Search Results

Existential 1 First, we were killing the bees. Then, people cultivated outrage & condescension & put white cubes of bee colonies on roofs in cities, in suburban backyards, at the edges of fields & hashtagged all the ways we were terribly, shamefully wrong, harming not only bees but the land & poisoning the earth – buzzing with anger, we multiplied the cube hives, wrote books, filmed documentaries, speechified against honey consumption, banded together with vegans & wildlife tour guides & enviro-terrorists & angry moms & millennials & went on speaking tours, filmed TedTalks, lectured in elementary school auditoriums, made provocative art & poetry alluding to stingers & getting stung, being inflamed, reddened, hot, irritated, painful & now we find out that the American honeybee isn’t the issue & the cubes were made with formaldehyde so we’re all fucked anyway. Existential 2 Don’t even get me started on the monarchs. The Xerces Society for Invertebrate Conservation says monarch populations have plummeted over 99% since the 1980s. The habitat is lost. Our McMansions killed the butterflies. Overwintering sites are ruined. Tree trimming is too severe and our garden plots teem with predators. The monarchs have nowhere to reign. They need nectar. Showy milkweed. Rabbit brush. Asclepias is a pretty name and sounds like a goddess. The goddess of travel to Mexico. We are failing her. The goddess of puffy milkweed pod dander floating on a thermal gust. Negative Space: in Which a Frog is a Metaphor for Myself The frog enters the lake, closing clear third eyelids—involuntary self-defense—and sinks. Then swims. Now soft in tetherless green, pretend it’s yesterday. Or tomorrow. No doubt, no danger here. Holding back my own nictating membrane, revealing to you all that’s sensitive. Don’t touch, just whisper. The silhouette the surround. What can you touch here? A hand closes in on itself. Blind Spot Some rare sparrow hops lightly in to our inhales, inhabits us briefly, searing— then spills from the body like lava. Bend your tongue to its flavor, feel the tiny warm grains of ha ha, your mouth a palace for jesters. Grapple with me a moment and suss out what you can: this groping about always be fruitless, furtive, always landing on the offbeat. Call it syncopation if you like. But is it love? Inspiration? I cannot see. I won’t see. Lemons I’m dreaming at the chrome faucet the porcelain sink still wet dishwasher humming American kitchen framed by a thin-paned window open to the wind lost in my own reflection California night sounds all around the empty room full of appliances my lemon tree batters the house in the wind branches striking siding scratching glass stopping when I try to listen like a thief breaking in who’s there? I’ll bite that thick rind oily, barely pliant only yielding to sharpest incisors nobody answers bitter, so bitter— I grind the seeds between my teeth. Siân Killingsworth (she/her) has been published in Blue Earth Review, Typehouse Literary Journal, Stonecoast Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry (Poets Resist), andother journals and anthologies. She is the Anthology Editor for the Marin Poetry Center and Curator for the Second Sunday Poetry Series. Find her on Twitter: @sianessa and @2ndSundayPoetry.

Throughout that whole hot summer, after Jolene found her mother dead, she heard the woman’s voice speak to her in desperate utterances--whispered through the pine trees, echoing on the wind, murmured underwater--telling her how to stay alive. What do you imagine would be the worst day to find a dead mother? You might say on Christmas or even Thanksgiving, but that day happened to be on Jolene’s seventh birthday: July seventh, nineteen seventy. That date was full of sevens and it should have been a lucky day. Jolene came downstairs, excited to see a balloon or two, maybe some silly putty or a yo-yo wrapped up in tissue paper, but what she found was a dead mom collapsed on a chair, a bottle of pills next to her, empty; clear liquid in a paper cup. It might have been an accident, which may have been easier to weather, but there was a penciled note scrawled in a shaky hand—you could almost see her mom’s state of mind in that faint, wobbly script, written by someone who was barely visible, someone who wanted to be erased. Jolene kept the note in her top dresser drawer. The note said: “My heart hurts too much to go on. The best part of my whole life was being your mom, but I’m doing a bad job of it. Your better off without me.” The second “You’re” was misspelled: Y—O—U—R. Her dad, after reading it, said, “She spelled ‘you’re’ wrong.” Jolene remembers it that way, as the one thing he had to say about that note, which goes a long way in explaining why her mom thought she did a bad job at everything. What a bastard. Jolene felt punished because, a few days later, she was taken to her grandma’s house, a lady she had never met. Her dad said it would be a good way to heal--spending the rest of that summer with her mom’s mom--and besides, he had to work. He said they were headed to the town where her mom grew up, a place outside of a city named after big, dumb cows. They drove for a long while, passing by life-size statues of buffalo grazing along a strip of grass between the lanes of the highway. “Dumb name for a city,” scoffed her dad. “Buffalo never lived here.” “What are buffalo?” asked Jolene. “Like I told you, big dumb cows,” he said, stringing the words out long. He thought for a minute, then said, “Shoot. Two of them do live here after all, and you’ll meet ‘em.” He laughed at his own private joke, one that Jolene did not understand. For the rest of that trip she kept peering out the car window, anxious to spy real cows resembling those statues they’d passed along the way. Finally, after paying the toll, they traveled along roads with less traffic, then almost no traffic, slowing down in front of a tiny yard full of dandelions and a short driveway. The mailbox out front read, “Sherman,” her mom’s last name. Her dad swung the car onto the gravel and Jolene heard the crunching sound beneath the tires before the engine went dead. After their windy trip, with the windows rolled down the whole way, they sat in silence for a moment with nothing now but the sound of a far-off train hailing the beginning of a new life. The heat settled back around their necks like a warm, wet towel. “This is the place,” declared her dad, looking at a rusty old mower in the middle of the lawn next to a cardboard sign that read: For Sale, Best Offer. He shook his head and snickered. “Still trying to sell busted-up shit to stupid people.” The house stood at the side of a cul-de-sac, plain and narrow with gray tar-paper shingles. A stocky woman with frizzy gray hair lumbered out. She was wearing a yellow muumuu dotted with stains down the front; some looking old, some fresh. The woman and her dad eyed one another warily like dogs catching a whiff of something they found offensive. The woman nodded, unsmiling. “How you doing, Jay?” “Just fine, Beverly,” said Jolene’s dad, like he was settling an argument. He picked up the suitcase and the three of them headed toward the house. Even before getting through the flimsy screen door, they were assaulted by the smell of cat piss. Six cats tip-toed along the countertops, licking wads of jam or ketchup, the same colors that were splashed on the muumuu. The old woman noticed Jolene and her dad scanning the cats. “One more an’ I’ll be a Crazy Cat Lady,” she said. “But I ain’t there yet. Number’s seven. All I got is six.” “Is that right?” said Jay. “You got three more than the last time I was here.” She looked pointedly at Jay who stared back at her with deadpan eyes. “Those three are long gone now. That’s a ways back. You ain’t been here in some time. Anyways, people keep giving me their cats when they can’t take care of ‘em.” Grandma glanced over at Jolene, taking inventory. “She favors you, I guess, ‘cept for the eyes. That color’s all Sherman. Other than that, I don’t see none of Terri in this girl.” “She’s in there, alright,” said Jay. “The way she acts is all Terri.” “Good,” said Grandma. “Least I know what I got here then.” After a quick trip to use the bathroom, Jay ruffled Jolene’s hair and said, “See you later, kiddo.” It seemed like he was putting on a show for the old woman because he’d never ruffled her hair before, had never called her kiddo. Jolene wrapped both arms around his waist and held on. He patted her back and promised to pick her up in three weeks. Three weeks means nothing to a girl of seven—he may as well have said three years. Grandma led Jolene up a spindly staircase to see the bedroom where she’d be sleeping. It had just enough space to hold a wooden dresser and a small bed draped with a faded coverlet. Grandma said this room was a no-cat-zone and Jolene should shut the door to keep them out. “Don’t let nobody in here you don’t want coming in,” she said and demonstrated to Jolene how to slide the latch on the door to lock it from the inside. The latch was placed at a height where a child could reach it. Jolene wondered who’d be trying to get in when it was only her and Grandma living there in the house. Through the open window, Jolene spied a swimming pool out back, weathered and listing to one side. It looked like heaven to her on that hot July day, full of clouds reflected in the water, with green patches quivering below like miniature islands. Grandma took Jolene to K-mart to get a bathing suit. She begged for the one that made her look like a mermaid. It was just a regular two-piece, but attached to the bottom half was a gauzy, blue skirt shimmering with big silver sequins. Grandma worried that the sequins would get caught in the pool filter and told Jolene not to wear the skirt part in the water, but what girl of seven can resist flipping her tail? Later, in the pool, she admired how her hair flowed out around her, undulating in the water like golden ribbons, and, with the sparkly tail flashing below, she dreamed herself to be a real mermaid. This gave her some power to think that maybe she could survive life without a mom. As Jolene twirled and somersaulted under the ocean, a station wagon pulled up front, spilling out cousins: three loud boys, and one sulky girl. The boys leaped into the pool, exploding the water like bombs going off. Jolene grabbed ahold of the side and held tight as waves surged over the edge. A woman strolled into the backyard and Jolene’s stomach flipped to see her mom, now fat, wearing a brassy yellow wig; her mom’s pert nose replaced by a pig’s snout. “Put your eyes back into your head, Jolene. I’m your aunt,” said the woman, peeking over the side of the pool, devouring Jolene with a curious, hard look. Grandma bustled outside and stood beside the aunt, who said, “Guess Jay thought Terri was too good to visit us, but not his girl, huh?” How long she here for?” Grandma shrugged, staring into the pool. The aunt lit a cigarette and Jolene noticed she had stubby hands with chewed-up nails covered in chipped red polish. She wore heavy turquoise rings on her fingers. Jolene avoided looking at the aunt’s face, maybe because the sun glared harshly over the top of the woman’s head; Jolene would have had to squint. Or maybe she didn’t look because seeing her mom’s face all puffed up and yellowish, with mean eyes, was a lot to take in. “I got some stuff I gotta get done today,” said the aunt. Jolene noticed the girl cousin roll her eyes and mumble low, under her breath. “I ain’t taking the boys all day,” said Grandma. “They ate up the Captain Crunch last time. All of it.” The aunt, ignoring Grandma, stared straight at the girl. “You got something to say about it, Denise? I think you better think about shutting up.” “I didn’t say nothin’,” said the girl. Her tone held fire but she broke eye contact and looked away from her mother’s challenging gaze. “I’ll get back in two hours,” said the aunt to Grandma, stubbing out her cigarette on the side of the pool. Grandma shook her head; looked up, and rolled her eyes at the sky, which must have meant “yes,” because both of them trudged back to the house and left the kids to splashing. Jolene’s girl cousin glided under the water and popped up beside her like some kind of fluid, lanky eel. She put her face too close to Jolene’s; a round face full of freckles, some in blotches so big as to form patches of rust. Her eyes matched the darkest freckles, a reddish-brown, not unlike the color of Jolene’s eyes. Her head looked too big for her thin, long body. “I’m eleven. How old are you?” demanded the girl. “Seven,” answered Jolene. “I’m a mermaid.” “Did you know my mom is your mom’s ‘dentical twin?'' asked Denise. “That means they look just alike.” “My mom was pretty,” said Jolene, stating a fact. “Your mom’s dead,” said Denise, also a fact. She ducked below the surface and Jolene was shocked to feel her bathing suit bottoms being tugged down over her narrow hips, peeled off fiercely as she kicked in horror. Denise persisted until she had the costume wadded into a ball, tossing it over the edge of the pool onto the dirt and rocks. Jolene had to climb up the aluminum step ladder with no bottoms on, in front of those boy cousins who whooped and slapped their hands on top of the water. She looked frantically around for a towel but didn’t see one and ran to rescue the muddy scrunched-up ball of her gauzy blue tail. She charged through the back door, hardly able to see through her tears, the mermaid’s magic drained out of her. Denise chased behind. Grandma stood at the sink, peeling potatoes, looking worn down by the sheer weight of her life. She wrapped a dish towel around Jolene’s bare bottom. “What happened?” she snapped. After Jolene cried out her story, Grandma turned to Denise. “Why’d you do it?” Denise replied, innocently, “I just wanted to see if mermaids had private parts, Grandma.” Grandma looked at Jolene. “I told you not to wear that skirt in the pool.” Grandma didn’t seem to realize that a girl of Denise’s age is old enough to know better. Jolene did her best to avoid the wily Denise, staying indoors for the rest of that hot day, huddled under the Formica table playing with the tattered Barbie dolls Grandma handed her, the cats taking turns at batting the dolls’ snarled hair. After a few days, Grandma grew tired of Jolene skirting around her feet. Aunt Dulcie dropped off Cousin Denise, and Grandma told them, “Play outside awhile. Let me be.” Denise wanted to play hair salon. She collected a bucket of supplies, tossing in a brush, a comb, and a handful of bobby pins. She opened a drawer and grabbed a pair of scissors. “Let me see what you got of mine,” said Grandma, peering into the bucket. “Bring it all back to me. And no scissors.” She plucked them out of the bucket and slid them back into the kitchen drawer, making Jolene wonder if Grandma knew that Denise was a menace. Denise led Jolene out back to take a seat on an overturned crate next to the shed in a block of shade. She brushed Jolene’s angel hair, lifting it off her neck with the comb and letting the strands fall delicately back into place. The tickling sensation of it raised goosebumps on Jolene’s arms. She missed being cuddled; hadn’t been hugged since her mom died. Her dad’s hair ruffle didn’t count. “Your hair is so much prettier than mine,” lamented Denise, running her palm against its silkiness. Denise’s hair was a frizzle-frazzled mess, the brindle color of wood shavings, coarse as a mare’s tail. Jolene didn’t like Denise’s hair but she was trying to make a friend of her cousin that day, so she said, “I wish my hair was curly like yours.” “I can make it curly,” said Denise. “Let me go get some curlers.” She carried the bucket to the edge of the field along which grew prickly burdocks and milkweed with bumpy green pods. Denise picked the weeds until the bucket was half full. She separated Jolene’s hair into sections, rolling the burdocks like curlers to hold tight against Jolene’s head, careful to get every strand of hair gathered into the bundle. She cracked the milkweed pods open and rubbed the white sticky glue against the balls of hair until it felt, to Jolene, itchy and burning. Denise said, “When you unroll it tomorrow, your hair will be all curly.” Jolene touched her head. The burdocks wouldn’t budge. Back at the house, no amount of Grandma’s coaxing or cursing, or tugging with the comb could loosen Jolene’s hair from that trap. Finally, out came the scissors from the kitchen drawer. Jolene heard the chirping blades slicing through stiff wads of weeds and hair. The ragged balls of gluey burdock dropped around her feet as Denise sat transfixed, perched on a stool, watching with hungry eyes. No more mermaid hair. Grandma asked Denise, “Why’d you do it?” Denise made her eyes wide. “We were pretending. She wanted curly hair. The burdocks were curlers, Grandma. I didn’t know they’d stick so hard.” Jolene, even at age seven, thought, “That’s bull.” Grandma rolled her eyes and sighed. That night, curled under the thin bedspread in misery, nearly bald, Jolene was surprised to hear her dead mother speak to her for the first time; not in a regular voice, but as if that voice was whispered through the pine trees that were bending in the wind. Jolene felt a chill like someone blowing on her neck, causing her to stiffen. She listened closely to hear the message: No more tricks, Jolene. Don’t fall into another trap. Jolene woke up a different sort of girl, cynical, but not completely motherless. The few old ladies who sometimes visited Grandma’s house to have coffee gazed at Jolene with voyeuristic pity, clucking, “Poor thing.” They didn’t realize the courage infused in her that night by the windy, urgent voice of her mother. The next time she saw her cousin, Denise plunked a big silver coin into the pool. It slowly descended, head over tail, to land on an island of algae. Denise said it was a pirate's treasure and if Jolene could dive down to get it, she could keep it. Jolene, before sensing the risk, swam under the water to scoop up the prize. She felt Denise’s long foot find her back and press down hard; felt the strong fingers of Denise’s hand curl over her head to keep her down. Jolene could not swim up. At first, she thrashed, but the foot pressed harder each time she tried to twist away. Jolene panicked, her chest aching until her mother’s voice raged like an ocean wave crashing: Pretend to die. Jolene went limp, longing to breathe, about to explode, when the hand and foot released her. She surfaced, sputtering, gulping for air. Her cousin arched against the side of the pool with a face that said, “Gotcha.” Denise seemed to be everywhere that summer, circling Jolene like a shark threatening to strike at any moment; bursting open the bathroom door when Jolene was on the toilet, the boys bending over to peek in, mouths agape and honking like unruly geese until Grandma would yell, “Quit your monkey’n. Let her be!” and they’d scatter. Then there was the pathetic dead mouse, mangled, found on top of her bed. “Told you to keep that door shut, else the cats get in,” scolded Grandma, but Jolene knew it wasn’t a cat who’d placed that mouse in the bull’s eye center of her bed. Jolene wondered if her dad would ever come. At night she began using the door lock, not because Denise was in the house, but because she was in her head. ***** The best times were Thursdays when Grandma told Jolene to help her go through the junk in the shed, and pick out some things to lay on the tables out front for the weekly yard sale. Grandma never used the word junk, but instead said, “going through the inventory,” as if they worked in a real store. Jolene helped Grandma pick out toasters and tools, mildewed boxes full of old greeting cards, musty-smelling skeins of yarn, spools of thread, and bald tires. On Thursday, everything was laid out on card tables at the end of the driveway and hauled back in on Sunday. Grandma would sit out there for hours on a lawn chair wearing a floppy straw hat, waiting for cars to pull up. A sign out by the road guided people her way. The sign, handwritten on a piece of cardboard, read, “Yard Sale. Come find your hidden treasure.” Hardly any cars ever came by, but the people who did slide up pretty much saw that the tables were full of junk, not treasure. One look at the old woman sitting there in the barren yard, the ancient tables laid out with rusty old tools--those cars usually circled and left. Grandma would tip her hat at the retreating headlights and say, “Your loss.” Once in a while she’d sell an item or two, and stare at the handful of dollar bills like they were a thing of beauty. She’d stuff the wad of cash down the front of her shirt and give Jolene a wink. “Gotta be patient,” she’d say with a quick nod. “It pays off.” ***** One morning, as Jolene munched toast smeared with jam, Grandma said to her, “Jolene, listen. Your dad ain’t coming to get you. You’re gonna have to stay here with me.” The toast suddenly clogged in Jolene’s throat like a wad of damp paper. There was no way to swallow and she gagged, spitting it onto her plate. Grandma looked at the mess and said, “It’ll be okay.” An earnest plea lingered in her eyes. Her expression was the same one she wore that time when a man asked if the banged-up lawn mower by the road still worked—“It’ll need some repair is all; it’s a damn good mower,” Grandma had told him, trying to sell busted-up shit to stupid people. “But I don’t want to stay here,” whined Jolene. “I want to go home.” Grandma raised her voice slightly and said, “He ain’t coming for you, Jolene.” Then lowered her voice and added, “The man’s a coward. Always has been.” Jolene ran upstairs and fell on her bed, crying. Later on, Grandma stood in the doorway. “Quit your bawling. Get your sneakers on. I’m taking you to a spot you’ll like. Somewheres your mom used to play.” She made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, stuffed them into baggies, and Jolene climbed into the battered Rambler. Grandma swung the car out of the driveway and they traveled down the road apiece, then pulled into a parking lot in a grassy field. Grandma got out stiffly and hobble-walked using a cane, doing her best to lead Jolene along the pathway through the woods to a gorge. Parents with children, hikers with dogs, and lovers holding hands, all trotted along the trail like a disjointed parade. “Mind me, now,” warned Grandma. “See them boys up there?” She pointed to two children Jolene’s age, peeking over the side of the cliff, the only spot not blocked by brush or trees. “Them boys are too close to the edge. You stay next to me. You can run off when we get down there, but it’s a drop from up here. A girl fell off last year.” “What happened to her?” asked Jolene. The notion of it made her want to peek over the edge with the boys. “What’d’ya think happened to her, Jolene? Don’t ask dumb questions.” A rocky path led through the woods and narrowed as they descended an incline to a stream. The Shhhhh of the falls strengthened with every step. White noise rose like a deafening silence; a command from God, Shhhhh. The falls appeared, cascading endlessly; frothy swirls churning at its base with the misty fog rising upward like a thousand-winged angels. The stream was strewn with boulders the size of Volkswagens. Children scrambled up to play on them, and lovers reclined to sunbathe. Grandma carefully lowered herself to settle on a log. The walk had been treacherous for her. They ate the sandwiches, looking around at everyone laughing and leaping amongst the rocks. Jolene felt like an uninvited guest at a party. Grandma’s chin dropped to her neck; she closed her eyes, and said, “Go ahead, Jolene. You play a bit. Let me be. I gotta rest some. There’s a surprise up there you’ll wanna see.” Jolene splashed in the stream, slowly making her way up to the mouth of the falls, pushing through the pulsing current as if wading toward a holy destination on a religious quest. Drawing closer, she noticed a bright orange flame blazing from a recess behind the falls; sheets of water covering it like a transparent veil. She stood in wonder. “There it is, there it is!” shouted a little girl in a high-pitched voice, racing up next to Jolene. The girl’s mother bent down and squeezed her daughter sideways in a hug. The girl pushed herself into that hug, clearly enjoying the preciousness of being cherished. The mother pointed to the flame, explaining something about natural gas. The girl wasn’t listening but her eyes traveled all over her mother’s face as she spoke, adoring being adored. Jolene was close enough to see the mother’s warm gaze, to hear her say, “All day, all night, it never goes out, never dies. It’s like love.” The girl touched a dangling strand of her mother’s hair. “Doesn’t the fire ever get tired and want to take a nap?” The mother laughed, charmed by her daughter’s reply, and clasped her hand before they picked their way up closer to the flame. A chasm opened for Jolene just then, an indefinable longing ignited--her whole life ahead with the tireless need to be held aloft in the eyes of a mother. Jolene’s attention switched to a movement next to her: two monarch butterflies frolicking in a playful dance. It was odd to see them so far down in the gorge. As she watched, they rose higher and higher out of sight; a fluttering duo tracing figure eights. Jolene wondered if the “surprise” Grandma forecast was the flame or the butterflies. Seeing the monarchs brought her mother into the present in a flash of memory that felt as strong as her embrace. She pictured the two of them playing together along the shores of a lake that was always cold. Her mom had pointed at the horizon—“That’s a whole other country over there. I’ll teach you to swim better and maybe we can reach it by sundown.” Her mother’s expression was wistful, then full of something akin to joy—“Kick ‘n’ paddle, Jolene, kick ‘n’ paddle!”—and Jolene swam straight into her mother’s outstretched arms. Jolene waded back to where her grandmother rested. “You seen the fire?” asked Grandma, rising unsteadily to her feet, grasping the cane that looked inefficient to hold her weight. Jolene nodded. A solemn feeling took hold of her, thinking about that flame--how it never dies. “All right,” said Grandma. “We can go then.” Halfway up the trail, Grandma needed to rest. She leaned on her cane, looking sideways toward the gorge, lapsed in reverie. “You might’a sat on a rock that your mom played on when she was little. Her and Dulcie, they used to be down here for hours. Your mom, more so. She used to make fairy houses.” Grandma sighed and her eyelids fluttered. “She’d tell us that the fairies rode on the backs of butterflies when they got too tired of flying around on their own.” The memory tugged at her features, drawing her mouth downward. “That flame,” she said in a voice thick with emotion. Jolene waited to hear more but Grandma stopped, straightened her back, and started to walk again, slowly. “They say it’s eternal, never goes out,” she continued, her voice recovered. “It do sometimes, go out. Has to be lit.” ***** The next day was Saturday. One of the boy cousins, the middle one, had a birthday to celebrate. Grandma sent the three boys out into the field to gather rocks for building a fire pit. She showed them, with her hands, what size rock they should collect: “Like a small loaf of bread,” she said. “Not a big loaf.” The project lasted the whole afternoon, with the boys pulling rocks of all sizes out of the earth, racing back to stack them against the shed in a competition of brawn and speed. They dug a deep hole for the pit but had to refill it. “You ain’t gonna bury a goat,” snapped Grandma. “Do it right, like I told you.” Finally, the rocks were piled up to form a shape resembling a circle, the firewood placed and ready to be lit when the sun went down. Jolene and Denise dragged lawn chairs out of the shed and set them around the fire. The children held pointy sticks speared with marshmallows that browned to perfection, but then more often than not, ignited, charring black. The boys dared each other, taking turns raising their bare feet just above the crackling sparks to see who could last the longest. Denise hoisted her feet over the flames and won, her eyes squeezed shut with determination. Aunt Dulcie and Grandma joined them after a bit, Dulcie sitting down heavily with a grunt, popping off the tab on a can of beer. “Can I have a sip?” asked the eldest son, posturing for his brothers. “You eighteen yet?” asked Dulcie. “No, but I’m gonna be in…” he tried to calculate. “Seven years.” “How’s that?” said Dulcie, smiling. “Try nine. Nine years.” She looked at him for a moment, searching his face. “Here,” she said, handing him the green can. “One sip.” Her son took a swig, hesitating before he swallowed, puckering as if he’d sucked a lemon. “Mmmmm,” he said, rubbing his belly. He looked at his brothers like he’d just won a prize. “Goof,” said Dulcie, shaking her head with amusement. Denise gently bumped against Jolene’s shoulder, as if to say, look at this freaky family you’ve joined. Jolene had never felt more rooted in this group and her heart glowed in gratitude at being included, at seeing the contented faces of her relatives made luminesce by the orange glow of the fire. To see Aunt Dulcie looking peaceful gave Jolene confidence to relax, hoping that maybe she could craft a family out of this rugged bunch. “Went to see the fire in the falls yesterday,” Grandma offered. “Ahhh, we wanna go!” said the birthday boy. “I heard it keeps lit ‘cause a’ all the gas. They told us in school.” “Gas is a fart!” shrieked the littlest of the three, and the boys burst into laughter. The middle one tipped in his chair, knocking into his older brother who smacked him hard on top of his head with a balled-up fist. The birthday boy began to cry. “See why I don’t take ‘em?” said Grandma, staring straight down into the pit. ***** The next morning Aunt Dulcie showed up at the house alone and sat at the kitchen table with Grandma. There were no cousins around. A serious tone alerted Jolene not to enter. She listened, perched on the staircase, unseen by the women as they sipped coffee. “I gotta see Jay’s face now for the rest of my days?” said Dulcie. “When’s she going?” “I told you,” said Grandma. “She’s here now, for good.” There was a pause as someone shifted in a chair, the sound of liquid pouring into a mug. Dulcie coughed. “Denise has got to see him too, now,” said Dulcie. Jolene wondered what was meant by this—she had not seen her dad in a very long time. Was he here somewhere, hidden, appearing only to Denise and Dulcie? “You girls made some bad choices back when,” said Grandma. “Now stop with your monkey talk.” Another pause. The air in the room pulsated. “Bad Choices! You’re saying I made the bad choice? Me? I’m the one!” There was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, a mug smashing, and the screen door slamming shut. Jolene leaned out cautiously to look through the doorway of the kitchen, seeing the bulky form of Grandma struggling to bend and gather up the shards of that chunky white mug. Jolene thought about how hard that mug must have been heaved in order to break. Later that day, as Grandma reached to put away some dishes in the cupboard, she was startled to see Denise out of the corner of her eye, standing silently outside the screen door. “Get yourself in here, then,” said Grandma. “If you’re coming in, do it.” Denise entered and stood scowling. Her vision seemed unfocused, staring at the middle ground. The screen had hidden the blotchy patches on her sweaty face, but once indoors those blemishes bloomed into a hideous garden. There was a crosshatching of cuts on her cheek below her right eye and her bottom lip was raised with a single drop of blood where it was split. Aunt Dulcie had dropped her off and sped away. Grandma looked at Denise and then quickly headed to the freezer. She shook ice cubes out from a tray into the sink, wrapping a few of them in a dishtowel which she wet under the faucet with cold water. “Sit down,” she commanded. Denise complied. Grandma twisted the end of the towel to keep the ice from falling out. She handed the bundle to Denise who pressed the wad to her swollen lip in a wordless ritual understood by them both. Grandma asked, “Who done it, your mom or Milt?” Denise replied in monotone, “Milton just hits the boys now.” Grandma shook her head, irritated. “You two got to learn to get along!” she scolded. Jolene sidled up to Denise. She had an urge to reach out and hold her hand--an urge she resisted. Instead, she asked, “Who’s Milton?” “Jolene, quit with your monkey questions,” snapped Grandma. “An’ quit staring at me,” said Denise. Jolene tried to train her eyes on something else in the room besides Denise dabbing more ice against her swollen face. She watched the cats instead, the way they pressed themselves sensuously against the table legs, blessedly oblivious. Jolene wandered into the backyard, gathering small sticks and rocks at the edge of the field, imagining how to arrange a fairy house. The day was hot and monarchs bobbed and lit on the milkweed growing in abundance at the edge of the field. She became engulfed in creating a tiny structure out of sticks, moss, and stone with the bright fantasy that fairies might discover and inhabit the little room; the bark beds made soft with milkweed silk, pebble chairs, and a rock table set with tiny pods full of hard, red berries. A long shadow appeared, jolting Jolene from her play. She looked up into the wounded face of her cousin. The florid red on her cheeks had paled to reveal scratches, the streaks made garishly visible now that the rash had faded. Jolene’s heart ticked rapidly in her chest, waiting for Denise’s malefic foot to demolish the delicate cottage, but Denise sat down, crossing her legs. She leaned forward to caress the spongy carpet of moss with an outstretched finger, pressing down, forcing a small recess, then leaned back on her hands and closed her eyes, her face turned up to the sun. Jolene was able to take a long, furtive look at her cousin: the nose, too small for her wide face; her eyelashes, stiff as whiskers, curled and reddish-blond. Denise was flat-chested with broad muscled shoulders and hard lean arms and legs. She looked vulnerable for once; not soft, or even safe, but damaged like those injured lions Jolene watched on the nature shows—the way the beasts withdrew, defeated and maimed, and you knew that death was not far off. Denise rubbed her eyes. “What’s the house for?” she asked. “The fairies,” said Jolene. “So they could live here.” Denise half grunted, half laughed. “You believe in fairies?” Jolene considered a moment. “Yes,” she affirmed. “They used to bring me money when I lost a tooth.” “How much?” “A dime,” said Jolene. “You should’ve asked for a quarter.” Denise stood and dusted off her bottom. “Take a walk with me,” she said. “I have a secret to tell you; a big one. I’m not supposed to say it, so we gotta be farther out.” Everything was silent except for the occasional buzz of a cricket or the trill of a bird. There was not even a wafting breeze through the field to make a sound. Jolene felt ruinously sleepy. She hadn’t eaten a thing that morning because Aunt Dulcie was there, and then Denise had shown up. Her head felt mashed and pulpy. She did not want to walk. “Come on, stand up,” ordered Denise. “Come with me.” Despite the heat and quiet, Jolene felt a chill and heard a sound thundering in her head like when water got trapped in her ears after swimming in the lake. Her mother would tell her to jump on one foot and shake her head to one side to loosen it, only this sound was magnified, accompanied by a current of words streaming below it, unintelligible, and frantic. She stood shakily, joining Denise. The two of them made their way through the open field. Denise glided along, ripping the periwinkle heads off cornflowers as Jolene struggled to keep pace with her cousin’s long-legged stride. When Jolene finally turned to look for Grandma’s house, it appeared small, impossibly far away. “I guess this spot is good enough,” said Denise. She held a smooth gray rock, the size of a grapefruit. Jolene had not seen her pick it up and wondered where it came from. The girls sat down at Denise’s lead, facing each other, pushing the weeds aside to create a sort-of nest. “Can you guess what the secret is?” asked Denise. Jolene’s head buzzed with heat and hunger, but she searched back in the day to form an idea. “Who is that guy Grandma named? The one who hits the boys.” “Milt. Milton. He don’t hit ‘em much, just when they need it. He’s their dad,” said Denise, pulling apart a wide strand of grass and blowing through it. Like a tiny horn, it trumpeted. Jolene tried to do the same but accidentally tore the grass in half and Denise offered no instruction. “Isn’t Milt your dad too?” asked Jolene, shyly. Denise shook her head. “Where’s your dad then?” “That’s the secret,” said Denise. Her eyes looked darker somehow, almost black. A flush spread across her cheeks. “My dad is Jay.” Jolene could not believe it. The concept seemed impossible, as if Denise had told her that cats can fly. The air around them cooled and a breeze picked up and ruffled the grass. A few moments passed. Jolene had no words she could think to say, but something brewed in her chest, a swirling sensation she couldn’t control; a microburst. Finally, she shouted, “No, he isn’t!” yelled in a voice one would use to call back a dog running into the street. Denise nodded, affirming a fact, her lower lip drawn up so tightly that her chin was cratered with dimples. “No!” cried Jolene, desperate to have her one dad back as her very own. Denise stood up and screamed, “You think you’re so great! Your mom was a slut an’ everybody knows it!” Jolene had heard the word “slut” only once, used by her dad, and shouted at her mom. She remembered being in the back seat of his car, crumpled to one side. They were racing to pick up her mom who’d stayed the night at her best friend’s place. Her dad had dragged her mom out of the trailer, yanking her down the steps and tossing her into the backseat next to Jolene. “Three sheets to the wind,” he’d said, glaring in the rearview mirror. “Drunken slut!” He nearly spit the words, then stopped looking back. Jolene did not know what that word “slut” meant but guessed it was something vile like throw-up or worms on the sidewalk, mutilated in the rain. She remembered the cutting sound of that word; how it started out sly like the hiss of a snake and ended hard, like a door slammed shut. Denise stepped backward, bent at the knees, and whipped the rock hard. It landed square on the upper part of Jolene’s forehead, knocking her against the ground. She curled to one side, feeling enveloped in a dark heavy cloak. Minutes or hours later--she didn’t know how much time had passed--she came to. The blood had dried. Her forehead felt stretched tight as a drum. She lay there watching everything close up, so close that things were split in two: stems were stripes of yellow and green; pink balls of clover doubled to look like balloons at a party. In a dreamlike trance, she delighted to see the stained-glass orange and black wings of a monarch, praying beside her. “Mom,” she whispered hoarsely. After a bit more time passed, Denise was there leaning over her, pressing her tiny pig-like nose against Jolene’s cheek. “Wake up, sleepy-head.” She tossed a flower chain across Jolene’s neck, dandelions braided together. “Look, I made you a necklace,” she said. “We gotta head back now.” Jolene’s vision was foggy. She needed to eat, needed to drink water. “You fell,” said Denise. She helped Jolene to her feet and placed her hands firmly on Jolene’s shoulders, peering hard into her eyes. “You fell,” she repeated. “It ain’t lying. You did fall.” Jolene knew that this was the story she must tell or risk a darker fate. She did not recall much of that day except for two things--the word “slut” wickedly roused to life in her memory, and also her mom, praying beside her in the guise of a butterfly. The girls returned to Grandma’s house, Denise adjusting her steps to match the slower gait of Jolene’s. To an outsider, it would seem a touching sight: the bigger girl caring for the smaller, draping her arm protectively over the younger one’s shoulders. As they entered the yard, Aunt Dulcie, peering from behind the kitchen window, screeched to Grandma, “They’re coming! There they are!” She ran outdoors, grabbing Denise into a hug that lasted a while. Jolene kept moving toward the house, her peripheral vision darkening into a tunnel. She collapsed just inside the screen door. “Damn!” said Grandma. “That’s a goose egg!” Jolene heard voices as if they were far off. “What did you do, Denise?” Instead of Denise answering, Jolene heard the voice of Dulcie say, “Why you always think’n Denise did something wrong? Always blame’n Denise. Kids fall sometimes, ya know!” “That what happened?” insisted Grandma, giving Jolene a shake. “You fell?” Jolene simply nodded her head. “You best be goin’ now,” said Grandma to Dulcie and Denise. “I had about as much as I can take from the two of you this day.” They exited through the front door with Dulcie muttering, “Jeez,” in protest, as they left. Grandma applied something called a butterfly bandage to Jolene’s forehead, first rinsing the laceration with a stinging liquid that smelled like a doctor’s office. Grandma ran a shallow bath and Jolene was helped to lay down in the warm water made sudsy with blue dish soap. Her body ached. She was given five pink tiny pills to chew; it was like eating flavored chalk. Grandma left the door ajar as she fixed a dinner of Jolene’s favorites: hamburgers stacked on wonder bread with ketchup, served with potato chips, and strawberry milk. Jolene put on her pajamas even though the sky was still bright and sunny. Grandma let her eat in the living room on the foldout tintable and let her watch T.V. as the cats slinked along the back of the couch, keeping her company. “You probably need a stitch or two,” said Grandma, looking at her forehead. “But it’s Sunday. Doctor’s closed.” ***** Jolene woke up and looked in the mirror at the purplish jam-colored medallion on her forehead, split just below her hairline in a red gash. For the next few days, she floated in the pool by herself, on her back, watching the drifting clouds. Those pool floating days were a time of reflection, a time to rest and think about ways to be safe. Her mom spoke to her that week in a quiet, pleading way, and Jolene had to listen not only with her ears but with her whole body, in order to let the message sink in. Sometimes she held her breath underwater, feeling the hum of an internal order that seemed to connect the deepest part of her with everything that was outside: the sun, the grass, the open sky. It was hard for Jolene to fully comprehend this communication, but the message it foretold came from her mom and buoyed her up--it told her to She couldn’t hide from Denise much longer. One day that week, the front door was found to be wide open and Grandma shouted at Jolene to keep it shut. “I lost Misty that way,” she lamented. Jolene knew Misty must have been a cat. “She got out,” Grandma warned. “Went off to catch mice in the field and the fox got her. Them fox are a mean bunch. Catch’n cats and they don’t even eat ‘em, just like to kill ‘em for fun. They do it to chickens too sometimes, if they can sneak in a coop.” “How can you get rid of a fox?” asked Jolene, her pupils dilated with urgency. Grandma looked a little surprised, but told her, “You gotta’ set a trap and kill it, or shoot the damn things when you see ‘em running. It’s hard to shoot ‘em ‘cause they’re so sneaky, come’n out mostly at night. Traps work better.” ***** The August sky was roiling with olive clouds, the same color as Jolene’s fading bruise. Today was not a pool day, said Grandma, as it may storm and lightning can fry you in water just like boiling grease in the deep fryer. Jolene sat on the back steps watching the clouds overlap to form a dense canopy. She felt bored and lonely and anxious all at once. Tingles ran up and down her arms and over her thighs as the grass in the field swayed and whispered secrets. She had a secret too, something incubating and waiting for a time to hatch. Grandma spoke to her from inside, behind the screen door. “Denise has to come over today,” she said. Her voice was apologetic, but she added in a tone that was unyielding, “That’s just the way it’s gotta be. She has a hard time look’n at you and you have a hard time with her, I guess, but you gotta work it through. Your mom and Dulcie didn’t talk for years, and then look what happened.” Her chest heaved in a loud sigh. She seemed like she had more to say, miles more, but stopped herself and lumbered into the bathroom. Jolene heard water running and something that sounded like a sob but it could have been the squeaky pipes. Afterward, Grandma shuffled out and made a lunch of fried bologna sandwiches on wonder bread with ketchup. Denise showed up at the back door like a specter, her face healed up except for the split in her lower lip. “Sit down,” said Grandma. “You girls gotta eat, then find something you can do together. There’s playing cards in the drawer, or a jig-saw puzzle--something. My bursitis gets bad in this weather and it’s capturing my knees. I gotta go lie down. Let me be. I bought Twinkies, and you can have one. One.” Her eyebrows raised, looking at Denise. “Don’t let me see you eat’n the whole box like your brothers do.” She hobbled to the stairs and winced as she took the first step. Jolene was left alone with a penny-eyed fox. “What do you want to do?” asked Denise, sinking her yellow teeth into the spongy cake of the Twinkie. Jolene did not reply but concentrated on unwrapping the cellophane of her own treat which she pushed toward Denise like a sacrificial offering as her appetite flew out the window and her stomach flipped in anticipation. “Look,” said Denise, devouring the Twinkies and licking the fluffy white filling off each finger in turn. “I think we can have some fun today. Take me to the flame. I wanna see it.” “Me too,” replied Jolene. The girls headed out of the cul-de-sac to a street that curved onto the main road. Jolene was uncertain which way to go but Denise took the lead and turned right. Cars whooshed by at arm’s length as the two of them made their way along a narrow shoulder littered with paper wrappers and shards of amber glass. After a time, they came to the same lot where Grandma had parked on that sunny day of the picnic. Today there was only one car in the lot. The wind was kicking up, arching the tree branches upward. Stony clouds marched across a milky sky. They started down the rocky path that led through the woods. The temperature dropped and Jolene, dressed in only a tee-shirt and shorts, felt chilled; her skinny arms and legs unshielded. Denise wore shorts, but also a navy windbreaker which came down to her thighs and gave the illusion that she had no pants on. Trucks had beeped when they were passed on the road and one driver had stuck his head out the window yelling something nasty—Jolene could not tell what—but Denise had raised her middle finger to him. The falls could be heard in the distance, the reverent hush of rushing water near the edge of the gorge. Denise skipped off the path to the place where Grandma had warned Jolene not to get too close. Denise’s legs looked too sharp and long to be skipping--a fraudulent display of innocence. Even at seven, Jolene could see this, how people could fool you. “Come look,” said Denise. “You can see the waterfall from up here.” She swung her predator’s head around to gaze at Jolene who felt electric air raise the hairs on the back of her neck. She heard the powerful voice of her mother crescendo in the trees and the wind and the water gushing over the rocks: It's a trap, it’s a trap! Save yourself. “Come here,” said Denise, her eyes as shiny as the black beach stones that Jolene used to find along the shores of the cold lake. Jolene’s memory flashed on searching for those stones: the blackest of the black, the whitest of the white, while her mother treasured the ones shaped like hearts. On those good days, they’d fill a bucket’s worth of rocks and sort them out on the dock as the gulls swooped and hollered above. No more tricks, Jolene, her mother raged. “Where’s the flame?” Denise called over her shoulder, balancing along the precipice. “I don’t see it. Maybe it went out.” Jolene drew nearer. Denise turned with a ravenous look in her feral eyes as a wild wind lifted her hair, making it swirl momentarily around her head. “Come on!” She motioned with her hand, encouraging Jolene to step closer. Denise turned back again to face the gorge. “Oh, it’s right there,” she yelled, pointing. “The fire! Come see it! Don’t be a chicken!” She kept shouting, but the rest of her words were stolen by the wind. Jolene ran forward and shoved the middle of Denise’s bony back, hard, with both hands. The wind calmed. Jolene did not look over the edge of the cliff but instead closed her eyes and shivered, imagining the determined countenance of Denise, climbing back up the canyon wall, grabbing ahold of rocks and roots like a supervillain set on revenge. When finally Jolene forced herself to peek over the ledge, she saw Denise splayed on the bank below, looking small from the vantage point above. She could almost believe that Denise was asleep. Jolene picked her way down to the water following the path that she and Grandma had last taken, the same one her mother and Dulcie had skipped along so many times in the past. Jolene crouched next to the lifeless body, helpless as a wingless bird anchored to the ground. Sounds echoed across the gorge, their direction unclear; voices, barking dogs, the sound of shuffling through dry leaves. Three exuberant mongrels came crashing through the creek, shaking off water in a showery spray. A woman scrambled to catch up with the dogs, shouting apologies from far away, “They’re nice, don’t be scared, I’m sorry! Bad dogs! Caleb, come here! Bandit! Shadow!” The dogs nuzzled and sniffed and pranced and pawed around Jolene, ignoring the woman. When the woman reached Jolene, she was out of breath, continuing to apologize in a huffing sort of way. She was tall, with a long white braid down her back, wearing a denim jacket embroidered with yellow peace signs. As soon as she noticed Denise, the woman began to sputter, “Oh shit, oh Fuck, Jesus! Fred!” She turned and cupped her hands around her mouth to make a megaphone. “Fernaandoooo!” The name echoed across the canyon. She took off her coat and draped it over Jolene’s shoulders. A man, shorter than the woman, appeared on the other side of the creek and quickly made his way across, adroitly hopping from rock to rock. “Holy shit,” he said, staring at Denise. His skin and hair were dark, in contrast to the woman’s pale face and eyes that held a cast like a blue sky reflected in a muddy creek. The man crouched down, speaking to Jolene in a slow, deliberate cadence. “Are you okay? Where’s your mom or your dad?” Jolene could not answer either question. “We need to take her somewhere,” he said to the moon-faced woman. “To the hospital or something, I don’t know.” Jolene said, “I live with Grandma.” “Okay then, we’ll drive you home,” said the man. In the parking lot was the single-car, a light blue Volkswagen. Jolene jammed herself into the backseat with two of the three big dogs. The third dog sat up front on the woman’s lap. Fat drops of rain began to smack hard against the windshield. “Just in time,” said the woman, turning around and smiling. Jolene handed up the woman’s coat as the car felt warm and damp, smelling like a wet dog. A song came to life on the eight-track, a calming melody and a man’s voice that sang about sunshine coming softly through his window. Jolene liked the idea of sunshine entering through her window; there’d been so much getting through lately that wasn’t soft or sunny. The man turned around. “Where do you live, honey?” Jolene did not know how to get home, so he said, “Okay, we’ll drive one way, and if you don’t see it, we’ll go the other way.” “I think we should just drop her off at the police station,” said the woman. “Think it through,” said the man. “You want to go there and have to answer a million questions? There’s stuff in the glove compartment. We’re driving around with a child we don’t know. We just saw a body at the bottom of Chestnut Ridge. And the shit I ate is starting to kick in about now. In fact, maybe you better drive.” They took some time getting out and re-arranging, switching places in the car. One of the dogs in the back started to whine and paw at the seat, seeing that now there was a space available on her daddy’s lap, so they switched around the dogs too. The woman, hands gripping the steering wheel, turned around and nodded in a reassuring way, but Jolene noticed worry creep into her bloodshot eyes. “Where do you live now, sweetie? It’s going to be okay.” The car turned right. Down the road apiece, Jolene recognized the post where she and Grandma hung the sign for the yard sale. “Right here!” she shouted, and the car swung down her street. It pulled up in front and Jolene got out. “You okay, honey?” asked the man. “Is Grandma home? We’ll make sure and sit right here ‘til you get inside.” Jolene walked through the front door, waved to the couple, and there was Aunt Dulcie, her chubby hands clasped across her heart. “Where the hell have you girls been!” “We went to the falls,” whispered Jolene, feeling as if her throat was closing. “What?! Where’s Denise?” screamed Dulcie. “She fell,” replied Jolene. The concept of deceit was new to her but even at seven years old, she knew enough to hide the full truth. “Where the hell is she?” Aunt Dulcie was shaking Jolene by the shoulders and Grandma lugged herself down the stairs, wincing in pain, screeching at Dulcie, “Let her be!” Then Jolene heard herself say that Denise got too close to the edge and fell off. Grandma moaned in severe pain, the way she doubled over, screaming, “I told that girl about the falling spot! We stood there once and I told her, ‘Denise, you ain’t to come near this spot!’ She just had to show off!” Dulcie sprang to the bathroom, threw up in the toilet until there was nothing more inside her, and then she phoned the police who went to the bottom of Chestnut Ridge and retrieved the dead body of her daughter. ***** A service was held at the Anthony Carelli Funeral Home where Denise Lynn Sherman rested in a white closed casket with pink roses placed on top. The mourners formed a line that wound around the building. A hubbub began in the parlor, words circulating among some who paid their last respects, that the girl’s own father hadn’t even bothered to show up to bury his daughter. “Let him show up now,” said the man named Milton, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt to reveal ropy muscled arms with snaky blue veins. Dulcie stood like a solemn statue the whole time the mourners came through; the only part of her moving was her hands, shaking the hands of others, occasionally letting herself be drawn into a hug. The boys continued to rough house, and Dulcie ignored them as if all the energy she’d had in her was drained out for good. The boys, dressed in suits and looking like tiny disheveled men, chased each other in perpetual circles with their neckties faltering to one side. These would be the lives of Dulcie and her boys thereafter. Grandma was mute, contained. Jolene hovered next to her as if sheltering under a tree that offered shade but nothing more. Once outdoors, the coffin was placed inside a big, impressive black car. Jolene learned that it was called a hearse. The day was sunny but crisp, a prelude to autumn, with a wide blue sky decorated with puffy, white clouds—a child’s drawing of a pretty day. A line of cars and motorcycles drove in the slow procession to the cemetery where the coffin was already removed and waiting, set on a carpet of fake grass next to a dug-out pit. The man from the funeral parlor stood tall and official as the family shuffled to gather around the site. He read some formal-sounding words from a leather-bound book, words that did not resemble much in the way of meaning, but everyone stood at attention, listening, even the boys. A monarch butterfly was bobbing over the coffin above the roses. Dulcie grabbed the arm of her husband and leaned into him with tears streaming down her face, pointing excitedly as she exclaimed, “It’s Terri, come to say goodbye!” And maybe in feeling the devastation of such great loss, not only for this recent event but for all the things of sorrow that came before it, she momentarily forgave her sister. Crouching beside her youngest boy, tenderly encircling her arm around his legs, she watched the butterfly, her eyes glassy with rapture. The monarch lit upon the coffin, gracefully wafting its’ exquisite orange wings. “She’s telling Denise the way to heaven,” marveled Dulcie, and Jolene was surprised to hear her aunt heralding a miracle to those who gathered, begging witness for them to believe: a slut transformed into an angel on this hallowed day. But Jolene heard the true message of this enchanted visitor, a promise uttered to her alone in the whisper of those wings murmuring in the rhythm of her own heart beating: safe now, safe now, safe now. Jolene listened evermore to pine trees swaying in the wind, to the ripples of brooks and the sage whisper of monarchs. Her world filled up with these natural sounds even as she stayed quiet, quiet, quiet; and people did not detect the fire that blazed in her like a revelation; the glowing vitality of it covered by a cool misty veil; a flame that she tended, a flame that she kept lit Katherine Steblen is an artist and mental health counselor who works with teenagers. She lives with her husband, daughter, dog, and cat in a village in upstate NY. Katherine has dabbled in writing for many years, but for the past seven years, has written more seriously, and with greater focus. She has had flash fiction published in, "100 Word Story," and the anthology, "nothing short of 100," and short fiction published in, "Every Day Fiction."

I’d recognise you from any distance — even with your back to me, all packaged up in Petit Bateau, remote at the edge of a puddle, clutched tight to a frisbee, maybe worried, if you let it go, it might continue in flight forever, or perhaps you just don’t want to risk getting your school shoes wet. Those bobbled socks would stay soggy, even if you scrunched your toes up under the chair and ignored them, through numeracy and literacy with a desk partner engaged 340 degrees, and a teacher-helper hovering self-aware; bumble bee deciding how best to dedicate its resources, leave you with your wet feet till home time to recompose five lego men you managed to snaffle from the class crate, not exactly unobserved, but from such telescopic difference as makes it somehow beyond us to relate. On your moon, according the the profile that accompanied you, children scrabble for food, hoard what they can, eat by night, with urgent secrecy, out of reach. Maybe that explains the covert foraging in foreign backpacks, that, to their credit, the others have stopped complaining about — wonderful how six-year-olds can exercise such adult tolerance. Your own age could be determined, apparently, by the density of bones; studying your teeth, there was uncertainty. At the very least, and without being unfair, I’d have to say you have a gift for not belonging, which makes it easier now, as I see you turning — rocket children avoiding you with dexterity — satellite, somehow revolving and remaining still at the heart of our mobile, perhaps looking for grownup contact as a last resort; more natural, anyway, that I veer off towards the other end of the playground, where there seems to be a small girl crying. An English teacher most of the time, Simon Leonard writes short and micro-fiction in both English and Spanish, as well as poetry. When the desire for recognition overcomes the anxiety of not being good enough, he offers work for publication. Examples can be found in Orbis, Envoi, Ink, Sweat and Tears, What Rough Beast, Overheard and Sunthia, among others. Several of his pieces of short fiction have been shortlisted in competitions, although he has never won anything.

Dear Roi Fainéant Readers, In true unhinged fashion when François saw the Roi Fainéant post calling for a guest editor, he reached out to Tiff to see if she would entertain the idea of two people working in tandem before checking with me. But lucky for him, while he was thinking we might be good partners down in San Diego, I thought the same thing up in the Bay Area. After reviewing countless pitches and applications (or maybe we were the only takers), the team agreed to a West Coast take over. I had no idea what to expect – how many pieces we’d receive, how we would evaluate the merit of each, or even how much of a time commitment it would be—but somehow, I knew François and I would work well together. After all, I had nearly 18 years of news editorial and communications experience, and well, he’s a math professor with an MFA in creative writing. He came up with the theme of Heat for this special issue that drops just as summer hits its stride and talked it up on Twitter. I created the spreadsheets and Google folders. We both read every piece, separately made an assessment, and then had quite a few Zoom calls to discuss the merits of each submission. The experience has been a blast, and I thank Tiff, Kellie and Marianne for this chance to play editor for a while. François and I learned what it is like to be on the other side of the decisions. It wasn’t easy, especially after reading blind and then learning that some of the pieces that fell into the no column came from some of our favorite people in our writing circles. While we couldn’t accept all the pieces submitted to us, I do believe they will find a place. After all, my first piece published in Roi Fainéant, “Rich Girls,” had been rejected 14 times before Marianne sent me a yes in record time. I’m glad no one else picked it up because I might have missed the cocktails and writing prompts, the readings, the interviews and the friendship I have with this trio of editors, and of course, my phenomenal guest co-editor François who has read more of my work than anyone else. ---Melissa Flores Anderson ~ As an East coast kid, summers were the best. Swimming at Flat Rock, mint chocolate chip at Purity Ice Cream, roaming around the playground until dark, and a week at the Jersey Shore with my grandparents were all hallmarks of the season. As an adult, across decades and a country, I approach summer with trepidation. Excessive heat warnings, drought, and wildfires have become commonplace here. I also know heat exists beyond the thermometer. I have lived the emotional and physical heat of relationships. I stew in the heat of political anger, empathize with the painful fire of the oppressed, and know the spark of creative inspiration. Now I’ve had the opportunity to see some incredible writers take these notions of heat, and more, and run with them in fantastic and inspiring directions. The process of editing this issue was far more time-consuming and rewarding than I’d imagined it would be. It’s a sacred responsibility to look at something as personal as a piece of writing. It was a joy to say yes and rough to say no. I thank all of the writers who sent us a piece of themselves. Roi Fainéant is so much more than a lit mag. It’s a community. I love the three women who run it and all they have done for so many of us. I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that RF has changed my writing trajectory in the best possible way. Tiffany, Kellie, and Marianne, thank you for entrusting us with this issue, it has been an amazing experience. Simply put, Melissa is brilliant - whether as a writer, editor, or song arranger. In this editing process, she has taught me to be a better reader, use Google stuff almost competently, and even made me a bit more hinged (I will vehemently tweet-deny this last point). More importantly, I have a writer pal and good friend to visit when I next roll though Gilroy on my way to a redwoods retreat. Be on the look out for our next literary venture. Thank you Melissa. Thank you RF. Thank you writers. I love every piece in this issue and I hope you will too. François Some California photos shared by our guest editors:

The Combustión Lenta chile is a little bomb I swallowed when I was 23 and still absolutely positive I’d live forever, or at the very least that my insides could take the heat. Most people think the ‘pickled purple pepper’ is a gimmick. Biting into their tortas, they expect a burn that goes on a long time. That’s not how this spicy trip works. You feel nothing and enjoy your almuerzo and your body quietly counts backwards from a million. The pepper might kick in eight years later when you’re on the altar. Beldir was the first of our old friend group graced by the chile’s tidings. “You may kiss the bride.” He did, and a searing heat blitzed across his palate and clamped his teeth into his beloved’s bottom lip. It started gushing blood and she smacked him, reflexively— Jerin is like that, to this day. We laugh about it now, but Beldir’s lucky she didn’t call the whole thing off, then and there. What a shame it would be for the bygone contents of plastic jars to sabotage a marriage. The chile intercepted Parta at work, mid-presentation. “This new integration will improve the streamlining of our—” Ka-thud! The heat nailed him right between the eyes. Parta shoved printouts into his mouth and hopscotched around the room. Life imitates family-friendly rom-coms, from time to time. That said, he’s lucky his employer gave him some time off to recover. Imagine losing a job over forgotten lunchtime concoctions. Ridiban was on a plane, and nearly punched out a window to get cold air down her esophagus. The oxygen mask a flight attendant forced onto her, along with some restraints, was a better choice. Poor Ridiban spent some time in airport jail. Long lost flavors can visit nightmares upon your freshly painted life. As for me, I’m beginning to think I’m genetically immune to the Combustión Lenta, like how some people hate cilantro, or asparagus doesn’t make their pee stink. All my friends are telling me to be careful, lay low— but I won’t drag my feet, living in fear of a vague pain that might never come. I’ll be scuba diving next month with the kids. Should the consequences tag my shoulder while I’m leagues under the sea, I can handle the heat. It’d be too ridiculous to meet an early grave because of a past packed full of pickling. Mar Ovsheid is a spoilsport who doesn't like to run or drive. She's had poetry and fiction published on-and-offline under a variety of names (real and made-up) since 2013 in publications such as DoveTales/Writing for Peace, Spark: A Creative Anthology and Roi Fainéant Press. So, you might've met before, but it's alright if you both forget. Mar works as a housekeeper and has her high school diploma. She’s visible at @mar_ovsheid on Instagram.

Helios got very weary of driving the sun so I agreed to help out. But on the way I lost my forks and had to stop long enough to call the fork store. Then I wondered, could I drive the sun without my forks? I didn't know but what I did know was I must not be late, not by one second, for my first day of driving the sun. When I arrived to take the reins, Helios was not impatient, because he was napping and had no idea I'd rushed up with less than a second to spare. I jumped into the chariot and one of the horses nickered at me, "But, girl, where are your forks?" I had so hoped no one would notice the forks were missing. I was not able to get a special order delivered at this hour, and I told the horse, "Oh, they are going to meet us later, around lunchtime when we will have our regular picnic" and this seemed to satisfy him. I sure hoped the picnic would go okay without forks! The horse's golden sheen glimmered accusingly at me, as though it knew I was dissembling, but what else could I do? The sun must go on, forks or no forks! We'd deal with the picnic when we got there, and failing all else, I still had plenty of spoons. Kyla Houbolt occupies Catawba territory in Gastonia, NC. Her first two chapbooks, Dawn's Fool and Tuned were published in 2020, and Tuned is soon to be released in a digital version. More about them, and her individually published pieces online can be found on her Linktree, https://linktr.ee/luaz_poet. She is on Twitter @luaz_poet.

When Lonny Morton walked into a bar, folks noticed. He was big and handsome. He was six foot five, two hundred and seventy pounds. He had short blonde hair, young looking smile, and biceps the size of most men’s chests. His hands, closed, looked like sixteen-pound sledgehammer heads and opened could grasp a man’s head like a softball. He took care of himself, worked out regularly. He was bronzed from working outside all the time and his steel blue eyes reminded some women of a twenty-seven-year-old Paul Newman. Annette was sitting at a table watching as Lonny moved to the bar, smiling at the easy way he spoke. She noticed his body, of course, the way his arms were carved and taut without flexing. She imagined how easy it would be for him to pick her up and lift her high above him, his strong hands on her hips. “Who the fuck is that?” Annette’s husband Mark had seen her looking at Lonny, had seen that look last a beat longer than he felt necessary. Mark was slight and grey, a wisp of hair combed over and matted to a scalp perpetually covered by a ball cap, which also covered a brow that seemed frozen into a scowl. Mark was a man who still brought up his three years in the Navy thirty years ago because for the thirty years since he had been a yard jockey at a furniture warehouse and the only thing that bored people more than his stories of banging girls in Australia was his stories of moving shipping containers from one part of the parking lot to another. Annette rolled her eyes. “For god’s sake, Mark.” “Well, the whole goddamn bar seen you drool over him. So who is it?” Mark sat back down beside her and spoke loud enough that the table next to them turned. Annette let out a little exasperated sigh. “Mark, please keep your voice down.” She smiled at him. “You know damn good and well who that is. That’s Clay and Velda Morton’s boy, Lonny. I taught him for two years and just hadn’t seen him since. Alright?” Mark looked at her. “Uh huh.” It was true, Annette had been a substitute teacher after the carpet factory moved overseas and she lost her job. Mark tried to do the math in his head, as to whether she might have been working when Lonny was still in school but couldn’t be sure. He took a slow draw on his beer, looked over at Lonny, now standing with a group of young men at the bar. He then stood and started making his way to them. “Mark!” Annette started to stand, sat back, started again. “Mark!” By then Mark had walked up to the bar, patted Lonny and another young man, Will Dawson, on the back and started a conversation. It was hard enough for Annette to see them through the Friday night crowd, and no way to know what they were saying. Mark was leaning against the bar now, facing Lonny, away from her. She watched, horrified, as Mark threw his thumb back over his shoulder and Lonny, a head taller than her husband, looked at her and grinned. Annette felt her eyes widen uncontrollably, before she gathered enough composure to smile as she brought up her hand to wave. By then Lonny had turned his eyes back down to her husband, and as she lowered her hand she saw him shake his head and shrug. Annette was almost shaking when Mark patted the young man again and started back. Mark sat back down at their table, grinning, and took a long pull of his beer. “What the hell was that about?” Annette demanded. Mark leaned back in his chair, directed his bottle towards the young men he had been speaking to. “Nice kids,” he said. “Especially your boy Lonny.” He turned towards her. “Did you know he failed his army physical?” He took another drink. “What?” “Yeah. We was just talking.” “Mark.” He turned to her. “He doesn’t remember you at all, honey.” Mark smiled and held his gaze. “No idea who you are.” Annette felt her cheeks redden, her eyes well with tears. “Excuse me.” She grabbed her hand bag and started towards the bathroom. Mark grinned and didn’t watch her leave. Moments later she was in the back parking lot, having used the perpetually broken emergency exit. Annette felt the breeze on her face and began crying more freely. She felt a sob coming and fought it back. She whispered, “asshole” to the thin air as she pulled a cigarette from her bag. “Asshole,” she said again. She sat on a little bench under a cottonwood tree out of the parking lot light and smoked. Five minutes passed and Annette was on her second cigarette when the back exit burst open. Will Dawson came backing out, drunk, laughing and yelling at someone just inside. He put a hand to the back wall and unzipped his pants. Annette rolled her eyes as she heard his stream of piss hit. While he was zipping up, the door swung open again. Lonny walked out and relieved himself as well. While he was zipping up he saw the cherry from Annette’s menthol brighten in the darkness. “Oh, shit,” he said. “I’m sorry; didn’t see you there.” Dawson looked at her and giggled. “Oops.” Annette smiled, though they didn’t know that. “Boys will be boys, I suppose,” she said. “Y’all know the door doesn’t open from this side, don’t you? You’ll have to go around the building. Dawson looked at the door. “Fuck.” Lonny began walking towards her. “What are you doing out here?” He walked over. “Oh,” he said. “I was just talking to your husband.” “I saw.” “So what are you doing out here?” “Just some fresh air. I’m headed back now.” The three of them walked carefully along the back wall and then a side fence, laughing and grabbing each other’s hands trying not to fall. When they reached the lit front of the building, Lonny held the door for Annette. Will Dawson saw someone in the lot and stumbled off towards them, so Lonny came in after her, careful not to bump his head on the door frame. Annette turned to him, gave a smile and a wave, and walked towards her table. She sat down, drank the last swig of beer, and said to a waitress passing by, “Hon, can you get me another?” Mark was animated in his anger. “What the fuck is going on?” Annette turned to him, feigning confusion. “What’s that?” “I saw you come in with him, goddamnit. Where the hell have you been?” “Who? Oh, Lonny? We were just out back.” Mark’s hands curled into fists as Annette continued. “I’m going to stay at Momma’s house tonight. Well, at least tonight.” “What the hell were you doing back there with him?” Annette smiled, leaned over to him, kissed his cheek. “I fucked him, honey. I fucked Lonny out back against the wall.” Travis Cravey is a maintenance man in Southeastern Pennsylvania.

CW: death/suicide. A bird of flame. A beast of heat. Mythical and magical with a dash of elegance. The Phoenix soars the open skies on a plane of fire, scorching his way through the night like a comet— But, frankly, he has had enough. The economy is in tatters. Bills are never ending. His back hurts when he wakes up. And things aren’t great at home with Mrs. Phoenix. Things weren’t supposed to be this way. The others have all faded into legend; the Griffin, a symbol of bravery and courage, adorned on shields and flags throughout the isles; the Minotaur went down in glorious battle, though he didn’t account for Theseus and that damn ball of string; the Sirens stuck around a while, but they couldn’t compete with the internet and instant gratification. The Hydra lasted the longest of them all, the many-headed and venomous serpentine who slithered and poisoned his way through history, ended up in a job with the Republican Party where he campaigned for the NRA and the pro-life crowd. Scurvy ultimately defeated the Hydra, withered and hollow from depositing all his poison into the entire branch of government until eventually it was a pointless exercise in futility. And yet, the Phoenix remains. A passenger in life, his flame down its embers and barely a spark. Bereft and despondent, the Phoenix turns to the bottle. Vodka, whiskey, even that damn ouzo that’s been sitting in the back of his cupboard since his last trip to Greece that he can’t stand the smell of… In one wild evening, he downs it all. The Phoenix staggers through the night, the moonlight his only companion, crying and singing in equal measure, until he comes to a solitary train track. The distant sound of thunder and metal can be heard, and he’s already made up his mind. The collision is sudden. There’s an explosion of feathers and fire, then there’s nothing at all. Nothing, besides a small collection of ashes by the side of the train tracks. Morning comes, and as the sun rises, so too do the ashes begin to spark and ignite. Suddenly, there’s a storm of fire, as flames swirl and leap, the ground is scorched with an intense heat, the very air itself burns to a crisp as from the ashes rise the Phoenix, magnificent and regal, reborn and given new life, and he looks to the sky, to the dawning of a new day, he cries out, “For God’s Sake, not again!” Samuel Edwards writes silly words and foolish stories, all in a vain attempt to be respected and adored. Please don't hold it against him. He has a Bachelor of Arts Honours Degree from the University of Leeds, and is studying for a Masters in Creative Writing. Samuel writes primarily to impress his pet cat, a feat he will never accomplish. Previously published in Vestal Review, The Birdseed and Flash Fiction Magazine, among others. Tweets at @Sam_Edwards1990.

Colder Playing Hot and Cold we hid a silver dollar and, being young, we heard no warning in the splutter hotter; we thought nothing of exhorting each other: You’re burning up, you’re burning up. Sometimes, I saw the coin resting perplexingly on the turntable’s dial and leaned away just to hear the syllable in slow motion: cold, the vowel gelid, a molecule made sluggish. Now imagine that coin to be a feeling–rage or grief or love, anything that might burn you up. I want to be colder. Hammer and Tongs Sing in me the brash effort: percussionists mid-melee– timpani mallets swung wide and wild, the gallop loosed on a boardwalk xylophone. Sing in me the crowded key, the dribble-drive, the pick-and-roll rodeo, the Musketeer, the Volunteer, Spartan and Trojan, Crimson Tide. Sing, O Muse, the smith forging horseshoes, magma omegas. Sing the smith drumming armor, cymbal on anvil. Sing in me, Muse, and I, too, will go at you hammer and tongs. Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, and TriQuarterly, as well as other journals and magazines.

“Loveen, sit down. We need to talk.” The old woman sits uninvited at your kitchen table in a torn grey pinafore and filthy shirt, her ratty white hair hanging down her curved back. You didn’t hear her come in. “Terrible things happened in there.” She points her bony finger at the Non-Offence Hibernian Official Psychiatric Establishment (NO HOPE), on whose grounds your house sits. She’s been coming a while now, ever since the baby was born. “Twas different in those days. It was an asylum to keep folks safe from lunatics, but there were more sane people in there than out here. People with depression, or fights over land, or even women going through the change. Nothing wrong with them, that was until they got at them with the electric shocks and the drug trials.” She touches her lined brow. “Wasn’t right what I saw in there. ’Twas cruel. Evil even.” You raise an eyebrow and she catches you with her bloodshot eyes. “All’s I did wrong was get pregnant at 16, wasn’t my fault. It was old Jack Flood’s. I wanted nothing to do with him but he forced himself on me. Daddy told Father Michael and they signed me in there. I had the baby with no help and no stitches, but they let me feed him. Oh, he was a gorgeous little fella, full of smiles. Adam, I called him. I fell in love and hope but a day short of his first birthday, I went to the nursery to feed him and his metal cot was empty. They’d sent him to America. I can still smell his warm, milky head. Nobody ever came to let me out. You had to be signed out you see. They left me in there to rot.” Cradling your hot mug, you wipe a tear as the November rain bashes the window panes. It’s only three o’clock but daylight deserts the small kitchen, replaced by a nuclear yellow glare from the lights in the six-storey, grey-bricked Victorian hospital over your garden wall. Your tummy cries out for the hot chocolate and you can’t recall when you last ate. Or slept. The baby cries out from upstairs and the only part of you still alive wants to die. She never stops crying. Colic, the doctors say. It will pass. “They’re here,” she says. The doorbell rings and you drop your mug. It smashes and boiling brown liquid splashes all over the filthy floor. You can’t recall when you last washed the floor tiles. Or the dishes. Or yourself. She reaches for your scalded hand. “Pet, listen to me. It’s the ambulance and they’re here to help you. You’re not well. Let them in like a good girl.” You dash out to the hallway where the baby’s screams fight for attention with the blue flashing lights of an ambulance. “I can’t leave the baby.” She’s behind you now. “The baby will be fine. Your mother will look after her.” When you turn to object, to say your mother couldn’t be on her way because she is dead over ten years, the old woman has vanished. That’s two years ago. Life is so much better since that day thanks to a combination of therapy, medication and plenty of fresh air. All was great until baby David arrived last month. He’s not sleeping, the doctors say it’s colic. Coming into the kitchen, you don’t have to look to know she’s there, even though you locked the door. She sits at your kitchen table in the same pinafore and shirt, her ratty white hair still hanging down her crooked back. “Loveen, sit down. We need to talk.” Wife to Brendan and mother to three taller people ranging in ages from 12 to 20; Working with a publisher on a psychological thriller, currently named Listen, about a deaf child who goes missing. Published in Roi Faineant Press, Paragraph Planet, Friday Flash Fiction, Voidskrawl and Boats against the current. Winner of Winners Flash Fiction 2022 – Fiction Factory (fiction-factory.biz) Serious fiction: Twitterature winner 2022 Joint 2nd place: Andrew Siderius Memorial Writing Poetry Contest 2022 Editor’s choice https://www.fridayflashfiction.com/100-word-stories/jan-and-all-her-kids-by-lorraine-murphy Mostly trying to overcome the fear and do it anyway.

Central Park Right below the Central Park Reservoir on a hot summer night, and the sex wasn’t even that great. We are dressed in our finest, our downtown-NYC, age-early-30s finest. You–jacket, cotton button-down, jeans. Me–plum-colored thrift shop dress, wrap around with a flared skirt, violet stockings, and those shoes!, royal blue, bright bright blue, with heels, my favorites. We walk out of a Museum del Barrio exhibition opening, between 104th and 105th Streets on Fifth Avenue, stepping into the warm night. There is wine drinking and a crowd behind us, Central Park in front of us, sparse traffic on Fifth. We’re expectant, quiet, rolling across Fifth and down the broad sidewalk next to the Park. We head for the Reservoir. Too much to think about whose home we might end up at or even whether we’re going to spend the night together. We’re not a couple, although we’ve been friends a long time and this now is a date. Very much a date. It’s charged. We enter the Park below 96th and make it as far as the bushes below the Reservoir path. My memory is hazy here. I don’t remember discussing it much. But somehow we decide we want to fuck under the bushes. Like a dare. Cutting through the what are we to each other. I’m exhilarated. I love sex outdoors. I peel up my dress and take off my pantyhose and shoes. You’re fast with your shoes and your jeans. You take a condom out of your wallet. I like the readiness about you. We’re surprisingly hidden under the bush. Anyone could see us who tried to. But from the sidewalk, no. Not from the Reservoir, either. They’d have to be cutting through the bushes like we did. We grope and we kiss and we fondle. We finger. Stroke. It doesn’t take much. We’re each already turned on. And then I’m lying on my back and you’re on top. We do it straight up. But the sex, the sex isn’t all that. I’m distracted by the twigs, small stones, and dirt on the back of my legs and butt. Your movements, they seem studied to me, like you’re dancing. Controlled. Your skin is white and cold. Clammy, even. You come, I don’t, you offer to go down on me. But I’m fine with the adventure and want to get my shoes back on. The shoes now are more clear to me in the memory than the sex. That royal blue. I find them, leave the stockings, put the shoes back on. I have a warm glow, but I want to go home now, alone. We share a cab. I love the air. Flagstaff Reservoir All water on skin and bright, clear light and Arizona heat. Ten years earlier. I have a summer job at the Museum of Northern Arizona and am living with other staff on the grounds. I’ve turned down an underpaid summer internship at the Met for this. With the Flagstaff salary plus the living space, I’d come out ahead. The MNA does field biology and archaeology more than cultural heritage, so most of the summer staff count birds or work on digs, and the grounds, outside Flagstaff, stretch for 200 acres on the Colorado Plateau. The Flagstaff Reservoir sits on the grounds. We summer staffers are in our twenties, and it doesn’t occur to us that our bodies could be unclean. Someone has furrowed under one part of the Reservoir fence, and at dusk or later at night we belly through in groups to skinny dip in the Reservoir. Dusk is the best, with enough light out to look up at the mountains, the San Francisco Peaks, while we swim. The water is so clean. The air sharp. I love to swim. The release. The full feelings of the skin all over, while letting go of some of the body’s encumbrances. The grace of back stroke while looking up at the sky, the ease of breast stroke. Looking out at the woods and the peaks with the cool water flowing over me. Feeling strong in the water, unlike my clumsy self on land. I couldn’t go in alone because the drop off was steep getting in and out of the Reservoir, and we couldn’t leave anyone in alone in case they were too tired to get out. So, naked and swimming, we were together. The Michigan Shore I want to go skinny dipping now with Bruce. We’re old and no longer have our youthful arrogance to cover us when we strip our clothes. I have less modesty and more than when I was young. Less because this is my body, and I like it, and I feel lucky to be alive. More because I know if we were caught, there could be derision: what are these old people doing naked in the water? We’re living in Holland, MI, I imagine. Still getting back often to Chicago to do the READINGS series—and stretching those wine-soaked readings events to Grand Rapids, Holland, and Saugatuck as well. I’m writing up a storm. Bruce is doing his tap. And teaching a tap class for beginners, one that folds in history of tap with blues and swing, racial conflicts and triumphs. We’re relieved to like it up here. It’s summer and it’s HOT. The beach at Holland State Park is full of tourists. Nice, too, though. But so hot during the day. We wait ’til the evening, and head to a lesser-known beach, the North Ottawa Dunes, on the way north to Grand Haven. There’ll be beach patrol, but maybe they’ll ignore us old people. We get there, park, no patrol that we can see. The air is thick but clean. Not much wind. We take off our shoes, I put my walking sticks with them. We leave our pants too, and our towel. Maybe in the dark Bruce’s shorts can look like a bathing suit, my underwear like a bathing suit bottom. I take off my t-shirt too. I have a sports bra underneath, with material enough to look like a bathing suit top, if we get stopped. We walk to the water, wade in. Bruce is happy to let the wavelets wash over his feet and calves, just the massage he needs with his dancing and running. I look around, really—no one. I hand him my sports bra. Ah, it feels good to be naked on top. Like when I was a kid and my family lived in the sticks. It was so empty I could run around without a shirt like my brothers until I was 5. I love to swim. I dive in. Bruce keeps an eye out. No big undertow here, I don’t think. I stay close in any case. Lake Michigan is a sea, a huge one with tides and undercurrents. Near the shore, welcoming water, no fear. Water cooler than the air. Soothing water. And I’m weightless, my breasts bobbing, my legs frog kicking, my arms reaching up and out. The water holds me up, frees my joints. My body. I swim back, he fingers me in the shallows. The sex, the cool water, our bodies, the hot night air. Maud Lavin runs the READINGS series of creative nonfiction and poetry at Chicago's Printers Row Wine, edits, and writes. Her work has appeared in the Nation, Chicago Artist Writers, Portable Gray, Artforum, and other venues, and is forthcoming in Harpy Hybrid Review and Rejection Letters. Her most recent book, Boys' Love, Cosplay, and Androgynous Idols, was nominated for a Lambda, and an earlier one, Cut with the Kitchen Knife, was named a New York Times Notable Book. She is a Guggenheim Fellow and a person with disabilities.

Sometimes I’m a fire you say, distant stare you’re thinking of oil slick, flame lit, tossing black clouds upward to an unreachable sun Sometimes you’re a fire I say, loving gaze I’m thinking of hearth warm when I’m day worn your embers crackling sending fireflies to the stars Sometimes we’re a fire we say, heated daze we’re thinking of dripping sweat, cool sheets wet with the window open so the moon can look on Sometimes we were a fire we say, wistful glance we’re remembering hot nights, cooled fights, not little moments spreading like fading ripples in a pond L.M. Cole is an emerging poet from the American Midwest. She has had work published in Strukturris Magazine, Substantially Unlimited, and once won 1st place in a fan-fiction writing contest at a North Dakota anime convention. She is a mother of three, owned by a cat, and is in the midst of moving across the country to heed the call of the sea. Twitter is @_scoops__