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Go
Places:
Sea
Creatures
 July:
Issue
5
 
 
 
 



Contributors
 Jesse
Cataldo

http://www.jessecataldo.com/


Rachael
Easterly Emily
Higgins Eileen
Hillery

http://www.eileenhillery.com/


Emily
Hockaday

emily.hockaday.poetry@gmail.com

Gordon
Holden

http://www.gordonholden.com/


Megan
Hummel Tiffany
Navarro

http://www.tnavarro.blogspot.com/


Amela
Parcic Jackie
Sherbow Terin
Talarico
 Monica
Wendel Cover
Design
by
Simo
Peretti Waltzin’
Jenny
by
Them
Damn
Hamiltons
 Them
Damn
Hamiltons
write
and
perform
original
dark
New
England
folk

 with
a
touch
of
gypsy
swagger
and
sea
chantey
stomp.

 
 www.themdamnhamiltons.com Created
and
Curated
by
Hannah
Raine
Brenner‐Leonard 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



Dear
Friends,


Whale
Mystic,
collage,
2011


Thank
you
to
all
the
contributors
for
making
it
great!
 Hope
you
love
this
one.




 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



 



 



 
 


Truly,

 Hannah



Sea
Burial

 Jackie
Sherbow
 


list
of
beach
life,
Long
Island
Sound,
9/11/2000
 snail,
 shell,
 weeds,
 ladybugs
(note:
check),
 one
black
arrowhead,
 small
white
crabs.
 
 Oceanside,
CA,
7/4/2009
 A
Marine
drowned
 in
the
middle
of
the
day
 just
down
the
beach
 might
as
well
have
been
 next
to
me:
the
way
water
 flows.
 
 Requirements
for
burial
at
sea:
 must
take
place
three
nautical
miles
 from
land
and
in
water
at
least
six
hundred
 feet
deep.
Certain
areas
require
 deeper
water.
All
necessary
measures
shall
 be
taken
to
ensure
that
the
remains
sink
 to
the
bottom
rapidly
and
permanently.
 
 list
of
sea
life
from
dream,
2012
 a
reunion
of
old
friends
tied
 up
in
ocean‐dwelling
plants:
 the
Marine
from
Independence
Day
weekend,
 red
tide,
 my
Aunt
M.’s
ashes,
 silver
knotted
fly‐fishing
ties,
 skipping
rocks,
 the
girl
my
mother
dove
in
 to
retrieve
from
the
pool’s
deep
end,
 Maisie
after
jumping
over
the
fence
 to
the
broken‐glass
shore
of
the
East
River,
 the
view
of
Lower
Manhattan
from
the
water,
 my
toes
skimming
the
tips
 of
everyone's
floating
hair.



 
 



 



Mom's
Bathroom, Northglenn,
Colorado,
January
2010
 Terin
Talarico
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



By
Night
With
Torch
And
Spear
 Jesse
Cataldo
 
 They
spent
their
days
on
the
beach
and
at
night
they
argued.
Quiet
arguments,
ones
with
rounded
 edges,
where
she
would
break
a
glass
in
the
sink
and
he
would
murmur
under
his
breath:
for
God's
 sake
how
many
times?
She
wasn't
working
anymore
and
he
was
painting
the
things
he
wanted,
dead
 canted
trees
and
empty
beds,
their
sheets
gray
and
unwashed
and
sinister.
Things
that
made
the
men
 in
the
little
galleries
on
the
hill
tilt
the
frames
slightly
to
their
sides,
bemused
looks
appearing
on
their
 faces.
He
wasn't
worried.
They
didn't
need
the
money.
Summer
ended
and
they
stayed
there,
in
the
 shore
house
with
three
rooms,
on
the
beach
each
day
in
sweatshirts
and
long
pants.
 















The
tourists
went
home,
of
course,
and
the
ice
cream
man
left
his
truck
behind,
parked
on
a
 sandy
corner
near
the
boardwalk.
Before
this
he
had
imagined
that
there
was
someone
to
tidy
up
 when
the
season
was
over,
a
cleaning
man
with
a
cart
or
a
pickup
truck,
scouring
the
beach
for
trash
 and
debris.
But
there
was
no
such
person.
The
cellophane
wrappers
and
plastic
bags
sunk
their
way
 down
into
the
sand
or
blew
out
into
the
sea.

The
waves
were
glassy
and
calm
and
there
was
seaweed
 every
day.
By
now
the
water
was
cold
enough
that
it
didn't
matter.
 
 “They
say
it’s
full
of
tiny
maggots,
the
seaweed,”
Heather
said
“as
if
it
wasn’t
bad
enough.”
 He
made
a
disgusted
face.
It
was
another
cold
day.
Like
always
they
had
woken
at
different
 times,
eaten
different
breakfasts,
taken
their
morning
walks
alone.
But
by
noon
they
would
be
on
the
 beach
again,
reading,
or
sketching,
or
just
looking
out
at
the
water.
 “Cleaner
maggots
though,”
he
said,
“at
least
relatively.
Because
of
the
salt
I
mean.”









 People
were
still
there
in
town,
somewhere.
They
would
run
into
strangers
in
the
corner
store
 and
say
hello,
forced
into
friendliness
by
the
newfound
emptiness
of
the
place.
But
the
beach
was
 empty.
There
was
one
person,
an
old
woman,
who
had
set
up
a
card
table
near
the
steps
down
from
 the
boardwalk.
She
sold
seashells,
unironically,
reading
romance
novels
with
surprisingly
tasteful
 covers.
She
wore
a
Navajo
chief's
blanket
around
her
shoulders,
a
heavy
thing
with
a
maroon
and
gold
 pattern.
This
must
be
one
of
those
people,
he
thought,
the
ones
Heather’s
father
had
spoken
about,
 the
weirdos
who
clung
to
the
town
all
year
round,
through
cold
weather
and
warm,
like
dead
ants
on
 old
Popsicle
sticks.
 















This
woman
may
well
have
been
there
during
the
summer,
sitting
out
among
the
fruit
sellers
 and
the
caricaturists,
with
their
sample
drawings
of
outdated
celebrities.
If
she
was
they
had
not
 noticed.
Now
they
saw
her
every
day,
her
shells
laid
out
messily
on
the
table,
as
if
they
had
washed
up
 there.
They
were
not
the
same
kind
of
shells
you
would
find
on
the
beach.
They
looked
foreign,
with
 violent
patterns,
streaked
sunset
accumulations
of
purple,
orange
and
red.
The
woman
learned
both
of
 their
names
and
talked
to
them
when
they
passed,
about
the
sound
the
waves
made
on
the
jetty
and
 the
island
just
off
the
coast,
which
they
could
see
but
had
never
visited.

 
“It’s
the
kind
of
place
where
you
see
flowers
everywhere.
In
the
back
seats
of
abandoned
cars.
 Just
growing.
Year
after
year
and
the
petals
pile
up
on
the
floor.
Falling
down
cottages
all
covered
in
 ivy.”
The
woman
kept
her
hair
tied
stiffly
back
and
when
she
spoke
her
hands
fluttered,
as
in
the
 motion
of
some
complicated
dance.
“When
you
see
a
house
like
that,
a
house
with
roots
tearing
up
the
 cellar,
things
living
in
the
rafters,
dead
leaves
up
to
your
knees
in
the
old
kitchen,
you
feel
something
 right
here.”
She
touched
her
chest.
“And
the
dogs.
There
are
old
strays
that
have
gone
wild
and
at
 night
you
can
hear
them
crying
by
the
waves.”
 
 At
night
the
lights
on
the
near
side
of
the
dunes
went
dark
first,
then
those
up
above,
in
the
smaller
 bungalows
where
old
couples
had
settled
down
for
good,
leaving
only
to
watch
the
waves
and
pick
up



groceries.
There
were
still
boats
out
in
the
water,
and
from
time
to
time
one
would
pass
close
to
the
 shore,
the
glint
of
its
lights
reflecting
in
the
window.
Sometimes
they
would
go
by
quickly;
other
times
 they
might
sit
out
there
for
hours,
far
off,
like
something
painted
on
the
sky.
When
he
saw
one
he
 would
walk
over
to
the
window,
picking
up
the
ashtray
in
one
hand
and
standing
there,
the
ashes
 wandering
over
the
lip
of
the
tray,
his
face
smushed
up
against
the
glass.
 
“She
paints
those
shells,”
Heather
said
later.
They
were
playing
Scrabble
and
he
was
surprised
 to
find,
hours
later,
that
the
old
woman
was
still
on
her
mind.
He
had
just
spelled
the
word
'fuzz'
but
 now
regretted
it,
how
out
of
place
it
looked,
the
ugly
blockage
it
put
on
the
board.

 
 “They're
convincing,
sure,
but
I
know
for
a
fact
she
paints
them,”
Heather
continued.

 He
wondered
now
if
the
woman
was
still
out
there,
if
she
spent
all
night
under
the
boardwalk,
 sleeping
wrapped
up
in
that
blanket.
This
seemed
possible.
He
knew
why
she
bothered
Heather,
who
 feared
things
that
made
her
feel
stupid
or
unbalanced.
The
woman
likely
did
this,
through
the
careful
 way
she
spoke,
popping
out
syllables
like
soap
bubbles,
in
the
arch,
measured
tone
of
a
Baedeker's.
 
“Why
does
it
matter
what
they
are?”
he
asked.
 
“It
doesn't
matter.
That's
why
it
matters.
Who
sells
shells?
And
off
season?
What
does
she
 think
this
is?”
 This
was
how
the
arguments
started.
She
would
push
him
to
defend
a
side
he
had
would
not
 normally
have
taken.
From
here
he
would
struggle
to
get
back,
to
escape
the
topic
and
the
side
he’d
 been
assigned.
In
doing
this
he
would
end
up
taking
on
the
argument.
This
was
how
he
found
himself
 defending
nuclear
arms,
dog
shows,
Chiquita
Banana,
the
old
racist
who
owned
the
t‐shirt
shop.
 Eventually
he
would
realize
that
he
was
trapped.
Then,
slowly,
the
fight
would
wind
down.
They
would
 go
to
sleep
and
in
the
morning
when
he
woke
up
she
would
already
be
gone,
a
shallow
dent
in
the
 sheets
where
she
had
slept.
 















Usually
he
would
lose
the
arguments,
because
his
heart
was
not
in
the
defense.
Heather
was
a
 tenacious
and
wily
debater.
The
reality
of
his
loss
would
linger
with
him
and
to
save
face
he'd
be
forced
 to
start
another
fight
later,
picking
at
her
for
something
pointless,
the
way
she
coughed
or
how
she
left
 the
forks
half‐washed,
in
the
dish
drainer
dotted
with
grit
and
crust.
 
“Did
you
wash
these
in
the
sand?”
he
might
ask,
quizzically.
 















There
would
be
silence
from
the
couch
where
she
sat
with
the
light
off
and
the
TV
volume
on
 low.
He
knew
these
kinds
of
comments
hurt
her.
She
had
no
patience
for
dishes
and
it
was
always
dark
 in
the
kitchen.
If
she
did
a
poor
job
it
was
only
partially
her
fault.
So
she
would
say
nothing,
walk
into
 the
bedroom
and
close
the
door.
Or,
if
things
that
day
had
been
more
amicable,
she
might
whine:
 “Morgan
for
God’s
sake.
You
know
I'm
not
good
with
these
things.”
 
“I
know
that.
I
do,”
he
would
answer.
 
“So
why
bring
it
up?”
 
“Why
not,”
he
would
ask,
“just
clean
the
forks?”
 
 It
was
a
vacation
house.
This
meant
it
was
filled
with
things,
all
the
castoff
driftwood
of
her
privileged
 childhood:
frayed
stuffed
animals,
oven
mitts,
books
that
had
been
trapped
between
beds
and
walls
 for
fifteen
years.
There
was
a
1987
calendar
in
the
kitchen,
a
small
yellow
box
with
all
the
months
on
 one
page,
high
up
above
the
cabinets
where
no
one
had
bothered
to
take
it
down.
He
thought
often
 about
her
and
the
house,
the
times
that
had
been
shared
before
he
got
there,
what
would
happen
 after
they
had
gone,
the
things
the
place
meant
to
her
that
he
would
never
understand.
There
had
 been
weekends
here
when
she
was
the
grinning
five‐year‐old
he
saw
in
pictures,
when
she
had
woken
 up
early
in
the
mornings
and
dove
into
her
parents’
bed,
squirming
her
way
underneath
the
covers.
 Now
it
was
their
bed,
with
dark
stains
on
the
coverlet
from
lying
on
it
with
their
shoes
on.
 















To
him
it
was
nothing
more
than
a
dreary
place,
one
that
seemed
barely
alive
even
when
it
 was
warm.
There
was
a
stink
of
dead
wood
and
a
griminess,
an
ancient
must
to
the
walls,
that
would
 have
not
come
out
even
if
they’d
tried
to
remove
it.
He
could
not
get
past
this,
could
not
form
a



sentimental
bond
with
this
sad
little
place
that
was
not
really
a
home
or
even
a
house.
There
seemed
 no
reason
to
try.
By
October
it
was
full
of
drafts,
always
cold,
the
reflected
charm
of
summer
 completely
stripped
away.
Its
creaking
woke
them
in
the
night.
 
 “The
water
looks
like
stew
now,”
he
said,
“In
the
summer
it
has
that
nice
lightness,
but
now
it’s
 like
red
miso.
The
seaweed
doesn’t
help
things.”
 “I
guess”
she
answered.
 
“I
don't
know,”
he
said.
 
“It's
not
the
most
beautiful
thing
in
the
world,”
she
agreed.
 














Their
chairs
were
facing
one
another
for
some
reason.
Hers
looking
out
and
his
face
up
toward
 the
hill
and
the
boardwalk
and
the
town
behind
it.
He
looked
at
the
lines
on
her
face
under
the
sunhat
 she
still
stubbornly
wore.
She
repeated
something
to
him
that
her
father
always
said,
about
never
 turning
your
back
on
the
ocean.
 
 
 From
the
beginning
he
had
thought
of
the
house
as
something
her
parents
bought,
a
wedding
present
 from
their
parents
or
a
purchase
shared
among
siblings.
When
he
found
out
otherwise,
that
it
had
 been
in
the
family
since
1923,
that
several
people
had
honeymooned
there,
that
one
of
her
 grandfather's
cousins
had
choked
to
death
on
an
apple
in
the
very
same
kitchen
he
ate
his
Frosted
 Flakes,
he
felt
spooked.
This
oldness
granted
a
confusing
vacuity
to
the
things
here,
robbing
them
of
 their
context
and
place
and
loosing
them
to
ageless
limbo.
The
things
lying
in
the
hall
and
bedroom
 closets,
the
shuttlecocks
and
loose
strips
of
netting,
the
lawnmower
parts
(although
there
was
no
 lawn),
spades
and
trowels,
dark‐green
tennis
balls,
hats,
boots,
bundled
lengths
of
twine
and
string,
 boxes
of
handwritten
recipes,
Clue
and
Trivial
Pursuit
in
outdated
boxes,
with
mildew‐eaten
boards
 that
looked
like
the
floors
of
neglected
mansions.
Where
did
these
things
come
from?
When
had
they
 been
left
here?
There
was
the
yellow
raft
that
her
brothers
had
taken
out
on
the
Atlantic
without
 permission,
rowing
against
the
tide,
so
far
that
they
disappeared
beyond
the
horizon.
When
they
came
 back,
trudging
up
the
beach
with
the
boat
held
over
their
heads,
her
father
went
after
them
with
his
 belt
and
later,
after
they’d
been
suitably
punished,
gored
the
raft
with
a
steak
knife.
This
was
one
of
 the
stories
he
knew.
She
told
it
blankly,
so
that
he
wasn’t
sure
if
it
was
meant
to
be
funny
or
sad.
But
 the
raft
was
still
there,
folded
up
its
packaging,
brown
and
desiccated
like
an
old
cucumber.



 It
was
not
all
fighting,
though
it
sometimes
seemed
like
it,
and
he
hoped
that
looking
back
one
 day
they
would
not
remember
the
arguments.
There
were
nice
times,
even
when
it
was
cold
and
the
 wind
howled,
when
they
would
find
themselves
sitting
Indian‐style
on
the
kitchen
floor,
feeling
the
old
 storm
feeling,
the
one
you
could
really
only
feel
on
vacation.

Or
in
the
hallways,
their
legs
stretched
 out
across
each
others.
They
would
drink
hot
things
from
mugs
and
eat
the
old
crackers
they
found
 wasting
away
in
the
pantry.
“1991,”
she
joked,
“beautiful
vintage.
Fantastic
year
for
Saltines”.
The
pine
 smell
of
the
walls
came
out
when
it
rained
and
sometimes
the
smell
of
a
wood
stove
would
appear
out
 of
nowhere,
wafting
up
the
beach
maybe,
slinking
into
the
bedroom
where
they
lay
draped
over
the
 bed.
 















It
was
during
one
of
these
times
that
she
told
him
about
the
whale.
It
was
rare
for
her
to
 speak
about
her
memories
of
this
place,
and
the
things
she
did
tell
were
not
important,
where
the
key
 ring
used
to
hang
and
the
way
the
bikes
would
tip
over
every
night
from
the
wind.
How
her
father
 would
lean
them
up
against
the
wall
as
evenly
as
he
could
but
each
morning
they
would
come
outside
 and
there
they’d
be,
tipped
over
in
the
sand.
But
this
story
was
different.
 
“We
must
have
been
eight
or
nine,”
she
began,
“well
I
was
eight
or
nine.
Clint
was
ten
or
 eleven
or
maybe
even
twelve.
We
came
back
from
somewhere
in
the
car
and
it
was
lying
there
on
the
 beach,
dead.
Just
the
mouth
and
the
head
or
whatever
and
the
rest
of
it
was
in
the
water.
But
that
 mouth.
Jesus.
There
was
this
horrible
crust
of
barnacles,
black
algae‐looking
stuff
around
the
eyes
and
 mouth
and
I’ll
never
forget,
for
something
to
have
eyes
like
that,
like
bigger
than
you
could
imagine.



Clint
ran
over
and
tried
to
touch
it
and
my
dad
came
and
scooped
him
up.
Which
was
good,
he
would
 have
crawled
inside,
the
way
he
was.”
 
She
laughed
and
went
on
talking,
about
the
eyes,
which
eventually
slid
shut
on
their
own,
and
 the
slack
mouth,
as
wide
as
a
garage
door.
 















After
she
told
this
story
they
went
back
out
on
the
beach
and
walked,
up
along
the
high
dunes
 past
the
old
wooden
shops,
closed
for
the
season,
where
one
lonely
house
sat
at
the
top
of
the
ridge.
 This
house
always
looked
dark
from
their
window.
But
close
up
they
could
see
the
frail
blue
light
inside
 as
a
television
reflected
against
the
bay
window.
They
did
not
hold
hands.
This
was
not
that
kind
of
 situation,
where
the
story
reminded
him
of
why
he
loved
her
in
the
first
place,
opened
untapped
 depths
of
affection
and
broke
through
the
crusted
loam
of
misunderstanding.
Nothing
like
that
 happened.
Part
of
him
was
still
annoyed,
to
be
honest,
that
she
had
eaten
the
last
three
eggs
that
 morning.
 















They
walked
somewhat
apart
and
sometimes
his
hand
would
dart
closer,
brushing
the
hair
off
 her
shoulder.
Out
of
habit
maybe,
but
with
the
hand
clinging
to
the
last
fibers
of
hair
and
swooshing
 them
backing
behind
her
ear
where
he
knew
they
would
catch.
The
ocean
was
hideous
and
black,
 swollen,
proud
of
the
billion
dead
things
rotting
inside.
“It’s
selfish,”
she
said,
“But
I
would
love
to
see
 it
happen
again.
The
whale,
tremendous,
dead,
lying
there
on
the
shore.”
 
 

 “What
are
you
doing
out
there,”
his
mother
asked
on
the
phone,
“and
where
is
there
exactly?
What
 can
you
possibly
be
eating
every
day?”
 “Nothing,”
he
said,
which
was
not
true.
He
was
painting
every
day,
even
when
he
didn’t
feel
 like
it,
things
he
was
not
sure
he
liked
because
he
did
not
look
at
them
once
they
were
done.
There
 was
not
much
else
to
do.
The
library
in
town
was
small
and
they
had
no
television.
So
the
paintings
 filled
the
house.
Leaning
face
down,
first
against
the
back
of
the
couch
and
then
against
the
backs
of
 other
paintings.
 “We’ll
be
back
when
we’re
back,”
he
said
into
the
phone.
 When
he
was
out
or
in
bed
Heather
would
turn
the
paintings
over
and
examine
them.
There
 was
something
menacing
here,
she
felt.
The
palette
and
chunky
brush
strokes
indicated
frustration,
 black
moods,
depression
even,
a
morbid
intimacy
with
shadows
and
fog.
One
painting
was
of
the
 beach,
covered
in
dead
jellyfish.
Another
showed
the
dark
water
churning
like
sewage,
an
old
rowboat
 listing
near
a
dock,
three
dusty
pelicans
perched
on
a
buoy.
She
picked
at
their
frameless
edges
like
a
 box
of
records,
running
her
finger
over
certain
parts,
letting
them
fall
back
against
one
another.

 
“What
are
you
trying
to
say
with
these
paintings?”
she
asked,
one
morning,
when
they
found
 themselves
both
drinking
espresso
at
the
café
down
the
street.
 















He
thought
about
this
for
a
moment.
His
fingers
pulled
from
his
sleeve
and
drummed
against
 the
table.
“I
think,”
he
answered,
“that
I
liked
this
place
better
when
it
was
warm.”
 

 
 One
day
just
before
Halloween
they
walked
up
the
coast
toward
the
jetty,
further
than
they’d
been
 before,
past
the
gray
mossy
houses
where
old
friends
of
her
parents
still
lived.
He
had
stopped
shaving
 and
his
beard
had
grown
out
unevenly,
patchy
in
some
places,
scraggly
in
others.
He
cupped
his
hands
 and
blew
on
them.

 There
was
a
place
here
she
had
not
seen
in
years.
Far
down
the
beach,
past
where
the
cliff
 walls
pressed
tight
against
the
sea,
where
the
water
was
full
of
boulders
and
shark
eggs
choked
the
 sand
in
the
spring.

She
knew
it
as
the
boathouse,
although
it
did
not
hold
boats
and
did
not
look
as
it
 ever
could
have.
It
was
a
small
shack
on
the
water,
connected
by
a
short
pier,
half
collapsed,
with
 snapped
clamshells
scattered
across
the
floor.
She
told
him
that
as
a
child
it
had
scared
her
terribly,
 how
her
brothers
would
force
her
inside,
bar
the
door
and
pretend
to
leave.
Looking
at
it
now
she
felt



nothing
at
all,
watching
the
water
lap
against
the
open
front
of
the
shack,
the
gaps
in
the
walls
 creaking
as
the
tide
slowly
wrenched
them
from
their
moorings.
 
“What
a
horrible
place,”
he
said.
 

 “It
used
to
be
even
worse.
Or
seemed
like
it.
Maybe
I’m
just
being
nostalgic”
She
watched
the
 narrow
stare
he
gave
the
structure,
his
hand
rubbing
over
his
mouth.
She
wondered
if
he
would
paint
 this,
and
what
it
would
look
like
if
he
did.

 They
sat
in
the
sand
nearby
for
a
few
minutes
and
then
walked
back
 “It’s
very
cold,”
he
said.
 “It
is,”
she
answered.
 Coming
off
the
beach
they
ran
into
the
woman,
who
had
left
her
table
and
was
walking
 barefoot
in
the
sand.
She
talked
again
about
the
island,
picking
up,
it
seemed,
where
she
had
left
off
 the
last
time
they
had
spoke.
 
“There
were
things
there,”
she
said,
“a
town
hall,
a
beautiful
pet
shop,
and
every
summer
 there'd
be
fireworks.
I
was
a
girl
here,
years
ago,
and
on
the
4th
we
would
come
out
to
the
beach
and
 lay
down
on
a
blanket,
eat
fried
clams
from
the
shack
down
on
the
other
side
of
the
beach.
It’s
gone
 now.
But
the
fireworks
went
up
there,
out
along
the
rocks,
and
from
what
they
said
the
island
the
most
 beautiful
houses.
Mansard
roofs,
widows'
walks,
the
most
glorious
gardens
you’d
ever
see.”
 
“Goodnight,”
Heather
said,
while
the
woman
was
still
speaking.
They
walked
back
to
the
 house.
 
 

 That
night
they
made
fish
sticks
and
ate
them
at
the
table
outside,
in
their
jackets,
the
wind
whipping
 her
hair
up
into
her
face.
When
the
fight
started
it
was
about
Clark
Gable.
Whether
it
was
him
or
Errol
 Flynn
in
the
old
Technicolor
version
of
Robin
Hood.
It
was
less
a
serious
argument
than
a
joking
debate
 and
the
movie
was
right
there,
in
an
old
VHS
copy,
leaning
against
a
few
others
on
the
living
room
 shelf.
They
were
laughing
as
they
went
back
and
forth.
She
grabbed
his
shoulders
and
shook
them
 vigorously.


 















But
once
they
started
they
could
not
stop.
The
Gable
discussion
developed
into
something
 tangentially
related,
third‐world
piracy,
or
his
father,
and
then
became
about
water
pollution
and
 finally
the
idea
that
the
leak
of
the
kitchen
sink
was
fixable.
They
were
no
longer
laughing
and
her
head
 was
pressed
against
her
hand.
It
was
not
something
that
could
be
repaired,
he
maintained.
It
was,
she
 was
sure.
But
had
she
tried
to
fix
it?
Had
he?
She
thought
the
leak
could
be
fixed
because
she
thought
 everything
could
be
fixed,
just
like
that,
he
was
convinced;
she
knew,
assuredly,
that
he
was
projecting,
 his
hate
for
this
house
and
all
the
things
that
lived
within
it.
 















Standing
up
to
refill
his
glass
he
knocked
over
the
flag,
which
had
sat
folded
on
the
end
table
 since
she’d
taken
it
down
on
the
4th.
There
was
a
codified
procedure
for
the
folding,
but
he
did
not
 know
exactly
what
that
was.
It
was
her
responsibility,
but
when
he
held
it
out
she
shook
her
head
 fiercely.
“Do
it
yourself
since
you
know
everything”
she
shouted.
He
threw
it
down
on
the
couch
in
a
 ball.

 















It
went
on
like
this.
They
got
into
bed,
still
arguing,
and
lay
whispering
with
a
space
between
 them,
back
to
back,
pitched
distantly
to
either
side
of
the
bed.
 
“If
you
made
an
effort,”
she
said,
“you’d
see
it
wasn’t
really
such
a
big
deal.”
 
“Effort
is
a
two
way
street.
I
don’t
see
why
I’m
being
lectured
on
self‐improvement
when
you
 sit
around
here
all
day
on
your
ass,
like
you’re
the
queen
of
everything.”
 















Her
response
was
thoughtful
and
measured.
She
was
still
talking
when
he
fell
asleep.
 
 
 
When
he
woke
it
was
still
dark
but
she
was
not
there.
The
sun
was
almost
coming
up.
He
could
see
the
 first
glints
of
it
out
at
sea,
the
edges
of
the
horizon
beginning
to
lighten.
On
the
beach
there
were



seagulls,
dozens
of
them,
wheeling
and
crying
and
colliding
with
one
another.
He
pulled
on
his
pants
 and
went
to
the
window.
 















She
was
out
there,
on
the
beach,
standing
over
something.
Again
he
thought,
cursing
her
 petulant
revenge
tactics,
this
distant
morning
ritual
she
carried
out
to
punish
him,
the
symbolism
of
 these
beach
walks
and
the
coffee
she
sometimes
made,
the
pot
left
purposely
on
the
counter
so
it
 would
grow
cold.

But
this
time
there
was
something
in
front
of
her.

Something
heavy,
and
long,
big
 enough
that
the
waves
did
not
move
it
and
it
sat
there
like
a
rock,
the
water
rushing
over
it.
She
was
 leaning
toward
the
thing
and
he
could
see
part
of
it
moving,
a
fin
or���flap
of
flesh
being
tugged
by
the
 tide.
It
was
a
dolphin,
he
decided,
or
a
huge
fish,
the
way
its
back
end
tapered
off
and
came
to
a
point,
 as
if
the
back
fin
had
been
snipped
off
or
eaten
by
scavengers.
There
was
something
shocking
in
this
 pristine,
lifeless
pile
lying
on
the
shore.
But
he
was
more
worried
about
her,
both
the
quiet
grief
she
 would
incur
from
this
dead
creature
and
the
terrible
diseases
she
might
pick
up.
 















When
he
got
outside
she
was
squatting
over
the
shape,
the
back
of
her
jacket
trailing
in
the
 sand.
He
walked
toward
the
water,
saying
her
name,
looking
for
some
definite
sign:
a
bent
dorsal
fin,
 scales,
a
blowhole
dammed
up
with
mud.
But
it
was
not
a
dolphin,
or
a
fish.
The
proportions
were
all
 wrong.
He
saw
this
now,
coming
up
behind,
where
she
held
her
hands
over
the
blob
as
if
warming
 them
near
a
fire.
She
whirled
toward
him,
losing
her
balance
and
falling
forward
on
one
knee.



 
“It’s
a
dog,”
she
said.
And
it
was:
huge,
half‐rotted,
its
coat
smeared
an
anonymous
shade
of
gray.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



Light
Creatures
 Tiffany
Navarro
 
 
 
 
 



Other
Islands
 Monica
Wendel
 
 Here
we
are,
in
the
great
valley
of
people

 between
the
signs,
and
the
police,
and
the
fences.
 Bring
me
water:
I
would
like
that
right
now.
 
 And
the
night
on
the
field
with
the
grass
and
the
eels
 and
the
planes
rising
above
us
from
JFK
a
dozen
miles
east
–

 no
one
from
that
night
is
here.
 
 It
feels
like
I
am
the
only
one
seeing
what
I
see
 and
at
night
I
dream
of
the
apocalypse,
I
am
watching
the
ocean
 from
above
and
the
tsunami
expands
like
a
jellyfish
 
 so
perhaps
in
the
dream
it
actually
was
a
jellyfish,
 blue
with
white
edges
of
waves.
The
dream‐me

 checks
her
cell
phone
underwater,
sends
one
last
text.
 
 In
the
great
mass
of
people,
and
then
later,
walking
 down
Broadway
with
police
vans
stretched
for
a
quarter
mile,
 I
feel
very
alone;
I
feel
as
though
no
one
is
watching:
 
 Yet
the
news
ticker
lights
up
again
and
again
to
say
where
I
am
 and
it
is
as
though
I
am
walking
on
the
back
of
a
whale,
 curved
slightly,
like
a
parenthesis,
and
what
I
thought
was
an
island
indeed
was
alive.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



Gordon
Holden



 



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



Amela
Parcic
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



Rachel
Easterly
 
 
 jellyfish,
you
sting
like
rain
 your
body
flails
 hook
and
sinker,
run
 and
hunker,
milk
needles
 don't
feed
her,
nothing
appease
her
 
 jellyfish,
they
wash
you
up
to
dry,
 feed
you
beer
cans
on
your
first
try.
 it's
a
sunrise
you
float
through,
 they
follow
like
they
need
you
 but
they
won't
say‐‐
 
 jellyfish,
the
water
is
wide
for
a
hope,
 for
a
fever,
for
a
sunrise
you
float
through,
 no
single
believer‐‐
 they
pour
out
their
hearts,
 denounce
the
container,
 ‐‐and
i
pick
them
 over
you,
every
day
 
 
 


Emily
Higgins
 
 



Eileen
Hillery
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



Crabbing
 Emily
Hockaday
 
 I
lost
the
first
few
 pulling
too
quickly
 or
not
quick
 enough.

You
reached

 
 for
the
string
 over
my
shoulder
 trying
to
man
both
 string
and
net
 
 at
once.

We
were
left
 with
empty
lines—the
rags
 of
flesh
less
and
less
 attached
to
the
bone.
 
 I
had
helped
 you
secure
that
string
 around
the
raw
chicken,
 fat
puckering
up
 
 over
the
knots
before
 dropping
it
down
 into
the
dark
water.
 When
I
first
asked
you
 
 to
take
me
crabbing,
 you
took
it
as
 a
joke,
maybe,
said
 the
season
starts
 
 in
August,
at
dark,
 so
day‐lit
May
 was
improper.
 I
took
your
information
 
 rolled
it
between
my
 fingers
to
feel
around
for
pieces
 of
your
childhood
 amongst
the
knowledge

 
 
 



you’d
gained
living
on
the
shore
 of
an
island.
 You
were
right.
 To
go
crabbing
 
 when
there
aren’t
any
crabs,
 it
doesn’t
make
sense.
 I
wanted
to
see

 one
crab.

It’s
what
I
said
 
 at
dinner
that
night—
 chicken
legs—over
the
stiff
 plastic
table
cloth
 saturated
in
ugly
floral
 
 print,
Alzheimer’s,
your

 familial
ghosts.

I
promised
 your
mother
a
poem
 so
here
it
is:
 
 the
dock
jut
out

 into
a
bay
 which
I
called
the
ocean

 because
really
 
 if
A
touches
B
touches
 C—it
smelled

 like
the
ocean.

The
salt
stuck
 to
my
lips
and
pores,

 
 the
spray
misleadingly
gentle,
 and
I
crossed
the
dock
 in
the
deliberate
and
 exploratory
way
 
 a
child
picks
apart
 veins
in
an
oak
leaf
 by
ripping
out
 the
papery
and
meaty
insides.
 
 
 



The
slats
of
wood,
crusted

 with
salt,
speckled
and
stained
 with
worm
carcasses,
bird
excrement
 
 and
burns
 
 led
out
into
the
water

 like
a
long
tongue.

 Posts
and
hooks
 with
grimy
bits
of
string
 
 sticking
up.

The
equipment
 made
it
an
expedition.

You,
 shaking
the
spiders
 off
the
plastic
bucket,
net
 
 held
like
a
lacrosse
 stick,
were
in

 command.

The
crabs
came
 early
that
year,
 
 would
probably
come
again,
 too,
a
second
wave.

It
was
 abnormal
(though
to
be
 expected).

You
and
I
 
 have
precarious
timing.
 We
threw
each

 crab
back;
all
 runts
but
the
same

 
 pregnant
female,
 so
hungry,
again
and
 again.



 



 
 
 
 
 



Megan
Hummell
 
 




Go Places: Sea Creatures