Anorexia

Anorexia by Claire Scott Bear with meI have been given muchbut received little steeped in refusalwhere blades of hungerkeep despair at bay concealing ringsof whorled memoriesmidnight hands insisting no mercy in my morning teanot noticing the warm rain floatingover fallow land not noticingthe piles of pineapples, of pearsof cheeses and chocolateson an empty plate Poetry Home Art by Lilith Smith

Palouse Hills, Near Pullman

Palouse Hills, Near Pullman by Jeffrey Gray Riding west on the bus from the dry land east of the mountains I knew I wouldn’t see you again for a year or more and out the window lay those hills two thousand years of silt blown down from the glaciers eroding pale buff but wintry I was seeing them for the first time and never would again never will with your death now so many years behind and no reason to go back to the cropped wheat or to your wish to be a meadow with that return cut off in your life’s own evening in those rooms in that town in that car and the death that you took— (though we say she took her life —) never leaves me not in the cells formed this morning nor those in the infant night where they foliate unsensed unseen. Poetry Home Art by Lilith Smith

Carp of Surprise

Carp Of Surprise by Kris Willcox When the nursing unit director calls to say that his father has died during the night, he is lifted without warning from coffee and newspaper into stinging, new air. She gives condolences and details: time of death (four, clocked by an aid), the hour the mortuary man will come (nine, unless later). While she speaks his mouth hangs open like—he can’t help it—a hooked fish. A student of his once wrote a story about a man who, after a shock, stood “gaping like a carp,” and whether it was the student (difficult) or the story (not bad) he’s never escaped the connection. It lives in him, a lipless Oh surfacing in moments of surprise. She asks if he wants to leave the body. What? Does he want his father’s body left in the room. He works his mouth, No. If the mortuary is coming, let him be moved. Good, she says, and he knows it’s the right answer. She hurries on: death certificate, lease, belongings. No need to respond now, she says, and he doesn’t.When they fished—he and his father—they dropped their catch on a line in the shallows, where the silver bodies twisted and flashed. Sir? His head swivels as if she’s caught him by the jaw. Yes, he’ll meet them at the mortuary. Return later for paperwork. She hangs up and he is released.He taps the steering wheel on the way to the mortuary, trying to recall where they camped those summers ago. And were they rainbows or browns? Mouthfuls of bones. He complimented his student on that image of the man-carp. Memorable! (Had he known). Down the road, the mortuary sign. Traffic sweeps him on. Mouth open, body slit. The stunned, wet contents fall away: his father’s voice, the student’s name. But that fish. That goddamned fish will live forever. Fiction Home Art by Bryan Price