January 2014 | back-issues, nonfiction
Driving up a curvy incline, all that mattered was the beautiful sunshine which illuminated my rough, grey booster seat. Out the window I saw endless hues of forest green and muted browns that looked like my aged dinner table. Everything in the woods; the trees and faint noises of birds emanated a deep ingrained feeling of my own belonging. As the car crept up along side of a cliff I gazed out at gorgeous cracked rock. Half Dome laid right in the middle of the valley, just to the left was the thundering water drifting down off Yosemite Falls. Through the wonderland of heart-opening trees I rose higher and higher into the valley.
“You ok back there Daniel?,” asked my mom.
“This is better than Disneyland!”
My doctors had warned my parents of altitude with my seven life-threatening heart conditions, but they wanted to try it. As we reached a peaking ecstasy of life in the inner valley, I began gasping.
The world began to deteriorate into a mere image, then suddenly my body fell cold under a redwood as tall as the sky. Cedar, pine, and the valley floor were the only things tangible. A hazy gray seemed to encapsulate my existence. Loud sirens blared as men in white rushed me down the mountain, disturbing the natural world.
Opening my eyes seemed like a mission. What if I can’t open them? What if it’s only gray? The room was an exploding fluorescent white. The white bed, toxic cleaning products, the sting of the IV and of course the smell of rubbing alcohol. My eyes drooped forward and I slouched down. Turning over onto my side I peered out a cellar like window to see the bright sun, which only a few hours ago I had been under.
by Daniel Wallock
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Ecosystems
The morning was cold and fat with leftover
Chinese food plastic forked on a bus stop bench
while a cat hissed at another cat for passing by.
It was the sun who staggered up the alley
between gray walls to let a brown bird slip
through the gray no one would call a sky and land
in a busted-ass tree that forgot the weight of leaves
as the first drops of rain fell to form exhaust puddles.
I watched the bird perched there on a janky branch
as I scooped the last bits of crusty brown rice
and goopy-sauced beef into my mouth until
the bird flew off in a way I could never understand
and there was nothing left to do but drop
the white flap-top box into the black metal garbage can
and begin the long drizzly walk home, past
the last few high-rises quiet for the weekend,
the parking lots and weed lots, the underpass where tin
can fires warm homeless dreams and bold youth
leave their names on tall walls holding up busy streets
with no idea of what’s underneath, the renovated mills
and the worn out millhouses, the slick path where
fearless lovers and shitfaced vagrants sneak
to disappear in a tangle of weeds and malt liquor bottles
and silence and muddy banks and dark privacy,
to where the sidewalk finally becomes bridge.
It has been too long to remember the first time,
but somewhere along the years I picked up a habit
of stopping halfway across the bridge to pull
a candy bar I saved for the moment from my pocket,
tear open the wrapper, bite off a mouthful, enjoy
the shame of chocolate and toffee on a drunk morning,
and stare down into brown water tumbling over
shallow rapids, thick with the dirt of centuries
of snapped lines and Styrofoam and sunken canoes,
runoff from the chicken plant, the cemetery.
A length of pine trunk and the two rocks it wedged
between before I ever passed through catch everything
catchable in the ambling current, flecks of scale and shit,
twigs and pebbles and leaves, plastic grocery bags and
frayed cigarette butts, grains loosed from stones and bones,
to hold it all together, gather it all up to make it part of
themselves, to grow into something bigger until there is
an island of the wasted and the forgotten left behind
in the middle of everything, piling up all over itself
every moment, waiting for it all to take root and settle in
so the otters and great blue herons may rest there one day.
I do not stop to remember, to reminisce, to grow
nostalgic. I stop for the forgetting, to let the days slip
from me in that time between then and now, that place
lost here and there, in the cool warmth of early morning
as the sun finishes rising over the dawn-misted water
that passes under me and disappears forever downstream.
I stay only long enough to finish what I brought
with me, swallow down the last bite, take the empty
wrapper and fold it neat as a letter from a dead
lover, tuck it in my pocket before moving on.
by Darien Cavanaugh
From a Window in the Humanities Office Building
The trees along College Street are green fists punched
through the concrete foundation of the campus.
The rooftop of the Colloquium Café is flat white,
as lonely and alien as arctic plains and lunar seascapes.
Students are drinking iced coffee and eating cold sandwiches
at wrought iron tables under blue canvas umbrellas.
Your building is across the brick courtyard,
but your office does not have a window.
Still I am standing here again,
my thoughts drawn in your direction,
as I imagine that somehow you will be there
behind a new window built just for us, waving back
to me with the selfishly joyous smile of a child
who sees a friend enter the waiting room.
by Darien Cavanaugh
Capital
As a gesture of compromise, they took
the flag from atop the dented copper dome
and planted it where the grounds meet
Main Street but would not surrender it.
That flag’s post reaches seven generations
deep into hard-packed earth, so the sound
of wind whipping red, white, and blue
cloth echoes through downtown
and sunlight turns to shadow as it bleeds
through faded stars and graying memories.
Passersby shake their heads
or salute with small nods,
take photos for skeptical friends back home,
simply ignore it, or chuckle and ask
Is this it?
Is this what it was all about?
by Darien Cavanaugh
Darien Cavanaugh received his MFA from the University of South Carolina. His work has been published or is forthcoming in The Dos Passos Review, Memoir (and), The Minnetonka Review, The Blue Collar Review, Struggle, Pank, The James Dickey Newsletter, Megaera, The Pickwick Press, Gertrude, I-70 Review, Kakalak, and The San Pedro River Review. He lives in Columbia and works at The Whig.
January 2014 | back-issues, fiction
“Have another?”
“Can’t, I have to go.”
“You always say that.”
“Only when I need to leave.”
I can still hear the corny music on the jukebox, the clinking of the glasses. The barkeep heard our chiming, collected his money, a too generous tip. We left, bade each other platonic adieus, walked separately to our separate families. How I miss my travelling days!
At home, always the same or nearly the same scene: I open the door, panting after my three story climb, my wife at the range frying or boiling something. “About time you got back.”
“I was delayed.”
“I bet,” smelling my breath, it’s cheap vodka, not kissing me. “Did you pick up the bread?”
“I forgot. I can go get some.”
“Don’t bother, it’s late, you may get delayed again, besides bread makes me fat. Do I look fat in this?” She twirls away from the steaming stove.
I say nothing or say something mollifying. My expression does or does not give me away, I can never tell with her, besides she isn’t fat. We eat in silence, our son long gone, the damn TV still on, a carafe of mineral water our only splurge. I pick at my meal, not wanting to mix drink and food, that’s why I’m too thin.
“If you drank less, we’d both eat better.”
I rise, clean off my plate, return, put my arms on her shoulders, nuzzle her ineptly, we don’t kiss. “But we wouldn’t be so happy.”
by Clyde Liffey
Clyde Liffey lives near the water.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
I roll him out to the Water Lilies, break
away one foot at a time. I watch
my father from across the room, bald
head angled up, swaying under eight
by eight feet of psychedelic purples, blues,
and living greens. I read once that water
lilies are always hungry, and I’m thinking
this when my father is pulled out of his
chair into the pond, his morphine pump
drifting away, his body turning, nerves
cooled, smile soft. Poppies cover his skin,
their leaves cocoon him in costume. He
begins to dance among bamboo, reaching for
feathery willows, losing himself in himself
until he realizes he’s all alone, twists his neck
to find a daughter. As the last leaf spins
imperceptibly on the water, my father rotates
his chair around, his face shocked with the
light. He searches for me, a confusion
in his eyes: Why did you leave me? My
red purse ridiculous on his lap.
by Janine L. Certo
Janine Certo is a poet and associate professor in the College of Education at Michigan State University. A former public school teacher, she has long advocated for more attention to poetry writing and performance in U.S. schools. Her poems appear in The Endicott Review and The Muddy River Poetry Review. Her work has been supported with a grant from The Spencer Foundation.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Curing/Coddling
I tell you, I’ve had a poem brewing in my head
And you say, oh really
And maybe I detect your disinterest, but maybe I don’t
Either way, I don’t care if you don’t care
I continue
The words have been churning away, I say
And you nod, yeah that’s cool
Too preoccupied by the TV and waves of conversation
Tides coming in, fluctuating volumes of voices
Yes, sure, you reassure
I’m listening, go ahead, keep talking
But I guess it doesn’t really matter
About that pin I found buried under papers
Whether it truly is an artifact of Hispanic culture
Or just another manufactured stand-in
Courtesy of the America we know and love
I confess, I epitomize myself
Plucking up Corn Pops from a thrift store cup
Sipping at Tylenol like it’s a candy-covered elixir
Only to shadow grasp
Stare down my red-eyed Savior
I tell you, My words feel too stiff
No matter how much the tendrils of spring
Twine ‘round my ankles, drowning this February
Or how many slips of birth control pills I swallow
Or how often I watch my blue-tailed betta swim
Or how long a bucket of carnations sits in the corner by the sink
Too many sensations, I say
Sometimes add up to not much at all
And you gift a glance
And you masquerade around my self-proclaimed doctrine
You are so deep, you promise like a mother
I re-cross my legs
The matter is done and I want coffee
You agree, but wait a moment
Maybe your wallet is thinning
Maybe it’s empty
by Sarah Lucille Marchant
Devilish Daydream
I fool myself into thinking I’m flattering
the hipster boy in the second row
by shamelessly ogling his knit hat
and imagining my fingers tracing his tattoos.
Blinking, counting down sleep, my lips
at his cheekbones, neck, collarbone.
Black tea paints my throat,
preparing.
Polite-faced
I stroll through day-space, a blot of
color, an awkward stumble down the stairs,
plucking music measures
and privately planting them
in other people’s heads.
Rub my eyes, shut
the door, lay out your
thoughts in the
fiercest whisper.
by Sarah Lucille Marchant
