March 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
or this man i know with his
blind devotion to an
invisible god and his fear
of the niggers and the
fags and the jews
do i laugh at
what he says?
at who he is?
or maybe his hatreds are
nothing more than
a distorted reflection of my own
maybe he’s only the monster
i can see myself becoming
my father reborn
or any of his friends
drunk and laughing on a
sunday afternoon fifteen years
before the missing girl is
even born and maybe
you’re the same
i will have us all condemned
before
this day is over
March 2002 | back-issues, poetry
[b]RUNNING RED[/b]
Blood doesn’t drip,
It runs
Like a river of fugitives.
A blanket is music notes,
Warmed and feathered
Until an eight-year old cheek
Can sing its softness
My cheek
As my mother’s lips poured a story
The story of my great-grandmother
In the Cultural Revolution
The officials had raided the house
But it wasn’t enough
So they took needles of sleek bamboo
And pricked her fingers
One by one
It was a common use of torture in those days
Effective
They found the secret stash of opium and jewels
My mother’s lips had become soundless
But I could see the words roll on the blanket
I squeezed my eyes closed
Lashes embedded in skin
And tried to imagine what it
Would feel like, having my fingers pricked
One by one
All I can see are the splinters on the needles
Then flesh sagging under grief
A fear that crawls and scratches
From the heart
Peeking through the ribs
It spreads like a virus
Higher, colder
I want to swallow it before it shows its face
Skin rips.
Blood doesn’t drip
It runs
Like a river of fugitives
In a slow trickle down my arms
It makes roads, streets, and avenues
Each running to a different place
The patterns look so bright
Red lantern of marriage
Binding of a book
Wide mouth of a clown
They all laugh at me
Sleek bamboo eyes
Laugh at me
Laugh at my red fingers
Laugh at my soundless lips
Laugh at the people who will never
Touch my hands again
Except, maybe
My great-granddaughter
[b]THE PLAYGROUND AFTER RAIN[/b]
Slash across the skin. Black.
As an accidental murder of ink;
Dropped pen stabbing into sand
The playground after rain,
Where the only thing that could move
Stiff, wet air is the sound of a swing,
Its chains dipped in rust
Screams drip down and through metallic prison circles
Screams of Peace being raped
Slash, slash, slash the skin.
I swing higher to dizziness,
past rushing pictures of spray-painted green
Because I do not want to see.
This moment.
A room filled with the thick breathing of anger I can
Feel crawling up my leg 5000 miles away
I smell the impatient smoke
Circling above these men’s heads
The oil they sweat, the blood they use for sautéed fish in
Holiness
“Terrorist bombing at the World Trade Center and the Pentagon today.”
I lose my glasses into the gray mass above
Because I do not want to see.
This second.
Small brown eyes so easily punctured with a knife
Cotton-candy flesh so perfectly carved into pieces
To drench a navy-and-white uniform
Waterfall, black pigtails devoured by the thick
Eyebrows of a brain swimming in storms.
“In Japan, eight elementary students slain by mentally unbalanced man.”
I hang my head back to let my hair suffocate in the sand
Because I do not want to see.
This breath.
Last of many last ones shakes, singing in front of a fan
A paper cut infected into scabs of hate sawed at songs of
Mother and son, father and son, sister and brother?
Mouths gaped open spit, glaze the streets of disbelief,
Paint fists with red frustration, protest the death of gods.
“Nepal’s royal family was massacred by Crown Prince Dipendra, who then
committed suicide.”
I watch tears blur inky words down the newspaper.
Frozen faces turned gray at the point
where two walls and a ceiling meet.
Because I do not want to see.
Tears washed over the punctured corpse of Peace.
It lies in the corner.
Insect remains on windowsills.
Hemorrhage. Truth. Beauty. Love. Freedom. Bleed.
Human eyes see, human throats swallow silence by the spoonful.
Swinging, I swallow wind and try to think in the middle of spray-painted
Death.
Green.
[b]TO SOMEONE SITTING ON THE BLUE-GLASS ROOF[/b]
Your fingers plucked hairy screams out of the window
Running along the wooden frame of a picture
Where sun melted skin with a smile
Black was air and air was black.
Glass dripping, crying to the places that blood could not reach
Every particle of contradiction, strength,
Courage under your hair follicles are
Pillars that hold the roof up over
My well-waxed baldness.
You jumped over lines of black
Barely touching the ink with your toes
Hurdled across the pages until
A fiber snapped and ripped.
Melted dreams that made a puddle at my feet were
Gathered into a bowl and painted on the roof
The blue of a sky that birds would give their wings for
The glass of a million ethereal words
Waiting
Like the final notes of Moonlight Sonata…
[b]MOTION BY THE CLOCK[/b]
Time is planted in
Centuries of dreamy storm
Arrested by deadly wisdom
Traversing among God’s birches
Delicious.
by Yun Wei (c) 2002
([email]blueprimrose [at] hotmail [dot] com[/email])
[b]Author’s Notes:[/b] Yun Wei is currently a high school senior in Illinois. Having lived in China and Canada, she is fluent in both Chinese and French. Her love for languages has also led her to pursue Spanish in school. Writing has been her passion since words were known to her. Yun is an editor on the school newspaper as well as a member of the Speech Team, experiences that have helped her greatly in the art of writing. Her awards include the 1999 Ray Bradbury Short Story Contest and the Harper College Poetry Contest. She has also won two local Poetry Slams.
March 2002 | back-issues, fiction
a fiction short by Claire Dandridge Selleck
[email]claires [at] burningword [dot] com[/email]
There was nothing extraordinary about the way the day began. The alarm clock rang at the usual hour and, however reluctantly, I rolled at once from my bed vaguely aware that a dream had been interrupted. Scraping the hair back from my forehead, I stumbled to the kitchen and eyed the sink full of dishes still submerged in soapy water from last night’s false start. As I paused to watch the mist rising from the river that flowed some one hundred feet from my kitchen window, I was reminded why waking to dirty dishes no longer bothered me. At night I had only the four window panes to reflect on as I washed up; unless the moon is full, the darkness here is impenetrable. In the morning I had this dancing river to entertain me, the swirls of steam flowing upward like a lavishly choreographed ballet. I could linger as long as I pleased, the dishes a guilt-effacing alibi.
This morning, even the river could not pull me from the dream that tugged at my consciousness. It consisted mostly of faces and I recalled them one by one. I had names for them all, those ghosts from my past that I had loved and left behind. Simmy the Sweet, the most successfully helpless woman I knew. Simmy achieved her lifelong dream simply by being kind and loving and completely dependent on her circle of friends and family. As much as I enjoyed Simmy’s company, it was just too draining and the friendship faded as slowly and sweetly as it had begun.
Paul the Mauler was Simmy’s accomplishment. She had not only managed to reel him in from a freewheeling bachelorhood that had earned him his dubious moniker, but they had actually been happy all these twenty-odd years. Their kids, the first being the bait, had grown into pleasant, competent adults. There was nothing not to like about the family and I felt a brief sadness that I had not stayed around to be a part of their lives.
And then there was Linda. Lucky Linda, who fell into success effortlessly. I felt uncharacteristic jealousy despite my genuine affection for her. It took me a few years to realize that there is no such thing as luck. By the time I had learned to give Linda credit where credit was due, our friendship had been reduced to hugs and promises at chance encounters in Walmart.
Linda was Paul’s sister. She dated my brother Mikey for awhile, but it was no great love affair. Linda’s eventual marriage was one of the first indications that I had certain…well…powers is what most people call them, but they leave me feeling more helpless than powerful, no matter how innocuous the revelation.
I remembered standing in my hallway on a clear Spring day. I was late for an appointment and looking for my keys when the sudden thought of Linda was pleasant, but mildly annoying. I remembered exactly what I thought, too. Word for word. ‘Gosh, it’s been ages since I’ve heard from Linda. I won’t be a bit surprised to hear she’s found herself a man and is planning to marry.’ I remembered dragging my thoughts back to my keys and the attorney I had to see. I eyed the stack of mail on the hall table. As I lifted the letters from atop my missing keys, a card fell from the center of the stack. It was a wedding invitation from Linda. I tried to tell myself it was a coincidence, but it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. And it wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes it would be a fleeting thought of an old friend who would call within hours. Once I agonized over forgetting to tell my daughter not to speed through Georgia, later to realize it was the precise time a State Trooper was writing her ticket. Cool, but spooky.
Jeff was Paul’s best friend. Jeffy-cakes. Such an unlikely nickname for me to conceive, let alone speak aloud. Our romance had lasted a year, but the friendship remained intact as various events pulled us back together. The death of Linda’s mother. The christening of each of Simmy and Paul’s children. My own brother’s wedding. Jeff and Mikey remained golfing buddies, much to my second husband’s chagrin.
Jeff was the bright spot in the center of some miserable years
and I used to wonder if I had made a mistake in letting him slip
away. He was wildly adventurous in bed and equally comfortable
in the kitchen. But, I think my intensity frightened him and we
never spoke of love. The memory made me shiver.
He eventually married a sullen and neurotic woman whose chronic illness was enough to make him stay. He?s a nice guy, my
Jeffy-cakes. What else would a nice guy do?
So, that was the circle of friends who crept into my dream. Friends well loved, but recalled fleetingly, casually, individually. Now here they all were, together again, their faces hanging in my head like contrived B-movie apparitions.
I wiped my hands on the towel, barely aware that I had finished the dishes during my reverie. I wondered why a dream where nothing bad had happened would bother me so much; why it would cause this dull ache to rise in my chest and urge me to take action of some kind. It was only another moment before I knew what was missing. Jeff was not among the faces in my dream. The chill moved slowly from my shoulders downward.
I dialed Mikey’s number and felt a surge of love when my brother’s warm southern drawl filled the earpiece.
“Mikey, it’s Fran. I need you to do something for me.” The words tumbled out and I didn’t wait for his reply. “I had a dream and I need you to check on Jeff for me.”
“I was just about to call you.” Mikey’s voice cracked slightly, his emotions only barely in check. “Jeffy’s dead, hon. I’m sorry.”
The receiver clattered to the floor as I stared out at the ceaseless river, its dance now mocking and unkind.
“I knew that.” I said, as if my brother could still hear me. “I knew.”
