Categories
stage & screen

Dakota County by Craig Moeckly

Dakota County | Craig Moeckly

Cast

Roy – Male 
Eleanor – Female 
Tom – Male 

Setting 

A room/porch in Roy’s house 

Suggested Props 

Chairs (3) 
A book 
Cans of beer (2) 

Play opens to a dark stage 
Roy sits in a chair with a book 
Eleanor sits in a chair somewhere behind Roy 
Light/spotlight on Roy only, rest of stage remains dark 
Roy quietly reads the book 
Light/spotlight on Eleanor (so now lights on both Roy and Eleanor while rest of stage remains dark) 

Eleanor

You’re actually reading my book?

Roy is surprised

Roy

Oh, Ellie! Didn’t know you was there.

Roy chuckles

Roy

Yeah, guess you caught me. Seems like half the country’s read it, so figured maybe I should, too.

Eleanor

Half the country, Roy? I’m not sure half this country can even read, let alone read my book.

Roy looks at the front cover of the book 

Roy

Over a million copies sold. 

Eleanor 

That’s hardly half the nation. 

Roy

Guess I rounded up a bit.  

Eleanor laughs 

Eleanor 

Oh, Roy.  You could always make me laugh. 

Roy

That so? 

Eleanor 

Well, maybe not always.  But sometimes. 

Roy

I’ll take that. 

Eleanor 

So what do you think? 

Roy

About what? 

Eleanor 

My book! 

Roy

Oh.  It’s pretty good so far.  But, uh… 

Pause 

Eleanor 

But, uh, what? 

Roy

It’s pretty much about life in Dakota County. 

Eleanor 

Well, that is the name of the book. 

Roy looks at the front cover of the book again 

Roy

Yeah, that is true.  But some of this stuff actually happened. 

Eleanor 

It’s called subject matter and inspiration, Roy. 

Roy

Well who the hell would want to read about all that? 

Eleanor 

Apparently over a million folks. 

Roy and Eleanor both laugh 

Roy

Ah shoot. 

Eleanor 

Yeah.  Say, Roy. 

Roy

Huh? 

Eleanor 

I need to tell you something. 

Roy

What’s that? 

Eleanor 

It’s kind of important.  

Roy

Ok 

Eleanor 

Hon, you should be with whoever you want to be with, and you should love whoever you want to love.   

Pause 

Eleanor 

Did you hear me? 

Roy

Yeah 

Eleanor 

It’s alright, Roy. 

Roy

Ok then.  

The light on Eleanor goes out.  Only the light on Roy remains while the rest of the stage is dark.   

Eleanor exits while Roy goes back to reading the book. 

A knock is heard 

Stage lights come up 

Roy keeps reading 

Another knock is heard 

Roy puts down the book 

Roy

Hello?! 

Tom from off stage 

Tom

Hello!  Roy? 

Roy

Yeah, come on in. 

Tom enters 

Tom

Hey there, Roy. 

Roy

Well, I’ll be.  Tom.  Come on in here, grab ya’ a seat.   

Tom 

Thank ya’. 

Tom sits down in a chair 

Roy

Why, I ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays.  

Tom

Yeah, I know.  How you been, Roy? 

Roy

Can’t complain, I guess.  How ‘bout you? 

Tom

Good, yeah, good. 

Roy

Alright then.  What brings you by? 

Tom

Well, actually your son asked me to come by. 

Roy

My son? 

Tom

Yeah, Jacob. 

Roy

I know his damn name. 

Tom

Sorry, course you do.  He just said that you, uh, sometimes, well…

Roy

Well what?  Forget stuff? 

Tom

Yeah, somethin’ like that.  But, you know, we all… 

Roy

Ah, hell, Tom.  I don’t need your sugar coatin’.  He’s right.   

Tom

So, he didn’t say nothing about me stopping by? 

Roy

I don’t know, he might have.  Can’t recall.  See? 

Roy chuckles and then Tom chuckles 

Roy

So why did Jake ask you to come over anyway?  You gonna pay me the twenty bucks he owes me? 

Tom

He didn’t say nothing about no twenty bucks. 

Roy

Course not.  He’s probably hoping I forget about it.   

Roy laughs and then Tom laughs 

Roy

Just like he’s hoping I forget how to play cribbage.   

Tom

You taught that boy how to play. 

Roy

Damn straight I did.  He ain’t taking advantage of my handicap, and I got twenty bucks coming that proves it.  

Tom

Ah, shoot, Roy.  You’re too damn stubborn to let that happen. No, I think he’s feeling guilty he can’t get over here as much as he thinks he should. Probably doesn’t want you getting lonely.   

Roy

Lonely? 

Tom

Yeah, he thinks the world of you, you know.   

Roy

I ain’t lonely. 

Tom

Ok, that’s good. 

Roy

Hell, I was just talking with Ellie. 

Tom looks confused 

Tom

You were just talking to Eleanor? 

Roy

Yeah, just a minute or so ago. 

Tom

Alright 

Roy looks around  

Roy  

Guess she must’ve gone off to somewhere.  Anyhow, why did Jake come bother you with all this? 

Tom

I don’t know. Guess he figured us retired farmers got nothing else to do.  It ain’t  no bother. I’ve been wanting to come over anyhow, just wasn’t sure when would be a good time. So, he didn’t have to ask me twice.  

Roy

Yeah, ok. It’s awful nice of you, I’m glad you’re here. 

Tom

Me, too. 

Roy

I don’t recall the last time we spoke. 

Tom

Uh, would have been at the funeral. 

Roy 

The funeral, huh?  

Tom 

Think so. 

Roy 

Hmm, ok.  Was that Earl’s funeral? 

Tom 

You mean Earl Fenn’s funeral? 

Roy 

Yeah, Earl Fenn. 

Tom 

Roy, Earl died about 5 years ago now. 

Roy 

Been that long already? 

Tom 

Yeah  

Roy 

Hmm, ok. 

Tom 

I meant Eleanor’s funeral, Roy.  

Pause while Roy thinks 

Roy

Ok then.  

Pause 

Roy 

You know, she caught me reading one of her books. 

Tom

Eleanor did? 

Roy chuckles  

Roy

Yeah 

Tom

Ok, which one?  

Roy holds up the book 

Roy 

This one. 

Tom 

Oh, that was her bestseller.  

Roy 

Yeah, I guess it was. 

Tom 

Is that one your favorite? 

Roy 

Favorite?  I don’t know.  

Tom 

She was such a good writer, I s’pose it’s hard to choose which one you like best.  I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t read them all myself yet. 

Roy 

Well, you’re ahead of me. 

Tom 

How’s that? 

Roy 

This is the first one I’ve tried to read.  

Tom 

Really? 

Roy 

Yeah  

Tom 

I guess that surprises me. 

Roy 

Well, I never wanted to read any of them before.  I ain’t proud of that now.  I  dunno, I guess I was jealous, or envious.  Maybe both. 

Tom 

Jealous and envious of what? 

Roy 

Of her success. 

Tom 

Her success? 

Roy 

Yeah, I ain’t never had anything like that. 

Tom 

What are you talking about?  You were the best farmer in the county.  You and Earl.  Hell, you two was the best in the entire tri-county area.  

Roy 

I dunno about all of that. 

Tom 

You don’t? Every year all the other farmers wanted to know what you and Earl was planting. All I’d hear at the diner come March/April, “what crops are Roy and Earl putting in this season?”  

Roy

Hmm, that so?

Tom

Why do you think all those folks brought you over their best cornbread every spring? And brought Earl their best apple dessert?

Roy

Guess I never really thought about it. Figured they was just being neighborly.

Tom

They was being nosy is what they was doing. What’d you all talk about when they came over? If you don’t mind me asking now.

Roy

Guess I don’t really remember. Guess maybe crops mostly, yeah.


Tom

There you go.

Roy

Hmm, guess I never really thought about it.

Tom

Well there you go.

Roy

You know what?

Tom

What’s that?

Roy

I think Earl got the better end of the stick on that one.

Tom

How’s that?

Roy

I never really cared that much for cornbread.

Tom laughs

Tom

You kidding me?

Roy

Nah, I liked Ellie’s. Hers was always nice and moist. Most folk’s cornbread is far too dry.

Tom

That’s why you put that fresh sweet butter on it.

Roy

Hell, there ain’t enough sweet butter in Dakota county for most folk’s cornbread.

Tom chuckles

Tom

So then what’d you do with all that cornbread.

Roy

Fed it to the dogs and chickens mostly.

Tom and Roy both laugh  

Tom 

That’s funny, Roy.  That’s funny. 

Roy

So how’s Dale doing these days? 

Tom

Dale? 

Roy

Yeah. Kinda surprised he didn’t come over with you. Seems like I used to never see one of you without the other. 

Tom

Right. Uh, Dale died, Roy. 

Roy

No 

Tom

Umm, yeah. 

Roy

No one tells me nothin’.  When did all that happen? 

Tom

Over two years ago now. 

Roy

Two years?  My gosh already.  And here I sit not knowing nothing about it. 

Tom

You and Ellie was at the funeral, Roy. 

Roy

Is that right? 

Tom

It is.  You all bought a beautiful bouquet for the service.   

Roy

Hmm, ok then. 

Tom

It was all much appreciated.  

Roy

Ok then.  So how you doing? 

Tom

Oh, I’m getting along.  Get a little bored sometimes.  You know me and some of the other old guys got a weekly poker game going down at the Legion. You should join us. 

Roy

Don’t know nothing about poker.  Ellie never let me play. 

Tom

Oh yeah?  Well, it’s pretty fun.  I can teach you.  See, the fun thing is you can   win a hand even when you got nothin’ yourself.  Just last week… 

Roy

I meant, how you doing with Dale being gone? 

Tom

Oh 

Roy

I know you two was pretty close.  You lived just ‘cross the road from each other. 

Tom nods his head 

Roy

Now, after his Renee died you two farmed together, didn’t you? 

Tom

That’s right, we did.  You remember that. 

Roy

You two done pretty good, too, if I recall.   

Tom

Yeah, we did alright.  We did alright. 

Roy

So sad. 

Tom

What’s that? 

Roy

His Renee.  Too soon.   

Tom

Yes, yes it was. 

Roy

You know, that never sat right with me. 

Tom

What didn’t sit with you? 

Roy

Way she died.  Just didn’t make sense to me.  Falling off a windmill? 

Tom

You remember that too, huh? 

Roy

I do, like it just happened last week or something. You ever known any other farmer’s wife, or any woman for that matter, climb up top a windmill for something? 

Tom

No, can’t say that I have. 

Roy

Me, neither. So why the hell was she up there in the first place? 

Tom

No idea.   

Roy

Never seemed right to me. 

Tom

So what are you saying? 

Roy

I’m saying it don’t seem like it was some accident.   

Tom

Hmm. You said you’ve been reading Dakota County for the first time, right?    

Roy

Huh? 

Tom

Eleanor’s book, you’ve been reading that?  

Roy

Oh, yeah. That’s right. Why? 

Tom

Wondering if maybe you just read that part in the book so it’s fresh in your mind.  

Roy

What part? 

Tom

Part where the wife is found on the ground next to the windmill. 

Roy

I ain’t read that part, where’s that? 

Tom

Oh, I don’t recall, I read that book long time ago now.  Maybe halfway through?

Roy

Nah, I’m only a few chapters in.  She put that in this book, huh? 

Tom

Yep, it’s a big point in the story. Guess I just ruined it for you.  Actually, caused quite a stir in the area when that book come out.  Several folks were none too happy about it. Especially Dale. You don’t remember all that? 

Roy

Seems like there was something with one of her books. I don’t know. I don’t remember none of that, plus as I said I never paid much mind to any of her writing anyhow. 

Tom

Hmm, that’s interesting. 

Roy

How’s that? 

Tom

How that’s all still fresh in your mind after all this time. 

Roy

Yeah, I remember stuff from way back pretty good still. But other stuff… 

Roy shakes his head   

Tom

Did you ever tell anyone how you felt about all of that? 

Roy

Nah, just Ellie. 

Tom

Oh yeah? 

Roy  

Yeah, she and I talked about it quite a bit after I told her it all just didn’t seem right to  me. 

Tom

Hmm 

Roy

What? 

Tom

I’m curious now for you to read the rest of that book.   

Roy

Why’s that? 

Tom

You might have written a lot of that without even knowing it.   

Roy

Ah, hell, Tom, don’t know about all that. 

Tom

We’ll see. 

Roy

Such a pretty little thing, though. 

Tom

Who’s that?  Your Eleanor? 

Roy

Nah, Renee. And boy, could she cook.  

Tom

Is that right? 

Roy

Well, yes. I remember one Thanksgiving they had us over ‘cause they didn’t have no family coming. And, my gosh, the spread. You could smell it as soon as we drove up and stepped out the truck. And I tell you what, you talk about Earl’s wife’s apple dessert? Renee’s cobbler was the best I’ve ever had. 

Tom

That so? 

Roy

I mean the best! But don’t tell that to Ellie. 

They both laugh 

Roy

I never could figure out why she never took it to the fair. She would have won a blue ribbon easy, every time.  Guess it wasn’t in her nature. 

Tom

You know, Roy, I should tell you something. 

Roy

What’s that? 

Tom

That cobbler?  It wasn’t Renee’s. 

Roy

How’s that? 

Tom

Dale made the cobbler.  It was his recipe.   

Roy

You don’t say. 

Tom

Yeah, he was a wonderful cook. In fact, I imagine he made most of that Thanksgiving feast you enjoyed.     

Roy

You don’t say?  I had no idea. 

Tom

Nobody did.  Dale didn’t want nobody to know. 

Roy

Except you. 

Tom

Yeah, right. Except me.   

Pause 

Tom

Dale was a very special friend. I really miss him. 

Roy

I bet. So, do you go look in on his widow? 

Tom

Who’s widow? 

Roy

Dale’s 

Tom

Dale didn’t have a wife, Roy.   

Roy

He didn’t? 

Tom

No 

Roy

But, I thought… 

Tom

Not after Renee. 

Roy looks confused 

Roy

Ok then. 

Tom

You know, I think that’s plenty of talk about the past. I’m here to see how  you’re getting along and if there’s anything I can do for you.  Maybe you got  some chores need to be done, or you want to try your luck with me in cribbage… 

Roy

Did you ever feel fenced in?   

Tom

Fenced in? 

Roy

Growing up and living ‘round here?  Living the way other folks wanted you to live? 

Tom

Where’d that question come from? 

Roy shrugs 

Roy

Don’t know. Just wondering. 

Tom

Well, since you asked, actually yeah. For a long time, I did.   

Roy

That so? 

Tom nods 

Roy 

But not anymore? 

Tom

I guess Dale helped me a lot with that.  

Roy

That’s good. 

Tom

Yeah, helped me to understand that it was alright to be what I wanted to be, or to be who I really was, I guess.   

Roy nods 

Tom

Happiest times of my life. But you know about that, I s’pose. That’s why it’s so hard when they’re gone.  

Roy

When who’s gone? 

Tom

Eleanor and Dale, Roy.   

Roy

Hmm, ok. 

Roy gets out of his chair  

Roy

You know, I always done what Eleanor wants. Married her because that’s what she wanted. Figured it was the right thing to do. Built her this house, as she wanted. Spent my money on what she wanted.  Served on town council and  was a lay leader at church ‘cause she wanted to be proud when she was out. Always correcting my talking.  Made me wear a damned girdle when I went to town! No one’s gonna think I’m married to a fat ignorant man, she’d say. If a man ain’t got self-respect, how can anyone else respect him, she’d say.  

Tom is stunned 

Roy

I tell you one thing, Tom. I ain’t wearing that damned girdle no more!   

Tom

Ok… 

Roy  

Only good thing ever really come out of that woman was Jake.  Certainly wasn’t no book. 

Roy picks up the book and throws it to the rear of the stage  

Roy

And sometimes, sometimes I just had to get out. I had to get out or else I would have burst! So sometimes I went to the city. 

Tom

You went to the city?! 

Roy

I had to. I had to get out! 

Tom

When did you ever go to the city? 

Roy

Once a year, when I said I was going to the farm convention.   

Tom

Really? And Eleanor never found out? 

Roy

No, but I think she might’ve known. Yeah, think she probably did. 

Tom

What the hell did you do there? If you don’t mind me asking. 

Roy

Oh, I went to places I shouldn’t have gone. Did things I shouldn’t have done. But, you see, I was gonna burst if I didn’t. 

Tom

I know the city. Dale and I would go. What kind of places?  

Roy

Back-alley places.   

Tom

You mean the casinos? 

Roy

No, no. If I’d have lost a bunch of money Eleanor would have known for sure and probably shot me dead. Ah hell, I shouldn’t be talking to you about all this… 

Tom

Do you mean the ones on Castro Street?   

Pause 

Roy

You know about those? 

Tom nods  

Tom

Dale and I would stay at the Fairoaks there. Did you ever stay at the Fairoaks, Roy? 

Roy

You see, I was just gonna burst. But I always made it up to Ellie after I come home. I’d bring her back something nice and I’d tell her to make a list while I was gone. To make a list of extra things she wanted done around the house.  I always made it up to her.   

Tom

You know, Roy… 

Tom stands up and starts to walk towards Roy as Roy continues to talk 

Roy

I did, I always made it up to her. 

Tom

Roy, it’s ok. You can be who you want to be now. And… 

Roy

I just, I just would have burst. 

Tom

I can be a very special friend to you.   

Roy

Just would have burst. 

Tom

Would you like that Roy? 

Roy

Like what? 

Tom

A special friend.  

Roy

I, I don’t know. 

Tom suddenly kisses Roy.     

Tom ends the kiss and Roy steps away from him. 

Tom waits for Roy’s reaction 

Tom

Roy? Roy, say something. 

Pause 

Roy

Ok then. 

Tom

Ok then? 

Roy

Yeah, ok then.  

Tom chuckles 

Tom

Well ok then.  

Roy laughs, then Tom laughs 

Tom

Say, I could use something to drink. You want a beer? 

Roy

Yeah, that actually sounds pretty good.   

Tom exits stage as Roy sits back down 

Eleanor enters stage behind Roy.  She picks up the book that Roy threw and walks over to him. 

Eleanor 

You dropped this. 

Eleanor hands the book to Roy 

Roy

Oh, Ellie. I didn’t know you was there. Say, I’m gonna make it up to you. Just like I always done, I’m gonna make it up to you. 

Eleanor 

Roy… 

Roy

Now you make a list and I’ll get to it. I will now… 

Eleanor takes Roy’s hand 

Eleanor 

Roy. You don’t have to do that anymore. 

Eleanor holds Roy’s face and kisses him tenderly. After the kiss Eleanor starts to walk away, then stops and turns back to Roy. 

Eleanor 

You never did. 

Eleanor exits stage 

Roy opens the book and starts reading 

Tom enters stage carrying two beers 

Tom

Alright, cold beer coming right up for you. 

Roy is startled   

Tom

Decided to give that book another try, huh? 

Roy

Geez, Tom!  I ain’t heard you come in.   

Tom

Oh sorry, Roy.  Didn’t mean to give you a start. 

Tom hands Roy a beer 

Roy

It’s alright. Thanks for the beer.   

Tom 

Sure thing. 

Roy

Hell, I ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays. What brings you by? 

END  

 

About the Author:

Craig was born in Iowa. He now lives in Minnesota with his wife and two daughters. Occasionally, during the long winter nights, he writes.

Categories
flash fiction

Iphigenia Recounts the Sacrifice by Georgia White

Iphigenia Recounts the Sacrifice | Georgia White

It wasn’t so bad when it happened.

That’s what I’m supposed to say here, right? He was a good father, really. He loved me. He didn’t want to kill me. The story goes that I went to the temple smiling; they told me I was getting married; they told me I was going to a sacrifice; they would let me watch this time, even though they never let me watch; I didn’t understand until they asked me to lie down—

Or that I was gracious. I like that version more, I think. Martyrs always sound so pretty. Pretty white dresses that catch the breeze when you’re walking and pretty hair pooled out on the altar, and pretty words, too, they always get the best speeches. I got one. Well, Euripides wrote it, but I got to say it.

Hear me, mother, thinking upon what has entered my mind. I have determined to die and this I would fain do gloriously, I mean, by dismissing all ignoble thoughts.

Glorious. It was glorious, what I was doing, not just for me, but for Greece, and it would be beautiful. Heroic. Me, a war hero.

But I have this dream sometimes that I’m back in the temple. My father’s waiting for me. He had the best smile. You could see it all the way up to his eyes. And the incense is still too thick in the air, so much that I feel it clog my throat. It’s too sweet. I don’t like sweet. But he’s smiling at me, so I smile back, and he goes

sweetheart, lie down

and he points to the altar and I say

when’s he getting here

because you know I’m supposed to be getting married but there isn’t even a goat there for the sacrifice, but he just shakes his head and goes

it’ll be much quicker if you lie down

and then I look down. And he’s got the knife. Not his usual knife. It’s got a curved blade and a bone handle and it looks older than anything that I’ve ever seen and I’m like

is that for the sacrifice

and he nods. Doesn’t say anything.

And I realize that I always kind of knew my father would kill me.

It’s not—he didn’t yell. Not like they said, he wasn’t…big, you know, more he just saw things like a game. The kind where you lift something or throw something and test your strength and then you move on. You just move on. It’s fun. He liked those games. He liked to know what he could do if he wanted to.

Sometimes in the dream I scream and fight and yell, but mostly I just—

He’s there and he’s smiling, and I trust him, I do, so I just go

oh. okay.

When it really happened there were all these people there. That made it worse. That I knew they were all seeing it and didn’t. You know. One of the acolytes tied my wrists when I lay back. Another did my ankles.

But in the dream it’s just us. And I’m lying back and I look at my hands and realize that nothing’s holding them. I could just get up if I wanted to. I can’t move them, though, not even my fingers. It’s just him. Just me. And he nods at me again, and he says,

are you ready?

I’m not. I never am. The air is so heavy around me and I feel like a lamb, but I’m not; I’m a person, I was a person, and he says it won’t hurt I promise and then the knife is in my chest and it’s not beautiful anymore it’s dark and sticky and my dress is all red and he’s just looking at me and it hurts it hurts and I remember how he only did what he had to do I was going to be heroic I was going to be brave I was going to be remembered.

I’m hardly even in the story.

They couldn’t be bothered to write me down.

About the Author:

Georgia White is a queer writer based in Berkeley, CA, who is inspired by maligned women. Her previous work has been published in The Nasiona, the Santa Ana River Review, and the Nassau Review.

Categories
fiction

Waiting for Things to Die by Emile Estrada

Waiting for Things to Die | Emile Estrada

Don Miguel’s white Buick spat smoke down the highway westward from Caracas on a Friday afternoon. Doña Soledad sat in the passenger seat shielding herself from the sun with her hands and young Rafael sat between them picking at a scab on his knee. The boy’s father sat in the back smoking menthol cigarettes with the windows rolled halfway down.

“Thanks for the ride, Don Miguel,” said Doña Soledad. “We’ll pay you on Sunday.”

“That’d be fine,” said the driver while he adjusted the rearview mirror to look at the man sitting in the back. “How’s Don Atanasio doing?”

“We shouldn’t talk about that now,” she interrupted.

“Mother, the boy needs to know,” said the tall, thin man from the backseat.

“Know what, dad?” asked Rafael turning around.

“There’s nothing to know, Rafi,” said Doña Soledad.

“You can’t coddle him forever,” said the boy’s father.

“If you want to raise your kid, take him to live with you,” she said. The man looked away and tossed his cigarette out the window.

“Is everything okay?” asked Rafael.

“Everything is fine,” replied the old woman.

“How come we haven’t gone to see grandpa in a while?” asked Rafael.

“It costs too much to have Don Miguel drive us every weekend,” said Rafael’s father.

“We used to go all the time. It’s been months since I’ve seen him.”

“You’ll see him today,” said Doña Soledad.

“Dad, if you keep my allowance, can we see Grandpa more often?”

“Ask your grandma.”

“Can we, grandma?”

“You’ll see him today,” she said in the kind of tone that ends a conversation.

Rafael kept picking at the scab on his knee until it came off. Blood dripped down his shin and he wiped it with the inside of his shorts, then he covered his knee with his right hand. He knew if his grandmother saw the blood she would make a big deal out of it. Old women have a way of doing that. The young boy looked ahead and saw they were driving behind a large blue truck. Ten minutes went by and they were still driving behind it.

“Don Miguel,” said Rafael turning to the driver, “I’ll give you ten cents if you pass the car in front.”

“You already owe me eighty cents.” 

“I’m good for it, I swear.”

Don Miguel passed the blue truck in front and drove over the hills, and Caracas vanished behind its curtain of smog until the road gave way to a warm green country. Grandpa Atanasio lived in Santa Lucia, a small township in the Venezuelan countryside, where his shabby cabin plastered in cracked stucco had stood for decades. Two hours after passing the blue truck, the car took a right turn on a dirt road among dark cedar trees that soon opened into the yellow clearing where Grandpa Atanasio lived. He sat by the front door of his cabin on a wicker chair and a metal cane rested against his thigh. Rafael jumped over his grandmother and out the car and ran to his grandfather before Don Miguel had even stopped. The old man had his left arm in a cast and bandages wrapped around the sides of his bald head.

“Grandpa Atanasio, Grandpa Atanasio,” the boy jumped on the old man’s lap and they embraced. “What happened?”

“I’m alright, kid. It’s nothing,” said the old man.

“It sure don’t look like nothing. Does it hurt?”

“Not at all.”

“Rafael,” said the boy’s father, “Come say goodbye to Don Miguel.”

Rafael ran to shake Don Miguel’s hand who handed the boy a handkerchief to wipe the blood off his hand. With a smile, the driver reminded Rafael that he now owed ninety cents for passing cars on the road to Santa Lucia. Rafael smiled back and reassured him that he would pay later. Rafael’s father and Doña Soledad approached Grandpa Atanasio. The two men kissed each other on the cheek, and Don Miguel drove away in a cloud of yellow dirt.

“I’ll get dinner started,” said Doña Soledad and went into the cabin.

“There’s a fresh chicken in the sink,” shouted the old man through the door.

“Did you clean it?” asked Rafael’s dad.

“Just killed it moments ago but couldn’t clean it. Hand hurts too much.”

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing, I lost my balance last Monday.”

“The neighbor girl called me. She said she drove you to the hospital on Wednesday night.”

“She came over to borrow something and found me.”

“She found you two days later? Why didn’t you go to their house?”

“The car hasn’t worked in months.”

“You need a phone in the house. You shouldn’t even be living all the way out here on your own.”

“It’s fine. You worry too much,” said the old man.

Rafael approached the two men and asked, “What happened Grandpa?”

“I fell.”

“Rafael, go play,” said his father.

“But I want to know what happened!”

“Go, now!”

Rafael put his head down and ran past the wooden outhouse and then past the rusted Chevy truck at the back of the property to where Grandpa Atanasio grew plantains on a small clearing and kept a henhouse, where the palm trees were planted so closely together that they always kept the dirt cool and dark. He washed his hands in the well and then spent the rest of the day chasing chickens through the palms. Doña Soledad watched Rafael from the kitchen window as she soaked the chicken in a plastic bucket filled with cold water and plucked the feathers off the carcass. 

“He’s in no condition to be living on his own,” Rafael heard his grandmother say from the kitchen.

“I can’t take him with me,” the boy’s father replied. “I don’t have any space for him.”

When she was done plucking the bird, she sliced it open at the abdomen with a dull curved blade, pulled the innards, and threw them to the side of the sink. The old man sat outside on the wicker chair chewing tobacco and, spitting into an old tin can of coffee, he smiled whenever Rafael ran by chasing after a frightened hen.

That night, Doña Soledad removed Atanasio’s dressings off his temple and cleaned the wound and the stitches with mercurochrome. She then washed Rafael in a tin bathtub and wrapped the boy’s knee tightly in a thick white bandage, so tight that the boy’s leg itched and ached, and once he was clean, the family sat in the small living room of the cabin to eat dinner. Before they ate, Doña Soledad cut the meat on Rafael and on Grandpa Atanasio’s plates. The old woman said a quick prayer and nobody spoke again until after the meal was over. Rafael noticed how thin the skin on Grandpa Atanasio’s face was as he counted the stitches on the old man’s head. 

“Grandpa, did we eat one of your chickens tonight?” the young boy asked.

“We did,” said the old man.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to kill your own chickens.”

“You’re not,” said Doña Soledad.

“She was old and stopped laying eggs weeks ago. There was nothing left for her to do,” said Grandpa Atanasio.

“Do you have to kill the chickens when they get old?”

“When they get too old or too sick.”

“Are any of your chickens sick, grandpa?”

“One of them is.”

“Are you going to kill it too?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Do you have to?”

“It’s better this way.”

That night, Grandpa Atanasio slept on the leather couch in the living room and Rafael’s dad slept on a thick wool blanket on the floor. Doña Soledad and Rafael shared the bedroom, its walls covered in old photographs, most of them black and white. Above the bed there was a photograph of a man in white robes and a large white hat, one of a soldier in handcuffs, and another of a large group of people around Grandpa Atanasio when he still had a full head of hair and a thick black mustache. A large stack of damp newspapers sat in the corner of the bedroom and on top there were two golden medals, one of which was shaped like a camera.

Rafael looked at the group photo from the bed and asked, “Grandma, was Grandpa Atanasio famous?”

“He was well known.”

“What’s the difference?”

“He worked with lots of famous people. You see that picture of the man in the white robe? That’s Jean Paul II. He was the pope a long time ago. When he came to visit Venezuela, your grandfather was hired to take pictures for the newspapers.”

“Why is that army man being arrested?”

“He was a colonel when the army tried to overthrow the government. Your grandfather took that picture when they arrested the man.”

“Does he take pictures for all the newspapers?”

“Not anymore, he’s retired.”

“What’s retired mean?”

“He’s too old to work.”

“Do the people in the picture ever come to visit Grandpa?”

“That picture is very old.” The old woman paused for a moment before speaking again. “They’re not really around anymore.”

“Are they dead?”

“What’s with all the silly questions tonight, Rafi? Go to sleep; you have plenty of homework to finish tomorrow.”

Rafael and Doña Soledad sat at the dinner table all morning working on his homework and, early in the afternoon after he had finished and had eaten his lunch, Rafael ran out the front door to go chase the chickens again. Out on the back lot, by the farthest of the plantain trees, were two black birds, as large as the boy, and their faces were naked and red and they bickered and squawked with each other, and Rafael, down on his knees, looked at them from afar. 

The birds fought and danced around in a circle until a large white bird flew down and the two black birds made room for him, and the white bird perched itself onto the carcass of a large brown hen and picked at the body with its dull golden beak and gored the dead creature while the black birds watched on. After it had its fill of the carnage, the white bird flew away and the other two swarmed what little remained of the carcass and pulled at it with their bloodied beaks and they squawked and bickered some more. The rest of the chickens roamed around the henhouse, pecking at the ground and clucking quietly, indifferent to the frenzy around them. 

Rafael ran back into the house and cried and grabbed his father by the belt and dragged him to the kitchen. He pointed through the glassless window at the birds and his father rushed back into the living room.

“Dad, do you still have your air rifle?” said Rafael’s father.

“What’s going on?” said the old man.

“There’s vultures out back. One of the chickens is probably dead.”

“What’s a vulture?” asked Rafael.

“The gun is in the cupboard,” said the old man.

“I’ll go deal with them,” said the boy’s father.

“Are you going to kill them?” said Rafael tugging at his father’s shirt.

“Let go, Rafael!”

“Are you going to kill them?” the boy insisted.

“It’s a BB gun. It won’t kill them. It’ll just scare them away.”

Rafael’s father grabbed the rifle from the kitchen cupboard and pumped it a few times before walking out of the cabin. Rafael climbed onto the kitchen sink and sat on the windowsill that faced the back of the property and his father came into view. Rafael had stopped crying and then Doña Soledad grabbed the boy by the shoulders, took him into the living room and sat him on the couch where she proceeded to redress the dirty bandages on the boy’s knee. Rafael heard the clicking of the gun outside and the birds cried and their wings fluttered until all sound vanished. 

That night Rafael could not fall asleep. He kept trying to scratch the scab underneath the bandages, but he knew if he tried too hard the bed would shake and his grandmother would wake up and redress his knee again. After Rafael’s grandmother had finally gone to sleep, his father dragged him out of bed, making sure to make as little sound as possible, and they sat outside under the crescent moon. The wind blew hard and the two of them heard the branches of the plantain trees sway back and forth. Rafael’s father sat on the wicker chair with a bottle of beer and the boy sat cross-legged by his father’s feet.

“How are you feeling?” Rafael’s father asked.

“My leg itches,” the boy said.

“You know what I meant.”

“I’m fine,” said Rafael.

“It’s alright to feel scared sometimes.”

“I wasn’t scared by nothing.”

“Vultures can be vicious.”

“They killed one of grandpa’s chickens,” said Rafael rubbing his eyes.

“They don’t kill anything. They wait for things to die.”

“Grandpa said one of his chickens was sick.”

“It probably died all on its own.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes. The boy’s father sipped his beer slowly and stared at the crescent moon as the clouds thinned, which allowed the moonlight to brighten the yellow clearing where Don Atanasio lived, and Rafael looked up at the sky and counted the stars but lost count after a short while.

 “Is something wrong with grandpa?”

“Here,” the man said and handed Rafael the bottle. “Have a drink.”

The boy shook his head, afraid of what his grandmother might say, but his father insisted, so Rafael wet his lips with beer and handed the bottle back to his father. The man smiled and finished the beer. He put his hand on the boy’s head and Rafael turned around to look at his father.

“Your grandfather is old, Rafael. He’s going to be staying with you and your grandmother for a while.”

“Is grandpa sick?”

“Not really. He’s just old. You see, when people get old, they can’t take good care of themselves anymore, so it’s up to us to take care of them.”

“Grandpa is dying, like all of his friends in the photograph, isn’t he? I asked Grandma about it last night, but she wouldn’t say anything.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“How come?”

“Everybody dies sometime.”

“Will I die too?” Rafael said after a brief pause.

“One day you will. So will your grandpa. So will I.”

“Are you going to be the one to put grandpa down?”

“What do you mean?” asked the boy’s father.

“I heard what he said about putting the chickens down.”

“No, we don’t put people down. We take care of them for as long as we have to.”

“I get it. It’s just for chickens,” said the boy with a sad smile.

“Just for the chickens.”

“Do you know how long will we have to look after him for?”

“No.”

“I hope grandpa gets to live for a long time.”

“Me too, Rafael.”

Young Rafael stood up and sat on his father’s lap and asked, “Dad, does it hurt when you die?”

“Aren’t you full of questions tonight?”

“I just want to know.”

“I don’t know, son, I don’t think so. I guess it depends on how you die.”

Rafael’s father walked the boy back to the bedroom and tucked him in next to his grandmother who hadn’t noticed his absence. Rafael knew Don Miguel would be coming back for them soon after sunrise and the boy closed his eyes very hard but could not fall asleep. The white of the moonlight lit the bedroom through a crack in the ceiling and he sat up on the bed to take the bandages off his knee. He looked at all the old photographs in the room and the damp newspapers in the corner, his grandmother quietly snoring on her side. The chickens were quiet that sleepless night, but the wind made the swaying trees sound like the fluttering of wings and Rafael wondered how long it would take for the vultures to come for everyone he knew.

About the Author:

Born and raised in Caracas, Venezuela, Estrada immigrated to the U.S. due to the deteriorating political landscape of his native country. He studied philosophy at San Jose State University and currently resides in the state of Arizona.

Categories
poetry

Under a Calm Wave, Not Killing Myself by Sola Damon

Under a Calm Wave, Not Killing Myself | Sola Damon

My mother always threatened me not to have sex, but killing myself is something she never forbade. I’m sitting in a café in Collioure, France, when this realization blindsides me. It’s a strange omission considering her father killed himself and that suicide can result from a concoction of circumstances, including genetics. 

The café walls are lined with wooden picture frames. Mediterranean seaside memories I absorb while enamored with the act of living. I’m drafting my first assignment at a writing retreat with the following prompt: Write about something you’ve never told anyone.

 It’s dangerous territory. 

Thoughts about ending my life have weighed on me since I was six years old. I’ve never told anyone about my dreams where I hear a voice underwater telling me to swim deeper and farther from shore. But I find the courage to share from the edge of this particular sea with a disclaimer: I am not suicidal.

The line between ending my life and it ending naturally is not a blurry one for me. I’m bursting with so much happiness. Like the kind I see in the paintings inside this café, filled with pastels of people frozen in their seaside holidays. Or like the man sitting outside drinking a glass of beer, a poodle at his feet, and a book with dog-eared pages. I imagine the book smells like an old book shop or a green wooden kiosk from along the Seine. The poodle stretches next to a glass water bowl with edges dimpled like a pie crust. The man is so content he might actually levitate. I know that feeling. But that’s not what keeps me hiding my history of suicidal dreams and thoughts. It’s because the thoughts act as shovels, digging up dangerous dirt. Family dirt. 

Looking back at the paintings, I wonder if contentment comes from embracing only the parts of our lives we choose to put inside picture frames. Like the ones my father passed down to me. Thick mahogany frames holding West Indian maps of where we lived when I was a child, and pictures of his parents— the only grandparents I’ve ever known. His framable memories strike a disturbing opposition to my mother’s past. Her parents only ever existed in dark descriptions. Sadly, to my knowledge, nothing about my mother’s past is framable.  

But she has reasons for her infectious unhappiness. Her father’s suicide leaked into my life in slow moldy drips. He shot himself in the head with his policeman’s service revolver when my mother was sixteen, one month into her teenage pregnancy. The newspaper article said his wife, my maternal grandmother, had filed for divorce that day. 

On the other hand, my father was older and, from what society would call a “good family,” dutifully married his teenage bride. She was the oldest of nine from the other side of the hedges. Her mother was callous and miserable. I recall her cheekbones so high and sharp she looked like a skeleton wrapped in industrial strength nylons from a plastic egg. But that memory faded, gratefully, when my father moved us to a simple cement house in the Caribbean. 

From the age of five, my life sat on the edge of a peaceful sea that looked like a vat of melted emeralds and sapphires. But it was juxtaposed with my mother’s desperate anger. She shouted at my father in ways that created insecurity, sending me to imagine a different world with my father’s books and the maps in those wooden frames. Or down a path to the beach, hiding from the uncertainty indoors. I registered memories like an intake clerk as if I knew I would need them later. Like the feeling of saltwater burning my sinuses, and watching my father’s blue eyes underwater, framed in a black rubber diving mask. 

Now, in Collioure, as I watch the man with his dog and his book on a Mediterranean promenade, I wonder if my father would have traveled farther without children and the required marriage. Maybe have taken a book to a café in a small coastal town and read it with a glass of beer. He could have gone to all the places on the maps in those wooden frames that, as a child, hypnotized me with their symbols. I thought they could tell the future. I believed the maps were filled with places where the air had no anger, and the people were full of love and care. They were imaginary and invisible but so real to me that if I’d thrown flour around the room, I’m sure their outlines would have appeared.  

Maybe my mother also stared at my father’s maps and wondered how to get to those places. But I doubt it. Perhaps she wanted to end her life like her father. I doubt that too. What I never doubted was that she loved me, albeit in a dysfunctional way that wove inadequacy, instability, and a massive lack of self-esteem into the fibers of my being. As the anchor that tied my parents to the life they were stuck in, I can pinpoint my first desire to leave this world when I realized they were miserable because they were saddled with me. 

When I was old enough to move out, I put new maps on my own walls and hung some of the old ones my father gave me. They allowed me to picture the future and keep tabs on the past where my guilt thrived. They’ve helped me learn that my parents’ unhappiness was never my fault. They had the power to change their course, anchored or not. Staring at what I’ve chosen to frame helps me contemplate the unframable. It allows me to write the truth.  

The dreams always started in the acacia bushes, where I dodged thorns and goat dung, sneaking down to the clear blue water in front of our house. I would pick limes and let the skins burn my lips before walking into the sea with no footprints. A voice underwater would tell me I could swim out towards the blurry void and stay forever, or return to the island. The water calmed me so entirely that I fought to stay in the dream when I woke, to stay immersed in the waters I still see on the maps. I didn’t want to be stuck in the limitations of a body. I didn’t want to be present. I was obsessed with finding a different future, even if it meant drowning myself to get there. 

Even when I couldn’t sleep, I imagined that I was underwater, looking out into the blue. I pictured my straw blonde hair drifting in an apparition around my head, looking up to watch the underside of the calm waves rolling onto the sand. They would recede and wash the shore, again and again. I think about that dream now when I can’t fall asleep, forty-five years later.   

My parents long broke from each other and somehow still remained stuck in different places, anchored by different things. But I’m grateful that they gave me the means to return to that same sea whenever I choose. I swim into the same blue water now in my much older body, sinking and squinting into the same void. I find a strange solace in knowing I can hand myself over if I swim far enough. As if I will cross some watery membrane into a new world like my mother’s father did, and others I’ve lost who took their lives. They chose to step inside the picture frames forever. 

Unlike them, I would rather find the parts of me I’ve left behind living in all the places I’ve visited on those maps in the wooden frames—where I can emerge from beneath a calm wave and enjoy walking up onto wet sugary sand. Maybe to another café in Collioure. Or to places where hummingbirds slurp hibiscus flowers as the sun sets into the sea at the edge of the earth—to all the places I haven’t had my fill of yet.  

As for the thoughts and dreams, I believe death will release me into the blue void when I least expect it, and it’s something for which I choose to wait. I observe my memories of the dreams by writing them down now in places like this café. I look through the blurry membrane on paper, watching it separate this world from the next, confident in my choice to remain in this one. 

 

About the Author:

Sola Damon is the pseudonym for a recovering trial lawyer with four unfinished novels in her bottom drawer. She also writes personal essays and poetry, most recently, “Love, Naturally” and “Evolution,” appearing in the Penumbra Literary Review (Spring 2022). She is the author of Namaste at Home: Positive Thinking and Meditation During a Freakin’ Pandemic. She splits her time between South Florida, Laguna Beach, California, and her childhood home in the West Indies, where she’s polishing off those novels for publication.

Categories
poetry

For Me–Desideratum by Amy S. Lerman

For Me–Desideratum | Amy S. Lerman

 

I carry it like an Epipen, this phrase that’s zippered
into my purse pocket, a graduate class residual
extracted only when no transliteration or alternate 
diction works. What patience these two, gray-blue 
words have evinced, sentenced at times to years 
of dormancy, like the too-heavy-to use crystal 
goblets we keep in their original box, plus
such pedestrian cohabitants—
ChapStick, pennies, tampons, crumpled receipts—
and few travel opportunities. I cannot recall 
their last application, perhaps a library wing dedication 
when the college president wore a hard hat, held
an oversized, gold shovel, or our first meeting 
new neighbors, her French accent, my sycophancy.

How unexpected now—amid potato salad, ankle-
spiraling mosquitoes, the great bend of the Arkansas 
river—to unzip here, release in my in-laws’ backyard. 

I am a mother untucking her child, readying 
words, as my husband’s mother produces
a shoebox housing flashlights, Gatorade, granola bars, 
all the emergency supplies they will keep 
while my father-in-law details the delivery, 
how a huge crane lowered the bunker’s six tons 
next to his linoleum shed. This storm shelter so enthuses
them, they wave us in, demonstrate how they will sit
facing each other, and I understand, can feel

the winds’ momentum merging cold and heat, blowing 
them to take cover, vortexing, my breaths are so quick 
and noisy, I can’t calm them, the words rising
spiraling and burning up my esophagus, and I can’t stop 
them, me, sound the sirens, here they go—

“Beton arme,” I scream, that memorized phrase meaning
“reinforced concrete,” so validating, perspiring my neck,
leaving me winded, and I long for my French teacher,
someone to compliment my accent, but as I turn 
to my relatives, they say nothing, just slightly nod at me
and stay seated, seeking refuge in their new purchase.

About the Author:

Amy S. Lerman was born and raised on Miami Beach, moved to the Midwest for many years, and now lives with her husband and very spoiled cats in the Arizona desert, so all three landscapes figure prominently into her writing. She is residential English Faculty at Mesa Community College, and her poems have appeared in or are forthcoming in Willawaw Journal, Stonecoast Review, Broad River Review, Radar Poetry, Rattle, Slippery Elm, and other publications. Her poem, “Why Is It?” was the inaugural winner of the Art Young Memorial Award for Poetry.

Categories
poetry

Statistically Speaking by Emdash AKA Emily Lu Gao

Statistically Speaking | Emily Lu Gao

 This work has been removed at the request of the author.

Categories
poetry

Your Name by Tamara Nasution

Your Name | Tamara Nasution

The perfect three-syllable word in a sensual
              curve of six alphabets: azalea, chakra,
tundra. It means nothing in your language and
              everything in mine. No equivalences

in the widely-spoken tongue; your name brings
              to mind you, and you only. Its diction
pronounced like a song or harmonious reading
              of the Psalm; a prayer I have recited

like a lifelong acquaintance. Incandescent lights
              of colored shreds of glass give your name
all the shades of electromagnetic waves—
              softly tinted with the music played by

the mermaids. It rhymes with aurora, euphoria,
              enigma: a hypothetical utopia dreamed
by your father. Your name is a keyword to a
              world unexplored; a riposte to my lasting pleas.

 

About the Author:

Tamara was born and raised in small town in Indonesia. She has been writing since her preteen years and has several pieces of her works selected for publication, including for a poem contest organized by the ASEAN. Her writings are mostly derived from her personal experiences; she often writes about what it is like to be queer among a heteronormative society.

When she’s not writing, Tamara works full-time in a nonprofit focusing on children. She is passionate about humanitarian aids and climate change adaptation. You can catch more of her on her social medias: Instagram @kappaca and Twitter @sacredswamp

Categories
poetry

Mass in Harlem by Stelios Mormoris

Mass in Harlem | Stelios Mormoris

I heard the news in a taxi cab
so I went straight to mass
in Harlem, where you were born,

Margarita Zitis, before the war.
By 116th Street, I knew you were 
dead, but could see you shopping

across the median on Broadway,
a figment covered in rhinestones, 
shaking your thin gold bracelets, 

preening your black onyx ring  
while I processed neon flatlines
in the cold silver tray of winter sky.

I prayed to God to not blackout,
attached a white rose to my lapel
while the chaplain explained black

power in an even tone worthy of
the erudite-to-illiterate equal
in this assembly, each loud word

shirring the sheen on the slack silk
of the black immaculate robes, 
matte on satin, each ivory lace 

collar fettered with starch,
tight around the raging throats,
a parody of pretty. I was a white

man drowning in sartorial finery,
down a sluice of pure evasion
so I tried to find the striations

of pain in the lo hymns of earnest
voices singing black is a color.
I let the sermons wash me, tried 

on guilt’s tight vest, remembered
you’d refer to negroes in code
as the passing light of moons.

I listened to kids’ mulled chatter 
outside about old bitches on crack
in the flicker of windows.

The day Aretha broke the static 
on our AM radio you reminded me 
roses are in fact not black but 

that black skin absorbs the sin
of derision—that our negro mailman,
Arthur, could be fierce enemy 

or dear friend so be kind. In the same 
pew a black woman’s slight hand 
squeezed mine on the word ‘Lord’

as she channeled me through prayer 
as if navigating a dark hallway, 
finding calm in Leviticus’ brooding 

long passages, smelling your racist
homilies like loaves of warm bread.
I paid homage to a theatre of votives.

I felt guilty I didn’t feel guilty.
I bathed in the amethyst blue glass
of the high apse pooling sunlight

and relaxed, rode the adagios’ swell
as the worshipers rose and praised
the Lord, as I put the white rose 

in my pocket to leave on your grave—
the congregation a happy medley
of gold fillings, pearl hairpins, and

white proud teeth, you dancing
among them, scrolls of gold leaf
unraveling off the candlesticks,

this one heaving, reverberate body
of souls all exalting me in unison
because everyone knew I was trying.

 

About the Author:

Native of Boston and Martha’s Vineyard, MA., Stelios Mormoris is the CEO of SCENT BEAUTY, Inc. Citizen of Greece and the U.S., Stelios was raised in New York and spent most of his adult life living in Paris. He received his undergraduate degree in architecture from Princeton, and M.B.A. from INSEAD [Institut d’Européen d’Administration et des Affaires] in Fontainebleau, France.

His work has been published in High Shelf Press, Humana Obscura, Midwest Poetry Review, Nassau Literary Review, SouthRoad, Spillway, Sugar House Review, Tupelo Quarterly, and other literary journals. His debut book of poetry titled “The Oculus” is forthcoming by Tupelo Press in September 2022.

Categories
poetry

Declarations of Hunger by Reed Smith

Declarations of Hunger | Reed Smith

                        after A. E. Backus

He paints a bird and a snake. 
                        It is midday 
in a field. One glistens cruelly. One tries not
to give itself away.

The fractal swath of deliverance
glitters in the ocean’s current. 

Wind hammers inside the echo chamber’s hood.

Wings, like dusty Sanskrit, blur. 

They tangle in a whisper.
A heron becomes a wren. A rock becomes a weed. 
The grass shakes its sequined blades.

Declarations of hunger have been made. 

 

About the Author:

Reed Smith’s debut book of poetry, Declarations of Hunger, is forthcoming from Brooklyn Arts Press. Originally from Texas, he went to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and currently cares for Covid patients in nursing homes near Miami, Florida.

Categories
poetry

Felis Ellipses by Jack Phillips

Felis Ellipses | Jack Phillips

Cat tracks make ellipses on snow like a poem when they stop the silence goes deeper. Funny that Felis Rufus slinks up frozen creek beds passing unseen and that our un-bobcat-like stomp and skitter finds around each bend her spoor. We take our prompts from native snow-poems seeking to or wanting to believe that we can move trackless make art that begins to vanish on the making; write inside-out verses deeply arising from this place that stiffly takes our feet. We will never become native here, never bones and blood by this land woven and flow. Only by longing do we belong by wildnesses here our souls awakened become the creatures that once we were by the ephemeral traces we make.

 

About the Author:

Jack Phillips is a naturalist, poet, nature writer, and founder of The Naturalist School, a nonprofit organization devoted to poetic wildness and the consilience of creativity and ecology.  He is author of The Bur Oak Manifesto: Seeking Nature and Planting Trees in the Great Plains and co-editor of Natural Treasures of the Great Plains: an Ecological Perspective (with Paul Johnsgard and Tom Lynch). His poetry has appeared in Wild Roof, Flora Fiction, EcoTheo, The Closed Eye Open, Canary: a Literary Journal of the Environmental Crisis, and THE POET.  He lives in the Missouri River watershed of eastern Nebraska.