Jamie etheriDge

Prom night

No one asked me to dance, so I stood on the outer rim of the crowd, like a meteorite caught in an asteroid belt, floating among the debris and space junk, waiting for the magic to occur.

I was space junk, extraneous, a girl who went with a friend whose boyfriend then showed up, and so I sidled off to the sidelines and planned to leave by myself, take the requisite prom photo, and down a Dixie cup of the vodka-laced punch before calling my mom for a ride home. But then my friend pulled me back into the swirling mass. After a few sweaty dances, a chorus of “Tainted Love” echoing up to the ceiling in the hotel ballroom, and boys in rented tuxedos smacking our butts as we sashayed back and forth to the powder room, we slid out of our dresses and pulled on T-shirts and shorts. Then we stuffed ourselves into the narrow back seat of an older classmate’s CRX and went to Dauphin Island to drink warm beer and watch the moon glitter and sparkle on the inkblack water.

We’d made it. Milestone moment achieved, and here we sat, waiting for that coming of age, John Hughes-fulcrum to leapfrog us to adulthood in a twinkling. By that time, most of us had already kissed boys. In bare feet ankle-deep in the damp sand, the boy’s breath smelled of beer and cigarettes as his cold, clammy hand snaked up the back of my shirt.

We knew our social rankings wouldn't change no matter how beautifully cut our gowns, how well styled our hair, or how frequently we reapplied the seashell pink lipstick Momma bought from the local drugstore. But still, we believed or at least pretended to think that the moment meant something. So, we dug our toes into cold, caked sand, leaned into the warm chests of indifferent boys, and imagined our futures: The cars we would drive. The children we’d have. The destinations we’d go to for our dream honeymoon. We’d been taught since early childhood to believe in princess fairy tales, the belle of the ball, gowns floating across a dance floor in glittering pink or gold, and that magical moment when all your dreams come true. We believed that first comes love, then comes marriage, then mama pushes a baby carriage while papa works.

That night I wasn’t sure whether I believed in the certainty of a well-planned life, but also, I had no alternative. I didn’t have a vision, a dream, or even a ride home; only a crumpled, mint green satin ball gown wadded up in a gym bag in the trunk and an aching wish to belong. I kept waiting, wondering when it would happen, if it would happen, that watershed moment—that decisive spark that would send me tumbling like scattered debris through space toward a future I could imagine, a woman I could become.

I stayed quiet, even when I realized that there would be no fairy godmother arriving this night, waving her wand to save me from poverty and pre-algebra, no foot-fetishizing prince toting jelly sandals around the neighborhood. I took another swig of beer. It stung when the boy ignored me afterward. I let the disappointment seep out of the sides of my eyes when no one was looking.

The night remained murky and starless. Our breath soured; our voices slurred. At dawn, we finally climbed back over the sand berms and sedge grasses that scratched our bare legs and piled into the CRX to head home. Aquanet hair pasted to our foreheads in tangled mats and smeared eyeliner streaked our faces, hungover, disenchanted and children still.

timothy Fox

the DeaD have their DeaD i found an old blackandwhite photograph of a gravestone in the family plot in gospel texas // the stone is marked infant // born and died may eighth nineteenandeleven // i asked great aunt florence who the infant was but she said she didnt know they useta have lotsa babies back then and whosever it was otta be buried nearby there is a shadow in the bottom righthand corner // the photographer // their back to the sun brett thomPson

40 remind me again i am not in mourning the harshest winter is over and the grass in renewal (sharp, agrestal) afternoons soon for dark coffee and circuits around our little lake -two daughtersone oversized heart thudding across my chest

Lord, give me breath keep my fists unclenched defrost my eyes just once to watch them pluck pistils of flowers from the side of your road dogwood honeysuckle forsythia there is no end to suffering

brett thomPson

Hunger

Just give me a little more another sunset spilling out across the yard one last lazy afternoon spent in the shade.

I am not asking much, a few more breathes please, allow this spring, cicadas, thrushes, ivory petals in every bramble, trees pregnant with peaches that will soon be bursting. Excuse me my upbringing, two loving parents the three bedrooms in the clapboard house with no open windows that ever spoke or wept. All about us, the day remains long. There is such hunger in the trees.

Would we be the ones to allow this bounty to spoil?

Are my daughters not the stewards of this land?

With two silver nets they twirl in their long skirts under the cool, broad leaves. They are shouting and laughing all the time now.

Their legs are strong.

Their mouths are wide open.