River Poets Journal Special Edition

River Poets Journal
Special Edition - 2013
Tales From the
Matriarchal Zone
Hope by Gustav Klimt
A Collection of Poems, Prose, Fiction & Art
On the Women Who Shape Our Lives
2013 Volume 7 Issue 1
$20.00
2
River Poets Journal
Published by Lilly Press
www.riverpoetsjournal.com
Judith A. Lawrence,
Editor & Publisher
[email protected]
All future rights to material
published in the River Poets
Journal are retained by the
individual Authors/Artists and
Photographers
Special Edition- 2013
Volume 7 Issue 1
River Poets Journal
Special Edition 2013
Tales From the Matriarchal Zone
A Journal of Poetry, Prose, Fiction and Art
On the Women Who Shape Our Lives
Fiction/Prose/Memoir Page #
Tim Tobin
MD Duzguner
Linda Zurlo Procida
Marie Hartung
Jack Barry
Michelle Shin
Linda Langlois
Beate Sigriddaughter
Susan Tepper
Judith A. Lawrence
G. J. Schear
Sara-Beth Testerman
Jane Sloven
15
16-17
18-19
20-21
22-23
24-25
26
27
28-33
34-35
36-37
38-40
41-42
Poets
Paul Bernstein
Diane Webster
Savannah Grant
Gerald A. McBreen
Loretta Diane Walker
Joanne Faries
Phoebe Wilcox
a.d.winans
Ken Hada
Susan Dale
Linda J. Himot
Wendy Insinger
Mike Gallagher
Libby Swope Wiersema
Sigrun Susan Lane
Christina O.Phillips
Judith A. Lawrence
Shirley R. Wachtel
Ruth Z. Deming
Maria Wheeler
Margaret Ellis Hill
Sandy Hiortdahl
John Lambremont
Laura Rodley
Lorraine Henrie Lins
Carol Alexander
4
4
4
4
5
6
6
6
6
7
7
8
8
8&9
8
9
9
10
10
11
12
12
13
13
13
14
Mother and Child by Gustav Klimt
Editorial
Please Note
Dear Poets and Writers,
River Poets Journal is now published semi
-annually, the Spring/Summer issue and
The theme of mothers, grandmothers and the
the Fall/Winter issue.
women who shape our lives has long been in
my bucket list of things to publish.
The Special Edition of River Poets Journal
I looked forward to the submissions fully in is still published annually. The theme for
realization that there scarcely exists a writer 2014 will be announced in December, 2013
who has not written or intended to write about on the website.
this subject. I was not disappointed.
The poems, memoirs, and stories in this issue Now accepting longer stories under 5,000
are as diverse and many-layered as could be, words for submissions.
yet a common thread is sown between them.
Artists or Photographers - please submit
Selecting an artist proved to be more themed samples of your work.
daunting. After many considerations, I finally
chose Gustav Klimt, as his painting subjects
were predominately the women he loved and
surrounded himself with.
His images of tender, proud, luxurious,
sensuous women surrounded with the
symbolic tapestries of their lives, seemed to me
most appropriate for this issue.
Along the way in my search, I found a
relatively unknown artist I admire, Anne
Marie Zylberman, who is reminiscent of Klimt.
In fact a few of her works are often mistaken
for Klimt. I’ve included three of her paintings
in this issue.
I’ve also included a poem and memoir on my
two mothers, both who shaped my life, and in
many ways inspired the writer I became.
Lady with Fan by Gustav Klimt
Judith Lawrence, Editor
Upcoming Publications in 2013
The Spring/Summer 2013 issue of River Poets Journal is scheduled for August, 2013
publication. Submissions are open year round for the Spring/Summer and the
Autumn/Winter opened themed issues. Email your work embedded in the body of the
email or as a word attachment in simple format, Times New Roman, Arial, or Georgia
12 pt font, single spaced. Please remember to attach a short 3-4 line bio.
2
River Poets Journal Submission Guidelines
River Poets Journal Accepts:









New and Established Writers
Poetry - 3 to 6 poems
Short Stories - under 5,000 words
Flash Fiction - under 3,000 words
Essays - under 500 words
Short Memoir - under 1,000 words
Excerpts from novels that can stand on their own - under 3,000 words preferred
Art (illustrations and paintings) or Photography
Simultaneous and previously published “exceptional” poems are accepted as long as we know
where poems are being considered or have appeared.
We prefer:





Work that inspires, excites, feeds the imagination, rich in imagery; work that is memorable.
Work that is submitted in the body of an email or as a word attachment, but will accept work
through snail mail if the writer does not use a computer. Unselected snail mail submissions are
returned if Author requests and SASE is provided with sufficient postage.
When submitting work, please provide a short bio. Listing all your published work is not
required.
Previously being published is not a requirement for publication in our Journal. We love new
writers with great potential.
Send work in simple format, Times New Roman, Arial, Georgia 12 pt font, single spaced.
We do not accept:



Unsolicited reviews
Pornographic and blatantly vulgar language
Clichéd or over-sentimental poems or stories
Response time is:
3 to 6 months depending on time of year work is submitted. All submissions are thoroughly read.
River Poets Journal Print Edition:
$20.00 per issue plus media postage cost. Note: International shipping cost is $8.00. For ordering
multiple copies, please email me for exact cost to avoid overpaying postage. Payment accepted
through Paypal, Money Order or Check. Please do not send cash.
Contributor Copies: River Poets Journal issues are free in PDF format online for easy access. We
do not offer free contributor print copies with the exception of the featured poet, and featured artist/
photographer, as the printing cost would be too prohibitive for a small press.
3
Poetry
Prodigal
Mother Says Goodbye
Pity the poor mother left
with a heartbreak of roses
while I, lost child, wild seed
sprung from her forsaken ground,
romp in the cowboy west.
Drunk on mescaline sunsets,
bar bands and the toxic
scent of women, I spilled myself
into careless girls to the clashing
beat of blues guitars and my
unanswered phone, unmoved
by a father's grave or mommy's
homeless love.
Without a sound a hooded woman
materialized right out of the closed door.
She skirted around the foot of our bed.
I had to be dreaming, but I knew I wasn’t.
I was aware of my wife, soft and warm,
smelling of strawberry shampoo,
sleep breathing beside me.
My instinct was to wake her.
I wasn’t frightened.
I wanted a witness.
I let her sleep.
The visitor was my mother
come to say goodbye
Her three dimensional shadow unhurried
floated to my side of the bed.
I don’t know where the rocker came from.
Seated she began a slow hypnotic sway.
I had missed her funeral
partly under cover of weather
which gave me the excuse
of not being able to fly out of Seattle.
For years we had been at odds.
She lived the life she was dealt.
She wasn’t alcoholic.
She wasn’t a druggy.
She was overwhelmed.
I was born after her happier days
and paid the price.
We both did.
Now gently rocking without a word
She released the anger
so long a part of her life.
And freed me to let go
of the black ooze covering my soul.
“Forgive” is not the right word.
In spirit we accepted each other
made a connection that gave us peace.
And then
she was gone.
©Paul Bernstein
"Prodigal" appeared in Drown in My Own Fears
(online journal), Issue 16, 2011
Empty Bench
A lone wooden bench
lighted by a single streetlight
extends its arms like Mother
kneeling on the grass waiting
for her daughter to run into her hug
when all the daughter remembers
are slivers torturously dug out
like memories passing an empty bench.
©Diane Webster
Time Staggers
She is a cloud of flies:
her voice heard pleading,
flattened through wires—still
no distance; needle words
disguised; yes, mother,
the furtive way you send me
to a cliff.
©Savannah Grant
©Gerald A. McBreen
(Previously appeared in Bellowing ARK, Nov./Dec.
2007)
4
Poetry
The Help’s Daughter
What does it feel like to raise a white child when your own child’s at home being looked after by someone
else? From “The Help” -- Kathryn Stockett - “The Help’s Daughter“ was first published in Illya’s Honey
Feelings were commodities sealed in dented cans,
sold in ten for a dollar baskets at “Safeway.”
Too extravagant for a husbandless woman
with seven mouths to feed.
Had she taken the time to open them,
each of us would have died
from poverty’s rusted toxins.
Sitters were luxuries afforded to those with incomes
above government cheese and powered milk.
We guarded each other with the ferocity of a Doberman.
Before leaving to clean other people’s houses
and wipe the little boss’ feet,
she divvied up chores as though they were an inheritance
and instructed, Don’t leave the yard.
But each child stepped off the sidewalk,
crossed the muddied lines of disobedience and adventure,
left to move about in the world.
At times, we half swept the floors, sloshed Pine Sol
scented water while mopping, left Comet streaks
on the back of the toilet bowl.
We folded the towels but stuffed underwear in the drawers,
fought over whose turn it was to do the dishes,
take clothes off the line and who ate the last cookie.
No one ever tattled and our prepared speeches for absolution
were cleaning rags we never used.
Portrait of a Lady by Gustav Klimt
Now, without debate, we use her rags to wipe dust
she can no longer see, mop floors with the precision
of a Swiss watch maker, wash dishes and fold her laundry
as though this was our design in life— to tidy up her illness.
This evening when darkness comes out of retirement,
I hear my brothers talking to my sister on the cell phone,
moving through the house as though motion is a cure.
Mom sits on the towel covered toilet seat and says,
Diane, you’ll have to go faster than this. I’m cold,
as I smooth cream over her frail body.
I will my hands to move faster, but caution creeps
in my fingers, causes me to slow once again.
Before slipping the lilac cotton gown over her thin body,
I examine the testament of scars on her stomach
stretched into the lives of six children.
Her wrinkled veined skin conceals seventy eight years of living.
My eyes are glued to her back as though it is a magnet
pulling me through amazement.
There is no evidence of aging, diabetes, dialysis, decline,
and the desperate blows of survival.
It’s smooth and clear, transparent as the moment she began
teaching us to live without her.
Water Nymphs/Silverfish by Gustav Klimt
©Loretta Diane Walker
5
Poetry
The Passenger
Poem for My Grandmother
red lights flashed, arms swung into place
crowds murmured, edged closer to the track
leaning to peer around the bend
I held Dad’s hand, stood tiptoe
whoosh, the silver liner slowed to a halt
we jostled positions, eagerly watched riders alight
A swirling mist blows through my eyes
Fills me with strange notions
Brings me back to my childhood
How the devil demons invaded my head
Chasing mad dinosaurs through dark alleys
Pausing to drink from my thirsty lips
All knowledge passed on down to me
By well- meaning parents
Who insisted dinosaurs didn’t exist
Grandmother was eaten alive
By one
She knew what I meant
sturdy black shoes, that’s what I sought
two small feet, two short legs
one white haired woman in her travel coat
Christmas pin gleamed on the collar
fresh perm covered by a plastic rain bonnet
conductor guided her down the steps
set two bags on the platform
Dad released my hand
“Nana”
crinkled smile, wrinkled face
gnarled fingers
chucked me under the chin
admired my gap-toothed grin
promised to read to me
today, when I hear a train whistle
I’m on that platform
bundled in my pink snowsuit
snowflakes swirl, anticipation
waiting for the train
my favorite passenger
waiting for my nana
©Joanne Faries
The Laws of Physics
© a.d.winans
Dressing Catfish
Grandma dressed catfish,
that’s how she said it.
Her large calloused hands gripped
pliers and the head
and pulled hard in opposite directions
until the skin grudgingly yielded
to her strength.
Then she grabbed her butcher knife,
the one she used to dress chickens,
that’s how she said it,
and slit the belly
and circumspectly fingered out entrails
under a running spigot
before she finally chopped off the head.
Those virile death-hands holding
firm the soft slippery victims,
those same hands that touched
my fevered forehead,
patted my sunburned shoulders.
Mother,
Inconsistent in contact
But not in love.
In a world
So fickle and cunning
She trusts her children
Second only
To the sun's rising.
©Ken Hada
Previously published in The Way of the Wind,
Village Books Press, 2008
©Phoebe Wilcox
6
Poetry
Leaving To Promises
Perfect Pout
If she left when spring was arriving
What does that say about life?
For while we were committing her to eternity
Violets were unfurling their purple capes
My mother-in-law visits once a year –
finds some minor misunderstanding,
mistake in obeisance, misconstrued
metaphor to demonstrate her special talent.
But how do we accept the thrust of blossoms
On bare branches
And the smiles of daffodils
At the same time
Mom was taking her place
On a high hilltop
Where the winds of heaven
Were meeting the promises mom could not break
Off she goes – bed - pristine white cotton
scarf wrapped tight around her head –
face to the wall – like a giant baby
suffering from anaclitic depression.
Nor could we halt the jubilant feet of spring
Dancing into our collective sorrow
©Susan Dale
White Sheets
White sheets rough, crisp
fresh from the line outside
fill my mother’s laundry basket
weigh down her arms, compress her lips.
No whistle for the canary
as she passes by his perch.
Knitted brow, gray hair.
A stray curl the only hint of abandon
that sends her out to the street
to jump rope, double Dutch, figure eights,
dress bobbing blue forget-me-nots
as I stand open-mouthed,
Days pass – rigid, refusing food
or drink, eyes closed – she lies there.
Her pink granite-flesh presence
above the kitchen makes me
burn toast, slice my fingers, forget
to salt stew – until, unable to tolerate
the weight on my neck and shoulders –
I relent – buy the quilt she wants,
talk my husband into a trip to Niagara Falls –
coax – plead – beg her to do me,
the favor she has demanded. Slowly –
sighing – she rises – steps into
the soap and salt steamy bath I have drawn,
takes from my trembling hands,
the bone china cup – her favorite –
tea – steeped blood brown, two sugars –
and I – stumble back from the room,
beads of rage, humiliation and awe
pour from my brow. I promise myself –
next year I will outlast her.
©Linda J. Himot
wishing I could command the switch,
keep her ever nimble, light-hearted.
©Linda J. Himot
Portrait of a Lady in White by Gustav Klimt
7
Poetry
Garbage Trucks
Perinatal Matrix I
Why
Do garbage trucks
Always remind me of my grandmother?
I would sit on the porch
With her and watch
Their high, wide, red snouts
Cruising down Lakeview Avenue
In speckled clouds of flies.
Their powerful motors
Snorting like wild pigs
As they gathered up and carted away all
That was useless,
Everything we did not want to see again,
Everything that was a mess.
And my grandmother sat
Beside me on the porch steps,
Her arm around my waist,
As we gobbled fresh raspberries,
And swayed in the lake breezes,
Safe and sweet-smelling and fresh
As the billowing display of clean laundry
Drying in the summer afternoon sunlight.
What I want before you go: To fall
back into you, flutter beneath the cathedral
of your ribs, the sepulchral warmth
where first I floated, sink like a pit
into that place where you began
me all those years ago – a whorl
lodged between your hips –
safe from the sorrow
coughed into the paper
white of your palm,
the rattled breath that curls
my heart to a fist, the look
pulling my ear to your lips
so you can whisper
the last things you
will ever say
to me.
©Wendy Insinger
Shrámore Strand
You rested on a low-slung wall by the salmon weir.
Your close-curl perm caught blue-rinse rays
from arching sun,
strayed far from the path to Shrámore strand,
our errant quest.
We could never keep the easy road, you or I; always
rummaging through byways, searching,
not for the new, but for what had been lost.
Old sheepdog toddling past the lens;
focus fades.
At pilgrim's feet, lake waters lap
Shrámore's lonesome strand
on this, another Mother's Day.
© Mike Gallagher
©Libby Swope Wiersema
A Grandmother Dreams
She dreams the infant,
visits memories of her own time,
remembers the first small flutters.
Soon she will croon old songs,
whisper blessings over the baby’s head,
throw rose petals into the air.
She will learn spellcraft, draw
a cut apple over the mother’s belly,
bury half in the garden,
that the child will never go hungry.
For pain, a silver knife under the bed.
She will burn pine candles,
open all the doors, undo every lock,
untie all knots, that the baby
come quickly.
©Sigrun Susan Lane
8
Poetry
Melt
Marmalade Stories
We believed we could just take off
and land in womanhood, skipping
like a needle on a 45 to the best part of the song.
When I was a child
breakfast for my sister and I
was a huge cup of tea
laced with a generous portion
of Borden's evaporated canned milk,
to dunk thick crusts of re-baked bread
spread with marmalade,
all embellished with
a short plump Zia Maria
dressed perpetually in mourning
telling recycled Abruzzi village stories
full of unrequited love and consequences
to her rapt audience,
the tale never ending,
a new beginning each morning.
Lingering in our room in the mornings,
we plotted ways to mimic
Mother’s most mysterious arts –
The painted, arched brows,
the burgundy lips that left their feathery print
on the paper of her cigarette,
the magenta of her nails filed to blunt arrows.
We begged Aunt Jane, an Avon lady,
for rosy buds of lipstick samples, for waxy
sticks of Hawaiian White Ginger to coat our wrists,
and even took sooty nubs of No. 2 pencils to our eyes.
Our garishness masked the gifts
we already carried but could not see:
Mother’s angular bones resting in the dove of my cheek,
her buoyancy in your sienna hair flipped to a wing.
We aimed to melt into her one day, like the red
Crayons we fed through the Easy Bake Oven,
our fingers braving a blistering dip in the cake pan
to make us some nails like Mama’s.
©Libby Swope Wiersema
Abuela’s Food
In vain I’ve tried to imitate
all the tastes you used to create,
the Mexican sabors we ate.
In vain I’ve tried to imitate,
but my versions are not as great
as what you would put on my plate.
In vain I’ve tried to imitate
all the tastes you used to create.
©Christina Ortega Phillips
“Behind the mirror, behind the wall,
stood a man.”
“Now if you keep quiet,
I'll tell you a story.”
In the afternoons
the aroma of pasta sauce
simmered on the back burner
of the old black iron stove,
while split loaves of bread
filled with peppers and eggs
were served with
large goblets of wine
on a plain square wood table
covered with a red and white
checkered vinyl tablecloth,
accompanied by Italian operas,
the old radio trumped up full volume
mingled with the rowdy off key arias
of us three.
Many years ago
Zia Maria was buried
with her rosaries,
high pitched sonatas,
and Scheherazade stories.
©Judith A. Lawrence
9
Poetry
Betty
Silent as a sunbeam
You come when I am sipping coffee
You slip through my open window
How many years? How many years?
You come when I am sipping coffee
You come when I am at the mirror
How many years? How many years?
Your hand a veil brushing back my hair
You come when I am at the mirror
Pushing my way through a crowd
Your hand a veil brushing back my hair
I feel your arm weaving through mine
Pushing my way through a crowd
Driving alone I turn on the music
I feel your arm weaving through mine
And hear your laughter echo,
stirring melody like a golden spoon
Driving alone I turn on the music
When I pray you whisper at my ear
And hear your laughter echo
stirring melody like a golden spoon
When I dream it is your face which flickers
across my eyes
When I pray you whisper at my ear
This world offers no escape, no exit sign, no secret door
When I dream it is your face which flickers
across my eyes
For you come sometimes even in my smile, my voice
This world offers no escape, no exit sign, no secret door
I turn and write a poem, a word, words
For you come sometimes even in my smile, my voice
And I am afraid to linger in the moment
I turn and write a poem, a word, words
Gratitude is no longer mine to keep
And I am afraid to linger in the moment
All sent in sighs, flowers at the doorstep
Gratitude is no longer mine to keep
Silent as a sunbeam
All sent in sighs, flowers at the doorstep
You slip through my open window.
©Shirley Russak Wachtel
Saying Goodbye to
Grace Catherine Deming
a silent ache
when she leaves
alone in her carseat
while Mom-mom drives her home
she watches me blow kisses
through the back window
strapped in,
prisoner to her elders
both grandmothers will leave first
snatched without mercy
useless to cling to our lost darlings who
will forget us like
last night’s dreams
what’s to remember about Bubby?
because I say, Grace this is a daisy,
how do you like my new birdbath?
it is I who want to tag along
after death
want to be with her
listen to her laugh
meet her friends
guard her when she swims
teach her to ride no-handed on a bike
put her on the plane
when she travels to Rome
I will be there to see all things
at least today I believe it,
tomorrow may be different
as my parachute falls silently
to the poppy fields
and nothing is left but
an indentation in the soil.
©Ruth Z. Deming
10
Poetry
Oma in My Memory
Of you and your Woolworth swatter
Onion and cucumber sings
From your pores wide with sweat
I nuzzled once
In the pit of you and your wet bosom
And on mountains while you tended to
My braids licked tight and my face moist.
Of sliced dark bread
A gelatinous plate and Leberkasse
He storms in and waits
You’re down on your knees –
I think you’re soft and frail
But he smacks your backside anyhow
As if nothing has changed but the octave of your laugh
Except the looming sky from one hour
To the next season
I sleep under white roses knotted
And symmetrical
A white bible too and a palm frond,
A boar’s hair brush boiled and placed
Directly where it should be.
In the tidy garden he pulls grubs from the rhubarb
Radish from the thick and imagines them later
The Sunflower by Gustav Klimt
With vinegar and salt and black socks on the arm chair
His ankles spin his giant feet in windmills or asleep
Legs flopped on a hassock and a cherry stump at his lips then he stands
And approaches again
And you with your blue swatter at the heavy sliding door
Your toes in chrome and your hips at his lap as he grapples
With your shirt ironed and starched and tucked
And pinched into your soft waist.
Will you be remembered with your swatter
Or the bright odor that lingers
In my kitchen
Or as when you were chaste and cloaked
Before birthing my uncle before
Eyeing iridescent annoyances?
Before meandering – strolling along the creek and coming
Back hot with incense and full of Catholic hope?
Oma swats his giant palms and salts his sliced radishes,
Garden Path With Chickens by Gustav Klimt
Licks her fingers and presses the braids - she
Fans the giant pores and then pulls off his socks.
©Maria Wheeler
11
Poetry
The Dancing Dress
December Blue Moon
Looking out the window
as dawn comes up
like steam from hot coffee,
I watch long willow branches
wave in morning light.
Reminds me of gramma’s
favorite dancing dress.
I found it years ago
tissued in her cedar chest.
In the winter’s eve glow of the
McDonald’s, snow drifts, swirls
While the world beyond smiles,
Orders its fries from the drive through.
I stand and watch from the porch door
Feel the sense of franchise warmth,
Of belonging to suburbia.
She takes me by the hand--we sit on black velvet
carpet fringed with stars,
waiting for moon rise
and I listen to stories-how the long fringe waved
like willow branches
as she danced, beguiling
all the men, and grandpa,
And the moon high
on the sky ceiling,
became a mirrored ball,
lighting up her face,
and I watched her dance
to the music.
My coffee is cold.
I smile watching the breeze
play music through the willows
and I dance in her dress
and sway with the fringe.
©Margaret Ellis Hill
Half mile down this silent road,
My mother sleeps in the I.C.U.,
Where I have left her to come here—
To be away from the fluorescence, the
Blipping beeping whirring machinery
Which monitors her every sign—
And commune with the wintry outside,
Like some plastic lady in a snow globe
From within this globe, I think of you,
Gone so long so far from me,
Worlds and time zones away,
…Though here at the porch door
When I squint I see a tiny silver car,
Appear suddenly in my plastic drive
And we are both in the snow globe.
I stare and remember you there.
© Sandy Hiortdahl
(Previously published 2003 in Margaret’s poetry
book, “Close Company” by PoetWorks Press).
Painting by Anne Marie Zylberman
Death and Life by Gustav Klimt
12
Poetry
In Quietude
A Confession About My Mother’s Sister
In nausea in a hung-over bed,
in stacks of books as yet unread,
in reverie of morning’s dreams,
in contemplation of future dread,
in reams of film I’ve still not seen,
indifferent to the tasks ahead, I’m
inconsequential with an aching head.
When he said his aunt was a nun,
all I could think about was my own aunt
and all the Christmas parties they’d host
where my uncle would snipe at her over
his cigarette and tumbler of iced scotch
and how she would stand there in the crowd
of her living room wearing a black
pantsuit and heels, swiping the air at him
as if that would clear the words that hung
there, forgive the wound of his bite.
In an estate sale three years late,
in boxes I can’t bear to pack,
in furniture I cannot move,
in a house that can’t be sold,
in a sister’s gentle scolds,
I lie in bed, hid in the folds;
and, you know,
we argued constantly,
and were never really close
until the end.
We were far too much alike;
her half of me has now flown.
©John Lambremont
Fortitude
She was at the hospital the morning
my father died, and though she sat
in the visitor’s chair two beds over
silently praying her way through
the beads of her rosary I was annoyed
at her intrusive arrival, thinking it should
only be my brother and I there,
holding the hand that was holding on,
but then, when it was over, and the doctor
put his stethoscope bell to my father’s slack
chest, intently watching a spot on the unchanging
beige of the hospital room wall,
it was my mother’s sister who told me
that it was okay to let go, I could let go.
©Lorraine Henrie Lins
Fortitude is a chocolate maroon
A gingerbread house, a slice
Of meatloaf, the comfort foods
We used to eat, how marmalade
Is a taste we can bank on,
Its orange sweetness, tart
Unlike Tang, the breakfast drink
Touted by Nanny, so easy
Just to stir in water and serve
No mess, squeezing half oranges
On the glass squeezer or placing
The half orange in the metal
Mouth of the juice squeezer
And lowering down the metal arms
Catching its orange liquid
In a cup, so quickly gone
Sweetness upon your tongue
©Laura Rodley
Painting by Anne Marie Zylberman
13
Poetry
Journey by Rail
So far I’ve come for you, girl in black brassiere,
drinking from the quad’s sweet April air-turning the pages, heavy eyed, smoothing the sheets,
humming as the secret Friday pleasures loom.
Cradled rocking of the cars, passive voice of the day
soothes and stirs us in the journey overland.
On the old subcontinent the rackety trains derail
and bodies hurtle sideways through the air
(while we are mostly confident of getting to our ends)
and under the wheels some mouse or vole is crushed,
a few grains in its mouth for a brood's small meal.
Past the smoking ash pits, those of us no longer green
appraise the first raw tints on the land, mourning:
how many Aprils more until the fire or the stone?
We didn't think in those Socratic days of dust
or cups of poison brewed and poured for only us.
Passing the house, half-built, some hewer of stone began
Gold teardrop by Anne Marie Zylberman
but had to leave undone in piles of pale dollar signs,
passing the gray Connecticut towns, costly sporting fields
where pimpled children lunge and leap, ungirded against pain—
not all, but much destruction in those years will heal,
and I form the greedy wish, the mother's plaintive scree,
for your invincibility, for some miraculous reprieve.
My frail mother, half a life ago, knelt by the trembling bed
and swore that death was not, or nearly vanquished in a tube.
The night will come when eager journeys out or inward end,
and you will pass the grizzled towns and fields alone-or with some lover wedded to his narrative of loss.
For now, we’ll meet at stations in the rain
which, unexpected, prinks the park and avenues:
you, carrying this leaden bag with such rude ease,
I pointing out first green, first pale furling leaves
on the spiky hedges, the rows of frail, deciduous trees.
©Carol Alexander
Apple Tree by Gustav Klimt
14
Amelia by Tim Tobin
Amelia. That was my grandmother’s name. It still is her name I suppose. She visits me
frequently, both in dreams and while I am awake. The visits began when I was a child. Of course I
was scared the first time she appeared. She had to be just a dream, I told myself. But with the soft
touch of her hand, she reminded me of the stories she had read to me and of the lake and my father
returning from WWII. She had to be my real grandmother.
She asked me to finish a job for her. The aneurism had taken her quickly, before she had a
chance to return her library books. Please do this for me, she had asked me back then. I cannot rest
until they are back where they belong. It is the honest thing to do. If you forget, she smiled at me, I’ll
come back and haunt you until you do. I promised her I would.
The books were on her nightstand and were overdue by a couple of weeks. The fine would be
twenty-five cents. I shook some coins out of my piggy bank and headed to the door. But then I
thought better of it and put the books in my room.
That night Grandma was back scolding me for not returning the books. So I made a deal with
her. I’d take them back tomorrow if she would read me a story. Her eyes twinkled at my mischief but
she read me my story. Naturally, I did not return the books the next day.
That was fifty years ago. Grandma had been visiting me ever since. Tonight was different
though. She took my ageing hands in hers and told me it was time. She had stalled long enough and
if I did not take the books back soon, I might beat her home! I cried like a small child. She held me
tight and hushed me. It won’t be too long she told me. She said she loved me and began to shimmer.
And like a summer breeze, Grandma was gone.
I dug the books out of an old box in the back of my closet. I chuckled when I thought of what
the fine would be now. But I did take them back. Grandma was right. It was the honest thing to do.
(Amelia originally appeared on the Wherever It Pleases web site on May 19, 2012)
Tree of Life by Gustav Klimt
15
Claudette’s Lovely Dementia by MD Duzguner
My great grandmother Claudette was well into her nineties when she developed something I
called a "lovely dementia." While the loss of a loved one’s mental faculties is almost always very
upsetting, Claudette’s forays into a world of her own creation seemed more and more to be a
delightful departure from a world that could be very cruel and cold.
A true-blooded French Canadian, my great grandmother had immigrated to the United States
in her early twenties from rural Quebec. Claudette spoke in a lilting, singsong accent and was prone
to lapse back into her native French when she was nervous or excited. She had dark, smiling eyes and
flawless, milky skin that seemed to defy age marks and wrinkles. She had a full head of the most
marvelous white waves that she kept covered under her "house hat", which looked remarkably like a
floral, felt-lined shower cap. I remember she always smelled sweet, like fresh sugar cookies and she
hugged you as if she had not seen you in ages, no matter the frequency of your visits. She had special
nicknames for everyone, short little French terms of endearment that would roll off her musical
tongue with an obvious affection.
Claudette never raised her voice, delivered a harsh word or missed a day of church. She baked
soft, heavenly loaves of white bread and harbored an addiction to Wilson’s boxed chocolates, which
she playfully called “wishes”. I can remember sitting through visits with my siblings, waiting for that
pivotal moment when she would suddenly pause the conversation, lean forward in her chair, wink at
you and ask, “Madame, would you like a wish?”
She’d clap her hands with delight and jump up from her padded rocker. In a flash she’d be
back, standing over you while you scrutinized the selections of crèmes and caramels, all the while
watching you and grinning. You had to pick wisely because one shot was all you got until the next
visit, whether you liked your "wish" or not. She seemed as elated by the ritual as we children were.
Aside from my ailing great grandfather's company, Claudette had two French poodles, Fefé
and Paso. The Fefe had died by the time I was a teenager but Paso diligently followed at my
grandmother's heels for years. He was her faithful servant and sole companion long after her
husband passed away. In the end, Paso was blind, deaf and could barely get around, but she still
spoke to him kindly, reaching down to lovingly caress his head as she rocked and conversed with her
visitors.
My great grandmother had a penchant for puzzles, the challenging ones with thousands of
pieces. We used to bring her a new one whenever we would visit; finding it nearly completed the next
time around. Whenever we would come over there would be one of these spread out on the wide
maple table and we would all take turns trying to fit pieces into the right places. It must have been
heartbreaking when her eyesight failed. She had to stop making the puzzles, but she kept every single
one. Years after her death, my aunts opened her storage shed only to find hundreds of puzzles
16
Claudette’s Lovely Dementia by MD Duzguner
stacked to the ceiling of the narrow building.
The tough Canadian blood running through Claudette’s veins must have made her indelible to
illness. I never remember her getting sick, no matter how hard or bleak the New England winters
could be. When my father installed an above-ground pool, my great grandmother was often the very
first one in and the last one still swimming when the autumn winds came rushing in. I recall
watching her make her way up the driveway dressed in her suit and bright blue bathing cap, a towel
draped over her arm. The sun had scarcely been up for ten minutes and though the water had to be
freezing, she would lower herself into it without the slightest hesitation. My great grandmother loved
that pool and those morning swims seemed to bring her a special peace. When she would float, her
face tilted up into the sunlight, there was always a serene smile on her beautiful face.
When her frailty became a cause for concern, Claudette was moved into a local home for the
elderly. She was such a spark compared to the aged and lethargic patients around her. She was
regularly sighted, gliding through the halls in her wheelchair cheerily calling out a musical, “A-low!”
to anyone within range. Dressed to the nines she'd float amongst the residents in the dining hall.
She'd insist upon stopping at each and every table, greeting her fellow diners and inquiring politely,
"and what are wee 'aving Princess?"
Sometimes Claudette would be waiting for you to arrive, anxious to tell you about the meal she
was preparing that day for the Pope. A devoted catholic, she harbored a sincere adoration for his
Eminence. On one particular visit she told me she was very busy. She explained, in a voice ripe with
childish excitement, that she had to find the right shoes and make brownies for the Pope. Smiling
secretly, Claudette beckoned me close and proceeded to tell me how much the Pope loved her
brownies, as if she was imparting to me the most important trade secret known to mankind.
Claudette was sharp and tuned-in when she was lucid. She knew about what was happening in
the world around her. She rarely spoke of such things though; more apt to focus her attention and
concerns on her family, managing to steer clear of the pettiness and drama that plagued us at times.
My grandmother seemed immune from so much of the bad and ugliness of life. Time spent in her
presence could make you feel inoculated from that ugliness, if only for a little while. It was no wonder
that in her lovely dementia, the world rolled on happily, offering up countless opportunities for
health and contentment. I consider it a gift from God that while the war raged on in the middle east,
Claudette could still smile and hum an old French lullaby while she baked another batch of brownies
for her Pope.
17
The Burial Dress by Linda Zurlo Procida
Every Wednesday I have lunch with my grandparents. After lunch it’s my job to fill
Grandmom’s pill container, all 28 compartments, a week of drugs at a glance. This has become my
job because Grandmom sometimes has a tendency toward over or under-medicating herself. It’s a
delicate balance between the two, and a responsibility I handle with the utmost care.
My father arrives daily, at noon. Grandmom makes sure the table is set and Dad’s coffee pot is
fixed ready to go. She tends to dote more on men, and her son-in-law is no exception. It’s 11:45; she
and I lift the table and pull it away from the wall. One person used to be able to slide the table across
the floor, but now it takes two people to carefully lift it because its iron legs have grown weak with
age. Grandmom loves her recovered lime green chairs with their delicate white iron roses below the
backrests, and the Formica table with its gold scrollwork on every corner. The roses repeat
themselves on the corner brackets that connect the tabletop to the rickety legs. Grandmom swears
the table will last as long as she does; trouble is I don’t think she expected to last so long.
Dad shows up right on time. His curly salt and pepper hair is disheveled from the brisk winter
winds, but his uniform is crisp and starched. Both Mom and Grandmom are loyal ironers;
unfortunately this devotion did not pass down to me. Ever since my Labrador retriever Norton ate
my ironing board cover, I have completely resigned myself from the task of ironing and it is my
husband who suffers from this lack of domesticity.
We gather around the table in our regular seats. Dad chooses ham, and I choose turkey for my
sandwich. Grandmom nibbles at a cracker claiming that she’s dieting. She’s very obsessive about her
weight; however; I know her secret; chocolate coconut patties, Hershey kisses, and a Whitman
Sampler all stashed away in the top drawer of the old bureau in the back bedroom. Sometimes she
overdoes it and then has to repent for her sins, today’s penance four crackers and a glass of water.
Only Grandmom and I know where the chocolate is hidden. She knows that I am a mild to moderate
chocoholic, but I guess she figures that I live far enough away that I won’t deplete her supply. Dad
and Grandpop, both severe chocoholics, and considered a threat to the supply, are not privy to the
secret.
Grandpop sits to my right and is putting pickled herring on his plate, he has some crackers,
and now he cuts a piece from the block of extra sharp cheddar cheese. As he slices the block of
cheese, the table shakes and I wonder if it will make it through another meal. “Try this!” Grandpop
says as he thrusts a generous spoonful of pickled fish toward me.
“Eeeeew no, not with turkey, besides it smells!” I tell him.
“Leave her alone Marty.” Grandmom scolds Grandpop. “And you took entirely too much
cheese, put some back!” We call Grandmom the food police. She always takes note of what everyone
18
The Burial Dress by Linda Zurlo Procida
eats, especially obese people, but in Grandpop’s case it’s out of love; he’s had heart trouble and a
couple of strokes. We’re still lucky he has his wits about him. He gripes and snaps at Grandmom,
then reluctantly puts the cheese back on the platter.
Dad, Grandpop, and I are eating our lunch and deeply involved in a conversation regarding
town history and politics. Grandmom is used to being the center of attention. She looks thoroughly
bored because we’re absorbed in our conversation and not her. She finished her four crackers and
tottles off down the hallway. We haven’t noticed she was gone until she returns.
Grandmom stands in the kitchen doorway holding the wine colored dress she wore to cousin
Michael’s wedding. She holds the dress up to her shoulders and loudly blurts. “This is the dress I
want to be buried in.” We all look up at Grandmom as a puff of silence fills the air. Grandmom once
again succeeds in getting our attention. “Hey Grandmom, why don’t you put on the dress, lie on the
couch, and close your eyes so we can see what you’ll look like.” Good God, did I just say that out
loud. I’m getting as brazen as Grandmom, I thought to myself. I carefully watched Grandmom. At
first her eyes widened in surprise, then the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and finally
exploded into a full grin. “Come on Grams, I’ll fill your pill container and you can get us some
chocolate.”
Ria Munk On Her Death Bed by Gustav Klimt
19
In Considering My Mother by Marie Hartung
Tell us about your pain.
This is what the sign says in my hospital, everywhere on some wall near where I am told to sit
and describe my condition. The sign says using a pain scale is helpful to describe how much pain I
feel. The picture depicts three scales. The sign implores me to use the one that works best. Which
one works for me might depend on the hum of my car motor, the rain outside, how exhausted I feel. I
consider what the word pain means. With so many choices, I wonder if there is a wrong answer.
Choose a number 1 – 10, from no pain to worst pain.
Number ten says I am in the worst pain. Number zero says I have no pain at all. I think about
whether there is ever zero pain.
In the first twenty-two years I didn’t know you existed but I had an inkling because I dreamt
many nights about a missing brother. Then, years later when I uncovered you as my original
mother, I also found my brother that you had raised. You told me why you picked him over me, why
I was sent afloat from you and the life I never lived. It was just easier to keep the child you already
had, you said, than to give him away for one you didn’t know. But your words stuck like scotch tape - sort of, barely and transparent. For a few years, all between us was re-found, like a set of lost keys,
a phone number jotted on a scrap paper, or the return of a high school lover. But one day, you
stopped talking to me, the real talking two people can do. Like the dreams about my long lost
brother, I would wake in mornings haunted by your apparition. If something is lost once, it gets one
number, but what number do you give a thing when it’s lost a second time?
Choose the face that best describes how you feel
The faces are funny, plain, without hair, almost comical, like stick figure faces I might have
drawn at age six. On one end of the scale the eyes are round, open – almost surprised. On the other
end, three tears tell me the face is sad. There’s no middle picture for ambivalence. I wonder if there
should be another picture past the sad one, although, I am unsure how to draw it.
In the paused darkness of my house before the sun wakes, I open AOL hoping for an email
from you. You haven’t responded to me in nearly seven days, even though in a message you sent
20
In Considering My Mother by Marie Hartung
months ago you said how disappointed you were in me for never replying promptly to your emails.
You seemed to stop short then of writing me off. You didn’t sign that message with love. I didn’t
reply, not knowing what to say. I have never known immediately what to say to you. If you had been
here – and it’s been four years since you visited –my facial expression might have explained it
better. You would see the look of a devoted little girl, of a daughter regretful for never being who you
wanted, of an adult layered with the penetration of indifference. I wonder, as I stare at my blinking
cursor, if I have failed you since the day I was born.
Choose the word that best describes your pain.
The markers on the sign go from “Worst Pain” to “No Pain.” It’s not lost on me that each is
two words, not one. Pain cannot be simplified or expressed unilaterally.
Lost. Unraveled. Immense. Catastrophic. Unbearable. I realize this is five words. Can I say
five words? Will they all make sense bundled together as in a knapsack carried endlessly on the
back, on the valves of a heart pumping through the effort of the burden? Is one word enough, ever,
to describe the constant searing of separated flesh, somewhere under the skin?
We keep our charade of love alive by hanging it on the bare framework of typed words,
dislodged as sliced fatty skin from meat. If I ask, what did I do wrong? - like I have already - I
know the silence means you have no answer for me. It is our empty sounds that fill the chasm of so
many lost years. How we both might wish we could go back and change time on that nursery clock,
change the minutes we could together unfurl. What word would we have then? Or would we simply
choose a face, one where the lines could move up or down ever so subtly that you could only see the
difference in your sleep?
Baby by Gustav Klimt
21
Homecoming by Jack Barry
From my earliest memories there was an altar in our bedroom. It was the Virgin Mary in her
blue and white robes, palms turned outward, guarded by plump cherubs holding rosary beads and
scapula's. The altar was about twelve inches wide and tall with places for red votive candles on each
side. Those candles hadn’t been lit since my sister started a fire when I was an infant and she was
three. There was speculation she wanted to get rid of me. An old post card leaned against Mary’s
inviting hands. It was a photo of the Three Sisters. Three promontories standing firm against the
fierce North Atlantic hovering above a handful of farms on the rough western edge of Ireland. The
profile of those dark hills in that postcard was imprinted on me, imprinted in my soul, as firmly as a
gosling looking for its mother.
In the early years of the last century, three sisters, Josephine, my mother Elizabeth (Bett) and
Catherine Landers were born in the shadow of those hills, a place of hard weather and hard living-no electricity, phones, cars, or even running water. One by one, in their early twenties, the three
sisters left their home to make their way in America, Josephine the oldest first. They followed a path
well worn born of the potato famine and the hundred year Irish Diaspora that followed. As my
mother often said: “Goodbye Old Ireland I’m going to Cork!” From Cork they crossed by boat, made
it through Ellis Island, and on to Hartford Connecticut.
Their brother Tomas, the oldest son, stayed behind to take care of the farm and the old folks.
Each sister helped the next get started in their new country. Their first jobs were as maids and cooks
in wealthy homes. I remember my mother still speaking with a hint of awe about sticking a string in
the wall and feeling the iron get hot.
A few years after leaving, my mother returned, walking the forty miles of dirt road through the
night from Tralee to her home. She returned to take care of her mother who suffered a long
agonizing death from pleurisy. Throughout, my mother feared she would not be able to get back in
the States. She referred to this time as the time of her breakdown. But she had walked that forty
miles in her dress shoes. She was tough without knowing it.
Almost fifty years after she left, a bus took my mother, my friend Jeffrey and I over the rise
between the town of Dingle and the hamlet of Ballincolla. There as the sun sank into the sea, casting
long shadows and rich color, the Dingle peninsula spread before us pointing west, pointing to
America, the next parish. The Three sisters rose before me exactly where they should have been.
Only this time instead of sepia a vigorous green. This time real. I had been here before although it
was my first time in Ireland.
My mother smoked a pipe, used Parodi cigars for tobacco, loved boiled pig’s feet, had a rich
brogue and used Gaelic to discuss grownup matters with her sisters. She never made much of her
Irishness. I took these things for granted just as I took her unconditional love for granted. This was
the beginning of a trip where I found my mother, who she was before I was. I discovered a life, a
place, a race that was part of me without my knowing.
This was a place of beauty and magic - a place of the open door, close community and
extended families. People had to be there for each other in order to survive - and they did survive they flourished. Their wealth was in their language, their stories, their music, their laughter. This is
not the romantic idyll of the country-born (US born) returning to his imagined roots. The harsh sea,
barren land, long dark winters, dreams lost, the curse of drink were there all right. But those cold
facts only made the magic all the more magic.
22
Homecoming by Jack Barry
The plan was to drop my mother off to stay with her brother Tomas. Jeffrey and I were going
to stay a day or two then hitchhike and sail to Sweden to pick up a Saab already bought and paid for
in the states ($2,400), then drive around Europe, ship the car home from Amsterdam and return to
Ireland to bring my mother back to the states. The only problem was, until I got there, I hadn’t
realized Ireland was my real destination.
When I woke up that first morning still feeling the effects of jet lag and a missed night’s sleep,
my mother had already been up for hours. I am not sure she slept at all that first night. I joined her
and Tomas heading out to visit the neighbors. As we walked up the lane we saw a tall but stooped old
man driving some heifers to another pasture. My mother turned to her brother and asked “Is that
Tom Long?”
“Tis”
My mother called up the lane “Hey Tom, Conas ta do thoin.” (Hey Tom! How’s your ass?)
Tom Long was well into his nineties. You could still see the handsome and powerful man he
had been. He leaned on his cane, gathering his remaining dignity, turned slowly and straightened up
“Neadar faoi mo thoin ach ta an chuid eile dom lan do tinis cnamha.” (I don’t know about my ass but
the rest of me is riddled with rheumatism).
As my mother explained to me later, back in the day, Tom Long, several years older than the
three sisters was a bit of a rogue and used to pinch their behinds. Jeffrey and I were already on our
way to Sweden when Tom Long died a few days later. I doubt it had much to do with resurrecting
those long forgotten memories, but, I’m somehow glad they were returned to him. Uncle Tomas
being the eldest in the village shaved him.
The good thing about hitch hiking in Ireland, at least back then, was that everyone in a
passing car makes eye contact, and earnestly tries to communicate. The bad thing is no one picks you
up. But, they do try their best in those few seconds to let you know they don’t have enough room for
two big Yanks with huge backpacks in their tiny car, or they are turning soon, or they soon will be
stuffing a goat in the bonnet. After hours stuck in one place just outside Dingle, we flagged a bus to
Tralee and reluctantly paid the rest of our way to the appointment at the Saab factory in Malmo
Sweden. Europe was great despite the long cold November nights made all the longer and colder by
our meager budget.
When we got back to Ballin Colla my mother was in full stride. All her childhood friends were
in their late sixties early seventies. Uninvited and unannounced they would come to Tomas’ and
Kate’s home, take a seat by the turf fire and start right in with a story or song in Irish from, the good
days, the days of their youth. Often they would forget part of the story or song. My mother would
finish it. She started many of her own which would trigger another round of memories and laughter.
That kitchen was often crowded. The locals really liked my mother. The fifty years in the states had
not much changed her. She spoke Irish like the day she left. She was one of them. They came to
relive a long forgotten piece of their youth. They said Bett’s memory of Ireland was still fresh in her
mind because it was frozen fifty years back. Though perhaps it was not frozen at all but was a small
flame kindled, a soft breath on the coals to help warm each day in her new land so far from home.
23
Dinner’s Ready by Michelle Shin
The kitchen was dark at 5:00pm on a sunny day. It was those stupid curtains. They were
impenetrable—thick, black, and abrasive. Father hated the glare of the late afternoon sun on his TV
screen. “How the hell can I tell what’s going on with all that stupid light streaming in?” he would yell
until Mother had sewn those curtains, made with the densest material she could find, in the darkest
shade of black. I suppose it had benefits. The kitchen floor, though washed on hand and knee by
yours truly every week, remained mottled with light brown stains. The scars of a family of six. The
kitchen had only one light and Mother kept it at sixty watts, so these blemishes were now hard to see.
But this is not what I want to tell you about. Not this, nor the mildew that spouted from the
kitchen sink handles and which was slowly crawling over to rendezvous with the mildew in the dish
rack. Not even about the plastic cups, from super sized McDonald’s drinks, that were a dinner staple
and which resembled the kitchen floor. I don’t even care about the one kitchen chair that was so old
and used that its coarse fibers were stabbing through the cushion and would scrape our legs
whenever we sat on it.
No, I want to tell you about the oven. And the rat.
As I said, it was a sunny day. School was out, all us kids were home, and the scent of plumerias
and lasagna was in the air. The plumerias were from the backyard, which the kitchen overlooked, the
lasagna was in the oven. Kate was cooking dinner; it was her job as the eldest. Her specialty was
lasagna, so all of us were hanging around in the living room, enjoying that smell of anticipation as
the lasagna cooked. On this particular afternoon Kate had just put on her mismatched oven mitts
and was taking the lasagna out to cool, when suddenly….
“AAAAAGGGGHHHHH!”
Crash.
Slam.
“What?” Mother shouted, rushing into the kitchen. Tim, Sean, and I crowded around the
kitchen door, but didn’t go in because Mother would then just yell to get out while snapping the hand
towel at us.
All of us surveyed the damage. The lasagna pan was on the floor with pasta, tomato sauce,
spinach, and hamburger meat splayed out like a gruesome crime scene. The oven door was shut, but
we could smell the gas and knew it was still on.
“What happened?” Mother demanded of Kate, who was hyperventilating in the corner by the
fridge and had knocked down a couple of the dozen baby pictures our Aunt kept sending us of our
cousin. They were the only pictures on the fridge.
“A…” Kate was trying to calm down, taking deep gulps of air.
“A…rat!
A…
RAT! Humongous.” She pointed wildly at the oven, knocking down two more pictures. “It was
running across the kitchen floor and, and, it scared me.” Her eyes were still wide, panicked. The
next part came out all in one breath and faster than when us four kids run to eat dessert. “I-dropped
-the-lasagna-pan-and-the-rat-ran-up-it-into-the-oven-and-I-freaked-and-shut-the-door-and-it’s-inthere-COOKING.”
24
Dinner’s Ready by Michelle Shin
As if the rat was participating in a movie script, the smell hit us on cue. It was rancid. Viscous,
clogging our throats. Who could blame it? Behind those thick curtains the windows were
closed. Tim immediately started scratching his skin, as if a hundred rats were crawling up his
arms. Sean pulled his shirt over his nose and ran to his room. I continued to watch from the living
room, while pinching my nose and breathing through my mouth.
The oven looked angry, like it didn’t like rats anymore than we did. The oven was usually hard
to look into, because of the bad lighting, but I thought I saw a tiny paw limply slide down and across
the lower corner of the window.
Kate looked at Mother to make it all better. In our house, she was the one who took care of
things. Cockroaches? Her slipper did the trick. Centipedes? She took a hammer to them. There
had been mice in the basement before and she was the only one who would take the glue traps out
with those furry puffs squirming in anguish on the trays. She could untangle any knot and get out
any stain. But Mother was still. She didn’t even turn off the oven. I thought I saw sweat forming on
her hairline and…was it? A tremor in her hand?
Mother looked around the kitchen, as if something in there could help her. But the cabinets
remained closed and all those plastic bags which she saved from the grocery store weren’t opening
up to her. She finally reached over and turned off the stove, not even noticing when her bare foot
stepped in the spinach. The tomato sauce was still dripping from the oven onto the floor. Each drip,
drip looked like the rat’s blood spilling out.
The solution? Ridiculous and over the top, but true. She bought a new oven—that day. She
piled us into the car and drove to Sears and justified it by saying the oven was as old as the house
(seventeen years). We all got to eat pizza that night, a rare treat ruined by tomato-sauce induced
flashbacks. The next day delivery men came with the new oven and we paid extra to have them
dispose of the old one. My siblings and I gathered in the hallway to watch the processional as the
men wheeled it out. Appropriately, their uniforms were black. In the driveway the fallen plumerias
made it look like we had thrown flowers for this final goodbye. The delivery men were supposed to
take it to the dump. If one of them decided “free oven,” then he was going to get a surprise.
That was two months ago, and while we appreciated something new amongst the grimy floor, the
dinged counters, and the crusty microwave, I can’t even bring myself to look at the gleaming new
oven. Every time I do, it reminds me that my mother couldn’t handle the rat. I don’t even believe it
was a rat anymore; it must have been Satan in disguise for her to cave in like that. And it’s not just
me. Kate hasn’t touched the thing either. She cooks everything using the convection microwave now
and our lives are a little blander because of it.
Beethoven Frieze by Gustav Klimt
25
Inside Your Closet by Linda Langlois
Inside your closet, I found the space between your words and the things you did to me tucked
between your dancing shoes, those edgy red ones and the white leather rather severe-looking jobs
that hid your painted toes.
Beyond your closet, where hangs your nurse’s uniform and your favorite housecoat, the one with
Lilies of the Valley down the front and a flimsy nightgowny thing I never saw you wear is it yours,
the garden stretches alongside the house, where neighbor kids cut the heads from your tulips and
strew their red and yellow wafer papers along the walk, across the sidewalk and street to their house,
and where I found you once, only once, kneeling, digging in the dirt, a red bandanna holding back
your brown curly hair; a look so astonishingly unlike you that I’d never seen you wear before or
since, it makes me wonder now who you were really were.
Did you wear gloves? I can’t remember and it seems an important thing to know about a person.
Women are of two camps, I think: those who dig in moist brown dirt that imbeds itself in the
creases of their palms and grooves under fingernails and no amount of poking with a nail file or
kitchen knife will clean and those who cover their painted nails and lotioned hands with garden
gloves.
Behind your closet, where hangs his Sunday suit hidden in white Suburban Cleaner paper on a
hook that holds his worn blue bathrobe still with that oddly comforting smell of Old Spice and
cigarettes, its soft front slightly dented as from a child’s cheek, is the front parlor used only for
company, where dust motes shimmer in the afternoon sun.
Outside your closet where slippers, shoes and boots line up in a sideways queue, runs Hutchinson
Avenue from Daggett to Orient.
Farm Garden with Crucifix by Gustav Klimt
26
My Mother Loved To Dance by Beate Sigriddaughter
I can picture her raking leaves in spring under the flashy forsythia, preparing dark soil for
dazzling violets, letting me drop in seeds that slipped from my hands like magic spice.
I can picture her kneel on hardwood spreading wax, then letting me rag-skate through the
expanse of living room, corridor, and beyond to polish everything.
I can picture her haul loads of exuberant fruit home from market, boiling cherries in June,
sectioning bruised pears for canning in September.
I don't even know why she prized dancing so much.
Here is the rule she lived by: you get one man in life, and if he doesn't want to dance, you're
out of luck.
I saw her dance just once with my fiancé at a Country Western bar. She was seventy-two. Her
nose was turned up and her eyes sparked triumph. Soon she had trouble breathing. She didn't want
to stop. My father grumbled. "But dancing!" he hissed when she finally sat down gasping.
I can picture her breathless at the rim of the Grand Canyon.
One morning she quietly died in her sleep.
Sometimes when I dance, I can feel her laughing in my bones. She was meant for joy.
The Dancer by Gustav Klimt
Poppy Fields by Gustav Klimt
27
Slow Burn by Susan Tepper
Anne's two beagle hounds are driving everyone insane with their yowling to get outside in the
snow. Treading lightly, as usual, with my sister, I hear Mother tell her: "Put the blessed beasts in
the garage."
At the rear of the property, the garage is connected to the house by a long driveway that
meanders under a wide cement portico, past stone walls thick with creeping vines. If it weren't for
the two, giant blue spruce trees smoldering out front, the place would be the perfect winter setting.
Since yesterday the trees have been doing their slow burn. A freakish winter lightning storm
sparked the phone wires, igniting some leaning branches. Dad called the fire department twice.
Twice they came out in full regalia: trucks, hats, sirens, hoses, the works. Yet wisps of smoke
continue to spiral out of the trees. I don't get it.
Most of what goes on around here, I don't get. I'm just back for a visit — on account of my
cast. Thick plaster encasing one leg from the top of my thigh down to my toes. All because of three
little stitches.
"Three little pigs," I say, trying to wiggle my toes inside the cast. Three little stitches near my
inside ankle bone, to repair a deep tear from another freakish accident involving Jack; and the
bathroom in my apartment in Philadelphia.
When the stitches finally healed and I still couldn't walk without agonizing pain up my leg,
there was a new diagnosis: severed nerve damage. With lots of depressing talk about casts, halfcasts, walking-casts, braces, limps. The doctor said I should expect to end up walking with a limp.
Not too good for an aspiring actress, I'd told him; imagining myself on stage playing invalid roles the
rest of my life. But now that I've been getting around on crutches, and getting down the stairs by
sliding on my butt, a limp doesn't sound half bad.
"You could make it look very sexy," Anne told me. She's a still-life painter who sees sex
everywhere. Her bowls of fruit ooze like intimate body parts.
What has been bad, is this sabbatical at my childhood home; my overly concerned parents; a
sister, who, at thirty-three still lives here, controlling things with her simpering smile and iron will.
The first five minutes back in my old room she had to know everything.
"Tell me about Jack." Smoothing her long, extra-blonde hair she made herself comfortable in
the window seat.
I leaned my crutches against the knotty-pine footboard and fell backward onto the mattress.
"Nothing to tell."
Anne just smiled nestling deeper into the toss pillows. Looking coy she picked up my old
brown teddy bear Mister Wickets. It was to Mister Wickets that she directed her interrogation.
"Mister Wickets, she said on the phone that Jack dislodged a soap dish from the wall."
"Anne, chill!"
"Well, how did that soap dish end up inside her ankle?" She was still talking to the bear.
28
Slow Burn by Susan Tepper
Using my good leg I kicked at the crutches knocking them to the floor.
"Mister Wickets, she's getting angry with us. All we want to know are the particulars. It isn't
every day someone is left crippled after just three stitches."
Tired and stressed from the bumpy ride on the commuter jet, where every jolt of turbulence
cemented my fear of not making it to Long Island — not alive, anyway — there on top of my old blue
quilt I let out a moan. I hadn't planned to. But once it was out in the open, hanging in the air
between me and my sister, I accepted it for what it was: a true animal moan. The kind I used to make
with Jack while he plied my body with tenderness. Remembering how good that felt, I whimpered —
another animal sound — but more like what might come out of Mister Wickets— if he could make
noises.
I guess Anne felt sorry for me then because she let up, sitting Mister Wickets back on the
dresser. Though she did cross his one leg over the other, in a rather jaunty pose; leaving me alone
with my misery. All that happened a few days ago, before the trees began to burn.
***
I wake up feeling like I haven't slept, struggling out of bed, crutching into my bathroom to get
the water glass and a fifth of Johnnie Walker I stashed in the tub. Pouring scotch two-thirds up the
glass, holding it tightly, I crutch toward the front window — to the window seat where Anne did her
shtick. Propped on the crutches I’m sipping and watching smoke spiral out of the tops of the spruce
trees.
Thin wispy smoke. Charcoal-colored against a colorless sky — like smoke from two tepees in
the snow. At any moment an Indian princess and her warrior might emerge with their fat little black
-haired papoose. What does emerge, from around the trees, is a family of deer — at least I take them
for a family. Two are large and loping, a smaller one has to hop to keep up. My eyes moisten and I
take a swig of scotch and think about Jack and the kids we might have had together.
"Lee!" calls Mother from downstairs, "come join us for a nice breakfast!" Mother likes things
orderly: three square meals, clean sheets on Saturday, daily teeth flossing; that sort of thing. When I
don't answer right away, I can hear her climbing the stairs to come get me.
"I'm all right!" I shove the glass of scotch behind Mister Wickets on the dresser. Sorry for the
irritation in my voice.
She means well. It's just that I don't want breakfast. The smoky taste of scotch is all I want
right now, it seems to fit with the smoldering trees.
She pokes her head in, a frown wrinkling her forehead, her little half-glasses slipping down
her chip of a nose. Obviously, my unwashed still-not-dressed appearance disturbs her.
Smiling quickly to cover, she says, "Quiche and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice will put
the roses back in your cheeks."
"I'll be down in a minute."
29
Slow Burn by Susan Tepper
"Can I help you put on a robe, dear?"
Gritting my teeth I shake my head. Nothing can help me. I lean heavily on the crutches, my
arm pits rubbed raw. Before the accident Jack used to kiss them and I'd laugh hysterically because it
tickled so much, telling him Don’t! You’ll get poisoned from my deodorant!
"Can I help you get downstairs?" Mother is looking doubtful about my ability to make it
alone. And I'm thinking that I don't remember any elevators in the house, so how the hell have I
been doing it this entire week? I give her one of my own looks and she retreats in silence. Then
grabbing the glass of scotch from behind Mister Wickets, I drain it dry.
At least the stairs aren't carpeted — carpets making butt sliding a lot more difficult. My
apartment building in Philly has this tight-weave carpet down the halls and stairs, making rug burns
through my sweat pants. By that time Jack was officially out — care-giver not in his job description.
He never got to see my butt in that compromised condition.
Dad and Anne are seated at the oval Chippendale table. Why Mother insists on having every
meal in the dining room... even breakfast…
Dad grins and salutes me. "Lee-Lee, good to have you up and about." From malaria caught in
Korea during that war, Dad's totally bald — a little round smiling Buddha.
Under the dining room archway I grin back at him weakly, squeezing the knot in the belt of
my chenille robe and hoping no one can smell scotch on my breath. "Thanks, Dad." I know he's
waiting to hear this. "It's good to be up and about."
"That's the girl, that's the spirit!"
Oh, no. I can feel myself starting to deflate under the weight of his pep. Dad's older than
most grandfathers. Amazingly, he's still a weekend sailor. Even during winter, with his sloop safely
in dry-dock, you always get the feeling he'll find some way of hoisting the mainsail, tacking her out
through the channel, out to sea. The Ruby she's called. Kind of a double entendre — after Mother
whose name is Ruby; and the fact that he always refers to her as my gem.
Erect in her chair with her arms folded Anne's looking all dolled-up in a red cashmere twinset; her extra-blonde hair braided in one flat plait. "I'd like to get this meal over with," she says.
"That's if Lee ever decides to sit down."
Murmuring, "Sorry," I crutch over to the table where my chair has been conveniently pulled
out in advance.
At first this totally annoyed me — this taking away of my independence. Now I no longer give
a shit. I shove the crutches under the table, pretending to have an appetite. "Those quiches look
great!"
Mother beams and takes her place across from me at the table.
Lorraine, fresh out of the oven."
"There's spinach and
“Which has the onions?" I ask.
30
Slow Burn by Susan Tepper
"Lorraine," says Anne, cutting herself a large wedge of that quiche. "You still have problems
with onions giving you heartburn?"
Clearing my throat I decide to ignore that, taking my time removing the napkin ring,
arranging the pinkish linen napkin carefully in my lap. "These are beautiful napkins, Mother. Did
you get them on your last trip to Ireland?"
"No, dear, they were part of my wedding trousseau. My own mother put them into my Hope
Chest. Can you imagine! Young girls used to have Hope Chests! So long ago." She's fingering the
double-edge of her napkin lovingly, like it has an actual soul. Then saying with palpable sadness,
"There used to be twelve. I think a few got lost in the wash."
"Hah!" says Dad. "My socks disappear in the wash, too."
Mother sighs, placing the napkin next to her plate. "Oh,
Hank, well. That's enough of that."
"Why are the trees still burning?" I ask.
"And that's enough of that," Mother says.
Now this has got me totally intrigued. Planting my elbows on the table I lean forward. "I
don't understand. Why can't we talk about the trees?"
With her mouth full of quiche, Anne says, "We'll talk about those trees after you tell us what
happened with Jack." She chews and swallows, her eyes turning dreamy.
I get this uneasy sort of heat sensation in my chest. I'm wondering if all the scotch drinking
has finally started to burn up vital organs, when Anne says, "By the way, Lee, if you're finished with
Jack I wouldn't mind a shot."
Looking around the table I'm thinking: Have you all cracked up? "I'm not hungry,” I say.
"Now, now," says Mother.
"Now now what?" My voice has grown louder. "What's that mean now now? Sounds like
some language from somewhere like the Fiji Islands." Reaching under the table for the crutches, I
struggle to get on my feet.
With his head tilted back Dad is saying, "Fiji Islands, Fiji Islands." Like it's meaningful or
something.
"I'm not playing this stupid game of yours," I tell them. "Whatever it is. I'm going back to
Philadelphia where trees aren't left to burn."
Benjamin Franklin, his face in a cameo, flashes through my mind. Benjamin Franklin —
plastered all over the city of Philadelphia.
31
Slow Burn by Susan Tepper
Resting on the crutches I tell them, "Benjamin Franklin would never sit here stuffing quiche
in his face while two beautiful trees are left to burn."
Mother gets this stricken look. She pops out of her chair and comes to stand beside me. "It's
not a game, dear." She brushes some strands of hair away from my face. "It's just best not to hold
onto things. This holding onto things, it can cause cancer."
"Cancer?"
Dad pipes up, then. "Take your sister, here. Breast cancer at her age."
"Anne has breast cancer?" I feel like the top of my head is about to come off.
"Yes, but it's not going to stop me," my sister says. "I'm taking my chemo and if the time
comes I'll take my radiation."
She’s looking perfectly confident, like she's just explained a new painting technique.
"Now what about Jack and your accident?" says Anne.
Pushing on the crutches I brace my back against the mahogany sideboard. Swallowing hard I
say, “It was nothing. Nothing. Jack loosened the soap dish while he was taking a bath and it fell out
while I was taking a shower."
I can see Anne pondering this as she scoops melon balls onto her plate. I'm wondering how
she can eat so much while taking chemo. Isn't chemo supposed to make you so nauseous you'd
rather die? Anne is eating like she's starving.
She looks up from the melon balls. "Exactly how did Jack loosen the soap dish?"
"He pulled himself up on that bar that's a part of it."
"The grab-bar," says Dad.
"Yeah," I say. "Except it's not meant for grabbing. It's really just a place to hang your wash
cloth. Period."
I didn't want to go into all that. Now that I have, I'm feeling more miserable. I gaze down at
my cast. At my bloated-looking foot; big and ugly in the white gym sock. One of Jack's socks. Mine
too small to fit over the plaster.
"Jack's an intelligent man," Mother says. "He directs plays. He should've known better."
Jack's a selfish bastard I'm thinking. Picturing him soaking for hours in my tub, his long
spidery legs, pointed knees poking through the water. Soaking. Till it turned cold and gray and
scummy. He would add more hot. More and more. I kept meaning to call the Super to have that
soap dish re-cemented. I really kept meaning to.
"You haven't had your quiche," Mother tells me.
32
Slow Burn by Susan Tepper
“I don't want any."
While standing under a spray of warm water, the bright winter sunlight coming in through the
bathroom window, the soap dish came crashing out of the wall. One in — one out. Sharp, with its
edge of hardened cement, it sliced the skin on the vulnerable inner part of my ankle. Cutting deep,
deep into a nerve. Blood gushing, splattering the white bathroom, the tub filled with it, blood
everywhere. My blood. Out there. At last. For Jack to see.
The beginning of the end.
Turning my head slowly, I look at my family gathered together in this room too full of polished
mahogany. "I should have called the Super the minute Jack loosened the soap dish."
And I'm remembering a book I saw before the accident, in the window of a bookstore around
the corner from my apartment. The title had caught my eye: Accidentally on Purpose. I didn't buy
the book though it intrigued me. I was in a hurry that day. Before the accident I was always in a
hurry.
"Accidentally on purpose," I say softly.
Could it be, that somewhere, in the deepest part of my heart, I'd wished all along for Jack to
leave me?
As I'm mulling this over the beagles come bounding into the dining room. Anne bends to pet
both dog heads at the same time. I look at her two breasts, small and safe behind red cashmere; then
shivering, I look away.
"I'm really sorry to hear about your cancer," I say.
"I'm not worried." She looks like she actually means this. It gives me chills.
"Well I'm worried about my life," I say. Suddenly wanting to talk and talk. "And I'm worried
about the trees."
Dad grunts and pushes his chair back and stands up. "Stop worrying about those damned
trees. I don't want to hear another word about them. They'll burn until they've had enough. And
that will be that."
(Slow Burn was originally published in Deer & Other Stories (Wilderness House Press, 2009)
33
In the Square Room of Memory by Judith A. Lawrence
What I remember was the trolley ride to my mother’s 3rd floor rear apartment on the avenue.
After months without approved visitations by the courts for my mother to see her children,
my sister and I finally sat side by side on the trolley car opposite her.
She sat there beaming at us, while clutching her purse to her shapely Lana Turner figure that
drew wolf whistles by street workmen on the two block walk to the trolley car in Southwest
Philadelphia.
How pretty she was, with her long wavy auburn hair, and sparkling sherry colored eyes.
Gazing at her, I imagined she was a movie star.
As we passed the cemetery, my sister and I blessed ourselves as was the custom of our Italian
Catholic foster parent.
My mother gently asked in a faint British accent, “What are you doing? Why are you both
crossing yourselves?”
Although I wasn’t quite sure why I indeed blessed myself, my older sister replied with sober
maturity for her young age, “We’re blessing the dead in the cemetery,” pointing out the trolley
window to the long rows of tombstones dotted with tulips and crocuses.
My Mother shook her head and laughed in amusement.
We sat quietly across from her for the rest of the ride, two small girls, as always shy in her
presence, gazing inquisitively out the trolley window.
As we stepped off the trolley car in our starched cotton Sunday dresses, my sister’s sky blue
eyes, and curly white/blond hair shone a stark contrast to my black straight hair and somber brown
eyes. Our mother reached to grab our hands as we walked on each side of her.
Those in passing, men or women, were captured by the stunning beauty of my mother and the
sunny apple cheeked child on her one side, stopping to gaze, smile, or comment while gradually
shifting attention to the dark wan one on the other side, and with puzzled stare inquire, “Are they
sisters?”
“Yes, of course.” My mother replied with the conviction of all Mothers who see all their
children as beautiful and unique. (Many years later we were to learn of our separate paternal
heritage, my sister’s, Polish, and mine, Welsh/Irish).
We stopped at the five and dime store to buy new cut-out books or comics, always one of our
treats on these rare excursions. My sister selected a Sheena, Queen of the Jungle comic book, and I
chose a Hedy Lamar cut-out book because she reminded me of my mother.
My mother’s apartment was a cabbage rose wallpapered, square sized bedroom/living room
combo with a single bed, one shaded window overlooking the avenue, a tiny bathroom, and
kitchenette.
We sat on two old paint splattered wood chairs on telephone book risers, tucked under a wood
34
In the Square Room of Memory by Judith A. Lawrence
plant stand table displaying a half-dead potted plant with our new books spread out on the table, my
sister leafing through Sheena's new adventure, and I carefully cutting out clothes for my new paper
doll with a pair of blunt scissors.
As she usually did on our infrequent visits, our mother opened a large can of fruit cocktail,
grabbed two soup bowls from the cupboard, and divided the whole can of fruit between my sister and
I. We ate greedily, lifting the bowls to our lips to drink the last drops of fruit syrup.
My mother sat on the edge of the bed, quietly watching us at play; her shapely legs crossed,
dressed in her signature high heels, a thin red jersey, and tight fitted black skirt with wide buckled
belt. She wore cherry red lipstick, and as always her lilac scent hung in the air.
She was so quiet that I looked up from time to time, to be sure she was still there, and she
would smile assuredly.
So used to our insular world, partially caused by the barrier of language between us and our
elderly widowed Italian speaking foster mother, my sister and I chatted exclusively with each other
in a mix of colloquial Italian and English. Our mother learned over time that asking questions of her
two fey girls rarely produced responses. Instead she would be met with our rather secretive
questioning glances toward each other. Keeping secrets had become our norm.
***
Months after the outing, my mother stopped by to visit us un-expectedly. We sat at the dining
room table, my two mothers, my sister and I, sharing a pot of tea, and a fresh loaf of crusty Italian
bread and jam between us.
My sister was called upon to interpret my mother’s conversation in Italian to our foster
mother who’s English was limited to a sprinkling of words often ending with the vowel “a” tacked on.
My mother’s eyes danced with joy with her announcement of her pending marriage. Flashing
an engagement ring that glittered in the sunlit room, she fervently promised, “The next time you see
me, you both will be coming home to live with us in our new place.”
It was the last time we saw her. She quietly disappeared leaving no traceable tracks behind,
except for these few haunting memories still fresh and wounding as if occurring only moments ago.
Mother and Children by Gustav Klimt
35
Daffodils In An Irish Garden by G. J. Schear
The only good thing my brother Paul ever did was to plant daffodils in the front garden.
He wouldn’t say where he got the bulbs or what possessed him to do such a thing. We were not a
gardening family. Though our neighbours’ lawns were speckled with happy pansies and dewy tulips,
we never had anything but dandelions and daisies polka-dotting our untidy grass.
Then one night while the rest of us slept, Paul went out and dug up huge amounts of turf in the
front garden. It must have taken him half the night.
My mother asked him what he’d been up to but he only smiled. ‘You’ll have to wait till spring,’ he
said.
A few months later on a harsh February morning I came down the stairs shivering. The only heat
in the house was the fire in the living room, though my father and Danny worked together laying
central heating in other people’s houses. My sprint to the fire was diverted by the sight of my mother
standing at the front window staring out through the curtains.
‘What are you looking at?’ I asked her.
‘There’s something growing in the garden,’ she said. ‘Look, there. They look like flowers. Can they
be flowers?’
If she’d said, can they be aliens from the planet Mars she could not have sounded more
astonished.
I peered out and saw the little green stalks peeking up all over the lawn. There must have been
hundreds of them. They formed a border along the rusty railing, and garlanded the path from the
gate to the house on either side. There were more along the wall of the house, though we didn’t
realize that till we went out after breakfast to look. The entire lawn was covered with nosy green
stalks.
‘What are they?’ my mother said. ‘Are they daffodils? They look like daffodils.’
She said no more and when Paul came in from work later, she didn’t ask. But she did make a stew
for dinner, though it was Thursday.
Now and then I caught her looking at him and it was as if she’d never seen him before. He said
nothing but sat there like a sage, reading his book and eating his dinner.
My father let a roar when he came home and saw his plate. ‘Stew,’ he said. ‘But it’s Thursday.
Where are my chops?’
He approached his meal like a penance, but Danny wouldn’t even sit down. ‘What’s this crap?’ he
demanded. ‘I want me chops. Jesus, God, I’m working my arse off all day. Is it too much to hope to
come home to a proper dinner?’
‘Stew is a proper dinner,’ my mother said. ‘Come on now, pet, and eat it.’
36
Daffodils In An Irish Garden by G. J. Schear
‘Give it to the dog,’ he said. And he thundered from the house, shaking the foundations with the
shattering door.
A short while later the daffodils bloomed. Every day I’d come home and find my mother just
sitting there at the window looking out at the blaze of gold like she’d been possessed by Wordsworth.
They withered soon after and by June we’d forgotten all about them. Sometimes I’d see my
mother sitting by the window looking out at the garden but she never said anything. Everything was
the way it had been before, before the daffodils.
Three months later Paul moved out. He announced his intention that Friday night.
‘I’ve got a job in London,’ he said.
Neither my father nor Danny said anything. My mother froze with the steaming fish and chips in
her hands, their wrappers unopened.
‘London,’ I said since it seemed no one else was going to say anything. ‘Oh.’
‘When are you going?’ my mother asked as she tore open the paper from the fish. The whole
house reeked of vinegar.
‘Sunday,’ he said.
‘Sunday!’
Even my father looked up.
‘You might as well,’ he said. ‘Where’s the smoked cod?’
Danny said, ‘About time I had that room to myself. Make sure you get rid of all your junk. I don’t
want to have to look at your rubbish.’
After the fish and chips when they all went off to the pub, I followed Paul upstairs to help him
pack.
‘Is there anything you want?’ he said. ‘I can’t take all of this with me, so if there’s anything you
want you can have it.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing… but you can keep your stuff in my room, if you like. You can collect
it next time you’re back.’
‘I won’t be back,’ he said.
Nor was he.
Even three years later when our mother died he didn’t come to the funeral. But a week later when
I went back to the cemetery there was a big bunch of daffodils on her grave trembling in the snow.
37
A Fish Called Mildred by Sara-Beth Testerman
I read in a book once that in China, elderly people are given rooms at the top of a house, either
in an attic or something of the sort. This weird ritual is given entirely out of respect and admirability
for that individual. The highest point of the house is considered the most valuable, is the most
coveted, and is therefore, given entirely over to the oldest member. In England, particularly in
London, thousands, even millions of people dedicate a song, and commit their lives to paying
homage to a little white-haired woman named Elizabeth. Talk about rolling out the red carpet.
America, however, passes this long time worldly tradition up, and takes those old enough to
get senior discounts for granted. Society here walks by, ridicules, and complains of crabby older
people constantly. Here is a big question: has anyone ever thought as to why these people over sixty
are a little hostile to the youngsters of this generation? Well certainly not. Now, I am not a
professional, but my educated guess would be: If I were having to deal with people that tossed me to
the side, and ultimately, acted like I was a waste of time, I would be a little difficult to deal with also.
This circle of chaos brings me to my question for the reader: What defines this age, and exactly what
trips the magic trigger for society as whole to judge someone as “old?” Is “old” a feeling, or perhaps
synonymous with a certain type of medication? Maybe “old” is a state of mind, depending on who
you’re talking to. The young are obsessed with being young, and even some of the old are too. I
strongly urge, if you are one of those people, listen up. Coming of age, especially older age, is a gift.
This little nugget of wealth is buried in the depths of people over sixty, seventy, and even eighty years
old. For those who focus on the youth and beauty of a young life, enjoy it through the lives of others,
is the only way to relive it. It is a shame for most, this is realized later in life, which revolves me
around to my original story.
Jay Chappell has Alzheimer’s. Five and half million people are living with the same issue in
our country, currently. Jay Chappell loves to quilt, watch boats drift on the lake out of the window of
her house, and watch Matlock. She also loves to read, talk to her family, and write. Unfortunately,
she also loves to criticize my clothing, obnoxiously play cards, and be difficult in the worst of
situations, however funny they are. This is the Jay Chappell I know. However, there is a large portion
of her life I don’t know. This thought didn't cross my mind until I was around eight. It was similar to
that moment when you’re just a child, eating a honey bun or some other healthy little snack that is
bigger than you are, and suddenly it dawns on you-the entire group of these adults were children at
some point. It’s really a disturbing fact, and difficult to wrap your head around.
The Great Depression left her in a panic of what was to come, but also was not as horrific in
the eyes of a child as others. Feed sack dresses were common place, and shoes were given to the
children in the winter. Ava Jay, and Gloria Ann were inseparable. This could be a very good, or a very
very bad thing. First of all, let’s get the names correct. Ava Jay, hated the name Ava. Therefore, she
was addressed as Jay. Gloria Ann, didn’t particularly care about her name until people started to call
her Polly. Might I add, Solutions came very quickly to these girls. In the summer mornings, Polly and
Jay would go out to feed the chickens. Jay being the oldest, would carry the feed. Polly, minding her
own business, would aimlessly wander into the coop area and around the hen house, exploring.
“Polly! Come over here, look at the hens!” Jay would say.
“No!” Since Jay was eight, and Polly was five, their vocabularies were quite varied.
“Oh please, come look...you’ll love to see their feathers!” Poor little Polly wandered too far,
and Jay quickly poured feed to completely circle Polly into a captive audience for hens eating. As
Polly began to wail and cry, Jay laughed and got tickled at her own accomplishment for the day
38
A Fish Called Mildred by Sara-Beth Testerman
tricking her younger sister. Only, her plan backfired. Polly became so terrified, she wet herself right
in the field, in front of God and everyone. As a humiliated Polly trashed through hens to tell her
father, Jay simply shook her head, laughing, and walked back to the house with eggs.
Jay soon regretted this the next day, while her father was killing a chicken for dinner.
“This will look mighty delicious on the dinner table tonight, huh girl?” he yelled at Jay.
She nodded and said “I’ll come help you kill the chicken daddy, since I am the oldest.”
This sparked a hesitant gleam in her father’s eye. “Girl, you know you don’t need to see that, so
go back in the house.”
Jay, being a diligent and most disobedient child, did the exact opposite. As Jay stepped out of
the house, she watched her father pick a large chicken out of the house, and bring to the chopping
block. Her eyes flew wide when she witnessed the ringing of the poor soul’s neck. Her cheeks flushed
and her breathing raced when she saw the axe fly down and a body of feathers running around her
father’s feet. She passed out after that, so there is no remembering past this point.
“Good Lord child, come to!” Jay heard her mother calling, and her father slightly popping her
on the face. After such a damaging scene of events, you would think Jay would be utterly done with
chickens, and you would be right, except, she asked to see one de-feathered one final time.
The years from thirteen to an eighteen year old are trying times. One is learning the skills of
becoming socially acceptable, the in’s and out’s of making friends (and the better ones at that), as
well as forming their images for later in life. For Jay, this was tough business. Not only was pressure
on her to find a husband, but FDR was in the last legs of a presidency that seemed to be constantly on
her parent’s lips. Her time consisted of tending to her parent’s “Victory Garden,” planting more
tomatoes, or otherwise, fishing.
Like most teenage girls, Jay liked to dress up, attend school, but most importantly, she liked to
catch catfish. Not just any catfish, but one in particular her and her father had tried to find for years.
Jay, along with her father and sister, would travel to the lake and fish between the cattails for a
monster called “Mildred.” Yes, reader, the monster, and male, fish was named after a woman. No one
knows how this came about, or how long the fish had been alive. However, the public could tell you
that Mildred was a difficult catch, and likely, would never be caught. In her younger years of three or
four, Jay would almost capsize the boat looking into the murky depths of the water for the fish, or at
one point, jumped in to get a better gander and scared any likes of a fish away for miles.
Her father repeatedly told her the story of his love of the water, how he had fished for Mildred
since he was a boy, and longed to find the fish one day. Jay, in response to this, quickly learned how
to bait a hook, and snag every fish in the tri-state area. Her expertise in the field earned her
recognition by many of her father’s friends, but never once lured the phantom of a tale to her hook.
While fishing for her meals for dinner earlier in the week, Jay had taken Polly along with her
to assist in catching smaller fish in the Johnboat.
“I’m tired” Polly would whine. “You’re not going to find this fish” and “If dad can’t catch it, I
know we might as well stop looking” she would say.
39
A Fish Called Mildred by Sara-Beth Testerman
“Just give me a little more time,” Jay begged. As the day rose on, Polly napped with her
mouth open on one end of the boat, while Jay continued her patient search for Mildred. Suddenly,
the boat started to rock from waves which appeared from under the boat. Something had hit the
bottom of the boat, but Jay had steered the small craft into the middle of the lake. There was no way
she had hit something in the water on accident, unless it was a stray piece of wood. As she began to
look around, what seemed like the weight of the person tugged on her line. In her surprise, Jay
dropped the rod and reel altogether in the water, and saw the faint outline of a fish as large as the
trunk of a Buick swimming past the boat.
She had caught Mildred, and let her go on accident. What would her father say to that? He
wouldn’t believe her now, and Polly had slept through the entire incident. “I can describe it,” Jay
thought, “but no one is going to believe this.”
One of the main focuses of her father’s stories to her, as well as Polly, revolved around
listening. Not the type of conversations where parents say, “Listen to me, right now!” or “You have to
listen to your teacher.” These conversations were about listening to the world around you.
Jay would listen to her father speak, then listen to the hushed whispers of Polly talking in her
sleep. She would listen to the bullfrogs outside her window, and the way her sheets ruffled against
the bed skirt. The mornings on the lake consisted of her listening to her father’s snores on shore,
followed by nothing in the water. Absolutely nothing. No music, no ladies dancing at a shagging
campground, and no smacking of lips eating a pie. She would hear her own breathing, and the sight
of it exhaling like smoke in the early light. The sound of her bobber hitting the water, and the ripples
made in return. The trees moving in the wind and the thought of how she can’t really see wind, only
the effects of it. Jay would hear the lone crane move gently through the edge of the bank to dip its
feet in the water. These events and random doings would happen nearly every morning, and she
would hear her own thoughts as each took place. She named the crane Carol, and the toads,
collectively, as the Wilson’s.
As a teenager, she learned quite a bit about what we would call “being one with nature.” She
called it, “fishing.” The differences are not all that different, if you experience it. I suppose you could
say Jay was like Carol, Mildred, and the Wilson’s. She was as much as part of the lake as the animals,
and identified with it. Other times, Jay would bring a book out into the boat with her, and read.
Sometimes, her reading would go on for hours. Since school was not enjoyable for her, reading on
the lake brought her great joy.
I enjoy every conversation with my grandmother simply because of the fact that, I will never
comprehend the things she has lived through, and I will never understand the gravity or
lightheartedness of these events, but her language and eyes lighting up between telling of stories
gives me a decent idea of them.
She sits out on the sunroom with a hand painted sweater and dress pants covering her stout
little body, while she sips a sprite and twists her rings around her fingers as a neurotic habit. Looking
out at the boats on the lake, she tells me of the events that led up to this point in her life.
This is one of the most beautiful sights I could possibly imagine.
40
Chocolate by Jane Sloven
My mother loved chocolate. I suspect my own affection took root in utero, as she indulged her
passion with daily chocolate delights. In repeated attempts to satisfy her ardor, my father sacrificed
comfortable evenings in his club chair to drive through nearby towns in search of mint chocolate chip
ice cream and hot fudge – not only during my mother’s three pregnancies, but throughout their
married life.
Though I cannot remember the exact moment I fell in love with chocolate, I can say with
certainty that my love was true and enduring. Chocolate could be relied upon to offer dependably
gratifying sensations – from its heavenly scent, to the lovely anticipation of passing it through the
lips, to the rich, tongue tingling taste, all the way to the spreading buds of bliss as it ricocheted
through the mouth. The pleasure continued after consumption with euphoric recall, which is most
notably associated with addiction. My mother must have been addicted. She ate chocolate every day,
and spent hours in the kitchen transforming it into desserts.
In my childhood, chocolate’s presentation and form varied, but the satisfaction it delivered
never changed. It could be counted upon to be deep, rich, delicious – a reliable source of happiness, a
burst of joyfulness.
My mother whipped up chocolate in a silver bowl with silver beaters, and combined it with
sugar, eggs, and vanilla into something smooth and creamy. And although there might be an
unpleasant taste intruding from the spatulas or the wooden spoons my brothers and I scraped along
the bottom of the bowls to ensure the capture of every last drop, the scrumptious sweetness of the
chocolate itself was always present, totally recognizable beneath the objects that held it for the
tongue.
The texture of chocolate changed when my mother melted and mixed it with flour, sugar, and
eggs before pouring it into round or heart shaped cake pans. The pans, carefully slid into a preheated
oven, were removed when the buzzer rang. After a toothpick slid into and out of the layers with no
attached crumbs, the new forms were patted out of their pans onto cooling racks. Then, after being
spread with luscious icing – chocolate of course – the finished product was set upon a pedestaled
cake plate. It preened there, transformed from separate elements into a miraculous concoction, a
delectable, finite thing of beauty.
The texture of chocolate changed when my mother baked it into brownies, prepared regularly
just for pleasure, for the sweetness they added to the end of a meal or as a treat to consume with hot
tea. And the chocolate changed again, when my mother opened a box, shook its granules into a pot,
and stirred it with milk until it thickened into a pudding. That form of chocolate, cooled in parfait
glasses or carefully spooned into graham cracker crusts to eventually transform into a chocolate
pudding pie, offered a different taste sensation, topped always, with whipped cream.
Chocolate was never diminished by its many transformations in form, which occurred in
realms other than our home. Wherever one could find chocolate, one could find my mother. In
specialty candy stores, chocolate treasures on little wrappers grouped in glass cases were selected by
my mother and placed in a beribboned box by a salesclerk.
In local supermarkets, bags of candies slid into our cart. Small neighborhood shops held bins
of covered candies against long walls.
In preparation for Saturday evening bridge games, my mother slit open big bags of M & M’s –
41
Chocolate by Jane Sloven
both plain and peanut – and poured them into pressed glass bowls. The M & M’s hard shell protected
the sweet, softer chocolate condensed inside, but it still melted on the tongue, could still be counted
upon for the same deep, dark pleasure.
Chocolate was slightly different, but nevertheless recognizable in the thin mints set out prior
to dinner parties – dark chocolate covering a patty of white mint that sparkled and leapt as it
dissolved on the tongue. And it was satisfying as well in Tootsie Rolls, poured into pedestaled candy
holders. That chocolate was chewy, almost rubbery, but still capable of delivering the scrumptious
punch.
Even after she was widowed, even after her move to an apartment with a small galley kitchen,
even after taking a full-time job, my mother cooked and baked and entertained – and chocolate
remained a central ingredient in her repertoire.
Much like chocolate, there were many sides to my mother – loving, warm, witty, caring,
thoughtful, charming, and intelligent sides. There were also cold, contemptuous, scolding and angry
sides. In the grip of a fury, her keen insight and facility with language coalesced into character
assassinations that indelibly altered our capacity to totally trust her.
It is only honest and true and fair to say that chocolate, regardless of its own darkness,
regardless of its changing consistency and its many diverse forms, provided a counterbalance – an
unfailingly stable, recognizable, steadfast, dark, sweet presence.
In the final days of my mother’s life, Hershey’s chocolate kisses remained a fixture in her
home. Powerfully flavorful, wrapped in recognizable silver foil with paper flags waving from their
peaks, my mother’s favorites rested in a large glass bowl on her marble coffee table.
Those chocolate kisses had been ever present in my mother’s life, in our living room in the
fieldstone house in which I grew up, and in the apartment she moved to after my father’s death. In
the midst of that chaos and sadness, as my mother lay dying in a hospital bed in her bedroom with
the air conditioning and the overhead fan barely breaching the overwhelming heat of that summer,
long after I had renounced my own love affair with chocolate, and long after chemotherapy had
eviscerated my mother’s taste buds, those chocolate kisses beckoned to me. And when I succumbed
to their charms, they offered the same familiar burst of sweetness and consolation in that difficult
time as they offered throughout my childhood – the same sweet consolation they must have given my
mother throughout her life.
The Music by Gustav Klimt
42
Writer’s Bio’s
Carol Alexander is a writer and editor. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Canary,
The Commonline, Chiron Review, Earthspeak, Eunoia Review, Mobius, Northwind Magazine, Numinous,
Red Fez, Red River Review, OVS, Poetry Quarterly, Red Poppy Review, and Sugar Mule. New work is
scheduled to appear Poetrybay, Poetica, Ilya's Honey, and the Mad Hatter's Review.
Jack Barry - “Besides dying, the next worse thing about mortality is that memories often die before you
do. Every now and then I’ll hear a tune or smell something that conjures up an entire era of my life. When
that happens I leave now behind and float down the river of days past only to find a few sandbars still above
water and wonder what might be rusting away on the bottom. Writing definitely helps this dredging. Most of
it is junk, but it’s my junk. In my stories I try to reflect the voice of the times. This can be mortifying and
often politically incorrect but I hope it reflects lessons learned. “
Paul Bernstein's poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Poesia, Freefall, Drown in My Own Fears and
other journals. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he works as a freelance medical editor,
continues to write, and regularly participates in poetry open mics in the area.
Susan Dale’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Ken *Again, Penwood Review, Yesteryear Fiction,
Feathered Flounder, Hurricane Press, and Writing Disorder. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry
from Oneswan.
Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Creative Nonfiction, has been published in River Poets,
Transcendent Visions, the Bellowing Ark and other publications. She lives in Willow Grove, PA.
MD Duzguner has been writing and publishing mainstream fiction and erotica since early 2001. She has
been previously published in several anthologies, Leucrotia Press’s “Abaculus III” Science Fiction and Horror
Anthology and by Rainstorm Press in their “Nailed” Anthology. She has also had her work featured several
websites and in ezines. MD is a regular contributor and co-founder of a group, Sensual Infusions, based at
www.writing.com where she enjoys meeting and mentoring new authors attempting to break into the erotic/
horror/mainstream genres. She lives in Southeastern New England with her wonderful husband, their
beautiful daughter and two very spoiled dogs.
Margaret Ellis Hill is a native Californian, and her first book of poems, Close Company, was published in
2003 (PoetWorks Press). Margaret's individual poems have appeared in such journals as The Pedestal,
Byline, Poetry Motel, Rattlesnake Review, Cezanne’s Carrot, among others, as well as in selected anthologies,
including In the Company of Women.
Joanne Faries, originally from the Philadelphia area, lives in Texas with her husband Ray. Published in
Doorknobs & Bodypaint, she also has poems in Magnapoets, and Silver Boomer anthologies. Joanne is the
film critic for the Little Paper of San Saba. Look for her humorous memoir My Zoo World: If All Dogs Go to
Heaven, Then I'm in Trouble, and a story collection Wordsplash Flash on Amazon.
Mike Gallagher is an Irish poet. His poetry, stories and haiku have been published in Ireland, throughout
Europe and in America, Canada, Japan, India, Thailand, Nepal and Australia and have been translated into .
Croatian, Japanese, Dutch, German and Chinese. He won the Eigse Michael Hartnett viva voce contest in
2010. He was shortlisted for the Hennessy Award in 2011. He won the Desmond O'Grady International Poetry
Contest in 2012. He edits thefirstcut, a literary journal and his first collection 'Stick on Stone' will be
published in May 2013. ‘Stick on Stone” is available from: http://www.limerickwriterscentre.com/books-forsale.html
Savannah Grant is a student at Smith College studying English, Studio Art, and Poetry. She has been
writing for a long time. She hates wasps but thinks they are a powerful metaphor nonetheless.
Ken Hada’s recent poetry collections include the 2010 Western Heritage Award recipient Spare Parts, a
collaboration of poetry and plein aire watercolors with his brother: The River White: A Confluence of Brush &
Quill, and a cd, Like Father, Like Son: A Narrative in Poetry & Guitar. He contributes regularly to “All Roads
Will Lead You Home” – a poetry blog available at http://vacpoetry.org/three/
Marie Hartung writes from her living room recliner in the small-ish town of Monroe, WA. When she’s not
writing she’s hanging out with her sons, age 7 and 9, and tending to her brood of domesticated animals. She is
43
Writer’s Bio’s
a MFA double-major in Poetry and Nonfiction at the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts in Freeland, WA and
works as a Realtor. Her work has appeared in Soundings Review, Third Wednesday, The Cordite Review,
Perceptions Literary Magazine and Raven Chronicles.
Lorraine Henrie Lins, 2010 Bucks County, PA Poet Laureate, is a former Jersey girl who confesses that her
first poetic love was Bruce Springsteen. Lins' tender and generous poems have appeared in numerous
publications, including The Schuylkill Valley Journal, Mudfish 16, And The Questions Are Enough,
Transcendent Vision, Making Our Own Light and Eating Her Wedding Dress. Her first chapbook, I Called It
Swimming, was published in 2011 by Finishing Line Press and a follow-up collection, Delaying Balance, is
slated to appear in early 2013.
Linda J Himot’s poems have been published in such journals as Emerge Literary Journal, The Highlands
Voice, The MacGuffin, Poetry in Performance. Linda’s poetry blog: www.pleasureinpoetry.com
Sandy Hiortdahl’s previously published works may be found in Alimentum Journal, Barely South Review,
OCEAN Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Eternal Haunted Summer, and Poetic/KY Story.
www.sandyhiortdahl.com
Wendy Insinger is a writer and teacher living in Warwick, New York. After graduating from Barnard
College (B.A., Anthropology)) and Brown University (M.A., English), she was a contributing editor at "Town &
Country" magazine for 14 years and co-authored of The Complete Book of Thoroughbred Horse Racing. She
currently teaches English at Warwick Valley High School. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in
"Chronogram", "Fertile Ground", and "W.I.P.", as well as various other publications.
John Lambremont, Sr. is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where he serves
as editor of Big River Poetry Review, see http://bigriverpoetry.com. John has a B.A. in Creative Writing and a
J.D. from Louisiana State University, and he is the author of four full-length volumes of poetry. His work has
been published internationally in many reviews and anthologies, including The Chaffin Journal, The Mayo
Review, Picayune, The Louisiana Review, Words & Images, A Hudson View, and Taj Mahal Review. John has
work forthcoming in The Minetta Review, Indian River Review, The Zip Code Project, Cantos, and The
Ampersand Review. His blog of his previously published poems can be found at http://
jlambremontpoet.blogspot.com
Sigrun Susan Lane is a Seattle poet. A graduate of the University of Washington, she studied English and
Psychology before pursuing a career in teaching and later in business. She is currently a docent at the Frye Art
Museum in Seattle, Washington. She has published widely in national and regional publications, most
notably Albatross, Calyx, Crab Creek Review, Malahat Review, Mom Egg, Seattle Review, Sing Heavenly
Muse, Spindrift, The Journal of the American Medical Association, Melusene, Pontoon, Ekphrasis, Still
Crazy and others. She has received awards for her poetry from the Seattle and King County Arts
Commissions.
Linda Langlois is a graduate student at the University of Rhode Island (on the long-range plan), while her
day job is working for a local attorney. For kicks, relaxation and just plain fun, she plays congas with her
husband's band. Publications include: “Tusculum Review” "Balancing The Tides” “The Independent Scribe”
“Perspectives” “Forever Spoken” "Colette,” original play-New England Women’s Council-URI, Normandy
Magazine, Providence Sunday Journal Magazine, Narragansett Times.
Judith A. Lawrence, Editor/Publisher of Lilly Press/River Poets Journal is currently working on a
murder/mystery novel, a novella, book of short stories, and a new poetry chapbook. Her poetry/fiction has
been published in various anthologies and online literary sites. She teaches a memoir class, and art class in
her community.
Gerald McBreen was one of the winners of Amy Kitchener’s Angels Without Wings FDN Contest and was
awarded the title of Senior Poet Laureate Washington State 2012. In 2009 the city of Pacific celebrated their
100th anniversary and appointed him Poet Laureate 2009-2013. He is also the Poet Laureate of Auburn
Morning Toastmasters 2010 to 2013. That means he has the unique distinction of holding three Poet Laureate
positions simultaneously. McBreen says, “I love dancing with words and find I can get all tangled up just as
well without using my feet.”
44
Writer’s Bio’s
Christina Ortega Phillips was born and raised in northwest Indiana. A graduate of Valparaiso University,
she received her BA in English and Psychology and an MA in English Studies and Communication. She is an
ESL teacher.
Laura Rodley is a Pushcart Prize winner with work included in Pushcart Prize 37th Edition, chapbook
(Rappelling Blue Light), Mass Book Award nominee won honorable mention in New England Poetry Society
Jean Pedrick Award. Her second chapbook," Your Left Front Wheel is Coming Loose” was also nominated for
a Mass Book Award and a L. L. Winship/Penn New England Award; both published by Finishing Line
Press.
Shirley Russak Wachtel is a college English professor living in New Jersey. She holds a Doctor of Letters
Degree from Drew University. She is the author of a memoir, My Mother’s Shoes, an acclaimed novel which
follows her mother’s journey during the Holocaust and as a new citizen in America. She is also the author of
a book of poetry, In The Mellow Light, and several books for children. Her poems have appeared in
Middlesex Literary Journal.
G. J. Schear’s first novel, Shakespeare's Tree, was a winner of this year's Irish Writers' Novel Fair. Her short
stories have been published in a variety of journals such as Hayden's Ferry Review and Broadkill Review. “I
was raised in Dublin, Ireland, and currently live in Kells - the place of the book, though, ironically, it has no
book shop. “
Michelle Shin was born and raised in Hawaiˊi on the island of Oahu. She pursued a graduate degree at the
University of Hawaiˊi with an emphasis on creative writing and contemporary American literature. She has
been a public high school teacher for the past ten years. “ I love short fiction as a medium for writing because
I feel it can encapsulate a moment that transcends its brevity and connects with the reader on an instant
emotional level with an impact both profound and engaging.”
Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.com, lives and writes in North Vancouver, Canada. Her work
has received three Pushcart Prize nominations. She has also established the Glass Woman Prize to honor
passionate women’s voices. Currently she is working on a novel called "Tango."
Jane Sloven is a writer, semi-retired psychotherapist, and former attorney. Since shifting her focus from
clinical writing (a chapter in Women and Addiction and two articles on Lyme disease), Jane is now at work on
flash fiction, short stories, essays and mysteries. She lives in Portland, Maine with her husband, Joe, and their
pooch, Benji.
Libby Swope Wiersema is an editor and writer, and an MFA candidate at Queens University in Charlotte.
Her poems are dedicated to her mother, Lena Swope, who passed away recently.
Susan Tepper is the author of four published books of fiction and poetry. She's been nominated 9 times for
the Pushcart Prize. Her novel "What May Have Been" (Cervena Barva Press 2010) co-authored with Gary
Percesepe, was nominated for a Pulitzer. www.susantepper.com
Sara-Beth Testerman is a senior English Major at Campbell University in Buies Creek, NC. Her interests
revolve around fiction and memoir writing, especially about older generations. She also has an interest in
lobbying for Nursing Home and Alzheimer's recognition rights.
Tim Tobin holds a degree in mathematics from LaSalle University. He retired five years ago from L-3
Communications after more than forty years as a project manager and software engineer. His speculative
stories appear in Separate Worlds Magazine, Marco Polo, The Moustache Factor, Burial Day Books,
Rainstorm Press and Micro Horror. His western stories and poetry appear on the Rope and Wire web site.
Darkest Before The Dawn has published his crime stories.
Loretta Diane Walker is an award winning poet. She has published two collections of poetry. Her
manuscript Word Ghetto won the 2011 Bluelight Press Book Award, (1st World Publishing Press, 2011). She
was recently nominated for a Pushcart Poetry Prize by Illya’s Honey. Walker’s work has appeared in a number
of publications including The Concho River Review, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Illya’s Honey, Orbis
International Journal, Aries Literary Journal, San Diego City Works Press, Writer’s Bloc Literary Journal,
45
Writer’s Bio’s
Texas Poetry Calendar, Red River Review, Poetry Society of Texas Book of the Year, ENCORE: Anthology of
the National Federation of State Poetry and most recently Lifting the Sky: Southwestern Haiku & Haiga and
The Texas Observer. She teaches music at Reagan Magnet Elementary School in Odessa, Texas. Loretta
received a BME from Texas Tech University and earned a MA from The University of Texas of the Permian
Basin.
Diane Webster - “I look for poetry ideas in everyday life and nature whether that comes from walking across
the parking lot or from people who brush passed in life. I enjoy writing letters, gazing out windows and
watching for wildlife while driving in the mountains.”
Maria Wheeler has been teaching English for thirteen years. She has an MA in writing and is working on an
MFA in professional and creative writing. Maria lives in New Jersey with her husband, a musician. Someday
she hopes to finish her memoirs on that peaceful, little farm. Maria's work has appeared once before in River
Poets Journal, in Pooled Ink and on Every Writer's Source online.
Phoebe Wilcox has published two books, a poetry chapbook, Recidivist (Lilly Press, April 2010), and her
first novel, Angels Carry the Sun (Lilly Press, Sept 2010). Her stories and poems have appeared in many
literary magazines and have been nominated twice for the Pushcart prize and once for the Rhysling award.
Angels Carry the Sun was nominated for both for a Pushcart Prize and the PEN/Faulkner Award.
www.phoebewilcox.com
A. D. Winans is an award winning native San Francisco poet. He edited and published Second Coming for
seventeen years. His work has been published internationally and translated into nine languages. In 2002, a
song poem of his was performed at Alice Tully Hall, In 2006 he won a PEN National Award for excellence in
literature. In 2009 he was presented with a PEN Oakland Lifetime Achievement Award. BOS Press just
released his newest book of poems, In the Dead Hours of Dawn. For more information see
www.adwinans.mysite.com
Linda Zurlo Procida is a 2005 Cum Laude Graduate of Richard Stockton College of New Jersey. She holds
degrees in both Literature and Education. She had the honor of being accepted into 2001 Pulitzer Prize winner
Stephen Dunn's Advanced Poetry Writing Workshop where she had the opportunity to collaborate with other
talented writers. She still hears Stephen's words echoing in her brain, "Give me a nouny poem . . . I want
Buicks and refrigerators."
Individual works are copyright © by their respective creators.
No poem/prose/artwork/photography may be reproduced
without express permission by the author.
Lilly Press/River Poets Journal
901 Norcross Rd. #321
Lindenwold, NJ 08021
www.riverpoetsjournal.com
46
The Maiden by Gustav Klimt
River Poets Journal
Published by Lilly Press
www.riverpoetsjournal.com
2