The
ONEOTA REVIEW
The
ONEOTA REVIEW Spring 2021, Vol. 49
Editor: Hanna Dodd Assistant Editor: Kira Dobberman Editorial Board: Annika Dome Katie Gorton Maxwell Hetzel Claire Panus Simon Razidlo Nathan Sunde Catherine Vitt
Cover art by Jasmyn Linn Faculty Advisor: Lise Kildegaard Published for Luther College by the Luther College Document Center
CONTENTS KITRI LINDBERG, museum CATHERINE VITT, Hues KALIE DEBELAK, Nana’s Hands CARSON SCHULTE, The Riverbank CORY EULL, Oregon Coast KAITLYNN RIVERS, Chinese Handcuffs KIRA DOBBERMAN, Accessory JURGEN DOVRE, Mortal Soothe KAITLYN FRITUGER, Self Love LYDIA WILKIE, Cecropia “THE UGLY ASIAN”, Liberation Day KALIE DEBELAK, Woman HANNA DODD, My Daughter KITRI LINDBERG, an artist’s love: LAUREN MILLER, I Love You LEAH THOMPSON, Reminiscence MATTHEW RAIHALA, Black Gunk ANONYMOUS, A Happy Ending MIA IRVING, A Small Portion of the Universe KATIE GORTON, Parasitic Lovers KIRA DOBBERMAN, Bringing Spring MACKENZIE ZENK, Ocean Nymph JURGEN DOVRE, Danifest Mestiny CORY EULL, dad’s workspace ANNIKA DOME, Daylily Memories CATHERINE VITT, Work Clothes JASMYN LINN, Untitled ELIJAH WALLACE, The Master JOSIE LAVOI, Alaska JURGEN DOVRE, Kissed Neck Disconnect CATHERINE VITT, Flies KALIE DEBELAK, Will You? MAGGIE SCHWARZ, Untitled JOSIE LAVOI, “Tula” KAITLYNN RIVERS, When Grace Collides KATIE WALLER, Saganaga Lake
1 1 2 3 4 5 6 8 8 9 10 11 12 14 15 16 17 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 26 27 28 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37
KITRI LINDBERG
museum i have to remember that you are not the oil paintings in my head you are not “boy walking; no jacket” or “misery smokes cigarettes” instead you are everything i seem to forget, all the time i didn’t know you you are not your stained hands, fingers blackened as if built that way not bags of wine and guitar music, not the portrait of you walking away. if i tried, i could not put you into a painting (even if i could paint). long gone are days of “moonlight sun, cradled lovers under sheet” i have grown beyond nights where alcohol burned in my chest and called it love, “rain-drenched, vending machine candy” i think most people see you this way, and not all of them are visionaries but in their appreciation of the sheer tragedy of you, “scared, scarred boy”, lies unity. i will watch them drench their canvas with you, just as i begin to paint over mine
CATHERINE VITT
Hues Isn’t it strange how a lilting, lightning-charged lyric can capture the flavors and moments of poignant vibrancy in life all by itself? The opposite of those ever-present circles— greyish, purpley blue swoops of color carved in high relief beneath wide eyes. When the music is the cut grass in my shoe, all the lilacs dripping in the rain, and I save the words at the tip of my tongue because Mavis is too perfect to sing over. There’s a warmth, a yellow-orange that is everything when everything is not enough.
1
KALIE DEBELAK
Nana’s Hands
CARSON SCHULTE
The Riverbank A riverbank, sandy, dropped off the ridge of a pointed lookout above. I tiptoe through weedy tufts and loose gravel and then full running as the momentum catches me, collapsing warm into pillowy sand billows. Mud thickens between my toes as I wade into the river, current quickening with each thick shuffle forward, bittersweet, never enough to sweep me away. All summer I return to the riverbank to feel okay. Anne and I meet there for long drawn days away. We pack our coolers full: grapes, crackers, cookies, Summer Shandy. We skip pebbles into the horizon, sky flushing on the edges. We watch flocking patterns in the sky, crumbs of black dropped along from one blushed fringe to the other. On our sandy towels we sit first row at the summer river parades: guided groups of drunken kayakers, motorboats blaring acoustic rhythms and static through speakers, the occasional canoeist paddling quiet, sometimes with their dog, fixed like a statue looking out behind. In between paraders we sneak our turn to march, toes muddening, racing cross the current towards the pebbly patch on the other side of the water. Some days we straddle the river, Anne perched on that sandy riverbank, I standing pebble-footed across the way. We wave to each other in airy flurries and wide arches, feeling warm and broken at twenty-one years, resigning to the fringes before dropping off the edge. We press our stomachs to the sand, elbows digging in and cocked wrists propping chins, spilling details of our current affairs in soft summer murmur, sipping on our shandies. And between tipsy hushes we dash clumsy through sandy piles to the river and pee into the current. We count how many times we go, boasting our number in jaunty competition, usually tied until one of us pulls away near the end with one last, parting pee. Then crowned rightfully the River Peeing Champion by the falling sun’s brassy reach. Sometimes we crouch mid river in the thick of the current, becoming all neck and head peeking above, and take off our swimsuits, twirling loosely, bleeding, dissolving, becoming River. One day we trek downstream and find a narrow cove of creek. It is all mud. We sink into the coolness knee-deep. Clutching stray branches overhead to stay above ground, we laugh in wild screeches, jumping and smacking feet to feel the whole gelatinous cove reverberate back to us. Creek chunks fly in fat gobs, settling and crusting, and our howls echo, untamed women with clumped hair and mud splattered chests, creek beasts scaring away the paraders in the distance. Spiraling as we near the fringe, shrieking as we drop off completely. When the mud dries crackled, we unroot ourselves, trudging back upstream to the riverbank. Clumps of creek snot peel off behind us, streaming alongside our pee into the current. Mud and piss drifting towards that falling sun, lighting red and orange our backs. Anne and I heading the opposite way, towards mellow earth, fading sky. We approach the dim beach, scattered with footprint trails telling the story of our long-drawn day at the river. All packed up and back to that loose gravel, up to the pointed lookout above, watching the current hold fragments of the moon, silver jewels flashing and breaking. I grasp on tightly to how it feels to be twenty-one and naked in the river, peeing, caked in mud, teetering on the edge with someone I love. How it feels to bear a mud-splattered chest on a fringe-blushed riverbank.
3
CORY EULL
Oregon Coast
5 KAITLYNN RIVERS
Chinese Handcuffs Two fingers trapped in a woven cylinder are bound by two worlds intricately patterned. One world giving and the other getting, then trading roles. Like legs straddling the border of two boundless lands, belonging to each other, but divided. One does not exist without the other. The fabric of the universe is always in tension, constricting at the center as it struggles to escape. Infinitely expanding, then collapsing into a supernova. Belonging to two different worlds at the same time can feel like fingers caught in Chinese handcuffs. A simple trap causing fear and anxiety, and the more one struggles, the more the fabric strangles. But this woven trap has an elementary solution. Escape is inevitable like the push and pull of ocean tides. And like the tides, you can push and lean into those who love you. And even if you choose to pull away, there will come a time when you experience relief. There will be a day when the border you are straddling ceases to exist. The solution to Chinese handcuffs you ask? Accept you are trapped and do not fear it. Push instead of pull.
KIRA DOBBERMAN
Accessory n. An object or device that is not essential in itself but adds to the beauty, convenience, or effectiveness of something. I. 2020 was a year of accessories. My first two accessories of the year were my slippers and a scarf I still don’t call my own. Mom showed up at school without warning. I put the slippers on, red embroidered roses falsely cheerful on my feet. For the next six months they would be the only thing I remembered about that night. That, and a question to which I already knew the answer. “Grandma’s gone, then?” It was dark when I got home the next day. My uncle was there. I don’t know if it was he or my mom who gave me the scarf. I buried my face in it, took a breath, and started sobbing. The source of that unique scent, faintly woody, warm, welcoming, was gone. II. 2020 was a year of accessories. Even now I might walk through a mall, trying not to crash Into stands of masks, Sending plastic-wrapped packets like debris Skittering across the linoleum. They’ve become quite the fashion statement. Masks dangling from the collars of matching shirts on cheap store hangers, Hogwarts house masks, Baby Yoda masks, Masks flaunting mascots for schools or sports teams, Hand-sewn masks with white ribbed elastic or colorful cloth ties. Somehow ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service” is acceptable, But “masks are required on these premises” is not. Since when has holding people accountable Been illegal?
III. 2020 was a year of accessories. Along with masks, Boards definitely came into vogue, The latest craze. Buildings across the country joined the trend, Each one adding their own unique twist With their murals Or posters Or graffiti. Another riot: Murals of murdered women and men, Black Lives Matter, Expletives ranting against the police. Another board. Another hurricane: Wet papers plastered against plywood fibers Expletives ranting against the forces of nature. Another board. IV. 2020 was a year of accessories. People have always loved decorating their lawns For holidays and elections alike. Looking back it seems as if the entire nation was involved In a competition for the title of ‘most-embellished lawn.’ “Trump and Pence 2020” “Make America Great!” “Keep America Great!” “Take America Back!” (Take America Back?!) “Biden and Harris” Or, occasionally, “Biden and Harris 2020” “Any Functional Adult 2020” Is still my favorite. V. 2020 was a year of accessories. Accessories flare up and fade, Setting new trends and trundling onwards, Leaving others behind. Remember those Who were left behind.
7
Jurgen Dovre
Mortal Soothe One day your body will stop working And you will die. This is something that is going to happen. Your body will decompose And turn back into the stardust that it was formed from. Stardust that will be used in the creation of a galaxy. In the fertilization of a field, In the soil beneath a flower, In the pollen carried by a bee, In the nectar brought back to the hive, In the honey put into the tea of someone with a sore throat.
KAITLYN FRUTIGER
Self Love Staring into the mirror she cringed, Starving to love herself. There’s so much she wants to change. What ifs run through her head: “What if I was actually beautiful, even skinny?” A voice calls her from down the hall. She rinses her mouth of the taste of her failure, “I’ll stop tomorrow” she whispers.
9 LYDIA WILKIE
Cecropia
“The Ugly Asian”
Liberation Day 1. Sài Gòn, April 30th, 1975: I hear something Mẹ. Something so divine, yet profane. I smell something Mẹ, Something beautiful, yet rotten. 1975, the year of fire and dire. Mẹ wept, Ba cried. He was imprisoned, accused of serving his motherland. On the streets, people ran. On the radios, people sang. On the bridges, people slain. They are coming They are coming Sài Gòn has fallen and the sun is silent. Bến Tre, April 30th, 1985: Mẹ ơi, I need you now I am hurt, Mẹ. 2. My teacher just told me that I am nothing but a shameful rat that was tossed into our class since I am the daughter of the enemy of the state. Ngụy Mẹ ơi, I wish you were here to hold me in your warm embrace and tell me that I will be fine. Where are you now Ba Mẹ? Fearful forests, sinister lands re-education camps or collective farms? Mẹ ơi, since the day you were captured Our house, they took. Our properties, they stole. They sent me to plough a corpse-like field. What is life now but inferno on earth? Hồ Chí Minh City, 1992, Tân Sơn Nhất Airport: Airplanes roared, the roar of freedom in canned air Silently we sat, heart bled, eyes burnt.
3. They cry for our motherland. Sky changed, temple collapsed. Boat people. Death, disease, ravaged, raped Corpses, blood, bones Fled with us. To find Freedom? US?
KALIE DEBELAK
Woman
11
HANNA DODD
My Daughter One day I couldn’t find my daughter. I didn't panic of course, that’s no way to behave. I called her in for lunch and she didn't answer. There was no crunch and swish of leaves as she ran across the yard. The cat came running though. He rubbed against my shin and chirped. Perhaps she’s deep in concentration, I said to myself. Perhaps she’s made hats for stones out of acorn caps and they’re having an argument over whose hat is nicer. That’d be no time to run to your mother. Or perhaps, I thought, she’s pressed her ear against the back of a sycamore, smashing her other ear with her palm, trying to hear its heartbeat. Maybe she’s been standing still all morning with a finger outstretched, and finally, finally, a junco has landed there. She couldn’t very well move in a spot like that. So I didn't worry. I waited. Someone had put away the plate I had set out for her on the table. I put it back in the place across from mine. I parted the curtains, just to peek, smiling to myself imagining her pinked cheeks as she explains to me what she has been doing. I’d listen, enraptured, but have to gently admonish her for not coming right away. Her eyes would lower a little, assuming a seriousness to match my words. I’d hug her to my side, pressing my hand gently into her hair as she tried to reach her hands around my thighs. But she still hadn’t come in yet. I decided to stroll around the yard and round her up. First I checked in the leaf pile under the ash tree near the sidewalk. Perhaps she was hiding in it, waiting for me to come find her. “Boo!” she’d say, erupting from the leaves. “Ah!” I’d say, clutching my heart. We’d laugh and I’d pick stray leaves from her hair. But she wasn’t in the leaf pile. I walked around the left side of the house, checking behind bushes, listening for laughter, until I got back around to the front. Certain she was not in my yard, I thought perhaps she had gone to the neighbors. She went there often, although usually she told me first. Kids forget sometimes though. I walked through my gate, down the sidewalk, and onto the neighboring yard. My daughter’s toys were strewn around the yard! How naughty of her to make such a mess at someone else’s house. Her little yellow sweater was hanging from the swing set. She’d really made herself at home, hadn’t she! I’d have to apologize, I’d really raised her better than that. As I walked up onto the porch, I heard her voice inside, chirping like a bird. I could see through the screen her shoes on the rug inside the door. But oddly enough, more of her shoes were lined up in a little row against the wall. What had possessed her to bring all her shoes with her I don’t know. There was certainly a lot of explaining to be done. I tapped on the frame of the door, “Knock, knock! Mrs. Jewell?” I let myself in as she came around from the kitchen. She looked concerned, no doubt having just realized I didn't know my daughter was here. She understood a mother’s worry. And then, peeking around her legs, was my little girl. My darling, my sweet. She was no doubt worried I’d be cross with her, and that’s why she was being shy. But I could never be angry with her for long. She was my treasure, my gem. “So sorry!” I began, “When she didn't come in for lunch I thought she might have come over here. What a mess you’ve made in the yard!” My daughter was silent, still clutching the neighbor’s legs, her eyes guarding me. The other woman looked puzzled, speechless almost. “Mrs. Dane,” she began, putting her hands on my daughter’s head, “I think you’re confused.” Perhaps my daughter had lied and said I’d given my permission for her to come here. I smiled, showing her that yes, I too had been fooled. I held my arms out to my daughter, entreatingly, “Lunch will get cold sweetie.” But she hid from me, looking questioningly up at this other woman, whispering something. She was too young to understand she was hurting my feelings, she was embarrassing me. Why didn't she want to come home? The woman was whispering something back to her. I stepped forward to take her home myself, but the neighbor scooped my daughter up into her arms, resting her on her hip, putting herself between us. “If you’ll just wait here Mrs. Dane, we can sort this out okay? Please.” My daughter leaned her head against this woman’s shoulder. I bent and picked up her shoes from the rug, trying to also claim something of her. “Please,” I said, stepping forward again, “Give me my child?” I undid the tiny Velcro on the little sandals. My daughter had begun to cry, staring at me.
13 The woman, my very neighbor! how rude! had turned and was walking quickly through the kitchen towards the back door. My daughter turned to look at me over the shoulder of the woman carrying her away. I followed them, confused, trying not to be offended, growing frantic. The woman was at the back door, a screen whined open and shut. She was calling, “John! John, come here, please!” A man, her husband, emerged from a lilac bush, clippers in hand. My daughter was still crying, the woman holding her wiped her tears absently, watching me follow warily. Those were my tears to wipe, those were my fears to sooth. The man squinted at me, then lowered his brow. He reached towards my crying child and his nervous wife. He called, “Danny!” Not my name, who’s name? He called again, in the direction of my house. Why? What was happening? Why would they suddenly turn on me, keep my child from me? My only child, my precious daughter? The man turned to me, “Mrs. Dane, I know you’re confused. Please, put it down, take a breath. Danny’s coming to help you okay?” He was standing in front of his wife now, and my little girl looked over him, crying because she too didn't know what was happening. Put it down? Put what down? I had been holding my daughter’s little shoes. I looked at my hands, and my left one was holding the little shoes, pinched together in the middle like a pair of butterfly wings. And my right hand held a knife, a good kitchen chopping knife with a wooden handle. How had that happened? I didn't want that. I just wanted my daughter’s shoes. I just wanted to take her home. The man was still talking to me, cooing, trying to coax me to do something. He was becoming blurry in my eyes, his shape trembling. Was I crying? When had I started crying? Another voice entered the yard, “Jesus Christ!” I didn't turn to look. My little girl’s nose was running and no one had wiped it. Someone touched my arm, turned my wrist. No one had used their sleeve to keep that snot from dripping down her lip. Arms wrapped around me. She was reaching her tongue up over her lip, trying to reach the snot that no one had let me wipe. The wife was trying to say something that I couldn’t hear over the screaming. Someone was screaming? No one looked like they were screaming, even my little daughter had stopped crying. What was she saying? She was trying to tell me something. Someone was screaming and I couldn’t hear. My little girl rubbed her eye with the back of her little hand. Someone was trying to say something in my ear, telling me to stop something. Stop what? My little girl watched me until I couldn’t see her anymore because I wasn’t in the backyard anymore, I was on the sidewalk, and then I was in my own yard and on the porch and through the door. I was so tired. It was quiet now. The young man whose arms had been around mine asked me to please, please sit on the couch. I did. I was so tired. A young woman appeared in the living room from the stairs, pulling a sweater over her bright pink bra. No, not my daughter. She wasn’t my little girl. “Shit Danny,” I heard. That one is Danny? The young man? Who was she? “What happened? I thought you said she wouldn't go nowhere!” Danny told her to shut up, he was on the phone. The young woman in the sweater leaned against the doorframe, staring at me. My left hand on the couch turned over like a brooding hen, and underneath were the little Velcro sandals. They’d left sparkles on my hand. Who would get my daughter’s sweater from the swing set? What if it rained?
KITRI LINDBERG
an artist’s love: this is how it is to love an artist: your days are polar. the sun is weeping, the moon singing, the fire which lights his cigarette is warm and appropriately masochistic. your lover is never over his ex; he fights against you when he should be fighting for you, when he should pull you in, instead he warns you of his dangers it is always cold. even when the touch of his skin heats you to your core (and it will), you feel a chill run through your spine, as though it knows the warmth will drain away. nights can never be just fun, they are always meaningful and deep and melancholy, at their best; at their worst his hand will slip from yours. loving an artist meant losing what i had, or no, it meant giving it all up willingly like some big idiot-brained kid, selling his mother’s ring for some playground candy. three minutes of red sugar sweetness and then you lay as limp and loving as the paper stick of a cherry sucker.
LAUREN MILLER
I Love You Sometimes, “I love you” feels like empty words, As if it’s what you're supposed to say, Not how you actually feel. So I escape To realities where people really love each other, And they aren’t afraid to show it. It might sound cynical, But there are times where I just want to be somewhere else, Where I feel that connection That I should feel with those around me. But some of us are too different To feel welcome in each other’s presences, To feel at home while being physically there. So I escape, Into a world—or many different worlds— Where I am mentally at home, While being physically where I am supposed to call “home”. I do love you, But I don’t feel warm, Or connected, While I am there. Please don’t take this personally, For I mean no harm, But to some, “I love you” Is just what you put at the end of a card.
15
LEAH THOMPSON
Reminiscence
17
MATTHEW RAIHALA
Black Gunk The last time I changed the head of my electric toothbrush, there was black gunk. A flap of it, loose, had been floating around the water-filled space inside the white plastic for some number of weeks. How many times had that gunk been thrashed in the tiny churning maelstrom that came once daily and lasted for about two minutes? No more: I flushed it down the sink, where it joined with a mass of other gunk grander than its wildest dreams. Now, although that flap of gunk I picture fondly, I hope no new gunk’s grown in the head that’s on my toothbrush now; that would be really gross.
ANONYMOUS
A Happy Ending 1. Saturday morning A room Two men A bed Two pillows A wardrobe Two tuxes Four dress shoes A clock No mirrors. First man wakes Hastily Finds his clothes Puts on clothes Rushes out the door No time left For a goodbye kiss. Second man wakes up Finds nothing.
2. On the pillow Warmth remains Second man smiles. Today A joyful day Wedding day First man looks happy With her Second man A guest An acquaintance In the back Of the wedding hall He smiles Happy ending.
MIA IRVING
A Small Portion of the Universe The lake was a dark and glimmering purple, reflecting the grand image of the black sky above. It was next to an empty field that was surrounded by looming trees on all sides. The only light glared from the moon, the rest of the world was dark and distant. My feet were wet in the dewy grass and steps away from the shore of the lake. Metallic crutches fitted the length of my body and bruised my underarms. To my left, a staircase emerged leading so far into the night sky that my strained neck couldn’t see the top. It was aglow with golden fire, flames licking at the glass steps. I fumbled over on my crutches, but laid them at the edge of the stairs, realizing they suddenly weren’t necessary. My moonlit hand slid along the bar, and I yanked it back as sparks crackled at my palm. But it didn’t hurt. I put my hands back on the railing and climbed the staircase slowly, making my way into the atmosphere. After ascending for what felt like eternity, I stopped at a glass platform and stared at the world below, the lake a small puddle to be splashed in. A gasp escaped me as burning balls of fire bobbled in midair, circling my body. My fingertips reached out to touch the star, but a soft voice spoke, startling me, “The world is alive tonight,” it said as I turned to see a woman standing with her arms crossed. She had long grey hair with sprinkles of black on the ends. She wore a shiny black parka, checkered business pants, and tall buttoned boots that ended in sharp points. A look of overwhelming peace crossed her freckled face as she stared serenely to the cosmos. I slowly stepped closer to her, my ghostly hand reaching out to touch her. “Mom?” I said, and her ears perked but she didn’t turn to me. A small smile flashed across her lips. “I wanted to take you here,” she said, and opened her palms to gesture to the world below. “To show you what you aren’t missing.” I stepped until I was in front of her, blocking her view of a small portion of the universe. Her swampy eyes looked up to me, and she smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. “Mom,” I said. I wanted her to place her hands on my cheeks and gaze at me, stroke her nimble fingers through my hair, pull me close and hug me like she missed me. Instead, her eyes flicked up to the left, to the glowing blue moon sitting on my shoulder. “Shoot for the moon, Cael,” she said, reaching out to grasp a small circle of fire. It sizzled on her skin, but she didn’t appear to get burned. “Because even if you don’t make it, you’ll land among the stars.” I stepped back on the platform, my head jerking away. I hadn’t seen my Mom for months and instead of telling me she loves me, she recites a stupid quote middle-aged mothers would reblog on Pinterest. “And what if I don’t want the stars?” I countered. “What if the moon is my only option?” She peeled her eyes from the ball of fire and it dropped from her hand. “We learn to live with the destiny that is given to us.” Her arm hung limply at her side. “Especially if it hurts.” My vision blurred from the pooling tears until I woke up in my bed. She wasn’t next to me anymore. No matter how desperately my fingers clawed through the air, I couldn’t find her. Dispirited, I clutched my cheeks and pretended that the warmth jolting through my hands was not my own.
KATIE GORTON
Parasitic Lovers
My neck aches, and my mother’s tugs pain My scalp, as I sit on the floor below her. Even though I sit in subtle agony, She has only been brushing for thirty minutes, And we cannot quit until they are gone. The comb breaks the hold of the eggs on my hair, Tearing every last parasite from its source of life. My heat was their hearth, My blood, their meal, But they did not feast on blood alone. You two were found joined together. Two lovers becoming one Reaching for each other’s embrace As the world around you was covered With a canopy of chemicals. How many children did you lose? And when you drank my blood, what did you gain? What love poem did you steal from my head? Which romantic subplot have you taken? And will I ever be able to love with the passion Stolen and used By two lice?
19
MACKENZIE ZENK
Ocean Nymph
KIRA DOBBERMAN
21
Bringing Spring A girl held a cup in her hands, pigtails swinging as she traipsed across a field to the man working there. The day had been extraordinarily hot for early spring, yet this man seemed unbothered by the heat. She had never seen him before— it was almost as if he had appeared out of the ground itself. “Sir? Would you like a glass of water?” She held out the ceramic cup, ice cubes clinking gently. The man smiled and took the cup with one dirty, calloused hand. After draining the cool liquid, he passed it back to her, the ice left at the bottom melting fast. Without saying a word, he turned back to the patch of dirt where he was digging. At least, the girl thought he was digging. Looking again, she couldn’t be quite sure. When he pushed his shovel into the dry, crumbling earth, it didn’t even make a mark. Each time he lifted it up again, the place where it had been was damp, and small green tendrils curled up towards the blazing sun. “Excuse me, sir? What are you doing?” The man paused again, and propped his shovel at his feet. “Why, what do you think?” He gestured at the wide swath of new grass sprouting up behind him. Yellow and pink violets dotted the landscape, bobbing in a slight breeze. The entire plot had been bare just an hour before, dusty enough for the slightest gust to whip up dust devils as it passed the few leafless, skeletal trees that stood there. But they weren’t skeletal anymore, she realized—all but one of them were covered in new leaves, some small enough that the tree just appeared to have a bright green haze, others with leaves darkening to their summer shades as she watched. Following her gaze, the man gestured to the one stark tree with a flick of his wrist. The girl gasped, turning to stare wide-eyed at the man who could somehow bring spring to a tree just by pointing. The man winked at her, then turned his attention back to his shovel. A woman’s voice drifted across the flower-speckled field. “Evvy? It’s time for lunch!” The girl turned to thank the man for his work, but he was gone. The bare patch of ground had disappeared; a single, snow-white trillium bloomed bright against the grass at her feet.
JURGEN DOVRE
Danifest Mestiny In the old west, there was a cactus. It was covered in spikes and was green. Inside the cactus there was a lot of juice. That cactus… Is me! Spiky, green, and full of juice! In the old west, there was a scorpion. It had 8 legs and a stinger. The scorpion was covered by a hard outer layer. That scorpion… Is me! 8-legged, armed, and protected by a hard outer layer! In the old west, there was a cowgirl. She was angry and horny. The cowgirl carried a Smith & Wesson no. 3 revolver. That cowgirl… Is me! Upset, horny, and carrying a gun! In the old west, there was a horse It was dusty and covered in hair. That horse was a member of the Equine genus of the family Equidae. That horse… Is me! Dusty, hairy, and part of a family!
23 CORY EULL
dad’s workspace
ANNIKA DOME
Daylily Memories At the time, Grandma seldom visited her daylily garden in the front lawn, which Grandpa weeded instead. Grandma had handpicked and planted each daylily and her phone was filled with pictures of the blossoms—almost as many pictures of flowers as pictures of her grandchildren. I'd go for walks with her when I visited and the weather was cooperative. These walks were never long, most a mere brush along the perimeter of their lawn. We'd pluck mushy, inky blossoms from stalks and break off the seed pouches. Daylilies only bloom for a day before wilting. We took pictures of them with the hope of preserving a fraction of their beauty for the days when Grandma couldn't walk as far. Once, when both of us were younger, a downpour rolled in while Grandma and I were getting groceries. Rain knocked at the roof, thunder whipped against the walls and shook the ground. Grandma and I looked at each other as we stood in the store doorway, bags hanging from our wrists, watching the rain create a wall that hid Grandma’s van somewhere in the parking lot. We slipped the sandals from our feet, hung them on our fingers, and counted down from three before sprinting bare-footed into the sheets of rain. We were drenched in seconds, as though we'd dived into a pool. Grandma and I looked at each other as we slipped into the car and wrung out our shirts, her bright blue eyes brimming with excitement. A daredevil glint she'd never shown me before. For as long as I could remember, Grandma had short curly hair that rested on her head like a frozen cloud. Her face was framed by a frosty rim, but from the back her hair was darker, a stormy grey. When she lost all of her prized hair, she disguised her bare scalp by wearing various hats. She often wore a robin-egg blue schoolboy hat with embroidered flowers and butterflies alongside the rim. Another favorite was a dark red newsboy hat with dozens of white sequins scattered across it and a red fabric rose pinned on the side. White sprouts of hair began to poke out from under the rims once treatment was over. Grandma always wanted to French braid my hair. You would look so nice with your hair in a braid she would say, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. She would run a brush through my hair, the bristles snagging on a thousand knots and tugging at my scalp. I whined, complained, and hated how taut the braid pulled my scalp after being tied off. Although I would let Grandma braid my hair, it was seldom long enough for a French braid. The slippery texture of my fine hair also made it difficult to braid, but Grandma tried anyway. There is a hallway covered in photographs at Grandma's. Several walls are dedicated to pictures of the grandkids, one wall is filled with pictures of my mom and her three sisters, another is a collection of photos from the sisters' weddings, and the last has black and white photos of unfamiliar ancestors. I asked Grandma about these nameless faces and she told me what she could remember and gave guesses when she couldn't, adding personalities to these colorless fragments of lives long gone. Later that week she and I went through yellowed documents hidden away in boxes. She showed me my mom's yearbooks and some of my aunts', and eventually we found Grandpa's high school report card. We laughed as we saw his grades slip over the years, and when he came downstairs to ask us what was so funny, we only laughed harder. After months of treatment and hospital visits, Grandma's hair finally grew back. She still wore her hats, trying to hide her loss, and she had surgery so her bras could still fit. She was alive, but her prior confidence was shredded.
25 I was volunteering at a Halloween event when my dad called. It wasn't the fall that worried us. Doctors had found more on her brain after the x-ray. Treatment began again. Grandma and I were supposed to take our pills with food. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, and I was staying with my grandparents for a week. I entered the kitchen in my baggy pajamas, having almost forgotten to take my pill that evening. The lights were still on, which I thought was strange given how late it was. When I turned the corner, I saw Grandma leaning against the counter, taking off the wrap from a half-finished yogurt cup. I don’t remember everything that we talked about. But we took our pills and ate yogurt together. This became our nightly routine, to meet in the kitchen before bed and talk. Maybe we shared stories. Maybe we complained about all the pills we were taking. She spoke to me without boundaries, and we stood side by side under the mute yellow light as the clock neared midnight. We walked together down that hall of nearly forgotten ancestors and hugged, kissed cheeks, and said our “love you, good night”s before heading into our separate bedrooms. The sky was a cold blue that day. She'd always loved blue. It was sunny, too. She'd always loved sunny days, when her daylilies blossomed to greet her. I was the only grandkid there. I sat on the couch with Grandpa, tears occasionally slipping down our cheeks as we held each other. I didn't have pajamas with me, so I had to borrow some from Grandma's dresser. The soft, diluted pastel fabric felt wrong against my skin. Her slippers were still beside her bed. One of my aunts found a journal Grandma had kept. None of us had seen it before. It was filled with short notes on the comings and goings of the family. In her world, each day contained something beautiful, something temporary. Like daylilies that bloom, wilt, bloom, wilt, bloom... there would always be new blossoms to rise with the sun the next day. And through the long, dark, cold winter during which no flowers bloomed, she was comforted by the thought of spring, of the return of the flowers. Her last entry: "Today was a good day."
CATHERINE VITT
Work Clothes “Lesser-than” in their paint-clothes disguise, with holes and rips and stains, they fill in dead wood’s splits and cracks with smelly oil-based primer and the paint called “fudge.” The sun is insistent, slow. Like some bizarre warped version of that dreamed-of ‘day in the sun,’ it blisters her back when she’s forgetful, makes the crossbars of the scaffold too hot to touch. As she swings through the mustard-yellow steel, she wonders how the tenants would act if she and her father didn’t wear paint clothes. Would they still explain obvious things like why the shed needs to stay locked when no one’s around? Would they be more polite— have more time to talk to the intelligent, interesting minds under the splattered sun hats? She wonders it all. All the while, maybe they wonder at the thoughtful girl sitting near their drying window frames, feet dangling among tree branches… Maybe everyone’s wondering. What work clothes must dignity wear?
27 JASMYN LINN
Untitled
ELIJAH WALLACE
The Master Based on an old Norwegian folktale recorded by Asbjørnson and Moe called The Seventh Father Of The House. I’m not sure how I got lost in the snowstorm: all I know is a flurry came howling through the trees, flakes falling thick and fast, and soon enough I could not find the path. It should not have been so difficult to escape the woods, I had frequented them when I needed escape from the wear of the world. One might suppose I would have known them very well, but in the midst of the snow, the once-familiar surroundings had changed beyond recognition. I stumbled, thinking I ought to seek shelter. I made my way downhill to find a ravine or dry creek bed in which I might find escape from the worst of the wind. But before I could come to the bottom of the slope, I heard a noise. It was quiet, barely audible over the muffling howl of the snow-laden wind, yet I knew it was not imagined. I heard it again. Drawn more by curiosity than anything—a fatal tendency of the young— I moved to the left, slowly towards the sound. I noticed a light through the gray snow-garbed trunks. I came closer, and all at once a curious sight met my eyes. Bulging out of the earth under the roots of what might have been the largest tree in the woods were the walls, doors, and windows of a house, warm gold light leaking through the frosted glass. The walls were earth-covered and shaggy, giving it the look of a big knoll on the hill; indeed if I had not seen the light I wouldn’t have noticed it. What was more curious was in front of the door and beside a small shed for logs, a small figure, no more than four feet tall, was chopping wood on a stump. That was the sound I had heard. The little figure wore a coat, pants, boots, and mittens all of fur, and down pulled over his shaggy gray head and knobbly ears was a wooly hat. He had a long nose, crooked like a tree branch, and a grizzled beard and deep black eyes were set in his brown, pitted face. He looked up as I approached and paused in his chopping. Not wanting to startle the small figure, I sat down a few feet away. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I said. The little man grunted. “Doubt yeh could if yeh tried,” he replied in a rough voice. “Yeh need shelter?” As soon as he asked, the thought crossed my mind of how warm and cozy it must be in the small fellow’s house. I drew my coat tighter around me. “Yes, please.” The small fellow nodded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Go inside,” he said. “Talk teh my father. Only the master o’ this house can allow yeh teh stay. Only the master,” he repeated grimly. Not fully understanding, I nodded; and after a moment of hesitation, I went inside. Behind the door was a small cozy room with a fireplace and a chair and in the far wall was another door. Two men were in that room, both smaller than the first, grayer, and more wizened. They looked up as I entered, and for a moment I froze; their eyes were blacker, each a globe of obsidian in their heads. “I’m looking for the father of the guy outside,” I said lightly, afraid to say too much. The one in the chair raised his hand. “I am his father.” But then the hand fell and pointed, knobbly-jointed and crooked, at the figure by the fire. “And he is my father.” I paused, unsure of what to make of this information. At last, I blurted, “Can I stay here tonight? Until the blizzard is over?” The two old men looked at each other and spoke briefly in an ancient gravelly language. Then the older one looked at me and pointed at the door. “Yeh must find the master o’ the house,” he growled. “Go through there and seek my fathers.” I was beginning to be apprehensive about going further, but anything was better than freezing in the snow outside. I went onward. The room beyond had walls of brick. It was a kitchen, with a long table and a stone rim around the floor for preparing food. Provisions hung from roots dipping from the ceiling. By the far end there was a cradle beside another door. Nearer to me was a shriveled old man, no more than two and a half feet tall, bent feebly as he sliced potatoes beside a bubbling pot of stew.
29 “You seek the master of the house,” he said quaveringly, appearing unsurprised at my entrance. “Yes,” I said. “I just need shelter. Are you the father of the men outside?” The shriveled man chuckled; he appeared amused that I had called his sons “men.” He pointed at the cradle. “My father knows where to find the master. Speak to him and he will guide you.” Fear wormed into me as I approached the cradle. I peered in and saw only the wrinkled torso and bent nose of the smallest, oldest of the beings yet; and his skin was so brown and pitted it looked like cracked clay, and his hair was white and patchy. For several moments I thought he was asleep. Then his eyes opened and he looked on me with eyes like dark pools beneath the earth. Immediately I felt he knew my intentions. He spoke softly, yet in my mind every fluctuation of his voice gouged upon my mind like a keen chisel. “You seek refuge from the storm,” he said. I could only nod; my voice would not work. He raised a weak little arm, like the branch of a withered sapling, to point at the door. “My father . . . the master of the house . . . lies through there. Look to the horn on the wall and hear his words.” All at once the last thing I wanted to do was step through that door; and yet I walked through as if possessed. That final room was bare, with walls of packed earth speckled with roots and stones, except for at the far end, where an old drinking-horn hung from the curve of a root. The mouth of the horn was stuffed full of little pillows and blankets, and amid it all was a brown face, thin, catlike and hawkish all at once, and with skin so brown and pitted that it seemed made from earth. A tiny noise came from the face: a thin, whispery voice which echoed until it felt as though it came from the earth around me itself. And it said: “You have passed through my sons and been found worthy. Come, let me look upon you, and ask your question.” Afraid, I approached. As I neared, the tiny eyes opened, and I almost collapsed. I felt old, far older than anyone who is still young can imagine being, old and tired and driven half-mad by millennia of memories, and sad, very sad, and cruel and kind all at once. Then the spasm faded, and I saw the black eyes were frosted with cataracts. And in a weak voice I asked, “Can I stay to escape the storm?” The tiny face of the master seemed to crack as he smiled. “Yes, child, you may.” I’m not sure what happened after that. I have a vague memory of warmth, lying down to sleep, rising, wakening feeling refreshed, bidding thanks and at last leaving that place, only to come to my senses at the edge of the woods. After that the memories seem like a dream, and the only certainties were that I had survived the night, and my mouth held the aftertaste of potato stew. I’ve since gone back to try and look for that house of the small beings, where the old master lies in retirement, but I have not found it again. I suppose no one will ever find it again, not unless they are in great need of it, as I was; but what would have happened if the master’s children had rejected me, I do not want to think.
JOSIE LAVOI
Alaska His long and spindly fingers are delicate on the strings of a guitar. The smooth pad of his thumb strokes a simple melody. I ache to touch those fingers. He is as far away as Alaska, even if I am close enough to reach out and stroke his cheek. I, too, am like Alaska, moored to him like a fishing boat frozen to the dock. Shouldn’t Alaska want to float away? How miserable to be stuck somewhere so lonely when there’s so much ocean beyond the dock. I ask him if the oranges are any good in Alaska. He glances at me and says, “No, I’ve never liked that color.”
JURGEN DOVRE
Kissed Neck Disconnect I’d like to go back to the time we thought we fell in love I think that that’s the part I liked the best If my memory serves correct it happened after I kissed your neck And after that I think you know the rest It’s the same old story Triumph and glory Low down rotten scoundrel that I am We both lost interest In what we had to begin with Which made you think the whole thing was a sham We spoke sweet words to each other Both of us were lovely and lovers What the fuck were we doing Emotions can be wonderful but they can lead to ruin Maybe it was in the timing I didn’t think that we were half bad If I could think of one silver lining We sure made each other less sad I know the supernatural is hardly satisfactual But I’d like to think that’s just what it was If we’re not right for one another then why would we both even bother So far all I’ve got is just because
31
CATHERINE VITT
Flies Yesterday there was a dead sparrow on the ground, in the alley. I nearly stepped on it with my work shoes. It had fallen from that hole in the eave that we’ll repair next week. I probably wouldn’t have seen it, but a swarm of flies was buzzing, circling. The sparrow had no feathers; a static shiny pink its future kept, but I could tell it was a bird. The beak was there beneath the humming flies, and one large, almost closed eye, so quiet with wings firmly furled. Morning, and I saw the bird again. It was off-center in the alley, where the tires of the junkers peel through. I had to look for it; I’d stepped around it yesterday, but the tired trucks hadn’t. Smaller, diminished, certainly dead, still—I kept my feet clear of the failed flight. Last night I dreamed I was a child, running in that sweet way that only children know, clumsily, too quickly, loudly. Arms windmilling, I chase their shadows teeter-tottering back and forth ahead of me; my splayed fingers slice the air, flying.
KALIE DEBELAK
Will You? Is it possible You feel out Of place Because you Never made A home for Yourself In your Heart? We have the Power To touch the Earth. Will you let The earth Have the Power to Touch you? We have the Power To love. Will you let Yourself Be loved, too? We have the Power To listen. Will you also, Then let Yourself be heard? We have the Power To support Another. Will you let Yourself Be supported?
33
MAGGIE SCHWARZ
Untitled
JOSIE LAVOI
“Tula” Her ankles are skinny and I know this because I can always see them, pale and translucent like the brain of a jellyfish, when she cuffs her jeans. She gets terrible motion sickness in the car— nausea rolling through her like the tide, stomach acid clawing up her throat. We ride in the same carpool to work each morning, too poor to afford our own cars, the dim gray of dawn washing Tula’s brown hair and skinny ankles in sickly light. Sometimes I think I love her when I watch the bead of sweat drip down into the hollow of her neck—a tide pool in a crater of the moon—her eyes closed delicately like a moth’s wing dangling from a spider’s web. I love her right now, her head limp against the headrest, green as a ghost and feverish like a child with an earache. I want to lap the sweat from her neck like a dog drinking water from a bowl and then kiss her mouth so she can suck the salt off of my lips. The woman riding shotgun rolls down the window and lights a cigarette. Tula sighs and her eyes open halfway. She doesn’t spare me a glance before she uses the collar of her shirt to mop the sweat off of her neck. I stare out at the moon, sitting motionless in the dull morning sky.
35
KAITLYNN RIVERS
When Grace Collides God, I am so angry and frustrated with you, and I hate the fact that I feel this way. Yes you give, but you also take so much away. This disease that you have allowed to wreak havoc upon your people has taken so much from me and the ones that you say that you love. My days have become monotonous and lonely. Today marks day 43 in my desert, and if I hear anything from you it is more faint than a whisper. All I hear is a deafening silence. The future that I once saw ahead of me has disappeared into the fog, and I can’t hold on to any plans because there is nothing to grasp. All I can feel is the air. There are many times throughout each week where I feel utterly hopeless; helpless; But God, you don’t fail. You won’t fail. And even though it feels like it, you haven’t failed me. You are where my hope lies. You are where my joy lies. You are where my future lies. You are where my life lies. I know that my life is not my own, and I want to lay my crown at your feet. But my grip is so strong. It’s so hard to let go. Strip me of my pride and replace this cold heart of stone. Melt it down into molten lava, burning for your will and your will alone. My heart aches, but you are holding it. I can’t see or touch the people that I love. Your presence is enough though. I push you away with all my strength into a box that I think I can control. But as I do, my weight collides with your grace, and the walls I attempted to build around my soul crumble into dust. Your Spirit bottles the dust and pain of what has been lost and mixes it with the tears I’ve shed, so that you can mold a brand new me. And place me back into a broken world that needs to be reminded that it has already been saved. God, you don’t fail. Amen.
KATIE WALLER
Saganaga Lake I paddle the red canoe across Saganaga Lake, the only mirror in twenty miles. Below—the black underbelly, metamorphic rock, two thousand six hundred million years old. Orange trees envelop the lake into a crooked halo. The cold wind tumbles over the burned field— sweeps the meadow into a wave. The gunmetal sky folds in on itself and the storm rolls in. October rain spills from the autumn sky and stitches into the cold cloth of dirt. Behind me, Charlie talks to the clear plastic compass, counting each mile and jagged stone. It feels like peace. We pull the canoe onto the rocky shore and lift the bags from the wooden bow— muddy shoes and socks swallowed by thick river mud. He unpacks the orange tent and boils the water for dinner. Above, the lurking grouse perched on the birch tree, eyeing the uncooked elbow pasta. The island is a hill, we eat dinner on a lower peak between the white cedar and the camping stove. Faded green leaves sewn together into quilted fabric, protecting each ant and beetle. I reach the pink wool gloves to my winter hat, yarn unraveled, pull the knit fabric from my head. At my feet, the small jumping-mouse hides underneath the silver pot and dried apple slices; pointed whiskers and an empty stomach. I pick the food scraps from the glowing embers— hot coal burned black. Inside the tent, the headlamp glows red, in my sleeping bag, I am a paperweight. I anchor the tent as we float through the empty black space far from my own prying eye. In the darkness, my hands sink into my stomach, and the fabric room falls under the moon.
37