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to long to remember __ flavors of home__ from too long ago 1. A favorite breakfast food 2. A favorite pantry item 3. Another favorite pantry item 4. A favorite baked good 5. A favorite television show 6. A favorite candy 7. A favorite childhood book or character 8. A radio station from home / A comforting radio series 9. A favored cookbook 10. A favored picture book 11. A holiday meal. Positive connotation. 12. A holiday tradition. Positive connotation. Noun. Plural. 13. An evening ritual. Positive connotation. Noun. Plural. 14. The flavor of comfort. 15. A preferred fabric 16. A fabric that is associated with softness and warmth 17. A comforting sound of a kitchen 18. A joyful sound of the space outside your front door 19. The smell of peace / restorative sleep 20. A token of affection 21. The flavor, scent, or feel of love / sweet to remain unable to forget __flavors of home__ from not too long ago An unfavored or disliked breakfast food A disliked pantry item Another disliked pantry item A disliked baked good A disliked television show A disliked candy A disliked childhood character A radio station from a faraway city / An irritating radio series The name of a fast-food chain A disliked picture book A holiday mishap. Noun. Plural. An unpleasant holiday ritual. An unpleasant childhood ritual. The flavor of discomfort. A disliked fabric A fabric that is associated with harshness and coldness An irritating kitchen sound An irritating sound associated with the space outside your front door The smell of a nightmare A token of contempt / disdain The flavor / scent / feel of judgment __1__ sizzles on open griddles. eggs boil. voices scramble. temperatures turned up high. pantries stocked of __2__. __3__, too. scents of __4__. sounds of __5__. red licorice vines and __6__ fill bellies. ___7___ and __8__ fill minds. tousle. stir. simmer. savor. consume. __9__ and __10__. home is _11_ and _12_. blends of __13__ and __14__. layers of __15__ and bushels of __16__. music in motion. _17__ & _18_. motors in use. _19_ & _20_. mostly, _21__. on naming conventions :: of dolls, documents, & documentation i’ve always had a name but haven’t always known who i am. names (& naming conventions) have varied. through/of the years. baby.girl.she.her.one.trouble.that.then.hen.her.she.babe.doll. repetition in all corners. strings of letters mix & mingle. hair strung of chords & (mis)calculations. mirror images. memory muscles. music makers. guitar strings pluck. heart strings pull. letters condense then pool. sweetened of saccharine. seasoned of salt. soured of spoilt milk. a.b.c.d.f.g.z.y.w.x.v.i.o.u.m.e proper names rarely used. performative nuances regularly used. uniformly usurped. as moments turn to minutes i collect documents and documentation that bear (& bare) the peculiar practices of manners of address. Hey, Doll. i walk the avenue - a single track in a tangled maze of city blocks & consume Inhale. Conceal. Exhale. Reveal. Hey, Doll. the man in an orange construction hat & plaid overcoat calls between uneven breaths. his drill documents tasks & time. His stature a document of the times. all attention on me. eyes shutter. ears ring. nose wrinkles. neck hairs stand. all senses engaged (& enraged). his attention retired. to/on/of the hole. cracked concrete at booted feet. his call a dusty moment of a day in repetitive motion. fingers (mine), gloved and guarded, touch reddened lips. his call. received. collect. i do not accept. i (f)alter. soles on asphalt. souls stir. of the alphabet. bowls of noodle soup simmer. a.b.c.d.o.l love lingers long after landlines recede. Hi, Doll, the voice in my head whispers. with a regularity that bests the mickey mouse alarm clock on the bedside table. a gift from the voice, full of all five senses, that is no longer of the avenue, though the avenue remains of her. she’d greet me with the phrase each morning. no matter the weather. via all five senses. all attention on me. from brick front steps. over rotary phone wires. via solitary residences. of the avenue - a single track in a tangled maze of city blocks. i cannot name the sensation or the sentiment. though i consume via all five senses. i am unnamed & named. i am of the (named) avenue. i am me. on convention and (naming) conventions :: the plural uniquely singular i remember (being / when i was called) a girl with mean eyes by a man-boy with a mean tongue who waited and watched as all the girls ran to retrieve tennis balls (he was in charge and overindulged, we were his charges and under-resourced) on grassy courts a young’n with crazy hair by an elder with a crazy mind and a belief that the straighter one’s hair the purer one’s being a rare bird when i was two weeks over-stuffed, overdue, and committed to a natural delivery by an emergency room nurse with a penchant for iv fluids and pain killers nothing. when all i craved was noise. cracked. when all i craved was connection. the sun by my son. & my baby daughter giggled, pumped her chubby hand towards the brightly lit sky & uttered her first word mooooooooooooom. when all i craved was silence lucky by a lady who wore red, blue & yellow framed sunglasses and who drove too fast at a time i moved too slow and who nearly hit my red, blue, and yellow plastic big wheel (myself in the driver’s seat) with her big wheels (herself in the driver’s seat) a string of letters by prick a chick by a drunk honey by a bitter busybee who’d save me a seat on the train so that i could help her complete the morning crossword just in time for her to greet her morning co-workers with her completed grid. believer by a band of johavah’s witnesses at my screen door. a baby on my right. & left hip. once. twice. three times. when I craved conversation. single lady by the choir of married men who’d spend coffee breaks smoking cigarettes and sharing stories of pool games & nights in hotel pools a threat after retrieving a roll of butter rum lifesavers on a sidewalk outside a drug store and then stopped by a policeman dressed in a blue uniform and doused of rum a dumb blond (when i had brown hair) by a boy who i had just beaten in a 5th-grade math challenge why do i not remember ever being called _me_ on recollections of under-nourished & over-crafted worlds as dusk fades to dawn, flannel-clothed legs curl & mice scamper, minds seek refuge & refurbished residences. hammers knock. clocks tick. then tock. vines of red licorice & neon green sour patch kids twist then tangle. memory pulses then unfolds under the weight of the down blanket & the whisper of the baby’s soft coo. curiosity calls as eggs simmer then hatch in nearby diners. counter seats always open. on cycles of spin & spontaneous sleep. interrupted. bacon browns. coffee brews & mugs beckon. sleep suspended. memory both crafted & suspect. some shadows loom larger than others. those typically reserved for sleepless nights. kitchens open. not for experiences but experimentation. dreams haunt. A persistent fear A disfavored flavor An unmet wish A loss (curated, crafted, contained) the down blanket stretches. memory continues to pulse. continuously crafted for conspicuous consumption. tightly tangled pockets of fabric smother. fresh eggs crack. recollections spill then pool amidst unsuspecting suspects. Pencils up, heads down. You know the drill. By now, she says. Again. And again. Nights on repeat. Repetition neither new nor knowing. Ready. Set. Go. No, I whisper. You can do this, she says. Both she and I remain nameless. Legs wrestle in wars of solitary silence. Lead scratches on paper clear of blemish and error. Blemishes persist. Errors everywhere. I can but I won’t, I declare. Again. A whisper pulling the weight of choice. i will not write of _1__, nor __2__. i shall speak not of __3__ nor __4__. Not for experimentation. Not for experience. Dreams continue to haunt. The weight of the down blanket blurs time and space. The baby’s coo curls around the flannel-clothed legs. Legs weighted of lead & location toss & tangle. Mice scamper. Dawn declares victory over dusk. Coffee & consumption of soiled sleep continue to brew. i never got to ask/answer _why_ to the man with the kind eyes 1: i first noticed your eyes as you consumed from a rectangular plate of circular eggs. two. three. four. scrambled. we were strangers. young. no more than twenty. and new to the city. eight fresh eggs stuffed in a booth made for four. chatter & clatter everywhere. forks kissed knives. knees knocked frayed denim hems. you spoke no words. your eyes spoke volumes. i tracked a maze of green & grey specks under wire-rimmed spectacles. consumed reflections of strong-willed oceans, loyal evergreen firs, & tombs of green eggs & ham. 2: you moved from eggs to bacon to home fries & somehow knew i was homesick but not for home. do you know what this is, you asked with a smile as your fork stroked then stoked a mysterious mound housed in a small bowl to the right of your plate. 3: i shook my head (curls capped of lavender acrylic, wrists scented of lilac) & you smiled. wide. it’s magic, you replied. a mystery stash. then offered me a taste and scribbled then stacked your claim on my heart. no need to try. all chambers suddenly stocked. 4: sweet. not sour. you swiftly swept me off my thrifted boots & took me on a multi-year-long tour of & thru city limits. 5: a doctor of words (from suess to shakespeare, silverstein to stein) & birds (from park bench corners to high rise owls). city haunts (uptown & downtown), and alphabets (streets & noodles). i never knew how magic was made/stewed/stirred/stamped. until i met you. 6: you built a house of jellies - grape, cherry, blueberry - & asked for my help. tiny plastic bricks soft on the inside. with a sturdy exterior. sweet, too. from there, we built our life in the city. 7: you’d wait for me. outside the library. in the lobby. on the landing. in all kinds of weather. always with a single flower, hand-picked in a city criticized for its overabundance (& overindulgence) of capitalistic greens (dollars, yen, shekels) and underabundance of natural greens (dandelion, mustard, broccoli). (y)our eyes perpetually evergreen / in full bloom. 8: (y)our hands perpetually busy / in full bloom. interlocked, in denim pockets. slips of paper in overcoat sleeves. sweet notes. hearts.bunnies.flowers.stringsofxoxoxoxox.airplanes.mouse ears.birds.home 9: you spent nights mixing drinks. & tossing greens (collard & kale). i spent nights mixing/making dreams. & chasing weeds (first wild. then wilder) 10: you taught me to dream & then i (inadvertently) dreamed bigger. I wish i knew why. outgrew our garden of eden (wild violets everywhere) & never realized the jeans no longer fit. i do not know why. 11: after a fistful of years & overgrown weeds in full bloom, i returned from a day out & a night of dreaming. i pressed play on the rectangular answering machine. a gift. when you worried. i need some space, i had whispered. at a volume meant for two. only a moment. in the lieu. the light blinked three. four. five times. 12: call. please. are you okay? the voice on the tape – yours – urged. i caught myself wondering. the same. wished i could snip & trim. time. tangles. testimony. 13: you knew me better than anyone, your kind eyes always watching, yet your voice revealed no knowledge & i gave no warning. nothing was okay. though no one ever asked why. 14: when i asked for my belongings, you complied. always patient. always professional. always present. always perfect. you never asked why. 15: i retrieved the four bags. ours then mine. trash yet nothing trashed. overstuffed & underappreciated. a cab waited – all engines running. all meters tabulating -- outside. 16: only later, did i see sticky note. the letters W.H.Y. scribbled. in/of/by your hand On Why i don’t know why. i ask myself the same. with the same unsatisfying answers. i don’t know why. why does ___ & why does ___ i don’t know why W.H.Y. 12 (plus) reasons to always ask __why___ even as / when the __window__ closes/door shuts Dress up clothes comes in many designs (and with many destinies) Ties twist in knots along with stomachs Pepperoni & testimony come in rolls. Ready to be sliced & diced. Rec rooms store more than toys. Ex’s too. Trash and treasure share multiple letters. Even sticky notes fall & fade. Unopened letters linger in small pockets of air between here & there. Envelope seals are no match for broken hearts. ER (& cosmetic) bags hold more than hearts. Not only seals cry of pulses and patterns. Not all kisses are forever sealed. Not all sitcoms have happy endings. Not all unexpected endings are stained of sadness Tenants and testaments turn over/of/on the hour. i do not know why. still. i know why & try rhyme. eye & i, too. still. i’m glad we tried.

I live in a zoo. Not a public zoo, with displays of conservation efforts and the grim diminishing numbers of the animals in the wild. I live in a private zoo, owned and managed by my family. It’s a bit like the Durrells, but in Surbiton, and less amusing. Each morning I rise early to avoid the noise and smells of feeding time. I get ready for school in a silent house, the curtains all closed, eating quietly in the kitchen. Bowls are noisy and noise tends to wake the lighter-sleeping of the animals. Toast smells waft up the stairs. So I eat cold bread and Nutella. If I’m quick, I can leave the house alone and unencumbered. Occasionally an early-rising antelope tiptoes its way across the first floor landing, startling me as I emerge from the bathroom. Her gentle brown eyes widen and her ears prick up. Then with a single bound of alarm she is gone, back into her room. Tiny noises of disquiet are the only evidence of her presence. I arrive home after school and the meercat is there to meet me. We trudge our way up the path from the bus stop with nowhere else to go. I find the house silent and watchful. The only permanent resident is the guard dog. A bundle of energy and wistfulness, his legs are too short for the head that he carries, giving him a tendency to overbalance. He wins prizes for the ‘Dog the Judges Most Want to Take Home’. By day he naps illegally on the sofa but denies it when questioned. A warm patch and the twitch of an eyebrow are the only proof. The other animals are on loan to others during the day. For these hours I loaf. I eat inappropriate things and watch inappropriate tv. The guard dog watches me hungrily. He knows his time will come when the zoo shuts down for the night. He will prowl the grounds, sniffing out the discarded wrappers as his street-dog instincts compel him to. The bins will be overturned. He will blame it on the foxes. The time of silence is coming to an end. At five thirty the animals start to return. The first to arrive is the owl. He is reclusive and tightly wound. A lover of knowledge, but only factual, he devours entire encyclopaedias for fun. He fixes me with his baleful yellow eyes and asks ‘hoo?’ I like the owl. He perches. He keeps the rats down. He is no trouble. At night he takes up position in the living room, staring out at the world as it passes him by. He lives by a different set of parameters. He uses words like ‘parameters’, that owl. Next is the hedgehog. She is a quiet little thing. She keeps herself to herself, hoovering up the leftovers of everybody else’s grand meals. Grubs and insects see her through. She doesn’t like to come out into the light - it makes her nervous and then she curls into a prickly little ball. So best to put down some bread and milk. Whatever you do, don't mention the fleas and ticks she carries with her. She thinks they are what makes her special. The chimpanzee is not due until later. He’s more intelligent than the other animals. Sometimes they think this is not true but they would never admit it. There’s something about his walk. It is long and contained, taught and loose, both a promise and a threat. You can tell when he is about to arrive. The meerkat is always the first to notice. She feels the change in the air, hears a noise, two, that she has learned over years of careful listening. She has been waiting for an hour, perched on the edge of the sofa, a tasty morsel held inches from her face. Chewing is too loud, she might miss something. When her call goes up the animals scatter. The meerkat goes to ground, using dirt and dead leaves as a protective screen, her dull fur blending into the furniture. The owl has more pride. He waits for as long as he dares, his long talons gripping his perch, anchoring him there. He knows better than anyone it is a risky strategy. The chimp’s arms are long, his screams piercing, his bite poisonous. A few years ago, for some reason the owl stayed put, stood his ground, dug his heel spurs in and bit back. For years he had fought to maintain a sense of belonging in this place, but he couldn't pretend forever. He was banished to Siberia for a while for failing to get along with the other animals. The hedgehog and meerkat know better now. They missed the owl while he was gone. Apparently it did the owl good. Soothed his ruffled feathers. But the meerkat knew he wasn’t soothed, his wings were clipped. They took away his ability to fly. He was too bright after that to fight back. Instead he is biding his time until his flight feathers grow back. Then he will soar. Woe betide any rodents or rabbits he spots in the long grass. The chimp has the right of way in the house and he knows it. There’s no telling what might set him off. Perhaps he’s hungry, or frustrated. Perhaps a slow loris looked at him funny or the Gorilla in his day-time enclosure took up too much room. The chimp was not born in captivity but his parents, the keepers assumed, had rejected him. He had been found, a tropical animal, still in immaturity, wandering in a park in Kent. One zoo after another had taken him in and he had shown great promise but on reaching maturity a number of behavioural issues had seen him retired to our quaint little space in suburban London. I suppose because no one else would have him. The hedgehog and meerkat groom the chimp daily, in some kind of unknowing self-preservation. Fleas and matted fur would only incite one of his rages. But the daily effort is almost always self-defeating. The chimp, annoyed at the attention, snarls and bites, sending the amateur beauticians scattering. The hedgehog seems not to mind the verbal slaps and parries. She simply moves aside and continues on. Perhaps her spiny exterior protects her, or perhaps that is just the nature of the hedgehog. The meerkat usually flees as a first choice. She grooms as a reflex;a leftover from the instincts of a pack animal without a pack. Her tiny heart beats a million times a second in anticipation of rebuff. Sometimes I find her afterwards huddled in the kitchen. Her fur has come out in places. She will scratch and shred her nervousness out in bark and leaves and new and deeper burrows in which to hide. The animal you see the least is the tiger. Its very nature is to be silent in the shadows. It hides in darkness, the very brightness of its fur a camouflage to the eye. Nobody sees it in plain sight. Lions are the king of beasts. They advertise their very existence with flicking tails, winking eyes and a roar that can be heard three counties over. A tiger is silent. Occasionally it will cough or growl but when you look around there is nothing but shadows. The tiger makes sure nobody knows it exists. A tiger bite can tear through bone, skin, and sinew. It can rip your arm clean out of its socket. A tiger’s paw can crush a man’s head without any effort. But even a little swipe, the caress of claw against skin, leaves a welt which can become infected over time. . It festers and becomes stinking. The poison enters the bloodstream, rewriting chemistry, eating away at certainty, solemnity. A tiger bite can infect your very soul. We have only seen the tiger twice. Time has moved on. As predicted the owl unfurled his wings one night and took to flight. He is seen occasionally, in misty skies, soaring on the updrafts. He flies alone. He likes it that way, I presume, although it is hard to ask him as he swoops past. When it is attempted he turns his soup-plate eyes on me and says “hoo?” I left the zoo a while ago too. So the hedgehog and chimp are all that’s visible of our erstwhile menagerie. She is still fiercely determined to stay and strangely immune. He continues to rattle his bars and throw shit at anyone who comes near. They take care of one another, in some strange symbiotic way. The meerkat hasn’t been seen in a while. Her trembling legs took her deep down into a burrow. It was dark and reassuring down there and she declined to emerge. I asked her a few times if she would like to come out and play but her chattering teeth were her only reply. I’ll go back for her one day. When the time is right. She’s safe for now, underground. Her fur is all gone, scratched away by her nervous paws, and she has managed to convince the keepers that she is just a naked mole rat. Eventually her false teeth may give her away. Hopefully by then she’ll have found a new disguise. When I visit I still watch for the tiger. It lurks, unseen and unacknowledged. Sometimes I wonder if the keepers even remember that it’s there. When I visit I have wrist guards and amulets and have bought juju beads from a variety of vendors. So far they seem to be working. Perhaps he is getting weak. One day even the meerkat may take him down.

I thought this poem would be easy to write But fitting it into a prescribed form Proves difficult. I start to wonder If I have made a mistake, fingers chilled, Battling with a blank screen. Outside the beech tree Stands skeletal and naked in the frosty morning. Night’s velvet darkness washed away by morning, Night’s womanly spell of black inks and stars that write Of something other, evaporate softly, left behind. Trees Creep out of the inky shadows, reassembling form, Appearing and disappearing. Sharp ice-chilled Grass, the crunch a wonder Underfoot. Emptying the compost, I wonder, If I might swim this morning In the lake, wash away the last warmth of bed, the chilled Water, leaving the night behind, to write A new story, a new day, fresh clay to form A new world, a bright new day. Outside the tree. Winter left the green dress of the old beech tree At her feet, brown crumpled leaves, she stands, a skeleton, a wonder, An elderly clock marking the year’s seasonal form Veiling and unveiling her green skirt, revealing her bones. January morning She stands, a woman exposed. Write Something of the magic, of the morning shaking off night’s chill. The news of the murder of another young woman is chilling. Life cut short, industry felling our trees, The rage against women and nature, a rage that is written In endless acts of violence, against women, against nature, I wonder In the morning light of a January day, early morning, women mourning, If we can ever leave that behind, ever imagine a new form, The third millennium barely born and yet to take form Bones of the 20th century crushed in the dark bloody earth chill In history’s winter of our own making. The new millennium, a new morning, Gnawed roots buried into the before, they tell us of the great world tree, Battles of bored and tiresome giants, a sorry wonder, Perhaps I am losing the simplicity of what I wanted to write, About a January morning and the simple form of a naked beech tree. Still and bare in the chill of the winter nights’ shadow, I wonder, This morning, whether things can ever be put right. This sistina was written on 13th January 2022 as the Irish news announced the death of another young Irish woman. Her name was Ashling Murphy, a 23 year old teacher, who was murdered while out for a run along the canal in Tullamore, Co Offaly. The Sestina began as a piece about writing about a tree but I couldn’t get this girl’s death out of my mind. Anne Crossey is a painter and writer living in West Cork, Ireland. She recently received a Bursary from the Northern Ireland Arts Council and the Irish Writer's Center.

You reminded me death is a part of life itself even as we live. Winter has always been my favorite, February feels free somehow, full of ancients’ magic for its calm, its stunned beauty even in death. I keep hearing you knock, knock, knocking on my dreams, death opening the door toward life, it’s all too much. Talk less, listen to the breath shifting snowdrifts silencing, the way snow will, anger with nowhere to go. Echoes bounce off ice like laser beams, lives lived, lives fragmenting life. You said yourself all things must pass like you, an emptiness, loss of light, another shifting phase of the new blue moon hovering, haunting, but true. You pass on your traits, memories and mercy to a fistful of your own blood we all wish we carried for another chance, the do-overs. For you, out of you, tired of you, deep go the blues. They come again and again, no time or space, but a long, long, long way to go. I’m surprised by how much I need you, not knowing, but knowing you. A dream scene knocks again, one I’ve had before or I think I have. I want to tell you about the impact, blue waves sliding up the shore. But you reminded me with a word, a glance, a blunt warning to handle with care, the love so sad for this song, this tongue of the gods, a charged mystical one, not a dirty word, even when many were said. Duality splits in half again, and I’m not alone anymore. The fears death bring remind us of all those years ago when your tears met your mouth. When I was younger, I used to want everything and fast. Slow down to imagine what is life when we finally see the answer’s at the end, the art of dying, having both and knowing both feels right, no longer rattled, afraid. If not for you, I may not remember the way. Even patient, it’s taken me longer to find the inner light than the darkness, but to my surprise, it’s been here all along, as you knew. I am shoveling snow into my grief-filled heart to share a bit more of you since I can only run so far for so long, blanketing all that anger with February-fabricated calm, beauty, something close to peace. So I can try, I can imagine heading for the light, and I want to thank you for the reminder. Andrea Taylor is a Columbus, Ohio-based writer whose work is forthcoming or published in Rejection Letters, Roi Faineant Press, Allegory Ridge, and others; she can be found on the web andreataylorbooks.com and Twitter @minadre

She pulls on her running shoes and slips unnoticed out the back door, down the rain-slicked path, and through the garden gate where she pauses and expels long, angry breaths. The sounds from a football match drift through their open living room window, and she imagines him settled into his armchair, their latest argument already forgotten. It’s been going on for months now: the endless bickering and sniping at each other. Some days, their words are barbed comments that scratch and nick; other days, like today, they are heavy blows that wound deeply. Combined, they leave scars that have taken their toll on her. She turns her face up towards the gentle mizzling rain, willing it to cool her anger and dissolve her problems. She needs to be away, to put distance between them. She sets off running. Her pace is slow at first as she picks her way past puddles and dodges dog-walkers. Today’s words echo in her mind, propelling her forward, fuelling her momentum. “You’re too selfish to change.” Her feet pound the pavement. “You’re not cut out for motherhood: your body clearly knows that even if you don’t!” She passes the houses on the edge of the village and heads up the track through the ancient evergreens. Over the stream leading up onto the hillside, side-stepping rocks and stones along the path. She roughly wipes the tears away as she pushes on along the snaking hairpins that lead ever upwards, her muscles protesting and her lungs burning with the urgency and speed of this run. It usually takes a few minutes, a mile or so to settle in, and she tells herself it won’t be long before she hits that sweet spot, before the mechanics of her body are synchronised, and everything will run on autopilot. This has always been her release, and today she needs it to override the soreness of her heart, the dull ache in her abdomen, the feeling of impossibility in her marriage. She needs to feel the strength and power of her body, to focus on what it can do; not what it can’t. As the scent of pine trees fills her lungs, she realises the anger is lessening with each exhalation. Glorious, heady endorphins flood her bloodstream. Fuelled by her own strength now, she continues up the hill for miles until she reaches the ridge where she finally pauses to rest on a rock. Birdsong stills her, and her breathing slows and returns to normal. Up here, his words hurt less. He says he doesn’t resent her. She almost laughs at his stupid insensitivity, his coldness, the seemingly endless arguing, the crushing disappointments that come each month. Up here on the ridge, clarity descends. Maybe she won’t be a mother, but she’s reached the point where she doesn’t want to be his wife either. She pushes off the rock, and sets off, ready for change.

Devotion ‘After this manner therefore pray ye’ Matthew 6:9 (KJV) I hide Behind The Mouth Of My Son And whisper, God, are you listening to me? Broda, look wetin you don cause The look of my boss looks at me, a questioning only an Option of a plague is the right answer. There is only one face: the one he sees every time. The fraud You represent in the news. I am useful. I honor myself with labor. Yet, I cannot deny The weight, the punctuating doubts when his voice commends me. You are the reason; my pure honesty is embroidered in Probation. You are the reason, They say when my kontri people give honesty a face, it is a mask. You are the reason; I am crippled by elephant shame. I falter: my voice in smithereens, when they ask, “Where are you from?” You are the reason why I cannot dance, when Diaspora music plays. He will ask me now, “If I pay you, Won’t you run away?” He will ask me again, “If I send You to America, won’t you run away?” The third time: The hurt is deep, the wound continues to fester. Goodness Olanrewaju Ayoola is a Nigerian poet and teacher of English who reaches out to poetry as escapism from the contentions within and around him. His poetry appeared recently in Hellebore, Mainsqueeze, Querencia, Periferias Journal and elsewhere. He is a Best of the Net Award Nominee and author of Meditations (WRR, 2016). Say hi to him @GoodnessLanre

I noticed Eve first at the Bad Ass Café in Dublin in Temple Bar. She sat across from me and I thought she looked a lot like my favorite singer, Ani DiFranco. She had a tiny nose ring that pierced her tan skin. She had the attitude, too, like she might have been the badass for whom the restaurant had been named. She spoke in a Georgia drawl that enthralled our Irish orientation leaders and she wasn’t shy about complaining. “This menu sucks,” she said loudly after the waitstaff had arranged four tables into one long banquet setup to accommodate our group. “It’s full of meat dishes.” She continued to scan the menu with her dark eyebrows pulled together. “On the back page, there is a vegetable soup and a pasta dish,” I said. “Thanks.” She held her hand out across the table. “I’m Eve Lourdes. “Isabel Juarez,” I said, and shook her hand firmly, like I was applying for a job. “I’m from California.” “You’re Hispanic, aren’t you?” she asked. “My dad’s Mexican, mom is white.” “Yep, I’m half, too. My dad’s Puerto Rican,” she said. We sat with two dozen Americans that night, all exchange students headed to universities across Ireland. After dinner, two of the other girls pulled out tattered passport books to compare travels. “You’ve been to Hong Kong, too?” Amelia squealed when she saw one of a dozen stamps in Catharine’s pages. “Don’t you just love the night market?” “You know, the one in Taiwan is even better,” Catharine responded. “You’ve been to Germany, too? I’m backpacking through Europe after our study abroad year ends. I can’t wait to get back to the clubs in East Berlin.” My own passport sat snugly in a borrowed suitcase back at the youth hostel with a stiff blue cover and one stamp from the day before when I landed at the Dublin airport. *** For the second week, the orientation leaders shipped us off to Bray, a suburb 40 miles south of the city. “You’ll be paired off and staying with a family for four nights,” one of the leaders said, and passed out envelopes with our assignments. Catharine and Amelia squealed and hugged when they saw they were paired together, as though they were long-time best friends and hadn’t just met seven days before. I knew lots of girls like them back at my private college in California, girls who arrived on campus with brand-new Miatas or Beemers. I showed up with Pell grants and a 20-year-old Honda, scholarships to cover my tuition, and a work-study job to cover gas. “What a surprise,” Eve said when she opened her envelope. “We’re in the same house. Of course, they put the two Hispanic chicks together.” “Maybe they just paired us off alphabetically,” I said. *** At the homestay house, the family’s seven-year-old daughter followed us from room to room. The girl held up wispy blond braids that were unraveled at the ends. “I have braids, too,” she said. “But yours look funny.” “Mine aren’t braids,” Eve said. “They are dreadlocks. Like Bob Marley.” The little girl scrunched up her nose. She didn’t know who that was. “I like how youse Americans talk,” the girl said in her lilting Dublin accent. Eve and I sounded nothing alike. “Are you sisters?” “Nope,” Eve said. She caught my light brown eyes with her nearly black ones and laughed. We looked nothing alike either. She was lean and stood a half foot taller than me. “See you later, kid,” Eve said as we grabbed our backpacks to head out and explore the town. We ran into Catharine, Amelia and another girl Charlotte on the road a few houses down. “We’re taking the train back to Dublin to do some shopping,” Catharine said. “Want to come with?” “Nope,” Eve said. I followed her out of the suburban enclave on Camaderry Road, under blue, clear skies, the last vestiges of summer. “Let’s hike up Bray Head,” she said. I looked down at my boots and baggy jeans. I didn’t feel prepared for outdoor activities. “How long is this hike?” I asked. “I don’t know, Isabel, but when will we ever be here again?” Eve said. “It’s our one chance to do it.” When we started our ascent, the sun shone brightly and the temperatures were in the mild 70s. But as the incline became steeper, a cold wind blew across us from the Irish Sea below. Never the athletic type, my calves ached halfway to the summit and I clutched the green guardrail to propel myself forward. A group of brown-haired tourists passed us on their way down. “A tu izquierda,” the man at the front of their line said. Eve and I exchanged a look. “Does that happen to you all the time, too?” she asked. “Yeah, everyone assumes I speak Spanish, but I can barely count to 10.” As we reached the top of Bray Head, the blue skies receded suddenly as a volatile cloud bank rolled in from the south. The sun blocked, everything around us fell into a neutral gray. “Let’s go before we get caught in this storm,” Eve said. But as we turned, the skies shifted again and the sun came back out to follow us on our descent. Back on flat land, I followed Eve past the quaint storefronts along the Strand. We’d been walking up a tree-lined street with red brick houses for half an hour when I stopped. “This doesn’t seem familiar,” I said. I opened my backpack to retrieve my tour book and turned to the entry for Bray. It was too small a place to have a map. My chest tightened at the thought that we were lost. “Let’s just keep walking east,” Eve said and she continued up the sidewalk in the direction we had been going. “Everything will be fine. We’ll figure it out. Or we’ll find someone we can ask.” We came to a park where two boys kicked a soccer ball back and forth. They wore jerseys for a team I didn’t know and black Umbro shorts. They might have been 11 or 12. “Hey.” Eve called across the grass and waved them over. The redheaded boy picked up the ball and jogged toward us and his blond friend followed. “Can you tell us how to get to Cuala Road?” Eve asked. “We’ll help youse out for blow jobs,” the redhead boy said and the other snickered. Eve’s eyes darkened and her body bristled. “Cheeky little bastards,” Eve said. “How about you tell us the way, and we don’t punch you in the nuts?” “I was just jokin’,” the boy said. “Keep walking until you get to Sidmonton Road, then turn left. It’ll turn into Cuala up the road a ways.” We left the boys behind. “Guys are assholes at every age,” Eve said and kicked a trash can at the edge of the park. “Even before they hit puberty.” That night, we went to the Hibernia Pub across from the waterfront. As soon as Eve pushed open the thick oak door into the dim bar, we saw the other American girls. “The Stepford Students are here,” Eve said with a sneer. “Come on, be nice,” I said. Catharine and Amelia stood around a high-top table, their slender jean-clad hips cocked out at an angle. With their light hair and blue eyes, they looked like locals. But their high-end puffer jackets gave them away as well-off Americans. They ran their fingers through their hair and giggled at the American boys who brought back drinks from the bar for them. Charlotte stood at one edge of the table with a glass of water, a blank look on her face. She wore a peacoat that looked a lot like mine even though her cheeks looked flushed in the warm bar interior. I waved toward their table. Charlotte was the only one to wave back. Eve and I took seats at the bar where we ordered Bulmer’s cider. It was the cheapest thing on tap. One of the boys from the other table came up and signaled the bartender. “Two cranberry vodkas,” the boy said. “Make it top shelf.” He placed one drink in front of Catharine and one in front of Amelia, and rested one hand on each of their hips. *** We headed to our final destination—the University of Ulster, Coleraine—the first week of September. Eve, Charlotte, and I stopped briefly to drop off our luggage in campus housing, then went straight to the university pub. When we pushed through the double doors, the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with spilled beer and the sour scent of boys who hadn’t showered in a week hit me like a wave. But after a pint of cider, the smell faded. Halfway through her pint, Charlotte’s blond head bobbed from side to side. Her hair was short, but uneven, as though someone had taken a pair of scissors to it without looking. Her designer clothes wrinkled around her middle. “Are you okay, Charlotte?” I asked. Her head dipped and her eyelids drooped down to hide her aquamarine eyes. She jerked her head up and said, “I’m just peachy. Like Georgia peaches.” I leaned toward Eve. “Charlotte seems really wasted. We should take her home.” Eve gulped down the rest of her cider and I left my half full glass behind. “Charlotte, let’s go home,” I said and held her elbow to keep her steady on her feet. I picked up her coat. It was the softest fabric I’d ever touched. I rubbed my fingers across it again before I handed it to her. “What is this made of?” “Cashmere,” she said. “From Kashmir. No, London.” Charlotte wobbled. Eve held one arm and I held the other as we walked through the night back to the campus houses. Eve deposited Charlotte on the worn brown sofa in their common area. “Duty done,” she said. I left for my own house two doors up the block. *** My boots dug into the soft mud on the path across the field behind campus. I flipped up the collar of my coat against the rain and slipped my hands into my pockets for warmth. At Cromore Road, I crossed the wet traffic lanes to the strip of houses along a frontage road. Catharine and Amelia lived with some Irish students in the blue house in the center. “We’re going to Johnny’s,” Amelia said when I arrived. Catharine knocked at the white house with #17 on the door. A tall boy with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other answered. “Hey, Johnny,” Amelia said and batted her doe eyes at him. Catharine walked in, headed straight to the fridge and helped herself to a beer. “That’s one of my housemates,” the tall boy said and pointed to a boy with curly blond hair who sat on the couch. “My name’s Catharine. I go to Wellesley in Massachusetts. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” “Didn’t get into Harvard, did you?” the blond boy said. I laughed, and then tried to stifle it. “My parents are both professors in Cambridge,” Catharine huffed. “So I didn’t want to go there. But I could have gone to any Ivy if I wanted.” I moved to the living room and sat in a blue armchair that smelled like second-hand smoke. “I’m Sean Casey,” the curly-haired boy said and glanced my way. “I’m Isabel. I’m from California. I go to school somewhere I am sure you’ve never heard of.” He chuckled at my call back. “You’re funny, Isabel. I thought you might be Spanish.” “I’m Mexican, actually,” I said. “You can see it in my Frida Kahlo eyebrows.” “Do you want a beer?” he asked and nodded toward the fridge. “No beer for me,” I said. “I don’t like it. I usually drink cider.” I took a longer glance at him. His blond hair looked wet, as if he had recently come in from the rain. He had a smidge of light eyebrows obscured by his tortoiseshell eyeglass frames. He caught my gaze and his bright blue-green eyes invited me in, like a warm, tropical sea. But Catharine broke the trance. “Hey, we’re gonna play Crazy Eights, Izzie. Want to join us?” The nickname made me cringe. “I’ll play if Sean plays,” I said. *** I skipped the uni and spent my evenings at Cromore Road in hopes of seeing Sean again. The next time we went to #17, Sean cast a smile my way and pulled two bottles from the fridge. He sat down on the couch and patted the cushion next to him. “Have a drink, Isabel,” he said, and held out a bottle with a red apple on the label. “I bought it just for you.” His baritone voice blocked out all the chatter from the other girls and his roommates. A chill ran across my skin even though I hadn’t taken my coat off yet. “How are you liking Coleraine so far?” Sean asked, his bright eyes aligned with mine. “It’s good. Could use a bit less rain maybe?” I watched his lips around the rim of the bottle and thought about how they would feel on my neck. *** “We’re going out clubbing tonight,” Catharine told Sean. “Do you boys want to come?” “I’ll come if you never call me a boy again,” Sean said. “I’m 26, I’ll have you know.” When we arrived at Kellys in Portrush, house music spilled out onto the street as drunken students pushed out the door on the way to the chip shop up the block. Inside, Sean settled in the corner of the room by the bar. Catharine grabbed his hand as she took one step toward the dance floor, but he resisted. “I’ll hold the table. For when you need a resting place.” We moved into the middle of the room. Within seconds, Catharine and Amelia had boys circling them on the dance floor. They paired off with the best looking two. I moved in their periphery to the deep beat of the music. Amelia and Catharine found a new set of boys who bought them cranberry vodkas that they held aloft overhead to keep from spilling on the dance floor. The room filled to capacity as the night grew later and people became clumsier with their drinks. I arched my body away from everyone who cut a path past me to get to a bar or their friends. Someone behind me brushed against my back and knocked a pint glass against my shoulder. Half the glass spilled down my back. I turned to find a short, rosy-faced man with greasy hair in front of me. “Sorry, love,” he said. “Want to dance?” He grabbed the wet spot on the small of my back and yanked me toward him. I swerved away from his touch. Sean appeared and wedged himself between me and the man. “Leave her alone, mate. She’s not interested.” Sean scanned my face. His green sweater made his eyes more emerald in the flashing lights from the deejay booth. “You okay?” he said, in his deep voice. “I’ll dance here for a while. To keep the odd fellas away, like.” At the end of the night, we spilled out into the damp air to catch a taxi home. I stepped with a zig and a zag on the wet sidewalk, tipsier than normal from the ciders Sean bought me and giddy from Sean’s hands on my waist as we danced. Catharine linked arms with Sean and pulled him away from me. “It was really nice of you to dance with Izzie to keep that one creepy guy away.” Catharine peered over her shoulder at me, her head tilted and her eyebrows lifted. I knew the look. Pity. “Next time we go out, you’ll dance with me, right?” Catharine said. Sean ignored her as he climbed into the front seat of the cab. The rest of us squeezed into the backseat. “Two stops tonight,” Catharine said as she leaned across me to talk to the driver. “Stop on campus first and then drop the rest of us off on Cromore Road.” She had staked her claim with Sean. I sat with my arms crossed against my chest and breathed in the smell of cranberry vodka as the other girls exhaled into the tight quarters of the car. *** “Where have you been all month?” Eve asked when I popped into the uni a few days later. “I was hanging out with Catharine and Amelia for a while,” I said. “Why do you even hang out with them. They are snobby and entitled. Must cost a lot when you have to buy a round of Grey Goose.” “We mostly just hung out at a flat with some Irish guys they know,” I said. “Your face just went all red. Did you hook up with one of those guys?” “Nothing happened.” I bit my lip. “I mean, Sean and I kind of danced at a club a few nights ago, but Catharine started flirting with him at the end of the night so I don’t think I have a chance.” Eve’s eyes narrowed “She probably only wants him because she knows you like him,” she said. “Don’t let her push you around.” Eve might have been right, but I didn’t plan to go back to Cromore Road. “How’s Charlotte?” I asked. I hadn’t seen her in weeks either. “She hasn’t been around much,” Eve said. “Maybe she’s been studying.” Some Irish students Eve knew from class joined us at our table and she shifted from ordering ciders to whiskey. “Did you know the Women’s World Cup is going on right now?” an Irish boy at the table next to us said. “I didn’t even know it was a thing until I saw it on the telly.” Like the sudden storm clouds that rolled in on us in Bray, Eve’s mood went from jovial to surly without warning. She stood and hovered over the table next to us, her shoulders back and her chin raised. “That’s because men never value women athletes,” Eve shouted into the boy’s face. “I have nothing against women athletes,” the boy said. “Especially if they wear tight uniforms.” Eve’s brown cheeks turned red. She leaned over the table’s edge and spit into the boy’s pint. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. “That’s the most hurtful thing anyone has ever done to me in my entire life,” he said. Tears glistened in the boy’s eyes. He picked the nearly full pint up and pounded it down on the table. Dark stout sloshed down the sides of the glass. The creamy head formed a pool next to an empty bag of crisps. “If this is the worst thing that has ever happened to you, you’ve lived a lucky life,” Eve said, her fists clenched at her sides. I touched her shoulder and she whipped around to face me. The anger dissipated. “Let’s go,” I said. We walked out into the rain. “I get so tired of all this anti-feminist bullshit,” she said. “I get tired of fighting all the time. Don’t you?” I didn’t answer her. Flight was more my style. *** The next time I went to the uni, I spotted Charlotte in a corner alone. Her half-closed eyes scanned the room, but she didn’t register me until I was almost next to her “How is your semester going?” I asked and sat down with a cider. “I needed to explore the Irish peace talks,” she said. “To find a safe place to bunker down.” Her sentences were stilted as though she were thinking of the next word as she spoke each one to me. She picked up her right hand and examined it, then did the same with her left. “Are you in an Irish history course?” I asked. “I’ve been reading about the Troubles and the Good Friday Agreement.” She opened her blue eyes wide and then shook her head. “I need to stop the bombs from going off,” she said. She tipped her pint too soon and the liquid dripped onto the legs of her Calvin Klein jeans. “Do you want me to walk home with you?” I asked. “When you finish your drink?” “Okay, Isaaaaaaa-bel,” she said. “You can be my protector.” *** “Isabel,” a voice called across the slick walkway as I exited the library into the low light of dusk. I recognized the sound of Sean’s voice even though I hadn’t seen him in a month. I got goosebumps on my neck at the sound of my name vibrating in his deep register. I turned and his green eyes caught mine. “Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?” “Grand,” he said. “You haven’t visited Cromore Road in a while.” “I’ve been busy,” I said, and I thought of Catharine’s arm linked with Sean’s. “Are you busy now? Grab a pint with me at the uni.” He slowed his long legs to match my stride and I couldn’t resist changing directions for him. In the uni, we settled on the quiet side of the bar away from the jukebox. “How’s Catharine?” I asked and tried to keep my face neutral. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’ve not seen her since the night in Portrush. You were the only bit of good company there, Isabel.” My face broke into a wide smile at that and I blushed at the compliment. “I’m going home soon. To California,” I blurted out. “I know, Isabel,” he said, and clinked his pint glass against mine. “To making the most of your last weeks.” We finished the drinks and walked out into an evening drizzle. Our footsteps echoed against the concrete of the empty walkway and I let Sean choose our direction. As we crossed the parking lot that divided campus housing from the academic buildings, I saw men in uniforms in dark rain slickers outside Eve and Charlotte’s house. The men talked to the Irish girls who lived with them. A Royal Ulster Constabulary car sat with its lights on, its front wheel against the sidewalk curb. “Have you ever seen cops on campus before?” I asked and an ache spread from my stomach to my head. “I have friends who live there.” “Dunno. Don’t think so,” he said and took my hand. He led me toward Cromore Road. “Best if we stay out of the way. You can check on your mates tomorrow when things quiet down.” The ache retreated at his touch, replaced by a hunger to be closer to him. At his house, I sat down next to him on the couch, one leg folded under me so I could angle toward him. He reached over with one hand and brushed my brown hair away from my face and the back of his hand stroked my cheek. I touched his curly hair. It was soft and damp from the rain, like I imagined lamb’s wool might be. He leaned toward me and kissed me, a soft, sweet kiss, until I pulled myself closer to him and he pressed harder against my lips. I wanted to ask if he had liked Catharine, if he’d slept with her, but his hands on my back pushed the question out of my head. I closed my eyes. His lips on my neck fired off all the synapses in my brain and I melted down into the couch. Then a phone rang and drew us apart. “Wait here.” Sean smiled at me as he picked up the receiver, but soon he turned his back to me and his shoulders tensed. “Okay, sir. Yes, I’ll make sure to keep an eye on that flat,” he said and hung up the phone. “What’s going on?” I asked. “That was the head of housing,” he said. “They let me know they are moving someone from the main campus due to a conflict between roommates.” He was a senior warden for the houses on Cromore Road, and like my resident advisor in the dorms back at home, he got free room and board for minimal effort most days. “Does this have something to do with Eve and Charlotte?” I asked and the ache returned to my stomach. “I can’t really say anything. But you should check in with them tomorrow. Let’s have a cup of tea and I’ll walk you home.” In the morning, I brought coffee and biscuits over to Eve and Charlotte’s house. Eve answered the door, her dreadlocks pulled back into a messy ponytail. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. She jutted her chin out like she did when she was angling for a fight, but she’d lost her edge. “What happened yesterday? I saw police officers over here.” Eve took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her eyelids trembled, but when she opened them she had managed to force back the tears. Eve described the events of the night before. She came home from the library at 7 p.m. One of her roommates had ordered a pizza so she sat down to have a slice in the kitchen. Charlotte came downstairs in a bathrobe and slippers and started screaming. “She kept saying that I’ve been stalking her and I tried to break into her room,” Eve said. Charlotte took off one slipper and threw it across the room at Eve. Eve ducked down and the slipper whizzed past her head into the sink. “She said I threatened her with a knife,” Eve’s lips trembled. “One of my roommates tried to calm her down. And another one ran to the payphone and called the cops.” Eve paused and put her head in her hands. “Did you guys get into an argument before last night?” I asked. “I haven’t even talked to her since the start of the semester,” Eve said. “I would never threaten her or hurt her.” “I believe you wouldn’t hurt Charlotte. Maybe she misunderstood something you said. I’m sure you can clear it up.” I reached out to touch her arm reassuringly, but Eve stood up and paced around the kitchen. “You don’t get it,” Eve said. “She threw something at me for no reason and she got moved to a new flat for her own safety.” Eve’s lower lip quivered and big tears slid down her golden skin. She handed me a slip of paper. It had a date and time for an ethics hearing. I understood then what was at stake. She could get sent home. She could lose her scholarship. She could be expelled from school back in Georgia. It could ruin her life. “I am sure everything will be fine,” I said. “We’ll figure it out.” *** While Eve awaited her fate, Charlotte’s sister Victoria arrived from Paris, where she’d been studying on her own exchange program. Victoria walked into the uni and all heads turned toward her. She stood tall and elegant, in a kelly green coat and luxurious leather riding boots that were the absolute wrong choice for the rainy Antrim Coast. She shrugged off her coat to reveal a sleek cream sweater that I imagined was cashmere and a charcoal pencil skirt. Victoria had the same aquamarine eyes as Charlotte. “When did she arrive?” I nodded toward them. “A couple days after the move,” Sean said. “She shouldn’t be staying in student housing this long, but I’m trying to go easy on Charlotte. And trying not to be a hypocrite.” I’d been staying in his room for a week. “You don’t think Eve really threatened her, do you?” I said. “Eve said she didn’t do anything. I believe her.” “You’re probably right, but didn’t you say she spit in someone’s pint one night?” “She wouldn’t hurt Charlotte and this could ruin her life.” My voice got higher and louder. Sean put his arm around my shoulder. “I am sure everything will be fine,” he said. He kissed my cheek. “Don’t be mad. Stay at my place tonight.” He held my hand as we walked through the mud path to Cromore Road. *** We were deep asleep in Sean’s twin bed, curled under his duvet, when the pounding on the door roused us. Sean jumped out of bed. He quickly threw on jeans and a sweater. “Occupational hazard of being the senior warden,” he said. “Stay here.” I peeked out from his bedroom as he answered the door. Charlotte stood on the stoop. No jacket covered her striped pajamas. She looked like a bedraggled orphan in the rain. Her face was splotchy and she repeated the same thing over and over. “They’re trying to break in. My new roommates are trying to break in.” Sean coaxed her into the house and we both noticed the drip of blood on the beige carpet at the same time. “Charlotte, what happened?” he asked in a slow, soothing tone. Then I saw the red gash on her hand. “What happened to your hand, Charlotte?” Sean walked her to the kitchen and ran warm water over the cut. He searched a half-assembled first aid kit for a bandage. When he couldn’t find one large enough, he wrapped her hand in a tea towel. “Hold your hand up against your chest, Charlotte. Have a seat on the couch. Isabel will make you a cup of tea.” I put the kettle on and sat next to Charlotte while I waited for the water to boil. Tears streaked her face and she let out staggered sobs. I put my arm around her wet shoulders. “You’re okay. We are going to help you. You’re okay.” The kettle whistle pierced the room and knocked Charlotte into a more sober state of mind. I handed her the cup of tea. “Thank you, Isabel,” she said. “You are always so kind.” Charlotte’s sobs subsided as we heard another knock at the door. I answered to find Victoria in her beautiful green coat thrown hastily over thin, silk pajamas. “Shit, I’m sorry Charlotte woke you up in the middle of the night,” Victoria said. She wrung her hands and her face looked pale in the porchlight. “She drank too much and I think she had a nightmare, or something.” “She has a massive cut on her hand,” Sean said. “I called for some medical help to check her out.” Victoria’s eyes skirted past Sean to her sister. “Please, just let me take her home. I already know what’s wrong.” Victoria came into the house then and crumpled into the armchair, her legs akimbo. “Charlotte has schizophrenia. She was diagnosed last year. She was doing okay, but she stopped taking her medication when she got to Ireland.” At that, Charlotte’s shoulders shook with a silent sob. I looked from one pair of aquamarine eyes to the other. Anger rose in my chest. “Why didn’t you mention this to anyone when you first got here?” I clenched my jaw. “She asked me not to say anything,” Victoria said. “I didn’t think it would hurt anyone to let her finish out the semester.” “It hurt Eve,” I said through clenched teeth. “Eve could get kicked out of school for what Charlotte said.” “Who is Eve?” Victoria asked as a siren announced the arrival of an ambulance. Charlotte’s parents flew in from New York to collect her the next day. They paid for the damages to a window she smashed, the origin of her cut. And a rumor circulated that they made a donation to the university to keep things quiet. The school officials canceled Eve’s ethics hearing and apologized for the misunderstanding. I stopped by Eve’s house to check on her that afternoon. She sat at the kitchen table in pajamas even though it was late in the day, her eyes cast down. “I’m glad everything worked out and you’ll get to stay the rest of the year. And Charlotte is hopefully getting help.” Eve looked up at me and I saw my image reflected in the pupils of her dark eyes. “You don’t get it. People are always going to believe the pretty girls, the rich girls, the people with money, over us.” Instead of anger, her voice lowered in defeat. “You might think you fit in with them, but you are just like me, Isabel,” she said. “If Charlotte had accused you, who do you think they would have believed?” I didn’t say anything. My flight response kicked in and I headed to Cromore Road. That night curled under a duvet with Sean, I rested my head on his bare chest. Lost in a haze of new love, I dreamt of what my life would be like if my last name were Casey instead of Juarez. But Eve’s words gnawed around the edges of my happiness. “If Charlotte said I was threatening her, would people have believed her or me?” “You, of course, Isabel,” Sean said. He ran his fingers through my hair as he kissed my forehead. “You are so…easy going.” Melissa Flores Anderson is a Latinx Californian and an award-winning journalist. Her creative work has been published by Vois Stories, Rigorous Magazine, Moss Puppy Magazine, Discretionary Love, Pile Press, Variant Lit and Twin Pies Literary. Her work “Not a Gardener” was featured in City Lights Theater Company’s The Next Stage and Play on Words San Jose. She has read pieces in the Flash Fiction Forum and Quiet Lightning reading series.

THE CALL Drawn to the edge— that tug from within, that umbilical hook. Hand of God, or my own mind? It doesn’t really matter. The void whispers; coaxing me closer – One more step, Icarus-breathed, I taste the fall, the reckless call of gravity, & my heart folds itself into a paper bird. REGINA Virgin bride, when you left the royal bed the first thing you did was kill your sisters. What choice did you have? You were programmed for survival, not mercy. Hive Priestess; dishing out just enough pheromones to keep yourself alive. It can’t be easy, knowing that your crown could fall at any time, that you’re precious, yet dispensable. Mother of bees, your succession is guaranteed by your jelly-fed daughters; murderous as knives. One day you’ll have to choose whether to fight or fly. The queen is dead, long live the queen. Corinna Board lives in a small village in the Cotswolds and works in Oxford, where she teaches English as an additional language. She loves her job, although she often wishes she had more time to write poetry. Her main sources of inspiration are art, nature and mythology. She can be found on Instagram @parole_de_reveuse and on Twitter @CorinnaBoard.

As I was leaving her apartment one afternoon, she took me by the hand and led me around her building to the garage. Showed me the motorbike underneath a blue tarp there. All sleek chrome and mean intentions. I was surprised. She didn’t look the type. She worked in an office and was a saleswoman of some kind. Medical equipment, I think. She seemed so damn proud and really looked something else draped over the handlebars , smiling that pink lipped smile, hair hanging down. I really liked the idea that I was fucking a girl who rode a motorbike. But she never rode it once while we were together. I didn’t know why. She was one of the kindest I had at that time. Better than I deserved or needed. We found each other in a dark place, searching for a little bit of light. Promising we were just using each other to forget about the one before. Seven months later, when I left her for the one who almost killed me, she cried hysterically and I was surprised again. She didn’t look the type. I saw her once, a few months after, riding past me on that motorbike. All sleek chrome and mean intentions. She still seemed proud and was still something else. I held up my hand in an apologetic kind of wave. She gunned the throttle and was lost to me in the night city traffic. I liked to tell myself that she didn’t see me, but I know much better by now.

Language falls from the sky, As my eyes, fleshly opened, After two days Drinking straight, Lungs full of the black weeds of time, Strangling notes like newborns, Their limbs leak water, like spiders out of the Sides of my mouth Until it tenderly covers my mother’s skin, Encrusted with layers of human ash, Watered by tears Fallen - Falling forever. Sparrows line my legs And speak the sky into my ears, I have no time to lie in limbo, Suckling the stale air like milkshake Flavoured by my dreams - My nightmares Beatific in ritualistic despair No, my eyes roll back To rest in the womb of the skull Until my limbs dissolve into the dirt Every wrinkle flattens out Into the body of the earth. I am a seamstress who Stitches together the torn skies Into the shut mouth of my father. Lightning blooms painfully Through the cracks in the night's surface, Before being dragged down by god’s tears To birth the morning into my eyes, Heavy with our memories, Projected into the cemetery of our skulls, Our years seem nothing now. David Hay is an English Teacher in the Northwest of England. He has written poetry and prose since the age of 18 when he discovered Virginia Woolf's The Waves and the poetry of John Keats. These and other artists encouraged him to seek his own poetic voice. He has currently been accepted for publication in Dreich, Abridged, Acumen, The Honest Ulsterman, The Dawntreader, Versification, The Babel Tower Notice Board, The Stone of Madness Press, The Fortnightly Review, The Lake, Selcouth Station, GreenInk Poetry, Dodging the Rain, Seventh Quarry and Expat-Press. His debut publication is the Brexit-inspired prose-poem Doctor Lazarus published by Alien Buddha Press 2021.

I still want you, moon after Brenda Shaughnessy I read righteous rage of a poet telling you to fuck off calling out all the ways you invoke our lust monkey O, you-- my beloved excuse—I offer up nasty behavior and every slanted sin in your name ugly cry during the day-- waive white underthings drink plum wine until your pearl sweet glow your pulsating lily resurfaces from primordial broth roundplump—antigravitational-- one perfect breast ahh, I’m sorry for how Brenda treated you my patience for the noon sun is below crimson (Chad of a star, if you want to talk tools) you are worth one hundred thousand of him, my kitten nightblossom-- tipsy silver lilac, opium dust sticky milkweed at the side of a summer dirt road even when I can’t see you, moon, I feel you inside you never condemn me to drown in night’s waters alone crying on new year’s 12:01 am as January strips skin from the new year I count day to night as the bud’s plumping advances through my blood the air gold dipped in graceful fragrance petals unfurl curves of skin and your wrists are branches the boughs bend a brushstroke blossoms and snow those twin perfumes crisply entwined both ephemeral, almost vernal the naked way you tug at sleeves to escape the magnet of this flower opening between us my winter was a long gravel road black skies observed robe of thorns and twine and you, oh you warm fall of the most tender snow blanketing recesses of old pain of years’ denial my plum covered heart Golden shovel of Otagaki Rengetsu’s “evening plum blossoms” photograph I lay sleepless last night envious of a world that held you before me it was a picture: you— on the cusp of womanhood eyes dark starless midnight I burned jealous your smile barely hidden by curls imagining past winds touching your skin bygone sunlight kissing upturned lips something fluttered weighty a moss-covered ache I didn’t know how to name a fire that trembled taste of bitter orange and iron I finally found relief dreaming myself those three pines stretching behind you the grass under your bare feet— the paper this photograph was printed on superfluous you say you have been small for so long but now feel the entirety of the spaces you inhabit-- they seem more --- airy a cocoon around you more breath between your words even the trees stand taller you say you feel like high tide I imagine you a California red-sided garter snake (childhood oddity) kaleidoscope of turquoise, crimson, azure dancing double-helix down my brainstem around-and-around-and-around each notch of my spine I will my bones bleached white under a sphalerite desert sun a more perfect setting for the jewel of you: all slithering roses and water you are so young and new in this big space, my love and I can’t stop staring at the delicate egg-tooth above those delicious lips will I too be absorbed or become vestigial as a dewclaw? to catch you up-- cause you pain -- when you wind forward so sublime into this new life Nicole Callräm (she/her/她) is a nomadic bureaucrat and disciple of existence in all her life-affirming and confusing manifestations. She adores rideshare bikes, red wine, and Osmanthus flowers (preferably a mix of the three...all at once). Nicole has been published in A Shanghai Poetry Zine, Nude Studio, Kissing Dynamite, and Rat's Ass Review. You can find her on Twitter at @YiminNicole.

Let it ride He has always been relentless when it comes to the chase. As a boy tossing coins for sweets, luck was his sugary hit. All the other kids smelled fear when tempted with one more spin. Attached to a father’s addiction, his small steps followed shadows in racecourse betting rings filled with the noise of men so sure of it. Fists full of cash and the same stories of fake glory repeated ad nauseam. It’s in his blood now, a transfusion the speed of light through his veins chasing the next race, a hard whisper in his ear whooshes through his brain. The winning post is his only orgasm, away from tactile moments he lost. He thinks hesitation is for losers, winners never blink- stare deep into the sucker’s soul. That ping every week from a text- another insider with a crystal ball; A golden prophecy - a sure thing. Calle Sin Salida (Dead End Street) Mamá has 3 sons still young enough to hide their tears. Her eyes the colour of cacao sink deep and dark telling her story. 6 days every week- rising with the first robin song, returning with the fumes of the colectivo; Chained to the local factory, lines of sweatshop wives sewing heart shapes to a Latin chorus of the needle beat. Lila Downs screams heart filled boleros to their shared lunches of muted longings. The three brothers go to school but soon the shadow of work will be calling like sunset. In early evening they kick a flat football on streets paved with dirt until the last light disappears. Their Abuela casts a shadow, fading in the house. Papá as long gone as the last train after midnight. It’s the only way Get rich faster than light. Incinerate your eyes with the prize. Wear headphones so nobody can hear the beat of that music. Sit alone at the afternoon cinema, wait for the same story to unravel. Listen to silence as words spew out like soda from a shaken can. Hide inside bubbles made of steel that no pin can ever pop. Sell your soul to pray for a miracle. Drift in and out of your evening stupor- reality dissolves on your numb tongue. Leap onto a moving train that is never going to stop. Smell like leftovers and Listerine. Ghouls crawl up your nostrils. Leave an empty diary in the desert- it screams of madness in its padded cell. Walk with stones in your shoes. Hidden secrets inside those silk socks. Hand out business cards at funerals because life must go on. Waste everything on the buffet table. Let it all rot while the bands play. It’s the only way. Damien Posterino (he/him) is a Melbourne-born poet writing in Mexico. His poetry explores characters, conversations, and capturing moments in time. His work has been accepted by 30 different publications including recent editions of Sledgehammer Lit, Rough Diamond, Crow Name, The Madrigal Press, Roi Fainéant, Fish Barrell Review & Paddler Press. You can find him on Twitter @damienposterino