Issue 5

FICTION

• Traffic, by Bianca M. Caraza

• Chipping Away, by Dianne Majzoub

• The Underground, by Robin Tuck

NON-FICTION

• The TSA Follies, by Dan Morey

POETRY

• F-Stop, by Jalen Eutsey

• a house so cramped God could barely squeeze in, by Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto

• The One You Like the Most, by Derek Graf

• Less Than, by Michael Mark

• Goes On Forever, by Jared Pearce

• Duty, by Barry Peters

• Here Lies Symbolism, by David M. Sula

EDITORIAL TEAM: John Jarred, Monica Nunez, Kyle Skebba, Stephen Pate, Malahat Zhobin

Mark Leflar

ADVISOR: Joanna Novak

• Stop this Train, by Rocio Cruz-Garcia.

• The Rush of Time, by Melinda Canny

• The Empty Seat Series: Graffiti, by Katie Kelleher

FICTION

_____________________________________________________________________

Traffic

by Bianca M. Caraza

I never mean to with guys. Sometimes it just happens.

It’s not that I don’t like Val enough. Of course I do— with his bouncing curls like a little boy that he ties into a messy knot and only lets down to frame his face when we’re alone. Just us, faces close together, talking about Rubens or Dali or the mannerists. Of course I like his straight white teeth which he has a habit of showing to everyone, melting every girl’s heart and driving us all crazy. Of course I love the white scar that runs through his eyebrow.

At the museum, things seem right. We hold hands and my heart flutters a little when he kisses me— chastely, on the cheek— because I still can’t quite believe this is really happening. Our third date. Me and Val. How did I make that happen?

The art is weird— Mexican Masters— and the painting before us is a bleeding, suffering Christ. His back is being torn open as he hunches over, scourged in an impossible field of red flowers crowded and open and all facing him. Soft, velvety petals red and round as drops of blood.

Val tries to tell me about the artist, reading from the little green plaque, but I am rapt— held in agony by Christ’s sorrowful face. I think the word sacrifice one time and it gives me chills. I crush my face into Val’s chest and let his cologne pull over me like a blanket, it’s citrus and musk and a wild smell. He tucks me under his arm like he’s hiding me from that blinding sorrow and we move on, a shy, four-legged creature.

415 Sawyer St. Lana’s parents are out. Bring something.

Val pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows me the text. He looks up

from me to the art on the walls and I can feel his question. You mind? He’s gonna say. We’re done here, right?

I don’t want to hang out with his friends. I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to go to a stupid house party. I want to go through the Goya exhibit and get coffee and talk about Colonialism. But I don’t want him to say something as stupid as Are we done about the LACMA so I beat him to it.

“Let’s go,” I say, and I’m game girl. Cool girl. Up for anything girl. I smile a stupid smile.

And then he’s grinning that white smile and I’m on his heels.

Lana’s house is a McMansion in the valley and by the time we get there the driveway is full and we have to park on the street. I have to get out of the car into a river of black mud and the heels of my boots sink into the ground. Val holds my elbow and then kneels, using a napkin from his glove box to clean my boots. I bite my lip and hold onto his shoulder, dizzy for a brief moment of ecstasy.

As soon as we enter, Val’s arm is around my waist and he’s introducing me to everyone he knows. At least, I think he must know them. He flashes them all his perfect teeth.

“This is my girl, Jo,” he says, dapping up some guys I barely recognize.

These boys give me hungry looks and Val sips his drink and tips a cup in my direction. I shake my head, the foam so close it tickles my nose.

“Did you catch the new album...?”

“So much damn autotune.”

 Val finishes his beer. And another. And he and the boys talk music— a conversation I can’t really follow— and show each other YouTube videos with crappy iPhone speakers. And when he asks me for a drink I’m almost relieved to go and fetch it for him, lingering in the kitchen for a moment.

I find a girl there with a pretty smile and she asks me where I’m from.

“LA,” I say, “downtown.” I lean in toward her and she smells sweet as cotton candy.

“Me too,” she says and she’s asking me my major and my favorite artists. She tells me her name is Laurie and she’s in a band. Would I like to see them?

When I return, I can see Val’s hands moving wildly around as he speaks with his friends. He’s gotten louder, his movements sloppier and bigger. It occurs to me that he’s drunk. Already. He’s drunk and we are in the fucking valley. I think, I’m not driving home.

I pass him the full cup silently and he talks for a while more— no thanks, impeccable manners gone— before pulling me away.

“I want to...” I start, but he pulls me close to him.

A slow song starts and he puts his face in my neck.

How bad is Friday night traffic? I wonder.

He’s kissing me and holding me and taking me through narrow hallways until we’re in what’s probably Lana’s bedroom. His breath tastes sour and I shake my head but I’m too breathless to speak. I don’t feel it coming. His lips are soft on mine and for a moment I forget why— and then I feel his hands harden, sharpen in mine and my palm bursts open. I wrench away and his face is changing already, his mouth twisted open in horror. His antlers are white and velvety and sprawling out endlessly. His face his long and brown as his curls. There’s a scar over his big, round eye.

He stares at me, sorrowful as Christ. I clutch my bloody hand. The smell of the forest, of wild things and earth and moss fills the room. His stare accuses and I recoil from it. I don’t remember meaning to.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s Laurie’s muffled voice.

“Hey, Jo, I’m leaving if you need a ride.”

I glance from the door to the stag before me. I don’t ask the question or make an offer.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” I call before slipping out the door.

_____________________________

Chipping Away 

by Dianne Majzoub

Universal health care was finally law, and Dotty sat bouncing on a bus to the first step in getting her life-long acne problem treated. “I’ll call the dermatologist right from the pre-clinic just as soon as they implant my eligibility chip.”

Mel chuckled at her excitement. “Ya know I love ya, Dot—pimples and all.” He squeezed her hand, then harrumphed. “But I don’t like the sound of this chip thing. Why do we need a chip stuck inside us? Why not just give us a card or something?”

“Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy, Mel. You can’t lose a chip inside your arm, and you’ll have it for five years. Besides, it will have all your medical history on it. The doctors will only have to do is scan it, and they’ll know all your conditions and medications and everything. The News said it’s all about cutting costs.”

“Why do we have to go to a ‘pre-clinic’ to get our chip? I heard folks that pay the tax up-front get their chips right at their doctor’s office—costs ‘em an arm and leg, but no ‘pre-clinic’. And, if they’re paying so much, how can we get it for free. And why do we have to be fasting for this?” Mel was always grumpy before breakfast.

“First off, folks like us don’t have a doctor’s office. It’s been years since anyone I know has seen a doctor. Second, as far as us getting it for free, the News said it’s all about the special tax the government came up with to pay for it. And third, you’re fasting so they can do blood work for the information on your chip. Us poor folk can finally see doctors, and your grumping about it. Just think of it, you’ll get that pain in your shoulder checked out—once you got your chip.”

“I hate to break it to you, Dot, but I’m not getting a chip. It’s creepy.” Mel released her hand and crossed his arms. “As long as I can still afford aspirin, the pain in my shoulder is fine.”

“Don’t be an idiot! You have to get your chip! What if that pain is something serious? Besides, I made our appointments almost a year ago.”

Mel huffed.

“Give me your hand.” She pulled his hand free of his arm and held it in both of hers. “We’re in this together, so we’re both going down with the chip.” She winked and snorted.

He sighed conceding defeat.

The ‘no appointment’ line wrapped around the pre-clinic like a coiled snake. Dotty lead Mel through the door marked ‘Appointments Only’. A girl at the desk took down their information, had them sign a stack of forms, slipped bands with their names and a number on each of their wrists, and asked them to take a seat until they were called.

As soon as they were seated, Mel whispered, “I don’t like this, Dot. This place smells like a slaughter house, and what were all those forms? Did you read them?” He tugged at his band.

“Just relax. No, I didn’t read the forms, but I listened to what the girl said they were for. Besides, you have to sign ‘em if you want your chip.”

“Dotty?” A nurse called. “I’ll be back for you in a moment,” she said to Mel when he rose to accompany her.

“Can’t we stay together?” Mel stammered.

“Afraid not. Each person is seen separately. It’s the rules.”

Dotty was led to a room where the nurse recorded her height and weight, drew several vials of blood, and asked her to urinate into a jar.

“What’s this for?” Dotty asked pointing to the IV the nurse inserted into her hand.

“Standard practice,” she murmured while she injected something into the line. “It will take about an hour to get your results fed into the assessor, then the doctors will be in; and when all is done, you’ll have your chip and free medical care for the next five years.”

Dotty’s eyes were already closing as the nurse left the room.

Dotty awoke to sound of rattling carts, beeps and buzzes, and unfamiliar voices. A row of doctors with electronic pads greeted her.

“What happened?” She whispered. A sharp pain prevented her sitting-up. Her fingers found three small wounds and one larger one on her side. “All this just to implant my medical chip?”

The doctor nearest her head took her hand. “You’ll be happy to know that your chip is safely implanted just under your wrist here.” He pointed at a little red dot. “Now you can get medically necessary services from any doctor, and all your prescriptions are covered, too.”

 Dotty’s free hand went to her face. “I’m calling a dermatologist as soon as I’m out of here.”

“Um, I’m afraid acne treatment isn’t a medically necessary service. You’ll have to purchase insurance for that—the old-fashioned way.”

Dotty’s mouth fell open. “So, what’s all this with my side?”

“This part,” he waived his hand over her side, “was your tax assessment payment. You were one of the lucky ones—getting assessed for a kidney. You’ll be all healed-up in a few weeks, and you won’t even miss it. I feel for the ones who get assessed for corneas.” He sighed. “But, well, at least it’s only one eye.”

Dotty’s mouth fell open. She looked about the huge room filled with post-surgical patients. “You must be collecting thousands of organs. You have that many transplants?”

“Well, no. It seems it’s the in-thing for the wealthy to serve human kidney pie and human liver pate at their dinner parties. We just got an order for more than forty kidneys for one party. Needless to say, they paid a fortune for them.”

Dotty grimaced. “Do they eat the corneas, too?”

“Oh no, those are strictly for implants. That’s why they hardly ever get assessed.”

Dotty snorted.

“What is it?” the doctor asked.

“My husband, Mel, he said this chip thing would cost some people an arm and a leg.”

“Not at this time, but maybe in a few years when the transplant surgery improves, or if rich people develop a taste for them. Anyway, I’m sure only an arm or a leg would be assessed.”

When the doctors left, Dotty searched the room for Mel. He sat in a bed across the aisle, his fingers trembling against a bandage covering his empty left eye socket.

_______________________________

The Underground

by Robin Tuck

The hardest part of anything is getting there, Sidney decides huddled on the subway platform against the wind. His commute to a comfortable, if underwhelming software development job, is forty-five minutes each way, 12 subway stops he knows by heart.

Everyday he sinks into the earth, down two storeys of escalators across a hallway with blinking fluorescent lights and down another flight of stairs to the westbound platform for line 8. Two other subway lines crisscross his own, arching over the escalators thick with rushing commuters, a maze of concrete and steel, bundles of cabling twisting out into the darkness like tree roots. The swaying stacks of overly bright lights always remind him of dystopian novels with all of humanity in bunkers underground.

He passes a family sitting in the corridor, four sets of legs tucked under a dirty blanket. No one looks at them. Just like no one looks at the bright graffiti covered advertisements for perfume and off-Broadway shows. He’s gotten good at ignoring them too and the churning guilt in his gut. One day they’ll be gone and he’ll be relieved.

On the platform the sounds of multiple conversations mix with the rumble of passing trains and the suction cup pressure of forced air. Beneath it all is the soft chorus of Hallelujah sung by a young man busking for dollars. The singing ebbs and flows with the passing trains, the screech of the doors sliding open and people in a stumbling hurry to make it to one of the open seats. It’s the singing, not the electric grind of the rails, that gets to him. The way the voice melts around him like a warm hum only loud enough to make out the melody and a snatch of lyrics. He finds himself singing along under his breath. Something about the song pulls him into all his senses, like he has snapped awake into the weight of his own body. He closes his eyes and misses his train. Swept away by the sweetness under the dirt, the smell of piss, trash and hot mechanical air.

The singing continues even when he thinks the song must be over. How many verses did Leonard Cohen write? He steps closer to the yellow line at the edge of the platform, looks down at the three rails and the plastic litter strewn over the gravel between them - waits for the animal panic that flies into him when the headlight of the next train barrels out of the tunnel.

This one he manages to board, clutching his brown messenger bag close, dodging stranger’s eyes and spots of old gum. He finds a free inch of warm, slippery handrail and grabs it just as the train lurches forward into movement.

No one is going to notice if he’s late. Most of the other developers don’t come in for another hour and the culture at Hern Technologies has never been social. Just last week his boss, Rick - a distractible man in his mid fifties who always wears khakis and a rotation of bright polo shirts- couldn't remember how long Sidney had worked in server maintenance. It didn’t seem worth it at the time to remind him it was two years.

Sidney tries not to think about all the other minor slights he’s endured, each one a small cold sting, piling up like snow drifts. Instead, he cranes his neck to gaze down the cars- the long segmented worm of the train undulating through the ground, accelerating with clangs and unnerving vibration. The string of cars is so identical that Sidney imagines he is looking into a hall of mirrors, his own image multiplying out endlessly. He squints into the illusion, feeling dizzy and hot from the press of bodies around him. The start of nausea pushes at the back of his throat. He unzips his coat, pulls the collar open and tries not to think of the omelette and toast sitting in his stomach. This assault of elbows and stray shoulders is the most he’s been touched in months.

As the trains slows into the next platform, something rolls out from under the seats towards him. It bounces once into his shoe, than thumps into the front wall of the car. Sidney reaches down and picks it up. It takes him a moment to place the off white object, turning it’s sticky, pocketed surface in his hand. It’s a cue ball from a pool table. He glances up at the other passengers, searching faces to find the owner. The train’s yellow bulbs give each face a waxy, shadowed cast. No one has the tell tale look of a person searching for anything, just the normal glazed eyes of daily travelers, looking at their phones, books or nothing at all.

Without thinking Sidney opens his bag and stuffs the cue ball inside. He spends the rest of the four stops to his office pressing the now sticky fingers of his free hand in order, ​one two three four, against his thumb. When he gets off the train and is sucked into the rush of people headed toward the surface, the ball smacks him in the leg as he walks, the heaviest item in his messenger bag throwing it off balance. Each thump is an odd, steadying comfort.

On the ride home he gets a later train than normal- he worked an extra half hour to make up for his morning tardiness, even though, as predicted, no one noticed- and manages to snag a seat. He takes the cue ball out of his bag and passes it from hand to hand, feeling the weight of it, wondering where it came from, the mystery a pleasant distraction. Somewhere at the back of the train the tinkling notes of an instrument Sidney can’t quite place. He looks up to find the source, but its hidden behind coat clad backs.

A strange notion strikes him. Sidney reaches down under the seat and rolls the cue ball towards the front of the train. He watches it pass unnoticed between feet and around purses. It reaches the layered car divide where the flaps hinge to the floor then the train begins to slow and the ball starts its journey back to him.

Suddenly, the overhead lights flicker and go out. He strains to hear the sound of the ball returning. The train lights flash back on, but the ball has disappeared. Someone must have picked it up. He searches for any obvious suspects, the man in the too tight blue suit arguing into new Apple earbuds dangling from his ears, the group of students laughing with necks bent to study each others glowing phones, the woman with bloodshot eyes, legs twitching nervously in ripped black jeans, but none of them hold anything resembling the ball.

Three stops pass and Sidney is convinced its gone. A strange sense of loss settles into him. He reminds himself it is just an old, lost part of a whole, but that doesn't stop him searching the floor every time the doors whoosh open and people spill out.

The next day his train to work is slightly delayed. They sit in the tunnel, fuzzy announcements unintelligible and loud pop on through the speakers. Line work maybe, or electrical issues. Sidney digs a finger under the face of his watch to scratch dry skin, and notices the white gleam of the cue ball rolling towards him again. Perplexed, and somehow pleased, he snatches it off the floor. Turning it over, he affirms it is the same ball. Though what are the chances of two cue balls rattling along in the subway? Admittedly Sidney has seen a lot of odd things on public transportation but even that has its limits. He peers at the other passengers. Someone must have rolled it back. Did they know it was his? Or did they have the same urge he’d had, to watch it bounce like a pinball through shoes, luggage and backpacks.

While part of him wants to keep it, now that it has returned, instead he places the ball on the floor and rolls it back the way it came. Again, it disappears slightly out of his line of sight. Someone is playing with him. Is it the woman in the bright red wool coat, or one of the teen girls in matching floral dresses and jean jackets?

The train creeps into life with another blared announcement he doesn't catch. Eyes sweeping the floor he fidgets with the zipper of his bag, waiting. It’s very possible the ball will not come back. Whoever it is will keep it this time, or someone else with pick it up. Bracing himself for the twinge of disappointment, Sidney tries to keep his expectations low.

He smiles as the cue ball reappears two stops later. There’s no time to send it on another journey, his stop is next, but he contemplates staying on the subway just to catch the eye of the stranger who started this little game. They must be a regular commuter like him, he realizes, to have caught the same train. Perhaps on the ride home he will discover who they are. He imagines their eyes meeting, both laughing, a few minutes of polite conversation. From then on he would see them each day, wave, nod, complain about the weather if they were able to get seats or stand together. He steps off the train and heads to work, humming.

Sidney waits a few stops on the ride home before digging into his bag and rolling the ball along the floor. He’s been looking forward to this all day, especially after one of the servers crashed. Hours were spent putting out metaphorical fires and writing reports for hysterical management. A stinging headache has been pressing at the base of his skull since lunch.

Careful to check each stranger’s face in the car, he anticipates the moment of shared realization, the smile, the laugh. While he waits for the ball to return, a group of older women shuffles on. They mumble to each other in a language he doesn’t recognize and stare down at him. Reluctantly, he gives up his seat. He doesn’t mind standing, but worries now that he’s moved he won’t see who is rolling the ball. Wedging himself between a man reading the news on his tablet and another leaning against the doors, Sidney scrutinizes the car for his stranger.

It’s then that he sees the unmistakable white shape of the cue ball. Only, it’s not in anyone’s hand, but caught on a broken edge of plastic from one of the seats where it is bolted to the floor. He stares at it for a few moments, realizing as the train rattles along that the vibration dislodges it and sends the ball rolling back down the train. He tracks the path of the ball, sees it bounce and come to rest in his usual place at the end of the car.

No one was touching it, there was no playful stranger. Just physics and boredom and the luck of catching the same train each day. His face heats with sharp embarrassment even though he hasn't mentioned the cue ball or the game to anyone. As quickly as it came, the color has leaked out of the other passengers. They sink again into the background, devoid of the bright potential that each face used to hold. Sidney is just himself again in a subway car full of people he doesn’t know and never will. There is nothing left but the bland familiarity of going home to Netflix in his studio apartment and waiting to go back to work.

Sidney gets off at the next stop even though it is not his. Dropping his messenger bag by his side he places his feet on the yellow line, stares down into the gravel of the tunnel, and when the next train light barrels towards him, he steps off the platform to meet it. 

NON-FICTION

_____________________________________________________________________

The TSA Follies

by Dan Morey

All flights from Erie, Pennsylvania depart from the clumsily titled Erie International Airport Tom Ridge Field. Not only does this name fail to roll (or even crawl) off the tongue, but it is also misleading, as Erie International Airport Tom Ridge Field doesn’t offer a single international flight—not even to Canada, which lies a whopping fifty miles to the north.

What Erie International Airport Tom Ridge Field does provide is a total of three commercial routes to the very national cities of Chicago, Detroit and Philadelphia, all in the sort of minuscule aircraft once used by Charles Lindbergh to deliver mail.

Small airports do, however, have their advantages. Thanks to easy accessibility and non-existent lines, it’s possible to check in for flights at Erie International as late as two minutes before takeoff, which is about when Mother and I showed up for the first leg of our European adventure.

As we approached the desolate security barricade, a TSA agent, exhibiting an expression of bored stupefaction normally associated with catalepsy, rose from his stool and motioned us forward. Mother breezed through the metal detector, while I fumbled with my shoes.

“Don’t worry about those,” said the agent.

He was a youngish fellow—overweight, but not offensively so.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

I retied, fed my carry-on into the X-ray machine, and entered the detector. A shrill beep rang out.

“Empty your pockets and do it again,” said the agent.

“I don’t have anything in my pockets.”

“Do it again.”

I did, and the detector beeped. “Stand here,” he said, pulling out his security wand.

“Hurry up, Daniel,” said Mother from beyond the barrier, as if I were intentionally drawing things out for my own perverse amusement.

I assumed the position, and the agent waved his wand over any potentially bomb-filled crevices. When he reached my ankles he stopped short.

“You didn’t take off your shoes,” he said.

“You told me not to.”

“I didn’t mean those kind of shoes. Everybody knows you have to take off those kind of shoes.”

“Don’t argue,” said Mother.

She was right. Since 9/11, airport security personnel (formerly a few notches below bicycle cops in the hierarchy of law enforcement) have taken on an alarming degree of autonomy. In Miami, I’d seen a wheelchair-bound octogenarian rolled into an inspection chamber for trying to slip by with a pair of tweezers. Presumably the captain was in danger of having his eyebrows plucked.

“Okay,” I said to the agent. “What do you want me to do?”

“Go back through without the shoes.”

I removed my footwear and attempted the detector a third time. The silence was glorious.

“Thank God,” said Mother.

“Not so fast,” said the agent. “You have to put those shoes through the X-ray.”

I went back—the very portrait of obedience—and placed my shoes on the conveyor. The agent ambled over and switched on the belt, which moved roughly an inch before suffering a mechanical infarction. He jiggled the controls. Nothing happened. The final boarding call for our flight crackled over the loudspeaker.

“We have to go,” said Mother.

“For God’s sake,” I said. “Keep the shoes. I have another pair.”

I stormed through the portal and the metal detector emitted the foulest blurt I’d ever heard.

“Whoa,” said the agent. “Back it up.”

“But I just went through ten seconds ago! It didn’t beep!”

“Please remain calm, sir.”

This “sir” business was troubling. I’ve noticed that the sudden deployment of formal address in low-level security types usually foreshadows a fascist act of some sort.

“I’m perfectly calm,” I assured him. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

“Might be a machine malfunction,” he said. “I’ll have to remove you for additional screening.”

“Remove me?”

“Yes, sir. To the holding cubicle. We’re at that stage in the protocol.”

He picked up his phone and started to dial.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “There must be something—”

Just as I was about to offer him a substantial bribe, the X-ray conveyor jolted back to life.

“Jesus,” he said. “That thing is gonna give me a goddamn heart attack one of these days.”

“The plane. Is. Leaving,” said Mother.

“Hey, your shoes are okay!” said the agent in a jolly tone, as my oxfords tumbled through. “But we still need to screen you.”

“Couldn’t I try the detector again?”

“Can’t allow that, sir—protocol.”

“Please. There’s only one flight to Philly today. If we miss it, our whole trip is ruined. I’m not out to hijack a plane. I just want to take my poor, tired, overworked mother on the Grand Tour. Look at her. She endured fifty years of thankless labor, and all she ever wanted in return was for someone to take her to Europe. It’s not too late. We can still make this happen.”

He glanced at Mother, who had put on her most downtrodden face, and reflected for a moment.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll give you one more chance. But if it beeps, we’re screening you.”

I entered the detector slowly, with my eyes closed, whispering a prayer to Mercury, Roman god of expedient travel. Miraculously, there was no beep. The agent, already reaching for his newspaper, waved me through with an indifferent flick of the wrist.

POETRY

_____________________________________________________________________

F-Stop

by Jalen Eutsey

I saw a man walking

with a monopod in his left hand,

camera in his right.

His wrist tucked into

the string at the top

of the rubber hand grip.

The monopod twisting

and swaying with the rhythm

of his stride.

There was a soccer game

going on in the stadium

behind me. Faint cheers

rose and fell

as we passed each other.

I blinked and the monopod

was a nightstick. I blinked

and tasted danger, remembered

the cost of existence

in the only body

I have blessed with breath.

I blinked and saw a monopod,

saw all the pictures

I wouldn’t take:

my firstborn

naked in a bathtub

with floaties on.

The woman of my dreams

in jeans and unflattering glasses

standing at the edge

of the Grand Canyon.

I blinked and saw

a picture I’d never see again,

pilfered

from my middle school

Myspace,

thin adolescent body,

toothy smile

blemished by twisted

fingers, a gesturing hand.

I blinked and thought

of last night’s party,

the way I sat

on the black vinyl couch

and the respectable friends

who sat on either side of me.

I thought of the way

they would be erased

or their bodies blurred

by some news station intern.

How in this picture,

my soft curls are covered

with a beanie

to protect myself from the cold.

My face screwed up

in ironic menace.

When the nightstick powders

my cheekbones into purplish blue,

when the error

of my existence is a breathless body,

when my wounds

tell a story

only a coroner could read,

these will be the pictures they use:

shadows darkening my skin,

hoodie half-covering my eyes,

beneath my chin

a sideways peace sign.

__________________________

a house so cramped God could barely squeeze in

by Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto

...put fire in a home,

it becomes the home.

1  a bang races you downstairs to find mother, with patches of red, before

the sink. father sits on the dining table, a bottle of alcohol dangles in his

burning blood and fists. 2 words between them hover around

the house. some bear voice-less letters: long pins inside a tender

throat. some bear faces of boys and girls who look at you from the inside

of a box full of forlornness and loneliness. 3 you try to play with them.

4 you try to show them your bagpack full of mended toys. 5 mother finds

out that the house walls now ojụjụ your Lego and toy soldiers. 6 she walks you

into the room and puts you in bed and says you should hold hands with

your shadow. 7 that it is safer. 8 she does not want you to see how much

she has bled. the scars she has covered with silence. her torn clothes she has

stitched with birds’ feathers. 9 and how much of father she has washed off her body.

10― reminds of a poet I think said: Augustina’s body was a house so cramped

God could barely squeeze in. 11 each time you look into mother’s eyes

you wonder how much of her is gathered inside the sink’s pipes.

______________________________

The One You Like the Most

by Derek Graf

For all I know, the lights

are judged for seeping.

There’s harm in asking

where you’re from.

I keep two crutches

and one broken lamp

in my closet. Look,

the steam pipes walk

right into the street

before they explode,

the crowd going wild.

I had to cancel every

streaming service

in the building so you’d

look past the little fog

in my dining room.

You thought you’d last

forever until you grew

senile about the river.

I found you under

the ground in a troubled

niche. There’s no harm,

I’m certain, mangling

a cloud, and I know I just

know I will see you again.

_________________________

Less Than

by Michael Mark

In 5th grade, counting replaced my

prayers: 9 hours until math class. 3

weeks to math mid-terms. 4 months

from math finals. 7 Junes until I’m out

of here. 3,000 miles to California. I was

the number 2 hitter on our school team.

My father was proud, only missed 1

game. That didn’t count on homework

nights, banging the table, walls. 7

mornings a week I delivered papers to

31 customers. Shoveled neighbors’

snow-covered walks for 25 cents, did

ours free. Didn’t count when I brought

home the red marks from geometry,

algebra, trigonometry. Bs in English

didn’t count. Cs in science didn’t count.

A in Phys. Ed. didn’t count. Report card

days I’d count his commute home: 4

block walk from the printing plant to the

subway, 5 stops, 40 minute bus ride, 20

minute walk up 61st Avenue, after 9

hours at the press - that monster he took

me to one day for extra credit in Civics. I

wrote: The furnace was an angry God

consuming men in grey overalls. B+. He

got 2 weekend days: 1 night of cards, 1

bowling. 2 locks unlocking. Me waiting

at the kitchen table with red Fs. How

many minutes before he’d make a fist,

stand to stop himself, take a drink, take a

second drink, a third. He tried so hard.

He’d do the work, slowly for me, show

where I went wrong. His hot snorts

blasting my neck. A billion of my I'm

sorries for every one of his Try agains.

When he raised his hand I never raised

    mine.

_____________________________

Goes On Forever

by Jared Pearce

In your cell you tap

a lovely lady, link

plate to plate, then fold

the daylight dying in

a rumpled blanket.

You circuit like the moon,

punch time and bite

coins like the Greeks,

weapons cankered

in the corner, too kinked

to wield for long.

You yield like the tide:

slosh, slow, then surge

and rip, lashing everything

to your broad back.

The lagoon of your posters,

your planted flag, breaks

the surf. Your rain

dance washes you

down the drain.

In your cell you’re the key,

ignition, gas, and go,

hitting the desert highway

to hitch that bum, also

yourself, on the side of the road.

______________________________

 Duty

by Barry Peters

I stand behind smashable glass

thirty minutes before the first bell

imagining guns in their backpacks

heavy pistols jostling laptops

rifle parts that can be threaded together

in the stalls of the boys bathrooms

matches, lighters, steel thermoses

of fertilized cocktails, flammable fluids

six-inch roofing nails, tacks, pins and needles

whatever the internet teaches these

students sleepwalking up the front steps

before me, old and unarmed sentry,

so the school board can say

yes, we have people on duty each morning

no, not searching the students, per se,

but with their eyes open for anything unusual

in the glass doors and window glass

I see my own reflection super-

imposed over those adolescents

when I was a rookie English teacher

two kids beat the shit out of each other

in the corridor outside my classroom

last week when I asked a student

for his hall pass, he loaded his ammo,

let the spit fly in my face. This, now, my duty.

They, now, my enemy.

________________________________

Here Lies Symbolism

by David M. Sula

Rotting in a malodorous grave.

Flesh melts, and bones sublimate

to nauseating vapors. The crate

fills with fetid stenches and settles

deeper in the dirt. Wilted flowers

every shade of beige coil

upon a meager bed of stone

and weep their leaves and petals.

Clichés wearing crass veneers

of the deceased walk the streets:

storms, daybreaks, twilights, trees,

doors, fires, winds, and rivers.

Masquerading as cleverness,

mocking the dead who claws against

its casket’s lid, grinding fingernails

to dust, exchanging them for splinters.

It roils in the suffocating box,

as progeny debases innovation, locks

progress with tired ricochets. The clichés

reign and devastate the victim’s peace,

bleed ink, and stamp their branded wits

anywhere the rubber rectangle fits.

Stamp stamp stamp, like the hammering

of skinless fists begging for release.

Symbolism holds its final breath,

barring the stink of its own death,

grabs a thread and rings its bell,

but the gravediggers have no ears.

The etchings on the slab scrutinize

a repetitious world. With no eyes

to cry except the flowers left behind

so long ago, with petals as their tears.