Featured Artist's - Amazon S3

A N G E L C I T Y R E V I E W | 3

Featured Artist’s

Monica Valdez was born in San Jose, California, and received her BFA from San Jose State University. She has taught at SJSU and is also currently working on her MFA. Monica curated an exhibition at Art Ark Gallery and also co-curated an exhibition at Works Gallery. Monica’s work has a focus on color value transitions. Her work is created mainly through serigraphy monotypes and painting with liner brushes. Many of her pieces are inspired by plants, shapes, pattern, color attraction, food, clothing, and the idea of objects in the process of becoming. http://www.monidez.comCover Photo Naturaleza y Muerta

Brea Weinreb is an Oakland-based painter and writer. Her large scale figurative paintings celebrate queer bod-ies while probing and illuminating historically-informed LGBTQ social dynamics. Weinreb’s practice is deeply embedded in mysticism, mythology, literature, color theory, and the art historical tradition of portraiture. Wein-reb frequently collaborates with friends, many of whom are also artists, as the subjects for her paintings. She makes their playful behind-the-scenes encounters transparent to viewers by inviting her collaborators to perform alongside the paintings of themselves during exhibition openings. Weinreb holds a dual B.A. in Art Practice and English from the University of California, Berkeley. Her work has been exhibited in galleries across Northern and Southern California as well as Massachusetts and New York. She is currently an Alternate candidate for a Fulbright scholarship to Berlin, Germany. http://www.breaweinreb.com/

http://www.monidez.com

http://www.breaweinreb.com/

4 | A N G E L C I T Y R E V I E W

Angel City Review Issue 9 2020

Zachary Jensen: Managing EditorJanice Sapigao: Poetry EditorAnahita Safarzadeh: Non-Fiction EditorJohn Venegas: Fiction EditorSimon Tran: Arts EditorGabby Almendarez: Editor

Table of ContentsPoetry

Soleil David 7Mud Howard 10Marie Targonski-O’Brien 14Manuela Williams 18Mei Mei Sun 20Chelsea Bayouth 24Sean Carrero 26Paul Ilechko 29Sarah Marquez 31Stephanie Valente 35Lorraine Whelan 38Kim Jacobs-Beck 42 Michael Carter 45Zoe Canner 47Gene Stevenson 53Carol Hamilton 56Rachel Warshaw 60January Pearson 63Chris Abbate 65Kevin Ridgeway 71Don Raymond 74Anne Marie Wells 76Jean Prokott 78Raul Ruiz 80Matilda Young 83

FictionAlison Minami 90Sylvan Lebrun 103Stephanie Valente 109Bruno Figueroa 111Mei Mei Sun 123L Scully 126Mehreen Ahmed 128Oguma Hideo 139Amber Foster 144

Non-fictionDayna Gross 152AM Ringwalt 157Liz Rose 170Shaista Vaishnav 181


Calvi & Leo / Androgyna’s Galaxy: Oil and Acrylic on Canvas

Brea Weinreb - 2018


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Poem to PartingBy Soleil DavíD

It’s that I woke wanting differentdesperately.

After that last embrace, mylashesnotquitefitting

the nape of your neck, I confess

I turned the sheets over tryingtofindyourscent.

For nights, I asked the body to forget, create new skin,

wrists that have never known your grip,

vocalcordsunabletofind thepitchof keening.


MaintenanceBy Soleil DavíD

My mother’s kitchenflooris clean enough toeatfrom.

Her laborso spent it’s invisible, detectable only

inawhiffof bleach,or was that her perfume? Van Cleef & Arpels

had never meant somuchdomesticity.Thefloralnotes,thecitrusfinish,

the musk that must beunder.Earlymorning’s bearable yet.She’llfindtime

to write later.Laterand later and later.


Soleil Davíd’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Arkansas International, MARY: A Journal of New Writing, Post No Ills and The Margins,amongothers.DavídwasbornandraisedinthePhilippinesandreceivedherB.A.fromtheUniversityof California,Berkeley.AVONA/Voicesalumna, she has received fellowships from PEN America, Bread Loaf Translators’ Conference, andfromIndianaUniversity,Bloomington,wheresheiscurrentlyanMFAcandidateinpoetry.She is the current Poetry Editor of Indiana Review.

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Swamped By MuD HowarD

whenwethinkof rage,wesummonourmother.unsullied memories of her barefoot & bloated,knifingtheairbeneathourfather’sscruffyface.“there was a time when sexual harassment was a compliment,” our mother says, brushing the blue outof hereyes.howprovocative.howunpunishedthose men must still be? they tip orange buckets of lustonus&somehowmakeithomeuntouched.askyourself whereyouwerewhenyoufirstfeltthefrothingbiteof hiseyeslockedonyourbody.askyourself, how old you were when you watched your firstpornogangbang&trembledunderthetwitchingmotorof yourlefthanddousedinoil.whodidyouimagineyourself tobe?Iwassixteen.sometimes we sleep for days after walking outside foranhour.weunwrapourhairfromthestickycocoonof bed&sucklycheejellyoffthetipsof ourfingers.wearedrawntowardandrepulsedbythatwhichelectrifiesus,aneonrashof pixelscrawlsovermybodyandslipsoutthewindow.Ilayinthesaunaof myterror,dripping,moonless.afterheleft,Icellophanedmynipplestoahunkof flesh&couldn’tbefuckedfortwoyears.whenwesqueezecitrus into the pitcher, all our wounds light up and a deep,ancientstingrisestothesurface.doweknowhow to outlive the onslaught of gender? how long can we stay tied to our mothers, who are tied to their fathers, who are tied to the men who hunt us down? you should hear the unbroken sound of our rage creeping through the house, an airbrushed howl.hemightforget,butwewillremember.


cruising in the gym showers By MuD HowarD

i was seventeenperformingoralsexonboyswhowouldpushmeinfrontof oncomingtrafficjust to pull me back and save my life

i was a fool to think i ever knew myself listening to Sharon Van Ettenwhile the darkness was eating its way out of me

i was riding shotgun up highways in 18-wheelersjust to punish my motherfor forgetting my birthday

i lived my life in hopes of becomingthe phone call my brother would makewhen ended up in jail

he would get down on every knee he ever hada grove of trees cut in halfi’m everything i haven’t done yet


my sex life By MuD HowarD

isa remote control flipping through adult channels

saying no at a volume only I can heremilking the ancient process of reclaimed misogyny

sober as a hand in the darkskinning a rabbit without cryinghooking up with a good friend

hot-blooded and full of raintelling you what to do to me

I miss the boy who assaulted meyou can’t give me what he took away

but

in your arms I am a lemonin your arm I rot

into a new blue planetone I can live on

many many-bodied people speak in light and colorwhere a subterranean gentleness gathers in the spaces left empty by life’s plunder

in which growsan arcade of lovean ancestral cure

one minute the size of a lifetime

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MudHoward (they/them) isanon-binary transwriter,performer,andactivist fromthe states.Mudcreatesworkthatexplorestheintimacyandisolationbetweenqueerandtransbodies.mudis a Pushcart Prize nominee and has been published in Foglifter, Blue Mesa Review, THEM lit, Cleaver Magazine and The Lifted Brow.theyarecurrentlyworkingontheirfirstfull-lengthnovel:aqueerandtransmemoirfullof liesandmagic.


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venice, after Dark

By Marie targonSki-o’Brien His bodyc u r l e dtoward mineas we sat on a chartreuseloveseatunderdimlights.Monotonous, pop music echoedthrough the crowd while the mass of his handfellheavyonmythigh. He leaned in-I leaned back “What’syourproblem?”hedemanded. like I had done something to insult himby not surrenderingmy bodytohiscursory,unfocuseddesires. but before I couldfindthewordstorespondhis eyes darted across the roomdirecting me to“look at the ass on that one”


I only came over because you said you’d make me spaghetti

By Marie targonSki-o’Brien

In the morning I hopped out of the bedandstoodinthemiddleof thekitchenfloornaked You’re very slim,Itoldhim. Hispaletorsopokedoutfromunderoff-whitesheetsinastudioapartmentinElPorto. “It’s because I’m vegan” Vegan? You never said- “Well I try-” heturnedonme.“You’renotevenvegetarian-youeateggs.” ButIloveeggs. “I knowyoutoldmelastnight.Youloveeggs.” I did? Igrabbedmypantsfromthefloorand hopped up and down,pulling them upSweeping up my shirt and purse in one handfromthechair. Before I shut the door,Ipeakedmyheadbackinsmiling.Thanksforthesex.

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Andslammeditbehindme. The last time I saw himhe looked at me, crinkling his brow- “I told you I was vegan?Ihadbrisketforlunch.”


MarieTargonski-O’BrienisanemergingwriterlivinginRedondoBeach,California.SheholdsaMaster’sinJournalismfromUniversityof SouthernCaliforniaandaBAinPhilosophyfromRowanUniversity.Herwritingpresentsglimpsesintotheeverydayexperiencesof women;exploringtheexceptionalwithinthemundane.Whenshe’slucky,shemanagestofindhumorwhereit’sleastexpected.YoucanfindheronInstagram@MarieTargonskiOBrien.


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ConquistadorBy Manuela williaMS

You must have been so proudwhen you dominated the half-eaten landscapeno longer majestic in its great swooping valleysbutovercomebythegaseouscolorsof aplague.

Isenseaninfuriatingsmirkinthewayyoupose.It’s the way liars look when they know they’ll never becaught, and I know your god’s work smells sweet now,buttrustme,evenagodmustdecomposeeventually.

Iwishyoucouldbepartof myblasphemouserasure.I would adjust the focus, blur out the future of factories both spewing and devouring their ash andstrikeoutthecinders.

Iwouldfingermountaintopsnotyetyellowedanddaretokissthefishscrapingtheirbelliesatthebottomof anunmarkedocean.Youhaveyourold,rottinggodsandthisishowIembraceminebetweenbordersnotyetdrawnandnamed.

If I could commit the act of altering this landscape, I am sure the taintedflowerswouldbloomandthevalleybeastswouldbecomefearsomeagain,flashingtheirfreshlysharpenedteeth.Iamsureyouwouldbeterrified,foronce.


ManuelaWilliamslivesandwritesinReno,Nevada.Sheistheauthorof twopoetrychapbooks:Witch (dancing girl press) and Ghost in Girl Costume (originally published as part of the 2017 Hard to SwallowChapbookContest).HerworkhasappearedinBone Bouquet, wicked alice zine, and other magazines.SheservesonCarve Magazine’s Resident Reading Committee and is the author of the “BuildYourBrand”columnatDIYMFA.SheiscurrentlypursuinganMFAinPoetryattheUniversityof Nevada,Reno.


my mother’s handsBy Mei Mei Sun

my mother’s hands are wrinkled like satin,

crisscrossed from scars of oars and homelands,

they bruise in their easy tenderness, caressing

yellowcarnationsandlilliesof thevalley.

as a young child, i worked them over for hours,

before apathy and age locked away the openness

the rustle of her tires on the driveway gravel

stillremindmeof thosetinyvalleysbloomingonherpalms.

her tinted-ivory skin, once so dewy and coveted

are marred decades of cyclical unemployment and unyielding sun

i now look for women with the same sunken eyes and bulging veins,

injuriesfromamotherlandrippedopenbycurettageandoliveslacks.

her tongue, working over syllables like rusted tin / in

an uneasy accent that drew my childish resentment at

havingamotherwithastrengthdilutedbyimpatienttranslation.

myfatherwithdrewintohisboilingrageandfresherwomen;mymotherboretheinsultbecause

herupbringingnecessitatedshecouldneverbringupthosesubjects.

herfingerprints,worndownbydecadesof cloroxandbleach,havedissipated

heridentitybeatenintoasetof termsreadyforugly12-pointblacktypefont.

i can still see glimpses of her, in between the morning talk-shows and online psychics,

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of the young woman who once wandered through tall, virgin grasses with her skirts held up

high,workingtheirsilkbetweenherfingers.


MeiMeiSunlivesinLosAngeles.Findheratmeimeisun.org

http://meimeisun.org


Liminal Object 2: acrylic and Gouache on paper

Monica Valdez - 2020


We Are There By cHelSea BayoutH

After they pried Dad’s chest openlike a Tomales Bay oysterto cut the cancer outdoctors gave instructionstoclaponhisbackwithlittlerubberthings. Every half hour he braces himselfon the kitchen island of his loft,Mama and I roll his shirt up,careful of the stichesand pack-pack-packonhisback. Sounds like an old jalopy, he says,andMamalaughs.Threeyearsago,just before their divorce,he demanded we standin the kitchen where he screamed,Your mother is a frigid bitch soloudly,Iwetthebedagain.Wesoupandtuck.Talkabout getting sweatshirtsthat zip up the frontsohedoesn’thavetoraisehisarms.Medicationat2tomovethebowel.A pan of Mama’s enchiladas,packed the hour drive with towelstokeepthemhot. When our family was young we had a nasty calicowhowouldn’tbeheldandvomitedvindictively.Who, if you got too close, would spit a curled clawintothetendertipsof yourfingers.Whowe mourned when we foundher fallen furlike leavesacrossthelawn.

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Chelsea Bayouth is a writer and Emmy Award Winning visual artist from Los Angeles California.Herpoetry,essays,andshortstorieshavebeenpublishedinBOAAT, CALYX, Roanoke Review, BlazeVOX, The Rattling Wall/PEN Center USA, Lunch Ticket, Heavy Feather Review, Borderlands andmanyothers.Moreof herworkcanbefoundonherwebsitewww.chelseabayouth.com

http://www.chelseabayouth.com


MiscibleBy Sean carrero

Myfaceisallbreath.Thisthickblack

crownabsorbsplantainaroma.Mytongue

isadifferentgeographyfromAbuelo.

Either I would tremble, or the house would rumble

whenmygrandpaspoke.Thingsbecomemorereal-motion.

Couchfiberswiltagainstflesh.

Plantain aroma saturates the room,

thiscorduroycouch.Ipossess

smoke in this realm

between his home

and his origin, his

lifeandhisdeath.

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Ode to Green OnionsBy Sean carrero

Green onions crowd a corner of a window-

sill, still, blend into the light, thin, vegetable

paper,greenstalk,whiterootssproutinwater;it

emits delicious

colorfromsmoothies.Oblivious,receptive

rebirthradical.Dimdiamond

reflectsfirefrommillionsof milesaway,

quiet,oblivious,andredundant.

The next transformation, browner at the

top.Stuckinthisshotglass,amakeshift

vaseforgreenonions.Notforchocolate

oranyotherdessert.

No vase can contain them,

containthemtheywillgrow.


SeanCarreroteachesmiddleschoolSpecialEducationEnglishLanguageArts.HerecentlygraduatedfromtheCreativeWritingWorkshopattheUniversityof NewOrleanswithanMFAinCreativeWriting.In2018and2019,hisworkreceivedhonorablementionfortheVassarMillerPoetryAward.Hisworkreceivedhonorablementionforthe2019Academyof AmericanPoetsAward.HelivesSlidell,LA.


Pepper SweetBy Paul ilecHko

Halvedflesh dripping with shape the clumsy blade as desire bleeds roastedinthesavoryflame somewhere between delicacy and sweat the razor cuts the shape unfolds somewhere betweenthefinalgaspingof therosebush and the golden shedding of the maple tree … show me your sweetpepper taste your pungency your lasting glow of autumn.

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Paul Ilechko is the author of the chapbooks “Bartok in Winter” (Flutter Press, 2018) and “Graph of Life” (Finishing Line Press,2018).Hisworkhasappearedinavarietyof journals,includingManhattanville Review, West Trade Review, Yes Poetry, Night Music Journal and Rock & Sling.HeliveswithhispartnerinLambertville,NJ.


TodaySaraH Marquez

Today, mom told menot to say a word to the doctor aboutthehollowinmybreast.Or the scars carved from porcelain,streamingdownmyarm.She said tell himhow normal you are– a straight-A student,4.0GPA.Smile,likethecityis a happy place,not overrun with homelessliving out of tents setupunderfreeways.You remember yesterday–the old woman crossingthe street while the cars were coming?Forgether.Shewassick&youaren’t.

What about the shopping cartscollecting in the corner of the block? What do I say about them?

Nothing.Saynothingatall.

*

They are picked up over the weekend,&ourviewof thebougainvilleatreeisrestored.Ifocusonthepinkegg-shapedflowersenticingthebeesoutsidethewalls.Soon, the hive will empty & we won’t heartheirloudbuzzinganymore.Silenceisthekeytoendingoursuffering.

*

Butthere’smore.Thegardener&hissonsforgettheirfootprintsinthedirt.Mom complains how they leave their trash–


greasyStyrofoamboxes,milkcartons,twopairsof gloves.From my bedroom window, I see them,hidinginthetallgrass;&thebrokenbranchof thelemontree–stillhangingon.It might survive if the weather stays warm for another season, if the birds sing to it, if no one notices & leaves it alone.

Stray cats prowl the neighborhood at night. Their glowing eyes see everything.But who would they tell?They are also just trying to get by.

*

The Bombay cat stalks me every timeI step outside to check the mail. Mom reminds me he’s only interestedin the small opening between the wall& the front door. The mice run throughwhen we aren’t watching.

*

One day, I ask: didn’t someone die here?She nods yes. One of the neighbors– a man with white papier-mâché skin. He used to call to the crows, nestingin the pines. Now, his wife lives alonein their one-story home. She sits upat night, thinking how a little bird peckedthe window for two days the week before.

*

We struggle to pay next month’s rent.I suppose we will move this month.It’s too much– two thousand, four hundred.

Mom is at the hospital overnight,bent over a patient’s bed,listening for a breath that won’t come.She’s never needed anyone.

*

I’m seeing the doctor on Monday,

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the first day of fall.All the leaves are shedding their green suitsfor orange, yellow, brown, and red ones.They work hard too. Changing is never easy.

*In the morning, mom appears at the edge of my bed– a shadow sucking in light. She says, listen to me M.

When he asks are you allergic to anything, say nothing.Hide your pill bottles & tissues in your bag.

When he asks what surgeries you’ve had, say none.A gallbladder extraction isn’t a big deal. I know the staplessinking into your skin were awful, but they came out.

When he asks are you depressed, say no.Conceal those dark circles as best you can.

When he asks are you anxious, don’t say I don’t know. Keep your hands to yourself and let the panic rest inside. It’s only one hour of your life.


Sarah Marquez (she/her) is based in Los Angeles and has work published and forthcoming in various magazines and journals, including Human/Kind, Kissing Dynamite, The River and Twist in Time Magazine.Whennotwriting,shecanbefoundreadingforThe Winnow and Random Sample Review,sippingcoffee,ortweeting@Sarahmarissa338.


CHARACTER FLAWBy StePHanie valente

plotdevice:anancientstone.

[ it’s easy: rough diamonds

turn

blue

spell-cast a

siren’s song

don’t

forget

the blood.]

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StephanieAthenaValentelivesinBrooklyn,NY.HerpublishedworksincludeHotel Ghost, waiting for the end of the world, and Little Fang(BottlecapPress,2015-2019).ShehasworkincludedinReality Hands, TL;DR, and Cosmonauts Avenue.SheistheassociateeditoratYes, Poetry. Sometimes, she feels human.


GriefBy lorraine wHelan

I felt it in my bodyMonths before I knewMymother’sfataldiagnosis.Somethingwaswrong.

Thepaingrewinmyfoot.From heel to ballIt would not move forwardIntotheoncominggrief.

Knowing what lay ahead,Both feet rebelledAndrefusedtotakemethere.

After the funeralThe pain in my chest grew –A series of respiratory malfunctions,Bronchitis, tracheitis, sinusitis,Thecommoncold.Aplagueonmyhouse.Constant coughing,Chest tight, heart palpitating –Apermanentheartache.

Thisgrief iscellular.Pain moves in and out,Osmotic, changing densityTilleveryporeweeps.The sadness of my bodyCannot recover thatWhich is forever lost,Yetstumbleson.

Myfeetstillhurt.

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OftenIamnumb.My limp is barely perceptibleTo unaware strangersThese days as IWheeze forward slowlyOnetinystepatatime.


TrioBy lorraine wHelan

I saw their photographandrememberedthepose;they stood as one persondelicately holding small glassesof liqueurorsweetwine.

Three voices spoke in unisonthrough reddened unmoving lips:the speech of angels, perhaps,butIcouldn’trecallthewords.

I saw them in a dreammaintaining the poseinafloodedroom:motionless,undrownedbodies.

I watched their silencebeneath the wateruntiltheliquiddrainedaway.

Moving closer I perceivedthree painted clay statues,colour salt-faded and dripping,mudoozingattheirfeet.

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LorraineWhelanisaCanadianwriterandvisualartistbasedinIreland.Herpublishedwritingtakestheformof poetry,memoir&fiction(USA,Ireland,Canada&online)andartcriticism&commentary(Ireland,Luxembourg&online).Asavisualartist,shehasexhibitedbothinsolo(Ireland)andgroupshows(Ireland,Canada,China&France).Herartworkisincludedinpublic,corporateandprivatecollectionsinIreland,Canada,USA,UK,Belgium&Australia.Her writing has previously appeared in New Irish Writing, The Salmon, Canadian Author & Bookman, Cyphers, Canadian Woman Studies/les cahiers de la femme, The Examined Life Journal, CIRCAandothers.In addition, since earlier this year, she has been included on the international Poetry Sound Map,readingoneof herpublishedpoems.https://poetrysoundlibrary.weebly.com/

https://poetrysoundlibrary.weebly.com/


Pregnant at 42kiM JacoBS-Beck

Theunheardbeatof themoon.A jot grows, then fails,falls.

Ileavehimchildless.Ourlastchance.Snappedoffatthestem.

All over but the bleeding, the doctor prodding, atestawaitsinHematology.

Theonewiththeneedle—Isay,tinyveins,hardtofindbutshesays.Igotthis.Stabs.Again.Again.GetsherbloodtoproveI’mbarren.

After.Purpledoughnutswellingin my elbow crease whereababy’sheadshouldbe.

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words failkiM JacoBS-Beck

me.fail.words.thief cheater liar drunka bruise a gun target practicedead doe tied to the bumper Grandpa so proud venisontastes like dirt like a perfect shot so lucky

so luckydead doe tied to the bumper Grandpa so proud venisontastes like twigs like brutal luckcheater liar target practicea bruise a case of Stroh’swords fail I don’tbelieve the things I’m seeing


Kim Jacobs-Beck is the author of a chapbook, Torch(WolfsonPress).HerpoemscanbefoundinNixes Mate, Gyroscope, Apple Valley Review, SWWIM Every Day, roam literature, and Peach Velvet Mag;afull list can be found at kimjacobsbeck.com.Sheisthefounderof Milk & Cake Press and teaches at theUniversityof CincinnatiClermontCollege.

http://kimjacobsbeck.com


HOPE IS A THING THAT SHEDSBy MicHael carter

As if nodding in agreementOmar watches my toastas I eat it, lifting it from plateto mouth, then setting itbackdown.BirdiewatchesOmarwatchme.Botharedroolingsitting perfectly stillas the toast disappearsbite by bite into my big maw,impatient for the endwhen they get to lick

thebutteroffmyfingers.


MichaelJCarterisapoetandclinicalsocialworker.Agraduateof SarahLawrenceCollegeheholdsanMFAfromVermontCollegeandanMSWfromSmith.Poemsof hishaveappearedinsuch journals as Boulevard, Ploughshares, Provincetown Arts Magazine, Western Humanities Review, among manyothers.Heliveswithhistwohoundsandspendshistimeswimmingandknitting.


Insomnia FugueBy zoe canner

Sometimes I think my husband’s faded black jeansfoldedontheflooris the cat sleeping &then I’m like wait I don’t have a husband & I press my eyelidsintoawetcloth.It’s drafty in here now thatyou’regone.Nineeleven is a teenager already &I remember allthatflagshit.Thegrasping when you feel like you can’t do anything else.Forcedlongwalk&lungcorruption.Ipressmy mouth into the wet cloth &blow hot air, makingsound.Yourmemory is my middlename.


Rage

By zoe canner

I just murdered someone withmyhands.Inmy

mind.Whenwomenkillwedoitwithourhands.

My greatest weapons are my hands, my mind, my

laughter,&mymemory.I murdered one of these

hate-filledidiots.Withmyhands.When

Holocaust descendants kill we do it with our

eyes.I’malwaysonedge.Alwaysreadyforafight.

My friend said Remember whenyouflippedthatguy

in a bar in Toronto? Some guy touched me & you

flippedhim&threwhimhardintoawall.Isaid

No,no,Idon’t.&Istilldon’tremember this incident, but

I do remember my friend recountingthestory.&I

dobelieveher.IdobelievethatIdidthat.Second

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generation was guilt, my dad, sweating sweet son

stalledout.Me,I’mfull,thirdgenerationisallrage.


glareBy zoe canner

drinking sherrythrough a strawwith a fat lipi’m the type of freesiamake you kiss mewith a herpe if i love you

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if not rescuing the damned, damningBy zoe canner

michael died ten years ago & yes i know where i was & yes i remember thehelicoptersthetrafficthesirens& yes i remember the nonstop marathons on every station &the windows down & communing with otherfeelersfeeling.collectivegrieving.ialsoremembersevenmonths ago when the documentary came out & there was a cancel michael wave the backlash wave was stronger & i heard michael played on what felt like every station tho having lived thru the feeling of him actually being played on every station i knew it just felt thatway.somewereboycotting& others said boycotting?? ha! we’replayinghimALLweekend.even after we’ve given up all of our earthly possessions even if we live as modest monks iif we are not rescuing all of the damned,thenwearedamning.


Zoe Canner is an angry, anti-racist, 3rd Generation Holocaust Survivor. Her writing has appeared in The Laurel Review, Arcturus of the Chicago Review of Books, Naugatuck River Review, Maudlin House, SUSAN / The Journal, Storm Cellar, Occulum, Pouch, Matter, High Shelf Press, Chaleur Magazine, Nailed Magazine, Indolent Books’ What Rough Beast, and elsewhere. She lives in Los Angeles where she indulges in hilly walks at dusk when the night-blooming jasmine is at its peak fragrance. zoecanner.com

http://zoecanner.com


Mosquito & SoulBy gene StevenSon

Musicflowsoutopendoorstonight’sdarkstillness.Inthe mosquito comesflyingcircles,ovals,dashesuntilitssharpneedlefindsthemark:thesweetwhitefleshofasoulexposed.

Three concerti:therise,thetriumph,thefall.Strings cease their vibrations,yet chords echo againststreetlamps&thinningclouds.Too late the door slides shut,aspirit’ssleepdisturbed.


EugeneStevensonisthesonof immigrants,thefatherof expatriates.Hewritestomakesomesemblance of order out of disorder, to make sense of the unthinkable, to make still photographs outof dailyrushes.HispoemshaveappearedinAdelaide Literary Magazine, Chicago Tribune Magazine, DASH Literary Journal, Dime Show Review, Gravel Literary Magazine, The Hudson Review, Icarus, & Swamp Ape Review.HisprosehasappearedintheLos Angeles Times & The New York Times.


T.V.C.#5:Acrylic&GouacheonPaper

Monica Valdez - 2018


Music AppreciationBy carol HaMilton

My parents started my piano lessonsbefore we owned a piano,and I practiced on a cardboard keyboard,anearlylessoninmisplacedconfidence,errorssoonenoughrevealed.Later, on an old upright,though tinny, my sound grewmoreaccurate.Whenagrownupaskedmy favorite composers, I said,“BatchandChoppin’.”Iknewtheir august faces from the white plaster bustsonmyteacher’spiano.Sucherrorshave cheerfully followed my days,andnowmyarthriticfingerstry out the old compositions I once blithelyflewthrough,my piano a non-recipient of the yearly tuningforsometime…perhapsadecade.Sundays I listen to the young geniuseson “From the Top” and still lovemy tiny additions to music’s magic,avoicewhichsingsforbothPrinceandPauper.

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Taking FlightBy carol HaMilton

“ ‘Til I can see so wide,” “The Swing,” Robert Louis Stevenson

“Bag of Bones,” they called him,and I learned whyin an Arkansas museum, a paintingof him, so tall and skeletal besidehisseatedwife.Imethimin my daughter’s childhood,Judith Anderson’s reading of his verse,he with me from then on,heelsflyingatblueandkickingatthebacksweep.“Howdoyouliketogoupinaswing”sanginsideme.Such a hopeful manwithsolittletohopefor.He even returned to Scotland,of allplaces,seekinghealthfulair.Harsh, damp, bone-chilling airIfounditinmyyearthere.Yet, today, listening to that scratchy record,now in the last days of my life,Ifindtheliftandhopeof hisverseagaintakemesailingwithhim.In time, Bag of Bones becomesliteral, but how his words sail,howhishopestilllifts.


MusicBy carol HaMilton

She writes of Orpheusand I know howthattaleslippedoffmytongueandenteredthechildren. I told them how the poet’s art ripped the trees out of rich soil so that they hobbled after himtryingtojoinhissong. Leaves and branches gave air song, but what, what in all this varied earth will ever give you voice? I now turn my song to ink andmytreesaretightlytethered. Even so, sing, sing as if ecstasy, once loosed, cries out and cries out despite all our tangled andwearytongues.

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Carol Hamilton has recent and upcoming publications in Louisiana Literature, Southwest American Literature, Birmingham Literary Journal, San Pedro River Review, Dryland, Pinyon, Pour Vida, Lunch Ticket, Adirondack Review, Commonweal, U.S.1 Worksheet, Broad River Review, Fire Poetry Review, Gingerbread House, Shot Glass Journal, Poem, Haight Ashbury Poetry Journal, Sandy River Review, I-70 Review, Blue Unicorn, former people Journal, The Sea Letter, Poetica Review, Zingara Review, Broad River Review, Burningwood Literary Review, Abbey, Main Street Rag, Free Lunch, Poetry Leavesandothers.Shehaspublished17books:children’snovels,legendsandpoetry.SheisaformerPoetLaureateof Oklahoma.


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collector’s editionBy racHel warSHaw

IthinkIamafraidof namingathing.A name gives me something to mourn,something to pin to the board where I collectallthewingedthingsIthoughtIloved.

Something about a name implies being caughtand there is nothing like tying down that makes me get that itch in the soles of my feet,likeIhavetorun.Anameimplieslove.

Love is not a foreign word, though the want sometimesfeelsfar-off,asif viewedthroughsevenveils,orfromalighthouse,orfirelookout—IbuiltmyownDesolationPeak,thebettertoseefrom.

What if I write every name I’ve almost heldon little slips of paper, and I tack them to the trees?Whatif Iwaitforthecomingfirestoburnishthemblack?What if it sets me free?


onroshhashanah,sometimesbreadisnotofferingenough

By racHel warSHaw

Did you know, when you were growing,that all the evil things you’ve done accumulate?Some people wear their cruelties like chains around their ankles,others, a mantle over their shoulders—heavy, heavy, heavy, regardless.

Your transgressions got washed up on the shore,I saw, knocking against the other rocks, suffering the stones, skipping one and two and three into the sea.It is time for the gathering, I believe.

Fill full, my dear one, fill fullyour overcoat, and your underthingswith guilt, let the longing wash over you, and dive the fuck in.

Let he who is without a stonecast the first sin.Heavy pockets, darling!How they weigh you down.


RachelWarshawsplitshertimebetweenSt.PaulandSeattle.HerpoetryhasappearedinChanter Literary Magazine, Hu Magazine (Gainesville), and Mercury Magazine(Seattle).Herplayshavebeenperformedbythe14/48ProjectsandAnnexTheatre,amongothers.


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Waiting By January PearSon

His hip replacement failed, sick bones split under the metal weight, my father’s in the recliner day and night, leg stone still. He listens to the news loop, pencilscrosswords, waits for the doctorsto count his heartbeats, take samples to test if his body can bear another surgery. Each morning, when the dog wakes him, he marks his crumpled calendar with an x. Every day from Septemberto June filled.He runs his fingeralong them.It’s a road, he tells me


January Pearson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Notre Dame Review, Rust + Moth, Atlan-ta Review, Rayleigh Review, Borderlands, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Cape Rock Review,andotherpublications.


Barber Shop: Things A Boy Should DoBy cHriS aBBate

Waitquietly,flippingthroughasportsmagazineuntilthebarbercallshisname. Remembertokeephisheadstilleachtimethebarbergruntsandforcesitintoplace. Watchclippingsfalllikequotationmarksoverhiscapeandthinkhowhewillalwaysbegrowing. PonderhowGodcouldpossiblyknowthenumberof hairsonhishead. Pitytheadultswhotoldhimthisbecausetheydon’tunderstandmetaphor. Appreciatethebarber’shummingbecauseworkcanbebothenjoyableandmonotonous. Tightenhistemplesagainstthestraightbladethebarberusestoevenhissideburns. Connecttheredstripeinthebarberpoletothebloodflowinglikeriversinsideof him. Relaxhisfaceunderawarmtowelasif hetoo,needstimetounwindlikehisfatherafterwork. Tipforgoodservicebecausetheboyhasalwaysbeenthebeneficiaryof kindness. Don’t look up when the barber pretends to toss him a piece of gum, but instead keeps it in his hand. Askpolitelyif hecanusethebathroominbackbecausethewalkhomeistoofar. Surveytheglossyposteronthebathroomdoorof abare-chestedwomanleeringbackathim. Safeguardtheinnocencethewomanseemstobedrawingoutof him. Trytodismisstheimageof thewomanhenowcarriesashenodsgoodbyetothebarber. Don’ttellhisparentsaboutthewomanforfeartheythinkheisvulnerable,orcomplicit. Neverspeakof hisdesiresbecauseitwilltakeyearsbeforehewillownhisemotions. Neverspeakof hisdesires. Neverspeak.


Odd CamaraderieBy cHriS aBBate

It was a gesture of irony,a universal directiveamong the crude space of menhuddled inside a conference room,learning a new softwarethat had no syntax forbusting another’s chopsabout a co-worker’s advancing age,and with the air still damp with satire,the instructor’s back turned,as if on cue,theflashof amiddlefingerfrom the perpetrated to the perpetrator,a ripple of laughterat the shock of retribution,a juxtaposition of denotation and connotationupsettingthisfieldof certainty–ifs and thens, dos and ends –with the unspoken language of boyswho twist insults into arrows,meld barbs into shields –our everyday armamentsand a consummationof oddcamaraderie.

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Drawing the TreeBy cHriS aBBate

The pictureshe drewof her childhoodwas the maplesheclimbed;a respitefrom the turmoilon the ground –the broken machinesof the dayand the fatherwho beata pathto the garagesearchingfor the toolstofixthem. He took the treedown one daywithout warning,orexplanation.The earthen heartof its upturned stumpand dismemberedlimbs strewnacross the yardlikedeadsoldiers. As she aged,the tree becameone more thingshewasdeprivedof;an objectof her father’scombustion.How littleheknewabouther;

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all the climbingshe still had to do –to look downfrom above her housewearing a crownof leaves,depths of skyto fathom.


SmashItUpBy cHriS aBBate

Gonna scream and shout to my dying breathGonna smash it up ‘til there’s nothing left ~ The Damned Tommy is taking out his father againin the form of a long-handle sledgehammerthrough the windshield and doorsof hisFordPinto. Maple trees stand watch,stiffly,silentlyintheyardwhile Tommy, bare-chested,incut-offjeans,hoiststhemetalblockabovehisheadlikeagod. I understand how his fathercould make you feel likesmashingsomething;the way he scolded meif I hadn’t delivered his morningnewspaperbyfive-thirty. Most fathers have a wayof guiding their sons along,but Tommy’s had been to warandseemedtohavefilledhisson’sheadwithexplosives. Once, Tommy used his slingshottofireahexnutatmybrotherashesatonthestonewallalongourdriveway.Perhaps it was giving a warningabout what boys like Tommywere capable of, because,until the moment the nut lodged in his thigh,mybrothersworeitmadeasoundlikeascream.


Chris Abbate’s poems have appeared in Connecticut River Review, Chagrin River Review, and Comstock Review,amongotherjournals.HehasbeennominatedforthePushcartPrizeandaBestof the Net award and has received awards in the Nazim Hikmet and the North Carolina Poetry Society’spoetrycontests.Chris’firstbookof poetry,Talk About God, was published by Main StreetRaginSeptember2017.


koDak MoMent

By kevin riDgeway

Whenever he got high,

Dad would trip out

on the fact that

he created me

from out of his scrotum

while we passed

the tin foil of heroin

betweeneachother.

He shook his head

and intoned in a deep,

scary voice that he was

mydementedmaster.

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KevinRidgewaylivesandwritesinLongBeach,CA.Heistheauthorof severalchapbooksof poetry, including Grandma Goes to Rehab (Analog Submission Press,Yorkshire,England).Hisdebutpoetry collection, Too Young to Know,isnowavailablefromStubbornMulePress.Recentworkhas appeared in Slipstream, Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Main Street Rag, The American Journal of Poetry, San Pedro River Review, Plainsongs, South Broadway Ghost Society, Cultural Weekly, Gasconade Review and So it Goes:TheLiteraryJournalof theKurtVonnegutMuseumandLibrary.


Genesis (Alfred): Oil on Canvas

Brea Weinreb


The SwimmerBy Don rayMonD

sometimes a swimmer, mistaking blue for blue goes

bottom seeking - downward diving with swift, determined strokes

neither looking back, nor turning arms grasping emptiness -

lungshungryforthefinding,of adifferentkindof freedom

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Don Raymond lives in the tiny, cow-haunted hamlet of Alturas, CA, where he works as an accountant for the county, because nobody questions a man with a spreadsheet. You can read more of his poetry at Amarillo Bay, Arsenic Lobster, and filling station. He also once didn’t make a left turn at Albuquerque, but at this point, who hasn’t?


DandelionBy anne Marie wellS

This body carries the moodringbruises.Greenmeans they’rehealing.I’mheeling - pretending I’maplantrootedinthemurk.Still inthedirt.Dare me to take in sun,absorbthemud.Watchmebloom below this skin sprouting through the surface a dandelionso beautiful, you’ll forget you were taught to wantmedead.

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Anne Marie (She/Her) of Hoback Junction, Wyoming is a queer poet, playwright, and storytellernavigatingtheworldwithachronicillness.AnneMarie’spoemshaveappearedorwill appear in The Alchemy Literary Journal, Brain Mill Press, Changing Womxn Collective, In Parentheses, Lucky Jefferson, Meniscus Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, Other Worldly Women’s Press, Poets’ Choice, Passengers Journal, Soliloquies Anthology, Unlimited Literature, Variant Literature, and The Voices Project.Shewasselectedasa2020BrainMillPressNationalPoetryMonthEditors’Pickpoet.FinishingLinePress recently accepted her poetry chapbook, Prelude in Ursa Minor,forpublication.SherecentlyearnedtheMilestoneAwardpresentedbyWyomingWriters,Inc.


ANOTHER GRIEF POEM, DEAR READERBy Jean Prokott

There are many things I want to write poems aboutandnoneof themaregrief.Buthereweareagain, dear reader, lying in bed, watching the star projectorcircleitsfuzzyshapesacrosstheceiling.Itisatoymeant foratoddler.Iboughtitafteranotherdeath,and still two years later, when I know the bad news, I wipe its dust, plug it in, and follow the crescent moon,shapedlikeabanana,asitdisappearsandcirclesback. Herecomesthebanana,Isay.Sometimes,tobefunny,myfathersays,Ihaveagoodmemory,butit’sshort.Iwonderif Itoosuffer fromthisaffliction.Allyoucanhopeforisahighlightreelasyoulaydying.Untilthen,holdyourgrief inyourhand likeaquivering,hotstar.Grief,hand,banana,star.Theprojectorturns,turns,muffledheartbeat waves.Banana,fear,star,grief.MayIbealone?Reader, could you be a dear, could you give me a minute?

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Jean Prokott has poetry published or forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Quarterly West, Midwest Gothic, and Anomaly,amongotherjournals;sheisarecipientof anAWPIntroJournalsAward,arecipientof theJoanRamseyerPoetryAward,afinalistfortheRHINOFounder’sPrize,andafinalistfortheRedWheelbarrowPoetryPrize.HerpoetrymanuscriptreceivedthirdplaceintheCathlametPrizeforpoetryandwasafinalistfortheNewIssuesPoetryPrize.Shecurrentlylivesin Rochester, MN, and online at jeanprokott.com.

http://jeanprokott.com


(From ‘Mustard’) By raul ruiz

I was a bookseller but also I was a longish dance of awkward gravities, so I never arrived any-whereinfull.AndIwasatwistybreadof oldsugarquiveringonmybedalone.Icouldfeelyouallbreathinginyoursleep,dreamingof boats.

I counted exact change from the drawer every morning and said softly a tiny wood for the coins, thechildrenreceding.Isweptthelongwidthof thewoodenfloorsanddancedwiththeswirlsof dustandknewtheappleroundnessof theworld.Ipricedusedbooksinpencil.IdisplayedwhatIliked,whatIthoughtIwouldwantif Iwerehungry.Itwasfinework,keepingtheinkof theworldfromsayinggoodbye.

That’swhenIknewwe’reallmeantforheaven,thefirsttimeherandIkissedandalongrainof leaveswasbroughtintotheearth.Thefirstbreathbetweenus.Therosewaterlaughterof youreyes.Wewerethemoonandthelopsidedstanza,thejumpybloodof childrenalittlescared.Thefirstpoetwhowalkedtofindsugarforallthelonelymouths,andwewereherpoemof sadness.

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IstuffedtheworldinmypocketswhenIwasreading,awayincommunionwiththeseasof eachlife(whoeversitswithmywordsknowsforeverhowtobreatheunderwater).Andafter?I’dcomehome and name my tired eyes after new forms of ink I am very sure the world is a dictionary of forgiveness and aching all in one breath

Iwantedtowriteyoualetter,butloveistheonlypagethatliveshappilyintherain.MydearElectrolyte,thosedaysaregonenow,buttheyarestillmyfavoritecandy.Haveyoueversoldabook of poems to a stranger? What is really given in that moment of exchange? You’re never go-ingtobeaghostinthesweeteyesof mysadness,love.ButthesedaysIfeellikeI’mdisappearing,andwhatif alltheyellowflowersintheworldfollowmetothestarsandleaveforever?Pleasepleasedon’tforgetmyname,mymustardvoice.


RaulRuizisapoetandbooksellercurrentlylivinginSanFrancisco.Hislatestpublicationisamail-ordersinglepoemzinethroughthegoodofficesof Mondo Bummer. He is at work on a manuscripttitled“Mustard.”


Frog SongBy MatilDa young

Did I bury enough self in the dark waterwherenothingissatisfied partof meisneversatisfied the mud smells of spring crocus and good rot the tadpoles gem the small disappearing surfaces–droughtthenflood–inactionthen the busy work of apocalypse do they end up saved? does it matter? I know a singing arch to remember all the tiny frogs paved over to get foundationoutof marshyourunafinger over hollow over hollow I don’t know if it really sings I try to open my heart’s center but mostly breathe over pause I gamble each person I love will live forever the skunk weed


seemed happy last year unbothered by rain over rain over rain did I bury them deep enough the raging jealous greedy waters why do they spill over my poor wet mouth?


Nothing Is Certain ButBy MatilDa young

I know a commuter – friend of a friend’suncle– killed by a southbound trainoutside of Red Bank when he jumpedontothetrackstograbhisphone. I guess if you didn’t know himor know someone who knew himyoucouldwritethisoffasjustafuckupyouwouldnevermake.Butjustpast Metropark on my commute there’sa children’s tricycle red & sturdy &abandoned behind a lamppostintherain.&thenthere’sAlex,my favorite functional drunk, one drink too many drivinghis teenager to basketball at 7then driving his compact carofftheroad.&thenthere’sthisguy, family friend, somebody’s almostforgotten coach, aging dad,embarrassed, smiling at his ownfoolishness,cuffsfrayed,texts from his kids, photos of his deaddog, the sun on that cold morningan almost promise that everythingcan still be hustled into reach, just grateful that there’s no onethere watch, and then the panic of fucknot making it oh god oh god oh fuck – and I guess we’ve all of us jumpedeven when we knew it could end badly,evenwhenweknewthatwemustnot.


Pleased To Meet YouBy MatilDa young

When I was ancient I pulled out all the stops – wore the whitegown of shrouds and miracles,

turned ravens’ scavengingsinto omens one misplacedbloodyeyeballatatime.

I rode the dark lanes tits out –My dark hair burning,Silent and calamitous

ascontagion.Ineverflinched.I dipped my claws in silverand my wings in lead

And haunted the edgesof scenicbattlefields,passed along prophesies

of glory that never turnedout so great, but what did theywant from me? A happy ending?

What did they want from me,clay of my clay, my yellow eyes,myprovenanceof thorns.

What did they want from mewho they would burn if theycouldcatch?Awickedthing.

Shrill and insistent, soaringabove their destinies withonly the truths they were afraid

tosay.Nighthag.Nightjar.Brownfeathered,loudinbed.Speakerof theineffablename

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who would not give Godand Adam the obediencethatwasaskedof me.

Notmyscene.

No – I gave them what they asked for and perhaps what they really wanted –adistantex,avengefulexplanation.

I gave them song and swagger,hair woven into wreaths, meteors like tennis balls

on inauspicious Thursday afternoons.Igavethemhiddentombs where they could dig

into the grindled reckoningof immortalityandfindmylefthandreachingoutforthem.

I gave them guttered sunsetsandsloppytongue.Igavethemallthefearstheyspokeof.

I gave them all the fears they hopedtodiewithandnevertellasoul.Idon’tregretit.

Power has its razzle dazzleforawhile.Ilivedradiantwithuncannypunishments.

Iatetherawheartof opportunity.

ButIgottired.Notof thebloodorvengeance.Buttheburning.The deaths I never feared

butfoundprofoundlydull.Somuchmansplaining.


Somuchashinmymouth.

These days, I’m young enoughto remember the gentle menaceof not smiling or holding a glance

forseveralbeatstoolong.I wear suits as black as destinyand sneakers tracked with glory

andsliversof indifferencein the silver shadows chasingthecornersof myeyes.

Irunforoffice.Ianchoreveningnews.I talk and talk and talk and talk andtalk.AndI’malwayslistening.

Iapologizeconciselyandmoveon.I am everywhere in every room andyou’llnevermissmenow.

I’m inescapable as deathandpowerpoint.AndI’m smiling at you

asItakebackmyhand.


TremeBy MatilDa young

For Kirsten

In Louis Armstrong Park, the wind comes up,butitstillwon’train.Theblondewiththe canary coat laughs at her partner trying

to take a memory of them on that benchwith that sky with Louis in the backgroundblessing the daiquiris and hand grenades

and hurricanes and camera after camera aftercamera.Everypen’sacameramoreandless,although I can’t tell you the green of that small

southern pine – almost like ferns walking – andfartheroffthethickdarkglossof magnolialikeaturningbruise.

On this bench, you are happily readingbeside me while the earnest painters of lighttry to capture the statue of Buddy Bolden

facingdownhislastfirstnote–streetartists taking the same shot over and overlike generations of clarinetists taking

theAtraindownasinkingcobblestreet.In this square plot of cruelty and joy, it’s beautiful at the turn of spring,

with your hair gold and burnt sugarbrown and your kindness the arc of a basslineechoed,thesuncomingoutforme.

No parks for us but plenty of benediction, and Louis smiling likehecouldbeplayingusin.


MatildaYoungisawriterworkingforacivilrightsnonprofitwithanM.F.A.inPoetryfromtheUniversityof Maryland.ShelivesinDCwithapoet,anenvironmentallawyer,andanangrygingercat.Shehasbeenpublishedinseveraljournals,includingSakura Review, the Golden Key, and Entropy Magazine’s Blackcackle.


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Savage LoveBy Alison Minami

Jakewasakleptomaniac.Helovedtotakethingsfromstores,unlockedcars,andotherpeople’sbedrooms.Hecouldn’tjimmyalockonanythingbiglikeahouse,buthedidknowhow to get into other kids’ lockers, and also a way to enter the high school after it was all locked up through the girls’ bathroom window, which made the locker thing so much more useful and interesting.

“It’s our school, so it’s not trespassing,” he said, lacing his hands and lowering them beforemesothathelookedasthoughheweremimingagorilla.WewerestandingontheNorthsideof thebuilding,inthemiddleof aflowerbeddedicatedtoMarkHarris--knownasGunnerto his teammates, a kid who’d died from a car crash in his Senior year, when we were Freshmen--thearrangementof pinks,yellows,andwhitesalreadyflattenedbeneathourrubbersoles.Itwasno secret that Mark had been drinking heavily with friends after some championship lacrosse game, down at the Minotaur, a downtown locale where underage teens could palm small bills atthedooranddrinkasmuchbeerastheycouldpayforatthebar.Thegardenseemedlessamemorialthanatradeoffmadebytheschoolforusinghisnametomakeanexampleoutof agoodstudent,withapromisingfuture,whomadeamistakehecouldn’ttakeback.Hisparentsbought in, returning every year to sit in folding chairs on the auditorium stage and stare blankly out into the vast adolescent idiocy—kids stringing their earphones through hooded sweatshirts, grabbingsomeshuteyeorstiflingsquealsof laughter,whileMr.Kraftpunctuatedtheairwithhisindexfingerandtalkedatthepodiumof theillsof drunkdriving,apowerpointprojectedbehindhimwithstatsonB.A.C.levels,andphotosof Gunnerasakid,onbirthdaysandonatricycle,andlater,withhislacrosseteamhavinglunchintheQuad.IfeltsorryforGunner,clean-cut,handsome,anddefinitelytextbookdefinitionpopular,thekindof boywhotossedhisheadand laughed circles around gaggles of girls, the kind of boy I would’ve secretly swooned after in theconfinesof mybedroom—Ifeltsorrythathislifehadbeenreducedtothispaltryclichéof alesson,andIwassurethatthegardenitself wouldhaveoffendedhim.

“Maggie,C’mon.”

Jake’sface,bug-eyedandsweaty,rattledwildly,acartooncharacterof himself.

“ForGunner,”Isaid,andJakerolledhiseyes.

I stepped into his hands, hoisting myself up, and palming his skull as though it were a bowlingball.Isteadiedmyself,straighteningslowly,myfreshlyshavenlegs,wobblyanduneven,pressed against the side of his face so that I could feel his warm breath crawling up the back of mythighs.AsirenblaredinthedistanceandimmediatelyIjerked,skinningmykneeagainstthecold, red brick, and grabbing at Jake’s hair, what there was of it, short, brown and greased up withgel,asmybodynearlycrumpledover.

“Relax, can you just relax?” He squeezed my calves tighter, anchoring his feet wider


apart, and instructed me to step onto his shoulders so that I could reach my hand through the windowandgraspthesill.Ididashesaid,quietly,determinednottodisappoint,thoughIwantedtostop,seeingthedemiseof suchanticsflashbeforeme—copsatmyfrontdoor,hoursof workatmyparents’store,pastormeetings,communityservice,thewholenineyards.

Thelockers,emanatingthemoldysmellof abandonmentanddisuse,weremostlyfilledwith trash--half empty Snapple bottles, pairs of dilapidated gym shoes, tons of forgotten loose leaf with the lazy scrawl of someone’s notes, reams of handouts jammed between the pages of booksandbindersorcrumpledintoballs.Butthereweresomeprizesamongtherubble,aSuissearmy knife for Jake, a silver chain with a pendant of a four leaf clover dimpled with a small diamond,likelyfake,forme.Iwasneveroneof thosegirlswhocollectedtalismansorcharms,neverworeanythingvaguelyfeminine,insteadoptingforoversizedflannelsandpilferedshirtsandtiesfrommyfather’scloset.ButIwasinneedof luck—orinneedof somethingoutsideof myself, an external force, to prove that the order of my life was fateful, and that hitting the books as hard as I had and withstanding all the bullshit at home hadn’t been in vain, and that, in everytrivial,negligiblesacrificeornegotiationI’dmadethusfar,I’dchosencorrectly.Glitteringyetdiscreet,thependantfeltlikebothpermissionandapproval;Ididn’tshowittoJake,justputiton,usingoneof thelockermirrorstoassistme.Instead,Ipresentedhimwithnudepicturesof Rebecca Stone, a quiet, nerdy girl the year below us, kneeling on all fours like a cheetah, puckering red smeared lips and shoving her boobs together with her biceps to create a dark shadowylineof cleavageforthecamera.

ThePolaroidsof herfelloutof thepagesof anoldmathtextbook.Therewasnoway Rebecca Stone, the regional winner of the high school chemistry competition had taken remedialmathematicsherjunioryear.Secondly,thoughtherewasamagnetizedmirrorontheinside of the locker –usually a sign of female occupancy, also a Victoria Secret spread ripped out of acataloguetapedtothemetalgrates.

After fanning the photos in front of Jake, and him grabbing them for a closer look, I instantly regrettedit.Hestaredatthemalittletoolongformytaste,asthoughastudiedanalysiswouldmorph his understanding of Rebecca the Nerd with the fact of her bare, buxom body in glossy photofinish.“Fingerlickin’guh-ud,”hehooted,slippingtheminhisbackpocket,andcockinghisheadbackinamannerthatsaidwegotworktodo.

“Whatthehellareyougoingtodowiththose?”Iasked,mycheeksturninghot.

“I’msureI’llfiguresomethingout.”

“Givethemback.Ifoundthem.”

“What do you want ‘em for?”

“Idon’twantthem.”

I was dragging the pendant back and forth along its chain, seeing if Jake might notice, andcatchingthewhiffof hisgreasyhairstillonthepalmof myhand.“Ijustdon’tthink


Rebeccawouldappreciateyoujackingofftothem.”

“Ithinkshe’dlikeitverymuch,”hesaid,alreadywithhisbackturnedawayfromme.

JakeandIdidn’tmoveinthesamesocialcirclesatschool.Webothhadfriends,buthiswereintosmokingpotandhangingoutatrecordstores.Mineallspentthesummeronakibbutz,tutoredSATmath,ortookcommunitycollegeclassestogetaheadstartforuniversity.Morethanafewpeopleinhabitedbothworldsimperceptibly.Youcouldsaythat’swhatweweredoing,crossingthedivide.

WewereofftocollegeintheFall.HewasgoingtoSwarthmoreandIwasgoingtoVassar.Weweren’texactlytheabandoned,misunderstoodkidswethoughtwewere.Or,foraccuracy’ssake,weweren’tsufferinganinjusticegreaterthananyotherteenager.Itwastruethat my father beat up on my brother when things were going badly for him at the store, but we were a church going family, fortunately, because I knew three other girls who had the same thing happen to their brothers and even their moms sometimes, taking a hit once in awhile for themselves.Myfatherneverlaidahandonme,thoughmymomhadboxedthesideof myheadin front of my seventh grade teacher because she’d found out that I copied half of Lisa Nagel’s historypaperandputmyownnameonit.Ms.Ellis,herfaceabruptlystrickenandtwisted,hadrelinquishedfromherharshtone,mutteringsoftlythatImust’vemisunderstoodtheassignment.

And Jake, who I had always thought lived a pristine middle class life, simply because he was white, and his family sat down to dinner every night together, and his parents drove Volvos and had gone to college, in reality was struggling with something far more complicated than myself.Hisfatherhad,inJake’swords,“decidedtobegay”andyoucouldtellthatJakefoundthistobeunacceptable.

“Stay cool,” Jake hissed, whipping his head back around as he clomped forward on the linoleum.Wewerewalkingdownadankaisleof theIndiangrocery,betweenshelvesstackedwithrice,lentils,mungbeans,packetsof earthcoloredspices.Thepungentsmellof saffron,turmericandcorianderfilledmyheadupwithacloudof fog,andIhadtopinchmybreathtostoptheintakebeforethenauseadugitswaydownintomybelly.Jakefingeredacellophanewrappedcakeof rosepetalinfusedsoapasif hewerecoddlingapetmouse.Thebarslidperfectlyintohispocketthewayamousesqueezesitswaydownthelozengeof asnake.

We looked around some more, sliding the glass doors open and shut to feel the surge of coolaironourfaces,feigningindecisionoverfrozenrotiversusnaan.Webrowsedthetitlesof the VHS tapes lined along the back shelf, reading them aloud in our accented version of Vikram’s father, a counselor at school, who always cornered us with a lengthy interview about wherewewereapplyingtocollegeandhowweintendedtouseourdegree.Theladybehindtheregister, dressed in a green and yellow sari, fanning herself with a paper accordion folded out of a cigarette carton, eyed us with lazy suspicion, before returning to her small box television—on the screen, a bevy of belly baring actresses, singing and dancing in choreographed unison, janglingtheirjewelryastheybouncedalong.


That night at the park, we sat on the swings, burrowing tracks in the wood chips beneath ourfeet.Wetwistedourselvesinthechainlink,rotatingasfaraswecouldbeforereleasingourselvesinadreidelspin.Thehumidity,thickandfullof languor,settledaroundourbodieslikeinvisiblecloaks.

“This,”Jakesaid,unveilingthebarof soap,“isforyou.”Ialmostthoughtitwasaquestion like being asked to be his girl or promise away my virginity, and I didn’t know what to say.Itookitintomyhand;itfeltwaxyandhotfrombeinginhispocket,fromrubbingagainsthisthigh.Ibroughtthebaruptomynose,andthemilkyscentof soapandflowerlacedwiththespicethathadearlierrepulsedme,flaredmynostrilsandtingledmyspine.

I pulled my arm back deliberately, as if I were a pitcher on the mound, and threw it as far asIcouldtowardtheforestof treesafewhundredfeetahead.Heaskedthequestion;Iansweredit.

Jake’sbouncing,browneyessurveyedmestrangely.Icouldtellhewaspinningdowntheexactemotion,decidingfinally,onawildlaugh.

“That’swhatIlikeaboutyou,”hesaid.

Whenever he spoke his tongue sloshed around his mouth clumsily, and he always had to suckbacktheexcesssalivasoitdidn’tdrooloutof thecorner.Hehadalongjawandaslightunder-bite.Allhismovementslackedcoordinationasif hestruggledwithintheboundariesof hisownphysicality,hisskintootightandtheairaroundhimtoothin.Ithoughthelookedlikeacaveman,everypartof hisboneandmusclejutting,angularandshadowed.Wesattheresuspended and hovering, excited and uncertain, looking out into the darkness toward the place where the soap might’ve landed, the way you watch the ocean’s horizon swallow the sun, with an unblinkingintensitysoasnottomissasinglepart.

ThefirsttimeIonlyplayedalongbecauseIfeltIhadsomethingtoprove,notbecauseIthoughtitwasnormalorevenacceptable.

“Getthefuckawayfromme,”Jakesaid,shovingmehardintheshoulder.

WewereinlineatCVS.Ineededtopickupmymom’smedication,andJakewasloadinguponourfavoritejunkfoodstaples—Doritosandgummyworms.

Ipulledback,astonished.Atfirst,IthoughtI’ddonesomethingbuthisfacerevealedapleadingpleasure.Hiseyes,shinymarbles,poppedoutof himlikeWildCoyote.

“Whatthehellareyoudoing?”Islammedtheheelof mypalmsevenlyintohischest.

“I work all day and all night! Quit it! Quit harassing me!”

“Drunkbastard!”Ididn’tknowwhatwewerefightingaboutbutI’dheardthislaunchagainstmyfatherenoughtimestopullitoutneatly.


Jake grabbed a box of ribbed condoms, not because we were having sex but because it was,Iguess,thethingthathethoughtwasthemostillicit,drewthemostattention.Ihadn’tevenkissed him, though he’d tried to put his lips on mine once, managing the corner of my tightly lockedmouth.ThattimeThePolicewereplayingontheradio,therefrain“Don’tstandsocloseto me,” buzzing through my ears like it meant something, like it were a warning from God, and notjustacoincidence.Irememberthinkinghowgrosshisthick,wetlipsfelt,likefatleecheslookingforaplacetolodge.ButIcan’tsayIdespiseditenoughtomakehimstop;Ijustsortof satthereonhisbedlikeastonestatue,unflinching,observingwithintensitythespeckledbitsof whitelintthatdottedthedeepblueof hiscomforter.

By the time we were standing at the front of the line, we were throwing around cuss wordsloudly,andI’dmanagedtospitonhisshoes.

“Itain’tyourmoney.”Jakelikedtopepperhisspeechwithstreetvernaculartotoughenhissuburbanupbringing.

“Fuckyou,”Isaid,completelyunpracticed.

The chick behind the register, pushing out her red apron with her thumbs like a shield, widenedhereyesintodiscs.Irecognizedherasagirlinmyprintmakingclassfromsophomoreyear.Iknewshethoughtof meassomemousy,Asiangirlnerd,andthestartleinhereyessentasurgeof adrenalinthroughme.

Themanwaitinginlinebehindusshookabagof pistachiosasif itwereamaraca. “C’mon,”hesaid.

The mother behind him called over her daughter who was standing next to Jake, eyeing thegrapeflavoredbubbletape.“Getoverhere,Sara!”sheyelled.

Saraturnedaround,caughtbetweentemptationandauthority.

“I’llgetitforyou,”Jakesaidthrowingtheplastictire-likecapsuleontothecounter.

“Getoverhere,”againhermotherhissed.

“Let the girl have some gum!” Jake yelled, the veins in his neck bulging like a blue river on araisedmap.

“Mindyourbusiness,”retortedthemother.Bythistime,Sarawasobedientlybyhermother’sside,withwildcuriosityinhereyes.IcouldseeJake’sangertransformfromaffectationtosomethingcoldandreallikeashadowslippingoverhim,chameleon-likeandflashlightningfast.

“Fuckyou,”shesaid.

“Fuckme?!?!Iknowyouwanttolady,butIalreadygotmeawoman.”Hegrabbedmywristandtugged.Weranoutwithoutpaying,Jake,shakingtheboxof condomshighintheair,


“That’s what these are for!”

Ourfirsttimewasamateur.Wedidn’thavearealpremise,andourattackswerechildish,withoutmotivation,theprofanity,simpleandimmature.Wegotbetterthough.Westagedaraucousfightinthemiddleof themovietheaterlobby.“Nah,nah,nah.If thateverhappenedinreallife,you’dbedead”Jakecrowed.Thattimehegrabbedmyarmssohard,Ihadblackandbluemarksfordays.I,inturn,discoveredthatkickinghisshinscouldsendhimkeelingoverif Igotthemdeadcenter.Securitystartedtocirclearoundus,andweknewtheyweregoingtocallthe on-duty cops that sat around at the Dunkin’ Donuts around the corner, manhandling--when they felt like doing their jobs--the crowds of drunk teenagers that gathered in the parking lot and atthedoorsof thetwobarsnearby.Weranoutintothedarkness,sprintingatfirst,thoughthey’donlychasedusabouttwentyfeettogiveusagoodscare.Weknewit,butwepumpedourlegsanyway, as though they were on our tails, a hare’s breath away from pinning us down, locking us up,destroyingus.

Wefinallystoppedatthereservoir,parkingourselvesonabenchoverlookingthelonely,slinking,blackbodyof water.Jakepulledoutabeerbottlewrappedinawetpaperbagfromhisbackpack.

“Thisisthetheaterof theabsurd,”hesaidproudly,snappingthecapoffwithhisbarehandandtippingitbacktowardshislips.Iwatchedthesmoothcurveof hisAdam’sappleriseandfallinhisthroat;itlookedlikethehardshellof abulgingbeetle.Iputmyhandouttotouchit,butchangedmymindmidair.

“Yeah,nokidding.”Iagreedbecauseitsoundedright.Hepassedmethebottle.Itookagenerousgulpof thewarmfizz,gaggingonthesourresidueinmymouth.

Asthesummerworeon,Jakewasn’talwaysthefirsttogetviolent,sometimesI’dinitiatethefirstblowbecauseI’dgetimpatientwithhisverbalattacks,whichIhadsecretlythoughtweregettingstaleandunoriginal.Iwantedtokickhimintheballs,butIneverhadtheballs.Justlike he never touched me anywhere on the face, though he did put his hands to my throat once, leavingthumbmarkslikeolivesatthebaseof mycollarbone.

Jake would always say to onlookers, “Keep on walking! Keep on walking! Ain’t nothing to seehere.”

Itwasthatlookthatgotusoff.Wemistookdisdainforfearandevensometimes,forenvy.Otherpeople’sdisapprovalpropelledustothestage.Themoreoffendedouraudience,thegreaterlicensetoorchestrateouroutrageousness.Bothof uswerebuyingtime,waitingouttherelentless,chargingsummer,beatingoutthedayswithourownferventlyerraticbehavior.We’dmanaged correctness and achievement our whole lives, and now, we believed a free pass our right.

Once,inthemall,aladypushingababycarriagetriedtooffermehelp.“Sweetheart,areyouokay?”sheasked.Iwasonmybottom,leaningagainstanindoorplanterboxof faketrees,re-grouping,catchingmybreathandstrategizingmynextmove.Therewasonlyasmallwindow


inwhichtoactbeforemallsecuritywouldseizeuponusandwe’dneedtojet.Jakehadshovedmeontotheground,lightly,buthardenoughformetotakemyself down.Theladystopped,standing with her free hand on her hip, the way exasperated mothers look when they’ve asked aquestionandarejustdaringyoutogivethewronganswer.Still,Ifeltgenuineconcerninhervoice, and in the way she looked at me and waited, almost as if I could’ve said, help, and she’d havebeenatmysideinstantly.Ishruggedheroff,despitefeelingtouchedbyherconcern.Butthen she asked, “Where are your parents?”

IfeltthatclenchingfeelinginmythroatthatalwayshappenedwhenIwantedtocry.Forabrief momenttherewasanimbalance,akindof fuzzinesstothescene.Itoccurredtomethatwelookedexactlylikewhatwewere:kids.Thiswoman,withherstupidpermandherlacqueredfingernails,hertotebagandherbumblingbaby,wasunafraidtoexposeme,anditleftmefeelingembarrassed,humiliatedeven.Whatkindof stupidassquestionwasthat?Whocareswheremyparents were? What did they have to do with anything? I was quick to churn the feeling right backintowhatIknewbest.

“Whatthefuckdoyouknow?”Iyelled,turningtheheadsof themallwalkers.“Youmiserable mommy wench!”

Jakepausedwitharaiseof hisbrowthatindicatedhewasimpressed;rarely,didIturnonthepeoplearoundus.Thatwasmorehisstyle.Theladydidn’tevengetangrywithme.Insteadshesaidcoolly,“Iknowalotmorethanyouthinkyoudo.”LaterwhenIwasgoingoveritinmyhead,Iguessedthatshe’dprobablybeenatrainedtherapist,maybeahighschoolteacher.

Jake was strumming on a guitar, and I was concentrating on a Rolling Stones article on TomMorello.

“Maggot, do you really want to go to school?”

“Whodoes?”Ilied.

“Wedon’thavetogo,”hesaid.

“Maybeyoudon’t.ButIdo.”

“You’resucharobot.”

“Myparentscareaboutmyfuture.”

“Bullshit.Theycareabouttheirfuture.Youarebyextension,theirfuture.Buttheydon’tcareaboutwhatyouwant.YourDaddidn’tevengotocollege.”

Iwantedtotellhimtofuckoff,totellhimthatmyparentsdidn’twantmetohavetowork every day like dogs the way they did, but I couldn’t muster the explanation, and it wasn’t hisbusinessanyway.

“Youhaveeverything,”Isaidinthatpettywaythatpeoplecompetetheirinjuries.“So


whataboutyourDad?Getoverit.”IheardasteadyriseinmyvoiceandIwould’vekeptgoing,would’vetoldJakehowselfishhewasandhowboringhisself-pitywasgetting,if notfortheinterruption.Ashyknockatthedoor.

“Everythingokay?”Jake’smother’svoicesoundedthinly.Jakerolledhiseyesandjumpeduptoopenthedoor.Shewaswearingwaisthighjeansandaknittanktopthatexposedtheflabbyfleshof herunderarms.Herhairextendedinafrizzypoof of whiteandgreythatmadeherlookdistractedandunkempt.Wesharedanawkwardsilenceaseachof ussurveyedtheothertwofacesof thisunlikelytriangulation.

“Yougotsomemailfromschool.”Sheheldoutathickwhiteenvelopewithprintedfallmapleleavesborderingitsedges.Jakesnatcheditoutof herhandsandthrewitonhismattress.

“Thanks.”

She stood there caressing her hand in the fold of the other as if she’d been electrically shockedfromtheexchange,shiftingherweightontoonefoottoleanagainstthedoorframe.

“When do you start school Maggie?”

“Twoweeks.SametimeasJake,Ithink.”

Ishiftedeasilyunderthegazeof adults.Sheaskedmemorequestions,whileJakehuffedwithimpatience.ItoldherthatIwantedtostudypsychologyandthoughtI’dlikebeingaresearchersomeday.Iwasn’tquitesurewhatthatmeant,butitwasspecificenoughtoreflectambitionandconfidence,whilebeingvagueandloftyenoughtoimpressmyparents’friendswithouttoomanyfollow-upquestions.

“Well,I’mgladtoknowJakespendstimewithsuchasweetgirl.”

If Jake loathed his father for what he’d done, he harbored against his mother something farmorecomplicatedforhavingbeenduped,forhavingsufferedsovulnerably.

“Mom,areyoudone?”hewhispered.

“What?”Sheasked,aturninherpitch.

“Leaveusalone.”Alittlemoretemerityinhisvoice.

“Thisismyhouse,”shehissedbeforepivotingouttheroom.Ifeltsorryforher;Ireallydid.Aftersheleft,Jakepickedupasif she’dneverentered.“Let’sjustnotgotocollege.Let’sdriveacrossthecountry.I’llbuyaVW.”

“Yeahokay,whatever.”

“You’resuchachicken,Maggot.”

“You’resuchaloser,”Isaidandmeantit.


Onthenightof theconcert,ourlastnighttogether,weplannedforanoutrageousscene.Jakepromisedthatitwouldbeasurpriseandwarnedmethatwemightgetarrested.Ididn’tbelievehim,of course,whichprovidedthesafetyformygrowingexcitement.Weweregoingwithagroupof hisfriends.Ihaddoneafairlygoodjobof keepingmyrelationswithJakeunderwraps from my own friends, instead telling them that my Dad needed me at the store whenever IchoseJakeovertheirmovienightsandicecreamruns.TheyknewIspenttimewithhim,butmostlyhonoredmyneedforseparation.

Towardstheendof theconcert,whenthebandwasfinishingtheirsecondset,andourshirtsclungtoourbacksfromallthesweat,Jakewalkedovertomeandflickedhistongueinmyear.“YoubetterdoasIsay.”

Iwaited.

“In a few minutes, we’re going to go to the bathroom, you’re going to take all your clothes off.”

Ifeltastirringinmybelly.Smiling,Iputmyheadonhischestandranmyfingersincircles around the cottony surface of his t-shirt before grabbing at his nipple and twisting it as hardasIcould.

Jake winced and matched my coquettish grin with a glassy-eyed sternness that both shrankandexhilaratedme.Helockedhisfingersaroundmywristandbeganleadingmeoutof theauditorium,commandeeringhimself throughthethrongsof people.

The downstairs men’s room, the farthest from the main stage, was empty and carried the putridodorof urineandhospitalantiseptic.

“Okay,doit,”hesaid.

“Do what?”

“Takeyourclothesoff.”

“There’snobodyinhere.”

“Exactly.”

“C’monit’sbetteroutsidebytheconcessionstand.Youwantmetogoforthenutsto-night?”

“Ithinkweshoulddoit,Mag.”

“Do what?”

“Stopfighting,”hesaidsoftly.Icouldn’ttellif thiswasanorder.Heslippedhishandbeneathmyshirtandstrokedmybacksideclumsily.Hepulledhisfingersgentlydownmycheek.HeleanedhisforeheadintomineandIcouldsmellthefrieswe’dhadearlieronhisbreath.


“Stopit,”Isaidloudly,tryingtostayinthegame.Iheardtheechoof myvoicebounceagainstthesweatywalls,butwithoutanaudience,Ifeltconfined.Iwriggledbeneathhispress-ingbodyasheyankedatthestrapof mybra.Someoneenteredthebathroomandlookedatussuspiciously.Wewerebreathingloudandheavy,butfellobliginglysilentuntilheleft.

“Let’snotfightanymore,okay?”Jakewhisperedinathroatyinsistence,tryingtowilltheclunkof hislimbsintogentle,seamlessform.

Itriedtoshovehimoff.Jakedidn’tfightback;hejustpressedincloser,asolidwallagainstme.Hislipswereonmyneckandmychinandhekepttellingmethathelovedme.Itwasthefirsttimehe’dsaidanythinglikethat,butitsoundedmoredesperatethansincere.Ifeltmyheadpoundingwithvibration.Jakewastryingtounbuttonmyshirtwithonehand,buthisfingerscouldn’tworktheholes.Hewasusinghiswords,spinningthemaroundlikeawhipintheair.Itoccurredtomeslowly--thetinglingsensationof fear.Iknewthatnooneoutsidecouldhearabovethenoise.Iopenedmymouthtoscream,butnosoundcameout.Iliftedmyarmsindefense,butwhenIlookeddown,theywerestillatmysides.

“Whatareyoutryingtoprove?”Imanagedinahideouswhisper.

BeforeIknewit,he’dslappedmeacrosstheface.Anditsavedmylife.Iheldmypalmtomycheek.Jakeappearedequallystunnedathisviolation,andhebackedawaytowardthesink.Hewasgrippingitssides,bentoverwithhisheadslumpedasif hewerewaitingtovomit.Fromthisangle,IknewIcouldkickhimhardenoughtomakehimfall,andIdid.Ikickedhimbehindthekneesandhebuckled.Ikickedhiminthespine.Ikickedhisribsandthesideof hishead.Hecould’vestoodup;hewasbiggerandstrongerthanme.Hecould’vegrabbedmyanklesandpulled me down, but he let me kick him, as if to welcome his own penance, and I didn’t stop untilIsawbloodonhisface,untilIfeltwindedanddizzyandnolongerafraid.Ilefthimonthetile,buttherewasonlyonewaybacktotheconcertandpeoplewerehangingouteverywhere.Iknewhe’dturnupbehindmeinminutes,andhedid.Hedidn’tlookatmeorsayanything.Hedidn’tcometooclose,either.Hejustkeptwipingathisswellingcheekwiththebackof hishand.When we resurfaced to the auditorium, the band was playing so loudly that no one paid us any attention.Thecrowdfacedthestageinonelumpedswayingmass,everyone’shandsintheair,likeacumbersome,wildbeast,lonesomeandlost,makingitswaytowardthepromiseof water.


AlisonMinamiisanMFAgraduateof theUniversityof California,Riverside.HershortfictionhasbeenafinalistfortheMeyersonSouthwestReviewFictionContestandtheCaliforniaExchangeforPoetsandWriters.Herplay“FacetotheSun”hashadmultipleprofessionalreadings, including at the Victory Theater in Chicago and at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival as partof theirBlackSwanNewWorksDevelopmentFellowship.HerstorytellinghasappearedontheMothRadioHour.


TheSkiffBy Sylvan leBrun

Becauseitwasherbirthday,May’sfatherletherusethelargescalingknife.Ithadadarkwooden handle carved with swirling lines, like a child’s drawing of wind, and a long thin blade thatneededsharpeningnearlyonceaweek.Itwassobeautifulbecauseshewasn’tallowedtotouchit.Foryears,shehadseenitrestingonthetopof herfather’sstoolorhangingfromhisbelt.Watchedashetookitinhiscrackedandsun-brownedhands,wipingthesidescleanonhisshirt,thenliningitupparallelwiththespineof atroutorred-eyedbass.AsmuchasMayhadbeggedherfather,shehadn’tevenheldtheknifeuntiltoday. Thesunhadbarelyrisen,stilllyinginwaitbehindthedistanttreeline.Maysatwithherlegscrossedonthefloorof theworkshed,peeringintoabucketof fatsilverfish.Herfather’sknifefeltlightasairinherhand,skintinglingwhereittouchedthewoodof thehandle.Denyanyonesomethinglongenough,andit’slikeGodwhentheygetit.Astheshedfilledwiththesmellof saltanddeathandthecoldMarchmorning,Maytookfishafterfishintoherawkwardyounghandsandpulledthebladeagainstthem.Glitteringscaleswentflyingwitheachstroke.Herfatherstoodoverher,hummingsomeliltingmelodyunderhisbreath.Whathadmadehimchange his mind? Her older sister had never touched the knife, never even stepped foot into the dampandbristlingshedwheretheirfatherwaskingandundertaker,merchantandpriest.ButMayhadalwaysbeendrawntothiswork. Assheflickedthebladealongtheundersideof atrout,downitssoftbelly,herfatherleanedoverher.“Aregulartradesman,aren’tyou?”Helaughed.“Aftermyownheart.” Maylookedupathim,tryingtolookseriousandunafraidashercheeksflushedwithpride.Itwasinthatmomentthattheknifeshiftedinhergripandnickedthetipof herindexfinger.Notgoingdeep,buttearingtheskininalonglinewhichsoonbeadedwithdropsof blood.Maydroppedthefishtothedustyfloorasshebroughtherdamagedfingertohermouth.Shewatchedherfather’sfacecreaseashepickedthefishbackup,andtooktheknifefromherclenchedhand. “Don’tworry,baby,”hesaidashefinishedthejob,thesilverscalesflyingoutlikeconfettiaroundhim.“Goandtakecareof thatfinger.I’lldotherest.” SoMaysteppedbackoutintothechillof theday,feelingherpulseinherindexfingershecradledherhandtoherchest.Thesunsatidleinthesky,asif ithadbeenthereallalong,fixedinplacesincethebeginningof time.

***

Theywentoutintheskiffforlunch,withabasketof breadsanddriedmeatsthatMay’smotherhadputtogetherforthem.Therewasariperedpluminthereaswell,whichMayatebefore anything else, sweet juice dripping down her chin and hands as her father rowed them out intothecenterof thelake.Coldandbright,thewaterstillbutfortheripplescomingoutfromwheretheoarstruck. “Thosedamnedbirdsaresoloudtoday,mustbefighting,”May’sfathersaid,grimacingas


anotherroundof squawksechoedoutfromthetrees. “Maybetheyknowit’smybirthday,”Maysaid,tossingthepitof theplumintothelake.“Andthey’resinging.” Herfatherchuckled,stoppinghisrowingandlettingtheboatglidewiththemomentum.Thebirdskeptscreaming,andMaywipedherstickyhandsonthelegsof herpants,staringoffattheperimeterof thelake.“Hey,theresheisagain!”sheshouted,straighteningupsuddenlyandalmosttippingtheskiff. Across on the opposite shore, a tall pale lady was tending her garden, in front of a woodencabinwithlooseboardsandshutteredwindows.Atfirstglance,shelookedasrealasanythingelse,asrealastheplacidblueskyortheplumpitsinkinginthelakeorthedeadfishsittinginabucketbackinthescalingshed.Sheworeathickknittedshawl,duckingherblondeheadassheplungedhershovelintotheearth.Hercheekswereflushedredfromthecold.Mayknew better though, knew that there was no blood running in her veins, because she was a ghost.Soshewouldnevergettoeattheturnipsinhergarden,whoseleavespokedupgreenandsprawlingoutof theblackdirteveryspring.Deadpeopledidn’teat—butwasshedead?Hadsheeverevenlived?Onsomenights,astheysatbythefireplace,May’smotherwouldbraidherhairwithcarefulfingersandtellhermanydifferentstories.Storiesaboutspiritsfrompurgatory,fairy queens, and the trickster apparitions that pop out of holes in tree trunks and drag naughty childrenintoanendlessrounddance. “Is she dead?” May asked her father, who had dipped his hand into the water and was nowslickinghishairbackwithit,lettingdropletsrundownintohiseyes. “Huh?” “Yourlady.See,she’sovertherenow.” “Right.”Herfatherlookedthenattheshore,atthecabinwiththegardenandthewomanintheshawl.“Yes,shediedlongago.Didn’tItellyou?Thedaughterof awoodcutterwholivedtwo hundred years ago, got a nasty cough one winter and…” “Why isn’t her family there with her?” May reached into the basket and grabbed a piece of bread,rippingitintwoandgivingherfathertheotherhalf. “Idon’tknow.” “Will you ask her the next time you see her?” “Sure,Iwill.” They ate their bread in silence then, as a sharp wind came in from the west and made the skiffrocktooneside,movefurtherfromtheshore.

***

May was lucky because she had caught her father with the ghost — otherwise, he said, he would havekeptitasecretfromeverybody.Itwassomemonthsbefore,onahotnightwhenMaywastoorestlesstosleepandwentoutsidebarefootinhernightgowntowadeinthewater.Assherubbedhereyesandstaredoffintothemoonlitlake,shenoticedtwofiguresontheshore,standingoutsideof awoodcabin.Sheknewherfatherbyhisflanneljacketandthescalingknifehangingfromhiswaist.Butthewomanwasnewtoher,atthetime.Mayhadn’tbeenabletoseeherclearly,asthetreeswerecastingstrangeshadowsdown.Onlythemilkywhitecircleof her


face,andthefluidwaysheheldherself assheledMay’sfatherclosertothewater.There,theystood facing each other, and the lady brought both hands up to his face, placing them below his chinandthentracinguphischeeks.Shethenlightlybrushedthetipsof herfingersacrosshiseyelids—hehadclosedhiseyestheminuteshebegantotouchhim,itseemed.Italllookedlikeanancientritual,movementschoreographed,nothingrandomorerratic.Likeithadtohavemeaning.Maywentbackinsidewhenshesawherfatherstepintotheskiff,asshewouldhavebeenscoldedforbeingoutsolate.Butthenextmorning,astheyscaledfishtogether,sheaskedhimaboutthelady.Andthenhetoldherthestory.“She’saspirit,andshe’sdecidedtoguideme.Speakstomeinthelanguageof ghosts,whichsoundssomethinglikerunningwaterandthehummingof machines.Ihavetovisithereverynight,tokeepherfromgettinglonely.Inexchange,shetellsmesecrets.Secretsabouttheuniverse, and what happens when we sleep — but mostly about how I can protect my family fromevilthings.Sheiskeepingussafe.Soyoucan’ttellanyone.”

***

Mayandherfatherfinishedthefood,andhebegantorowtheskiffbacktoshore,hummingthesamesongasearlierthatmorning.Thebirdscontinuedtorustleandcallinthefirtrees.Theskinof May’sindexfingerwasgoingpurplearoundthecut,sosheshowedittoherfather,whosaiditwouldbeallfine.Shedidn’tthinkaboutitagainafterthat.

***

Just like every year before, May expected to spend the evening playing card games and singing,eatinghermother’sapplespicecakewithherhands.Butwhenshegotbacktothehouse,theairwashotandthick,andtheblanketsweregonefromthelivingroom.Heroldersisterlayinbedtuckedunderthemall,yetshiveringstill. Her father soon ran to fetch a basin of water and a towel, and spoke with her mother in hushedtones.Maywasn’tallowedintohersister’sroom,soshesatonherkneesinthehallwayinfrontof thecloseddoor,pushinghernailsbackandforthacrossthecarpeting. “Fever,cameonquickaroundnoon.”Shecouldmakeouthermother’svoice,tenseandhigh.“Poorgirlfaintedwhilewalkingtothebathroom,Ibarelykeptherheadfromcrackingopenonthefloor.” Anhourpassedafterthat,Mayknockingonthedoorbutgettingnoanswer.Finallyhermothersteppedout,eyeswild.ShenoddedatMay,forcingasmilebeforewalkingoffdownthehall.Thedoorwasleftopenbehindher,andMaystoodtolookin.Hersister’sfacewasadeepred,herdarkcurlsstickywithsweatagainstherforehead.Shehadkickedtheblanketsoff,andtheylayscatteredonthefloorassheclutchedasinglepillowtoherchest.May wanted to speak to her, but her mother was back in moments, tapping her soft on the shoulder.Sheheldabottleinherhandsthatsmelledsweetandstrongwithherbs.Thedoorclosedagain,then,andMaycalledafterhermother,desperate.“Whyisthishappening?”shewailed.“Iwantedtoday.Shecanhavetherestof theweek,orthe


whole month, but you promised me today!”Mayknewhowawfulshewasbeing,howchildish.Butshecouldn’tstopit.Soonshegaveup,though,andwalkedawayfromthatairlessroomwhereshecouldstillhearhersistergasping.Asthe sun set outside and the living room grew darker, dim bars of light coming through the slats inthewindowshade,Maylayonthefloorandcircledherfeetintheair,makinglistsof allthecountriesshecouldremember.Alphabeticalorder.Thensheateanotherplum,threwherself across the couch and slid to the ground in a strange gymnastic pose, like she and her sister would dointhisgametheyusedtoplay.Stillnoonecametocheckonher.Aftereatingahandfulof stale nuts, a piece of bread that she sloppily covered with some soft cheese, and a third plum, Maydecidedtogooutside.Itwasdarkandthewindswerecominginstrongernow.Withhersister’syellowwindbreakeron,Maywalkedacirclearoundtheirhouse,kickingapebbleinfrontof her.Itwasquiet,soquietthatMayfeltasif shehadn’theardahumanvoiceinyears.Anditwasherbirthday,shedidn’twanttofeellikethis.Shewantedtofeellikeherheartwasfatandaliveinherchest,shewantedtofeellight.Maywalkedovertowardsthewater’sedge,wheretheskiffsatbeachedontherockyshore,oarbalancedacrossthetop.Thentheideacame—shedidn’tknowwhyithadtakenhersolongtothinkof it.Tonight,whynot speak the language of ghosts? Why not have her eyes closed by the lady who had nothing to give but secrets and time? Ittookonlyafewpushestogettheskiffintothewater,andwhenshehoppedinside,thebenchwasstilldampfromearlierthatday.Shehadn’tevertakenitoutalone,butitwasadayof firsts.That morning, she had held her father’s scaling knife and watched for a perfect minute as it movedwithherasif ithadbeenhersallalong.Andshewasn’tafraidof water.Unlikehersister,who lay prone and heaving in that horrible bedroom, needing her mother and father to wipe herheadandpourtonicsdownherthroat—unlikeher,Maywastough.Maydidn’tstayinsideandMaylikedthesmellof rottingfish,shecouldn’tsewandhadchappedlipsthatpeeledwiththecold.Shewasthespittingimageof herfather,that’swhateveryonesaid.Soshedeservedtoknowthethingsthathedid,abouttheuniverseanddanger.Shedeservedtospeaktohisspirit.The oar cut into the water, and May’s arms burned as she worked to move herself forward, forwardtothehousewiththeshutteredwindowsandimpossiblywell-keptgarden.Dropsof waterflewintohereyes,andsheblinkedthemoutastheskiffrockedandtwisted.Thelakeroiledbeneathher.Asthewindgrewstronger,Maycontinuedtorow,hercheeksfeelingasif theywerebeingskinnedraw.Wassheevenmovingatallanymore?Herfathermustdoitdifferently—Maytriedtoturntheoararoundinherhands.Thensuddenlyitwasdarkaroundher,everyboneinherbodyturnedtoice,asshewasthrownviolentlyintothefreezinglake.Water poured down her throat, into her eyes and nose, as she thrashed around, not knowing whichwaysheshouldevenswimtomeettheairagain.Shefeltlikearagdoll,armsandlegsbeingpulledeitherwaybysomecontrollingchild.Whenshebrokethesurfaceonce,awavebroughtherunderagain,chokingandshaking.Shestaredintotheblacknessof thelakeandthoughtshesawawoman’sfacebelowher,watchingwithpursedlips.But then there were arms grabbing at her back, looping around her shoulders and dragging her upintothenightair.Voices,shouting,someonethrowingathickblanketoverher.Afistbeatintoaspotbelowherribcagerhythmically,untilshewascoughingupwaterandbile.Sheshivered


likeapatheticcatasherparentstookherbacktoshoreinthefishingboat,leavingtheemptyskifftospiralonthesurfaceof thelake.Likesomehorriblejoke.May was so angry that she couldn’t speak, even as they dressed her up in warm clothes and fed her breadandhoneyinfrontof thefireplace,singingsongsof celebration.Herfatherkeptlookingatherfunny—hemusthaveknownwhereMaytriedtogo.Butfromthatdayon,henevermentionedanythingof thekindagain,anditwasonlyhermotherwhowouldtellstoriesof magic.

***

Thatnight,Maydreamedaboutthedeaddaughterof thewoodcutter,herfather’sguidingspirit.Inthedream,shestoodwiththeladyinhergarden,steppingonthesproutsandflowersof earlyspring.Birdsswarmedabovetheirheads,blackandredandtawny,circlinglikevulturesoveracorpse.TheladykissedMay’sclosedeyeswithhersoftwhitelips,andthenplacedherhandsintoherhair.AsshedugherfingernailsintoMay’sscalp—sharpliketenscalingknives,drawingbloodandleavingmarks—shebegantowhispersomethinggloriousintoherear.


TOC

SylvanLebrunisastudentandfictionwriterlivinginTokyo,Japan.Herworkhasbeenpreviously published in Bending Genres, Lammergeier, Construction, and Shirley Magazine, among others.Sheloveswalksinthemountainsanddeadlanguages.


WEDDING CAKEBy StePHanie valente

Itbeganwithapairof limoncello-coloredshoes.EveryThursday,Iwenttochurchwithmyblack-honeyhairof sin,mysummerdressskimmingwitheyesandcuriosity.Theairflashedthick and pulpy, and I only walked to the church through a ring of women in rosaries dotting alongrestaurantsandcafes.Onsomedays,Ifeltlikeastatue.Awarriormissinganarm.Or,asmallfawnlookingupatagod.Instead,Iworegoldanklebracelets.IprayedonThursdays.IvisitedtheFather,allinwithredglasscandles,myperfumeoil,mysunglasses.Mydarkness.Wefellinlovewiththeairof lemons.Mylimoncelloshoes.Weturnedtopassionunderthelemongroves,neveroranges.Yourhairwaspureincense:murky,smokey,sacrosanctsecrets.Istartedwearingonlywhitelace.Yourfingerswereinstrumentsof powerordeath.Ineverreallyknew.Iprayedinchurch.Tomyfather.TheFather.Iculledmybodicestight.Lovehurt.Itwassmoothandmademyskinred.Wineandlaughteralways.IbecametheItalianwordfordoll.Thelemontreeswhisperedaboutyou,therewassomethingsinisterinyou.Ismelledonlycitrus.Andthefish.Ionlycookedwhiteflakeymeat.Ikissedyourgoldchainneckeverynight.WewalkedandwalkedandwalkedaroundtheRiviera.Cigarettesandrosaries.Prayersforthefuture.Saintsforsuccess.YousworeupanddowntolovememorethananyFather.Youaskedmetomarryyouunderthelemontree.Isaid,yes.Onlyif Icouldwearaveil.YouaskedFatherfirst.Youkissedhisring.Priest-daughterbride.Mybreastswerefull.Mybellywasempty.Iworethelimoncel-lo-coloredshoeswithwhitelaceatthelemontrees.You,thelover.You,thebadhusband.Youputyourfingersinmymouth,strongerthananyvow.ThatnightIdreamedaboutdeadwom-enandmenwithoutlegs.Theyshowedmemissingteethandrippedearlobes.Ikneltthenextmorninginthechurch,chokingonincense.Ibled.Ithoughtaboutyourfingersinmymouth.Ididn’tcarethatyouslippedoutatnightwithoutawhisperorlineof poetrymaskedasexcuses.Lemontreepromises.Theghoststoldmetheirnames.AwomanwithoutanyfingernailssaidaprayerandtoldmetolookforSt.Anthony.Therewassomethingsinisterunderthelemontrees.Butlover.Youloveme,youloveme,youloveme.Merchantmarineapparitions.Ididn’taskaboutthemanunderthetrees.Iwanderedinacircle,dottingaroundthecafesfilledwithcap-puccinosandwine.Myloveranincirclesinanoldcar.Ikeptthinkingabouttheairysweetness.Thewhitefrostingtastessogoodagainstmylips.Ittastedevenbetterwithwine.Therestwassmashedagainstyourcheek.


StephanieAthenaValentelivesinBrooklyn,NY.HerpublishedworksincludeHotel Ghost, waiting for the end of the world, and Little Fang(BottlecapPress,2015-2019).ShehasworkincludedinReality Hands, TL;DR, and Cosmonauts Avenue.SheistheassociateeditoratYes, Poetry.Sometimes,shefeelshuman.


THE NOPALES WARBy Bruno figueroa

tranSlateD froM SPaniSH By Jorge cHino

I want to be buried in the Sierra Que me entierren en la sierraright under some nopales al pie de unos nopaleslet the soil cover my body y que me cubra esta tierrathis land that is the cradle of true men que es cuna de hombres cabales(traditional song)

AnancientPersianpoetoncewrotethatwarisacruelgamethat’sonlypaidforwithblood.Buttherehasn’tbeenawarascruel,asludicrousanduseless,astheNopalesWar.Thisistheonlywarthat,whenitcomestomind,bringstearstomyeyes.

Historysometimeseruptsthroughthebackdoor.Ashotinthefog,aflagtowhichproperhonorswere not given, or the pick striking a shimmering gem in a desert can awaken the worst passions inhumanbeings.

I’mgoingtotellthisstorybecausenobodyliveditlikeIdid.Itallstartedinaneglectedbackyardof aCaliforniacitycalledSantaRosa.AnyonewhospeaksaboutSantaRosawithadmirationorexaggeratesorisaresidentof thatblandcommunity.SosaysapersonlikemewholivesinSacramento, another city located in the Golden State, known only because it’s the seat of the stategovernment.Fiftymilesnortheastof SanFrancisco,inland,SantaRosacanbeaburninghellduringthesummer,andcoldanddampinthewinter.Theonlythingoldarethetombsintheruralcemetery;earthquakesandfireshavedestroyedtherest.

It was a wide backyard, covered with yellow grass and, in various spots, a hard reddish soil, fencedoffbylargescrubandafenceof crumblingwoodthatmarkeditsboundarywithawastelandpopulatedbypatchof pricklypearcactus,thenopalplant..ThatSunday,FreddyJimnez was preparing a steak to share with his friends Steve, Larry and their families at a big barbecue.Tallandburly,withastubbornbeerbelly,beardandanunrulyblondemane,Freddywasaperfect“redneck.”Aperfectidiot.Hehaddifficultyfinishinghighschool,preferringtospendtimewithhisgirlfriendandhisHarleyDavidsoninsteadof hisstudies.HeenlistedintheArmyandfoughtduringthefirstIraqWarasamarksman,shootingattargetsfrominsideatank.Fromthisexperience,hispassionatepatrioticfervorwasborn.Hebecameadevoteeof theflagof starsandstripes,of theanthem‘Osay,canyousee,’andof thearmedforces.Whenhelosthisfootinginanargument,hethrewthefinal,unappeasableargument:“Haveyoureadthe Constitution?” He weighed his surname of Spanish origin, which – thank God – an ancestor


hadslightlymodifiedbyremovingan“e”fromJiménez,andhadafitwhenagovernmentemployeeaskedhim,whilefillingoutaform,if hewasHispanic.NoSir!HisnamewasFreddyJim-ness, Jim-ness! He was a real American!

Twenty times a day he cursed Mexicans as he cruised the city streets wearing his postman’s uniforminatinyvehiclewithnodoors,handingoutenvelopesandpackages.Dirtyandilliterate,they can’t even write, he stammered disdainfully as he slipped letters with addresses written awkwardlyandincorrectlyintomailboxes.Whydon’tyougobacktowhereyoucamefromandleave us alone? he asked angrily, and the redness spread to his ears, even as he was unaware that numerous Santa Rosa residents, like his neighbor John Padilla, owner of an acre of land, were descendantsof Mexicanswhosettledinthatvalleybefore1847.

That summer Sunday, beer in hand, while his friends listened to his usual jokes, Freddy was grillingsteaksandthewomenwerechattingaroundatable.Histwo-year-oldson,Jason,indiapers and wearing a large cloth hat over his head and tiny sandals, was chasing the nervous Germanshepherd.Thedog,perhapsfedupwithbeingtormentedbytheannoyingchild,fledtothe back of the property but the boy did not give up and trotted after him with all the strength of hisshortlittlelegs.

Why didn’t his mother stop him then and thus prevent a tragedy of incalculable consequences? Why is fate so unfair? Jason had disappeared from sight and into the bushes for just a few momentswhentheyheardit,worsethanacry,ahorrendouschild’sscream.Themother,of course,wasthefirsttoarrive.Theboyhadstumbledandlayfacedownonseveralnopalcactithathadsproutedfromtheground.Theboydidn’tusehishandstoprotecthisface.Severallonganddarkthornspiercedhisdelicateskin.Ashismotherliftedhim,shediscoveredwithhorrorthatonehadpenetratedhislefteyelidandhiseyewasbleeding.Thethornwasimmediatelytakenoutandthelittleonerushedtohospital.Afewhourslater,thedoctors’verdictwasbrutal:theboywasgoingtohealfromhiswounds,buthehadlostsightinhislefteyeforever.Forendlessminutes,Freddysobbedloudly.Why?Why?Hekeptmoaning.Hiswife,incontrast,wasquietandseemedfarawayassheembracedherson.

Back home, the woman broke her silence and barked with anger to Freddy: “I asked you a long timeagotocutthosedamnplantsandfixthefence!Nowit’stoolate!”Indeed,thenopalesfromtheemptylotnextdoorhadinvadedpartof theirgarden.Hehadneverpaidanyattentiontothecacti.Eachnopalplantwasmorethansixfeettall,andfromitspadsemergedcountlessmenacingthornsatleastoneinchlong.Asanactof contritionandtounleashhisrage,FreddyJimnezmassacredthenopaleswithamacheteandburnedtheplantsinamakeshiftbonfire.Itwasn’t much consolation for a father who loved his son like no one else on earth!

Acoupledayslater,inabarinSantaRosa,hewasdrowninghisgrief withSteveandLarry.Thethreefriendswentoverandovertheterribleincident.“And,tobeginwith,’Freddysaid,“whydoes this dangerous plant even exist here? Why did it have to grow up in my backyard? Isn’t it Mexican?”That’sright,hisfriendsanswered.“TheMexicanseveneatthecactus.”“Weshould


banit!”Larryexclaimed,poundingonthetable.

They decided the next day to visit the mayor who, aware of the tragedy, received them immediately.Afterhearingtheobligatorycomfortingwords,FreddyJimnezcametothepoint: the accident would not have happened if those dangerous alien plants had not invaded ourgardens.Can’ttheplantsbeeradicatedfromthecitylimits?Themayorunderstoodthereasoningandaskedfortimetoconsultthecitycouncil.Thecouncilmetafewdayslater,anditsmembersunleashedtheirdisdainfortheplants:thenopaleswereindeeduselesspests.Anecdotescirculated about injuries caused by those nopal thorns, but none as terrible as the wounds little Jasonhadsuffered.Inaddition,theplanthadapropensitytomultiplyintheblinkof aneye,anditwasdifficulttopullthemfromtheground.

A couple of weeks had passed when postman Freddy appeared before a city council meeting whereaproclamationwaspassedthatfirstly,declaredthenopal—theopuntiaplantcommonlyknownaspricklypearorcactus—harmfultosocietyandthecity’seconomy.Second,thecitycouncil instructed the Santa Rosa Parks and Recreation Department to eradicate the cactus frompublicspaceswithintheperimeterof thecity;andfinally,thecouncilinvitedthepublictopulltheplantfromtheirproperties.Theywentasfarassettingupatelephonelineforthosewhodidnotknowhowtodealwiththecacti.SeveralLatinocitycouncilmembers,awareof theracialconnotations,opposedthemeasurebutcouldnotstopthedecisionthatwouldsetoffthisinfamousepisode—yetanother—inthehistoryof theUnitedStates.

The Santa Rosa Gazette published a brief report the next day: “The Santa Rosa City Council orders the eradication of nopal cacti after a terrible incident in which an infant lost an eye when hefellononeof thethorn-coveredplantsthathaveinvadedthecity.”

Assoonastheproposalwasannounced,anoutcryof outragedvoicessurfacedinSantaRosa.University-educatedpeople,teachersfrompublicschoolsandthelocalcollegecalleditabsurd,radicalandexaggerated:“It’sliketryingtokillaflywithabullet,”onecommented.TheSantaRosaHorticultureSociety,namedafterLutherA.Burbank,thecity’sprodigalsonandcelebratedbotanistwhodiedin1926,heldastormysessionthatlastedseveralhours.Atfirst,itsmembers, as lovers of plants and rational thinkers, agreed the measure was wrong and bogus: Why blame the cacti? Men and plants can live together in harmony, but it is up to society to take properprecautions.However,somenotedthatnopalcactuscanbecomeapest,andmanyplantsconsideredaspestsareeradicated.SomeonerecalledthatthereveredLutherBurbankhad,inthe early twentieth century, bred a harmless, thornless cactus, Burbank Spineless Opuntia, which onsomeof Sonomafarmsservedasafeedforlivestock.Examplesof thisvarietyweredisplayedafewfeetfromthesociety’sheadquarters.Themayorhadthereforemadetherightdecision.Tempersflaredandpeacefulbotanistsbegantoflinginsultslikewrestlingfans;noonecouldrememberanincidentinthetown’shistorythatdividedthepeopleasthisonehad.Frustrated,the society’s members left the meeting in the middle of the night without having resolved the thornyissueonewayortheother.


On the other hand, La Raza Center in Santa Rosa, an organization of self-proclaimed Latinos, mostly descendants of Mexicans, did not have to deliberate for long to pass a strong manifesto of repudiation.Thecenterproclaimedthecitycouncilwasbiased,racistandviolatedlegalandlong-standinghealthyLatinotraditions,suchascultivatingandconsumingnopales.Dozensof Latinogroupsfromalloverthecountry,alertedbyLaRaza,floodedtheCityof SantaRosawithmessagesof outrage.ThelegislativeLatinoCaucusinSacramentoevenfiledalawsuitto invalidate the despicable measure in Santa Rosa, and they alerted MALDEF as well as the ACLU.

TheWashingtonPostshedadifferentlightonthenews,recallingabsurddecisionsliketheoneby Carmel’s City Council, when the famous actor Clint Eastwood was mayor of the city, that forbadewomenfromwearinghighheelswhenwalkingonthecobblestonestreets.

ElectionsforCalifornia’sgovernorwerecomingsoon.Amongtheimpromptucandidateswhonever fail to appear, one stood out for being bold and talkative, a candidate whose ignorance was surpassedonlybyhisarrogance.HisnamewasBobH.Rose,aNewportBeachbillionairewho’ddecidedtothrowhishatintotheringdespitehispoliticalinexperience.Clearly,hehadsomewell-establishedsectarianandclassistideas.Hismottowas“ForaTrueandStrongCalifornia.”For“True,”itwasunderstood“aCaliforniaof whitepeopleforwhitepeople.”Afixtureof theNationalRifleAssociation,Rosehadalsocoinedtheeasyandeffectivemottoof “GunsandRose.”

A man of great political intuition, Rose appreciated the nascent controversy over the nopal cactusesandperceivedaterrificopportunityathand.“ForGod’ssake,”heexclaimed.“Whatvoter is going to defend a useless plant that’s not even American?” He received the Jimnez family in front of reporters, and paraded little Jason before the cameras as he pointed to the disgraceful blackpatchoverhislefteye.Thischild,hedeclared,wasavictimof thecriminalnegligenceof ourelectedofficials,whohavebeentoolaxwiththeplaguesthatcomefromoutside.“Notonemore Jason,” he thundered, and invited all California city councils to pass regulations similar to theoneinSantaRosa.If elected,hepromisedtoissueaverytoughlawtoeradicate“thatandotherscumthatdon’trepresenttherealCalifornia.”

The candidate made the “The JJ Case,” as it was starting to be called, his cause, and he took the Jimnezes,fatherandson,toeverypoliticalrallyheheld,justasacircusalwayshasdwarfs.

“Pricklypear”wasanunpronounceableword.“Cactus,”impersonalandevenpedantic.HediscoveredthatinSpanishitwascallednopal:NO-PAL!No-friend!Itwastheperfectword.Hecreated a couple of new campaign slogans:

BURNTHENOPAL ROSEVSNOPAL

In his rallies, he displayed the child and asked, rhetorically and euphorically “AND WHAT ARE WEGOINGTODOWITHTHENOPAL?”Andhisfollowerswouldchant:“BURNIT!”


Andthentheyallwouldchanttogether:“BURN-NO-PAL!BURN-NO-PAL!”

Rose’s opponents had the ill-advised strategy of summoning scientists who demonstrated the absurdity of blaming a plant as Californian as the sequoia, or the Vitis californica, for thestate’smanyevils.Roseignoredthemandwouldsimplyshowupinatownand,amonggrowingnumbersof followers,setfiretoamoundof nopalcactuses.Morecitycouncilsvotedtoeradicatethecacti,except,of course,thosecitieswhereLatinoswereamajority.“Youwillsee,”Rose threatened “Someday, sooner than you can imagine, I’ll make every county in the state end that plague, because California is one and indivisible!”

In an interview by a national news outlet, Rose asked insidiously, “And that plant, isn’t it on the flagof acountrysomewhere?Don’ttellmetheplantisnotalien.Letthemkeepit!”Anamateurexpertininternationalaffairs,hepontificated:“Wekeepourplants.Letthemkeeptheirs.Respectforthisprinciplemeanspeace.”

From that night on, anonymous donors and powerful conservative groups in the country depositedmillionsof dollarsintohiscampaignaccount.Afewmonthslater,RosehadwontheelectionandmovedtoSacramento.Hehadhisfirstlegislationready:theAlienNoxiousandInvasivePlantsAct.Toavoidtargetingasingleplant,hisastuteadvisersdustedoffalistof California plants harmful to the interests of farmers and selected some with foreign names, such as the Imperata brasiliensis or Brazilian satintail, the Genista monspessulana known as French broom,andaplantof menacingname,theLyciumferocissimumorAfricanboxthorn.Theyaddedthemtohisbill.

InthestateAssembly,angergrew.TheLatinocaucusrepresentedhalf thechamber,andnolegislatorinthatgroupwaswillingtopasssuchasinisterlaw.Roseblackmailedandthreatenedto again take away drivers’ licenses for the undocumented and to veto budgets for projects in opposinglegislators’districts.Thelatterworkedbetterthantheformer.Afteranintensebattle,theAssemblyrelented,because,afterall,theredidn’tseemtobeanyforeseeablefinancialburden.Roseheldinhishandsthetoolthatallowedhimtoforcestateemployeesatalllevelstoannihilatethetargetof hisangerandinstrumentof hisvictory.FreddyJimnezwasappointedState Coordinator for the Eradication of Noxious Plants, and began touring California, jaunty in alargenewvanembellishedwithofficialsealsonbothsides.

Enforcementof thelawwashandedtotheDepartmentof FoodandAgriculture.Fateforcedme, a second-generation Latino, an agronomist and employee at the DFA, to prepare detailed instructionsforallthestate’scounties.Whydidn’tIaskforajobinanotherdepartment,whydidn’tIquit?Imustadmit:Ichickenedoutandbetrayedmyownpeople.Ionlythoughtaboutmycomfortablejobandmyhomemortgage.I’mashamedtosayit:Iwrotethosedirectives.

I felt a stab in the heart when my own mother asked me if I knew about the terrible measure: “Mijo,thisissobad!Rememberyourpapito.Helovedsomuchhishuevosconnopales!”Ineverytown,allthenopaleshadtobeclearedaway.Squadsof stateandmunicipalagentswere


trainedintheuseof electricsaws,machetesandflamethrowers.Thousandsof glovesweredistributedsothethornswouldn’thurtanyone.Thosethornsthathadhalf blindedthelittleJimnezboy.ThepicturesquenopalcactusesdisappearedfromBalboaParkandallCaliforniaJesuitMissions.

One night, on television, I sat frozen watching the governors of California, Arizona and Texas together.Irememberedaphotographfrommyhighschoolhistorybook,watchingStalin,ChurchillandRooseveltdividinguptheworld.Thegovernorstalkedaboutthenopalesandmadeapact.Apact!Thepacttoeradicatethenopalplantsfromtheirrespectivestates.Rosewaselated.Hestatedhehadalreadyfulfilled30percentof theeradicationplaninhisownstate.Thiscampaign,hethought,handledskillfully,couldtakehim—whynot?—totheWhiteHouse...

Thentheresistancewasborn.

Thousands of anonymous, humble, rough and calloused hands, mostly women’s, began to work in silence to save the plants that had accompanied them all their lives, just like the brightly coloredsodasandtheVirginsof Guadalupeintheirlivingrooms.Freshlycutnopalpadswereplanted in old buckets, large tin cans and, at the very least, in clay pots, and sheltered out of publicviewinbackyards.Becauseyoumustknow,thenopal,likeallcacti—natureissowise!—reproducesfromcuttings;rootsgrowquicklyfromthepadsandanewplantisborn.Itwasan unconscious collective action, from Salinas to Fresno, from Yuba City to Temecula, born of ancestralwisdomandadeepsenseof preservation.

Smallactivistgroupsemergedtobringattentiontotheissue.Outof theblue,onemorninginfront of the governor’s mansion in Sacramento, a trash can appeared with a nopal plant more than six feet tall with the following message stuck amongst the plants’ thorns: THE NOPAL BELONGSTOCALIFORNIA.Ananonymousphonecallhadalertedtelevisionstations,anditmadeheadlinesforawholeday.Rosechosenottopayanyattentiontothematter.

Inacrowdedstadium;afewstepsfromthelegendaryseventhholeof PebbleBeach;duringaHollywoodfilmpremier;facingtheUnionSquareChristmastreeinSanFrancisco;attheOtayPortof Entry,nopalplantsappearedwithsimilarmessagesandwereallremovedpromptly.Walls and pillars across California were painted with images of nopales of all sizes and shades of green. The governor didn’t laugh when he, the California Assembly, the members of his cabinet, and the state’s Supreme Court justices all received a small prickly pear plant on the same day in a flirtatiouspotdisplayingacardwiththeinscription:“Fromtheresistancewithlove.”

Thegovernordemandedtofindtheperpetratorsimmediately.Theyhadbrokenthelawof harmfulforeignplantsbydisseminatingprohibitedspeciesthroughoutthestate.


Itwasn’thardtofindtheculpritsthroughthedeliverycompany’strackingsystem.Theguiltypartywasagroupof well-to-dostudentsatPitzerCollege,Claremont,inEastL.A.,agroupof youngstersencouragedbytheirChicanohistoryteacher.

“These Latino preppies will get what they deserve,” declared the governor, who had been nicknamedbytheresistanceasnopalhaterorEnemyof theNopal.LaterthenicknamemutatedastheNopalator,similartothatof hispredecessor,theGovernator.

Theyouthswerearrestedandquicklyreleasedafterpayingamodestfine.ButRosedemandedthe dismissal of the university professor from his job and an investigation into the origin of the plants.Thingsstartedtogetcomplicated.Theprofessorwasafriendof thePresidentof theStateAssembly,whohadgraduatedfromthesamecollege.

There was a heated controversy between those who saw the youths’ actions as an act of free expressionandthosewhodemandedstrictenforcementof thelaw.Hurried,pressured,andtimid,thePitzerBoarddecidedtopunishtheprofessor.Studentsblockedtheuniversity’sentrancesandbeganasit-in,anactthathadnotbeenseensincetheVietnamWarera.

State investigators found the clandestine nurseries that sold nopales to the Pitzer boys in East L.A.neighborhoods,andarelentlessraidwaslaunched.MycousinMauriliotoldmehowtenmen in black, armed and hooded, knocked down the door of one of his friends and slipped into theplastic-protectedyard.Theycarelesslytrampledovercountlessmarijuanaplantsandtooktheevidencetheywerelookingfor:acoupledozennopales.“Theplantsweren’tevenprofitable,”mycousinsighed.“Wehadthemoutof solidarity.”

Thechasebecameahunt.Dozensof peoplewerearrestedalloverthestate,includingapoorblindgrandmotherbecauseadefiantnopalgrewbyherdoor.Jinmezofficiatedasanimprovisedsolicitor, displaying the thorny prickly pears, wearing an absurd bulletproof vest in front of the cameras.

“Why doesn’t the Mexican government do something? Why doesn’t it move? What about its tenconsulatesinthestate?”askednumerousoutragedLatinoleadersandcommunitymembers.InMexicoCity,finally,alukewarmstatementfromtheForeignAffairsDepartment“expressedconcern,” “deplored excesses,” urged to “ensure unrestricted respect for human rights,” “made a call for restraint” and — oh, such forcefulness! — invited Governor Rose to a “serene, objective andinclusive”dialogue.TheNopalatorignoredthemessageandtheinvitation.

During the Cinco de Mayo parade in Santa Ana, as the Mexican consul waved from a Plymouth Belvedere convertible that slowly crossed 4th Street, just six feet from the car a Mexican man whisperedarepulsive“puto”(sissy)tohim,withoutmovingamuscleonhisface.Theman’sneighborhearditandrepeatedthewordwithabitmorecourage.Fiftyyardsahead,theinterjectionhadbecomeclamor.Theconsulchoseashamefulescapetodishonorwithoutdefenseandjumpedfromthevehicleanddisappearedintothecrowd.Countlesssmartphones


recordedthescene,andsocialmediadestroyedtheconsul’sreputationinafewhours.

Inthisunequalstruggle,thesufferingpeopleonceagaindecidedtotakejusticeintotheirownhands.Underground,tonsof freshnopalestookthenorthernroad.Attheborder,entirebaleswerefoundhiddeninMexicantrucksbehindvariousgoodssuchaspiñataswithRose’seffigy.The governor demanded the federal government close the border with Mexico and threatened tomobilizetheNationalGuard.InWashington,thepresidentdiscussedthenatureof thethreatinasessionof theNationalSecurityCouncil.Thedecisionwasdelayed.

Theconsumptionof nopalcouldnotbeprohibited,asitdidnotpresentahealthrisk.Itbecamefashionable to feature it on the menu of restaurants in Beverly Hills and Malibu, on top of the lasagnaorchoppedandcoldassnow.Asmallpinintheformof agreennopalwasthemostexquisiteformof resistanceseenonalapelorablouse.

Theundergroundproductionof nopalgrew.Couldanotherresultreallybeexpected?Iwarnedmysuperiors:Thiswarcan’tbewon.Theydidn’tlisten.

The Los Angeles Times reported the following news on July 28:

InLosPadresNationalForest,parkrangerssupportedbyofficialsfromtheDepartmentof FoodandAgriculturewipedoutanillegalfarmof approximately240acresof nopalplants.Onthesite, which was hard to reach due to its location in the middle of a mountain, they found only abandoned tarps, picks, shovels and forklifts, and a pile of approximately 500 pounds of nopales readytobeplanted.“TheseplantscertainlycomefromMexico,”saidtheSantaBarbaraSheriff,who had been assigned to the criminal investigation, “and as in so many other similar cases, you seethehandof thatcountry’sorganizedcrime.”

Musicisthecomfortandsanctuaryof theoppressed.Atmymother’shouse,inthetraditionalChristmas gathering, after tequilas and atole, the elders pulled out their guitars and improvised a melancholy“corrido”inhomagetothegreatmusicianLaloGuerrero.Ithenwrotedowntheirwords:

I am the nopal, gentlemen, IwasbornontheAmericanside.Timid and full of fear, BecauseI’mstraightfromMexico. The gringos discriminate against me Asif Iwereaforeigner.Even though this land wasfirstpartof Mexico.

I am pure nopal,


mysapismedicine.My pads are great to roast on a comalAndIamprotectedbythorns.

It’s not my fault to be born Ontheothersideof theRíoBravo.This nopal says goodbye, See ya later and ¡Allí los wacho!

Hip hop, scream rap, grime, reaggaeton — all these rhythms helped young people express in theirownwaytheiroutrage,angerandhelplessness.Withringedandtattooedfingersinfrontof hundredsof entrancedfollowers,RapperLilFuego,firedoffthelyricsof hisCalifornopalmanifesto, which began as follows:

Hey you, perro, loco chacal, Leave the calles of my barrio, Listen: My people will use lethal force If you keep exterminating my sacred nopal!

Easter came and neither the struggles for justice nor the repression by Rose’s henchmen had subsided.IntheChurchof OurLadytheQueenof LosAngeles,asoneveryResurrectionSunday,theparishpriestledaProcessionof Joy.AstheywalkedbythePlacitaOlvera,behindhim were girls and boys in white coat and gloves, pious women of all ages and two images, the ResurrectedChristandtheVirginof Triumphcarriedonstrongshoulders.

NoonenoticedwhenNazarioshowedupattheendof theprocession.HeworeFranciscansandals, a white robe and carried a large cross lined with dark nopales nailed to the wood onallsides.Hewasthereincarnationof thePenitentChrist,magnificentandterrible,withaflourishingbeardandhislonghairbearingacrownof thorns.Hemovedslowlywithoutcomplaining.Beforehim,thepeople,overwhelmed,graduallyyieldedtheirspaceuntilhefoundhimself behindtheVirginMary.Thelongnopalthornspiercedhisskinandbloodrandownhis arms and broad back, inking in red the thin fragile cloth that covered parts of his body and resembledtheveryshroudof theSonof God.

Awomanscreamedatsuchanunbearablevision.Thecrowdalertedthepriest,whowentovertoarguewiththeincongruouscrucifiedmaninhisprocessionabouttherisenLord,messengerof peaceandhappiness.“Son,”hecalledoutatcloserange,buthisvoicebroke.Nazario’sgazeradiatedinfinitemercyandatthesametimerelentlesswill,asif hedidnotfeelthepainproduced by every thorn that lacerated his skin, as if he were atoning, alone, for all the evil that hadbroughtontheNopalesWar.Hisjudgmentshaken,thepriestwithoutawordtooktheleadof theprocession,whichfolloweddownAlamedaStreet.PeoplebegantoincessantlyphotographandfilmNazario.Thenewsspreadlikelitgunpowder.Televisioncamerasarrivedandtheslow


walkof thecrucifiedmanof LosAngelesappearedliveonthenews.Peoplewerestunned.Journalists tried unsuccessfully to get a word out of the penitent who glided along in his pain, entranced,abovetheearthlynoise.

Now a crowd had joined the procession, which eventually returned to the parish by Father SerraPark.MexicanmerchandisevendorsonOlveraStreethadlefttheirstallstocheckoutthemiraculousapparition.Noonedaredtouchhimbutmorethanafewimpassionedbelieverskneeledbeforehim,beggingforgiveness.

Severalbystanders,notunderstandingthevalueof purificationthroughsacrifice,dialed911anddemanded the intervention of law enforcement to stop the atrocity, a barbaric and cruel act that hasnoplaceinacountryliketheUnitedStates.

Whatfollowedwasconfusing.NodoubtNazariohadacolytes,becausehowdoyouexplainthe fact that he exited the procession so quickly when the police were nearby? He entered Pico Houseandthedoorsof thehistoricbuildingwereclosedbehindhim.Hereappearedontheroof,withouthiscross,standingontheparapet,inchesawayfromtheprecipice.Thecrowdstoodbelow,manyfeetdown.Thecrowdscreamedatfirstbutthenbecamesilent.Firemenstoodashortdistancefromhim.Ahelicopterflewoverandthenoisebecamedeafening.Suddenly,thePenitentChristplummeteddownward.

Nazariowasmybrother.ThebrotherIlovedthemost,theonewhoalwaysguidedmyfootsteps.Actingwashispassion,andwhenhewasyounghejoinedtheValdezbrothers’TeatroCampesino.Unlikeme,helearnedvalueourculture,toconveytoourpeopleinCaliforniapridein the Aztecs and La Raza, and the Mexican Revolution and the injustices and the struggle of CésarChávez.Formanyyearsheranthroughthenaveof theSanJuanBautistaMissiondressedas an angel and as a demon in the Christmas pastorela play, and he was Juan Diego in a play abouttheapparitionsof theVirginof Tepeyac.EmbodyingtheSonof Godwashislastandmost supreme performance, the one that made him great forever, and the one that also separated usfromhimforever.

When I saw on a screen, my eyes clouded with tears, his tragic Stations of the Cross and the fatal outcome,Iwasthefirsttodeciphertheimportanceof hismessage.IrememberedtheVirginof Guadalupe’swordsJuanDiegoutteredbeforeBishopZumárragaintheirsecondconversationcenturiesago,whichnearlycausedhimtobeflogged.TheVirginaskedforatempletobebuiltanddedicatedtoher.Mybrother,intheoldMissionof SanJuan,wheretheechoesof thestruggles for dominance of these Californian lands still resonated, and where the Mexican, son of Spanish and Indian, was today the oppressed, repeated every year:

In this way I will teach the Spaniards to see the Indian as his other self, and thus put an end to theinjusticesbeingcommittedinthenameof JesusChrist.

Nazario’ssacrificewasnotvain.Thepersecutionof thenopalceasedabruptly,andwhich,in


theend,hadcausednodeathsbutmybrother’s.Thepeoplewhohadprotectedtheplantcameoutof theprisons.InSacramento,GovernorRose,theNopalator,declareda“totalvictory”andendedtheexterminatingcampaign.Butnoonewasfooled:thewarhehadwagedwasunsustainableandabsurdlycostly.Thestateassemblyrepealedtheinfamouslaw.

And Freddy Jimnez? He was photographed in Lake Tahoe with two voluptuous blondes inside hisofficialstatevan.Formonthshehaddisguisedcountlesspaymentsmadeinbars,casinosandbrothelsasofficialexpenses,andheendedupinprisonaseveryonelostinterest.LittleJasonliveswithhismotherinanotherstate.

* * * * *

Ifindmyself cleaningthetombof Nazarioatthefootof theRockyMountains.Histombstoneistall,guardedbytwoOpuntiaficus-indicathataregrowingquickly.TheyhadcomebacktolifebehindawallatSanJuanMissionandIcarefullytransportedthemfromthere.Wealsoplacedastatueof ourVirginand,kneelingbeforeher,anotherof SanJuanDiego.Soon,thefirstbuswillarrivewithpilgrimsseekingfavorsfromtheChristof theNopales.Somealreadywanttoerectachapel.ManycomeallthewayfromMexicotoaskformiracles.Theysayhe’stheChristof Hopeforthosewhosufferfromatyrannicalfather,anarrogantbossoradespoticauthority.


BrunoFigueroa@BrunoBFigueroatriestofindwisdomwanderingtheworldasaMexicandiplomat.HewasconsulgeneralinSanJose,Ca.,andcurrentlylivesinSeoul,SouthKorea.TheNopalesWarishisfirstfictionalwork.

Jorge Chino is a dedicated English-Spanish translator with many years of experience recreating textsandproducingtranslationswiththesamequalityastheoriginalcreations.Hecurrentlyspends his time writing and working in Santa Cruz California and the mountains of the Sierra MadreOrientalinMexico.


Dark Wooden SlabsBy Mei Mei Sun

Thereisanotherhouseweowninmydreams,alldark-woodenslabsandgold-flakedmarble.Itusedtobelongtooneof ourfamilyfriends,theoneswhomovedtoElPasowhenthegoing got tough for an aunt and she went to jail for any dice’s throw of years on racketeering charges.Wasn’therfault,herbrotheralwaysreassureduswiththehangdoglookhealwaysworewhenwesawhimafterwards,anydecentpersonwould’vedonethesameinthosekindof times.She, in another show of irresponsibility so overt it bewildered my ten-year-old mind, passed on the inculcated shame to her family, who subsequently left the city and its complementary threat of ostracization months afterwards, taking the deep cuts to their mortgage and reputation as necessarycollateralagainstacitythatneverforgotalapseinone’ssavinggraces. And so we got their house, the one with the brick façade that resembled some weak distil-lationof ArtNouveau.Apartingpresent,thedadhadinsistedwiththeshamelessdesperationof usedcarsalesmen.Arealbargainfortheprice,hejabbedatsomelineonahandwrittencon-tract with rudely perforated edges, and besides, my parents weren’t the type to put much stock inarchitecturalintegrity.Andsomyparentsgrippedtheballpointpen,stillattachedtoitssilverumbilical cord signifying its past as a bank teller’s daily manipulation, and signed above a dotted linesocrookeditwould’vemadealow-grademetaphorforamore-skilledwriter. My parents designate it the ‘entertaining’ house, but we only host ourselves once a year or so–– the other times, it sits unused on a stone sidewalk of linoleum until one of my dad’s mar-ginal buddies calls because his WiFi got jammed, you see, and did he know of a place? My dad, ever the charismatic host, agrees: what’s the point of having a house when it’s never used? My mother sees the property value in the neighborhood’s zoned schools, and suggests that werentitout. Nonsense, my dad replies, a house can never feel like home again after someone else lives thereduringtheinterim. It’s never felt like ours to begin with, I want to interject, but know much better than to do sowhenhe’sinoneof theserarelyimpassionedmoods. And so the house sits with its high beam ceilings, unforgivingly stoic save for one sole he-lium welcome-home! balloon caving in on itself under the immense pressure of its surroundings, aneyesoreamongstthecream-coloredcrownswherethewallsmeettogether.Ilookatthevirgincorners, teeming with the pristine reservation of a remote still wrapped in plastic, and think, this housecouldneverfeellikehome.


BorninYokohama,Japan;Chinese-AmericanMeiMeiSunnowresidesinLosAngeles,Califor-nia.Readmoreaboutheratmeimeisun.org.

http://meimeisun.org


T.V.C.#8:Acrylic&GouacheonPaper

Monica Valdez 2018


Finds Heaven By l Scully

Lfindsheaveninthelapof anolderwoman.Theyawakenburrowedinthefoldsof herdress,gauzyfromdreamland.Lfeelsnopangatthethoughtof theirdeath,perfectandgenderless,divineandself-inflicted.Allthatledthemhere.Thereisnobloodinheaven.ThewomanisstrokingL’ssideburnspiously,andLfeelsontopof theworld.Lisontopof theworld,hereinheaven.Thewoman’sfacefloatsabovetheirsandtheyfeeltheirbodycleansedof thetoxinstheybreathedinBelow.Thewomansmilesandtheyfeeltheirheartpullitself backtogether.ThewomanwearsbraceletsupherarmandLwantstoclimbthemlikerungsof aladdertoherlips.Ldoesn’tknowquitewhosheisbutknowssheistheknowerof allthings.Theirfingertipsbrushand L transfers the memory of the chaos of Below to the woman, and she cries silver tears for thepeoplestillsufferingdownthere.Lspendseveryagelessdaywiththewoman,beingstrokedandpetted,tendedtodelightedly.OnedaythewomancarvesLoutof marble,cuttingL’sedgesandsinewingL’scurvesintoamasterpieceof agravemarker.Ltakesthewoman’shand,hertoolstillinit,andvowstostaywithherforever.ThewomanspeaksbutnowordscomeoutandLrememberstobreathe.ThewomanplacesherlongfingersoverL’seyesocketsandblocksoutallthelight.Lwakesup.


L Scully (they/them) is a queer, nonbinary American emerging writer and artist currently based inMadrid.Theirworkfocusesmainlyonsexuality,gender,andmentalillness,aswellasloveonoccasion.Findthemintheether@cavemaam.


TheBlueButterfliesBy MeHreen aHMeD

Thewaratethe14-year-olds.Suchwerethedays,whenyoungboyswieldedswordsanddiedonthesedusts.Politicians,drunkintherevelryof powerandgreed,sentmoreandmoreelder-lyandtheyoungtojointhearmytofightsenselessbattlesinthenameof theKing.Notknowingwhosewarstheyfought,thesesoldierswereaperfectcannonfodder.Wars,whichtookplacesomemanymoonsago,underhotsunsandrisingsandsof thedesertGulaag. TheGulaag,wasvastanddry.Itwashardtospotanoasisanywhere.Thiswasanemptyspacemadeupof rippledsanddunesandsporadicbarrelcacti.Kingsthoughtthisaridlandwasidealforbattle. Atatimelikethis,ababyboywasborn.HisnamewasHajji.Hismothernamedhiminhisfather’sabsence,becausethefatherwastakenbytheimperialforcelongbeforehisbirth.Hegrew up without opulence with his mother in this small town in eastern Gulaag on the border betweentwowarringkingdoms. Thewarswerefarfromover.ThisgodforsakenlandGulaag,couldn’tbeappeasedanytimesoon.Royalarmiesfedonthevulnerable,asdidtheirsinfulpaymasters.Thisever-hungrybeast;nonumberof humans,camels,orhorseswasenoughtosatisfythebottomlesspitof thisstunningde-sert. Hajji’smother,Jainab,hadnootherplacetogo.Thiswaswhereshemuststay,onthislittlepatchof landherhusbandhadleftforher.HerfatewastiedupwiththeGulaag.Butshelivedinconstantfear,likeeveryothermotherontheland.Theywereafraidthatthearmywouldcomeaftertheirsons.Hajjihadjustturnedtwelve.Jainabsurveilledhimaroundtheclockandkepthimclose.Sometimesshewouldsendhimtotendthesheepfaroutintothedesert. Today,inthefirstlightof morning,Hajjitookoff.Beforethesunrose,hetookhisflockfromtheshedatthebackof theirmudhouseandheadedtowardstheGulaag.Thosewerethequiet-estmoments;thearmysleptatthesehours.Hewalkednearlyaquarterof amileintothedesert,whenhesawagreatnumberof tentsstrewnacross.Soldiersrestedinthosetentsfromalongnight’sshift.TheGulaag,sleptlikeagiantattheirfeet.Hajjiwalkedovertheplacidsandsaheadof hisherd.Thenheheardasmallcrybeyondoneof therippleddunes.Hajjistopped.Itwasafeeblecry,almostawhimper.Itdidn’tsoundlikeahumanvoice.Hebegantofollowthesound.Itwasahumanvoiceafterall.Itcamefromaboy,abouthisage,crawlingoversandslides.Heappearedwounded.Manycutsandbruisesbesethislittlebody.Hajjiranoverandsatdownbyhisside. “Areyouhurt?”Hajjiasked. Theboylookedathimwide-eyedandnodded. “Whodidthistoyou?”Hajjiaskedagain. “Enemy,”hesaid.“Water,water,mayIhavesome?” Hajjilookedaround.Throughserendipity,hefoundsomepricklypearsbythedunes.Un-derandoverthesandhesearchedforsomethingsharp.Hefoundone;aflatpebble. “Hang in there, okay?”


Hajjicutsomepulpwiththesharpedgeof thepebble.Hetookthepricklesoutcarefully.Hepouchedthepulpintothecornerof hislongshirtandcamebacktotheboy.Heaskedhimtoopenhismouth.Ashedidso,Hajjisqueezedthepulpoverhismouth.Dropletsfilteredthroughstraightintotheboy’smouth. “I’llhavetopiggybackyouhomewithmeif Ican’tfindacamel.Itistoodangeroustostealfromthem,thearmythere,”Hajjitoldtheboy. Theboyfelttooweak.Hiswoundswerefresh.Hesaidnothing,butwaitedforHajjitomakearrangements.Hajjiwalkedacrossthewidedunetolookforacamel.Hefoundonenearthearmytents.Thebeastof thedesertstoodaloof,tiedtoatent’shook.WhenHajjipeekedthroughoneof thetent’sopenings,hiseyesfellonseveralmensleeping.Toocloseforcomfort,someof themwerechildwarriors. Theyslepthuddledtogether,deadtotheworld.Hajjiwalkedbehindatent.Hesawafewguardsdrowninginsleep.Hewalkedpastthemunnoticedandwentuptothecamel.Hehidbehinditshindlegs,movedhislithebodybetweenthecamel’sfourlankylegs.Atasnail’space,hegottothehook,wherethecamelwastiedwitharope.Heuntieditandgotthecameloffthehook.Hehelditbyitsreinandbroughtitover.Thearmysleptheavily. Jainabsatonthethresholdof herhouse.Hajjiwaslatetoday.Sheboiledsomechick-peasoveraclaystove.“Whereismyboy?Ihopesoldiershaven’ttakenhim!”Ashiverranrightthroughherspineatthethought.Thisbroughthermemorybacktowhenherhusbandlivedwithher.Somewerehappymemories.Otherswerenot,butunforgettableallthesame.

Thiswasnotwhereshehadmethim,notinthishouse,butsomeplaceelseontheGulaag.Shehadbeentravellingwithhernomadictribefordaysonend.Oneday,wheneveningfell,thecavalcadestoppedtocampinthemiddleof anowhere.Theyanchoredthetentsintothesand.Acoldblastblew.Theylitafire.Menandwomensataroundit.Amanplayedamoonsongonhisfiddle.Oth-ersrosetoperformadance.Themesmerisingsongandthefiredancecausedamoonlightslideontheopendesert.Themoonpouredoutitslights.Theygushedlikeasilverstreamof frozenwater-fall.Floodlightstouchedthedunes. Therehewas,astranger.Onlyheavensknewwherehehadcomefrom.Hewasaladof twenty;she,barelyeighteen.Theyhadsatacrossthedesertfire.Shethoughtof himasararebreed.Shehadgazedathiminthecampfire.Caughtoff-guardinanenchantment,shecouldn’ttakehereyesoffhim,asonecouldn’t,if struckbyahostof bluebutterfliesrestingonthetrunkof agiantkapokinthesun. Hehadsmiledandsheshothimashyglance.Afterthattheybothknewthattherewerenoretreats.Atmidnight,whenthetribewenttobed,shehadcomeouttowaitunderastarrysky.Hewasthere.Hislongshadowloomedonthecalmsandbyapileof dyingfirewood.Shesawashad-owmove,toweringoverher.Heheldherhandandpulledhertowardshimawayfromthestationarycavalcade.Theystumbledonthesandandrolledover,oneontopof theotherinthesatinglowof silver:themoon,thestars,andalltheconstellations. Thenextdaythesunroseoverthedunes,gleaminginsparkledgold.HehadwalkedovertoJainab’sfatherwithamarriageproposal.Jainab’sfatherlikedhimtoo,buthehadquestions.Wherewashefrom?Whatdidhedo?Hesaidhewasafarmer.Jainabdidn’tcarewhathedidor


wherehelived.Shewasjusthappytobewithhim.Aweddingsoonensuedandittookplaceinthedesert.ThemangaveJainabagoldcoin.Theshortceremonyconcludedinpresenceof thetribe. Thatnight,therewasafeastintheopen-air.Wilddancesandsongsof thehearttookplace.Onthissandsea,anislandof smallfireburned.Thewomencookedupastorm.Buttherewasan-otherstorm.Asandstormwasunleashedtowardsthelatenight.Itblewrussetparticleseverywhere,darkeningtheworldtoblindness.Everyonetookcoverwithintheirowntents.Whilepeoplelaylow,onlythestoiccamelsstoodtheirground.Anewtentwassetupforthenewly-weds.Thestormyielded.Ittooksometime.Peoplecameoutof theirtents.Theysatdowninthesameplaceandbegantosingagainunderthedesertmoon.Thenewlywedremainedindoors.Thenightpassedandanewsunrose.Timetomoveon.Jainabandhermanpackedtheirluggage.Theysaidfarewelltothetribe.Therewerenotearsof separation.Thiswasthenomadicway.Tears were un-necessary, because they believed that on life’s resolute journey, people were bound tomeetagain. HisnamewasHashimuddin.Jainablookedathimandsoftlyaskedwheretheyweregoing.Hetoldhertheyweregoingeast.Therewasadeserttavernalongtheway.Shecouldresthereif sheneededto.Butshesaidshewasokay.Uncertaintydidn’tbotherher.Thatwashernomadicup-bringing.Intheevening,theyarrivedatthedestination.Amellowedsunhadbeenhurledovertothewesternsky.Jainabcouldseeaborderbetweenthiskingdomandthat;theenemyterritory,withwhomtheywereperpetuallyatwar.Alongtheborder,shealsosawabigpatchof greeneryandarowof redmudhouses.Hashimuddinveeredthecameltowardsoneandpulleditsreinstoastopinthefrontof ahouse.HehelpedJainabtogetoff. AfterJainabandHashimuddinhaddeparted,thenomadssataround.Theywereenjoy-ingacupof teaandmakingpreparationstogetthecavalcadebackontheroad.Justaswelltheyheardhorses.TheGulaagwasahostileplace.Sporadicwarsbrokeoutinablink.Notsurpris-ingly,asitu-ationemergedoutof theblue.Thetribefoundthemselvesamidstavolatilearmy,whoheldthemcaptiveatrazor’sedge.Sharpbladespiercedtheirheartsandslashedtheirneckslikebutcheredchickens.Thegoldsanddunesturnedscarletwithslainheadsscatteredallover.Atotalanarchyde-scended.Theircamelsweretaken.Childrenandwomenbecamespoilsof wartobeturnedintomurderoussoldiersandsexslavesovernight. HashimuddinandJainabescapedallthisjustbyafewhours.Theywereontheedgeof theeasternGulaagwhenthishappened;criescouldn’tbeheardfromhere.Jainabreachedhernewhomefeelingsafeandwarminlove,withoutanyknowledgeof themassacre. Suchhorrendousbreakoutswerecommon.Adivineselectionwhichwerecutoutforthepeopleof thislandalone.Religion,morality,philosophy,oranyknownwisdomprovedtobefutile.Aplaceriddledwithgreed,corruption,andacompletedisregardforanylife,humanoranimal.

Jainab’ssonwasstillnothome.Itwasevening.Shesatbythefireandkindledittocookameal.Shelookedoutintermittently,andsawamirage.Itwasallblurry;visionsof indecipherableout-linesacrossthespace;shecontinuedtolookearnestly.Thevisionsbecamemoredefined.Theyweresmallbutclearer.Shesawthem,walkingthroughthemirage.Shestoodupinexcitement:


itwasherson,Hajji.ButHajjiwasnotalone.Therewasacamelandbodylayingoverit.Sherushedouttomeetthem. Herthoughtsbended;thedaywhenthesoldiershadcometotakeHashimuddin.Thatmorn-ing,thesunstreamedlowthroughthecracksof themudhousewindows.HashimuddinandJainab,deepinembraceonthethresholdof thedoor.Shewasonherwaytothekitchen.Hashimuddinheldherback.Hegrabbedherrightarmandpulledhertowardshischest. “Where do you think you’re going?” Ohthosesweet,sweetwordshummedmusictoherears.“Tomakebreakfast.” “No.Ihavetotieyoutomylongshirttostopyourunningaway.” Shehadlaughed.Hashimgazedatherbeautifulsmile.“If youkeepsmilinglikethatImayneverbeabletoletyougo.” Hehadwhispered,andkissedherhenna-fragranthair,losinghisfaceinitsmass.Shelaughedagain.Hashimpulledhertohismuscularchest. “C’mon,youhavetoletmegosometime.” “Anddoyouthinkit’sfairtoaskmetoletyougo?Hmm?”heasked. “Gosh, you’re crazy, you know that?” ”AmIcrazy?If yousayso,thenIam.Completelynuts,becauseI’minlovewithyou,myprettyone,”hesaidhuskily. Jainabcouldsmellthehukkahinhisbreath.Hewhispered.“Oh,Icouldnever,everletyougo.” Hepressedallof hersoftnesswithhisgentlehands.Shelayonhischestlikearag-doll.Shelethimkissher.Hecaressedher.Shekissedhimback;amillionloveheartssoaredwithinher.Herhighlaughterjingledacrescendonote.Hashimuddin,herbluebutterfly,wasararity.Whohadcrossedherpathonaneveningof munificence?Herromancehadbloomedlikeanopensunflowerinthewilderness. Afewdayson;sherealisedthatshewaswithchild.Shehadn’ttoldhimyet.Shedidn’thaveto,becausehersoftblushesandsmilesrevealedthesecretsof herheart.Sheresidedinthereverieof herowncolouredworld.Aseachdaywentby,Hashimwatchedheracrossthecourt-yardandwondered.Thenonemorning,shetookabathandstoodonthedoorwayof theredmudhouse,whereHashimcouldseeher.Herwethaircascadeddowntoherwaist.Hashimcouldn’tresist.Hewalkedoverandpickedherup.Atremorranrightthroughher. “What’sup?Whydoyoulooksoradiant?”heasked. “Doyouwanttoknow?Doyoureally,reallywanttoknow?”shesmiled. “Theshysmiles.Thesidelongglances,You’redoingitagain,”hesaid. “What? What am I doing?” “Crazy,you’remakingmecrazyagain,tofallheadoverheelsinlovewithyou.” Heheldhernarrowwaist,andliftedherup.Hecouldlookintoherkohl-blackeyes.Atthismoment,hisprettyJainabwasthedark-kohlenchantress. “You’regoingtobeadaddysoon,”shesaidgently,andloweredherblushingface. “Whaaat?OhdearGod,whendidyoufindout?” He didn’t even wait for an answer, but carried her straight into the bedroom and laid herdownonthebed.Shelookedathim.Darksparklesdancedinhereyes.Heclosedhiseyesandkissedherforehead;hekissedeachpieceof herbody,likepiecesof ajigsawpuzzle,one


at a time, savouring, lingering, locking his wet lips into hers, then unlocking them soundingly, smoochingtomoveontoherneckanddown. Shefelteuphoric.Shehadavision.Shesawmillionsof bluebutterfliespastedonatreetrunkinthedepthsof theAmazon.Anoisebrokeherspell.Sheheardhoovesnearherdoorstep.Theycamecloser.Theywerethearmy.Thesoldiersbargedintothehousethroughtheflimsydoor.Thearmyof deathwieldedsharpswords.Hashimhadalreadyseenthemfirstthroughthewindow.Hepickedherupandsaid,“Run,runtotheneighbours.” “What? What about you? Aren’t you coming?” “No,Godwilling,I’llseeyouagainoneday.Nogoodbyes.Runalong,now.” Fearparalysedhersenses.Sheshooklikeapetrifiedrabbitatmidnightbeforebrightlightsonamountainpass.Hashimcontinuedtoscream.Hebackedofffromher.Shehidthereontheout-side,nailedtothewall.Sheheardscufflesinsidetheroom.Thenthenoisesof thehoovesfaded.Shesawthemacrossthedesert,Hashim’sbackonahorse.Hehadbeentaken.Thatwasthelastof it.Theendof herbluebutterfly,whichflewintotheduskinaflickerof aflutter.

Hajjiandthisotherboyweremuchcloser.Butadustroseandcoveredthem.Theobedientherdwasrightbehind.Jainabrantowardsthem.Shefellontheshiftysandsandwaited.

Herbaby,Hajji,hadcomeatthestrokeof midnight.Hewasbornninemonthsafterherhus-bandhadbeentaken.Neighboursassistedinthedelivery.Herneighbourswerelikesiblings,whotilledherlandandhelpedherout.TheysoldherchickpeasinthemarketandbroughtmoneyhometoJainab.Jainabpaidthemtheirdues.ThedaytheytookHashim,othermenintheneighbourhoodwereouttothemarket.TheyfoundHashimathomeandtookhim.Itwasherfaultthatherkohlbeauty,thisdarkspellkepthimindoors.Sheblamednoonebutherself infutilepursuit.Twelveyearsnow,Hashimhadbeenmissing.

Shesatanervouswreckonthesand.Hajjiandhiscompanionwerehomeatlast.Heranuptoherandpickedherupfromthesand.Shekissedhimandshehuggedhim. “Oh! What’s this? Why were you so late? I thought they’d taken you,” she said exasperat-ed. “No,butIfoundsomeoneontheedgeof theGulaag.He’sawoundedchildsoldier.” “Right.Let’sbringhimin,then,shallwe?” BothJainabandHajjiwalkeduptotheanimalandslidtheboy,offthecamel’sback.They carried him into the house, just the way Hashimuddin had carried her as a bride over the thresholdof themudhouse.Theboyhadmanyinjuries,shenoted,asshelaidhimdowninbed.Itwasahugetaskfixinghiswounds.Hewasacogintheirhome,anothermouthtofeed.Buthermotherlyin-stinctseggedherontonursehimandtoprotectthischild.Jainabkneltbeforehimandrubbedoffhisbloodwithaloinclothsoakedinwarmwater.Hiswoundsweredeep.Sheappliedherbalmedi-cinesandputabandageacrosshisarmsandwaist.Towardsdawn,theboyopenedhiseyesandaskedforwater.Hajjiranouttotheclosestwellintothedesertthroughthebackdoorandbroughtbackajarof water.Jainabpouredsomeintotheboy’sdrylips.Shedressedthewoundsandthoughtthatthiswouldtakesometimetorecover. Jainabrosetobrewsometeaandorganiseabreakfastinthekitchen.Shemadefalafel.


SheaskedHajjitocomeoutside.Hajji’seyeswerebloodshotfromsleeplessness.Shegavehimredteainaglassandsomefalafelwithdrydatesonaplatter. “Thesearereallynice,”hesaid.“Ihavebeensohungryandtiredsincelastnight.Idon’tthinkIcantendthesheeptoday.” “That’sokay.Youdon’tneedtogoanywhere.Afterbreakfast,gosleepwiththeboy.Doyouknowhisname?”Jainabasked. “No,hewastooweaktotalk.Iwasluckytoevenbringhimhome.Idon’tevenknowif he’safriendorfoe.” “Don’tworryaboutthat.It’snotourplacetojudgethewounded.Wedoourbesttohealthemsohecangobacktohisparents.Youtookagreatriskstealingthatcamelfromthesoldiers’camp,though.Wherewastheherd?” “Oh!Theywerearound,chewingcactusflowers,”Hajjisaidwithasmileandrosetogointohisroom. Jainabhadjustfinishedinthekitchenwhensheheardthefamiliarsounds;thesoundof hooves.Thehorseswereback.Thesoldierswereback.Sherushedintotheroomandcarriedtheboy,askingHajjitocomewithher.Shewentthroughthebackdoorintothedesert,straighttothewell.SheputHajjiinonebucketandtheboyinanother.Thelong-ropedbucketswereknotteduponapoleoverthewell.Hajjihadafewtricksuphissleeves,too.Withhisnimblefingers,hetiedtwomoretightknotstomakeashorterropeforbucketstoremainafloatjustabovethewa-ter.Jainabloweredthemintothewell.Shesawthemenlookingfortheminsidethehouse.Sheslippedbehindthewellandsattherestucktoitssidelikeafallenwallflower,notevendaringtobreathe.Hajjiandtheboysatquietlyinthetaddarknessof thewell. Themenwentintotheshed.Herneighbourhadleftpilesof shearer’ssheepskinacoupleof weeksago.Theytookapitchforkandpokedattheedgeandaroundtheshearer’spile.Theyevenforkedsomeoutof thedepthsintothecornerof thepile.Themengazedatthewell,butthoughtnothingof it.Afterawhile,theyleft.Jainab,letoutasighof relief.Shecameoutof hiding,andsawhoof marksonthesand’soutboundtrail.Shestoodandrolledthechildrenbackup.Theyweresweatingfromfearandheat.Dustrosefromthehorses’gallopsandcausedirrita-tionintheirthroats.“Thedustshouldsettledownsoon,”shetoldthemandbroughttheminside.Shelaidthemdownonthekilim,spreadoutonthefloor.Shegrabbedahandfan,fanningthemuntilHajjiandtheboyfellsleep.Thewoundedboyopenedhiseyesafractiontotakeaslit-lookatJainab.Afterthathelostconsciousness.Jainabsprinkledwateronhislittlepaleface.Heopenedhiseyesagain.Hesmiled,andwentbacktosleep.Jainablaydownbyherchildrenandfellasleep. Likeanhourglass,thesandsslidastimepassed.ItwasnearlysevendayssinceHajjibroughttheboyhome.Onthemorningof theseventhday,shewokeupnexttoHajjiandtheboy.Theboyshowedclearsignsof improvement.Hecurledupinbedandateforthefirsttimeinsevendays.Hedidn’tfeelhotorcold.Thehooveshadnotreturned.Theylefttheminpeacetoday,tofightanotherday.Theboyssattogetheroutsideontheyard,drinkingredhotteawhichJainabpouredoutof avaporouskettle.Sheplaceditbackonthehotclaystove.Aneighbourpushedinthroughthedoors. “Icameformywool,”hesaid. “Sure,pickthemupfromtheshed,”shesaid.


“Whoisthis?”heasked,lookingatthenewboy. “Oh!ThisisHajji’scousin,comeheretospendafewdayswithus.” “Ididn’tknowyouhadanyrelativesleft.” “Why would you think that?” “Didn’t your tribe get wiped out on the Gulaag some twelve years ago?” “Didthey?Whatareyousaying?”sheasked. “Twelve years have passed and you didn’t know?” “Know what? Why would you think it’s us?” “BecauseIwasthere,atyourwedding.” “What?Andittookyoutwelveyearstotellmethis?”shewasshocked. “Well,youknowhowitis.Thedaythearmybutcheredyourtribe,theytookme.ButIprovednotmuchof asoldier.Onedarknight,whentheylaydrunkinthearmsof womenfromyourtribe,Itookacamelandescaped.Ittookmedaystogethome,butwhenIdid,IsawyouwithHashimuddininthishouse.Iwasafraid.Ihidformanydaysanddidn’tspeaktoanyone.” “Stop!Pleasestop.Saynomore!”Jainabbegantocry. Jainabdidn’tknowwhathadhappenedtohertribe.Nonewstravelledthusfar.Inherheart, she had cherished the idea that her tribe was safe somewhere within the four corners of theworld.Backintheday,nomadsalwaysdidn’texchangenewsormeetformanyyears.Butthis,thisdis-tressingnewsturnedherworldinsideout;shewishedtheseilltidingsneverreachedherdoors.Shewishedthisquietneighbourhadremainedso.Hergrief swelledlikeadustcloud.Momentsof un-settledthoughtsandopaquevisions.Grief wouldsettledownsurelyonedaythedustoftendid.Butnowitlumpedacornerof herstrickenheart. Dayswentby,Jainabgrewpaler.Shetooktobed.Hajjiandtheboydidwhattheycouldtonurseher,butJainabdidn’timprove.Oneday,theboynowstrongenoughtomove,suggestedtoHajji. “Why don’t I go home and bring my parents here so they could take care of your moth-er?” “What?Areyoucrazy?Thearmywilltakeyoubackif theyfoundyou,”Hajjisaid. “Well,I’lljusthavetotakemychances.If wedon’ttakecareof yourmother,shewilldie,”hesaid.“Ishallgotonight.” “Wheredoyouevenlive?”Hajjiasked. “Acrosstheborder,however,Iamfromtheenemycamp,soyouknow.Butwearebroth-ersnow,soitdoesn’tmatter.You’vesavedme,Hajji.” Hajjikeptquiet.“Canyougoalone?BecauseIcan’tleavemymotherlikethisinherpre-sentcondition.Iwishthatneighbourhadneveropenedhismouth.” “Iknow.Ialsowishthathehadn’t,”theboysaid. “It’sgood,though,thatmothertoldhimyouweremycousin.But,Idon’tthinkhebe-lievedher,”Hajjisaid. Theboynodded.“No.Yourmotherisreallygood;shetriedtoprotectmeincaseheturnedouttobeadobber.” “Yeah,she’sgood,”Hajjiagreed. “Okay,then,I’llsetouttonightandbringmyfatherback.” “You don’t need to because our neighbours will help my mother get better,” suggested


Haj-ji. “Still,Ineedtogonow.ImissmyParents.Andtheborderisjusthere;Icanevenseeit.” “Well,okay,if youwantto,youcango.IhopeIwon’tseeyouontheGulaagagain.” “Ihopenot.” Thatnight,Hajjiandtheboysneakedout.Theyranoveradensesand;thelittlefootstepsimpressedonthembutadelibleink.Hajjitookhimasfarastheborder.Theboyshuggedeachoth-erandkissedonthecheeks.Justwhentheyturnedtogo,theysawmenmarchingstraightto-wardsthem.Theyambushedthemundertheirnakedsword,whichglimmeredinthemoonlight.Thedesertairreekedof bloodandsweat.Theboysbegantotremblefromthesuddennessof itall.Theydidn’tevengetachancetorun.Theybegantocry.Itdidn’tmatterwhetherthesewerefoesorfriends.Intheend,allbecamedecomposedbodiesdumpedonGulaag’stail-roadjustthesame. Jainab,deliriousfromgrief,calledout,“Hajji!Hajji!”ButHajjiwasnowhere.Sheforcedherself togetoutof bedtosearchforhim.Shesawthenearlygonelittlefootprintsonthesandinthedirectionof theborder.Jainabfearedtheworst.Shedraggedherself toherquietneigh-bour’shouseandknockedonthedoor.Shetoldhimaboutthefootprintsonthesand. “If the army has taken them, then I may have a clue as to where they may have been taken.” “Canyouhelp,brother?Asyouknow,IhavenooneinthisworldexceptHajji.” “Iknow,sister,Jainab.Iamsorry,Ibroughtyousuchilltidings.ButIthoughtintwelveyearsyoumayhaveheardsomething.If Ihadknown…” “Thesepasttwelveyearshavepassedlikeadream.Idon’teventhink,Isawtherisingof themoonsorthesettingof thesuns.Mydayshavebeenlong,ashavebeenmynights.Now,I’mreallyafraid.” “Please,donotworry.AlthoughIhaveneverhadenoughcouragetofaceuptothearmy,Imustownuptoyou,forputtingyouthroughthis.Iamnotbad,butI’malsonotbrave.” Jainabhadtoleave.Shewentbacktoherhousewhileherquietneighbourfiguredoutwhattodo.Heknewsoldiers’behaviourlikethebackof hishand.Heknewexactlywhattheydidandwhen.Allhehadtodowasmusterthecourage.Towardslatenight,hesetoutinthedirectionof thefootprints.Withsomemeasureof precision,thesefootprintsledtoarmytentstetheredalongthewesternfront.Heproceededwithcaution.Heevenstumbledafewtimesonthesand.Hisbreathingshortandshallow,heapproachedthearmytents.Hedrewcloser.Heheardtheobnoxiousclamourof drunkenness.Inthequietof thenight,suchsoundsonlymeanttheywereraptinsordidpleasure.Stealthily,hecontinuedonhistracttolookfortheboys.Onthesouthernpoint,suppressedcrieswaftedthroughtheair.Heopenedatentandfoundtheboys,perchedupontenterhooks.Theydidn’tseehimatfirst.Inthedyingtorch,hewalkedto-wardsthemandwhispered. “IamyourUncleAbdallah,yourneighbour,I’vecometorescueyou.” Theboyswentveryquietforsometime.Theycouldn’tbelievetheireyes.ThenHajjisaid, “Isawthemputasword,there,inthatcorner.” “IsthatHajji?”Abdallahasked. “Yes.” “I’mheretoo,”whisperedtheotherboy.


“What’syourname,boy?”Abdallahasked. “Hussain.” “Okay, I’m going to unhook you both and get you out of here, okay?” Thentheyheardsomeonecoughoutsidethetent.Abdallahhidawayinadarkcorner.Amanpeekedthroughandsawtheboys’straightfaces.Hewentaway.Abdallahcrawledtowardstheboysandbroughtthemdowntothefloor.Thesuspensioncausedsometrepidation.Theysatonthefloortocatchabreathandthentiptoedtoegress.Oncetheywereout,theyranintheop-positedirec-tion.Thesandsslowedthemdownandservedmostlyasimpediment.Butresiliencesavedthemintheend.Theycrossedtheborderintothenextkingdom. Hajji’senemykingdomwasHussain’shomeland.Thesunwasup.ButHussaincouldn’trememberthelongwaytohisvillage.Heknewaname:Kundi.Theystoppedbyandaskedfordi-rectionstogettoKundi.Ittookthemanotherfullday.Bythetimetheyhadarrivedthere,theywerefamished.Theyfoundateastallontheoutskirtsof alushvillage.Thethreesatdowntoeatbreak-fast.Anerrandboyservedthemaplatterof yoghurtsaucewithdriedfruits,falafel,wildchickpeasalad,flatbreads,andfriedeggs.TheycouldseeKundifromhere.Themanag-erof therestauranthadhisbacktowardsthem.Hegrabbedaglassof pipingredhotteaandturnedaround.Hussainsawhimfirst.Hescreamed,“father,father.” ThemanheardHussainandrantowardshim.Abdallahsawhim,too.Achillranthroughhim. “Hashimuddin?”hecriedout. “Who’sthat?”themanaskedandcamerunningtopickuphisHussain.“MynameisHassan Karemi, not Hashimuddin?” “Butthat’simpossible.Iwasatyourwedding.Iamyourneighbour.IsawyouandsisterJainabtogetherallthetimebeforeourarmytookyou,”Abdallahhadtosay. “Shush!Speaksoftly,”helookedaroundtimidly,thensaidinawhisper.“Whatareyousay-ing?Anyway,youbroughtmysonback.Iwouldliketowelcomeyoutomyhouseasmyguestto-night.” Thiswasextraordinary.Inhiswildestdreams,Abdallahcouldn’tbelievethis.Heaccept-edtheinvitation.HehadtofindoutmoreforsisterJainab.Thisbetrayalwastoomuchtobecon-done____Hashimuddinwaslivingaduallifeunderadifferentnamewithawifepresent. Atnight,apartywasheldatHashimuddin’splace.Amongothers,therewerehisin-laws:hisfatheranduncles-in-law,theentireclan.Abdallahsatdownwiththefather-in-law.Theyex-changedgreetings,thentalksturnedtopoliticsandwar.HetoldAbdallahhowHussainwasabduct-edwhileplayingwithfriends.Abdallahasked,“HowdidyoumeetHussain’sfather?” “Oh!Thatisanotherlongstory.WefoundhimGulaag’sedge.Hewasunconsciousandwounded.Mybrotherwaspassingthroughonemidnight.Hefoundhimunderthelanternandbroughthimhome.Werevivedhim.Buthecouldn’trememberanything.Hewasasgoodasdead.Aftersixmonths,whenhewaswellagain,hestartedtogoout,buthewasveryweak.Hestillwalkswithalimp,asyoucansee.Heisonlyfittododeskwork.Thearmylostinterestinhim,buttheytookhissoninstead.We’regratefultoyouforbringinghimback.Weneedtobecarefulnexttime.” Abdallahdidn’tsaymuchafterthat.ButhewatchedHajjiplayingwiththekid.Techni-cally,theywereintheenemycamp,butsurprisingly,nooneaskedwheretheywerefrom.The


partyend-ed.Everyonewenttobed.Atdaybreak,Abdallahwokeup.Hesawthewhitecrackof lightrunthroughthesky.Whenhecameout,hesawHashimuddinatthegate.Theyexchangedgreetings. “Whatmyfather-in-lawtoldyouisincorrect.Mymemoryhasalwaysbeenintact.IalwaysrememberedJainab.MynameisnotHashimuddinbutHassanKaremi.AsmuchasIwantedtotellJainabthetruth,Icouldn’t.Icouldn’ttellherthatIwasfromacrosstheborder,Kundi,theenemyland.BecauseIwasafraidtoloseher.Here,Icouldnottellanyoneaboutherbecauseof severepunishmentsformarryinganenemy,”hestopped.“If Ihadtoldthemtheentire truth, I would be hanging low from the spikes by now, like many in the market square,” he askedafterapause.“MyJainabwaswithchild.Haveyouseenthechild?” “Yes,littleHajjithere?That’shim,yourlittleboy.Whydoyounotleave,leavenowwithus?Peopleleaveallthetime,no?”Abdallahasked. “Theydo.Wariscrazy.Itdoescrazythingstopeople.Idobelievethatmyin-lawswouldsendanarmyaftermeif Ileft.There’sHussainnowaswellasHajji,mytwoboys.Thehuntformewouldgoon.They’lltakemysons,”hesaid.“WherecouldIhidethemontheopenGu-laag?” Any-how, to go back to my story, when I got better, my in-laws forced me into this mar-riagetotheirdaughter.Agirlwhomnomanwouldhavebecauseof herscarredfacefromfireburns.Theyhadalreadyshackledme,mademeaprisonerof theirwhim.Theyremindedmeof howIowedthemmylife.” “That’snonsense,youcould’vetriedtoleave.Didyouatleasttry?Yoursonscouldbetak-enanytime,regardlessly?”Abdallahpersisted. “No,Icouldn’t.Theykeptaclosewatch.Thisplaceisfullof spies.Noonetrustsany-one.” “What do you want me to tell sister Jainab, then?” “It’scomplicated.Thewarisuponus.Hussainhere,Hajjioverintheenemyland,alifeinfragments.Jainabmylove,magic…allthis…amirage,”hemurmured. HashimuddinwentuptoHajjiandpickedhimup.Hegavehimatighthugandakiss.Hegavethemacameltocrosstheformidableborderandsawthemgetreducedtoadot;anap-paritionalongthefarsideof thehorizon.Thedaysof thehummingbirdsandthebluebutterflieswerenum-bered;thefire-dancesandthefullmoonsongs.


Mehreen Ahmed is an award-winning, internationally published and critically acclaimed - MBR author.ShehaswrittenNovels,Novella,ShortStories,CreativeNonfiction,FlashFiction,Aca-demic,ProsePoetry,Memoirs,EssaysandJournalisticWrite-Ups.Herworkshavebeenpodcast,anthologisedandtranslatedinGerman,GreekandBengali.Shehastwomasters’degreesandabachelor’s(Hon)inEnglishLiteratureandLinguisticsfromtheUniversityof QueenslandandDhakaUniversity.ShewasbornandraisedinBangladesh.Atthemoment,shelivesinAustralia.


This Melancholic HouseBy oguMa HiDeo

tranSlateD froM JaPaneSe By MariSSa SkeelS

Resigned,Ilookeduptowardthesoundsontheroof,lollingastheyare,brazenasvultures.Alargemurderof crowswasflappingabout,scraping,constantlydiggingatoneanotheratopmyhouse.Shutupinsidethesilentroom,Ilistenedtothemcanteringabouthereontherooftop.Knowing these ominous birds with their black-soled feet are jumping around, I was seized with revulsion.Then,next,camenoisefromthedoorway.Thesightof thisdogwhichseemstolivehereaboutsalsomademesicktomystomach.Asalways,hisgaitof dragginghishipswassuchthatIcouldn’ttellataglanceif hewassittingorstandingwhileheusedalltheeffortinhimtoscrapehisbodytomydoor,susurratinglikedriedgrass.Iwatchedhimturntail;hisretreating,speckledfigurewithswathesof missingfurlookingjustlikeababy,andthoughhisneckandlimbswerepitifullyemaciated,hisstomachwasswollenlikealargeflagonof somethingorother.The sounds which came to my suburban house were, more than anything else, those of those ominousbirdsandthatbald-patcheddog.Asnowstormragedfordaysoversnowyfieldsaswideopen as the sea, such that the calm of that day’s particular quiet was a silence as ruthlessly still as death.Justhowboredmustmywifehavebeen,leftaloneinthathouseinthedustingsnowafterI went to work?#ShehungBontaro’sswaddlingclothesonhempropestrungacrossandaroundtheroom;addsflecksof coaltothefireoneaftertheother,economizingblack,whiteandyellowbitsof themtodrysheets;ourboyonherbackasshepacedaroundandaroundtheroom’sperimeter,ruminat-ing;washingyetagainouronlytwobowlsinabasin;bustlingabout,smoothingdownanythingandeverything.Bundled-up Bontaro was abandoned in the center of the room, drawing circles around where he sat plucking straw scraps from the tatami and popping them in his mouth at will along with dried grainsof boiledrice,tinylumpsof coal,tornscrapsof newspaper,candlestubs,andmore.Heputwhathecouldintohismouth,swallowingwhathecouldandspittingoutwhathecouldn’t.Hiscaregiver,hismother,wasslowontheuptakeandusuallydidn’tnotice.Onceinawhile,shefindthingshe’dspitout.“Bontaro, what’s this? That you had in your mouth just now? Well, what a surprise, it’s what’s left of the coal, isn’t it? Such a silly child, aren’t you, do you think you can just eat anything you can put in your mouth?”Facing Bontaro who couldn’t yet walk, she scolded him exaggeratedly, which was when Bontaro eagerly moved his pink lips, his little mouth the apparent conduit for all his summoned energy to issueameaningless,“Ah,ah,ah,ah,ah.”“You’llbetalkingsoon,won’tyou,Bontaro?”Sheflushedwithjoy.

#Itoowasinordinatelyinterestedandinvestedinthematterof hisfirstword.Hisfatecouldhingeonwhathesaid,andweawaitedthegoodorbadfortuneitwouldforetell.


“Bontaro.I’llbejustasamazedif yousuddenlystartspeakinginfullsentencesasIwillbeif they’relinesfromtheNewTestament.”If theywere,hisvaluewouldbesettled.Hisimpiousfather detested red caps, who roam around selling God via their marching band, their hair close-croppedintheWesternstyle,evenmorethancentipedes.If amemberof theSalvationArmy,Bontaro’sworthwouldbeset.“Bontaro.Don’tgiveyourself justinserviceof theLord.”Ireflectedonmyowninfancy.One’sfirstwordmustbepuredespitebeinginthefirstinstancesdribbledoutasbabyprattle.FearingthatBontaro’smightbeonewhichisdislikedandcon-demned as taboo by the world, such as “thief ”, “prostitute”, “thug”, or “pickpocket”, I strove to makehimcomprehendthosetowhichsocietyascribesthegreatestbeauty,like“flower”,“sun”,“butterfly”,or“star”.Butwhichwouldheremember?Amongallthosewhocouldhavedroppedintoourhouse,onlytwovisitorsevercame.Caw,caw,caw,caw,calledthecrowsontheroof,and several days later at the front door, Yip, yip, yip, yip, barked the sick dog with its susurrating skinandmissingfur.Ifelldespondent.“It’sliketheseblastedcrowsaretryingtotellhimsomething.”Mywifelookedupattheceiling,toward the shrieking of the nomadic crows on the rough roof which could have peeled back at anymoment.Asif inagreement,Bontarobegantomimicthem.“Caw,caw,caw,caw.”Fortendays,hekeptimitatingthemandthesickdogtoo.Anxietyroiledinmethatperhapshewasspeechimpaired,butnotlongafterward,hestartedrepeatingstrangecries.“Marh,marh,marh,marh.”

#Untilnow,cattlehadbeenkeptinbarnstoshieldthemagainstthefrigidcold,butoncetheweatherfineduptheywereputouttostrollatopthesnowandsosungdailyinjoy—Mrrh,mrrh,mrrh,mrrh,mrrh.ItappearedthatwhatBontarowasapttorecallwasthebrayingof thesecows.WheneverIclosedmyeyestothink,theknowledgethatwhatherememberedwastheirvoicescryingoutasif intorment,myidealistichopessankasif tothebottomof aravine.Neither the sick, vagrant dog, the sinister crows, nor shit served on a plate to an ass, could mem-orizewordslike“flower”,“Mr.Sun”,“star”,or“butterfly”,yetlikethemperhapsBontarocouldremembereverythingsaidbyanexpressionlessherdof cattle.“It’snotfar-fetchedwhenyouthinkaboutit,”Isaid,recastingthematter.I’dbeentryingtoinstillhimintoconceptslike“flower”inthedeadof winterwhenhecouldn’tpossiblyseeortouchthem.“Sun”washiddenbehindcloudswithoutsomuchaspeekingout,andthelightthatreachedthegroundwasn’titsglowbuttheshiningof snow,reflectedbackonitself.Theseasoninwhichbutterfliesandsuchdancedamidshimmeringheathazewasstillfivemonthsaway.Duringtheheightof winter’sgloom,everythingislikeastilllife,barelylightingupitsimmediatesurroundswithonlyitsownilluminations,focusedonitsneedtosurvive.Itisaseasonwithoutmercy.WhywasBontarosoyoung?He’dnotseenonespringcomesincehe’dbeenborn.“Flowers”,“butterflies”,and“sun”requireexperienceandawarenessof beauty,don’t they? It was only natural for him to parrot the words of the unique visitors to our house: a dog,crows,andcows.“As long as he copies all these things he’s heard, he won’t be mute, will he?”“Right,”Iansweredmywife,noddinghard,hoping,“He’lldefinitelyrememberahumanwordnext.”


Severaldaysquietlypassed.Thickfogenshroudedourhouse,besiegingus.Asthedayswereswallowedbyit,myfeelingsseemedtochange.The thin fog of those pretty evenings might have been showing us phantoms in the distance, like secrets, andItookpleasureinwonderingwhatsweetthingswereoutthere.Iwentoutthefrontdoor,holdingupBontarosohissmallmouthcouldimbibehisfillof ituntil,intheend,hehadasneezingfit.Whatwas amazing was how the fog thickened at night, like a heavy, saturated curtain, drawing dread over thehouselikeahood.Thoughitwasbrushedasideoverandover,italwayscreptbacktorestitsbellyontheroof likeawhitebeast.Wecouldn’tseesomuchasinchintothemistbeyondourglasswindowpanes.Some days, I was menaced by the idea that someone hidden in it would suddenly leap out, or a bul-letwouldbefiredatusoutof thegray.Otherthanbeastsandcrows,eachSaturdaybroughtwithitchimney sweeps, their heads as dark as Moors, and people with the vocal range of postmen passing by outside.OnedaybroughttwoMarxists.

#If you live in the suburbs and seem naïve to saleswomen and children, they’ll frequently, forcefully, and extortionatelyspreadouttheirgoodsatyourdoorandnotbudgeuntilyoubuysomething,anything.PeoplewhourgentlypressureyoutobuyBuddhistartefactsangermemorethananyoneelse.LoathingBuddhaandotherdivinities,I’dlongsincecoachedmywifeonhowtorefusethem.“We have no Shinto shrine nor Buddhist altar here, so not only am I unprepared to take an amulet (or papermoney)forone,onthecontrary,it’dbeawasteof yourwarestodoso.”I’dtaughtmywifethesekindsof lines.Peddlersof Tenshoukoutaishrines,Inarishrines,andJesusChristalikewouldallstickuptheirnosesandleave,tonguesclicking.When the two young men we called Marxists came to our front door, my wife delivered the usual lines to drive them away, but they’d come prepared to attack and swept past her, striding inside, rabbiting away.Oneof themwassoemaciatedhewashollowedout.Theotherwasfat,hischestasswollenasapregnantwoman’s.Hepulledfromhispocketwhathadinflatedhimso:chinng,chinng,chinng,chinng,atambourine.While he beat it hard, making its bells ring, the other took a poster from a worn-ragged leather bag and slathered paste onto the wall in the middle of the room to stick it up with its poisonously garish color picturesanddatasets.“Whatboldpeople,”mywifethought,of course,attheoddsituation.BythetimetheyleftIwastiredfromarguingtoo,andforafleetingmomentthethingsthey’dsaidreallydidseemtrue.Butastheydepartedintodarkness,theirheadsbeingbatteredwithhail,eachandeveryaspectof theirvisitturnedabsurd.Everythingresumeditscalmcomposureandsettledbackintomelancholy.Thetwocontinuedtheirambushesthefollowingdayandtheoneafter,tryingtowearmedownwiththeirfieryzeal.Crows,dogs,cattle,andtwoMarxists.Thesewereallthatvisitedourquiethouse.BontarowascompletelychummywiththembeforeIknewit.Hesmiledwhentheyheldhim,eventuallydashingurineoveronthetopof oneof theirknees.“Oursacredfather,Marx,”theykeptcallingtheirleader,enthusiastically.Bontaro’seyeswerewideandgluedtotheanimatedmouthsof theyoung,arguingmen.Timeaftertimetheystampedtheirfeetandreturnedintodarkness,theirheadsbeingbatteredwithhail.WhatrolecouldMarxismplayinouractual marriage? For our household, it would be more useless a thing than a side dish for delicacies, or a daikongrater.Theirswasafaithwhichcouldn’tgrasphowridiculousitwas.I broke and burst out laughing, only to be slammed with an absurd fear which was no laughing mat-


ter.Bontaro’sfirstword.Howshockedwe’dbeif heweretosuddenlycomeoutwithsomethinglike“Marx”.Intheend,thatwasexactlywhathappened.Whenitdid,theonlythingIfeltwasasenseof dutytoplacehiminanemptymandarinboxandsendhimdownariver.

###


Oguma Hideo (1901-1940) was a renowned socialist poet, journalist, artist, and critic from Hokkaido, Japan, who was the backbone of several Tokyo artist collectives in the 1930s before hisdeathfromtuberculosis.Uniquely,heresistedcensorshipdespitebeingjailedseveraltimesforhisinvolvementincommunism.Someof hispoetryhasbeenpublishedinEnglish,andtranslations of his short stories have appeared in Inkwell (January 2019) and The Airgonaut (August2019).

Marissa Skeels is a Melbourne-based editor and translator who has lived in Fukushima, Kyoto, andTokyoforseveralyears.TheirtranslationshaveappearedonlineandinprintinThe Brooklyn Rail, Overland, BlazeVox,andelsewhere.

TOC


SistersBy aMBer foSter

“Yoursistercalledmetoday,”mymothersays.Whenmyfacedoesn’tchangeexpression,sheadds,“You’llfindthisinteresting.Shementionedyou.” “By name?” “Byname.” TheSkypewindowonmylaptopisatinywindowtoanotherworld.Overmymother’sshoulder,sunlightstreamsthroughtheopenwindowsof myparents’Oahucondocomplex.Beyond that bright rectangle, the shadow of a palm tree, outlined by a sun that has already set, onmysideof thePacific.Mymother’shairisawhitecloudaroundasun-brownedface,creasedwithsmilelines;I’mremindedthatweareallgettingold.The last time my sister and I had a conversation was around 1998—before the silent treatment began.Peopleoutsideourfamilyinevitablyask:whathappened?Theymean:whatdidyoudo? It’sstrangethatshementionedmebyname,evenincasualconversation.Fordecades,mysisterhasreferredtomeonlyassheorher.If IwereinaJ.K.Rowlingnovel,I’dbeShe-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. At nearly every family gathering, we become amateur archaeologists, brushing away the sediment of our shared past, attempting to trace back my sister’s hostility towards me to some familialcatastrophe—afire,aflood.Butthereareslowcatastrophes—thekindthatemergeoutof athousandtinymishaps,liketheaccumulatingashof Pompeii. “ShecalledaboutLottie,”Momcontinues.“She’sonherdeathbedagain,apparently,andshe actually said, ‘you’re always on my case about not talking to Amber, and you won’t even talk toyourownmother.’” “And?” Herchairsqueaksassheshiftsposition.“AndIsaidIwassurprisedLottiewasn’tdeadyet.” ThesilencebetweenmysisterandIisnotthefirstsuchdisputeinourfamily;theJewishsideof ourfamilycontainsrichveinsof eccentricity.Lottie,mymaternalgrandmother,wasnev-erparticularlygoodatbeingagrandmother,oramother.Yearsago,sheandmymotherhadafalling out, and their conversation was restricted to brief, clipped phone conversations, conducted inthetoneyoumightusewhentalkingtoatelemarketer. “Isaidtoher,‘Itriedforyears,’”Momcontinues.“Igaveandgave,andallshedidwastake.Itoldyoursister,‘atleastItriedwithmymom.WhendidyoueverdothatwithAmber?When did you ever reach out, and even try to be civil?’” Thatword:civil.Isitcivility,if yousaythankyouandplease,butonlyif othersarewatching? “What did she say?” “Shedidn’tsayanything,of course.Whatcouldshesay?”

#


On TV sitcoms, one sister is inevitably prettier, smarter, and more favored by teachers and peers. “Every time they turn around, they hand her a blue ribbon or something,” exclaims Jan Brady in “Her Sister’s Shadow,” the classic 1971 episode of The Brady Bunch. Jan’s frustrated outcry would later become synonymous with sister rivalry: “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!”

# Lizisten;I’mseven.She’stheprettyone,delicateandfair.Strangerscoooverheronthestreet.Lookatthosefreckles!Likeanineteenth-centurydamsel,thesungivesherheadaches.Asaresult,wemostlyplayindoors,creatingBarbieuniversesoutof Kleenexboxesandscotchtape. Her imagination is unparalleled, so I’m content to play secondary characters: Ken, Skip-per,MyLittlePony.WecreateBarbiecitiesoneverysurfaceof thelivingroom,oursharedstorygoingonfordays,thedollslefteachnightinthepositionof theirlatestcliffhanger. Wehavefewfriends.Dad’scareerwiththeAirForcehasturnedusintoperpetualnew-comers,thekindof kidswhoneverquitemanagetoweartherightclothesorusetherightslang.Liz isn’t in my grade, so she can’t protect me from the mean girls who sneak up from behind and pushmeofftheswings.Later,I’lllearnfromMomthatthebulliesgottoLiz,too,althoughweneverspokeof itthen,orever. “We’rerunningaway,”shesays,onesummerafternoon.Forsixmonths,we’velivedinasingle-familyhomeinSanBernadino,California.Ourneighborhoodisasuburbanwastelandsurroundedbyrollingbrownhills.After we run away, my sister tells me, we’ll be wild girls, roaming the hills and drinking water fromstreamsandstealingfoodtosurvive.Wewon’tneedanyone,excepteachother.Iseethepotentialproblemswiththisplan,butsaynothing;Liz’sfavorislikebeingchosentojoinasecretclub. In the kitchen, she lowers bologna onto slices of wonder bread, as we’d watched our motherdocountlesstimes.Thesandwichesgointoherschoolbackpack,alongwithafewjuiceboxesandsnacks.Shedeterminesthatwe’llclimbtothetopof thehillattheendof ourcul-de-sac,aswehadwithDad,beforeheleftagain.Themilitarytookhimawayfromusforweeksatatime,sometimesmonths;he’dbringbackapologiesintheformof trinkets:akimonofromJapan,abamboojewelryboxfromthePhilippines.He’dtrytocramweeksof fatherhoodintotheinter-valsbetweenmissions,spoilinguswithicecream,bowling,boardgames,tripstothemovies. Thehikewasononeof thegooddays.Weclimbedandclimbed,andwhenIgottired,Dadliftedmeupontohisshoulders.Fromthatheight,theskywastheperfectblueof aswim-ming pool, while below, endless rows of single-family homes were spread over the landscape like doll’shouses. Noonestopsusasweslipoutthefrontdoor.Momisinthelivingroom,watchinghersoaps,mylittlebrothercurleduponthesofanexttoher,toolittleforourgames.Onthestreet,the beige houses are locked up tight to keep out the summer heat, their air conditioners buzzing likeswarmsof bees.Theasphaltwavers;heatradiatesupthroughthesolesof myKeds. Thehillloomsoverus,awildernessnotyetcorruptedbysuburbanblight.Ominous,with-outourfather’scomfortingpresence.IsuspectLizdoesn’twanttorunawaysomuchasrecap-ture that feeling of rightness, our family whole, the bullies far away and below us, as insubstantial asoneof ourmade-upstories. Sweattricklesdownmyback.Thecloserwegettothebaseof thehill,themoreplodding


myfootstepsbecome.Ithinkof thecoolinteriorof mybedroom,thehalf-finishedfantasynovelsteepledonmybedsidetable. Liztakesmyhand,pulls.“Comeon.”Thegroundrisesup,amotionlesswaveof brown,deadgrass. Idiginmyheels.“Idon’twantto.” “But we’re almost there!” “Yougo.”Ihatethequaveringinmyvoice. Lizglaresatmewithherlandminelook;Iflee. Half anhourlater,IhearthefrontdooropenfromwhereIsitonthelivingroomfloor.Iexpecthertopickafight,butshedoesn’t.Alltherestof thatday,andthedayafter,sheplaysaloneinherroom,herdoorclosed.Sheignoresmyknocksandentreaties.Thisisthemostpowerfulweaponinherarsenal—pretendingIdon’texist.It’sworsethanshovingorhittingorthrowingthings.Bynotacknowledgingme,Iamrenderedinsignificant.

#In the Book of Genesis, sisters Leah and Rachel are both married to Jacob, their first cousin. The two sisters’ rivalry centers on who can bear Jacob the most sons: And when Rachel saw that she bare Jacob no children, Ra-chel envied her sister; and said unto Jacob, give me children, or else I die (Genesis 30:1). After Rachel had a son, Joseph, her rivalry with Leah isn’t mentioned again. Rachel would later die giving birth to a second son.

# I’mfifteen,Liziseighteen.Iwatchherslipoutintothebackyard,andfollow.Sheleansagainstthestuccowall,outof eyeshotof thekitchenwindow.She’swearingherprizedposses-sion,anoversizedblackleatherjacket,althoughitistoowarmoutforacoat.Whensheseesme,she straightens, then relaxes, as if saying, it’s only you. Atschool,we’restrangers.She’sasenior,and,accordingtoMom,hangingwithabadcrowd.Forthefirsttimeinherlife,hergradesaredropping.Betweenclasses,shewalkspastmewithhercoterieof friends,hergazefixedonsomepointabovemyhead. “Hey,isn’tthatyoursister?”oneof herfriendsonceasked. “Her?Nah,Idon’thaveasister,”she’dsaid,andkeptwalking. Ihaven’ttoldanyoneaboutthesmoking.Toourparents,smokingisasinonparwithmurder,eventhoughweallknowbothof themusedtosmoke,intheiryounger,wilderdays. Now,acigaretteisperchedbetweentwoof Liz’spalefingers.Shetakesalongdrag,thewaypeopledoonTV.Withoutspeaking,wewatchthemarineshapeof theRayVacasitmean-dersalongthebottomof thepool,suckingupdeadbugsandcypressneedles.Itshosesgurgle,andajetof watersplashesthesurfaceof thewater.Sheexhalesslowly,thesmokedriftingoutoverchlorine-scentedwater. “Canyougetmesomeof those?”Iask.Iextinguishmyrestlesshandsbyshovingtheminmypockets. Shesquintsatme.“Yousmoke?” Ifeignnonchalance.“Sure,sometimes.” Although I will never be a smoker, I’m smart enough to know that bumming a smoke is anall-accesspasstoanexclusivesocialsphere.Youlearneverythinginthesmoker’scircle,likewho’shavingsexandwho’sdoingharddrugsandwho’spregnantandwho’sdroppingout. “Whatdoyousmoke?”Lizasks,tryingtocatchmeinalie.


“MarlboroReds.”Redsarethecigarettesfavoredbyboys,strongerandmoremasculinethanmentholsorcloves. Liz gives me an appraising look, then extends the hand with the cigarette, her gaze never leavingmyface.Atest. Itakethelitcigaretteandputittomylips.Thelineof ashisalmosttothefilter,stilldampfromLiz’ssaliva.Itakeinthelast,bitterdragandturnmyheadtoblowthesmokeoutof thesideof mymouth,asI’dseenrealsmokersdo.Iforcemyself nottocough,althoughmyeyeswater. Ipassitback.Lizstubsthebuttoutonarock,thenplacestherockbackonthegroundupside-down,concealingtheblacksmear.Thebuttgoesbackintothepack,whichdisappearsintotheinsidebreastpocketof herjacket. “Okay,”shesays.“I’llgetyousome.Bringmethemoneytomorrow.” I’mtriumphant.Asateenager,Liz’aloofnesshasonlyincreased.Ourparentsworkeve-ningsandweekends,sowerarelyhavefamilydinners.Instead,wepreparegrilledcheesesand-wichesorchickennuggetsandfries,thenretreatintoourrespectiverooms.Mybrother,thepopularone,isusuallyawayatsomefriend’shouse,playingbasketballorvideogames. Themoreshewithdraws,themoreIcraveherattention.I’vebecomeanadeptliar,knocking on her door, pretending I need advice about bras or periods or boys, things I learned yearsagofromeavesdroppingonothergirlsatschool.Therightquestion,phrasedtherightway,willgrantmeaccessintoherinnersanctum. Sometimes,whensheisn’thome,Isneakintoherroomandsnoopinherdrawers.Look-ingforsecrets,findingnone.Instead,herroomisamuseumof childhood.Therearebaseballcards,stuffedanimals,boardgames—eachitemcollectedandstoredandnever,everplayedwith.Inthecloset,herchildhoodBarbiedollsstandintheiroriginalboxes,theirarmsandlegsfixedbackinplacewithwires. Aweekaftershegivesmethecigarettes,I’mcaughtwiththem. “Youwon’tgetintroubleif youtellmewhogavethemtoyou,”Dadsays.Icanlietomymother,butnevertohim. LizandIarebothgrounded.Shesays:I’llnevertrustyouagain.Idon’tbelieveherthen,although,eventually,Iwill.Years later, friends will say: It’s nothing! The tattling of sisters—we all do it, we’ve all done it.Wasthat it? Maybe,Isay,mymindstillcountingalifetimeof trivialbetrayals.Ash,pilingup,thepeo-pleof Pompeiisweepingitaway,thinking,itwillpass.

# Sisters who band together in the face of austerity or oppression is a common theme in films, books, and TV. In the classic novel, Little Women, the four March girls are united by their lack of wealth, the absence of their father. They are, Alcott writes, “a bright little band of sisters,” and the novel traces their trials and tribulations. At seven points in the novel, Alcott uses the term sister as an adverb, as in: sisterly zeal, sisterly adoration, sisterly devotion, sisterly confidences. The four siblings confide in each other, congratulate their successes, and critique their failures with kindness. The great tragedy of the book is when one of the sisters becomes ill and dies.

# It’s2010,Christmas.Ourfamilycelebratesinthefashionof atheistsandagnostics:lots


of Santa,noJesus.ItisalsothelastChristmasmysisterandIwillspendunderoneroof. LizlivesinOregonnow,workingasanadministratorforanelectriccompany.Afterafewyears of drifting around after high school, she went back to school, got her degree, got a good job.Iimaginehergettingdressedeverymorningbeforedark,drivingtowork,sittingatadesk.Smilingandchattingwithco-workers.Drinkingcoffeeoutof amugwithGotCoffee?writteninbold,blackletters.Throughthefamilygrapevine,Iknowshehasahouse,acat,a401k,healthinsurance.Iknowthat,likeme,sheplayscomputergames.Shelikessci-fiandfantasy.Iimagineus being like real sisters, who pick up the phone, who talk about A Princess Bride or The Laby-rinth,twofilmsIknowwebothlove. Herfiancéhasarecedinghairlineandawell-payingofficejob.Inhissparetime,hepaintsminiatures:tiny,sword-bearingfigurinesfromDungeonsandDragons.Mymothercallshimgoodhusbandmaterial.Inourconversations,Momgushesabouthowhappysheistoseeoneof her daughters “settled”: code for partnered up, gainfully employed, living in a house with a mortgage. I’mthirty-twoyearsold.Iliveathome,workingvariouspart-timejobs,includingsubsti-tuteteachingandhandingoutmenusandrolled-upcrayonpacksatMimi’sCaféandRestau-rant.I’mapplyingtoPh.D.programs,whereIwilleventuallyfindrefugefromapost-recessioneconomy. “Thishastostop,”Dadannounces. Thethreeof ushaveconvergedintheupstairsbedroom,wherewewon’tbeoverheard.The rooms in this house look like display rooms in furniture stores—beige sofas with colorful throw-pillows,thewallsadornedwithframedartprintsboughtatcruiseshipauctions.EvenafterDad retired from the military to work as a property manager for Mom’s real estate business, my parentscontinuetomoveeverythreeorfouryears,asif theycan’tkickthehabit.Thewallsof my temporary room, a former guest room, are bare and white except for a framed print of Betty Boop,Mom’sfavoritecartoon. Dad sits in the folding chair at the folding table I use as a desk, the only furniture besides thebed.Iperchmyself ontheedgeof themattress,mybackstraight,myheartflutteringlikeatrappedbird.Lizstandsnearthedoor,herarmscrossedoverherchest,frowning. Sincethesilentwarbegan,myparentshavemaintainedthedelicatetruce.Conflictistobeavoidedatallcosts.Everyonceinawhile,GrandmaLily,mypaternalgrandmother,willgiveadramaticsighandclaimit’sher“dyingwish”thatmysisterandIreconcile.Nothingchanges;GrandmaLilydoesn’tdie.Mysisterintimidatesme,althoughI’llneversaythisaloud.Weweretypicallatchkeykids,unsu-pervisedandlittlewild,giventoviolentoutburstsif pushedovertheedge.Ioncepunchedmylittlebrotherinthegutsohardhedoubledoverandturnedeggplantpurple.“Youcoulddamagehiskidneys!”mymotherhadscreamed.Duringjuniorhigh,Irefusedtogetoutof Liz’sway,andshehitmeovertheheadwithafryingpan.Iremember,withvividclarity,theresonantdong! of metalstrikingmyskull,thebrightflecksthatdancedacrossmyvision.Myownrevengewasinformed by childhood bullies: the key was to wait until she was looking the other way before shoving,runningaway. We’re well past such petty violence now, but there’s a stillness to the way she stands in the doorway,thewayacatmightglareatthehandof astranger,earsback,readytostrike.


She’ll talk to you,Momhadinsisted.Negotiationshadoccurredbehindcloseddoors,astheyhadforyears.Thusfar,Lizhadmanageda“Hello,”whileglaringatmewithanexpressionthatwilledmetoanearlygrave.AtChristmasEvedinner,wesataroundthetableandfeignedpolitechitchat,buttheconversationfellflatwhensheelbowedherfiancéunderthetableforspeakingtome. “Allwewantisforyoutobeciviltoeachother,”Dadsays.Herunsahandoverhisbaldpate.Hisfingersridgedwitharthritis,areminderthatmyparentsaregettingolder,thatweallare. “Iambeingcivil,”sheinsists,immediatelyseeingthroughDad’splacatingeachother. Dadlooksatmewithapleadingexpression;I’mnotfollowingthescript.It’sbeensoeasy,overtheyears,toreplytosilencewithsilence. I say: “Why do you hate me?” Liz’gazeremainsfixedonDad,asif Ihaven’tspoken.“Idon’tcareaboutherenoughtohateher,”shesays,hervoiceflat. “That’sunacceptable,”Dadsays. “Idon’tcare,”sheshootsback,leavingtheroom.TheintromusictoIt’saWonderfulLifebegins to blare from the TV speakers downstairs, the volume high enough for Grandma Lily to hear. “Unacceptable,”Dadrepeats,moretohimself thantome.Hegivesaslowshakeof hishead,butthereisanunfamiliarresignationinhisexpression. ThefollowingChristmas,Lizisn’tinvited.Ourdoorisopen,butonlyif youcanbeciv-il.Myparentshavedrawnalineinthesand.Civilityisn’tsilence;civilityisfillingtheairhellosandgoodbyesandallthebullshitpolitenessthatcomesbetween.Beingciviltopeopleyouhateiswhatkeepsfamiliestogether,Ithinknow. Lizrejectstheirofferandtriestonegotiate,asif wearetwopartiesinadivorce:I’llcomethisyear,andShecancomenextyear.Whenthatdoesn’twork,sheaskswhythingscan’tgobacktothewaytheywerebefore. Iexpectmyparentstocapitulate,buttheyholdfirm.OneChristmaspasses,andanother,andanother.Iselfishlyrevelinconflict-freeholidays;itisarelief,thisnot-caring,thisnot-having-to-care.I’vewonthewar,butaswithallwars,victorycomesatacost.Therearethelamenta-tions,thedissectionsof ourfamilyhistory,GrandmaLilly’sendlessdeathbedwishes. Idon’tseemysisteragain.

#Considerable media attention also goes to sisters who commit murder. In 2015, sisters Mary-Beth Tomaselli and Linda Roberts killed their elderly, ailing father. Their secret wouldn’t come to light until three years later, in 2018, after Linda confided in the man both women were sleeping with. The Washington Post referred to it as “the perfect murder,” foiled only years later by their love for a man. The story was reprinted in nearly every major news outlet. In 2018, famous sister Khloé Kardashian produced a crime series called “Twisted Sisters,” which recounts true crime stories of murderous sisters. The show is currently in its second season.

# “Mysistersaidmynameinconversationyesterday.Mymompracticallyhadaheartat-tack.”Ontheotherendof theline,Icanhearthesoundof runningwater,theclinkof dishes. “Thatwholesituationissoweird,”Laurasays.“Imean,Imaynotalwaysgetalongwith


mybrothers,butthat’sawholeotherlevel.” ImetLauraduringgradschoolinTexas,eightyearsago.Weliveindifferentstatesnow—she went South, I went West—but we still chat most Saturdays by phone, while doing our respec-tivehouseholdchores. “You know, you’re more like a sister to me than she is,” I tell Laura, pushing a broom acrossmylivingroomfloor.“NotjustanyonewoulddrivetwohourstotheHoustonairport,aftermidnight,topickmeupafterIgotstrandedbyAmericanAirlines.” “Oh, you mean the night before I had to run a marathon?” “Youpassedthefriendshiptest,forsure,”Isay,andwelaugh.Whenwehangup,Iwillthink: there shouldn’t be a test.Evennow,inmy40’s,apartof mealwaysassumesthat,if Iaskforhelp,noonewillcome. In my 20’s, I monopolized girlfriends’ attention and time, envious of their partners and otherfriends. I can’t be your friend any more,aformercollegefriendtoldme,beforeacuttingoffallcontact.It’s too much work.Sincethen,I’velearnedtosuppressmyclingierimpulses.Orhidethembetter. Through the family grape vine, I learn that Liz got divorced, lost her job, got another one, movedtoanewhouse.Shehashousemates,acat.Likeme,sheneverhadchildren.Likeme,shemovesthroughtheworldalone. Myparentsworryaboutwhatwillhappenaftertheydie.We don’t think she’ll cut you out of the will, but you never know,Momsays.They’vemadecontingencyplans,because,withLiz,youneverknow. Wemayneverstopaskingwhy.Somestorieshavenoending;wecanonlybrushasidetheash,weavetogetheranarrativefromwhatisleft.Themissingpiecestakeonalifeof theirown,liketinysplintersdugsodeepintoyourskintheybecomeapartof you.


Amber Foster is an L.A.-based writer and Assistant (Teaching) Professor of Writing for the Writing Program at the University of Southern California. Their creative works have appeared in Hippocampus, Hidden Chapter, and The Citron Review, among other venues and has previously been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.


Ein Mann ist wegBy Dayna groSS

When I woke up with the black cat on my chest, I intrinsically understood how the day wouldunfold.Iraisedmyself fromthebed,beforesunrise,tolightupthestoveandbrewmyritualisticcoffeeof silenceanddreamworld.Cometothinkof it,thehourcouldhavebeenaftersunrise,butinagroundfloorapartmentinBerlin,inAutumn,onecouldneverbetoosureif thesundidrisethatday.Berlin’scustomaryarmyof shoulder-to-shouldercloudsoftenmadeitdifficulttoreachanyabsoluteconclusionsoverthecyclesof nature. I was committed to traveling for his birthday, to carry on his tradition now that he couldn’t.Iplannedthetriptoolatetobuyanaffordableticketanywhereadventurous,soIde-cidedtorollouttoLiepnitzsee,asupposedcrystal-bluelakeamongtheBrandenburgbush.Itseemedfittingtomakemywaytowardswaterandforest,thoughperhapsIshouldhaveconsid-ered how close it was to the Day of the Dead, to Halloween, or what the forest symbolized for a woman.Aftermydarkcoffeeinfiltrationandreleasingmydream-worldontothepage,Idressedwhileside-steppingtheblackcat,whosofrequentlyattackedbareanklesfornoearthlyreason. Besidesforgreymist,Idon’tremembermuchof thewaytotheGesundbrunnenstation.From there I caught the regional train, which pulled its passengers outside the populated city-ring.Everythingseemedtorunonschedule,eventhoughIwasn’tcommittedmuchtoascheduleuntilthetrainstoppedinKarowandrefusedtotransitanyfurther.Karowwashauntinglyrecog-nizable.ItwasthestopbeforeBuch,beforePalliativeCare,wherehewentforhisdialysistreat-ments,Octoberof theprioryear.Thereweresignspitchedlikecapital‘A’sbythetailendof thewet platform, directing the remaining passengers to the bus that would take them closer to their desireddestination.ThoughGerman’sarefamousfortheirprecision,Ihaddifficultyfindingthehaltestelle. A working man, commonly attractive, middle-aged, was the only other passenger who exitedthetrainwithme.Westoodforabrief momentinfrontof thesigntogether.Helitacigarette while stoically reading the ‘A’ sign with his eyes, said something to me in German with anEasternaccent,andwesimultaneouslytrotteddownthestairs.HewentofftofindaSpätiformorecigarettes,orsoIthoughtIheardhimsay.IwentwanderingaroundthewetKarowsearchingforthebusstop,forsomethingmorethanfoliageandsilence.Thetreeswerehangingon to their dripping autumnal garments, the dim houses were packed in, wall to wall, one con-nectedtotheother,asif topreservetheheatascoollyaspossibly.WhenIfoundthelaminatedsign hanging around the bus pole, I saw the workingman approaching with a similar distressed expression.Weweresimilarlyconfusedastowhichsideof thestreettowaiton.Iwasn’tgoingtogiveupnow,thoughthetemptationwasthere,wateringmydoubtbeyondmydetermination.Abusarrivedontheoppositesideof thestreetandweranforit. Heaskedthedrivertoconfirmthedirectionandweseparatelytookourseats,mebythefrontof thebus,theworkersomewheretowardstheback.Whenthebusarrivedfurtherdownthetrainline,westeppeddownfromthebusandbegantheusualdialogue,offeringtheothera


brief backgroundcheck.Mid-conversation,weheardtherollingwheelsof anapproachingtrainandranforourlives.Hethrewalitcigaretteflyingbehindhim,IeyeditlikeamissiledescendingfromaJunkersJu87.Itriedtokeepupwithhislongstepsuptherampleadingtotheplatform.Wejumpedthroughthetrain’sopendoors,lookedforanenlighteningscreenandconfirmedweweregoingfurtherawayfromthecityandnotonamiscarriedreturn. HeaskedmewhereIwasgoing.WhenIansweredLiepnitzseehewasimpressed.Hemust have imagined my body swimming courageously against the cold lake and I let him imag-ine.Hesaidhewasonhiswaytoaconstructionjob,thoughhemissedhislastjobandwasrunninglateforthisone.Heblamedhisdelayonthetransportation.Hehadasoftpolishface,the typical round dumpling nose, round blue eyes, darker than usual, and the dirt left behind byafive-o’clockshadow,thoughthisonewasmorelikea48-hourshadow.Heworeaone-piecedarkblueuniformwithgreyreflectorlinesoverthepocketsandtwolinesfastenedclosetoeachhip.Hespokeinaslowlowvoicelikeamanwhosmokesacigaretteundertheawningandwaitsfortheraintopass.HavingtotalkinGermanforcedmetothinkbeforespeakingandwithholdinformation.Ifoundmyself laughingalongwiththisstrangeronthequiettrain,ourjoycollidingoverhead,somethingbeautifulwasunfolding.Ispokelowtomatchhisrhythm,untilhisdestina-tionarrived.Ididn’twanthimtogo,wewereinthisthingtogethernow.Aquickpanicpiercedthroughme.Helookedatmewithapairof apologeticeyes,perhapshe’susedtodisappointingwomen,andheexitedthetraintofulfillhisduties. Left alone for two more stops, I suppressed the feelings of love that could chase a strang-erformonths.Iwastravelingforsomethingelse.Iunfoldedapieceof scrappaperwithblackink,directionsinmyownhandwriting,thinlinesindicatingchange,andsteppedoffthetrainatWandlitz,WandlitzseeBhf.Iwastheonlypassengerwholefttheone-tracktrain.Iwalkedintoacabin connected to the platform and asked an elderly Eastern German woman tucked inside sell-ingpostcards,magnetsandmapsfordirectionstothelake.Icrossedthetrackandfollowedwhiteandbluepaintedsymbolsondamptreestoguidemealong.Thestreetswerelinedwithfrigid,untrustingEasternGermanhomes.Someof thehouseshadpumpkinsorscarecrowsontheirfrontlawnwhichlookedmorehauntingthantreating.WhenIfinallysawhumansintheflesh,theyweretwomensawingwoodintheirdriveway,whichwasof littlecomfort.Theonlysoundthat was missing to accompany the ‘jjjjj-ing’ chainsaw was a piercing shriek of a single woman fullof doubtandfear.Icontinuedtodenythefeelingthatfollowedmeforhours,possiblyformonths. Germans,IthoughtandwalkeddowntheforlornstreetsuntilIreachedtheforest.Ilookedaroundforsoothingsignsandonlyfoundautumnfoliage,thoughbeautiful,certainlydying.Theforestfloorwasbeddedinoranges,redsandyellowsliftingtheearthintoasortof glow,asif theywerethelastsignsof lifealreadyseepingintotheunderworld.Ishiftedmyheavybackpackfilledwithwater,notebooks,cameras,anextrasweaterandsteppedintotheforestbrush.Thecoolearthrushedinthroughmynostrils,againstmychestandoutthroughmymouth.Atfirst,theglowstressedsomethingclandestinewhichfeltlikeareassuringhandluringmein.Iobedientlyfollowed.Iwasdoingthisforhim,Icouldn’tturnawaynow.Itwashimdaringmetoaccomplishmygoal,toconfront,toacknowledgewhatliesbeneath. Once I stepped further under the awning of the forest, I removed my backpack and jacket, set my camera to a slow shutter on self-timer and moved through the mystical aura like a


vanishingfigureamongthedeparted.Thesuddensilenceof thesceneinfusedmewithwarmthandIwalkedon,tooconfidently.ThenIsawatree,whichmusthaveplungedforwardfromoldage,withitsfaceburiedintotheedgeof asmallmuddypond.Itsdarkrootsandsecurityweredanglingintheairlikerottingumbilicalcords.Isteppedclosertothetreetoinvestigateitsshapeandafeverishchillranthroughmybody.Ifeltliketurningaroundandreturningtothesafetyof humanactivity,whichonlyseemedimaginarynow.Thetreewasflauntingdeath,testingmywillasif mywillwassomethingwhole.Something inside of me cried, turn around, leave this place, death, death, death.ButIforebodinglywalkedon. There were piles of logs, hints of human activity, and a decomposing bench covered in lush mossfurtherdownthepath.Thefoliageclungtomybootscoatedmyfootsteps.IconsideredtakingaseatwhenIbegantohearaterriblyloudsoundricochetingthroughthedenseair.Thesoundtrembledthroughmythoughts,butmyeyesbeggedmetoconfirmthesource.Imovedforward,closertothathorribly loud sound booming through the forest’s solitude, and though I was fervently shaking, I contin-ued.Ifinallyreachedaclearingwhichcouldonlymeanonething.Therewerethreeorfourhousesandasteeppathleadingdowntothelakewithamodestsymbolfortheferrynailedtoalog. Relieved,Iwalkeddowntothewater.Yes,Iwouldgototherestaurantontheislandinthemid-dle of the lake and order potatoes and a German pizza, any vegetarian options that were available and indulge.That’swhathewouldhavedone.Iwouldenjoyaheartymealtocelebratehisbirth,hislife.The noise grew unbearably loud, I looked up to the clearing over the lake and was shocked against the soaringbeatsof ahelicoptercomingrighttowardsme.Itdescendedandhoveredbeforemelikeabeastinflight.Thehelicopternearedmysmallfigureandinspectedmyexistence.Twomenlookedthroughmeanddriftedaway.IsawPOLIZEIwritteninwhiteacrossthesideof theblackcopter.Ibackedaway,turnedaroundandranupthehill. At the top of the hill was a man in a tight plaid shirt looking up at the helicopter, then down at me. “Washastpassiert?”ItriedaskinginGerman. “Einmanistweg.”[Pause]“Bistdualien?” Naturally, the last question a woman wants to hear while in a forest alone, especially from a pu-tridmanlikethat.JustasIthoughtitcouldn’tgetanyworse,heasked,“Hastduangst?”Aren’t you afraid? Atfirst,Itriedtoneutralizethesituationbyaskinghimif Icouldthrowmycoffeecupintheblacktrashcontainerattheendof hisgraveldriveway.Whenhenoddedyes,Iopenedthetrashandfoundathickarrayof shatteredwoodchipspackedtightlyinsidethecontainer.Ilookedupathimagain,knowinghowstrictGermansarewiththeirseparatedtrash.HenoddedhisredswollenfacedrywithwhiteflakesencouraginglyandIlaidmycupinsidethebin.Hesmiled,revealingthethickyellowplaquecoatinghisteethlikescrambledeggsandthat’swhenIdecidedtorunforit. IranasfastasIcould.Ifeltasif apartof mewouldhavebrokenthroughmybodyif itcouldhave,justtogainspeed.Theonlythingholdingmebackwasgravityandmybody’slimitations.Mybackpackwascuttingintomybackfromallsidesasitjumpedwithmyflight.Iimaginedthelargehob-bitcallingtheotheryoungmen,whooccupiedthethreequiethomes,tocomeoutandhavealittlefun.Therewasnowaybacktothetrainbutthroughthedenseautumnforest.IimaginedMarknowlaugh-ing from above, or behind, revealing his dark Scorpio humor and smoker’s teeth stained black between hismolars. As the adrenaline pumped through my veins I thought, this is real fear. This is what fear feels like when you’re trembling for your life. This is what he wants me to feel. Though death from an illness must not make you feel as alive as this. Death from an illness is a slow release, of disbelief, with a feeling that must not activate the adrenaline gland, but somewhere deeper, somewhere harder to locate and identify when the doctors tell


youthatyouhaveanincurabledisease,givingyouamaximumof twomoreyearstolive.Thatsuddenshiftisnothinglikerunningthroughaforestterrifiedof rapeandapowerfulbeating,it’squieter,softerandmoveswithasortof grace.Imusthaveranfor30minutesthroughtheforest,thesoundof theboominghelicopterfadedinthesullendistance.IcouldfeelthetreesthinningandIknewIwasclosetothetown,awayfromtheforest’smischief. As I cut through the empty paved streets, I found the Halloween decorations more dis-turbing, they were in sync with the two or three wobbling women, walking their small dogs, with downcasteyes.TheywerefilledwithasurrealbitternessIhadnointerestinpenetrating.Ifoundmyself holding my breath as if I could inhale the rotten feeling deteriorating within the space wheretheirwintersoulsweremeanttomournforclosetedcenturies.Ifeltthehauntingenergyremoveitself frommyouterlayersasIcrossedthetraintrack. WhileIwaitedforthetraintoarrive,Ithoughtaboutwhatitcouldimply.Was some-one murdered and the police were looking for his body? Or, was there a criminal out there, hiding in the forest? I knocked my heals against the wet pavement, shook the dirt from my soiled boots and entered the machinethatwouldtakemebacktothesecurityof strangers,storefrontsandtrafficlights.


Dayna Gross is a writer and performance artist living in Berlin, Germany but originally from NewYork.TheirworkhasbeenpublishedinRHNK magazine, The Hedonist, JFKI Magazine and in Seeing Her Ghosts(VerlagfürmoderneKunst2015).Theyhostapoetryradioshowcalled,Crypto-mnesia, on Berlin’s community radio, Cashmere Radio and has performed in Berlin’s contempo-rary museum, Hamburger Bahnhof, Festival of the future Nows, and in Paris, France inL’histoire estunmoment:Pouruneprésencemanifestedel’Art!inAmphithéâtred’HonneurESBA


From The WheelBy aM ringwalt

What is a question that has stayed with you through time, clung to you like an inhalation?

What is a question that pulls you out from syncope? For me, it follows: what does it feel like to be in the stream?If Iwerealwaysatpeace,mywheelwouldbemadefromthisstream.

I’ll drink of the clear stream,

And hear the linnet’s song;

And there I’ll lie and dream

The day along:

Blakewrotethat.Ireadthat.Itranscribedit,again,here.

*

Thestream:mysiteof welling.Thestream:myidealwheeling.

*

Tobeinthestream.Itmeanstobe,tobreathe,todrinkaglassof water.Torideabicycledownthehill,tostopandfeelthewindbeforehittingthelake,toturnhome.ButIcan’talwaysbefluid,forward.Ihavetolookback.Ihavetogodown.Ihavetowheel.Ihavetomovethroughmymemory,oritwillmakeitself known.Ahandreachingoutfromthewater,bloodiedandraw.

Ire-turntoanepigraph,toDante.Isayitaloud.“Wewereclimbingthroughafissureinthestone/thatkeptturningfromonesidetotheother/asawavethatflowsoutandrunsinagain.”Thisishowthewheelmoves,upside-down.

*

Iseemyself inthesemovements.Like you or like I—


*

Thewheelturns.

*

Thewheelturns.

*

Tarot,onceforentertainmentandthenforesoterism,ishowIwantmywheeltobe.Iwantto laughandIwant toweep.Iwantsimultaneity-as-resonance.Iwant this formtobeatonceplayfulandgrave.WhoelsedrawsacardwhenIdo?WhoelsebreatheswhenIdo?

*

Kurt Warren Ringwalt, my ghost of an uncle, lived from February 26, 1968 to October 11, 1969.Blake’s“CradleSong”iscarvedonhisgravestone,chosenbymygrandfather—

Sweet dreams, form a shade o’er my lovely infant’s head.

Whenhewaslucid,mygrandfatherhadmemorizedmostof Blake’spoetry.Hewonanaward forplaywritingasanundergraduateatPrincetonandwrotehis thesisonYeats’ theater.Throughout my childhood, and into my teenage years and adulthood, he’d recite lines from poems, conjuringverseoutof theair.IrememberhimrecitinglinesfromT.S.Eliot’sThe Wasteland while I sat on his lap, twelve-years-old:

“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?


“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,

“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!

“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

As my grandfather began losing his memory, my family realized he retained his long-term memorywhilesufferingsignificantshort-termloss.Hecouldrecount,infulldetail,climbingupMountFujiwhenheandhissisterLouiselivedinJapan.Hetalkedaboutstoppingforricebeforetheascent.He talkedaboutaccidentallygoingAWOLwhilevolunteering inBerlinduring theColdWar.Heaskedmygrandmotherquestionsaboutdistantfriendsandfamily,andhealwaysrememberedtheessentialsof mybrothersandcousin,andmyself.

Duringthepre-RometriptoCoronadelMar,Isatinthelivingroomwithmygrandfather.The sun shone through the olive tree’s branches and reached through the glass sliding-door to their smallfrontporch.Forthefirsttimeinmylife,IreadhimBlake.Iknewhewouldn’trememberthepoemafterIrecitedit,butIfelthimnoddingalongtotherhythm,anechoof recognition.Thepoem was called “Song”—

Memory, hither come,

Andtuneyourmerrynotes;

And, while upon the wind,

Yourmusicfloats,

I’ll pore upon the stream,

Where sighing lovers dream,

Andfishforfanciesastheypass

Withinthewateryglass.

I’ll drink of the clear stream,

Andhearthelinnet›ssong;

And there I’ll lie and dream

The day along:

And, when night comes, I’ll go

Toplacesfitforwoe,

Walking along the darken’d valley,


WithsilentMelancholy.

*

On Christmas Eve in California, my grandmother gave my little brother, Kurt, a miniature basket full of miniature seashells. The name ‘Kurt’ was painted onto the side of the basket.Somethingsmall forababyboy.Thatboy,mybrother’snamesake,nevergrewup.Hewasmydad’syoungerbrotherandhediedwithinhisfirsttwoyearsof life.Hehoveredabovemyfamilyas a reminder of innocence, of softness, of tragedy.His portrait, black-and-white, stood on abookshelf inthefoyerof mygrandparents’house,heldinasilverframe.

In quiet moments alone with me, my grandmother sometimes talked about the aftermath of Kurt’sdeath.Shesaidshe’dsitintheirgarageinsilence,pettingtheirGermanShephard.Shesaidshecouldn’thavemadeitthroughthelosswithoutthefamilydog.Mygrandmother,notonetotalkaboutherfeelingsindepth,possessedadeepwellof being.IcouldfeelitwheneverIsatwithher.Onthesurfaceof thiswellwasanelectricalcurrentof anxiety.Icouldfeelthat,too.Later,Ilearnedthatmygrandmother’stherapisttoldhertomoveonfromthedeath,totrytoforgetit.I’msurethere’smoretothestory,buttherelativesilencesurroundingKurt’sdeathwasamplifiedbyanxiety.

When my grandmother told me about holding me as a baby, she said that she felt a special connectionwithme.ShesaidIwasthecalmestbabyshe’deverheld,somethingIfindhardtoimaginegivenmychildhood—feverish,wildly imaginative.Shealways fosteredmycreativity—andmy brothers’, andmy cousin’s. I grew up dancing, playing cello, andwriting stories andpoems.Kurtplayedthedrums.Daniel,ourolderbrother,wasapianist.Heather,ourcousin,wasaballerinaandanactress.Weallpossesseddegreesof theintensityof ourgrandmother’sfeelingandthestrangenessof ourgrandfather’shumor,theirsharedloveforart.

Marjorie, our grandmother,was one of the firstwomen to studymusic therapy in theUnitedStates.ShemovedfromruralIowatoChicagotostudyatRoosevelt,andeventuallymovedagaintoSanFrancisco,whereshemetmygrandfather.Theirfirstdatewasattheopeningnightof theSanFranciscoOpera.OncetheymarriedandsettledintotheirhouseinCoronadelMar(whichtheymovedtoafterKurt’sdeathinClaremont),shebecameaprivatepianoinstructor.Shestillreceiveslettersfromformerstudents,wellintohereighties.

The day I left forRome Iwas alonewithmy grandparents at their house.Theywerelisteningtotheradio,asalways,classicalmusicfloodingthroughthelivingroomalongwiththesun.Ifeltpainfullyawareof theiroldage.SayinggoodbyemeantnotknowingwhenI’dseethemnext.AsIgotintothetaxitoJohnWayneAirport,mytearstransformedingratitudeasIheardthetaxidriverhadanotherclassicalradiostationon.Icommentedonthemusic,andhetoldmehewasanoperasinger.Italkedtohimaboutmygrandmother,andhowIwasamusiciantoo,andhesaidsomethinglikemusicelongateslife.Musicgivesagegrace.


*

At the Capitoline Museum in Rome, I found myself alone in a room full of paintings of Mary.Uponseeingmyfavoritepaintingof her,Ismiledtomyself.I’dneverseenitinperson—Ididn’tevenknowwhichmuseumhousedit.IfoundthisoneinabookcalledMary, an archive of herbeing-in-art.Iboughtthebookat theArtInstituteof ChicagowhenIwassixteen.Inthismoment,Ifelttimefoldingoveritself.Thispainting,tongue-pinkoverwood,depictedMarywithabookshelf andanangel.Whatdidsheneedtoknow?

As I moved further through the room, I saw a painting of Mary surrounded by her symbols: lilyof thevalleyalongsideharder-to-decipherimages.Maryissuspendedinayelloworb,armsoutasif toinvokepropertiesof hersymbolstosustainhervigilance.Herfeetarecloakedbyacrimsonreddress,tofurtherherflight—anillusionof hovering.Ratherthanthehoveringof disassociation,of asyncope,Marylookslucid.Inanear-humorousway,Icanimagineherasserting:I’m here.

*

I don’t know what the wheel looks like to me, how material itevenis.Iknowwhatitlookslikein my tarot deck—the Tarot of Marseille—and I know what it looks like when it makes vehicles moveinAmishcountryinIndiana,onCoastHighwayinCalifornia.AccordingtoWikipedia,“theearliest known use of the wheel for transportation is in Mesopotamian chariots about 3200 years ago.”Here,thisthingof movementpossessespracticalityinitsmaterialform.But—whatelseisaforce of transportation? How else can one be transported?

I don’t know how religious I am, but I know what compels me: Amazing Grace, In the Garden,IWonderasIWander.Idon’tknowhowreligiousIam,butIknowwhatfillsmybreathandhaltsitandbringsmetomyknees.I’mattendingtoaturningthing.I’mattendingtoamovingthing.AndwhatmovedmemorethanSantaMariainTrastevere?

ReportedlythefirstchurchinRomededicatedtoMary,SantaMariainTrastevereisalso—perhaps,giventhistrivia,necessarily—oneof Rome’soldest.Itdatesbacktothefourthcentury.Of all of the churches I wandered to and from in Rome over the course of seventeen days, this one wasthemostgolden.Of allof thechurchesIwanderedtoandfrominRome,itevokedasyncopewithinme.WhatIreallywanttonote,whatIreallywanttouplift,aretheeyesof SantaMaria.

Above one of the chapels in the interior is a painting of disembodied eyes, guarded by agolden frame,ahovering crown. Is the spacebetween the frameand the crownabreath, asuspension,asiteforsyncope?WhatIdoknowisthattheseeyesareavisualdifferencewithinthespaceof thesanctuary.Thestrikeyoufromafar,theyfollowyou,theyknowsomethingyoudon’t.


When Will and I performed in New Orleans in May of 2018, I got a tattoo on my collarbone an hour before our show. I had re-readGaston Bachelard’sThe Poetics of Space at Watermill, another reprieve from the arduous gardening, and was struck by his invocation of Rimbaud’s “nacre voit”—mother-of-pearl sees. Iemailedoneof my favoritecontemporary fashiondesigners,ClaireBarrow,askingif she’dhandwritethephraseforme.Sherepliedwithinaweek.

WeperformedatSaturnBar inanoldfightingring litbyaredspotlight.Adilapidatedbalcony, where onlookers once watched bodies beat to bruising, to blood, served as a site for listening.Afterayearof touring,we’daccidentallydevelopedthisperformancestyleof pacing—whileWillplayedguitarandIsang—makingunwaveringeyecontact.Likebullsinaring.

I find “nacre voit” in the eyes of SantaMaria.The eyes, tome, signal the dissonancedesigned into early European churches, but this time visual; the eyes beg the question—whataren’tyouseeingclearly?Thistime,however,theeyessuggestafemininity.Amother—adivinemother—isasking,invitingclearerperception.

*

In April, Will and I drove through Nashville listening to Josephine Foster’s newest album, Faithful Fairy Harmony.Whenwelivedtogether,we’doftendrivearoundtolistentomusic.Somethingaboutlisteningtomusicintransitofferedusasiteof clarity.Wheneverwe’dfinishedrecordingandmixing a song of our own, we’d listen to its resonances and shortcomings from the space of Will’s car.Thelongerweworkedonasongfromthecomfortof ourhome,welostperspectiveandsankintooursubjectivities;weneededtohearitelsewhere.If thesongdidn’tresonatefromthecar,itwasdoingsomethingwrong.Howthesonginteractedwiththelandscape—andwithusinthelandscape—woulddetermineitssuccess.

Will had reminded me that I’d been thinking about symbols long before the inception of thisproject.Whenwewereseventeen,Iwroteasongcalled“Syringe”aboutmyabusiveex,afeverishTom-Waits-esquepieceatonceplayfulandlamenting.Init,Ising:I made my own religious signs.Will and I recorded the songs on an oldWollensak tapemachine in the basement of adormitory at our high school, the static of the tape machine just as symbolic as the images I sang for.Thestaticof thetapemachine—mymemory—churned,indecipherable,ahaunt.

“Syringe,” which I wrote during my ex’s many disappearances and near-overdoses, during the vigilance he forced me to attend to by implicating me before his absence, was one among many attemptsathealing.EventhoughthesongsIwrotethatfallweremostlyaboutmyex,Inamedthealbumaftermyself:AM.Isangaboutmagnoliatrees,bluerosaries,adesertwithcrystalwalls.Thesymbolswerealwaysforhealing.Willsawthat,affirmedthat,andneveraskedmetoexplainmyself—evenaskids.

Inthecar,welistenedto“TheVirginof theSnow.”JosephineFosteropensthesongby


humming, until humming isn’t enough, and her wordless singing takes on the qualities of vowels, prolongation: somewhere between an ah and an oh.Thesong,oversixminuteslong,endsjustasitbegins,inahum—asif thesongisamirror,andonlybylookingintoitsreflectioncanabodycomeforth.Of allof Foster’smusic,Iwasflooredbythegentleassurednessof “TheVirgin”;shemakesnoefforttostrainhervoice,singingasif tolullababytosleep.Shesings,certainly,of thevirgin-as-gatekeeper.Shesingsaboutasilversleigh,andthepianocomesintobolstertheimage.Cellofloatsjustbelowherflyingvoice,doublingit,renderinghervoiceaforcebeyondbody.

Aswedrove,WillandIwonderedwhenthemagnoliatreeswouldbloomthatspring.Nearlya year before, we had driven through Nashville wondering at the site of such blooms—saturated intheirfragrance.Ifeltsomethingfearlesslyfeminineinthestrengthandheightandstatureof themagnoliatrees.ParalleltoShelbyPark,near-blindinggreenoutthewindows,wemarveledatthehomestuckedbehindthetrees.Wealwaysimaginedwherewe’dwanttolive—abungalow,maybe.Someplacesmall.

I felt time slow down as I watched the landscape—perhaps due to the spring-caused bloom, or the song’s transcending movement, or both—and I said to Will quietly and with enough pause to emphasize how un-dramatic I wanted the statement to be, “I know it sounds crazy, but I feel the songun-rapeme.”Itwasaphysicallyimpossibleutterance,butIfeltheldandempoweredinmyonce-virginity, my once-safety, as the song unfurled—as the cello and piano paralleled voice and offeredflight.Willliftedahandfromhissteeringwheel,tookittoholdmyhand.Hebroughtmyhandtohislipsandkisseditsoftly.Ididn’tneedhimtosayanything.Thiswas,Iknew,theclosestI’dgettohealing.

*

I got my favorite Virgin Mary at a junk store in downtown Missoula with a sign advertising “WeBuyAnything”abovethefrontdoor.Shewastranslucentplasticandcoveredindust.Despitealleffortsatcleaningher,threadsof dustpressedcertainlyintothecreasesof herform.Icouldseewhere her body had broken before—her head had snapped at the neck and was super-glued back on.Iwonderedwhohadrepairedher,andwhatthecircumstancesof herbeheadingwere.Thesupposed purity of her clear body, coupled by the dust and the cracks, presented a contradictory kindof virginity.Ihappilypaid$10andwrappedherinaT-shirtinmysuitcasetobringhome.

Yearslater,IheardacrashdownstairsasIwaschangingclothesinmybedroom.WhenIdescendedthestairs,Isawthatourkitten,Carrot,hadknockedahandfulof pictureframesoffthetopof abookshelf,Virginincluded.Thenoiseof thecrashmusthavebeendisturbingenoughforher—justafewmonthsold,atthat,justoverthesizeof myoutstretchedpalm—thatshefledunderthebluevelvetcouchbeforeIcouldfindher.WhenIcrawledonthefloortolookunderthefurniture, I eventually found Carrot out of reach behind the skirt of the couch, gnawing on the Virgin’shead,severedonceagain.


*

OnChristmas Eve inCalifornia, I fainted in a church parking lot. I felt, inmy veins,thousandsof miniaturewheelsflutteringastheyturned.Iwasn’tdisassociated,butIforgotaboutmybody.MymotherandtwobrothersandIweredrivingtomygrandparents’church.We’dmeetmy father and his parents in the parking lot, under the sea of olive trees and string lights, and walk insidetogetherforaneveningservice.

MybrothersandIwerelaughingabouttherepetitivenessof aL.A.-basedhiphopradiostation,andourmotherlaughedwithusmostlyoutof confusion.Whilemymotherwasreligious,mybrothersandIhadourrefractionsof spiritualityandlack,sincerityandirreverence.Oncethecar was parked, I opened the door and got out and, as I slammed the door shut, caught my entire leftthumbinthedoor.

Everyonewaspacesaheadof menow,butIwasstuckinplace.Ironically,itwasthefirstmomentIhadtorestsinceWillhadmovedout.Thewheel,mywheel,stuck.Istruggledtocryouttomymother.Whensheturnedaroundandsawmyhand,IheardherscreampiercethroughtheChristmasbells,thesoundsof tiresoncement,mygrandmother’shushedvoice.

Iopenedthecardoor.Isawtheshapethedoorlatchhadcarvedintomythumb,closetothebone.Ibled.Bythetimemybrotherswerebymyside,Ilookedtomymomandsaid,“I’mgoingtofaintsoon.”Icollapsedontomyknees.

WhenIfell,Iheardchurchbells,onlybells.Theywereprolonged—byfainting,thisliteralsyncope—and I felt myself bouncing around in space, slowly, in the metallic sounds of the bells, likewind.Inthebreathof spacebetweenabellbeingstruck.WhenIwoke,thefirstthingIheardwasKurtcallingmyname.Hewasclosetome,now,crouchedtothegroundtosupportme.Iwascoveredinsweat.Iwascold.

*

Ionlywanttofillthisspacewithbells,witholivetrees.

Ionlywanttofillthisspacewithbells,witholivetrees,withstonepines,withwhitepillows.

Ionlywanttofillthisspacewithtwowhitemoths,mybodyonpillows.


Ionlywanttofill thisspacewithGermanShepherdsontheseashore,mygrandmothercombingherhair,mygrandfathertendingtohisgarden.Ionlywanttofillthisspacewithbells,witholivetrees,withstonepines,whitepillows.

Ionlywanttofillthisspacewith—aninhalation—For all—of god’s angels—in heaven to sing.

Ionlywanttofillthisspacewithpinkflowers,withbloodbloom,withblisteredfeet.

Ionlywanttofillthisspacewithwhiterock,clearrock,quartzrock,aclearing.




Ionlywant tofill this spacewithnarrowhallways inDublinas the slopeof thewheel,waterfalls in Vermont as the slope of the wheel, the moment two distant hands touch, skin rough, veinspulsing.

Ionlywanttofillthisspace—Formof theTreeof Heaven.

Ionlywanttofillthisspacewithwellwater,lakewater,thesoundof avoicereverberatingonitswaves,intoitsstructure.

*


In his foreword to Purgatorio, W.S.Merwinnotes that theepicendswith“Beatrice,atamomentof unfathomable loss and exposure, [calling] thepoem’snarrator andprotagonist byname,‘Dante’,andthe[…]soundof hisnameatthatmomentisnotatallreassuring.Woulditeverbe?Andwhowoulditreassure?”(viii).Namingatthissiteof lossandexposure…inabanalway, I seemybrother’s voicewhile Iwas unconscious, and thenwakingme, as enacting this.Namingatthissiteof lossandexposure…Iseemyolderbrothersupportingmymother.Iseemyfatherdrivingmetotheemergencyroom,Kurtbymyside.Iseemygrandparentssittingquietlyintheirsanctuary,candlelightaroundtheirfaces.

Alice Notley writes that “a voice itself,” “a woman’s voice with access to the mystery of the dream,”isEpic.Thisvoice,accordingtoNotley,needbe“circuitous,”aforceof “winding”(180).Perhaps,afterMerwin,thereisnoreassuranceinbeingnamed.Theactof namingnecessitatesavigilancetothespeakerandthereceiver.Kurtcalledforme,andIcamebackfrommydreamof bells.

*

Ineedyoutolistenwithme.

[Let It Be Me.NinaSimone.

“Stars”;fourminutes,thirty-threeseconds.]

WhenWillandIfirstreconnected,hesentmeavideoof NinaSimoneperforming“Stars.”Iwatchedit,hypnotized—inbed,inthedark.Shesings:“if youdon’tmindbeingpatientwithmyfumblingaround,I’llcomeupsingingforyou.”InthesamewayJohnJacobNilesleansintotheprolongationof “you”and“I”in“IWonderasIWander,”Simonemakesspaceforbeing-with.For a moment, I felt the ceaseless turning of my past decade suspended by her voice—coaxed to momentary stillness.This suspension is ineverypausebetweenherarticulationsof thepiano,itsslowandcircuitousrhythm.Herarticulationsof thepianomimicthatof bells—withsteadyrhythm,minimalchords,andpauserichenoughforotherresonances.Here,pianomakeswayforvoice.

And, in the video, as she performed live at Montreux Jazz Festival in 1971, she commands heraudiencetositdownbeforecontinuing.Theaudiencelaughs,butsherepeats:sit down, sit down.Therequestisgrave.Ashereyeslookintentlypastthecameraandintotheaudience,itdoesn’tlook like she’s singing for anyone in hermidst. In her eyes, accented by a clay-colored glittereyeshadow,Iseesincereinwardnesswhileexhibitinganambivalencetowardheraudience.She


doesn’t need to perform her vigilance: I’m trying to tell my story,shesings.ButIdon’tthinkthisaudienceiswhoshe’sintendingtotellitto.Shetellsitforherself,trustingitsweight.

I can’t remember it anyway,shecontinues,fallingintoalargerspaceforvocalpause.Thispause,asuspension,isoneIseemybodyturningtonow.Thispause,asuspension,carriesmethrougholivetrees,stonepines,metalstarspressedintothecobblestonestreetsof Trastevere.Purgatorio endswithstars,too.Purgatorio endswithstars—and,initscelestialending,opensitself forNinaSimone.Dantecouldn’tknow.

Thepianokeepshergoinguntilitswells. The piano swells just as she sings of other musicians: JanisJoplin,BillieHoliday. Then she returns to the ‘we’. We always have a story. I recall a video of the pianistGlennGouldenteringatranceasheplaysBach’sPartita#2athomeinhisbathrobe.Hedoubleshispianoperformancewithhisvoice.Until,midwaythrough,hestandsfromthepiano,turnsaround,walks to thewindow, looksout to thebirds inhisyard.Hehumsthesong inperfect tempofromthemomenthisfingersleavethekeystothemomenthereturns.Heturnsaroundaftersometime,returnstothepiano,andkeepsplayingasif nocompulsiveinterruptionoccurred.

Iseemyself—Iseemymemory—inthisspaceof turning,re-turning.IwonderwhereGouldgoeswhenherisesfromthepiano.IwonderwhereSimonegoeswhenshetiltsherheadback,closeshereyes,inhalesbeforecontinuingtosing.

That night of reconnection, I watched the video of her performance a dozen times, my phone closetomyface.IdriftedwithNinaSimone’sfacenexttomineuntilmyphonewentdark,untilIcouldn’t hold my eyes open, until I woke hours later to the sun shining outside and my cat tapping my pillow-turnedcheekwithherpaw.NinaSimone’svoice—perhaps they have a soul they aren’t afraid to bear.Thisfearlessnessdoesn’tpullheroutof thesong.Instead,sherepeatsherself.Shestutters,shestumbles,it’swhatshe’ssupposedtogooutwith.

Sherepeatsherself.Sherepeatsherself.Voicebecomingsymbol.


AMRingwaltisawriterandmusician.Therecipientof the2019SparksPrizeasagraduateof theUniversityof NotreDame’sMFAinPoetry,herwordsmostrecentlyappearedorareforthcomingintheBenningtonReview,InterimandtheKenyonReview.HermanuscriptWhatFloodswasafinalistforEssayPress’2018bookprizeandwaslonglistedforTarpaulinSky’s2019bookprize.ShehastaughtcreativewritingattheUniversityof NotreDameandInterlochenArtsCamp,andhasperformedhermusicattheWatermillCenterandtheNewYorkerFestival.


Rose-Red City Half as Old as TimeBy liz roSe

Thedesertmountainswerebeigeandgrayandhugeandlookedlikethemoon.Itap-peared as though they were moving alongside our bus, just more slowly--guarding us, perhaps, from something larger and unbeknownst to us at the time--but of course it was us, not the moun-tains,thatwereinmotion.Wewerezigzaggingourwayat40milesanhourthroughthewindyroadsof theNegevdesertfromtheinsideof anair-conditionedbus.Scott,myex-boyfriend,had been dozing pretty much the whole ride from Jerusalem down to Eilat, the southern tip of IsraelthatsitsontheRedSea.Itookbreaksfromreadingmy Lonely Planet guidebook to stare outthewindow.AtonepointItiltedmyheadtotrytoseethetopsof themountains,almostbumping into Scott’s shoulder--a pool of drool had accumulated at the side of his open mouth as heslept--butIcouldn’tseetheirpeaks.Othersweresleepingonthebus,too.Exceptforababywhocriedonandoff,itwasmostlyquiet.Iwasprettysureayoungcouplewasfoolingaroundinthebackof thebus,alternatingbetweengigglingandmoaning.IlookedatScott.Iwasangryhewasmissingthedesertview.“I’mjustalongfortheride,”he’dsaidanhourearlier.ForafewsecondsIwatchedhimsleepandknewI’dneverlovehim.

We were on our way to Amman, Jordan, then Petra, then back down to Egypt before re-turningtoJerusalem.OncewearrivedtoEilat,wecrossedovertoAqaba,thentookanotherbusbackupnorthtoAmman.IhadbeenlivinginJerusalemforafewyearsasagraduatestudentatHebrewUniversitywhenIreceivedScott’slettersayinghewascomingtoIsrael.Iwasn’texcitedaboutthetrip;whichistosay,IwaslookingforwardtotravelingtotwocountriesI’dnevervisit-edbefore,butnotnecessarilywithScott.WehaddatedforayearseveralyearsbackwhenIwasajuniorincollegeinMadison,Wisconsin.Itwasananti-climaticbreakup.Ijustdidn’treallylikehim.Heannoyedandboredme.

Three years later after no contact, I received the letter from Scott saying he was coming toIsraeltovisitfamily.“If you’refreewhenI’mthere,”hewrote,“maybewecangosomewheretogether.”Hehappenedtobearrivingduringmysemesterbreakfromtheuniversity--later,I’dwonderif thishadbeenonpurposesinceheknewI’dbeonbreak.IhadbeenwantingtovisitJordanandEgyptsoIsuggestedwegotogether.Itwas1994,justsixmonthsafterIsraelandJordansignedthepeacetreaty--peoplecouldfinallyenterfromIsrael.IwatchedthesigningonIsraeliTV.IwasdoingsomeeditingandtranslatingworkforanelderlymaninJerusalem’sKatamon neighborhood the day of the treaty and we watched it together in his living room and drankminttea.MybosslivedonPalmachStreet,ashortwalkfrommyapartmentwhichwasacrossthestreetfromtheJerusalemTheatreonChopinStreet.Thedayafterthesigning,Icutoutpicturesof PrimeMinisterRabinandKingHusseininthenewspaper.Inoneof thephotos,RabinlitHussein’scigarette--thephotocaptionread,“PeacePipe.”


We had not been able to take a linear route from Jerusalem to Amman because the Allen-byBridge,whichwewouldhavetakenfromIsraelintoJordan,hadn’tyetreopened.ItwasDe-cember,andJordanandIsraelhadonlysignedthepeacetreatyinOctober.WecalledthebridgeGesher Allenbybecausethat’swhatIsraeliscallit.InArabicit’scalledAl-Karameh, the bridge Pales-tiniansusetoleavetheWestBank.JordanianscallittheKingHusseinBridge.Shortlyafterthepeace treaty, a new modern crossing was built next to the older one with help from the Japanese Government.ThedistancebetweenAmmanandJerusalemisonly157miles,butbecausewecouldn’t use the bridge, we had to take a bus from Jerusalem 192 miles down south to Eilat, cross overintoAqaba,andthentakeanotherbusbackupnorth202milesbacktoAmman.

Ididn’tplanthetripwell.Itmadesenseformetogoduringmysemesterbreak,of course, but I didn’t realize until we were already on the bus that it was Ramadan, the Muslim holidaywherestrictfastingisobservedfromsunrisetosunsetforaboutamonth.Incertaincities,eatinganddrinkinginpublicisforbidden.Jordanisroughy94percentMuslimandabout70percentPalestinian.Mostof thetwomillionPalestinianswholiveinJordancameasrefugees,orfromfamiliesof refugees,fromIsrael,between1947and1967.About370,000liveinrefugeecampsinsideJordan.

We left Jerusalem at 7:00am and had been traveling the whole day, so by the time we had crossedoverintoAqabaandheadedbackupnorthtowardsAmman,itwasjustaftersundown.WeweretheonlyAmericansonthebus.Allof asudden,everyonearoundusstarteddrinkingwateroutof gallon-sizedmilkcartonsandlightingcigarettes.They’dtakealongswigwiththeireyes closed, the cold water rushing down their throat, deep into their organs as though it con-tainedaspeciallife-force,thenwouldpassthecartonstothenextperson.Whenonecametome,Ismiledgraciously,stupidly,tryingtopretendIwasfamiliarwiththisritual.Theydeeplyin-haledtheircigarettes,too.Asayoungtwenty-somethinglivingabroad,Ihadnoproblemjoiningtheminthisritual,thoughwhenIsmoked,itwaswithbravado.ThenIwonderedhowweweregoingtofindfoodduringthedayonthistrip.

We arrived at the youth hostel in Amman in the early evening, and we crashed from the longdayof travel.Inthemorning,IwokeupbeforeScottdid,andIreadabouttheancientRomanamphitheatre,ourfirststopinthecity,inmyLonely Planetbook.Wedranksomeinstantcoffeeinthehostellobby,whichwasn’treallyalobby,morelikeacoupleof beaten-downbrownchairs in a small room with peeling teal and orange paint, a black kettle on a counter for hot water.Theinstantcoffeeseemedanattemptbythehotelownerstokeepthetouristshappybutnotcoddled.They’dhydrateus,theyfigured,evenduringRamadan,butoursearchforfoodwasn’ttheirproblem.LuckilyIhadn’tthrownawaythebruisedtangerineandcrustybreadIhadbroughtwithmefromJerusalemthedaybefore.IsharedsomewithScottandwegotataxi.

I read that Amman’s old Roman amphitheatre is cut into the northern part of a hill so thatthesundoesn’tdisturbthespectators.Itsitslowandrisesupasyounearit,whichIcouldseefromthecabaswegotcloser.ItriednottolookatScottwhenwewereinthetaxibecausehe looked bored again--he had just yawned loudly enough for the cab driver to hear--and it mademeangry.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karameh

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hussein_of_Jordan


Scott had two ways of being, it seemed--either he hated something or he was apathet-ic.Thesideof hismouthwaspinched,likehewasabouttocontradictyou,hislipsalwaysonthe verge of saying, “But…” or, “So?” But beyond these things that annoyed me, Scott was a normalguy,andforsomereasonIwasn’tawareof atthetime,thisirritatedmetoo.Hewant-ed--someday,“downtheroad,”he’dsay--togetmarriedandbuyahouseandhavekids.Iwassure that on the weekends he’d want to invite other couples over with their kids for dinner--a BBQ in the backyard, of course, with red-checkered plastic tablecloths--that you make with all the cutlery you got as gifts from your wedding registry, and take family road trips and have spontaneous teachable moments where your kids learn some lesson like that bad people exist in the world but you always want to still try to be good nonetheless, or some such nonsense like thatwhereyoufeelreallyself-satisfiedaboutyourparentingwhenyouputyourkidstosleepthatnight,thoughyou’dneversayso.Youjustdoallthethingsthatnormalpeopledo.Iwasraisedin a family that taught me I should strive for such normalcy, too, but something about it made mefeelclaustrophobicandrestless.OrperhapsIwassimplyaggravatedbyScottandmighthavewantedthosethingswithsomeoneelse--Ican’tremembernow.WhatIhadcallednormalwas simply another way of saying it was just what the majority of people did, what the girls I knewdreamtaboutfromanearlyage.Forwhateverreason,Ijustdidn’twantit.SoonaThurs-day afternoon in Madison after watching All My Children,ItoldScottweshouldbreakup.Hegotupset,andmovedratherquickly,itseemedatthetime,fromangertodetachedindifference.WeleftmyapartmenttogetherandthenwalkeddownStateStreetinoppositedirections.IwenttoPizzaHutandategreasybreadstickswithanextrasideof tomatosauce.Thatevening,Icalledmymothercrying,worriedthatI’dalwaysbealone.Shedidn’tknowwhattosay,soinsteadsheaskedmeif Ihadcaughtthesplit-infinitiveonthatday’sepisodeof All My Children--resorting, as sheoftendidasanEnglishteacher,toherjoyof findinggrammarmistakesontelevisionshows.“Itwasagoodone,”shechuckled.

BoxywhiteArab-stylehousesdottedthehillsaroundtheamphitheatre.Builtinthe2ndcentury when the area was called Philadelphia, the amphitheatre seats 6000 and is built on three tiers.Theacousticsaresupposedtobesogoodthatif youstandtowardsthetoprows,it’sbe-lieved,youcanhearthepeopleonstage,evenif theywhisper.Assoonaswegotthere,Imademywaydownthesteepstairstowardsthestage.Scottsatononeof therowstowardsthetop,lookinglikeadetachedtouristwatchingabasketballgame.AsIwalkeddownthesharpstepsof theamphitheatre,mymindflashedbacktoamemoryof thestairsinAnneFrank’shouseinAmsterdamwhenmyfatherbroughtmein1985.Myparentscouldn’taffordforourfamilyof fivetotravelabroadtogether,sohetookturnsbringingoneof usthreekidsatatimewhenhewentforwork.HehadaconferenceinBrusselsandwetookthetraintoAmsterdamfortheday.Igotthechillsaswewalkedupthestairsjustbehindthebookcasethathidthestairway.Afewminutes before, we had stood on the corner of Rozengracht and Keizersgracht Streets, not far fromAnneFrank’shouseonPrinsengracht.Hegavemethemapandsaid,“Figureouthowwegetthere.”HewaspatientasIfoundourway.WewalkedupRozengracht,aleftonPrinsen-grachtanddownafewblocks--asmallwalk,forsure,butthatafternoon,Ilearnedtouseamap.


The highest rows in the amphitheatre, though farthest from the stage, not only have greatacoustics,butalsohaveexcellentsightlinesof boththestageandthecityof Amman.Itseemedtobeaplacewherepeoplecometohangout,likeapark--aquietrespiteinabigcity.Amanreadabooklyingdownononeof therows,hisbackpackunderhisheadlikeapillow.Twowomensattogetherlookingdownatthestage,nottalking.Aboywalkedupanddownthestairsseveraltimesmethodicallyanddeterminedwhilehisfathertalkedtoafriend.Agroupof tour-istsfollowedamanwhoheldapinkumbrella.Sittingonthetoprows,Ifeltliftedoutof thebusybustleof theeveryday.Themorninglightwassoftandpink,andthesunspreaditself overtheancientrockasitmadeitswayaroundtheamphitheatre.Iwasoverwhelmedwithhowthelighthit the stone and I walked up and down the steps a couple times, like the little boy I had watched earlier.ThenIstoodonthestagetryingtoabsorbthetheatre’smassivity.

“Bychance,areyouheadedtoPetra?”someoneaskedmeonthestage.HisnamewasDiego, and as he spoke, he adjusted his silver wiry glasses behind his thick black hair to make surehecouldsee.Hehadaroundbeerbelly,hisgrayTheWhot-shirttightaroundhismidsec-tion.

“By chance, I am!” I answered sprightly, awkwardly, more eager than I would have liked tohavesounded.DiegowasfromPeru--hewasstudyinginBostonandvisitingtheMiddleEastandAfricaduringhisbreak.Heseemedtopossessanappropriateamountof nerdiness,whichIwasimmediatelydrawnto.

“Weshouldgotogether,”hesuggested.Hehadaconfidencethatindicatedheknewtherulesof travel.ItwasOKtoaskastranger,evenafemale,totraveltogetherbecauseitwasundertheguiseof simplygettingwhereyouneededtogo.“It’llbecheaper,”hesaid,tuckinghishairbehindhisears,scanningthemagnificenceof theampitheatre.

Thisiswhatissupposedtohappenwhenyoutravel,I’msureIthoughtatthetime.Youmeet cool people and the next thing you know, you’re traveling with them across a foreign coun-try.TravelallowedmetopretendIwassomeoneelse.IcouldimagineIwaseasy-going,care-free, one of those hippie girls I envied in high school who wore long prairie skirts they found atsecond-handstores.JustliketheDylansong,theyworesilverbraceletsontheirwristsandflowersintheirhair.Theyhadanintentionallymessysidebraidandsomehowtheflowersdidn’tfallout.Theywerelightandairy,flittingdownthehallwaywiththeirBirkenstocksandalsandthickmix-matchedsocks.Youknowgirlslikethese,don’tyou?Theyhaveperfectskinandawet,poutybottomlipthatneverrequireslipglossandtheydon’tneedglasses.Theymighthaveasexybrownmoleontheircheek.Theymakelargedinnersfortheirfriends.Theirglasswareisrandom,alsofromsecond-handstores,butallof ittogetherpreciouslyjustseemstomatch.They spend hours at the farmer’s market buying just the right kind of baby bok choy--full, not tooskinny--fortheirdinner.Theyprovideshelterfromthestormfortheirmen.Yearslater,whenIdescribedthesegirlstomyhusband,heknewwhatIwastalkingabout.“Yeah,buttheyallhavedaddyissues,”hesaid.Atthetime,Icouldn’treallyexplaintheheavinessIfeltIcarriedaroundwithme,andwhenIwasaroundthosegirls,Ijustfeltmyself fallshort.


“Whynot?”IansweredDiego.Andjustlikethat,Ihadanothertravelpartnerandcouldpretend,briefly,Iwasoneof thosegirls.

Whenyoutravel,youconnectwithpeoplemorequicklythaninyoureverydaylife.Imetsomeone while eating alone in a restaurant in Ljubljana, watching the sunset on the beach in Tel-Aviv,inlineforaticketatthetrainstationinParis,standingonabridgeinVenice.Thatjustdidn’thappentomeinChicago.SomeetingsomeonestandingonastageinaRomanamphi-theatreinJordanbecamenobigdeal;bywhichImean,Icouldactlikeitwasn’tabigdeal.Andwhen it does occur, you step outside yourself for a moment, and you think what a great, enviable story it will be when you tell your friends that you met someone standing on a stage in a Roman amphitheatreinJordan--butyoudon’tshowit.Andforjustthatmoment,whenImetDiego,Ibelieved that I was living an envious life, that for a few days I was the kind of person who easily justmetpeople.Lightandbreezy.

Living abroad in Jerusalem allowed me to live in two worlds--I could be a tourist, but I alsowasworkingandstudyinginanothercountryIcouldcallhome.Iscoffedwithsuperiorityatthetravelerswhocameforjustaweek.Thelittlegreenpieceof paperstuckinsidemypassportwas all the proof I needed: I was more than a tourist but not a citizen--a faux expat on a student visa.ThoughIwaslivinginIsrael,Ididn’tknowwhatitwasliketoworkfulltime,serveinthearmy,paytaxes.Iwasjustanotherwell-educated,uppermiddle-classJew,agoodliberalZionistwhohaddreamedof livinginIsrael.Mostof myfriendsatthetime,otherZionistsstudyinginIsrael,returnedtotheU.S.afewyearslater,gotfulltimejobs,boughtcarsandproperty,movedto the suburbs--surely held their BBQ dinners in their backyard with the red-checkered table-cloths--hadkidsandgotfat.Theyweregoodatsmalltalkatparties.Theyrepresentedsomekindof uppermiddle-classpost-collegesuccessintheU.S.thatIjustdidn’twant,orwasn’tgoodat.ButScottwantedthiskindof life,andforsomereason,hewanteditwithme.

As Diego and I made our way up to where Scott was sitting--he hadn’t moved from the upper row--I introduced them and told Scott Diego’s idea for the three of us to go to Petra together.Scottsaid,“Sure,”andshookDiego’shandlikehehadjustmadeacorporatebusinessdeal.Icouldn’ttellif hewasannoyedorjustdidn’tcare.Diegoreachedintohisbagandofferedussomebread.Of course,Ithoughttomyself,unlikeScottandme,hehadpreparedforRama-dan.Itwaslatemorning.Weagreedtogetourstufffromthehostelandmeetinthecenterof towninacouplehourstocatchataxitoPetra.

The taxi driver, Ahmed, chain-smoked as he drove, even though it was in the middle of theafternoon.HespokealittleEnglish,andtoldusyou’renotsupposedtosmokeduringthedaywhenit’sRamadan,whichweknew.Butwesoonunderstoodhewastellingusbecausehewouldneedourhelpif thepolicehappenedtodriveby.If hewascaughtsmokingduringtheday,hesaid,hecouldbefined,orworse,throwninjailfortheremainderof Ramadan.Inashort while a police car did pass by, and Ahmed tossed his cigarette over his shoulder to where wesatinthebackseat.IwasinthemiddlebetweenDiegoandScott.Icaughtthecigaretteand


helditdownbetweenmykneesuntilthepolicepassed.

Ahmed had taken Desert Highway route 15 from Amman to Petra, a road that like its name,cutsrightthroughthehillydesert.Thewindowswereopenduringthethree-hourdriveand the sound of the wind cutting through the glass at times made it too loud to talk--which I didn’tmind.Thesand-coloredhillsinthedistancejuxtaposedwiththepowerlinesthatlinedtheroad.Wewerehungry,butwedidn’twanttotellAhmed.Althoughhewassmoking,wedidn’twanttoassumehewasalsoeating.Butafteraboutanhourandahalf--midwaytoPetra--Ahmedpulledofftheroadontoagraveldrivewaynearagasstation.Iassumedheneededtofillthecarwithgas.Heparkedandmotionedforustogetout.DiegoandIlookedateachother.Scottshrugged.Weenteredasmallroomwithlowceilingsjustbehindthegasstation.Abouttenpeoplesatontheflooraroundalowtable.Ahmedseemedtoknowthemallandhuggedafewof themen.Everyonewassmokingcigarettes.Alongwiththenicotine,smellsof lemonandgarlicandmintfilledtheroom.Anorangeandyellowtableclothcoveredthewoodtable.Atleasttwentydifferentsmallplateswereonthetable:freshhummus,smokedbabaganoush,tahiniwith parsley, tahini with tomatoes and cucumbers, falafel, yogurt and garlic, tomatoes and garlic, olive oil and zaatar, olives, radishes, grape leaves, tabbouleh, all on tiny plates covering the ta-ble.Ourhosttossedwarmpitatoeachpersonlikeafrisbee,throwingthemassoonastheywerewarmandcrispyontheheater.Someoneoffereduscigarettes.“WhatawaytosubvertRama-dan,”Diegowhisperedcloselyinmyearasweateandsmokedwiththeothers.IignoredScott,whohadjoinedtheothersinacigarette.Onhisexhale,heblewthesmokeoutof thesideof hismouththatwaspinched.Whenweleft,ourhostspackedussomepitabreadandhummus.Backinthetaxi,Ahmed,satisfied,tossedthetoothpickhehadbeenusingtocleanhisteethoutthewindow.

BythetimewearrivedtoPetra,itwastoolatetowalkaround.Wefoundayouthhostelnearbybutitwasexpensive.JordanwasseeingalargeincreaseinIsraelitourismsincethepeacetreaty.Diegoaskedif wethreecouldsharetheroomtosavemoney.Scottwasannoyedbutagreed.Ourroomhadthreesinglebeds.DiegoaskedtoreadmyLonely Planet book--“to make sureIampreparedforPetratomorrow”--andsoonwasengrossedinhisreading.Scottjoinedmeinmybedandwefooledaround.WhenScottkissedmyneck,IlookedoveratDiego,whobythenhadfallenasleep,thebookonhisroundbelly,hisglassesrestinglowonhisnose.ScottwasthemostexcitedI’dseenhimallday.Ifeignedinterest--apatheticattemptatsolicitude.Ifeltbadhe’dcomeallthisway.Heshouldgetsomethingoutof beinghere,Ithoughtatthetime.Itwasn’thisfaultIdidn’tlovehim.WewerequietsoDiegowouldn’thearus.

ThenextmorningwefinishedthepitaandhummusourhostshadgivenusthedaybeforeatthesecretlunchandwalkedtoPetra.“Partof thecontinuingallureof the‘rose-redcity,’”Diego read aloud from the book as we entered the town, adjusting his glasses as he read, “is that Petrastillhasmanysecretsyettobediscovered.”Petraisalsocalledthe“PinkCity,”hetoldusenthusiastically,becauseof therose-coloredrock.Later,heaskedmeif hecouldborrowthebookafterweleftPetra.HewasgoingtocontinuetravelingaroundJordanbeforeheadingtoAf-


rica,hesaid.HepromisedtosenditbacktomewhenhereturnedtoBoston.InPetra,wewereearlyenoughtoseethemorninglightreflectthesandstonebuildingsasweentered.

The limestone buildings in Jerusalem turn a rosy color when the afternoon sun hits the rockbutthesandstoneinPetraisadeeppinkrosestreakedwithorangeandbrown.Itremind-ed me of when I was younger, and my mother had just had back surgery for her spinal steno-sis.Onceshewasinrecovery,thesurgeondescribedtheimageof thebloodrushingintoplaceswhereithadbeenrestrictedforyears.“Whenthebloodstartedflowingintothesegrayareas,”hesaid,“itlookedlikeavibrantsunsetswirlinginherspine.”InPetra,speechless,westoodinsilentaweatthestreakedrosyrock.Thereareabout800sightstosee,andweonlygottoafew:TheSiq,the1.2kilometerentrancetoPetrawhichislikealongnarrowgorge;AlKhazneh,theTreasury,thebestpreservedbuildinginPetra;theAd-Deirmonastery.Dependingonthetimeof theday,thestonelookspeach,rose,blood-orangered.Later,theyellowsunbecamemoredilutedwitheachminuteasitfellquicklybehindthemountains,west,towardsIsrael.Inafewminutes, I remember thinking, the sun would glisten on the Mediterranean as it dipped into the sea.

Asitturneddark,weheadedbacktothehosteltocollectourthings.WesaidgoodbyetoDiego.HeheadedNorthasweheadedSouth,backtowardsEgypt.Sixmonthslater,asprom-ised,Ireceivedasmallpackageinthemail.ItwasfromDiegowhowasbackinBoston.Iwouldneverhearfromhimagain.Ontheinsideflapof theLonely Planet book, he had written a note of thanks.Onanotherpage,hehadcopiedasonnetbyhand,writtenbyJohnBurgonin1845,titled “Petra”:

It seems no work of Man’s creative hand,

bylabourwroughtaswaveringfancyplanned;

But from the rock as if by magic grown,

eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!

Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine,

whereerstAthenaheldherritesdivine;

Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane,

thatcrownsthehillandconsecratestheplain;

But rose-red as if the blush of dawn,

thatfirstbeheldthemwerenotyetwithdrawn;

The hues of youth upon a brow of woe,

which Man deemed old two thousand years ago,


match me such marvel save in Eastern clime,

arose-redcityhalf asoldastime.

By the time I received the book, I had moved apartments and was living on Palmach Street, just aroundthecornerfrommyformerapartmentonChopin.IhadmetTavit,anArmenian-Chris-tianwholivedinJerusalem’sOldCity.I’dsoonfalldeeplyinlovewithhim.Later,I’drejectmyZionism,andwouldremaininloveduringthenexttwoyearsI’dbefinishingmystudiesinJerusalem.

Afteranotherfrustratingdayof travelwearrivedinCairo.Whenwegottothehotel,ItoldScottIwantedtowalkaroundbymyself.Iwasannoyedthatitwasjustthetwoof usagain--Diegohadbeenanicedistraction.Scottseemedclingybutperhapsitwasmewhowasjustfrustrated.ItoldhimIneededsometimetomyself,andIwentforawalkalongtheNileRiver.Later, once I returned to the hotel, I suggested we walk through the Khan El-Khalili market--be-lievedtobetheoldestopen-airmarketintheMiddleEast.Smallboyscarriedlargetraysof freshpitabreadthatsmelledlikeza’atarontheirheads.Shopownersstoodoutsidetheirstorestryingtosellsweetperfume.Bythetimewegotbacktothehotel,Ihaddecidedtocutthetripshort.IhadnoreasontogiveScott.Itwasjusttimetogo.WeagreedtoseetheSphinxandpyramidsbeforeheadingtothebusstationtogobacktoJerusalem.Wecheckedoutof thehotelandtookataxithe13kilometerstoGiza.

As I looked in front of us in the cab, all of a sudden I saw three tiny triangles in the dis-tancethatgrewaswegotcloser.SoonIsawtheSphinx,too.Thescenelookedmorelikeapho-tothantherealthing.Whenweexitedthetaxi,boysondonkeysswarmedus,tryingtoselluspicturesandbracelets.Theywerelikegnats,theseboys,followingus,theirmouthsdroolingoverthetourists.Iwasunawareof theextentof thesekids’povertyandof ourprivilege.IblamedScottthey’dbotheredussincehelookedlikeanAmericantouristmorethanIdid.Itwaswindyaswewalkedaround.Thethreepyramids,Khufu,Khafre,andMenkaure,eachhavesquarebases,representingthefourdirections.Thetemplesinsidethepyramidsfaceeast.TheSphinxfaceseast,too,andisoriented,accordingly,withthesunrise.Youcanpayforatickettoenterthepyramids,butwedidn’t.I’mnotsurenowwhy,butI’massumingwebothwerejustreadytoleave.YoucantouchthePyramids,butnottheSphinx.Wegotascloseaswecould.MyneckcrackedasIbentmyheadtolookup.

Before we left Giza to head back to Israel, Scott touched my shoulders and turned me to him,awayfromtheSphinx.Iwassurprisedbyhisintensity.

“ComehomefromIsraelassoonasyoufinishyourdegree,”hesaid,pullingmecloser.“Moveinwithme.Let’sgetmarried.”He’dbeenbuildingtothis.Thesandshiftedbetween


mytoesinmybrownsandals.Thewindwashot,dry.ThefewtouristsIsawseemedtokeeptothemselves.Thelighthadbeguntofade,andallIsawwasbeige--thesand,thestoneof theancientbedrockbuildings,Scott’skhakipants.Itookitpersonallywhenthesandwhippedatmycheeksandstungmyeyes.Myinsignificanceamongthesebuildings,mostof themnearlyfivethousandyearsold,waspalpable.Thescenewasfartoospectacular--itmadewhatwashappen-ingbetweenScottandmeallthemoretrivial.

It took me less than a minute to know how I would respond to Scott, but the moment lingeredandhoveredaboveus.Ifeltheavy,theoppositeof aneasy-goinghippiegirl.Iknewitwas going to be a terribly long trip back to Jerusalem, that I’d never hear from Scott again once hereturnedtotheU.S.Mymindbegantodrift.Mydesiretoescapewhatwasexpectedof mebackhomehadcreatedarestlessnessinme.Iwonderedif onedayinthefuturethismomentwould become meaningful to me, if I’d look back on it with nostalgia, if I was capable, ultimate-ly, of experiencing real love, for how many chances, I wondered, does a person get in a lifetime? Scottlookedatmewaitingformyanswer.Itriedtothinkaboutthemeaningof thistrip,indeedthe meaning of my life, of the potential future trips I might make with other men, perhaps in otherplacesandinothertimes,butIcameupshort.Ididn’tknow.

“Idon’tthinkso,”Iwinced.Scott’slipspinched.Hecouldn’thavebeensurprised,Ithought.Ihadn’ttreatedhimwell.Myeyesstartedtoburnfromthesandandthenbegantowater.IlookedtowardsthepyramidsandtheSphinx.Scottwasblockingmyview.Iwantedtoseethemintheirentiretyagainbeforeweleft.Butthesceneof everythingaroundmewas

warped,skewed.Irubbedmyeyesandblinked,andtookanotherlookbeforeweleft.


LizRoseisateacherandawriterinChicago.TheirwritinghasappearedinTablet Magazine, Columbia Poetry Review, the journal Understanding and Dismantling Privilege, among others


On Monsoon in MumbaiBy SHaiSta vaiSHnav

There’ssomethingaboutthewaythelightfalls.Cloudybutnotgloomy,brightbutnotsunny,lightthat’sfullof hopeandmemoriesfromdecadesago.

Everymonsoon,Ilookoutfromthewindowof myrain-soakedUber,thinking,thisistheseasonforyearning.Ipicturemyfacelookingseriousanddreamyallatonce.Thewayoneismeanttoappearwhilelookingoutatrain.Rain-soakedwindowsinvokeemotionevenwherethereisnone.Andyousuddenlyfindyourself hummingAdele.

Onrainynights,itfeelscosy-tothepointof guilt.Whereyoufeelcompelledtothinkaboutthe homeless, with no walls to withstand the lashing, and no blankets to hold them hostage when morninganditschoresforceyoutowakeup.

Inthemonsoon,fixedmealtimesdisappearandportionsalmostalwaysdouble.Oneusualhelpingof ricebecomestwo.Onebiteof chocolatepuddingbecomesfour.Andtwobhajiyasbecome20.It’stheseasontoeatjunkandlazearound.Becausetherainsholdyoudownwiththeir weight, glued to a couch, or bed, or an old and comfortable armchair that belongs only to you.Anarmchairthathasfeltyourweightshiftingwhileyouabsorbwordsandformthoughtsthatwillneverquiteleaveyou.

Somesaytheraindepressesthem.Ifeelquitetheopposite.It’sscientific,theysaythelackof sunlightaffectsone’sbrain.Iforone,associatethesunwithaglare.TheglareinmyeyesfromtheOlympic-sizedswimmingpoolIwasforcedtogotoatage7tolearn.Theglareonboardexamdays.Theglareonthesandwhenyourealiseyou’vecometothebeach30minutesearlierthanusualforyoureveningwalk.Thesunisonebigglare.

Butthemonsoonmutesthatglare,diffusesit,bringingtherestof theworldintotechni-colour.Mumbai’soverwhelminggreenandblackcolourslookvivid,freshlywashed.Birdsseemhappier,thoughtheymaynotbe.Andif youlookcarefully,youcanseesky-linesinpuddles,especiallythelargeones.Thebreezeisdefinitelycooler.Drivesarelonger.Shoesaremuddier.Andin-sect and rodent families are out and thriving, while human ones tidy closets, catch up on reading andplayScrabble.

Floodsarethegreatleveller,especiallyinMumbai.Becausewhohasn’trolledtheirtrou-sersorleggings up till their knees and waded through sewage? Everybody has mud speckled on their clothes,adamptowelsomewhereintheirbagsandacoldvirusbrew-ingintheirchests.

Themonsoonmakessmalljoysseemmorejoyful.Sittingatyourdesk,sippingonwarmcoffeeand picking a show to watch, knowing that you have nothing pressing to do that evening is an


underratedfeeling.Andthesteadysoundof rainoutsidemakesitthatmuchmorecomforting.Bringing the radio into the bathroom and turning up the volume over the showers outside is that muchmorefun.Andstandinginfrontof yourbookshelf inwonder,pickingoutabookyouwould like to start, with a long rainy day stretched out ahead of you like a soft picnic mat? I’ve foundveryfewmomentstotopthatone.Rainsformebringcontentment.

Andit’snotjustme.Haveyouheardtheplaylistsmadebypluviophiles?Rainsongsareathing-heighteningemotionswiththeheadycombinationof musicandclouds.Cloudsgowellwithsomuch:silverlinings,hotbeverages,steamysex.Whichiswhythefeelingof beingsinglemon-soonaftermonsoon,isperhapsthemostdesolateoneever.Beingsingleinsunshineiseasieronthesoul.

It’snotallrainbowsintherainthough.Speciallynotinacitythatreceivesthechoicestof lash-ingsyearafteryear-unprepared-likethesamedeercaughtintheheadlightsmulti-pletimes.Deathbymanholes,deathbytreefalls,deathbyflooding,it’salltoorealandtooclosetohome.Itmakesthechillof wetclothesinanACofficethatmuchcolder-whereyoushiverthinking-itcouldhavebeenme.Orwhenyoucloseyoureyes,hopingforthebest,asyourrickshawgroansandsputtersthroughfloodslikeanoddly-shapedmotorboatwhileyougetsprayedfrombothsides.Sometimesyourcarsfloataway,butyoufeellessbadwhenyouhearthatyoursecurityguard’shousefloatedaway.Andof course,whohasn’tbeenstuckinsnakingtraffic,orastalledtrain,hopingandprayingtheydon’thavetopeeanytimesoon.

A typical monsoon in Mumbai will always have those 3-4 days where you just know school / college/office/lifewillbecancelled.Ithaspouredallnightandwellintothemorningandisstillpouringwhenyoudrawthecurtainsopen.Thewaterlevelshaverisenwaypastthegutterinfrontof yourhome,partof yourhouseisleakingandWhatsAppisfloodedwithvideosandmessagestostayhome.WhentherelativesfromChennai,PuneandDelhistartcalling-thenyouknowit’smadenationalnews.Yet,theonlypeoplewhoseemlikethey’renotawareof what’sgoingonareyourbosses/HRheads.Themes-sageonlygoesoutAFTERyou’vesetoutforworkbecauseyoucan’taffordanotherdayof leave.Becausethelawof workinginanofficeinsiststhatunexpectedholidaystooneedtobepaidforwithwetfeetandworry.

Travellingwhileit’srainingisprobablythemostsatisfying.Greyroadsandskiesmergingintoeachother-distinguishedonlybysleetsof rain.Bitsof greenpassingyouby,asif smudgedbyachilddrawingwithcrayons.T-shirtsswinginginthewindlikeanenthusi-asticdancegroup.It’sallasfascinatingasitwasthepreviousyear-andwillcontinuetobetheyearafter.

I’veoftenheardthatNaturemoveseventhesternestindividuals.Somethinginsidethemshiftswhentheyexperienceitspowerandtakeinitsexpanseandmajesticbeauty.Whetherit’stherollingoceanormountainsthatmakeyoucatchyourbreath.ButtheNa-tureonewitnessesinthemonsoonisatouchmischievous.Playfulgustsof wind,cloudsthatresemblegigglyschool-girlschasingeachother,andpalmtreesswayinglikerockmusicfansataconcert.ThemonsoonisNature’sfreeperiod.It’snotexpansive,calmandshimmerylikethesummersea,ortowering,


massiveandawe-inducinglikesnow-cappedmountains.Norisitblushingwitheverycolourimaginable, some of which we have no name for yet, like in spring, or in some countries, au-tumn.Themonsoonisgrey.

Butfromthatgrey,coloursof thesoulemerge.Thewarmthof romance,theyearningtosharethis skip in the weather’s step with someone, the camaraderie one can only devel-op with fel-low-wadersanddelayedpassengers.Theonslaughtof thesocialmediaoohsandaahsthefirstfewdaysof themonsoonbrings.Andthesuddenexpressionof sur-priseyouexchangewithyourcompanionatthesurround-soundthunder.

Perhapsit’stheheavinessof theyearthatthemonsoonisfinallylettinggo,whichiswhatmakesit light and playful, irreverent even, sprinkling you with a drizzle and then allowing the sun to makeanappearancebeforelettingitpour;fillingpuddlesandpotholes,frayingtempersandencouraging fungus, even as some, like me, wait for this time of year and welcome it with open arms.

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