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AN TRAN

Sara E. Lamer

Craig Beaven

Johannes Lichtman

Judith Ernst

Suzanne Matson

Scott Gould

Marty McConnell

Jim Haberman

Constance Pappalardo

Lois Marie Harrod

Dana Roeser

Lola Haskins

Harold Whit Williams

Victoria Kelly

and more THE

Emily Blake Alverson

W I N T E R 2 0 1 2 | V OL. 62 , N O. 3

F E AT U R I N G A D D I T I O N A L W O R K BY

T H E C A R O L I N A Q U A RT E R LY

His face haunts me at night, this terrifying calm. I don’t know who he is, why he sits so high above us, why he watches us. Mom and Dad never explained. He is just an ornament, but when everything else becomes dark geometry against the walls, only he is illuminated. Just his face in the darkness, golden like a tiny sun.

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CAROLINA QUARTERLY

W I N T E R 2012 I S S U E | V OL. 62 , N O. 3

| F I C T I O N | E S S AYS | R E V I E W S

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P O E T RY

| F I C T I O N | E S S AY S | R E V I E W S

WINTER 2012 ISSUE | VOL. 62 , NO. 3

PHANTASMAGORIC PROSOPOPOEIA SINCE 1948


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3


CONTENTS WINTER 2012 | VOL. 62 , NO. 3

P O E T RY 12

EMILY BLAKE ALVERSON | Diving Wake

13

MARTY MCCONNELL | not mentioning tulips

vivisection (you’re going to break my heart) 32

LOLA HASKINS | Bravery Toasts

41

SARA E. LAMERS | White Lesions

42

DANA ROESER | sub-cute

66

LOIS MARIE HARROD | The Former Undertake on His Way to the

Morgue 91

HAROLD WHIT WILLIAMS | What My Brother Says

What My Brother Prays 108

CRAIG BEAVEN | Stargazer’s Field

FICTION 7

JOHANNES LICHTMAN | Mira

19

VICTORIA KELLY | Finding the Good Light

60

SUZANNE MATSON | Boys’ Choir

78

SCOTT GOULD | Orbit

NON-FICTION 94

AN TRAN | Redshift


REVIEW 110 JASMINE V. BAILEY | Voodoo Inverso by Mark Wagenaar

A RT 6

CONSTANCE PAPPALARDO | Swagger

16

CONSTANCE PAPPALARDO | Missing Alice Series

33

JUDITH ERNST | Bio-Geometric & Metaphysical Pots

68

JIM HABERMAN | Out of the Middle East Series

90

CONSTANCE PAPPALARDO | Song Bird

105 CONSTANCE PAPPALARDO | Cantata 106 CONSTANCE PAPPALARDO | 3}€½b ½½b²q€bµ 107 CONSTANCE PAPPALARDO | White Washed

112

Contributors


E M ILY B L A K E ALVER SON

Diving Wake ‡€u}½Vn²bµ}8Y€Š8²½€8‡½‘½}bÉ8Ë we were left smoking in the morning €Š²€½‘n½}bo²b¢‘uVu²8ËF‡Âb heron overhead, he’d started something that was to be lifted above the land, our name, and the house, troubled like the surface of a pond. Morning, my father 8YÉb²bÉ8†€uV8µ€nÉb¯YF‘½}µ8½ up from a very young age to remember, before we were lost like dogs. Before there were stories of an ancestor digging this body of water for the ripples to spread out around him like the face of a drum.

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MA RT Y M CCONNELL

not mentioning tulips the sky is full of rock salt. my shoes, O‘‡8Yb²µ8u8€µ½½}b²8€¢Н²€‡ can fuck off like her cousins the wind 8Y €µbË¢bbYµ‘Šbu‘‘YbɵV not all this business of polyps, massive cardiac infarctions, anemones threaded through the old quarry, all the stones Šb½€‘€u8u8€½}8½‘½}€uoÊbµYb8½}¢ }b²bÉb8²b€½²8noO¢}b²bÉb8²b8½½}bYb‡€V here at the visitation, asking the same mayonnaise and white-bread questions as if the graveyard Éb²b8F‡‘Éoµ}u8²YbV8½²8Š‘‡€bn‘²½}b²8½µ to leap on, just some gutted neighborhood passed on the way to somewhere good.

M A RT Y M CCO N N E L L

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CONSTANCE PAPPALARDO

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| Missing Alice #2


VIC TORIA KE LLY

Finding the Good Light

€8bÉ8µ½Éb½Ëµ€ÊÉ}bµ}bÉ8µO8µ½€}b²o²µ½Š‘È€bVÉ}€O}€ ½}bo‡Š€Yµ½²ËÉ8µO‘µ€Yb²bY‘‡Y¢ЍY€½É8µ½²Âb·€½}bËb8²µFbn‘²b that she had already lived a whole life, as had her castmates, most of É}‘ŠÉb²bbÈb‘‡Yb²½}8µ}bÉ8µ¢+‘Šb€u}½µÉ}€‡b½}bËÉb²bo‡Š€u they sat around in one of the tiny trailers, drinking from plastic cups of beer and wondering how it was they’d all ended up in the backwaters of ‡‘²€F8Š8V‡8ˀu8½Fb€uŠ‘È€bµ½8²µ¢ ,}b o‡Š É8µ 8F‘½ ½}b b²bµµ€‘ Ëb8²µ É}b ‡8ÂYb½½b ‘‡Fb²½ made It Happened One Night with Clark Gable, and Diane was cast as

‡8ÂYb½½b¢½É8µ8½€ËŠ‘È€bn²‘Š8½€Ëµ½8²½µ½ÂY€‘F8µbYn‘²½ËoÈb minutes outside of Hollywood, and there was an ease and lightheartedness among the cast, a sense that they were never going to be able to pull off such a show believably, so why even worry about it—they were, after all, unknown actors playing famous actors playing characters from one of the most famous movies of the pre-war years. Bill, who played Clark 8F‡bVÉ8µ8Èb½b²€8²€8n²‘Š(}€‡8Yb‡}€8V8Y2€Ob½VÉ}‘É8µO8µ½ 8µ(8²8Š‘½Y€²bO½‘²²8† 8²8V}8YO‘Šbµ½²8€u}½n²‘Š½}bO‘ŠŠÂ€½Ë½}b8½b²µ‘n3}€½b(‡8€µVbÉ5‘²†¢Ї‡‘n½}bŠ}8YFbbY€µO‘Èb²bY €‘bÉ8Ë‘²8‘½}b²FË*‘ŠbË8Ëob‡YV½}bY€²bO½‘²VÉ}‘µ8€Y½}b€² never having been on screen before would help people “suspend their Y€µFb‡€bn¢­‘²FÂYub½²b8µ‘µV½}bÉ}‘‡b½}€u}8YFbbo‡ŠbY€Ї8bama over the course of one hot, dusty summer, so by the time the movie premiered in nine theaters, and then nine hundred, and then—to everyone’s amazement—nine thousand, Diane had only been to California one time, to sign her contract before the whole thing began. She didn’t have an agent or a headshot or a resume, and she hadn’t Fbb 8F‡b ½‘ ub½ 8‘½}b² 8O½€u …‘F 8n½b² ½}b o‡Š€u bYbYV Fbn‘²b ½}b movie came out and people learned her name. But then suddenly, they Éb²bO8‡‡€u}b²iÉb8‡½}ËV€Š‘²½8½b‘‡bn²‘Š‘µЍub‡bµ8YbÉ York, journalists and clothing designers and theater directors who had turned her down for half a dozen roles in the weeks before. She was VI C TO R I A K E L LY

19


offered ten jobs in the period of two days, and she didn’t know who to say yes to, so she jotted down the directors’ names on a yellow legal pad by the phone and said she would call them back. ,}bo²µ½½€Šbµ}bÉ8µn‘‡‡‘ÉbYFË8}‘½‘u²8}b²V€½É8µ²€u}½8n½b² The Girl from Saint-MandéÉ8µ€O†bYFË*bu8‡,}b8½b²µV8Yµ}b was living in a tiny apartment across from a church in Morristown, New Jersey, where she’d grown up. Her parents were long dead by then, and ½}b 8½ É}‘¯Y ²8€µbY }b² }8Y Š‘ÈbY ½‘ 8‡bµV ‡‘²€Y8V F½ µ}b µ½€‡‡ felt a strange attachment to the little New Jersey town—its parks and panederías and even the luxury condominium building that had replaced µ½b€¯µYb8²½Šb½µ½‘²b¢ЍYµ}b‡€†bY½}b}b8ÈËVµ‘‡€Yb²Š8bOb‘n the gray stone church across the street, which always had a light in one of its windows. ½ }8bbY É}€‡b µ}b É8µ € ½}b 8²†€u u8²8ub ‘n b½Â²Ë Á˜V on her way from buying a dress for a friend’s party. She thought she heard something behind her in the stairwell, and it was late, and she had emerged alone into the dark garage, after the store had closed and it was starting to be the time of night when people didn’t go out in certain neighborhoods in Morristown. When the man appeared behind her, and she saw that he was tall and dressed entirely in black, she thought }bÉ8µu‘€u½‘ŠÂu‘²²8b}b²V8Yµ}bqu}b²}8Yµ€n²‘½‘n}b² face as if to protect herself. But then, instead of attacking her, he pulled out a camera and took her picture—and the shot—her stricken, doeeyed expression of terror—appeared the following week in Life & Style. She took the magazine into the supermarket bathroom and studied the }‘½‘u²8}¢½ɑ‡Y}8ÈbFbb½}²€‡‡€u€n€½}8YFbb8Ë‘½}b²€O½Â²b¢ But it was strange, and almost worrisome; she did not look afraid—only stunningly, trustingly child-like—and she realized that this was what people saw when they looked at her—someone who hadn’t been tainted yet by the drama of drugs or money or sex; someone whose best years Éb²b¯½8‡²b8YËFb}€Y}b²¢,}€µÉ8µÉ}˽}bˇ‘ÈbY}b²¢ ½É8µ‘‡Ë8Š8½½b²‘n½€ŠbV‘nO‘²µbVFbn‘²b½}b½²Â½}u‘½‘½i that she was a divorcee; that she’d already been in the thick of war, had held the hands of women whose husbands had fallen in pieces on the side

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‘n½}b²‘8Y¢,}8½}b²8²b½µ}8YFbbÈ8O8½€‘€u€bʀO‘ €½ËY²€u½}bb8²½}§Â8†b‘n¯gpV8Yµ€Ob½}bµ}b}8YFbb½‘Š‘²bO}²O}bµ ½}8µ}bO‘‡YO‘½8Y‡€½b‘Âu}O8Y‡bµ½‘o‡‡8²‘‘Š½}²bb½€Šbµ½}b size of her apartment. She had met Jack when she was nineteen, just out of high school 8Y‘8½²€½‘(bµ8O‘‡8½‘‡‘‘†8½O‘Y‘Š€€ÂŠµɀ½}}b²8½¢8O† É8µ½Éb½Ë½É‘8½½}b½€ŠbV8Y€½}bo²µ½Ébb†µ‘nq€u}½µO}‘‘‡V8Y ½}bÉ8²€²8§}8Y…µ½FbuV8Y}bÉ8µµ‘n‡‡‘nb8ub²bµµVµ‘µÉ‘‡len with life that she almost believed he could give her back all those sad years she’d lost after her parents died. ½}b8ÈËVbÈb‘noOb²µŠ8²²€bYˑuV8Yɀ½}€n‘²Š‘½}µ ½}bË Éb²b Y8O€u ½‘ ¬,8†b Ë ²b8½} ÐÉ8Ë­ ‘ 8 Fb8O} ‘½µ€Yb ½}b F8µbɀ½}}b²8½8Y}€µŠ‘½}b²8Yn8½}b²8Y8}8Yn‡‘n}€µq€u}½ school classmates. She settled easily into the wives’ groups and learned }‘É ½‘ µ}‘É }b² €†   O8²Y € ½}b O‘ŠŠ€µµ8²Ë Fbn‘²b ½}b O8µ}€b² had to ask for it, and how to budget on his ensign’s salary, and how to lie about being military on her job applications so they wouldn’t know she’d probably be gone in another year. She liked the other wives; they called each other a lot, mostly for no reason, and went to movies and traded magazines and played tennis at the courts on base when they weren’t working or watching each other’s kids. Ðn½b²½}²bbËb8²µ8Yn‘²Š‘ÈbµV8O†}8Y}€µɀuµ8YÉ8µqˀu over Baghdad and they were talking about children when he got back. But almost as soon as he was home, he was gone again, to Key West for the next round of workups, and then he went back over the ocean, this time ½‘ Ðnu}8€µ½8¢ +}b ²b8Y 8F‘½ +Ð µ€½bµ € ½}b bɵ 8Y bÈb²Ë €u}½ while he was gone, when she came home from her job selling accessories at a bridal salon, she always expected to see the chaplain and the other wives standing on her doorstep. Midway through, she got the call that it had happened after all, but to someone else’s husband, and a few hours later she found herself in the sad huddle on some other girl’s driveway. One miscarriage and two deployments and seven years after their ÉbYY€u Y8ËV }b² }µF8Y O8Šb }‘Šb n²‘Š Ðnu}8€µ½8 ½‘ ½b‡‡ }b² ‘ the tarmac, full of remorse, that he’d met someone else on the aircraft carrier, and he didn’t want to be married anymore, not to her at least. VI C TO R I A K E L LY

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JUDI TH E RN ST | Effects of the Moon (19.5” x 11.5”, glazed stoneware)


J U D I TH E RNST | An Ocean of Fire (20.5” x 11”, glazed stoneware)


JUDIT H E RN ST | Large Metaphysical Problems (16” x 13.5”, glazed stoneware and wax encaustic)


J U D I TH E RNST | In the Reed Bed 2 (19� x 16, glazed stoneware)


(18” x 15”, 20” x 16”, 20.5” x 16”, glazed stoneware, gold luster, wax encaustic, gold leaf)

JUDI TH ERN ST | Rent Asunder/The Sacred Heart: Veils of Flesh, Veils of Sight, Veils of the Mind


SA RA E . L A M ER S

White Lesions Whose sound tastes like legions, suggests multitudes, masses, as if millions of pins q‘‘YŠËŠ‘½}¢½²Â½}½}b˵½8€ F²8€½€µµÂb¢+‘²b½bY½}bŠµ½8²µ gleaming sharp, dream them clicking on, little brilliances, ²bÈb‡8½€‘¢,}bF‘YË}8µ‘½n8€‡bY Šb¢3}€½b‡bµ€‘µ¢,}bË8²b‡‘Èb‡ËÉ}€½b surges, not poison patches the synapses, the neurons beat down. n8€‡½}bF‘YË¢ }½‘µb½½}bŠF²€u¢ White lesions—an orchard full blown into blossom, colony of sheep so thick the pasture is wild dots. Or else, yes, snow. How it stuns the ground.

SARA E. LAMERS

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JIM HAB E R MAN | Ancient Ruins, Petra, Jordan

75


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JIM HAB E R MAN | Timna Valley, Israel

77


SCOT T GOULD

Orbit ,}bµÂŠŠb²É8µn‘²½bbVÉ8½O}bY‘€b,€µY8‡bO‡b8}€µn8†b bËb µ‘O†b½ ‘ Š‘²b ½}8 ‘b ‘OO8µ€‘¢ ½ É8µ 8 8O½ Š‘²b Š€²8O‡‘µ than grotesque, at least at that age—an ability that seemed a generous reward for all the pain he’d had to endure because of the refrigerator. Èb²Ë‘b†bÉ}8YFbb½‘‡Y‘½½‘…Š‘nn 8†b²¯µ ²€Yub€µÂŠŠb²¢ ,}b}b8½8‡É8˵µ}²8†½}b ‡8O†*€Èb²8Y²8€µbY€½µF8†µV8YÉbÉb²b aware of the appliances and rusted transmissions and angle iron there, …µ½Yb²½}bµÂ²n8Ob‘n½}bO‘‡8O‘‡‘²bYÉ8½b²¢²‘Š8F‘ÈbVˑÂO‘‡Y¯½ µbb8Ë½}€uFb‡‘É¢,}bÉ8½b²É8µÉ8˽‘‘Y8²†8Y½}bF²€Yub8‡€½½‡b too high. So we always waited until after a good rain to jump. Lonnie’s impatience overcame his good sense one afternoon that summer and he took a Kenmore to the right side of his head. Ðn½b²½}bµÂ²ub²Ë½‘Â½}€µn8ObF8O†½‘ub½}b²VŠËŠ‘½}b²²bnµbY to let me visit Lonnie. She said it would upset me, but my mother’s subtext was that Lonnie’s stupidity might be contagious. She was a nurse. She knew better. But she also knew Lonnie did things that brought him within a gnat’s hair of death. He was the boy who hung between the trestle rails when the lumber train ran through town on its way to the paper mill. He was the boy who snuck up on alligators sleeping across the hot sand bars on Black River. Now he was the boy who had fake bones in his face. He was a hero. }b8²Y8F‘½½}b‡8µ½€Oµ€Yb‘n}€µn8Ob‡‘uFbn‘²bbÈb²µ8É€½¢Ë mother came back from her shift at the hospital with daily reports of his progress. “Well, it’s too swollen to tell what it’s going to look like,” she said one afternoon. “One half of his face looks, frankly, like a buttocks O}bb†¢­}8YbÈb²}b8²YŠËŠ‘½}b²Šb½€‘8ËF‘Y˝8²½½}8½É8µ O‘Èb²bYŠ‘µ½‘n½}b½€Šb¢µÂ‘µbµ}bµ8Éb‘Âu}‘²€oObµ8Yqbµ}Ë parts at the hospital, she didn’t want to think about more of them at the Y€b²½8F‡b¢ÐÉbb†‡8½b²V½}bF½½O}bO†}8YµÂFµ€YbY¢¬‘€bu‘½}€µ false eye today,” she told me in a voice that sounded too celebratory, the µ8Šbȑ€ObˑŠ€u}½µb½‘8‘Ob½}bɀb²‘n8O}²O}²8nqb¢

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,‘ Fb }‘bµ½V  }8Y µ½‘bY ½}€†€u 8F‘½ ‘€b ,€µY8‡b ‘ 8 regular basis. When you’re fourteen, tragedy is a passing annoyance. ‘€b¯µ²bO‘Èb²ËÉ8µµ‘Šb½}€uO‘‡Y¯½µbbVµ‘Y€Y¯½O‘µ€Yb²€½€Š‘²½8½b‘Âu}½‘O8½8‡‘u€ŠË}b8Y¢É8µFµËɀ½}8²€Ob*bbÈbµ¢ +}bÉ8µ½}bu€²‡O‡‘µbµ½½‘Fb€u8F‘˽}8½†bÉV8YÉ8µµÂ²b  ‡‘ÈbY }b²¢ ¯Š ²b‡8½€Èb‡Ë O‘n€Yb½ ½}€µ É8µ ‘ ‡8½b½ }‘Š‘b²‘½€O€µŠ ‡Â²†€u € ŠË F‘bµV F½ ²8½}b² ½}b n8O½ ½}8½  O‘Èb½bY 8 nbŠ8‡b É}‘ could fish and blow smoke rings. On the eighth grade playground, she wore t-shirts with nothing else on underneath and leather gloves she stole from her mother. She’d cut the fingers out of the gloves and during recess, she pretended to be riding a large motorcycle. On one thin forearm was an ink tattoo, a design she freshened every day with an ancient‡‘‘†€un‘½8€b¢½Yb€O½bY8O‘€‡bY²8½½‡bµ8†b8Yµ‘Šbɲ€½€u that said, Take no crap from any man woman or child¢¯Š‘½µÂ²b}‘É she avoided the principal’s office with crap on her arm and no bra under her shirt, but none of our teachers (women who could detect the rustle ‘n88µµ€u‘½b8½½}€²½Ënbb½ ‘½€ObYb€½}b²¢‡‘ÈbY8²€ObFbO8µb É8µµO8²bY‘n}b²¢É8µ¯½½}b‘‡Ë‘b¢ ½ŠËn‘²½Â8½b8YÈ8½8ub É8µµ}b‡€ÈbYY‘ɍ½}bµ½²bb½n²‘ŠŠbVb8²b²€u}É8ËpÁ¢µÂŠŠb²µV 8µµbY}b²}‘µb‘½}bÉ8˽‘½}b 8½8Š }bnÉ}bŠËŠ‘½}b²‘² father left money for cheeseburgers on the kitchen counter. We never knew exactly where my father went the times he disappeared. He didn’t have a job because he couldn’t work. He said his stomach wouldn’t allow it. His stomach was a daily source of drama and conversation when he was around, because he’d lost a sizeable chunk of €½²€u}½8n½b²}€µ²b½Â²n²‘Š2€b½8Š¢Ðµb8†Ë+‘½}b8µ½е€88²8µ€½bµb½µ}‘€}€µu½V8Y8Y‘O½‘²€+8²8O€µO‘²bŠ‘ÈbY}8‡n ½}bµ½‘Š8O}¢½‘‡YŠË‡€½½‡bF²‘½}b²½}8½É}b‘²n8½}b²É8µu‘bV}b was off searching for his missing stomach, and this gave Eli nightmares n‘²Ëb8²µ¢ ²n8½}b²ɑ‡Yu‘Ð3 n‘²½É‘Y8˵8Y²b½Â²ɀ½}8 spackle bucket full of redbreast and we’d say, Ah, fishing. He’d come back with a black eye and a gash across the bridge of his nose and we’d say, Ah, fighting. Sometimes he would come back after a week and wouldn’t say a word, and we didn’t know what to ask. Neither did our Š‘½}b²¢½É8µ…µ½½}bÉ8Ë€½É8µ½}b¢ SCOT T G OU LD

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Redshift ¯ŠµO8²bYÉ}bµbb½}b‘‡€ObO8²8²†bY€n²‘½‘n‘²}‘µb¢ н µO}‘‘‡V Éb ‡b8²bY ½}8½ ½}b ‘‡€ObŠb 8²b }b²b ½‘ }b‡· ½}b˯²b ½}b u‘‘YuÂ˵¢bb†½}²‘Âu}½}b†€½O}bɀY‘É¢,}b‘noOb²8½‘²Y‘‘² is tall, white, with military-cropped red-blond hair. When he knocks, the booms rattle the entire house. He doesn’t look angry. 3}b‘b½}bY‘‘²8Y½}b‘noOb²µ½8²bµY‘ɍ8½ŠbV}b‡‘‘†µ µÂ²²€µbY¢ Ë o²µ½ ½}‘Âu}½ €µ ½}b ,˜ÏÏÏ n²‘Š Terminator 2, like his glare can shoot spikes of liquid metal into me. He has a clipboard that he looks down at next, and then his face contorts as he tries to read. “Does a Huu-ong Nah-goo-yen‡€Èb}b²bV‡€½½‡bF‘˨µ½}8½ˑ²Š‘Š‘²‘¨­ b½²€bµ½‘µŠ€‡bF½¯Šµ½€‡‡½}€†€u,b²Š€8½‘²¢ ‘Y¢¬5bµV½}8½¯µŠËŠ‘½}b²¢­ b8µbµbʝbO½8½‡ËV‡€†bµ}‘‡Y¯½µ½€‡‡Fbµ½8Y€u½}b²b¢€µ bËbµu‘ɀYb¢¬ ‘‡YˑÂub½}b²n‘²Šb¨­ ¬ }V­µ8Ë¢¬+}b€µ¯½}‘Šb¢­ ‘É }€µ F²‘ɵ n²²‘É¢ ¬µ ˑ² ‘ }‘Šb¨­  µ}8†b ŠË }b8Y¢ ¬‘É‘‡Y8²bˑ¨­ ¬ €u}½V­µ8Ë¢¬ÐYb‡bÈbŠ‘½}µ¢­ ¬Ð²bˑÂ}‘Šb8‡‘b¨3}b²b8²bˑ²8²b½µ¨­ “My grandma’s here. Dad’s at work.” ¬ÐYˑ²Š‘Š¨­µ}²Âu8Y}bµ€u}µ¢b}8YµŠb8O8²Yn²‘Š his clipboard. “Give this to your mom or dad when someone gets home. ,b‡‡ ½}bŠ ½‘ O8‡‡ Šb¢ Ë 8Šb €µ noOb² ‘8‡Yµ‘¢­  ‘Y 8Y }b ‡b8Èbµ¢Â½½}bO8²Y‘½}b†€½O}b½8F‡b8Y²b½Â²½‘½}b½b‡bȀµ€‘¢ My brother’s on the couch watching a cartoon. His name is Hieu, but we call him Harry. He’s a small thing, two years younger, still at that age where Barney is fun to watch. My sister Hang probably named him 8n½b²½}bF€un‘‘½‘,2½}8½‡€Èbµɀ½}8}Š8n8Š€‡Ë¢+}bO8‡‡µ}b²µb‡n b8½}b²8Yµ}bO8‡‡µŠbЍY²bÉ€µ½b8Y‘nЍ¢+}bµ8€Y½}8½Éb8‡‡bbY Њb²€O8 8Šbµ ½‘ o½ € Fb½½b²¢ 3}b ½}b Њb²€O8 u²‘ɍµi‡€†b ½b8O}b²µ‘½}bo²µ½Y8Ë‘nµO}‘‘‡i½²Ë½‘²b8Y‘²8ŠbµV½}b€²n8Obµ½€b

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€†‘½µ8Y½}b€²ȑ€ObµFbu€½‘}8u‡‘É¢,}bµ‘YµO‘Šb‘½€ Y€µuµ½€uŠbO}8€O8‡Y²‘bµ¢,}bo²µ½½€Šb}b8²Y€½VYb²µ½‘‘Y²€u}½ away why Heather gave us white-people names. 8²²Ë8µ†µŠbV¬3}‘É8µ8½½}bY‘‘²¨­ ¬Y‘¯½†‘É¢(‘‡€Ob‘noOb²¢(²‘F8F‡Ën‘²b8½}b²¢­ She’s been hanging with a bad crowd since she got into middle school. Dresses in chains and bandanas and keeps a lot of knives in her FbY²‘‘Š¢,ɑŠ‘½}µ8u‘VÉbÉb²b‡bn½8‡‘b8Yµ}bÉ8µ½b½}b²bYFË8 O‘€‡bYO‘²Y½‘½}b}‘b…8O†¢8²²Ë8YÉb²b‡8ˀu½8u8YuÂbµµ she didn’t like the noise of our feet, so she started screaming something terrible and walked us into a corner. We were paralyzed. She had this fat kitchen knife, a mirror for empty light that cut into our eyes. She pressed ½}bF‡8Yb²€u}½½‘ŠË½}²‘8½µ‘O‘‡Ynbb‡½}b²bµµÂ²b‘n½}bF‡8Yb¢ ¯Y µbb ½}b Š‘È€bµ·  É8µ 8n²8€Y ½}8½ €n  Š‘ÈbY ŠË µ†€ ɑ‡Y F²b8† 8u8€µ½ ½}b †€nb¯µ bYub 8Y ¯Y F‡bbY ‘½ ‘ ½}b O8²b½¢ b8½}b² µ8½ ½}²‘Âu}}b²½bb½}V¬nˑÂuÂ˵Y‘¯½µ}½½}bnÂO†V¯‡‡‡b8ÈbˑÂ8µ O‘²µbµn‘²‘Š8Y 8Y½‘oY¢­+}b‡€n½bY½}bF‡8Yb8Y½}b‘€½bY €½8½8²²Ë¢¬‘½€½¨­ЍYÉbF‘½}‘YYbYFbn‘²bµ}b½Â²bY8É8Ë¢3b stalked back to our room, locked the door shut, and sat together on the q‘‘²µ€‡b½‡Ë€½}bY8²†¢ 8²²Ëµ8€YV¬‘Š8Y 8Yɀ‡‡²‘½bO½µn²‘Š}b²¢­‘YYbYŠË 8u²bbŠb½¢‘²}€µµ8†b¢½É8µ¯½½²Âb¢‘Š8Y 8YO8¯½²‘½bO½µ n²‘Š8Ë½}€u¢,}b˯²b}8½‘Šµ€½}€µ}‘µb¢,}b˵8˲8YŠ8ɀ‡‡ take care of us, but she’s eighty-something and senile and we leave the }‘µbn‘²}‘²µɀ½}‘½}b²‘½€O€u¢,}bFbµ½²‘½bO½€‘n²‘Š‘²µ€µ½b² €µ½‘Fb§Â€b½V½‘Fb‘½€ObY¢8ËFb½}b‘‡€Ob‘noOb²O8Šb½‘µ8Èbµ¢ ,}b˯²bµÂ‘µbY½‘Fb½}bu‘‘YuÂ˵V²€u}½¨ ‘Š¯µ‘½}8Ë8n½b²oY€u½}b‘noOb²¯µO8²Y¢+}bµ€½µ8²²Ë8Y Y‘ɍ€}b²²‘‘Š8Yn‘‡Yµ}b²‡buµ€½‘‡‘½Âµ‘½}bu²‘Yɀ½}µ¢ ,}b²‘‘Š€µÈ8µ½·½}bÉ}€½bO8²b½µbbŠµ½‘µ½²b½O}n‘²bÈb²€8‡‡Y€²bO½€‘µ¢ ½ nbb‡µ ‡€†b 8 €½b²²‘u8½€‘ ²‘‘ŠV ½}b bŠ½€bµµ }b²b¢ ,}b²b €µ one ornament, a framed picture of Mom and Dad’s wedding day that hangs on the wall. She wears a gold Chinese dress; Dad wears a gray suit. ,}b²b¯µ8O‡‘µb½8½½}bn8²bYÉ}b²b½}b}‘½‘8‡FŠµ8²b¢8²²Ë8Y µÂO†€‘Ob½‘½²Ë½‘oYF8F˝€O½Â²bµ¢3bµO²‘‡‡bY½}²‘Âu}½}b¸ÏµV A N TR A N

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8‡FŠ8n½b²8‡FŠV8YÉ8½O}bY‘Š8ub€‡b8µ¢,}b²bÉ8µ8€n8½ b8½}b²V8Y€8‘½}b²µ}bÉ8µ8½‘YY‡b²}‘‡Y€uÉ}8½½}€†É8µ8 €n8½ Šb¢ ЍY ½}b ½}b €O½Â²bµ µ½‘bYV ‡€†b 8²²Ë bÈb² bʀµ½bY ‘² ‘½}€u‘nɑ²½}}8bbYbʽ¢²b8‡€ÎbYŠËn²€bYµ†‘ɽ}€uµ8F‘½ ½}bŠµb‡Èbµ ½}8½ ŠË 8²b½µ bÈb² ½‘‡Y ŠbU F‡‘‘Y ½ËbV o²µ½ ɑ²YV o²µ½ µ½b¢,}bbŠ½Ë²‘‘ŠŠ8†bµŠbO‘‡Yb²·}ÂuŠË†bbµ¢3}b‡‘‘†8½ ‘ŠV¯Š8n²8€Y‘n½}bF‡8O†}‘‡bµ‘n}b²bËbµ¢nbb‡‡€†b¯Š8‡‘b€½}b ²‘‘ŠV‡€†b‘Š€µŠ8Yb‘n8b²8Yɀ‡‡F²8É8Ë¢O‘Ob½²8½b‘ ½}bµ‘Y‘n8²²Ë¯µF²b8½}€u·€½8µµÂ²bµŠb½}8½8Š‘½8‡‘b¢ ‘ŠÂ½µ‘8‡b8µ8½ȑ€Ob¢¬n‘‘b€µ}‘ŠbVY‘¯½É8½ˑ kids to answer the door.” ¬½É8µ8‘‡€Ob‘noOb²V­µ8Ë¢ ¬Ð‘‡€ObŠ8€µ8µ½²8ub²¢ €Y¯½ˑ²½b8O}b²µ½b‡‡ˑ‘½½‘½8‡† ½‘µ½²8ub²µ¨­  ub½ 8 §Âb8µË nbb‡€u € ŠË µ½‘Š8O}V ‡€†b É}b b8½}b² 8Y ‘² cousin convinced us it was a good idea to try to light a dead squirrel on o²b ɀ½} Š8½O}bµ Éb µ½‘‡b n²‘Š ½}b †€½O}b¢  ²bb8½V ¬½ É8µ 8 ‘‡€Ob ‘noOb²¢ ²½b8O}b²µ½b‡‡µ½‘8‡É8˵‡€µ½b½‘½}b‘‡€Ob¢­8²²Ë€µµ€‡b½¢ He stares at Mom with disinterest, like he’s removed himself from the situation. He’s never liked confrontation; if he disagrees, he’ll nod along ½€‡ ˑ ½Â² 8É8ËV 8Y ½}b Y‘ É}8½ }b¯Y Y‘ 8ËÉ8Ë¢  ɀµ}  O‘‡Y Y€µ8u²bb8Yµ8ˍ‘½}€uVF½€½nbb‡µY€²½Ë¢(b‘‡bÉ}‘8²bɲ‘uµ}‘‡Y know they are wrong. Mom says, “Oh, well, your teachers are wrong. You do not talk ½‘µ½²8ub²µ¢(‘‡€ObV V8Ë‘bˑÂY‘¯½†‘É¢nˑÂ}8Èb½‘½8‡†½‘ ½}bŠ8Y½}bË8µ†ˑÂ8Ë½}€uVˑµ8ËˑÂY‘¯½†‘É¢ †8˨n½}bË 8µ†É}b²b8Š‘²É}b²b 8YYË€µVˑ½b‡‡½}bŠˑÂY‘¯½†‘É¢­‘Y¢ ,}8½¯µb8µË·²‘F8F‡Ëdon’t know where either of them are at any given Š‘Šb½¢¬n½}bË8µ†n‘²8}‘bÂŠFb²Vˑ½b‡‡½}bŠˑÂY‘¯½†‘É 8Ë‘b¯µ }‘b ÂŠFb²¢ n ½}bË 8µ† É}b²b  ɑ²†V ˑ µ8Ë ��‘ Y‘¯½ †‘É¢ ‘ ˑ †€Yµ Yb²µ½8Y¨­ 3b ‘Y¢ ¬5‘ O8‘½ ½²Âµ½ 8ËF‘YË but family. Your family is the only thing that will always be there for ˑ¢ ‘ˑYb²µ½8Y¨5‘ÂY‘‘½½²Âµ½ˑ²n²€bYµVˑ²½b8O}b²µV or canh sat.” She says “police” in Vietnamese as a way to emphasize that point, as if to say, especially the police.

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When she is done with her lecture, we are allowed back to our room. +}bYbµObYµ½}bµ½8€²µ€½‘½}b‡€È€u²‘‘Š¢b8½}b²µ½€‡‡€µ¯½}‘Šb¢,}b moon creeps into the sky. Eventually, all sound abandons the house. ‘ŠV 8YV²8YŠ88Y8²²Ëµ½8‡†€½‘½}b€²FbYµ¢+€‡bObµb½½‡bµ¢ sneak into the living room downstairs and sit on the couch alone in the Y8²†¢,}b‘²8Šb½µY€µou²b€½}bF‡8O†8YF‡Âb¢,}b½b‡bȀµ€‘Šb‡½µ €½‘½}bÉ8‡‡¢,}b²b€µ8²‘µbɑ‘Y8‡½8²‘½}bn8²É8‡‡É}b²b8F²‘Îb ÂYY}8µ€½µ¢b²bqbO½µ8F²Â½µ‡€Obµ‘nu‘‡Yb‡€u}½n²‘Š8µµ€u}b8Ylights gleaming through the glass of our back door. He is enchantingly q‘²bµOb½¢+‘Šb½€Šbµ½}b‡€u}½O½µ8O²‘µµ}€µn8Ob8Y½²Ë½‘O8½Â²b €½ € ŠË Š€Y É}b 8‡‡ €µ Y8²† 8u8€¢ ,}b Y8²† µ‡€½µ ‘n }€µ O‡‘µbY bËbµ 8Yq8½‡€µV}€µµŠ‘‘½}O}bb†µV½}bF‡ub‘n}€µ‘µbV½}b½bʽ²bY8Ë O²‡µ‘n}€µ}8€²¢€µn8Ob}8½µŠb8½€u}½V½}€µ½b²²€nˀuO8‡Š¢Y‘¯½ know who he is, why he sits so high above us, why he watches us. Mom and Dad never explained. He is just an ornament, but when everything else becomes dark geometry against the walls, only he is illuminated. Just his face in the darkness, golden like a tiny sun.

е½}bÉbb†µ8µµV½}b8µ}8‡½‘n‘²Y²€ÈbÉ8ËF‡€µ½b²µ€½‘oµµÂ²bµ n²‘Š½}b€½bµ€obYµÂŠŠb²}b8½¢½FbO‘Šbµ}‘µ½€‡b‘½µ€Yb·€nˑ½²Ë½‘ breathe, the swamp air of Northern Virginia thickens in your throat and ‘µ½²€‡µ¢‘ŠO‘Šbµ}‘Šb‘bY8Ëɀ½} noOb² ‘8‡Yµ‘V½}b€²O‡‘½}bµ mottled with dark spots of moisture, beads of sweat collected on their F²‘ɵ¢,}b‘noOb²u‘bµ€½‘b8½}b²¯µ²‘‘Š8Y½}b½}b˽8‡†²€È8½b‡Ë €½}b†€½O}b¢8²²Ë8Y8²bbʀ‡bYV€µ½²ÂO½bY½‘²bŠ8€µ½8€²µ¢Y‘¯½ know why we suddenly can trust policemen again. Mom tells us later that Heather is staying with a friend. We play along because we are used to her lies. Our cousin, closer to Heather’s age, relays the truth to us: Heather has run away with a gang. We’re told she had to give herself to each of ½}bu8uŠbŠFb²µ½‘Fb8‡‡‘ÉbYb½²Ë¢ɑYb²€nµ}b¯µ8O½Â8‡‡ËO88F‡b ‘n€½¢,}b½}‘Âu}½Â‡‡µŠb€½‘€‡‡bµµU8‡‡½}‘µbŠbV½}b€²8ɵ8Y‘² thirteen year old sister playing out the forbidden scenes in rated-R movies. But it’s all too easy to imagine Heather stealing, snorting, killing. A N TR A N

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Stargazer’s Field Days before you were born É8‡†bY½‘½}b½‘‘n½}bŠ‘½8€¢ ,}b²bÉb²bn²½}b²V}€u}b²b8†µV8Yµ‘É falling on them, white o‡‡€u€Fb½Ébb F‡8O†€bµ¢,}bµ†Ë seemed closer than the earth. ½}‘Âu}½‘n½}bY€µ½8ObFb½ÉbbˑÂ8Y 8Y}‘Éɑ‡YF²€Yub½}8½Y€µ½8Ob¢ н½}b½‘‘n½}bŠ‘½8€ they raised sheep and rams, in separate pens, a thin line of wire Fb½Ébb½}bŠ¢†bɽ}8½½}€‡€bi if you were to touch it it would warm your hands, you would feel it in your bones, and although the rams wanted to cross they had learned not to. ,}b˵½‘‘Yb²nbO½‡Ëµ½€‡‡€½}bµ‘ÉV‘OO8µ€‘8‡‡Ë dipping for a mouthful of grass. (b‘‡b}8ÈbFbbÉ8‡†€u½}bŠ‘½8€ for thousands of years, to look out at the bowl of mountains. South beyond the valley, as land slopes to the sea, you were waiting across a continent just days ½‘FbF‘²¢½}‘Âu}½‘nˑ safe in your dark water, and thought of you in ten years. We will walk up here together to look at the rams, to look out into the valley. We will see mountains,

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and as clouds move, further mountains like a curtain pulling back across a stage. 3bɀ‡‡}b8²½}b²b‘²½‘n²€qbµ}‘½¢ We will wear orange vests that say Y‘¯½µ}‘‘½V¯Š}Š8¢

C R A I G B E AVE N

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J A SM INE V. BA IL EY

Voodoo Inverso Voodoo Inverso by Mark Wagenaar -€Èb²µ€½Ë‘n3€µO‘µ€(²bµµ gϝ8ubµ·_˜¹¢Žp8b²F8O†

Mark Wagenaar’s Voodoo Inverso is ½}bŠ‘µ½²bOb½ɀb²‘n,}b -€Èb²µ€½Ë ‘n 3€µO‘µ€¯µ b‡€Ê (‘‡‡8† (²€Îb € (‘b½²ËV 8Y €½ µ½8Yµ ½‘ 8no²Š‘b½²Ë²b8Yb²µ¯n8€½}€o²µ½F‘‘†²€Îbµ¢b€½}b²8²‘…bO½F‘‘†V ‘²½}b†€Y‘no²µ½F‘‘†€É}€O}bÈb²Ë½}€u½}b‘b½}8µbÈb²ɲ€½½b€µ unconvincingly swept together, these poems are subtly bound by religious O‘È€O½€‘Vb²µ‘8‡}€µ½‘²ËV8YbÈbµ‘O€8‡O‘µO€‘µbµµ¢,}bF‘‘†¯µ ½€½‡b8Yµ½8²½‡€uO‘Èb²€Š8ub²bnb²½‘bnn‘²½µ½‘O²F}Š8½²8noO†€u 8Yµ‡8Èb‡8F‘²Ÿ½}€µ€µbʝ‡8€bY€½}b8O†‘ɇbYubŠb½µ ¢,}€µ½‘€O recurs in the form of dramatic monologues and semi-confessional ‘bŠµ¢ ½½}bF‘‘†€µVo²µ½8Yn‘²bŠ‘µ½Vµ½bbbY€u‘²ub‘µ€Š8ub²Ë 8Y ŠÂµ€O¢ ½ €µ 8O†bY ɀ½} }€u}‡Ë ‡Ë²€O8‡V ‡b8µ€u‡Ë O‘Š‡bÊ ‘bŠµ that, despite formal gestures, resist easy categorization. ,}b ½€½‡b ‘bŠV € ½}b ȑ€Ob ‘n 8 ȀO½€Š ‘n }Š8 ½²8nn€O†€uV €µ ‘½€Ob8F‡Ë n²bb ‘n ²bO²€Š€8½€‘¢ ,}b ‘‡Ë €Y€O8½€‘ ‘n ½}b µ€½Â8½€‘ is in the first line, which sets up what becomes a sumptuous list poem: ¬Ð‘½€‘½‘²bÈb²µbŠË½²8nn€O†b²¯µO²µbɑ‡Y}8Èb½}bYµ½º‘n½}b µ½²bb½µ‘n(‘²½8Â(²€Ob¢­,}b²bµ½‘n½}b‡€µ½€µ8µb²€bµ‘n€Š8u€8½€Èb shifts in which the viewer and the viewed switch positions: “birch leaves floating on the river, / a constellation the drowned must look on...the moon in the canal below. / Like seeing myself behind a glass door.” ,}bµb €Š8ubµV € ½}b€² µ½²8ubbµµ ‘n µb‡bO½€‘ 8Y b²µbO½€ÈbV u€Èb 8 more powerful insight into the desolation of the lost speaker than an 8u²Ë ‘bŠ O‘‡Y }8Èb¢ ,}b O²€Šb €µ 8‡‡ ½}b Š‘²b F€½½b² n‘² ½}b §Â€b½ ½‘bV½}b8Fµ½²8O½€‘‘nF‡8Šb¢½€µ²8²b½‘²b8YµÂO}8µbµ€½€Èb²bYb²ing of another’s voice.

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(8²½‘n8‡€bVµ}bb²8Y8‡Š‘µ½Š€µµ8F‡bVn²‘Š¬,}b ½O}b²ɀ½} Nothing But Bones” that struck me for its importance: “as if platelets }8YbÈb²ºFbb8O‘Š‡b½bŠËµ½b²Ë¢­Ѝ‘½}b²Vn²‘Š¬*bÈb8½V­‘b of many poems that plays with the Orpheus and Eurydice myth: “Someone who has only half-returned // from that world would recognize it, µ‘Šb‘bF²bYºF˽}bȑ€Obµ€½}bo²bµV8n‘‘½µ½€‡‡€½}bO€Yb²µ¢­ ‘½}‘n½}bµb‡€bµµb8†½‘38ub88²¯µµÂOObµµ€‘b½²Ë¯µµbO€oO½8µ†U µ}‘É€u ½}€uµ O‘µ€Yb²bY ŠÂY8b ½‘ Fb 8Ë½}€u F½¢ ,}b µb8†b²V always hopeful and longing, struck with joy and pain, is a straddler of ɑ²‡Yµ ½}8½ µbbŠ ½‘ €}b²b½‡Ë bÊO‡ÂYb ‘b 8‘½}b²¢ ,}b ɑ²† ‘n ½}€µ book is to make us marvel at the silliness of going through the world unstunned—unawed. ,}b ‘b½¯µ Š8Ë YbY€O8½€‘µV §Â‘½8½€‘µ n²‘Š ‘½}b² ‘bŠµ Ÿn²bquently in their original language), and the vast repertoire of images, locales, and concerns, give some insight into the artistic influences that }8Èb µ}8bY }€Š¢ ,}b F‘‘† µbbŠµ ½‘ €È€½b ˑ 8½ bÈb²Ë ½Â² ½‘ ²b8Y other books, visit other places, know more things, to see if you can discover for yourself some of what this poet renders so compellingly in words.

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CONTRIBUTORS WINTER 2012 | VOL. 62 , NO. 3

EMILY BLAKE ALVERSON’s work has appeared in Cargoes. Originally n²‘Š+Â?8²½8Â?F²uV+‘½} 8²‘‡€Â?8VÂľ}b€¾O²²bÂ?½‡Ë8¾½ÂYbÂ?½8½,‡8Â?b University in New Orleans. JASMINE V. BAILEY’s chapbook, Sleep and What Precedes It, is avail8F‡bn²‘Š‘Â?u‡b8n(²b¾¾V8Â?Y}b²F‘‘†‡bÂ?u½}Š8Â?Ă‚ÂľO²€Â?½VAlexandria, is n‘²½}O‘Š€Â?un²‘Š 8²Â?bu€bb‡‡‘Â?-Â?Â€Ăˆb²¾€½Ë(²b¾¾¢+}b€¾8Â?8¾¾‘O€8½b editor of 32 Poems. CRAIG BEAVEN€¾2€¾€½€Â?uĂ?¾¾€¾½8Â?½(²‘nb¾¾‘²8½½}b-Â?Â€Ăˆb²¾€½Ë‘n‘¾½‘Â?¢(‘bŠ¾8Â?Y²bĂˆÂ€bɾ8²b‘½‘²n‘²½}O‘Š€Â?u€Â?Rattle, Copper Nickel, Third Coast, Southern Humanities Review, and others. JUDITH ERNST€¾‘²€u€Â?8‡‡Ën²‘Š½}b‘²½}Éb¾½ɀ½}8 Ă?n²‘Š+½8Â?n‘²Y University. She has painted, published illuminated books, and lived and ½²8Ăˆb‡bY bʽbÂ?ÂľÂ€Ăˆb‡Ë €Â? Ă?¾€8¢ Â? 8YY€½€‘Â? ½‘ }b² Ob²8Š€O ɑ²† 8Â?Y ½É‘ Â?Ă‚F‡€¾}bY €‡‡Â¾½²8½bY F‘‘†¾V Âľ}b }8Âľ 8Â? 8²½€O‡b ½€½‡bY ÂŹ,}b (²‘F‡bŠ ‘n ¾‡8Š€OĂ?²½V­Â?Ă‚F‡€¾}bY€Â?Muslim Networks: From Hajj to Hip Hop and }8ÂľFbbÂ?€Â?ĂˆÂ€Â˝bY½‘‡bO½Â²b‘Â?8²½½‘Â?€OÂľ€Â?8‡8˾€8VÂÉ8€½V8Â?Y)8½8²¢ Ă? O8½8‡‘u ‘n }b² Ob²8Š€O ɑ²† É8Âľ Â?Ă‚F‡€¾}bY FĂ‹ ½}b ,²†€¾} 3‘ŠbÂ?ÂŻÂľ

‡½Â²8‡Ă?¾¾‘O€8½€‘Â?€Â?¾½8Â?F‡€Â? bObŠFb²VĂ Ă?Ă?Ž¢ ²Â?¾½É8Âľ8n‘ÂÂ?Y€Â?u ŠbŠFb² ‘n *Ă? 8‡‡b²Ë €Â? }8Â?b‡ €‡‡V 8Â?Y €¾ O²²bÂ?½‡Ë ‘Â? ½}b Ă?YĂˆÂ€ÂľÂ‘Â˛Ă‹ ‘8²Y‘n½}bĂ?²½G¾‡8Š(²‘…bO½V8O‘‡‡8F‘²8½€‘Â?Fb½ÉbbÂ?-Â?€versity of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Duke, and the North Carolina +O}‘‘‡‘n½}bĂ?²½¾¢ SCOTT GOULDÂŻÂľ oO½€‘Â?V Â?‘b½²ËV 8Â?Y Â?‘Â?oO½€‘Â? }8Ăˆb 8Â?Â?b8²bY €Â? Kenyon Review, New Madrid Journal, Black Warrior Review, Yemassee, New Stories from the South, and New Southern Harmonies, among others. He has work forthcoming in Bull: Men’s Fiction. He is a past winner of

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½}b€½b²8½Â²bb‡‡‘ɵ}€n²‘Š½}b+‘½} 8²‘‡€8в½µ ‘ŠŠ€µµ€‘8Y ½}b€O½€‘b‡‡‘ɵ}€n²‘Š½}b+‘½} 8²‘‡€8ÐO8YbŠË‘nн}‘²µ¢b teaches creative writing at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the в½µ?Š8€½€bµ€²bbÈ€‡‡bV+‘½} 8²‘‡€8¢ JIM HABERMAN is known for his bizarre and humorous photographs and several documentary projects. He also created a series of 40 postcards n²‘Š}€µɑ²†¢Њ‘u½}bÂF‡€OO‘‡‡bO½€‘µÉ}€O}€O‡ÂYb€Š¯µ}‘½‘u²8}µ 8²b ½}b €F‡€‘½}b§Âb 8½€‘8‡bV (8²€µ· ½b²8½€‘8‡ µbŠ ‘n (}‘½‘u²8}ËV*‘O}bµ½b²VbÉ5‘²†·8YYb ‘²Y‘È8µbŠV ‘O‘²YV Massachusettes. LOIS MARIE HARROD’s 12th collection, The Only Is, won the 2012 ,bbµµbb }8F‘‘† ‘½bµ½¢b²˜˜½}VBrief Term, a collection of poems about teachers and teaching, was published in 2011. Cosmongony won ½}bÁϘÏ8Îb‡€8 }8F‘‘†ÐÉ8²Y¢+}b½b8O}bµ ²b8½€Èb3²€½€u8½ ,}b ‘‡‡bub‘nbÉb²µbË¢ LOLA HASKINS’ poems have appeared in The Atlantic, the London Review of Books, The New York Quarterly, Georgia Review, and elsewhere. Her most recent collection is The Grace to Leave¢+}b}8µo€µ}bY 8 Š8ÂµO²€½ µb½ € ½}b ‡‘²€Y8 ɑ‘Yµ 8Y É8½b²µ 8Y €µ ɑ²†€u ‘ another about insects. Her prose includes Solutions Beginning with A and Not Feathers Yet: A Beginner’s Guide to the Poetic Life¢Њ‘u}b² 8É8²Yµ8²b½}b‘É8(‘b½²Ë(²€ÎbV8‡‘²€Y8 ‘‘†ÐÉ8²YV½É‘ Ðnb‡lowships, and several prizes for narrative poetry. VICTORIA KELLY ²bOb€ÈbY}b²Ðn²‘Š½}b‘É83²€½b²µ¯3‘²†µ}‘V }b² Ð+ŠŠ8 Š8ÂYbn²‘Š8²È8²Y-€Èb²µ€½ËV8Y}b²(}€‡€

²b8½€Èb3²€½€un²‘Š,²€€½Ë ‘‡‡bubV ÂF‡€VÉ}b²bµ}bÉ8µ8-€½bY States Mitchell Scholar. Her fiction has been published in Colorado Review, Fiction, and The Idaho Review, among others. Her poetry has appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Southwest Review, Harpur Palate, Nimrod, and others. She lives in Virginia Beach and teaches Creative Writing at Old Dominion University. CO N TR I B U TO R S

113


SARA E. LAMERS is the author of the poetry collection A City Without Trees and the chapbook Applause: The Patron Saint Poems. Other work has appeared in journals such as ÂuÂbV,}b8OÂnoV8€+½²bb½*8uV and Rattle¢+}b½b8O}bµ8½8ɲbOb,bO}‘‡‘u€O8‡-€Èb²µ€½Ë€+‘½}ob‡YV€O}€u88Y}‘‡Yµ8Ð€‘b½²Ën²‘Š(²YÂb-€Èb²µ€½Ë¢ JOHANNES LICHTMAN’s writing has been published by American Short Fiction, Los Angeles Review of Books, Oxford American, and others. He teaches graduate liberal studies at UNC Wilmington and runs the Blingtheory blog. “Mira” is a part of his novel-in-progress. SUZANNE MATSON€µ8²bO€€b½‘n8ÁϘÁ€O½€‘3²€½€ub‡‡‘ɵ}€ n²‘Š½}b8½€‘8‡ Y‘ÉŠb½n‘²½}bв½µV½}b8½}‘²‘n½É‘ȑ‡ÂŠbµ‘n ‘b½²ËÂF‡€µ}bYFËЇ€Ob8Šbµ ‘‘†µV8Y½}²bb‘Èb‡µVŠ‘µ½²bOb½‡Ë The Tree-Sitter¢+}b€µ8²‘nbµµ‘²8½ ‘µ½‘ ‘‡‡bub8Yn8O‡½Ën‘²8€²ob‡Y-€Èb²µ€½Ë¯µ‘É*bµ€YbOËТ MARTY MCCONNELL ‡€Èbµ € }€O8u‘V ‡‡€‘€µ É}b²b µ}b ɑ²†µ 8µ 8 nY²8€µb² n‘² 8 ˑ½} 8Y O8Š€‡Ë Ob½b²¢ +}b ²bOb€ÈbY }b² Ð n²‘Š Sarah Lawrence College, and her work has recently appeared in A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry, City of the Big Shoulders: An Anthology of Chicago Poetry, Gulf Coast, Indiana Review, Crab Orchard Review, Salt Hill, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Drunken Boat. CONSTANCE PAPPALARDOÉ8µF‘²€€Š8V(b²Â€˜Žp¹¢+}bŠ‘ÈbY ½‘bÉ5‘²† €½Ë8½½}b8ub‘nb€u}½¢+}bµ½ÂY€bY8€½€u8½,}bв½ Students League and continued her education at the School of Visual в½µV € 8}8½½8¢ (88‡8²Y‘ ‘É ‡€Èbµ € 8²ËV ‘²½} 8²‘‡€8¢ Her contemporary abstract watercolors have been featured in numerous galleries in Cary, Raleigh, Chapel Hill, and other cities in North

8²‘‡€8¢ +}b €µ ŠbŠFb² ‘n ½}b 2€µÂ8‡ в½ ÊO}8ub € *8‡b€u} 8Y ‘n½}b ²}8Šв½€‡Y€ ²}8Š¢b²ɑ²†µ8²b€O‡ÂYbY€‡‘O8‡

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corporate collections as well as private collections in the United States 8µ Éb‡‡ 8µ u‡8YV ‘²É8ËV b²Š8ËV ½8‡ËV (‘²½Âu8‡ 8Y }b² 8½€Èb (b²Â¢+}b€µ‘b‘n½}bn‘Yb²µ‘n½}b 8²Ëв½‘‘8Y€µ²bµb½‡Ë 88O½€ÈbŠbŠFb²‘n½}b8Fµ½²8O½8€½b²µu²‘V,}b }²‘Š87‘bµ¢ DANA ROESER is the author of two books of poetry, Beautiful Motion and In the Truth RoomVF‘½}ɀb²µ‘n½}b‘²µb(²€Îb¢+}b²bOb€ÈbY8  Ðnb‡‡‘ɵ}€€ÁÏϸ¢*bOb½ɑ²†}8µ8b8²bYV‘²€µn‘²½}O‘Š€uV in Prairie Schooner, New Ohio Review, Cimarron Review, Green Mountains Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Southern Review, Blackbird, and Notre Dame Review. AN TRAN’s work has also appeared in The Kartika Review, Our Stories Literary Journal, and Connotation Press¢ b €µ Â²µÂ€u 8 Ð 8½ )Âbbµ-€Èb²µ€½Ë‘n }8²‡‘½½b8Y‡€Èbµ€38µ}€u½‘V ¢ ¢VÉ}b²b}b ȑ‡Â½bb²µ8µ8½Â½‘²n‘²gÁ¹

¢ HAROLD WHIT WILLIAMS €µ 8 8½€Èb Ї8F8Š€8 ɑ²†€u € ‡€F²8²Ë O8½8‡‘u€u8½½}b-€Èb²µ€½Ë‘n,bÊ8µ8½е½€¢}€µµ8²b½€ŠbV}b‡8˵ u€½8² n‘² ½}b O²€½€O8‡‡Ë 8OO‡8€ŠbY ²‘O† F8Y ‘½½‘ 8½}b²¢ €µ o²µ½ chapbook, Waiting For The Fire To Go OutV€µ8È8€‡8F‡bn²‘Š€€µ}€u €b(²bµµV8Y}€µ‘bŠµ8b8²€Atlanta Review, Oxford American, Oklahoma Review, Slipstream, Tulane Review, among others.

CO N TR I B U TO R S

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P O E T RY

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12/16/12 2:34 PM


AN TRAN

Sara E. Lamer

Craig Beaven

Johannes Lichtman

Judith Ernst

Suzanne Matson

Scott Gould

Marty McConnell

Jim Haberman

Constance Pappalardo

Lois Marie Harrod

Dana Roeser

Lola Haskins

Harold Whit Williams

Victoria Kelly

and more THE

Emily Blake Alverson

W I N T E R 2 0 1 2 | V OL. 62 , N O. 3

F E AT U R I N G A D D I T I O N A L W O R K BY

T H E C A R O L I N A Q U A RT E R LY

His face haunts me at night, this terrifying calm. I don’t know who he is, why he sits so high above us, why he watches us. Mom and Dad never explained. He is just an ornament, but when everything else becomes dark geometry against the walls, only he is illuminated. Just his face in the darkness, golden like a tiny sun.

$ 9. 0 0

FREE TO UNC STUDENTS POETRY

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CAROLINA QUARTERLY

W I N T E R 2012 I S S U E | V OL. 62 , N O. 3

| F I C T I O N | E S S AYS | R E V I E W S

12/16/12 2:34 PM


CQ 62.3 Winter 2012