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While going through submissions this season I found myself getting involved with endless distractions. My readings found me lulled to sleep by a hot wooden patio chair, my nose upturned, leaning out for a warm breeze. Or perhaps they found me preoccupied with chasing the finish line of a Sunday crossword, three Sundays past. Or fruitlessly pacing a kind of purgatory designed only for those with forty-year-old cars And when that took up all of my days, there was time not in the night, as the cats would howl and my loved ones would without call or coordination trickle downstairs in soft drips to watch the Olympics; marveling at the wonderful ways bodies can be.
But most often I’d find myself distracted by the performance of my partner polishing his shoes Because his weeks on the road were longer than mine at home, he’d return teeming with excitement to pour into the packages he’d sent for One after the other filled with oils and creams and waxes and salves that he’d apply to his boots with a tenderness I silently wished was reserved for me only. It took four hours to complete two pairs; One a soot black engineer boot, the design of which had been perfected over a century by an Oregonian family of true cordwainers, and the other a pair of cordovan leather Lucchese’s with a level of ornamentation that would make any real cowboy hiss and spit Observing the act called to mind three things: My 1985 Mercedes 300D and her failing transmission I remember working on the transmission of a 1962 Chrysler station wagon the year before, armed with a gaggle of friends and a decadence of beer, and how sometimes taking care of things meant building community I recalled replacing the brakes of my burpy diesel sedan with my partner’s father, giggling when we called the brake fluid “secret sauce, ” and how sometimes taking care meant stitching up slack in your boyhood; a place that’d been worn loose by adults who didn’t, couldn’t know what taking care meant.
1.
2 A 17th-century etching of a kingfisher sandwiched between two halves of a cardboard box Back in spring, when it felt like life could get better all the time, I’d visited a relative in New York who was steadily retiring from a long and gorgeous career as an antique dealer. I naturally gushed over her apartment, a treasure trove of old-world frivolities: hand-carved egg chairs, a pair of emerald chaise longues, Chinese armoires from the 1700s, and stacks of leather portfolios filled to the brim with original etchings of flora and fauna and Gilded Age machinery One of which was a small and pleasant illustration of a kingfisher perched over a lake, set into the page by a stone plate and diligently painted for the sake of sharing the animal with the world. The bird was a birthday gift and congratulations from one literature lover to another, that has lived in a thick plastic sheet, between two pieces of cardboard box since then and onward, until I can find the cash for a frame that matches its beauty Regardless of the current, unfitting position in a storage room, the kingfisher’s startled stare will go on from just a moment among the marshland of a developing Germany to the back cover of this issue, to your homes. I hope for you as it does for me it will serve as a symbol of the community you ’ ve made here.
3. The hands of a girl I knew in my youth—I recall a time in a curious body when I met a girl at school who had a genetic condition that resulted in an inability to make a fist or otherwise bend her fingers in any capacity. The condition begot a series of posturings during mundane tasks that felt so exciting, I found myself instinctively mimicking them For months this act brought me a sort of thrill that can only be had when experiencing a slice of life very different to one ’ s own It may not have been much but it meant that others weren’t feeling and touching the same way I was; an intoxicating thing to finally know. As a diagnosed adult, I can recognize mimicry as a symptom of something much larger and more profound than a mere love of humanity but also much smaller and less profound than a mere love of humanity Watching and replicating may be the most human trait I can retain, a well-revered prerogative I intend to defend in earnest
Watching my partner, brought to tears by the thought of passing his boots down for generations, each owner polishing and buffing and honoring the man who bought them, I think of when Marie Kondo said, “The question of what you want to own is actually the question of how you want to live your life ” I think of the people who were once so specialized in their craft it became a part of their identity, something you’d give to children and children and children after until there were “Schumachers” and “Smiths” and “Millers” and “Bakers” who knew nothing of shoe-making, blacksmithing, milling, or baking. I think of them painting and carving and embroidering the scenes of their lives into their work; a little moment just for themselves that is now considered worthy of glass encasment, for thousands to view but never use I remember being told, “If you take care of your things, they’ll take care of you, ” and the glass of water my partner brings to my bedside each night. Keeping me fed and his shoes clean is way enough of saying he wants to live on, be seen when he’s not around, be taken care of by something built to care. Finishing this issue now, I am rapt by the decline of almost everything beautiful around us and the urge to remind you to write it all down, lest anyone forget a second
“5X7
BY COURTNEY ROBERTSON.
Taken using ca. 1890 large format camera, in subject's own garden.
M. RC. MIYARES
I CANNOT COOK / WITHOUT THINKING OF MY GRANDMOTHERS // THE FIRST / WHOSE LOVE I NEVER KNEW IN WORDS / BUT IN THE GENTLE CARE / OF CORN FLAKE-CRUSTED CHICKEN / OR CARDBOARD BOX FILLED WITH EVERY BOARD GAME KNOWN TO MAN // THE SECOND / WHOSE FRIDGE IS COVERED IN BACK-OF-THE-CAN RECIPES / PREPARED FOR TOMORROW AND TOMORROW AND TOMORROW / WHOSE HUMILITY AND MAGIC / I COULD ONLY DREAM OF BECOMING // THE THIRD / WHOSE LOVE I'VE KNOWN / ONLY IN MY MOTHER'S WHISPERS / IN REACHING FOR THE SPICE CABINET / IN FEELING YARN AGAINST MY SKIN //
I'LL PRAY TO NO GOD / WHO DOES NOT TRUST HER TO SPEAK
A sputtering moka pot on a ceramic hob that always seems to spill over onto the elements while pouring into his cup.
A late night spent cross-legged on the carpet as he fingers through vinyl, searching for a Belgian New Beat record.
Two pints of San Miguel and a conversation about the installation choices in the newest exhibition
A minimalist hang.
Cigarettes lit by lovers outside of the local pub
A whiskey in a hot bath after walking through cutting wind coming off the North Sea
A continental dinner time
The “friends and family” discount at the art gallery bookshop
An almond croissant at the sea and a conversation; left unfinished.
i Severance
ii. Misplaced grief.
Deciphering perceived obligatory birthday texts.
Seeking a trusted art courier
No room for the Dracaena
A reunion at the first date institution. A 5-hour resolution.
A rug pulled out from under a previously believed unmovable object.
A goodbye that would knock the wind from the lungs of a girl
Walking down the main street and catching a glimpse of him, intently watching the final departure
To get out of our own way. To be so much for so little time. A restoration of faith in the complexity of human connection. How lucky we are that this is all so difficult.
Hands,italwayscomesbacktohands.Thereissomethinginthewaythat practicedhandmovementstunsmebeyondwords.ItissomethingIcansitand observeforhours.Ihavebeenthinkingmorelatelyaboutoneofmyprofessors whospenthisentirecareerstudyinghandednessinbabies.Asadevelopmental psychobiologist,hedescribedthatitwasalwaysimportanttostartatthe beginningwhentryingtounderstandanyhumanbehavior.Hedescribedhow researchshowedthathandednessandlearninghowtouseourhandsstartedinthe womb,withwhichsidethebabylaidonmostcommonly(Michel,2018).This usuallyleadstoaparticularsideababypreferstobebreastfed,whichthenleads towhichhandtheygraspwithmoreoften,butthisisn’ttheonlydecidingfactor.It isalsoimportantwhichhandthecaregiversprefer,asthatisthehandtheyare mostlikelytomodelusingandteachthebabyhowtouse.Researchstudies conductedbymyprofessordemonstratedhowright-handedmotherswouldmost frequentlyhandthebabyaspoonorothertooltothebaby’srighthand.Going backward,thecaregiver’shandedness,perhapssomewhatdecidedbytheir positioninthewomb,impactstheirbabieswholayintheirwombinabeautiful cycle.
Iwasgoingtostartthisbywritingaboutafoodprocessor,butthatitemwasnot whatIfocusedonwhilesittinginthekitchen.Althoughitisauniquelittletoolmy Oomte(Myfather’ssister)Selmaoperatedtomakeza’atarinfrontofmeandmy partner.Itbeautifullyshreddeddriedza’atar(whichiscalledthymeinInglesebut smellsmorelikeoregano),buttheentiretyofallofitwasaboutherhands.The waytheyscoopedsumacseasoningintoaglassshemusthaveusedathousand times.Thewayshegraspedthespoontostirthetoastingsesameseeds.Nothing wasoverlydone,italmostappearedtobeadance.Incontrasttomyyoung cousins,whogrippedthespoontightlyandstirredtoosoftly,toohesitantly.
Herhandsknewexactlyhowallofthesemotionswent,almostasifforlongerthan heryearsofage.Similarly,Iwatchedhermakekibbenayee,araredelicacythatI finallyunderstoodwhatmadeitsospecial.Thebestpiecesofthemeatweresaved andsliced.Iobservedherfingersassisttheknifeinherotherhandasshe smoothlyshavedthebitsofmeatthatwereusable,cuttingwiththemusculature, understandingandmovingslowly,methodically.“Onlythebest,”shesaid,talking aboutthemeat,butimplyingshemakesitbest.Shewasrightaboutboth.
Inherhands,IseemyTata’shands(hermother),asshepatteddoughintorounds toplaceoilandspinachinto.Thewaythattheirhandsknowjusttherightamount ofpressuretoapplytoeachtask.Thewaythattheymakeitlookeasy,graceful, andfluid.Regardlessofwrinklesonskin,nailsworndown,sunspots,orscars,I foundtheirhandsstunninglybeautiful.Thispasseddowneventomysister,her handaperfectfoldasshesaltedlabne,gracefullyholdingthemetalspoonshe usedtostirbeforeliftingitformetotaste.
Ifeelthesamewayobservingmydearclosefriend,aportionMiddleEastern,as theycutvegetables.Thinlyslicingcucumberintoopaquethreadsthatcanbe rolledintoanalmostroseshapeforourchosenfamilygathering.Iobservewithin myselfasmypartnerandIpeelpistachiostomakebaklawa,ourhandsinquiet unison.IseemymotherandmySitti(hermother)peelinggreenbeans.Sometimes talking,butofteninsilence.Handsmovingtogetherandseparate.
IseethisasIvisitmySitti’svillageandmeetherbrotherandsister-in-law,whoI havenevermetbefore.SheasksmehowImakealabaninAmerica.Herchildren watchus,interested.AsIexplaintheprocessinEnglishsheisexplainingit simultaneouslyinArabic.Wegettothepartwherewehaveboiledthemilkand waituntilitiscoolenoughtomixintherhabi(yogurtstarter),anddothisby stickingourpinkyintothehotmilkuntilwecancountto10.Bothofusstickour pinkyfingersintheairandcompletethesameexactmotionofhookingit downwardintotheimaginarymilk.Iseetheeyesofherchildrenglistenwithtears watchingus. Foodismyfavoriteplacetoobservehands,butthereareotherwaystoo.Theway mymother’shandsgraspthreadtoweavethroughasewingmachine.Thewaymy Sittipatsthetopofcats’heads:abittooheavy,similartowhenshesmackedmy handasachild.ThewayrosarybeadsmoveinmyTata’shandsasshemuttersthe prayertoherself.Mypartner’shandsholdingontohisgrandfather’sfilmcamera. MysisterandIthrowinglaundryateachotherandthenfoldingit;herdoingso neatlyandwithpractice,andIdoingsomessily.
Thebrainwishestoadopthandsasourown.Researchshowsthatbyengagingina cooperativetaskwithsomeoneforabriefperiodoftime,ourbraintriestoadopt theirlimbsandmovementsasourown.Itbeginstolightupinresponseto someoneelse’smovements(Funaneetal.,2011).Thus,perhapsinasmallway,the observationandmimicryofanother’smovementsareawayofpassingdown neurostructure;byobservingthehandmovementsofallofthesebelovedpeople, mybrainisalsoadoptingthestructureandmovementofgenerationsbeforeme thatIhaveneverevenmet
Ourhandsandthewaywemovethemarebornofthegenerationsbeyondus. Acrosshundredsofthousandsofmilesandhundredstothousandsofyears.Those whocamebeforeusholdourhandsandguideus.
Funane, T., Kiguchi, M., Atsumori, H., Sato, H., Kubota, K., & Koizumi, H. (2011). Synchronous activity of two people's prefrontal cortices during a cooperative task measured by simultaneous near-infrared spectroscopy. Journal of biomedical optics, 16(7), 077011-077011.
Michel, G. F. (2018). Development of infant handedness. In Conceptions of Development (pp. 165-186). Psychology Press.
“BLANKET STATEMENTS (2023).”
BY STEFFANY MAYBEL ESPINA REYES PHOTOPOLYMER PLATE ETCHING ON FABRIC QUILT 21” X 25”
“7x7squarequiltcomprisedofvariousphotopolymerplateprintsdepictingsnippetsofmychildhood photographs.Thispieceisrelatedtoanongoingbodyofworkonthedocumentationofmemoryandthe mappingofself.Fromthecontradictionsofroughlinen,silkysatin,andwornfleecetothecontrastbetween theblack,violet,andredink--theintersectionsofthebody,theblood,andthesoulareinterwovenintoa singularentity:abecomingandawelcoming.”
commiserated about my secrets I a and Therese They were placed aro spoke too freely of God’s love. On
My hand rises to my solar plexus an filigree that might slide through my collected lockets since childhood. grandfather in a birthday hat three improvising hymns about my insulin from a hand too jazzy to be ordaine my shoulders on the sidewalk after “Jezebel spirit ”
The lockets around my neck are “Sweetie, you are not healthy en now, tarnished at last by disbelie diabetes and I grew up and made up liturgies of longhand and caff and teacups I do not need to be open. ” God does not need proof fingertips
They are “You speak things into came from a friend She believed irresponsible, made people bette grow into kindness that started a hinges prick my fingers. I do not the cat from scratching the couc once called a grit yard a diamond and “irrevocable ” I believed tha would break. I believe less and more now.
Other lockets were not lab-created. They are prettier for dirt and years. My fingers leave smudges you could not pay me to wash off
They are “Your love does not return void ” I sent the old church man cards for fifteen years, cartoon candles into silence. I sent birthday cards to a hundred, then two hundred, then three hundred people a year, with a response rate under 10%. I sent my love to keep the circle unbroken. My husband mocked my handwriting I tried to bite my own neck The old church man said he kept every card. He said I should remember I am rare. I clasp the locket even though I can’t see the picture inside
They are “Your presence would illuminate the proceedings ” The man who gave me medals snapped my language. It was “flowery,” “childish.” I handed out benefits of the doubt like plastic beads One can’t be too careful I was liable to fall off my float. He did not catch me writing secret poems about people in cafeterias and TJ Maxxes I wrote psalms for God’s agents in stainless steel. An editor in Paris said my He invited me to read aloud beside the Se and Sebastien sighed “That is a shame, de illuminate the proceedings ”
I can’t tolerate charms around my neck, b accumulate They make me squint for sain hummingbird’s heart pounds, but her thro
Her sweat slips her pressing eyelids apart and she snaps the sheets off her body like she’s trying to catch herself.
- the name of it, the name of it -
Of the hay-mattress, the bed of afterthought. Or is the name in the many-jointed metal frame That indulged couch/bed/couch/bed whims with its arthritic slide?
Not a loveseat, but the seat that lovers fold and unfold with the sun. Her arms remember, now dance into the pull, lift, push, press, pull that stirred this creature. A bed built and unmade daily. She slept hard on its back and slept together. What beast was this? Her fingers tuck all at once the four corners of its fitted sheet as if she dressed it, a young thing, in her lap.
After dinner we ate cannolis and sipped mandarinetto out of small, thimble glass.
We slurped and savored until the very last drop when Iolanda brought her fingers to her lips, puckered and proclaimed “Ah, Sicily!” as if she had just tasted the entire region in one single swallow.
As if she could taste whispers of olive branch and still-green fig, the sputter of ionian sea foam. Fruiting cactus, the ash and anger of mount Stromboli. Midday heat and morning fires, afternoon espresso, the man she loves, the castle standing watch at the foothill.
Aeolian islands, lining up one by one, for their turn at a tastebud.
As if in one swift kick, in the soft sting of mandarin and in the dull ache of months steeped liquor, everything periphery peeled away, and home made itself known to her.
La Mami rises early, but she always lets me sleep in. She stays on her side of the house, though she's not as quiet as she thinks. I still hear the grandma groan, shower squeak, towel fluff, and kettle boil ofhermorning.
Iimagineherhands,thesameonesthatraisedfivelittlegirlsalone, spotted yet strong, slicking her auburn cut back, applying amaranthpinkontoherpursedlips,slippingasilkscarfaroundthe doughofherneck.
If I’m lucky, the wrought iron gate creaks open, the baker’s signal. She enters my room a half hour later, heavy with bizcochos, heavy withbreath,heavywiththetaskofaging.
She opens the blinds, inviting the Uruguay sun to join us for breakfast.ThemorninglightilluminatesherfaceandIwishIcould clean up the passage of time, scrub the new wrinkles around her chin,dabeveryfreshcrevicelikeastubbornstain.
La Mami wakes me up like this every morning: lipsticks un beso on my plump cheek – her stained smudge salutation. She tries to wipe it off, but the apples of my cheeks are always rosy, her kiss a leftover reminder that only she knowshowtokeepmefed.
I watch her melt into the chair across me, soothing the swollen ankles that still carry her into the day, into her nieta's favorite bakery,intothislonelycrowdedhouse.
I want to reach out, knead my youth into her joints, but time is a Gordian knot at the hands of my childhood, too small for a sword, justbigenoughforaparingknife.
She looks at me and tells me that I’ve grown up so fast, so far. The bread bakes the air around us and I know we are thinking the same thing: Buenos días, mi reina.
Once, I knew La Mami better than anyone else. I'd toddler tumble out of bed, curls clinging to the oven of my mouth, agape in disbeliefthatshebeganbreakfastwithoutme.
Mami, compartimos. We share.
Si, mi amor.
The words were nectar, and I spilled like sugar into her lap. As I sucked on the straw of her maté, slurped the sweetness out of each pastry, she told me stories of the day –mamá y papa at work, hermana at school, the neighbors in an argument, and their dog asleepbeneaththewillowtree.
She doesn't tell me about the plane, the country, the future life withouther.It'sjustus,shesaid,nosotras,whispering anylouder andthemomentwouldpulverizeintocrumbs,tootinytotaste.
Years later, now, we stare at one another over a breakfast we don't haveanappetitefor–lovecrumbledallaroundus.
Sheiseighty-oneandonhershelf,
Iamtwelve five eighteen six ten sixteen nine one twenty-three.
Iamholdingup abouquet, abasket, agift, adiploma, apeacesign, agrownbody,
apicture-perfectsmileforacamera.
Shereachesforme,caressesmyglassframe,andforamomentIam leavened, rising through pain and time and distance to spread myselfaroundherliketheflourtoherfavoriterecipe,tosay,
Mami, I miss you too.
HOW TO PLAY:
IDENTIFY THE FOLLOWING WELL-LIVED PLACES FROM THE LIST BELOW:
A LIVING ROOM
B CAST-IRON PAN
C YOUR BODY
D POT
E CLOSET
F SUBWAY CART
G JOURNAL
H DESK
5 PLASTIC BOXES, FILLED WITH SHRUNKEN LENGHAS, WORN BLOUSES, BOOKS GIFTED BY DAD, CARDS FROM AMMA
4 TOWELS, FLUFFY AND TURKEY OR THIN AND COTTON, STUFFED INTO EVERY OPEN CREVICE, JIGSAWED INTO EACH OTHER
3 COLUMNS OF KING-SIZED BED SHEETS, WHITE WITH PINK AND BLUE FLOWERS BOUGHT ON THE DAY SHE REALIZED SHE WAS PREGNANT, PLAIN ORANGE FOR DAILY USE, YELLOW WITH WHITE RUFFLES FOR SANKRANTHI, FOR GUESTS ONLY
2 LAYERS OF QUEEN SHEETS, ONE GREEN FOR AMMA AND THATA’S ROOM, BLUE WITH PURPLE STARS FOR NANDU’S ROOM
1 DUSTY CROWNING JEWEL OF PHOTO ALBUMS, DARK RUBY WITH GOLD, EMERALD LEATHER, SAPPHIRE PLASTIC, STACKED, WEDGED, SHOVED, BALANCED, CLUSTERED AROUND EACH OTHER
MARKED SLASHES THROUGH GRAPE FACE WASH ADS
Seat warm against your butt and thighs, orange paint chipped on the left corner →
Your neighbor scoots over to make room for two →
A mother braids her child’s hair →
Three dogs cuddled in grandmother’s lap
And lands at your feet on the other end weaves through the standing passengers ← A ball of yarn ← falls from her lap around their ankles, between the feet, past the curious sniffs ←
M + C etched in the seat to your right A green ‘organic’ sticker the metal pole and yellow wrapped around to another from one seat → rolling beneath you → A plastic bottle → A
Spine folded, crease of white dividing the exterior of yellow
ADIAGRAMOFFEAR,ALISTOFVALUES. AROUGHDRAFTOFABIRTHDAYLETTER
THEENDOFABIRTHDAYLETTERFLIP
A couple of sticker sheets, one with lemons and plants and another with hedgehogs
AFOLDEDUPLETTER,TURN.
flip, an annotated copy of “Poetry is not a luxury,” by Audre Lorde
Pages dog-eared, folded, torn, rubbed, patterned in coffee circles
NOTESFROMTHEDOCTOR,ALISTOFEVENTS,FLIP. CONTINUEDDRAFTOFABIRTHDAYLETTER,FLIP
APAGEOFMARKEDUPDOODLES,ALISTOF EVENTUALGOALS,SCRATCHES,SCRIBBLES,DARK STABSOFAPEN,FLIP
LINESOFCOLOR,RED,PINK,GREEN,YELLOW, PURPLE,TESTS THEEND
CLEAN
BLACK AND ROUND
BASE HEATED, ADD OIL AND SAUTE COVER OR STEAM OR COOK HOME TO CHICKEN RICE, VEGETABLES, MUSHROOMS, ASPARAGUS, POTATO, CAULIFLOWER AND PEAS POUR CONTENTS INTO A GLASS DISH SOAK THE PAN, WASH GENTLY WITH SOAP AND WATER PAT DRY POUR OLIVE OIL INTO THE PAN, MASSAGE UNTIL OIL IS ABSORBED AND SURFACE SHINY, PLACE BACK ON STOVE BLACK AND ROUND CLEAN
UNDERNEATH A DELICATE MOBILE OF 6 TWISTED SILVER METAL STRINGS, PULLED DOWN BY CLAY BALLS OF RED, YELLOW, GREEN:
A BROWN CERAMIC BOWL FILLED WITH SILVER RINGS, BALANCED UPON A MOSAIC COASTER OF YELLOW, ORANGE, AND PURPLE
NEXT TO #2 PENCILS, ERASERS FRESH AND TIPS SHARP SPIRALED AROUND A PAIR OF SCISSORS IN A JAR
TWO BOTTLES OF PERFUME ON EITHER SIDE OF A TILTED CANDLE, SLOPING WAX HARDENED, A LIGHTER AND SOME TYLENOL
THREE CLAW CLIPS NEXT TO THE REMNANTS OF BURNED INCENSE, WOODEN STICK BURIED IN A MOUND OF ASH, OPPOSITE OF TWO GLUE STICKS ROLLING INTO AN OPENED TEST KIT
DAMP SOIL CUSHIONS A NET OF ROOTS WEAVING THROUGH THE CERAMIC EXTERIOR IS PALE BLUE, THE INTERIOR DARKENED, AIR HUMID TO TOUCH WATER SINKS FROM THE TOP, CLUMPING THE SOIL, TRAVELING DOWN DOWN, WASHING CLEAN THE ROOTS BEFORE TRICKLING ONTO THE GROUND, POOLING AT THE BASE TEN YEARS AGO, IT HELD THE BLUEBERRY BUSH NOW LADEN WITH FRUIT NINE YEARS AGO, THE PEAR TREE THAT PROVIDES SHADE EIGHT YEARS, THE RED ROSES IN BLOOM SEVEN YEARS MARKS THE JASMINE TRELLIS, SIX WAS COSMOS, FIVE WAS LIES FOUR WAS COMPOST THREE VEARS AGO THE FIRST BUSHELL OF MINT THAT NOW CONSUMES HALF THE GARDEN BED TWO YEARS AGO, THE FIRST TOMATO PLANT, BALANCED ON THE BALCONY ONE YEAR AGO, EMPTY, BLUE AND COOL AND CLEAR
SCHEDULE
MONDAY:WATERPLANTS GOTOCLAIRE’S QUITMYJOBIN1-5YEARS
TUESDAY:GOTOTHENURSERY COOKFRIEDRICE
WEDNESDAY:WEEKLYREADINGCIRCLEFORCOCO, LUNCHWITHMARY
THURSDAY:MOMINTHEHAMPTONS
WEEKOFJULY14TH
NOTEPINKPOST-ITNOTES,ALLSTUCKTOTHE CORNERWALL,THETHIRDINLINEHASEDGES CURLINGINWARD
EGGSHELLSCRUSHEDINTOTHESOILOFTHE CENTEREDPOTHOSPLANT. CHESS,HALF-PLAYEDONTHETABLEWHITEPAWNS SCATTEREDAMONGABLACKROOKTOTHELEFT GLASSBOWLOFREMNANTRICECOVEREDINBROWN PAPER
“THEILIAD,”BOOKMARKEDONTHETABLE’SEDGE HARRYPOTTERANDTHECHAMBEROFSECRETS, FOLDEDOPENONTHEBACKOFACHAIR “CRYINGINH-MART,”BALANCEDONTHETOILET ROLLHOLDERINTHEMORNING
“SMEARSOFPINKANDYELLOWFROMLASTWEEK CHALK,HALF-ERASED,FROMLASTWEEK “ATFORLOA,SOCERFORCOC”
DRY AND SCALY SKIN INTERSPERSED BETWEEN THE CRACKS IN YOUR HEELS LIFTED LINES, SHAPED LIKE VINES, BUT NOT VEINS, LIGHTING STRIKES, SHATTERS IN GLASS STRETCHING FROM YOUR LOWER STOMACH TO THIGHS
HAIR, PRICKLING CHINS, SPIRALING AROUND BELLY BUTTONS, BURSTING BENEATH EYEBROWS, SOFT ON FINGERS, SPROUTING FROM TOES
DISH SOAP, LOTION, DISH SOAP, LOTION, DISH SOAP WASH OVER ROUGH AND HARDENED FINGERS
A SUNDAY AT THE MARKET IF YOU’D LIKE TO CALL IT A MARKET AND I’D LIKE TO CALL IT A MARKET BECAUSE I LIKE HOW THAT FEELS LIKE TRADITION, LIKE I CAN JUMP BACK INTO BLACK-AND-WHITE PHOTOS WHERE YOU CAN’T SEE THE COARSER DETAILS AND ALL OF THIS MUST HAVE BEEN SO SIMPLE AND A SUNDAY AT THE MARKET WAS A POEM IN PROCESS AND WE DIDN’T HAVE TO TRY SO HARD TO SUCK THE MEANING OUT OF EVERY MOMENT
A SUNDAY AT THE MARKET ON AN OUTSIDE BASKETBALL COURT, BLACK CRACKED ASPHALT LIKE GRADE SCHOOL RECESS
BILL HAS RED FRECKLE LETTUCE AND A DREADLOCKED BEARD HE HASN’T CUT HIS HAIR SINCE BUSH WAS IN OFFICE. THIS ISN’T A POLITICAL POEM BUT YOU CAN MAKE IT ONE IF YOU’D LIKE
STEPHANIE DABBLES IN EVERYTHING AND HAS IT ALL ON THE TABLE: GREETING CARDS SPRAWLED OUT, EACH AS DIFFERENT AS THE HOLIDAYS “SCHIZOPHRENIA,” SHE SAYS “YOU’VE FOUND A GOOD OUTLET,” I REPLY
WHY GIVE ABNORMALITIES SUCH STRANGE NAMES AS ABNORMALITIES?
STEPHANIE ALSO KNITS AND BAKES AND FIREFIGHTS AND ANIMATES MEDICAL VIDEOS FOR HOSPITALS
THERE’S A COMMON THREAD THERE SOMEWHERE, WOVEN BETWEEN UNLACED SHOESTRINGS SHE WEARS BOOTS THESE DAYS, THE SLIP-ON KIND WITHOUT STRINGS.
THAT MIGHT NOT BE FACT BUT THERE’S LIKELY SOME TRUTH IN IT WHICH IS HOW SHE FEELS ABOUT MOST OF THIS, WEAVING HERSELF INTO ALL OF THESE CREATIONS UNTIL IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO TRACE BACK TO THE BEGINNING OF THE YARN AND A SIMPLE SNIP ONLY MAKES A FALSE START SO THE END WON’T EVER PULL BACK TO WHERE IT BEGAN
BUT HER EYES SHINE AND HER BROWNIES MAKE PEOPLE HAPPY AND SHE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND WHY THIS SENTENCE STARTED WITH ‘BUT ’
IT’S THE INTERPRETATION THAT’S SKEWED, THAT FINDS REASONS FOR BUTS. SHE’S LEARNED TO SWAP HER “BUTS” FOR “ANDS” AND EVERY PERSON HERE HOLDS A PIECE OF WHAT THE OTHER NEEDS: SWAP A BROWNIE FOR A HEAD OF LETTUCE FOR A BOOK ON ANGER MANAGEMENT FOR A DOZEN EGGS
LIKE A SEESAW, FRANK SITS ON THE FAR SIDE OF MY PICNIC BENCH IF I WRITE THIS ALL DOWN NOW, THE LITTLE BITS WILL STAY INTACT BUT WHETHER FRANK OR I SPOKE FIRST ISN’T REALLY IMPORTANT
FRANK TELLS ME BODHISATTVAS ARE AMONG US AND THAT OUR WESTERN BRAINS DON’T TICK LIKE TIBETAN ONES AND WHEN WE THINK ‘PARADOX’ IT JUST MEANS WE DON’T KNOW HOW TO SEE EVERY SIDE OF THIS PAPER CUP “SEE?” HE SAYS.
“THIS CUP IS A CIRCLE HERE AND A WALL HERE AND NOW IT’S A MONKEY STAND IF YOU FLIP IT THIS WAY FLIP IT BACK AROUND AND IT’S A COFFEE CUP AND YOU CAN’T TRY TO SEE THAT ALL AT ONCE, YOU JUST HAVE TO KNOW ”
“TODAY I’M PUTTING THE FINISHING COAT ON A SCULPTURE I’VE BEEN WORKING ON FOR THREE YEARS,” SAYS FRANK “YOU SHOULD COME BY AND SEE IT.”
WHEN I ARRIVE AT THE SCULPTURE YARD, FRANK’S PERCHED ON SCAFFOLDING AND LOOKS LIKE THOSE STATUES OF BUDDHA WITH A BELLY ONLY BUDDHA DIDN’T HAVE A BELLY THAT GUY’S NOT BUDDHA BUT HE WAS A BODDHISATVA ”
FRANK’S POLISHING ONE OF THREE MASSIVE STONE PILLARS
SMOOTH, MILKY DARK LIKE COFFEE ON TOP ROUGH LIKE MOON ROCK ON BOTTOM I RUN MY FINGERS ALONG THE WAVY DIVIDE
FRANK HELPED DESIGN THE MARS ROVER TO EXPLORE OUTSIDE SPACE.
NOW HE’S RETIRED AND POLISHES ROCK TO EXPLORE INSIDE SPACE.
WE SIT AT A TABLE AND CHAIRS HE’S CARVED FROM STONE AND FRANK TALKS ABOUT MARRIAGE HOW EACH OF US IS A MIRROR FOR THE OTHER BUT A SPOUSE IS A STURDY TYPE THE LONGER YOU POLISH A STONE, THE MORE IT REFLECTS
“REFINEMENT,” SAYS FRANK THE TABLE IS GLASSY SMOOTH BUT, AND, SMALL DIMPLES FRECKLE THE SURFACE
“THOSE WON’T EVER GO AWAY THEY’RE JUST PART OF THE ROCK, DETAILS WE DON’T INVENT BUT FIND ONCE WE’VE WORN AWAY THE LAYERS ON TOP ”
“SEEN BEING SEEN.”
BY DAGNY CHIKA
A COLLAGE COMPRISING CYANOTYPED JOURNAL ENTRIES, RELIEF PRINT, AND HAND-KNIT WOOL FIBERS.
“The first time I ever stepped foot in the deserts of the American Southwest, I was on my way from the Tucson airport to an inpatient mental health facility. I journaled rigorously throughout my treatment, and the following year, this time on a five-week solo road trip, I captured these journal entries under the light of the same sky I intend my work with fibers, print, and the written word to explore mixed and woven identities, vast emotional landscapes, and the moment-by-moment processes of creating. This piece aims to play with the balance between measured community support and true personal autonomy.”
BY MARY ZHOU
“A collage of creative consumption and deposition via childhood foods & photos & scribbles; an ode to childhood & brattiness & bending the rules – one side with the Chinese character for ‘eat’ and the other side with ‘shit.’”
At the hostess stand, you have a lot of time to think about what you will do when you are not at the hostess stand.
You set reminders:
Gallery opening tomorrow @6!!
Call Dad.
You make grocery lists: Cigarettes—a ridiculous purchase for someone who can’t inhale and has a genetic predisposition to addiction, but sometimes you crave a mouth-hit on cooler nights out with friends. Peanut butter. Bandaids.
You contemplate man’s domestication of fire. Can I have a light? That little flicker of domination. Casual. More casual than you are with customers, which is neither very casual nor appropriately professional. Your boss doesn’t notice this because what you lack in professionalism you make up for in that low-stakes deceit often called charm.
“No, Mr. Walk-in, you cannot have that four-top to yourself but, Mr. Walk-in, please understand that I’m with you. Nobody knows the frustration of curbed entitlement such as you and I, and I’m simply playing my role here. Yes, I see that the restaurant is almost hauntingly empty and you should really have your pick as far as seating. But there are things on this tablet I’m holding that you couldn’t possibly understand, and you needn’t burden yourself with such considerations anyway. I’m with you. You know that, right?”
Unless, of course, Mr. Walk-in is a regular and/or member of the cast of Friends, in which case he can sit wherever he pleases.
You think back to your first day on the job when you were completely taken by how good the bathroom smelled. Something equally gourmand and linen-esque, with a hint of cologne.
“It’s the candle,” your manager had explained with a collusive sort of smirk. “Custom from Montauk. They’re only $24 on the website if you want.”
Because the restaurant is a zhuzhed-up fish fry, you’d find both the existence and asking price of this candle absurd. You went to the website anyway and saved the tab. Sometimes you steal things. Not the candle, but small, disposable souvenirs. You don’t want to get fired and you never really caught the klepto bug, but you’ve always liked to feel like you’re getting away with something. And what’s the occasional grab, anyway, when every shift makes your knees feel like they did when you played soccer in high school and your brain feels like the static channel on an old TV? So you shove a “free drink” card into your pocket and trace along its edges for the rest of your shift. You’ll quit soon, let a few years go by, and when enough time has passed that the revolving door has ushered in an entirely new staff, you’ll come back to reap the rewards of your investment. One free drink, please.
You think about your grandma, who really was more like your mother than anything else, and you realize that all this time she has been a person. Not just your grandma or even your dad’s mom but also and mostly just Carol. This thought has been inaccessible, you reason, because most of her stories took on a cinematic haze owed to their inextricable ties to things you didn't understand (eg. motherhood, being white, and/or her childhood in Sparks, Nevada circa 20-years-before-caller-ID). You don’t know what it is about this day in particular that has illuminated this truth, but you realize all of this and write on a small notepad separate from your grocery and to-do lists: GRAM IS A PERSON. So you don’t forget.
You suck in a little and try not to play with your hair. Even though you almost never touch the food, people come here to eat, and hair play, according to your manager, infringes upon this noble intention. Your coworkers, however, are apparently immune to this expectation. At the top of your third-ever shift, Jessie approaches you with his phone out. He’s hot, but only by way of his position as a bartender and your senior by twelve years.
“Can I take a picture of your hair?” he asks. His face is, well, normal. Completely devoid of any indication of shame or even sheepishness. You must be searching for such an expression for too long, because he continues: “It’s for my friend, she’s a curly girl, too.”
Aw, come on.
Thanks!”
Whoosh: a photo of you for his curly girl. And poof: your attraction to this patchy-bearded freak. Of course, it’s not the first time someone has stopped you with overly-familiar commentary on your hair—in fact, it’s not even the first time that day. Your afro brings something out of almost everyone:
White men somewhere between father and grandfather age can’t help but either thank you for taking ’em back or offer a raised fist and a cheerful “Wooh! Angela Davis!” Bald men can hardly contain their laughter as they gesture to your hair and wink: “Can I get some of that?” Woke millennials ask if you’ve heard of Pam Grier, and compliment you for what they seem to sincerely believe is an exact likeness. The input is so constant that you even have to remind yourself not to snap at other black women when they ask for your wash day routine.
So Jessie’s not the first. But this time he’s gone and ruined himself as your work crush and/or primary entertainment source, so your irritation is compounded.
You don’t hate all your coworkers, though; you’re even fond of some. One of the servers graduated from the university you attend and has worked at this restaurant since it opened. Actor. You like talking to him because he is personable in a clumsy, sincere way that is equally comforting and comical. You dislike talking to him because he graduated from the university you attend and has worked at this restaurant since it opened, so what does that mean for you?
You seat people, too. There’s a good bit of that. And sometimes when you seat people you are unkind, condescending, and you feel terrible about it. But, good god you’ve had the reservations plotted for hours, must every party want the corner table by the window? And yes, of course, the buffalo shrimp is spicy, and what kind of idiot would need to call the restaurant to confirm that? So, yeah, people are unfathomably daft; but you feel terrible for responding accordingly because you, too, enjoy dining out and would hate to be greeted or seated by yourself. So you smile real big for the next customer, compliment them, and shift your voice into that warm, connective cruising gear that makes them feel like the only people in the restaurant. Sometimes this warmth is forced, but other times it’s sincere. Like when there is a small blue cake icon next to a girl’s reservation.
She arrives with her friend a few minutes before 7:30, and they look at each other in a way that says, “Oh, shit, I didn’t know this would be the vibe, I should have worn a longer or more opaque dress.” It’s sort of an old people and family restaurant, so you feel a little bad for this girl who looks to be celebrating aging either into or out of your age, 19. They are best friends, they tell you, and this dinner is sort of a dual birthday celebration. You love them. You joke with them about the bathroom candle— “Super yummy, right? And only $24!” You give them the last of the four booths, an inordinately coveted honor amongst the restaurant’s regulars, and steel yourself to explain this transgression to an angry septuagenarian in the next half hour.
BYALYSONFD
SCREENPRINTANDEMBROIDERYON VARIOUSTEXTILES.
Thescreen-printedtextinwhitereads,“Laughingcreepstowonderlikenighttodream.”
“ThispaintingshowsoneoftwophotosIhaveleftwithmydadinarelationshipthatturnedsouth.Icouldn'thelp butshowmyemotionswhenpaintinghim.LittleLeenawouldneverhaveknownthatthepictureshejusttook withherdadwouldbeoneof,ifnotthelast.”
We play tic-tac-toe on sappy tree stumps with the white chalk-rocks my little girl found in the cinders. She musters the courage to weave through webs and we make it out to the bridge. I look back. When I was just a girl I had this urge to eat rocks. I craved the easy crunch of soft pebble turned to clay on my tongue. I would’ve eaten the whole Adobe house if they let me. Up ahead, my little girl hops from left to right across river-washed stones and I think to myself, I wish we could survive off reddishbrown mush. Free by nature. Free. Free and wild, my little girl runs up the hill dotted with wishes. We run up as the wind blows down and all the dandelions go, rushing. Pebbles leave rough, pink indents on our feet and we stop at the peak, panting. We see the whole world, sprawled flat and simple.
Soft between our teeth.
W e a r e a f a m i l y o f c o l l e c t o r s . M a c r o s s - p o l l i n a t e s h e r a l t a r s ;
a n i c o n o f t h e P a n a i o a , a w a x y , B u d d h a m a d e o f t a n g e r i n e
g l a s s , t h r e e c o i n s t o c o n s u l t t h e I C h i n g A m a n y - a r m e d d e i t y
A s t o n e G a n e s h T h e f i g u r e s c o n v e r s e a c r o s s t h r e s h o l d s
B a c o l l e c t s p h o t o g r a p h s H e f i n d s t h e m a t a n t i q u e s t o r e s , y a r d
s a l e s , a n d t h r i f t s t o r e s A c h i l d r u n s a f t e r a d o g i n a s u n -
w h i t e n e d y a r d , a p a i r o f g h o s t l y a r m s s w o o p i n g i n t o t h e f r a m e
t o c a t c h h i m T h r e e w o m e n s t a n d a g a i n s t a c h u r c h w i t h
h a r d e n e d f a c e s N o w t h e y a r e d e a d a n d n o w t h e y l i v e i n a
d r a w e r n e x t t o a h a r m o n i c a , a s e e d p o d , a n d a p h o t o o f m e a s a
b a b y .
M a t o l d m e t h a t w h e n s h e w a s p r e g n a n t w i t h m e , s h e s a w
e v e r y o n e a s b a b i e s . S h e s a w a n o l d m a n w i t h l i v e r s p o t s a n d
p o w d e r y h a i r a n d t h o u g h t h o w I ’ d l o v e t o c r a d l e h i m I t w a s a
s i m p l e t h i n g .
I h a v e t r i e d t o c o l l e c t m a n y t h i n g s , w i t h l i t t l e s u c c e s s T h e r e
w a s a h i v e o f b u m b l e b e e s i n m y b a c k y a r d o n e s u m m e r , a n d
w h e n f a l l c a m e t h e y l i t t e r e d t h e y a r d . I t h o u g h t t h e y m i g h t b e
s e e d s I c o l l e c t e d t h e m a n d p u t t h e m i n a j a r f i l l e d w i t h w a t e r ,
l e t t i n g t h e m f e r m e n t o n m y w i n d o w s i l l u n t i l M a m a d e m e t h r o w
t h e m a w a y . I d i d t h e s a m e t h i n g w i t h t h e g r u b s I f o u n d d i g g i n g
i n t h e g a r d e n W h e n I p u t t h e m i n t h e j a r t h e y t u r n e d b l a c k
a n d b e c a m e t h e c o n s i s t e n c y o f t a r , I p u l l e d t h e m o u t a n d t h e y
w e r e s t i c k y , t h e b o u n d a r i e s b e t w e e n t h e m h a d d i s s o l v e d . A n d
t h e s m e l l I ’ d k n o w a n y w h e r e , b u t o n l y i f I f o u n d i t a g a i n I
d i d n ’ t u n d e r s t a n d a b o u t r o t . ‘ A l i v e ’ m e a n t s o m e t h i n g y o u
c o u l d s q u e e z e . S h e t o l d m e , n o t e v e r y t h i n g b e l o n g s i n a j a r ,
b u t i s n ’ t t h e i m p u l s e t h e s a m e ? T o h o l d , t o s w a d d l e , t o m a k e
s t i l l t h e m e t e r o f l i v i n g .
W h e n I w a s l e a r n i n g t o r i d e a b i k e I a c c i d e n t a l l y r a n o v e r a
w a s p . S p l i t i t c l e a n i n t w o . T o m a k e m e f e e l b e t t e r , B a
s u g g e s t e d I p r e s e r v e t h e w a s p i n t h e p a g e s o f a b o o k . I c h o s e
t h e E n c y c l o p e d i a B r i t t a n i c a – I l i k e d t h e g r a i n y t e x t u r e o f t h e
c o v e r – a n d p l a c e d t h e w a s p i n t h e c e n t e r o f a p a g e d e s c r i b i n g
t h e l i f e a n d t i m e s o f a h o n e y b e e . I d i d n ’ t t h i n k t o f i n d t h e
p a g e f o r w a s p s
W a s p s c o l l e c t f i g s . O c c u p a n c y i s e s s e n t i a l . F i g s h a v e e v o l v e d
t o d r a w w a s p s i n , s o t h e y c a n c o n v e r t t h e m i n t o d u t i f u l
m i s s i o n a r i e s , g i v i n g b i r t h a n d d y i n g i n t h e s t i c k y c e n t e r o f t h e
f r u i t . I t f e e l s a l m o s t u s e l e s s t o d r a w b o u n d a r i e s b e t w e e n t h e m :
t h e b o d y o f t h e w a s p m e l t i n g i n t o f i g , t h e f i g f o s s i l i z i n g i n t o
t h e s h a p e o f a w a s p
I f M a w e r e a b i r d s h e ’ d b e a c r o w . S h e ’ d k e e p a n e w c o l l e c t i o n
o n a n e w a l t a r ; a b u t t o n , a t w i s t o f s t r i n g , a b o t t l e c a p f l a k i n g
p a i n t , a p e n n y s t a m p e d 1 9 5 6 . T h e r e w o u l d b e n o o r d e r t o t h i s
c o l l e c t i o n , n o p u r p o s e , b u t t h e a t t r a c t i o n t o w a r d s t h i n g s t h a t
f l a s h i n t h e s u n I n t h e n e s t , i n p l a c e o f e g g s , a w e b o f m e t a l ,
w a x i n g h o t a n d c o l d w i t h t h e d a y .
I h a v e t h i s r e c u r r i n g i d e a t o w r i t e t h e l i f e s t o r y o f a p e n n y T o
f o l l o w i t f r o m t h e m i n t , t h r o u g h p o c k e t s , g u t t e r s , a l g a e -
b r i m m e d f o u n t a i n s , c r o w ’ s n e s t , p i g g y b a n k s , r e g u l a r b a n k s ,
c o u c h c u s h i o n s , u n t i l i t r e a c h e s s o m e e n d t h a t w e c a n n o t
f a t h o m T h a t ’ s w h e r e t h e s t o r y l o s e s m o m e n t u m T h e r e ’ s n o
w a y t o b r i n g i t t o a c l o s e . I c a n ’ t f i g u r e o u t h o w t o m a k e t h e
s t o r y s a y a n y t h i n g e x c e p t , i t a l l g o e s o n f o r e v e r T h i s m a y b e
t h e p o i n t o f t h e p e n n y , o f l i f e , o f a c o m f o r t i n g c o n c l u s i o n , b u t
i s n o t t h e p o i n t I w a n t t o m a k e w i t h t h e s t o r y .
T h e e a s i e s t s o l u t i o n i s t o l e a v e t h e p e n n y w h e r e I f o u n d i t
T h r e e c o i n s a r e t o s s e d a n d a r r a n g e d i n a h e x a g r a m . I n t h e I
C h i n g , c e r t a i n n u m b e r s a s k y o u t o t u r n y o u r r e a d i n g u p s i d e
d o w n a n d s t a r t a g a i n T h e n e w r e a d i n g m a y c o n t r a d i c t w h a t y o u
a l r e a d y l e a r n e d , o r i t m a y a f f i r m i t . M a t a p e d a t i n y e n v e l o p e
t o t h e i n s i d e s l e e v e o f m y c o p y . T h e e n v e l o p e h o l d s t h r e e
p e n n i e s T h e b o o k s i t s o n m y s h e l f n e x t t o a n e n c y c l o p e d i a
O n e d a y t h e c o i n s w i l l r e - e n t e r t h e b l o o d s t r e a m , a n d i t w i l l
m e a n I h a v e s t i l l e d i n t o o n e s h a p e . S t a t i c , s u n - b l e a c h e d , l i v i n g
o n p e r h a p s a s a p h o t o o n a n a l t a r P e r h a p s a p h o t o g r a p h i n a
d r a w e r .
I’ve always considered rhubarb more pleasing to the eyes than on the tongue Unlike the easy Honeycrisp or the peach, rhubarb is a complicated and enchanting mistress. Mysterious and fleeting, she comes once a year in stark raspberry stalks, poised to lure a few extra dollars out of my wallet on a routine grocery trip This year, like the last, she succeeded.
I wonder at times if I should quit expecting rhubarb to be something she’s not Despite briefly being classified as a fruit by the USDA some eighty years back, rhubarb is a vegetable. The rhubarb I brought home this spring was for rhubarb pie, inspired by a recipe I discovered in a century-year-old cookbook Traditionally ripe by April at the earliest, a process called “forcing,” wherein the rhubarb is planted in artificial dark and shoots up in search of light, allows for an earlier harvest. This way, the sugars that would usually migrate into the plant’s leaves remain concentrated in the stems, perfect for confections. Forcing induces rhubarb to grow so fast it is even rumored that you can hear the stalks “singing,” creaking, and moaning in the otherwise eerie dark On big farms, forced rhubarb is grown only by the gentle light of candles. So you see, she’s a romantic as well.
And rhubarb is a fleeting lover, harvested just once a year She is one of the last truly seasonal produce in this fluorescent-and-concrete world and is an early sign of spring. Milestones of the turning seasons are few and far between for us southern Californians, surrounded only by chaparral, defunct military bases, and dozens of denominational churches.
The tallest trees for at least an hour in any direction are the eucalyptus that colonize the canyons, out of which crawl snakes and scorpions and bats into suburban backyards Growing up in San Diego, I was taught to scrape my feet against the ground to deter rattlesnakes and to never pick up rocks buried in the sand. They might be forgotten explosives ready to detonate if disturbed It always seemed to me the desert was a place of restriction and conservation. After seeing the trees in Maryland and Virginia, I spent the better of my high school years dreaming about moving up north or out east, somewhere with more oxygen, where you could really wear yourself a jacket. But even in Northern California, spring is more fantasy than reality. We indulge in a collective annual amnesia before the sun ’ s routine retreat into June gloom Rhubarb is there on time, promising not to stay too long just as summer promises to burn off the morning fog and put us all back in our sundresses before things get too serious.
California’s a big state. There are stretches of highway between Oakland and Los Angeles where you can see nothing but more highways and endless fields of almonds Billboards accusing the governor of water theft and a conspiracy involving the state’s dams inform drivers they’re about to hit traffic in the Grapevine. There’s a beautiful defiance in making it in a place where life really should not exist On Interstate 5, you start to see shades of gold in the sand and brush, and the plateaus look red and purple where they looked brown before You start to get why it’s a place people write songs and novels about. The desert is far from a barren landscape of death and solitude, the desert is the cradle of civilization, the fertile crescent. It is the conditions that should make life impossible that create some of the most interdependent and resilient chapters of human history and the most extraordinary expressions of life imaginable. Its tendencies toward extremes make the desert an unlikely site of balance. The creatures that survive there survive only in symbiosis and are highly specialized to rhythms not found elsewhere on Earth. Joshua trees, for instance, “depend on just the perfect conditions: well-timed rains, and a crisp winter freeze,” which may induce growth by damaging the ends of the tree’s branches, according to the National Park Service. The branches are an essential home to desert fauna and the seeds and buds supplement native Cahuilla diets, while the branches enable human activity by offering material for baskets and sandals. Knowing this makes it all the more convoluted to consider the southwestern idea of the type of person in a “desert community ”
The people, too, have specialized. Unique qualities of beloved cuisines developed under biological and technological constraints, matters of life and death Europeans preserved the nutritional benefits of milk in cheese. Italians cured meats with heaps of salt. Native Americans and Eastern Europeans smoked their salmon to kill botulism Those near the equator in the West and East dried chiles and made their food so hot it became shelf stable. Moroccans preserved lemons in oil. Others, from Korea to Syria, from Scandinavia to El Salvador, took to fermentation and pickling The taste of survival still informs our palettes and food practices. In the early United States, enslaved Africans and Indigenous inhabitants developed hybrid culinary techniques in order to be able to continue eating at all, the birth of Southern cuisine. Through channels of scarcity and constraint, our cultures narrow in on the unique features that we are lucky enough to enjoy today Food traces histories of death just as closely as it marks the story of human life. A popular joke summarizing the tale of Passover goes something like, “They tried to kill us, we survived let’s eat!” Be it the threat of their oppressors or deadly
bacteria, communities survived their circumstances together As we do today, they cooked for their communities to keep each other alive, and they ate together to prove and celebrate their survival
Two summers ago I lived and cooked in a co-op with a friend who had recently accepted a job offer abroad. We had been cooking together for a year already three hours once a week to feed around fifty housemates. I usually took on the savory dishes, and she the desserts and breads Her pastries were the glue that made our meals into menus. With an end date to our culinary partnership, I realized I needed to learn to carry her weight myself. We began with pies. The plan was to make one pie every month using seasonal fruits Well, we came nowhere near making twelve pies that year, but I did learn how to make a pretty good crust a few different ways. My favorite is a hand-pinched frozen butter crust with cold cold cold everything: the flour, bowls, utensils, water all of it goes in the freezer beforehand. That way the butter melts in rustic chunks in the oven, leaving big flakes of crumbly, salty dough to settle in layers on top of peach, apple, or blueberry mantle The pie recipe in Florence Kreisler Greenbaum’s 1918 Jewish Cook Book is succinct, just nine sentences. Had I been less familiar with the process, Greenbaum may have lost me at step one: “Make a very rich crust ”
I’m not sure how a rhubarb pie recipe made it into the book along with oxtail stew, pickled onions, marrow dumplings, and over fifteen different recipes for coffee cakes I’m not sure what became of these recipes to the book’s owner through the coming Depression, as food grew scarcer, or as millions of her people fled genocide during the war. I know, however, that whenever she reached for rhubarb again, it was in step with the familiar march of winter into spring.
As I baked the pie, I sized up the depth of the gulf between my circumstances and that of the housewife I imagined may have been following this recipe a hundred springs ago. What did a rich crust mean to her? What compromises did she have to make? This housewife and I, both worked to feed the people we loved Was she also excited for warmer days ahead? Did she worry about illness, as influenza swept the globe? Did she cook rhubarb because it was beautiful, or because it was available, or because she or someone she knew also had a tumultuous love affair with the tangy, deceiving vegetable, masquerading as a fruit, sighing and casting flickering shadows in the dark?
We both worked within our means: she in her family home, I in an industrial kitchen, drawing teaspoons of sugar and half-cups of flour out of 8-gallon Cambro bins, bringing the sandy dough together on stainless steel countertops. The pie was tart as ever this March, the crust more shortbread-y than flaky, and the edges glued to the sides by overflowing molten jam I ate a slice at midnight and flirted with a half-slice for breakfast, and then I was satisfied. The thing about rhubarb is we ’ ve always had just enough of each other by the time she packs her bags. Next spring she’ll catch my eye on a particularly clear day and we’ll pick up right where we left off, hopeful as the year before.
“YOU’REWHYIDON’TSAVESNAKES.”
BYJULIAFENNELL OILONPANEL.
“Ibelievebeingincloserelationshipwithoneanotheristhemostbeautifulandviolentexperienceof humanity,anditisonlybyembracingthattensionthatwecanexperiencetrueintimacy.”
“BONEAFTERBONE.” BYJOLIENVANGOETHEM
110X150CMINK,EMBROIDERY,OILPASTEL,WOOD,CHEESECLOTH
“InJune,IstayedinFinlandforamonth,residingnexttotheforest.OnmywalksintheFinnishforest,Icollectedsmall woodensticksthatcalledtome.WhenIpickedthemup,Ipouredmypainandsadnessoverthemuntiltheytransformedinto bones.Istaredatmycollectionofbones,droppedintoacornerofmyroom,andstartedtoseemyselflayingthere, disordered,withoutasoul.Slowly,Isewedthembyhandontoacloth,boneafterbone,andsawthembecoming somethingIrecognized.”
Julia and I sit beneath the soft tide of light admiring a poorly sculpted diorama with threads of paint exposing the mâché of a balding pasture where a thousand mothers before us kneel as punctuation above them instead a sky of mottled blue and constellations sits a typeface creation story of land fertilized by fires and braided grass knapped stones and I wonder about the origin of laughter as though breaking open ice how wounded hands still found the time to soften the land for all our feet even now where is the story of joy through epochs as though a flame in our chests how did that begin or has it always just been which is to ask that even amidst the yolk of suffering is one ’ s ability to feel the sun the most primitive trait we carry?
Mary Kelly
T H E W O M A N F R O M L A C O S T A C H I C A
seemingly scattered, underneath this glass box fingerprinted with grease sweat:
a dozen ceramic fragments here, better than in a box in a dark room
i’ve been doing this thing where i cry at every museum i visit and i’m in europe so you can imagine how much i’ve been crying
we ’ ve been walking all day through narrow streets calling us up up up
until our calves are left screaming used up all our time watching the sunset (you could see the whole city, really which leaves us with, twenty minutes fifteen euros to get through now
my friends are beautiful, and tired and they’ve left as soon as they walked in
here, wandering around this damp, windowless room, which once was a damp hole in the wall where men defended a fortress or relieved themselves or did whatever men did back then
here i am and here you are, and i never really paid attention, look:
smaller than my fist, etched with sure short strikes, etched over and over with a pattern that’s different from the one next to it and the next and the plaque tells me that the hands who shaped and marked you were alive in the middle neolithic and i have to google it to know that this means six thousand years ago and i’m sure that’s wrong
because i’m here with them, all the way to the water’s edge and into the earth, as they gather up and shape the earth i’m here with their sore feet and tired shoulders, with sweat and the wish to make something that i can’t help but think is the most human thing
it’s this: the deliberate act of doing something over and over again some six thousand years ago is what does me in,
these tiny lines etched on purpose like sitting in a high school hallway carving paramore lyrics onto my converse like holding my best friend’s hand as someone else carved the moon into my skin giggling like children as we spray painted poetry into those abandoned walls by the sea like etching a made up secret in a bathroom stall, all of it all saying the same thing
“THAMES:FOUNDANDCHOSEN.” BYILSABAUER ON ETCHINGONPAPER.
“I made Thames: Found and Chosen while studying in London this past winter. I was completely enthralled by the history that washed up daily on the shore of the Thames. Naturally, while walking the shore I mudlarked, or looked for interesting detritus. Just a few centuries ago, mudlarking was a filthy way to make meager means for London’s most impoverished. Now, its a passtime charged with unearthing Britain’s culture and past. I collected little metal scraps, bottle necks, buttons, but nothing was more prevalent than the smattering of intricately decorated ceramic shards. Each piece was unique and captivating. To take note of all the details, I slowed my looking through drawing and then turned those observations into an etching. Using an antique artistic method like etching really hammered home the connection to the shards. I spent a lot of time along that river pondering its gifts. I wished to document its treasures, to catalogue a small part of time and space. The river acting as a portal between past and present, trash and treasure and I acting as witness, archeologist and scribe.”
П о с т о л и ( p o s t o l y )
a s t a l e s h a p e d r i p p i n g s w e a t
a n d h i s t o r y i n t h a t c h u r c h b a s e m e n t ,
w i l l i n g i t s e l f t o w a r d m y t h i c a l b e a t i t u d e
l i k e a m e e k p i n k f l u i d f i l l i n g i t s e l f
b e t w e e n h a r d - e d g e b o u n d a r i e s ,
d r a w n , e r a s e d , d r a w n , l o s t ,
a n d t h e n m i s r e m e m b e r e d
a m o t t l e d t r a i l o f r a s h , m e a n d e r i n g
a n d s u f f o c a t i n g a n d c h a f i n g u n d e r
a m a d d e n i n g a n d p r e c i s e f l u r r y
o f p o m p o m s , s h e e p s k i n , a n d b e a d s
( s o s o m a n y b e a d s )
T h i s h o u s e h a s a n e n e m y . A r i v a l w h o d o e s n ’ t c a r e t o w i n o r
l o s e , i t
s l i p p e
f t h e
t
h e r h a b i t u a l f l o w e r e d d r e s s a n d c a l l o u s e d h a n d s . S h e k n o w s
t h e h o u s e i s l o s i n g , s h e ’ s w i s e e n o u g h t o f e e l i t b u t n e v e r
e n o u g h t o s u r r e n d e r . A n d s o , s h e i s i t s o n l y s o l d i e r , s t a n d i n g
p r o u d a n d s i g h t l e s s . H e r s h i e l d t h e h a z e o f i g n o r a n c e , h e r
s w o r d a p a c k o f c i g a r e t t e s f r o m 1 9 9 5 , e m p t y s h a m p o o b o t t l e s
u n d e r t h e b e d , t h e b o o k p a g e s c u r l e d w i t h b o r e d o m a n d t o u c h
s t a r v e d , h e r l a t e h u s b a n d ’ s u n f i n i s h e d n o t e b o o k . S h e g r i p s a n d
c l a s p s a n d b e a r s e v e r y t h i n g a g a i n s t t h e e n e m y . I s e e a d a t e ;
e x p i r e d i n 2 0 0 4 , e v e n f r o z e n f o o d i s h o l y . I t i s a l l a w e a p o n
a g a i n s t t h e u n m o v e d , u n r e l e n t i n g v e n t u r e o f s t o n e t u r n i n g i n t o
s a n d , a n d b o n e s t u r n i n g i n t o e a r t h . A n d s o e v e r y t h i n g s t a y s . B u t s h e ’ s a l w a y s t o o l a t e , a n o t h e r d e a t h r a t t l e e s c a p e s , a l w a y s
o n t h e c u s p b e t w e e n t o d a y a n d y e s t e r d a y . S h e d o e s n ’ t k n o w
t h e r e i s v i c t o r y w h e n s h e r e a c h e s o u t t h e h a z e p o i n t i n g f i v e
h a r d e n e d f i n g e r s t o t - t - t o u c h .
A m p h i b i a n A S Y L U M
I’MNOGOODATBURLESQUE, BUTI’MGREATATBEATINGDEADHORSES MYHANDS AREBARELYVISIBLEWHENHELD UNDERGRIMYGULFCOAST
WATER MYHANDS,ICAN’TSEETHEM FUNNY HOWSOMECREATURESWRIGGLEDOUT
OFTHEMUDWHILEOTHERSSKIPPED TOWARDTHEIRHOMEINTHEFLOOD PLAINS.I’MDONEBEINGMENTALLY ILL ICHOKEDAMANINLASVEGAS
MYMOTHERASKEDMETOBEANICEGIRL WITHNICEPROBLEMS IT’SHARDTOGRAB AGEYSERWITHAFIST.I’MWAITINGFOR SUMMERTODRYMEOUTAGAINLIKE DAMPMARIGOLDSEEDS&CHRISTENING WINDS MYFOREARMISOUTTHECAR
WINDOW,WRISTUNDULATINGTHROUGHTHICKAIR LIKEABLUEWHALE,AMANICGIRLINAMOVIE. WHATAMAINSTAYTHEBOYS’HEADS HAVEBEEN,EMPTYBOATSBLOTTING
MYVIEWOFTHEOFFING THERE’SGHOSTLIGHTS INWESTTEXAS&AGRAVECOVEREDINGLASS BOTTLES.HOMAGETOTHEDISAPPEARED. PHOTOSOFMOREDEADPERCHONTHE
HIGHWAY’SSHOULDERS:CRUCIFORM WOOD,WREATHSOFSILKFLOWERS, THETHROUGHLINE,ASI’MSURE YOUKNOW,ISMARINEMAMMALS
STILLHAVEFINGERBONES
my gem of rubber and spit hides in a treasure chest full of bouncy-balls and babble. what once could rest in the web of a baby girl's finger–that gift from the one who bore me, that heaven melting into my palm lines, that obnoxious seafoam–now hibernates under a collection of forgotten things. every monday, an ancestor calls my landline. through shards of glass, i see a reflection of aunties and uncles making apostles out of lava rock and asphalt: writing chicken-scratch and telling chicken-skin stories and leaning slippers against the doorway. i pull my offering out for each of them, on those pink nights with too much weight and when the linens need cleaning. i dig through hand-me-downs at the start of the week; i clear away the fog in front of a hokulani and that pretty star erases lead from my pages.
sometimes i need something hard to hold onto–(and, sometimes, so do they) a sacrifice that can chant in the smell of glue, a pebble to kiss an old god, a pohaku pounding into wooden boards. a parallel churning my bones to dust my starch to paste my food to waste, curling like nickels in a stranger’s pocket; changing me from chimera to a small, freckled child afraid of naptime.
– i held a green eraser every day when i was four and it became as hard as stone
I grow more ill as the Earth chases the sun I chase the Earth before it
Closer to the earth calling me home, spreading myself across it in perpetuity-questioning how I can mold it
I got an old film roll in my pursuits Not wanting any mundane dances of memory to twirl away
My lover whisked me to her early life. The midwest cicadas sing hush-hush as I melt into the dew-stippled moss next to a barn.
We slept in her small hospital bed Carrying grief and acceptance or child-foiled legs and life birthed anew
The wounded within us held hands mourned, ane were heard
I click-clicked to stop the motion of the stars
The bug man who gave shelter When the sky slicked our wheel
A sand-bricked edifice that has kept carerul watch of streets, before man set the horse free
A vintage store over a No Wheels precipice Then gently stroking delphiniums, an hours-long garden tour over five planters
The film swung in the rays encasing curious scenes
For the film was already loved! My moments superimposed on moments cherished before.
The sky is theirs; in northwest forest overlapping eyes. An abandoned cafe of plants, still adored in emulsion
A man coated by my newspaper Friend? / Lover? / Stranger? A woman glancing down enveloped by an entomologist; butterflies caressing her cheek
In my chasing of the Earth I am solace for a second. Immortalized
All amalgamation of our snapshots in time forever
Home to You (Cate Le Bon)
Glass, Concrete & Stone (David Byrne)
Ojos Del Sol (Y La Bamba)
Folk Song (The Sundays)
Hang Yr Hat (Cornelia Murr)
The Cabin (Haley Blais)
Laguna Sunrise (Black Sabbath)
Brunswick Stew (Kacy & Clayton)
Easy to Be Around (Diane Chuck)
Story of an Artist (Daniel Johnston)
Lover / / Over the Moon (Alice Phoebe Lou)
Castles in the Air (Don McLean)
Just a Song Before I Go (Crosby, Stills & Nash)
Cool Breeze (The Jeremy Spencer Band)
The Spirit of the Golden Juice (F. J. McMahon)
Tomorrow is Gone (Jode)
Georgia on My Mind (Geoff & Maria Muldaur) Snakes and Waterfalls (Nick Shoulders)
If I Had a Hammer (Peter, Paul and Mary)
Kiwi Maddog 20/20 (Version 2) (Elliott Smith)
is a queer/gender-queer poet and preschool educator with a degree in English and Creative Writing They have a particular interest in the use of writing as a vessel for community healing Beyond their poetic works, they are also exploring their practice with playwriting, visual arts, and fiber arts. Their work has most recently appeared in Ink and Marrow.
is a Lebanese American clinical psychologist researching prevention of health risk behavior Science and her connections and community inform her poetry and prose.
has had an affair with storytelling since words could tumble from her tongue. A tenderhearted soul, their writing attempts to capture their connections - however fleeting.
works at a cat sanctuary. Her writing appears or is forthcoming in over 200 journals, including Paris Lit Up and SmokeLong Her mother is her best friend
4)
50)
Is a poet, writer, educator and owner of a content writing business They have been published by Rust + Moth, Radar, Roanoke Review, Hot Pink Magazine, Hooligan Magazine, Barren Magazine, The Boiler, and more
is a Fine Art student in London that loves writing They've never been published before but just sharing their work on a smaller scale has felt so special
is a student at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago Originally from Arizona, her work explores ties of identity to place and a warped, child-like perspective on memory.
36)
has been a journalist for The San Diego Union-Tribune, and The Daily Californian, and an editor at Unpublished Magazine. She recently led publishing at the Berkeley Student Cooperative.
is a writer and poet based in Encinitas, California. You can read more of her work at anopeningtoeverything.substack.com (P.14)
is a Uruguayan, first-generation, emerging creative nonfiction writer, poet, and journalist She earned her MFA from the University of Central Florida, her work has been published in The Acentos Review, The Roadrunner Review, and others
(P.13)
is a poetry MFA candidate and instructor at Bowling Green State University. They serve as an assistant editor to the Mid-American Review Their work has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, dadakuku, and a queer anthology by Moonstone Arts Center.
is an Aotearoa-born poet living in Vancouver, Canada. Her work is featured and forthcoming in Ensemble, Canadian Literature Journal, Yolk Literary, and elsewhere. She is an Anthropology and Creative Writing graduate of The University of British Columbia
is an emerging poet, archivist, and educator living on unceded xʷməθkwəyəm, Sḵwxwú7mesh Úxwumixw, and səlílwətaɬ territories. Their work orbits around themes of the body and diasporic identity.
is a Seattle-based writer who is eager to highlight intersectional minority experiences within editorial, creative, and technical spaces. Find her published work at mallikachennu com and at Grain of Salt, Pulse Spikes, and Hyperallergic magazines.
is a writer currently based in Los Angeles, CA. She has been published in Vernacular Journal, Hobart Pulp, and has upcoming work in Currant Jam Magazine. You can find more of her work at vignetta substack com
is from California. She, of course, loves to read and write, but she also enjoys cheap weeknight dinners with friends, the aquarium in her hometown, and pithy lists
is a queer, transmasculine brazilian from Porto Alegre (RS), attempting to finish university and make a career out of their love for weird books and transgressive education.
is a queer, autistic, and Kānaka Maoli artist based out of Oʻahu, Hawaiʻi. You can find more of their work on their writing on substack: Social Deficit, or published in an upcoming edition of "Hūlili: Multidisciplinary Research on Native Hawaiian Wellbeing."
is a poet, musician, and visual artist from Long Island, New York who draws inspiration from his undergraduate studies at Harvard College in Anthropology and Africana Studies
Julie is a 39-year-old female human. (P.23)
COURTNEY ROBERTSON (SHE/HER)
is a proud steward of the wet plate collodion photographic process, known online as Time Traveler Tintype.
JOLIEN VAN GOETHEM (SHE/HER)
is a mixed-media artist based in Belgium She published drawings in the Brusselsbased Estrade Magazine in 2021. She also created a handbound book, with drawings and text fragments, called “(In)visible” in 2023
LEENA CAPTAIN (THEY/THEM)
is a 21 year old Illustration student at Suny Oswego They come from Upstate New York and have a passion for artwork dealing with gruesome and touchy topics.
DAGNY CHIKA (THEY/SHE)
is an artist, writer, and art educator. Her personal art practice is interdisciplinary, often centered around fibers and textiles, poetry, and printmaking.
is a West-Coast-born, NYC-based, sweettoothed creative, a proud Sagittarius, and someone who loves to wear many hats: dog toy designer, published illustrator, muralist, and amateur tattoo artist.
is a disabled writer, artist and photographer based in Long Beach. Her work focuses on intersectional justice, body grief, existence with a disability, and life around her as it happens. Her words and photos are featured in ForTheLBC, Brut America, LookDeeper Zine, Cripple Media and more.
is a recent graduate from the University of Chicago who studied visual arts. She is interested in themes of intimacy, memory, love, and connection. You can find more of her work at juliafennell.com
ALYSON (SHE/THEY)
is an interdisciplinary artist, researcher and storyteller based in New Jersey who explores themes of memory, trauma, and family.
is a multidisciplinary artist based in Philadelphia Their work is shared in The Rumpus, The Offing, Foglifter, and ANMLY.
is an interdisciplinary queer BIPOC artist Born in Manila based in Los Angeles, who plays with the intersections of metamorphosis, memory, and ephemera
ILSA BAUER (SHE/HER)
is a visual artist based in Orange County, California She recently graduated from the University of California, Davis with a BA in fine art and art history She completed a residency at the Royal Drawing School in London in December of 2023.
Taylor Aune (she/her) somethingtobetold.com
Taylor Milton (she/her) CEO of Taylor Milton Homes
Samantha Diaz (she/her) @ sammylamb
Estelle Phillips (she/her) @estelle writer44
Jens Astrup (he/him) www.yenszz.com
Rin Chertei (he/they) Artist: @sirseapigeon
Mark Sorace (he/him) www.marksorace.com
Jhameika Bradford (she/they) @Jhameikabradford
Kess Schafer (she/they)
Elektra Durkee
Katie Tapper
Lovinia Reynolds
Kaneischa Johnson Ari Greene
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Rowan Lester (Left)
Editor|ArtDirector
IS A UCSC ALUM FROM LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA
SHE IS A BIG FAN OF POORLY DISGUISED TRUE STORIES AND OVERUSING ADJECTIVES BESIDES WRITING, ROWAN IS VERY INTERESTED IN FIBER ARTS AND TEXTILES
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Marley Aikhionbare (Right)
Editor-In-Chief | DirectorofOperations
IS A LONG BEACH LOCAL, QUEER, AUTISTIC WRITER-OFCOLOR WHOSE WORK EXPLORES MUNDANITY AND THE THINGS WE SEE BUT DON’T NOTICE THEY LOVE HISTORY, AND GRAPHIC DESIGN, AND SERVE ON THE BOARD OF THE LONG BEACH CONSERVANCY NONPROFIT ORG
