January 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Joe Hillenbrand
Man, was I hungry. There was nothing to eat in the house so I ordered a large pizza and ate the whole thing – but I was still starving. So I searched for something, anything, to eat. Couldn’t find a thing. Not a slice of bread. Not a cracker. Not even a crumb. I scoured the cupboards, the fridge, the seat cushions, the floor, behind the stove – nothin’. I had to look elsewhere
That’s when I ate my pride. It was too hard to bite or chew, so I swallowed it whole. Nearly choke on the damn thing, but I managed to get it down. It wasn’t enough though. I wanted… needed more.
So I boiled my hate. Each mouthful more bitter than the last. My stomach growled for more.
I whipped up a bowl of pity. Creamy and sweet, it went down easy.
Love? There hasn’t been any of that around here for a long time. No… I stopped looking for love. Instead, I drank my tears and belched my apologies.
Then I found a bit of hope. Stale and moldy as it was, I took a bite. That was a mistake. I couldn’t keep it down. Just made room for more.
Confidence was a tasty morsel: meaty and juicy.
That was it. There was nothing left. I’ve eaten it all and it’s left me so I can’t get out of bed (having doubled and redoubled my size). But that’s OK; I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m not hungry… for now.
Tomorrow, it starts all over again.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
The chocolate-covered calendar read August
yet the citrus pork bellies lounged
casually on Christmas china waiting
for their escorts to the table, pigeon peas
freshly picked and still boiling
in a pot on the iron stove
the iron as black as night
the coals singing below
while nearby they lay
the potatoes quiet and still
meticulously scrubbed
carefully dried and seasoned
now asleep in a glass bowl
the red Idaho’s peeled
and poached in white wine
as the blind man sniffed the air
surrendering to the smells, succulent smells
pungent like cloves or tar;
the aromas escaped from the kitchen
entered the dining room, then hovered
like an eagle over the table
right above the midget squirming in his chair
his eyes fixed on the Christmas tree, an old wood pole
with branches made of toilet bowl scrubbers
their green bushy heads as prickly as pine needles
their arms draped in Christmas lights
trembling, shimmering, blinking rhythmically
to the music seeping into the midget’s head
the sound escaping from him, an iPod perhaps
as he sat on a high chair, his legs swinging
his mouth chewing on chocolate
his hands creating hills in front of him
hills of chocolate raisins
hills of M & M’s
hills he will hide in
when the pigeon peas appear.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Far worse than being unemployed,
in some respects;
Employees with nothing to do.
The Dubai street sweeper polishes his sidewalk,
that is already polished.
His mate pretends to pick up garbage with a pole grabber,
the streets are absolutely empty.
Ana, my hotel tourism saleswoman
sits at her little table by the exit,
tries small talk with the Pakistani bell boy
to no avail.
She stares out the glass door at the rain.
Muhammed at Fish World has fish sandwiches to sell
but no one is biting.
With his blue collared shirt, yellow vest, and sailor’s hat
he scratches his arm,
reads the menu for the thousandth time,
stares out at the rich mall rats who are free.
Wishes he could be beautiful,
like the azure-suited Chinese in Chinese Palace
or at least popular,
like the baseball-capped Filipinas in Burger King.
At last, the fish-eaters have arrived,
he smiles.
Bio note: Brian Briscombe burns wood in Falls Church, Virginia, USA. He’s never been published before unless you count his 60 Facebook Notes or the 600 US Government publications of his economic analysis. Recently Brian edited four painful papers that analyzed the costs and medical benefits of conducting male circumcisions in selected African countries. Although those papers might never be read, at least they paid better than Burning Wood. Brian likes it when strangers email him, so long as they are not Nigerian scam artists.
January 2011 | back-issues, poetry
i. April, 2005
The week before, his hands in the seat of my jeans.
The lake before us is low. The exposed shore reaches
under the beached docks, spread open to coming rain.
He said he’d wait for me here.
Hours after I leave him, he calls.
His voice nods slow through affections.
I never shot the shit. Never saw it,
either. I refused to see he still did.
After five days, the phone rings.
His mother found him, a needle in his arm, seven a.m.
He ran into the woods outside his house, screaming
that he wanted to die. He wants to die.
A Friday night, dark at 4 p.m. I close my window.
Spring ends with him in prison. The air thickens
as the lake is slowly filled. The first waves
splash against the docks, finally afloat.
ii. May, 2007
We sit on the porch of her farmhouse
at her stepdaughter’s college graduation party.
We watch the two dogs roll under stars
on the field of her front yard.
She pours two shots of silver
tequila like a blessing. Salut.
She toasts the lumps in her breasts
as we soothe agave fire with champagne.
I’ve come to this farmhouse since before
my breasts. She sobs as I light
a cigarette, insisting on silence
until a date for surgery is set.
Through the kitchen’s window,
her stepdaughter’s laughter. We hear
the cork shoot from the last bottle
of champagne, a glass shatter on the floor.
iii. August 2005 – November 2007
Six months after she died in the Iraqi desert,
he and I meet. We start against hallway walls.
We build between train stations,
all-night trips up and down the coast.
He leaves Lajeune, moves north. One night,
wrapped in the same blanket, he shows me pictures.
We come to her, naked, the vital parts censored
by an inner tube. Her wet hair. Her laughing face.
I end it shortly after. I watch him
do coke for the first time, watch walls.
I watch the walls, too, to find what he sees.
More blow, booze. Weed to balance.
We still go to bed together. He usually
falls asleep just as dawn seeps through
the window by the ceiling. His length warm
at my side, her memory curled at our feet.
iv. May, 2008
I received the summons, but the addressee’s name was incorrect.
I sent it back. I haven’t checked the mailbox since.
In the morning, they call because I have to be retested,
the initial test positive. I find a ride from a friend, leave
my brother a message. Outside my house, I tug
on my hair, scalp from skull, to know if I feel it.
I get in the car, can’t answer questions requiring
explanation. I twice light the filter of the cigarettes
I quit. Fiberglass sparks, singes in a crackling burn.
I get the third to light, swallow smoke.
In a tiny room, they ask me about drugs about fucking
about where a white suburban girl could pick up HIV.
They say I’m not in the risk group. With my blood,
they close the door. I stare at a Parenting magazine.
When they come back, they don’t shut the door. Negative.
I check they tested the right sample. The doctor nods, slowly.
In the parking lot, my brother waits, weeps into my hair.
A stoplight turns on Main Street, horns blare. No one moves.
Stefanie Botelho is a recent graduate of Western Connecticut’s MFA in Professional and Creative Writing program. She has been published with The New Verse News and has writing in the upcoming Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetry.”
