No thing. No dream.
No soul toward
phosphorescence.
No burn. No black.
No come. No home. No
yes, no. No do, undo.
No sky, holler, hug.
No blue. No come back
as an ant or a king. No hover
over the body until it’s time
to let go. No know.
No now.
Whitney Hudak holds an MFA from Bennington and lives in Brooklyn, NY.
And when it was over
I wondered how long
i would be immersed in that warm and familiar
feeling of loss. it seeps into me.
it never loses its density
can’t dilute it
even with the tears it sheds.
the tides come and go
and the moon and sun cycle in and out
but they come back
people and things frequently don’t. they go into a dust heap
of lost stuff some where out in the midwest, perhaps, or the other side of the world
they could also be right around the corner in full living color but i don’t see them
once i lost a brother for good
he went into an other life or world from this scarred one of wounded
and wounding people.
this foggy life this hazy world
the days and nights gray and black
i lost a cat
and then a school
and a piece of jewelry i loved a cottage where
i lulled in the summer’s sun in childhood
lost that too, two more cats
and now i’ve lost a house and another among the men, who’ve left or been taken
or been banished by my self
did anyone tell you that’s what life is a procession of losses and
jumping to stones in succession. don’t slip on that mossy one
or skip the shiny one
no telling what you’ll miss
or what will get broken or scraped or burnt or blistered, scarred by the scratch of a low hanging branch
what twigs or soggy weeds you’ll pick up
between your toes or around your neck, and you’ll have to carry them with you
the rest of the way.
Isabella became Iiisssaaa, moments after she was born. Her older brother, Miguel Trubino was five years old and was unable to pronounce her name as he held her in his twig-like arms at the hospital after her birth. What seeped between his jagged teeth was Iiisssaaa!
Their mother, had only minutes before pushed her newborn daughter through the narrow opening of her vagina the way you would force a boiled egg, absent of it’s shell, into a long stemmed shot glass. As she sat, her back propped on flat hospital pillows, her legs stretched beneath the thin blanket, she smiled and said, “¿Iiisssaaa? Qué lindo nombre.”
Iiisssaaa became: Isabella Rosalinda Trubino, weighing 7 lbs, 6 oz, and 13 in.
Isabella would grow up with a preference for knitting rather than sports, reading over socializing, and wearing rainbow colored clothing as thought a bag of skittles had melted and amalgamated into the thread that wrapped itself around her petite body. She wore dresses that reached the cap of her knees and sweaters with pearl buttons. Her dark brown hair and she wore it parted at the center with two braids crowing the top of her head.
She would often hide underneath the kitchen table while her family watched television in the living room or during parties her mother would throw for her and her brother’s birthdays, graduations, or holidays. As everyone else was outside battling for first crack of the piñata or waiting for their slice of strawberry and chocolate cake, Isa was under the table, in her pastel pink dress with hot pink ruffles and purple polka dot socks, knitting or reading.
It was there, with her dark brown hair haloed above her head where she first parted her lips and began to talk to Refugio, her imaginary dog.
Ms. Guzman is a first generation Mexican American with a Bachelors of Arts in Fiction Writing at Columbia College in Chicago.
