The Sacred

by

Stephen Kavalin

 

 

The best thing about working on a Saturday was Sunday morning. The shift would be over; the carnival of Saturday would provide great stories for the “How was your shift?” conversation that would happen when I arrived home. Besides, on Sunday morning station duties were usually their lightest.

We had been asleep since about 4 AM when the call came in at around 7.  I was working ambulance at the time, about 6 months away from the bigs. Paramedic school was over and state boards in the can. Now I just had to take the county eligibility exam, get on the waiting list and well, wait. The dispatcher said 2 words into the phone, “Plane crash.” My partner Kim and I flew down the hall. We would get all the details on the radio once we got to the truck. Nervous thoughts went through our heads as we scrambled for the ambulance. Big plane, small plane, in a residential area? All questions were answered with the click of the mic. “Be enroute to an ultralight crash.” In a few minutes we found ourselves rolling to the western part of the county, an area comprised of pastures, dairies, horse country and the concomitant expanses of fields.

The crash site was in one of those fields and the dispatch mode was one you hear stories about from our rural colleagues. “Go to the dirt road, follow it to the other dirt road and follow the fence to the gate.”  Amped up over a plane crash, Kim and I were going a hundred miles an hour banging around like BB’s in a boxcar, while our truck chugged along at 60 or 70 mph.

The county EMS crew had arrived a few minutes before us and we could see their truck and the small crowd that had gathered. When we started to pull our stretcher, the medic on the scene signaled us to leave it and join them at the crash site. We made the walk over to the pile of twisted aluminum tubing and fabric with a prop and engine in the midst of the mess. Under the wreckage was the body of the pilot.

Here is where you can just dip into the fishbowl of tragedy and start pulling out the compounding circumstances, things that make you say, “Man, this really stinks.” Extenuating circumstance number 1: From talking with witnesses, it was determined that this was supposed to be the guy’s last training flight and he went up early before his instructor arrived. Number 2:  He was landing after a successful take off and flight and things went bad in this final phase. Number 3:  His wife was there and witnessed his crash. Number 4:  His wife was very pregnant.

The wife was being comforted and consoled by a group of friends about 50 yards away. The county medics had already declared the husband dead and the wife had asked if she could see the body. Prior to this, the group of friends had successfully shielded her from the wreckage and obscured any view she might have of the body. Boy oh boy, well of course she could see the body but what could we do to make this better for her? The tragic blow had been struck and now we had the opportunity to apply a degree of humanity to this small horror.

The modus operandi was that if no transport was needed, we would go back into service unless the medic on the scene did not release us. First problem solved: the medic asked us to stay on scene while things got sorted out. I am not sure exactly what category this incident fell into: a crime scene, something with federal jurisdiction or a simple tragic accident? We all talked about what to do next. Between law enforcement, county EMS and me and my partner, we came up with a plan. We spoke with the friend of the widow (how strange, a few minutes earlier she had been a wife) and told him to have her wait a few minutes and then she could see her husband.

Kim and I got the stretcher while the deputy and the medics moved some of the wreckage out of the way. There was not much to move; they finished in about a minute. We positioned our stretcher close and the six of us lifted him onto it. The patient was intact, mostly. Extremities were at grotesque angles but easily straightened. It appeared as if he died from the head injury. The helmet he was wearing was in 2 pieces, split ear to ear and barely still attached by the chin strap. We found out later it was borrowed and did not fit, as if that made a difference. Somebody removed it. As a group we loaded him into the ambulance, using our bodies to shield the view.

Looking back, I realize this was a moment that would help define me as I tapped into a part of myself I was previously unaware of. I had been on the ambulance, going to paramedic school and up until this point everything I learned and did was focused and directed towards rescue and lifesaving. If there was no rescuing to be done or patients to transport, we were out of there. This served several purposes. First, it put an ambulance back into service. Second, I realized it limited the amount of time we spent just looking at the carnage.

 

 

Our work dictates that we witness the most horrible and profane that the world has to offer. We race to it! When we arrive on the scene our minds switch from passive observing into active doing. We think and problem solve and focus those thoughts into actions. We take control. When nothing can be done and there is no action that needs to be implemented and no control imposed, then we are passive observers. Our brains have nothing else to do so we are forced to take it all in, unfiltered, raw. Usually our next action is to clear the scene, give up our front row seat, partake in some gallows humor and go eat lunch. Shields up, all ahead Mr. Sulu. But now there was no observe, assess, and leave. We were staying, not rescuing but helping.

The doors closed and there we were the 3 of us and the body. This caused me pause because this was the first time I was with a body/patient that I was not doing something for in an effort to save a life. Rescue it, if you please.

The overhead lights mixed with diffused sunlight created a serene scene for our silent dance to take place. None spoke; we all started doing what needed to be done. But for now, this was all new territory for me and I am pretty sure for most of us back there. Kim cracked open a saline bottle, wet some gauze and started to wipe the dead man’s face.

The medic who joined us made the body more anatomically correct so the wife would not see any gross deformity under the blanket. I tucked his arms and used clean sheets and blankets to place over him. The propeller had struck him in the back of the head, opening up a chasm that went from ear to ear. This made his head very unstable and was as close to a beheading as I had ever seen.

Kim finished wiping off the dirt and blood. I used rolled towels to support his head on either side, giving it stability in case his wife touched his cheek. I knew she would. My wife would have touched mine.

There was a silent ritual taking place. The 3 of us instinctively knew what to do. The silence was broken by me. I started  talking to this man; it seemed to be the right thing to do. I told him how his wife would be in to see him shortly and how sorry I was for him that this had happened. This was the first time I had ever spoken to a dead person. It was instinct. Looking back, maybe I wished he would answer me. 

We finished, the whole process taking only a few minutes. I realized I had tucked his hand. She would want to hold it. I unwrapped his left hand, the one with his wedding ring and brought it across his waist. My partner washed it and we all stepped back for a final check. We wanted to make sure there was no blood showing and anything that was normally inside the body was either still that way or well covered. Satisfied, we exited and asked the deputy to bring the wife over.

Her friends and support system escorted her to the back of the ambulance. We opened the door and assisted her up the step. My partner and I helped her get situated then left her alone to say good bye. After a short stay she exited, thanked us and was taken home. We waited for the coroner to arrive and transferred the patient to their body bag, cleaned our stretcher and left.

We were out of service for over an hour. By doing the right thing how many rules did we break in that hour? Probably more than I would ever know. What had we done, really?  We disrupted a crash scene, moved a body and tampered with said body. OK, I will give you that. But, what we really did was give a young wife (now widow) and expectant mother a few moments that we hoped would serve her as she rebuilt her life. We acted as humans, we broke a few rules and we cared for someone. We took care of the most important person there, the survivor, our real patient. The only solace we could provide on this Sunday morning was to filter some of the gross realities and provide the grieving woman a chance to say goodbye.

I sat at the feet of my mentors and learned my lessons. In moments like these I appreciated being low man on the totem pole. This allowed me to play dumb and do a whole lot of watching, listening and learning. I had a chance to witness professionals with much more experience than me problem solve and think critically. Modeled behavior. Golden. The decisions that morning were made by a committee of compassion. The entire scene from an official standpoint was driven by law enforcement.  What they said, pardon the pun, was law. We decided to do what was right, which should not be confused with what is correct. The correct decision would have been to clear the scene and let the other agencies handle the situation in their own official way. This could have meant that the grieving widow might not have had a chance to say her first good-byes there in the field. Instead, we did the right thing and by doing so tossed a blanket of humanity and compassion onto the flames of something terrible.

I still caught a hat full of grief from my boss for being out of service for so long. There are some things that get lost in translation so I did not even try to explain. What we had really done was something divine and sacred. We cared.

 

From caring comes courage.
Lao Tzu

 

Stephen Kavalin has been an EMT/Paramedic since 1980. He completed his undergraduate education in nursing at the University of Florida in 1992, and then became employed at Shands Hospital (Gainesville, FL) in the Cardiac Surgery Intensive Care Unit. During this time he also became the lead paramedic instructor and interim program director for EMS at Santa Fe Community College, Gainesville, FL. He later completed his Masters Degree in Anesthesiology at Barry University in Miami, FL and is currently employed as a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist (CRNA) at Winnie Palmer Hospital, Orlando, FL.

 

Rustic Wooden First Aid Sign courtesy Art.com

Pie

by

Kenan Bresnan

 

 

"Wasn't that the best darn pie you ever had?"

Now, I am not an expert in these matters, but when the cook utters that question, I am figuring that she is fishing for compliments. Were she not my wife Rita, I would have instantaneously compared it with a store-bought pie, the pie at the Farmers Shed Restaurant, the pie my mother used to make, the pie her mother used to make, the veritable buffet of pies that my sister creates for Thanksgiving each year, the killer pie that my daughter Erin made once and the great one that favored niece, Kristie, served one Christmas feast in Lincoln. But as this was my wife asking, I let the sparkplug in my head ignite the happy marriage burner and replied, "Why yes, it was."

Frankly, I think she had a lot of gall to presume her efforts of September 8, 2006 far surpassed any other pie I had consumed in my soon-to-be 59 years of existence. (I will eliminate the first six weeks of my life, prior to the age when the normal member of my family starts consuming solid foods.) 

Let me supply some background to this event. Rita had been going to the local farmer's markets on a regular basis and had been purchasing apples in quantity, which she promptly put in a tasteful container to adorn our kitchen table. Or in other words, she put them in a big bowl which was always in the way when I tried to read the paper at the table or when we tried to have dinner. Anyway, she kept justifying these expenses by saying she was going to bake me a pie. After we threw away five bowls of apples because they had become worm infested and had turned to a dull putrid brown color, she rose to the occasion. 

Last Sunday after church and her normal hour of reading the paper and consuming coffee while semi-upright on her couch, she did the deed. She made a mess from one end of the kitchen to the other. Flour became one with each piece of furniture in the kitchen. She got the pie made, baked it and then let it cool. While she was in the process of torturing those innocent apples with a sharp object, the phone rang with an invitation to Sunday dinner at some friends. Therefore, the pie was held for the next day. Now here is where I want to refer you to the original comment made by my wife, the defendant. It was, “I am going to bake you a pie." One would think from that comment that it was a pie for me. Nowhere did she say that she was going to bake a pie for "us." No, this whole endeavor was to be a culinary manifestation of her love for me. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, this was not what happened. Rita had a piece of pie for breakfast, one for lunch and then we each had one for dinner. This left two pieces. She got quite vehement about how that meant there was one for each of us and she would measure and do the cutting. She got out her desert micrometer and staked off the two remaining territories in pie land. If you have been following along, you will realize my wife, the giving cook, claimed over half the pie that was originally baked for me, the long-suffering husband. It just goes to show you, never trust any female member of my side or her side of the family on comments made pertaining to desserts as gifts for the male species.

Back to the other side of my brain. Did her pie surpass the ones my mother used to make? I should stop here and explain a truism about the word pie. When we just use the word pie in America, it automatically means an apple pie. So, all we are talking about here for the most part, is apple pie. My mother made a killer apple pie. In fact, I think that was the only type of pie she made. That is with the exception of the one time she made a rhubarb pie that literally tore our family apart. Somewhere she got rhubarb and a recipe, probably from a cookbook called "Hitler's Holiday Treats" that Dad found on a battlefield and brought home from the war. Now, we had never had rhubarb anything in our lives. We had it growing wild in our backyard weed garden and called it skunk food. 

 

 

So there we were at the table. Mother served us all a piece of this mysterious pie. Dad declined. It would have been better if she had never told us what type of pie she was serving up. Once she said rhubarb, you could see my six siblings grit their teeth and refuse to try it. This of course infuriated Dad who’d abstained and he started yelling at us to try it or suffer dire consequences. Shouting ensued. One by one, each of us, in tears, tried a bite and then ran from the table to the nearest facility to puke our guts out. 

Quite a memorable family event for all of us. At least that is what our therapists said. Where was I? Oh, Mom’s apple pie. Hers were more tent-like. She cooked them till the top crust was a little past golden brown. They were mouthwatering. Many times we had the choice of pie with ice cream. We were a good Boston Irish Catholic family and didn't know any of them fancy “la mode” french terms. Dad, who ate apple pie, always had his with three slices of sharp cheddar cheese on top. I enjoyed this approach to apple pie for a number of years, but the ice cream concept won out and I have left the cheddar cheese for before meal snacks.

Did Rita's pie surpass her mother's own creations? Now, here we had a master pie baker if there ever was one. It wasn't the insides that impressed you. Where she was the worlds' champion was with the crust. I watched her perform this process many times, and to this day cannot believe what I saw. She could make one crust or she could do six simultaneously. She could do this right handed, she could do this left handed, she could do it blindfolded and, most impressive, and she could do this while carrying on any type of conversation with any number of people.

She always seemed to be most relaxed talking to us while she was doing something in the kitchen. She would mix that dough in a flash, whip it out in balls on the counter, roll it out, and then put the bottom layer in each of the pie plates with one swift movement. She added the filling, whatever it might be, just like any normal human being, but then superwoman would return and she would whip the top layer of crust on, pick up an extremely sharp and dangerous knife and cut the excess dough of the pie pan in about .8 seconds.) The oven-ready pie(s) appeared in a flash, but that crust was her specialty, especially the ridges along the top edges. She would grab a fork, and press down with prong ends all around the edge of the pie. All would be identical in length and depth. It was amazing. And she did all of this while keeping up conversations with her girls about childbirth, turkey farming or the latest sermon from their not quite departed priest.

Did her pie surpass the pies that we buy at grocery stores or the local farmers market? I will concede right away that our favorite supermarket isn't in this league, but how about the Farmers Shed Restaurant that specialized in down-home farm cooking? Did Rita have the audacity to claim her pie was better than the professional farm wives that the Farmers Shed kept chained in their kitchen making apple pies? These are pies that Iowans travel miles and miles for.

Did her pie surpass the bonanza of pies that my sister Regina cooks every Thanksgiving? Regina's apple pie is the centerpiece of her pie tray consisting of apple, pumpkin, and usually three others. Regina's recipe follows my mother's recipe and is made from fresh southern Illinois apples, picked from the special trees that line her husband’s golf course as he is playing a quick nine holes. I digress here, but the Thanksgiving get together is the place where one of my oldest son’s former girlfriends taught us how to avoid decision angst about which type of pie to have for desert. She just took a small sliver from each pie and ate them as a collective assignment, not as individual courses. Smart girl, wherever she is. This is an apple pie for which my brother Mike flies in from California. Brother-in-law Bruce, the host of a cooking show that exists entirely in his own mind, has declared these pies as blue ribbon.

Did her pie surpass the apple pies her daughter Erin has made here in our family house? First, we know that Erin wins in the preparation department. All of the ingredients are purchased and lined up alphabetically before she starts. She does the mother-in-law’s recipe route and is trying to master the fork edging aspect. Her pies follow the recipe to the letter.

Did her pie surpass the one that niece Kristie made a few years ago when we went out to the land of the losers (wife’s family) for Christmas Dinner? That pie reminded me more of my mother’s than her grandmother’s, but it was scrumptious. I am convinced that Kristie has the undefinable pie gift like her Grandma, Regina and one Benedictine monk hidden away in a monastery in Uganda.

Did her pie surpass the Key Lime Pie our friend Dan likes to order when we are together and thoroughly enjoying each other at a coffee place after a movie? Does her pie surpass the pecan pie that his wife Joanie made for us one Christmas season?

Does she think her pie is better than the ones Simple Simon made that were so popular; his story is told to kids of all generations?

Does she think her pie trumps the one our generation drove a Chevy to the levy for? Thank God for that pie, as it turned out the levy wasn't there.

Does she think her pie is better than the American Pie that this next generation venerates in a gross and totally worthless movie of the same name?

Wow, that's a lot of questions. Do you really think I am going to answer them? Let me try. As I went through this thorough process I realized how in our situations, good family meets over good pie. There is no real pie in boarding high schools and no edible ones offered by college food services. It is at home that there is pie. Therefore, if my wife makes me a pie, it is the best that ever was.

And Remember: "It is the pie that binds."

 

Kenan Bresnan: I am a professional salesman with four grown children who enjoys writing stories. Originally my stories were inspired by my children growing up, but then they did and moved away.  Often my inspiration comes from my wife, but daily life always seems to present new ideas and concepts. My stories and poems have been published in various online and print publications.

 

Serious Pie courtesy Art.com

The Sweet By and By

by

John Townsend

 

 

A piece of twine ensnared the balloon on the fencepost, and miraculously it had not burst on the barbed wire. If it had, I never would've noticed the bright orange from the porch and curiously gone to investigate, nor would the letter bound to the same twine that had imprisoned it found its way to me. Providence. Fate.
 
I suspected the letter to be nothing more than a child's attempt at kindling a pen pal relationship, and I was partially right, though I underestimated the gravity of its contents and its one-sidedness. The exertion spent walking to the pasture to retrieve the balloon had taken its toll, and I had gone inside to pop an OxyContin, washing it back with a hefty glass of cheap Pinot Noir, and then nodding off, leaving the letter lying forgotten, inconsequential on the mantel.

Two weeks passed before I read the letter. Important things occurred in those two weeks. The first being, the cancer finally rendered me bedridden, and second, a lovely Hispanic hospice nurse began staying with me, catering to my every whim, genuinely eager to help in any way she could, not just going about her job as a duty, but understanding the delicacy of the situation, the finality of it. She read to me, and I loved the extra substance that her dialect added to the words, like peeking at the English language's true Form.

 

 

I asked my nurse to bring the wedding photo of me and Eustice, my late husband, from the mantel. In it, we were young and happy, eager to begin a family that we eventually learned my body wouldn't allow. The pain was getting to be too much, and I thought the picture would comfort me somehow, not wanting to rely too heavily on the morphine that drugged me into a stupor. I was afraid I was going to miss any potential epiphany death had to offer while on a medicinal sabbatical.

She brought the picture and the forgotten letter that I hadn't asked for. Providence. Fate using my nurse as a vehicle.

My name is Emily, and I'll be dead by the time you read this. It doesn't matter by what. I know I should try to find positive things to focus on, which is what Mama tells me to do, but I can't. I'm never going to go on a first date, go to prom, visit another country, know what it's like to be married and have kids, or millions of other things. This is so unfair. I'm whining, I know, but aren't I allowed? I hope this balloon carries my letter all the way to God. Anyone who would let this happen when they could stop it if they wanted is a monster. A goddamned monster.

The letter was signed and dated the month before, its bitter author presumably already gone on to the Sweet By and By.  

I hope I ascend right away, like in those cartoons inspired by Baptist theology. I want to comfort that poor girl, to be the mother I never got to be in life. I want to talk theistic philosophy with her, hold her tight, and lie to her, tell her that she didn't miss a thing.

 

 

John Townsend lives in rural north Georgia with his fiancée and dog where he writes and teaches; the first keeps him sane, and the second validates his humanity.

 

Girl Cupid in Balloon courtesy Art.com

Release

by

Tom Mahony

 

 

Water flooded over rock and shook the granite beneath my feet. I studied the rapid, a class-five monster. My heart pounded. Clients and fellow guides chatted, oblivious, beside the rafts.

I led this rafting trip. Everyone depended on me, assumed I’d find a route, scout for hazards, run the show. They blindly awaited my verdict, but shouldn’t.

I was scared shitless.

The canyon walls loomed above, the sky laced with cirrus. Stringers of pine and fir snaked through the Sierra Nevada granite. I both loved and hated this place, like an addiction I couldn’t shake. I had some weird knack for river guiding. Everything came easy, but I could never conquer the fear.

Quartz sloughed off the rock beneath my pacing feet. I shivered in my wetsuit. I wanted out of here, wanted my couch, a beer, the remote control. A voice nagged from deep down.

Run, coward, run.

 

 

Yes, yes. Scale the canyon walls and keep running—from this rapid, this responsibility, this life. That could work. Adventure didn’t suit me. I had the skill but not the stomach, the gift but not the guts.

I studied the ridge. I could reach it, drop into the next canyon, and never return. Easy.

Abruptly I turned and scrambled upslope, grabbing onto rocks and roots and branches, pulling myself away from the river. Higher. The talus tumbled around me.

Somebody called my name. I stopped and glanced back. Everyone was watching.

I just stood there, frozen. A distant red-tail screeched like some prehistoric heckler. I took a few hits of mountain air, crisp and sharp, ice in my lungs. My pulse slowed, head emptied.

And in that silence, a flash of clarity: I controlled almost nothing in this world. Never had, never would. I’d fought that truth far too long, like pushing water uphill. But no more.

A beautiful release.

The sun angled lower. Shadows grew long in the canyon. They called my name again. Time to go.

I eyed the ridge one last time, then donned the mask—that perfect front, that seamless lie—and headed down to the rafts. Nerves vanished to some hidden place. I cracked an involuntary smile. It would all be over soon.

One way or another.

 

 

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared or is forthcoming in Surfer Magazine, Flashquake, The Rose & Thorn, Pindeldyboz, In Posse Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Verbsap, 34th Parallel, Diddledog, The Scruffy Dog Review, Bartleby Snopes, Void Magazine, SFWP, Kurungabaa, Cantaraville, Camroc Press Review, Word Catalyst, The Flask Review, Foliate Oak, Decomp, The Oddville Press, Bewildering Stories, Long Story Short, Flash Forward, Six Sentences, and Laughter Loaf. He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Visit him at his website.

The Shadow of a Man Graces the Wall of Anasazi Canyon, Also Known as Mystery Canyon courtesy Art.com

Wake

by

Gale Acuff

The last time I saw my father he was
dead. He had nothing to say or I was
not hearing. I looked at him with his eyes
closed and his hands to his sides. He used to
sleep that way, but not in his best suit nor
favorite tie nor most highly polished belt
and shoes. He was a high school principal.
Now I'm in charge of his life out of life
–I say a few words at the eulogy.
There are many sad people listening
to us. I read from In Memoriam
–it seems like the thing to do at this time.

I figure that I might see him again
when I die, too. Of course people can't see
then but you know what I mean. I mean that
even though people won't see then they'll see
something because they'll be equal again.
They'll be not-seeing each other, a sort
of reverse-vision. Dad, it's great not to
see you again. And, Son, it's good to not
-see you, too. We'll shake hands we don't have, or
not-shake them. He'll have to take it from there
because I'll be his little man once more.
Perhaps it will be like visiting him
again. When he is eighty, I drive there

to his house in Knoxville, Tennessee, ring
the bell, and he comes to the door but he's
younger than I am. Or we're the same age,
that is, dead. You can't get much older than
dead. Or is it younger? Life is funny
–once you're dead you can get on forever.
No work, expenses, taxes, divorces,
traffic accidents, crime, drugs, arthritis,                                                                 
flatulence, hearing, hearing loss, dyspepsia, diabetes.
The list is endless. Listen to me–as
if I'm already gone and I know all.

He died on March 28. I flew in
and as the plane circled down for landing
I saw Spring flowers, the city like one
huge covered plot, me a falling
leaf. Three days later I jet home, blown
away from where I'd lighted. We used to
sow seeds together. And we grew flowers

near the fence on the east side of the yard.
People used to stop to photograph us
–our flowers, I mean. Out of the picture
but we were still there from root to petal,
nurturers nobody could see. Front page

of the local Shopper: there we don't stand.
That's not us right there–I don't have my hand
on his shoulder, and he's not leaning on
me. He's not wearing his porkpie hat and
I don't have on my Florida Marlins cap.
He's not dying of cancer and I don't
favor my right knee. He hasn't just drunk
a beer and I don't smoke a cigarette.
I don't give thumbs-up and his eyes aren't red.

Peach Tree

by

Alexandria Ashford

We named it Eliza. A name that
means my God is a vow
 
but only because it grew in your
back yard, crooked and narrow
 
as sugar cane. And quiet—
like hidden laughter that
 
does not want to be found. Now
I expect this tree to become
 
some version of you. That the leaflets
will grow greener, the peaches fleshed
 
like blushing virgin fronds.
I expect the wildness to subside,
 
the center to be pure.
Tell me what’s at the heart
 
of this tree that yields peaches
full of worms. What does this say
 
of you? The girl who slept in pansies,
ran free in fields of black-eyed susans.
 
That love made you fragile, timid,
and now only worms remain.

 

Scattered Seeds

by

kj

The deceitful summer tricks the trees, roots, and animals into momentary prosperity.
Later, leaves yellow, then leap from trees in a tumbling lamentation at green's going off.
Winter pales and shrouds the gladiolas from witnessing spring's demise.
Twilight mourns the bright, babe of morn with a black cloak.
Yet the moon remains hopeful, bearing a light in hopes of a Lazarus effect.
Curious stars come out to see what foolishness the moon reflects.
Lo, the sun lies on a catafalque below the horizon, a deceptive tomb.
Meteors streak about in desperation to lend luster to the commotion.
They too burn out. Then the stars, one by one, take their candles elsewhere.
Still the moon radiates faith in the day, that it might rise like a crane in the East.
None understand this steadfast paraclete making only a muted, creamy stain in the dark.
A celestial body might stave off pending doom, but it knows the folly of fending off the gloom.
The shining adherent of the life in the skies begins to lose faith in its effort slowly.
Its luminescent desire waxes, wanes, waxes, wanes, waxes and wanes again
until it grows weary and ashamed of the time it sacrificed to resurrect the day.
A feeling of failure mars its venture out and it becomes a crestfallen crescent.
Soon the time will pass when it looks out over the soil and ducks forever into the
blackness as a tired recluse might after opening a door to sip the outside air.
With the moon hidden in the depths of the grim shroud, night falls.
On the following day the sun will not show.
Clouds will come to cry
for somehow they are
sure that the leaves
will fall whether seasons
are in transit or not
and so it rains on the
lawn of a woman's
house where she lies
dead on her couch.
Her husband will come
home with no leaves to rake
from the rain gutter because
the clouds will obscure
nature's evidence of
the season's passing
because death has
nothing to show to
him except the
unnatural and eerie
sensation a person
gets when seeing
a female body so far from
its natural element
dead in a living room.

The next day he will rake leaves that have been blown about the trees while
he thinks of the way his wife's ashes scattered like so many seeds dripping
from a gardener's hand. May the sun not char them.

Butterfly Weed

by

Bob Bradshaw

The petunias flaunt their purple dresses
and petticoats like can-can girls.
The geraniums on the fire escape
lean out with their bright faces
like children along a parade route.
Everywhere I am welcomed
with festive oranges and yellows.
The perfumed ladies in lavender
forgive my mistakes at the office.
They are as forgiving as children
on birthdays. Old sins
are not logged. There is no memory
of lost annuals, or plants dug out
with leaf mould. Every day I bring
long drinks of water to this garden.
Like the butterfly weed, I long to live
only for the moment, my days
diaries of water and sun.

 

Bob Bradshaw is a programmer living in California. He dreams of retiring and living in a hammock. Previous work of his can be found at Stirring, Mississippi Review, Eclectica, and Pedestal Magazine, among other places.

Coins

by

Gerald Gordinier

It's hard to know anything
until we find god. Some god.

And so I said let there be Emily
and it was good, until I turned

and the people were all salt
and I was the pillar.

You stare up sometimes
and the sky is so blue

even your eyes
can seep into the clouds.

The people there were coins
spinning around on their edges,

but coins are meant to be flipped
and land solidly up or down,

to be spent. That's you and I, Emily,
up and down, heads or tails, out of breath,

something more visceral,
not balancing so much as

falling until you land
one way or the other.

*

Sometimes I think about God
and probability, a promise

of an anteroom for humanists
up in heaven: I'm not up waiting,

but other people's problems
are always more romantic.

The coins on our eyes
are one-way tickets,

placed so even the sky
is hidden upon arrival.

I'll be a parachute
that fails to open.

You'll be a cloud with a tail
that looks like Babel.

 

Nickel and Dime

by

Lana M. Wiggins

If I had a nickel for the men
who loved me
I’d have a nickel instead of this
sapphire reminder of tea rooms
broken glass
small bank
and big ass
poets who came and left
me for dead
contorted and congealed
inside the self I created so meticulously
simply for his sake

If I had a wish for the men
I loved
I would wish she left you
instead of embracing your suburbia
in such fashionable grace
dumping her autonomy into your loaded lap
like a rock pressured into a glass slipper
then you would know the agony
of 13 year old fractures
that do not love you

If I had a dime for the thoughts
of you and the dialogue
in poems and others
I’d still be broke
but I’d understand the beauty of obscurity
and no one listening