by Joanne Cole

If I were a sloth
all grey and slow and low to the ground
and you were a centipede,
Would you marry me?

If I had toes on my noses
and nails like scoops and could pick you up,
Would you marry me?

If I were pretty and tall
with hips that swayed like the Samba but liked ugly men,
Would you marry me?

If I built you a castle
with stairs made of flowers and windows like dew drops
Would you marry me?

If I whittled you a stallion that once was Aphrodite
and love left the county
Would you marry me?

If I climbed trees like a monkey
but you chose the highway
Would you marry me?

If I prayed at the alter of Leonard Cohen and Suzanne
but you liked Snoop Dogg
Would you marry me?

If my dresses were satin, laced with red ribbons
and your chaps were torn leather
Would you marry me?

If I rode into town on a mule with a cart
and you were the sheriff
Would you marry me?

If I fed off the marrow of writers like Whitman
and you liked Haiku
Would you marry me?

If I ate the red apple
while dressed in full armor
Would you marry me?

If Eve were my sister
but I the High Priestess
Would you marry me?

If my fins were translucent
and you were bright coral
Would you marry me?

If I hid behind a veil of courtesies and thank-you’s
but at heart was a tomboy
Would you marry me?

If I were a mermaid with hair spun of gold
and you were a pirate
Would you marry me?

If religion was a crutch
and we were all disabled
Would you marry me?

If I shop-lifted Prada
and the priest were your father
Would you marry me?

If the confessional were broken
and my loins granted absolution
Would you marry me?

If I were a wolf in sheep’s clothing
and the Lord was your shepherd
Would you marry me?

If I killed all the Nazis
in peace time with vengeance
Would you keep my secret and marry me?

If the weight of my love
crushed the bones in your body
Would you turn into sea shells and marry me?

If my channel were NOVA
but you liked Simon Cowell
Would you marry me?

If I got you a Ferrari
by draining your trust fund
Would you marry me?

If the world were my oyster
and you were Vermeer
Would you marry me?

If my tears turned to raindrops
when you eyed pretty women
Would you hold the umbrella and marry me?

 

Reasons I Can’t Sleep

I had Walnut Baklava at 2am

I was out of Baklava and couldn’t stop thinking about it

I am happy

I am sad

I am unsure how I feel and my therapist is on vacation

I am drunk

I am stoned

I ate a half a box of Le Pain Quotidien Chocolate Brownies because I was out of Baklava

I decided to watch the Great British Baking Show

Watching the Great British Baking Show made me hungry so I defrosted and ate the meatloaf my neighbor brought over

I remembered I don’t eat meat

I got a stomach ache

I decided to smoke more pot to get rid of the stomach ache

I looked at the clock and it was 6pm in Asia somewhere so I had another cocktail

I remembered I don’t drink alcohol

I think I sprained my ankle

I think I need a haircut

I forgot to RSVP to my Zoom meet

It’s 1pm in Africa somewhere so I had lunch

I remembered I am on a diet

I heard the dog barking

I remembered I don’t have a dog

Donald Trump

Covid -19

November 3rd.

 

The Curtain

A person came to stay.

A small room, barren by all account…
A simple, wood-framed bed for one, inviting and stoic
in its simplicity — like a soldier, erect, banished of adornments but still proud in his nakedness,
knowing his sense of duty and place in the world.

A pale wood (sea-worn from the salt air) dresser,
Four drawers.
occupies the opposite wall
morphing, almost becoming
one with the weathered stucco wall … it speaks, “I am here. I am present, but I am not important. You are. I am here for you,”

as the slender window (elegant, like a lady possessed of breeding and fortitude)
dominates,
holding court — and not just for the room, but a life well-lived in kindness.

She’d come because of the gauzy, milky-white curtain landing just below the knee …

always in motion
in reaction to
the sapphire Mediterranean sea breeze
& crisp, transparent air.

It was a good place
to come and die
she’d thought.

And so the bed lay empty.

by JSmith

She who cooks, eats, at least in my house. Though I enjoy good food, I am not a gourmet. I’m not interested in recipes that take hours to prepare or ones that require precise temperatures or fussy ingredients – a quarter teaspoon of a spice I may never use again, a particular kind of cheese, this type of sugar or that. Close enough is good enough for me. I am an approximate cook.

My husband says, “Make sure you write down that recipe,” when I cook something he really likes.

“Sure,” I say. I do not tell him there is no actual recipe, but rather something I have made up with ingredients on hand or made so often I no longer need the actual recipe to concoct it.

There are more than words to recipes, more than ingredients measured and meted out.

This recipe was learned at my grandmother’s elbow when I was nine years old. This one came from a folded recipe card someone wrote out years ago, this from a cookbook my mother once gave me, the words all but obliterated by stains and spills.

I open that cookbook, a collection of recipes from a group of ladies at a Lutheran church somewhere in the Midwest. It is many, many years old. I begin to page through it, pass countless recipes, neatly typed, pristine and waiting.

“Make me!” says one.

“Try me!” says another.

But I continue on, looking for friends in a crowd.

I am famous, it seems, for my frosted sugar cookies. I make them several times a year and give most of them away – decorated trees and stars and snowflakes at Christmas time; pumpkins and maple leaves at Halloween; hearts for Valentine’s day. Everyone loves my cookies. People ask for the recipe, and I freely give it.

“It’s nothing special,” I say. “It’s just a generic sugar cookie recipe.” I take a photo with my phone and e-mail it to them.

“I made them,” they tell me later, “but they didn’t taste like yours.” They spread too much or were not as crisp. The dough was sticky, hard to handle.

“Use margarine, not butter,” I advise. “Use stick margarine, not the soft, spreadable kind.”

“They were good,” they say after they have tried again, “but still not as good as yours.”

What else can I say? What advice can I give? My eyes tell me if the dough looks right. My fingers know in the rolling. Without thinking, I turn the cookie sheets around in the oven after ten minutes or so, rotate them from shelf to shelf.

These are things I know that cannot be taught with words. They are lodged in my memory, part of me. I picture myself years from now, a very old woman, my hair and thoughts fraying, standing at my stove baking cookies.

In the end all memories go with us to the grave, no recipe required.

 

Sick and Tired

“I’m so sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

It isn’t like Ellie to be this way. So down. And semi-sad. And … flat.

“What gives?” I ask.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “It’s just that I’m … old.”

“You just discovered that?” Lynn asks. We’re at out weekly “girls” gathering.

“Well, yes,” Ellie says, “as a matter of fact.”

“Who says you’re old?” This is Nora, the youngest of our foursome.

“The world. My kids,” Ellie says. “They won’t visit me because I am ‘high risk’.”

Lynn snorts.

“What’s so funny?” asks Ellie. “It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not funny. It’s just that I never thought of you as ‘high risk,’ is all.”

Lynn’s right. We are not exactly a risky group. We are four women, all active and in relatively good health, all seventy or nearly so, who have suddenly discovered that we are elderly.

“Suze?” Lynn prods my elbow.

“I spent yesterday planning my funeral,” I say.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” I say. “I seriously did. I put it all in a folder and filed it away. It’s between FREEZER and FURNACE.”

“How did that make you feel?” asks Nora.

“Good,” I say. “Sort of like you feel after you’re done cleaning the refrigerator.”

I go on. “I told the kids.”

“And?” asks Lynn. “What did they say?”

“Two didn’t respond. The other one just said, ‘Ew, Mom!’ They’re too young. They don’t get this. But they’ll be glad I did it.”

“When the time comes,” says Lynn.

“They will,” I agree. “When the time comes.” I am thinking of the death of my dad and how nothing was planned and how my brothers and I had to put together a service based on what we thought he’d want because our mother, in her grief, had totally abdicated.”

“I was afraid someone might suggest Amazing Grace,” I say. “I hate Amazing Grace.”

I look at my three friends. “What music would you choose?”

“Let It Be,” says Ellie. “Something so people know I wasn’t always old.”

“I’m not having a funeral,” says Nora, which is no surprise to us. “Lynn?”

“Turn out the lights,” she says. “The party’s over.”

by Jenson Smith

Elmira steers her Target cart around the woman with eight million children and races into the bathroom. She can hear the cart slamming against the concrete wall as she locks the stall door and yanks her pants down.

“Uff da! That was a close one,” she thinks. Her timing has been off in general in lately. Everything seems to come on so suddenly. She tries to plan, but her to-do lists fly off the page one by one as if to say “fuck you for trying!”

The door opens and she sees two sets of Keds walking in. “Must be teenagers,” she thinks. High pitched laughter. Yup.

Elmira, named after her grandfather, Elmer, has always felt old. She prefers slip-on shoes. She likes to settle in early. She always prints her boardings passes and –

“Ahhhhhh!!” the girls squeal.

She just can’t handle loud noises. “That’s my cue,” thinks Elma as she flushes to signal her presence and departure.

Back at her cart, she spots the homeschool family now chowing down on hot dogs. Despite being composed of almost hundred percent chemicals, the salty charcoal smell momentarily makes her question her vegetarianism and then… “Oh that’s right! I need almond milk,” she thinks. Sometimes her ADHD does pay off.

The lights are beginning to become too bright. The music gets louder. It’s a Christmas song. It’s Mariah Carey. A large man in a mega hat winks at her as he grabs a jumbo pack of toilet paper. MAY DAY – MAY DAY – MAY DAY – MAY DAY – MAY DAY!

Elmira dashes into the gardening aisle, trying to catch her breath. Accustomed to panic attacks, she knows she has to find the closest dark space asap. A light flashes on the bottom shelf. She crouches down to look. It’s one of those tiny winter villages, and one of the houses is all lit up. A fire place is crackling. A cat meows. The smell of hot chocolate wafts through the air…

Elmira leans closer. A deep part of herself begins to silently pray. “This is working. Thank you, Jesus – God – Fairy godmother – Buddha- whatever you are- for commercialism today. Can I please, please just go there for one more -”

Suddenly the homeschool family turns down the aisle. Elmira closes her eyes, trying to hold onto the image a little longer. “Keep going!” a tiny high pitched voice whispers.

Elmira nods. Now she can see with her eyes closed! A blanket. A piano with with candles on top. Snow falling. It’s a full moon. “A little more!” say the voice.

Long hair. A silky nightgown. Her favorite Old Navy fleece from 2000 that she hasn’t been able to find in years. “You’re almost – ”

The homeschool twins interrupt the voice and as they collide with her butt. Elmira goes plunging down, down, down and POOF! Darkness. Silence.

She opens her eyes. A black cat with green eyes is staring back at her at her lovingly. Elmira rolls over on the soft blanket. The fire in the fireplace and forms a smile and then goes back to normal. Her eyes scan the room. It’s a beautiful cottage filled with books, chocolates, and introvert treasures galore.

“Welcome!” says the voice. “You made it!”

Elmira sighs. Finally.

by Janis La Couvée

At times your presence is heavy on my mind, you come to me unbidden in my fever dreams, provide words of wisdom to problems I never even knew I had.

I hear your laughter, see the quick stride of your vigourous step, the way you rolled your shoulders or stood in quiet strength—a stance that brooked no opposition, that signalled to any person even remotely attuned—‘pay attention, I am not someone you want to mess with’.

You were indeed a tornado, albeit a small one, like the dust devils spinning out of control on the dusty Texas plains, picking up momentum and debris as they hover—then, are gone.

Not that you were out of control—you simply worked fast in a disciplined fashion, intuitively understanding how to maximize effort.

I loved our kitchen ballet, particularly in small spaces—didn’t they always seem to be small spaces?—hips nudging, gently reaching over to grab a knife, madly chopping, closing a cupboard door quickly so I wouldn’t hit my head.

“Don’t worry, everything will work out”, you’d say. It usually did.

Until it didn’t.

Until no matter what I did, you were gone, forever, and while I remember, I long for your touch. I’ve forgotten the feeling of you behind me in the kitchen, reaching over and around to hold me tight in your arms. I’ve forgotten the four of us—group hug—gathering the dog and the smallest in our arms—love spilling out in all directions.

I’ve forgotten a finger slowly tracing the length of my spine, leg over mine in bed, a whisper—“I love you”—your mischievous grin, glint in your eye, irrepressible spirit.

Gone.

Twenty years.

 

Imagine a Mirror

A field, wide, expansive, pastures all around. A vibrant green spring morning, fresh-washed by last night’s rain. Sun slowly warms the day. Birds twitter and trill, hidden in the woods, down in the hollow. Hills roll away in every direction. In the middle of this pastoral scene, incongruous, floats a giant sheet glass mirror, suspended without visible support. It reflects back, in cascading images, this one perfect scene, to infinity.

Gloria approaches, waves her hand, tries to make sense. “Odd”, she mutters, as she moves around behind it. Nothing.

She touches the mirror. Solid—no hand disappears. She’s not drawn in like Alice.

With her back to the mirror Gloria attempts to decipher the message. Is there a vantage point in the distance—a path or direction to walk in? Does this hint at multiple directions or possibilities? Which way should she step?
Gloria shakes her head. The invitation had been clear, “come out to the farm, for old time’s sake”. As small knot of regret balls in the pit of her stomach—a reminder of all the broken promises and empty words, the times she felt like a pawn in Gaynor’s gigantic chess game.

This had all been a big mistake. Lured by a sense of duty, she’d succumbed again to that fatal charm.

Gloria glanced around. There—a perfect rock. With all her might, she hurled the missile. The mirror shattered.

She walked—free of all illusion of perfection.

by J.Jill

His dark image remains moving, haunting my mind now for several years. Maybe it’s because of his limp as he struggles to carry his oversized sign at the same early hour of the morning almost daily, out of the suburbs towards a more trafficked road. He drags his right leg with a painstaking, steady rhythm that I haven’t mastered since I fractured my right tibia over twenty years ago.

Over time, his clothes seem more random, haphazard until most recently. Now, even in this heat of oppression, he wears an immense black overcoat. It looks like stiff flannel, much too alien for a frail, ebony frame like his. Maybe it doubles as a blanket or a bed.

His presence makes my heart pound in fear, in sorrow, in a brand of anger, even in our expanse of this new unknown, enclosing us daily now for months. “Never be afraid,” said John Lewis,” to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.”

People despair daily in conflicts on streets, heard maybe then dismissed, in all degrees of torment, sorrow, need, sacrifice, hurt, even death—rapid or prolonged—and I turn away. But my heart pulses stronger, more unable to unsee what it already understands. ‘It’s not enough,” I scream inside. I find the number of the DC Capitol Congressional switchboard for the office my Representative and press each number with firm intent … area code 202 …

by QnIrie

When you’re right, you’re right, at least in your own eyes.
But when I write sometimes, there’s no rhyme or reason.
We have rites when it comes right down to it.
It’s my prerogative.
I write, he writes, she writes, they write, for the love of writing.
It is a right to express how you feel or not, in your chosen way.
Thoughts, and words, and tunes dancing in my womb.
My head, my soul, my eyes closed, I can’t help but sway.
I am feeling rhythm. Hmmm….
The beat is coming alive in me.
Fast-er, loud-er, it is right here in me.
Beat. Beat. Thump. Beat! Clap. Yeahhhh.
Tick. Stomp, clap. Tap. Snap. Yeah!
I hear nothing else. Me and these bee-eats are one.
Flow, and flow, and flowing,
like run—ni-ng stre–ams,
with Bends, and dips. I splash!
And a tune slowly begins to rise up in me. I hummm…. between the melody,
and all is right with the world. Ahhhh…. So peaceful.
Moments, I don’t care to share.
And as quick as it comes, it is gone.
Oh man! Maybe I should have paused.
Took time to write it down.
It’s all worth it though.
It’s a good feeling, I wouldn’t trade.
Well, maybe if it’s really mine, I can evoke it again.
Invoke it, like it’s my rites.
And tap back into that goo-ood, drift-away feel-ing…
If it’s in me, it’s mine to keep.
Right?

 

Waiting

I’m sooo excited! And I just can’t hide it –
Wow! I am so relieved in this moment.
I didn’t really contemplate what this victory, this historic moment would feel like.
It is not a pre-meditated act.
Part of me is numb. Part of me is screaming.
Oh my God!
And yet another part of me is holding my head
with eyes wide, mouth open pulling my hair a little to confirm that this all really happening.
It happened!
It’s happening. It’s real!
My Mother 85 and my children and grandchildren and me!
We are all here to see.
We have a black woman V.P.
I thought I was excited when Biden chose Harris as a running-mate.
But they are in and I am absolutely elated!
But I’m still a little numb.
I don’t think I really have taken a deep breath yet. It’s like I still need to heat it more.
I need it to sink deeper. This better be real!
No-body got time for jokes like that.
No, no mind. Line up!
This is Right! This is real! This is true!
It’s about time!
I haven’t felt like we had a president since Obama.
I never could bring myself to even acknowledge
‘45’ just a number
Hold a place (card) in the seat of office
But not holding the office (up).
My God! Whoa!
And when I got the news this morning, I was in virtual class with young scholars I work with.
And got to share such a historic moment with them

 

Eye View

Out of body, eyes open or shut
The lightest, easy, free, fluttering spirit images
on beds of cotton like fluffs and puffs that disappear in blinks of view.
And nobody falling or bothered.
Just seeming to glide through, and under, and over,
Wow. Large and small transparent,
but light blueish looking wings gently fluttering but barely moving
If stillness had a sound, this would be it!
I don’t know if I’m living, or gone,
but this right here,
in this moment feels right.
At least for now, I don’t want to be anywhere else,
or see, or hear, or even feel a need to speak.
Am I? I am? I don’t know.
But creator being image I think I see – if this is – that is you
You are more beauty personified than my mind’s eye could have dared to imagine.
Glorious does not even come Close to describing you!
There are not words created. Words not given to even come close.
My mind is blown!
So, I don’t even know if I am, or dreaming.
So, for now I’m content with just basking in this indescribable. Period.
It’s no more to say. I don’t want to waste time thinking,
and miss a vision,
a moment.
I’m wishing I had eyes on every side to take it all in.
I’m so full! I can’t even contain it all.
I need to make a deposit to release and make room for more.
Can’t even imagine a pocket or bag big enough to ascertain.
I think I’m floating too.
This is deeper than slow motion.
Not even a camera at the highest grade, in the slowest stage could capture it.
or maybe not even the fastest.
It’s just all un-imageable, at least to me.
There’s been no book or story tale to accomplish the telling of this.
Do I have the vocab to express it?
I sure hope to get the chance to try….

by Helene Lara

It was hard to forget that warm, damp afternoon in the middle of a monsoon summer.

I inched toward the closet, knowing my destination was to its very far corner, where a box concealed by a ragged-aged blanket lie. I gently removed the old quilt and lifted the cover of the flat-square-box. Its corners frayed from countless openings and closings.

There, neatly folded, was my pink and blue kurti I purchased in India some years ago. The neckline adorned in embroidered gold leaves. The sleeve cuffs matching the same. The bottom hem and side slits decorated with tiny elephants in bronze thread.

I remember when I wore it to my best friend’s puja, a ritual performed to celebrate the purchase of her new house in Mumbai. During the puja, a piece of bronze thread had come loose and twirled through the air before being carried off by a gentle wind. I watched it dance through the marbled gray sky—-knowing my best friend was about to do the same, to dance and whirl around in her brand new home with her new husband.

Through our time together in college, I never thought I’d be saying goodbye and she’d be moving 7,500 miles away from me.

Sometimes, I put on the stylish kurti, play a classic Bollywood tune and dance in my living room with all-the-freedom in the world. Listening to the rhythmic drums weaving between sharp melodic sounds of a lovestruck chanteuse, I tap and twirl my feet. Hips and shoulders zigzag alongside the vibrating beat. Hands stretched out, long and high. I’m swept away to another time.

I feel the hot air of the overcrowded city, the heavy wet smell of sidewalk corridors and street vendors peddling savory treats. Intoxicating scents of cardamom and clove. Mango and chai. Black pepper and licorice. Sandalwood and rain.

I shimmy freely through my living room to remember that day, to remember our friendship, then collapse onto a heap of pillows on a pale blue sofa, before gently putting the floral printed dress back in the box for next time.

by Ellis Grayce Faye

He entered the busy office. He tried to make music of the monotone office sounds. The duh-duh-duh steady rhythm of the printer, the soft crinkling of fresh, white paper, the almost silent scratches of a pen against a legal pad, the tap-tap-tap haphazard melody of the computer keys. But it was all a stretch. The phone rang twice in a distant chord and the lights were too bright.

He walked up to the secretary, who didn’t look like how movies made out secretaires to look. She had sunken skin with deep wrinkles. Her blue eyes were heavy as an old dog who has watched over the barn for too long. Her hair looked like it was made of soft straw, which she put up in a ponytail. He noticed as he got closer that the collar of her shirt was wrinkled.

He waved a timid hello with a wide, toothy smile and she gave him a smile back, her glossy pink lips pushing up her sullen cheeks.

He told her his name and she told him his office was on the left, next to the one with the big window. Her voice was scratchy and calm and it came from the back of her throat.

He thanked her and started to walk to his office, his leather shoes against the tile, adding to the office symphony.

His office neighbor gave him a friendly hello, just as the man in the house next to him smiles when he’s out walking his dog.

The office felt like a suburb; Gray houses with cut off lawns all standing next to each other, stacked like blocks set up by a child obsessed with order.

Except in the office there’s no children running in the streets or dogs barking from windows. Only seeming order and artificial hellos from neighbors.

But he focused on the symphony.

by Evelyn F. Katz

The outraged nip
at words distractors shoot
like rubber bullets into crowds.
The outraged rally
to save confederate statues
but wash away blood mapping
our country’s history.
The outraged chokehold
street peddlers,
Plow into crowds
Detonate teargas bombs
Impose curfews
Retreat to their bunkers
and watch on their flatscreens
as the country burns.

 

In the Broken

My beauty reveals itself in my broken
skin,

scalpeled and excavated
restitched
sunken
pink.

Under a lover’s wandering finger
the dip of flesh

disfigured.

I let the sun lick
My beauty broken
And when my lover asks,
I tell him
It is my point of light.

 

Election Day

A man I may already love
Casts his ballot on the other side of town
And I, my body still lingering an hour ahead of itself
Number 8 on line at 5.
We all
Masks in the dark, waiting to cast our right to complain.
Then to Lowes where I buy paint
The man I have never loved right will spread across my walls.
All before 8
When I meet on screen
The man I may already love
My I Voted sticker affixed to my forehead
And his
Still pressed against its back liner
Waiting to see if it all really counted.