Luna Negra Spring 2018

Kent State University’s Literary and Arts Journal

VOLUME 21 — EST. 1956

SPRING 2018

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Carrie George

ART DIRECTOR

Dean Sweetnich

SOCIAL MEDIA

Jessie Roos

WRITING STAFF

Isaiah Hunt Nina Palattella William Hill

DESIGN STAFF

Abigail Archer Kathleen Morris Samantha Nold Brian Tran Sam Bumbalo

FACULTY ADVISOR

Dr. Kimberly Winebrenner

STUDENT MEDIA

Kevin Dilley Student Media Director Lorie Bednar Office Manager Norma Young Business Manager Tami Bongiorni Advertising Manager Jacyna Ortiz Production Manager

The painful question I must always answer when talking about this magazine is, “So what is Luna Negra?”

I could say it is one of the longest running publications at Kent State; I could say it is the only on-campus literary arts magazine open to submissions from all students; or I could just say it’s 48 pages of creative and inspiring content.

But really, Luna Negra is you, the reader. Luna Negra is the English teacher who said you could never be a writer. The math teacher who told you to give up on the arts now. It’s your uncle who can’t stop talking about your sister’s STEM degree. But most of all, Luna Negra is the way you’ve proven everyone wrong. Luna Negra is your spirit, your voice. It’s your passion, your drive, and your inability to quit.

This has been my third year working with Luna and I have never been more amazed by the work our contributors create. In a world obsessed with silencing the arts, with condemning compassion, and with ignoring empathy, the resilient artists featured in this magazine have shown that the humanities will not go quietly; that there are still stories to tell and passionate people longing to tell them.

From “grasshopper,” a poem rich with images of fleeting innocence, to “Lovehandles,” a quiet scene about a man unbuckling his sexuality, you can grow old with this magazine. The writers and artists featured in these pages all have something bold to say, and we would all be wise not just to listen, but to respond.

I want to give a warm and genuine thank you to my entire staff for working so hard on this publication. I also want to thank the other organizations that have collaborated with Luna in our endeavors to bring the literary arts to everyone in the Kent community. Most of all, I want to thank our contributors, past, present, and future. Without your courage and creativity, Luna Negra is nothing. So—be bold, be brave, and do not stop fighting to be heard.

Carrie George Editor-in-Chief

WEBSITE lunanegramag.com EMAIL lunanegramag@gmail.com INSTAGRAM @lunanegramagazine

1

Lovehandles

Short Stoies

by John C. Polles

Poetry

CONTENTS 2

13

Half Season

by Miles Purdy

15

A Thread Came Out of My Shirt

by Vishal Gaur

16 17

Prayer Four-Hundred and Fourty-Three Miles

by Thomas Cole

18

Salute

by Emily Palombo

21

Fulfillment

by Joseph Langan

22

Wool & Raisins

by Casey Helms

22

Arm’s Length

by Marina Dolinar

23

Time Keeper

by Chelsea Panin

27

Rima Ristrutturare

by Cordaireus Percy-Hubbard

5

Dyersberg FM

by Miles Purdy

31 32 34

25

Lovehandles

by John C. Polles

Moth You Live In the Cornfield Grasshopper

by Cameron Gorman

35

36

Guts

by John C. Polles

Cool Mom

by Miles Purdy

42

Poem for Poets and Cynics

by Tyler Kruel

42

Said It, Say It Again

by Joseph Pritchard

45 45

Our Rocks Must Be Scratched Glasses Tongues Wear

by Nathaniel Seres

46

Ariel

by Marina Dolinar

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CONTENTS Socks & Shoes

20

As Above So Below

by Cory Sutter

28

Burn Austyn Burn Ben

by Lucas Boyle

44

Elephant

by Eugene Mireku

47

Angled Gal

by Lillian Powell

Photography

Dinner With My Parents

by Anne Dargenio

by Brian Makinen

by Anne Dargenio

Dinner With My Parents

Artwork VOLUME 21

19

10

Cornered Socks & Shoes

by Brian Makinen

14

Trash Birds Gossip Descent

by Justin Golenberg

30

Untitled

by Emily Gommel

37

Josie

by Emily Prusak

44

Project Sky

by Jason Medrano

3

4

ILLUSTRATION BY DEAN SWEETNICH

SHORT STORY

Dyersberg FM

by Miles Purdy

T

he gravel road simmered like coals under red sun shining through the magnolias. The trees’ flowers browned and fell at the toes of Clyde’s black leather shoes. Clyde didn’t own black leather shoes. He didn’t wear hats either, yet his hand had to fly to his head to keep wide-brimmed Stetson from blowing off in the hot breeze, as he stepped down the gravel trail. The trail lead to the top of a lone, gnarled magnolia at the top of a hill. Another hot breeze passed as he climbed the hill, magnolias cast in fire against the light, like they used to in the August evenings at his old man’s farm. Clyde saw a kid lying at the base of the tree, bleating out an old song.

I got to keep movin’, I got to keep movin’ bues fallin’ down like hail, blues fallin’ down like hail Hmmm-mmm, blues fallin’ down like hail, blues fallin’ down like hail Nearing the top of the hill, Clyde saw that the kid’s horns had just started to protrude from beneath the fur.

The kid’s brown head rolled over to face Clyde, staring back apathetically. Its throat had been ripped out, red staining the white coat. Clyde stepped back to run but found there was no gravel to hold his footing. The little goat’s voice followed him down as he fell slowly backwards.

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And the days keeps on worryin’ me There’s a hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail Clyde’s nose bounced off of the scratched mahogany table. He rubbed his already sore nose, the odd dream slipping back down into his subconscious.

This wasn’t the first time it’d happened that week, and again he swiped his arms across the table to find the mic and the schedule. He heard something fall to the floor.

The fan’s whirring droned under Robert Johnson’s voice echoing off the walls of the cramped radio booth, exacerbating his headache. Though the humidity had gone down outside, the building still retained the heat and dampness of the August sun. The room was technically large enough for the table and radio console that stood in the center, a rusting lamp pointed against the wall. The single mic was attached to the ceiling, swinging slightly despite the flat air. Two wooden chairs sat on either side of the mahogany desk, too small to sit comfortably for any real length of time. Darcy never sympathized with Clyde when she’d switch in for her shift at midnight. Clyde stretched out; realizing sweat had gotten through the undershirt to his wrinkled button-up, sleeves rolled up unevenly above his elbows. He rubbed

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SHORT STORY

his face, feeling the stubble comb his palms as Johnson’s voice faded out. The room smelled like his pomade, a blend he ordered from a cousin’s barbershop in Atlanta.

He cleared his throat; no drinks were allowed in the studio, and his pocket flask had emptied hours ago. He flipped the switch and went live.

“Good evening folks…” Clyde suppressed a yawn. “Well, I should say morning, shouldn’t I? I’m Clyde Stark, and it’s just before the five o’clock hour here, and I’ve got just one more hour with y’all before I switch off with the Jerome and Co. show at six for your morning commute. Darcy Dawson is still on leave, but she’ll be back ‘round once she’s feeling better. We’re going to start taking your calls right after a short word from our sponsors.”

He slumped back into his chair, the wooden back scratching against the peeling wallpaper. He tried to remember what happened in the dream. He scratched at an old scar on his temple as he tried to think back, jumbled pieces of red trees and a hot wind refusing to fit together. He shuddered; he already knew his regular nightmares had gone from bad to sideways since covering both shifts, and he preferred to be too drunk to remember them when he’d wake up the next afternoon.

His eyes caught the invoice that had fallen off the desk, addressed from a Detective Brimfield. Clyde had been looking for the bottom of his flask when he read it.

6

Brimfield was asking if Clyde could meet with him in the morning at Dee Dee’s Diner after his double shift.

Whatever ink Brimfield used in his pen bled heavily, the black dots in his i’s staining through the cream-colored envelope. He wanted to see if Clyde had heard anything from Darcy since her disappearance. She’d been missing for nearly a week.

After the first two nights she’d been absent, the official word from the station’s GM Jeb was that Darcy had taken a trip to see her sister in Memphis. Least to say, Jeb didn’t have an aptitude for PR; Darcy’s husband Sam hadn’t let her go down there since they married. When Brimfield had tried to pull him aside the following morning at Pub 78 after a few drinks of tequila, asking about the Dawson marriage, he’d mumbled at them something about ‘workplace confidentiality’ and wander off. But even if he knew that Sam loved her, he’d seen the bruises on her arms every Sunday night when he’d switch off with her.

The call lines started to blink. Clyde cleared his throat and connected the call. After ten seconds of the hushed voice of a man warning the nation that Jimmy Carter was a communist put into the Presidency by Lucifer, he cut the line.

“Sorry folks, we’re having a bit of technical difficulty on that line. We’ll be taking our next caller… shortly.”

The switch clicked loudly as he set up a filler track.

He was getting tired of crazy being the only line coming into the studio. It’d all gone out the window when he was sitting in the booth, waiting for Darcy to smirk at him and

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“Howdy, Clyde,” said the caller. “Been a minute, hasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” said Clyde. “Who is this?

“C’mon Clyde, it’s me, Chuck, from middle school! We used to run track, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Chuck,” Clyde said. “Well,

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Chuck, how are you doing this morning?”

“I’m mighty fine, Sly Clyde,” said Chuck.

“Just bringing the good people of America some cross-country goods.”

“Planning on staying the night?” He asked, playing with the letter from Detective Brimfield.

“Naw, just passing through tonight. I usually call in for Darcy. Where’s that beautiful-ass voice at?”

“Mind your language, Chuck. She’s staying at her sister’s,” said Clyde, spitting out the stupid lie Jeb had made.

“Sure, sure…” said Chuck. “You know what,” he said. “I got a story for your listeners! A little bit of local history, if you don’t mind.” Clyde minded.

“Shoot.”

“Well, talking about our track days got me thinking back. It was the only day that season coach let us off early from practice, ‘cause our first o-ffic-i-al football match was that night against Humboldt. That Rolling Stones record had just came out, the one with ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’ and we was just dying to hear it.” “‘Beggars Banquet’ was and still is a good album,” said Clyde. He crossed his arms,

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SHORT STORY

ask if he had anything left in that flask to share.

Sam had been a close friend of Clyde’s in school. He remembered shotgunning their first beers together at fifteen out by the rail yard, the night after Sam had made it to the state track finals. But Darcy was the one he knew best. She lived a mile up the road from him, and so the closest thing to neighbors either of them had. She’d wait for him to finish cleaning out the barn after school before sitting in the magnolia trees that his granddaddy had planted before the Old South was old. They spent most of their time arguing over music; he’d agree with the opposite of whatever she thought just to watch her get annoyed. They’d go for hours like that, until one of them would get mad enough to jump down from the tree in a huff. This is how it went for years. Their friendship had started to grow apart after Clyde asked Darcy to the senior dance. His thumb brushed against the scar on his temple where Sam had pounded his head with can of Budweiser in the school’s parking lot.”

He took another look at the letter from the detective. She seemed happy with Sam, he thought.

Didn’t need to ask about the specifics of what their relationship was like. Wasn’t right for people to pry like that, not in their neck of the woods anyhow. But that didn’t keep him from wondering how sincere Darcy was when passing by every work night, asking if he had anything left in his flask. The call-light started to blink softly before he could continue his thought.

SHORT STORY

and shifted up in his chair.

“Yep, yep, and you, sir, and old Sammy— didn’t he settle down with Darcy a few years back? Anyhow, we came up with a plan to get it easy. Stole it right from Mr. Bond. Of course we found out a snatchand-grab by a couple of twelve-year-olds wasn’t the most genius idea. You especially, Clyde. You was too slow to keep up! Seemed mighty spooked when I saw you in class that next day.” Clyde rolled his eyes.

“Yes well, a young boy did a stupid thing, but the officers couldn’t scare me in the least. And, now that I remember this, I clearly remember the both of you tripping me to save yourselves.”

Chuck chuckled.

“Yeah well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

“You were eleven!”

“Specifics don’t change the point none, Sly Clyde,” said Chuck. “Your daddy’s what I thought you was scared of, son.”

Clyde crumpled the letter in his hand. “I’m sorry Chuck,” he said, “but we need to cut to break. You have yourself a lovely morning.” Clyde slammed down on the receiver. After a moment he realized he was broadcasting dead air, flipped the tape and set Muddy Waters to play.

8

Mm mm, oh ho somebody help me, ho, with these blues well, now, she’s the one I’m loving, she’s the one I do hate to lose

It had been summer in middle school when Clyde’s father brought Pup home. The shorthaired mutt’s head had been pointed down, brown eyes darting to any sound that it heard. A fat scar exposed the skin over Pup’s back.

His father never said where he found Pup. He’d shake his head and say Pup was ‘Better here than there.’ and grow quiet, brow furrowed. In later years, Clyde learned he’d gotten it from the Sam Dawson’s youngest sister, not five miles down the road. More than the dogs were beaten at that house. The one-story farmhouse wasn’t big enough for the family as it was, let alone Pup too, but the goat barn had space still.

I been crazy yes, I been a fool I been crazy, oh, all of my life well I done fell in love with a with another man’s wife The clock read 5:35. Darcy would be prepping her exit tracks for the shift about now. He flattened out the crumpled letter from Detective Brimfield, noticing the surprisingly clean handwriting for a man. He went to take a swig from the flask and found nothing but air again.

Clyde stared down at the letter, now as wrinkled as his shirt. The blotted dots in each of the i’s of Brimfield’s handwriting seemed to stare back at him, judging him.

He rubbed his eyes hard, until his own vision blotted with dots. He straightened out his sleeves and stepped out of the studio, leaving the empty flask on the scratched desk.

Clyde wasn’t going to keep Brimfield waiting any longer.

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9

PHOTOGRAPHY 10

LUNA NEGRA

PHOTOGRAPHY

Cornered Socks & Shoes

by Brian Makinen

Brian Makinen Brian is a landscape photographer who grew up hiking around Cuyahoga Valley National Park. He is a major in the psychology program here at Kent State.

VOLUME 21

11

12

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ILLUSTRATION BY BRIAN TRAN

POETRY

Half Season

by Miles Purdy

Friend, do you remember that day we left this world?

That eternity, three years ago, when winter went on vacation for a few days.

As we descended into the gorge behind your house, The world returned to the primordial; nothing moved Except the creek crawling beneath a veneer of ice.

Only melancholy bark and shale co-opted the pocked snow underneath the wicker lattice and woolen sky.

You took me to those places where Ice giants bared cliffside fangs, And streams breathed pale mist, Tumbling twice over in their waking.

But this was not a hopeless wandering.

There was a truth to be seen.

A cut in the air showed our path, Out of the creek bed and onto its weathered rim.

On the edge of that lost world, we climbed through It’s chilled breath, past naked trees and power lines.

The knolls warding off time’s edge rolled higher and Farther, ‘Till the trees cut off in a crescent, At the brink of reality.

So we stood within the cold dream, observing The living valley below. The peering Yellow eyes floating along the twin bridges Arching solemnly above, the Crooked River writhing beneath.

But you grew hungry, and I weary of slush.

Back down the blurred edge we went, Into that tranquil gloom.

We’ve left that lost place, But I won’t forget it.

Even if you have.

VOLUME 21

13

PHOTOGRAPHY

Descent Trash Birds Gossip

Justin Golenberg

POETRY

A Thread Came Out of My Shirt

by Vishal Gaur

It said it was made in Indonesia— fully plaid and strong.

They colored it later.

I also heard there was a forest fire: one of the biggest in human history.

Many trees and plants burned, but it still made it, this piece of clothing I’m wearing.

Gossypium herbaceum, fabric of our lives, worn and torn everywhere.

I wear it at parties, in house, outside house, in bed, sometimes when I’m having sex— it’s a process.

But last night I noticed a thread coming out of my shirt, blue thread on my favorite shirt.

I wonder if they would cry, the Indonesians, if I threw out this shirt, the one that made it after such a tragedy— a tragic shirt.

I paid for it with no remorse, a small sum for all that burned down— and still, I am wearing it.

The thread kept coming out, its skin trekking mine, sometimes irritating sometimes in my mind sometimes in my eyes.

The thread made a big hole in the shirt, just like the fire in the forest, a dark spot of burnt wood, churning and crackling coal.

The thread was burning me, too.

It was a burner of a devastating memory.

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15

POETRY

Prayer

by Thomas Cole

You said you were religious after you took me to church Christmas Eve. Your body made a vow the same day your mouth gave confession.

I’d never argue that heaven was the place you belonged, so I hope the sins of the flesh can be baptized by wine. The nights spent on your knees in prayer gave new meaning to godly.

I tried to show restraint, but a dam can’t hold back the curves of a river if it’s built of words.

Those curves cut through my will and rose into peaks pale as December’s snow.

An unskilled climber would have fallen off, but my hands clung for life: the life in every exhale blowing across my chest, while the heart pounding inside of yours begged to escape the restraints of your body, a temple of all religions.

16

POETRY

Four Hundred and Forty Three Miles

After “Ashulia” by Zubair Ahmed

by Thomas Cole

As I sat reading a poem in the shade of a tree, a leaf fell from its branch.

In its arms was a memory cradled in a layer of dust.

For twenty years, my family drove halfway across the country to see my grandfather.

I watched long strips of highway fall away into valleys cutting through mountains that caged us from all sides like a painting on a wall.

I remember his white hair, his crooked smile and the birthmark he kept on his cheek.

His voice bounced off oak ceilings three rooms away from his den where The Last of the Mohicans perpetually sat open in his lap.

I once asked why he didn’t read other books.

He looked at me through his wire-framed glasses and told me that he reads everything, but this was the last good book he would ever read.

Ten years later, his body lies under the shadow of a giant oak tree and The Last of the Mohicans sits closed on my shelf.

17

POETRY

Salute

by Emily Palombo

Ten faces around the table, smiling like they’re happy because the calendar says so.

The eyes of my mother peek through the roses in the middle of the table.

There is a warmth in the room—whether from love or the oven, no one can be sure.

It comes time for the blessing—the burden of the youngest, but no holy words can be found.

Not on a holy day, and not on a Tuesday.

The rose petals shrink and fall on the table as we eat and join hands and keep eating, pretending we can’t see them. They’re not real.

I recognize everyone who joins me, but so many seats are empty.

There is no acknowledgement, no brief utterance that we are thinning every year.

We sit comfortably in our snow-globe world, together but not permanent.

Still, we empty bottles and fill our stomachs until we feel sweet sickness.

We clear the table and drag our bodies back to bed while we can, and everyone forgets about those roses that died long ago.

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ART FEATURE

Dinner With My Parents

by Anne Dargenio

Anne Dargenio Influenced by themes of mental process,

memory and belief, Anne Dargenio creates

primarily mixed media sculpture. Her work is both introspective and figural, referencing aspects of the human experience, often

highlighting its morbidity. Her work combines found and fabricated objects to produce

absurdity, while highlighting the compulsive

nature of her process, which plays a key role in her finished work. Dargenio is currently a junior in the School of Art, and is working towards a BFA with a concentration in sculpture.

VOLUME 21

19

ART FEATURE

As Above So Below

by Cory Sutter

20

LUNA NEGRA

POETRY

Fulfi llment

by Joseph Langan

I saw the best minds of my generation ravaged by corporate insomnia, sleepwalking through life, Dragging themselves through hazy halls at noon looking for Adderall to fix stagnation, Wide-eyed drones seeing nothing through the ancient fog as they slip their cog bodies into the Wheel, Ejaculating their ambition to grease the Chain of Capital, their used condom bodies malleable Stem cells to fit any localized interest, their thoughts copyrighted by their Masters and they keep tripping Over their puppet strings, vomiting cups of coffee, motivation regurgitation swallowed back and drowned In the baptismal pool of stomach acid, their cannibal pupils devouring irises as the circle grows But never stops feeding on the chain of events, conceived after college education, aborted from reality, After thirty thousand in loans, a lionhearted landlord, and the sticky ooze you once called your dreams, Turned phlegm stuck between fingers, with a cold that never blows over without health insurance, In a never-ending Winter masquerading as fulfillment.

21

POETRY

Wool & Raisins

by Casey Helms

In the mountains of Colorado, darkness cradles me in a blanket.

I pull the wool over my eyes. See static, white noise behind my retinas, hear it murmur in my ears. The smell of gasoline is raw in my throat. Sun-burnt winter lingers on my tongue. Lungs shrivel up like raisins.

Arm’s Length

by Marina Dolinar

Outstretched, extended breath by breath, eyes closed—breathe out through the terrible mechanism of the body.

Exhale hot, shallow, instinctive processes over the deep well of the cupid’s bow.

Always at arm’s length, always away through the meditation of disappointed paralysis, paresis, abandoned stupor of being.

Jungle fever, doubly eager to run away, not close enough to be held up or held down or held in arms.

Always at arm’s length, always never too far away.

22

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TIME KEEPER “In loving memory of Chris Tota�

by Chelsea Panin

POETRY

somewhere in the world a human begs for more time is living on borrowed time trying to bargain with time wishing time would slow down hoping time would speed up but time cannot be begged, borrowed, or bargained cannot be slowed down or sped up time is ticking and at a tick unknown it will stop.

ILLUSTRATION BY KATHLEEN MORRIS

SHORT STORY

Lovehandles

by John C. Polles

“What happened last night?”

His mumbled response came from over my shoulder.

“We got drunk.”

I noticed the headache behind my eyes and my dry tongue. “No shit. What else?”

“You pretended to be a girl, I rubbed your feet, and then we sucked each other’s dicks.”

“Right.”

I opened my eyes and reached for my phone.

Nothing but a pointless Facebook notification. I lit a cigarette and turned over, covering my bare chest with a blanket.

“And how do you feel about that?” I asked him.

“I liked it. A lot.”

“That’s how you felt about it last night. How do you feel about it now?”

“I have to piss.”

I watched him pad—naked—toward the bathroom. He had tattoos and lovehandles and back hair. I watched the smoke float

VOLUME 21

closer to the ceiling and become illuminated by the light streaming in through the blinds.

He came back and sat on the bed.

“What do we do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“Never had a one-night stand?”

“Not with a guy.”

“Maybe I’m not a guy.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t just go home and act like it never happened.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to forget about this.

I don’t want to forget about you.”

“Why do you have to?”

He was quiet. He looked at the floor.

I lit another cigarette.

“Can I have one?” he asked.

I pulled one out of the pack and handed it to him.

“I didn’t know that you smoked.”

“Yeah, huh.” He laughed again, short, gruff.

“I guess we’re finding out a lot about me today.”

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SHORT STORY

“I guess.”

We were quiet.

“I’m not gay,” he said, a little louder than I think he intended.

“No one said you were.”

“I’ve just never felt this way about a guy before.”

“I’m not a guy, remember?”

I pulled my hair into a messy bun on top of my head.

“I like your hair. A lot.”

“Yeah?” I hit the cigarette.

“Yeah. And your nail polish.”

“I like it, too.”

“But I think I like your chest hair, too.

And how tall you are.”

“You should see me in heels.”

His mouth twitched into something of a smile.

“And I think I like your…” He trailed off, as if he was suddenly unable to say the word.

“My dick?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Me too.”

“How can you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Make all of…this…make sense.” He gestured vaguely.

“Why does it have to make sense? Do you make sense?”

“I thought so.”

“You don’t think so anymore?”

He shook his head.

“Am I bi?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Are you?”

“Nah.” “Then what are you?”

“Alive.”

26

POETRY

Rima Ristrutturare (Rhyme Restructured)

by Cordaireus Percy-Hubbard

Love, you constantly control my thoughts and leave me indecent.

Stoic, nothing alternates the brows on my face.

I stand on my own, I stay in my place.

Lost, I’ve fallen for the cruelties of love.

I would swallow soap before I holler my defeat; I can’t speak of those eloping dreams.

Relax, it’s time to give up on those hopeless things.

One who knows of the spoils of love will find the jewelry which it brings, but it is best to be ignorant of those loving things.

I stand not waving a white flag or a hand.

My perfect, secluded life shall never be the same.

A locked door without the frame.

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ART FEATURE

Burn Ben

Burn Austyn

Lucas Boyle These prints are iterations of a series of patterned image masking that uses glass blowing as a pattern transfer technique. In his larger body of work, Lucas Boyle uses repeated patterns as a means to mask intimate subject matter, providing an aesthetic pleasure to catch the attention of the viewer and invite them in for a closer look.

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ART FEATURE VOLUME 21

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Untitled

by Emily Gommel

POETRY FEATURE

Cameron Gorman Featured Poetry

moth

by Cameron Gorman

Pinholed cloth drawn around you like an ethereal wave, or a plastic shower curtain (with mildew).

Letting the cold envelop your body, spreading your cheesecloth wings, fluttering without purchase— it makes me gag.

Your head spins back to face me, green and budding, lush and unfurling like a fern, halo of dirt and rotten things.

I blow a gale into your mouth, helium into the leaves, and you bloom, decaying into the fabric of the sky, swooping, crowning the forest with your body.

My eyes are watering, I love you, now; I love you, baby, I can’t see you anymore.

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ILLUSTRATION BY SAMANTHA NOLD

you live in the cornfield

by Cameron Gorman

I remember the heat of that summer, the roller coasters, white-hot and coiled in the pits of our stomachs, sending spikes through the nerve endings in our toes.

Dusty sweaters were chainmail against biting flies and decay, and we grew out of shoes. and choir robes and lollipops, while you told yourself that you’d be alright.

Wear shoes into the woods so you wouldn’t step on the branches snapped by the neighbor’s white-haired kid.

Remember the feeling of the wood on the dugout and the fragments of felt from our drawings on the walls?

And your hanging arms like a bumbling spider In the five-dollar sweaters and the cologne of old tea.

The spots on your nose like a constellation that your mother must have kissed.

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POETRY FEATURE

Remember the feeling of warmth in the browned, dry grass, when we lay with no blanket under the rusting field lights— I remember your voice.

But it might have been from a movie, someone talking, late on the radio, smooth and vanishing while the fireflies blinked on the skin of the bruised sky.

So maybe you sounded like a baritone drum, or the thrum of electric boxes by the middle school, or the whisper of my legs against the overgrown stalks in our field.

Maybe you sounded like my brother does when he swings into the lake, boyish and green, and new to the feeling that nothing could hurt you.

I think you did.

I hope you did.

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POETRY FEATURE

grasshopper

by Cameron Gorman

Dana’s got little hands like child’s hands, red-painted, salt and vinegar hands.

The sandwich dripping mayonnaise onto her knee, Dana, “He’s crazy,” Dana says, while the sun bakes my sweater thin.

Flash of yellow and tar in the grass like a runaway umbrella bristling against my thighs on the ground, on the sea-green boar’s back.

Blue, Dana’s shirt, the same shirt from when she was a kid, and Dana’s got blue eyes, green eyes, grey eyes, maybe bright ones.

“I want to get out of here,” Dana says.

That sunflower yellow sparks again.

Dana pinches the bread in her scarlet claws.

“A butterfly,” Dana says, and it crashes into the fresh mulch.

“Must be,” I say, “Dana,” “Must be.”

And Dana’s got wet eyes, and I close my mouth on the word.

34

LUNA NEGRA

SHORT STORY

Cool Mom

by Miles Purdy

Only Cool Mom let her kid have a Mohawk at seven.

Or dragged him up north, taught him to snowboard if it meant not being bored.

Only Punk Mom drove hours to a show she wouldn’t see.

Far back in Tennessee, you carried me up to the stage to hear Kinney sing point-blank speakers never enough for my little ears.

Only Southern Mom threw parties of midnight barn-queen and Christmas kilts.

She showed me how to bake cornbread, to treat people squarely like Daddy Gene did.

Only my Mom is these and more even though she can’t say ‘Norse.’

Even though she wants my cat’s bones mounted up in the Cactus Zone— things could be worse.

(She wanted to name me Zoey, you know.)

VOLUME 21

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SHORT STORY

GUTS

by John C. Polles

[ 1 ] AUGUST 2014

T

he opening sax riffs of Eden’s favorite Springsteen song made her stir from sleep in the passenger seat of my old red pickup. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and moved her dyed red hair out of her face.

“Knew that’d get you up.”

“What time is it?”

“After one. You wanna go home instead?”

“Why?” She took a swig from the bottle of warm Coke in the console.

“I don’t know.”

I knew I wanted to go home. I was tired, and I liked having quiet nights at home. But Eden didn’t, and that was okay. She lit a cigarette, her lipstick staining the white filter red.

“You want one?” she asked me.

“Nah. I’ll wait ‘til we get there.”

The song was over, and we listened to the clicking and twitching of the cassette player as it switched sides.

The old driveway was coming up, almost hidden in the mist slowly drifting off the lake. The faded “No Trespassing” sign hadn’t kept us out when we were in high school, and it wasn’t going to keep us out then, either. I pulled off the road, gravel crunching under the truck’s tires. Eden passed me the plastic bag from the liquor store, then pulled a Ziploc out of the glove box.

We got out of the truck, and the air was hot and sticky—even for August. It hardly moved as we walked

36

down the old dock over Maple Lake. Eden was afraid that she was going to fall through the aged wood, like she had been every time we went to the Lake, so I took her hand.

She gave me a look and a strained smile.

We took off our shoes and placed them between us—mine Chucks, hers Vans, the same size—as we sat at the end of the dock and let our feet dangle into the water.

We’d been doing this since high school. I lit a cigarette and held it between my lips as I opened one of the bottles of cheap whiskey. She opened the Ziploc and started rolling (I always “did it wrong”).

I sat and looked around while she took a hit from the joint. I remembered high school—the friends we had and the nights we spent here. They were all gone now.

Kyle OD’d. Alex got out—went to Pittsburgh. Charlene and Joe were still in town, but they didn’t have much time for anything that didn’t involve the kids or work. And no one knows what happened to Alicia. We were the only ones left who came here anymore. Their ghosts weighed me down that night, more than the humidity.

“Babe?” Eden said, pulling me out of my head. She was holding the joint out to me between her fingers, the tips clad in chipped polish.

“Oh, thanks, sorry.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

LUNA NEGRA

PHOTOGRAPHY

Josie Emily Prusak

SHORT STORY

Her foot found mine in the water, and she hooked her toes around my ankle, pulling me closer. I slid over to her and she put her head on my shoulder. I kissed her hair.

That night felt different.

We were quiet for a few more minutes. Suddenly, she took her head off me and said, “We should leave.”

“You wanna go home?” I asked, knowing that’s not what she meant.

“No. You know what I mean. Leave here,” she gestured vaguely around her.

“Maple Leaf.”

“I know you do. But I just—” “You just don’t have the guts.”

That was her favorite insult. It stung, especially that night, because I was starting to agree with her.

“I know you’re scared, babe. I get it.”

I nodded.

“Hit this,” she said.

I did, and I looked at her while she smoked a new cigarette. I looked at her through the mist coming off the Lake. Her red hair, her red lipstick. Her dark, dark brown eyes, the smudged mascara. Those eyes held empathy, determination, and wanderlust all at once.

“You’re beautiful,” I said. And she was. She smiled slightly, like she wanted to believe me but wasn’t sure if she could. I wondered if that was my fault.

We finished the joint, and she pulled me into a kiss.

She reached down and pulled my shirt over my head, and I did the same to her. We held onto each other and slid into the lake together. ░

I woke up the afternoon. I heard punk rock playing in the living room. I sat up, and the room spun—and I felt the headache. I slipped on a pair of Wal-Mart flip-flops and walked into the living room.

“Can we turn that down a bit?” I asked Eden. She was sitting on the couch removing her nail polish. The acetone didn’t help my headache.

“Hungover, babe?” She asked as she leaned across the couch and fiddled with the decade-old CD player on the coffee table. “I ordered Chinese. Yours is in the fridge.”

I trudged into the bathroom; food was the furthest thing from my mind. I pissed and dry-swallowed four ibuprofen tablets. I splashed cold water on my face, which helped me wake up.

In the kitchen, I put a cup of cold black coffee in the

38

microwave. While it was warming up, I decided the nausea I felt was, in fact, hunger. I took the plastic container out of the fridge and cleared a spot for it on the coffee table, among the old packs of Marlboro menthol light 100s.

“Who’s this playing?” I asked her.

“Against Me!” “Have you played them before?”

“No, I just found the CD at the Goodwill.”

“I like it.”

I took a few tentative bites of the sweet-and-sour chicken. It was too cold and it hurt my teeth. Instead of warming it up, though, I kept eating it, wincing every time I took a bite. I eventually gave up and put it back on the coffee table, took a sip of the coffee, and lit a cigarette.

Eden had started reading a book—a novel by Jeanette Winterson, also from the Goodwill—and I leaned into her and tried to read over her shoulder. She always read faster than me, though, so she kept turning the page before I could finish. I gave up and closed my eyes.

After a while, I heard her close the book.

“You find out about that position at work tomorrow, don’t you?” she asked me.

“I should, yeah.”

“You think you’ll get it?”

“I think there’s a pretty good chance I will.”

“What if you don’t?”

“You don’t want me to, do you?”

“I don’t wanna stay here. You know that.”

“I know.”

“And if you get the job, that’ll just be one more thing keeping us here.”

“I know. But I’m doing the best I can.”

“So am I, babe. You’re not the only one who has to work hard right now.”

“I never said I was.”

We were quiet for a few minutes, sitting on the couch, space between us.

“How much more money would it even be?

Like a dollar an hour?”

“Two dollars. Plus more overtime.”

“Oh, two, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry that it’s not enough for you,” I knew that wasn’t what she meant, but I needed something to say.

“If I quit my job, you lose your healthcare.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I’d fucked up.

“I didn’t mean—” I tried.

“You didn’t mean to make it sound like this was my fault?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

LUNA NEGRA

better to have who were dead than parents who didn’t you were alive.”

“I’m sorry I need so much upkeep.”

“I gotta go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

I went over to the door, slipped on my work boots, and left. ░

Three hours later, and I was still out driving, taking repeated loops through Maple Leaf. I didn’t leave the city limits—but I couldn’t go home and I couldn’t sit still. I drove past Mount Vernon, the gated community on the edge of town.

The Coke from McDonald’s was flat and watered down. I was getting hungry again. I thought about pulling into Wendy’s.

I drove past my parents’ house, the rental, postforeclosure, still expecting to see their cars in the driveway. The lights were on. But my parents weren’t home.

The lights were on in Eden’s parents’ house, too.

Her mother’s Honda was in the driveway, and her father’s Chevy was parked in the side yard, as usual.

Eden once told me that it’s better to have parents who were dead than to have parents who didn’t care if you were alive.

“Dead.”

VOLUME 21

SHORT STORY

“ “...it’s parents to have care if

I said the word out loud. I felt it echo through the car, the streets. I pulled down Clark Mill, the street Eden hated taking because it reminded her of Winter’s Bone. I always rolled my eyes, but she wasn’t wrong. Random dogs ran up and down the street. I passed a house that had a sign that read: THIS HOUSEHOLD BELIEVES IN THE 2ND AMENDMENT. My other old house in Maple Leaf was here too— the roof completely caved in. My dad always told me that when you had a good job, you kept it unless you already knew for a fact you had a new one lined up.

I pulled into the trailer park, less than five minutes from Eden’s old house. Maybe she was right. I didn’t have any guts. ░

My alarm buzzed at 4:30. Eden never heard it while she slept, but she did this morning. Her fingers twitched.

After I got ready, I stepped out onto the porch into the sticky morning air. I pulled out my phone and sent Eden a text, hoping the notification wouldn’t wake her up.

If I don’t, we’ll go.

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SHORT STORY

[ 2 ] SEPTEMBER 2014 The ripped mattress went in the Dumpster, still covered in stained sheets. The couch and the dresser sold on Craigslist. The stove and refrigerator stayed in the trailer, which had sold in less than a week. Eden’s purse, my oversized wallet, a thick bank envelope, our charging cell phones, a plastic ashtray—taken from the bar where Eden worked—and two identical packs of Marlboros with one yellow crack lighter between them were scattered by the front door. Everything else was in the back of our truck.

The alarm on the phone went off at the usual time.

I crawled to the outlet, my knees cracking louder than they should have for a 25-year-old. I stared out the window from the floor at the headlights driving through the trailer park. Police cars, someone dropping off the free local paper I never read, teenagers about to get in trouble—and their parents about to get in more.

The alarm buzzed again at 4:40. This time I nudged Eden before I went to take a shit. ░

“I love driving around early in the morning.”

“Yeah,” I didn’t tell her that she had told me that 100 times before. I didn’t tell her that when she was drunk she told me that it was because it used to remind me of her family vacations to Canada, to Georgia, even to Cedar Point.

“I know there’s a McDonald's at one of these exits,” I said, vaguely aware that Eden was talking.

“Quit ignoring me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, ‘I feel so free right now.’”

“Yeah,” I said again.

“Why aren’t you paying attention to me?”

“I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. And I haven’t been able to get as excited about this as you have.”

“Well, you just drove past your McDonald's exit,” Eden

40

said, ignoring my passive-aggressiveness.

“Oh, fuck.” ░

The same punk rock shook the speakers as Eden drove the truck down the highway that night. I looked at the jewel case in the console, next to the Walkman CD player wired to the tape player. The black and white cover art featured a drawing of a bare breast and the words Transgender Dysphoria Blues. Eden screamed the lyrics out the open window.

The instrumental break began, and she smiled. I couldn’t believe how awake she looked at midnight. She smiled more that night than I think she had in the past year.

“Babe, we need to stop at that hotel,” I pointed at the sign on the highway.

“Yeah, I know. Just lemme listen to number two again,” she said. I pushed the buttons on the CD player.

The track was only half over when we pulled into the nearly-empty parking lot. She parked and again screamed the same lyrics, window still down. Thirty minutes later, we sat on the bed in our dingy, bare room.

“Smoke one last cig?” Eden asked me.

As she lit the cigarette, I told her, “We really shouldn’t be on the road much longer. We need to try and figure out what we’re gonna do next. We don’t have much cash left, and this gas and hotel rooms ain’t cheap.”

“I know. A couple more days?” She had the same look she had that night at the lake.

“A couple more days,” I conceded.

We were silent for the rest of the cigarette.

“Babe?” She said as we were getting into bed.

“Huh?” I said, setting the hotel alarm clock for 5:30.

“You got guts.”

The same cigarettes, cell phones, and lighter were piled on another nightstand, two nights later, in the last hotel we’d stay in. The envelope was considerably thinner

LUNA NEGRA

SHORT STORY

[ 3 ] AUGUST 2016 than it was when we left. We were sleeping in practically the only clothes we had brought with us, and Eden’s purse and makeup bag were dropped on the bed next to me. I opened my eyes at the sound of her opening the door, and I watched her try to fit the bottle of shitty Kroger champagne into the motel ice bucket.

“Do I have to stay awake till that gets cold?”

She looked disappointed. She always hated when I went to bed before she did, when the good nights ended.

“I guess not. I just thought it’d be nice.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just tired.”

“Well, I’m driving tomorrow. You can sleep in the truck.”

“You know I can’t sleep in trucks. You know I can’t ever get comfortable. My legs are too long.”

She was pissed now. “That’s fine. I’m just gonna take a bath then. Throw that ice out the window or something.”

“Eden, come on, I’m fucking tired. Don’t get pissy with me.”

“I said it was fine, alright?”

“But it’s clearly not.”

“You know, you could at least act like you care what I want to do.”

“For real? Who even talked who into doing this bullshit in the first place?”

“Oh, no. Don’t blame this on me. You wanted to do this.

You don’t get to throw this shit in my face whenever you get tired. You don’t get to act like it’s all my fault when it gets hard. I am not going to listen to this for the rest of my life when your life doesn’t turn out the way you think it’s supposed to. Now I’m gonna go take a fucking bath, okay?”

VOLUME 21

The apartment door slammed shut, well after midnight.

“How was work?” I asked Eden as she walked into the dark room.

“Shit. At least three guys hit on me during happy hour. Good tips, though.”

I know I should be pissed. I know I should be worried about her. I know, but after a year and a half of the same stories, they don’t matter as much anymore.

She sat down on the couch; she smelled of whiskey and cigarettes.

“There was one guy, though. I think he could tell.”

“Really?” I put my hand on her forearm.

“Yeah. That hasn’t happened for a while. It was scary.”

“I know.”

“I almost forgot what it feels like.”

We leaned into each other on the couch—the same futon she had eaten Chinese food on. The same Winterson novel was on the coffee table, surrounded by Marlboro packs and Coke cans. Lorde’s “Royals” played on the same old boom box in the corner.

The apartment was only slightly bigger than our old trailer. After we had dozed for twenty minutes, the radio station cut to commercials. We both opened our eyes, though neither of us moved.

“Babe,” Eden said.

“Yeah?”

“When did we lose our guts?”

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POETRY

Elephant

by Eugene Mireku

Poem For Poets and Cynics

Said It, Say It Again

by Tyler Kruel

by Joseph Pritchard

If you have nothing to offer, do not disparage those who do.

Our words may speak to many, but we can’t help if they don’t to you.

We poets, we are trying to approach a common truth, to challenge death and heartbreak, to celebrate our youth.

I said it before— at 18, 19, & 20 in a nursing home, at 21 & 22 at an accessible apartment with Black Velvet & Percocet, at 23, 24, 25, & 26 sober & at college meeting Wordsworth—

Let us recognize the honesty of those who tax their hearts, encourage human passion, and glorify the arts.

If these impulses puzzle you, or inspire cynicism, please bend your ear, bite your tongue, and try again to listen.

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I’ll say it again.

I’ll never stop writing poems about my body.

Every attempt, all the tries, any fucks, are tethered to this broken body— so be the give ups, the fails, & whatevers.

The poems are my protest against the wheelchair & the doctors.

LUNA NEGRA

VOLUME 21 ART FEATURE

PHOTOGRAPHY

“HOW MUCH CAN BE KNOWN OF NOW”

POETRY

Project Sky

by Jason Medrano

Our Rock Must Be Scratched

Glasses Tongues Wear

by Nathaniel Seres

by Nathaniel Seres

Since time immemorial, rocks and paper have thus been Man’s fine Editorial.

Hidden glyphs and ink-laid shifts told things vulgar or cordial: bits of venom or Good News, private or finely formal.

How much can be known of now?

Bits of now will be a portal as thousands generations previous can attest as they thus call, this scratch, this ink, this print will be our Memorial.

Everyone wears glasses on their tongue.

They are the tongue’s favorite accessory.

Born unwilling yet seeped in vanity, the syllables crash as Muse’s drums.

Always remaining ever vague, despite however perfected practice had shaped what tones in which they are clad, what consonants, what rhymes, what hums.

These wonderful glasses, a constant filter, through what our ear hears, acting as sifter, and if with a new tongue we have begun, with it our current tongue will have none.

As if incapable of being truly engaged in anything but our native language.

VOLUME 21

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POETRY

Ariel

by Marina Dolinar

In the dynamism of light, pink sunburst of overwhelming brightness, shadows of something else.

My senses, aware to her presence, are heightened; the Lioness of God. And knowing one on one from each his own generation, in rose ame, the light and dark have segregated to falling stars detached from her hair and plunge to earth and burn in primordial miasma that smolder in ardent desire to breathe in the closeness of her air.

The demure lady incinerates their inherent blackness with the velvet touch of her instep: lady of strength, holding a lion at her will, for she is this lion, and she has become this love.

She seeps in radiant brilliance, the arc of her neck enveloped in divine lightness, the stasis of timelessness on her lips and eyes.

The tears upon my lips and eyes— my heart has died to be born again in honor of her likeness.

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LUNA NEGRA

ART FEATURE

Angled Gal

by Lillian Powell

Lillian Powell is a BFA student focusing in Ceramics and graduating in the Spring of 2018. Her work blends the industrial and the organic, assembled from simple shapes drawn from objects she sees in her everyday life.

VOLUME 21

47

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