What can I get you Pop?”
Jack shook his head like she’d just asked the simplest question; I mean— his expression shouted, isn’t it obvious what I want?
“Ice cream for Christ sake.”
“We’ll get you some,” she said.
“Hope so,” he said—pushing his tongue between his bottom lip and his dentures. As he did this, I noticed how transparent his skin was. I felt like I could see inside him to where his muscles clung to thin bones and his blood pooled just beneath the surface. As I turned to go get him ice cream, he said to Bella, “Feelin’ lousy Minnie. Maybe tomorrow the dunes won’t be so high.”
I stepped away for no more than 20 minutes, a man on a mission for ice cream.****
When I returned, Bella was watching television on the bed with her grandfather. The Phillies were playing the Sox, bottom of the fifth. Jack had an untouched tray of food at his side. A nurse came in and encouraged him to eat. He wouldn’t take his eyes off the game. Ten minutes later, a Sox player hit a pop-up fly to left field. Jack’s eyes remained glued to the screen.
“Now I see it, ‘bout time,” he said.
“What’s that Pop?”
“Right there,” he said, “The ocean.”
Bella turned toward me for an answer; I didn’t know what to say. Instead we watched Jack’s eyes lock on the stadium’s fence line, a solid blue and red form growing as the camera zoomed in on left field. Jack smiled in that way that smokers get right after lighting up a cigarette: smooth, controlled, relaxed; the television offered the silhouette of a man against the outfield wall—a fisherman, the glimpse of a fan’s hand—a distant whitecap, an errant piece of trash—a seagull, until the ball was released from its arc through the sky and landed in the player’s mitt. Baseball had become the beach. Jacks’ smile lingered.
“How about that catch?” I asked.
If he heard me, his face didn’t indicate any reaction; he watched as the television cameras panned up the outfield wall. And just above the lip of left field’s retaining wall—where the ocean meets the shore, there was excitement in the stands. The cameras lingered on the front row, a frothy array of screaming fans, until those faces became smaller and smaller and the view receded into the depths of the stadium and an indiscernible horizon.
“Ice cream Pop?” Bella asked. “Steven brought you some soft serve.”
“Ok,” he said at a whisper.
Afternoon turned into early evening as we watched for another pop-up fly, another view of left, right or center field but it didn’t come. Bella started to cry. I felt like an outsider. Jack held his granddaughter’s hand, taking it gently at first and then firmly in a silent agreement. They remained very quiet and still as they waited for the dunes to pass, hoping for a clearing so that Jack could see, at least one more time, his beloved ocean.
Return to Prose
by Lisa Braxton
But this time was different. Wilton slowly eased himself up in bed and pulled the chain on the light bulb. He’d hardly slept at all. That rickety old fan in the kitchen window kept up such a racket, but that was the only way he got any kind of ventilation at all. He let his feet drop limply to the floor and wedged them into a pair of worn, brown slippers. Every movement was an effort, but Wilton knew he had to work as quickly as possible.
He paused for a moment to think back on the ominous words of Doctor Boone. Words that echoed in Wilton’s head over and over again. They were about as soothing as the sound of a sledgehammer meeting concrete outside his apartment building at six in the morning.
“Wilton, you know I don’t mince words, so I’ll just come right out and say it. I think you’d best get your affairs in order. You don’t have much time left.”
What was happening to his body? Only a year ago, Wilton was able to knock back a scotch and soda like it was Kool-Aid. The younger fellas at Fanny’s Pool Hall were impressed. They had a hard time keeping up with him.
The decline had started gradually. One day at the plant, as Wilton walked upstairs to the canteen, he couldn
