' •• ,,, .. r \ , "; SRAPEs,·I The literary &nda.rt . r,• .,.. magazine ofMa.ncbester . The editors of Shapes invite you to submit your poetry, prose ConunU!Uty College . and artwork for consideration for publication in the spring • . 2018 issue. Poetry should be typed and single-spaced. Please • •• - . keep a copy of any poetry or prose that you submit. We ·~., . promise to handle all artwork with care. •• ..;~. Submit written work to: ..., . Steve Straight (English Dept., Tower 507, 512-2688) ~,i:.. Patrick Sullivan (English Dept., Tower 509, 512-2669) ....~-;:.'., or to the Liberal Arts Division secretary. ..< • ;~ Submit artwork to Maura O’Connor (Graphic Design '• Dept., LRC A248, 512-2692) !., • . . . .. •;(••·, . ·•,:. 1=,.,_... . -· -· ...... , ,.. ...-...... ·~· :>: :. , •"'"'-·•· •

, Shapes is Manchester Community College’s art and literary magazine. Contributors are all members of the MCC Community. Faculty Advisors, Editorial: Steve Straight Patrick Sullivan Rae Strickland Design: Maura O’Connor

photo by Tara Tymoshiw

Spring 2017

art by Emily Person Table of Contents

How to Write Poetry by 8.14.15 by Julia Bonadies page 34 Vicky Nordlund page 2 Elevator Music by Jamie Crepeau page 36 Launching the Canoe by Lisa Butler page 4 Cure by Chloe Sundet page 37 Witness and Wonder by Dacia R. Ball page 6 Holy Bones by Bill Moorhead page 38 Languages by John Stanizzi page 7 The Gift by Edit DiPippo page 39 Cider Blessing by Kate Foran page 8 Twelve Hours by Chloe Sundet page 40 Loading Dock by Patrick Sullivan page 9 Machine Shop by Jamie Crepeau page 42 Walk by Stephen Campiglio page 10 On First, Looking for the Signal Ripping Out the Forsythia to Steal by Bill Moorhead page 43 by Meghan DePeau page 11 Reflection on an Angel Track 3, No Defects by Megyn Craine page 12 by Jackie McCabe page 44 Magical Powers by Kathleen Roy page 16 A Theory on Relativity Vagrant by Caleb Brackett page 20 by Dominic Pescosolido page 45 Shades by Meghan De Peau page 28 The N Word by Brittany Carilli page 46 Il Duomo di Firenze by Megyn Craine page 29 Fading Out of Music Class C. by Julia Bonadies page 30 by Jamie Crepeau page 47 Body of Knowledge by Megyn Craine page 32 Enlightened Hail by Hank Gromelski page 33 by Dominic Pescosolido page 48 Life Expectancy by Steve Straight page 49

photo by Kate Jenusaitis

photo by Norberto Lemcoff cover art by Amy Lord 1 Vicky Nordlund

How to Write Poetry

Maceration is a form of controlled putrefaction, a stage of decomposition in which the V proteins of the body’s cells are broken down and consumed by bacteria in anaerobic Cut any additional fesh conditions. Make sure to use gloves and handle the cartilage with care. I It is likely some bits of vertebrae To prepare for this decomposition may still be attached. peel of the skin, Soak until your water is clear. expose the muscle and fat, and separate the organs from the body. VI Don’t worry, this does not need to be neat. Gather the bones and let them dry. You will still have excess tissue afxed to the carcass. Resist the urge to boil or bleach. It will damage the remains. II Remove eyeballs and ears because some structures are brittle. Store severed parts in nylon panty hose for easy identifcation. Remember to keep the tongue in place.

III Tis process generates a strong stench. Terefore, use a closed container in a ventilated area. Maintain a constant temperature for optimal results. Wear a respirator when you switch out maceration baths and pull out tough material.

IV Sometimes the degradation of tissue will stall for even those well-versed in this preparation.

art by Tania Kokidko Be patient. Proper incubation is required.

photo by Alex Narraez 2 3 Lisa Butler

Launching the Canoe Te canoe is waiting down in the garage. Gnarled laurel branches will squeal below the gunwales It hovers over two white sawhorses, while we paddle over sunken, scratching hemlock trunks suspended in the humid June air like a ripening husk from last year’s storms, and steer around rough boulders ready to burst at the faintest breath or breeze. plucked and tumbled under ancient sheets of ice.

On weekends I sand, scrub, and prime the hull. Each mark will tie the boat to this rich, expansive history My fngers run over the contours of okoume and ash and weave a ragged map of our own humble adventures. like a great egret preening to fnd minute gnats Tese wounds will be the lake’s rugged calligraphy caught in the oily web of drying paint. revealing our escapades when the canoe is back at home, its mottled belly exposed and on display. At dusk, when each brushstroke is magnifed by its own lengthening shadow, there is a temptation to sand and prime again burnishing each plank to near perfection.

I could dally here for weeks erasing every blemish with fne grit until the fnal slick enamel coat becomes a lustrous shell mirroring the lake’s glossy surface at dawn.

But it will not dangle from the rafters untouched, like art. Te bottom of our craft will be scarred by roots and pebbles poking and scraping the keel before it slips into—and onto—the water.

With such a shallow draft, we can discover all the secrets of the craggy coast. It will sneak us into rocky coves for secret blueberries unseen by swimmers and birds who do not wander from the lake’s unblinking eye.

4 art by Trae Brooks 5 Dacia R. Ball John Stanizzi

Witness and Wonder Languages

Water from the spigot rushes over red boots, Front Street pools gather rapidly around them, Hartford, Connecticut brimful buckets sway back and forth 1944 drenching plants already damp from the storm. Where would the world be without children My father, who raised roses and rifes, who fetch pails of water? who survived with eight siblings in four rooms photo by Cailyn Martin and emerged with nothing onto the street At times the kitchen sink is all they fnd where the ghosts of vendors still haunt the light for the sacramental flling and pouring— of waning summer nights, who left with just whispers uttered over sour cream containers the scraps of two languages, neither of submerged in a mixing bowl lake. which could hide the truth, crossed the river which People rescued, fres put out, boats capsized, had swallowed his family more than once, the front of their clothing dark and heavy, and settled into a tiny square house saturated with wonder. in a feld where only moments ago plowshares toiled through harvest-days until the At best, I am ready, stubble feld stretched from the forest to the towels in hand, raising shirts road where my father would drive back and forth bound to goose-pimpled skin. hardening his loneliness with silence. My breaths are deep, pull the mind back to the heart. Order is secondary. Witness the moment that cannot keep.

6 art by Peg Carbonneau art by Joshua Remy 7 art by Christine Rockledge Kate Foran Patrick Sullivan

Cider Blessing Loading Dock

for Kevin & Harmony Te acoustic guitars and the Fender Telecaster are quiet now, for the moment. October 15, 2016 Te Labor Day holiday is just beginning, and the evening breeze is shimmering in through the windows On this day you invite your beloveds to the feast, of the Tiger Girl Cafe, cool and sweet. provide meat and drink to do justice to the harvest. Te building is an old warehouse As you attended to every detail of this celebration, set ten feet back from the train tracks you had a vision of serving the season’s cider pressed and unfltered in the Queen Anne’s Lace and weeds. in the old way--beginning to bubble, hospitable to the wild yeasts-- A train still lumbers by every afternoon. the bouquets of microfora that are our ancestors and guests, Out back on the wooden loading dock, making life from decay, enacting everyday Cana miracles. we dangle our feet above the railroad ties Generations of households have observed and talk about daughters the domestic mystery of cider, preserving the yield of the trees and summers in a draught more common and reliable than water. and songs In these latter days, the idea of marriage might seem as fantastical and outdated as a fairy story. and the distant horizon of the tracks, But here we are gathered, cups brim-full and raised. heading out to Memphis and Nashville, And even though caution prevailed and our cider is sweet and soft, and beyond that to the open prairie-- it’s as if some ancient knowing brings us here, far-fung places and distant lands and the realm of the fae persists in microbes working that feel, photo by Cassandra Ayala their unseen magic upon a living drink. now, improbably, as warm and welcoming Let your marriage be teeming. as this darkening night. Let your vows be like the strains of wildness that ferment the cider, deepening and ripening and rounding out cloying sugars and fat tannins, outlasting winters.

May you be so changed, and so kept. art by Maggie Gammell

8 9 art by Crystal Woike photo by Tara Tymoshiw photo by Kaelyn Curtis Stephen Campliglio Meghan DePeau

Walk Ripping Out the Forsythia

Migratory words land along the plains of my breath, He set the hook into the chain like night birds outlining a vague tree. encircling a dense tangle. He cranked the truck’s engine, crept across the yard till But the plains breathe clear each time the chain was taut, glanced in the mirrors before a phrase takes hold before tapping the gas. Te roots held fast and all that remains—vagabondo. for a few seconds, then crunching, tearing, wrenching, one lunge of the truck and the exhausted shrub Where words end and acuity begins, and its bowels lay exposed in the sun. the street abruptly elbows into a long meadow to my left, He loaded the remains into the bed. the squares of city blocks to my right, I covered my unease by gathering clipped branches, intimidated by the yawning holes left by a deeply wet steps far below, rooted past. Absence. Nothing to do but wait. supplanting my previous life. photo by Mark Cross

10 art by R. Clarke 11 Megyn Craine

Track 3, No Defects I. II. Driving my dad across Pennsylvania to Altoona, Altoona, “railroad city,” rose with the industry, pitched on hills overlooking the town where he was born. vast rail yards — for years, the largest complex of railshops in the world. Only this time he is the passenger, I am the driver. Growing up in a train town, my dad was raised to love the steam and steel. He gave up driving years ago He is what folks call a railfan — one word, as if he’s a part of the tracks. as his hearing dulled and his sight became weak. It had been his freedom. We exit the highway and see how Altoona has gone downhill. He loved being behind the wheel. Now a remnant of a rail town, great buildings stand idle and directionless. For years he tormented us with the long way home or a “shortcut” he knew, Te shops are derelict. Te shadow of industrial decline hangs and we’d beg, “Mom, will you please drive?” heavy, as if the town has reached the end of its line. Tis trip is his eighty-frst birthday gift. Tere is only the highway stretching north.

He and I drive west into the ribs and bellies of the Alleghenies. “Which way should I go?” I ask, yielding to his control. He has chosen the music: Brahm’s Requiem, “I don’t recognize anything,” he says, looking out the car window. singing accompaniment as I drive, Ba-da-dummm… with a sure, growing bass. Under his arched brows, there is a faded, dull sky in his eyes. He waves his arms like a conductor, Ba-da-daaaaaaa! his arms descend Tis will be his last road trip. from the swell. “I don’t know this requiem,” I say, “…do composers write more than one?” “I don’t know,” he says, looking straight ahead. “I don’t think so.” III.

We pull over at a rest stop. He leans on a cane to propel himself My dad was an engineer of electricity, but occupied himself so often forward with a slow shufe, breathing heavily. with trains that as a child I thought he drove them. art by Mary Talbot My dad has only one lung. He can fnd a train anywhere. I walk alongside, tensed and ready to assist. As we coast along a side road he suddenly comes to life, “Turn here!” pointing across the dashboard. He knows the route by heart and directs me out of town and into the mountains, up to the Horseshoe Curve, a great curl of track where trains climb in elevation to cross the Allegheny range.

On the steep slope he and I stand trackside where the curve hugs the mountain horizon to horizon, where ffty freight trains still pass every day. Along a siding an old steamer stands on display, permanently fxed to its place.

12 photo by Arlin Mena-Saldivar 13 Without warning there is the sound of a horn, the echo hidden around a turn. We crane our necks and wait. Te gravel beneath us trembles, the air is flled with a swelling. We lean to the east in expectation. A rumble shakes the ground and grows, an engine appears through the trees, looming larger until we are dwarfed by a mass of sound and steel passing heavy and loud, hufng diesel breath. Te wheels squeal along the curve, airbrakes hissing, hot metal against metal shakes the atmosphere surrounding. Car after car in a maelstrom of sound; our insides and skin are ringing.

Two engines are coupled in front for the long pull uphill. Tree more, called helpers, push the great load from behind as it climbs. Each car disappears over our shoulders, one after the other. I turn to look at him in the noise and dust. His eyes are bright. His eyes shine like polished metal. IV. After food at a diner, we ride to the hotel, a bed and breakfast for train bufs. It rests at the side of three busy tracks where horns blow all night from a grade crossing. Creosote hangs in the air. A porch spans the front of the building, cluttered with mismatched chairs. Back issues of Railfan Magazine are stacked next to scanners, tuned to the frequency of the Pittsburgh dispatcher. A horn blows from a distance, a scanner fuzzes, and a voice becomes clear: Track 3, no defects. A small boy’s grin spreads on my dad’s face as we cross the porch to the door. Inside there is a steep staircase and he stands at the base, looking up. He has only one engine to drive him forward. I step behind to help. “…Tank you…” he says between slow breaths. Two palms on his back, I push — as he grips the rail and ascends. 14 art by E. Cardwell 15 Kathleen Roy

Magical Powers AM end of the report, she reads: pedestrian vs. motor Her med pass and paperwork complete, Mina grabs an expresso from the break vehicle; accident under investigation. “Te character of a nurse is as important as the knowledge she possesses.” – Carolyn Jarvis room and sits in the patients’ dining room, staring As the staf remove the blankets, Mina sees out of the large window that faces the driveway her new admit is indeed a mystery. It’s as if he’s in entrance. She breathes hot cofee-breath onto the disguise, she thinks. glass until it fogs up, then rubs her sleeve over it in Te patient lays still, non-verbal. His head a1 circular motion, until she can see herself. is wrapped in layered gauze, like a mummy. Tufts She stares at her refection. People say of salt and pepper- colored hair poke out from his PM she looks like a younger version of her mother. dressing, tinged with dried blood. His arms and Tere’s dead silence, prior to the sound of the metal-on- Mina wears her straight black hair in a long braid. legs are encased in fberglass casts. metal scraping of the old elevator doors, signaling the arrival of the third Her skin is bronze and unblemished. Her dark, Mina comes closer to him, wanting to shift nurse, Mina. All is peaceful on the ward, except for the occasional almond-shaped eyes, come from her father’s side. look into his eyes. Briefy, she shines her fashlight buzz of a call bell coming from the owner of a full bladder. Her eyebrows, midnight- black, are penciled on by into his eyes, checking pupil reaction. His eyes are brownish- gray, clear, dark and deep, like looking She’s just driven through one of the worst storms she can remember Mina, an inverted V shape, like two birds in fight. 1 She’s trying for a more streamlined look. Her face into a frozen pond, she thinks. Tere’s something in her thirty-two years. As Mina stomps her Uggs on a rubber mat in the is heart-shaped with high cheek bones. Tat’s a about his eyes, intelligent and other-worldly, a med room and brushes wet snow of her hooded parka, she calls out to the family trait and so is her stocky build. Mina is see-all, know-all kind of look. Her instincts take 2nd shift nurse: from Maine’s Penobscot Indian tribe. She’s told her over. She thinks she may have a clue as to who name means magical powers. At fve foot nothing, her patient is. As Mina stares down into his eyes, “I made it! Fishtailed and spun out a few times. Holy crap, it’s bad she weighs one hundred sixty pounds. She sighs, instinct meets intellect. Mr. Doe gives her a slight out there. Tere’s white-out conditions and road closures. Can’t see a foot thinking if only she did possess magical powers, nod and a wink. in front of you. Good luck getting home, Carrie. Take it slow, like frst she’d perform a ritual of some kind and drop at gear, okay?” least twenty pounds. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Tiny ice particles hit, “Never mind all that. I’ll gladly punch out tonight. You’re getting then bounce of the window. Suddenly, through an admission, Mina. All I know is he’s some VIP. Not sure what all the the swirling snow, Mina sees two headlights beam- ing and hears tires, crunching into newly-fallen AM hush-hush is all about. Let’s count narcotics. I’ll give you report. Lab slips “Okay guys, let’s deep snow. Te ambulance is here. get Mr. Doe settled. He goes into room 207 bed are in the folder. I’m outta here,” Carrie says. Two burly, red-faced paramedics wheel “Why the hell transport during a nor’easter,” Mina complains half- B,” Mina tells the staf. Tey transfer him into bed the gurney of the elevator. Mina’s new patient is as she sets up the IV equipment, administering heartedly, although she’s somewhat intrigued by the idea of admitting a swaddled from head to toe in plaid fannel hospital medication and hydration, as the doctor ordered. “mystery patient.” blankets. One of the paramedics hands her a plain manila envelope. Report over, Mina takes the lanyard from Carrie, hangs the keys to Te admission papers claim the patient’s 2 everything around her neck and says goodnight to Carrie. name is John Doe. Except for the usual doctor’s orders, lab results and x-ray reports, there’s no fur- ther info: no contacts, religious afliation or next 16 of kin listed. As Mina quickly scans down to the 17 ror as she describes the wintry scene for him. “Te sun is shining on the pine tree. Its boughs droop, under the weight of the snow, like AM the arms of an old man wearing a heavy white over- An hour later, soft moans coming from room 207 are followed coat, decorated with blue jays and red cardinals. abruptly by Mina’s quick footsteps. Her rubber- Like feathered brooches, they perch and listen to soled clogs stick-click over the newly waxed hall what they alone can hear: snow falling silently, on foor. While she injects morphine to relieve his snow. misery, her whispered words of comfort are audible Next, Mina rummages through her uni- only to her3 patient, Mr. Doe, who is somewhere form pocket and lovingly touches the small prayer between heaven and earth. tie her mother handed down to her. It’s intricate and delicately hand-crafted, with beads, gemstones and soft cloths woven together in the spiritual colors of their tribe. She chants ancient poems and sing-songs an old Indian prayer as she hangs the relic over his head. AM John Doe lets out a long sigh as one tear As the wind howls, it rattles the window in room 207. Mina rolls sideways and absorbs into his gauze dressing. sits in a bedside chair holding her patient’s swollen hand. All through the stormy night she checks on him. He 4sleeps peacefully.

AM rd By the end of 3 shift, the storm has moved out to sea. Mina strolls into room 207 and sing-songs good morning as she rolls up the window shade. Bright sunlight streams into the room. “Well, we made it through the storm. I just wanted7 to say goodbye and good luck. I hear they’re transferring you to a rehab facility today.” She wishes she could do more for her photo by Maura O’Connor mystery patient. In her heart she knows that words have meaning to him. He will under- stand her parting gifts. Taught in the ways of her people, Mina knows how to see nature. Her spirit becomes the mir- 18 art by Maggie Gammel 19 Caleb Brackett room. I remember the way she wash this body. I wonder when the bounce of the pea green walls, held my head against her soft red last time Bennett took a shower stained with god knows what. I try coat and the favor if ice cream I was. I spend a little too long and and try again, swinging the door Vagrant ate on the ride home. Rocky Road. the hot water starts to turn cold. back and forth before I fnally get Before that I was much When I get out to grab a towel I it shut and locked. I open my eyes and sit up. older, in my seventies I believe. notice a tattoo along my back, a Who am I today? A woman from a fshing town. tribal tattoo design. I remember standing on a I look down at hands I I waited by the window in my railroad, my skin color matching - don’t remember and fnd feet that cottage by the cliffside for my I remember being an the soot on my hands. I swung a are not mine. husband to come home. It was older man in a small village. I was hammer down on a rail tie so hard I walk across a room I close to 15 years ago that he left. dressed in a large cloth. Strings of I thought I might have lost the - have never been in, to a bathroom I waited for him in silent despera- beads embellished my neck. Large pin to the earth. Te blue denim filled with trinkets I have no tion, clinging to the thought he disks stretched my ears. It was a overalls I was wearing were caked ..:---~ ---__,_ - - , J memory of. might still be alive. celebration. A gathering of young in dirt. Te whistle hummed and I look into a mirror and --- -"'i I look at the face that boys becoming men. I was the old- reminded us that we hadn’t eaten .....,,,...r, .... - find a face I have only seen in stares back at me. I splash some est in the village so I was in charge yet. I walked over to the side where dreams not of my own. cool water on the face and walk of the ceremony. I handed the boys the people who looked like me A young face that has back into the bedroom. a bow and 6 arrows along with a were standing around waiting for been worn down by the strain of It is dark with the window water gourd and a small amount their turn at the water truck. Te modern living. Te unshaven face shades pulled down. I peel them of dried meat. Tey would have white boys laughed about some- of a man, topped with matted dark back to see what’s outside. Te to spend over a week alone in the thing that had to do with us. One hair and green eyes that lazily sulk sun is coming up over tall build- jungle, but when they returned, of them walked over to me and bet below a prominent brow. Thin ings that stretch across a horizon they would be men. me I couldn’t break a large boulder lips reveal yellow teeth with one of infnity. Te orange rays began I shift through the piles with one swing of my hammer. I missing. As my hands reach up to illuminate the room as I pulled of clothes again to fnd pants and a took his bet of fve dollars that I to explore this new mask, I notice up the shades. It’s a dingy place, shirt that don’t smell too bad. Tey didn’t have. A few of his boys and small scabs and bruising on the clothing scattered across the foor don’t ft well. Too large for the slen- a few of mine stood around as I inside of my arm. creating uneven piles of flth next der skeleton I’m walking around picked up my hammer, ready to I feel as though I’ve been to discarded food containers. in. I synch the belt the best I can. slam it down on top of the boulder. here before. Déjà Vu surrounds In the ocean of laundry, I I fnd keys lying next to a cellular A voice called to remind us that me, but then again this happens fnd pants that still have a belt at- phone. I pocket the keys and see work is back on and we better get every time. tached. I look in the back pocket what information I can get from moving. It has happened again. and pull out a Velcro Spiderman the phone. It’s locked. Password Yesterday I was a young wallet. Inside is twelve dollars in protected. I keep it on my person “Ben, Ben!” a voice yells art by Ying Ye boy about the age of ten. I think it mixed bills, an expired forklift as I walk through an old wooden out as I exit the grim lobby of the was yesterday. My mother took me operator’s license, a receipt from door. I try to lock it but it’s stuck. apartment building I woke up in. to the zoo and then a playground. a gas station for cigarettes with a Te door won’t close all the way. I “Damn it man, how long has it I jumped from the swings and phone number written on it and try to force it but the lock doesn’t been?” landed so hard I broke my arm. a New York driver’s license. Te meet the ftting. I look down the I keep walk- My mother scooped me up in her name reads Bennett Downs. hall. An odd yellow glow emanates ing forgetting that I’m 20 arms and ran me to the emergency I jump into the shower to from the old light fxtures that Bennett. The man, 21 wearing a patchwork suit of gar- a dress and a bonnet. I was play- “Do you want cream and down the boy and his mother. “Get back, get back.” Te I remember the smell of bage, approaches to remind me ing a game with my friends. One sugar with that?” A waitress is Maybe I can fnally start getting mother reaches into her purse and the ocean. I was a young woman that I owe him fve bucks. I don’t where you hide and someone tries standing over me, pouring a cup some answers. pulls out a small cylinder of pep- in a polka-dot dress. I was holding know what to do so I pull out the to fnd you. I always had so much of cofee. Te steam billowing up per spray. my crying son and saying goodbye Spiderman wallet and hand of the fun playing that game. For some “I’m fne, thank you,” I from the sewers obstructs my vi- “You don’t understand. to my husband. He was leaving, fve dollars. He tries to pry more reason we were far away from the reply. sion. A taxicab slams on its breaks You were my mother and I was shipping of with the navy to fght from me when he realizes that homestead. Someplace the grown- I spend a while sipping and screeches to a stop, narrowly him.” I point at the crying child against the Axis powers. I was I’m caving to his demands. I try ups told us not to go. on that cup of cofee lost in my avoiding hitting the holding back my tears to walk away. He follows me for “Tere is a witch who lives thoughts. I start feeling very curi- body I’m in. Cars as my son let his ab- a block then sees another debtor in the woods,” they would tell us ous about Bennett Downs. Who blare their horns sorb into my dress. My across the street. before bed. It was becoming very is he? Where does he come from? along with a slew husband and I kissed I keep walking but have dark and I could not fnd my way All the past memories of profanities. Te and he assured me no clue where I am going. back. I was so scared. Te woods begin to blur together after a while, mother and child that this wouldn’t be Dirty-water hotdog ven- began making odd noises and dark but the person I’m in now always turn to witness the the last one. I waited dors line the curb as I spot a cof- fgures appeared to be scurrying feels fresh. If I’m present I can try commotion. I run till the boat left and fee shop across the street. Tere is behind the twisted branches of the and cut out a little bit of life for up to them. The drove our crying son a stif breeze that chills my lean trees. I ran in any direction. I could myself. lungs I’m using are home. He fell asleep body. feel my heart beating in every part I walk out of the cofee short with breath. immediately in the What month is it? of my body. I couldn’t breathe fast shop trying to fgure out what I’ll I can barely mutter car. I remember put- Was it warmer the last enough to fll my lungs. I tripped do next. Maybe I’ll get to know a word. ting my son down for place I was? over a root sticking out of the this Bennett for a little while. “Me,” I say. bed and sitting in the When I move between ground and landed on my hands Tere’s no point trying to fgure I lean over trying to kitchen staring at the people, does it happen instan- a knees. I heard a voice call out. out what’s happening to me. I’m catch my breath. I art by Keesha Breedlove phone, thinking about taneously or can I be shifting “Oh child, you seem to never around long enough to get begin to cough. I can’t stop cough- that I remember being. the next time I would through time and space for some be a bit lost and in a hurry,” a shrill any answers. ing. I hack up yellowed phlegm “Get back you tweaker,” hear my husband’s voice. Would greater purpose than I can con- old voice said. “Little girls like you I look to my left and and spit it on the pavement. she screams. “Get away from my it be days, months, years? Maybe ceive? shouldn’t be running around at across the street I see a little boy I look up to see a horrifed son or I’ll use this.” I would never hear his voice again. How long has this been night, especially in these parts of with a cast, holding his mother’s look on their faces as they both I look around. People on going on? the woods.” hand eating ice cream. Te wom- stare back at me. She pulls her the street all seem to drop what I look around and the eyes Will it ever stop? Te voice belonged to an an’s blonde hair clashes against the child close to her body, holding they are doing and stare at us. I of the pedestrians are still fxated I take a booth in the cofee old woman in a dark brown dress. red of her coat. his face against her soft red coat. turn back to see the mother run- on me. I move slowly to an alley shop. I grab my chest. Feels like She was holding a lantern up to A flash of sensation “You have no idea how ning down the sidewalk as she around the corner. My back presses I’m having a panic attack. I can’t her long crooked nose. White hair spreads through this body. I feel long I’ve been waiting for this.” I holds her child. against the cold bricks that line remember when this all started. dangled in her face as she smiled as though I’m staring into a cosmic look directly at the boy. “Yesterday, “No, wait! I have so many the walls around me. Tese legs down upon me. mirror. I think I was you yesterday. Do you questions.” I run after them but are shaking. I let this body slide I remember being lost in “Why don’t you come Is that me? Is that me from remember the park, the swings, the only make it half a block before down the wall to meet a pile of the woods. It was getting dark out- inside for a hot drink and we’ll before? rocky road?” I was beginning to I can feel this body give up. Te trash. Te limbs begin to shake side and I dropped fgure out where you belong.” “Wait, stop,” I scream out shout. “Were you there with me? sounds of the boy’s crying fade on their own. Tese my lantern a while loud as the voice cracks. “Mom!” Was I in control or you?” away, along with any answers I awkward hands rub ago. I was a small “Cream and sugar?” I nearly trip over the curb “Mommy, Mommy,” the could have gotten. away moisture from 22 blonde-haired girl in “What?” as I run out into the street to chase boy cries out in a familiar tone. the eyes I see through. 23 In all this time I’ve never by Columbus park. We’re hittin station and have just enough in that looks the color of urine, smells What am I doing here? What’s I ask. seen a person I was before. I never da place on Fifth Ave. Be dere in Bennett’s wallet to catch the next like it too. I look around at the going to happen? Why do I al- “What da yah mean? Te imagined I would have crossed an hour.” train out. Te platform corridor people who occupy this container ways follow in the footsteps of the old jewelry store we scoped out paths with any of these people I He hangs up. I’m standing in smells of ancient with me. Faces from all diferent people I become? I feel as if I have months ago. Te old Jew’s alone have experienced, never thought I stand up, confused dust and warm stale air. The ages and walks of life being carried been standing out here for hours. tonight and he don’t go ta da bank I could. about the phone call. I walk out trains pass by, fashing streams of together to a single destination. A black Cadillac pulls up till tomorrow.” What does this mean? of the alley and see a news stand grafti as they make their way to Te doors slowly slide shut and we to a short stop next to me. Te My mind begins to race. I Is this where they belong. begin to move. passenger side back door swings can feel the pounding of Bennett’s some sort of clue One slows down Could I have been one of open and a strong arm reaches out heart beating away inside his chest. that could point to a stop. Te old these people before and forgotten and pulls me inside. What did this guy get himself me towards an an- When will this ever end? metal doors slide about it? involved in? swer, or is this just open. A flood of Is this all just a The car pulls in a cosmic joke meant I’m tired of forever people fows out as strange dream I’m having? along the side of a jewelry to torment me fur- I try and fght my Maybe I died and store. Marvin demands that ther? ways against them. this is the afterlife. I put on my ski mask and Te phone drifting through the I feel as though hop out of the car. begins to vibrate in I remem- these are somebody else’s “Yah goin in alone. the pocket of Ben- ber the sound of experiences. I’ve been drift- It’s a one-man job. I’ll be nett’s pants. I pull it experiences of others, hooves beating ing from one life to another here ta drive da getaway car. out and look at the against the soft soil as if I am fowing down a It’s right through dat door, screen: unknown never fnding purpose. of the planes. Te river, swimming in a stream shouldn’t be locked.” caller. I take a mo- bufalo herd seemed of others’ consciousnesses. I turn and see an ment and then pick endless as it moved I can’t remember how long photo by Vincent Berube old steel door with green up. I’m exhausted. against the wind. I I have been doing this and I tend paint peeling of around its “Hello?” was a young man to let the river carry me wherever “Ay dere Benny boy. You edges. I reach this shaking hand “Ay dere dressed in leathers, it will, never fghting to swim up- ready for dis?” A chubby man with out to pull it open. Benny boy.” The voice on the further down the street. I walk up eagle feathers woven into my stream. Do I have any real control a black turtleneck reaches over “Ay,” Marvin yells, “Don’t other end sounds like it’s coming and grab a map of the rack. I open braids. I can remember the feeling in what happens, or am I just along and puts his stubby arm around forget. If he dinks bout any funny from a chain smoking frog. “Hope it up and ask the older man run- of excitement as my legs straddled for the ride? Bennett’s shoulders. The car is business then pop him one good.” you hadn’t forgotten bout tonight? ning the stand to tell me where I a white and brown spotted horse. Te doors open and slow- flled with the smoke of cigarettes. What am I doing? I’m not Te boss is expecting you ta run dis am and how to get to Fifth Avenue. It was the frst time I was allowed ly begin to close again. I realize Marvin’s face looked like it is made this person. Why do I always have job. You owe him after he let you “Te subway is your best to go on the hunt with my tribe. that this is my stop and jolt out of of cement. Cracks and acne scars to choose to play along? take summa da product home after bet at this time of day,” he says, I would bring honor to my family my seat. I squeeze out before the decorate his bulbous nose and I open the green door the last score.” “Go about four blocks and you’ll as I hunted down these majestic subway car begins to move and round cheeks. and peer inside. A long hallway “I uh,” I begin to stam- see the sign.” beasts. I looked at my father and head up the stairs to the streets “Your gonna need dis stretches out until it is met by a mer, “who what now?” “Thanks.” I walk away saw a proud stern face reminding above. piece.” Marvin places a black pistol wall. Posters of diamond rings and “It’s Marvin. Boy dat still holding the map and he re- me of the importance of this hunt I wait by the park. I don’t in Bennett’s lap and covers it with gold necklaces are pinned to it one stuff is tournin yah brain inda minds me that I have yet to pay to our survival and the survival for see anyone who could match the a black ski mask. “Da boss aint after another. I can hear humming soup. Meet up with for it. I toss it back to him and everyone I cared about. description of the voice I heard gonna be no forgiving if you mess coming from behind a da boys across da walk away. over the phone. Te gray sky above dis one up.” plywood door halfway 24 bridge in chink town I make my way to the I sit down on a bench seat me fades into a starless night. “Where are we going,” down the hall. Tese 25 feet fall heavily as I walk across the eyeglasses lay just a few inches a large animal fur and could hear burgundy colored carpet. I slowly from my feet. waves crashing against the rocks open the door and see an older I can’t keep living like of a nearby clif. Next to me was man in a bright red sweater leaning this, an eternal observer always my son. A small imitation of my- over a desk, reviewing paper work. drifting from one reality to the self. He asked me what happens I can’t do this. I don’t next. I need to make my own when we close our eyes when the want to be this man. I don’t want choices for once. I need to have moon is high. I remember being to be Bennett Downs. control. I need to know that I’m surprised by his question. I sat The older man turns real and not just a fragment of staring upward as the stars began around and lowers his reading another’s dream. to appear above our heads. After glasses. His eyes widen as he looks I walk out of the ofce a while I said to him that when at me and then the gun. and open another door. I enter a we close our eyes when the moon I can’t keep living like bathroom. I close the door behind is high, we foat away from our this. I have no idea who or what I me and turn on the sink. I splash bodies. We leave them behind as am any more. cold water against the face of the we fy through the sky. We are born “Please, it’s all right. Don’t second man I might kill today. I again, each night when the moon shoot,” the old man says with a look into the mirror at Bennett watches over us. Tis is when we shake in his voice.“You can take Downs. I don’t know if this will truly become ourselves. This is anything you want, just don’t work and I don’t know what will when we get a small glimpse into shoot.” The older man slowly happen after. Maybe this is just a the realm of what lays beyond. My drops to his knees and leans to- dream and I may fnally open my son seemed very satisfed by that wards the safe that’s next to him. real eyes to the wakening world. answer, but after a while he looked “I’ll open this up and you can take My world. My body. My life. concerned. I asked him what was it all and leave.” I take the gun and press bothering him. He wanted to When will this ever the barrel against the side of Ben- know, when we are foating away end? I’m tired of forever drifting nett’s head. from our bodies, how do we fnd through the experiences of oth- “I’m sorry. I don’t know our way back and what happens if ers, never finding purpose. I’m if you’re truly deserving of this.” we get lost. I smiled and looked at exhausted. I look into a mirror and him. Itold him that we are drawn Te old man slowly spins stare into the eyes of a man I have back to our bodies through threads the combination. He cracks the only seen in dreams not of my connecting us. If the threads are door slightly and reaches in. He own. severed then we will wander for- taps the trigger of a silent alarm I pull the trigger. ever in the realm that lays beyond, and turns around holding a pistol forever searching for who we truly of his own. I remember sitting on are and forgetting that we have I fre my gun before I can a log, feeling the heat of fire already truly become ourselves. even think. against my face. A large bonfre The older was in front of me, clashing with man lays bleeding to the backdrop of a sunset. I was a death on the carpet middle aged man. A long beard in front of me. His adorned my face. I was wearing 26 art by Justin Spalla 27 Meghan DePeau Megyn Craine

Shades Il Duomo di Firenze photo Wikimedia Commons

You decide to color. Te only crayons in the house have waited after Winter of the Volcanoes: Guatemala by Richard Blanco inside the box for twenty-three years, down in the basement. You shrug and bring them upstairs. You reach for dandelion, Lording over Florence, they call it Il Duomo, the dome, the robust yellow you love. It fts in your hand the way it should. and I’m here, witness to this majesty made by man. Te paper wrapper is rougher than you remember, but it’s the wax Il Duomo is everywhere, mirrored in shop windows, looming that brings up a scribble of uneasiness. When you press it over narrow alleys, appearing in the piazzas, towering. to the paper to make a cheerful weed, the crayon catches Te city spreads wide, the cathedral at its center like a sun, and skips, leaving awkward streaks where you attempted a smooth its dome extending into the sky. As I walk along cobbled streets line. Te wan bloom is weary, is not at all like the one outside it unexpectedly comes into view around corners - Il Duomo, your window. You shake it of, try again. You grab cornfower, elegant and imposing, keeping watch like a guardian. then scarlet. Soon your paper is an ugly garden. You crumple Constructed over a lifetime, its creator, Brunelleschi it up and try again. And again. Each time, you will the crayons surveyed antiquities, used the calculations of Fibonacci to be truthful. Each time, your garden is smaller. Finally, to vault this dome, his masterpiece of breadth and height. you close the box. Later, you close the window shade as well. I climbed four hundred stone stairs in semidarkness between the shells of its peaceful interior, through a labyrinth of corridors, following in the steps of masons, through walls of herringbone brick mortared with sand dredged from the Arno, spiraling upward through circle after circle, rising from the ground where Dante once tread. I reached Te Last Judgment at the top of the drum—bodies art by Judy Konopka writhing in torment overhead, in frescoes of painted plaster mixed by hand. I then climbed inside the dome itself, through gradually narrowing space, through the interior grace of a structure consecrated in 1436, struck by lightning for centuries, a dome wider than St. Peter’s. I glimpsed through small windows, rooftops below, and emerged outdoors in the wind and the light. I stood silent over the expanse of city, held aloft by the heavy burden of the dome rising underneath me from all around to bear me up, saying: here, let me give you wings.

photo by Grace Exner

28 art by Judy Konopka 29 Julia Bonadies

C.

My best friend turned down the radio Stacks of historical documents And began her confession. Following the story Her monologue of observations Of unrequited love. Tat her childhood friend loved another But instead of leaving Led her to the edge Herself for dead, Of an epiphany. She propped herself up And instead of denying On her faith, Its existence And rummaged around She jumped headfrst into In her heart Te arms of disappointment, For the good Shedding years Tat could start She had spent loving him Where his name ended. Like feathers. All the feelings She’d harbored for years Were released Like a useless hostage. Te years they’d spent growing Alongside each other, Each milestone matched, Were now tainted. Te sideways glances Across church pews Meant nothing. She had collected these moments Quietly and carefully, Hoping, art by Cassandra Ayala Wishing, And praying, Tat one day He would fnally see her Te way she had grown to see him. art by Judy Konopka Suddenly the love poems Never sent Were as useless 30 As old newspapers. 31 Megyn Craine Hank Gromelski

Body of Knowledge Hail photo by Ms. Phoenix At the center of my childhood home, We lost in the softball tournament fnals, tucked in a corner of the living room, Drove fve hours home after the game sat a small bookcase brimming with Trying to make each other laugh. the Encyclopedia Britannica. Te second basemen had a tear in his knee Twenty-eight generous volumes bound Tat needed stiches. in brown leather, flled with shiny pages of full color, gold letters embossed on the spines in alphabetical order. Our pitcher, “Wanky,” had pitched too many games. Tis is where our family sought answers. Te catcher caught too many games, Handled too many pitches in the dirt, Each volume’s pages had sleek gilt edges And too many plays at the plate. except ‘H’ in the middle, whose pages were made of a diferent thickness. Our friends were at the house when we got home. If you pulled ‘H’ of the shelf, it opened of its own accord No diferent than if we had gone to town and back. to an entry toward the end, a thick section We told stories about the bar, not sleeping, made of vinyl, labeled Human. And certain plays in certain games. photo by Zafir Jamir Transparent pages within, Te pitcher’s mother was dying, displayed outlines of our numerous systems; Te second basemen’s Dad had a stroke, skeleton, organs, muscles, tendons, veins. Te catcher was going through a divorce, We had handfuls of it. Layer upon layer, And I was dealing with my own shit. It was as if someone was dropping pills. each flm overlapped the last You should have heard it until the image grew into a rich map It started to rain while we cracked beers, Crunching in our mouths. of roads and paths — our inner geography, And then it started to hail like a magic trick. where every route leads to the heart. We all knew that the elders say that art by Regina Looby Hail heals diferently than regular ice.

Tey got bigger and we laughed. Giggled. We didn’t give a fuck about the cars. Te neighbor came outside and let it hit him. Te elder across the street, put it in bags.

Te pitcher, “Wanky,” picked up a handful And rubbed it on his elbow and shoulder. Te second basemen rubbed it on his knees. 32 Te catcher rubbed it on his forehead. 33 Julia Bonadies Chloe Sundet

8.14.15 Lunatic

“How thick & heavy the night was, it hung in When we are at war, Te oak trees. How the stars were so close I feel as though the land Tey left bruises. How there was so much light in me.” is hardening beneath our feet, ––Anis Mojgani ground cracking, earth splitting into shards that separate me from you. I could count on two hands But then a fully bloomed moon All the shooting stars beams through the windows I saw that night. art by Lauren Latulippe as you lean in toward me, Beginnings and endings collided. as spring rain still sweet It was like being frozen slides down the half-closed panes. In a slow-motion A cathedral of sheets over our heads; Meteor shower. sanctuary is what you are, Resting in the shoulder if I had to limit you. Of the Milky Way I have marked up the lunar We lay in cold grass calendar, so as to follow And gazed at its spine your animalistic movements Stretching out in the hazy through the nights. You-- Night sky above us. passionate, elusive; Me-- We traced it with our pupils captivated, undaunted. I pursue, Until we lost it and then you come to kiss me, In burnt orange promising a primal blush Light pollution. of blood. But when we spied on stars photo by Sierra Murray Trough telescopes, Our feld of vision Made the night appear To be the hole In the middle of a sheet Of black construction paper, Our dark minds illuminated photo by Tainisha Santiago By a single light. Humbled by our insignifcance We accepted our role as spectators Of millions of miles Of the Creator’s beauty. As we watched the stars We found comfort existing Creeping across the scope, On the outskirts Matching the speed the Earth 34 Was spinning us to. 35 Jamie Crepeau Chloe Sundet •.. Elevator Music Cure We often hear melodies dull After three hours of waiting and unimaginative in a tight little room--yet it must have and easily forgotten seemed like thirty minutes just to cross-- - I like paving bricks that stretch from a front after sitting in the doctor’s cold, door to the edge book-lined ofce and wondering of a parking lot which could divulge the secret to your healing, and see our own lives as drab and plain after the torture scene, when the doctor like the surfaces placed a solid, objective hand on your back, of wooden furniture, and your body seemed to splinter from within uneventful like mud art by Josh Powers at his touch, the nerve endings biting each other’s tails dehydrating in Summer heat to keep from falling out of place,

without realizing after the doctor told you to come back on Wednesday there are others and you rode the public bus home, who might want to explore (after your stomach surrendered yesterday the bass and treble into the ofce paper basket), of our songs, down to each after the operation, individual eighth and you lay staring at fecked ceiling note and whole while nurses morosely petted rest. your pillows and closed the door all the way, art by Brian Reilly you pulled your phone out from under the sheets, up to your eyes and asked me what poetry class was like.

36 free-use image: Rimbaud poetry 37 Bill Moorhead Edit DiPippo

Holy Bones The Gift

If any person were to cut of my arm … they would be the dearer to me, and would seem the more to deserve my after “Te Facts,” by Pat Hale tenderness and compassion. ––St. Edmund, 1238 It was the nurse who calmly walked into my hospital room on a Saturday night, I asked who could intercede in the nearly deserted Littleton, New Hampshire as advocate with Jesus, hospital, who, with long gray hair, looked as our fesh throws weak, about the same age as my mother would have been to buy strength for more years had she been alive; who lived alone a few miles from here on the feld, the hospital, but hundreds of miles from her only child, an indulgence. an adult son she missed and would eventually move to be near; who never made me promises but spoke softly Before pesky Luther’s tiresome and with a calm that mufed my roaring terror as blood lefty lurches leaked unabated from between my legs. one could bargain years She was the nurse whose expression displayed mere routine with ghoulish sanctities during the endless silence of a static monitor embalmed in Old World churches. as she probed my bulging belly in search of life; and when she fnally found it, she didn’t say a word, Holy Bones. Holy Stones. allowing the room to fll with my baby’s heartbeat. Holy Saintly Helpers, too. She stocked the linen closet, meticulously, slowly, But I could not yet make the Game connection. to eavesdrop on the fear I imparted to my dad, Testicles, thumbs, thousands of miles from me, that his newest heads and hands Perhaps instead could there be a Patron Saint, granddaughter would soon be taken six weeks early art by Joe Olechnicki fngers, feet who knew to give his right arm long ago via C-section and would share his birthday. nipples and teats that I might fnd in it strength for mine, She was the one, who, looking past sliced from saints today, the blood I continued to lose, or the knives, daggers, who, when mine arm would ofend, suggested I leave my bed to shower. axes that carved them, his is cut of and cast from him for me? Because her voice remained calm I listened to it, even a bar and watched mud from our camping trip cut short from the grille used to char turn with blood into the shower drain. poor St. Lawrence, She was the one who handed of her camera, and as far as bent down, smiling at my side, I’ve heard, for our photo as I briefy held my chubby, a vial of Mother Mary’s breastmilk bundled baby girl. photo by Pexels Free Stock plus rocks that Jesus stepped on – talismans for intercession. 38 detail, art by Christine Ciccone 39 Chloe Sundet

Twelve Hours

Ten p.m, I sat on the passenger’s side in the tiny barbed wire handwriting while she drove us, four people I used to run one fnger over illegally wedged in back, three fngers as I read your letters. drumming on the window pane, into the depths of Storrs, Connecticut. Or are you perhaps not even here, kicked out maybe, for challenging someone, We drove over the rise of the hill, for climbing a few fences, and sprawled below us lay for setting the lab on fre? a city sparkling: If that is the case, all I should say is, campus, home to thousands of humans one less fgure to silhouette the window panes who seem to have stumbled and streetlights. One less mind to sit into a paradoxical war, teeming with words and numbers, biting where they may get an inkling down on hard facts and spitting out the shards. of who they are meant to be and how fast time is betraying them. Ten a.m, the next morning, I stood outside blinking in the white sunlight, ffty degrees, So where are you tonight, waiting for choral practice to start old friend, conspirator, and I pictured you, less than a mile away in a dorm with the shades drawn, beloved, lost soul? art by Maggie Gammel still drunk, still entangled with a girl Are you walking through the dark, whose name you’ve forgotten upon winding paths and meandering hills, even though you whispered amid lives hidden behind colored screens it again and again fve hours earlier. and the orange light glowing from cracked open doors and between the ribs of blinds? I see you looking up in wonder at the stars but still assured that your fortune will play out upon your palm.

Or are you in the shadowed library, your frame hunched against glowing lamplight, amid shelves of threaded secrets and stories, interlaced lies? art by Mary Parzych I see those perfectly resourceful hands 40 of yours copying defnitions 41 Jamie Crepeau Bill Moorhead

Machine Shop On First, Looking for the Signal to Steal

A lathe that spins cylindrical Should I stay or should I go? steel while cutting Watch me crabwalk, skitter, tease. it away in long, noodle- Signal, Coach, I need to know. shaped pieces. I can sprint and slide real low. A mill that plows See the pitcher, tingle, freeze. through a block Should I stay or should I go? of metal and shoves the chips aside like snow I’m a tightrope on tiptoes, from a driveway, leaving taunt and hover like a bee. precise forms of slots, Well, come on, and let me go. holes, and grooves. I’m a shadow commando, A shaper that thrusts a cutter sneaking bigger, bigger leads. up and down into a part Should I stay or should I go? art by Maggie Gammel with the speed of a piston, forming Catcher’s arm is just so-so. teeth on an otherwise Tired of waiting. Set me free. smooth diameter. Tap your capbill so I know.

A surface grinder I can coax an overthrow. that slightly touches I have timed the pitcher’s knee. a spinning wheel against a metallic All this firtin’ ain’t for show. face, smoothing it out Bye Bye, Coach. I gotta go. and giving it the shine photo by Ariel Wolfe of a full moon.

Learning these machines has given my daily routine a concrete foundation, boring an opening during the evenings for me to sit in an imperfect circle, molding visions and thoughts into an organic blend called a poem.

42 photo by Wikimedia Commons 43 Jackie McCabe Dominic Pescosolido

Reflection on an Angel A Theory on Relativity

On warm days I sit on the step, where Space is expanding Te snakes live in a never ending Coiled in the cool underbelly of stones void of cold and dark. And twigs Yet Light keeps chasing With the rough edges they need to shed hoping to fll that infnity photo by Sarah Kampe Teir skin with some kind of illumination. And I envy them and their escape And I think of you Jordi Did he not get the message? And how you shed your skin Space got all of his texts; With the help of a noose she wasn’t impressed. And a cool dark place when All she ever was art by Luis Canches You escaped, was empty How dark will it be before light realizes that And I think of your mother so who is he to think he can only go so far. Left in an unforgiving coil he could fll her with this What expanse will Space make Stif as stone energy that he can’t even into the unknown before she And I wonder how control. realizes She will ever shed that maybe she needs a little Her skin Space is looking for something light to see where she’s going? And be free. some kind of end for this existence she still doesn’t understand. Light is always a showof hoping she’ll see it’s all for her.

She just wants to make distance and he will always follow her because he loves the chase looking for something anything to show her how he feels.

photo by Rose Obedzinski He wants to fll the emptiness she holds, but it only puts a spotlight 44 on everything she’s missing. art by Brian Pepe 45 Brittany Carilli Jamie Crepeau

The N Word Fading Out of Music Class

A man in the pinstripe suit I stand still in the middle forces his reptilian tongue row of metal folding to the backside of his incisors chairs at the conclusion with a thousand pounds of pressure, of a song and feel the sugar as if he plans to launch them like heat-seeking missiles burn out of my blood straight into the milky eyes as my hands shake like of the scraggly bearded beggar a pair of maracas with shaking hands and my skin is like wax paper who nurses a wish in his cupped, cracked hands while all I see are colors and hangs hope on his breath spinning around my as he asks for a dollar. head like a drunken rainbow as I am rushed

to the nurse’s ofce through art by Frank Polumbo hallways that are a blur of white light and blue carpet, to be seated

with juice and crackers that sharpen the corners of the nurse’s desk and allow me to walk

back to a classroom to unlock the tumblers of the periodic table.

46 photo by Vincent Berube 47 Dominic Pescosolido Steve Straight

Enlightened Life Expectancy

He sprints out the door First I plug in my gender and birthday grinning in the open sun on the Social Security Administration website of a new day. which tells me a generic male my age What secret was he told can expect to live to be 83, where worries are put on twenty-one years from now, the back burner coincidentally the age my father died. and all that matters is the grass under our feet? But I’m not feeling particularly generic this morning as I sip my French vanilla decaf cofee Birds are chirping and gnaw on a piece of toasted ciabatta on their stoop, slathered with freshly ground peanut butter, taunting him in a sense of bravado so I turn to another site, that often comes when one that asks me a series of serious questions, standing above a about weight vs. height, eating and drinking habits shared enemy. and what I take as a stern one about whether or not I buckle my seat belt. He doesn’t seem to mind and even if he did Tis time the verdict is 87, what more can they do four years older than that generic Steve but shout in a condemnation who probably eats at McDonald’s as hollow as their bones. or has a trampoline in his backyard art by Greg Neary and sneaks a cigar when he mows the lawn Circles upon circles on his John Deere tractor. I need a beer and maybe he runs about photo by Alan Horton a cigarette or two enchanted by trees and before the bark Another site probes further, winds and aromas starts to speak to me. forcing me to climb the stairs–– I’ll never appreciate no heaving breaths at the top, But in the mind of the I’m happy to report–– Because life comes unencumbered and look up my cholesterol diferently for the everything is right and triglyceride levels, my resting two of us. so long as there’s blood pressure readings, et cetera. an ear scratch at the start of every morn art by Michaela Flint and a belly rub 48 at the end of every night. 49 Tat gets me to 94 somehow, and a fourth site to 96, the age my grandfather died, a fact that added bonus years to my prognosis. He shingled his roof at age 89, so that’s a good sign, I suppose, though he was quite deaf to the sound of pounding nails. I stretch for the highest number, of course, even though dementia or chronic pain may loom.

Back at Social Security, I test the generics: If I were 70 now, I’d live to 85; if I were 80, 89. I think of Zeno’s Paradox, that if you travel half the distance to your goal, then half again, and half again and again, you will never reach it. Tis suggests that as long as I am alive, I will live forever.

Now the cat enters the room and proceeds immediately to the sunny southern window. Staring at his sleek stripes and big moon eyes, I cannot resist running my wrinkled hand photo by Karen Waggoner the length of his warm, soft back, and again, understanding now that with each gentle stroke I have about one second less to love.

photo by Hazel Colon

50 art by William Harper