I Went to See Van Gogh Just to See You

In a past life, you were him, And I was the drowning waves.

I know –museums aren’t confessionals reeling in Adam’s apples, But I see boyhood in blue – Eyes of China Sea clemency – In the jacket you gave me Though it wasn’t yours to begin with.

And you –Don’t want to say He reminds you of your grandfather. That would be too much. Instead, he reminds you of you –Easel in you thumb, Eastern ring of stars, Easing your heart.

And there’s –A song I want to sing to you Your fingertips atop brush-waves Above a woven night and silk-threaded trees and a slap-brush town, About blue, about your grandfather, About you Because I failed art class back in high school And my dream has come true.

And I brought –

You here because I was shipwrecked — Because you deserve these

Constellations more than me;

Because you are dreamless –As you say you are.

Until this night.

And I confess –

I confess all my sins to you: I want you. I need you. I miss you. I trust you. I need you once again. And another word too cauterizing to say. How dare you do? How dare you live for me? How dare you save me?

And I thought –

Blue was to cold and cold was to penance, And jackets to lullabies to retribution, And life was too cruel to let us meet again; Lest you drown again;

To let us touch again; Lest you die again;

To let us – “Hold my hand” you say,

I sully sea strokes once more, But you say “I’m good now.”

And the passed-on jacket brushes my arm

As we pass past-lives without saying goodbye.

Ani AndAl

It was the fourth of July. Or Memorial Day. Or Labor Day. It was some day when the air was warm, perhaps even slightly sticky, and the sky was stealing the blue of the sea, which had seemingly become tinted a murky green. People didn’t seem to mind the seasick shore, coming from all over the Tri-State to enjoy a Jersey beach. We were some of those “people.” My father, little sister, and I piled into Dad’s Volvo, and after just an hour, pulled up to Grandma’s—the large gray house covered in overflowing flower pots of pink and purple petunias just a five-minute walk from Manasquan Beach.

My sister and I likely should have spent a bit more time on the hellos, hugs, and kisses, but at nine and eleven years old, we instead were scrambling through our beach bags and putting on sunscreen before even stepping in the door. I shoved my hand up the back of her shirt and slathered her pale skin with the thick white paste, and she rubbed some across my shoulders, more than likely getting a dollop along the collar of my shirt without my noticing.

Then, we snuck into the pantry, packed snacks together— Cheez-its and Fritos and fruit snacks that would definitely melt in the sun. We changed into bathing suits together, crammed in the little box that was the outdoor shower. We bumped arms, hit prepubescent hips, scraped knees against the walls and each other, and sure, we groaned and complained and told each other to “watch out,” but when it really came down to it, we didn’t mind getting changed together at all. We had our routine. Everything we did, we did together (even if we said we didn’t want to).

My sister, Dad, and I said goodbye to my grandma who sipped her wine (at 10 AM) on the front porch, waving a sunsoaked wrinkled arm at us. Of course, my sister and I bolted. We ran ahead of Dad together as he wheeled the cart of chairs, towels, and beach umbrellas along the bumpy sidewalk. Our flip-flops smacked against the pavement, but I just called, “Keep up, Sarah,” watching her struggle after me. Her blonde hair splayed across her face as she followed.

At the beach, we were a pair. When she jumped into the ocean, I followed, diving between the waves right behind her. She ran up to the warm sand, far off from the water, and I accompanied her, each of us proving to the other that no, our feet weren’t burning though they absolutely were. When I pulled out the deck of cards, my plan to play Solitaire quickly became a game of Spit between us two. And when men on cruisers with megaphones announced the beach was closing early that day, Sarah jumped on my back, carried my bag, and I walked us both home, where we washed ourselves side by side, trapped in the little shower because we were both too stubborn to take the second turn in it and too tempted to be with each other.

That night, after rinsing the salt from my water-crimped hair, my sister and I put on matching pajama shorts and tank tops. We sat around the living room, waiting for someone to hand us a TV remote, but instead, Grandma suggested we see the holiday’s fireworks. Typically, at the age of eleven, I wasn’t so interested in seeing colorful explosions in the sky, but my sister seemed interested. So, like always—as a pair—we went.

The sky was such a deep blue, it was almost purple, but the fireworks warred against it, threatening the sky with pops of oranges and greens. They sparkled against their dark canvas, and people—the elderly couple tucked into their beach chairs, the children silently digging their feet in the sand, the teenagers laying just a little too close on a blanket—were enjoying, awed by the show splayed out before them.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned to see tufts of blonde hair dyed by the shade of night. My sister smiled so wide, then looked to the sea, grabbed my hand. And so, we went. I let her drag me along as she was pulled to the shore, a moth to her flame. Together, with Dad left stranded by the dunes, Sarah and I looked out. Before us, the sky blurred into the sea, save for one glowing spot—a boat with its interior lights on. Sarah let go of my hand to point at it.

I looked down at the dampness beneath my feet. The darkness still filled my gaze, the sand a solid, supportive slab. The waves rolled, tried to reach my toes, but failed. Instead, they left pockets of puffed, white sea foam, like stars, and I was floating through space. The scene swarmed me, overtook my senses, everything was darkness aside from these spots, these luminaries pocketed into the grainy rocks beneath my feet. Unable to pull my eyes from the ground, I smiled, stretched out a hand; the cool breeze wafting off of the ocean wove between my empty fingers.

I looked up. Sarah wasn’t there. She’d already run back to the soft sand, back to Dad, shoving some kind of shell in his face. I turned back to the blackened horizon line.

A certain longing and a bit of heartbreak settled over me. I desperately wanted to share the moment with her, share the magic like we shared everything else. It was the first time I realized I couldn’t; we couldn’t have every special moment together. The thought that in the next year, I was off to middle school while she remained at William Woodson Elementary crept into my mind and only twisted into the wound. Things would be different. There would be moments that I’d experience, like standing among stars in the sea, that she’d never share. More than that, there were moments she’d have that I’d never fully know.

Warm fingers laced caught mine, and I looked to see my sister, back at my side. Her smile was wide, and with her other hand, she lifted the shell—a sand dollar—so that I could see.

“How’d you find that?” I asked. She told me. And I told her about what I saw, the water and the dark sand and the frothy foam.

If we couldn’t always share our moments, at least we could share our stories.

Piecing Together (Winter Nights since 2019)

There are words I’m meant to be forming— I’m sure of it. I’m in front of a blueberry bush, ripe, bulbous, my mouth waters but my hands and feet are bound in twine. I try to create something. I crochet, embroider, re-stitch each row until my fingers bleed and the thread runs burgundy.

December is a blur of yellowlightredhatsalcoholsnowfallsleepingthroughsunlight. After the blizzard stops I’ll open the window and inhale, I’d like to memorize What that first breath tastes like— icewaterpeppermintwaitingroomforest.

At the witching hour I face the thought I ignore at daybreak— Was I meant to understand that fathers die at seventeen?

I can’t sleep anymore. My body knows something that my thoughts can’t process— that time shouldn’t keep moving without you.

I can’t listen to music anymore without getting jealous— of the writer who can make something with ease, of a world where everything is just a song.

KAty gilmore

Runner's Flight

There’s a breath before beginning. Inhale and look across the water, see the geese overhead with their necks craning forward, onward.

Exhale. Push foot. Pulse heart. Lift-off.

Climb into bed with the wind.

What else is the purpose of sinew and sweat if not this? This movement towards the next bend, next loop, next footfall, stepping in life-sustaining soil.

Asphodel

I have a recurring dream: It begins in fields of ashen gray, Like dying heather on a mountainside; I used to dream in color, but it’s all monochromatic now.

Shades wander, Moving as if treading water, And aimlessly listing about. There is always a haggard man with a hand Clamped to his wrinkled forehead.

The man approaches me— He shuffles forward and speaks, These shoes I wear are not my own. I look down to see two feet bound in too-small shoes.

He drawls again:

I took a day to walk in another man’s shoes, and look where it led me.

He does not look at me, but through me towards Fields as dark and ashen as his brow.

He lurches forward—

There is a gaping hole at the back of his head, A dark crevice where light does not exist, A black hole from where misery and regret emanate.

I try to catch his fall, But his body passes right through me and Shatters upon the ground. A pile of bleak bones and curling dust are his remains, Still outfitted by a pair of too-small shoes.

ViCtoriA oliViero

Man of Egypt

i saw a man stuck in the sand ribs crushed bleeding from the lips with a whole pyramid on his back i could see the intricate work the sanded bricks styled statues obsolete obelisks what a waste of time he was crippled by another’s desire atlas of a useless heaven the pointed weight of a nameless dream no longer shining the dull shape sits eventually his heart will give out

Head of the Stairs at Dawn, with Dad

I remember the sense of sneaky and quiet.

Blinking bleary eyes open in time! Just in time To catch it, freeze a momentary ritual, a blessing.

Tiny beating body, warm knobby arms wrapping play-scraped knees

Cool drape of too-big t-shirt, elbows engulfed.

Frayed collar, faint sting of stolen cologne.

Swirly golden-red wisps smeared off soft cheeks, out of flickering lashes with sticky toddler palm.

Oaky smell of shoeshine, chuff chuff shnnk of horsehair brush Ridges, streaks in polish—a pattern

Sway of untied tie, shirt unbuttoned.

Murmured “looking good?”

megAn SteVenS

Twenty

In this moment, I am truly happy.

I’m making a cake, and it’s the day of my twentieth birthday. I have everything I need—

Funfetti cake mix and bright pink frosting

(I no longer fear the color pink as I did when I was six). The creaky wooden floor bends beneath my feet And we dance to swaying jazz music. The house is full of light and laughter, And I’m not yet crying over the loss of my teenage years. I know you have to leave tonight, but I’m trying to forget that.

I open the presents my friends have gotten me and feel as though I am still seven years old.

Polka-dotted wrapping paper litters the floor by my feet And glitter escapes from the cards sent to me

From relatives I have long forgotten the names of. You bought me a notebook with a bright red cover.

I’m twenty; truly, officially, and totally twenty. That’s fucking rough.

My aunt lovingly tells me it’s now time to “Get my shit together.”

I sigh, taking a moment to inhale, Letting the smell of the baking cake seep through The cracks of the oven.

The ice cream sitting on the counter begins to drip. I put it back in the freezer and get blasted with cool air. I’ll have time later to worry about the future, I decide today is not the day I cry.

Instead, I will sit with you and watch as you lick the frosting knife, Hoping that one day, you won’t have to leave.

grACe WolSKi