Ginger Hamilton Caudill Eden In her dreams, the muted heather hills roll on forever. Verdant fields flow beneath her bare feet like bottle-green sea surge. A brook curls around the massive trunks of ancient oak trees; she dips her toes into its soothing stream. Flower fragrances waft on the breeze. Enticed by songbirds’ serene harmonies, she lies down to rest. The alarm clock snatches her from sylvan heaven to a studio apartment. Overhead, the city looms like a grimy Goliath. Below, sirens wail and horns reply; angry voices clash with the traffic’s din. An ancient light fixture trembles as the corpulent man upstairs lumbers to his kitchen. The smells of pork and rancid cooking oil linger in the atmosphere. She slips into grease-slicked shoes and pins a nametag to the bodice of her uniform. Reconciled to raising her ransom, Eve faces the world. *** Sally Bellerose Memere Does Time in the Shirtwaist Factory She sings. She works. She won’t be gotten. She hides her pennies in her stocking. She wafts and warps and steals the waste silk for the children she would be rocking. Makes the loom sing lullabies. She works. She sings. She won’t be got. She has twelve nickels in her sock. She works. She won’t be gotten. She sings. She won’t be got. She works. She works. She works. Stitches quilts of stolen silk, sells to rich men’s wives. Folds her money in her pocket. Girls like her, a dime a dozen become not rich, but shuttlewise. *** Paula Boon Winter’s End The ladybugs are dying now. Sarah collects the bodies in tissues, careful not to squeeze too hard. Walking carefully is nothing new. But inevitably, she lets her guard down and there’s a crunch under her stockinged foot, followed by a quick shudder. “They’re just bugs,” John says. When the creatures ventured into the house last fall, he humored her, getting off the couch to help ferry hundreds of them back outside. “You’re a nutcase,” he said when they were done. She laughed then and pressed her cheek against his chest. That was just before John stopped leaning across to unlock the passenger door for her in the mornings, watching instead while she fumbled with her keys. Mug in hand, Sarah peruses the classified ads. A ladybug falls from the ceiling and lies dome-down on ‘For Rent,’ legs kicking. Brushing it onto the floor, she reaches for a pen. *** Gary Bushee I Sing the Body Caloric Body waxing: what a concept! Body waxing full. Full moon, full belly Whole bellies belly dancing. Gut strung, full sound sounding full. Hambones Hambo, Does this waltz make me look fat? Here, try this mazurka on for size. There’s always room for Tango. *** Hal Ackerman Pentimento He loved her watercolors of Tuscany And how her scent clung to his sheets And bore up unexpectedly from a shirt, a book. He waited with the engine turned off While she walked alone in a field of milkweed, The vinyl seat growing cold against his back. He made room in his chest for the cistern of grief That she carried for her son who had died At the age still counted in months. Everything in life so quickly and utterly breakable. And after her letter came, really just a note, Still, he took her in like a flood tide when she returned He stayed awake that night Not so much watching her sleep As saturating himself with her Like an ink pad of memory for later use. *** Julie Adams Skin of Manyoshu I want to dream wildly on a bed of ancient poems, like the Collection of 10,000 Leaves— no futon, just let Manyoshu cover me! I want each fluid calligraphy stroke to fossilize upon my porcelain skin, all words and worlds, a literary tattoo collective— beggars, soldiers, writers, emperors! I want to rub Tanka verses like sea salts against my wounded skin, bow to ancestral spirits Before a Shinto shrine—where homage always sings To Amaterasu, the sun goddess! I want just one moonlit night in the Heian period Or even amidst the first flurry of Noh To muse over monogatari and classical poetry— Unwrapping myself in the silken scrolls of Lady Marusaki! *Author’s Note (optional): Manyoshu--Collection of 10,000 Leaves--refers to a literary movement from the 8th century in which approx. 4,500 Japanese poems were collected across all social classes in Japan *** Robin M. Allen Make a Wish Lizzie sat on her canopy bed squeezing the short stiff hairs between her thumb and forefinger. “I wish I was pretty. Top.” “I wish I was smart. Bottom.” “I wish mommy and daddy didn’t fight. Bottom.” “I wish I could fly. Top.” When she was finished with her left eyelid, she started on her right. *** Raquelle Azran He, She and They They met again after 25 years. She was widowed, he was separated. January - Rented an apartment together. February - He: off to dinner with the wife. She: threw his clothing out the window. She: cried. He: promised to love her and leave the other her. March - Traveled in Europe. April - He: off to dinner with the wife. She: threw his clothing out the window. She: cried. He: promised to love her and leave the other her. May - Traveled in India. June - He: off to dinner with the wife. She: threw his clothing out the window. She: cried. He: promised to love her and leave the other her. July - She: off to dinner with the wife. She: returned home, threw her clothing in a bag, and moved in with the wife. August - They laughed, redid the bathroom, loved, painted the kitchen, bought a new car, drove to Florida. September - They took him to dinner for a divorce celebration. *** Yakov Azriel Painting “The Murder of Abel” The artist awoke, startled by a dream He knew he had to paint — how Abel cried And stared in disbelief before he died, As Cain picked up a stone, and with a scream, Shattered his brother’s head. It didn’t seem That hard to find the boyish, almond-eyed Young man who looked like Abel. But though he tried, The artist failed to find his Cain, agleam With fire that scorched, but had lost its light. For years The artist searched in prisons till he found A man who had raped his sister in a stable, Whose eyes now burned, enflamed by sins and fears. But then, the rapist gasped, as if he drowned, “I was the boy you painted once as Abel.” *** Greg Beatty Anti-corporeal Activities Allan’s typing was agonizingly slow, as it had been ever since the ALS moved into his hands. He moved each hand like a bent flipper, let gravity it flop down onto one key at a time, then started over. Three keystrokes were enough to access a previously stored message, reminding his mother once again that whatever was happening to her son’s body, nothing was wrong with his mind. “I had the dream again,” she read slowly. “The one in which dead political activists write me letters lobbying for your freedom?” Allan typed “Y.” Yes. “Darling, you know there aren’t any ghosts engaged in ‘anti-corporeal activities’.” Her fingers flashed in air quotes before she remembered how her ease of motion made Allan jealous. One key stroke. “I know,” she read. Another. “But there should be,” she read a moment later. “Oh Allan,” she said. But she didn’t argue. *** F.J. Bergmann Astroculture He hadn’t always wanted to be a star farmer. Frankly, when Great-Uncle Garafal left him the desert tract, with its sparse, wartlike cacti and decrepit shack, he had hoped to sell the place, and quick. But on a whim, he’d spent the night there, on the old man’s rickety cot, and when he woke from a dream he was lucky enough to forget immediately, heart pounding in the unfamiliar dark, and went to take a leak in what passed for a garden, he saw them shining between clumps of dry grass like exuberantly flung glitter, their suspicious little eyes staring up at him. *** William Blaine The Brightest Light Lucius was the black sheep of his family or, more properly in his case, he was the black lightning bug. Lucius was always messing up and people were always laughing at him and this made him sad for he wanted nothing more than to make his family proud of him. Then the day of the Great Lighting came when all the lightning bugs from all around would compete to see which lightning bug would shine the brightest. Not long ago, Lucius’ family had been the brightest of all. When it was his turn to shine, Lucius was so afraid of losing he almost didn’t fly. Then he saw a power line with a tear in it and bright sparks dripping. When Lucius’ name was called, he flew directly into the dripping sparks. He shined so brightly many thought he was a star. *** Mark Budman Cat’s Magic Daisy washed her face under a naked maple tree. Her paw moved over her ear and across her cheek with the smooth precision of a master make-up artist. She was ready to meet Mr. Tom Right now. The last leaf fell from the tree, brushing her shoulder, startling her for a moment. She got up, rubbed her head against Len’s pant leg, leaving a few yellow, brown and black hairs on it. A few minutes later, Daisy and a ginger cat from a block away yelled, spit and hissed at each other on his lawn. Daisy won and ran after the ginger to finish her off. Len took a few hairs from his pant leg, threw them up, and wished for the spring. Wind blew them away; a few moments later the first snowflake landed on his palm. It melted instantly. Surely, the spring was coming. *** Stace Budzco Top of the Hour When the Jack Kerouac clock over her adjustable bed strikes the top of the hour his cigarette lights: Tell me about the car crash, she says, Tell me so we can get on with things and so I remind her Licks still has best Double Chocolate, gone is the Twin theater, the roller rink too…in an hour I’ll remind her (as I’ve done for the past 7 years) how telephones don’t have chords, how radio comes via satellite­ and when she goes into her Tell me about our car crash repeat I’ll let her know how I kept that strange and awful promise that if anything ever happened we would move on and standing outside the room is Alison, my wife, and she’s dying to meet you. *** Cheryl Chambers Halved Hands Succombing to solitude has taken years- first drying dishes while mother washes, then handling the household’s cleanliness alone. But certain truths never change. The dryer scours spots the washer missed, reaching with fresh hands to take saucepans and plates from red, chaffed hands until encrusted waste dissolves. The wooden spoon never dries by towel, but lies waiting, its dewdrops of water and soap clinging until sucked onto surrounding surfaces. Days and years give space to allow the! kitchen some change, as age and separation renders me four hands halved, now two. *** Arthur Chappell A Marriage of Other People’s Convenience ‘The Singles Club’, (for bashing bachelors), Keeps singing ‘Get him to the church on time’. I’ve been out with some girls to scotch rumours That I might be gay. Is it such a crime To be footloose but not so fancy-free? You hear ‘wanker’ a lot, when you’re alone. They call me ‘Saint Celibate’. ‘thirty-three, You know...’ They’ve arranged a meeting with Joan. ‘Dance with her! Go On!’ As though we’ll mate there And then. I’d like Joan if it was our date, Not theirs. She thanks me for admitting that. Like adulterers, we meet in secret. We both hate The neighbourhood panda-watch police force That now names our kids and plans our divorce. *** SuzAnne C. Cole The Woman Whose Husband Did Nothing The woman whose husband did nothing bustled about all day long. Neighbors thought her care of him wonderful, but she said modestly she didn’t mind. It soothed her to discuss with him Sunday dinner with him-mashed or roast potatoes, pork or chicken?-because he was such a good listener, and so agreeable, never contradicting her decisons. Once in awhile, it’s true, she did find that everlasting sweet smile a bit tiresome and almost wished she’d had his face set in a frown, but not often. And there was nothing to his upkeep, really. Daily dusting, an occasional change of clothes (more for her sake than his) and a weekly wipe with a wet cloth-that’s really all the maintenance he required. So the woman whose husband did nothing thought on the whole they had a better relationship that many of the couples they knew, both of whom were breathing. *** Robert M. Craig History Lesson “Take a seat, Miss Smith.” The young teacher sat opposite his bare, plank desk. “I’ve observed your classes. The administration would not like what I’ve seen. There’s not enough memorization. Too much student collaboration and projects. Noise level is often high, lots of laughing. They’re frequently in small groups, no central focus. And there’s no need for local history, language or culture, only United States history.” “Sir, they’re happy and they’re learning.” She did not look down. The District Superintendent sighed. “That’s how it seems to me, too. But I must report what I’ve seen, not felt.” “So my school and I have a few weeks left, until Washington hears about it?” He rose, blinked, and reached for her hand. “No, I’ll lie,” She swallowed hard. “But the Bureau will . . . “ “The Bureau of Indian Affairs will not recognize one more lie.” *** Chris Crittenden Butterfly crescents and medallions simmer as they leap, coppery and mercurial, chaotic joy wooing lily and rose, threading arousal through gardens. all afternoon puckish wings traipse and pollinate, tussling in a susurrus. they have no clock except shadows, no bed except a shrub, no dream except flying, pale when folded like wafers from the eucharist. *** Diane Elayne Dees Cleaning the Astoria I wash my mother’s crystal with great care in vinegar and water. I submerge each fragile piece. Though stained beyond repair, the glasses sparkle from their bitter purge. The Great War ended with cities in rubble, yet these wafer-thin goblets survived Atlantic waters. I sand the cracks, and sometimes I see through the glass more clearly than when I was young, when flaws and jagged edges left me scarred. I wash my mother’s crystal with great care. *** Ashley De Meo The Man on the Pedestal cast in gold with gilded leaves scattered at your feet inscription carved in stone it says, and i repeat “Look upon this statue for i am but one man i am no king of kings and i am no more than any other mortal” but to me you have been better than the others i live for the times when we stroll past the statue so that i can then say “Look there— the man—it’s you upon the pedestal” *** Betty Dobson Scrape Rattle Bang Monday night and the familiar scrape rattle bang of pilfered shopping carts beyond drawn curtains. Again as the morning sun cuts across rooftops, devouring shadows and exposing residue. Blue bags gutted and trampled, left for the weekly truck that lumbers along a gray street, gathering stripped remains too lowly even for the night. *** Don Mahan Durbin Mala Fides: Jane v. John When his wife threatened his darlings, he hid them at his brother’s. But only after she’d killed some. “Burn that box of whores. It goes or you do, and this marriage is done.” “But they’re my writings.” “Good times and happy thoughts of chickees who don’t belong here, and not in your head either. You’re mine; hah!” “They’re only stories, imagination.” “Letters from old sluts.” “Make-believe, fiction.” “Smelly words for dirty birds.” “They’re just stories.” “Memories, a box of whores. That stink goes or you do.” “But you’re wrong.” “Me or them --you choose.” “This is crazy.” “Listen up, Johnny Baby Boy: Nobody two-times me.” “Twenty-five years, Jane. Where’s the trust?” “Trust?..” before slamming the door, she smacked him. In the dark he lay on the couch twirling the gold on his finger. He knew hers was naked. Where she’d flung her vows he had no clue. *** Edward Durbin A Cheesy Kindness Paddy O’Shea shook open his net disentangling a well-soaked leprechaun. “He’s stealin’ your fish, Paddy,” said his mate. “Slap him around; he’ll tell you where his gold is.” “Oh, no! He’s near dead -- a human sort. I’ll squish him dry and take him home to recover.” “You’ll regret it. He’ll steal the memory of Mother off Mother’s Day. That’s the sort he is.” ........... “I won’t forget your kindness, Paddy O’Shea,” promised the leprechaun nibbling on Paddy’s finest cheese as Paddy drifted to sleep by a lazy fire of smoldering peat. When Paddy awoke, leppy footprints covered his dusty house. Everything he owned --Gone! (But for the scent of cheese and a few of its holes.) Paddy followed the scent to the leprechaun hideaway, netted the leprechaun, then filled his pockets with the leprechaun’s fortune. “No, little greenie,” he mocked. “Ya won’t forget my kindness, ever.” *** Anne Earney Goodbye You wove a canopy of grass and tied it to four birch branches rooted in the soil, to hang over my body, because you knew I sunburned easily. I found signs in the weaving, curves and bows spelling your name, or mine, or love. You didn’t realize the sandy soil surrounding me would lift into the air and fly underneath, nor did you consider the effect days of erosion would have on my skin, even if it was protected from the sun. Over time, the canopy dried, cracked, came unraveled. I watched it disappear until I was exposed. You were not here to fix it, but no matter; bone doesn’t burn. When the last piece of grass came lose, it flew off into the sky as if it were following you, and the four branches were pale white arms raising up into the blue sky, waving goodbye. *** Marie Lynam Fitzpatrick Under Christian Crosses. Osiris watches as his medley of souls twinkle through the arms of Orion and the kiss of Artemis overhangs his realm. His sky lights the Nile and his breath blows the feluccas as they drift on the current that once carried Moses. Luxor, awaits the first splash of dawn. The Back streets are empty but for packs of dogs and cats whose ribs rise up through lack-luster coats. And, the horses used to pull tourists in traps during the day are tied outside high row houses situated on dirt streets. Here, old men smoke water pipes in the cool of the night. They sit on doorsteps under Christian crosses that are embossed on the timber doors over the brass letterboxes. The streak of gold, violet and reds switch the skyline and silhouette the neon that straddles the McDonalds sign. Osiris waits while Luxor dresses Thebes, Osiris watches patiently. *** Clifford Garstang Tornado Weather “Tornado weather,” Aunt Agnes says. It is—the sky yellow and purple, bruised. But how could she know? I set the dinner tray before her and guide her hand to the plate, the fork and spoon, the tip-proof cup. My husband and I can’t care for her any longer and today is the day she moves. “It’s for the best,” he says, when we tell her. While she eats, I gaze out the window and watch the wind swirl in the yard, come to take her. *** Amina Hafiz When Jake uses his tools to install shelves in my kitchen he’s really saying, “I want to improve your home.” holding my hand with both of his at literature readings Jake reveals, “I just want to be with you.” he painted my office with blackboard paint so I can write down my ideas he means, “I support your work.” When Jake slips his head under the covers and gives me kisses I don’t even mind that he calls it “community service.” *** Mary Hamrick An Image of a Single Woman Up the stairs she goes with beads and shawl swirling in her emancipated Rossetti-like hands. Like Greta Garbo, she leans on her man, and with a motion picture stare and silent-moves she kisses cookie-sweet and rouses his thin mustache. Mercy . . . the wolf-hunt begins! *** Emily Heebner Art "Mm, Loosey. Can I speak to you for a mow-ment?" Sergei's dark forty-year-old eyebrows dangle like pine needles. My heart thumps. "Yes?" "Very good today." His cigar smolders. "So, I have a small proposal perhaps. I'm directing a play in Long Island. And I think there's a part for you." "Wow -" Sergei grins. "Do you want to know what is the play?" "Oh, yes. What's the play?" "EQUUS. Do you know it?" The nude scene flashes through my memory, vivid from a recent trip to New York. Sans bra and panties, the actress playing Jill seemed uncomfortable. "Yes. I know the play." I ache that I can't phone my mother anymore and talk through the pros and cons of sacrificing eighteen years of modesty for art. "Good. Then maybe you'll awl-so let me draw you finally." Smoke drifts out the corner of Sergei's mouth. *** Dave Kessler One Never Knows There was too much ice on the parking lot at the shopping center so I couldn't use my wheelchair. I'd have to wait another day to return the ugliest necktie ever given as a gift. Driving down my street I saw the drug squad and swat team raiding the house of an eighty-nine year old lady across the street. As they bashed in the front door I went over there to try to help her out and establish her innocence. The swat team dog alerted on me and I had to hit the ground while they pulled the dog off. So today I've been iced out, ugly tied, faced a swat team, tried to help an old lady across the street and been bitten by a dog. Fats Waller was right. “One never knows, do one?” *** Debra Grace Khattab desert sacrifice I shred tulips against the thorns as I sway by the row of cactus flat green opuntia pad hands reaching out for me too close and the communion white gauze of my dress delicately decorates a crown of thorns as white tulip petals fall at my feet and I watch wondering whether the drops of blood will fall next *** Ed Kline Ebb Tide Sitting on the riverbank, my daughter and I, returning rocks to the racing water. Ruby’s pebbles plink, while the stones I hoist with two hands send crowns of water into the air; when they land in the shallows, we hear them rattle against Ruby’s pebbles resting on the river bottom. “You know, kiddo, all these rocks used to be in the river.” Plink. Plink. “How did they leave the river, Daddy?” I can’t help but laugh. I know it’s wrong to laugh at your kid – I’m causing obscure, irreversible damage – but her electric innocence jolts a laugh out me. “I think the river left them, sweetie.” “That’s ri-dick-lee-us!” she squeals. “Rivers only go backwards and forwards.” I laugh again, wistfully, knowing that rivers only run forward, and Ruby is already riding her current towards the open sea, leaving me behind, lonely as a rock on a riverbank. *** Ellen LaFleche Working in the Ashland Mill during World War Two Aunt Beatrice stitched raw silk into parachutes. Hunched over her machine, Beatrice dreamed about the pilot who would tumble like a banished angel into Europe’s inferno. Beatrice heard the snap like crinoline of his wings flaring open and thinking about him floating over Auschwitz she drove the needle through her palm. The boss stopped production when he saw her hand pinned to the table like a wounded butterfly. *** Joyce Laird After The Storm She moved back from the window overlooking the wide back porch and wiped her hands on her apron. He’d slammed the door so hard the echo still ricocheted in her head. She knew from experience that it wouldn’t do any good to try to stop him. She looked out again at the sky, quickly filling with threatening black clouds. A boom rocked the house to its foundation, pushing her instinctively away from the window. Lightening flashed as the summer storm vented its full power on the landscape. The door opened. He stood for a second framed in the doorway, drenched, staring at her. A second blinding flash lit up the room. He dashed toward her and threw his wet arms around her waist. “I’m not scared. Teddy is,” he said holding up a soggy bear. “I know. Maybe you should run away tomorrow,” she said. “After the storm.” *** Jeanne Lesinski Personal Pompeii I spark wild fires with my husband, children, friends—myself, smash the clay vase, in mid-day burrow under the comforter, pretending I can’t feel in the dark, red-hot cinders, needing only a breath to flame. Some inner force floods my psyche, scalding invective incinerates me, like lava over unsuspecting Pompeii. I can’t tamp this vicious stream, yet, perhaps it will spew so fast, archaeologists may someday un(re)- cover my cerebral remains, intact. *** Hanqing Li The ATM Machine When she met Song Wei-xian, all her problems seemed solved. Only a short time ago she had been a disillusioned graduate from a third-rate college trying in vain! to hunt for a good job. The companies snubbed her because of her lackluster diploma and she had no "backup" to help her obtain a post in the government. So she took the post of er-nai, or mistress to the aforesaid wealthy Taiwanese businessman. She knew she was only using him as an ATM machine, but what could she do? After all, she had a multitudinous family to support in the indigent, Mao-worshipping countryside. Things seemed brighter when he told her he was taking her with him to Taiwan. Maybe he would even divorce his wife for her! It was only on the small, rickety ship where she had been forced with a bevy of other girls that she realized her fate. *** Jeanne Lilly Thanks and Praises- Hands up in the air. Music runs through fingers. Hearts drum to the beat. Feet find the rhythm. Ears close tight. Souls open wide. Voices become one. *** Robert A. Lindblom A Chance Meeting John spotted her across the gym—a firm, athletic body and abundance of blond curls. He was instantly on the prowl. He made eye contact several times, offering a sly wink or suggestive smile. She looked away each time—playing hard to get. Sauntering over to her bike, he selected from his repertoire. “Don’t I know you?” She returned a polite smile. John pressed the attack. “I’d never forget a sexy body like that.” She stopped peddling. “Actually, you do. We met at your wife’s Christmas party last year.” John’s face grew warm. She dismounted. “I’ll tell Caroline you said ‘hello’ tomorrow.” He watched her depart out of habit—taking no pleasure in the view. Reaching into his pocket, he slipped a gold band on his deeply tanned finger. He decided to shower. There was just enough time to hit the flower shop on the way home. *** Cheryl Loetscher Einstein’s Parrot Sometimes reasons are hard to come by, especially at 75. Look at Albert scudding across Lake Carnegie in his primitive skiff, shouldering the oddest of his birthday gifts, a mute and despondent parrot he calls Bibo. I admire, he tells us, the rhythm of it like scattering crystals or old Hungarian canticles. He attempts to cheer it with bad jokes and Happy Piano blues, while Bibo hopeless as a mitten in a moth hatchery, holds his tongue, his theories on syntax and the vernacular of alienation peculiar and private. Should he ask for bread, Albert will give him cake. Bibo wishes they would all think a little less and get on with it. *** Laura Loomis Quitting Time It had been a trying day, and Felicia decided to murder the next person who walked into her office. Fortunately it was the boss, who had assigned her this miserable project. She’d have to train his replacement, but it was worth it. She clocked him with a paperweight, and while he was dazed she used package tape to secure him to the chair. He started to come around. “What are you doing?” She ripped open his shirt and yanked off his ugly toupee. She tore out the first page of her report, the one she’d worked on for 14 hours a day for two months, until he canceled the project today. She gave him a beauty of a paper cut across the neck. The boss’s assistant came to see what all the screaming was about. “Hey, Felicia’s killing the boss!” A gaggle of secretaries gathered in the doorway. “Cool!” *** Christina Lovin attraction: retina scans, lenses retract, then fan like moon flowers at midnight. blink twice. glance down, up, again down. somewhere beneath the sternum, an elevator cable frays, releases. viscera plunge the shaft, then rise. inhale, exhale. blood static crackles pulse points. leaning tower crashes. just there, my flaming knees buckle and burn. *** Emily Lowery Crushing Problems It sounded like potato chips being trampled on by sturdy incisors, and his heart soared as a flushed Marylou screamed, “Again!” Their therapist had said, “Find a hobby. Together.” So Marylou sprayed canvases with red paint, and Harvey drove over them with his mud-and-bird-poop-streaked Jeep. They would sell their “road kill” at art shows throughout the summer to pay Dr. Obvious for that $300-an-hour advice. *** Adrianne Marcus The World Cares Nothing of War It craves domestic things: brown bread warm from the oven, the bliss of butter melting into the dense crust. Wheatfields, ripe, overburdened with awns, water flowing freely, flooding the asparagus plains. All the upright foods: sugar cane, corn, peach, lemon and lime trees. Nothing that grows deep underground or is buried there, never to rise. *** Tessa Smith McGovern Sunday Roast Sunday roast ­ lamb, I think ­ sizzling in the oven. I skip into the kitchen, looking for tidbits. Dad and Mum are fighting. “I’ve told you and told you,” Dad says. “You won’t listen, will you?” I stick a finger into the saucepan. Mum, silent as usual during Dad’s tirades, slaps my hand with the wooden spoon. “Any time you leave the help alone in the shop, they steal cigarettes. Every time I do a bloody stock take, it’s the same thing. We’re down two hundred Marlboro. Where did they go? I’d like to know!” I lick the gravy off the back of my hand. Mum bends over to get something from the cupboard. “You can’t trust anybody,” Dad says. In the cupboard, behind the gravy granules, I catch a glimpse of something. I squint. It’s a carton of two hundred Marlboro. *** Jeanine Durbin McMahon Cancer Crab (for Mimi and the Others) Like a crab, the cancer caught her, latching onto her breast with a claw full of determination. The surgeon, seeking to banish the beast with scarcely a second thought lopped off a fair chunk of her femininity like so much superfluous flesh. They radiated her next, pinpointing the beam to kill no more than it should, but already the crab had scurried away. Burrowing deep, the brute found a new home in her liver where telltale lumps announced the awful truth. Still, she fought on, bloated and bald, toasting life with a cocktail of poison. Before long she had breathed her last, and the crab, triumphant, raised twin pincers in the air and snatched about for another easy mark. *** Helen Meikle Fantasy on a Theme of Two Doves. Two doves caught courting on an overhead wire. My grandmother would not have approved. And yet Perhaps in the private, velvet night Her frilled white cambric neck to toe Slipped to a puddle around her feet And she danced, Swirling the length of her ballroom boudoir In nothing but supple skin Or kicking her long legs to the lofty ceiling While my grandfather sniggered And stroked his walrus moustache. She never spoke of it and I didn’t ask. Who wants Their mind washed out with soap? *** Ellen Birkett Morris [Untitled] The world ignores all grief And private pain Cities pulse on unaware Stoplights change The bus roars past The trash is still picked up on Thursdays And in the park’s lush green heart Bulbs lie in wait for spring An old couple rests on a stone bench A baby lifted to drink from the fountain Offers a watery grin Dogs stop and bow their heads To the puddle below Their soft pink tongues Shining innocently in the sunlight *** Cami Park Word of Mouth --Razor wire is much sharper than barbed wire. Lazy and soft, close. --Our new liquid detergent is superior in every way to powder. Shrill and excited, farther away. --See, folks think barbed wire and razor wire are the same, but they ain’t. It won’t stop. --Liquid detergent is more powerful and easier to use especially with our handy patented pour spout. So far away. --Germans invented razor wire in Double U Double U Two, so you know it’s wicked. If you don’t know what you’re doing, watch out! It will shred you. --It makes your husband’s whites their whitest and your children’s brights their brightest. --Shred you. --Blood and grass stains don’t have a chance. --Touch it. You’ll never wash the same way again. *** Fern Polsky-Hilyard Coop(ed) midnight weight of his sleeping breath at the back of her neck corners her into a sequence of stunted dreams where small, furry animals escape the tightness of her chest, crawling from her throat to curl by her open mouth on the pillow stuffed with feathers from her grandfather’s prize-winning chickens. *** Caroline Robinson Broken Glass. Trying to suck up the innards of the ripped pillow only made it drift like snow into the corners of the bedroom and settle hesitantly on surfaces. Amelia heard the thudding smash above the droning of the vacuum cleaner. Sneezing she switched the machine off. Daggers of glass from the dressing table mirror fanned on the mahogany top and across the carpet, intermingling with duck down. She went to the bed, where her mother rocked, weeping fat tears and snot, and lightly laid her hands on flannelette shoulders. “Why did you do that?” Amelia murmured. “There was a wrinkled old hag staring at me. She looked evil and mad,” her mother shouted. “There isn’t any more. She’s gone now. Come, get into bed and I’ll tell you a story Mum. Snuggle down.” While her mother lay curled dozing, Amelia plucked up the shards reflecting on her splintered self. *** Aline Soules Blank Slate A woman approaches a blank slate. There are rectangles side by side, and they work on hinges, so that they can be lifted to expose another set beneath. She can fashion them to her own purpose. She backs away for a panoramic view and sees that the slate is not really blank. There are clouds of chalk dust, sweeping arcs of erased formulae, puffs of poetry, ancient history muddled with psychology and science fiction, biology woven with kinesiology, art intermingled with the topography of shifting dunes. Handwriting on handwriting—right-handed, left-handed, sweeping, angular, slant, block, cursive, print. Men and women have lifted chalk to the board over and over, day after day, their faces within arms’ length, purposeful, puzzled, avid, bored, excited, joyous. All swept away, but not quite. She goes back to the slate and picks up a piece of chalk. *** Tania Rochelle God’s Love Is Like Duct Tape says the sign outside the Powder Springs First Baptist Church. It can fix anything-- leaky pool lounge, broken tail light, cracked wooden bat. But what about Josie, who, at twenty-two, was dragged into the woods, bound and gagged with that silver stuff, fixed but good, then left for dead. And what about him, the construction worker, with his ham-sized fist and claw hammer, who found new uses that day for the tacky household product. Jesus, God & Mary, says Josie, who sees life through the odd-angled lens of the risen-again. *** Kenneth Ryan The Office In the parking lot, you decide that you just can’t do it anymore. You sit in the car all morning. They know something’s wrong because they’ve all come to the windows to watch. They send Jen. She approaches with coffee and bagel. She raises the food up like a lamb or a son. You pretend not to notice, then you blow the horn. Her face collapses. She hurls the cup of coffee at the windshield and you reflexively flinch. Your phone beeps Carmina Burana. You automatically answer. It’s Jen, at the driver’s window. The deadline! She makes prayer hands with the phone and bagel. You turn on the laptop and compose an e-mail. I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE. You attach the report. Jen runs inside. Soon, a reply arrives. WE NEED APPENDIX B. You double-click in search of the document. Idiots, you think, this battery can’t last all day. *** Diane P. Smith Mon Ami Sipping coffee with cream in a small bistro in Bourges this sad, orphaned heart weeps with half a smile. “When we first met I knew to fear his roses stemmed with thorns.” “Wash away your blood and pain from pricks. Feel the skin of petals.” Condensation gathers from my cup of coffee onto twisted wire spectacles; blunting lines, muting colors. “Wipe them with this napkin.” “Even clean, these goggles are gilded on the rims, framing all that stands before me.” “So simple, take them off.” “But, I’m blind without them.” “And vulnerable,” he adds. “That and more,” I sigh. Black umbrellas bob, brushing past the window, down the hill, to the abstract trot of pedestrians, as the rain shingles down the glass. “Let’s walk,” he demurs, “on the boulevard. I’ll hold your glasses in my hand. Tears are often shed with rain drops.” My smile trembles in Bourges. *** Mary Rudbeck Stanko August Rendezvous The old men, imprisoned in their thoughts, Sit quietly beside the porch windows. Their eyes squint Through screens into memories of chestnut tresses, Chenille skirts, And the curved ankles of ladies who walked on heels as high as chicken bones. Sleek buttocks move beneath the frail lace od underwear into dreams of potency where many loves a day roll in the shredded grass beyond the paint peeled sill. A lean line of smiles frames the hazy mesh of heads that tilt toward sleep; hats recline on happy brows where needs, now satisfied, can rest. *** Michael Ernest Sweet nude i shall remember forever that dull rainy morning when i saw my mother naked the long swerving curves of her waist mysteriously familiar; modern like a steel skyscraper standing in the dampness of the garden, i struggled to keep my gaze from sinking into the depths of her shadow i shall remember forever the stillness in her eyes; the stirring stream behind perhaps the faintest breeze would have caused her to cover herself and remain my mother *** Ania Vesenny Love Child Mother said she didn’t marry the man she loved because of his hat. “He was leaning on the piano, sax to his lips, wearing a straw hat.” “Did he play well?” “It looked like a cow chewed on it.” “What did you say?” “I just turned and left.” “And then you met Dad?” “The snow banks reached to my waist.” After her funeral I peel off a photo taped inside her pantry door. Her bangs are flying. A man in a baggy suit is pulling her into his arms. His head has been cut out. “Is it him?” I say aloud and burst out laughing. I lean towards her polished toaster, and through the hole of his head I see my distorted face. *** Donna Vineyard Patron of the Arts (OU, 1804 room, 1965) I never knew his name He sat at the baby grand And played Malaguena or Fur Elise, Wearing long dark hair and a shabby suit. I sat in the wing-back facing the window... Floor-to-ceiling, many-paned refuge Flanked by gold and green damask Watching snow fall in the dim winter light Letting the music drift over me, swirl through me When the last note vanished I bought him dinner My gift for his