‘Leaving Crawford’

Dylan Hoover (he/him) is a fiction writer from Erie, PA. He graduated in 2023 from Allegheny College, where he earned a BA in English and Creative Writing. During the heart of the pandemic, he studied abroad at Lancaster University in England. There, he unearthed interests in British culture, as well as a passion to write historical fiction. Dylan’s fiction has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, and his forthcoming photography in Great Lakes Review. He currently is a second-year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. Instagram: dylhoov96

Leaving Crawford  

Megyn Griffin relished her early mornings at the front desk before guests wandered in for breakfast. She could gaze out toward the rolling hills and await the rumble and horn blats from the first train of the day. Many more followed, masked by traffic noise, but the first brought everything back into focus: another morning in Crawford, Arizona. Situated just off I-40, it sat  near Williams. That little city had dubbed themselves the “Gateway to the Grand Canyon,” their old-fashioned downtown bustling with tourists. 

Crawford, on the other hand, was the “Gateway to the Gateway.” Smaller by half, it relied on visitors who preferred lower rates and less kitsch, and the dazed interstate drivers who could not endure another highway mile without rest.

Coffee vapors steamed up around her face as Megyn studied a science book, aware that she was eighteen and a year behind on college plans. The delay? Her mother needed help to run the Mountain View Motel. 

A stern biker deposited his metal sand bucket ashtray by the office's desk. “See you next trip, young lady.” He headed for the raven-haired woman waiting on the back of his Harley.

Megyn was a young lady in Crawford. Maybe seventy teenagers, several dozen folks in their thirties or forties, and the majority of the population ranging from age sixty to death. 

She mouthed pleasantries to the guests checking-out, consciously skipping the free continental breakfast of spotted bananas, Wonder Bread with butter pads, and sweaty gray sausages lounging in a metal serving tray. 

Their utility guy came inside to stamp his feet. Still chilly in early April, dirty crusted snow on sidewalks, while larger pristine patches flecked green mountains in the distance. 

“Hey, Meg.” The steam of his outdoor breath dissipated in the heated interior. Brandon Carter was twenty, handsome, and a complete fool. Megyn had known him most of her life. Attended school together, made-out once three years ago, but she'd moved on. Megyn planned to go to college, then become a teacher or a nurse in a big city, while Brandon held delusions of Hollywood stardom.

Due to the scarcity of others in their age range, and since both were considered attractive, every Crawford adult had asked, “When are you two kids going to get together?” The gossip-starved neighbors were desperate to live vicariously through them. Megyn shrugged it off and only Brandon's continued eagerness bothered her.

“Thought about my proposal?” He yanked at his jacket, shaking off the cold.

Megyn laughed. “You were joking, right?” She slapped the guest book shut. Despite a computer in the back, they still signed travelers in by hand. “I'm too young.”

“I meant engagement for a year or two first.”

“Not getting married until I'm thirty, or near.”

Brandon lifted his baseball cap off then pressed it back on in frustration. “But it looks good on paper. Everyone says I'm the hottest guy in town, and when your braces are off, you'll be maybe the sweetest girl around.” His face soured when she laughed. “Why didn't you get your teeth fixed before?”

“They got really crooked at sixteen.” She eyed him. “What's your big rush anyway?”

“When I make it in Hollywood, I should have a wife. To seem regular to the public.”

“Seriously?” She snorted. “The answer is no.” Megyn switched to business mode. “There's a toilet clog in unit seven.”

He kicked a cowboy boot against the base of the office desk in frustration.

“Dude, please chill.” Megyn went to wipe down tables in the cramped dining area. “Anyways, everyone knows you're seeing the hag.”

“Don't call her that,” Brandon said. “Wendy Haggerty, and she's only fifty.”

Megyn didn't reply since fifty hit folks harder in the southwest. The spring winds, dust storms, and sunny, dry-ass climate were brutal. Another reason she planned to bail. People needed moisture, to sweat, have oil in their pores, or they'd wither and wrinkle away. Cigarette smoking didn't help Crawford residents look young either. So, a small population of baby-faced youths existed amongst grizzled elders with tales of the good old factory days. Megyn knew nothing of the factory, beyond that its demise had left a wake of bitter, desolate souls forever mumbling about it. Crawford was a ghost town in the making, haunted by humans in denial of the end being in plain sight.

“I'd drop Wendy the minute you agree.” Brandon waited for her reaction. “I was planning to end things soon anyways.”

Megyn turned from cleaning. “As if you're calling the shots.”

He grabbed the toilet plunger from behind the desk. “When you see my face on that billboard west of town, you'll be sorry.” Brandon slammed the office door behind him.

Megyn collected the departing guests' key cards. She was viewing colleges in Colorado on her laptop when the door bells jingled.

“Is it noon already, Mom?”

“Call me Candy,” her mother said. “I might be near fifty but I plan to remarry. Best not to reveal attachments right off.”

“Wow, I'm an attachment now.” Megyn gazed up from her screen. “You'd have to move to Flagstaff to meet anyone decent.” Her father died seven years ago at age forty-eight. Possibly cancer from working at the chemical plant in Joseph City. Candy wouldn't talk about it. The settlement paid off the motel, and that closed the book for her.

“There's eligible men around.” Candy sighed. “I'd just need to lose twenty pounds, get my hair done,” she stared outside, “and drive over to Ash Fork for weekly facials.” She shuddered. “I look older than my age.”

“No you don't, Candy.” Megyn hugged her mother, who often needed reassurance. “And stay away from Vern's Beauty Salon. She does permanent makeup stuff and gives brutal acid skin peels she isn't trained for.”

“Vern told me she has a cosmeceutical license.”

“Bet I can print you one of them from the internet right now.” She gathered her laptop, coffee mug, and books. Her mother worked noon to seven, then Megyn spelled her until the front desk closed at ten p.m. On Sundays and Mondays, her high school friend Skyler stepped-in so Megyn could have two days off.  

Not in a rush to do anything, Megyn slumped on the iron furniture set on the office's porch. The sun shone and it felt near sixty, but she kept her lined blue jean jacket fastened. High in the pine-covered mountains, they got some water from the snowmelt. It might hit 90 in the summer, but never the 110 degree hell of the arid plains and desert surrounding Phoenix.

When the familiar sputter and hum of a vintage Ford F-1 pickup approached, she didn't have to look up.

“Hey, young lady. Need a ride? Not that there's anywhere to go in this godforsaken shithole.”

Cole Jepson, the only local that Megyn admired. Tragic, him being fifty-six, but she'd adopted him as her uncle. His hair a wild tangle, thick and graying, with a gritty beard sprouting on his chin. He looked pummeled by life, but had once been something. Blue eyes still clear and boyish despite the weathered face. The fact that his book of poetry was published by a New York publisher in his thirties was what impressed Megyn. Crawford didn't have celebrities, but he was a notable person. Educated. Spoke in clear sentences. 

“Sure.” She hopped in. “Take me to the DQ.” Across the railroad tracks lay the derelict east side of town. Mostly shuttered businesses and tumble-down homes. Leftover reminders of  Crawford's past.

They reached the Dairy Queen's deserted lot and Cole parked. Megyn stared at the hollow structure, the frame and insignia still there. She could close her eyes and imagine the ice cream flavors, being driven over by her mother when she was younger. “It's so weird,” she said, “to feel nostalgia when you're still a teen.”

Cole laughed, pushing a mess of hair back from his brow. “Never cared for it myself.” He squinted toward a barren, weedy patch of land with a damaged screen rising above it. “I do miss the drive-in though. That was a blast, back in the day.”

“I barely remember it. Closed when I was ten, I think.”

“But you've been since then...”

The abandoned parking lot served as a make-out spot for high school kids. “Well, maybe once or twice.”

“Who can blame you?” He rustled around in his seat. “Hope you're still—”

“Leaving Crawford? Hell, yes,” she said. “Waiting on three colleges. They send acceptances soon.” Megyn noticed Cole's mouth twitch like he knew what she was about to ask.

“Why did you come back? I mean, New York City. You were published, gave readings, could have been a poetry teacher at Columbia or some liberal arts college.” She gazed at him. “It kills me being here, and I'm not even nineteen.”

“New York scared me,” Cole replied. “I couldn't take it.”

“You? You're not scared of anything.” She shook her head. “I saw you bounce that mean drifter who wouldn't leave the Mountain View.” She tapped his hand. “And when a steer got loose on Main Street. Who cleared it off? Not our useless sheriff.”

“That's different.” Cole played with an unlit cigarette. “I can deal with things, one on one. New York is filled with people, buildings, streets, cars and buses, voices crying out. Pent-up emotions and frustrations and violence coming from everywhere.” He raised his fists like a boxer. “I couldn't fight it. Sapped my energy.” His head bowed. “Guess I'm a coward.”

Megyn punched his shoulder hard. “You are not. Go write some new poems. I read your first book all the time. You have talent. Just need to get out of Crawford.”

He coughed. “Nah, I'm a blown gasket.”

“I am not listening.” She cranked open the passenger door and jumped out. “I'm walking home from here.”

“Hey, wait.” He puttered the old Ford along beside her.

Megyn put on headphones and blasted the music. She waved Cole on ahead by the hulking closed factory. It once made wire hangars and metal hooks and nothing that made any sense to a teenager in the 21st century. 

Brandon finished his duties by two p.m. Hammered window screens back into place, plunged two toilets, and added touch-up paint outside the motel units. Left him four hours to kill. 

The Mountain View had created two-room suites in the smaller side of the L-shaped building. More expensive but they'd become popular. At six, Brandon served drinks in the outdoor patio area until seven-thirty. Possibly illegal, but the local police chose not to interfere. Candy was trying to bring tourists into town, who would stay at motels, buy food at restaurants, overpriced gas, and be given parking and speeding tickets. It would be anti-business, against Crawford's survival to enforce the letter of the law. Brandon claimed to be twenty-one so he could bartend.

A Los Angeles film producer was staying in a suite, with two female assistants in the adjoining one. Yesterday, Simon Maybank told Brandon he had natural good looks and vaguely resembled a young Tom Cruise when he smiled. Simon wanted to talk more tonight after he returned from scouting film locations.

Brandon pressed Wendy Haggerty's number.

“You done for the day, slugger?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He never knew what to say to her. “What's going on?”

Wendy laughed with a whiskey rasp. “Nothing. Be at the semi-trailer in thirty.”

“Do we have to meet there?”

“We can't go to your parents' place, and Gil's around here,” she said. “He might not walk anymore, but his hearing is good.”

“Yeah, okay, I just thought—”

“We have to be discreet.”

“Everybody in town knows, Wendy.”

“See you soon.”

At seventy-one, Gil Haggerty had suffered two strokes in the last years. The second requiring a wheelchair and an attendant to bathe him. Gil's wealth allowed his purchase of acreage on the north side of the interstate a decade ago. His initial plans to raise crops or keep livestock failed, due to the hilly terrain with dramatic rises and falls. Not good for planting, while cattle preferred to graze on level grassy fields. 

Halfway up the highest rise of his property on the western border of Crawford sat a semi-trailer. The cargo compartment from an 18-wheeler Gil owned. Across its metallic flank, painted in seven foot letters was: TRUMP 2024. It had been propped there since it first read 2020. In whatever direction one traveled on the interstate, this mammoth container and its message were clearly visible. 

Brandon drove his Toyota pickup along the winding tread that dead-ended behind the semi-trailer. He wet his dark hair back with bottled water, then knocked on the loading doors.

“It's open,” Wendy yelled.

Inside, lay a queen-sized mattress. A dim battery-powered lamp glowed while a boombox played maybe Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey. Brandon didn't know old pop music. Wendy was propped on an elbow in her underwear. She drank Jack Daniels from the bottle. “Let's get going.” 

Brandon stripped. Wendy Haggerty possessed a stunning figure, something out of 1950s films, curves jutting in every direction. Her body was legendary in town, provoking gasps and stares of wonder—even from young children. However, something happened to her face. The baby fat had drained away, highlighting her father's wide flat nose and her mother's lantern jaw. Now, her eyes appeared sunken into their sockets, and they showed a combination of rage and fear, as if aware they were sinking.

Brandon kneeled onto the mattress edge. “Feel like talking first?”

Her face reddened. “Do locals call me... the hag?”

“Nobody says that, not around me.” Just a white lie this time. Brandon reached a hand out to caress her.

“Don't!” She rolled over. “Okay, let's get going.”

Brandon had been confused. Sure, he liked women, and planned to marry a normal pretty one, soon as Megyn agreed. But lately, he'd been watching cowboy movies on TCM while he worked. He wanted to know those rugged, lanky men, ride horses with them, share a bunkhouse. At present, he could stare at Wendy's shoulder blades and abstract it. He closed his eyes, imagining crisp blue jeans and shiny leather saddles. 

“That's it?” Wendy craned her neck sideways. “Well, save the rest for your little girlfriend down at the Mountain View.”

Brandon dressed quickly. “She's not my—”

“I don't care.” Wendy covered herself with a sheet. 

Brandon wandered out to the Toyota, blinded by the sudden blast of afternoon sunlight. The peak of his life; he deserved better.

Arriving at the Mountain View just before six, he put on a clean white shirt, a bolo tie, and a dark server's vest. Then he mixed drinks on the terrace fronting the motel's deluxe units. 

The producer, Simon Maybank, entertained two older German couples on outdoor furniture padded with pillows. When the couples trekked off to Crawford's center for dinner, Simon beckoned Brandon over.

“Foreign investors,” he whispered. “I'm always raising money. You know, films aren't cheap.” Simon signaled his assistants and they retreated into their suite.

“So you're a producer?” Brandon sat at the edge of his seat, chest jutting forward.

“Producer, director, location scout.” Simon studied Brandon while finishing a Vodka Collins. “And what's your plan?”

Brandon coughed. “I want to star in a franchise, like Harrison Ford did with Indiana Jones.”

“Really? Who would your character be?”

Brandon flashed his dazzling smile. “Zack Bone, a gym coach by day, but after PE class, I put on a cowboy hat and become... Eldorado Bones.” He glanced over for affirmation.

Simon winced, head tilted slightly. “You did go to high school and maybe Crawfish College, right?”

“I'm just twenty-one, but I graduated Ash Fork High last year, in the top 100% of my class.”

Simon grinned. “It's getting dark. Why don't you clean up the bar then we'll talk in my room.” He refilled his drink and vanished within.

Brandon rolled the bar cart on wheels across the main street, setting it back into the motel office. Megyn looked up from her studies and stifled a laugh at his outfit.

“I'm onto something,” he said. “Listen, can we meet tomorrow?”

“Not another proposal.” She rolled her eyes.

“No, just to hang out. Remember years ago, we'd watch the trains go by at sunset?”

“When you got me high and tried to—”

“No.” He sighed. “I just wanted to talk like we used to do.”

Megyn flattened her book open on the counter. “Sure, okay. Nothing else going on.”

Outside, Brandon primped in his Toyota's rearview mirror before knocking on Simon's suite.

“Come in.” The producer reclined on his king bed, barefoot and wearing a silk bathrobe. “Make yourself comfortable.” Four candles burned in the dimly lit room.

Brandon perched on a chair, keeping his chin thrust out, as he'd practiced.  

“So this is how Hollywood works,” Simon said. “You do extra parts, non-speaking, then you get a line, maybe two. If you move right and speak well, you could get a character role for some screen time.” He paused. “With adventure scripts, the way in is as a stunt man. If you can survive flaming car crashes without sustaining heavy bodily damage, then you're a shoo-in for an action movie.”

“I couldn't find any of your films on Google.”

“Ever heard of Fast and Furious?”

“You produced those movies?”

“No, Slick and Serious, the knock-off series. Huge in Taiwan and Jakarta.” Simon tugged at an earlobe. “Anyway, someone has to put in a good word for you. You do something for them and they help you out in return, right?”

“Yeah, I guess...” 

“For instance, I could use a back massage.” Simon untied his bathrobe.

Brandon turned away. He'd played sports and showered with the team, but never seen a man so pink and hairless—it confused him. Maybe Brandon just liked cowboys.

“What's the matter?”

Brandon shuffled toward the door. “I need to consider things.”

“My card is on the table. Call me, but only when you're ready.”

Megyn finished her shift all tangled-up. She had wanted to ask Cole to go sit atop the water tower at dusk and watch the first stars appear in the night sky. Cole had never acted weird with her since she turned eighteen, but what if he did? How would she gently say no without ruining their friendship? And what if she felt cold after sunset and leaned on him, giving him a signal. She was mixed-up and needed affection, or at least understanding in a decaying, lonely town. Cole might go along if she started something and that would be awful. Or he might fend her off and then she'd feel mortally insulted. Or worse, they might just sit there. So she couldn't ask him to join her, and yet there was no one else to ask. Skyler would only tag along if a beer or weed was involved. She didn't understand starlight, poetry, or anything important.

The door bells jingled at noon when Megyn expected her mother.

Instead, Cole stood there grinning. “Thought we could drive over to Ash Fork, get you lunch, and well, breakfast for me.”

She moved her mouth around her braces. “I'm real busy with college stuff.” She couldn't make eye contact. “Maybe it's best to skip our adventures this spring. Distracts me from studying.” Megyn gazed up. Cole had already turned away, but she could tell by his sagging posture she'd hurt his feelings.

The pickup truck's engine faded to the west, and she wiped away tears when Candy came to spell her.

“What's wrong, darling?” Candy embraced her. “Did Brandon Carter insult you? I will slap some ugly into that dumb-ass pretty boy.”

“No.” Megyn sniffled. “What if I get stuck here forever?” She didn't mention the rejection that came in the morning mail.

“You're almost nineteen and those three colleges will be fighting over you.”

Megyn slept the whole afternoon then took a sick day the following morning. Imposed a 24-hour delay on Brandon's “let's hang out” plan, because who cared when they met? Every day felt the same in Crawford. A total bummer.

Just before six when Brandon was due, she ran west to the Grand Canyon Tavern. Make things right. The vintage Ford sat parked just outside. Underage for a bar, she tapped on the frosted window of the historic tavern until she got Cole's attention.

He shuffled out, expression stern. “Never interrupt a man mid-beverage.”

“Just wanted to talk for a sec.”

“I brought something for you inside my truck.”

Megyn slid into the passenger seat.

“Wrote this poem last night.” He reached over her to the glove compartment. “Printed it out and everything.”

She tucked the folded paper into her pants' back pocket. “Write ten more.” 

“Jesus. Tough lady.”

Megyn set the door ajar, preparing to dash. “You know Skyler?”

“Of course. She's, what do they call it, your bestie, your BFF?”

“Nope. She's my girl, my pal.” Megyn paused. “You're my bestie.”

Cole seemed startled, then frowned. “Buzz Skagmeyer might not like that.” He glanced toward the bar's window. “We been drinking together since long before you came around.”

Megyn gave him the finger, smiling. Then she thumped the top of the pickup goodbye and went skipping back toward the Mountain View.

Brandon's Toyota waited by the motel units. The film people had checked-out, so no bar set-up outdoors. “Don't you look all happy,” he said. “I thought you were sick yesterday. What, did Aunt Flo visit?” He laughed—alone.

“Let's go.” She jumped in and turned on the radio. “Just so you know, we're not fooling around or nothing tonight.”

“Jesus, you think I've got a one-crack mind? Hey, truce, okay?”

“Sure.” 

Brandon parked near the strip of woods that bordered the railroad tracks. Trains ran hourly, except for a flurry between six and eight. He spread a blanket and unwrapped a tuna fish sandwich, then offered her half. He'd brought beers, but Megyn just wanted sips from his. The ground shook when a westbound cargo train rumbled by.

“We'll be better-off if McDonald's comes,” he said. “Maybe an IHOP too. Then a train station to bring more tourists here from the Grand Canyon.”

“We're twelve miles from Williams. They can't have stops in every little town.” Brandon's bottle rim tasted of tuna but she didn't care. Made it feel like camping out, roughing it. “Anyway, you're going to Hollywood. Did that producer—”

“He gave me his card.” Brandon stared away. “It's a weird world. But if I became a star, I'd come back to Crawford.”

“Why?”

“To show everyone who thought I was a stupid loser that they were wrong.”

“You want to be a movie star just for spite, to get back at people?”

“Yeah, of course.” He swigged his beer. “But I'd buy land here too. Make improvements.”

“A trailer-bed on every hillside?”

“Jesus. I'm trying to be for real tonight.”

Megyn punched his arm softly. “You are.” She finished eating.

Another horn sounded as an eastbound train approached. This one came slow, a jangle of ratcheting freight cars, the squeal of brakes. They watched it stagger along, passing them gradually. The line of boxy containers were rusty, discolored, graffiti-marked, and ugly as hell, but in that moment, the most beautiful thing Megyn had ever seen. She counted twenty cars. “I could walk along and keep up.” And she did just that.

“Hey, where you going?” Brandon trailed behind her. 

Megyn jogged faster then jumped up on the edge of an empty freight wagon. So easy, so fun!

“Get off there,” Brandon shouted. “What about us?” His words were soon drowned out by the rattle and locomotion. Leaving a stick figure waving his arms.

The train accelerated through the pine tree dusk until she couldn't see him anymore. The clanking give-and-take of section couplings and metal wheel tremble overwhelmed everything else. As the dazzle of starlight showed overhead, she felt euphoric, totally high. Three-hundred bucks lay scrunched in her purse. Not enough for anything of consequence, but whether practice or a dress rehearsal for her eventual escape, she'd ride it through to Flagstaff. A few days there to clear her head. Unfolding Cole's poem, Megyn squinted in the dying light. Just seventeen words. 

Leaving Crawford: 

Right away, damn it. Sooner.

Don't you ever come back! (Like I did...)

Not never.

End

Max Talley was born in New York City and lives in Southern California. His writing has appeared in Vol.1 Brooklyn, Atticus Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, Litro, and The Saturday Evening Post. Talley's collection, My Secret Place, was published in 2022 and When The Night Breathes Electric, debuted from Borda Books in 2023. "Leaving Crawford" will be featured in Talley's story collection, Destroy Me Gently, Please coming from Serving House Books in June 2025.

‘The Sun’, ‘Residential News’, ‘Treat Me like An Animal’ & ‘Chichén Itzá’

Mary-Evelyn Casey was born in Cleveland, Ohio and then at three months old adopted by an older couple and moved to live there with them in Youngstown, Ohio. She was later on at three years old moved out to Farmdale, Ohio where she lived on 50 acres of land until she was 18 years old. Mary-Evelyn was one of the very few African American children in her school growing up and faced many challenges as a young child centered around race and equality. Mary-Evelyn was not only one of the only blacks in her town but one of the tallest. Mary Evelyn was raised with strong Christian faith believing that Jesus Christ is our lord and savior, regularly attending church and Bible study in Youngstown Ohio, at Tabernacle Baptist Church.

The Sun

for John Lee Hooker

Today the Sun pulled up and parked right above my head

It’s so hot my scalp is shifting like a beach

I didn’t sit there I moved away

But the sun it’s been following me wasting gas starting and parking and starting

I picked up a umbrella magnolia leaf and set it on top of me

The sun burned it away

I had to get back to work even my head boiling all over, sweaty day

But it should be night now and it’s so bright 

It’s good for grilling though isn’t it, I can roast peanuts when I pepper them on my head,

I’ll cover my head in honey, rosemary, peanuts, and sell them in little paper funnels

But why’s it following right above me? can’t always be noon, 

I’m getting tired but the shadows are all gone, 

I closed my eyes felt like a shower, I’m gonna stay under the water and sleep here

Sometimes there’s these little floating shapes when my eyes are closed, 

A figure shaking back and forth in the pool, or a translucent tiny organism, or some particle 

under my eyelid 

II

It hasn’t left this morning, I’m soft boiling like an egg, 

Traffic was jammed on the highway, but the cars parted for me

Sun like a crown blinded them all

Had my little searing Moses moment, wasn’t so bad

I let it sit on my head a bit, less wasteful to carpool

III

It's not hot

I can see its outline, I’m used to its weight on my head, 

Not so scary when it isn’t so far in the cosmos

Its been a few days now perched like a look out, spotted a pretty flower the other day that 

smelled like basil, spotted a nimbus and we were able to get under roof in time, never 

saw the sun in the rain like that before, beaming up despite the grey of it, and that cloud was so warm it was like two rivals coming to terms, maybe falling in love, it was nice to watch

IV

Raise my hands to it sometimes, it doesn’t burn me

It flares out and my fingers feel warm,

Strange to see this giant so small now that it’s shown me the other stars

Sitting on my shoulder, sleeps there sometimes

Residential News

In the news a picture of my childhood friend arrested for domestic terrorism.

In other news I’m getting get shipped off to Boston.

Pizza with thick cheese that slides right off and leaves the crust behind (I don’t have to go to Boston if I eat the pizza).

“You know, speakeasies spread beyond prohibition. These days cool kids camp out in bars or hidden in the forest. They cook up crackpot cocktails to defend a couple trees; goes to show how dangerous it is to be bored”

An old man in prison trades his medication for a breath of fresh death. What do domestic terrorists trade for?

On tv, my friend gave his story for free with his arms behind his back. i ate pretzels as i watched. two forms of revolution.

Treat Me like An Animal

In the wild, when you love something you cut it 

loose before you’re tempted to give it any of your 

heat. Please let me give you my heat.

It hurts that you’re holding me like wolves in the winter

when you know already we won’t survive till 

spring. It’s the first time you’re touching me as 

a woman and I don’t want it to be the last so I 

open myself for you and you put a gentle hand 

to my cheek as if to say you’re going to give me what I 

want but I should know that what we hold delicately

between our canines can’t help but burst, and 

when it does, our mouths will fill with heat. 

Chichén Itzá 

From the top of the pyramid I can whisper in a high voice how I’m jealous of the Mama’s pulse, backwards beating pulse, but God, that tone-deaf imbecile, will just answer thunderbird-style, and the twitter will echo in the self-encased monument like a prisoner pounding against the walls. Despite the phase of the moon, Mama pretends we haven’t aged a day, like we’re not standing on a calendar. I finish licking corn oil off my fingers, the liquid clings to my mouth and I can’t taste anything but the buttered starch that coats my unmineable corn teeth. I only realise after I’ve already slipped my hand in Mama’s that she’s probably freaking out about germs, but she doesn’t pull away, and I understand: A runaway daughter, I’ll be desperate to keep my own daughter close. I mourn my mom with a renewed faith in an ear of maize, one who doesn’t have to be forgiven.

Camille Moreau

‘July’, ‘August’, ‘Extended Summer’ & ‘Lovers’

Jules Brassard: His artistic approach is a world of spontaneity and reality. Primarily focused on street and event photography, humans remain his main subject. He likes to convey emotions through his photographs, to convey moments of sharing, laughter, joy, sorrow... all these emotions that make us all human. These spontaneous moments where we reveal ourselves to others without a mask, without a filter.

<july>

i remind myself magic is realer than evil

but this is impossible to prove

so we comfort our cages + bellies

with laughter or seasonally decorated

blankets

get cozy my lover,

i whisper to the hair clumps on my shoulder

growing despite the burning cream

my healing lower back scratches protest

dancing under hot water 

to open the wound

grinding absence of bone on uncovered shin

bitten by every angry fly

close enough to smell my meat

the goats + i influence each other

tails wagging against greenery

guilt is familial 

(the concept of comfort)

worn tightly around the index finger

or wrapped elegantly in a modern knot

at the throat

i let you bleed the sad out of me

watch as u suck the bitter into ur mouth

contorting ur body to access the wound

cautiously spitting over the shoulder

to ward off unpleasantness

while i feed local ghosts tobacco

from my backseat lungs

contaminated knee circle

i look for the familiar fungus beneath a tree

to eat + bury the ache

i steal air from my lungs 

let it sizzle until keeping it so

i’m sure fire still exists

cicadas scream desperate to be fucked but
i can’t relate

<august>

after Kristin Lueke

i carry childhood icons beneath a bloodied tooth

always remembering ur gentle wrinkles

at the outset,

reminding me of my own

well-fitting ugly shift dress

ripping in a different era

the cost of adoration is to be bleached by the sun

over years of stickyfingered longing

daughter behaving daughterlessly

legs sitting, crossed

in stomach acid

my calves sizzle

drawstring belly tight

like fresh leather redemption

thick skinnnnnnnnnnn 

juicy cabbage breath i overextend

ignorant of sore, bloody

knucklemesh

i only love the hot neck of summer

split open on the pavement

gushing forgotten ancestral guilt,

damp rings + palms searching

for the cold sheet (a promise)

that change will always be 

familiar in its terror

<extended summer>

small window to another dimension

worn on the tops of my hands

like a spell

i cried so hard my eyelids flipped up

all capillaries + inflammation +

salty sopping wet

there’s always an escape //

basil hands rubbed on a horrid body

i sense suspicion + potential

but i imagine -

youth

high on a nauseous rooftop

potential or friendship or accolades

in a stolen legal envelope

like an unexpected chewing gum kiss

she asked what i tasted,

surprised when i revealed my secret smell

  (i stink like the foil pull out

on a new pack of parliments

recessed filter)

music notes stumbling down my leg

hair, the sound numbing +

deep in my infection

// //

the following stage means violence

begging or wool slippers

stuck to the screen

windows guide the dirty velvet

swallowing lightning shirtless

lip catching on a broken tooth

we watch the flesh tear

in warm silence

hot air holding breath 

between us

<lovers>

sometimes i’m perfectly mismatched

my torso a cavern of angles + stones

pleasantly vintage + often musty

w/ nostalgia

(like a terry gilliam cartoon)

heavy patterns pull my eyes 

to wave pools thriving in my belly button

protected by rows of hearty leaves

my flowering heart remains

billowing + unfinished

clavicle moons reminiscent 

of a moment wrapped at the hip + spilled

like cereal milk or episodic fixations

playing doctor w/ the neighbors

wrapping broken twigs 

clutching math homework

peelable polish

how crawling is movement

i cut away scars on my palms

glowing like a misspelled word

i wonder if the sizzle  b/w synapses

is enough burn to light by when

no one admits 

a sword laid upon the weight of trust

is thicker than the steel it yields

Sara Matson’s poetry can be found in Impossible Task, The Chicago Reader, Kicking Your Ass, Bone Bouquet, and elsewhere. Sara’s recent chapbook, (Women) In STEM is available from Bottlecap Press and her pop-culture inspired chapbook Special Features: DVD Poems is available from Alien Buddha Press. Sara hosts the seasonal online reading series Words // Friends + can be found on Instagram @skeletorsmom and Bluesky @saramatson.bsky.social. More of Sara’s poetry can be found at https://linktr.ee/saramatson

‘Marble Girl’

Briarwood Bohemian is a multi-disciplinary artist in New York City focusing on sustainability and color expression.

Marble Girl

When she was eight, Alesha Henderson briefly held the world record for filling her mouth with marbles. It was an unforgettable experience.

At the mayor’s invitation, the Book of World Records crew traveled to the high school auditorium of the feisty town of Morocco, Idaho, to run competitions in three new categories: marbles in mouth, books on head, and bats being juggled. But only one caught Alesha’s fancy: the marbles. 

The final rounds for marbles in mouth began in the evening. Sitting in the first row, her handsome, rumpled father looked on, half-anxious, half-pleased, and a hundred percent proud. The small crowd watched as the clock began to tick. Could this girl retain 29 marbles in her mouth for a full minute? 

Mom’s well-coiffed head swivelled from side to side to ascertain the location of the paramedics. Sometimes contestants choked or hyperventilated during the competition. 

Alesha looked around frantically. Her mouth was ready to bursting. Each contestant had a white plastic spit-tub nearby but somehow hers had been pushed aside by the man in the gray suit with the stopwatch. As the time ticked down, her nostrils flared. She grew red-faced, bug-eyed, and her hands were dog-paddling the air.

The audience gave a clap here and there, cresting to full applause when the timer buzzed. 

Her father leaned forward, ready to hold out something—a pan, his coffee cup, or even his outstretched hands—to catch the torrent, as he had during so many practice sessions at home in the garage. Then he saw the tub she was looking for. “There,” he shouted. “It’s behind him!” 

Awkwardly, Alesha ducked behind the man in the gray suit and grabbed her tub. She spat out her marbles, gulped in fresh air, and sighed.

Her name went on the digital marquee and, beside it, flashed the number 29. Two more children tried to keep 29 marbles in their mouths for the requisite minute. They failed, and Alesha Henderson was declared World Champion in the 8-and-under category.

She was exhausted from weeks of practice and preparation, plus the hours spent waiting for her event to begin. She could barely keep her head up. The cameras snapped as the officious man from the Book of World Records approached with the fancy certificate in his left hand, and his right hand extended for a handshake. She stood blinking, her mouth open.

“Alesha, please shake his hand,” Mom said from her front-row seat. 

“Oh.” Alesha limply extended her left hand. 

“Right hand, please,” Mom clarified.

A flashy ceremony ensued, with fanfare from the high school brass band, and speeches praising world champions in all categories. Alesha watched and dozed while seated upright, giving the impression of a calm, cool demeanor. A champion’s demeanor.

Then, mercifully, the hoop-la was over. Alesha was free to go home, hang out with her father and Mom, and play with her infinitely amusing robotic dog, Tootsie. She tiptoed out of the spotlight and into the shadows as the thick velvet curtains flapped around her. The sweat on her shoulders turned to a chill and her eyes strained, looking into the darkness. Where was Dad?

Usually he was here by now, with his warm hairy arm pressed gently around her shoulders, a brisk chin rub of two- or three-day stubble as he embraced her. Saying “atta girl” and puffing a little as he lifted her up for a bear hug. Or—better yet—maybe he would say, “Are you hungry? Should we go for a quick lick of ice cream?” She wasn’t hungry yet—still running on adrenaline—but she loved visiting the fancy ice cream shop with its parlor of wrought-iron chairs and sparkly black-and-pink striped wallpaper with her dad.

“Hello, Alesha,” Mom said, extending two arms to catch the girl by the shoulders. Mom scanned the girl’s face, head tilting briefly one way, then the other. It was the same motion made by Robo-Rover, whenever Alesha mumbled her commands and Tootsie couldn’t discern if she’d said “beg” or “bag.”

“Where’s Dad?” Alesha asked Mom.

 “Dad received an alert on his pager before the closing ceremony,” Mom said. “It was urgent, so he left immediately.” 

“Oh?” Alesha knew that Dad’s job as one of only three doctors in town meant some days he had to carry (and answer) the pager. Apparently today was his day. Still, she kept looking around at other children gabbling excitedly, volunteers stomping across the plywood stage, and parents hollering over the din of metal chairs scraping. But no Dad.

“Oh,” she said again. Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t know if she could take another step. 

“He-ey, Alesha! Great job!” Frenchie, the new mayor of Morocco, Idaho, stepped forward and made a big show of formally shaking her hand. This time she correctly extended the right hand. “What a pro!” he gushed. “Morocco, Idaho, is the town of champions!”

Alesha felt her face grow warm. She tried to smile, like she knew she should, but her face felt like rubber. Her chin quivered. She reached for Mom’s wrist and steadied herself.

“Oh, hey, hey, don’t strain the hamster muscles.” Frenchie patted his own mouth, grinning, then gestured at hers. 

Alesha blinked, remembering Fluffy, the soft brown hamster kept in a cage at the front of her Grade 2 classroom.  Fluffy loved to stash sunflower seeds in his cheek-pouches. She could watch that little critter for hours.

Frenchie said to Mom, “You must be very proud, Mrs. Henderson. Alesha is a born performer. She kept her cool and stayed on point. She’s a credit to our town.”

“I agree. Alesha did very well.”

Frenchie drew back slightly, as if seeing Mom for the first time. “Well! I should let you go. See you soon, Alesha!”

Alesha never used to notice how different Mom was from her friends’ mothers. But now, she wished Dad had never ordered that premium deluxe Robo-Maid. 

She also wished Dad hadn’t, in the ultimate “Dad joke,” named their model “Mom.” It was too confusing to people. Most adults didn’t realize the moving mannequin was a robot named Mom—until they closely watched the Robo-Maid’s hands or face. 

When they finally did realize Alesha was in a modern “hybrid family,” one human parent, one robotic, most went along with the situation, like accepting a neighbor who kept chickens in his front garden or a postmaster who only wore pajamas. They tolerated such people but did not become close friends.

Alesha knew, because Dad had told her, that her real, biological mother had died of an aggressive blood cancer when Alesha was but a toddler. “Some people have companion pets… some people have robot maids,” Dad explained, “so I figured, why don’t we get a companion housekeeper.” Alesha also knew her real mother, a computer scientist by trade, had recorded many hours of her speech and “woven” her speech phonemes with AI so that this prototype would speak to Alesha and Dad with her real mother’s own voice tones. And Mom’s silicone face was a replica of her real mother’s face.

Mom scanned Alesha’s face. “You look disappointed. Why is that? You won the contest.” 

“I’m tired,” Alesha said. This was the thing about robots. They did not know “tired” the way that humans did. And they never would know. Unless someone programmed it into them—but why would anyone do that?

People kept streaming out of the school. Some nodded at Alesha and some nodded at Mom. For whatever reason, the people kept their distance from the new World Champion marble-mouth. Alesha’s vision became blurred by tears.

“Please put this on.” Mom held out a light jacket. “The evening is breezy and cool. Eighty-two percent of the children here are wearing jackets.” 

Alesha wiped her arm across her runny nose. “Did he see it? Did he see how many?”

“Yes,” said Mom. She scanned the crowd for the male they had spoken to and reported, “The mayor, Gustav Laframboise, commonly known as Frenchie, saw the proportion of children wearing jackets is eighty-two percent.”

“No, you idiot!” Alesha sniffled. “I’m talking about Dad! And marbles! Not Frenchie and jackets… Did Dad see my marble count?” Alesha thrust her arm into the jacket with such force she tore the sleeve. 

“That is rude. Do not say ‘you idiot,’” Mom said. “Please apologize.”

“But you are an idiot! You’re not my real mother. You don’t understand a thing I say!” Alesha’s face was turning purple. “I’m talking about marbles, and you think it’s jackets!”

“I do not think,” Mom said. “I detect word patterns in your speech and respond to them.” She recited, “As a secondary function, I detect voice tone and volume. Your elevated voice correlates with anger and frustration.”

“Arrrgh!” Alesha flung herself onto the nearest thing, which happened to be a rubbish bin, and hammered it with her fists. She didn’t understand words like “secondary function” and “correlates,” but she knew she was fed up, utterly fed up with this expensive gadget called Mom that Dad had brought into their lives. 

From the corner of her eye, Alesha saw shocked faces, the citizens of Morocco, Idaho, turning toward her and the Robo-Maid—and then quickly away. She suddenly remembered seeing a boy in the park last winter who had kicked his Robo-Rover—and how wrong it seemed because she couldn’t imagine harming her own little Tootsie. Alesha stopped hitting the bin. She said in a monotone, “Sorry, Mom.”

“I acknowledge.” Mom blinked her eyes then began to recite the information: “Dad saw Alesha take marble 29 into her mouth. Two other finalists took 29 marbles for less than one minute. They gave up and released 29 marbles into their spit-tubs and conceded to Alesha Henderson.”

“Yes! I won! I’m World Champion!” Alesha pumped her fist. Her mouth was starting to feel more normal so she smiled. “And what did Dad say?”

“Dad said, ‘Aha, I knew she could.’” This was an actual replay of the recording of Dad’s voice—coming from the partially open lips of the attractively molded female face.

Alesha giggled. “Oh yeah? What else did he say?”

The Robo-Maid obliged with the next sound-clip. Dad’s voice said, “Let her try 30! 31! Give her more marbles, you numskull!”

Alesha threw her hands over her face and squealed with laughter. Dad must have forgotten that Mom had this auto-record feature. Mom did not seem to register that Dad had said a rude word. But Alesha knew. And Alesha didn’t want to change it, either. She wriggled with joy. “Yeah, Dad and me got right up to 31 marbles during our last practice. So I’m ready to break my world record!” She forgot she was speaking to a robot—she just had to boast to someone. While chattering, she began playing with her jacket. 

“Do you need help with your zipper?” Mom asked.

Alesha fiddled with her zipper. “Thirty-one,” she said dreamily. “Can you believe it!” 

“I notice you had difficulty with this jacket yesterday,” Mom said. “I conclude you are tired in the evenings and cannot focus on a mundane task. Please stand still.”

This was another thing about robots. They mimicked polite speech, but they relentlessly executed their tasks. Alesha sighed, stuck out her arms like a T, and froze while Mom’s pincers precisely joined the two sides of the zipper and zipped her from tummy to chin.

One woman, walking with the boy who had made it as far as marble 28, paused and cackled warmly, “Oh, there’s the lucky gal.” She beamed at Mom. “You must be so proud of your girl! What an achievement! Tell me, what’s your secret?”

Mom tilted her head from side to side, and said, “Please clarify what you mean by ‘secret’.” 

Alesha blushed. 

“Oh, you know,” the woman said coyly, blinking her eyes behind smudged glasses.

“Yes, I know about secrets.” Mom recited: “Humans may attempt to consciously conceal information due to shame, or from fear of violence, loss of acceptance, or loss of employment. Animals conceal the location of their den or nest—”

The woman squinted, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Alesha yanked Mom’s arm. She spoke loudly, trying to cover up Mom’s exegesis. “My secret is lots of practice! Dad is my coach! Mom here reminds me of homework.” She pulled Mom away before the situation got any more embarrassing. 

When they reached the car in the parking lot, Alesha said, “Mom, text Dad to meet us at the ice cream place right away.” She rolled her eyes and added “please.”

“I can only drive to the home address,” Mom said. “We must wait until Dad confirms the change in destination.”

Alesha fidgeted with her seatbelt. “I coulda done 31,” she muttered to herself. “Next time, I’ll do 31.”

“May I suggest the Baskin-Robbins ice cream parlor,” Mom said. “They have 31 flavors.” 

Alesha laughed. “Silly Mom!” She fidgeted in her seat, wishing she had Tootsie there to pup-wrestle with.

After a long minute, Mom said, “Incoming message from the hospital dispatcher.” 

Alesha’s screen flashed and the sound of Dad’s voice filled the car.

“Aw honey, I guess you’ve heard about the bus crash. I was called in to work.”

“Bus crash!” Alesha said. An accident meant hurt people who needed patching up, as Dad called it. He would be at the hospital, maybe already operating on someone. Her throat ached. She had dreamed about celebrating their victory in the ice cream parlor, getting stained and sticky with Tiger Stripe running down her hands. Licking it off her wrists. Teasing Dad about Lemon Fizz dribbling down his chin. And now the silly people with their silly accident…

Tears filled Alesha’s eyes. She’d had an accident, once. Falling off a swing, spraining her wrist. She knew it was not silly but very very hurtful. “Mom, go home,” she said. “Please.”

Around them, other children were holding parents’ hands. Or refusing to hold parents’ hands, scampering off with friends, and being rebuked. Running wild. Parents were threatening, cajoling, attempting to reason. All for naught. Because high spirits ruled what was left of the day.

Another message flashed from Dad: “We will have to move our celebration ice cream to tomorrow night. Meanwhile,” he said with his voice picking up the excitement that she loved to hear, “check out this new challenge!”

She clicked on the link to a contest featuring bowling balls: How many bowling balls could an eight-year-old carry?

“Bowling balls?” Alesha laughed. She shook her hands like the fingers were wobbly springs. “Count me in.”

V.J. Hamilton calls Toronto home. Her work has been published in The Antigonish Review, Amsterdam Quarterly, and The Penmen Review, among others. She won the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest.

‘A Friendship Distilled’

Briarwood Bohemian is a multi-disciplinary artist in New York City focusing on sustainability and color expression.

A Friendship Distilled

(1970-76)

Boston’s dead-of-winter day 

dawns mellow mild

pretends to be spring 

so two fast friends pretend too 

pretend they’re ten years younger 

and not early twenties dropouts

playing catch with beat-up ball 

and musty unearthed mitts 

on snow-melt slushy streets. 

Year later they’re in Berkeley 

living different lives entirely 

with entirely different girlfriends 

but they’re still pretending

pretending friendship indestructible 

pretending girlfriends don’t pose threats 

then pretending friendship repairable 

until that solo fatal head-on crash

back in dead-of-winter Boston.

Robert Eugene Rubino fantasizes about rewriting the screenplay of "2001: A Space Odyssey" so that HAL is the sole survivor.

‘Mirage’, ‘On the Curb’, ‘A Letter to the State Regarding the Statewide Pothole Repairs Sign’ & ‘My Friend'

Briarwood Bohemian is a multi-disciplinary artist in New York City focusing on sustainability and color expression.

Mirage

The mirage of the good old days

is dissolving like salt

in a dead sea of memories.

Let the mixture soothe their sore throats,

irritated from screaming at today’s concocted crisis:

How they can’t drink without a plastic straw. 

How they can’t piss without a gendered bathroom.

God forbid they hear Spanish in a public place.

Let the better times of smoking indoors,

their novel nostalgias,

comfort their troubled, wrinkled minds.

The demented sun finally sets,

and the elderly lose all lucidity.

The mirage has faded.

New generations are left with

the sand that we have inherited.

We will try to make vegetables grow in this desert,

as our ancestors remind us

how beautiful the oceans were.

On the Curb

Pull up some curb next

to me, dear. As we witness

the tire deflate.

Did I see the nail

sticking out of the roadway

like hitchhiker’s thumb?

Of course I didn’t.

You were putting on lipstick.

You know what that does

to me. How am I

supposed to concentrate, when

Venus de Milo

has grown back her arms

to put on mascara in

my passenger seat?

Well the good news is

the hitchhiking nail has just

made a rubber nest

and soon, the tow truck

will play Charon and carry

him down the river

to our mechanic.

To be kicked out of the nest

to see if he flies.

Perhaps he will try

spitting worms in the nail’s mouth

as encouragement.

Maybe he will ask

politely for it to fly

South for the winter.

Likely he will just

pull left and right without the

nail’s consultation.

Like forcing a kid

from a warm bed. Oh, the dream

it was just having...

The nail dreamed it was

a bird, autonomous, and

could choose its own path.

What a pleasant dream

it must have been. Paling in

comparison, though

when weighed against what

distracted me at the start

of this fiasco.

Would you dream with me?

Can we pick up where the nail

left off? I believe

we were chickadees.

You can be Carolina,

I will be black-capped.

Let’s plan a date night

where the mating grounds mix up.

What a lovely dream...

In the meantime, dear,

would you do me the honor

and pull up some curb?

A Letter to the State Regarding the Statewide Pothole Repairs Sign

To whom it may concern:

Are you only repairing potholes that are as wide as a state?

Are you seeking out the widest potholes physically possible a state can manifest,

to fill them with gravel, returning them to a state of solid street?

What state are you using as your unit of wideness?

Delaware?

California?

Texas?

Do you use the Big Island for the width of Hawaii, or

do you take an average of all the islands?

Does Puerto Rico have territorywide pothole repairs?

Are you finished with all 

the townwide potholes,

the citywide potholes,

the countywide potholes,

and are climbing the construction ladder all the way up to statewide?

What’s next for your ambition? 

Do you go all the way to nationwide potholes?

Or can only the feds fix those potholes ?

Or (less likely) 

are you looking to bring together

single, shallow, recently divorced potholes?

Or potholes that have tried the online pothole dating scene

and it just isn’t working out for them?

Are you matchmaking lonely potholes, and re-pairing them anew,

with a like-minded, experienced cut of road

to unite in holy pothole matrimony?

I doubt it.

I know one thing, for damn sure.

I know you aren’t repairing the potholes in this state.

My Friend

The birds do not need

your hair, your teeth, your carcass.

Save them for the worms.

Save this corpse for dirt, 

for this corpse is not my friend.

My friend is sunlight.

My friend is pure rays

golden, breaking through the clouds

on Spring’s first warm day.

My friend is more than

flesh, my friend exists in the

eyes of the minds of

all who cherish him.

My friend is a tapestry

of our memories.

Take this tapestry,

you birds, and quilt together

an eternal nest.

So that my friend may

live on in your lives as he

has been blessed in mine.

So that your young can

feel the warmth of his presence,

and bask in his glow.

And when they outgrow

the faceless form of my friend

and take their first flight,

I hope they carry

a block, or a patch of the quilt,

some parcel of him.

When their seasons change, 

as seasons are meant to change,

they will remember

the meaning of warmth,

the glow of our history,

the light of my friend.

Matthew Bailey is a musician breaking into the world of poetry. He graduated with an albatross of a Bachelors of Science from York College of Pennsylvania in Music Industry and Recording Technology. He lives with his soon-to-be wife Dylann and a poorly-behaved akita named Ursa in New Jersey. You can keep up with Matthew on his Instagram or Bluesky @mymattisname.

‘You Are Beautiful Like the End of the World’ & Collected Works

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

You Are Beautiful Like the End of the World 

A truth: as I am unraveling you in a field of poppies, your eyes reflect the sunset. that is the end of it – and am telling you now, the beginning we will find along the way, but it will sound like this – “A truth: you are beautiful like the end of the world.” 

A truth: On the gold-planet, the suns make color flee from everything, and the world is like roe, and the surface is smooth like your face after a wash, but it does not shine, no, we have unwound all the reflections and all things that might breach the surface, and it is calm. 

A truth: the night you sit on the roof, you will tell me you do not want to know how it will end. and I know already I will never understand it, so I do not ask, because I have always known that the end will be beautiful, and we will all fall apart. 

A truth: past does not exist without memory. We come from distant tributaries, and we flow into the river of time. You are a stream, you flow with gravity. I am a lake, and all things pour from the river into me. The river is the same, I am just tall enough to see where the water leads. 

A truth: we need no ships to travel from world to world, we simply raise our arms and let the light carry us away, like the leaves off the tree in your yard. We are seeds that plant ourselves upon your planets, and eventually, something always takes root. 

A truth: Of all the worlds I will see, this one will be the most incredible. In the moments when I

watch your mountains fall, all I can think of is how high they have grown. One day, you describe to me “remorse”, which is a thing one can only have when they cannot see the riverbed. 

A truth: I do not want to unwind this world, it is just a product of the oils on my skin. On this world it waves behind me like long pennants, and your mesosphere tints me colors I’ll never see again, and I only wonder what it will look like when all of it is done. 

A truth: You are beautiful like the end of the world. See, I promised we would find it: it emerged when our tributaries merged, the day you ask me to tell you the truth. And so I do, and we begin as we do, as we did, as we will, in the poppy field and the car and the roof, with 

A truth: The end of the world is beautiful, and you have actually guessed it quite accurately, although you have asked me not to tell it to you. It ends in a bed of poppies, and their petals are hovering off of their stems, just as you hover away from yours.

Nightlily 

We’ll shed our names for offerings of 

skin and silk and creamsicle petals 

and hot cinders on our lips 

Someone will cuff my wrist 

and spin me into the reeds 

Tonight we are remembered by taste alone 

And when the sun rises, there’s 

a gift of grasshoppers 

rattling within our chests 

A life unlived made manifest 

by impossibly familiar breath 

still simmering softly on the tongue

Green Blood 

He’ll make his way back home eventually, But for now, he’s drunk on morning mist 

And crossed with pale light breaking through the leaves. Baby boy with a name on a registry. It’s 

All he needs, a shot of loam right to the bloodstream, And mycelium wrapped around his lungs, this, This is what it is. Someday he knows they’ll Hang him over with steel and oil, and he’ll vomit black, But this morning he’s riding it, 

on the draft towards the rising sun.

גלמי) The Golem) 

You didn’t cry when you were born, 

Tired, wrinkled hands your womb; you came into this world knowing How it felt to be handled. 

They used their spit to knead your soil 

And their first act of creation was to carve your destiny onto your face And they called you Truth. 

And you have to remember, these were men 

Of peace in a time where all they knew was war, so I’m sorry that 

I can’t find it in myself to hate you. 

The spit they made you from had bile in it already, that’s the Truth. The Truth is, nobody weaned you from the clay. 

You were carved out. Torn out. Pulled from your mother’s arms. 

All you knew was how it felt to be handled. 

So I’m sorry, that when people say your name today they spit on the ground. And call you a brute, and call your clay dull, well 

You, unlike them, have not forgotten the dust you came from. 

Your fathers birthed what they needed, and they knew that. 

They knew it when they put you at the ghetto gates, and let you see the world For the first time, and you saw that it had fire in its eyes. 

I’m sorry I can’t say they were wrong. 

I’m sorry they wanted you to change the world, when all you were was a reflection of it.

They were so afraid, you know. They didn’t see 

that Truth and Death are two sides of the same coin. 

Or they did, but they didn’t want to remember it. 

That’s not your fault. You’re your father’s son. 

And when the world came marching towards you with knives bared And you opened your arms to embrace them, it’s not your fault 

You thought that was how an embrace was supposed to feel. 

All you knew is how it felt to be handled. 

And that’s when they remembered Truth and Death were two sides of the same coin. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to tell them sooner, or maybe they wouldn’t have Put you up at the gates. 

Maybe they wouldn’t have spit in your soil. Maybe they wouldn’t have birthed you at all And they would’ve let the world burn down around them. Maybe they Didn’t deserve it, but neither did you. 

And so when your father climbed the wall to look you in the eyes, 

And he saw that he had forgotten to put them in, 

Did you think he was there to fix you? 

Did you hold him in your palm and draw him to your face 

Because how could a father do wrong for his son? 

Your mother never had. 

But Truth and Death are two sides of the same coin, and your destiny Was carved on your face from the beginning. 

So no, I couldn’t have stopped that. I’m sorry.

But as you crumbled under your own weight, and you remembered The dust you came from, 

In your last act, you lowered your father to the ground 

And set him on his feet. 

No, you didn’t deserve it. You came into the world knowing how it felt to be handled And all a reflection can ever hope to do is to be more than its origin To be framed in the dying light of the sun, as your hand comes apart below him And know that you did exactly what you were born to do. 

And they hated you for it. I’m sorry, I know you can never understand why But I want you to know; Death and Truth are two sides to the same coin And when you fell that day, you showed the world that all it takes Is for someone to hold you in their arms, 

Cradle you in the dust, 

And scratch out the word.

Man in the Foundation (for Cassandra) 

They found his body still fresh when they took the walls down, in a cage of rebar and stone. There was no ceremony, his burial where they found him unsanctimonious, Two lines of yellow tape across the grate and the doorway, 

And the storefront above him with cardboard over the windows, nothing to keep them from Sneaking down the basement steps with raiments donned 

Sweaters zipped and little red flashlights. 

He whispered to them from his throne in the irons, 

The city is inside you, it rides the highways of your varicose veins, 

and drinks of the wells of your postnasal drip, and inside you as her there are Five hundred thousand people breathing as one, and that makes you the city. His nervous system a tangle of copper wire sparking across his tongue, 

He said; 

The city doesn’t need you the way you need her, she ate the stars already long ago And you will dissolve in the Sodium Vapor of her stomach long before they do. He said; 

I am you, you just don’t see it yet, 

She has metastasized inside you since you were flesh upon flesh, and our only difference is when you die they will not bury you whole. 

And your skin will blister and crack as you age, and you will not wish for them to see you in a tomb anyhow. 

He said;

Give yourself to her if you wish, it makes no difference, 

She has taken the great poets and movie stars and scientists and you are but one more track to the train, 

His teeth were like polished mirrors, they saw their eyes in them. 

He said; 

She killed the earth with a million knives, and drank the oceans until they bled, but still You make her beautiful, you tattoo her arms and paint her face with light, And she remembers you. 

His breathing became labored then, a spilling of insulation, then 

He said, a final testament; 

Keep full your notebooks and draw me on the soles of your shoes, his 

Face upside-down twisted in a frozen laugh, and they fled up the stairs through her arteries And past her ribs and ‘cross the battered scaffold, 

As the man in the wall gazed in, arms-splayed, at she who took him whole.

Milo Duclayan is a student in Burlington, Vermont, but in his free time in the summers he is out LARPing in the woods, back in New York. There’s a kind of magic he has found there that he’s sure comes from another world, and it’s always his pleasure to use writing to bring some of that magic with him wherever he goes.

‘A Letter to Wellbutrin’, ‘Kinda Woman’, ‘Body Cover’ & ‘Tree Funeral’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

“You so winningly said, ‘People come first’ meaning before the writing. You forced me to say the truth.

he writing comes first…this is my way of mastering experience.” -Anne Sexton in a letter to her psychiatrist, Dr. Chase

A Letter to Wellbutrin

If I don’t walk the long hallway,

nor take the cellar stairs,

If I don’t coat myself in ashes,

Will I still be a poet?

If I remove the rosy glasses,

see things sharp and clear,

If I live by the T-chart,

Will I still be a poet?

If I cannot feel the petals,

the velvet of the air,

If I cannot smell the sunset,

Will I still be a poet?

If I step away from the guardrail,

steer well before the turn,

If I take the keys from the ignition,

Will I still be a poet?

If I pull on the lambskin,

sheath myself from pleasure and pain,

If all the lines are measured,

Will I still be a poet?

Kinda Woman

I’m a wake up and lift the blinds kinda woman,

a make the bed before I’m out of it kinda woman,

a finished five tasks before you even get started kinda woman,

a move over I’ll do it myself kinda woman.

You’re a make pyramids out of empty cans kinda guy,

a save it up till the last minute kinda guy,

an hours of research on a truck you’ll never buy kinda guy,

a spontaneous, pull the trigger, let’s see how it goes kinda guy.

I’m a take me to the water kinda woman,

a give me space, but don’t leave kinda woman,

a clear my head with your voice, kinda woman,

a take charge of me, fist full of my curls kinda woman.

You’re a spend all day on the couch with the dogs kinda guy,

a gotta listen to music while you’re cooking kinda guy,

a flip the omelet with one hand kinda guy,

an I don’t know, let’s find out kinda guy. 

I’m the chaos, you’re the order.

Or is it the other way around?

I’d get it done but there’d be no place to put it.

I organize my life with post-Its and planners,

But where would I go without you?

Maybe you’re the planner after all —

the dreamer, the believer, the faithful one.

Maybe I’m just a mound of raw edges,

like the leftover yarn from 1,000 intended sweaters.

There’s something. There’s something there worth a damn—

Right? I'm a damn kinda woman,

a plain materials, set to be something kinda woman.

Gonna take more than Post-its notes to make sense

of all that’s swimming around in my head,

doing laps. The front crawl. The butterfly.

Make sense of it.

You’re my translator.

Tame my thoughts like you tame my curls.

Keep being my turn it into something kinda guy,

so, I can be an I surrender kinda woman. Finally.

“Can you think of any laws that give the government

 power to make decisions about the male body?” - Sen. Kamala Harris

“I’m not thinking of any right now, Senator” - Supreme Court Nominee, Brett Cavanaugh

Body Cover

My body has scars,

but they're all a secret,

not the ones you can celebrate.

and name tiger stripes and battle wounds,

there are no stretch lines nor C-section marks, 

my slices cannot be seen but

they rest all over.

Fingertips soaked in the acid of pubic must,

wrists viced and stormed,

biceps pinned,

eyes pierced,

breasts squeezed and pinched and mangled,

my womb is scraped clean.

Inside me lives a thousand cuts,

beats and blows,

ripped open and scooped out,

burned,

torched.

My body is a cemetery with no stones,

blanketed over with blades of grass,

a swing set and

an IOU. 

Tree Funeral

I’m watching the death of the trees next door.

Giants converted to mulch,

Fifty rings exposed,

Severed and mutilated.

I think of the love it took to grow, the courage.

The years of adaptation.

Adjusting to floods that fell from the sky

winds that turned and bent, gale

She withstood it.

Rooted down deeper.

Reached from within.

Then was crumbled up like a bad essay and

Thrown in the bin.

All that she endured, undone by a man.

Like always. 

Nickie DeSardo is a poet, writer, and activist whose work explores identity, love, heartbreak, and social justice. With a master’s in education and linguistics, she is pursuing an MFA in Writing at WCSU, focusing on poetry and feature journalism. Her published works reflect her experiences as a feminist, mother, and advocate for change. Nickie lives on Connecticut’s shoreline with her partner, two children, and their dogs, blending artistry and purpose in her deeply confessional writing.