The Cabinda spouses
The Cabinda spouses by Landa wo O mbé – dé 1 returned to life!O kuet – dé 2 who will protect us from lightning!If the bottom of the sea is luminous.Why does your dark eye not reflect a light of love? 1 The night hunter that kills the game for Cabinda villagers but is killed each morning by his last prey.2 The wife – widow of Mbé – dé, interred every morning and disinterred every evening before the hunt. Poetry Home Art by Keegan Baatz
Fears, Explained
Fears, Explained by Kayla Jessop After A. Papatya Bucak’s “I Cannot Explain My Fear” I have a fear of spiders, snakes, and bees. At my favorite brunch spot downtown, a bee kept flying around my head even after I wished it away. It landed in my mimosa moments later and drowned in the sweet nectar of orange juice and champagne. The waitress brought me another. I have a fear of red ant piles. Once, my grandfather accidentally stepped in one while mowing his yard. When the little bites didn’t heal on their own after weeks, he went to the doctor, and they found cancer in his bloodstream. I’m afraid of swimming in the pool alone, swimming in the ocean without people close by, and floating on an inflatable in the river. I saw a movie as a kid where an alligator came up from under the water with its mouth wide open and swallowed the relaxing woman in one go. Their death roll scares me, too. I have a fear of thunderstorms. The thunder causing the house to shake makes me think of a picture falling off the wall and giving me brain damage. Motorcycles and scooters scare me. Two tires don’t create enough balance to protect my lack of it. I’m scared of restroom door handles, gas pumps, and restaurant silverware. I have a fear of Russia. I didn’t sleep for two days when there was talk of going to war with them. I live in a major city– we would be an easy target. Asteroids, meteors, and falling satellites make me scared. I have a fear of dragonflies after they were used as a way for the dead wife to communicate with Kevin Costner in the movie Dragonfly. Ghosts, ouija boards, and the dark scare me, too. When I visit my mother’s grave, I’m afraid each step I take near a headstone to get to hers is going to make a ghost angry and follow me home to punish me. I’m more afraid my mother’s ghost won’t visit me. I have a fear of scales, carbs, and calorie trackers. Shopping for jeans and little black dresses gives me goosebumps. I’m afraid of fireworks because of a Fourth of July celebration that ended with everyone fleeing from the outdoor venue because of a possible active shooter. I’m afraid of ditches because it was hard for me to climb out of the one we hid in once the police arrived to secure the area. I’m scared of Easy-Bake Ovens because I don’t know how they work. I cannot explain my fear of scarecrows. I’m scared of AIs, my Amazon Alexa, and the camera on my laptop because they’re probably spying on me. I’m worried I made my sister afraid of deer because I make her look out for them when I drive in the dark, terrified of hitting one. When I was a kid, I was afraid of dogs because they were loud and liked to jump. My family still makes fun of how I used to be now that we have a dog. I have a fear that the gum I swallowed when I was seven is still in my stomach. I’m even more scared of the idea that my stomach won’t hold life in it after being on birth control for ten years. Relationships and love scare me. I’m afraid of marriage because my mother was miserable during hers. I’m more afraid of divorce because she was too heartbroken after her marriage to love again. Airplanes, cars, and buses scare me, too. I’m afraid of the words “no” and “yes” but prefer to say “yes.” I’m afraid of Costa Rica because my boyfriend wants to propose to me there. Sharks, iguanas, and rogue monkeys live there, too. Nonfiction Home Art by Keegan Baatz
In Eternal
In Eternal by Lauren O’Donoghue Mary stands by the window, her fingers making cat’s cradles in the air. It is a winter afternoon, and the light is pale. It rimes the floral-patterned bedlinen, the hem of her long camel coat. There are water spots on the mirror. She would like to give the place a good going-over, to scrub the dust from the skirting boards and brush the cobwebs from the light fixture. Not that the room is dirty—not really. Only cheap. Only a little grubby at the edges. The hotel is a nondescript new-build on the outskirts of the city, near to the train station. Mary walked quickly through the lobby when she arrived, fearing questions, but the girl behind the reception desk didn’t even look up from the magazine she was reading. Perhaps this sort of thing is common here. The man Mary has come here to meet is in the en-suite bathroom. She can hear running water through the walls. Making himself ready. Her pulse chatters in her throat, rapid as a baby bird’s. She should take her coat off, she thinks. It seems like the thing to do. But every time her hands move to her lapels they flutter away again, coming back to rest in a spot just above her navel. Her stomach turns, the lurching of it somehow not unpleasant. Under her coat she is wearing a dress of green rayon, the one with the rosette at the collar, and underneath a plain slip that is fraying at the seams. Below that she has on a peach-coloured brassiere and knickers of a similar colour, the closest thing she has to a matching set. Her nylons are new, purchased that morning with money she took from Bridget’s piggy bank. Mary hopes their perfect sheen will distract him; from the weight of her breasts, the soft flesh of her thighs, the lightning tracery of stretch marks across her hips and belly. He has already told her that she is beautiful, but she fears he will shrink from the fullness of her. The pipes give a sudden, high shriek as a tap is turned off. Three heartbeats of silence pass, and then the door to the en-suite bathroom opens. The man Mary is here to see is not particularly handsome. His hair is thinning at the crown, and there are dark spots on the backs of his hands. But he smiles when he sees her, a broad and honest smile that deepens the creases around his eyes, and after years of not being seen at all, that is more than enough. Where and how they met is immaterial. She is here now. Mary removes her long camel coat, folds it over her right arm, and lays it neatly on the chair by the window. The coat had been John’s gift to her a week after she first stepped foot on English soil. Her good tweed overcoat, inherited from her mother, was ruined on the crossing from Dublin to Liverpool. A summer squall had bruised the sky not long after the ferry came out of port, and the vessel was bobbing queasily on the choppy water. Christopher had picked that inauspicious moment to make himself known, two weeks ahead of schedule. Mary’s waters broke as she was clinging to the guardrail on the ferry’s top deck and were sluiced away by the rain within moments. A woman called Agnes, a navvy’s widow from Kildare, acted as midwife. She’d six children of her own and knew the workings of it. It was her who folded up the tweed overcoat and propped it, businesslike, under Mary’s hips, to be spoiled beyond salvation in a rush of amniotic fluid. Mary’s screams, she was told later, had the lads in the engine room crossing themselves. Later she would hardly remember screaming at all. Only Agnes placing the squirming, wailing infant in her arms, his body red and wet as a skinned rabbit, and the way she couldn’t keep herself from laughing. She called him Christopher, the name she and John had agreed when he left to work the beet harvest. One of the crewmen opened a bottle of sherry to wet the baby’s head. By the time the ferry came into port an hour later, Christopher was asleep at Mary’s breast, and the sky was so cloudless you’d never know it had rained at all. Her fourth child will be born in a hospital room, a modern phenomenon that her mother would never have approved of. Mary will be brought in on the advice of her doctor because of the high levels of protein in her urine, and she will be grateful for it. It will not feel right, somehow, to birth this child at home, in the same bed where Declan and Bridget filled their tiny lungs for the first time. Mrs McKee will mind the children when Mary is admitted, albeit reluctantly. She will have heard the backyard gossip, same as everyone else. Mary will not require Mrs McKee’s approval. All Mrs McKee needs to do is keep the children fed until Mary returns home and to keep her cat’s arse of a mouth closed while they’re in earshot. It will be a difficult birth. There will be moments where Mary will be certain that she will die in that room, with its bare lightbulb and walls so white it hurts to look at them. She will tell the doctor that she needs her rites, and he will pretend not to hear her. The maternity unit will have opened its doors for the first time less than a month before. It will smell like paint and antiseptic. Mary will be sick into a metal dish that a nurse will hold beneath her chin, again and again until there is nothing to bring up but bile. When it is over, the midwife will ask Mary if she wants to hold the child, and Mary will say no. She will ask
Kaddish 9
Kaddish 9 by Daniela Naomi Molnar below the quick ] [ surface currents of the mind muscular water moves ] [ undiluted sentience sole and fluid flow ] [ through everyone your tongue and your own wet breath ] [ already knows the nameless so it’s ok to disown the dead ] [ multiplication and to disregard the sad arithmetic ] [ of the bad and tired plan it’s ok, do not call the failure any name ] [ let your voice calve an inoculant omission ] [ of the self a home that’s all hinge ] [ let that zero loll ] [ open be muttered or sung ] [muttered or sung by the nameless one ] [ a sound thick as no mirror ] [ and dense as love’s ] [ black hole Poetry Home Art by Keegan Baatz
Kaddish 2
Please View this Poem on a Desktop Kaddish 2 by Daniela Naomi Molnar Let the rhyming, dying dream carve a tunnel in your trachea for breath then name Let the name be lush Let the name be rangy roaming past time to the source of language : a huddle of clean ash — the only promise time makes is to be ongoing an inconclusive light that cannot dim forming pink organs and petals green fuses and rot the metastasizing muscle the prison, the cell, the organelle the eight dollar cup of coffee the animal with no teeth in the hungry street the person with no love left in the desiccated valley the quake the rubble the flood the bone-dense shadows the traps sprung on sinew in inconclusive light god a fermata
I licked a leaf
I licked a leaf by Ron Antonucci You think me mad but licking a leaf is the least of it. I could tell you about the smell of a hummingbird’s wing. I could describe the sound of a rock as it cracks in its growing.I have witnessed the drip and streak of stars as they melt across the deep dark.I know the feel of water as it shudders into ice.I’ve heard the heartbeat of a caterpillar and listened to the soft cry and song of a dandelion as it goes from thick and yellow to whitened wisp.The pulse of pebbles on my palm… So, yeah: I’ve licked, I’ve tasted a leaf.Like all things within reach of the tongue, the hand and the heart, I can tell you that it is bitter, and it is sweet. Poetry Home Art by Alice Stone-Collins
And After, No One Lowered Their Flag
And After, No One Lowered Their Flag by Matthew Williams Shift in the viscera’s tectonics. Your body was to be as any other glass chapel in a fracturing land: code blue, cold lips the color of early light at dawn. Yes, it seems, even in death, some part of us succumbs to American pageantry: the way your hand clasped your heart as you collapsed to the hardwood. This is what I hold in mind in study of broken windows, the pattern of fracture, its dendritic limbs, the ever finer fingers reaching into what once, with clarity, held, as it passed, life. If you were here, I would ask, if you believed we can grasp, not the instance alone, but the act of shattering, if the hairline break in the ankle bone of some fossilized ungulate is an inscription of structure governing prey and predation, given as I am to seek the grand abstraction that poses as explanation, and thinking, if the dead know anything, they must know the sound of that biggest symphony, where we hear nothing but the pluck of one string. I am still listening to particulars still listening to the misdiagnosis, still seeing the orange morning opening like a crusted wound above the gas station and the man who watched me careen into the parking lot, roll down my window, and shout, Where is the hospital, in silence, turning his back. The owners, days before you died, asking you to just do your best to manage the finances from the ICU. The insurance adjuster’s dulcet hiss in the phone for days. You, twisting in the front seat of that red hatchback at a red light, a scream scoring your throat: a note sharper than a neighbor’s glare—another glass shard fallen from the broken anthem of this breaking place: the hometown, the county, the country where we found ourselves lost, when you said from the bedroom floor, hand over your heart: Don’t call an ambulance. I can’t afford an ambulance. Poetry Home Art by Morgan Auten-Smith
Away We Go
Away We Go by Claire Wahmanholm My question for love is this: how do I livethis way. Which way does the breath go. Which waythe blood as it runs. If I am alive and in love, how long will it hurt. Away we go, I say, climbing into the boat I did not make but every night am made to trust. I practice letting go: one beat, two beats, eighty per minute. Death has mowed more and more of the meadow. Each day I have fewer questions but they are all about pain, and what I would do to survive it. Or not, being un-brave. I wave and wave at my swimming daughter, whose stronger arms pull her from me into something stranger. Poetry Home Art by Cynthia Yatchman
Message in a Romance Novel
Message In a Romance Novel by Anuradha Kumar The day Mother was not waiting for us when we returned from school at our usual time, I knew she had gone to meet the man. He had written to her only two days ago, and I knew from the expression on her face. She looked dreamy and distracted, the face of someone making plans of her own. So, taking my younger sister by the hand, the two of us went to the house of a family friend. The auntie there knew my parents. I told her about our parents being away, that no one had come to pick us up from school. That got us sympathy and we stayed for lunch—a bit of rice with ghee, and a potato and pea curry. After that, I got my sister home safely. I admit I did that to impress my sister. To show her I could manage things when Mother let us down. She trusted me, even when we had to cross the dangerous main road that lay between our school and home. Many a time, I’d drag her across the moment a gap appeared in the traffic. Sometimes, there came a sudden squeal of brakes, an impatient horn somewhere, and then my sister’s frightened sob as I pulled her up onto the sidewalk. This was rare, though my sister thinks differently now. We never argue about it much; we know we must never reach a point where we get too judgmental about our mother. Once we were safely over, my sister always looked up at me scared, even angry. That afternoon when Mother wasn’t around, I felt a deep satisfaction as I bent down to hiss: “Today, she isn’t there to listen to you. Complain all you want.” In those days long ago, when we never felt the heat of summer nor the sharp sting of winter, crossing a road never seemed a big danger, not to me, as a fifteen-year-old. Also, stories were easy to find, make up, and tell; and, in the pre-television days, stories seemed to be everywhere, especially where my mother was concerned. My mother’s lover was a pilot. He flew old planes at a secret air base where my mother first met him. At that time, we did not live in Delhi, but somewhere in the east of the country. The air base had come up during the time of India’s war with China in the early 1960s. Set up with American help, the air base was two hours from the sea and located in a dry part of the country. Tall eucalyptus trees girded one side, looking over the curved steel hangars that glinted like daggers in the afternoon. The soil’s red underlayer was clearly visible amidst clumps of dry grass. On quiet days, we could hear the airplanes from a long way off, watch them land like beetles before vanishing into the clump of trees. Our house was on the edge with the eucalyptus trees, the last in a row of houses that faced an empty expanse of drying grass and tall yellow weeds. The weeds and the tall grass against the yellow and blue sky gave a strange shimmer to things. Sometimes I had a sense of things subtly moving, perhaps swaying—the trees, the tall grass, even the pebbles on the narrow muddy lane seemed to skitter, jump, and move away. The airstrip, as I discovered when I took my sister out on my new bicycle, was a straight gray aisle of concrete that ran from the hangars at one end to the four-storied, white-walled administrative edifices on the other. The planes, after landing, would zoom to that end, turn around, and then decelerating ever so slowly, would glide toward the hangar, rocking and shaking as if shrugging off the long journey it had just made. I don’t know when I first noticed that look of longing on my mother’s face. Did she look a little too long at the landing planes, or was it that one plane that did a series of stunts in the air as it filled up the sky one late afternoon? Its loops, its zigzags through the billowing white clouds? My mother lifted a hand to her mouth as the plane rose and fell, and then she looked at us, the quickest of glances to see if we had noticed. But I was the only one who knew about the pilot and what he meant to her. When he first came to the airbase, the pilot made the customary formal call to my parents. He came with his wife and son. I heard them that first evening as I peered through the loose pink curtain that fell like a waterfall, wavy in its thick folds, separating the drawing room from the rest of the house. As children we could wrap ourselves in it and twirl in its folds, and the grown-ups never noticed. Still, I saw things I never should have. The pilot was a short, trim man, a high forehead with twin just-developing bald spots, and eyes that twinkled and had a unique shine to them. The glow on his face was clearly visible, for he never once looked away from my mother. His smile never faltered either. I was surprised no one noticed. This, and the way our mother began mysteriously vanishing some afternoons. For my sister, it wasn’t really a mystery, but I was then a teenager, more observant, more judgmental, and critical of my mother. When she said she had to go to the bigger town, an hour away, to get supplies for the women’s club or for some charity work, I knew she was planning to meet the pilot somewhere. At the small airbase, we didn’t have to worry about crossing a big road—that would happen a year or so later after our father’s transfer to Delhi—or that someone had to be there when we came home from school. A big school bus,
Something So Simple
Something So Simple by Wendy Fontaine When the Head Start teacher reported my daughter’s trouble with routine eye exams, I shook my head. My child, age three, could see just fine. Not only was she already reading, she could tell me the color of Mrs. Leclerc’s flowers hanging on the porch across the street. She could say the color of the car parked two houses down in Mr. Romano’s driveway. Little did I know, Angie couldn’t see those things at all. She’d simply memorized her surroundings during our afternoon walks around the neighborhood. At the teacher’s suggestion, I made an appointment with a pediatric optometrist who later diagnosed Angie with astigmatism and amblyopia. Her vision, he said, was 20/200, meaning she needed 20 yards to see what others could see at 200. Meaning she was legally blind. Her first pair of eyeglasses came from Sears. Purple, inscribed with the name Hannah Montana – her favorite TV character at the time. No bigger than a deck of playing cards, they cost two hundred dollars, none of it covered by medical insurance. I put the total on my credit card. I was a single mother at the time, and the amount was exactly one week’s pay from my part-time job as a secretary. When we got home from the store, Angie sat cross-legged on the living room floor, took off her new glasses, and broke them in half. She’d heard the sales lady at Sears say that when little kids don’t like their glasses, they break them. We went back to the store the next day and bought them again. Later on, when Angie learned how to swim, things got much more complicated. ** Swim goggles were invented in 14th century Persia, where divers used tortoise shells polished to near transparency to go searching for pearls. By the 18th century, they’d devised wooden goggles with deeper frames that trapped a layer of air to improve visibility underwater. However, those goggles only worked when the divers looked straight down. As soon as they turned their heads, the air escaped, filling their goggles with water and rendering them useless. They had no choice but to squeeze their eyes tight and float back to the surface. ** Seven years after the Hannah Montana glasses, Angie got her first pair of prescription swim goggles. Up until that point, she’d been taking lessons and getting by with the one-size-fits-all goggles sold in the lobby at the pool. But when she made the junior competition team, she needed something stronger to see better underwater. Contacts were not an option since the lenses can absorb pool water and trap bacteria against a swimmer’s eyes. One day after school, I drove to an optical shop downtown, where Angie picked from the owner’s catalogue. Tony sold a thousand kinds of glasses but only one kind of swim goggle. The singular choice came in the color of the frame: blue or green. Angie asked for blue. Because her prescription was severe, her goggles needed to be custom-made. Give ‘em two weeks, he said, then charged me four hundred dollars. ** In 1911, an Englishman named Thomas “Bill” Burgess donned a pair of motorcycle goggles to breaststroke across the English Channel, which he successfully did on his 16th attempt. The goggles were not waterproof, though they did protect his eyes from splashes during the swim, which he completed in twenty-two hours and thirty-five minutes. Fifteen years later, his protégé Gertrude Ederle did him one better by using paraffin to seal her motorcycle goggles and becoming the first woman to freestyle across the channel. She endured fourteen hours and thirty-four minutes of strong waves and jellyfish stings. The press called her “Queen of the Waves.” ** Sometimes at swim practice Angie’s coach writes instructions on a white board at the edge of the pool, which of course my daughter can’t see. Sometimes that coach observes Angie not doing what she’s supposed to be doing or talking to the swimmer in the next lane over and assumes she’s goofing around. Really, she’s asking her teammates what the whiteboard says. Sometimes the coach calls her out of the pool and makes her do extra pushups on the hot concrete deck. On those days, she comes home with aching shoulders and bleeding fingers. I email the coach about my daughter’s vision issues, but that whiteboard always returns. Angie does the pushups anyway, knowing they will only make her stronger. ** In 1940, Popular Science magazine printed detailed instructions for readers interested in making their own wooden goggles at home. “With a little care and patience,” the writer explained, “you can construct diving goggles exactly like those used by the spear fishermen of the South Seas and expert Hawaiian divers!” ** At a swim competition during the pandemic, when parents were not allowed on deck, Angie’s goggles broke at the start of a relay. She’d already climbed up onto the block and prepared to start her dive when suddenly the nosepiece snapped. The lenses split apart, and the goggles fell around her neck. In a flurry, she tossed them aside and dove in for her portion of the swim – the anchor leg of the 4×50 freestyle relay. She had no choice; her team was counting on her. She swam hard, goggle-less and blinded, her eyes exposed to the harsh chlorinated water. Still, her team took first place. Her eyes stung for the rest of the day, but her smile never wavered. ** The first pair of commercialized goggles, which came in only one style and one size, appeared in an advertisement in Slimming World magazine in 1968. Marketed as aids for swim training only, they were not considered for use in competitions. They were for workouts only – for observing strokes underwater and protecting the eyes from irritation. One year later, British inventor Tony Godfrey developed a goggle made of polycarbonate, a plastic known to be thin, lightweight and shatter resistant. Swimmers, including some Olympic hopefuls,