Upcountryspring2015crop

upcountry

spring 2015

upcountry university of maine at presque isle spring 2015

Editors Dr. Melissa Crowe Jessica Edney Submissions The Upcountry staff reads submissions from University of Maine at Presque Isle students, faculty, staff, alumni, and other community members for the Fall/Winter and Spring/Summer issues each year. For specific submission information, see our website at www.upcountryjournal.wordpress.com. We can be contacted via email at upcountry@maine.edu.

Upcountry is a publication of the University of Maine at Presque Isle's English Program. A literary journal dedicated to showcasing poems, short stories, personal essays, and visual art from the campus community, the journal is published twice yearly. The views expressed in Upcountry are not necessarily those of the University of Maine at Presque Isle or its English Program. © 2015. All rights reserved.

In complying with the letter and spirit of applicable laws and in pursuing its own goals of diversity, the University of Maine System shall not discriminate on the grounds of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, including transgender status and gender expression, national origin, citizenship status, age, disability, genetic information, or veterans status in employment, education, and all other areas of the University System. The University provides reasonable accommodations to qualified individuals with disabilities upon request. Questions and complaints about discrimination in any area of the University should be directed to Megan Clough, Director of Equity and Diversity, University of Maine System, 207.973.3372, megan.clough@maine.edu; tty available upon request.

 Cherie Black Our Separate Ways (poem)

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Alice Bolstridge Traveling from the Northeast, (poem) Through the Heart of the Awl, (poem) Back Home in Maine Fields, (poem)

5 27 45

Derek Boudreau It Happened on Meteor Lake (story)

6

Hannah Brilliant Green Alchemy (poem) The Dress (story)

11 17

Larry Bubar You (poem)

35

Annabelle Crowe Romance and Eukaryotes (poem) Summer of Fish (poem)

14 41

Andrew Dunn [untitled] (poem) [meditation #13] (poem) [truth is] (poem)

32 26 43

Wendy Koenig

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Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (poem) Wilderness (poem)

39 33

Renee Moore Longing for Something More (painting/cover) Anthony Scott Dualing Messages (poem) Noah’s Burden (poem)

36 13

Amanda Stevens Summer Storm (story)

37

Richard Lee Zuras Weather Girls (poem)

30

Alice Bolstridge Traveling from the Northeast,

following mapped boundaries, I stop for the night in Dorset, Vermont where I find a living theater, a country inn, and talk with other travelers.

Before dinner, I walk the dirt path to the pond.

Haze softens late summer.

Still water mirrors one scarlet tree, golden rod, red cottage, barn.

It all shimmers upside down, vivid and real as a dream, real as my face in the mirror.

Skipping a flat stone, I break the still surface.

5

Derek Boudreau It Happened on Meteor Lake James knew the way to Meteor Lake by heart. His father used to take him fishing at that isolated spot, nestled among ancient trees, on sticky-hot summer days. The two would camp there several nights a year, catching their dinners and enjoying their time away from the stresses of the real world.

“Jimmy,” he would say after finishing his first couple beers, “I wish your mother were still with us. She’d be so proud of you.”

Later, when their small boat was littered with empty cans, his old man would stare up at the night sky and stars with teary eyes and say, “She’s up there looking down on us from Heaven.”

James never knew his mother. She’d passed away from an infection only days after giving birth. James Sr. did the best he could to raise their son and had been no stranger to sacrifice.

Every year since his father’s death, James drove to their special place and fished from sunup until sundown. Alone.

It took no small amount of effort for him to keep his father’s pickup truck running. He was proud of the fact that he could completely disassemble the engine and rebuild it. He’d done the maintenance to keep it road-worthy by himself for nearly a decade, just to ensure it could make the trip from the city all the way out to the country where he’d grown up.

Now, the truck rumbled up the familiar dirt trail. James parked it in front of a small, iron gate and unloaded his boat, ignoring the sign that read, in big, bold letters, “KEEP OUT. FEDERAL LAW PROHIBITS TRESPASSING.” He’d been ignoring it for several years. The first time he’d seen it, however, he’d turned around and asked about it in his hometown’s lone gas station and was told that government scientists from the EPA and CDC put the sign up.

6

“Apparently,” said the teenage pump-jockey, “the meteor sediments have been leaking into the groundwater. They say it’s giving off low-levels of radiation and it ain’t safe to be up there.”

James dismissed this as being government bullshit.

“I used to fish up there with my pa all the time. It never hurt us,” he said to the young man. “You can’t listen to everything they tell you.”

The physical exertion of unloading the boat brought him back to the present, and he grumbled the entire time he dragged it from the gate to the water. It was heavier than he remembered.

Despite its bulk, James managed to shove it into the lake and hop in, leaving a deep furrow in the soil and muddying the crystal clear water. When the conditions were right it was possible to see all the way to the bottom of the lake and make out the distinctive round impact crater at its bottom. He rowed to their lucky spot just above the meteor.

James loved the solitude and reveled in the sounds of nature. It had taken him a lifetime to grow accustomed to life in the city.

The air where he’d grown up was cleaner. People were friendlier. There was no light pollution; he was excited for nightfall, when he’d be able to see every star, and even the Milky Way, crisply in the cool autumn sky.

After finishing his first couple beers James dug out his cellphone and scrolled through his contacts. The one he was looking for wasn’t very far down the list. He stared at it and blinked back a tear.

“I miss you, Dad.”

He’d bought his father his own cellphone shortly after getting a job in the city. It was a simple flip phone with oversized number keys. He spent the day teaching him how to recharge it,

7

showing him how to make calls and helping him program in various important contacts. He’d even made it a point of making himself the #1 speed-dial.

The old man had been fascinated by the idea of being able to call anyone from anywhere and frequently called his son at odd hours. He’d called from the hardware store, from the gas station, from the supermarket, and anywhere else whenever the mood struck him.

He’d call to talk about anything. It wasn’t unusual for James Sr. to dial his son’s number and say things like, “Jimmy! They’ve got a sale on t-bone steaks. You want me to pick a couple up for us to barbecue this weekend?” or “Jimmy, can you get on the Google and tell me when I’m supposed to plant the carrots? I don’t want the frost to kill ‘em.” James, for his part, would always happily oblige his father with small talk.

He’d been buried with that little plastic phone. James kept the line active so that no one else could have his father’s number. It gave him a strange sense of connectedness.

Something bumped his boat, scattering beer cans and making him drop his cellphone.

“Shit!” he said. He picked the phone up and carefully tucked it into his pocket before gingerly leaning over each edge of the boat. The water was murky. Clouds of dirt and sediment drifted lazily along the bottom of the lake. “Must have been my imagination.”

Empties piled up and rattled whenever he shifted his weight.

The sun dipped out of sight leaving just starlight for illumination. James hadn’t caught a single fish. He didn’t care, despite how peculiar it was, because that wasn’t the point. Like his father used to, he looked up at the night sky and had to blink back the tears.

8

“I know you’re up there, watching me from Heaven. Lord I miss you,” he told the sky. His phone rang a cheery little samba.

James froze. He’d only given one of his contacts a custom ringtone.

“That’s not—” he paused and tried to think through the beer fuzzing up his brain, “that isn’t possible. It can’t be.” The ringing stopped before he snapped out of his surprise and dug the phone from his pocket. There was one missed call and a new voicemail. From Dad. “Jimmy, you have to get off the water.” His father’s voice was hollow and rasping.

He threw the phone down so hard that a couple cans bounced over the edge and into the lake. James moved as far away from it as he could without tipping over into the icy water. Several long minutes passed before James could bring himself to dial his father’s number, but the call went straight to an automated message.

“The voice mailbox of James Marco Senior is full. Please try again later.”

James felt a fresh pang of grief, and his heart ached when he heard his father's voice. He wept openly there on Meteor Lake.

After he managed to regain his composure the phone chirped out the same happy little samba again. James rushed to answer it.

“Dad? Hello?”

“Jimmy,” his father’s voice croaked, “you have to get off the lake.”

James’ blood ran cold.

“Dad? What are you talking about? Where are you?”

9

Something hammered into the boat. Hard. James’ phone flew from his hand and he watched its light disappear down into black murk. Ripples on the surface of the water made the stars’ reflections whirl and dance.

Before he could steady himself, the boat heaved again. It capsized, dumping him into the water. He hit his head on the metal hull. Blood ran down his face as he tried to tread water and regain his bearings. Alcohol and pain made it impossible for him to think clearly.

In the depths of the lake he saw a light twist and snake its way through the water towards him. Fear sobered James up. He became acutely aware of a strange, terrifying presence other than himself there in the lake. It was there, with him. He could feel the wholly alien awareness getting closer. Becoming larger.

James floundered for the shore. He felt something brush against his leg, but was too terrified to stop and look. There was no way he could defend himself while swimming. More lights bloomed in the depths. They bobbed and spun menacingly, blocking him from reaching the shore. Panicking, he looked for another way.

It seemed to him as though the entire lakebed was becoming its own grim twilight filled with haunting blue and green stars.

Pain shot up through his leg, paralyzing him. Freezing water forced its way into his nose and open mouth as he tried to scream. He had no more tears to cry for his father as the hungry night sky rushed up to meet him.

10

Hannah Brilliant Green Alchemy It’s late but I can’t resist checking in once more, eavesdropping on the overlapping chatter as a breeze whistles softly through the open door.

Tucked in under their blankets of dew, their soft beds lining every surface of this, their temporary home.

Soon, they’ll outgrow this nursery, bursting wildly forth, tangling and twisting together, screaming for space! light! air! but for now, I can pretend they belong to me, rows and rows and rows of them sighing in the moonlight, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, pumpkins— a whole season of life just begun, tiny, frail, pale new leaves only hinting at the monsters they’ll become.

As I enter, they squint bleary-eyed and innocent, protesting my flashlight’s bright beam.

I pause for a moment, drinking in the smell: damp and green and heavy with life, the earthy scent of potting mix, the spice of onions and mustards, the smoke from the woodstove and a slight moldiness, always.

Out in the field, the chickens coo softly in their sleep and the cows dream quietly, snuffling around for imaginary fescue and dandelions.

I’ll be back here at dawn, inspecting, straining my eyes, as if somehow the force of my stare could overcome this unbearably slow green alchemy.

For this moment, though, I rest in the stillness of this place, bathed in moonlight and anticipation,

11

leaves rustling out a reminder, a metaphor: you’ll miss this when it’s gone.

When summer comes and you’re drenched in sweat, sprinting, tearing through the jungle, boxes and bushels and baskets piling up beside the washing table, battling monsters come to life with sharp teeth guarding heavy treasure held just out of reach, the sun tumbling out of sight sooner each day, you’ll miss this feeling of control, and you’ll do it all again if only for this one moonlit spring night.

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Anthony Scott Noah’s Burden Mr. Webster, how many pages of your tome were made necessary by the refusal of words to stay put? How many nights did you go to bed and lie sleepless as new language introduced itself across your ceiling? How restless were you every time someone spoke of your book’s completion?

While they praised your achievement, you knew, didn’t you, that your work would never be done, that only the fool in his assuming or the coward in his un-looking could hold to the convenient lie that things were set.

As they clung to that first edition like the foundation stone of Western Civilization, you knew they would sink with it in the deluge of new like all who clutch too much a single writ.

And you did what you knew you had to, as repetitive as a breaststroke, revise, revise, revise, revise.

13

Annabelle Crowe Romance and Eukaryotes A rain-blurred city of Sidewalks and clotheslines, Lit by saxophones And sulfurous streetlights Your hand opens like an oyster, Something sitting on your palm Perhaps a word The sun swanned off like a lover, Leaving just the moon Its salty fish-eye lens You are the Jazz Age Many faces, many fingers Your chest is a yellow page A low gale sweeps the night roads, Dry as a raw-voiced choir, Agitating scraps of newspaper There are too many things I want you to be— Dogcatcher close to suicide A young Marquis among The crusted dresses of Versailles Dark this time, you cut pasta into hearts And feed me your boiled triumphs, one by one You, bright yes, Anarchist in the piazza, You have hinges like a dollhouse Peculiar anatomy by candlelight

14

I’ll be dead before I’m done— You have as many drawers and pockets As a Dutch cabinet with the devil in it Are you good enough to spend a life with?

I can spare a few, though I’m more dog than cat We ride the sofa like a dead horse, Pretending to smoke cigarettes My love—you are my love, I think— Bruises at your wrists and temples How sweet is my mutineer, striped red By barnacles An archaeologist found most of you, Your grave decorated with pollen, And didn’t know what to make of it Gatsby, Darcy, Arthur You, bright yes, Scraped-out angel collecting Rainwater Earnest and moss-bitten Is this a maze or just a playground?

Streets like worm tracks, Neuron paths It’s fertile soil for fossils in the cracks Between the paving stones Here’s Yorrik’s skull, shelled Like a peanut Here’s a ruined tenement, Where femme fatales sleep upside-down A narcotic skyline lights the world tonight Casinos with their fortune wheels,

15

Mandalas of sick light The city’s a hungry sanctuary I’m grasping at slurs, Trills, lazy effervescence Leaking from a nightclub somewhere You’re a light in the window to Welcome me in, a flash Of grinning neon, fluttering In acid loops Of positive and negative I’m a stranger at the door, And you’re The catalyst I’m the atheist at the altar, begging To be convinced

16

Hannah Brilliant The Dress It was late. Too late. But she couldn’t sleep. Impossible. She crept over to the closet. The floor creaked and she held her breath. She opened the closet door and dragged out the dress. It didn’t look bad for something that was made before she was born. But it wasn’t what she would have chosen. Lacy, frilly, heavy. Oppressive. Symbolic? Maybe. Her future mother-inlaw’s grandmother’s dress. A family heirloom. Worth thousands. She didn’t have a mother’s grandmother’s dress of her own so in the end she couldn’t say no. Lucille scrubbed her hands back and forth through her hair, loosening crinkled strands from her ponytail. She pulled her glasses up off her face and sat them on her head. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the dress. She blinked slowly, three times, trying to imagine some alternative. She shut her eyes for three seconds on the fourth blink, but when she opened them the dress was still there. A dress a queen would kill for. A dress she’d rather die than wear.

But here she was. Twenty-nine, too tall, too dramatic, loud when it wasn’t important, silent when it was, ridiculously named, motherless and lonely. She heard her father, whose name was Robert but whom she still called Daddy, snoring in the next room, muttering to himself in his sleep. She tried not to eavesdrop. Mostly, it was better not to know what other people dreamed about.

Lucille knew she was being absurd about the dress, but she couldn’t stop. Especially not once she’d noticed the stain on the wrist, small enough that only someone who had spent hours looking the dress over would notice. The dress was that sort of aged, yellowed white. The stain was pale pink, almost invisible.

Someone had tried hard to get it out.

Sometimes the stain looked like a face. Most of the time it looked like a heart. Not a Valentine’s Day heart, a real one: grotesque, anatomically correct, surgically removed and re

17

attached to the sleeve of Lucille’s wedding dress. The most obvious suspect for the stain was wine, but that felt too easy.

Fruit punch? Blood? River water? It could be anything, really.

And that’s what bothered her most, the not knowing.

Committing her life to something, wearing a dress with a secret.

Lucille never mentioned the stain to anyone. She was too afraid of being called ungrateful. Crazy. She’d had enough of being called the latter, tried so hard to hide the tics, the double-checks, the obsessions. Her fiancé knew—about her, not the stain—but she didn’t want to worry him, not tonight. Plus, his family didn’t know, and she saw no reason to risk them finding out by revealing the depth to which the stain haunted her every waking thought.

Sometimes she thought the stain had disappeared. She’d stare at it for so long that it blurred to nothing, or else she’d forget exactly where it was. But then, suddenly, it was back, right in front of her, and it seemed outlandish that she could have ever failed to see it. For three months she had been watching the stain, first suspiciously, then relentlessly. Now, on this last night, she couldn’t find it again. She looked up and down both sleeves. She flicked on her phone’s flashlight. No luck. She pretended not to be looking at the dress but hunted for the stain out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes that worked. This time, the stain remained hidden. She turned the lights off and on, checking each time. Then she worried the neighbors would call the cops so she stopped. She stepped carefully across the room back towards where the dress hung. She rubbed her eyes and blinked four times, shutting her eyes and counting to three before opening them the last time. She removed her glasses from where they sat, perched on top of her head, and placed them carefully on the nightstand beside her bed. She tugged off her shirt and shorts. She pulled the dress gently off its hanger and stepped into the center of the enormous skirt. The fabric scraped against her torso and arms as she slid into the sleeves and bodice. She checked both wrists, both forearms, both shoulders. No stain.

18

Then Lucille glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Frozen, she met her own dark, panicked eyes in the glass. She stepped closer. Undeniable. Unmistakable. The stain rested over her heart.

Lucille heard two rips as she tore the dress from her body. She backed away as if bitten. She breathed in fast, shallow gulps.

Her heart beat double time. She tripped backwards over a footstool and landed in the corner of the room behind her dresser and let out a scream.

Her father found her there, still undressed, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Hey, Lulu, hey, it’s alright. You’re alright. It’s gonna be over soon. Breathe, honey, just breathe. Hey, remember? Breathe,” he said, retrieving her clothes. He helped her get dressed, then waited, perched on the edge of the bed, for her panic to subside.

He watched her carefully. His grown-up daughter. He tried hard not to be annoyed. He tried harder not to feel relieved that after tomorrow it would be Michael’s problem.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, God, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry,” Lucille said, finally.

“It’s okay, honey. Pre-wedding jitters or what?”

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Now, stop. We’ve talked about this. You’re not stupid. You can’t help how your body and your brain react to things.” How was Michael going to pull her out of the deep quicksand of selfloathing she so quickly sank into? Robert wondered if he even knew what he was getting himself into, wondered if Lucille hadn’t simply tried to cover the whole thing up. It would be impossible once they were living together, of course, but by that point they’d already be married. It would be a lot harder to back out.

19

“I ruined the dress,” Lucille said, pulling him back to reality.

“What?”

“I was trying it on and well, when I took it off, I ripped it. By accident.”

“Is that why you were so upset?”

“No. I was upset because there was a stain on it.”

“From you?”

“No, not from me. It was there before.”

“Why didn’t you say something, honey? We could have had it cleaned. Is it really noticeable?”

“Well, see, it’s not very dark, only it’s right in the front.”

“Try it on, let me see how bad—” “I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t. It’s ripped,” she said.

Robert walked over to the dress and picked it up. He felt Lucille’s fear from across the room. Something about the dress had scared her. He surveyed the bodice, looking for the stain.

Finally he pronounced, “Lulu, I think you’re being a little dramatic. I don’t see a stain in the front. I see a little one on the sleeve but no one’s going to notice unless they’re looking for it.

Hey, don’t…You don’t need to get upset again. I know this isn’t the dress you would have picked out for yourself but it’s nice of Mikey’s family to let you wear it. I’ll have your Aunt

20

Lois fix the seams in the morning, okey-doke? Good as new.

The mother-in-law never has to know. You’ll wear it for twelve hours tops, then you never need to look at it again if you don’t want. Deal?”

“Daddy, I’m going to die if I have to wear that dress tomorrow.”

“Honey, now, seriously. You’re not five anymore. You’re twenty-nine, almost thirty years old. Get a little perspective, please? This dress is worth more than my car. It’s a nice thing Mikey’s family is doing. They’re accepting you into the clan. I thought that would make you happy.”

“It does. I’m not trying to be ungrateful. But I’m literally going to die if I have to wear that dress.”

“Lucille, stop it. Now, I know you hate when I try to talk to you about this stuff, but I know that your—symptoms—are flaring up because of stress. But honestly, it’s too late to worry about anything that might go wrong tomorrow. The only thing you should be worried about is getting some sleep so you can deal with all your emotional aunts tomorrow. Alrighty? I love you.”

“Daddy, please.”

“Take some melatonin if you can’t fall asleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” He put the dress back on the hanger. Lucille eyed it warily as he smoothed out the skirt and hung it back in the closet. It was true: the stain was back where it belonged. She felt crazy, loopy, insane, all the things other people had called her. She followed her father’s advice, taking a small pill out of the bottle on her nightstand, then sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the wave of tiredness to hit her. Finally, she felt her eyes grow heavy, and she crawled into bed, pulling the covers up over her head, then reaching her arm out quickly to shut off the light.

21

Her maid of honor, Diana, woke her up with eggs and a mimosa the next morning. Lucille was pale and had a worried look on her face from the moment she opened her eyes. She paced restlessly in a perfectly straight line back and forth from the window back to the nightstand to take bites of her breakfast.

Diana browsed her phone quietly, looking up to watch her every once and a while.

“You and Mike are trending,” Diana said.

“What?”

“I told people to use the hashtag ‘mikeandlulu’ so we could keep track of all the pictures from the wedding and people are already posting stuff.” “‘Mikeandlulu?’ Really?”

“I thought it was cute.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you getting cold feet? Do we get to plan an escape?”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious. If you don’t want to go through with this, it’s not too late.”

“I’m just—it’s nothing, I’m just tired.”

“Okay, if you say so. Not that Mike’s not a great guy but marriage is serious business.”

“Can you find my Aunt Lois?”

“Sure, what for?”

22

“I just want to ask her about something.”

“Vague much?” Diana said, but she left to go find her without pressing Lucille further.

Once her footsteps had faded away, Lucille walked slowly over to the closet and peeked in at the dress. Just the sight of it made her heart pound. She flicked on the closet light. The sleeve stuck out and she could see the stain right where it should be.

There was that, at least. She blinked four times, and when she opened her eyes again suddenly an idea came to her. It seemed so obvious she couldn’t believe she’d never thought of it before.

She’d just cut the stain off. She could cut the other sleeve the same amount and have Aunt Lois sew the seams. If Mike’s family gave her any trouble, she’d say—well, she’d think about that later. Once the stain was gone she’d be able to think more clearly about it.

After the first cut, she knew she’d done the right thing. The dress would look better with shorter sleeves anyway; she’d stain the bit she cut off even more with wine or something and when Mike’s mother asked her about it, she’d say she discovered a large stain and because she loved the dress so much, she altered it rather than choosing not to wear it. She cut quickly through the first sleeve, the stained section falling to the floor.

At least, she thought she’d cut off the stain, but when she looked at the dress again the stain was further up the sleeve than she’d thought. She cut again, but somehow missed the stain a second time. She decided the best idea would be to just cut off the sleeves entirely; it would be easier to make both sides even that way anyway. But as soon as she’d cut off the sleeves, she noticed another small stain near the bottom of the skirt. She shrugged, figuring she was already making alterations, and cut off about six inches of the skirt. The cuts were jagged; her scissors spiraled further and further up the skirt trying to straighten things out. She heard footsteps down the hall somewhere and automatically turned towards the door. No one

23

knocked.

When she turned back towards her project, she realized suddenly that she’d cut off much more than she thought. The skirt was almost gone, and she’d sliced into the bodice trying to cut through the thick shoulder seams. She tried to catch her breath but couldn’t. She gasped and wailed and tried to gather the pieces back together, but it was too late. And the stain was still there, right in the center of the dress now. With tears running down her face, she stabbed the scissors into the heart of the dress, over and over, pounding on the floor, screaming louder with each stroke.

Michael’s mother, Karen, was the first to come running, followed quickly by Lucille’s father.

“Oh my god, what’s happened? Are you alright?” said Karen, breathless from running up to the third floor of the house. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Lucille sitting in the middle of the scraps of fabric.

“What is that?” she asked. “Is that the dress? Is that—that’s the dress. That’s the dress. What did you—are you insane?”

“Watch your goddamn mouth,” said Robert.

“Your daughter just shredded a ten thousand dollar family heirloom.”

“Lucille, honey, are you alright?” Robert asked, bending down and placing a hand softly on Lucille’s shoulder, still shaking as she sobbed quietly into the pile of silk and lace.

“Ten thousand dollars, Robert. And you’re defending her.

You’re acting like it was the dress’s fault.”

“It was,” said Lucille, quietly.

24

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Robert.

“Well, we’ll see if Michael thinks it’s nothing.” Karen strode towards the door.

“Karen, please. Let Lucille talk to him first.”

“No, I can’t,” said Lucille.

“Honey, you can calm down first, but you’re going to need to talk to Mikey at some point.”

“I can’t.”

“How do you expect to be someone’s wife if you can’t even handle borrowing a dress for the ceremony?” said Karen.

“You shut the hell up,” said Robert.

“She’s right, Daddy,” said Lucille, whose eyes had suddenly cleared, as if she’d only now woken up from a dream. “I can’t do it. She should talk to him.”

Robert looked at his daughter and wished, as he did every day, that her mother was there to tell her what to do. But her mother had only made it a year into their own marriage before she’d run off a bridge near their house. She’d not only jumped, she’d sprinted off, as if she was running away from something and just happened not to notice the water. It might have been an accident, except she was spotted by witnesses wearing her wedding dress and carrying a cinderblock in her arms like the child she’d left behind.

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Andrew Dunn [meditation #13] coming back to it— these things, only good things, to say what you mean and come what may with the rain. hoping yesterday was warm is a matter of perspective. tomorrow is always a close shave away and continue… “you can’t take it with you.” “if you’re not now, you never will.” a moment. the echoes. remember Murakami, pain: inevitable. suffering: optional.

26

Alice Bolstridge Through the Heart of the Awl, the car radio blares the news.

Somebody put poison in Tylenol, and it’s killing people.

That story follows me for a long way: by a “Right-to-Life” booth in Bloomington staffed by six men dressed in black suits, white shirts, ties, looking like our Father’s undertakers; through first views of the prairies—radio news and commercials filled with mass production of pigs, corn, silage; on Interstate 80 in Iowa by some guy bent under a heavy pack, walking in the opposite direction from traffic, and waving a huge U. S. flag; into the Great Salt Plains where the wind is too strong for long staring from the lookout; through the green Heber Valley in Utah where a tractor-trailer speeds by me, on its whitepainted carrier, yard-high pink UNITED IN FAITH; By the Great Salt Lake in flooding rain; by hunters in Coeur d’Alene, French for an Indian name meaning heart of the awl.

In Seattle, I get tired of the Tylenol story and turn off the radio to follow the Pacific coast south.

The surf pounds on sand dunes constantly reforming by strong winds.

27

Redwoods grow giant by long life, roots tangled with each other.

The glories and ravages of time.

I drive carefully along the edge of winding cliffs down Route 1.

At San Diego, I turn back east, drive through the southwest, saguaro forests growing out of dry sand, deserts painted in slow-pressured layers, the Grand Canyon and Hopi mesas torn by erosion.

Something violent always happens.

A time before I was even in school, an uncle leaned over me, morning sun at his back, black eyes glittering out of his gaunt face (he fasted often and later died of stomach cancer), ranting, the joy of Jesus, salvation from sin; another time, another uncle alone with me out behind the barn, he held me close astride his squirming hips.

Then, a sudden whack of his hand on my bottom. I felt the pattern of light under the tall pine break.

Years later, in a vacation cabin, late, flickering light from a lantern went out at the sweep of another angry hand; glass shattered.

The silent dark is the biggest thing I know, and yes, something violent always happens, but that doesn’t explain it all either.

I save it all to use like quilt-making.

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I had a big box of various wools, accumulation of years; old coats and skirts, scraps from sewing. I spilled them out on the floor, cut and spread, arranged and rearranged until I thought I saw a pattern, and I made a quilt. Colors clash according to some who see it.

But that’s how you make a crazy quilt, using everything, mapping a history.

I carry it with me to line my sleeping bag when nights are cold.

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Richard Zuras Weather Girls January late and the leotard dressed weather girl on that southern cable station giggles “Imagine that much snow falling.”

She is looking off screen at her green screen. Arms flail up and down through I-95 corridor, a manicured nail stops, arrows Manhattan, Philadelphia drifts up toward Boston. My wife and I do not find weather girl amusing. In any way. We sip beers and gun insults. Like Elvis. .

These weather girls who lunch in Savannah chortle: “I’ve never even seen measurable snow…” as Al Roker laments NYC where snow was close to 70 inches for the winter.

My wife and I here in Maine still can’t open our front door the drifts too high (and back to Al in NYC) “This was a harsh winter,” he says standing on dry pavement in April.

My wife fires her Schlitz at his face (Elvis style). I fist back the curtain stand tippy-toe and peer over the drift.

“It’s snowing,” I say. My wife squats

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next to the RCA and points to where the crown of Maine would be if leotard girl would get out of the way. We’re here she says. Then she whispers we’re here.

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Andrew Dunn [untitled] that I find you more appealing than the next or last day is not exactly… but rather, that you leave me tongue-tied and gasping and so much more. impermanence is a fact that won’t quit.

I mean, who’d want to? when the sun will rise tomorrow and you’ll still be smiling over hot coffee, waiting for a moment of bliss. like that first snow—a kiss under your nose. streetlamps shining in empty park light, alone. a moment you can always come home to.

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Wendy Koenig Wilderness My hands are restless on your skin, riotous as dogs that roam the hills behind our home.

As a child, I'd raided that untamed brush, searching for hen's eggs and a blind calf named Daisy. She became my steed.

I rode, pulling her tail for reins, knight of La Mancha, jewels and gold to be found. My hounds gave chase until they didn't.

Tonight, my fingers seek gems of another kind in the wild thicket of your chest. I am a crazed troubadour, searching creek banks for treasures, turtles, and frogs. You are the dog, laughing at my heels.

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Cherie Black Our Separate Ways Incidental discovery makes the adventurer you are. Perhaps that's why you are enamored with land. Dirt—a natural, baser state— is a fine place to fuck and wait to see if anything will grow. Don't read the directions on the package.

Don't test the soil for acidity. Just plant and deal with any dormancy as it comes.

Indeed you are brave. It takes courage to gamble your meals on food that hasn't grown yet.

But not everyone thrives on luck, and I need a decisive chance.

So I learn about weather patterns and seek the perfect spot of sun.

And when the weeds grow, I uproot them because this seed isn't just any kind of seed. It will sprout a plant so rare that it will eliminate the cliché stop and smell the roses.

People will pause before they pass because of the unusual beauty.

And if you don't want to be a part of that it's okay. The wonderful thing about land is how much of it there actually is, enough space for you and for me.

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Larry Bubar You can't be me I can't be you if you were me then would I be ...

Nothing isn't always nothing often it's something or can be anything just not described ... sometimes maybe seldom it may be often depending on the span of ... duration may be short or long depending on your … will to endure nothing to make it something thus why the meaning of ... love is undefinable yet has a thousand million meanings depending upon whether the definer is me or ...

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Anthony Scott Dualing Messages Your words are fussing again, and before we hear our conversation, you’ll need to set them straight.

Tell Little Love to shut her mouth and send Petty Remark to the corner. Then work out the details of their spat.

Until then, I can’t make you out over the noise.

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Amanda Stevens Summer Storm My home was a summer storm, sweeping in fierce and windy, blowing us in every direction, unanchored and bruised. We were frightened and tainted; tainted with the smell of sweat and blood and salty tears. We wrapped our hands, white from the pressure, anxiously around the legs of the bed, the blustery temper traveling up and down the hall stalking and seeking out our scent. We knew not to move. We knew the power of this storm and the destruction it would cause.

The door had blown open, full of boots and hands, hair and nails, screams and shouts. We gasped and scampered for the safety of the dark behind the pink lacey skirt hanging over the side of the bed. Dust blew upward and floated on the beam of the afternoon sun sneaking in through the window; it sat there suspended, dancing in the light.

The shouting grew louder as the screams turned in to mewling sounds and then to frothy gasps full of snot and teeth and blood.

We knew once those quieter sounds ceased that this storm would slowly pass. Our hearts fluttered beneath our thin white bones, flying around inside our chests trying to escape while we sat holding on to one another. We were tethered by fear. As we waited out the final gusts, spittle and curses swirling and twirling in the wind, we communicated with a slow and silent shake of our heads. Not yet. Danger, it said. With a slight movement of our eyes we tracked the location of the gale. We shook, adrenaline flowing through our bodies with such force that our skin could barely contain its power.

We waited and watched as boots blew along the floor, bumping and thumping through soft shaggy carpet, over hard squeaky boards. Those boots were looking for something soft and fleshy to grind beneath their treads. They were possessed by the wind.

Their dirt brown leather was cracked and faded. Their laces were ragged and knotted and had started to fray at the tips,

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making them look like fawn colored tassels, snapping and flapping violently with each giant stride.

Sweat had gathered in the palms of our hands, sticky and warm, while moisture from our breath mixed with the thick mustiness of the mattress above our heads. Sounds carried through the gaps in the soft silky lace. We sat with rigid muscles, straining to hear; our bodies no longer shaking, listening to hard rubber soles scraping along the boards in the hall, fisted fingers thumping the plastered wall. At last we heard the scraping of metal and the slamming door.

We searched with glassy blue eyes. We sought swollen lips, missing teeth, and heavy limp limbs. We gathered our strength and urged each other out from the darkness, feeling the soft silky lace caress our bare skin. We unfolded our legs, achy and stiff, and crouched carefully below the window. The sunbeams had faded and the dust was no longer dancing. In the distance we heard soft wounded chuffing to which our expert ears honed in as our timid feet sought out the wounded.

The once graceful body lay curled on its side, its head resting upon the clean white pillow; a dark halo of blood encircling the outline of its hair, seeping from a jagged tear of flesh above dark and damaged eye. The steady rise and fall of its battered chest steadied our own breathing as the soft hint of a reassuring smile sent us on our way.

A gentle breeze carried us back to our room, where our rosycheeked babies sat in the corner, gazing and waiting. We gently picked them up and held them tight against our chests. We soothed them with our warmth, swaying and dipping around our room on the leftover breeze from the storm.

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Wendy Koenig Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

Like a boxer's punching bag, my body is weighted deep.

When hit too hard, my seams rip open.

Sand spews out, forms desert gales that drive right through me.

The air scorches my eyes. I cannot see, but through a haze.

Grit fills my mouth, my throat, my lungs. I cannot breathe.

It roughs me, like sandpaper; grooves form into arroyos.

Still,

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the sand pours.

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Annabelle Crowe Summer of Fish 1918 To board a train and be delivered into this— A carpet of crêpe paper, citrus, Numberless garden parties— Novel to my New York mind.

Just twenty miles or so from Tenements and opera houses, Huge trees flower and spread Above the lawns.

White pavilions dim the light.

Their denizens, submerged, Drift sleepily, swallowing bright morsels.

A blur of trailing conversations.

I watch as stouter creatures brave the grass— Women in white skirts traversing the expanse, Pink as salmon in frilled paper.

They rest their fortitude beneath the trees, Where men appear in the half-dark, Gentle things come feeding—occasionally Allowed, invited To lick salt from a skinned, pink cheek, Before the women take up their journey again, stepping Back into the glare, Leaving their companions in the furtive shade.

Among these titanesses, lawn chairs dot the green.

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There are fragile things Imprisoned there— Bleached, translucent, every bone observable.

I avoid them.

Poor cousins, the damned Adrift, summering, Girls with eyes like opium.

They pick at bits left in haste by other revelers.

A biscuit. Ardent lemons in a bowl.

They do not stir from their benefactors, For they are both comforted and leached By these jailors, great anemones.

Underwater laughter filters through hedges.

Young couples float about the garden, Arms entwined.

The lawns are dreamy, endless.

A green seabed, Teeming with extravagance.

Colorful creatures move over distant knolls.

The seas are undisturbed. It is summer.

I take my leave of the afternoon.

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Andrew Dunn [truth is] obscured by trees, graffiti breeds curiosity across a pre-war brick-brown and I’ve had enough. the sun beats young and trying as summer leaves into fall. move with grace, conscious of how time makes things melancholic across a backdrop of shortening days. today, I’m more awake. less aware as understood and the air I breathe is still in bed but sweeter. no longer yawning for youthful days. truth is, no one sleeps well knowing such precarious existence. but with her, at last, my dreams avoid circles.

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I make myself a part of what is real.

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Alice Bolstridge Back Home in Maine Fields, boundaries are fuzzy as a pointillist painting seen too close. Grass grows on the meadow in patches—wild peas and wheat, pink and white clovers, timothy, sweet grass, burdock, mustard, yarrow, thistle—every green a different shade, mingling at fuzzy edges; dandelion seed already blown past in mid-July; saplings striving to return the land to forest.

Red leaves announce the presence of fall in summer.

At the top of a knoll, elephant grass yellows, thins, exposes a tangled bed of past years’ decay. Embraced like green stalks and saplings, we push through, take a turn, yield.

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Contributors Cherie Black is an alumna of both Northern Maine Community College and UMPI. She is currently an online graduate student in the Adult and Higher Education program through USM. Cherie has shared her poetry at UMPI's University Day and the National Undergraduate Literature Conference at Weber State University. She also enjoys sharing her work at local coffee houses. Cherie lives and works in Caribou.

Alice Bolstridge is an UMPI alum and retired English teacher.

Born and raised in Portage, she has published more than one hundred poems, stories, and essays in magazines and anthologies including Cimarron Review, Intricate Weave, Nimrod, Maine in Print, The Café Review, and many others.

Derek Boudreau is currently a senior at UMPI majoring in English with a minor in Educational Studies. He also works for UMPI's writing center.

Hannah Brilliant is a recent graduate of UMPI’s online English program. During her final semester, she worked as a tutor for VAWLT, the university’s new virtual writing center.

Hannah currently lives in Wilmington, DE where she divides her time between taking sandwich orders, knitting, and researching graduate programs in creative writing. She blogs weekly at http://www.incompletesyntax.wordpress.com.

Larry Bubar lives in Presque Isle and has been writing for about twenty years. He doesn’t consider himself a poet, but rather a writer of humanistic verse for the common folk. He has also written children’s books.

Annabelle Crowe is a homeschooled high school sophomore who spent her early childhood in Presque Isle. Her work appears in the 20th-anniversary issue of the Asheville Poetry Journal – in which she is 2015’s featured young poet – and her poem “Mexico City” was nominated for inclusion in this year’s

Best New Poets anthology.

Andrew Dunn is a writer, activist, and UM alum who lives in Boston. He has previously been published in Upcountry and is currently working on his first collection of poetry.

Wendy Keonig has been writing and filling spirals with poetry and short stories since she was a young child. A former UMPI student, Wendy is now the author of numerous books and her poems and stories have also appeared nationally and internationally. She lives in New Brunswick, Canada with her husband, Vince, and two cats named after the Blues Brothers, Jake and Elwood.

Renee Moore was born in Lewiston and grew up in Lisbon.

She recently earned her BFA from UMPI. She currently lives with her husband, Joseph, in Washington State and plans to continue a focus on her art while working as a nanny. Renee, who identifies mainly as a painter, says of her work, “It has always been painting that I turn to when I need to work out my emotions and express what I cannot say with words.”

Anthony Scott teaches ENG 201 at UMPI, where he was awarded the BA in English in May 2010. He earned an MA and an MFA from Wilkes University and is submitting a novel, Geezer Head, to publishers. His chapbook The Year Things Came Apart is also forthcoming.

Amanda Stevens was born and raised in small-town Maine and studied Kinesiology and Physical Education at UMaine. New to fiction writing, Amanda took an online OpenU Fiction Workshop through UMPI last spring. She tells us of her work, “I have an intense fascination with the cycle of mental and physical abuse and it is my wish and my passion to bring awareness to it through my writing.”

Richard Zuras is a professor of English & Creative Writing and Film Studies advisor at UMPI. He is the author of the novel

The Bastard Year and a forthcoming novel entitled The Honeymoon Corruption (both available on Amazon). His stories and poems have been published in more than two dozen literary journals and he is a frequent contributor to Upcountry.