July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
webbed, goose-white
nut-broadened bird.
He could green-water
scum-break and wet-
feather-waddle from the shallows.
He stumbled through lives, wives,
fragrance and faux pas,
yet by boat or bank, under bridge,
elegant he was, easy
legged, otter-elan,
loafing, lollygagging
log-light, drifting
towards senility
with a watery grace.
Once he challenged the current
near Dubuque and came across
a quarter-mile downstream,
and once he pushed it north
against the choppy grind,
kissed the lock’s locked door
and felt the wild whiskers
of a big-bellied cat
checking his calves for lunch
and with dawdle-not
fear kicking his feet
like a steamboat’s paddle
went south and never returned.
Jeff Burt
Jeff Burt works in manufacturing. He has work in Rhino, Nature Writing, Windfall, and Thrice Fiction, and forthcoming in Mobius and Storm Cellar.
July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Here’s to staying up late
and watching Pulp Fiction
instead of staying up late
because your mind is cycling with stress.
Here’s to eating the best
oven pizza you’ve ever had
after days of not being able
to keep food down.
Here’s to harsh cigarettes
and a longneck lighter
on a metal table
while winds howl at the moon.
It’s talking about it
so you don’t need to drink about it.
Knowing and being known is
saying “fuck” instead of pretend smiling.
It’s being touched without jumping,
and unbraiding and fading
with heavy eyelids
that can safely close.
It’s not about waking up,
it’s about falling back asleep
after a glance to ensure
not everyone disappears.
Hearing one person say,
“You aren’t as dark as I thought.”
Hearing another person say
that they pray for you
and hearing yourself say;
“I’m not a whore.”
Here’s to all that.
That’s what today is.
Amanda Ramirez
July 2014 | back-issues, fiction
No Good Deed
He might have been twenty-five, or fifty. His face was so dirty it was impossible to tell.
Mayra first saw him picking through a pile of litter near her dormitory. His purposeful search stopped with the discovery of a half-eaten cheeseburger. Horrified, Mayra watched the burger travel from the grass to the man’s mouth and disappear in two bites.
Her friend Lauren, a social-work major, said, “That’s Big Bill. Shelters don’t take him because he’s usually drunk, but he’s harmless.”
He’s still a person with dignity, thought Mayra, who tried hard to see the spiritual beauty in everyone. She gave him a ten. He thanked her.
“You’re just enabling him,” Lauren rebuked.
“But someone’s got to help.”
And she did, organizing a benefit concert and convincing the university to hire Bill as a janitor. When Bill stepped into the entrance of his new apartment, reporters were there to capture the moment. Conscious of the spotlight, he examined the secondhand furniture and full pantry with stoic gratitude.
Mayra chose to major in journalism after reading the feature article and deciding she could do better. A year later she won an internship at the local newspaper.
She interviewed Bill and discovered he was homeless again and unemployed. His breath reeked of vodka. She choked back her heartbreak, filed the story, and resolved to forget.
Two days later, she received an email.
Thank you so much for writing about Bill Arnolds. I’ve been searching for him for years. He’s my son.
Guilt
“Joe, get rid of that gum! You’re goin’ to church!”
Joe extracted the pink blob and smashed it into the coin slot of the parking meter, then ran to catch up with his mother.
His older sister Maggie scolded him. “That was nasty. God will get you for that.”
During Mass, Father Mayhew opened a birdcage and released two doves. As they escaped toward the open window, one defecated on Joe’s head.
Maggie elbowed him. “I told you. That was God.”
No, Joe thought, that was just a bird. And for that, he felt guiltier than he’d ever felt before.
Anna Zumbro
