Murphy Square 2012 by Murphy Square

This is how it all starts. He wants to go to Mecca. The love intellectuals whose battered bodies only stand so their hearts stay strong. It was a faded poppy pink, the paint peeling off in tongues, bleached out from the sun. The aromatic acid spurting down like rain tartly tasted on your lips like lethal lemon weapons, like some yawning squirrel corpse; stiff in its icy crypt, exposed after the thaw, like most mannequins Helen was a good listener. Desperate, hot bees. If “gay” means happy, tell me where is the love? I waited for my life to blow up, but it did not. The plates became a Murphy Square symbol of bitterness and the spoons angst; it’s the story of bears and Jews. Thirty lions to our three gazelles. And you can’t let the blood stay all 2012 sticky warm on your hand and you can’t stop trying to get an apple but you know you need to stop doing all of it and that it’s just the drugs. Back pocket sandwich, in the pocket, in the pocket in the back. I’ll never forget coming down those stairs on Christmas day and spotting that curvy outline under the tree, with a big blue bow attached. Who was the parent, and who was the child? The air around the place was tangible, tangy with horse excrescences. Their beaks are witches fingernails. They whisper their “nevermore” and I shiver. This humid heart is about to burst, curled up like a baby in the womb, he thought of Kathryn, and he thought of dying. I only wish I could turn cancer into Keats. End.

Murphy Square 2012

Murphy Square

Board of Editors Editor in Chief Brianna Olson-Carr Associate Editor Dalia Teodonno Layout Editor Josh Jones Fiction Editors Will Trembley Laura Morales Poetry Editors Bryan Rassat Nou Yang Art Editors Rachel Kelly Josh Jones Faculty Advisor Cary Waterman

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Table of Contents Crows Gunfire Bounce a twister Angels Exposed Dear Maple Grove, Truth Takin’ The A Train Cathy’s Corner Waking in Cuba Amen After the Summer Barbeque Public Catharsis Today’s Lesson The Wake I Only Got Eyes for You The Savannah sometimes quiet Brainstorm Small After Class Carlos Free at Nightfall Visions Galaxies Green with... Female Nudes Busby Color Tree Jake Don’t Study With Friends Omg, that d-bag is wearing purple Rebecca Samurai Silhouette Drip A Looming Memory Disappearing Act Defiance Inconsistent Clichés Santeria Get Right Back On From Another’s Lens The Dishes Are What Caused It Patience Painting, a Portrait I am DR. SEUSS FUCKED ME UP Back pocket Sandwich My Buddy glass half empty Contributed Curse Go To Mecca Back Porch: Northfield, MN Fevers Rise to Me Pain Funeral by a river Autobiography: After Frank O’Hara

Eric Moen Rowan Smith Jayne Carlson Brianna Olson-Carr Lauri Akermark Bryan Rassat Steven Saari Michelle Devens Sean Evenson Judi Niemi Johnson Steven Saari William Trembly Judy Niemi Johnson Caitlin Wirth Megan Camacho Adam Shaw Drew DeGennaro Nicolette Albertson Brianna Olson-Carr Mary Stewart Devyn Lempke Anna Toenjas Nick Dahlquist José Alvillar Anna Toenjas Lizz Nelson Adam Spanier Nick Dahlquist Natalyn Flaten Farhia Omar Jard Sundvall Mary Stewart Rachell Kelly Lauren Johnson Cameron Alt Tony Fremling Lauren Johnson Mark Woodley Whitney Blount Smith Laura Morales Elise Estrada Susan Woehrle Whitney Blount Smith Laura Morales Adrian Waters Eric Moen Esther Abrahamson Drew DeGennaro Tony Fremling Cory Madeleine Roe Adrian Waters Bryan Rassat Laurie Akermark D.E. Green Elise Estrada Mark Woodley Abeni Hill Steven Saari D.E. Green

6 8 9 13 14 15 16 17 19 20 26 27 30 31 32 33 34 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 74 75 76 77 78 80 85 86 88

Murphy Square

ENGMAN PRIZE IN CREATIVE WRITING -- 2012 Engman Prize for Creative Nonfiction

Elise Estrada, “ 24, Faubourg”

Honorable Mention: Judy Johnson, “Near the End of the Road Trip” Engman Prize for Fiction

Elise Estrada, “Papaver Somniferum” Judy Johnson, “Cathy’s Corner” Mark Woodley, “Rise to Me”

Engman Prize for Screenwriting

Nicolette Albertson, “Helping Those Who Help Themselves” Jake Johnson, “Wanderer”

Engman Prize for Poetry

Steve Saari, “Burned Toast,” “Dear Maple Grove,” “Funeral by a River”

Honorable Mention: Jayne Carlson, “Memory of the Midwest,” “Song” Benjamin Radecki, “Doll House,” “When Asking of Your Leave”

JOHN R. MITCHELL ACADEMY OF AMERICAN POETS PRIZE -- 2012 CO-WINNERS

Steve Saari Brianna Olson-Carr

HONORABLE MENTION

Susan Woehrles Benjamin Radecki

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Forward Where We Are Lit there is a need for light, but I have only this match to offer: shared darkness is a collective night, no wind on shoulders or raised parabolas of skin, we capture the void and make faces; find the color, whisper descriptions— buoyant on waves of questioning, we rise each voice lights a spark, every flicker illuminates what we couldn’t see before: ballet shoes and coffee tables, children under armchairs, lemon villains, icy friendships and more smoke than air. little light bulbs of oh’s and ah’s, the dark lifts— complete phrases and photographs are sunshine breathing yellow into pages, every hieroglyphic shapes loose lips, intention’s tensions, that portrait. bright, loud, all shadows abolished, pictures painted by pen and acrylics are galleries of earth. watch this. we can make our own solar system. we just have to planet, orbit is easy: we are the sun. -Brianna Olson-Carr

Murphy Square

Crows

Eric Moen She told me they were old, that their average age was eighty. I imagined them watching me when I was a child. They remembered how I used to try to play Frisbee alone in the backyard, but now I just pluck weeds or smoke. Sometimes on early mornings they decide I have slept enough, measuring my sleep, knowing what I need. They hop to the middle of a busy street to breakfast on a run-over bag of french-fries. They never get hit by cars. Crows are smarter than any other thing. Older, experienced, smarter. Smarter than me. Smarter than you. I watch them from inside and think they don’t see me. But they know I’m in here, as they saw me come in and I have not come out. My location has been pinpointed by black brains behind their black bead eyes. Their beaks are witches fingernails. They whisper their “nevermore” and I shiver. Agitated, I feverishly feel the need to dispel the myth and I google them. She was apparently wrong about them being old, they only live a few years. They are not ancient and unimaginably wise. And black cats are just cats. Ghosts are also not real. All day I just googled everything and it turns out we have nothing to fear. But later, while I sleep, the mice collapse their skeletons to squeeze beneath the door

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and manage to hang from the chain that opens the fireplace flue with a cast iron clunk, allowing the crows to enter. They watch me snoring as my cat leaves them unmolested. They remember the crib, the twin bed, my first double, the futon, the queen size. If I were to wake, I would learn google is wrong, it is just what people think. In the dark the crows observe me as they always have, but I just snore, then toss, and turn, and exhale a sigh. They are gone before I awake, high in the trees as I squint to the morning sun.

Murphy Square

Gunfire

Rowan Smith Gunfire from the north stops my breath. The dead leaves stay static as the wind takes a cue and drops. Digging into the dirt with the sides of my feet, I scurry diagonally up the hill cold steel and finished wood numb under sweaty hands. The scene is picturesque: Gun still raised, smoke rises undisturbed like the soul escaping. Taking sight, I put training to use. Standing, watching him fall, the same picture as before. Then suddenly, Gunfire from the north stops my breath.

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Bounce

Jayne Carlson This is how it all starts. You’re sitting in your room with your headphones on. Led Zeppelin IV, the final track, “When the Levee Breaks,” is cranked up as loud as it will go, John Bonham’s drumming coursing so wildly through your veins that you swear your heart is beating in rhythm to the song. You’re aware of nothing else as that driving beat drowns out the world. Your eyes are closed. You don’t even know where you are. You don’t care. You want that song to pick you up and carry you away with it, to another planet, another solar system. Anywhere but here. And so of course it has to happen. The knock at the door you can’t hear, then the pounding. Then the screaming, “Care! Carrie? Are you in there? Care!” But your eyes are closed. You’re really not there. You can’t hear them. That’s when they get desperate. They go to the window. Suddenly you’re aware of motion. Your eyes are closed, you’re not there, but somehow, you sense something moving outside. It takes every ounce of will to pull yourself out of your music trip enough to pry open your eyes. When you do, you see the tops of the two long edges of an aluminum ladder swaying, then positioning themselves, crooked and off-centered, in your window. First you see the brown wavy hair, then the forehead, and then the face of your little brother Mark. He’s got chocolate smeared around his lips, and some in his eyebrow. “What the hell are you doing?” you yell at him. He’s too little to be climbing a ladder that high, and you know he couldn’t have carried it to your window. You open the window and yank him inside. Then you push the ladder over and it just misses your old man. His gut jiggles as he trips over his own feet to get out of the way. His face is red. He disgusts you. You yell out the window at him, “What the hell are you doing sending little Mark up the ladder? Jesus Christ, you trying to kill him?” The old man is about to say something but you slam the window shut. You and Mark watch him pacing around the yard, his cheeks undulating, his finger pointing up at you, his face reddening some more. You unplug the headphones and let the speakers take over. By now, Led Zeppelin IV is over, the next record, Houses of the Holy, has dropped and “The Rain Song” is playing. Mark covers his ears and starts to cry. You turn the sound off and look around your room for a Kleenex, or something to wipe Mark’s tears and the chocolate from his face. Your dad is still ranting outside. You know that within ten minutes, Mrs. Swanson from next door will be on the phone with her son, the lieutenant cop. Your dad doesn’t think that far. You can’t find a Kleenex, so you grab your favorite red bandana from your top drawer and start cleaning and calming your brother. He’s scared. He’s shaking. Yet this is all he knows. This and being bounced from one foster home to another, which is even worse. You hate it, that’s the most you can feel right now. Murphy Square

You go to your closet and dig out the backpack Mrs. Wilson gave you, the last foster mom you had. The sight of the backpack almost makes you throw up. You swear you can smell the foul breath of her Neanderthal son George, you can feel him grunting on top of you, holding a sock in your mouth. His thin creepy lips and bloodshot eyes. You had to run. You had to. No matter how much Mrs. Wilson loved Jesus, no matter how much she thought Jesus could save you through her, you had to get the fuck out of there. And you almost made it that time. But the conductor spotted you trying to haul Mark over the edge of the freight car. The cops were waiting for you at the next stop. And that’s how you wound up back with the Old Man. He had six months left of his three-year probation. They decided to let him have custody of you and Mark, with the warning that if he broke any of his probation rules, you’d be taken away. That basically meant he could keep you if he didn’t drink. But that was like asking the grass to not grow. You knew it was only a matter of time. The police arrive fifteen minutes later. Your old man has gone inside and is probably passed out on the toilet. From your window, you see Lt. Swanson and his partner walk dutifully up the sidewalk and onto the porch, their Billy clubs swinging at their hips as they walk. You can’t let them find you. You can’t let them send you to more foster parents, more hell. The foster parents act like they’re such do-gooders, but you know they’re only in it for the money. They’re like mini-dictators, just looking for power and control. They treat you like slaves and then want you to feel grateful to them for saving you. You want to tell them to fuck off. Downstairs you hear a knock on the screen door. “Mr. Cortez?” The old man doesn’t answer. You hear him stumble into the john. Another knock. “Mr. Cortez, this is Lt. Swanson of the Starkville Police Department. Officer Jacobsen is with me. We need to talk to you. May we come in? Looks like your door is open.” You hear the old man slur something that the police take as an invitation. You hear the screen door bang shut. “Mr. Cortez?” you hear Swanson call out. You know it’s only a matter of time before they find him slumped on the toilet, one of his typical moments of dignity. You shush Mark with your finger to your lips and a sharp look from your eyes. Mark’s eyes are as big as saucers, his young little innocent brain trying to sort out all the fucked-upedness of the situation around him. You hear the creaking of the floor as they walk towards the bathroom, then a flush of the toilet, and then the sound of your father’s belt buckle hitting the porcelain, his belt swinging as the police have to help him pull up his pants. You can hear him slurring in protest, but by now he’s just a puddle. You know they’re coming for you next, or that any minute some social worker will be driving up, ready to whisk you and Mark away. You know Mrs. Swanson told her son everything and then some, Mark up at the window, the broken-down ladder, the old man drunk and screaming. She doesn’t like you, she doesn’t want you in her neighborhood. She pities you, that’s the best she can do. Your mind starts to race, you know you’ve got to run, and you’ve got to make it this time. You think about what to do with Mark. Do you leave him there,

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or do you try to take him with you? You’re sixteen, he’s seven. You can’t leave him. You can’t let him face another foster family hell alone. Downstairs you hear a shuffling, the police trying to corral the old man. He’s telling them to leave him the fuck alone, don’t they have better things to do. He’s saying this in half-Spanish. “Mr. Cortez. We had a call from the neighbor about a disturbance here. Said you were mistreating your son, that you sent him up an unsafe ladder. Is this true, Mr. Cortez?” “Mande!” the old man slurred his Spanish version of ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’ “Mr. Cortez, you need to talk to us about this. I’m going to ask you again, did you send your son up a ladder today?” You know none of this would be happening if you didn’t live next door to Mrs. Swanson. If her son wasn’t a cop. “Have you been drinking today, Mr. Cortez?” And there it is. Their green light to call the social worker. Just then you hear a loud thud from downstairs. “He tried to punch me!” you hear the other cop yell. “He took a swing at me!” Next thing you hear is the click and snap of handcuffs and then Swanson yelling at the old man. “You know it’s wrong to assault a police officer, Mr. Cortez?” “Vete a la chingada!” But they’ve got him now. And then it starts. “You are under arrest for an act of fifth degree attempted assault, and an act of third degree attempted assault of a police officer, in violation of Missouri State Statute… You have the right to remain silent,” etc. You hear the screen door slam shut and then silence. You know this is your chance to get out of sight. You quickly open your window back up and grab Mark by the arm. You step out into the hallway and tiptoe your way through a battlefield of miniature plastic army men and tanks. You spot the step stool, but Mark’s set a dog dish on the top step and some of the army dudes are taking a swim in it. A whole battalion is stuck in the quicksand of a melting Hershey’s bar on the bottom step. You look up and see the attic stairs cord is missing. You look back toward the old man’s door. The floor is covered with his dirty laundry: socks, underwear, t-shirts, and a pair of jeans. You notice a cowboy boot sticking out one of the pant legs and the belt still in the loops; you’re almost blinded by the sun reflecting off the giant silver naked lady buckle. You give up and duck into the bathroom. You can still fit in the linen closet on the floor, underneath the bottom shelf. You know that all you have to do is throw some towels on the floor, and the two of you will blend in with the rest of the mess. Mark’s scared as shit. You crouch in the closet and wait. Silence. You wonder what the hell is happening. More silence. You swear ten minutes have gone by. You know something’s wrong. This is not how it goes. “Can you be a good boy?” you say to Mark. His big wide eyes nod “yes.” “Okay, good. Just wait here. Don’t move. No matter what, don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Okay? Murphy Square

“Okay.” “Got it?” “Got it.” “Okay, good. I’ll be right back.” Your heart’s pounding a million beats a minute. You carefully open the closet door and listen. Nothing. You push your way out, pile the towels back up to hide Mark, and then creep to the door and peek around. Nothing. Silence. Eerie silence. You tiptoe down the hallway to the old man’s bedroom at the front of the house. You carefully pull back the edge of the curtain and peek out the window. No cop cars. No Mrs. Swanson. No one. They forgot about you. For a minute you stand there and stare out the window, unable to move. Up the street you see the normal kids, the ones with families, playing Whiffle Ball in the street. You see them laughing, yelling, playing. Across the street, your neighbor’s German Shepherd puppy is looking right at you, barking at you from the end of his leash, his tail wagging so fast it’s a blur. You feel your mouth turn up in a compulsive smile at the sight of him. You turn your head. Next door, lilacs bloom at the end of Mrs. Swanson’s driveway. Her big green Buick is no longer there. You drop the curtain back and walk toward the door. You pick up the old man’s dirty jeans from the floor. You find a twenty-dollar bill in the front pocket, and a wooden drink medallion from the Corner Bar. You grab both and head back to your room. You pick up your backpack and throw in some clothes, underwear, and a sweatshirt. You open Mark’s dresser drawer and grab some clothes for him too. You head down to the kitchen and look for some food to bring, a jar of peanut butter, some crackers, and a couple of Little Debbie’s. You head back up to the bathroom to get Mark, stopping in the hallway to pick up a few of his army men for the road. You open the closet door and find him sound asleep under the towels. You shake him awake. “C’mon Buddy,” you tell him, “it’s time to go.” He rubs his eyes, but they won’t quite open. He puts his little arms around you and snuggles down into your lap as you crouch on the floor. You pull him close to you and hug him for a minute, breathing in the warm sleepy air that surrounds him. For an instant, you feel safe, you feel he feels safe. But you know time is running out. “C’mon Buddy,” you say, letting him slide down off your lap as you stand up. You grab his hand in yours and head out of the bathroom, down the hallway, down the stairs, and right on out the side door. You take off running on a path through the neighbors’ backyards. About fifty feet away you stop by the Peterson’s clothesline to tie Mark’s shoe. And then you look back toward the house one last time. The sun is starting to set. You see the silhouette of curtains blowing in and out of your opened bedroom window, the ladder lying in the yard. Next door, Mrs. Swanson’s Buick is back in the driveway. The neighbor’s puppy has gone inside. And off in the distance, a train rumbles, blows its whistle, then screeches to a stop. You grab Mark’s hand, and you’re off.

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a twister

Brianna Olson-Carr how did we come to running through the poppies? and as the leaves brushed your ankles, did you begin to sleep? the hypnotic fairytale casting sharp shadows on your basement walls? i was cowarding in my ruby reds, clutching toto while you screamed disappointment. where the hell did i get off landing my house on the witch. who the hell asked me to free the munchkins. what the hell, good witch. wicked, you snapped away the Technicolor in one click. throwing apples, oil can, tossing matches, eating hot dogs, kicking down the cellar door, auntie em, uncle henry. a brain. a heart. a home. the nerve. i could’ve clicked my heels the whole time they might have brushed against one another during some polka, would have woken up from a coma back in black and white, but i had the power all along? why didn’t you say so in the first place. here. let’s take a shortcut. through the poppies.

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Angels

Laurie Akermark You have known me, in so many forms I feel your eyes, like many times before. I have traveled, I have waited, told my story and placated, into your embrace. Softly flowing, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still growing, wings of Angels fill my knowing, as I bear no arms.

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Exposed

Bryan Rassat Being is enough. Pierce like the way you entered my heart, no edges or core perforated solid—bound it remains. Beats re-placed by a pul-sating , def-in-ing thud. Emotions towered story by story, no elevator could get us there unusually it can’t happen with the climb but the required fall. The beast of fear descends back to the primordial taking casualties by the none it’s the cosmic relinquishing of an indefinite eclipse…. When I’m way over my own; when the middle feels it might be the end; when the next couple steps vanish by the shed of light, unexpectedly the calming drip of you leaves a rippling effect, significance unconditional forever undefined by words, feelings, or papered rules.

Murphy Square

Dear Maple Grove, Steven Saari

Sitting in my car, in this manicured parking lot, I prayed for your immediate destruction. Or at least a mediocre riot. A fire. A flood. Something original, refreshing, preferably uncomfortable. Anything except plastic time, bought and sold. Within walls of pushed and piled dirt that consume thoughts of shopper stop, the busy spinning and stripping before convention, blinded by the attraction of buying in. Tugging on loose fabric, renewed disinterest, naked under a common and collective sigh. Humming along in the subtle drone, the desolate dirge of another coercive morning. The buried prairie silenced beneath the clearance rack: to sulk in panted stare, panic the forgotten soil abandoned in dead weed dirt. The loose conveyor belt, its exposed innards shuffle those lost in maps and malls, all tap dancing inside a machine. The mechanically balletic with bleeding and separated parts captive and lilting retail flowers. Erased by sterility as someone arrives at the vehicle parked next to mine to progress the path before them as everything goes on sale.

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Truth

Michelle Devens ….And then there was Truth Sometimes I wonder if beneath this beautiful moonlit sky, if a dome will ever appear and awaken me with a freeing spotlight I’m sick of being my only supporter. Endlessly striving to pick up any voters. I ache for my voice and words to be heard from the mountains, cascading down in riches and falling into deep, six feet under ditches. I feel like a body comprised of ashes. I see a broken reflection of a girl scarred with the whips of tongues and their lashes. I hate myself for hoping for the possibility of tomorrow because tomorrow for me brings nothing but sorrow. I scream for a God who never responds not even in those little quiet works that Sunday pastors are so keen to speak on. I bleed venom that clouds my clarity, leaving me with nothing but a daunting disparity. I search endlessly into the consolations hoping to be swallowed up and spit back out with some phenomenal revelation. I search for a definition for who I am and whom I want, but the difference between chromosomes leaves my heart in a knot. I don’t fit within societal confines, so I run into the darkness to find gems in the mines. I liquefy the gem’s potential and steal their rhymes. I hate myself most of the time because I can’t answer the questions that dangerously bind. Sometimes I want the buzzer to sound on my heartbeat and my journey to be complete. I melt when any form of criticism shutters into view. I feel my wounds reopening and thick skin starting to unglue. Never did I think I would end up again in this position. I can’t seem to locate the shovel or a latter to pull myself from this labyrinth I’ve thrown myself in. I breathe in the fumes of my living hell while fire erupts from my chords. I’m no longer a small, blonde, canary but an out casted phoenix with burnt wings so I can no longer soar. I can’t look into the mirror because the glass shatters and scars me with my cut up and distorted reflection. The shards of my image melt and slice open my skin. They write hateful names on my flesh. They say I’m too hideous for boys to love. They say I’m too obscure for anyone to understand me. The things I thought I could do have left me undone, so I cling to things others have done and claim some familiarity. I label myself with names that give way to a fatal and mysterious attraction while I’m constantly falling and no one but my mother seems willing catch me. Murphy Square

*** So here’s the truth. A Truth I’ve never told *** I wake up in the morning and paint on a face. Knowing that the burning of my hate will melt off the paint and show my true face. I sleep through the day because my reality is too painful. I’ve spent my life with sweaty palms and a searching mind, always searching for stolen gems in the mines. I’ve only kissed a few boys and only after a glass of wine. I make things too complicated and give way to paranoia, but I’m here to stand by anyone who feels alone, who constantly hears; “Sorry I don’t have time to console ya.” I love people and all of their complexities, But I sometimes see man-made rules as a glass cage that reflects only ridicule. I yearn for the day when labels aren’t needed. A day when sex isn’t sold for 99 cents and porn addictions aren’t more common than real love convictions. I can’t wait for the day when James Who is really a Jessica is embraced and understood, For the day that sexuality isn’t black and white and girls have sex for more reasons than, “he said I should.” I fantasize about the day when alcohol isn’t my self-esteem elixir and I find a friend who tells me it’s okay not to know the answers to my life that’s like a constant game of Twister. I ache for the day when maybe I’ll accept the flawed girl I see in the mirror. I’ll walk with the ability to see clearer, But until that day I’ll strive to maybe be a better person. I’ll stop soiling the footprints in the snow, and passing quick judgments because It’s scary not to know. I mean, maybe a spotlight won’t ever open up for me. To be honest I can’t even promise that living in mediocrity will ever be okay with me. I’ll stop daydreaming at night just to fall blissfully asleep. Maybe today I’ll take one step at a time And stop napping away my potential. Instead I’ll write about a utopia without confines. A place where he can be her and she can be him, and they can love each other because it’s not a sin, a place where God’s vocal chords are medicated, and he’ll find the ability to speak, and my mother will get better and not be so weak, a place where my dad will find the words to cry, and I won’t be such a monster most of the time, a place where media will stop dictating the fabulous ways to live or die, because we’ll all sleep together under my spotlighted midnight sky.

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Takin’ The A Train Sean Evenson

“These tracks can only take me so far,” I say as I stagger on my way to the bar. I’m unsteady from the rock of the train. A few drinks are sure to roll the pain out of my mind. With time, I can find a way to get on track. But now I’ve found the sound is driving me outta this town. The sound of time whistling by, It’s something you can’t control. So for now I’ll try to get by while the conductor takes a hold. I’m takin’ the A Train. “It looks like I’m the only one here,” I say as I rummage through the bar for a beer. I’m uneasy from the black of the night. I hope to see the white of the light out on my own. I’m free to see what I want to see— no burden on me. Oh the key is to make good company With the sound of time whistling by, It’s something you can’t control. So for now I’ll cry “Goodbye,” While the conductor takes a hold. I’m takin’ the A Train. Was it wrong for me to leave you behind? I still don’t know where to go. The time is tickin’ and I’m looking outside at the shadows on the road. And they’re telling me “You can’t go on when you’re thoughts are back home.” And they’re telling me “You don’t know how to make it own your own.” I’m takin’ the A Train. Murphy Square

Cathy’s Corner

Judy Niemi Johnson I sat curled in the corner, where the two large windows met, behind the massive chair. My sister and I could both sit in it, but never did; at least not at the same time. It was Father’s chair, not a plaything. It was a wing back chair, dark gray with curved feet the color of burnt caramel. I know because I crawled underneath it often. The chair was nestled into the corner, leaving a small space for me. The red satin curtain cascaded down the corner, forming an iridescent waterfall behind the chair. I scurried under the chair and found enough room for myself and a book or two. It was my space; a perfect little hideaway with a silky cushion for my back and my legs stretched out under the skirting. No one could see me there. It was my own. I shared it with Father, although he did not know it. Mother would leave a scotch on the wood cabinet, cinnamon swirled with tall slender legs, next to the chair. Father kept his cigars there. On top was the heavy glass ashtray, crystal with two scoops cut out of the edges to hold the cigars while they burned. The feathery chunks of ash would fall into small smoky piles. When he opened the little front door, the dark spicy smell would fall out. He picked out a cigar, let his fingers roll it around a little bit, like he was feeling a pickle. Then he bit the very tip off and spit into the ashtray. He used the polished silver lighter, which looked like a magic genie lantern; held the flame at the tip and sucked, in and out, until the end began to glow red. Father laid his head back, closed his eyes, and let the velvet smoke circle the room. June was hotter than normal that summer. Mom thought I was outside playing with the neighbor kids, but they told me I was too young. So I hid behind the chair, where it was cool and Mom wouldn’t find me. I was reading all the World Book Encyclopedias, determined to get a head start on fourth grade next year. The letter “D” was a thin book; I was already up to “dogs.” It was late afternoon. The scotch was waiting. I had put my finger in it once, to taste, but it burned my tongue. So I just watched the drops form on the outside of the glass as we all waited for Father. I heard his keys in the front door, then the heavy thud as the door closed behind him. Mom’s voice came from the kitchen and joined him in the hall. They said low things to each other, things I never could hear. Father walked into the sunken living room; the gold carpet sucked the sound away from his footsteps. But I heard the chair groan slightly as he sunk into its folds, the gentle shudder as his back hit its frame. I heard his cufflinks drop onto the table; I think he had the silver square ones that day. The stiff cotton sounded like sand paper as he rolled up his sleeves. I carefully closed the World Book and set it down, listened to my father’s deep breathing, the clinking of the ice as he tipped the gold liquid down his throat. “Well, I’m glad you made it home,” Mom said as she came in from the kitchen. “Dinner is ready, but a bit cold from waiting.” I peeked around the side of the chair. She stood by the steps in her pale

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blue sundress, her hair sticking to her damp neck. “I think you should talk to them about how late they make you work.” “You want to live in a nice house like this? I have to work when they tell me.” Dad took another long sip. Mom twisted the dishtowel in her hand, then she turned back to go into the kitchen. “Hey,” Father said quietly. “Come here.” “I need to get the girls. I have dinner on the table.” “The girls are not going to starve if they wait a few more minutes.” No one moved. Mom dug her bare foot into the shag carpet, twisting her ankle back and forth. Father took another sip, the ice hitting the side of the glass. “Come here, baby,” he said. Mom walked slowly over. I could hear her dress swish softly as she settled on Father’s lap; the chair creaked, but I don’t think they heard it. The chair’s frame moved slightly back and forth as they moved around. A light giggle, the one reserved for just Father, made its way around the chair to me. Mom’s feet were poised out in the air, the way feet are pointed in the middle of a dive off a dock; her red polish perfectly done with no smudges. Her feet began to rub together, ever so slightly, until her toes twitched, up and down, back and forth. I could hear something rubbing against Mom’s dress, making a soft tissue paper sound. Then I heard a slap. “Hey,” Mom said. “What was that spanking for?” “I remember you saying something about supper?” “I thought we were eating,” she said with a little giggle. “Dessert baby, dessert comes later. Now go on, I’m hungry.” I heard Mom take a big breath of air. She climbed off Father’s lap and walked into the kitchen. “Girls,” she called. “Dinner’s ready!” Father finished his scotch in one long sip and set the empty glass on the table. Then he gripped the arms with his big hands, gave them a little squeeze, and stood. I watched him walk slowly up the two steps into the dining room. He stopped at the edge of the long wood table, the chairs undisturbed. He shook out his pants by the waistband, ran his fingers back through his dark hair, and walked around the corner into the kitchen. I crawled underneath the chair and ran out to the hall, so it looked like I had just come in through the front door. Mom wouldn’t notice any difference. She never went looking for me anyway. Summer moved slowly as the air got thick and steamy. The last Saturday in June my sister Jen had to watch me while Mom and Father went out one evening. Babysitting she called it, even though I was nearly eight. Jen always complained, but I didn’t mind her watching me. It was the only time she ever talked directly to me. “You can stay in Mom and Dad’s bedroom all night,” she said as I finished my TV dinner of fish sticks, corn, and whipped potatoes. “Won’t that be fun?” “I don’t want to stay there all night.” “You can watch the TV,” she said with a big syrupy smile. “Can’t we play a game or something? How about Monopoly?” “You can watch anything you like,” she said as she pulled my dinner away. “Hey, I’m not done with my corn.” “Too bad,” she said. The smile was gone. She looked up at the clock, shaped like a big red rooster. “You have exactly five minutes to get up there.” Murphy Square

I knew Jimmy was coming over. I was not stupid. “You’re not supposed to have anyone over when you are watching me.” “Go!” she yelled. Then she leaned in close and whispered. “Or I’ll tell Mom and Dad you wet the bed.” “I don’t wet the bed and I’m not a baby!” I yelled over my shoulder as I ran down the hall and into their bedroom. The door slammed shut behind me as I flung myself across the great bed. Father had his chair, but the bedroom was really Mom’s. It had rosy colored walls and a fluffy bedspread with great big flowers printed all over. It felt like a silky garden with velvet green pillows. I could smell my mom’s powder in the folds, sweet like taffy. Her long white satin robe was draped over her chair, her perfumes, all in miniature glass vials, were lined up along her matching table. The silver hairbrush was set, always on the right hand side. Father’s TV, a colored one, sat on the top of the white dresser, at the end of the bed. Even though being in the bedroom was a rare thing, all night was too long for me. I was up to the “I” World Book and was hoping to read about iguanas. Detective Friday was on the TV, taking notes while he interviewed a suspect. His suit was the same in black and white or in color. Why did I have to do what she said anyway? The TV was still on as I closed the door behind me; she’d think I was still there. Jen was in the bathroom; the heavy flower smell of Aqua Net seeped from cracks in the door. The hissing sound went on and off. I tiptoed quickly down the stairs and into the living room. Then I settled behind the chair to read. She would never find me there. The doorbell rang. I heard thuds as Jen jumped down the stairs and ran to the door. I could hear Jimmy’s voice, it went low, and then high with little squeaks in between. He got his words mixed up when he talked with my Father, but he was pretty nice to me. They talked for a few minutes and then went into the kitchen. I heard the cupboard doors open and close, plates clattering, glasses tinkling. My sister never handled the dishes carefully like me, sometimes she even broke them. Jimmy and my sister were boring, always talking about people at school I didn’t know. So I ignored them. Iguanas were more interesting, with their green scales and long tongues. The voices faded into the background. I was reading about Inuits when I noticed it was much quieter. But something made muffled sounds. Jen and Jimmy weren’t talking anymore; they were not eating either. I could hear them breathing. Jimmy had a little whistle that came out his nose, especially after he had been running. They were moving around, maybe shifting how they sat on the sofa. The springs made little popping noises. I wanted to stretch and remembered the cookies in the kitchen. Carefully, I peeked around the side of the chair. I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them on the couch, making little sounds, soft humming sounds. “How long before your parents get home?” Jimmy said. I froze. “Not for a long, long time,” Jen giggled. “Why, you got something in mind?” “Oh yeh, baby. I got lots of things in mind for you.” They both giggled. I listened to see if they were going to get up or keep talking. But the humming sounds returned. Slowly, I crawled out from under the chair until I could get a better look. Jen was on Jimmy’s lap, her back to me, her legs tucked up on the couch. Jimmy’s hands were on her back, rubbing all over. They were kissing. Her

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long hair wrapped around them, the big waves stiff like frozen water. They didn’t see me. I crawled out softly, creeping like a cat, staying low. My sister made deep noises, back in her throat. I could hear Jimmy’s hands moving faster on her cotton blouse. I got to the steps and climbed up. I could feel the imprint of the shag carpet on my palms. Just before I turned the corner, I looked back one more time. My sister’s head was tilted to the side, Jimmy was kissing her neck. His hand slid off her back and around to her front. I didn’t move. I wanted to see what would happen. Then Jimmy opened his eyes. He saw me, but did not make a sound, did not show any sign of surprise or fear of being caught. I knew they weren’t supposed to be doing that. I knew Father would be angry at Jimmy if he knew his hand was on my sister’s breast, angry at me for watching. Jimmy knew that too. But he didn’t stop, didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he winked at me. And I felt like I was caught, part of something icky. I wasn’t supposed to be there. And I didn’t like that feeling. I got up and ran to Mom’s room. I locked the door behind me, waited under the perfumed covers until someone carried me to my bed later that night. The sun dried us out, made the grass crunchy as the summer wore on. We had cereal in the morning together, and then everyone left to go different places, to find some way to cool down. Father left quick, sometimes with his toast in his hand. Jen and Jimmy biked to the pool to visit with their friends. Mom sat on the front porch with the neighbor, drinking iced tea and fanning herself with Good Housekeeping. I stayed in my pink flowered swimsuit all day. Mom thought I was running through the hose with the kids down the street. But I just hid behind the chair, with a damp washcloth to wet my neck once in a while. The heat had burned all day. It was that moment in the late afternoon when the wasps hovered by the windows and the flowers had all drooped from exhaustion. Father was late again. Mom was lying down in her bedroom. She told us earlier to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when we got hungry. It was too hot to cook. I had the “M” World Book and a Coke with me behind the chair. I licked the last of the peanut butter off my fingers as I watched the glass of scotch, waiting; the ice had melted long ago. A puddle of water pooled on the tabletop. For some reason, Mom didn’t seem to care. I heard the keys in the door, the heavy thud as it closed. “Hello,” Father called. Mom didn’t answer. I heard him come across the carpet, felt the chair’s familiar shudder as he settled in. Father didn’t move, didn’t fidget at all. He breathed in slow and then let out a long, low sigh. Then he picked up the glass, his finger tapped the edge. He swallowed hard. He must have taken a big gulp. “Where have you been?” Mom asked as she came around the corner. “Come here, baby,” he answered. She didn’t move, but stayed by the steps. I twisted to get a better look around the chair. “No. I asked you a question,” she said slowly. “Out. A few of us grabbed a drink down at Mickey’s.” Mom let out a long, slow humming sound. “Mickey’s.” “It’s all right, baby. Look who I come home to,” he said. Father took another gulp of his scotch. Then he patted his knee. Mom took a few steps toward him. She dragged her feet through the carpet fibers, like they were Murphy Square

very heavy, tired, leaving a trail in the shag. I could see her hands on her waist, the fingers tucked into her belt, knuckles white. There were rings of sweat under her arms, making the fabric turn dark pink. “Supper ready?” Father asked. “We had supper, but I can make you a baloney sandwich if you want.” “Baloney, huh?” He tapped the edge of the glass. “No, thanks.” “Look, I’m trying here,” she said. “So am I.” Mom stopped right in front of Father. She rubbed her hands along her hips, smoothing the dress down. Then she simply froze. “Where is your wedding ring?” He put the glass down. It was quiet, so quiet I could hear the wasps bumping against the window. Father shifted in the chair. He dropped the contents of his pocket on the tabletop; some folded paper, his keys, coins and his wide gold wedding band. No one moved as the wedding band rolled across the table and tipped, rolling around and around until it finally lay still. I stopped breathing, tried to keep my heart quiet. Father shifted again in his chair, gripping the arms. Mom wrapped her arms around herself, covering her chest, like she was giving herself a hug. I had that icky feeling again. “I see,” she said, almost to herself. “Don’t be jumping to conclusions—” Mom interrupted him. “Well, you have to eat something.” She took a breath. “I’ll just find something else.” She turned and walked up the steps and into the kitchen. “That’s fine,” Father said. Then he picked up the warm glass again. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. I opened my mouth, and took in a big gulp of air. It came out louder than I intended and I felt Father jerk in his chair. I froze, hoping he might forget. He didn’t stand or lean over. He set his scotch down on the table very slowly, like he was doing a long hard think for a moment. “You there, Pumpkin?” he asked softly. “Yes.” “What you doing back there?” “This my special spot, my hiding spot.” “You hide there a lot?” I had to think about that for a minute. Sometimes I said what was true, but it came out wrong and I got in just as much trouble as if I was lying. “I’ve been here a lot this summer.” He took another sip of his scotch. “I think everyone wants a hiding spot once in a while.” He paused. I could hear Mom running water in the kitchen. “I think that is just fine.” He reached into the cabinet and pulled out a cigar, rolled it in his fingers. The lighter clicked and he sucked in the air, sending puffs of smoke up above his head. I leaned back in my corner, watched the smoke hover, like a sad little cloud above us. “Are you in trouble, Father?” “Might be, Pumpkin,” he said quietly. I heard the cufflinks drop on the table, like dice for a board game. His sleeves rustled as he rolled up one, then the other. Then he let his arm drape over the edge of the chair, his big hand hanging in midair. The cigar kept a stream of soft

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smoke rising from between his teeth. “It’s an icky feeling, way down deep inside,” I said. “Yes, it is.” Then he stopped talking all together. I watched his fingers flex, open and close, listened to his breath as he softly blew smoke into the thick air. I took hold of his hand and held it tight. He squeezed it back. And Father and I stayed like that until the light made the room turn to gold and my hair picked up the scent of his cigar.

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Waking in Cuba Steven Saari

This morning, I understood the sun— my separation from it the endless waves, the distant hills and from the frame of this Havana window my mind is a raging fire on the ocean floor with the invisible lines that embrace a massive wall drawn by the slow hand of indifference, the longing of chalk, starving sidewalks beneath the wandering dog, the watchful eyes of a feral cat trace the face of a mickey mouse And so I slide into my broken machine— temptation melting the uneven plastic of its own invention, the brilliant colors - toxic and wild, yielding to the desperate heat. And so I dive into the burning water to challenge the fathoms towards the unknowable shore with the empire plastered upon my body naked the call of Yemana falling into these arms. The ascension of passage, the wake of its thought illuminated by modern maps that cover the truth of fading street lights where we explode from unseen corners, all rhythms at once— follow the waves that carry all journeys home to the warmth of a rising star where the rooster rings louder than the clanging bell, the balcony that spent its tricks on the sill, the teasing of time to a ticking clock, the rickety cart and the sculpted horse pull the weighted moments into this embedded head— display the electric revolutions in the mechanics of dawn. And so now, on the tip of my tongue, a rolling silence.

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Amen

William Trembley What the fuck are you doing. I could still hear those words clearly when I closed my eyes, the words words and the voice and when I opened my eyes my vision was bllrrured with tears, which surprised me. I wiped my face with my sleeve and chuckled, running my fingers through my hair. How stupid. I looked up at the house and felt my faint smile vanish. I closed my eyes again and remembered that night over a decade ago. And then I walked down the street. I came to the door of a white, two-story house and heard many voices within, laughing and chatchattering and for a moment I just stood, staring at the door handle and seeing the reflection of the silhouettes of dark trees against the gray sky behind me looming over my shoulder. I pushed the door open and a flood of warm air and comfortable orange light embraced me. The room was littered with christmas decorations and the plastic tree in the corner stood there glittering with tinsel and LEDs and other sparkling objects of red and gold and on the floor underneath were boxes wrapped in decorative paper and plastered with ribbon and bows. I blended into the group without notice and there was a good chance, I thought, that nobody even realized I left. Wearing a plastic smile, I weaved my way between relations and into the kitchen and poured a glass of eggnog. I leaned against the counter and ssipped for a minute when there was a whisper in my ear. There you are, it said. I was wondering where you ran off to. Hello, I replied. I avoided making eye contact. Instead I took a slow sip. Well? she asked, still smiling. Yeah I just stepped out for a minute. She smiled and tilted her head. Oh? Mind if I ask about it? I finally looked at her. She looked back at me and batted her eyelashes playfully and I fought a smile. Yeah not now. Maybe I can tell you about it some other time. She frowned. Promise? Promise, I said and kissed her forehead. Okay well I was talking to your sister before. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. She started to walk away and said over her shoulder, I think your mom said we eat in an hour. I nodded and took another sip and she left me alone. I thought about the house and that night and about that future conversation that I didn’t really plan on having. It was not a matter of trust. It was just strange. I hadn’t told anybody about that night except some girl I dated in high school. We weren’t serious but I remembered sitting in her bedroom one night. The lights were dim and we were supposed to be working on a project together when we started talking about stuff that had nothing to do with school. It was a serious conversation like those that start in one place and end somewhere completely different, like that person is Murphy Square

connected somehow and the conversation never really wants to stop. We talked about everything but eventually we got into romantics and she told me about a guy she dated in ninth grade and I told her about a crush I had for three years in grade school. She told me about some problems she had in middle school and for some reason I told her about a night in eighth grade when I got caught doing something other people didn’t like. Afterwards I felt that telling her was a mistake and I never told anyone else. When it was time for dinner everyone gathered in two groups, there was a big kids table and a little kids table. I sat down by my parents and my girlfriend and started to eat. My mother stood up and cleared her throat and my girlfriend prodded me in the ribs with an elbow and I put my fork down and my mom asked for everyone’s attention and said, I just wanted to say a few words in thanks of our Lord for this meal. She bowed her head. God, we Thank you for this Food that we are about to receive. You are such a Gracious God and we Thank you so much for all that you have given us in this Life. We Thank you for keeping us Safe and bringing us all together on this Wonderful Day, the Birth of your Glorious Son. We thank you for protecting us from the evil of the world and thank you for bringing everyone Home safely so that we could all be together, especially my wonderful son who could be here with us today. And we thank you for his wonderful Girlfriend, who is really a Blessing for this Family and for my son, and we thank you for bringing Her into his life. Amen. There were a few grumbled amenamens and people began to talk among themselves and eat and soon the two tables were full of chatter and the tnkclnking of forks and knives. Nobody noticed that I hadn’t touched my food. Nobody saw me staring at my mashed potatoes. All I thought about was my mother’s prayer. It wasn’t the first time she prayed for me. She called me up one afternoon during my second year of college. At first I couldn’t tell what she was saying but after a moment or two, her words became clear and I realized what she was crying about. She told me that it is a choice, that the bible forbids it, that it is an abomination in the eyes of god. How can I do this to her, thousands of miles away at school and she can’t even see me or be there to pray for me? She never told me how she found out. I will pray for you, she said. Mom, it’s not like that, I said. She started to pray anyways. Amen. She had a hard time getting used to that. I couldn’t speak to her on the phone without threat of prayer. At least once a week, she posted a link on the wall of my facebook page. Not until I graduated from College did she stop trying to persuade me that it wasn’t true. Only a week before christmas, I brought home the first girl in years. And she was a blessing from god. She had saved me from an eternal damnation to the fieriest of hells. Without her I would have lived a life of sin and died straight to agony. At least, that’s what I got from her prayer. I nibbled at a bit of potato but didn’t eat much by the time everyone had finished, nor did I engage in the conversation of the table but when everyone got up to clear their plate and I did the same, throwing untouched food straight into the garbage while nobody noticed. I put my plate in the dishwasher and walked out the door to wherever, it didn’t matter. I walked down the road and looked at the trees. The fingerlike branches were crooked and wicked and seemed to grope in all directions. Where was the snow? The snow was not general here. There was no snow on the ground but dead brown grass covered the lawns of the perfectly

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similar houses staring out at me as I walked down the center of the street. It was christmas day and there wasn’t a car in the road save those idle machines parked in front of the celebratory houses. My feet moved of their own will, taking me back and I don’t know why I stopped in front of that same house. There I was standing in the street once again and I stared up at this house and I couldn’t help but cry. A silent tearless cry. And who would love a man that won’t look in the mirror? Not for shame of who he is but for shame of what people see him to be. He is not embarrassed of himself. He is embarrassed for the people that cannot understand and he pities them because they cannot see. And he stood outside of a house that holds just one memory that has been so strong and he is glad. So he cried a silent tearless cry. Then a hand touched my hand. I jumped in surprise and she smiled at me. Talk to me, she said. I looked at her and her eyes spoke to me. So I told her a story of a boy. He and his friend hadn’t seen the man standing in the crack of the doorway. They hadn’t smelled the whisky that they both eventually recognized. They hadn’t heard his rattling breath, not until after he spoke. He slammed the door open all the way. What the fuck are you doing. It wasn’t a question. Both boys were shocked and embarrassed but his friend was petrified. The boy got off his knees and reached for his clothes but before he could pull on his pants he felt the man’s rough hands on him. One grripped his left bicep, the other squeeeezed hard around the back of his neck. He was forced down the hallway him out the door and he suddenly felt himself thrust out into the night air. The door shut and from inside the house he heard the man’s muffled shout. A moment later the man burst through the screen door again and stood face to face with the boy, towering over him. Listen to me you little faggot, the man said. Don’t you come near my son ever again. The man threw the boys clothes down in the dewy grass and strode back into the house. The door slammed behind him and the deadbolt snapped. And with the chcclck of the lock that night was silent. The boy’s pale skin glowed dimly in the light of the neighborhood street lamps and the cool air raised goosebumps all over his body. He shivered slightly but didn’t move. His throat burned hot, and slowly he bent over to pick up his clothes. He pulled the shirt over his skinny chest and stepped through his pants. His socks and shoes were still inside but he turned and walked down the street anyways.

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After the Summer Barbeque Judy Niemi Johnson

I have a bag of garbage juice in my hand. The black plastic is heavy, sagging at the bottom, stretched to deep gray where the beer bottles poke through. The sweet, sticky syrup drips out, leaving dark circles on the ashen sidewalk. But I am afraid. Inside, hurling against the thin layer of plastic are angry bees. Their tiny roars vibrate, as they bump against the black. They shake my hand, fingers afraid of letting go and unleashing their drowning anger. Desperate, hot bees.

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Public Catharsis Caitlin Wirth I am not a poet. I only wish I could turn cancer into Keats. Beauty is Truth; Truth Beautyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a 14 year old girl without hair is true but certainly not beautiful. At least these words feel good in my mouth. This is my public catharsis, a deliberate purging of the grief. At least these words taste good in my mouth. And they look good on the page After I did not speak (unless spoken to). I can play the piano forte, too. And I can read French. And I can take likenesses in charcoal pencils. And I cannot write sonnets. But I have tried to do this instead.

Murphy Square

Today’s Lesson Megan Camacho

Today I learned I would die I had no true choice. The option to abort myself became real. We jumped through the hoops, the loops, and we jumped into our civilized clothes pronounced by clauses. The doubt in the cause of the white military man blindsided by his personal justice, you are human beings, a towering model that tumbles forever down on the feathers and overly touched folk. Circles of circles were made smaller into pools of constricted blood, bury my flesh right if I am to be a man in the family’s land. My worth, some say, is better off dead. I did not know what to make other than to fight. Hang me. Hairs trimmed twice for the mourning and the false new chapter of assimilation. An abbreviation not to be used seriously. We are baser, they say, before the brothers and sisters of entitled immigrants. Boarding school triangles dictate my daily appetites. Ding! You may be seated. Ding! Pray for your savage soul, you are saved. Ding! You may dine as the cultured do. The holy trinities of dings compel me to lose myself in the never ending dragging of the dead through the paved roads of something painfully new. I do not wish to pray. Today I learned I would be a child of God. My hymns listed in listless paper, fragile to the touch, it too does tremble. In the secreted mornings to myself I smudge red paste on with two hands beneath my eyes to pray for the sun every dawn and he did not know. Holed up I was, my moccasins and blankets buried in a green mist of shame. I wrote letters to father, escaping my prison with my words exclaiming, “They make us into soldiers!” Father replied worlds away with brooding ink, “If this is true send photos of yourself.” Picture—the photo of a boy in military garb grew creases in the pockets of different people. A powerful illness invaded my veins. I still miss my home. Photos strewn on the wood floor boards lay unseen by the only one who would know what is right. The white military man held back the many photos from my father, Hoping he would agree, “You would not like what you would see.”

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The Wake Adam Shaw

Because I could not stop for death I started living for myself, waking up a new day to see the dawning of another the fire sword is sharp in the heart of a dragon the desire for more than the kingdom of heaven Because I could not stop for death I woke that night in a sweat— choosing to see the light for what it really is: unforgivingly complex. Because I could not stop for death Ocean’s undercurrents carried me away Darkness conquers all in the memories that decay Wishful thinking never got anyone anywhere. Was I the one to stand up to you even in despair? Because I could not stop for death narcissus over came me to real life I am the daydreamer who creates the real me all the rejection, all the fame, all the infamy. Do you rest on your laurels? Perhaps you should stop for death. Because I could not stop for death you took the fall.

*borrows the lines and its form from Emily Dickenson’s poem “Because I Could not stop for death”

Murphy Square

I Only Got Eyes for You Drew DeGennaro

It started when I was eight years old. I’d walk past the department store windows with my father on Jamaica Avenue, looking in, and fantasizing about the plastic women dressed so lovely. One day I pointed out one to my father as we passed by Macy’s, she was wearing a red hat, purple blouse and a mini skirt. She had on red cowboy boots. I wanted to touch her, feel her legs. She stood there staring at me from the showcase like no woman had stared at me before. “My love must be a kind of blind love.” There was something there. “I can’t see anyone but you.” I could feel it. “Are the stars out tonight? I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright.” I paused. I Only Have Eyes I longed For Youuuuu, Dear. I made a scene singing as father dragged me away by my shirt. I named the mannequin in the cowboy boots Sylvia. I named many others—there was Jennifer, Tina, Rebecca, and Emily. I’ll never forget Linda or Marge. When I was thirteen, father finally introduced me to one. “I’m gonna make you a man,” he said. I had always wanted to be a man. I’ll never forget coming down those stairs on Christmas day and spotting that curvy outline under the tree, with a big blue bow attached. I ripped through the paper and laid my eyes upon that mannequin, my mannequin. She had two round breasts and legs like I’d never seen before. I sat her on the couch and named her Helen. “Can I take Helen outside?” “You betcha.” But first Father grabbed Helen and popped one of her legs off and laughed. I proceeded to do the same with her other leg and began laughing myself. I wasn’t sure why we were laughing, so I took the leg between my knees and rode Helen around the house. Oh, how I miss dismembering mannequin bodies. There’s nothing quite like it. “Okay son. Let’s go.” I couldn’t believe it. I had my very own mannequin. A real, live one named Helen. I took my mannequin to the snow and used her as a sled. Shoveled snow with her hands. At one point I found myself on top of her overwhelmed by excitement, and we kissed. Helen was my first kiss, she was unlike any other girl I had met at the time. We didn’t know each other for very long and she didn’t say much, but this didn’t matter, she was older, I could tell. Mrs. McMullen came outside. “Merry Christmas!” she yelled. Father went over to talk to her and I continued to roll in the snow with Helen. “That’s one nice mannequin you got him Fred.” “Yeah, got it downtown.” He flexed his chest. “I got it from Mike’s Mannequins.” I laughed and laughed. “You wouldn’t believe the deal I got.” Mrs. McMullen lit up a smoke. “Have you talked with him Fred?” Mrs. McMullen took smoke in deep. “About Ms. Kuntz.” Ms. Kuntz was my mother. “No.” Father didn’t think I was listening, but I was. “Not yet,” Helen was something else. I often confided in Helen about my mother. I wish my Ma could have seen me back then. Father said mother took to the road to see better places, better things.

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I slept with Helen for the next ten years, through high school, into college. Helen didn’t like other women very much. She got jealous. I tried convincing Helen to enter the ménage a trois world, but she wouldn’t have it. Like most mannequins Helen was a good listener. I’d sit in the apartment, my hand in hers, until we both fell asleep. Seven years into our relationship Helen lost one of her arms; two years later she lost a leg. It was difficult, ya know. You can only hold a mannequin so long before your arms get tired.

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The Savannah

Nicolette Albertson On a cold Africanesque night we walked in the bar. thirty lions to our three gazelles. Hungry eyes stare down our flesh, as the viper behind the watering hole hands us our poison in full plastic cups. We are now easy prey.

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sometimes quiet Brianna Olson-Carr it begins with a crack. first, a spindle a miniscule prick that drains the body of water, wine, weight the snowball effect. a feverish shivering mind over matter, and the matter at hand is an endless drip the tears come. all fears come to surface when a leaf falls and it is winter there are no more excuses and where do we go when we hit the same wall, when spring pushes for a try, when no one learns loneliness.

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Brainstorm Mary Stewart

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Small

Devyn Lempke

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After Class Anna Toenjes

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Carlos

Nick Dahlquist

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Free at Nightfall JosĂŠ Alvillar

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Visions

Anna Toenjes

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Galaxies Lizz Nelson

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Green with... Adam Spanier

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Female Nudes Nick Dahlquist

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Busby

Natalya Flaten

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Color Tree Farhia Omar

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Jake

Jared Sundvall

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Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Study With Friends Mary Stewart

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Omg, that d-bag is wearing purple Rachel Kelly

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Rebecca

Lauren Johnson

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Samurai Silhouette Cameron Alt

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Drip

Tony Fremling

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A Looming Memory Lauren Johnson

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Disappearing Act Mark Woodley

The car sat there for weeks, grill crushed in by a collision of some sort. Shoved up off the road beside a fence at the edge of the soccer fields, abandoned to rust or be towed by the city. Sarah walked the dog past on their daily rambles, breaking from the deadness of the computer screen and her fading concentration, taking a circuit around the small park. The tires had disappeared first, the chassis jutted up on wooden blocks overnight, the skeletal tire rods bared. The seats had been ripped out; the trunk wrenched open and shoved upwards, permanently ajar. This scavenging had been a source of fascination for her over time, an incremental deterioration, a disappearing act. This afternoon as she approached, the dog sniffing ahead, a figure roamed around the gutted vehicle. A young baggyclothed kid on a bike, baseball cap slung low over his eyes. The kid rolled with a casualness around the car, one hand on his handlebars steering, smashing out the remaining windows, headlights, and taillights with a piece of salvaged metal. She came closer and he looked up at her, fifteen or twenty yards away, and continued to knock in the glass. Sarah was struck by this ambivalence to her presence, this youthful need for breaking of objects, some unknowable satisfaction inherent in it, something savagely human. She felt jarred with a kind of initial disgust, an old-fashioned abhorrence for these kinds of unnecessary, indeed uncivilized, acts. Yet another part of her, if she wouldn’t have felt ridiculous, her in her fifties with deep carved wrinkles, a professional life and a hefty mortgage, would have gladly taken a weighty piece of metal in her hand, and joined the boy in shattering the remaining glass to bits. “Having fun?” she called as she moved past the kid. Her voice betrayed her, not a sarcastic jibe from an adult to a youthful delinquent as she intended, but a voice high and nervous, struggling to cross a wary and uncertain divide. “Wha—” the kid said. His eyes latched onto her in absent regard, the metal hanging slack in his hand. This look frightened her, with its sense of dismissive violence, and she ducked her gaze and moved on, calling the dog. A silence behind her, and she was sure she could feel his eyes on her back. When the give of metal against glass broke the air again, she felt a wash of relief.

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Defiance

Whitney Blount Smith These words that you speak sting like a bitter wind on exposed cheeks, squeezing the warmth of hope from me when you compare who you THINK you are to what I’m trying too hard to be. But I should be grateful… As though I’m in such dire need of your leadership, I expected one as omniscient as you, that two INDIVIDUALS Cannot travel wearing the same shoes (Both sets of feet won’t fit)—I make my own footprints. Your road is my bridge, you tread on it as though it were just a path I see it as a connection of present, future, past. You have an eye for structure and edits, it’s who you are—academic… I see through my heart, so before the words are in my sights on paper I feel it you say we both lived it, but what you suffered through and what I’ve overcome are different. I’m already a being of independent existence. Before I knew you, I knew verse, from rhythmic prose to spoken word. When death threated to strip me of my soul I became whole again, clothed again Wrapped in the gift of creative expression They are more than words, they are an essence More than a technique with the sole purpose of winning a prize. You live THROUGH poetry But it’s what makes me alive.

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Inconsistent ClichĂŠs Laura Morales

They pass you by like sailing ships or like the abdomen of the girl who gets cut in half by the magician. Into the ether they go mysteriously dis appearing like that sock in the dryer or abs. So you must eat your vegetables. How did you allow this to happen? Let it slip through your fingers like sand or decent-sized rocks, heavy; stacked like plastic cups. These moments get shoved far back in the cup board. How do they fit? Dispensed only to remind you not to do it again.

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Santeria

Elise Estrada The last time I fell in love it was with the weight of a train he said my name, â&#x20AC;&#x153;y ya estaâ&#x20AC;?, that was it. In one moment, a sucker punch caught off guard and unprepared, thrashing and crashing like Typhoon out of nowhere vision blurred and dazed. A halo of stars began to orbit my brain A bad, bad love left me punch drunk and dumb blinded from staring too long at the sun. A Haitian love spell, so heavy and heated and thick as the fever of New Orleans in July. Deep summer when the air soaks into your skin sweltering from the inside out and crooked with thirst. This humid heart is about to burst He sunk my bones deep, a capsized skeleton ship submerged so many leagues beneath the swell of the sea but I love, I soak up the subterranean blue, a bottomless wound I want to bleed, and bleed, and bleed.

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Get Right Back On Susan Woehrle

The Diamond T Ranch, while it lasted, was an anachronism. The owner, Cowboy Bob, liked to have it this way, full of cowboy kitsch. An anachronism himself, Bob was a dead-ringer for John Wayne, circa 1975, and if that weren’t enough, seemed to channel the dead actor’s onscreen cowboy persona. He had purchased a large aluminum square with Wayne’s portrait shot into it, like the screens on a pie-safe, only the holes were big enough to let flies through. And flies there were, everywhere: traveling from food to face to horse and eventually landing on the flypaper that hung from the ceiling. The air around the place was tangible, tangy with horse excrescences. My mother always said she loved the manure-smell. I didn’t, but it was worth it to ride horses. I imagined that the horses chosen for me knew their names: Sugarfoot, Daisy, Laredo, Pixie. I always wanted the same horse I had ridden before, but never got the same one twice. That didn’t seem ominous at the time, but I later found out that the death toll at the Diamond T was almost as high among the horses as the flies. At my eighth birthday party, I was only interested in the magic of the atmosphere. The place carried an authority that people just went along with. Customers wore Wrangler brand shirts under vests, bola ties, and cowboy hats. Children wore little cowboy and cowgirl boots and blue jeans, piping “Howdy!” with little voices. When Cowboy Bob told me that the shot-up aluminum square over the fireplace was a portrait of himself he had commissioned of a sharpshooter, it never occurred to me to question him. When I had my birthday at the Diamond T, and my horse took off running during our trail ride I was devastated, not merely for my own percussed rear end, I mourned for my own authority. My words of assurance to my doubtful compatriots that horseback riding was “perfectly safe,” belied, my confident assertions proved false. I lay on the ground, dazed in the bright sunshine, watching the grasshoppers flutter and the dust clouds settle, too shocked by the force of the hard dry ground too feel any pain. One of the trailride leaders, a college student’s summer job, went looking for me and helped me back onto my horse, leading us back to the restaurant and bar where my friends sat at wooden tables covered in red-and-white checked oilcloth, patiently waiting for me so they could have what I insisted be birthday pie, French silk being my recent obsession. My mother took out the pies and clicked a shot of me with the 8-shaped birthday candle nestled effulgently in the whippedcream topping, which I then blew out. Stephanie looked at the array, maudlinly declaring, “I don’t like pie.” From behind me I heard the clomp of boots and the tinkle of spurs. “Oh, I see the Birthday Girl has decided to grace us with her presence.” He said this to the table. My imagination was much too occupied with impending orgy of chocolate custard to pay him much mind but my mother urged, “Honey, Cowboy Bob

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asked you a question!” I looked up at him, but before I could say anything, he said to my mother, “I hear she managed to get bucked off earlier.” He turned to me, again without waiting for a response, said, “I hope you got right back on that horse.” “Yeah, I rode back.” He may have been impressed with my casual tone, but I was never that emotive as a child. “That’s right, I like it when a rider get’s back in the saddle.” I sighed, impatient with his cowboy clichés, and yet I felt pleased with his approval, hating myself for it. My mother, divorced and a shameless flirt, offered the man some pie, which he quickly accepted, his plaid paunch evidence of the regularity of this gambit’s success. In retrospect, I doubt he did much riding.

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From Another’s Lens Whitney Blount Smith

Who are you to tell me that my “choice” is wrong? I didn’t wake up one morning and decide that I want to fight a battle long with no real purpose other than destruction. What is it to you who I’m attracted to, and who I’m lovin’? Yes, love. Contrary to television and stereotypes that promote my damnation lust isn’t the only variable in my body’s equation There’s a heart that beats sound, and pumps blood the same as you, I bleed red too and don’t deny that I do when it has been shed quite literally physically, politically, and religiously with no intent to let up, but the more you press down on me the more I push up. I am not sin, mankind is. Why else would Jesus have had to die for our sins? Show me the mirror to my damned soul, keep eye contact don’t move the same sin you say I live in is the same sin in you You promote it in school, and churches using God’s name for your own hypocritical reasons. If I am a heathen it’s because the will of that creator gives me nothing to believe in and everything to doubt, but unlike you my faith has no ties to man so my blessings I count; and holding onto who I am, never givin up. If “gay” means happy, tell me where is the love?

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The Dishes Are What Caused It Laura Morales

The dishes are what caused it—so we yelled. The plates became a symbol of bitterness and the spoons angst; the pans made my mouth pucker with diluted and repressed ferocity. The dishes are what caused it—so we fought. To say they piled up would be a misrepresentation because a pile implies some sort of vertical organization and layering, a better phrase, perhaps, would be a jumble, maybe even a mishmash of dirty, un-rinsed dishes and sorts, precariously teetering on the farthest reaching boundaries of the now invisible sink. The dishes are what caused it—so we washed them. Rinse. Repeat.

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Patience

Adrian Waters If love came with a flower, would you ignore it? Shrug your shoulder past it, and plug your nose so you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even catch a scent of its perfume. Watch love walk away before you toss it in the garbage. If love came with a flower, would you hide it? Accept its presence as a present, place it in your closet to lie inâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; perhaps a locked chest, small and unnoticed. The one your mother gave you, home of all emotional attachments. If love came with a flower, would you never let it go? Put it in your pocket, smother it from sunlight, but show it off everywhere you went. Allow it to be another item you grab off the coffee table before you leave. One breath closer to suffocation each day. If love came with a flower, would you admire it? Fill a vase with water, watch it slowly stiffen. Observe how it conserves its lime-green stem for only so long. Enjoy its physicality, until the beauty runs dry. Take pictures of how marvelous it magnetizes the sun. Or would you cherish this flower? Would you ignore its independence? Let it be wild, rely on you when it must. Would you hide its roots deep beneath the soil? Let it have space to grow. Could you never let it go without water? Give it all it could ever ask for. Admire it for how quick it blossoms, for how long it lasts.

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Painting, a Portrait Eric Moen

In the den you rest in a ratty old sweatshirt. A bit of paint is in that movie star curl on your forehead. I still visit that room, Dad, although you do not, can not, should not. The boy blue paint applied to the walls that day is still under there somewhere. An accident moving furniture might expose your work, but with care it will remain covered. You looked rugged and handsome. I wanted to be like you. Later I came to fear sharing your imbalance, as I share your name. I waited for my life to blow up, but it did not. Our brains, as our fingers, have a different print. You left yours behind on the paint brush handle. I imagine Mom leaning in the doorway to shoot this picture of you preparing the room for the newborn baby. Through the window I can faintly make out the tiny maple tree that was planted in honor of my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s birth. If the lens could focus to the back fence, the weeping willow planted for me would not be there yet. Only the wet paint.

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I am

Esther Abrahamson wishing away those unwanted memories of you. i am wanting to drown those weltering woes held for far too long those hollow words that won’t bow down the words you whispered words you used to worship me weakening the values I’d grown so tenderly, like vines clinging to a wall these twenty years wasted your arms around my waist want love warping reality, wrapped around your little finger i was wholly devoted to you. why ? i am awakened, wounded, wide-eyed. i realized what was the worst thing i could realize what others had witnessed, and i was blinded by you only wanting to take me the one thing i wouldn’t give and you were gone.

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DR. SEUSS FUCKED ME UP Drew DeGennaro

I once had daffodils, they sat on my windowsill. GROWING UP cats would jump over hats landing on moons itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the story of bears and Jews who walked into a bar, last May or the hairy, hairy man I grew up with who blew all the homes down like fire I drag him to the grave.

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Back pocket Sandwich Tony Fremling

Well she walked in the room and I came undone. As soon as I saw that girl I knew she was the one. And now I wanna’ put her picture in my locket, because she came to the party with a sandwich in her pocket. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. In the pocket, in the pocket in the back BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Prepared for anything, if she’s hungry. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. I think I saw some turkey on that BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Now I’m in love… Well she got on the floor and my jaw just dropped. I couldn’t believe my eyes how that booty popped. The best part, to my great surprise, was that hoagie in the rear of those Levi’s. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. In the pocket, in the pocket in the back. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Prepared for anything, if she’s hungry. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Where’s the tomato, gotta’ see tomato on that BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Now I’m in love…

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My Buddy Cory Madeleine Roe

I saw my buddy Cory put his head through a glass table once. It was a really old table at least. I remembered it from their old house in Foxmill, the neighborhood next to ours when we were growing up. They must have stored it cause when they moved back into a house after being stuck in an apartment for a few years cause Cory’s dad was out of work and Cory put his head through it, it was the same table. It was all dark wood except the glass square in the center. Which is why when Cory slammed his head into it, there wasn’t that big of a mess. The glass dropped straight down into the opening underneath. Cory’s forehead was a wreck though, some shards that didn’t fall stuck into his face. He didn’t think to lead with his forehead so that’s why I say he put his head through a glass table, cause he put the whole thing in there, face first. I wish I could say that I stuck by him when it happened but I didn’t. I dipped out the back door the minute I saw it turning. I shoulda never given Cory the stuff in the first place. He’s always had a problem trying to control things and people like that shouldn’t take drugs like that. The only way to enjoy them is to relinquish all control. You have to be okay with knowing that you don’t get a say in what happens next. And when all else fails you gotta keep reminding yourself: it’s just the drugs, it’s just the drugs, it’s just the drugs. Which can be hard cause sometimes the drugs last for a long time, longer than you want and you might find yourself standing in a grocery store two days later knowing that the apples aren’t bleeding on you and you don’t need to keep shaking the blood off your hands but every time you grab one it bursts like a great big blister. And you can’t let the blood stay all sticky warm on your hand and you can’t stop trying to get an apple but you know you need to stop doing all of it and that it’s just the drugs but you think that they should be over by now and then you worry that they won’t ever stop, that you’ve lost control forever, which is about the time the lemons will start laughing at you. Cory’s dad is the one that called the cops on him after it happened. Not because of the table thing, I don’t think he would have given a shit. But because when he heard the crash and came down Cory charged at him, trying to stick his head through him too. He broke his dad’s glasses and that’s what made him call the cops. The cops wanted to take Cory to jail but they couldn’t cause it was obvious he was messed on something and they were worried that he was going to die from it cause that’s what people always worry about when kids take drugs. As if the only end to a bad trip is an overdose. Truth is that’s probably the best end to a bad trip. But the end you get is usually more like a beginning, where the fog comes off and you’re still in the same shit hole you were to begin with. My buddy Cory’s whole life is like that, talking in circles, living in circles, and being far off enough not to notice it, to have no choice in it cause you have no sense of it. If you can’t see it you can’t stop it. And it’s worse for him cause his whole life is set up that way. He’s got a shit family and a shit attitude and shit temper and there isn’t much else he’s cut out for besides Murphy Square

doing drugs and getting in fights. It’s kinda sad sometimes and it makes me wanna stop hanging out with him but that’s not something that is really up for debate. Me and Cory have been hanging out since we were kids, real little kids. We played on the same coed soccer teams, were in the same boy scout troop and celebrated our 8th, 9th, and 10th birthdays together cause they were both in the summer and it’s hard to get kids to come to your party when you’re not in school cause you’re too young to really have any friends. And it’s not only all that fun shit that kids do growing up that holds us together, it’s all the crunchy insides too. The shit we don’t even have to talk about that’s understood. We got all that in common too. The other day we were talking about murder. Not cause it happened to somebody or anything, I don’t remember how we got on the topic, but we were there all of the sudden and before I knew it I was saying stuff I didn’t really think was true. We were sitting in his car, it’s a ‘96 Lumina with the long flat leather seats up front that make snorting coke and passing bowls so much easier cause you have a nice low surface for it, as opposed to the plastic mess of cup holders and center consoles in my car. The car was facing the police station, not cause we like being near the cops, but because if you drive to the way back of our school parking lot the only thing you can do is face the cops. Sometimes it’s nice to watch them, know when they’re leaving and when they’re coming back. You don’t really gotta be too paranoid cause if they move any which way, well you’ll see them. Their little white cars flowing in and out. They always leave calmly and then come back with their lights ablaze and sirens wailing so they can get through the light right before the turn in for the station. Every single one of them represents a crisis, a break in, a mugging, a car that flipped over on the highway cause somebody was too lazy to check their blind spot. Probably giant moments in all those people’s lives. But to the cops in the white cars it’s nothing. The same straight line they always drive, getting back to the station and getting off work to get away from it, that’s the real rush for them. That’s what makes their lights flash and sirens go whaa whaa all the way home, just like the little pigs they are. Cory was talking about how he could imagine himself doing it, that is killing someone, and being okay with it. We could both imagine ourselves doing it, we talked about people we’d want dead, first joking about teachers or girls or the boss we shared at the golf course where we drove the carts back and forth so the golfers wouldn’t ever have to walk more than a few steps. I never understood why they didn’t have the course start and end in the same place, they shoulda known that woulda made it easier. But they didn’t so we got a job driving the golf carts back and forth in the same line and every now and then a slightly different one when we detoured through the sand traps or over the big hill by hole nine. But we didn’t get to do that too much cause our boss would scream loud as shit if he saw us cause he knew if the golfers saw him screaming at us, they wouldn’t tip us as well cause him and the golfers were all old white guys that looked out for each other when it came to screaming at kids like us. Which is why we talked about killing him. Then Cory started talking about people we could kill that would actually help us, like whose death would we benefit the most from. I said his dad, cause he’d probably get life insurance money but he said his mom cause if she was gone his dad wouldn’t give a fuck what he did and would give Cory money as he needed

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it. I don’t know why we got so hung up on money being the best benefit of killing somebody cause neither of us really needed it, but during conversations like those when you’re all blown staring at a police station losing feeling in your fingers it seems like you need money. I was standing in a kitchen listening to the people around me without looking at them. “What’s good with that?” “Fuck a test.” “Word.” “Drop?” “Maybe later.” I don’t know if it was all one conversation, it might have been six, it’s all interchangeable at a place like this. They probably don’t even know. These parties are like being engulfed in a cacophony of doesn’t-fucking-matter. I left the kitchen to go find Cory. We had gotten separated when we first came in cause somebody he knew grabbed him and yelled, “Ho Lee Shh It Ko Ray.” I found Cory, he was in the living room sitting on a couch with a buncha people standing in front of him but I knew he wasn’t talking to them cause Cory never talks to people at parties. He either fights them or fucks them, those are the only two things I’ve ever heard of him going to a party to do. Which used to piss me off but I’ve gotten used to it cause I can tell right before Cory fights somebody that it’s just like anything else in his life where he doesn’t really have any choice in it, it’s something he has to do. I walked over watching Cory outta the corner of my eye the whole time while he sat there staring into dead space. I knew if I could get him to look up at me we could leave cause I knew he didn’t want to be there any more than I did. We hate these goddamn parties. It’s probably cause me and Cory have been at this so long that it doesn’t mean much to us anymore. Kids at these things are excited to be there, it’s an occasion to them but to us it’s another night, another day, another straight line to drive that we probably won’t remember because we don’t need to cause there’s another thirty memories just like it waiting to slide into our minds and fill the gap. In fact, looking around at this damn house and these damn kids made me think of a story about my kid brother. He’s a year younger which isn’t much but sometime around middle school it became a big deal cause that was the time we switched from being friends to him looking up to me. Probably cause I grew up so fast and he was kinda on a delay which I blame on our mom cause she always coddled him like shit. Anyway, during his whole idolizing me phase there was one night when me and Cory were hanging out in the basement and we were pretty young too so we were waiting until my parents were asleep to get high. Jimmy was down there with us cause he would kinda loiter like that if it was just me and Cory, he’d usually get too shy if more people were there. While we’re down there Cory starts kinda messing with Jimmy, nothing serious, just jerking him around a bit and at some point Jimmy says he’s been having trouble getting to sleep which is why he’s still in the basement with us which was total bullshit but he had to say it cause Cory was giving him shit about being a tag-along. I didn’t really care either way but I didn’t really wanna get super fucked Murphy Square

up with my brother around cause this whole him looking up to me thing was pretty fresh and it made me feel kinda weird and Cory knew that which is why I think he was trying to get rid of him. Once Jimmy said that thing about sleeping though I piped up and offered him some pills to help him sleep. I had these tranquilizers that I had swiped off a girl. Jimmy took them cause he had to try not to look like a pussy in front of Cory and then he left us to do our own thing. Eventually we went outside to smoke a jack and we were under our backyard deck but we could hear something upstairs and long story short something went wrong with those tranquilizers I had given my brother cause he was twacked. He was singing something that sounded like a show tune into the darkness and trying to swing his leg over the deck. Either I took the wrong pills or maybe the girl had given me those ones on purpose or maybe that’s just what happens when you get pumped full of tranquilizers and don’t go to sleep. Since he was so smashed and wouldn’t quiet down we decided we’d have to stick with him for the night which included us stealing my parents car and driving to a party a couple of subdivisions over cause we were at that age where that stuff seemed like a big deal, like it was worth it. The party was probably at this kid’s house where we are now cause he had one of those houses with the wide open floor plans and those parents that know their kid doesn’t have the social skills to support making friends unless they go outta town every weekend so he can throw a party. We sat my brother in the corner and set about making our rounds, Cory looking for a girl or a guy, fuck or fight, and me trying to find people I actually wanted to see. I’m guessing while we left Jimmy there he got a whole lot drunker, maybe got high too, I have no clue cause I never checked on him until I heard this girl start screaming in the living room and then I went running in there and there was my brother, standing on a table, in the middle of the room, whacking off, or trying to whack off at least. The truth is I don’t really know if he was going to jerk it. But he was definitely doing something with his belt that looked like trying to get it off and he was doing it pretty furiously so by the time the story got around he was trying jerk it for certain, I think a couple versions even have him managing to get a few tugs on it before anyone stopped him. The version I tell is somewhere between those two. Cory came out of somewhere, I’m guessing a bedroom cause right behind him was girl with a giant fuck knot in her hair and me and him looked at each other then looked at my brother and then tackled him. We couldn’t think of anything else to do to stop him. We all three went to the ground with this huge crash and Cory got up the quickest and started yelling at people to back off cause I was still wrestling my brother, trying to get him to stand up and come outside with me while he was still wrestling with his belt, trying to whip it out or whatever. Eventually we got him outside and in the car but it was not a pretty picture. He never really spoke to me much after that. He went to go live with my mom when our parents split, I think so he could get to go to a different school where that story wasn’t being told over and over again and once that happened it was like we were in two different worlds. I don’t even think I’ve seen him in a month or so. Oh yeah, and the funniest part of the story, the whole time my brother is being dragged outta that kid’s house he keeps fucking yelling, “I’m a fag? I’m a fag?” which I think he meant as like a sarcastic question but given the circum-

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stances, it wasn’t coming across that way. And that’s the part in the story where everybody laughs real hard. And when I tell all these kids standing around Cory the story, they all do too. And he finally looks up too. We didn’t speak to each other we just left. Back at his house and we were in his basement cause by now the shit we had taken was really kicking our asses and my head was feeling featherlight and I got worried it might get away from me if I didn’t rest it on something so I laid down and wedged it into the space between the armrest and back cushion. Cory turned on this music that was making my head feel worse cause it was shaking the couch and every time the beat dropped a little I thought the cushions would widen enough so that my head might float right off and up. And Cory was yelling about something over the music too, I figured it was the music he was yelling about but I couldn’t really make it out and didn’t care too much until I heard my brother’s name and I sat right up cause I didn’t like it when he talked about my brother since I was still sore about that story I told earlier at the party. I think I started yelling back at Cory cause his face bent inwards kinda, like it was folding in on itself from the force of my voice. It was like someone had put a great big dent in it and it kept bending more and more inwards until the parts that were still flat like his forehead and his chin start tearing, ripping the skin and bleeding from the angles that were being created as the rest of his face kept collapsing inward. Blood kept oozing out as more tears formed, like little cracks in his face or rips in the stitches of his skin and then those too would flush all red. I stopped looking at him and I think I stopped yelling too and we both sat back down on the couch cause I realized I was standing now and still worried about my head. Then while we were sitting back down Cory starts yelling again but this time I really wasn’t listening and then all of the sudden he put his whole face through the glass table in front of him. Or maybe I did it. Maybe I reached up and put my hand behind his head and smashed it in there for him, because I couldn’t stand listening to him talk for one more second about my brother or his father or who he wanted to kill or all this other shit that we couldn’t control anyway and none of it that he can control cause he can’t control anything in his life including himself and when he talks about my family and me and lumps me in with him I get so fucking pissed that I could, I really could slam his face into a glass table. So maybe I did, which is why he didn’t lead with his forehead and why I can picture his face all bent in and bloody like that cause that’s how it looked when it came up out of the table and I did that. But maybe not, cause that was before his face went through the table. Or maybe the glass didn’t break at all, cause Cory had already put his head through it, maybe he just put his head down and went to sleep. Or maybe they had replaced the glass already and he had re-broken it already. Maybe that piece of glass just pissed Cory off which is why he came up from the table mad as hell and charged his dad who had come downstairs to see what the noise was. Which was when I ran out the back door cause I couldn’t handle that shit.

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glass half empty Adrian Waters

I see smiles that resemble a corner huggin’ drunk. Fake. Happiness wrapped up in a mask. I see smiles in my neighborhood. The street intellectuals whose concrete mind state wouldn’t let them leave. Folks who are my age had plans to escape, but the path they imagined didn’t pan out. I see smiles in my college. The book intellectuals who can’t quite find out what page they want to read. Folks who are my age had plans to succeed, but the path they heard about is merely a path, not the only one. I see smiles in my family. The love intellectuals whose battered bodies only stand so their hearts stay strong. Folks who raised me to my age had plans for themselves, but the path they drove to, passed them by years ago. Conformation is my mom’s batch of lemonade, Diluted. I see smiles that resemble a corner huggin’ drunk. Fake. Happiness wrapped up in a glass.

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Contributed Curse Bryan Rassat

Sweet simple is not the irony I give to you, the soaking stain; the aromatic acid spurting down like rain tartly tasted on your lips like lethal lemon weapons, just like the faulty flavor you left behind a raunchy rotten egg nailed to the tongue; the sorrowing soreness I leave for you unbearably undeniably existent; that final fatal gift, darkened prayers of the most obscure, your comatose conclusion of blinding fear.

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Go To Mecca

Laurie Akermark A thirteen year old fisherman, off the Horn of Africa. No one left to feed him, no one left but his grandpa. The Government started dumping nuclear waste. Killed the fish and coral, piracy took place. He wants to go to Mecca. He just wants to go to Mecca. He wants to go to Mecca. 1995, things turned for the worse. A “Black Hole” they called it, war, famine and thirst. We reap what we have sown. This is no exception. He became a fisher of men, taking all of their possessions. He just wants to go to Mecca. If only for one time. two million gathered in white. He pictures this in his mind. He just wants to go to Mecca. He just wants to go to Mecca. He wants to go to Mecca. Every human counts. They’re nobody’s possession. Time we figured this out. No point in harboring contentions. The Government started dumping, nuclear waste. Killed the fish and coral. Piracy took place. He just wants to go to Mecca. He wants to go to Mecca. He wants to go to Mecca.

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Back Porch: Northfield, MN D.E. Green

Squirrels and the red note of cardinals softened by screens— pollen silt— A square of morning light— on the white plastic table a coffee cup, half full an open book, face down an uncapped pen—and the empty Adirondack chair.

*This poem is modeled on William Carlos Williams’s “Nantucket.”

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Fevers

Elise Estrada The Royal Inn on 5th was not royal at all it was a faded poppy pink, the paint peeling off in tongues, bleached out from the sun. The owner—a stunted Indian man with a glare ‘cause he knew what we do, thin glasses and silver hair bristled out like the wires on a broom. In room #9 there is sad-faced Rich, who shared half his shot when you were dope sick & his girl— calamity-eyed and quiet, spends all day working the street their 8 year-old stares at the TV, eyes fixed and tight lipped. Back then, you didn’t feel bad about shooting up on their bathroom floor with a truant kid watching cartoons on the other side of the door. Back then all you wanted was what made you forget A prick of the skin, the sink of oblivion. A year later and my hands are black from holding three grand in cash, the keys to a rental car and a tank full of gas, the crumpled folds of a Colorado state map— but still, I feel lost and tied down and trapped. Sun shifts in the sky and Denver is only an hour East, and even though I know right where to go on 16th street, I can remember the fever, the heat it brings to your bones, too deep to sweat out— I’ve gone down too many times to count.

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Before, all I wanted was what could make me forget. And when I heard the sirens cutting through the street I closed my eyes and hoped they were coming for me.

Murphy Square

Rise to Me

Mark Woodley Bill is curled up in the chilly darkness, pulling a stiff piece of old carpet and a ripped tarp over himself. The cold is numbing, his coat is still wet from the fresh snow, hands arthritically aching, pressed to his chest. There is the dank aroma of dead plants and mossy decay, a winter freeze settling into the dormant earth. It has been some time since Bill has been here, deep in the jungled backyard. Kathryn was the gardener, not him. He had let things get satisfyingly wild from the distance of the house, earth back to tangled earth. Now he is nestling his capped head under the dusty mildewed carpet, his body lying on the frozen ground of a former tomato bed in the greenhouse, quietly shivering. Julie had called him earlier that evening. He always felt vaguely chastised when he got off the phone with her. Who was the parent, and who was the child? She was coming in the morning, to lecture him about this and that, to tell him he was unable to take care of himself, to minimize his dissatisfactions, to attempt to take him from what he knew. After talking to herâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;rather, listening to her talkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;he had kitted up, putting on his familiar black overcoat, cap, gloves, boots, and shuffled his way out the front door, pulling it firmly shut behind him, temper slightly heated. He needed some sharp air to knock into his skull, to breathe wetly into his lungs, clear his brain. He had sludged through the drifts of newly fallen snow down the front path, piling up, over shin-high. It had been snowing for the past twenty-four hours. Then he had been flat on his back on the driveway, sprawled out like the seventy-eight year old idiot he was. He had lain there, mildly surprised, cocooned by his bodily imprint. He watched the snowflakes drift down out of the blackness, becoming visible in the light from the front porch, the flakes sprinkling down, appearing out of nothing, slowly covering Bill like he was being gently blessed. It was terribly quiet. He could hear his breathing, see it appear in the air above him. He wanted to lie there forever. Minutes passed, the timer on the porch light went off, reducing everything to a flat darkness, and he became cold. He rolled over on his side and pulled himself up, his mood calmed. Unsteadily he made his way back to the front door, the light clicking on again, and he reached in his jacket for his keys. He felt deeply in the second pocket. Then in his pants. Going through pocket by pocket, crevice by crevice, searching for the hard push of metal. Soon he had exhausted all the places on his person. He looked back at the messy imprint he had made in the deepening snow, and physically winced. On his hands and knees he searched through the snow where he had fallen, digging with his gloved hands through the powder, until he had forgotten where he had searched already, and the light went out again. He slowly made his way around the house, sliding in the soft powdery wetness, trying the back door, hoping he had left a thoughtless window ajar somewhere. No such luck. He sat on the back deck, not knowing what to do. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t socialize with the neighbors anymore, only on head-nod terms these days, and what would they do anyway, call Julie? There

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was no way. In the black light, barely able to see, he pushed through the snow from the deck, way down the back of the hill, to Kathryn’s old greenhouse. The hinges scraped and whined as he pulled open the door, pushing the snow drift out of the way. He wedged the rickety door shut from the inside with a plank of wood from one of the plant beds. Lying down in the lonely frigid darkness, curled up like a baby in the womb, he thought of Kathryn, and he thought of dying. How could it be almost twenty years? It had been the winter of 1993, one squalling cold night lying in bed, when Kathryn had grabbed his hand as he read next to her. His head swimming a little with drink, more common than he’d like to admit in those days, the words drifting and spacing on the page. “Here, feel this.” Kathryn had pressed his fingers up on the underside of her breast. “What?” he had said, half-annoyed, her forwardness breaking his concentration. “Just feel it.” “What—what am I looking for? I don’t even know.” She guided his fingers, pushing them into the soft flesh. “Here.” He had felt it then, a pebbly round lump beneath the skin. It had begun the process of doctor’s visits, initially to Jim Klaiber, the local M.D., then they were referred on, venturing from Canby into the gray windswept streets of Minneapolis to get a biopsy done, driving the long drive into the city, Bill trying to make nervous light talk. Kathryn quieting him with a silent finger to her lips, turning up NPR and gazing back out the window to the snow humped in great sad piles on the roadside like mounds of dirty sugar. The evening after the first hospital trip Bill had made Kathryn a latenight cup of tea, stumbling around the kitchen and down the hallway to the bedroom, his head buzzed again. He sat next to her on the edge of the bed. He smiled at her. He reached for her hand, placing his on top of hers. She looked at him. She had broken into soft laughter, her body shaking, slops of hot tea spilling lightly onto the bed cover. “Christ, Bill—you’d think someone was dying around here.” Her laughs had been silent hiccups of mirth. She had slid the wet cup on top of the books on the nightstand, and pulled him to her. Undressing her, drunken and clumsy, hovering over her naked body beneath him, Bill strayed his fingers over the gauze underneath her nipple where they had cut whatever it was out of her. Kathryn opened her eyes and looked up at him, a gentle grimace across her lips. She pushed him off and turned over, her ass in the air, face buried in the pillow. She pulled him back to her, pressing herself up against him. Afterwards, puffing heavily, he collapsed onto the bed, next to Kathryn curled on one side, her eyes closed tightly, arm wrapped around herself protectively. Before Bill knew what was happening she began to cry the breathless cry of a child, her naked body rocking slightly, a helpless inconsolable cry, softly choking on tiny gasps, wailing a muffled broken sound against the flowery bedspread. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” he said, stroking her wet cheek and hair. But he really had no idea; he just needed to say something. That was the last time they had made love. Bill now had forgotten what Murphy Square

the feel of her body was like, what she was like, next to him. The biopsy results showed the growth was malignant. Tests in the following weeks revealed that the cancer had spread into her lymph nodes and bone marrow already. Kathryn began radiation treatment. Julie came home from college in Chicago on her break, and she and Bill got into a big fight, Bill picking her up from the airport with wine on his breath, lifting the bottle to his lips as he drove the country roads. He could barely think, barely function as any type of parental figure, Kathryn’s hair falling out in clownish clumps. When Julie left to go back to school, he moved the television into the bedroom, and he and Kathryn watched it late into the night, Bill lying there with her until she fell asleep. He took a walk late one night in February, Kathryn heavily dozing in bed, weak from the chemo meds, a flask deep in his coat pocket. It was an icy starless night, the winter clouds blocking everything, enveloping his world in a muted darkness. He could barely see his feet in front of him, boots crunching listlessly in the snow. When he turned the corner at the end of the street, he could see lights ahead on the park grounds, the skating rink lit in the stark glow of an apparition. He paused at the edge of the field, leaning against a gnarled oak tree, just outside the floodlights. He watched the skaters, amiably turning in circles, yelling to each other, their breath turning to steam above them. People exiting cars pulled up to the rink, the fogged windows and lit cigarettes signaling the illicit pleasures of the young. Who are these people, Bill thought as he looked on the placid scene, living like time is not an issue, that around the corner there are no horrors waiting. He thought of that Kerrigan girl on the television. Her mouth wrenched in a tearful grimace, saying on the video footage, Why why why it hurts so bad, moments after walking off the ice. In a moment a life kneecapped, a trajectory laid to casual waste. He stood in the dark for a long time, lost in thought. He was thinking of himself again, some kind of pity party he invited himself to on a regular basis, hashing through things like he was solving some brutal puzzle. Kathryn would often say to him, “You’re in your head, Bill—what are you thinking?” and he would emerge, unable to explain the twisting machinations of his brain. His mind glanced towards her, lying asleep in the house. He hobbled home urgently, a sick feeling in stomach, his boots slipping in the snow tracks. When he tried to open the door he dropped the keys, scrambling blindly for them at his feet, sweeping his hands desperately until he hit the hard metal with his fingertips. He rushed through the front door without taking his boots off like she would have wanted him to. On the bed, Kathryn was still, her body covered up with the blankets. He grabbed her face in his gloved hands. “Not yet,” he said. “Please, not yet.” Kathryn opened her drugged, sleepy eyes in a muted flicker of panic. “Bill,” she said, reaching out for him. Bill started sobbing in jagged bursts, his shoulders heaving, tears running into his mouth. He hadn’t cried since he was twelve years old, when his father had grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, pushed him against the kitchen wall, squeezed his protective arm tight, and told him to grow up. The salty taste in his mouth tasted beautiful. He kissed Kathryn on the forehead, and told her to go back to sleep. Three months later she was dead, her heart stopping while Bill was in the

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kitchen making dinner. By the time the ambulance arrived there was nothing they could do. Bill stayed in the house after the funeral, even though she was everywhere, her smell, her clothes, strands of her hair he kept finding on the pillow. He threw her medicines in the trash, so good to rid the place of everything that had reduced her to helplessness. But everything else that was hers, that reminded him of the Kathryn he knew, he kept. Julie had been home for the summer, and in the wake of Kathryn’s death, her boyfriend had driven up from Chicago, a shaggy-haired guy with ripped jeans and a subdued manner. They spent a lot of time in Julie’s room, emerging to rummage through the fridge, Julie’s eyes red-rimmed, clothes tousled. Bill knew they were having sex in there. Why wouldn’t they? They were kids. But it bothered him in his curdling anguish, her mother passing, and those two huddled up having mopey-sad grief sex. Bill picked a fight with her over the dishes piling up in the kitchen, maybe he had been drinking a little, maybe he had thrown a few plates out the back door to split in pieces on the sloping lawn. Julie and the guy had packed up the car and driven back to Chicago, and Bill was relieved and only a little sad to see the car disappear down the street, Julie’s middle finger raised high out the window. Bill had had only brief phone calls and visits from her for a few years, then she had moved back this way, to a place in Minneapolis, opening a small restaurant with a partner. “This is what you get with a college degree—to wait on people?” Bill had said. She had married about five years ago in a ceremony in an old hotel in the city’s downtown. The husband was a corporate-lawyer type, whom Bill could safely disregard, illiterate in all the important things, except how to make a buck. They had a child too, a couple years old, with a squawk and temper like her mom’s. Bill snuck the kid mints when they visited, brokering a new ally, despite Julie’s protests about choking hazards. Last year, while taking a piss, Bill had noticed an odd lump in his balls. He called Julie, and she took him to the doctor. When the tests came back, the elderly Klaiber looked at him intently and gave him the news. He was so grave and obvious in his manner that Bill almost laughed out loud. “Testicular cancer?” Bill had said. “Christ Doc, you can cut off my balls. I don’t need them. Go for it.” Julie had wanted him to come stay with her while he was undergoing treatment, but Bill was sanguine. He could handle it, been doing it on his own for a few years. He didn’t drive anymore though, and Julie came to pick him up for his appointments. They had the same never-ending conversation about how he was managing or not managing. “I’m doing okay, Julie,” he said. “Dying as best I can, each day.” She had no sense of humor or patience. In the frigid darkness of the greenhouse, dozing in and out, unable to sleep properly, his digits feeling like ice, he had a dream. Kathryn as she was in the late sixties, coming back from studying abroad in Florence, skin tanned brown from the Mediterranean sun, her hair long and pulled back. She was holding a book he couldn’t read the title of, and he wanted to know what it was. She walked past him in the airport crowd, and he followed. She was walking swiftly. He tried to catch up to her, but he badly needed to go to the bathroom. Wait, wait, he called, but when he looked again, she was lost, the inside of the terminal flushing with bright light. Murphy Square

He opened his eyes, and the white morning sun was blinding through the glass of the greenhouse. His bladder ached painfully. He really needed to pee. He unrolled himself and got up slowly. He fought with his belt, his fingers numb and chilled. Before he could get his pants unzipped a wave of urine spilled forth. Stop, he moaned under his breath, but it was uncontrollable. By the time he got his pants down, the front of the material was soaked, and only a slow dribble was left. He felt helpless. He was an old helpless man. He pushed open the door of the greenhouse, dislodging the fresh snow. He wearily trudged up the soft, deeply-covered hill, the wetness of his pants sticking to his leg. He followed his lightly covered tracks around the side of the house. He passed the hand-dug valleys of snow from the previous night. He leaned his back up against the small mound of snow by the front door. He was so tired and cold. He could smell the rich scent of his urine as he perched over his knees. Bill sat on the front step, and he waited for Julie.

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Pain

Abeni Hill I thought I was low to be taken advantage of to be beaten my sisters stripped of their dignity and innocence simply because they were born with the wrong parts the wrong skin color the wrong attitude. Now I realize we have turned against each other “too black” “not black enough” mind twisting that knife counter-clock wise I never felt so isolated. Why are you so light? They say you are too exotic to be just another black girl. What does it matter to you? I am your sister I experience everything you do except you think I get better treatment because of my lighter skin and if it wasn’t bad enough to hear that type of stuff from my own people. I hear far worse things from others “hey slut” girlfriends say to each other as they embrace each other warmly “bitch you know I love you” if they had said that to me I would have stopped them in their tracks getting slapped in the face only to turn the other cheek and get slapped again NO! That, the oppressor isn’t in the way anymore we do it to our selves all of the time. Murphy Square

Funeral by a river Steven Saari I am still your son. And nodding thistle now grows, in summer, where your ashes fell. There was that scene of sleep in your final months at the Veterans Hospital. Sick and hollow, embedded, like some yawning squirrel corpse. Stiff in its icy crypt, exposed after the thaw. There were those starved hours when I watched your cancer eating autumn raw. The skin of your leg stretched taut and thin, a patch job to end all. Your missing liver, only friend removed. Your shriveled black stomach, a fig-pit grave, dark as any sealed coffin. But nobody lowered you into that cavernous hole. There were those moments in the lobby of a cremation society: my mother shakes, my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stone. Like you were still there with us in our early morning spring. Drunken and livid, teetering like varieties of evergreen with their science of useless names. Those whispering giantsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the same swaying Sugar pines overshadowing the country bridge we now stand under,

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holding remains. Holding remains. There are still these places, unstained by fear, breaks of sun, where extinction isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t recognized until it has come upon you. Trains leave behind distant words at our riverbank memorial, the cars overhead, people driving somewhere else. There are still those times when we simply leave. We take our own path through the tall grass, into our open childhood homes: to make coffee, eat cake. To rest the steaming cup and matching plate on a long forgotten table in the next room, and maybe to question something missing. Broken footsteps of those who have just arrived, hushed shuffle, not silent like some novel unwritten between newspaper and sigh. Nodding thistle now grows, in summer, where your ashes fell. I am still your son.

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Autobiography: After Frank O’Hara D.E. Green

When I was a child, I played under the Steinway with my brothers and sister. It was our cottage. We lived there, orphaned but self-sufficient. We hid sandwiches and apples in its crannied underbelly. I did not tell my mother or father how we thrived in this world without them. Nor about the food. And here I am, on the verge of orphanhood for real this time. Imagine!

*This poem borrows its form and its opening line and the first and last lines of the last stanza from Frank O’Hara’s “Autobiographia Literaria.”

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Murphy Square would like to thank: All supporters of commissioning All writers and artists who submitted their work. Augsburg College Art Department Augsburg College English Department AugSlam Paper Darts Lori Sturdevant Lauren Johnson Printing Enterprises, Inc Kristy Johnson Our advisor, Cary Waterman

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