Search Results

The tragedy of touch is a multi-sensory dive into the self, a collection of poems presented across a range of formats that invites the reader to explore their soul on a voyage through the emotional spectrum. I open The tragedy of touch to be immersed in colours and Venn diagrams and aesthetic layouts, to prose that makes sense left to right and top to bottom, and think: I'll never wrap my thoughts around all this. But here it is - and this goes for everything Shiksha Dheda writes - the author walks with you, guiding and engaging with you and inviting you to see what's within; and not just the words on the page, but within the self. For me, the challenge in Shiksha's highly accomplished chapbook lies not in the comprehension of its multifaceted elements, but, as it turns out, in having the courage to investigate my own inner workings. I haven't studied poetry since school. I've read a lot, but not sought to extrapolate prose the way I was taught to: they used to urge us in class, 'What does the poet mean here?' We were forever interpreting the concepts delivered to us by the author. But reading The tragedy of touch (absorbing actually, because there's much more to this chapbook than just words on a page) I find myself exploring not what the author means, but what I mean. Because every line reflects back on me and sends me willingly into my introspection, and this is the genius of the writing here: it's fluid and it runs through me as a reader until I'm a part of its sentiments and its sentiments are a part of me. It's the skill of a writer who doesn't paint by words, but hands me, the reader, the canvas and brushes. The intensity of the writing is immediate: Shiksha has invited me to explore the world she's created, but it's a world that exists within, a collision of thoughts and feelings that demand self-inspection of the soul. The tragedy of touch is a ride deep into the emotions, a very stellar example of the author's voice which is woven like a current through the prose: Shiksha's words are surrendered to the reader, to be absorbed and interpreted on an individual basis. Throughout this 19-piece collection there's a tidal ebb and flow, sometimes soothing, sometimes heart rending, always powerful. A recurring sense of drawing to an edge and touching without grasp. Of slipping back, inexorably, to the realm from whence we came. To begin with I meet Red, Shiksha's warm sunrise, and it's an element that will expand throughout the book to fill our emotions; I meet cool Blue, whose calming influence is at once guiding and heartbreaking, on a journey to eternity. Red and blue come together in Then there were two and Fresh air, ocular poems with two gently contrasting voices each reaching for the other, yearning for an understanding that never manifests. I am lured in with visionary formats that switch on the bulbs of comprehension and then, just as I follow their sequence, the circuit flips and I find new meaning. Words run from left to right and top to bottom and can be read in two or three directions. These are poems and puzzles combined, literary conundrums that invite me to solve them. I'm up for air, literally, with Fresh Air (very different to the almost identically-named Venn diagram that precedes it) a traditionally formatted piece that is equally patent and beautiful, a simple tribute that speaks of relief from pain and a tonic to the soul. This book is a visual and poetic pleasure but it isn't all one way or the other, image or text: the deeply sensual and heart rending Stardust is presented without diagrams, but the font descends in a staircase dripping with passion and despair. It's a poem which can be interpreted in more than one manner, as is the theme throughout this collection. I read Stardust on two separate readings and found distinctly but beautifully contrasting sentiments each time. In Under(stand)ing and Understand me Shiksha draws red and blue closer still and invites me to further explore passion versus logic, and what happens when contrasting personalities come within touching distance, each clawing to assuage. Green is introduced, a voice of equanimity on this voyage that's pulling me ever deeper into my own reflection. I continue into prose in which I become gladly entangled, through incarnadine emotions, cool rejections, colours and shapes and thoughts and feelings, through text and images (including the wordless Do I only want you, proving the author's competence to quite literally paint a display of emotion). The journey - and if ever there was a literary journey it's this, because we begin in the depths of the cosmos and travel lightyears - transports me on through a middle earth of understanding and coexistence. The beautifully complex notion of counter-passions are explored in A negative and a negative make a positive, and I am taken to the edge of emotional acceptance but never quite beyond: the theme of reaching but never holding recurs, that pervading sense of nearing some vital discovery, but by now I've seen enough to know that the object may be beyond me. I arrive with racing heart and rushing blood at the book's titular piece, a breathtaking work that is tragically poignant and speaks of the evanescence of love. The journey is complete and whether it ends conclusively I wouldn't deign to divulge: not for fear of giving away a spoiler, but because, of course, my conclusion will be markedly different to yours. And that is the beauty of The tragedy of touch. To read it is to learn about myself, a trademark that Shiksha Dheda has made her own. No poet I've read has the same ability to deliver words straight to the reader's soul, to allow me the space to explore my own spiritual components. At least, I never came across one during all the years I spent reading the classics at school. 'The tragedy of touch' is written by Shiksha Dheda. It's an image-rich feature that includes Venn diagrams and text that's structured in various visual formats. 'The tragedy of touch' is available here: https://www.fahmidan.net/the-tragedy-of-touch-digital-chapbook Matt Kruze is an occasional fiction author who writes stories that cross several genres. Normally a crime has been committed, but whether that's part of a thriller, mystery, fantasy or sci-fi, is often open to interpretation.

Note from author: Soft Serve is a little piece voiced by two narrators, one a young girl full of enthusiasm and just making her way into the world. The other narrator is a middle-aged man engaged in a futile battle against the increasing flood of dog waste taking over city sidewalks. HEADS-UP: this piece has some icky bits, mainly references to dogshit and melted ice cream. It's nothing gratuitous. I hope you have fun reading Soft Serve. I sure had fun writing it. Ice cream drips, first in a trickle down their faces, then into the parking lot. Soon it’s dripping off the scoop before I can get the cones packed. Today is the day we were supposed to help people forget their problems for a while and unite the town through the magic of ice cream. The whole walk here, I could see the cars driving down to get a good spot alongside the hill. The crowd stretches off, snaking a bit past where I can see, quite a big deal with the heat and all. Mr. Tibbetts is sweating quite a bit. He isn’t his usual self. Last year took a lot out of him. He’s polite and stuff, but not much beyond the formalities. “We’re going to have to get everybody served quickly as we can. The power’s out. Radio says the grid’s blown.” I hand a family their cones, watch the son’s chin goateed in drippy liquid. “Ruined,” Mr. Tibbetts says. “An American tradition completely destroyed. “ Like most losing armies, we knew we were doomed from the get-go. Deborah and I pry nuggets of shit with a shovel, depositing them into a contractor bag. The stuff seems to be everywhere: all over the sidewalk, laid in chunks on the strip of dirt abutting the curb, logs of shit scattered among the mini-garden. This is the same little garden a group of volunteers arduously cultivated in the dumping site by the wall overlooking the train. For a brief while, the presence of the garden led to a cessation of dumping. Occasionally someone leaves a discarded toilet or tub, which we repurpose and use as planters. Deborah, one of the strongest people I know, cries silently. “This is horrible,” she points out a tomato plant, shit smeared down the sides of the planter. Someone must have picked up a dog, squeezing its belly like a ketchup dispenser, spraying the shit everywhere. As I squeeze the chocolate syrup on top of a vanilla cup, the very sweaty customer lets out a groan. “That syrup is probably the most solid thing in that cup,” he says. I feel terrible and I tell him as much. It’s not like this should be a surprise. All the way up the line people are pointing out the melty ice cream in astonishment. What are they going to do, go somewhere else? Everywhere, the same blown grid. The same tragic situation. I hand the man his change, avoiding eye contact as he stiffs me on the tip. His sweat drips onto his side of the takeout window, just as the ice cream will soon follow the same trajectory. I’m getting good at recognizing the different types, the taxonomies. Little dog, medium dog, big dog. Human. The horrors of the smells. Hector has been driven a bit crazy by all of this. He’s taken to staying up all night, perched with coffee and lawn chair, inside the community garden entrance. He’s on stakeout, he calls it. When I arrive at the garden to get the supplies for my cleanup shift, Hector’s got some guy by the neck. He’s on top of the dude pushing his head towards a pile of dogshit on the sidewalk. “Motherfucker, this is payback.” “Hector! That’s not the mad shitter, that’s Ephraim,” Deborah yells, running up from around the corner. “He’s a garden volunteer.” “Look, I’ve got my dog’s poop in a bag,” the guy says, waving a gushy blue bag. “Sorry,” Hector says. “I see a dog walker near the garden, I flip out.” With his foot, he sweeps away some of the garbage away from the bodega candles by the garden entrance. He brushes a leaf off a picture of a young man fastened to the fence with zip ties. Ephraim, the garden volunteer says something, but I’m taken by the candles, the stoic assertion of the flames. I know the face in the picture. Part of the group of guys who drink on the sidewalk outside the garden. Could’ve sworn I just saw him the other day. One customer, a nice old women from the church where we used to have girl scouts, gives me very detailed directions on her ice cream sundae. “Just another scoop, here. Now lay the banana across, nice, good.” Who am I to begrudge anyone their futilities, I who have been assiduously scooping liquid all afternoon. She tips me two dollars as her banana sinks into the ice cream. Mr. Tibbetts sits, head in hands, face possibly covered in tears, but it could be sweat. “Finished, I’m finished,” he says. “You are a good girl. It is up to your generation to come up with a solution. We crawled out of the sea, evolved from apes, all that we’ve weathered. The transition from feudalism to capitalism, we made it so far. It’s just too hot, humans can’t live like this.” He says more, but I don’t follow, I’m thinking of humans crawling back into the sea, an all-consuming, biblical sea of melted ice cream. “Flee. We must flee.” Mr. Tibbetts still carrying on. His bowtie uncharacteristically rumpled. “This place is an institution. Built it up from the ground. We made people happy. We were there for them when they lined up after little league games. We were there for their birthdays. We employed people. You are good girl. You must survive this, work for a future worth living. Flee!” Where will we flee to? I scoop more liquid onto a customer’s cone. “There you go, rocky road, sprinkles on top.” Young Maggie accompanied me yesterday. Sweet, young Maggie, absolutely the most pleasant, upbeat human, not an ounce of cruelty in her. Together we sang joyous songs. She sculpts common experience into song the way I sculpt the scoops into cones. With purpose, unashamedly. Walking to the ice cream parlor, woo hoo! Everyone will be so happy, woo hoo! The boys hurl epithets and handfuls of muddy gravel. The gravel muddies our Cream Beacon uniforms a bit, but we keep our chins high. Today, Maggie doesn’t have the energy to come help me. She says it’s the heat, but I wonder if it was the boys. If I have ever felt something so resembling hate, I feel it for them. “She’s not well, mother says, she needs to stay home and rest. The heat just too much. I wish it would rain and take the edge off. Cool things off some.” It hasn’t rained in forever. It’s been raining so long I can’t remember what it was like in the days before. Will the rain ever stop? Will the shitting ever stop? No one person, no one dog can be behind this. It’s got to be some kind of concerted campaign. I’m sure of this. Hector scoops a tremendous shit that looks like it came from a moose into a contractor bag. He’s got knee high fisherman’s boots on. Running for the bus through Poop Alley, that’s what the kids call it, the strip of street that crosses over the surface line, where the train ravines the neighborhood, making the rows of drab apartment blocks look like a badly assembled montage. We’re running for the bus in the rain, first my daughter, then me. The bus barely moves among the truck traffic, but it’s dry. Through the resentful stares they register their olfactory displeasure. My boots and hers have brought the shit with us. “Papa, I don’t think this is dog poop.” The halitosis tinge, reek of rotting innards and humanity rendered something interminably foul. We leave the bus, make our way home in the rain. No way can she go to school like this. A group of kids pass by, cartoon characters on their umbrellas. Hector’s on some bullshit about the youth, “…their fresh faces, fresh smells…so clean, like that new car smell…” Deborah stares out at the traffic, forever clogged, never moving. “Cars, the highest stage of civilization,” she says. Mr. Chablis, that’s what they called him. The latest local memorialized on the fence around the garden. Where they got the picture zip tied to the chain link I have no idea. Must’ve come from a family member. This Mr. Chablis is from another era, younger, with a smiley glow, in a tuxedo. Where could the photo have been taken? A wedding? I only knew him as someone drinking wine from a paper bag, engaged in screaming matches with some of the other street characters. The carboard box shielding the bodega candles is getting soaked, the flames still flicker hopefully. Someone has smeared shit on the inside of the box and the base of the candles. I have no strength left to fight this. If only there was somewhere to flee to. Rico Cleffi’s work has been published the Brooklyn Rail, Flatbush Review, Urban Omnibus, the Village Voice and elsewhere. He edits the radio-issues website, Frequency and Amplitude (freq-amp.com). He lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he spends his days attempting to traverse the sidewalk without messy encounters with man’s best friend’s chief export.

I inspect the fence post, and Beechie trots over and nudges my hand with her nose. She’s always asking me for a pat on the head or a handful of grass. She acts more like a dog than a goat. The other goats are always out in the field standing on one of the old cars, pulling up weeds with their wobbly lips, or singing monotone songs. It seems like they’re all waiting for what’s next. The horses watch me with their black pearl eyes and follow me with their pointy ears. All of them, the horses, the goats, even the rattle snakes, they all know what’s going on. I’m thankful for the job, but Mr. Crawford didn’t mention the long stretches of time between seeing an actual person. I thought I'd enjoy it, but after the first two weeks, I realized I need social interaction from time to time. The only other people I see out here are the butchers and, sometimes, equestrians. Once a month the butchers arrive, all greedy and bug eyed. They leer at the goats, rubbing their hands together. I saw one of them lick his upper lip while inspecting a billy goat the last time they were all here. I turn to the goat trotting beside me. “Not you though, Beechie. Nobody’s interested in you.” She thumps her front hoof on the ground and bends down to uproot a few dandelions. She stares at my nose as she chomps the weeds. After pouring some feed into the trough, I check each stall. Only one needs scooping this afternoon. This is my life, now: talking to an old nanny goat and scooping horse shit inside of a stable that’s nicer than the cabin I sleep in. I grab the chain saw from the barn and make my way across the field to the tree line. The tree woke me up last night when it fell. Louder than anything I’ve ever heard before. I rode the four-wheeler over to inspect it this morning first thing. It’s a fallen hickory and if I remember right, it’s just beyond the edge of the forest. Working out here, I realize why so many fables are set in the forest. I’ve already started seeing things our here, hallucinations, I guess you could say. Two tall dark figures in the woods. They weren’t actually there, I know that. But the shadows out here are deceiving. The mind wanders, you know. A branch cracks above my head and a bird cackles behind my back. The tops of the trees sway, and the wind whistles through an alley of pines. This is where some songs come from: the plump silence here. It swells if you stand in it long enough. Mr. Crawford not only sells goats, but he’s got about four hundred acres of pine forest out here that I’m in charge of. Row after row of pines, all for paper. As part of my job, I also have to maintain the logging roads back here in these pines. Got to make sure the trucks can get back here and scoop all the young trees up. I yank the pull-chord, and the chain saw jolts to life. Rattling and wailing, its echo bouncing around the forest canopy. Sending all the fauna back to their burrows. I assess the angle of the cut. After careful consideration, I slice into the massive tree trunk. Cutting into a freshly fallen hickory smells dense, like my grandfather’s sweaters, like dirt and campfire, a hint of old tobacco. Before I slice my way to the middle, I back the saw out and start a cut from the bottom. Almost everyone that uses one of these things eventually gets hurt. My moment with this chainsaw hasn’t happened yet, but it’s probably coming. Mr. Crawford happened to be here inspecting the property on the day the last farm hand got his (chainsaw lesson, I mean). Mr. Crawford picked up the guy on the other side of that ridge. He nearly bled to death in Mr. Crawford’s truck. The hospital had to amputate his leg, and he lost this job. Mr. Crawford said he couldn’t use him on the farm anymore after the accident. No severance. No help. No nothing. He said he hired me to help get me back on my feet. I’m not complaining. Since getting out, I can’t even get a job at Burger King. I always have to check that box: PREVIOUS CONVICTIONS YES [ X ] NO [ ] And then fill in that section below that says explain. It doesn’t matter if I’m honest or if I lie on those applications, they all know. They can look it up. And they do every time. The guy that lost his leg was a former prisoner too. Mr. Crawford probably thinks people like us are expendable. He works in the city as a stockbroker. He says he bought all eight hundred acres for the day when it all collapses. The way he talks about it (the market, the economy) makes me think running a chainsaw and trading in the stock market are equally dangerous. Just when you think you’ve got the hang of it, something unexpected can happen, the chain gets hung on a knot and kicks the blade back at you, or some bit coin bro fucks with a stock no one’s ever heard of, and the bottom falls out. Still, the life of a stockbroker and a farm hand look pretty different to me. Mr. Crawford’s co-workers and their families came out here two weekends ago. He asked me to be one of the bartenders, but I told him I couldn’t be near booze since getting sober in prison. So, he asked me to run the coat check at the front door. That’s the only time I’ve been in the farmhouse. I saw all those families pulling up in their black Benzes and yellow Porsches. One family drove up in one of the first Lucid electric cars. The guy said it was built by one of his friends who is a prince in Saudi Arabia. Then he threw his coat at me like I was a rack on the wall. I spit in the breast pocket before I gave it back to him at the end of the night. It’s probably all dry and crusty now. He'll never know. No one ever uses those pockets. As I cut nearly all the way through the fallen Hickory, the crack of the tree trunk thunders over the buzz of the saw. I kill the motor and set the machine on the ground. There’s that hazy quiet again. I take it in before the wrens start warbling again. With all my weight on top of the cut, I stomp. The tree fractures into two pieces and my heel slips on the bark. The two pieces thud down to the forest floor, and I land hard, my ribcage on top of the tree’s trunk, graceless and exhausted. I remain in that position, feet resting on the earth, fingers dug into the dirt, my body twisted and arching over the hickory’s carcass. One broken and limp body on top of another. The squirrels emerge, then the wrens. I lay there until I see a red-tailed hawk fly overhead. I’ll finish the job and drag the pieces to the fire pit tomorrow. The saw is still warm when I pick it up. By the time I reach the cabin, the cicadas are crooning and the sky is blushing. I thump my boots on the edge of the porch. The mud, manure, and hay crumble down on top of a growing mound of dry earth. The screen door grinds along the floor as I open it. I turn to take another look at the field. I really can’t believe this is where I’ve ended up. I thought I was going to end up in San Francisco. Ebby thought that too. The metal spring quivers, and snaps the door closed. I look down at my rug. It’s not really mine. After the accident, I just took the rug. Every time I look at it, I think about the first time I slept on it. Ebby had hosted a birthday party for one of our friends in San Francisco. She had made this incredible Birria from her mother’s recipe. I ended up helping her clean up after the party. The stew was amazing. The meat was tender and the adobo sauce was divine, but someone spilled a huge clump on her rug. I don’t think we ever figured out who it was. After a cleaning session where we had a debate about which method worked better to take care of the gleaming red blemish on her treasured rug, we split what was left of an open bottle of wine and sat in her kitchen talking until three in the morning. She offered her freshly cleaned rug for me to sleep on for the rest of the night. After a few months of us seeing each other, I moved upstairs to her bedroom. We had three good years before the accident. It seemed important to grab the rug before Ebby’s parents came and got everything else. My side throbs in unison with my heartbeat. I grab a blanket and pillow and lay down on my back. I center my torso in the medallion of the rug, take a deep breath and glance out the window toward the tree line. There is a small shred of orange light left in the sky. The trees are outlined by what’s left of the day’s light. I always try not to look into the forest after a certain time. I can’t stop thinking about Ebby and that day she lost her sunglasses riding on the back of my motorcycle. I had told her how to ride on the back but it was still my fault. I should’ve slowed down when I felt her lean over like that. Should’ve known to stay away from the curb, that fucking fire hydrant. I don’t want to keep looking at the forest tonight, but I can’t look away. The trees sway. The moon is dim and blue. The sky ripples above the treetops. One shadow in the forest seems different, more energetic, than the others. I’ve never tried talking to the figures I imagine I see out here, but tonight I pose a question. I hesitate and brood about whether the figure is truly there. “If you are there,” I whisper, “why don’t you take me with you?” The spring on the front door tings. I sit up and snap my head toward the door. My ribs sting my insides. I palm my side and watch the door. The spring crackles twice more. It’s just the coiled metal cooling off from the heat of the day. I turn and look back out the window. My eyes widen and my back stiffens. I lean forward, toward the window. It’s undeniable. “Ebby,” I say. Her thick black hair glistens in the moonlight like coal shimmering in a flickering fire. Two of her fingers rest on her collar bone. She says nothing and stares at the bookshelf on the other side of the cabin. She must know that I’m down here on the floor. I stand up. Her gaze doesn’t falter. She still seems to be looking past me, through me. I wave my hands. She turns away from the window, like she’s in an orbit with the forest itself. “No. Wait.” I bolt out of the cabin without any shoes on, one hand waving through the night air and the other grasping my rib. I trot around to the other side of the cabin. Panting, I shake my head and look down at my feet. Chasing ghosts, with no shoes, and what feels like a broken rib. I wish someone else was here to see this. Before I round the corner of the cabin, I hear it. A deep and big inhale breath. I can hear the loneliness and the surrender in the exhale too. Before turning around, I hold still for a moment and listen. The breathing was coming from a few yards behind me, toward the tree line. I hunch down to line up the moonlight with the horizon. I see a silhouette laying there, and know right way, it’s her. The ryegrass crunches under my socked feet. She doesn’t move as I get closer. She’s barely alive when I kneel beside her. Her feet are stretched out; head thrown back. Mr. Crawford told me this might happen soon. Her body is not as warm as usual, her belly is rising and falling, peacefully, slowly. I place my hand on her forehead and rub my thumb on the knot in-between her eyes. I swat a fly away from her open mouth. Her yellow eye meets my green eyes. Beechie’s mouth opens wider. I hear her breathing change and I begin to stroke her neck. She lets out one more breath and closes her eye. I gently close her mouth. I stand up and survey the field and the darkness beyond the tree line. My shoeless feet plop through the dry and prickly grass once more. Inside the cabin, a fire glows inside the iron stove, and I can smell the faint yet tender aroma of warm birria. A word from the author: Fallen Hickory is inspired by the time I spent working on a six-hundred-acre pine tree farm. I didn’t see a person most days during my time there and this work of fiction aims to point to both the allure and the drawbacks of being completely alone in a landscape.

while damp and sticky I’d watch you make yourself comfortable lining my side head on my chest fingers at play with the hair stroking each in its turn as though each deserved a tenderness it is rare to see this side of anyone rare for anyone to stay after the act even rarer for them to come again weeks later odd messages of day-to-day workloads and wants for the weather to change smile emojis and how are you doing todays I was almost a landslide fumbled footing of words tripping out on the tongue edge so often I end up dragging my voice back reminding it not to wander teaching it the dangers of temporary homes A word from the author: The poem explores intimacy and the want to be a part of something, while fearing what that means. Dale Booton (he/him) is a twenty-six year old queer poet from Birmingham. His poetry has been published in various places, such as Verve, Young Poets Network, Ligeia, Queerlings, Fahmidan, Tealight Press, Dreich, Spelt, Acid Bath Publishing, and Muswell Press. He is currently working on his first pamphlet. Twitter: @BootsPoetry

Dive after the gale in desolate shafts of light to opaque fish stare and flurry shifty answers, They’re unaccountably gone. In yearning I swim hunting for that purple-tinged torrential back pulse, Where’s beauty? I’d ask again, It’s inexplicably gone. Joan García Viltró is a poet from Cambrils, on the south Catalan coast. His poems reflect Mediterranean mythologies and Nature under human pressure. Published in Borders and Belonging (anthology, Cephalopress), The London Magazine, Full House Literary, etc. Shortlisted in 2022 for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, longlisted for the erbacce-prize for poetry.

look at you afraid of a Plant City sangria you silly barrier island you don’t tell me what to do who do you think you are secret kudzu cypress secret twilight hour if all the best writers jumped off a drawbridge would you do it too don’t you tell me how to I mean I’ve been saying all along it isn’t me who doesn’t believe in me it’s you I know I can do it I hear you crying in the background sometimes things take longer sometimes years I’m waiting in a literal cow pasture there are literal eels in a bathtub what’s the takeaway here I’m waiting I’m outsiding I’m dodging I’m picture perfect I’ve been away a long time don’t worry I haven’t forgotten have you ever felt nothing I mean as if you are nothing did you hear it in the wind the word of the year just wondering if only I could find that second twin universe that runs backward in time to mirror this the right way this isn’t journal scholarship though it should be subjunctive clause causality because head full of jelly beans gets you nowhere lil miss peer review this table setting says a lot about you when you vacuum I think it’s music wouldn’t you love to listen to a song without a memory to stroke hair to give sips of water it takes seven years to overcome something bad to infinitively adverbially feel powerless you of lore you of cozy you of linger don’t you make me make that sound if you say disgusting things you will get throat cancer you will never leave gator lake some of us do it for the money some of us do it because if we don’t we’ll die thank god for Sinéad thank god the opposite of patriarchy is fraternity not matriarchy there be some low vibration bitches out here sometimes things get ugly some times are ugly this look you’re seeing is for a girl who does porn in the Valley to fund her dental school passion she needs something to wear to smoke something blue with Frank Ocean I just want to drink cherry cola at the Vero Beach Holiday Inn I just want a portable staircase with a tiny door underneath of storm bringer you of beautiful and annoying of that guy in Peach Pit unbothered and moisturized so what if I don’t take pictures I just want a normal conversation is everything okay is everything okay is everything okay are you doing things are you blackberrying are you forgiving are you feeling are you judging are you reading review: judgment used to be spelled with an e ask Flannery at least that’s how the South spelled it in pastimes I powered through 192 voids fuller than all fullness appearing by my absence I was pre-you before you and you and you I go to the movies alone sit in the same row as a safe older couple though I possess the toolkit to transform into a venomous creature it’s not likely to happen kill mosquitoes with my hands feel no grief I cut my teeth on saw palmetto no this is not confessional no this isn’t about you thank god I love it when you’re gone thank god you lost so much when you lost me the amoeba of our warm water century I don’t find it hard to be myself but find it hard to let myself be my deadline is the last awful poem my deadline is when you go my deadline is when it comes out you dim sum expert you expert beef Wellington you obscure Korean noodles cooked by Greg your husband fuck me (he did) gently with a chainsaw don’t circular nature don’t you once again don’t you dare don’t you A word from the author: The piece is about what the idea of home is (literally, spiritually, emotionally, aurally). This idea of home includes the idea of writing, because to this narrator, writing is also "home." Mary Petralia earned her MFA from the University of Central Florida. Her poems have appeared in Shooter Literary Magazine, Sein und Werden, Gone Lawn, Bridge Eight, Eyedrum Periodically, and other publications. She is based in Florida, where she is working on her first small collection.

Jody and I were in the strip club. Music blared and strobe lights pulsed on a small stage. In the spotlight, a dancer was wrapping, and unwrapping herself around a pole. One leg raised at a hundred-and-sixty-degree angle for the benefit of those gathered in awestruck wonder. This place reeked of a misguided sense of power play - Jody and I got it. Our evening’s sponsor, Richie Richman reached deep into his pocket and said, ‘Girls what can I get you?’ It was 2am, Archer St, W1, London, on a particular Saturday night. Jody and I were walking between clubs when an approaching Bentley slowed down alongside us. The window wound down and Richman nodded to Jody - ‘Want to come for a ride?’ She turned to me, ‘You want to come with?’ We echoed one another. ‘Where you going?’ I asked ‘Where you going?’ ‘To a club,’ he replied ‘What kind of club?’ ‘What kind of club?’ she asked ‘Strip Club.’ ‘You wanna go to a strip club?’ ‘Never been before,’ I said. ‘Come.’ The chauffeur pulled the car over and with great deference opened the door to the back passenger seats. Jody and I slid in. Richie Richman gave me a most unwelcome look. ‘Who the fuck is she?’ ‘She stays or I leave,’ said Jody I was her get out clause Insurance policy Buffer. I gave Richman a super warm smile and introduced myself. Jody had been chatting with him in MoMo’s earlier in the evening. This was a ‘girls night out’. Six of us in total celebrating female empowerment and the recent bank bonus awarded to gorgeous Ellie’s husband. Her best friend Carly was over from the States for a weekend. There were two other women I didn’t know, both single and both worked in the city. The doormen were hard at it that night. Access gained due to Carly’s dexterous tongue. She sucked off one of the super hot bouncers. ‘Still got it going on girls…’ she cheered, ‘despite two kids,’ and we all high-fived her. No one chatted me up in Momos. This club was for the super aspirational, deluxe bull-shitters, the glitzy, glam, groomed and made up, 100% bullshit. I exuded reality, stank of it. Jody liked me, said I was tonic to her gin - sobering. We left at two am. Jody and I broke from the rest of the group in search of further entertainment. Jody likes to play with people, especially men. Richman was a super loaded, divorced dad of two with girlfriends in the Bahamas, Tel Aviv and Monte Carlo. He told her this in Momos to which Jody replied she only fucked girls. He said, ‘Sometimes it’s good to step outside your comfort zone.’ Jody had looped my arm as we turned down into Archer St And repeated his words ad verbatim ‘Sometimes,’ she said to me, ‘it’s good to step out of your comfort zone.’ I was feeling this place more than Momos It was honest. All about money. Girls floated free and easy For a price ‘Fuck exploitation It’s about market forces.’ I said Jody agreed ‘It’s power play. It’s about owning the means of production Woman have the means of production But rarely control of the means.’ Richie Richman scoffed, ‘It’s about watching someone debase themselves in front of you. Personally, I get off on their debasement.’ ‘Still,’ I ventured, ‘a lot of girls say they find it empowering.’ We laughed. For the first time Richman looked me in the eye. Jody wanted the Cristal 93 Richman gave the waitress the order and said, ‘Let's enjoy the show. To dance is a beautiful thing, these girls…’ ‘Women.’ ‘Girls… these beautiful talented girls…’ Jody interrupted him, ‘Get one to dance for us.’ None of them wanted To bend over Expose themselves Dance for us Richman talked to the manager ‘My girlfriend wants a lap dance.’ The manager sighed, ‘They say they feel uncomfortable doing it in front of women,’ ‘Money is money,’ said the Richman, ‘why should they care?’ He offered double the money The waitress came with a bottle of Cristal She poured We clinked And waited for our lap dancer Finally, she arrived. Sneered at Jody and I Like we were traitors She was Out of order She was Sweet sweet Salome Jody and I sat back Enjoyed the show ‘Isn’t it liberating,’ Jody observed. ‘So empowering,’ I replied And sometimes I wished I had a cock My mouth was so dry

Add sugar to the pan, and just cover with water. Don’t add too much water, like you did in your first year of marriage. You had to stir the mixture for over an hour, your muscles aching with the effort. Your mother-in-law didn’t let you start again, so that you would learn your lesson. Not too little water, either, like in your third year of marriage, when you tried to make the pan resemble your own barren body, cracked and desiccated. Stir the sugar, never stop, or it will spoil. Just like the marital bed your husband turned from when your womb never quickened; even after so many years, even after all the visits to the doctors (you, not him), all the needles, scans, blood tests (you, never him). Don’t take your eyes off the sugar. Remember how you took your eyes off your husband for one minute, just one minute, to focus on your grief, on yet another scarlet arrival on the twenty-eighth day. Keep stirring, remember how your mother-in-law blamed you when your husband wandered, saying, “What do you expect?” Keep the flame on high, so the mixture boils, just like the anger in you. Grip the ladle tight, remembering how you gripped it that day, how you used it to hit the walls, your husband, yourself. How your husband curled his lip at you, saying, “How can I stay with you now?” Watch the syrup – it is treacherous. One minute too long and you will go past one string consistency. Test it now, allow the syrup to ooze off the ladle. Is it viscous enough? Does it narrow into a pointed triangle, dripping off, just as the blood does out of the essential fault in your body? When it does, add in the almond meal. Watch the mixture turn into a sticky mess - the sort you imagined yourself cleaning up, after chubby hands. Add a dollop of ghee, warmed, to lubricate. Check that the colour is golden, just like the glass you pour yourself at the end of the day, from your husband’s liquor cabinet. Keep stirring, and watch as the mixture congeals, just like your hope. Add the ghee gradually until the point of no return, until there is no separating it out again. Watch for the point that the mixture comes away from the sides of the pan, no longer able to connect with anything or anyone around it. Then pour it out onto the tray. Make sure the surface is even, to present to the world. No irregularities, no cracks, no imperfections. Score it, making the pieces just big enough to pop into people’s mouths. Do not be too much. Allow it to harden. Turn it out, and break it up into little pieces, never to be put together again. Sumitra writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She travelled through many spaces to get there and writes to make sense of her experiences, all of which seem to involve food. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). She works in mental health. You can find her and her other publication credits on Twitter: @pleomorphic2

You lay in bed thinking about breathing while someone in another room coughs. Someone in another house is crying because they don’t know why, they just can’t not cry right now. Someone on another block is running - for the sake of it or from something? It isn't clear. Someone in another city waters plants in their garden, evaluating the growth, deadheading old bulbs, hoping fresh ones will grow, and thinking, I can do this, I can keep these thriving. Someone in another state isn't there anymore. She was alive yesterday but today she isn’t because somewhere in between, she stopped breathing and so she’s just gone now and the people who love her (she was someone’s daughter and someone’s sister) have to say goodbye and let her go and they won’t get to listen to her breathing or feel her in person anymore. Someone in another country gets ready for bed, asking for another bedtime story and help brushing her teeth and for another sip of water because she is not ready to say goodbye to this day yet. Someone across the ocean sits cross-legged on a yoga mat in her bedroom thinking about breathing and listening to someone coughing in another room and tries to imagine what it would be like to say goodbye forever to someone you love because they went to sleep and did not wake up in this world anymore. Beth Mulcahy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet whose work has appeared in various journals. She has a forthcoming chapbook, Firmer Ground, with Anxiety Press. Her writing bridges the gaps between generations and self, hurt and healing. Beth lives in Ohio with her husband and two children and works for a company that provides technology to people without natural speech. Her latest publications can be found here: https://linktr.ee/mulcahea.

On the drive to Austin, when Katerina passed the Brenham exit, the anxiety hit, and the verbal processing commenced. “We have only four things in common, Sherry. We are women, Texans, have the same shoe size, and are bi. Let me make it five. We love punk rock, especially The Damned: New Rose, Neat Neat Neat, Love Song, Smash it Up, Plan 9, Channel 7, Wait for the Blackout and Alone Again, Or. Thank you again for making that tape for me because I’m listening to it while screaming into the air at my teenage memory of you.” Katrina hunched over the steering wheel, pretending it was Sherry’s neck while driving ninety on the highway to her.. “Damn, you were so adorable dressed up as the girl on the Foreigner Head Games record cover. Oh, wait. That was my skirt, and the Candies slides, too. I want them back. Okay, not the Candies, and you probably threw them out ten years ago. You can take me to the mall. There is a pair of stilettos I want. Run it on your American Express gold card, booshwah.” ”The skirt will look better on my ass now than it did then.” “Okay, on second thought, I don’t want the skirt back. However, my nightlife has changed, my self-image has matured, and I no longer do jailbait, trashy suburban girl. Personal growth. You get it while paying attention when in your 20s.” “Well, all right, sometimes I do want to. Maybe I can get away with it at Antone’s” Katerina paused, easing off the gas pedal. “No, I do not want the slides back or the skirt. And—” She stopped herself. “Let’s be clear: I don’t want you.” Katerina revised and reordered her thoughts again. “Yes, I want the skirt back, and instead of the stilettos, take me to Last Call and buy me a pair of job interview pumps. But, wait, no, that’s too weird.. I don’t want anything. It is too much trouble, and your boyfriend may think that this is peculiar and get ideas. Uh-uh, no way.” “I am afraid you may have the impression I am still interested in you—and you will be right because every other thought is of me wanting to be drawn in. But, every other thought alongside clashes, saying "I do not want anything to do with you.” “No kitty kat kisses or hanging out at the record store and watching the guys play pinball, waiting for them or each other. Knotty, complicated, tortuous, convoluted immature thoughts minus wisdom, complexities spread like a thunderstorm flying through with a blue norther, binding, tying, bonding, and always invariably left hanging” “I hated the marks you left. I am feeling them right now.” Shit. No. Katerina felt the sweat between her palms and the steering wheel, her chest pounding from the anxiety. “Sherry, I cannot do this internal dialogue anymore. I feel like I will drive off the road.” “Goodbye for now.” Katerina slowed down to switch tapes, grabbing without looking at a Northern Soul compilation, jamming it into the player, and tossing The Damned on the pile beside her. Liz Shelly, No More Love. Katerina turned it up loud and began singing. Sherry was waiting on the porch as Katerina turned into the driveway, wheels crunching on the remains of dead trilobites, and slowly guided the truck into the garage. She noticed Sherry had cut her hair short and had taken to dangling earrings. Katerina liked neither, though the white Ray-Bans and magenta lipstick were appealing. Unfortunately, Sherry’s red plaid boxers, the light green ribbed tank top, and the gold gladiator sandals did not match. Unless she was hung over, which was possible, Sherry certainly was not looking to impress Katerina. “Hey, Kitty Kat.” Sherry threw her arms around Katerina’s shoulders and gave her a smooch on her cheek. Katerina had steeled herself for that greeting and did not shrink away. Instead only patted Sherry patronizingly on the shoulder in response. While Katerina wiped her face with the back of her hand, Sherry swung the whitewashed door closed and locked the latch with a heavy bike chain. “It’s safe here until we have Arthur help us move the boxes into the laundry room. Oh shit, I’m sorry, babe—is there anything you need from the truck?” “Um, yes. I have a few bags I would like.” “I’m sorry, girl.” As Sherry reopened the garage doors, Katerina mused that she could not stand the shrill Southern girl tone Sherry put on when she was nervous and insecure. It could crack a windshield. Finally, Katerina unlatched the gate, pulled out a suitcase, and handed it to Sherry. Katerina took the two small cloth duffel bags she bought in Houston, clutching the improvised reinforced straps against her shoulder while doing a balancing act with her black leather shoulder bag. The house smelled of lilac air freshener Sherry probably sprayed when she saw her turn the corner and cooking of unidentifiable ethnicity. However, the house was immaculate, even for Sherry, and somewhat adult since the furnishings matched the posters. In addition, the television was new, a high-end Sony with a 25-inch screen. She recognized the dark walnut Moderne Martinsville credenza from when Sherry lived with her parents. As Sherry led her into the hall to her guest room, Katerina spotted the Eames chair, still broken, in the dining room, with laundry stacked on top of the seat. Katerina smiled, somewhat comforted by the continuity. “Here you go, sweetheart,” Sherry said, dropping the suitcase on the bed. The linens smelled freshly washed and were off-white, as were the towels Sherry had neatly stacked for her on the dresser, next to which was a vase filled with irises, Katerina’s favorite. Everything was so well prepared yet sterile. Katerina expected chocolates on a pillow and a Gideon Bible. She noticed Sherry and Arthur had money because the central air was running. The window frame of gossamer white silk was pulled back to expose paper-thin Venetian blinds. Sherry pulled up the blinds and pointed. “Right over there, you can see my little babies. Take a look.” Katerina looked out at the neatly prepared flower garden, ground upturned in heavy black clay. It looked modeled after a gardening club newsletter and betrayed Sherry’s obsessive compulsiveness. While technically perfect, the arrangement was dull and looked no different than the garden next door, across the street, and the next town over. Again, neatly arranged rows of lion’s ear and dianthus dominated, though Katerina loved the yellow and white Republic of Texas roses. Sherry’s gardening bothered Katerina. The sudden onset of adulthood this revealed was not the Sherry she had known. She found this somewhat disturbing, as if a doppelgänger replaced the person Katerina grew to love and hate and learned all over. While relieved that this new hobby did not involve sex, this also might mean that Sherry was not getting enough. “They’re beautiful and nicely done.” That was all Katerina could muster. “Thanks. Arthur helps out too.” Then, sounding like a dig at Katerina’s lack of a boyfriend, she responded with an inappropriate giggle. “I guess I better get unpacked.” “Sure! I set aside a shelf for your perfume in the bathroom. You got the low shelf. Oh, and be careful with the hot water. The heater has been acting up lately.” “Okay.” “When you’re done unpacking, I cooked up some jambalaya.” “Why, certainly.” Katerina wanted to laugh and throw up a little in her mouth at once. Good Lord, you’d burn water, child. After Sherry left the room to finish her now-revealed creation, Katerina walked to the window and drew the blinds closed. The garden put the room squarely in Sherry’s sight lines. Lunch was not as bad as it smelled unless one liked over-salted sausage bits and tomato soup mixed with minute rice passing off as Cajun. The conversation centered on banalities and suggestions on apartments and house shares in the neighborhood and West Austin. Sherry seemed to want Katerina living near, which Katerina decided not to get too paranoid about, given Sherry’s insecurity and co-dependency issues. In addition, Sherry was an only child and liked having a family, at least in concept. During the conversation, Sherry started with her complaints about her boyfriend and her struggles with her parents. At least she had them. Katerina still mourned her mother, who died six months ago. Katerina wanted to blurt out I do not have a tattoo on my forehead that says, ‘Please tell me your traumas.’ Instead, Katerina silently brushed her bangs and touched her forehead—just in case. The remainder of lunch was a continuation of this avoidance ritual. Katerina was glad she processed on the drive. So much of the pus expiated. Katerina offered to do the dishes and took extra care to scrub the layer of caramelized tomato soup and rice burned into the pan. The kitchen was well appointed and looked married with a microwave, toaster oven, Braun coffee maker, and as a nod to Sherry’s kitsch, a pink Hello Kitty toaster. The cups and dishes matched, and Katerina could not help but gasp to see the tableware did too. Perhaps, Sherry had an accident playing with an Ouija Board, and the spirit of Suzie Homemaker sucked through her nostrils. The woman still does not cook worth a damn. Finished, Katerina got up to go to the bathroom. Sherry was sitting on the commode, the door open in typical Sherry fashion. Katerina patiently waited in the hall until she could no longer. “What is that?” “I am practicing for my role in Salome. Please finish up. I really need to pee.” “Okay, okay. I’m done.” Sherry turned to change her shirt, pulling her tank top up slowly, showing Katerina the tiny silver clamps attached to her nipples and a hanging chain swinging over her belly button. Katerina blushed, feeling conflicted, as usual. This time, Katerina spoke up. “Jeez, girl. Why do you want to show me that?” Sherry grabbed another tank top, pulling it quickly and tight over her shorts. “Shush. Compartmentalize, girl. Compartmentalize, and stop being so paranoid. Not everything is about me trying to make you.” You just admitted that sometimes you do. I have been in this house less than two hours, and already… Sherry squeezed past her. Katerina breathed in and held her breath before slowly exhaling. She closed the bathroom door and checked that it was secure. Later, Katerina sat on the couch with Sherry, zoning out to MTV. Katerina shuddered when The Swans’ cover of Love Will Tear Us Apart came on. The anxiety of feeling trapped began. The truck was locked up in the garage. The boyfriend is eventually on his way over. Spreading her fingers over her knees, she inquired politely. “Hey, how about we go out for beers?” They pulled the tarp off the Ferrari parked under the oak tree. Sherry noticed Katerina’s expression. “Sweetheart, it’s a project,” she said softly. “We just haven’t gotten much further than this.” “Uh, huh.” The Ferrari was a Cabriolet that belonged to Sherry’s dad. She remembered it far differently than in its current condition. It used to be red, now stripped to primer gray. Sherry noticed Katerina’s expression. “We’re restoring it,” she said. “You remember there was a lot of water damage in the garage back in the ’81 flood.” The seats are finished, but some of the innards need fixin’ and a new paint job. But, I assure you, this is safe to drive.” Katerina had a bad feeling about that and proved correct when she felt her jeans were wet after they turned the first corner. She looked down and screamed. The clamp on the fuel line under the dashboard had come undone, with gasoline pouring onto her lap. Sherry looked and pulled over, repeating, “Oh, oh, oh, oh,” as they jumped out of the car. Katerina’s only thoughts were gratitude for quitting smoking the week before. Sherry stood by the car, hands in front of her face, looking like a bad Catholic girl who got the words wrong during Confirmation. “I’m sorry,” she said, the sound muffled through the intertwined fingers pressed against her face. Katerina faked calm and spoke softly. “Why don’t we just walk home, and you call your boyfriend while I take a shower.” She undid the buttons of her black 501s. “First, I am taking these jeans off. Second, I am not walking two blocks soaked in gas,” Katerina said. Sherry opened the trunk and pulled out an oil-stained beach towel. “Good thinking, Sherry,” Katerina said. “Because the panties and T-shirt have to go, too. Oh, and my flip-flops, as well.” Katerina grabbed the towel and wrapped herself before she undressed. “I-I’ll carry your clothes for you.” Katerina handed them over. “Yeah. Sure.” “I’m really sorry.” “Yes, I know you are.” Katerina remembered the time when her father said that apologizing for doing something terribly stupid or evil was for the person fucking up to feel better. Oh, Daddy, I hope you were right about being an atheist because if you were looking down at this right now…. As she walked barefoot through the neighbors’ front yards, Katerina left as much space between them as possible. Back at the house, Katerina showered, scrubbing off gasoline and some of the nascent rage. Eventually, Katerina sat on her haunches, letting the water cascade on her back. After drying off, she opened a suitcase and began putting clothes away. In the process, she set aside her outfit. Gray ribbed tank top, another pair of black 501s. Black ballet flats with pointed toes—a relic from the teaching assistant year before dropping out of the graduate program. Katerina saw the other suitcase. She remembered what was inside and unzipped it. After Katerina went off to Rice, Mom turned Dad’s study into a sewing room. Soon she filled the room with unfinished quilts and crocheted stuffed animals in various stages of completion. When clearing the house after the funeral, Katerina went through the room, knowing she intended these creations for grandchildren whom Mom would never know or perhaps would never exist. Katerina picked up a headless Snoopy, then a robin without wings before placing them back into the boxes on top of the extended school table Mom had used. Next, Katerina found an orange and brown owl with a board and tassel clearly intended for her but was missing its eyes. She searched on the table and saw them cut and ready for placement. Katerina later sewed them on herself. Katerina sucked in her lips and took a deep breath, placing her eyes on the body, thinking Mom was working on that when she died. Nevertheless, mom was proud of her Rice University Rhodes Scholar regional finalist baby. Katerina recalled the sadness while she contemplated the owl. Why didn’t she create them when it mattered--when I was growing up, instead of after I had left for Houston? When Mom died, Sherry and the boyfriend were on vacation in Cozumel. Though specifically told not to, Sherry sent flowers. Somehow, they were on the coffin, and shortly before the end of the burial Mass, a gust of wind blew them off. Mom never liked Sherry. The crocheted, stuffed owl was the last item she packed. After she returned to Houston and added its eyes, Katerina kept it on her bed between the pillows. She kept it s next to her while she slept. Owls were wise, and this one learned all the secrets and provided an audience while she dreamed. Katerina held the owl to her chest. Finally, she placed it on the bed and grabbed her handbag from the side table. “Sherry, do you have the skirt I loaned you when X played at Club Foot? The one that looked like the cover of the Foreigner album?” “That? It’s around somewhere.” “Fair enough,” Katerina said. “I need you to unlock the garage. I may be back in a few hours.” “I’m really—” “Sorry,” interrupted Katerina. “I know.” Mike Lee was raised in Texas and North Carolina trailer parks. Editor, writer, and photographer for a trade union in New York City. Stories are upcoming or published in Drunk Monkeys, BULL, The Airgonaut, The Opiate, and many others. His book The Northern Line is available on Amazon.

stubble + lipstick mingle over fluid mouth shaping words the words you’ll sing when the band meets in a room above a pub thrust to the margin of a dying town facing wind and rain the monochrome posters you designed damp, askew, peeling forward tide of friends + friends of friends lapping at your feet all eyes adoring of your blue-lit chin back curved, cheeks taut, eyes shut devour the mic beyond, fields float slashed by the silvered paths you walked as a child hand-in-hand, vodka sick I watch lyrics flow from fingers thin as the poet’s pencil I would follow you out of the carriage join the audience stand glass to teeth bass vibrating my heart hear the images I watched you order and reorder but I do not leave our lives must not intersect. Philip’s poetry has appeared in Black Bough, Poetry Birmingham, The Healing Muse, Deracine and Dream Noir. He is a London-based doctor and writes extensively on medical ethics. His creative output can be explored at www.philberrycreative.wordpress.com and @philaberry.

I almost raked my hands, again, down my throat, searching for the miasma of the college story love poems I almost wrote. I inched myself on the treadmill, ran three miles while my friend Talked to me in a flurry of alcoves, in daughters gone missing– How the world was ending – How there was our fancy friend, and there was us– And, I pretended not to cry; I just kept running. There’s a song without the words, The notes clear but the hollows of the singer in the background, muted in manatee spirals, slow and loafing. And I realize that I want to fill in the blanks; I want to know what the future holds; I want to know if I can talk to my deceased grandmother again, somewhere along the meadow Of where we land, when we don’t know where we’re going. I almost panicked about what will be lost, All the lost moments, the jobs I left, the poems I almost wrote but fluttered asleep To comedy instead. The pinch near my brain that I hope is fine, The way there are diagnoses and mad women and bills gone unpaid– & I read on reddit that means I’m a deadbeat, & so I contemplate dying my hair lilac, Hoping I’ll sink in the midnight hours between rushing And worrying. & I almost hold myself closer when this happens: when the world spins tighter and tighter to the last note– And, I don’t know if it’s going to be flat, Or ruin everything. Or, hold us steady, wanting to rise to our feet, Again. Will I end in a standing applause? Will I end with a monotone note at the end? Will I end with a familiar chorus Like the faces of your favorite children That you hope never ends, but you know the last note And when it’s coming? I wait for the ending. I grip my knuckles tighter, hoping it’s a fluke, that the underbelly of ending won’t come for me, and won’t come when I’m standing. Fists clenched, worried About the goodbyes I wanted to say to you, plain. I wait for the note that could be a middle C; it could be a low base; It could touch high parts, where the fingers almost leave the ribcage of the piano. The note could bleat openly, hoping it lulls you to sleep. I don’t want to ruin, don’t want to spoil– Don’t tell me the note that will stay with me, The rose that I hold in my hands, as the blood-red petals live longer Than I do. This piece is about imagining what last note would be played on your last day. What would it look like? Leslie Cairns has a recently released chapbook, titled 'The Food is the Fodder' through Bottlecap Press. Find her on Twitter.