Apogee 2012 Volume XXXVII Ashley Liddiard

Apogee
2012
Volume XXXVII
Ashley Liddiard -- Managing Editor
Peter Aquino -- Poetry Editor
Lena Hoff -- Photography Editor
Daniel Ott -- Layout Editor
Melissa Wojo -- Short Story Editor
Dr. David Hicks -- Faculty Advisor
Special Thanks:
Bridget Biller, Writing Center
Information Technology Services
Cover Design by Daniel Ott
Copyright 2012 Regis University
Apogee
1. The point in the orbit of the moon, or of any
planet, at which it is at its greatest distance from
the earth; also, the greatest distance of the sun from
the earth when the latter is in aphelion. (A term of
the Ptolemaic Astronomy, which viewed the earth
as the centre of the universe; in modern astronomy
strictly used in reference to the moon, and popularly said of the sun in reference to its apparent
motion.)
2. The greatest altitude reached by the sun in his apparent course; his meridional altitude on the longest day. Obs.
3. A. The most distant or remote spot.
B. The highest point, climax, culmination.
4. The point in the trajectory of a missile, rocket,
or the like at which it is at its greatest distance from
the earth.
Oxford English Dictionary Online
Table of Contents
I was you once. Life was free.
Joleen Ngoriakl
Prince Charming
Peter Aquino
The Stickiest Honey
Amber Koneval
Regret
Bill Hathaway-Clark
A Child’s Ribbon
Thomas Wells
Tea Party
Karen Johnson
Echoes
Olivia Tracy
Set Me Free
Katharine Meyer
Perfection
Olivia Tracy
Turbulence
Peter Clapp
Laughter of the Spirit
Amber Koneval
Sleep
Jennie Babcock
Dance Dance
Jennie Babcock
Where I Came From
Katharine Meyer
Ghost Stories
Peter Aquino
A Bridge to New Zealand
Katie Hooten
The Bar
Brady Blackburn
Seeking Something
Brady Blackburn
Untitled
Nick Smith
Derick
Kristen Wallace
My ‘97 Altima
Brady Blackburn
Wishful Thinking
Elizabeth Lim
Untitled
Kristen Cabanting
Sonnet 2
Michelle Bailey
Newsprint Fingers and an Arab Spring
Rene Suleiman
Las Trampas Mission
Joshua Hardin
Making Ourselves Vulnerable
Amber Koneval
How Do You Start A Sentence Without Words?
Rene Suleiman
Walking Thru
Joleen Ngoriakl
Miles Smiles
David McIntyre
A Transplant
Thomas Wells
The Nurse Speaks
Angela Mercier
Untitled
Kristen Cabanting
Pocket Knives
Thomas Wells
Untitled
Nick Smith
The History of Trunks and the Roots of Wrists
Peter Aquino
Sentry
Bill Hathaway-Clark
The Number Ten
Peter Clapp
Buried Past
Lena Hoff
Measuring the Reactivity of a Soul
Rene Suleiman
Triangle Songs
Angela Mercier
Rose after the Funeral
Angela Mercier
I was you once. Life was free.
Joleen Ngoriakl
To the other prince charming standing to my
right.
You and I are interchangeable my friend.
Our names never to be remembered;
we are merely shells.
Suits of armor picked out of a jar
forced to do all the dirty work so that
little girls can grow up forgetting how to be a
shoulder to cry on.
Our fairy tales
Are prophesies that we will be murderers and martyrs
We may not be held captive in a tower but
we risk everything for princesses in
hope that they may hold us
just so we can be reminded that the cold steel
we wear for days on end
is not our real skin. We climb
to the highest towers to forget how low our spirits are
and we allow our names to be forgotten
because we were taught from an early age
that all we are good for is embodied in our right hands.
Sometimes I wonder what the difference is
between us and the dragons, because it seems
both of us are type casted into the imaginations
of soon to be queens as sword and toothas if that is all we are good for.
I swear I was born a king
yet you and I are forced to live life as jesters.
If I throw away my life for your entertainment,
will you love me?
We give our all for women who have forgotten
how good it feels to be someone else’s hero.
Just like the damsels in distress we know who we are,
we are just exhausted trying to show you.
So next time someone says we don’t know the pains
of waiting forever for someone
just let them know that they might be right,
but at least they know they can let their guard down.
Peter Aquino
The Stickiest Honey
your face is a stone
sticking out at all the wrong angles
unmoving, impenetrable
blood flushed on your polished crags
I want to stroke your cheek
without slicing open my hand
and it seems impossible.
I want to crack your jaw
on a wedding beach
watch you split apart, and crumple
in; creasing at the seams
where your lips part your mind
from your body
curling like a snake beneath
those shale eyes that I can’t hold
but I wish to
as sure as my collarbones burn
as they pass over them
I want to hold your eyes
on each side of my bridge
so I can look into the mirror
and see what you make of me
more than anything
I fear those eyes.
So I’ll apologize for things
I never felt sorry for
because, with your permission,
maybe I can stop being afraid of you
and be something else
but I don’t trust myself with that
decision.
I’ll find your affirmation
where you hint it, though
because, as I’m sure you’ve heard,
I’m rather impatient
and I want your command, now
even if you’re not sure
how to shout it
you can whisper it,
in between the words neither of us
will say
as you wish
and I’ll take anything you’ll give me
(I just want to be able
to look you in the eye)
Amber Koneval
Regret
Bill Hathaway-Clark
A Child’s Ribbon
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“Yeah well neither do I. Why’d you even wanna
talk if you didn’t have anything so say?”
“Well earlier I had all these things in my head that I
needed to get out, but I guess those’ve all flown the
coop (just like the rest of me.)”
His fingers rattled on the table one at a time as
he cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with
his fingers. “How’s Ben doin?”
“He’s doin fine. Probably better than when
you were around,” she muttered.
“Okay now why you gotta say that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s bullshit that doesn’t need to be said. I
don’t care if you think it’s true or not, I don’t wanna
hear shit like that. Makes me feel bad.” He slumped
back in his chair and let his shoulders fall to his
hips.
“It makes you feel bad? Why don’t you ask
our son how he feels? When he gets home every
day he goes straight to his room. He doesn’t say
two words to me until I call him down for dinner.
He keeps asking why your chair isn’t at the dinner
table anymore, and then he asks me why I’m crying.
Dean, if you saw his eyes and heard his voice you’d
know what I’m talking about.”
“Well I don’t know what you’re talking about.
You tell me to ask him how he feels and to look at
his eyes? I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about
because you won’t even let me see him for Christ’s
sake!”
“He doesn’t need to see you right now. Not
like you are right now.”
“A fuckin’ genius you are; you know that
Syd? Tellin’ me I should talk to him and hear his
voice and you won’t even let me see his goddamn
face.”
“You wanna hear his voice?”
“Yeah,” he sighed.
“Well he just found your old tape recorder in
the attic the other day and he’s been playin’ around
with that. I’ll tell him that he can record tapes for
you and I’ll send ‘em to you.”
“Brilliant Syd. The one time I’ll be hearing my
son’s voice I’ll be staring at two wheels spinnin’ a
fuckin’ ribbon instead of seein’ his two eyes. Brilliant.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Yeah,” he yelled as he leaned forward in his
chair and gripped the phone tightly, eyes glued to
his shoes. “How ‘bout you let me see my son. You
let me see my son so I can tell him I still love him.”
A tear pooled in her eye and she quickly
gasped, “I’ve gotta go Dean. I’ll talk to you later.”
He heard the line die in his ear and he let the phone
clatter to the table below. He wiped his eyes vigorously so no tears were visible. He curled his lips
in and breathed in heavily through his nostrils. He
snapped the phone back to its cradle and craned his
neck so he could stare at the ceiling.
“Daddy, please don’t go to hell. Teacher told
us today that anyone who smokes cigarettes is not
a friend of God. And she said anyone who’s not a
friend of God doesn’t get to go to heaven. Daddy,
why aren’t you God’s friend? I’m his friend and so
is mommy. Ok. I guess-I guess that’s all I have to
say this time. I love you daddy and I want to see
you soon, but mommy says I’m not allowed to.
Please tell her you love me and maybe then she’ll
let me see you. And when I see you can we get ice
cream? Chocolate is my favorite flavor now. It’s not
as girly as strawberry; that’s what Connor told me.”
“What kinda bullshit school you got my son
goin to?”
“First of all, he’s my son too, and second, it
ain’t bullshit. It’s good for him.”
“How can teaching a 6-year-old about things
beyond basic emotions be good for him?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, first of all, he’s too young to be learnin’
about heaven and hell and judgment and all that
crap. And second, all he knows right now is that he
has a mother and father who he rarely sees at the
same time. Most 6-year-olds are learning math and
reading and all that other shit, but our son needs
emotions. He needs to see that there’s more than
yelling and bickering between two human beings.
If he grows up seein’ us fightin’ all the time he’s
gonna grow up like all the other bastards out there.
He needs to be raised by a mother and a father.”
“You don’t’ know what he needs.”
“Oh, and you do?”
“Yeah, because I’m his mother and he’s living
with me right now. So I make the rules.”
“And one of the rules is that he can’t see his
own father?”
“He doesn’t need to see you.”
“Goddammit Syd! Sometimes it’s not about
what he needs; it’s about what he wants.”
“He’s 6, he doesn’t know what he wants,” she
blurted sternly.
“Are you kidding me Syd? At his age the only
thing he knows is what he wants.”
“I’m not talking about this anymore Dean.
He’s with me and the rules aren’t changing.” She
slammed the phone on its cradle, crossed her arms,
and wiped away her tears. He twirled the phone’s
chord on his finger and glared at the phone as if
expecting it to talk again.
“January 7th, 1994. Mom told me I should
always say the date before I start talking. I’m sorry
cause I forgot to do that last time. Oh yeah, did
you tell mom you love me? Because I still haven’t
seen you and I told you last time to tell her. I bet
you just forgot. Maybe you can send her a tape like
I’m sending you. Then she can hear you say it, and
maybe she’ll see that you love me. Umm I guess I’m
gonna go cause mommy just made an apple pie and
since I already ate my dinner I get a slice for dessert.
Bye daddy. I love you.”
She picked up the phone furiously, nestled it
between her shoulder and ear, and began to paint
her fingernails a bright blue.
“Does it give you some sense of pride knowing that you’re with him and I’m not?”
“Is this really how you want this conversation
to start, Dean?”
“I don’t know how else to say it. It seems like
you’re keeping him from me because you want me
to suffer and you want to show Ben that you’re better than me.”
“You know I don’t think that.”
“No, I don’t know that. I guess there’s a lot
of things I don’t know. I don’t know how he feels
or how you feel. I don’t know what his eyes look
like or anything! All I know is that he has a voice
and I hear it every few weeks from a fuckin’ tape.”
He heard nothing. “Syd? Syd? You still listening?
Cause if you are you might wanna say somethin’!
That’s usually how a conversation works; I say
something and you respond.”
“I didn’t make the decisions you made, Dean!
I didn’t choose a life that separated me from my
son!”
“Okay stop. You think I chose this life? If I
could have things any different I would in a fucking
heartbeat, but I can’t do that. And you not letting
me see Ben doesn’t help this life get any better.”
Her hands loosened around the phone’s handle as she released a sigh. She screwed the cap back
into the bottle, closed her eyes, and spoke as if forcing out the words. “In a little while I’ll bring him to
see you, okay?”
He closed his eyes and brought his mouth
as close as he could to the bottom of the phone.
“Thank you Syd. I just wanna see him. That’s all.”
“I know,” she said. “He wants to see you too.” She
gently placed the phone on its cradle and sat with
her hands in her lap.
He heard the click in his ear and smiled. He placed
his phone on its cradle and pushed a tear out of his
eye. “Finally,” he whispered.
“Daddy I’m really scared. Mommy was talking to a man on the phone and she started screaming and I was just gonna ask her if I could take a
bath tonight and she turned around and started
screaming at me. Then she hit my ear and I ran
up here. I’m under my bed now and I don’t know
where mommy is but I don’t want her yelling. It
hurt my head and now my ear really hurts and it
won’t stop. Daddy I want you to come home because whenever my head hurts you make it better.
Daddy, I hear her coming up the stairs. I’m gonna
turn this off cause I don’t want her to hear me.”
She picked up the phone and tried to talk but
he spoke before air entered her lungs.
“What the fuck were you thinking? He
glanced down quickly and lowered his voice. “Do
you have an explanation?”
“No.”
“Well that’s great.”
“I was stressed out okay!”
“That’s a great excuse because stress certainly
gives you reason to hit a-”
“I never said it was an excuse!” She lowered
her eyes and calmed her voice. “I feel awful, but
work was terrible that day, I burnt dinner, the internet was down. Every little thing was going wrong
and I couldn’t fix any of it. I was on the phone with
Garry and he was telling me something I needed to
write down. Ben started talking and I just flipped.
For one single second I lost all control, but looking
back on it that second feels like hours, Dean. He still
looks at me like he’s scared of me. When will that
go away?”
“Why don’t you ask him? Better yet, let me
talk to him. Give him the phone.”
Ben held the phone with two hands and
looked at his father with glassy eyes.
“Daddy, why is there a window between us?
And why are we talking on phones?” He set down
the black phone and spoke, but Dean couldn’t hear
him. He smiled and pointed to the phone and then
to his ear as his son understood the hint. Dean’s
eyes watered and his lips pressed together tightly.
“You gotta talk into the phone, buddy.”
“Can mommy hear what we’re saying?”
“Well she can hear what you say, but not
what I say. And you can only be here for a few minutes buddy, so if you have anything important to
tell me you should tell me now.”
“I love you!” he proclaimed. “That’s important, right?”
“Yeah. That’s important.”
“Daddy, I’m scare-” he began but stopped suddenly
and looked at his mother. He leaned forward on the
stool and whispered into the phone. “Daddy, I’m
scared that mommy is going to hit me again.”
Dean’s fist slammed down onto the table
and his son’s shoulders shot back. Tears streamed
down his face as he began to speak. “I’m sorry I
scared ya son. It’s just hard for me bein’ on this side
of the glass. Your mother’s on that side with you
and some days I wish I was on that side, but I don’t
wish your mother was on this side. Some days I
think I should be with you and some days I think
I shouldn’t. I know that I’m here for a reason and
one day I’ll be out and able to hug you again. Your
mom loves you son, and you shouldn’t be scared of
her. She didn’t mean to hit you and she’ll never do
it again. And I promise you when I get out of here
we’re gonna get ice cream together. I promise you.
But for now you can get ice cream with mom. She’s
just as good at getting ice cream as I am. She may
even be better.”
“Daddy, how long will it be till you get out?”
“Well, let’s see… I’ve been in here for 6
months and the judge says I have to stay here for 5
years so that means-”
“That means you have 54 months left!” Ben
exclaimed with a smile.
Dean unfolded his fingers quickly and counted under his breath. “That’s right son! Boy, you’re
gettin’ pretty smart there.”
“We have Math at the end of the day every
day because teacher says it helps our brains to stay
active until school’s out.”
“Is that right? Well it sounds like your teacher
is doing a good job.”
“She is! Sometimes she smells kinda funny
though, but I think that’s just because she’s old.”
A smile cracked across Dean’s face and his
wife laughed with him. Seconds passed and she
looked at her watch. She tapped Ben on the shoulder and spoke to him, but Dean couldn’t hear her.
“Daddy, mom says we gotta go.”
“Okay,” he began frantically, “just be sure she
brings you back so I can see you again, okay?”
“Okay Dad. I’m gonna make another tape
tonight and it’s gonna be the best one yet!”
Thomas Wells
Tea Party
Karen Johnson
Echoes
Sometimes she could see it in the cave ceiling, the hand—no! It was the foot, the sole the same
soft sand-pink as the palm, floating above her,
slowly turning right to left. She had thought it was
the hand and had reached up for it but she was too
short and she had to climb up on the bed to grasp
it. It was colder than she remembered, and she used
it to stand up, her eyes suddenly covered by white
fabric with flower embroidery. She touched this,
felt the cotton in her fingers, and tugged on it and
shook the foot—hand—as she always did, but nothing happened. So she stood there holding onto the
foot and tugging on the fabric until she heard footsteps in the hall, and then she went under the bed
and stayed there.
She would look down from the ceiling to
the walls, the stone blocking the door, her clothes
that remained covered in fine dust. She felt the dirt
moving through the cracks between her fingers and
falling into the small trench she had dug there. She
did not cry because the wetness made her see the
blood-tears on the face of an eyeless man who said
her name but who she didn’t know. His blood had
covered his face, hiding their twin-noses, twincheeks, twin-eyes… he tried to bend and kiss her
with his blood-tears running down his cheeks and
over his mouth, but she pushed him away and cried
out and he fell to the ground and she didn’t know
him.
She stood on the stone, looking down upon
the dust of the ground. She reached out and tugged
on the white fabric hanging from the ceiling and
nothing happened. So she leaped and slipped her
twin-face through the hole in the fabric, her big toe
brushing for a moment in a pile of dirt and then
only air. The juice was pushed from her eyes as
the hole hit her throat, and as she swung to a stop,
some drops slid down her cheek and one slipped
off her nose and landed in the dust just beneath her
sand-pink feet.
Olivia Tracy
Set me free
Set me free let me go
Let me spread my wings and fly away
Fly away into the sky
The big blue beautiful sky
I want to view the world from an aerial view
I want to feel the freedom of flight
I need to know what the world is like
Take these chains off me so I can go free and see the world
again
Let me go so I can feel the wind under my wings again
Let me go so I can see the world
Set me free let me go
Let my heart race so wildly
That I’ll have to come home
I’ll soar on azure skies
I’ll fly in deep blue seas
I’ll touch the green grass of the valley
I’ll shudder from the mountain top cold
I’ll dance on the sand of the desert
So…
Set me free let me go
Let me spread my wings and fly away
Into the big blue beautiful sky
I want to cry with rain
To dance with the stars
To sing with the moon
To soar the clouds
To see what freedom feels like
Cause it is what we need
Cause it is what we want
Because it lives in us all we just need to bring it out
Like a bird released from a cage
Like father who gets to go home
Like a heart who finally didn’t let go
Set me free
Let me go
Let me spread my wings and fly away to tell the world about…
About freedom
Katharine Meyer
Perfection
Olivia Tracy
Turbulence
At once, we level off and breach the clouds,
Emerging from a blanket soaked in dew.
Our hips are unrestrained, and legs askew
We move about the cabin as allowed.
The ride is smooth as satin sheets – the kind
You find in swanky shops – without a trace
Of choppy air. A smile upon her face,
She breathes a happy sigh and sits reclined.
Again we hear the captain’s plaintive ring.
I click the belt and buckle into place –
Fastened low and tight around my waist –
And stretch and tuck her head beneath my wing
As I reflect upon the fast ascents
And all the bumps that come with turbulence.
Peter Clapp
Laughter of the Spirit
beads, round and plastic
purple paint flaking onto my nails
unwinding from incessant, desperate use
pressing the crucifix into the palm
to keep from getting distracted
the chest, tight and tingling
heaves with every Ave
words of no and all meaning
that pass through teeth but not
the lips, they hiss with a constant
hum
as the silence becomes a monstrance
the solitude; the Eucharist exposed
People sob in the presence of the Lord
they have said
though out of love or guilt
no one knows
but no tears come.
What comes is a bind, a constriction that
seizes the gut and kicks it up to the
throat and pushes it down to the
knees.
What comes is a pain that pricks
beneath the nail beds, stretching their eyelids
to the sky with the knowledge that they
can never close again
without a severance
What comes is a suffocation, a gasping
for air in the depths of a well
that is full but will never be filled
drowning in an empty completion
struggling alone to scale the cold brick, to
escape home
but what really comes is a joy.
A laughter that begins in the belly
to come to a boil in the soul
bubbling behind the eyes
until the body becomes a giant smile
the kind of smile that shines down
from the Passionate Cross
blissfully broken and blessed
so commonplace, it passes
completely unnoticed
by all but the altar, lit
where an Infant gurgles and bunches
the white cloth in His tiny fists
and the laughing Spirit, housed in
human flesh and the quiet
of the storm.
beads, round and plastic keep count
of the number of times the laughing lips
and the omniscient Babe kiss
with chaste ecstasy
each bead a plea for another measure
of pure contentment
amidst chaos
each Amen
a fulfillment of a contract
a marriage
of sin and the divine
in the darkness of truth
and all is beautiful
all is sweet sorrow
and all is well...
until all that is left
is the counting of beads,
and a laugh.
Amber Koneval
Sleep
Jennie Babcock
Jennie Babcock
Dance Dance
Where I Came From
From the depths of hell a heart rose
From the heights of heaven a soul fell
From the farthest corners of earth came together a human
Full of hopes and dreams
Full of sun and shadows
Full of all the things that made her who she was
A daughter
A friend
A lover
She grew up dancing
She grew up running
She grew up human
Human for she felt pain
Human for she could cry
Human for she could get back up again
From the depths of her heart came love
From the heights of her mind came wisdom
From the farthest corners of her soul came life
She emptied her heart for love
She emptied her mind for others
She emptied her soul for herself
Loving her family
Loving her friends
And loving herself at last
Katharine Meyer
Ghost Stories
I have always been obsessed with the dead and hip hop.
Some try to tell me they
are one in the same but I look at you
And see otherwise.
So tell me
Do you believe in ghost stories?
Because you move like one
Your body twists as though it is not your own
Your limbs are wills and last testaments
They expose everything you have to lose in this world and
everything you are willing to die for
You see you give me hope for the skeletons in my closet with
two left feet
And you blur the line between my fantasies and nightmares
ya you scare me.
You make me realize I could never keep up, because
I can’t even walk on the moon just yet,
So how am I supposed to fly?
You once said I shouldn’t downgrade myself
But as a breakdancer it is my job to get down
But not 6 feet under like you can
You see we both know what it is like to suffocate though.
you and me are predestined products of our coffin heavy
environments
we are tombstones dressed like crooked caps
Pirouettes disguised as headspinsWe aim them at the ground to dig for ancestry.
We are warriors Indian stepping because we grew tired of
bloody knees
Hop scotch squares with dreams of being wood floors and
mirrors some day
of the ghetto dancing our way out of sidewalk cracks
moving in rhythm to the emptiness in our fridges.
I bet you have a boom box shaped heart
Because now you are the spirit of the music,
An apparition of the 1s and 2s
The reincarnate of the break beats that tucked me in at night
And you wonder why I can’t take my eyes off of you
You treat the dance floor like a grave yard and tip toe as if
your next plea will resurrect whatever it is
That you try so hard to keep buried
I bet you could do the thriller dance in your sleep girl
You’re the only boogie monster I have ever hoped to find under my bed
Thoughts of the afterlife have never tasted as good in my
mouth as when I kiss you
You have dirges inscribed in your palms
And you wonder why I can’t take my eyes off of you.
Whenever you’re dancing with me
I move my body like a heartbeat to remind myself I’m still
breathing
I only had to see you dance once
To know to keep you in closed position
To cling on to your skirts like you were the one destined to
carry me across the river sticks
Because I know you can phase out of my life:
As easy as you floated into it.
Kind of like a ghost story.
Peter Aquino
A Bridge To New Zealand
Katie Hooten
The Bar
Whoa now;
Tell me, what did I do now
To deserve the cut-down
Gospel you spew out?
You wear that frown,
Let down,
Clad in that dark cloud,
The only genuine emotion I know now.
Surely you didn’t mean to demonize me,
Terrorize me, disguise me,
Or sentimentally sterilize me.
So what did you mean by that?
What did you mean when you spat
On me, dogged me, told me to act
Normal? But what is normal?
Eating from a can
While pleasing the man
By trying to look formal?
Your standards aren’t up to my value.
Can’t you see I’ll never be you,
See you, meet you,
Or sink low enough to reach you?
This is my decree
To all these elitist freaks:
These shoes you want me to fill are too small for my feet.
I stride long;
I’d be nothing with pride gone,
Yet even when I slip you say that I slide wrong.
But here’s the truth,
For all those who need proof
That I’m a societal anomaly known to be uncouth.
Let’s go over it—I won’t kosher it:
You set this goddamn bar so low that I tripped over it.
Brady Blackburn
Seeking Something
I wandered in the desert for some number of days, purposeless, starving, and angry. I wanted some inspiration, and none
had come. I was lost. I met a man on the road, and I asked
him for direction.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
“No.” I answered, for it was the truth.
“Do you trust me?”
I was unsure of how to answer the question.
“Answer it honestly.” He spoke frankly, but I felt as though he
had read my mind.
“No.” I finally admitted.
“And yet, you ask me for direction. You trust that I will direct
you somewhere, or else you would not have asked.”
“I trust you to lead me somewhere, but I have not trusted you
with much.” I argued.
“You have trusted me with that which is most important: your
next step. Now, I may lead you astray if I so choose or perhaps I shall save you from this desert. The choice is mine.”
I stared at this man, puzzled by his words.
“Tell me,” he began again, “Does it hurt when you bleed?”
My first reaction was to be afraid, and I thought cautiously
upon the question.
“Do not be afraid, simply answer the question.”
“Yes.”
“You are wrong.” He said pointedly. “It does not hurt to bleed;
it only hurts to be cut.”
“I don’t understand.” And in this I was completely truthful.
“The pouring out of yourself will not cause you pain, only
opening yourself up.”
We stared at each other for many moments before he spoke
again.
“You have asked for direction, and I have given it.” With that,
the man vanished.
Brady Blackburn
Untitled
Nick Smith
Derick
This is a different hospital,
A different city, a different year.
But the smells and lights are the same:
Sterile sickness and fluorescent white.
You are still here prickling my skin,
Urging me to remember always.
I am not the one sitting on the gurney being questioned
By the nurse.
I am waiting while he gets x-rays
(For something minor probably)
Sitting next to the soiled linen bin and remembering the screams
And violent tears of your mothers and father and aunts.
I can feel my heartbeat slow, and all there is
Is the soft skin of my mother’s hand on my shoulder
Squeezing me to her, shielding me
From the pain and sadness and torture behind that closed door.
This waiting room is different.
It is still daylight, not the too-hot spring night.
There are no eyes, sick with curiosity,
Listening to you die.
There is only me and a nauseous expectant mother.
Only me, knowing that no news I hear today will hurt me.
No news can hurt me like your family hurt.
Your mothers and father
Your brother covered in your still new blood
Your aunt smoking to numb what little feeling was left.
No, today there is only me here to remember you.
Kristen Wallace
My ’97 Altima
Well hello there.
Girl, you sure look lovely tonight
Should we get going to theOh yeah, this is my ride.
You see, I’m just a college student;
Good standing, blah blah blah,
Which puts me in these holey jeans
And this ’97 Altima.
So that’s my story, should we go?
Oh here, I’ll get the door.
It only opens from the inside
After I hit that wild boar.
Yeah, just move that seat up.
Oh, don’t worry about the stain.
It was a crazy night involving roommates
And way too much champagne.
Don’t mind the bumper stickers,
Especially the swastika.
The neo Nazis had the former owner
Of this ’97 Altima.
Well let’s get on our way.
Sorry, the ignition’s a little choppy.
It just takes a minute because
This key’s a copy of a copy.
Can you feel that?
That’s chemistry, if I can be frank.
Girl, we have more sparks flying
Than the shorted wires in my gas tank.
You know, this car’s a real chick magnet.
My friend once spilled corn and voila!
Twelve juvenile chickens
In my ’97 Altima.
Just ignore the smoke filling the cab.
It’s incense; I know, I’m flirty.
Did you know Penzoil has different scents?
This one’s called 5W30.
Hey check this out! One tire is
Too big for this automobile
So I can make a right hand turn
Just by letting go of the wheel!
It seems I’ve warped the rotors,
Which rubbed the brake pads raw.
At the next light I hope I can stop
This ’97 Altima.
So tell me about yourself,
About your job and why you do it.
While you talk I’ll top off my oil;
I’m leaking like five different fluids.
Yeah, this place is safe,
We won’t be attacked by drunks.
But if we are I happened to find
A handgun in my trunk.
I have to admit,
You’re super hot and I’m in awe.
Maybe we should make out
In my ’97 Altima.
Brady Blackburn
Wishful Thinking
You watch her carefully. She looks back at
you with the same unwavering gaze. You can see
strong emotion in her as she holds your eyes. Tears
leak from the corners of her eyes and she blinks
them away, sniffling quickly as though trying to
take back whatever emotion had caused the tears in
the first place. She tries to maintain her stare, but
you can feel her slowly breaking under the force of
your anger. Your anger and disappointment. The
tears suddenly start again, more steadily this time.
In every droplet that trails its way down her cheek,
you can see her losing her will to be stubborn. She’s
falling apart and you can see it in her eyes now. In
the way they’ve stopped looking at you in defiance.
Eventually, there’s no fight left in her. Instead, all
you can see is guilt and desperation. She’s broken. You want to fix her, but you’re not sure you
know how. Finally, you look away and you know
without seeing her that she’s done the same. When
you hear her voice, you cringe at how destroyed
it sounds. It sounds as though she’s been torn to
pieces and left to try to put herself back together.
There was a time when that voice was confident
and almost happy. You realize now that it was
probably just a mask. Another one of those stupid
façades that she always puts up. This voice that
speaks to you is the real person behind the disguise.
This thin, scratchy, quavering voice that says, “I’m
sorry” is who she really is.
You want to believe her. There’s nothing
you would like better than to look her in the eyes
and see genuine sorrow. But you know you won’t
see that. After all, how many times has she said it
before? Her voice descends to a whisper now. “It
won’t happen again, I promise.”
And you clench your eyes shut because you
know that if you look at her, you’ll just believe her
again. You know that if you look at her, see the
tears streaking down her face, see the uncharacteristic emotion in her eyes, you’ll believe every word
she says.
But you can’t help yourself. You look back
up and see her, broken and desperate. You want
to solve the problem, but even if you could, she’d
never let you. So you stare at each other until you
feel yourself giving in. Just like every time. You
feel yourself believing her words. Her gaze is raw
and unfiltered and it begs you to believe her. So
you do, telling yourself it’s not like last time, or the
time before that, or the time before that. You convince yourself that she’s not lying this time.
Almost.
As you’re beginning to believe her, you see
the tears stop flowing and see that rebellious, confident persona slip back into place. “Never again,”
she assures you, with a small grin.
You turn away from the mirror with a frustrated sigh. You wish you would stop lying to
yourself.
Elizabeth Lim
Untitled
Kristen Cabanting
Sonnet 2
His head is a darkness, cold and untouched;
A mind filled with dreams unknown to his brethren.
Creative, and yet, neglected; as such
is a mind usually treated with such irreverence.
His heart is a lantern, a beacon of light,
A warmth which confronts and penetrates the darkness.
The flickering glow shines into the night,
But wanders still unseen with no sign of progress
His peers know him not; no friend understands;
And therefore he bottles his musings in hiding.
Yet all that he needs is a kind pair of hands,
A listening ear, and a reason for fighting.
An open mind, he will confess;
A glowing heart, he will express.
Michelle Bailey
Newsprint Fingers and an Arab Spring
I watch the news
speak the news
feel the news
chain-linked
to the life-breathing
world yet
unlinked and
drifting,
the TV flashing
news blurbs
ropes my wide eyes
with thin string that
I cannot tie
to my finger
so that I remember.
I open my eyes
and listen to the
world sigh
a stretching of arms
and an Awakening
and they’re calling it
a Spring like the one
in Prague and I
believe them
because I’ve seen
in half-true dreams
the young man who
traces the jagged edge
of a broken city
of a broken nation
with gray puzzle piece shapes
that hold their breath,
waiting for the glue
to seal the kindred cracks –
and the young man sets out
with his paintbrush
and fills the sky with light
so that they remember
who they are and
who they want to be
Because remembering
is like dreaming
in fine print and flashes –
the clenched jaw thrashes
of a restless sleep
pluck at the threads
of my young man’s scene,
the stretched arms of Spring
fading out of my dreams.
And I wake up
tired eyed and sad
with fingers that
make gray newsprint
marks on my wall –
the ink cannot link
together any
words that have
meaning to me.
But in all this news
there is the unseen
rose tinted screening
lens of a tired nation,
their eyes as clear
and wide as mine
and covered with some
worn out blindfold
of a sleeping mind,
I tried to remove it
fingers heavy with
the young man’s life and
his paintbrush of light
but all I could do
was scratch at my
eyes, empty and dry.
It was an ingrown lie
painted over my eyes
and we were all
pristine stock machines
with wiped out memories,
we saw our world’s past
through smoked glass,
we used our gray words
to voice our concerns
yet we couldn’t lift our arms
to help bring in the Spring.
So we let the news pass,
like prints on a wall.
Rene Suleiman
Las Trampas Mission
Joshua Hardin
Making Ourselves Vulnerable
What does the opening
of a body
have to do with God?
I grab a hinge of skin
the thick hide that stretches over the
sternum
like a poorly constructed drum
sticking on the bones like a sulking child
who’s crying out to it’s mother-meat
and pull
and pull
like a rubber band dripping with
red syrup
the tacky kind used in horror houses
sweet, like a strawberry sundae
in the sticky heat
and pull
until the rib-bones gleam
like the white coat paint on a suburban
home with a wrap-around porch
a tire swing hanging from the
axis articulation
little fingers clenching the aorta
squeezing out their future
as the seconds flow
drop by drop
onto my fingers
and pull
until it rips down to the pelvis
that empty throne of ivory
its yearning sockets dry
full of unsettled, impassioned dust
hiding in crevices that
cannot be reached by touch alone
but only through
pulling
until the muscles flex in the air
tendons groaning with the sting
of light
where no light shines
and my body shudders
as the opening of it
touches God
the breath of Spirit that
soothes
the burn of
vulnerability
coating with a golden resin
that stiffens with a sick sort of
warmth
that stretches the skin
as it’s stuffed back in to
stick to the skeleton
and breathe
pieced back together
freezing slowly with the memory
of once being so open
that God
melted in
Amber Koneval
How Do You Start a Sentence Without Words?
I never know how to
start a sentence
that will hold the weight of
my chest steady
though fingers tremble and
the wrist cannot tense
to spread the clenching
fear of an arm flexed
shoulder neck jaw
and chest
heart
though the fingers in
trembling grip the
pen to make red
indentations and a
callous on my right thumb;
if only I could cradle with
my heart like I do with the
opposable thumbed nook crook
home of my scratching ink stick
that I sometimes abandon
for the rain-like pitter patter
and pressed fingertips of
keypads and wired slabs
because I am an aching mother
creating unsure children who live
in ink on lined paper and
in 12-point font on coded screen –
are my words so abstracted
that I cannot find them a home?
I never know how to
start a sentence
that will connect me to the
jumping live wire
and strained threaded web
the world balances on
speaking to each other
like neurons firing
at lightning speed
or whatever rate it takes
to be
a hook already buried
deep in my chest
and heart
bleeding out with the
sparking tangled mess of
cords and string I
send flying;
if only I could start fires in
a heart with my heart
like I do with the words
I sing pull in and breathe out
they catch fire on the wind
and my message smells like
smoke and an aching soul
flames leaping and
the world can only feel
me pull me in and
breathe me out –
are my words so caustic
that I cannot breathe without burning?
I never know how to
start a sentence
that will make me
a mirror for the words
engraved on skulls and heart
wide eyes that can be
x-rays to make a man
transparent but for
his chest
and heart
carved stone universals
that cannot catch ashy fire
but glow red and smolder;
if only I could reflect with
my heart like I do with my
mind in spiraling loops of
circled question marks
that my eyes swallow from
deep pools of bottomless doubt
kneeling without a
chest or a
heart
drinking words like life itself
but not life just a cold desolation
without the veined thump of
the red liquid feeling –
are my words so barren
that they cannot save a life?
I never know how to
end a sentence
without a question mark
to make my words sing
and fly without the
squiggled barrier that draws
worry lines on foreheads
tightened chests
and hearts
to sow them up with
beautiful wings
unattached and let them
fly free from inside
of me;
if only I could speak with
my heart like I can etch words
on the walls of my
chest and
heart
my message is an army
of winged words
fluttering in my
chest and
heart
and I cannot breathe
pull in and out
through chain-linked
chest and
heart
that cage my sentences –
how can I start a sentence
when I cannot speak a word?
Rene Suleiman
Walking Thru
Joleen Ngoriakl
Miles Smiles
The gun was so much heavier in his hand
than it had been in the case. Such words as hammer, cocking pin, and muzzle were never going to
leave his lips; they were alien, yet to be learned.
The darkness had a pungency all its own, invading
senses that humans had long since forgotten… It
was all primal in a way, but it was run (as always)
by the big daddy…
Fear.
His knees ached even on the soft white carpet.
He had been careful to lay the tarp down so that
it stayed that rich creamy color. His hand shook,
even though the voices were constantly giving him
resolve. He had plenty of time to think about it, the
well written note lying snuggly on his father’s desk
could attest to that.
“Go on, there is nothing that is waiting here
for you, there has to be more on the other side.”
“What if there is nothing? What will happen if
it’s too great a sin, what if its oblivion?”
“You can’t wait any longer, you either do it,
or you don’t, just remember what is coming back
home tonight. You’re the only sane one among the
two of them… Your parents will keep you here forever. You need to get out of this town!”
The voices hit a climax.
The same conversation ran through his head
for the three trillionth times. The gun tasted of metal; it was the creation of millennia of hit and miss
experimentation, the epitome of man’s influence on
“home protection.”
He thought fleetingly of his friends running
drills on the football field, slipping into each other’s
houses through the back doors, sneaking beers from
the old man’s freezer. His pointer finger retracted,
the hammer thundered down, lightning followed
the muzzle out into the dying rays of a gorgeous
November day. It streaked along a chosen trajectory
and carved a path through what had once been my
friend’s head.
A mile away, I lay sprawled on a couch,
watching the dying November rays skirt down
the side of my television. Years later, I still wonder
what that dark room looked like, what it could have
looked like if I had noticed my best friend was not
at school that day.
The first time I saw community was in the
eyes of a hundred crying faces, the wave of shock
I had ridden through the night I learned of Miles’
suicide left as soon as I saw my girlfriend’s face…
to this day, I cannot forget it. The day’s classes were
stopped, weeping teachers and students spread
across the campus, talking to counselors, writing
messages to our lost friend, and starting prayer
groups. Nerds and cheerleaders sat alongside each
other, jocks choked back tears as they listened to
stories from an “emo” about Miles, any other day,
they would be scrambling to push said emo into a
locker (after all, Eaton, like most other high schools
had its fair share of cliques, melodramas, and all
around human versus human dislike, the anticommunity if you will). I roamed the halls like a
ghost set to haunt the hallowed halls of Eaton High
School for an eternity. I watched the unity of four
hundred teenagers as they struggled to grasp reason for a senseless act. In them, I found my community, as I continued through the next three years,
taking tests, summoning up the courage to talk to
girls, and living in a podunk town off the beaten
path; I found what I had been missing. Clichés suddenly disappeared, people talked to you for no other reason than to see how you were doing, and my
friends became my family just as much as my own
brother, loss brought love that I had never known
existed; we were a community.
Miles was easily the happiest kid I had ever
met, one of the best in my group of friends; everyone knew how much he had going for him, swimming all-star, the conqueror of both the track and
classroom, a tenor for the school choir, and a chickmagnet if ever there was one, though I didn’t know
it at the time, he was the great connector I had with
any sort of a community. I had been (and probably
always will be) the psychologist of our large troupe
of apparently random friends. I listened to their
stories for hours on end and analyzed solutions to
problems they found themselves in. I never had to
for Miles; he was my only true release valve. After
all that, Miles was my first encounter with what the
counselor later described as bi-polar disorder; my
freshman year was fraught with that set of words.
After Miles’ death I could suddenly feel the pulse
of our town. We were a group not because we lived
close to each other, but because we lived in a place
where people cared for one another, and would do
anything for the others around us, we drew support
from others… we drew support from our community. It took something on the brink of insanity to
show me what life was truly about, it took Miles to
show me and, in the end, everyone that community
is everywhere, strength is everywhere. Miles was
my release valve one last time.
On the dark, rainy days of November, I will
sometimes fall into a twisted sleep of nightmares,
where that dark room is all that I can see, my friend
prone on his knees. But, on the happy sun bleached
days of May (Mile’s favorite month) I dream there
are the dying rays of spring shining on for eternity
on the misty peaks of the Rockies. Somewhere, that
dark room is as bright as the pearly gates themselves. Somewhere, Miles smiles. David McIntyre
A Transplant
If I could dispatch all your misery
And inject it through each vein
I wouldn’t waver or question the chance
To alleviate all your pain
I cannot see you saddened
It depresses me as well
I’ll take the heart that’s about to break
And save it from unspeakable hell
I’ll take it from your chest
And lock it into mine
Giving you the heart I had
With same shape, blood, and design
I’ll take your feelings too
Problems and thoughts as one
Giving you the love I had
Showing you true colors of the sun
My body may be useless
As my soul is soon carved out
My body, a shell, walking through each day
Mired in fruitful doubt
But you will now be thriving
As joy bursts through your being
My lifeless eyes will cry for you
A loving soul worth seeing
Thomas Wells
The Nurse Speaks
He’s gone visiting Nettleton:
(it’s a straight shot down the highway
where the sky is a kudzu net).
But he will be back here again
in three days, surely you can wait
for the good doctor to finish
sticking needles in mud-cast
country children’s arms, please.
There’s just a spot on your x-ray,
dark like chocolate or faces,
and it’s right well suspicious.
Never know what’s lurking
in your breast. It’s like sin. Never
know.
Angela Mercier
Untitled
Kristen Cabanting
Pocket Knives
I pulled open the microwave door just before
the bright green blocks flashed 00:01. My parents
are pretty heavy sleepers but around 3 in the morning I really don’t want to risk waking them up. I
pull out the plate and finish off whatever was left
from the restaurant we went to last night. I honestly
don’t know what I’m eating, but it tastes good so
I keep bringing a full fork to my mouth. Once I’m
done I put my fork and plate in the dishwasher
and, without thinking, swing the door shut. A loud
click echoes throughout the kitchen, but my seconds of panic soon secede. No one has awoken.
I walk around to the front door to see that it’s
locked. It is. I turn off the TV in the living room and
the glow that covered the walls disappears. Moonlight creeps in through the window blinds creating
small blue lines on the floor. I grope around for
the couch and guide myself out of the room. The
floor is smooth on my bare feet, and I barely lift
them from the floor for fear of stepping on our cat.
I stumble into the bathroom and flip on the light.
My face flashes in the mirror and for a split second
I feel like I’m not the only one there. I look outside
the bathroom, but the house is empty. All I can see
is blackness. I squeeze out paste onto my brush
and run the bristles along my teeth and gums. The
sound of foam and saliva is loud and I stop for
a moment. I remove the brush, listening. I don’t
know what I’m listening for because the silence is
all I can hear. Anything really. I peek back into the
hallway and resume my teeth brushing. I spit, rinse
my brush, and pop my retainer into my mouth. I
look back into the mirror and draw in a long breath.
As my lungs compress I switch the light off.
I walk into the door and it slaps the wall behind it with a loud crack. I grab it quickly to stop
the sound and my breath stops. I exhale, again,
and slowly close the door. I run my fingers along
the wall and take taller steps than I did before. The
floorboards moan under my heels and I step on the
balls of my feet to try and alleviate any sound. Finally I find where the wall turns and my hands run
down to a handrail. I flick the light switch and a
beam of light penetrates the darkness at the bottom
of the staircase. I grab the rail and quickly descend
the stairs. Once in the basement I step into the hallway that leads to my room to flick on the ceiling
lights. I then take a few steps back to tap off the
stair light. I walk down the hallway to my room and
turn my room light on. I run back to the beginning
of the hall and flip the light off (the electrician who
worked in this house didn’t understand light switch
placement.) Walking back to my room with its light
as a guide I glance back towards the stairs with too
much apprehension.
Once in my room I press the button to power
on my iPod and let the soothing music flow through
my ears. I shuffle to the door, close it, switch down
the light, and shuffle back to my bed. The darkness
is overwhelming because there are no windows
in my room. My air conditioning roars up and my
eyes clench in surprise. As I lie there I recall the
brief events before I came to my room. Eating the
food, brushing my teeth, and checking the front
door’s lock. I did check the front door, right? I play
it back in my mind and I remember checking the
door. I remember running my fingers over the lock,
and making sure it was vertical and locked (as opposed to the unlocked horizontal position.)
But I didn’t check the back door. My mom
always locks the doors before she goes to bed, but
I didn’t check it. She may not have locked it; but
she almost always locks it. I can’t get over the feeling that it’s unlocked. Like a bug in my brain I can’t
stop thinking about it. I could run upstairs quickly
and check it. About a minute and I’d be back in my
bed and comfortable with my mind at ease. But it’s
got to be locked. Doesn’t it? Arrows and spears fly
back and forth in my mind over this dilemma, but
I know it can be solved with a simple trip up the
stairs.
I throw the sheets and blankets back and twist
my legs out of bed. I flip on my room light and walk
down the hallway (flipping on that light as well)
until I reach the stairs. I turn on the light and turn
my head down at the stairs so I don’t have to look
up into the bright bulbs. They creak under my feet
so I ascend quickly. I can faintly see the doorknob
and as my fingers wrap around it I see that the
lock is horizontal. My head whips around my left
shoulder and my breathing quickens. I turn the lock
into its chamber and hurriedly walk back down the
stairs. Walk briskly down the hallway (flipping off
the light as I go) and close my room door behind
me. The music is still playing in my room. I turn off
the light, and hop quickly into my bed.
I close my eyes trying to fall asleep, and I’m
childish enough to count sheep jumping over an invisible fence. 1…2…3…4…5…6. I open my eyes and
the room isn’t as dark as it was before. My eyes dart
around the darkness until I see the light slipping
in under my door. Did I leave a light on? I wonder.
Again I argue whether or not to get out of bed, and
I end up giving in to myself. I hop out of bed, run
down the hall and flip off the light illuminating the
stairs. I turn back towards my room-toward the
hall-and I can’t see anything. I didn’t turn on my
room light or the hall light. My mind quickly races.
My first instinct is to turn on the hall light,
but just as my fingers reach the switch something in
my mind forces the image of a figure-a person-into
the hallway. I flip on the light quickly; it’s empty.
As fast as I can, I turn off the light and run into my
room, flipping on that light, and shutting the door.
Staring at my bed I map out exactly I’m going to get
there. I turn the light off and dart under my covers.
My legs and arms are burning but I don’t want to
unsheathe them. I lie there, silent, and hear the low
hum of the music I started some time ago. I don’t
know how much time has lapsed since I first tried
to sleep, but it seems like quite a while. Closing my
eyes doesn’t help because my mind has already created every possible thing that could’ve happened in
these minutes since I locked the door.
My first fear is that someone got into the
house while the door was unlocked. If they did,
where are they now? Are they upstairs? Are they
in my parents’ room? Are they in my room? Where
in my room would they hide? Would they come
for me? What would they want? What would they
do to me? Would they have a knife? Would they
have a gun? Is there anything in my room I have as
a weapon? I try my best to shut out these thoughts,
but they constantly resurface. What if I don’t wake
up? What if I wake up to find that may parents
haven’t? I close my eyes and try to focus on the music. The soft sounds of violins and pianos are suddenly stopped as if my iPod had been ripped from
its source. The sleep timer I set had run out. I rush
out of bed to turn the iPod back on and just as my
hands grab a hold of it I hear a scratchy voice whisper, “Why did you get out of bed?”
My iPod slips out of my sweaty hands, cracks
on my desk’s edge and falls to the floor. I’m afraid
to turn around, but before I get the chance the
voice whispers again, “I’m glad there aren’t any
windows in here.” Petrified, I don’t know what to
do. The room has suddenly become cold and my
lip quivers. Quickly I spin around toward my bed,
but I can’t see anything in the dark. I lunge for my
bed, pulling at the sheets, and roll under them all.
My breath is hot on my knees and my fingers are
sweaty. Minutes pass but I don’t know how many.
Suddenly my breath is silent and a chill runs the
length of my body. I poke my head above the covers and look around my room slowly.
As my eyes meet my desk I hear scratching coming from my closet. It sounds like fingernails being
dragged along jagged wood. My eyelids and jaw
tighten. The sound stops and the room is silent.
I slowly turn my head to face the closet and the
scratching beings again, but faster. I imagine fingernails on wood and my mind creates graphic images. Nails cracking and falling off. The bare skin of
fingertips; bleeding. I squeeze my eyes shut trying
to shut out the noise and the images, but it continues. I pound my ears into the pillow and the dragging finally stops. Then out of the silence a rustling
noise arises as if someone was dragging their dry
palms down the door to my room. My eyes shift
to the door and the noise ceases. Now that there is
no noise I don’t know where to look. My eyes shift
around the room until the silence is overcome by a
ringing in my ears. It is very faint, but once I focus
on it, it’s all I hear.
Minutes pass and I still don’t fall asleep. I
can’t fall asleep. I keep my body concealed by the
sheets and blankets but my head remains exposed.
The silence is again broken by a faint knock on my
door. In steady beats of three, it sounds like knuck-
les being tapped against my door. There is a long
pause between each set of knocks. I begin to grind
my teeth (to ignore the knocks) and try my best
to stay put, but the knocking on the door doesn’t
stop. I keep hoping it will go away, but it doesn’t.
Slowly I swing my legs over the side of the bed with
the covers still on. I sit up straight and think about
my desk. I know in the top right drawer I have my
pocket knife. I throw back the sheets, scurry to my
desk, and fumble through the drawer for the knife.
Once I find it I open the blade and hold it tightly.
I walk slowly to the door and place my hand on
the knob. The knocking persists. I knock back to let
them know that I’m here. The knocking stops and I
can hear breathing. I whirl open the door and hold
the knife out next to my ear, ready to strike, but
there’s no one there. I contemplate turning on the
light, but images seep through my mind of every
possible place someone could be standing.
I put my hand back on the doorknob to return to my room, and just as I take a step back the
voice cries out, “Keep coming.” Quickly I slam the
door shut behind me and gaze down the hallway.
The voice speaks again, but this time in a whisper.
“Should I go see your parents now?” it says as if
being choked. Quickly I run down the hallway and
slam my hand on the wall to turn the lights on.
They blast on and I can see the stairs. Suddenly the
knocking starts again, but this time it comes from
the back door. The same three knocks. With the
same long pauses.
I roll my knife in my hands and see the blade
shimmer in the light. I walk to the stairs and switch
on the light. I look up to the door and the knocking
persists. The closer I get to the top of the stairs, the
louder they creak under my bare feet. A loud noise
sounds behind me as if my room door had just been
slammed shut. I jolt my head back and as my eyes
meet the floor another noise begins softly. It sounds
like a knife blade being dragged on the wall coming
up the stairs; towards me. I look at my knife and it
is in my hand, at my side, but the noise grows louder and gets closer. I run up the remaining stairs and
dart into my kitchen.
The knocking continues. As I crouch down
near the oven the knocking turns into pounding. I
crawl toward a wall collecting dirt with my palms. I
reach for the nearest light switch and flick it up. No
light. I pull it down and toggle it, but nothing happens. The sound of the scraping knife comes out of
the stairs and slowly moves towards the kitchen. I
toggle with the light switch faster and faster and the
sound of the knife stops abruptly. The voice comes
back in its original scratchy tone, and whispers in
my ear, “This will be more fun in the dark.”
Thomas Wells
Untitled
Nick Smith
The History of Trunks and the Roots of Wrists
Because of the written word,
no tree shall ever die in vain.
In vain like the veins running
across the roots of my hands
for they are trees wise and old
constantly releasing the fruit of my knowledge
like suicides cut down from branches
I write on dead trees to show the world I exist.
For even in eternal slumber,
the pages of their springs and the ink of my winters
shall forever hold the only proof we as humans
were ever capable of love
and destruction;
the wings carrying the burden of our dreams
shall be made out of twig and leaf.
Trees wish to die.
They only grow
To try and touch heaven;
to reach out for a better world,
to not have to worry of being stripped barren.
Imagine if trees could cut themselves.
What would they etch onto each other?
With branches like razor blades,
what would they spill onto their wrists?
You see trees are not capable of suicide.
Humans take care of that for them.
But it is a poet’s job to keep them alive.
Peter Aquino
Sentry
Bill Hathaway-Clark
The Number Ten
Listing all the lovers of my past,
I’ve no more digits left to count between
My right hand and my left. Is she the last?
Thinking on her lines and curves unseen,
I mark the hours one by one until
I’ve no more digits left to count. Between
Soft kisses, she takes breaths to fill
The rising contour of her naked chest.
I mark the hours one by one until
The night is spent and we go to our rest.
If ten is perfect on a numbered scale,
The rising contour of her naked chest
Takes exponential steps beyond the pale.
I hold her arching body, tight within.
If ten is perfect on a numbered scale,
The finite set commits a timely sin:
Listing all the lovers of my past.
I hold her arching body tight within
My right hand and my left. Is she the last?
Peter Clapp
Buried Past
Lena Hoff
Measuring the Reactivity of a Soul
you touch your spaces
flexed bonds and
open planes
that I travel with
telescope eyes
and a mind hungry
for knowledge
and the small things
and you float in quiet
symmetry
arms open in a simple
geometry
that waits to bend
or break
and I sketch your angles
with eyes of charcoal
wondering at the ease
with which you can be
and you dance with
the world
rotating and
changing shape
flickering charges
that repulse and attract
and I watch you with
eyes sparking rainbows
and remember how
beautiful you are
and you resonate
find static equilibrium
within yourself
your smile is stable
but strained
and I ask with a tender
curiosity the reason why
you bend to break
your lonely state
and you touch my spaces
slowly
and I begin to change
to know that a shape
unstable spits fireworks of
probability and reacts
to find a dynamic
ever-breaking equilibrium
it is a soul on fire
and at peace –
and I feel the world breath,
feel it shift within me.
Rene Suleiman
Triangle Songs
It’s all so busy. Close your eyes.
It gets dark, right, and sometimes
splashes of silver are floating.
Keep them closed. I see shapes in my
darkness. My grandma used to tell
me that there were worlds of stories
inside my head, but I think that
hospitals and tornadoes that
ride in on still orange-gold nights and
the hummingbird which smashed into
my aspen-reflecting window
and the tangled dirty beard of
a man with no place to live but
with a cup and a triangle,
metal on metal:
DING
DING—
DING,
this song has erased my stories,
my worlds of steam-ridden jungles
and adventures into lightless
caves with dragons, maybe, or an
ancient lost treasure, fading to
dust—can you see these with your
eyes closed? I cannot imagine
anymore, so do it for me.
The words of my stories are just
words, beautiful flowing words
stringing down to the center of
the earth and going to maybe
a star because the moon seems too
cold and life is already cold.
If you try to imagine love
for me you’re brave like kids swinging
so high at the playground they tip.
Love might be stuck in the man’s
tangled beard or a poem written
for a dead hummingbird, which never
stopped flying because that was the last
thing it knew and love cannot change that.
Stories of love have fermented
behind my eyes, and much as the
world would scratch them away I cling
to shreds and fragments. Without them
all that’s left is voices behind
my eyes, silvery silent ones.
You can open your eyes.
Angela Mercier
Rose after the Funeral
Angela Mercier