41
Vo l . 2 , N o . 1
Paul Winkel
Survey Report
Snow blows sideways, stings my cheeks. Zero on the Bering Sea coast. Numbed hands in thin gloves twist levers, turn knobs. Teary eyes squint through the scope, note angles and distances. Feet stomp to break the chill. Hands move back to pockets, the sting of the heat packs. A count to thirty. Out comes pencil and book. Stiff fingers write numbers and letters. Teeth chatter. Hey, my name is Hank. A big grin splits a weathered face. His bare palm squeezes my glove. You weren’t born here, can’t work in the cold. Give me your book. You look through your machine, tell me what to write. I will help you. I call out degrees, minutes and seconds, feet, house corners, road intersections and power poles. He grasps the yellow #2 in his naked gnarled fist, puts down careful block print, better than mine. The pencil moves on. I offer him bills, but he shakes his head. You go back to your place, drink hot coffee. Maybe we get flush toilets. With a wave of his hand he walks off into blowing snow.
Nicole Stellon O’Donnell
Infidelity
If he looks sidelong as the door swings open, pretend not to notice. If he asks you, smile and look through your lashes at the scar just above his left eye. Take in that curve, the tender looking skin, but remember how rough it feels to the touch. If you find words have escaped you, like the ice that cracks along the banks of the river in spring when frozen boulders tear through the bridge, don’t forget that people line the banks then, hungry for slices of daylight and wind. They listen to the ice grind and the high-pitched whine of wood posts about to give way. If you hear the clamor of a crowd, know they applaud destruction. Know that spring is the same as what you have done. The difference is in the number of eyes and the wood smoke of hushed conversation rising out of the cabins at night. Once you tear out the pilings, you make your own way across the river, while they draw plans for the new summer’s bridge.